Alexandre Dumas

From FireBlade Fiction on Negative Space.

by

The Three Musketeers

Author’s Preface

In which it is proved that, notwithstanding their names’ ending in OS and IS, the heroes of the story which we are about to have the honor to relate to our readers have nothing mythological about them.

A short time ago, while making researches in the Royal Library for my History of Louis XIV, I stumbled by chance upon the Memoirs of M. D’Artagnan, printed—as were most of the works of that period, in which authors could not tell the truth without the risk of a residence, more or less long, in the Bastille—at Amsterdam, by Pierre Rouge. The title attracted me; I took them home with me, with the permission of the guardian, and devoured them.

It is not my intention here to enter into an analysis of this curious work; and I shall satisfy myself with referring such of my readers as appreciate the pictures of the period to its pages. They will therein find portraits penciled by the hand of a master; and although these squibs may be, for the most part, traced upon the doors of barracks and the walls of cabarets, they will not find the likenesses of Louis XIII, Anne of Austria, Richelieu, Mazarin, and the courtiers of the period, less faithful than in the history of M. Anquetil.

But, it is well known, what strikes the capricious mind of the poet is not always what affects the mass of readers. Now, while admiring, as others doubtless will admire, the details we have to relate, our main preoccupation concerned a matter to which no one before ourselves had given a thought.

D’Artagnan relates that on his first visit to M. de Tréville, captain of the king’s Musketeers, he met in the antechamber three young men, serving in the illustrious corps into which he was soliciting the honor of being received, bearing the names of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

We must confess these three strange names struck us; and it immediately occurred to us that they were but pseudonyms, under which D’Artagnan had disguised names perhaps illustrious, or else that the bearers of these borrowed names had themselves chosen them on the day in which, from caprice, discontent, or want of fortune, they had donned the simple Musketeer’s uniform.

From the moment we had no rest till we could find some trace in contemporary works of these extraordinary names which had so strongly awakened our curiosity.

The catalogue alone of the books we read with this object would fill a whole chapter, which, although it might be very instructive, would certainly afford our readers but little amusement. It will suffice, then, to tell them that at the moment at which, discouraged by so many fruitless investigations, we were about to abandon our search, we at length found, guided by the counsels of our illustrious friend Paulin Paris, a manuscript in folio, endorsed 4772 or 4773, we do not recollect which, having for title, “Memoirs of the Comte de la Fère, Touching Some Events Which Passed in France Toward the End of the Reign of King Louis XIII and the Commencement of the Reign of King Louis XIV.”

It may be easily imagined how great was our joy when, in turning over this manuscript, our last hope, we found at the twentieth page the name of Athos, at the twenty-seventh the name of Porthos, and at the thirty-first the name of Aramis.

The discovery of a completely unknown manuscript at a period in which historical science is carried to such a high degree appeared almost miraculous. We hastened, therefore, to obtain permission to print it, with the view of presenting ourselves someday with the pack of others at the doors of the Academie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres, if we should not succeed—a very probable thing, by the by—in gaining admission to the Academie Francaise with our own proper pack. This permission, we feel bound to say, was graciously granted; which compels us here to give a public contradiction to the slanderers who pretend that we live under a government but moderately indulgent to men of letters.

Now, this is the first part of this precious manuscript which we offer to our readers, restoring it to the title which belongs to it, and entering into an engagement that if (of which we have no doubt) this first part should obtain the success it merits, we will publish the second immediately.

In the meanwhile, as the godfather is a second father, we beg the reader to lay to our account, and not to that of the Comte de la Fère, the pleasure or the ennui he may experience.

This being understood, let us proceed with our history.

The Three Presents Of D’Artagnan The Elder

On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the market town of Meung, in which the author of Romance of the Rose was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second La Rochelle of it. Many citizens, seeing the women flying toward the High Street, leaving their children crying at the open doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and supporting their somewhat uncertain courage with a musket or a partisan, directed their steps toward the hostelry of the Jolly Miller, before which was gathered, increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of curiosity.

In those times panics were common, and few days passed without some city or other registering in its archives an event of this kind. There were nobles, who made war against each other; there was the king, who made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, which made war against the king. Then, in addition to these concealed or public, secret or open wars, there were robbers, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and scoundrels, who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up arms readily against thieves, wolves or scoundrels, often against nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but never against cardinal or Spain. It resulted, then, from this habit that on the said first Monday of April, 1625, the citizens, on hearing the clamor, and seeing neither the red-and-yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de Richelieu, rushed toward the hostel of the Jolly Miller. When arrived there, the cause of the hubbub was apparent to all.

A young man--we can sketch his portrait at a dash. Imagine to yourself a Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without his coat of mail, without his cuisses; a Don Quixote clothed in a woolen doublet, the blue color of which had faded into a nameless shade between lees of wine and a heavenly azure; face long and brown; high cheek bones, a sign of sagacity; the maxillary muscles enormously developed, an infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected, even without his cap--and our young man wore a cap set off with a sort of feather; the eye open and intelligent; the nose hooked, but finely chiseled. Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer’s son upon a journey had it not been for the long sword which, dangling from a leather baldric, hit against the calves of its owner as he walked, and against the rough side of his steed when he was on horseback.

For our young man had a steed which was the observed of all observers. It was a Béarn pony, from twelve to fourteen years old, yellow in his hide, without a hair in his tail, but not without windgalls on his legs, which, though going with his head lower than his knees, rendering a martingale quite unnecessary, contrived nevertheless to perform his eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so well concealed under his strange-colored hide and his unaccountable gait, that at a time when everybody was a connoisseur in horseflesh, the appearance of the aforesaid pony at Meung--which place he had entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of Beaugency--produced an unfavorable feeling, which extended to his rider.

And this feeling had been more painfully perceived by young D’Artagnan--for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante named--from his not being able to conceal from himself the ridiculous appearance that such a steed gave him, good horseman as he was. He had sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony from M. D’Artagnan the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth at least twenty livres; and the words which had accompanied the present were above all price.

“My son,” said the old Gascon gentleman, in that pure Béarn patois of which Henry IV could never rid himself, “this horse was born in the house of your father about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it ever since, which ought to make you love it. Never sell it; allow it to die tranquilly and honorably of old age, and if you make a campaign with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At court, provided you have ever the honor to go there,” continued M. D’Artagnan the elder, “--an honor to which, remember, your ancient nobility gives you the right--sustain worthily your name of gentleman, which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for five hundred years, both for your own sake and the sake of those who belong to you. By the latter I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from anyone except Monsieur the Cardinal and the king. It is by his courage, please observe, by his courage alone, that a gentleman can make his way nowadays. Whoever hesitates for a second perhaps allows the bait to escape which during that exact second fortune held out to him. You are young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions. Fight the more for duels being forbidden, since consequently there is twice as much courage in fighting. I have nothing to give you, my son, but fifteen crowns, my horse, and the counsels you have just heard. Your mother will add to them a recipe for a certain balsam, which she had from a Bohemian and which has the miraculous virtue of curing all wounds that do not reach the heart. Take advantage of all, and live happily and long. I have but one word to add, and that is to propose an example to you-- not mine, for I myself have never appeared at court, and have only taken part in religious wars as a volunteer; I speak of Monsieur de Tréville, who was formerly my neighbor, and who had the honor to be, as a child, the play-fellow of our king, Louis XIII, whom God preserve! Sometimes their play degenerated into battles, and in these battles the king was not always the stronger. The blows which he received increased greatly his esteem and friendship for Monsieur de Tréville. Afterward, Monsieur de Tréville fought with others: in his first journey to Paris, five times; from the death of the late king till the young one came of age, without reckoning wars and sieges, seven times; and from that date up to the present day, a hundred times, perhaps! So that in spite of edicts, ordinances, and decrees, there he is, captain of the Musketeers; that is to say, chief of a legion of Caesars, whom the king holds in great esteem and whom the cardinal dreads--he who dreads nothing, as it is said. Still further, Monsieur de Tréville gains ten thousand crowns a year; he is therefore a great noble. He began as you begin. Go to him with this letter, and make him your model in order that you may do as he has done.”

Upon which M. D’Artagnan the elder girded his own sword round his son, kissed him tenderly on both cheeks, and gave him his benediction.

On leaving the paternal chamber, the young man found his mother, who was waiting for him with the famous recipe of which the counsels we have just repeated would necessitate frequent employment. The adieux were on this side longer and more tender than they had been on the other--not that M. D’Artagnan did not love his son, who was his only offspring, but M. D’Artagnan was a man, and he would have considered it unworthy of a man to give way to his feelings; whereas Mme. D’Artagnan was a woman, and still more, a mother. She wept abundantly; and--let us speak it to the praise of M. D’Artagnan the younger--notwithstanding the efforts he made to remain firm, as a future Musketeer ought, nature prevailed, and he shed many tears, of which he succeeded with great difficulty in concealing the half.

The same day the young man set forward on his journey, furnished with the three paternal gifts, which consisted, as we have said, of fifteen crowns, the horse, and the letter for M. de Tréville-- the counsels being thrown into the bargain.

With such a vade mecum D’Artagnan was morally and physically an exact copy of the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so happily compared him when our duty of an historian placed us under the necessity of sketching his portrait. Don Quixote took windmills for giants, and sheep for armies; D’Artagnan took every smile for an insult, and every look as a provocation--whence it resulted that from Tarbes to Meung his fist was constantly doubled, or his hand on the hilt of his sword; and yet the fist did not descend upon any jaw, nor did the sword issue from its scabbard. It was not that the sight of the wretched pony did not excite numerous smiles on the countenances of passers-by; but as against the side of this pony rattled a sword of respectable length, and as over this sword gleamed an eye rather ferocious than haughty, these passers-by repressed their hilarity, or if hilarity prevailed over prudence, they endeavored to laugh only on one side, like the masks of the ancients. D’Artagnan, then, remained majestic and intact in his susceptibility, till he came to this unlucky city of Meung.

But there, as he was alighting from his horse at the gate of the Jolly Miller, without anyone--host, waiter, or hostler--coming to hold his stirrup or take his horse, D’Artagnan spied, though an open window on the ground floor, a gentleman, well-made and of good carriage, although of rather a stern countenance, talking with two persons who appeared to listen to him with respect. D’Artagnan fancied quite naturally, according to his custom, that he must be the object of their conversation, and listened. This time D’Artagnan was only in part mistaken; he himself was not in question, but his horse was. The gentleman appeared to be enumerating all his qualities to his auditors; and, as I have said, the auditors seeming to have great deference for the narrator, they every moment burst into fits of laughter. Now, as a half-smile was sufficient to awaken the irascibility of the young man, the effect produced upon him by this vociferous mirth may be easily imagined.

Nevertheless, D’Artagnan was desirous of examining the appearance of this impertinent personage who ridiculed him. He fixed his haughty eye upon the stranger, and perceived a man of from forty to forty-five years of age, with black and piercing eyes, pale complexion, a strongly marked nose, and a black and well-shaped mustache. He was dressed in a doublet and hose of a violet color, with aiguillettes of the same color, without any other ornaments than the customary slashes, through which the shirt appeared. This doublet and hose, though new, were creased, like traveling clothes for a long time packed in a portmanteau. D’Artagnan made all these remarks with the rapidity of a most minute observer, and doubtless from an instinctive feeling that this stranger was destined to have a great influence over his future life.

Now, as at the moment in which D’Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the gentleman in the violet doublet, the gentleman made one of his most knowing and profound remarks respecting the Béarnese pony, his two auditors laughed even louder than before, and he himself, though contrary to his custom, allowed a pale smile (if I may allowed to use such an expression) to stray over his countenance. This time there could be no doubt; D’Artagnan was really insulted. Full, then, of this conviction, he pulled his cap down over his eyes, and endeavoring to copy some of the court airs he had picked up in Gascony among young traveling nobles, he advanced with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other resting on his hip. Unfortunately, as he advanced, his anger increased at every step; and instead of the proper and lofty speech he had prepared as a prelude to his challenge, he found nothing at the tip of his tongue but a gross personality, which he accompanied with a furious gesture.

“I say, sir, you sir, who are hiding yourself behind that shutter--yes, you, sir, tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together!”

The gentleman raised his eyes slowly from the nag to his cavalier, as if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that such strange reproaches were addressed; then, when he could not possibly entertain any doubt of the matter, his eyebrows slightly bent, and with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described, he replied to D’Artagnan, “I was not speaking to you, sir.”

“But I am speaking to you!” replied the young man, additionally exasperated with this mixture of insolence and good manners, of politeness and scorn.

The stranger looked at him again with a slight smile, and retiring from the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed himself before the horse, within two paces of D’Artagnan. His quiet manner and the ironical expression of his countenance redoubled the mirth of the persons with whom he had been talking, and who still remained at the window.

D’Artagnan, seeing him approach, drew his sword a foot out of the scabbard.

“This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a buttercup,” resumed the stranger, continuing the remarks he had begun, and addressing himself to his auditors at the window, without paying the least attention to the exasperation of D’Artagnan, who, however placed himself between him and them. “It is a color very well known in botany, but till the present time very rare among horses.”

“There are people who laugh at the horse that would not dare to laugh at the master,” cried the young emulator of the furious Tréville.

“I do not often laugh, sir,” replied the stranger, “as you may perceive by the expression of my countenance; but nevertheless I retain the privilege of laughing when I please.”

“And I,” cried D’Artagnan, “will allow no man to laugh when it displeases me!”

“Indeed, sir,” continued the stranger, more calm than ever; “well, that is perfectly right!” and turning on his heel, was about to re-enter the hostelry by the front gate, beneath which D’Artagnan on arriving had observed a saddled horse.

But, D’Artagnan was not of a character to allow a man to escape him thus who had the insolence to ridicule him. He drew his sword entirely from the scabbard, and followed him, crying, “Turn, turn, Master Joker, lest I strike you behind!”

“Strike me!” said the other, turning on his heels, and surveying the young man with as much astonishment as contempt. “Why, my good fellow, you must be mad!” Then, in a suppressed tone, as if speaking to himself, “This is annoying,” continued he. “What a godsend this would be for his Majesty, who is seeking everywhere for brave fellows to recruit for his Musketeers!”

He had scarcely finished, when D’Artagnan made such a furious lunge at him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward, it is probable he would have jested for the last time. The stranger, then perceiving that the matter went beyond raillery, drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and seriously placed himself on guard. But at the same moment, his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon D’Artagnan with sticks, shovels and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion from the attack that D’Artagnan’s adversary, while the latter turned round to face this shower of blows, sheathed his sword with the same precision, and instead of an actor, which he had nearly been, became a spectator of the fight--a part in which he acquitted himself with his usual impassiveness, muttering, nevertheless, “A plague upon these Gascons! Replace him on his orange horse, and let him begone!”

“Not before I have killed you, poltroon!” cried D’Artagnan, making the best face possible, and never retreating one step before his three assailants, who continued to shower blows upon him.

“Another gasconade!” murmured the gentleman. “By my honor, these Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since he will have it so. When he is tired, he will perhaps tell us that he has had enough of it.”

But the stranger knew not the headstrong personage he had to do with; D’Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was therefore prolonged for some seconds; but at length D’Artagnan dropped his sword, which was broken in two pieces by the blow of a stick. Another blow full upon his forehead at the same moment brought him to the ground, covered with blood and almost fainting.

It was at this moment that people came flocking to the scene of action from all sides. The host, fearful of consequences, with the help of his servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some trifling attentions were bestowed upon him.

As to the gentleman, he resumed his place at the window, and surveyed the crowd with a certain impatience, evidently annoyed by their remaining undispersed.

“Well, how is it with this madman?” exclaimed he, turning round as the noise of the door announced the entrance of the host, who came in to inquire if he was unhurt.

“Your excellency is safe and sound?” asked the host.

“Oh, yes! Perfectly safe and sound, my good host; and I wish to know what has become of our young man.”

“He is better,” said the host, “he fainted quite away.”

“Indeed!” said the gentleman.

“But before he fainted, he collected all his strength to challenge you, and to defy you while challenging you.”

“Why, this fellow must be the devil in person!” cried the stranger.

“Oh, no, your Excellency, he is not the devil,” replied the host, with a grin of contempt; “for during his fainting we rummaged his valise and found nothing but a clean shirt and eleven crowns-- which however, did not prevent his saying, as he was fainting, that if such a thing had happened in Paris, you should have cause to repent of it at a later period.”

“Then,” said the stranger coolly, “he must be some prince in disguise.”

“I have told you this, good sir,” resumed the host, “in order that you may be on your guard.”

“Did he name no one in his passion?”

“Yes; he struck his pocket and said, ‘We shall see what Monsieur de Tréville will think of this insult offered to his protégé.’”

“Monsieur de Tréville?” said the stranger, becoming attentive, “he put his hand upon his pocket while pronouncing the name of Monsieur de Tréville? Now, my dear host, while your young man was insensible, you did not fail, I am quite sure, to ascertain what that pocket contained. What was there in it?”

“A letter addressed to Monsieur de Tréville, captain of the Musketeers.”

“Indeed!”

“Exactly as I have the honor to tell your Excellency.”

The host, who was not endowed with great perspicacity, did not observe the expression which his words had given to the physiognomy of the stranger. The latter rose from the front of the window, upon the sill of which he had leaned with his elbow, and knitted his brow like a man disquieted.

“The devil!” murmured he, between his teeth. “Can Tréville have set this Gascon upon me? He is very young; but a sword thrust is a sword thrust, whatever be the age of him who gives it, and a youth is less to be suspected than an older man,” and the stranger fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes. “A weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to overthrow a great design.

“Host,” said he, “could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic boy for me? In conscience, I cannot kill him; and yet,” added he, with a coldly menacing expression, “he annoys me. Where is he?”

“In my wife’s chamber, on the first flight, where they are dressing his wounds.”

“His things and his bag are with him? Has he taken off his doublet?”

“On the contrary, everything is in the kitchen. But if he annoys you, this young fool--”

“To be sure he does. He causes a disturbance in your hostelry, which respectable people cannot put up with. Go; make out my bill and notify my servant.”

“What, monsieur, will you leave us so soon?”

“You know that very well, as I gave my order to saddle my horse. Have they not obeyed me?”

“It is done; as your Excellency may have observed, your horse is in the great gateway, ready saddled for your departure.”

“That is well; do as I have directed you, then.”

“What the devil!” said the host to himself. “Can he be afraid of this boy?” But an imperious glance from the stranger stopped him short; he bowed humbly and retired.

“It is not necessary for Milady1 to be seen by this fellow,” continued the stranger. “She will soon pass; she is already late. I had better get on horseback, and go and meet her. I should like, however, to know what this letter addressed to Tréville contains.”

And the stranger, muttering to himself, directed his steps toward the kitchen.”

In the meantime, the host, who entertained no doubt that it was the presence of the young man that drove the stranger from his hostelry, re-ascended to his wife’s chamber, and found D’Artagnan just recovering his senses. Giving him to understand that the police would deal with him pretty severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord--for the opinion of the host the stranger could be nothing less than a great lord--he insisted that notwithstanding his weakness D’Artagnan should get up and depart as quickly as possible. D’Artagnan, half stupefied, without his doublet, and with his head bound up in a linen cloth, arose then, and urged by the host, began to descend the stairs; but on arriving at the kitchen, the first thing he saw was his antagonist talking calmly at the step of a heavy carriage, drawn by two large Norman horses.

His interlocutor, whose head appeared through the carriage window, was a woman of from twenty to two-and-twenty years. We have already observed with what rapidity D’Artagnan seized the expression of a countenance. He perceived then, at a glance, that this woman was young and beautiful; and her style of beauty struck him more forcibly from its being totally different from that of the southern countries in which D’Artagnan had hitherto resided. She was pale and fair, with long curls falling in profusion over her shoulders, had large, blue, languishing eyes, rosy lips, and hands of alabaster. She was talking with great animation with the stranger.

“His Eminence, then, orders me--” said the lady.

“To return instantly to England, and to inform him as soon as the duke leaves London.”

“And as to my other instructions?” asked the fair traveler.

“They are contained in this box, which you will not open until you are on the other side of the Channel.”

“Very well; and you--what will you do?”

“I--I return to Paris.”

“What, without chastising this insolent boy?” asked the lady.

The stranger was about to reply; but at the moment he opened his mouth, D’Artagnan, who had heard all, precipitated himself over the threshold of the door.

“This insolent boy chastises others,” cried he; “and I hope that this time he whom he ought to chastise will not escape him as before.”

“Will not escape him?” replied the stranger, knitting his brow.

“No; before a woman you would dare not fly, I presume?”

“Remember,” said Milady, seeing the stranger lay his hand on his sword, “the least delay may ruin everything.”

“You are right,” cried the gentleman; “begone then, on your part, and I will depart as quickly on mine.” And bowing to the lady, sprang into his saddle, while her coachman applied his whip vigorously to his horses. The two interlocutors thus separated, taking opposite directions, at full gallop.

“Pay him, booby!” cried the stranger to his servant, without checking the speed of his horse; and the man, after throwing two or three silver pieces at the foot of mine host, galloped after his master.

“Base coward! false gentleman!” cried D’Artagnan, springing forward, in his turn, after the servant. But his wound had rendered him too weak to support such an exertion. Scarcely had he gone ten steps when his ears began to tingle, a faintness seized him, a cloud of blood passed over his eyes, and he fell in the middle of the street, crying still, “Coward! coward! coward!”

“He is a coward, indeed,” grumbled the host, drawing near to D’Artagnan, and endeavoring by this little flattery to make up matters with the young man, as the heron of the fable did with the snail he had despised the evening before.

“Yes, a base coward,” murmured D’Artagnan; “but she--she was very beautiful.”

“What she?” demanded the host.

“Milady,” faltered D’Artagnan, and fainted a second time.

“Ah, it’s all one,” said the host; “I have lost two customers, but this one remains, of whom I am pretty certain for some days to come. There will be eleven crowns gained.”

It is to be remembered that eleven crowns was just the sum that remained in D’Artagnan’s purse.

The host had reckoned upon eleven days of confinement at a crown a day, but he had reckoned without his guest. On the following morning at five o’clock D’Artagnan arose, and descending to the kitchen without help, asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary, and with his mother’s recipe in his hand composed a balsam, with which he anointed his numerous wounds, replacing his bandages himself, and positively refusing the assistance of any doctor, D’Artagnan walked about that same evening, and was almost cured by the morrow.

But when the time came to pay for his rosemary, this oil, and the wine, the only expense the master had incurred, as he had preserved a strict abstinence--while on the contrary, the yellow horse, by the account of the hostler at least, had eaten three times as much as a horse of his size could reasonably supposed to have done--D’Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his little old velvet purse with the eleven crowns it contained; for as to the letter addressed to M. de Tréville, it had disappeared.

The young man commenced his search for the letter with the greatest patience, turning out his pockets of all kinds over and over again, rummaging and rerummaging in his valise, and opening and reopening his purse; but when he found that he had come to the conviction that the letter was not to be found, he flew, for the third time, into such a rage as was near costing him a fresh consumption of wine, oil, and rosemary--for upon seeing this hot- headed youth become exasperated and threaten to destroy everything in the establishment if his letter were not found, the host seized a spit, his wife a broom handle, and the servants the same sticks they had used the day before.

“My letter of recommendation!” cried D’Artagnan, “my letter of recommendation! or, the holy blood, I will spit you all like ortolans!”

Unfortunately, there was one circumstance which created a powerful obstacle to the accomplishment of this threat; which was, as we have related, that his sword had been in his first conflict broken in two, and which he had entirely forgotten. Hence, it resulted when D’Artagnan proceeded to draw his sword in earnest, he found himself purely and simply armed with a stump of a sword about eight or ten inches in length, which the host had carefully placed in the scabbard. As to the rest of the blade, the master had slyly put that on one side to make himself a larding pin.

But this deception would probably not have stopped our fiery young man if the host had not reflected that the reclamation which his guest made was perfectly just.

“But, after all,” said he, lowering the point of his spit, “where is this letter?”

“Yes, where is this letter?” cried D’Artagnan. “In the first place, I warn you that that letter is for Monsieur de Tréville, and it must be found, he will not know how to find it.”

His threat completed the intimidation of the host. After the king and the cardinal, M. de Tréville was the man whose name was perhaps most frequently repeated by the military, and even by citizens. There was, to be sure, Father Joseph, but his name was never pronounced but with a subdued voice, such was the terror inspired by his Gray Eminence, as the cardinal’s familiar was called.

Throwing down his spit, and ordering his wife to do the same with her broom handle, and the servants with their sticks, he set the first example of commencing an earnest search for the lost letter.

“Does the letter contain anything valuable?” demanded the host, after a few minutes of useless investigation.

“Zounds! I think it does indeed!” cried the Gascon, who reckoned upon this letter for making his way at court. “It contained my fortune!”

“Bills upon Spain?” asked the disturbed host.

“Bills upon his Majesty’s private treasury,” answered D’Artagnan, who, reckoning upon entering into the king’s service in consequence of this recommendation, believed he could make this somewhat hazardous reply without telling of a falsehood.

“The devil!” cried the host, at his wit’s end.

“But it’s of no importance,” continued D’Artagnan, with natural assurance; “it’s of no importance. The money is nothing; that letter was everything. I would rather have lost a thousand pistoles than have lost it.” He would not have risked more if he had said twenty thousand; but a certain juvenile modesty restrained him.

A ray of light all at once broke upon the mind of the host as he was giving himself to the devil upon finding nothing.

“That letter is not lost!” cried he.

“What!” cried D’Artagnan.

“No, it has been stolen from you.”

“Stolen? By whom?”

“By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He came down into the kitchen, where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I would lay a wager he has stolen it.”

“Do you think so?” answered D’Artagnan, but little convinced, as he knew better than anyone else how entirely personal the value of this letter was, and was nothing in it likely to tempt cupidity. The fact was that none of his servants, none of the travelers present, could have gained anything by being possessed of this paper.

“Do you say,” resumed D’Artagnan, “that you suspect that impertinent gentleman?”

“I tell you I am sure of it,” continued the host. “When I informed him that your lordship was the protégé of Monsieur de Tréville, and that you even had a letter for that illustrious gentleman, he appeared to be very much disturbed, and asked me where that letter was, and immediately came down into the kitchen, where he knew your doublet was.”

“Then that’s my thief,” replied D’Artagnan. “I will complain to Monsieur de Tréville, and Monsieur de Tréville will complain to the king.” He then drew two crowns majestically from his purse and gave them to the host, who accompanied him, cap in hand, to the gate, and remounted his yellow horse, which bore him without any further accident to the gate of St. Antoine at Paris, where his owner sold him for three crowns, which was a very good price, considering that D’Artagnan had ridden him hard during the last stage. Thus the dealer to whom D’Artagnan sold him for the nine livres did not conceal from the young man that he only gave that enormous sum for him on the account of the originality of his color.

Thus D’Artagnan entered Paris on foot, carrying his little packet under his arm, and walked about till he found an apartment to be let on terms suited to the scantiness of his means. This chamber was a sort of garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg.

As soon as the earnest money was paid, D’Artagnan took possession of his lodging, and passed the remainder of the day in sewing onto his doublet and hose some ornamental braiding which his mother had taken off an almost-new doublet of the elder M. D’Artagnan, and which she had given her son secretly. Next he went to the Quai de Feraille to have a new blade put to his sword, and then returned toward the Louvre, inquiring of the first Musketeer he met for the situation of the hotel of M. de Tréville, which proved to be in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier; that is to say, in the immediate vicinity of the chamber hired by D’Artagnan--a circumstance which appeared to furnish a happy augury for the success of his journey.

After this, satisfied with the way in which he had conducted himself at Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full of hope for the future, he retired to bed and slept the sleep of the brave.

This sleep, provincial as it was, brought him to nine o’clock in the morning; at which hour he rose, in order to repair to the residence of M. de Tréville, the third personage in the kingdom paternal estimation.

  1. We are well aware that this term, milady, is only properly used when followed by a family name. But we find it thus in the manuscript, and we do not choose to take upon ourselves to alter it.

The Antechamber of M. De Tréville

M. de Troisville, as his family was still called in Gascony, or M. de Tréville, as he has ended by styling himself in Paris, had really commenced life as D’Artagnan now did; that is to say, without a sou in his pocket, but with a fund of audacity, shrewdness, and intelligence which makes the poorest Gascon gentleman often derive more in his hope from the paternal inheritance than the richest Perigordian or Berrichan gentleman derives in reality from his. His insolent bravery, his still more insolent success at a time when blows poured down like hail, had borne him to the top of that difficult ladder called Court Favor, which he had climbed four steps at a time.

He was the friend of the king, who honored highly, as everyone knows, the memory of his father, Henry IV. The father of M. de Tréville had served him so faithfully in his wars against the league that in default of money--a thing to which the Béarnais was accustomed all his life, and who constantly paid his debts with that of which he never stood in need of borrowing, that is to say, with ready wit--in default of money, we repeat, he authorized him, after the reduction of Paris, to assume for his arms a golden lion passant upon gules, with the motto Fidelis et fortis. This was a great matter in the way of honor, but very little in the way of wealth; so that when the illustrious companion of the great Henry died, the only inheritance he was able to leave his son was his sword and his motto. Thanks to this double gift and the spotless name that accompanied it, M. de Tréville was admitted into the household of the young prince where he made such good use of his sword, and was so faithful to his motto, that Louis XIII, one of the good blades of his kingdom, was accustomed to say that if he had a friend who was about to fight, he would advise him to choose as a second, himself first, and Tréville next--or even, perhaps, before himself.

Thus Louis XIII had a real liking for Tréville--a royal liking, a self-interested liking, it is true, but still a liking. At that unhappy period it was an important consideration to be surrounded by such men as Tréville. Many might take for their device the epithet strong, which formed the second part of his motto, but very few gentlemen could lay claim to the faithful, which constituted the first. Tréville was one of these latter. His was one of those rare organizations, endowed with an obedient intelligence like that of the dog; with a blind valor, a quick eye, and a prompt hand; to whom sight appeared only to be given to see if the king were dissatisfied with anyone, and the hand to strike this displeasing personage, whether a Besme, a Maurevers, a Poltiot de Méré, or a Vitry. In short, up to this period nothing had been wanting to Tréville but opportunity; but he was ever on the watch for it, and he faithfully promised himself that he would not fail to seize it by its three hairs whenever it came within reach of his hand. At last Louis XIII made Tréville the captain of his Musketeers, who were to Louis XIII in devotedness, or rather in fanaticism, what his Ordinaries had been to Henry III, and his Scotch Guard to Louis XI.

On his part, the cardinal was not behind the king in this respect. When he saw the formidable and chosen body with which Louis XIII had surrounded himself, this second, or rather this first king of France, became desirous that he, too, should have his guard. He had his Musketeers therefore, as Louis XIII had his, and these two powerful rivals vied with each other in procuring, not only from all the provinces of France, but even from all foreign states, the most celebrated swordsmen. It was not uncommon for Richelieu and Louis XIII to dispute over their evening game of chess upon the merits of their servants. Each boasted the bearing and the courage of his own people. While exclaiming loudly against duels and brawls, they excited them secretly to quarrel, deriving an immoderate satisfaction or genuine regret from the success or defeat of their own combatants. We learn this from the memoirs of a man who was concerned in some few of these defeats and in many of these victories.

Tréville had grasped the weak side of his master; and it was to this address that he owed the long and constant favor of a king who has not left the reputation behind him of being very faithful in his friendships. He paraded his Musketeers before the Cardinal Armand Duplessis with an insolent air which made the gray moustache of his Eminence curl with ire. Tréville understood admirably the war method of that period, in which he who could not live at the expense of the enemy must live at the expense of his compatriots. His soldiers formed a legion of devil-may-care fellows, perfectly undisciplined toward all but himself.

Loose, half-drunk, imposing, the king’s Musketeers, or rather M. de Tréville’s, spread themselves about in the cabarets, in the public walks, and the public sports, shouting, twisting their mustaches, clanking their swords, and taking great pleasure in annoying the Guards of the cardinal whenever they could fall in with them; then drawing in the open streets, as if it were the best of all possible sports; sometimes killed, but sure in that case to be both wept and avenged; often killing others, but then certain of not rotting in prison, M. de Tréville being there to claim them. Thus M. de Tréville was praised to the highest note by these men, who adored him, and who, ruffians as they were, trembled before him like scholars before their master, obedient to his least word, and ready to sacrifice themselves to wash out the smallest insult.

M. de Tréville employed this powerful weapon for the king, in the first place, and the friends of the king--and then for himself and his own friends. For the rest, in the memoirs of this period, which has left so many memoirs, one does not find this worthy gentleman blamed even by his enemies; and he had many such among men of the pen as well as among men of the sword. In no instance, let us say, was this worthy gentleman accused of deriving personal advantage from the cooperation of his minions. Endowed with a rare genius for intrigue which rendered him the equal of the ablest intriguers, he remained an honest man. Still further, in spite of sword thrusts which weaken, and painful exercises which fatigue, he had become one of the most gallant frequenters of revels, one of the most insinuating lady’s men, one of the softest whisperers of interesting nothings of his day; the bonnes fortunes of De Tréville were talked of as those of M. de Bassompierre had been talked of twenty years before, and that was not saying a little. The captain of the Musketeers was therefore admired, feared, and loved; and this constitutes the zenith of human fortune.

Louis XIV absorbed all the smaller stars of his court in his own vast radiance; but his father, a sun pluribus impar, left his personal splendor to each of his favorites, his individual value to each of his courtiers. In addition to the leeves of the king and the cardinal, there might be reckoned in Paris at that time more than two hundred smaller but still noteworthy leeves. Among these two hundred leeves, that of Tréville was one of the most sought.

The court of his hotel, situated in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, resembled a camp from by six o’clock in the morning in summer and eight o’clock in winter. From fifty to sixty Musketeers, who appeared to replace one another in order always to present an imposing number, paraded constantly, armed to the teeth and ready for anything. On one of those immense staircases, upon whose space modern civilization would build a whole house, ascended and descended the office seekers of Paris, who ran after any sort of favor--gentlemen from the provinces anxious to be enrolled, and servants in all sorts of liveries, bringing and carrying messages between their masters and M. de Tréville. In the antechamber, upon long circular benches, reposed the elect; that is to say, those who were called. In this apartment a continued buzzing prevailed from morning till night, while M. de Tréville, in his office contiguous to this antechamber, received visits, listened to complaints, gave his orders, and like the king in his balcony at the Louvre, had only to place himself at the window to review both his men and arms.

The day on which D’Artagnan presented himself the assemblage was imposing, particularly for a provincial just arriving from his province. It is true that this provincial was a Gascon; and that, particularly at this period, the compatriots of D’Artagnan had the reputation of not being easily intimidated. When he had once passed the massive door covered with long square-headed nails, he fell into the midst of a troop of swordsmen, who crossed one another in their passage, calling out, quarreling, and playing tricks one with another. In order to make one’s way amid these turbulent and conflicting waves, it was necessary to be an officer, a great noble, or a pretty woman.

It was, then, into the midst of this tumult and disorder that our young man advanced with a beating heart, ranging his long rapier up his lanky leg, and keeping one hand on the edge of his cap, with that half-smile of the embarrassed provincial who wishes to put on a good face. When he had passed one group he began to breathe more freely; but he could not help observing that they turned round to look at him, and for the first time in his life D’Artagnan, who had till that day entertained a very good opinion of himself, felt ridiculous.

Arrived at the staircase, it was still worse. There were four Musketeers on the bottom steps, amusing themselves with the following exercise, while ten or twelve of their comrades waited upon the landing place to take their turn in the sport.

One of them, stationed upon the top stair, naked sword in hand, prevented, or at least endeavored to prevent, the three others from ascending.

These three others fenced against him with their agile swords.

D’Artagnan at first took these weapons for foils, and believed them to be buttoned; but he soon perceived by certain scratches that every weapon was pointed and sharpened, and that at each of these scratches not only the spectators, but even the actors themselves, laughed like so many madmen.

He who at the moment occupied the upper step kept his adversaries marvelously in check. A circle was formed around them. The conditions required that at every hit the man touched should quit the game, yielding his turn for the benefit of the adversary who had hit him. In five minutes three were slightly wounded, one on the hand, another on the ear, by the defender of the stair, who himself remained intact--a piece of skill which was worth to him, according to the rules agreed upon, three turns of favor,

However difficult it might be, or rather as he pretended it was, to astonish our young traveler, this pastime really astonished him. He had seen in his province--that land in which heads become so easily heated--a few of the preliminaries of duels; but the daring of these four fencers appeared to him the strongest he had ever heard of even in Gascony. He believed himself transported into that famous country of giants into which Gulliver afterward went and was so frightened; and yet he had not gained the goal, for there were still the landing place and the antechamber.

On the landing they were no longer fighting, but amused themselves with stories about women, and in the antechamber, with stories about the court. On the landing D’Artagnan blushed; in the antechamber he trembled. His warm and fickle imagination, which in Gascony had rendered him formidable to young chambermaids, and even sometimes their mistresses, had never dreamed, even in moments of delirium, of half the amorous wonders or a quarter of the feats of gallantry which were here set forth in connection with names the best known and with details the least concealed. But if his morals were shocked on the landing, his respect for the cardinal was scandalized in the antechamber. There, to his great astonishment, D’Artagnan heard the policy which made all Europe tremble criticized aloud and openly, as well as the private life of the cardinal, which so many great nobles had been punished for trying to pry into. That great man who was so revered by D’Artagnan the elder served as an object of ridicule to the Musketeers of Tréville, who cracked their jokes upon his bandy legs and his crooked back. Some sang ballads about Mme. d’Aguillon, his mistress, and Mme. Cambalet, his niece; while others formed parties and plans to annoy the pages and guards of the cardinal duke--all things which appeared to D’Artagnan monstrous impossibilities.

Nevertheless, when the name of the king was now and then uttered unthinkingly amid all these cardinal jests, a sort of gag seemed to close for a moment on all these jeering mouths. They looked hesitatingly around them, and appeared to doubt the thickness of the partition between them and the office of M. de Tréville; but a fresh allusion soon brought back the conversation to his Eminence, and then the laughter recovered its loudness and the light was not withheld from any of his actions.

“Certes, these fellows will all either be imprisoned or hanged,” thought the terrified D’Artagnan, “and I, no doubt, with them; for from the moment I have either listened to or heard them, I shall be held as an accomplice. What would my good father say, who so strongly pointed out to me the respect due to the cardinal, if he knew I was in the society of such pagans?”

We have no need, therefore, to say that D’Artagnan dared not join in the conversation, only he looked with all his eyes and listened with all his ears, stretching his five senses so as to lose nothing; and despite his confidence on the paternal admonitions, he felt himself carried by his tastes and led by his instincts to praise rather than to blame the unheard-of things which were taking place.

Although he was a perfect stranger in the court of M. de Tréville’s courtiers, and this his first appearance in that place, he was at length noticed, and somebody came and asked him what he wanted. At this demand D’Artagnan gave his name very modestly, emphasized the title of compatriot, and begged the servant who had put the question to him to request a moment’s audience of M. de Tréville--a request which the other, with an air of protection, promised to transmit in due season.

D’Artagnan, a little recovered from his first surprise, had now leisure to study costumes and physiognomy.

The center of the most animated group was a Musketeer of great height and haughty countenance, dressed in a costume so peculiar as to attract general attention. He did not wear the uniform cloak--which was not obligatory at that epoch of less liberty but more independence--but a cerulean-blue doublet, a little faded and worn, and over this a magnificent baldric, worked in gold, which shone like water ripples in the sun. A long cloak of crimson velvet fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, disclosing in front the splendid baldric, from which was suspended a gigantic rapier. This Musketeer had just come off guard, complained of having a cold, and coughed from time to time affectedly. It was for this reason, as he said to those around him, that he had put on his cloak; and while he spoke with a lofty air and twisted his mustache disdainfully, all admired his embroidered baldric, and D’Artagnan more than anyone.

“What would you have?” said the Musketeer. “This fashion is coming in. It is a folly, I admit, but still it is the fashion. Besides, one must lay out one’s inheritance somehow.”

“Ah, Porthos!” cried one of his companions, “don’t try to make us believe you obtained that baldric by paternal generosity. It was given to you by that veiled lady I met you with the other Sunday, near the gate St. Honoré.”

“No, upon honor and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with the contents of my own purse,” answered he whom they designated by the name Porthos.

“Yes; about in the same manner,” said another Musketeer, “that I bought this new purse with what my mistress put into the old one.”

“It’s true, though,” said Porthos; “and the proof is that I paid twelve pistoles for it.”

The wonder was increased, though the doubt continued to exist.

“Is it not true, Aramis?” said Porthos, turning toward another Musketeer.

This other Musketeer formed a perfect contrast to his interrogator, who had just designated him by the name of Aramis. He was a stout man, of about two- or three-and-twenty, with an open, ingenuous countenance, a black, mild eye, and cheeks rosy and downy as an autumn peach. His delicate mustache marked a perfectly straight line upon his upper lip; he appeared to dread to lower his hands lest their veins should swell, and he pinched the tips of his ears from time to time to preserve their delicate pink transparency. Habitually he spoke little and slowly, bowed frequently, laughed without noise, showing his teeth, which were fine and of which, as the rest of his person, he appeared to take great care. He answered the appeal of his friend by an affirmative nod of the head.

This affirmation appeared to dispel all doubts with regard to the baldric. They continued to admire it, but said no more about it; and with a rapid change of thought, the conversation passed suddenly to another subject.

“What do you think of the story Chalais’s esquire relates?” asked another Musketeer, without addressing anyone in particular, but on the contrary speaking to everybody.

“And what does he say?” asked Porthos, in a self-sufficient tone.

“He relates that he met at Brussels Rochefort, the âme damnée of the cardinal disguised as a Capuchin, and that this cursed Rochefort, thanks to his disguise, had tricked Monsieur de Laigues, like a ninny as he is.”

“A ninny, indeed!” said Porthos; “but is the matter certain?”

“I had it from Aramis,” replied the Musketeer.

“Indeed?”

“Why, you knew it, Porthos,” said Aramis. “I told you of it yesterday. Let us say no more about it.”

“Say no more about it? That’s your opinion!” replied Porthos.

“Say no more about it! peste! You come to your conclusions quickly. What! The cardinal sets a spy upon a gentleman, has his letters stolen from him by means of a traitor, a brigand, a rascal-has, with the help of this spy and thanks to this correspondence, Chalais’s throat cut, under the stupid pretext that he wanted to kill the king and marry Monsieur to the queen! Nobody knew a word of this enigma. You unraveled it yesterday to the great satisfaction of all; and while we are still gaping with wonder at the news, you come and tell us today, “Let us say no more about it.’”

“Well, then, let us talk about it, since you desire it,” replied Aramis, patiently.

“This Rochefort,” cried Porthos, “if I were the esquire of poor Chalais, should pass a minute or two very uncomfortably with me.”

“And you--you would pass rather a sad quarter-hour with the Red Duke,” replied Aramis.

“Oh, the Red Duke! Bravo! Bravo! The Red Duke!” cried Porthos, clapping his hands and nodding his head. “The Red Duke is capital. I’ll circulate that saying, be assured, my dear fellow. Who says this Aramis is not a wit? What a misfortune it is you did not follow your first vocation; what a delicious abbé you would have made!”

“Oh, it’s only a temporary postponement,” replied Aramis; “I shall be one someday. You very well know, Porthos, that I continue to study theology for that purpose.”

“He will be one, as he says,” cried Porthos; “he will be one, sooner or later.”

“Sooner,” said Aramis.

“He only waits for one thing to determine him to resume his cassock, which hangs behind his uniform,” said another Musketeer.

“What is he waiting for?” asked another.

“Only till the queen has given an heir to the crown of France.”

“No jesting upon that subject, gentlemen,” said Porthos; “thank God the queen is still of an age to give one!”

“They say that Monsieur de Buckingham is in France,” replied Aramis, with a significant smile which gave to this sentence, apparently so simple, a tolerably scandalous meaning.

“Aramis, my good friend, this time you are wrong,” interrupted Porthos. “Your wit is always leading you beyond bounds; if Monsieur de Tréville heard you, you would repent of speaking thus.”

“Are you going to give me a lesson, Porthos?” cried Aramis, from whose usually mild eye a flash passed like lightning.

“My dear fellow, be a Musketeer or an abbé. Be one or the other, but not both,” replied Porthos. “You know what Athos told you the other day; you eat at everybody’s mess. Ah, don’t be angry, I beg of you, that would be useless; you know what is agreed upon between you, Athos and me. You go to Madame d’Aguillon’s, and you pay your court to her; you go to Madame de Bois-Tracy’s, the cousin of Madame de Chevreuse, and you pass for being far advanced in the good graces of that lady. Oh, good Lord! Don’t trouble yourself to reveal your good luck; no one asks for your secret-all the world knows your discretion. But since you possess that virtue, why the devil don’t you make use of it with respect to her Majesty? Let whoever likes talk of the king and the cardinal, and how he likes; but the queen is sacred, and if anyone speaks of her, let it be respectfully.”

“Porthos, you are as vain as Narcissus; I plainly tell you so,” replied Aramis. “You know I hate moralizing, except when it is done by Athos. As to you, good sir, you wear too magnificent a baldric to be strong on that head. I will be an abbé if it suits me. In the meanwhile I am a Musketeer; in that quality I say what I please, and at this moment it pleases me to say that you weary me.”

“Aramis!”

“Porthos!”

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” cried the surrounding group.

“Monsieur de Tréville awaits Monsieur d’Artagnan,” cried a servant, throwing open the door of the cabinet.

At this announcement, during which the door remained open, everyone became mute, and amid the general silence the young man crossed part of the length of the antechamber, and entered the apartment of the captain of the Musketeers, congratulating himself with all his heart at having so narrowly escaped the end of this strange quarrel.

The Audience

M. de Tréville was at the moment in rather ill-humor, nevertheless he saluted the young man politely, who bowed to the very ground; and he smiled on receiving D’Artagnan’s response, the Béarnese accent of which recalled to him at the same time his youth and his country--a double remembrance which makes a man smile at all ages; but stepping toward the antechamber and making a sign to D’Artagnan with his hand, as if to ask his permission to finish with others before he began with him, he called three times, with a louder voice at each time, so that he ran through the intervening tones between the imperative accent and the angry accent.

“Athos! Porthos! Aramis!”

The two Musketeers with whom we have already made acquaintance, and who answered to the last of these three names, immediately quitted the group of which they had formed a part, and advanced toward the cabinet, the door of which closed after them as soon as they had entered. Their appearance, although it was not quite at ease, excited by its carelessness, at once full of dignity and submission, the admiration of D’Artagnan, who beheld in these two men demigods, and in their leader an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.

When the two Musketeers had entered; when the door was closed behind them; when the buzzing murmur of the antechamber, to which the summons which had been made had doubtless furnished fresh food, had recommenced; when M. de Tréville had three or four times paced in silence, and with a frowning brow, the whole length of his cabinet, passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, who were as upright and silent as if on parade--he stopped all at once full in front of them, and covering them from head to foot with an angry look, “Do you know what the king said to me,” cried he, “and that no longer ago then yesterday evening--do you know, gentlemen?”

“No,” replied the two Musketeers, after a moment’s silence, “no, sir, we do not.”

“But I hope that you will do us the honor to tell us,” added Aramis, in his politest tone and with his most graceful bow.

“He told me that he should henceforth recruit his Musketeers from among the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal.”

“The Guards of the cardinal! And why so?” asked Porthos, warmly.

“Because he plainly perceives that his piquette1 stands in need of being enlivened by a mixture of good wine.”

The two Musketeers reddened to the whites of their eyes. D’Artagnan did not know where he was, and wished himself a hundred feet underground.

“Yes, yes,” continued M. de Tréville, growing warmer as he spoke, “and his majesty was right; for, upon my honor, it is true that the Musketeers make but a miserable figure at court. The cardinal related yesterday while playing with the king, with an air of condolence very displeasing to me, that the day before yesterday those damned Musketeers, those daredevils--he dwelt upon those words with an ironical tone still more displeasing to me--those braggarts, added he, glancing at me with his tiger- cat’s eye, had made a riot in the Rue Férue in a cabaret, and that a party of his Guards (I thought he was going to laugh in my face) had been forced to arrest the rioters! morbleu! You must know something about it. Arrest Musketeers! You were among them--you were! Don’t deny it; you were recognized, and the cardinal named you. But it’s all my fault; yes, it’s all my fault, because it is myself who selects my men. You, Aramis, why the devil did you ask me for a uniform when you would have been so much better in a cassock? And you, Porthos, do you only wear such a fine golden baldric to suspend a sword of straw from it? And Athos--I don’t see Athos. Where is he?”

“Sir,” replied Aramis, in a sorrowful tone, “ he is ill, very ill!”

“Ill--very ill, say you? And of what malady?”

“It is feared that it may be the smallpox, sir,” replied Porthos, desirous of taking his turn in the conversation; “and what is serious is that it will certainly spoil his face.”

“The smallpox! That’s a great story to tell me, Porthos! Sick of the smallpox at his age! No, no; but wounded without doubt, killed, perhaps. Ah, if I knew! S’blood! Messieurs Musketeers, I will not have this haunting of bad places, this quarreling in the streets, this swordplay at the crossways; and above all, I will not have occasion given for the cardinal’s Guards, who are brave, quiet, skillful men who never put themselves in a position to be arrested, and who, besides, never allow themselves to be arrested, to laugh at you! I am sure of it--they would prefer dying on the spot to being arrested or taking back a step. To save yourselves, to scamper away, to flee--that is good for the king’s Musketeers!”

Porthos and Aramis trembled with rage. They could willingly have strangled M. de Tréville, if, at the bottom of all this, they had not felt it was the great love he bore them which made him speak thus. They stamped upon the carpet with their feet; they bit their lips till the blood came, and grasped the hilts of their swords with all their might. All without had heard, as we have said, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis called, and had guessed, from M. de Tréville’s tone of voice, that he was very angry about something. Ten curious heads were glued to the tapestry and became pale with fury; for their ears, closely applied to the door, did not lose a syllable of what he said, while their mouths repeated as he went on, the insulting expressions of the captain to all the people in the antechamber. In an instant, from the door of the cabinet to the street gate, the whole hotel was boiling.

“Ah! The king’s Musketeers are arrested by the Guards of the cardinal, are they?” continued M. de Tréville, as furious at heart as his soldiers, but emphasizing his words and plunging them, one by one, so to say, like so many blows of a stiletto, into the bosoms of his auditors. “What! Six of his Eminence’s Guards arrest six of his Majesty’s Musketeers! morbleu! My part is taken! I will go straight to the louvre; I will give in my resignation as captain of the king’s Musketeers to take a lieutenancy in the cardinal’s Guards, and if he refuses me, morbleu! I will turn abbé.”

At these words, the murmur without became an explosion; nothing was to be heard but oaths and blasphemies. The morblues, the sang dieus, the morts touts les diables, crossed one another in the air. D’Artagnan looked for some tapestry behind which he might hide himself, and felt an immense inclination to crawl under the table.

“Well, my Captain,” said Porthos, quite beside himself, “the truth is that we were six against six. But we were not captured by fair means; and before we had time to draw our swords, two of our party were dead, and Athos, grievously wounded, was very little better. For you know Athos. Well, Captain, he endeavored twice to get up, and fell again twice. And we did not surrender--no! They dragged us away by force. On the way we escaped. As for Athos, they believed him to be dead, and left him very quiet on the field of battle, not thinking it worth the trouble to carry him away. That’s the whole story. What the devil, Captain, one cannot win all one’s battles! The great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia; and Francis the First, who was, as I have heard say, as good as other folks, nevertheless lost the Battle of Pavia.”

“And I have the honor of assuring you that I killed one of them with his own sword,” said Aramis; “for mine was broken at the first parry. Killed him, or poniarded him, sir, as is most agreeable to you.”

“I did not know that,” replied M. de Tréville, in a somewhat softened tone. “The cardinal exaggerated, as I perceive.”

“But pray, sir,” continued Aramis, who, seeing his captain become appeased, ventured to risk a prayer, “do not say that Athos is wounded. He would be in despair if that should come to the ears of the king; and as the wound is very serious, seeing that after crossing the shoulder it penetrates into the chest, it is to be feared--”

At this instant the tapestry was raised and a noble and handsome head, but frightfully pale, appeared under the fringe.

“Athos!” cried the two Musketeers.

“Athos!” repeated M. de Tréville himself.

“You have sent for me, sir,” said Athos to M. de Tréville, in a feeble yet perfectly calm voice, “you have sent for me, as my comrades inform me, and I have hastened to receive your orders. I am here; what do you want with me?”

And at these words, the Musketeer, in irreproachable costume, belted as usual, with a tolerably firm step, entered the cabinet. M. de Tréville, moved to the bottom of his heart by this proof of courage, sprang toward him.

“I was about to say to these gentlemen,” added he, “that I forbid my Musketeers to expose their lives needlessly; for brave men are very dear to the king, and the king knows that his Musketeers are the bravest on the earth. Your hand, Athos!”

And without waiting for the answer of the newcomer to this proof of affection, M. de Tréville seized his right hand and pressed it with all his might, without perceiving that Athos, whatever might be his self-command, allowed a slight murmur of pain to escape him, and if possible, grew paler than he was before.

The door had remained open, so strong was the excitement produced by the arrival of Athos, whose wound, though kept as a secret, was known to all. A burst of satisfaction hailed the last words of the captain; and two or three heads, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, appeared through the openings of the tapestry. M. de Tréville was about to reprehend this breach of the rules of etiquette, when he felt the hand of Athos, who had rallied all his energies to contend against pain, at length overcome by it, fell upon the floor as if he were dead.

“A surgeon!” cried M. de Tréville, “mine! The king’s! The best! A surgeon! Or, s’blood, my brave Athos will die!”

At the cries of M. de Tréville, the whole assemblage rushed into the cabinet, he not thinking to shut the door against anyone, and all crowded round the wounded man. But all this eager attention might have been useless if the doctor was so loudly called for had not chanced to be in the hotel. He pushed through the crowd, approached Athos, still insensible, and as all this noise and commotion inconvenienced him greatly, he required, as the first and most urgent thing, that the Musketeer should be carried into an adjoining chamber. Immediately M. de Tréville opened and pointed the way to Porthos and Aramis, who bore their comrade in their arms. Behind this group walked the surgeon; and behind the surgeon the door closed.

The cabinet of M. de Tréville, generally held so sacred, became in an instant the annex of the antechamber. Everyone spoke, harangued, and vociferated, swearing, cursing, and consigning the cardinal and his Guards to all the devils.

An instant after, Porthos and Aramis re-entered, the surgeon and M. de Tréville alone remaining with the wounded.

At length, M. de Tréville himself returned. The injured man had recovered his senses. The surgeon declared that the situation of the Musketeer had nothing in it to render his friends uneasy, his weakness having been purely and simply caused by loss of blood.

Then M. de Tréville made a sign with his hand, and all retired except D’Artagnan, who did not forget that he had an audience, and with the tenacity of a Gascon remained in his place.

When all had gone out and the door was closed, M. de Tréville, on turning round, found himself alone with the young man. The event which had occurred had in some degree broken the thread of his ideas. He inquired what was the will of his persevering visitor. D’Artagnan then repeated his name, and in an instant recovering all his remembrances of the present and the past, M. de Tréville grasped the situation.

“Pardon me,” said he, smiling, “pardon me my dear compatriot, but I had wholly forgotten you. But what help is there for it! A captain is nothing but a father of a family, charged with even a greater responsibility than the father of an ordinary family. Soldiers are big children; but as I maintain that the orders of the king, and more particularly the orders of the cardinal, should be executed--”

D’Artagnan could not restrain a smile. By this smile M. de Tréville judged that he had not to deal with a fool, and changing the conversation, came straight to the point.

“I respected your father very much,” said he. “What can I do for the son? Tell me quickly; my time is not my own.”

“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “on quitting Tarbes and coming hither, it was my intention to request of you, in remembrance of the friendship which you have not forgotten, the uniform of a Musketeer; but after all that I have seen during the last two hours, I comprehend that such a favor is enormous, and tremble lest I should not merit it.”

“It is indeed a favor, young man,” replied M. de Tréville, “but it may not be so far beyond your hopes as you believe, or rather as you appear to believe. But his majesty’s decision is always necessary; and I inform you with regret that no one becomes a Musketeer without the preliminary ordeal of several campaigns, certain brilliant actions, or a service of two years in some other regiment less favored than ours.”

D’Artagnan bowed without replying, feeling his desire to don the Musketeer’s uniform vastly increased by the great difficulties which preceded the attainment of it.

“But,” continued M. de Tréville, fixing upon his compatriot a look so piercing that it might be said he wished to read the thoughts of his heart, “on account of my old companion, your father, as I have said, I will do something for you, young man. Our recruits from Béarn are not generally very rich, and I have no reason to think matters have much changed in this respect since I left the province. I dare say you have not brought too large a stock of money with you?”

D’Artagnan drew himself up with a proud air which plainly said, “I ask alms of no man.”

“Oh, that’s very well, young man,” continued M. de Tréville, “that’s all very well. I know these airs; I myself came to Paris with four crowns in my purse, and would have fought with anyone who dared to tell me I was not in a condition to purchase the Louvre.”

D’Artagnan’s bearing became still more imposing. Thanks to the sale of his horse, he commenced his career with four more crowns than M. de Tréville possessed at the commencement of his.

“You ought, I say, then, to husband the means you have, however large the sum may be; but you ought also to endeavor to perfect yourself in the exercises becoming a gentleman. I will write a letter today to the Director of the Royal Academy, and tomorrow he will admit you without any expense to yourself. Do not refuse this little service. Our best-born and richest gentlemen sometimes solicit it without being able to obtain it. You will learn horsemanship, swordsmanship in all its branches, and dancing. You will make some desirable acquaintances; and from time to time you can call upon me to tell you how you are getting on and to say whether I can be of further service to you.”

D’Artagnan, stranger as he was to all the manners of a court, could not but perceive a little coldness in this reception.

“Alas, sir,” said he, “I cannot but perceive how sadly I miss the letter of introduction which my father gave me to present to you.”

“I certainly am surprised,” replied M. de Tréville, “that you should undertake so long a journey without that necessary passport, the sole resource of us poor Béarnese.”

“I had one, sir, and, thank God, such as I could wish,” cried D’Artagnan; “but it was perfidiously stolen from me.”

He then related the adventure of Meung, described the unknown gentleman with the greatest minuteness, and all with a warmth and truthfulness that delighted M. de Tréville.

“This is all very strange,” said M. de Tréville, after meditating a minute; “you mentioned my name, then, aloud?”

“Yes, sir, I certainly committed that imprudence; but why should I have done otherwise? A name like yours must be as a buckler to me on my way. Judge if I should not put myself under its protection.”

Flattery was at that period very current, and M. de Tréville loved incense as well as a king, or even a cardinal. He could not refrain from a smile of visible satisfaction; but this smile soon disappeared, and returning to the adventure of Meung, “Tell me,” continued he, “had not this gentlemen a slight scar on his cheek?”

“Yes, such a one as would be made by the grazing of a ball.”

“Was he not a fine-looking man?”

“Yes.”

“Of lofty stature.”

“Yes.”

“Of complexion and brown hair?”

“Yes, yes, that is he; how is it, sir, that you are acquainted with this man? If I ever find him again--and I will find him, I swear, were it in hell!”

“He was waiting for a woman,” continued Tréville.

“He departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with her whom he awaited.”

“You know not the subject of their conversation?”

“He gave her a box, told her not to open it except in London.”

“Was this woman English?”

“He called her Milady.”

“It is he; it must be he!” murmured Tréville. “I believed him still at Brussels.”

“Oh, sir, if you know who this man is,” cried D’Artagnan, “tell me who he is, and whence he is. I will then release you from all your promises--even that of procuring my admission into the Musketeers; for before everything, I wish to avenge myself.”

“Beware, young man!” cried Tréville. “If you see him coming on one side of the street, pass by on the other. Do not cast yourself against such a rock; he would break you like glass.”

“That will not prevent me,” replied D’Artagnan, “if ever I find him.”

“In the meantime,” said Tréville, “seek him not--if I have a right to advise you.”

All at once the captain stopped, as if struck by a sudden suspicion. This great hatred which the young traveler manifested so loudly for this man, who--a rather improbable thing--had stolen his father’s letter from him--was there not some perfidy concealed under this hatred? Might not this young man be sent by his Eminence? Might he not have come for the purpose of laying a snare for him? This pretended D’Artagnan--was he not an emissary of the cardinal, whom the cardinal sought to introduce into Tréville’s house, to place near him, to win his confidence, and afterward to ruin him as had been done in a thousand other instances? He fixed his eyes upon D’Artagnan even more earnestly than before. He was moderately reassured however, by the aspect of that countenance, full of astute intelligence and affected humility. “I know he is a Gascon,” reflected he, “but he may be one for the cardinal was well as for me. Let us try him.”

“My friend,” said he, slowly, “I wish, as the son of an ancient friend--for I consider this story of the lost letter perfectly true--I wish, I say, in order to repair the coldness you may have remarked in my reception of you, to discover to you the secrets of our policy. The king and the cardinal are the best of friends; their apparent bickerings are only feints to deceive fools. I am not willing that a compatriot, a handsome cavalier, a brave youth, quite fit to make his way, should become the dupe of all these artifices and fall into the snare after the example of so many others who have been ruined by it. Be assured that I am devoted to both these all-powerful masters, and that my earnest endeavors have no other aim than the service of the king, and also the cardinal--one of the most illustrious geniuses that France has ever produced.

“Now, young man, regulate your conduct accordingly; and if you entertain, whether from your family, your relations, or even from your instincts, any of these enmities which we see constantly breaking out against the cardinal, bid me adieu and let us separate. I will aid you in many ways, but without attaching you to my person. I hope that my frankness at least will make you my friend; for you are the only young man to whom I have hitherto spoken as I have done to you.”

Tréville said to himself: “If the cardinal has set this young fox upon me, he will certainly not have failed--he, who knows how bitterly I execrate him--to tell his spy that the best means of making his court to me is to rail at him. Therefore, in spite of all my protestations, if it be as I suspect, my cunning gossip will assure me that he holds his Eminence in horror.”

It, however, proved otherwise. D’Artagnan answered, with the greatest simplicity: “I came to Paris with exactly such intentions. My father advised me to stoop to nobody but the king, the cardinal, and yourself--whom he considered the first three personages in France.”

D’Artagnan added M. de Tréville to the others, as may be perceived; but he thought this addition would do no harm.

“I have the greatest veneration for the cardinal,” continued he, “and the most profound respect for his actions. So much the better for me, sir, if you speak to me, as you say, with frankness--for then you will do me the honor to esteem the resemblance of our opinions; but if you have entertained any doubt, as naturally you may, I feel that I am ruining myself by speaking the truth. But I still trust you will not esteem me the less for it, and that is my object beyond all others.”

M. de Tréville was surprised to the greatest degree. So much penetration, so much frankness, created admiration, but did not entirely remove his suspicions. The more this young man was superior to others, the more he was to be dreaded if he meant to deceive him; “You are an honest youth; but at the present moment I can only do for you that which I just now offered. My hotel will be always open to you. Hereafter, being able to ask for me at all hours, and consequently to take advantage of all opportunities, you will probably obtain that which you desire.”

“That is to say,” replied D’Artagnan, “that you will wait until I have proved myself worthy of it. Well, be assured,” added he, with the familiarity of a Gascon, “you shall not wait long.” And he bowed in order to retire, and as if he considered the future in his own hands.

“But wait a minute,” said M. de Tréville, stopping him. “I promised you a letter for the director of the Academy. Are you too proud to accept it, young gentleman?”

“No, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “and I will guard it so carefully that I will be sworn it shall arrive at its address, and woe be to him who shall attempt to take it from me!”

M. de Tréville smiled at this flourish; and leaving his young man compatriot in the embrasure of the window, where they had talked together, he seated himself at a table in order to write the promised letter of recommendation. While he was doing this, D’Artagnan, having no better employment, amused himself with beating a march upon the window and with looking at the Musketeers, who went away, one after another, following them with his eyes until they disappeared.

M. de Tréville, after having written the letter, sealed it, and rising, approached the young man in order to give it to him. But at the very moment when D’Artagnan stretched out his hand to receive it, M. de Tréville was highly astonished to see his protégé make a sudden spring, become crimson with passion, and rush from the cabinet crying, “S’blood, he shall not escape me this time!”

“And who?” asked M. de Tréville.

“He, my thief!” replied D’Artagnan. “Ah, the traitor!” and he disappeared.

“The devil take the madman!” murmured M. de Tréville, “unless,” added he, “this is a cunning mode of escaping, seeing that he had failed in his purpose!”

  1. Piquette: A watered liquor, made from the second pressing of the grape.

The Shoulder Of Athos, The Baldric Of Porthos And The Handkerchief Of Aramis

D’Artagnan, in a state of fury, crossed the antechamber at three bounds, and was darting toward the stairs, which he reckoned upon descending four at a time, when, in his heedless course, he ran head foremost against a Musketeer who was coming out of one of M. de Tréville’s private rooms, and striking his shoulder violently, made him utter a cry, or rather a howl.

“Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan, endeavoring to resume his course, “excuse me, but I am in a hurry.”

Scarcely had he descended the first stair, when a hand of iron seized him by the belt and stopped him.

“You are in a hurry?” said the Musketeer, as pale as a sheet. “Under that pretense you run against me! You say. ‘Excuse me,’ and you believe that is sufficient? Not at all my young man. Do you fancy because you have heard Monsieur de Tréville speak to us a little cavalierly today that other people are to treat us as he speaks to us? Undeceive yourself, comrade, you are not Monsieur de Tréville.”

“My faith!” replied D’Artagnan, recognizing Athos, who, after the dressing performed by the doctor, was returning to his own apartment. “I did not do it intentionally, and not doing it intentionally, I said ‘Excuse me.’ It appears to me that this is quite enough. I repeat to you, however, and this time on my word of honor--I think perhaps too often--that I am in haste, great haste. Leave your hold, then, I beg of you, and let me go where my business calls me.”

“Monsieur,” said Athos, letting him go, “you are not polite; it is easy to perceive that you come from a distance.”

D’Artagnan had already strode down three or four stairs, but at Athos’s last remark he stopped short.

Morbleu, monsieur!” said he, “however far I may come, it is not you who can give me a lesson in good manners, I warn you.”

“Perhaps,” said Athos.

“Ah! If I were not in such haste, and if I were not running after someone,” said D’Artagnan.

“Monsieur Man-in-a-hurry, you can find me without running--me, you understand?”

“And where, I pray you?”

“Near the Carmes-Deschaux.”

“At what hour?”

“About noon.”

“About noon? That will do; I will be there.”

“Endeavor not to make me wait; for at quarter past twelve I will cut off your ears as you run.”

“Good!” cried D’Artagnan, “I will be there ten minutes before twelve.” And he set off running as if the devil possessed him, hoping that he might yet find the stranger, whose slow pace could not have carried him far.

But at the street gate, Porthos was talking with the soldier on guard. Between the two talkers there was just enough room for a man to pass. D’Artagnan thought it would suffice for him, and he sprang forward like a dart between them. But D’Artagnan had reckoned without the wind. As he was about to pass, the wind blew out Porthos’s long cloak, and D’Artagnan rushed straight into the middle of it. Without doubt, Porthos had reasons for not abandoning this part of his vestments, for instead of quitting his hold on the flap in his hand, he pulled it toward him, so that D’Artagnan rolled himself up in the velvet by a movement of rotation explained by the persistency of Porthos.

D’Artagnan, hearing the Musketeer swear, wished to escape from the cloak, which blinded him, and sought to find his way from under the folds of it. He was particularly anxious to avoid marring the freshness of the magnificent baldric we are acquainted with; but on timidly opening his eyes, he found himself with his nose fixed between the two shoulders of Porthos--that is to say, exactly upon the baldric.

Alas, like most things in this world which have nothing in their favor but appearances, the baldric was glittering with gold in the front, but was nothing but simple buff behind. Vainglorious as he was, Porthos could not afford to have a baldric wholly of gold, but had at least half. One could comprehend the necessity of the cold and the urgency of the cloak.

“Bless me!” cried Porthos, making strong efforts to disembarrass himself of D’Artagnan, who was wriggling about his back; “you must be mad to run against people in this manner.”

“Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan, reappearing under the shoulder of the giant, “but I am in such haste--I was running after someone and--”

“And do you always forget your eyes when you run?” asked Porthos.

“No,” replied D’Artagnan, piqued, “and thanks to my eyes, I can see what other people cannot see.”

Whether Porthos understood him or did not understand him, giving way to his anger, “Monsieur,” said he, “you stand a chance of getting chastised if you rub Musketeers in this fashion.”

“Chastised, Monsieur!” said D’Artagnan, “the expression is strong.”

“It is one that becomes a man accustomed to look his enemies in the face.”

“Ah, pardieu! I know full well that you don’t turn your back to yours.”

And the young man, delighted with his joke, went away laughing loudly.

Porthos foamed with rage, and made a movement to rush after D’Artagnan.

“Presently, presently,” cried the latter, “when you haven’t your cloak on.”

“At one o’clock, then, behind the Luxembourg.”

“Very well, at one o’clock, then,” replied D’Artagnan, turning the angle of the street.

But neither in the street he had passed through, nor in the one which his eager glance pervaded, could he see anyone; however slowly the stranger had walked, he was gone on his way, or perhaps had entered some house. D’Artagnan inquired of everyone he met with, went down to the ferry, came up again by the Rue de Seine, and the Red Cross; but nothing, absolutely nothing! This chase was, however, advantageous to him in one sense, for in proportion as the perspiration broke from his forehead, his heart began to cool.

He began to reflect upon the events that had passed; they were numerous and inauspicious. It was scarcely eleven o’clock in the morning, and yet this morning had already brought him into disgrace with M. de Tréville, who could not fail to think the manner in which D’Artagnan had left him a little cavalier.

Besides this, he had drawn upon himself two good duels with two men, each capable of killing three D’Artagnans-with two Musketeers, in short, with two of those beings whom he esteemed so greatly that he placed them in his mind and heart above all other men.

The outlook was sad. Sure of being killed by Athos, it may easily be understood that the young man was not very uneasy about Porthos. As hope, however, is the last thing extinguished in the heart of man, he finished by hoping that he might survive, even though with terrible wounds, in both these duels; and in case of surviving, he made the following reprehensions upon his own conduct:

“What a madcap I was, and what a stupid fellow I am! That brave and unfortunate Athos was wounded on that very shoulder against which I must run head foremost, like a ram. The only thing that astonishes me is that he did not strike me dead at once. He had good cause to do so; the pain I gave him must have been atrocious. As to Porthos--oh, as to Porthos, faith, that’s a droll affair!”

And in spite of himself, the young man began to laugh aloud, looking round carefully, however, to see that his solitary laugh, without a cause in the eyes of passers-by, offended no one.

“As to Porthos, that is certainly droll; but I am not the less a giddy fool. Are people to be run against without warning? No! And have I any right to go and peep under their cloaks to see what is not there? He would have pardoned me, he would certainly have pardoned me, if I had not said anything to him about that cursed baldric--in ambiguous words, it is true, but rather drolly ambiguous. Ah, cursed Gascon that I am, I get from one hobble into another. Friend D’Artagnan,” continued he, speaking to himself with all the amenity that he thought due himself, “if you escape, of which there is not much chance, I would advise you to practice perfect politeness for the future. You must henceforth be admired and quoted as a model of it. To be obliging and polite does not necessarily make a man a coward. Look at Aramis, now; Aramis is mildness and grace personified. Well, did anybody ever dream of calling Aramis a coward? No, certainly not, and from this moment I will endeavor to model myself after him. Ah! That’s strange! Here he is!”

D’Artagnan, walking and soliloquizing, had arrived within a few steps of the hotel d’Arguillon and in front of that hotel perceived Aramis, chatting gaily with three gentlemen; but as he had not forgotten that it was in presence of this young man that M. de Tréville had been so angry in the morning, and as a witness of the rebuke the Musketeers had received was not likely to be at all agreeable, he pretended not to see him. D’Artagnan, on the contrary, quite full of his plans of conciliation and courtesy, approached the young men with a profound bow, accompanied by a most gracious smile. All four, besides, immediately broke off their conversation.

D’Artagnan was not so dull as not to perceive that he was one too many; but he was not sufficiently broken into the fashions of the gay world to know how to extricate himself gallantly from a false position, like that of a man who begins to mingle with people he is scarcely acquainted with and in a conversation that does not concern him. He was seeking in his mind, then, for the least awkward means of retreat, when he remarked that Aramis had let his handkerchief fall, and by mistake, no doubt, had placed his foot upon it. This appeared to be a favorable opportunity to repair his intrusion. He stooped, and with the most gracious air he could assume, drew the handkerchief from under the foot of the Musketeer in spite of the efforts the latter made to detain it, and holding it out to him, said, “I believe, monsieur, that this is a handkerchief you would be sorry to lose?”

The handkerchief was indeed richly embroidered, and had a coronet and arms at one of its corners. Aramis blushed excessively, and snatched rather than took the handkerchief from the hand of the Gascon.

“Ah, ah!” cried one of the Guards, “will you persist in saying, most discreet Aramis, that you are not on good terms with Madame de Bois-Tracy, when that gracious lady has the kindness to lend you one of her handkerchiefs?”

Aramis darted at D’Artagnan one of those looks which inform a man that he has acquired a mortal enemy. Then, resuming his mild air, “You are deceived, gentlemen,” said he, “this handkerchief is not mine, and I cannot fancy why Monsieur has taken it into his head to offer it to me rather than to one of you; and as a proof of what I say, here is mine in my pocket.”

So saying, he pulled out his own handkerchief, likewise a very elegant handkerchief, and of fine cambric--though cambric was dear at the period--but a handkerchief without embroidery and without arms, only ornamented with a single cipher, that of its proprietor.

This time D’Artagnan was not hasty. He perceived his mistake; but the friends of Aramis were not at all convinced by his denial, and one of them addressed the young Musketeer with affected seriousness. “If it were as you pretend it is,” said he, “I should be forced, my dear Aramis, to reclaim it myself; for, as you very well know, Bois-Tracy is an intimate friend of mine, and I cannot allow the property of his wife to be sported as a trophy.”

“You make the demand badly,” replied Aramis; “and while acknowledging the justice of your reclamation, I refuse it on account of the form.”

“The fact is,” hazarded D’Artagnan, timidly, “I did not see the handkerchief fall from the pocket of Monsieur Aramis. He had his foot upon it, that is all; and I thought from having his foot upon it the handkerchief was his.”

“And you were deceived, my dear sir,” replied Aramis, coldly, very little sensible to the reparation. Then turning toward that one of the guards who had declared himself the friend of Bois- Tracy, “Besides,” continued he, “I have reflected, my dear intimate of Bois-Tracy, that I am not less tenderly his friend than you can possibly be; so that decidedly this handkerchief is as likely to have fallen from your pocket as mine.”

“No, upon my honor!” cried his Majesty’s Guardsman.

“You are about to swear upon your honor and I upon my word, and then it will be pretty evident that one of us will have lied. Now, here, Montaran, we will do better than that--let each take a half.”

“Of the handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

“Perfectly just,” cried the other two Guardsmen, “the judgment of King Solomon! Aramis, you certainly are full of wisdom!”

The young men burst into a laugh, and as may be supposed, the affair had no other sequel. In a moment or two the conversation ceased, and the three Guardsmen and the Musketeer, after having cordially shaken hands, separated, the Guardsmen going one way and Aramis another.

“Now is my time to make peace with this gallant man,” said D’Artagnan to himself, having stood on one side during the whole of the latter part of the conversation; and with this good feeling drawing near to Aramis, who was departing without paying any attention to him, “Monsieur,” said he, “you will excuse me, I hope.”

“Ah, monsieur,” interrupted Aramis, “permit me to observe to you that you have not acted in this affair as a gallant man ought.”

“What, monsieur!” cried D’Artagnan, “and do you suppose--”

“I suppose, monsieur that you are not a fool, and that you knew very well, although coming from Gascony, that people do not tread upon handkerchiefs without a reason. What the devil! Paris is not paved with cambric!”

“Monsieur, you act wrongly in endeavoring to mortify me,” said D’Artagnan, in whom the natural quarrelsome spirit began to speak more loudly than his pacific resolutions. “I am from Gascony, it is true; and since you know it, there is no occasion to tell you that Gascons are not very patient, so that when they have begged to be excused once, were it even for a folly, they are convinced that they have done already at least as much again as they ought to have done.”

“Monsieur, what I say to you about the matter,” said Aramis, “is not for the sake of seeking a quarrel. Thank God, I am not a bravo! And being a Musketeer but for a time, I only fight when I am forced to do so, and always with great repugnance; but this time the affair is serious, for here is a lady compromised by you.”

“By us, you mean!” cried D’Artagnan.

“Why did you so maladroitly restore me the handkerchief?”

“Why did you so awkwardly let it fall?”

“I have said, monsieur, and I repeat, that the handkerchief did not fall from my pocket.”

“And thereby you have lied twice, monsieur, for I saw it fall.”

“Ah, you take it with that tone, do you, Master Gascon? Well, I will teach you how to behave yourself.”

“And I will send you back to your Mass book, Master Abbé. Draw, if you please, and instantly--”

“Not so, if you please, my good friend--not here, at least. Do you not perceive that we are opposite the Hotel d’Arguillon, which is full of the cardinal’s creatures? How do I know that this is not his Eminence who has honored you with the commission to procure my head? Now, I entertain a ridiculous partiality for my head, it seems to suit my shoulders so correctly. I wish to kill you, be at rest as to that, but to kill you quietly in a snug, remote place, where you will not be able to boast of your death to anybody.”

“I agree, monsieur; but do not be too confident. Take your handkerchief; whether it belongs to you or another, you may perhaps stand in need of it.”

“Monsieur is a Gascon?” asked Aramis.

“Yes. Monsieur does not postpone an interview through prudence?”

“Prudence, monsieur, is a virtue sufficiently useless to Musketeers, I know, but indispensable to churchmen; and as I am only a Musketeer provisionally, I hold it good to be prudent. At two o’clock I shall have the honor of expecting you at the hotel of Monsieur de Tréville. There I will indicate to you the best place and time.”

The two young men bowed and separated, Aramis ascending the street which led to the Luxembourg, while D’Artagnan, perceiving the appointed hour was approaching, took the road to the Carmes-Deschaux, saying to himself, “Decidedly I can’t draw back; but at least, if I am killed, I shall be killed by a Musketeer.”

The King’s Musketeers And The Cardinal’s Guards

D’Artagnan was acquainted with nobody in Paris. He went therefore to his appointment with Athos without a second, determined to be satisfied with those his adversary should choose. Besides, his intention was formed to make the brave Musketeer all suitable apologies, but without meanness or weakness, fearing that might result from this duel which generally results from an affair of this kind, when a young and vigorous man fights with an adversary who is wounded and weakened--if conquered, he doubles the triumph of his antagonist; if a conqueror, he is accused of foul play and want of courage.

Now, we must have badly painted the character of our adventure seeker, or our readers must have already perceived that D’Artagnan was not an ordinary man; therefore, while repeating to himself that his death was inevitable, he did not make up his mind to die quietly, as one less courageous and less restrained might have done in his place. He reflected upon the different characters of men he had to fight with, and began to view his situation more clearly. He hoped, by means of loyal excuses, to make a friend of Athos, whose lordly air and austere bearing pleased him much. He flattered himself he should be able to frighten Porthos with the adventure of the baldric, which he might, if not killed upon the spot, relate to everybody a recital which, well managed, would cover Porthos with ridicule. As to the astute Aramis, he did not entertain much dread of him; and supposing he should be able to get so far, he determined to dispatch him in good style or at least, by hitting him in the face, as Caesar recommended his soldiers do to those of Pompey, to damage forever the beauty of which he was so proud.

In addition to this, D’Artagnan possessed that invincible stock of resolution which the counsels of his father had implanted in his heart: “Endure nothing from anyone but the king, the cardinal, and Monsieur de Tréville.” He flew, then, rather than walked, toward the convent of the Carmes Déchaussés, or rather Deschaux, as it was called at that period, a sort of building without a window, surrounded by barren fields--an accessory to the Pré-aux-Clercs, and which was generally employed as the place for the duels of men who had no time to lose.

When D’Artagnan arrived in sight of the bare spot of ground which extended along the foot of the monastery, Athos had been waiting about five minutes, and twelve o’clock was striking. He was, then, as punctual as the Samaritan woman, and the most rigorous casuist with regard to duels could have nothing to say.

Athos, who still suffered grievously from his wound, though it had been dressed anew by M. de Tréville’s surgeon, was seated on a post and waiting for his adversary with hat in hand, his feather even touching the ground.

“Monsieur,” said Athos, “I have engaged two of my friends as seconds; but these two friends are not yet come, at which I am astonished, as it is not at all their custom.”

“I have no seconds on my part, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan; “for having only arrived yesterday in Paris, I as yet know no one but Monsieur de Tréville, to whom I was recommended by my father, who has the honor to be, in some degree, one of his friends.”

Athos reflected for an instant. “You know no one but Monsieur de Tréville?” he asked.

“Yes, monsieur, I know only him.”

“Well, but then,” continued Athos, speaking half to himself, “if I kill you, I shall have the air of a boy-slayer.”

“Not too much so,” replied D’Artagnan, with a bow that was not deficient in dignity, “since you do me the honor to draw a sword with me while suffering from a wound which is very inconvenient.”

“Very inconvenient, upon my word; and you hurt me devilishly, I can tell you. But I will take the left hand--it is my custom in such circumstances. Do not fancy that I do you a favor; I use either hand easily. And it will be even a disadvantage to you; a left-handed man is very troublesome to people who are not prepared for it. I regret I did not inform you sooner of this circumstance.”

“You have truly, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, bowing again, “a courtesy, for which, I assure you, I am very grateful.”

“You confuse me,” replied Athos, with his gentlemanly air; “let us talk of something else, if you please. Ah, s’blood, how you have hurt me! My shoulder quite burns.”

“If you would permit me--” said D’Artagnan, with timidity.

“What, monsieur?”

“I have a miraculous balsam for wounds--a balsam given to me by my mother and of which I have made a trial upon myself.”

“Well?”

“Well, I am sure that in less than three days this balsam would cure you; and at the end of three days, when you would be cured-- well, sir, it would still do me a great honor to be your man.”

D’Artagnan spoke these words with a simplicity that did honor to his courtesy, without throwing the least doubt upon his courage.

Pardieu, monsieur!” said Athos, “that’s a proposition that pleases me; not that I can accept it, but a league off it savors of the gentleman. Thus spoke and acted the gallant knights of the time of Charlemagne, in whom every cavalier ought to seek his model. Unfortunately, we do not live in the times of the great emperor, we live in the times of the cardinal; and three days hence, however well the secret might be guarded, it would be known, I say, that we were to fight, and our combat would be prevented. I think these fellows will never come.”

“If you are in haste, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, with the same simplicity with which a moment before he had proposed to him to put off the duel for three days, “and if it be your will to dispatch me at once, do not inconvenience yourself, I pray you.”

“There is another word which pleases me,” cried Athos, with a gracious nod to D’Artagnan. “That did not come from a man without a heart. Monsieur, I love men of your kidney; and I foresee plainly that if we don’t kill each other, I shall hereafter have much pleasure in your conversation. We will wait for these gentlemen, so please you; I have plenty of time, and it will be more correct. Ah, here is one of them, I believe.”

In fact, at the end of the Rue Vaugirard the gigantic Porthos appeared.

“What!” cried D’Artagnan, “is your first witness Monsieur Porthos?”

“Yes, that disturbs you?”

“By no means.”

“And here is the second.”

D’Artagnan turned in the direction pointed to by Athos, and perceived Aramis.

“What!” cried he, in an accent of greater astonishment than before, “your second witness is Monsieur Aramis?”

“Doubtless! Are you not aware that we are never seen one without the others, and that we are called among the Musketeers and the Guards, at court and in the city, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, or the Three Inseparables? And yet, as you come from Dax or Pau--”

“From Tarbes,” said D’Artagnan.

“It is probable you are ignorant of this little fact,” said Athos.

“My faith!” replied D’Artagnan, “you are well named, gentlemen; and my adventure, if it should make any noise, will prove at least that your union is not founded upon contrasts.”

In the meantime, Porthos had come up, waved his hand to Athos, and then turning toward D’Artagnan, stood quite astonished.

Let us say in passing that he had changed his baldric and relinquished his cloak.

“Ah, ah!” said he, “what does this mean?”

“This is the gentleman I am going to fight with,” said Athos, pointing to D’Artagnan with his hand and saluting him with the same gesture.

“Why, it is with him I am also going to fight,” said Porthos.

“But not before one o’clock,” replied D’Artagnan.

“And I also am to fight with this gentleman,” said Aramis, coming in his turn onto the place.

“But not until two o’clock,” said D’Artagnan, with the same calmness.

“But what are you going to fight about, Athos?” asked Aramis.

“Faith! I don’t very well know. He hurt my shoulder. And you, Porthos?”

“Faith! I am going to fight--because I am going to fight,” answered Porthos, reddening.

Athos, whose keen eye lost nothing, perceived a faintly sly smile pass over the lips of the young Gascon as he replied, “We had a short discussion upon dress.”

“And you, Aramis?” asked Athos.

“Oh, ours is a theological quarrel,” replied Aramis, making a sign to D’Artagnan to keep secret the cause of their duel.

Athos indeed saw a second smile on the lips of D’Artagnan.

“Indeed?” said Athos.

“Yes; a passage of St. Augustine, upon which we could not agree,” said the Gascon.

“Decidedly, this is a clever fellow,” murmured Athos.

“And now you are assembled, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “permit me to offer you my apologies.

At this word apologies, a cloud passed over the brow of Athos, a haughty smile curled the lip of Porthos, and a negative sign was the reply of Aramis.

“You do not understand me, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, throwing up his head, the sharp and bold lines of which were at the moment gilded by a bright ray of the sun. “I asked to be excused in case I should not be able to discharge my debt to all three; for Monsieur Athos has the right to kill me first, which I must abate your valor in your own estimation, Monsieur Porthos, and render yours almost null, Monsieur Aramis. And now, gentlemen, I repeat, excuse me, but on that account only, and--on guard!”

At these words, with the most gallant air possible, D’Artagnan drew his sword.

The blood had mounted to the head of D’Artagnan, and at that moment he would have drawn his sword against all the Musketeers in the kingdom as willingly as he now did against Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

It was a quarter past midday. The sun was in its zenith, and the spot chosen for the scene of the duel was exposed to its full ardor.

“It is very hot,” said Athos, drawing his sword in its turn, “and yet I cannot take off my doublet; for I just now felt my wound begin to bleed again, and I should not like to annoy Monsieur with the sight of blood which he has not drawn from me himself.”

“That is true, Monsieur,” replied D’Artagnan, “and whether drawn by myself or another, I assure you I shall always view with regret the blood of so brave a gentleman. I will therefore fight in my doublet, like yourself.”

“Come, come, enough of such compliments!” cried Porthos. “Remember, we are waiting for our turns.”

“Speak for yourself when you are inclined to utter such incongruities,” interrupted Aramis. “For my part, I think what they say is very well said, and quite worthy of two gentlemen.”

“When you please, monsieur,” said Athos, putting himself on guard.

“I waited your orders,” said D’Artagnan, crossing swords.

But scarcely had the two rapiers clashed, when a company of the Guards of his Eminence, commanded by M. de Jussac, turned the corner of the convent.

“The cardinal’s Guards!” cried Aramis and Porthos at the same time. “Sheathe your swords, gentlemen, sheathe your swords!”

But it was too late. The two combatants had been seen in a position which left no doubt of their intentions.

“Halloo!” cried Jussac, advancing toward them and making a sign to his men to do so likewise, “halloo, Musketeers? Fighting here, are you? And the edicts? What is become of them?”

“You are very generous, gentlemen of the Guards,” said Athos, full of rancor, for Jussac was one of the aggressors of the preceding day. “If we were to see you fighting, I can assure you that we would make no effort to prevent you. Leave us alone, then, and you will enjoy a little amusement without cost to yourselves.”

“Gentlemen,” said Jussac, “it is with great regret that I pronounce the thing impossible. Duty before everything. Sheathe, then, if you please, and follow us.”

“Monsieur,” said Aramis, parodying Jussac, “it would afford us great pleasure to obey your polite invitation if it depended upon ourselves; but unfortunately the thing is impossible--Monsieur de Tréville has forbidden it. Pass on your way, then; it is the best thing to do.”

This raillery exasperated Jussac. “We will charge upon you, then,” said he, “if you disobey.”

“There are five of them,” said Athos, half aloud, “and we are but three; we shall be beaten again, and must die on the spot, for, on my part, I declare I will never appear again before the captain as a conquered man.”

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis instantly drew near one another, while Jussac drew up his soldiers.

This short interval was sufficient to determine D’Artagnan on the part he was to take. It was one of those events which decide the life of a man; it was a choice between the king and the cardinal--the choice made, it must be persisted in. To fight, that was to disobey the law, that was to risk his head, that was to make at one blow an enemy of a minister more powerful than the king himself. All this young man perceived, and yet, to his praise we speak it, he did not hesitate a second. Turning towards Athos and his friends, “Gentlemen,” said he, “allow me to correct your words, if you please. You said you were but three, but it appears to me we are four.”

“But you are not one of us,” said Porthos.

“That’s true,” replied D’Artagnan; “I have not the uniform, but I have the spirit. My heart is that of a Musketeer; I feel it, monsieur, and that impels me on.”

“Withdraw, young man,” cried Jussac, who doubtless, by his gestures and the expression of his countenance, had guessed D’Artagnan’s design. “You may retire; we consent to that. Save your skin; begone quickly.”

D’Artagnan did not budge.

“Decidedly, you are a brave fellow,” said Athos, pressing the young man’s hand.

“Come, come, choose your part,” replied Jussac.

“Well,” said Porthos to Aramis, “we must do something.”

“Monsieur is full of generosity,” said Athos.

But all three reflected upon the youth of D’Artagnan, and dreaded his inexperience.

“We should only be three, one of whom is wounded, with the addition of a boy,” resumed Athos; “and yet it will not be the less said we were four men.”

“Yes, but to yield!” said Porthos.

“That IS difficult,” replied Athos.

D’Artagnan comprehended their irresolution.

“Try me, gentlemen,” said he, “and I swear to you by my honor that I will not go hence if we are conquered.”

“What is your name, my brave fellow?” said Athos.

“D’Artagnan, monsieur.”

“Well, then, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan, forward!” cried Athos.

“Come, gentlemen, have you decided?” cried Jussac for the third time.

“It is done, gentlemen,” said Athos.

“And what is your choice?” asked Jussac.

“We are about to have the honor of charging you,” replied Aramis, lifting his hat with one hand and drawing his sword with the other.

“Ah! You resist, do you?” cried Jussac.

“S’blood; does that astonish you?”

And the nine combatants rushed upon each other with a fury which however did not exclude a certain degree of method.

Athos fixed upon a certain Cahusac, a favorite of the cardinal’s. Porthos had Bicarat, and Aramis found himself opposed to two adversaries. As to D’Artagnan, he sprang toward Jussac himself.

The heart of the young Gascon beat as if it would burst through his side--not from fear, God he thanked, he had not the shade of it, but with emulation; he fought like a furious tiger, turning ten times round his adversary, and changing his ground and his guard twenty times. Jussac was, as was then said, a fine blade, and had had much practice; nevertheless it required all his skill to defend himself against an adversary who, active and energetic, departed every instant from received rules, attacking him on all sides at once, and yet parrying like a man who had the greatest respect for his own epidermis.

This contest at length exhausted Jussac’s patience. Furious at being held in check by one whom he had considered a boy, he became warm and began to make mistakes. D’Artagnan, who though wanting in practice had a sound theory, redoubled his agility. Jussac, anxious to put an end to this, springing forward, aimed a terrible thrust at his adversary, but the latter parried it; and while Jussac was recovering himself, glided like a serpent beneath his blade, and passed his sword through his body. Jussac fell like a dead mass.

D’Artagnan then cast an anxious and rapid glance over the field of battle.

Aramis had killed one of his adversaries, but the other pressed him warmly. Nevertheless, Aramis was in a good situation, and able to defend himself.

Bicarat and Porthos had just made counterhits. Porthos had received a thrust through his arm, and Bicarat one through his thigh. But neither of these two wounds was serious, and they only fought more earnestly.

Athos, wounded anew by Cahusac, became evidently paler, but did not give way a foot. He only changed his sword hand, and fought with his left hand.

According to the laws of dueling at that period, D’Artagnan was at liberty to assist whom he pleased. While he was endeavoring to find out which of his companions stood in greatest need, he caught a glance from Athos. The glance was of sublime eloquence. Athos would have died rather than appeal for help; but he could look, and with that look ask assistance. D’Artagnan interpreted it; with a terrible bound he sprang to the side of Cahusac, crying, “To me, Monsieur Guardsman; I will slay you!”

Cahusac turned. It was time; for Athos, whose great courage alone supported him, sank upon his knee.

“S’blood!” cried he to D’Artagnan, “do not kill him, young man, I beg of you. I have an old affair to settle with him when I am cured and sound again. Disarm him only--make sure of his sword. That’s it! Very well done!”

The exclamation was drawn from Athos by seeing the sword of Cahusac fly twenty paces from him. D’Artagnan and Cahusac sprang forward at the same instant, the one to recover, the other to obtain, the sword; but D’Artagnan, being the more active, reached it first and placed his foot upon it.

Cahusac immediately ran to the Guardsman whom Aramis had killed, seized his rapier, and returned toward D’Artagnan; but on his way he met Athos, who during his relief which D’Artagnan had procured him had recovered his breath, and who, for fear that D’Artagnan would kill his enemy, wished to resume the fight.

D’Artagnan perceived that it would be disobliging Athos not to leave him alone; and in a few minutes Cahusac fell, with a sword thrust through his throat.

At the same instant Aramis placed his sword point on the breast of his fallen enemy, and forced him to ask for mercy.

There only then remained Porthos and Bicarat. Porthos made a thousand flourishes, asking Bicarat what o’clock it could be, and offering him his compliments upon his brother’s having just obtained a company in the regiment of Navarre; but, jest as he might, he gained nothing. Bicarat was one of those iron men who never fell dead.

Nevertheless, it was necessary to finish. The watch might come up and take all the combatants, wounded or not, royalists or cardinalists. Athos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan surrounded Bicarat, and required him to surrender. Though alone against all and with a wound in his thigh, Bicarat wished to hold out; but Jussac, who had risen upon his elbow, cried out to him to yield. Bicarat was a Gascon, as D’Artagnan was; he turned a deaf ear, and contented himself with laughing, and between two parries finding time to point to a spot of earth with his sword, “Here,” cried he, parodying a verse of the Bible, “here will Bicarat die; for I only am left, and they seek my life.”

“But there are four against you; leave off, I command you.”

“Ah, if you command me, that’s another thing,” said Bicarat. “As you are my commander, it is my duty to obey.” And springing backward, he broke his sword across his knee to avoid the necessity of surrendering it, threw the pieces over the convent wall, and crossed his arms, whistling a cardinalist air.

Bravery is always respected, even in an enemy. The Musketeers saluted Bicarat with their swords, and returned them to their sheaths. D’Artagnan did the same. Then, assisted by Bicarat, the only one left standing, he bore Jussac, Cahusac, and one of Aramis’s adversaries who was only wounded, under the porch of the convent. The fourth, as we have said, was dead. They then rang the bell, and carrying away four swords out of five, they took their road, intoxicated with joy, toward the hotel of M. de Tréville.

They walked arm in arm, occupying the whole width of the street and taking in every Musketeer they met, so that in the end it became a triumphal march. The heart of D’Artagnan swam in delirium; he marched between Athos and Porthos, pressing them tenderly.

“If I am not yet a Musketeer,” said he to his new friends, as he passed through the gateway of M. de Tréville’s hotel, “at least I have entered upon my apprenticeship, haven’t I?”

His Majesty King Louis XIII

This affair made a great noise. M. de Tréville scolded his Musketeers in public, and congratulated them in private; but as no time was to be lost in gaining the king, M. de Tréville hastened to report himself at the Louvre. It was already too late. The king was closeted with the cardinal, and M. de Tréville was informed that the king was busy and could not receive him at that moment. In the evening M. de Tréville attended the king’s gaming table. The king was winning; and as he was very avaricious, he was in an excellent humor. Perceiving M. de Tréville at a distance--

“Come here, Monsieur Captain,” said he, “come here, that I may growl at you. Do you know that his Eminence has been making fresh complaints against your Musketeers, and that with so much emotion, that this evening his Eminence is indisposed? Ah, these Musketeers of yours are very devils--fellows to be hanged.”

“No, sire,” replied Tréville, who saw at the first glance how things would go, “on the contrary, they are good creatures, as meek as lambs, and have but one desire, I’ll be their warranty. And that is that their swords may never leave their scabbards but in your majesty’s service. But what are they to do? The Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal are forever seeking quarrels with them, and for the honor of the corps even, the poor young men are obliged to defend themselves.”

“Listen to Monsieur de Tréville,” said the king; “listen to him! Would not one say he was speaking of a religious community? In truth, my dear Captain, I have a great mind to take away your commission and give it to Mademoiselle de Chemerault, to whom I promised an abbey. But don’t fancy that I am going to take you on your bare word. I am called Louis the Just, Monsieur de Tréville, and by and by, by and by we will see.”

“Ah, sire; it is because I confide in that justice that I shall wait patiently and quietly the good pleasure of your Majesty.”

“Wait, then, monsieur, wait,” said the king; “I will not detain you long.”

In fact, fortune changed; and as the king began to lose what he had won, he was not sorry to find an excuse for playing Charlemagne--if we may use a gaming phrase of whose origin we confess our ignorance. The king therefore arose a minute after, and putting the money which lay before him into his pocket, the major part of which arose from his winnings, “La Vieuville,” said he, “take my place; I must speak to Monsieur de Tréville on an affair of importance. Ah, I had eighty louis before me; put down the same sum, so that they who have lost may have nothing to complain of. Justice before everything.”

Then turning toward M. de Tréville and walking with him toward the embrasure of a window, “Well, monsieur,” continued he, “you say it is his Eminence’s Guards who have sought a quarrel with your Musketeers?”

“Yes, sire, as they always do.”

“And how did the thing happen? Let us see, for you know, my dear Captain, a judge must hear both sides.”

“Good Lord! In the most simple and natural manner possible. Three of my best soldiers, whom your Majesty knows by name, and whose devotedness you have more than once appreciated, and who have, I dare affirm to the king, his service much at heart--three of my best soldiers, I say, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, had made a party of pleasure with a young fellow from Gascony, whom I had introduced to them the same morning. The party was to take place at St. Germain, I believe, and they had appointed to meet at the Carmes-Deschaux, when they were disturbed by De Jussac, Cahusac, Bicarat, and two other Guardsmen, who certainly did not go there in such a numerous company without some ill intention against the edicts.”

“Ah, ah! You incline me to think so,” said the king. “There is no doubt they went thither to fight themselves.”

“I do not accuse them, sire; but I leave your Majesty to judge what five armed men could possibly be going to do in such a deserted place as the neighborhood of the Convent des Carmes.”

“Yes, you are right, Tréville, you are right!”

“Then, upon seeing my Musketeers they changed their minds, and forgot their private hatred for partisan hatred; for your Majesty cannot be ignorant that the Musketeers, who belong to the king and nobody but the king, are the natural enemies of the Guardsmen, who belong to the cardinal.”

“Yes, Tréville, yes,” said the king, in a melancholy tone; “and it is very sad, believe me, to see thus two parties in France, two heads to royalty. But all this will come to an end, Tréville, will come to an end. You say, then, that the Guardsmen sought a quarrel with the Musketeers?”

“I say that it is probable that things have fallen out so, but I will not swear to it, sire. You know how difficult it is to discover the truth; and unless a man be endowed with that admirable instinct which causes Louis XIII to be named the Just--”

“You are right, Tréville; but they were not alone, your Musketeers. They had a youth with them?”

“Yes, sire, and one wounded man; so that three of the king’s Musketeers--one of whom was wounded--and a youth not only maintained their ground against five of the most terrible of the cardinal’s Guardsmen, but absolutely brought four of them to earth.”

“Why, this is a victory!” cried the king, all radiant, “a complete victory!”

“Yes, sire; as complete as that of the Bridge of Ce.”

“Four men, one of them wounded, and a youth, say you?”

“One hardly a young man; but who, however, behaved himself so admirably on this occasion that I will take the liberty of recommending him to your Majesty.”

“How does he call himself?”

“D’Artagnan, sire; he is the son of one of my oldest friends--the son of a man who served under the king your father, of glorious memory, in the civil war.”

“And you say this young man behaved himself well? Tell me how, Tréville--you know how I delight in accounts of war and fighting.”

And Louis XIII twisted his mustache proudly, placing his hand upon his hip.

“Sire,” resumed Tréville, “as I told you, Monsieur d’Artagnan is little more than a boy; and as he has not the honor of being a Musketeer, he was dressed as a citizen. The Guards of the cardinal, perceiving his youth and that he did not belong to the corps, invited him to retire before they attacked.”

“So you may plainly see, Tréville,” interrupted the king, “it was they who attacked?”

“That is true, sire; there can be no more doubt on that head. They called upon him then to retire; but he answered that he was a Musketeer at heart, entirely devoted to your Majesty, and that therefore he would remain with Messieurs the Musketeers.”

“Brave young man!” murmured the king.

“Well, he did remain with them; and your Majesty has in him so firm a champion that it was he who gave Jussac the terrible sword thrust which has made the cardinal so angry.”

“He who wounded Jussac!” cried the king, “he, a boy! Tréville, that’s impossible!”

“It is as I have the honor to relate it to your Majesty.”

“Jussac, one of the first swordsmen in the kingdom?”

“Well, sire, for once he found his master.”

“I will see this young man, Tréville--I will see him; and if anything can be done--well, we will make it our business.”

“When will your Majesty deign to receive him?”

“Tomorrow, at midday, Tréville.”

“Shall I bring him alone?”

“No, bring me all four together. I wish to thank them all at once. Devoted men are so rare, Tréville, we must recompense devotedness.”

“At twelve o’clock, sire, we will be at the Louvre.”

“Ah! by the back staircase, Tréville, by the back staircase; it is useless to let the cardinal know.”

“Yes, sire.”

“You understand, Tréville--an edict is still an edict, it is forbidden to fight, after all.”

“But this encounter, sire, is quite out of the ordinary conditions of a duel. It is a brawl; and the proof is that there were five of the cardinal’s Guardsmen against my three Musketeers and Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“That is true,” said the king; “but never mind, Tréville, come still by the back staircase.”

Tréville smiled; but as it was indeed something to have prevailed upon this child to rebel against his master, he saluted the king respectfully, and with this agreement, took leave of him.

That evening the three Musketeers were informed of the honor accorded them. As they had long been acquainted with the king, they were not much excited; but D’Artagnan, with his Gascon imagination, saw in it his future fortune, and passed the night in golden dreams. By eight o’clock in the morning he was at the apartment of Athos.

D’Artagnan found the Musketeer dressed and ready to go out. As the hour to wait upon the king was not till twelve, he had made a party with Porthos and Aramis to play a game at tennis in a tennis court situated near the stables of the Luxembourg. Athos invited D’Artagnan to follow them; and although ignorant of the game, which he had never played, he accepted, not knowing what to do with his time from nine o’clock in the morning, as it then scarcely was, till twelve.

The two Musketeers were already there, and were playing together. Athos, who was very expert in all bodily exercises, passed with D’Artagnan to the opposite side and challenged them; but at the first effort he made, although he played with his left hand, he found that his wound was yet too recent to allow of such exertion. D’Artagnan remained, therefore, alone; and as he declared he was too ignorant of the game to play it regularly they only continued giving balls to one another without counting. But one of these balls, launched by Porthos’ herculean hand, passed so close to D’Artagnan’s face that he thought that if, instead of passing near, it had hit him, his audience would have been probably lost, as it would have been impossible for him to present himself before the king. Now, as upon this audience, in his Gascon imagination, depended his future life, he saluted Aramis and Porthos politely, declaring that he would not resume the game until he should be prepared to play with them on more equal terms, and went and took his place near the cord and in the gallery.

Unfortunately for D’Artagnan, among the spectators was one of his Eminence’s Guardsmen, who, still irritated by the defeat of his companions, which had happened only the day before, had promised himself to seize the first opportunity of avenging it. He believed this opportunity was now come and addressed his neighbor: “It is not astonishing that that young man should be afraid of a ball, for he is doubtless a Musketeer apprentice.”

D’Artagnan turned round as if a serpent had stung him, and fixed his eyes intensely upon the Guardsman who had just made this insolent speech.

Pardieu,” resumed the latter, twisting his mustache, “look at me as long as you like, my little gentleman! I have said what I have said.”

“And as since that which you have said is too clear to require any explanation,” replied D’Artagnan, in a low voice, “I beg you to follow me.”

“And when?” asked the Guardsman, with the same jeering air.

“At once, if you please.”

“And you know who I am, without doubt?”

“I? I am completely ignorant; nor does it much disquiet me.”

“You’re in the wrong there; for if you knew my name, perhaps you would not be so pressing.”

“What is your name?”

“Bernajoux, at your service.”

“Well, then, Monsieur Bernajoux,” said D’Artagnan, tranquilly, “I will wait for you at the door.”

“Go, monsieur, I will follow you.”

“Do not hurry yourself, monsieur, lest it be observed that we go out together. You must be aware that for our undertaking, company would be in the way.”

“That’s true,” said the Guardsman, astonished that his name had not produced more effect upon the young man.

Indeed, the name of Bernajoux was known to all the world, D’Artagnan alone excepted, perhaps; for it was one of those which figured most frequently in the daily brawls which all the edicts of the cardinal could not repress.

Porthos and Aramis were so engaged with their game, and Athos was watching them with so much attention, that they did not even perceive their young companion go out, who, as he had told the Guardsman of his Eminence, stopped outside the door. An instant after, the Guardsman descended in his turn. As D’Artagnan had no time to lose, on account of the audience of the king, which was fixed for midday, he cast his eyes around, and seeing that the street was empty, said to his adversary, “My faith! It is fortunate for you, although your name is Bernajoux, to have only to deal with an apprentice Musketeer. Never mind; be content, I will do my best. On guard!”

“But,” said he whom D’Artagnan thus provoked, “it appears to me that this place is badly chosen, and that we should be better behind the Abbey St. Germain or in the Pré-aux-Clercs.”

“What you say is full of sense,” replied D’Artagnan; “but unfortunately I have very little time to spare, having an appointment at twelve precisely. On guard, then, monsieur, on guard!”

Bernajoux was not a man to have such a compliment paid to him twice. In an instant his sword glittered in his hand, and he sprang upon his adversary, whom, thanks to his great youthfulness, he hoped to intimidate.

But D’Artagnan had on the preceding day served his apprenticeship. Fresh sharpened by his victory, full of hopes of future favor, he was resolved not to recoil a step. So the two swords were crossed close to the hilts, and as D’Artagnan stood firm, it was his adversary who made the retreating step; but D’Artagnan seized the moment at which, in this movement, the sword of Bernajoux deviated from the line. He freed his weapon, made a lunge, and touched his adversary on the shoulder. D’Artagnan immediately made a step backward and raised his sword; but Bernajoux cried out that it was nothing, and rushing blindly upon him, absolutely spitted himself upon D’Artagnan’s sword. As, however, he did not fall, as he did not declare himself conquered, but only broke away toward the hotel of M. de la Trémouille, in whose service he had a relative, D’Artagnan was ignorant of the seriousness of the last wound his adversary had received, and pressing him warmly, without doubt would soon have completed his work with a third blow, when the noise which arose from the street being heard in the tennis court, two of the friends of the Guardsman, who had seen him go out after exchanging some words with D’Artagnan, rushed, sword in hand, from the court, and fell upon the conqueror. But Athos, Porthos, and Aramis quickly appeared in their turn, and the moment the two Guardsmen attacked their young companion, drove them back. Bernajoux now fell, and as the Guardsmen were only two against four, they began to cry, “To the rescue! The Hotel de la Trémouille!” At these cries, all who were in the hotel rushed out and fell upon the four companions, who on their side cried aloud, “To the rescue, Musketeers!”

This cry was generally heeded; for the Musketeers were known to be enemies of the cardinal, and were beloved on account of the hatred they bore to his Eminence. Thus the soldiers of other companies than those which belonged to the Red Duke, as Aramis had called him, often took part with the king’s Musketeers in these quarrels. Of three Guardsmen of the company of M. Dessessart who were passing, two came to the assistance of the four companions, while the other ran toward the hotel of M. de Tréville, crying, “To the rescue, Musketeers! To the rescue!” As usual, this hotel was full of soldiers of this company, who hastened to the succor of their comrades. The melee became general, but strength was on the side of the Musketeers. The cardinal’s Guards and M. de la Trémouille’s people retreated into the hotel, the doors of which they closed just in time to prevent their enemies from entering with them. As to the wounded man, he had been taken in at once, and, as we have said, in a very bad state.

Excitement was at its height among the Musketeers and their allies, and they even began to deliberate whether they should not set fire to the hotel to punish the insolence of M. de la Trémouille’s domestics in daring to make a sortie upon the king’s Musketeers. The proposition had been made, and received with enthusiasm, when fortunately eleven o’clock struck. D’Artagnan and his companions remembered their audience, and as they would very much have regretted that such an opportunity should be lost, they succeeded in calming their friends, who contented themselves with hurling some paving stones against the gates; but the gates were too strong. They soon tired of the sport. Besides, those who must be considered the leaders of the enterprise had quit the group and were making their way toward the hotel of M. de Tréville, who was waiting for them, already informed of this fresh disturbance.

“Quick to the Louvre,” said he, “to the Louvre without losing an instant, and let us endeavor to see the king before he is prejudiced by the cardinal. We will describe the thing to him as a consequence of the affair of yesterday, and the two will pass off together.”

M. de Tréville, accompanied by the four young fellows, directed his course toward the Louvre; but to the great astonishment of the captain of the Musketeers, he was informed that the king had gone stag hunting in the forest of St. Germain. M. de Tréville required this intelligence to be repeated to him twice, and each time his companions saw his brow become darker.

“Had his Majesty,” asked he, “any intention of holding this hunting party yesterday?”

“No, your Excellency,” replied the valet de chambre, “the Master of the Hounds came this morning to inform him that he had marked down a stag. At first the king answered that he would not go; but he could not resist his love of sport, and set out after dinner.”

“And the king has seen the cardinal?” asked M. de Tréville.

“In all probability he has,” replied the valet, “for I saw the horses harnessed to his Eminence’s carriage this morning, and when I asked where he was going, they told me, “To St. Germain.’”

“He is beforehand with us,” said M. de Tréville. “Gentlemen, I will see the king this evening; but as to you, I do not advise you to risk doing so.”

This advice was too reasonable, and moreover came from a man who knew the king too well, to allow the four young men to dispute it. M. de Tréville recommended everyone to return home and wait for news.

On entering his hotel, M. de Tréville thought it best to be first in making the complaint. He sent one of his servants to M. de la Trémouille with a letter in which he begged of him to eject the cardinal’s Guardsmen from his house, and to reprimand his people for their audacity in making sortie against the king’s Musketeers. But M. de la Trémouille--already prejudiced by his esquire, whose relative, as we already know, Bernajoux was-- replied that it was neither for M. de Tréville nor the Musketeers to complain, but, on the contrary, for him, whose people the Musketeers had assaulted and whose hotel they had endeavored to burn. Now, as the debate between these two nobles might last a long time, each becoming, naturally, more firm in his own opinion, M. de Tréville thought of an expedient which might terminate it quietly. This was to go himself to M. de la Trémouille.

He repaired, therefore, immediately to his hotel, and caused himself to be announced.

The two nobles saluted each other politely, for if no friendship existed between them, there was at least esteem. Both were men of courage and honor; and as M. de la Trémouille--a Protestant, and seeing the king seldom--was of no party, he did not, in general, carry any bias into his social relations. This time, however, his address, although polite, was cooler than usual.

“Monsieur,” said M. de Tréville, “we fancy that we have each cause to complain of the other, and I am come to endeavor to clear up this affair.”

“I have no objection,” replied M. de la Trémouille, “but I warn you that I am well informed, and all the fault is with your Musketeers.”

“You are too just and reasonable a man, monsieur!” said Tréville, “not to accept the proposal I am about to make to you.”

“Make it, monsieur, I listen.”

“How is Monsieur Bernajoux, your esquire’s relative?”

“Why, monsieur, very ill indeed! In addition to the sword thrust in his arm, which is not dangerous, he has received another right through his lungs, of which the doctor says bad things.”

“But has the wounded man retained his senses?”

“Perfectly.”

“Does he talk?”

“With difficulty, but he can speak.”

“Well, monsieur, let us go to him. Let us adjure him, in the name of the God before whom he must perhaps appear, to speak the truth. I will take him for judge in his own cause, monsieur, and will believe what he will say.”

M. de la Trémouille reflected for an instant; then as it was difficult to suggest a more reasonable proposal, he agreed to it.

Both descended to the chamber in which the wounded man lay. The latter, on seeing these two noble lords who came to visit him, endeavored to raise himself up in his bed; but he was too weak, and exhausted by the effort, he fell back again almost senseless.

M. de la Trémouille approached him, and made him inhale some salts, which recalled him to life. Then M. de Tréville, unwilling that it should be thought that he had influenced the wounded man, requested M. de la Trémouille to interrogate him himself.

That happened which M. de Tréville had foreseen. Placed between life and death, as Bernajoux was, he had no idea for a moment of concealing the truth; and he described to the two nobles the affair exactly as it had passed.

This was all that M. de Tréville wanted. He wished Bernajoux a speedy convalescence, took leave of M. de la Trémouille, returned to his hotel, and immediately sent word to the four friends that he awaited their company at dinner.

M. de Tréville entertained good company, wholly anticardinalist, though. It may easily be understood, therefore, that the conversation during the whole of dinner turned upon the two checks that his Eminence’s Guardsmen had received. Now, as D’Artagnan had been the hero of these two fights, it was upon him that all the felicitations fell, which Athos, Porthos, and Aramis abandoned to him, not only as good comrades, but as men who had so often had their turn that could very well afford him his.

Toward six o’clock M. de Tréville announced that it was time to go to the Louvre; but as the hour of audience granted by his Majesty was past, instead of claiming the entrée by the back stairs, he placed himself with the four young men in the antechamber. The king had not yet returned from hunting. Our young men had been waiting about half an hour, amid a crowd of courtiers, when all the doors were thrown open, and his Majesty was announced.

At his announcement D’Artagnan felt himself tremble to the very marrow of his bones. The coming instant would in all probability decide the rest of his life. His eyes therefore were fixed in a sort of agony upon the door through which the king must enter.

Louis XIII appeared, walking fast. He was in hunting costume covered with dust, wearing large boots, and holding a whip in his hand. At the first glance, D’Artagnan judged that the mind of the king was stormy.

This disposition, visible as it was in his Majesty, did not prevent the courtiers from ranging themselves along his pathway. In royal antechambers it is worth more to be viewed with an angry eye than not to be seen at all. The three Musketeers therefore did not hesitate to make a step forward. D’Artagnan on the contrary remained concealed behind them; but although the king knew Athos, Porthos, and Aramis personally, he passed before them without speaking or looking--indeed, as if he had never seen them before. As for M. de Tréville, when the eyes of the king fell upon him, he sustained the look with so much firmness that it was the king who dropped his eyes; after which his Majesty, grumbling, entered his apartment.

“Matters go but badly,” said Athos, smiling; “and we shall not be made Chevaliers of the Order this time.”

“Wait here ten minutes,” said M. de Tréville; “and if at the expiration of ten minutes you do not see me come out, return to my hotel, for it will be useless for you to wait for me longer.”

The four young men waited ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes; and seeing that M. de Tréville did not return, went away very uneasy as to what was going to happen.

M. de Tréville entered the king’s cabinet boldly, and found his Majesty in a very ill humor, seated on an armchair, beating his boot with the handle of his whip. This, however, did not prevent his asking, with the greatest coolness, after his Majesty’s health.

“Bad, monsieur, bad!” replied the king; “I am bored.”

This was, in fact, the worst complaint of Louis XIII, who would sometimes take one of his courtiers to a window and say, “Monsieur So-and-so, let us weary ourselves together.”

“How! Your Majesty is bored? Have you not enjoyed the pleasures of the chase today?”

“A fine pleasure, indeed, monsieur! Upon my soul, everything degenerates; and I don’t know whether it is the game which leaves no scent, or the dogs that have no noses. We started a stag of ten branches. We chased him for six hours, and when he was near being taken--when St.-Simon was already putting his horn to his mouth to sound the halali--crack, all the pack takes the wrong scent and sets off after a two-year-older. I shall be obliged to give up hunting, as I have given up hawking. Ah, I am an unfortunate king, Monsieur de Tréville! I had but one gerfalcon, and he died day before yesterday.”

“Indeed, sire, I wholly comprehend your disappointment. The misfortune is great; but I think you have still a good number of falcons, sparrow hawks, and tiercets.”

“And not a man to instruct them. Falconers are declining. I know no one but myself who is acquainted with the noble art of venery. After me it will all be over, and people will hunt with gins, snares, and traps. If I had but the time to train pupils! But there is the cardinal always at hand, who does not leave me a moment’s repose; who talks to me about Spain, who talks to me about Austria, who talks to me about England! Ah! à propos of the cardinal, Monsieur de Tréville, I am vexed with you!”

This was the chance at which M. de Tréville waited for the king. He knew the king of old, and he knew that all these complaints were but a preface--a sort of excitation to encourage himself-- and that he had now come to his point at last.

“And in what have I been so unfortunate as to displease your Majesty?” asked M. de Tréville, feigning the most profound astonishment.

“Is it thus you perform your charge, monsieur?” continued the king, without directly replying to De Tréville’s question. “Is it for this I name you captain of my Musketeers, that they should assassinate a man, disturb a whole quarter, and endeavor to set fire to Paris, without your saying a word? But yet,” continued the king, “undoubtedly my haste accuses you wrongfully; without doubt the rioters are in prison, and you come to tell me justice is done.”

“Sire,” replied M. de Tréville, calmly, “on the contrary, I come to demand it of you.”

“And against whom?” cried the king.

“Against calumniators,” said M. de Tréville.

“Ah! This is something new,” replied the king. “Will you tell me that your three damned Musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and your youngster from Béarn, have not fallen, like so many furies, upon poor Bernajoux, and have not maltreated him in such a fashion that probably by this time he is dead? Will you tell me that they did not lay siege to the hotel of the Duc de la Trémouille, and that they did not endeavor to burn it?--which would not, perhaps, have been a great misfortune in time of war, seeing that it is nothing but a nest of Huguenots, but which is, in time of peace, a frightful example. Tell me, now, can you deny all this?”

“And who told you this fine story, sire?” asked Tréville, quietly.

“Who has told me this fine story, monsieur? Who should it be but he who watches while I sleep, who labors while I amuse myself, who conducts everything at home and abroad--in France as in Europe?”

“Your Majesty probably refers to God,” said M. de Tréville; “for I know no one except God who can be so far above your Majesty.”

“No, monsieur; I speak of the prop of the state, of my only servant, of my only friend--of the cardinal.”

“His Eminence is not his holiness, sire.”

“What do you mean by that, monsieur?”

“That it is only the Pope who is infallible, and that this infallibility does not extend to cardinals.”

“You mean to say that he deceives me; you mean to say that he betrays me? You accuse him, then? Come, speak; avow freely that you accuse him!”

“No, sire, but I say that he deceives himself. I say that he is ill-informed. I say that he has hastily accused your Majesty’s Musketeers, toward whom he is unjust, and that he has not obtained his information from good sources.”

“The accusation comes from Monsieur de la Trémouille, from the duke himself. What do you say to that?”

“I might answer, sire, that he is too deeply interested in the question to be a very impartial witness; but so far from that, sire, I know the duke to be a royal gentleman, and I refer the matter to him--but upon one condition, sire.”

“What?”

“It is that your Majesty will make him come here, will interrogate him yourself, tête-à-tête, without witnesses, and that I shall see your Majesty as soon as you have seen the duke.”

“What, then! You will bind yourself,” cried the king, “by what Monsieur de la Trémouille shall say?”

“Yes, sire.”

“You will accept his judgment?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And you will submit to the reparation he may require?”

“Certainly.”

“La Chesnaye,” said the king. “La Chesnaye!”

Louis XIII’s confidential valet, who never left the door, entered in reply to the call.

“La Chesnaye,” said the king, “let someone go instantly and find Monsieur de la Trémouille; I wish to speak with him this evening.”

“Your Majesty gives me your word that you will not see anyone between Monsieur de la Trémouille and myself?”

“Nobody, by the faith of a gentleman.”

“Tomorrow, then, sire?”

“Tomorrow, monsieur.”

“At what o’clock, please your Majesty?”

“At any hour you will.”

“But in coming too early I should be afraid of awakening your Majesty.”

“Awaken me! Do you think I ever sleep, then? I sleep no longer, monsieur. I sometimes dream, that’s all. Come, then, as early as you like--at seven o’clock; but beware, if you and your Musketeers are guilty.”

“If my Musketeers are guilty, sire, the guilty shall be placed in your Majesty’s hands, who will dispose of them at your good pleasure. Does your Majesty require anything further? Speak, I am ready to obey.”

“No, monsieur, no; I am not called Louis the Just without reason. Tomorrow, then, monsieur--tomorrow.”

“Till then, God preserve your Majesty!”

However ill the king might sleep, M. de Tréville slept still worse. He had ordered his three Musketeers and their companion to be with him at half past six in the morning. He took them with him, without encouraging them or promising them anything, and without concealing from them that their luck, and even his own, depended upon the cast of the dice.

Arrived at the foot of the back stairs, he desired them to wait. If the king was still irritated against them, they would depart without being seen; if the king consented to see them, they would only have to be called.

On arriving at the king’s private antechamber, M. de Tréville found La Chesnaye, who informed him that they had not been able to find M. de la Trémouille on the preceding evening at his hotel, that he returned too late to present himself at the Louvre, that he had only that moment arrived and that he was at that very hour with the king.

This circumstance pleased M. de Tréville much, as he thus became certain that no foreign suggestion could insinuate itself between M. de la Trémouille’s testimony and himself.

In fact, ten minutes had scarcely passed away when the door of the king’s closet opened, and M. de Tréville saw M. de la Trémouille come out. The duke came straight up to him, and said: “Monsieur de Tréville, his Majesty has just sent for me in order to inquire respecting the circumstances which took place yesterday at my hotel. I have told him the truth; that is to say, that the fault lay with my people, and that I was ready to offer you my excuses. Since I have the good fortune to meet you, I beg you to receive them, and to hold me always as one of your friends.”

“Monsieur the Duke,” said M. de Tréville, “I was so confident of your loyalty that I required no other defender before his Majesty than yourself. I find that I have not been mistaken, and I thank you that there is still one man in France of whom may be said, without disappointment, what I have said of you.”

“That’s well said,” cried the king, who had heard all these compliments through the open door; “only tell him, Tréville, since he wishes to be considered your friend, that I also wish to be one of his, but he neglects me; that it is nearly three years since I have seen him, and that I never do see him unless I send for him. Tell him all this for me, for these are things which a king cannot say for himself.”

“Thanks, sire, thanks,” said the duke; “but your Majesty may be assured that it is not those--I do not speak of Monsieur de Tréville--whom your Majesty sees at all hours of the day that are most devoted to you.”

“Ah! You have heard what I said? So much the better, Duke, so much the better,” said the king, advancing toward the door. “Ah! It is you, Tréville. Where are your Musketeers? I told you the day before yesterday to bring them with you; why have you not done so?”

“They are below, sire, and with your permission La Chesnaye will bid them come up.”

“Yes, yes, let them come up immediately. It is nearly eight o’clock, and at nine I expect a visit. Go, Monsieur Duke, and return often. Come in, Tréville.”

The Duke saluted and retired. At the moment he opened the door, the three Musketeers and D’Artagnan, conducted by La Chesnaye, appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Come in, my braves,” said the king, “come in; I am going to scold you.”

The Musketeers advanced, bowing, D’Artagnan following closely behind them.

“What the devil!” continued the king. “Seven of his Eminence’s Guards placed hors de combat by you four in two days! That’s too many, gentlemen, too many! If you go on so, his Eminence will be forced to renew his company in three weeks, and I to put the edicts in force in all their rigor. One now and then I don’t say much about; but seven in two days, I repeat, it is too many, it is far too many!”

“Therefore, sire, your Majesty sees that they are come, quite contrite and repentant, to offer you their excuses.”

“Quite contrite and repentant! Hem!” said the king. “I place no confidence in their hypocritical faces. In particular, there is one yonder of a Gascon look. Come hither, monsieur.”

D’Artagnan, who understood that it was to him this compliment was addressed, approached, assuming a most deprecating air.

“Why you told me he was a young man? This is a boy, Tréville, a mere boy! Do you mean to say that it was he who bestowed that severe thrust at Jussac?”

“And those two equally fine thrusts at Bernajoux.”

“Truly!”

“Without reckoning,” said Athos, “that if he had not rescued me from the hands of Cahusac, I should not now have the honor of making my very humble reverence to your Majesty.”

“Why he is a very devil, this Béarnais! Ventre-saint-gris, Monsieur de Tréville, as the king my father would have said. But at this sort of work, many doublets must be slashed and many swords broken. Now, Gascons are always poor, are they not?”

“Sire, I can assert that they have hitherto discovered no gold mines in their mountains; though the Lord owes them this miracle in recompense for the manner in which they supported the pretensions of the king your father.”

“Which is to say that the Gascons made a king of me, myself, seeing that I am my father’s son, is it not, Tréville? Well, happily, I don’t say nay to it. La Chesnaye, go and see if by rummaging all my pockets you can find forty pistoles; and if you can find them, bring them to me. And now let us see, young man, with your hand upon your conscience, how did all this come to pass?”

D’Artagnan related the adventure of the preceding day in all its details; how, not having been able to sleep for the joy he felt in the expectation of seeing his Majesty, he had gone to his three friends three hours before the hour of audience; how they had gone together to the tennis court, and how, upon the fear he had manifested lest he receive a ball in the face, he had been jeered at by Bernajoux who had nearly paid for his jeer with his life and M. de la Trémouille, who had nothing to do with the matter, with the loss of his hotel.

“This is all very well,” murmured the king, “yes, this is just the account the duke gave me of the affair. Poor cardinal! Seven men in two days, and those of his very best! But that’s quite enough, gentlemen; please to understand, that’s enough. You have taken your revenge for the Rue Férue, and even exceeded it; you ought to be satisfied.”

“If your Majesty is so,” said Tréville, “we are.”

“Oh, yes; I am,” added the king, taking a handful of gold from La Chesnaye, and putting it into the hand of D’Artagnan. “Here,” said he, “is a proof of my satisfaction.”

At this epoch, the ideas of pride which are in fashion in our days did not prevail. A gentleman received, from hand to hand, money from the king, and was not the least in the world humiliated. D’Artagnan put his forty pistoles into his pocket without any scruple--on the contrary, thanking his Majesty greatly.

“There,” said the king, looking at a clock, “there, now, as it is half past eight, you may retire; for as I told you, I expect someone at nine. Thanks for your devotedness, gentlemen. I may continue to rely upon it, may I not?”

“Oh, sire!” cried the four companions, with one voice, “we would allow ourselves to be cut to pieces in your Majesty’s service.”

“Well, well, but keep whole; that will be better, and you will be more useful to me. Tréville,” added the king, in a low voice, as the others were retiring, “as you have no room in the Musketeers, and as we have besides decided that a novitiate is necessary before entering that corps, place this young man in the company of the Guards of Monsieur Dessessart, your brother-in-law. Ah, pardieu, Tréville! I enjoy beforehand the face the cardinal will make. He will be furious; but I don’t care. I am doing what is right.”

The king waved his hand to Tréville, who left him and rejoined the Musketeers, whom he found sharing the forty pistoles with D’Artagnan.

The cardinal, as his Majesty had said, was really furious, so furious that during eight days he absented himself from the king’s gaming table. This did not prevent the king from being as complacent to him as possible whenever he met him, or from asking in the kindest tone, “Well, Monsieur Cardinal, how fares it with that poor Jussac and that poor Bernajoux of yours?”

The Interior Of “the Musketeers”

When D’Artagnan was out of the Louvre, and consulted his friends upon the use he had best make of his share of the forty pistoles, Athos advised him to order a good repast at the Pomme-de-Pin, Porthos to engage a lackey, and Aramis to provide himself with a suitable mistress.

The repast was carried into effect that very day, and the lackey waited at table. The repast had been ordered by Athos, and the lackey furnished by Porthos. He was a Picard, whom the glorious Musketeer had picked up on the Bridge Tournelle, making rings and plashing in the water.

Porthos pretended that this occupation was proof of a reflective and contemplative organization, and he had brought him away without any other recommendation. The noble carriage of this gentleman, for whom he believed himself to be engaged, had won Planchet--that was the name of the Picard. He felt a slight disappointment, however, when he saw that this place was already taken by a compeer named Mousqueton, and when Porthos signified to him that the state of his household, though great, would not support two servants, and that he must enter into the service of D’Artagnan. Nevertheless, when he waited at the dinner given by his master, and saw him take out a handful of gold to pay for it, he believed his fortune made, and returned thanks to heaven for having thrown him into the service of such a Croesus. He preserved this opinion even after the feast, with the remnants of which he repaired his own long abstinence; but when in the evening he made his master’s bed, the chimeras of Planchet faded away. The bed was the only one in the apartment, which consisted of an antechamber and a bedroom. Planchet slept in the antechamber upon a coverlet taken from the bed of D’Artagnan, and which D’Artagnan from that time made shift to do without.

Athos, on his part, had a valet whom he had trained in his service in a thoroughly peculiar fashion, and who was named Grimaud. He was very taciturn, this worthy signor. Be it understood we are speaking of Athos. During the five or six years that he had lived in the strictest intimacy with his companions, Porthos and Aramis, they could remember having often seen him smile, but had never heard him laugh. His words were brief and expressive, conveying all that was meant, and no more; no embellishments, no embroidery, no arabesques. His conversation a matter of fact, without a single romance.

Although Athos was scarcely thirty years old, and was of great personal beauty and intelligence of mind, no one knew whether he had ever had a mistress. He never spoke of women. He certainly did not prevent others from speaking of them before him, although it was easy to perceive that this kind of conversation, in which he only mingled by bitter words and misanthropic remarks, was very disagreeable to him. His reserve, his roughness, and his silence made almost an old man of him. He had, then, in order not to disturb his habits, accustomed Grimaud to obey him upon a simple gesture or upon a simple movement of his lips. He never spoke to him, except under the most extraordinary occasions.

Sometimes, Grimaud, who feared his master as he did fire, while entertaining a strong attachment to his person and a great veneration for his talents, believed he perfectly understood what he wanted, flew to execute the order received, and did precisely the contrary. Athos then shrugged his shoulders, and, without putting himself in a passion, thrashed Grimaud. On these days he spoke a little.

Porthos, as we have seen, had a character exactly opposite to that of Athos. He not only talked much, but he talked loudly, little caring, we must render him that justice, whether anybody listened to him or not. He talked for the pleasure of talking and for the pleasure of hearing himself talk. He spoke upon all subjects except the sciences, alleging in this respect the inveterate hatred he had borne to scholars from his childhood. He had not so noble an air as Athos, and the commencement of their intimacy often rendered him unjust toward that gentleman, whom he endeavored to eclipse by his splendid dress. But with his simple Musketeer’s uniform and nothing but the manner in which he threw back his head and advanced his foot, Athos instantly took the place which was his due and consigned the ostentatious Porthos to the second rank. Porthos consoled himself by filling the antechamber of M. de Tréville and the guardroom of the Louvre with the accounts of his love scrapes, after having passed from professional ladies to military ladies, from the lawyer’s dame to the baroness, there was question of nothing less with Porthos than a foreign princess, who was enormously fond of him.

An old proverb says, “Like master, like man.” Let us pass, then, from the valet of Athos to the valet of Porthos, from Grimaud to Mousqueton.

Mousqueton was a Norman, whose pacific name of Boniface his master had changed into the infinitely more sonorous name of Mousqueton. He had entered the service of Porthos upon condition that he should only be clothed and lodged, though in a handsome manner; but he claimed two hours a day to himself, consecrated to an employment which would provide for his other wants. Porthos agreed to the bargain; the thing suited him wonderfully well. He had doublets cut out of his old clothes and cast-off cloaks for Mousqueton, and thanks to a very intelligent tailor, who made his clothes look as good as new by turning them, and whose wife was suspected of wishing to make Porthos descend from his aristocratic habits, Mousqueton made a very good figure when attending on his master.

As for Aramis, of whom we believe we have sufficiently explained the character--a character besides which, like that of his companions, we shall be able to follow in its development, his lackey was called Bazin. Thanks to the hopes which his master entertained of someday entering into orders, he was always clothed in black, as became the servant of a churchman. He was a Berrichon, thirty-five or forty years old, mild, peaceable, sleek, employing the leisure his master left him in the perusal of pious works, providing rigorously for two a dinner of few dishes, but excellent. For the rest, he was dumb, blind, and deaf, and of unimpeachable fidelity.

And now that we are acquainted, superficially at least, with the masters and the valets, let us pass on to the dwellings occupied by each of them.

Athos dwelt in the Rue Férue, within two steps of the Luxembourg. His apartment consisted of two small chambers, very nicely fitted up, in a furnished house, the hostess of which, still young and still really handsome, cast tender glances uselessly at him. Some fragments of past splendor appeared here and there upon the walls of this modest lodging; a sword, for example, richly embossed, which belonged by its make to the times of Francis I, the hilt of which alone, encrusted with precious stones, might be worth two hundred pistoles, and which, nevertheless, in his moments of greatest distress Athos had never pledged or offered for sale. It had long been an object of ambition for Porthos. Porthos would have given ten years of his life to possess this sword.

One day, when he had an appointment with a duchess, he endeavored even to borrow it of Athos. Athos, without saying anything, emptied his pockets, got together all his jewels, purses, aiguillettes, and gold chains, and offered them all to Porthos; but as to the sword, he said it was sealed to its place and should never quit it until its master should himself quit his lodgings. In addition to the sword, there was a portrait representing a nobleman of the time of Henry III, dressed with the greatest elegance, and who wore the Order of the Holy Ghost; and this portrait had certain resemblances of lines with Athos, certain family likenesses which indicated that this great noble, a knight of the Order of the King, was his ancestor.

Besides these, a casket of magnificent goldwork, with the same arms as the sword and the portrait, formed a middle ornament to the mantelpiece, and assorted badly with the rest of the furniture. Athos always carried the key of this coffer about him; but he one day opened it before Porthos, and Porthos was convinced that this coffer contained nothing but letters and papers--love letters and family papers, no doubt.

Porthos lived in an apartment, large in size and of very sumptuous appearance, in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. Every time he passed with a friend before his windows, at one of which Mousqueton was sure to be placed in full livery, Porthos raised his head and his hand, and said, “That is my abode!” But he was never to be found at home; he never invited anybody to go up with him, and no one could form an idea of what his sumptuous apartment contained in the shape of real riches.

As to Aramis, he dwelt in a little lodging composed of a boudoir, an eating room, and a bedroom, which room, situated, as the others were, on the ground floor, looked out upon a little fresh green garden, shady and impenetrable to the eyes of his neighbors.

With regard to D’Artagnan, we know how he was lodged, and we have already made acquaintance with his lackey, Master Planchet.

D’Artagnan, who was by nature very curious--as people generally are who possess the genius of intrigue--did all he could to make out who Athos, Porthos, and Aramis really were (for under these pseudonyms each of these young men concealed his family name)-- Athos in particular, who, a league away, savored of nobility. He addressed himself then to Porthos to gain information respecting Athos and Aramis, and to Aramis in order to learn something of Porthos.

Unfortunately Porthos knew nothing of the life of his silent companion but what revealed itself. It was said Athos had met with great crosses in love, and that a frightful treachery had forever poisoned the life of this gallant man. What could this treachery be? All the world was ignorant of it.

As to Porthos, except his real name (as was the case with those of his two comrades), his life was very easily known. Vain and indiscreet, it was as easy to see through him as through a crystal. The only thing to mislead the investigator would have been belief in all the good things he said of himself.

With respect to Aramis, though having the air of having nothing secret about him, he was a young fellow made up of mysteries, answering little to questions put to him about others, and having learned from him the report which prevailed concerning the success of the Musketeer with a princess, wished to gain a little insight into the amorous adventures of his interlocutor. “And you, my dear companion,” said he, “you speak of the baronesses, countesses, and princesses of others?”

Pardieu! I spoke of them because Porthos talked of them himself, because he had paraded all these fine things before me. But be assured, my dear Monsieur D’Artagnan, that if I had obtained them from any other source, or if they had been confided to me, there exists no confessor more discreet than myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” replied D’Artagnan; “but it seems to me that you are tolerably familiar with coats of arms--a certain embroidered handkerchief, for instance, to which I owe the honor of your acquaintance?”

This time Aramis was not angry, but assumed the most modest air and replied in a friendly tone, “My dear friend, do not forget that I wish to belong to the Church, and that I avoid all mundane opportunities. The handkerchief you saw had not been given to me, but it had been forgotten and left at my house by one of my friends. I was obliged to pick it up in order not to compromise him and the lady he loves. As for myself, I neither have, nor desire to have, a mistress, following in that respect the very judicious example of Athos, who has none any more than I have.”

“But what the devil! You are not a priest, you are a Musketeer!”

“A Musketeer for a time, my friend, as the cardinal says, a Musketeer against my will, but a churchman at heart, believe me. Athos and Porthos dragged me into this to occupy me. I had, at the moment of being ordained, a little difficulty with--But that would not interest you, and I am taking up your valuable time.”

“Not at all; it interests me very much,” cried D’Artagnan; “and at this moment I have absolutely nothing to do.”

“Yes, but I have my breviary to repeat,” answered Aramis; “then some verses to compose, which Madame d’Aiguillon begged of me. Then I must go to the Rue St. Honoré in order to purchase some rouge for Madame de Chevreuse. So you see, my dear friend, that if you are not in a hurry, I am very much in a hurry.”

Aramis held out his hand in a cordial manner to his young companion, and took leave of him.

Notwithstanding all the pains he took, D’Artagnan was unable to learn any more concerning his three new-made friends. He formed, therefore, the resolution of believing for the present all that was said of their past, hoping for more certain and extended revelations in the future. In the meanwhile, he looked upon Athos as an Achilles, Porthos as an Ajax, and Aramis as a Joseph.

As to the rest, the life of the four young friends was joyous enough. Athos played, and that as a rule unfortunately. Nevertheless, he never borrowed a sou of his companions, although his purse was ever at their service; and when he had played upon honor, he always awakened his creditor by six o’clock the next morning to pay the debt of the preceding evening.

Porthos had his fits. On the days when he won he was insolent and ostentatious; if he lost, he disappeared completely for several days, after which he reappeared with a pale face and thinner person, but with money in his purse.

As to Aramis, he never played. He was the worst Musketeer and the most unconvivial companion imaginable. He had always something or other to do. Sometimes in the midst of dinner, when everyone, under the attraction of wine and in the warmth of conversation, believed they had two or three hours longer to enjoy themselves at table, Aramis looked at his watch, arose with a bland smile, and took leave of the company, to go, as he said, to consult a casuist with whom he had an appointment. At other times he would return home to write a treatise, and requested his friends not to disturb him.

At this Athos would smile, with his charming, melancholy smile, which so became his noble countenance, and Porthos would drink, swearing that Aramis would never be anything but a village curé.

Planchet, D’Artagnan’s valet, supported his good fortune nobly. He received thirty sous per day, and for a month he returned to his lodgings gay as a chaffinch, and affable toward his master. When the wind of adversity began to blow upon the housekeeping of the Rue des Fossoyeurs--that is to say, when the forty pistoles of King Louis XIII were consumed or nearly so--he commenced complaints which Athos thought nauseous, Porthos indecent, and Aramis ridiculous. Athos counseled D’Artagnan to dismiss the fellow; Porthos was of opinion that he should give him a good thrashing first; and Aramis contended that a master should never attend to anything but the civilities paid to him.

“This is all very easy for you to say,” replied D’Artagnan, “for you, Athos, who live like a dumb man with Grimaud, who forbid him to speak, and consequently never exchange ill words with him; for you, Porthos, who carry matters in such a magnificent style, and are a god to your valet, Mousqueton; and for you, Aramis, who, always abstracted by your theological studies, inspire your servant, Bazin, a mild, religious man, with a profound respect; but for me, who am without any settled means and without resources--for me, who am neither a Musketeer nor even a Guardsman, what I am to do to inspire either the affection, the terror, or the respect in Planchet?”

“This is serious,” answered the three friends; “it is a family affair. It is with valets as with wives, they must be placed at once upon the footing in which you wish them to remain. Reflect upon it.”

D’Artagnan did reflect, and resolved to thrash Planchet provisionally; which he did with the conscientiousness that D’Artagnan carried into everything. After having well beaten him, he forbade him to leave his service without his permission. “For,” added he, “the future cannot fail to mend; I inevitably look for better times. Your fortune is therefore made if you remain with me, and I am too good a master to allow you to miss such a chance by granting you the dismissal you require.”

This manner of acting roused much respect for D’Artagnan’s policy among the Musketeers. Planchet was equally seized with admiration, and said no more about going away.

The life of the four young men had become fraternal. D’Artagnan, who had no settled habits of his own, as he came from his province into the midst of his world quite new to him, fell easily into the habits of his friends.

They rose about eight o’clock in the winter, about six in summer, and went to take the countersign and see how things went on at M. de Tréville’s. D’Artagnan, although he was not a Musketeer, performed the duty of one with remarkable punctuality. He went on guard because he always kept company with whoever of his friends was on duty. He was well known at the Hotel of the Musketeers, where everyone considered him a good comrade. M. de Tréville, who had appreciated him at the first glance and who bore him a real affection, never ceased recommending him to the king.

On their side, the three Musketeers were much attached to their young comrade. The friendship which united these four men, and the want they felt of seeing another three or four times a day, whether for dueling, business, or pleasure, caused them to be continually running after one another like shadows; and the Inseparables were constantly to be met with seeking one another, from the Luxembourg to the Place St. Sulpice, or from the Rue du Vieux-Colombier to the Luxembourg.

In the meanwhile the promises of M. de Tréville went on prosperously. One fine morning the king commanded M. de Chevalier Dessessart to admit D’Artagnan as a cadet in his company of Guards. D’Artagnan, with a sigh, donned his uniform, which he would have exchanged for that of a Musketeer at the expense of ten years of his existence. But M. de Tréville promised this favor after a novitiate of two years--a novitiate which might besides be abridged if an opportunity should present itself for D’Artagnan to render the king any signal service, or to distinguish himself by some brilliant action. Upon this promise D’Artagnan withdrew, and the next day he began service.

Then it became the turn of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to mount guard with D’Artagnan when he was on duty. The company of M. le Chevalier Dessessart thus received four instead of one when it admitted D’Artagnan.

Concerning A Court Intrigue

In the meantime, the forty pistoles of King Louis XIII, like all other things of this world, after having had a beginning had an end, and after this end our four companions began to be somewhat embarrassed. At first, Athos supported the association for a time with his own means.

Porthos succeeded him; and thanks to one of those disappearances to which he was accustomed, he was able to provide for the wants of all for a fortnight. At last it became Aramis’s turn, who performed it with a good grace and who succeeded--as he said, by selling some theological books--in procuring a few pistoles.

Then, as they had been accustomed to do, they had recourse to M. de Tréville, who made some advances on their pay; but these advances could not go far with three Musketeers who were already much in arrears and a Guardsman who as yet had no pay at all.

At length when they found they were likely to be really in want, they got together, as a last effort, eight or ten pistoles, with which Porthos went to the gaming table. Unfortunately he was in a bad vein; he lost all, together with twenty-five pistoles for which he had given his word.

Then the inconvenience became distress. The hungry friends, followed by their lackeys, were seen haunting the quays and Guard rooms, picking up among their friends abroad all the dinners they could meet with; for according to the advice of Aramis, it was prudent to sow repasts right and left in prosperity, in order to reap a few in time of need.

Athos was invited four times, and each time took his friends and their lackeys with him. Porthos had six occasions, and contrived in the same manner that his friends should partake of them; Aramis had eight of them. He was a man, as must have been already perceived, who made but little noise, and yet was much sought after.

As to D’Artagnan, who as yet knew nobody in the capital, he only found one chocolate breakfast at the house of a priest of his own province, and one dinner at the house of a cornet of the Guards. He took his army to the priest’s, where they devoured as much provision as would have lasted him for two months, and to the cornet’s, who performed wonders; but as Planchet said, “People do not eat at once for all time, even when they eat a good deal.”

D’Artagnan thus felt himself humiliated in having only procured one meal and a half for his companions--as the breakfast at the priest’s could only be counted as half a repast--in return for the feasts which Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had procured him. He fancied himself a burden to the society, forgetting in his perfectly juvenile good faith that he had fed this society for a month; and he set his mind actively to work. He reflected that this coalition of four young, brave, enterprising, and active men ought to have some other object than swaggering walks, fencing lessons, and practical jokes, more or less witty.

In fact, four men such as they were--four men devoted to one another, from their purses to their lives; four men always supporting one another, never yielding, executing singly or together the resolutions formed in common; four arms threatening the four cardinal points, or turning toward a single point--must inevitably, either subterraneously, in open day, by mining, in the trench, by cunning, or by force, open themselves a way toward the object they wished to attain, however well it might be defended, or however distant it may seem. The only thing that astonished D’Artagnan was that his friends had never thought of this.

He was thinking by himself, and even seriously racking his brain to find a direction for this single force four times multiplied, with which he did not doubt, as with the lever for which Archimedes sought, they should succeed in moving the world, when someone tapped gently at his door. D’Artagnan awakened Planchet and ordered him to open it.

From this phrase, “D’Artagnan awakened Planchet,” the reader must not suppose it was night, or that day was hardly come. No, it had just struck four. Planchet, two hours before, had asked his master for some dinner, and he had answered him with the proverb, “He who sleeps, dines.” And Planchet dined by sleeping.

A man was introduced of simple mien, who had the appearance of a tradesman. Planchet, by way of dessert, would have liked to hear the conversation; but the citizen declared to D’Artagnan that what he had to say being important and confidential, he desired to be left alone with him.

D’Artagnan dismissed Planchet, and requested his visitor to be seated. There was a moment of silence, during which the two men looked at each other, as if to make a preliminary acquaintance, after which D’Artagnan bowed, as a sign that he listened.

“I have heard Monsieur d’Artagnan spoken of as a very brave young man,” said the citizen; “and this reputation which he justly enjoys had decided me to confide a secret to him.”

“Speak, monsieur, speak,” said D’Artagnan, who instinctively scented something advantageous.

The citizen made a fresh pause and continued, “I have a wife who is seamstress to the queen, monsieur, and who is not deficient in either virtue or beauty. I was induced to marry her about three years ago, although she had but very little dowry, because Monsieur Laporte, the queen’s cloak bearer, is her godfather, and befriends her.”

“Well, monsieur?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Well!” resumed the citizen, “well, monsieur, my wife was abducted yesterday morning, as she was coming out of her workroom.”

“And by whom was your wife abducted?”

“I know nothing surely, monsieur, but I suspect someone.”

“And who is the person whom you suspect?”

“A man who has persued her a long time.”

“The devil!”

“But allow me to tell you, monsieur,” continued the citizen, “that I am convinced that there is less love than politics in all this.”

“Less love than politics,” replied D’Artagnan, with a reflective air; “and what do you suspect?”

“I do not know whether I ought to tell you what I suspect.”

“Monsieur, I beg you to observe that I ask you absolutely nothing. It is you who have come to me. It is you who have told me that you had a secret to confide in me. Act, then, as you think proper; there is still time to withdraw.”

“No, monsieur, no; you appear to be an honest young man, and I will have confidence in you. I believe, then, that it is not on account of any intrigues of her own that my wife has been arrested, but because of those of a lady much greater than herself.”

“Ah, ah! Can it be on account of the amours of Madame de Bois-Tracy?” said D’Artagnan, wishing to have the air, in the eyes of the citizen, of being posted as to court affairs.”

“Higher, monsieur, higher.”

“Of Madame d’Aiguillon?”

“Still higher.”

“Of Madame de Chevreuse?”

“Of the--” D’Artagnan checked himself.

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the terrified citizen, in a tone so low that he was scarcely audible.

“And with whom?”

“With whom can it be, if not the Duke of--”

“The Duke of--”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the citizen, giving a still fainter intonation to his voice.

“But how do you know all this?”

“How do I know it?”

“Yes, how do you know it? No half-confidence, or--you understand!”

“I know it from my wife, monsieur--from my wife herself.”

“Who learns it from whom?”

“From Monsieur Laporte. Did I not tell you that she was the goddaughter of Monsieur Laporte, the confidential man of the queen? Well, Monsieur Laporte placed her near her Majesty in order that our poor queen might at least have someone in whom she could place confidence, abandoned as she is by the king, watched as she is by the cardinal, betrayed as she is by everybody.”

“Ah, ah! It begins to develop itself,” said D’Artagnan.

“Now, my wife came home four days ago, monsieur. One of her conditions was that she should come and see me twice a week; for, as I had the honor to tell you, my wife loves me dearly--my wife, then, came and confided to me that the queen at that very moment entertained great fears.”

“Truly!”

“Yes. The cardinal, as it appears, pursues her and persecutes her more than ever. He cannot pardon her the history of the Saraband. You know the history of the Saraband?”

Pardieu! Know it!” replied D’Artagnan, who knew nothing about it, but who wished to appear to know everything that was going on.

“So that now it is no longer hatred, but vengeance.”

“Indeed!”

“And the queen believes--”

“Well, what does the queen believe?”

“She believes that someone has written to the Duke of Buckingham in her name.”

“In the queen’s name?”

“Yes, to make him come to Paris; and when once come to Paris, to draw him into some snare.”

“The devil! But your wife, monsieur, what has she to do with all this?”

“Her devotion to the queen is known; and they wish either to remove her from her mistress, or to intimidate her, in order to obtain her Majesty’s secrets, or to seduce her and make use of her as a spy.”

“That is likely,” said D’Artagnan; “but the man who has abducted her--do you know him?”

“I have told you that I believe I know him.”

“His name?”

“I do not know that; what I do know is that he is a creature of the cardinal, his evil genius.”

“But you have seen him?”

“Yes, my wife pointed him out to me one day.”

‘Has he anything remarkable about him by which one may recognize him?”

“Oh, certainly; he is a noble of very lofty carriage, black hair, swarthy complexion, piercing eye, white teeth, and has a scar on his temple.”

“A scar on his temple!” cried D’Artagnan; “and with that, white teeth, a piercing eye, dark complexion, black hair, and haughty carriage--why, that’s my man of Meung.”

“He is your man, do you say?”

“Yes, yes; but that has nothing to do with it. No, I am wrong. On the contrary, that simplifies the matter greatly. If your man is mine, with one blow I shall obtain two revenges, that’s all; but where to find this man?”

“I know not.”

“Have you no information as to his abiding place?”

“None. One day, as I was conveying my wife back to the Louvre, he was coming out as she was going in, and she showed him to me.”

“The devil! The devil!” murmured D’Artagnan; “all this is vague enough. From whom have you learned of the abduction of your wife?”

“From Monsieur Laporte.”

“Did he give you any details?”

“He knew none himself.”

“And you have learned nothing from any other quarter?”

“Yes, I have received--”

“What?”

“I fear I am committing a great imprudence.”

“You always come back to that; but I must make you see this time that it is too late to retreat.”

“I do not retreat, mordieu!” cried the citizen, swearing in order to rouse his courage. “Besides, by the faith of Bonacieux--”

“You call yourself Bonacieux?” interrupted D’Artagnan.

“Yes, that is my name.”

“You said, then, by the word of Bonacieux. Pardon me for interrupting you, but it appears to me that that name is familiar to me.”

“Possibly, monsieur. I am your landlord.”

“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, half rising and bowing; “you are my landlord?”

“Yes, monsieur, yes. And as it is three months since you have been here, and though, distracted as you must be in your important occupations, you have forgotten to pay me my rent--as, I say, I have not tormented you a single instant, I thought you would appreciate my delicacy.”

“How can it be otherwise, my dear Bonacieux?” replied D’Artagnan; “trust me, I am fully grateful for such unparalleled conduct, and if, as I told you, I can be of any service to you--”

“I believe you, monsieur, I believe you; and as I was about to say, by the word of Bonacieux, I have confidence in you.”

“Finish, then, what you were about to say.”

The citizen took a paper from his pocket, and presented it to D’Artagnan.

“A letter?” said the young man.

“Which I received this morning.”

D’Artagnan opened it, and as the day was beginning to decline, he approached the window to read it. The citizen followed him.

“‘Do not seek your wife,’” read D’Artagnan; “‘she will be restored to you when there is no longer occasion for her. If you make a single step to find her you are lost.’

“That’s pretty positive,” continued D’Artagnan; “but after all, it is but a menace.”

“Yes; but that menace terrifies me. I am not a fighting man at all, monsieur, and I am afraid of the Bastille.”

“Hum!” said D’Artagnan. “I have no greater regard for the Bastille than you. If it were nothing but a sword thrust, why then--”

“I have counted upon you on this occasion, monsieur.”

“Yes?”

“Seeing you constantly surrounded by Musketeers of a very superb appearance, and knowing that these Musketeers belong to Monsieur de Tréville, and were consequently enemies of the cardinal, I thought that you and your friends, while rendering justice to your poor queen, would be pleased to play his Eminence an ill turn.”

“Without doubt.”

“And then I have thought that considering three months’ lodging, about which I have said nothing--”

“Yes, yes; you have already given me that reason, and I find it excellent.”

“Reckoning still further, that as long as you do me the honor to remain in my house I shall never speak to you about rent--”

“Very kind!”

“And adding to this, if there be need of it, meaning to offer you fifty pistoles, if, against all probability, you should be short at the present moment.”

“Admirable! You are rich then, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux?”

“I am comfortably off, monsieur, that’s all; I have scraped together some such thing as an income of two or three thousand crown in the haberdashery business, but more particularly in venturing some funds in the last voyage of the celebrated navigator Jean Moquet; so that you understand, monsieur--But” cried the citizen.

“What!” demanded D’Artagnan.

“Whom do I see yonder?”

“Where?”

“In the street, facing your window, in the embrasure of that door--a man wrapped in a cloak.”

“It is he!” cried D’Artagnan and the citizen at the same time, each having recognized his man.

“Ah, this time,” cried D’Artagnan, springing to his sword, “this time he will not escape me!”

Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he rushed out of the apartment. On the staircase he met Athos and Porthos, who were coming to see him. They separated, and D’Artagnan rushed between them like a dart.

“Pah! Where are you going?” cried the two Musketeers in a breath.

“The man of Meung!” replied D’Artagnan, and disappeared.

D’Artagnan had more than once related to his friends his adventure with the stranger, as well as the apparition of the beautiful foreigner, to whom this man had confided some important missive.

The opinion of Athos was that D’Artagnan had lost his letter in the skirmish. A gentleman, in his opinion--and according to D’Artagnan’s portrait of him, the stranger must be a gentleman-- would be incapable of the baseness of stealing a letter.

Porthos saw nothing in all this but a love meeting, given by a lady to a cavalier, or by a cavalier to a lady, which had been disturbed by the presence of D’Artagnan and his yellow horse.

Aramis said that as these sorts of affairs were mysterious, it was better not to fathom them.

They understood, then, from the few words which escaped from D’Artagnan, what affair was in hand, and as they thought that overtaking his man, or losing sight of him, D’Artagnan would return to his rooms, they kept on their way.

When they entered D’Artagan’s chamber, it was empty; the landlord, dreading the consequences of the encounter which was doubtless about to take place between the young man and the stranger, had, consistent with the character he had given himself, judged it prudent to decamp.

D’Artagnan Shows Himself

As Athos and Porthos had foreseen, at the expiration of a half hour, D’Artagnan returned. He had again missed his man, who had disappeared as if by enchantment. D’Artagnan had run, sword in hand, through all the neighboring streets, but had found nobody resembling the man he sought for. Then he came back to the point where, perhaps, he ought to have begun, and that was to knock at the door against which the stranger had leaned; but this proved useless—for though he knocked ten or twelve times in succession, no one answered, and some of the neighbors, who put their noses out of their windows or were brought to their doors by the noise, had assured him that that house, all the openings of which were tightly closed, had not been inhabited for six months.

While D’Artagnan was running through the streets and knocking at doors, Aramis had joined his companions; so that on returning home D’Artagnan found the reunion complete.

“Well!” cried the three Musketeers all together, on seeing D’Artagnan enter with his brow covered with perspiration and his countenance upset with anger.

“Well!” cried he, throwing his sword upon the bed, “this man must be the devil in person; he has disappeared like a phantom, like a shade, like a specter.”

“Do you believe in apparitions?” asked Athos of Porthos.

“I never believe in anything I have not seen, and as I never have seen apparitions, I don’t believe in them.”

“The Bible,” said Aramis, “make our belief in them a law; the ghost of Samuel appeared to Saul, and it is an article of faith that I should be very sorry to see any doubt thrown upon, Porthos.”

“At all events, man or devil, body or shadow, illusion or reality, this man is born for my damnation; for his flight has caused us to miss a glorious affair, gentlemen—an affair by which there were a hundred pistoles, and perhaps more, to be gained.”

“How is that?” cried Porthos and Aramis in a breath.

As to Athos, faithful to his system of reticence, he contented himself with interrogating D’Artagnan by a look.

“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan to his domestic, who just then insinuated his head through the half-open door in order to catch some fragments of the conversation, “go down to my landlord, Monsieur Bonacieux, and ask him to send me half a dozen bottles of Beaugency wine; I prefer that.”

“Ah, ah! You have credit with your landlord, then?” asked Porthos.

“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “from this very day; and mind, if the wine is bad, we will send him to find better.”

“We must use, and not abuse,” said Aramis, sententiously.

“I always said that D’Artagnan had the longest head of the four,” said Athos, who, having uttered his opinion, to which D’Artagnan replied with a bow, immediately resumed his accustomed silence.

“But come, what is this about?” asked Porthos.

“Yes,” said Aramis, “impart it to us, my dear friend, unless the honor of any lady be hazarded by this confidence; in that case you would do better to keep it to yourself.”

“Be satisfied,” replied D’Artagnan; “the honor of no one will have cause to complain of what I have to tell.

He then related to his friends, word for word, all that had passed between him and his host, and how the man who had abducted the wife of his worthy landlord was the same with whom he had had the difference at the hostelry of the Jolly Miller.

“Your affair is not bad,” said Athos, after having tasted like a connoisseur and indicated by a nod of his head that he thought the wine good; “and one may draw fifty or sixty pistoles from this good man. Then there only remains to ascertain whether these fifty or sixty pistoles are worth the risk of four heads.”

“But observe,” cried D’Artagnan, “that there is a woman in the affair—a woman carried off, a woman who is doubtless threatened, tortured perhaps, and all because she is faithful to her mistress.”

“Beware, D’Artagnan, beware,” said Aramis. “You grow a little too warm, in my opinion, about the fate of Madame Bonacieux. Woman was created for our destruction, and it is from her we inherit all our miseries.”

At this speech of Aramis, the brow of Athos became clouded and he bit his lips.

“It is not Madame Bonacieux about whom I am anxious,” cried D’Artagnan, “but the queen, whom the king abandons, whom the cardinal persecutes, and who sees the heads of all her friends fall, one after the other.”

“Why does she love what we hate most in the world, the Spaniards and the English?”

“Spain is her country,” replied D’Artagnan; “and it is very natural that she should love the Spanish, who are the children of the same soil as herself. As to the second reproach, I have heard it said that she does not love the English, but an Englishman.”

“Well, and by my faith,” said Athos, “it must be acknowledged that this Englishman is worthy of being loved. I never saw a man with a nobler air than his.”

“Without reckoning that he dresses as nobody else can,” said Porthos. “I was at the Louvre on the day when he scattered his pearls; and, pardieu, I picked up two that I sold for ten pistoles each. Do you know him, Aramis?”

“As well as you do, gentlemen; for I was among those who seized him in the garden at Amiens, into which Monsieur Putange, the queen’s equerry, introduced me. I was at school at the time, and the adventure appeared to me to be cruel for the king.”

“Which would not prevent me,” said D’Artagnan, “if I knew where the Duke of Buckingham was, from taking him by the hand and conducting him to the queen, were it only to enrage the cardinal, and if we could find means to play him a sharp turn, I vow that I would voluntarily risk my head in doing it.”

“And did the mercer1,” rejoined Athos, “tell you, D’Artagnan, that the queen thought that Buckingham had been brought over by a forged letter?”

“She is afraid so.”

“Wait a minute, then,” said Aramis.

“What for?” demanded Porthos.

“Go on, while I endeavor to recall circumstances.”

“And now I am convinced,” said D’Artagnan, “that this abduction of the queen’s woman is connected with the events of which we are speaking, and perhaps with the presence of Buckingham in Paris.”

“The Gascon is full of ideas,” said Porthos, with admiration.

“I like to hear him talk,” said Athos; “his dialect amuses me.”

“Gentlemen,” cried Aramis, “listen to this.”

“Listen to Aramis,” said his three friends.

“Yesterday I was at the house of a doctor of theology, whom I sometimes consult about my studies.”

Athos smiled.

“He resides in a quiet quarter,” continued Aramis; “his tastes and his profession require it. Now, at the moment when I left his house—”

Here Aramis paused.

“Well,” cried his auditors; “at the moment you left his house?”

Aramis appeared to make a strong inward effort, like a man who, in the full relation of a falsehood, finds himself stopped by some unforeseen obstacle; but the eyes of his three companions were fixed upon him, their ears were wide open, and there were no means of retreat.

“This doctor has a niece,” continued Aramis.

“Ah, he has a niece!” interrupted Porthos.

“A very respectable lady,” said Aramis.

The three friends burst into laughter.

“Ah, if you laugh, if you doubt me,” replied Aramis, “you shall know nothing.”

“We believe like Mohammedans, and are as mute as tombstones,” said Athos.

“I will continue, then,” resumed Aramis. “This niece comes sometimes to see her uncle; and by chance was there yesterday at the same time that I was, and it was my duty to offer to conduct her to her carriage.”

“Ah! She has a carriage, then, this niece of the doctor?” interrupted Porthos, one of whose faults was a great looseness of tongue. “A nice acquaintance, my friend!”

“Porthos,” replied Aramis, “I have had the occasion to observe to you more than once that you are very indiscreet; and that is injurious to you among the women.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried D’Artagnan, who began to get a glimpse of the result of the adventure, “the thing is serious. Let us try not to jest, if we can. Go on Aramis, go on.”

“All at once, a tall, dark gentleman—just like yours, D’Artagnan.”

“The same, perhaps,” said he.

“Possibly,” continued Aramis, “came toward me, accompanied by five or six men who followed about ten paces behind him; and in the politest tone, ‘Monsieur Duke,’ said he to me, ‘and you madame,’ continued he, addressing the lady on my arm—”

“The doctor’s niece?”

“Hold your tongue, Porthos,” said Athos; “you are insupportable.”

“‘—will you enter this carriage, and that without offering the least resistance, without making the least noise?’”

“He took you for Buckingham!” cried D’Artagnan.

“I believe so,” replied Aramis.

“But the lady?” asked Porthos.

“He took her for the queen!” said D’Artagnan.

“Just so,” replied Aramis.

“The Gascon is the devil!” cried Athos; “nothing escapes him.”

“The fact is,” said Porthos, “Aramis is of the same height, and something of the shape of the duke; but it nevertheless appears to me that the dress of a Musketeer—”

“I wore an enormous cloak,” said Aramis.

“In the month of July? The devil!” said Porthos. “Is the doctor afraid that you may be recognized?”

“I can comprehend that the spy may have been deceived by the person; but the face—”

“I had a large hat,” said Aramis.

“Oh, good lord,” cried Porthos, “what precautions for the study of theology!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “do not let us lose our time in jesting. Let us separate, and let us seek the mercer’s wife—that is the key of the intrigue.”

“A woman of such inferior condition! Can you believe so?” said Porthos, protruding his lips with contempt.

“She is goddaughter to Laporte, the confidential valet of the queen. Have I not told you so, gentlemen? Besides, it has perhaps been her Majesty’s calculation to seek on this occasion for support so lowly. High heads expose themselves from afar, and the cardinal is longsighted.”

“Well,” said Porthos, “in the first place make a bargain with the mercer, and a good bargain.”

“That’s useless,” said D’Artagnan; “for I believe if he does not pay us, we shall be well enough paid by another party.”

At this moment a sudden noise of footsteps was heard upon the stairs; the door was thrown violently open, and the unfortunate mercer rushed into the chamber in which the council was held.

“Save me, gentlemen, for the love of heaven, save me!” cried he. “There are four men come to arrest me. Save me! Save me!”

Porthos and Aramis arose.

“A moment,” cried D’Artagnan, making them a sign to replace in the scabbard their half-drawn swords. “It is not courage that is needed; it is prudence.”

“And yet,” cried Porthos, “we will not leave—”

“You will leave D’Artagnan to act as he thinks proper,” said Athos. “He has, I repeat, the longest head of the four, and for my part I declare that I will obey him. Do as you think best, D’Artagnan.”

At this moment the four Guards appeared at the door of the antechamber, but seeing four Musketeers standing, and their swords by their sides, they hesitated about going farther.

“Come in, gentlemen, come in,” called D’Artagnan; “you are here in my apartment, and we are all faithful servants of the king and cardinal.”

“Then, gentlemen, you will not oppose our executing the orders we have received?” asked one who appeared to be the leader of the party.

“On the contrary, gentlemen, we would assist you if it were necessary.”

“What does he say?” grumbled Porthos.

“You are a simpleton,” said Athos. “Silence!”

“But you promised me—” whispered the poor mercer.

“We can only save you by being free ourselves,” replied D’Artagnan, in a rapid, low tone; “and if we appear inclined to defend you, they will arrest us with you.”

“It seems, nevertheless—”

“Come, gentlemen, come!” said D’Artagnan, aloud; “I have no motive for defending Monsieur. I saw him today for the first time, and he can tell you on what occasion; he came to demand the rent of my lodging. Is that not true, Monsieur Bonacieux? Answer!”

“That is the very truth,” cried the mercer; “but Monsieur does not tell you—”

“Silence, with respect to me, silence, with respect to my friends; silence about the queen, above all, or you will ruin everybody without saving yourself! Come, come, gentlemen, remove the fellow.” And D’Artagnan pushed the half-stupefied mercer among the Guards, saying to him, “You are a shabby old fellow, my dear. You come to demand money of me—of a Musketeer! To prison with him! Gentlemen, once more, take him to prison, and keep him under key as long as possible; that will give me time to pay him.”

The officers were full of thanks, and took away their prey. As they were going down D’Artagnan laid his hand on the shoulder of their leader.

“May I not drink to your health, and you to mine?” said D’Artagnan, filling two glasses with the Beaugency wine which he had obtained from the liberality of M. Bonacieux.

“That will do me great honor,” said the leader of the posse, “and I accept thankfully.”

“Then to yours, monsieur—what is your name?”

“Boisrenard.”

“Monsieur Boisrenard.”

“To yours, my gentlemen! What is your name, in your turn, if you please?”

“D’Artagnan.”

“To yours, monsieur.”

“And above all others,” cried D’Artagnan, as if carried away by his enthusiasm, “to that of the king and the cardinal.”

The leader of the posse would perhaps have doubted the sincerity of D’Artagnan if the wine had been bad; but the wine was good, and he was convinced.

“What diabolical villainy you have performed here,” said Porthos, when the officer had rejoined his companions and the four friends found themselves alone. “Shame, shame, for four Musketeers to allow an unfortunate fellow who cried for help to be arrested is their midst! And a gentleman to hobnob with a bailiff!”

“Porthos,” said Aramis, “Athos has already told you that you are a simpleton, and I am quite of his opinion. D’Artagnan, you are a great man; and when you occupy Monsieur de Tréville’s place, I will come and ask your influence to secure me an abbey.”

“Well, I am in a maze,” said Porthos; “do you approve of what D’Artagnan has done?”

Parbleu! Indeed I do,” said Athos; “I not only approve of what he has done, but I congratulate him upon it.”

“And now, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, without stopping to explain his conduct to Porthos, “All for one, one for all—that is our motto, is it not?”

“And yet—” said Porthos.

“Hold out your hand and swear!” cried Athos and Aramis at once.

Overcome by example, grumbling to himself, nevertheless, Porthos stretched out his hand, and the four friends repeated with one voice the formula dictated by D’Artagnan:

“All for one, one for all.”

“That’s well! Now let us everyone retire to his own home,” said D’Artagnan, as if he had done nothing but command all his life; “and attention! For from this moment we are at feud with the cardinal.”

  1. Mercer: Haberdasher

A Mousetrap In The Seventeenth Century

The invention of the mousetrap does not date from our days; as soon as societies, in forming, had invented any kind of police, that police invented mousetraps.

As perhaps our readers are not familiar with the slang of the Rue de Jerusalem, and as it is fifteen years since we applied this word for the first time to this thing, allow us to explain to them what is a mousetrap.

When in a house, of whatever kind it may be, an individual suspected of any crime is arrested, the arrest is held secret. Four or five men are placed in ambuscade in the first room. The door is opened to all who knock. It is closed after them, and they are arrested; so that at the end of two or three days they have in their power almost all the habitues of the establishment. And that is a mousetrap.

The apartment of M. Bonacieux, then, became a mousetrap; and whoever appeared there was taken and interrogated by the cardinal’s people. It must be observed that as a separate passage led to the first floor, in which D’Artagnan lodged, those who called on him were exempted from this detention.

Besides, nobody came thither but the three Musketeers; they had all been engaged in earnest search and inquiries, but had discovered nothing. Athos had even gone so far as to question M. de Tréville—a thing which, considering the habitual reticence of the worthy Musketeer, had very much astonished his captain. But M. de Tréville knew nothing, except that the last time he had seen the cardinal, the king, and the queen, the cardinal looked very thoughtful, the king uneasy, and the redness of the queen’s eyes donated that she had been sleepless or tearful. But this last circumstance was not striking, as the queen since her marriage had slept badly and wept much.

M. de Tréville requested Athos, whatever might happen, to be observant of his duty to the king, but particularly to the queen, begging him to convey his desires to his comrades.

As to D’Artagnan, he did not budge from his apartment. He converted his chamber into an observatory. From his windows he saw all the visitors who were caught. Then, having removed a plank from his floor, and nothing remaining but a simple ceiling between him and the room beneath, in which the interrogatories were made, he heard all that passed between the inquisitors and the accused.

The interrogatories, preceded by a minute search operated upon the persons arrested, were almost always framed thus: “Has Madame Bonacieux sent anything to you for her husband, or any other person? Has Monsieur Bonacieux sent anything to you for his wife, or for any other person? Has either of them confided anything to you by word of mouth?”

“If they knew anything, they would not question people in this manner,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “Now, what is it they want to know? Why, they want to know if the Duke of Buckingham is in Paris, and if he has had, or is likely to have, an interview with the queen.”

D’Artagnan held onto this idea, which, from what he had heard, was not wanting in probability.

In the meantime, the mousetrap continued in operation, and likewise D’Artagnan’s vigilance.

On the evening of the day after the arrest of poor Bonacieux, as Athos had just left D’Artagnan to report at M. de Tréville’s, as nine o’clock had just struck, and as Planchet, who had not yet made the bed, was beginning his task, a knocking was heard at the street door. The door was instantly opened and shut; someone was taken in the mousetrap.

D’Artagnan flew to his hole, laid himself down on the floor at full length, and listened.

Cries were soon heard, and then moans, which someone appeared to be endeavoring to stifle. There were no questions.

“The devil!” said D’Artagnan to himself. “It seems like a woman! They search her; she resists; they use force—the scoundrels!”

In spite of his prudence, D’Artagnan restrained himself with great difficulty from taking a part in the scene that was going on below.

“But I tell you that I am the mistress of the house, gentlemen! I tell you I am Madame Bonacieux; I tell you I belong to the queen!” cried the unfortunate woman.

“Madame Bonacieux!” murmured D’Artagnan. “Can I be so lucky as to find what everybody is seeking for?”

The voice became more and more indistinct; a tumultuous movement shook the partition. The victim resisted as much as a woman could resist four men.

“Pardon, gentlemen—par—” murmured the voice, which could now only be heard in inarticulate sounds.

“They are binding her; they are going to drag her away,” cried D’Artagnan to himself, springing up from the floor. “My sword! Good, it is by my side! Planchet!”

“Monsieur.”

“Run and seek Athos, Porthos and Aramis. One of the three will certainly be at home, perhaps all three. Tell them to take arms, to come here, and to run! Ah, I remember, Athos is at Monsieur de Tréville’s.”

“But where are you going, monsieur, where are you going?”

“I am going down by the window, in order to be there the sooner,” cried D’Artagnan. “You put back the boards, sweep the floor, go out at the door, and run as I told you.”

“Oh, monsieur! Monsieur! You will kill yourself,” cried Planchet.

“Hold your tongue, stupid fellow,” said D’Artagnan; and laying hold of the casement, he let himself gently down from the first story, which fortunately was not very elevated, without doing himself the slightest injury.

He then went straight to the door and knocked, murmuring, “I will go myself and be caught in the mousetrap, but woe be to the cats that shall pounce upon such a mouse!”

The knocker had scarcely sounded under the hand of the young man before the tumult ceased, steps approached, the door was opened, and D’Artagnan, sword in hand, rushed into the rooms of M. Bonacieux, the door of which doubtless acted upon by a spring, closed after him.

Then those who dwelt in Bonacieux’s unfortunate house, together with the nearest neighbors, heard loud cries, stamping of feet, clashing of swords, and breaking of furniture. A moment after, those who, surprised by this tumult, had gone to their windows to learn the cause of it, saw the door open, and four men, clothed in black, not come out of it, but fly, like so many frightened crows, leaving on the ground and on the corners of the furniture, feathers from their wings; that is to say, patches of their clothes and fragments of their cloaks.

D’Artagnan was conqueror—without much effort, it must be confessed, for only one of the officers was armed, and even he defended himself for form’s sake. It is true that the three others had endeavored to knock the young man down with chairs, stools, and crockery; but two or three scratches made by the Gascon’s blade terrified them. Ten minutes sufficed for their defeat, and D’Artagnan remained master of the field of battle.

The neighbors who had opened their windows, with the coolness peculiar to the inhabitants of Paris in these times of perpetual riots and disturbances, closed them again as soon as they saw the four men in black flee—their instinct telling them that for the time was all over. Besides, it began to grow late, and then, as today, people went to bed early in the quarter of the Luxembourg.

On being left alone with Mme. Bonacieux, D’Artagnan turned toward her; the poor woman reclined where she had been left, half-fainting upon an armchair. D’Artagnan examined her with a rapid glance.

She was a charming woman of twenty-five or twenty-six years, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a nose slightly turned up, admirable teeth, and a complexion marbled with rose and opal. There, however, ended the signs which might have confounded her with a lady of rank. The hands were white, but without delicacy; the feet did not bespeak the woman of quality. Happily, D’Artagnan was not yet acquainted with such niceties.

While D’Artagnan was examining Mme. Bonacieux, and was, as we have said, close to her, he saw on the ground a fine cambric handkerchief, which he picked up, as was his habit, and at the corner of which he recognized the same cipher he had seen on the handkerchief which had nearly caused him and Aramis to cut each other’s throat.

From that time, D’Artagnan had been cautious with respect to handkerchiefs with arms on them, and he therefore placed in the pocket of Mme. Bonacieux the one he had just picked up.

At that moment Mme. Bonacieux recovered her senses. She opened her eyes, looked around her with terror, saw that the apartment was empty and that she was alone with her liberator. She extended her hands to him with a smile. Mme. Bonacieux had the sweetest smile in the world.

“Ah, monsieur!” said she, “you have saved me; permit me to thank you.”

“Madame,” said D’Artagnan, “I have only done what every gentleman would have done in my place; you owe me no thanks.”

“Oh, yes, monsieur, oh, yes; and I hope to prove to you that you have not served an ingrate. But what could these men, whom I at first took for robbers, want with me, and why is Monsieur Bonacieux not here?”

“Madame, those men were more dangerous than any robbers could have been, for they are the agents of the cardinal; and as to your husband, Monsieur Bonacieux, he is not here because he was yesterday evening conducted to the Bastille.”

“My husband in the Bastille!” cried Mme. Bonacieux. “Oh, my God! What has he done? Poor dear man, he is innocence itself!”

And something like a faint smile lighted the still-terrified features of the young woman.

“What has he done, madame?” said D’Artagnan. “I believe that his only crime is to have at the same time the good fortune and the misfortune to be your husband.”

“But, monsieur, you know then—”

“I know that you have been abducted, madame.”

“And by whom? Do you know him? Oh, if you know him, tell me!”

“By a man of from forty to forty-five years, with black hair, a dark complexion, and a scar on his left temple.”

“That is he, that is he; but his name?”

“Ah, his name? I do not know that.”

“And did my husband know I had been carried off?”

“He was informed of it by a letter, written to him by the abductor himself.”

“And does he suspect,” said Mme. Bonacieux, with some embarrassment, “the cause of this event?”

“He attributed it, I believe, to a political cause.”

“I doubted from the first; and now I think entirely as he does. Then my dear Monsieur Bonacieux has not suspected me a single instant?”

“So far from it, madame, he was too proud of your prudence, and above all, of your love.”

A second smile, almost imperceptible, stole over the rosy lips of the pretty young woman.

“But,” continued D’Artagnan, “how did you escape?”

“I took advantage of a moment when they left me alone; and as I had known since morning the reason of my abduction, with the help of the sheets I let myself down from the window. Then, as I believed my husband would be at home, I hastened hither.”

“To place yourself under his protection?”

“Oh, no, poor dear man! I knew very well that he was incapable of defending me; but as he could serve us in other ways, I wished to inform him.”

“Of what?”

“Oh, that is not my secret; I must not, therefore, tell you.”

“Besides,” said D’Artagnan, “pardon me, madame, if, guardsman as I am, I remind you of prudence—besides, I believe we are not here in a very proper place for imparting confidences. The men I have put to flight will return reinforced; if they find us here, we are lost. I have sent for three of my friends, but who knows whether they were at home?”

“Yes, yes! You are right,” cried the affrighted Mme. Bonacieux; “let us fly! Let us save ourselves.”

At these words she passed her arm under that of D’Artagnan, and urged him forward eagerly.

“But whither shall we fly—whither escape?”

“Let us first withdraw from this house; afterward we shall see.”

The young woman and the young man, without taking the trouble to shut the door after them, descended the Rue des Fossoyeurs rapidly, turned into the Rue des Fossés-Monsieur-le-Prince, and did not stop till they came to the Place St. Sulpice.

“And now what are we to do, and where do you wish me to conduct you?” asked D’Artagnan.

“I am at quite a loss how to answer you, I admit,” said Mme. Bonacieux. “My intention was to inform Monsieur Laporte, through my husband, in order that Monsieur Laporte might tell us precisely what has taken place at the Louvre in the last three days, and whether there is any danger in presenting myself there.”

“But I,” said D’Artagnan, “can go and inform Monsieur Laporte.”

“No doubt you could, only there is one misfortune, and that is that Monsieur Bonacieux is known at the Louvre, and would be allowed to pass; whereas you are not known there, and the gate would be closed against you.”

“Ah, bah!” said D’Artagnan; “you have at some wicket of the Louvre a concierge who is devoted to you, and who, thanks to a password, would—”

Mme. Bonacieux looked earnestly at the young man.

“And if I give you this password,” said she, “would you forget it as soon as you used it?”

“By my honor, by the faith of a gentleman!” said D’Artagnan, with an accent so truthful that no one could mistake it.

“Then I believe you. You appear to be a brave young man; besides, your fortune may perhaps be the result of your devotedness.”

“I will do, without a promise and voluntarily, all that I can do to serve the king and be agreeable to the queen. Dispose of me, then, as a friend.”

“But I—where shall I go meanwhile?”

“Is there nobody from whose house Monsieur Laporte can come and fetch you?”

“No, I can trust nobody.”

“Stop,” said D’Artagnan; “we are near Athos’s door. Yes, here it is.”

“Who is this Athos?”

“One of my friends.”

“But if he should be at home and see me?”

“He is not at home, and I will carry away the key, after having placed you in his apartment.”

“But if he should return?”

“Oh, he won’t return; and if he should, he will be told that I have brought a woman with me, and that woman is in his apartment.”

“But that will compromise me sadly, you know.”

“Of what consequence? Nobody knows you. Besides, we are in a situation to overlook ceremony.”

“Come, then, let us go to your friend’s house. Where does he live?”

“Rue Férue, two steps from here.”

“Let us go!”

Both resumed their way. As D’Artagnan had foreseen, Athos was not within. He took the key, which was customarily given him as one of the family, ascended the stairs, and introduced Mme. Bonacieux into the little apartment of which we have given a description.

“You are at home,” said he. “Remain here, fasten the door inside, and open it to nobody unless you hear three taps like this;” and he tapped thrice—two taps close together and pretty hard, the other after an interval, and lighter.

“That is well,” said Mme. Bonacieux. “Now, in my turn, let me give you my instructions.”

“I am all attention.”

“Present yourself at the wicket of the Louvre, on the side of the Rue de l’Echelle, and ask for Germain.”

“Well, and then?”

“He will ask you what you want, and you will answer by these two words, ‘Tours’ and ‘Bruxelles.’ He will at once put himself at your orders.”

“And what shall I command him?”

“To go and fetch Monsieur Laporte, the queen’s valet de chambre.”

“And when he shall have informed him, and Monsieur Laporte is come?”

“You will send him to me.”

“That is well; but where and how shall I see you again?”

“Do you wish to see me again?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, let that care be mine, and be at ease.”

“I depend upon your word.”

“You may.”

D’Artagnan bowed to Mme. Bonacieux, darting at her the most loving glance that he could possibly concentrate upon her charming little person; and while he descended the stairs, he heard the door closed and double-locked. In two bounds he was at the Louvre; as he entered the wicket of L’Echelle, ten o’clock struck. All the events we have described had taken place within a half hour.

Everything fell out as Mme. Bonacieux prophesied. On hearing the password, Germain bowed. In a few minutes, Laporte was at the lodge; in two words D’Artagnan informed him where Mme. Bonacieux was. Laporte assured himself, by having it twice repeated, of the accurate address, and set off at a run. Hardly, however, had he taken ten steps before he returned.

“Young man,” said he to D’Artagnan, “a suggestion.”

“What?”

“You may get into trouble by what has taken place.”

“You believe so?”

“Yes. Have you any friend whose clock is too slow?”

“Well?”

“Go and call upon him, in order that he may give evidence of your having been with him at half past nine. In a court of justice that is called an alibi.”

D’Artagnan found his advice prudent. He took to his heels, and was soon at M. de Tréville’s; but instead of going into the saloon with the rest of the crowd, he asked to be introduced to M. de Tréville’s office. As D’Artagnan so constantly frequented the hotel, no difficulty was made in complying with his request, and a servant went to inform M. de Tréville that his young compatriot, having something important to communicate, solicited a private audience. Five minutes after, M. de Tréville was asking D’Artagnan what he could do to serve him, and what caused his visit at so late an hour.

“Pardon me, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, who had profited by the moment he had been left alone to put back M. de Tréville’s clock three-quarters of an hour, “but I thought, as it was yet only twenty-five minutes past nine, it was not too late to wait upon you.”

“Twenty-five minutes past nine!” cried M. de Tréville, looking at the clock; “why, that’s impossible!”

“Look, rather, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “the clock shows it.”

“That’s true,” said M. de Tréville; “I believed it later. But what can I do for you?”

Then D’Artagnan told M. de Tréville a long history about the queen. He expressed to him the fears he entertained with respect to her Majesty; he related to him what he had heard of the projects of the cardinal with regard to Buckingham, and all with a tranquillity and candor of which M. de Tréville was the more the dupe, from having himself, as we have said, observed something fresh between the cardinal, the king, and the queen.

As ten o’clock was striking, D’Artagnan left M. de Tréville, who thanked him for his information, recommended him to have the service of the king and queen always at heart, and returned to the saloon; but at the foot of the stairs, D’Artagnan remembered he had forgotten his cane. He consequently sprang up again, re-entered the office, with a turn of his finger set the clock right again, that it might not be perceived the next day that it had been put wrong, and certain from that time that he had a witness to prove his alibi, he ran downstairs and soon found himself in the street.

In Which The Plot Thickens

His visit to M. de Tréville being paid, the pensive D’Artagnan took the longest way homeward.

On what was D’Artagnan thinking, that he strayed thus from his path, gazing at the stars of heaven, and sometimes sighing, sometimes smiling?

He was thinking of Mme. Bonacieux. For an apprentice Musketeer the young woman was almost an ideal of love. Pretty, mysterious, initiated in almost all the secrets of the court, which reflected such a charming gravity over her pleasing features, it might be surmised that she was not wholly unmoved; and this is an irresistible charm to novices in love. Moreover, D’Artagnan had delivered her from the hands of the demons who wished to search and ill treat her; and this important service had established between them one of those sentiments of gratitude which so easily assume a more tender character.

D’Artagnan already fancied himself, so rapid is the flight of our dreams upon the wings of imagination, accosted by a messenger from the young woman, who brought him some billet appointing a meeting, a gold chain, or a diamond. We have observed that young cavaliers received presents from their king without shame. Let us add that in these times of lax morality they had no more delicacy with respect to the mistresses; and that the latter almost always left them valuable and durable remembrances, as if they essayed to conquer the fragility of their sentiments by the solidity of their gifts.

Without a blush, men made their way in the world by the means of women blushing. Such as were only beautiful gave their beauty, whence, without doubt, comes the proverb, “The most beautiful girl in the world can only give what she has.” Such as were rich gave in addition a part of their money; and a vast number of heroes of that gallant period may be cited who would neither have won their spurs in the first place, nor their battles afterward, without the purse, more or less furnished, which their mistress fastened to the saddle bow.

D’Artagnan owned nothing. Provincial diffidence, that slight varnish, the ephemeral flower, that down of the peach, had evaporated to the winds through the little orthodox counsels which the three Musketeers gave their friend. D’Artagnan, following the strange custom of the times, considered himself at Paris as on a campaign, neither more nor less than if he had been in Flanders--Spain yonder, woman here, In each there was an enemy to contend with, and contributions to be levied.

But, we must say, at the present moment D’Artagnan was ruled by as feeling much more noble and disinterested. The mercer had said that he was rich; the young man might easily guess that with so weak a man as M. Bonacieux; and interest was almost foreign to this commencement of love, which had been the consequence of it. We say almost, for the idea that a young, handsome, kind, and witty woman is at the same time rich takes nothing from the beginning of love, but on the contrary strengthens it.

There are in affluence a crowd of aristocratic cares and caprices which are highly becoming to beauty. A fine and white stocking, a silken robe, a lace kerchief, a pretty slipper on the foot, a tasty ribbon on the head do not make an ugly woman pretty, but they make a pretty woman beautiful, without reckoning the hands, which gain by all this; the hands, among women particularly, to be beautiful must be idle.

Then D’Artagnan, as the reader, from whom we have not concealed the state of his fortune, very well knows--D’Artagnan was not a millionaire; he hoped to become one someday, but the time which in his own mind he fixed upon for this happy change was still far distant. In the meanwhile, how disheartening to see the woman one loves long for those thousands of nothings which constitute a woman’s happiness, and be unable to give her those thousands of nothings. At least, when the woman is rich and the lover is not that which he cannot offer she offers to herself; and although it is generally with her husband’s money that she procures herself this indulgence, the gratitude for it seldom reverts to him.

Then D’Artagnan, disposed to become the most tender of lovers, was at the same time a very devoted friend, In the midst of his amorous projects for the mercer’s wife, he did not forget his friends. The pretty Mme. Bonacieux was just the woman to walk with in the Plain St. Denis or in the fair of St. Germain, in company with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, to whom D’Artagnan had often remarked this. Then one could enjoy charming little dinners, where one touches on one side the hand of a friend, and on the other the foot of a mistress. Besides, on pressing occasions, in extreme difficulties, D’Artagnan would become the preserver of his friends.

And M. Bonacieux? whom D’Artagnan had pushed into the hands of the officers, denying him aloud although he had promised in a whisper to save him. We are compelled to admit to our readers that D’Artagnan thought nothing about him in any way; or that if he did think of him, it was only to say to himself that he was very well where he was, wherever it might be. Love is the most selfish of all the passions.

Let our readers reassure themselves. If D’Artagnan forgets his host, or appears to forget him, under the pretense of not knowing where he has been carried, we will not forget him, and we know where he is. But for the moment, let us do as did the amorous Gascon; we will see after the worthy mercer later.

D’Artagnan, reflecting on his future amours, addressing himself to the beautiful night, and smiling at the stars, rescinded the Rue Cherish-Midi, or Chase-Midi, as it was then called. As he found himself in the quarter in which Aramis lived, he took it into his head to pay his friend a visit in order to explain the motives which had led him to send Planchet with a request that he would come instantly to the mousetrap. Now, if Aramis had been at home when Planchet came to his abode, he had doubtless hastened to the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and finding nobody there but his other two companions perhaps, they would not be able to conceive what all this meant. This mystery required an explanation; at least, so D’Artagnan declared to himself.

He likewise thought this was an opportunity for talking about pretty little Mme. Bonacieux, of whom his head, if not his heart, was already full. We must never look for discretion in first love. First love is accompanied by such excessive joy that unless the joy be allowed to overflow, it will stifle you.

Paris for two hours past had been dark, and seemed a desert. Eleven o’clock sounded from all the clocks of the Faubourg St. Germain. It was delightful weather. D’Artagnan was passing along a lane on the spot where the Rue d’Assas is now situated, breathing the balmy emanations which were borne upon the wind from the Rue de Vaugirard, and which arose from the gardens refreshed by the dews of evening and the breeze of night. From a distance resounded, deadened, however, by good shutters, the songs of the tipplers, enjoying themselves in the cabarets scattered along the plain. Arrived at the end of the lane, D’Artagnan turned to the left. The house in which Aramis dwelt was situated between the Rue Cassette and the Rue Servandoni.

D’Artagnan had just passed the Rue Cassette, and already perceived the door of his friend’s house, shaded by a mass of sycamores and clematis which formed a vast arch opposite the front of it, when he perceived something like a shadow issuing from the Rue Servandoni. This something was enveloped in a cloak, and D’Artagnan at first believed it was a man; but by the smallness of the form, the hesitation of the walk, and the indecision of the step, he soon discovered that it was a woman. Further, this woman, as if not certain of the house she was seeking, lifted up her eyes to look around her, stopped, went backward, and then returned again. D’Artagnan was perplexed.

“Shall I go and offer her my services?” thought he. “By her step she must be young; perhaps she is pretty. Oh, yes! But a woman who wanders in the streets at this hour only ventures out to meet her lover. If I should disturb a rendezvous, that would not be the best means of commencing an acquaintance.”

Meantime the young woman continued to advance, counting the houses and windows. This was neither long nor difficult. There were but three hotels in this part of the street; and only two windows looking toward the road, one of which was in a pavilion parallel to that which Aramis occupied, the other belonging to Aramis himself.

Pardieu!” said D’Artagnan to himself, to whose mind the niece of the theologian reverted, “pardieu, it would be droll if this belated dove should be in search of our friend’s house. But on my soul, it looks so. Ah, my dear Aramis, this time I shall find you out.” And D’Artagnan, making himself as small as he could, concealed himself in the darkest side of the street near a stone bench placed at the back of a niche.

The young woman continued to advance; and in addition to the lightness of her step, which had betrayed her, she emitted a little cough which denoted a sweet voice. D’Artagnan believed this cough to be a signal.

Nevertheless, whether the cough had been answered by a similar signal which had fixed the irresolution of the nocturnal seeker, or whether without this aid she saw that she had arrived at the end of her journey, she resolutely drew near to Aramis’s shutter, and tapped, at three equal intervals, with her bent finger.

“This is all very fine, dear Aramis,” murmured D’Artagnan.

“Ah, Monsieur Hypocrite, I understand how you study theology.”

The three blows were scarcely struck, when the inside blind was opened and a light appeared through the panes of the outside shutter.

“Ah, ah!” said the listener, “not through doors, but through windows! Ah, this visit was expected. We shall see the windows open, and the lady enter by escalade. Very pretty!”

But to the great astonishment of D’Artagnan, the shutter remained closed. Still more, the light which had shone for an instant disappeared, and all was again in obscurity.

D’Artagnan thought this could not last long, and continued to look with all his eyes and listen with all his ears.

He was right; at the end of some seconds two sharp taps were heard inside. The young woman in the street replied by a single tap, and the shutter was opened a little way.

It may be judged whether D’Artagnan looked or listened with avidity. Unfortunately the light had been removed into another chamber; but the eyes of the young man were accustomed to the night. Besides, the eyes of the Gascons have, as it is asserted, like those of cats, the faculty of seeing in the dark.

D’Artagnan then saw that the young woman took from her pocket a white object, which she unfolded quickly, and which took the form of a handkerchief. She made her interlocutor observe the corner of this unfolded object.

This immediately recalled to D’Artagnan’s mind the handkerchief which he had found at the feet of Mme. Bonacieux, which had reminded him of that which he had dragged from under the feet of Aramis.

“What the devil could that handkerchief signify?”

Placed where he was, D’Artagnan could not perceive the face of Aramis. We say Aramis, because the young man entertained no doubt that it was his friend who held this dialogue from the interior with the lady of the exterior. Curiosity prevailed over prudence; and profiting by the preoccupation into which the sight of the handkerchief appeared to have plunged the two personages now on the scene, he stole from his hiding place, and quick as lightning, but stepping with utmost caution, he ran and placed himself close to the angle of the wall, from which his eye could pierce the interior of Aramis’s room.

Upon gaining this advantage D’Artagnan was near uttering a cry of surprise; it was not Aramis who was conversing with the nocturnal visitor, it was a woman! D’Artagnan, however, could only see enough to recognize the form of her vestments, not enough to distinguish her features.

At the same instant the woman inside drew a second handkerchief from her pocket, and exchanged it for that which had just been shown to her. Then some words were spoken by the two women. At length the shutter closed. The woman who was outside the window turned round, and passed within four steps of D’Artagnan, pulling down the hood of her mantle; but the precaution was too late, D’Artagnan had already recognized Mme. Bonacieux.

Mme. Bonacieux! The suspicion that it was she had crossed the mind of D’Artagnan when she drew the handkerchief from her pocket; but what probability was there that Mme. Bonacieux, who had sent for M. Laporte in order to be reconducted to the Louvre, should be running about the streets of Paris at half past eleven at night, at the risk of being abducted a second time?

This must be, then, an affair of importance; and what is the most important affair to a woman of twenty-five! Love.

But was it on her own account, or on account of another, that she exposed herself to such hazards? This was a question the young man asked himself, whom the demon of jealousy already gnawed, being in heart neither more nor less than an accepted lover.

There was a very simple means of satisfying himself whither Mme. Bonacieux was going; that was to follow her. This method was so simple that D’Artagnan employed it quite naturally and instinctively.

But at the sight of the young man, who detached himself from the wall like a statue walking from its niche, and at the noise of the steps which she heard resound behind her, Mme. Bonacieux uttered a little cry and fled.

D’Artagnan ran after her. It was not difficult for him to overtake a woman embarrassed with her cloak. He came up with her before she had traversed a third of the street. The unfortunate woman was exhausted, not by fatigue, but by terror, and when D’Artagnan placed his hand upon her shoulder, she sank upon one knee, crying in a choking voice, “Kill me, if you please, you shall know nothing!”

D’Artagnan raised her by passing his arm round her waist; but as he felt by her weight she was on the point of fainting, he made haste to reassure her by protestations of devotedness. These protestations were nothing for Mme. Bonacieux, for such protestations may be made with the worst intentions in the world; but the voice was all Mme. Bonacieux thought she recognized the sound of that voice; she reopened her eyes, cast a quick glance upon the man who had terrified her so, and at once perceiving it was D’Artagnan, she uttered a cry of joy, “Oh, it is you, it is you! Thank God, thank God!”

“Yes, it is I,” said D’Artagnan, “it is I, whom God has sent to watch over you.”

“Was it with that intention you followed me?” asked the young woman, with a coquettish smile, whose somewhat bantering character resumed its influence, and with whom all fear had disappeared from the moment in which she recognized a friend in one she had taken for an enemy.

“No,” said D’Artagnan; “no, I confess it. It was chance that threw me in your way; I saw a woman knocking at the window of one of my friends.”

“One of your friends?” interrupted Mme. Bonacieux.

“Without doubt; Aramis is one of my best friends.”

“Aramis! Who is he?”

“Come, come, you won’t tell me you don’t know Aramis?”

“This is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced.”

“It is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced.”

“It is the first time, then, that you ever went to that house?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And you did not know that it was inhabited by a young man?”

“No.”

“By a Musketeer?”

“No, indeed!”

“It was not he, then, you came to seek?”

“Not the least in the world. Besides, you must have seen that the person to whom I spoke was a woman.”

“That is true; but this woman is a friend of Aramis--”

“I know nothing of that.”

“--since she lodges with him.”

“That does not concern me.”

“But who is she?”

“Oh, that is not my secret.”

“My dear Madame Bonacieux, you are charming; but at the same time you are one of the most mysterious women.”

“Do I lose by that?”

“No; you are, on the contrary, adorable.”

“Give me your arm, then.”

“Most willingly. And now?”

“Now escort me.”

“Where?”

“Where I am going.”

“But where are you going?”

“You will see, because you will leave me at the door.”

“Shall I wait for you?”

“That will be useless.”

“You will return alone, then?”

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”

“But will the person who shall accompany you afterward be a man or a woman?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“But I will know it!”

“How so?”

“I will wait until you come out.”

“In that case, adieu.”

“Why so?”

“I do not want you.”

“But you have claimed--”

“The aid of a gentleman, not the watchfulness of a spy.”

“The word is rather hard.”

“How are they called who follow others in spite of them?”

“They are indiscreet.”

“The word is too mild.”

“well, madame, I perceive I must do as you wish.”

“Why did you deprive yourself of the merit of doing so at once?”

“Is there no merit in repentance?”

“And do you really repent?”

“I know nothing about it myself. But what I know is that I promise to do all you wish if you allow me to accompany you where you are going.”

“And you will leave me then?”

“Yes.”

“Without waiting for my coming out again?”

“Yes.”

“Word of honor?”

“By the faith of a gentleman. Take my arm, and let us go.”

D’Artagnan offered his arm to Mme. Bonacieux, who willingly took it, half laughing, half trembling, and both gained the top of Rue de la Harpe. Arriving there, the young woman seemed to hesitate, as she had before done in the Rue Vaugirard. She seemed, however, by certain signs, to recognize a door, and approaching that door, “And now, monsieur,” said she, “it is here I have business; a thousand thanks for your honorable company, which has saved me from all the dangers to which, alone I was exposed. But the moment is come to keep your word; I have reached my destination.”

“And you will have nothing to fear on your return?”

“I shall have nothing to fear but robbers.”

“And that is nothing?”

“What could they take from me? I have not a penny about me.”

“You forget that beautiful handkerchief with the coat of arms.”

“Which?”

“That which I found at your feet, and replaced in your pocket.”

“Hold your tongue, imprudent man! Do you wish to destroy me?”

“You see very plainly that there is still danger for you, since a single word makes you tremble; and you confess that if that word were heard you would be ruined. Come, come, madame!” cried D’Artagnan, seizing her hands, and surveying her with an ardent glance, “come, be more generous. Confide in me. Have you not read in my eyes that there is nothing but devotion and sympathy in my heart?”

“Yes,” replied Mme. Bonacieux; “therefore, ask my own secrets, and I will reveal them to you; but those of others--that is quite another thing.”

“Very well,” said D’Artagnan, “I shall discover them; as these secrets may have an influence over your life, these secrets must become mine.”

“Beware of what you do!” cried the young woman, in a manner so serious as to make D’Artagnan start in spite of himself. “Oh, meddle in nothing which concerns me. Do not seek to assist me in that which I am accomplishing. This I ask of you in the name of the interest with which I inspire you, in the name of the service you have rendered me and which I never shall forget while I have life. Rather, place faith in what I tell you. Have no more concern about me; I exist no longer for you, any more than if you had never seen me.”

“Must Aramis do as much as I, madame?” said D’Artagnan, deeply piqued.

“This is the second or third time, monsieur, that you have repeated that name, and yet I have told you that I do not know him.”

“You do not know the man at whose shutter you have just knocked? Indeed, madame, you believe me too credulous!”

“Confess that it is for the sake of making me talk that you invent this story and create this personage.”

“I invent nothing, madame; I create nothing. I only speak that exact truth.”

“And you say that one of your friends lives in that house?”

“I say so, and I repeat it for the third time; that house is one inhabited by my friend, and that friend is Aramis.”

“All this will be cleared up at a later period,” murmured the young woman; “no, monsieur, be silent.”

“If you could see my heart,” said D’Artagnan, “you would there read so much curiosity that you would pity me and so much love that you would instantly satisfy my curiosity. We have nothing to fear from those who love us.”

“You speak very suddenly of love, monsieur,” said the young woman, shaking her head.

“That is because love has come suddenly upon me, and for the first time; and because I am only twenty.”

The young woman looked at him furtively.

“Listen; I am already upon the scent,” resumed D’Artagnan. “About three months ago I was near having a duel with Aramis concerning a handkerchief resembling the one you showed to the woman in his house--for a handkerchief marked in the same manner, I am sure.”

“Monsieur,” said the young woman, “you weary me very much, I assure you, with your questions.”

“But you, madame, prudent as you are, think, if you were to be arrested with that handkerchief, and that handkerchief were to be seized, would you not be compromised?”

“In what way? The initials are only mine--C. B., Constance Bonacieux.”

“Or Camille de Bois-Tracy.”

“Silence, monsieur! Once again, silence! Ah, since the dangers I incur on my own account cannot stop you, think of those you may yourself run!”

“Me?”

“Yes; there is peril of imprisonment, risk of life in knowing me.”

“Then I will not leave you.”

“Monsieur!” said the young woman, supplicating him and clasping her hands together, “monsieur, in the name of heaven, by the honor of a soldier, by the courtesy of a gentleman, depart! There, there midnight sounds! That is the hour when I am expected.”

“Madame,” said the young man, bowing; “I can refuse nothing asked of me thus. Be content; I will depart.”

“But you will not follow me; you will not watch me?”

“I will return home instantly.”

“Ah, I was quite sure you were a good and brave young man,” said Mme. Bonacieux, holding out her hand to him, and placing the other upon the knocker of a little door almost hidden in the wall.

D’Artagnan seized the hand held out to him, and kissed it ardently.

“Ah! I wish I had never seen you!” cried D’Artagnan, with that ingenuous roughness which women often prefer to the affectations of politeness, because it betrays the depths of the thought and proves that feeling prevails over reason.

“Well!” resumed Mme. Bonacieux, in a voice almost caressing, and pressing the hand of D’Artagnan, who had not relinquished hers, “well: I will not say as much as you do; what is lost for today may not be lost forever. Who knows, when I shall be at liberty, that I may not satisfy your curiosity?”

“And will you make the same promise to my love?” cried D’Artagnan, beside himself with joy.

“Oh, as to that, I do not engage myself. That depends upon the sentiments with which you may inspire me.”

“Then today, madame--”

“Oh, today, I am no further than gratitude.”

“Ah! You are too charming,” said D’Artagnan, sorrowfully; “and you abuse my love.”

“No, I use your generosity, that’s all. But be of good cheer; with certain people, everything comes round.”

“Oh, you render me the happiest of men! Do not forget this evening--do not forget that promise.”

“Be satisfied. In the proper time and place I will remember everything. Now then, go, go, in the name of heaven! I was expected at sharp midnight, and I am late.”

“By five minutes.”

“Yes; but in certain circumstances five minutes are five ages.”

“When one loves.”

“Well! And who told you I had no affair with a lover?”

“It is a man, then, who expects you?” cried D’Artagnan. “A man!”

“The discussion is going to begin again!” said Mme. Bonacieux, with a half-smile which was not exempt from a tinge of impatience.

“No, no; I go, I depart! I believe in you, and I would have all the merit of my devotion, even if that devotion were stupidity. Adieu, madame, adieu!”

And as if he only felt strength to detach himself by a violent effort from the hand he held, he sprang away, running, while Mme. Bonacieux knocked, as at the shutter, three light and regular taps. When he had gained the angle of the street, he turned. The door had been opened, and shut again; the mercer’s pretty wife had disappeared.

D’Artagnan pursued his way. He had given his word not to watch Mme. Bonacieux, and if his life had depended upon the spot to which she was going or upon the person who should accompany her, D’Artagnan would have returned home, since he had so promised. Five minutes later he was in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.

“Poor Athos!” said he; “he will never guess what all this means. He will have fallen asleep waiting for me, or else he will have returned home, where he will have learned that a woman had been there. A woman with Athos! After all,” continued D’Artagnan, “there was certainly one with Aramis. All this is very strange; and I am curious to know how it will end.”

“Badly, monsieur, badly!” replied a voice which the young man recognized as that of Planchet; for, soliloquizing aloud, as very preoccupied people do, he had entered the alley, at the end of which were the stairs which led to his chamber.

“How badly? What do you mean by that, you idiot?” asked D’Artagnan. “What has happened?”

“All sorts of misfortunes.”

“What?”

“In the first place, Monsieur Athos is arrested.”

“Arrested! Athos arrested! What for?”

“He was found in your lodging; they took him for you.”

“And by whom was he arrested?”

“By Guards brought by the men in black whom you put to flight.”

“Why did he not tell them his name? Why did he not tell them he knew nothing about this affair?”

“He took care not to do so, monsieur; on the contrary, he came up to me and said, ‘It is your master that needs his liberty at this moment and not I, since he knows everything and I know nothing. They will believe he is arrested, and that will give him time; in three days I will tell them who I am, and they cannot fail to let me go.’”

“Bravo, Athos! Noble heart!” murmured D’Artagnan. “I know him well there! And what did the officers do?”

“Four conveyed him away, I don’t know where--to the Bastille or Fort l’Evêque. Two remained with the men in black, who rummaged every place and took all the papers. The last two mounted guard at the door during this examination; then, when all was over, they went away, leaving the house empty and exposed.”

“And Porthos and Aramis?”

“I could not find them; they did not come.”

“But they may come any moment, for you left word that I awaited them?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Well, don’t budge, then; if they come, tell them what has happened. Let them wait for me at the Pomme-de-Pin. Here it would be dangerous; the house may be watched. I will run to Monsieur de Tréville to tell them all this, and will meet them there.”

“Very well, monsieur,” said Planchet.

“But you will remain; you are not afraid?” said D’Artagnan, coming back to recommend courage to his lackey.

“Be easy, monsieur,” said Planchet; “you do not know me yet. I am brave when I set about it. It is all in beginning. Besides, I am a Picard.”

“Then it is understood,” said D’Artagnan; “you would rather be killed than desert your post?”

“Yes, monsieur; and there is nothing I would not do to prove to Monsieur that I am attached to him.”

“Good!” said D’Artagnan to himself. “It appears that the method I have adopted with this boy is decidedly the best. I shall use it again upon occasion.”

And with all the swiftness of his legs, already a little fatigued however, with the perambulations of the day, D’Artagnan directed his course toward M. de Tréville’s.

M. de Tréville was not at his hotel. His company was on guard at the Louvre; he was at the Louvre with his company.

It was necessary to reach M. de Tréville; it was important that he should be informed of what was passing. D’Artagnan resolved to try and enter the Louvre. His costume of Guardsman in the company of M. Dessessart ought to be his passport.

He therefore went down the Rue des Petits Augustins, and came up to the quay, in order to take the New Bridge. He had at first an idea of crossing by the ferry; but on gaining the riverside, he had mechanically put his hand into his pocket, and perceived that he had not wherewithal to pay his passage.

As he gained the top of the Rue Guenegaud, he saw two persons coming out of the Rue Dauphine whose appearance very much struck him. Of the two persons who composed this group, one was a man and the other a woman. The woman had the outline of Mme. Bonacieux; the man resembled Aramis so much as to be mistaken for him.

Besides, the woman wore that black mantle which D’Artagnan could still see outlined on the shutter of the Rue de Vaugirard and on the door of the Rue de la Harpe; still further, the man wore the uniform of a Musketeer.

The woman’s hood was pulled down, and the man geld a handkerchief to his face. Both, as this double precaution indicated, had an interest in not being recognized.

They took the bridge. That was D’Artagnan’s road, as he was going to the Louvre. D’Artagnan followed them.

He had not gone twenty steps before he became convinced that the woman was really Mme. Bonacieux and that the man was Aramis.

He felt at that instant all the suspicions of jealousy agitating his heart. He felt himself doubly betrayed, by his friend and by her whom he already loved like a mistress. Mme. Bonacieux had declared to him, by all the gods, that she did not know Aramis; and a quarter of an hour after having made this assertion, he found her hanging on the arm of Aramis.

D’Artagnan did not reflect that he had only known the mercer’s pretty wife for three hours; that she owed him nothing but a little gratitude for having delivered her from the men in black, who wished to carry her off, and that she had promised him nothing. He considered himself an outraged, betrayed, and ridiculed lover. Blood and anger mounted to his face; he was resolved to unravel the mystery.

The young man and young woman perceived they were watched, and redoubled their speed. D’Artagnan determined upon his course. He passed them, then returned so as to meet them exactly before the Samaritaine. Which was illuminated by a lamp which threw its light over all that part of the bridge.

D’Artagnan stopped before them, and they stopped before him.

“What do you want, monsieur?” demanded the Musketeer, recoiling a step, and with a foreign accent, which proved to D’Artagnan that he was deceived in one of his conjectures.

“It is not Aramis!” cried he.

“No, monsieur, it is not Aramis; and by your exclamation I perceive you have mistaken me for another, and pardon you.”

“You pardon me?” cried D’Artagnan.

“Yes,” replied the stranger. “Allow me, then, to pass on, since it is not with me you have anything to do.”

“You are right, monsieur, it is not with you that I have anything to do; it is with Madame.”

“With Madame! You do not know her,” replied the stranger.

“You are deceived, monsieur; I know her very well.”

“Ah,” said Mme. Bonacieux; in a tone of reproach, “ah, monsieur, I had your promise as a soldier and your word as a gentleman. I hoped to be able to rely upon that.”

“And I, madame!” said D’Artagnan, embarrassed; “you promised me-- "

“Take my arm, madame,” said the stranger, “and let us continue our way.”

D’Artagnan, however, stupefied, cast down, annihilated by all that happened, stood, with crossed arms, before the Musketeer and Mme. Bonacieux.

The Musketeer advanced two steps, and pushed D’Artagnan aside with his hand. D’Artagnan made a spring backward and drew his sword. At the same time, and with the rapidity of lightning, the stranger drew his.

“In the name of heaven, my Lord!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, throwing herself between the combatants and seizing the swords with her hands.

“My Lord!” cried D’Artagnan, enlightened by a sudden idea, “my Lord! Pardon me, monsieur, but you are not--”

“My Lord the Duke of Buckingham,” said Mme. Bonacieux, in an undertone; “and now you may ruin us all.”

“My Lord, Madame, I ask a hundred pardons! But I love her, my Lord, and was jealous. You know what it is to love, my Lord. Pardon me, and then tell me how I can risk my life to serve your Grace?”

“You are a brave young man,” said Buckingham, holding out his hand to D’Artagnan, who pressed it respectfully. “You offer me your services; with the same frankness I accept them. Follow us at a distance of twenty paces, as far as the Louvre, and if anyone watches us, slay him!”

D’Artagnan placed his naked sword under his arm, allowed the duke and Mme. Bonacieux to take twenty steps ahead, and then followed them, ready to execute the instructions of the noble and elegant minister of Charles I.

Fortunately, he had no opportunity to give the duke this proof of his devotion, and the young woman and the handsome Musketeer entered the Louvre by the wicket of the Echelle without any interference.

As for D’Artagnan, he immediately repaired to the cabaret of the Pomme-de-Pin, where he found Porthos and Aramis awaiting him. Without giving them any explanation of the alarm and inconvenience he had caused them, he told them that he had terminated the affair alone in which he had for a moment believed he should need their assistance.

Meanwhile, carried away as we are by our narrative, we must leave our three friends to themselves, and follow the Duke of Buckingham and his guide through the labyrinths of the Louvre.

George Villiers, Duke Of Buckingham

Mme. Bonacieux and the duke entered the Louvre without difficulty. Mme. Bonacieux was known to belong to the queen; the duke wore the uniform of the Musketeers of M. de Tréville, who, as we have said, were that evening on guard. Besides, Germain was in the interests of the queen; and if anything should happen, Mme. Bonacieux would be accused of having introduced her lover into the Louvre, that was all. She took the risk upon herself. Her reputation would be lost, it is true; but of what value in the world was the reputation of the little wife of a mercer?

Once within the interior of the court, the duke and the young woman followed the wall for the space of about twenty-five steps. This space passed, Mme. Bonacieux pushed a little servants’ door, open by day but generally closed at night. The door yielded. Both entered, and found themselves in darkness; but Mme. Bonacieux was acquainted with all the turnings and windings of this part of the Louvre, appropriated for the people of the household. She closed the door after her, took the duke by the hand, and after a few experimental steps, grasped a balustrade, put her foot upon the bottom step, and began to ascend the staircase. The duke counted two stories. She then turned to the right, followed the course of a long corridor, descended a flight, went a few steps farther, introduced a key into a lock, opened a door, and pushed the duke into an apartment lighted only by a lamp, saying, “Remain here, my Lord Duke; someone will come.” She then went out by the same door, which she locked, so that the duke found himself literally a prisoner.

Nevertheless, isolated as he was, we must say that the Duke of Buckingham did not experience an instant of fear. One of the salient points of his character was the search for adventures and a love of romance. Brave, rash, and enterprising, this was not the first time he had risked his life in such attempts. He had learned that the pretended message from Anne of Austria, upon the faith of which he had come to Paris, was a snare; but instead of regaining England, he had, abusing the position in which he had been placed, declared to the queen that he would not depart without seeing her. The queen had at first positively refused; but at length became afraid that the duke, if exasperated, would commit some folly. She had already decided upon seeing him and urging his immediate departure, when, on the very evening of coming to this decision, Mme. Bonacieux, who was charged with going to fetch the duke and conducting him to the Louvre, was abducted. For two days no one knew what had become of her, and everything remained in suspense; but once free, and placed in communication with Laporte, matters resumed their course, and she accomplished the perilous enterprise which, but for her arrest, would have been executed three days earlier.

Buckingham, left alone, walked toward a mirror. His Musketeer’s uniform became him marvelously.

At thirty-five, which was then his age, he passed, with just title, for the handsomest gentleman and the most elegant cavalier of France or England.

The favorite of two kings, immensely rich, all-powerful in a kingdom which he disordered at his fancy and calmed again at his caprice, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, had lived one of those fabulous existences which survive, in the course of centuries, to astonish posterity.

Sure of himself, convinced of his own power, certain that the laws which rule other men could not reach him, he went straight to the object he aimed at, even were this object were so elevated and so dazzling that it would have been madness for any other even to have contemplated it. It was thus he had succeeded in approaching several times the beautiful and proud Anne of Austria, and in making himself loved by dazzling her.

George Villiers placed himself before the glass, as we have said, restored the undulations to his beautiful hair, which the weight of his hat had disordered, twisted his mustache, and, his heart swelling with joy, happy and proud at being near the moment he had so long sighed for, he smiled upon himself with pride and hope.

At this moment a door concealed in the tapestry opened, and a woman appeared. Buckingham saw this apparition in the glass; he uttered a cry. It was the queen!

Anne of Austria was then twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age; that is to say, she was in the full splendor of her beauty.

Her carriage was that of a queen or a goddess; her eyes, which cast the brilliancy of emeralds, were perfectly beautiful, and yet were at the same time full of sweetness and majesty.

Her mouth was small and rosy; and although her underlip, like that of all princes of the House of Austria, protruded slightly beyond the other, it was eminently lovely in its smile, but as profoundly disdainful in its contempt.

Her skin was admired for its velvety softness; her hands and arms were of surpassing beauty, all the poets of the time singing them as incomparable.

Lastly, her hair, which, from being light in her youth, had become chestnut, and which she wore curled very plainly, and with much powder, admirably set off her face, in which the most rigid critic could only have desired a little less rouge, and the most fastidious sculptor a little more fineness in the nose.

Buckingham remained for a moment dazzled. Never had Anna of Austria appeared to him so beautiful, amid balls, fêtes, or carousals, as she appeared to him at this moment, dressed in a simple robe of white satin, and accompanied by Donna Estafania-- the only one of her Spanish women who had not been driven from her by the jealousy of the king or by the persecutions of Richelieu.

Anne of Austria took two steps forward. Buckingham threw himself at her feet, and before the queen could prevent him, kissed the hem of her robe.

“Duke, you already know that it is not I who caused you to be written to.”

“Yes, yes, madame! Yes, your Majesty!” cried the duke. “I know that I must have been mad, senseless, to believe that snow would become animated or marble warm; but what then! They who love believe easily in love. Besides, I have lost nothing by this journey because I see you.”

“Yes,” replied Anne, “but you know why and how I see you; because, insensible to all my sufferings, you persist in remaining in a city where, by remaining, you run the risk of your life, and make me run the risk of my honor. I see you to tell you that everything separates us--the depths of the sea, the enmity of kingdoms, the sanctity of vows. It is sacrilege to struggle against so many things, my Lord. In short, I see you to tell you that we must never see each other again.”

“Speak on, madame, speak on, Queen,” said Buckingham; “the sweetness of your voice covers the harshness of your words. You talk of sacrilege! Why, the sacrilege is the separation of two hearts formed by God for each other.”

“My Lord,” cried the queen, “you forget that I have never said that I love you.”

“But you have never told me that you did not love me; and truly, to speak such words to me would be, on the part of your Majesty, too great an ingratitude. For tell me, where can you find a love like mine--a love which neither time, nor absence, not despair can extinguish, a love which contents itself with a lost ribbon, a stray look, or a chance word? It is now three years, madame, since I saw you for the first time, and during those three years I have loved you thus. Shall I tell you each ornament of your toilet? Mark! I see you now. You were seated upon cushions in the Spanish fashion; you wore a robe of green satin embroidered with gold and silver, hanging sleeves knotted upon your beautiful arms--those lovely arms--with large diamonds. You wore a close ruff, a small cap upon your head of the same color as your robe, and in that cap a heron’s feather. Hold! Hold! I shut my eyes, and I can see you as you then were; I open them again, and I see what you are now--a hundred time more beautiful!”

“What folly,” murmured Anne of Austria, who had not the courage to find fault with the duke for having so well preserved her portrait in his heart, “what folly to feed a useless passion with such remembrances!”

“And upon what then must I live? I have nothing but memory. It is my happiness, my treasure, my hope. Every time I see you is a fresh diamond which I enclose in the casket of my heart. This is the fourth which you have let fall and I have picked up; for in three years, madame, I have only seen you four times--the first, which I have described to you; the second, at the mansion of Madame de Chevreuse; the third, in the gardens of Amiens.”

“Duke,” said the queen, blushing, “never speak of that evening.”

“Oh, let us speak of it; on the contrary, let us speak of it! That is the most happy and brilliant evening of my life! You remember what a beautiful night it was? How soft and perfumed was the air; how lovely the blue heavens and star-enameled sky! Ah, then, madame, I was able for one instant to be alone with you. Then you were about to tell me all--the isolation of your life, the griefs of your heart. You leaned upon my arm--upon this, madame! I felt, in bending my head toward you, your beautiful hair touch my cheek; and every time that it touched me I trembled from head to foot. Oh, Queen! Queen! You do not know what felicity from heaven, what joys from paradise, are comprised in a moment like that. Take my wealth, my fortune, my glory, all the days I have to live, for such an instant, for a night like that. For that night, madame, that night you loved me, I will swear it.”

“My Lord, yes; it is possible that the influence of the place, the charm of the beautiful evening, the fascination of your look--the thousand circumstances, in short, which sometimes unite to destroy a woman--were grouped around me on that fatal evening; but, my Lord, you saw the queen come to the aid of the woman who faltered. At the first word you dared to utter, at the first freedom to which I had to reply, I called for help.”

“Yes, yes, that is true. And any other love but mine would have sunk beneath this ordeal; but my love came out from it more ardent and more eternal. You believed that you would fly from me by returning to Paris; you believed that I would not dare to quit the treasure over which my master had charged me to watch. What to me were all the treasures in the world, or all the kings of the earth! Eight days after, I was back again, madame. That time you had nothing to say to me; I had risked my life and favor to see you but for a second. I did not even touch your hand, and you pardoned me on seeing me so submissive and so repentant.”

“Yes, but calumny seized upon all those follies in which I took no part, as you well know, my Lord. The king, excited by the cardinal, made a terrible clamor. Madame de Vernet was driven from me, Putange was exiled, Madame de Chevreuse fell into disgrace, and when you wished to come back as ambassador to France, the king himself--remember, my lord--the king himself opposed to it.”

“Yes, and France is about to pay for her king’s refusal with a war. I am not allowed to see you, madame, but you shall every day hear of me. What object, think you, have this expedition to Ré and this league with the Protestants of La Rochelle which I am projecting? The pleasure of seeing you. I have no hope of penetrating, sword in hand, to Paris, I know that well. But this war may bring round a peace; this peace will require a negotiator; that negotiator will be me. They will not dare to refuse me then; and I will return to Paris, and will see you again, and will be happy for an instant. Thousands of men, it is true, will have to pay for my happiness with their lives; but what is that to me, provided I see you again! All this is perhaps folly--perhaps insanity; but tell me what woman has a lover more truly in love; what queen a servant more ardent?”

“My Lord, my Lord, you invoke in your defense things which accuse you more strongly. All these proofs of love which you would give me are almost crimes.”

“Because you do not love me, madame! If you loved me, you would view all this otherwise. If you loved me, oh, if you loved me, that would be too great happiness, and I should run mad. Ah, Madame de Chevreuse was less cruel than you. Holland loved her, and she responded to his love.”

“Madame de Chevreuse was not queen,” murmured Anne of Austria, overcome, in spite of herself, by the expression of so profound a passion.

“You would love me, then, if you were not queen! Madame, say that you would love me then! I can believe that it is the dignity of your rank alone which makes you cruel to me; I can believe that you had been Madame de Chevreuse, poor Buckingham might have hoped. Thanks for those sweet words! Oh, my beautiful sovereign, a hundred times, thanks!”

“Oh, my Lord! You have ill understood, wrongly interpreted; I did not mean to say--”

“Silence, silence!” cried the duke. “If I am happy in an error, do not have the cruelty to lift me from it. You have told me yourself, madame, that I have been drawn into a snare; I, perhaps, may leave my life in it--for, although it may be strange, I have for some time had a presentiment that I should shortly die.” And the duke smiled, with a smile at once sad and charming.

“Oh, my God!” cried Anne of Austria, with an accent of terror which proved how much greater an interest she took in the duke than she ventured to tell.

“I do not tell you this, madame, to terrify you; no, it is even ridiculous for me to name it to you, and, believe me, I take no heed of such dreams. But the words you have just spoken, the hope you have almost given me, will have richly paid all--were it my life.”

“Oh, but I,” said Anne, “I also, duke, have had presentiments; I also have had dreams. I dreamed that I saw you lying bleeding, wounded.”

“In the left side, was it not, and with a knife?” interrupted Buckingham.

“Yes, it was so, my Lord, it was so--in the left side, and with a knife. Who can possibly have told you I had had that dream? I have imparted it to no one but my God, and that in my prayers.”

“I ask for no more. You love me, madame; it is enough.”

“I love you, I?”

“Yes, yes. Would God send the same dreams to you as to me if you did not love me? Should we have the same presentiments if our existences did not touch at the heart? You love me, my beautiful queen, and you will weep for me?”

“Oh, my God, my God!” cried Anne of Austria, “this is more than I can bear. In the name of heaven, Duke, leave me, go! I do not know whether I love you or love you not; but what I know is that I will not be perjured. Take pity on me, then, and go! Oh, if you are stuck in France, if you die in France, if I could imagine that your love for me was the cause of your death, I could not console myself; I should run mad. Depart then, depart, I implore you!”

“Oh, how beautiful you are thus! Oh, how I love you!” said Buckingham.

“Go, go, I implore you, and return hereafter! Come back as ambassador, come back as minister, come back surrounded with guards who will defend you, with servants who will watch over you, and then I shall no longer fear for your days, and I shall be happy in seeing you.”

“Oh, is this true what you say?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, then, some pledge of your indulgence, some object which came from you, and may remind me that I have not been dreaming; something you have worn, and that I may wear in my turn--a ring, a necklace, a chain.”

“Will you depart--will you depart, if I give you that you demand?”

“Yes.”

“This very instant?”

“Yes.”

“You will leave France, you will return to England?”

“I will, I swear to you.”

“Wait, then, wait.”

Anne of Austria re-entered her apartment, and came out again almost immediately, holding a rosewood casket in her hand, with her cipher encrusted with gold.

“Her, my Lord, here,” said she, “keep this in memory of me.”

Buckingham took the casket, and fell a second time on his knees.

“You have promised me to go,” said the queen.

“And I keep my word. Your hand, madame, your hand, and I depart!”

Anne of Austria stretched forth her hand, closing her eyes, and leaning with the other upon Estafania, for she felt that her strength was about to fail her.

Buckingham pressed his lips passionately to that beautiful hand, and then rising, said, “Within six months, if I am not dead, I shall have seen you again, madame--even if I have to overturn the world.” And faithful to the promise he had made, he rushed out of the apartment.

In the corridor he met Mme. Bonacieux, who waited for him, and who, with the same precautions and the same good luck, conducted him out of the Louvre.

Monsieur Bonacieux

There was in all this, as may have been observed, one personage concerned, of whom, notwithstanding his precarious position, we have appeared to take but very little notice. This personage was M. Bonacieux, the respectable martyr of the political and amorous intrigues which entangled themselves so nicely together at this gallant and chivalric period.

Fortunately, the reader may remember, or may not remember—fortunately we have promised not to lose sight of him.

The officers who arrested him conducted him straight to the Bastille, where he passed trembling before a party of soldiers who were loading their muskets. Thence, introduced into a half- subterranean gallery, he became, on the part of those who had brought him, the object of the grossest insults and the harshest treatment. The officers perceived that they had not to deal with a gentleman, and they treated him like a very peasant.

At the end of half an hour or thereabouts, a clerk came to put an end to his tortures, but not to his anxiety, by giving the order to conduct M. Bonacieux to the Chamber of Examination. Ordinarily, prisoners were interrogated in their cells; but they did not do so with M. Bonacieux.

Two guards attended the mercer who made him traverse a court and enter a corridor in which were three sentinels, opened a door and pushed him unceremoniously into a low room, where the only furniture was a table, a chair, and a commissary. The commissary was seated in the chair, and was writing at the table.

The two guards led the prisoner toward the table, and upon a sign from the commissary drew back so far as to be unable to hear anything.

The commissary, who had till this time held his head down over his papers, looked up to see what sort of person he had to do with. This commissary was a man of very repulsive mien, with a pointed nose, with yellow and salient cheek bones, with eyes small but keen and penetrating, and an expression of countenance resembling at once the polecat and the fox. His head, supported by a long and flexible neck, issued from his large black robe, balancing itself with a motion very much like that of the tortoise thrusting his head out of his shell. He began by asking M. Bonacieux his name, age, condition, and abode.

The accused replied that his name was Jacques Michel Bonacieux, that he was fifty-one years old, a retired mercer, and lived Rue des Fossoyeurs, No. 14.

The commissary then, instead of continuing to interrogate him, made him a long speech upon the danger there is for an obscure citizen to meddle with public matters. He complicated this exordium by an exposition in which he painted the power and the deeds of the cardinal, that incomparable minister, that conqueror of past minister, that conqueror of past ministers, that example for ministers to come—deeds and power which none could thwart with impunity.

After this second part of his discourse, fixing his hawk’s eye upon poor Bonacieux, he bade him reflect upon the gravity of his situation.

The reflections of the mercer were already made; he cursed the instant when M. Laporte formed the idea of marrying him to his goddaughter had been received as Lady of the Linen to her Majesty.

At bottom the character of M. Bonacieux was one of profound selfishness mixed with sordid avarice, the whole seasoned with extreme cowardice. The love with which his young wife had inspired him was a secondary sentiment, and was not strong enough to contend with the primitive feelings we have just enumerated. Bonacieux indeed reflected on what had just been said to him.

“But, Monsieur Commissary,” said he, calmly, “believe that I know and appreciate, more than anybody, the merit of the incomparable eminence by whom we have the honor to be governed.”

“Indeed?” asked the commissary, with an air of doubt. “If that is really so, how came you in the Bastille?”

“How I came there, or rather why I am there,” replied Bonacieux, “that is entirely impossible for me to tell you, because I don’t know myself; but to a certainty it is not for having, knowingly at least, disobliged Monsieur the Cardinal.”

“You must, nevertheless, have committed a crime, since you are here and are accused of high treason.”

“Of high treason!” cried Bonacieux, terrified; “of high treason! How is it possible for a poor mercer, who detests Huguenots and who abhors Spaniards, to be accused of high treason? Consider, monsieur, the thing is absolutely impossible.”

“Monsieur Bonacieux,” said the commissary, looking at the accused as if his little eyes had the faculty of reading to the very depths of hearts, “you have a wife?”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the mercer, in a tremble, feeling that it was at this point affairs were likely to become perplexing; “that is to say, I had one.”

“What, you ‘had one’? What have you done with her, then, if you have her no longer?”

“They have abducted her, monsieur.”

“They have abducted her? Ah!”

Bonacieux inferred from this “Ah” that the affair grew more and more intricate.

“They have abducted her,” added the commissary; “and do you know the man who has committed this deed?”

“I think I know him.”

“Who is he?”

“Remember that I affirm nothing, Monsieur the Commissary, and that I only suspect.”

“Whom do you suspect? Come, answer freely.”

M. Bonacieux was in the greatest perplexity possible. Had he better deny everything or tell everything? By denying all, it might be suspected that he must know too much to avow; by confessing all he might prove his good will. He decided, then, to tell all.

“I suspect,” said he, “a tall, dark man, of lofty carriage, who has the air of a great lord. He has followed us several times, as I think, when I have waited for my wife at the wicket of the Louvre to escort her home.”

The commissary now appeared to experience a little uneasiness.

“And his name?” said he.

“Oh, as to his name, I know nothing about it; but if I were ever to meet him, I should recognize him in an instant, I will answer for it, were he among a thousand persons.”

The face of the commissary grew still darker.

“You should recognize him among a thousand, say you?” continued he.

“That is to say,” cried Bonacieux, who saw he had taken a false step, “that is to say—”

“You have answered that you should recognize him,” said the commissary. “That is all very well, and enough for today; before we proceed further, someone must be informed that you know the ravisher of your wife.”

“But I have not told you that I know him!” cried Bonacieux, in despair. “I told you, on the contrary—”

“Take away the prisoner,” said the commissary to the two guards.

“Where must we place him?” demanded the chief.

“In a dungeon.”

“Which?”

“Goof Lord! In the first one handy, provided it is safe,” said the commissary, with an indifference which penetrated poor Bonacieux with horror.

“Alas, alas!” said he to himself, “misfortune is over my head; my wife must have committed some frightful crime. They believe me her accomplice, and will punish me with her. She must have spoken; she must have confessed everything—a woman is so weak! A dungeon! The first he comes to! That’s it! A night is soon passed; and tomorrow to the wheel, to the gallows! Oh, my God, my God, have pity on me!”

Without listening the least in the world to the lamentations of M. Bonacieux—lamentations to which, besides, they must have been pretty well accustomed—the two guards took the prisoner each by an arm, and led him away, while the commissary wrote a letter in haste and dispatched it by an officer in waiting.

Bonacieux could not close his eyes; not because his dungeon was so very disagreeable, but because his uneasiness was so great. He sat all night on his stool, starting at the least noise; and when the first rays of the sun penetrated into his chamber, the dawn itself appeared to him to have taken funereal tints.

All at once he heard his bolts drawn, and made a terrified bound. He believed they were come to conduct him to the scaffold; so that when he saw merely and simply, instead of the executioner he expected, only his commissary of the preceding evening, attended by his clerk, he was ready to embrace them both.

“Your affair has become more complicated since yesterday evening, my good man, and I advise you to tell the whole truth; for your repentance alone can remove the anger of the cardinal.”

“Why, I am ready to tell everything,” cried Bonacieux, “at least, all that I know. Interrogate me, I entreat you!”

“Where is your wife, in the first place?”

“Why, did not I tell you she had been stolen from me?”

“Yes, but yesterday at five o’clock in the afternoon, thanks to you, she escaped.”

“My wife escaped!” cried Bonacieux. “Oh, unfortunate creature! Monsieur, if she has escaped, it is not my fault, I swear.”

“What business had you, then, to go into the chamber of Monsieur D’Artagnan, your neighbor, with whom you had a long conference during the day?”

“Ah, yes, Monsieur Commissary; yes, that is true, and I confess that I was in the wrong. I did go to Monsieur D’Artagnan’s.”

“What was the aim of that visit?”

“To beg him to assist me in finding my wife. I believed I had a right to endeavor to find her. I was deceived, as it appears, and I ask your pardon.”

“And what did Monsieur d’Artagnan reply?”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan promised me his assistance; but I soon found out that he was betraying me.”

“You impose upon justice. Monsieur d’Artagnan made a compact with you; and in virtue of that compact put to flight the police who had arrested your wife, and has placed her beyond reach.”

“Fortunately, Monsieur d’Artagnan is in our hands, and you shall be confronted with him.”

“By my faith, I ask no better,” cried Bonacieux; “I shall not be sorry to see the face of an acquaintance.”

“Bring in the Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the commissary to the guards. The two guards led in Athos.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the commissary, addressing Athos, “declare all that passed yesterday between you and Monsieur.”

“But,” cried Bonacieux, “this is not Monsieur d’Artagnan whom you show me.”

“What! Not Monsieur d’Artagnan?” exclaimed the commissary.

“Not the least in the world,” replied Bonacieux.

“What is this gentleman’s name?” asked the commissary.

“I cannot tell you; I don’t know him.”

“How! You don’t know him?”

“No.”

“Did you never see him?”

“Yes, I have seen him, but I don’t know what he calls himself.”

“Your name?” replied the commissary.

“Athos,” replied the Musketeer.

“But that is not a man’s name; that is the name of a mountain,” cried the poor questioner, who began to lose his head.

“That is my name,” said Athos, quietly.

“But you said that your name was D’Artagnan.”

“Who, I?”

“Yes, you.”

“Somebody said to me, ‘You are Monsieur d’Artagnan?’ I answered, ‘You think so?’ My guards exclaimed that they were sure of it. I did not wish to contradict them; besides, I might be deceived.”

“Monsieur, you insult the majesty of justice.”

“Not at all,” said Athos, calmly.

“You are Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“You see, monsieur, that you say it again.”

“But I tell you, Monsieur Commissary,” cried Bonacieux, in his turn, “there is not the least doubt about the matter. Monsieur d’Artagnan is my tenant, although he does not pay me my rent—and even better on that account ought I to know him. Monsieur d’Artagnan is a young man, scarcely nineteen, and this gentleman must be thirty at least. Monsieur d’Artagnan is in Monsieur Dessessart’s Guards, and this gentleman is in the company of Monsieur de Tréville’s Musketeers. Look at his uniform, Monsieur Commissary, look at his uniform!”

“That’s true,” murmured the commissary; “pardieu, that’s true.”

At this moment the door was opened quickly, and a messenger, introduced by one of the gatekeepers of the Bastille, gave a letter to the commissary.

“Oh, unhappy woman!” cried the commissary.

“How? What do you say? Of whom do you speak? It is not of my wife, I hope!”

“On the contrary, it is of her. Yours is a pretty business.”

“But,” said the agitated mercer, “do me the pleasure, monsieur, to tell me how my own proper affair can become worse by anything my wife does while I am in prison?”

“Because that which she does is part of a plan concerted between you—of an infernal plan.”

“I swear to you, Monsieur Commissary, that you are in the profoundest error, that I know nothing in the world about what my wife had to do, that I am entirely a stranger to what she has done; and that if she has committed any follies, I renounce her, I abjure her, I curse her!”

“Bah!” said Athos to the commissary, “if you have no more need of me, send me somewhere. Your Monsieur Bonacieux is very tiresome.”

The commissary designated by the same gesture Athos and Bonacieux, “Let them be guarded more closely than ever.”

“And yet,” said Athos, with his habitual calmness, “if it be Monsieur d’Artagnan who is concerned in this matter, I do not perceive how I can take his place.”

“Do as I bade you,” cried the commissary, “and preserve absolute secrecy. You understand!”

Athos shrugged his shoulders, and followed his guards silently, while M. Bonacieux uttered lamentations enough to break the heart of a tiger.

They locked the mercer in the same dungeon where he had passed the night, and left him to himself during the day. Bonacieux wept all day, like a true mercer, not being at all a military man, as he himself informed us. In the evening, about nine o’clock, at the moment he had made up his mind to go to bed, he heard steps in his corridor. These steps drew near to his dungeon, the door was thrown open, and the guards appeared.

“Follow me,” said an officer, who came up behind the guards.

“Follow you!” cried Bonacieux, “follow you at this hour! Where, my God?”

“Where we have orders to lead you.”

“But that is not an answer.”

“It is, nevertheless, the only one we can give.”

“Ah, my God, my God!” murmured the poor mercer, “now, indeed, I am lost!” And he followed the guards who came for him, mechanically and without resistance.

He passed along the same corridor as before, crossed one court, then a second side of a building; at length, at the gate of the entrance court he found a carriage surrounded by four guards on horseback. They made him enter this carriage, the officer placed himself by his side, the door was locked, and they were left in a rolling prison. The carriage was put in motion as slowly as a funeral car. Through the closely fastened windows the prisoner could perceive the houses and the pavement, that was all; but, true Parisian as he was, Bonacieux could recognize every street by the milestones, the signs, and the lamps. At the moment of arriving at St. Paul—the spot where such as were condemned at the Bastille were executed—he was near fainting and crossed himself twice. He thought the carriage was about to stop there. The carriage, however, passed on.

Farther on, a still greater terror seized him on passing by the cemetery of St. Jean, where state criminals were buried. One thing, however, reassured him; he remembered that before they were buried their heads were generally cut off, and he felt that his head was still on his shoulders. But when he saw the carriage take the way to La Grêve, when he perceived the pointed roof of the Hôtel de Ville, and the carriage passed under the arcade, he believed it was over with him. He wished to confess to the officer, and upon his refusal, uttered such pitiable cries that the officer told him that if he continued to deafen him thus, he should put a gag in his mouth.

This measure somewhat reassured Bonacieux. If they meant to execute him at La Grêve, it could scarcely be worth while to gag him, as they had nearly reached the place of execution. Indeed, the carriage crossed the fatal spot without stopping. There remained, then, no other place to fear but the Traitor’s Cross; the carriage was taking the direct road to it.

This time there was no longer any doubt; it was at the Traitor’s Cross that lesser criminals were executed. Bonacieux had flattered himself in believing himself worthy of St. Paul or of the Place de Grêve; it was at the Traitor’s Cross that his journey and his destiny were about to end! He could not yet see that dreadful cross, but he felt somehow as if it were coming to meet him. When he was within twenty paces of it, he heard a noise of people and the carriage stopped. This was more than poor Bonacieux could endure, depressed as he was by the successive emotions which he had experienced; he uttered a feeble groan which might have been taken for the last sigh of a dying man, and fainted.

The Man Of Meung

The crowd was caused, not by the expectation of a man to be hanged, but by the contemplation of a man who was hanged.

The carriage, which had been stopped for a minute, resumed its way, passed through the crowd, threaded the Rue St. Honoré, turned into the Rue des Bons Enfants, and stopped before a low door.

The door opened; two guards received Bonacieux in their arms from the officer who supported him. They carried him through an alley, up a flight of stairs, and deposited him in an antechamber.

All these movements had been effected mechanically, as far as he was concerned. He had walked as one walks in a dream; he had a glimpse of objects as through a fog. His ears had perceived sounds without comprehending them; he might have been executed at that moment without his making a single gesture in his own defense or uttering a cry to implore mercy.

He remained on the bench, with his back leaning against the wall and his hands hanging down, exactly on the spot where the guards placed him.

On looking around him, however, as he could perceive no threatening object, as nothing indicated that he ran any real danger, as the bench was comfortably covered with a well-stuffed cushion, as the wall was ornamented with a beautiful Cordova leather, and as large red damask curtains, fastened back by gold clasps, floated before the window, he perceived by degrees that his fear was exaggerated, and he began to turn his head to the right and the left, upward and downward.

At this movement, which nobody opposed, he resumed a little courage, and ventured to draw up one leg and then the other. At length, with the help of his two hands he lifted himself from the bench, and found himself on his feet.

At this moment an officer with a pleasant face opened a door, continued to exchange some words with a person in the next chamber and then came up to the prisoner. “Is your name Bonacieux?” said he.

“Yes, Monsieur Officer,” stammered the mercer, more dead than alive, “at your service.”

“Come in,” said the officer.

And he moved out of the way to let the mercer pass. The latter obeyed without reply, and entered the chamber, where he appeared to be expected.

It was a large cabinet, close and stifling, with the walls furnished with arms offensive and defensive, and in which there was already a fire, although it was scarcely the end of the month of September. A square table, covered with books and papers, upon which was unrolled an immense plan of the city of La Rochelle, occupied the center of the room.

Standing before the chimney was a man of middle height, of a haughty, proud mien; with piercing eyes, a large brow, and a thin face, which was made still longer by a royal (or imperial, as it is now called), surmounted by a pair of mustaches. Although this man was scarcely thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age, hair, mustaches, and royal, all began to be gray. This man, except a sword, had all the appearance of a soldier; and his buff boots still slightly covered with dust, indicated that he had been on horseback in the course of the day.

This man was Armand Jean Duplessis, Cardinal de Richelieu; not such as he is now represented--broken down like an old man, suffering like a martyr, his body bent, his voice failing, buried in a large armchair as in an anticipated tomb; no longer living but by the strength of his genius, and no longer maintaining the struggle with Europe but by the eternal application of his thoughts--but such as he really was at this period; that is to say, an active and gallant cavalier, already weak of body, but sustained by that moral power which made of him one of the most extraordinary men that ever lived, preparing, after having supported the Duc de Nevers in his duchy of Mantua, after having taken Nimes, Castres, and Uzes, to drive the English from the Isle of Ré and lay siege to La Rochelle.

At first sight, nothing denoted the cardinal; and it was impossible for those who did not know his face to guess in whose presence they were.

The poor mercer remained standing at the door, while the eyes of the personage we have just described were fixed upon him, and appeared to wish to penetrate even into the depths of the past.

“Is this that Bonacieux?” asked he, after a moment of silence.

“Yes, monseigneur,” replied the officer.

“That’s well. Give me those papers, and leave us.”

The officer took from the table the papers pointed out, gave them to him who asked for them, bowed to the ground, and retired.

Bonacieux recognized in these papers his interrogatories of the Bastille. From time to time the man by the chimney raised his eyes from the writings, and plunged them like poniards into the heart of the poor mercer.

At the end of ten minutes of reading and ten seconds of examination, the cardinal was satisfied.

“That head has never conspired,” murmured he, “but it matters not; we will see.”

“You are accused of high treason,” said the cardinal, slowly.

“So I have been told already, monseigneur,” cried Bonacieux, giving his interrogator the title he had heard the officer give him, “but I swear to you that I know nothing about it.”

The cardinal repressed a smile.

“You have conspired with your wife, with Madame de Chevreuse, and with my Lord Duke of Buckingham.”

“Indeed, monseigneur,” responded the mercer, “I have heard her pronounce all those names.”

“And on what occasion?”

“She said that the Cardinal de Richelieu had drawn the Duke of Buckingham to Paris to ruin him and to ruin the queen.”

“She said that?” cried the cardinal, with violence.

“Yes, monseigneur, but I told her she was wrong to talk about such things; and that his Eminence was incapable--”

“Hold your tongue! You are stupid,” replied the cardinal.

“That’s exactly what my wife said, monseigneur.”

“Do you know who carried off your wife?”

“No, monsigneur.”

“You have suspicions, nevertheless?”

“Yes, monsigneur; but these suspicions appeared to be disagreeable to Monsieur the Commissary, and I no longer have them.”

“Your wife has escaped. Did you know that?”

“No, monseigneur. I learned it since I have been in prison, and that from the conversation of Monsieur the Commissary--an amiable man.”

The cardinal repressed another smile.

“Then you are ignorant of what has become of your wife since her flight.”

“Absolutely, monseigneur; but she has most likely returned to the Louvre.”

“At one o’clock this morning she had not returned.”

“My God! What can have become of her, then?”

“We shall know, be assured. Nothing is concealed from the cardinal; the cardinal knows everything.”

“In that case, monseigneur, do you believe the cardinal will be so kind as to tell me what has become of my wife?”

“Perhaps he may; but you must, in the first place, reveal to the cardinal all you know of your wife’s relations with Madame de Chevreuse.”

“But, monseigneur, I know nothing about them; I have never seen her.”

“When you went to fetch your wife from the Louvre, did you always return directly home?”

“Scarcely ever; she had business to transact with linen drapers, to whose houses I conducted her.”

“And how many were there of these linen drapers?”

“Two, monseigneur.”

“And where did they live?”

“One in Rue de Vaugirard, the other Rue de la Harpe.”

“Did you go into these houses with her?”

“Never, monseigneur; I waited at the door.”

“And what excuse did she give you for entering all alone?”

“She gave me none; she told me to wait, and I waited.”

“You are a very complacent husband, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux,” said the cardinal.

“He calls me his dear Monsieur,” said the mercer to himself. “Peste! Matters are going all right.”

“Should you know those doors again?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the numbers?”

“Yes.”

“What are they?”

“No. 25 in the Rue de Vaugirard; 75 in the Rue de la Harpe.”

“That’s well,” said the cardinal.

At these words he took up a silver bell, and rang it; the officer entered.

“Go,” said he, in a subdued voice, “and find Rochefort. Tell him to come to me immediately, if he has returned.”

“The count is here,” said the officer, “and requests to speak with your Eminence instantly.”

“Let him come in, then!” said the cardinal, quickly.

The officer sprang out of the apartment with that alacrity which all the servants of the cardinal displayed in obeying him.

“To your Eminence!” murmured Bonacieux, rolling his eyes round in astonishment.

Five seconds has scarcely elapsed after the disappearance of the officer, when the door opened, and a new personage entered.

“It is he!” cried Bonacieux.

“He! What he?” asked the cardinal.

“The man who abducted my wife.”

The cardinal rang a second time. The officer reappeared.

“Place this man in the care of his guards again, and let him wait till I send for him.”

“No, monseigneur, no, it is not he!” cried Bonacieux; “no, I was deceived. This is quite another man, and does not resemble him at all. Monsieur is, I am sure, an honest man.”

“Take away that fool!” said the cardinal.

The officer took Bonacieux by the arm, and led him into the antechamber, where he found his two guards.

The newly introduced personage followed Bonacieux impatiently with his eyes till he had gone out; and the moment the door closed, “They have seen each other;” said he, approaching the cardinal eagerly.

“Who?” asked his Eminence.

“He and she.”

“The queen and the duke?” cried Richelieu.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the Louvre.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“Perfectly sure.”

“Who told you of it?”

“Madame de Lannoy, who is devoted to your Eminence, as you know.”

“Why did she not let me know sooner?”

“Whether by chance or mistrust, the queen made Madame de Surgis sleep in her chamber, and detained her all day.”

“Well, we are beaten! Now let us try to take our revenge.”

“I will assist you with all my heart, monseigneur; be assured of that.”

“How did it come about?”

“At half past twelve the queen was with her women--”

“Where?”

“In her bedchamber--”

“Go on.”

“When someone came and brought her a handkerchief from her laundress.”

“And then?”

“The queen immediately exhibited strong emotion; and despite the rouge with which her face was covered evidently turned pale--”

“And then, and then?”

“She then arose, and with altered voice, ‘Ladies,’ said she, ‘wait for me ten minutes, I shall soon return.’ She then opened the door of her alcove, and went out.”

“Why did not Madame de Lannoy come and inform you instantly?”

“Nothing was certain; besides, her Majesty had said, ‘Ladies, wait for me,’ and she did not dare to disobey the queen.”

“How long did the queen remain out of the chamber?”

“Three-quarters of an hour.”

“None of her women accompanied her?”

“Only Donna Estafania.”

“Did she afterward return?”

“Yes; but only to take a little rosewood casket, with her cipher upon it, and went out again immediately.”

“And when she finally returned, did she bring that casket with her?”

“No.”

“Does Madame de Lannoy know what was in that casket?”

“Yes; the diamond studs which his Majesty gave the queen.”

“And she came back without this casket?”

“Yes.”

“Madame de Lannoy, then, is of opinion that she gave them to Buckingham?”

“She is sure of it.”

“How can she be so?”

“In the course of the day Madame de Lannoy, in her quality of tire-woman of the queen, looked for this casket, appeared uneasy at not finding it, and at length asked information of the queen.”

“And then the queen?”

“The queen became exceedingly red, and replied that having in the evening broken one of those studs, she had sent it to her goldsmith to be repaired.”

“He must be called upon, and so ascertain if the thing be true or not.”

“I have just been with him.”

“And the goldsmith?”

“The goldsmith has heard nothing of it.”

“Well, well! Rochefort, all is not lost; and perhaps--perhaps everything is for the best.”

“The fact is that I do not doubt your Eminence’s genius--”

“Will repair the blunders of his agent--is that it?”

“That is exactly what I was going to say, if your Eminence had let me finish my sentence.”

“Meanwhile, do you know where the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham are now concealed?”

“No, monseigneur; my people could tell me nothing on that head.”

“But I know.”

“You, monseigneur?”

“Yes; or at least I guess. They were, one in the Rue de Vaugirard, No. 25; the other in the Rue de la Harpe, No. 75.”

“Does your Eminence command that they both be instantly arrested?”

“It will be too late; they will be gone.”

“But still, we can make sure that they are so.”

“Take ten men of my Guardsmen, and search the two houses thoroughly.”

“Instantly, monseigneur.” And Rochefort went hastily out of the apartment.

The cardinal being left alone, reflected for an instant and then rang the bell a third time. The same officer appeared.

“Bring the prisoner in again,” said the cardinal.

M. Bonacieux was introduced afresh, and upon a sign from the cardinal, the officer retired.

“You have deceived me!” said the cardinal, sternly.

“I,” cried Bonacieux, “I deceive your Eminence!”

“Your wife, in going to Rue de Vaugirard and Rue de la Harpe, did not go to find linen drapers.”

“Then why did she go, just God?”

“She went to meet the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Yes,” cried Bonacieux, recalling all his remembrances of the circumstances, “yes, that’s it. Your Eminence is right. I told my wife several times that it was surprising that linen drapers should live in such houses as those, in houses that had no signs; but she always laughed at me. Ah, monseigneur!” continued Bonacieux, throwing himself at his Eminence’s feet, “ah, how truly you are the cardinal, the great cardinal, the man of genius whom all the world reveres!”

The cardinal, however contemptible might be the triumph gained over so vulgar a being as Bonacieux, did not the less enjoy it for an instant; then, almost immediately, as if a fresh thought has occurred, a smile played upon his lips, and he said, offering his hand to the mercer, “Rise, my friend, you are a worthy man.”

“The cardinal has touched me with his hand! I have touched the hand of the great man!” cried Bonacieux. “The great man has called me his friend!”

“Yes, my friend, yes,” said the cardinal, with that paternal tone which he sometimes knew how to assume, but which deceived none who knew him; “and as you have been unjustly suspected, well, you must be indemnified. Here, take this purse of a hundred pistoles, and pardon me.”

“I pardon you, monseigneur!” said Bonacieux, hesitating to take the purse, fearing, doubtless, that this pretended gift was but a pleasantry. “But you are able to have me arrested, you are able to have me tortured, you are able to have me hanged; you are the master, and I could not have the least word to say. Pardon you, monseigneur! You cannot mean that!”

“Ah, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, you are generous in this matter. I see it and I thank you for it. Thus, then, you will take this bag, and you will go away without being too malcontent.”

“I go away enchanted.”

“Farewell, then, or rather, au revoir!”

And the cardinal made him a sign with his hand, to which Bonacieux replied by bowing to the ground. He then went out backward, and when he was in the antechamber the cardinal heard him, in his enthusiasm, crying aloud, “Long life to the Monseigneur! Long life to his Eminence! Long life to the great cardinal!” The cardinal listened with a smile to this vociferous manifestation of the feelings of M. Bonacieux; and then, when Bonacieux’s cries were no longer audible, “Good!” said he, “that man would henceforward lay down his life for me.” And the cardinal began to examine with the greatest attention the map of La Rochelle, which, as we have said, lay open on the desk, tracing with a pencil the line in which the famous dyke was to pass which, eighteen months later, shut up the port of the besieged city. As he was in the deepest of his strategic meditations, the door opened, and Rochefort returned.

“Well?” said the cardinal, eagerly, rising with a promptitude which proved the degree of importance he attached to the commission with which he had charged the count.

“Well,” said the latter, “a young woman of about twenty-six or twenty-eight years of age, and a man of from thirty-five to forty, have indeed lodged at the two houses pointed out by your Eminence; but the woman left last night, and the man this morning.”

“It was they!” cried the cardinal, looking at the clock; “and now it is too late to have them persued. The duchess is at Tours, and the duke at Boulogne. It is in London they must be found.”

“What are your Eminence’s orders?”

“Not a word of what has passed. Let the queen remain in perfect security; let her be ignorant that we know her secret. Let her believe that we are in search of some conspiracy or other. Send me the keeper of the seals, Séguier.”

“And that man, what has your Eminence done with him?”

“What man?” asked the cardinal.

“That Bonacieux.”

“I have done with him all that could be done. I have made him a spy upon his wife.”

The Comte de Rochefort bowed like a man who acknowledges the superiority of the master as great, and retired.

Left alone, the cardinal seated himself again and wrote a letter, which he secured with his special seal. Then he rang. The officer entered for the fourth time.

“Tell Vitray to come to me,” said he, “and tell him to get ready for a journey.”

An instant after, the man he asked for was before him, booted and spurred.

“Vitray,” said he, “you will go with all speed to London. You must not stop an instant on the way. You will deliver this letter to Milady. Here is an order for two hundred pistoles; call upon my treasurer and get the money. You shall have as much again if you are back within six days, and have executed your commission well.”

The messenger, without replying a single word, bowed, took the letter, with the order for the two hundred pistoles, and retired.

Here is what the letter contained:

Milady, Be at the first ball at which the Duke of Buckingham shall be present. He will wear on his doublet twelve diamond studs; get as near to him as you can, and cut off two.

As soon as these studs shall be in your possession, inform me.

Men Of The Robe And Men Of The Sword

On the day after these events had taken place, Athos not having reappeared, M. de Tréville was informed by D’Artagnan and Porthos of the circumstance. As to Aramis, he had asked for leave of absence for five days, and was gone, it was said, to Rouen on family business.

M. de Tréville was the father of his soldiers. The lowest or the least known of them, as soon as he assumed the uniform of the company, was as sure of his aid and support as if he had been his own brother.

He repaired, then, instantly to the office of the lieutenant- criminel. The officer who commanded the post of the Red Cross was sent for, and by successive inquiries they learned that Athos was then lodged in the Fort l’Evêque.

Athos had passed through all the examinations we have seen Bonacieux undergo.

We were present at the scene in which the two captives were confronted with each other. Athos, who had till that time said nothing for fear that D’Artagnan, interrupted in his turn, should not have the time necessary, from this moment declared that his name was Athos, and not D’Artagnan. He added that he did not know either M. or Mme. Bonacieux; that he had never spoken to the one or the other; that he had come, at about ten o’clock in the evening, to pay a visit to his friend M. d’Artagnan, but that till that hour he had been at M. de Tréville’s, where he had dined. “Twenty witnesses,” added he, “could attest the fact”; and he named several distinguished gentlemen, and among them was M. le Duc de la Trémouille.

The second commissary was as much bewildered as the first had been by the simple and firm declaration of the Musketeer, upon whom he was anxious to take the revenge which men of the robe like at all times to gain over men of the sword; but the name of M. de Tréville, and that of M. de la Trémouille, commanded a little reflection.

Athos was then sent to the cardinal; but unfortunately the cardinal was at the Louvre with the king.

It was precisely at this moment that M. de Tréville, on leaving the residence of the lieutenant-criminel and the governor of the Fort l’Evêque without being able to find Athos, arrived at the palace.

As captain of the Musketeers, M. de Tréville had the right of entry at all times.

It is well known how violent the king’s prejudices were against the queen, and how carefully these prejudices were kept up by the cardinal, who in affairs of intrigue mistrusted women infinitely more than men. One of the grand causes of this prejudice was the friendship of Anne of Austria for Mme. de Chevreuse. These two women gave him more uneasiness than the war with Spain, the quarrel with England, or the embarrassment of the finances. In his eyes and to his conviction, Mme. de Chevreuse not only served the queen in her political intrigues, but, what tormented him still more, in her amorous intrigues.

At the first word the cardinal spoke of Mme. de Chevreuse--who, though exiled to Tours and believed to be in that city, had come to Paris, remained there five days, and outwitted the police--the king flew into a furious passion. Capricious and unfaithful, the king wished to be called Louis the Just and Louis the Chaste. Posterity will find a difficulty in understanding this character, which history explains only by facts and never by reason.

But when the cardinal added that not only Mme. de Chevreuse had been in Paris, but still further, that the queen had renewed with her one of those mysterious correspondences which at that time was named a cabal; when he affirmed that he, the cardinal, was about to unravel the most closely twisted thread of this intrigue; that at the moment of arresting in the very act, with all the proofs about her, the queen’s emissary to the exiled duchess, a Musketeer had dared to interrupt the course of justice violently, by falling sword in hand upon the honest men of the law, charged with investigating impartially the whole affair in order to place it before the eyes of the king--Louis XIII could not contain himself, and he made a step toward the queen’s apartment with that pale and mute indignation which, when in broke out, led this prince to the commission of the most pitiless cruelty. And yet, in all this, the cardinal had not yet said a word about the Duke of Buckingham.

At this instant M. de Tréville entered, cool, polite, and in irreproachable costume.

Informed of what had passed by the presence of the cardinal and the alteration in the king’s countenance, M. de Tréville felt himself something like Samson before the Philistines.

Louis XIII had already placed his hand on the knob of the door; at the noise of M. de Tréville’s entrance he turned round. “You arrive in good time, monsieur,” said the king, who, when his passions were raised to a certain point, could not dissemble; “I have learned some fine things concerning your Musketeers.”

“And I,” said Tréville, coldly, “I have some pretty things to tell your Majesty concerning these gownsmen.”

“What?” said the king, with hauteur.

“I have the honor to inform your Majesty,” continued M. de Tréville, in the same tone, “that a party of procureurs, commissaries, and men of the police--very estimable people, but very inveterate, as it appears, against the uniform--have taken upon themselves to arrest in a house, to lead away through the open street, and throw into the Fort l’Evêque, all upon an order which they have refused to show me, one of my, or rather your Musketeers, sire, of irreproachable conduct, of an almost illustrious reputation, and whom your Majesty knows favorably, Monsieur Athos.”

“Athos,” said the king, mechanically; “yes, certainly I know that name.”

“Let your Majesty remember,” said Tréville, “that Monsieur Athos is the Musketeer who, in the annoying duel which you are acquainted with, had the misfortune to wound Monsieur de Cahusac so seriously. À propos, monseigneur,” continued Tréville. Addressing the cardinal, “Monsieur de Cahusac is quite recovered, is he not?”

“Thank you,” said the cardinal, biting his lips with anger.

“Athos, then, went to pay a visit to one of his friends absent at the time,” continued Tréville, “to a young Béarnais, a cadet in his Majesty’s Guards, the company of Monsieur Dessessart, but scarcely had he arrived at his friend’s and taken up a book, while waiting his return, when a mixed crowd of bailiffs and soldiers came and laid siege to the house, broke open several doors--”

The cardinal made the king a sign, which signified, “That was on account of the affair about which I spoke to you.”

“We all know that,” interrupted the king; “for all that was done for our service.”

“Then,” said Tréville, “it was also for your Majesty’s service that one of my Musketeers, who was innocent, has been seized, that he has been placed between two guards like a malefactor, and that this gallant man, who has ten times shed his blood in your Majesty’s service and is ready to shed it again, has been paraded through the midst of an insolent populace?”

“Bah!” said the king, who began to be shaken, “was it so managed?”

“Monsieur de Tréville,” said the cardinal, with the greatest phlegm, “does not tell your Majesty that this innocent Musketeer, this gallant man, had only an hour before attacked, sword in hand, four commissaries of inquiry, who were delegated by myself to examine into an affair of the highest importance.”

“I defy your Eminence to prove it,” cried Tréville, with his Gascon freedom and military frankness; “for one hour before, Monsieur Athos, who, I will confide it to your Majesty, is really a man of the highest quality, did me the honor after having dined with me to be conversing in the saloon of my hotel, with the Duc de la Trémouille and the Comte de Châlus, who happened to be there.”

The king looked at the cardinal.

“A written examination attests it,” said the cardinal, replying aloud to the mute interrogation of his Majesty; “and the ill- treated people have drawn up the following, which I have the honor to present to your Majesty.”

“And is the written report of the gownsmen to be placed in comparison with the word of honor of a swordsman?” replied Tréville haughtily.

“Come, come, Tréville, hold your tongue,” said the king.

“If his Eminence entertains any suspicion against one of my Musketeers,” said Tréville, “the justice of Monsieur the Cardinal is so well known that I demand an inquiry.”

“In the house in which the judicial inquiry was made,” continued the impassive cardinal, “there lodges, I believe, a young Béarnais, a friend of the Musketeer.”

“Your Eminence means Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“I mean a young man whom you patronize, Monsieur de Tréville.”

“Yes, your Eminence, it is the same.”

“Do you not suspect this young man of having given bad counsel?”

“To Athos, to a man double his age?” interrupted Tréville. “No, monseigneur. Besides, D’Artagnan passed the evening with me.”

“Well,” said the cardinal, “everybody seems to have passed the evening with you.”

“Does your Eminence doubt my word?” said Tréville, with a brow flushed with anger.

“No, God forbid,” said the cardinal; “only, at what hour was he with you?”

“Oh, as to that I can speak positively, your Eminence; for as he came in I remarked that it was but half past nine by the clock, although I had believed it to be later.”

“At what hour did he leave your hotel?”

“At half past ten--an hour after the event.”

“Well,” replied the cardinal, who could not for an instant suspect the loyalty of Tréville, and who felt that the victory was escaping him, “well, but Athos was taken in the house in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.”

“Is one friend forbidden to visit another, or a Musketeer of my company to fraternize with a Guard of Dessessart’s company?”

“Yes, when the house where he fraternizes is suspected.”

“That house is suspected, Tréville,” said the king; “perhaps you did not know it?”

“Indeed, sire, I did not. The house may be suspected; but I deny that it is so in the part of it inhabited my Monsieur d’Artagnan, for I can affirm, sire, if I can believe what he says, that there does not exist a more devoted servant of your Majesty, or a more profound admirer of Monsieur the Cardinal.”

“Was it not this D’Artagnan who wounded Jussac one day, in that unfortunate encounter which took place near the Convent of the Carmes-Déchaussés?” asked the king, looking at the cardinal, who colored with vexation.

“And the next day, Bernajoux. Yes, sire, yes, it is the same; and your Majesty has a good memory.”

“Come, how shall we decide?” said the king.

“That concerns your Majesty more than me,” said the cardinal. “I should affirm the culpability.”

“And I deny it,” said Tréville. “But his Majesty has judges, and these judges will decide.”

“That is best,” said the king. “Send the case before the judges; it is their business to judge, and they shall judge.”

“Only,” replied Tréville, “it is a sad thing that in the unfortunate times in which we live, the purest life, the most incontestable virtue, cannot exempt a man from infamy and persecution. The army, I will answer for it, will be but little pleased at being exposed to rigorous treatment on account of police affairs.”

The expression was imprudent; but M. de Tréville launched it with knowledge of his cause. He was desirous of an explosion, because in that case the mine throws forth fire, and fire enlightens.

“Police affairs!” cried the king, taking up Tréville’s words, “police affairs! And what do you know about them, Monsieur? Meddle with your Musketeers, and do not annoy me in this way. It appears, according to your account, that if by mischance a Musketeer is arrested, France is in danger. What a noise about a Musketeer! I would arrest ten of them, ventrebleu, a hundred, even, all the company, and I would not allow a whisper.”

“From the moment they are suspected by your Majesty,” said Tréville, “the Musketeers are guilty; therefore, you see me prepared to surrender my sword--for after having accused my soldiers, there can be no doubt that Monsieur the Cardinal will end by accusing me. It is best to constitute myself at once a prisoner with Athos, who is already arrested, and with D’Artagnan, who most probably will be.”

“Gascon-headed man, will you have done?” said the king.

“Sire,” replied Tréville, without lowering his voice in the least, “either order my Musketeer to be restored to me, or let him be tried.”

“He shall be tried,” said the cardinal.

“Well, so much the better; for in that case I shall demand of his Majesty permission to plead for him.”

The king feared an outbreak.

“If his Eminence,” said he, “did not have personal motives--”

The cardinal saw what the king was about to say and interrupted him:

“Pardon me,” said he; “but the instant your Majesty considers me a prejudiced judge, I withdraw.”

“Come,” said the king, “will you swear, by my father, that Athos was at your residence during the event and that he took no part in it?”

“By your glorious father, and by yourself, whom I love and venerate above all the world, I swear it.”

“Be so kind as to reflect, sire,” said the cardinal. “If we release the prisoner thus, we shall never know the truth.”

“Athos may always be found,” replied Tréville, “ready to answer, when it shall please the gownsmen to interrogate him. He will not desert, Monsieur the Cardinal, be assured of that; I will answer for him.”

“No, he will not desert,” said the king; “he can always be found, as Tréville says. Besides,” added he, lowering his voice and looking with a suppliant air at the cardinal, “let us give them apparent security; that is policy.”

This policy of Louis XIII made Richelieu smile.

“Order it as you please, sire; you possess the right of pardon.”

“The right of pardoning only applies to the guilty,” said Tréville, who was determined to have the last word, “and my Musketeer is innocent. It is not mercy, then, that you are about to accord, sire, it is justice.”

“And he is in the Fort l’Evêque?” said the king.

“Yes, sire, in solitary confinement, in a dungeon, like the lowest criminal.”

“The devil!” murmured the king; “what must be done?”

“Sign an order for his release, and all will be said,” replied the cardinal. “I believe with your Majesty that Monsieur de Tréville’s guarantee is more than sufficient.”

Tréville bowed very respectfully, with a joy that was not unmixed with fear; he would have preferred an obstinate resistance on the part of the cardinal to this sudden yielding.

The king signed the order for release, and Tréville carried it away without delay. As he was about to leave the presence, the cardinal have him a friendly smile, and said, “A perfect harmony reigns, sire, between the leaders and the soldiers of your Musketeers, which must be profitable for the service and honorable to all.”

“He will play me some dog’s trick or other, and that immediately,” said Tréville. “One has never the last word with such a man. But let us be quick--the king may change his mind in an hour; and at all events it is more difficult to replace a man in the Fort l’Evêque or the Bastille who has got out, than to keep a prisoner there who is in.”

M. de Tréville made his entrance triumphantly into the Fort l’Evêque, whence he delivered the Musketeer, whose peaceful indifference had not for a moment abandoned him.

The first time he saw D’Artagnan, “You have come off well,” said he to him; “there is your Jussac thrust paid for. There still remains that of Bernajoux, but you must not be too confident.”

As to the rest, M. de Tréville had good reason to mistrust the cardinal and to think that all was not over, for scarcely had the captain of the Musketeers closed the door after him, than his Eminence said to the king, “Now that we are at length by ourselves, we will, if your Majesty pleases, converse seriously. Sire, Buckingham has been in Paris five days, and only left this morning.”

In Which M. Séguier, Keeper Of The Seals, Looks More Than Once For The Bell, In Order To Ring It, As He Did Before

It is impossible to form an idea of the impression these few words made upon Louis XIII. He grew pale and red alternately; and the cardinal saw at once that he had recovered by a single blow all the ground he had lost.

“Buckingham in Paris!” cried he, “and why does he come?”

“To conspire, no doubt, with your enemies, the Huguenots and the Spaniards.”

“No, pardieu, no! To conspire against my honor with Madame de Chevreuse, Madame de Longueville, and the Condés.”

“Oh, sire, what an idea! The queen is too virtuous; and besides, loves your Majesty too well.”

“Woman is weak, Monsieur Cardinal,” said the king; “and as to loving me much, I have my own opinion as to that love.”

“I not the less maintain,” said the cardinal, “that the Duke of Buckingham came to Paris for a project wholly political.”

“And I am sure that he came for quite another purpose, Monsieur Cardinal; but if the queen be guilty, let her tremble!”

“Indeed,” said the cardinal, “whatever repugnance I may have to directing my mind to such a treason, your Majesty compels me to think of it. Madame de Lannoy, whom, according to your Majesty’s command, I have frequently interrogated, told me this morning that the night before last her Majesty sat up very late, that this morning she wept much, and that she was writing all day.”

“That’s it!” cried the king; “to him, no doubt. Cardinal, I must have the queen’s papers.”

“But how to take them, sire? It seems to me that it is neither your Majesty not myself who can charge himself with such a mission.”

“How did they act with regard to the Maréchale d’Ancre?” cried the king, in the highest state of choler; “first her closets were thoroughly searched, and then she herself.”

“The Maréchale d’Ancre was no more than the Maréchale d’Ancre. A Florentine adventurer, sire, and that was all; while the august spouse of your Majesty is Anne of Austria, Queen of France--that is to say, one of the greatest princesses in the world.”

“She is not the less guilty, Monsieur Duke! The more she has forgotten the high position in which she was placed, the more degrading is her fall. Besides, I long ago determined to put an end to all these petty intrigues of policy and love. She has near her a certain Laporte.”

“Who, I believe, is the mainspring of all this, I confess,” said the cardinal.

“You think then, as I do, that she deceives me?” said the king.

“I believe, and I repeat it to your Majesty, that the queen conspires against the power of the king, but I have not said against his honor.”

“And I--I tell you against both. I tell you the queen does not love me; I tell you she loves another; I tell you she loves that infamous Buckingham! Why did you not have him arrested while in Paris?”

“Arrest the Duke! Arrest the prime minister of King Charles I! Think of it, sire! What a scandal! And if the suspicions of your Majesty, which I still continue to doubt, should prove to have any foundation, what a terrible disclosure, what a fearful scandal!”

“But as he exposed himself like a vagabond or a thief, he should have been--”

Louis XIII stopped, terrified at what he was about to say, while Richelieu, stretching out his neck, waited uselessly for the word which had died on the lips of the king.

“He should have been--?”

“Nothing,” said the king, “nothing. But all the time he was in Paris, you, of course, did not lose sight of him?”

“No, sire.”

“Where did he lodge?”

“Rue de la Harpe. No. 75.”

“Where is that?”

“By the side of the Luxembourg.”

“And you are certain that the queen and he did not see each other?”

“I believe the queen to have too high a sense of her duty, sire.”

“But they have corresponded; it is to him that the queen has been writing all the day. Monsieur Duke, I must have those letters!”

“Sire, notwithstanding--”

“Monsieur Duke, at whatever price it may be, I will have them.”

“I would, however, beg your Majesty to observe--”

“Do you, then, also join in betraying me, Monsieur Cardinal, by thus always opposing my will? Are you also in accord with Spain and England, with Madame de Chevreuse and the queen?”

“Sire,” replied the cardinal, sighing, “I believed myself secure from such a suspicion.”

“Monsieur Cardinal, you have heard me; I will have those letters.”

“There is but one way.”

“What is that?”

“That would be to charge Monsieur de Séguier, the keeper of the seals, with this mission. The matter enters completely into the duties of the post.”

“Let him be sent for instantly.”

“He is most likely at my hotel. I requested him to call, and when I came to the Louvre I left orders if he came, to desire him to wait.”

“Let him be sent for instantly.”

“Your Majesty’s orders shall be executed; but--”

“But what?”

“But the queen will perhaps refuse to obey.”

“My orders?”

“Yes, if she is ignorant that these orders come from the king.”

“Well, that she may have no doubt on that head, I will go and inform her myself.”

“Your Majesty will not forget that I have done everything in my power to prevent a rupture.”

“Yes, Duke, yes, I know you are very indulgent toward the queen, too indulgent, perhaps; we shall have occasion, I warn you, at some future period to speak of that.”

“Whenever it shall please your Majesty; but I shall be always happy and proud, sire, to sacrifice myself to the harmony which I desire to see reign between you and the Queen of France.”

“Very well, Cardinal, very well; but, meantime, send for Monsieur the Keeper of the Seals. I will go to the queen.”

And Louis XIII, opening the door of communication, passed into the corridor which led from his apartments to those of Anne of Austria.

The queen was in the midst of her women--Mme. de Guitaut, Mme. de Sable, Mme. de Montbazon, and Mme. de Guéméne. In a corner was the Spanish companion, Donna Estafania, who had followed her from Madrid. Mme. Guéméne was reading aloud, and everybody was listening to her with attention with the exception of the queen, who had, on the contrary, desired this reading in order that she might be able, while feigning to listen, to pursue the thread of her own thoughts.

These thoughts, gilded as they were by a last reflection of love, were not the less sad. Anne of Austria, deprived of the confidence of her husband, pursued by the hatred of the cardinal, who could not pardon her for having repulsed a more tender feeling, having before her eyes the example of the queen-mother whom that hatred had tormented all her life--though Marie de Medicis, if the memoirs of the time are to be believed, had begun by according to the cardinal that sentiment which Anne of Austria always refused him--Anne of Austria had seen her most devoted servants fall around her, her most intimate confidants, her dearest favorites. Like those unfortunate persons endowed with a fatal gift, she brought misfortune upon everything she touched. Her friendship was a fatal sign which called down persecution. Mme. de Chevreuse and Mme. de Bernet were exiled, and Laporte did not conceal from his mistress that he expected to be arrested every instant.

It was at the moment when she was plunged in the deepest and darkest of these reflections that the door of the chamber opened, and the king entered.

The reader hushed herself instantly. All the ladies rose, and there was a profound silence. As to the king, he made no demonstration of politeness, only stopping before the queen. “Madame,” said he, “you are about to receive a visit from the chancellor, who will communicate certain matters to you with which I have charged him.”

The unfortunate queen, who was constantly threatened with divorce, exile, and trial even, turned pale under her rouge, and could not refrain from saying, “But why this visit, sire? What can the chancellor have to say to me that your Majesty could not say yourself?”

The king turned upon his heel without reply, and almost at the same instant the captain of the Guards, M. de Guitant, announced the visit of the chancellor.

When the chancellor appeared, the king had already gone out by another door.

The chancellor entered, half smiling, half blushing. As we shall probably meet with him again in the course of our history, it may be well for our readers to be made at once acquainted with him.

This chancellor was a pleasant man. He was Des Roches le Masle, canon of Nôtre Dame, who had formerly been valet of a bishop, who introduced him to his Eminence as a perfectly devout man. The cardinal trusted him, and therein found his advantage.

There are many stories related of him, and among them this. After a wild youth, he had retired into a convent, there to expiate, at least for some time, the follies of adolescence. On entering this holy place, the poor penitent was unable to shut the door so close as to prevent the passions he fled from entering with him. He was incessantly attacked by them, and the superior, to whom he had confided this misfortune, wishing as much as in him lay to free him from them, had advised him, in order to conjure away the tempting demon, to have recourse to the bell rope, and ring with all his might. At the denunciating sound, the monks would be rendered aware that temptation was besieging a brother, and all the community would go to prayers.

This advice appeared good to the future chancellor. He conjured the evil spirit with abundance of prayers offered up by the monks. But the devil does not suffer himself to be easily dispossessed from a place in which he has fixed his garrison. In proportion as they redoubled the exorcisms he redoubled the temptations; so that day and night the bell was ringing full swing, announcing the extreme desire for mortification which the penitent experienced.

The monks had no longer an instant of repose. By day they did nothing but ascend and descend the steps which led to the chapel; at night, in addition to complines and matins, they were further obliged to leap twenty times out of their beds and prostrate themselves on the floor of their cells.

It is not known whether it was the devil who gave way, or the monks who grew tired; but within three months the penitent reappeared in the world with the reputation of being the most terrible possessed that ever existed.

On leaving the convent he entered into the magistracy, became president on the place of his uncle, embraced the cardinal’s party, which did not prove want of sagacity, became chancellor, served his Eminence with zeal in his hatred against the queen- mother and his vengeance against Anne of Austria, stimulated the judges in the affair of Calais, encouraged the attempts of M. de Laffemas, chief gamekeeper of France; then, at length, invested with the entire confidence of the cardinal--a confidence which he had so well earned-he received the singular commission for the execution of which he presented himself in the queen’s apartments.

The queen was still standing when he entered; but scarcely had she perceived him then she reseated herself in her armchair, and made a sign to her women to resume their cushions and stools, and with an air of supreme hauteur, said, “What do you desire, monsieur, and with what object do you present yourself here?”

“To make, madame, in the name of the king, and without prejudice to the respect which I have the honor to owe to your Majesty a close examination into all your papers.”

“How, monsieur, an investigation of my papers--mine! Truly, this is an indignity!”

“Be kind enough to pardon me, madame; but in this circumstance I am but the instrument which the king employs. Has not his Majesty just left you, and has he not himself asked you to prepare for this visit?”

“Search, then, monsieur! I am a criminal, as it appears. Estafania, give up the keys of my drawers and my desks.”

For form’s sake the chancellor paid a visit to the pieces of furniture named; but he well knew that it was not in a piece of furniture that the queen would place the important letter she had written that day.

When the chancellor had opened and shut twenty times the drawers of the secretaries, it became necessary, whatever hesitation he might experience--it became necessary, I say, to come to the conclusion of the affair; that is to say, to search the queen herself. The chancellor advanced, therefore, toward Anne of Austria, and said with a very perplexed and embarrassed air, “And now it remains for me to make the principal examination.”

“What is that?” asked the queen, who did not understand, or rather was not willing to understand.

“His majesty is certain that a letter has been written by you during the day; he knows that it has not yet been sent to its address. This letter is not in your table nor in your secretary; and yet this letter must be somewhere.”

“Would you dare to lift your hand to your queen?” said Anne of Austria, drawing herself up to her full height, and fixing her eyes upon the chancellor with an expression almost threatening.

“I am a faithful subject of the king, madame, and all that his Majesty commands I shall do.”

“Well, it is true!” said Anne of Austria; “and the spies of the cardinal have served him faithfully. I have written a letter today; that letter is not yet gone. The letter is here.” And the queen laid her beautiful hand on her bosom.

“Then give me that letter, madame,” said the chancellor.

“I will give it to none but the king monsieur,” said Anne.

“If the king had desired that the letter should be given to him, madame, he would have demanded it of you himself. But I repeat to you, I am charged with reclaiming it; and if you do not give it up--”

“Well?”

“He has, then, charged me to take it from you.”

“How! What do you say?”

“That my orders go far, madame; and that I am authorized to seek for the suspected paper, even on the person of your Majesty.”

“What horror!” cried the queen.

“Be kind enough, then, madame, to act more compliantly.”

“The conduct is infamously violent! Do you know that, monsieur?”

“The king commands it, madame; excuse me.”

“I will not suffer it! No, no, I would rather die!” cried the queen, in whom the imperious blood of Spain and Austria began to rise.

The chancellor made a profound reverence. Then, with the intention quite patent of not drawing back a foot from the accomplishment of the commission with which he was charged, and as the attendant of an executioner might have done in the chamber of torture, he approached Anne of Austria, for whose eyes at the same instant sprang tears of rage.

The queen was, as we have said, of great beauty. The commission might well be called delicate; and the king had reached, in his jealousy of Buckingham, the point of not being jealous of anyone else.

Without doubt the chancellor, Séguier looked about at that moment for the rope of the famous bell; but not finding it he summoned his resolution, and stretched forth his hands toward the place where the queen had acknowledged the paper was to be found.

Anne of Austria took one step backward, became so pale that it might be said she was dying, and leaning with her left hand upon a table behind her to keep herself from falling, she with her right hand drew the paper from her bosom and held it out to the keeper of the seals.

“There, monsieur, there is that letter!” cried the queen, with a broken and trembling voice; “take it, and deliver me from your odious presence.”

The chancellor, who, on his part, trembled with an emotion easily to be conceived, took the letter, bowed to the ground, and retired. The door was scarcely closed upon him, when the queen sank, half fainting, into the arms of her women.

The chancellor carried the letter to the king without having read a single word of it. The king took it with a trembling hand, looked for the address, which was wanting, became very pale, opened it slowly, then seeing by the first words that it was addressed to the King of Spain, he read it rapidly.

It was nothing but a plan of attack against the cardinal. The queen pressed her brother and the Emperor of Austria to appear to be wounded, as they really were, by the policy of Richelieu--the eternal object of which was the abasement of the house of Austria--to declare war against France, and as a condition of peace, to insist upon the dismissal of the cardinal; but as to love, there was not a single word about it in all the letter.

The king, quite delighted, inquired if the cardinal was still at the Louvre; he was told that his Eminence awaited the orders of his Majesty in the business cabinet.

The king went straight to him.

“There, Duke,” said he, “you were right and I was wrong. The whole intrigue is political, and there is not the least question of love in this letter; but, on the other hand, there is abundant question of you.”

The cardinal took the letter, and read it with the greatest attention; then, when he had arrived at the end of it, he read it a second time. “Well, your Majesty,” said he, “you see how far my enemies go; they menace you with two wars if you do not dismiss me. In your place, in truth, sire, I should yield to such powerful instance; and on my part, it would be a real happiness to withdraw from public affairs.”

“What say you, Duke?”

“I say, sire, that my health is sinking under these excessive struggles and these never-ending labors. I say that according to all probability I shall not be able to undergo the fatigues of the siege of La Rochelle, and that it would be far better that you should appoint there either Monsieur de Condé, Monsieur de Bassompierre, or some valiant gentleman whose business is war, and not me, who am a churchman, and who am constantly turned aside for my real vocation to look after matters for which I have no aptitude. You would be the happier for it at home, sire, and I do not doubt you would be the greater for it abroad.”

“Monsieur Duke,” said the king, “I understand you. Be satisfied, all who are named in that letter shall be punished as they deserve, even the queen herself.”

“What do you say, sire? God forbid that the queen should suffer the least inconvenience or uneasiness on my account! She has always believed me, sire, to be her enemy; although your Majesty can bear witness that I have always taken her part warmly, even against you. Oh, if she betrayed your Majesty on the side of your honor, it would be quite another thing, and I should be the first to say, ‘No grace, sire--no grace for the guilty!’ Happily, there is nothing of the kind, and your Majesty has just acquired a new proof of it.”

“That is true, Monsieur Cardinal,” said the king, “and you were right, as you always are; but the queen, not the less, deserves all my anger.”

“It is you, sire, who have now incurred hers. And even if she were to be seriously offended, I could well understand it; your Majesty has treated her with a severity--”

“It is thus I will always treat my enemies and yours, Duke, however high they may be placed, and whatever peril I may incur in acting severely toward them.”

“The queen is my enemy, but is not yours, sire; on the contrary, she is a devoted, submissive, and irreproachable wife. Allow me, then, sire, to intercede for her with your Majesty.”

“Let her humble herself, then, and come to me first.”

“On the contrary, sire, set the example. You have committed the first wrong, since it was you who suspected the queen.”

“What! I make the first advances?” said the king. “Never!”

“Sire, I entreat you to do so.”

“Besides, in what manner can I make advances first?”

“By doing a thing which you know will be agreeable to her.”

“What is that?”

“Give a ball; you know how much the queen loves dancing. I will answer for it, her resentment will not hold out against such an attention.”

“Monsieur Cardinal, you know that I do not like worldly pleasures.”

“The queen will only be the more grateful to you, as she knows your antipathy for that amusement; besides, it will be an opportunity for her to wear those beautiful diamonds which you gave her recently on her birthday and with which she has since had no occasion to adorn herself.”

“We shall see, Monsieur Cardinal, we shall see,” said the king, who, in his joy at finding the queen guilty of a crime which he cared little about, and innocent of a fault of which he had great dread, was ready to make up all differences with her, “we shall see, but upon my honor, you are too indulgent toward her.”

“Sire,” said the cardinal, “leave severity to your ministers. Clemency is a royal virtue; employ it, and you will find that you derive advantage therein.”

Thereupon the cardinal, hearing the clock strike eleven, bowed low, asking permission of the king to retire, and supplicating him to come to a good understanding with the queen.

Anne of Austria, who, in consequence of the seizure of her letter, expected reproaches, was much astonished the next day to see the king make some attempts at reconciliation with her. Her first movement was repellent. Her womanly pride and her queenly dignity had both been so cruelly offended that she could not come round at the first advance; but, overpersuaded by the advice of her women, she at last had the appearance of beginning to forget. The king took advantage of this favorable moment to tell her that her had the intention of shortly giving a fête.

A fête was so rare a thing for poor Anne of Austria that at this announcement, as the cardinal had predicted, the last trace of her resentment disappeared, if not from her heart at least from her countenance. She asked upon what day this fête would take place, but the king replied that he must consult the cardinal upon that head.

Indeed, every day the king asked the cardinal when this fête should take place; and every day the cardinal, under some pretext, deferred fixing it. Ten days passed away thus.

On the eighth day after the scene we have described, the cardinal received a letter with the London stamp which only contained these lines: “I have them; but I am unable to leave London for want of money. Send me five hundred pistoles, and four or five days after I have received them I shall be in Paris.”

On the same day the cardinal received this letter the king put his customary question to him.

Richelieu counted on his fingers, and said to himself, “She will arrive, she says, four or five days after having received the money. It will require four or five days for the transmission of the money, four or five days for her to return; that makes ten days. Now, allowing for contrary winds, accidents, and a woman’s weakness, there are twelve days.”

“Well, Monsieur Duke,” said the king, “have you made your calculations?”

“Yes, sire. Today is the twentieth of September. The aldermen of the city give a fête on the third of October. That will fall in wonderfully well; you will not appear to have gone out of your way to please the queen.”

Then the cardinal added, “à propos, sire, do not forget to tell her Majesty the evening before the fête that you should like to see how her diamond studs become her.”

Bonacieux At Home

It was the second time the cardinal had mentioned these diamond studs to the king. Louis XIII was struck with this insistence, and began to fancy that this recommendation concealed some mystery.

More than once the king had been humiliated by the cardinal, whose police, without having yet attained the perfection of the modern police, were excellent, being better informed than himself, even upon what was going on in his own household. He hoped, then, in a conversation with Anne of Austria, to obtain some information from that conversation, and afterward to come upon his Eminence with some secret which the cardinal either knew or did not know, but which, in either case, would raise him infinitely in the eyes of his minister.

He went then to the queen, and according to custom accosted her with fresh menaces against those who surrounded her. Anne of Austria lowered her head, allowed the torrent to flow on without replying, hoping that it would cease of itself; but this was not what Louis XIII meant. Louis XIII wanted a discussion from which some light or other might break, convinced as he was that the cardinal had some afterthought and was preparing for him one of those terrible surprises which his Eminence was so skillful in getting up. He arrived at this end by his persistence in accusation.

“But,” cried Anne of Austria, tired of these vague attacks, “but, sire, you do not tell me all that you have in your heart. What have I done, then? Let me know what crime I have committed. It is impossible that your Majesty can make all this ado about a letter written to my brother.”

The king, attacked in a manner so direct, did not know what to answer; and he thought that this was the moment for expressing the desire which he was not have made until the evening before the fête.

“Madame,” said he, with dignity, “there will shortly be a ball at the Hôtel de Ville. I wish, in order to honor our worthy aldermen, you should appear in ceremonial costume, and above all, ornamented with the diamond studs which I gave you on your birthday. That is my answer.”

The answer was terrible. Anne of Austria believed that Louis XIII knew all, and that the cardinal had persuaded him to employ this long dissimulation of seven or eight days, which, likewise, was characteristic. She became excessively pale, leaned her beautiful hand upon a console, which hand appeared then like one of wax, and looking at the king with terror in her eyes, she was unable to reply by a single syllable.

“You hear, madame,” said the king, who enjoyed the embarrassment to its full extent, but without guessing the cause. “You hear, madame?”

“Yes, sire, I hear,” stammered the queen.

“You will appear at this ball?”

“Yes.”

“With those studs?”

“Yes.”

The queen’s paleness, if possible, increased; the king perceived it, and enjoyed it with that cold cruelty which was one of the worst sides of his character.

“Then that is agreed,” said the king, “and that is all I had to say to you.”

“But on what day will this ball take place?” asked Anne of Austria.

Louis XIII felt instinctively that he ought not to reply to this question, the queen having put it in an almost dying voice.

“Oh, very shortly, madame,” said he; “but I do not precisely recollect the date of the day. I will ask the cardinal.”

“It was the cardinal, then, who informed you of this fête?”

“Yes, madame,” replied the astonished king; “but why do you ask that?”

“It was he who told you to invite me to appear with these studs?”

“That is to say, madame--”

“It was he, sire, it was he!”

“Well, and what does it signify whether it was he or I? Is there any crime in this request?”

“No, sire.”

“Then you will appear?”

“Yes, sire.”

“That is well,” said the king, retiring, “that is well; I count upon it.”

The queen made a curtsy, less from etiquette than because her knees were sinking under her. The king went away enchanted.

“I am lost,” murmured the queen, “lost!--for the cardinal knows all, and it is he who urges on the king, who as yet knows nothing but will soon know everything. I am lost! My God, my God, my God!”

She knelt upon a cushion and prayed, with her head buried between her palpitating arms.

In fact, her position was terrible. Buckingham had returned to London; Mme. Chevreuse was at Tours. More closely watched than ever, the queen felt certain, without knowing how to tell which, that one of her women had betrayed her. Laporte could not leave the Louvre; she had not a soul in the world in whom she could confide. Thus, while contemplating the misfortune which threatened her and the abandonment in which she was left, she broke out into sobs and tears.

“Can I be of service to your Majesty?” said all at once a voice full of sweetness and pity.

The queen turned sharply round, for there could be no deception in the expression of that voice; it was a friend who spoke thus.

In fact, at one of the doors which opened into the queen’s apartment appeared the pretty Mme. Bonacieux. She had been engaged in arranging the dresses and linen in a closet when the king entered; she could not get out and had heard all.

The queen uttered a piercing cry at finding herself surprised-- for in her trouble she did not at first recognize the young woman who had been given to her by Laporte.

“Oh, fear nothing, madame!” said the young woman, clasping her hands and weeping herself at the queen’s sorrows; “I am your Majesty’s, body and soul, and however far I may be from you, however inferior may be my position, I believe I have discovered a means of extricating your Majesty from your trouble.”

“You, oh, heaven, you!” cried the queen; “but look me in the face. I am betrayed on all sides. Can I trust in you?”

“Oh, madame!” cried the young woman, falling on her knees; “upon my soul, I am ready to die for your Majesty!”

This expression sprang from the very bottom of the heart, and, like the first, there was no mistaking it.

“Yes,” continued Mme. Bonacieux, “yes, there are traitors here; but by the holy name of the Virgin, I swear that no one is more devoted to your Majesty than I am. Those studs which the king speaks of, you gave them to the Duke of Buckingham, did you not? Those studs were enclosed in a little rosewood box which he held under his arm? Am I deceived? Is it not so, madame?”

“Oh, my God, my God!” murmured the queen, whose teeth chattered with fright.

“Well, those studs,” continued Mme. Bonacieux, “we must have them back again.”

“Yes, without doubt, it is necessary,” cried the queen; “but how am I to act? How can it be effected?”

“Someone must be sent to the duke.”

“But who, who? In whom can I trust?”

“Place confidence in me, madame; do me that honor, my queen, and I will find a messenger.”

“But I must write.”

“Oh, yes; that is indispensable. Two words from the hand of your Majesty and your private seal.”

“But these two words would bring about my condemnation, divorce, exile!”

“Yes, if they fell into infamous hands. But I will answer for these two words being delivered to their address.”

“Oh, my God! I must then place my life, my honor, my reputation, in your hands?”

“Yes, yes, madame, you must; and I will save them all.”

“But how? Tell me at least the means.”

“My husband had been at liberty these two or three days. I have not yet had time to see him again. He is a worthy, honest man who entertains neither love nor hatred for anybody. He will do anything I wish. He will set out upon receiving an order from me, without knowing what he carries, and he will carry your Majesty’s letter, without even knowing it is from your Majesty, to the address which is on it.”

The queen took the two hands of the young woman with a burst of emotion, gazed at her as if to read her very heart, and seeing nothing but sincerity in her beautiful eyes, embraced her tenderly.

“Do that,” cried she, “and you will have saved my life, you will have saved my honor!”

“Do not exaggerate the service I have the happiness to render your Majesty. I have nothing to save for your Majesty; you are only the victim of perfidious plots.”

“That is true, that is true, my child,” said the queen, “you are right.”

“Give me then, that letter, madame; time presses.”

The queen ran to a little table, on which were ink, paper, and pens. She wrote two lines, sealed the letter with her private seal, and gave it to Mme. Bonacieux.

“And now,” said the queen, “we are forgetting one very necessary thing.”

“What is that, madame?”

“Money.”

Mme. Bonacieux blushed.

“Yes, that is true,” said she, “and I will confess to your Majesty that my husband--”

“Your husband has none. Is that what you would say?”

“He has some, but he is very avaricious; that is his fault. Nevertheless, let not your Majesty be uneasy, we will find means.”

“And I have none, either,” said the queen. Those who have read the memoirs of Mme. de Motteville will not be astonished at this reply. “But wait a minute.”

Anne of Austria ran to her jewel case.

“Here,” said she, “here is a ring of great value, as I have been assured. It came from my brother, the King of Spain. It is mine, and I am at liberty to dispose of it. Take this ring; raise money with it, and let your husband set out.”

“In an hour you shall be obeyed.”

“You see the address,” said the queen, speaking so low that Mme. Bonacieux could hardly hear what she said, “To my Lord Duke of Buckingham, London.”

“The letter shall be given to himself.”

“Generous girl!” cried Anne of Austria.

Mme. Bonacieux kissed the hands of the queen, concealed the paper in the bosom of her dress, and disappeared with the lightness of a bird.

Ten minutes afterward she was at home. As she told the queen, she had not seen her husband since his liberation; she was ignorant of the change that had taken place in him with respect to the cardinal--a change which had since been strengthened by two or three visits from the Comte de Rochefort, who had become the best friend of Bonacieux, and had persuaded him that nothing culpable had been intended by the carrying off of his wife, but that it was only a piece of political precaution.

She found Bonacieux alone: the poor man was restoring with much trouble, order in his house, the furniture of which he had found mostly broken and his closets nearly empty--justice not being one of the three things which King Solomon names as leaving no traces of their passage. As to the servant, she had run away at the moment of her master’s arrest. Terror had had such an effect upon the poor girl that she had never ceased walking from Paris till she reached Burgundy, her native place.

The worthy mercer had, immediately upon re-entering his house, informed his wife of his happy return, and his wife had replied by congratulating him, and telling him that the first moment she could steal from her duties should be devoted to paying him a visit.

This first moment had been delayed five days, which, under any other circumstances, might have appeared rather long to M. Bonacieux; but he had, in the visit he had made to the cardinal and in the visits Rochefort had made him, ample subjects for reflection, and as everybody knows, nothing makes time pass more quickly than reflection.

This was the more so because Bonacieux’s reflections were all rose-colored. Rochefort called him his friend, his dear Bonacieux, and never ceased telling him that the cardinal had a great respect for him. The mercer fancied himself already on the high road to honors and fortune.

On her side Mme. Bonacieux had also reflected; but, it must be admitted, upon something widely different from ambition. In spite of herself her thoughts constantly reverted to that handsome young man who was so brave and appeared to be so much in love. Married at eighteen to Monsieur Bonacieux, having always lived among her husband’s friends--people little capable of inspiring any sentiment whatever in a young woman whose heart was above her position--Mme. Bonacieux had remained insensible to vulgar seductions; but at this period the title of gentleman had great influence with the citizen class, and D’Artagnan was a gentleman. Besides, he wore the uniform of the Guards, which next to that of the Musketeers was most admired by the ladies. He was, we repeat, handsome, young, and bold; he spoke of love like a man who did love and was anxious to be loved in return. There was certainly enough in all this to turn a head only twenty-three years old, and Mme. Bonacieux had just attained that happy period of life.

The couple, then, although they had not seen each other for eight days, and during that time serious events had taken place in which both were concerned, accosted each other with a degree of preoccupation. Nevertheless, Bonacieux manifested real joy, and advanced toward his wife with open arms. Madame Bonacieux presented her cheek to him.

“Let us talk a little,” said she.

“How!” said Bonacieux, astonished.

“Yes, I have something of the highest importance to tell you.”

“True,” said he, “and I have some questions sufficiently serious to put to you. Describe to me your abduction, I pray you.”

“Oh, that’s of no consequence just now,” said Mme. Bonacieux.

“And what does it concern, then--my captivity?”

“I heard of it the day it happened; but as you were not guilty of any crime, as you were not guilty of any intrigue, as you, in short, knew nothing that could compromise yourself or anybody else, I attached no more importance to that event than it merited.”

“You speak very much at your ease, madame,” said Bonacieux, hurt at the little interest his wife showed in him. “Do you know that I was plunged during a day and night in a dungeon of the Bastille?”

“Oh, a day and night soon pass away. Let us return to the object that brings me here.”

“What, that which brings you home to me? Is it not the desire of seeing a husband again from whom you have been separated for a week?” asked the mercer, piqued to the quick.

“Yes, that first, and other things afterward.”

“Speak.”

“It is a thing of the highest interest, and upon which our future fortune perhaps depends.”

“The complexion of our fortune has changed very much since I saw you, Madame Bonacieux, and I should not be astonished if in the course of a few months it were to excite the envy of many folks.”

“Yes, particularly if you follow the instructions I am about to give you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. There is good and holy action to be performed, monsieur, and much money to be gained at the same time.”

Mme. Bonacieux knew that in talking of money to her husband, she took him on his weak side. But a man, were he even a mercer, when he had talked for ten minutes with Cardinal Richelieu, is no longer the same man.

“Much money to be gained?” said Bonacieux, protruding his lip.

“Yes, much.”

“About how much?”

“A thousand pistoles, perhaps.”

“What you demand of me is serious, then?”

“It is indeed.”

“What must be done?”

“You must go away immediately. I will give you a paper which you must not part with on any account, and which you will deliver into the proper hands.”

“And whither am I to go?”

“To London.”

“I go to London? Go to! You jest! I have no business in London.”

“But others wish that you should go there.”

“But who are those others? I warn you that I will never again work in the dark, and that I will know not only to what I expose myself, but for whom I expose myself.”

“An illustrious person sends you; an illustrious person awaits you. The recompense will exceed your expectations; that is all I promise you.”

“More intrigues! Nothing but intrigues! Thank you, madame, I am aware of them now; Monsieur Cardinal has enlightened me on that head.”

“The cardinal?” cried Mme. Bonacieux. “Have you seen the cardinal?”

“He sent for me,” answered the mercer, proudly.

“And you responded to his bidding, you imprudent man?”

“Well, I can’t say I had much choice of going or not going, for I was taken to him between two guards. It is true also, that as I did not then know his Eminence, if I had been able to dispense with the visit, I should have been enchanted.”

“He ill-treated you, then; he threatened you?”

“He gave me his hand, and called me his friend. His friend! Do you hear that, madame? I am the friend of the great cardinal!”

“Of the great cardinal!”

“Perhaps you would contest his right to that title, madame?”

“I would contest nothing; but I tell you that the favor of a minister is ephemeral, and that a man must be mad to attach himself to a minister. There are powers above his which do not depend upon a man or the issue of an event; it is to these powers we should rally.”

“I am sorry for it, madame, but I acknowledge not her power but that of the great man whom I have the honor to serve.”

“You serve the cardinal?”

“Yes, madame; and as his servant, I will not allow you to be concerned in plots against the safety of the state, or to serve the intrigues of a woman who in not French and who has a Spanish heart. Fortunately we have the great cardinal; his vigilant eye watches over and penetrates to the bottom of the heart.”

Bonacieux was repeating, word for word, a sentence which he had heard from the Comte de Rochefort; but the poor wife, who had reckoned on her husband, and who, in that hope, had answered for him to the queen, did not tremble the less, both at the danger into which she had nearly cast herself and at the helpless state to which she was reduced. Nevertheless, knowing the weakness of her husband, and more particularly his cupidity, she did not despair of bringing him round to her purpose.

“Ah, you are a cardinalist, then, monsieur, are you?” cried she; “and you serve the party of those who maltreat your wife and insult your queen?”

“Private interests are as nothing before the interests of all. I am for those who save the state,” said Bonacieux, emphatically.

“And what do you know about the state you talk of?” said Mme. Bonacieux, shrugging her shoulders. “Be satisfied with being a plain, straightforward citizen, and turn to that side which offers the most advantages.”

“Eh, eh!” said Bonacieux, slapping a plump, round bag, which returned a sound a money; “what do you think of this, Madame Preacher?”

“Whence comes that money?”

“You do not guess?”

“From the cardinal?”

“From him, and from my friend the Comte de Rochefort.”

“The Comte de Rochefort! Why it was he who carried me off!”

“That may be, madame!”

“And you receive silver from that man?”

“Have you not said that that abduction was entirely political?”

“Yes; but that abduction had for its object the betrayal of my mistress, to draw from me by torture confessions that might compromise the honor, and perhaps the life, of my august mistress.”

“Madame,” replied Bonacieux, “your august mistress is a perfidious Spaniard, and what the cardinal does is well done.”

“Monsieur,” said the young woman, “I know you to be cowardly, avaricious, and foolish, but I never till now believed you infamous!”

“Madame,” said Bonacieux, who had never seen his wife in a passion, and who recoiled before this conjugal anger, “madame, what do you say?”

“I say you are a miserable creature!” continued Mme. Bonacieux, who saw she was regaining some little influence over her husband. “You meddle with politics, do you--and still more, with cardinalist politics? Why, you sell yourself, body and soul, to the demon, the devil, for money!”

“No, to the cardinal.”

“It’s the same thing,” cried the young woman. “Who calls Richelieu calls Satan.”

“Hold your tongue, hold your tongue, madame! You may be overheard.”

“Yes, you are right; I should be ashamed for anyone to know your baseness.”

“But what do you require of me, then? Let us see.”

“I have told you. You must depart instantly, monsieur. You must accomplish loyally the commission with which I deign to charge you, and on that condition I pardon everything, I forget everything; and what is more,” and she geld out her hand to him, “I restore my love.”

Bonacieux was cowardly and avaricious, but he loved his wife. He was softened. A man of fifty cannot long bear malice with a wife of twenty-three. Mme. Bonacieux saw that he hesitated.

“Come! Have you decided?” said she.

“But, my dear love, reflect a little upon what you require of me. London is far from Paris, very far, and perhaps the commission with which you charge me is not without dangers?”

“What matters it, if you avoid them?”

“Hold, Madame Bonacieux,” said the mercer, “hold! I positively refuse; intrigues terrify me. I have seen the Bastille. My! Whew! That’s a frightful place, that Bastille! Only to think of it makes my flesh crawl. They threatened me with torture. Do you know what torture is? Wooden points that they stick in between your legs till your bones stick out! No, positively I will not go. And, morbleu, why do you not go yourself? For in truth, I think I have hitherto been deceived in you. I really believe you are a man, and a violent one, too.”

“And you, you are a woman--a miserable woman, stupid and brutal. You are afraid, are you? Well, if you do not go this very instant, I will have you arrested by the queen’s orders, and I will have you placed in the Bastille which you dread so much.”

Bonacieux fell into a profound reflection. He weighed the two angers in his brain--that of the cardinal and that of the queen; that of the cardinal predominated enormously.

“Have me arrested on the part of the queen,” said he, “and I--I will appeal to his Eminence.

At once Mme. Bonacieux saw that she had gone too far, and she was terrified at having communicated so much. She for a moment contemplated with fright that stupid countenance, impressed with the invincible resolution of a fool that is overcome by fear.

“Well, be it so!” said she. “Perhaps, when all is considered, you are right. In the long run, a man knows more about politics than a woman, particularly such as, like you, Monsieur Bonacieux, have conversed with the cardinal. And yet it is very hard,” added she, “that a man upon whose affection I thought I might depend, treats me thus unkindly and will not comply with any of my fancies.”

“That is because your fancies go too far,” replied the triumphant Bonacieux, “and I mistrust them.”

‘Well, I will give it up, then,” said the young woman, sighing. “It is well as it is; say no more about it.”

“At least you should tell me what I should have to do in London,” replied Bonacieux, who remembered a little too late that Rochefort had desired him to endeavor to obtain his wife’s secrets.

“It is of no use for you to know anything about it,” said the young woman, whom an instinctive mistrust now impelled to draw back. “It was about one of those purchases that interest women-- a purchase by which much might have been gained.”

But the more the young woman excused herself, the more important Bonacieux thought the secret which she declined to confide to him. He resolved then to hasten immediately to the residence of the Comte de Rochefort, and tell him that the queen was seeking for a messenger to send to London.

“Pardon me for quitting you, my dear Madame Bonacieux,” said he; “but, not knowing you would come to see me, I had made an engagement with a friend. I shall soon return; and if you will wait only a few minutes for me, as soon as I have concluded my business with that friend, as it is growing late, I will come back and reconduct you to the Louvre.”

“Thank you, monsieur, you are not brave enough to be of any use to me whatever,” replied Mme. Bonacieux. “I shall return very safely to the Louvre all alone.”

“As you please, Madame Bonacieux,” said the ex-mercer. “Shall I see you again soon?”

“Next week I hope my duties will afford me a little liberty, and I will take advantage of it to come and put things in order here, so they must necessarily be much deranged.”

“Very well; I shall expect you. You are not angry with me?”

“Not the least in the world.”

“Tell then, then?”

“Till then.”

Bonacieux kissed his wife’s hand, and set off at a quick pace.

“Well,” said Mme. Bonacieux, when her husband had shut the street door and she found herself alone; “that imbecile lacked but one thing to become a cardinalist. And I, who have answered for him to the queen--I, who have promised my poor mistress--ah, my God, my God! She will take me for one of those wretches with whom the palace swarms and who are placed about her as spies! Ah, Monsieur Bonacieux, I never did love you much, but now it is worse than ever. I hate you, and on my word you shall pay for this!”

At the moment she spoke these words a rap on the ceiling made her raise her head, and a voice which reached her through the ceiling cried, “Dear Madame Bonacieux, open for me the little door on the alley, and I will come down to you.”

Lover And Husband

“Ah, Madame,” said D’Artagnan, entering by the door which the young woman opened for him, “allow me to tell you that you have a bad sort of a husband.”

“You have, then, overheard our conversation?” asked Mme. Bonacieux, eagerly, and looking at D’Artagnan with disquiet.

“The whole.”

“But how, my God?”

“By a mode of proceeding known to myself, and by which I likewise overheard the more animated conversation which you had with the cardinal’s police.”

“And what did you understand by what we said?”

“A thousand things. In the first place, that, unfortunately, your husband is a simpleton and a fool; in the next place, you are in trouble, of which I am very glad, as it gives me a opportunity of placing myself at your service, and God knows I am ready to throw myself into the fire for you; finally, that the queen wants a brave, intelligent, devoted man to make a journey to London for her. I have at least two of the three qualities you stand in need of, and here I am.

Mme. Bonacieux made no reply; but her heart beat with joy and secret hope shone in her eyes.

“And what guarantee will you give me,” asked she, “if I consent to confide this message to you?”

“My love for you. Speak! Command! What is to be done?”

“My God, my God!” murmured the young woman, “ought I to confide such a secret to you, monsieur? You are almost a boy.”

“I see that you require someone to answer for me?”

“I admit that would reassure me greatly.”

“Do you know Athos?”

“No.”

“Porthos?”

“No.”

“Aramis?”

“No. Who are these gentleman?”

“Three of the king’s Musketeers. Do you know Monsieur de Tréville, their captain?”

“Oh, yes, him! I know him; not personally, but from having heard the queen speak of him more than once as a brave and loyal gentleman.”

“You do not fear lest he should betray you to the cardinal?”

“Oh, no, certainly not!”

“Well, reveal your secret to him, and ask him whether, however important, however valuable, however terrible it may be, you may not confide it to me.”

“But this secret is not mine, and I cannot reveal it in this manner.”

“You were about to confide it to Monsieur Bonacieux,” said D’Artagnan, with chagrin.

“As one confides a letter to the hollow of a tree, to the wing of a pigeon, to the collar of a dog.”

“And yet, me--you see plainly that I love you.”

“You say so.”

“I am an honorable man.”

“You say so.”

“I am a gallant fellow.”

“I believe it.”

“I am brave.”

“Oh, I am sure of that!”

“Then, put me to the proof.”

Mme. Bonacieux looked at the young man, restrained for a minute by a last hesitation; but there was such an ardor in his eyes, such persuasion in his voice, that she felt herself constrained to confide in him. Besides, she found herself in circumstances where everything must be risked for the sake of everything. The queen might be as much injured by too much reticence as by too much confidence; and--let us admit it--the involuntary sentiment which she felt for her young protector decided her to speak.

“Listen,” said she; “I yield to your protestations, I yield to your assurances. But I swear to you, before God who hears us, that if you betray me, and my enemies pardon me, I will kill myself, while accusing you of my death.”

“And I--I swear to you before God, madame,” said D’Artagnan. “that if I am taken while accomplishing the orders you give me, I will die sooner than do anything that may compromise anyone.”

Then the young woman confided in him the terrible secret of which chance had already communicated to him a part in front of the Samaritaine. This was their mutual declaration of love.

D’Artagnan was radiant with joy and pride. This secret which he possessed, this woman whom he loved! Confidence and love had him a giant.

“I go,” said he; “I go at once.”

“How, you will go!” said Mme. Bonacieux; “and your regiment, your captain?”

“By my soul, you had made me forget all that, dear Constance! Yes, you are right; a furlough is needful.”

“Still another obstacle,” murmured Mme. Bonacieux, sorrowfully.

“As to that,” cried D’Artagnan, after a moment of reflection, “I shall surmount it, be assured.”

“How so?”

“I will go this very evening to Tréville, whom I will request to ask this favor for me of his brother-in-law, Monsieur Dessessart.”

“But another thing.”

“What?” asked D’Artagnan, seeing that Mme. Bonacieux hesitated to continue.

“You have, perhaps, no money?”

Perhaps is too much,” said D’Artagnan, smiling.

“Then,” replied Mme. Bonacieux, opening a cupboard and taking from it the very bag which a half hour before her husband had caressed so affectionately, “take this bag.”

“The cardinal’s?” cried D’Artagnan, breaking into a loud laugh, he having heard, as may be remembered, thanks to the broken boards, every syllable of the conversation between the mercer and his wife.

“The cardinal’s,” replied Mme. Bonacieux. “You see it makes a very respectable appearance.”

Pardieu,” cried D’Artagnan, “it will be a double amusing affair to save the queen with the cardinal’s money!”

“You are an amiable and charming young man,” said Mme. Bonacieux. “Be assured you will not find her Majesty ungrateful.”

“Oh, I am already grandly recompensed!” cried D’Artagnan. “I love you; you permit me to tell you that I do--that is already more happiness than I dared to hope.”

“Silence!” said Mme. Bonacieux, starting.

“What!”

“Someone is talking in the street.”

“It is the voice of--”

“Of my husband! Yes, I recognize it!”

D’Artagnan ran to the door and pushed the bolt.

“He shall not come in before I am gone,” said he; “and when I am gone, you can open to him.”

“But I ought to be gone, too. And the disappearance of his money; how am I to justify it if I am here?”

“You are right; we must go out.”

“Go out? How? He will see us if we go out.”

“Then you must come up into my room.”

“Ah,” said Mme. Bonacieux, “you speak that in a tone that frightens me!”

Mme. Bonacieux pronounced these words with tears in her eyes. D’Artagnan saw those tears, and much disturbed, softened, he threw himself at her feet.

“With me you will be as safe as in a temple; I give you my word of a gentleman.”

“Let us go,” said she, “I place full confidence in you, my friend!”

D’Artagnan drew back the bolt with precaution, and both, light as shadows, glided through the interior door into the passage, ascended the stairs as quietly as possible, and entered D’Artagnan’s chambers.

Once there, for greater security, the young man barricaded the door. They both approached the window, and through a slit in the shutter they saw Bonacieux talking with a man in a cloak.

At sight of this man, D’Artagnan started, and half drawing his sword, sprang toward the door.

It was the man of Meung.

“What are you going to do?” cried Mme. Bonacieux; “you will ruin us all!”

“But I have sworn to kill that man!” said D’Artagnan.

“Your life is devoted from this moment, and does not belong to you. In the name of the queen I forbid you to throw yourself into any peril which is foreign o that of your journey.”

“And do you command nothing in your own name?”

“In my name,” said Mme. Bonacieux, with great emotion, “in my name I beg you! But listen; they appear to be speaking of me.”

D’Artagnan drew near the window, and lent his ear.

M. Bonacieux had opened his door, and seeing the apartment, had returned to the man in the cloak, whom he had left alone for an instant.

“She is gone,” said he; “she must have returned to the Louvre.”

“You are sure,” replied the stranger, “that she did not suspect the intentions with which you went out?”

“No,” replied Bonacieux, with a self-sufficient air, “she is too superficial a woman.”

“Is the young Guardsman at home?”

“I do not think he is; as you see, his shutter is closed, and you can see no light shine through the chinks of the shutters.”

“All the same, it is well to be certain.”

“How so?”

“By knocking at his door. Go.”

“I will ask his servant.”

Bonacieux re-entered the house, passed through the same door that had afforded a passage for the two fugitives, went up to D’Artagnan’s door, and knocked.

No one answered. Porthos, in order to make a greater display, had that evening borrowed Planchet. As to D’Artagnan, he took care not to give the least sign of existence.

The moment the hand of Bonacieux sounded on the door, the two young people felt their hearts bound within them.

“There is nobody within,” said Bonacieux.

“Never mind. Let us return to your apartment. We shall be safer there than in the doorway.”

“Ah, my God!” whispered Mme. Bonacieux, “we shall hear no more.”

“On the contrary,” said D’Artagnan, “we shall hear better.”

D’Artagnan raised the three or four boards which made his chamber another ear of Dionysius, spread a carpet on the floor, went upon his knees, and made a sign to Mme. Bonacieux to stoop as he did toward the opening.

“You are sure there is nobody there?” said the stranger.

“I will answer for it,” said Bonacieux.

“And you think that your wife--”

“Has returned to the Louvre.”

“Without speaking to anyone but yourself?”

“I am sure of it.”

“That is an important point, do you understand?”

“Then the news I brought you is of value?”

“The greatest, my dear Bonacieux; I don’t conceal this from you.”

“Then the cardinal will be pleased with me?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“The great cardinal!”

“Are you sure, in her conversation with you, that your wife mentioned no names?”

“I think not.”

“She did not name Madame de Chevreuse, the Duke of Buckingham, or Madame de Vernet?”

“No; she only told me she wished to send me to London to serve the interests of an illustrious personage.”

“The traitor!” murmured Mme. Bonacieux.

“Silence!” said D’Artagnan, taking her hand, which, without thinking of it, she abandoned to him.

“Never mind,” continued the man in the cloak; “you were a fool not to have pretended to accept the mission. You would then be in present possession of the letter. The state, which is now threatened, would be safe, and you--”

“And I?”

“Well you--the cardinal would have given you letters of nobility.”

“Did he tell you so?”

“Yes, I know that he meant to afford you that agreeable surprise.”

“Be satisfied,” replied Bonacieux; “my wife adores me, and there is yet time.”

“The ninny!” murmured Mme. Bonacieux.

“Silence!” said D’Artagnan, pressing her hand more closely.

“How is there still time?” asked the man in the cloak.

“I go to the Louvre; I ask for Mme. Bonacieux; I say that I have reflected; I renew the affair; I obtain the letter, and I run directly to the cardinal.”

“Well, go quickly! I will return soon to learn the result of your trip.”

The stranger went out.

“Infamous!” said Mme. Bonacieux, addressing this epithet to her husband.

“Silence!” said D’Artagnan, pressing her hand still more warmly.

A terrible howling interrupted these reflections of D’Artagnan and Mme. Bonacieux. It was her husband, who had discovered the disappearance of the moneybag, and was crying “Thieves!”

“Oh, my God!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “he will rouse the whole quarter.”

Bonacieux called a long time; but as such cries, on account of their frequency, brought nobody in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and as lately the mercer’s house had a bad name, finding that nobody came, he went out continuing to call, his voice being heard fainter and fainter as he went in the direction of the Rue du Bac.

“Now he is gone, it is your turn to get out,” said Mme. Bonacieux. “Courage, my friend, but above all, prudence, and think what you owe to the queen.”

“To her and to you!” cried D’Artagnan. “Be satisfied, beautiful Constance. I shall become worthy of her gratitude; but shall I likewise return worthy of your love?”

The young woman only replied by the beautiful glow which mounted to her cheeks. A few seconds afterward D’Artagnan also went out enveloped in a large cloak, which ill-concealed the sheath of a long sword.

Mme. Bonacieux followed him with her eyes, with that long, fond look with which he had turned the angle of the street, she fell on her knees, and clasping her hands, “Oh, my God,” cried she, “protect the queen, protect me!”

Plan Of Campaign

D’Artagnan went straight to M. de Tréville’s. He had reflected that in a few minutes the cardinal would be warned by this cursed stranger, who appeared to be his agent, and he judged, with reason, he had not a moment to lose.

The heart of the young man overflowed with joy. An opportunity presented itself to him in which there would be at the same time glory to be acquired, and money to be gained; and as a far higher encouragement, it brought him into close intimacy with a woman he adored. This chance did, then, for him at once more than he would have dared to ask of Providence.

M. de Tréville was in his saloon with his habitual court of gentlemen. D’Artagnan, who was known as a familiar of the house, went straight to his office, and sent word that he wished to see him on something of importance.

D’Artagnan had been there scarcely five minutes when M. de Tréville entered. At the first glance, and by the joy which was painted on his countenance, the worthy captain plainly perceived that something new was on foot.

All the way along D’Artagnan had been consulting with himself whether he should place confidence in M. de Tréville, or whether he should only ask him to give him carte blanche for some secret affair. But M. de Tréville had always been so thoroughly his friend, had always been so devoted to the king and queen, and hated the cardinal so cordially, that the young man resolved to tell him everything.

“Did you ask for me, my good friend?” said M. de Tréville.

“Yes, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “you will pardon me, I hope, for having disturbed you, when you know the importance of my business.”

“Speak, then, I am attentive.”

“It concerns nothing less,” said D’Artagnan, lowering his voice, “than the honor, perhaps the life of the queen.”

“What did you say?” asked M. de Tréville, glancing round to see if they were surely alone, and then fixing his questioning look upon D’Artagnan.

“I say, monsieur, that chance has rendered me master of a secret—”

“Which you will guard, I hope, young man, as your life.”

“But which I must impart to you, monsieur, for you alone can assist me in the mission I have just received from her Majesty.”

“Is this secret your own?”

“No, monsieur; it is her Majesty’s.”

“Are you authorized by her Majesty to communicate it to me?”

“No, monsieur, for, on the contrary, I am desired to preserve the profoundest mystery.”

“Why, then, are you about to betray it to me?”

“Because, as I said, without you I can do nothing; and I am afraid you will refuse me the favor I come to ask if you do not know to what end I ask it.”

“Keep your secret, young man, and tell me what you wish.”

“I wish you to obtain for me, from Monsieur Dessessart, leave of absence for fifteen days.”

“When?”

“This very night.”

“You leave Paris?”

“I am going on a mission.”

“May you tell me whither?”

“To London.”

“Has anyone an interest in preventing your arrival there?”

“The cardinal, I believe, would give the world to prevent my success.”

“And you are going alone?”

“I am going alone.”

“In that case you will not get beyond Bondy. I tell you so, by the faith of De Tréville.”

“How so?”

“You will be assassinated.”

“And I shall die in the performance of my duty.”

“But your mission will not be accomplished.”

“That is true,” replied D’Artagnan.

“Believe me,” continued Tréville, “in enterprises of this kind, in order that one may arrive, four must set out.”

“Ah, you are right, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan; “but you know Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and you know if I can dispose of them.”

“Without confiding to them the secret which I am not willing to know?”

“We are sworn, once for all, to implicit confidence and devotedness against all proof. Besides, you can tell them that you have full confidence in me, and they will not be more incredulous than you.”

“I can send to each of them leave of absence for fifteen days, that is all—to Athos, whose wound still makes him suffer, to go to the waters of Forges; to Porthos and Aramis to accompany their friend, whom they are not willing to abandon in such a painful condition. Sending their leave of absence will be proof enough that I authorize their journey.”

“Thanks, monsieur. You are a hundred times too good.”

“Begone, then, find them instantly, and let all be done tonight! Ha! But first write your request to Dessessart. Perhaps you had a spy at your heels; and your visit, if it should ever be known to the cardinal, will thus seem legitimate.”

D’Artagnan drew up his request, and M. de Tréville, on receiving it, assured him that by two o’clock in the morning the four leaves of absence should be at the respective domiciles of the travelers.

“Have the goodness to send mine to Athos’s residence. I should dread some disagreeable encounter if I were to go home.”

“Be easy. Adieu, and a prosperous voyage. À propos,” said M. de Tréville, calling him back.

D’Artagnan returned.

“Have you any money?”

D’Artagnan tapped the bag he had in his pocket.

“Enough?” asked M. de Tréville.

“Three hundred pistoles.”

“Oh, plenty! That would carry you to the end of the world. Begone, then!”

D’Artagnan saluted M. de Tréville, who held out his hand to him; D’Artagnan pressed it with a respect mixed with gratitude. Since his first arrival at Paris, he had had constant occasion to honor this excellent man, whom he had always found worthy, loyal, and great.

His first visit was to Aramis, at whose residence he ha not been since the famous evening on which he had followed Mme. Bonacieux. Still further, he had seldom seen the young Musketeer; but every time he had seen him, he had remarked a deep sadness imprinted on his countenance.

This evening, especially, Aramis was melancholy and thoughtful. D’Artagnan asked some questions about this prolonged melancholy. Aramis pleaded as his excuse a commentary upon the eighteenth chapter of St. Augustine, which he was forced to write in Latin for the following week, and which preoccupied him a good deal.

After the two friends had been chatting a few moments, a servant from M. de Tréville entered, bringing a sealed packet.

“What is that?” asked Aramis.

“The leave of absence Monsieur has asked for,” replied the lackey.

“For me! I have asked for no leave of absence.”

“Hold your tongue and take it!” said D’Artagnan. “And you, my friend, there is a demipistole for your trouble; you will tell Monsieur de Tréville that Monsieur Aramis is very much obliged to him. Go.”

The lackey bowed to the ground and departed.

“What does all this mean?” asked Aramis.

“Pack up all you want for a journey of a fortnight, and follow me.”

“But I cannot leave Paris just now without knowing—”

Aramis stopped.

“What is become of her? I suppose you mean—” continued D’Artagnan.

“Become of whom?” replied Aramis.

“The woman who was here—the woman with the embroidered handkerchief.”

“Who told you there was a woman here?” replied Aramis, becoming as pale as death.

“I saw her.”

“And you know who she is?”

“I believe I can guess, at least.”

“Listen!” said Aramis. “Since you appear to know so many things, can you tell me what is become of that woman?”

“I presume that she has returned to Tours.”

“To Tours? Yes, that may be. You evidently know her. But why did she return to Tours without telling me anything?”

“Because she was in fear of being arrested.”

“Why has she not written to me, then?”

“Because she was afraid of compromising you.”

“D’Artagnan, you restore me to life!” cried Aramis. “I fancied myself despised, betrayed. I was so delighted to see her again! I could not have believed she would risk her liberty for me, and yet for what other cause could she have returned to Paris?”

“for the cause which today takes us to England.”

“And what is this cause?” demanded Aramis.

“Oh, you’ll know it someday, Aramis; but at present I must imitate the discretion of ‘the doctor’s niece.’”

Aramis smiled, as he remembered the tale he had told his friends on a certain evening. “Well, then, since she has left Paris, and you are sure of it, D’Artagnan, nothing prevents me, and I am ready to follow you. You say we are going—”

“To see Athos now, and if you will come thither, I beg you to make haste, for we have lost much time already. À propos, inform Bazin.”

“Will Bazin go with us?” asked Aramis.

“Perhaps so. At all events, it is best that he should follow us to Athos’s.”

Aramis called Bazin, and, after having ordered him to join them at Athos’s residence, said “Let us go then,” at the same time taking his cloak, sword, and three pistols, opening uselessly two or three drawers to see if he could not find stray coin. When well assured this search was superfluous, he followed D’Artagnan, wondering to himself how this young Guardsman should know so well who the lady was to whom he had given hospitality, and that he should know better than himself what had become of her.

Only as they went out Aramis placed his hand upon the arm of D’Artagnan, and looking at him earnestly, “You have not spoken of this lady?” said he.

“To nobody in the world.”

“Not even to Athos or Porthos?”

“I have not breathed a syllable to them.”

“Good enough!”

Tranquil on this important point, Aramis continued his way with D’Artagnan, and both soon arrived at Athos’s dwelling. They found him holding his leave of absence in one hand, and M. de Tréville’s note in the other.

“Can you explain to me what signify this leave of absence and this letter, which I have just received?” said the astonished Athos.

My dear Athos, I wish, as your health absolutely requires it, that you should rest for a fortnight. Go, then, and take the waters of Forges, or any that may be more agreeable to you, and recuperate yourself as quickly as possible.

Yours affectionate

De Tréville

“Well, this leave of absence and that letter mean that you must follow me, Athos.”

“To the waters of Forges?”

“There or elsewhere.”

“In the king’s service?”

“Either the king’s or the queen’s. Are we not their Majesties’ servants?”

At that moment Porthos entered. “Pardieu!” said he, “here is a strange thing! Since when, I wonder, in the Musketeers, did they grant men leave of absence without their asking for it?”

“Since,” said D’Artagnan, “they have friends who ask it for them.”

“Ah, ah!” said Porthos, “it appears there’s something fresh here.”

“Yes, we are going—” said Aramis.

“To what country?” demanded Porthos.

“My faith! I don’t much about it,” said Athos. “Ask D’Artagnan.”

“To London, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan.

“To London!” cried Porthos; “and what the devil are we going to do in London?”

“That is what I am not at liberty to tell you, gentlemen; you must trust to me.”

“But in order to go to London,” added Porthos, “money is needed, and I have none.”

“Nor I,” said Aramis.

“Nor I,” said Athos.

“I have,” replied D’Artagnan, pulling out his treasure from his pocket, and placing it on the table. “There are in this bag three hundred pistoles. Let each take seventy-five; that is enough to take us to London and back. Besides, make yourselves easy; we shall not all arrive at London.”

“Why so?”

“Because, in all probability, some one of us will be left on the road.”

“Is this, then, a campaign upon which we are now entering?”

“One of a most dangerous kind, I give you notice.”

“Ah! But if we do risk being killed,” said Porthos, “at least I should like to know what for.”

“You would be all the wiser,” said Athos.

“And yet,” said Aramis, “I am somewhat of Porthos’s opinion.”

“Is the king accustomed to give you such reasons? No. He says to you jauntily, ‘Gentlemen, there is fighting going on in Gascony or in Flanders; go and fight,’ and you go there. Why? You need give yourselves no more uneasiness about this.”

“D’Artagnan is right,” said Athos; “here are our three leaves of absence which came from Monsieur de Tréville, and here are three hundred pistoles which came from I don’t know where. So let us go and get killed where we are told to go. Is life worth the trouble of so many questions? D’Artagnan, I am ready to follow you.”

“And I also,” said Porthos.

“And I also,” said Aramis. “And, indeed, I am not sorry to quit Paris; I had need of distraction.”

“Well, you will have distractions enough, gentlemen, be assured,” said D’Artagnan.

“And, now, when are we to go?” asked Athos.

“Immediately,” replied D’Artagnan; “we have not a minute to lose.”

“Hello, Grimaud! Planchet! Mousqueton! Bazin!” cried the four young men, calling their lackeys, “clean my boots, and fetch the horses from the hotel.”

Each Musketeer was accustomed to leave at the general hotel, as at a barrack, his own horse and that of his lackey. Planchet, Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin set off at full speed.

“Now let us lay down the plan of campaign,” said Porthos. “Where do we go first?”

“To Calais,” said D’Artagnan; “that is the most direct line to London.”

“Well,” said Porthos, “this is my advice—”

“Speak!”

“Four men traveling together would be suspected. D’Artagnan will give each of us his instructions. I will go by the way of Boulogne to clear the way; Athos will set out two hours after, by that of Amiens; Aramis will follow us by that of Noyon; as to D’Artagnan, he will go by what route he thinks is best, in Planchet’s clothes, while Planchet will follow us like D’Artagnan, in the uniform of the Guards.”

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “my opinion is that it is not proper to allow lackeys to have anything to do in such an affair. A secret may, by chance, be betrayed by gentlemen; but it is almost always sold by lackeys.”

“Porthos’s plan appears to me to be impracticable,” said D’Artagnan, “inasmuch as I am myself ignorant of what instructions I can give you. I am the bearer of a letter, that is all, I have not, and I cannot make three copies of that letter, because it is sealed. We must, then, as it appears to me, travel in company. This letter is here, in this pocket,” and he pointed to the pocket which contained the letter. “If I should be killed, one of you must take it, and continue the route; if he be killed, it will be another’s turn, and so on—provided a single one arrives, that is all that is required.”

“Bravo, D’Artagnan, your opinion is mine,” cried Athos, “Besides, we must be consistent; I am going to take the waters, you will accompany me. Instead of taking the waters of Forges, I go and take sea waters; I am free to do so. If anyone wishes to stop us, I will show Monsieur de Tréville’s letter, and you will show your leaves of absence. If we are attacked, we will defend ourselves; if we are tried, we will stoutly maintain that we were only anxious to dip ourselves a certain number of times in the sea. They would have an easy bargain of four isolated men; whereas four men together make a troop. We will arm our four lackeys with pistols and musketoons; if they send an army out against us, we will give battle, and the survivor, as D’Artagnan says, will carry the letter.”

“Well said,” cried Aramis; “you don’t often speak, Athos, but when you do speak, it is like St. John of the Golden Mouth. I agree to Athos’s plan. And you, Porthos?”

“I agree to it, too,” said Porthos, “if D’Artagnan approves of it. D’Artagnan, being the bearer of the letter, is naturally the head of the enterprise; let him decide, and we will execute.”

“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “I decide that we should adopt Athos’s plan, and that we set off in half an hour.”

“Agreed!” shouted the three Musketeers in chorus.

Each one, stretching out his hand to the bag, took his seventy-five pistoles, and made his preparations to set out at the time appointed.

The Journey

At two o’clock in the morning, our four adventurers left Paris by the Barriere St. Denis. As long as it was dark they remained silent; in spite of themselves they submitted to the influence of the obscurity, and apprehended ambushes on every side.

With the first rays of day their tongues were loosened; with the sun gaiety revived. It was like the eve of a battle; the heart beat, the eyes laughed, and they felt that the life they were perhaps going to lose, was, after all, a good thing.

Besides, the appearance of the caravan was formidable. The black horses of the Musketeers, their martial carriage, with the regimental step of these noble companions of the soldier, would have betrayed the most strict incognito. The lackeys followed, armed to the teeth.

All went well till they arrived at Chantilly, which they reached about eight o’clock in the morning. They needed breakfast, and alighted at the door of an auberge, recommended by a sign representing St. Martin giving half his cloak to a poor man. They ordered the lackeys not to unsaddle the gorses, and to hold themselves in readiness to set off again immediately.

They entered the common hall, and placed themselves at table. A gentleman, who had just arrived by the route of Dammartin, was seated at the same table, and was breakfasting. He opened the conversation about rain and fine weather; the travelers replied. He drank to their good health, and the travelers returned his politeness.

But at the moment Mousqueton came to announce that the horses were ready, and they were arising from table, the stranger proposed to Porthos to drink the health of the cardinal. Porthos replied that he asked no better if the stranger, in his turn, would drink the health of the king. The stranger cried that he acknowledged no other king but his Eminence. Porthos called him drunk, and the stranger drew his sword.

“You have committed a piece of folly,” said Athos, “but it can’t be helped; there is no drawing back. Kill the fellow, and rejoin us as soon as you can.”

All three remounted their horses, and set out at a good pave, while Porthos was promising his adversary to perforate him with all the thrusts known in the fencing schools.

“There goes one!” cried Athos, at the end of five hundred paces.

“But why did that man attack Porthos rather than any other one of us?” asked Aramis.

“Because, as Porthos was talking louder than the rest of us, he took him for the chief,” said D’Artagnan.

“I always said that this cadet from Gascony was a well of wisdom,” murmured Athos; and the travelers continued their route.

At Beauvais they stopped two hours, as well to breathe their horses a little as to wait for Porthos. At the end of two hours, as Porthos did not come, not any news of him, they resumed their journey.

At a league from Beauvais, where the road was confined between two high banks, they fell in with eight or ten men who, taking advantage of the road being unpaved in this spot, appeared to be employed in digging holes and filling up the ruts with mud.

Aramis, not liking to soil his boots with this artificial mortar, apostrophized them rather sharply. Athos wished to restrain him, but it was too late. The laborers began to jeer the travelers and by their insolence disturbed the equanimity even of the cool Athos, who urged on his horse against one of them.

Then each of these men retreated as far as the ditch, from which each took a concealed musket; the result was that our seven travelers were outnumbered in weapons. Aramis received a ball which passed through his shoulder, and Mousqueton another ball which lodged in the fleshy part which prolongs the lower portion of the loins. Therefore Mousqueton alone fell from his horse, not because he was severely wounded, but not being able to see the wound, he judged it to be more serious than it really was.

“It was an ambuscade!” shouted D’Artagnan. “Don’t waste a charge! Forward!”

Aramis, wounded as he was, seized the mane of his horse, which carried him on with the others. Mousqueton’s horse rejoined them, and galloped by the side of his companions.

“That will serve us for a relay,” said Athos.

“I would rather have had a hat,” said D’Artagnan. “Mine was carried away by a ball. By my faith, it is very fortunate that the letter was not in it.”

“They’ll kill poor Porthos when he comes up,” said Aramis.

“If Porthos were on his legs, he would have rejoined us by this time,” said Athos. “My opinion is that on the ground the drunken man was not intoxicated.”

They continued at their best speed for two hours, although the horses were so fatigued that it was to be feared they would soon refuse service.

The travelers had chosen crossroads in the hope that they might meet with less interruption; but at Crèvecoeur, Aramis declared he could proceed no farther. In fact, it required all the courage which he concealed beneath his elegant form and polished manners to bear him so far. He grew more pale every minute, and they were obliged to support him on his horse. They lifted him off at the door of a cabaret, left Bazin with him, who, besides, in a skirmish was more embarrassing than useful, and set forward again in the hope of sleeping at Amiens.

Morbleu,” said Athos, as soon as they were again in motion, “reduced to two masters and Grimaud and Planchet! Morbleu! I won’t be their dupe, I will answer for it. I will neither open my mouth nor draw my sword between this and Calais. I swear by--”

“Don’t waste time in swearing,” said D’Artagnan; “let us gallop, if our horses will consent.”

And the travelers buried their rowels in their horses’ flanks, who thus vigorously stimulated recovered their energies. They arrived at Amiens at midnight, and alighted at the auberge of the Golden Lily.

The host had the appearance of as honest a man as any on earth. He received the travelers with his candlestick in one hand and his cotton nightcap in the other. He wished to ledge the two travelers each in a charming chamber; but unfortunately these charming chambers were at the opposite extremities of the hotel. D’Artagnan and Athos refused them. The host replied that he had no other worthy of their Excellencies; but the travelers declared they would sleep in the common chamber, each on a mattress which might be thrown upon the ground. The host insisted; but the travelers were firm, and he was obliged to do as they wished.

They had just prepared their beds and barricaded their door within, when someone knocked at the yard shutter; they demanded who was there, and recognizing the voices of their lackeys, opened the shutter. It was indeed Planchet and Grimaud.

“Grimaud can take care of the horses,” said Planchet. “If you are willing, gentlemen, I will sleep across your doorway, and you will then be certain that nobody can reach you.”

“And on what will you sleep?” said D’Artagnan.

“Here is my bed,” replied Planchet, producing a bundle of straw.

“Come, then,” said D’Artagnan, “you are right. Mine host’s face does not please me at all; it is to gracious.”

“Nor me either,” said Athos.

Planchet mounted by the window and installed himself across the doorway, while Grimaud went and shut himself up in the stable, undertaking that by five o’clock in the morning he and the four horses should be ready.

The night was quiet enough. Toward two o’clock in the morning somebody endeavored to open the door; but as Planchet awoke in an instant and cried, “Who goes there?” somebody replied that he was mistaken, and went away.

At four o’clock in the morning they heard a terrible riot in the stables. Grimaud had tried to waken the stable boys, and the stable boys had beaten him. When they opened the window, they saw the poor lad lying senseless, with his head split by a blow with a pitchfork.

Planchet went down into the yard, and wished to saddle the horses; but the horses were all used up. Mousqueton’s horse which had traveled for five or six hours without a rider the day before, might have been able to pursue the journey; but by an inconceivable error the veterinary surgeon, who had been sent for, as it appeared, to bleed one of the host’s horses, had bled Mousqueton’s.

This began to be annoying. All these successive accidents were perhaps the result of chance; but they might be the fruits of a plot. Athos and D’Artagnan went out, while Planchet was sent to inquire if there were not three horses for sale in the neighborhood. At the door stood two horses, fresh, strong, and fully equipped. These would just have suited them. He asked where their masters were, and was informed that they had passed the night in the inn, and were then settling their bill with the host.

Athos went down to pay the reckoning, while D’Artagnan and Planchet stood at the street door. The host was in a lower and back room, to which Athos was requested to go.

Athos entered without the least mistrust, and took out two pistoles to pay the bill. The host was alone, seated before his desk, one of the drawers of which was partly open. He took the money which Athos offered to him, and after turning and turning it over and over in his hands, suddenly cried out that it was bad, and that he would have him and his companions arrested as forgers.

“You blackguard!” cried Athos, going toward him, “I’ll cut your ears off!”

At the same instant, four men, armed to the teeth, entered by side doors, and rushed upon Athos.

“I am taken!” shouted Athos, with all the power of his lungs. “Go on, D’Artagnan! Spur, spur!” and he fired two pistols.

D’Artagnan and Planchet did not require twice bidding; they unfastened the two horses that were waiting at the door, leaped upon them, buried their spurs in their sides, and set off at full gallop.

“Do you know what has become of Athos?” asked D’Artagnan of Planchet, as they galloped on.

“Ah, monsieur,” said Planchet, “I saw one fall at each of his two shots, and he appeared to me, through the glass door, to be fighting with his sword with the others.”

“Brave Athos!” murmured D’Artagnan, “and to think that we are compelled to leave him; maybe the same fate awaits us two paces hence. Forward, Planchet, forward! You are a brave fellow.”

“As I told you, monsieur,” replied Planchet, “Picards are found out by being used. Besides, I am here in my own country, and that excites me.”

And both, with free use of the spur, arrived at St. Omer without drawing bit. At St. Omer they breathed their horses with the bridles passed under their arms for fear of accident, and ate a morsel from their hands on the stones of the street, after they departed again.

At a hundred paces from the gates of Calais, D’Artagnan’s horse gave out, and could not by any means be made to get up again, the blood flowing from his eyes and his nose. There still remained Planchet’s horse; but he stopped short, and could not be made to move a step.

Fortunately, as we have said, they were within a hundred paces of the city; they left their two nags upon the high road, and ran toward the quay. Planchet called his master’s attention to a gentleman who had just arrived with his lackey, and only preceded them by about fifty paces. They made all speed to come up to this gentleman, who appeared to be in great haste. His boots were covered with dust, and he inquired if he could not instantly cross over to England.

“Nothing would be more easy,” said the captain of a vessel ready to set sail, “but this morning came an order to let no one leave without express permission from the cardinal.”

“I have that permission,” said the gentleman, drawing the paper from his pocket; “here it is.”

“Have it examined by the governor of the port,” said the shipmaster, “and give me the preference.”

“Where shall I find the governor?”

“At his country house.”

“And that is situated?”

“At a quarter of a league from the city. Look, you may see it from here--at the foot of that little hill, that slated roof.”

“Very well,” said the gentleman. And, with his lackey, he took the road to the governor’s country house.

D’Artagnan and Planchet followed the gentleman at a distance of five hundred paces. Once outside the city, D’Artagnan overtook the gentleman as he was entering a little wood.

“Monsieur,” you appear to be in great haste?”

“No one can be more so, monsieur.”

“I am sorry for that,” said D’Artagnan; “for as I am in great haste likewise, I wish to beg you to render me a service.”

“What?”

“To let me sail first.”

“That’s impossible,” said the gentleman; “I have traveled sixty leagues in forty hours, and by tomorrow at midday I must be in London.”

“I have performed that same distance in forty hours, and by ten o’clock in the morning I must be in London.”

“Very sorry, monsieur; but I was here first, and will not sail second.”

“I am sorry, too, monsieur; but I arrived second, and must sail first.”

“The king’s service!” said the gentleman.

“My own service!” said D’Artagnan.

“But this is a needless quarrel you seek with me, as it seems to me.”

Parbleu! What do you desire it to be?”

“What do you want?”

“Would you like to know?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then, I wish that order of which you are bearer, seeing that I have not one of my own and must have one.”

“You jest, I presume.”

“I never jest.”

“Let me pass!”

“You shall not pass.”

“My brave young man, I will blow out your brains. Hola, Lubin, my pistols!”

“Planchet,” called out D’Artagnan, “take care of the lackey; I will manage the master.”

Planchet, emboldened by the first exploit, sprang upon Lubin; and being strong and vigorous, he soon got him on the broad of his back, and placed his knee upon his breast.

“Go on with your affair, monsieur,” cried Planchet; “I have finished mine.”

Seeing this, the gentleman drew his sword, and sprang upon D’Artagnan; but he had too strong an adversary. In three seconds D’Artagnan had wounded him three times, exclaiming at each thrust, “One for Athos, one for Porthos; and one for Aramis!”

At the third hit the gentleman fell like a log. D’Artagnan believed him to be dead, or at least insensible, and went toward him for the purpose of taking the order; but the moment he extended his hand to search for it, the wounded man, who had not dropped his sword, plunged the point into D’Artagnan’s breast, crying, “One for you!”

“And one for me--the best for last!” cried D’Artagnan, furious, nailing him to the earth with a fourth thrust through his body.

This time the gentleman closed his eyes and fainted. D’Artagnan searched his pockets, and took from one of them the order for the passage. It was in the name of Comte de Wardes.

Then, casting a glance on the handsome young man, who was scarcely twenty-five years of age, and whom he was leaving in his gore, deprived of sense and perhaps dead, he gave a sigh for that unaccountable destiny which leads men to destroy each other for the interests of people who are strangers to them and who often do not even know that they exist. But he was soon aroused from these reflections by Lubin, who uttered loud cries and screamed for help with all his might.

Planchet grasped him by the throat, and pressed as hard as he could. “Monsieur,” said he, “as long as I hold him in this manner, he can’t cry, I’ll be bound; but as soon as I let go he will howl again. I know him for a Norman, and Normans are obstinate.”

In fact, tightly held as he was, Lubin endeavored still to cry out.

“Stay!” said D’Artagnan; and taking out his handkerchief, he gagged him.

“Now,” said Planchet, “let us bind him to a tree.”

This being properly done, they drew the Comte de Wardes close to his servant; and as night was approaching, and as the wounded man and the bound man were at some little distance within the wood, it was evident they were likely to remain there till the next day.

“And now,” said D’Artagnan, “to the Governor’s.”

“But you are wounded, it seems,” said Planchet.

“Oh, that’s nothing! Let us attend to what is more pressing first, and then we will attend to my wound; besides, it does not seem very dangerous.”

And they both set forward as fast as they could toward the country house of the worthy functionary.

The Comte de Wardes was announced, and D’Artagnan was introduced.

“You have an order signed by the cardinal?” said the governor.

“Yes, monsieur,” replied D’Artagnan; “here it is.”

“Ah, ah! It is quite regular and explicit,” said the governor.

“Most likely,” said D’Artagnan; “I am one of his most faithful servants.”

“It appears that his Eminence is anxious to prevent someone from crossing to England?”

“Yes; a certain D’Artagnan, a Béarnese gentleman who left Paris in company with three of his friends, with the intention of going to London.”

“Do you know him personally?” asked the governor.

“Whom?”

“This D’Artagnan.”

“Perfectly well.”

“Describe him to me, then.”

“Nothing more easy.”

And D’Artagnan gave, feature for feature, a description of the Comte de Wardes.

“Is he accompanied?”

“Yes; by a lackey named Lubin.”

“We will keep a sharp lookout for them; and if we lay hands on them his Eminence may be assured they will be reconducted to Paris under a good escort.”

“And by doing so, Monsieur the Governor,” said D’Artagnan, “you will deserve well of the cardinal.”

“Shall you see him on your return, Monsieur Count?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Tell him, I beg you, that I am his humble servant.”

“I will not fail.”

Delighted with this assurance the governor countersigned the passport and delivered it to D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan lost no time in useless compliments. He thanked the governor, bowed, and departed. Once outside, he and Planchet set off as fast as they could; and by making a long detour avoided the wood and reentered the city by another gate.

The vessel was quite ready to sail, and the captain was waiting on the wharf. “Well?” said he, on perceiving D’Artagnan.

“Here is my pass countersigned,” said the latter.

“And that other gentleman?

“He will not go today,” said D’Artagnan; “but here, I’ll pay you for us two.”

“In that case let us go,” said the shipmaster.

“Let us go,” repeated D’Artagnan.

He leaped with Planchet into the boat, and five minutes after they were on board. It was time; for they had scarcely sailed half a league, when D’Artagnan saw a flash and heard a detonation. It was the cannon which announced the closing of the port.

He had now leisure to look to his wound. Fortunately, as D’Artagnan had thought, it was not dangerous. The point of the sword had touched a rib, and glanced along the bone. Still further, his shirt had stuck to the wound, and he had lost only a few drops of blood.

D’Artagnan was worn out with fatigue. A mattress was laid upon the deck for him. He threw himself upon it, and fell asleep.

On the morrow, at break of day, they were still three or four leagues from the coast of England. The breeze had been so light all night, they had made but little progress. At ten o’clock the vessel cast anchor in the harbor of Dover, and at half past ten D’Artagnan placed his foot on English land, crying, “Here I am at last!”

But that was not all; they must get to London. In England the post was well served. D’Artagnan and Planchet took each a post horse, and a postillion rode before them. In a few hours they were in the capital.

D’Artagnan did not know London; he did not know a word of English; but he wrote the name of Buckingham on a piece of paper, and everyone pointed out to him the way to the duke’s hotel.

The duke was at Windsor hunting with the king. D’Artagnan inquired for the confidential valet of the duke, who, having accompanied him in all his voyages, spoke French perfectly well; he told him that he came from Paris on an affair of life and death, and that he must speak with his master instantly.

The confidence with which D’Artagnan spoke convinced Patrick, which was the name of this minister of the minister. He ordered two horses to be saddled, and himself went as guide to the young Guardsman. As for Planchet, he had been lifted from his horse as stiff as a rush; the poor lad’s strength was almost exhausted. D’Artagnan seemed iron.

On their arrival at the castle they learned that Buckingham and the king were hawking in the marshes two or three leagues away. In twenty minutes they were on the spot named. Patrick soon caught the sound of his master’s voice calling his falcon.

“Whom must I announce to my Lord Duke?” asked Patrick.

“The young man who one evening sought a quarrel with him on the Pont Neuf, opposite the Samaritaine.”

“A singular introduction!”

“You will find that it is as good as another.”

Patrick galloped off, reached the duke, and announced to him in the terms directed that a messenger awaited him.

Buckingham at once remembered the circumstance, and suspecting that something was going on in France of which it was necessary he should be informed, he only took the time to inquire where the messenger was, and recognizing from afar the uniform of the Guards, he put his horse into a gallop, and rode straight up to D’Artagnan. Patrick discreetly kept in the background.

“No misfortune has happened to the queen?” cried Buckingham, the instant he came up, throwing all his fear and love into the question.

“I believe not; nevertheless I believe she runs some great peril from which your Grace alone can extricate her.”

“I!” cried Buckingham. “What is it? I should be too happy to be of any service to her. Speak, speak!”

“Take this letter,” said D’Artagnan.

“This letter! From whom comes this letter?”

“From her Majesty, as I think.”

“From her Majesty!” said Buckingham, becoming so pale that D’Artagnan feared he would faint as he broke the seal.

“What is this rent?” said he, showing D’Artagnan a place where it had been pierced through.

“Ah,” said D’Artagnan, “I did not see that; it was the sword of the Comte de Wardes which made that hole, when he gave me a good thrust in the breast.”

“You are wounded?” asked Buckingham, as he opened the letter.

“Oh, nothing but a scratch,” said D’Artagnan.

“Just heaven, what have I read?” cried the duke. “Patrick, remain here, or rather join the king, wherever he may be, and tell his Majesty that I humbly beg him to excuse me, but an affair of the greatest importance recalls me to London. Come, monsieur, come!” and both set off towards the capital at full gallop.

The Countess De Winter

As they rode along, the duke endeavored to draw from D’Artagnan, not all that had happened, but what D’Artagnan himself knew. By adding all that he heard from the mouth of the young man to his own remembrances, he was enabled to form a pretty exact idea of a position of the seriousness of which, for the rest, the queen’s letter, short but explicit, gave him the clue. But that which astonished him most was that the cardinal, so deeply interested in preventing this young man from setting his foot in England, had not succeeded in arresting him on the road. It was then, upon the manifestation of this astonishment, that D’Artagnan related to him the precaution taken, and how, thanks to the devotion of his three friends, whom he had left scattered and bleeding on the road, he had succeeded in coming off with a single sword thrust, which had pierced the queen’s letter and for which he had repaid M. de Wardes with such terrible coin. While he was listening to this recital, delivered with the greatest simplicity, the duke looked from time to time at the young man with astonishment, as if he could not comprehend how so much prudence, courage, and devotedness could be allied with a countenance which indicated not more than twenty years.

The horses went like the wind, and in a few minutes they were at the gates of London. D’Artagnan imagined that on arriving in town the duke would slacken his pace, but it was not so. He kept on his way at the same rate, heedless about upsetting those whom he met on the road. In fact, in crossing the city two or three accidents of this kind happened; but Buckingham did not even turn his head to see what became of those he had knocked down. D’Artagnan followed him amid cries which strongly resembled curses.

On entering the court of his hotel, Buckingham sprang from his horse, and without thinking what became of the animal, threw the bridle on his neck, and sprang toward the vestibule. D’Artagnan did the same, with a little more concern, however, for the noble creatures, whose merits he fully appreciated; but he had the satisfaction of seeing three or four grooms run from the kitchens and the stables, and busy themselves with the steeds.

The duke walked so fast that D’Artagnan had some trouble in keeping up with him. He passed through several apartments, of an elegance of which even the greatest nobles of France had not even an idea, and arrived at length in a bedchamber which was at once a miracle of taste and of richness. In the alcove of this chamber was a door concealed in the tapestry which the duke opened with a little gold key which he wore suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal. With discretion D’Artagnan remained behind; but at the moment when Buckingham crossed the threshold, he turned round, and seeing the hesitation of the young man, “Come in!” cried he, “and if you have the good fortune to be admitted to her Majesty’s presence, tell her what you have seen.”

Encouraged by this invitation, D’Artagnan followed the duke, who closed the door after them. The two found themselves in a small chapel covered with a tapestry of Persian silk worked with gold, and brilliantly lighted with a vast number of candles. Over a species of altar, and beneath a canopy of blue velvet, surmounted by white and red plumes, was a full-length portrait of Anne of Austria, so perfect in its resemblance that D’Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise on beholding it. One might believe the queen was about to speak. On the altar, and beneath the portrait, was the casket containing the diamond studs.

The duke approached the altar, knelt as a priest might have done before a crucifix, and opened the casket. “There, said he, drawing from the casket a large bow of blue ribbon all sparkling with diamonds, “there are the precious studs which I have taken an oath should be buried with me. The queen have them to me, the queen requires them again. Her will be done, like that of God, in all things.”

Then, he began to kiss, one after the other, those dear studs with which he was about to part. All at once he uttered a terrible cry.

“What is the matter?” exclaimed D’Artagnan, anxiously; “what has happened to you, my Lord?”

“All is lost!” cried Buckingham, becoming as pale as a corpse; “two of the studs are wanting, there are only ten.”

“Can you have lost them, my Lord, or do you think they have been stolen?”

“They have been stolen,” replied the duke, “and it is the cardinal who has dealt this blow. Hold; see! The ribbons which held them have been cut with scissors.”

“If my Lord suspects they have been stolen, perhaps the person who stole them still has them in his hands.”

“Wait, wait!” said the duke. “The only time I have worn these studs was at a ball given by the king eight days ago at Windsor. The Comtesse de Winter, with whom I had quarreled, became reconciled to me at that ball. That reconciliation was nothing but the vengeance of a jealous woman. I have never seen her from that day. The woman is an agent of the cardinal.”

“He has agents, then, throughout the world?” cried D’Artagnan.

“Oh, yes,” said Buckingham, grating his teeth with rage. “Yes, he is a terrible antagonist. But when is this ball to take place?”

“Monday next.”

“Monday next! Still five days before us. That’s more time than we want. Patrick!” cried the duke, opening the door of the chapel, “Patrick!” His confidential valet appeared.

“My jeweler and my secretary.”

The valet went out with a mute promptitude which showed him accustomed to obey blindly and without reply.

But although the jeweler had been mentioned first, it was the secretary who first made his appearance. This was simply because he lived in the hotel. He found Buckingham seated at a table in his bedchamber, writing orders with his own hand.

“Mr. Jackson,” said he, “go instantly to the Lord Chancellor, and tell him that I charge him with the execution of these orders. I wish them to be promulgated immediately.”

“But, my Lord, if the Lord Chancellor interrogates me upon the motives which may have led your Grace to adopt such an extraordinary measure, what shall I reply?”

“That such is my pleasure, and that I answer for my will to no man.”

“Will that be the answer,” replied the secretary, smiling, “which he must transmit to his Majesty if, by chance, his Majesty should have the curiosity to know why no vessel is to leave any of the ports of Great Britain?”

“You are right, Mr. Jackson,” replied Buckingham. “He will say, in that case, to the king that I am determined on war, and that this measure is my first act of hostility against France.”

The secretary bowed and retired.

“We are safe on that side,” said Buckingham, turning toward D’Artagnan. “If the studs are not yet gone to Paris, they will not arrive till after you.”

“How so?”

“I have just placed an embargo on all vessels at present in his Majesty’s ports, and without particular permission, not one dare lift an anchor.”

D’Artagnan looked with stupefaction at a man who thus employed the unlimited power with which he was clothed by the confidence of a king in the prosecution of his intrigues. Buckingham saw by the expression of the young man’s face what was passing in his mind, and he smiled.

“Yes,” said he, “yes, Anne of Austria is my true queen. Upon a word from her, I would betray my country, I would betray my king, I would betray my God. She asked me not to send the Protestants of La Rochelle the assistance I promised them; I have not done so. I broke my word, it is true; but what signifies that? I obeyed my love; and have I not been richly paid for that obedience? It was to that obedience I owe her portrait.”

D’Artagnan was amazed to note by what fragile and unknown threads the destinies of nations and the lives of men are suspended. He was lost in these reflections when the goldsmith entered. He was an Irishman--one of the most skillful of his craft, and who himself confessed that he gained a hundred thousand livres a year by the Duke of Buckingham.

“Mr. O’Reilly,” said the duke, leading him into the chapel, “look at these diamond studs, and tell me what they are worth apiece.”

The goldsmith cast a glance at the elegant manner in which they were set, calculated, one with another, what the diamonds were worth, and without hesitation said, “Fifteen hundred pistoles each, my Lord.”

“How many days would it require to make two studs exactly like them? You see there are two wanting.”

“Eight days, my Lord.”

“I will give you three thousand pistoles apiece if I can have them by the day after tomorrow.”

“My Lord, they shall be yours.”

“You are a jewel of a man, Mr. O’Reilly; but that is not all. These studs cannot be trusted to anybody; it must be done in the palace.”

“Impossible, my Lord! There is no one but myself can so execute them that one cannot tell the new from the old.”

“Therefore, my dear Mr. O’Reilly, you are my prisoner. And if you wish ever to leave my palace, you cannot; so make the best of it. Name to me such of your workmen as you need, and point out the tools they must bring.”

The goldsmith knew the duke. He knew all objection would be useless, and instantly determined how to act.

“May I be permitted to inform my wife?” said he.

“Oh, you may even see her if you like, my dear Mr. O’Reilly. Your captivity shall be mild, be assured; and as every inconvenience deserves its indemnification, here is, in addition to the price of the studs, an order for a thousand pistoles, to make you forget the annoyance I cause you.”

D’Artagnan could not get over the surprise created in him by this minister, who thus open-handed, sported with men and millions.

As to the goldsmith, he wrote to his wife, sending her the order for the thousand pistoles, and charging her to send him, in exchange, his most skillful apprentice, an assortment of diamonds, of which he gave the names and the weight, and the necessary tools.

Buckingham conducted the goldsmith to the chamber destined for him, and which, at the end of half an hour, was transformed into a workshop. Then he placed a sentinel at each door, with an order to admit nobody upon any pretense but his valet de chambre, Patrick. We need not add that the goldsmith, O’Reilly, and his assistant, were prohibited from going out under any pretext. This point, settled, the duke turned to D’Artagnan. “Now, my young friend,” said he, “England is all our own. What do you wish for? What do you desire?”

“A bed, my Lord,” replied D’Artagnan. “At present, I confess, that is the thing I stand most in need of.”

Buckingham gave D’Artagnan a chamber adjoining his own. He wished to have the young man at hand--not that he at all mistrusted him, but for the sake of having someone to whom he could constantly talk of the queen.

In one hour after, the ordinance was published in London that no vessel bound for France should leave port, not even the packet boat with letters. In the eyes of everybody this was a declaration of war between the two kingdoms.

On the day after the morrow, by eleven o’clock, the two diamond studs were finished, and they were so completely imitated, so perfectly alike, that Buckingham could not tell the new ones from the old ones, and experts in such matters would have been deceived as he was. He immediately called D’Artagnan. “Here,” said he to him, “are the diamond studs that you came to bring; and be my witness that I have done all that human power could do.”

“Be satisfied, my Lord, I will tell all that I have seen. But does your Grace mean to give me the studs without the casket?”

“The casket would encumber you. Besides, the casket is the more precious from being all that is left to me. You will say that I keep it.”

“I will perform your commission, word for word, my Lord.”

“And now,” resumed Buckingham, looking earnestly at the young man, “how shall I ever acquit myself of the debt I owe you?”

D’Artagnan blushed up to the whites of his eyes. He saw that the duke was searching for a means of making him accept something and the idea that the blood of his friends and himself was about to be paid for with English gold was strangely repugnant to him.

“Let us understand each other, my Lord,” replied D’Artagnan, “and let us make things clear beforehand in order that there may be no mistake. I am in the service of the King and Queen of France, and form part of the company of Monsieur Dessessart, who, as well as his brother-in-law, Monsieur de Tréville, is particularly attached to their Majesties. What I have done, then, has been for the queen, and not at all for your Grace. And still further, it is very probable I should not have done anything of this, if it had not been to make myself agreeable to someone who is my lady, as the queen is yours.”

“Yes,” said the duke, smiling, “and I even believe that I know that other person; it is--”

“My Lord, I have not named her!” interrupted the young man, warmly.

“That is true,” said the duke; “and it is to this person I am bound to discharge my debt of gratitude.”

“You have said, my Lord; for truly, at this moment when there is question of war, I confess to you that I see nothing in your Grace but an Englishman, and consequently an enemy whom I should have much greater pleasure in meeting on the field of battle than in the park at Windsor of the corridors of the Louvre--all which, however, will not prevent me from executing to the very point my commission or from laying down my life, if there be need of it, to accomplish it; but I repeat it to your Grace, without your having personally on that account more to thank me for in this second interview than for what I did for you in the first.”

“We say, ‘Proud as a Scotsman,’” murmured the Duke of Buckingham.

“And we say, ‘Proud as a Gascon,’” replied D’Artagnan. “The Gascons are the Scots of France.”

D’Artagnan bowed to the duke, and was retiring.

“Well, are you going away in that manner? Where, and how?”

“That’s true!”

“Fore Gad, these Frenchmen have no consideration!”

“I had forgotten that England was an island, and that you were the king of it.”

“Go to the riverside, ask for the brig Sund, and give this letter to the captain; he will convey you to a little port, where certainly you are not expected, and which is ordinarily only frequented by fishermen.”

“The name of that port?”

“St. Valery; but listen. When you have arrived there you will go to a mean tavern, without a name and without a sign--a mere fisherman’s hut. You cannot be mistaken; there is but one.”

“Afterward?”

“You will ask for the host, and will repeat to him the word ‘Forward!’”

“Which means?”

“In French, en avant. It is the password. He will give you a horse all saddled, and will point out to you the road you ought to take. You will find, in the same way, four relays on your route. If you will give at each of these relays your address in Paris, the four horses will follow you thither. You already know two of them, and you appeared to appreciate them like a judge. They were those we rode on; and you may rely upon me for the others not being inferior to them. These horses are equipped for the field. However proud you may be, you will not refuse to accept one of them, and to request your three companions to accept the others--that is, in order to make war against us. Besides, the end justified the means, as you Frenchmen say, does it not?”

“Yes, my Lord, I accept them,” said D’Artagnan; “and if it please God, we will make a good use of your presents.”

“Well, now, your hand, young man. Perhaps we shall soon meet on the field of battle; but in the meantime we shall part good friends, I hope.”

“Yes, my Lord; but with the hope of soon becoming enemies.”

“Be satisfied; I promise you that.”

“I depend upon your word, my Lord.”

D’Artagnan bowed to the duke, and made his way as quickly as possible to the riverside. Opposite the Tower of London he found the vessel that had been named to him, delivered his letter to the captain, who after having it examined by the governor of the port made immediate preparations to sail.

Fifty vessels were waiting to set out. Passing alongside one of them, D’Artagnan fancied he perceived on board it the woman of Meung--the same whom the unknown gentleman had called Milady, and whom D’Artagnan had thought so handsome; but thanks to the current of the stream and a fair wind, his vessel passed so quickly that he had little more than a glimpse of her.

The next day about nine o’clock in the morning, he landed at St. Valery. D’Artagnan went instantly in search of the inn, and easily discovered it by the riotous noise which resounded from it. War between England and France was talked of as near and certain, and the jolly sailors were having a carousal.

D’Artagnan made his way through the crowd, advanced toward the host, and pronounced the word “Forward!” The host instantly made him a sign to follow, went out with him by a door which opened into a yard, led him to the stable, where a saddled horse awaited him, and asked him if he stood in need of anything else.

“I want to know the route I am to follow,” said D’Artagnan.

“Go from hence to Blangy, and from Blangy to Neufchâtel. At Neufchâtel, go to the tavern of the Golden Harrow, give the password to the landlord, and you will find, as you have here, a horse ready saddled.”

“Have I anything to pay?” demanded D’Artagnan.

“Everything is paid,” replied the host, “and liberally. Begone, and may God guide you!”

“Amen!” cried the young man, and set off at full gallop.

Four hours later he was in Neufchâtel. He strictly followed the instructions he had received. At Neufchâtel, as at St. Valery, he found a horse quite ready and awaiting him. He was about to remove the pistols from the saddle he had quit to the one he was about to fill, but he found the holsters furnished with similar pistols.

“Your address at Paris?”

“Hotel of the Guards, company of Dessessart.”

“Enough,” replied the questioner.

“Which route must I take?” demanded D’Artagnan, in his turn.

“That of Rouen; but you will leave the city on your right. You must stop at the little village of Eccuis, in which there is but one tavern--the Shield of France. Don’t condemn it from appearances; you will find a horse in the stables quite as good as this.”

“The same password?”

“Exactly.”

“Adieu, master!”

“A good journey, gentlemen! Do you want anything?”

D’Artagnan shook his head, and set off at full speed. At Eccuis, the same scene was repeated. He found as provident a host and a fresh horse. He left his address as he had done before, and set off again at the same pace for Pontoise. At Pontoise he changed his horse for the last time, and at nine o’clock galloped into the yard of Tréville’s hotel. He had made nearly sixty leagues in little more than twelve hours.

M. de Tréville received him as if he had seen him that same morning; only, when pressing his hand a little more warmly than usual, he informed him that the company of Dessessart was on duty at the Louvre, and that he might repair at once to his post.

The Ballet Of La Merlaison

On the morrow, nothing was talked of in Paris but the ball which the aldermen of the city were to give to the king and queen, and in which their Majesties were to dance the famous La Merlaison-- the favorite ballet of the king.

Eight days had been occupied in preparations at the Hôtel de Ville for this important evening. The city carpenters had erected scaffolds upon which the invited ladies were to be placed; the city grocer had ornamented the chambers with two hundred flambeaux of white wax, a piece of luxury unheard of at that period; and twenty violins were ordered, and the price for them fixed at double the usual rate, upon condition, said the report, that they should be played all night.

At ten o’clock in the morning the Sieur de la Coste, ensign in the king’s Guards, followed by two officers and several archers of that body, came to the city registrar, named Clement, and demanded of him all the keys of the rooms and offices of the hotel. These keys were given up to him instantly. Each of them had a ticket attached to it, by which it might be recognized; and from that moment the Sieur de la Coste was charged with the care of all the doors and all the avenues.

At eleven o’clock came in his turn Duhallier, captain of the Guards, bringing with him fifty archers, who were distributed immediately through the Hôtel de Ville, at the doors assigned them.

At three o’clock came two companies of the Guards, one French, the other Swiss. The company of French guards was composed of half of M. Duhallier’s men and half of M. Dessessart’s men.

At six in the evening the guests began to come. As fast as they entered, they were placed in the grand saloon, on the platforms prepared for them.

At nine o’clock Madame la Prèmiere Présidente arrived. As next to the queen, she was the most considerable personage of the fête, she was received by the city officials, and placed in a box opposite to that which the queen was to occupy.

At ten o’clock, the king’s collation, consisting of preserves and other delicacies, was prepared in the little room on the side of the church of St. Jean, in front of the silver buffet of the city, which was guarded by four archers.

At midnight great cries and loud acclamations were heard. It was the king, who was passing through the streets which led from the Louvre to the Hôtel de Ville, and which were all illuminated with colored lanterns.

Immediately the alderman, clothed in their cloth robes and preceded by six sergeants, each holding a flambeau in his hand, went to attend upon the king, whom they met on the steps, where the provost of the merchants made him the speech of welcome--a compliment to which his Majesty replied with an apology for coming so late, laying the blame upon the cardinal, who had detained him till eleven o’clock, talking of affairs of state.

His Majesty, in full dress, was accompanied by his royal Highness, M. le Comte de Soissons, by the Grand Prior, by the Duc de Longueville, by the Duc d’Euboeuf, by the Comte d’Harcourt, by the Comte de la Roche-Guyon, by M. de Liancourt, by M. de Baradas, by the Comte de Cramail, and by the Chevalier de Souveray. Everybody noticed that the king looked dull and preoccupied.

A private room had been prepared for the king and another for Monsieur. In each of these closets were placed masquerade dresses. The same had been done for the queen and Madame the President. The nobles and ladies of their Majesties’ suites were to dress, two by two, in chambers prepared for the purpose. Before entering his closet the king desired to be informed the moment the cardinal arrived.

Half an hour after the entrance of the king, fresh acclamations were heard; these announced the arrival of the queen. The aldermen did as they had done before, and preceded by their sergeants, advanced to receive their illustrious guest. The queen entered the great hall; and it was remarked that, like the king, she looked dull and even weary.

At the moment she entered, the curtain of a small gallery which to that time had been closed, was drawn, and the pale face of the cardinal appeared, he being dresses as a Spanish cavalier. His eyes were fixed upon those of the queen, and a smile of terrible joy passed over his lips; the queen did not wear her diamond studs.

The queen remained for a short time to receive the compliments of the city dignitaries and to reply to the salutations of the ladies. All at once the king appeared with the cardinal at one of the doors of the hall. The cardinal was speaking to him in a low voice, and the king was very pale.

The king made his way through the crowd without a mask, and the ribbons of his doublet scarcely tied. He went straight to the queen, and in an altered voice said, “Why, madame, have you not thought proper to wear your diamond studs, when you know it would give me so much gratification?”

The queen cast a glance around her, and saw the cardinal behind, with a diabolical smile on his countenance.

“Sire,” replied the queen, with a faltering voice, “because, in the midst of such a crowd as this, I feared some accident might happen to them.”

“And you were wrong, madame. If I made you that present it was that you might adorn yourself therewith. I tell you that you were wrong.”

The voice of the king was tremulous with anger. Everybody looked and listened with astonishment, comprehending nothing of what passed.

“Sire,” said the queen, “I can send for them to the Louvre, where they are, and thus your Majesty’s wishes will be complied with.”

“Do so, madame, do so, and that at once; for within an hour the ballet will commence.”

The queen bent in token of submission, and followed the ladies who were to conduct her to her room. On his part the king returned to his apartment.

There was a moment of trouble and confusion in the assembly. Everybody had remarked that something had passed between the king and queen; but both of them had spoken so low that everybody, out of respect, withdrew several steps, so that nobody had heard anything. The violins began to sound with all their might, but nobody listened to them.

The king came out first from his room. He was in a most elegant hunting costume; and Monsieur and the other nobles were dressed like him. This was the costume that best became the king. So dressed, he really appeared the first gentleman of his kingdom.

The cardinal drew near to the king, and placed in his hand a small casket. The king opened it, and found in it two diamond studs.

“What does this mean?” demanded he of the cardinal.

“Nothing,” replied the latter; “only, if the queen has the studs, which I very much doubt, count them, sire, and if you only find ten, ask her Majesty who can have stolen from her the two studs that are here.”

The king looked at the cardinal as if to interrogate him; but he had not time to address any question to him--a cry of admiration burst from every mouth. If the king appeared to be the first gentleman of his kingdom, the queen was without doubt the most beautiful woman in France.

It is true that the habit of a huntress became her admirably. She wore a beaver hat with blue feathers, a surtout of gray-pearl velvet, fastened with diamond clasps, and a petticoat of blue satin, embroidered with silver. On her left shoulder sparkled the diamonds studs, on a bow of the same color as the plumes and the petticoat.

The king trembled with joy and the cardinal with vexation; although, distant as they were from the queen, they could not count the studs. The queen had them. The only question was, had she ten or twelve?

At that moment the violins sounded the signal for the ballet. The king advanced toward Madame the President, with whom he was to dance, and his Highness Monsieur with the queen. They took their places, and the ballet began.

The king danced facing the queen, and every time he passed by her, he devoured with his eyes those studs of which he could not ascertain the number. A cold sweat covered the brow of the cardinal.

The ballet lasted an hour, and had sixteen entrées. The ballet ended amid the applause of the whole assemblage, and everyone reconducted his lady to her place; but the king took advantage of the privilege he had of leaving his lady, to advance eagerly toward the queen.

“I thank you, madame,” said he, “for the deference you have shown to my wishes, but I think you want two of the studs, and I bring them back to you.”

With these words he held out to the queen the two studs the cardinal had given him.

“How, sire?” cried the young queen, affecting surprise, “you are giving me, then, two more: I shall have fourteen.”

In fact the king counted them, and the twelve studs were all on her Majesty’s shoulder.

The king called the cardinal.

“What does this mean, Monsieur Cardinal?” asked the king in a severe tone.

“This means, sire,” replied the cardinal, “that I was desirous of presenting her Majesty with these two studs, and that not daring to offer them myself, I adopted this means of inducing her to accept them.”

“And I am the more grateful to your Eminence,” replied Anne of Austria, with a smile that proved she was not the dupe of this ingenious gallantry, “from being certain that these two studs alone have cost you as much as all the others cost his Majesty.”

Then saluting the king and the cardinal, the queen resumed her way to the chamber in which she had dressed, and where she was to take off her costume.

The attention which we have been obliged to give, during the commencement of the chapter, to the illustrious personages we have introduced into it, has diverted us for an instant from him to whom Anne of Austria owed the extraordinary triumph she had obtained over the cardinal; and who, confounded, unknown, lost in the crowd gathered at one of the doors, looked on at this scene, comprehensible only to four persons--the king, the queen, his Eminence, and himself.

The queen had just regained her chamber, and D’Artagnan was about to retire, when he felt his shoulder lightly touched. He turned and saw a young woman, who made him a sign to follow her. The face of this young woman was covered with a black velvet mask; but notwithstanding this precaution, which was in fact taken rather against others than against him, he at once recognized his usual guide, the light and intelligent Mme. Bonacieux.

On the evening before, they had scarcely seen each other for a moment at the apartment of the Swiss guard, Germain, whither D’Artagnan had sent for her. The haste which the young woman was in to convey to the queen the excellent news of the happy return of her messenger prevented the two lovers from exchanging more than a few words. D’Artagnan therefore followed Mme. Bonacieux moved by a double sentiment--love and curiosity. All the way, and in proportion as the corridors became more deserted, D’Artagnan wished to stop the young woman, seize her and gaze upon her, were it only for a minute; but quick as a bird she glided between his hands, and when he wished to speak to her, her finger placed upon her mouth, with a little imperative gesture full of grace, reminded him that he was under the command of a power which he must blindly obey, and which forbade him even to make the slightest complaint. At length, after winding about for a minute or two, Mme. Bonacieux opened the door of a closet, which was entirely dark, and led D’Artagnan into it. There she made a fresh sign of silence, and opened a second door concealed by tapestry. The opening of this door disclosed a brilliant light, and she disappeared.

D’Artagnan remained for a moment motionless, asking himself where he could be; but soon a ray of light which penetrated through the chamber, together with the warm and perfumed air which reached him from the same aperture, the conversation of two or three ladies in language at once respectful and refined, and the word “Majesty” several times repeated, indicated clearly that he was in a closet attached to the queen’s apartment. The young man waited in comparative darkness and listened.

The queen appeared cheerful and happy, which seemed to astonish the persons who surrounded her and who were accustomed to see her almost always sad and full of care. The queen attributed this joyous feeling to the beauty of the fête, to the pleasure she had experienced in the ballet; and as it is not permissible to contradict a queen, whether she smile or weep, everybody expatiated on the gallantry of the aldermen of the city of Paris.

Although D’Artagnan did not at all know the queen, he soon distinguished her voice from the others, at first by a slightly foreign accent, and next by that tone of domination naturally impressed upon all royal words. He heard her approach and withdraw from the partially open door; and twice or three times he even saw the shadow of a person intercept the light.

At length a hand and an arm, surpassingly beautiful in their form and whiteness, glided through the tapestry. D’Artagnan at once comprehended that this was his recompense. He cast himself on his knees, seized the hand, and touched it respectfully with his lips. Then the hand was withdrawn, leaving in his an object which he perceived to be a ring. The door immediately closed, and D’Artagnan found himself again in complete obscurity.

D’Artagnan placed the ring on his finger, and again waited; it was evident that all was not yet over. After the reward of his devotion, that of his love was to come. Besides, although the ballet was danced, the evening had scarcely begun. Supper was to be served at three, and the clock of St. Jean had struck three quarters past two.

The sound of voices diminished by degrees in the adjoining chamber. The company was then heard departing; then the door of the closet in which D’Artagnan was, was opened, and Mme. Bonacieux entered.

“You at last?” cried D’Artagnan.

“Silence!” said the young woman, placing her hand upon his lips; “silence, and go the same way you came!”

“But where and when shall I see you again?” cried D’Artagnan.

“A note which you will find at home will tell you. Begone, begone!”

At these words she opened the door of the corridor, and pushed D’Artagnan out of the room. D’Artagnan obeyed like a child, without the least resistance or objection, which proved that he was really in love.

The Rendezvous

D’Artagnan ran home immediately, and although it was three o’clock in the morning and he had some of the worst quarters of Paris to traverse, he met with no misadventure. Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting deity.

He found the door of his passage open, sprang up the stairs and knocked softly in a manner agreed upon between him and his lackey. Planchet1, whom he had sent home two hours before from the Hôtel de Ville, telling him to sit up for him, opened the door for him.

“Has anyone brought a letter for me?” asked D’Artagnan, eagerly.

“No one has brought a letter, monsieur,” replied Planchet; “but one has come of itself.”

“What do you mean, blockhead?”

“I mean to say that when I came in, although I had the key of your apartment in my pocket, and that key had never quit me, I found a letter on the green table cover in your bedroom.”

“And where is that letter?”

“I left it where I found it, monsieur. It is not natural for letters to enter people’s houses in this manner. If the window had been open or even ajar, I should think nothing of it; but, no--all was hermetically sealed. Beware, monsieur; there is certainly some magic underneath.”

Meanwhile, the young man had darted in to his chamber, and opened the letter. It was from Mme. Bonacieux, and was expressed in these terms:

“There are many thanks to be offered to you, and to be transmitted to you. Be this evening about ten o’clock at St. Cloud, in front of the pavilion which stands at the corner of the house of M. d’Estrées.--C.B.”

While reading this letter, D’Artagnan felt his heart dilated and compressed by that delicious spasm which tortures and caresses the hearts of lovers.

It was the first billet he had received; it was the first rendezvous that had been granted him. His heart, swelled by the intoxication of joy, felt ready to dissolve away at the very gate of that terrestrial paradise called Love!

“Well, monsieur,” said Planchet, who had observed his master grow read and pale successively, “did I not guess truly? Is it not some bad affair?”

“You are mistaken, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan; “and as a proof, there is a crown to drink my health.”

“I am much obliged to Monsieur for the crown he had given me, and I promise him to follow his instructions exactly; but it is not the less true that letters which come in this way into shut-up houses--”

“Fall from heaven, my friend, fall from heaven.”

“Then Monsieur is satisfied?” asked Planchet.

“My dear Planchet, I an the happiest of men!”

“And I may profit by Monsieur’s happiness, and go to bed?”

“Yes, go.”

“May the blessings of heaven fall upon Monsieur! But it is not the less true that that letter--”

And Planchet retired, shaking his head with an air of doubt, which the liberality of D’Artagnan had not entirely effaced.

Left alone, D’Artagnan read and reread his billet. Then he kissed and rekissed twenty times the lines traced by the hand of his beautiful mistress. At length he went to bed, fell asleep, and had golden dreams.

At seven o’clock in the morning he arose and called Planchet, who at the second summons opened the door, his countenance not yet quite freed from the anxiety of the preceding night.

“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “I am going out for all day, perhaps. You are, therefore, your own master till seven o’clock in the evening; but at seven o’clock you must hold yourself in readiness with two horses.”

“There!” said Planchet. “We are going again, it appears, to have our hides pierced in all sorts of ways.”

“You will take your musketoon and your pistols.”

“There, now! Didn’t I say so?” cried Planchet. “I was sure of it--the cursed letter!”

“Don’t be afraid, you idiot; there is nothing in hand but a party of pleasure.”

“Ah, like the charming journey the other day, when it rained bullets and produced a crop of steel traps!”

“Well, if you are really afraid, Monsieur Planchet,” resumed D’Artagnan, “I will go without you. I prefer traveling alone to having a companion who entertains the least fear.”

“Monsieur does me wrong,” said Planchet; “I thought he had seen me at work.”

“Yes, but I thought perhaps you had worn out all your courage the first time.”

“Monsieur shall see that upon occasion I have some left; only I beg Monsieur not to be too prodigal of it if he wishes it to last long.”

“Do you believe you have still a certain amount of it to expend this evening?”

“I hope so, monsieur.”

“Well, then, I count on you.”

“At the appointed hour I shall be ready; only I believed that Monsieur had but one horse in the Guard stables.”

“Perhaps there is but one at this moment; but by this evening there will be four.”

“It appears that our journey was a remounting journey, then?”

“Exactly so,” said D’Artagnan; and nodding to Planchet, he went out.

M. Bonacieux was at his door. D’Artagnan’s intention was to go out without speaking to the worthy mercer; but the latter made so polite and friendly a salutation that his tenant felt obliged, not only to stop, but to enter into conversation with him.

Besides, how is it possible to avoid a little condescension toward a husband whose pretty wife has appointed a meeting with you that same evening at St. Cloud, opposite D’Estrées’s pavilion? D’Artagnan approached him with the most amiable air he could assume.

The conversation naturally fell upon the incarceration of the poor man. M. Bonacieux, who was ignorant that D’Artagnan had overheard his conversation with the stranger of Meung, related to his young tenant the persecutions of that monster, M. de Laffemas, whom he never ceased to designate, during his account, by the title of the “cardinal’s executioner,” and expatiated at great length upon the Bastille, the bolts, the wickets, the dungeons, the gratings, the instruments of torture.

D’Artagnan listened to him with exemplary complaisance, and when he had finished said, “And Madame Bonacieux, do you know who carried her off?--For I do not forget that I owe to that unpleasant circumstance the good fortune of having made your acquaintance.”

“Ah!” said Bonacieux, “they took good care not to tell me that; and my wife, on her part, has sworn to me by all that’s sacred that she does not know. But you,” continued M. Bonacieux, in a tine of perfect good fellowship, “what has become of you all these days? I have not seen you nor your friends, and I don’t think you could gather all that dust that I saw Planchet brush off your boots yesterday from the pavement of Paris.”

“You are right, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, my friends and I have been on a little journey.”

“Far from here?”

“Oh, Lord, no! About forty leagues only. We went to take Monsieur Athos to the waters of Forges, where my friends still remain.”

“And you have returned, have you not?” replied M. Bonacieux, giving to his countenance a most sly air. “A handsome young fellow like you does not obtain long leaves of absence from his mistress; and we were impatiently waited for at Paris, were we not?”

“My faith!” said the young man, laughing, “I confess it, and so much more the readily, my dear Bonacieux, as I see there is no concealing anything from you. Yes, I was expected, and very impatiently, I acknowledge.”

A slight shade passed over the brow of Bonacieux, but so slight that D’Artagnan did not perceive it.

“And we are going to be recompensed for our diligence?” continued the mercer, with a trifling alteration in his voice--so trifling, indeed, that D’Artagnan did not perceive it any more than he had the momentary shade which, an instant before, had darkened the countenance of the worthy man.

“Ah, may you be a true prophet!” said D’Artagnan, laughing.

“No; what I say,” replied Bonacieux, “is only that I may know whether I am delaying you.”

“Why that question, my dear host?” asked D’Artagnan. “Do you intend to sit up for me?”

“No; but since my arrest and the robbery that was committed in my house, I am alarmed every time I hear a door open, particularly in the night. What the deuce can you expect? I am no swordsman.”

“Well, don’t be alarmed if I return at one, two or three o’clock in the morning; indeed, do not be alarmed if I do not come at all.”

This time Bonacieux became so pale that D’Artagnan could not help perceiving it, and asked him what was the matter.

“Nothing,” replied Bonacieux, “nothing. Since my misfortunes I have been subject to faintnesses, which seize me all at once, and I have just felt a cold shiver. Pay no attention to it; you have nothing to occupy yourself with but being happy.”

“Then I have full occupation, for I am so.”

“Not yet; wait a little! This evening, you said.”

“Well, this evening will come, thank God! And perhaps you look for it with as much impatience as I do; perhaps this evening Madame Bonacieux will visit the conjugal domicile.”

“Madame Bonacieux is not at liberty this evening,” replied the husband, seriously; “she is detained at the Louvre this evening by her duties.”

“So much the worse for you, my dear host, so much the worse! When I am happy, I wish all the world to be so; but it appears that is not possible.”

The young man departed, laughing at the joke, which he thought he alone could comprehend.

“Amuse yourself well!” replied Bonacieux, in a sepulchral tone.

But D’Artagnan was too far off to hear him; and if he had heard him in the disposition of mind he then enjoyed, he certainly would not have remarked it.

He took his way toward the hotel of M. de Tréville; his visit of the day before, it is to be remembered, had been very short and very little explicative.

He found Tréville in a joyful mood. He had thought the king and queen charming at the ball. It is true the cardinal had been particularly ill-tempered. He had retired at one o’clock under the pretense of being indisposed. As to their Majesties, they did not return to the Louvre till six o’clock in the morning.

“Now,” said Tréville, lowering his voice, and looking into every corner of the apartment to see if they were alone, “now let us talk about yourself, my young friend; for it is evident that your happy return has something to do with the joy of the king, the triumph of the queen, and the humiliation of his Eminence. You must look out for yourself.”

“What have I to fear,” replied D’Artagnan, “as long as I shall have the luck to enjoy the favor of their Majesties?”

“Everything, believe me. The cardinal is not the man to forget a mystification until he has settled account with the mystifier; and the mystifier appears to me to have the air of being a certain young Gascon of my acquaintance.”

“Do you believe that the cardinal is as well posted as yourself, and knows that I have been to London?”

“The devil! You have been to London! Was it from London you brought that beautiful diamond that glitters on your finger? Beware, my dear D’Artagnan! A present from an enemy is not a good thing. Are there not some Latin verses upon that subject? Stop!”

“Yes, doubtless,” replied D’Artagnan, who had never been able to cram the first rudiments of that language into his head, and who had by his ignorance driven his master to despair, “yes, doubtless there is one.”

“There certainly is one,” said M. de Tréville, who had a tincture of literature, “and Monsieur de Benserade was quoting it to me the other day. Stop a minute--ah, this is it: ‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ which means, ‘Beware of the enemy who makes you presents.”

“This diamond does not come from an enemy, monsieur,” replied D’Artagnan, “it comes from the queen.”

“From the queen! Oh, oh!” said M. de Tréville. “Why, it is indeed a true royal jewel, which is worth a thousand pistoles if it is worth a denier. By whom did the queen send you this jewel?”

“She gave it to me herself.”

“Where?”

“In the room adjoining the chamber in which she changed her toilet.”

“How?”

“Giving me her hand to kiss.”

“You have kissed the queen’s hand?” said M. de Tréville, looking earnestly at D’Artagnan.

“Her Majesty did me the honor to grant me that favor.”

“And that in the presence of witnesses! Imprudent, thrice imprudent!”

“No, monsieur, be satisfied; nobody saw her,” replied D’Artagnan, and he related to M. de Tréville how the affair came to pass.

“Oh, the women, the women!” cried the old soldier. “I know them by their romantic imagination. Everything that savors of mystery charms them. So you have seen the arm, that was all. You would meet the queen, and she would not know who you are?”

“No; but thanks to this diamond,” replied the young man.

“Listen,” said M. de Tréville; “shall I give you counsel, good counsel, the counsel of a friend?”

“You will do me honor, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan.

“Well, then, off to the nearest goldsmith’s, and sell that diamond for the highest price you can get from him. However much of a Jew he may be, he will give you at least eight hundred pistoles. Pistoles have no name, young man, and that ring has a terrible one, which may betray him who wears it.”

“Sell this ring, a ring which comes from my sovereign? Never!” said D’Artagnan.

“Then, at least turn the gem inside, you silly fellow; for everybody must be aware that a cadet from Gascony does not find such stones in his mother’s jewel case.”

“You think, then, I have something to dread?” asked D’Artagnan.

“I mean to say, young man, that he who sleeps over a mine the match of which is already lighted, may consider himself in safety in comparison with you.”

“The devil!” said D’Artagnan, whom the positive tone of M. de Tréville began to disquiet, “the devil! What must I do?”

“Above all things be always on your guard. The cardinal has a tenacious memory and a long arm; you may depend upon it, he will repay you by some ill turn.”

“But of what sort?”

“Eh! How can I tell? Has he not all the tricks of a demon at his command? The least that can be expected is that you will be arrested.”

“What! Will they dare to arrest a man in his Majesty’s service?”

Pardieu! They did not scruple much in the case of Athos. At all events, young man, rely upon one who has been thirty years at court. Do not lull yourself in security, or you will be lost; but, on the contrary--and it is I who say it--see enemies in all directions. If anyone seeks a quarrel with you, shun it, were it with a child of ten years old. If you are attacked by day or by night, fight, but retreat, without shame; if you cross a bridge, feel every plank of it with your foot, lest one should give way beneath you; if you pass before a house which is being built, look up, for fear a stone should fall upon your head; if you stay out late, be always followed by your lackey, and let your lackey be armed--if, by the by, you can be sure of your lackey. Mistrust everybody, your friend, your brother, your mistress-- your mistress above all.”

D’Artagnan blushed.

“My mistress above all,” repeated he, mechanically; “and why her rather than another?”

“Because a mistress is one of the cardinal’s favorite means; he has not one that is more expeditious. A woman will sell you for ten pistoles, witness Delilah. You are acquainted with the Scriptures?”

D’Artagnan thought of the appointment Mme. Bonacieux had made with him for that very evening; but we are bound to say, to the credit of our hero, that the bad opinion entertained by M. de Tréville of women in general, did not inspire him with the least suspicion of his pretty hostess.

“But, à propos,” resumed M. de Tréville, “what has become of your three companions?”

“I was about to ask you if you had heard any news of them?”

“None, monsieur.”

“Well, I left them on my road--Porthos at Chantilly, with a duel on his hands; Aramis at Crèvecoeur, with a ball in his shoulder; and Athos at Amiens, detained by an accusation of coining.”

“See there, now!” said M. de Tréville; “and how the devil did you escape?”

“By a miracle, monsieur, I must acknowledge, with a sword thrust in my breast, and by nailing the Comte de Wardes on the byroad to Calais, like a butterfly on a tapestry.”

“There again! De Wardes, one of the cardinal’s men, a cousin of Rochefort! Stop, my friend, I have an idea.”

“Speak, monsieur.”

“In your place, I would do one thing.”

“What?”

“While his Eminence was seeking for me in Paris, I would take, without sound of drum or trumpet, the road to Picardy, and would go and make some inquiries concerning my three companions. What the devil! They merit richly that piece of attention on your part.”

“The advice is good, monsieur, and tomorrow I will set out.”

“Tomorrow! Any why not this evening?”

“This evening, monsieur, I am detained in Paris by indispensable business.”

“Ah, young man, young man, some flirtation or other. Take care, I repeat to you, take care. It is woman who has ruined us, still ruins us, and will ruin us, as long as the world stands. Take my advice and set out this evening.”

“Impossible, monsieur.”

“You have given your word, then?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Ah, that’s quite another thing; but promise me, if you should not be killed tonight, that you will go tomorrow.”

“I promise it.”

“Do you need money?”

“I have still fifty pistoles. That, I think, is as much as I shall want.”

“But your companions?”

“I don’t think they can be in need of any. We left Paris, each with seventy-five pistoles in his pocket.”

“Shall I see you again before your departure?”

“I think not, monsieur, unless something new should happen.”

“Well, a pleasant journey.”

“Thanks, monsieur.”

D’Artagnan left M. de Tréville, touched more than ever by his paternal solicitude for his Musketeers.

He called successively at the abodes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Neither of them had returned. Their lackeys likewise were absent, and nothing had been heard of either the one or the other. He would have inquired after them of their mistresses, but he was neither acquainted with Porthos’s nor Aramis’s, and as to Athos, he had none.

As he passed the Hôtel des Gardes, he took a glance in to the stables. Three of the four horses had already arrived. Planchet, all astonishment, was busy grooming them, and had already finished two.

“Ah, monsieur,” said Planchet, on perceiving D’Artagnan, “how glad I am to see you.”

“Why so, Planchet?” asked the young man.

“Do you place confidence in our landlord--Monsieur Bonacieux?”

“I? Not the least in the world.”

“Oh, you do quite right, monsieur.”

“But why this question?”

“Because, while you were talking with him, I watched you without listening to you; and, monsieur, his countenance changed color two or three times!”

“Bah!”

“Preoccupied as Monsieur was with the letter he had received, he did not observe that; but I, whom the strange fashion in which that letter came into the house had placed on my guard--I did not lose a movement of his features.”

“And you found it?”

“Traitorous, monsieur.”

“Indeed!”

“Still more; as soon as Monsieur had left and disappeared round the corner of the street, Monsieur Bonacieux took his hat, shut his door, and set off at a quick pace in an opposite direction.”

“It seems you are right, Planchet; all this appears to be a little mysterious; and be assured that we will not pay him our rent until the matter shall be categorically explained to us.”

“Monsieur jests, but Monsieur will see.”

“What would you have, Planchet? What must come is written.”

“Monsieur does not then renounce his excursion for this evening?”

“Quite the contrary, Planchet; the more ill will I have toward Monsieur Bonacieux, the more punctual I shall be in keeping the appointment made by that letter which makes you so uneasy.”

“Then that is Monsieur’s determination?”

“Undeniably, my friend. At nine o’clock, then, be ready here at the hotel, I will come and take you.”

Planchet seeing there was no longer any hope of making his master renounce his project, heaved a profound sigh and set to work to groom the third horse.

As to D’Artagnan, being at bottom a prudent youth, instead of returning him he went and dined with the Gascon priest, who, at the time of the distress of the four friends, had given them a breakfast of chocolate.

  1. The reader may ask, “How came Planchet here?” when he was left “stiff as a rush” in London. In the intervening time Buckingham perhaps sent him to Paris, as he did the horses.

The Pavilion

At nine o’clock D’Artagnan was at the Hôtel des Gardes; he found Planchet all ready. The fourth horse had arrived.

Planchet was armed with his musketoon and a pistol. D’Artagnan had his sword and placed two pistols in his belt; then both mounted and departed quietly. It was quite dark, and no one saw them go out. Planchet took place behind his master, and kept at a distance of ten paces from him.

D’Artagnan crossed the quays, went out by the gate of La Conference and followed the road, much more beautiful then than it is now, which leads to St. Cloud.

As long as he was in the city, Planchet kept at the respectful distance he had imposed upon himself; but as soon as the road began to be more lonely and dark, he drew softly nearer, so that when they entered the Bois de Boulogne he found himself riding quite naturally side by side with his master. In fact, we must not dissemble that the oscillation of the tall trees and the reflection of the moon in the dark underwood gave him serious uneasiness. D’Artagnan could not help perceiving that something more than usual was passing in the mind of his lackey and said, “Well, Monsieur Planchet, what is the matter with us now?”

“Don’t you think, monsieur, that woods are like churches?”

“How so, Planchet?”

“Because we dare not speak aloud in one or the other.”

“But why did you not dare to speak aloud, Planchet--because you are afraid?”

“Afraid of being heard? Yes, monsieur.”

“Afraid of being heard! Why, there is nothing improper in our conversation, my dear Planchet, and no one could find fault with it.”

“Ah, monsieur!” replied Planchet, recurring to his besetting idea, “that Monsieur Bonacieux has something vicious in his eyebrows, and something very unpleasant in the play of his lips.”

“What the devil makes you think of Bonacieux?”

“Monsieur, we think of what we can, and not of what we will.”

“Because you are a coward, Planchet.”

“Monsieur, we must not confound prudence with cowardice; prudence is a virtue.”

“And you are very virtuous, are you not, Planchet?”

“Monsieur, is not that the barrel of a musket which glitters yonder? Had we not better lower our heads?”

“In truth,” murmured D’Artagnan, to whom M. de Tréville’s recommendation recurred, “this animal will end by making me afraid.” And he put his horse into a trot.

Planchet followed the movements of his master as if he had been his shadow, and was soon trotting by his side.

“Are we going to continue this pace all night?” asked Planchet.

“No; you are at your journey’s end.”

“How, monsieur! And you?”

“I am going a few steps farther.”

“And Monsieur leaves me here alone?”

“You are afraid, Planchet?”

“No; I only beg leave to observe to Monsieur that the night will be very cold, that chills bring on rheumatism, and that a lackey who has the rheumatism makes but a poor servant, particularly to a master as active as Monsieur.”

“Well, if you are cold, Planchet, you can go into one of those cabarets that you see yonder, and be in waiting for me at the door by six o’clock in the morning.”

“Monsieur, I have eaten and drunk respectfully the crown you gave me this morning, so that I have not a sou left in case I should be cold.”

“Here’s half a pistole. Tomorrow morning.”

D’Artagnan sprang from his horse, threw the bridle to Planchet, and departed at a quick pace, folding his cloak around him.

“Good Lord, how cold I am!” cried Planchet, as soon as he had lost sight of his master; and in such haste was he to warm himself that he went straight to a house set out with all the attributes of a suburban tavern, and knocked at the door.

In the meantime D’Artagnan, who had plunged into a bypath, continued his route and reached St. Cloud; but instead of following the main street he turned behind the château, reached a sort of retired lane, and found himself soon in front of the pavilion named. It was situated in a very private spot. A high wall, at the angle of which was the pavilion, ran along one side of this lane, and on the other was a little garden connected with a poor cottage which was protected by a hedge from passers-by.

He gained the place appointed, and as no signal had been given him by which to announce his presence, he waited.

Not the least noise was to be heard; it might be imagined that he was a hundred miles from the capital. D’Artagnan leaned against the hedge, after having cast a glance behind it. Beyond that hedge, that garden, and that cottage, a dark mist enveloped with its folds that immensity where Paris slept--a vast void from which glittered a few luminous points, the funeral stars of that hell!

But for D’Artagnan all aspects were clothed happily, all ideas wore a smile, all shades were diaphanous. The appointed hour was about to strike. In fact, at the end of a few minutes the belfry of St. Cloud let fall slowly then strokes from its sonorous jaws. There was something melancholy in this brazen voice pouring out its lamentations in the middle of the night; but each of those strokes, which made up the expected hour, vibrated harmoniously to the heart of the young man.

His eyes were fixed upon the little pavilion situated at the angle of the wall, of which all the windows were closed with shutters, except one on the first story. Through this window shone a mild light which silvered the foliage of two or three linden trees which formed a group outside the park. There could be no doubt that behind this little window, which threw forth such friendly beams, the pretty Mme. Bonacieux expected him.

Wrapped in this sweet idea, D’Artagnan waited half an hour without the least impatience, his eyes fixed upon that charming little abode of which he could perceive a part of the ceiling with its gilded moldings, attesting the elegance of the rest of the apartment.

The belfry of St. Cloud sounded half past ten.

This time, without knowing why, D’Artagnan felt a cold shiver run through his veins. Perhaps the cold began to affect him, and he took a perfectly physical sensation for a moral impression.

Then the idea seized him that he had read incorrectly, and that the appointment was for eleven o’clock. He drew near to the window, and placing himself so that a ray of light should fall upon the letter as he held it, he drew it from his pocket and read it again; but he had not been mistaken, the appointment was for ten o’clock. He went and resumed his post, beginning to be rather uneasy at this silence and this solitude.

Eleven o’clock sounded.

D’Artagnan began now really to fear that something had happened to Mme. Bonacieux. He clapped his hands three times--the ordinary signal of lovers; but nobody replied to him, not even an echo.

He then thought, with a touch of vexation, that perhaps the young woman had fallen asleep while waiting for him. He approached the wall, and tried to climb it; but the wall had been recently pointed, and D’Artagnan could get no hold.

At that moment he thought of the trees, upon whose leaves the light still shone; and as one of them drooped over the road, he thought that from its branches he might get a glimpse of the interior of the pavilion.

The tree was easy to climb. Besides, D’Artagnan was but twenty years old, and consequently had not yet forgotten his schoolboy habits. In an instant he was among the branches, and his keen eyes plunged through the transparent panes into the interior of the pavilion.

It was a strange thing, and one which made D’Artagnan tremble from the sole of his foot to the roots of his hair, to find that this soft light, this calm lamp, enlightened a scene of fearful disorder. One of the windows was broken, the door of the chamber had been beaten in and hung, split in two, on its hinges. A table, which had been covered with an elegant supper, was overturned. The decanters broken in pieces, and the fruits crushed, strewed the floor. Everything in the apartment gave evidence of a violent and desperate struggle. D’Artagnan even fancied he could recognize amid this strange disorder, fragments of garments, and some bloody spots staining the cloth and the curtains. He hastened to descend into the street, with a frightful beating at his heart; he wished to see if he could find other traces of violence.

The little soft light shone on in the calmness of the night. D’Artagnan then perceived a thing that he had not before remarked--for nothing had led him to the examination--that the ground, trampled here and hoofmarked there, presented confused traces of men and horses. Besides, the wheels of a carriage, which appeared to have come from Paris, had made a deep impression in the soft earth, which did not extend beyond the pavilion, but turned again toward Paris.

At length D’Artagnan, in pursuing his researches, found near the wall a woman’s torn glove. This glove, wherever it had not touched the muddy ground, was of irreproachable odor. It was one of those perfumed gloves that lovers like to snatch from a pretty hand.

As D’Artagnan pursued his investigations, a more abundant and more icy sweat rolled in large drops from his forehead; his heart was oppressed by a horrible anguish; his respiration was broken and short. And yet he said, to reassure himself, that this pavilion perhaps had nothing in common with Mme. Bonacieux; that the young woman had made an appointment with him before the pavilion, and not in the pavilion; that she might have been detained in Paris by her duties, or perhaps by the jealousy of her husband.

But all these reasons were combated, destroyed, overthrown, by that feeling of intimate pain which, on certain occasions, takes possession of our being, and cries to us so as to be understood unmistakably that some great misfortune is hanging over us.

Then D’Artagnan became almost wild. He ran along the high road, took the path he had before taken, and reaching the ferry, interrogated the boatman.

About seven o’clock in the evening, the boatman had taken over a young woman, wrapped in a black mantle, who appeared to be very anxious not to be recognized; but entirely on account of her precautions, the boatman had paid more attention to her and discovered that she was young and pretty.

There were then, as now, a crowd of young and pretty women who came to St. Cloud, and who had reasons for not being seen, and yet D’Artagnan did not for an instant doubt that it was Mme. Bonacieux whom the boatman had noticed.

D’Artagnan took advantage of the lamp which burned in the cabin of the ferryman to read the billet of Mme. Bonacieux once again, and satisfy himself that he had not been mistaken, that the appointment was at St. Cloud and not elsewhere, before the D’Estrées’s pavilion and not in another street. Everything conspired to prove to D’Artagnan that his presentiments had not deceived him, and that a great misfortune had happened.

He again ran back to the château. It appeared to him that something might have happened at the pavilion in his absence, and that fresh information awaited him. The lane was still deserted, and the same calm soft light shone through the window.

D’Artagnan then thought of that cottage, silent and obscure, which had no doubt seen all, and could tell its tale. The gate of the enclosure was shut; but he leaped over the hedge, and in spite of the barking of a chained-up dog, went up to the cabin.

No one answered to his first knocking. A silence of death reigned in the cabin as in the pavilion; but as the cabin was his last resource, he knocked again.

It soon appeared to him that he heard a slight noise within--a timid noise which seemed to tremble lest it should be heard.

Then D’Artagnan ceased knocking, and prayed with an accent so full of anxiety and promises, terror and cajolery, that his voice was of a nature to reassure the most fearful. At length an old, worm-eaten shutter was opened, or rather pushed ajar, but closed again as soon as the light from a miserable lamp which burned in the corner had shone upon the baldric, sword belt, and pistol pommels of D’Artagnan. Nevertheless, rapid as the movement had been, D’Artagnan had had time to get a glimpse of the head of an old man.

“In the name of heaven!” cried he, “listen to me; I have been waiting for someone who has not come. I am dying with anxiety. Has anything particular happened in the neighborhood? Speak!”

The window was again opened slowly, and the same face appeared, only it was now still more pale than before.

D’Artagnan related his story simply, with the omission of names. He told how he had a rendezvous with a young woman before that pavilion, and how, not seeing her come, he had climbed the linden tree, and by the light of the lamp had seen the disorder of the chamber.

The old man listened attentively, making a sign only that it was all so; and then, when D’Artagnan had ended, he shook his head with an air that announced nothing good.

“What do you mean?” cried D’Artagnan. “In the name of heaven, explain yourself!”

“Oh! Monsieur,” said the old man, “ask me nothing; for if I dared tell you what I have seen, certainly no good would befall me.”

“You have, then, seen something?” replied D’Artagnan. “In that case, in the name of heaven,” continued he, throwing him a pistole, “tell me what you have seen, and I will pledge you the word of a gentleman that not one of your words shall escape from my heart.”

The old man read so much truth and so much grief in the face of the young man that he made him a sign to listen, and repeated in a low voice: “It was scarcely nine o’clock when I heard a noise in the street, and was wondering what it could be, when on coming to my door, I found that somebody was endeavoring to open it. As I am very poor and am not afraid of being robbed, I went and opened the gate and saw three men at a few paces from it. In the shadow was a carriage with two horses, and some saddlehorses. These horses evidently belonged to the three men, who wee dressed as cavaliers. ‘Ah, my worthy gentlemen,’ cried I, ‘what do you want?’ ‘You must have a ladder?’ said he who appeared to be the leader of the party. ‘Yes, monsieur, the one with which I gather my fruit.’ ‘Lend it to us, and go into your house again; there is a crown for the annoyance we have caused you. Only remember this--if you speak a word of what you may see or what you may hear (for you will look and you will listen, I am quite sure, however we may threaten you), you are lost.’ At these words he threw me a crown, which I picked up, and he took the ladder. After shutting the gate behind them, I pretended to return to the house, but I immediately went out a back door, and stealing along in the shade of the hedge, I gained yonder clump of elder, from which I could hear and see everything. The three men brought the carriage up quietly, and took out of it a little man, stout, short, elderly, and commonly dressed in clothes of a dark color, who ascended the ladder very carefully, looked suspiciously in at the window of the pavilion, came down as quietly as he had gone up, and whispered, ‘It is she!’ Immediately, he who had spoken to me approached the door of the pavilion, opened it with a key he had in his hand, closed the door and disappeared, while at the same time the other two men ascended the ladder. The little old man remained at the coach door; the coachman took care of his horses, the lackey held the saddlehorses. All at once great cried resounded in the pavilion, and a woman came to the window, and opened it, as if to throw herself out of it; but as soon as she perceived the other two men, she fell back and they went into the chamber. Then I saw no more; but I heard the noise of breaking furniture. The woman screamed, and cried for help; but her cries were soon stifled. Two of the men appeared, bearing the woman in their arms, and carried her to the carriage, into which the little old man got after her. The leader closed the window, came out an instant after by the door, and satisfied himself that the woman was in the carriage. His two companions were already on horseback. He sprang into his saddle; the lackey took his place by the coachman; the carriage went off at a quick pace, escorted by the three horsemen, and all was over. From that moment I have neither seen nor heard anything.”

D’Artagnan, entirely overcome by this terrible story, remained motionless and mute, while all the demons of anger and jealousy were howling in his heart.

“But, my good gentleman,” resumed the old man, upon whom this mute despair certainly produced a greater effect than cries and tears would have done, “do not take on so; they did not kill her, and that’s a comfort.”

“Can you guess,” said D’Artagnan, “who was the man who headed this infernal expedition?”

“I don’t know him.”

“But as you spoke to him you must have seen him.”

“Oh, it’s a description you want?”

“Exactly so.”

“A tall, dark man, with black mustaches, dark eyes, and the air of a gentleman.”

“That’s the man!” cried D’Artagnan, “again he, forever he! He is my demon, apparently. And the other?”

“Which?”

“The short one.”

“Oh, he was not a gentleman, I’ll answer for it; besides, he did not wear a sword, and the others treated him with small consideration.”

“Some lackey,” murmured D’Artagnan. “Poor woman, poor woman, what have they done with you?”

“You have promised to be secret, my good monsieur?” said the old man.

“And I renew my promise. Be easy, I am a gentleman. A gentleman has but his word, and I have given you mine.”

With a heavy heart, D’Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry. Sometimes he hoped it could not be Mme. Bonacieux, and that he should find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had had an intrigue with another, who, in a jealous fit, had surprised her and carried her off. His mind was torn by doubt, grief, and despair.

“Oh, if I had my three friends here,” cried he, “I should have, at least, some hopes of finding her; but who knows what has become of them?”

It was past midnight; the next thing was to find Planchet. D’Artagnan went successively into all the cabarets in which there was a light, but could not find Planchet in any of them.

At the sixth he began to reflect that the search was rather dubious. D’Artagnan had appointed six o’clock in the morning for his lackey, and wherever he might be, he was right.

Besides, it came into the young man’s mind that by remaining in the environs of the spot on which this sad event had passed, he would, perhaps, have some light thrown upon the mysterious affair. At the sixth cabaret, then, as we said, D’Artagnan stopped, asked for a bottle of wine of the best quality, and placing himself in the darkest corner of the room, determined thus to wait till daylight; but this time again his hopes were disappointed, and although he listened with all his ears, he heard nothing, amid the oaths, coarse jokes, and abuse which passed between the laborers, servants, and carters who comprised the honorable society of which he formed a part, which could put him upon the least track of her who had been stolen from him. He was compelled, them, after having swallowed the contents of his bottle, to pass the time as well as to evade suspicion, to fall into the easiest position in his corner and to sleep, whether well or ill. D’Artagnan, be it remembered, was only twenty years old, and at that age sleep has its imprescriptible rights which it imperiously insists upon, even with the saddest hearts.

Toward six o’clock D’Artagnan awoke with that uncomfortable feeling which generally accompanies the break of day after a bad night. He was not long in making his toilet. He examined himself to see if advantage had been taken of his sleep, and having found his diamond ring on his finger, his purse in his pocket, and his pistols in his belt, he rose, paid for his bottle, and went out to try if he could have any better luck in his search after his lackey than he had had the night before. The first thing he perceived through the damp gray mist was honest Planchet, who, with the two horses in hand, awaited him at the door of a little blind cabaret, before which D’Artagnan had passed without even a suspicion of its existence.

Porthos

Instead of returning directly home, D’Artagnan alighted at the door of M. de Tréville, and ran quickly up the stairs. This time he had decided to relate all that had passed. M. de Tréville would doubtless give him good advice as to the whole affair. Besides, as M. de Tréville saw the queen almost daily, he might be able to draw from her Majesty some intelligence of the poor young woman, whom they were doubtless making pay very dearly for her devotedness to her mistress.

M. de Tréville listened to the young man’s account with a seriousness which proved that he saw something else in this adventure besides a love affair. When D’Artagnan had finished, he said, “Hum! All this savors of his Eminence, a league off.”

“But what is to be done?” said D’Artagnan.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing, at present, but quitting at Paris, as I told you, as soon as possible. I will see the queen; I will relate to her the details of the disappearance of this poor woman, of which she is no doubt ignorant. These details will guide her on her part, and on your return, I shall perhaps have some good news to tell you. Rely on me.”

D’Artagnan knew that, although a Gascon, M. de Tréville was not in the habit of making promises, and that when by chance he did promise, he more than kept his word. He bowed to him, then, full of gratitude for the past and for the future; and the worthy captain, who on his side felt a lively interest in this young man, so brave and so resolute, pressed his hand kindly, wishing him a pleasant journey.

Determined to put the advice of M. de Tréville in practice instantly, D’Artagnan directed his course toward the Rue des Fossoyeurs, in order to superintend the packing of his valise. On approaching the house, he perceived M. Bonacieux in morning costume, standing at his threshold. All that the prudent Planchet had said to him the preceding evening about the sinister character of the old man recurred to the mind of D’Artagnan, who looked at him with more attention than he had done before. In fact, in addition to that yellow, sickly paleness which indicates the insinuation of the bile in the blood, and which might, besides, be accidental, D’Artagnan remarked something perfidiously significant in the play of the wrinkled features of his countenance. A rogue does not laugh in the same way that an honest man does; a hypocrite does not shed the tears of a man of good faith. All falsehood is a mask; and however well made the mask may be, with a little attention we may always succeed in distinguishing it from the true face.

It appeared, then, to D’Artagnan that M. Bonacieux wore a mask, and likewise that that mask was most disagreeable to look upon. In consequence of this feeling of repugnance, he was about to pass without speaking to him, but, as he had done the day before, M. Bonacieux accosted him.

“Well, young man,” said he, “we appear to pass rather gay nights! Seven o’clock in the morning! Peste! You seem to reverse ordinary customs, and come home at the hour when other people are going out.”

“No one can reproach you for anything of the kind, Monsieur Bonacieux,” said the young man; “you are a model for regular people. It is true that when a man possesses a young and pretty wife, he has no need to seek happiness elsewhere. Happiness comes to meet him, does it not, Monsieur Bonacieux?”

Bonacieux became as pale as death, and grinned a ghastly smile.

“Ah, ah!” said Bonacieux, “you are a jocular companion! But where the devil were you gladding last night, my young master? It does not appear to be very clean in the crossroads.”

D’Artagnan glanced down at his boots, all covered with mud; but that same glance fell upon the shoes and stockings of the mercer, and it might have been said they had been dipped in the same mud heap. Both were stained with splashes of mud of the same appearance.

Then a sudden idea crossed the mind of D’Artagnan. That little stout man, short and elderly, that sort of lackey, dressed in dark clothes, treated without ceremony by the men wearing swords who composed the escort, was Bonacieux himself. The husband had presided at the abduction of his wife.

A terrible inclination seized D’Artagnan to grasp the mercer by the throat and strangle him; but, as we have said, he was a very prudent youth, and he restrained himself. However, the revolution which appeared upon his countenance was so visible that Bonacieux was terrified at it, and he endeavored to draw back a step or two; but as he was standing before the half of the door which was shut, the obstacle compelled him to keep his place.

“Ah, but you are joking, my worthy man!” said D’Artagnan. It appears to me that if my boots need a sponge, your stockings and shoes stand in equal need of a brush. May you not have been philandering a little also, Monsieur Bonacieux? Oh, the devil! That’s unpardonable in a man of your age, and who besides, has such a pretty wife as yours.”

“Oh, Lord! no,” said Bonacieux, “but yesterday I went to St. Mandé to make some inquiries after a servant, as I cannot possibly do without one; and the roads were so bad that I brought back all this mud, which I have not yet had time to remove.”

The place named by Bonacieux as that which had been the object of his journey was a fresh proof in support of the suspicions D’Artagnan had conceived. Bonacieux had named Mandé because Mandé was in an exactly opposite direction from St. Cloud. This probability afforded him his first consolation. If Bonacieux knew where his wife was, one might, by extreme means, force the mercer to open his teeth and let his secret escape. The question, then, was how to change this probability into a certainty.

“Pardon, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, if I don’t stand upon ceremony,” said D’Artagnan, “but nothing makes one so thirsty as want of sleep. I am parched with thirst. Allow me to take a glass of water in your apartment; you know that is never refused among neighbors.”

Without waiting for the permission of his host, D’Artagnan went quickly into the house, and cast a rapid glance at the bed. It had not been used. Bonacieux had not been abed. He had only been back an hour or two; he had accompanied his wife to the place of her confinement, or else at least to the first relay.

“Thanks, Monsieur Bonacieux,” said D’Artagnan, emptying his glass, “that is all I wanted of you. I will now go up into my apartment. I will make Planchet brush my boots; and when he has done, I will, if you like, send him to you to brush your shoes.”

He left the mercer quite astonished at his singular farewell, and asking himself if he had not been a little inconsiderate.

At the top of the stairs he found Planchet in a great fright.

“Ah, monsieur!” cried Planchet, as soon as he perceived his master, “here is more trouble. I thought you would never come in.”

“What’s the matter now, Planchet?” demanded D’Artagnan.

“Oh! I give you a hundred, I give you a thousand times to guess, monsieur, the visit I received in your absence.”

“When?”

“About half an hour ago, while you were at Monsieur de Tréville’s.”

“Who has been here? Come, speak.”

“Monsieur de Cavois.”

“Monsieur de Cavois?”

“In person.”

“The captain of the cardinal’s Guards?”

“Himself.”

“Did he come to arrest me?”

“I have no doubt that he did, monsieur, for all his wheedling manner.”

“Was he so sweet, then?”

“Indeed, he was all honey, monsieur.”

“Indeed!”

“He came, he said, on the part of his Eminence, who wished you well, and to beg you to follow him to the Palais-Royal1.”

“What did you answer him?”

“That the thing was impossible, seeing that you were not at home, as he could see.”

“Well, what did he say then?”

“That you must not fail to call upon him in the course of the day; and then he added in a low voice, ‘Tell your master that his Eminence is very well disposed toward him, and that his fortune perhaps depends upon this interview.’”

“The snare is rather maladroit for the cardinal,” replied the young man, smiling.

“Oh, I saw the snare, and I answered you would be quite in despair on your return.

“‘Where has he gone?’ asked Monsieur de Cavois.

“‘To Troyes, in Champagne,’ I answered.

“‘And when did he set out?’

“‘Yesterday evening.’”

“Planchet, my friend,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you are really a precious fellow.”

“You will understand, monsieur, I thought there would be still time, if you wish, to see Monsieur de Cavois to contradict me by saying you were not yet gone. The falsehood would then lie at my door, and as I am not a gentleman, I may be allowed to lie.”

“Be of good heart, Planchet, you shall preserve your reputation as a veracious man. In a quarter of an hour we set off.”

“That’s the advice I was about to give Monsieur; and where are we going, may I ask, without being too curious?”

Pardieu! In the opposite direction to that which you said I was gone. Besides, are you not as anxious to learn news of Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin as I am to know what has become of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis?”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Planchet, “and I will go as soon as you please. Indeed, I think provincial air will suit us much better just now than the air of Paris. So then--”

“So then, pack up our luggage, Planchet, and let us be off. On my part, I will go out with my hands in my pockets, that nothing may be suspected. You may join me at the Hôtel des Gardes. By the way, Planchet, I think you are right with respect to our host, and that he is decidedly a frightfully low wretch.”

“Ah, monsieur, you may take my word when I tell you anything. I am a physiognomist, I assure you.”

D’Artagnan went out first, as had been agreed upon. Then, in order that he might have nothing to reproach himself with, he directed his steps, for the last time, toward the residences of his three friends. No news had been received of them; only a letter, all perfumed and of an elegant writing in small characters, had come for Aramis. D’Artagnan took charge of it. Ten minutes afterward Planchet joined him at the stables of the Hôtel des Gardes. D’Artagnan, in order that there might be no time lost, had saddled his horse himself.

“That’s well,” said he to Planchet, when the latter added the portmanteau to the equipment. “Now saddle the other three horses.”

“Do you think, then, monsieur, that we shall travel faster with two horses apiece?” said Planchet, with his shrewd air.

“No, Monsieur Jester,” replied D’Artagnan; “but with our four horses we may bring back our three friends, if we should have the good fortune to find them living.”

“Which is a great chance,” replied Planchet, “but we must not despair of the mercy of God.”

“Amen!” said D’Artagnan, getting into his saddle.

As they went from the Hôtel des Gardes, they separated, leaving the street at opposite ends, one having to quit Paris by the Barriere de la Villette and the other by the Barriere Montmartre, to meet again beyond St. Denis--a strategic maneuver which, having been executed with equal punctuality, was crowned with the most fortunate results. D’Artagnan and Planchet entered Pierrefitte together.

Planchet was more courageous, it must be admitted, by day than by night. His natural prudence, however, never forsook him for a single instant. He had forgotten not one of the incidents of the first journey, and he looked upon everybody he met on the road as an enemy. It followed that his hat was forever in his hand, which procured him some severe reprimands from D’Artagnan, who feared that his excess of politeness would lead people to think he was the lackey of a man of no consequence.

Nevertheless, whether the passengers were really touched by the urbanity of Planchet or whether this time nobody was posted on the young man’s road, our two travelers arrived at Chantilly without any accident, and alighted at the tavern of Great St. Martin, the same at which they had stopped on their first journey.

The host, on seeing a young man followed by a lackey with two extra horses, advanced respectfully to the door. Now, as they had already traveled eleven leagues, D’Artagnan thought it time to stop, whether Porthos were or were not in the inn. Perhaps it would not be prudent to ask at once what had become of the Musketeer. The result of these reflections was that D’Artagnan, without asking information of any kind, alighted, commended the horses to the care of his lackey, entered a small room destined to receive those who wished to be alone, and desired the host to bring him a bottle of his best wine and as good a breakfast as possible--a desire which further corroborated the high opinion the innkeeper had formed of the traveler at first sight.

D’Artagnan was therefore served with miraculous celerity. The regiment of the Guards was recruited among the first gentlemen of the kingdom; and D’Artagnan, followed by a lackey, and traveling with four magnificent horses, despite the simplicity of his uniform, could not fail to make a sensation. The host desired himself to serve him; which D’Artagnan perceiving, ordered two glasses to be brought, and commenced the following conversation.

“My faith, my good host,” said D’Artagnan, filling the two glasses, “I asked for a bottle of your best wine, and if you have deceived me, you will be punished in what you have sinned; for seeing that I hate drinking my myself, you shall drink with me. Take your glass, then, and let us drink. But what shall we drink to, so as to avoid wounding any susceptibility? Let us drink to the prosperity of your establishment.”

“Your Lordship does me much honor,” said the host, “and I thank you sincerely for your kind wish.”

“But don’t mistake,” said D’Artagnan, “there is more selfishness in my toast than perhaps you may think--for it is only in prosperous establishments that one is well received. In hotels that do not flourish, everything is in confusion, and the traveler is a victim to the embarrassments of his host. Now, I travel a great deal, particularly on this road, and I wish to see all innkeepers making a fortune.”

“It seems to me,” said the host, “that this is not the first time I have had the honor of seeing Monsieur.”

“Bah, I have passed perhaps ten times through Chantilly, and out of the ten times I have stopped three or four times at your house at least. Why I was here only ten or twelve days ago. I was conducting some friends, Musketeers, one of whom, by the by, had a dispute with a stranger--a man who sought a quarrel with him, for I don’t know what.”

“Exactly so,” said the host; “I remember it perfectly. It is not Monsieur Porthos that your Lordship means?”

“Yes, that is my companion’s name. My God, my dear host, tell me if anything has happened to him?”

“Your Lordship must have observed that he could not continue his journey.”

“Why, to be sure, he promised to rejoin us, and we have seen nothing of him.”

“He has done us the honor to remain here.”

“What, he had done you the honor to remain here?”

“Yes, monsieur, in this house; and we are even a little uneasy--”

“On what account?”

“Of certain expenses he has contracted.”

“Well, but whatever expenses he may have incurred, I am sure he is in a condition to pay them.”

“Ah, monsieur, you infuse genuine balm into my blood. We have made considerable advances; and this very morning the surgeon declared that if Monsieur Porthos did not pay him, he should look to me, as it was I who had sent for him.”

“Porthos is wounded, then?”

“I cannot tell you, monsieur.”

“What! You cannot tell me? Surely you ought to be able to tell me better than any other person.”

“Yes; but in our situation we must not say all we know-- particularly as we have been warned that our ears should answer for our tongues.”

“Well, can I see Porthos?”

“Certainly, monsieur. Take the stairs on your right; go up the first flight and knock at Number One. Only warn him that it is you.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because, monsieur, some mischief might happen to you.”

“Of what kind, in the name of wonder?”

“Monsieur Porthos may imagine you belong to the house, and in a fit of passion might run his sword through you or blow out your brains.”

“What have you done to him, then?”

“We have asked him for money.”

“The devil! Ah, I can understand that. It is a demand that Porthos takes very ill when he is not in funds; but I know he must be so at present.”

“We thought so, too, monsieur. As our house is carried on very regularly, and we make out our bills every week, at the end of eight days we presented our account; but it appeared we had chosen an unlucky moment, for at the first word on the subject, he sent us to all the devils. It is true he had been playing the day before.”

“Playing the day before! And with whom?”

“Lord, who can say, monsieur? With some gentleman who was traveling this way, to whom he proposed a game of lansquenet.”

“That’s it, then, and the foolish fellow lost all he had?”

“Even to his horse, monsieur; for when the gentleman was about to set out, we perceived that his lackey was saddling Monsieur Porthos’s horse, as well as his master’s. When we observed this to him, he told us all to trouble ourselves about our own business, as this horse belonged to him. We also informed Monsieur Porthos of what was going on; but he told us we were scoundrels to doubt a gentleman’s word, and that as he had said the horse was his, it must be so.”

“That’s Porthos all over,” murmured D’Artagnan.

“Then,” continued the host, “I replied that as from the moment we seemed not likely to come to a good understanding with respect to payment, I hoped that he would have at least the kindness to grant the favor of his custom to my brother host of the Golden Eagle; but Monsieur Porthos replied that, my house being the best, he should remain where he was. This reply was too flattering to allow me to insist on his departure. I confined myself then to begging him to give up his chamber, which is the handsomest in the hotel, and to be satisfied with a pretty little room on the third floor; but to this Monsieur Porthos replied that as he every moment expected his mistress, who was one of the greatest ladies in the court, I might easily comprehend that the chamber he did me the honor to occupy in my house was itself very mean for the visit of such a personage. Nevertheless, while acknowledging the truth of what he said, I thought proper to insist; but without even giving himself the trouble to enter into any discussion with me, he took one of his pistols, laid it on his table, day and night, and said that at the first word that should be spoken to him about removing, either within the house or our of it, he would blow out the brains of the person who should be so imprudent as to meddle with a matter which only concerned himself. Since that time, monsieur, nobody enter his chamber but his servant.”

“What! Mousqueton is here, then?”

“Oh, yes, monsieur. Five days after your departure, he came back, and in a very bad condition, too. It appears that he had met with disagreeables, likewise, on his journey. Unfortunately, he is more nimble than his master; so that for the sake of his master, he puts us all under his feet, and as he thinks we might refuse what he asked for, he takes all he wants without asking at all.”

“The fact is,” said D’Artagnan, “I have always observed a great degree of intelligence and devotedness in Mousqueton.”

“That is possible, monsieur; but suppose I should happen to be brought in contact, even four times a year, with such intelligence and devotedness--why, I should be a ruined man!”

“No, for Porthos will pay you.”

“Hum!” said the host, in a doubtful tone.

“The favorite of a great lady will not be allowed to be inconvenienced for such a paltry sum as he owes you.”

“If I durst say what I believe on that head--”

“What you believe?”

“I ought rather to say, what I know.”

“What you know?”

“And even what I am sure of.”

“And of what are you so sure?”

“I would say that I know this great lady.”

“You?”

“Yes; I.”

“And how do you know her?”

“Oh, monsieur, if I could believe I might trust in your discretion.”

“Speak! By the word of a gentleman, you shall have no cause to repent of your confidence.”

“Well, monsieur, you understand that uneasiness makes us do many things.”

“What have you done?”

“Oh, nothing which was not right in the character of a creditor.”

“Well?”

“Monsieur Porthos gave us a note for his duchess, ordering us to put it in the post. This was before his servant came. As he could not leave his chamber, it was necessary to charge us with this commission.”

“And then?”

“Instead of putting the letter in the post, which is never safe, I took advantage of the journey of one of my lads to Paris, and ordered him to convey the letter to this duchess himself. This was fulfilling the intentions of Monsieur Porthos, who had desired us to be so careful of this letter, was it not?”

“Nearly so.”

“Well, monsieur, do you know who this great lady is?”

“No; I have heard Porthos speak of her, that’s all.”

“Do you know who this pretended duchess is?

“I repeat to you, I don’t know her.”

“Why, she is the old wife of a procurator2 of the Châtelet, monsieur, named Madame Coquenard, who, although she is at least fifty, still gives herself jealous airs. It struck me as very odd that a princess should live in the Rue aux Ours.”

“But how do you know all this?”

“Because she flew into a great passion on receiving the letter, saying that Monsieur Porthos was a weathercock, and that she was sure it was for some woman he had received this wound.”

“Has he been wounded, then?”

“Oh, good Lord! What have I said?”

“You said that Porthos had received a sword cut.”

“Yes, but he has forbidden me so strictly to say so.”

“And why so.”

“Zounds, monsieur! Because he had boasted that he would perforate the stranger with whom you left him in dispute; whereas the stranger, on the contrary, in spite of all his rodomontades quickly threw him on his back. As Monsieur Porthos is a very boastful man, he insists that nobody shall know he has received this wound except the duchess, whom he endeavored to interest by an account of his adventure.”

“It is a wound that confines him to his bed?”

“Ah, and a master stroke, too, I assure you. Your friend’s soul must stick tight to his body.”

“Were you there, then?”

“Monsieur, I followed them from curiosity, so that I saw the combat without the combatants seeing me.”

“And what took place?”

“Oh! The affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard; the stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when Monsieur Porthos came to the parade, he had already three inches of steel in his breast. He immediately fell backward. The stranger placed the point of his sword at his throat; and Monsieur Porthos, finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, acknowledged himself conquered. Upon which the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was Porthos, and not D’Artagnan, he assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hotel, mounted his horse, and disappeared.”

“So it was with Monsieur D’Artagnan this stranger meant to quarrel?”

“It appears so.”

“And do you know what has become of him?”

“No, I never saw him until that moment, and have not seen him since.”

“Very well; I know all that I wish to know. Porthos’s chamber is, you say, on the first story, Number One?”

“Yes, monsieur, the handsomest in the inn--a chamber that I could have let ten times over.”

“Bah! Be satisfied,” said D’Artagnan, laughing, “Porthos will pay you with the money of the Duchess Coquenard.”

“Oh, monsieur, procurator’s wife or duchess, if she will but loosen her pursestrings, it will be all the same; but she positively answered that she was tired of the exigencies and infidelities of Monsieur Porthos, and that she would not send him a denier.”

“And did you convey this answer to your guest?”

“We took good care not to do that; he would have found in what fashion we had executed his commission.”

“So that he still expects his money?”

“Oh, Lord, yes, monsieur! Yesterday he wrote again; but it was his servant who this time put the letter in the post.”

“Do you say the procurator’s wife is old and ugly?”

“Fifty at least, monsieur, and not at all handsome, according to Pathaud’s account.”

“In that case, you may be quite at ease; she will soon be softened. Besides, Porthos cannot owe you much.”

“How, not much! Twenty good pistoles, already, without reckoning the doctor. He denies himself nothing; it may easily be seen he has been accustomed to live well.”

“Never mind; if his mistress abandons him, he will find friends, I will answer for it. So, my dear host, be not uneasy, and continue to take all the care of him that his situation requires.”

“Monsieur has promised me not to open his mouth about the procurator’s wife, and not to say a word of the wound?”

“That’s agreed; you have my word.”

“Oh, he would kill me!”

“Don’t be afraid; he is not so much of a devil as he appears.”

Saying these words, D’Artagnan went upstairs, leaving his host a little better satisfied with respect to two things in which he appeared to be very much interested--his debt and his life.

At the top of the stairs, upon the most conspicuous door of the corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic number “1.” D’Artagnan knocked, and upon the bidding to come in which came from inside, he entered the chamber.

Porthos was in bed, and was playing a game at lansquenet with Mousqueton, to keep his hand in; while a spit loaded with partridges was turning before the fire, and on each side of a large chimneypiece, over two chafing dishes, were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a double odor of rabbit and fish stews, rejoicing to the smell. In addition to this he perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble of a commode were covered with empty bottles.

At the sight of his friend, Porthos uttered a loud cry of joy; and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his place to him, and went to give an eye to the two stewpans, of which he appeared to have the particular inspection.

“Ah, pardieu! Is that you?” said Porthos to D’Artagnan. “You are right welcome. Excuse my not coming to meet you; but,” added he, looking at D’Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, “you know what has happened to me?”

“No.”

“Has the host told you nothing, then?”

“I asked after you, and came up as soon as I could.”

Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.

“And what has happened to you, my dear Porthos?” continued D’Artagnan.

“Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and whom I meant to finish with the fourth, I put my foot on a stone, slipped, and strained my knee.”

“Truly?”

“Honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you.”

“And what has became of him?”

“Oh, I don’t know; he had enough, and set off without waiting for the rest. But you, my dear D’Artagnan, what has happened to you?”

“So that this strain of the knee,” continued D’Artagnan, “my dear Porthos, keeps you in bed?”

“My God, that’s all. I shall be about again in a few days.”

“Why did you not have yourself conveyed to Paris? You must be cruelly bored here.”

“That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I have one thing to confess to you.”

“What’s that?”

“It is that as I was cruelly bored, as you say, and as I had the seventy-five pistoles in my pocket which you had distributed to me, in order to amuse myself I invited a gentleman who was traveling this way to walk up, and proposed a cast of dice. He accepted my challenge, and, my faith, my seventy-five pistoles passed from my pocket to his, without reckoning my horse, which he won into the bargain. But you, my dear D’Artagnan?”

“What can you expect, my dear Porthos; a man is not privileged in all ways,” said D’Artagnan. “You know the proverb ‘Unlucky at play, lucky in love.’ You are too fortunate in your love for play not to take its revenge. What consequence can the reverses of fortune be to you? Have you not, happy rogue that you are-- have you not your duchess, who cannot fail to come to your aid?”

“Well, you see, my dear D’Artagnan, with what ill luck I play,” replied Porthos, with the most careless air in the world. “I wrote to her to send me fifty louis or so, of which I stood absolutely in need on account of my accident.”

“Well?”

“Well, she must be at her country seat, for she has not answered me.”

“Truly?”

“No; so I yesterday addressed another epistle to her, still more pressing than the first. But you are here, my dear fellow, let us speak of you. I confess I began to be very uneasy on your account.”

“But your host behaves very well toward you, as it appears, my dear Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, directing the sick man’s attention to the full stewpans and the empty bottles.

“So, so,” replied Porthos. “Only three or four days ago the impertinent jackanapes gave me his bill, and I was forced to turn both him and his bill out of the door; so that I am here something in the fashion of a conqueror, holding my position, as it were, my conquest. So you see, being in constant fear of being forced from that position, I am armed to the teeth.”

“And yet,” said D’Artagnan, laughing, “it appears to me that from time to time you must make sorties.” And he again pointed to the bottles and the stewpans.

“Not I, unfortunately!” said Porthos. “This miserable strain confines me to my bed; but Mousqueton forages, and brings in provisions. Friend Mousqueton, you see that we have a reinforcement, and we must have an increase of supplies.”

“Mousqueton,” said D’Artagnan, “you must render me a service.”

“What, monsieur?”

“You must give your recipe to Planchet. I may be besieged in my turn, and I shall not be sorry for him to be able to let me enjoy the same advantages with which you gratify your master.”

“Lord, monsieur! There is nothing more easy,” said Mousqueton, with a modest air. “One only needs to be sharp, that’s all. I was brought up in the country, and my father in his leisure time was something of a poacher.”

“And what did he do the rest of his time?”

“Monsieur, he carried on a trade which I have always thought satisfactory.”

“Which?”

“As it was a time of war between the Catholics and the Huguenots, and as he saw the Catholics exterminate the Huguenots and the Huguenots exterminate the Catholics--all in the name of religion--he adopted a mixed belief which permitted him to be sometimes Catholic, sometimes a Huguenot. Now, he was accustomed to walk with his fowling piece on his shoulder, behind the hedges which border the roads, and when he saw a Catholic coming alone, the Protestant religion immediately prevailed in his mind. He lowered his gun in the direction of the traveler; then, when he was within ten paces of him, he commenced a conversation which almost always ended by the traveler’s abandoning his purse to save his life. It goes without saying that when he saw a Huguenot coming, he felt himself filled with such ardent Catholic zeal that he could not understand how, a quarter of an hour before, he had been able to have any doubts upon the superiority of our holy religion. For my part, monsieur, I am Catholic--my father, faithful to his principles, having made my elder brother a Huguenot.”

“And what was the end of this worthy man?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Oh, of the most unfortunate kind, monsieur. One day he was surprised in a lonely road between a Huguenot and a Catholic, with both of whom he had before had business, and who both knew him again; so they united against him and hanged him on a tree. Then they came and boasted of their fine exploit in the cabaret of the next village, where my brother and I were drinking.”

“And what did you do?” said D’Artagnan.

“We let them tell their story out,” replied Mousqueton. “Then, as in leaving the cabaret they took different directions, my brother went and hid himself on the road of the Catholic, and I on that of the Huguenot. Two hours after, all was over; we had done the business of both, admiring the foresight of our poor father, who had taken the precaution to bring each of us up in a different religion.”

“Well, I must allow, as you say, your father was a very intelligent fellow. And you say in his leisure moments the worthy man was a poacher?”

“Yes, monsieur, and it was he who taught me to lay a snare and ground a line. The consequence is that when I saw our laborers, which did not at all suit two such delicate stomachs as ours, I had recourse to a little of my old trade. While walking near the wood of Monsieur le Prince, I laid a few snare in the runs; and while reclining on the banks of his Highness’s pieces of water, I slipped a few lines into his fish ponds. So that now, thanks be to God, we do not want, as Monsieur can testify, for partridges, rabbits, carp or eels--all light, wholesome food, suitable for the sick.”

“But the wine,” said D’Artagnan, “who furnishes the wine? Your host?”

“That is to say, yes and no.”

“How yes and no?”

“He furnishes it, it is true, but he does not know that he has that honor.”

“Explain yourself, Mousqueton; your conversation is full of instructive things.”

“That is it, monsieur. It has so chanced that I met with a Spaniard in my peregrinations who had seen many countries, and among them the New World.”

“What connection can the New World have with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe?”

“Patience, monsieur, everything will come in its turn.”

“This Spaniard had in his service a lackey who had accompanied him in his voyage to Mexico. This lackey was my compatriot; and we became the more intimate from there being many resemblances of character between us. We loved sporting of all kinds better than anything; so that he related to me how in the plains of the Pampas the natives hunt the tiger and the wild bull with simple running nooses which they throw to a distance of twenty or thirty paves the end of a cord with such nicety; but in face of the proof I was obliged to acknowledge the truth of the recital. My friend placed a bottle at the distance of thirty paces, and at each cast he caught the neck of the bottle in his running noose. I practiced this exercise, and as nature has endowed me with some faculties, at this day I can throw the lasso with any man in the world. Well, do you understand, monsieur? Our host has a well- furnished cellar the key of which never leaves him; only this cellar has a ventilating hole. Now through this ventilating hole I throw my lasso, and as I now know in which part of the cellar is the best wine, that’s my point for sport. You see, monsieur, what the New World has to do with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe. Now, will you taste our wine, and without prejudice say what you think of it?”

“Thank you, my friend, thank you; unfortunately, I have just breakfasted.”

“Well,” said Porthos, “arrange the table, Mousequeton, and while we breakfast, D’Artagnan will relate to us what has happened to him during the ten days since he left us.”

“Willingly,” said D’Artagnan.

While Porthos and Mousqueton were breakfasting, with the appetites of convalescents and with that brotherly cordiality which unites men in misfortune, D’Artagnan related how Aramis, being wounded, was obliged to stop at Crèvecoeur, how he had left Athos fighting at Amiens with four men who accused him of being a coiner, and how he, D’Artagnan, had been forced to run the Comtes de Wardes through the body in order to reach England.

But there the confidence of D’Artagnan stopped. He only added that on his return from Great Britain he had brought back four magnificent horses--one for himself, and one for each of his companions; then he informed Porthos that the one intended for him was already installed in the stable of the tavern.

At this moment Planchet entered, to inform his master that the horses were sufficiently refreshed and that it would be possible to sleep at Clermont.

As D’Artagnan was tolerably reassured with regard to Porthos, and as he was anxious to obtain news of his two other friends, he held out his hand to the wounded man, and told him he was about to resume his route in order to continue his researches. For the rest, as he reckoned upon returning by the same route in seven or eight days, if Porthos were still at the Great St. Martin, he would call for him on his way.

Porthos replied that in all probability his sprain would not permit him to depart yet awhile. Besides, it was necessary he should stay at Chantilly to wait for the answer from his duchess.

D’Artagnan wished that answer might be prompt and favorable; and having again recommended Porthos to the care of Mousqueton, and paid his bill to the host, he resumed his route with Planchet, already relieved of one of his led horses.

  1. It was called the Palais-Cardinal before Richelieu gave it to the King.
  2. Procurator: Attorney

Aramis And His Thesis

D’Artagnan had said nothing to Porthos of his wound or of his procurator’s wife. Our Bérnais was a prudent lad, however young he might be. Consequently he had appeared to believe all that the vainglorious Musketeer had told him, convinced that no friendship will hold out against a surprised secret. Besides, we feel always a sort of mental superiority over those whose lives we know better than they suppose. In his projects of intrigue for the future, and determined as he was to make his three friends the instruments of his fortune, D’Artagnan was not sorry at getting into his grasp beforehand the invisible strings by which he reckoned upon moving them.

And yet, as he journeyed along, a profound sadness weighed upon his heart. He thought of that young and pretty Mme. Bonacieux who was to have paid him the price of his devotedness; but let us hasten to say that this sadness possessed the young man less from the regret of the happiness he had missed, than from the fear he entertained that some serious misfortune had befallen the poor woman. For himself, he had no doubt she was a victim of the cardinal’s vengeance; and, and as was well known, the vengeance of his Eminence was terrible. How he had found grace in the eyes f the minister, he did not know; but without doubt M. de Cavois would have revealed this to him if the captain of the Guards had found him at home.

Nothing makes time pass more quickly or more shortens a journey than a thought which absorbs in itself all the faculties of the organization of him who thinks. External existence then resembles a sleep of which this thought is the dream. By its influence, time has no longer measure, space has no longer distance. We depart from one place, and arrive at another, that is all. Of the interval passed, nothing remains in the memory but a vague mist in which a thousand confused images of trees, mountains, and landscapes are lost. It was as a prey to this hallucination that D’Artagnan traveled, at whatever pace his horse pleased, the six or eight leagues that separated Chantilly from Crèvecoeur, without his being able to remember on his arrival in the village any of the things he had passed or met with on the road.

There only his memory returned to him. He shook his head, perceived the cabaret at which he had left Aramis, and putting his horse to the trot, he shortly pulled up at the door.

This time is was not a host but a hostess who received him. D’Artagnan was a physiognomist. His eye took in at a glance the plump, cheerful countenance of the mistress of the place, and he at once perceived there was no occasion for dissembling with her, or of fearing anything from one blessed with such a joyous physiognomy.

“My good dame,” asked D’Artagnan, “can you tell me what has become of one of my friends, whom we were obliged to leave here about a dozen days ago?”

“A handsome young man, three- or four-and-twenty years old, mild, amiable, and well made?”

“That is he--wounded in the shoulder.”

“Just so. Well, monsieur, he is still here.”

“Ah, pardieu! My dear dame,” said D’Artagnan, springing from his horse, and throwing the bridle to Planchet, “you restore me to life; where is this dear Aramis? Let me embrace him, I am in a hurry to see him again.”

“Pardon, monsieur, but I doubt whether he can see you at this moment.”

“Why so? Has he a lady with him?”

“Jesus! What do you mean by that? Poor lad! No, monsieur, he has not a lady with him.”

“With whom is he, then?”

“With the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits of Amiens.”

“Good heavens!” cried D’Artagnan, “is the poor fellow worse, then?”

“No, monsieur, quite the contrary; but after his illness grace touched him, and he determined to take orders.”

“That’s it!” said D’Artagnan, “I had forgotten that he was only a Musketeer for a time.”

“Monsieur still insists upon seeing him?”

“More than ever.”

“Well, monsieur has only to take the right-hand staircase in the courtyard, and knock at Number Five on the second floor.”

D’Artagnan walked quickly in the direction indicated, and found one of those exterior staircases that are still to be seen in the yards of our old-fashioned taverns. But there was no getting at the place of sojourn of the future abbé; the defiles of the chamber of Aramis were as well guarded as the gardens of Armida. Bazin was stationed in the corridor, and barred his passage with the more intrepidity that, after many years of trial, Bazin found himself near a result of which he had ever been ambitious.

In fact, the dream of poor Bazin had always been to serve a churchman; and he awaited with impatience the moment, always in the future, when Aramis would throw aside the uniform and assume the cassock. The daily-renewed promise of the young man that the moment would not long be delayed, had alone kept him in the service of a Musketeer--a service in which, he said, his soul was in constant jeopardy.

Bazin was then at the height of joy. In all probability, this time his master would not retract. The union of physical pain with moral uneasiness had produced the effect so long desired. Aramis, suffering at once in body and mind, had at length fixed his eyes and his thoughts upon religion, and he had considered as a warning from heaven the double accident which had happened to him; that is to say, the sudden disappearance of his mistress and the wound in his shoulder.

It may be easily understood that in the present disposition of his master nothing could be more disagreeable to Bazin than the arrival of D’Artagnan, which might cast his master back again into that vortex of mundane affairs which had so long carried him away. He resolved, then, to defend the door bravely; and as, betrayed by the mistress of the inn, he could not say that Aramis was absent, he endeavored to prove to the newcomer that it would be the height of indiscretion to disturb his master in his pious conference, which had commenced with the morning and would not, as Bazin said, terminate before night.

But D’Artagnan took very little heed of the eloquent discourse of M. Bazin; and as he had no desire to support a polemic discussion with his friend’s valet, he simply moved him out of the way with one hand, and with the other turned the handle of the door of Number Five. The door opened, and D’Artagnan went into the chamber.

Aramis, in a black gown, his head enveloped in a sort of round flat cap, not much unlike a calotte, was seated before an oblong table, covered with rolls of paper and enormous volumes in folio. At his right hand was placed the superior of the Jesuits, and on his left the curate of Montdidier. The curtains were half drawn, and only admitted the mysterious light calculated for beatific reveries. All the mundane objects that generally strike the eye on entering the room of a young man, particularly when that young man is a Musketeer, had disappeared as if by enchantment; and for fear, no doubt, that the sight of them might bring his master back to ideas of this world, Bazin had laid his hands upon sword, pistols, plumed hat, and embroideries and laces of all kinds and sorts. In their stead D’Artagnan thought he perceived in an obscure corner a discipline cord suspended from a nail in the wall.

At the noise made by D’Artagnan in entering, Aramis lifted up his head, and beheld his friend; but to the great astonishment of the young man, the sight of him did not produce much effect upon the Musketeer, so completely was his mind detached from the things of this world.

“Good day, dear D’Artagnan,” said Aramis; “believe me, I am glad to see you.”

“So am I delighted to see you,” said D’Artagnan, “although I am not yet sure that it is Aramis I am speaking to.”

“To himself, my friend, to himself! But what makes you doubt it?”

“I was afraid I had made a mistake in the chamber, and that I had found my way into the apartment of some churchman. Then another error seized me on seeing you in company with these gentlemen--I was afraid you were dangerously ill.”

The two men in black, who guessed D’Artagnan’s meaning, darted at him a glance which might have been thought threatening; but D’Artagnan took no heed of it.

“I disturb you, perhaps, my dear Aramis,” continued D’Artagnan, “for by what I see, I am led to believe that you are confessing to these gentlemen.”

Aramis colored imperceptibly. “You disturb me? Oh, quite the contrary, dear friend, I swear; and as a proof of what I say, permit me to declare I am rejoiced to see you safe and sound.”

“Ah, he’ll come round,” thought D’Artagnan; “that’s not bad!”

“This gentleman, who is my friend, has just escaped from a serious danger,” continued Aramis, with unction, pointing to D’Artagnan with his hand, and addressing the two ecclesiastics.

“Praise God, monsieur,” replied they, bowing together.

“I have not failed to do so, your Reverences,” replied the young man, returning their salutation.

“You arrive in good time, dear D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “and by taking part in our discussion may assist us with your intelligence. Monsieur the Principal of Amiens, Monsieur the Curate of Montdidier, and I are arguing certain theological questions in which we have been much interested; I shall be delighted to have your opinion.”

“The opinion of a swordsman can have very little weight,” replied D’Artagnan, who began to be uneasy at the turn things were taking, “and you had better be satisfied, believe me, with the knowledge of these gentlemen.”

The two men in black bowed in their turn.

“On the contrary,” replied Aramis, “your opinion will be very valuable. The question is this: Monsieur the Principal thinks that my thesis ought to be dogmatic and didactic.”

“Your thesis! Are you then making a thesis?”

“Without doubt,” replied the Jesuit. “In the examination which precedes ordination, a thesis is always a requisite.”

“Ordination!” cried D’Artagnan, who could not believe what the hostess and Bazin had successively told him; and he gazed, half stupefied, upon the three persons before him.

“Now,” continued Aramis, taking the same graceful position in his easy chair that he would have assumed in bed, and complacently examining his hand, which was as white and plump as that of a woman, and which he held in the air to cause the blood to descend, “now, as you have heard, D’Artagnan, Monsieur the Principal is desirous that my thesis should be dogmatic, while I, for my part, would rather it should be ideal. This is the reason why Monsieur the Principal has proposed to me the following subject, which has not yet been treated upon, and in which I perceive there is matter for magnificent elaboration-‘utraque manus in benedicendo clericis inferioribus necessaria est.’”

D’Artagnan, whose erudition we are well acquainted with, evinced no more interest on hearing this quotation than he had at that of M. de Tréville in allusion to the gifts he pretended that D’Artagnan had received from the Duke of Buckingham.

“Which means,” resumed Aramis, that he might perfectly understand, “‘The two hands are indispensable for priests of the inferior orders, when they bestow the benediction.’”

“An admirable subject!” cried the Jesuit.

“Admirable and dogmatic!” repeated the curate, who, about as strong as D’Artagnan with respect to Latin, carefully watched the Jesuit in order to keep step with him, and repeated his words like an echo.

As to D’Artagnan, he remained perfectly insensible to the enthusiasm of the two men in black.

“Yes, admirable! Prorsus admirabile!” continued Aramis; “but which requires a profound study of both the Scriptures and the Fathers. Now, I have confessed to these learned ecclesiastics, and that in all humility, that the duties of mounting guard and the service of the king have caused me to neglect study a little. I should find myself, therefore, more at my ease, facilus natans, in a subject of my own choice, which would be to these hard theological questions what morals are to metaphysics in philosophy.”

D’Artagnan began to be tired, and so did the curate.

“See what an exordium!” cried the Jesuit.

“Exordium,” repeated the curate, for the sake of saying something. “Quemadmodum inter coelorum immensitatem.”

Aramis cast a glance upon D’Artagnan to see what effect all this produced, and found his friend gaping enough to split his jaws.

“Let us speak French, my father,” said he to the Jesuit; “Monsieur D’Artagnan will enjoy our conversation better.”

“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan; “I am fatigued with reading, and all this Latin confuses me.”

“Certainly,” replied the Jesuit, a little put out, while the curate, greatly delighted, turned upon D’Artagnan a look full of gratitude. “Well, let us see what is to be derived from this gloss. Moses, the servant of God-he was but a servant, please to understand-Moses blessed with the hands; he held out both his arms while the Hebrews beat their enemies, and then he blessed them with his two hands. Besides, what does the Gospel say? Imponite manus, and not manum-place the hands, not the hand.”

“Place the hands,” repeated the curate, with a gesture.

“St. Peter, on the contrary, of whom the Popes are the successors,” continued the Jesuit; “Porrige digitos-present the fingers. Are you there, now?”

Certes,” replied Aramis, in a pleased tone, “but the thing is subtle.”

“The fingers,” resumed the Jesuit, “St. Peter blessed with the fingers. The Pope, therefore blesses with the fingers. And with how many fingers does he bless? With three fingers, to be sure- one for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Ghost.”

All crossed themselves. D’Artagnan thought it was proper to follow this example.

“The Pope is the successor of St. Peter, and represents the three divine powers; the rest-ordines inferiores-of the ecclesiastical hierarchy bless in the name of the holy archangels and angels. The most humble clerks such as our deacons and sacristans, bless with holy water sprinklers, which resemble an infinite number of blessing fingers. There is the subject simplified. Argumentum omni denudatum ornamento. I could make of that subject two volumes the size of this,” continued the Jesuit; and in his enthusiasm he struck a St. Chrysostom in folio, which made the table bend beneath its weight.

D’Artagnan trembled.

Certes,” said Aramis, “I do justice to the beauties of this thesis; but at the same time I perceive it would be overwhelming for me. I had chosen this text-tell me, dear D’Artagnan, if it is not to your taste-‘non inutile est desiderium in oblatione’; that is, ‘A little regret is not unsuitable in an offering to the Lord.’”

“Stop there!” cried the Jesuit, “for that thesis touches closely upon heresy. There is a proposition almost like it in the augustinus of the heresiarch Jansenius, whose book will sooner or later be burned by the hands of the executioner. Take care, my young friend. You are inclining toward false doctrines, my young friend; you will be lost.”

“You will be lost,” said the curate, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“You approach that famous point of free will which is a mortal rock. You face the insinuations of the Pelagians and the demi- Peligians.”

“But, my Reverend-” replied Aramis, a little amazed by the shower of arguments that poured upon his head.

“How will you prove,” continued the Jesuit, without allowing him time to speak, “that we ought to regret the world when we offer ourselves to God? Listen to this dilemma: God is God, and the world is the devil. To regret the world is to regret the devil; that is my conclusion.”

“And that is mine also,” said the curate.

“But, for heaven’s sake-” resumed Aramis.

Desideras diabolum, unhappy man!” cried the Jesuit.

“He regrets the devil! Ah, my young friend,” added the curate, groaning, “do not regret the devil, I implore you!”

D’Artagnan felt himself bewildered. It seemed to him as though he were in a madhouse, and was becoming as mad as those he saw. He was, however, forced to hold his tongue from not comprehending half the language they employed.

“But listen to me, then,” resumed Aramis with politeness mingled with a little impatience. “I do not say I regret; no, I will never pronounce that sentence, which would not be orthodox.”

The Jesuit raised his hands toward heaven, and the curate did the same.

“No; but pray grant me that it is acting with an ill grace to offer to the Lord only that with which we are perfectly disgusted! Don’t you think so, D’Artagnan?”

“I think so, indeed,” cried he.

The Jesuit and the curate quite started from their chairs.

“This is the point of departure; it is a syllogism. The world is not wanting in attractions. I quit the world; then I make a sacrifice. Now, the Scripture says positively, ‘Make a sacrifice unto the Lord.’”

“That is true,” said his antagonists.

“And then,” said Aramis, pinching his ear to make it red, as he rubbed his hands to make them white, “and then I made a certain rondeau upon it last year, which I showed to Monsieur Voiture, and that great man paid me a thousand compliments.”

“A rondeau!” said the Jesuit, disdainfully.

“A rondeau!” said the curate, mechanically.

“Repeat it! Repeat it!” cried D’Artagnan; “it will make a little change.”

“Not so, for it is religious,” replied Aramis; “it is theology in verse.”

“The devil!” said D’Artagnan.

“Here it is,” said Aramis, with a little look of diffidence, which, however, was not exempt from a shade of hypocrisy:

“Vous qui pleurez un passé plein de charmes, Et qui trainez des jours infortunés, Tous vos malheurs se verront terminés, Quand à Dieu seul vous offrirez vos larmes, Vous qui pleurez!”

“You who weep for pleasures fled, While dragging on a life of care, All your woes will melt in air, If to God your tears are shed, You who weep!”

D’Artagnan and the curate appeared pleased. The Jesuit persisted in his opinion. “Beware of a profane taste in your theological style. What says Augustine on this subject: “‘severus sit clericorum verbo.’”

“Yes, let the sermon be clear,” said the curate.

“Now,” hastily interrupted the Jesuit, on seeing that his acolyte was going astray, “now your thesis would please the ladies; it would have the success of one of Monsieur Patru’s pleadings.”

“Please God!” cried Aramis, transported.

“There it is,” cried the Jesuit; “the world still speaks within you in a loud voice, altisimmâ voce. You follow the world, my young friend, and I tremble lest grace prove not efficacious.”

“Be satisfied, my reverend father, I can answer for myself.”

“Mundane presumption!”

“I know myself, Father; my resolution is irrevocable.”

“Then you persist in continuing that thesis?”

“I feel myself called upon to treat that, and no other. I will see about the continuation of it, and tomorrow I hope you will be satisfied with the corrections I shall have made in consequence of your advice.”

“Work slowly,” said the curate; “we leave you in an excellent tone of mind.”

“Yes, the ground is all sown,” said the Jesuit, “and we have not to fear that one portion of the seed may have fallen upon stone, another upon the highway, or that the birds of heaven have eaten the rest, aves coeli comederunt illam.”

“Plague stifle you and your Latin!” said D’Artagnan, who began to feel all his patience exhausted.

“Farewell, my son,” said the curate, “till tomorrow.”

“Till tomorrow, rash youth,” said the Jesuit. “You promise to become one of the lights of the Church. Heaven grant that this light prove not a devouring fire!”

D’Artagnan, who for an hour past had been gnawing his nails with impatience, was beginning to attack the quick.

The two men in black rose, bowed to Aramis and D’Artagnan, and advanced toward the door. Bazin, who had been standing listening to all this controversy with a pious jubilation, sprang toward them, took the breviary of the curate and the missal of the Jesuit, and walked respectfully before them to clear their way.

Aramis conducted them to the foot of the stairs, and them immediately came up again to D’Artagnan, whose senses were still in a state of confusion.

When left alone, the two friends at first kept an embarrassed silence. It however became necessary for one of them to break it first, and as D’Artagnan appeared determined to leave that honor to his companion, Aramis said, “you see that I am returned to my fundamental ideas.”

“Yes, efficacious grace has touched you, as that gentleman said just now.”

“Oh, these plans of retreat have been formed for a long time. You have often heard me speak of them, have you not, my friend?”

“Yes; but I confess I always thought you jested.”

“With such things! Oh, D’Artagnan!”

“The devil! Why, people jest with death.”

“And people are wrong, D’Artagnan; for death is the door which leads to perdition or to salvation.”

“Granted; but if you please, let us not theologize, Aramis. You must have had enough for today. As for me, I have almost forgotten the little Latin I have ever known. Then I confess to you that I have eaten nothing since ten o’clock this morning, and I am devilish hungry.”

“We will dine directly, my friend; only you must please to remember that this is Friday. Now, on such a day I can neither eat flesh nor see it eaten. If you can be satisfied with my dinner-it consists of cooked tetragones and fruits.”

“What do you mean by tetragones?” asked D’Artagnan, uneasily.

“I mean spinach,” replied Aramis; “but on your account I will add some eggs, and that is a serious infraction of the rule-for eggs are meat, since they engender chickens.”

“This feast is not very succulent; but never mind, I will put up with it for the sake of remaining with you.”

“I am grateful to you for the sacrifice,” said Aramis; “but if your body be not greatly benefited by it, be assured your soul will.”

“And so, Aramis, you are decidedly going into the Church? What will our two friends say? What will Monsieur de Tréville say? They will treat you as a deserter, I warn you.”

“I do not enter the Church; I re-enter it. I deserted the Church for the world, for you know that I forced myself when I became a Musketeer.”

“I? I know nothing about it.”

“You don’t know I quit the seminary?”

“Not at all.”

“This is my story, then. Besides, the Scriptures say, ‘Confess yourselves to one another,’ and I confess to you, D’Artagnan.”

“And I give you absolution beforehand. You see I am a good sort of a man.”

“Do not jest about holy things, my friend.”

“Go on, then, I listen.”

“I had been at the seminary from nine years old; in three days I should have been twenty. I was about to become an abbé, and all was arranged. One evening I went, according to custom, to a house which I frequented with much pleasure: when one is young, what can be expected?--one is weak. An officer who saw me, with a jealous eye, reading the lives of the saints to the mistress of the house, entered suddenly and without being announced. That evening I had translated an episode of Judith, and had just communicated my verses to the lady, who gave me all sorts of compliments, and leaning on my shoulder, was reading them a second time with me. Her pose, which I must admit was rather free, wounded this officer. He said nothing; but when I went out he followed, and quickly came up with me. ‘Monsieur the Abbé,’ said he, ‘do you like blows with a cane?’ ‘I cannot say, monsieur,’ answered I; ‘no one has ever dared to give me any.’ ‘Well, listen to me, then, Monsieur the Abbé! If you venture again into the house in which I have met you this evening, I will dare it myself.’ I really think I must have been frightened. I became very pale; I felt my legs fail me; I sought for a reply, but could find none-I was silent. The officer waited for his reply, and seeing it so long coming, he burst into a laugh, turned upon his heel, and re-entered the house. I returned to the seminary.

“I am a gentleman born, and my blood is warm, as you may have remarked, my dear D’Artagnan. The insult was terrible, and although unknown to the rest of the world, I felt it live and fester at the bottom of my heart. I informed my superiors that I did not feel myself sufficiently prepared for ordination, and at my request the ceremony was postponed for a year. I sought out the best fencing master in Paris, I made an agreement with him to take a lesson every day, and every day for a year I took that lesson. Then, on the anniversary of the day on which I had been insulted, I hung my cassock on a peg, assumed the costume of a cavalier, and went to a ball given by a lady friend of mine and to which I knew my man was invited. It was in the Rue des France-Bourgeois, close to La Force. As I expected, my officer was there. I went up to him as he was singing a love ditty and looking tenderly at a lady, and interrupted him exactly in the middle of the second couplet. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘does it still displease you that I should frequent a certain house of La Rue Payenne? And would you still cane me if I took it into my head to disobey you? The officer looked at me with astonishment, and then said, ‘What is your business with me, monsieur? I do not know you.’ ‘I am,’ said I, ‘the little abbé who reads lives of the saints, and translates Judith into verse.’ ‘Ah, ah! I recollect now,’ said the officer, in a jeering tone; ‘well, what do you want with me?’ ‘I want you to spare time to take a walk with me.’ ‘Tomorrow morning, if you like, with the greatest pleasure.’ ‘No, not tomorrow morning, if you please, but immediately.’ ‘If you absolutely insist.’ ‘I do insist upon it.’ ‘Come, then. Ladies,’ said the officer, ‘do not disturb yourselves; allow me time just to kill this gentleman, and I will return and finish the last couplet.’

“We went out. I took him to the Rue Payenne, to exactly the same spot where, a year before, at the very same hour, he had paid me the compliment I have related to you. It was a superb moonlight night. We immediately drew, and at the first pass I laid him stark dead.”

“The devil!” cried D’Artagnan.

“Now,” continued Aramis, “as the ladies did not see the singer come back, and as he was found in the Rue Payenne with a great sword wound through his body, it was supposed that I had accommodated him thus; and the matter created some scandal which obliged me to renounce the cassock for a time. Athos, whose acquaintance I made about that period, and Porthos, who had in addition to my lessons taught me some effective tricks of fence, prevailed upon me to solicit the uniform of a Musketeer. The king entertained great regard for my father, who had fallen at the siege Arras, and the uniform was granted. You may understand that the moment has come for me to re-enter the bosom of the Church.”

“And why today, rather than yesterday or tomorrow? What has happened to you today, to raise all these melancholy ideas?”

“This wound, my dear D’Artagnan, has been a warning to me from heaven.”

“This wound? Bah, it is now nearly healed, and I am sure it is not that which gives you the most pain.”

“What, then?” said Aramis, blushing.”

“You have one at heart, Aramis, one deeper and more painful-a wound made by a woman.”

The eye of Aramis kindled in spite of himself.

“Ah,” said he, dissembling his emotion under a feigned carelessness, “do not talk of such things, and suffer love pains? Vanitas vanitatum! According to your idea, then, my brain is turned. And for whom-for some grisette, some chambermaid with whom I have trifled in some garrison? Fie!”

“Pardon, my dear Aramis, but I thought you carried your eyes higher.”

“Higher? And who am I, to nourish such ambition? A poor Musketeer, a beggar, an unknown-who hates slavery, and finds himself ill-placed in the world.”

“Aramis, Aramis!” cried D’Artagnan, looking at his friend with an air of doubt.

“Dust I am, and to dust I return. Life is full of humiliations and sorrows,” continued he, becoming still more melancholy; “all the ties which attach him to life break in the hand of man, particularly the golden ties. Oh, my dear D’Artagnan,” resumed Aramis, giving to his voice a slight tone of bitterness, “trust me! Conceal your wounds when you have any; silence is the last joy of the unhappy. Beware of giving anyone the clue to your griefs; the curious suck our tears as flies suck the blood of a wounded hart.”

“Alas, my dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, in his turn heaving a profound sigh, “that is my story you are relating!”

“How?”

“Yes; a woman whom I love, whom I adore, has just been torn from me by force. I do not know where she is or whither they have conducted her. She is perhaps a prisoner; she is perhaps dead!”

“Yes, but you have at least this consolation, that you can say to yourself she has not quit you voluntarily, that if you learn no news of her, it is because all communication with you in interdicted; while I-”

“Well?”

“Nothing,” replied Aramis, “nothing.”

“So you renounce the world, then, forever; that is a settled thing-a resolution registered!”

“Forever! You are my friend today; tomorrow you will be no more to me than a shadow, or rather, even, you will no longer exist. As for the world, it is a sepulcher and nothing else.”

“The devil! All this is very sad which you tell me.”

“What will you? My vocation commands me; it carries me away.”

D’Artagnan smiled, but made no answer.

Aramis continued, “And yet, while I do belong to the earth, I wish to speak of you-of our friends.”

“And on my part,” said D’Artagnan, “I wished to speak of you, but I find you so completely detached from everything! To love you cry, ‘Fie! Friends are shadows! The world is a sepulcher!’”

“Alas, you will find it so yourself,” said Aramis, with a sigh.

“Well, then, let us say no more about it,” said D’Artagnan; “and let us burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh infidelity of your grisette or your chambermaid.”

“What letter?” cried Aramis, eagerly.

“A letter which was sent to your abode in your absence, and which was given to me for you.”

“But from whom is that letter?”

“Oh, from some heartbroken waiting woman, some desponding grisette; from Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps, who was obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to appear smart and attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a duchess’s coronet.”

“What do you say?”

“Hold! I must have lost it,” said the young man maliciously, pretending to search for it. “But fortunately the world is a sepulcher; the men, and consequently the women, are but shadows, and love is a sentiment to which you cry, ‘Fie! Fie!’”

“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan,” cried Aramis, “you are killing me!”

“Well, here it is at last!” said D’Artagnan, as he drew the letter from his pocket.

Aramis made a bound, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it, his countenance radiant.

“This same waiting maid seems to have an agreeable style,” said the messenger, carelessly.

“Thanks, D’Artagnan, thanks!” cried Aramis, almost in a state of delirium. “She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she still loves me! Come, my friend, come, let me embrace you. Happiness almost stifles me!”

The two friends began to dance around the venerable St. Chrysostom, kicking about famously the sheets of the thesis, which had fallen on the floor.

At that moment Bazin entered with the spinach and the omelet.

“Be off, you wretch!” cried Aramis, throwing his skullcap in his face. “Return whence you came; take back those horrible vegetables, and that poor kickshaw! Order a larded hare, a fat capon, mutton leg dressed with garlic, and four bottles of old Burgundy.”

Bazin, who looked at his master, without comprehending the cause of this change, in a melancholy manner, allowed the omelet to slip into the spinach, and the spinach onto the floor.

“Now this is the moment to consecrate your existence to the King of kings,” said D’Artagnan, “if you persist in offering him a civility. Non inutile desiderium oblatione.”

“Go to the devil with your Latin. Let us drink, my dear D’Artagnan, morbleu! Let us drink while the wine is fresh! Let us drink heartily, and while we do so, tell me a little of what is going on in the world yonder.”

The Wife Of Athos

“We have now to search for Athos,” said D’Artagnan to the vivacious Aramis, when he had informed him of all that had passed since their departure from the capital, and an excellent dinner had made one of them forget his thesis and the other his fatigue.

“Do you think, then, that any harm can have happened to him?” asked Aramis. “Athos is so cool, so brave, and handles his sword so skillfully.”

“No doubt. Nobody has a higher opinion of the courage and skill of Athos than I have; but I like better to hear my sword clang against lances than against staves. I fear lest Athos should have been beaten down by serving men. Those fellows strike hard, and don’t leave off in a hurry. This is why I wish to set out again as soon as possible.”

“I will try to accompany you,” said Aramis, “though I scarcely feel in a condition to mount on horseback. Yesterday I undertook to employ that cord which you see hanging against the wall, but pain prevented my continuing the pious exercise.”

“That’s the first time I ever heard of anybody trying to cure gunshot wounds with cat-o’-nine-tails; but you were ill, and illness renders the head weak, therefore you may be excused.”

“When do you mean to set out?”

“Tomorrow at daybreak. Sleep as soundly as you can tonight, and tomorrow, if you can, we will take our departure together.”

“Till tomorrow, then,” said Aramis; “for iron-nerved as you are, you must need repose.”

The next morning, when D’Artagnan entered Aramis’s chamber, he found him at the window.

“What are you looking at?” asked D’Artagnan.

“My faith! I am admiring three magnificent horses which the stable boys are leading about. It would be a pleasure worthy of a prince to travel upon such horses.”

“Well, my dear Aramis, you may enjoy that pleasure, for one of those three horses is yours.”

“Ah, bah! Which?”

“Whichever of the three you like, I have no preference.”

“And the rich caparison, is that mine, too?”

“Without doubt.”

“You laugh, D’Artagnan.”

“No, I have left off laughing, now that you speak French.”

“What, those rich holsters, that velvet housing, that saddle studded with silver-are they all for me?”

“For you and nobody else, as the horse which paws the ground is mine, and the other horse, which is caracoling, belongs to Athos.”

Peste! They are three superb animals!”

“I am glad they please you.”

“Why, it must have been the king who made you such a present.”

“Certainly it was not the cardinal; but don’t trouble yourself whence they come, think only that one of the three is your property.”

“I choose that which the red-headed boy is leading.”

“It is yours!”

Vive Dieu! That is enough to drive away all my pains; I could mount him with thirty balls in my body. On my soul, handsome stirrups! Hola, Bazin, come here this minute.”

Bazin appeared on the threshold, dull and spiritless.

“Furbish my sword, put my hat to rights, brush my cloak, and load my pistols!” said Aramis.

“That last order is useless,” interrupted D’Artagnan; “there are loaded pistols in your holsters.”

Bazin sighed.

“Come, Monsieur Bazin, make yourself easy,” said D’Artagnan; “people of all conditions gain the kingdom of heaven.”

“Monsieur was already such a good theologian,” said Bazin, almost weeping; “he might have become a bishop, and perhaps a cardinal.”

“Well, but my poor Bazin, reflect a little. Of what use is it to be a churchman, pray? You do not avoid going to war by that means; you see, the cardinal is about to make the next campaign, helm on head and partisan in hand. And Monsieur de Nogaret de la Valette, what do you say of him? He is a cardinal likewise. Ask his lackey how often he has had to prepare lint of him.”

“Alas!” sighed Bazin. “I know it, monsieur; everything is turned topsy-turvy in the world nowadays.”

While this dialogue was going on, the two young men and the poor lackey descended.

“Hold my stirrup, Bazin,” cried Aramis; and Aramis sprang into the saddle with his usual grace and agility, but after a few vaults and curvets of the noble animal his rider felt his pains come on so insupportably that he turned pale and became unsteady in his seat. D’Artagnan, who, foreseeing such an event, had kept his eye on him, sprang toward him, caught him in his arms, and assisted him to his chamber.

“That’s all right, my dear Aramis, take care of yourself,” said he; “I will go alone in search of Athos.”

“You are a man of brass,” replied Aramis.

“No, I have good luck, that is all. But how do you mean to pass your time till I come back? No more theses, no more glosses upon the fingers or upon benedictions, hey?”

Aramis smiled. “I will make verses,” said he.

“Yes, I dare say; verses perfumed with the odor of the billet from the attendant of Madame de Chevreuse. Teach Bazin prosody; that will console him. As to the horse, ride him a little every day, and that will accustom you to his maneuvers.”

“Oh, make yourself easy on that head,” replied Aramis. “You will find me ready to follow you.”

They took leave of each other, and in ten minutes, after having commended his friend to the cares of the hostess and Bazin, D’Artagnan was trotting along in the direction of Ameins.

How was he going to find Athos? Should he find him at all? The position in which he had left him was critical. He probably had succumbed. This idea, while darkening his brow, drew several sighs from him, and caused him to formulate to himself a few vows of vengeance. Of all his friends, Athos was the eldest, and the least resembling him in appearance, in his tastes and sympathies.

Yet he entertained a marked preference for this gentleman. The noble and distinguished air of Athos, those flashes of greatness which from time to time broke out from the shade in which he voluntarily kept himself, that unalterable equality of temper which made him the most pleasant companion in the world, that forced and cynical gaiety, that bravery which might have been termed blind if it had not been the result of the rarest coolness-such qualities attracted more than the esteem, more than the friendship of D’Artagnan; they attracted his admiration.

Indeed, when placed beside M. de Tréville, the elegant and noble courtier, Athos in his most cheerful days might advantageously sustain a comparison. He was of middle height; but his person was so admirably shaped and so well proportioned that more than once in his struggles with Porthos he had overcome the giant whose physical strength was proverbial among the Musketeers. His head, with piercing eyes, a straight nose, a chim cut like that of Brutus, had altogether an indefinable character of grandeur and grace. His hands, of which he took little care, were the despair of Aramis, who cultivated his with almond paste and perfumed oil. The sound of his voice was at once penetrating and melodious; and then, that which was inconceivable in Athos, who was always retiring, was that delicate knowledge of the world and of the usages of the most brilliant society-those manners of a high degree which appeared, as if unconsciously to himself, in his least actions.

If a repast were on foot, Athos presided over it better than any other, placing every guest exactly in the rank which his ancestors had earned for him or that he had made for himself. If a question in heraldry were started, Athos knew all the noble families of the kingdom, their genealogy, their alliances, their coats of arms, and the origin of them. Etiquette had no minutiae unknown to him. He knew what were the rights of the great land owners. He was profoundly versed in hunting and falconry, and had one day when conversing on this great art astonished even Louis XIII himself, who took a pride in being considered a past master therein.

Like all the great nobles of that period, Athos rode and fenced to perfection. But still further, his education had been so little neglected, even with respect to scholastic studies, so rare at this time among gentlemen, that he smiled at the scraps of Latin which Aramis sported and which Porthos pretended to understand. Two or three times, even, to the great astonishment of his friends, he had, when Aramis allowed some rudimental error to escape him, replaced a verb in its right tense and a noun in its case. Besides, his probity was irreproachable, in an age in which soldiers compromised so easily with their religion and their consciences, lovers with the rigorous delicacy of our era, and the poor with God’s Seventh Commandment. This Athos, then, was a very extraordinary man.

And yet this nature so distinguished, this creature so beautiful, this essence so fine, was seen to turn insensibly toward material like, as old men turn toward physical and moral imbecility. Athos, in his hours of gloom-and these hours were frequent-was extinguished as to the whole of the luminous portion of him, and his brilliant side disappeared as into profound darkness.

Then the demigod vanished; he remained scarcely a man. His head hanging down, his eye dull, his speech slow and painful, Athos would look for hours together at his bottle, his glass, or at Grimaud, who, accustomed to obey him by signs, read in the faint glance of his master his least desire, and satisfied it immediately. If the four friends were assembled at one of these moments, a word, thrown forth occasionally with a violent effort, was the share Athos furnished to the conversation. In exchange for his silence Athos drank enough for four, and without appearing to be otherwise affected by wine than by a more marked constriction of the brow and by a deeper sadness.

D’Artagnan, whose inquiring disposition we are acquainted with, had not-whatever interest he had in satisfying his curiosity on this subject-been able to assign any cause for these fits of for the periods of their recurrence. Athos never received any letters; Athos never had concerns which all his friends did not know.

It could not be said that it was wine which produced this sadness; for in truth he only drank to combat this sadness, which wine however, as we have said, rendered still darker. This excess of bilious humor could not be attributed to play; for unlike Porthos, who accompanied the variations of chance with songs or oaths, Athos when he won remained as unmoved as when he lost. He had been known, in the circle of the Musketeers, to win in one night three thousand pistoles; to lose them even to the gold-embroidered belt for gala days, win all this again with the addition of a hundred louis, without his beautiful eyebrow being heightened or lowered half a line, without his hands losing their pearly hue, without his conversation, which was cheerful that evening, ceasing to be calm and agreeable.

Neither was it, as with our neighbors, the English, an atmospheric influence which darkened his countenance; for the sadness generally became more intense toward the fine season of the year. June and July were the terrible months with Athos.

For the present he had no anxiety. He shrugged his shoulders when people spoke of the feature. His secret, then, was in the past, as had often been vaguely said to D’Artagnan.

This mysterious shade, spread over his whole person, rendered still more interesting the man whose eyes or mouth, even in the most complete intoxication, had never revealed anything, however skillfully questions had been put to him.

“Well,” thought D’Artagnan, “poor Athos is perhaps at this moment dead, and dead by my fault-for it was I who dragged him into this affair, of which he did not know the origin, of which he is ignorant of the result, and from which he can derive no advantage.”

“Without reckoning, monsieur,” added Planchet to his master’s audibly expressed reflections, “that we perhaps owe our lives to him. Do you remember how he cried, ‘On, D’Artagnan, on, I am taken’? And when he had discharged his two pistols, what a terrible noise he made with his sword! One might have said that twenty men, or rather twenty mad devils, were fighting.”

These words redoubled the eagerness of D’Artagnan, who urged his horse, though he stood in need of no incitement, and they proceeded at a rapid pace. About eleven o’clock in the morning they perceived Ameins, and at half past eleven they were at the door of the cursed inn.

D’Artagnan had often meditated against the perfidious host one of those hearty vengeances which offer consolation while they are hoped for. He entered the hostelry with his hat pulled over his eyes, his left hand on the pommel of the sword, and cracking his whip with his right hand.

“Do you remember me?” said he to the host, who advanced to greet him.

“I have not that honor, monseigneur,” replied the latter, his eyes dazzled by the brilliant style in which D’Artagnan traveled.

“What, you don’t know me?”

“No, monseigneur.”

“Well, two words will refresh your memory. What have you done with that gentleman against whom you had the audacity, about twelve days ago, to make an accusation of passing false money?”

The host became as pale as death; for D’Artagnan had assumed a threatening attitude, and Planchet modeled himself after his master.

“Ah, monseigneur, do not mention it!” cried the host, in the most pitiable voice imaginable. “Ah, monseigneur, how dearly have I paid for that fault, unhappy wretch as I am!”

“That gentleman, I say, what has become of him?”

“Deign to listen to me, monseigneur, and be merciful! Sit down, in mercy!”

D’Artagnan, mute with anger and anxiety, took a seat in the threatening attitude of a judge. Planchet glared fiercely over the back of his armchair.

“Here is the story, monseigneur,” resumed the trembling host; “for I now recollect you. It was you who rode off at the moment I had that unfortunate difference with the gentleman you speak of.”

“Yes, it was I; so you may plainly perceive that you have no mercy to expect of you do not tell me the whole truth.”

“Condescend to listen to me, and you shall know all.”

“I listen.”

“I had been warned by the authorities that a celebrated coiner of bad money would arrive at my inn, with several of his companions, all disguised as Guards or Musketeers. Monseigneur, I was furnished with a description of your horses, your lackeys, your countenances-nothing was omitted.”

“Go on, go on!” said D’Artagnan, who quickly understood whence such an exact description had come.

“I took then, in conformity with the orders of the authorities, who sent me a reinforcement of six men, such measures as I thought necessary to get possession of the persons of the pretended coiners.”

“Again!” said D’Artagnan, whose ears chafed terribly under the repetition of this word coiners.

“Pardon me, monseigneur, for saying such things, but they form my excuse. The authorities had terrified me, and you know that an innkeeper must keep on good terms with the authorities.”

“But once again, that gentleman-where is he? What has become of him? Is he dead? Is he living?”

“Patience, monseigneur, we are coming to it. There happened then that which you know, and of which your precipitate departure,” added the host, with an acuteness that did not escape D’Artagnan, “appeared to authorize the issue. That gentleman, your friend, defended himself desperately. His lackey, who, by an unforeseen piece of ill luck, had quarreled with the officers, disguised as stable lads-”

“Miserable scoundrel!” cried D’Artagnan, “you were all in the plot, then! And I really don’t know what prevents me from exterminating you all.”

“Alas, monseigneur, we were not in the plot, as you will soon see. Monsieur your friend (pardon for not calling him by the honorable name which no doubt he bears, but we do not know that name), Monsieur your friend, having disabled two men with his pistols, retreated fighting with his sword, with which he disable one of my men, and stunned me with a blow of the flat side of it.”

“You villian, will you finish?” cried D’Artagnan, “Athos-what has become of Athos?”

“While fighting and retreating, as I have told Monseigneur, he found the door of the cellar stairs behind him, and as the door was open, he took out the key, and barricaded himself inside. As we were sure of finding him there, we left him alone.”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “you did not really wish to kill; you only wished to imprison him.”

“Good God! To imprison him, monseigneur? Why, he imprisoned himself, I swear to you he did. In the first place he had made rough work of it; one man was killed on the spot, and two others were severely wounded. The dead man and the two wounded were carried off by their comrades, and I have heard nothing of either of them since. As for myself, as soon as I recovered my senses I went to Monsieur the Governor, to whom I related all that had passed, and asked, what I should do with my prisoner. Monsieur the Governor was all astonishment. He told me he knew nothing about the matter, that the orders I had received did not come from him, and that if I had the audacity to mention his name as being concerned in this disturbance he would have me hanged. It appears that I had made a mistake, monsieur, that I had arrested the wrong person, and that he whom I ought to have arrested had escaped.”

“But Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, whose impatience was increased by the disregard of the authorities, “Athos, where is he?”

“As I was anxious to repair the wrongs I had done the prisoner,” resumed the innkeeper, “I took my way straight to the cellar in order to set him at liberty. Ah, monsieur, he was no longer a man, he was a devil! To my offer of liberty, he replied that it was nothing but a snare, and that before he came out he intended to impose his own conditions. I told him very humbly-for I could not conceal from myself the scrape I had got into by laying hands on one of his Majesty’s Musketeers-I told him I was quite ready to submit to his conditions.

“‘In the first place,’ said he, ‘I wish my lackey placed with me, fully armed.’ We hastened to obey this order; for you will please to understand, monsieur, we were disposed to do everything your friend could desire. Monsieur Grimaud (he told us his name, although he does not talk much)-Monsieur Grimaud, then, went down to the cellar, wounded as he was; then his master, having admitted him, barricaded the door afresh, and ordered us to remain quietly in our own bar.”

“But where is Athos now?” cried D’Artagnan. “Where is Athos?”

“In the cellar, monsieur.”

“What, you scoundrel! Have you kept him in the cellar all this time?”

“Merciful heaven! No, monsieur! We keep him in the cellar! You do not know what he is about in the cellar. Ah! If you could but persuade him to come out, monsieur, I should owe you the gratitude of my whole life; I should adore you as my patron saint!”

“Then he is there? I shall find him there?”

“Without doubt you will, monsieur; he persists in remaining there. We every day pass through the air hole some bread at the end of a fork, and some meat when he asks for it; but alas! It is not of bread and meat of which he makes the greatest consumption. I once endeavored to go down with two of my servants; but he flew into terrible rage. I heard the noise he made in loading his pistols, and his servant in loading his musketoon. Then, when we asked them what were their intentions, the master replied that he had forty charges to fire, and that he and his lackey would fire to the last one before he would allow a single soul of us to set foot in the cellar. Upon this I went and complained to the governor, who replied that I only had what I deserved, and that it would teach me to insult honorable gentlemen who took up their abode in my house.”

“So that since that time-” replied D’Artagnan, totally unable to refrain from laughing at the pitiable face of the host.

“So from that time, monsieur,” continued the latter, “we have led the most miserable life imaginable; for you must know, monsieur, that all our provisions are in the cellar. There is our wine in bottles, and our wine in casks; the beer, the oil, and the spices, the bacon, and sausages. And as we are prevented from going down there, we are forced to refuse food and drink to the travelers who come to the house; so that our hostelry is daily going to ruin. If your friend remains another week in my cellar I shall be a ruined man.”

“And not more than justice, either, you ass! Could you not perceive by our appearance that we were people of quality, and not coiners-say?”

“Yes, monsieur, you are right,” said the host. “But, hark, hark! There he is!”

“Somebody has disturbed him, without doubt,” said D’Artagnan.

“But he must be disturbed,” cried the host; “Here are two English gentlemen just arrived.”

“Well?”

“Well, the English like good wine, as you may know, monsieur; these have asked for the best. My wife has perhaps requested permission of Monsieur Athos to go into the cellar to satisfy these gentlemen; and he, as usual, has refused. Ah, good heaven! There is the hullabaloo louder than ever!”

D’Artagnan, in fact, heard a great noise on the side next the cellar. He rose, and preceded by the host wringing his hands, and followed by Planchet with his musketoon ready for use, he approached the scene of action.

The two gentlemen were exasperated; they had had a long ride, and were dying with hunger and thirst.

“But this is tyranny!” cried one of them, in very good French, though with a foreign accent, “that this madman will not allow these good people access to their own wine! Nonsense, let us break open the door, and if he is too far gone in his madness, well, we will kill him!”

“Softly, gentlemen!” said D’Artagnan, drawing his pistols from his belt, “you will kill nobody, if you please!”

“Good, good!” cried the calm voice of Athos, from the other side of the door, “let them just come in, these devourers of little children, and we shall see!”

Brave as they appeared to be, the two English gentlemen looked at each other hesitatingly. One might have thought there was in that cellar one of those famished ogres--the gigantic heroes of popular legends, into whose cavern nobody could force their way with impunity.

There was a moment of silence; but at length the two Englishmen felt ashamed to draw back, and the angrier one descended the five or six steps which led to the cellar, and gave a kick against the door enough to split a wall.

“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, cocking his pistols, “I will take charge of the one at the top; you look to the one below. Ah, gentlemen, you want battle; and you shall have it.”

“Good God!” cried the hollow voice of Athos, “I can hear D’Artagnan, I think.”

“Yes,” cried D’Artagnan, raising his voice in turn, “I am here, my friend.”

“Ah, good, then,” replied Athos, “we will teach them, these door breakers!”

The gentlemen had drawn their swords, but they found themselves taken between two fires. They still hesitated an instant; but, as before, pride prevailed, and a second kick split the door from bottom to top.

“Stand on one side, D’Artagnan, stand on one side,” cried Athos. “I am going to fire!”

“Gentlemen,” exclaimed D’Artagnan, whom reflection never abandoned, “gentlemen, think of what you are about. Patience, Athos! You are running your heads into a very silly affair; you will be riddled. My lackey and I will have three shots at you, and you will get as many from the cellar. You will then have out swords, with which, I can assure you, my friend and I can play tolerably well. Let me conduct your business and my own. You shall soon have something to drink; I give you my word.”

“If there is any left,” grumbled the jeering voice of Athos.

The host felt a cold sweat creep down his back.

“How! ‘If there is any left!” murmured he.

“What the devil! There must be plenty left,” replied D’Artagnan. “Be satisfied of that; these two cannot have drunk all the cellar. Gentlemen, return your swords to their scabbards.”

“Well, provided you replace your pistols in your belt.”

“Willingly.”

And D’Artagnan set the example. Then, turning toward Planchet, he made him a sign to uncock his musketoon.

The Englishmen, convinced of these peaceful proceedings, sheathed their swords grumblingly. The history of Athos’s imprisonment was then related to them; and as they were really gentlemen, they pronounced the host in the wrong.

“Now, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “go up to your room again; and in ten minutes, I will answer for it, you shall have all you desire.”

The Englishmen bowed and went upstairs.

“Now I am alone, my dear Athos,” said D’Artagnan; “open the door, I beg of you.”

“Instantly,” said Athos.

Then was heard a great noise of fagots being removed and of the groaning of posts; these were the counterscarps and bastions of Athos, which the besieged himself demolished.

An instant after, the broken door was removed, and the pale face of Athos appeared, who with a rapid glance took a survey of the surroundings.

D’Artagnan threw himself on his neck and embraced him tenderly. He then tried to draw him from his moist abode, but to his surprise he perceived that Athos staggered.

“You are wounded,” said he.

“I! Not at all. I am dead drunk, that’s all, and never did a man more strongly set about getting so. By the Lord, my good host! I must at least have drunk for my part a hundred and fifty bottles.”

“Mercy!” cried the host, “if the lackey has drunk only half as much as the master, I am a ruined man.”

“Grimaud is a well-bred lackey. He would never think of faring in the same manner as his master; he only drank from the cask. Hark! I don’t think he put the faucet in again. Do you hear it? It is running now.”

D’Artagnan burst into a laugh which changed the shiver of the host into a burning fever.

In the meantime, Grimaud appeared in his turn behind his master, with the musketoon on his shoulder, and his head shaking. Like one of those drunken satyrs in the pictures of Rubens. He was moistened before and behind with a greasy liquid which the host recognized as his best olive oil.

The four crossed the public room and proceeded to take possession of the best apartment in the house, which D’Artagnan occupied with authority.

In the meantime the host and his wife hurried down with lamps into the cellar, which had so long been interdicted to them and where a frightful spectacle awaited them.

Beyond the fortifications through which Athos had made a breach in order to get out, and which were composed of fagots, planks, and empty casks, heaped up according to all the rules of the strategic art, they found, swimming in puddles of oil and wine, the bones and fragments of all the hams they had eaten; while a heap of broken bottles filled the whole left-hand corner of the cellar, and a tun, the cock of which was left running, was yielding, by this means, the last drop of its blood. “The image of devastation and death,” as the ancient poet says, “reigned as over a field of battle.”

Of fifty large sausages, suspended from the joists, scarcely ten remained.

Then the lamentations of the host and hostess pierced the vault of the cellar. D’Artagnan himself was moved by them. Athos did not even turn his head.

To grief succeeded rage. The host armed himself with a spit, and rushed into the chamber occupied by the two friends.

“Some wine!” said Athos, on perceiving the host.

“Some wine!” cried the stupefied host, “some wine? Why you have drunk more than a hundred pistoles’ worth! I am a ruined man, lost, destroyed!”

“Bah,” said Athos, “we were always dry.”

“If you had been contented with drinking, well and good; but you have broken all the bottles.”

“You pushed me upon a heap which rolled down. That was your fault.”

“All my oil is lost!”

“Oil is a sovereign balm for wounds; and my poor Grimaud here was obliged to dress those you had inflicted on him.”

“All my sausages are gnawed!”

“There is an enormous quantity of rats in that cellar.”

“You shall pay me for all this,” cried the exasperated host.

“Triple ass!” said Athos, rising; but he sank down again immediately. He had tried his strength to the utmost. D’Artagnan came to his relief with his whip in his hand.

The host drew back and burst into tears.

“This will teach you,” said D’Artagnan, “to treat the guests God sends you in a more courteous fashion.”

“God? Say the devil!”

“My dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, “if you annoy us in this manner we will all four go and shut ourselves up in your cellar, and we will see if the mischief is as great as you say.”

“Oh, gentlemen,” said the host, “I have been wrong. I confess it, but pardon to every sin! You are gentlemen, and I am a poor innkeeper. You will have pity on me.”

“Ah, if you speak in that way,” said Athos, “you will break my heart, and the tears will flow from my eyes as the wine flowed from the cask. We are not such devils as we appear to be. Come hither, and let us talk.”

The host approached with hesitation.

“Come hither, I say, and don’t be afraid,” continued Athos. “At the very moment when I was about to pay you, I had placed my purse on the table.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“That purse contained sixty pistoles; where is it?”

“Deposited with the justice; they said it was bad money.”

“Very well; get me my purse back and keep the sixty pistoles.”

“But Monseigneur knows very well that justice never lets go that which it once lays hold of. If it were bad money, there might be some hopes; but unfortunately, those were all good pieces.”

“Manage the matter as well as you can, my good man; it does not concern me, the more so as I have not a livre left.”

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “let us inquire further. Athos’s horse, where is that?”

“In the stable.”

“How much is it worth?”

“Fifty pistoles at most.”

“It’s worth eighty. Take it, and there ends the matter.”

“What,” cried Athos, “are you selling my horse--my Bajazet? And pray upon what shall I make my campaign; upon Grimaud?”

“I have brought you another,” said D’Artagnan.

“Another?”

“And a magnificent one!” cried the host.

“Well, since there is another finer and younger, why, you may take the old one; and let us drink.”

“What?” asked the host, quite cheerful again.

“Some of that at the bottom, near the laths. There are twenty-five bottles of it left; all the rest were broken by my fall. Bring six of them.”

“Why, this man is a cask!” said the host, aside. “If he only remains here a fortnight, and pays for what he drinks, I shall soon re-establish my business.”

“And don’t forget,” said D’Artagnan, “to bring up four bottles of the same sort for the two English gentlemen.”

“And now,” said Athos, “while they bring the wine, tell me, D’Artagnan, what has become of the others, come!”

D’Artagnan related how he had found Porthos in bed with a strained knee, and Aramis at a table between two theologians. As he finished, the host entered with the wine ordered and a ham which, fortunately for him, had been left out of the cellar.

“That’s well!” said Athos, filling his glass and that of his friend; “here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But you, D’Artagnan, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You have a sad air.”

“Alas,” said D’Artagnan, “it is because I am the most unfortunate? Tell me.”

“Presently,” said D’Artagnan.

“Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk? D’Artagnan, remember this! My ideas are never so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then, I am all ears.”

D’Artagnan related his adventure with Mme. Bonacieux. Athos listened to him without a frown; and when he had finished, said, “Trifles, only trifles!” That was his favorite word.

“You always say trifles, my dear Athos!” said D’Artagnan, “and that come very ill from you, who have never loved.”

The drink-deadened eye of Athos flashed out, but only for a moment; it became as dull and vacant as before.

“That’s true,” said he, quietly, “for my part I have never loved.”

“Acknowledge, then, you stony heart,” said D’Artagnan, “that you are wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts.”

“Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!” said Athos.

“What do you say?”

“I say that love is a lottery in which he who wins, wins death! You are very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear D’Artagnan. And if I have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!”

“She seemed to love me so!”

“She seemed, did she?”

“Oh, she did love me!”

“You child, why, there is not a man who has not believed, as you do, that his mistress loved him, and there lives not a man who has not been deceived by his mistress.”

“Except you, Athos, who never had one.”

“That’s true,” said Athos, after a moment’s silence, “that’s true! I never had one! Let us drink!”

“But then, philosopher that you are,” said D’Artagnan, “instruct me, support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled.”

“Consoled for what?”

“For my misfortune.”

“Your misfortune is laughable,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “I should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to you a real tale of love!”

“Which has happened to you?”

“Or one of my friends, what matters?”

“Tell it, Athos, tell it.”

“Better if I drink.”

“Drink and relate, then.”

“Not a bad idea!” said Athos, emptying and refilling his glass. “The two things agree marvelously well.”

“I am all attention,” said D’Artagnan.

Athos collected himself, and in proportion as he did so, D’Artagnan saw that he became pale. He was at that period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall and sleep. He kept himself upright and dreamed, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness had something frightful in it.

“You particularly wish it?” asked he.

“I pray for it,” said D’Artagnan.

“Be it then as you desire. One of my friends--one of my friends, please to observe, not myself,” said Athos, interrupting himself with a melancholy smile, “one of the counts of my province--that is to say, of Berry--noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, at twenty-five years of age fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as fancy can paint. Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, not of the woman, but of the poet. She did not please; she intoxicated. She lived in a small town with her brother, who was a curate. Both had recently come into the country. They came nobody knew whence; but when seeing her so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody thought of asking whence they came. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who was seigneur of the country, might have seduced her, or taken her by force, at his will--for he was master. Who would have come to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately he was an honorable man; he married her. The fool! The ass! The idiot!”

“How so, if he love her?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Wait,” said Athos. “He took her to his château, and made her the first lady in the province; and in justice it must be allowed that she supported her rank becomingly.”

“Well?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Well, one day when she was hunting with her husband,” continued Athos, in a low voice, and speaking very quickly,” she fell from her horse and fainted. The count flew to her to help, and as she appeared to be oppressed by her clothes, he ripped them open with his poinard, and in so doing laid bare her shoulder. D’Artagnan,” said Athos, with a maniacal burst of laughter, “guess what she had on her shoulder.”

“How can I tell?” said D’Artagnan.

“A fleur-de-lis,” said Athos. “She was branded.”

Athos emptied at a single draught the glass he held in his hand.

“Horror!” cried D’Artagnan. “What do you tell me?”

“Truth, my friend. The angel was a demon; the poor young girl had stolen the sacred vessels from a church.”

“And what did the count do?”

“The count was of the highest nobility. He had on his estates the rights of high and low tribunals. He tore the dress of the countess to pieces; he tied her hands behind her, and hanged her on a tree.”

“Heavens, Athos, a murder?” cried D’Artagnan.

“No less,” said Athos, as pale as a corpse. “But methinks I need wine!” and he seized by the neck the last bottle that was left, put it to his mouth, and emptied it at a single draught, as he would have emptied an ordinary glass.

Then he let his head sink upon his two hands, while D’Artagnan stood before him, stupefied.

“That has cured me of beautiful, poetical, and loving women,” said Athos, after a considerable pause, raising his head, and forgetting to continue the fiction of the count. “God grant you as much! Let us drink.”

“Then she is dead?” stammered D’Artagnan.

Parbleu!” said Athos. “But hold out your glass. Some ham, my boy, or we can’t drink.”

“And her brother?” added D’Artagnan, timidly.

“Her brother?” replied Athos.

“Yes, the priest.”

“Oh, I inquired after him for the purpose of hanging him likewise; but he was beforehand with me, he had quit the curacy the night before.”

“Was it ever known who this miserable fellow was?”

“He was doubtless the first lover and accomplice of the fair lady. A worthy man, who had pretended to be a curate for the purpose of getting his mistress married, and securing her a position. He has been hanged and quartered, I hope.”

“My God, my God!” cried D’Artagnan, quite stunned by the relation of this horrible adventure.

“Taste some of this ham, D’Artagnan; it is exquisite,” said Athos, cutting a slice, which he placed on the young man’s plate.

“What a pity it is there were only four like this in the cellar. I could have drunk fifty bottles more.”

D’Artagnan could no longer endure this conversation, which had made him bewildered. Allowing his head to sink upon his two hands, he pretended to sleep.

“These young fellows can none of them drink,” said Athos, looking at him with pity, “and yet this is one of the best!”

The Return

D’Artagnan was astounded by the terrible confidence of Athos; yet many things appeared very obscure to him in this half revelation. In the first place it had been made by a man quite drunk to one who was half drunk; and yet, in spite of the incertainty which the vapor of three or four bottles of Burgundy carries with it to the brain, D’Artagnan, when awaking on the following morning, had all the words of Athos as present to his memory as if they then fell from his mouth--they had been so impressed upon his mind. All this doubt only gave rise to a more lively desire of arriving at a certainty, and he went into his friend’s chamber with a fixed determination of renewing the conversation of the preceding evening; but he found Athos quite himself again--that is to say, the most shrewd and impenetrable of men. Besides which, the Musketeer, after having exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with him, broached the matter first.

“I was pretty drunk yesterday, D’Artagnan,” said he, “I can tell that by my tongue, which was swollen and hot this morning, and by my pulse, which was very tremulous. I wager that I uttered a thousand extravagances.”

While saying this he looked at his friend with an earnestness that embarrassed him.

“No,” replied D’Artagnan, “if I recollect well what you said, it was nothing out of the common way.”

“Ah, you surprise me. I thought I had told you a most lamentable story.” And he looked at the young man as if he would read the bottom of his heart.

“My faith,” said D’Artagnan, “it appears that I was more drunk than you, since I remember nothing of the kind.”

Athos did not trust this reply, and he resumed; “you cannot have failed to remark, my dear friend, that everyone has his particular kind of drunkenness, sad or gay. My drunkenness is always sad, and when I am thoroughly drunk my mania is to relate all the lugubrious stories which my foolish nurse inculcated into my brain. That is my failing--a capital failing, I admit; but with that exception, I am a good drinker.”

Athos spoke this in so natural a manner that D’Artagnan was shaken in his conviction.

“It is that, then,” replied the young man, anxious to find out the truth, “it is that, then, I remember as we remember a dream. We were speaking of hanging.”

“Ah, you see how it is,” said Athos, becoming still paler, but yet attempting to laugh; “I was sure it was so--the hanging of people is my nightmare.”

“Yes, yes,” replied D’Artagnan. “I remember now; yes, it was about--stop a minute--yes, it was about a woman.”

“That’s it,” replied Athos, becoming almost livid; “that is my grand story of the fair lady, and when I relate that, I must be very drunk.”

“Yes, that was it,” said D’Artagnan, “the story of a tall, fair lady, with blue eyes.”

“Yes, who was hanged.”

“By her husband, who was a nobleman of your acquaintance,” continued D’Artagnan, looking intently at Athos.

“Well, you see how a man may compromise himself when he does not know what he says,” replied Athos, shrugging his shoulders as if he thought himself an object of pity. “I certainly never will get drunk again, D’Artagnan; it is too bad a habit.”

D’Artagnan remained silent; and then changing the conversation all at once, Athos said:

“By the by, I thank you for the horse you have brought me.”

“Is it to your mind?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Yes; but it is not a horse for hard work.”

“You are mistaken; I rode him nearly ten leagues in less than an hour and a half, and he appeared no more distressed than if he had only made the tour of the Place St. Sulpice.”

“Ah, you begin to awaken my regret.”

“Regret?”

“Yes; I have parted with him.”

“How?”

“Why, here is the simple fact. This morning I awoke at six o’clock. You were still fast asleep, and I did not know what to do with myself; I was still stupid from our yesterday’s debauch. As I came into the public room, I saw one of our Englishman bargaining with a dealer for a horse, his own having died yesterday from bleeding. I drew near, and found he was bidding a hundred pistoles for a chestnut nag. ‘Pardieu,’ said I, ‘my good gentleman, I have a horse to sell, too.’ ‘Ay, and a very fine one! I saw him yesterday; your friend’s lackey was leading him.’ ‘Do you think he is worth a hundred pistoles?’ ‘Yes! Will you sell him to me for that sum?’ ‘No; but I will play for him.’ ‘What?’ ‘At dice.’ No sooner said than done, and I lost the horse. Ah, ah! But please to observe I won back the equipage,’ cried Athos.

D’Artagnan looked much disconcerted.

“This vexes you?” said Athos.

“Well, I must confess it does,” replied D’Artagnan. “That horse was to have identified us in the day of battle. It was a pledge, a remembrance. Athos, you have done wrong.”

“But, my dear friend, put yourself in my place,” replied the Musketeer. “I was hipped to death; and still further, upon my honor, I don’t like English horses. If it is only to be recognized, why the saddle will suffice for that; it is quite remarkable enough. As to the horse, we can easily find some excuse for its disappearance. Why the devil! A horse is mortal; suppose mine had had the glanders or the farcy?”

D’Artagnan did not smile.

“It vexes me greatly,” continued Athos, “that you attach so much importance to these animals, for I am not yet at the end of my story.”

“What else have you done.”

“After having lost my own horse, nine against ten--see how near-- I formed an idea of staking yours.”

“Yes; but you stopped at the idea, I hope?”

“No; for I put it in execution that very minute.”

“And the consequence?” said D’Artagnan, in great anxiety.

“I threw, and I lost.”

“What, my horse?”

“Your horse, seven against eight; a point short--you know the proverb.”

“Athos, you are not in your right senses, I swear.”

“My dear lad, that was yesterday, when I was telling you silly stories, it was proper to tell me that, and not this morning. I lost him then, with all his appointments and furniture.”

“Really, this is frightful.”

“Stop a minute; you don’t know all yet. I should make an excellent gambler if I were not too hot-headed; but I was hot- headed, just as if I had been drinking. Well, I was not hot- headed then--”

“Well, but what else could you play for? You had nothing left?”

‘Oh, yes, my friend; there was still that diamond left which sparkles on your finger, and which I had observed yesterday.”

“This diamond!” said D’Artagnan, placing his hand eagerly on his ring.

“And as I am a connoisseur in such things, having had a few of my own once, I estimated it at a thousand pistoles.”

“I hope,” said D’Artagnan, half dead with fright, “you made no mention of my diamond?”

“On the contrary, my dear friend, this diamond became our only resource; with it I might regain our horses and their harnesses, and even money to pay our expenses on the road.”

“Athos, you make me tremble!” cried D’Artagnan.

“I mentioned your diamond then to my adversary, who had likewise remarked it. What the devil, my dear, do you think you can wear a star from heaven on your finger, and nobody observe it? Impossible!”

“Go on, go on, my dear fellow!” said D’Artagnan; “for upon my honor, you will kill me with your indifference.”

“We divided, then, this diamond into ten parts of a hundred pistoles each.”

“You are laughing at me, and want to try me!” said D’Artagnan, whom anger began to take by the hair, as Minerva takes Achilles, in the illiad.

“No, I do not jest, mordieu! I should like to have seen you in my place! I had been fifteen days without seeing a human face, and had been left to brutalize myself in the company of bottles.”

“That was no reason for staking my diamond!” replied D’Artagnan, closing his hand with a nervous spasm.

“Hear the end. Ten parts of a hundred pistoles each, in ten throws, without revenge; in thirteen throws I had lost all--in thirteen throws. The number thirteen was always fatal to me; it was on the thirteenth of July that--”

Ventrebleu!” cried D’Artagnan, rising from the table, the story of the present day making him forget that of the preceding one.

“Patience!” said Athos; “I had a plan. The Englishman was an original; I had seen him conversing that morning with Grimaud, and Grimaud had told me that he had made him proposals to enter into his service. I staked Grimaud, the silent Grimaud, divided into ten portions.”

“Well, what next?” said D’Artagnan, laughing in spite of himself.

“Grimaud himself, understand; and with the ten parts of Grimaud, which are not worth a ducatoon, I regained the diamond. Tell me, now, if persistence is not a virtue?”

“My faith! But this is droll,” cried D’Artagnan, consoled, and holding his sides with laughter.

“You may guess, finding the luck turned, that I again staked the diamond.”

“The devil!” said D’Artagnan, becoming angry again.

“I won back your harness, then your horse, then my harness, then my horse, and then I lost again. In brief, I regained your harness and then mine. That’s where we are. That was a superb throw, so I left off there.”

D’Artagnan breathed as if the whole hostelry had been removed from his breast.

“Then the diamond is safe?” said he, timidly.

“Intact, my dear friend; besides the harness of your Bucephalus and mine.”

“But what is the use of harnesses without horses?”

“I have an idea about them.”

“Athos, you make me shudder.”

“Listen to me. You have not played for a long time, D’Artagnan.”

“And I have no inclination to play.”

“Swear to nothing. You have not played for a long time, I said; you ought, then, to have a good hand.”

“Well, what then?”

“Well; the Englishman and his companion are still here. I remarked that he regretted the horse furniture very much. You appear to think much of your horse. In your place I would stake the furniture against the horse.”

“But he will not wish for only one harness.”

“Stake both, pardieu! I am not selfish, as you are.”

“You would do so?” said D’Artagnan, undecided, so strongly did the confidence of Athos begin to prevail, in spite of himself.

“On my honor, in one single throw.”

“But having lost the horses, I am particularly anxious to preserve the harnesses.”

“Stake your diamond, then.”

“This? That’s another matter. Never, never!”

“The devil!” said Athos. “I would propose to you to stake Planchet, but as that has already been done, the Englishman would not, perhaps, be willing.”

“Decidedly, my dear Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “I should like better not to risk anything.”

“That’s a pity,” said Athos, cooly. “The Englishman is overflowing with pistoles. Good Lord, try one throw! One throw is soon made!”

“And if I lose?”

“You will win.”

“But if I lose?”

“Well, you will surrender the harnesses.”

“Have with you for one throw!” said D’Artagnan.

Athos went in quest of the Englishman, whom he found in the stable, examining the harnesses with a greedy eye. The opportunity was good. He proposed the conditions--the two harnesses, either against one horse or a hundred pistoles. The Englishman calculated fast; the two harnesses were worth three hundred pistoles. He consented.

D’Artagnan threw the dice with a trembling hand, and turned up the number three; his paleness terrified Athos, who, however, consented himself with saying, “That’s a sad throw, comrade; you will have the horses fully equipped, monsieur.”

The Englishman, quite triumphant, did not even give himself the trouble to shake the dice. He threw them on the table without looking at them, so sure was he of victory; D’Artagnan turned aside to conceal his ill humor.

“Hold, hold, hold!” said Athos, wit his quiet tone; “that throw of the dice is extraordinary. I have not seen such a one four times in my life. Two aces!”

The Englishman looked, and was seized with astonishment. D’Artagnan looked, and was seized with pleasure.

“Yes,” continued Athos, “four times only; once at the house of Monsieur Créquy; another time at my own house in the country, in my château at--when I had a château; a third time at Monsieur de Tréville’s where it surprised us all; and the fourth time at a cabaret, where it fell to my lot, and where I lost a hundred louis and a supper on it.”

“Then Monsieur takes his horse back again,” said the Englishman.

“Certainly,” said D’Artagnan.

“Then there is no revenge?”

“Our conditions said, ‘No revenge,’ you will please to recollect.”

“That is true; the horse shall be restored to your lackey, monsieur.”

“A moment,” said Athos; “with your permission, monsieur, I wish to speak a word with my friend.”

“Say on.”

Athos drew D’Artagnan aside.

“Well, Tempter, what more do you want with me?” said D’Artagnan. “You want me to throw again, do you not?”

“No, I would wish you to reflect.”

“On what?”

“You mean to take your horse?”

“Without doubt.”

“You are wrong, then. I would take the hundred pistoles. You know you have staked the harnesses against the horse or a hundred pistoles, at your choice.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I repeat, you are wrong. What is the use of one horse for us two? I could not ride behind. We should look like the two sons of Anmon, who had lost their brother. You cannot think of humiliating me by prancing along by my side on that magnificent charger. For my part, I should not hesitate a moment; I should take the hundred pistoles. We want money for our return to Paris.”

“I am much attached to that horse, Athos.”

“And there again you are wrong. A horse slips and injures a joint; a horse stumbles and breaks his knees to the bone; a horse eats out of a manger in which a glandered horse has eaten. There is a horse, while on the contrary, the hundred pistoles feed their master.”

“But how shall we get back?”

“Upon our lackey’s horses, pardieu. Anybody may see by our bearing that we are people of condition.”

“Pretty figures we shall cut on ponies while Aramis and Porthos caracole on their steeds.”

“Aramis! Porthos!” cried Athos, and laughed aloud.

“What is it?” asked D’Artagnan, who did not at all comprehend the hilarity of his friend.

“Nothing, nothing! Go on!”

“Your advice, then?”

“To take the hundred pistoles, D’Artagnan. With the hundred pistoles we can live well to the end of the month. We have undergone a great deal of fatigue, remember, and a little rest will do no harm.”

“I rest? Oh, no, Athos. Once in Paris, I shall prosecute my search for that unfortunate woman!”

“Well, you may be assured that your horse will not be half so serviceable to you for that purpose as good golden louis. Take the hundred pistoles, my friend; take the hundred pistoles!”

D’Artagnan only required one reason to be satisfied. This last reason appeared convincing. Besides, he feared that by resisting longer he should appear selfish in the eyes of Athos. He acquiesced, therefore, and chose the hundred pistoles, which the Englishman paid down on the spot.

They then determined to depart. Peace with the landlord, in addition to Athos’s old horse, cost six pistoles. D’Artagnan and Athos took the nags of Planchet and Grimaud, and the two lackeys started on foot, carrying the saddles on their heads.

However ill our two friends were mounted, they were soon far in advance of their servants, and arrived at Creveccoeur. From a distance they perceived Aramis, seated in a melancholy manner at his window, looking out, like Sister Anne, at the dust in the horizon.

Hola, Aramis! What the devil are you doing there?” cried the two friends.

“Ah, is that you, D’Artagnan, and you, Athos?” said the young man. “I was reflecting upon the rapidity with which the blessings of this world leave us. My English horse, which has just disappeared amid a cloud of dust, has furnished me with a living image of the fragility of the things of the earth. Life itself may be resolved into three words: erat, est, fuit.”

“Which means--” said D’Artagnan, who began to suspect the truth.

“Which means that I have just been duped--sixty louis for a horse which by the manner of his gait can do at least five leagues an hour.”

D’Artagnan and Athos laughed aloud.

“My dear D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “don’t be too angry with me, I beg. Necessity has no law; besides, I am the person punished, as that rascally horsedealer has robbed me of fifty louis, at least. Ah, you fellows are good managers! You ride on our lackey’s horses, and have your own gallant steeds led along carefully by hand, at short stages.”

At the same instant a market cart, which some minutes before had appeared upon the Amiens road, pulled up at the inn, and Planchet and Grimaud came out of it with the saddles on their heads. The cart was returning empty to Paris, and the two lackeys had agreed, for their transport, to slake the wagoner’s thirst along the route.

“What is this?” said Aramis, on seeing them arrive. “Nothing but saddles?”

“Now do you understand?” said Athos.

“My friends, that’s exactly like me! I retained my harness by instinct. Hola, Bazin! Bring my new saddle and carry it along with those of these gentlemen.”

“And what have you done with your ecclesiastics?” asked D’Artagnan.

“My dear fellow, I invited them to a dinner the next day,” replied Aramis. “They have some capital wine here-please to observe that in passing. I did my best to make them drunk. Then the curate forbade me to quit my uniform, and the Jesuit entreated me to get him made a Musketeer.”

“Without a thesis?” cried D’Artagnan, “without a thesis? I demand the suppression of the thesis.”

“Since then,” continued Aramis, “I have lived very agreeably. I have begun a poem in verses of one syllable. That is rather difficult, but the merit in all things consists in the difficulty. The matter is gallant. I will read you the first canto. It has four hundred lines, and lasts a minute.”

“My faith, my dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, who detested verses almost as much as he did Latin, “add to the merit of the difficulty that of the brevity, and you are sure that your poem will at least have two merits.”

“You will see,” continued Aramis, “that it breathes irreproachable passion. And so, my friends, we return to Paris? Bravo! I am ready. We are going to rejoin that good fellow, Porthos. So much the better. You can’t think how I have missed him, the great simpleton. To see him so self-satisfied reconciles me with myself. He would not sell his horse; not for a kingdom! I think I can see him now, mounted upon his superb animal and seated in his handsome saddle. I am sure he will look like the Great Mogul!”

They made a halt for an hour to refresh their horses. Aramis discharged his bill, placed Bazin in the cart with his comrades, and they set forward to join Porthos.

They found him up, less pale than when D’Artagnan left him after his first visit, and seated at a table on which, though he was alone, was spread enough for four persons. This dinner consisted of meats nicely dressed, choice wines, and superb fruit.

“Ah, pardieu!” said he, rising, “you come in the nick of time, gentlemen. I was just beginning the soup, and you will dine with me.”

“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan, “Mousqueton has not caught these bottles with his lasso. Besides, here is a piquant fricandeau and a fillet of beef.”

“I am recruiting myself,” said Porthos, “I am recruiting myself. Nothing weakens a man more than these devilish strains. Did you ever suffer from a strain, Athos?”

“Never! Though I remember, in our affair of the Rue Férue, I received a sword wound which at the end of fifteen or eighteen days produced the same effect.”

“But this dinner was not intended for you alone, Porthos?” said Aramis.

“No,” said Porthos, “I expected some gentlemen of the neighborhood, who have just sent me word they could not come. You will take their places and I shall not lose by the exchange. Hola, Mousqueton, seats, and order double the bottles!”

“Do you know what we are eating here?” said Athos, at the end of ten minutes.

Pardieu!” replied D’Artagnan, “for my part, I am eating veal garnished with shrimps and vegetables.”

“And I some lamb chops,” said Porthos.

“And I a plain chicken,” said Aramis.

“You are all mistaken, gentlemen,” answered Athos, gravely; “you are eating horse.”

“Eating what?” said D’Artagnan.

“Horse!” said Aramis, with a grimace of disgust.

Porthos alone made no reply.

“Yes, horse. Are we not eating a horse, Porthos? And perhaps his saddle, therewith.”

“No, gentlemen, I have kept the harness,” said Porthos.

“My faith,” said Aramis, “we are all alike. One would think we had tipped the wink.”

“What could I do?” said Porthos. “This horse made my visitors ashamed of theirs, and I don’t like to humiliate people.”

“Then your duchess is still at the waters?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Still,” replied Porthos. “And, my faith, the governor of the province--one of the gentlemen I expected today--seemed to have such a wish for him, that I gave him to him.”

“Gave him?” cried D’Artagnan.

“My God, yes, gave, that is the word,” said Porthos; “for the animal was worth at least a hundred and fifty louis, and the stingy fellow would only give me eighty.”

“Without the saddle?” said Aramis.

“Yes, without the saddle.”

“You will observe, gentlemen,” said Athos, “that Porthos has made the best bargain of any of us.”

And then commenced a roar of laughter in which they all joined, to the astonishment of poor Porthos; but when he was informed of the cause of their hilarity, he shared it vociferously according to his custom.

“There is one comfort, we are all in cash,” said D’Artagnan.

“Well, for my part,” said Athos, “I found Aramis’s Spanish wine so good that I sent on a hamper of sixty bottles of it in the wagon with the lackeys. That has weakened my purse.”

“And I,” said Aramis, “imagined that I had given almost my last sou to the church of Montdidier and the Jesuits of Amiens, with whom I had made engagements which I ought to have kept. I have ordered Masses for myself, and for you, gentlemen, which will be said, gentlemen, for which I have not the least doubt you will be marvelously benefited.”

“And I,” said Porthos, “do you think my strain cost me nothing?-- without reckoning Mousqueton’s wound, for which I had to have the surgeon twice a day, and who charged me double on account of that foolish Mousqueton having allowed himself a ball in a part which people generally only show to an apothecary; so I advised him to try never to get wounded there any more.”

“Ay, ay!” said Athos, exchanging a smile with D’Artagnan and Aramis, “it is very clear you acted nobly with regard to the poor lad; that is like a good master.”

“In short,” said Porthos, “when all my expenses are paid, I shall have, at most, thirty crowns left.”

“And I about ten pistoles,” said Aramis.

“Well, then it appears that we are the Croesuses of the society. How much have you left of your hundred pistoles, D’Artagnan.?”

“Of my hundred pistoles? Why, in the first place I gave you fifty.”

“You think so?”

Pardieu!”

“Ah, that is true. I recollect.”

“Then I paid the host six.”

“What a brute of a host! Why did you give him six pistoles?”

“You told me to give them to him.”

“It is true; I am too good-natured. In brief, how much remains?”

“Twenty-five pistoles,” said D’Artagnan.

“And I,” said Athos, taking some small change from his pocket, I--”

“You? Nothing!”

“My faith! So little that it is not worth reckoning with the general stock.”

“Now, then, let us calculate how much we posses in all.”

“Porthos?”

“Thirty crowns.”

“Aramis?”

“Ten pistoles.”

“And you, D’Artagnan?”

“Twenty-five.”

“That makes in all?” said Athos.

“Four hundred and seventy-five livres,” said D’Artagnan, who reckoned like Archimedes.

“On our arrival in Paris, we shall still have four hundred, besides the harnesses,” said Porthos.

“But our troop horses?” said Aramis.

“Well, of the four horses of our lackeys we will make two for the masters, for which we will draw lots. With the four hundred livres we will make the half of one for one of the unmounted, and then we will give the turnings out of our pockets to D’Artagnan, who has a steady hand, and will go and play in the first gaming house we come to. There!”

“Let us dine, then,” said Porthos; “it is getting cold.”

The friends, at ease with regard to the future, did honor to the repast, the remains of which were abandoned to Mousqueton, Bazin, Planchet, and Grimaud.

On arriving in Paris, D’Artagnan found a letter from M. de Tréville, which informed him that, at his request, the king had promised that he should enter the company of the Musketeers.

As this was the height of D’Artagnan’s worldly ambition--apart, be it well understood, from his desire of finding Mme. Bonacieux--he ran, full of joy, to seek his comrades, whom he had left only half an hour before, but whom he found very sad and deeply preoccupied. They were assembled in council at the residence of Athos, which always indicated an event of some gravity. M. de Tréville had intimated to them his Majesty’s fixed intention to open the campaign on the first of May, and they must immediately prepare their outfits.

The four philosophers looked at one another in a state of bewilderment. M. de Tréville never jested in matters relating to discipline.

“And what do you reckon your outfit will cost?” said D’Artagnan.

“Oh, we can scarcely say. We have made our calculations with Spartan economy, and we each require fifteen hundred livres.”

“Four times fifteen makes sixty--six thousand livres,” said Athos.

“It seems to me,” said D’Artagnan, “with a thousand livres each-- I do not speak as a Spartan, but as a procurator--”

This word procurator roused Porthos. “Stop,” said he, “I have an idea.”

“Well, that’s something, for I have not the shadow of one,” said Athos cooly; “but as to D’Artagnan, gentlemen, the idea of belonging to ours has driven him out of his senses. A thousand livres! For my part, I declare I want two thousand.”

“Four times two makes eight,” then said Aramis; “it is eight thousand that we want to complete our outfits, toward which, it is true, we have already the saddles.”

“Besides,” said Athos, waiting till D’Artagnan, who went to thank Monsieur de Tréville, had shut the door, “besides, there is that beautiful ring which beams from the finger of our friend. What the devil! D’Artagnan is too good a comrade to leave his brothers in embarrassment while he wears the ransom of a king on his finger.”

Hunting For The Equipments

The most preoccupied of the four friends was certainly D’Artagnan, although he, in his quality of Guardsman, would be much more easily equipped than Messieurs the Musketeers, who were all of high rank; but our Gascon cadet was, as may have been observed, of a provident and almost avaricious character, and with that (explain the contradiction) so vain as almost to rival Porthos. To this preoccupation of his vanity, D’Artagnan at this moment joined an uneasiness much less selfish. Notwithstanding all his inquiries respecting Mme. Bonacieux, he could obtain no intelligence of her. M. de Tréville had spoken of her to the queen. The queen was ignorant where the mercer’s young wife was, but had promised to have her sought for; but this promise was very vague and did not at all reassure D’Artagnan.

Athos did not leave his chamber; he made up his mind not to take a single step to equip himself.

“We have still fifteen days before us,” said he to his friends. “well, if at the end of a fortnight I have found nothing, or rather if nothing has come to find me, as I a, too good a Catholic to kill myself with a pistol bullet, I will seek a good quarrel with four of his Eminence’s Guards or with eight Englishmen, and I will fight until one of them has killed me, which, considering the number, cannot fail to happen. It will then be said of me that I died for the king; so that I shall have performed my duty without the expense of an outfit.”

Porthos continued to walk about with his hands behind him, tossing his head and repeating, “I shall follow up on my idea.”

Aramis, anxious and negligently dressed, said nothing.

It may be seen by these disastrous details that desolation reigned in the community.

The lackeys on their part, like the coursers of Hippolytus, shared the sadness of their masters. Mousqueton collected a store of crusts; Bazin, who had always been inclined to devotion, never quit the churches; Planchet watched the flight of flies; and Grimaud, whom the general distress could not induce to break the silence imposed by his master, heaved sighs enough to soften the stones.

The three friends—for, as we have said, Athos had sworn not to stir a foot to equip himself—went out early in the morning, and returned late at night. They wandered about the streets, looking at the pavement a if to see whether the passengers had not left a purse behind them. They might have been supposed to be following tracks, so observant were they wherever they went. When they met they looked desolately at one another, as much as to say, “Have you found anything?”

However, as Porthos had first found an idea, and had thought of it earnestly afterward, he was the first to act. He was a man of execution, this worthy Porthos. D’Artagnan perceived him one day walking toward the church of St. Leu, and followed him instinctively. He entered, after having twisted his mustache and elongated his imperial, which always announced on his part the most triumphant resolutions. As D’Artagnan took some precautions to conceal himself, Porthos believed he had not been seen. D’Artagnan entered behind him. Porthos went and leaned against the side of a pillar. D’Artagnan, still unperceived, supported himself against the other side.

There happened to be a sermon, which made the church very full of people. Porthos took advantage of this circumstance to ogle the women. Thanks to the cares of Mousqueton, the exterior was for from announcing the distress of the interior. His hat was a little napless, his feather was a little faded, his gold lace was a little tarnished, his laces were a trifle frayed; but in the obscurity of the church these things were not seen, and Porthos was still the handsome Porthos.

D’Artagnan observed, on the bench nearest to the pillar against which Porthos leaned, a sort of ripe beauty, rather yellow and rather dry, but erect and haughty under her black hood. The eyes of Porthos were furtively cast upon this lady, and then roved about at large over the nave.

On her side, the lady, who from time to time blushed, darted with the rapidity of lightning a glance toward the inconstant Porthos; and then immediately the eyes of Porthos wandered anxiously. It was plain that this mode of proceeding piqued the lady in the black hood, for she bit her lips till they bled, scratched the end of her nose, and could not sit still in her seat.

Porthos, seeing this, retwisted his mustache, elongated his imperial a second time, and began to make signals to a beautiful lady who was near the choir, and who not only was a beautiful lady, but still further, no doubt, a great lady—for she had behind her a Negro boy who had brought the cushion on which she knelt, and a female servant who held the emblazoned bag in which was placed the book from which she read the Mass.

The lady with the black hood followed through all their wanderings the looks of Porthos, and perceived that they rested upon the lady with the velvet cushion, the little Negro, and the maid-servant.

During this time Porthos played close. It was almost imperceptible motions of his eyes, fingers placed upon the lips, little assassinating smiles, which really did assassinate the disdained beauty.

Then she cried, “Ahem!” under cover of the mea culpa, striking her breast so vigorously that everybody, even the lady with the red cushion, turned round toward her. Porthos paid no attention. Nevertheless, he understood it all, but was deaf.

The lady with the red cushion produced a great effect—for she was very handsome—upon the lady with the black hood, who saw in her a rival really to be dreaded; a great effect upon Porthos, who thought her much prettier than the lady with the black hood; a great effect upon D’Artagnan, who recognized in her the lady of Meung, of Calais, and of Dover, whom his persecutor, the man with the scar, had saluted by the name of Milady.

D’Artagnan, without losing sight of the lady of the red cushion, continued to watch the proceedings of Porthos, which amused him greatly. He guessed that the lady of the black hood was the procurator’s wife of the Rue aux Ours, which was the more probable from the church of St. Leu being not far from that locality.

He guessed, likewise, by induction, that Porthos was taking his revenge for the defeat of Chantilly, when the procurator’s wife had proved so refractory with respect to her purse.

Amid all this, D’Artagnan remarked also that not one countenance responded to the gallantries of Porthos. There were only chimeras and illusions; but for real love, for true jealousy, is there any reality except illusions and chimeras?

The sermon over, the procurator’s wife advanced toward the holy font. Porthos went before her, and instead of a finger, dipped his whole hand in. The procurator’s wife smiled, thinking that it was for her Porthos had put himself to this trouble; but she was cruelly and promptly undeceived. When she was only about three steps from him, he turned his head round, fixing his eyes steadfastly upon the lady with the red cushion, who had risen and was approaching, followed by her black boy and her woman.

When the lady of the red cushion came close to Porthos, Porthos drew his dripping hand from the font. The fair worshipper touched the great hand of Porthos with her delicate fingers, smiled, made the sign of the cross, and left the church.

This was too much for the procurator’s wife; she doubted not there was an intrigue between this lady and Porthos. If she had been a great lady she would have fainted; but as she was only a procurator’s wife, she contented herself saying to the Musketeer with concentrated fury, “Eh, Monsieur Porthos, you don’t offer me any holy water?”

Porthos, at the sound of that voice, started like a man awakened from a sleep of a hundred years.

“Ma-madame!” cried he; “is that you? How is your husband, our dear Monsieur Coquenard? Is he still as stingy as ever? Where can my eyes have been not to have seen you during the two hours of the sermon?”

“I was within two paces of you, monsieur,” replied the procurator’s wife; “but you did not perceive me because you had no eyes but for the pretty lady to whom you just now gave the holy water.”

Porthos pretended to be confused. “Ah,” said he, “you have remarked—”

“I must have been blind not to have seen.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, “that is a duchess of my acquaintance whim I have great trouble to meet on account of the jealousy of her husband, and who sent me word that she should come today to this poor church, buried in this vile quarter, solely for the sake of seeing me.”

“Monsieur Porthos,” said the procurator’s wife, “will you have the kindness to offer me your arm for five minutes? I have something to say to you.”

“Certainly, madame,” said Porthos, winking to himself, as a gambler does who laughs at the dupe he is about to pluck.

At that moment D’Artagnan passed in pursuit of Milady; he cast a passing glance at Porthos, and beheld this triumphant look.

“Eh, eh!” said he, reasoning to himself according to the strangely easy morality of that gallant period, “there is one who will be equipped in good time!”

Porthos, yielding to the pressure of the arm of the procurator’s wife, as a bark yields to the rudder, arrived at the cloister St. Magloire—a little-frequented passage, enclosed with a turnstile at each end. In the daytime nobody was seen there but mendicants devouring their crusts, and children at play.

“Ah, Monsieur Porthos,” cried the procurator’s wife, when she was assured that no one who was a stranger to the population of the locality could either see or hear her, “ah, Monsieur Porthos, you are a great conqueror, as it appears!”

“I, madame?” said Porthos, drawing himself up proudly; “how so?”

“The signs just now, and the holy water! But that must be a princess, at least—that lady with her Negro boy and her maid!”

“My God! Madame, you are deceived,” said Porthos; “she is simply a duchess.”

“And that running footman who waited at the door, and that carriage with a coachman in grand livery who sat waiting on his seat?”

Porthos had seen neither the footman nor the carriage, but with the eye of a jealous woman, Mme. Coquenard had seen everything.

Porthos regretted that he had not at once made the lady of the red cushion a princess.

“Ah, you are quite the pet of the ladies, Monsieur Porthos!” resumed the procurator’s wife, with a sigh.

“Well,” responded Porthos, “you may imagine, with the physique with which nature has endowed me, I am not in want of good luck.”

“Good Lord, how quickly men forget!” cried the procurator’s wife, raising her eyes toward heaven.

“Less quickly than the women, it seems to me,” replied Porthos; “for I, madame, I may say I was your victim, when wounded, dying, I was abandoned by the surgeons. I, the offspring of a noble family, who placed reliance upon your friendship—I was near dying of my wounds at first, and of hunger afterward, in a beggarly inn at Chantilly, without you ever deigning once to reply to the burning letters I addressed to you.”

“But, Monsieur Porthos,” murmured the procurator’s wife, who began to feel that, to judge by the conduct of the great ladies of the time, she was wrong.

“I, who had sacrificed for you the Baronne de—”

“I know it well.”

“The Comtesse de—”

“Monsieur Porthos, be generous!”

“You are right, madame, and I will not finish.”

“But it was my husband who would not hear of lending.”

“Madame Coquenard,” said Porthos, “remember the first letter you wrote me, and which I preserve engraved in my memory.”

The procurator’s wife uttered a groan.

“Besides,” said she, “the sum you required me to borrow was rather large.”

“Madame Coquenard, I gave you the preference. I had but to write to the Duchesse—but I won’t repeat her name, for I am incapable of compromising a woman; but this I know, that I had but to write to her and she would have sent me fifteen hundred.”

The procurator’s wife shed a tear.

“Monsieur Porthos,” said she, “I can assure you that you have severely punished me; and if in the time to come you should find yourself in a similar situation, you have but to apply to me.”

“Fie, madame, fie!” said Porthos, as if disgusted. “Let us not talk about money, if you please; it is humiliating.”

“Then you no longer love me!” said the procurator’s wife, slowly and sadly.

Porthos maintained a majestic silence.

“And that is the only reply you make? Alas, I understand.”

“Think of the offense you have committed toward me, madame! It remains here!” said Porthos, placing his hand on his heart, and pressing it strongly.

“I will repair it, indeed I will, my dear Porthos.”

“Besides, what did I ask of you?” resumed Porthos, with a movement of the shoulders full of good fellowship. “A loan, nothing more! After all, I am not an unreasonable man. I know you are not rich, Madame Coquenard, and that your husband is obliged to bleed his poor clients to squeeze a few paltry crowns from them. Oh! If you were a duchess, a marchioness, or a countess, it would be quite a different thing; it would be unpardonable.”

The procurator’s wife was piqued.

“Please to know, Monsieur Porthos,” said she, “that my strongbox, the strongbox of a procurator’s wife though it may be, is better filled than those of your affected minxes.”

“That doubles the offense,” said Porthos, disengaging his arm from that of the procurator’s wife; “for if you are rich, Madame Coquenard, then there is no excuse for your refusal.”

“When I said rich,” replied the procurator’s wife, who saw that she had gone too far, “you must not take the word literally. I am not precisely rich, though I am pretty well off.”

“Hold, madame,” said Porthos, “let us say no more upon the subject, I beg of you. You have misunderstood me, all sympathy is extinct between us.”

“Ingrate that you are!”

“Ah! I advise you to complain!” said Porthos.

“Begone, then, to your beautiful duchess; I will detain you no longer.”

“And she is not to be despised, in my opinion.”

“Now, Monsieur Porthos, once more, and this is the last! Do you love me still?”

“Ah, madame,” said Porthos, in the most melancholy tone he could assume, “when we are about to enter upon a campaign—a campaign, in which my presentiments tell me I shall be killed—”

“Oh, don’t talk of such things!” cried the procurator’s wife, bursting into tears.

“Something whispers me so,” continued Porthos, becoming more and more melancholy.

“Rather say that you have a new love.”

“Not so; I speak frankly to you. No object affects me; and I even feel here, at the bottom of my heart, something which speaks for you. But in fifteen days, as you know, or as you do not know, this fatal campaign is to open. I shall be fearfully preoccupied with my outfit. Then I must make a journey to see my family, in the lower part of Brittany, to obtain the sum necessary for my departure.”

Porthos observed a last struggle between love and avarice.

“And as,” continued he, “the duchess whom you saw at the church has estates near to those of my family, we mean to make the journey together. Journeys, you know, appear much shorter when we travel two in company.”

“Have you no friends in Paris, then, Monsieur Porthos?” said the procurator’s wife.

“I thought I had,” said Porthos, resuming his melancholy air; “but I have been taught my mistake.”

“You have some!” cried the procurator’s wife, in a transport that surprised even herself. “Come to our house tomorrow. You are the son of my aunt, consequently my cousin; you come from Noyon, in Picardy; you have several lawsuits and no attorney. Can you recollect all that?”

“Perfectly, madame.”

“Come at dinnertime.”

“Very well.”

“And be upon your guard before my husband, who is rather shrewd, notwithstanding his seventy-six years.”

“Seventy-six years! Peste! That’s a fine age!” replied Porthos.

“A great age, you mean, Monsieur Porthos. Yes, the poor man may be expected to leave me a widow, any hour,” continued she, throwing a significant glance at Porthos. “Fortunately, by our marriage contract, the survivor takes everything.”

“All?”

“Yes, all.”

“You are a woman of precaution, I see, my dear Madame Coquenard,” said Porthos, squeezing the hand of the procurator’s wife tenderly.

“We are then reconciled, dear Monsieur Porthos?” said she, simpering.

“For life,” replied Porthos, in the same manner.

“Till we meet again, then, dear traitor!”

“Till we meet again, my forgetful charmer!”

“Tomorrow, my angel!”

“Tomorrow, flame of my life!”

D’Artagnan And The Englishman

D’Artagnan followed Milady without being perceived by her. He saw her get into her carriage, and heard her order the coachman to drive to St. Germain.

It was useless to try to keep pace on foot with a carriage drawn by two powerful horses. D’Artagnan therefore returned to the Rue Férue.

In the Rue de Seine he met Planchet, who had stopped before the house of a pastry cook, and was contemplating with ecstasy a cake of the most appetizing appearance.

He ordered him to go and saddle two horses in M. de Tréville’s stables—one for himself, D’Artagnan, and one for Planchet—and bring them to Athos’s place. Once for all, Tréville had placed his stable at D’Artagnan’s service.

Planchet proceeded toward the Rue du Colombier, and D’Artagnan toward the Rue Férue. Athos was at home, emptying sadly a bottle of the famous Spanish wine he had brought back with him from his journey into Picardy. He made a sign for Grimaud to bring a glass for D’Artagnan, and Grimaud obeyed as usual.

D’Artagnan related to Athos all that had passed at the church between Porthos and the procurator’s wife, and how their comrade was probably by that time in a fair way to be equipped.

“As for me,” replied Athos to this recital, “I am quite at my ease; it will not be women that will defray the expense of my outfit.”

“Handsome, well-bred, noble lord as you are, my dear Athos, neither princesses nor queens would be secure from your amorous solicitations.”

“How young this D’Artagnan is!” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; and he made a sign to Grimaud to bring another bottle.

At that moment Planchet put his head modestly in at the half-open door, and told his master that the horses were ready.

“What horses?” asked Athos.

“Two horses that Monsieur de Tréville lends me at my pleasure, and with which I am now going to take a ride to St. Germain.”

“Well, and what are you going to do at St. Germain?” then demanded Athos.

Then D’Artagnan described the meeting which he had at the church, and how he had found that lady who, with the seigneur in the black cloak and with the scar near his temple, filled his mind constantly.

“That is to say, you are in love with this lady as you were with Madame Bonacieux,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, as if he pitied human weakness.

“I? not at all!” said D’Artagnan. “I am only curious to unravel the mystery to which she is attached. I do not know why, but I imagine that this woman, wholly unknown to me as she is, and wholly unknown to her as I am, has an influence over my life.”

“Well, perhaps you are right,” said Athos. “I do not know a woman that is worth the trouble of being sought for when she is once lost. Madame Bonacieux is lost; so much the worse for her if she is found.”

“No, Athos, no, you are mistaken,” said D’Artagnan; “I love my poor Constance more than ever, and if I knew the place in which she is, were it at the end of the world, I would go to free her from the hands of her enemies; but I am ignorant. All my researches have been useless. What is to be said? I must divert my attention!”

“Amuse yourself with Milady, my dear D’Artagnan; I wish you may with all my heart, if that will amuse you.”

“Hear me, Athos,” said D’Artagnan. “Instead of shutting yourself up here as if you were under arrest, get on horseback and come and take a ride with me to St. Germain.”

“My dear fellow,” said Athos, “I ride horses when I have any; when I have none, I go afoot.”

“Well,” said D’Artagnan, smiling at the misanthropy of Athos, which from any other person would have offended him, “I ride what I can get; I am not so proud as you. So au revoir, dear Athos.”

Au revoir,” said the Musketeer, making a sign to Grimaud to uncork the bottle he had just brought.

D’Artagnan and Planchet mounted, and took the road to St. Germain.

All along the road, what Athos had said respecting Mme. Bonacieux recurred to the mind of the young man. Although D’Artagnan was not of a very sentimental character, the mercer’s pretty wife had made a real impression upon his heart. As he said, he was ready to go to the end of the world to seek her; but the world, being round, has many ends, so that he did not know which way to turn. Meantime, he was going to try to find out Milady. Milady had spoken to the man in the black cloak; therefore she knew him. Now, in the opinion of D’Artagnan, it was certainly the man in the black cloak who had carried off Mme. Bonacieux the second time, as he had carried her off the first. D’Artagnan then only half-lied, which is lying but little, when he said that by going in search of Milady he at the same time went in search of Constance.

Thinking of all this, and from time to time giving a touch of the spur to his horse, D’Artagnan completed his short journey, and arrived at St. Germain. He had just passed by the pavilion in which ten years later Louis XIV was born. He rode up a very quiet street, looking to the right and the left to see if he could catch any vestige of his beautiful Englishwoman, when from the ground floor of a pretty house, which, according to the fashion of the time, had no window toward the street, he saw a face peep out with which he thought he was acquainted. This person walked along the terrace, which was ornamented with flowers. Planchet recognized him first.

“Eh, monsieur!” said he, addressing D’Artagnan, “don’t you remember that face which is blinking yonder?”

“No,” said D’Artagnan, “and yet I am certain it is not the first time I have seen that visage.”

Parbleu, I believe it is not,” said Planchet. “Why, it is poor Lubin, the lackey of the Comte de Wardes—he whom you took such good care of a month ago at Calais, on the road to the governor’s country house!”

“So it is!” said D’Artagnan; “I know him now. Do you think he would recollect you?”

“My faith, monsieur, he was in such trouble that I doubt if he can have retained a very clear recollection of me.”

“Well, go and talk with the boy,” said D’Artagnan, “and make out if you can from his conversation whether his master is dead.”

Planchet dismounted and went straight up to Lubin, who did not at all remember him, and the two lackeys began to chat with the best understanding possible; while D’Artagnan turned the two horses into a lane, went round the house, and came back to watch the conference from behind a hedge of filberts.

At the end of an instant’s observation he heard the noise of a vehicle, and saw Milady’s carriage stop opposite to him. He could not be mistaken; Milady was in it. D’Artagnan leaned upon the neck of his horse, in order that he might see without being seen.

Milady put her charming blond head out at the window, and gave her orders to her maid.

The latter—a pretty girl of about twenty or twenty-two years, active and lively, the true soubrette of a great lady—jumped from the step upon which, according to the custom of the time, she was seated, and took her way toward the terrace upon which D’Artagnan had perceived Lubin.

D’Artagnan followed the soubrette with his eyes, and saw her go toward the terrace; but it happened that someone in the house called Lubin, so that Planchet remained alone, looking in all directions for the road where D’Artagnan had disappeared.

The maid approached Planchet, whom she took for Lubin, and holding out a little billet to him said, “For your master.”

“For my master?” replied Planchet, astonished.

“Yes, and important. Take it quickly.”

Thereupon she ran toward the carriage, which had turned round toward the way it came, jumped upon the step, and the carriage drove off.

Planchet turned and returned the billet. Then, accustomed to passive obedience, he jumped down from the terrace, ran toward the lane, and at the end of twenty paces met D’Artagnan, who, having seen all, was coming to him.

“For you, monsieur,” said Planchet, presenting the billet to the young man.

“For me?” said D’Artagnan; “are you sure of that?”

Pardieu, monsieur, I can’t be more sure. The soubrette said, ‘For your master.’ I have no other master but you; so- a pretty little lass, my faith, is that soubrette!”

D’Artagnan opened the letter, and read these words:

“A person who takes more interest in you than she is willing to confess wishes to know on what day it will suit you to walk in the forest? Tomorrow, at the Hotel Field of the Cloth of Gold, a lackey in black and red will wait for your reply.”

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “this is rather warm; it appears that Milady and I are anxious about the health of the same person. Well, Planchet, how is the good Monsieur de Wardes? He is not dead, then?”

“No, monsieur, he is as well as a man can be with four sword wounds in his body; for you, without question, inflicted four upon the dear gentleman, and he is still very weak, having lost almost all his blood. As I said, monsieur, Lubin did not know me, and told me our adventure from one end to the other.”

“Well done, Planchet! You are the king of lackeys. Now jump onto your horse, and let us overtake the carriage.”

This did not take long. At the end of five minutes they perceived the carriage drawn up by the roadside; a cavalier, richly dressed, was close to the door.

The conversation between Milady and the cavalier was so animated that D’Artagnan stopped on the other side of the carriage without anyone but the pretty soubrette perceiving his presence.

The conversation took place in English—a language which D’Artagnan could not understand; but by the accent the young man plainly saw that the beautiful Englishwoman was in a great rage. She terminated it by an action which left no doubt as to the nature of this conversation; this was a blow with her fan, applied with such force that the little feminine weapon flew into a thousand pieces.

The cavalier laughed aloud, which appeared to exasperate Milady still more.

D’Artagnan thought this was the moment to interfere. He approached the other door, and taking off his hat respectfully, said, “Madame, will you permit me to offer you my services? It appears to me that this cavalier has made you very angry. Speak one word, madame, and I take upon myself to punish him for his want of courtesy.”

At the first word Milady turned, looking at the young man with astonishment; and when he had finished, she said in very good French, “Monsieur, I should with great confidence place myself under your protection if the person with whom I quarrel were not my brother.”

“Ah, excuse me, then,” said D’Artagnan. “You must be aware that I was ignorant of that, madame.”

“What is that stupid fellow troubling himself about?” cried the cavalier whom Milady had designated as her brother, stooping down to the height of the coach window. “Why does not he go about his business?”

“Stupid fellow yourself!” said D’Artagnan, stooping in his turn on the neck of his horse, and answering on his side through the carriage window. “I do not go on because it pleases me to stop here.”

The cavalier addressed some words in English to his sister.

“I speak to you in French,” said D’Artagnan; “be kind enough, then, to reply to me in the same language. You are Madame’s brother, I learn—be it so; but fortunately you are not mine.”

It might be thought that Milady, timid as women are in general, would have interposed in this commencement of mutual provocations in order to prevent the quarrel from going too far; but on the contrary, she threw herself back in her carriage, and called out coolly to the coachman, “Go on—home!”

The pretty soubrette cast an anxious glance at D’Artagnan, whose good looks seemed to have made an impression on her.

The carriage went on, and left the two men facing each other; no material obstacle separated them.

The cavalier made a movement as if to follow the carriage; but D’Artagnan, whose anger, already excited, was much increased by recognizing in him the Englishman of Amiens who had won his horse and had been very near winning his diamond of Athos, caught at his bridle and stopped him.

“Well, monsieur,” said he, “you appear to be more stupid than I am, for you forget there is a little quarrel to arrange between us two.”

“Ah,” said the Englishman, “is it you, my master? It seems you must always be playing some game or other.”

“Yes; and that reminds me that I have a revenge to take. We will see, my dear monsieur, if you can handle a sword as skillfully as you can a dice box.”

“You see plainly that I have no sword,” said the Englishman. “Do you wish to play the braggart with an unarmed man?”

“I hope you have a sword at home; but at all events, I have two, and if you like, I will throw with you for one of them.”

“Needless,” said the Englishman; “I am well furnished with such playthings.”

“Very well, my worthy gentleman,” replied D’Artagnan, “pick out the longest, and come and show it to me this evening.”

“Where, if you please?”

“Behind the Luxembourg; that’s a charming spot for such amusements as the one I propose to you.”

“That will do; I will be there.”

“Your hour?”

“Six o’clock.”

À propos, you have probably one or two friends?”

“I have three, who would be honored by joining in the sport with me.”

“Three? Marvelous! That falls out oddly! Three is just my number!”

“Now, then, who are you?” asked the Englishman.

“I am Monsieur D’Artagnan, a Gascon gentleman, serving in the king’s Musketeers. And you?”

“I am Lord de Winter, Baron Sheffield.”

“Well, then, I am your servant, Monsieur Baron,” said D’Artagnan, “though you have names rather difficult to recollect.” And touching his horse with the spur, he cantered back to Paris. As he was accustomed to do in all cases of any consequence, D’Artagnan went straight to the residence of Athos.

He found Athos reclining upon a large sofa, where he was waiting, as he said, for his outfit to come and find him. He related to Athos all that had passed, except the letter to M. de Wardes.

Athos was delighted to find he was going to fight an Englishman. We might say that was his dream.

They immediately sent their lackeys for Porthos and Aramis, and on their arrival made them acquainted with the situation.

Porthos drew his sword from the scabbard, and made passes at the wall, springing back from time to time, and making contortions like a dancer.

Aramis, who was constantly at work at his poem, shut himself up in Athos’s closet, and begged not to be disturbed before the moment of drawing swords.

Athos, by signs, desired Grimaud to bring another bottle of wine.

D’Artagnan employed himself in arranging a little plan, of which we shall hereafter see the execution, and which promised him some agreeable adventure, as might be seen by the smiles which from time to time passed over his countenance, whose thoughtfulness they animated.

English And French

The hour having come, they went with their four lackeys to a spot behind the Luxembourg given up to the feeding of goats. Athos threw a piece of money to the goatkeeper to withdraw. The lackeys were ordered to act as sentinels.

A silent party soon drew near to the same enclosure, entered, and joined the Musketeers. Then, according to foreign custom, the presentations took place.

The Englishmen were all men of rank; consequently the odd names of their adversaries were for them not only a matter of surprise, but of annoyance.

“But after all,” said Lord de Winter, when the three friends had been named, “we do not know who you are. We cannot fight with such names; they are names of shepherds.”

“Therefore your lordship may suppose they are only assumed names,” said Athos.

“Which only gives us a greater desire to know the real ones,” replied the Englishman.

“You played very willingly with us without knowing our names,” said Athos, “by the same token that you won our horses.”

“That is true, but we then only risked our pistoles; this time we risk our blood. One plays with anybody; but one fights only with equals.”

“And that is but just,” said Athos, and he took aside the one of the four Englishmen with whom he was to fight, and communicated his name in a low voice.

Porthos and Aramis did the same.

“Does that satisfy you?” said Athos to his adversary. “Do you find me of sufficient rank to do me the honor of crossing swords with me?”

“Yes, monsieur,” said the Englishman, bowing.

“Well! now shall I tell you something?” added Athos, coolly.

“What?” replied the Englishman.

“Why, that is that you would have acted much more wisely if you had not required me to make myself known.”

“Why so?”

“Because I am believed to be dead, and have reasons for wishing nobody to know I am living; so that I shall be obliged to kill you to prevent my secret from roaming over the fields.”

The Englishman looked at Athos, believing that he jested, but Athos did not jest the least in the world.

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, addressing at the same time his companions and their adversaries, “are we ready?”

“Yes!” answered the Englishmen and the Frenchmen, as with one voice.

“On guard, then!” cried Athos.

Immediately eight swords glittered in the rays of the setting sun, and the combat began with an animosity very natural between men twice enemies.

Athos fenced with as much calmness and method as if he had been practicing in a fencing school.

Porthos, abated, no doubt, of his too-great confidence by his adventure of Chantilly, played with skill and prudence. Aramis, who had the third canto of his poem to finish, behaved like a man in haste.

Athos killed his adversary first. He hit him but once, but as he had foretold, that hit was a mortal one; the sword pierced his heart.

Second, Porthos stretched his upon the grass with a wound through his thigh. As the Englishman, without making any further resistance, then surrendered his sword, Porthos took him up in his arms and bore him to his carriage.

Aramis pushed his so vigorously that after going back fifty paces, the man ended by fairly taking to his heels, and disappeared amid the hooting of the lackeys.

As to D’Artagnan, he fought purely and simply on the defensive; and when he saw his adversary pretty well fatigued, with a vigorous side thrust sent his sword flying. The baron, finding himself disarmed, took two or three steps back, but in this movement his foot slipped and he fell backward.

D’Artagnan was over him at a bound, and said to the Englishman, pointing his sword to his throat, “I could kill you, my Lord, you are completely in my hands; but I spare your life for the sake of your sister.”

D’Artagnan was at the height of joy; he had realized the plan he had imagined beforehand, whose picturing had produced the smiles we noted upon his face.

The Englishman, delighted at having to do with a gentleman of such a kind disposition, pressed D’Artagnan in his arms, and paid a thousand compliments to the three Musketeers, and as Porthos’s adversary was already installed in the carriage, and as Aramis’s had taken to his heels, they had nothing to think about but the dead.

As Porthos and Aramis were undressing him, in the hope of finding his wound not mortal, a large purse dropped from his clothes. D’Artagnan picked it up and offered it to Lord de Winter.

“What the devil would you have me do with that?” said the Englishman.

“You can restore it to his family,” said D’Artagnan.

“His family will care much about such a trifle as that! His family will inherit fifteen thousand louis a year from him. Keep the purse for your lackeys.”

D’Artagnan put the purse into his pocket.

“And now, my young friend, for you will permit me, I hope, to give you that name,” said Lord de Winter, “on this very evening, if agreeable to you, I will present you to my sister, Milady Clarik, for I am desirous that she should take you into her good graces; and as she is not in bad odor at court, she may perhaps on some future day speak a word that will not prove useless to you.

D’Artagnan blushed with pleasure, and bowed a sign of assent.

At this time Athos came up to D’Artagnan.

“What do you mean to do with that purse?” whispered he.

“Why, I meant to pass it over to you, my dear Athos.”

“Me! why to me?”

“Why, you killed him! They are the spoils of victory.”

“I, the heir of an enemy!” said Athos; “for whom, then, do you take me?”

“It is the custom in war,” said D’Artagnan, “why should it not be the custom in a duel?”

“Even on the field of battle, I have never done that.”

Porthos shrugged his shoulders; Aramis by a movement of his lips endorsed Athos.

“Then,” said D’Artagnan, “let us give the money to the lackeys, as Lord de Winter desired us to do.”

“Yes,” said Athos; “let us give the money to the lackeys—not to our lackeys, but to the lackeys of the Englishmen.”

Athos took the purse, and threw it into the hand of the coachman. “For you and your comrades.”

This greatness of spirit in a man who was quite destitute struck even Porthos; and this French generosity, repeated by Lord de Winter and his friend, was highly applauded, except by MM. Grimaud, Bazin, Mousqueton and Planchet.

Lord de Winter, on quitting D’Artagnan, gave him his sister’s address. She lived in the Place Royale—then the fashionable quarter—at Number 6, and he undertook to call and take D’Artagnan with him in order to introduce him. D’Artagnan appointed eight o’clock at Athos’s residence.

This introduction to Milady Clarik occupied the head of our Gascon greatly. He remembered in what a strange manner this woman had hitherto been mixed up in his destiny. According to his conviction, she was some creature of the cardinal, and yet he felt himself invincibly drawn toward her by one of those sentiments for which we cannot account. His only fear was that Milady would recognize in him the man of Meung and of Dover. Then she knew that he was one of the friends of M. de Tréville, and consequently, that he belonged body and soul to the king; which would make him lose a part of his advantage, since when known to Milady as he knew her, he played only an equal game with her. As to the commencement of an intrigue between her and M. de Wardes, our presumptuous hero gave but little heed to that, although the marquis was young, handsome, rich, and high in the cardinal’s favor. It is not for nothing we are but twenty years old, above all if we were born at Tarbes.

D’Artagnan began by making his most splendid toilet, then returned to Athos’s, and according to custom, related everything to him. Athos listened to his projects, then shook his head, and recommended prudence to him with a shade of bitterness.

“What!” said he, “you have just lost one woman, whom you call good, charming, perfect; and here you are, running headlong after another.”

D’Artagnan felt the truth of this reproach.

“I loved Madame Bonacieux with my heart, while I only love Milady with my head,” said he. “In getting introduced to her, my principal object is to ascertain what part she plays at court.”

“The part she plays, pardieu! It is not difficult to divine that, after all you have told me. She is some emissary of the cardinal; a woman who will draw you into a snare in which you will leave your head.”

“The devil! My dear Athos, you view things on the dark side, methinks.”

“My dear fellow, I mistrust women. Can it be otherwise? I bought my experience dearly—particularly fair women. Milady is fair, you say?”

“She has the most beautiful light hair imaginable!”

“Ah, my poor D’Artagnan!” said Athos.

“Listen to me! I want to be enlightened on a subject; then, when I shall have learned what I desire to know, I will withdraw.”

“Be enlightened!” said Athos, phlegmatically.

Lord de Winter arrived at the appointed time; but Athos, being warned of his coming, went into the other chamber. He therefore found D’Artagnan alone, and as it was nearly eight o’clock he took the young man with him.

An elegant carriage waited below, and as it was drawn by two excellent horses, they were soon at the Place Royale.

Milady Clarik received D’Artagnan ceremoniously. Her hotel was remarkably sumptuous, and while the most part of the English had quit, or were about to quit, France on account of the war, Milady had just been laying out much money upon her residence; which proved that the general measure which drove the English from France did not affect her.

“You see,” said Lord de Winter, presenting D’Artagnan to his sister, “a young gentleman who has held my life in his hands, and who has not abused his advantage, although we have been twice enemies, although it was I who insulted him, and although I am an Englishman. Thank him, then, madame, if you have any affection for me.”

Milady frowned slightly; a scarcely visible cloud passed over her brow, and so peculiar a smile appeared upon her lips that the young man, who saw and observed this triple shade, almost shuddered at it.

The brother did not perceive this; he had turned round to play with Milady’s favorite monkey, which had pulled him by the doublet.

“You are welcome, monsieur,” said Milady, in a voice whose singular sweetness contrasted with the symptoms of ill-humor which D’Artagnan had just remarked; “you have today acquired eternal rights to my gratitude.”

The Englishman then turned round and described the combat without omitting a single detail. Milady listened with the greatest attention, and yet it was easily to be perceived, whatever effort she made to conceal her impressions, that this recital was not agreeable to her. The blood rose to her head, and her little foot worked with impatience beneath her robe.

Lord de Winter perceived nothing of this. When he had finished, he went to a table upon which was a salver with Spanish wine and glasses. He filled two glasses, and by a sign invited D’Artagnan to drink.

D’Artagnan knew it was considered disobliging by an Englishman to refuse to pledge him. He therefore drew near to the table and took the second glass. He did not, however, lose sight of Milady, and in a mirror he perceived the change that came over her face. Now that she believed herself to be no longer observed, a sentiment resembling ferocity animated her countenance. She bit her handkerchief with her beautiful teeth.

That pretty little soubrette whom D’Artagnan had already observed then came in. She spoke some words to Lord de Winter in English, who thereupon requested D’Artagnan’s permission to retire, excusing himself on account of the urgency of the business that had called him away, and charging his sister to obtain his pardon.

D’Artagnan exchanged a shake of the hand with Lord de Winter, and then returned to Milady. Her countenance, with surprising mobility, had recovered its gracious expression; but some little red spots on her handkerchief indicated that she had bitten her lips till the blood came. Those lips were magnificent; they might be said to be of coral.

The conversation took a cheerful turn. Milady appeared to have entirely recovered. She told D’Artagnan that Lord de Winter was her brother-in-law, and not her brother. She had married a younger brother of the family, who had left her a widow with one child. This child was the only heir to Lord de Winter, if Lord de Winter did not marry. All this showed D’Artagnan that there was a veil which concealed something; but he could not yet see under this veil.

In addition to this, after a half hour’s conversation D’Artagnan was convinced that Milady was his compatriot; she spoke French with an elegance and a purity that left no doubt on that head.

D’Artagnan was profuse in gallant speeches and protestations of devotion. To all the simple things which escaped our Gascon, Milady replied with a smile of kindness. The hour came for him to retire. D’Artagnan took leave of Milady, and left the saloon the happiest of men.

On the staircase he met the pretty soubrette, who brushed gently against him as she passed, and then, blushing to the eyes, asked his pardon for having touched him in a voice so sweet that the pardon was granted instantly.

D’Artagnan came again on the morrow, and was still better received than on the evening before. Lord de Winter was not at home; and it was Milady who this time did all the honors of the evening. She appeared to take a great interest in him, asked him whence he came, who were his friends, and whether he had not sometimes thought of attaching himself to the cardinal.

D’Artagnan, who, as we have said, was exceedingly prudent for a young man of twenty, then remembered his suspicions regarding Milady. He launched into a eulogy of his Eminence, and said that he should not have failed to enter into the Guards of the cardinal instead of the king’s Guards if he had happened to know M. de Cavois instead of M. de Tréville.

Milady changed the conversation without any appearance of affectation, and asked D’Artagnan in the most careless manner possible if he had ever been in England.

D’Artagnan replied that he had been sent thither by M. de Tréville to treat for a supply of horses, and that he had brought back four as specimens.

Milady in the course of the conversation twice or thrice bit her lips; she had to deal with a Gascon who played close.

At the same hour as on the preceding evening, D’Artagnan retired. In the corridor he again met the pretty Kitty; that was the name of the soubrette. She looked at him with an expression of kindness which it was impossible to mistake; but D’Artagnan was so preoccupied by the mistress that he noticed absolutely nothing but her.

D’Artagnan came again on the morrow and the day after that, and each day Milady gave him a more gracious reception.

Every evening, either in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, he met the pretty soubrette. But, as we have said, D’Artagnan paid no attention to this persistence of poor Kitty.

A Procurator’s Dinner

However brilliant had been the part played by Porthos in the duel, it had not made him forget the dinner of the procurator’s wife.

On the morrow he received the last touches of Mousqueton’s brush for an hour, and took his way toward the Rue aux Ours with the steps of a man who was doubly in favor with fortune.

His heart beat, but not like D’Artagnan’s with a young and impatient love. No; a more material interest stirred his blood. He was about at last to pass that mysterious threshold, to climb those unknown stairs by which, one by one, the old crowns of M. Coquenard had ascended. He was about to see in reality a certain coffer of which he had twenty times beheld the image in his dreams--a coffer long and deep, locked, bolted, fastened in the wall; a coffer of which he had so often heard, and which the hands--a little wrinkled, it is true, but still not without elegance--of the procurator’s wife were about to open to his admiring looks.

And then he--a wanderer on the earth, a man without fortune, a man without family, a soldier accustomed to inns, cabarets, taverns, and restaurants, a lover of wine forced to depend upon chance treats--was about to partake of family meals, to enjoy the pleasures of a comfortable establishment, and to give himself up to those little attentions which “the harder one is, the more they please,” as old soldiers say.

To come in the capacity of a cousin, and seat himself every day at a good table; to smooth the yellow, wrinkled brow of the old procurator; to pluck the clerks a little by teaching them bassette, passe-dix, and lansquenet, in their utmost nicety, and winning from them, by way of fee for the lesson he would give them in an hour, their savings of a month--all this was enormously delightful to Porthos.

The Musketeer could not forget the evil reports which then prevailed, and which indeed have survived them, of the procurators of the period--meanness, stinginess, fasts; but as, after all, excepting some few acts of economy which Porthos had always found very unseasonable, the procurator’s wife had been tolerably liberal--that is, be it understood, for a procurator’s wife--he hoped to see a household of a highly comfortable kind.

And yet, at the very door the Musketeer began to entertain some doubts. The approach was not such as to prepossess people--an ill-smelling, dark passage, a staircase half- lighted by bars through which stole a glimmer from a neighboring yard; on the first floor a low door studded with enormous nails, like the principal gate of the Grand Châtelet.

Porthos knocked with his hand. A tall, pale clerk, his face shaded by a forest of virgin hair, opened the door, and bowed with the air of a man forced at once to respect in another lofty stature, which indicated strength, the military dress, which indicated rank, and a ruddy countenance, which indicated familiarity with good living.

A shorter clerk came behind the first, a taller clerk behind the second, a stripling of a dozen years rising behind the third. In all, three clerks and a half, which, for the time, argued a very extensive clientage.

Although the Musketeer was not expected before one o’clock, the procurator’s wife had been on the watch ever since midday, reckoning that the heart, or perhaps the stomach, of her lover would bring him before his time.

Mme. Coquenard therefore entered the office from the house at the same moment her guest entered from the stairs, and the appearance of the worthy lady relieved him from an awkward embarrassment. The clerks surveyed him with great curiosity, and he, not knowing well what to say to this ascending and descending scale, remained tongue-tied.

“It is my cousin!” cried the procurator’s wife. “Come in, come in, Monsieur Porthos!”

The name of Porthos produced its effect upon the clerks, who began to laugh; but Porthos turned sharply round, and every countenance quickly recovered its gravity.

They reached the office of the procurator after having passed through the antechamber in which the clerks were, and the study in which they ought to have been. This last apartment was a sort of dark room, littered with papers. On quitting the study they left the kitchen on the right, and entered the reception room.

All these rooms, which communicated with one another, did not inspire Porthos favorably. Words might be heard at a distance through all these open doors. Then, while passing, he had cast a rapid, investigating glance into the kitchen; and he was obliged to confess to himself, to the shame of the procurator’s wife and his own regret, that he did not see that fire, that animation, that bustle, which when a good repast is on foot prevails generally in that sanctuary of good living.

The procurator had without doubt been warned of his visit, as he expressed no surprise at the sight of Porthos, who advanced toward him with a sufficiently easy air, and saluted him courteously.

“We are cousins, it appears, Monsieur Porthos?” said the procurator, rising, yet supporting his weight upon the arms of his cane chair.

The old man, wrapped in a large black doublet, in which the whole of his slender body was concealed, was brisk and dry. His little gray eyes shone like carbuncles, and appeared, with his grinning mouth, to be the only part of his face in which life survived. Unfortunately the legs began to refuse their service to this bony machine. During the last five or six months that this weakness had been felt, the worthy procurator had nearly become the slave of his wife.

The cousin was received with resignation, that was all. M. Coquenard, firm upon his legs, would have declined all relationship with M. Porthos.

“Yes, monsieur, we are cousins,” said Porthos, without being disconcerted, as he had never reckoned upon being received enthusiastically by the husband.

“By the female side, I believe?” said the procurator, maliciously.

Porthos did not feel the ridicule of this, and took it for a piece of simplicity, at which he laughed in his large mustache. Mme. Coquenard, who knew that a simple-minded procurator was a very rare variety in the species, smiled a little, and colored a great deal.

M. Coquenard had, since the arrival of Porthos, frequently cast his eyes with great uneasiness upon a large chest placed in front of his oak desk. Porthos comprehended that this chest, although it did not correspond in shape with that which he had seen in his dreams, must be the blessed coffer, and he congratulated himself that the reality was several feet higher than the dream.

M. Coquenard did not carry his genealogical investigations any further; but withdrawing his anxious look from the chest and fixing it upon Porthos, he contented himself with saying, “Monsieur our cousin will do us the favor of dining with us once before his departure for the campaign, will he not, Madame Coquenard?”

This time Porthos received the blow right in his stomach, and felt it. It appeared likewise that Mme. Coquenard was not less affected by it on her part, for she added, “My cousin will not return if he finds that we do not treat him kindly; but otherwise he has so little time to pass in Paris, and consequently to spare to us, that we must entreat him to give us every instant he can call his own previous to his departure.”

“Oh, my legs, my poor legs! where are you?” murmured Coquenard, and he tried to smile.

This succor, which came to Porthos at the moment in which he was attacked in his gastronomic hopes, inspired much gratitude in the Musketeer toward the procurator’s wife.

The hour of dinner soon arrived. They passed into the eating room--a large dark room situated opposite the kitchen.

The clerks, who, as it appeared, had smelled unusual perfumes in the house, were of military punctuality, and held their stools in hand quite ready to sit down. Their jaws moved preliminarily with fearful threatenings.

“Indeed!” thought Porthos, casting a glance at the three hungry clerks-for the errand boy, as might be expected, was not admitted to the honors of the magisterial table. “in my cousin’s place, I would not keep such gourmands! They look like shipwrecked sailors who have not eaten for six weeks.”

M. Coquenard entered, pushed along upon his armchair with casters by Mme. Coquenard, whom Porthos assisted in rolling her husband up to the table. He had scarcely entered when he began to agitate his nose and his jaws after the example of his clerks.

“Oh, oh!” said he; “here is a soup which is rather inviting.”

“What the devil can they smell so extraordinary in this soup?” said Porthos, at the sight of a pale liquid, abundant but entirely free from meat, on the surface of which a few crusts swam about as rare as the islands of an archipelago.

Mme. Coquenard smiled, and upon a sign from her everyone eagerly took his seat.

M. Coquenard was served first, then Porthos. Afterward Mme. Coquenard filled her own plate, and distributed the crusts without soup to the impatient clerks. At this moment the door of the dining room unclosed with a creak, and Porthos perceived through the half-open flap the little clerk who, not being allowed to take part in the feast, ate his dry bread in the passage with the double odor of the dining room and kitchen.

After the soup the maid brought a boiled fowl--a piece of magnificence which caused the eyes of the diners to dilate in such a manner that they seemed ready to burst.

“One may see that you love your family, Madame Coquenard,” said the procurator, with a smile that was almost tragic. “You are certainly treating your cousin very handsomely!”

The poor fowl was thin, and covered with one of those thick, bristly skins through which the teeth cannot penetrate with all their efforts. The fowl must have been sought for a long time on the perch, to which it had retired to die of old age.

“The devil!” thought Porthos, “this is poor work. I respect old age, but I don’t much like it boiled or roasted.”

And he looked round to see if anybody partook of his opinion; but on the contrary, he saw nothing but eager eyes which were devouring, in anticipation, that sublime fowl which was the object of his contempt.

Mme. Coquenard drew the dish toward her, skillfully detached the two great black feet, which she placed upon her husband’s plate, cut off the neck, which with the head she put on one side for herself, raised the wing for Porthos, and then returned the bird otherwise intact to the servant who had brought it in, who disappeared with it before the Musketeer had time to examine the variations which disappointment produces upon faces, according to the characters and temperaments of those who experience it.

In the place of the fowl a dish of haricot beans made its appearance--an enormous dish in which some bones of mutton that at first sight one might have believed to have some meat on them pretended to show themselves.

But the clerks were not the dupes of this deceit, and their lugubrious looks settled down into resigned countenances.

Mme. Coquenard distributed this dish to the young men with the moderation of a good housewife.

The time for wine came. M. Coquenard poured from a very small stone bottle the third of a glass for each of the young men, served himself in about the same proportion, and passed the bottle to Porthos and Mme. Coquenard.

The young men filled up their third of a glass with water; then, when they had drunk half the glass, they filled it up again, and continued to do so. This brought them, by the end of the repast, to swallowing a drink which from the color of the ruby had passed to that of a pale topaz.

Porthos ate his wing of the fowl timidly, and shuddered when he felt the knee of the procurator’s wife under the table, as it came in search of his. He also drank half a glass of this sparingly served wine, and found it to be nothing but that horrible Montreuil--the terror of all expert palates.

M. Coquenard saw him swallowing this wine undiluted, and sighed deeply.

“Will you eat any of these beans, Cousin Porthos?” said Mme. Coquenard, in that tone which says, “Take my advice, don’t touch them.”

“Devil take me if I taste one of them!” murmured Porthos to himself, and then said aloud, “Thank you, my cousin, I am no longer hungry.”

There was silence. Porthos could hardly keep his countenance.

The procurator repeated several times, “Ah, Madame Coquenard! Accept my compliments; your dinner has been a real feast. Lord, how I have eaten!”

M. Coquenard had eaten his soup, the black feet of the fowl, and the only mutton bone on which there was the least appearance of meat.

Porthos fancied they were mystifying him, and began to curl his mustache and knit his eyebrows; but the knee of Mme. Coquenard gently advised him to be patient.

This silence and this interruption in serving, which were unintelligible to Porthos, had, on the contrary, a terrible meaning for the clerks. Upon a look from the procurator, accompanied by a smile from Mme. Coquenard, they arose slowly from the table, folded their napkins more slowly still, bowed, and retired.

“Go, young men! go and promote digestion by working,” said the procurator, gravely.

The clerks gone, Mme. Coquenard rose and took from a buffet a piece of cheese, some preserved quinces, and a cake which she had herself made of almonds and honey.

M. Coquenard knit his eyebrows because there were too many good things. Porthos bit his lips because he saw not the wherewithal to dine. He looked to see if the dish of beans was still there; the dish of beans had disappeared.

“A positive feast!” cried M. Coquenard, turning about in his chair, “a real feast, epulce epulorum. Lucullus dines with Lucullus.”

Porthos looked at the bottle, which was Dear him, and hoped that with wine, bread, and cheese, he might make a dinner; but wine was wanting, the bottle was empty. M. and Mme. Coquenard did not seem to observe it.

“This is fine!” said Porthos to himself; “I am prettily caught!”

He passed his tongue over a spoonful of preserves, and stuck his teeth into the sticky pastry of Mme. Coquenard.

“Now,” said he, “the sacrifice is consummated! Ah! if I had not the hope of peeping with Madame Coquenard into her husband’s chest!”

M. Coquenard, after the luxuries of such a repast, which he called an excess, felt the want of a siesta. Porthos began to hope that the thing would take place at the present sitting, and in that same locality; but the procurator would listen to nothing, he would be taken to his room, and was not satisfied till he was close to his chest, upon the edge of which, for still greater precaution, he placed his feet.

The procurator’s wife took Porthos into an adjoining room, and they began to lay the basis of a reconciliation.

“You can come and dine three times a week,” said Mme. Coquenard.

“Thanks, madame!” said Porthos, “but I don’t like to abuse your kindness; besides, I must think of my outfit!”

“That’s true,” said the procurator’s wife, groaning, “that unfortunate outfit!”

“Alas, yes,” said Porthos, “it is so.”

“But of what, then, does the equipment of your company consist, Monsieur Porthos?”

“Oh, of many things!” said Porthos. “The Musketeers are, as you know, picked soldiers, and they require many things useless to the Guardsmen or the Swiss.”

“But yet, detail them to me.”

“Why, they may amount to--”, said Porthos, who preferred discussing the total to taking them one by one.

The procurator’s wife waited tremblingly.

“To how much?” said she. “I hope it does not exceed--” She stopped; speech failed her.

“Oh, no,” said Porthos, “it does not exceed two thousand five hundred livres! I even think that with economy I could manage it with two thousand livres.”

“Good God!” cried she, “two thousand livres! Why, that is a fortune!”

Porthos made a most significant grimace; Mme. Coquenard understood it.

“I wished to know the detail,” said she, “because, having many relatives in business, I was almost sure of obtaining things at a hundred per cent less than you would pay yourself.”

“Ah, ah!” said Porthos, “that is what you meant to say!”

“Yes, dear Monsieur Porthos. Thus, for instance, don’t you in the first place want a horse?”

“Yes, a horse.”

“Well, then! I can just suit you.”

“Ah!” said Porthos, brightening, “that’s well as regards my horse; but I must have the appointments complete, as they include objects which a Musketeer alone can purchase, and which will not amount, besides, to more than three hundred livres.”

“Three hundred livres? Then put down three hundred livres,” said the procurator’s wife, with a sigh.

Porthos smiled. It may be remembered that he had the saddle which came from Buckingham. These three hundred livres he reckoned upon putting snugly into his pocket.

“Then,” continued he, “there is a horse for my lackey, and my valise. As to my arms, it is useless to trouble you about them; I have them.”

“A horse for your lackey?” resumed the procurator’s wife, hesitatingly; “but that is doing things in lordly style, my friend.”

“Ah, madame!” said Porthos, haughtily; “do you take me for a beggar?”

“No; I only thought that a pretty mule makes sometimes as good an appearance as a horse, and it seemed to me that by getting a pretty mule for Mousqueton--”

“Well, agreed for a pretty mule,” said Porthos; “you are right, I have seen very great Spanish nobles whose whole suite were mounted on mules. But then you understand, Madame Coquenard, a mule with feathers and bells.”

“Be satisfied,” said the procurator’s wife.

“There remains the valise,” added Porthos.

“Oh, don’t let that disturb you,” cried Mme. Coquenard. “My husband has five or six valises; you shall choose the best. There is one in particular which he prefers in his journeys, large enough to hold all the world.”

“Your valise is then empty?” asked Porthos, with simplicity.

“Certainly it is empty,” replied the procurator’s wife, in real innocence.

“Ah, but the valise I want,” cried Porthos, “is a well- filled one, my dear.”

Madame uttered fresh sighs. Moliére had not written his scene in “L’Avare” then. Mme. Coquenard was in the dilemma of Harpagan.

Finally, the rest of the equipment was successively debated in the same manner; and the result of the sitting was that the procurator’s wife should give eight hundred livres in money, and should furnish the horse and the mule which should have the honor of carrying Porthos and Mousqueton to glory.

These conditions being agreed to, Porthos took leave of Mme. Coquenard. The latter wished to detain him by darting certain tender glances; but Porthos urged the commands of duty, and the procurator’s wife was obliged to give place to the king.

The Musketeer returned home hungry and in bad humor.

Soubrette And Mistress

Meantime, as we have said, despite the cries of his conscience and the wise counsels of Athos, D’Artagnan became hourly more in love with Milady. Thus he never failed to pay his diurnal court to her; and the self-satisfied Gascon was convinced that sooner or later she could not fail to respond.

One day, when he arrived with his head in the air, and as light at heart as a man who awaits a shower of gold, he found the soubrette under the gateway of the hotel; but this time the pretty Kitty was not contented with touching him as he passed, she took him gently by the hand.

“Good!” thought D’Artagnan, “She is charged with some message for me from her mistress; she is about to appoint some rendezvous of which she had not courage to speak.” And he looked down at the pretty girl with the most triumphant air imaginable.

“I wish to say three words to you, Monsieur Chevalier,” stammered the soubrette.

“Speak, my child, speak,” said D’Artagnan; “I listen.”

“Here? Impossible! That which I have to say is too long, and above all, too secret.”

“Well, what is to be done?”

“If Monsieur Chevalier would follow me?” said Kitty, timidly.

“Where you please, my dear child.”

“Come, then.”

And Kitty, who had not let go the hand of D’Artagnan, led him up a little dark, winding staircase, and after ascending about fifteen steps, opened a door.

“Come in here, Monsieur Chevalier,” said she; “here we shall be alone, and can talk.”

“And whose room is this, my dear child?”

“It is mine, Monsieur Chevalier; it communicates with my mistress’s by that door. But you need not fear. She will not hear what we say; she never goes to bed before midnight,”

D’Artagnan cast a glance around him. The little apartment was charming for its taste and neatness; but in spite of himself, his eyes were directed to that door which Kitty said led to Milady’s chamber.

Kitty guessed what was passing in the mind of the young man, and heaved a deep sigh.

“You love my mistress, then, very dearly, Monsieur Chevalier?” said she.

“Oh, more than I can say, Kitty! I am mad for her!”

Kitty breathed a second sigh.

“Alas, monsieur,” said she, “that is too bad.”

“What the devil do you see so bad in it?” said D’Artagnan.

“Because, monsieur,” replied Kitty, “my mistress loves you not at all.”

Hein!” said D’Artagnan, “can she have charged you to tell me so?”

“Oh, no, monsieur; but out of the regard I have for you, I have taken the resolution to tell you so.”

“Much obliged, my dear Kitty; but for the intention only--for the information, you must agree, is not likely to be at all agreeable.”

“That is to say, you don’t believe what I have told you; is it not so?”

“We have always some difficulty in believing such things, my pretty dear, were it only from self-love.”

“Then you don’t believe me?”

“I confess that unless you deign to give me some proof of what you advance--”

“What do you think of this?”

Kitty drew a little note from her bosom.

“For me?” said Derogation, seizing the letter.

“No; for another.”

“For another?”

“Yes.”

“His name; his name!” cried D’Artagnan.

“Read the address.”

“Monsieur El Comte de Wardes.”

The remembrance of the scene at St. Germain presented itself to the mind of the presumptuous Gascon. As quick as thought, he tore open the letter, in spite of the cry which Kitty uttered on seeing what he was going to do, or rather, what he was doing.

“Oh, good Lord, Monsieur Chevalier,” said she, “what are you doing?”

“I?” said D’Artagnan; “nothing,” and he read,

“You have not answered my first note. Are you indisposed, or have you forgotten the glances you favored me with at the ball of Mme. de Guise? You have an opportunity now, Count; do not allow it to escape.”

D’Artagnan became very pale; he was wounded in his self- love: he thought that it was in his love.

“Poor dear Monsieur D’Artagnan,” said Kitty, in a voice full of compassion, and pressing anew the young man’s hand.

“You pity me, little one?” said D’Artagnan.

“Oh, yes, and with all my heart; for I know what it is to be in love.”

“You know what it is to be in love?” said D’Artagnan, looking at her for the first time with much attention.

“Alas, yes.”

“Well, then, instead of pitying me, you would do much better to assist me in avenging myself on your mistress.”

“And what sort of revenge would you take?”

“I would triumph over her, and supplant my rival.”

“I will never help you in that, Monsieur Chevalier,” said Kitty, warmly.

“And why not?” demanded D’Artagnan.

“For two reasons.”

“What ones?”

“The first is that my mistress will never love you.”

“How do you know that?”

“You have cut her to the heart.”

“I? In what can I have offended her--I who ever since I have known her have lived at her feet like a slave? Speak, I beg you!”

“I will never confess that but to the man--who should read to the bottom of my soul!”

D’Artagnan looked at Kitty for the second time. The young girl had freshness and beauty which many duchesses would have purchased with their coronets.

“Kitty,” said he, “I will read to the bottom of your soul when-ever you like; don’t let that disturb you.” And he gave her a kiss at which the poor girl became as red as a cherry.

“Oh, no,” said Kitty, “it is not me you love! It is my mistress you love; you told me so just now.”

“And does that hinder you from letting me know the second reason?”

“The second reason, Monsieur the Chevalier,” replied Kitty, emboldened by the kiss in the first place, and still further by the expression of the eyes of the young man, “is that in love, everyone for herself!”

Then only D’Artagnan remembered the languishing glances of Kitty, her constantly meeting him in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, those touches of the hand every time she met him, and her deep sighs; but absorbed by his desire to please the great lady, he had disdained the soubrette. He whose game is the eagle takes no heed of the sparrow.

But this time our Gascon saw at a glance all the advantage to be derived from the love which Kitty had just confessed so innocently, or so boldly: the interception of letters addressed to the Comte de Wardes, news on the spot, entrance at all hours into Kitty’s chamber, which was contiguous to her mistress’s. The perfidious deceiver was, as may plainly be perceived, already sacrificing, in intention, the poor girl in order to obtain Milady, willy-nilly.

“Well,” said he to the young girl, “are you willing, my dear Kitty, that I should give you a proof of that love which you doubt?”

“What love?” asked the young girl.

“Of that which I am ready to feel toward you.”

“And what is that proof?”

“Are you willing that I should this evening pass with you the time I generally spend with your mistress?”

“Oh, yes,” said Kitty, clapping her hands, “very willing.”

“Well, then, come here, my dear,” said D’Artagnan, establishing himself in an easy chair; “come, and let me tell you that you are the prettiest soubrette i ever saw!”

And he did tell her so much, and so well, that the poor girl, who asked nothing better than to believe him, did believe him. Nevertheless, to D’Artagnan’s great astonishment, the pretty Kitty defended herself resolutely.

Time passes quickly when it is passed in attacks and defenses. Midnight sounded, and almost at the same time the bell was rung in Milady’s chamber.

“Good God,” cried Kitty, “there is my mistress calling me! Go; go directly!”

D’Artagnan rose, took his hat, as if it had been his intention to obey, then, opening quickly the door of a large closet instead of that leading to the staircase, he buried himself amid the robes and dressing gowns of Milady.

“What are you doing?” cried Kitty.

D’Artagnan, who had secured the key, shut himself up in the closet without reply.

“Well,” cried Milady, in a sharp voice. “Are you asleep, that you don’t answer when I ring?”

And D’Artagnan heard the door of communication opened violently.

“Here am I, Milady, here am I!” cried Kitty, springing forward to meet her mistress.

Both went into the bedroom, and as the door of communication remained open, D’Artagnan could hear Milady for some time scolding her maid. She was at length appeased, and the conversation turned upon him while Kitty was assisting her mistress.

“Well,” said Milady, “I have not seen our Gascon this evening.”

“What, Milady! Has he not come?” said Kitty. “Can he be inconstant before being happy?”

“Oh, no; he must have been prevented by Monsieur de Tréville or Monsieur Dessessart. I understand my game, Kitty; I have this one safe.”

“What will you do with him, madame?”

“What will I do with him? Be easy, Kitty, there is something between that man and me that he is quite ignorant of: he nearly made me lose my credit with his Eminence. Oh, I will be revenged!”

“I believed that Madame loved him.”

“I love him? I detest him! An idiot, who held the life of Lord de Winter in his bands and did not kill him, by which I missed three hundred thousand livres’ income.”

“That’s true,” said Kitty; “your son was the only heir of his uncle, and until his majority you would have had the enjoyment of his fortune.”

D’Artagnan shuddered to the marrow at hearing this suave creature reproach him, with that sharp voice which she took such pains to conceal in conversation, for not having killed a man whom he had seen load her with kindnesses.

“For all this,” continued Milady, “I should long ago have revenged myself on him if, and I don’t know why, the cardinal had not requested me to conciliate him.”

“Oh, yes; but Madame has not conciliated that little woman he was so fond of.”

“What, the mercer’s wife of the Rue des Fossoyeurs? Has he not already forgotten she ever existed? Fine vengeance that, on my faith!”

A cold sweat broke from D’Artagnan’s brow. Why, this woman was a monster! He resumed his listening, but unfortunately the toilet was finished.

“That will do,” said Milady; “go into your own room, and tomorrow endeavor again to get me an answer to the letter I gave you.”

“For Monsieur de Wardes?” said Kitty.

“To be sure; for Monsieur de Wardes.”

“Now, there is one,” said Kitty, “who appears to me quite a different sort of a man from that poor Monsieur D’Artagnan.”

“Go to bed, mademoiselle,” said Milady; “I don’t like comments.”

D’Artagnan heard the door close; then the noise of two bolts by which Milady fastened herself in. On her side, but as softly as possible, Kitty turned the key of the lock, and then D’Artagnan opened the closet door.

“Oh, good Lord!” said Kitty, in a low voice, “what is the matter with you? How pale you are!”

“The abominable creature” murmured D’Artagnan.

“Silence, silence, begone!” said Kitty. “There is nothing but a wainscot between my chamber and Milady’s; every word that is uttered in one can be heard in the other.”

“That’s exactly the reason I won’t go,” said D’Artagnan.

“What!” said Kitty, blushing.

“Or, at least, I will go--later.”

He drew Kitty to him. She had the less motive to resist, resistance would make so much noise. Therefore Kitty surrendered.

It was a movement of vengeance upon Milady. D’Artagnan believed it right to say that vengeance is the pleasure of the gods. With a little more heart, he might have been contented with this new conquest; but the principal features of his character were ambition and pride. It must, however, be confessed in his justification that the first use he made of his influence over Kitty was to try and find out what had become of Mme. Bonacieux; but the poor girl swore upon the crucifix to D’Artagnan that she was entirely ignorant on that head, her mistress never admitting her into half her secrets--only she believed she could say she was not dead.

As to the cause which was near making Milady lose her credit with the cardinal, Kitty knew nothing about it; but this time D’Artagnan was better informed than she was. As he had seen Milady on board a vessel at the moment he was leaving England, he suspected that it was, almost without a doubt, on account of the diamond studs.

But what was clearest in all this was that the true hatred, the profound hatred, the inveterate hatred of Milady, was increased by his not having killed her brother-in-law.

D’Artagnan came the next day to Milady’s, and finding her in a very ill-humor, had no doubt that it was lack of an answer from M. de Wardes that provoked her thus. Kitty came in, but Milady was very cross with her. The poor girl ventured a glance at D’Artagnan which said, “See how I suffer on your account!”

Toward the end of the evening, however, the beautiful lioness became milder; she smilingly listened to the soft speeches of D’Artagnan, and even gave him her hand to kiss.

D’Artagnan departed, scarcely knowing what to think, but as he was a youth who did not easily lose his head, while continuing to pay his court to Milady, he had framed a little plan in his mind.

He found Kitty at the gate, and, as on the preceding evening, went up to her chamber. Kitty had been accused of negligence and severely scolded. Milady could not at all comprehend the silence of the Comte de Wardes, and she ordered Kitty to come at nine o’clock in the morning to take a third letter.

D’Artagnan made Kitty promise to bring him that letter on the following morning. The poor girl promised all her lover desired; she was mad.

Things passed as on the night before. D’Artagnan concealed himself in his closet; Milady called, undressed, sent away Kitty, and shut the door. As the night before, D’Artagnan did not return home till five o’clock in the morning.

At eleven o’clock Kitty came to him. She held in her hand a fresh billet from Milady. This time the poor girl did not even argue with D’Artagnan; she gave it to him at once. She belonged body and soul to her handsome soldier.

D’Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:

This is the third time I have written to you to tell you that I love you. Beware that I do not write to you a fourth time to tell you that I detest you.

If you repent of the manner in which you have acted toward me, the young girl who brings you this will tell you how a man of spirit may obtain his pardon.

D’Artagnan colored and grew pale several times in reading this billet.

“Oh, you love her still,” said Kitty, who had not taken her eyes off the young man’s countenance for an instant.

“No, Kitty, you are mistaken. I do not love her, but I will avenge myself for her contempt.”

“Oh, yes, I know what sort of vengeance! You told me that!”

“What matters it to you, Kitty? You know it is you alone whom I love.”

“How can I know that?”

“By the scorn I will throw upon her.”

D’Artagnan took a pen and wrote:

Madame, Until the present moment I could not believe that it was to me your first two letters were addressed, so unworthy did I feel myself of such an honor; besides, I was so seriously indisposed that I could not in any case have replied to them.

But now I am forced to believe in the excess of your kindness, since not only your letter but your servant assures me that I have the good fortune to be beloved by you.

She has no occasion to teach me the way in which a man of spirit may obtain his pardon. I will come and ask mine at eleven o’clock this evening.

To delay it a single day would be in my eyes now to commit a fresh offense.

From him whom you have rendered the happiest of men,

Comte de Wardes

This note was in the first place a forgery; it was likewise an indelicacy. It was even, according to our present manners, something like an infamous action; but at that period people did not manage affairs as they do today. Besides, D’Artagnan from her own admission knew Milady culpable of treachery in matters more important, and could entertain no respect for her. And yet, notwithstanding this want of respect, he felt an uncontrollable passion for this woman boiling in his veins--passion drunk with contempt; but passion or thirst, as the reader pleases.

D’Artagnan’s plan was very simple. By Kitty’s chamber he could gain that of her mistress. He would take advantage of the first moment of surprise, shame, and terror, to triumph over her. He might fail, but something must be left to chance. In eight days the campaign would open, and he would be compelled to leave Paris; D’Artagnan had no time for a prolonged love siege.

“There,” said the young man, handing Kitty the letter sealed; “give that to Milady. It is the count’s reply.”

Poor Kitty became as pale as death; she suspected what the letter contained.

“Listen, my dear girl,” said D’Artagnan; “you cannot but perceive that all this must end, some way or other. Milady may discover that you gave the first billet to my lackey instead of to the count’s; that it is I who have opened the others which ought to have been opened by De Wardes. Milady will then turn you out of doors, and you know she is not the woman to limit her vengeance. “Alas!” said Kitty, “for whom have I exposed myself to all that?”

“For me, I well know, my sweet girl,” said D’Artagnan. “But I am grateful, I swear to you.”

“But what does this note contain?”

“Milady will tell you.”

“Ah, you do not love me!” cried Kitty, “and I am very wretched.”

To this reproach there is always one response which deludes women. D’Artagnan replied in such a manner that Kitty remained in her great delusion. Although she cried freely before deciding to transmit the letter to her mistress, she did at last so decide, which was all D’Artagnan wished. Finally he promised that he would leave her mistress’s presence at an early hour that evening, and that when he left the mistress he would ascend with the maid. This promise completed poor Kitty’s consolation.

In Which The Equipment Of Aramis And Porthos Is Treated Of

Since the four friends had been each in search of his equipments, there had been no fixed meeting between them. They dined apart from one another, wherever they might happen to be, or rather where they could. Duty likewise on its part took a portion of that precious time which was gliding away so rapidly--only they had agreed to meet once a week, about one o’clock, at the residence of Athos, seeing that he, in agreement with the vow he had formed, did not pass over the threshold of his door.

This day of reunion was the same day as that on which Kitty came to find D’Artagnan. Soon as Kitty left him, D’Artagnan directed his steps toward the Rue Férue.

He found Athos and Aramis philosophizing. Aramis had some slight inclination to resume the cassock. Athos, according to his system, neither encouraged nor dissuaded him. Athos believed that everyone should be left to his own free will. He never gave advice but when it was asked, and even then he required to be asked twice.

“People, in general,” he said, “only ask advice not to follow it; or if they do follow it, it is for the sake of having someone to blame for having given it.”

Porthos arrived a minute after D’Artagnan. The four friends were reunited.

The four countenances expressed four different feelings: that of Porthos, tranquillity; that of D’Artagnan, hope; that of Aramis, uneasiness; that of Athos, carelessness.

At the end of a moment’s conversation, in which Porthos hinted that a lady of elevated rank had condescended to relieve him from his embarrassment, Mousqueton entered. He came to request his master to return to his lodgings, where his presence was urgent, as he piteously said.

“Is it my equipment?”

“Yes and no,” replied Mousqueton.

“Well, but can’t you speak?”

“Come, monsieur.”

Porthos rose, saluted his friends, and followed Mousqueton. An instant after, Bazin made his appearance at the door.

“What do you want with me, my friend?” said Aramis, with that mildness of language which was observable in him every time that his ideas were directed toward the Church.

“A man wishes to see Monsieur at home,” replied Bazin.

“A man! What man?”

“A mendicant.”

“Give him alms, Bazin, and bid him pray for a poor sinner.”

“This mendicant insists upon speaking to you, and pretends that you will be very glad to see him.”

“Has he sent no particular message for me?”

“Yes. If Monsieur Aramis hesitates to come,” he said, “tell him I am from Tours.”

“From Tours!” cried Aramis. “A thousand pardons, gentlemen; but no doubt this man brings me the news I expected.” And rising also, he went off at a quick pace. There remained Athos and D’Artagnan.

“I believe these fellows have managed their business. What do you think, D’Artagnan?” said Athos.

“I know that Porthos was in a fair way,” replied D’Artagnan; “and as to Aramis to tell you the truth, I have never been seriously uneasy on his account. But you, my dear Athos-- you, who so generously distributed the Englishman’s pistoles, which were our legitimate property--what do you mean to do?”

“I am satisfied with having killed that fellow, my boy, seeing that it is blessed bread to kill an Englishman; but if I had pocketed his pistoles, they would have weighed me down like a remorse.

“Go to, my dear Athos; you have truly inconceivable ideas.”

“Let it pass. What do you think of Monsieur de Tréville telling me, when he did me the honor to call upon me yesterday, that you associated with the suspected English, whom the cardinal protects?”

“That is to say, I visit an Englishwoman--the one I named.”

“Oh, ay! the fair woman on whose account I gave you advice, which naturally you took care not to adopt.”

“I gave you my reasons.”

“Yes; you look there for your outfit, I think you said.”

“Not at all. I have acquired certain knowledge that that woman was concerned in the abduction of Madame Bonacieux.”

“Yes, I understand now: to find one woman, you court another. It is the longest road, but certainly the most amusing.”

D’Artagnan was on the point of telling Athos all; but one consideration restrained him. Athos was a gentleman, punctilious in points of honor; and there were in the plan which our lover had devised for Milady, he was sure, certain things that would not obtain the assent of this Puritan. He was therefore silent; and as Athos was the least inquisitive of any man on earth, D’Artagnan’s confidence stopped there. We will therefore leave the two friends, who had nothing important to say to each other, and follow Aramis.

Upon being informed that the person who wanted to speak to him came from Tours, we have seen with what rapidity the young man followed, or rather went before, Bazin; he ran without stopping from the Rue Férue to the Rue de Vaugirard. On entering he found a man of short stature and intelligent eyes, but covered with rags.

“You have asked for me?” said the Musketeer.

“I wish to speak with Monsieur Aramis. Is that your name, monsieur?”

“My very own. You have brought me something?”

“Yes, if you show me a certain embroidered handkerchief.”

“Here it is,” said Aramis, taking a small key from his breast and opening a little ebony box inlaid with mother of pearl, “here it is. Look.”

“That is right,” replied the mendicant; “dismiss your lackey.”

In fact, Bazin, curious to know what the mendicant could want with his master, kept pace with him as well as he could, and arrived almost at the same time he did; but his quickness was not of much use to him. At the hint from the mendicant his master made him a sign to retire, and he was obliged to obey.

Bazin gone, the mendicant cast a rapid glance around him in order to be sure that nobody could either see or hear him, and opening his ragged vest, badly held together by a leather strap, he began to rip the upper part of his doublet, from which he drew a letter.

Aramis uttered a cry of joy at the sight of the seal, kissed the superscription with an almost religious respect, and opened the epistle, which contained what follows:

“My Friend, it is the will of fate that we should be still for some time separated; but the delightful days of youth are not lost beyond return. Perform your duty in camp; I will do mine elsewhere. Accept that which the bearer brings you; make the campaign like a handsome true gentleman, and think of me, who kisses tenderly your black eyes.

“Adieu; or rather, au revoir.”

The mendicant continued to rip his garments; and drew from amid his rags a hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles, which he laid down on the table; then he opened the door, bowed, and went out before the young man, stupefied by his letter, had ventured to address a word to him.

Aramis then reperused the letter, and perceived a postscript:

P.S. You may behave politely to the bearer, who is a count and a grandee of Spain!

“Golden dreams!” cried Aramis. “Oh, beautiful life! Yes, we are young; yes, we shall yet have happy days! My love, my blood, my life! all, all, all, are thine, my adored mistress!”

And he kissed the letter with passion, without even vouchsafing a look at the gold which sparkled on the table.

Bazin scratched at the door, and as Aramis had no longer any reason to exclude him, he bade him come in.

Bazin was stupefied at the sight of the gold, and forgot that he came to announce D’Artagnan, who, curious to know who the mendicant could be, came to Aramis on leaving Athos.

Now, as D’Artagnan used no ceremony with Aramis, seeing that Bazin forgot to announce him, he announced himself.

“The devil! my dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “if these are the prunes that are sent to you from Tours, I beg you will make my compliments to the gardener who gathers them.”

“You are mistaken, friend D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, always on his guard; “this is from my publisher, who has just sent me the price of that poem in one-syllable verse which I began yonder.”

“Ah, indeed,” said D’Artagnan. “Well, your publisher is very generous, my dear Aramis, that’s all I can say.”

“How, monsieur?” cried Bazin, “a poem sell so dear as that! It is incredible! Oh, monsieur, you can write as much as you like; you may become equal to Monsieur de Voiture and Monsieur de Benserade. I like that. A poet is as good as an abbé. Ah! Monsieur Aramis, become a poet, I beg of you.”

“Bazin, my friend,” said Aramis, “I believe you meddle with my conversation.”

Bazin perceived he was wrong; he bowed and went out.

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan with a smile, “you sell your productions at their weight in gold. You are very fortunate, my friend; but take care or you will lose that letter which is peeping from your doublet, and which also comes, no doubt, from your publisher.”

Aramis blushed to the eyes, crammed in the letter, and re-buttoned his doublet.

“My dear D’Artagnan,” said he, “if you please, we will join our friends; as I am rich, we will today begin to dine together again, expecting that you will be rich in your turn.”

“My faith!” said D’Artagnan, with great pleasure. “It is long since we have had a good dinner; and I, for my part, have a somewhat hazardous expedition for this evening, and shall not be sorry, I confess, to fortify myself with a few glasses of good old Burgundy.”

“Agreed, as to the old Burgundy; I have no objection to that,” said Aramis, from whom the letter and the gold had removed, as by magic, his ideas of conversion.

And having put three or four double pistoles into his pocket to answer the needs of the moment, he placed the others in the ebony box, inlaid with mother of pearl, in which was the famous handkerchief which served him as a talisman.

The two friends repaired to Athos’s, and he, faithful to his vow of not going out, took upon him to order dinner to be brought to them. As he was perfectly acquainted with the details of gastronomy, D’Artagnan and Aramis made no objection to abandoning this important care to him.

They went to find Porthos, and at the corner of the Rue Bac met Mousqueton, who, with a most pitiable air, was driving before him a mule and a horse.

D’Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise, which was not quite free from joy.

“Ah, my yellow horse,” cried he. “Aramis, look at that horse!”

“Oh, the frightful brute!” said Aramis.

“Ah, my dear,” replied D’Artagnan, “upon that very horse I came to Paris.”

“What, does Monsieur know this horse?” said Mousqueton.

“It is of an original color,” said Aramis; “I never saw one with such a hide in my life.”

“I can well believe it,” replied D’Artagnan, “and that was why I got three crowns for him. It must have been for his hide, for, certes, the carcass is not worth eighteen livres. But how did this horse come into your bands, Mousqueton?”

“Pray,” said the lackey, “say nothing about it, monsieur; it is a frightful trick of the husband of our duchess!”

“How is that, Mousqueton?”

“Why, we are looked upon with a rather favorable eye by a lady of quality, the Duchesse de--but, your pardon; my master has commanded me to be discreet. She had forced us to accept a little souvenir, a magnificent Spanish genet and an Andalusian mule, which were beautiful to look upon. The husband heard of the affair; on their way he confiscated the two magnificent beasts which were being sent to us, and substituted these horrible animals.”

“Which you are taking back to him?” said D’Artagnan.

“Exactly!” replied Mousqueton. “You may well believe that we will not accept such steeds as these in exchange for those which had been promised to us.”

“No, pardieu; though I should like to have seen Porthos on my yellow horse. That would give me an idea of how I looked when I arrived in Paris. But don’t let us hinder you, Mousqueton; go and perform your master’s orders. Is he at home?”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “but in a very ill humor. Get up!”

He continued his way toward the Quai des Grands Augustins, while the two friends went to ring at the bell of the unfortunate Porthos. He, having seen them crossing the yard, took care not to answer, and they rang in vain.

Meanwhile Mousqueton continued on his way, and crossing the Pont Neuf, still driving the two sorry animals before him, he reached the Rue aux Ours. Arrived there, he fastened, according to the orders of his master, both horse and mule to the knocker of the procurator’s door; then, without taking any thought for their future, he returned to Porthos, and told him that his commission was completed.

In a short time the two unfortunate beasts, who had not eaten anything since the morning, made such a noise in raising and letting fall the knocker that the procurator ordered his errand boy to go and inquire in the neighborhood to whom this horse and mule belonged.

Mme. Coquenard recognized her present, and could not at first comprehend this restitution; but the visit of Porthos soon enlightened her. The anger which fired the eyes of the Musketeer, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, terrified his sensitive inamorata. In fact, Mousqueton had not concealed from his master that he had met D’Artagnan and Aramis, and that D’Artagnan in the yellow horse had recognized the Béarnese pony upon which he had come to Paris, and which he had sold for three crowns.

Porthos went away after having appointed a meeting with the procurator’s wife in the cloister of St. Magloire. The procurator, seeing he was going, invited him to dinner--an invitation which the Musketeer refused with a majestic air.

Mme. Coquenard repaired trembling to the cloister of St. Magloire, for she guessed the reproaches that awaited her there; but she was fascinated by the lofty airs of Porthos.

All that which a man wounded in his self-love could let fall in the shape of imprecations and reproaches upon the head of a woman Porthos let fall upon the bowed head of the procurator’s wife.

“Alas,” said she, “I did all for the best! One of our clients is a horsedealer; he owes money to the office, and is backward in his pay. I took the mule and the horse for what he owed us; he assured me that they were two noble steeds.”

“Well, madame,” said Porthos, “if he owed you more than five crowns, your horsedealer is a thief.”

“There is no harm in trying to buy things cheap, Monsieur Porthos,” said the procurator’s wife, seeking to excuse herself.

“No, madame; but they who so assiduously try to buy things cheap ought to permit others to seek more generous friends.” And Porthos, turning on his heel, made a step to retire.

“Monsieur Porthos! Monsieur Porthos!” cried the procurator’s wife. “I have been wrong; I see it. I ought not to have driven a bargain when it was to equip a cavalier like you.”

Porthos, without reply, retreated a second step. The procurator’s wife fancied she saw him in a brilliant cloud, all surrounded by duchesses and marchionesses, who cast bags of money at his feet.

“Stop, in the name of heaven, Monsieur Porthos!” cried she. “Stop, and let us talk.”

“Talking with you brings me misfortune,” said Porthos.

“But, tell me, what do you ask?”

“Nothing; for that amounts to the same thing as if I asked you for something.”

The procurator’s wife hung upon the arm of Porthos, and in the violence of her grief she cried out, “Monsieur Porthos, I am ignorant of all such matters! How should I know what a horse is? How should I know what horse furniture is?”

“You should have left it to me, then, madame, who know what they are; but you wished to be frugal, and consequently to lend at usury.”

“It was wrong, Monsieur Porthos; but I will repair that wrong, upon my word of honor.”

“How so?” asked the Musketeer.

“Listen. This evening M. Coquenard is going to the house of the Due de Chaulnes, who has sent for him. It is for a consultation, which will last three hours at least. Come! We shall be alone, and can make up our accounts.”

“In good time. Now you talk, my dear.”

“You pardon me?”

“We shall see,” said Porthos, majestically; and the two separated saying, “Till this evening.”

“The devil!” thought Porthos, as he walked away, “it appears I am getting nearer to Monsieur Coquenard’s strongbox at last.”

A Gascon A Match For Cupid

The evening so impatiently waited for by Porthos and by D’Artagnan at last arrived.

As was his custom, D’Artagnan presented himself at Milady’s at about nine o’clock. He found her in a charming humor. Never had he been so well received. Our Gascon knew, by the first glance of his eye, that his billet had been delivered, and that this billet had had its effect.

Kitty entered to bring some sherbet. Her mistress put on a charming face, and smiled on her graciously; but alas! the poor girl was so sad that she did not even notice Milady’s condescension.

D’Artagnan looked at the two women, one after the other, and was forced to acknowledge that in his opinion Dame Nature had made a mistake in their formation. To the great lady she had given a heart vile and venal; to the soubrette she had given the heart of a duchess.

At ten o’clock Milady began to appear restless. D’Artagnan knew what she wanted. She looked at the clock, rose, reseated herself, smiled at D’Artagnan with an air which said, “You are very amiable, no doubt, but you would be charming if you would only depart.”

D’Artagnan rose and took his hat; Milady gave him her hand to kiss. The young man felt her press his hand, and comprehended that this was a sentiment, not of coquetry, but of gratitude because of his departure.

“She loves him devilishly,” he murmured. Then he went out.

This time Kitty was nowhere waiting for him; neither in the antechamber, nor in the corridor, nor beneath the great door. It was necessary that D’Artagnan should find alone the staircase and the little chamber. She heard him enter, but she did not raise her head. The young man went to her and took her hands; then she sobbed aloud.

As D’Artagnan had presumed, on receiving his letter, Milady in a delirium of joy had told her servant everything; and by way of recompense for the manner in which she had this time executed the commission, she had given Kitty a purse.

Returning to her own room, Kitty had thrown the purse into a corner, where it lay open, disgorging three or four gold pieces on the carpet. The poor girl, under the caresses of D’Artagnan, lifted her head. D’Artagnan himself was frightened by the change in her countenance. She joined her hands with a suppliant air, but without venturing to speak a word. As little sensitive as was the heart of D’Artagnan, he was touched by this mute sorrow; but he held too tenaciously to his projects, above all to this one, to change the program which he had laid out in advance. He did not therefore allow her any hope that he would flinch; only he represented his action as one of simple vengeance.

For the rest this vengeance was very easy; for Milady, doubtless to conceal her blushes from her lover, had ordered Kitty to extinguish all the lights in the apartment, and even in the little chamber itself. Before daybreak M. de Wardes must take his departure, still in obscurity.

Presently they heard Milady retire to her room. D’Artagnan slipped into the wardrobe. Hardly was he concealed when the little bell sounded. Kitty went to her mistress, and did not leave the door open; but the partition was so thin that one could hear nearly all that passed between the two women.

Milady seemed overcome with joy, and made Kitty repeat the smallest details of the pretended interview of the soubrette with De Wardes when he received the letter; how he had responded; what was the expression of his face; if he seemed very amorous. And to all these questions poor Kitty, forced to put on a pleasant face, responded in a stifled voice whose dolorous accent her mistress did not however remark, solely because happiness is egotistical.

Finally, as the hour for her interview with the count approached, Milady had everything about her darkened, and ordered Kitty to return to her own chamber, and introduce De Wardes whenever he presented himself.

Kitty’s detention was not long. Hardly had D’Artagnan seen, through a crevice in his closet, that the whole apartment was in obscurity, than he slipped out of his concealment, at the very moment when Kitty reclosed the door of communication.

“What is that noise?” demanded Milady.

“It is I,” said D’Artagnan in a subdued voice, “I, the Comte de Wardes.”

“Oh, my God, my God!” murmured Kitty, “he has not even waited for the hour he himself named!”

“Well,” said Milady, in a trembling voice, “why do you not enter? Count, Count,” added she, “you know that I wait for you.”

At this appeal D’Artagnan drew Kitty quietly away, and slipped into the chamber.

If rage or sorrow ever torture the heart, it is when a lover receives under a name which is not his own protestations of love addressed to his happy rival. D’Artagnan was in a dolorous situation which he had not foreseen. Jealousy gnawed his heart; and he suffered almost as much as poor Kitty, who at that very moment was crying in the next chamber.

“Yes, Count,” said Milady, in her softest voice, and pressing his hand in her own, “I am happy in the love which your looks and your words have expressed to me every time we have met. I also—I love you. Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow, I must have some pledge from you which will prove that you think of me; and that you may not forget me, take this!” and she slipped a ring from her finger onto D’Artagnan’s. D’Artagnan remembered having seen this ring on the finger of Milady; it was a magnificent sapphire, encircled with brilliants.

The first movement of D’Artagnan was to return it, but Milady added, “No, no! Keep that ring for love of me. Besides, in accepting it,” she added, in a voice full of emotion, “you render me a much greater service than you imagine.”

“This woman is full of mysteries,” murmured D’Artagnan to himself. At that instant he felt himself ready to reveal all. He even opened his mouth to tell Milady who he was, and with what a revengeful purpose he had come; but she added, “Poor angel, whom that monster of a Gascon barely failed to kill.”

The monster was himself.

“Oh,” continued Milady, “do your wounds still make you suffer?”

“Yes, much,” said D’Artagnan, who did not well know how to answer.

“Be tranquil,” murmured Milady; “I will avenge you—and cruelly!”

Peste!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “the moment for confidences has not yet come.”

It took some time for D’Artagnan to resume this little dialogue; but then all the ideas of vengeance which he had brought with him had completely vanished. This woman exercised over him an unaccountable power; he hated and adored her at the same time. He would not have believed that two sentiments so opposite could dwell in the same heart, and by their union constitute a passion so strange, and as it were, diabolical.

Presently it sounded one o’clock. It was necessary to separate. D’Artagnan at the moment of quitting Milady felt only the liveliest regret at the parting; and as they addressed each other in a reciprocally passionate adieu, another interview was arranged for the following week.

Poor Kitty hoped to speak a few words to D’Artagnan when he passed through her chamber; but Milady herself reconducted him through the darkness, and only quit him at the staircase.

The next morning D’Artagnan ran to find Athos. He was engaged in an adventure so singular that he wished for counsel. He therefore told him all.

“Your Milady,” said he, “appears to be an infamous creature, but not the less you have done wrong to deceive her. In one fashion or another you have a terrible enemy on your hands.”

While thus speaking Athos regarded with attention the sapphire set with diamonds which had taken, on D’Artagnan’s finger, the place of the queen’s ring, carefully kept in a casket.

“You notice my ring?” said the Gascon, proud to display so rich a gift in the eyes of his friends.

“Yes,” said Athos, “it reminds me of a family jewel.”

“It is beautiful, is it not?” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes,” said Athos, “magnificent. I did not think two sapphires of such a fine water existed. Have you traded it for your diamond?”

“No. It is a gift from my beautiful Englishwoman, or rather Frenchwoman—for I am convinced she was born in France, though I have not questioned her.”

“That ring comes from Milady?” cried Athos, with a voice in which it was easy to detect strong emotion.

“Her very self; she gave it me last night. Here it is,” replied D’Artagnan, taking it from his finger.

Athos examined it and became very pale. He tried it on his left hand; it fit his finger as if made for it.

A shade of anger and vengeance passed across the usually calm brow of this gentleman.

“It is impossible it can be she,” said be. “How could this ring come into the hands of Milady Clarik? And yet it is difficult to suppose such a resemblance should exist between two jewels.”

“Do you know this ring?” said D’Artagnan.

“I thought I did,” replied Athos; “but no doubt I was mistaken.” And he returned D’Artagnan the ring without, however, ceasing to look at it.

“Pray, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, after a minute, “either take off that ring or turn the mounting inside; it recalls such cruel recollections that I shall have no head to converse with you. Don’t ask me for counsel; don’t tell me you are perplexed what to do. But stop! let me look at that sapphire again; the one I mentioned to you had one of its faces scratched by accident.”

D’Artagnan took off the ring, giving it again to Athos.

Athos started. “Look,” said he, “is it not strange?” and he pointed out to D’Artagnan the scratch he had remembered.

“But from whom did this ring come to you, Athos?”

“From my mother, who inherited it from her mother. As I told you, it is an old family jewel.”

“And you—sold it?” asked D’Artagnan, hesitatingly.

“No,” replied Athos, with a singular smile. “I gave it away in a night of love, as it has been given to you.”

D’Artagnan became pensive in his turn; it appeared as if there were abysses in Milady’s soul whose depths were dark and unknown. He took back the ring, but put it in his pocket and not on his finger.

“D’Artagnan,” said Athos, taking his hand, “you know I love you; if I had a son I could not love him better. Take my advice, renounce this woman. I do not know her, but a sort of intuition tells me she is a lost creature, and that there is something fatal about her.”

“You are right,” said D’Artagnan; “I will have done with her. I own that this woman terrifies me.”

“Shall you have the courage?” said Athos.

“I shall,” replied D’Artagnan, “and instantly.”

“In truth, my young friend, you will act rightly,” said the gentleman, pressing the Gascon’s hand with an affection almost paternal; “and God grant that this woman, who has scarcely entered into your life, may not leave a terrible trace in it!” And Athos bowed to D’Artagnan like a man who wishes it understood that he would not be sorry to be left alone with his thoughts.

On reaching home D’Artagnan found Kitty waiting for him. A month of fever could not have changed her more than this one night of sleeplessness and sorrow.

She was sent by her mistress to the false De Wardes. Her mistress was mad with love, intoxicated with joy. She wished to know when her lover would meet her a second night; and poor Kitty, pale and trembling, awaited D’Artagnan’s reply. The counsels of his friend, joined to the cries of his own heart, made him determine, now his pride was saved and his vengeance satisfied, not to see Milady again. As a reply, he wrote the following letter:

Do not depend upon me, madame, for the next meeting. Since my convalescence I have so many affairs of this kind on my hands that I am forced to regulate them a little. When your turn comes, I shall have the honor to inform you of it. I kiss your hands.

Comte de Wardes

Not a word about the sapphire. Was the Gascon determined to keep it as a weapon against Milady, or else, let us be frank, did he not reserve the sapphire as a last resource for his outfit? It would be wrong to judge the actions of one period from the point of view of another. That which would now be considered as disgraceful to a gentleman was at that time quite a simple and natural affair, and the younger sons of the best families were frequently supported by their mistresses. D’Artagnan gave the open letter to Kitty, who at first was unable to comprehend it, but who became almost wild with joy on reading it a second time. She could scarcely believe in her happiness; and D’Artagnan was forced to renew with the living voice the assurances which he had written. And whatever might be—considering the violent character of Milady—the danger which the poor girl incurred in giving this billet to her mistress, she ran back to the Place Royale as fast as her legs could carry her.

The heart of the best woman is pitiless toward the sorrows of a rival.

Milady opened the letter with eagerness equal to Kitty’s in bringing it; but at the first words she read she became livid. She crushed the paper in her band, and turning with flashing eyes upon Kitty, she cried, “What is this letter?”

“The answer to Madame’s,” replied Kitty, all in a tremble.

“Impossible!” cried Milady. “It is impossible a gentleman could have written such a letter to a woman.” Then all at once, starting, she cried, “My God! can he have—” and she stopped. She ground her teeth; she was of the color of ashes. She tried to go toward the window for air, but she could only stretch forth her arms; her legs failed her, and she sank into an armchair. Kitty, fearing she was ill, hastened toward her and was beginning to open her dress; but Milady started up, pushing her away. “What do you want with me?” said she, “and why do you place your hand on me?”

“I thought that Madame was ill, and I wished to bring her help,” responded the maid, frightened at the terrible expression which had come over her mistress’s face.

“I faint? I? I? Do you take me for half a woman? When I am insulted I do not faint; I avenge myself!”

And she made a sign for Kitty to leave the room.

Dream Of Vengeance

That evening Milady gave orders that when M. D’Artagnan came as usual, he should be immediately admitted; but he did not come.

The next day Kitty went to see the young man again, and related to him all that had passed on the preceding evening. D’Artagnan smiled; this jealous anger of Milady was his revenge.

That evening Milady was still more impatient than on the preceding evening. She renewed the order relative to the Gascon; but as before she expected him in vain.

The next morning, when Kitty presented herself at D’Artagnan’s, she was no longer joyous and alert as on the two preceding days; but on the contrary sad as death.

D’Artagnan asked the poor girl what was the matter with her; but she, as her only reply, drew a letter from her pocket and gave it to him.

This letter was in Milady’s handwriting; only this time it was addressed to M. D’Artagnan, and not to M. de Wardes.

He opened it and read as follows:

Dear M. d’Artagnan, It is wrong thus to neglect your friends, particularly at the moment you are about to leave them for so long a time. My brother-in-law and myself expected you yesterday and the day before, but in vain. Will it be the same this evening?

Your very grateful, Milady Clarik

“That’s all very simple,” said D’Artagnan; “I expected this letter. My credit rises by the fall of that of the Comte de Wardes.”

“And will you go?” asked Kitty.

“Listen to me, my dear girl,” said the Gascon, who sought for an excuse in his own eyes for breaking the promise he had made Athos; “you must understand it would be impolitic not to accept such a positive invitation. Milady, not seeing me come again, would not be able to understand what could cause the interruption of my visits, and might suspect something; who could say how far the vengeance of such a woman would go?”

“Oh, my God!” said Kitty, “you know how to represent things in such a way that you are always in the right. You are going now to pay your court to her again, and if this time you succeed in pleasing her in your own name and with your own face, it will be much worse than before.”

Instinct made poor Kitty guess a part of what was to happen. D’Artagnan reassured her as well as he could, and promised to remain insensible to the seductions of Milady.

He desired Kitty to tell her mistress that he could not be more grateful for her kindnesses than he was, and that he would be obedient to her orders. He did not dare to write for fear of not being able--to such experienced eyes as those of Milady--to disguise his writing sufficiently.

As nine o’clock sounded, D’Artagnan was at the Place Royale. It was evident that the servants who waited in the antechamber were warned, for as soon as D’Artagnan appeared, before even he had asked if Milady were visible, one of them ran to announce him.

“Show him in,” said Milady, in a quick tone, but so piercing that D’Artagnan heard her in the antechamber.

He was introduced.

“I am at home to nobody,” said Milady; “observe, to nobody.” The servant went out.

D’Artagnan cast an inquiring glance at Milady. She was pale, and looked fatigued, either from tears or want of sleep. The number of lights had been intentionally diminished, but the young woman could not conceal the traces of the fever which had devoured her for two days.

D’Artagnan approached her with his usual gallantry. She then made an extraordinary effort to receive him, but never did a more distressed countenance give the lie to a more amiable smile.

To the questions which D’Artagnan put concerning her health, she replied, “Bad, very bad.”

“Then,” replied he, “my visit is ill-timed; you, no doubt, stand in need of repose, and I will withdraw.”

“No, no!” said Milady. “On the contrary, stay, Monsieur D’Artagnan; your agreeable company will divert me.”

“Oh, oh!” thought D’Artagnan. “She has never been so kind before. On guard!”

Milady assumed the most agreeable air possible, and conversed with more than her usual brilliancy. At the same time the fever, which for an instant abandoned her, returned to give luster to her eyes, color to her cheeks, and vermillion to her lips. D’Artagnan was again in the presence of the Circe who had before surrounded him with her enchantments. His love, which he believed to be extinct but which was only asleep, awoke again in his heart. Milady smiled, and D’Artagnan felt that he could damn himself for that smile. There was a moment at which he felt something like remorse.

By degrees, Milady became more communicative. She asked D’Artagnan if he had a mistress.

“Alas!” said D’Artagnan, with the most sentimental air he could assume, “can you be cruel enough to put such a question to me--to me, who, from the moment I saw you, have only breathed and sighed through you and for you?”

Milady smiled with a strange smile.

“Then you love me?” said she.

“Have I any need to tell you so? Have you not perceived it?”

“It may be; but you know the more hearts are worth the capture, the more difficult they are to be won.”

“Oh, difficulties do not affright me,” said D’Artagnan. “I shrink before nothing but impossibilities.”

“Nothing is impossible,” replied Milady, “to true love.”

“Nothing, madame?”

“Nothing,” replied Milady.

“The devil!” thought D’Artagnan. “The note is changed. Is she going to fall in love with me, by chance, this fair inconstant; and will she be disposed to give me myself another sapphire like that which she gave me for De Wardes?”

D’Artagnan rapidly drew his seat nearer to Milady’s.

“Well, now,” she said, “let us see what you would do to prove this love of which you speak.”

“All that could be required of me. Order; I am ready.”

“For everything?”

“For everything,” cried D’Artagnan, who knew beforehand that he had not much to risk in engaging himself thus.

“Well, now let us talk a little seriously,” said Milady, in her turn drawing her armchair nearer to D’Artagnan’s chair.

“I am all attention, madame,” said he.

Milady remained thoughtful and undecided for a moment; then, as if appearing to have formed a resolution, she said, “I have an enemy.”

“You, madame!” said D’Artagnan, affecting surprise; “is that possible, my God?--good and beautiful as you are!”

“A mortal enemy.”

“Indeed!”

“An enemy who has insulted me so cruelly that between him and me it is war to the death. May I reckon on you as an auxiliary?”

D’Artagnan at once perceived the ground which the vindictive creature wished to reach.

“You may, madame,” said he, with emphasis. “My arm and my life belong to you, like my love.”

“Then,” said Milady, “since you are as generous as you are loving--”

She stopped.

“Well?” demanded D’Artagnan.

“Well,” replied Milady, after a moment of silence, “from the present time, cease to talk of impossibilities.”

“Do not overwhelm me with happiness,” cried D’Artagnan, throwing himself on his knees, and covering with kisses the hands abandoned to him.

“Avenge me of that infamous De Wardes,” said Milady, between her teeth, “and I shall soon know how to get rid of you--you double idiot, you animated sword blade!”

“Fall voluntarily into my arms, hypocritical and dangerous woman,” said D’Artagnan, likewise to himself, “after having abused me with such effrontery, and afterward I will laugh at you with him whom you wish me to kill.”

D’Artagnan lifted up his head.

“I am ready,” said he.

“You have understood me, then, dear Monsieur D’Artagnan” said Milady.

“I could interpret one of your looks.”

“Then you would employ for me your arm which has already acquired so much renown?”

“Instantly!”

“But on my part,” said Milady, “how should I repay such a service? I know these lovers. They are men who do nothing for nothing.”

“You know the only reply that I desire,” said D’Artagnan, “the only one worthy of you and of me!”

And he drew nearer to her.

She scarcely resisted.

“Interested man!” cried she, smiling.

“Ah,” cried D’Artagnan, really carried away by the passion this woman had the power to kindle in his heart, “ah, that is because my happiness appears so impossible to me; and I have such fear that it should fly away from me like a dream that I pant to make a reality of it.”

“Well, merit this pretended happiness, then!”

“I am at your orders,” said D’Artagnan.

“Quite certain?” said Milady, with a last doubt.

“Only name to me the base man that has brought tears into your beautiful eyes!”

“Who told you that I had been weeping?” said she.

“It appeared to me--”

“Such women as I never weep,” said Milady.

“So much the better! Come, tell me his name!”

“Remember that his name is all my secret.”

“Yet I must know his name.”

“Yes, you must; see what confidence I have in you!”

“You overwhelm me with joy. What is his name?”

“You know him.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes.

“It is surely not one of my friends?” replied D’Artagnan, affecting hesitation in order to make her believe him ignorant.

“If it were one of your friends you would hesitate, then?” cried Milady; and a threatening glance darted from her eyes.

“Not if it were my own brother!” cried D’Artagnan, as if carried away by his enthusiasm.

Our Gascon promised this without risk, for he knew all that was meant.

“I love your devotedness,” said Milady.

“Alas, do you love nothing else in me?” asked D’Artagnan.

“I love you also, you!” said she, taking his hand.

The warm pressure made D’Artagnan tremble, as if by the touch that fever which consumed Milady attacked himself.

“You love me, you!” cried he. “Oh, if that were so, I should lose my reason!”

And he folded her in his arms, She made no effort to remove her lips from his kisses; only she did not respond to them. Her lips were cold; it appeared to D’Artagnan that he had embraced a statue.

He was not the less intoxicated with joy, electrified by love. He almost believed in the tenderness of Milady; he almost believed in the crime of De Wardes. If De Wardes had at that moment been under his hand, he would have killed him.

Milady seized the occasion,

“His name is--” said she, in her turn.

“De Wardes; I know it,” cried D’Artagnan.

“And how do you know it?” asked Milady, seizing both his hands, and endeavoring to read with her eyes to the bottom of his heart.

D’Artagnan felt he had allowed himself to be carried away, and that he had committed an error.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me, I say,” repeated Milady, “how do you know it?”

“How do I know it?” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes.”

“I know it because yesterday Monsieur de Wardes, in a saloon where I was, showed a ring which he said he had received from you.”

“Wretch!” cried Milady.

The epithet, as may be easily understood, resounded to the very bottom of D’Artagnan’s heart.

“Well?” continued she.

“Well, I will avenge you of this wretch,” replied D’Artagnan, giving himself the airs of Don Japhet of Armenia.

“Thanks, my brave friend!” cried Milady; “and when shall I be avenged?”

“Tomorrow--immediately--when you please!”

Milady was about to cry out, “Immediately,” but she reflected that such precipitation would not be very gracious toward D’Artagnan.

Besides, she had a thousand precautions to take, a thousand counsels to give to her defender, in order that he might avoid explanations with the count before witnesses. All this was answered by an expression of D’Artagnan’s. “Tomorrow,” said he, “you will be avenged, or I shall be dead.”

“No,” said she, “you will avenge me; but you will not be dead. He is a coward.”

“With women, perhaps; but not with men. I know something of him.”

“But it seems you had not much reason to complain of your fortune in your contest with him.”

“Fortune is a courtesan; favorable yesterday, she may turn her back tomorrow.”

“Which means that you now hesitate?”

“No, I do not hesitate; God forbid! But would it be just to allow me to go to a possible death without having given me at least something more than hope?”

Milady answered by a glance which said, “Is that all?--speak, then.” And then accompanying the glance with explanatory words, “That is but too just,” said she, tenderly.

“Oh, you are an angel!” exclaimed the young man.

“Then all is agreed?” said she.

“Except that which I ask of you, dear love.”

“But when I assure you that you may rely on my tenderness?”

“I cannot wait till tomorrow.”

“Silence! I hear my brother. It will be useless for him to find you here.”

She rang the bell and Kitty appeared.

“Go out this way,” said she, opening a small private door, “and come back at eleven o’clock; we will then terminate this conversation. Kitty will conduct you to my chamber.”

The poor girl almost fainted at hearing these words.

“Well, mademoiselle, what are you thinking about, standing there like a statue? Do as I bid you: show the chevalier out; and this evening at eleven o’clock--you have heard what I said.”

“It appears that these appointments are all made for eleven o’clock,” thought D’Artagnan; “that’s a settled custom.”

Milady held out her hand to him, which he kissed tenderly.

“But,” said he, as he retired as quickly as possible from the reproaches of Kitty, “I must not play the fool. This woman is certainly a great liar. I must take care.”

Milady’s Secret

D’Artagnan left the hotel instead of going up at once to Kitty’s chamber, as she endeavored to persuade him to do—and that for two reasons: the first, because by this means he should escape reproaches, recriminations, and prayers; the second, because he was not sorry to have an opportunity of reading his own thoughts and endeavoring, if possible, to fathom those of this woman.

What was most clear in the matter was that D’Artagnan loved Milady like a madman, and that she did not love him at all. In an instant D’Artagnan perceived that the best way in which he could act would be to go home and write Milady a long letter, in which he would confess to her that he and De Wardes were, up to the present moment absolutely the same, and that consequently he could not undertake, without committing suicide, to kill the Comte de Wardes. But he also was spurred on by a ferocious desire of vengeance. He wished to subdue this woman in his own name; and as this vengeance appeared to him to have a certain sweetness in it, he could not make up his mind to renounce it.

He walked six or seven times round the Place Royale, turning at every ten steps to look at the light in Milady’s apartment, which was to be seen through the blinds. It was evident that this time the young woman was not in such haste to retire to her apartment as she had been the first.

At length the light disappeared. With this light was extinguished the last irresolution in the heart of D’Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the details of the first night, and with a beating heart and a brain on fire he re-entered the hotel and flew toward Kitty’s chamber.

The poor girl, pale as death and trembling in all her limbs, wished to delay her lover; but Milady, with her ear on the watch, had heard the noise D’Artagnan had made, and opening the door, said, “Come in.”

All this was of such incredible immodesty, of such monstrous effrontery, that D’Artagnan could scarcely believe what he saw or what he heard. He imagined himself to be drawn into one of those fantastic intrigues one meets in dreams. He, however, darted not the less quickly toward Milady, yielding to that magnetic attraction which the loadstone exercises over iron.

As the door closed after them Kitty rushed toward it. Jealousy, fury, offended pride, all the passions in short that dispute the heart of an outraged woman in love, urged her to make a revelation; but she reflected that she would be totally lost if she confessed having assisted in such a machination, and above all, that D’Artagnan would also be lost to her forever. This last thought of love counseled her to make this last sacrifice.

D’Artagnan, on his part, had gained the summit of all his wishes. It was no longer a rival who was beloved; it was himself who was apparently beloved. A secret voice whispered to him, at the bottom of his heart, that he was but an instrument of vengeance, that he was only caressed till he had given death; but pride, but self-love, but madness silenced this voice and stifled its murmurs. And then our Gascon, with that large quantity of conceit which we know he possessed, compared himself with De Wardes, and asked himself why, after all, he should not be beloved for himself?

He was absorbed entirely by the sensations of the moment. Milady was no longer for him that woman of fatal intentions who had for a moment terrified him; she was an ardent, passionate mistress, abandoning herself to love which she also seemed to feel. Two hours thus glided away. When the transports of the two lovers were calmer, Milady, who had not the same motives for forgetfulness that D’Artagnan had, was the first to return to reality, and asked the young man if the means which were on the morrow to bring on the encounter between him and De Wardes were already arranged in his mind.

But D’Artagnan, whose ideas had taken quite another course, forgot himself like a fool, and answered gallantly that it was too late to think about duels and sword thrusts.

This coldness toward the only interests that occupied her mind terrified Milady, whose questions became more pressing.

Then D’Artagnan, who had never seriously thought of this impossible duel, endeavored to turn the conversation; but he could not succeed. Milady kept him within the limits she had traced beforehand with her irresistible spirit and her iron will.

D’Artagnan fancied himself very cunning when advising Milady to renounce, by pardoning De Wardes, the furious projects she had formed.

But at the first word the young woman started, and exclaimed in a sharp, bantering tone, which sounded strangely in the darkness, “Are you afraid, dear Monsieur D’Artagnan?”

“You cannot think so, dear love!” replied D’Artagnan; “but now, suppose this poor Comte de Wardes were less guilty than you think him?”

“At all events,” said Milady, seriously, “he has deceived me, and from the moment he deceived me, he merited death.”

“He shall die, then, since you condemn him!” said D’Artagnan, in so firm a tone that it appeared to Milady an undoubted proof of devotion. This reassured her.

We cannot say how long the night seemed to Milady, but D’Artagnan believed it to be hardly two hours before the daylight peeped through the window blinds, and invaded the chamber with its paleness. Seeing D’Artagnan about to leave her, Milady recalled his promise to avenge her on the Comte de Wardes.

“I am quite ready,” said D’Artagnan; “but in the first place I should like to be certain of one thing.”

“And what is that?” asked Milady.

“That is, whether you really love me?”

“I have given you proof of that, it seems to me.”

“And I am yours, body and soul!”

“Thanks, my brave lover; but as you are satisfied of my love, you must, in your turn, satisfy me of yours. Is it not so?”

“Certainly; but if you love me as much as you say,” replied D’Artagnan, “do you not entertain a little fear on my account?”

“What have I to fear?”

“Why, that I may be dangerously wounded—killed even.”

“Impossible!” cried Milady, “you are such a valiant man, and such an expert swordsman.”

“You would not, then, prefer a method,” resumed D’Artagnan, “which would equally avenge you while rendering the combat useless?”

Milady looked at her lover in silence. The pale light of the first rays of day gave to her clear eyes a strangely frightful expression.

“Really,” said she, “I believe you now begin to hesitate.”

“No, I do not hesitate; but I really pity this poor Comte de Wardes, since you have ceased to love him. I think that a man must be so severely punished by the loss of your love that he stands in need of no other chastisement.”

“Who told you that I loved him?” asked Milady, sharply.

“At least, I am now at liberty to believe, without too much fatuity, that you love another,” said the young man, in a caressing tone, “and I repeat that I am really interested for the count.”

“You?” asked Milady.

“Yes, I.”

“And why you?”

“Because I alone know—”

“What?”

“That he is far from being, or rather having been, so guilty toward you as he appears.”

“Indeed!” said Milady, in an anxious tone; “explain yourself, for I really cannot tell what you mean.”

And she looked at D’Artagnan, who embraced her tenderly, with eyes which seemed to burn themselves away.

“Yes; I am a man of honor,” said D’Artagnan, determined to come to an end, “and since your love is mine, and I am satisfied I possess it—for I do possess it, do I not?”

“Entirely; go on.”

“Well, I feel as if transformed—a confession weighs on my mind.”

“A confession!”

“If I had the least doubt of your love I would not make it, but you love me, my beautiful mistress, do you not?”

“Without doubt.”

“Then if through excess of love I have rendered myself culpable toward you, you will pardon me?”

“Perhaps.”

D’Artagnan tried with his sweetest smile to touch his lips to Milady’s, but she evaded him.

“This confession,” said she, growing paler, “what is this confession?”

“You gave De Wardes a meeting on Thursday last in this very room, did you not?”

“No, no! It is not true,” said Milady, in a tone of voice so firm, and with a countenance so unchanged, that if D’Artagnan had not been in such perfect possession of the fact, he would have doubted.

“Do not lie, my angel,” said D’Artagnan, smiling; “that would be useless.”

“What do you mean? Speak! you kill me.”

“Be satisfied; you are not guilty toward me, and I have already pardoned you.”

“What next? what next?”

“De Wardes cannot boast of anything.”

“How is that? You told me yourself that that ring—”

“That ring I have! The Comte de Wardes of Thursday and the D’Artagnan of today are the same person.”

The imprudent young man expected a surprise, mixed with shame—a slight storm which would resolve itself into tears; but he was strangely deceived, and his error was not of long duration.

Pale and trembling, Milady repulsed D’Artagnan’s attempted embrace by a violent blow on the chest, as she sprang out of bed.

It was almost broad daylight.

D’Artagnan detained her by her night dress of fine India linen, to implore her pardon; but she, with a strong movement, tried to escape. Then the cambric was torn from her beautiful shoulders; and on one of those lovely shoulders, round and white, D’Artagnan recognized, with inexpressible astonishment, the fleur-de-lis—that indelible mark which the hand of the infamous executioner had imprinted.

“Great God!” cried D’Artagnan, loosing his hold of her dress, and remaining mute, motionless, and frozen.

But Milady felt herself denounced even by his terror. He had doubtless seen all. The young man now knew her secret, her terrible secret—the secret she concealed even from her maid with such care, the secret of which all the world was ignorant, except himself.

She turned upon him, no longer like a furious woman, but like a wounded panther.

“Ah, wretch!” cried she, “you have basely betrayed me, and still more, you have my secret! You shall die.”

And she flew to a little inlaid casket which stood upon the dressing table, opened it with a feverish and trembling band, drew from it a small poniard, with a golden haft and a sharp thin blade, and then threw herself with a bound upon D’Artagnan.

Although the young man was brave, as we know, he was terrified at that wild countenance, those terribly dilated pupils, those pale cheeks, and those bleeding lips. He recoiled to the other side of the room as he would have done from a serpent which was crawling toward him, and his sword coming in contact with his nervous hand, he drew it almost unconsciously from the scabbard. But without taking any heed of the sword, Milady endeavored to get near enough to him to stab him, and did not stop till she felt the sharp point at her throat.

She then tried to seize the sword with her hands; but D’Artagnan kept it free from her grasp, and presenting the point, sometimes at her eyes, sometimes at her breast, compelled her to glide behind the bedstead, while he aimed at making his retreat by the door which led to Kitty’s apartment.

Milady during this time continued to strike at him with horrible fury, screaming in a formidable way.

As all this, however, bore some resemblance to a duel, D’Artagnan began to recover himself little by little.

“Well, beautiful lady, very well,” said be; “but, pardieu, if you don’t calm yourself, I will design a second fleur-de-lis upon one of those pretty checks!”

“Scoundrel, infamous scoundrel!” howled Milady.

But D’Artagnan, still keeping on the defensive, drew near to Kitty’s door. At the noise they made, she in overturning the furniture in her efforts to get at him, he in screening himself behind the furniture to keep out of her reach, Kitty opened the door. D’Artagnan, who had unceasingly maneuvered to gain this point, was not at more than three paces from it. With one spring he flew from the chamber of Milady into that of the maid, and quick as lightning, he slammed to the door, and placed all his weight against it, while Kitty pushed the bolts.

Then Milady attempted to tear down the doorcase, with a strength apparently above that of a woman; but finding she could not accomplish this, she in her fury stabbed at the door with her poniard, the point of which repeatedly glittered through the wood. Every blow was accompanied with terrible imprecations.

“Quick, Kitty, quick!” said D’Artagnan, in a low voice, as soon as the bolts were fast, “let me get out of the hotel; for if we leave her time to turn round, she will have me killed by the servants.”

“But you can’t go out so,” said Kitty; “you are naked.”

“That’s true,” said D’Artagnan, then first thinking of the costume he found himself in, “that’s true. But dress me as well as you are able, only make haste; think, my dear girl, it’s life and death!”

Kitty was but too well aware of that. In a turn of the hand she muffled him up in a flowered robe, a large hood, and a cloak. She gave him some slippers, in which he placed his naked feet, and then conducted him down the stairs. It was time. Milady had already rung her bell, and roused the whole hotel. The porter was drawing the cord at the moment Milady cried from her window, “Don’t open!”

The young man fled while she was still threatening him with an impotent gesture. The moment she lost sight of him, Milady tumbled fainting into her chamber.

How, Without Incommoding Himself, Athos Procures His Equipment

D’Artagnan was so completely bewildered that without taking any heed of what might become of Kitty he ran at full speed across half Paris, and did not stop till he came to Athos’s door. The confusion of his mind, the terror which spurred him on, the cries of some of the patrol who started in pursuit of him, and the hooting of the people who, notwithstanding the early hour, were going to their work, only made him precipitate his course.

He crossed the court, ran up the two flights to Athos’s apartment, and knocked at the door enough to break it down.

Grimaud came, rubbing his half-open eyes, to answer this noisy summons, and D’Artagnan sprang with such violence into the room as nearly to overturn the astonished lackey.

In spite of his habitual silence, the poor lad this time found his speech.

“Holloa, there!” cried he; “what do you want, you strumpet? What’s your business here, you hussy?”

D’Artagnan threw off his hood, and disengaged his hands from the folds of the cloak. At sight of the mustaches and the naked sword, the poor devil perceived he had to deal with a man. He then concluded it must be an assassin.

“Help! murder! help!” cried he.

“Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow!” said the young man; “I am D’Artagnan; don’t you know me? Where is your master?”

“You, Monsieur D’Artagnan!” cried Grimaud, “impossible.”

“Grimaud,” said Athos, coming out of his apartment in a dressing gown, “Grimaud, I thought I heard you permitting yourself to speak?”

“Ah, monsieur, it is—”

“Silence!”

Grimaud contented himself with pointing D’Artagnan out to his master with his finger.

Athos recognized his comrade, and phlegmatic as he was, he burst into a laugh which was quite excused by the strange masquerade before his eyes—petticoats falling over his shoes, sleeves tucked up, and mustaches stiff with agitation.

“Don’t laugh, my friend!” cried D’Artagnan; “for heaven’s sake, don’t laugh, for upon my soul, it’s no laughing matter!”

And he pronounced these words with such a solemn air and with such a real appearance of terror, that Athos eagerly seized his hand, crying, “Are you wounded, my friend? How pale you are!”

“No, but I have just met with a terrible adventure! Are you alone, Athos?”

Parbleu! whom do you expect to find with me at this hour?”

“Well, well!” and D’Artagnan rushed into Athos’s chamber.

“Come, speak!” said the latter, closing the door and bolting it, that they might not be disturbed. “Is the king dead? Have you killed the cardinal? You are quite upset! Come, come, tell me; I am dying with curiosity and uneasiness!”

“Athos,” said D’Artagnan, getting rid of his female garments, and appearing in his shirt, “prepare yourself to hear an incredible, an unheard-of story.”

“Well, but put on this dressing gown first,” said the Musketeer to his friend.

D’Artagnan donned the robe as quickly as he could, mistaking one sleeve for the other, so greatly was he still agitated.

“Well?” said Athos.

“Well,” replied D’Artagnan, bending his mouth to Athos’s ear, and lowering his voice, “Milady is marked with a fleur-de-lis upon her shoulder!”

“Ah!” cried the Musketeer, as if he had received a ball in his heart.

“Let us see,” said D’Artagnan. “Are you sure that the other is dead?”

The other?” said Athos, in so stifled a voice that D’Artagnan scarcely heard him.

“Yes, she of whom you told me one day at Amiens.”

Athos uttered a groan, and let his head sink on his hands.

“This is a woman of twenty-six or twenty-eight years.”

“Fair,” said Athos, “is she not?”

“Very.”

“Blue and clear eyes, of a strange brilliancy, with black eyelids and eyebrows?”

“Yes.”

“Tall, well-made? She has lost a tooth, next to the eyetooth on the left?”

“Yes.”

“The fleur-de-lis is small, rosy in color, and looks as if efforts had been made to efface it by the application of poultices?”

“Yes.”

“But you say she is English?”

“She is called Milady, but she may be French. Lord de Winter is only her brother-in-law,”

“I will see her, D’Artagnan!”

“Beware, Athos, beware. You tried to kill her; she is a woman to return you the like, and not to fail.”

“She will not dare to say anything; that would be to denounce herself.”

“She is capable of anything or everything. Did you ever see her furious?”

“No,” said Athos.

“A tigress, a panther! Ah, my dear Athos, I am greatly afraid I have drawn a terrible vengeance on both of us!”

D’Artagnan then related all—the mad passion of Milady and her menaces of death.

“You are right; and upon my soul, I would give my life for a hair,” said Athos. “Fortunately, the day after tomorrow we leave Paris. We are going according to all probability to La Rochelle, and once gone—”

“She will follow you to the end of the world, Athos, if she recognizes you. Let her, then, exhaust her vengeance on me alone!”

“My dear friend, of what consequence is it if she kills me?” said Athos. “Do you, perchance, think I set any great store by life?”

“There is something horribly mysterious under all this, Athos; this woman is one of the cardinal’s spies, I am sure of that.”

“In that case, take care! If the cardinal does not hold you in high admiration for the affair of London, he entertains a great hatred for you; but as, considering everything, he cannot accuse you openly, and as hatred must be satisfied, particularly when it’s a cardinal’s hatred, take care of yourself. If you go out, do not go out alone; when you eat, use every precaution. Mistrust everything, in short, even your own shadow.”

“Fortunately,” said D’Artagnan, “all this will be only necessary till after tomorrow evening, for when once with the army, we shall have, I hope, only men to dread.”

“In the meantime,” said Athos, “I renounce my plan of seclusion, and wherever you go, I will go with you. You must return to the Rue des Fossoyeurs; I will accompany you.”

“But however near it may be,” replied D’Artagnan, “I cannot go thither in this guise.”

“That’s true,” said Athos, and he rang the bell.

Grimaud entered.

Athos made him a sign to go to D’Artagnan’s residence, and bring back some clothes. Grimaud replied by another sign that be understood perfectly, and set off.

“All this will not advance your outfit,” said Athos; “for if I am not mistaken, you have left the best of your apparel with Milady, and she will certainly not have the politeness to return it to you. Fortunately, you have the sapphire.”

“The jewel is yours, my dear Athos! Did you not tell me it was a family jewel?”

“Yes, my grandfather gave two thousand crowns for it, as he once told me. It formed part of the nuptial present he made his wife, and it is magnificent. My mother gave it to me, and I, fool as I was, instead of keeping the ring as a holy relic, gave it to this wretch.”

“Then, my friend, take back this ring, to which I see you attach much value.”

“I take back the ring, after it has passed through the hands of that infamous creature! Never! That ring is defiled, D’Artagnan.”

“Sell it, then.”

“Sell a jewel which came from my mother! I vow I should consider it a profanation.”

“Pledge it, then; you can borrow at least a thousand crowns on it. With that sum you can extricate yourself from your present difficulties; and when you are full of money again, you can redeem it, and take it back cleansed from its ancient stains, as it will have passed through the hands of usurers.”

Athos smiled.

“You are a capital companion, D’Artagnan,” said he; “your never-failing cheerfulness raises poor souls in affliction. Well, let us pledge the ring, but upon one condition.”

“What?”

“That there shall be five hundred crowns for you, and five hundred crowns for me.”

“Don’t dream it, Athos. I don’t need the quarter of such a sum—I who am still only in the Guards—and by selling my saddles, I shall procure it. What do I want? A horse for Planchet, that’s all. Besides, you forget that I have a ring likewise.”

“To which you attach more value, it seems, than I do to mine; at least, I have thought so.”

“Yes, for in any extreme circumstance it might not only extricate us from some great embarrassment, but even a great danger. It is not only a valuable diamond, but it is an enchanted talisman.”

“I don’t at all understand you, but I believe all you say to be true. Let us return to my ring, or rather to yours. You shall take half the sum that will be advanced upon it, or I will throw it into the Seine; and I doubt, as was the case with Polycrates, whether any fish will be sufficiently complaisant to bring it back to us.”

“Well, I will take it, then,” said D’Artagnan.

At this moment Grimaud returned, accompanied by Planchet; the latter, anxious about his master and curious to know what had happened to him, had taken advantage of the opportunity and brought the garments himself.

D’Artagnan dressed himself, and Athos did the same. When the two were ready to go out, the latter made Grimaud the sign of a man taking aim, and the lackey immediately took down his musketoon, and prepared to follow his master.

They arrived without accident at the Rue des Fossoyeurs. Bonacieux was standing at the door, and looked at D’Artagnan hatefully.

“Make haste, dear lodger,” said he; “there is a very pretty girl waiting for you upstairs; and you know women don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“That’s Kitty!” said D’Artagnan to himself, and darted into the passage.

Sure enough! Upon the landing leading to the chamber, and crouching against the door, he found the poor girl, all in a tremble. As soon as she perceived him, she cried, “You have promised your protection; you have promised to save me from her anger. Remember, it is you who have ruined me!”

“Yes, yes, to be sure, Kitty,” said D’Artagnan; “be at ease, my girl. But what happened after my departure?”

“How can I tell!” said Kitty. “The lackeys were brought by the cries she made. She was mad with passion. There exist no imprecations she did not pour out against you. Then I thought she would remember it was through my chamber you had penetrated hers, and that then she would suppose I was your accomplice; so I took what little money I had and the best of my things, and I got away.

“Poor dear girl! But what can I do with you? I am going away the day after tomorrow.”

“Do what you please, Monsieur Chevalier. Help me out of Paris; help me out of France!”

“I cannot take you, however, to the siege of La Rochelle,” said D’Artagnan.

“No; but you can place me in one of the provinces with some lady of your acquaintance—in your own country, for instance.”

“My dear little love! In my country the ladies do without chambermaids. But stop! I can manage your business for you. Planchet, go and find Aramis. Request him to come here directly. We have something very important to say to him.”

“I understand,” said Athos; “but why not Porthos? I should have thought that his duchess—”

“Oh, Porthos’s duchess is dressed by her husband’s clerks,” said D’Artagnan, laughing. “Besides, Kitty would not like to live in the Rue aux Ours. Isn’t it so, Kitty?”

“I do not care where I live,” said Kitty, “provided I am well concealed, and nobody knows where I am.”

“Meanwhile, Kitty, when we are about to separate, and you are no longer jealous of me—”

“Monsieur Chevalier, far off or near,” said Kitty, “I shall always love you.”

“Where the devil will constancy niche itself next?” murmured Athos.

“And I, also,” said D’Artagnan, “I also. I shall always love you; be sure of that. But now answer me. I attach great importance to the question I am about to put to you. Did you never hear talk of a young woman who was carried off one night?”

“There, now! Oh, Monsieur Chevalier, do you love that woman still?”

“No, no; it is one of my friends who loves her—Monsieur Athos, this gentleman here.”

“I?” cried Athos, with an accent like that of a man who perceives he is about to tread upon an adder.

“You, to be sure!” said D’Artagnan, pressing Athos’s hand. “You know the interest we both take in this poor little Madame Bonacieux. Besides, Kitty will tell nothing; will you, Kitty? You understand, my dear girl,” continued D’Artagnan, “she is the wife of that frightful baboon you saw at the door as you came in.”

“Oh, my God! You remind me of my fright! If he should have known me again!”

“How? Know you again? Did you ever see that man before?”

“He came twice to Milady’s.”

“That’s it. About what time?”

“Why, about fifteen or eighteen days ago.”

“Exactly so.”

“And yesterday evening he came again.”

“Yesterday evening?”

“Yes, just before you came.”

“My dear Athos, we are enveloped in a network of spies. And do you believe he knew you again, Kitty?”

“I pulled down my hood as soon as I saw him, but perhaps it was too late.”

“Go down, Athos—he mistrusts you less than me—and see if he be still at his door.”

Athos went down and returned immediately.

“He has gone,” said he, “and the house door is shut.”

“He has gone to make his report, and to say that all the pigeons are at this moment in the dovecote.”

“Well, then, let us all fly,” said Athos, “and leave nobody here but Planchet to bring us news.”

“A minute. Aramis, whom we have sent for!”

“That’s true,” said Athos; “we must wait for Aramis.”

At that moment Aramis entered.

The matter was all explained to him, and the friends gave him to understand that among all his high connections he must find a place for Kitty.

Aramis reflected for a minute, and then said, coloring, “Will it be really rendering you a service, D’Artagnan?”

“I shall be grateful to you all my life.”

“Very well. Madame de Bois-Tracy asked me, for one of her friends who resides in the provinces, I believe, for a trustworthy maid. If you can, my dear D’Artagnan, answer for Mademoiselle-”

“Oh, monsieur, be assured that I shall be entirely devoted to the person who will give me the means of quitting Paris.”

“Then,” said Aramis, “this falls out very well.”

He placed himself at the table and wrote a little note which he sealed with a ring, and gave the billet to Kitty.

“And now, my dear girl,” said D’Artagnan, “you know that it is not good for any of us to be here. Therefore let us separate. We shall meet again in better days.”

“And whenever we find each other, in whatever place it may be,” said Kitty, “you will find me loving you as I love you today.”

“Dicers’ oaths!” said Athos, while D’Artagnan went to conduct Kitty downstairs.

An instant afterward the three young men separated, agreeing to meet again at four o’clock with Athos, and leaving Planchet to guard the house.

Aramis returned home, and Athos and D’Artagnan busied themselves about pledging the sapphire.

As the Gascon had foreseen, they easily obtained three hundred pistoles on the ring. Still further, the Jew told them that if they would sell it to him, as it would make a magnificent pendant for earrings, he would give five hundred pistoles for it.

Athos and D’Artagnan, with the activity of two soldiers and the knowledge of two connoisseurs, hardly required three hours to purchase the entire equipment of the Musketeer. Besides, Athos was very easy, and a noble to his fingers’ ends. When a thing suited him he paid the price demanded, without thinking to ask for any abatement. D’Artagnan would have remonstrated at this; but Athos put his hand upon his shoulder, with a smile, and D’Artagnan understood that it was all very well for such a little Gascon gentleman as himself to drive a bargain, but not for a man who had the bearing of a prince. The Musketeer met with a superb Andalusian horse, black as jet, nostrils of fire, legs clean and elegant, rising six years. He examined him, and found him sound and without blemish. They asked a thousand livres for him.

He might perhaps have been bought for less; but while D’Artagnan was discussing the price with the dealer, Athos was counting out the money on the table.

Grimaud had a stout, short Picard cob, which cost three hundred livres.

But when the saddle and arms for Grimaud were purchased, Athos had not a sou left of his hundred and fifty pistoles. D’Artagnan offered his friend a part of his share which he should return when convenient.

But Athos only replied to this proposal by shrugging his shoulders.

“How much did the Jew say he would give for the sapphire if he purchased it?” said Athos.

“Five hundred pistoles.”

“That is to say, two hundred more—a hundred pistoles for you and a hundred pistoles for me. Well, now, that would be a real fortune to us, my friend; let us go back to the Jew’s again.”

“What! Will you—”

“This ring would certainly only recall very bitter remembrances; then we shall never be masters of three hundred pistoles to redeem it, so that we really should lose two hundred pistoles by the bargain. Go and tell him the ring is his, D’Artagnan, and bring back the two hundred pistoles with you.”

“Reflect, Athos!”

“Ready money is needful for the present time, and we must learn how to make sacrifices. Go, D’Artagnan, go; Grimaud will accompany you with his musketoon.”

A half hour afterward, D’Artagnan returned with the two thousand livres, and without having met with any accident.

It was thus Athos found at home resources which he did not expect.

A Vision

At four o’clock the four friends were all assembled with Athos. Their anxiety about their outfits had all disappeared, and each countenance only preserved the expression of its own secret disquiet—for behind all present happiness is concealed a fear for the future.

Suddenly Planchet entered, bringing two letters for D’Artagnan.

The one was a little billet, genteelly folded, with a pretty seal in green wax on which was impressed a dove bearing a green branch.

The other was a large square epistle, resplendent with the terrible arms of his Eminence the cardinal duke.

At the sight of the little letter the heart of D’Artagnan bounded, for he believed he recognized the handwriting, and although he had seen that writing but once, the memory of it remained at the bottom of his heart.

He therefore seized the little epistle, and opened it eagerly.

“Be,” said the letter, “on Thursday next, at from six to seven o’clock in the evening, on the road to Chaillot, and look carefully into the carriages that pass; but if you have any consideration for your own life or that of those who love you, do not speak a single word, do not make a movement which may lead anyone to believe you have recognized her who exposes herself to everything for the sake of seeing you but for an instant.”

No signature.

“That’s a snare,” said Athos; “don’t go, D’Artagnan.”

“And yet,” replied D’Artagnan, “I think I recognize the writing.”

“It may be counterfeit,” said Athos. “Between six and seven o’clock the road of Chaillot is quite deserted; you might as well go and ride in the forest of Bondy.”

“But suppose we all go,” said D’Artagnan; “what the devil! They won’t devour us all four, four lackeys, horses, arms, and all!”

“And besides, it will be a chance for displaying our new equipments,” said Porthos.

“But if it is a woman who writes,” said Aramis, “and that woman desires not to be seen, remember, you compromise her, D’Artagnan; which is not the part of a gentleman.”

“We will remain in the background,” said Porthos, “and he will advance alone.”

“Yes; but a pistol shot is easily fired from a carriage which goes at a gallop.”

“Bah!” said D’Artagnan, “they will miss me; if they fire we will ride after the carriage, and exterminate those who may be in it. They must be enemies.”

“He is right,” said Porthos; “battle. Besides, we must try our new arms.”

“Bah, let us enjoy that pleasure,” said Aramis, with his mild and careless manner.

“As you please,” said Athos.

“Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “it is half past four, and we have scarcely time to be on the road of Chaillot by six.”

“Besides, if we go out too late, nobody will see us,” said Porthos, “and that will be a pity. Let us get ready, gentlemen.”

“But this second letter,” said Athos, “you forget that; it appears to me, however, that the seal denotes that it deserves to be opened. For my part, I declare, D’Artagnan, I think it of much more consequence than the little piece of waste paper you have so cunningly slipped into your bosom.”

D’Artagnan blushed.

“Well,” said he, “let us see, gentlemen, what are his Eminence’s commands,” and D’Artagnan unsealed the letter and read,

“M. D’Artagnan, of the king’s Guards, company Dessessart, is expected at the Palais-Cardinal this evening, at eight o’clock.

“La Houdinière, captain of the guards

“The devil!” said Athos; “here’s a rendezvous much more serious than the other.”

“I will go to the second after attending the first,” said D’Artagnan. “One is for seven o’clock, and the other for eight; there will be time for both.”

“Hum! I would not go at all,” said Aramis. “A gallant knight cannot decline a rendezvous with a lady; but a prudent gentleman may excuse himself from not waiting on his Eminence, particularly when he has reason to believe he is not invited to make his compliments.”

“I am of Aramis’s opinion,” said Porthos.

“Gentlemen,” replied D’Artagnan, “I have already received by Monsieur de Cavois a similar invitation from his Eminence. I neglected it, and on the morrow a serious misfortune happened to me—Constance disappeared. Whatever may ensue, I will go.”

“If you are determined,” said Athos, “do so.”

“But the Bastille?” said Aramis.

“Bah! you will get me out if they put me there,” said D’Artagnan.

“To be sure we will,” replied Aramis and Porthos, with admirable promptness and decision, as if that were the simplest thing in the world, “to be sure we will get you out; but meantime, as we are to set off the day after tomorrow, you would do much better not to risk this Bastille.”

“Let us do better than that,” said Athos; “do not let us leave him during the whole evening. Let each of us wait at a gate of the palace with three Musketeers behind him; if we see a close carriage, at all suspicious in appearance, come out, let us fall upon it. It is a long time since we have had a skirmish with the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal; Monsieur de Tréville must think us dead.”

“To a certainty, Athos,” said Aramis, “you were meant to be a general of the army! What do you think of the plan, gentlemen?”

“Admirable!” replied the young men in chorus.

“Well,” said Porthos, “I will run to the hotel, and engage our comrades to hold themselves in readiness by eight o’clock; the rendezvous, the Place du Palais-Cardinal. Meantime, you see that the lackeys saddle the horses.”

“I have no horse,” said D’Artagnan; “but that is of no consequence, I can take one of Monsieur de Tréville’s.”

“That is not worth while,” said Aramis, “you can have one of mine.”

“One of yours! how many have you, then?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Three,” replied Aramis, smiling.

“Certes,” cried Athos, “you are the best-mounted poet of France or Navarre.”

“Well, my dear Aramis, you don’t want three horses? I cannot comprehend what induced you to buy three!”

“Therefore I only purchased two,” said Aramis.

“The third, then, fell from the clouds, I suppose?”

“No, the third was brought to me this very morning by a groom out of livery, who would not tell me in whose service he was, and who said he had received orders from his master.”

“Or his mistress,” interrupted D’Artagnan.

“That makes no difference,” said Aramis, coloring; “and who affirmed, as I said, that he had received orders from his master or mistress to place the horse in my stable, without informing me whence it came.”

“It is only to poets that such things happen,” said Athos, gravely.

“Well, in that case, we can manage famously,” said D’Artagnan; “which of the two horses will you ride—that which you bought or the one that was given to you?”

“That which was given to me, assuredly. You cannot for a moment imagine, D’Artagnan, that I would commit such an offense toward—”

“The unknown giver,” interrupted D’Artagnan.

“Or the mysterious benefactress,” said Athos.

“The one you bought will then become useless to you?”

“Nearly so.”

“And you selected it yourself?”

“With the greatest care. The safety of the horseman, you know, depends almost always upon the goodness of his horse.”

“Well, transfer it to me at the price it cost you?”

“I was going to make you the offer, my dear D’Artagnan, giving you all the time necessary for repaying me such a trifle.”

“How much did it cost you?”

“Eight hundred livres.”

“Here are forty double pistoles, my dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, taking the sum from his pocket; “I know that is the coin in which you were paid for your poems.”

“You are rich, then?” said Aramis.

“Rich? Richest, my dear fellow!”

And D’Artagnan chinked the remainder of his pistoles in his pocket.

“Send your saddle, then, to the hotel of the Musketeers, and your horse can be brought back with ours.”

“Very well; but it is already five o’clock, so make haste.”

A quarter of an hour afterward Porthos appeared at the end of the Rue Férue on a very handsome genet. Mousqueton followed him upon an Auvergne horse, small but very handsome. Porthos was resplendent with joy and pride.

At the same time, Aramis made his appearance at the other end of the street upon a superb English charger. Bazin followed him upon a roan, holding by the halter a vigorous Mecklenburg horse; this was D’Artagnan’s mount.

The two Musketeers met at the gate. Athos and D’Artagnan watched their approach from the window.

“The devil!” cried Aramis, “you have a magnificent horse there, Porthos.”

“Yes,” replied Porthos, “it is the one that ought to have been sent to me at first. A bad joke of the husband’s substituted the other; but the husband has been punished since, and I have obtained full satisfaction.”

Planchet and Grimaud appeared in their turn, leading their masters’ steeds. D’Artagnan and Athos put themselves into saddle with their companions, and all four set forward; Athos upon a horse he owed to a woman, Aramis on a horse he owed to his mistress, Porthos on a horse he owed to his procurator’s wife, and D’Artagnan on a horse he owed to his good fortune—the best mistress possible.

The lackeys followed.

As Porthos had foreseen, the cavalcade produced a good effect; and if Mme. Coquenard had met Porthos and seen what a superb appearance he made upon his handsome Spanish genet, she would not have regretted the bleeding she had inflicted upon the strongbox of her husband.

Near the Louvre the four friends met with M. de Tréville, who was returning from St. Germain; he stopped them to offer his compliments upon their appointments, which in an instant drew round them a hundred gapers.

D’Artagnan profited by the circumstance to speak to M. de Tréville of the letter with the great red seal and the cardinal’s arms. It is well understood that he did not breathe a word about the other.

M. de Tréville approved of the resolution he had adopted, and assured him that if on the morrow he did not appear, he himself would undertake to find him, let him be where he might.

At this moment the clock of La Samaritaine struck six; the four friends pleaded an engagement, and took leave of M. de Tréville.

A short gallop brought them to the road of Chaillot; the day began to decline, carriages were passing and repassing. D’Artagnan, keeping at some distance from his friends, darted a scrutinizing glance into every carriage that appeared, but saw no face with which he was acquainted.

At length, after waiting a quarter of an hour and just as twilight was beginning to thicken, a carriage appeared, coming at a quick pace on the road of Sèvres. A presentiment instantly told D’Artagnan that this carriage contained the person who had appointed the rendezvous; the young man was himself astonished to find his heart beat so violently. Almost instantly a female head was put out at the window, with two fingers placed upon her mouth, either to enjoin silence or to send him a kiss. D’Artagnan uttered a slight cry of joy; this woman, or rather this apparition—for the carriage passed with the rapidity of a vision—was Mme. Bonacieux.

By an involuntary movement and in spite of the injunction given, D’Artagnan put his horse into a gallop, and in a few strides overtook the carriage; but the window was hermetically closed, the vision had disappeared.

D’Artagnan then remembered the injunction: “If you value your own life or that of those who love you, remain motionless, and as if you had seen nothing.”

He stopped, therefore, trembling not for himself but for the poor woman who had evidently exposed herself to great danger by appointing this rendezvous.

The carriage pursued its way, still going at a great pace, till it dashed into Paris, and disappeared.

D’Artagnan remained fixed to the spot, astounded and not knowing what to think. If it was Mme. Bonacieux and if she was returning to Paris, why this fugitive rendezvous, why this simple exchange of a glance, why this lost kiss? If, on the other side, it was not she—which was still quite possible—for the little light that remained rendered a mistake easy—might it not be the commencement of some plot against him through the allurement of this woman, for whom his love was known?

His three companions joined him. All had plainly seen a woman’s head appear at the window, but none of them, except Athos, knew Mme. Bonacieux. The opinion of Athos was that it was indeed she; but less preoccupied by that pretty face than D’Artagnan, he had fancied he saw a second head, a man’s head, inside the carriage.

“If that be the case,” said D’Artagnan, “they are doubtless transporting her from one prison to another. But what can they intend to do with the poor creature, and how shall I ever meet her again?”

“Friend,” said Athos, gravely, “remember that it is the dead alone with whom we are not likely to meet again on this earth. You know something of that, as well as I do, I think. Now, if your mistress is not dead, if it is she we have just seen, you will meet with her again some day or other. And perhaps, my God!” added he, with that misanthropic tone which was peculiar to him, “perhaps sooner than you wish.”

Half past seven had sounded. The carriage had been twenty minutes behind the time appointed. D’Artagnan’s friends reminded him that he had a visit to pay, but at the same time bade him observe that there was yet time to retract.

But D’Artagnan was at the same time impetuous and curious. He had made up his mind that he would go to the Palais- Cardinal, and that he would learn what his Eminence had to say to him. Nothing could turn him from his purpose.

They reached the Rue St. Honoré, and in the Place du Palais- Cardinal they found the twelve invited Musketeers, walking about in expectation of their comrades. There only they explained to them the matter in hand.

D’Artagnan was well known among the honorable corps of the king’s Musketeers, in which it was known he would one day take his place; he was considered beforehand as a comrade. It resulted from these antecedents that everyone entered heartily into the purpose for which they met; besides, it would not be unlikely that they would have an opportunity of playing either the cardinal or his people an ill turn, and for such expeditions these worthy gentlemen were always ready.

Athos divided them into three groups, assumed the command of one, gave the second to Aramis, and the third to Porthos; and then each group went and took their watch near an entrance.

D’Artagnan, on his part, entered boldly at the principal gate.

Although he felt himself ably supported, the young man was not without a little uneasiness as he ascended the great staircase, step by step. His conduct toward Milady bore a strong resemblance to treachery, and he was very suspicious of the political relations which existed between that woman and the cardinal. Still further, De Wardes, whom he had treated so ill, was one of the tools of his Eminence; and D’Artagnan knew that while his Eminence was terrible to his enemies, he was strongly attached to his friends.

“If De Wardes has related all our affair to the cardinal, which is not to be doubted, and if he has recognized me, as is probable, I may consider myself almost as a condemned man,” said D’Artagnan, shaking his head. “But why has he waited till now? That’s all plain enough. Milady has laid her complaints against me with that hypocritical grief which renders her so interesting, and this last offense has made the cup overflow.”

“Fortunately,” added he, “my good friends are down yonder, and they will not allow me to be carried away without a struggle. Nevertheless, Monsieur de Tréville’s company of Musketeers alone cannot maintain a war against the cardinal, who disposes of the forces of all France, and before whom the queen is without power and the king without will. D’Artagnan, my friend, you are brave, you are prudent, you have excellent qualities; but the women will ruin you!”

He came to this melancholy conclusion as he entered the antechamber. He placed his letter in the hands of the usher on duty, who led him into the waiting room and passed on into the interior of the palace.

In this waiting room were five or six of the cardinal’s Guards, who recognized D’Artagnan, and knowing that it was he who had wounded Jussac, they looked upon him with a smile of singular meaning.

This smile appeared to D’Artagnan to be of bad augury. Only, as our Gascon was not easily intimidated—or rather, thanks to a great pride natural to the men of his country, he did not allow one easily to see what was passing in his mind when that which was passing at all resembled fear—he placed himself haughtily in front of Messieurs the Guards, and waited with his hand on his hip, in an attitude by no means deficient in majesty.

The usher returned and made a sign to D’Artagnan to follow him. It appeared to the young man that the Guards, on seeing him depart, chuckled among themselves.

He traversed a corridor, crossed a grand saloon, entered a library, and found himself in the presence of a man seated at a desk and writing.

The usher introduced him, and retired without speaking a word. D’Artagnan remained standing and examined this man.

D’Artagnan at first believed that he had to do with some judge examining his papers; but he perceived that the man at the desk wrote, or rather corrected, lines of unequal length, scanning the words on his fingers. He saw then that he was with a poet. At the end of an instant the poet closed his manuscript, upon the cover of which was written “Mirame, a Tragedy in Five Acts,” and raised his head.

D’Artagnan recognized the cardinal.

A Terrible Vision

The cardinal leaned his elbow on his manuscript, his cheek upon his hand, and looked intently at the young man for a moment. No one had a more searching eye than the Cardinal de Richelieu, and D’Artagnan felt this glance run through his veins like a fever.

He however kept a good countenance, holding his hat in his hand and awaiting the good pleasure of his Eminence, without too much assurance, but also without too much humility.

“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “are you a D’Artagnan from Béarn?”

“Yes, monseigneur,” replied the young man.

“There are several branches of the D’Artagnans at Tarbes and in its environs,” said the cardinal; “to which do you belong?”

“I am the son of him who served in the Religious Wars under the great King Henry, the father of his gracious Majesty.”

“That is well. It is you who set out seven or eight months ago from your country to seek your fortune in the capital?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“You came through Meung, where something befell you. I don’t very well know what, but still something.”

“Monseigneur,” said D’Artagnan, “this was what happened to me--”

“Never mind, never mind!” resumed the cardinal, with a smile which indicated that he knew the story as well as he who wished to relate it. “You were recommended to Monsieur de Tréville, were you not?”

“Yes, monseigneur; but in that unfortunate affair at Meung--”

“The letter was lost,” replied his Eminence; “yes, I know that. But Monsieur de Tréville is a skilled physiognomist, who knows men at first sight; and he placed you in the company of his brother-in-law, Monsieur Dessessart, leaving you to hope that one day or other you should enter the Musketeers.”

“Monseigneur is correctly informed,” said D’Artagnan.

“Since that time many things have happened to you. You were walking one day behind the Chartreux, when it would have been better if you had been elsewhere. Then you took with your friends a journey to the waters of Forges; they stopped on the road, but you continued yours. That is all very simple: you had business in England.”

“Monseigneur,” said D’Artagnan, quite confused, “I went--”

“Hunting at Windsor, or elsewhere--that concerns nobody. I know, because it is my office to know everything. On your return you were received by an august personage, and I perceive with pleasure that you preserve the souvenir she gave you.”

D’Artagnan placed his hand upon the queen’s diamond, which he wore, and quickly turned the stone inward; but it was too late.

“The day after that, you received a visit from Cavois,” resumed the cardinal. “He went to desire you to come to the palace. You have not returned that visit, and you were wrong.”

“Monseigneur, I feared I had incurred disgrace with your Eminence.”

“How could that be, monsieur? Could you incur my displeasure by having followed the orders of your superiors with more intelligence and courage than another would have done? It is the people who do not obey that I punish, and not those who, like you, obey--but too well. As a proof, remember the date of the day on which I had you bidden to come to me, and seek in your memory for what happened to you that very night.”

That was the very evening when the abduction of Mme. Bonacieux took place. D’Artagnan trembled; and he likewise recollected that during the past half hour the poor woman had passed close to him, without doubt carried away by the same power that had caused her disappearance.

“In short,” continued the cardinal, “as I have heard nothing of you for some time past, I wished to know what you were doing. Besides, you owe me some thanks. You must yourself have remarked how much you have been considered in all the circumstances.”

D’Artagnan bowed with respect.

“That,” continued the cardinal, “arose not only from a feeling of natural equity, but likewise from a plan I have marked out with respect to you.”

D’Artagnan became more and more astonished.

“I wished to explain this plan to you on the day you received my first invitation; but you did not come. Fortunately, nothing is lost by this delay, and you are now about to hear it. Sit down there, before me, d’Artagnan; you are gentleman enough not to listen standing.” And the cardinal pointed with his finger to a chair for the young man, who was so astonished at what was passing that he awaited a second sign from his interlocutor before he obeyed.

“You are brave, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued his Eminence; “you are prudent, which is still better. I like men of head and heart. Don’t be afraid,” said he, smiling. “By men of heart I mean men of courage. But young as you are, and scarcely entering into the world, you have powerful enemies; if you do not take great heed, they will destroy you.”

“Alas, monseigneur!” replied the young man, “very easily, no doubt, for they are strong and well supported, while I am alone.”

“Yes, that’s true; but alone as you are, you have done much already, and will do still more, I don’t doubt. Yet you have need, I believe, to be guided in the adventurous career you have undertaken; for, if I mistake not, you came to Paris with the ambitious idea of making your fortune.”

“I am at the age of extravagant hopes, monseigneur,” said D’Artagnan.

“There are no extravagant hopes but for fools, monsieur, and you are a man of understanding. Now, what would you say to an ensign’s commission in my Guards, and a company after the campaign?”

“Ah, monseigneur.”

“You accept it, do you not?”

“Monseigneur,” replied D’Artagnan, with an embarrassed air.

“How? You refuse?” cried the cardinal, with astonishment.

“I am in his Majesty’s Guards, monseigneur, and I have no reason to be dissatisfied.”

“But it appears to me that my Guards--mine--are also his Majesty’s Guards; and whoever serves in a French corps serves the king.”

“Monseigneur, your Eminence has ill understood my words.”

“You want a pretext, do you not? I comprehend. Well, you have this excuse: advancement, the opening campaign, the opportunity which I offer you--so much for the world. As regards yourself, the need of protection; for it is fit you should know, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I have received heavy and serious complaints against you. You do not consecrate your days and nights wholly to the king’s service.”

D’Artagnan colored.

“In fact,” said the cardinal, placing his hand upon a bundle of papers, “I have here a whole pile which concerns you. I know you to be a man of resolution; and your services, well directed, instead of leading you to ill, might be very advantageous to you. Come; reflect, and decide.”

“Your goodness confounds me, monseigneur,” replied D’Artagnan, “and I am conscious of a greatness of soul in your Eminence that makes me mean as an earthworm; but since Monseigneur permits me to speak freely--”

D’Artagnan paused.

“Yes; speak.”

“Then, I will presume to say that all my friends are in the king’s Musketeers and Guards, and that by an inconceivable fatality my enemies are in the service of your Eminence; I should, therefore, be ill received here and ill regarded there if I accepted what Monseigneur offers me.”

“Do you happen to entertain the haughty idea that I have not yet made you an offer equal to your value?” asked the cardinal, with a smile of disdain.

“Monseigneur, your Eminence is a hundred times too kind to me; and on the contrary, I think I have not proved myself worthy of your goodness. The siege of La Rochelle is about to be resumed, monseigneur. I shall serve under the eye of your Eminence, and if I have the good fortune to conduct myself at the siege in such a manner as merits your attention, then I shall at least leave behind me some brilliant action to justify the protection with which you honor me. Everything is best in its time, monseigneur. Hereafter, perhaps, I shall have the right of giving myself; at present I shall appear to sell myself.”

“That is to say, you refuse to serve me, monsieur,” said the cardinal, with a tone of vexation, through which, however, might be seen a sort of esteem; “remain free, then, and guard your hatreds and your sympathies.”

“Monseigneur--”

“Well, well,” said the cardinal, “I don’t wish you any ill; but you must be aware that it is quite trouble enough to defend and recompense our friends. We owe nothing to our enemies; and let me give you a piece of advice; take care of yourself, Monsieur d’Artagnan, for from the moment I withdraw my hand from behind you, I would not give an obolus for your life.”

“I will try to do so, monseigneur,” replied the Gascon, with a noble confidence.

“Remember at a later period and at a certain moment, if any mischance should happen to you,” said Richelieu, significantly, “that it was I who came to seek you, and that I did all in my power to prevent this misfortune befalling you.”

“I shall entertain, whatever may happen,” said D’Artagnan, placing his hand upon his breast and bowing, “an eternal gratitude toward your Eminence for that which you now do for me.”

“Well, let it be, then, as you have said, Monsieur d’Artagnan; we shall see each other again after the campaign. I will have my eye upon you, for I shall be there,” replied the cardinal, pointing with his finger to a magnificent suit of armor he was to wear, “and on our return, well--we will settle our account!”

“Young man,” said Richelieu, “if I shall be able to say to you at another time what I have said to you today, I promise you to do so.”

This last expression of Richelieu’s conveyed a terrible doubt; it alarmed D’Artagnan more than a menace would have done, for it was a warning. The cardinal, then, was seeking to preserve him from some misfortune which threatened him. He opened his mouth to reply, but with a haughty gesture the cardinal dismissed him.

D’Artagnan went out, but at the door his heart almost failed him, and he felt inclined to return. Then the noble and severe countenance of Athos crossed his mind; if he made the compact with the cardinal which he required, Athos would no more give him his hand--Athos would renounce him.

It was this fear that restrained him, so powerful is the influence of a truly great character on all that surrounds it.

D’Artagnan descended by the staircase at which he had entered, and found Athos and the four Musketeers waiting his appearance, and beginning to grow uneasy. With a word, D’Artagnan reassured them; and Planchet ran to inform the other sentinels that it was useless to keep guard longer, as his master had come out safe from the Palais-Cardinal.

Returned home with Athos, Aramis and Porthos inquired eagerly the cause of the strange interview; but D’Artagnan confined himself to telling them that M. de Richelieu had sent for him to propose to him to enter into his guards with the rank of ensign, and that he had refused.

“And you were right,” cried Aramis and Porthos, with one voice.

Athos fell into a profound reverie and answered nothing. But when they were alone he said, “You have done that which you ought to have done, D’Artagnan; but perhaps you have been wrong.”

D’Artagnan sighed deeply, for this voice responded to a secret voice of his soul, which told him that great misfortunes awaited him.

The whole of the next day was spent in preparations for departure. D’Artagnan went to take leave of M. de Tréville. At that time it was believed that the separation of the Musketeers and the Guards would be but momentary, the king holding his Parliament that very day and proposing to set out the day after. M. de Tréville contented himself with asking D’Artagnan if he could do anything for him, but D’Artagnan answered that he was supplied with all he wanted.

That night brought together all those comrades of the Guards of M. Dessessart and the company of Musketeers of M. de Tréville who had been accustomed to associate together. They were parting to meet again when it pleased God, and if it pleased God. That night, then, was somewhat riotous, as may be imagined. In such cases extreme preoccupation is only to be combated by extreme carelessness.

At the first sound of the morning trumpet the friends separated; the Musketeers hastening to the hotel of M. de Tréville, the Guards to that of M. Dessessart. Each of the captains then led his company to the Louvre, where the king held his review

The king was dull and appeared ill, which detracted a little from his usual lofty bearing. In fact, the evening before, a fever had seized him in the midst of the Parliament, while he was holding his Bed of Justice. He had, not the less, decided upon setting out that same evening; and in spite of the remonstrances that had been offered to him, he persisted in having the review, hoping by setting it at defiance to conquer the disease which began to lay hold upon him.

The review over, the Guards set forward alone on their march, the Musketeers waiting for the king, which allowed Porthos time to go and take a turn in his superb equipment in the Rue aux Ours.

The procurator’s wife saw him pass in his new uniform and on his fine horse. She loved Porthos too dearly to allow him to part thus; she made him a sign to dismount and come to her. Porthos was magnificent; his spurs jingled, his cuirass glittered, his sword knocked proudly against his ample limbs. This time the clerks evinced no inclination to laugh, such a real ear clipper did Porthos appear.

The Musketeer was introduced to M. Coquenard, whose little gray eyes sparkled with anger at seeing his cousin all blazing new. Nevertheless, one thing afforded him inward consolation; it was expected by everybody that the campaign would be a severe one. He whispered a hope to himself that this beloved relative might be killed in the field.

Porthos paid his compliments to M. Coquenard and bade him farewell. M. Coquenard wished him all sorts of prosperities. As to Mme. Coquenard, she could not restrain her tears; but no evil impressions were taken from her grief as she was known to be very much attached to her relatives, about whom she was constantly having serious disputes with her husband.

But the real adieux were made in Mme. Coquenard’s chamber; they were heartrending.

As long as the procurator’s wife could follow him with her eyes, she waved her handkerchief to him, leaning so far out of the window as to lead people to believe she wished to precipitate herself. Porthos received all these attentions like a man accustomed to such demonstrations, only on turning the corner of the street he lifted his hat gracefully, and waved it to her as a sign of adieu.

On his part Aramis wrote a long letter. To whom? Nobody knew. Kitty, who was to set out that evening for Tours, was waiting in the next chamber.

Athos sipped the last bottle of his Spanish wine.

In the meantime D’Artagnan was defiling with his company. Arriving at the Faubourg St. Antoine, he turned round to look gaily at the Bastille; but as it was the Bastille alone he looked at, he did not observe Milady, who, mounted upon a light chestnut horse, designated him with her finger to two ill-looking men who came close up to the ranks to take notice of him. To a look of interrogation which they made, Milady replied by a sign that it was he. Then, certain that there could be no mistake in the execution of her orders, she started her horse and disappeared.

The two men followed the company, and on leaving the aubourg St. Antoine, mounted two horses properly equipped, which a servant without livery had waiting for them.

The Siege Of La Rochelle

The Siege of La Rochelle was one of the great political events of the reign of Louis XIII, and one of the great military enterprises of the cardinal. It is, then, interesting and even necessary that we should say a few words about it, particularly as many details of this siege are connected in too important a manner with the story we have undertaken to relate to allow us to pass it over in silence.

The political plans of the cardinal when he undertook this siege were extensive. Let us unfold them first, and then pass on to the private plans which perhaps had not less influence upon his Eminence than the others.

Of the important cities given up by Henry IV to the Huguenots as places of safety, there only remained La Rochelle. It became necessary, therefore, to destroy this last bulwark of Calvinism—a dangerous leaven with which the ferments of civil revolt and foreign war were constantly mingling.

Spaniards, Englishmen, and Italian malcontents, adventurers of all nations, and soldiers of fortune of every sect, flocked at the first summons under the standard of the Protestants, and organized themselves like a vast association, whose branches diverged freely over all parts of Europe.

La Rochelle, which had derived a new importance from the ruin of the other Calvinist cities, was, then, the focus of dissensions and ambition. Moreover, its port was the last in the kingdom of France open to the English, and by closing it against England, our eternal enemy, the cardinal completed the work of Joan of Arc and the Duc de Guise.

Thus Bassompierre, who was at once Protestant and Catholic—Protestant by conviction and Catholic as commander of the order of the Holy Ghost; Bassompierre, who was a German by birth and a Frenchman at heart—in short, Bassompierre, who had a distinguished command at the siege of La Rochelle, said, in charging at the head of several other Protestant nobles like himself, “You will see, gentlemen, that we shall be fools enough to take La Rochelle.”

And Bassompierre was right. The cannonade of the Isle of Ré presaged to him the dragonnades of the Cévennes; the taking of La Rochelle was the preface to the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.

We have hinted that by the side of these views of the leveling and simplifying minister, which belong to history, the chronicler is forced to recognize the lesser motives of the amorous man and jealous rival.

Richelieu, as everyone knows, had loved the queen. Was this love a simple political affair, or was it naturally one of those profound passions which Anne of Austria inspired in those who approached her? That we are not able to say; but at all events, we have seen, by the anterior developments of this story, that Buckingham had the advantage over him, and in two or three circumstances, particularly that of the diamond studs, had, thanks to the devotedness of the three Musketeers and the courage and conduct of D’Artagnan, cruelly mystified him.

It was, then, Richelieu’s object, not only to get rid of an enemy of France, but to avenge himself on a rival; but this vengeance must be grand and striking and worthy in every way of a man who held in his hand, as his weapon for combat, the forces of a kingdom.

Richelieu knew that in combating England he combated Buckingham; that in triumphing over England he triumphed over Buckingham—in short, that in humiliating England in the eyes of Europe he humiliated Buckingham in the eyes of the queen.

On his side Buckingham, in pretending to maintain the honor of England, was moved by interests exactly like those of the cardinal. Buckingham also was pursuing a private vengeance. Buckingham could not under any pretense be admitted into France as an ambassador; he wished to enter it as a conqueror.

It resulted from this that the real stake in this game, which two most powerful kingdoms played for the good pleasure of two amorous men, was simply a kind look from Anne of Austria.

The first advantage had been gained by Buckingham. Arriving unexpectedly in sight of the Isle of Ré with ninety vessels and nearly twenty thousand men, he had surprised the Comte de Toiras, who commanded for the king in the Isle, and he had, after a bloody conflict, effected his landing.

Allow us to observe in passing that in this fight perished the Baron de Chantal; that the Baron de Chantal left a little orphan girl eighteen months old, and that this little girl was afterward Mme. de Sévigné.

The Comte de Toiras retired into the citadel St. Martin with his garrison, and threw a hundred men into a little fort called the fort of La Prée.

This event had hastened the resolutions of the cardinal; and till the king and he could take the command of the siege of La Rochelle, which was determined, he had sent Monsieur to direct the first operations, and had ordered all the troops he could dispose of to march toward the theater of war. It was of this detachment, sent as a vanguard, that our friend D’Artagnan formed a part.

The king, as we have said, was to follow as soon as his Bed of Justice had been held; but on rising from his Bed of Justice on the twenty-eighth of June, he felt himself attacked by fever. He was, notwithstanding, anxious to set out; but his illness becoming more serious, he was forced to stop at Villeroy.

Now, whenever the king halted, the Musketeers halted. It followed that D’Artagnan, who was as yet purely and simply in the Guards, found himself, for the time at least, separated from his good friends—Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. This separation, which was no more than an unpleasant circumstance, would have certainly become a cause of serious uneasiness if he had been able to guess by what unknown dangers he was surrounded.

He, however, arrived without accident in the camp established before La Rochelle, of the tenth of the month of September of the year 1627.

Everything was in the same state. The Duke of Buckingham and his English, masters of the Isle of Ré, continued to besiege, but without success, the citadel St. Martin and the fort of La Prée; and hostilities with La Rochelle had commenced, two or three days before, about a fort which the Duc d’Angoulême had caused to be constructed near the city.

The Guards, under the command of M. Dessessart, took up their quarters at the Minimes; but, as we know, D’Artagnan, possessed with ambition to enter the Musketeers, had formed but few friendships among his comrades, and he felt himself isolated and given up to his own reflections.

His reflections were not very cheerful. From the time of his arrival in Paris, he had been mixed up with public affairs; but his own private affairs had made no great progress, either in love or fortune. As to love, the only woman he could have loved was Mme. Bonacieux; and Mme. Bonacieux had disappeared, without his being able to discover what had become of her. As to fortune, he had made—he, humble as he was—an enemy of the cardinal; that is to say, of a man before whom trembled the greatest men of the kingdom, beginning with the king.

That man had the power to crush him, and yet he had not done so. For a mind so perspicuous as that of D’Artagnan, this indulgence was a light by which he caught a glimpse of a better future.

Then he had made himself another enemy, less to be feared, he thought; but nevertheless, he instinctively felt, not to be despised. This enemy was Milady.

In exchange for all this, he had acquired the protection and good will of the queen; but the favor of the queen was at the present time an additional cause of persecution, and her protection, as it was known, protected badly—as witness Chalais and Mme. Bonacieux.

What he had clearly gained in all this was the diamond, worth five or six thousand livres, which he wore on his finger; and even this diamond—supposing that D’Artagnan, in his projects of ambition, wished to keep it, to make it someday a pledge for the gratitude of the queen—had not in the meanwhile, since he could not part with it, more value than the gravel he trod under his feet.

We say the gravel he trod under his feet, for D’Artagnan made these reflections while walking solitarily along a pretty little road which led from the camp to the village of Angoutin. Now, these reflections had led him further than he intended, and the day was beginning to decline when, by the last ray of the setting sun, he thought he saw the barrel of a musket glitter from behind a hedge.

D’Artagnan had a quick eye and a prompt understanding. He comprehended that the musket had not come there of itself, and that he who bore it had not concealed himself behind a hedge with any friendly intentions. He determined, therefore, to direct his course as clear from it as he could when, on the opposite side of the road, from behind a rock, he perceived the extremity of another musket.

This was evidently an ambuscade.

The young man cast a glance at the first musket and saw, with a certain degree of inquietude, that it was leveled in his direction; but as soon as he perceived that the orifice of the barrel was motionless, he threw himself upon the ground. At the same instant the gun was fired, and he heard the whistling of a ball pass over his head.

No time was to be lost. D’Artagnan sprang up with a bound, and at the same instant the ball from the other musket tore up the gravel on the very spot on the road where he had thrown himself with his face to the ground.

D’Artagnan was not one of those foolhardy men who seek a ridiculous death in order that it may be said of them that they did not retreat a single step. Besides, courage was out of the question here; D’Artagnan had fallen into an ambush.

“If there is a third shot,” said he to himself, “I am a lost man.”

He immediately, therefore, took to his heels and ran toward the camp, with the swiftness of the young men of his country, so renowned for their agility; but whatever might be his speed, the first who fired, having had time to reload, fired a second shot, and this time so well aimed that it struck his hat, and carried it ten paces from him.

As he, however, had no other hat, he picked up this as he ran, and arrived at his quarters very pale and quite out of breath. He sat down without saying a word to anybody, and began to reflect.

This event might have three causes:

The first and the most natural was that it might be an ambuscade of the Rochellais, who might not be sorry to kill one of his Majesty’s Guards, because it would be an enemy the less, and this enemy might have a well-furnished purse in his pocket.

D’Artagnan took his hat, examined the hole made by the ball, and shook his head. The ball was not a musket ball—it was an arquebus ball. The accuracy of the aim had first given him the idea that a special weapon had been employed. This could not, then, be a military ambuscade, as the ball was not of the regular caliber.

This might be a kind remembrance of Monsieur the Cardinal. It may be observed that at the very moment when, thanks to the ray of the sun, he perceived the gun barrel, he was thinking with astonishment on the forbearance of his Eminence with respect to him.

But D’Artagnan again shook his head. For people toward whom he had but to put forth his hand, his Eminence had rarely recourse to such means.

It might be a vengeance of Milady; that was most probable.

He tried in vain to remember the faces or dress of the assassins; he had escaped so rapidly that he had not had leisure to notice anything.

“Ah, my poor friends!” murmured D’Artagnan; “where are you? And that you should fail me!”

D’Artagnan passed a very bad night. Three or four times he started up, imagining that a man was approaching his bed for the purpose of stabbing him. Nevertheless, day dawned without darkness having brought any accident.

But D’Artagnan well suspected that that which was deferred was not relinquished.

D’Artagnan remained all day in his quarters, assigning as a reason to himself that the weather was bad.

At nine o’clock the next morning, the drums beat to arms. The Duc d’Orleans visited the posts. The guards were under arms, and D’Artagnan took his place in the midst of his comrades.

Monsieur passed along the front of the line; then all the superior officers approached him to pay their compliments, M. Dessessart, captain of the Guards, as well as the others.

At the expiration of a minute or two, it appeared to D’Artagnan that M. Dessessart made him a sign to approach. He waited for a fresh gesture on the part of his superior, for fear he might be mistaken; but this gesture being repeated, he left the ranks, and advanced to receive orders.

“Monsieur is about to ask for some men of good will for a dangerous mission, but one which will do honor to those who shall accomplish it; and I made you a sign in order that you might hold yourself in readiness.”

“Thanks, my captain!” replied D’Artagnan, who wished for nothing better than an opportunity to distinguish himself under the eye of the lieutenant general.

In fact the Rochellais had made a sortie during the night, and had retaken a bastion of which the royal army had gained possession two days before. The matter was to ascertain, by reconnoitering, how the enemy guarded this bastion.

At the end of a few minutes Monsieur raised his voice, and said, “I want for this mission three or four volunteers, led by a man who can be depended upon.”

“As to the man to be depended upon, I have him under my hand, monsieur,” said M. Dessessart, pointing to D’Artagnan; “and as to the four or five volunteers, Monsieur has but to make his intentions known, and the men will not be wanting.”

“Four men of good will who will risk being killed with me!” said D’Artagnan, raising his sword.

Two of his comrades of the Guards immediately sprang forward, and two other soldiers having joined them, the number was deemed sufficient. D’Artagnan declined all others, being unwilling to take the first chance from those who had the priority.

It was not known whether, after the taking of the bastion, the Rochellais had evacuated it or left a garrison in it; the object then was to examine the place near enough to verify the reports.

D’Artagnan set out with his four companions, and followed the trench; the two Guards marched abreast with him, and the two soldiers followed behind.

They arrived thus, screened by the lining of the trench, till they came within a hundred paces of the bastion. There, on turning round, D’Artagnan perceived that the two soldiers had disappeared.

He thought that, beginning to be afraid, they had stayed behind, and he continued to advance.

At the turning of the counterscarp they found themselves within about sixty paces of the bastion. They saw no one, and the bastion seemed abandoned.

The three composing our forlorn hope were deliberating whether they should proceed any further, when all at once a circle of smoke enveloped the giant of stone, and a dozen balls came whistling around D’Artagnan and his companions.

They knew all they wished to know; the bastion was guarded. A longer stay in this dangerous spot would have been useless imprudence. D’Artagnan and his two companions turned their backs, and commenced a retreat which resembled a flight.

On arriving at the angle of the trench which was to serve them as a rampart, one of the Guardsmen fell. A ball had passed through his breast. The other, who was safe and sound, continued his way toward the camp.

D’Artagnan was not willing to abandon his companion thus, and stooped to raise him and assist him in regaining the lines; but at this moment two shots were fired. One ball struck the head of the already-wounded guard, and the other flattened itself against a rock, after having passed within two inches of D’Artagnan.

The young man turned quickly round, for this attack could not have come from the bastion, which was hidden by the angle of the trench. The idea of the two soldiers who had abandoned him occurred to his mind, and with them he remembered the assassins of two evenings before. He resolved this time to know with whom he had to deal, and fell upon the body of his comrade as if he were dead.

He quickly saw two heads appear above an abandoned work within thirty paces of him; they were the heads of the two soldiers. D’Artagnan had not been deceived; these two men had only followed for the purpose of assassinating him, hoping that the young man’s death would be placed to the account of the enemy.

As he might be only wounded and might denounce their crime, they came up to him with the purpose of making sure. Fortunately, deceived by D’Artagnan’s trick, they neglected to reload their guns.

When they were within ten paces of him, D’Artagnan, who in falling had taken care not to let go his sword, sprang up close to them.

The assassins comprehended that if they fled toward the camp without having killed their man, they should be accused by him; therefore their first idea was to join the enemy. One of them took his gun by the barrel, and used it as he would a club. He aimed a terrible blow at D’Artagnan, who avoided it by springing to one side; but by this movement he left a passage free to the bandit, who darted off toward the bastion. As the Rochellais who guarded the bastion were ignorant of the intentions of the man they saw coming toward them, they fired upon him, and he fell, struck by a ball which broke his shoulder.

Meantime D’Artagnan had thrown himself upon the other soldier, attacking him with his sword. The conflict was not long; the wretch had nothing to defend himself with but his discharged arquebus. The sword of the Guardsman slipped along the barrel of the now-useless weapon, and passed through the thigh of the assassin, who fell.

D’Artagnan immediately placed the point of his sword at his throat.

“Oh, do not kill me!” cried the bandit. “Pardon, pardon, my officer, and I will tell you all.”

“Is your secret of enough importance to me to spare your life for it?” asked the young man, withholding his arm.

“Yes; if you think existence worth anything to a man of twenty, as you are, and who may hope for everything, being handsome and brave, as you are.”

“Wretch,” cried D’Artagnan, “speak quickly! Who employed you to assassinate me?”

“A woman whom I don’t know, but who is called Milady.”

“But if you don’t know this woman, how do you know her name?”

“My comrade knows her, and called her so. It was with him she agreed, and not with me; he even has in his pocket a letter from that person, who attaches great importance to you, as I have heard him say.”

“But how did you become concerned in this villainous affair?”

“He proposed to me to undertake it with him, and I agreed.”

“And how much did she give you for this fine enterprise?”

“A hundred louis.”

“Well, come!” said the young man, laughing, “she thinks I am worth something. A hundred louis? Well, that was a temptation for two wretches like you. I understand why you accepted it, and I grant you my pardon; but upon one condition.”

“What is that?” said the soldier, uneasy at perceiving that all was not over.

“That you will go and fetch me the letter your comrade has in his pocket.”

“But,” cried the bandit, “that is only another way of killing me. How can I go and fetch that letter under the fire of the bastion?”

“You must nevertheless make up your mind to go and get it, or I swear you shall die by my hand.”

“Pardon, monsieur; pity! In the name of that young lady you love, and whom you perhaps believe dead but who is not!” cried the bandit, throwing himself upon his knees and leaning upon his hand—for he began to lose his strength with his blood.

“And how do you know there is a young woman whom I love, and that I believed that woman dead?” asked D’Artagnan.

“By that letter which my comrade has in his pocket.”

“You see, then,” said D’Artagnan, “that I must have that letter. So no more delay, no more hesitation; or else whatever may be my repugnance to soiling my sword a second time with the blood of a wretch like you, I swear by my faith as an honest man—” and at these words D’Artagnan made so fierce a gesture that the wounded man sprang up.

“Stop, stop!” cried he, regaining strength by force of terror. “I will go—I will go!”

D’Artagnan took the soldier’s arquebus, made him go on before him, and urged him toward his companion by pricking him behind with his sword.

It was a frightful thing to see this wretch, leaving a long track of blood on the ground he passed over, pale with approaching death, trying to drag himself along without being seen to the body of his accomplice, which lay twenty paces from him.

Terror was so strongly painted on his face, covered with a cold sweat, that D’Artagnan took pity on him, and casting upon him a look of contempt, “Stop,” said he, “I will show you the difference between a man of courage and such a coward as you. Stay where you are; I will go myself.”

And with a light step, an eye on the watch, observing the movements of the enemy and taking advantage of the accidents of the ground, D’Artagnan succeeded in reaching the second soldier.

There were two means of gaining his object—to search him on the spot, or to carry him away, making a buckler of his body, and search him in the trench.

D’Artagnan preferred the second means, and lifted the assassin onto his shoulders at the moment the enemy fired.

A slight shock, the dull noise of three balls which penetrated the flesh, a last cry, a convulsion of agony, proved to D’Artagnan that the would-be assassin had saved his life.

D’Artagnan regained the trench, and threw the corpse beside the wounded man, who was as pale as death.

Then he began to search. A leather pocketbook, a purse, in which was evidently a part of the sum which the bandit had received, with a dice box and dice, completed the possessions of the dead man.

He left the box and dice where they fell, threw the purse to the wounded man, and eagerly opened the pocketbook.

Among some unimportant papers he found the following letter, that which he had sought at the risk of his life:

“Since you have lost sight of that woman and she is now in safety in the convent, which you should never have allowed her to reach, try, at least, not to miss the man. If you do, you know that my hand stretches far, and that you shall pay very dearly for the hundred louis you have from me.”

No signature. Nevertheless it was plain the letter came from Milady. He consequently kept it as a piece of evidence, and being in safety behind the angle of the trench, he began to interrogate the wounded man. He confessed that he had undertaken with his comrade—the same who was killed—to carry off a young woman who was to leave Paris by the Barriere de La Villette; but having stopped to drink at a cabaret, they had missed the carriage by ten minutes.

“But what were you to do with that woman?” asked D’Artagnan, with anguish.

“We were to have conveyed her to a hotel in the Place Royale,” said the wounded man.

“Yes, yes!” murmured D’Artagnan; “that’s the place—Milady’s own residence!”

Then the young man tremblingly comprehended what a terrible thirst for vengeance urged this woman on to destroy him, as well as all who loved him, and how well she must be acquainted with the affairs of the court, since she had discovered all. There could be no doubt she owed this information to the cardinal.

But amid all this he perceived, with a feeling of real joy, that the queen must have discovered the prison in which poor Mme. Bonacieux was explaining her devotion, and that she had freed her from that prison; and the letter he had received from the young woman, and her passage along the road of Chaillot like an apparition, were now explained.

Then also, as Athos had predicted, it became possible to find Mme. Bonacieux, and a convent was not impregnable.

This idea completely restored clemency to his heart. He turned toward the wounded man, who had watched with intense anxiety all the various expressions of his countenance, and holding out his arm to him, said, “Come, I will not abandon you thus. Lean upon me, and let us return to the camp.”

“Yes,” said the man, who could scarcely believe in such magnanimity, “but is it not to have me hanged?”

“You have my word,” said he; “for the second time I give you your life.”

The wounded man sank upon his knees, to again kiss the feet of his preserver; but D’Artagnan, who had no longer a motive for staying so near the enemy, abridged the testimonials of his gratitude.

The Guardsman who had returned at the first discharge announced the death of his four companions. They were therefore much astonished and delighted in the regiment when they saw the young man come back safe and sound.

D’Artagnan explained the sword wound of his companion by a sortie which he improvised. He described the death of the other soldier, and the perils they had encountered. This recital was for him the occasion of veritable triumph. The whole army talked of this expedition for a day, and Monsieur paid him his compliments upon it. Besides this, as every great action bears its recompense with it, the brave exploit of D’Artagnan resulted in the restoration of the tranquility he had lost. In fact, D’Artagnan believed that he might be tranquil, as one of his two enemies was killed and the other devoted to his interests.

This tranquillity proved one thing—that D’Artagnan did not yet know Milady.

The Anjou Wine

After the most disheartening news of the king’s health, a report of his convalescence began to prevail in the camp; and as he was very anxious to be in person at the siege, it was said that as soon as he could mount a horse he would set forward.

Meantime, Monsieur, who knew that from one day to the other he might expect to be removed from his command by the Duc d’Angoulême, by Bassompierre, or by Schomberg, who were all eager for his post, did but little, lost his days in wavering, and did not dare to attempt any great enterprise to drive the English from the Isle of Ré, where they still besieged the citadel St. Martin and the fort of La Prée, as on their side the French were besieging La Rochelle.

D’Artagnan, as we have said, had become more tranquil, as always happens after a post danger, particularly when the danger seems to have vanished. He only felt one uneasiness, and that was at not hearing any tidings from his friends.

But one morning at the commencement of the month of November everything was explained to him by this letter, dated from Villeroy:

M. D’ARTAGNAN: MM. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, after having had an entertainment at my house and enjoying themselves very much, created such a disturbance that the provost of the castle, a rigid man, has ordered them to be confined for some days; but I accomplish the order they have given me by forwarding to you a dozen bottles of my Anjou wine, with which they are much pleased. They are desirous that you should drink to their health in their favorite wine. I have done this, and am, monsieur, with great respect,

Your very humble and obedient servant,

GODEAU, Purveyor of the Musketeers

“That’s all well!” cried D’Artagnan. “They think of me in their pleasures, as I thought of them in my troubles. Well, I will certainly drink to their health with all my heart, but I will not drink alone.”

And D’Artagnan went among those Guardsmen with whom he had formed greater intimacy than with the others, to invite them to enjoy with him this present of delicious Anjou wine which had been sent him from Villeroy.

One of the two Guardsmen was engaged that evening, and another the next, so the meeting was fixed for the day after that.

D’Artagnan, on his return, sent the twelve bottles of wine to the refreshment room of the Guards, with strict orders that great care should be taken of it; and then, on the day appointed, as the dinner was fixed for midday D’Artagnan sent Planchet at nine in the morning to assist in preparing everything for the entertainment.

Planchet, very proud of being raised to the dignity of maitre d’hotêl, thought he would make all ready, like an intelligent man; and with this view called in the assistance of the lackey of one of his master’s guests, named Fourreau, and the false soldier who had tried to kill D’Artagnan and who, belonging to no corps, had entered into the service of D’Artagnan, or rather of Planchet, after D’Artagnan had saved his life.

The hour of the banquet being come, the two guards arrived, took their places, and the dishes were arranged on the table. Planchet waited, towel on arm; Fourreau uncorked the bottles; and Brisemont, which was the name of the convalescent, poured the wine, which was a little shaken by its journey, carefully into decanters. Of this wine, the first bottle being a little thick at the bottom, Brisemont poured the lees into a glass, and D’Artagnan desired him to drink it, for the poor devil had not yet recovered his strength.

The guests having eaten the soup, were about to lift the first glass of wine to their lips, when all at once the cannon sounded from Fort Louis and Fort Neuf. The Guardsmen, imagining this to be caused by some unexpected attack, either of the besieged or the English, sprang to their swords. D’Artagnan, not less forward than they, did likewise, and all ran out, in order to repair to their posts.

But scarcely were they out of the room before they were made aware of the cause of this noise. Cries of “Live the king! Live the cardinal!” resounded on every side, and the drums were beaten in all directions.

In short, the king, impatient, as has been said, had come by forced marches, and had that moment arrived with all his household and a reinforcement of ten thousand troops. His Musketeers proceeded and followed him. D’Artagnan, placed in line with his company, saluted with an expressive gesture his three friends, whose eyes soon discovered him, and M. de Tréville, who detected him at once.

The ceremony of reception over, the four friends were soon in one another’s arms.

“Pardieu!” cried D’Artagnan, “you could not have arrived in better time; the dinner cannot have had time to get cold! Can it, gentlemen?” added the young man, turning to the two Guards, whom he introduced to his friends.

“Ah, ah!” said Porthos, “it appears we are feasting!”

“I hope,” said Aramis, “there are no women at your dinner.”

“Is there any drinkable wine in your tavern?” asked Athos.

“Well, pardieu! There is yours, my dear friend,” replied D’Artagnan.

“Our wine!” said Athos, astonished.

“Yes, that you sent me.”

“We send you wine?”

“You know very well—the wine from the hills of Anjou.”

“Yes, I know what brand you are talking about.”

“The wine you prefer.”

“Well, in the absence of champagne and chambertin, you must content yourselves with that.”

“And so, connoisseurs in wine as we are, we have sent you some Anjou wine?” said Porthos.

“Not exactly, it is the wine that was sent by your order.”

“On our account?” said the three Musketeers.

“Did you send this wine, Aramis?” said Athos.

“No; and you, Porthos?”

“No; and you, Athos?”

“No!”

“If it was not you, it was your purveyor,” said D’Artagnan.

“Our purveyor!”

“Yes, your purveyor, Godeau—the purveyor of the Musketeers.”

“My faith! Never mind where it comes from,” said Porthos, “let us taste it, and if it is good, let us drink it.”

“No,” said Athos; “don’t let us drink wine which comes from an unknown source.”

“You are right, Athos,” said D’Artagnan. “Did none of you charge your purveyor, Godeau, to send me some wine?”

“No! And yet you say he has sent you some as from us?”

“Here is his letter,” said D’Artagnan, and he presented the note to his comrades.

“This is not his writing!” said Athos. “I am acquainted with it; before we left Villeroy I settled the accounts of the regiment.”

“A false letter altogether,” said Porthos, “we have not been disciplined.”

“D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, in a reproachful tone, “how could you believe that we had made a disturbance?”

D’Artagnan grew pale, and a convulsive trembling shook all his limbs.

“Thou alarmest me!” said Athos, who never used thee and thou but upon very particular occasions, “what has happened?”

“Look you, my friends!” cried D’Artagnan, “a horrible suspicion crosses my mind! Can this be another vengeance of that woman?”

It was now Athos who turned pale.

D’Artagnan rushed toward the refreshment room, the three Musketeers and the two Guards following him.

The first object that met the eyes of D’Artagnan on entering the room was Brisemont, stretched upon the ground and rolling in horrible convulsions.

Planchet and Fourreau, as pale as death, were trying to give him succor; but it was plain that all assistance was useless—all the features of the dying man were distorted with agony.

“Ah!” cried he, on perceiving D’Artagnan, “ah! this is frightful! You pretend to pardon me, and you poison me!”

“I!” cried D’Artagnan. “I, wretch? What do you say?”

“I say that it was you who gave me the wine; I say that it was you who desired me to drink it. I say you wished to avenge yourself on me, and I say that it is horrible!”

“Do not think so, Brisemont,” said D’Artagnan; “do not think so. I swear to you, I protest—”

“Oh, but God is above! God will punish you! My God, grant that he may one day suffer what I suffer!”

“Upon the Gospel,” said D’Artagnan, throwing himself down by the dying man, “I swear to you that the wine was poisoned and that I was going to drink of it as you did.”

“I do not believe you,” cried the soldier, and he expired amid horrible tortures.

“Frightful! Frightful!” murmured Athos, while Porthos broke the bottles and Aramis gave orders, a little too late, that a confessor should be sent for.

“Oh, my friends,” said D’Artagnan, “you come once more to save my life, not only mine but that of these gentlemen. Gentlemen,” continued he, addressing the Guardsmen, “I request you will be silent with regard to this adventure. Great personages may have had a hand in what you have seen, and if talked about, the evil would only recoil upon us.”

“Ah, monsieur!” stammered Planchet, more dead than alive, “ah, monsieur, what an escape I have had!”

“How, sirrah! you were going to drink my wine?”

“To the health of the king, monsieur; I was going to drink a small glass of it if Fourreau had not told me I was called.”

“Alas!” said Fourreau, whose teeth chattered with terror, “I wanted to get him out of the way that I might drink myself.”

“Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, addressing the Guardsmen, “you may easily comprehend that such a feast can only be very dull after what has taken place; so accept my excuses, and put off the party till another day, I beg of you.”

The two Guardsmen courteously accepted D’Artagnan’s excuses, and perceiving that the four friends desired to be alone, retired.

When the young Guardsman and the three Musketeers were without witnesses, they looked at one another with an air which plainly expressed that each of them perceived the gravity of their situation.

“In the first place,” said Athos, “let us leave this chamber; the dead are not agreeable company, particularly when they have died a violent death.”

“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “I commit the corpse of this poor devil to your care. Let him be interred in holy ground. He committed a crime, it is true; but he repented of it.”

And the four friends quit the room, leaving to Planchet and Fourreau the duty of paying mortuary honors to Brisemont.

The host gave them another chamber, and served them with fresh eggs and some water, which Athos went himself to draw at the fountain. In a few words, Porthos and Aramis were posted as to the situation.

“Well,” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “you see, my dear friend, that this is war to the death.”

Athos shook his head.

“Yes, yes,” replied he, “I perceive that plainly; but do you really believe it is she?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Nevertheless, I confess I still doubt.”

“But the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder?”

“She is some Englishwoman who has committed a crime in France, and has been branded in consequence.”

“Athos, she is your wife, I tell you,” repeated D’Artagnan; “only reflect how much the two descriptions resemble each other.”

“Yes; but I should think the other must be dead, I hanged her so effectually.”

It was D’Artagnan who now shook his head in his turn.

“But in either case, what is to be done?” said the young man.

“The fact is, one cannot remain thus, with a sword hanging eternally over his head,” said Athos. “We must extricate ourselves from this position.”

“But how?”

“Listen! You must try to see her, and have an explanation with her. Say to her: ‘Peace or war! My word as a gentleman never to say anything of you, never to do anything against you; on your side, a solemn oath to remain neutral with respect to me. If not, I will apply to the chancellor, I will apply to the king, I will apply to the hangman, I will move the courts against you, I will denounce you as branded, I will bring you to trial; and if you are acquitted, well, by the faith of a gentleman, I will kill you at the corner of some wall, as I would a mad dog.’”

“I like the means well enough,” said D’Artagnan, “but where and how to meet with her?”

“Time, dear friend, time brings round opportunity; opportunity is the martingale of man. The more we have ventured the more we gain, when we know how to wait.”

“Yes; but to wait surrounded by assassins and poisoners.”

“Bah!” said Athos. “God has preserved us hitherto, God will preserve us still.”

“Yes, we. Besides, we are men; and everything considered, it is our lot to risk our lives; but she,” asked he, in an undertone.

“What she?” asked Athos.

“Constance.”

“Madame Bonacieux! Ah, that’s true!” said Athos. “My poor friend, I had forgotten you were in love.”

“Well, but,” said Aramis, “have you not learned by the letter you found on the wretched corpse that she is in a convent? One may be very comfortable in a convent; and as soon as the siege of La Rochelle is terminated, I promise you on my part—”

“Good,” cried Athos, “good! Yes, my dear Aramis, we all know that your views have a religious tendency.”

“I am only temporarily a Musketeer,” said Aramis, humbly.

“It is some time since we heard from his mistress,” said Athos, in a low voice. “But take no notice; we know all about that.”

“Well,” said Porthos, “it appears to me that the means are very simple.”

“What?” asked D’Artagnan.

“You say she is in a convent?” replied Porthos.

“Yes.”

“Very well. As soon as the siege is over, we’ll carry her off from that convent.”

“But we must first learn what convent she is in.”

“That’s true,” said Porthos.

“But I think I have it,” said Athos. “Don’t you say, dear D’Artagnan, that it is the queen who has made choice of the convent for her?”

“I believe so, at least.”

“In that case Porthos will assist us.”

“And how so, if you please?”

“Why, by your marchioness, your duchess, your princess. She must have a long arm.”

“Hush!” said Porthos, placing a finger on his lips. “I believe her to be a cardinalist; she must know nothing of the matter.”

“Then,” said Aramis, “I take upon myself to obtain intelligence of her.”

“You, Aramis?” cried the three friends. “You! And how?”

“By the queen’s almoner, to whom I am very intimately allied,” said Aramis, coloring.

And on this assurance, the four friends, who had finished their modest repast, separated, with the promise of meeting again that evening. D’Artagnan returned to less important affairs, and the three Musketeers repaired to the king’s quarters, where they had to prepare their lodging.

The Sign Of The Red Dovecot

Meanwhile the king, who, with more reason than the cardinal, showed his hatred for Buckingham, although scarcely arrived was in such a haste to meet the enemy that he commanded every disposition to be made to drive the English from the Isle of Ré, and afterward to press the siege of La Rochelle; but notwithstanding his earnest wish, he was delayed by the dissensions which broke out between MM. Bassompierre and Schomberg, against the Duc d’Angoulême.

MM. Bassompierre and Schomberg were marshals of France, and claimed their right of commanding the army under the orders of the king; but the cardinal, who feared that Bassompierre, a Huguenot at heart, might press but feebly the English and Rochellais, his brothers in religion, supported the Duc d’Angoulême, whom the king, at his instigation, had named lieutenant general. The result was that to prevent MM. Bassompierre and Schomberg from deserting the army, a separate command had to be given to each. Bassompierre took up his quarters on the north of the city, between Leu and Dompierre; the Duc d’angouleme on the east, from Dompierre to Perigny; and M. de Schomberg on the south, from Perigny to Angoutin.

The quarters of Monsieur were at Dompierre; the quarters of the king were sometimes at Estree, sometimes at Jarrie; the cardinal’s quarters were upon the downs, at the bridge of La Pierre, in a simple house without any entrenchment. So that Monsieur watched Bassompierre; the king, the Duc d’Angoulême; and the cardinal, M. de Schomberg.

As soon as this organization was established, they set about driving the English from the Isle.

The juncture was favorable. The English, who require, above everything, good living in order to be good soldiers, only eating salt meat and bad biscuit, had many invalids in their camp. Still further, the sea, very rough at this period of the year all along the sea coast, destroyed every day some little vessel; and the shore, from the point of l’Aiguillon to the trenches, was at every tide literally covered with the wrecks of pinnacles, roberges, and feluccas. The result was that even if the king’s troops remained quietly in their camp, it was evident that some day or other, Buckingham, who only continued in the Isle from obstinacy, would be obliged to raise the siege.

But as M. de Toiras gave information that everything was preparing in the enemy’s camp for a fresh assault, the king judged that it would be best to put an end to the affair, and gave the necessary orders for a decisive action.

As it is not our intention to give a journal of the siege, but on the contrary only to describe such of the events of it as are connected with the story we are relating, we will content ourselves with saying in two words that the expedition succeeded, to the great astonishment of the king and the great glory of the cardinal. The English, repulsed foot by foot, beaten in all encounters, and defeated in the passage of the Isle of Loie, were obliged to re-embark, leaving on the field of battle two thousand men, among whom were five colonels, three lieutenant colonels, two hundred and fifty captains, twenty gentlemen of rank, four pieces of cannon, and sixty flags, which were taken to Paris by Claude de St. Simon, and suspended with great pomp in the arches of Nôtre Dame.

Te Deums were chanted in camp, and afterward throughout France.

The cardinal was left free to carry on the siege, without having, at least at the present, anything to fear on the part of the English.

But it must be acknowledged, this response was but momentary. An envoy of the Duke of Buckingham, named Montague, was taken, and proof was obtained of a league between the German Empire, Spain, England, and Lorraine. This league was directed against France.

Still further, in Buckingham’s lodging, which he had been forced to abandon more precipitately than he expected, papers were found which confirmed this alliance and which, as the cardinal asserts in his memoirs, strongly compromised Mme. de Chevreuse and consequently the queen.

It was upon the cardinal that all the responsibility fell, for one is not a despotic minister without responsibility. All, therefore, of the vast resources of his genius were at work night and day, engaged in listening to the least report heard in any of the great kingdoms of Europe.

The cardinal was acquainted with the activity, and more particularly the hatred, of Buckingham. If the league which threatened France triumphed, all his influence would be lost. Spanish policy and Austrian policy would have their representatives in the cabinet of the Louvre, where they had as yet but partisans; and he, Richelieu—the French minister, the national minister—would be ruined. The king, even while obeying him like a child, hated him as a child hates his master, and would abandon him to the personal vengeance of Monsieur and the queen. He would then be lost, and France, perhaps, with him. All this must be prepared against.

Courtiers, becoming every instant more numerous, succeeded one another, day and night, in the little house of the bridge of La Pierre, in which the cardinal had established his residence.

There were monks who wore the frock with such an ill grace that it was easy to perceive they belonged to the church militant; women a little inconvenienced by their costume as pages and whose large trousers could not entirely conceal their rounded forms; and peasants with blackened hands but with fine limbs, savoring of the man of quality a league off.

There were also less agreeable visits—for two or three times reports were spread that the cardinal had nearly been assassinated.

It is true that the enemies of the cardinal said that it was he himself who set these bungling assassins to work, in order to have, if wanted, the right of using reprisals; but we must not believe everything ministers say, nor everything their enemies say.

These attempts did not prevent the cardinal, to whom his most inveterate detractors have never denied personal bravery, from making nocturnal excursions, sometimes to communicate to the Duc d’Angoulême important orders, sometimes to confer with the king, and sometimes to have an interview with a messenger whom he did not wish to see at home.

On their part the Musketeers, who had not much to do with the siege, were not under very strict orders and led a joyous life. This was the more easy for our three companions in particular; for being friends of M. de Tréville, they obtained from him special permission to be absent after the closing of the camp.

Now, one evening when D’Artagnan, who was in the trenches, was not able to accompany them, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, mounted on their battle steeds, enveloped in their war cloaks, with their hands upon their pistol butts, were returning from a drinking place called the Red Dovecot, which Athos had discovered two days before upon the route to Jarrie, following the road which led to the camp and quite on their guard, as we have stated, for fear of an ambuscade, when, about a quarter of a league from the village of Boisnau, they fancied they heard the sound of horses approaching them. They immediately all three halted, closed in, and waited, occupying the middle of the road. In an instant, and as the moon broke from behind a cloud, they saw at a turning of the road two horsemen who, on perceiving them, stopped in their turn, appearing to deliberate whether they should continue their route or go back. The hesitation created some suspicion in the three friends, and Athos, advancing a few paces in front of the others, cried in a firm voice, “Who goes there?”

“Who goes there, yourselves?” replied one of the horsemen.

“That is not an answer,” replied Athos. “Who goes there? Answer, or we charge.”

“Beware of what you are about, gentlemen!” said a clear voice which seemed accustomed to command.

“It is some superior officer making his night rounds,” said Athos. “What do you wish, gentlemen?”

“Who are you?” said the same voice, in the same commanding tone. “Answer in your turn, or you may repent of your disobedience.”

“King’s Musketeers,” said Athos, more and more convinced that he who interrogated them had the right to do so.

“What company?”

“Company of Tréville.”

“Advance, and give an account of what you are doing here at this hour.”

The three companions advanced rather humbly—for all were now convinced that they had to do with someone more powerful than themselves—leaving Athos the post of speaker.

One of the two riders, he who had spoken second, was ten paces in front of his companion. Athos made a sign to Porthos and Aramis also to remain in the rear, and advanced alone.

“Your pardon, my officer,” said Athos; “but we were ignorant with whom we had to do, and you may see that we were keeping good guard.”

“Your name?” said the officer, who covered a part of his face with his cloak.

“But yourself, monsieur,” said Athos, who began to be annoyed by this inquisition, “give me, I beg you, the proof that you have the right to question me.”

“Your name?” repeated the cavalier a second time, letting his cloak fall, and leaving his face uncovered.

“Monsieur the Cardinal!” cried the stupefied Musketeer.

“Your name?” cried his Eminence, for the third time.

“Athos,” said the Musketeer.

The cardinal made a sign to his attendant, who drew near. “These three Musketeers shall follow us,” said he, in an undertone. “I am not willing it should be known I have left the camp; and if they follow us we shall be certain they will tell nobody.”

“We are gentlemen, monseigneur,” said Athos; “require our parole, and give yourself no uneasiness. Thank God, we can keep a secret.”

The cardinal fixed his piercing eyes on this courageous speaker.

“You have a quick ear, Monsieur Athos,” said the cardinal; “but now listen to this. It is not from mistrust that I request you to follow me, but for my security. Your companions are no doubt Messieurs Porthos and Aramis.”

“Yes, your Eminence,” said Athos, while the two Musketeers who had remained behind advanced hat in hand.

“I know you, gentlemen,” said the cardinal, “I know you. I know you are not quite my friends, and I am sorry you are not so; but I know you are brave and loyal gentlemen, and that confidence may be placed in you. Monsieur Athos, do me, then, the honor to accompany me; you and your two friends, and then I shall have an escort to excite envy in his Majesty, if we should meet him.”

The three Musketeers bowed to the necks of their horses.

“Well, upon my honor,” said Athos, “your Eminence is right in taking us with you; we have seen several ill-looking faces on the road, and we have even had a quarrel at the Red Dovecot with four of those faces.”

“A quarrel, and what for, gentlemen?” said the cardinal; “you know I don’t like quarrelers.”

“And that is the reason why I have the honor to inform your Eminence of what has happened; for you might learn it from others, and upon a false account believe us to be in fault.”

“What have been the results of your quarrel?” said the cardinal, knitting his brow.

“My friend, Aramis, here, has received a slight sword wound in the arm, but not enough to prevent him, as your Eminence may see, from mounting to the assault tomorrow, if your Eminence orders an escalade.”

“But you are not the men to allow sword wounds to be inflicted upon you thus,” said the cardinal. “Come, be frank, gentlemen, you have settled accounts with somebody! Confess; you know I have the right of giving absolution.”

“I, monseigneur?” said Athos. “I did not even draw my sword, but I took him who offended me round the body, and threw him out of the window. It appears that in falling,” continued Athos, with some hesitation, “he broke his thigh.”

“Ah, ah!” said the cardinal; “and you, Monsieur Porthos?”

“I, monseigneur, knowing that dueling is prohibited—I seized a bench, and gave one of those brigands such a blow that I believe his shoulder is broken.”

“Very well,” said the cardinal; “and you, Monsieur Aramis?”

“Monseigneur, being of a very mild disposition, and being, likewise, of which Monseigneur perhaps is not aware, about to enter into orders, I endeavored to appease my comrades, when one of these wretches gave me a wound with a sword, treacherously, across my left arm. Then I admit my patience failed me; I drew my sword in my turn, and as he came back to the charge, I fancied I felt that in throwing himself upon me, he let it pass through his body. I only know for a certainty that he fell; and it seemed to me that he was borne away with his two companions.”

“The devil, gentlemen!” said the cardinal, “three men placed hors de combat in a cabaret squabble! You don’t do your work by halves. And pray what was this quarrel about?”

“These fellows were drunk,” said Athos. “and knowing there was a lady who had arrived at the cabaret this evening, they wanted to force her door.”

“Force her door!” said the cardinal, “and for what purpose?”

“To do her violence, without doubt,” said Athos. “I have had the honor of informing your Eminence that these men were drunk.”

“And was this lady young and handsome?” asked the cardinal, with a certain degree of anxiety.

“We did not see her, monseigneur,” said Athos.

“You did not see her? Ah, very well,” replied the cardinal, quickly. “You did well to defend the honor of a woman; and as I am going to the Red Dovecot myself, I shall know if you have told me the truth.”

“Monseigneur,” said Athos, haughtily, “we are gentlemen, and to save our heads we would not be guilty of a falsehood.”

“Therefore I do not doubt what you say, Monsieur Athos, I do not doubt it for a single instant; but,” added he, to change the conversation, “was this lady alone?”

“The lady had a cavalier shut up with her,” said Athos, “but as notwithstanding the noise, this cavalier did not show himself, it is to be presumed that he is a coward.”

“Judge not rashly, says the Gospel,” replied the cardinal.

Athos bowed.

“And now, gentlemen, that’s well,” continued the cardinal. “I know what I wish to know; follow me.”

The three Musketeers passed behind his Eminence, who again enveloped his face in his cloak, and put his horse in motion, keeping from eight to ten paces in advance of his four companions.

They soon arrived at the silent, solitary inn. No doubt the host knew what illustrious visitor was expected, and had consequently sent intruders out of the way.

Ten paces from the door the cardinal made a sign to his esquire and the three Musketeers to halt. A saddled horse was fastened to the window shutter. The cardinal knocked three times, and in a peculiar manner.

A man, enveloped in a cloak, came out immediately, and exchanged some rapid words with the cardinal; after which he mounted his horse, and set off in the direction of Surgères, which was likewise the way to Paris.

“Advance, gentlemen,” said the cardinal.

“You have told me the truth, my gentlemen,” said he, addressing the Musketeers, “and it will not be my fault if our encounter this evening be not advantageous to you. In the meantime, follow me.”

The cardinal alighted; the three Musketeers did likewise. The cardinal threw the bridle of his horse to his esquire; the three Musketeers fastened the horses to the shutters.

The host stood at the door. For him, the cardinal was only an officer coming to visit a lady.

“Have you any chamber on the ground floor where these gentlemen can wait near a good fire?” said the cardinal.

The host opened the door of a large room, in which an old stove had just been replaced by a large and excellent chimney.

“I have this,” said he.

“That will do,” replied the cardinal. “Enter, gentlemen, and be kind enough to wait for me; I shall not be more than half an hour.”

And while the three Musketeers entered the ground floor room, the cardinal, without asking further information, ascended the staircase like a man who has no need of having his road pointed out to him.

The Utility Of Stovepipes

It was evident that without suspecting it, and actuated solely by their chivalrous and adventurous character, our three friends had just rendered a service to someone the cardinal honored with his special protection.

Now, who was that someone? That was the question the three Musketeers put to one another. Then, seeing that none of their replies could throw any light on the subject, Porthos called the host and asked for dice.

Porthos and Aramis placed themselves at the table and began to play. Athos walked about in a contemplative mood.

While thinking and walking, Athos passed and repassed before the pipe of the stove, broken in halves, the other extremity passing into the chamber above; and every time he passed and repassed he heard a murmur of words, which at length fixed his attention. Athos went close to it, and distinguished some words that appeared to merit so great an interest that he made a sign to his friends to be silent, remaining himself bent with his ear directed to the opening of the lower orifice.

“Listen, Milady,” said the cardinal, “the affair is important. Sit down, and let us talk it over.”

“Milady!” murmured Athos.

“I listen to your Eminence with greatest attention,” replied a female voice which made the Musketeer start.

“A small vessel with an English crew, whose captain is on my side, awaits you at the mouth of Charente, at fort of the Point. He will set sail tomorrow morning.”

“I must go thither tonight?”

“Instantly! That is to say, when you have received my instructions. Two men, whom you will find at the door on going out, will serve you as escort. You will allow me to leave first; then, after half an hour, you can go away in your turn.”

“Yes, monseigneur. Now let us return to the mission with which you wish to charge me; and as I desire to continue to merit the confidence of your Eminence, deign to unfold it to me in terms clear and precise, that I may not commit an error.”

There was an instant of profound silence between the two interlocutors. It was evident that the cardinal was weighing beforehand the terms in which he was about to speak, and that Milady was collecting all her intellectual faculties to comprehend the things he was about to say, and to engrave them in her memory when they should be spoken.

Athos took advantage of this moment to tell his two companions to fasten the door inside, and to make them a sign to come and listen with him.

The two Musketeers, who loved their ease, brought a chair for each of themselves and one for Athos. All three then sat down with their heads together and their ears on the alert.

“You will go to London,” continued the cardinal. “Arrived in London, you will seek Buckingham.”

“I must beg your Eminence to observe,” said Milady, “that since the affair of the diamond studs, about which the duke always suspected me, his Grace distrusts me.”

“Well, this time,” said the cardinal, “it is not necessary to steal his confidence, but to present yourself frankly and loyally as a negotiator.”

“Frankly and loyally,” repeated Milady, with an unspeakable expression of duplicity.

“Yes, frankly and loyally,” replied the cardinal, in the same tone. “All this negotiation must be carried on openly.”

“I will follow your Eminence’s instructions to the letter. I only wait till you give them.”

“You will go to Buckingham in my behalf, and you will tell him I am acquainted with all the preparations he has made; but that they give me no uneasiness, since at the first step he takes I will ruin the queen.”

“Will he believe that your Eminence is in a position to accomplish the threat thus made?”

“Yes; for I have the proofs.”

“I must be able to present these proofs for his appreciation.”

“Without doubt. And you will tell him I will publish the report of Bois-Robert and the Marquis de Beautru, upon the interview which the duke had at the residence of Madame the Constable with the queen on the evening Madame the Constable gave a masquerade. You will tell him, in order that he may not doubt, that he came there in the costume of the Great Mogul, which the Chevalier de Guise was to have worn, and that he purchased this exchange for the sum of three thousand pistoles.”

“Well, monseigneur?”

“All the details of his coming into and going out of the palace--on the night when he introduced himself in the character of an Italian fortune teller--you will tell him, that he may not doubt the correctness of my information; that he had under his cloak a large white robe dotted with black tears, death’s heads, and crossbones--for in case of a surprise, he was to pass for the phantom of the White Lady who, as all the world knows, appears at the Louvre every time any great event is impending.”

“Is that all, monseigneur?”

“Tell him also that I am acquainted with all the details of the adventure at Amiens; that I will have a little romance made of it, wittily turned, with a plan of the garden and portraits of the principal actors in that nocturnal romance.”

“I will tell him that.”

“Tell him further that I hold Montague in my power; that Montague is in the Bastille; that no letters were found upon him, it is true, but that torture may make him tell much of what he knows, and even what he does not know.”

“Exactly.”

“Then add that his Grace has, in the precipitation with which he quit the Isle of Ré, forgotten and left behind him in his lodging a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse which singularly compromises the queen, inasmuch as it proves not only that her Majesty can love the enemies of the king but that she can conspire with the enemies of France. You recollect perfectly all I have told you, do you not?”

“Your Eminence will judge: the ball of Madame the Constable; the night at the Louvre; the evening at Amiens; the arrest of Montague; the letter of Madame de Chevreuse.”

“That’s it,” said the cardinal, “that’s it. You have an excellent memory, Milady.”

“But,” resumed she to whom the cardinal addressed this flattering compliment, “if, in spite of all these reasons, the duke does not give way and continues to menace France?”

“The duke is in love to madness, or rather to folly,” replied Richelieu, with great bitterness. “Like the ancient paladins, he has only undertaken this war to obtain a look from his lady love. If he becomes certain that this war will cost the honor, and perhaps the liberty, of the lady of his thoughts, as he says, I will answer for it he will look twice.”

“And yet,” said Milady, with a persistence that proved she wished to see clearly to the end of the mission with which she was about to be charged, “if he persists?”

“If he persists?” said the cardinal. “That is not probable.”

“It is possible,” said Milady.

“If he persists--” His Eminence made a pause, and resumed: “If he persists--well, then I shall hope for one of those events which change the destinies of states.”

“If your Eminence would quote to me some one of these events in history,” said Milady, “perhaps I should partake of your confidence as to the future.”

“Well, here, for example,” said Richelieu: “when, in 1610, for a cause similar to that which moves the duke, King Henry IV, of glorious memory, was about, at the same time, to invade Flanders and Italy, in order to attack Austria on both sides. Well, did there not happen an event which saved Austria? Why should not the king of France have the same chance as the emperor?”

“Your Eminence means, I presume, the knife stab in the Rue de la Féronnerie?”

“Precisely,” said the cardinal.

“Does not your Eminence fear that the punishment inflicted upon Ravaillac may deter anyone who might entertain the idea of imitating him?”

“There will be, in all times and in all countries, particularly if religious divisions exist in those countries, fanatics who ask nothing better than to become martyrs. Ay, and observe--it just occurs to me that the Puritans are furious against Buckingham, and their preachers designate him as the Antichrist.”

“Well?” said Milady.

“Well,” continued the cardinal, in an indifferent tone, “the only thing to be sought for at this moment is some woman, handsome, young, and clever, who has cause of quarrel with the duke. The duke has had many affairs of gallantry; and if he has fostered his amours by promises of eternal constancy, he must likewise have sown the seeds of hatred by his eternal infidelities.”

“No doubt,” said Milady, coolly, “such a woman may be found.”

“Well, such a woman, who would place the knife of Jacques Clement or of Ravaillac in the hands of a fanatic, would save France.”

“Yes; but she would then be the accomplice of an assassination.”

“Were the accomplices of Ravaillac or of Jacques Clement ever known?”

“No; for perhaps they were too high-placed for anyone to dare look for them where they were. The Palace of Justice would not be burned down for everybody, monseigneur.”

“You think, then, that the fire at the Palace of Justice was not caused by chance?” asked Richelieu, in the tone with which he would have put a question of no importance.

“I, monseigneur?” replied Milady. “I think nothing; I quote a fact, that is all. Only I say that if I were named Madame de Montpensier, or the Queen Marie de Medicis, I should use less precautions than I take, being simply called Milady Clarik.”

“That is just,” said Richelieu. “What do you require, then?”

“I require an order which would ratify beforehand all that I should think proper to do for the greatest good of France.”

“But in the first place, this woman I have described must be found who is desirous of avenging herself upon the duke.”

“She is found,” said Milady.

“Then the miserable fanatic must be found who will serve as an instrument of God’s justice.”

“He will be found.”

“Well,” said the cardinal, “then it will be time to claim the order which you just now required.”

“Your Eminence is right,” replied Milady; “and I have been wrong in seeing in the mission with which you honor me anything but that which it really is--that is, to announce to his Grace, on the part of your Eminence, that you are acquainted with the different disguises by means of which he succeeded in approaching the queen during the fête given by Madame the Constable; that you have proofs of the interview granted at the Louvre by the queen to a certain Italian astrologer who was no other than the Duke of Buckingham; that you have ordered a little romance of a satirical nature to be written upon the adventures of Amiens, with a plan of the gardens in which those adventures took place, and portraits of the actors who figured in them; that Montague is in the Bastille, and that the torture may make him say things he remembers, and even things he has forgotten; that you possess a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse, found in his Grace’s lodging, which singularly compromises not only her who wrote it, but her in whose name it was written. Then, if he persists, notwithstanding all this--as that is, as I have said, the limit of my mission--I shall have nothing to do but to pray God to work a miracle for the salvation of France. That is it, is it not, monseigneur, and I shall have nothing else to do?”

“That is it,” replied the cardinal, dryly.

“And now,” said Milady, without appearing to remark the change of the duke’s tone toward her--”now that I have received the instructions of your Eminence as concerns your enemies, Monseigneur will permit me to say a few words to him of mine?”

“Have you enemies, then?” asked Richelieu.

“Yes, monseigneur, enemies against whom you owe me all your support, for I made them by serving your Eminence.”

“Who are they?” replied the duke.

“In the first place, there is a little intrigante named Bonacieux.”

“She is in the prison of Nantes.”

“That is to say, she was there,” replied Milady; “but the queen has obtained an order from the king by means of which she has been conveyed to a convent.”

“To a convent?” said the duke.

“Yes, to a convent.”

“And to which?”

“I don’t know; the secret has been well kept.”

“But I will know!”

“And your Eminence will tell me in what convent that woman is?”

“I can see nothing inconvenient in that,” said the cardinal.

“Well, now I have an enemy much more to be dreaded by me than this little Madame Bonacieux.”

“Who is that?”

“Her lover.”

“What is his name?”

“Oh, your Eminence knows him well,” cried Milady, carried away by her anger. “He is the evil genius of both of us. It is he who in an encounter with your Eminence’s Guards decided the victory in favor of the king’s Musketeers; it is he who gave three desperate wounds to De Wardes, your emissary, and who caused the affair of the diamond studs to fail; it is he who, knowing it was I who had Madame Bonacieux carried off, has sworn my death.”

“Ah, ah!” said the cardinal, “I know of whom you speak.”

“I mean that miserable D’Artagnan.”

“He is a bold fellow,” said the cardinal.

“And it is exactly because he is a bold fellow that he is the more to be feared.”

“I must have,” said the duke, “a proof of his connection with Buckingham.”

“A proof?” cried Milady; “I will have ten.”

“Well, then, it becomes the simplest thing in the world; get me that proof, and I will send him to the Bastille.”

“So far good, monseigneur; but afterwards?”

“When once in the Bastille, there is no afterward!” said the cardinal, in a low voice. “Ah, pardieu!” continued he, “if it were as easy for me to get rid of my enemy as it is easy to get rid of yours, and if it were against such people you require impunity--”

“Monseigneur,” replied Milady, “a fair exchange. Life for life, man for man; give me one, I will give you the other.”

“I don’t know what you mean, nor do I even desire to know what you mean,” replied the cardinal; “but I wish to please you, and see nothing out of the way in giving you what you demand with respect to so infamous a creature--the more so as you tell me this D’Artagnan is a libertine, a duelist, and a traitor.”

“An infamous scoundrel, monseigneur, a scoundrel!”

“Give me paper, a quill, and some ink, then,” said the cardinal.

“Here they are, monseigneur.”

There was a moment of silence, which proved that the cardinal was employed in seeking the terms in which he should write the note, or else in writing it. Athos, who had not lost a word of the conversation, took his two companions by the hand, and led them to the other end of the room.

“Well,” said Porthos, “what do you want, and why do you not let us listen to the end of the conversation?”

“Hush!” said Athos, speaking in a low voice. “We have heard all it was necessary we should hear; besides, I don’t prevent you from listening, but I must be gone.”

“You must be gone!” said Porthos; “and if the cardinal asks for you, what answer can we make?”

“You will not wait till he asks; you will speak first, and tell him that I am gone on the lookout, because certain expressions of our host have given me reason to think the road is not safe. I will say two words about it to the cardinal’s esquire likewise. The rest concerns myself; don’t be uneasy about that.”

“Be prudent, Athos,” said Aramis.

“Be easy on that head,” replied Athos; “you know I am cool enough.”

Porthos and Aramis resumed their places by the stovepipe.

As to Athos, he went out without any mystery, took his horse, which was tied with those of his friends to the fastenings of the shutters, in four words convinced the attendant of the necessity of a vanguard for their return, carefully examined the priming of his pistols, drew his sword, and took, like a forlorn hope, the road to the camp.

A Conjugal Scene

As Athos had foreseen, it was not long before the cardinal came down. He opened the door of the room in which the Musketeers were, and found Porthos playing an earnest game of dice with Aramis. He cast a rapid glance around the room, and perceived that one of his men was missing.

“What has become of Monseigneur Athos?” asked he.

“Monseigneur,” replied Porthos, “he has gone as a scout, on account of some words of our host, which made him believe the road was not safe.”

“And you, what have you done, Monsieur Porthos?”

“I have won five pistoles of Aramis.”

“Well; now will you return with me?”

“We are at your Eminence’s orders.”

“To horse, then, gentlemen; for it is getting late.”

The attendant was at the door, holding the cardinal’s horse by the bridle. At a short distance a group of two men and three horses appeared in the shade. These were the two men who were to conduct Milady to the fort of the Point, and superintend her embarkation.

The attendant confirmed to the cardinal what the two Musketeers had already said with respect to Athos. The cardinal made an approving gesture, and retraced his route with the same precautions he had used incoming.

Let us leave him to follow the road to the camp protected by his esquire and the two Musketeers, and return to Athos.

For a hundred paces he maintained the speed at which he started; but when out of sight he turned his horse to the right, made a circuit, and came back within twenty paces of a high hedge to watch the passage of the little troop. Having recognized the laced hats of his companions and the golden fringe of the cardinal’s cloak, he waited till the horsemen had turned the angle of the road, and having lost sight of them, he returned at a gallop to the inn, which was opened to him without hesitation.

The host recognized him.

“My officer,” said Athos, “has forgotten to give a piece of very important information to the lady, and has sent me back to repair his forgetfulness.”

“Go up,” said the host; “she is still in her chamber.”

Athos availed himself of the permission, ascended the stairs with his lightest step, gained the landing, and through the open door perceived Milady putting on her hat.

He entered the chamber and closed the door behind him. At the noise he made in pushing the bolt, Milady turned round.

Athos was standing before the door, enveloped in his cloak, with his hat pulled down over his eyes. On seeing this figure, mute and immovable as a statue, Milady was frightened.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” cried she.

“Humph,” murmured Athos, “it is certainly she!”

And letting fall his cloak and raising his hat, he advanced toward Milady.

“Do you know me, madame?” said he.

Milady made one step forward, and then drew back as if she had seen a serpent.

“So far, well,” said Athos, “I perceive you know me.”

“The Comte de la Fère!” murmured Milady, becoming exceedingly pale, and drawing back till the wall prevented her from going any farther.

“Yes, Milady,” replied Athos; “the Comte de la Fère in person, who comes expressly from the other world to have the pleasure of paying you a visit. Sit down, madame, and let us talk, as the cardinal said.”

Milady, under the influence of inexpressible terror, sat down without uttering a word.

“You certainly are a demon sent upon the earth!” said Athos. “Your power is great, I know; but you also know that with the help of God men have often conquered the most terrible demons. You have once before thrown yourself in my path. I thought I had crushed you, madame; but either I was deceived or hell has resuscitated you!”

Milady at these words, which recalled frightful remembrances, hung down her head with a suppressed groan.

“Yes, hell has resuscitated you,” continued Athos. “Hell has made you rich, hell has given you another name, hell has almost made you another face; but it has neither effaced the stains from your soul nor the brand from your body.”

Milady arose as if moved by a powerful spring, and her eyes flashed lightning. Athos remained sitting.

“You believed me to be dead, did you not, as I believed you to be? And the name of Athos as well concealed the Comte de la Fère, as the name Milady Clarik concealed Anne de Breuil. Was it not so you were called when your honored brother married us? Our position is truly a strange one,” continued Athos, laughing. “We have only lived up to the present time because we believed each other dead, and because a remembrance is less oppressive than a living creature, though a remembrance is sometimes devouring.”

“But,” said Milady, in a hollow, faint voice, “what brings you back to me, and what do you want with me?”

“I wish to tell you that though remaining invisible to your eyes, I have not lost sight of you.”

“You know what I have done?”

“I can relate to you, day by day, your actions from your entrance to the service of the cardinal to this evening.”

A smile of incredulity passed over the pale lips of Milady.

“Listen! It was you who cut off the two diamond studs from the shoulder of the Duke of Buckingham; it was you had Madame Bonacieux carried off; it was you who, in love with De Wardes and thinking to pass the night with him, opened the door to Monsieur d’Artagnan; it was you who, believing that De Wardes had deceived you, wished to have him killed by his rival; it was you who, when this rival had discovered your infamous secret, wished to have him killed in his turn by two assassins, whom you sent in pursuit of him; it was you who, finding the balls had missed their mark, sent poisoned wine with a forged letter, to make your victim believe that the wine came from his friends. In short, it was you who have but now in this chamber, seated in this chair I now fill, made an engagement with Cardinal Richelieu to cause the Duke of Buckingham to be assassinated, in exchange for the promise he has made you to allow you to assassinate D’Artagnan.”

Milady was livid.

“You must be Satan!” cried she.

“Perhaps,” said Athos; “But at all events listen well to this. Assassinate the Duke of Buckingham, or cause him to be assassinated--I care very little about that! I don’t know him. Besides, he is an Englishman. But do not touch with the tip of your finger a single hair of D’Artagnan, who is a faithful friend whom I love and defend, or I swear to you by the head of my father the crime which you shall have endeavored to commit, or shall have committed, shall be the last.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan has cruelly insulted me,” said Milady, in a hollow tone; “Monsieur d’Artagnan shall die!”

“Indeed! Is it possible to insult you, madame?” said Athos, laughing; “he has insulted you, and he shall die!”

“He shall die!” replied Milady; “she first, and he afterward.”

Athos was seized with a kind of vertigo. The sight of this creature, who had nothing of the woman about her, recalled awful remembrances. He thought how one day, in a less dangerous situation than the one in which he was now placed, he had already endeavored to sacrifice her to his honor. His desire for blood returned, burning his brain and pervading his frame like a raging fever; he arose in his turn, reached his hand to his belt, drew forth a pistol, and cocked it.

Milady, pale as a corpse, endeavored to cry out; but her swollen tongue could utter no more than a hoarse sound which had nothing human in it and resembled the rattle of a wild beast. Motionless against the dark tapestry, with her hair in disorder, she appeared like a horrid image of terror.

Athos slowly raised his pistol, stretched out his arm so that the weapon almost touched Milady’s forehead, and then, in a voice the more terrible from having the supreme calmness of a fixed resolution, “Madame,” said he, “you will this instant deliver to me the paper the cardinal signed; or upon my soul, I will blow your brains out.”

With another man, Milady might have preserved some doubt; but she knew Athos. Nevertheless, she remained motionless.

“You have one second to decide,” said he.

Milady saw by the contraction of his countenance that the trigger was about to be pulled; she reached her hand quickly to her bosom, drew out a paper, and held it toward Athos.

“Take it,” said she, “and be accursed!”

Athos took the paper, returned the pistol to his belt, approached the lamp to be assured that it was the paper, unfolded it, and read:

Dec. 3, 1627

It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of this has done what he has done.

Richelieu

“And now,” said Athos, resuming his cloak and putting on his hat, “now that I have drawn your teeth, viper, bite if you can.”

And he left the chamber without once looking behind him.

At the door he found the two men and the spare horse which they held.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “Monseigneur’s order is, you know, to conduct that woman, without losing time, to the fort of the Point, and never to leave her till she is on board.”

As these words agreed wholly with the order they had received, they bowed their heads in sign of assent.

With regard to Athos, he leaped lightly into the saddle and set out at full gallop; only instead of following the road, he went across the fields, urging his horse to the utmost and stopping occasionally to listen.

In one of those halts he heard the steps of several horses on the road. He had no doubt it was the cardinal and his escort. He immediately made a new point in advance, rubbed his horse down with some heath and leaves of trees, and placed himself across the road, about two hundred paces from the camp.

“Who goes there?” cried he, as soon as he perceived the horsemen.

“That is our brave Musketeer, I think,” said the cardinal.

“Yes, monseigneur,” said Porthos, “it is he.”

“Monsieur Athos,” said Richelieu, “receive my thanks for the good guard you have kept. Gentlemen, we are arrived; take the gate on the left. The watchword is, ‘King and Ré.’”

Saying these words, the cardinal saluted the three friends with an inclination of his head, and took the right hand, followed by his attendant--for that night he himself slept in the camp.

“Well!” said Porthos and Aramis together, as soon as the cardinal was out of hearing, “well, he signed the paper she required!”

“I know it,” said Athos, coolly, “since here it is.”

And the three friends did not exchange another word till they reached their quarters, except to give the watchword to the sentinels. Only they sent Mousqueton to tell Planchet that his master was requested, the instant that he left the trenches, to come to the quarters of the Musketeers.

Milady, as Athos had foreseen, on finding the two men that awaited her, made no difficulty in following them. She had had for an instant an inclination to be reconducted to the cardinal, and relate everything to him; but a revelation on her part would bring about a revelation on the part of Athos. She might say that Athos had hanged her; but then Athos would tell that she was branded. She thought it was best to preserve silence, to discreetly set off to accomplish her difficult mission with her usual skill; and then, all things being accomplished to the satisfaction of the cardinal, to come to him and claim her vengeance.

In consequence, after having traveled all night, at seven o’clock she was at the fort of the Point; at eight o’clock she had embarked; and at nine, the vessel, which with letters of marque from the cardinal was supposed to be sailing for Bayonne, raised anchor, and steered its course toward England.

The Bastion Saint-gervais

On arriving at the lodgings of his three friends, D’Artagnan found them assembled in the same chamber. Athos was meditating; Porthos was twisting his mustache; Aramis was saying his prayers in a charming little Book of Hours, bound in blue velvet.

“Pardieu, gentlemen,” said he. “I hope what you have to tell me is worth the trouble, or else, I warn you, I will not pardon you for making me come here instead of getting a little rest after a night spent in taking and dismantling a bastion. Ah, why were you not there, gentlemen? It was warm work.”

“We were in a place where it was not very cold,” replied Porthos, giving his mustache a twist which was peculiar to him.

“Hush!” said Athos.

“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan, comprehending the slight frown of the Musketeer. “It appears there is something fresh aboard.”

“Aramis,” said Athos, “you went to breakfast the day before yesterday at the inn of the Parpaillot, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“How did you fare?”

“For my part, I ate but little. The day before yesterday was a fish day, and they had nothing but meat.”

“What,” said Athos, “no fish at a seaport?”

“They say,” said Aramis, resuming his pious reading, “that the dyke which the cardinal is making drives them all out into the open sea.”

“But that is not quite what I mean to ask you, Aramis,” replied Athos. “I want to know if you were left alone, and nobody interrupted you.”

“Why, I think there were not many intruders. Yes, Athos, I know what you mean: we shall do very well at the Parpaillot.”

“Let us go to the Parpaillot, then, for here the walls are like sheets of paper.”

D’Artagnan, who was accustomed to his friend’s manner of acting, and who perceived immediately, by a word, a gesture, or a sign from him, that the circumstances were serious, took Athos’s arm, and went out without saying anything. Porthos followed, chatting with Aramis.

On their way they met Grimaud. Athos made him a sign to come with them. Grimaud, according to custom, obeyed in silence; the poor lad had nearly come to the pass of forgetting how to speak.

They arrived at the drinking room of the Parpaillot. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and daylight began to appear. The three friends ordered breakfast, and went into a room in which the host said they would not be disturbed.

Unfortunately, the hour was badly chosen for a private conference. The morning drum had just been beaten; everyone shook off the drowsiness of night, and to dispel the humid morning air, came to take a drop at the inn. Dragoons, Swiss, Guardsmen, Musketeers, light-horsemen, succeeded one another with a rapidity which might answer the purpose of the host very well, but agreed badly with the views of the four friends. Thus they applied very curtly to the salutations, healths, and jokes of their companions.

“I see how it will be,” said Athos: “we shall get into some pretty quarrel or other, and we have no need of one just now. D’Artagnan, tell us what sort of a night you have had, and we will describe ours afterward.”

“Ah, yes,” said a light-horseman, with a glass of brandy in his hand, which he sipped slowly. “I hear you gentlemen of the Guards have been in the trenches tonight, and that you did not get much the best of the Rochellais.”

D’Artagnan looked at Athos to know if he ought to reply to this intruder who thus mixed unmasked in their conversation.

“Well,” said Athos, “don’t you hear Monsieur de Busigny, who does you the honor to ask you a question? Relate what has passed during the night, since these gentlemen desire to know it.”

“Have you not taken a bastion?” said a Swiss, who was drinking rum out of a beer glass.

“Yes, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, bowing, “we have had that honor. We even have, as you may have heard, introduced a barrel of powder under one of the angles, which in blowing up made a very pretty breach. Without reckoning that as the bastion was not built yesterday all the rest of the building was badly shaken.”

“And what bastion is it?” asked a dragoon, with his saber run through a goose which he was taking to be cooked.

“The bastion St. Gervais,” replied D’Artagnan, “from behind which the Rochellais annoyed our workmen.”

“Was that affair hot?”

“Yes, moderately so. We lost five men, and the Rochellais eight or ten.”

“Balzempleu!” said the Swiss, who, notwithstanding the admirable collection of oaths possessed by the German language, had acquired a habit of swearing in French.

“But it is probable,” said the light-horseman, “that they will send pioneers this morning to repair the bastion.”

“Yes, that’s probable,” said D’Artagnan.

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “a wager!”

“Ah, wooi, a vager!” cried the Swiss.

“What is it?” said the light-horseman.

“Stop a bit,” said the dragoon, placing his saber like a spit upon the two large iron dogs which held the firebrands in the chimney, “stop a bit, I am in it. You cursed host! a dripping pan immediately, that I may not lose a drop of the fat of this estimable bird.”

“You was right,” said the Swiss; “goose grease is kood with basdry.”

“There!” said the dragoon. “Now for the wager! We listen, Monsieur Athos.”

“Yes, the wager!” said the light-horseman.

“Well, Monsieur de Busigny, I will bet you,” said Athos, “that my three companions, Messieurs Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan, and myself, will go and breakfast in the bastion St. Gervais, and we will remain there an hour, by the watch, whatever the enemy may do to dislodge us.”

Porthos and Aramis looked at each other; they began to comprehend.

“But,” said D’Artagnan, in the ear of Athos, “you are going to get us all killed without mercy.”

“We are much more likely to be killed,” said Athos, “if we do not go.”

“My faith, gentlemen,” said Porthos, turning round upon his chair and twisting his mustache, “that’s a fair bet, I hope.”

“I take it,” said M. de Busigny; “so let us fix the stake.”

“You are four gentlemen,” said Athos, “and we are four; an unlimited dinner for eight. Will that do?”

“Capitally,” replied M. de Busigny.

“Perfectly,” said the dragoon.

“That shoots me,” said the Swiss.

The fourth auditor, who during all this conversation had played a mute part, made a sign of the head in proof that he acquiesced in the proposition.

“The breakfast for these gentlemen is ready,” said the host.

“Well, bring it,” said Athos.

The host obeyed. Athos called Grimaud, pointed to a large basket which lay in a corner, and made a sign to him to wrap the viands up in the napkins.

Grimaud understood that it was to be a breakfast on the grass, took the basket, packed up the viands, added the bottles, and then took the basket on his arm.

“But where are you going to eat my breakfast?” asked the host.

“What matter, if you are paid for it?” said Athos, and he threw two pistoles majestically on the table.

“Shall I give you the change, my officer?” said the host.

“No, only add two bottles of champagne, and the difference will be for the napkins.”

The host had not quite so good a bargain as he at first hoped for, but he made amends by slipping in two bottles of Anjou wine instead of two bottles of champagne.

“Monsieur de Busigny,” said Athos, “will you be so kind as to set your watch with mine, or permit me to regulate mine by yours?”

“Which you please, monsieur!” said the light-horseman, drawing from his fob a very handsome watch, studded with diamonds; “half past seven.”

“Thirty-five minutes after seven,” said Athos, “by which you perceive I am five minutes faster than you.”

And bowing to all the astonished persons present, the young men took the road to the bastion St. Gervais, followed by Grimaud, who carried the basket, ignorant of where he was going but in the passive obedience which Athos had taught him not even thinking of asking.

As long as they were within the circle of the camp, the four friends did not exchange one word; besides, they were followed by the curious, who, hearing of the wager, were anxious to know how they would come out of it. But when once they passed the line of circumvallation and found themselves in the open plain, D’Artagnan, who was completely ignorant of what was going forward, thought it was time to demand an explanation.

“And now, my dear Athos,” said he, “do me the kindness to tell me where we are going?”

“Why, you see plainly enough we are going to the bastion.”

“But what are we going to do there?”

“You know well that we go to breakfast there.”

“But why did we not breakfast at the Parpaillot?”

“Because we have very important matters to communicate to one another, and it was impossible to talk five minutes in that inn without being annoyed by all those importunate fellows, who keep coming in, saluting you, and addressing you. Here at least,” said Athos, pointing to the bastion, “they will not come and disturb us.”

“It appears to me,” said D’Artagnan, with that prudence which allied itself in him so naturally with excessive bravery, “that we could have found some retired place on the downs or the seashore.”

“Where we should have been seen all four conferring together, so that at the end of a quarter of an hour the cardinal would have been informed by his spies that we were holding a council.”

“Yes,” said Aramis, “Athos is right: Animadvertuntur in desertis.”

“A desert would not have been amiss,” said Porthos; “but it behooved us to find it.”

“There is no desert where a bird cannot pass over one’s head, where a fish cannot leap out of the water, where a rabbit cannot come out of its burrow, and I believe that bird, fish, and rabbit each becomes a spy of the cardinal. Better, then, pursue our enterprise; from which, besides, we cannot retreat without shame. We have made a wager—a wager which could not have been foreseen, and of which I defy anyone to divine the true cause. We are going, in order to win it, to remain an hour in the bastion. Either we shall be attacked, or not. If we are not, we shall have all the time to talk, and nobody will hear us—for I guarantee the walls of the bastion have no ears; if we are, we will talk of our affairs just the same. Moreover, in defending ourselves, we shall cover ourselves with glory. You see that everything is to our advantage.”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan; “but we shall indubitably attract a ball.”

“Well, my dear,” replied Athos, “you know well that the balls most to be dreaded are not from the enemy.”

“But for such an expedition we surely ought to have brought our muskets.”

“You are stupid, friend Porthos. Why should we load ourselves with a useless burden?”

“I don’t find a good musket, twelve cartridges, and a powder flask very useless in the face of an enemy.”

“Well,” replied Athos, “have you not heard what D’Artagnan said?”

“What did he say?” demanded Porthos.

“D’Artagnan said that in the attack of last night eight or ten Frenchmen were killed, and as many Rochellais.”

“What then?”

“The bodies were not plundered, were they? It appears the conquerors had something else to do.”

“Well?”

“Well, we shall find their muskets, their cartridges, and their flasks; and instead of four musketoons and twelve balls, we shall have fifteen guns and a hundred charges to fire.”

“Oh, Athos!” said Aramis, “truly you are a great man.”

Porthos nodded in sign of agreement. D’Artagnan alone did not seem convinced.

Grimaud no doubt shared the misgivings of the young man, for seeing that they continued to advance toward the bastion—something he had till then doubted—he pulled his master by the skirt of his coat.

“Where are we going?” asked he, by a gesture.

Athos pointed to the bastion.

“But,” said Grimaud, in the same silent dialect, “we shall leave our skins there.”

Athos raised his eyes and his finger toward heaven.

Grimaud put his basket on the ground and sat down with a shake of the head.

Athos took a pistol from his belt, looked to see if it was properly primed, cocked it, and placed the muzzle close to Grimaud’s ear.

Grimaud was on his legs again as if by a spring. Athos then made him a sign to take up his basket and to walk on first. Grimaud obeyed. All that Grimaud gained by this momentary pantomime was to pass from the rear guard to the vanguard.

Arrived at the bastion, the four friends turned round.

More than three hundred soldiers of all kinds were assembled at the gate of the camp; and in a separate group might be distinguished M. de Busigny, the dragoon, the Swiss, and the fourth bettor.

Athos took off his hat, placed it on the end of his sword, and waved it in the air.

All the spectators returned him his salute, accompanying this courtesy with a loud hurrah which was audible to the four; after which all four disappeared in the bastion, whither Grimaud had preceded them.

The Council Of The Musketeers

As Athos had foreseen, the bastion was only occupied by a dozen corpses, French and Rochellais.

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, who had assumed the command of the expedition, “while Grimaud spreads the table, let us begin by collecting the guns and cartridges together. We can talk while performing that necessary task. These gentlemen,” added he, pointing to the bodies, “cannot hear us.”

“But we could throw them into the ditch,” said Porthos, “after having assured ourselves they have nothing in their pockets.”

“Yes,” said Athos, “that’s Grimaud’s business.”

“Well, then,” cried D’Artagnan, “pray let Grimaud search them and throw them over the walls.”

“Heaven forfend!” said Athos; “they may serve us.”

“These bodies serve us?” said Porthos. “You are mad, dear friend.”

“Judge not rashly, say the gospel and the cardinal,” replied Athos. “How many guns, gentlemen?”

“Twelve,” replied Aramis.

“How many shots?”

“A hundred.”

“That’s quite as many as we shall want. Let us load the guns.”

The four Musketeers went to work; and as they were loading the last musket Grimaud announced that the breakfast was ready.

Athos replied, always by gestures, that that was well, and indicated to Grimaud, by pointing to a turret that resembled a pepper caster, that he was to stand as sentinel. Only, to alleviate the tediousness of the duty, Athos allowed him to take a loaf, two cutlets, and a bottle of wine.

“And now to table,” said Athos.

The four friends seated themselves on the ground with their legs crossed like Turks, or even tailors.

“And now,” said D’Artagnan, “as there is no longer any fear of being overheard, I hope you are going to let me into your secret.”

“I hope at the same time to procure you amusement and glory, gentlemen,” said Athos. “I have induced you to take a charming promenade; here is a delicious breakfast; and yonder are five hundred persons, as you may see through the loopholes, taking us for heroes or madmen—two classes of imbeciles greatly resembling each other.”

“But the secret!” said D’Artagnan.

“The secret is,” said Athos, “that I saw Milady last night.”

D’Artagnan was lifting a glass to his lips; but at the name of Milady, his hand trembled so, that he was obliged to put the glass on the ground again for fear of spilling the contents.

“You saw your wi—”

“Hush!” interrupted Athos. “You forget, my dear, you forget that these gentlemen are not initiated into my family affairs like yourself. I have seen Milady.”

“Where?” demanded D’Artagnan.

“Within two leagues of this place, at the inn of the Red Dovecot.”

“In that case I am lost,” said D’Artagnan.

“Not so bad yet,” replied Athos; “for by this time she must have quit the shores of France.”

D’Artagnan breathed again.

“But after all,” asked Porthos, “who is Milady?”

“A charming woman!” said Athos, sipping a glass of sparkling wine. “Villainous host!” cried he, “he has given us Anjou wine instead of champagne, and fancies we know no better! Yes,” continued he, “a charming woman, who entertained kind views toward our friend D’Artagnan, who, on his part, has given her some offense for which she tried to revenge herself a month ago by having him killed by two musket shots, a week ago by trying to poison him, and yesterday by demanding his head of the cardinal.”

“What! By demanding my head of the cardinal?” cried D’Artagnan, pale with terror.

“Yes, that is true as the Gospel,” said Porthos; “I heard her with my own ears.”

“I also,” said Aramis.

“Then,” said D’Artagnan, letting his arm fall with discouragement, “it is useless to struggle longer. I may as well blow my brains out, and all will be over.”

“That’s the last folly to be committed,” said Athos, “seeing it is the only one for which there is no remedy.”

“But I can never escape,” said D’Artagnan, “with such enemies. First, my stranger of Meung; then De Wardes, to whom I have given three sword wounds; next Milady, whose secret I have discovered; finally, the cardinal, whose vengeance I have balked.”

“Well,” said Athos, “that only makes four; and we are four—one for one. Pardieu! If we may believe the signs Grimaud is making, we are about to have to do with a very different number of people. What is it, Grimaud? Considering the gravity of the occasion, I permit you to speak, my friend; but be laconic, I beg. What do you see?”

“A troop.”

“Of how many persons?”

“Twenty men.”

“What sort of men?”

“Sixteen pioneers, four soldiers.”

“How far distant?”

“Five hundred paces.”

“Good! We have just time to finish this fowl and to drink one glass of wine to your health, D’Artagnan.”

“To your health!” repeated Porthos and Aramis.

“Well, then, to my health! Although I am very much afraid that your good wishes will not be of great service to me.”

“Bah!” said Athos, “God is great, as say the followers of Mohammed, and the future is in his hands.”

Then, swallowing the contents of his glass, which he put down close to him, Athos arose carelessly, took the musket next to him, and drew near to one of the loopholes.

Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan followed his example. As to Grimaud, he received orders to place himself behind the four friends in order to reload their weapons.

“Pardieu!” said Athos, “it was hardly worth while to distribute ourselves for twenty fellows armed with pickaxes, mattocks, and shovels. Grimaud had only to make them a sign to go away, and I am convinced they would have left us in peace.”

“I doubt that,” replied D’Artagnan, “for they are advancing very resolutely. Besides, in addition to the pioneers, there are four soldiers and a brigadier, armed with muskets.”

“That’s because they don’t see us,” said Athos.

“My faith,” said Aramis, “I must confess I feel a great repugnance to fire on these poor devils of civilians.”

“He is a bad priest,” said Porthos, “who has pity for heretics.”

“In truth,” said Athos, “Aramis is right. I will warn them.”

“What the devil are you going to do?” cried D’Artagnan, “you will be shot.”

But Athos heeded not his advice. Mounting on the breach, with his musket in one hand and his hat in the other, he said, bowing courteously and addressing the soldiers and the pioneers, who, astonished at this apparition, stopped fifty paces from the bastion: “Gentlemen, a few friends and myself are about to breakfast in this bastion. Now, you know nothing is more disagreeable than being disturbed when one is at breakfast. We request you, then, if you really have business here, to wait till we have finished our repast, or to come again a short time hence, unless; unless, which would be far better, you form the salutary resolution to quit the side of the rebels, and come and drink with us to the health of the King of France.”

“Take care, Athos!” cried D’Artagnan; “don’t you see they are aiming?”

“Yes, yes,” said Athos; “but they are only civilians—very bad marksmen, who will be sure not to hit me.”

In fact, at the same instant four shots were fired, and the balls were flattened against the wall around Athos, but not one touched him.

Four shots replied to them almost instantaneously, but much better aimed than those of the aggressors; three soldiers fell dead, and one of the pioneers was wounded.

“Grimaud,” said Athos, still on the breach, “another musket!”

Grimaud immediately obeyed. On their part, the three friends had reloaded their arms; a second discharge followed the first. The brigadier and two pioneers fell dead; the rest of the troop took to flight.

“Now, gentlemen, a sortie!” cried Athos.

And the four friends rushed out of the fort, gained the field of battle, picked up the four muskets of the privates and the half-pike of the brigadier, and convinced that the fugitives would not stop till they reached the city, turned again toward the bastion, bearing with them the trophies of their victory.

“Reload the muskets, Grimaud,” said Athos, “and we, gentlemen, will go on with our breakfast, and resume our conversation. Where were we?”

“I recollect you were saying,” said D’Artagnan, “that after having demanded my head of the cardinal, Milady had quit the shores of France. Whither goes she?” added he, strongly interested in the route Milady followed.

“She goes into England,” said Athos.

“With what view?”

“With the view of assassinating, or causing to be assassinated, the Duke of Buckingham.”

D’Artagnan uttered an exclamation of surprise and indignation.

“But this is infamous!” cried he.

“As to that,” said Athos, “I beg you to believe that I care very little about it. Now you have done, Grimaud, take our brigadier’s half-pike, tie a napkin to it, and plant it on top of our bastion, that these rebels of Rochellais may see that they have to deal with brave and loyal soldiers of the king.”

Grimaud obeyed without replying. An instant afterward, the white flag was floating over the heads of the four friends. A thunder of applause saluted its appearance; half the camp was at the barrier.

“How?” replied D’Artagnan, “you care little if she kills Buckingham or causes him to be killed? But the duke is our friend.”

“The duke is English; the duke fights against us. Let her do what she likes with the duke; I care no more about him than an empty bottle.” And Athos threw fifteen paces from him an empty bottle from which he had poured the last drop into his glass.

“A moment,” said D’Artagnan. “I will not abandon Buckingham thus. He gave us some very fine horses.”

“And moreover, very handsome saddles,” said Porthos, who at the moment wore on his cloak the lace of his own.

“Besides,” said Aramis, “God desires the conversion and not the death of a sinner.”

“Amen!” said Athos, “and we will return to that subject later, if such be your pleasure; but what for the moment engaged my attention most earnestly, and I am sure you will understand me, D’Artagnan, was the getting from this woman a kind of carte blanche which she had extorted from the cardinal, and by means of which she could with impunity get rid of you and perhaps of us.”

“But this creature must be a demon!” said Porthos, holding out his plate to Aramis, who was cutting up a fowl.

“And this carte blanche,” said D’Artagnan, “this carte blanche, does it remain in her hands?”

“No, it passed into mine; I will not say without trouble, for if I did I should tell a lie.”

“My dear Athos, I shall no longer count the number of times I am indebted to you for my life.”

“Then it was to go to her that you left us?” said Aramis.

“Exactly.”

“And you have that letter of the cardinal?” said D’Artagnan.

“Here it is,” said Athos; and he took the invaluable paper from the pocket of his uniform. D’Artagnan unfolded it with one hand, whose trembling he did not even attempt to conceal, to read:

Dec. 5, 1627

It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of this has done what he has done.

Richelieu

“In fact,” said Aramis, “it is an absolution according to rule.”

“That paper must be torn to pieces,” said D’Artagnan, who fancied he read in it his sentence of death.

“On the contrary,” said Athos, “it must be preserved carefully. I would not give up this paper if covered with as many gold pieces.”

“And what will she do now?” asked the young man.

“Why,” replied Athos, carelessly, “she is probably going to write to the cardinal that a damned Musketeer, named Athos, has taken her safe-conduct from her by force; she will advise him in the same letter to get rid of his two friends, Aramis and Porthos, at the same time. The cardinal will remember that these are the same men who have often crossed his path; and then some fine morning he will arrest D’Artagnan, and for fear he should feel lonely, he will send us to keep him company in the Bastille.”

“Go to! It appears to me you make dull jokes, my dear,” said Porthos.

“I do not jest,” said Athos.

“Do you know,” said Porthos, “that to twist that damned Milady’s neck would be a smaller sin than to twist those of these poor devils of Huguenots, who have committed no other crime than singing in French the psalms we sing in Latin?”

“What says the abbé?” asked Athos, quietly.

“I say I am entirely of Porthos’s opinion,” replied Aramis.

“And I, too,” said D’Artagnan.

“Fortunately, she is far off,” said Porthos, “for I confess she would worry me if she were here.”

“She worries me in England as well as in France,” said Athos.

“She worries me everywhere,” said D’Artagnan.

“But when you held her in your power, why did you not drown her, strangle her, hang her?” said Porthos. “It is only the dead who do not return.”

“You think so, Porthos?” replied the Musketeer, with a sad smile which D’Artagnan alone understood.

“I have an idea,” said D’Artagnan.

“What is it?” said the Musketeers.

“To arms!” cried Grimaud.

The young men sprang up, and seized their muskets.

This time a small troop advanced, consisting of from twenty to twenty-five men; but they were not pioneers, they were soldiers of the garrison.

“Shall we return to the camp?” said Porthos. “I don’t think the sides are equal.”

“Impossible, for three reasons,” replied Athos. “The first, that we have not finished breakfast; the second, that we still have some very important things to say; and the third, that it yet wants ten minutes before the lapse of the hour.”

“Well, then,” said Aramis, “we must form a plan of battle.”

“That’s very simple,” replied Athos. “As soon as the enemy are within musket shot, we must fire upon them. If they continue to advance, we must fire again. We must fire as long as we have loaded guns. If those who remain of the troop persist in coming to the assault, we will allow the besiegers to get as far as the ditch, and then we will push down upon their heads that strip of wall which keeps its perpendicular by a miracle.”

“Bravo!” cried Porthos. “Decidedly, Athos, you were born to be a general, and the cardinal, who fancies himself a great soldier, is nothing beside you.”

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “no divided attention, I beg; let each one pick out his man.”

“I cover mine,” said D’Artagnan.

“And I mine,” said Porthos.

“And I mine,” said Aramis.

“Fire, then,” said Athos.

The four muskets made but one report, but four men fell.

The drum immediately beat, and the little troop advanced at charging pace.

Then the shots were repeated without regularity, but always aimed with the same accuracy. Nevertheless, as if they had been aware of the numerical weakness of the friends, the Rochellais continued to advance in quick time.

With every three shots at least two men fell; but the march of those who remained was not slackened.

Arrived at the foot of the bastion, there were still more than a dozen of the enemy. A last discharge welcomed them, but did not stop them; they jumped into the ditch, and prepared to scale the breach.

“Now, my friends,” said Athos, “finish them at a blow. To the wall; to the wall!”

And the four friends, seconded by Grimaud, pushed with the barrels of their muskets an enormous sheet of the wall, which bent as if pushed by the wind, and detaching itself from its base, fell with a horrible crash into the ditch. Then a fearful crash was heard; a cloud of dust mounted toward the sky—and all was over!

“Can we have destroyed them all, from the first to the last?” said Athos.

“My faith, it appears so!” said D’Artagnan.

“No,” cried Porthos; “there go three or four, limping away.”

In fact, three or four of these unfortunate men, covered with dirt and blood, fled along the hollow way, and at length regained the city. These were all who were left of the little troop.

Athos looked at his watch.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “we have been here an hour, and our wager is won; but we will be fair players. Besides, D’Artagnan has not told us his idea yet.”

And the Musketeer, with his usual coolness, reseated himself before the remains of the breakfast.

“My idea?” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes; you said you had an idea,” said Athos.

“Oh, I remember,” said D’Artagnan. “Well, I will go to England a second time; I will go and find Buckingham.”

“You shall not do that, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, coolly.

“And why not? Have I not been there once?”

“Yes; but at that period we were not at war. At that period Buckingham was an ally, and not an enemy. What you would now do amounts to treason.”

D’Artagnan perceived the force of this reasoning, and was silent.

“But,” said Porthos, “I think I have an idea, in my turn.”

“Silence for Monsieur Porthos’s idea!” said Aramis.

“I will ask leave of absence of Monsieur de Tréville, on some pretext or other which you must invent; I am not very clever at pretexts. Milady does not know me; I will get access to her without her suspecting me, and when I catch my beauty, I will strangle her.”

“Well,” replied Athos, “I am not far from approving the idea of Monsieur Porthos.”

“For shame!” said Aramis. “Kill a woman? No, listen to me; I have the true idea.”

“Let us see your idea, Aramis,” said Athos, who felt much deference for the young Musketeer.

“We must inform the queen.”

“Ah, my faith, yes!” said Porthos and D’Artagnan, at the same time; “we are coming nearer to it now.”

“Inform the queen!” said Athos; “and how? Have we relations with the court? Could we send anyone to Paris without its being known in the camp? From here to Paris it is a hundred and forty leagues; before our letter was at Angers we should be in a dungeon.”

“As to remitting a letter with safety to her Majesty,” said Aramis, coloring, “I will take that upon myself. I know a clever person at Tours—”

Aramis stopped on seeing Athos smile.

“Well, do you not adopt this means, Athos?” said D’Artagnan.

“I do not reject it altogether,” said Athos; “but I wish to remind Aramis that he cannot quit the camp, and that nobody but one of ourselves is trustworthy; that two hours after the messenger has set out, all the Capuchins, all the police, all the black caps of the cardinal, will know your letter by heart, and you and your clever person will be arrested.”

“Without reckoning,” objected Porthos, “that the queen would save Monsieur de Buckingham, but would take no heed of us.”

“Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “what Porthos says is full of sense.”

“Ah, ah! But what’s going on in the city yonder?” said Athos.

“They are beating the general alarm.”

The four friends listened, and the sound of the drum plainly reached them.

“You see, they are going to send a whole regiment against us,” said Athos.

“You don’t think of holding out against a whole regiment, do you?” said Porthos.

“Why not?” said Musketeer. “I feel myself quite in a humor for it; and I would hold out before an army if we had taken the precaution to bring a dozen more bottles of wine.”

“Upon my word, the drum draws near,” said D’Artagnan.

“Let it come,” said Athos. “It is a quarter of an hour’s journey from here to the city, consequently a quarter of an hour’s journey from the city to hither. That is more than time enough for us to devise a plan. If we go from this place we shall never find another so suitable. Ah, stop! I have it, gentlemen; the right idea has just occurred to me.”

“Tell us.”

“Allow me to give Grimaud some indispensable orders.”

Athos made a sign for his lackey to approach.

“Grimaud,” said Athos, pointing to the bodies which lay under the wall of the bastion, “take those gentlemen, set them up against the wall, put their hats upon their heads, and their guns in their hands.”

“Oh, the great man!” cried D’Artagnan. “I comprehend now.”

“You comprehend?” said Porthos.

“And do you comprehend, Grimaud?” said Aramis.

Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative.

“That’s all that is necessary,” said Athos; “now for my idea.”

“I should like, however, to comprehend,” said Porthos.

“That is useless.”

“Yes, yes! Athos’s idea!” cried Aramis and D’Artagnan, at the same time.

“This Milady, this woman, this creature, this demon, has a brother-in-law, as I think you told me, D’Artagnan?”

“Yes, I know him very well; and I also believe that he has not a very warm affection for his sister-in-law.”

“There is no harm in that. If he detested her, it would be all the better,” replied Athos.

“In that case we are as well off as we wish.”

“And yet,” said Porthos, “I would like to know what Grimaud is about.”

“Silence, Porthos!” said Aramis.

“What is her brother-in-law’s name?”

“Lord de Winter.”

“Where is he now?”

“He returned to London at the first sound of war.”

“Well, there’s just the man we want,” said Athos. “It is he whom we must warm. We will have him informed that his sister-in-law is on the point of having someone assassinated, and beg him not to lose sight of her. There is in London, I hope, some establishment like that of the Magdalens, or of the Repentant Daughters. He must place his sister in one of these, and we shall be in peace.”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “till she comes out.”

“Ah, my faith!” said Athos, “you require too much, D’Artagnan. I have given you all I have, and I beg leave to tell you that this is the bottom of my sack.”

“But I think it would be still better,” said Aramis, “to inform the queen and Lord de Winter at the same time.”

“Yes; but who is to carry the letter to Tours, and who to London?”

“I answer for Bazin,” said Aramis.

“And I for Planchet,” said D’Artagnan.

“Ay,” said Porthos, “if we cannot leave the camp, our lackeys may.”

“To be sure they may; and this very day we will write the letters,” said Aramis. “Give the lackeys money, and they will start.”

“We will give them money?” replied Athos. “Have you any money?”

The four friends looked at one another, and a cloud came over the brows which but lately had been so cheerful.

“Look out!” cried D’Artagnan, “I see black points and red points moving yonder. Why did you talk of a regiment, Athos? It is a veritable army!”

“My faith, yes,” said Athos; “there they are. See the sneaks come, without drum or trumpet. Ah, ah! Have you finished, Grimaud?”

Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative, and pointed to a dozen bodies which he had set up in the most picturesque attitudes. Some carried arms, others seemed to be taking aim, and the remainder appeared merely to be sword in hand.

“Bravo!” said Athos; “that does honor to your imagination.”

“All very well,” said Porthos, “but I should like to understand.”

“Let us decamp first, and you will understand afterward.”

“A moment, gentlemen, a moment; give Grimaud time to clear away the breakfast.”

“Ah, ah!” said Aramis, “the black points and the red points are visibly enlarging. I am of D’Artagnan’s opinion; we have no time to lose in regaining our camp.”

“My faith,” said Athos, “I have nothing to say against a retreat. We bet upon one hour, and we have stayed an hour and a half. Nothing can be said; let us be off, gentlemen, let us be off!”

Grimaud was already ahead, with the basket and the dessert. The four friends followed, ten paces behind him.

“What the devil shall we do now, gentlemen?” cried Athos.

“Have you forgotten anything?” said Aramis.

“The white flag, morbleu! We must not leave a flag in the hands of the enemy, even if that flag be but a napkin.”

And Athos ran back to the bastion, mounted the platform, and bore off the flag; but as the Rochellais had arrived within musket range, they opened a terrible fire upon this man, who appeared to expose himself for pleasure’s sake.

But Athos might be said to bear a charmed life. The balls passed and whistled all around him; not one struck him.

Athos waved his flag, turning his back on the guards of the city, and saluting those of the camp. On both sides loud cries arose—on the one side cries of anger, on the other cries of enthusiasm.

A second discharge followed the first, and three balls, by passing through it, made the napkin really a flag. Cries were heard from the camp, “Come down! Come down!”

Athos came down; his friends, who anxiously awaited him, saw him returned with joy.

“Come along, Athos, come along!” cried D’Artagnan; “now we have found everything except money, it would be stupid to be killed.”

But Athos continued to march majestically, whatever remarks his companions made; and they, finding their remarks useless, regulated their pace by his.

Grimaud and his basket were far in advance, out of the range of the balls.

At the end of an instant they heard a furious fusillade.

“What’s that?” asked Porthos, “what are they firing at now? I hear no balls whistle, and I see nobody!”

“They are firing at the corpses,” replied Athos.

“But the dead cannot return their fire.”

“Certainly not! They will then fancy it is an ambuscade, they will deliberate; and by the time they have found out the pleasantry, we shall be out of the range of their balls. That renders it useless to get a pleurisy by too much haste.”

“Oh, I comprehend now,” said the astonished Porthos.

“That’s lucky,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders.

On their part, the French, on seeing the four friends return at such a step, uttered cries of enthusiasm.

At length a fresh discharge was heard, and this time the balls came rattling among the stones around the four friends, and whistling sharply in their ears. The Rochellais had at last taken possession of the bastion.

“These Rochellais are bungling fellows,” said Athos; “how many have we killed of them—a dozen?”

“Or fifteen.”

“How many did we crush under the wall?”

“Eight or ten.”

“And in exchange for all that not even a scratch! Ah, but what is the matter with your hand, D’Artagnan? It bleeds, seemingly.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said D’Artagnan.

“A spent ball?”

“Not even that.”

“What is it, then?”

We have said that Athos loved D’Artagnan like a child, and this somber and inflexible personage felt the anxiety of a parent for the young man.

“Only grazed a little,” replied D’Artagnan; “my fingers were caught between two stones—that of the wall and that of my ring—and the skin was broken.”

“That comes of wearing diamonds, my master,” said Athos, disdainfully.

“Ah, to be sure,” cried Porthos, “there is a diamond. Why the devil, then, do we plague ourselves about money, when there is a diamond?”

“Stop a bit!” said Aramis.

“Well thought of, Porthos; this time you have an idea.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Porthos, drawing himself up at Athos’s compliment; “as there is a diamond, let us sell it.”

“But,” said D’Artagnan, “it is the queen’s diamond.”

“The stronger reason why it should be sold,” replied Athos. “The queen saving Monsieur de Buckingham, her lover; nothing more just. The queen saving us, her friends; nothing more moral. Let us sell the diamond. What says Monsieur the Abbé? I don’t ask Porthos; his opinion has been given.”

“Why, I think,” said Aramis, blushing as usual, “that his ring not coming from a mistress, and consequently not being a love token, D’Artagnan may sell it.”

“My dear Aramis, you speak like theology personified. Your advice, then, is—”

“To sell the diamond,” replied Aramis.

“Well, then,” said D’Artagnan, gaily, “let us sell the diamond, and say no more about it.”

The fusillade continued; but the four friends were out of reach, and the Rochellais only fired to appease their consciences.

“My faith, it was time that idea came into Porthos’s head. Here we are at the camp; therefore, gentlemen, not a word more of this affair. We are observed; they are coming to meet us. We shall be carried in triumph.”

In fact, as we have said, the whole camp was in motion. More than two thousand persons had assisted, as at a spectacle, in this fortunate but wild undertaking of the four friends—an undertaking of which they were far from suspecting the real motive. Nothing was heard but cries of “Live the Musketeers! Live the Guards!” M. de Busigny was the first to come and shake Athos by the hand, and acknowledge that the wager was lost. The dragoon and the Swiss followed him, and all their comrades followed the dragoon and the Swiss. There was nothing but felicitations, pressures of the hand, and embraces; there was no end to the inextinguishable laughter at the Rochellais. The tumult at length became so great that the cardinal fancied there must be some riot, and sent La Houdinière, his captain of the Guards, to inquire what was going on.

The affair was described to the messenger with all the effervescence of enthusiasm.

“Well?” asked the cardinal, on seeing La Houdinière return.

“Well, monseigneur,” replied the latter, “three Musketeers and a Guardsman laid a wager with Monsieur de Busigny that they would go and breakfast in the bastion St. Gervais; and while breakfasting they held it for two hours against the enemy, and have killed I don’t know how many Rochellais.”

“Did you inquire the names of those three Musketeers?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“What are their names?”

“Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”

“Still my three brave fellows!” murmured the cardinal. “And the Guardsman?”

“D’Artagnan.”

“Still my young scapegrace. Positively, these four men must be on my side.”

The same evening the cardinal spoke to M. de Tréville of the exploit of the morning, which was the talk of the whole camp. M. de Tréville, who had received the account of the adventure from the mouths of the heroes of it, related it in all its details to his Eminence, not forgetting the episode of the napkin.

“That’s well, Monsieur de Tréville,” said the cardinal; “pray let that napkin be sent to me. I will have three fleur-de-lis embroidered on it in gold, and will give it to your company as a standard.”

“Monseigneur,” said M. de Tréville, “that will be unjust to the Guardsmen. Monsieur d’Artagnan is not with me; he serves under Monsieur Dessessart.”

“Well, then, take him,” said the cardinal; “when four men are so much attached to one another, it is only fair that they should serve in the same company.”

That same evening M. de Tréville announced this good news to the three Musketeers and D’Artagnan, inviting all four to breakfast with him next morning.

D’Artagnan was beside himself with joy. We know that the dream of his life had been to become a Musketeer. The three friends were likewise greatly delighted.

“My faith,” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “you had a triumphant idea! As you said, we have acquired glory, and were enabled to carry on a conversation of the highest importance.”

“Which we can resume now without anybody suspecting us, for, with the help of God, we shall henceforth pass for cardinalists.”

That evening D’Artagnan went to present his respects to M. Dessessart, and inform him of his promotion.

M. Dessessart, who esteemed D’Artagnan, made him offers of help, as this change would entail expenses for equipment.

D’Artagnan refused; but thinking the opportunity a good one, he begged him to have the diamond he put into his hand valued, as he wished to turn it into money.

The next day, M. Dessessart’s valet came to D’Artagnan’s lodging, and gave him a bag containing seven thousand livres.

This was the price of the queen’s diamond.

A Family Affair

Athos had invented the phrase, family affair. A family affair was not subject to the investigation of the cardinal; a family affair concerned nobody. People might employ themselves in a family affair before all the world. Therefore Athos had invented the phrase, family affair.

Aramis had discovered the idea, the lackeys.

Porthos had discovered the means, the diamond.

D’Artagnan alone had discovered nothing—he, ordinarily the most inventive of the four; but it must be also said that the very name of Milady paralyzed him.

Ah! no, we were mistaken; he had discovered a purchaser for his diamond.

The breakfast at M. de Tréville’s was as gay and cheerful as possible. D’Artagnan already wore his uniform—for being nearly of the same size as Aramis, and as Aramis was so liberally paid by the publisher who purchased his poem as to allow him to buy everything double, he sold his friend a complete outfit.

D’Artagnan would have been at the height of his wishes if he had not constantly seen Milady like a dark cloud hovering in the horizon.

After breakfast, it was agreed that they should meet again in the evening at Athos’s lodging, and there finish their plans.

D’Artagnan passed the day in exhibiting his Musketeer’s uniform in every street of the camp.

In the evening, at the appointed hour, the four friends met. There only remained three things to decide—what they should write to Milady’s brother; what they should write to the clever person at Tours; and which should be the lackeys to carry the letters.

Everyone offered his own. Athos talked of the discretion of Grimaud, who never spoke a word but when his master unlocked his mouth. Porthos boasted of the strength of Mousqueton, who was big enough to thrash four men of ordinary size. Aramis, confiding in the address of Bazin, made a pompous eulogium on his candidate. Finally, D’Artagnan had entire faith in the bravery of Planchet, and reminded them of the manner in which he had conducted himself in the ticklish affair of Boulogne.

These four virtues disputed the prize for a length of time, and gave birth to magnificent speeches which we do not repeat here for fear they should be deemed too long.

“Unfortunately,” said Athos, “he whom we send must possess in himself alone the four qualities united.”

“But where is such a lackey to be found?”

“Not to be found!” cried Athos. “I know it well, so take Grimaud.”

“Take Mousqueton.”

“Take Bazin.”

“Take Planchet. Planchet is brave and shrewd; they are two qualities out of the four.”

“Gentlemen,” said Aramis, “the principal question is not to know which of our four lackeys is the most discreet, the most strong, the most clever, or the most brave; the principal thing is to know which loves money the best.”

“What Aramis says is very sensible,” replied Athos; “we must speculate upon the faults of people, and not upon their virtues. Monsieur Abbé, you are a great moralist.”

“Doubtless,” said Aramis, “for we not only require to be well served in order to succeed, but moreover, not to fail; for in case of failure, heads are in question, not for our lackeys—”

“Speak lower, Aramis,” said Athos.

“That’s wise—not for the lackeys,” resumed Aramis, “but for the master—for the masters, we may say. Are our lackeys sufficiently devoted to us to risk their lives for us? No.”

“My faith,” said D’Artagnan. “I would almost answer for Planchet.”

“Well, my dear friend, add to his natural devotedness a good sum of money, and then, instead of answering for him once, answer for him twice.”

“Why, good God! you will be deceived just the same,” said Athos, who was an optimist when things were concerned, and a pessimist when men were in question. “They will promise everything for the sake of the money, and on the road fear will prevent them from acting. Once taken, they will be pressed; when pressed, they will confess everything. What the devil! we are not children. To reach England”—Athos lowered his voice—“all France, covered with spies and creatures of the cardinal, must be crossed. A passport for embarkation must be obtained; and the party must be acquainted with English in order to ask the way to London. Really, I think the thing very difficult.”

“Not at all,” cried D’Artagnan, who was anxious the matter should be accomplished; “on the contrary, I think it very easy. It would be, no doubt, parbleu, if we write to Lord de Winter about affairs of vast importance, of the horrors of the cardinal—”

“Speak lower!” said Athos.

“—of intrigues and secrets of state,” continued D’Artagnan, complying with the recommendation. “there can be no doubt we would all be broken on the wheel; but for God’s sake, do not forget, as you yourself said, Athos, that we only write to him concerning a family affair; that we only write to him to entreat that as soon as Milady arrives in London he will put it out of her power to injure us. I will write to him, then, nearly in these terms.”

“Let us see,” said Athos, assuming in advance a critical look.

“Monsieur and dear friend—”

“Ah, yes! Dear friend to an Englishman,” interrupted Athos; “well commenced! Bravo, D’Artagnan! Only with that word you would be quartered instead of being broken on the wheel.”

“Well, perhaps. I will say, then, Monsieur, quite short.”

“You may even say, My Lord,” replied Athos, who stickled for propriety.

“My Lord, do you remember the little goat pasture of the Luxembourg?”

“Good, the Luxembourg! One might believe this is an allusion to the queen-mother! That’s ingenious,” said Athos.

“Well, then, we will put simply, My Lord, do you remember a certain little enclosure where your life was spared?”

“My dear D’Artagnan, you will never make anything but a very bad secretary. Where your life was spared! For shame! that’s unworthy. A man of spirit is not to be reminded of such services. A benefit reproached is an offense committed.”

“The devil!” said D’Artagnan, “you are insupportable. If the letter must be written under your censure, my faith, I renounce the task.”

“And you will do right. Handle the musket and the sword, my dear fellow. You will come off splendidly at those two exercises; but pass the pen over to Monsieur Abbé. That’s his province.”

“Ay, ay!” said Porthos; “pass the pen to Aramis, who writes theses in Latin.”

“Well, so be it,” said D’Artagnan. “Draw up this note for us, Aramis; but by our Holy Father the Pope, cut it short, for I shall prune you in my turn, I warn you.”

“I ask no better,” said Aramis, with that ingenious air of confidence which every poet has in himself; “but let me be properly acquainted with the subject. I have heard here and there that this sister-in-law was a hussy. I have obtained proof of it by listening to her conversation with the cardinal.”

“Lower! sacre bleu!” said Athos.

“But,” continued Aramis, “the details escape me.”

“And me also,” said Porthos.

D’Artagnan and Athos looked at each other for some time in silence. At length Athos, after serious reflection and becoming more pale than usual, made a sign of assent to D’Artagnan, who by it understood he was at liberty to speak.

“Well, this is what you have to say,” said D’Artagnan: “My Lord, your sister-in-law is an infamous woman, who wished to have you killed that she might inherit your wealth; but she could not marry your brother, being already married in France, and having been—” D’Artagnan stopped, as if seeking for the word, and looked at Athos.

“Repudiated by her husband,” said Athos.

“Because she had been branded,” continued D’Artagnan.

“Bah!” cried Porthos. “Impossible! What do you say—that she wanted to have her brother-in-law killed?”

“Yes.”

“She was married?” asked Aramis.

“Yes.”

“And her husband found out that she had a fleur-de-lis on her shoulder?” cried Porthos.

“Yes.”

These three yeses had been pronounced by Athos, each with a sadder intonation.

“And who has seen this fleur-de-lis?” inquired Aramis.

“D’Artagnan and I. Or rather, to observe the chronological order, I and D’Artagnan,” replied Athos.

“And does the husband of this frightful creature still live?” said Aramis.

“He still lives.”

“Are you quite sure of it?”

“I am he.”

There was a moment of cold silence, during which everyone was affected according to his nature.

“This time,” said Athos, first breaking the silence, “D’Artagnan has given us an excellent program, and the letter must be written at once.”

“The devil! You are right, Athos,” said Aramis; “and it is a rather difficult matter. The chancellor himself would be puzzled how to write such a letter, and yet the chancellor draws up an official report very readily. Never mind! Be silent, I will write.”

Aramis accordingly took the quill, reflected for a few moments, wrote eight or ten lines in a charming little female hand, and then with a voice soft and slow, as if each word had been scrupulously weighed, he read the following:

“My Lord, The person who writes these few lines had the honor of crossing swords with you in the little enclosure of the Rue d’Enfer. As you have several times since declared yourself the friend of that person, he thinks it his duty to respond to that friendship by sending you important information. Twice you have nearly been the victim of a near relative, whom you believe to be your heir because you are ignorant that before she contracted a marriage in England she was already married in France. But the third time, which is the present, you may succumb. Your relative left La Rochelle for England during the night. Watch her arrival, for she has great and terrible projects. If you require to know positively what she is capable of, read her past history on her left shoulder.”

“Well, now that will do wonderfully well,” said Athos. “My dear Aramis, you have the pen of a secretary of state. Lord de Winter will now be upon his guard if the letter should reach him; and even if it should fall into the hands of the cardinal, we shall not be compromised. But as the lackey who goes may make us believe he has been to London and may stop at Chatellerault, let us give him only half the sum promised him, with the letter, with an agreement that he shall have the other half in exchange for the reply. Have you the diamond?” continued Athos.

“I have what is still better. I have the price”; and D’Artagnan threw the bag upon the table. At the sound of the gold Aramis raised his eyes and Porthos started. As to Athos, he remained unmoved.

“How much in that little bag?”

“Seven thousand livres, in louis of twelve francs.”

“Seven thousand livres!” cried Porthos. “That poor little diamond was worth seven thousand livres?”

“It appears so,” said Athos, “since here they are. I don’t suppose that our friend D’Artagnan has added any of his own to the amount.”

“But, gentlemen, in all this,” said D’Artagnan, “we do not think of the queen. Let us take some heed of the welfare of her dear Buckingham. That is the least we owe her.”

“That’s true,” said Athos; “but that concerns Aramis.”

“Well,” replied the latter, blushing, “what must I say?”

“Oh, that’s simple enough!” replied Athos. “Write a second letter for that clever personage who lives at Tours.”

Aramis resumed his pen, reflected a little, and wrote the following lines, which he immediately submitted to the approbation of his friends.

“My dear cousin.”

“Ah, ah!” said Athos. “This clever person is your relative, then?”

“Cousin-german.”

“Go on, to your cousin, then!”

Aramis continued:

“My dear Cousin, His Eminence, the cardinal, whom God preserve for the happiness of France and the confusion of the enemies of the kingdom, is on the point of putting an end to the hectic rebellion of La Rochelle. It is probable that the succor of the English fleet will never even arrive in sight of the place. I will even venture to say that I am certain M. de Buckingham will be prevented from setting out by some great event. His Eminence is the most illustrious politician of times past, of times present, and probably of times to come. He would extinguish the sun if the sun incommoded him. Give these happy tidings to your sister, my dear cousin. I have dreamed that the unlucky Englishman was dead. I cannot recollect whether it was by steel or by poison; only of this I am sure, I have dreamed he was dead, and you know my dreams never deceive me. Be assured, then, of seeing me soon return.”

“Capital!” cried Athos; “you are the king of poets, my dear Aramis. You speak like the Apocalypse, and you are as true as the Gospel. There is nothing now to do but to put the address to this letter.”

“That is easily done,” said Aramis.

He folded the letter fancifully, and took up his pen and wrote:

“To Mlle. Michon, seamstress, Tours.”

The three friends looked at one another and laughed; they were caught.

“Now,” said Aramis, “you will please to understand, gentlemen, that Bazin alone can carry this letter to Tours. My cousin knows nobody but Bazin, and places confidence in nobody but him; any other person would fail. Besides, Bazin is ambitious and learned; Bazin has read history, gentlemen, he knows that Sixtus the Fifth became Pope after having kept pigs. Well, as he means to enter the Church at the same time as myself, he does not despair of becoming Pope in his turn, or at least a cardinal. You can understand that a man who has such views will never allow himself to be taken, or if taken, will undergo martyrdom rather than speak.”

“Very well,” said D’Artagnan, “I consent to Bazin with all my heart, but grant me Planchet. Milady had him one day turned out of doors, with sundry blows of a good stick to accelerate his motions. Now, Planchet has an excellent memory; and I will be bound that sooner than relinquish any possible means of vengeance, he will allow himself to be beaten to death. If your arrangements at Tours are your arrangements, Aramis, those of London are mine. I request, then, that Planchet may be chosen, more particularly as he has already been to London with me, and knows how to speak correctly: London, sir, if you please, and my master, Lord d’Artagnan. With that you may be satisfied he can make his way, both going and returning.”

“In that case,” said Athos, “Planchet must receive seven hundred livres for going, and seven hundred livres for coming back; and Bazin, three hundred livres for going, and three hundred livres for returning—that will reduce the sum to five thousand livres. We will each take a thousand livres to be employed as seems good, and we will leave a fund of a thousand livres under the guardianship of Monsieur Abbé here, for extraordinary occasions or common wants. Will that do?”

“My dear Athos,” said Aramis, “you speak like Nestor, who was, as everyone knows, the wisest among the Greeks.”

“Well, then,” said Athos, “it is agreed. Planchet and Bazin shall go. Everything considered, I am not sorry to retain Grimaud; he is accustomed to my ways, and I am particular. Yesterday’s affair must have shaken him a little; his voyage would upset him quite.”

Planchet was sent for, and instructions were given him. The matter had been named to him by D’Artagnan, who in the first place pointed out the money to him, then the glory, and then the danger.

“I will carry the letter in the lining of my coat,” said Planchet; “and if I am taken I will swallow it.”

“Well, but then you will not be able to fulfill your commission,” said D’Artagnan.

“You will give me a copy this evening, which I shall know by heart tomorrow.”

D’Artagnan looked at his friends, as if to say, “Well, what did I tell you?”

“Now,” continued he, addressing Planchet, “you have eight days to get an interview with Lord de Winter; you have eight days to return—in all sixteen days. If, on the sixteenth day after your departure, at eight o’clock in the evening you are not here, no money—even if it be but five minutes past eight.”

“Then, monsieur,” said Planchet, “you must buy me a watch.”

“Take this,” said Athos, with his usual careless generosity, giving him his own, “and be a good lad. Remember, if you talk, if you babble, if you get drunk, you risk your master’s head, who has so much confidence in your fidelity, and who answers for you. But remember, also, that if by your fault any evil happens to D’Artagnan, I will find you, wherever you may be, for the purpose of ripping up your belly.”

“Oh, monsieur!” said Planchet, humiliated by the suspicion, and moreover, terrified at the calm air of the Musketeer.

“And I,” said Porthos, rolling his large eyes, “remember, I will skin you alive.”

“Ah, monsieur!”

“And I,” said Aramis, with his soft, melodius voice, “remember that I will roast you at a slow fire, like a savage.”

“Ah, monsieur!”

Planchet began to weep. We will not venture to say whether it was from terror created by the threats or from tenderness at seeing four friends so closely united.

D’Artagnan took his hand. “See, Planchet,” said he, “these gentlemen only say this out of affection for me, but at bottom they all like you.”

“Ah, monsieur,” said Planchet, “I will succeed or I will consent to be cut in quarters; and if they do cut me in quarters, be assured that not a morsel of me will speak.”

It was decided that Planchet should set out the next day, at eight o’clock in the morning, in order, as he had said, that he might during the night learn the letter by heart. He gained just twelve hours by this engagement; he was to be back on the sixteenth day, by eight o’clock in the evening.

In the morning, as he was mounting his horse, D’Artagnan, who felt at the bottom of his heart a partiality for the duke, took Planchet aside.

“Listen,” said he to him. “When you have given the letter to Lord de Winter and he has read it, you will further say to him: Watch over his Grace Lord Buckingham, for they wish to assassinate him. But this, Planchet, is so serious and important that I have not informed my friends that I would entrust this secret to you; and for a captain’s commission I would not write it.”

“Be satisfied, monsieur,” said Planchet, “you shall see if confidence can be placed in me.”

Mounted on an excellent horse, which he was to leave at the end of twenty leagues in order to take the post, Planchet set off at a gallop, his spirits a little depressed by the triple promise made him by the Musketeers, but otherwise as light-hearted as possible.

Bazin set out the next day for Tours, and was allowed eight days for performing his commission.

The four friends, during the period of these two absences, had, as may well be supposed, the eye on the watch, the nose to the wind, and the ear on the hark. Their days were passed in endeavoring to catch all that was said, in observing the proceeding of the cardinal, and in looking out for all the couriers who arrived. More than once an involuntary trembling seized them when called upon for some unexpected service. They had, besides, to look constantly to their own proper safety; Milday was a phantom which, when it had once appeared to people, did not allow them to sleep very quietly.

On the morning of the eighth day, Bazin, fresh as ever, and smiling, according to custom, entered the cabaret of the Parpaillot as the four friends were sitting down to breakfast, saying, as had been agreed upon: “Monsieur Aramis, the answer from your cousin.”

The four friends exchanged a joyful glance; half of the work was done. It is true, however, that it was the shorter and easier part.

Aramis, blushing in spite of himself, took the letter, which was in a large, coarse hand and not particular for its orthography.

“Good God!” cried he, laughing, “I quite despair of my poor Michon; she will never write like Monsieur de Voiture.”

“What does you mean by boor Michon?” said the Swiss, who was chatting with the four friends when the letter came.

“Oh, pardieu, less than nothing,” said Aramis; “a charming little seamstress, whom I love dearly and from whose hand I requested a few lines as a sort of keepsake.”

“The duvil!” said the Swiss, “if she is as great a lady as her writing is large, you are a lucky fellow, gomrade!”

Aramis read the letter, and passed it to Athos.

“See what she writes to me, Athos,” said he.

Athos cast a glance over the epistle, and to disperse all the suspicions that might have been created, read aloud:

“My cousin, My sister and I are skillful in interpreting dreams, and even entertain great fear of them; but of yours it may be said, I hope, every dream is an illusion. Adieu! Take care of yourself, and act so that we may from time to time hear you spoken of.

“Marie Michon”

“And what dream does she mean?” asked the dragoon, who had approached during the reading.

“Yez; what’s the dream?” said the Swiss.

“Well, pardieu!” said Aramis, “it was only this: I had a dream, and I related it to her.”

“Yez, yez,” said the Swiss; “it’s simple enough to dell a dream, but I neffer dream.”

“You are very fortunate,” said Athos, rising; “I wish I could say as much!”

“Neffer,” replied the Swiss, enchanted that a man like Athos could envy him anything. “Neffer, neffer!”

D’Artagnan, seeing Athos rise, did likewise, took his arm, and went out.

Porthos and Aramis remained behind to encounter the jokes of the dragoon and the Swiss.

As to Bazin, he went and lay down on a truss of straw; and as he had more imagination than the Swiss, he dreamed that Aramis, having become pope, adorned his head with a cardinal’s hat.

But, as we have said, Bazin had not, by his fortunate return, removed more than a part of the uneasiness which weighed upon the four friends. The days of expectation are long, and D’Artagnan, in particular, would have wagered that the days were forty-four hours. He forgot the necessary slowness of navigation; he exaggerated to himself the power of Milady. He credited this woman, who appeared to him the equal of a demon, with agents as supernatural as herself; at the least noise, he imagined himself about to be arrested, and that Planchet was being brought back to be confronted with himself and his friends. Still further, his confidence in the worthy Picard, at one time so great, diminished day by day. This anxiety became so great that it even extended to Aramis and Porthos. Athos alone remained unmoved, as if no danger hovered over him, and as if he breathed his customary atmosphere.

On the sixteenth day, in particular, these signs were so strong in D’Artagnan and his two friends that they could not remain quiet in one place, and wandered about like ghosts on the road by which Planchet was expected.

“Really,” said Athos to them, “you are not men but children, to let a woman terrify you so! And what does it amount to, after all? To be imprisoned. Well, but we should be taken out of prison; Madame Bonacieux was released. To be decapitated? Why, every day in the trenches we go cheerfully to expose ourselves to worse than that—for a bullet may break a leg, and I am convinced a surgeon would give us more pain in cutting off a thigh than an executioner in cutting off a head. Wait quietly, then; in two hours, in four, in six hours at latest, Planchet will be here. He promised to be here, and I have very great faith in Planchet, who appears to me to be a very good lad.”

“But if he does not come?” said D’Artagnan.

“Well, if he does not come, it will be because he has been delayed, that’s all. He may have fallen from his horse, he may have cut a caper from the deck; he may have traveled so fast against the wind as to have brought on a violent catarrh. Eh, gentlemen, let us reckon upon accidents! Life is a chaplet of little miseries which the philosopher counts with a smile. Be philosophers, as I am, gentlemen; sit down at the table and let us drink. Nothing makes the future look so bright as surveying it through a glass of chambertin.”

“That’s all very well,” replied D’Artagnan; “but I am tired of fearing when I open a fresh bottle that the wine may come from the cellar of Milady.”

“You are very fastidious,” said Athos; “such a beautiful woman!”

“A woman of mark!” said Porthos, with his loud laugh.

Athos started, passed his hand over his brow to remove the drops of perspiration that burst forth, and rose in his turn with a nervous movement he could not repress.

The day, however, passed away; and the evening came on slowly, but finally it came. The bars were filled with drinkers. Athos, who had pocketed his share of the diamond, seldom quit the Parpaillot. He had found in M. de Busigny, who, by the by, had given them a magnificent dinner, a partner worthy of his company. They were playing together, as usual, when seven o’clock sounded; the patrol was heard passing to double the posts. At half past seven the retreat was sounded.

“We are lost,” said D’Artagnan, in the ear of Athos.

“You mean to say we have lost,” said Athos, quietly, drawing four pistoles from his pocket and throwing them upon the table. “Come, gentlemen,” said he, “they are beating the tattoo. Let us to bed!”

And Athos went out of the Parpaillot, followed by D’Artagnan. Aramis came behind, giving his arm to Porthos. Aramis mumbled verses to himself, and Porthos from time to time pulled a hair or two from his mustache, in sign of despair.

But all at once a shadow appeared in the darkness the outline of which was familiar to D’Artagnan, and a well- known voice said, “Monsieur, I have brought your cloak; it is chilly this evening.”

“Planchet!” cried D’Artagnan, beside himself with joy.

“Planchet!” repeated Aramis and Porthos.

“Well, yes, Planchet, to be sure,” said Athos, “what is there so astonishing in that? He promised to be back by eight o’clock, and eight is striking. Bravo, Planchet, you are a lad of your word, and if ever you leave your master, I will promise you a place in my service.”

“Oh, no, never,” said Planchet, “I will never leave Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

At the same time D’Artagnan felt that Planchet slipped a note into his hand.

D’Artagnan felt a strong inclination to embrace Planchet as he had embraced him on his departure; but he feared lest this mark of affection, bestowed upon his lackey in the open street, might appear extraordinary to passers-by, and he restrained himself.

“I have the note,” said he to Athos and to his friends.

“That’s well,” said Athos, “let us go home and read it.”

The note burned the hand of D’Artagnan. He wished to hasten their steps; but Athos took his arm and passed it under his own, and the young man was forced to regulate his pace by that of his friend.

At length they reached the tent, lit a lamp, and while Planchet stood at the entrance that the four friends might not be surprised, D’Artagnan, with a trembling hand, broke the seal and opened the so anxiously expected letter.

It contained half a line, in a hand perfectly British, and with a conciseness as perfectly Spartan:

Thank you; be easy.

D’Artagnan translated this for the others.

Athos took the letter from the hands of D’Artagnan, approached the lamp, set fire to the paper, and did not let go till it was reduced to a cinder.

Then, calling Planchet, he said, “Now, my lad, you may claim your seven hundred livres, but you did not run much risk with such a note as that.”

“I am not to blame for having tried every means to compress it,” said Planchet.

“Well!” cried D’Artagnan, “tell us all about it.”

“Lord, that’s a long job, monsieur.”

“You are right, Planchet,” said Athos; “besides, the tattoo has been sounded, and we should be observed if we kept a light burning much longer than the others.”

“So be it,” said D’Artagnan. “Go to bed, Planchet, and sleep soundly.”

“My faith, monsieur! that will be the first time I have done so for sixteen days.”

“And me, too!” said D’Artagnan.

“And me, too!” said Porthos.

“And me, too!” said Aramis.

“Well, if you will have the truth, and me, too!” said Athos.

Fatality

Meantime Milady, drunk with passion, roaring on the deck like a lioness that has been embarked, had been tempted to throw herself into the sea that she might regain the coast, for she could not get rid of the thought that she had been insulted by D’Artagnan, threatened by Athos, and that she had quit France without being revenged on them. This idea soon became so insupportable to her that at the risk of whatever terrible consequences might result to herself from it, she implored the captain to put her on shore; but the captain, eager to escape from his false position-placed between French and English cruisers, like the bat between the mice and the birds--was in great haste to regain England, and positively refused to obey what he took for a woman’s caprice, promising his passenger, who had been particularly recommended to him by the cardinal, to land her, if the sea and the French permitted him, at one of the ports of Brittany, either at Lorient or Brest. But the wind was contrary, the sea bad; they tacked and kept offshore. Nine days after leaving the Charente, pale with fatigue and vexation, Milady saw only the blue coasts of Finisterre appear.

She calculated that to cross this corner of France and return to the cardinal it would take her at least three days. Add another day for landing, and that would make four. Add these four to the nine others, that would be thirteen days lost--thirteen days, during which so many important events might pass in London. She reflected likewise that the cardinal would be furious at her return, and consequently would be more disposed to listen to the complaints brought against her than to the accusations she brought against others.

She allowed the vessel to pass Lorient and Brest without repeating her request to the captain, who, on his part, took care not to remind her of it. Milady therefore continued her voyage, and on the very day that Planchet embarked at Portsmouth for France, the messenger of his Eminence entered the port in triumph.

All the city was agitated by an extraordinary movement. Four large vessels, recently built, had just been launched. At the end of the jetty, his clothes richly laced with gold, glittering, as was customary with him, with diamonds and precious stones, his hat ornamented with a white feather which drooped upon his shoulder, Buckingham was seen surrounded by a staff almost as brilliant as himself.

It was one of those rare and beautiful days in winter when England remembers that there is a sun. The star of day, pale but nevertheless still splendid, was setting in the horizon, glorifying at once the heavens and the sea with bands of fire, and casting upon the towers and the old houses of the city a last ray of gold which made the windows sparkle like the reflection of a conflagration. Breathing that sea breeze, so much more invigorating and balsamic as the land is approached, contemplating all the power of those preparations she was commissioned to destroy, all the power of that army which she was to combat alone--she, a woman with a few bags of gold--Milady compared herself mentally to Judith, the terrible Jewess, when she penetrated the camp of the Assyrians and beheld the enormous mass of chariots, horses, men, and arms, which a gesture of her hand was to dissipate like a cloud of smoke.

They entered the roadstead; but as they drew near in order to cast anchor, a little cutter, looking like a coastguard formidably armed, approached the merchant vessel and dropped into the sea a boat which directed its course to the ladder. This boat contained an officer, a mate, and eight rowers. The officer alone went on board, where he was received with all the deference inspired by the uniform.

The officer conversed a few instants with the captain, gave him several papers, of which he was the bearer, to read, and upon the order of the merchant captain the whole crew of the vessel, both passengers and sailors, were called upon deck.

When this species of summons was made the officer inquired aloud the point of the brig’s departure, its route, its landings; and to all these questions the captain replied without difficulty and without hesitation. Then the officer began to pass in review all the people, one after the other, and stopping when he came to Milady, surveyed her very closely, but without addressing a single word to her.

He then returned to the captain, said a few words to him, and as if from that moment the vessel was under his command, he ordered a maneuver which the crew executed immediately. Then the vessel resumed its course, still escorted by the little cutter, which sailed side by side with it, menacing it with the mouths of its six cannon. The boat followed in the wake of the ship, a speck near the enormous mass.

During the examination of Milady by the officer, as may well be imagined, Milady on her part was not less scrutinizing in her glances. But however great was the power of this woman with eyes of flame in reading the hearts of those whose secrets she wished to divine, she met this time with a countenance of such impassivity that no discovery followed her investigation. The officer who had stopped in front of her and studied her with so much care might have been twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. He was of pale complexion, with clear blue eyes, rather deeply set; his mouth, fine and well cut, remained motionless in its correct lines; his chin, strongly marked, denoted that strength of will which in the ordinary Britannic type denotes mostly nothing but obstinacy; a brow a little receding, as is proper for poets, enthusiasts, and soldiers, was scarcely shaded by short thin hair which, like the beard which covered the lower part of his face, was of a beautiful deep chestnut color.

When they entered the port, it was already night. The fog increased the darkness, and formed round the sternlights and lanterns of the jetty a circle like that which surrounds the moon when the weather threatens to become rainy. The air they breathed was heavy, damp, and cold.

Milady, that woman so courageous and firm, shivered in spite of herself.

The officer desired to have Milady’s packages pointed out to him, and ordered them to be placed in the boat. When this operation was complete, he invited her to descend by offering her his hand.

Milady looked at this man, and hesitated. “Who are you, sir,” asked she, “who has the kindness to trouble yourself so particularly on my account?”

“You may perceive, madame, by my uniform, that I am an officer in the English navy,” replied the young man.

“But is it the custom for the officers in the English navy to place themselves at the service of their female compatriots when they land in a port of Great Britain, and carry their gallantry so far as to conduct them ashore?”

“Yes, madame, it is the custom, not from gallantry but prudence, that in time of war foreigners should be conducted to particular hotels, in order that they may remain under the eye of the government until full information can be obtained about them.”

These words were pronounced with the most exact politeness and the most perfect calmness. Nevertheless, they had not the power of convincing Milady.

“But I am not a foreigner, sir,” said she, with an accent as pure as ever was heard between Portsmouth and Manchester; “my name is Lady Clarik, and this measure--”

“This measure is general, madame; and you will seek in vain to evade it.”

“I will follow you, then, sir.”

Accepting the hand of the officer, she began the descent of the ladder, at the foot of which the boat waited. The officer followed her. A large cloak was spread at the stern; the officer requested her to sit down upon this cloak, and placed himself beside her.

“Row!” said he to the sailors.

The eight oars fell at once into the sea, making but a single sound, giving but a single stroke, and the boat seemed to fly over the surface of the water.

In five minutes they gained the land.

The officer leaped to the pier, and offered his hand to Milady. A carriage was in waiting.

“Is this carriage for us?” asked Milady.

“Yes, madame,” replied the officer.

“The hotel, then, is far away?”

“At the other end of the town.”

“Very well,” said Milady; and she resolutely entered the carriage.

The officer saw that the baggage was fastened carefully behind the carriage; and this operation ended, he took his place beside Milady, and shut the door.

Immediately, without any order being given or his place of destination indicated, the coachman set off at a rapid pace, and plunged into the streets of the city.

So strange a reception naturally gave Milady ample matter for reflection; so seeing that the young officer did not seem at all disposed for conversation, she reclined in her corner of the carriage, and one after the other passed in review all the surmises which presented themselves to her mind.

At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, surprised at the length of the journey, she leaned forward toward the door to see whither she was being conducted. Houses were no longer to be seen; trees appeared in the darkness like great black phantoms chasing one another. Milady shuddered.

“But we are no longer in the city, sir,” said she.

The young officer preserved silence.

“I beg you to understand, sir, I will go no farther unless you tell me whither you are taking me.”

This threat brought no reply.

“Oh, this is too much,” cried Milady. “Help! help!”

No voice replied to hers; the carriage continued to roll on with rapidity; the officer seemed a statue.

Milady looked at the officer with one of those terrible expressions peculiar to her countenance, and which so rarely failed of their effect; anger made her eyes flash in the darkness.

The young man remained immovable.

Milady tried to open the door in order to throw herself out.

“Take care, madame,” said the young man, coolly, “you will kill yourself in jumping.”

Milady reseated herself, foaming. The officer leaned forward, looked at her in his turn, and appeared surprised to see that face, just before so beautiful, distorted with passion and almost hideous. The artful creature at once comprehended that she was injuring herself by allowing him thus to read her soul; she collected her features, and in a complaining voice said: “In the name of heaven, sir, tell me if it is to you, if it is to your government, if it is to an enemy I am to attribute the violence that is done me?”

“No violence will be offered to you, madame, and what happens to you is the result of a very simple measure which we are obliged to adopt with all who land in England.”

“Then you don’t know me, sir?”

“It is the first time I have had the honor of seeing you.”

“And on your honor, you have no cause of hatred against me?”

“None, I swear to you.”

There was so much serenity, coolness, mildness even, in the voice of the young man, that Milady felt reassured.

At length after a journey of nearly an hour, the carriage stopped before an iron gate, which closed an avenue leading to a castle severe in form, massive, and isolated. Then, as the wheels rolled over a fine gravel, Milady could hear a vast roaring, which she at once recognized as the noise of the sea dashing against some steep cliff.

The carriage passed under two arched gateways, and at length stopped in a court large, dark, and square. Almost immediately the door of the carriage was opened, the young man sprang lightly out and presented his hand to Milady, who leaned upon it, and in her turn alighted with tolerable calmness.

“Still, then, I am a prisoner,” said Milady, looking around her, and bringing back her eyes with a most gracious smile to the young officer; “but I feel assured it will not be for long,” added she. “My own conscience and your politeness, sir, are the guarantees of that.”

However flattering this compliment, the officer made no reply; but drawing from his belt a little silver whistle, such as boatswains use in ships of war, he whistled three times, with three different modulations. Immediately several men appeared, who unharnessed the smoking horses, and put the carriage into a coach house.

Then the officer, with the same calm politeness, invited his prisoner to enter the house. She, with a still-smiling countenance, took his arm, and passed with him under a low arched door, which by a vaulted passage, lighted only at the farther end, led to a stone staircase around an angle of stone. They then came to a massive door, which after the introduction into the lock of a key which the young man carried with him, turned heavily upon its hinges, and disclosed the chamber destined for Milady.

With a single glance the prisoner took in the apartment in its minutest details. It was a chamber whose furniture was at once appropriate for a prisoner or a free man; and yet bars at the windows and outside bolts at the door decided the question in favor of the prison.

In an instant all the strength of mind of this creature, though drawn from the most vigorous sources, abandoned her; she sank into a large easy chair, with her arms crossed, her head lowered, and expecting every instant to see a judge enter to interrogate her.

But no one entered except two or three marines, who brought her trunks and packages, deposited them in a corner, and retired without speaking.

The officer superintended all these details with the same calmness Milady had constantly seen in him, never pronouncing a word himself, and making himself obeyed by a gesture of his hand or a sound of his whistle.

It might have been said that between this man and his inferiors spoken language did not exist, or had become useless.

At length Milady could hold out no longer; she broke the silence. “In the name of heaven, sir,” cried she, “what means all that is passing? Put an end to my doubts; I have courage enough for any danger I can foresee, for every misfortune which I understand. Where am I, and why am I here? If I am free, why these bars and these doors? If I am a prisoner, what crime have I committed?”

“You are here in the apartment destined for you, madame. I received orders to go and take charge of you on the sea, and to conduct you to this castle. This order I believe I have accomplished with all the exactness of a soldier, but also with the courtesy of a gentleman. There terminates, at least to the present moment, the duty I had to fulfill toward you; the rest concerns another person.”

“And who is that other person?” asked Milady, warmly. “Can you not tell me his name?”

At the moment a great jingling of spurs was heard on the stairs. Some voices passed and faded away, and the sound of a single footstep approached the door.

“That person is here, madame,” said the officer, leaving the entrance open, and drawing himself up in an attitude of respect.

At the same time the door opened; a man appeared on the threshold. He was without a hat, carried a sword, and flourished a handkerchief in his hand.

Milady thought she recognized this shadow in the gloom; she supported herself with one hand upon the arm of the chair, and advanced her head as if to meet a certainty.

The stranger advanced slowly, and as he advanced, after entering into the circle of light projected by the lamp, Milady involuntarily drew back.

Then when she had no longer any doubt, she cried, in a state of stupor, “What, my brother, is it you?”

“Yes, fair lady!” replied Lord de Winter, making a bow, half courteous, half ironical; “it is I, myself.”

“But this castle, then?”

“Is mine.”

“This chamber?”

“Is yours.”

“I am, then, your prisoner?”

“Nearly so.”

“But this is a frightful abuse of power!”

“No high-sounding words! Let us sit down and chat quietly, as brother and sister ought to do.”

Then, turning toward the door, and seeing that the young officer was waiting for his last orders, he said. “All is well, I thank you; now leave us alone, Mr. Felton.”

Chat Between Brother And Sister

During the time which Lord de Winter took to shut the door, close a shutter, and draw a chair near to his sister-in-law’s fauteuil, Milady, anxiously thoughtful, plunged her glance into the depths of possibility, and discovered all the plan, of which she could not even obtain a glance as long as she was ignorant into whose hands she had fallen. She knew her brother-in-law to be a worthy gentleman, a bold hunter, an intrepid player, enterprising with women, but by no means remarkable for his skill in intrigues. How had he discovered her arrival, and caused her to be seized? Why did he detain her?

Athos had dropped some words which proved that the conversation she had with the cardinal had fallen into outside ears; but she could not suppose that he had dug a countermine so promptly and so boldly. She rather feared that her preceding operations in England might have been discovered. Buckingham might have guessed that it was she who had cut off the two studs, and avenge himself for that little treachery; but Buckingham was incapable of going to any excess against a woman, particularly if that woman was supposed to have acted from a feeling of jealousy.

This supposition appeared to her most reasonable. It seemed to her that they wanted to revenge the past, and not to anticipate the future. At all events, she congratulated herself upon having fallen into the hands of her brother-in-law, with whom she reckoned she could deal very easily, rather than into the hands of an acknowledged and intelligent enemy.

“Yes, let us chat, brother,” said she, with a kind of cheerfulness, decided as she was to draw from the conversation, in spite of all the dissimulation Lord de Winter could bring, the revelations of which she stood in need to regulate her future conduct.

“You have, then, decided to come to England again,” said Lord de Winter, “in spite of the resolutions you so often expressed in Paris never to set your feet on British ground?”

Milady replied to this question by another question. “To begin with, tell me,” said she, “how have you watched me so closely as to be aware beforehand not only of my arrival, but even of the day, the hour, and the port at which I should arrive?”

Lord de Winter adopted the same tactics as Milady, thinking that as his sister-in-law employed them they must be the best.

“But tell me, my dear sister,” replied he, “what makes you come to England?”

“I come to see you,” replied Milady, without knowing how much she aggravated by this reply the suspicions to which D’Artagnan’s letter had given birth in the mind of her brother-in-law, and only desiring to gain the good will of her auditor by a falsehood.

“Ah, to see me?” said De Winter, cunningly.

“To be sure, to see you. What is there astonishing in that?”

“And you had no other object in coming to England but to see me?”

“No.”

“So it was for me alone you have taken the trouble to cross the Channel?”

“For you alone.”

“The deuce! What tenderness, my sister!”

“But am I not your nearest relative?” demanded Milady, with a tone of the most touching ingenuousness.

“And my only heir, are you not?” said Lord de Winter in his turn, fixing his eyes on those of Milady.

Whatever command she had over herself, Milady could not help starting; and as in pronouncing the last words Lord de Winter placed his hand upon the arm of his sister, this start did not escape him.

In fact, the blow was direct and severe. The first idea that occurred to Milady’s mind was that she had been betrayed by Kitty, and that she had recounted to the baron the selfish aversion toward himself of which she had imprudently allowed some marks to escape before her servant. She also recollected the furious and imprudent attack she had made upon D’Artagnan when he spared the life of her brother.

“I do not understand, my Lord,” said she, in order to gain time and make her adversary speak out. “What do you mean to say? Is there any secret meaning concealed beneath your words?”

“Oh, my God, no!” said Lord de Winter, with apparent good nature. “You wish to see me, and you come to England. I learn this desire, or rather I suspect that you feel it; and in order to spare you all the annoyances of a nocturnal arrival in a port and all the fatigues of landing, I send one of my officers to meet you, I place a carriage at his orders, and he brings you hither to this castle, of which I am governor, whither I come every day, and where, in order to satisfy our mutual desire of seeing each other, I have prepared you a chamber. What is there more astonishing in all that I have said to you than in what you have told me?”

“No; what I think astonishing is that you should expect my coming.”

“And yet that is the most simple thing in the world, my dear sister. Have you not observed that the captain of your little vessel, on entering the roadstead, sent forward, in order to obtain permission to enter the port, a little boat bearing his logbook and the register of his voyagers? I am commandant of the port. They brought me that book. I recognized your name in it. My heart told me what your mouth has just confirmed--that is to say, with what view you have exposed yourself to the dangers of a sea so perilous, or at least so troublesome at this moment--and I sent my cutter to meet you. You know the rest.”

Milady knew that Lord de Winter lied, and she was the more alarmed.

“My brother,” continued she, “was not that my Lord Buckingham whom I saw on the jetty this evening as we arrived?”

“Himself. Ah, I can understand how the sight of him struck you,” replied Lord de Winter. “You came from a country where he must be very much talked of, and I know that his armaments against France greatly engage the attention of your friend the cardinal.”

“My friend the cardinal!” cried Milady, seeing that on this point as on the other Lord de Winter seemed well instructed.

“Is he not your friend?” replied the baron, negligently. “Ah, pardon! I thought so; but we will return to my Lord Duke presently. Let us not depart from the sentimental turn our conversation had taken. You came, you say, to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I reply that you shall be served to the height of your wishes, and that we shall see each other every day.”

“Am I, then, to remain here eternally?” demanded Milady, with a certain terror.

“Do you find yourself badly lodged, sister? Demand anything you want, and I will hasten to have you furnished with it.”

“But I have neither my women nor my servants.”

“You shall have all, madame. Tell me on what footing your household was established by your first husband, and although I am only your brother-in-law, I will arrange one similar.”

“My first husband!” cried Milady, looking at Lord de Winter with eyes almost starting from their sockets.

“Yes, your French husband. I don’t speak of my brother. If you have forgotten, as he is still living, I can write to him and he will send me information on the subject.”

A cold sweat burst from the brow of Milady.

“You jest!” said she, in a hollow voice.

“Do I look so?” asked the baron, rising and going a step backward.

“Or rather you insult me,” continued she, pressing with her stiffened hands the two arms of her easy chair, and raising herself upon her wrists.

“I insult you!” said Lord de Winter, with contempt. “In truth, madame, do you think that can be possible?”

“Indeed, sir,” said Milady, “you must be either drunk or mad. Leave the room, and send me a woman.”

“Women are very indiscreet, my sister. Cannot I serve you as a waiting maid? By that means all our secrets will remain in the family.”

“Insolent!” cried Milady; and as if acted upon by a spring, she bounded toward the baron, who awaited her attack with his arms crossed, but nevertheless with one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Come!” said he. “I know you are accustomed to assassinate people; but I warn you I shall defend myself, even against you.”

“You are right,” said Milady. “You have all the appearance of being cowardly enough to lift your hand against a woman.”

“Perhaps so; and I have an excuse, for mine would not be the first hand of a man that has been placed upon you, I imagine.”

And the baron pointed, with a slow and accusing gesture, to the left shoulder of Milady, which he almost touched with his finger.

Milady uttered a deep, inward shriek, and retreated to a corner of the room like a panther which crouches for a spring.

“Oh, growl as much as you please,” cried Lord de Winter, “but don’t try to bite, for I warn you that it would be to your disadvantage. There are here no procurators who regulate successions beforehand. There is no knight-errant to come and seek a quarrel with me on account of the fair lady I detain a prisoner; but I have judges quite ready who will quickly dispose of a woman so shameless as to glide, a bigamist, into the bed of Lord de Winter, my brother. And these judges, I warn you, will soon send you to an executioner who will make both your shoulders alike.”

The eyes of Milady darted such flashes that although he was a man and armed before an unarmed woman, he felt the chill of fear glide through his whole frame. However, he continued all the same, but with increasing warmth: “Yes, I can very well understand that after having inherited the fortune of my brother it would be very agreeable to you to be my heir likewise; but know beforehand, if you kill me or cause me to be killed, my precautions are taken. Not a penny of what I possess will pass into your hands. Were you not already rich enough--you who possess nearly a million? And could you not stop your fatal career, if you did not do evil for the infinite and supreme joy of doing it? Oh, be assured, if the memory of my brother were not sacred to me, you should rot in a state dungeon or satisfy the curiosity of sailors at Tyburn. I will be silent, but you must endure your captivity quietly. In fifteen or twenty days I shall set out for La Rochelle with the army; but on the eve of my departure a vessel which I shall see depart will take you hence and convey you to our colonies in the south. And be assured that you shall be accompanied by one who will blow your brains out at the first attempt you make to return to England or the Continent.”

Milady listened with an attention that dilated her inflamed eyes.

“Yes, at present,” continued Lord de Winter, “you will remain in this castle. The walls are thick, the doors strong, and the bars solid; besides, your window opens immediately over the sea. The men of my crew, who are devoted to me for life and death, mount guard around this apartment, and watch all the passages that lead to the courtyard. Even if you gained the yard, there would still be three iron gates for you to pass. The order is positive. A step, a gesture, a word, on your part, denoting an effort to escape, and you are to be fired upon. If they kill you, English justice will be under an obligation to me for having saved it trouble. Ah! I see your features regain their calmness, your countenance recovers its assurance. You are saying to yourself: ‘Fifteen days, twenty days? Bah! I have an inventive mind; before that is expired some idea will occur to me. I have an infernal spirit. I shall meet with a victim. Before fifteen days are gone by I shall be away from here.’ Ah, try it!”

Milady, finding her thoughts betrayed, dug her nails into her flesh to subdue every emotion that might give to her face any expression except agony.

Lord de Winter continued: “The officer who commands here in my absence you have already seen, and therefore know him. He knows how, as you must have observed, to obey an order--for you did not, I am sure, come from Portsmouth hither without endeavoring to make him speak. What do you say of him? Could a statue of marble have been more impassive and more mute? You have already tried the power of your seductions upon many men, and unfortunately you have always succeeded; but I give you leave to try them upon this one. Pardieu! if you succeed with him, I pronounce you the demon himself.”

He went toward the door and opened it hastily.

“Call Mr. Felton,” said he. “Wait a minute longer, and I will introduce him to you.”

There followed between these two personages a strange silence, during which the sound of a slow and regular step was heard approaching. Shortly a human form appeared in the shade of the corridor, and the young lieutenant, with whom we are already acquainted, stopped at the threshold to receive the orders of the baron.

“Come in, my dear John,” said Lord de Winter, “come in, and shut the door.”

The young officer entered.

“Now,” said the baron, “look at this woman. She is young; she is beautiful; she possesses all earthly seductions. Well, she is a monster, who, at twenty-five years of age, has been guilty of as many crimes as you could read of in a year in the archives of our tribunals. Her voice prejudices her hearers in her favor; her beauty serves as a bait to her victims; her body even pays what she promises--I must do her that justice. She will try to seduce you, perhaps she will try to kill you. I have extricated you from misery, Felton; I have caused you to be named lieutenant; I once saved your life, you know on what occasion. I am for you not only a protector, but a friend; not only a benefactor, but a father. This woman has come back again into England for the purpose of conspiring against my life. I hold this serpent in my hands. Well, I call you, and say to you: Friend Felton, John, my child, guard me, and more particularly guard yourself, against this woman. Swear, by your hopes of salvation, to keep her safely for the chastisement she has merited. John Felton, I trust your word! John Felton, I put faith in your loyalty!”

“My Lord,” said the young officer, summoning to his mild countenance all the hatred he could find in his heart, “my Lord, I swear all shall be done as you desire.”

Milady received this look like a resigned victim; it was impossible to imagine a more submissive or a more mild expression than that which prevailed on her beautiful countenance. Lord de Winter himself could scarcely recognize the tigress who, a minute before, prepared apparently for a fight.

“She is not to leave this chamber, understand, John,” continued the baron. “She is to correspond with nobody; she is to speak to no one but you--if you will do her the honor to address a word to her.”

“That is sufficient, my Lord! I have sworn.”

“And now, madame, try to make your peace with God, for you are judged by men!”

Milady let her head sink, as if crushed by this sentence. Lord de Winter went out, making a sign to Felton, who followed him, shutting the door after him.

One instant after, the heavy step of a marine who served as sentinel was heard in the corridor--his ax in his girdle and his musket on his shoulder.

Milady remained for some minutes in the same position, for she thought they might perhaps be examining her through the keyhole; she then slowly raised her head, which had resumed its formidable expression of menace and defiance, ran to the door to listen, looked out of her window, and returning to bury herself again in her large armchair, she reflected.

Officer

Meanwhile, the cardinal looked anxiously for news from England; but no news arrived that was not annoying and threatening.

Although La Rochelle was invested, however certain success might appear--thanks to the precautions taken, and above all to the dyke, which prevented the entrance of any vessel into the besieged city--the blockade might last a long time yet. This was a great affront to the king’s army, and a great inconvenience to the cardinal, who had no longer, it is true, to embroil Louis XIII with Anne of Austria--for that affair was over--but he had to adjust matters for M. de Bassompierre, who was embroiled with the Duc d’Angoulême.

As to Monsieur, who had begun the siege, he left to the cardinal the task of finishing it.

The city, notwithstanding the incredible perseverance of its mayor, had attempted a sort of mutiny for a surrender; the mayor had hanged the mutineers. This execution quieted the ill- disposed, who resolved to allow themselves to die of hunger--this death always appearing to them more slow and less sure than strangulation.

On their side, from time to time, the besiegers took the messengers which the Rochellais sent to Buckingham, or the spies which Buckingham sent to the Rochellais. In one case or the other, the trial was soon over. The cardinal pronounced the single word, “Hanged!” The king was invited to come and see the hanging. He came languidly, placing himself in a good situation to see all the details. This amused him sometimes a little, and made him endure the siege with patience; but it did not prevent his getting very tired, or from talking at every moment of returning to Paris--so that if the messengers and the spies had failed, his Eminence, notwithstanding all his inventiveness, would have found himself much embarrassed.

Nevertheless, time passed on, and the Rochellais did not surrender. The last spy that was taken was the bearer of a letter. This letter told Buckingham that the city was at an extremity; but instead of adding, “If your succor does not arrive within fifteen days, we will surrender,” it added, quite simply, “If your succor comes not within fifteen days, we shall all be dead with hunger when it comes.”

The Rochellais, then, had no hope but in Buckingham. Buckingham was their Messiah. It was evident that if they one day learned positively that they must not count on Buckingham, their courage would fail with their hope.

The cardinal looked, then, with great impatience for the news from England which would announce to him that Buckingham would not come.

The question of carrying the city by assault, though often debated in the council of the king, had been always rejected. In the first place, La Rochelle appeared impregnable. Then the cardinal, whatever he said, very well knew that the horror of bloodshed in this encounter, in which Frenchman would combat against Frenchman, was a retrograde movement of sixty years impressed upon his policy; and the cardinal was at that period what we now call a man of progress. In fact, the sack of La Rochelle, and the assassination of three of four thousand Huguenots who allowed themselves to be killed, would resemble too closely, in 1628, the massacre of St. Bartholomew in 1572; and then, above all this, this extreme measure, which was not at all repugnant to the king, good Catholic as he was, always fell before this argument of the besieging generals--La Rochelle is impregnable except to famine.

The cardinal could not drive from his mind the fear he entertained of his terrible emissary--for he comprehended the strange qualities of this woman, sometimes a serpent, sometimes a lion. Had she betrayed him? Was she dead? He knew her well enough in all cases to know that, whether acting for or against him, as a friend or an enemy, she would not remain motionless without great impediments; but whence did these impediments arise? That was what he could not know.

And yet he reckoned, and with reason, on Milady. He had divined in the past of this woman terrible things which his red mantle alone could cover; and he felt, from one cause or another, that this woman was his own, as she could look to no other but himself for a support superior to the danger which threatened her.

He resolved, then, to carry on the war alone, and to look for no success foreign to himself, but as we look for a fortunate chance. He continued to press the raising of the famous dyke which was to starve La Rochelle. Meanwhile, he cast his eyes over that unfortunate city, which contained so much deep misery and so many heroic virtues, and recalling the saying of Louis XI, his political predecessor, as he himself was the predecessor of Robespierre, he repeated this maxim of Tristan’s gossip: “Divide in order to reign.”

Henry IV, when besieging Paris, had loaves and provisions thrown over the walls. The cardinal had little notes thrown over in which he represented to the Rochellais how unjust, selfish, and barbarous was the conduct of their leaders. These leaders had corn in abundance, and would not let them partake of it; they adopted as a maxim--for they, too, had maxims--that it was of very little consequence that women, children, and old men should die, so long as the men who were to defend the walls remained strong and healthy. Up to that time, whether from devotedness or from want of power to act against it, this maxim, without being generally adopted, nevertheless passed from theory into practice; but the notes did it injury. The notes reminded the men that the children, women, and old men whom they allowed to die were their sons, their wives, and their fathers, and that it would be more just for everyone to be reduced to the common misery, in order that equal conditions should give birth to unanimous resolutions.

These notes had all the effect that he who wrote them could expect, in that they induced a great number of the inhabitants to open private negotiations with the royal army.

But at the moment when the cardinal saw his means already fructify, and applauded himself for having put it in action, an inhabitant of La Rochelle who had contrived to pass the royal lines--God knows how, such was the watchfulness of Bassompierre, Schomberg, and the Duc d’Angoulême, themselves watched over by the cardinal--an inhabitant of La Rochelle, we say, entered the city, coming from Portsmouth, and saying that he had seen a magnificent fleet ready to sail within eight days. Still further, Buckingham announced to the mayor that at length the great league was about to declare itself against France, and that the kingdom would be at once invaded by the English, Imperial, and Spanish armies. This letter was read publicly in all parts of the city. Copies were put up at the corners of the streets; and even they who had begun to open negotiations interrupted them, being resolved to await the succor so pompously announced.

This unexpected circumstance brought back Richelieu’s former anxiety, and forced him in spite of himself once more to turn his eyes to the other side of the sea.

During this time, exempt from the anxiety of its only and true chief, the royal army led a joyous life, neither provisions nor money being wanting in the camp. All the corps rivaled one another in audacity and gaiety. To take spies and hang them, to make hazardous expeditions upon the dyke or the sea, to imagine wild plans, and to execute them coolly--such were the pastimes which made the army find these days short which were not only so long to the Rochellais, a prey to famine and anxiety, but even to the cardinal, who blockaded them so closely.

Sometimes when the cardinal, always on horseback, like the lowest gendarme of the army, cast a pensive glance over those works, so slowly keeping pace with his wishes, which the engineers, brought from all the corners of France, were executing under his orders, if he met a Musketeer of the company of Tréville, he drew near and looked at him in a peculiar manner, and not recognizing in him one of our four companions, he turned his penetrating look and profound thoughts in another direction.

One day when oppressed with a mortal weariness of mind, without hope in the negotiations with the city; without news from England, the cardinal went out, without any other aim than to be out of doors, and accompanied only by Cahusac and La Houdinière, strolled along the beach. Mingling the immensity of his dreams with the immensity of the ocean, he came, his horse going at a foot’s pace, to a hill from the top of which he perceived behind a hedge, reclining on the sand and catching in its passage one of those rays of the sun so rare at this period of the year, seven men surrounded by empty bottles. Four of these men were our Musketeers, preparing to listen to a letter one of them had just received. This letter was so important that it made them forsake their cards and their dice on the drumhead.

The other three were occupied in opening an enormous flagon of Collicure wine; these were the lackeys of these gentlemen.

The cardinal was, as we have said, in very low spirits; and nothing when he was in that state of mind increased his depression so much as gaiety in others. Besides, he had another strange fancy, which was always to believe that the causes of his sadness created the gaiety of others. Making a sign to La Houdinière and Cahusac to stop, he alighted from his horse, and went toward these suspected merry companions, hoping, by means of the sand which deadened the sound of his steps and of the hedge which concealed his approach, to catch some words of this conversation which appeared so interesting. At ten paces from the hedge he recognized the talkative Gascon; and as he had already perceived that these men were Musketeers, he did not doubt that the three others were those called the Inseparables; that is to say, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

It may be supposed that his desire to hear the conversation was augmented by this discovery. His eyes took a strange expression, and with the step of a tiger-cat he advanced toward the hedge; but he had not been able to catch more than a few vague syllables without any positive sense, when a sonorous and short cry made him start, and attracted the attention of the Musketeers.

“Officer!” cried Grimaud.

“You are speaking, you scoundrel!” said Athos, rising upon his elbow, and transfixing Grimaud with his flaming look.

Grimaud therefore added nothing to his speech, but contented himself with pointing his index finger in the direction of the hedge, announcing by this gesture the cardinal and his escort.

With a single bound the Musketeers were on their feet, and saluted with respect.

The cardinal seemed furious.

“It appears that Messieurs the Musketeers keep guard,” said he. “Are the English expected by land, or do the Musketeers consider themselves superior officers?”

“Monseigneur,” replied Athos, for amid the general fright he alone had preserved the noble calmness and coolness that never forsook him, “Monseigneur, the Musketeers, when they are not on duty, or when their duty is over, drink and play at dice, and they are certainly superior officers to their lackeys.”

“Lackeys?” grumbled the cardinal. “Lackeys who have the order to warn their masters when anyone passes are not lackeys, they are sentinels.”

“Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this precaution, we should have been exposed to allowing you to pass without presenting you our respects or offering you our thanks for the favor you have done us in uniting us. D’Artagnan,” continued Athos, “you, who but lately were so anxious for such an opportunity for expressing your gratitude to Monseigneur, here it is; avail yourself of it.”

These words were pronounced with that imperturbable phlegm which distinguished Athos in the hour of danger, and with that excessive politeness which made of him at certain moments a king more majestic than kings by birth.

D’Artagnan came forward and stammered out a few words of gratitude which soon expired under the gloomy looks of the cardinal.

“It does not signify, gentlemen,” continued the cardinal, without appearing to be in the least swerved from his first intention by the diversion which Athos had started, “it does not signify, gentlemen. I do not like to have simple soldiers, because they have the advantage of serving in a privileged corps, thus to play the great lords; discipline is the same for them as for everybody else.”

Athos allowed the cardinal to finish his sentence completely, and bowed in sign of assent. Then he resumed in his turn: “Discipline, Monseigneur, has, I hope, in no way been forgotten by us. We are not on duty, and we believed that not being on duty we were at liberty to dispose of our time as we pleased. If we are so fortunate as to have some particular duty to perform for your Eminence, we are ready to obey you. Your Eminence may perceive,” continued Athos, knitting his brow, for this sort of investigation began to annoy him, “that we have not come out without our arms.”

And he showed the cardinal, with his finger, the four muskets piled near the drum, on which were the cards and dice.

“Your Eminence may believe,” added D’Artagnan, “that we would have come to meet you, if we could have supposed it was Monseigneur coming toward us with so few attendants.”

The cardinal bit his mustache, and even his lips a little.

“Do you know what you look like, all together, as you are armed and guarded by your lackeys?” said the cardinal. “You look like four conspirators.”

“Oh, as to that, Monseigneur, it is true,” said Athos; “we do conspire, as your Eminence might have seen the other morning. Only we conspire against the Rochellais.”

“Ah, you gentlemen of policy!” replied the cardinal, knitting his brow in his turn, “the secret of many unknown things might perhaps be found in your brains, if we could read them as you read that letter which you concealed as soon as you saw me coming.”

The color mounted to the face of Athos, and he made a step toward his Eminence.

“One might think you really suspected us, monseigneur, and we were undergoing a real interrogatory. If it be so, we trust your Eminence will deign to explain yourself, and we should then at least be acquainted with our real position.”

“And if it were an interrogatory!” replied the cardinal. “Others besides you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos, and have replied thereto.”

“Thus I have told your Eminence that you had but to question us, and we are ready to reply.”

“What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis, and which you so promptly concealed?”

“A woman’s letter, monseigneur.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” said the cardinal; “we must be discreet with this sort of letters; but nevertheless, we may show them to a confessor, and you know I have taken orders.”

“Monseigneur,” said Athos, with a calmness the more terrible because he risked his head in making this reply, “the letter is a woman’s letter, but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme, nor Madame d’Aiguillon.”

The cardinal became as pale as death; lightning darted from his eyes. He turned round as if to give an order to Cahusac and Houdinière. Athos saw the movement; he made a step toward the muskets, upon which the other three friends had fixed their eyes, like men ill-disposed to allow themselves to be taken. The cardinalists were three; the Musketeers, lackeys included, were seven. He judged that the match would be so much the less equal, if Athos and his companions were really plotting; and by one of those rapid turns which he always had at command, all his anger faded away into a smile.

“Well, well!” said he, “you are brave young men, proud in daylight, faithful in darkness. We can find no fault with you for watching over yourselves, when you watch so carefully over others. Gentlemen, I have not forgotten the night in which you served me as an escort to the Red Dovecot. If there were any danger to be apprehended on the road I am going, I would request you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain where you are, finish your bottles, your game, and your letter. Adieu, gentlemen!”

And remounting his horse, which Cahusac led to him, he saluted them with his hand, and rode away.

The four young men, standing and motionless, followed him with their eyes without speaking a single word until he had disappeared. Then they looked at one another.

The countenances of all gave evidence of terror, for notwithstanding the friendly adieu of his Eminence, they plainly perceived that the cardinal went away with rage in his heart.

Athos alone smiled, with a self-possessed, disdainful smile.

When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight, “That Grimaud kept bad watch!” cried Porthos, who had a great inclination to vent his ill-humor on somebody.

Grimaud was about to reply to excuse himself. Athos lifted his finger, and Grimaud was silent.

“Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?” said D’Artagnan.

“I,” said Aramis, in his most flutelike tone, “I had made up my mind. If he had insisted upon the letter being given up to him, I would have presented the letter to him with one hand, and with the other I would have run my sword through his body.”

“I expected as much,” said Athos; “and that was why I threw myself between you and him. Indeed, this man is very much to blame for talking thus to other men; one would say he had never had to do with any but women and children.”

“My dear Athos, I admire you, but nevertheless we were in the wrong, after all.”

“How, in the wrong?” said Athos. “Whose, then, is the air we breathe? Whose is the ocean upon which we look? Whose is the sand upon which we were reclining? Whose is that letter of your mistress? Do these belong to the cardinal? Upon my honor, this man fancies the world belongs to him. There you stood, stammering, stupefied, annihilated. One might have supposed the Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa had converted you into stone. Is being in love conspiring? You are in love with a woman whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up, and you wish to get her out of the hands of the cardinal. That’s a match you are playing with his Eminence; this letter is your game. Why should you expose your game to your adversary? That is never done. Let him find it out if he can! We can find out his!”

“Well, that’s all very sensible, Athos,” said D’Artagnan.

“In that case, let there be no more question of what’s past, and let Aramis resume the letter from his cousin where the cardinal interrupted him.”

Aramis drew the letter from his pocket; the three friends surrounded him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves again near the wine jar.

“You had only read a line or two,” said D’Artagnan; “read the letter again from the commencement.”

“Willingly,” said Aramis.

”My dear Cousin, I think I shall make up my mind to set out for Béthune, where my sister has placed our little servant in the convent of the Carmelites; this poor child is quite resigned, as she knows she cannot live elsewhere without the salvation of her soul being in danger. Nevertheless, if the affairs of our family are arranged, as we hope they will be, I believe she will run the risk of being damned, and will return to those she regrets, particularly as she knows they are always thinking of her. Meanwhile, she is not very wretched; what she most desires is a letter from her intended. I know that such viands pass with difficulty through convent gratings; but after all, as I have given you proofs, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled in such affairs, and I will take charge of the commission. My sister thanks you for your good and eternal remembrance. She has experienced much anxiety; but she is now at length a little reassured, having sent her secretary away in order that nothing may happen unexpectedly.

“Adieu, my dear cousin. Tell us news of yourself as often as you can; that is to say, as often as you can with safety. I embrace you.

”Marie Michon.”

“Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?” said D’Artagnan. “Dear Constance! I have at length, then, intelligence of you. She lives; she is in safety in a convent; she is at Béthune! Where is Béthune, Athos?”

“Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. The siege once over, we shall be able to make a tour in that direction.”

“And that will not be long, it is to be hoped,” said Porthos; “for they have this morning hanged a spy who confessed that the Rochellais were reduced to the leather of their shoes. Supposing that after having eaten the leather they eat the soles, I cannot see much that is left unless they eat one another.”

“Poor fools!” said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux wine which, without having at that period the reputation it now enjoys, merited it no less, “poor fools! As if the Catholic religion was not the most advantageous and the most agreeable of all religions! All the same,” resumed he, after having clicked his tongue against his palate, “they are brave fellows! But what the devil are you about, Aramis?” continued Athos. “Why, you are squeezing that letter into your pocket!”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “Athos is right, it must be burned. And yet if we burn it, who knows whether Monsieur Cardinal has not a secret to interrogate ashes?”

“He must have one,” said Athos.

“What will you do with the letter, then?” asked Porthos.

“Come here, Grimaud,” said Athos. Grimaud rose and obeyed. “As a punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you will please to eat this piece of paper; then to recompense you for the service you will have rendered us, you shall afterward drink this glass of wine. First, here is the letter. Eat heartily.”

Grimaud smiled; and with his eyes fixed upon the glass which Athos held in his hand, he ground the paper well between his teeth and then swallowed it.

“Bravo, Monsieur Grimaud!” said Athos; “and now take this. That’s well. We dispense with your saying grace.”

Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine; but his eyes, raised toward heaven during this delicious occupation, spoke a language which, though mute, was not the less expressive.

“And now,” said Athos, “unless Monsieur Cardinal should form the ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaud, I think we may be pretty much at our ease respecting the letter.”

Meantime, his Eminence continued his melancholy ride, murmuring between his mustaches, “These four men must positively be mine.”

Captivity: The First Day

Let us return to Milady, whom a glance thrown upon the coast of France has made us lose sight of for an instant.

We shall find her still in the despairing attitude in which we left her, plunged in an abyss of dismal reflection--a dark hell at the gate of which she has almost left hope behind, because for the first time she doubts, for the first time she fears.

On two occasions her fortune has failed her, on two occasions she has found herself discovered and betrayed; and on these two occasions it was to one fatal genius, sent doubtlessly by the Lord to combat her, that she has succumbed. D’Artagnan has conquered her--her, that invincible power of evil.

He has deceived her in her love, humbled her in her pride, thwarted her in her ambition; and now he ruins her fortune, deprives her of liberty, and even threatens her life. Still more, he has lifted the corner of her mask--that shield with which she covered herself and which rendered her so strong.

D’Artagnan has turned aside from Buckingham, whom she hates as she hates everyone she has loved, the tempest with which Richelieu threatened him in the person of the queen. D’Artagnan had passed himself upon her as De Wardes, for whom she had conceived one of those tigerlike fancies common to women of her character. D’Artagnan knows that terrible secret which she has sworn no one shall know without dying. In short, at the moment in which she has just obtained from Richelieu a carte blanche by the means of which she is about to take vengeance on her enemy, this precious paper is torn from her hands, and it is D’Artagnan who holds her prisoner and is about to send her to some filthy Botany Bay, some infamous Tyburn of the Indian Ocean.

All this she owes to D’Artagnan, without doubt. From whom can come so many disgraces heaped upon her head, if not from him? He alone could have transmitted to Lord de Winter all these frightful secrets which he has discovered, one after another, by a train of fatalities. He knows her brother-in-law. He must have written to him.

What hatred she distills! Motionless, with her burning and fixed glances, in her solitary apartment, how well the outbursts of passion which at times escape from the depths of her chest with her respiration, accompany the sound of the surf which rises, growls, roars, and breaks itself like an eternal and powerless despair against the rocks on which is built this dark and lofty castle! How many magnificent projects of vengeance she conceives by the light of the flashes which her tempestuous passion casts over her mind against Mme. Bonacieux, against Buckingham, but above all against D’Artagnan--projects lost in the distance of the future.

Yes; but in order to avenge herself she must be free. And to be free, a prisoner has to pierce a wall, detach bars, cut through a floor--all undertakings which a patient and strong man may accomplish, but before which the feverish irritations of a woman must give way. Besides, to do all this, time is necessary-- months, years; and she has ten or twelve days, as Lord de Winter, her fraternal and terrible jailer, has told her.

And yet, if she were a man she would attempt all this, and perhaps might succeed; why, then, did heaven make the mistake of placing that manlike soul in that frail and delicate body?

The first moments of her captivity were terrible; a few convulsions of rage which she could not suppress paid her debt of feminine weakness to nature. But by degrees she overcame the outbursts of her mad passion; and nervous tremblings which agitated her frame disappeared, and she remained folded within herself like a fatigued serpent in repose.

“Go to, go to! I must have been mad to allow myself to be carried away so,” says she, gazing into the glass, which reflects back to her eyes the burning glance by which she appears to interrogate herself. “No violence; violence is the proof of weakness. In the first place, I have never succeeded by that means. Perhaps if I employed my strength against women I might perchance find them weaker than myself, and consequently conquer them; but it is with men that I struggle, and I am but a woman to them. Let me fight like a woman, then; my strength is in my weakness.”

Then, as if to render an account to herself of the changes she could place upon her countenance, so mobile and so expressive, she made it take all expressions from that of passionate anger, which convulsed her features, to that of the most sweet, most affectionate, and most seducing smile. Then her hair assumed successively, under her skillful hands, all the undulations she thought might assist the charms of her face. At length she murmured, satisfied with herself, “Come, nothing is lost; I am still beautiful.”

It was then nearly eight o’clock in the evening. Milady perceived a bed; she calculated that the repose of a few hours would not only refresh her head and her ideas, but still further, her complexion. A better idea, however, came into her mind before going to bed. She had heard something said about supper. She had already been an hour in this apartment; they could not long delay bringing her a repast. The prisoner did not wish to lose time; and she resolved to make that very evening some attempts to ascertain the nature of the ground she had to work upon, by studying the characters of the men to whose guardianship she was committed.

A light appeared under the door; this light announced the reappearance of her jailers. Milady, who had arisen, threw herself quickly into the armchair, her head thrown back, her beautiful hair unbound and disheveled, her bosom half bare beneath her crumpled lace, one hand on her heart, and the other hanging down.

The bolts were drawn; the door groaned upon its hinges. Steps sounded in the chamber, and drew near.

“Place that table there,” said a voice which the prisoner recognized as that of Felton.

The order was executed.

“You will bring lights, and relieve the sentinel,” continued Felton.

And this double order which the young lieutenant gave to the same individuals proved to Milady that her servants were the same men as her guards; that is to say, soldiers.

Felton’s orders were, for the rest, executed with a silent rapidity that gave a good idea of the way in which he maintained discipline.

At length Felton, who had not yet looked at Milady, turned toward her.

“Ah, ah!” said he, “she is asleep; that’s well. When she wakes she can sup.” And he made some steps toward the door.

“But, my lieutenant,” said a soldier, less stoical than his chief, and who had approached Milady, “this woman is not asleep.”

“What, not asleep!” said Felton; “what is she doing, then?”

“She has fainted. Her face is very pale, and I have listened in vain; I do not hear her breathe.”

“You are right,” said Felton, after having looked at Milady from the spot on which he stood without moving a step toward her. “Go and tell Lord de Winter that his prisoner has fainted--for this event not having been foreseen, I don’t know what to do.”

The soldier went out to obey the orders of his officer. Felton sat down upon an armchair which happened to be near the door, and waited without speaking a word, without making a gesture. Milady possessed that great art, so much studied by women, of looking through her long eyelashes without appearing to open the lids. She perceived Felton, who sat with his back toward her. She continued to look at him for nearly ten minutes, and in these ten minutes the immovable guardian never turned round once.

She then thought that Lord de Winter would come, and by his presence give fresh strength to her jailer. Her first trial was lost; she acted like a woman who reckons up her resources. As a result she raised her head, opened her eyes, and sighed deeply.

At this sigh Felton turned round.

“Ah, you are awake, madame,” he said; “then I have nothing more to do here. If you want anything you can ring.”

“Oh, my God, my God! how I have suffered!” said Milady, in that harmonious voice which, like that of the ancient enchantresses, charmed all whom she wished to destroy.

And she assumed, upon sitting up in the armchair, a still more graceful and abandoned position than when she reclined.

Felton arose.

“You will be served, thus, madame, three times a day,” said he. “In the morning at nine o’clock, in the day at one o’clock, and in the evening at eight. If that does not suit you, you can point out what other hours you prefer, and in this respect your wishes will be complied with.”

“But am I to remain always alone in this vast and dismal chamber?” asked Milady.

“A woman of the neighbourhood has been sent for, who will be tomorrow at the castle, and will return as often as you desire her presence.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied the prisoner, humbly.

Felton made a slight bow, and directed his steps toward the door. At the moment he was about to go out, Lord de Winter appeared in the corridor, followed by the soldier who had been sent to inform him of the swoon of Milady. He held a vial of salts in his hand.

“Well, what is it--what is going on here?” said he, in a jeering voice, on seeing the prisoner sitting up and Felton about to go out. “Is this corpse come to life already? Felton, my lad, did you not perceive that you were taken for a novice, and that the first act was being performed of a comedy of which we shall doubtless have the pleasure of following out all the developments?”

“I thought so, my lord,” said Felton; “but as the prisoner is a woman, after all, I wish to pay her the attention that every man of gentle birth owes to a woman, if not on her account, at least on my own.”

Milady shuddered through her whole system. These words of Felton’s passed like ice through her veins.

“So,” replied De Winter, laughing, “that beautiful hair so skillfully disheveled, that white skin, and that languishing look, have not yet seduced you, you heart of stone?”

“No, my Lord,” replied the impassive young man; “your Lordship may be assured that it requires more than the tricks and coquetry of a woman to corrupt me.”

“In that case, my brave lieutenant, let us leave Milady to find out something else, and go to supper; but be easy! She has a fruitful imagination, and the second act of the comedy will not delay its steps after the first.”

And at these words Lord de Winter passed his arm through that of Felton, and led him out, laughing.

“Oh, I will be a match for you!” murmured Milady, between her teeth; “be assured of that, you poor spoiled monk, you poor converted soldier, who has cut his uniform out of a monk’s frock!”

“By the way,” resumed De Winter, stopping at the threshold of the door, “you must not, Milady, let this check take away your appetite. Taste that fowl and those fish. On my honor, they are not poisoned. I have a very good cook, and he is not to be my heir; I have full and perfect confidence in him. Do as I do. Adieu, dear sister, till your next swoon!”

This was all that Milady could endure. Her hands clutched her armchair; she ground her teeth inwardly; her eyes followed the motion of the door as it closed behind Lord de Winter and Felton, and the moment she was alone a fresh fit of despair seized her. She cast her eyes upon the table, saw the glittering of a knife, rushed toward it and clutched it; but her disappointment was cruel. The blade was round, and of flexible silver.

A burst of laughter resounded from the other side of the ill- closed door, and the door reopened.

“Ha, ha!” cried Lord de Winter; “ha, ha! Don’t you see, my brave Felton; don’t you see what I told you? That knife was for you, my lad; she would have killed you. Observe, this is one of her peculiarities, to get rid thus, after one fashion or another, of all the people who bother her. If I had listened to you, the knife would have been pointed and of steel. Then no more of Felton; she would have cut your throat, and after that everybody else’s. See, John, see how well she knows how to handle a knife.”

In fact, Milady still held the harmless weapon in her clenched hand; but these last words, this supreme insult, relaxed her hands, her strength, and even her will. The knife fell to the ground.

“You were right, my Lord,” said Felton, with a tone of profound disgust which sounded to the very bottom of the heart of Milady, “you were right, my Lord, and I was wrong.”

And both again left the room.

But this time Milady lent a more attentive ear than the first, and she heard their steps die away in the distance of the corridor.

“I am lost,” murmured she; “I am lost! I am in the power of men upon whom I can have no more influence than upon statues of bronze or granite; they know me by heart, and are steeled against all my weapons. It is, however, impossible that this should end as they have decreed!”

In fact, as this last reflection indicated--this instinctive return to hope--sentiments of weakness or fear did not dwell long in her ardent spirit. Milady sat down to table, ate from several dishes, drank a little Spanish wine, and felt all her resolution return.

Before she went to bed she had pondered, analyzed, turned on all sides, examined on all points, the words, the steps, the gestures, the signs, and even the silence of her interlocutors; and of this profound, skillful, and anxious study the result was that Felton, everything considered, appeared the more vulnerable of her two persecutors.

One expression above all recurred to the mind of the prisoner: “If I had listened to you,” Lord de Winter had said to Felton.

Felton, then, had spoken in her favor, since Lord de Winter had not been willing to listen to him.

“Weak or strong,” repeated Milady, “that man has, then, a spark of pity in his soul; of that spark I will make a flame that shall devour him. As to the other, he knows me, he fears me, and knows what he has to expect of me if ever I escape from his hands. It is useless, then, to attempt anything with him. But Felton-- that’s another thing. He is a young, ingenious, pure man who seems virtuous; him there are means of destroying.”

And Milady went to bed and fell asleep with a smile upon her lips. Anyone who had seen her sleeping might have said she was a young girl dreaming of the crown of flowers she was to wear on her brow at the next festival.

Captivity: The Second Day

Milady dreamed that she at length had D’Artagnan in her power, that she was present at his execution; and it was the sight of his odious blood, flowing beneath the ax of the headsman, which spread that charming smile upon her lips.

She slept as a prisoner sleeps, rocked by his first hope.

In the morning, when they entered her chamber she was still in bed. Felton remained in the corridor. He brought with him the woman of whom he had spoken the evening before, and who had just arrived; this woman entered, and approaching Milady’s bed, offered her services.

Milady was habitually pale; her complexion might therefore deceive a person who saw her for the first time.

“I am in a fever,” said she; “I have not slept a single instant during all this long night. I suffer horribly. Are you likely to be more humane to me than others were yesterday? All I ask is permission to remain abed.”

“Would you like to have a physician called?” said the woman.

Felton listened to this dialogue without speaking a word.

Milady reflected that the more people she had around her the more she would have to work upon, and Lord de Winter would redouble his watch. Besides, the physician might declare the ailment feigned; and Milady, after having lost the first trick, was not willing to lose the second.

“Go and fetch a physician?” said she. “What could be the good of that? These gentlemen declared yesterday that my illness was a comedy; it would be just the same today, no doubt--for since yesterday evening they have had plenty of time to send for a doctor.”

“Then,” said Felton, who became impatient, “say yourself, madame, what treatment you wish followed.”

“Eh, how can I tell? My God! I know that I suffer, that’s all. Give me anything you like, it is of little consequence.”

“Go and fetch Lord de Winter,” said Felton, tired of these eternal complaints.

“Oh, no, no!” cried Milady; “no, sir, do not call him, I conjure you. I am well, I want nothing; do not call him.”

She gave so much vehemence, such magnetic eloquence to this exclamation, that Felton in spite of himself advanced some steps into the room.

“He has come!” thought Milady.

“Meanwhile, madame, if you really suffer,” said Felton, “a physician shall be sent for; and if you deceive us--well, it will be the worse for you. But at least we shall not have to reproach ourselves with anything.”

Milady made no reply, but turning her beautiful head round upon her pillow, she burst into tears, and uttered heartbreaking sobs.

Felton surveyed her for an instant with his usual impassiveness; then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be prolonged, he went out. The woman followed him, and Lord de Winter did not appear.

“I fancy I begin to see my way,” murmured Milady, with a savage joy, burying herself under the clothes to conceal from anybody who might be watching her this burst of inward satisfaction.

Two hours passed away.

“Now it is time that the malady should be over,” said she; “let me rise, and obtain some success this very day. I have but ten days, and this evening two of them will be gone.”

In the morning, when they entered Milady’s chamber they had brought her breakfast. Now, she thought, they could not long delay coming to clear the table, and that Felton would then reappear.

Milady was not deceived. Felton reappeared, and without observing whether Milady had or had not touched her repast, made a sign that the table should be carried out of the room, it having been brought in ready spread.

Felton remained behind; he held a book in his hand.

Milady, reclining in an armchair near the chimney, beautiful, pale, and resigned, looked like a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom.

Felton approached her, and said, “Lord de Winter, who is a Catholic, like yourself, madame, thinking that the deprivation of the rites and ceremonies of your church might be painful to you, has consented that you should read every day the ordinary of your Mass; and here is a book which contains the ritual.”

At the manner in which Felton laid the book upon the little table near which Milady was sitting, at the tone in which he pronounced the two words, your mass, at the disdainful smile with which he accompanied them, Milady raised her head, and looked more attentively at the officer.

By that plain arrangement of the hair, by that costume of extreme simplicity, by the brow polished like marble and as hard and impenetrable, she recognized one of those gloomy Puritans she had so often met, not only in the court of King James, but in that of the King of France, where, in spite of the remembrance of the St. Bartholomew, they sometimes came to seek refuge.

She then had one of those sudden inspirations which only people of genius receive in great crises, in supreme moments which are to decide their fortunes or their lives.

Those two words, your mass, and a simple glance cast upon Felton, revealed to her all the importance of the reply she was about to make; but with that rapidity of intelligence which was peculiar to her, this reply, ready arranged, presented itself to her lips:

“I?” said she, with an accent of disdain in unison with that which she had remarked in the voice of the young officer, “I, sir? My mass? Lord de Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows very well that I am not of his religion, and this is a snare he wishes to lay for me!”

“And of what religion are you, then, madame?” asked Felton, with an astonishment which in spite of the empire he held over himself he could not entirely conceal.

“I will tell it,” cried Milady, with a feigned exultation, “on the day when I shall have suffered sufficiently for my faith.”

The look of Felton revealed to Milady the full extent of the space she had opened for herself by this single word.

The young officer, however, remained mute and motionless; his look alone had spoken.

“I am in the hands of my enemies,” continued she, with that tone of enthusiasm which she knew was familiar to the Puritans. “Well, let my God save me, or let me perish for my God! That is the reply I beg you to make to Lord de Winter. And as to this book,” added she, pointing to the manual with her finger but without touching it, as if she must be contaminated by it, “you may carry it back and make use of it yourself, for doubtless you are doubly the accomplice of Lord de Winter--the accomplice in his persecutions, the accomplice in his heresies.”

Felton made no reply, took the book with the same appearance of repugnance which he had before manifested, and retired pensively.

Lord de Winter came toward five o’clock in the evening. Milady had had time, during the whole day, to trace her plan of conduct. She received him like a woman who had already recovered all her advantages.

“It appears,” said the baron, seating himself in the armchair opposite that occupied by Milady, and stretching out his legs carelessly upon the hearth, “it appears we have made a little apostasy!”

“What do you mean, sir!”

“I mean to say that since we last met you have changed your religion. You have not by chance married a Protestant for a third husband, have you?”

“Explain yourself, my Lord,” replied the prisoner, with majesty; “for though I hear your words, I declare I do not understand them.”

“Then you have no religion at all; I like that best,” replied Lord de Winter, laughing.

“Certainly that is most in accord with your own principles,” replied Milady, frigidly.

“Oh, I confess it is all the same to me.”

“Oh, you need not avow this religious indifference, my Lord; your debaucheries and crimes would vouch for it.”

“What, you talk of debaucheries, Madame Messalina, Lady Macbeth! Either I misunderstand you or you are very shameless!”

“You only speak thus because you are overheard,” coolly replied Milady; “and you wish to interest your jailers and your hangmen against me.”

“My jailers and my hangmen! Heyday, madame! you are taking a poetical tone, and the comedy of yesterday turns to a tragedy this evening. As to the rest, in eight days you will be where you ought to be, and my task will be completed.”

“Infamous task! impious task!” cried Milady, with the exultation of a victim who provokes his judge.

“My word,” said De Winter, rising, “I think the hussy is going mad! Come, come, calm yourself, Madame Puritan, or I’ll remove you to a dungeon. It’s my Spanish wine that has got into your head, is it not? But never mind; that sort of intoxication is not dangerous, and will have no bad effects.”

And Lord de Winter retired swearing, which at that period was a very knightly habit.

Felton was indeed behind the door, and had not lost one word of this scene. Milady had guessed aright.

“Yes, go, go,!” said she to her brother; “the effects are drawing near, on the contrary; but you, weak fool, will not see them until it is too late to shun them.”

Silence was re-established. Two hours passed away. Milady’s supper was brought in, and she was found deeply engaged in saying her prayers aloud--prayers which she had learned of an old servant of her second husband, a most austere Puritan. She appeared to be in ecstasy, and did not pay the least attention to what was going on around her. Felton made a sign that she should not be disturbed; and when all was arranged, he went out quietly with the soldiers.

Milady knew she might be watched, so she continued her prayers to the end; and it appeared to her that the soldier who was on duty at her door did not march with the same step, and seemed to listen. For the moment she wished nothing better. She arose, came to the table, ate but little, and drank only water.

An hour after, her table was cleared; but Milady remarked that this time Felton did not accompany the soldiers. He feared, then, to see her too often.

She turned toward the wall to smile--for there was in this smile such an expression of triumph that this smile alone would have betrayed her.

She allowed, therefore, half an hour to pass away; and as at that moment all was silence in the old castle, as nothing was heard but the eternal murmur of the waves--that immense breaking of the ocean--with her pure, harmonious, and powerful voice, she began the first couplet of the psalm then in great favor with the Puritans:

“Thou leavest thy servants, Lord,
To see if they be strong;
But soon thou dost afford
Thy hand to lead them on.”

These verses were not excellent--very far from it; but as it is well known, the Puritans did not pique themselves upon their poetry.

While singing, Milady listened. The soldier on guard at her door stopped, as if he had been changed into stone. Milady was then able to judge of the effect she had produced.

Then she continued her singing with inexpressible fervor and feeling. It appeared to her that the sounds spread to a distance beneath the vaulted roofs, and carried with them a magic charm to soften the hearts of her jailers. It however likewise appeared that the soldier on duty--a zealous Catholic, no doubt--shook off the charm, for through the door he called: “Hold your tongue, madame! Your song is as dismal as a ‘De profundis’; and if besides the pleasure of being in garrison here, we must hear such things as these, no mortal can hold out.”

“Silence!” then exclaimed another stern voice which Milady recognized as that of Felton. “What are you meddling with, stupid? Did anybody order you to prevent that woman from singing? No. You were told to guard her--to fire at her if she attempted to fly. Guard her! If she flies, kill her; but don’t exceed your orders.”

An expression of unspeakable joy lightened the countenance of Milady; but this expression was fleeting as the reflection of lightning. Without appearing to have heard the dialogue, of which she had not lost a word, she began again, giving to her voice all the charm, all the power, all the seduction the demon had bestowed upon it:

“For all my tears, my cares,
My exile, and my chains,
I have my youth, my prayers,
And God, who counts my pains.”

Her voice, of immense power and sublime expression, gave to the rude, unpolished poetry of these psalms a magic and an effect which the most exalted Puritans rarely found in the songs of their brethren, and which they were forced to ornament with all the resources of their imagination. Felton believed he heard the singing of the angel who consoled the three Hebrews in the furnace.

Milady continued:

“One day our doors will ope,
With God come our desire;
And if betrays that hope,
To death we can aspire.”

This verse, into which the terrible enchantress threw her whole soul, completed the trouble which had seized the heart of the young officer. He opened the door quickly; and Milady saw him appear, pale as usual, but with his eye inflamed and almost wild.

“Why do you sing thus, and with such a voice?” said he.

“Your pardon, sir,” said Milady, with mildness. “I forgot that my songs are out of place in this castle. I have perhaps offended you in your creed; but it was without wishing to do so, I swear. Pardon me, then, a fault which is perhaps great, but which certainly was involuntary.”

Milady was so beautiful at this moment, the religious ecstasy in which she appeared to be plunged gave such an expression to her countenance, that Felton was so dazzled that he fancied he beheld the angel whom he had only just before heard.

“Yes, yes,” said he; “you disturb, you agitate the people who live in the castle.”

The poor, senseless young man was not aware of the incoherence of his words, while Milady was reading with her lynx’s eyes the very depths of his heart.

“I will be silent, then,” said Milady, casting down her eyes with all the sweetness she could give to her voice, with all the resignation she could impress upon her manner.

“No, no, madame,” said Felton, “only do not sing so loud, particularly at night.”

And at these words Felton, feeling that he could not long maintain his severity toward his prisoner, rushed out of the room.

“You have done right, Lieutenant,” said the soldier. “Such songs disturb the mind; and yet we become accustomed to them, her voice is so beautiful.”

Captivity: The Third Day

Felton had fallen; but there was still another step to be taken. He must be retained, or rather he must be left quite alone; and Milady but obscurely perceived the means which could lead to this result.

Still more must be done. He must be made to speak, in order that he might be spoken to--for Milady very well knew that her greatest seduction was in her voice, which so skillfully ran over the whole gamut of tones from human speech to language celestial.

Yet in spite of all this seduction Milady might fail--for Felton was forewarned, and that against the least chance. From that moment she watched all his actions, all his words, from the simplest glance of his eyes to his gestures--even to a breath that could be interpreted as a sigh. In short, she studied everything, as a skillful comedian does to whom a new part has been assigned in a line to which he is not accustomed.

Face to face with Lord de Winter her plan of conduct was more easy. She had laid that down the preceding evening. To remain silent and dignified in his presence; from time to time to irritate him by affected disdain, by a contemptuous word; to provoke him to threats and violence which would produce a contrast with her own resignation--such was her plan. Felton would see all; perhaps he would say nothing, but he would see.

In the morning, Felton came as usual; but Milady allowed him to preside over all the preparations for breakfast without addressing a word to him. At the moment when he was about to retire, she was cheered with a ray of hope, for she thought he was about to speak; but his lips moved without any sound leaving his mouth, and making a powerful effort to control himself, he sent back to his heart the words that were about to escape from his lips, and went out. Toward midday, Lord de Winter entered.

It was a tolerably fine winter’s day, and a ray of that pale English sun which lights but does not warm came through the bars of her prison.

Milady was looking out at the window, and pretended not to hear the door as it opened.

“Ah, ah!” said Lord de Winter, “after having played comedy, after having played tragedy, we are now playing melancholy?”

The prisoner made no reply.

“Yes, yes,” continued Lord de Winter, “I understand. You would like very well to be a liberty on that beach! You would like very well to be in a good ship dancing upon the waves of that emerald-green sea; you would like very well, either on land or on the ocean, to lay for me one of those nice little ambuscades you are so skillful in planning. Patience, patience! In four days’ time the shore will be beneath your feet, the sea will be open to you--more open than will perhaps be agreeable to you, for in four days England will be relieved of you.”

Milady folded her hands, and raising her fine eyes toward heaven, “Lord, Lord,” said she, with an angelic meekness of gesture and tone, “pardon this man, as I myself pardon him.”

“Yes, pray, accursed woman!” cried the baron; “your prayer is so much the more generous from your being, I swear to you, in the power of a man who will never pardon you!” and he went out.

At the moment he went out a piercing glance darted through the opening of the nearly closed door, and she perceived Felton, who drew quickly to one side to prevent being seen by her.

Then she threw herself upon her knees, and began to pray.

“My God, my God!” said she, “thou knowest in what holy cause I suffer; give me, then, strength to suffer.”

The door opened gently; the beautiful supplicant pretended not to hear the noise, and in a voice broken by tears, she continued:

“God of vengeance! God of goodness! wilt thou allow the frightful projects of this man to be accomplished?”

Then only she pretended to hear the sound of Felton’s steps, and rising quick as thought, she blushed, as if ashamed of being surprised on her knees.

“I do not like to disturb those who pray, madame,” said Felton, seriously; “do not disturb yourself on my account, I beseech you.”

“How do you know I was praying, sir?” said Milady, in a voice broken by sobs. “You were deceived, sir; I was not praying.”

“Do you think, then, madame,” replied Felton, in the same serious voice, but with a milder tone, “do you think I assume the right of preventing a creature from prostrating herself before her Creator? God forbid! Besides, repentance becomes the guilty; whatever crimes they may have committed, for me the guilty are sacred at the feet of God!”

“Guilty? I?” said Milady, with a smile which might have disarmed the angel of the last judgment. “Guilty? Oh, my God, thou knowest whether I am guilty! Say I am condemned, sir, if you please; but you know that God, who loves martyrs, sometimes permits the innocent to be condemned.”

“Were you condemned, were you innocent, were you a martyr,” replied Felton, “the greater would be the necessity for prayer; and I myself would aid you with my prayers.”

“Oh, you are a just man!” cried Milady, throwing herself at his feet. “I can hold out no longer, for I fear I shall be wanting in strength at the moment when I shall be forced to undergo the struggle, and confess my faith. Listen, then, to the supplication of a despairing woman. You are abused, sir; but that is not the question. I only ask you one favor; and if you grant it me, I will bless you in this world and in the next.”

“Speak to the master, madame,” said Felton; “happily I am neither charged with the power of pardoning nor punishing. It is upon one higher placed than I am that God has laid this responsibility.”

“To you--no, to you alone! Listen to me, rather than add to my destruction, rather than add to my ignominy!”

“If you have merited this shame, madame, if you have incurred this ignominy, you must submit to it as an offering to God.”

“What do you say? Oh, you do not understand me! When I speak of ignominy, you think I speak of some chastisement, of imprisonment or death. Would to heaven! Of what consequence to me is imprisonment or death?”

“It is I who no longer understand you, madame,” said Felton.

“Or, rather, who pretend not to understand me, sir!” replied the prisoner, with a smile of incredulity.

“No, madame, on the honor of a soldier, on the faith of a Christian.”

“What, you are ignorant of Lord de Winter’s designs upon me?”

“I am.”

“Impossible; you are his confidant!”

“I never lie, madame.”

“Oh, he conceals them too little for you not to divine them.”

“I seek to divine nothing, madame; I wait till I am confided in, and apart from that which Lord de Winter has said to me before you, he has confided nothing to me.”

“Why, then,” cried Milady, with an incredible tone of truthfulness, “you are not his accomplice; you do not know that he destines me to a disgrace which all the punishments of the world cannot equal in horror?”

“You are deceived, madame,” said Felton, blushing; “Lord de Winter is not capable of such a crime.”

“Good,” said Milady to herself; “without thinking what it is, he calls it a crime!” Then aloud, “The friend of that wretch is capable of everything.”

“Whom do you call ‘that wretch’?” asked Felton.

“Are there, then, in England two men to whom such an epithet can be applied?”

“You mean George Villiers?” asked Felton, whose looks became excited.

“Whom Pagans and unbelieving Gentiles call Duke of Buckingham,” replied Milady. “I could not have thought that there was an Englishman in all England who would have required so long an explanation to make him understand of whom I was speaking.”

“The hand of the Lord is stretched over him,” said Felton; “he will not escape the chastisement he deserves.”

Felton only expressed, with regard to the duke, the feeling of execration which all the English had declared toward him whom the Catholics themselves called the extortioner, the pillager, the débauché, and whom the Puritans styled simply Satan.

“Oh, my God, my God!” cried Milady; “when I supplicate thee to pour upon this man the chastisement which is his due, thou knowest it is not my own vengeance I pursue, but the deliverance of a whole nation that I implore!”

“Do you know him, then?” asked Felton.

“At length he interrogates me!” said Milady to herself, at the height of joy at having obtained so quickly such a great result. “Oh, know him? Yes, yes! to my misfortune, to my eternal misfortune!” and Milady twisted her arms as if in a paroxysm of grief.

Felton no doubt felt within himself that his strength was abandoning him, and he made several steps toward the door; but the prisoner, whose eye never left him, sprang in pursuit of him and stopped him.

“Sir,” cried she, “be kind, be clement, listen to my prayer! That knife, which the fatal prudence of the baron deprived me of, because he knows the use I would make of it! Oh, hear me to the end! that knife, give it to me for a minute only, for mercy’s, for pity’s sake! I will embrace your knees! You shall shut the door that you may be certain I contemplate no injury to you! My God! to you--the only just, good, and compassionate being I have met with! To you--my preserver, perhaps! One minute that knife, one minute, a single minute, and I will restore it to you through the grating of the door. Only one minute, Mr. Felton, and you will have saved my honor!”

“To kill yourself?” cried Felton, with terror, forgetting to withdraw his hands from the hands of the prisoner, “to kill yourself?”

“I have told, sir,” murmured Milady, lowering her voice, and allowing herself to sink overpowered to the ground; “I have told my secret! He knows all! My God, I am lost!”

Felton remained standing, motionless and undecided.

“He still doubts,” thought Milady; “I have not been earnest enough.”

Someone was heard in the corridor; Milady recognized the step of Lord de Winter.

Felton recognized it also, and made a step toward the door.

Milady sprang toward him. “Oh, not a word,” said she in a concentrated voice, “not a word of all that I have said to you to this man, or I am lost, and it would be you--you--”

Then as the steps drew near, she became silent for fear of being heard, applying, with a gesture of infinite terror, her beautiful hand to Felton’s mouth.

Felton gently repulsed Milady, and she sank into a chair.

Lord de Winter passed before the door without stopping, and they heard the noise of his footsteps soon die away.

Felton, as pale as death, remained some instants with his ear bent and listening; then, when the sound was quite extinct, he breathed like a man awaking from a dream, and rushed out of the apartment.

“Ah!” said Milady, listening in her turn to the noise of Felton’s steps, which withdrew in a direction opposite to those of Lord de Winter; “at length you are mine!”

Then her brow darkened. “If he tells the baron,” said she, “I am lost--for the baron, who knows very well that I shall not kill myself, will place me before him with a knife in my hand, and he will discover that all this despair is but acted.”

She placed herself before the glass, and regarded herself attentively; never had she appeared more beautiful.

“Oh, yes,” said she, smiling, “but we won’t tell him!”

In the evening Lord de Winter accompanied the supper.

“Sir,” said Milady, “is your presence an indispensable accessory of my captivity? Could you not spare me the increase of torture which your visits cause me?”

“How, dear sister!” said Lord de Winter. “Did not you sentimentally inform me with that pretty mouth of yours, so cruel to me today, that you came to England solely for the pleasure of seeing me at your ease, an enjoyment of which you told me you so sensibly felt the deprivation that you had risked everything for it--seasickness, tempest, captivity? Well, here I am; be satisfied. Besides, this time, my visit has a motive.”

Milady trembled; she thought Felton had told all. Perhaps never in her life had this woman, who had experienced so many opposite and powerful emotions, felt her heart beat so violently.

She was seated. Lord de Winter took a chair, drew it toward her, and sat down close beside her. Then taking a paper out of his pocket, he unfolded it slowly.

“Here,” said he, “I want to show you the kind of passport which I have drawn up, and which will serve you henceforward as the rule of order in the life I consent to leave you.”

Then turning his eyes from Milady to the paper, he read: “‘Order to conduct--’ The name is blank,” interrupted Lord de Winter. “If you have any preference you can point it out to me; and if it be not within a thousand leagues of London, attention will be paid to your wishes. I will begin again, then:

“‘Order to conduct to--the person named Charlotte Backson, branded by the justice of the kingdom of France, but liberated after chastisement. She is to dwell in this place without ever going more than three leagues from it. In case of any attempt to escape, the penalty of death is to be applied. She will receive five shillings per day for lodging and food’”.

“That order does not concern me,” replied Milady, coldly, “since it bears another name than mine.”

“A name? Have you a name, then?”

“I bear that of your brother.”

“Ay, but you are mistaken. My brother is only your second husband; and your first is still living. Tell me his name, and I will put it in the place of the name of Charlotte Backson. No? You will not? You are silent? Well, then you must be registered as Charlotte Backson.”

Milady remained silent; only this time it was no longer from affectation, but from terror. She believed the order ready for execution. She thought that Lord de Winter had hastened her departure; she thought she was condemned to set off that very evening. Everything in her mind was lost for an instant; when all at once she perceived that no signature was attached to the order. The joy she felt at this discovery was so great she could not conceal it.

“Yes, yes,” said Lord de Winter, who perceived what was passing in her mind; “yes, you look for the signature, and you say to yourself: ‘All is not lost, for that order is not signed. It is only shown to me to terrify me, that’s all.’ You are mistaken. Tomorrow this order will be sent to the Duke of Buckingham. The day after tomorrow it will return signed by his hand and marked with his seal; and four-and-twenty hours afterward I will answer for its being carried into execution. Adieu, madame. That is all I had to say to you.”

“And I reply to you, sir, that this abuse of power, this exile under a fictitious name, are infamous!”

“Would you like better to be hanged in your true name, Milady? You know that the English laws are inexorable on the abuse of marriage. Speak freely. Although my name, or rather that of my brother, would be mixed up with the affair, I will risk the scandal of a public trial to make myself certain of getting rid of you.”

Milady made no reply, but became as pale as a corpse.

“Oh, I see you prefer peregrination. That’s well madame; and there is an old proverb that says, ‘Traveling trains youth.’ My faith! you are not wrong after all, and life is sweet. That’s the reason why I take such care you shall not deprive me of mine. There only remains, then, the question of the five shillings to be settled. You think me rather parsimonious, don’t you? That’s because I don’t care to leave you the means of corrupting your jailers. Besides, you will always have your charms left to seduce them with. Employ them, if your check with regard to Felton has not disgusted you with attempts of that kind.”

“Felton has not told him,” said Milady to herself. “Nothing is lost, then.”

“And now, madame, till I see you again! Tomorrow I will come and announce to you the departure of my messenger.”

Lord de Winter rose, saluted her ironically, and went out.

Milady breathed again. She had still four days before her. Four days would quite suffice to complete the seduction of Felton.

A terrible idea, however, rushed into her mind. She thought that Lord de Winter would perhaps send Felton himself to get the order signed by the Duke of Buckingham. In that case Felton would escape her--for in order to secure success, the magic of a continuous seduction was necessary. Nevertheless, as we have said, one circumstance reassured her. Felton had not spoken.

As she would not appear to be agitated by the threats of Lord de Winter, she placed herself at the table and ate.

Then, as she had done the evening before, she fell on her knees and repeated her prayers aloud. As on the evening before, the soldier stopped his march to listen to her.

Soon after she heard lighter steps than those of the sentinel, which came from the end of the corridor and stopped before her door.

“It is he,” said she. And she began the same religious chant which had so strongly excited Felton the evening before.

But although her voice--sweet, full, and sonorous--vibrated as harmoniously and as affectingly as ever, the door remained shut. It appeared however to Milady that in one of the furtive glances she darted from time to time at the grating of the door she thought she saw the ardent eyes of the young man through the narrow opening. But whether this was reality or vision, he had this time sufficient self-command not to enter.

However, a few instants after she had finished her religious song, Milady thought she heard a profound sigh. Then the same steps she had heard approach slowly withdrew, as if with regret.

Captivity: The Fourth Day

The next day, when Felton entered Milady’s apartment he found her standing, mounted upon a chair, holding in her hands a cord made by means of torn cambric handkerchiefs, twisted into a kind of rope one with another, and tied at the ends. At the noise Felton made in entering, Milady leaped lightly to the ground, and tried to conceal behind her the improvised cord she held in her hand.

The young man was more pale than usual, and his eyes, reddened by want of sleep, denoted that he had passed a feverish night. Nevertheless, his brow was armed with a severity more austere than ever.

He advanced slowly toward Milady, who had seated herself, and taking an end of the murderous rope which by neglect, or perhaps by design, she allowed to be seen, “What is this, madame?” he asked coldly.

“That? Nothing,” said Milady, smiling with that painful expression which she knew so well how to give to her smile. “Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I had ennui, and I amused myself with twisting that rope.”

Felton turned his eyes toward the part of the wall of the apartment before which he had found Milady standing in the armchair in which she was now seated, and over her head he perceived a gilt-headed screw, fixed in the wall for the purpose of hanging up clothes or weapons.

He started, and the prisoner saw that start--for though her eyes were cast down, nothing escaped her.

“What were you doing on that armchair?” asked he.

“Of what consequence?” replied Milady.

“But,” replied Felton, “I wish to know.”

“Do not question me,” said the prisoner; “you know that we who are true Christians are forbidden to lie.”

“Well, then,” said Felton, " I will tell you what you were doing, or rather what you meant to do; you were going to complete the fatal project you cherish in your mind. Remember, madame, if our God forbids falsehood, he much more severely condemns suicide.”

“When God sees one of his creatures persecuted unjustly, placed between suicide and dishonor, believe me, sir,” replied Milady, in a tone of deep conviction, “God pardons suicide, for then suicide becomes martyrdom.”

“You say either too much or too little; speak, madame. In the name of heaven, explain yourself.”

“That I may relate my misfortunes for you to treat them as fables; that I may tell you my projects for you to go and betray them to my persecutor? No, sir. Besides, of what importance to you is the life or death of a condemned wretch? You are only responsible for my body, is it not so? And provided you produce a carcass that may be recognized as mine, they will require no more of you; nay, perhaps you will even have a double reward.”

“I, madame, I?” cried Felton. “You suppose that I would ever accept the price of your life? Oh, you cannot believe what you say!”

“Let me act as I please, Felton, let me act as I please,” said Milady, elated. “Every soldier must be ambitious, must he not? You are a lieutenant? Well, you will follow me to the grave with the rank of captain.”

“What have I, then, done to you,” said Felton, much agitated, “that you should load me with such a responsibility before God and before men? In a few days you will be away from this place; your life, madame, will then no longer be under my care, and,” added he, with a sigh, “then you can do what you will with it.”

“So,” cried Milady, as if she could not resist giving utterance to a holy indignation, “you, a pious man, you who are called a just man, you ask but one thing--and that is that you may not be inculpated, annoyed, by my death!”

“It is my duty to watch over your life, madame, and I will watch.”

“But do you understand the mission you are fulfilling? Cruel enough, if I am guilty; but what name can you give it, what name will the Lord give it, if I am innocent?”

“I am a soldier, madame, and fulfill the orders I have received.”

“Do you believe, then, that at the day of the Last Judgment God will separate blind executioners from iniquitous judges? You are not willing that I should kill my body, and you make yourself the agent of him who would kill my soul.”

“But I repeat it again to you,” replied Felton, in great emotion, “no danger threatens you; I will answer for Lord de Winter as for myself.”

“Dunce,” cried Milady, “dunce! who dares to answer for another man, when the wisest, when those most after God’s own heart, hesitate to answer for themselves, and who ranges himself on the side of the strongest and the most fortunate, to crush the weakest and the most unfortunate.”

“Impossible, madame, impossible,” murmured Felton, who felt to the bottom of his heart the justness of this argument. “A prisoner, you will not recover your liberty through me; living, you will not lose your life through me.”

“Yes,” cried Milady, “but I shall lose that which is much dearer to me than life, I shall lose my honor, Felton; and it is you, you whom I make responsible, before God and before men, for my shame and my infamy.”

This time Felton, immovable as he was, or appeared to be, could not resist the secret influence which had already taken possession of him. To see this woman, so beautiful, fair as the brightest vision, to see her by turns overcome with grief and threatening; to resist at once the ascendancy of grief and beauty--it was too much for a visionary; it was too much for a brain weakened by the ardent dreams of an ecstatic faith; it was too much for a heart furrowed by the love of heaven that burns, by the hatred of men that devours.

Milady saw the trouble. She felt by intuition the flame of the opposing passions which burned with the blood in the veins of the young fanatic. As a skillful general, seeing the enemy ready to surrender, marches toward him with a cry of victory, she rose, beautiful as an antique priestess, inspired like a Christian virgin, her arms extended, her throat uncovered, her hair disheveled, holding with one hand her robe modestly drawn over her breast, her look illumined by that fire which had already created such disorder in the veins of the young Puritan, and went toward him, crying out with a vehement air, and in her melodious voice, to which on this occasion she communicated a terrible energy:

“Let this victim to Baal be sent,
To the lions the martyr be thrown!
Thy God shall teach thee to repent!
From th’ abyss he’ll give ear to my moan.”

Felton stood before this strange apparition like one petrified.

“Who art thou? Who art thou?” cried he, clasping his hands. “Art thou a messenger from God; art thou a minister from hell; art thou an angel or a demon; callest thou thyself Eloa or Astarte?”

“Do you not know me, Felton? I am neither an angel nor a demon; I am a daughter of earth, I am a sister of thy faith, that is all.”

“Yes, yes!” said Felton, “I doubted, but now I believe.”

“You believe, and still you are an accomplice of that child of Belial who is called Lord de Winter! You believe, and yet you leave me in the hands of mine enemies, of the enemy of England, of the enemy of God! You believe, and yet you deliver me up to him who fills and defiles the world with his heresies and debaucheries--to that infamous Sardanapalus whom the blind call the Duke of Buckingham, and whom believers name Antichrist!”

“I deliver you up to Buckingham? I? what mean you by that?”

“They have eyes,” cried Milady, “but they see not; ears have they, but they hear not.”

“Yes, yes!” said Felton, passing his hands over his brow, covered with sweat, as if to remove his last doubt. “Yes, I recognize the voice which speaks to me in my dreams; yes, I recognize the features of the angel who appears to me every night, crying to my soul, which cannot sleep: ‘Strike, save England, save thyself-- for thou wilt die without having appeased God!’ Speak, speak!” cried Felton, “I can understand you now.”

A flash of terrible joy, but rapid as thought, gleamed from the eyes of Milady.

However fugitive this homicide flash, Felton saw it, and started as if its light had revealed the abysses of this woman’s heart. He recalled, all at once, the warnings of Lord de Winter, the seductions of Milady, her first attempts after her arrival. He drew back a step, and hung down his head, without, however, ceasing to look at her, as if, fascinated by this strange creature, he could not detach his eyes from her eyes.

Milady was not a woman to misunderstand the meaning of this hesitation. Under her apparent emotions her icy coolness never abandoned her. Before Felton replied, and before she should be forced to resume this conversation, so difficult to be sustained in the same exalted tone, she let her hands fall; and as if the weakness of the woman overpowered the enthusiasm of the inspired fanatic, she said: “But no, it is not for me to be the Judith to deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes. The sword of the eternal is too heavy for my arm. Allow me, then, to avoid dishonor by death; let me take refuge in martyrdom. I do not ask you for liberty, as a guilty one would, nor for vengeance, as would a pagan. Let me die; that is all. I supplicate you, I implore you on my knees--let me die, and my last sigh shall be a blessing for my preserver.”

Hearing that voice, so sweet and suppliant, seeing that look, so timid and downcast, Felton reproached himself. By degrees the enchantress had clothed herself with that magic adornment which she assumed and threw aside at will; that is to say, beauty, meekness, and tears--and above all, the irresistible attraction of mystical voluptuousness, the most devouring of all voluptuousness.

“Alas!” said Felton, “I can do but one thing, which is to pity you if you prove to me you are a victim! But Lord de Winter makes cruel accusations against you. You are a Christian; you are my sister in religion. I feel myself drawn toward you--I, who have never loved anyone but my benefactor--I who have met with nothing but traitors and impious men. But you, madame, so beautiful in reality, you, so pure in appearance, must have committed great iniquities for Lord de Winter to pursue you thus.”

“They have eyes,” repeated Milady, with an accent of indescribable grief, “but they see not; ears have they, but they hear not.”

“But,” cried the young officer, “speak, then, speak!”

“Confide my shame to you,” cried Milady, with the blush of modesty upon her countenance, “for often the crime of one becomes the shame of another--confide my shame to you, a man, and I a woman? Oh,” continued she, placing her hand modestly over her beautiful eyes, “never! never!--I could not!”

“To me, to a brother?” said Felton.

Milady looked at him for some time with an expression which the young man took for doubt, but which, however, was nothing but observation, or rather the wish to fascinate.

Felton, in his turn a suppliant, clasped his hands.

“Well, then,” said Milady, “I confide in my brother; I will dare to--”

At this moment the steps of Lord de Winter were heard; but this time the terrible brother-in-law of Milady did not content himself, as on the preceding day, with passing before the door and going away again. He paused, exchanged two words with the sentinel; then the door opened, and he appeared.

During the exchange of these two words Felton drew back quickly, and when Lord de Winter entered, he was several paces from the prisoner.

The baron entered slowly, sending a scrutinizing glance from Milady to the young officer.

“You have been here a very long time, John,” said he. “Has this woman been relating her crimes to you? In that case I can comprehend the length of the conversation.”

Felton started; and Milady felt she was lost if she did not come to the assistance of the disconcerted Puritan.

“Ah, you fear your prisoner should escape!” said she. “Well, ask your worthy jailer what favor I this instant solicited of him.”

“You demanded a favor,?” said the baron, suspiciously.

“Yes, my Lord,” replied the young man, confused.

“And what favor, pray?” asked Lord de Winter.

“A knife, which she would return to me through the grating of the door a minute after she had received it,” replied Felton.

“There is someone, then, concealed here whose throat this amiable lady is desirous of cutting,” said De Winter, in an ironical, contemptuous tone.

“There is myself,” replied Milady.

“I have given you the choice between America and Tyburn,” replied Lord de Winter. “Choose Tyburn, madame. Believe me, the cord is more certain than the knife.”

Felton grew pale, and made a step forward, remembering that at the moment he entered Milady had a rope in her hand.

“You are right,” said she, “I have often thought of it.” Then she added in a low voice, “And I will think of it again.”

Felton felt a shudder run to the marrow of his bones; probably Lord de Winter perceived this emotion.

“Mistrust yourself, John,” said he. “I have placed reliance upon you, my friend. Beware! I have warned you! But be of good courage, my lad; in three days we shall be delivered from this creature, and where I shall send her she can harm nobody.”

“You hear him!” cried Milady, with vehemence, so that the baron might believe she was addressing heaven, and that Felton might understand she was addressing him.

Felton lowered his head and reflected.

The baron took the young officer by the arm, and turned his head over his shoulder, so as not to lose sight of Milady till he was gone out.

“Well,” said the prisoner, when the door was shut, “I am not so far advanced as I believed. De Winter has changed his usual stupidity into a strange prudence. It is the desire of vengeance, and how desire molds a man! As to Felton, he hesitates. Ah, he is not a man like that cursed D’Artagnan. A Puritan only adores virgins, and he adores them by clasping his hands. A Musketeer loves women, and he loves them by clasping his arms round them.”

Milady waited, then, with much impatience, for she feared the day would pass away without her seeing Felton again. At last, in an hour after the scene we have just described, she heard someone speaking in a low voice at the door. Presently the door opened, and she perceived Felton.

The young man advanced rapidly into the chamber, leaving the door open behind him, and making a sign to Milady to be silent; his face was much agitated.

“What do you want with me?” said she.

“Listen,” replied Felton, in a low voice. “I have just sent away the sentinel that I might remain here without anybody knowing it, in order to speak to you without being overheard. The baron has just related a frightful story to me.”

Milady assumed her smile of a resigned victim, and shook her head.

“Either you are a demon,” continued Felton, “or the baron--my benefactor, my father--is a monster. I have known you four days; I have loved him four years. I therefore may hesitate between you. Be not alarmed at what I say; I want to be convinced. Tonight, after twelve, I will come and see you, and you shall convince me.”

“No, Felton, no, my brother,” said she; “the sacrifice is too great, and I feel what it must cost you. No, I am lost; do not be lost with me. My death will be much more eloquent than my life, and the silence of the corpse will convince you much better than the words of the prisoner.”

“Be silent, madame,” cried Felton, “and do not speak to me thus; I came to entreat you to promise me upon your honor, to swear to me by what you hold most sacred, that you will make no attempt upon your life.”

“I will not promise,” said Milady, “for no one has more respect for a promise or an oath than I have; and if I make a promise I must keep it.”

“Well,” said Felton, “only promise till you have seen me again. If, when you have seen me again, you still persist--well, then you shall be free, and I myself will give you the weapon you desire.”

“Well,” said Milady, “for you I will wait.”

“Swear.”

“I swear it, by our God. Are you satisfied?”

“Well,” said Felton, “till tonight.”

And he darted out of the room, shut the door, and waited in the corridor, the soldier’s half-pike in his hand, and as if he had mounted guard in his place.

The soldier returned, and Felton gave him back his weapon.

Then, through the grating to which she had drawn near, Milady saw the young man make a sign with delirious fervor, and depart in an apparent transport of joy.

As for her, she returned to her place with a smile of savage contempt upon her lips, and repeated, blaspheming, that terrible name of God, by whom she had just sworn without ever having learned to know Him.

“My God,” said she, “what a senseless fanatic! My God, it is I-- I--and this fellow who will help me to avenge myself.”

Captivity: The Fifth Day

Milady had however achieved a half-triumph, and success doubled her forces.

It was not difficult to conquer, as she had hitherto done, men prompt to let themselves be seduced, and whom the gallant education of a court led quickly into her net. Milady was handsome enough not to find much resistance on the part of the flesh, and she was sufficiently skillful to prevail over all the obstacles of the mind.

But this time she had to contend with an unpolished nature, concentrated and insensible by force of austerity. Religion and its observances had made Felton a man inaccessible to ordinary seductions. There fermented in that sublimated brain plans so vast, projects so tumultuous, that there remained no room for any capricious or material love--that sentiment which is fed by leisure and grows with corruption. Milady had, then, made a breach by her false virtue in the opinion of a man horribly prejudiced against her, and by her beauty in the heart of a man hitherto hitherto chaste and pure. In short, she had taken the measure of motives hitherto unknown to herself, through this experiment, made upon the most rebellious subject that nature and religion could submit to her study.

Many a time, nevertheless, during the evening she despaired of fate and of herself. She did not invoke God, we very well know, but she had faith in the genius of evil--that immense sovereignty which reigns in all the details of human life, and by which, as in the Arabian fable, a single pomegranate seed is sufficient to reconstruct a ruined world.

Milady, being well prepared for the reception of Felton, was able to erect her batteries for the next day. She knew she had only two days left; that when once the order was signed by Buckingham- -and Buckingham would sign it the more readily from its bearing a false name, and he could not, therefore, recognize the woman in question--once this order was signed, we say, the baron would make her embark immediately, and she knew very well that women condemned to exile employ arms much less powerful in their seductions than the pretendedly virtuous woman whose beauty is lighted by the sun of the world, whose style the voice of fashion lauds, and whom a halo of aristocracy gilds with enchanting splendors. To be a woman condemned to a painful and disgraceful punishment is no impediment to beauty, but it is an obstacle to the recovery of power. Like all persons of real genius, Milady knew what suited her nature and her means. Poverty was repugnant to her; degradation took away two-thirds of her greatness. Milady was only a queen while among queens. The pleasure of satisfied pride was necessary to her domination. To command inferior beings was rather a humiliation than a pleasure for her.

She should certainly return from her exile--she did not doubt that a single instant; but how long might this exile last? For an active, ambitious nature, like that of Milady, days not spent in climbing are inauspicious days. What word, then, can be found to describe the days which they occupy in descending? To lose a year, two years, three years, is to talk of an eternity; to return after the death or disgrace of the cardinal, perhaps; to return when D’Artagnan and his friends, happy and triumphant, should have received from the queen the reward they had well acquired by the services they had rendered her--these were devouring ideas that a woman like Milady could not endure. For the rest, the storm which raged within her doubled her strength, and she would have burst the walls of her prison if her body had been able to take for a single instant the proportions of her mind.

Then that which spurred her on additionally in the midst of all this was the remembrance of the cardinal. What must the mistrustful, restless, suspicious cardinal think of her silence-- the cardinal, not merely her only support, her only prop, her only protector at present, but still further, the principal instrument of her future fortune and vengeance? She knew him; she knew that at her return from a fruitless journey it would be in vain to tell him of her imprisonment, in vain to enlarge upon the sufferings she had undergone. The cardinal would reply, with the sarcastic calmness of the skeptic, strong at once by power and genius, “You should not have allowed yourself to be taken.”

Then Milady collected all her energies, murmuring in the depths of her soul the name of Felton--the only beam of light that penetrated to her in the hell into which she had fallen; and like a serpent which folds and unfolds its rings to ascertain its strength, she enveloped Felton beforehand in the thousand meshes of her inventive imagination.

Time, however, passed away; the hours, one after another, seemed to awaken the clock as they passed, and every blow of the brass hammer resounded upon the heart of the prisoner. At nine o’clock, Lord de Winter made his customary visit, examined the window and the bars, sounded the floor and the walls, looked to the chimney and the doors, without, during this long and minute examination, he or Milady pronouncing a single word.

Doubtless both of them understood that the situation had become too serious to lose time in useless words and aimless wrath.

“Well,” said the baron, on leaving her “you will not escape tonight!”

At ten o’clock Felton came and placed the sentinel. Milady recognized his step. She was as well acquainted with it now as a mistress is with that of the lover of her heart; and yet Milady at the same time detested and despised this weak fanatic.

That was not the appointed hour. Felton did not enter.

Two hours after, as midnight sounded, the sentinel was relieved. This time it was the hour, and from this moment Milady waited with impatience. The new sentinel commenced his walk in the corridor. At the expiration of ten minutes Felton came.

Milady was all attention.

“Listen,” said the young man to the sentinel. “On no pretense leave the door, for you know that last night my Lord punished a soldier for having quit his post for an instant, although I, during his absence, watched in his place.”

“Yes, I know it,” said the soldier.

“I recommend you therefore to keep the strictest watch. For my part I am going to pay a second visit to this woman, who I fear entertains sinister intentions upon her own life, and I have received orders to watch her.”

“Good!” murmured Milady; “the austere Puritan lies.”

As to the soldier, he only smiled.

“Zounds, Lieutenant!” said he; “you are not unlucky in being charged with such commissions, particularly if my Lord has authorized you to look into her bed.”

Felton blushed. Under any other circumstances he would have reprimanded the soldier for indulging in such pleasantry, but his conscience murmured too loud for his mouth to dare speak.

“If I call, come,” said he. “If anyone comes, call me.”

“I will, Lieutenant,” said the soldier.

Felton entered Milady’s apartment. Milady arose.

“You are here!” said she.

“I promised to come,” said Felton, “and I have come.”

“You promised me something else.”

“What, my God!” said the young man, who in spite of his self- command felt his knees tremble and the sweat start from his brow.

“You promised to bring a knife, and to leave it with me after our interview.”

“Say no more of that, madame,” said Felton. “There is no situation, however terrible it may be, which can authorize a creature of God to inflict death upon himself. I have reflected, and I cannot, must not be guilty of such a sin.”

“Ah, you have reflected!” said the prisoner, sitting down in her armchair, with a smile of disdain; “and I also have reflected.”

“Upon what?”

“That I can have nothing to say to a man who does not keep his word.”

“Oh, my God!” murmured Felton.

“You may retire,” said Milady. “I will not talk.”

“Here is the knife,” said Felton, drawing from his pocket the weapon which he had brought, according to his promise, but which he hesitated to give to his prisoner.

“Let me see it,” said Milady.

“For what purpose?”

“Upon my honor, I will instantly return it to you. You shall place it on that table, and you may remain between it and me.”

Felton offered the weapon to Milady, who examined the temper of it attentively, and who tried the point on the tip of her finger.

“Well,” said she, returning the knife to the young officer, “this is fine and good steel. You are a faithful friend, Felton.”

Felton took back the weapon, and laid it upon the table, as he had agreed with the prisoner.

Milady followed him with her eyes, and made a gesture of satisfaction.

“Now,” said she, “listen to me.”

The request was needless. The young officer stood upright before her, awaiting her words as if to devour them.

“Felton,” said Milady, with a solemnity full of melancholy, “imagine that your sister, the daughter of your father, speaks to you. While yet young, unfortunately handsome, I was dragged into a snare. I resisted. Ambushes and violences multiplied around me, but I resisted. The religion I serve, the God I adore, were blasphemed because I called upon that religion and that God, but still I resisted. Then outrages were heaped upon me, and as my soul was not subdued they wished to defile my body forever. Finally--”

Milady stopped, and a bitter smile passed over her lips.

“Finally,” said Felton, “finally, what did they do?”

“At length, one evening my enemy resolved to paralyze the resistance he could not conquer. One evening he mixed a powerful narcotic with my water. Scarcely had I finished my repast, when I felt myself sink by degrees into a strange torpor. Although I was without mistrust, a vague fear seized me, and I tried to struggle against sleepiness. I arose. I wished to run to the window and call for help, but my legs refused their office. It appeared as if the ceiling sank upon my head and crushed me with its weight. I stretched out my arms. I tried to speak. I could only utter inarticulate sounds, and irresistible faintness came over me. I supported myself by a chair, feeling that I was about to fall, but this support was soon insufficient on account of my weak arms. I fell upon one knee, then upon both. I tried to pray, but my tongue was frozen. God doubtless neither heard nor saw me, and I sank upon the floor a prey to a slumber which resembled death.

“Of all that passed in that sleep, or the time which glided away while it lasted, I have no remembrance. The only thing I recollect is that I awoke in bed in a round chamber, the furniture of which was sumptuous, and into which light only penetrated by an opening in the ceiling. No door gave entrance to the room. It might be called a magnificent prison.

“It was a long time before I was able to make out what place I was in, or to take account of the details I describe. My mind appeared to strive in vain to shake off the heavy darkness of the sleep from which I could not rouse myself. I had vague perceptions of space traversed, of the rolling of a carriage, of a horrible dream in which my strength had become exhausted; but all this was so dark and so indistinct in my mind that these events seemed to belong to another life than mine, and yet mixed with mine in fantastic duality.

“At times the state into which I had fallen appeared so strange that I believed myself dreaming. I arose trembling. My clothes were near me on a chair; I neither remembered having undressed myself nor going to bed. Then by degrees the reality broke upon me, full of chaste terrors. I was no longer in the house where I had dwelt. As well as I could judge by the light of the sun, the day was already two-thirds gone. It was the evening before when I had fallen asleep; my sleep, then, must have lasted twenty-four hours! What had taken place during this long sleep?

“I dressed myself as quickly as possible; my slow and stiff motions all attested that the effects of the narcotic were not yet entirely dissipated. The chamber was evidently furnished for the reception of a woman; and the most finished coquette could not have formed a wish, but on casting her eyes about the apartment, she would have found that wish accomplished.

“Certainly I was not the first captive that had been shut up in this splendid prison; but you may easily comprehend, Felton, that the more superb the prison, the greater was my terror.

“Yes, it was a prison, for I tried in vain to get out of it. I sounded all the walls, in the hopes of discovering a door, but everywhere the walls returned a full and flat sound.

“I made the tour of the room at least twenty times, in search of an outlet of some kind; but there was none. I sank exhausted with fatigue and terror into an armchair.

“Meantime, night came on rapidly, and with night my terrors increased. I did not know but I had better remain where I was seated. It appeared that I was surrounded with unknown dangers into which I was about to fall at every instant. Although I had eaten nothing since the evening before, my fears prevented my feeling hunger.

“No noise from without by which I could measure the time reached me; I only supposed it must be seven or eight o’clock in the evening, for it was in the month of October and it was quite dark.

“All at once the noise of a door, turning on its hinges, made me start. A globe of fire appeared above the glazed opening of the ceiling, casting a strong light into my chamber; and I perceived with terror that a man was standing within a few paces of me.

“A table, with two covers, bearing a supper ready prepared, stood, as if by magic, in the middle of the apartment.

“That man was he who had pursued me during a whole year, who had vowed my dishonor, and who, by the first words that issued from his mouth, gave me to understand he had accomplished it the preceding night.”

“Scoundrel!” murmured Felton.

“Oh, yes, scoundrel!” cried Milady, seeing the interest which the young officer, whose soul seemed to hang on her lips, took in this strange recital. “Oh, yes, scoundrel! He believed, having triumphed over me in my sleep, that all was completed. He came, hoping that I would accept my shame, as my shame was consummated; he came to offer his fortune in exchange for my love.

“All that the heart of a woman could contain of haughty contempt and disdainful words, I poured out upon this man. Doubtless he was accustomed to such reproaches, for he listened to me calm and smiling, with his arms crossed over his breast. Then, when he thought I had said all, he advanced toward me; I sprang toward the table, I seized a knife, I placed it to my breast.

“Take one step more,” said I, “and in addition to my dishonor, you shall have my death to reproach yourself with.”

“There was, no doubt, in my look, my voice, my whole person, that sincerity of gesture, of attitude, of accent, which carries conviction to the most perverse minds, for he paused.

“‘Your death?’ said he; ‘oh, no, you are too charming a mistress to allow me to consent to lose you thus, after I have had the happiness to possess you only a single time. Adieu, my charmer; I will wait to pay you my next visit till you are in a better humor.’

“At these words he blew a whistle; the globe of fire which lighted the room reascended and disappeared. I found myself again in complete darkness. The same noise of a door opening and shutting was repeated the instant afterward; the flaming globe descended afresh, and I was completely alone.

“This moment was frightful; if I had any doubts as to my misfortune, these doubts had vanished in an overwhelming reality. I was in the power of a man whom I not only detested, but despised--of a man capable of anything, and who had already given me a fatal proof of what he was able to do.”

“But who, then was this man?” asked Felton.

“I passed the night on a chair, starting at the least noise, for toward midnight the lamp went out, and I was again in darkness. But the night passed away without any fresh attempt on the part of my persecutor. Day came; the table had disappeared, only I had still the knife in my hand.

“This knife was my only hope.

“I was worn out with fatigue. Sleeplessness inflamed my eyes; I had not dared to sleep a single instant. The light of day reassured me; I went and threw myself on the bed, without parting with the emancipating knife, which I concealed under my pillow.

“When I awoke, a fresh meal was served.

“This time, in spite of my terrors, in spite of my agony, I began to feel a devouring hunger. It was forty-eight hours since I had taken any nourishment. I ate some bread and some fruit; then, remembering the narcotic mixed with the water I had drunk, I would not touch that which was placed on the table, but filled my glass at a marble fountain fixed in the wall over my dressing table.

“And yet, notwithstanding these precautions, I remained for some time in a terrible agitation of mind. But my fears were this time ill-founded; I passed the day without experiencing anything of the kind I dreaded.

“I took the precaution to half empty the carafe, in order that my suspicions might not be noticed.

“The evening came on, and with it darkness; but however profound was this darkness, my eyes began to accustom themselves to it. I saw, amid the shadows, the table sink through the floor; a quarter of an hour later it reappeared, bearing my supper. In an instant, thanks to the lamp, my chamber was once more lighted.

“I was determined to eat only such things as could not possibly have anything soporific introduced into them. Two eggs and some fruit composed my repast; then I drew another glass of water from my protecting fountain, and drank it.

“At the first swallow, it appeared to me not to have the same taste as in the morning. Suspicion instantly seized me. I paused, but I had already drunk half a glass.

“I threw the rest away with horror, and waited, with the dew of fear upon my brow.

“No doubt some invisible witness had seen me draw the water from that fountain, and had taken advantage of my confidence in it, the better to assure my ruin, so coolly resolved upon, so cruelly pursued.

“Half an hour had not passed when the same symptoms began to appear; but as I had only drunk half a glass of the water, I contended longer, and instead of falling entirely asleep, I sank into a state of drowsiness which left me a perception of what was passing around me, while depriving me of the strength either to defend myself or to fly.

“I dragged myself toward the bed, to seek the only defense I had left--my saving knife; but I could not reach the bolster. I sank on my knees, my hands clasped round one of the bedposts; then I felt that I was lost.”

Felton became frightfully pale, and a convulsive tremor crept through his whole body.

“And what was most frightful,” continued Milady, her voice altered, as if she still experienced the same agony as at that awful minute, “was that at this time I retained a consciousness of the danger that threatened me; was that my soul, if I may say so, waked in my sleeping body; was that I saw, that I heard. It is true that all was like a dream, but it was not the less frightful.

“I saw the lamp ascend, and leave me in darkness; then I heard the well-known creaking of the door although I had heard that door open but twice.

“I felt instinctively that someone approached me; it is said that the doomed wretch in the deserts of America thus feels the approach of the serpent.

“I wished to make an effort; I attempted to cry out. By an incredible effort of will I even raised myself up, but only to sink down again immediately, and to fall into the arms of my persecutor.”

“Tell me who this man was!” cried the young officer.

Milady saw at a single glance all the painful feelings she inspired in Felton by dwelling on every detail of her recital; but she would not spare him a single pang. The more profoundly she wounded his heart, the more certainly he would avenge her. She continued, then, as if she had not heard his exclamation, or as if she thought the moment was not yet come to reply to it.

“Only this time it was no longer an inert body, without feeling, that the villain had to deal with. I have told you that without being able to regain the complete exercise of my faculties, I retained the sense of my danger. I struggled, then, with all my strength, and doubtless opposed, weak as I was, a long resistance, for I heard him cry out, ‘These miserable Puritans! I knew very well that they tired out their executioners, but I did not believe them so strong against their lovers!’

“Alas! this desperate resistance could not last long. I felt my strength fail, and this time it was not my sleep that enabled the coward to prevail, but my swoon.”

Felton listened without uttering any word or sound, except an inward expression of agony. The sweat streamed down his marble forehead, and his hand, under his coat, tore his breast.

“My first impulse, on coming to myself, was to feel under my pillow for the knife I had not been able to reach; if it had not been useful for defense, it might at least serve for expiation.

“But on taking this knife, Felton, a terrible idea occurred to me. I have sworn to tell you all, and I will tell you all. I have promised you the truth; I will tell it, were it to destroy me.”

“The idea came into your mind to avenge yourself on this man, did it not?” cried Felton.

“Yes,” said Milady. “The idea was not that of a Christian, I knew; but without doubt, that eternal enemy of our souls, that lion roaring constantly around us, breathed it into my mind. In short, what shall I say to you, Felton?” continued Milady, in the tone of a woman accusing herself of a crime. “This idea occurred to me, and did not leave me; it is of this homicidal thought that I now bear the punishment.”

“Continue, continue!” said Felton; “I am eager to see you attain your vengeance!”

“Oh, I resolved that it should take place as soon as possible. I had no doubt he would return the following night. During the day I had nothing to fear.

“When the hour of breakfast came, therefore, I did not hesitate to eat and drink. I had determined to make believe sup, but to eat nothing. I was forced, then, to combat the fast of the evening with the nourishment of the morning.

“Only I concealed a glass of water, which remained after my breakfast, thirst having been the chief of my sufferings when I remained forty-eight hours without eating or drinking.

“The day passed away without having any other influence on me than to strengthen the resolution I had formed; only I took care that my face should not betray the thoughts of my heart, for I had no doubt I was watched. Several times, even, I felt a smile on my lips. Felton, I dare not tell you at what idea I smiled; you would hold me in horror--”

“Go on! go on!” said Felton; “you see plainly that I listen, and that I am anxious to know the end.”

“Evening came; the ordinary events took place. During the darkness, as before, my supper was brought. Then the lamp was lighted, and I sat down to table. I only ate some fruit. I pretended to pour out water from the jug, but I only drank that which I had saved in my glass. The substitution was made so carefully that my spies, if I had any, could have no suspicion of it.

“After supper I exhibited the same marks of languor as on the preceding evening; but this time, as I yielded to fatigue, or as if I had become familiarized with danger, I dragged myself toward my bed, let my robe fall, and lay down.

“I found my knife where I had placed it, under my pillow, and while feigning to sleep, my hand grasped the handle of it convulsively.

“Two hours passed away without anything fresh happening. Oh, my God! who could have said so the evening before? I began to fear that he would not come.

“At length I saw the lamp rise softly, and disappear in the depths of the ceiling; my chamber was filled with darkness and obscurity, but I made a strong effort to penetrate this darkness and obscurity.

“Nearly ten minutes passed; I heard no other noise but the beating of my own heart. I implored heaven that he might come.

“At length I heard the well-known noise of the door, which opened and shut; I heard, notwithstanding the thickness of the carpet, a step which made the floor creak; I saw, notwithstanding the darkness, a shadow which approached my bed.”

“Haste! haste!” said Felton; “do you not see that each of your words burns me like molten lead?”

“Then,” continued Milady, “then I collected all my strength; I recalled to my mind that the moment of vengeance, or rather, of justice, had struck. I looked upon myself as another Judith; I gathered myself up, my knife in my hand, and when I saw him near me, stretching out his arms to find his victim, then, with the last cry of agony and despair, I struck him in the middle of his breast.

“The miserable villain! He had foreseen all. His breast was covered with a coat-of-mail; the knife was bent against it.

“‘Ah, ah!’ cried he, seizing my arm, and wresting from me the weapon that had so badly served me, ‘you want to take my life, do you, my pretty Puritan? But that’s more than dislike, that’s ingratitude! Come, come, calm yourself, my sweet girl! I thought you had softened. I am not one of those tyrants who detain women by force. You don’t love me. With my usual fatuity I doubted it; now I am convinced. Tomorrow you shall be free.’

“I had but one wish; that was that he should kill me.

“‘Beware!’ said I, ‘for my liberty is your dishonor.’

“‘Explain yourself, my pretty sibyl!’

“‘Yes; for as soon as I leave this place I will tell everything. I will proclaim the violence you have used toward me. I will describe my captivity. I will denounce this place of infamy. You are placed on high, my Lord, but tremble! Above you there is the king; above the king there is God!’

“However perfect master he was over himself, my persecutor allowed a movement of anger to escape him. I could not see the expression of his countenance, but I felt the arm tremble upon which my hand was placed.

“‘Then you shall not leave this place,’ said he.

“‘Very well,’ cried I, ‘then the place of my punishment will be that of my tomb. I will die here, and you will see if a phantom that accuses is not more terrible than a living being that threatens!’

“‘You shall have no weapon left in your power.’

“‘There is a weapon which despair has placed within the reach of every creature who has the courage to use it. I will allow myself to die with hunger.’

“‘Come,’ said the wretch, ‘is not peace much better than such a war as that? I will restore you to liberty this moment; I will proclaim you a piece of immaculate virtue; I will name you the Lucretia of England.’

“‘And I will say that you are the Sextus. I will denounce you before men, as I have denounced you before God; and if it be necessary that, like Lucretia, I should sign my accusation with my blood, I will sign it.’

“‘Ah!’ said my enemy, in a jeering tone, ‘that’s quite another thing. My faith! everything considered, you are very well off here. You shall want for nothing, and if you let yourself die of hunger that will be your own fault.’

“At these words he retired. I heard the door open and shut, and I remained overwhelmed, less, I confess it, by my grief than by the mortification of not having avenged myself.

“He kept his word. All the day, all the next night passed away without my seeing him again. But I also kept my word with him, and I neither ate nor drank. I was, as I told him, resolved to die of hunger.

“I passed the day and the night in prayer, for I hoped that God would pardon me my suicide.

“The second night the door opened; I was lying on the floor, for my strength began to abandon me.

“At the noise I raised myself up on one hand.

“‘Well,’ said a voice which vibrated in too terrible a manner in my ear not to be recognized, ‘well! Are we softened a little? Will we not pay for our liberty with a single promise of silence? Come, I am a good sort of a prince,’ added he, ‘and although I like not Puritans I do them justice; and it is the same with Puritanesses, when they are pretty. Come, take a little oath for me on the cross; I won’t ask anything more of you.’

“‘On the cross,’ cried I, rising, for at that abhorred voice I had recovered all my strength, ‘on the cross I swear that no promise, no menace, no force, no torture, shall close my mouth! On the cross I swear to denounce you everywhere as a murderer, as a thief of honor, as a base coward! On the cross I swear, if I ever leave this place, to call down vengeance upon you from the whole human race!’

“‘Beware!’ said the voice, in a threatening accent that I had never yet heard. ‘I have an extraordinary means which I will not employ but in the last extremity to close your mouth, or at least to prevent anyone from believing a word you may utter.’

“I mustered all my strength to reply to him with a burst of laughter.

“He saw that it was a merciless war between us--a war to the death.

“‘Listen!’ said he. ‘I give you the rest of tonight and all day tomorrow. Reflect: promise to be silent, and riches, consideration, even honor, shall surround you; threaten to speak, and I will condemn you to infamy.’

“‘You?’ cried I. ‘You?’

“‘To interminable, ineffaceable infamy!’

“‘You?’ repeated I. Oh, I declare to you, Felton, I thought him mad!

“‘Yes, yes, I!’ replied he.

“‘Oh, leave me!’ said I. ‘Begone, if you do not desire to see me dash my head against that wall before your eyes!’

“‘Very well, it is your own doing. Till tomorrow evening, then!’

“‘Till tomorrow evening, then!’ replied I, allowing myself to fall, and biting the carpet with rage.”

Felton leaned for support upon a piece of furniture; and Milady saw, with the joy of a demon, that his strength would fail him perhaps before the end of her recital.

Means For Classical Tragedy

After a moment of silence employed by Milady in observing the young man who listened to her, Milady continued her recital.

“It was nearly three days since I had eaten or drunk anything. I suffered frightful torments. At times there passed before me clouds which pressed my brow, which veiled my eyes; this was delirium.

“When the evening came I was so weak that every time I fainted I thanked God, for I thought I was about to die.

“In the midst of one of these swoons I heard the door open. Terror recalled me to myself.

“He entered the apartment followed by a man in a mask. He was masked likewise; but I knew his step, I knew his voice, I knew him by that imposing bearing which hell has bestowed upon his person for the curse of humanity.

“‘Well,’ said he to me, ‘have you made your mind up to take the oath I requested of you?’

“‘You have said Puritans have but one word. Mine you have heard, and that is to pursue you--on earth to the tribunal of men, in heaven to the tribunal of God.’

“‘You persist, then?’

“‘I swear it before the God who hears me. I will take the whole world as a witness of your crime, and that until I have found an avenger.’

“‘You are a prostitute,’ said he, in a voice of thunder, ‘and you shall undergo the punishment of prostitutes! Branded in the eyes of the world you invoke, try to prove to that world that you are neither guilty nor mad!’

“Then, addressing the man who accompanied him, ‘Executioner,’ said he, ‘do your duty.’”

“Oh, his name, his name!” cried Felton. “His name, tell it me!”

“Then in spite of my cries, in spite of my resistance--for I began to comprehend that there was a question of something worse than death--the executioner seized me, threw me on the floor, fastened me with his bonds, and suffocated by sobs, almost without sense, invoking God, who did not listen to me, I uttered all at once a frightful cry of pain and shame. A burning fire, a red-hot iron, the iron of the executioner, was imprinted on my shoulder.”

Felton uttered a groan.

“Here,” said Milady, rising with the majesty of a queen, “here, Felton, behold the new martyrdom invented for a pure young girl, the victim of the brutality of a villain. Learn to know the heart of men, and henceforth make yourself less easily the instrument of their unjust vengeance.”

Milady, with a rapid gesture, opened her robe, tore the cambric that covered her bosom, and red with feigned anger and simulated shame, showed the young man the ineffaceable impression which dishonored that beautiful shoulder.

“But,” cried Felton, “that is a fleur-de-lis which I see there.”

“And therein consisted the infamy,” replied Milady. “The brand of England!--it would be necessary to prove what tribunal had imposed it on me, and I could have made a public appeal to all the tribunals of the kingdom; but the brand of France!--oh, by that, by that I was branded indeed!”

This was too much for Felton.

Pale, motionless, overwhelmed by this frightful revelation, dazzled by the superhuman beauty of this woman who unveiled herself before him with an immodesty which appeared to him sublime, he ended by falling on his knees before her as the early Christians did before those pure and holy martyrs whom the persecution of the emperors gave up in the circus to the sanguinary sensuality of the populace. The brand disappeared; the beauty alone remained.

“Pardon! Pardon!” cried Felton, “oh, pardon!”

Milady read in his eyes love! love!

“Pardon for what?” asked she.

“Pardon me for having joined with your persecutors.”

Milady held out her hand to him.

“So beautiful! so young!” cried Felton, covering that hand with his kisses.

Milady let one of those looks fall upon him which make a slave of a king.

Felton was a Puritan; he abandoned the hand of this woman to kiss her feet.

He no longer loved her; he adored her.

When this crisis was past, when Milady appeared to have resumed her self-possession, which she had never lost; when Felton had seen her recover with the veil of chastity those treasures of love which were only concealed from him to make him desire them the more ardently, he said, “Ah, now! I have only one thing to ask of you; that is, the name of your true executioner. For to me there is but one; the other was an instrument, that was all.”

“What, brother!” cried Milady, “must I name him again? Have you not yet divined who he is?”

“What?” cried Felton, “he--again he--always he? What--the truly guilty?”

“The truly guilty,” said Milady, “is the ravager of England, the persecutor of true believers, the base ravisher of the honor of so many women--he who, to satisfy a caprice of his corrupt heart, is about to make England shed so much blood, who protects the Protestants today and will betray them tomorrow--”

“Buckingham! It is, then, Buckingham!” cried Felton, in a high state of excitement.

Milady concealed her face in her hands, as if she could not endure the shame which this name recalled to her.

“Buckingham, the executioner of this angelic creature!” cried Felton. “And thou hast not hurled thy thunder at him, my God! And thou hast left him noble, honored, powerful, for the ruin of us all!”

“God abandons him who abandons himself,” said Milady.

“But he will draw upon his head the punishment reserved for the damned!” said Felton, with increasing exultation. “He wills that human vengeance should precede celestial justice.”

“Men fear him and spare him.”

“I,” said Felton, “I do not fear him, nor will I spare him.”

The soul of Milady was bathed in an infernal joy.

“But how can Lord de Winter, my protector, my father,” asked Felton, “possibly be mixed up with all this?”

“Listen, Felton,” resumed Milady, “for by the side of base and contemptible men there are often found great and generous natures. I had an affianced husband, a man whom I loved, and who loved me--a heart like yours, Felton, a man like you. I went to him and told him all; he knew me, that man did, and did not doubt an instant. He was a nobleman, a man equal to Buckingham in every respect. He said nothing; he only girded on his sword, wrapped himself in his cloak, and went straight to Buckingham Palace.

“Yes, yes,” said Felton; “I understand how he would act. But with such men it is not the sword that should be employed; it is the poniard.”

“Buckingham had left England the day before, sent as ambassador to Spain, to demand the hand of the Infanta for King Charles I, who was then only Prince of Wales. My affianced husband returned.

“‘Hear me,’ said he; ‘this man has gone, and for the moment has consequently escaped my vengeance; but let us be united, as we were to have been, and then leave it to Lord de Winter to maintain his own honor and that of his wife.’”

“Lord de Winter!” cried Felton.

“Yes,” said Milady, “Lord de Winter; and now you can understand it all, can you not? Buckingham remained nearly a year absent. A week before his return Lord de Winter died, leaving me his sole heir. Whence came the blow? God who knows all, knows without doubt; but as for me, I accuse nobody.”

“Oh, what an abyss; what an abyss!” cried Felton.

“Lord de Winter died without revealing anything to his brother. The terrible secret was to be concealed till it burst, like a clap of thunder, over the head of the guilty. Your protector had seen with pain this marriage of his elder brother with a portionless girl. I was sensible that I could look for no support from a man disappointed in his hopes of an inheritance. I went to France, with a determination to remain there for the rest of my life. But all my fortune is in England. Communication being closed by the war, I was in want of everything. I was then obliged to come back again. Six days ago, I landed at Portsmouth.”

“Well?” said Felton.

“Well; Buckingham heard by some means, no doubt, of my return. He spoke of me to Lord de Winter, already prejudiced against me, and told him that his sister-in-law was a prostitute, a branded woman. The noble and pure voice of my husband was no longer here to defend me. Lord de Winter believed all that was told him with so much the more ease that it was his interest to believe it. He caused me to be arrested, had me conducted hither, and placed me under your guard. You know the rest. The day after tomorrow he banishes me, he transports me; the day after tomorrow he exiles me among the infamous. Oh, the train is well laid; the plot is clever. My honor will not survive it! You see, then, Felton, I can do nothing but die. Felton, give me that knife!”

And at these words, as if all her strength was exhausted, Milady sank, weak and languishing, into the arms of the young officer, who, intoxicated with love, anger, and voluptuous sensations hitherto unknown, received her with transport, pressed her against his heart, all trembling at the breath from that charming mouth, bewildered by the contact with that palpitating bosom.

“No, no,” said he. “No, you shall live honored and pure; you shall live to triumph over your enemies.”

Milady put him from her slowly with her hand, while drawing him nearer with her look; but Felton, in his turn, embraced her more closely, imploring her like a divinity.

“Oh, death, death!” said she, lowering her voice and her eyelids, “oh, death, rather than shame! Felton, my brother, my friend, I conjure you!”

“No,” cried Felton, “no; you shall live and you shall be avenged.”

“Felton, I bring misfortune to all who surround me! Felton, abandon me! Felton, let me die!”

“Well, then, we will live and die together!” cried he, pressing his lips to those of the prisoner.

Several strokes resounded on the door; this time Milady really pushed him away from her.

“Hark,” said she, “we have been overheard! Someone is coming! All is over! We are lost!”

“No,” said Felton; it is only the sentinel warning me that they are about to change the guard.”

“Then run to the door, and open it yourself.”

Felton obeyed; this woman was now his whole thought, his whole soul.

He found himself face to face with a sergeant commanding a watch- patrol.

“Well, what is the matter?” asked the young lieutenant.

“You told me to open the door if I heard anyone cry out,” said the soldier; “but you forgot to leave me the key. I heard you cry out, without understanding what you said. I tried to open the door, but it was locked inside; then I called the sergeant.”

“And here I am,” said the sergeant.

Felton, quite bewildered, almost mad, stood speechless.

Milady plainly perceived that it was now her turn to take part in the scene. She ran to the table, and seizing the knife which Felton had laid down, exclaimed, “And by what right will you prevent me from dying?”

“Great God!” exclaimed Felton, on seeing the knife glitter in her hand.

At that moment a burst of ironical laughter resounded through the corridor. The baron, attracted by the noise, in his chamber gown, his sword under his arm, stood in the doorway.

“Ah,” said he, “here we are, at the last act of the tragedy. You see, Felton, the drama has gone through all the phases I named; but be easy, no blood will flow.”

Milady perceived that all was lost unless she gave Felton an immediate and terrible proof of her courage.

“You are mistaken, my Lord, blood will flow; and may that blood fall back on those who cause it to flow!”

Felton uttered a cry, and rushed toward her. He was too late; Milady had stabbed herself.

But the knife had fortunately, we ought to say skillfully, come in contact with the steel busk, which at that period, like a cuirass, defended the chests of women. It had glided down it, tearing the robe, and had penetrated slantingly between the flesh and the ribs. Milady’s robe was not the less stained with blood in a second.

Milady fell down, and seemed to be in a swoon.

Felton snatched away the knife.

“See, my Lord,” said he, in a deep, gloomy tone, “here is a woman who was under my guard, and who has killed herself!”

“Be at ease, Felton,” said Lord de Winter. “She is not dead; demons do not die so easily. Be tranquil, and go wait for me in my chamber.”

“But, my Lord--”

“Go, sir, I command you!”

At this injunction from his superior, Felton obeyed; but in going out, he put the knife into his bosom.

As to Lord de Winter, he contented himself with calling the woman who waited on Milady, and when she was come, he recommended the prisoner, who was still fainting, to her care, and left them alone.

Meanwhile, all things considered and notwithstanding his suspicions, as the wound might be serious, he immediately sent off a mounted man to find a physician.

Escape

As Lord de Winter had thought, Milady’s wound was not dangerous. So soon as she was left alone with the woman whom the baron had summoned to her assistance she opened her eyes.

It was, however, necessary to affect weakness and pain--not a very difficult task for so finished an actress as Milady. Thus the poor woman was completely the dupe of the prisoner, whom, notwithstanding her hints, she persisted in watching all night.

But the presence of this woman did not prevent Milady from thinking.

There was no longer a doubt that Felton was convinced; Felton was hers. If an angel appeared to that young man as an accuser of Milady, he would take him, in the mental disposition in which he now found himself, for a messenger sent by the devil.

Milady smiled at this thought, for Felton was now her only hope-- her only means of safety.

But Lord de Winter might suspect him; Felton himself might now be watched!

Toward four o’clock in the morning the doctor arrived; but since the time Milady stabbed herself, however short, the wound had closed. The doctor could therefore measure neither the direction nor the depth of it; he only satisfied himself by Milady’s pulse that the case was not serious.

In the morning Milady, under the pretext that she had not slept well in the night and wanted rest, sent away the woman who attended her.

She had one hope, which was that Felton would appear at the breakfast hour; but Felton did not come.

Were her fears realized? Was Felton, suspected by the baron, about to fail her at the decisive moment? She had only one day left. Lord de Winter had announced her embarkation for the twenty-third, and it was now the morning of the twenty-second.

Nevertheless she still waited patiently till the hour for dinner.

Although she had eaten nothing in the morning, the dinner was brought in at its usual time. Milady then perceived, with terror, that the uniform of the soldiers who guarded her was changed.

Then she ventured to ask what had become of Felton.

She was told that he had left the castle an hour before on horseback. She inquired if the baron was still at the castle. The soldier replied that he was, and that he had given orders to be informed if the prisoner wished to speak to him.

Milady replied that she was too weak at present, and that her only desire was to be left alone.

The soldier went out, leaving the dinner served.

Felton was sent away. The marines were removed. Felton was then mistrusted.

This was the last blow to the prisoner.

Left alone, she arose. The bed, which she had kept from prudence and that they might believe her seriously wounded, burned her like a bed of fire. She cast a glance at the door; the baron had had a plank nailed over the grating. He no doubt feared that by this opening she might still by some diabolical means corrupt her guards.

Milady smiled with joy. She was free now to give way to her transports without being observed. She traversed her chamber with the excitement of a furious maniac or of a tigress shut up in an iron cage. Certes, if the knife had been left in her power, she would now have thought, not of killing herself, but of killing the baron.

At six o’clock Lord de Winter came in. He was armed at all points. This man, in whom Milady till that time had only seen a very simple gentleman, had become an admirable jailer. He appeared to foresee all, to divine all, to anticipate all.

A single look at Milady apprised him of all that was passing in her mind.

“Ay,!” said he, “I see; but you shall not kill me today. You have no longer a weapon; and besides, I am on my guard. You had begun to pervert my poor Felton. He was yielding to your infernal influence; but I will save him. He will never see you again; all is over. Get your clothes together. Tomorrow you will go. I had fixed the embarkation for the twenty-fourth; but I have reflected that the more promptly the affair takes place the more sure it will be. Tomorrow, by twelve o’clock, I shall have the order for your exile, signed, Buckingham. If you speak a single word to anyone before going aboard ship, my sergeant will blow your brains out. He has orders to do so. If when on the ship you speak a single word to anyone before the captain permits you, the captain will have you thrown into the sea. That is agreed upon.

Au revoir; then; that is all I have to say today. Tomorrow I will see you again, to take my leave.” With these words the baron went out. Milady had listened to all this menacing tirade with a smile of disdain on her lips, but rage in her heart.

Supper was served. Milady felt that she stood in need of all her strength. She did not know what might take place during this night which approached so menacingly--for large masses of cloud rolled over the face of the sky, and distant lightning announced a storm.

The storm broke about ten o’clock. Milady felt a consolation in seeing nature partake of the disorder of her heart. The thunder growled in the air like the passion and anger in her thoughts. It appeared to her that the blast as it swept along disheveled her brow, as it bowed the branches of the trees and bore away their leaves. She howled as the hurricane howled; and her voice was lost in the great voice of nature, which also seemed to groan with despair.

All at once she heard a tap at her window, and by the help of a flash of lightning she saw the face of a man appear behind the bars.

She ran to the window and opened it.

“Felton!” cried she. “I am saved.”

“Yes,” said Felton; “but silence, silence! I must have time to file through these bars. Only take care that I am not seen through the wicket.”

“Oh, it is a proof that the Lord is on our side, Felton,” replied Milady. “They have closed up the grating with a board.”

“That is well; God has made them senseless,” said Felton.

“But what must I do?” asked Milady.

“Nothing, nothing, only shut the window. Go to bed, or at least lie down in your clothes. As soon as I have done I will knock on one of the panes of glass. But will you be able to follow me?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Your wound?”

“Gives me pain, but will not prevent my walking.”

“Be ready, then, at the first signal.”

Milady shut the window, extinguished the lamp, and went, as Felton had desired her, to lie down on the bed. Amid the moaning of the storm she heard the grinding of the file upon the bars, and by the light of every flash she perceived the shadow of Felton through the panes.

She passed an hour without breathing, panting, with a cold sweat upon her brow, and her heart oppressed by frightful agony at every movement she heard in the corridor.

There are hours which last a year.

At the expiration of an hour, Felton tapped again.

Milady sprang out of bed and opened the window. Two bars removed formed an opening for a man to pass through.

“Are you ready?” asked Felton.

“Yes. Must I take anything with me?”

“Money, if you have any.”

“Yes; fortunately they have left me all I had.”

“So much the better, for I have expended all mine in chartering a vessel.”

“Here!” said Milady, placing a bag full of louis in Felton’s hands.

Felton took the bag and threw it to the foot of the wall.

“Now,” said he, “will you come?”

“I am ready.”

Milady mounted upon a chair and passed the upper part of her body through the window. She saw the young officer suspended over the abyss by a ladder of ropes. For the first time an emotion of terror reminded her that she was a woman.

The dark space frightened her.

“I expected this,” said Felton.

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing!” said Milady. “I will descend with my eyes shut.”

“Have you confidence in me?” said Felton.

“You ask that?”

“Put your two hands together. Cross them; that’s right!”

Felton tied her two wrists together with his handkerchief, and then with a cord over the handkerchief.

“What are you doing?” asked Milady, with surprise.

“Pass your arms around my neck, and fear nothing.”

“But I shall make you lose your balance, and we shall both be dashed to pieces.”

“Don’t be afraid. I am a sailor.”

Not a second was to be lost. Milady passed her two arms round Felton’s neck, and let herself slip out of the window. Felton began to descend the ladder slowly, step by step. Despite the weight of two bodies, the blast of the hurricane shook them in the air.

All at once Felton stopped.

“What is the matter?” asked Milady.

“Silence,” said Felton, “I hear footsteps.”

“We are discovered!”

There was a silence of several seconds.

“No,” said Felton, “it is nothing.”

“But what, then, is the noise?”

“That of the patrol going their rounds.”

“Where is their road?”

“Just under us.”

“They will discover us!”

“No, if it does not lighten.”

“But they will run against the bottom of the ladder.”

“Fortunately it is too short by six feet.”

“Here they are! My God!”

“Silence!”

Both remained suspended, motionless and breathless, within twenty paces of the ground, while the patrol passed beneath them laughing and talking. This was a terrible moment for the fugitives.

The patrol passed. The noise of their retreating footsteps and the murmur of their voices soon died away.

“Now,” said Felton, “we are safe.”

Milady breathed a deep sigh and fainted.

Felton continued to descend. Near the bottom of the ladder, when he found no more support for his feet, he clung with his hands; at length, arrived at the last step, he let himself hang by the strength of his wrists, and touched the ground. He stooped down, picked up the bag of money, and placed it between his teeth. Then he took Milady in his arms, and set off briskly in the direction opposite to that which the patrol had taken. He soon left the pathway of the patrol, descended across the rocks, and when arrived on the edge of the sea, whistled.

A similar signal replied to him; and five minutes after, a boat appeared, rowed by four men.

The boat approached as near as it could to the shore; but there was not depth enough of water for it to touch land. Felton walked into the sea up to his middle, being unwilling to trust his precious burden to anybody.

Fortunately the storm began to subside, but still the sea was disturbed. The little boat bounded over the waves like a nut- shell.

“To the sloop,” said Felton, “and row quickly.”

The four men bent to their oars, but the sea was too high to let them get much hold of it.

However, they left the castle behind; that was the principal thing. The night was extremely dark. It was almost impossible to see the shore from the boat; they would therefore be less likely to see the boat from the shore.

A black point floated on the sea. That was the sloop. While the boat was advancing with all the speed its four rowers could give it, Felton untied the cord and then the handkerchief which bound Milady’s hands together. When her hands were loosed he took some sea water and sprinkled it over her face.

Milady breathed a sigh, and opened her eyes.

“Where am I?” said she.

“Saved!” replied the young officer.

“Oh, saved, saved!” cried she. “Yes, there is the sky; here is the sea! The air I breathe is the air of liberty! Ah, thanks, Felton, thanks!”

The young man pressed her to his heart.

“But what is the matter with my hands!” asked Milady; “it seems as if my wrists had been crushed in a vice.”

Milady held out her arms; her wrists were bruised.

“Alas!” said Felton, looking at those beautiful hands, and shaking his head sorrowfully.

“Oh, it’s nothing, nothing!” cried Milady. “I remember now.”

Milady looked around her, as if in search of something.

“It is there,” said Felton, touching the bag of money with his foot.

They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat; the boat replied.

“What vessel is that?” asked Milady.

“The one I have hired for you.”

“Where will it take me?”

“Where you please, after you have put me on shore at Portsmouth.”

“What are you going to do at Portsmouth?” asked Milady.

“Accomplish the orders of Lord de Winter,” said Felton, with a gloomy smile.

“What orders?” asked Milady.

“You do not understand?” asked Felton.

“No; explain yourself, I beg.”

“As he mistrusted me, he determined to guard you himself, and sent me in his place to get Buckingham to sign the order for your transportation.”

“But if he mistrusted you, how could he confide such an order to you?”

“How could I know what I was the bearer of?”

“That’s true! And you are going to Portsmouth?”

“I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third, and Buckingham sets sail tomorrow with his fleet.”

“He sets sail tomorrow! Where for?”

“For La Rochelle.”

“He need not sail!” cried Milady, forgetting her usual presence of mind.

“Be satisfied,” replied Felton; “he will not sail.”

Milady started with joy. She could read to the depths of the heart of this young man; the death of Buckingham was written there at full length.

“Felton,” cried she, “you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If you die, I will die with you; that is all I can say to you.”

“Silence!” cried Felton; “we are here.”

In fact, they touched the sloop.

Felton mounted the ladder first, and gave his hand to Milady, while the sailors supported her, for the sea was still much agitated.

An instant after they were on the deck.

“Captain,” said Felton, “this is person of whom I spoke to you, and whom you must convey safe and sound to France.”

“For a thousand pistoles,” said the captain.

“I have paid you five hundred of them.”

“That’s correct,” said the captain.

“And here are the other five hundred,” replied Milady, placing her hand upon the bag of gold.

“No,” said the captain, “I make but one bargain; and I have agreed with this young man that the other five hundred shall not be due to me till we arrive at Boulogne.”

“And shall we arrive there?”

“Safe and sound, as true as my name’s Jack Butler.”

“Well,” said Milady, “if you keep your word, instead of five hundred, I will give you a thousand pistoles.”

“Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful lady,” cried the captain; “and may God often send me such passengers as your Ladyship!”

“Meanwhile,” said Felton, “convey me to the little bay of--; you know it was agreed you should put in there.”

The captain replied by ordering the necessary maneuvers, and toward seven o’clock in the morning the little vessel cast anchor in the bay that had been named.

During this passage, Felton related everything to Milady--how, instead of going to London, he had chartered the little vessel; how he had returned; how he had scaled the wall by fastening cramps in the interstices of the stones, as he ascended, to give him foothold; and how, when he had reached the bars, he fastened his ladder. Milady knew the rest.

On her side, Milady tried to encourage Felton in his project; but at the first words which issued from her mouth, she plainly saw that the young fanatic stood more in need of being moderated than urged.

It was agreed that Milady should wait for Felton till ten o’clock; if he did not return by ten o’clock she was to sail.

In that case, and supposing he was at liberty, he was to rejoin her in France, at the convent of the Carmelites at Béthune.

What Took Place At Portsmouth August 23, 1628

Felton took leave of Milady as a brother about to go for a mere walk takes leave of his sister, kissing her hand.

His whole body appeared in its ordinary state of calmness, only an unusual fire beamed from his eyes, like the effects of a fever; his brow was more pale than it generally was; his teeth were clenched, and his speech had a short dry accent which indicated that something dark was at work within him.

As long as he remained in the boat which conveyed him to land, he kept his face toward Milady, who, standing on the deck, followed him with her eyes. Both were free from the fear of pursuit; nobody ever came into Milady’s apartment before nine o’clock, and it would require three hours to go from the castle to London.

Felton jumped onshore, climbed the little ascent which led to the top of the cliff, saluted Milady a last time, and took his course toward the city.

At the end of a hundred paces, the ground began to decline, and he could only see the mast of the sloop.

He immediately ran in the direction of Portsmouth, which he saw at nearly half a league before him, standing out in the haze of the morning, with its houses and towers.

Beyond Portsmouth the sea was covered with vessels whose masts, like a forest of poplars despoiled by the winter, bent with each breath of the wind.

Felton, in his rapid walk, reviewed in his mind all the accusations against the favorite of James I and Charles I, furnished by two years of premature meditation and a long sojourn among the Puritans.

When he compared the public crimes of this minister--startling crimes, European crimes, if so we may say--with the private and unknown crimes with which Milady had charged him, Felton found that the more culpable of the two men which formed the character of Buckingham was the one of whom the public knew not the life. This was because his love, so strange, so new, and so ardent, made him view the infamous and imaginary accusations of Milady de Winter as, through a magnifying glass, one views as frightful monsters atoms in reality imperceptible by the side of an ant.

The rapidity of his walk heated his blood still more; the idea that he left behind him, exposed to a frightful vengeance, the woman he loved, or rather whom he adored as a saint, the emotion he had experienced, present fatigue--all together exalted his mind above human feeling.

He entered Portsmouth about eight o’clock in the morning. The whole population was on foot; drums were beating in the streets and in the port; the troops about to embark were marching toward the sea.

Felton arrived at the palace of the Admiralty, covered with dust, and streaming with perspiration. His countenance, usually so pale, was purple with heat and passion. The sentinel wanted to repulse him; but Felton called to the officer of the post, and drawing from his pocket the letter of which he was the bearer, he said, “A pressing message from Lord de Winter.”

At the name of Lord de Winter, who was known to be one of his Grace’s most intimate friends, the officer of the post gave orders to let Felton pass, who, besides, wore the uniform of a naval officer.

Felton darted into the palace.

At the moment he entered the vestibule, another man was entering likewise, dusty, out of breath, leaving at the gate a post horse, which, on reaching the palace, tumbled on his foreknees.

Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke’s confidential lackey, at the same moment. Felton named Lord de Winter; the unknown would not name anybody, and pretended that it was to the duke alone he would make himself known. Each was anxious to gain admission before the other.

Patrick, who knew Lord de Winter was in affairs of the service, and in relations of friendship with the duke, gave the preference to the one who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, and it was easily to be seen how he cursed the delay.

The valet led Felton through a large hall in which waited the deputies from La Rochelle, headed by the Prince de Soubise, and introduced him into a closet where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his toilet, upon which, as at all times, he bestowed extraordinary attention.

“Lieutenant Felton, from Lord de Winter,” said Patrick.

“From Lord de Winter!” repeated Buckingham; “let him come in.”

Felton entered. At that moment Buckingham was throwing upon a couch a rich toilet robe, worked with gold, in order to put on a blue velvet doublet embroidered with pearls.

“Why didn’t the baron come himself?” demanded Buckingham. “I expected him this morning.”

“He desired me to tell your Grace,” replied Felton, “that he very much regretted not having that honor, but that he was prevented by the guard he is obliged to keep at the castle.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Buckingham; “he has a prisoner.”

“It is of that prisoner that I wish to speak to your Grace,” replied Felton.

“Well, then, speak!”

“That which I have to say of her can only be heard by yourself, my Lord!”

“Leave us, Patrick,” said Buckingham; “but remain within sound of the bell. I shall call you presently.”

Patrick went out.

“We are alone, sir,” said Buckingham; “speak!”

“My Lord,” said Felton, “the Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young woman named Charlotte Backson.”

“Yes, sir; and I answered him, to bring or send me that order and I would sign it.”

“Here it is, my Lord.”

“Give it to me,” said the duke.

And taking it from Felton, he cast a rapid glance over the paper, and perceiving that it was the one that had been mentioned to him, he placed it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it.

“Pardon, my Lord,” said Felton, stopping the duke; “but does your Grace know that the name of Charlotte Backson is not the true name of this young woman?”

“Yes, sir, I know it,” replied the duke, dipping the quill in the ink.

“Then your Grace knows her real name?” asked Felton, in a sharp tone.

“I know it”; and the duke put the quill to the paper. Felton grew pale.

“And knowing that real name, my Lord,” replied Felton, “will you sign it all the same?”

“Doubtless,” said Buckingham, “and rather twice than once.”

“I cannot believe,” continued Felton, in a voice that became more sharp and rough, “that your Grace knows that it is to Milady de Winter this relates.”

“I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it.”

“And will your Grace sign that order without remorse?”

Buckingham looked at the young man haughtily.

“Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and that I am very foolish to answer them?”

“Reply to them, my Lord,” said Felton; “the circumstances are more serious than you perhaps believe.”

Buckingham reflected that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter, undoubtedly spoke in his name, and softened.

“Without remorse,” said he. “The baron knows, as well as myself, that Milady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her very favorably to commute her punishment to transportation.” The duke put his pen to the paper.

“You will not sign that order, my Lord!” said Felton, making a step toward the duke.

“I will not sign this order! And why not?”

“Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the lady.”

“I should do her justice by sending her to Tyburn,” said Buckingham. “This lady is infamous.”

“My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I demand her liberty of you.”

“Bah! Are you mad, to talk to me thus?” said Buckingham.

“My Lord, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. But, my Lord, think of what you’re about to do, and beware of going too far!”

“What do you say? God pardon me!” cried Buckingham, “I really think he threatens me!”

“No, my Lord, I still plead. And I say to you: one drop of water suffices to make the full vase overflow; one slight fault may draw down punishment upon the head spared, despite many crimes.”

“Mr. Felton,” said Buckingham, “you will withdraw, and place yourself at once under arrest.”

“You will hear me to the end, my Lord. You have seduced this young girl; you have outraged, defiled her. Repair your crimes toward her; let her go free, and I will exact nothing else from you.”

“You will exact!” said Buckingham, looking at Felton with astonishment, and dwelling upon each syllable of the three words as he pronounced them.

“My Lord,” continued Felton, becoming more excited as he spoke, “my Lord, beware! All England is tired of your iniquities; my Lord, you have abused the royal power, which you have almost usurped; my Lord, you are held in horror by God and men. God will punish you hereafter, but I will punish you here!”

“Ah, this is too much!” cried Buckingham, making a step toward the door.

Felton barred his passage.

“I ask it humbly of you, my Lord” said he; “sign the order for the liberation of Milady de Winter. Remember that she is a woman whom you have dishonored.”

“Withdraw, sir,” said Buckingham, “or I will call my attendant, and have you placed in irons.”

“You shall not call,” said Felton, throwing himself between the duke and the bell placed on a stand encrusted with silver. “Beware, my Lord, you are in the hands of God!”

“In the hands of the devil, you mean!” cried Buckingham, raising his voice so as to attract the notice of his people, without absolutely shouting.

“Sign, my Lord; sign the liberation of Milady de Winter,” said Felton, holding out paper to the duke.

“By force? You are joking! Holloa, Patrick!”

“Sign, my Lord!”

“Never.”

“Never?”

“Help!” shouted the duke; and at the same time he sprang toward his sword.

But Felton did not give him time to draw it. He held the knife with which Milady had stabbed herself, open in his bosom; at one bound he was upon the duke.

At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying, “A letter from France, my Lord.”

“From France!” cried Buckingham, forgetting everything in thinking from whom that letter came.

Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into his side up to the handle.

“Ah, traitor,” cried Buckingham, “you have killed me!”

“Murder!” screamed Patrick.

Felton cast his eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door free, he rushed into the next chamber, in which, as we have said, the deputies from La Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as possible, and rushed toward the staircase; but upon the first step he met Lord de Winter, who, seeing him pale, confused, livid, and stained with blood both on his hands and face, seized him by the throat, crying, “I knew it! I guessed it! But too late by a minute, unfortunate, unfortunate that I am!”

Felton made no resistance. Lord de Winter placed him in the hands of the guards, who led him, while awaiting further orders, to a little terrace commanding the sea; and then the baron hastened to the duke’s chamber.

At the cry uttered by the duke and the scream of Patrick, the man whom Felton had met in the antechamber rushed into the chamber.

He found the duke reclining upon a sofa, with his hand pressed upon the wound.

“Laporte,” said the duke, in a dying voice, “Laporte, do you come from her?”

“Yes, monseigneur,” replied the faithful cloak bearer of Anne of Austria, “but too late, perhaps.”

“Silence, Laporte, you may be overheard. Patrick, let no one enter. Oh, I cannot tell what she says to me! My God, I am dying!”

And the duke swooned.

Meanwhile, Lord de Winter, the deputies, the leaders of the expedition, the officers of Buckingham’s household, had all made their way into the chamber. Cries of despair resounded on all sides. The news, which filled the palace with tears and groans, soon became known, and spread itself throughout the city.

The report of a cannon announced that something new and unexpected had taken place.

Lord de Winter tore his hair.

“Too late by a minute!” cried he, “too late by a minute! Oh, my God, my God! what a misfortune!”

He had been informed at seven o’clock in the morning that a rope ladder floated from one of the windows of the castle; he had hastened to Milady’s chamber, had found it empty, the window open, and the bars filed, had remembered the verbal caution D’Artagnan had transmitted to him by his messenger, had trembled for the duke, and running to the stable without taking time to have a horse saddled, had jumped upon the first he found, had galloped off like the wind, had alighted below in the courtyard, had ascended the stairs precipitately, and on the top step, as we have said, had encountered Felton.

The duke, however, was not dead. He recovered a little, reopened his eyes, and hope revived in all hearts.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “leave me along with Patrick and Laporte--ah, is that you, De Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning! See the state in which he has put me.”

“Oh, my Lord!” cried the baron, “I shall never console myself.”

“And you would be quite wrong, my dear De Winter,” said Buckingham, holding out his hand to him. “I do not know the man who deserves being regretted during the whole life of another man; but leave us, I pray you.”

The baron went out sobbing.

There only remained in the closet of the wounded duke Laporte and Patrick. A physician was sought for, but none was yet found.

“You will live, my Lord, you will live!” repeated the faithful servant of Anne of Austria, on his knees before the duke’s sofa.

“What has she written to me?” said Buckingham, feebly, streaming with blood, and suppressing his agony to speak of her he loved, “what has she written to me? Read me her letter.”

“Oh, my Lord!” said Laporte.

“Obey, Laporte, do you not see I have no time to lose?”

Laporte broke the seal, and placed the paper before the eyes of the duke; but Buckingham in vain tried to make out the writing.

“Read!” said he, “read! I cannot see. Read, then! For soon, perhaps, I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written to me.”

Laporte made no further objection, and read:

“My Lord, By that which, since I have known you, have suffered by you and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to countermand those great armaments which you are preparing against France, to put an end to a war of which it is publicly said religion is the ostensible cause, and of which, it is generally whispered, your love for me is the concealed cause. This war may not only bring great catastrophes upon England and France, but misfortune upon you, my Lord, for which I should never console myself.

“Be careful of your life, which is menaced, and which will be dear to me from the moment I am not obliged to see an enemy in you.

“Your affectionate “Anne

Buckingham collected all his remaining strength to listen to the reading of the letter; then, when it was ended, as if he had met with a bitter disappointment, he asked, “Have you nothing else to say to me by the living voice, Laporte?”

“The queen charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for she had advice that your assassination would be attempted.”

“And is that all--is that all?” replied Buckingham, impatiently.

“She likewise charged me to tell you that she still loved you.”

“Ah,” said Buckingham, “God be praised! My death, then, will not be to her as the death of a stranger!”

Laporte burst into tears.

“Patrick,” said the due, “bring me the casket in which the diamond studs were kept.”

Patrick brought the object desired, which Laporte recognized as having belonged to the queen.

“Now the scent bag of white satin, on which her cipher is embroidered in pearls.”

Patrick again obeyed.

“Here, Laporte,” said Buckingham, “these are the only tokens I ever received from her--this silver casket and these two letters. You will restore them to her Majesty; and as a last memorial”--he looked round for some valuable object--”you will add--”

He still sought; but his eyes, darkened by death, encountered only the knife which had fallen from the hand of Felton, still smoking with the blood spread over its blade.

“And you will add to them this knife,” said the duke, pressing the hand of Laporte. He had just strength enough to place the scent bag at the bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into it, making a sign to Laporte that he was no longer able to speak; than, in a last convulsion, which this time he had not the power to combat, he slipped from the sofa to the floor.

Patrick uttered a loud cry.

Buckingham tried to smile a last time; but death checked his thought, which remained engraved on his brow like a last kiss of love.

At this moment the duke’s surgeon arrived, quite terrified; he was already on board the admiral’s ship, where they had been obliged to seek him.

He approached the duke, took his hand, held it for an instant in his own, and letting it fall, “All is useless,” said he, “he is dead.”

“Dead, dead!” cried Patrick.

At this cry all the crowd re-entered the apartment, and throughout the palace and town there was nothing but consternation and tumult.

As soon as Lord de Winter saw Buckingham was dead, he ran to Felton, whom the soldiers still guarded on the terrace of the palace.

“Wretch!” said he to the young man, who since the death of Buckingham had regained that coolness and self-possession which never after abandoned him, “wretch! what have you done?”

“I have avenged myself!” said he.

“Avenged yourself,” said the baron. “Rather say that you have served as an instrument to that accursed woman; but I swear to you that this crime shall be her last.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” replied Felton, quietly, “and I am ignorant of whom you are speaking, my Lord. I killed the Duke of Buckingham because he twice refused you yourself to appoint me captain; I have punished him for his injustice, that is all.”

De Winter, stupefied, looked on while the soldiers bound Felton, and could not tell what to think of such insensibility.

One thing alone, however, threw a shade over the pallid brow of Felton. At every noise he heard, the simple Puritan fancied he recognized the step and voice of Milady coming to throw herself into his arms, to accuse herself, and die with him.

All at once he started. His eyes became fixed upon a point of the sea, commanded by the terrace where he was. With the eagle glance of a sailor he had recognized there, where another would have seen only a gull hovering over the waves, the sail of a sloop which was directed toward the cost of France.

He grew deadly pale, placed his hand upon his heart, which was breaking, and at once perceived all the treachery.

“One last favor, my Lord!” said he to the baron.

“What?” asked his Lordship.

“What o’clock is it?”

The baron drew out his watch. “It wants ten minutes to nine,” said he.

Milady had hastened her departure by an hour and a half. As soon as she heard the cannon which announced the fatal event, she had ordered the anchor to be weighed. The vessel was making way under a blue sky, at great distance from the coast.

“God has so willed it!” said he, with the resignation of a fanatic; but without, however, being able to take his eyes from that ship, on board of which he doubtless fancied he could distinguish the white outline of her to whom he had sacrificed his life.

De Winter followed his look, observed his feelings, and guessed all.

“Be punished alone, for the first, miserable man!” said Lord de Winter to Felton, who was being dragged away with his eyes turned toward the sea; “but I swear to you by the memory of my brother whom I have loved so much that your accomplice is not saved.”

Felton lowered his head without pronouncing a syllable.

As to Lord de Winter, he descended the stairs rapidly, and went straight to the port.

In France

The first fear of the King of England, Charles I, on learning of the death of the duke, was that such terrible news might discourage the Rochellais; he tried, says Richelieu in his Memoirs, to conceal it from them as long as possible, closing all the ports of his kingdom, and carefully keeping watch that no vessel should sail until the army which Buckingham was getting together had gone, taking upon himself, in default of Buckingham, to superintend the departure.

He carried the strictness of this order so far as to detain in England the ambassadors of Denmark, who had taken their leave, and the regular ambassador of Holland, who was to take back to the port of Flushing the Indian merchantmen of which Charles I had made restitution to the United Provinces.

But as he did not think of giving this order till five hours after the event--that is to say, till two o’clock in the afternoon--two vessels had already left the port, the one bearing, as we know, Milady, who, already anticipating the event, was further confirmed in that belief by seeing the black flag flying at the masthead of the admiral’s ship.

As to the second vessel, we will tell hereafter whom it carried, and how it set sail.

During this time nothing new occurred in the camp at La Rochelle; only the king, who was bored, as always, but perhaps a little more so in camp than elsewhere, resolved to go incognito and spend the festival of St. Louis at St. Germain, and asked the cardinal to order him an escort of only twenty Musketeers. The cardinal, who sometimes became weary of the king, granted this leave of absence with great pleasure to his royal lieutenant, who promised to return about the fifteenth of September.

M. de Tréville, being informed of this by his Eminence, packed his portmanteau; and as without knowing the cause he knew the great desire and even imperative need which his friends had of returning to Paris, it goes without saying that he fixed upon them to form part of the escort.

The four young men heard the news a quarter of an hour after M. de Tréville, for they were the first to whom he communicated it. It was then that D’Artagnan appreciated the favor the cardinal had conferred upon him in making him at last enter the Musketeers--for without that circumstance he would have been forced to remain in the camp while his companions left it.

It goes without saying that this impatience to return toward Paris had for a cause the danger which Mme. Bonacieux would run of meeting at the convent of Béthune with Milady, her mortal enemy. Aramis therefore had written immediately to Marie Michon, the seamstress at Tours who had such fine acquaintances, to obtain from the queen authority for Mme. Bonacieux to leave the convent, and to retire either into Lorraine or Belgium. They had not long to wait for an answer. Eight or ten days afterward Aramis received the following letter:

My Dear Cousin, Here is the authorization from my sister to withdraw our little servant from the convent of Béthune, the air of which you think is bad for her. My sister sends you this authorization with great pleasure, for she is very partial to the little girl, to whom she intends to be more serviceable hereafter.

I salute you,

Marie Michon

To this letter was added an order, conceived in these terms:

At the Louvre, August 10, 1628

The superior of the convent of Béthune will place in the hands of the person who shall present this note to her the novice who entered the convent upon my recommendation and under my patronage.

Anne

It may be easily imagined how the relationship between Aramis and a seamstress who called the queen her sister amuse the young men; but Aramis, after having blushed two or three times up to the whites of his eyes at the gross pleasantry of Porthos, begged his friends not to revert to the subject again, declaring that if a single word more was said to him about it, he would never again implore his cousins to interfere in such affairs.

There was no further question, therefore, about Marie Michon among the four Musketeers, who besides had what they wanted: that was, the order to withdraw Mme. Bonacieux from the convent of the Carmelites of Béthune. It was true that this order would not be of great use to them while they were in camp at La Rochelle; that is to say, at the other en of France. Therefore D’Artagnan was going to ask leave of absence of M. de Tréville, confiding to him candidly the importance of his departure, when the news was transmitted to him as well as to his three friends that the king was about to set out for Paris with an escort of twenty Musketeers, and that they formed part of the escort.

Their joy was great. The lackeys were sent on before with the baggage, and they set out on the morning of the sixteenth.

The cardinal accompanied his Majesty from Surgères to Mauzés; and there the king and his minister took leave of each other with great demonstrations of friendship.

The king, however, who sought distraction, while traveling as fast as possible--for he was anxious to be in Paris by the twenty-third--stopped from time to time to fly the magpie, a pastime for which the taste had been formerly inspired in him by De Luynes, and for which he had always preserved a great predilection. Out of the twenty Musketeers sixteen, when this took place, rejoiced greatly at this relaxation; but the other four cursed it heartily. D’Artagnan, in particular, had a perpetual buzzing in his ears, which Porthos explained thus: “A very great lady has told me that this means that somebody is talking of you somewhere.”

At length the escort passed through Paris on the twenty-third, in the night. The king thanked M. de Tréville, and permitted him to distribute furloughs for four days, on condition that the favored parties should not appear in any public place, under penalty of the Bastille.

The first four furloughs granted, as may be imagined, were to our four friends. Still further, Athos obtained of M. de Tréville six days instead of four, and introduced into these six days two more nights--for they set out on the twenty-fourth at five o’clock in the evening, and as a further kindness M. de Tréville post-dated the leave to the morning of the twenty-fifth.

“Good Lord!” said D’Artagnan, who, as we have often said, never stumbled at anything. “It appears to me that we are making a great trouble of a very simple thing. In two days, and by using up two or three horses (that’s nothing; I have plenty of money), I am at Béthune. I present my letter from the queen to the superior, and I bring back the dear treasure If go to seek-not into Lorraine, not into Belgium, but to Paris, where she will be much better concealed, particularly while the cardinal is at La Rochelle. Well, once returned from the country, half by the protection of her cousin, half through what we have personally done for her, we shall obtain from the queen what we desire. Remain, then, where you are, and do not exhaust yourselves with useless fatigue. Myself and Planchet are all that such a simple expedition requires.”

To this Athos replied quietly: “We also have money left--for I have not yet drunk all my share of the diamond, and Porthos and Aramis have not eaten all theirs. We can therefore use up four horses as well as one. But consider, D’Artagnan,” added he, in a tone so solemn that it made the young man shudder, “consider that Béthune is a city where the cardinal has given rendezvous to a woman who, wherever she goes, brings misery with her. If you had only to deal with four men, D’Artagnan, I would allow you to go alone. You have to do with that woman! We four will go; and I hope to God that with our four lackeys we may be in sufficient number.”

“You terrify me, Athos!” cried D’Artagnan. “My God! what do you fear?”

“Everything!” replied Athos.

D’Artagnan examined the countenances of his companions, which, like that of Athos, wore an impression of deep anxiety; and they continued their route as fast as their horses could carry them, but without adding another word.

On the evening of the twenty-fifth, as they were entering Arras, and as D’Artagnan was dismounting at the inn of the Golden Harrow to drink a glass of wine, a horseman came out of the post yard, where he had just had a relay, started off at a gallop, and with a fresh horse took the road to Paris. At the moment he passed through the gateway into the street, the wind blew open the cloak in which he was wrapped, although it was in the month of August, and lifted his hat, which the traveler seized with his hand the moment it had left his head, pulling it eagerly over his eyes.

D’Artagnan, who had his eyes fixed upon this man, became very pale, and let his glass fall.

“What is the matter, monsieur?” said Planchet. “Oh, come, gentlemen, my master is ill!”

The three friends hastened toward D’Artagnan, who, instead of being ill, ran toward his horse. They stopped him at the door.

“Well, where the devil are you going now?” cried Athos.

“It is he!” cried D’Artagnan, pale with anger, an with the sweat on his brow, “it is he! let me overtake him!”

“He? What he?” asked Athos.

“He, that man!”

“What man?”

“That cursed man, my evil genius, whom I have always met with when threatened by some misfortune, he who accompanied that horrible woman when I met her for the first time, he whom I was seeking when I offended our Athos, he whom I saw on the very morning Madame Bonacieux was abducted. I have seen him; that is he! I recognized him when the wind blew upon his cloak.”

“The devil!” said Athos, musingly.

“To saddle, gentlemen! to saddle! Let us pursue him, and we shall overtake him!”

“My dear friend,” said Aramis, “remember that he goes in an opposite direction from that I which we are going, that he has a fresh horse, and ours are fatigued, so that we shall disable our own horses without even a chance of overtaking him. Let the man go, D’Artagnan; let us save the woman.”

“Monsieur, monsieur!” cried a hostler, running out and looking after the stranger, “monsieur, here is a paper which dropped out of your hat! Eh, monsieur, eh!”

“Friend,” said D’Artagnan, “a half-pistole for that paper!”

“My faith, monsieur, with great pleasure! Here it is!”

The hostler, enchanted with the good day’s work he had done, returned to the yard. D’Artagnan unfolded the paper.

“Well?” eagerly demanded all his three friends.

“Nothing but one word!” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes,” said Aramis, “but that one word is the name of some town or village.”

“Armentières,” read Porthos; “Armentières? I don’t know such a place.”

“And that name of a town or village is written in her hand!” cried Athos.

“Come on, come on!” said D’Artagnan; “let us keep that paper carefully, perhaps I have not thrown away my half-pistole. To horse, my friends, to horse!”

And the four friends flew at a gallop along the road to Béthune.

The Carmelite Concert At Béthune

Great criminals bear bout them a kind of predestination which makes them surmount all obstacles, which makes them escape all dangers, up to the moment which a wearied Providence has marked as the rock of their impious fortunes.

It was thus with Milady. She escaped the cruisers of both nations, and arrived at Boulogne without accident.

When landing at Portsmouth, Milady was an Englishwoman whom the persecutions of the French drove from La Rochelle; when landing at Boulogne, after a two days’ passage, she passed for a Frenchwoman whom the English persecuted at Portsmouth out of their hatred for France.

Milady had, likewise, the best of passports-her beauty, her noble appearance, and the liberality with which she distribute her pistoles. Freed from the usual formalities by the affable smile and gallant manners of an old governor of the port, who kissed her hand, she only remained long enough at Boulogne to put into the post a letter, conceived in the following terms:

“To his Eminence Monseigneur the Cardinal Richelieu, in his camp before La Rochelle.

Monseigneur, Let your Eminence be reassured. His Grace the Duke of Buckingham will not set out for France. Milady de-

Boulogne, evening of the twenty-fifth.

“P.S.-According to the desire of your Eminence, I report to the convent of the Carmelites at Béthune, where I will await your orders.”

Accordingly, that same evening Milady commenced her journey. Night overtook her; she stopped, and slept at an inn. At five o’clock the next morning she again proceeded, and in three hours after entered Béthune. She inquired for the convent of the Carmelites, and went thither immediately.

The superior met her; Milady showed her the cardinal’s order. The abbess assigned her a chamber, and had breakfast served.

All the past was effaced from the eyes of this woman; and her looks, fixed on the future, beheld nothing but the high fortunes reserved for her by the cardinal, whom she had so successfully served without his name being in any way mixed up with the sanguinary affair. The ever-new passions which consumed her gave to her life the appearance of those clouds which float in the heavens, reflecting sometimes azure, sometimes fire, sometimes the opaque blackness of the tempest, and which leave no traces upon the earth behind them but devastation and death.

After breakfast, the abbess came to pay her a visit. There is very little amusement in the cloister, and the good superior was eager to make the acquaintance of her new boarder.

Milady wished to please the abbess. This was a very easy matter for a woman so really superior as she was. She tried to be agreeable, and she was charming, winning the good superior by her varied conversation and by the graces of her whole personality.

The abbess, who was the daughter of a noble house, took particular delight in stories of the court, which so seldom travel to the extremities of the kingdom, and which, above all, have so much difficulty in penetrating the walls of convents, at whose threshold the noise of the world dies away.

Milady, on the contrary, was quite conversant with all aristocratic intrigues, amid which she had constantly lived for five or six years. She made it her business, therefore, to amuse the good abbess with the worldly practices of the court of France, mixed with the eccentric pursuits of the king; she made for her the scandalous chronicle of the lords and ladies of the court, whom the abbess knew perfectly by name, touched lightly on the amours of the queen and the Duke of Buckingham, talking a great deal to induce her auditor to talk a little.

But the abbess contented herself with listening and smiling without replying a word. Milady, however, saw that this sort of narrative amused her very much, and kept at it; only she now let her conversation drift toward the cardinal.

But she was greatly embarrassed. She did not know whether the abbess was a royalist or a cardinalist; she therefore confined herself to a prudent middle course. But the abbess, on her part, maintained a reserve still more prudent, contenting herself with making a profound inclination of the head every time the fair traveler pronounced the name of his Eminence.

Milady began to think she should soon grow weary of a convent life; she resolved, then, to risk something in order that she might know how to act afterward. Desirous of seeing how far the discretion of the good abbess would go, she began to tell a story, obscure at first, but very circumstantial afterward, about the cardinal, relating the amours of the minister with Mme. d’Aiguillon, Marion de Lorme, and several other gay women.

The abbess listened more attentively, grew animated by degrees, and smiled.

“Good,” thought Milady; “she takes a pleasure in my conversation. If she is a cardinalist, she has no fanaticism, at least.

She then went on to describe the persecutions exercised by the cardinal upon his enemies. The abbess only crossed herself, without approving or disapproving.

This confirmed Milady in her opinion that the abbess was rather royalist than cardinalist. Milady therefore continued, coloring her narrations more and more.

“I am very ignorant of these matters,” said the abbess, at length; “but however distant from the court we may be, however remote from the interests of the world we may be placed, we have very sad examples of what you have related. And one of our boarders has suffered much from the vengeance and persecution of the cardinal!”

“One of your boarders?” said Milady; “oh, my God! Poor woman! I pity her, then.”

“And you have reason, for she is much to be pitied. Imprisonment, menaces, ill treatment-she has suffered everything. But after all,” resumed the abbess, “Monsieur Cardinal has perhaps plausible motives for acting thus; and though she has the look of an angel, we must not always judge people by the appearance.”

“Good!” said Milady to herself; “who knows! I am about, perhaps, to discover something here; I am in the vein.”

She tried to give her countenance an appearance of perfect candor.

“Alas,” said Milady, “I know it is so. It is said that we must not trust to the face; but in what, then, shall we place confidence, if not in the most beautiful work of the Lord? As for me, I shall be deceived all my life perhaps, but I shall always have faith in a person whose countenance inspires me with sympathy.”

“You would, then, be tempted to believe,” said the abbess, “that this young person is innocent?”

“The cardinal pursues not only crimes,” said she: “there are certain virtues which he pursues more severely than certain offenses.”

“Permit me, madame, to express my surprise,” said the abbess.

“At what?” said Milady, with the utmost ingenuousness.

“At the language you use.”

“What do you find so astonishing in that language?” said Milady, smiling.

“You are the friend of the cardinal, for he sends you hither, and yet--”

“And yet I speak ill of him,” replied Milady, finishing the thought of the superior.

“At least you don’t speak well of him.”

“That is because I am not his friend,” said she, sighing, “but his victim!”

“But this letter in which he recommends you to me?”

“Is an order for me to confine myself to a sort of prison, from which he will release me by one of his satellites.”

“But why have you not fled?”

“Whither should I go? Do you believe there is a spot on the earth which the cardinal cannot reach if he takes the trouble to stretch forth his hand? If I were a man, that would barely be possible; but what can a woman do? This young boarder of yours, has she tried to fly?”

“No, that is true; but she--that is another thing; I believe she is detained in France by some love affair.”

“Ah,” said Milady, with a sigh, “if she loves she is not altogether wretched.”

“Then,” said the abbess, looking at Milady with increasing interest, “I behold another poor victim?”

“Alas, yes,” said Milady.

The abbess looked at her for an instant with uneasiness, as if a fresh thought suggested itself to her mind.

“You are not an enemy of our holy faith?” said she, hesitatingly.

“Who--I?” cried Milady; “I a Protestant? Oh, no! I call to witness the God who hears us, that on the contrary I am a fervent Catholic!”

“Then, madame,” said the abbess, smiling, “be reassured; the house in which you are shall not be a very hard prison, and we will do all in our power to make you cherish your captivity. You will find here, moreover, the young woman of whom I spoke, who is persecuted, no doubt, in consequence of some court intrigue. She is amiable and well-behaved.”

“What is her name?”

“She was sent to me by someone of high rank, under the name of Kitty. I have not tried to discover her other name.”

“Kitty!” cried Milady. “What? Are you sure?”

“That she is called so? Yes, madame. Do you know her?”

Milady smiled to herself at the idea which had occurred to her that this might be her old chambermaid. There was connected with the remembrance of this girl a remembrance of anger; and a desire of vengeance disordered the features of Milady, which, however, immediately recovered the calm and benevolent expression which this woman of a hundred faces had for a moment allowed them to lose.

“And when can I see this young lady, for whom I already feel so great a sympathy?” asked Milady.

“Why, this evening,” said the abbess; “today even. But you have been traveling these four days, as you told me yourself. This morning you rose at five o’clock; you must stand in need of repose. Go to bed and sleep; at dinnertime we will rouse you.”

Although Milady would very willingly have gone without sleep, sustained as she was by all the excitements which a new adventure awakened in her heart, ever thirsting for intrigues, she nevertheless accepted the offer of the superior. During the last fifteen days she had experience so many an such various emotions that if her frame of iron was still capable of supporting fatigue, her mind required repose.

She therefore took leave of the abbess, and went to bed, softly rocked by the ideas of vengeance which the name of Kitty had naturally brought to her thoughts. She remembered that almost unlimited promise which the cardinal had given her if she succeeded in her enterprise. She had succeeded; D’Artagnan was then in her power!

One thing alone frightened her; that was the remembrance of her husband, the Comte de la Fère, whom she had believed dead, or at least expatriated, and whom she found again in Athos-the best friend of D’Artagnan.

But alas, if he was the friend of D’Artagnan, he must have lent him his assistance in all the proceedings by whose aid the queen had defeated the project of his Eminence; if he was the friend of D’Artagnan, he was the enemy of the cardinal; and she doubtless would succeed in involving him in the vengeance by which she hoped to destroy the young Musketeer.

All these hopes were so many sweet thoughts for Milady; so, rocked by them, she soon fell asleep.

She was awakened by a soft voice which sounded at the foot of her bed. She opened her eyes, and saw the abbess, accompanied by a young woman with light hair and delicate complexion, who fixed upon her a look full of benevolent curiosity.

The face of the young woman was entirely unknown to her. Each examined the other with great attention, while exchanging the customary compliments; both were very handsome, but of quite different styles of beauty. Milady, however, smiled in observing that she excelled the young woman by far in her high air and aristocratic bearing. It is true that the habit of a novice, which the young woman wore, was not very advantageous in a contest of this kind.

The abbess introduced them to each other. When this formality was ended, as her duties called her to chapel, she left the two young women alone.

The novice, seeing Milady in bed, was about the follow the example of the superior; but Milady stopped her.

“How, madame,” said she, “I have scarcely seen you, and you already wish to deprive me of your company, upon which I had counted a little, I must confess, for the time I have to pass here?”

“No, madame,” replied the novice, “only I thought I had chosen my time ill; you were asleep, you are fatigued.”

“Well,” said Milady, “what can those who sleep wish for--a happy awakening? This awakening you have given me; allow me, then, to enjoy it at my ease,” and taking her hand, she drew her toward the armchair by the bedside.

The novice sat down.

“How unfortunate I am!” said she; “I have been here six months without the shadow of recreation. You arrive, and your presence was likely to afford me delightful company; yet I expect, in all probability, to quit the convent at any moment.”

“How, you are going soon?” asked Milady.

“At least I hope so,” said the novice, with an expression of joy which she made no effort to disguise.

“I think I learned you had suffered persecutions from the cardinal,” continued Milady; “that would have been another motive for sympathy between us.”

“What I have heard, then, from our good mother is true; you have likewise been a victim of that wicked priest.”

“Hush!” said Milady; “let us not, even here, speak thus of him. All my misfortunes arise from my having said nearly what you have said before a woman whom I thought my friend, and who betrayed me. Are you also the victim of a treachery?”

“No,” said the novice, “but of my devotion--of a devotion to a woman I loved, for whom I would have laid down my life, for whom I would give it still.”

“And who has abandoned you--is that it?”

“I have been sufficiently unjust to believe so; but during the last two or three days I have obtained proof to the contrary, for which I thank God--for it would have cost me very dear to think she had forgotten me. But you, madame, you appear to be free,” continued the novice; “and if you were inclined to fly it only rests with yourself to do so.”

“Whither would you have me go, without friends, without money, in a part of France with which I am unacquainted, and where I have never been before?”

“Oh,” cried the novice,” as to friends, you would have them wherever you want, you appear so good and are so beautiful!”

“That does not prevent,” replied Milady, softening her smile so as to give it an angelic expression, “my being alone or being persecuted.”

“Hear me,” said the novice; “we must trust in heaven. There always comes a moment when the good you have done pleads your cause before God; and see, perhaps it is a happiness for you, humble and powerless as I am, that you have met with me, for if I leave this place, well-I have powerful friends, who, after having exerted themselves on my account, may also exert themselves for you.”

“Oh, when I said I was alone,” said Milady, hoping to make the novice talk by talking of herself, “it is not for want of friends in high places; but these friends themselves tremble before the cardinal. The queen herself does not dare to oppose the terrible minister. I have proof that her Majesty, notwithstanding her excellent heart, has more than once been obliged to abandon to the anger of his Eminence persons who had served her.”

“Trust me, madame; the queen may appear to have abandoned those persons, but we must not put faith in appearances. The more they are persecuted, the more she thinks of them; and often, when they least expect it, they have proof of a kind remembrance.”

“Alas!” said Milady, “I believe so; the queen is so good!”

“Oh, you know her, then, that lovely and noble queen, that you speak of her thus!” cried the novice, with enthusiasm.

“That is to say,” replied Milady, driven into her entrenchment, “that I have not the honor of knowing her personally; but I know a great number of her most intimate friends. I am acquainted with Monsieur de Putange; I met Monsieur Dujart in England; I know Monsieur de Tréville.”

“Monsieur de Tréville!” exclaimed the novice, “do you know Monsieur de Tréville?”

“Yes, perfectly well--intimately even.”

“The captain of the king’s Musketeers?”

“The captain of the king’s Musketeers.”

“Why, then, only see!” cried the novice; “we shall soon be well acquainted, almost friends. If you know Monsieur de Tréville, you must have visited him?”

“Often!” said Milady, who, having entered this track, and perceiving that falsehood succeeded, was determined to follow it to the end.

“With him, then, you must have seen some of his Musketeers?”

“All those he is in the habit of receiving!” replied Milady, for whom this conversation began to have a real interest.

“Name a few of those whom you know, and you will see if they are my friends.”

“Well!” said Milady, embarrassed, " I know Monsieur de Louvigny, Monsieur de Courtivron, Monsieur de Ferussac.”

The novice let her speak, then seeing that she paused, she said, “Don’t you know a gentleman named Athos?”

Milady became as pale as the sheets in which she was lying, and mistress as she was of herself, could not help uttering a cry, seizing the hand of the novice, and devouring her with looks.

“What is the matter? Good God!” asked the poor woman, “have I said anything that has wounded you?”

“No; but the name struck me, because I also have known that gentleman, and it appeared strange to me to meet with a person who appears to know him well.”

“Oh, yes, very well; not only him, but some of his friends, Messieurs Porthos and Aramis!”

“Indeed! you know them likewise? I know them,” cried Milady, who began to feel a chill penetrate her heart.

“Well, if you know them, you know that they are good and free companions. Why do you not apply to them, if you stand in need of help?”

“That is to say,” stammered Milady, “I am not really very intimate with any of them. I know them from having heard one of their friends, Monsieur d’Artagnan, say a great deal about them.”

“You know Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the novice, in her turn seizing the hands of Milady and devouring her with her eyes.

Then remarking the strange expression of Milady’s countenance, she said, “Pardon me, madame; you know him by what title?”

“Why,” replied Milady, embarrassed, “why, by the title of friend.”

“You deceive me, madame,” said the novice; “you have been his mistress!”

“It is you who have been his mistress, madame!” cried Milady, in her turn.

“I?” said the novice.

“Yes, you! I know you now. You are Madame Bonacieux!”

The young woman drew back, filled with surprise and terror.

“Oh, do not deny it! Answer!” continued Milady.

“Well, yes, madame,” said the novice, “Are we rivals?”

The countenance of Milady was illumined by so savage a joy that under any other circumstances Mme. Bonacieux would have fled in terror; but she was absorbed by jealousy.

“Speak, madame!” resumed Mme. Bonacieux, with an energy of which she might not have been believed capable. “Have you been, or are you, his mistress?”

“Oh, no!” cried Milady, with an accent that admitted no doubt of her truth. “Never, never!”

“I believe you,” said Mme. Bonacieux; “but why, then, did you cry out so?”

“Do you not understand?” said Milady, who had already overcome her agitation and recovered all her presence of mind.

“How can I understand? I know nothing.”

“Can you not understand that Monsieur d’Artagnan, being my friend, might take me into his confidence?”

“Truly?”

“Do you not perceive that I know all--your abduction from the little house at St. Germain, his despair, that of his friends, and their useless inquiries up to this moment? How could I help being astonished when, without having the least expectation of such a thing, I meet you face to face--you, of whom we have so often spoken together, you whom he loves with all his soul, you whom he had taught me to love before I had seen you! Ah, dear Constance, I have found you, then; I see you at last!”

And Milady stretched out her arms to Mme. Bonacieux, who, convinced by what she had just said, saw nothing in this woman whom an instant before she had believed her rival but a sincere and devoted friend.

“Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” cried she, sinking upon the shoulders of Milady. “Pardon me, I love him so much!”

These two women held each other for an instant in a close embrace. Certainly, if Milady’s strength had been equal to her hatred, Mme. Bonacieux would never have left that embrace alive. But not being able to stifle her, she smiled upon her.

“Oh, you beautiful, good little creature!” said Milady. “How delighted I am to have found you! Let me look at you!” and while saying these words, she absolutely devoured her by her looks. “Oh, yes it is you indeed! From what he has told me, I know you now. I recognize you perfectly.”

The poor young woman could not possibly suspect what frightful cruelty was behind the rampart of that pure brow, behind those brilliant eyes in which she read nothing but interest and compassion.

“Then you know what I have suffered,” said Mme. Bonacieux, “since he has told you what he has suffered; but to suffer for him is happiness.

Milady replied mechanically, “Yes, that is happiness.” She was thinking of something else.

“And then,” continued Mme. Bonacieux, “my punishment is drawing to a close. Tomorrow, this evening, perhaps, I shall see him again; and then the past will no longer exist.”

“This evening?” asked Milady, roused from her reverie by these words. “What do you mean? Do you expect news from him?”

“I expect himself.”

“Himself? D’Artagnan here?”

“Himself!”

“But that’s impossible! He is at the siege of La Rochelle with the cardinal. He will not return till after the taking of the city.”

“Ah, you fancy so! But is there anything impossible for my D’Artagnan, the noble and loyal gentleman?”

“Oh, I cannot believe you!”

“Well, read, then!” said the unhappy young woman, in the excess of her pride and joy, presenting a letter to Milady.

“The writing of Madame de Chevreuse!” said Milady to herself. “Ah, I always thought there was some secret understanding in that quarter!” And she greedily read the following few lines:

My Dear Child, Hold yourself ready. Our friend will see you soon, and he will only see you to release you from that imprisonment in which your safety required you should be concealed. Prepare, then, for your departure, and never despair of us.

Our charming Gascon has just proved himself as brave and faithful as ever. Tell him that certain parties are grateful for the warning he has given.

“Yes, yes,” said Milady; “the letter is precise. Do you know what that warning was?”

“No, I only suspect he has warned the queen against some fresh machinations of the cardinal.”

“Yes, that’s it, no doubt!” said Milady, returning the letter to Mme. Bonacieux, and letting her head sink pensively upon her bosom.

At that moment they heard the gallop of a horse.

“Oh!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, darting to the window, “can it be he?”

Milady remained still in bed, petrified by surprise; so many unexpected things happened to her all at once that for the first time she was at a loss.

“He, he!” murmured she; “can it be he?” And she remained in bed with her eyes fixed.

“Alas, no!” said Mme. Bonacieux; “it is a man I don’t know, although he seems to be coming here. Yes, he checks his pace; he stops at the gate; he rings.”

Milady sprang out of bed.

“You are sure it is not he?” said she.

“Yes, yes, very sure!”

“Perhaps you did not see well.”

“Oh, if I were to see the plume of his hat, the end of his cloak, I should know him!”

Milady was dressing herself all the time.

“Yes, he has entered.”

“It is for you or me!”

“My God, how agitated you seem!”

“Yes, I admit it. I have not your confidence; I fear the cardinal.”

“Hush!” said Mme. Bonacieux; “somebody is coming.”

Immediately the door opened, and the superior entered.

“Did you come from Boulogne?” demanded she of Milady.

“Yes,” replied she, trying to recover her self-possession. “Who wants me?”

“A man who will not tell his name, but who comes from the cardinal.”

“And who wishes to speak with me?”

“Who wishes to speak to a lady recently come from Boulogne.”

“Then let him come in, if you please.”

“Oh, my God, my God!” cried Mme. Bonacieux. “Can it be bad news?”

“I fear it.”

“I will leave you with this stranger; but as soon as he is gone, if you will permit me, I will return.”

Permit you? I beseech you.”

The superior and Mme. Bonacieux retired.

Milady remained alone, with her eyes fixed upon the door. An instant later, the jingling of spurs was heard upon the stairs, steps drew near, the door opened, and a man appeared.

Milady uttered a cry of joy; this man was the Comte de Rochefort--the demoniacal tool of his Eminence.

Two Varieties Of Demons

“Ah,” cried Milady and Rochefort together, “it is you!”

“Yes, it is I.”

“And you come?” asked Milady.

“From La Rochelle; and you?”

“From England.”

“Buckingham?”

“Dead or desperately wounded, as I left without having been able to hear anything of him. A fanatic has just assassinated him.”

“Ah,” said Rochefort, with a smile; “this is a fortunate chance--one that will delight his Eminence! Have you informed him of it?”

“I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?”

“His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to find you.”

“I only arrived yesterday.”

“And what have you been doing since yesterday?”

“I have not lost my time.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

“Do you know whom I have encountered here?”

“No.”

“Guess.”

“How can I?”

“That young woman whom the queen took out of prison.”

“The mistress of that fellow D’Artagnan?”

“Yes; Madame Bonacieux, with whose retreat the cardinal was unacquainted.”

“Well, well,” said Rochefort, “here is a chance which may pair off with the other! Monsieur Cardinal is indeed a privileged man!”

“Imagine my astonishment,” continued Milady, “when I found myself face to face with this woman!”

“Does she know you?”

“No.”

“Then she looks upon you as a stranger?”

Milady smiled. “I am her best friend.”

“Upon my honor,” said Rochefort, “it takes you, my dear countess, to perform such miracles!”

“And it is well I can, Chevalier,” said Milady, “for do you know what is going on here?”

“No.”

“They will come for her tomorrow or the day after, with an order from the queen.”

“Indeed! And who?”

“D’Artagnan and his friends.”

“Indeed, they will go so far that we shall be obliged to send them to the Bastille.”

“Why is it not done already?”

“What would you? The cardinal has a weakness for these men which I cannot comprehend.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, tell him this, Rochefort. Tell him that our conversation at the inn of the Red Dovecot was overheard by these four men; tell him that after his departure one of them came up to me and took from me by violence the safe-conduct which he had given me; tell him they warned Lord de Winter of my journey to England; that this time they nearly foiled my mission as they foiled the affair of the studs; tell him that among these four men two only are to be feared--D’Artagnan and Athos; tell him that the third, Aramis, is the lover of Madame de Chevreuse--he may be left alone, we know his secret, and it may be useful; as to the fourth, Porthos, he is a fool, a simpleton, a blustering booby, not worth troubling himself about.”

“But these four men must be now at the siege of La Rochelle?”

“I thought so, too; but a letter which Madame Bonacieux has received from Madame the Constable, and which she has had the imprudence to show me, leads me to believe that these four men, on the contrary, are on the road hither to take her away.”

“The devil! What’s to be done?”

“What did the cardinal say about me?”

“I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, and return by post; and when he shall know what you have done, he will advise what you have to do.”

“I must, then, remain here?”

“Here, or in the neighborhood.”

“You cannot take me with you?”

“No, the order is imperative. Near the camp you might be recognized; and your presence, you must be aware, would compromise the cardinal.”

“Then I must wait here, or in the neighborhood?”

“Only tell me beforehand where you will wait for intelligence from the cardinal; let me now always where to find you.”

“Observe, it is probable that I may not be able to remain here.”

“Why?”

“You forget that my enemies may arrive at any minute.”

“That’s true; but is this little woman, then, to escape his Eminence?”

“Bah!” said Milady, with a smile that belonged only to herself; “you forget that I am her best friend.”

“Ah, that’s true! I may then tell the cardinal, with respect to this little woman--”

“That he may be at ease.”

“Is that all?”

“He will now what that means.”

“He will guess, at least. Now, then, what had I better do?”

“Return instantly. It appears to me that the news you bear is worth the trouble of a little diligence.”

“My chaise broke down coming into Lilliers.”

“Capital!”

“What, capital?”

“Yes, I want your chaise.”

“And how shall I travel, then?”

“On horseback.”

“You talk very comfortably,--a hundred and eighty leagues!”

“What’s that?”

“One can do it! Afterward?”

“Afterward? Why, in passing through Lilliers you will send me your chaise, with an order to your servant to place himself at my disposal.”

“Well.”

“You have, no doubt, some order from the cardinal about you?”

“I have my full power.”

“Show it to the abbess, and tell her that someone will come and fetch me, either today or tomorrow, and that I am to follow the person who presents himself in your name.”

“Very well.”

“Don’t forget to treat me harshly in speaking of me to the abbess.”

“To what purpose?”

“I am a victim of the cardinal. It is necessary to inspire confidence in that poor little Madame Bonacieux.”

“That’s true. Now, will you make me a report of all that has happened?”

“Why, I have related the events to you. You have a good memory; repeat what I have told you. A paper may be lost.”

“You are right; only let me know where to find you that I may not run needlessly about the neighborhood.”

“That’s correct; wait!”

“Do you want a map?”

“Oh, I know this country marvelously!”

“You? When were you here?”

“I was brought up here.”

“Truly?”

“It is worth something, you see, to have been brought up somewhere.”

“You will wait for me, then?”

“Let me reflect a little! Ay, that will do--at Armentières.”

“Where is that Armentières?”

“A little town on the Lys; I shall only have to cross the river, and I shall be in a foreign country.”

“Capital! but it is understood you will only cross the river in case of danger.”

“That is well understood.”

“And in that case, how shall I know where you are?”

“You do not want your lackey?”

“Is he a sure man?”

“To the proof.”

“Give him to me. Nobody knows him. I will leave him at the place I quit, and he will conduct you to me.”

“And you say you will wait for me at Armentières?”

“At Armentières.”

“Write that name on a bit of paper, lest I should forget it. There is nothing compromising in the name of a town. Is it not so?”

“Eh, who knows? Never mind,” said Milady, writing the name on half a sheet of paper; “I will compromise myself.”

“Well,” said Rochefort, taking the paper from Milady, folding it, and placing it in the lining of his hat, “you may be easy. I will do as children do, for fear of losing the paper--repeat the name along the route. Now, is that all?”

“I believe so.”

“Let us see: Buckingham dead or grievously wounded; your conversation with the cardinal overheard by the four Musketeers; Lord de Winter warned of your arrival at Portsmouth; D’Artagnan and Athos to the Bastille; Aramis the lover of Madame de Chevreuse; Porthos an ass; Madame Bonacieux found again; to send you the chaise as soon as possible; to place my lackey at your disposal; to make you out a victim of the cardinal in order that the abbess may entertain no suspicion; Armentières, on the banks of the Lys. Is that all, then?”

“In truth, my dear Chevalier, you are a miracle of memory. À propos, add one thing--”

“What?”

“I saw some very pretty woods which almost touch the convent garden. Say that I am permitted to walk in those woods. Who knows? Perhaps I shall stand in need of a back door for retreat.”

“You think of everything.”

“And you forget one thing.”

“What?”

“To ask me if I want money.”

“That’s true. How much do you want?”

“All you have in gold.”

“I have five hundred pistoles, or thereabouts.”

“I have as much. With a thousand pistoles one may face everything. Empty your pockets.”

“There.”

“Right. And you go--”

“In an hour--time to eat a morsel, during which I shall send for a post horse.”

“Capital! Adieu, Chevalier.”

“Adieu, Countess.”

“Commend me to the cardinal.”

“Commend me to Satan.”

Milady and Rochefort exchanged a smile and separated. An hour afterward Rochefort set out at a grand gallop; five hours after that he passed through Arras.

Our readers already know how he was recognized by D’Artagnan, and how that recognition by inspiring fear in the four Musketeers had given fresh activity to their journey.

The Drop Of Water

Rochefort had scarcely departed when Mme. Bonacieux re-entered. She found Milady with a smiling countenance.

“Well,” said the young woman, “what you dreaded has happened. This evening, or tomorrow, the cardinal will send someone to take you away.”

“Who told you that, my dear?” asked Milady.

“I heard it from the mouth of the messenger himself.”

“Come and sit down close to me,” said Milady.

“Here I am.”

“Wait till I assure myself that nobody hears us.”

“Why all these precautions?”

“You shall know.”

Milady arose, went to the door, opened it, looked in the corridor, and then returned and seated herself close to Mme. Bonacieux.

“Then,” said she, “he has well played his part.”

“Who has?”

“He who just now presented himself to the abbess as a messenger from the cardinal.”

“It was, then, a part he was playing?”

“Yes, my child.”

“That man, then, was not--”

“That man,” said Milady, lowering her voice, “is my brother.”

“Your brother!” cried Mme. Bonacieux.

“No one must know this secret, my dear, but yourself. If you reveal it to anyone in the world, I shall be lost, and perhaps yourself likewise.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Listen. This is what has happened: My brother, who was coming to my assistance to take me away by force if it were necessary, met with the emissary of the cardinal, who was coming in search of me. He followed him. At a solitary and retired part of the road he drew his sword, and required the messenger to deliver up to him the papers of which he was the bearer. The messenger resisted; my brother killed him.”

“Oh!” said Mme. Bonacieux, shuddering.

“Remember, that was the only means. Then my brother determined to substitute cunning for force. He took the papers, and presented himself here as the emissary of the cardinal, and in an hour or two a carriage will come to take me away by the orders of his Eminence.”

“I understand. It is your brother who sends this carriage.”

“Exactly; but that is not all. That letter you have received, and which you believe to be from Madame de Chevreuse--”

“Well?”

“It is a forgery.”

“How can that be?”

“Yes, a forgery; it is a snare to prevent your making any resistance when they come to fetch you.”

“But it is D’Artagnan that will come.”

“Do not deceive yourself. D’Artagnan and his friends are detained at the siege of La Rochelle.”

“How do you know that?”

“My brother met some emissaries of the cardinal in the uniform of Musketeers. You would have been summoned to the gate; you would have believed yourself about to meet friends; you would have been abducted, and conducted back to Paris.”

“Oh, my God! My senses fail me amid such a chaos of iniquities. I feel, if this continues,” said Mme. Bonacieux, raising her hands to her forehead, “I shall go mad!”

“Stop--”

“What?”

“I hear a horse’s steps; it is my brother setting off again. I should like to offer him a last salute. Come!”

Milady opened the window, and made a sign to Mme. Bonacieux to join her. The young woman complied.

Rochefort passed at a gallop.

“Adieu, brother!” cried Milady.

The chevalier raised his head, saw the two young women, and without stopping, waved his hand in a friendly way to Milady.

“The good George!” said she, closing the window with an expression of countenance full of affection and melancholy. And she resumed her seat, as if plunged in reflections entirely personal.

“Dear lady,” said Mme. Bonacieux, “pardon me for interrupting you; but what do you advise me to do? Good heaven! You have more experience than I have. Speak; I will listen.”

“In the first place,” said Milady, “it is possible I may be deceived, and that D’Artagnan and his friends may really come to your assistance.”

“Oh, that would be too much!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “so much happiness is not in store for me!”

“Then you comprehend it would be only a question of time, a sort of race, which should arrive first. If your friends are the more speedy, you are to be saved; if the satellites of the cardinal, you are lost.”

“Oh, yes, yes; lost beyond redemption! What, then, to do? What to do?”

“There would be a very simple means, very natural--”

“Tell me what!”

“To wait, concealed in the neighborhood, and assure yourself who are the men who come to ask for you.”

“But where can I wait?”

“Oh, there is no difficulty in that. I shall stop and conceal myself a few leagues hence until my brother can rejoin me. Well, I take you with me; we conceal ourselves, and wait together.”

“But I shall not be allowed to go; I am almost a prisoner.”

“As they believe that I go in consequence of an order from the cardinal, no one will believe you anxious to follow me.”

“Well?”

“Well! The carriage is at the door; you bid me adieu; you mount the step to embrace me a last time; my brother’s servant, who comes to fetch me, is told how to proceed; he makes a sign to the postillion, and we set off at a gallop.”

“But D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan! if he comes?”

“Shall we not know it?”

“How?”

“Nothing easier. We will send my brother’s servant back to Béthune, whom, as I told you, we can trust. He shall assume a disguise, and place himself in front of the convent. If the emissaries of the cardinal arrive, he will take no notice; if it is Monsieur d’Artagnan and his friends, he will bring them to us.”

“He knows them, then?”

“Doubtless. Has he not seen Monsieur d’Artagnan at my house?”

“Oh, yes, yes; you are right. Thus all may go well--all may be for the best; but we do not go far from this place?”

“Seven or eight leagues at the most. We will keep on the frontiers, for instance; and at the first alarm we can leave France.”

“And what can we do there?”

“Wait.”

“But if they come?”

“My brother’s carriage will be here first.”

“If I should happen to be any distance from you when the carriage comes for you--at dinner or supper, for instance?”

“Do one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Tell your good superior that in order that we may be as much together as possible, you ask her permission to share my repast.”

“Will she permit it?”

“What inconvenience can it be?”

“Oh, delightful! In this way we shall not be separated for an instant.”

“Well, go down to her, then, to make your request. I feel my head a little confused; I will take a turn in the garden.”

“Go and where shall I find you?”

“Here, in an hour.”

“Here, in an hour. Oh, you are so kind, and I am so grateful!”

“How can I avoid interesting myself for one who is so beautiful and so amiable? Are you not the beloved of one of my best friends?”

“Dear D’Artagnan! Oh, how he will thank you!”

“I hope so. Now, then, all is agreed; let us go down.”

“You are going into the garden?”

“Yes.”

“Go along this corridor, down a little staircase, and you are in it.”

“Excellent; thank you!”

“And the two women parted, exchanging charming smiles.

Milady had told the truth--her head was confused, for her ill-arranged plans clashed one another like chaos. She required to be alone that she might put her thoughts a little into order. She saw vaguely the future; but she stood in need of a little silence and quiet to give all her ideas, as yet confused, a distinct form and a regular plan.

What was most pressing was to get Mme. Bonacieux away, and convey her to a place of safety, and there, if matters required, make her a hostage. Milady began to have doubts of the issue of this terrible duel, in which her enemies showed as much perseverance as she did animosity.

Besides, she felt as we feel when a storm is coming on--that this issue was near, and could not fail to be terrible.

The principal thing for her, then, was, as we have said, to keep Mme. Bonacieux in her power. Mme. Bonacieux was the very life of D’Artagnan. This was more than his life, the life of the woman he loved; this was, in case of ill fortune, a means of temporizing and obtaining good conditions.

Now, this point was settled; Mme. Bonacieux, without any suspicion, accompanied her. Once concealed with her at Armentières, it would be easy to make her believe that D’Artagnan had not come to Béthune. In fifteen days at most, Rochefort would be back; besides, during that fifteen days she would have time to think how she could best avenge herself on the four friends. She would not be weary, thank God! for she should enjoy the sweetest pastime such events could accord a woman of her character--perfecting a beautiful vengeance.

Revolving all this in her mind, she cast her eyes around her, and arranged the topography of the garden in her head. Milady was like a good general who contemplates at the same time victory and defeat, and who is quite prepared, according to the chances of the battle, to march forward or to beat a retreat.

At the end of an hour she heard a soft voice calling her; it was Mme. Bonacieux’s. The good abbess had naturally consented to her request; and as a commencement, they were to sup together.

On reaching the courtyard, they heard the noise of a carriage which stopped at the gate.

Milady listened.

“Do you hear anything?” said she.

“Yes, the rolling of a carriage.”

“It is the one my brother sends for us.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Come, come! courage!”

The bell of the convent gate was sounded; Milady was not mistaken.

“Go to your chamber,” said she to Mme. Bonacieux; “you have perhaps some jewels you would like to take.”

“I have his letters,” said she.

“Well, go and fetch them, and come to my apartment. We will snatch some supper; we shall perhaps travel part of the night, and must keep our strength up.”

“Great God!” said Mme. Bonacieux, placing her hand upon her bosom, “my heart beats so I cannot walk.”

“Courage, courage! remember that in a quarter of an hour you will be safe; and think that what you are about to do is for his sake.”

“Yes, yes, everything for him. You have restored my courage by a single word; go, I will rejoin you.”

Milady ran up to her apartment quickly: she there found Rochefort’s lackey, and gave him his instructions.

He was to wait at the gate; if by chance the Musketeers should appear, the carriage was to set off as fast as possible, pass around the convent, and go and wait for Milady at a little village which was situated at the other side of the wood. In this case Milady would cross the garden and gain the village on foot. As we have already said, Milady was admirably acquainted with this part of France.

If the Musketeers did not appear, things were to go on as had been agreed; Mme. Bonacieux was to get into the carriage as if to bid her adieu, and she was to take away Mme. Bonacieux.

Mme. Bonacieux came in; and to remove all suspicion, if she had any, Milady repeated to the lackey, before her, the latter part of her instructions.

Milady asked some questions about the carriage. It was a chaise drawn by three horses, driven by a postillion; Rochefort’s lackey would precede it, as courier.

Milady was wrong in fearing that Mme. Bonacieux would have any suspicion. The poor young woman was too pure to suppose that any female could be guilty of such perfidy; besides, the name of the Comtesse de Winter, which she had heard the abbess pronounce, was wholly unknown to her, and she was even ignorant that a woman had had so great and so fatal a share in the misfortune of her life.

“You see,” said she, when the lackey had gone out, “everything is ready. The abbess suspects nothing, and believes that I am taken by order of the cardinal. This man goes to give his last orders; take the least thing, drink a finger of wine, and let us be gone.”

“Yes,” said Mme. Bonacieux, mechanically, “yes, let us be gone.”

Milady made her a sign to sit down opposite, poured her a small glass of Spanish wine, and helped her to the wing of a chicken.

“See,” said she, “if everything does not second us! Here is night coming on; by daybreak we shall have reached our retreat, and nobody can guess where we are. Come, courage! take something.”

Mme. Bonacieux ate a few mouthfuls mechanically, and just touched the glass with her lips.

“Come, come!” said Milady, lifting hers to her mouth, “do as I do.”

But at the moment the glass touched her lips, her hand remained suspended; she heard something on the road which sounded like the rattling of a distant gallop. Then it grew nearer, and it seemed to her, almost at the same time, that she heard the neighing of horses.

This noise acted upon her joy like the storm which awakens the sleeper in the midst of a happy dream; she grew pale and ran to the window, while Mme. Bonacieux, rising all in a tremble, supported herself upon her chair to avoid falling. Nothing was yet to be seen, only they heard the galloping draw nearer.

“Oh, my God!” said Mme. Bonacieux, what is that noise?”

“That of either our friends or our enemies,” said Milady, with her terrible coolness. “Stay where you are, I will tell you.”

Mme. Bonacieux remained standing, mute, motionless, and pale as a statue.

The noise became louder; the horses could not be more than a hundred and fifty paces distant. If they were not yet to be seen, it was because the road made an elbow. The noise became so distinct that the horses might be counted by the rattle of their hoofs.

Milady gazed with all the power of her attention; it was just light enough for her to see who was coming.

All at once, at the turning of the road she saw the glitter of laced hats and the waving of feathers; she counted two, then five, then eight horsemen. One of them preceded the rest by double the length of his horse.

Milady uttered a stifled groan. In the first horseman she recognized D’Artagnan.

“Oh, my God, my God,” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “what is it?”

“It is the uniform of the cardinal’s Guards. Not an instant to be lost! Fly, fly!”

“Yes, yes, let us fly!” repeated Mme. Bonacieux, but without being able to make a step, glued as she was to the spot by terror.

They heard the horsemen pass under the windows.

“Come, then, come, then!” cried Milady, trying to drag the young woman along by the arm. “Thanks to the garden, we yet can flee; I have the key, but make haste! in five minutes it will be too late!”

Mme. Bonacieux tried to walk, made two steps, and sank upon her knees. Milady tried to raise and carry her, but could not do it.

At this moment they heard the rolling of the carriage, which at the approach of the Musketeers set off at a gallop. Then three or four shots were fired.

“For the last time, will you come?” cried Milady.

“Oh, my God, my God! you see my strength fails me; you see plainly I cannot walk. Flee alone!”

“Flee alone, and leave you here? No, no, never!” cried Milady.

All at once she paused, a livid flash darted from her eyes; she ran to the table, emptied into Mme. Bonacieux’s glass the contents of a ring which she opened with singular quickness. It was a grain of a reddish color, which dissolved immediately.

Then, taking the glass with a firm hand, she said, “Drink. This wine will give you strength, drink!” And she put the glass to the lips of the young woman, who drank mechanically.

“This is not the way that I wished to avenge myself,” said Milady, replacing the glass upon the table, with an infernal smile, “but, my faith! we do what we can!” And she rushed out of the room.

Mme. Bonacieux saw her go without being able to follow her; she was like people who dream they are pursued, and who in vain try to walk.

A few moments passed; a great noise was heard at the gate. Every instant Mme. Bonacieux expected to see Milady, but she did not return. Several times, with terror, no doubt, the cold sweat burst from her burning brow.

At length she heard the grating of the hinges of the opening gates; the noise of boots and spurs resounded on the stairs. There was a great murmur of voices which continued to draw near, amid which she seemed to hear her own name pronounced.

All at once she uttered a loud cry of joy, and darted toward the door; she had recognized the voice of D’Artagnan.

“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried she, “is it you? This way! this way!”

“Constance? Constance?” replied the young man, “where are you? where are you? My God!”

At the same moment the door of the cell yielded to a shock, rather than opened; several men rushed into the chamber. Mme. Bonacieux had sunk into an armchair, without the power of moving.

D’Artagnan threw down a yet-smoking pistol which he held in his hand, and fell on his knees before his mistress. Athos replaced his in his belt; Porthos and Aramis, who held their drawn swords in their hands, returned them to their scabbards.

“Oh, D’Artagnan, my beloved D’Artagnan! You have come, then, at last! You have not deceived me! It is indeed thee!”

“Yes, yes, Constance. Reunited!”

“Oh, it was in vain she told me you would not come! I hoped in silence. I was not willing to fly. Oh, I have done well! How happy I am!”

At this word she, Athos, who had seated himself quietly, started up.

She! What she?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Why, my companion. She who out of friendship for me wished to take me from my persecutors. She who, mistaking you for the cardinal’s Guards, has just fled away.”

“Your companion!” cried D’Artagnan, becoming more pale than the white veil of his mistress. “Of what companion are you speaking, dear Constance?”

“Of her whose carriage was at the gate; of a woman who calls herself your friend; of a woman to whom you have told everything.”

“Her name, her name!” cried D’Artagnan. “My God, can you not remember her name?”

“Yes, it was pronounced in my hearing once. Stop--but--it is very strange--oh, my God, my head swims! I cannot see!”

“Help, help, my friends! her hands are icy cold,” cried D’Artagnan. “She is ill! Great God, she is losing her senses!”

While Porthos was calling for help with all the power of his strong voice, Aramis ran to the table to get a glass of water; but he stopped at seeing the horrible alteration that had taken place in the countenance of Athos, who, standing before the table, his hair rising from his head, his eyes fixed in stupor, was looking at one of the glasses, and appeared a prey to the most horrible doubt.

“Oh1’ said Athos, “oh, no, it is impossible! God would not permit such a crime!”

“Water, water!” cried D’Artagnan. “Water!”

“Oh, poor woman, poor woman!” murmured Athos, in a broken voice.

Mme. Bonacieux opened her eyes under the kisses of D’Artagnan.

“She revives!” cried the young man. “Oh, my God, my God, I thank thee!”

“Madame!” said Athos, “madame, in the name of heaven, whose empty glass is this?”

“Mine, monsieur,” said the young woman, in a dying voice.

“But who poured the wine for you that was in this glass?”

“She.”

“But who is she?”

“Oh, I remember!” said Mme. Bonacieux, “the Comtesse de Winter.”

The four friends uttered one and the same cry, but that of Athos dominated all the rest.

At that moment the countenance of Mme. Bonacieux became livid; a fearful agony pervaded her frame, and she sank panting into the arms of Porthos and Aramis.

D’Artagnan seized the hands of Athos with an anguish difficult to be described.

“And what do you believe?’ His voice was stifled by sobs.

“I believe everything,” said Athos biting his lips till the blood sprang to avoid sighing.

“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “where art thou? Do not leave me! You see I am dying!”

D’Artagnan released the hands of Athos which he still held clasped in both his own, and hastened to her. Her beautiful face was distorted with agony; her glassy eyes had no longer their sight; a convulsive shuddering shook her whole body; the sweat rolled from her brow.

“In the name of heaven, run, call! Aramis! Porthos! Call for help!”

“Useless!” said Athos, “useless! For the poison which she pours there is no antidote.”

“Yes, yes! Help, help!” murmured Mme. Bonacieux; “help!”

Then, collecting all her strength, she took the head of the young man between her hands, looked at him for an instant as if her whole soul passed into that look, and with a sobbing cry pressed her lips to his.

“Constance, Constance!” cried D’Artagnan.

A sigh escaped from the mouth of Mme. Bonacieux, and dwelt for an instant on the lips of D’Artagnan. That sigh was the soul, so chaste and so loving, which reascended to heaven.

D’Artagnan pressed nothing but a corpse in his arms. The young man uttered a cry, and fell by the side of his mistress as pale and as icy as herself.

Porthos wept; Aramis pointed toward heaven; Athos made the sign of the cross.

At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, almost as pale as those in the chamber. He looked around him and saw Mme. Bonacieux dead, and D’Artagnan in a swoon. He appeared just at that moment of stupor which follows great catastrophes.

“I was not deceived,” said he; “here is Monsieur D’Artagnan; and you are his friends, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”

The persons whose names were thus pronounced looked at the stranger with astonishment. It seemed to all three that they knew him.

“Gentlemen,” resumed the newcomer, “you are, as I am, in search of a woman who,” added he, with a terrible smile, “must have passed this way, for I see a corpse.”

The three friends remained mute-for although the voice as well as the countenance reminded them of someone they had seen, they could not remember under what circumstances.

“Gentlemen,” continued the stranger, “since you do not recognize a man who probably owes his life to you twice, I must name myself. I am Lord de Winter, brother-in-law of that woman.”

The three friends uttered a cry of surprise.

Athos rose, and offering him his hand, “Be welcome, my Lord,” said he, “you are one of us.”

“I set out five hours after her from Portsmouth,” said Lord de Winter. “I arrived three hours after her at Boulogne. I missed her by twenty minutes at St. Omer. Finally, at Lilliers I lost all trace of her. I was going about at random, inquiring of everybody, when I saw you gallop past. I recognized Monsieur d’Artagnan. I called to you, but you did not answer me; I wished to follow you, but my horse was too much fatigued to go at the same pace with yours. And yet it appears, in spite of all your diligence, you have arrived too late.”

“You see!” said Athos, pointing to Mme. Bonacieux dead, and to D’Artagnan, whom Porthos and Aramis were trying to recall to life.

“Are they both dead?” asked Lord de Winter, sternly.

“No,” replied Athos, “fortunately Monsieur d’Artagnan has only fainted.”

“Ah, indeed, so much the better!” said Lord de Winter.

At that moment D’Artagnan opened his eyes. He tore himself from the arms of Porthos and Aramis, and threw himself like a madman on the corpse of his mistress.

Athos rose, walked toward his friend with a slow and solemn step, embraced him tenderly, and as he burst into violent sobs, he said to him with his noble and persuasive voice, “Friend, be a man! Women weep for the dead; men avenge them!”

“Oh, yes!” cried D’Artagnan, “yes! If it be to avenge her, I am ready to follow you.”

Athos profited by this moment of strength which the hope of vengeance restored to his unfortunate friend to make a sign to Porthos and Aramis to go and fetch the superior.

The two friends met her in the corridor, greatly troubled and much upset by such strange events; she called some of the nuns, who against all monastic custom found themselves in the presence of five men.

“Madame,” said Athos, passing his arm under that of D’Artagnan, “we abandon to your pious care the body of that unfortunate woman. She was an angel on earth before being an angel in heaven. Treat her as one of your sisters. We will return someday to pray over her grave.”

D’Artagnan concealed his face in the bosom of Athos, and sobbed aloud.

“Weep,” said Athos, “weep, heart full of love, youth, and life! Alas, would I could weep like you!”

And he drew away his friend, as affectionate as a father, as consoling as a priest, noble as a man who has suffered much.

All five, followed by their lackeys leading their horses, took their way to the town of Béthune, whose outskirts they perceived, and stopped before the first inn they came to.

“But,” said D’Artagnan, “shall we not pursue that woman?”

“Later,” said Athos. “I have measures to take.”

“She will escape us,” replied the young man; “she will escape us, and it will be your fault, Athos.”

“I will be accountable for her,” said Athos.

D’Artagnan had so much confidence in the word of his friend that he lowered his head, and entered the inn without reply.

Porthos and Aramis regarded each other, not understanding this assurance of Athos.

Lord de Winter believed he spoke in this manner to soothe the grief of D’Artagnan.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Athos, when he had ascertained there were five chambers free in the hotel, “let everyone retire to his own apartment. D’Artagnan needs to be alone, to weep and to sleep. I take charge of everything; be easy.”

“It appears, however,” said Lord de Winter, “if there are any measures to take against the countess, it concerns me; she is my sister-in-law.”

“And me,” said Athos, “--she is my wife!”

D’Artagnan smiled--for he understood that Athos was sure of his vengeance when he revealed such a secret. Porthos and Aramis looked at each other, and grew pale. Lord de Winter thought Athos was mad.

“Now, retire to your chambers,” said Athos, “and leave me to act. You must perceive that in my quality of a husband this concerns me. Only, D’Artagnan, if you have not lost it, give me the paper which fell from that man’s hat, upon which is written the name of the village of--”

“Ah,” said D’Artagnan, “I comprehend! that name written in her hand.”

“You see, then,” said Athos, “there is a god in heaven still!”

The Man In The Red Cloak

The despair of Athos had given place to a concentrated grief which only rendered more lucid the brilliant mental faculties of that extraordinary man.

Possessed by one single thought--that of the promise he had made, and of the responsibility he had taken--he retired last to his chamber, begged the host to procure him a map of the province, bent over it, examined every line traced upon it, perceived that there were four different roads from Béthune to Armentières, and summoned the lackeys.

Planchet, Grimaud, Bazin, and Mousqueton presented themselves, and received clear, positive, and serious orders from Athos.

They must set out the next morning at daybreak, and go to Armentières-- each by a different route. Planchet, the most intelligent of the four, was to follow that by which the carriage had gone upon which the four friends had fired, and which was accompanied, as may be remembered, by Rochefort’s servant.

Athos set the lackeys to work first because, since these men had been in the service of himself and his friends he had discovered in each of them different and essential qualities. Then, lackeys who ask questions inspire less mistrust than masters, and meet with more sympathy among those to whom they address themselves. Besides, Milady knew the masters, and did not know the lackeys; on the contrary, the lackeys knew Milady perfectly.

All four were to meet the next day at eleven o’clock. If they had discovered Milady’s retreat, three were to remain on guard; the fourth was to return to Béthune in order to inform Athos and serve as a guide to the four friends. These arrangements made, the lackeys retired.

Athos then arose from his chair, girded on his sword, enveloped himself in his cloak, and left the hotel. It was nearly ten o’clock. At ten o’clock in the evening, it is well known, the streets in provincial towns are very little frequented. Athos nevertheless was visibly anxious to find someone of whom he could ask a question. At length he met a belated passenger, went up to him, and spoke a few words to him. The man he addressed recoiled with terror, and only answered the few words of the Musketeer by pointing. Athos offered the man half a pistole to accompany him, but the man refused.

Athos then plunged into the street the man had indicated with his finger; but arriving at four crossroads, he stopped again, visibly embarrassed. Nevertheless, as the crossroads offered him a better chance than any other place of meeting somebody, he stood still. In a few minutes a night watch passed. Athos repeated to him the same question he had asked the first person he met. The night watch evinced the same terror, refused, in his turn, to accompany Athos, and only pointed with his hand to the road he was to take.

Athos walked in the direction indicated, and reached the suburb situated at the opposite extremity of the city from that by which he and his friends had entered it. There he again appeared uneasy and embarrassed, and stopped for the third time.

Fortunately, a mendicant passed, who, coming up to Athos to ask charity, Athos offered him half a crown to accompany him where he was going. The mendicant hesitated at first, but at the sight of the piece of silver which shone in the darkness he consented, and walked on before Athos.

Arrived at the angle of a street, he pointed to a small house, isolated, solitary, and dismal. Athos went toward the house, while the mendicant, who had received his reward, left as fast as his legs could carry him.

Athos went round the house before he could distinguish the door, amid the red color in which the house was painted. No light appeared through the chinks of the shutters; no noise gave reason to believe that it was inhabited. It was dark and silent as the tomb.

Three times Athos knocked without receiving an answer. At the third knock, however, steps were heard inside. The door at length was opened, and a man appeared, of high stature, pale complexion, and black hair and beard.

Athos and he exchanged some words in a low voice, then the tall man made a sign to the Musketeer that he might come in. Athos immediately profited by the permission, and the door was closed behind him.

The man whom Athos had come so far to seek, and whom he had found with so much trouble, introduced him into his laboratory, where he was engaged in fastening together with iron wire the dry bones of a skeleton. All the frame was adjusted except the head, which lay on the table.

All the rest of the furniture indicated that the dweller in this house occupied himself with the study of natural science. There were large bottles filled with serpents, ticketed according to their species; dried lizards shone like emeralds set in great squares of black wood, and bunches of wild odoriferous herbs, doubtless possessed of virtues unknown to common men, were fastened to the ceiling and hung down in the corners of the apartment. There was no family, no servant; the tall man alone inhabited this house.

Athos cast a cold and indifferent glance upon the objects we have described, and at the invitation of him whom he came to seek sat down near him.

Then he explained to him the cause of his visit, and the service he required of him. But scarcely had he expressed his request when the unknown, who remained standing before the Musketeer, drew back with signs of terror, and refused. Then Athos took from his pocket a small paper, on which two lines were written, accompanied by a signature and a seal, and presented them to him who had made too prematurely these signs of repugnance. The tall man had scarcely read these lines, seen the signature, and recognized the seal, when he bowed to denote that he had no longer any objection to make, and that he was ready to obey.

Athos required no more. He arose, bowed, went out, returned by the same way he came, re-entered the hotel, and went to his apartment.

At daybreak D’Artagnan entered the chamber, and demanded what was to be done.

“To wait,” replied Athos.

Some minutes after, the superior of the convent sent to inform the Musketeers that the burial would take place at midday. As to the poisoner, they had heard no tidings of her whatever, only that she must have made her escape through the garden, on the sand of which her footsteps could be traced, and the door of which had been found shut. As to the key, it had disappeared.

At the hour appointed, Lord de Winter and the four friends repaired to the convent; the bells tolled, the chapel was open, the grating of the choir was closed. In the middle of the choir the body of the victim, clothed in her novitiate dress, was exposed. On each side of the choir and behind the gratings opening into the convent was assembled the whole community of the Carmelites, who listened to the divine service, and mingled their chant with the chant of the priests, without seeing the profane, or being seen by them.

At the door of the chapel D’Artagnan felt his courage fall anew, and returned to look for Athos; but Athos had disappeared.

Faithful to his mission of vengeance, Athos had requested to be conducted to the garden; and there upon the sand following the light steps of this woman, who left sharp tracks wherever she went, he advanced toward the gate which led into the wood, and causing it to be opened, he went out into the forest.

Then all his suspicions were confirmed; the road by which the carriage had disappeared encircled the forest. Athos followed the road for some time, his eyes fixed upon the ground; slight stains of blood, which came from the wound inflicted upon the man who accompanied the carriage as a courier, or from one of the horses, dotted the road. At the end of three-quarters of a league, within fifty paces of Festubert, a larger bloodstain appeared; the ground was trampled by horses. Between the forest and this accursed spot, a little behind the trampled ground, was the same track of small feet as in the garden; the carriage had stopped here. At this spot Milady had come out of the wood, and entered the carriage.

Satisfied with this discovery which confirmed all his suspicions, Athos returned to the hotel, and found Planchet impatiently waiting for him.

Everything was as Athos had foreseen.

Planchet had followed the road; like Athos, he had discovered the stains of blood; like Athos, he had noted the spot where the horses had halted. But he had gone farther than Athos--for at the village of Festubert, while drinking at an inn, he had learned without needing to ask a question that the evening before, at half-past eight, a wounded man who accompanied a lady traveling in a post-chaise had been obliged to stop, unable to go further. The accident was set down to the account of robbers, who had stopped the chaise in the wood. The man remained in the village; the woman had had a relay of horses, and continued her journey.

Planchet went in search of the postillion who had driven her, and found him. He had taken the lady as far as Fromelles; and from Fromelles she had set out for Armentières. Planchet took the crossroad, and by seven o’clock in the morning he was at Armentières.

There was but one tavern, the Post. Planchet went and presented himself as a lackey out of a place, who was in search of a situation. He had not chatted ten minutes with the people of the tavern before he learned that a woman had come there alone about eleven o’clock the night before, had engaged a chamber, had sent for the master of the hotel, and told him she desired to remain some time in the neighborhood.

Planchet had no need to learn more. He hastened to the rendezvous, found the lackeys at their posts, placed them as sentinels at all the outlets of the hotel, and came to find Athos, who ha just received this information when his friends returned.

All their countenances were melancholy and gloomy, even the mild countenance of Aramis.

“What is to be done?” asked D’Artagnan.

“To wait!” replied Athos.

Each retired to his own apartment.

At eight o’clock in the evening Athos ordered the horses to be saddled, and Lord de Winter and his friends notified that they must prepare for the expedition.

In an instant all five were ready. Each examined his arms, and put them in order. Athos came down last, and found D’Artagnan already on horseback, and growing impatient.

“Patience!” cried Athos; “one of our party is still wanting.”

The four horsemen looked round them with astonishment, for they sought vainly in their minds to know who this other person could be.

At this moment Planchet brought out Athos’s house; the Musketeer leaped lightly into the saddle.

“Wait for me,” cried he, “I will soon be back,” and he set off at a gallop.

In a quarter of an hour he returned, accompanied by a tall man, masked, and wrapped in a large red cloak.

Lord de Winter and the three Musketeers looked at one another inquiringly. Neither could give the others any information, for all were ignorant who this man could be; nevertheless, they felt convinced that all was as it should be, as it was done by the order of Athos.

At nine o’clock, guided by Planchet, the little cavalcade set out, taking the route the carriage had taken.

It was a melancholy sight--that of these six men, traveling in silence, each plunged in his own thoughts, sad as despair, gloomy as chastisement.

Trial

It was a stormy and dark night; vast clouds covered the heavens, concealing the stars; the moon would not rise till midnight.

Occasionally, by the light of a flash of lightening which gleamed along the horizon, the road stretched itself before them, white and solitary; the flash extinct, all remained in darkness.

Every minute Athos was forced to restrain D’Artagnan, constantly in advance of the little troop, and to beg him to keep in the line, which in an instant he again departed from. He had but one thought--to go forward; and he went.

They passed in silence through the little village of Festubert, where the wounded servant was, and then skirted the wood of Richebourg. At Herlier, Planchet, who led the column, turned to the left.

Several times Lord de Winter, Porthos, or Aramis, tried to talk with the man in the red cloak; but to every interrogation which they put to him he bowed, without response. The travelers then comprehended that there must be some reason why the unknown preserved such a silence, and ceased to address themselves to him.

The storm increase, the flashes succeeded one another more rapidly, the thunder began to growl, and the wind, the precursor of a hurricane, whistled in the plumes and the hair of the horsemen.

The cavalcade trotted on more sharply.

A little before they came to Fromelles the storm burst. They spread their cloaks. There remained three leagues to travel, and they did it amid torrents of rain.

D’Artagnan took off his hat, and could not be persuaded to make use of his cloak. He found pleasure in feeling the water trickle over his burning brow and over his body, agitated by feverish shudders.

The moment the little troop passed Goskal and were approaching the Port, a man sheltered beneath a tree detached himself from the trunk with which he had been confounded in the darkness, and advanced into the middle of the road, putting his finger on his lips.

Athos recognized Grimaud.

“What’s the manner?” cried Athos. “Has she left Armentières?”

Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative. D’Artagnan groaned his teeth.

“Silence, D’Artagnan!” said Athos. I have charged myself with this affair. It is for me, then, to interrogate Grimaud.”

“Where is she?” asked Athos.

Grimaud extended his hands in the direction of the Lys. “Far from here?” asked Athos.

Grimaud showed his master his forefinger bent.

“Alone?” asked Athos.

Grimaud made the sign yes.

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “she is alone within half a league of us, in the direction of the river.”

“That’s well,” said D’Artagnan. “lead us, Grimaud.”

Grimaud took his course across the country, and acted as guide to the cavalcade.

At the end of five hundred paces, more or less, they came to a rivulet, which they forded.

By the aid of the lightening they perceived the village of Erquinheim.

“Is she there, Grimaud?” asked Athos.

Grimaud shook his head negatively.

“Silence, then!” cried Athos.

And the troop continued their route.

Another flash illuminated all around them. Grimaud extended his arm, and by the bluish splendor of the fiery serpent they distinguished a little isolated house on the banks of the river, within a hundred paces of a ferry.

One window was lighted.

“Here we are!” said Athos.

At this moment a man who had been crouching in a ditch jumped up and came towards them. It was Mousqueton. He pointed his finger to the lighted window.

“She is there,” said he.

“And Bazin?” asked Athos.

“While I watched the window, he guarded the door.”

“Good!” said Athos. “You are good and faithful servants.”

Athos sprang from his horse, gave the bridle to Grimaud, and advanced toward the window, after having made a sign to the rest of the troop to go toward the door.

The little house was surrounded by a low, quickset hedge, two or three feet high. Athos sprang over the hedge and went up to the window, which was without shutters, but had the half-curtains closely drawn.

He mounted the skirting stone that his eyes might look over the curtain.

By the light of a lamp he saw a woman, wrapped in a dark mantle, seated upon a stool near a dying fire. Her elbows were placed upon a mean table, and she leaned her head upon her two hands, which were white as ivory.

He could not distinguish her countenance, but a sinister smile passed over the lips of Athos. He was not deceived; it was she whom he sought.

At this moment a horse neighed. Milady raised her head, saw close to the panes the pale face of Athos, and screamed.

Athos, perceiving that she knew him, pushed the window with his knee and hand. The window yielded. The squares were broken to shivers; and Athos, like the spectre of vengeance, leaped into the room.

Milady rushed to the door and opened it. More pale and menacing than Athos, D’Artagnan stood on the threshold.

Milady recoiled, uttering a cry. D’Artagnan, believing she might have means of flight and fearing she should escape, drew a pistol from his belt; but Athos raised his hand.

“Put back that weapon, D’Artagnan!” said he; “this woman must be tried, not assassinated. Wait an instant, my friend, and you shall be satisfied. Come in, gentlemen.”

D’Artagnan obeyed; for Athos had the solemn voice and the powerful gesture of a judge sent by the Lord himself. Behind D’Artagnan entered Porthos, Aramis, Lord de Winter, and the man in the red cloak.

The four lackeys guarded the door and the window.

Milady had sunk into a chair, with her hands extended, as if to conjure this terrible apparition. Perceiving her brother-in-law, she uttered a terrible cry.

“What do you want?” screamed Milady.

“We want,” said Athos, “Charlotte Backson, who first was called Comtesse de la Fère, and afterwards Milady de Winter, Baroness of Sheffield.”

“That is I! that is I!” murmured Milady, in extreme terror; “what do you want?”

“We wish to judge you according to your crime,” said Athos; “you shall be free to defend yourself. Justify yourself if you can. M. d’Artagnan, it is for you to accuse her first.”

D’Artagnan advanced.

“Before God and before men,” said he, “I accuse this woman of having poisoned Constance Bonacieux, who died yesterday evening.”

He turned towards Porthos and Aramis.

“We bear witness to this,” said the two Musketeers, with one voice.

D’Artagnan continued: “Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having attempted to poison me, in wine which she sent me from Villeroy, with a forged letter, as if that wine came from my friends. God preserved me, but a man named Brisemont died in my place.”

“We bear witness to this,” said Porthos and Aramis, in the same manner as before.

“Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having urged me to the murder of the Baron de Wardes; but as no one else can attest the truth of this accusation, I attest it myself. I have done.” And D’Artagnan passed to the other side of the room with Porthos and Aramis.

“Your turn, my Lord,” said Athos.

The baron came forward.

“Before God and before men,” said he, “I accuse this woman of having caused the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham.”

“The Duke of Buckingham assassinated!” cried all present, with one voice.

“Yes,” said the baron, “assassinated. On receiving the warning letter you wrote to me, I had this woman arrested, and gave her in charge to a loyal servant. She corrupted this man; she placed the poniard in his hand; she made him kill the duke. And at this moment, perhaps, Felton is paying with his head for the crime of this fury!”

A shudder crept through the judges at the revelation of these unknown crimes.

“That is not all,” resumed Lord de Winter. “My brother, who made you his heir, died in three hours of a strange disorder which left livid traces all over the body. My sister, how did your husband die?”

“Horror!” cried Porthos and Aramis.

“Assassin of Buckingham, assassin of Felton, assassin of my brother, I demand justice upon you, and I swear that if it be not granted to me, I will execute it myself.”

And Lord de Winter ranged himself by the side of D’Artagnan, leaving the place free for another accuser.

Milady let her head sink between her two hands, and tried to recall her ideas, whirling in a mortal vertigo.

“My turn,” said Athos, himself trembling as the lion trembles at the sight of the serpent--”my turn. I married that woman when she was a young girl; I married her in opposition to the wishes of all my family; I gave her my wealth, I gave her my name; and one day I discovered that this woman was branded--this woman was marked with a fleur-de-lis on her left shoulder.”

“Oh,” said Milady, raising herself, “I defy you to find any tribunal which pronounced that infamous sentence against me. I defy you to find him who executed it.”

“Silence!” said a hollow voice. “It is for me to reply to that!” And the man in the red cloak came forward in his turn.

“What man is that? What man is that?” cried Milady, suffocated by terror, her hair loosening itself, and rising above her livid countenance as if alive.

All eyes were turned towards this man--for to all except Athos he was unknown.

Even Athos looked at him with as much stupefaction as the others, for he knew not how he could in any way find himself mixed up with the horrible drama then unfolded.

After approaching Milady with a slow and solemn step, so that the table alone separated them, the unknown took off his mask.

Milady for some time examined with increasing terror that pale face, framed with black hair and whiskers, the only expression of which was icy impassibility. Then she suddenly cried, “Oh, no, no!” rising and retreating to the very wall. “No, no! it is an infernal apparition! It is not he! Help, help!” screamed she, turning towards the wall, as if she would tear an opening with her hands.

“Who are you, then?” cried all the witnesses of this scene.

“Ask that woman,” said the man in the red cloak, “for you may plainly see she knows me!”

“The executioner of Lille, the executioner of Lille!” cried Milady, a prey to insensate terror, and clinging with her hands to the wall to avoid falling.

Every one drew back, and the man in the red cloak remained standing alone in the middle of the room.

“Oh, grace, grace, pardon!” cried the wretch, falling on her knees.

The unknown waited for silence, and then resumed, “I told you well that she would know me. Yes, I am the executioner of Lille, and this is my history.”

All eyes were fixed upon this man, whose words were listened to with anxious attention.

“That woman was once a young girl, as beautiful as she is today. She was a nun in the convent of the Benedictines of Templemar. A young priest, with a simple and trustful heart, performed the duties of the church of that convent. She undertook his seduction, and succeeded; she would have seduced a saint.

“Their vows were sacred and irrevocable. Their connection could not last long without ruining both. She prevailed upon him to leave the country; but to leave the country, to fly together, to reach another part of France, where they might live at ease because unknown, money was necessary. Neither had any. The priest stole the sacred vases, and sold them; but as they were preparing to escape together, they were both arrested.

“Eight days later she had seduced the son of the jailer, and escaped. The young priest was condemned to ten years of imprisonment, and to be branded. I was executioner of the city of Lille, as this woman has said. I was obliged to brand the guilty one; and he, gentlemen, was my brother!

“I then swore that this woman who had ruined him, who was more than his accomplice, since she had urged him to the crime, should at least share his punishment. I suspected where she was concealed. I followed her, I caught her, I bound her; and I imprinted the same disgraceful mark upon her that I had imprinted upon my poor brother.

“The day after my return to Lille, my brother in his turn succeeded in making his escape; I was accused of complicity, and was condemned to remain in his place till he should be again a prisoner. My poor brother was ignorant of this sentence. He rejoined this woman; they fled together into Berry, and there he obtained a little curacy. This woman passed for his sister.

“The Lord of the estate on which the chapel of the curacy was situated saw this pretend sister, and became enamoured of her--amorous to such a degree that he proposed to marry her. Then she quitted him she had ruined for him she was destined to ruin, and became the Comtesse de la Fère--”

All eyes were turned towards Athos, whose real name that was, and who made a sign with his head that all was true which the executioner had said.

“Then,” resumed he, “mad, desperate, determined to get rid of an existence from which she had stolen everything, honor and happiness, my poor brother returned to Lille, and learning the sentence which had condemned me in his place, surrendered himself, and hanged himself that same night from the iron bar of the loophole of his prison.

“To do justice to them who had condemned me, they kept their word. As soon as the identity of my brother was proved, I was set at liberty.

“That is the crime of which I accuse her; that is the cause for which she was branded.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Athos, “what is the penalty you demand against this woman?”

“The punishment of death,” replied D’Artagnan.

“My Lord de Winter,” continued Athos, “what is the penalty you demand against this woman?”

“The punishment of death,” replied Lord de Winter.

“Messieurs Porthos and Aramis,” repeated Athos, “you who are her judges, what is the sentence you pronounce upon this woman?”

“The punishment of death,” replied the Musketeers, in a hollow voice.

Milady uttered a frightful shriek, and dragged herself along several paces upon her knees toward her judges.

Athos stretched out his hand toward her.

“Charlotte Backson, Comtesse de la Fère, Milady de Winter,” said he, “your crimes have wearied men on earth and God in heaven. If you know a prayer, say it--for you are condemned, and you shall die.”

At these words, which left no hope, Milady raised herself in all her pride, and wished to speak; but her strength failed her. She felt that a powerful and implacable hand seized her by the hair, and dragged her away as irrevocably as fatality drags humanity. She did not, therefore, even attempt the least resistance, and went out of the cottage.

Lord de Winter, D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, went out close behind her. The lackeys followed their masters, and the chamber was left solitary, with its broken window, its open door, and its smoky lamp burning sadly on the table.

Execution

It was near midnight; the moon, lessened by its decline, and reddened by the last traces of the storm, arose behind the little town of Armentières, which showed against its pale light the dark outline of its houses, and the skeleton of its high belfry. In front of them the Lys rolled its waters like a river of molten tin; while on the other side was a black mass of trees, profiled on a stormy sky, invaded by large coppery clouds which created a sort of twilight amid the night. On the left was an old abandoned mill, with its motionless wings, from the ruins of which an owl threw out its shrill, periodical, and monotonous cry. On the right and on the left of the road, which the dismal procession pursued, appeared a few low, stunted trees, which looked like deformed dwarfs crouching down to watch men traveling at this sinister hour.

From time to time a broad sheet of lightning opened the horizon in its whole width, darted like a serpent over the black mass of trees, and like a terrible scimitar divided the heavens and the waters into two parts. Not a breath of wind now disturbed the heavy atmosphere. A deathlike silence oppressed all nature. The soil was humid and glittering with the rain which had recently fallen, and the refreshed herbs sent forth their perfume with additional energy.

Two lackeys dragged Milady, whom each held by one arm. The executioner walked behind them, and Lord de Winter, D’Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis walked behind the executioner. Planchet and Bazin came last.

The two lackeys conducted Milady to the bank of the river. Her mouth was mute; but her eyes spoke with their inexpressible eloquence, supplicating by turns each of those on whom she looked.

Being a few paces in advance she whispered to the lackeys, “A thousand pistoles to each of you, if you will assist my escape; but if you deliver me up to your masters, I have near at hand avengers who will make you pay dearly for my death.”

Grimaud hesitated. Mousqueton trembled in all his members.

Athos, who heard Milady’s voice, came sharply up. Lord de Winter did the same.

“Change these lackeys,” said he; “she has spoken to them. They are no longer sure.”

Planchet and Bazin were called, and took the places of Grimaud and Mousqueton.

On the bank of the river the executioner approached Milady, and bound her hands and feet.

Then she broke the silence to cry out, “You are cowards, miserable assassins--ten men combined to murder one woman. Beware! If I am not saved I shall be avenged.”

“You are not a woman,” said Athos, coldly and sternly. “You do not belong to the human species; you are a demon escaped from hell, whither we send you back again.”

“Ah, you virtuous men!” said Milady; “please to remember that he who shall touch a hair of my head is himself an assassin.”

“The executioner may kill, without being on that account an assassin,” said the man in the red cloak, rapping upon his immense sword. “This is the last judge; that is all. Nachrichter, as say our neighbors, the Germans.”

And as he bound her while saying these words, Milady uttered two or three savage cries, which produced a strange and melancholy effect in flying away into the night, and losing themselves in the depths of the woods.

“If I am guilty, if I have committed the crimes you accuse me of,” shrieked Milady, “take me before a tribunal. You are not judges! You cannot condemn me!”

“I offered you Tyburn,” said Lord de Winter. “Why did you not accept it?”

“Because I am not willing to die!” cried Milady, struggling. “Because I am too young to die!”

“The woman you poisoned at Béthune was still younger than you, madame, and yet she is dead,” said D’Artagnan.

“I will enter a cloister; I will become a nun,” said Milady.

“You were in a cloister,” said the executioner, “and you left it to ruin my brother.”

Milady uttered a cry of terror and sank upon her knees. The executioner took her up in his arms and was carrying her toward the boat.

“Oh, my God!” cried she, “my God! are you going to drown me?”

These cries had something so heartrending in them that M. d’Artagnan, who had been at first the most eager in pursuit of Milady, sat down on the stump of a tree and hung his head, covering his ears with the palms of his hands; and yet, notwithstanding, he could still hear her cry and threaten.

D’Artagnan was the youngest of all these men. His heart failed him.

“Oh, I cannot behold this frightful spectacle!” said he. “I cannot consent that this woman should die thus!”

Milady heard these few words and caught at a shadow of hope.

“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan!” cried she; “remember that I loved you!”

The young man rose and took a step toward her.

But Athos rose likewise, drew his sword, and placed himself in the way.

“If you take one step farther, D’Artagnan,” said he, “we shall cross swords together.”

D’Artagnan sank on his knees and prayed.

“Come,” continued Athos, “executioner, do your duty.”

“Willingly, monseigneur,” said the executioner; “for as I am a good Catholic, I firmly believe I am acting justly in performing my functions on this woman.”

“That’s well.”

Athos made a step toward Milady.

“I pardon you,” said he, “the ill you have done me. I pardon you for my blasted future, my lost honor, my defiled love, and my salvation forever compromised by the despair into which you have cast me. Die in peace!”

Lord de Winter advanced in his turn.

“I pardon you,” said he, “for the poisoning of my brother, and the assassination of his Grace, Lord Buckingham. I pardon you for the death of poor Felton; I pardon you for the attempts upon my own person. Die in peace!”

“And I,” said M. d’Artagnan. “Pardon me, madame, for having by a trick unworthy of a gentleman provoked your anger; and I, in exchange, pardon you the murder of my poor love and your cruel vengeance against me. I pardon you, and I weep for you. Die in peace!”

“I am lost!” murmured Milady in English. “I must die!”

Then she arose of herself, and cast around her one of those piercing looks which seemed to dart from an eye of flame.

She saw nothing; she listened, and she heard nothing.

“Where am I to die?” said she.

“On the other bank,” replied the executioner.

Then he placed her in the boat, and as he was going to set foot in it himself, Athos handed him a sum of silver.

“Here,” said he, “is the price of the execution, that it may be plain we act as judges.”

“That is correct,” said the executioner; “and now in her turn, let this woman see that I am not fulfilling my trade, but my debt.”

And he threw the money into the river.

The boat moved off toward the left-hand shore of the Lys, bearing the guilty woman and the executioner; all the others remained on the right- hand bank, where they fell on their knees.

The boat glided along the ferry rope under the shadow of a pale cloud which hung over the water at that moment.

The troop of friends saw it gain the opposite bank; the figures were defined like black shadows on the red-tinted horizon.

Milady, during the passage had contrived to untie the cord which fastened her feet. On coming near the bank, she jumped lightly on shore and took to flight. But the soil was moist; on reaching the top of the bank, she slipped and fell upon her knees.

She was struck, no doubt, with a superstitious idea; she conceived that heaven denied its aid, and she remained in the attitude in which she had fallen, her head drooping and her hands clasped.

Then they saw from the other bank the executioner raise both his arms slowly; a moonbeam fell upon the blade of the large sword. The two arms fell with a sudden force; they heard the hissing of the scimitar and the cry of the victim, then a truncated mass sank beneath the blow.

The executioner then took off his red cloak, spread it upon the ground, laid the body in it, threw in the head, tied all up by the four corners, lifted it on his back, and entered the boat again.

In the middle of the stream he stopped the boat, and suspending his burden over the water cried in a loud voice, “Let the justice of God be done!” and he let the corpse drop into the depths of the waters, which closed over it.

Three days afterward the four Musketeers were in Paris; they had not exceeded their leave of absence, and that same evening they went to pay their customary visit to M. de Tréville.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the brave captain, “I hope you have been well amused during your excursion.”

“Prodigiously,” replied Athos in the name of himself and his comrades.

Conclusion

On the sixth of the following month the king, in compliance with the promise he had made the cardinal to return to La Rochelle, left his capital still in amazement at the news which began to spread itself of Buckingham’s assassination.

Although warned that the man she had loved so much was in great danger, the queen, when his death was announced to her, would not believe the fact, and even imprudently exclaimed, “it is false; he has just written to me!”

But the next day she was obliged to believe this fatal intelligence; Laporte, detained in England, as everyone else had been, by the orders of Charles I, arrived, and was the bearer of the duke’s dying gift to the queen.

The joy of the king was lively. He did not even give himself the trouble to dissemble, and displayed it with affectation before the queen. Louis XIII, like every weak mind, was wanting in generosity.

But the king soon again became dull and indisposed; his brow was not one of those that long remain clear. He felt that in returning to camp he should re-enter slavery; nevertheless, he did return.

The cardinal was for him the fascinating serpent, and himself the bird which flies from branch to branch without power to escape.

The return to La Rochelle, therefore, was profoundly dull. Our four friends, in particular, astonished their comrades; they traveled together, side by side, with sad eyes and heads lowered. Athos alone from time to time raised his expansive brow; a flash kindled in his eyes, and a bitter smile passed over his lips, then, like his comrades, he sank again into reverie.

As soon as the escort arrived in a city, when they had conducted the king to his quarters the four friends either retired to their own or to some secluded cabaret, where they neither drank nor played; they only conversed in a low voice, looking around attentively to see that no one overheard them.

One day, when the king had halted to fly the magpie, and the four friends, according to their custom, instead of following the sport had stopped at a cabaret on the high road, a man coming from La Rochelle on horseback pulled up at the door to drink a glass of wine, and darted a searching glance into the room where the four Musketeers were sitting.

“Holloa, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said he, “is not that you whom I see yonder?”

D’Artagnan raised his head and uttered a cry of joy. It was the man he called his phantom; it was his stranger of Meung, of the Rue des Fossoyeurs and of Arras.

D’Artagnan drew his sword, and sprang toward the door.

But this time, instead of avoiding him the stranger jumped from his horse, and advanced to meet D’Artagnan.

“Ah, monsieur!” said the young man, “I meet you, then, at last! This time you shall not escape me!”

“Neither is it my intention, monsieur, for this time I was seeking you; in the name of the king, I arrest you.”

“How! what do you say?” cried D’Artagnan.

“I say that you must surrender your sword to me, monsieur, and that without resistance. This concerns your head, I warn you.”

“Who are you, then?” demanded D’Artagnan, lowering the point of his sword, but without yet surrendering it.

“I am the Chevalier de Rochefort,” answered the other, “the equerry of Monsieur le Cardinal Richelieu, and I have orders to conduct you to his Eminence.”

“We are returning to his Eminence, monsieur the Chevalier,” said Athos, advancing; “and you will please to accept the word of Monsieur d’Artagnan that he will go straight to La Rochelle.”

“I must place him in the hands of guards who will take him into camp.”

“We will be his guards, monsieur, upon our word as gentlemen; but likewise, upon our word as gentlemen,” added Athos, knitting his brow, “Monsieur d’Artagnan shall not leave us.”

The Chevalier de Rochefort cast a glance backward, and saw that Porthos and Aramis had placed themselves between him and the gate; he understood that he was completely at the mercy of these four men.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “if Monsieur d’Artagnan will surrender his sword to me and join his word to yours, I shall be satisfied with your promise to convey Monsieur d’Artagnan to the quarters of Monseigneur the Cardinal.”

“You have my word, monsieur, and here is my sword.”

“This suits me the better,” said Rochefort, “as I wish to continue my journey.”

“If it is for the purpose of rejoining Milady,” said Athos, coolly, “it is useless; you will not find her.”

“What has become of her, then?” asked Rochefort, eagerly.

“Return to camp and you shall know.”

Rochefort remained for a moment in thought; then, as they were only a day’s journey from Surgères, whither the cardinal was to come to meet the king, he resolved to follow the advice of Athos and go with them. Besides, this return offered him the advantage of watching his prisoner.

They resumed their route.

On the morrow, at three o’clock in the afternoon, they arrived at Surgères. The cardinal there awaited Louis XIII. The minister and the king exchanged numerous caresses, felicitating each other upon the fortunate chance which had freed France from the inveterate enemy who set all Europe against her. After which, the cardinal, who had been informed that D’Artagnan was arrested and who was anxious to see him, took leave of the king, inviting him to come the next day to view the work already done upon the dyke.

On returning in the evening to his quarters at the bridge of La Pierre, the cardinal found, standing before the house he occupied, D’Artagnan, without his sword, and the three Musketeers armed.

This time, as he was well attended, he looked at them sternly, and made a sign with his eye and hand for D’Artagnan to follow him.

D’Artagnan obeyed.

“We shall wait for you, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, loud enough for the cardinal to hear him.

His Eminence bent his brow, stopped for an instant, and then kept on his way without uttering a single word.

D’Artagnan entered after the cardinal, and behind D’Artagnan the door was guarded.

His Eminence entered the chamber which served him as a study, and made a sign to Rochefort to bring in the young Musketeer.

Rochefort obeyed and retired.

D’Artagnan remained alone in front of the cardinal; this was his second interview with Richelieu, and he afterward confessed that he felt well assured it would be his last.

Richelieu remained standing, leaning against the mantelpiece; a table was between him and D’Artagnan.

“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “you have been arrested by my orders.”

“So they tell me, monseigneur.”

“Do you know why?”

“No, monseigneur, for the only thing for which I could be arrested is still unknown to your Eminence.”

Richelieu looked steadfastly at the young man.

“Holloa!” said he, “what does that mean?”

“If Monseigneur will have the goodness to tell me, in the first place, what crimes are imputed to me, I will then tell him the deeds I have really done.”

“Crimes are imputed to you which had brought down far loftier heads than yours, monsieur,” said the cardinal.

“What, monseigneur?” said D’Artagnan, with a calmness which astonished the cardinal himself.

“You are charged with having corresponded with the enemies of the kingdom; you are charged with having surprised state secrets; you are charged with having tried to thwart the plans of your general.”

“And who charges me with this, monseigneur?” said D’Artagnan, who had no doubt the accusation came from Milady, “a woman branded by the justice of the country; a woman who has espoused one man in France and another in England; a woman who poisoned her second husband and who attempted both to poison and assassinate me!”

“What do you say, monsieur?” cried the cardinal, astonished; “and of what woman are you speaking thus?”

“Of Milady de Winter,” replied D’Artagnan, “yes, of Milady de Winter, of whose crimes your Eminence is doubtless ignorant, since you have honored her with your confidence.”

“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “if Milady de Winter has committed the crimes you lay to her charge, she shall be punished.”

“She has been punished, monseigneur.”

“And who has punished her?”

“We.”

“She is in prison?”

“She is dead.”

“Dead!” repeated the cardinal, who could not believe what he heard, “dead! Did you not say she was dead?”

“Three times she attempted to kill me, and I pardoned her; but she murdered the woman I loved. Then my friends and I took her, tried her, and condemned her.”

D’Artagnan then related the poisoning of Mme. Bonacieux in the convent of the Carmelites at Béthune, the trial in the isolated house, and the execution on the banks of the Lys.

A shudder crept through the body of the cardinal, who did not shudder readily.

But all at once, as if undergoing the influence of an unspoken thought, the countenance of the cardinal, till then gloomy, cleared up by degrees, and recovered perfect serenity.

“So,” said the cardinal, in a tone that contrasted strongly with the severity of his words, “you have constituted yourselves judges, without remembering that they who punish without license to punish are assassins?”

“Monseigneur, I swear to you that I never for an instant had the intention of defending my head against you. I willingly submit to any punishment your Eminence may please to inflict upon me. I do not hold life dear enough to be afraid of death.”

“Yes, I know you are a man of a stout heart, monsieur,” said the cardinal, with a voice almost affectionate; “I can therefore tell you beforehand you shall be tried, and even condemned.”

“Another might reply to your Eminence that he had his pardon in his pocket. I content myself with saying: Command, monseigneur; I am ready.”

“Your pardon?” said Richelieu, surprised.

“Yes, monseigneur,” said D’Artagnan.

“And signed by whom--by the king?” And the cardinal pronounced these words with a singular expression of contempt.

“No, by your Eminence.”

“By me? You are insane, monsieur.”

“Monseigneur will doubtless recognize his own handwriting.”

And D’Artagnan presented to the cardinal the precious piece of paper which Athos had forced from Milady, and which he had given to D’Artagnan to serve him as a safeguard.

His Eminence took the paper, and read in a slow voice, dwelling upon every syllable:

“Dec. 3, 1627
“It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of this has done what he has done.

Richelieu

The cardinal, after having read these two lines, sank into a profound reverie; but he did not return the paper to D’Artagnan.

“He is meditating by what sort of punishment he shall cause me to die,” said the Gascon to himself. “Well, my faith! he shall see how a gentleman can die.”

The young Musketeer was in excellent disposition to die heroically.

Richelieu still continued thinking, rolling and unrolling the paper in his hands.

At length he raised his head, fixed his eagle look upon that loyal, open, and intelligent countenance, read upon that face, furrowed with tears, all the sufferings its possessor had endured in the course of a month, and reflected for the third or fourth time how much there was in that youth of twenty-one years before him, and what resources his activity, his courage, and his shrewdness might offer to a good master. On the other side, the crimes, the power, and the infernal genius of Milady had more than once terrified him. He felt something like a secret joy at being forever relieved of this dangerous accomplice.

Richelieu slowly tore the paper which D’Artagnan had generously relinquished.

“I am lost!” said D’Artagnan to himself. And he bowed profoundly before the cardinal, like a man who says, “Lord, Thy will be done!”

The cardinal approached the table, and without sitting down, wrote a few lines upon a parchment of which two-thirds were already filled, and affixed his seal.

“That is my condemnation,” thought D’Artagnan; “he will spare me the ennui of the Bastille, or the tediousness of a trial. That’s very kind of him.”

“Here, monsieur,” said the cardinal to the young man. “I have taken from you one carte blanche to give you another. The name is wanting in this commission; you can write it yourself.”

D’Artagnan took the paper hesitatingly and cast his eyes over it; it was a lieutenant’s commission in the Musketeers.

D’Artagnan fell at the feet of the cardinal.

“Monseigneur,” said he, “my life is yours; henceforth dispose of it. But this favor which you bestow upon me I do not merit. I have three friends who are more meritorious and more worthy--”

“You are a brave youth, D’Artagnan,” interrupted the cardinal, tapping him familiarly on the shoulder, charmed at having vanquished this rebellious nature. “Do with this commission what you will; only remember, though the name be blank, it is to you I give it.”

“I shall never forget it,” replied D’Artagnan. “Your Eminence may be certain of that.”

The cardinal turned and said in a loud voice, “Rochefort!” The chevalier, who no doubt was near the door, entered immediately.

“Rochefort,” said the cardinal, “you see Monsieur d’Artagnan. I receive him among the number of my friends. Greet each other, then; and be wise if you wish to preserve your heads.”

Rochefort and D’Artagnan coolly greeted each other with their lips; but the cardinal was there, observing them with his vigilant eye.

They left the chamber at the same time.

“We shall meet again, shall we not, monsieur?”

“When you please,” said D’Artagnan.

“An opportunity will come,” replied Rochefort.

“Hey?” said the cardinal, opening the door.

The two men smiled at each other, shook hands, and saluted his Eminence.

“We were beginning to grow impatient,” said Athos.

“Here I am, my friends,” replied D’Artagnan; “not only free, but in favor.”

“Tell us about it.”

“This evening; but for the moment, let us separate.”

Accordingly, that same evening D’Artagnan repaired to the quarters of Athos, whom he found in a fair way to empty a bottle of Spanish wine--an occupation which he religiously accomplished every night.

D’Artagnan related what had taken place between the cardinal and himself, and drawing the commission from his pocket, said, “Here, my dear Athos, this naturally belongs to you.”

Athos smiled with one of his sweet and expressive smiles.

“Friend,” said he, “for Athos this is too much; for the Comte de la Fère it is too little. Keep the commission; it is yours. Alas! you have purchased it dearly enough.”

D’Artagnan left Athos’s chamber and went to that of Porthos. He found him clothed in a magnificent dress covered with splendid embroidery, admiring himself before a glass.

“Ah, ah! is that you, dear friend?” exclaimed Porthos. “How do you think these garments fit me?”

“Wonderfully,” said D’Artagnan; “but I come to offer you a dress which will become you still better.”

“What?” asked Porthos.

“That of a lieutenant of Musketeers.”

D’Artagnan related to Porthos the substance of his interview with the cardinal, and said, taking the commission from his pocket, “Here, my friend, write your name upon it and become my chief.”

Porthos cast his eyes over the commission and returned it to D’Artagnan, to the great astonishment of the young man.

“Yes,” said he, “yes, that would flatter me very much; but I should not have time enough to enjoy the distinction. During our expedition to Béthune the husband of my duchess died; so, my dear, the coffer of the defunct holding out its arms to me, I shall marry the widow. Look here! I was trying on my wedding suit. Keep the lieutenancy, my dear, keep it.”

The young man then entered the apartment of Aramis. He found him kneeling before a priedieu with his head leaning on an open prayer book.

He described to him his interview with the cardinal, and said, for the third time drawing his commission from his pocket, “You, our friend, our intelligence, our invisible protector, accept this commission. You have merited it more than any of us by your wisdom and your counsels, always followed by such happy results.”

“Alas, dear friend!” said Aramis, “our late adventures have disgusted me with military life. This time my determination is irrevocably taken. After the siege I shall enter the house of the Lazarists. Keep the commission, D’Artagnan; the profession of arms suits you. You will be a brave and adventurous captain.”

D’Artagnan, his eye moist with gratitude though beaming with joy, went back to Athos, whom he found still at table contemplating the charms of his last glass of Malaga by the light of his lamp.

“Well,” said he, “they likewise have refused me.”

“That, dear friend, is because nobody is more worthy than yourself.”

He took a quill, wrote the name of D’Artagnan in the commission, and returned it to him.

“I shall then have no more friends,” said the young man. “Alas! nothing but bitter recollections.”

And he let his head sink upon his hands, while two large tears rolled down his cheeks.

“You are young,” replied Athos; “and your bitter recollections have time to change themselves into sweet remembrances.”

Epilogue

La Rochelle, deprived of the assistance of the English fleet and of the diversion promised by Buckingham, surrendered after a siege of a year. On the twenty-eighth of October, 1628, the capitulation was signed.

The king made his entrance into Paris on the twenty-third of December of the same year. He was received in triumph, as if he came from conquering an enemy and not Frenchmen. He entered by the Faubourg St. Jacques, under verdant arches.

D’Artagnan took possession of his command. Porthos left the service, and in the course of the following year married Mme. Coquenard; the coffer so much coveted contained eight hundred thousand livres.

Mousqueton had a magnificent livery, and enjoyed the satisfaction of which he had been ambitious all his life--that of standing behind a gilded carriage.

Aramis, after a journey into Lorraine, disappeared all at once, and ceased to write to his friends; they learned at a later period through Mme. de Chevreuse, who told it to two or three of her intimates, that, yielding to his vocation, he had retired into a convent--only into which, nobody knew.

Bazin became a lay brother.

Athos remained a Musketeer under the command of D’Artagnan till the year 1633, at which period, after a journey he made to Touraine, he also quit the service, under the pretext of having inherited a small property in Roussillon.

Grimaud followed Athos.

D’Artagnan fought three times with Rochefort, and wounded him three times.

“I shall probably kill you the fourth,” said he to him, holding out his hand to assist him to rise.

“It is much better both for you and for me to stop where we are,” answered the wounded man. “Corbleu--I am more your friend than you think--for after our very first encounter, I could by saying a word to the cardinal have had your throat cut!”

They this time embraced heartily, and without retaining any malice.

Planchet obtained from Rochefort the rank of sergeant in the Piedmont regiment.

M. Bonacieux lived on very quietly, wholly ignorant of what had become of his wife, and caring very little about it. One day he had the imprudence to recall himself to the memory of the cardinal. The cardinal had him informed that he would provide for him so that he should never want for anything in future. In fact, M. Bonacieux, having left his house at seven o’clock in the evening to go to the Louvre, never appeared again in the Rue des Fossoyeurs; the opinion of those who seemed to be best informed was that he was fed and lodged in some royal castle, at the expense of his generous Eminence.

Twenty Years After

The Shade of Cardinal Richelieu.

In a splendid chamber of the Palais Royal, formerly styled the Palais Cardinal, a man was sitting in deep reverie, his head supported on his hands, leaning over a gilt and inlaid table which was covered with letters and papers. Behind this figure glowed a vast fireplace alive with leaping flames; great logs of oak blazed and crackled on the polished brass andirons whose flicker shone upon the superb habiliments of the lonely tenant of the room, which was illumined grandly by twin candelabra rich with wax-lights.

Any one who happened at that moment to contemplate that red simar--the gorgeous robe of office--and the rich lace, or who gazed on that pale brow, bent in anxious meditation, might, in the solitude of that apartment, combined with the silence of the ante-chambers and the measured paces of the guards upon the landing-place, have fancied that the shade of Cardinal Richelieu lingered still in his accustomed haunt.

It was, alas! the ghost of former greatness. France enfeebled, the authority of her sovereign condemned, her nobles returning to their former turbulence and insolence, her enemies within her frontiers--all proved the great Richelieu no longer in existence.

In truth, that the red simar which occupied the wonted place was his no longer, was still more strikingly obvious from the isolation which seemed, as we have observed, more appropriate to a phantom than a living creature--from the corridors deserted by courtiers, and courts crowded with guards--from that spirit of bitter ridicule, which, arising from the streets below, penetrated through the very casements of the room, which resounded with the murmurs of a whole city leagued against the minister; as well as from the distant and incessant sounds of guns firing--let off, happily, without other end or aim, except to show to the guards, the Swiss troops and the military who surrounded the Palais Royal, that the people were possessed of arms.

The shade of Richelieu was Mazarin. Now Mazarin was alone and defenceless, as he well knew.

“Foreigner!” he ejaculated, “Italian! that is their mean yet mighty byword of reproach--the watchword with which they assassinated, hanged, and made away with Concini; and if I gave them their way they would assassinate, hang, and make away with me in the same manner, although they have nothing to complain of except a tax or two now and then. Idiots! ignorant of their real enemies, they do not perceive that it is not the Italian who speaks French badly, but those who can say fine things to them in the purest Parisian accent, who are their real foes.”

“Yes, yes,” Mazarin continued, whilst his wonted smile, full of subtlety, lent a strange expression to his pale lips; “yes, these noises prove to me, indeed, that the destiny of favorites is precarious; but ye shall know I am no ordinary favorite. No! The Earl of Essex, ’tis true, wore a splendid ring, set with diamonds, given him by his royal mistress, whilst I--I have nothing but a simple circlet of gold, with a cipher on it and a date; but that ring has been blessed in the chapel of the Palais Royal,1 so they will never ruin me, as they long to do, and whilst they shout, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ I, unknown, and unperceived by them, incite them to cry out, ‘Long live the Duke de Beaufort’ one day; another, ‘Long live the Prince de Conde;’ and again, ‘Long live the parliament!’” And at this word the smile on the cardinal’s lips assumed an expression of hatred, of which his mild countenance seemed incapable. “The parliament! We shall soon see how to dispose,” he continued, “of the parliament! Both Orleans and Montargis are ours. It will be a work of time, but those who have begun by crying out: Down with Mazarin! will finish by shouting out, Down with all the people I have mentioned, each in his turn.

“Richelieu, whom they hated during his lifetime and whom they now praise after his death, was even less popular than I am. Often he was driven away, oftener still had he a dread of being sent away. The queen will never banish me, and even were I obliged to yield to the populace she would yield with me; if I fly, she will fly; and then we shall see how the rebels will get on without either king or queen.

“Oh, were I not a foreigner! were I but a Frenchman! were I but of gentle birth!”

The position of the cardinal was indeed critical, and recent events had added to his difficulties. Discontent had long pervaded the lower ranks of society in France. Crushed and impoverished by taxation--imposed by Mazarin, whose avarice impelled him to grind them down to the very dust--the people, as the Advocate-General Talon described it, had nothing left to them except their souls; and as those could not be sold by auction, they began to murmur. Patience had in vain been recommended to them by reports of brilliant victories gained by France; laurels, however, were not meat and drink, and the people had for some time been in a state of discontent.

Had this been all, it might not, perhaps, have greatly signified; for when the lower classes alone complained, the court of France, separated as it was from the poor by the intervening classes of the gentry and the bourgeoisie, seldom listened to their voice; but unluckily, Mazarin had had the imprudence to attack the magistrates and had sold no less than twelve appointments in the Court of Requests, at a high price; and as the officers of that court paid very dearly for their places, and as the addition of twelve new colleagues would necessarily lower the value of each place, the old functionaries formed a union amongst themselves, and, enraged, swore on the Bible not to allow of this addition to their number, but to resist all the persecutions which might ensue; and should any one of them chance to forfeit his post by this resistance, to combine to indemnify him for his loss.

Now the following occurrences had taken place between the two contending parties:

On the seventh of January between seven and eight hundred tradesmen had assembled in Paris to discuss a new tax which was to be levied on house property. They deputed ten of their number to wait upon the Duke of Orleans, who, according to his custom, affected popularity. The duke received them and they informed him that they were resolved not to pay this tax, even if they were obliged to defend themselves against its collectors by force of arms. They were listened to with great politeness by the duke, who held out hopes of easier measures, promised to speak in their behalf to the queen, and dismissed them with the ordinary expression of royalty, “We will see what we can do.”

Two days afterward these same magistrates appeared before the cardinal and their spokesman addressed Mazarin with so much fearlessness and determination that the minister was astounded and sent the deputation away with the same answer as it had received from the Duke of Orleans--that he would see what could be done; and in accordance with that intention a council of state was assembled and the superintendent of finance was summoned.

This man, named Emery, was the object of popular detestation, in the first place because he was superintendent of finance, and every superintendent of finance deserved to be hated; in the second place, because he rather deserved the odium which he had incurred.

He was the son of a banker at Lyons named Particelli, who, after becoming a bankrupt, chose to change his name to Emery; and Cardinal Richelieu having discovered in him great financial aptitude, had introduced him with a strong recommendation to Louis XIII. under his assumed name, in order that he might be appointed to the post he subsequently held.

“You surprise me!” exclaimed the monarch. “I am rejoiced to hear you speak of Monsieur d’Emery as calculated for a post which requires a man of probity. I was really afraid that you were going to force that villain Particelli upon me.”

“Sire,” replied Richelieu, “rest assured that Particelli, the man to whom your majesty refers, has been hanged.”

“Ah; so much the better!” exclaimed the king. “It is not for nothing that I am styled Louis the Just.” and he signed Emery’s appointment.

This was the same Emery who became eventually superintendent of finance.

He was sent for by the ministers and he came before them pale and trembling, declaring that his son had very nearly been assassinated the day before, near the palace. The mob had insulted him on account of the ostentatious luxury of his wife, whose house was hung with red velvet edged with gold fringe. This lady was the daughter of Nicholas de Camus, who arrived in Paris with twenty francs in his pocket, became secretary of state, and accumulated wealth enough to divide nine millions of francs among his children and to keep an income of forty thousand for himself.

The fact was that Emery’s son had run a great chance of being suffocated, one of the rioters having proposed to squeeze him until he gave up all the gold he had swallowed. Nothing, therefore, was settled that day, as Emery’s head was not steady enough for business after such an occurrence.

On the next day Mathieu Mole, the chief president, whose courage at this crisis, says the Cardinal de Retz, was equal to that of the Duc de Beaufort and the Prince de Conde--in other words, of the two men who were considered the bravest in France--had been attacked in his turn. The people threatened to hold him responsible for the evils that hung over them. But the chief president had replied with his habitual coolness, without betraying either disturbance or surprise, that should the agitators refuse obedience to the king’s wishes he would have gallows erected in the public squares and proceed at once to hang the most active among them. To which the others had responded that they would be glad to see the gallows erected; they would serve for the hanging of those detestable judges who purchased favor at court at the price of the people’s misery.

Nor was this all. On the eleventh the queen in going to mass at Notre Dame, as she always did on Saturdays, was followed by more than two hundred women demanding justice. These poor creatures had no bad intentions. They wished only to be allowed to fall on their knees before their sovereign, and that they might move her to compassion; but they were prevented by the royal guard and the queen proceeded on her way, haughtily disdainful of their entreaties.

At length parliament was convoked; the authority of the king was to be maintained.

One day--it was the morning of the day my story begins--the king, Louis XIV., then ten years of age, went in state, under pretext of returning thanks for his recovery from the small-pox, to Notre Dame. He took the opportunity of calling out his guard, the Swiss troops and the musketeers, and he had planted them round the Palais Royal, on the quays, and on the Pont Neuf. After mass the young monarch drove to the Parliament House, where, upon the throne, he hastily confirmed not only such edicts as he had already passed, but issued new ones, each one, according to Cardinal de Retz, more ruinous than the others--a proceeding which drew forth a strong remonstrance from the chief president, Mole--whilst President Blancmesnil and Councillor Broussel raised their voices in indignation against fresh taxes.

The king returned amidst the silence of a vast multitude to the Palais Royal. All minds were uneasy, most were foreboding, many of the people used threatening language.

At first, indeed, they were doubtful whether the king’s visit to the parliament had been in order to lighten or increase their burdens; but scarcely was it known that the taxes were to be still further increased, when cries of “Down with Mazarin!” “Long live Broussel!” “Long live Blancmesnil!” resounded through the city. For the people had learned that Broussel and Blancmesnil had made speeches in their behalf, and, although the eloquence of these deputies had been without avail, it had none the less won for them the people’s good-will. All attempts to disperse the groups collected in the streets, or silence their exclamations, were in vain. Orders had just been given to the royal guards and the Swiss guards, not only to stand firm, but to send out patrols to the streets of Saint Denis and Saint Martin, where the people thronged and where they were the most vociferous, when the mayor of Paris was announced at the Palais Royal.

He was shown in directly; he came to say that if these offensive precautions were not discontinued, in two hours Paris would be under arms.

Deliberations were being held when a lieutenant in the guards, named Comminges, made his appearance, with his clothes all torn, his face streaming with blood. The queen on seeing him uttered a cry of surprise and asked him what was going on.

As the mayor had foreseen, the sight of the guards had exasperated the mob. The tocsin was sounded. Comminges had arrested one of the ringleaders and had ordered him to be hanged near the cross of Du Trahoir; but in attempting to execute this command the soldiery were attacked in the market-place with stones and halberds; the delinquent had escaped to the Rue des Lombards and rushed into a house. They broke open the doors and searched the dwelling, but in vain. Comminges, wounded by a stone which had struck him on the forehead, had left a picket in the street and returned to the Palais Royal, followed by a menacing crowd, to tell his story.

This account confirmed that of the mayor. The authorities were not in a condition to cope with serious revolt. Mazarin endeavored to circulate among the people a report that troops had only been stationed on the quays and on the Pont Neuf, on account of the ceremonial of the day, and that they would soon withdraw. In fact, about four o’clock they were all concentrated about the Palais Royal, the courts and ground floors of which were filled with musketeers and Swiss guards, and there awaited the outcome of all this disturbance.

Such was the state of affairs at the very moment we introduced our readers to the study of Cardinal Mazarin--once that of Cardinal Richelieu. We have seen in what state of mind he listened to the murmurs from below, which even reached him in his seclusion, and to the guns, the firing of which resounded through that room. All at once he raised his head; his brow slightly contracted like that of a man who has formed a resolution; he fixed his eyes upon an enormous clock that was about to strike ten, and taking up a whistle of silver gilt that stood upon the table near him, he shrilled it twice.

A door hidden in the tapestry opened noiselessly and a man in black silently advanced and stood behind the chair on which Mazarin sat.

“Bernouin,” said the cardinal, not turning round, for having whistled, he knew that it was his valet-de-chambre who was behind him; “what musketeers are now within the palace?”

“The Black Musketeers, my lord.”

“What company?”

“Treville’s company.”

“Is there any officer belonging to this company in the ante-chamber?”

“Lieutenant d’Artagnan.”

“A man on whom we can depend, I hope.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Give me a uniform of one of these musketeers and help me to put it on.”

The valet went out as silently as he had entered and appeared in a few minutes bringing the dress demanded.

The cardinal, in deep thought and in silence, began to take off the robes of state he had assumed in order to be present at the sitting of parliament, and to attire himself in the military coat, which he wore with a certain degree of easy grace, owing to his former campaigns in Italy. When he was completely dressed he said:

“Send hither Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

The valet went out of the room, this time by the centre door, but still as silently as before; one might have fancied him an apparition.

When he was left alone the cardinal looked at himself in the glass with a feeling of self-satisfaction. Still young--for he was scarcely forty-six years of age--he possessed great elegance of form and was above the middle height; his complexion was brilliant and beautiful; his glance full of expression; his nose, though large, was well proportioned; his forehead broad and majestic; his hair, of a chestnut color, was curled slightly; his beard, which was darker than his hair, was turned carefully with a curling iron, a practice that greatly improved it. After a short time the cardinal arranged his shoulder belt, then looked with great complacency at his hands, which were most elegant and of which he took the greatest care; and throwing on one side the large kid gloves tried on at first, as belonging to the uniform, he put on others of silk only. At this instant the door opened.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the valet-de-chambre.

An officer, as he spoke, entered the apartment. He was a man between thirty-nine and forty years of age, of medium height but a very well proportioned figure; with an intellectual and animated physiognomy; his beard black, and his hair turning gray, as often happens when people have found life either too gay or too sad, more especially when they happen to be of swart complexion.

D’Artagnan advanced a few steps into the apartment.

How perfectly he remembered his former entrance into that very room! Seeing, however, no one there except a musketeer of his own troop, he fixed his eyes upon the supposed soldier, in whose dress, nevertheless, he recognized at the first glance the cardinal.

The lieutenant remained standing in a dignified but respectful posture, such as became a man of good birth, who had in the course of his life been frequently in the society of the highest nobles.

The cardinal looked at him with a cunning rather than serious glance, yet he examined his countenance with attention and after a momentary silence said:

“You are Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“I am that individual,” replied the officer.

Mazarin gazed once more at a countenance full of intelligence, the play of which had been, nevertheless, subdued by age and experience; and D’Artagnan received the penetrating glance like one who had formerly sustained many a searching look, very different, indeed, from those which were inquiringly directed on him at that instant.

“Sir,” resumed the cardinal, “you are to come with me, or rather, I am to go with you.”

“I am at your command, my lord,” returned D’Artagnan.

“I wish to visit in person the outposts which surround the Palais Royal; do you suppose that there is any danger in so doing?”

“Danger, my lord!” exclaimed D’Artagnan with a look of astonishment, “what danger?”

“I am told that there is a general insurrection.”

“The uniform of the king’s musketeers carries a certain respect with it, and even if that were not the case I would engage with four of my men to put to flight a hundred of these clowns.”

“Did you witness the injury sustained by Comminges?”

“Monsieur de Comminges is in the guards and not in the musketeers----”

“Which means, I suppose, that the musketeers are better soldiers than the guards.” The cardinal smiled as he spoke.

“Every one likes his own uniform best, my lord.”

“Myself excepted,” and again Mazarin smiled; “for you perceive that I have left off mine and put on yours.”

“Lord bless us! this is modesty indeed!” cried D’Artagnan. “Had I such a uniform as your eminence possesses, I protest I should be mightily content, and I would take an oath never to wear any other costume----”

“Yes, but for to-night’s adventure I don’t suppose my dress would have been a very safe one. Give me my felt hat, Bernouin.”

The valet instantly brought to his master a regimental hat with a wide brim. The cardinal put it on in military style.

“Your horses are ready saddled in their stables, are they not?” he said, turning to D’Artagnan.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, let us set out.”

“How many men does your eminence wish to escort you?”

“You say that with four men you will undertake to disperse a hundred low fellows; as it may happen that we shall have to encounter two hundred, take eight----”

“As many as my lord wishes.”

“I will follow you. This way--light us downstairs Bernouin.”

The valet held a wax-light; the cardinal took a key from his bureau and opening the door of a secret stair descended into the court of the Palais Royal.

  1. Marriage Rumors: It is said that Mazarin, who, though a cardinal, had not taken such vows as to prevent it, was secretly married to Anne of Austria.—La Porte’s Memoirs.

A Nightly Patrol.

In ten minutes Mazarin and his party were traversing the street “Les Bons Enfants” behind the theatre built by Richelieu expressly for the play of “Mirame,” and in which Mazarin, who was an amateur of music, but not of literature, had introduced into France the first opera that was ever acted in that country.

The appearance of the town denoted the greatest agitation. Numberless groups paraded the streets and, whatever D’Artagnan might think of it, it was obvious that the citizens had for the night laid aside their usual forbearance, in order to assume a warlike aspect. From time to time noises came in the direction of the public markets. The report of firearms was heard near the Rue Saint Denis and occasionally church bells began to ring indiscriminately and at the caprice of the populace. D’Artagnan, meantime, pursued his way with the indifference of a man upon whom such acts of folly made no impression. When he approached a group in the middle of the street he urged his horse upon it without a word of warning; and the members of the group, whether rebels or not, as if they knew with what sort of a man they had to deal, at once gave place to the patrol. The cardinal envied that composure, which he attributed to the habit of meeting danger; but none the less he conceived for the officer under whose orders he had for the moment placed himself, that consideration which even prudence pays to careless courage. On approaching an outpost near the Barriere des Sergens, the sentinel cried out, “Who’s there?” and D’Artagnan answered--having first asked the word of the cardinal--“Louis and Rocroy.” After which he inquired if Lieutenant Comminges were not the commanding officer at the outpost. The soldier replied by pointing out to him an officer who was conversing, on foot, his hand upon the neck of a horse on which the individual to whom he was talking sat. Here was the officer D’Artagnan was seeking.

“Here is Monsieur Comminges,” said D’Artagnan, returning to the cardinal. He instantly retired, from a feeling of respectful delicacy; it was, however, evident that the cardinal was recognized by both Comminges and the other officers on horseback.

“Well done, Guitant,” cried the cardinal to the equestrian; “I see plainly that, notwithstanding the sixty-four years that have passed over your head, you are still the same man, active and zealous. What were you saying to this youngster?”

“My lord,” replied Guitant, “I was observing that we live in troublous times and that to-day’s events are very like those in the days of the Ligue, of which I heard so much in my youth. Are you aware that the mob have even suggested throwing up barricades in the Rue Saint Denis and the Rue Saint Antoine?”

“And what was Comminges saying to you in reply, my good Guitant?”

“My lord,” said Comminges, “I answered that to compose a Ligue only one ingredient was wanting--in my opinion an essential one--a Duc de Guise; moreover, no generation ever does the same thing twice.”

“No, but they mean to make a Fronde, as they call it,” said Guitant.

“And what is a Fronde?” inquired Mazarin.

“My lord, Fronde is the name the discontented give to their party.”

“And what is the origin of this name?”

“It seems that some days since Councillor Bachaumont remarked at the palace that rebels and agitators reminded him of schoolboys slinging--qui frondent--stones from the moats round Paris, young urchins who run off the moment the constable appears, only to return to their diversion the instant his back is turned. So they have picked up the word and the insurrectionists are called ‘Frondeurs,’ and yesterday every article sold was ‘a la Fronde;’ bread ‘a la Fronde,’ hats ‘a la Fronde,’ to say nothing of gloves, pocket-handkerchiefs, and fans; but listen----”

At that moment a window opened and a man began to sing:

“A tempest from the Fronde
Did blow to-day:
I think ’twill blow Sieur Mazarin away.”

“Insolent wretch!” cried Guitant.

“My lord,” said Comminges, who, irritated by his wounds, wished for revenge and longed to give back blow for blow, “shall I fire off a ball to punish that jester, and to warn him not to sing so much out of tune in the future?”

And as he spoke he put his hand on the holster of his uncle’s saddle-bow.

“Certainly not! certainly not,” exclaimed Mazarin. “Diavolo! my dear friend, you are going to spoil everything--everything is going on famously. I know the French as well as if I had made them myself. They sing--let them pay the piper. During the Ligue, about which Guitant was speaking just now, the people chanted nothing except the mass, so everything went to destruction. Come, Guitant, come along, and let’s see if they keep watch at the Quinze-Vingts as at the Barriere des Sergens.”

And waving his hand to Comminges he rejoined D’Artagnan, who instantly put himself at the head of his troop, followed by the cardinal, Guitant and the rest of the escort.

“Just so,” muttered Comminges, looking after Mazarin. “True, I forgot; provided he can get money out of the people, that is all he wants.”

The street of Saint Honore, when the cardinal and his party passed through it, was crowded by an assemblage who, standing in groups, discussed the edicts of that memorable day. They pitied the young king, who was unconsciously ruining his country, and threw all the odium of his proceedings on Mazarin. Addresses to the Duke of Orleans and to Conde were suggested. Blancmesnil and Broussel seemed in the highest favor.

D’Artagnan passed through the very midst of this discontented mob just as if his horse and he had been made of iron. Mazarin and Guitant conversed together in whispers. The musketeers, who had already discovered who Mazarin was, followed in profound silence. In the street of Saint Thomas-du-Louvre they stopped at the barrier distinguished by the name of Quinze-Vingts. Here Guitant spoke to one of the subalterns, asking how matters were progressing.

“Ah, captain!” said the officer, “everything is quiet hereabout--if I did not know that something is going on in yonder house!”

And he pointed to a magnificent hotel situated on the very spot whereon the Vaudeville now stands.

“In that hotel? it is the Hotel Rambouillet,” cried Guitant.

“I really don’t know what hotel it is; all I do know is that I observed some suspicious looking people go in there----”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Guitant, with a burst of laughter; “those men must be poets.”

“Come, Guitant, speak, if you please, respectfully of these gentlemen,” said Mazarin; “don’t you know that I was in my youth a poet? I wrote verses in the style of Benserade----”

“You, my lord?”

“Yes, I; shall I repeat to you some of my verses?”

“Just as you please, my lord. I do not understand Italian.”

“Yes, but you understand French,” and Mazarin laid his hand upon Guitant’s shoulder. “My good, my brave Guitant, whatsoever command I may give you in that language--in French--whatever I may order you to do, will you not perform it?”

“Certainly. I have already answered that question in the affirmative; but that command must come from the queen herself.”

“Yes! ah yes!” Mazarin bit his lips as he spoke; “I know your devotion to her majesty.”

“I have been a captain in the queen’s guards for twenty years,” was the reply.

“En route, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal; “all goes well in this direction.”

D’Artagnan, in the meantime, had taken the head of his detachment without a word and with that ready and profound obedience which marks the character of an old soldier.

He led the way toward the hill of Saint Roche. The Rue Richelieu and the Rue Villedot were then, owing to their vicinity to the ramparts, less frequented than any others in that direction, for the town was thinly inhabited thereabout.

“Who is in command here?” asked the cardinal.

“Villequier,” said Guitant.

“Diavolo! Speak to him yourself, for ever since you were deputed by me to arrest the Duc de Beaufort, this officer and I have been on bad terms. He laid claim to that honor as captain of the royal guards.”

“I am aware of that, and I have told him a hundred times that he was wrong. The king could not give that order, since at that time he was hardly four years old.”

“Yes, but I could give him the order--I, Guitant--and I preferred to give it to you.”

Guitant, without reply, rode forward and desired the sentinel to call Monsieur de Villequier.

“Ah! so you are here!” cried the officer, in the tone of ill-humor habitual to him; “what the devil are you doing here?”

“I wish to know--can you tell me, pray--is anything fresh occurring in this part of the town?”

“What do you mean? People cry out, ‘Long live the king! down with Mazarin!’ That’s nothing new; no, we’ve been used to those acclamations for some time.”

“And you sing chorus,” replied Guitant, laughing.

“Faith, I’ve half a mind to do it. In my opinion the people are right; and cheerfully would I give up five years of my pay--which I am never paid, by the way--to make the king five years older.”

“Really! And pray what would come to pass, supposing the king were five years older than he is?”

“As soon as ever the king comes of age he will issue his commands himself, and ’tis far pleasanter to obey the grandson of Henry IV. than the son of Peter Mazarin. ‘Sdeath! I would die willingly for the king, but supposing I happened to be killed on account of Mazarin, as your nephew came near being to-day, there could be nothing in Paradise, however well placed I might be there, that could console me for it.”

“Well, well, Monsieur de Villequier,” Mazarin interposed, “I shall make it my care the king hears of your loyalty. Come, gentlemen,” addressing the troop, “let us return.”

“Stop,” exclaimed Villequier, “so Mazarin was here! so much the better. I have been waiting for a long time to tell him what I think of him. I am obliged to you Guitant, although your intention was perhaps not very favorable to me, for such an opportunity.”

He turned away and went off to his post, whistling a tune then popular among the party called the “Fronde,” whilst Mazarin returned, in a pensive mood, toward the Palais Royal. All that he had heard from these three different men, Comminges, Guitant and Villequier, confirmed him in his conviction that in case of serious tumults there would be no one on his side except the queen; and then Anne of Austria had so often deserted her friends that her support seemed most precarious. During the whole of this nocturnal ride, during the whole time that he was endeavoring to understand the various characters of Comminges, Guitant and Villequier, Mazarin was, in truth, studying more especially one man. This man, who had remained immovable as bronze when menaced by the mob--not a muscle of whose face was stirred, either at Mazarin’s witticisms or by the jests of the multitude--seemed to the cardinal a peculiar being, who, having participated in past events similar to those now occurring, was calculated to cope with those now on the eve of taking place.

The name of D’Artagnan was not altogether new to Mazarin, who, although he did not arrive in France before the year 1634 or 1635, that is to say, about eight or nine years after the events which we have related in a preceding narrative, fancied he had heard it pronounced as that of one who was said to be a model of courage, address and loyalty.

Possessed by this idea, the cardinal resolved to know all about D’Artagnan immediately; of course he could not inquire from D’Artagnan himself who he was and what had been his career; he remarked, however, in the course of conversation that the lieutenant of musketeers spoke with a Gascon accent. Now the Italians and the Gascons are too much alike and know each other too well ever to trust what any one of them may say of himself; so in reaching the walls which surrounded the Palais Royal, the cardinal knocked at a little door, and after thanking D’Artagnan and requesting him to wait in the court of the Palais Royal, he made a sign to Guitant to follow him.

They both dismounted, consigned their horses to the lackey who had opened the door, and disappeared in the garden.

“My dear friend,” said the cardinal, leaning, as they walked through the garden, on his friend’s arm, “you told me just now that you had been twenty years in the queen’s service.”

“Yes, it’s true. I have,” returned Guitant.

“Now, my dear Guitant, I have often remarked that in addition to your courage, which is indisputable, and your fidelity, which is invincible, you possess an admirable memory.”

“You have found that out, have you, my lord? Deuce take it--all the worse for me!”

“How?”

“There is no doubt but that one of the chief accomplishments of a courtier is to know when to forget.”

“But you, Guitant, are not a courtier. You are a brave soldier, one of the few remaining veterans of the days of Henry IV. Alas! how few to-day exist!”

“Plague on’t, my lord, have you brought me here to get my horoscope out of me?”

“No; I only brought you here to ask you,” returned Mazarin, smiling, “if you have taken any particular notice of our lieutenant of musketeers?”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan? I have had no occasion to notice him particularly; he’s an old acquaintance. He’s a Gascon. De Treville knows him and esteems him very highly, and De Treville, as you know, is one of the queen’s greatest friends. As a soldier the man ranks well; he did his whole duty and even more, at the siege of Rochelle--as at Suze and Perpignan.”

“But you know, Guitant, we poor ministers often want men with other qualities besides courage; we want men of talent. Pray, was not Monsieur d’Artagnan, in the time of the cardinal, mixed up in some intrigue from which he came out, according to report, quite cleverly?”

“My lord, as to the report you allude to”--Guitant perceived that the cardinal wished to make him speak out--”I know nothing but what the public knows. I never meddle in intrigues, and if I occasionally become a confidant of the intrigues of others I am sure your eminence will approve of my keeping them secret.”

Mazarin shook his head.

“Ah!” he said; “some ministers are fortunate and find out all that they wish to know.”

“My lord,” replied Guitant, “such ministers do not weigh men in the same balance; they get their information on war from warriors; on intrigues, from intriguers. Consult some politician of the period of which you speak, and if you pay well for it you will certainly get to know all you want.”

“Eh, pardieu!” said Mazarin, with a grimace which he always made when spoken to about money. “They will be paid, if there is no way of getting out of it.”

“Does my lord seriously wish me to name any one who was mixed up in the cabals of that day?”

“By Bacchus!” rejoined Mazarin, impatiently, “it’s about an hour since I asked you for that very thing, wooden-head that you are.”

“There is one man for whom I can answer, if he will speak out.”

“That’s my concern; I will make him speak.”

“Ah, my lord, ’tis not easy to make people say what they don’t wish to let out.”

“Pooh! with patience one must succeed. Well, this man. Who is he?”

“The Comte de Rochefort.”

“The Comte de Rochefort!”

“Unfortunately he has disappeared these four or five years and I don’t know where he is.”

“I know, Guitant,” said Mazarin.

“Well, then, how is it that your eminence complained just now of want of information?”

“You think,” resumed Mazarin, “that Rochefort----”

“He was Cardinal Richelieu’s creature, my lord. I warn you, however, his services will cost you something. The cardinal was lavish to his underlings.”

“Yes, yes, Guitant,” said Mazarin; “Richelieu was a great man, a very great man, but he had that defect. Thanks, Guitant; I shall benefit by your advice this very evening.”

Here they separated and bidding adieu to Guitant in the court of the Palais Royal, Mazarin approached an officer who was walking up and down within that inclosure.

It was D’Artagnan, who was waiting for him.

“Cane hither,” said Mazarin in his softest voice; “I have an order to give you.”

D’Artagnan bent low and following the cardinal up the secret staircase, soon found himself in the study whence they had first set out.

The cardinal seated himself before his bureau and taking a sheet of paper wrote some lines upon it, whilst D’Artagnan stood imperturbable, without showing either impatience or curiosity. He was like a soldierly automaton, or rather, like a magnificent marionette.

The cardinal folded and sealed his letter.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, “you are to take this dispatch to the Bastile and bring back here the person it concerns. You must take a carriage and an escort, and guard the prisoner with the greatest care.”

D’Artagnan took the letter, touched his hat with his hand, turned round upon his heel like a drill-sergeant, and a moment afterward was heard, in his dry and monotonous tone, commanding “Four men and an escort, a carriage and a horse.” Five minutes afterward the wheels of the carriage and the horses’ shoes were heard resounding on the pavement of the courtyard.

Dead Animosities.

D’Artagnan arrived at the Bastile just as it was striking half-past eight. His visit was announced to the governor, who, on hearing that he came from the cardinal, went to meet him and received him at the top of the great flight of steps outside the door. The governor of the Bastile was Monsieur du Tremblay, the brother of the famous Capuchin, Joseph, that fearful favorite of Richelieu’s, who went by the name of the Gray Cardinal.

During the period that the Duc de Bassompierre passed in the Bastile--where he remained for twelve long years--when his companions, in their dreams of liberty, said to each other: “As for me, I shall go out of the prison at such a time,” and another, at such and such a time, the duke used to answer, “As for me, gentlemen, I shall leave only when Monsieur du Tremblay leaves;” meaning that at the death of the cardinal Du Tremblay would certainly lose his place at the Bastile and De Bassompierre regain his at court.

His prediction was nearly fulfilled, but in a very different way from that which De Bassompierre supposed; for after the death of Richelieu everything went on, contrary to expectation, in the same way as before; and Bassompierre had little chance of leaving his prison.

Monsieur du Tremblay received D’Artagnan with extreme politeness and invited him to sit down with him to supper, of which he was himself about to partake.

“I should be delighted to do so,” was the reply; “but if I am not mistaken, the words ‘In haste,’ are written on the envelope of the letter which I brought.”

“You are right,” said Du Tremblay. “Halloo, major! tell them to order Number 25 to come downstairs.”

The unhappy wretch who entered the Bastile ceased, as he crossed the threshold, to be a man--he became a number.

D’Artagnan shuddered at the noise of the keys; he remained on horseback, feeling no inclination to dismount, and sat looking at the bars, at the buttressed windows and the immense walls he had hitherto only seen from the other side of the moat, but by which he had for twenty years been awe-struck.

A bell resounded.

“I must leave you,” said Du Tremblay; “I am sent for to sign the release of a prisoner. I shall be happy to meet you again, sir.”

“May the devil annihilate me if I return thy wish!” murmured D’Artagnan, smiling as he pronounced the imprecation; “I declare I feel quite ill after only being five minutes in the courtyard. Go to! go to! I would rather die on straw than hoard up a thousand a year by being governor of the Bastile.”

He had scarcely finished this soliloquy before the prisoner arrived. On seeing him D’Artagnan could hardly suppress an exclamation of surprise. The prisoner got into the carriage without seeming to recognize the musketeer.

“Gentlemen,” thus D’Artagnan addressed the four musketeers, “I am ordered to exercise the greatest possible care in guarding the prisoner, and since there are no locks to the carriage, I shall sit beside him. Monsieur de Lillebonne, lead my horse by the bridle, if you please.” As he spoke he dismounted, gave the bridle of his horse to the musketeer and placing himself by the side of the prisoner said, in a voice perfectly composed, “To the Palais Royal, at full trot.”

The carriage drove on and D’Artagnan, availing himself of the darkness in the archway under which they were passing, threw himself into the arms of the prisoner.

“Rochefort!” he exclaimed; “you! is it you, indeed? I am not mistaken?”

“D’Artagnan!” cried Rochefort.

“Ah! my poor friend!” resumed D’Artagnan, “not having seen you for four or five years I concluded you were dead.”

“I’faith,” said Rochefort, “there’s no great difference, I think, between a dead man and one who has been buried alive; now I have been buried alive, or very nearly so.”

“And for what crime are you imprisoned in the Bastile.”

“Do you wish me to speak the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I don’t know.”

“Have you any suspicion of me, Rochefort?”

“No! on the honor of a gentleman; but I cannot be imprisoned for the reason alleged; it is impossible.”

“What reason?” asked D’Artagnan.

“For stealing.”

“For stealing! you, Rochefort! you are laughing at me.”

“I understand. You mean that this demands explanation, do you not?”

“I admit it.”

“Well, this is what actually took place: One evening after an orgy in Reinard’s apartment at the Tuileries with the Duc d’Harcourt, Fontrailles, De Rieux and others, the Duc d’Harcourt proposed that we should go and pull cloaks on the Pont Neuf; that is, you know, a diversion which the Duc d’Orleans made quite the fashion.”

“Were you crazy, Rochefort? at your age!”

“No, I was drunk. And yet, since the amusement seemed to me rather tame, I proposed to Chevalier de Rieux that we should be spectators instead of actors, and, in order to see to advantage, that we should mount the bronze horse. No sooner said than done. Thanks to the spurs, which served as stirrups, in a moment we were perched upon the croupe; we were well placed and saw everything. Four or five cloaks had already been lifted, with a dexterity without parallel, and not one of the victims had dared to say a word, when some fool of a fellow, less patient than the others, took it into his head to cry out, ‘Guard!’ and drew upon us a patrol of archers. Duc d’Harcourt, Fontrailles, and the others escaped; De Rieux was inclined to do likewise, but I told him they wouldn’t look for us where we were. He wouldn’t listen, put his foot on the spur to get down, the spur broke, he fell with a broken leg, and, instead of keeping quiet, took to crying out like a gallows-bird. I then was ready to dismount, but it was too late; I descended into the arms of the archers. They conducted me to the Chatelet, where I slept soundly, being very sure that on the next day I should go forth free. The next day came and passed, the day after, a week; I then wrote to the cardinal. The same day they came for me and took me to the Bastile. That was five years ago. Do you believe it was because I committed the sacrilege of mounting en croupe behind Henry IV.?”

“No; you are right, my dear Rochefort, it couldn’t be for that; but you will probably learn the reason soon.”

“Ah, indeed! I forgot to ask you--where are you taking me?”

“To the cardinal.”

“What does he want with me?”

“I do not know. I did not even know that you were the person I was sent to fetch.”

“Impossible--you--a favorite of the minister!”

“A favorite! no, indeed!” cried D’Artagnan. “Ah, my poor friend! I am just as poor a Gascon as when I saw you at Meung, twenty-two years ago, you know; alas!” and he concluded his speech with a deep sigh.

“Nevertheless, you come as one in authority.”

“Because I happened to be in the ante-chamber when the cardinal called me, by the merest chance. I am still a lieutenant in the musketeers and have been so these twenty years.”

“Then no misfortune has happened to you?”

“And what misfortune could happen to me? To quote some Latin verses I have forgotten, or rather, never knew well, ‘the thunderbolt never falls on the valleys,’ and I am a valley, dear Rochefort,--one of the lowliest of the low.”

“Then Mazarin is still Mazarin?”

“The same as ever, my friend; it is said that he is married to the queen.”

“Married?”

“If not her husband, he is unquestionably her lover.”

“You surprise me. Rebuff Buckingham and consent to Mazarin!”

“Just like the women,” replied D’Artagnan, coolly.

“Like women, not like queens.”

“Egad! queens are the weakest of their sex, when it comes to such things as these.”

“And M. de Beaufort--is he still in prison?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh, nothing, but that he might get me out of this, if he were favorably inclined to me.”

“You are probably nearer freedom than he is, so it will be your business to get him out.”

“And,” said the prisoner, “what talk is there of war with Spain?”

“With Spain, no,” answered D’Artagnan; “but Paris.”

“What do you mean?” cried Rochefort.

“Do you hear the guns, pray? The citizens are amusing themselves in the meantime.”

“And you--do you really think that anything could be done with these bourgeois?”

“Yes, they might do well if they had any leader to unite them in one body.”

“How miserable not to be free!”

“Don’t be downcast. Since Mazarin has sent for you, it is because he wants you. I congratulate you! Many a long year has passed since any one has wanted to employ me; so you see in what a situation I am.”

“Make your complaints known; that’s my advice.”

“Listen, Rochefort; let us make a compact. We are friends, are we not?”

“Egad! I bear the traces of our friendship--three slits or slashes from your sword.”

“Well, if you should be restored to favor, don’t forget me.”

“On the honor of a Rochefort; but you must do the like for me.”

“There’s my hand,--I promise.”

“Therefore, whenever you find any opportunity of saying something in my behalf----”

“I shall say it, and you?”

“I shall do the same.”

“Apropos, are we to speak of your friends also, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis? or have you forgotten them?”

“Almost.”

“What has become of them?”

“I don’t know; we separated, as you know. They are alive, that’s all that I can say about them; from time to time I hear of them indirectly, but in what part of the world they are, devil take me if I know, No, on my honor, I have not a friend in the world but you, Rochefort.”

“And the illustrious--what’s the name of the lad whom I made a sergeant in Piedmont’s regiment?”

“Planchet!”

“The illustrious Planchet. What has become of him?”

“I shouldn’t wonder if he were at the head of the mob at this very moment. He married a woman who keeps a confectioner’s shop in the Rue des Lombards, for he’s a lad who was always fond of sweetmeats; he’s now a citizen of Paris. You’ll see that that queer fellow will be a sheriff before I shall be a captain.”

“Come, dear D’Artagnan, look up a little! Courage! It is when one is lowest on the wheel of fortune that the merry-go-round wheels and rewards us. This evening your destiny begins to change.”

“Amen!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, stopping the carriage.

“What are you doing?” asked Rochefort.

“We are almost there and I want no one to see me getting out of your carriage; we are supposed not to know each other.”

“You are right. Adieu.”

“Au revoir. Remember your promise.”

In five minutes the party entered the courtyard and D’Artagnan led the prisoner up the great staircase and across the corridor and ante-chamber.

As they stopped at the door of the cardinal’s study, D’Artagnan was about to be announced when Rochefort slapped him on his shoulder.

“D’Artagnan, let me confess to you what I’ve been thinking about during the whole of my drive, as I looked out upon the parties of citizens who perpetually crossed our path and looked at you and your four men with fiery eyes.”

“Speak out,” answered D’Artagnan.

“I had only to cry out ‘Help!’ for you and for your companions to be cut to pieces, and then I should have been free.”

“Why didn’t you do it?” asked the lieutenant.

“Come, come!” cried Rochefort. “Did we not swear friendship? Ah! had any one but you been there, I don’t say----”

D’Artagnan bowed. “Is it possible that Rochefort has become a better man than I am?” he said to himself. And he caused himself to be announced to the minister.

“Let M. de Rochefort enter,” said Mazarin, eagerly, on hearing their names pronounced; “and beg M. d’Artagnan to wait; I shall have further need of him.”

These words gave great joy to D’Artagnan. As he had said, it had been a long time since any one had needed him; and that demand for his services on the part of Mazarin seemed to him an auspicious sign.

Rochefort, rendered suspicious and cautious by these words, entered the apartment, where he found Mazarin sitting at the table, dressed in his ordinary garb and as one of the prelates of the Church, his costume being similar to that of the abbes in that day, excepting that his scarf and stockings were violet.

As the door was closed Rochefort cast a glance toward Mazarin, which was answered by one, equally furtive, from the minister.

There was little change in the cardinal; still dressed with sedulous care, his hair well arranged and curled, his person perfumed, he looked, owing to his extreme taste in dress, only half his age. But Rochefort, who had passed five years in prison, had become old in the lapse of a few years; the dark locks of this estimable friend of the defunct Cardinal Richelieu were now white; the deep bronze of his complexion had been succeeded by a mortal pallor which betokened debility. As he gazed at him Mazarin shook his head slightly, as much as to say, “This is a man who does not appear to me fit for much.”

After a pause, which appeared an age to Rochefort, Mazarin took from a bundle of papers a letter, and showing it to the count, he said:

“I find here a letter in which you sue for liberty, Monsieur de Rochefort. You are in prison, then?”

Rochefort trembled in every limb at this question. “But I thought,” he said, “that your eminence knew that circumstance better than any one----”

“I? Oh no! There is a congestion of prisoners in the Bastile, who were cooped up in the time of Monsieur de Richelieu; I don’t even know their names.”

“Yes, but in regard to myself, my lord, it cannot be so, for I was removed from the Chatelet to the Bastile owing to an order from your eminence.”

“You think you were.”

“I am certain of it.”

“Ah, stay! I fancy I remember it. Did you not once refuse to undertake a journey to Brussels for the queen?”

“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Rochefort. “There is the true reason! Idiot that I am, though I have been trying to find it out for five years, I never found it out.”

“But I do not say it was the cause of your imprisonment. I merely ask you, did you not refuse to go to Brussels for the queen, whilst you had consented to go there to do some service for the late cardinal?”

“That is the very reason I refused to go back to Brussels. I was there at a fearful moment. I was sent there to intercept a correspondence between Chalais and the archduke, and even then, when I was discovered I was nearly torn to pieces. How could I, then, return to Brussels? I should injure the queen instead of serving her.”

“Well, since the best motives are liable to misconstruction, the queen saw in your refusal nothing but a refusal--a distinct refusal she had also much to complain of you during the lifetime of the late cardinal; yes, her majesty the queen----”

Rochefort smiled contemptuously.

“Since I was a faithful servant, my lord, to Cardinal Richelieu during his life, it stands to reason that now, after his death, I should serve you well, in defiance of the whole world.”

“With regard to myself, Monsieur de Rochefort,” replied Mazarin, “I am not, like Monsieur de Richelieu, all-powerful. I am but a minister, who wants no servants, being myself nothing but a servant of the queen’s. Now, the queen is of a sensitive nature. Hearing of your refusal to obey her she looked upon it as a declaration of war, and as she considers you a man of superior talent, and consequently dangerous, she desired me to make sure of you; that is the reason of your being shut up in the Bastile. But your release can be managed. You are one of those men who can comprehend certain matters and having understood them, can act with energy----”

“Such was Cardinal Richelieu’s opinion, my lord.”

“The cardinal,” interrupted Mazarin, “was a great politician and therein shone his vast superiority over me. I am a straightforward, simple man; that’s my great disadvantage. I am of a frankness of character quite French.”

Rochefort bit his lips in order to prevent a smile.

“Now to the point. I want friends; I want faithful servants. When I say I want, I mean the queen wants them. I do nothing without her commands--pray understand that; not like Monsieur de Richelieu, who went on just as he pleased. So I shall never be a great man, as he was, but to compensate for that, I shall be a good man, Monsieur de Rochefort, and I hope to prove it to you.”

Rochefort knew well the tones of that soft voice, in which sounded sometimes a sort of gentle lisp, like the hissing of young vipers.

“I am disposed to believe your eminence,” he replied; “though I have had but little evidence of that good-nature of which your eminence speaks. Do not forget that I have been five years in the Bastile and that no medium of viewing things is so deceptive as the grating of a prison.”

“Ah, Monsieur de Rochefort! have I not told you already that I had nothing to do with that? The queen--cannot you make allowances for the pettishness of a queen and a princess? But that has passed away as suddenly as it came, and is forgotten.”

“I can easily suppose, sir, that her majesty has forgotten it amid the fetes and the courtiers of the Palais Royal, but I who have passed those years in the Bastile----”

“Ah! mon Dieu! my dear Monsieur de Rochefort! do you absolutely think that the Palais Royal is the abode of gayety? No. We have had great annoyances there. As for me, I play my game squarely, fairly, and above board, as I always do. Let us come to some conclusion. Are you one of us, Monsieur de Rochefort?”

“I am very desirous of being so, my lord, but I am totally in the dark about everything. In the Bastile one talks politics only with soldiers and jailers, and you have not an idea, my lord, how little is known of what is going on by people of that sort; I am of Monsieur de Bassompierre’s party. Is he still one of the seventeen peers of France.”

“He is dead, sir; a great loss. His devotion to the queen was boundless; men of loyalty are scarce.”

“I think so, forsooth,” said Rochefort, “and when you find any of them, you march them off to the Bastile. However, there are plenty in the world, but you don’t look in the right direction for them, my lord.”

“Indeed! explain to me. Ah! my dear Monsieur de Rochefort, how much you must have learned during your intimacy with the late cardinal! Ah! he was a great man.”

“Will your eminence be angry if I read you a lesson?”

“I! never! you know you may say anything to me. I try to be beloved, not feared.”

“Well, there is on the wall of my cell, scratched with a nail, a proverb, which says, ‘Like master, like servant.’”

“Pray, what does that mean?”

“It means that Monsieur de Richelieu was able to find trusty servants, dozens and dozens of them.”

“He! the point aimed at by every poniard! Richelieu, who passed his life in warding off blows which were forever aimed at him!”

“But he did ward them off,” said De Rochefort, “and the reason was, that though he had bitter enemies he possessed also true friends. I have known persons,” he continued--for he thought he might avail himself of the opportunity of speaking of D’Artagnan--“who by their sagacity and address have deceived the penetration of Cardinal Richelieu; who by their valor have got the better of his guards and spies; persons without money, without support, without credit, yet who have preserved to the crowned head its crown and made the cardinal crave pardon.”

“But those men you speak of,” said Mazarin, smiling inwardly on seeing Rochefort approach the point to which he was leading him, “those men were not devoted to the cardinal, for they contended against him.”

“No; in that case they would have met with more fitting reward. They had the misfortune to be devoted to that very queen for whom just now you were seeking servants.”

“But how is it that you know so much of these matters?”

“I know them because the men of whom I speak were at that time my enemies; because they fought against me; because I did them all the harm I could and they returned it to the best of their ability; because one of them, with whom I had most to do, gave me a pretty sword-thrust, now about seven years ago, the third that I received from the same hand; it closed an old account.”

“Ah!” said Mazarin, with admirable suavity, “could I but find such men!”

“My lord, there has stood for six years at your very door a man such as I describe, and during those six years he has been unappreciated and unemployed by you.”

“Who is it?”

“It is Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“That Gascon!” cried Mazarin, with well acted surprise.

“‘That Gascon’ has saved a queen and made Monsieur de Richelieu confess that in point of talent, address and political skill, to him he was only a tyro.”

“Really?”

“It is as I have the honor of telling it to your excellency.”

“Tell me a little about it, my dear Monsieur de Rochefort.”

“That is somewhat difficult, my lord,” said Rochefort, with a smile.

“Then he will tell it me himself.”

“I doubt it, my lord.”

“Why do you doubt it?”

“Because the secret does not belong to him; because, as I have told you, it has to do with a great queen.”

“And he was alone in achieving an enterprise like that?”

“No, my lord, he had three colleagues, three brave men, men such as you were wishing for just now.”

“And were these four men attached to each other, true in heart, really united?”

“As if they had been one man--as if their four hearts had pulsated in one breast.”

“You pique my curiosity, dear Rochefort; pray tell me the whole story.”

“That is impossible; but I will tell you a true story, my lord.”

“Pray do so, I delight in stories,” cried the cardinal.

“Listen, then,” returned Rochefort, as he spoke endeavoring to read in that subtle countenance the cardinal’s motive. “Once upon a time there lived a queen--a powerful monarch--who reigned over one of the greatest kingdoms of the universe; and a minister; and this minister wished much to injure the queen, whom once he had loved too well. (Do not try, my lord, you cannot guess who it is; all this happened long before you came into the country where this queen reigned.) There came to the court an ambassador so brave, so magnificent, so elegant, that every woman lost her heart to him; and the queen had even the indiscretion to give him certain ornaments so rare that they could never be replaced by any like them.

“As these ornaments were given by the king the minister persuaded his majesty to insist upon the queen’s appearing in them as part of her jewels at a ball which was soon to take place. There is no occasion to tell you, my lord, that the minister knew for a fact that these ornaments had sailed away with the ambassador, who was far away, beyond seas. This illustrious queen had fallen low as the least of her subjects--fallen from her high estate.”

“Indeed!”

“Well, my lord, four men resolved to save her. These four men were not princes, neither were they dukes, neither were they men in power; they were not even rich. They were four honest soldiers, each with a good heart, a good arm and a sword at the service of those who wanted it. They set out. The minister knew of their departure and had planted people on the road to prevent them ever reaching their destination. Three of them were overwhelmed and disabled by numerous assailants; one of them alone arrived at the port, having either killed or wounded those who wished to stop him. He crossed the sea and brought back the set of ornaments to the great queen, who was able to wear them on her shoulder on the appointed day; and this very nearly ruined the minister. What do you think of that exploit, my lord?”

“It is magnificent!” said Mazarin, thoughtfully.

“Well, I know of ten such men.”

Mazarin made no reply; he reflected.

Five or six minutes elapsed.

“You have nothing more to ask of me, my lord?” said Rochefort.

“Yes. And you say that Monsieur d’Artagnan was one of those four men?”

“He led the enterprise.”

“And who were the others?”

“I leave it to Monsieur d’Artagnan to name them, my lord. They were his friends and not mine. He alone would have any influence with them; I do not even know them under their true names.”

“You suspect me, Monsieur de Rochefort; I want him and you and all to aid me.”

“Begin with me, my lord; for after five or six years of imprisonment it is natural to feel some curiosity as to one’s destination.”

“You, my dear Monsieur de Rochefort, shall have the post of confidence; you shall go to Vincennes, where Monsieur de Beaufort is confined; you will guard him well for me. Well, what is the matter?”

“The matter is that you have proposed to me what is impossible,” said Rochefort, shaking his head with an air of disappointment.

“What! impossible? And why is it impossible?”

“Because Monsieur de Beaufort is one of my friends, or rather, I am one of his. Have you forgotten, my lord, that it is he who answered for me to the queen?”

“Since then Monsieur de Beaufort has become an enemy of the State.”

“That may be, my lord; but since I am neither king nor queen nor minister, he is not my enemy and I cannot accept your offer.”

“This, then, is what you call devotion! I congratulate you. Your devotion does not commit you too far, Monsieur de Rochefort.”

“And then, my lord,” continued Rochefort, “you understand that to emerge from the Bastile in order to enter Vincennes is only to change one’s prison.”

“Say at once that you are on the side of Monsieur de Beaufort; that will be the most sincere line of conduct,” said Mazarin.

“My lord, I have been so long shut up, that I am only of one party--I am for fresh air. Employ me in any other way; employ me even actively, but let it be on the high roads.”

“My dear Monsieur de Rochefort,” Mazarin replied in a tone of raillery, “you think yourself still a young man; your spirit is that of the phoenix, but your strength fails you. Believe me, you ought now to take a rest. Here!”

“You decide, then, nothing about me, my lord?”

“On the contrary, I have come to a decision.”

Bernouin came into the room.

“Call an officer of justice,” he said; “and stay close to me,” he added, in a low tone.

The officer entered. Mazarin wrote a few words, which he gave to this man; then he bowed.

“Adieu, Monsieur de Rochefort,” he said.

Rochefort bent low.

“I see, my lord, I am to be taken back to the Bastile.”

“You are sagacious.”

“I shall return thither, my lord, but it is a mistake on your part not to employ me.”

“You? the friend of my greatest foes? Don’t suppose that you are the only person who can serve me, Monsieur de Rochefort. I shall find many men as able as you are.”

“I wish you may, my lord,” replied De Rochefort.

He was then reconducted by the little staircase, instead of passing through the ante-chamber where D’Artagnan was waiting. In the courtyard the carriage and the four musketeers were ready, but he looked around in vain for his friend.

“Ah!” he muttered to himself, “this changes the situation, and if there is still a crowd of people in the streets we will try to show Mazarin that we are still, thank God, good for something else than keeping guard over a prisoner;” and he jumped into the carriage with the alacrity of a man of five-and-twenty.

Anne of Austria at the Age of Forty-six.

When left alone with Bernouin, Mazarin was for some minutes lost in thought. He had gained much information, but not enough. Mazarin was a cheat at the card-table. This is a detail preserved to us by Brienne. He called it using his advantages. He now determined not to begin the game with D’Artagnan till he knew completely all his adversary’s cards.

“My lord, have you any commands?” asked Bernouin.

“Yes, yes,” replied Mazarin. “Light me; I am going to the queen.”

Bernouin took up a candlestick and led the way.

There was a secret communication between the cardinal’s apartments and those of the queen; and through this corridor1 Mazarin passed whenever he wished to visit Anne of Austria.

In the bedroom in which this passage ended, Bernouin encountered Madame de Beauvais, like himself intrusted with the secret of these subterranean love affairs; and Madame de Beauvais undertook to prepare Anne of Austria, who was in her oratory with the young king, Louis XIV., to receive the cardinal.

Anne, reclining in a large easy-chair, her head supported by her hand, her elbow resting on a table, was looking at her son, who was turning over the leaves of a large book filled with pictures. This celebrated woman fully understood the art of being dull with dignity. It was her practice to pass hours either in her oratory or in her room, without either reading or praying.

When Madame de Beauvais appeared at the door and announced the cardinal, the child, who had been absorbed in the pages of Quintus Curtius, enlivened as they were by engravings of Alexander’s feats of arms, frowned and looked at his mother.

“Why,” he said, “does he enter without first asking for an audience?”

Anne colored slightly.

“The prime minister,” she said, “is obliged in these unsettled days to inform the queen of all that is happening from time to time, without exciting the curiosity or remarks of the court.”

“But Richelieu never came in this manner,” said the pertinacious boy.

“How can you remember what Monsieur de Richelieu did? You were too young to know about such things.”

“I do not remember what he did, but I have inquired and I have been told all about it.”

“And who told you about it?” asked Anne of Austria, with a movement of impatience.

“I know that I ought never to name the persons who answer my questions,” answered the child, “for if I do I shall learn nothing further.”

At this very moment Mazarin entered. The king rose immediately, took his book, closed it and went to lay it down on the table, near which he continued standing, in order that Mazarin might be obliged to stand also.

Mazarin contemplated these proceedings with a thoughtful glance. They explained what had occurred that evening.

He bowed respectfully to the king, who gave him a somewhat cavalier reception, but a look from his mother reproved him for the hatred which, from his infancy, Louis XIV. had entertained toward Mazarin, and he endeavored to receive the minister’s homage with civility.

Anne of Austria sought to read in Mazarin’s face the occasion of this unexpected visit, since the cardinal usually came to her apartment only after every one had retired.

The minister made a slight sign with his head, whereupon the queen said to Madame Beauvais:

“It is time for the king to go to bed; call Laporte.”

The queen had several times already told her son that he ought to go to bed, and several times Louis had coaxingly insisted on staying where he was; but now he made no reply, but turned pale and bit his lips with anger.

In a few minutes Laporte came into the room. The child went directly to him without kissing his mother.

“Well, Louis,” said Anne, “why do you not kiss me?”

“I thought you were angry with me, madame; you sent me away.”

“I do not send you away, but you have had the small-pox and I am afraid that sitting up late may tire you.”

“You had no fears of my being tired when you ordered me to go to the palace to-day to pass the odious decrees which have raised the people to rebellion.”

“Sire!” interposed Laporte, in order to turn the subject, “to whom does your majesty wish me to give the candle?”

“To any one, Laporte,” the child said; and then added in a loud voice, “to any one except Mancini.”

Now Mancini was a nephew of Mazarin’s and was as much hated by Louis as the cardinal himself, although placed near his person by the minister.

And the king went out of the room without either embracing his mother or even bowing to the cardinal.

“Good,” said Mazarin, “I am glad to see that his majesty has been brought up with a hatred of dissimulation.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the queen, almost timidly.

“Why, it seems to me that the way in which he left us needs no explanation. Besides, his majesty takes no pains to conceal how little affection he has for me. That, however, does not hinder me from being entirely devoted to his service, as I am to that of your majesty.”

“I ask your pardon for him, cardinal,” said the queen; “he is a child, not yet able to understand his obligations to you.”

The cardinal smiled.

“But,” continued the queen, “you have doubtless come for some important purpose. What is it, then?”

Mazarin sank into a chair with the deepest melancholy painted on his countenance.

“It is likely,” he replied, “that we shall soon be obliged to separate, unless you love me well enough to follow me to Italy.”

“Why,” cried the queen; “how is that?”

“Because, as they say in the opera of ‘Thisbe,’ ‘The whole world conspires to break our bonds.’”

“You jest, sir!” answered the queen, endeavoring to assume something of her former dignity.

“Alas! I do not, madame,” rejoined Mazarin. “Mark well what I say. The whole world conspires to break our bonds. Now as you are one of the whole world, I mean to say that you also are deserting me.”

“Cardinal!”

“Heavens! did I not see you the other day smile on the Duke of Orleans? or rather at what he said?”

“And what was he saying?”

“He said this, madame: ‘Mazarin is a stumbling-block. Send him away and all will then be well.’”

“What do you wish me to do?”

“Oh, madame! you are the queen!”

“Queen, forsooth! when I am at the mercy of every scribbler in the Palais Royal who covers waste paper with nonsense, or of every country squire in the kingdom.”

“Nevertheless, you have still the power of banishing from your presence those whom you do not like!”

“That is to say, whom you do not like,” returned the queen.

“I! persons whom I do not like!”

“Yes, indeed. Who sent away Madame de Chevreuse after she had been persecuted twelve years under the last reign?”

“A woman of intrigue, who wanted to keep up against me the spirit of cabal she had raised against M. de Richelieu.”

“Who dismissed Madame de Hautefort, that friend so loyal that she refused the favor of the king that she might remain in mine?”

“A prude, who told you every night, as she undressed you, that it was a sin to love a priest, just as if one were a priest because one happens to be a cardinal.”

“Who ordered Monsieur de Beaufort to be arrested?”

“An incendiary the burden of whose song was his intention to assassinate me.”

“You see, cardinal,” replied the queen, “that your enemies are mine.”

“That is not enough madame, it is necessary that your friends should be also mine.”

“My friends, monsieur?” The queen shook her head. “Alas, I have them no longer!”

“How is it that you have no friends in your prosperity when you had many in adversity?”

“It is because in my prosperity I forgot those old friends, monsieur; because I have acted like Queen Marie de Medicis, who, returning from her first exile, treated with contempt all those who had suffered for her and, being proscribed a second time, died at Cologne abandoned by every one, even by her own son.”

“Well, let us see,” said Mazarin; “isn’t there still time to repair the evil? Search among your friends, your oldest friends.”

“What do you mean, monsieur?”

“Nothing else than I say--search.”

“Alas, I look around me in vain! I have no influence with any one. Monsieur is, as usual, led by his favorite; yesterday it was Choisy, to-day it is La Riviere, to-morrow it will be some one else. Monsieur le Prince is led by the coadjutor, who is led by Madame de Guemenee.”

“Therefore, madame, I ask you to look, not among your friends of to-day, but among those of other times.”

“Among my friends of other times?” said the queen.

“Yes, among your friends of other times; among those who aided you to contend against the Duc de Richelieu and even to conquer him.”

“What is he aiming at?” murmured the queen, looking uneasily at the cardinal.

“Yes,” continued his eminence; “under certain circumstances, with that strong and shrewd mind your majesty possesses, aided by your friends, you were able to repel the attacks of that adversary.”

“I!” said the queen. “I suffered, that is all.”

“Yes.” said Mazarin, “as women suffer in avenging themselves. Come, let us come to the point. Do you know Monsieur de Rochefort?”

“One of my bitterest enemies--the faithful friend of Cardinal Richelieu.”

“I know that, and we sent him to the Bastile,” said Mazarin.

“Is he at liberty?” asked the queen.

“No; still there, but I only speak of him in order that I may introduce the name of another man. Do you know Monsieur d’Artagnan?” he added, looking steadfastly at the queen.

Anne of Austria received the blow with a beating heart.

“Has the Gascon been indiscreet?” she murmured to herself, then said aloud:

“D’Artagnan! stop an instant, the name seems certainly familiar. D’Artagnan! there was a musketeer who was in love with one of my women. Poor young creature! she was poisoned on my account.”

“That’s all you know of him?” asked Mazarin.

The queen looked at him, surprised.

“You seem, sir,” she remarked, “to be making me undergo a course of cross-examination.”

“Which you answer according to your fancy,” replied Mazarin.

“Tell me your wishes and I will comply with them.”

The queen spoke with some impatience.

“Well, madame,” said Mazarin, bowing, “I desire that you give me a share in your friends, as I have shared with you the little industry and talent that Heaven has given me. The circumstances are grave and it will be necessary to act promptly.”

“Still!” said the queen. “I thought that we were finally quit of Monsieur de Beaufort.”

“Yes, you saw only the torrent that threatened to overturn everything and you gave no attention to the still water. There is, however, a proverb current in France relating to water which is quiet.”

“Continue,” said the queen.

“Well, then, madame, not a day passes in which I do not suffer affronts from your princes and your lordly servants, all of them automata who do not perceive that I wind up the spring that makes them move, nor do they see that beneath my quiet demeanor lies the still scorn of an injured, irritated man, who has sworn to himself to master them one of these days. We have arrested Monsieur de Beaufort, but he is the least dangerous among them. There is the Prince de Conde----”

“The hero of Rocroy. Do you think of him?”

“Yes, madame, often and often, but pazienza, as we say in Italy; next, after Monsieur de Conde, comes the Duke of Orleans.”

“What are you saying? The first prince of the blood, the king’s uncle!”

“No! not the first prince of the blood, not the king’s uncle, but the base conspirator, the soul of every cabal, who pretends to lead the brave people who are weak enough to believe in the honor of a prince of the blood--not the prince nearest to the throne, not the king’s uncle, I repeat, but the murderer of Chalais, of Montmorency and of Cinq-Mars, who is playing now the same game he played long ago and who thinks that he will win the game because he has a new adversary--instead of a man who threatened, a man who smiles. But he is mistaken; I shall not leave so near the queen that source of discord with which the deceased cardinal so often caused the anger of the king to rage above the boiling point.”

Anne blushed and buried her face in her hands.

“What am I to do?” she said, bowed down beneath the voice of her tyrant.

“Endeavor to remember the names of those faithful servants who crossed the Channel, in spite of Monsieur de Richelieu, tracking the roads along which they passed by their blood, to bring back to your majesty certain jewels given by you to Buckingham.”

Anne arose, full of majesty, and as if touched by a spring, and looking at the cardinal with the haughty dignity which in the days of her youth had made her so powerful: “You are insulting me!” she said.

“I wish,” continued Mazarin, finishing, as it were, the speech this sudden movement of the queen had cut; “I wish, in fact, that you should now do for your husband what you formerly did for your lover.”

“Again that accusation!” cried the queen. “I thought that calumny was stifled or extinct; you have spared me till now, but since you speak of it, once for all, I tell you----”

“Madame, I do not ask you to tell me,” said Mazarin, astounded by this returning courage.

“I will tell you all,” replied Anne. “Listen: there were in truth, at that epoch, four devoted hearts, four loyal spirits, four faithful swords, who saved more than my life--my honor----”

“Ah! you confess it!” exclaimed Mazarin.

“Is it only the guilty whose honor is at the sport of others, sir? and cannot women be dishonored by appearances? Yes, appearances were against me and I was about to suffer dishonor. However, I swear I was not guilty, I swear it by----”

The queen looked around her for some sacred object by which she could swear, and taking out of a cupboard hidden in the tapestry, a small coffer of rosewood set in silver, and laying it on the altar:

“I swear,” she said, “by these sacred relics that Buckingham was not my lover.”

“What relics are those by which you swear?” asked Mazarin, smiling. “I am incredulous.”

The queen untied from around her throat a small golden key which hung there, and presented it to the cardinal.

“Open, sir,” she said, “and look for yourself.”

Mazarin opened the coffer; a knife, covered with rust, and two letters, one of which was stained with blood, alone met his gaze.

“What are these things?” he asked.

“What are these things?” replied Anne, with queen-like dignity, extending toward the open coffer an arm, despite the lapse of years, still beautiful. “These two letters are the only ones I ever wrote to him. This knife is the knife with which Felton stabbed him. Read the letters and see if I have lied or spoken the truth.”

But Mazarin, notwithstanding this permission, instead of reading the letters, took the knife which the dying Buckingham had snatched out of the wound and sent by Laporte to the queen. The blade was red, for the blood had become rust; after a momentary examination during which the queen became as white as the cloth which covered the altar on which she was leaning, he put it back into the coffer with an involuntary shudder.

“It is well, madame, I believe your oath.”

“No, no, read,” exclaimed the queen, indignantly; “read, I command you, for I am resolved that everything shall be finished to-night and never will I recur to this subject again. Do you think,” she said, with a ghastly smile, “that I shall be inclined to reopen this coffer to answer any future accusations?”

Mazarin, overcome by this determination, read the two letters. In one the queen asked for the ornaments back again. This letter had been conveyed by D’Artagnan and had arrived in time. The other was that which Laporte had placed in the hands of the Duke of Buckingham, warning him that he was about to be assassinated; that communication had arrived too late.

“It is well, madame,” said Mazarin; “nothing can gainsay such testimony.”

“Sir,” replied the queen, closing the coffer and leaning her hand upon it, “if there is anything to be said, it is that I have always been ungrateful to the brave men who saved me--that I have given nothing to that gallant officer, D’Artagnan, you were speaking of just now, but my hand to kiss and this diamond.”

As she spoke she extended her beautiful hand to the cardinal and showed him a superb diamond which sparkled on her finger.

“It appears,” she resumed, “that he sold it---he sold it in order to save me another time--to be able to send a messenger to the duke to warn him of his danger--he sold it to Monsieur des Essarts, on whose finger I remarked it. I bought it from him, but it belongs to D’Artagnan. Give it back to him, sir, and since you have such a man in your service, make him useful.”

“Thank you, madame,” said Mazarin. “I will profit by the advice.”

“And now,” added the queen, her voice broken by her emotion, “have you any other question to ask me?”

“Nothing,”--the cardinal spoke in his most conciliatory manner--”except to beg of you to forgive my unworthy suspicions. I love you so tenderly that I cannot help being jealous, even of the past.”

A smile, which was indefinable, passed over the lips of the queen.

“Since you have no further interrogations to make, leave me, I beseech you,” she said. “I wish, after such a scene, to be alone.”

Mazarin bent low before her.

“I will retire, madame. Do you permit me to return?”

“Yes, to-morrow.”

The cardinal took the queen’s hand and pressed it with an air of gallantry to his lips.

Scarcely had he left her when the queen went into her son’s room, and inquired from Laporte if the king was in bed. Laporte pointed to the child, who was asleep.

Anne ascended the steps side of the bed and softly kissed the placid forehead of her son; then she retired as silently as she had come, merely saying to Laporte:

“Try, my dear Laporte, to make the king more courteous to Monsieur le Cardinal, to whom both he and I are under such important obligations.”

  1. This secret passage is still to be seen in the Palais Royal.

The Gascon and the Italian.

Meanwhile the cardinal returned to his own room; and after asking Bernouin, who stood at the door, whether anything had occurred during his absence, and being answered in the negative, he desired that he might be left alone.

When he was alone he opened the door of the corridor and then that of the ante-chamber. There D’Artagnan was asleep upon a bench.

The cardinal went up to him and touched his shoulder. D’Artagnan started, awakened himself, and as he awoke, stood up exactly like a soldier under arms.

“Here I am,” said he. “Who calls me?”

“I,” said Mazarin, with his most smiling expression.

“I ask pardon of your eminence,” said D’Artagnan, “but I was so fatigued—”

“Don’t ask my pardon, monsieur,” said Mazarin, “for you fatigued yourself in my service.”

D’Artagnan admired Mazarin’s gracious manner. “Ah,” said he, between his teeth, “is there truth in the proverb that fortune comes while one sleeps?”

“Follow me, monsieur,” said Mazarin.

“Come, come,” murmured D’Artagnan, “Rochefort has kept his promise, but where in the devil is he?” And he searched the cabinet even to the smallest recesses, but there was no sign of Rochefort.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, sitting down on a fauteuil, “you have always seemed to me to be a brave and honorable man.”

“Possibly,” thought D’Artagnan, “but he has taken a long time to let me know his thoughts;” nevertheless, he bowed to the very ground in gratitude for Mazarin’s compliment.

“Well,” continued Mazarin, “the time has come to put to use your talents and your valor.”

There was a sudden gleam of joy in the officer’s eyes, which vanished immediately, for he knew nothing of Mazarin’s purpose.

“Order, my lord,” he said; “I am ready to obey your eminence.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued the cardinal, “you performed sundry superb exploits in the last reign.”

“Your eminence is too good to remember such trifles in my favor. It is true I fought with tolerable success.”

“I don’t speak of your warlike exploits, monsieur,” said Mazarin; “although they gained you much reputation, they were surpassed by others.”

D’Artagnan pretended astonishment.

“Well, you do not reply?” resumed Mazarin.

“I am waiting, my lord, till you tell me of what exploits you speak.”

“I speak of the adventure—Eh, you know well what I mean.”

“Alas, no, my lord!” replied D’Artagnan, surprised.

“You are discreet—so much the better. I speak of that adventure in behalf of the queen, of the ornaments, of the journey you made with three of your friends.”

“Aha!” thought the Gascon; “is this a snare or not? Let me be on my guard.”

And he assumed a look of stupidity which Mendori or Bellerose, two of the first actors of the day, might have envied.

“Bravo!” cried Mazarin; “they told me that you were the man I wanted. Come, let us see what you will do for me.”

“Everything that your eminence may please to command me,” was the reply.

“You will do for me what you have done for the queen?”

“Certainly,” D’Artagnan said to himself, “he wishes to make me speak out. He’s not more cunning than De Richelieu was! Devil take him!” Then he said aloud:

“The queen, my lord? I don’t comprehend.”

“You don’t comprehend that I want you and your three friends to be of use to me?”

“Which of my friends, my lord?”

“Your three friends—the friends of former days.”

“Of former days, my lord! In former days I had not only three friends, I had thirty; at two-and-twenty one calls every man one’s friend.”

“Well, sir,” returned Mazarin, “prudence is a fine thing, but to-day you might regret having been too prudent.”

“My lord, Pythagoras made his disciples keep silence for five years that they might learn to hold their tongues.”

“But you have been silent for twenty years, sir. Speak, now the queen herself releases you from your promise.”

“The queen!” said D’Artagnan, with an astonishment which this time was not pretended.

“Yes, the queen! And as a proof of what I say she commanded me to show you this diamond, which she thinks you know.”

And so saying, Mazarin extended his hand to the officer, who sighed as he recognized the ring so gracefully given to him by the queen on the night of the ball at the Hotel de Ville and which she had repurchased from Monsieur des Essarts.

“‘Tis true. I remember well that diamond, which belonged to the queen.”

“You see, then, that I speak to you in the queen’s name. Answer me without acting as if you were on the stage; your interests are concerned in your so doing.”

“Faith, my lord, it is very necessary for me to make my fortune, your eminence has so long forgotten me.”

“We need only a week to amend all that. Come, you are accounted for, you are here, but where are your friends?”

“I do not know, my lord. We have parted company this long time; all three have left the service.”

“Where can you find them, then?”

“Wherever they are, that’s my business.”

“Well, now, what are your conditions, if I employ you?”

“Money, my lord, as much money as what you wish me to undertake will require. I remember too well how sometimes we were stopped for want of money, and but for that diamond, which I was obliged to sell, we should have remained on the road.”

“The devil he does! Money! and a large sum!” said Mazarin. “Pray, are you aware that the king has no money in his treasury?”

“Do then as I did, my lord. Sell the crown diamonds. Trust me, don’t let us try to do things cheaply. Great undertakings come poorly off with paltry means.”

“Well,” returned Mazarin, “we will satisfy you.”

“Richelieu,” thought D’Artagnan, “would have given me five hundred pistoles in advance.”

“You will then be at my service?” asked Mazarin.

“Yes, if my friends agree.”

“But if they refuse can I count on you?”

“I have never accomplished anything alone,” said D’Artagnan, shaking his head.

“Go, then, and find them.”

“What shall I say to them by way of inducement to serve your eminence?”

“You know them better than I. Adapt your promises to their respective characters.”

“What shall I promise?”

“That if they serve me as well as they served the queen my gratitude shall be magnificent.”

“But what are we to do?”

“Make your mind easy; when the time for action comes you shall be put in full possession of what I require from you; wait till that time arrives and find out your friends.”

“My lord, perhaps they are not in Paris. It is even probable that I shall have to make a journey. I am only a lieutenant of musketeers, very poor, and journeys cost money.

“My intention,” said Mazarin, “is not that you go with a great following; my plans require secrecy, and would be jeopardized by a too extravagant equipment.”

“Still, my lord, I can’t travel on my pay, for it is now three months behind; and I can’t travel on my savings, for in my twenty-two years of service I have accumulated nothing but debts.”

Mazarin remained some moments in deep thought, as if he were fighting with himself; then, going to a large cupboard closed with a triple lock, he took from it a bag of silver, and weighing it twice in his hands before he gave it to D’Artagnan:

“Take this,” he said with a sigh, “‘tis merely for your journey.”

“If these are Spanish doubloons, or even gold crowns,” thought D’Artagnan, “we shall yet be able to do business together.” He saluted the cardinal and plunged the bag into the depths of an immense pocket.

“Well, then, all is settled; you are to set off,” said the cardinal.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Apropos, what are the names of your friends?”

“The Count de la Fere, formerly styled Athos; Monsieur du Vallon, whom we used to call Porthos; the Chevalier d’Herblay, now the Abbe d’Herblay, whom we styled Aramis—

The cardinal smiled.

“Younger sons,” he said, “who enlisted in the musketeers under feigned names in order not to lower their family names. Long swords but light purses. Was that it?”

“If, God willing, these swords should be devoted to the service of your eminence,” said D’Artagnan, “I shall venture to express a wish, which is, that in its turn the purse of your eminence may become light and theirs heavy—for with these three men your eminence may rouse all Europe if you like.”

“These Gascons,” said the cardinal, laughing, “almost beat the Italians in effrontery.”

“At all events,” answered D’Artagnan, with a smile almost as crafty as the cardinal’s, “they beat them when they draw their swords.”

He then withdrew, and as he passed into the courtyard he stopped near a lamp and dived eagerly into the bag of money.

“Crown pieces only—silver pieces! I suspected it. Ah! Mazarin! Mazarin! thou hast no confidence in me! so much the worse for thee, for harm may come of it!”

Meanwhile the cardinal was rubbing his hands in great satisfaction.

“A hundred pistoles! a hundred pistoles! for a hundred pistoles I have discovered a secret for which Richelieu would have paid twenty thousand crowns; without reckoning the value of that diamond”—he cast a complacent look at the ring, which he had kept, instead of restoring to D’Artagnan—“which is worth, at least, ten thousand francs.”

He returned to his room, and after depositing the ring in a casket filled with brilliants of every sort, for the cardinal was a connoisseur in precious stones, he called to Bernouin to undress him, regardless of the noises of gun-fire that, though it was now near midnight, continued to resound through Paris.

In the meantime D’Artagnan took his way toward the Rue Tiquetonne, where he lived at the Hotel de la Chevrette.

We will explain in a few words how D’Artagnan had been led to choose that place of residence.

D’Artagnan in his Fortieth Year.

Years have elapsed, many events have happened, alas! since, in our romance of “The Three Musketeers,” we took leave of D’Artagnan at No. 12 Rue des Fossoyeurs. D’Artagnan had not failed in his career, but circumstances had been adverse to him. So long as he was surrounded by his friends he retained his youth and the poetry of his character. He was one of those fine, ingenuous natures which assimilate themselves easily to the dispositions of others. Athos imparted to him his greatness of soul, Porthos his enthusiasm, Aramis his elegance. Had D’Artagnan continued his intimacy with these three men he would have become a superior character. Athos was the first to leave him, in order that he might retire to a little property he had inherited near Blois; Porthos, the second, to marry an attorney’s wife; and lastly, Aramis, the third, to take orders and become an abbe. From that day D’Artagnan felt lonely and powerless, without courage to pursue a career in which he could only distinguish himself on condition that each of his three companions should endow him with one of the gifts each had received from Heaven.

Notwithstanding his commission in the musketeers, D’Artagnan felt completely solitary. For a time the delightful remembrance of Madame Bonacieux left on his character a certain poetic tinge, perishable indeed; for like all other recollections in this world, these impressions were, by degrees, effaced. A garrison life is fatal even to the most aristocratic organization; and imperceptibly, D’Artagnan, always in the camp, always on horseback, always in garrison, became (I know not how in the present age one would express it) a typical trooper. His early refinement of character was not only not lost, it grew even greater than ever; but it was now applied to the little, instead of to the great things of life--to the martial condition of the soldier--comprised under the head of a good lodging, a rich table, a congenial hostess. These important advantages D’Artagnan found to his own taste in the Rue Tiquetonne at the sign of the Roe.

From the time D’Artagnan took quarters in that hotel, the mistress of the house, a pretty and fresh looking Flemish woman, twenty-five or twenty-six years old, had been singularly interested in him; and after certain love passages, much obstructed by an inconvenient husband to whom a dozen times D’Artagnan had made a pretence of passing a sword through his body, that husband had disappeared one fine morning, after furtively selling certain choice lots of wine, carrying away with him money and jewels. He was thought to be dead; his wife, especially, who cherished the pleasing idea that she was a widow, stoutly maintained that death had taken him. Therefore, after the connection had continued three years, carefully fostered by D’Artagnan, who found his bed and his mistress more agreeable every year, each doing credit to the other, the mistress conceived the extraordinary desire of becoming a wife and proposed to D’Artagnan that he should marry her.

“Ah, fie!” D’Artagnan replied. “Bigamy, my dear! Come now, you don’t really wish it?”

“But he is dead; I am sure of it.”

“He was a very contrary fellow and might come back on purpose to have us hanged.”

“All right; if he comes back you will kill him, you are so skillful and so brave.”

“Peste! my darling! another way of getting hanged.”

“So you refuse my request?”

“To be sure I do--furiously!”

The pretty landlady was desolate. She would have taken D’Artagnan not only as her husband, but as her God, he was so handsome and had so fierce a mustache.

Then along toward the fourth year came the expedition of Franche-Comte. D’Artagnan was assigned to it and made his preparations to depart. There were then great griefs, tears without end and solemn promises to remain faithful--all of course on the part of the hostess. D’Artagnan was too grand to promise anything; he purposed only to do all that he could to increase the glory of his name.

As to that, we know D’Artagnan’s courage; he exposed himself freely to danger and while charging at the head of his company he received a ball through the chest which laid him prostrate on the field of battle. He had been seen falling from his horse and had not been seen to rise; every one, therefore, believed him to be dead, especially those to whom his death would give promotion. One believes readily what he wishes to believe. Now in the army, from the division-generals who desire the: death of the general-in-chief, to the soldiers who desire the death of the corporals, all desire some one’s death.

But D’Artagnan was not a man to let himself be killed like that. After he had remained through the heat of the day unconscious on the battle-field, the cool freshness of the night brought him to himself. He gained a village, knocked at the door of the finest house and was received as the wounded are always and everywhere received in France. He was petted, tended, cured; and one fine morning, in better health than ever before, he set out for France. Once in France he turned his course toward Paris, and reaching Paris went straight to Rue Tiquetonne.

But D’Artagnan found in his chamber the personal equipment of a man, complete, except for the sword, arranged along the wall.

“He has returned,” said he. “So much the worse, and so much the better!”

It need not be said that D’Artagnan was still thinking of the husband. He made inquiries and discovered that the servants were new and that the mistress had gone for a walk.

“Alone?” asked D’Artagnan.

“With monsieur.”

“Monsieur has returned, then?”

“Of course,” naively replied the servant.

“If I had any money,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I would go away; but I have none. I must stay and follow the advice of my hostess, while thwarting the conjugal designs of this inopportune apparition.”

He had just completed this monologue--which proves that in momentous circumstances nothing is more natural than the monologue--when the servant-maid, watching at the door, suddenly cried out:

“Ah! see! here is madame returning with monsieur.”

D’Artagnan looked out and at the corner of Rue Montmartre saw the hostess coming along hanging to the arm of an enormous Swiss, who tiptoed in his walk with a magnificent air which pleasantly reminded him of his old friend Porthos.

“Is that monsieur?” said D’Artagnan to himself. “Oh! oh! he has grown a good deal, it seems to me.” And he sat down in the hall, choosing a conspicuous place.

The hostess, as she entered, saw D’Artagnan and uttered a little cry, whereupon D’Artagnan, judging that he had been recognized, rose, ran to her and embraced her tenderly. The Swiss, with an air of stupefaction, looked at the hostess, who turned pale.

“Ah, it is you, monsieur! What do you want of me?” she asked, in great distress.

“Is monsieur your cousin? Is monsieur your brother?” said D’Artagnan, not in the slightest degree embarrassed in the role he was playing. And without waiting for her reply he threw himself into the arms of the Helvetian, who received him with great coldness.

“Who is that man?” he asked.

The hostess replied only by gasps.

“Who is that Swiss?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Monsieur is going to marry me,” replied the hostess, between two gasps.

“Your husband, then, is at last dead?”

“How does that concern you?” replied the Swiss.

“It concerns me much,” said D’Artagnan, “since you cannot marry madame without my consent and since----”

“And since?” asked the Swiss.

“And since--I do not give it,” said the musketeer.

The Swiss became as purple as a peony. He wore his elegant uniform, D’Artagnan was wrapped in a sort of gray cloak; the Swiss was six feet high, D’Artagnan was hardly more than five; the Swiss considered himself on his own ground and regarded D’Artagnan as an intruder.

“Will you go away from here?” demanded the Swiss, stamping violently, like a man who begins to be seriously angry.

“I? By no means!” said D’Artagnan.

“Some one must go for help,” said a lad, who could not comprehend that this little man should make a stand against that other man, who was so large.

D’Artagnan, with a sudden accession of wrath, seized the lad by the ear and led him apart, with the injunction:

“Stay you where you are and don’t you stir, or I will pull this ear off. As for you, illustrious descendant of William Tell, you will straightway get together your clothes which are in my room and which annoy me, and go out quickly to another lodging.”

The Swiss began to laugh boisterously. “I go out?” he said. “And why?”

“Ah, very well!” said D’Artagnan; “I see that you understand French. Come then, and take a turn with me and I will explain.”

The hostess, who knew D’Artagnan’s skill with the sword, began to weep and tear her hair. D’Artagnan turned toward her, saying, “Then send him away, madame.”

“Pooh!” said the Swiss, who had needed a little time to take in D’Artagnan’s proposal, “pooh! who are you, in the first place, to ask me to take a turn with you?”

“I am lieutenant in his majesty’s musketeers,” said D’Artagnan, “and consequently your superior in everything; only, as the question now is not of rank, but of quarters--you know the custom--come and seek for yours; the first to return will recover his chamber.”

D’Artagnan led away the Swiss in spite of lamentations on the part of the hostess, who in reality found her heart inclining toward her former lover, though she would not have been sorry to give a lesson to that haughty musketeer who had affronted her by the refusal of her hand.

It was night when the two adversaries reached the field of battle. D’Artagnan politely begged the Swiss to yield to him the disputed chamber; the Swiss refused by shaking his head, and drew his sword.

“Then you will lie here,” said D’Artagnan. “It is a wretched bed, but that is not my fault, and it is you who have chosen it.” With these words he drew in his turn and crossed swords with his adversary.

He had to contend against a strong wrist, but his agility was superior to all force. The Swiss received two wounds and was not aware of it, by reason of the cold; but suddenly feebleness, occasioned by loss of blood, obliged him to sit down.

“There!” said: D’Artagnan, “what did I tell you? Fortunately, you won’t be laid up more than a fortnight. Remain here and I will send you your clothes by the boy. Good-by! Oh, by the way, you’d better take lodging in the Rue Montorgueil at the Chat Qui Pelote. You will be well fed there, if the hostess remains the same. Adieu.”

Thereupon he returned in a lively mood to his room and sent to the Swiss the things that belonged to him. The boy found him sitting where D’Artagnan had left him, still overwhelmed by the coolness of his adversary.

The boy, the hostess, and all the house had the same regard for D’Artagnan that one would have for Hercules should he return to earth to repeat his twelve labors.

But when he was alone with the hostess he said: “Now, pretty Madeleine, you know the difference between a Swiss and a gentleman. As for you, you have acted like a barmaid. So much the worse for you, for by such conduct you have lost my esteem and my patronage. I have driven away the Swiss to humiliate you, but I shall lodge here no longer. I will not sleep where I must scorn. Ho, there, boy! Have my valise carried to the Muid d’Amour, Rue des Bourdonnais. Adieu, madame.”

In saying these words D’Artagnan appeared at the same time majestic and grieved. The hostess threw herself at his feet, asked his pardon and held him back with a sweet violence. What more need be said? The spit turned, the stove roared, the pretty Madeleine wept; D’Artagnan felt himself invaded by hunger, cold and love. He pardoned, and having pardoned he remained.

And this explains how D’Artagnan had quarters in the Rue Tiquetonne, at the Hotel de la Chevrette.

D’Artagnan, then returned home in thoughtful mood, finding a somewhat lively pleasure in carrying Mazarin’s bag of money and thinking of that fine diamond which he had once called his own and which he had seen on the minister’s finger that night.

“Should that diamond ever fall into my hands again,” he reflected, “I would turn it at once into money; I would buy with the proceeds certain lands around my father’s chateau, which is a pretty place, well enough, but with no land to it at all, except a garden about the size of the Cemetery des Innocents; and I should wait in all my glory till some rich heiress, attracted by my good looks, rode along to marry me. Then I should like to have three sons; I should make the first a nobleman, like Athos; the second a good soldier, like Porthos; the third an excellent abbe, like Aramis. Faith! that would be a far better life than I lead now; but Monsieur Mazarin is a mean wretch, who won’t dispossess himself of his diamond in my favor.”

On entering the Rue Tiquetonne he heard a tremendous noise and found a dense crowd near the house.

“Oho!” said he, “is the hotel on fire?” On approaching the hotel of the Roe he found, however, that it was in front of the next house the mob was collected. The people were shouting and running about with torches. By the light of one of these torches D’Artagnan perceived men in uniform.

He asked what was going on.

He was told that twenty citizens, headed by one man, had attacked a carriage which was escorted by a troop of the cardinal’s bodyguard; but a reinforcement having come up, the assailants had been put to flight and the leader had taken refuge in the hotel next to his lodgings; the house was now being searched.

In his youth D’Artagnan had often headed the bourgeoisie against the military, but he was cured of all those hot-headed propensities; besides, he had the cardinal’s hundred pistoles in his pocket, so he went into the hotel without a word. There he found Madeleine alarmed for his safety and anxious to tell him all the events of the evening, but he cut her short by ordering her to put his supper in his room and give him with it a bottle of good Burgundy.

He took his key and candle and went upstairs to his bedroom. He had been contented, for the convenience of the house, to lodge in the fourth story; and truth obliges us even to confess that his chamber was just above the gutter and below the roof. His first care on entering it was to lock up in an old bureau with a new lock his bag of money, and then as soon as supper was ready he sent away the waiter who brought it up and sat down to table.

Not to reflect on what had passed, as one might fancy. No, D’Artagnan considered that things are never well done when they are not reserved to their proper time. He was hungry; he supped, he went to bed. Neither was he one of those who think that the necessary silence of the night brings counsel with it. In the night he slept, but in the morning, refreshed and calm, he was inspired with his clearest views of everything. It was long since he had any reason for his morning’s inspiration, but he always slept all night long. At daybreak he awoke and took a turn around his room.

“In ‘43,” he said, “just before the death of the late cardinal, I received a letter from Athos. Where was I then? Let me see. Oh! at the siege of Besancon I was in the trenches. He told me--let me think--what was it? That he was living on a small estate--but where? I was just reading the name of the place when the wind blew my letter away, I suppose to the Spaniards; there’s no use in thinking any more about Athos. Let me see: with regard to Porthos, I received a letter from him, too. He invited me to a hunting party on his property in the month of September, 1646. Unluckily, as I was then in Bearn, on account of my father’s death, the letter followed me there. I had left Bearn when it arrived and I never received it until the month of April, 1647; and as the invitation was for September, 1646, I couldn’t accept it. Let me look for this letter; it must be with my title deeds.”

D’Artagnan opened an old casket which stood in a corner of the room, and which was full of parchments referring to an estate during a period of two hundred years lost to his family. He uttered an exclamation of delight, for the large handwriting of Porthos was discernible, and underneath some lines traced by his worthy spouse.

D’Artagnan eagerly searched for the heading of this letter; it was dated from the Chateau du Vallon.

Porthos had forgotten that any other address was necessary; in his pride he fancied that every one must know the Chateau du Vallon.

“Devil take the vain fellow,” said D’Artagnan. “However, I had better find him out first, since he can’t want money. Athos must have become an idiot by this time from drinking. Aramis must have worn himself to a shadow of his former self by constant genuflexion.”

He cast his eyes again on the letter. There was a postscript:

“I write by the same courier to our worthy friend Aramis in his convent.”

“In his convent! What convent? There are about two hundred in Paris and three thousand in France; and then, perhaps, on entering the convent he changed his name. Ah! if I were but learned in theology I should recollect what it was he used to dispute about with the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits, when we were at Crevecoeur; I should know what doctrine he leans to and I should glean from that what saint he has adopted as his patron.

“Well, suppose I go back to the cardinal and ask him for a passport into all the convents one can find, even into the nunneries? It would be a curious idea, and maybe I should find my friend under the name of Achilles. But, no! I should lose myself in the cardinal’s opinion. Great people only thank you for doing the impossible; what’s possible, they say, they can effect themselves, and they are right. But let us wait a little and reflect. I received a letter from him, the dear fellow, in which he even asked me for some small service, which, in fact, I rendered him. Yes, yes; but now what did I do with that letter?”

D’Artagnan thought a moment and then went to the wardrobe in which hung his old clothes. He looked for his doublet of the year 1648 and as he had orderly habits, he found it hanging on its nail. He felt in the pocket and drew from it a paper; it was the letter of Aramis:

“Monsieur D’Artagnan: You know that I have had a quarrel with a certain gentleman, who has given me an appointment for this evening in the Place Royale. As I am of the church, and the affair might injure me if I should share it with any other than a sure friend like you, I write to beg that you will serve me as second.

“You will enter by the Rue Neuve Sainte Catherine; under the second lamp on the right you will find your adversary. I shall be with mine under the third.

“Wholly yours,

“Aramis.”

D’Artagnan tried to recall his remembrances. He had gone to the rendezvous, had encountered there the adversary indicated, whose name he had never known, had given him a pretty sword-stroke on the arm, then had gone toward Aramis, who at the same time came to meet him, having already finished his affair. “It is over,” Aramis had said. “I think I have killed the insolent fellow. But, dear friend, if you ever need me you know that I am entirely devoted to you.” Thereupon Aramis had given him a clasp of the hand and had disappeared under the arcades.

So, then, he no more knew where Aramis was than where Athos and Porthos were, and the affair was becoming a matter of great perplexity, when he fancied he heard a pane of glass break in his room window. He thought directly of his bag and rushed from the inner room where he was sleeping. He was not mistaken; as he entered his bedroom a man was getting in by the window.

“Ah! you scoundrel!” cried D’Artagnan, taking the man for a thief and seizing his sword.

“Sir!” cried the man, “in the name of Heaven put your sword back into the sheath and don’t kill me unheard. I’m no thief, but an honest citizen, well off in the world, with a house of my own. My name is--ah! but surely you are Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“And thou--Planchet!” cried the lieutenant.

“At your service, sir,” said Planchet, overwhelmed with joy; “if I were still capable of serving you.”

“Perhaps so,” replied D’Artagnan. “But why the devil dost thou run about the tops of houses at seven o’clock of the morning in the month of January?”

“Sir,” said Planchet, “you must know; but, perhaps you ought not to know----”

“Tell us what,” returned D’Artagnan, “but first put a napkin against the window and draw the curtains.”

“Sir,” said the prudent Planchet, “in the first place, are you on good terms with Monsieur de Rochefort?”

“Perfectly; one of my dearest friends.”

“Ah! so much the better!”

“But what has De Rochefort to do with this manner you have of invading my room?”

“Ah, sir! I must first tell you that Monsieur de Rochefort is----”

Planchet hesitated.

“Egad, I know where he is,” said D’Artagnan. “He’s in the Bastile.”

“That is to say, he was there,” replied Planchet. “But in returning thither last night, when fortunately you did not accompany him, as his carriage was crossing the Rue de la Ferronnerie his guards insulted the people, who began to abuse them. The prisoner thought this a good opportunity for escape; he called out his name and cried for help. I was there. I heard the name of Rochefort. I remembered him well. I said in a loud voice that he was a prisoner, a friend of the Duc de Beaufort, who called for help. The people were infuriated; they stopped the horses and cut the escort to pieces, whilst I opened the doors of the carriage and Monsieur de Rochefort jumped out and soon was lost amongst the crowd. At this moment a patrol passed by. I was obliged to sound a retreat toward the Rue Tiquetonne; I was pursued and took refuge in the house next to this, where I have been concealed between two mattresses. This morning I ventured to run along the gutters and----”

“Well,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “I am delight that De Rochefort is free, but as for thee, if thou shouldst fall into the hands of the king’s servants they will hang thee without mercy. Nevertheless, I promise thee thou shalt be hidden here, though I risk by concealing thee neither more nor less than my lieutenancy, if it was found out that I gave one rebel an asylum.”

“Ah! sir, you know well I would risk my life for you.”

“Thou mayst add that thou hast risked it, Planchet. I have not forgotten all I owe thee. Sit down there and eat in security. I see thee cast expressive glances at the remains of my supper.”

“Yes, sir; for all I’ve had since yesterday was a slice of bread and butter, with preserves on it. Although I don’t despise sweet things in proper time and place, I found the supper rather light.”

“Poor fellow!” said D’Artagnan. “Well, come; set to.”

“Ah, sir, you are going to save my life a second time!” cried Planchet.

And he seated himself at the table and ate as he did in the merry days of the Rue des Fossoyeurs, whilst D’Artagnan walked to and fro and thought how he could make use of Planchet under present circumstances. While he turned this over in his mind Planchet did his best to make up for lost time at table. At last he uttered a sigh of satisfaction and paused, as if he had partially appeased his hunger.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, who thought that it was now a convenient time to begin his interrogations, “dost thou know where Athos is?”

“No, sir,” replied Planchet.

“The devil thou cost not! Dost know where Porthos is?”:

“No--not at all.”

“And Aramis?”

“Not in the least.”

“The devil! the devil! the devil!”

“But, sir,” said Planchet, with a look of shrewdness, “I know where Bazin is.”

“Where is he?”

“At Notre Dame.”

“What has he to do at Notre Dame?”

“He is beadle.”

“Bazin beadle at Notre Dame! He must know where his master is!”

“Without a doubt he must.”

D’Artagnan thought for a moment, then took his sword and put on his cloak to go out.

“Sir,” said Planchet, in a mournful tone, “do you abandon me thus to my fate? Think, if I am found out here, the people of the house, who have not seen me enter it, will take me for a thief.”

“True,” said D’Artagnan. “Let’s see. Canst thou speak any patois?”

“I can do something better than that, sir, I can speak Flemish.”

“Where the devil didst thou learn it?”

“In Artois, where I fought for years. Listen, sir. Goeden morgen, mynheer, eth teen begeeray le weeten the ge sond heets omstand.”

“Which means?”

“Good-day, sir! I am anxious to know the state of your health.”

“He calls that a language! But never mind, that will do capitally.”

D’Artagnan opened the door and called out to a waiter to desire Madeleine to come upstairs.

When the landlady made her appearance she expressed much astonishment at seeing Planchet.

“My dear landlady,” said D’Artagnan, “I beg to introduce to you your brother, who is arrived from Flanders and whom I am going to take into my service.”

“My brother?”

“Wish your sister good-morning, Master Peter.”

“Wilkom, suster,” said Planchet.

“Goeden day, broder,” replied the astonished landlady.

“This is the case,” said D’Artagnan; “this is your brother, Madeleine; you don’t know him perhaps, but I know him; he has arrived from Amsterdam. You must dress him up during my absence. When I return, which will be in about an hour, you must offer him to me as a servant, and upon your recommendation, though he doesn’t speak a word of French, I take him into my service. You understand?”

“That is to say, I guess your wishes, and that is all that’s necessary,” said Madeleine.

“You are a precious creature, my pretty hostess, and I am much obliged to you.”

The next moment D’Artagnan was on his way to Notre Dame.

Touches upon the Strange Effects a Half-pistole may have upon a Beadle and a Chorister.

D’Artagnan, as he crossed the Pont Neuf, congratulated himself on having found Planchet again, for at that time an intelligent servant was essential to him; nor was he sorry that through Planchet and the situation which he held in Rue des Lombards, a connection with the bourgeoisie might be commenced, at that critical period when that class were preparing to make war with the court party. It was like having a spy in the enemy’s camp. In this frame of mind, grateful for the accidental meeting with Planchet, pleased with himself, D’Artagnan reached Notre Dame. He ran up the steps, entered the church, and addressing a verger who was sweeping the chapel, asked him if he knew Monsieur Bazin.

“Monsieur Bazin, the beadle?” said the verger. “Yes. There he is, attending mass, in the chapel of the Virgin.”

D’Artagnan nearly jumped for joy; he had despaired of finding Bazin, but now, he thought, since he held one end of the thread he would be pretty sure to reach the other end.

He knelt down just opposite the chapel in order not to lose sight of his man; and as he had almost forgotten his prayers and had omitted to take a book with him, he made use of his time in gazing at Bazin.

Bazin wore his dress, it may be observed, with equal dignity and saintly propriety. It was not difficult to understand that he had gained the crown of his ambition and that the silver-mounted wand he brandished was in his eyes as honorable a distinction as the marshal’s baton which Conde threw, or did not throw, into the enemy’s line of battle at Fribourg. His person had undergone a change, analogous to the change in his dress; his figure had grown rotund and, as it were, canonical. The striking points of his face were effaced; he had still a nose, but his cheeks, fattened out, each took a portion of it unto themselves; his chin had joined his throat; his eyes were swelled up with the puffiness of his cheeks; his hair, cut straight in holy guise, covered his forehead as far as his eyebrows.

The officiating priest was just finishing mass whilst D’Artagnan was looking at Bazin; he pronounced the words of the holy Sacrament and retired, giving the benediction, which was received by the kneeling communicants, to the astonishment of D’Artagnan, who recognized in the priest the coadjutor1 himself, the famous Jean Francois Gondy, who at that time, having a presentiment of the part he was to play, was beginning to court popularity by almsgiving. It was to this end that he performed from time to time some of those early masses which the common people, generally, alone attended.

D’Artagnan knelt as well as the rest, received his share of the benediction and made the sign of the cross; but when Bazin passed in his turn, with his eyes raised to Heaven and walking, in all humility, the very last, D’Artagnan pulled him by the hem of his robe.

Bazin looked down and started, as if he had seen a serpent.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he cried; “Vade retro Satanas!”

“So, my dear Bazin!” said the officer, laughing, “this is the way you receive an old friend.”

“Sir,” replied Bazin, “the true friends of a Christian are those who aid him in working out his salvation, not those who hinder him in doing so.”

“I don’t understand you, Bazin; nor can I see how I can be a stumbling-block in the way of your salvation,” said D’Artagnan.

“You forget, sir, that you very nearly ruined forever that of my master; and that it was owing to you that he was very nearly being damned eternally for remaining a musketeer, whilst all the time his true vocation was the church.”

“My dear Bazin, you ought to perceive,” said D’Artagnan, “from the place in which you find me, that I am greatly changed in everything. Age produces good sense, and, as I doubt not but that your master is on the road to salvation, I want you to tell me where he is, that he may help me to mine.”

“Rather say, to take him back with you into the world. Fortunately, I don’t know where he is.”

“How!” cried D’Artagnan; “you don’t know where Aramis is?”

“Formerly,” replied Bazin, “Aramis was his name of perdition. By Aramis is meant Simara, which is the name of a demon. Happily for him he has ceased to bear that name.”

“And therefore,” said D’Artagnan, resolved to be patient to the end, “it is not Aramis I seek, but the Abbe d’Herblay. Come, my dear Bazin, tell me where he is.”

“Didn’t you hear me tell you, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I don’t know where he is?”

“Yes, certainly; but to that I answer that it is impossible.”

“It is, nevertheless, the truth, monsieur--the pure truth, the truth of the good God.”

D’Artagnan saw clearly that he would get nothing out of this man, who was evidently telling a falsehood in his pretended ignorance of the abode of Aramis, but whose lies were bold and decided.

“Well, Bazin,” said D’Artagnan, “since you do not know where your master lives, let us speak of it no more; let us part good friends. Accept this half-pistole to drink to my health.”

“I do not drink”--Bazin pushed away with dignity the officer’s hand--”‘tis good only for the laity.”

“Incorruptible!” murmured D’Artagnan; “I am unlucky;” and whilst he was lost in thought Bazin retreated toward the sacristy, and even there he could not think himself safe until he had shut and locked the door behind him.

D’Artagnan was still in deep thought when some one touched him on the shoulder. He turned and was about to utter an exclamation of surprise when the other made to him a sign of silence.

“You here, Rochefort?” he said, in a low voice.

“Hush!” returned Rochefort. “Did you know that I am at liberty?”

“I knew it from the fountain-head--from Planchet. And what brought you here?”

“I came to thank God for my happy deliverance,” said Rochefort.

“And nothing more? I suppose that is not all.”

“To take my orders from the coadjutor and to see if we cannot wake up Mazarin a little.”

“A bad plan; you’ll be shut up again in the Bastile.”

“Oh, as to that, I shall take care, I assure you. The air, the fresh, free air is so good; besides,” and Rochefort drew a deep breath as he spoke, “I am going into the country to make a tour.”

“Stop,” cried D’Artagnan; “I, too, am going.”

“And if I may without impertinence ask--where are you going?”

“To seek my friends.”

“What friends?”

“Those that you asked about yesterday.”

“Athos. Porthos and Aramis--you are looking for them?”

“Yes.”

“On honor?”

“What, then, is there surprising in that?”

“Nothing. Queer, though. And in whose behalf are you looking for them?”

“You are in no doubt on that score.”

“That is true.”

“Unfortunately, I have no idea where they are.”

“And you have no way to get news of them? Wait a week and I myself will give you some.”

“A week is too long. I must find them within three days.”

“Three days are a short time and France is large.”

“No matter; you know the word must; with that word great things are done.”

“And when do you set out?”

“I am now on my road.”

“Good luck to you.”

“And to you--a good journey.”

“Perhaps we shall meet on our road.”

“That is not probable.”

“Who knows? Chance is so capricious. Adieu, till we meet again! Apropos, should Mazarin speak to you about me, tell him that I should have requested you to acquaint him that in a short time he will see whether I am, as he says, too old for action.”

And Rochefort went away with one of those diabolical smiles which used formerly to make D’Artagnan shudder, but D’Artagnan could now see it without alarm, and smiling in his turn, with an expression of melancholy which the recollections called up by that smile could, perhaps, alone give to his countenance, he said:

“Go, demon, do what thou wilt! It matters little now to me. There’s no second Constance in the world.”

On his return to the cathedral, D’Artagnan saw Bazin, who was conversing with the sacristan. Bazin was making, with his spare little short arms, ridiculous gestures. D’Artagnan perceived that he was enforcing prudence with respect to himself.

D’Artagnan slipped out of the cathedral and placed himself in ambuscade at the corner of the Rue des Canettes; it was impossible that Bazin should go out of the cathedral without his seeing him.

In five minutes Bazin made his appearance, looking in every direction to see if he were observed, but he saw no one. Calmed by appearances he ventured to walk on through the Rue Notre Dame. Then D’Artagnan rushed out of his hiding place and arrived in time to see Bazin turn down the Rue de la Juiverie and enter, in the Rue de la Calandre, a respectable looking house; and this D’Artagnan felt no doubt was the habitation of the worthy beadle. Afraid of making any inquiries at this house, D’Artagnan entered a small tavern at the corner of the street and asked for a cup of hypocras. This beverage required a good half-hour to prepare. And D’Artagnan had time, therefore, to watch Bazin unsuspected.

He perceived in the tavern a pert boy between twelve and fifteen years of age whom he fancied he had seen not twenty minutes before under the guise of a chorister. He questioned him, and as the boy had no interest in deceiving, D’Artagnan learned that he exercised, from six o’clock in the morning until nine, the office of chorister, and from nine o’clock till midnight that of a waiter in the tavern.

Whilst he was talking to this lad a horse was brought to the door of Bazin’s house. It was saddled and bridled. Almost immediately Bazin came downstairs.

“Look!” said the boy, “there’s our beadle, who is going a journey.”

“And where is he going?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Forsooth, I don’t know.”

“Half a pistole if you can find out,” said D’Artagnan.

“For me?” cried the boy, his eyes sparkling with joy, “if I can find out where Bazin is going? That is not difficult. You are not joking, are you?”

“No, on the honor of an officer; there is the half-pistole;” and he showed him the seductive coin, but did not give it him.

“I shall ask him.”

“Just the very way not to know. Wait till he is set out and then, marry, come up, ask, and find out. The half-pistole is ready,” and he put it back again into his pocket.

“I understand,” said the child, with that jeering smile which marks especially the “gamin de Paris.”

“Well, we must wait.”

They had not long to wait. Five minutes afterward Bazin set off on a full trot, urging on his horse by the blows of a parapluie, which he was in the habit of using instead of a riding whip.

Scarcely had he turned the corner of the Rue de la Juiverie when the boy rushed after him like a bloodhound on full scent.

Before ten minutes had elapsed the child returned.

“Well!” said D’Artagnan.

“Well!” answered the boy, “the thing is done.”

“Where is he gone?”

“The half-pistole is for me?”

“Doubtless, answer me.”

“I want to see it. Give it me, that I may see it is not false.

“There it is.”

The child put the piece of money into his pocket.

“And now, where is he gone?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“He is gone to Noisy.”

“How dost thou know?”

“Ah, faith! there was no great cunning necessary. I knew the horse he rode; it belonged to the butcher, who lets it out now and then to M. Bazin. Now I thought that the butcher would not let his horse out like that without knowing where it was going. And he answered ‘that Monsieur Bazin went to Noisy.’ ’Tis his custom. He goes two or three times a week.”

“Dost thou know Noisy well?”

“I think so, truly; my nurse lives there.”

“Is there a convent at Noisy?”

“Isn’t there a great and grand one--the convent of Jesuits?”

“What is thy name?”

“Friquet.”

D’Artagnan wrote the child’s name in his tablets.

“Please, sir,” said the boy, “do you think I can gain any more half-pistoles in any way?”

“Perhaps,” replied D’Artagnan.

And having got out all he wanted, he paid for the hypocras, which he did not drink, and went quickly back to the Rue Tiquetonne.

  1. Coadjutor: A sacerdotal officer.

How D’Artagnan, on going to a Distance to discover Aramis, discovers his old Friend on Horseback behind his own Planchet.

On entering the hotel D’Artagnan saw a man sitting in a corner by the fire. It was Planchet, but so completely transformed, thanks to the old clothes that the departing husband had left behind, that D’Artagnan himself could hardly recognize him. Madeleine introduced him in presence of all the servants. Planchet addressed the officer with a fine Flemish phrase; the officer replied in words that belonged to no language at all, and the bargain was concluded; Madeleine’s brother entered D’Artagnan’s service.

The plan adopted by D’Artagnan was soon perfected. He resolved not to reach Noisy in the day, for fear of being recognized; he had therefore plenty of time before him, for Noisy is only three or four leagues from Paris, on the road to Meaux.

He began his day by breakfasting substantially--a bad beginning when one wants to employ the head, but an excellent precaution when one wants to work the body; and about two o’clock he had his two horses saddled, and followed by Planchet he quitted Paris by the Barriere de la Villete. A most active search was still prosecuted in the house near the Hotel de la Chevrette for the discovery of Planchet.

At about a league and a half from the city, D’Artagnan, finding that in his impatience he had set out too soon, stopped to give the horses breathing time. The inn was full of disreputable looking people, who seemed as if they were on the point of commencing some nightly expedition. A man, wrapped in a cloak, appeared at the door, but seeing a stranger he beckoned to his companions, and two men who were drinking in the inn went out to speak to him.

D’Artagnan, on his side, went up to the landlady, praised her wine--which was a horrible production from the country of Montreuil--and heard from her that there were only two houses of importance in the village; one of these belonged to the Archbishop of Paris, and was at that time the abode of his niece the Duchess of Longueville; the other was a convent of Jesuits and was the property--a by no means unusual circumstance--of these worthy fathers.

At four o’clock D’Artagnan recommenced his journey. He proceeded slowly and in deep reverie. Planchet also was lost in thought, but the subject of their reflections was not the same.

One word which their landlady had pronounced had given a particular turn to D’Artagnan’s deliberations; this was the name of Madame de Longueville.

That name was indeed one to inspire imagination and produce thought. Madame de Longueville was one of the highest ladies in the realm; she was also one of the greatest beauties at court. She had formerly been suspected of an intimacy of too tender a nature with Coligny, who, for her sake, had been killed in a duel, in the Place Royale, by the Duc de Guise. She was now connected by bonds of a political nature with the Prince de Marsillac, the eldest son of the old Duc de Rochefoucauld, whom she was trying to inspire with an enmity toward the Duc de Conde, her brother-in-law, whom she now hated mortally.

D’Artagnan thought of all these matters. He remembered how at the Louvre he had often seen, as she passed by him in the full radiance of her dazzling charms, the beautiful Madame de Longueville. He thought of Aramis, who, without possessing any greater advantages than himself, had formerly been the lover of Madame de Chevreuse, who had been to a former court what Madame de Longueville was in that day; and he wondered how it was that there should be in the world people who succeed in every wish, some in ambition, others in love, whilst others, either from chance, or from ill-luck, or from some natural defect or impediment, remain half-way upon the road toward fulfilment of their hopes and expectations.

He was confessing to himself that he belonged to the latter unhappy class, when Planchet approached and said:

“I will lay a wager, your honor, that you and I are thinking of the same thing.”

“I doubt it, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, “but what are you thinking of?”

“I am thinking, sir, of those desperate looking men who were drinking in the inn where we rested.”

“Always cautious, Planchet.”

“‘Tis instinct, your honor.”

“Well, what does your instinct tell you now?”

“Sir, my instinct told me that those people were assembled there for some bad purpose; and I was reflecting on what my instinct had told me, in the darkest corner of the stable, when a man wrapped in a cloak and followed by two other men, came in.”

“Ah ah!” said D’Artagnan, Planchet’s recital agreeing with his own observations. “Well?”

“One of these two men said, ‘He must certainly be at Noisy, or be coming there this evening, for I have seen his servant.’

“‘Art thou sure? ' said the man in the cloak.

“‘Yes, my prince.’”

“My prince!” interrupted D’Artagnan.

“Yes, ‘my prince;’ but listen. ‘If he is here’--this is what the other man said--‘let’s see decidedly what to do with him.’

“‘What to do with him?’ answered the prince.

“‘Yes, he’s not a man to allow himself to be taken anyhow; he’ll defend himself.’

“‘Well, we must try to take him alive. Have you cords to bind him with and a gag to stop his mouth?’

“‘We have.’

“‘Remember that he will most likely be disguised as a horseman.’

“‘Yes, yes, my lord; don’t be uneasy.’

“‘Besides, I shall be there.’

“‘You will assure us that justice----’

“‘Yes, yes! I answer for all that,’ the prince said.

“‘Well, then, we’ll do our best.’ Having said that, they went out of the stable.”

“Well, what matters all that to us?” said D’Artagnan. “This is one of those attempts that happen every day.”

“Are you sure that we are not its objects?”

“We? Why?”

“Just remember what they said. ‘I have seen his servant,’ said one, and that applies very well to me.”

“Well?”

“‘He must certainly be at Noisy, or be coming there this evening,’ said the other; and that applies very well to you.”

“What else?”

“Then the prince said: ‘Take notice that in all probability he will be disguised as a cavalier;’ which seems to me to leave no room for doubt, since you are dressed as a cavalier and not as an officer of musketeers. Now then, what do you say to that?”

“Alas! my dear Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, sighing, “we are unfortunately no longer in those times in which princes would care to assassinate me. Those were good old days; never fear--these people owe us no grudge.”

“Is your honor sure?”

“I can answer for it they do not.”

“Well, we won’t speak of it any more, then;” and Planchet took his place in D’Artagnan’s suite with that sublime confidence he had always had in his master, which even fifteen years of separation had not destroyed.

They had traveled onward about half a mile when Planchet came close up to D’Artagnan.

“Stop, sir, look yonder,” he whispered; “don’t you see in the darkness something pass by, like shadows? I fancy I hear horses’ feet.”

“Impossible!” returned D’Artagnan. “The ground is soaking wet; yet I fancy, as thou sayest, that I see something.”

At this moment the neighing of a horse struck his ear, coming through darkness and space.

“There are men somewhere about, but that’s of no consequence to us,” said D’Artagnan; “let us ride onward.”

At about half-past eight o’clock they reached the first houses in Noisy; every one was in bed and not a light was to be seen in the village. The obscurity was broken only now and then by the still darker lines of the roofs of houses. Here and there a dog barked behind a door or an affrighted cat fled precipitately from the midst of the pavement to take refuge behind a pile of faggots, from which retreat her eyes would shine like peridores. These were the only living creatures that seemed to inhabit the village.

Toward the middle of the town, commanding the principal open space, rose a dark mass, separated from the rest of the world by two lanes and overshadowed in the front by enormous lime-trees. D’Artagnan looked attentively at the building.

“This,” he said to Planchet, “must be the archbishop’s chateau, the abode of the fair Madame de Longueville; but the convent, where is that?”

“The convent, your honor, is at the other end of the village; I know it well.”

“Well, then, Planchet, gallop up to it whilst I tighten my horse’s girth, and come back and tell me if there is a light in any of the Jesuits’ windows.”

In about five minutes Planchet returned.

“Sir,” he said, “there is one window of the convent lighted up.”

“Hem! If I were a ‘Frondeur,’” said D’Artagnan, “I should knock here and should be sure of a good supper. If I were a monk I should knock yonder and should have a good supper there, too; whereas, ’tis very possible that between the castle and the convent we shall sleep on hard beds, dying with hunger and thirst.”

“Yes,” added Planchet, “like the famous ass of Buridan. Shall I knock?”

“Hush!” replied D’Artagnan; “the light no longer burns in yonder window.”

“Do you hear nothing?” whispered Planchet.

“What is that noise?”

There came a sound like a whirlwind, at the same time two troops of horsemen, each composed of ten men, sallied forth from each of the lanes which encompassed the house and surrounded D’Artagnan and Planchet.

“Heyday!” cried D’Artagnan, drawing his sword and taking refuge behind his horse; “are you not mistaken? is it really for us that you mean your attack?”

“Here he is! we have him!” cried the horsemen, rushing on D’Artagnan with naked swords.

“Don’t let him escape!” said a loud voice.

“No, my lord; be assured we shall not.”

D’Artagnan thought it was now time for him to join in the conversation.

“Halloo, gentlemen!” he called out in his Gascon accent, “what do you want? what do you demand?”

“That thou shalt soon know,” shouted a chorus of horsemen.

“Stop, stop!” cried he whom they had addressed as “my lord;” “’tis not his voice.”

“Ah! just so, gentlemen! pray, do people get into a passion at random at Noisy? Take care, for I warn you that the first man that comes within the length of my sword--and my sword is long--I rip him up.”

The chieftain of the party drew near.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a lofty tone, as that of one accustomed to command.

“And you--what are you doing here?” replied D’Artagnan.

“Be civil, or I shall beat you; for although one may not choose to proclaim oneself, one insists on respect suitable to one’s rank.”

“You don’t choose to discover yourself, because you are the leader of an ambuscade,” returned D’Artagnan; “but with regard to myself, who am traveling quietly with my own servant, I have not the same reasons as you have to conceal my name.”

“Enough! enough! what is your name?”

“I shall tell you my name in order that you may know where to find me, my lord, or my prince, as it may suit you best to be called,” said our Gascon, who did not choose to seem to yield to a threat. “Do you know Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Lieutenant in the king’s musketeers?” said the voice; “you are Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“I am.”

“Then you came here to defend him?”

“Him? whom?”

“The man we are seeking.”

“It seems,” said D’Artagnan, “that whilst I thought I was coming to Noisy I have entered, without suspecting it, into the kingdom of mysteries.”

“Come,” replied the same lofty tone, “answer! Are you waiting for him underneath these windows? Did you come to Noisy to defend him?”

“I am waiting for no one,” replied D’Artagnan, who was beginning to be angry. “I propose to defend no one but myself, and I shall defend myself vigorously, I give you warning.”

“Very well,” said the voice; “go away from here and leave the place to us.”

“Go away from here!” said D’Artagnan, whose purposes were in conflict with that order, “that is not so easy, since I am on the point of falling, and my horse, too, through fatigue; unless, indeed, you are disposed to offer me a supper and a bed in the neighborhood.”

“Rascal!”

“Eh! monsieur!” said D’Artagnan, “I beg you will have a care what you say; for if you utter another word like that, be you marquis, duke, prince or king, I will thrust it down your throat! do you hear?”

“Well, well,” rejoined the leader, “there’s no doubt ’tis a Gascon who is speaking, and therefore not the man we are looking for. Our blow has failed for to-night; let us withdraw. We shall meet again, Master d’Artagnan,” continued the leader, raising his voice.

“Yes, but never with the same advantages,” said D’Artagnan, in a tone of raillery; “for when you meet me again you will perhaps be alone and there will be daylight.”

“Very good, very good,” said the voice. “En route, gentlemen.”

And the troop, grumbling angrily, disappeared in the darkness and took the road to Paris. D’Artagnan and Planchet remained for some moments still on the defensive; then, as the noise of the horsemen became more and more distant, they sheathed their swords.

“Thou seest, simpleton,” said D’Artagnan to his servant, “that they wished no harm to us.”

“But to whom, then?”

“I’faith! I neither know nor care. What I do care for now, is to make my way into the Jesuits’ convent; so to horse and let us knock at their door. Happen what will, the devil take them, they can’t eat us.”

And he mounted his horse. Planchet had just done the same when an unexpected weight fell upon the back of the horse, which sank down.

“Hey! your honor!” cried Planchet, “I’ve a man behind me.”

D’Artagnan turned around and plainly saw two human forms on Planchet’s horse.

“‘Tis then the devil that pursues!” he cried; drawing his sword and preparing to attack the new foe.

“No, no, dear D’Artagnan,” said the figure, “‘tis not the devil, ’tis Aramis; gallop fast, Planchet, and when you come to the end of the village turn swiftly to the left.”

And Planchet, with Aramis behind him, set off at full gallop, followed by D’Artagnan, who began to think he was in the merry maze of some fantastic dream.

The Abbe D’Herblay.

At the extremity of the village Planchet turned to the left in obedience to the orders of Aramis, and stopped underneath the window which had light in it. Aramis alighted and clapped his hands three times. Immediately the window was opened and a ladder of rope was let down from it.

“My friend,” said Aramis, “if you like to ascend I shall be delighted to receive you.”

“Ah,” said D’Artagnan, “is that the way you return to your apartment?”

“After nine at night, pardieu!” said Aramis, “the rule of the convent is very severe.”

“Pardon me, my dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, “I think you said ‘pardieu!’”

“Do you think so?” said Aramis, smiling; “it is possible. You have no idea, my dear fellow, how one acquires bad habits in these cursed convents, or what evil ways all these men of the church have, with whom I am obliged to live. But will you not go up?”

“Pass on before me, I beg of you.”

“As the late cardinal used to say to the late king, ‘only to show you the way, sire.’” And Aramis ascended the ladder quickly and reached the window in an instant.

D’Artagnan followed, but less nimbly, showing plainly that this mode of ascent was not one to which he was accustomed.

“I beg your pardon,” said Aramis, noticing his awkwardness; “if I had known that I was to have the honor of your visit I should have procured the gardener’s ladder; but for me alone this is good enough.”

“Sir,” said Planchet when he saw D’Artagnan on the summit of the ladder, “this way is easy for Monsieur Aramis and even for you; in case of necessity I might also climb up, but my two horses cannot mount the ladder.”

“Take them to yonder shed, my friend,” said Aramis, pointing to a low building on the plain; “there you will find hay and straw for them; then come back here and clap your hands three times, and we will give you wine and food. Marry, forsooth, people don’t die of hunger here.”

And Aramis, drawing in the ladder, closed the window. D’Artagnan then looked around attentively.

Never was there an apartment at the same time more warlike and more elegant. At each corner were arranged trophies, presenting to view swords of all sorts, and on the walls hung four great pictures representing in their ordinary military costume the Cardinal de Lorraine, the Cardinal de Richelieu, the Cardinal de la Valette, and the Archbishop of Bordeaux. Exteriorly, nothing in the room showed that it was the habitation of an abbe. The hangings were of damask, the carpets from Alencon, and the bed, especially, had more the look of a fine lady’s couch, with its trimmings of fine lace and its embroidered counterpane, than that of a man who had made a vow that he would endeavor to gain Heaven by fasting and mortification.

“You are examining my den,” said Aramis. “Ah, my dear fellow, excuse me; I am lodged like a Chartreux. But what are you looking for?”

“I am looking for the person who let down the ladder. I see no one and yet the ladder didn’t come down of itself.”

“No, it is Bazin.”

“Ah! ah!” said D’Artagnan.

“But,” continued Aramis, “Bazin is a well trained servant, and seeing that I was not alone he discreetly retired. Sit down, my dear friend, and let us talk.” And Aramis pushed forward a large easy-chair, in which D’Artagnan stretched himself out.

“In the first place, you will sup with me, will you not?” asked Aramis.

“Yes, if you really wish it,” said D’Artagnan, “and even with great pleasure, I confess; the journey has given me a devil of an appetite.”

“Ah, my poor friend!” said Aramis, “you will find meagre fare; you were not expected.”

“Am I then threatened with the omelet of Crevecoeur?”

“Oh, let us hope,” said Aramis, “that with the help of God and of Bazin we shall find something better than that in the larder of the worthy Jesuit fathers. Bazin, my friend, come here.”

The door opened and Bazin entered; on perceiving the musketeer he uttered an exclamation that was almost a cry of despair.

“My dear Bazin,” said D’Artagnan, “I am delighted to see with what wonderful composure you can tell a lie even in church!”

“Sir,” replied Bazin, “I have been taught by the good Jesuit fathers that it is permitted to tell a falsehood when it is told in a good cause.”

“So far well,” said Aramis; “we are dying of hunger. Serve us up the best supper you can, and especially give us some good wine.”

Bazin bowed low, sighed, and left the room.

“Now we are alone, dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “tell me how the devil you managed to alight upon the back of Planchet’s horse.”

“I’faith!” answered Aramis, “as you see, from Heaven.”

“From Heaven,” replied D’Artagnan, shaking his head; “you have no more the appearance of coming from thence than you have of going there.”

“My friend,” said Aramis, with a look of imbecility on his face which D’Artagnan had never observed whilst he was in the musketeers, “if I did not come from Heaven, at least I was leaving Paradise, which is almost the same.”

“Here, then, is a puzzle for the learned,” observed D’Artagnan, “until now they have never been able to agree as to the situation of Paradise; some place it on Mount Ararat, others between the rivers Tigris and Euphrates; it seems that they have been looking very far away for it, while it was actually very near. Paradise is at Noisy le Sec, upon the site of the archbishop’s chateau. People do not go out from it by the door, but by the window; one doesn’t descend here by the marble steps of a peristyle, but by the branches of a lime-tree; and the angel with a flaming sword who guards this elysium seems to have changed his celestial name of Gabriel into that of the more terrestrial one of the Prince de Marsillac.”

Aramis burst into a fit of laughter.

“You were always a merry companion, my dear D’Artagnan,” he said, “and your witty Gascon fancy has not deserted you. Yes, there is something in what you say; nevertheless, do not believe that it is Madame de Longueville with whom I am in love.”

“A plague on’t! I shall not do so. After having been so long in love with Madame de Chevreuse, you would hardly lay your heart at the feet of her mortal enemy!”

“Yes,” replied Aramis, with an absent air; “yes, that poor duchess! I once loved her much, and to do her justice, she was very useful to us. Eventually she was obliged to leave France. He was a relentless enemy, that damned cardinal,” continued Aramis, glancing at the portrait of the old minister. “He had even given orders to arrest her and would have cut off her head had she not escaped with her waiting-maid--poor Kitty! I have heard that she met with a strange adventure in I don’t know what village, with I don’t know what cure, of whom she asked hospitality and who, having but one chamber, and taking her for a cavalier, offered to share it with her. For she had a wonderful way of dressing as a man, that dear Marie; I know only one other woman who can do it as well. So they made this song about her: ‘Laboissiere, dis moi.’ You know it, don’t you?”

“No, sing it, please.”

Aramis immediately complied, and sang the song in a very lively manner.

“Bravo!” cried D’Artagnan, “you sing charmingly, dear Aramis. I do not perceive that singing masses has spoiled your voice.”

“My dear D’Artagnan,” replied Aramis, “you understand, when I was a musketeer I mounted guard as seldom as I could; now when I am an abbe I say as few masses as I can. But to return to our duchess.”

“Which--the Duchess de Chevreuse or the Duchess de Longueville?”

“Have I not already told you that there is nothing between me and the Duchess de Longueville? Little flirtations, perhaps, and that’s all. No, I spoke of the Duchess de Chevreuse; did you see her after her return from Brussels, after the king’s death?”

“Yes, she is still beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Aramis, “I saw her also at that time. I gave her good advice, by which she did not profit. I ventured to tell her that Mazarin was the lover of Anne of Austria. She wouldn’t believe me, saying that she knew Anne of Austria, who was too proud to love such a worthless coxcomb. After that she plunged into the cabal headed by the Duke of Beaufort; and the ‘coxcomb’ arrested De Beaufort and banished Madame de Chevreuse.”

“You know,” resumed D’Artagnan, “that she has had leave to return to France?”

“Yes she is come back and is going to commit some fresh folly or another.”

“Oh, but this time perhaps she will follow your advice.”

“Oh, this time,” returned Aramis, “I haven’t seen her; she is much changed.”

“In that respect unlike you, my dear Aramis, for you are still the same; you have still your beautiful dark hair, still your elegant figure, still your feminine hands, which are admirably suited to a prelate.”

“Yes,” replied Aramis, “I am extremely careful of my appearance. Do you know that I am growing old? I am nearly thirty-seven.”

“Mind, Aramis”--D’Artagnan smiled as he spoke--”since we are together again, let us agree on one point: what age shall we be in future?”

“How?”

“Formerly I was your junior by two or three years, and if I am not mistaken I am turned forty years old.”

“Indeed! Then ’tis I who am mistaken, for you have always been a good chronologist. By your reckoning I must be forty-three at least. The devil I am! Don’t let it out at the Hotel Rambouillet; it would ruin me,” replied the abbe.

“Don’t be afraid,” said D’Artagnan. “I never go there.”

“Why, what in the world,” cried Aramis, “is that animal Bazin doing? Bazin! Hurry up there, you rascal; we are mad with hunger and thirst!”

Bazin entered at that moment carrying a bottle in each hand.

“At last,” said Aramis, “we are ready, are we?

“Yes, monsieur, quite ready,” said Bazin; “but it took me some time to bring up all the----”

“Because you always think you have on your shoulders your beadle’s robe, and spend all your time reading your breviary. But I give you warning that if in polishing your chapel utensils you forget how to brighten up my sword, I will make a great fire of your blessed images and will see that you are roasted on it.”

Bazin, scandalized, made a sign of the cross with the bottle in his hand. D’Artagnan, more surprised than ever at the tone and manners of the Abbe d’Herblay, which contrasted so strongly with those of the Musketeer Aramis, remained staring with wide-open eyes at the face of his friend.

Bazin quickly covered the table with a damask cloth and arranged upon it so many things, gilded, perfumed, appetizing, that D’Artagnan was quite overcome.

“But you expected some one then?” asked the officer.

“Oh,” said Aramis, “I always try to be prepared; and then I knew you were seeking me.”

“From whom?”

“From Master Bazin, to be sure; he took you for the devil, my dear fellow, and hastened to warn me of the danger that threatened my soul if I should meet again a companion so wicked as an officer of musketeers.”

“Oh, monsieur!” said Bazin, clasping his hands supplicatingly.

“Come, no hypocrisy! you know that I don’t like it. You will do much better to open the window and let down some bread, a chicken and a bottle of wine to your friend Planchet, who has been this last hour killing himself clapping his hands.”

Planchet, in fact, had bedded and fed his horses, and then coming back under the window had repeated two or three times the signal agreed upon.

Bazin obeyed, fastened to the end of a cord the three articles designated and let them down to Planchet, who then went satisfied to his shed.

“Now to supper,” said Aramis.

The two friends sat down and Aramis began to cut up fowls, partridges and hams with admirable skill.

“The deuce!” cried D’Artagnan; “do you live in this way always?”

“Yes, pretty well. The coadjutor has given me dispensations from fasting on the jours maigres, on account of my health; then I have engaged as my cook the cook who lived with Lafollone--you know the man I mean?--the friend of the cardinal, and the famous epicure whose grace after dinner used to be, ‘Good Lord, do me the favor to cause me to digest what I have eaten.’”

“Nevertheless he died of indigestion, in spite of his grace,” said D’Artagnan.

“What can you expect?” replied Aramis, in a tone of resignation. “Every man that’s born must fulfil his destiny.”

“If it be not an indelicate question,” resumed D’Artagnan, “have you grown rich?”

“Oh, Heaven! no. I make about twelve thousand francs a year, without counting a little benefice of a thousand crowns the prince gave me.”

“And how do you make your twelve thousand francs? By your poems?”

“No, I have given up poetry, except now and then to write a drinking song, some gay sonnet or some innocent epigram; I compose sermons, my friend.”

“What! sermons? Do you preach them?”

“No; I sell them to those of my cloth who wish to become great orators.”

“Ah, indeed! and you have not been tempted by the hopes of reputation yourself?”

“I should, my dear D’Artagnan, have been so, but nature said ‘No.’ When I am in the pulpit, if by chance a pretty woman looks at me, I look at her again: if she smiles, I smile too. Then I speak at random; instead of preaching about the torments of hell I talk of the joys of Paradise. An event took place in the Church of St. Louis au Marais. A gentleman laughed in my face. I stopped short to tell him that he was a fool; the congregation went out to get stones to stone me with, but whilst they were away I found means to conciliate the priests who were present, so that my foe was pelted instead of me. ’Tis true that he came the next morning to my house, thinking that he had to do with an abbe--like all other abbes.”

“And what was the end of the affair?”

“We met in the Place Royale--Egad! you know about it.”

“Was I not your second?” cried D’Artagnan.

“You were; you know how I settled the matter.”

“Did he die?”

“I don’t know. But, at all events, I gave him absolution in articulo mortis. ’Tis enough to kill the body, without killing the soul.”

Bazin made a despairing sign which meant that while perhaps he approved the moral he altogether disapproved the tone in which it was uttered.

“Bazin, my friend,” said Aramis, “you don’t seem to be aware that I can see you in that mirror, and you forget that once for all I have forbidden all signs of approbation or disapprobation. You will do me the favor to bring us some Spanish wine and then to withdraw. Besides, my friend D’Artagnan has something to say to me privately, have you not, D’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan nodded his head and Bazin retired, after placing on the table the Spanish wine.

The two friends, left alone, remained silent, face to face. Aramis seemed to await a comfortable digestion; D’Artagnan, to be preparing his exordium. Each of them, when the other was not looking, hazarded a sly glance. It was Aramis who broke the silence.

“What are you thinking of, D’Artagnan?” he began.

“I was thinking, my dear old friend, that when you were a musketeer you turned your thoughts incessantly to the church, and now that you are an abbe you are perpetually longing to be once more a musketeer.”

“‘Tis true; man, as you know,” said Aramis, “is a strange animal, made up of contradictions. Since I became an abbe I dream of nothing but battles.”

“That is apparent in your surroundings; you have rapiers here of every form and to suit the most exacting taste. Do you still fence well?”

“I--I fence as well as you did in the old time--better still, perhaps; I do nothing else all day.”

“And with whom?”

“With an excellent master-at-arms that we have here.”

“What! here?”

Yes, here, in this convent, my dear fellow. There is everything in a Jesuit convent.”

“Then you would have killed Monsieur de Marsillac if he had come alone to attack you, instead of at the head of twenty men?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Aramis, “and even at the head of his twenty men, if I could have drawn without being recognized.”

“God pardon me!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I believe he has become more Gascon than I am!” Then aloud: “Well, my dear Aramis, do you ask me why I came to seek you?”

“No, I have not asked you that,” said Aramis, with his subtle manner; “but I have expected you to tell me.”

“Well, I sought you for the single purpose of offering you a chance to kill Monsieur de Marsillac whenever you please, prince though he is.”

“Hold on! wait!” said Aramis; “that is an idea!”

“Of which I invite you to take advantage, my friend. Let us see; with your thousand crowns from the abbey and the twelve thousand francs you make by selling sermons, are you rich? Answer frankly.”

“I? I am as poor as Job, and were you to search my pockets and my boxes I don’t believe you would find a hundred pistoles.”

“Peste! a hundred pistoles!” said D’Artagnan to himself; “he calls that being as poor as Job! If I had them I should think myself as rich as Croesus.” Then aloud: “Are you ambitious?”

“As Enceladus.”

“Well, my friend, I bring you the means of becoming rich, powerful, and free to do whatever you wish.”

The shadow of a cloud passed over Aramis’s face as quickly as that which in August passes over the field of grain; but quick as it was, it did not escape D’Artagnan’s observation.

“Speak on,” said Aramis.

“One question first. Do you take any interest in politics?”

A gleam of light shone in Aramis’s eyes, as brief as the shadow that had passed over his face, but not so brief but that it was seen by D’Artagnan.

“No,” Aramis replied.

“Then proposals from any quarter will be agreeable to you, since for the moment you have no master but God?”

“It is possible.”

“Have you, my dear Aramis, thought sometimes of those happy, happy, happy days of youth we passed laughing, drinking, and fighting each other for play?”

“Certainly, and more than once regretted them; it was indeed a glorious time.”

“Well, those splendidly wild days may chance to come again; I am commissioned to find out my companions and I began by you, who were the very soul of our society.”

Aramis bowed, rather with respect than pleasure at the compliment.

“To meddle in politics,” he exclaimed, in a languid voice, leaning back in his easy-chair. “Ah! dear D’Artagnan! see how regularly I live and how easy I am here. We have experienced the ingratitude of ‘the great,’ as you well know.”

“‘Tis true,” replied D’Artagnan. “Yet the great sometimes repent of their ingratitude.”

“In that case it would be quite another thing. Come! let’s be merciful to every sinner! Besides, you are right in another respect, which is in thinking that if we were to meddle in politics there could not be a better time than the present.”

“How can you know that? You who never interest yourself in politics?”

“Ah! without caring about them myself, I live among those who are much occupied in them. Poet as I am, I am intimate with Sarazin, who is devoted to the Prince de Conti, and with Monsieur de Bois-Robert, who, since the death of Cardinal Richelieu, is of all parties or any party; so that political discussions have not altogether been uninteresting to me.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said D’Artagnan.

“Now, my dear friend, look upon all I tell you as merely the statement of a monk--of a man who resembles an echo--repeating simply what he hears. I understand that Mazarin is at this very moment extremely uneasy as to the state of affairs; that his orders are not respected like those of our former bugbear, the deceased cardinal, whose portrait as you see hangs yonder--for whatever may be thought of him, it must be allowed that Richelieu was great.”

“I will not contradict you there,” said D’Artagnan.

“My first impressions were favorable to the minister; I said to myself that a minister is never loved, but that with the genius this one was said to have he would eventually triumph over his enemies and would make himself feared, which in my opinion is much more to be desired than to be loved----”

D’Artagnan made a sign with his head which indicated that he entirely approved that doubtful maxim.

“This, then,” continued Aramis, “was my first opinion; but as I am very ignorant in matters of this kind and as the humility which I profess obliges me not to rest on my own judgment, but to ask the opinion of others, I have inquired--Eh!--my friend----”

Aramis paused.

“Well? what?” asked his friend.

“Well, I must mortify myself. I must confess that I was mistaken. Monsieur de Mazarin is not a man of genius, as I thought, he is a man of no origin--once a servant of Cardinal Bentivoglio, and he got on by intrigue. He is an upstart, a man of no name, who will only be the tool of a party in France. He will amass wealth, he will injure the king’s revenue and pay to himself the pensions which Richelieu paid to others. He is neither a gentleman in manner nor in feeling, but a sort of buffoon, a punchinello, a pantaloon. Do you know him? I do not.”

“Hem!” said D’Artagnan, “there is some truth in what you say.”

“Ah! it fills me with pride to find that, thanks to a common sort of penetration with which I am endowed, I am approved by a man like you, fresh from the court.”

“But you speak of him, not of his party, his resources.”

“It is true--the queen is for him.”

“Something in his favor.”

“But he will never have the king.”

“A mere child.”

“A child who will be of age in four years. Then he has neither the parliament nor the people with him--they represent the wealth of the country; nor the nobles nor the princes, who are the military power of France.”

D’Artagnan scratched his ear. He was forced to confess to himself that this reasoning was not only comprehensive, but just.

“You see, my poor friend, that I am sometimes bereft of my ordinary thoughtfulness; perhaps I am wrong in speaking thus to you, who have evidently a leaning to Mazarin.”

“I!” cried D’Artagnan, “not in the least.”

“You spoke of a mission.”

“Did I? I was wrong then, no, I said what you say--there is a crisis at hand. Well! let’s fly the feather before the wind; let us join with that side to which the wind will carry it and resume our adventurous life. We were once four valiant knights--four hearts fondly united; let us unite again, not our hearts, which have never been severed, but our courage and our fortunes. Here’s a good opportunity for getting something better than a diamond.”

“You are right, D’Artagnan; I held a similar project, but as I had not nor ever shall have your fruitful, vigorous imagination, the idea was suggested to me. Every one nowadays wants auxiliaries; propositions have been made to me and I confess to you frankly that the coadjutor has made me speak out.”

“Monsieur de Gondy! the cardinal’s enemy?”

“No; the king’s friend,” said Aramis; “the king’s friend, you understand. Well, it is a question of serving the king, the gentleman’s duty.”

“But the king is with Mazarin.”

“He is, but not willingly; in appearance, not heart; and that is exactly the snare the king’s enemies are preparing for the poor child.”

“Ah! but this is, indeed, civil war which you propose to me, dear Aramis.”

“War for the king.”

“Yet the king will be at the head of the army on Mazarin’s side.”

“But his heart will be in the army commanded by the Duc de Beaufort.”

“Monsieur de Beaufort? He is at Vincennes.”

“Did I say Monsieur de Beaufort? Monsieur de Beaufort or another. Monsieur de Beaufort or Monsieur le Prince.”

“But Monsieur le Prince is to set out for the army; he is entirely devoted to the cardinal.”

“Oh oh!” said Aramis, “there are questions between them at this very moment. And besides, if it is not the prince, then Monsieur de Gondy----”

“But Monsieur de Gondy is to be made a cardinal; they are soliciting the hat for him.”

“And are there no cardinals that can fight? Come now, recall the four cardinals that at the head of armies have equalled Monsieur de Guebriant and Monsieur de Gassion.”

“But a humpbacked general!

“Under the cuirass the hump will not be seen. Besides, remember that Alexander was lame and Hannibal had but one eye.”

“Do you see any great advantage in adhering to this party?” asked D’Artagnan.

“I foresee in it the aid of powerful princes.”

“With the enmity of the government.”

“Counteracted by parliament and insurrections.”

“That may be done if they can separate the king from his mother.”

“That may be done,” said Aramis.

“Never!” cried D’Artagnan. “You, Aramis, know Anne of Austria better than I do. Do you think she will ever forget that her son is her safeguard, her shield, the pledge for her dignity, for her fortune and her life? Should she forsake Mazarin she must join her son and go over to the princes’ side; but you know better than I do that there are certain reasons why she can never abandon Mazarin.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Aramis, thoughtfully; “therefore I shall not pledge myself.”

“To them or to us, do you mean, Aramis?”

“To no one. I am a priest,” resumed Aramis. “What have I to do with politics? I am not obliged to read any breviary. I have a jolly little circle of witty abbes and pretty women; everything goes on smoothly, so certainly, dear friend, I shall not meddle in politics.”

“Well, listen, my dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan; “your philosophy convinces me, on my honor. I don’t know what devil of an insect stung me and made me ambitious. I have a post by which I live; at the death of Monsieur de Treville, who is old, I may be a captain, which is a very snug berth for a once penniless Gascon. Instead of running after adventures I shall accept an invitation from Porthos; I shall go and shoot on his estate. You know he has estates--Porthos?”

“I should think so, indeed. Ten leagues of wood, of marsh land and valleys; he is lord of the hill and the plain and is now carrying on a suit for his feudal rights against the Bishop of Noyon!”

“Good,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “That’s what I wanted to know. Porthos is in Picardy.”

Then aloud:

“And he has taken his ancient name of Vallon?”

“To which he adds that of Bracieux, an estate which has been a barony, by my troth.”

“So that Porthos will be a baron.”

“I don’t doubt it. The ‘Baroness Porthos’ will sound particularly charming.”

And the two friends began to laugh.

“So,” D’Artagnan resumed, “you will not become a partisan of Mazarin’s?”

“Nor you of the Prince de Conde?”

“No, let us belong to no party, but remain friends; let us be neither Cardinalists nor Frondists.”

“Adieu, then.” And D’Artagnan poured out a glass of wine.

“To old times,” he said.

“Yes,” returned Aramis. “Unhappily, those times are past.”

“Nonsense! They will return,” said D’Artagnan. “At all events, if you want me, remember the Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette.”

“And I shall be at the convent of Jesuits; from six in the morning to eight at night come by the door. From eight in the evening until six in the morning come in by the window.”

“Adieu, dear friend.”

“Oh, I can’t let you go so! I will go with you.” And he took his sword and cloak.

“He wants to be sure that I go away,” said D’Artagnan to himself.

Aramis whistled for Bazin, but Bazin was asleep in the ante-chamber, and Aramis was obliged to shake him by the ear to awake him.

Bazin stretched his arms, rubbed his eyes, and tried to go to sleep again.

“Come, come, sleepy head; quick, the ladder!”

“But,” said Bazin, yawning portentously, “the ladder is still at the window.”

“The other one, the gardener’s. Didn’t you see that Monsieur d’Artagnan mounted with difficulty? It will be even more difficult to descend.”

D’Artagnan was about to assure Aramis that he could descend easily, when an idea came into his head which silenced him.

Bazin uttered a profound sigh and went out to look for the ladder. Presently a good, solid, wooden ladder was placed against the window.

“Now then,” said D’Artagnan, “this is something like; this is a means of communication. A woman could go up a ladder like that.”

Aramis’s searching look seemed to seek his friend’s thought even at the bottom of his heart, but D’Artagnan sustained the inquisition with an air of admirable simplicity. Besides, at that moment he put his foot on the first step of the ladder and began his descent. In a moment he was on the ground. Bazin remained at the window.

“Stay there,” said Aramis; “I shall return immediately.”

The two friends went toward the shed. At their approach Planchet came out leading the two horses.

“That is good to see,” said Aramis. “There is a servant active and vigilant, not like that lazy fellow Bazin, who is no longer good for anything since he became connected with the church. Follow us, Planchet; we shall continue our conversation to the end of the village.”

They traversed the width of the village, talking of indifferent things, then as they reached the last houses:

“Go, then, dear friend,” said Aramis, “follow your own career. Fortune lavishes her smiles upon you; do not let her flee from your embrace. As for me, I remain in my humility and indolence. Adieu!”

“Thus ’tis quite decided,” said D’Artagnan, “that what I have to offer to you does not tempt you?”

“On the contrary, it would tempt me were I any other man,” rejoined Aramis; “but I repeat, I am made up of contradictions. What I hate to-day I adore to-morrow, and vice versa. You see that I cannot, like you, for instance, settle on any fixed plan.”

“Thou liest, subtile one,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “Thou alone, on the contrary, knowest how to choose thy object and to gain it stealthily.”

The friends embraced. They descended into the plain by the ladder. Planchet met them hard by the shed. D’Artagnan jumped into the saddle, then the old companions in arms again shook hands. D’Artagnan and Planchet spurred their steeds and took the road to Paris.

But after he had gone about two hundred steps D’Artagnan stopped short, alighted, threw the bridle of his horse over the arm of Planchet and took the pistols from his saddle-bow to fasten them to his girdle.

“What’s the matter?” asked Planchet.

“This is the matter: be he ever so cunning he shall never say I was his dupe. Stand here, don’t stir, turn your back to the road and wait for me.”

Having thus spoken, D’Artagnan cleared the ditch by the roadside and crossed the plain so as to wind around the village. He had observed between the house that Madame de Longueville inhabited and the convent of the Jesuits, an open space surrounded by a hedge.

The moon had now risen and he could see well enough to retrace his road.

He reached the hedge and hid himself behind it; in passing by the house where the scene which we have related took place, he remarked that the window was again lighted up and he was convinced that Aramis had not yet returned to his own apartment and that when he did it would not be alone.

In truth, in a few minutes he heard steps approaching and low whispers.

Close to the hedge the steps stopped.

D’Artagnan knelt down near the thickest part of the hedge.

Two men, to the astonishment of D’Artagnan, appeared shortly; soon, however, his surprise vanished, for he heard the murmurs of a soft, harmonious voice; one of these two men was a woman disguised as a cavalier.

“Calm yourself, dear Rene,” said the soft voice, “the same thing will never happen again. I have discovered a sort of subterranean passage which runs beneath the street and we shall only have to raise one of the marble slabs before the door to open you an entrance and an outlet.”

“Oh!” answered another voice, which D’Artagnan instantly recognized as that of Aramis. “I swear to you, princess, that if your reputation did not depend on precautions and if my life alone were jeopardized----”

“Yes, yes! I know you are as brave and venturesome as any man in the world, but you do not belong to me alone; you belong to all our party. Be prudent! sensible!”

“I always obey, madame, when I am commanded by so gentle a voice.”

He kissed her hand tenderly.

“Ah!” exclaimed the cavalier with a soft voice.

“What’s the matter?” asked Aramis.

“Do you not see that the wind has blown off my hat?”

Aramis rushed after the fugitive hat. D’Artagnan took advantage of the circumstance to find a place in the hedge not so thick, where his glance could penetrate to the supposed cavalier. At that instant, the moon, inquisitive, perhaps, like D’Artagnan, came from behind a cloud and by her light D’Artagnan recognized the large blue eyes, the golden hair and the classic head of the Duchess de Longueville.

Aramis returned, laughing, one hat on his head and the other in his hand; and he and his companion resumed their walk toward the convent.

“Good!” said D’Artagnan, rising and brushing his knees; “now I have thee--thou art a Frondeur and the lover of Madame de Longueville.”

Monsieur Porthos du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.

Thanks to what Aramis had told him, D’Artagnan, who knew already that Porthos called himself Du Vallon, was now aware that he styled himself, from his estate, De Bracieux; and that he was, on account of this estate, engaged in a lawsuit with the Bishop of Noyon. It was, then, in the neighborhood of Noyon that he must seek that estate. His itinerary was promptly determined: he would go to Dammartin, from which place two roads diverge, one toward Soissons, the other toward Compiegne; there he would inquire concerning the Bracieux estate and go to the right or to the left according to the information obtained.

Planchet, who was still a little concerned for his safety after his recent escapade, declared that he would follow D’Artagnan even to the end of the world, either by the road to the right or by that to the left; only he begged his former master to set out in the evening, for greater security to himself. D’Artagnan suggested that he should send word to his wife, so that she might not be anxious about him, but Planchet replied with much sagacity that he was very sure his wife would not die of anxiety through not knowing where he was, while he, Planchet, remembering her incontinence of tongue, would die of anxiety if she did know.

This reasoning seemed to D’Artagnan so satisfactory that he no further insisted; and about eight o’clock in the evening, the time when the vapors of night begin to thicken in the streets, he left the Hotel de la Chevrette, and followed by Planchet set forth from the capital by way of the Saint Denis gate.

At midnight the two travelers were at Dammartin, but it was then too late to make inquiries--the host of the Cygne de la Croix had gone to bed.

The next morning D’Artagnan summoned the host, one of those sly Normans who say neither yes nor no and fear to commit themselves by giving a direct answer. D’Artagnan, however, gathered from his equivocal replies that the road to the right was the one he ought to take, and on that uncertain information he resumed his journey. At nine in the morning he reached Nanteuil and stopped for breakfast. His host here was a good fellow from Picardy, who gave him all the information he needed. The Bracieux estate was a few leagues from Villars-Cotterets.

D’Artagnan was acquainted with Villars-Cotterets having gone thither with the court on several occasions; for at that time Villars-Cotterets was a royal residence. He therefore shaped his course toward that place and dismounted at the Dauphin d’Or. There he ascertained that the Bracieux estate was four leagues distant, but that Porthos was not at Bracieux. Porthos had, in fact, been involved in a dispute with the Bishop of Noyon in regard to the Pierrefonds property, which adjoined his own, and weary at length of a legal controversy which was beyond his comprehension, he put an end to it by purchasing Pierrefonds and added that name to his others. He now called himself Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds, and resided on his new estate.

The travelers were therefore obliged to stay at the hotel until the next day; the horses had done ten leagues that day and needed rest. It is true they might have taken others, but there was a great forest to pass through and Planchet, as we have seen, had no liking for forests after dark.

There was another thing that Planchet had no liking for and that was starting on a journey with a hungry stomach. Accordingly, D’Artagnan, on awaking, found his breakfast waiting for him. It need not be said that Planchet in resuming his former functions resumed also his former humility and was not ashamed to make his breakfast on what was left by D’Artagnan.

It was nearly eight o’clock when they set out again. Their course was clearly defined: they were to follow the road toward Compiegne and on emerging from the forest turn to the right.

The morning was beautiful, and in this early springtime the birds sang on the trees and the sunbeams shone through the misty glades, like curtains of golden gauze.

In other parts of the forest the light could scarcely penetrate through the foliage, and the stems of two old oak trees, the refuge of the squirrel, startled by the travelers, were in deep shadow.

There came up from all nature in the dawn of day a perfume of herbs, flowers and leaves, which delighted the heart. D’Artagnan, sick of the closeness of Paris, thought that when a man had three names of his different estates joined one to another, he ought to be very happy in such a paradise; then he shook his head, saying, “If I were Porthos and D’Artagnan came to make me such a proposition as I am going to make to him, I know what I should say to it.”

As to Planchet, he thought of little or nothing, but was happy as a hunting-hound in his old master’s company.

At the extremity of the wood D’Artagnan perceived the road that had been described to him, and at the end of the road he saw the towers of an immense feudal castle.

“Oh! oh!” he said, “I fancied this castle belonged to the ancient branch of Orleans. Can Porthos have negotiated for it with the Duc de Longueville?”

“Faith!” exclaimed Planchet, “here’s land in good condition; if it belongs to Monsieur Porthos I wish him joy.”

“Zounds!” cried D’Artagnan, “don’t call him Porthos, nor even Vallon; call him De Bracieux or De Pierrefonds; thou wilt knell out damnation to my mission otherwise.”

As he approached the castle which had first attracted his eye, D’Artagnan was convinced that it could not be there that his friend dwelt; the towers, though solid and as if built yesterday, were open and broken. One might have fancied that some giant had cleaved them with blows from a hatchet.

On arriving at the extremity of the castle D’Artagnan found himself overlooking a beautiful valley, in which, at the foot of a charming little lake, stood several scattered houses, which, humble in their aspect, and covered, some with tiles, others with thatch, seemed to acknowledge as their sovereign lord a pretty chateau, built about the beginning of the reign of Henry IV., and surmounted by four stately, gilded weather-cocks. D’Artagnan no longer doubted that this was Porthos’s pleasant dwelling place.

The road led straight up to the chateau which, compared to its ancestor on the hill, was exactly what a fop of the coterie of the Duc d’Enghein would have been beside a knight in steel armor in the time of Charles VII. D’Artagnan spurred his horse on and pursued his road, followed by Planchet at the same pace.

In ten minutes D’Artagnan reached the end of an alley regularly planted with fine poplars and terminating in an iron gate, the points and crossed bars of which were gilt. In the midst of this avenue was a nobleman, dressed in green and with as much gilding about him as the iron gate, riding on a tall horse. On his right hand and his left were two footmen, with the seams of their dresses laced. A considerable number of clowns were assembled and rendered homage to their lord.

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “can this be the Seigneur du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds? Well-a-day! how he has shrunk since he gave up the name of Porthos!”

“This cannot be Monsieur Porthos,” observed Planchet replying, as it were, to his master’s thoughts. “Monsieur Porthos was six feet high; this man is scarcely five.”

“Nevertheless,” said D’Artagnan, “the people are bowing very low to this person.”

As he spoke, he rode toward the tall horse--to the man of importance and his valets. As he approached he seemed to recognize the features of this individual.

“Jesu!” cried Planchet, “can it be?”

At this exclamation the man on horseback turned slowly and with a lofty air, and the two travelers could see, displayed in all their brilliancy, the large eyes, the vermilion visage, and the eloquent smile of--Musqueton.

It was indeed Musqueton--Musqueton, as fat as a pig, rolling about with rude health, puffed out with good living, who, recognizing D’Artagnan and acting very differently from the hypocrite Bazin, slipped off his horse and approached the officer with his hat off, so that the homage of the assembled crowd was turned toward this new sun, which eclipsed the former luminary.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan! Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried Musqueton, his fat cheeks swelling out and his whole frame perspiring with joy; “Monsieur d’Artagnan! oh! what joy for my lord and master, Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds!”

“Thou good Musqueton! where is thy master?”

“You stand upon his property!”

“But how handsome thou art--how fat! thou hast prospered and grown stout!” and D’Artagnan could not restrain his astonishment at the change good fortune had produced on the once famished one.

“Hey, yes, thank God, I am pretty well,” said Musqueton.

“But hast thou nothing to say to thy friend Planchet?”

“How, my friend Planchet? Planchet--art thou there?” cried Musqueton, with open arms and eyes full of tears.

“My very self,” replied Planchet; “but I wanted first to see if thou wert grown proud.”

“Proud toward an old friend? never, Planchet! thou wouldst not have thought so hadst thou known Musqueton well.”

“So far so well,” answered Planchet, alighting, and extending his arms to Musqueton, the two servants embraced with an emotion which touched those who were present and made them suppose that Planchet was a great lord in disguise, so highly did they estimate the position of Musqueton.

“And now, sir,” resumed Musqueton, when he had rid himself of Planchet, who had in vain tried to clasp his hands behind his friend’s fat back, “now, sir, allow me to leave you, for I could not permit my master to hear of your arrival from any but myself; he would never forgive me for not having preceded you.”

“This dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, carefully avoiding to utter either the former name borne by Porthos or his new one, “then he has not forgotten me?”

“Forgotten--he!” cried Musqueton; “there’s not a day, sir, that we don’t expect to hear that you were made marshal either instead of Monsieur de Gassion, or of Monsieur de Bassompierre.”

On D’Artagnan’s lips there played one of those rare and melancholy smiles which seemed to emanate from the depth of his soul--the last trace of youth and happiness that had survived life’s disillusions.

“And you--fellows,” resumed Musqueton, “stay near Monsieur le Comte d’Artagnan and pay him every attention in your power whilst I go to prepare my lord for his visit.”

And mounting his horse Musqueton rode off down the avenue on the grass at a hand gallop.

“Ah, there! there’s something promising,” said D’Artagnan. “No mysteries, no cloak to hide one’s self in, no cunning policy here; people laugh outright, they weep for joy here. I see nothing but faces a yard broad; in short, it seems to me that nature herself wears a holiday garb, and that the trees, instead of leaves and flowers, are covered with red and green ribbons as on gala days.”

“As for me,” said Planchet, “I seem to smell, from this place, even, a most delectable perfume of fine roast meat, and to see the scullions in a row by the hedge, hailing our approach. Ah! sir, what a cook must Monsieur Pierrefonds have, when he was so fond of eating and drinking, even whilst he was only called Monsieur Porthos!”

“Say no more!” cried D’Artagnan. “If the reality corresponds with appearances I am lost; for a man so well off will never change his happy condition, and I shall fail with him, as I have already done with Aramis.”

How D’Artagnan, in discovering the Retreat of Porthos, perceives that Wealth does not necessarily produce Happiness.

D’Artagnan passed through the iron gate and arrived in front of the chateau. He alighted as he saw a species of giant on the steps. Let us do justice to D’Artagnan. Independently of every selfish wish, his heart palpitated with joy when he saw that tall form and martial demeanor, which recalled to him a good and brave man.

He ran to Porthos and threw himself into his arms; the whole body of servants, arranged in a semi-circle at a respectful distance, looked on with humble curiosity. Musqueton, at the head of them, wiped his eyes. Porthos linked his arm in that of his friend.

“Ah! how delightful to see you again, dear friend!” he cried, in a voice which was now changed from a baritone into a bass, “you’ve not then forgotten me?”

“Forget you! oh! dear Du Vallon, does one forget the happiest days of flowery youth, one’s dearest friends, the dangers we have dared together? On the contrary, there is not an hour we have passed together that is not present to my memory.”

“Yes, yes,” said Porthos, trying to give to his mustache a curl which it had lost whilst he had been alone. “Yes, we did some fine things in our time and we gave that poor cardinal a few threads to unravel.”

And he heaved a sigh.

“Under any circumstances,” he resumed, “you are welcome, my dear friend; you will help me to recover my spirits; to-morrow we will hunt the hare on my plain, which is a superb tract of land, or pursue the deer in my woods, which are magnificent. I have four harriers which are considered the swiftest in the county, and a pack of hounds which are unequalled for twenty leagues around.”

And Porthos heaved another sigh.

“But, first,” interposed D’Artagnan, “you must present me to Madame du Vallon.”

A third sigh from Porthos.

“I lost Madame du Vallon two years ago,” he said, “and you find me still in affliction on that account. That was the reason why I left my Chateau du Vallon near Corbeil, and came to my estate, Bracieux. Poor Madame du Vallon! her temper was uncertain, but she came at last to accustom herself to my little ways and understand my little wishes.”

“So you are free now, and rich?”

“Alas!” groaned Porthos, “I am a widower and have forty thousand francs a year. Let us go to breakfast.”

“I shall be happy to do so; the morning air has made me hungry.”

“Yes,” said Porthos; “my air is excellent.”

They went into the chateau; there was nothing but gilding, high and low; the cornices were gilt, the mouldings were gilt, the legs and arms of the chairs were gilt. A table, ready set out, awaited them.

“You see,” said Porthos, “this is my usual style.”

“Devil take me!” answered D’Artagnan, “I wish you joy of it. The king has nothing like it.”

“No,” answered Porthos, “I hear it said that he is very badly fed by the cardinal, Monsieur de Mazarin. Taste this cutlet, my dear D’Artagnan; ’tis off one of my sheep.”

“You have very tender mutton and I wish you joy of it.” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes, the sheep are fed in my meadows, which are excellent pasture.”

“Give me another cutlet.”

“No, try this hare, which I had killed yesterday in one of my warrens.”

“Zounds! what a flavor!” cried D’Artagnan; “ah! they are fed on thyme only, your hares.”

“And how do you like my wine?” asked Porthos; “it is pleasant, isn’t it?”

“Capital!”

“It is nothing, however, but a wine of the country.”

“Really?”

“Yes, a small declivity to the south, yonder on my hill, gives me twenty hogsheads.”

“Quite a vineyard, hey?”

Porthos sighed for the fifth time--D’Artagnan had counted his sighs. He became curious to solve the problem.

“Well now,” he said, “it seems, my dear friend, that something vexes you; you are ill, perhaps? That health, which----”

“Excellent, my dear friend; better than ever. I could kill an ox with a blow of my fist.”

“Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?”

“Family! I have, happily, only myself in the world to care for.”

“But what makes you sigh?”

“My dear fellow,” replied Porthos, “to be candid with you, I am not happy.”

“You are not happy, Porthos? You who have chateau, meadows, mountains, woods--you who have forty thousand francs a year--you--are--not--happy?”

“My dear friend, all those things I have, but I am a hermit in the midst of superfluity.”

“Surrounded, I suppose, only by clodhoppers, with whom you could not associate.”

Porthos turned rather pale and drank off a large glass of wine.

“No; but just think, there are paltry country squires who have all some title or another and pretend to go back as far as Charlemagne, or at least to Hugh Capet. When I first came here; being the last comer, it was for me to make the first advances. I made them, but you know, my dear friend, Madame du Vallon----”

Porthos, in pronouncing these words, seemed to gulp down something.

“Madame du Vallon was of doubtful gentility. She had, in her first marriage--I don’t think, D’Artagnan, I am telling you anything new--married a lawyer; they thought that ‘nauseous;’ you can understand that’s a word bad enough to make one kill thirty thousand men. I have killed two, which has made people hold their tongues, but has not made me their friend. So that I have no society; I live alone; I am sick of it--my mind preys on itself.”

D’Artagnan smiled. He now saw where the breastplate was weak, and prepared the blow.

“But now,” he said, “that you are a widower, your wife’s connection cannot injure you.”

“Yes, but understand me; not being of a race of historic fame, like the De Courcys, who were content to be plain sirs, or the Rohans, who didn’t wish to be dukes, all these people, who are all either vicomtes or comtes go before me at church in all the ceremonies, and I can say nothing to them. Ah! If I only were----”

“A baron, don’t you mean?” cried D’Artagnan, finishing his friend’s sentence.

“Ah!” cried Porthos; “would I were but a baron!”

“Well, my friend, I am come to give you this very title which you wish for so much.”

Porthos gave a start that shook the room; two or three bottles fell and were broken. Musqueton ran thither, hearing the noise.

Porthos waved his hand to Musqueton to pick up the bottles.

“I am glad to see,” said D’Artagnan, “that you have still that honest lad with you.”

“He is my steward,” replied Porthos; “he will never leave me. Go away now, Mouston.”

“So he’s called Mouston,” thought D’Artagnan; “‘tis too long a word to pronounce ‘Musqueton.’”

“Well,” he said aloud, “let us resume our conversation later, your people may suspect something; there may be spies about. You can suppose, Porthos, that what I have to say relates to most important matters.”

“Devil take them; let us walk in the park,” answered Porthos, “for the sake of digestion.”

“Egad,” said D’Artagnan, “the park is like everything else and there are as many fish in your pond as rabbits in your warren; you are a happy man, my friend since you have not only retained your love of the chase, but acquired that of fishing.”

“My friend,” replied Porthos, “I leave fishing to Musqueton,--it is a vulgar pleasure,--but I shoot sometimes; that is to say, when I am dull, and I sit on one of those marble seats, have my gun brought to me, my favorite dog, and I shoot rabbits.”

“Really, how very amusing!”

“Yes,” replied Porthos, with a sigh; “it is amusing.”

D’Artagnan now no longer counted the sighs. They were innumerable.

“However, what had you to say to me?” he resumed; “let us return to that subject.”

“With pleasure,” replied D’Artagnan; “I must, however, first frankly tell you that you must change your mode of life.”

“How?”

“Go into harness again, gird on your sword, run after adventures, and leave as in old times a little of your fat on the roadside.”

“Ah! hang it!” said Porthos.

“I see you are spoiled, dear friend; you are corpulent, your arm has no longer that movement of which the late cardinal’s guards have so many proofs.”

“Ah! my fist is strong enough I swear,” cried Porthos, extending a hand like a shoulder of mutton.

“So much the better.”

“Are we then to go to war?”

“By my troth, yes.”

“Against whom?”

“Are you a politician, friend?”

“Not in the least.”

“Are you for Mazarin or for the princes?”

“I am for no one.”

“That is to say, you are for us. Well, I tell you that I come to you from the cardinal.”

This speech was heard by Porthos in the same sense as if it had still been in the year 1640 and related to the true cardinal.

“Ho! ho! What are the wishes of his eminence?”

“He wishes to have you in his service.”

“And who spoke to him of me?”

“Rochefort--you remember him?”

“Yes, pardieu! It was he who gave us so much trouble and kept us on the road so much; you gave him three sword-wounds in three separate engagements.”

“But you know he is now our friend?”

“No, I didn’t know that. So he cherishes no resentment?”

“You are mistaken, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan. “It is I who cherish no resentment.”

Porthos didn’t understand any too clearly; but then we know that understanding was not his strong point. “You say, then,” he continued, “that the Count de Rochefort spoke of me to the cardinal?”

“Yes, and the queen, too.”

“The queen, do you say?”

“To inspire us with confidence she has even placed in Mazarin’s hands that famous diamond--you remember all about it--that I once sold to Monsieur des Essarts and of which, I don’t know how, she has regained possession.”

“But it seems to me,” said Porthos, “that she would have done much better if she had given it back to you.”

“So I think,” replied D’Artagnan; “but kings and queens are strange beings and have odd fancies; nevertheless, since they are the ones who have riches and honors, we are devoted to them.”

“Yes, we are devoted to them,” repeated Porthos; “and you--to whom are you devoted now?”

“To the king, the queen, and to the cardinal; moreover, I have answered for your devotion also.”

“And you say that you have made certain conditions on my behalf?”

“Magnificent, my dear fellow, magnificent! In the first place you have plenty of money, haven’t you? Forty thousand francs income, I think you said.”

Porthos began to be suspicious. “Eh! my friend,” said he, “one never has too much money. Madame du Vallon left things in much disorder; I am not much of a hand at figures, so that I live almost from hand to mouth.”

“He is afraid I have come to borrow money,” thought D’Artagnan. “Ah, my friend,” said he, “it is all the better if you are in difficulties.”

“How is it all the better?”

“Yes, for his eminence will give you all that you want--land, money, and titles.”

“Ah! ah! ah!” said Porthos, opening his eyes at that last word.

“Under the other cardinal,” continued D’Artagnan, “we didn’t know enough to make our profits; this, however, doesn’t concern you, with your forty thousand francs income, the happiest man in the world, it seems to me.”

Porthos sighed.

“At the same time,” continued D’Artagnan, “notwithstanding your forty thousand francs a year, and perhaps even for the very reason that you have forty thousand francs a year, it seems to me that a little coronet would do well on your carriage, hey?”

“Yes indeed,” said Porthos.

“Well, my dear friend, win it--it is at the point of your sword. We shall not interfere with each other--your object is a title; mine, money. If I can get enough to rebuild Artagnan, which my ancestors, impoverished by the Crusades, allowed to fall into ruins, and to buy thirty acres of land about it, that is all I wish. I shall retire and die tranquilly--at home.”

“For my part,” said Porthos, “I desire to be made a baron.”

“You shall be one.”

“And have you not seen any of our other friends?”

“Yes, I have seen Aramis.”

“And what does he wish? To be a bishop?”

“Aramis,” answered D’Artagnan, who did not wish to undeceive Porthos, “Aramis, fancy, has become a monk and a Jesuit, and lives like a bear. My offers did not arouse him,--did not even tempt him.”

“So much the worse! He was a clever man. And Athos?”

“I have not yet seen him. Do you know where I shall find him?”

“Near Blois. He is called Bragelonne. Only imagine, my dear friend. Athos, who was of as high birth as the emperor and who inherits one estate which gives him the title of comte, what is he to do with all those dignities--the Comte de la Fere, Comte de Bragelonne?”

“And he has no children with all these titles?”

“Ah!” said Porthos, “I have heard that he had adopted a young man who resembles him greatly.”

“What, Athos? Our Athos, who was as virtuous as Scipio? Have you seen him?

“No.”

“Well, I shall see him to-morrow and tell him about you; but I’m afraid, entre nous, that his liking for wine has aged and degraded him.”

“Yes, he used to drink a great deal,” replied Porthos.

“And then he was older than any of us,” added D’Artagnan.

“Some years only. His gravity made him look older than he was.”

“Well then, if we can get Athos, all will be well. If we cannot, we will do without him. We two are worth a dozen.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of his former exploits; “but we four, altogether, would be equal to thirty-six, more especially as you say the work will not be child’s play. Will it last long?”

“By’r Lady! two or three years perhaps.”

“So much the better,” cried Porthos. “You have no idea, my friend, how my bones ache since I came here. Sometimes on a Sunday, I take a ride in the fields and on the property of my neighbours, in order to pick up a nice little quarrel, which I am really in want of, but nothing happens. Either they respect or they fear me, which is more likely, but they let me trample down the clover with my dogs, insult and obstruct every one, and I come back still more weary and low-spirited, that’s all. At any rate, tell me: there’s more chance of fighting in Paris, is there not?”

“In that respect, my dear friend, it’s delightful. No more edicts, no more of the cardinal’s guards, no more De Jussacs, nor other bloodhounds. I’Gad! underneath a lamp in an inn, anywhere, they ask ‘Are you one of the Fronde?’ They unsheathe, and that’s all that is said. The Duke de Guise killed Monsieur de Coligny in the Place Royale and nothing was said of it.”

“Ah, things go on gaily, then,” said Porthos.

“Besides which, in a short time,” resumed D’Artagnan, “We shall have set battles, cannonades, conflagrations and there will be great variety.”

“Well, then, I decide.”

“I have your word, then?”

“Yes, ’tis given. I shall fight heart and soul for Mazarin; but----”

“But?”

“But he must make me a baron.”

“Zounds!” said D’Artagnan, “that’s settled already; I will be responsible for the barony.”

On this promise being given, Porthos, who had never doubted his friend’s assurance, turned back with him toward the castle.

In which it is shown that if Porthos was discontented with his Condition, Musqueton was completely satisfied with his.

As they returned toward the castle, D’Artagnan thought of the miseries of poor human nature, always dissatisfied with what it has, ever desirous of what it has not.

In the position of Porthos, D’Artagnan would have been perfectly happy; and to make Porthos contented there was wanting--what? five letters to put before his three names, a tiny coronet to paint upon the panels of his carriage!

“I shall pass all my life,” thought D’Artagnan, “in seeking for a man who is really contented with his lot.”

Whilst making this reflection, chance seemed, as it were, to give him the lie direct. When Porthos had left him to give some orders he saw Musqueton approaching. The face of the steward, despite one slight shade of care, light as a summer cloud, seemed a physiognomy of absolute felicity.

“Here is what I am looking for,” thought D’Artagnan; “but alas! the poor fellow does not know the purpose for which I am here.”

He then made a sign for Musqueton to come to him.

“Sir,” said the servant, “I have a favour to ask you.”

“Speak out, my friend.”

“I am afraid to do so. Perhaps you will think, sir, that prosperity has spoiled me?”

“Art thou happy, friend?” asked D’Artagnan.

“As happy as possible; and yet, sir, you may make me even happier than I am.”

“Well, speak, if it depends on me.”

“Oh, sir! it depends on you only.”

“I listen--I am waiting to hear.”

“Sir, the favor I have to ask of you is, not to call me ‘Musqueton’ but ‘Mouston.’ Since I have had the honor of being my lord’s steward I have taken the last name as more dignified and calculated to make my inferiors respect me. You, sir, know how necessary subordination is in any large establishment of servants.”

D’Artagnan smiled; Porthos wanted to lengthen out his names, Musqueton to cut his short.

“Well, my dear Mouston,” he said, “rest satisfied. I will call thee Mouston; and if it makes thee happy I will not ‘tutoyer’ you any longer.”

“Oh!” cried Musqueton, reddening with joy; “if you do me, sir, such honor, I shall be grateful all my life; it is too much to ask.”

“Alas!” thought D’Artagnan, “it is very little to offset the unexpected tribulations I am bringing to this poor devil who has so warmly welcomed me.”

“Will monsieur remain long with us?” asked Musqueton, with a serene and glowing countenance.

“I go to-morrow, my friend,” replied D’Artagnan.

“Ah, monsieur,” said Musqueton, “then you have come here only to awaken our regrets.”

“I fear that is true,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone.

D’Artagnan was secretly touched with remorse, not at inducing Porthos to enter into schemes in which his life and fortune would be in jeopardy, for Porthos, in the title of baron, had his object and reward; but poor Musqueton, whose only wish was to be called Mouston--was it not cruel to snatch him from the delightful state of peace and plenty in which he was?

He was thinking of these matters when Porthos summoned him to dinner.

“What! to dinner?” said D’Artagnan. “What time is it, then?”

“Eh! why, it is after one o’clock.”

“Your home is a paradise, Porthos; one takes no note of time. I follow you, though I am not hungry.”

“Come, if one can’t always eat, one can always drink--a maxim of poor Athos, the truth of which I have discovered since I began to be lonely.”

D’Artagnan, who as a Gascon, was inclined to sobriety, seemed not so sure as his friend of the truth of Athos’s maxim, but he did his best to keep up with his host. Meanwhile his misgivings in regard to Musqueton recurred to his mind and with greater force because Musqueton, though he did not himself wait on the table, which would have been beneath him in his new position, appeared at the door from time to time and evinced his gratitude to D’Artagnan by the quality of the wine he directed to be served. Therefore, when, at dessert, upon a sign from D’Artagnan, Porthos had sent away his servants and the two friends were alone:

“Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “who will attend you in your campaigns?”

“Why,” replied Porthos, “Mouston, of course.”

This was a blow to D’Artagnan. He could already see the intendant’s beaming smile change to a contortion of grief. “But,” he said, “Mouston is not so young as he was, my dear fellow; besides, he has grown fat and perhaps has lost his fitness for active service.”

“That may be true,” replied Porthos; “but I am used to him, and besides, he wouldn’t be willing to let me go without him, he loves me so much.”

“Oh, blind self-love!” thought D’Artagnan.

“And you,” asked Porthos, “haven’t you still in your service your old lackey, that good, that brave, that intelligent---what, then, is his name?”

“Planchet--yes, I have found him again, but he is lackey no longer.”

“What is he, then?”

“With his sixteen hundred francs--you remember, the sixteen hundred francs he earned at the siege of La Rochelle by carrying a letter to Lord de Winter--he has set up a little shop in the Rue des Lombards and is now a confectioner.”

“Ah, he is a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards! How does it happen, then, that he is in your service?”

“He has been guilty of certain escapades and fears he may be disturbed.” And the musketeer narrated to his friend Planchet’s adventure.

“Well,” said Porthos, “if any one had told you in the old times that the day would come when Planchet would rescue Rochefort and that you would protect him in it----”

“I should not have believed him; but men are changed by events.”

“There is nothing truer than that,” said Porthos; “but what does not change, or changes for the better, is wine. Taste of this; it is a Spanish wine which our friend Athos thought much of.”

At that moment the steward came in to consult his master upon the proceedings of the next day and also with regard to the shooting party which had been proposed.

“Tell me, Mouston,” said Porthos, “are my arms in good condition?”

“Your arms, my lord--what arms?”

“Zounds! my weapons.”

“What weapons?”

“My military weapons.”

“Yes, my lord; at any rate, I think so.”

“Make sure of it, and if they want it, have them burnished up. Which is my best cavalry horse?”

“Vulcan.”

“And the best hack?”

“Bayard.”

“What horse dost thou choose for thyself?”

“I like Rustaud, my lord; a good animal, whose paces suit me.”

“Strong, think’s” thou?”

“Half Norman, half Mecklenburger; will go night and day.”

“That will do for us. See to these horses. Polish up or make some one else polish my arms. Then take pistols with thee and a hunting-knife.”

“Are we then going to travel, my lord?” asked Musqueton, rather uneasy.

“Something better still, Mouston.”

“An expedition, sir?” asked the steward, whose roses began to change into lilies.

“We are going to return to the service, Mouston,” replied Porthos, still trying to restore his mustache to the military curl it had long lost.

“Into the service--the king’s service?” Musqueton trembled; even his fat, smooth cheeks shook as he spoke, and he looked at D’Artagnan with an air of reproach; he staggered, and his voice was almost choked.

“Yes and no. We shall serve in a campaign, seek out all sorts of adventures--return, in short, to our former life.”

These last words fell on Musqueton like a thunderbolt. It was those very terrible old days that made the present so excessively delightful, and the blow was so great he rushed out, overcome, and forgot to shut the door.

The two friends remained alone to speak of the future and to build castles in the air. The good wine which Musqueton had placed before them traced out in glowing drops to D’Artagnan a fine perspective, shining with quadruples and pistoles, and showed to Porthos a blue ribbon and a ducal mantle; they were, in fact, asleep on the table when the servants came to light them to their bed.

Musqueton was, however, somewhat consoled by D’Artagnan, who the next day told him that in all probability war would always be carried on in the heart of Paris and within reach of the Chateau du Vallon, which was near Corbeil, or Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of Pierrefonds, which was between Compiegne and Villars-Cotterets.

“But--formerly--it appears,” began Musqueton timidly.

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “we don’t now make war as we did formerly. To-day it’s a sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask Planchet.”

Musqueton inquired, therefore, the state of the case of his old friend, who confirmed the statement of D’Artagnan. “But,” he added, “in this war prisoners stand a chance of being hung.”

“The deuce they do!” said Musqueton; “I think I should like the siege of Rochelle better than this war, then!”

Porthos, meantime, asked D’Artagnan to give him his instructions how to proceed on his journey.

“Four days,” replied his friend, “are necessary to reach Blois; one day to rest there; three or four days to return to Paris. Set out, therefore, in a week, with your suite, and go to the Hotel de la Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and there await me.”

“That’s agreed,” said Porthos.

“As to myself, I shall go around to see Athos; for though I don’t think his aid worth much, one must with one’s friends observe all due politeness,” said D’Artagnan.

The friends then took leave of each other on the very border of the estate of Pierrefonds, to which Porthos escorted his friend.

“At least,” D’Artagnan said to himself, as he took the road to Villars-Cotterets, “at least I shall not be alone in my undertaking. That devil, Porthos, is a man of prodigious strength; still, if Athos joins us, well, we shall be three of us to laugh at Aramis, that little coxcomb with his too good luck.”

At Villars-Cotterets he wrote to the cardinal:

“My Lord,--I have already one man to offer to your eminence, and he is well worth twenty men. I am just setting out for Blois. The Comte de la Fere inhabits the Castle of Bragelonne, in the environs of that city.”

Two Angelic Faces.

The road was long, but the horses upon which D’Artagnan and Planchet rode had been refreshed in the well supplied stables of the Lord of Bracieux; the master and servant rode side by side, conversing as they went, for D’Artagnan had by degrees thrown off the master and Planchet had entirely ceased to assume the manners of a servant. He had been raised by circumstances to the rank of a confidant to his master. It was many years since D’Artagnan had opened his heart to any one; it happened, however, that these two men, on meeting again, assimilated perfectly. Planchet was in truth no vulgar companion in these new adventures; he was a man of uncommonly sound sense. Without courting danger he never shrank from an encounter; in short, he had been a soldier and arms ennoble a man; it was, therefore, on the footing of friends that D’Artagnan and Planchet arrived in the neighborhood of Blois.

Going along, D’Artagnan, shaking his head, said:

“I know that my going to Athos is useless and absurd; but still I owe this courtesy to my old friend, a man who had in him material for the most noble and generous of characters.”

“Oh, Monsieur Athos was a noble gentleman,” said Planchet, “was he not? Scattering money round about him as Heaven sprinkles rain. Do you remember, sir, that duel with the Englishman in the inclosure des Carmes? Ah! how lofty, how magnificent Monsieur Athos was that day, when he said to his adversary: ‘You have insisted on knowing my name, sir; so much the worse for you, since I shall be obliged to kill you.’ I was near him, those were his exact words, when he stabbed his foe as he said he would, and his adversary fell without saying, ‘Oh!’ ’Tis a noble gentleman--Monsieur Athos.”

“Yes, true as Gospel,” said D’Artagnan; “but one single fault has swallowed up all these fine qualities.”

“I remember well,” said Planchet, “he was fond of drinking--in truth, he drank, but not as other men drink. One seemed, as he raised the wine to his lips, to hear him say, ‘Come, juice of the grape, and chase away my sorrows.’ And how he used to break the stem of a glass or the neck of a bottle! There was no one like him for that.”

“And now,” replied D’Artagnan, “behold the sad spectacle that awaits us. This noble gentleman with his lofty glance, this handsome cavalier, so brilliant in feats of arms that every one was surprised that he held in his hand a sword only instead of a baton of command! Alas! we shall find him changed into a broken down old man, with garnet nose and eyes that slobber; we shall find him extended on some lawn, whence he will look at us with a languid eye and peradventure will not recognize us. God knows, Planchet, that I should fly from a sight so sad if I did not wish to show my respect for the illustrious shadow of what was once the Comte de la Fere, whom we loved so much.”

Planchet shook his head and said nothing. It was evident that he shared his master’s apprehensions.

“And then,” resumed D’Artagnan, “to this decrepitude is probably added poverty, for he must have neglected the little that he had, and the dirty scoundrel, Grimaud, more taciturn than ever and still more drunken than his master--stay, Planchet, it breaks my heart to merely think of it.”

“I fancy myself there and that I see him staggering and hear him stammering,” said Planchet, in a piteous tone, “but at all events we shall soon know the real state of things, for I imagine that those lofty walls, now turning ruby in the setting sun, are the walls of Blois.”

“Probably; and those steeples, pointed and sculptured, that we catch a glimpse of yonder, are similar to those that I have heard described at Chambord.”

At this moment one of those heavy wagons, drawn by bullocks, which carry the wood cut in the fine forests of the country to the ports of the Loire, came out of a byroad full of ruts and turned on that which the two horsemen were following. A man carrying a long switch with a nail at the end of it, with which he urged on his slow team, was walking with the cart.

“Ho! friend,” cried Planchet.

“What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?” replied the peasant, with a purity of accent peculiar to the people of that district and which might have put to shame the cultured denizens of the Sorbonne and the Rue de l’Universite.

“We are looking for the house of Monsieur de la Fere,” said D’Artagnan.

The peasant took off his hat on hearing this revered name.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “the wood that I am carting is his; I cut it in his copse and I am taking it to the chateau.”

D’Artagnan determined not to question this man; he did not wish to hear from another what he had himself said to Planchet.

“The chateau!” he said to himself, “what chateau? Ah, I understand! Athos is not a man to be thwarted; he, like Porthos, has obliged his peasantry to call him ‘my lord,’ and to dignify his pettifogging place by the name of chateau. He had a heavy hand--dear old Athos--after drinking.”

D’Artagnan, after asking the man the right way, continued his route, agitated in spite of himself at the idea of seeing once more that singular man whom he had so truly loved and who had contributed so much by advice and example to his education as a gentleman. He checked by degrees the speed of his horse and went on, his head drooping as if in deep thought.

Soon, as the road turned, the Chateau de la Valliere appeared in view; then, a quarter of a mile beyond, a white house, encircled in sycamores, was visible at the farther end of a group of trees, which spring had powdered with a snow of flowers.

On beholding this house, D’Artagnan, calm as he was in general, felt an unusual disturbance within his heart--so powerful during the whole course of life are the recollections of youth. He proceeded, nevertheless, and came opposite to an iron gate, ornamented in the taste of the period.

Through the gate was seen kitchen-gardens, carefully attended to, a spacious courtyard, in which neighed several horses held by valets in various liveries, and a carriage, drawn by two horses of the country.

“We are mistaken,” said D’Artagnan. “This cannot be the establishment of Athos. Good heavens! suppose he is dead and that this property now belongs to some one who bears his name. Alight, Planchet, and inquire, for I confess that I have scarcely courage so to do.”

Planchet alighted.

“Thou must add,” said D’Artagnan, “that a gentleman who is passing by wishes to have the honor of paying his respects to the Comte de la Fere, and if thou art satisfied with what thou hearest, then mention my name!”

Planchet, leading his horse by the bridle, drew near to the gate and rang the bell, and immediately a servant-man with white hair and of erect stature, notwithstanding his age, presented himself.

“Does Monsieur le Comte de la Fere live here?” asked Planchet.

“Yes, monsieur, it is here he lives,” the servant replied to Planchet, who was not in livery.

“A nobleman retired from service, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“And who had a lackey named Grimaud?” persisted Planchet, who had prudently considered that he couldn’t have too much information.

“Monsieur Grimaud is absent from the chateau for the time being,” said the servitor, who, little used as he was to such inquiries, began to examine Planchet from head to foot.

“Then,” cried Planchet joyously, “I see well that it is the same Comte de la Fere whom we seek. Be good enough to open to me, for I wish to announce to monsieur le comte that my master, one of his friends, is here, and wishes to greet him.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” said the servitor, opening the gate. “But where is your master?”

“He is following me.”

The servitor opened the gate and walked before Planchet, who made a sign to D’Artagnan. The latter, his heart palpitating more than ever, entered the courtyard without dismounting.

Whilst Planchet was standing on the steps before the house he heard a voice say:

“Well, where is this gentleman and why do they not bring him here?”

This voice, the sound of which reached D’Artagnan, reawakened in his heart a thousand sentiments, a thousand recollections that he had forgotten. He vaulted hastily from his horse, whilst Planchet, with a smile on his lips, advanced toward the master of the house.

“But I know you, my lad,” said Athos, appearing on the threshold.

“Oh, yes, monsieur le comte, you know me and I know you. I am Planchet--Planchet, whom you know well.” But the honest servant could say no more, so much was he overcome by this unexpected interview.

“What, Planchet, is Monsieur d’Artagnan here?”

“Here I am, my friend, dear Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, in a faltering voice and almost staggering from agitation.

At these words a visible emotion was expressed on the beautiful countenance and calm features of Athos. He rushed toward D’Artagnan with eyes fixed upon him and clasped him in his arms. D’Artagnan, equally moved, pressed him also closely to him, whilst tears stood in his eyes. Athos then took him by the hand and led him into the drawing-room, where there were several people. Every one arose.

“I present to you,” he said, “Monsieur le Chevalier D’Artagnan, lieutenant of his majesty’s musketeers, a devoted friend and one of the most excellent, brave gentlemen that I have ever known.”

D’Artagnan received the compliments of those who were present in his own way, and whilst the conversation became general he looked earnestly at Athos.

Strange! Athos was scarcely aged at all! His fine eyes, no longer surrounded by that dark line which nights of dissipation pencil too infallibly, seemed larger, more liquid than ever. His face, a little elongated, had gained in calm dignity what it had lost in feverish excitement. His hand, always wonderfully beautiful and strong, was set off by a ruffle of lace, like certain hands by Titian and Vandyck. He was less stiff than formerly. His long, dark hair, softly powdered here and there with silver tendrils, fell elegantly over his shoulders in wavy curls; his voice was still youthful, as if belonging to a Hercules of twenty-five, and his magnificent teeth, which he had preserved white and sound, gave an indescribable charm to his smile.

Meanwhile the guests, seeing that the two friends were longing to be alone, prepared to depart, when a noise of dogs barking resounded through the courtyard and many persons said at the same moment:

“Ah! ’tis Raoul, who is come home.”

Athos, as the name of Raoul was pronounced, looked inquisitively at D’Artagnan, in order to see if any curiosity was painted on his face. But D’Artagnan was still in confusion and turned around almost mechanically when a fine young man of fifteen years of age, dressed simply, but in perfect taste, entered the room, raising, as he came, his hat, adorned with a long plume of scarlet feathers.

Nevertheless, D’Artagnan was struck by the appearance of this new personage. It seemed to explain to him the change in Athos; a resemblance between the boy and the man explained the mystery of this regenerated existence. He remained listening and gazing.

“Here you are, home again, Raoul,” said the comte.

“Yes, sir,” replied the youth, with deep respect, “and I have performed the commission that you gave me.”

“But what’s the matter, Raoul?” said Athos, very anxiously. “You are pale and agitated.”

“Sir,” replied the young man, “it is on account of an accident which has happened to our little neighbor.”

“To Mademoiselle de la Valliere?” asked Athos, quickly.

“What is it?” cried many persons present.

“She was walking with her nurse Marceline, in the place where the woodmen cut the wood, when, passing on horseback, I stopped. She saw me also and in trying to jump from the end of a pile of wood on which she had mounted, the poor child fell and was not able to rise again. I fear that she has badly sprained her ankle.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Athos. “And her mother, Madame de Saint-Remy, have they yet told her of it?”

“No, sir, Madame de Saint-Remy is at Blois with the Duchess of Orleans. I am afraid that what was first done was unskillful, if not worse than useless. I am come, sir, to ask your advice.”

“Send directly to Blois, Raoul; or, rather, take horse and ride immediately yourself.”

Raoul bowed.

“But where is Louise?” asked the comte.

“I have brought her here, sir, and I have deposited her in charge of Charlotte, who, till better advice comes, has bathed the foot in cold well-water.”

The guests now all took leave of Athos, excepting the old Duc de Barbe, who, as an old friend of the family of La Valliere, went to see little Louise and offered to take her to Blois in his carriage.

“You are right, sir,” said Athos. “She will be the sooner with her mother. As for you, Raoul, I am sure it is your fault, some giddiness or folly.”

“No, sir, I assure you,” muttered Raoul, “it is not.”

“Oh, no, no, I declare it is not!” cried the young girl, while Raoul turned pale at the idea of his being perhaps the cause of her disaster.

“Nevertheless, Raoul, you must go to Blois and you must make your excuses and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy.”

The youth looked pleased. He again took in his strong arms the little girl, whose pretty golden head and smiling face rested on his shoulder, and placed her gently in the carriage; then jumping on his horse with the elegance of a first-rate esquire, after bowing to Athos and D’Artagnan, he went off close by the door of the carriage, on somebody inside of which his eyes were riveted.

The Castle of Bragelonne.

Whilst this scene was going on, D’Artagnan remained with open mouth and a confused gaze. Everything had turned out so differently from what he expected that he was stupefied with wonder.

Athos, who had been observing him and guessing his thoughts, took his arm and led him into the garden.

“Whilst supper is being prepared,” he said, smiling, “you will not, my friend, be sorry to have the mystery which so puzzles you cleared up.”

“True, monsieur le comte,” replied D’Artagnan, who felt that by degrees Athos was resuming that great influence which aristocracy had over him.

Athos smiled.

“First and foremost, dear D’Artagnan, we have no title such as count here. When I call you ‘chevalier,’ it is in presenting you to my guests, that they may know who you are. But to you, D’Artagnan, I am, I hope, still dear Athos, your comrade, your friend. Do you intend to stand on ceremony because you are less attached to me than you were?”

“Oh! God forbid!”

“Then let us be as we used to be; let us be open with each other. You are surprised at what you see here?”

“Extremely.”

“But above all things, I am a marvel to you?”

“I confess it.”

“I am still young, am I not? Should you not have known me again, in spite of my eight-and-forty years of age?”

“On the contrary, I do not find you the same person at all.”

“I understand,” cried Athos, with a gentle blush. “Everything, D’Artagnan, even folly, has its limit.”

“Then your means, it appears, are improved; you have a capital house--your own, I presume? You have a park, and horses, servants.”

Athos smiled.

“Yes, I inherited this little property when I quitted the army, as I told you. The park is twenty acres--twenty, comprising kitchen-gardens and a common. I have two horses,--I do not count my servant’s bobtailed nag. My sporting dogs consist of two pointers, two harriers and two setters. But then all this extravagance is not for myself,” added Athos, laughing.

“Yes, I see, for the young man Raoul,” said D’Artagnan.

“You guess aright, my friend; this youth is an orphan, deserted by his mother, who left him in the house of a poor country priest. I have brought him up. It is Raoul who has worked in me the change you see; I was dried up like a miserable tree, isolated, attached to nothing on earth; it was only a deep affection that could make me take root again and drag me back to life. This child has caused me to recover what I had lost. I had no longer any wish to live for myself, I have lived for him. I have corrected the vices that I had; I have assumed the virtues that I had not. Precept something, but example more. I may be mistaken, but I believe that Raoul will be as accomplished a gentleman as our degenerate age could display.”

The remembrance of Milady recurred to D’Artagnan.

“And you are happy?” he said to his friend.

“As happy as it is allowed to one of God’s creatures to be on this earth; but say out all you think, D’Artagnan, for you have not yet done so.”

“You are too bad, Athos; one can hide nothing from you,” answered D’Artagnan. “I wished to ask you if you ever feel any emotions of terror resembling----”

“Remorse! I finish your phrase. Yes and no. I do not feel remorse, because that woman, I profoundly hold, deserved her punishment. Had she one redeeming trait? I doubt it. I do not feel remorse, because had we allowed her to live she would have persisted in her work of destruction. But I do not mean, my friend that we were right in what we did. Perhaps all blood demands some expiation. Hers had been accomplished; it remains, possibly, for us to accomplish ours.”

“I have sometimes thought as you do, Athos.”

“She had a son, that unhappy woman?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever heard of him?”

“Never.”

“He must be about twenty-three years of age,” said Athos, in a low tone. “I often think of that young man, D’Artagnan.”

“Strange! for I had forgotten him,” said the lieutenant.

Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.

“And Lord de Winter--do you know anything about him?”

“I know that he is in high favor with Charles I.”

“The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water. He shed the blood of Strafford; that confirms what I said just now--blood will have blood. And the queen?”

“What queen?”

“Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV.”

“She is at the Louvre, as you know.”

“Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her daughter, during the severest cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in bed. Do you grasp that?” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “the daughter of Henry IV. shivering for want of a fagot! Why did she not ask from any one of us a home instead of from Mazarin? She should have wanted nothing.”

“Have you ever seen the queen of England?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“No; but my mother, as a child, saw her. Did I ever tell you that my mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici?"

“Never. You know, Athos, you never spoke much of such matters.”

“Ah, mon Dieu, yes, you are right,” Athos replied; “but then there must be some occasion for speaking.”

“Porthos wouldn’t have waited for it so patiently,” said D’Artagnan, with a smile.

“Every one according to his nature, my dear D’Artagnan. Porthos, in spite of a touch of vanity, has many excellent qualities. Have you seen him?”

“I left him five days ago,” said D’Artagnan, and he portrayed with Gascon wit and sprightliness the magnificence of Porthos in his Chateau of Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect to launch a few arrows of wit at the excellent Monsieur Mouston.

“I sometimes wonder,” replied Athos, smiling at that gayety which recalled the good old days, “that we could form an association of men who would be, after twenty years of separation, still so closely bound together. Friendship throws out deep roots in honest hearts, D’Artagnan. Believe me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship; they cannot understand it. And Aramis?”

“I have seen him also,” said D’Artagnan; “but he seemed to me cold.”

“Ah, you have seen Aramis?” said Athos, turning on D’Artagnan a searching look. “Why, it is a veritable pilgrimage, my dear friend, that you are making to the Temple of Friendship, as the poets would say.”

“Why, yes,” replied D’Artagnan, with embarrassment.

“Aramis, you know,” continued Athos, “is naturally cold, and then he is always involved in intrigues with women.”

“I believe he is at this moment in a very complicated one,” said D’Artagnan.

Athos made no reply.

“He is not curious,” thought D’Artagnan.

Athos not only failed to reply, he even changed the subject of conversation.

“You see,” said he, calling D’Artagnan’s attention to the fact that they had come back to the chateau after an hour’s walk, “we have made a tour of my domains.”

“All is charming and everything savors of nobility,” replied D’Artagnan.

At this instant they heard the sound of horses’ feet.

“‘Tis Raoul who has come back,” said Athos; “and we can now hear how the poor child is.”

In fact, the young man appeared at the gate, covered with dust, entered the courtyard, leaped from his horse, which he consigned to the charge of a groom, and then went to greet the count and D’Artagnan.

“Monsieur,” said Athos, placing his hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder, “monsieur is the Chevalier D’Artagnan of whom you have often heard me speak, Raoul.”

“Monsieur,” said the young man, saluting again and more profoundly, “monsieur le comte has pronounced your name before me as an example whenever he wished to speak of an intrepid and generous gentleman.”

That little compliment could not fail to move D’Artagnan. He extended a hand to Raoul and said:

“My young friend, all the praises that are given me should be passed on to the count here; for he has educated me in everything and it is not his fault that his pupil profited so little from his instructions. But he will make it up in you I am sure. I like your manner, Raoul, and your politeness has touched me.”

Athos was more delighted than can be told. He looked at D’Artagnan with an expression of gratitude and then bestowed on Raoul one of those strange smiles, of which children are so proud when they receive them.

“Now,” said D’Artagnan to himself, noticing that silent play of countenance, “I am sure of it.”

“I hope the accident has been of no consequence?”

“They don’t yet know, sir, on account of the swelling; but the doctor is afraid some tendon has been injured.”

At this moment a little boy, half peasant, half foot-boy, came to announce supper.

Athos led his guest into a dining-room of moderate size, the windows of which opened on one side on a garden, on the other on a hot-house full of magnificent flowers.

D’Artagnan glanced at the dinner service. The plate was magnificent, old, and appertaining to the family. D’Artagnan stopped to look at a sideboard on which was a superb ewer of silver.

“That workmanship is divine!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, a chef d’oeuvre of the great Florentine sculptor, Benvenuto Cellini,” replied Athos.

“What battle does it represent?”

“That of Marignan, just at the point where one of my forefathers is offering his sword to Francis I., who has broken his. It was on that occasion that my ancestor, Enguerrand de la Fere, was made a knight of the Order of St. Michael; besides which, the king, fifteen years afterward, gave him also this ewer and a sword which you may have seen formerly in my house, also a lovely specimen of workmanship. Men were giants in those times,” said Athos; “now we are pigmies in comparison. Let us sit down to supper. Call Charles,” he added, addressing the boy who waited.

“My good Charles, I particularly recommend to your care Planchet, the laquais of Monsieur D’Artagnan. He likes good wine; now you have the key of the cellar. He has slept a long time on a hard bed, so he won’t object to a soft one; take every care of him, I beg of you.” Charles bowed and retired.

“You think of everything,” said D’Artagnan; “and I thank you for Planchet, my dear Athos.”

Raoul stared on hearing this name and looked at the count to be quite sure that it was he whom the lieutenant thus addressed.

“That name sounds strange to you,” said Athos, smiling; “it was my nom de guerre when Monsieur D’Artagnan, two other gallant friends and myself performed some feats of arms at the siege of La Rochelle, under the deceased cardinal and Monsieur de Bassompierre. My friend is still so kind as to address me by that old and well beloved appellation, which makes my heart glad when I hear it.”

“‘Tis an illustrious name,” said the lieutenant, “and had one day triumphal honors paid to it.”

“What do you mean, sir?” inquired Raoul.

“You have not forgotten St. Gervais, Athos, and the napkin which was converted into a banner?” and he then related to Raoul the story of the bastion, and Raoul fancied he was listening to one of those deeds of arms belonging to days of chivalry, so gloriously recounted by Tasso and Ariosto.

“D’Artagnan does not tell you, Raoul,” said Athos, in his turn, “that he was reckoned one of the finest swordsmen of his time--a knuckle of iron, a wrist of steel, a sure eye and a glance of fire; that’s what his adversary met with. He was eighteen, only three years older than you are, Raoul, when I saw him set to work, pitted against tried men.”

“And did Monsieur D’Artagnan come off the conqueror?” asked the young man, with glistening eye.

“I killed one man, if I recollect rightly,” replied D’Artagnan, with a look of inquiry directed to Athos; “another I disarmed or wounded, I don’t remember which.”

“Wounded!” said Athos; “it was a phenomenon of skill.”

The young man would willingly have prolonged this conversation far into the night, but Athos pointed out to him that his guest must need repose. D’Artagnan would fain have declared that he was not fatigued, but Athos insisted on his retiring to his chamber, conducted thither by Raoul.

Athos as a Diplomatist.

D’Artagnan retired to bed--not to sleep, but to think over all he had heard that evening. Being naturally goodhearted, and having had once a liking for Athos, which had grown into a sincere friendship, he was delighted at thus meeting a man full of intelligence and moral strength, instead of a drunkard. He admitted without annoyance the continued superiority of Athos over himself, devoid as he was of that jealousy which might have saddened a less generous disposition; he was delighted also that the high qualities of Athos appeared to promise favorably for his mission. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that Athos was not in all respects sincere and frank. Who was the youth he had adopted and who bore so striking a resemblance to him? What could explain Athos’s having re-entered the world and the extreme sobriety he had observed at table? The absence of Grimaud, whose name had never once been uttered by Athos, gave D’Artagnan uneasiness. It was evident either that he no longer possessed the confidence of his friend, or that Athos was bound by some invisible chain, or that he had been forewarned of the lieutenant’s visit.

He could not help thinking of M. Rochefort, whom he had seen in Notre Dame; could De Rochefort have forestalled him with Athos? Again, the moderate fortune which Athos possessed, concealed as it was, so skillfully, seemed to show a regard for appearances and to betray a latent ambition which might be easily aroused. The clear and vigorous intellect of Athos would render him more open to conviction than a less able man would be. He would enter into the minister’s schemes with the more ardor, because his natural activity would be doubled by necessity.

Resolved to seek an explanation on all these points on the following day, D’Artagnan, in spite of his fatigue, prepared for an attack and determined that it should take place after breakfast. He determined to cultivate the good-will of the youth Raoul and, either whilst fencing with him or when out shooting, to extract from his simplicity some information which would connect the Athos of old times with the Athos of the present. But D’Artagnan at the same time, being a man of extreme caution, was quite aware what injury he should do himself, if by any indiscretion or awkwardness he should betray has manoeuvering to the experienced eye of Athos. Besides, to tell truth, whilst D’Artagnan was quite disposed to adopt a subtle course against the cunning of Aramis or the vanity of Porthos, he was ashamed to equivocate with Athos, true-hearted, open Athos. It seemed to him that if Porthos and Aramis deemed him superior to them in the arts of diplomacy, they would like him all the better for it; but that Athos, on the contrary, would despise him.

“Ah! why is not Grimaud, the taciturn Grimaud, here?” thought D’Artagnan, “there are so many things his silence would have told me; with Grimaud silence was another form of eloquence!”

There reigned a perfect stillness in the house. D’Artagnan had heard the door shut and the shutters barred; the dogs became in their turn silent. At last a nightingale, lost in a thicket of shrubs, in the midst of its most melodious cadences had fluted low and lower into stillness and fallen asleep. Not a sound was heard in the castle, except of a footstep up and down, in the chamber above--as he supposed, the bedroom of Athos.

“He is walking about and thinking,” thought D’Artagnan; “but of what? It is impossible to know; everything else might be guessed, but not that.”

At length Athos went to bed, apparently, for the noise ceased.

Silence and fatigue together overcame D’Artagnan and sleep overtook him also. He was not, however, a good sleeper. Scarcely had dawn gilded his window curtains when he sprang out of bed and opened the windows. Somebody, he perceived, was in the courtyard, moving stealthily. True to his custom of never passing anything over that it was within his power to know, D’Artagnan looked out of the window and perceived the close red coat and brown hair of Raoul.

The young man was opening the door of the stable. He then, with noiseless haste, took out the horse that he had ridden on the previous evening, saddled and bridled it himself and led the animal into the alley to the right of the kitchen-garden, opened a side door which conducted him to a bridle road, shut it after him, and D’Artagnan saw him pass by like a dart, bending, as he went, beneath the pendent flowery branches of maple and acacia. The road, as D’Artagnan had observed, was the way to Blois.

“So!” thought the Gascon “here’s a young blade who has already his love affair, who doesn’t at all agree with Athos in his hatred to the fair sex. He’s not going to hunt, for he has neither dogs nor arms; he’s not going on a message, for he goes secretly. Why does he go in secret? Is he afraid of me or of his father? for I am sure the count is his father. By Jove! I shall know about that soon, for I shall soon speak out to Athos.”

Day was now advanced; all the noises that had ceased the night before reawakened, one after the other. The bird on the branch, the dog in his kennel, the sheep in the field, the boats moored in the Loire, even, became alive and vocal. The latter, leaving the shore, abandoned themselves gaily to the current. The Gascon gave a last twirl to his mustache, a last turn to his hair, brushed, from habit, the brim of his hat with the sleeve of his doublet, and went downstairs. Scarcely had he descended the last step of the threshold when he saw Athos bent down toward the ground, as if he were looking for a crown-piece in the dust.

“Good-morning, my dear host,” cried D’Artagnan.

“Good-day to you; have you slept well?”

“Excellently, Athos, but what are you looking for? You are perhaps a tulip fancier?”

“My dear friend, if I am, you must not laugh at me for being so. In the country people alter; one gets to like, without knowing it, all those beautiful objects that God causes to spring from the earth, which are despised in cities. I was looking anxiously for some iris roots I planted here, close to this reservoir, and which some one has trampled upon this morning. These gardeners are the most careless people in the world; in bringing the horse out to the water they’ve allowed him to walk over the border.”

D’Artagnan began to smile.

“Ah! you think so, do you?”

And he took his friend along the alley, where a number of tracks like those which had trampled down the flowerbeds, were visible.

“Here are the horse’s hoofs again, it seems, Athos,” he said carelessly.

“Yes, indeed, the marks are recent.”

“Quite so,” replied the lieutenant.

“Who went out this morning?” Athos asked, uneasily. “Has any horse got loose?”

“Not likely,” answered the Gascon; “these marks are regular.”

“Where is Raoul?” asked Athos; “how is it that I have not seen him?”

“Hush!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, putting his finger on his lips; and he related what he had seen, watching Athos all the while.

“Ah, he’s gone to Blois; the poor boy----”

“Wherefore?”

“Ah, to inquire after the little La Valliere; she has sprained her foot, you know.”

“You think he has?”

“I am sure of it,” said Athos; “don’t you see that Raoul is in love?”

“Indeed! with whom--with a child seven years old?”

“Dear friend, at Raoul’s age the heart is so expansive that it must encircle one object or another, fancied or real. Well, his love is half real, half fanciful. She is the prettiest little creature in the world, with flaxen hair, blue eyes,--at once saucy and languishing.”

“But what say you to Raoul’s fancy?”

“Nothing--I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the heart is imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in love I was with a Grecian statue which our good king, then Henry IV., gave my father, insomuch that I was mad with grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was nothing but a fable.”

“It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work, so he takes his own way of employing himself.”

“Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here.”

“You will be wise to do so.”

“No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as three or four years ago he used to adorn and adore his little idol, whom he will some day fall in love with in right earnest if he remains here. The parents of little La Valliere have for a long time perceived and been amused at it; now they begin to look concerned.”

“Nonsense! However, Raoul must be diverted from this fancy. Send him away or you will never make a man of him.”

“I think I shall send him to Paris.”

“So!” thought D’Artagnan, and it seemed to him that the moment for attack had arrived.

“Suppose,” he said, “we roughly chalk out a career for this young man. I wish to consult you about some thing.”

“Do so.”

“Do you think it is time for us to enter the service?”

“But are you not still in the service--you, D’Artagnan?”

“I mean active service. Our former life, has it still no attractions for you? would you not be happy to begin anew in my society and in that of Porthos, the exploits of our youth?”

“Do you propose to me to do so, D’Artagnan?”

“Decidedly and honestly.”

“On whose side?” asked Athos, fixing his clear, benevolent glance on the countenance of the Gascon.

“Ah, devil take it, you speak in earnest----”

“And must have a definite answer. Listen, D’Artagnan. There is but one person, or rather, one cause, to whom a man like me can be useful--that of the king.”

“Exactly,” answered the musketeer.

“Yes, but let us understand each other,” returned Athos, seriously. “If by the cause of the king you mean that of Monsieur de Mazarin, we do not understand each other.”

“I don’t say exactly,” answered the Gascon, confused.

“Come, D’Artagnan, don’t let us play a sidelong game; your hesitation, your evasion, tells me at once on whose side you are; for that party no one dares openly to recruit, and when people recruit for it, it is with averted eyes and humble voice.”

“Ah! my dear Athos!”

“You know that I am not alluding to you; you are the pearl of brave, bold men. I speak of that spiteful and intriguing Italian--of the pedant who has tried to put on his own head a crown which he stole from under a pillow--of the scoundrel who calls his party the party of the king--who wants to send the princes of the blood to prison, not daring to kill them, as our great cardinal--our cardinal did--of the miser, who weighs his gold pieces and keeps the clipped ones for fear, though he is rich, of losing them at play next morning--of the impudent fellow who insults the queen, as they say--so much the worse for her--and who is going in three months to make war upon us, in order that he may retain his pensions; is that the master whom you propose to me? I thank you, D’Artagnan.”

“You are more impetuous than you were,” returned D’Artagnan. “Age has warmed, not chilled your blood. Who informed you this was the master I propose to you? Devil take it,” he muttered to himself, “don’t let me betray my secrets to a man not inclined to entertain them.”

“Well, then,” said Athos, “what are your schemes? what do you propose?”

“Zounds! nothing more than natural. You live on your estate, happy in golden mediocrity. Porthos has, perhaps, sixty thousand francs income. Aramis has always fifty duchesses quarreling over the priest, as they quarreled formerly over the musketeer; but I--what have I in the world? I have worn my cuirass these twenty years, kept down in this inferior rank, without going forward or backward, hardly half living. In fact, I am dead. Well! when there is some idea of being resuscitated, you say he’s a scoundrel, an impudent fellow, a miser, a bad master! By Jove! I am of your opinion, but find me a better one or give me the means of living.”

Athos was for a few moments thoughtful.

“Good! D’Artagnan is for Mazarin,” he said to himself.

From that moment he grew very guarded.

On his side D’Artagnan became more cautious also.

“You spoke to me,” Athos resumed, “of Porthos; have you persuaded him to seek his fortune? But he has wealth, I believe, already.”

“Doubtless he has. But such is man, we always want something more than we already have.”

“What does Porthos wish for?”

“To be a baron.”

“Ah, true! I forgot,” said Athos, laughing.

“‘Tis true!” thought the Gascon, “where has he heard it? Does he correspond with Aramis? Ah! if I knew that he did I should know all.”

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Raoul.

“Is our little neighbor worse?” asked D’Artagnan, seeing a look of vexation on the face of the youth.

“Ah, sir!” replied Raoul, “her fall is a very serious one, and without any ostensible injury, the physician fears she will be lame for life.”

“This is terrible,” said Athos.

“And what makes me all the more wretched, sir, is, that I was the cause of this misfortune.”

“How so?” asked Athos.

“It was to run to meet me that she leaped from that pile of wood.”

“There’s only one remedy, dear Raoul--that is, to marry her as a compensation " remarked D’Artagnan.

“Ah, sir!” answered Raoul, “you joke about a real misfortune; that is cruel, indeed.”

The good understanding between the two friends was not in the least altered by the morning’s skirmish. They breakfasted with a good appetite, looking now and then at poor Raoul, who with moist eyes and a full heart, scarcely ate at all.

After breakfast two letters arrived for Athos, who read them with profound attention, whilst D’Artagnan could not restrain himself from jumping up several times on seeing him read these epistles, in one of which, there being at the time a very strong light, he perceived the fine writing of Aramis. The other was in a feminine hand, long, and crossed.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan to Raoul, seeing that Athos wished to be alone, “come, let us take a turn in the fencing gallery; that will amuse you.”

And they both went into a low room where there were foils, gloves, masks, breastplates, and all the accessories for a fencing match.

In a quarter of an hour Athos joined them and at the same moment Charles brought in a letter for D’Artagnan, which a messenger had just desired might be instantly delivered.

It was now Athos’s turn to take a sly look.

D’Artagnan read the letter with apparent calmness and said, shaking his head:

“See, dear friend, what it is to belong to the army. Faith, you are indeed right not to return to it. Monsieur de Treville is ill, so my company can’t do without me; there! my leave is at an end!”

“Do you return to Paris?” asked Athos, quickly.

“Egad! yes; but why don’t you come there also?”

Athos colored a little and answered:

“Should I go, I shall be delighted to see you there.”

“Halloo, Planchet!” cried the Gascon from the door, “we must set out in ten minutes; give the horses some hay.

Then turning to Athos he added:

“I seem to miss something here. I am really sorry to go away without having seen Grimaud.”

“Grimaud!” replied Athos. “I’m surprised you have never so much as asked after him. I have lent him to a friend----”

“Who will understand the signs he makes?” returned D’Artagnan.

“I hope so.”

The friends embraced cordially; D’Artagnan pressed Raoul’s hand.

“Will you not come with me?” he said; “I shall pass by Blois.”

Raoul turned toward Athos, who showed him by a secret sign that he did not wish him to go.

“No, monsieur,” replied the young man; “I will remain with monsieur le comte.”

“Adieu, then, to both, my good friends,” said D’Artagnan; “may God preserve you! as we used to say when we said good-bye to each other in the late cardinal’s time.”

Athos waved his hand, Raoul bowed, and D’Artagnan and Planchet set out.

The count followed them with his eyes, his hands resting on the shoulders of the youth, whose height was almost equal to his own; but as soon as they were out of sight he said:

“Raoul, we set out to-night for Paris.”

“Eh?” cried the young man, turning pale.

“You may go and offer your adieux and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy. I shall wait for you here till seven.”

The young man bent low, with an expression of sorrow and gratitude mingled, and retired in order to saddle his horse.

As to D’Artagnan, scarcely, on his side, was he out of sight when he drew from his pocket a letter, which he read over again:

“Return immediately to Paris.--J. M----.”

“The epistle is laconic,” said D’Artagnan; “and if there had not been a postscript, probably I should not have understood it; but happily there is a postscript.”

And he read that welcome postscript, which made him forget the abruptness of the letter.

“P. S.--Go to the king’s treasurer, at Blois; tell him your name and show him this letter; you will receive two hundred pistoles.”

“Assuredly,” said D’Artagnan, “I admire this piece of prose. The cardinal writes better than I thought. Come, Planchet, let us pay a visit to the king’s treasurer and then set off.”

“Toward Paris, sir?”

“Toward Paris.”

And they set out at as hard a canter as their horses could maintain.

The Duc de Beaufort.

The circumstances that had hastened the return of D’Artagnan to Paris were as follows:

One evening, when Mazarin, according to custom, went to visit the queen, in passing the guard-chamber he heard loud voices; wishing to know on what topic the soldiers were conversing, he approached with his wonted wolf-like step, pushed open the door and put his head close to the chink.

There was a dispute among the guards.

“I tell you,” one of them was saying, “that if Coysel predicted that, ’tis as good as true; I know nothing about it, but I have heard say that he’s not only an astrologer, but a magician.”

“Deuce take it, friend, if he’s one of thy friends thou wilt ruin him in saying so.”

“Why?”

“Because he may be tried for it.”

“Ah! absurd! they don’t burn sorcerers nowadays.”

“No? ’Tis not a long time since the late cardinal burnt Urban Grandier, though.”

“My friend, Urban Grandier wasn’t a sorcerer, he was a learned man. He didn’t predict the future, he knew the past--often a more dangerous thing.”

Mazarin nodded an assent, but wishing to know what this prediction was, about which they disputed, he remained in the same place.

“I don’t say,” resumed the guard, “that Coysel is not a sorcerer, but I say that if his prophecy gets wind, it’s a sure way to prevent it’s coming true.”

“How so?”

“Why, in this way: if Coysel says loud enough for the cardinal to hear him, on such or such a day such a prisoner will escape, ’tis plain that the cardinal will take measures of precaution and that the prisoner will not escape.”

“Good Lord!” said another guard, who might have been thought asleep on a bench, but who had lost not a syllable of the conversation, “do you suppose that men can escape their destiny? If it is written yonder, in Heaven, that the Duc de Beaufort is to escape, he will escape; and all the precautions of the cardinal will not prevent it.”

Mazarin started. He was an Italian and therefore superstitious. He walked straight into the midst of the guards, who on seeing him were silent.

“What were you saying?” he asked with his flattering manner; “that Monsieur de Beaufort had escaped, were you not?”

“Oh, no, my lord!” said the incredulous soldier. “He’s well guarded now; we only said he would escape.”

“Who said so?”

“Repeat your story, Saint Laurent,” replied the man, turning to the originator of the tale.

“My lord,” said the guard, “I have simply mentioned the prophecy I heard from a man named Coysel, who believes that, be he ever so closely watched and guarded, the Duke of Beaufort will escape before Whitsuntide.”

“Coysel is a madman!” returned the cardinal.

“No,” replied the soldier, tenacious in his credulity; “he has foretold many things which have come to pass; for instance, that the queen would have a son; that Monsieur Coligny would be killed in a duel with the Duc de Guise; and finally, that the coadjutor would be made cardinal. Well! the queen has not only one son, but two; then, Monsieur de Coligny was killed, and----”

“Yes,” said Mazarin, “but the coadjutor is not yet made cardinal!”

“No, my lord, but he will be,” answered the guard.

Mazarin made a grimace, as if he meant to say, “But he does not wear the cardinal’s cap;” then he added:

“So, my friend, it’s your opinion that Monsieur de Beaufort will escape?”

“That’s my idea, my lord; and if your eminence were to offer to make me at this moment governor of the castle of Vincennes, I should refuse it. After Whitsuntide it would be another thing.”

There is nothing so convincing as a firm conviction. It has its own effect upon the most incredulous; and far from being incredulous, Mazarin was superstitious. He went away thoughtful and anxious and returned to his own room, where he summoned Bernouin and desired him to fetch thither in the morning the special guard he had placed over Monsieur de Beaufort and to awaken him whenever he should arrive.

The guard had, in fact, touched the cardinal in the tenderest point. During the whole five years in which the Duc de Beaufort had been in prison not a day had passed in which the cardinal had not felt a secret dread of his escape. It was not possible, as he knew well, to confine for the whole of his life the grandson of Henry IV., especially when this young prince was scarcely thirty years of age. But however and whensoever he did escape, what hatred he must cherish against him to whom he owed his long imprisonment; who had taken him, rich, brave, glorious, beloved by women, feared by men, to cut off his life’s best, happiest years; for it is not life, it is merely existence, in prison! Meantime, Mazarin redoubled his surveillance over the duke. But like the miser in the fable, he could not sleep for thinking of his treasure. Often he awoke in the night, suddenly, dreaming that he had been robbed of Monsieur de Beaufort. Then he inquired about him and had the vexation of hearing that the prisoner played, drank, sang, but that whilst playing, drinking, singing, he often stopped short to vow that Mazarin should pay dear for all the amusements he had forced him to enter into at Vincennes.

So much did this one idea haunt the cardinal even in his sleep, that when at seven in the morning Bernouin came to arouse him, his first words were: “Well, what’s the matter? Has Monsieur de Beaufort escaped from Vincennes?”

“I do not think so, my lord,” said Bernouin; “but you will hear about him, for La Ramee is here and awaits the commands of your eminence.”

“Tell him to come in,” said Mazarin, arranging his pillows, so that he might receive the visitor sitting up in bed.

The officer entered, a large fat man, with an open physiognomy. His air of perfect serenity made Mazarin uneasy.

“Approach, sir,” said the cardinal.

The officer obeyed.

“Do you know what they are saying here?”

“No, your eminence.”

“Well, they say that Monsieur de Beaufort is going to escape from Vincennes, if he has not done so already.”

The officer’s face expressed complete stupefaction. He opened at once his little eyes and his great mouth, to inhale better the joke his eminence deigned to address to him, and ended by a burst of laughter, so violent that his great limbs shook in hilarity as they would have done in an ague.

“Escape! my lord--escape! Your eminence does not then know where Monsieur de Beaufort is?”

“Yes, I do, sir; in the donjon of Vincennes.”

“Yes, sir; in a room, the walls of which are seven feet thick, with grated windows, each bar as thick as my arm.”

“Sir,” replied Mazarin, “with perseverance one may penetrate through a wall; with a watch-spring one may saw through an iron bar.”

“Then my lord does not know that there are eight guards about him, four in his chamber, four in the antechamber, and that they never leave him.”

“But he leaves his room, he plays at tennis at the Mall?”

“Sir, those amusements are allowed; but if your eminence wishes it, we will discontinue the permission.”

“No, no!” cried Mazarin, fearing that should his prisoner ever leave his prison he would be the more exasperated against him if he thus retrenched his amusement. He then asked with whom he played.

“My lord, either with the officers of the guard, with the other prisoners, or with me.”

“But does he not approach the walls while playing?”

“Your eminence doesn’t know those walls; they are sixty feet high and I doubt if Monsieur de Beaufort is sufficiently weary of life to risk his neck by jumping off.”

“Hum!” said the cardinal, beginning to feel more comfortable. “You mean to say, then, my dear Monsieur la Ramee----”

“That unless Monsieur de Beaufort can contrive to metamorphose himself into a little bird, I will continue answerable for him.”

“Take care! you assert a great deal,” said Mazarin. “Monsieur de Beaufort told the guards who took him to Vincennes that he had often thought what he should do in case he were put into prison, and that he had found out forty ways of escaping.”

“My lord, if among these forty there had been one good way he would have been out long ago.”

“Come, come; not such a fool as I fancied!” thought Mazarin.

“Besides, my lord must remember that Monsieur de Chavigny is governor of Vincennes,” continued La Ramee, “and that Monsieur de Chavigny is not friendly to Monsieur de Beaufort.”

“Yes, but Monsieur de Chavigny is sometimes absent.”

“When he is absent I am there.”

“But when you leave him, for instance?”

“Oh! when I leave him, I place in my stead a bold fellow who aspires to be his majesty’s special guard. I promise you he keeps a good watch over the prisoner. During the three weeks that he has been with me, I have only had to reproach him with one thing--being too severe with the prisoners.”

“And who is this Cerberus?”

“A certain Monsieur Grimaud, my lord.”

“And what was he before he went to Vincennes?”

“He was in the country, as I was told by the person who recommended him to me.”

“And who recommended this man to you?”

“The steward of the Duc de Grammont.”

“He is not a gossip, I hope?”

“Lord a mercy, my lord! I thought for a long time that he was dumb; he answers only by signs. It seems his former master accustomed him to that.”

“Well, dear Monsieur la Ramee,” replied the cardinal “let him prove a true and thankful keeper and we will shut our eyes upon his rural misdeeds and put on his back a uniform to make him respectable, and in the pockets of that uniform some pistoles to drink to the king’s health.”

Mazarin was large in promises,--quite unlike the virtuous Monsieur Grimaud so bepraised by La Ramee; for he said nothing and did much.

It was now nine o’clock. The cardinal, therefore, got up, perfumed himself, dressed, and went to the queen to tell her what had detained him. The queen, who was scarcely less afraid of Monsieur de Beaufort than the cardinal himself, and who was almost as superstitious as he was, made him repeat word for word all La Ramee’s praises of his deputy. Then, when the cardinal had ended:

“Alas, sir! why have we not a Grimaud near every prince?”

“Patience!” replied Mazarin, with his Italian smile; “that may happen one day; but in the meantime----”

“Well, in the meantime?”

“I shall still take precautions.”

And he wrote to D’Artagnan to hasten his return.

Describes how the Duc de Beaufort amused his Leisure Hours in the Donjon of Vincennes.

The captive who was the source of so much alarm to the cardinal and whose means of escape disturbed the repose of the whole court, was wholly unconscious of the terror he caused at the Palais Royal.

He had found himself so strictly guarded that he soon perceived the fruitlessness of any attempt at escape. His vengeance, therefore, consisted in coining curses on the head of Mazarin; he even tried to make some verses on him, but soon gave up the attempt, for Monsieur de Beaufort had not only not received from Heaven the gift of versifying, he had the greatest difficulty in expressing himself in prose.

The duke was the grandson of Henry VI. and Gabrielle d’Estrees--as good-natured, as brave, as proud, and above all, as Gascon as his ancestor, but less elaborately educated. After having been for some time after the death of Louis XIII. the favorite, the confidant, the first man, in short, at the court, he had been obliged to yield his place to Mazarin and so became the second in influence and favor; and eventually, as he was stupid enough to be vexed at this change of position, the queen had had him arrested and sent to Vincennes in charge of Guitant, who made his appearance in these pages in the beginning of this history and whom we shall see again. It is understood, of course, that when we say “the queen,” Mazarin is meant.

During the five years of this seclusion, which would have improved and matured the intellect of any other man, M. de Beaufort, had he not affected to brave the cardinal, despise princes, and walk alone without adherents or disciples, would either have regained his liberty or made partisans. But these considerations never occurred to the duke and every day the cardinal received fresh accounts of him which were as unpleasant as possible to the minister.

After having failed in poetry, Monsieur de Beaufort tried drawing. He drew portraits, with a piece of coal, of the cardinal; and as his talents did not enable him to produce a very good likeness, he wrote under the picture that there might be little doubt regarding the original: “Portrait of the Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin.” Monsieur de Chavigny, the governor of Vincennes, waited upon the duke to request that he would amuse himself in some other way, or that at all events, if he drew likenesses, he would not put mottoes underneath them. The next day the prisoner’s room was full of pictures and mottoes. Monsieur de Beaufort, in common with many other prisoners, was bent upon doing things that were prohibited; and the only resource the governor had was, one day when the duke was playing at tennis, to efface all these drawings, consisting chiefly of profiles. M. de Beaufort did not venture to draw the cardinal’s fat face.

The duke thanked Monsieur de Chavigny for having, as he said, cleaned his drawing-paper for him; he then divided the walls of his room into compartments and dedicated each of these compartments to some incident in Mazarin’s life. In one was depicted the “Illustrious Coxcomb” receiving a shower of blows from Cardinal Bentivoglio, whose servant he had been; another, the “Illustrious Mazarin” acting the part of Ignatius Loyola in a tragedy of that name; a third, the “Illustrious Mazarin” stealing the portfolio of prime minister from Monsieur de Chavigny, who had expected to have it; a fourth, the “Illustrious Coxcomb Mazarin” refusing to give Laporte, the young king’s valet, clean sheets, and saving that “it was quite enough for the king of France to have clean sheets every three months.”

The governor, of course, thought proper to threaten his prisoner that if he did not give up drawing such pictures he should be obliged to deprive him of all the means of amusing himself in that manner. To this Monsieur de Beaufort replied that since every opportunity of distinguishing himself in arms was taken from him, he wished to make himself celebrated in the arts; since he could not be a Bayard, he would become a Raphael or a Michael Angelo. Nevertheless, one day when Monsieur de Beaufort was walking in the meadow his fire was put out, his charcoal all removed, taken away; and thus his means of drawing utterly destroyed.

The poor duke swore, fell into a rage, yelled, and declared that they wished to starve him to death as they had starved the Marechal Ornano and the Grand Prior of Vendome; but he refused to promise that he would not make any more drawings and remained without any fire in the room all the winter.

His next act was to purchase a dog from one of his keepers. With this animal, which he called Pistache, he was often shut up for hours alone, superintending, as every one supposed, its education. At last, when Pistache was sufficiently well trained, Monsieur de Beaufort invited the governor and officers of Vincennes to attend a representation which he was going to have in his apartment

The party assembled, the room was lighted with waxlights, and the prisoner, with a bit of plaster he had taken out of the wall of his room, had traced a long white line, representing a cord, on the floor. Pistache, on a signal from his master, placed himself on this line, raised himself on his hind paws, and holding in his front paws a wand with which clothes used to be beaten, he began to dance upon the line with as many contortions as a rope-dancer. Having been several times up and down it, he gave the wand back to his master and began without hesitation to perform the same evolutions over again.

The intelligent creature was received with loud applause.

The first part of the entertainment being concluded Pistache was desired to say what o’clock it was; he was shown Monsieur de Chavigny’s watch; it was then half-past six; the dog raised and dropped his paw six times; the seventh he let it remain upraised. Nothing could be better done; a sun-dial could not have shown the hour with greater precision.

Then the question was put to him who was the best jailer in all the prisons in France.

The dog performed three evolutions around the circle and laid himself, with the deepest respect, at the feet of Monsieur de Chavigny, who at first seemed inclined to like the joke and laughed long and loud, but a frown succeeded, and he bit his lips with vexation.

Then the duke put to Pistache this difficult question, who was the greatest thief in the world?

Pistache went again around the circle, but stopped at no one, and at last went to the door and began to scratch and bark.

“See, gentlemen,” said M. de Beaufort, “this wonderful animal, not finding here what I ask for, seeks it out of doors; you shall, however, have his answer. Pistache, my friend, come here. Is not the greatest thief in the world, Monsieur (the king’s secretary) Le Camus, who came to Paris with twenty francs in his pocket and who now possesses ten millions?”

The dog shook his head.

“Then is it not,” resumed the duke, “the Superintendent Emery, who gave his son, when he was married, three hundred thousand francs and a house, compared to which the Tuileries are a heap of ruins and the Louvre a paltry building?”

The dog again shook his head as if to say “no.”

“Then,” said the prisoner, “let’s think who it can be. Can it be, can it possibly be, the ‘Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin de Piscina,’ hey?”

Pistache made violent signs that it was, by raising and lowering his head eight or ten times successively.

“Gentlemen, you see,” said the duke to those present, who dared not even smile, “that it is the ‘Illustrious Coxcomb’ who is the greatest thief in the world; at least, according to Pistache.”

“Let us go on to another of his exercises.”

“Gentlemen!”--there was a profound silence in the room when the duke again addressed them--”do you not remember that the Duc de Guise taught all the dogs in Paris to jump for Mademoiselle de Pons, whom he styled ‘the fairest of the fair?’ Pistache is going to show you how superior he is to all other dogs. Monsieur de Chavigny, be so good as to lend me your cane.”

Monsieur de Chavigny handed his cane to Monsieur de Beaufort. Monsieur de Beaufort placed it horizontally at the height of one foot.

“Now, Pistache, my good dog, jump the height of this cane for Madame de Montbazon.”

“But,” interposed Monsieur de Chavigny, “it seems to me that Pistache is only doing what other dogs have done when they jumped for Mademoiselle de Pons.”

“Stop,” said the duke, “Pistache, jump for the queen.” And he raised his cane six inches higher.

The dog sprang, and in spite of the height jumped lightly over it.

“And now,” said the duke, raising it still six inches higher, “jump for the king.”

The dog obeyed and jumped quickly over the cane.

“Now, then,” said the duke, and as he spoke, lowered the cane almost level with the ground; “Pistache, my friend, jump for the ‘Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin de Piscina.’”

The dog turned his back to the cane.

“What,” asked the duke, “what do you mean?” and he gave him the cane again, first making a semicircle from the head to the tail of Pistache. “Jump then, Monsieur Pistache.”

But Pistache, as at first, turned round on his legs and stood with his back to the cane.

Monsieur de Beaufort made the experiment a third time, but by this time Pistache’s patience was exhausted; he threw himself furiously upon the cane, wrested it from the hands of the prince and broke it with his teeth.

Monsieur de Beaufort took the pieces out of his mouth and presented them with great formality to Monsieur de Chavigny, saying that for that evening the entertainment was ended, but in three months it should be repeated, when Pistache would have learned a few new tricks.

Three days afterward Pistache was found dead--poisoned.

Then the duke said openly that his dog had been killed by a drug with which they meant to poison him; and one day after dinner he went to bed, calling out that he had pains in his stomach and that Mazarin had poisoned him.

This fresh impertinence reached the ears of the cardinal and alarmed him greatly. The donjon of Vincennes was considered very unhealthy and Madame de Rambouillet had said that the room in which the Marechal Ornano and the Grand Prior de Vendome had died was worth its weight in arsenic--a bon mot which had great success. So it was ordered the prisoner was henceforth to eat nothing that had not previously been tasted, and La Ramee was in consequence placed near him as taster.

Every kind of revenge was practiced upon the duke by the governor in return for the insults of the innocent Pistache. De Chavigny, who, according to report, was a son of Richelieu’s, and had been a creature of the late cardinal’s, understood tyranny. He took from the duke all the steel knives and silver forks and replaced them with silver knives and wooden forks, pretending that as he had been informed that the duke was to pass all his life at Vincennes, he was afraid of his prisoner attempting suicide. A fortnight afterward the duke, going to the tennis court, found two rows of trees about the size of his little finger planted by the roadside; he asked what they were for and was told that they were to shade him from the sun on some future day. One morning the gardener went to him and told him, as if to please him, that he was going to plant a bed of asparagus for his especial use. Now, since, as every one knows, asparagus takes four years in coming to perfection, this civility infuriated Monsieur de Beaufort.

At last his patience was exhausted. He assembled his keepers, and notwithstanding his well-known difficulty of utterance, addressed them as follows:

“Gentlemen! will you permit a grandson of Henry IV. to be overwhelmed with insults and ignominy?

“Odds fish! as my grandfather used to say, I once reigned in Paris! do you know that? I had the king and Monsieur the whole of one day in my care. The queen at that time liked me and called me the most honest man in the kingdom. Gentlemen and citizens, set me free; I shall go to the Louvre and strangle Mazarin. You shall be my body-guard. I will make you all captains, with good pensions! Odds fish! On! march forward!”

But eloquent as he might be, the eloquence of the grandson of Henry IV. did not touch those hearts of stone; not one man stirred, so Monsieur de Beaufort was obliged to be satisfied with calling them all kinds of rascals underneath the sun.

Sometimes, when Monsieur de Chavigny paid him a visit, the duke used to ask him what he should think if he saw an army of Parisians, all fully armed, appear at Vincennes to deliver him from prison.

“My lord,” answered De Chavigny, with a low bow, “I have on the ramparts twenty pieces of artillery and in my casemates thirty thousand guns. I should bombard the troops till not one grain of gunpowder was unexploded.”

“Yes, but after you had fired off your thirty thousand guns they would take the donjon; the donjon being taken, I should be obliged to let them hang you--at which I should be most unhappy, certainly.”

And in his turn the duke bowed low to Monsieur de Chavigny.

“For myself, on the other hand, my lord,” returned the governor, “when the first rebel should pass the threshold of my postern doors I should be obliged to kill you with my own hand, since you were confided peculiarly to my care and as I am obliged to give you up, dead or alive.”

And once more he bowed low before his highness.

These bitter-sweet pleasantries lasted ten minutes, sometimes longer, but always finished thus:

Monsieur de Chavigny, turning toward the door, used to call out: “Halloo! La Ramee!”

La Ramee came into the room.

“La Ramee, I recommend Monsieur le Duc to you, particularly; treat him as a man of his rank and family ought to be treated; that is, never leave him alone an instant.”

La Ramee became, therefore, the duke’s dinner guest by compulsion--an eternal keeper, the shadow of his person; but La Ramee--gay, frank, convivial, fond of play, a great hand at tennis, had one defect in the duke’s eyes--his incorruptibility.

Now, although La Ramee appreciated, as of a certain value, the honor of being shut up with a prisoner of so great importance, still the pleasure of living in intimacy with the grandson of Henry IV. hardly compensated for the loss of that which he had experienced in going from time to time to visit his family.

One may be a jailer or a keeper and at the same time a good father and husband. La Ramee adored his wife and children, whom now he could only catch a glimpse of from the top of the wall, when in order to please him they used to walk on the opposite side of the moat. ’Twas too brief an enjoyment, and La Ramee felt that the gayety of heart he had regarded as the cause of health (of which it was perhaps rather the result) would not long survive such a mode of life.

He accepted, therefore, with delight, an offer made to him by his friend the steward of the Duc de Grammont, to give him a substitute; he also spoke of it to Monsieur de Chavigny, who promised that he would not oppose it in any way--that is, if he approved of the person proposed.

We consider it useless to draw a physical or moral portrait of Grimaud; if, as we hope, our readers have not wholly forgotten the first part of this work, they must have preserved a clear idea of that estimable individual, who is wholly unchanged, except that he is twenty years older, an advance in life that has made him only more silent; although, since the change that had been working in himself, Athos had given Grimaud permission to speak.

But Grimaud had for twelve or fifteen years preserved habitual silence, and a habit of fifteen or twenty years’ duration becomes second nature.

Grimaud begins his Functions.

Grimaud thereupon presented himself with his smooth exterior at the donjon of Vincennes. Now Monsieur de Chavigny piqued himself on his infallible penetration; for that which almost proved that he was the son of Richelieu was his everlasting pretension; he examined attentively the countenance of the applicant for place and fancied that the contracted eyebrows, thin lips, hooked nose, and prominent cheek-bones of Grimaud were favorable signs. He addressed about twelve words to him; Grimaud answered in four.

“Here’s a promising fellow and it is I who have found out his merits,” said Monsieur de Chavigny. “Go,” he added, “and make yourself agreeable to Monsieur la Ramee, and tell him that you suit me in all respects.”

Grimaud had every quality that could attract a man on duty who wishes to have a deputy. So, after a thousand questions which met with only a word in reply, La Ramee, fascinated by this sobriety in speech, rubbed his hands and engaged Grimaud.

“My orders?” asked Grimaud.

“They are these; never to leave the prisoner alone; to keep away from him every pointed or cutting instrument, and to prevent his conversing any length of time with the keepers.”

“Those are all?” asked Grimaud.

“All now,” replied La Ramee.

“Good,” answered Grimaud; and he went right to the prisoner.

The duke was in the act of combing his beard, which he had allowed to grow, as well as his hair, in order to reproach Mazarin with his wretched appearance and condition. But having some days previously seen from the top of the donjon Madame de Montbazon pass in her carriage, and still cherishing an affection for that beautiful woman, he did not wish to be to her what he wished to be to Mazarin, and in the hope of seeing her again, had asked for a leaden comb, which was allowed him. The comb was to be a leaden one, because his beard, like that of most fair people, was rather red; he therefore dyed it thus whilst combing it.

As Grimaud entered he saw this comb on the tea-table; he took it up, and as he took it he made a low bow.

The duke looked at this strange figure with surprise. The figure put the comb in its pocket.

“Ho! hey! what’s that?” cried the duke. “Who is this creature?”

Grimaud did not answer, but bowed a second time.

“Art thou dumb?” cried the duke.

Grimaud made a sign that he was not.

“What art thou, then? Answer! I command thee!” said the duke.

“A keeper,” replied Grimaud.

“A keeper!” reiterated the duke; “there was nothing wanting in my collection, except this gallows-bird. Halloo! La Ramee! some one!”

La Ramee ran in haste to obey the call.

“Who is this wretch who takes my comb and puts it in his pocket?” asked the duke.

“One of your guards, my prince; a man of talent and merit, whom you will like, as I and Monsieur de Chavigny do, I am sure.”

“Why does he take my comb?”

“Why do you take my lord’s comb?” asked La Ramee.

Grimaud drew the comb from his pocket and passing his fingers over the largest teeth, pronounced this one word, “Pointed.”

“True,” said La Ramee.

“What does the animal say?” asked the duke.

“That the king has forbidden your lordship to have any pointed instrument.”

“Are you mad, La Ramee? You yourself gave me this comb.”

“I was very wrong, my lord, for in giving it to you I acted in opposition to my orders.”

The duke looked furiously at Grimaud.

“I perceive that this creature will be my particular aversion,” he muttered.

Grimaud, nevertheless, was resolved for certain reasons not at once to come to a full rupture with the prisoner; he wanted to inspire, not a sudden repugnance, but a good, sound, steady hatred; he retired, therefore, and gave place to four guards, who, having breakfasted, could attend on the prisoner.

A fresh practical joke now occurred to the duke. He had asked for crawfish for his breakfast on the following morning; he intended to pass the day in making a small gallows and hang one of the finest of these fish in the middle of his room--the red color evidently conveying an allusion to the cardinal--so that he might have the pleasure of hanging Mazarin in effigy without being accused of having hung anything more significant than a crawfish.

The day was employed in preparations for the execution. Every one grows childish in prison, but the character of Monsieur de Beaufort was particularly disposed to become so. In the course of his morning’s walk he collected two or three small branches from a tree and found a small piece of broken glass, a discovery that quite delighted him. When he came home he formed his handkerchief into a loop.

Nothing of all this escaped Grimaud, but La Ramee looked on with the curiosity of a father who thinks that he may perhaps get a cheap idea concerning a new toy for his children. The guards looked on it with indifference. When everything was ready, the gallows hung in the middle of the room, the loop made, and when the duke had cast a glance upon the plate of crawfish, in order to select the finest specimen among them, he looked around for his piece of glass; it had disappeared.

“Who has taken my piece of glass?” asked the duke, frowning. Grimaud made a sign to denote that he had done so.

“What! thou again! Why didst thou take it?”

“Yes--why?” asked La Ramee.

Grimaud, who held the piece of glass in his hand, said: “Sharp.”

“True, my lord!” exclaimed La Ramee. “Ah! deuce take it! we have a precious fellow here!”

“Monsieur Grimaud!” said the duke, “for your sake I beg of you, never come within the reach of my fist!”

“Hush! hush!” cried La Ramee, “give me your gibbet, my lord. I will shape it out for you with my knife.”

And he took the gibbet and shaped it out as neatly as possible.

“That’s it,” said the duke, “now make me a little hole in the floor whilst I go and fetch the culprit.”

La Ramee knelt down and made a hole in the floor; meanwhile the duke hung the crawfish up by a thread. Then he placed the gibbet in the middle of the room, bursting with laughter.

La Ramee laughed also and the guards laughed in chorus; Grimaud, however, did not even smile. He approached La Ramee and showing him the crawfish hung up by the thread:

“Cardinal,” he said.

“Hung by order of his Highness the Duc de Beaufort!” cried the prisoner, laughing violently, “and by Master Jacques Chrysostom La Ramee, the king’s commissioner.”

La Ramee uttered a cry of horror and rushed toward the gibbet, which he broke at once and threw the pieces out of the window. He was going to throw the crawfish out also, when Grimaud snatched it from his hands.

“Good to eat!” he said, and put it in his pocket.

This scene so enchanted the duke that at the moment he forgave Grimaud for his part in it; but on reflection he hated him more and more, being convinced he had some evil motive for his conduct.

But the story of the crab made a great noise through the interior of the donjon and even outside. Monsieur de Chavigny, who at heart detested the cardinal, took pains to tell the story to two or three friends, who put it into immediate circulation.

The prisoner happened to remark among the guards one man with a very good countenance; and he favored this man the more as Grimaud became the more and more odious to him. One morning he took this man on one side and had succeeded in speaking to him, when Grimaud entered and seeing what was going on approached the duke respectfully, but took the guard by the arm.

“Go away,” he said.

The guard obeyed.

“You are insupportable!” cried the duke; “I shall beat you.”

Grimaud bowed.

“I will break every bone in your body!” cried the duke.

Grimaud bowed, but stepped back.

“Mr. Spy,” cried the duke, more and more enraged, “I will strangle you with my own hands.”

And he extended his hands toward Grimaud, who merely thrust the guard out and shut the door behind him. At the same time he felt the duke’s arms on his shoulders like two iron claws; but instead either of calling out or defending himself, he placed his forefinger on his lips and said in a low tone:

“Hush!” smiling as he uttered the word.

A gesture, a smile and a word from Grimaud, all at once, were so unusual that his highness stopped short, astounded.

Grimaud took advantage of that instant to draw from his vest a charming little note with an aristocratic seal, and presented it to the duke without a word.

The duke, more and more bewildered, let Grimaud loose and took the note.

“From Madame de Montbazon?” he cried.

Grimaud nodded assent.

The duke tore open the note, passed his hands over his eyes, for he was dazzled and confused, and read:

“My Dear Duke,--You may entirely confide in the brave lad who will give you this note; he has consented to enter the service of your keeper and to shut himself up at Vincennes with you, in order to prepare and assist your escape, which we are contriving. The moment of your deliverance is at hand; have patience and courage and remember that in spite of time and absence all your friends continue to cherish for you the sentiments they have so long professed and truly entertained.

“Yours wholly and most affectionately

“Marie de Montbazon.

“P.S.--I sign my full name, for I should be vain if I could suppose that after five years of absence you would remember my initials.”

The poor duke became perfectly giddy. What for five years he had been wanting--a faithful servant, a friend, a helping hand--seemed to have fallen from Heaven just when he expected it the least.

“Oh, dearest Marie! she thinks of me, then, after five years of separation! Heavens! there is constancy!” Then turning to Grimaud, he said:

“And thou, my brave fellow, thou consentest thus to aid me?”

Grimaud signified his assent.

“And you have come here with that purpose?”

Grimaud repeated the sign.

“And I was ready to strangle you!” cried the duke.

Grimaud smiled.

“Wait, then,” said the duke, fumbling in his pocket. “Wait,” he continued, renewing his fruitless search; “it shall not be said that such devotion to a grandson of Henry IV. went without recompense.”

The duke’s endeavors evinced the best intention in the world, but one of the precautions taken at Vincennes was that of allowing prisoners to keep no money. Whereupon Grimaud, observing the duke’s disappointment, drew from his pocket a purse filled with gold and handed it to him.

“Here is what you are looking for,” he said.

The duke opened the purse and wanted to empty it into Grimaud’s hands, but Grimaud shook his head.

“Thank you, monseigneur,” he said, drawing back; “I am paid.”

The duke went from one surprise to another. He held out his hand. Grimaud drew near and kissed it respectfully. The grand manner of Athos had left its mark on Grimaud.

“What shall we do? and when? and how proceed?”

“It is now eleven,” answered Grimaud. “Let my lord at two o’clock ask leave to make up a game at tennis with La Ramee and let him send two or three balls over the ramparts.”

“And then?”

“Your highness will approach the walls and call out to a man who works in the moat to send them back again.”

“I understand,” said the duke.

Grimaud made a sign that he was going away.

“Ah!” cried the duke, “will you not accept any money from me?”

“I wish my lord would make me one promise.”

“What! speak!”

“‘Tis this: when we escape together, that I shall go everywhere and be always first; for if my lord should be overtaken and caught, there’s every chance of his being brought back to prison, whereas if I am caught the least that can befall me is to be--hung.”

“True, on my honor as a gentleman it shall be as thou dost suggest.”

“Now,” resumed Grimaud, “I’ve only one thing more to ask--that your highness will continue to detest me.”

“I’ll try,” said the duke.

At this moment La Ramee, after the interview we have described with the cardinal, entered the room. The duke had thrown himself, as he was wont to do in moments of dullness and vexation, on his bed. La Ramee cast an inquiring look around him and observing the same signs of antipathy between the prisoner and his guardian he smiled in token of his inward satisfaction. Then turning to Grimaud:

“Very good, my friend, very good. You have been spoken of in a promising quarter and you will soon, I hope, have news that will be agreeable to you.”

Grimaud saluted in his politest manner and withdrew, as was his custom on the entrance of his superior.

“Well, my lord,” said La Ramee, with his rude laugh, “you still set yourself against this poor fellow?”

“So! ’tis you, La Ramee; in faith, ’tis time you came back again. I threw myself on the bed and turned my nose to the wall, that I mightn’t break my promise and strangle Grimaud.”

“I doubt, however,” said La Ramee, in sprightly allusion to the silence of his subordinate, “if he has said anything disagreeable to your highness.”

“Pardieu! you are right--a mute from the East! I swear it was time for you to come back, La Ramee, and I was eager to see you again.”

“Monseigneur is too good,” said La Ramee, flattered by the compliment.

“Yes,” continued the duke, “really, I feel bored today beyond the power of description.”

“Then let us have a match in the tennis court,” exclaimed La Ramee.

“If you wish it.”

“I am at your service, my lord.”

“I protest, my dear La Ramee,” said the duke, “that you are a charming fellow and that I would stay forever at Vincennes to have the pleasure of your society.”

“My lord,” replied La Ramee, “I think if it depended on the cardinal your wishes would be fulfilled.”

“What do you mean? Have you seen him lately?”

“He sent for me to-day.”

“Really! to speak to you about me?”

“Of what else do you imagine he would speak to me? Really, my lord, you are his nightmare.”

The duke smiled with bitterness.

“Ah, La Ramee! if you would but accept my offers! I would make your fortune.”

“How? you would no sooner have left prison than your goods would be confiscated.”

“I shall no sooner be out of prison than I shall be master of Paris.”

“Pshaw! pshaw! I cannot hear such things said as that; this is a fine conversation with an officer of the king! I see, my lord, I shall be obliged to fetch a second Grimaud!”

“Very well, let us say no more about it. So you and the cardinal have been talking about me? La Ramee, some day when he sends for you, you must let me put on your clothes; I will go in your stead; I will strangle him, and upon my honor, if that is made a condition I will return to prison.”

“Monseigneur, I see well that I must call Grimaud.”

“Well, I am wrong. And what did the cuistre [pettifogger] say about me?”

“I admit the word, monseigneur, because it rhymes with ministre [minister]. What did he say to me? He told me to watch you.”

“And why so? why watch me?” asked the duke uneasily.

“Because an astrologer had predicted that you would escape.”

“Ah! an astrologer predicted that?” said the duke, starting in spite of himself.

“Oh, mon Dieu! yes! those imbeciles of magicians can only imagine things to torment honest people.”

“And what did you reply to his most illustrious eminence?”

“That if the astrologer in question made almanacs I would advise him not to buy one.”

“Why not?”

“Because before you could escape you would have to be turned into a bird.”

“Unfortunately, that is true. Let us go and have a game at tennis, La Ramee.”

“My lord--I beg your highness’s pardon--but I must beg for half an hour’s leave of absence.”

“Why?”

“Because Monseigneur Mazarin is a prouder man than his highness, though not of such high birth: he forgot to ask me to breakfast.”

“Well, shall I send for some breakfast here?”

“No, my lord; I must tell you that the confectioner who lived opposite the castle--Daddy Marteau, as they called him----”

“Well?”

“Well, he sold his business a week ago to a confectioner from Paris, an invalid, ordered country air for his health.”

“Well, what have I to do with that?”

“Why, good Lord! this man, your highness, when he saw me stop before his shop, where he has a display of things which would make your mouth water, my lord, asked me to get him the custom of the prisoners in the donjon. ‘I bought,’ said he, ‘the business of my predecessor on the strength of his assurance that he supplied the castle; whereas, on my honor, Monsieur de Chavigny, though I’ve been here a week, has not ordered so much as a tartlet.’ ‘But,’ I then replied, ‘probably Monsieur de Chavigny is afraid your pastry is not good.’ ‘My pastry not good! Well, Monsieur La Ramee, you shall judge of it yourself and at once.’ ‘I cannot,’ I replied; ‘it is absolutely necessary for me to return to the chateau.’ ‘Very well,’ said he, ‘go and attend to your affairs, since you seem to be in a hurry, but come back in half an hour.’ ‘In half an hour?’ ‘Yes, have you breakfasted?’ ‘Faith, no.’ ‘Well, here is a pate that will be ready for you, with a bottle of old Burgundy.’ So, you see, my lord, since I am hungry, I would, with your highness’s leave----” And La Ramee bent low.

“Go, then, animal,” said the duke; “but remember, I only allow you half an hour.”

“May I promise your custom to the successor of Father Marteau, my lord?”

“Yes, if he does not put mushrooms in his pies; thou knowest that mushrooms from the wood of Vincennes are fatal to my family.”

La Ramee went out, but in five minutes one of the officers of the guard entered in compliance with the strict orders of the cardinal that the prisoner should never be left alone a moment.

But during these five minutes the duke had had time to read again the note from Madame de Montbazon, which proved to the prisoner that his friends were concerting plans for his deliverance, but in what way he knew not.

But his confidence in Grimaud, whose petty persecutions he now perceived were only a blind, increased, and he conceived the highest opinion of his intellect and resolved to trust entirely to his guidance.

In which the Contents of the Pates made by the Successor of Father Marteau are described.

In half an hour La Ramee returned, full of glee, like most men who have eaten, and more especially drank to their heart’s content. The pates were excellent, the wine delicious.

The weather was fine and the game at tennis took place in the open air.

At two o’clock the tennis balls began, according to Grimaud’s directions, to take the direction of the moat, much to the joy of La Ramee, who marked fifteen whenever the duke sent a ball into the moat; and very soon balls were wanting, so many had gone over. La Ramee then proposed to send some one to pick them up, but the duke remarked that it would be losing time; and going near the rampart himself and looking over, he saw a man working in one of the numerous little gardens cleared out by the peasants on the opposite side of the moat.

“Hey, friend!” cried the duke.

The man raised his head and the duke was about to utter a cry of surprise. The peasant, the gardener, was Rochefort, whom he believed to be in the Bastile.

“Well? Who’s up there?” said the man.

“Be so good as to collect and throw us back our balls,” said the duke.

The gardener nodded and began to fling up the balls, which were picked up by La Ramee and the guard. One, however, fell at the duke’s feet, and seeing that it was intended for him, he put it into his pocket.

La Ramee was in ecstasies at having beaten a prince of the blood.

The duke went indoors and retired to bed, where he spent, indeed, the greater part of every day, as they had taken his books away. La Ramee carried off all his clothes, in order to be certain that the duke would not stir. However, the duke contrived to hide the ball under his bolster and as soon as the door was closed he tore off the cover of the ball with his teeth and found underneath the following letter:

My Lord,--Your friends are watching over you and the hour of your deliverance is at hand. Ask day after to-morrow to have a pie supplied you by the new confectioner opposite the castle, and who is no other than Noirmont, your former maitre d’hotel. Do not open the pie till you are alone. I hope you will be satisfied with its contents.

“Your highness’s most devoted servant,

“In the Bastile, as elsewhere,

“Comte de Rochefort.

The duke, who had latterly been allowed a fire, burned the letter, but kept the ball, and went to bed, hiding the ball under his bolster. La Ramee entered; he smiled kindly on the prisoner, for he was an excellent man and had taken a great liking for the captive prince. He endeavored to cheer him up in his solitude.

“Ah, my friend!” cried the duke, “you are so good; if I could but do as you do, and eat pates and drink Burgundy at the house of Father Marteau’s successor.”

“‘Tis true, my lord,” answered La Ramee, “that his pates are famous and his wine magnificent.”

“In any case,” said the duke, “his cellar and kitchen might easily excel those of Monsieur de Chavigny.”

“Well, my lord,” said La Ramee, falling into the trap, “what is there to prevent your trying them? Besides, I have promised him your patronage.”

“You are right,” said the duke. “If I am to remain here permanently, as Monsieur Mazarin has kindly given me to understand, I must provide myself with a diversion for my old age, I must turn gourmand.”

“My lord,” said La Ramee, “if you will take a bit of good advice, don’t put that off till you are old.”

“Good!” said the Duc de Beaufort to himself, “every man in order that he may lose his heart and soul, must receive from celestial bounty one of the seven capital sins, perhaps two; it seems that Master La Ramee’s is gluttony. Let us then take advantage of it.” Then, aloud:

“Well, my dear La Ramee! the day after to-morrow is a holiday.”

“Yes, my lord--Pentecost.”

“Will you give me a lesson the day after to-morrow?”

“In what?”

“In gastronomy?”

“Willingly, my lord.”

“But tete-a-tete. Send the guards to take their meal in the canteen of Monsieur de Chavigny; we’ll have a supper here under your direction.”

“Hum!” said La Ramee.

The proposal was seductive, but La Ramee was an old stager, acquainted with all the traps a prisoner was likely to set. Monsieur de Beaufort had said that he had forty ways of getting out of prison. Did this proposed breakfast cover some stratagem? He reflected, but he remembered that he himself would have charge of the food and the wine and therefore that no powder could be mixed with the food, no drug with the wine. As to getting him drunk, the duke couldn’t hope to do that, and he laughed at the mere thought of it. Then an idea came to him which harmonized everything.

The duke had followed with anxiety La Ramee’s unspoken soliloquy, reading it from point to point upon his face. But presently the exempt’s face suddenly brightened.

“Well,” he asked, “that will do, will it not?”

“Yes, my lord, on one condition.”

“What?”

“That Grimaud shall wait on us at table.”

Nothing could be more agreeable to the duke, however, he had presence of mind enough to exclaim:

“To the devil with your Grimaud! He will spoil the feast.”

“I will direct him to stand behind your chair, and since he doesn’t speak, your highness will neither see nor hear him and with a little effort can imagine him a hundred miles away.”

“Do you know, my friend, I find one thing very evident in all this, you distrust me.”

“My lord, the day after to-morrow is Pentecost.”

“Well, what is Pentecost to me? Are you afraid that the Holy Spirit will come as a tongue of fire to open the doors of my prison?”

“No, my lord; but I have already told you what that damned magician predicted.”

“And what was it?”

“That the day of Pentecost would not pass without your highness being out of Vincennes.”

“You believe in sorcerers, then, you fool?”

“I---I mind them no more than that----” and he snapped his fingers; “but it is my Lord Giulio who cares about them; as an Italian he is superstitious.”

The duke shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, then,” with well acted good-humor, “I allow Grimaud, but no one else; you must manage it all. Order whatever you like for supper--the only thing I specify is one of those pies; and tell the confectioner that I will promise him my custom if he excels this time in his pies--not only now, but when I leave my prison.”

“Then you think you will some day leave it?” said La Ramee.

“The devil!” replied the prince; “surely, at the death of Mazarin. I am fifteen years younger than he is. At Vincennes, ’tis true, one lives faster----”

“My lord,” replied La Ramee, “my lord----”

“Or dies sooner, for it comes to the same thing.”

La Ramee was going out. He stopped, however, at the door for an instant.

“Whom does your highness wish me to send to you?”

“Any one, except Grimaud.”

“The officer of the guard, then, with his chessboard?”

“Yes.”

Five minutes afterward the officer entered and the duke seemed to be immersed in the sublime combinations of chess.

A strange thing is the mind, and it is wonderful what revolutions may be wrought in it by a sign, a word, a hope. The duke had been five years in prison, and now to him, looking back upon them, those five years, which had passed so slowly, seemed not so long a time as were the two days, the forty-eight hours, which still parted him from the time fixed for his escape. Besides, there was one thing that engaged his most anxious thought--in what way was the escape to be effected? They had told him to hope for it, but had not told him what was to be hidden in the mysterious pate. And what friends awaited him without? He had friends, then, after five years in prison? If that were so he was indeed a highly favored prince. He forgot that besides his friends of his own sex, a woman, strange to say, had remembered him. It is true that she had not, perhaps, been scupulously faithful to him, but she had remembered him; that was something.

So the duke had more than enough to think about; accordingly he fared at chess as he had fared at tennis; he made blunder upon blunder and the officer with whom he played found him easy game.

But his successive defeats did service to the duke in one way--they killed time for him till eight o’clock in the evening; then would come night, and with night, sleep. So, at least, the duke believed; but sleep is a capricious fairy, and it is precisely when one invokes her presence that she is most likely to keep him waiting. The duke waited until midnight, turning on his mattress like St. Laurence on his gridiron. Finally he slept.

But at daybreak he awoke. Wild dreams had disturbed his repose. He dreamed that he was endowed with wings--he wished to fly away. For a time these wings supported him, but when he reached a certain height this new aid failed him. His wings were broken and he seemed to sink into a bottomless abyss, whence he awoke, bathed in perspiration and nearly as much overcome as if he had really fallen. He fell asleep again and another vision appeared. He was in a subterranean passage by which he was to leave Vincennes. Grimaud was walking before him with a lantern. By degrees the passage narrowed, yet the duke continued his course. At last it became so narrow that the fugitive tried in vain to proceed. The sides of the walls seem to close in, even to press against him. He made fruitless efforts to go on; it was impossible. Nevertheless, he still saw Grimaud with his lantern in front, advancing. He wished to call out to him but could not utter a word. Then at the other extremity he heard the footsteps of those who were pursuing him. These steps came on, came fast. He was discovered; all hope of flight was gone. Still the walls seemed to be closing on him; they appeared to be in concert with his enemies. At last he heard the voice of La Ramee. La Ramee took his hand and laughed aloud. He was captured again, and conducted to the low and vaulted chamber, in which Ornano, Puylaurens, and his uncle had died. Their three graves were there, rising above the ground, and a fourth was also there, yawning for its ghastly tenant.

The duke was obliged to make as many efforts to awake as he had done to go to sleep; and La Ramee found him so pale and fatigued that he inquired whether he was ill.

“In fact,” said one of the guards who had remained in the chamber and had been kept awake by a toothache, brought on by the dampness of the atmosphere, “my lord has had a very restless night and two or three times, while dreaming, he called for help.”

“What is the matter with your highness?” asked La Ramee.

“‘Tis your fault, you simpleton,” answered the duke. “With your idle nonsense yesterday about escaping, you worried me so that I dreamed that I was trying to escape and broke my neck in doing so.”

La Ramee laughed.

“Come,” he said, “‘tis a warning from Heaven. Never commit such an imprudence as to try to escape, except in your dreams.”

“And you are right, my dear La Ramee,” said the duke, wiping away the sweat that stood on his brow, wide awake though he was; “after this I will think of nothing but eating and drinking.”

“Hush!” said La Ramee; and one by one he sent away the guards, on various pretexts.

“Well?” asked the duke when they were alone.

“Well!” replied La Ramee, “your supper is ordered.”

“Ah! and what is it to be? Monsieur, my majordomo, will there be a pie?”

“I should think so, indeed--almost as high as a tower.”

“You told him it was for me?”

“Yes, and he said he would do his best to please your highness.”

“Good!” exclaimed the duke, rubbing his hands.

“Devil take it, my lord! what a gourmand you are growing; I haven’t seen you with so cheerful a face these five years.”

The duke saw that he had not controlled himself as he ought, but at that moment, as if he had listened at the door and comprehended the urgent need of diverting La Ramee’s ideas, Grimaud entered and made a sign to La Ramee that he had something to say to him.

La Ramee drew near to Grimaud, who spoke to him in a low voice.

The duke meanwhile recovered his self-control.

“I have already forbidden that man,” he said, “to come in here without my permission.”

“You must pardon him, my lord,” said La Ramee, “for I directed him to come.”

“And why did you so direct when you know that he displeases me?”

“My lord will remember that it was agreed between us that he should wait upon us at that famous supper. My lord has forgotten the supper.”

“No, but I have forgotten Monsieur Grimaud.”

“My lord understands that there can be no supper unless he is allowed to be present.”

“Go on, then; have it your own way.”

“Come here, my lad,” said La Ramee, “and hear what I have to say.”

Grimaud approached, with a very sullen expression on his face.

La Ramee continued: “My lord has done me the honor to invite me to a supper to-morrow en tete-a-tete.”

Grimaud made a sign which meant that he didn’t see what that had to do with him.

“Yes, yes,” said La Ramee, “the matter concerns you, for you will have the honor to serve us; and besides, however good an appetite we may have and however great our thirst, there will be something left on the plates and in the bottles, and that something will be yours.”

Grimaud bowed in thanks.

“And now,” said La Ramee, “I must ask your highness’s pardon, but it seems that Monsieur de Chavigny is to be away for a few days and he has sent me word that he has certain directions to give me before his departure.”

The duke tried to exchange a glance with Grimaud, but there was no glance in Grimaud’s eyes.

“Go, then,” said the duke, “and return as soon as possible.”

“Does your highness wish to take revenge for the game of tennis yesterday?”

Grimaud intimated by a scarcely perceptible nod that he should consent.

“Yes,” said the duke, “but take care, my dear La Ramee, for I propose to beat you badly.”

La Ramee went out. Grimaud looked after him, and when the door was closed he drew out of his pocket a pencil and a sheet of paper.

“Write, my lord,” he said.

“And what?”

Grimaud dictated.

“All is ready for to-morrow evening. Keep watch from seven to nine. Have two riding horses ready. We shall descend by the first window in the gallery.”

“What next?”

“Sign your name, my lord.”

The duke signed.

“Now, my lord, give me, if you have not lost it, the ball--that which contained the letter.”

The duke took it from under his pillow and gave it to Grimaud. Grimaud gave a grim smile.

“Well?” asked the duke.

“Well, my lord, I sew up the paper in the ball and you, in your game of tennis, will send the ball into the ditch.”

“But will it not be lost?”

“Oh no; there will be some one at hand to pick it up.”

“A gardener?”

Grimaud nodded.

“The same as yesterday?”

Another nod on the part of Grimaud.

“The Count de Rochefort?”

Grimaud nodded the third time.

“Come, now,” said the duke, “give some particulars of the plan for our escape.”

“That is forbidden me,” said Grimaud, “until the last moment.”

“Who will be waiting for me beyond the ditch?”

“I know nothing about it, my lord.”

“But at least, if you don’t want to see me turn crazy, tell what that famous pate will contain.”

“Two poniards, a knotted rope and a poire d’angoisse.”1

“Yes, I understand.”

“My lord observes that there will be enough to go around.”

“We shall take to ourselves the poniards and the rope,” replied the duke.

“And make La Ramee eat the pear,” answered Grimaud.

“My dear Grimaud, thou speakest seldom, but when thou dost, one must do thee justice--thy words are words of gold.”

  1. This poire d’angoisse was a famous gag, in the form of a pear, which, being thrust into the mouth, by the aid of a spring, dilated, so as to distend the jaws to their greatest width.

One of Marie Michon’s Adventures.

Whilst these projects were being formed by the Duc de Beaufort and Grimaud, the Comte de la Fere and the Vicomte de Bragelonne were entering Paris by the Rue du Faubourg Saint Marcel.

They stopped at the sign of the Fox, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier, a tavern known for many years by Athos, and asked for two bedrooms.

“You must dress yourself, Raoul,” said Athos, “I am going to present you to some one.”

“To-day, monsieur?” asked the young man.

“In half an hour.”

The young man bowed. Perhaps, not being endowed with the endurance of Athos, who seemed to be made of iron, he would have preferred a bath in the river Seine of which he had heard so much, and afterward his bed; but the Comte de la Fere had spoken and he had no thought but to obey.

“By the way,” said Athos, “take some pains with your toilet, Raoul; I want you to be approved.”

“I hope, sir,” replied the youth, smiling, “that there’s no idea of a marriage for me; you know of my engagement to Louise?”

Athos, in his turn, smiled also.

“No, don’t be alarmed, although it is to a lady that I am going to present you, and I am anxious that you should love her----”

The young man looked at the count with a certain uneasiness, but at a smile from Athos he was quickly reassured.

“How old is she?” inquired the Vicomte de Bragelonne.

“My dear Raoul, learn, once for all, that that is a question which is never asked. When you can find out a woman’s age by her face, it is useless to ask it; when you cannot do so, it is indiscreet.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“Sixteen years ago she was deemed not only the prettiest, but the most graceful woman in France.”

This reply reassured the vicomte. A woman who had been a reigning beauty a year before he was born could not be the subject of any scheme for him. He retired to his toilet. When he reappeared, Athos received him with the same paternal smile as that which he had often bestowed on D’Artagnan, but a more profound tenderness for Raoul was now visibly impressed upon his face.

Athos cast a glance at his feet, hands and hair--those three marks of race. The youth’s dark hair was neatly parted and hung in curls, forming a sort of dark frame around his face; such was the fashion of the day. Gloves of gray kid, matching the hat, well displayed the form of a slender and elegant hand; whilst his boots, similar in color to the hat and gloves, confined feet small as those of a boy twelve years old.

“Come,” murmured Athos, “if she is not proud of him, she must be hard to please.”

It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The two travelers proceeded to the Rue Saint Dominique and stopped at the door of a magnificent hotel, surmounted with the arms of De Luynes.

“‘Tis here,” said Athos.

He entered the hotel and ascended the front steps, and addressing a footman who waited there in a grand livery, asked if the Duchess de Chevreuse was visible and if she could receive the Comte de la Fere?

The servant returned with a message to say, that, though the duchess had not the honor of knowing Monsieur de la Fere, she would receive him.

Athos followed the footman, who led him through a long succession of apartments and paused at length before a closed door. Athos made a sign to the Vicomte de Bragelonne to remain where he was.

The footman opened the door and announced Monsieur le Comte de la Fere.

Madame de Chevreuse, whose name appears so often in our story “The Three Musketeers,” without her actually having appeared in any scene, was still a beautiful woman. Although about forty-four or forty-five years old, she might have passed for thirty-five. She still had her rich fair hair; her large, animated, intelligent eyes, so often opened by intrigue, so often closed by the blindness of love. She had still her nymph-like form, so that when her back was turned she still was not unlike the girl who had jumped, with Anne of Austria, over the moat of the Tuileries in 1563. In all other respects she was the same mad creature who threw over her amours such an air of originality as to make them proverbial for eccentricity in her family.

She was in a little boudoir, hung with blue damask, adorned by red flowers, with a foliage of gold, looking upon a garden; and reclined upon a sofa, her head supported on the rich tapestry which covered it. She held a book in her hand and her arm was supported by a cushion.

At the footman’s announcement she raised herself a little and peeped out, with some curiosity.

Athos appeared.

He was dressed in violet-tinted velvet, trimmed with silk of the same color. His shoulder-knots were of burnished silver, his mantle had no gold nor embroidery on it; a simple plume of violet feathers adorned his hat; his boots were of black leather, and at his girdle hung that sword with a magnificent hilt that Porthos had so often admired in the Rue Feron. Splendid lace adorned the falling collar of his shirt, and lace fell also over the top of his boots.

In his whole person he bore such an impress of high degree, that Madame de Chevreuse half rose from her seat when she saw him and made him a sign to sit down near her.

Athos bowed and obeyed. The footman was withdrawing, but Athos stopped him by a sign.

“Madame,” he said to the duchess, “I have had the boldness to present myself at your hotel without being known to you; it has succeeded, since you deign to receive me. I have now the boldness to ask you for an interview of half an hour.”

“I grant it, monsieur,” replied Madame de Chevreuse with her most gracious smile.

“But that is not all, madame. Oh, I am very presuming, I am aware. The interview for which I ask is of us two alone, and I very earnestly wish that it may not be interrupted.”

“I am not at home to any one,” said the Duchess de Chevreuse to the footman. “You may go.”

The footman went out

There ensued a brief silence, during which these two persons, who at first sight recognized each other so clearly as of noble race, examined each other without embarrassment on either side.

The duchess was the first to speak.

“Well, sir, I am waiting with impatience to hear what you wish to say to me.”

“And I, madame,” replied Athos, “am looking with admiration.”

“Sir,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “you must excuse me, but I long to know to whom I am talking. You belong to the court, doubtless, yet I have never seen you at court. Have you, by any chance, been in the Bastile?”

“No, madame, I have not; but very likely I am on the road to it.”

“Ah! then tell me who you are, and get along with you upon your journey,” replied the duchess, with the gayety which made her so charming, “for I am sufficiently in bad odor already, without compromising myself still more.”

“Who I am, madame? My name has been mentioned to you--the Comte de la Fere; you do not know that name. I once bore another, which you knew, but you have certainly forgotten it.”

“Tell it me, sir.”

“Formerly,” said the count, “I was Athos.”

Madame de Chevreuse looked astonished. The name was not wholly forgotten, but mixed up and confused with ancient recollections.

“Athos?” said she; “wait a moment.”

And she placed her hands on her brow, as if to force the fugitive ideas it contained to concentration in a moment.

“Shall I help you, madame?” asked Athos.

“Yes, do,” said the duchess.

“This Athos was connected with three young musketeers, named Porthos, D’Artagnan, and----”

He stopped short.

“And Aramis,” said the duchess, quickly.

“And Aramis; I see you have not forgotten the name.”

“No,” she said; “poor Aramis; a charming man, elegant, discreet, and a writer of poetical verses. I am afraid he has turned out ill,” she added.

“He has; he is an abbe.”

“Ah, what a misfortune!” exclaimed the duchess, playing carelessly with her fan. “Indeed, sir, I thank you; you have recalled one of the most agreeable recollections of my youth.”

“Will you permit me, then, to recall another to you?”

“Relating to him?”

“Yes and no.”

“Faith!” said Madame de Chevreuse, “say on. With a man like you I fear nothing.”

Athos bowed. “Aramis,” he continued, “was intimate with a young needlewoman from Tours, a cousin of his, named Marie Michon.”

“Ah, I knew her!” cried the duchess. “It was to her he wrote from the siege of Rochelle, to warn her of a plot against the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Exactly so; will you allow me to speak to you of her?”

“If,” replied the duchess, with a meaning look, “you do not say too much against her.”

“I should be ungrateful,” said Athos, “and I regard ingratitude, not as a fault or a crime, but as a vice, which is much worse.”

“You ungrateful to Marie Michon, monsieur?” said Madame de Chevreuse, trying to read in Athos’s eyes. “But how can that be? You never knew her.”

“Eh, madame, who knows?” said Athos. “There is a popular proverb to the effect that it is only mountains that never meet; and popular proverbs contain sometimes a wonderful amount of truth.”

“Oh, go on, monsieur, go on!” said Madame de Chevreuse eagerly; “you can’t imagine how much this conversation interests me.”

“You encourage me,” said Athos, “I will continue, then. That cousin of Aramis, that Marie Michon, that needlewoman, notwithstanding her low condition, had acquaintances in the highest rank; she called the grandest ladies of the court her friend, and the queen--proud as she is, in her double character as Austrian and as Spaniard--called her her sister.”

“Alas!” said Madame de Chevreuse, with a slight sigh and a little movement of her eyebrows that was peculiarly her own, “since that time everything has changed.”

“And the queen had reason for her affection, for Marie was devoted to her--devoted to that degree that she served her as medium of intercourse with her brother, the king of Spain.”

“Which,” interrupted the duchess, “is now brought up against her as a great crime.”

“And therefore,” continued Athos, “the cardinal--the true cardinal, the other one--determined one fine morning to arrest poor Marie Michon and send her to the Chateau de Loches. Fortunately the affair was not managed so secretly but that it became known to the queen. The case had been provided for: if Marie Michon should be threatened with any danger the queen was to send her a prayer-book bound in green velvet.”

“That is true, monsieur, you are well informed.”

“One morning the green book was brought to her by the Prince de Marsillac. There was no time to lose. Happily Marie and a follower of hers named Kitty could disguise themselves admirably in men’s clothes. The prince procured for Marie Michon the dress of a cavalier and for Kitty that of a lackey; he sent them two excellent horses, and the fugitives went out hastily from Tours, shaping their course toward Spain, trembling at the least noise, following unfrequented roads, and asking for hospitality when they found themselves where there was no inn.”

“Why, really, it was all exactly as you say!” cried Madame de Chevreuse, clapping her hands. “It would indeed be strange if----” she checked herself.

“If I should follow the two fugitives to the end of their journey?” said Athos. “No, madame, I will not thus waste your time. We will accompany them only to a little village in Limousin, lying between Tulle and Angouleme--a little village called Roche-l’Abeille.”

Madame de Chevreuse uttered a cry of surprise, and looked at Athos with an expression of astonishment that made the old musketeer smile.

“Wait, madame,” continued Athos, “what remains for me to tell you is even more strange than what I have narrated.”

“Monsieur,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “I believe you are a sorcerer; I am prepared for anything. But really--No matter, go on.”

“The journey of that day had been long and wearing; it was a cold day, the eleventh of October, there was no inn or chateau in the village and the homes of the peasants were poor and unattractive. Marie Michon was a very aristocratic person; like her sister the queen, she had been accustomed to pleasing perfumes and fine linen; she resolved, therefore, to seek hospitality of the priest.”

Athos paused.

“Oh, continue!” said the duchess. “I have told you that I am prepared for anything.”

“The two travelers knocked at the door. It was late; the priest, who had gone to bed, cried out to them to come in. They entered, for the door was not locked--there is much confidence among villagers. A lamp burned in the chamber occupied by the priest. Marie Michon, who made the most charming cavalier in the world, pushed open the door, put her head in and asked for hospitality. ‘Willingly, my young cavalier,’ said the priest, ‘if you will be content with the remains of my supper and with half my chamber.’

“The two travelers consulted for a moment. The priest heard a burst of laughter and then the master, or rather, the mistress, replied: ‘Thank you, monsieur le cure, I accept.’ ‘Sup, then, and make as little noise as possible,’ said the priest, ‘for I, too, have been on the go all day and shall not be sorry to sleep to-night.’”

Madame de Chevreuse evidently went from surprise to astonishment, and from astonishment to stupefaction. Her face, as she looked at Athos, had taken on an expression that cannot be described. It could be seen that she had wished to speak, but she had remained silent through fear of losing one of her companion’s words.

“What happened then?” she asked.

“Then?” said Athos. “Ah, I have come now to what is most difficult.”

“Speak, speak! One can say anything to me. Besides, it doesn’t concern me; it relates to Mademoiselle Marie Michon.”

“Ah, that is true,” said Athos. “Well, then, Marie Michon had supper with her follower, and then, in accordance with the permission given her, she entered the chamber of her host, Kitty meanwhile taking possession of an armchair in the room first entered, where they had taken their supper.”

“Really, monsieur,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “unless you are the devil in person I don’t know how you could become acquainted with all these details.”

“A charming woman was that Marie Michon,” resumed Athos, “one of those wild creatures who are constantly conceiving the strangest ideas. Now, thinking that her host was a priest, that coquette took it into her head that it would be a happy souvenir for her old age, among the many happy souvenirs she already possessed, if she could win that of having damned an abbe.”

“Count,” said the duchess, “upon my word, you frighten me.”

“Alas!” continued Athos, “the poor abbe was not a St. Ambroise, and I repeat, Marie Michon was an adorable creature.”

“Monsieur!” cried the duchess, seizing Athos’s hands, “tell me this moment how you know all these details, or I will send to the convent of the Vieux Augustins for a monk to come and exorcise you.”

Athos laughed. “Nothing is easier, madame. A cavalier, charged with an important mission, had come an hour before your arrival, seeking hospitality, at the very moment that the cure, summoned to the bedside of a dying person, left not only his house but the village, for the entire night. The priest having all confidence in his guest, who, besides, was a nobleman, had left to him his house, his supper and his chamber. And therefore Marie came seeking hospitality from the guest of the good abbe and not from the good abbe himself.”

“And that cavalier, that guest, that nobleman who arrived before she came?”

“It was I, the Comte de la Fere,” said Athos, rising and bowing respectfully to the Duchess de Chevreuse.

The duchess remained a moment stupefied; then, suddenly bursting into laughter:

“Ah! upon my word,” said she, “it is very droll, and that mad Marie Michon fared better than she expected. Sit down, dear count, and go on with your story.”

“At this point I have to accuse myself of a fault, madame. I have told you that I was traveling on an important mission. At daybreak I left the chamber without noise, leaving my charming companion asleep. In the front room the follower was also still asleep, her head leaning back on the chair, in all respects worthy of her mistress. Her pretty face arrested my attention; I approached and recognized that little Kitty whom our friend Aramis had placed with her. In that way I discovered that the charming traveler was----”

“Marie Michon!” said Madame de Chevreuse, hastily.

“Marie Michon,” continued Athos. “Then I went out of the house; I proceeded to the stable and found my horse saddled and my lackey ready. We set forth on our journey.”

“And have you never revisited that village?” eagerly asked Madame de Chevreuse.

“A year after, madame.”

“Well?”

“I wanted to see the good cure again. I found him much preoccupied with an event that he could not at all comprehend. A week before he had received, in a cradle, a beautiful little boy three months old, with a purse filled with gold and a note containing these simple words: ‘11 October, 1633.’”

“It was the date of that strange adventure,” interrupted Madame de Chevreuse.

“Yes, but he couldn’t understand what it meant, for he had spent that night with a dying person and Marie Michon had left his house before his return.”

“You must know, monsieur, that Marie Michon, when she returned to France in 1643, immediately sought for information about that child; as a fugitive she could not take care of it, but on her return she wished to have it near her.”

“And what said the abbe?” asked Athos.

“That a nobleman whom he did not know had wished to take charge of it, had answered for its future, and had taken it away.”

“That was true.”

“Ah! I see! That nobleman was you; it was his father!”

“Hush! do not speak so loud, madame; he is there.”

“He is there! my son! the son of Marie Michon! But I must see him instantly.”

“Take care, madame,” said Athos, “for he knows neither his father nor his mother.”

“You have kept the secret! you have brought him to see me, thinking to make me happy. Oh, thanks! sir, thanks!” cried Madame de Chevreuse, seizing his hand and trying to put it to her lips; “you have a noble heart.”

“I bring him to you, madame,” said Athos, withdrawing his hand, “hoping that in your turn you will do something for him; till now I have watched over his education and I have made him, I hope, an accomplished gentleman; but I am now obliged to return to the dangerous and wandering life of party faction. To-morrow I plunge into an adventurous affair in which I may be killed. Then it will devolve on you to push him on in that world where he is called on to occupy a place.”

“Rest assured,” cried the duchess, “I shall do what I can. I have but little influence now, but all that I have shall most assuredly be his. As to his title and fortune----”

“As to that, madame, I have made over to him the estate of Bragelonne, my inheritance, which will give him ten thousand francs a year and the title of vicomte.”

“Upon my soul, monsieur,” said the duchess, “you are a true nobleman! But I am eager to see our young vicomte. Where is he?”

“There, in the salon. I will have him come in, if you really wish it.”

Athos moved toward the door; the duchess held him back.

“Is he handsome?” she asked.

Athos smiled.

“He resembles his mother.”

So he opened the door and beckoned the young man in.

The duchess could not restrain a cry of joy on seeing so handsome a young cavalier, so far surpassing all that her maternal pride had been able to conceive.

“Vicomte, come here,” said Athos; “the duchess permits you to kiss her hand.”

The youth approached with his charming smile and his head bare, and kneeling down, kissed the hand of the Duchess de Chevreuse.

“Sir,” he said, turning to Athos, “was it not in compassion to my timidity that you told me that this lady was the Duchess de Chevreuse, and is she not the queen?”

“No, vicomte,” said Madame de Chevreuse, taking his hand and making him sit near her, while she looked at him with eyes sparkling with pleasure; “no, unhappily, I am not the queen. If I were I should do for you at once the most that you deserve. But let us see; whatever I may be,” she added, hardly restraining herself from kissing that pure brow, “let us see what profession you wish to follow.”

Athos, standing, looked at them both with indescribable pleasure.

“Madame,” answered the youth in his sweet voice, “it seems to me that there is only one career for a gentleman--that of the army. I have been brought up by monsieur le comte with the intention, I believe, of making me a soldier; and he gave me reason to hope that at Paris he would present me to some one who would recommend me to the favor of the prince.”

“Yes, I understand it well. Personally, I am on bad terms with him, on account of the quarrels between Madame de Montbazon, my mother-in-law, and Madame de Longueville. But the Prince de Marsillac! Yes, indeed, that’s the right thing. The Prince de Marsillac--my old friend--will recommend our young friend to Madame de Longueville, who will give him a letter to her brother, the prince, who loves her too tenderly not to do what she wishes immediately.”

“Well, that will do charmingly,” said the count; “but may I beg that the greatest haste may be made, for I have reasons for wishing the vicomte not to sleep longer than to-morrow night in Paris!”

“Do you wish it known that you are interested about him, monsieur le comte?”

“Better for him in future that he should be supposed never to have seen me.”

“Oh, sir!” cried Raoul.

“You know, Bragelonne,” said Athos, “I never speak without reflection.”

“Well, comte, I am going instantly,” interrupted the duchess, “to send for the Prince de Marsillac, who is happily, in Paris just now. What are you going to do this evening?”

“We intend to visit the Abbe Scarron, for whom I have a letter of introduction and at whose house I expect to meet some of my friends.”

“‘Tis well; I will go there also, for a few minutes,” said the duchess; “do not quit his salon until you have seen me.”

Athos bowed and prepared to leave.

“Well, monsieur le comte,” said the duchess, smiling, “does one leave so solemnly his old friends?”

“Ah,” murmured Athos, kissing her hand, “had I only sooner known that Marie Michon was so charming a creature!” And he withdrew, sighing.

The Abbe Scarron.

There was once in the Rue des Tournelles a house known by all the sedan chairmen and footmen of Paris, and yet, nevertheless, this house was neither that of a great lord nor of a rich man. There was neither dining, nor playing at cards, nor dancing in that house. Nevertheless, it was the rendezvous of the great world and all Paris went there. It was the abode of the little Abbe Scarron.

In the home of the witty abbe dwelt incessant laughter; there all the items of the day had their source and were so quickly transformed, misrepresented, metamorphosed, some into epigrams, some into falsehoods, that every one was anxious to pass an hour with little Scarron, listening to what he said, reporting it to others.

The diminutive Abbe Scarron, who, however, was an abbe only because he owned an abbey, and not because he was in orders, had formerly been one of the gayest prebendaries in the town of Mans, which he inhabited. On a day of the carnival he had taken a notion to provide an unusual entertainment for that good town, of which he was the life and soul. He had made his valet cover him with honey; then, opening a feather bed, he had rolled in it and had thus become the most grotesque fowl it is possible to imagine. He then began to visit his friends of both sexes, in that strange costume. At first he had been followed through astonishment, then with derisive shouts, then the porters had insulted him, then children had thrown stones at him, and finally he was obliged to run, to escape the missiles. As soon as he took to flight every one pursued him, until, pressed on all sides, Scarron found no way of escaping his escort, except by throwing himself into the river; but the water was icy cold. Scarron was heated, the cold seized on him, and when he reached the farther bank he found himself crippled.

Every means had been employed in vain to restore the use of his limbs. He had been subjected to a severe disciplinary course of medicine, at length he sent away all his doctors, declaring that he preferred the disease to the treatment, and came to Paris, where the fame of his wit had preceded him. There he had a chair made on his own plan, and one day, visiting Anne of Austria in this chair, she asked him, charmed as she was with his wit, if he did not wish for a title.

“Yes, your majesty, there is a title which I covet much,” replied Scarron.

“And what is that?”

“That of being your invalid,” answered Scarron.

So he was called the queen’s invalid, with a pension of fifteen hundred francs.

From that lucky moment Scarron led a happy life, spending both income and principal. One day, however, an emissary of the cardinal’s gave him to understand that he was wrong in receiving the coadjutor so often.

“And why?” asked Scarron; “is he not a man of good birth?”

“Certainly.”

“Agreeable?”

“Undeniably.”

“Witty?”

“He has, unfortunately, too much wit.”

“Well, then, why do you wish me to give up seeing such a man?”

“Because he is an enemy.”

“Of whom?”

“Of the cardinal.”

“What?” answered Scarron, “I continue to receive Monsieur Gilles Despreaux, who thinks ill of me, and you wish me to give up seeing the coadjutor, because he thinks ill of another man. Impossible!”

The conversation had rested there and Scarron, through sheer obstinacy, had seen Monsieur de Gondy only the more frequently.

Now, the very morning of which we speak was that of his quarter-day payment, and Scarron, as usual, had sent his servant to get his money at the pension-office, but the man had returned and said that the government had no more money to give Monsieur Scarron.

It was on Thursday, the abbe’s reception day; people went there in crowds. The cardinal’s refusal to pay the pension was known about the town in half an hour and he was abused with wit and vehemence.

In the Rue Saint Honore Athos fell in with two gentlemen whom he did not know, on horseback like himself, followed by a lackey like himself, and going in the same direction that he was. One of them, hat in hand, said to him:

“Would you believe it, monsieur? that contemptible Mazarin has stopped poor Scarron’s pension.”

“That is unreasonable,” said Athos, saluting in his turn the two cavaliers. And they separated with courteous gestures.

“It happens well that we are going there this evening,” said Athos to the vicomte; “we will pay our compliments to that poor man.”

“What, then, is this Monsieur Scarron, who thus puts all Paris in commotion? Is he some minister out of office?”

“Oh, no, not at all, vicomte,” Athos replied; “he is simply a gentleman of great genius who has fallen into disgrace with the cardinal through having written certain verses against him.”

“Do gentlemen, then, make verses?” asked Raoul, naively, “I thought it was derogatory.”

“So it is, my dear vicomte,” said Athos, laughing, “to make bad ones; but to make good ones increases fame--witness Monsieur de Rotrou. Nevertheless,” he continued, in the tone of one who gives wholesome advice, “I think it is better not to make them.”

“Then,” said Raoul, “this Monsieur Scarron is a poet?”

“Yes; you are warned, vicomte. Consider well what you do in that house. Talk only by gestures, or rather always listen.”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied Raoul.

“You will see me talking with one of my friends, the Abbe d’Herblay, of whom you have often heard me speak.”

“I remember him, monsieur.”

“Come near to us from time to time, as if to speak; but do not speak, and do not listen. That little stratagem may serve to keep off interlopers.”

“Very well, monsieur; I will obey you at all points.”

Athos made two visits in Paris; at seven o’clock he and Raoul directed their steps to the Rue des Tournelles; it was stopped by porters, horses and footmen. Athos forced his way through and entered, followed by the young man. The first person that struck him on his entrance was Aramis, planted near a great chair on castors, very large, covered with a canopy of tapestry, under which there moved, enveloped in a quilt of brocade, a little face, youngish, very merry, somewhat pallid, whilst its eyes never ceased to express a sentiment at once lively, intellectual, and amiable. This was the Abbe Scarron, always laughing, joking, complimenting--yet suffering--and toying nervously with a small switch.

Around this kind of rolling tent pressed a crowd of gentlemen and ladies. The room was neatly, comfortably furnished. Large valances of silk, embroidered with flowers of gay colors, which were rather faded, fell from the wide windows; the fittings of the room were simple, but in excellent taste. Two well trained servingmen were in attendance on the company. On perceiving Athos, Aramis advanced toward him, took him by the hand and presented him to Scarron. Raoul remained silent, for he was not prepared for the dignity of the bel esprit.

After some minutes the door opened and a footman announced Mademoiselle Paulet.

Athos touched the shoulder of the vicomte.

“Look at this lady, Raoul, she is an historic personage; it was to visit her King Henry IV. was going when he was assassinated.”

Every one thronged around Mademoiselle Paulet, for she was always very much the fashion. She was a tall woman, with a slender figure and a forest of golden curls, such as Raphael was fond of and Titian has painted all his Magdalens with. This fawn-colored hair, or, perhaps the sort of ascendancy which she had over other women, gave her the name of “La Lionne.” Mademoiselle Paulet took her accustomed seat, but before sitting down, she cast, in all her queen-like grandeur, a look around the room, and her eyes rested on Raoul.

Athos smiled.

“Mademoiselle Paulet has observed you, vicomte; go and bow to her; don’t try to appear anything but what you are, a true country youth; on no account speak to her of Henry IV.”

“When shall we two walk together?” Athos then said to Aramis.

“Presently--there are not a sufficient number of people here yet; we shall be remarked.”

At this moment the door opened and in walked the coadjutor.

At this name every one looked around, for his was already a very celebrated name. Athos did the same. He knew the Abbe de Gondy only by report.

He saw a little dark man, ill made and awkward with his hands in everything--except drawing a sword and firing a pistol--with something haughty and contemptuous in his face.

Scarron turned around toward him and came to meet him in his chair.

“Well,” said the coadjutor, on seeing him, “you are in disgrace, then, abbe?”

This was the orthodox phrase. It had been said that evening a hundred times--and Scarron was at his hundredth bon mot on the subject; he was very nearly at the end of his humoristic tether, but one despairing effort saved him.

“Monsieur, the Cardinal Mazarin has been so kind as to think of me,” he said.

“But how can you continue to receive us?” asked the coadjutor; “if your income is lessened I shall be obliged to make you a canon of Notre Dame.”

“Oh, no!” cried Scarron, “I should compromise you too much.”

“Perhaps you have resources of which we are ignorant?”

“I shall borrow from the queen.”

“But her majesty has no property,” interposed Aramis.

At this moment the door opened and Madame de Chevreuse was announced. Every one arose. Scarron turned his chair toward the door, Raoul blushed, Athos made a sign to Aramis, who went and hid himself in the enclosure of a window.

In the midst of all the compliments that awaited her on her entrance, the duchess seemed to be looking for some one; at last she found out Raoul and her eyes sparkled; she perceived Athos and became thoughtful; she saw Aramis in the seclusion of the window and gave a start of surprise behind her fan.

“Apropos,” she said, as if to drive away thoughts that pursued her in spite of herself, “how is poor Voiture, do you know, Scarron?”

“What, is Monsieur Voiture ill?” inquired a gentleman who had spoken to Athos in the Rue Saint Honore; “what is the matter with him?”

“He was acting, but forgot to take the precaution to have a change of linen ready after the performance,” said the coadjutor, “so he took cold and is about to die.”

“Is he then so ill, dear Voiture?” asked Aramis, half hidden by the window curtain.

“Die!” cried Mademoiselle Paulet, bitterly, “he! Why, he is surrounded by sultanas, like a Turk. Madame de Saintot has hastened to him with broth; La Renaudot warms his sheets; the Marquise de Rambouillet sends him his tisanes.”

“You don’t like him, my dear Parthenie,” said Scarron.

“What an injustice, my dear invalid! I hate him so little that I should be delighted to order masses for the repose of his soul.”

“You are not called ‘Lionne’ for nothing,” observed Madame de Chevreuse, “your teeth are terrible.”

“You are unjust to a great poet, it seems to me,” Raoul ventured to say.

“A great poet! come, one may easily see, vicomte, that you are lately from the provinces and have never so much as seen him. A great poet! he is scarcely five feet high.”

“Bravo bravo!” cried a tall man with an enormous mustache and a long rapier, “bravo, fair Paulet, it is high time to put little Voiture in his right place. For my part, I always thought his poetry detestable, and I think I know something about poetry.”

“Who is this officer,” inquired Raoul of Athos, “who is speaking?”

“Monsieur de Scudery, the author of ‘Clelie,’ and of ‘Le Grand Cyrus,’ which were composed partly by him and partly by his sister, who is now talking to that pretty person yonder, near Monsieur Scarron.”

Raoul turned and saw two faces just arrived. One was perfectly charming, delicate, pensive, shaded by beautiful dark hair, and eyes soft as velvet, like those lovely flowers, the heartsease, in which shine out the golden petals. The other, of mature age, seemed to have the former one under her charge, and was cold, dry and yellow--the true type of a duenna or a devotee.

Raoul resolved not to quit the room without having spoken to the beautiful girl with the soft eyes, who by a strange fancy, although she bore no resemblance, reminded him of his poor little Louise, whom he had left in the Chateau de la Valliere and whom, in the midst of all the party, he had never for one moment quite forgotten. Meantime Aramis had drawn near to the coadjutor, who, smiling all the while, contrived to drop some words into his ear. Aramis, notwithstanding his self-control, could not refrain from a slight movement of surprise.

“Laugh, then,” said Monsieur de Retz; “they are looking at us.” And leaving Aramis he went to talk with Madame de Chevreuse, who was in the midst of a large group.

Aramis affected a laugh, to divert the attention of certain curious listeners, and perceiving that Athos had betaken himself to the embrasure of a window and remained there, he proceeded to join him, throwing out a few words carelessly as he moved through the room.

As soon as the two friends met they began a conversation which was emphasized by frequent gesticulation.

Raoul then approached them as Athos had directed him to do.

“‘Tis a rondeau by Monsieur Voiture that monsieur l’abbe is repeating to me.” said Athos in a loud voice, “and I confess I think it incomparable.”

Raoul stayed only a few minutes near them and then mingled with the group round Madame de Chevreuse.

“Well, then?” asked Athos, in a low tone.

“It is to be to-morrow,” said Aramis hastily.

“At what time?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Where?”

“At Saint Mande.”

“Who told you?”

“The Count de Rochefort.”

Some one drew near.

“And then philosophic ideas are wholly wanting in Voiture’s works, but I am of the same opinion as the coadjutor--he is a poet, a true poet.” Aramis spoke so as to be heard by everybody.

“And I, too,” murmured the young lady with the velvet eyes. “I have the misfortune also to admire his poetry exceedingly.”

“Monsieur Scarron, do me the honor,” said Raoul, blushing, “to tell me the name of that young lady whose opinion seems so different from that of others of the company.”

“Ah! my young vicomte,” replied Scarron, “I suppose you wish to propose to her an alliance offensive and defensive.”

Raoul blushed again.

“You asked the name of that young lady. She is called the fair Indian.”

“Excuse me, sir,” returned Raoul, blushing still more deeply, “I know no more than I did before. Alas! I am from the country.”

“Which means that you know very little about the nonsense which here flows down our streets. So much the better, young man! so much the better! Don’t try to understand it--you will only lose your time.”

“You forgive me, then, sir,” said Raoul, “and you will deign to tell me who is the person that you call the young Indian?”

“Certainly; one of the most charming persons that lives--Mademoiselle Frances d’Aubigne.”

“Does she belong to the family of the celebrated Agrippa, the friend of Henry IV.?”

“His granddaughter. She comes from Martinique, so I call her the beautiful Indian.”

Raoul looked surprised and his eyes met those of the young lady, who smiled.

The company went on speaking of the poet Voiture.

“Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle d’Aubigne to Scarron, as if she wished to join in the conversation he was engaged in with Raoul, “do you not admire Monsieur Voiture’s friends? Listen how they pull him to pieces even whilst they praise him; one takes away from him all claim to good sense, another robs him of his poetry, a third of his originality, another of his humor, another of his independence of character, a sixth--but, good heavens! what will they leave him? as Mademoiselle de Scudery remarks.”

Scarron and Raoul laughed. The fair Indian, astonished at the sensation her observation produced, looked down and resumed her air of naivete.

Athos, still within the inclosure of the window, watched this scene with a smile of disdain on his lips.

“Tell the Comte de la Fere to come to me,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “I want to speak to him.”

“And I,” said the coadjutor, “want it to be thought that I do not speak to him. I admire, I love him--for I know his former adventures--but I shall not speak to him until the day after to-morrow.”

“And why day after to-morrow?” asked Madame de Chevreuse.

“You will know that to-morrow evening,” said the coadjutor, smiling.

“Really, my dear Gondy,” said the duchess, “you remind one of the Apocalypse. Monsieur d’Herblay,” she added, turning toward Aramis, “will you be my servant once more this evening?”

“How can you doubt it?” replied Aramis; “this evening, to-morrow, always; command me.”

“I will, then. Go and look for the Comte de la Fere; I wish to speak with him.”

Aramis found Athos and brought him.

“Monsieur le comte,” said the duchess, giving him a letter, “here is what I promised you; our young friend will be extremely well received.”

“Madame, he is very happy in owing any obligation to you.”

“You have no reason to envy him on that score, for I owe to you the pleasure of knowing him,” replied the witty woman, with a smile which recalled Marie Michon to Aramis and to Athos.

As she uttered that bon mot, she arose and asked for her carriage. Mademoiselle Paulet had already gone; Mademoiselle de Scudery was going.

“Vicomte,” said Athos to Raoul, “follow the duchess; beg her to do you the favor to take your arm in going downstairs, and thank her as you descend.”

The fair Indian approached Scarron.

“You are going already?” he said.

“One of the last, as you see; if you hear anything of Monsieur Voiture, be so kind as to send me word to-morrow.”

“Oh!” said Scarron, “he may die now.”

“Why?” asked the young girl with the velvet eyes.

“Certainly; his panegyric has been uttered.”

They parted, laughing, she turning back to gaze at the poor paralytic man with interest, he looking after her with eyes of love.

One by one the several groups broke up. Scarron seemed not to observe that certain of his guests had talked mysteriously, that letters had passed from hand to hand and that the assembly had seemed to have a secret purpose quite apart from the literary discussion carried on with so much ostentation. What was all that to Scarron? At his house rebellion could be planned with impunity, for, as we have said, since that morning he had ceased to be “the queen’s invalid.”

As to Raoul, he had attended the duchess to her carriage, where, as she took her seat, she gave him her hand to kiss; then, by one of those wild caprices which made her so adorable and at the same time so dangerous, she had suddenly put her arm around his neck and kissed his forehead, saying:

“Vicomte, may my good wishes and this kiss bring you good fortune!”

Then she had pushed him away and directed the coachman to stop at the Hotel de Luynes. The carriage had started, Madame de Chevreuse had made a parting gesture to the young man, and Raoul had returned in a state of stupefaction.

Athos surmised what had taken place and smiled. “Come, vicomte,” he said, “it is time for you to go to bed; you will start in the morning for the army of monsieur le prince. Sleep well your last night as citizen.”

“I am to be a soldier then?” said the young man. “Oh, monsieur, I thank you with all my heart.”

“Adieu, count,” said the Abbe d’Herblay; “I return to my convent.”

“Adieu, abbe,” said the coadjutor, “I am to preach to-morrow and have twenty texts to examine this evening.”

“Adieu, gentlemen,” said the count; “I am going to sleep twenty-four hours; I am just falling down with fatigue.”

The three men saluted one another, whilst exchanging a last look.

Scarron followed their movements with a glance from the corner of his eye.

“Not one of them will do as he says,” he murmured, with his little monkey smile; “but they may do as they please, the brave gentlemen! Who knows if they will not manage to restore to me my pension? They can move their arms, they can, and that is much. Alas, I have only my tongue, but I will try to show that it is good for something. Ho, there, Champenois! here, it is eleven o’clock. Come and roll me to bed. Really, that Demoiselle d’Aubigne is very charming!”

So the invalid disappeared soon afterward and went into his sleeping-room; and one by one the lights in the salon of the Rue des Tournelles were extinguished.

Saint Denis.

The day had begun to break when Athos arose and dressed himself. It was plain, by a paleness still greater than usual, and by those traces which loss of sleep leaves on the face, that he must have passed almost the whole of the night without sleeping. Contrary to the custom of a man so firm and decided, there was this morning in his personal appearance something tardy and irresolute.

He was occupied with the preparations for Raoul’s departure and was seeking to gain time. In the first place he himself furbished a sword, which he drew from its perfumed leather sheath; he examined it to see if its hilt was well guarded and if the blade was firmly attached to the hilt. Then he placed at the bottom of the valise belonging to the young man a small bag of louis, called Olivain, the lackey who had followed him from Blois, and made him pack the valise under his own eyes, watchful to see that everything should be put in which might be useful to a young man entering on his first campaign.

At length, after occupying about an hour in these preparations, he opened the door of the room in which the vicomte slept, and entered.

The sun, already high, penetrated into the room through the window, the curtains of which Raoul had neglected to close on the previous evening. He was still sleeping, his head gracefully reposing on his arm.

Athos approached and hung over the youth in an attitude full of tender melancholy; he looked long on this young man, whose smiling mouth and half closed eyes bespoke soft dreams and lightest slumber, as if his guardian angel watched over him with solicitude and affection. By degrees Athos gave himself up to the charms of his reverie in the proximity of youth, so pure, so fresh. His own youth seemed to reappear, bringing with it all those savoury remembrances, which are like perfumes more than thoughts. Between the past and the present was an ineffable abyss. But imagination has the wings of an angel of light and travels safely through or over the seas where we have been almost shipwrecked, the darkness in which our illusions are lost, the precipice whence our happiness has been hurled and swallowed up. He remembered that all the first part of his life had been embittered by a woman and he thought with alarm of the influence love might assume over so fine, and at the same time so vigorous an organization as that of Raoul.

In recalling all he had been through, he foresaw all that Raoul might suffer; and the expression of the deep and tender compassion which throbbed in his heart was pictured in the moist eye with which he gazed on the young man.

At this moment Raoul awoke, without a cloud on his face without weariness or lassitude; his eyes were fixed on those of Athos and perhaps he comprehended all that passed in the heart of the man who was awaiting his awakening as a lover awaits the awakening of his mistress, for his glance, in return, had all the tenderness of love.

“You are there, sir?” he said, respectfully.

“Yes, Raoul,” replied the count.

“And you did not awaken me?”

“I wished to leave you still to enjoy some moments of sleep, my child; you must be fatigued from yesterday.”

“Oh, sir, how good you are!”

Athos smiled.

“How do you feel this morning?” he inquired.

“Perfectly well; quite rested, sir.”

“You are still growing,” Athos continued, with that charming and paternal interest felt by a grown man for a youth.

“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Raoul, ashamed of so much attention; “in an instant I shall be dressed.”

Athos then called Olivain.

“Everything,” said Olivain to Athos, “has been done according to your directions; the horses are waiting.”

“And I was asleep,” cried Raoul, “whilst you, sir, you had the kindness to attend to all these details. Truly, sir, you overwhelm me with benefits!”

“Therefore you love me a little, I hope,” replied Athos, in a tone of emotion.

“Oh, sir! God knows how much I love, revere you.”

“See that you forget nothing,” said Athos, appearing to look about him, that he might hide his emotion.

“No, indeed, sir,” answered Raoul.

The servant then approached Athos and said, hesitatingly:

“Monsieur le vicomte has no sword.”

“‘Tis well,” said Athos, “I will take care of that.”

They went downstairs, Raoul looking every now and then at the count to see if the moment of farewell was at hand, but Athos was silent. When they reached the steps Raoul saw three horses.

“Oh, sir! then you are going with me?”

“I will accompany you a portion of the way,” said Athos.

Joy shone in Raoul’s eyes and he leaped lightly to his saddle.

Athos mounted more slowly, after speaking in a low voice to the lackey, who, instead of following them immediately, returned to their rooms. Raoul, delighted at the count’s companionship, perceived, or affected to perceive nothing of this byplay.

They set out, passing over the Pont Neuf; they pursued their way along the quay then called L’Abreuvoir Pepin, and went along by the walls of the Grand Chatelet. They proceeded to the Rue Saint Denis.

After passing through the Porte Saint Denis, Athos looked at Raoul’s way of riding and observed:

“Take care, Raoul! I have already often told you of this; you must not forget it, for it is a great defect in a rider. See! your horse is tired already, he froths at the mouth, whilst mine looks as if he had only just left the stable. You hold the bit too tight and so make his mouth hard, so that you will not be able to make him manoeuvre quickly. The safety of a cavalier often depends on the prompt obedience of his horse. In a week, remember, you will no longer be performing your manoeuvres for practice, but on a field of battle.”

Then suddenly, in order not to give too uncomfortable an importance to this observation:

“See, Raoul!” he resumed; “what a fine plain for partridge shooting.”

The young man stored in his mind the admonition whilst he admired the delicate tenderness with which it was bestowed.

“I have remarked also another thing,” said Athos, “which is, that in firing off your pistol you hold your arm too far outstretched. This tension lessens the accuracy of the aim. So in twelve times you thrice missed the mark.”

“Which you, sir, struck twelve times,” answered Raoul, smiling.

“Because I bent my arm and rested my hand on my elbow--so; do you understand what I mean?”

“Yes, sir. I have fired since in that manner and have been quite successful.”

“What a cold wind!” resumed Athos; “a wintry blast. Apropos, if you fire--and you will do so, for you are recommended to a young general who is very fond of powder--remember that in single combat, which often takes place in the cavalry, never to fire the first shot. He who fires the first shot rarely hits his man, for he fires with the apprehension of being disarmed, before an armed foe; then, whilst he fires, make your horse rear; that manoeuvre has saved my life several times.”

“I shall do so, if only in gratitude----”

“Eh!” cried Athos, “are not those fellows poachers they have arrested yonder? They are. Then another important thing, Raoul: should you be wounded in a battle, and fall from your horse, if you have any strength left, disentangle yourself from the line that your regiment has formed; otherwise, it may be driven back and you will be trampled to death by the horses. At all events, should you be wounded, write to me that very instant, or get some one at once to write to me. We are judges of wounds, we old soldiers,” Athos added, smiling.

“Thank you, sir,” answered the young man, much moved.

They arrived that very moment at the gate of the town, guarded by two sentinels.

“Here comes a young gentleman,” said one of them, “who seems as if he were going to join the army.”

“How do you make that out?” inquired Athos.

“By his manner, sir, and his age; he’s the second to-day.”

“Has a young man, such as I am, gone through this morning, then?” asked Raoul.

“Faith, yes, with a haughty presence, a fine equipage; such as the son of a noble house would have.”

“He will be my companion on the journey, sir,” cried Raoul. “Alas! he cannot make me forget what I shall have lost!”

Thus talking, they traversed the streets, full of people on account of the fete, and arrived opposite the old cathedral, where first mass was going on.

“Let us alight; Raoul,” said Athos. “Olivain, take care of our horses and give me my sword.”

The two gentlemen then went into the church. Athos gave Raoul some of the holy water. A love as tender as that of a lover for his mistress dwells, undoubtedly, in some paternal hearts toward a son.

Athos said a word to one of the vergers, who bowed and proceeded toward the basement.

“Come, Raoul,” he said, “let us follow this man.”

The verger opened the iron grating that guarded the royal tombs and stood on the topmost step, whilst Athos and Raoul descended. The sepulchral depths of the descent were dimly lighted by a silver lamp on the lowest step; and just below this lamp there was laid, wrapped in a flowing mantle of violet velvet, worked with fleurs-de-lis of gold, a catafalque resting on trestles of oak. The young man, prepared for this scene by the state of his own feelings, which were mournful, and by the majesty of the cathedral which he had passed through, descended in a slow and solemn manner and stood with head uncovered before these mortal spoils of the last king, who was not to be placed by the side of his forefathers until his successor should take his place there; and who appeared to abide on that spot, that he might thus address human pride, so sure to be exalted by the glories of a throne: “Dust of the earth! Here I await thee!”

There was profound silence.

Then Athos raised his hand and pointing to the coffin:

“This temporary sepulture is,” he said, “that of a man who was of feeble mind, yet one whose reign was full of great events; because over this king watched the spirit of another man, even as this lamp keeps vigil over this coffin and illumines it. He whose intellect was thus supreme, Raoul, was the actual sovereign; the other, nothing but a phantom to whom he lent a soul; and yet, so powerful is majesty amongst us, this man has not even the honor of a tomb at the feet of him in whose service his life was worn away. Remember, Raoul, this! If Richelieu made the king, by comparison, seem small, he made royalty great. The Palace of the Louvre contains two things--the king, who must die, and royalty, which never dies. The minister, so feared, so hated by his master, has descended into the tomb, drawing after him the king, whom he would not leave alone on earth, lest his work should be destroyed. So blind were his contemporaries that they regarded the cardinal’s death as a deliverance; and I, even I, opposed the designs of the great man who held the destinies of France within the hollow of his hand. Raoul, learn how to distinguish the king from royalty; the king is but a man; royalty is the gift of God. Whenever you hesitate as to whom you ought to serve, abandon the exterior, the material appearance for the invisible principle, for the invisible principle is everything. Raoul, I seem to read your future destiny as through a cloud. It will be happier, I think, than ours has been. Different in your fate from us, you will have a king without a minister, whom you may serve, love, respect. Should the king prove a tyrant, for power begets tyranny, serve, love, respect royalty, that Divine right, that celestial spark which makes this dust still powerful and holy, so that we--gentlemen, nevertheless, of rank and condition--are as nothing in comparison with the cold corpse there extended.”

“I shall adore God, sir,” said Raoul, “respect royalty and ever serve the king. And if death be my lot, I hope to die for the king, for royalty and for God. Have I, sir, comprehended your instructions?”

Athos smiled.

“Yours is a noble nature.” he said; “here is your sword.”

Raoul bent his knee to the ground.

“It was worn by my father, a loyal gentleman. I have worn it in my turn and it has sometimes not been disgraced when the hilt was in my hand and the sheath at my side. Should your hand still be too weak to use this sword, Raoul, so much the better. You will have the more time to learn to draw it only when it ought to be used.”

“Sir,” replied Raoul, putting the sword to his lips as he received it from the count, “I owe you everything and yet this sword is the most precious gift you have yet made me. I will wear it, I swear to you, as a grateful man should do.”

“‘Tis well; arise, vicomte, embrace me.”

Raoul arose and threw himself with emotion into the count’s arms.

“Adieu,” faltered the count, who felt his heart die away within him; “adieu, and think of me.”

“Oh! for ever and ever!” cried the youth; “oh! I swear to you, sir, should any harm befall me, your name will be the last name that I shall utter, the remembrance of you my last thought.”

Athos hastened upstairs to conceal his emotion, and regained with hurried steps the porch where Olivain was waiting with the horses.

“Olivain,” said Athos, showing the servant Raoul’s shoulder-belt, “tighten the buckle of the sword, it falls too low. You will accompany monsieur le vicomte till Grimaud rejoins you. You know, Raoul, Grimaud is an old and zealous servant; he will follow you.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Raoul.

“Now to horse, that I may see you depart!”

Raoul obeyed.

“Adieu, Raoul,” said the count; “adieu, my dearest boy!”

“Adieu, sir, adieu, my beloved protector.”

Athos waved his hand--he dared not trust himself to speak: and Raoul went away, his head uncovered. Athos remained motionless, looking after him until he turned the corner of the street.

Then the count threw the bridle of his horse into the hands of a peasant, remounted the steps, went into the cathedral, there to kneel down in the darkest corner and pray.

One of the Forty Methods of Escape of the Duc de Beaufort.

Meanwhile time was passing on for the prisoner, as well as for those who were preparing his escape; only for him it passed more slowly. Unlike other men, who enter with ardor upon a perilous resolution and grow cold as the moment of execution approaches, the Duc de Beaufort, whose buoyant courage had become a proverb, seemed to push time before him and sought most eagerly to hasten the hour of action. In his escape alone, apart from his plans for the future, which, it must be admitted, were for the present sufficiently vague and uncertain, there was a beginning of vengeance which filled his heart. In the first place his escape would be a serious misfortune to Monsieur de Chavigny, whom he hated for the petty persecutions he owed to him. It would be a still worse affair for Mazarin, whom he execrated for the greater offences he had committed. It may be observed that there was a proper proportion in his sentiments toward the governor of the prison and the minister--toward the subordinate and the master.

Then Monsieur de Beaufort, who was so familiar with the interior of the Palais Royal, though he did not know the relations existing between the queen and the cardinal, pictured to himself, in his prison, all that dramatic excitement which would ensue when the rumor should run from the minister’s cabinet to the chamber of Anne of Austria: “Monsieur de Beaufort has escaped!” Whilst saying that to himself, Monsieur de Beaufort smiled pleasantly and imagined himself already outside, breathing the air of the plains and the forests, pressing a strong horse between his knees and crying out in a loud voice, “I am free!”

It is true that on coming to himself he found that he was still within four walls; he saw La Ramee twirling his thumbs ten feet from him, and his guards laughing and drinking in the ante-chamber. The only thing that was pleasant to him in that odious tableau--such is the instability of the human mind--was the sullen face of Grimaud, for whom he had at first conceived such a hatred and who now was all his hope. Grimaud seemed to him an Antinous. It is needless to say that this transformation was visible only to the prisoner’s feverish imagination. Grimaud was still the same, and therefore he retained the entire confidence of his superior, La Ramee, who now relied upon him more than he did upon himself, for, as we have said, La Ramee felt at the bottom of his heart a certain weakness for Monsieur de Beaufort.

And so the good La Ramee made a festivity of the little supper with his prisoner. He had but one fault--he was a gourmand; he had found the pates good, the wine excellent. Now the successor of Pere Marteau had promised him a pate of pheasant instead of a pate of fowl, and Chambertin wine instead of Macon. All this, set off by the presence of that excellent prince, who was so good-natured, who invented so droll tricks against Monsieur de Chavigny and so fine jokes against Mazarin, made for La Ramee the approaching Pentecost one of the four great feasts of the year. He therefore looked forward to six o’clock with as much impatience as the duke himself.

Since daybreak La Ramee had been occupied with the preparations, and trusting no one but himself, he had visited personally the successor of Pere Marteau. The latter had surpassed himself; he showed La Ramee a monstrous pate, ornamented with Monsieur de Beaufort’s coat-of-arms. It was empty as yet, but a pheasant and two partridges were lying near it. La Ramee’s mouth watered and he returned to the duke’s chamber rubbing his hands. To crown his happiness, Monsieur de Chavigny had started on a journey that morning and in his absence La Ramee was deputy-governor of the chateau.

As for Grimaud, he seemed more sullen than ever.

In the course of the forenoon Monsieur de Beaufort had a game of tennis with La Ramee; a sign from Grimaud put him on the alert. Grimaud, going in advance, followed the course which they were to take in the evening. The game was played in an inclosure called the little court of the chateau, a place quite deserted except when Monsieur de Beaufort was playing; and even then the precaution seemed superfluous, the wall was so high.

There were three gates to open before reaching the inclosure, each by a different key. When they arrived Grimaud went carelessly and sat down by a loophole in the wall, letting his legs dangle outside. It was evident that there the rope ladder was to be attached.

This manoeuvre, transparent to the Duc de Beaufort, was quite unintelligible to La Ramee.

The game at tennis, which, upon a sign from Grimaud, Monsieur de Beaufort had consented to play, began in the afternoon. The duke was in full strength and beat La Ramee completely.

Four of the guards, who were constantly near the prisoner, assisted in picking up the tennis balls. When the game was over, the duke, laughing at La Ramee for his bad play, offered these men two louis d’or to go and drink his health, with their four other comrades.

The guards asked permission of La Ramee, who gave it to them, but not till the evening, however; until then he had business and the prisoner was not to be left alone.

Six o’clock came and, although they were not to sit down to table until seven o’clock, dinner was ready and served up. Upon a sideboard appeared the colossal pie with the duke’s arms on it, and seemingly cooked to a turn, as far as one could judge by the golden color which illuminated the crust.

The rest of the dinner was to come.

Every one was impatient, La Ramee to sit down to table, the guards to go and drink, the duke to escape.

Grimaud alone was calm as ever. One might have fancied that Athos had educated him with the express forethought of such a great event.

There were moments when, looking at Grimaud, the duke asked himself if he was not dreaming and if that marble figure was really at his service and would grow animated when the moment came for action.

La Ramee sent away the guards, desiring them to drink to the duke’s health, and as soon as they were gone shut all the doors, put the keys in his pocket and showed the table to the prince with an air that signified:

“Whenever my lord pleases.”

The prince looked at Grimaud, Grimaud looked at the clock; it was hardly a quarter-past six. The escape was fixed to take place at seven o’clock; there was therefore three-quarters of an hour to wait.

The duke, in order to pass away another quarter of an hour, pretended to be reading something that interested him and muttered that he wished they would allow him to finish his chapter. La Ramee went up to him and looked over his shoulder to see what sort of a book it was that had so singular an influence over the prisoner as to make him put off taking his dinner.

It was “Caesar’s Commentaries,” which La Ramee had lent him, contrary to the orders of the governor; and La Ramee resolved never again to disobey these injunctions.

Meantime he uncorked the bottles and went to smell if the pie was good.

At half-past six the duke arose and said very gravely:

“Certainly, Caesar was the greatest man of ancient times.”

“You think so, my lord?” answered La Ramee.

“Yes.”

“Well, as for me, I prefer Hannibal.”

“And why, pray, Master La Ramee?” asked the duke.

“Because he left no Commentaries,” replied La Ramee, with his coarse laugh.

The duke vouchsafed no reply, but sitting down at the table made a sign that La Ramee should seat himself opposite. There is nothing so expressive as the face of an epicure who finds himself before a well spread table, so La Ramee, when receiving his plate of soup from Grimaud, presented a type of perfect bliss.

The duke smiled.

“Zounds!” he said; “I don’t suppose there is a more contented man at this moment in all the kingdom than yourself!”

“You are right, my lord duke,” answered the officer; “I don’t know any pleasanter sight on earth than a well covered table; and when, added to that, he who does the honors is the grandson of Henry IV., you will, my lord duke, easily comprehend that the honor fairly doubles the pleasure one enjoys.”

The duke, in his turn, bowed, and an imperceptible smile appeared on the face of Grimaud, who kept behind La Ramee.

“My dear La Ramee,” said the duke, “you are the only man to turn such faultless compliments.”

“No, my lord duke,” replied La Ramee, in the fullness of his heart; “I say what I think; there is no compliment in what I say to you----”

“Then you are attached to me?” asked the duke.

“To own the truth, I should be inconsolable if you were to leave Vincennes.”

“A droll way of showing your affliction.” The duke meant to say “affection.”

“But, my lord,” returned La Ramee, “what would you do if you got out? Every folly you committed would embroil you with the court and they would put you into the Bastile, instead of Vincennes. Now, Monsieur de Chavigny is not amiable, I allow, but Monsieur du Tremblay is considerably worse.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the duke, who from time to time looked at the clock, the fingers of which seemed to move with sickening slowness.

“But what can you expect from the brother of a capuchin monk, brought up in the school of Cardinal Richelieu? Ah, my lord, it is a great happiness that the queen, who always wished you well, had a fancy to send you here, where there’s a promenade and a tennis court, good air, and a good table.”

“In short,” answered the duke, “if I comprehend you aright, La Ramee, I am ungrateful for having ever thought of leaving this place?”

“Oh! my lord duke, ’tis the height of ingratitude; but your highness has never seriously thought of it?”

“Yes,” returned the duke, “I must confess I sometimes think of it.”

“Still by one of your forty methods, your highness?”

“Yes, yes, indeed.”

“My lord,” said La Ramee, “now we are quite at our ease and enjoying ourselves, pray tell me one of those forty ways invented by your highness.”

“Willingly,” answered the duke, “give me the pie!”

“I am listening,” said La Ramee, leaning back in his armchair and raising his glass of Madeira to his lips, and winking his eye that he might see the sun through the rich liquid that he was about to taste.

The duke glanced at the clock. In ten minutes it would strike seven.

Grimaud placed the pie before the duke, who took a knife with a silver blade to raise the upper crust; but La Ramee, who was afraid of any harm happening to this fine work of art, passed his knife, which had an iron blade, to the duke.

“Thank you, La Ramee,” said the prisoner.

“Well, my lord! this famous invention of yours?”

“Must I tell you,” replied the duke, “on what I most reckon and what I determine to try first?”

“Yes, that’s the thing, my lord!” cried his custodian, gaily.

“Well, I should hope, in the first instance, to have for keeper an honest fellow like you.”

“And you have me, my lord. Well?”

“Having, then, a keeper like La Ramee, I should try also to have introduced to him by some friend or other a man who would be devoted to me, who would assist me in my flight.”

“Come, come,” said La Ramee, “that’s not a bad idea.”

“Capital, isn’t it? for instance, the former servingman of some brave gentleman, an enemy himself to Mazarin, as every gentleman ought to be.”

“Hush! don’t let us talk politics, my lord.”

“Then my keeper would begin to trust this man and to depend upon him, and I should have news from those without the prison walls.”

“Ah, yes! but how can the news be brought to you?”

“Nothing easier; in a game of tennis, for example.”

“In a game of tennis?” asked La Ramee, giving more serious attention to the duke’s words.

“Yes; see, I send a ball into the moat; a man is there who picks it up; the ball contains a letter. Instead of returning the ball to me when I call for it from the top of the wall, he throws me another; that other ball contains a letter. Thus we have exchanged ideas and no one has seen us do it.”

“The devil it does! The devil it does!” said La Ramee, scratching his head; “you are in the wrong to tell me that, my lord. I shall have to watch the men who pick up balls.”

The duke smiled.

“But,” resumed La Ramee, “that is only a way of corresponding.”

“And that is a great deal, it seems to me.”

“But not enough.”

“Pardon me; for instance, I say to my friends, Be on a certain day, on a certain hour, at the other side of the moat with two horses.”

“Well, what then?” La Ramee began to be uneasy; “unless the horses have wings to mount the ramparts and come and fetch you.”

“That’s not needed. I have,” replied the duke, “a way of descending from the ramparts.”

“What?”

“A rope ladder.”

“Yes, but,” answered La Ramee, trying to laugh, “a ladder of ropes can’t be sent around a ball, like a letter.”

“No, but it may be sent in something else.”

“In something else--in something else? In what?”

“In a pate, for example.”

“In a pate?” said La Ramee.

“Yes. Let us suppose one thing,” replied the duke “let us suppose, for instance, that my maitre d’hotel, Noirmont, has purchased the shop of Pere Marteau----”

“Well?” said La Ramee, shuddering.

“Well, La Ramee, who is a gourmand, sees his pates, thinks them more attractive than those of Pere Marteau and proposes to me that I shall try them. I consent on condition that La Ramee tries them with me. That we may be more at our ease, La Ramee removes the guards, keeping only Grimaud to wait on us. Grimaud is the man whom a friend has sent to second me in everything. The moment for my escape is fixed--seven o’clock. Well, at a few minutes to seven----”

“At a few minutes to seven?” cried La Ramee, cold sweat upon his brow.

“At a few minutes to seven,” returned the duke (suiting the action to the words), “I raise the crust of the pie; I find in it two poniards, a ladder of rope, and a gag. I point one of the poniards at La Ramee’s breast and I say to him, ‘My friend, I am sorry for it, but if thou stirrest, if thou utterest one cry, thou art a dead man!’”

The duke, in pronouncing these words, suited, as we have said, the action to the words. He was standing near the officer and he directed the point of the poniard in such a manner, close to La Ramee’s heart, that there could be no doubt in the mind of that individual as to his determination. Meanwhile, Grimaud, still mute as ever, drew from the pie the other poniard, the rope ladder and the gag.

La Ramee followed all these objects with his eyes, his alarm every moment increasing.

“Oh, my lord,” he cried, with an expression of stupefaction in his face; “you haven’t the heart to kill me!”

“No; not if thou dost not oppose my flight.”

“But, my lord, if I allow you to escape I am a ruined man.”

“I will compensate thee for the loss of thy place.”

“You are determined to leave the chateau?”

“By Heaven and earth! This night I am determined to be free.”

“And if I defend myself, or call, or cry out?”

“I will kill thee, on the honor of a gentleman.”

At this moment the clock struck.

“Seven o’clock!” said Grimaud, who had not spoken a word.

La Ramee made one movement, in order to satisfy his conscience. The duke frowned, the officer felt the point of the poniard, which, having penetrated through his clothes, was close to his heart.

“Let us dispatch,” said the duke.

“My lord, one last favor.”

“What? speak, make haste.”

“Bind my arms, my lord, fast.”

“Why bind thee?”

“That I may not be considered as your accomplice.”

“Your hands?” asked Grimaud.

“Not before me, behind me.”

“But with what?” asked the duke.

“With your belt, my lord!” replied La Ramee.

The duke undid his belt and gave it to Grimaud, who tied La Ramee in such a way as to satisfy him.

“Your feet, too,” said Grimaud.

La Ramee stretched out his legs, Grimaud took a table-cloth, tore it into strips and tied La Ramee’s feet together.

“Now, my lord,” said the poor man, “let me have the poire d’angoisse. I ask for it; without it I should be tried in a court of justice because I did not raise the alarm. Thrust it into my mouth, my lord, thrust it in.”

Grimaud prepared to comply with this request, when the officer made a sign as if he had something to say.

“Speak,” said the duke.

“Now, my lord, do not forget, if any harm happens to me on your account, that I have a wife and four children.”

“Rest assured; put the gag in, Grimaud.”

In a second La Ramee was gagged and laid prostrate. Two or three chairs were thrown down as if there had been a struggle. Grimaud then took from the pocket of the officer all the keys it contained and first opened the door of the room in which they were, then shut it and double-locked it, and both he and the duke proceeded rapidly down the gallery which led to the little inclosure. At last they reached the tennis court. It was completely deserted. No sentinels, no one at any of the windows. The duke ran to the rampart and perceived on the other side of the ditch, three cavaliers with two riding horses. The duke exchanged a signal with them. It was indeed for him that they were there.

Grimaud, meantime, undid the means of escape.

This was not, however, a rope ladder, but a ball of silk cord, with a narrow board which was to pass between the legs, the ball to unwind itself by the weight of the person who sat astride upon the board.

“Go!” said the duke.

“First, my lord?” inquired Grimaud.

“Certainly. If I am caught, I risk nothing but being taken back again to prison. If they catch thee, thou wilt be hung.”

“True,” replied Grimaud.

And instantly, Grimaud, sitting upon the board as if on horseback, commenced his perilous descent.

The duke followed him with his eyes, with involuntary terror. He had gone down about three-quarters of the length of the wall when the cord broke. Grimaud fell--precipitated into the moat.

The duke uttered a cry, but Grimaud did not give a single moan. He must have been dreadfully hurt, for he did not stir from the place where he fell.

Immediately one of the men who were waiting slipped down into the moat, tied under Grimaud’s shoulders the end of a cord, and the remaining two, who held the other end, drew Grimaud to them.

“Descend, my lord,” said the man in the moat. “There are only fifteen feet more from the top down here, and the grass is soft.”

The duke had already begun to descend. His task was the more difficult, as there was no board to support him. He was obliged to let himself down by his hands and from a height of fifty feet. But as we have said he was active, strong, and full of presence of mind. In less than five minutes he arrived at the end of the cord. He was then only fifteen feet from the ground, as the gentlemen below had told him. He let go the rope and fell upon his feet, without receiving any injury.

He instantly began to climb up the slope of the moat, on the top of which he met De Rochefort. The other two gentlemen were unknown to him. Grimaud, in a swoon, was tied securely to a horse.

“Gentlemen,” said the duke, “I will thank you later; now we have not a moment to lose. On, then! on! those who love me, follow me!”

And he jumped on his horse and set off at full gallop, snuffing the fresh air in his triumph and shouting out, with an expression of face which it would be impossible to describe:

“Free! free! free!”

The timely Arrival of D’Artagnan in Paris.

At Blois, D’Artagnan received the money paid to him by Mazarin for any future service he might render the cardinal.

From Blois to Paris was a journey of four days for ordinary travelers, but D’Artagnan arrived on the third day at the Barriere Saint Denis. In turning the corner of the Rue Montmartre, in order to reach the Rue Tiquetonne and the Hotel de la Chevrette, where he had appointed Porthos to meet him, he saw at one of the windows of the hotel, that friend himself dressed in a sky-blue waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and gaping, till he showed every one of his white teeth; whilst the people passing by admiringly gazed at this gentleman, so handsome and so rich, who seemed to weary of his riches and his greatness.

D’Artagnan and Planchet had hardly turned the corner when Porthos recognized them.

“Eh! D’Artagnan!” he cried. “Thank God you have come!”

“Eh! good-day, dear friend!” replied D’Artagnan.

Porthos came down at once to the threshold of the hotel.

“Ah, my dear friend!” he cried, “what bad stabling for my horses here.”

“Indeed!” said D’Artagnan; “I am most unhappy to hear it, on account of those fine animals.”

“And I, also--I was also wretchedly off,” he answered, moving backward and forward as he spoke; “and had it not been for the hostess,” he added, with his air of vulgar self-complacency, “who is very agreeable and understands a joke, I should have got a lodging elsewhere.”

The pretty Madeleine, who had approached during this colloquy, stepped back and turned pale as death on hearing Porthos’s words, for she thought the scene with the Swiss was about to be repeated. But to her great surprise D’Artagnan remained perfectly calm, and instead of being angry he laughed, and said to Porthos:

“Yes, I understand, the air of La Rue Tiquetonne is not like that of Pierrefonds; but console yourself, I will soon conduct you to one much better.”

“When will you do that?”

“Immediately, I hope.”

“Ah! so much the better!”

To that exclamation of Porthos’s succeeded a groaning, low and profound, which seemed to come from behind a door. D’Artagnan, who had just dismounted, then saw, outlined against the wall, the enormous stomach of Musqueton, whose down-drawn mouth emitted sounds of distress.

“And you, too, my poor Monsieur Mouston, are out of place in this poor hotel, are you not?” asked D’Artagnan, in that rallying tone which may indicate either compassion or mockery.

“He finds the cooking detestable,” replied Porthos.

“Why, then, doesn’t he attend to it himself, as at Chantilly?”

“Ah, monsieur, I have not here, as I had there, the ponds of monsieur le prince, where I could catch those beautiful carp, nor the forests of his highness to provide me with partridges. As for the cellar, I have searched every part and poor stuff I found.”

“Monsieur Mouston,” said D’Artagnan, “I should indeed condole with you had I not at this moment something very pressing to attend to.”

Then taking Porthos aside:

“My dear Du Vallon,” he said, “here you are in full dress most fortunately, for I am going to take you to the cardinal’s.”

“Gracious me! really!” exclaimed Porthos, opening his great wondering eyes.

“Yes, my friend.”

“A presentation? indeed!”

“Does that alarm you?”

“No, but it agitates me.”

“Oh! don’t be distressed; you have to deal with a cardinal of another kind. This one will not oppress you by his dignity.”

“‘Tis the same thing--you understand me, D’Artagnan--a court.”

“There’s no court now. Alas!”

“The queen!”

“I was going to say, there’s no longer a queen. The queen! Rest assured, we shall not see her.”

“And you say that we are going from here to the Palais Royal?”

“Immediately. Only, that there may be no delay, I shall borrow one of your horses.”

“Certainly; all the four are at your service.”

“Oh, I need only one of them for the time being.”

“Shall we take our valets?”

“Yes, you may as well take Musqueton. As to Planchet, he has certain reasons for not going to court.”

“And what are they?”

“Oh, he doesn’t stand well with his eminence.”

“Mouston,” said Porthos, “saddle Vulcan and Bayard.”

“And for myself, monsieur, shall I saddle Rustaud?”

“No, take a more stylish horse, Phoebus or Superbe; we are going with some ceremony.”

“Ah,” said Musqueton, breathing more freely, “you are only going, then, to make a visit?”

“Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid risk, put the pistols in the holsters. You will find mine on my saddle, already loaded.”

Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn’t understand visits of ceremony made under arms.

“Indeed,” said Porthos, looking complacently at his old lackey as he went away, “you are right, D’Artagnan; Mouston will do; Mouston has a very fine appearance.”

D’Artagnan smiled.

“But you, my friend--are you not going to change your dress?”

“No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to show the cardinal my haste to obey his commands.”

They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Musqueton on Phoebus, and arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter to seven. The streets were crowded, for it was the day of Pentecost, and the crowd looked in wonder at these two cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come out of a bandbox, the other so covered with dust that he looked as if he had but just come off a field of battle.

Musqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of Don Quixote was then the fashion, they said that he was Sancho, who, after having lost one master, had found two.

On reaching the palace, D’Artagnan sent to his eminence the letter in which he had been ordered to return without delay. He was soon ordered to the presence of the cardinal.

“Courage!” he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. “Do not be intimidated. Believe me, the eye of the eagle is closed forever. We have only the vulture to deal with. Hold yourself as bolt upright as on the day of the bastion of St. Gervais, and do not bow too low to this Italian; that might give him a poor idea of you.”

“Good!” answered Porthos. “Good!”

Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and benefices, of which he was trying to reduce the number. He saw D’Artagnan and Porthos enter with internal pleasure, yet showed no joy in his countenance.

“Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant, you have been very prompt. ’Tis well. Welcome to ye.”

“Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your eminence’s service, as well as Monsieur du Vallon, one of my old friends, who used to conceal his nobility under the name of Porthos.”

Porthos bowed to the cardinal.

“A magnificent cavalier,” remarked Mazarin.

Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and drew himself up with a movement full of dignity.

“The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord,” said D’Artagnan.

Porthos bowed to his friend.

Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times, Frederick of Prussia used to be. He admired the strong hands, the broad shoulders and the steady eye of Porthos. He seemed to see before him the salvation of his administration and of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh and bone. He remembered that the old association of musketeers was composed of four persons.

“And your two other friends?” he asked.

Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to put in a word in his turn; D’Artagnan checked him by a glance from the corner of his eye.

“They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later.”

Mazarin coughed a little.

“And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service willingly?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for Monsieur de Bracieux is rich.”

“Rich!” said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired with a great respect.

“Fifty thousand francs a year,” said Porthos.

These were the first words he had spoken.

“From pure zeal?” resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; “from pure zeal and devotion then?”

“My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?” said D’Artagnan.

“Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?” asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands.

“I,” replied the Gascon, “I believe in devotion as a word at one’s baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before one’s proper name; every one is naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should be at the end of one’s devotion something to gain.”

“And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end of his devotion?”

“Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates: that of Vallon, at Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the Soissonais; and that of Pierrefonds, in the Valois. Now, my lord, he would like to have one of his three estates erected into a barony.”

“Only that?” said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on seeing that he could pay for Porthos’s devotion without opening his purse; “only that? That can be managed.”

“I shall be baron!” explained Porthos, stepping forward.

“I told you so,” said D’Artagnan, checking him with his hand; “and now his eminence confirms it.”

“And you, Monsieur D’Artagnan, what do you want?”

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “it is twenty years since Cardinal de Richelieu made me lieutenant.”

“Yes, and you would be gratified if Cardinal Mazarin should make you captain.”

D’Artagnan bowed.

“Well, that is not impossible. We will see, gentlemen, we will see. Now, Monsieur de Vallon,” said Mazarin, “what service do you prefer, in the town or in the country?”

Porthos opened his mouth to reply.

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “Monsieur de Vallon is like me, he prefers service extraordinary--that is to say, enterprises that are considered mad and impossible.”

That boastfulness was not displeasing to Mazarin; he fell into meditation.

“And yet,” he said, “I must admit that I sent for you to appoint you to quiet service; I have certain apprehensions--well, what is the meaning of that?”

In fact, a great noise was heard in the ante-chamber; at the same time the door of the study was burst open and a man, covered with dust, rushed into it, exclaiming:

“My lord the cardinal! my lord the cardinal!”

Mazarin thought that some one was going to assassinate him and he drew back, pushing his chair on the castors. D’Artagnan and Porthos moved so as to plant themselves between the person entering and the cardinal.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed Mazarin, “what’s the matter? and why do you rush in here, as if you were about to penetrate a crowded market-place?”

“My lord,” replied the messenger, “I wish to speak to your eminence in secret. I am Monsieur du Poins, an officer in the guards, on duty at the donjon of Vincennes.”

Mazarin, perceiving by the paleness and agitation of the messenger that he had something of importance to say, made a sign that D’Artagnan and Porthos should give place.

D’Artagnan and Porthos withdrew to a corner of the cabinet.

“Speak, monsieur, speak at once!” said Mazarin “What is the matter?”

“The matter is, my lord, that the Duc de Beaufort has contrived to escape from the Chateau of Vincennes.”

Mazarin uttered a cry and became paler than the man who had brought the news. He fell back, almost fainting, in his chair.

“Escaped? Monsieur de Beaufort escaped?”

“My lord, I saw him run off from the top of the terrace.”

“And you did not fire on him?”

“He was out of range.”

“Monsieur de Chavigny--where was he?”

“Absent.”

“And La Ramee?”

“Was found locked up in the prisoner’s room, a gag in his mouth and a poniard near him.”

“But the man who was under him?”

“Was an accomplice of the duke’s and escaped along with him.”

Mazarin groaned.

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, advancing toward the cardinal, “it seems to me that your eminence is losing precious time. It may still be possible to overtake the prisoner. France is large; the nearest frontier is sixty leagues distant.”

“And who is to pursue him?” cried Mazarin.

“I, pardieu!”

“And you would arrest him?”

“Why not?”

“You would arrest the Duc de Beaufort, armed, in the field?”

“If your eminence should order me to arrest the devil, I would seize him by the horns and would bring him in.”

“So would I,” said Porthos.

“So would you!” said Mazarin, looking with astonishment at those two men. “But the duke will not yield himself without a furious battle.”

“Very well,” said D’Artagnan, his eyes aflame, “battle! It is a long time since we have had a battle, eh, Porthos?”

“Battle!” cried Porthos.

“And you think you can catch him?”

“Yes, if we are better mounted than he.”

“Go then, take what guards you find here, and pursue him.”

“You command us, my lord, to do so?”

“And I sign my orders,” said Mazarin, taking a piece of paper and writing some lines; “Monsieur du Vallon, your barony is on the back of the Duc de Beaufort’s horse; you have nothing to do but to overtake it. As for you, my dear lieutenant, I promise you nothing; but if you bring him back to me, dead or alive, you may ask all you wish.”

“To horse, Porthos!” said D’Artagnan, taking his friend by the hand.

“Here I am,” smiled Porthos, with his sublime composure.

They descended the great staircase, taking with them all the guards they found on their road, and crying out, “To arms! To arms!” and immediately put spur to horse, which set off along the Rue Saint Honore with the speed of the whirlwind.

“Well, baron, I promise you some good exercise!” said the Gascon.

“Yes, my captain.”

As they went, the citizens, awakened, left their doors and the street dogs followed the cavaliers, barking. At the corner of the Cimetiere Saint Jean, D’Artagnan upset a man; it was too insignificant an occurrence to delay people so eager to get on. The troop continued its course as though their steeds had wings.

Alas! there are no unimportant events in this world and we shall see that this apparently slight incident came near endangering the monarchy.

An Adventure on the High Road.

The musketeers rode the whole length of the Faubourg Saint Antoine and of the road to Vincennes, and soon found themselves out of the town, then in a forest and then within sight of a village.

The horses seemed to become more lively with each successive step; their nostrils reddened like glowing furnaces. D’Artagnan, freely applying his spurs, was in advance of Porthos two feet at the most; Musqueton followed two lengths behind; the guards were scattered according to the varying excellence of their respective mounts.

From the top of an eminence D’Artagnan perceived a group of people collected on the other side of the moat, in front of that part of the donjon which looks toward Saint Maur. He rode on, convinced that in this direction he would gain intelligence of the fugitive. In five minutes he had arrived at the place, where the guards joined him, coming up one by one.

The several members of that group were much excited. They looked at the cord, still hanging from the loophole and broken at about twenty feet from the ground. Their eyes measured the height and they exchanged conjectures. On the top of the wall sentinels went and came with a frightened air.

A few soldiers, commanded by a sergeant, drove away idlers from the place where the duke had mounted his horse. D’Artagnan went straight to the sergeant.

“My officer,” said the sergeant, “it is not permitted to stop here.”

“That prohibition is not for me,” said D’Artagnan. “Have the fugitives been pursued?”

“Yes, my officer; unfortunately, they are well mounted.”

“How many are there?”

“Four, and a fifth whom they carried away wounded.”

“Four!” said D’Artagnan, looking at Porthos. “Do you hear, baron? They are only four!”

A joyous smile lighted Porthos’s face.

“How long a start have they?”

“Two hours and a quarter, my officer.”

“Two hours and a quarter--that is nothing; we are well mounted, are we not, Porthos?”

Porthos breathed a sigh; he thought of what was in store for his poor horses.

“Very good,” said D’Artagnan; “and now in what direction did they set out?”

“That I am forbidden to tell.”

D’Artagnan drew from his pocket a paper. “Order of the king,” he said.

“Speak to the governor, then.”

“And where is the governor?”

“In the country.”

Anger mounted to D’Artagnan’s face; he frowned and his cheeks were colored.

“Ah, you scoundrel!” he said to the sergeant, “I believe you are impudent to me! Wait!”

He unfolded the paper, presented it to the sergeant with one hand and with the other took a pistol from his holsters and cocked it.

“Order of the king, I tell you. Read and answer, or I will blow out your brains!”

The sergeant saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest. “The Vendomois road,” he replied.

“And by what gate did they go out?”

“By the Saint Maur gate.”

“If you are deceiving me, rascal, you will be hanged to-morrow.”

“And if you catch up with them you won’t come back to hang me,” murmured the sergeant.

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, made a sign to his escort and started.

“This way, gentlemen, this way!” he cried, directing his course toward the gate that had been pointed out.

But, now that the duke had escaped, the concierge had seen fit to fasten the gate with a double lock. It was necessary to compel him to open it, as the sergeant had been compelled to speak, and this took another ten minutes. This last obstacle having been overcome, the troop pursued their course with their accustomed ardor; but some of the horses could no longer sustain this pace; three of them stopped after an hour’s gallop, and one fell down.

D’Artagnan, who never turned his head, did not perceive it. Porthos told him of it in his calm manner.

“If only we two arrive,” said D’Artagnan, “it will be enough, since the duke’s troop are only four in number.”

“That is true,” said Porthos

And he spurred his courser on.

At the end of another two hours the horses had gone twelve leagues without stopping; their legs began to tremble, and the foam they shed whitened the doublets of their masters.

“Let us rest here an instant to give these poor creatures breathing time,” said Porthos.

“Let us rather kill them! yes, kill them!” cried D’Artagnan; “I see fresh tracks; ’tis not a quarter of an hour since they passed this place.”

In fact, the road was trodden by horses’ feet, visible even in the approaching gloom of evening.

They set out; after a run of two leagues, Musqueton’s horse sank.

“Gracious me!” said Porthos, “there’s Phoebus ruined.”

“The cardinal will pay you a hundred pistoles.”

“I’m above that.”

“Let us set out again, at full gallop.”

“Yes, if we can.”

But at last the lieutenant’s horse refused to go on; he could not breathe; one last spur, instead of making him advance, made him fall.

“The devil!” exclaimed Porthos; “there’s Vulcan foundered.”

“Zounds!” cried D’Artagnan, “then we must stop! Give me your horse, Porthos. What the devil are you doing?”

“By Jove, I am falling, or rather, Bayard is falling,” answered Porthos.

All three then cried: “All’s over.”

“Hush!” said D’Artagnan.

“What is it?”

“I hear a horse.”

“It belongs to one of our companions, who is overtaking us.”

“No,” said D’Artagnan, “it is in advance.”

“That is another thing,” said Porthos; and he listened toward the quarter indicated by D’Artagnan.

“Monsieur,” said Musqueton, who, abandoning his horse on the high road, had come on foot to rejoin his master, “Phoebus could no longer hold out and----”

“Silence!” said Porthos.

In fact, at that moment a second neighing was borne to them on the night wind.

“It is five hundred feet from here, in advance,” said D’Artagnan.

“True, monsieur,” said Musqueton; “and five hundred feet from here is a small hunting-house.”

“Musqueton, thy pistols,” said D’Artagnan.

“I have them at hand, monsieur.”

“Porthos, take yours from your holsters.”

“I have them.”

“Good!” said D’Artagnan, seizing his own; “now you understand, Porthos?”

“Not too well.”

“We are out on the king’s service.”

“Well?”

“For the king’s service we need horses.”

“That is true,” said Porthos.

“Then not a word, but set to work!”

They went on through the darkness, silent as phantoms; they saw a light glimmering in the midst of some trees.

“Yonder is the house, Porthos,” said the Gascon; “let me do what I please and do you what I do.”

They glided from tree to tree till they arrived at twenty steps from the house unperceived and saw by means of a lantern suspended under a hut, four fine horses. A groom was rubbing them down; near them were saddles and bridles.

D’Artagnan approached quickly, making a sign to his two companions to remain a few steps behind.

“I buy those horses,” he said to the groom.

The groom turned toward him with a look of surprise, but made no reply.

“Didn’t you hear, fellow?”

“Yes, I heard.”

“Why, then, didn’t you reply?”

“Because these horses are not to be sold,” was the reply.

“I take them, then,” said the lieutenant.

And he took hold of one within his reach; his two companions did the same thing.

“Sir,” cried the groom, “they have traversed six leagues and have only been unsaddled half an hour.”

“Half an hour’s rest is enough " replied the Gascon.

The groom cried aloud for help. A kind of steward appeared, just as D’Artagnan and his companions were prepared to mount. The steward attempted to expostulate.

“My dear friend,” cried the lieutenant, “if you say a word I will blow out your brains.”

“But, sir,” answered the steward, “do you know that these horses belong to Monsieur de Montbazon?”

“So much the better; they must be good animals, then.”

“Sir, I shall call my people.”

“And I, mine; I’ve ten guards behind me, don’t you hear them gallop? and I’m one of the king’s musketeers. Come, Porthos; come, Musqueton.”

They all mounted the horses as quickly as possible.

“Halloo! hi! hi!” cried the steward; “the house servants, with the carbines!”

“On! on!” cried D’Artagnan; “there’ll be firing! on!”

They all set off, swift as the wind.

“Here!” cried the steward, “here!” whilst the groom ran to a neighboring building.

“Take care of your horses!” cried D’Artagnan to him.

“Fire!” replied the steward.

A gleam, like a flash of lightning, illumined the road, and with the flash was heard the whistling of balls, which were fired wildly in the air.

“They fire like grooms,” said Porthos. “In the time of the cardinal people fired better than that, do you remember the road to Crevecoeur, Musqueton?”

“Ah, sir! my left side still pains me!”

“Are you sure we are on the right track, lieutenant?”

“Egad, didn’t you hear? these horses belong to Monsieur de Montbazon; well, Monsieur de Montbazon is the husband of Madame de Montbazon----”

“And----”

“And Madame de Montbazon is the mistress of the Duc de Beaufort.”

“Ah! I understand,” replied Porthos; “she has ordered relays of horses.”

“Exactly so.”

“And we are pursuing the duke with the very horses he has just left?”

“My dear Porthos, you are really a man of most superior understanding,” said D’Artagnan, with a look as if he spoke against his conviction.

“Pooh!” replied Porthos, “I am what I am.”

They rode on for an hour, till the horses were covered with foam and dust.

“Zounds! what is yonder?” cried D’Artagnan.

“You are very lucky if you see anything such a night as this,” said Porthos.

“Something bright.”

“I, too,” cried Musqueton, “saw them also.”

“Ah! ah! have we overtaken them?”

“Good! a dead horse!” said D’Artagnan, pulling up his horse, which shied; “it seems their horses, too, are breaking down, as well as ours.”

“I seem to hear the noise of a troop of horsemen,” exclaimed Porthos, leaning over his horse’s mane.

“Impossible.”

“They appear to be numerous.”

“Then ’tis something else.”

“Another horse!” said Porthos.

“Dead?”

“No, dying.”

“Saddled?”

“Yes, saddled and bridled.”

“Then we are upon the fugitives.”

“Courage, we have them!”

“But if they are numerous,” observed Musqueton, “‘tis not we who have them, but they who have us.”

“Nonsense!” cried D’Artagnan, “they’ll suppose us to be stronger than themselves, as we’re in pursuit; they’ll be afraid and will disperse.”

“Certainly,” remarked Porthos.

“Ah! do you see?” cried the lieutenant.

“The lights again! this time I, too, saw them,” said Porthos.

“On! on! forward! forward!” cried D’Artagnan, in his stentorian voice; “we shall laugh over all this in five minutes.”

And they darted on anew. The horses, excited by pain and emulation, raced over the dark road, in the midst of which was now seen a moving mass, denser and more obscure than the rest of the horizon.

The Rencontre.

They rode on in this way for ten minutes. Suddenly two dark forms seemed to separate from the mass, advanced, grew in size, and as they loomed up larger and larger, assumed the appearance of two horsemen.

“Aha!” cried D’Artagnan, “they’re coming toward us.”

“So much the worse for them,” said Porthos.

“Who goes there?” cried a hoarse voice.

The three horsemen made no reply, stopped not, and all that was heard was the noise of swords drawn from the scabbards and the cocking of the pistols with which the two phantoms were armed.

“Bridle in mouth!” said D’Artagnan.

Porthos understood him and he and the lieutenant each drew with the left hand a pistol from their bolsters and cocked it in their turn.

“Who goes there?” was asked a second time. “Not a step forward, or you’re dead men.”

“Stuff!” cried Porthos, almost choked with dust and chewing his bridle as a horse chews his bit. “Stuff and nonsense; we have seen plenty of dead men in our time.”

Hearing these words, the two shadows blockaded the road and by the light of the stars might be seen the shining of their arms.

“Back!” shouted D’Artagnan, “or you are dead!”

Two shots were the reply to this threat; but the assailants attacked their foes with such velocity that in a moment they were upon them; a third pistol-shot was heard, aimed by D’Artagnan, and one of his adversaries fell. As for Porthos, he assaulted the foe with such violence that, although his sword was thrust aside, the enemy was thrown off his horse and fell about ten steps from it.

“Finish, Mouston, finish the work!” cried Porthos. And he darted on beside his friend, who had already begun a fresh pursuit.

“Well?” said Porthos.

“I’ve broken my man’s skull,” cried D’Artagnan. “And you----”

“I’ve only thrown the fellow down, but hark!”

Another shot of a carbine was heard. It was Musqueton, who was obeying his master’s command.

“On! on!” cried D’Artagnan; “all goes well! we have the first throw.”

“Ha! ha!” answered Porthos, “behold, other players appear.”

And in fact, two other cavaliers made their appearance, detached, as it seemed, from the principal group; they again disputed the road.

This time the lieutenant did not wait for the opposite party to speak.

“Stand aside!” he cried; “stand off the road!”

“What do you want?” asked a voice.

“The duke!” Porthos and D’Artagnan roared out both at once.

A burst of laughter was the answer, but finished with a groan. D’Artagnan had, with his sword, cut in two the poor wretch who had laughed.

At the same time Porthos and his adversary fired on each other and D’Artagnan turned to him.

“Bravo! you’ve killed him, I think.”

“No, wounded his horse only.”

“What would you have, my dear fellow? One doesn’t hit the bull’s-eye every time; it is something to hit inside the ring. Ho! parbleau! what is the matter with my horse?”

“Your horse is falling,” said Porthos, reining in his own.

In truth, the lieutenant’s horse stumbled and fell on his knees; then a rattling in his throat was heard and he lay down to die. He had received in the chest the bullet of D’Artagnan’s first adversary. D’Artagnan swore loud enough to be heard in the skies.

“Does your honor want a horse?” asked Musqueton.

“Zounds! want one!” cried the Gascon.

“Here’s one, your honor----”

“How the devil hast thou two horses?” asked D’Artagnan, jumping on one of them.

“Their masters are dead! I thought they might be useful, so I took them.”

Meantime Porthos had reloaded his pistols.

“Be on the qui vive!” cried D’Artagnan. “Here are two other cavaliers.”

As he spoke, two horsemen advanced at full speed.

“Ho! your honor!” cried Musqueton, “the man you upset is getting up.”

“Why didn’t thou do as thou didst to the first man?” said Porthos.

“I held the horses, my hands were full, your honor.”

A shot was fired that moment; Musqueton shrieked with pain.

“Ah, sir! I’m hit in the other side! exactly opposite the other! This hurt is just the fellow of the one I had on the road to Amiens.”

Porthos turned around like a lion, plunged on the dismounted cavalier, who tried to draw his sword; but before it was out of the scabbard, Porthos, with the hilt of his had struck him such a terrible blow on the head that he fell like an ox beneath the butcher’s knife.

Musqueton, groaning, slipped from his horse, his wound not allowing him to keep the saddle.

On perceiving the cavaliers, D’Artagnan had stopped and charged his pistol afresh; besides, his horse, he found, had a carbine on the bow of the saddle.

“Here I am!” exclaimed Porthos. “Shall we wait, or shall we charge?”

“Let us charge them,” answered the Gascon.

“Charge!” cried Porthos.

They spurred on their horses; the other cavaliers were only twenty steps from them.

“For the king!” cried D’Artagnan.

“The king has no authority here!” answered a deep voice, which seemed to proceed from a cloud, so enveloped was the cavalier in a whirlwind of dust.

“‘Tis well, we will see if the king’s name is not a passport everywhere,” replied the Gascon.

“See!” answered the voice.

Two shots were fired at once, one by D’Artagnan, the other by the adversary of Porthos. D’Artagnan’s ball took off his enemy’s hat. The ball fired by Porthos’s foe went through the throat of his horse, which fell, groaning.

“For the last time, where are you going?”

“To the devil!” answered D’Artagnan.

“Good! you may be easy, then--you’ll get there.”

D’Artagnan then saw a musket-barrel leveled at him; he had no time to draw from his holsters. He recalled a bit of advice which Athos had once given him, and made his horse rear.

The ball struck the animal full in front. D’Artagnan felt his horse giving way under him and with his wonderful agility threw himself to one side.

“Ah! this,” cried the voice, the tone of which was at once polished and jeering, “this is nothing but a butchery of horses and not a combat between men. To the sword, sir! the sword!”

And he jumped off his horse.

“To the swords! be it so!” replied D’Artagnan; “that is exactly what I want.”

D’Artagnan, in two steps, was engaged with the foe, whom, according to custom, he attacked impetuously, but he met this time with a skill and a strength of arm that gave him pause. Twice he was obliged to step back; his opponent stirred not one inch. D’Artagnan returned and again attacked him.

Twice or thrice thrusts were attempted on both sides, without effect; sparks were emitted from the swords like water spouting forth.

At last D’Artagnan thought it was time to try one of his favorite feints in fencing. He brought it to bear, skillfully executed it with the rapidity of lightning, and struck the blow with a force which he fancied would prove irresistible.

The blow was parried.

“‘Sdeath!” he cried, with his Gascon accent.

At this exclamation his adversary bounded back and, bending his bare head, tried to distinguish in the gloom the features of the lieutenant.

As to D’Artagnan, afraid of some feint, he still stood on the defensive.

“Have a care,” cried Porthos to his opponent; “I’ve still two pistols charged.”

“The more reason you should fire the first!” cried his foe.

Porthos fired; the flash threw a gleam of light over the field of battle.

As the light shone on them a cry was heard from the other two combatants.

“Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

“D’Artagnan!” ejaculated Athos.

Athos raised his sword; D’Artagnan lowered his.

“Aramis!” cried Athos, “don’t fire!”

“Ah! ha! is it you, Aramis?” said Porthos.

And he threw away his pistol.

Aramis pushed his back into his saddle-bags and sheathed his sword.

“My son!” exclaimed Athos, extending his hand to D’Artagnan.

This was the name which he gave him in former days, in their moments of tender intimacy.

“Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, wringing his hands. “So you defend him! And I, who have sworn to take him dead or alive, I am dishonored--and by you!”

“Kill me!” replied Athos, uncovering his breast, “if your honor requires my death.”

“Oh! woe is me! woe is me!” cried the lieutenant; “there’s only one man in the world who could stay my hand; by a fatality that very man bars my way. What shall I say to the cardinal?”

“You can tell him, sir,” answered a voice which was the voice of high command in the battle-field, “that he sent against me the only two men capable of getting the better of four men; of fighting man to man, without discomfiture, against the Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier d’Herblay, and of surrendering only to fifty men!

“The prince!” exclaimed at the same moment Athos and Aramis, unmasking as they addressed the Duc de Beaufort, whilst D’Artagnan and Porthos stepped backward.

“Fifty cavaliers!” cried the Gascon and Porthos.

“Look around you, gentlemen, if you doubt the fact,” said the duke.

The two friends looked to the right, to the left; they were encompassed by a troop of horsemen.

“Hearing the noise of the fight,” resumed the duke, “I fancied you had about twenty men with you, so I came back with those around me, tired of always running away, and wishing to draw my sword in my own cause; but you are only two.”

“Yes, my lord; but, as you have said, two that are a match for twenty,” said Athos.

“Come, gentlemen, your swords,” said the duke.

“Our swords!” cried D’Artagnan, raising his head and regaining his self-possession. “Never!”

“Never!” added Porthos.

Some of the men moved toward them.

“One moment, my lord,” whispered Athos, and he said something in a low voice.

“As you will,” replied the duke. “I am too much indebted to you to refuse your first request. Gentlemen,” he said to his escort, “withdraw. Monsieur d’Artagnan, Monsieur du Vallon, you are free.”

The order was obeyed; D’Artagnan and Porthos then found themselves in the centre of a large circle.

“Now, D’Herblay,” said Athos, “dismount and come here.”

Aramis dismounted and went to Porthos, whilst Athos approached D’Artagnan.

All four once more together.

“Friends!” said Athos, “do you regret you have not shed our blood?”

“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “I regret to see that we, hitherto united, are opposed to each other. Ah! nothing will ever go well with us hereafter!”

“Oh, Heaven! No, all is over!” said Porthos.

“Well, be on our side now,” resumed Aramis.

“Silence, D’Herblay!” cried Athos; “such proposals are not to be made to gentlemen such as these. ’Tis a matter of conscience with them, as with us.”

“Meantime, here we are, enemies!” said Porthos. “Gramercy! who would ever have thought it?”

D’Artagnan only sighed.

Athos looked at them both and took their hands in his.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a serious business and my heart bleeds as if you had pierced it through and through. Yes, we are severed; there is the great, the distressing truth! But we have not as yet declared war; perhaps we shall have to make certain conditions, therefore a solemn conference is indispensable.”

“For my own part, I demand it,” said Aramis.

“I accept it,” interposed D’Artagnan, proudly.

Porthos bowed, as if in assent.

“Let us choose a place of rendezvous,” continued Athos, “and in a last interview arrange our mutual position and the conduct we are to maintain toward each other.”

“Good!” the other three exclaimed.

“Well, then, the place?”

“Will the Place Royale suit you?” asked D’Artagnan.

“In Paris?”

“Yes.”

Athos and Aramis looked at each other.

“The Place Royale--be it so!” replied Athos.

“When?”

“To-morrow evening, if you like!”

“At what hour?”

“At ten in the evening, if that suits you; by that time we shall have returned.”

“Good.”

“There,” continued Athos, “either peace or war will be decided; honor, at all events, will be maintained!”

“Alas!” murmured D’Artagnan, “our honor as soldiers is lost to us forever!”

“D’Artagnan,” said Athos, gravely, “I assure you that you do me wrong in dwelling so upon that. What I think of is, that we have crossed swords as enemies. Yes,” he continued, sadly shaking his head, “Yes, it is as you said, misfortune, indeed, has overtaken us. Come, Aramis.”

“And we, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “will return, carrying our shame to the cardinal.”

“And tell him,” cried a voice, “that I am not too old yet for a man of action.”

D’Artagnan recognized the voice of De Rochefort.

“Can I do anything for you, gentlemen?” asked the duke.

“Bear witness that we have done all that we could.”

“That shall be testified to, rest assured. Adieu! we shall meet soon, I trust, in Paris, where you shall have your revenge.” The duke, as he spoke, kissed his hand, spurred his horse into a gallop and disappeared, followed by his troop, who were soon lost in distance and darkness.

D’Artagnan and Porthos were now alone with a man who held by the bridles two horses; they thought it was Musqueton and went up to him.

“What do I see?” cried the lieutenant. “Grimaud, is it thou?”

Grimaud signified that he was not mistaken.

“And whose horses are these?” cried D’Artagnan.

“Who has given them to us?” said Porthos.

“The Comte de la Fere.”

“Athos! Athos!” muttered D’Artagnan; “you think of every one; you are indeed a nobleman! Whither art thou going, Grimaud?”

“To join the Vicomte de Bragelonne in Flanders, your honor.”

They were taking the road toward Paris, when groans, which seemed to proceed from a ditch, attracted their attention.

“What is that?” asked D’Artagnan.

“It is I--Musqueton,” said a mournful voice, whilst a sort of shadow arose out of the side of the road.

Porthos ran to him. “Art thou dangerously wounded, my dear Musqueton?” he said.

“No, sir, but I am severely.”

“What can we do?” said D’Artagnan; “we must return to Paris.”

“I will take care of Musqueton,” said Grimaud; and he gave his arm to his old comrade, whose eyes were full of tears, nor could Grimaud tell whether the tears were caused by wounds or by the pleasure of seeing him again.

D’Artagnan and Porthos went on, meantime, to Paris. They were passed by a sort of courier, covered with dust, the bearer of a letter from the duke to the cardinal, giving testimony to the valor of D’Artagnan and Porthos.

Mazarin had passed a very bad night when this letter was brought to him, announcing that the duke was free and that he would henceforth raise up mortal strife against him.

“What consoles me,” said the cardinal after reading the letter, “is that, at least, in this chase, D’Artagnan has done me one good turn--he has destroyed Broussel. This Gascon is a precious fellow; even his misadventures are of use.”

The cardinal referred to that man whom D’Artagnan upset at the corner of the Cimetiere Saint Jean in Paris, and who was no other than the Councillor Broussel.

The four old Friends prepare to meet again.

“Well,” said Porthos, seated in the courtyard of the Hotel de la Chevrette, to D’Artagnan, who, with a long and melancholy face, had returned from the Palais Royal; “did he receive you ungraciously, my dear friend?”

“I’faith, yes! a brute, that cardinal. What are you eating there, Porthos?”

“I am dipping a biscuit in a glass of Spanish wine; do the same.”

“You are right. Gimblou, a glass of wine.”

“Well, how has all gone off?”

“Zounds! you know there’s only one way of saying things, so I went in and said, ‘My lord, we were not the strongest party.’

“‘Yes, I know that,’ he said, ‘but give me the particulars.’

“You know, Porthos, I could not give him the particulars without naming our friends; to name them would be to commit them to ruin, so I merely said they were fifty and we were two.

“‘There was firing, nevertheless, I heard,’ he said; ‘and your swords--they saw the light of day, I presume?’

“‘That is, the night, my lord,’ I answered.

“‘Ah!’ cried the cardinal, ‘I thought you were a Gascon, my friend?’

“‘I am a Gascon,’ said I, ‘only when I succeed.’ The answer pleased him and he laughed.

“‘That will teach me,’ he said, ‘to have my guards provided with better horses; for if they had been able to keep up with you and if each one of them had done as much as you and your friend, you would have kept your word and would have brought him back to me dead or alive.’”

“Well, there’s nothing bad in that, it seems to me,” said Porthos.

“Oh, mon Dieu! no, nothing at all. It was the way in which he spoke. It is incredible how these biscuit soak up wine! They are veritable sponges! Gimblou, another bottle.”

The bottle was brought with a promptness which showed the degree of consideration D’Artagnan enjoyed in the establishment. He continued:

“So I was going away, but he called me back.

“‘You have had three horses foundered or killed?’ he asked me.

“‘Yes, my lord.’

“‘How much were they worth?’”

“Why,” said Porthos, “that was very good of him, it seems to me.”

“‘A thousand pistoles,’ I said.”

“A thousand pistoles!” Porthos exclaimed. “Oh! oh! that is a large sum. If he knew anything about horses he would dispute the price.”

“Faith! he was very much inclined to do so, the contemptible fellow. He made a great start and looked at me. I also looked at him; then he understood, and putting his hand into a drawer, he took from it a quantity of notes on a bank in Lyons.”

“For a thousand pistoles?”

“For a thousand pistoles--just that amount, the beggar; not one too many.”

“And you have them?”

“They are here.”

“Upon my word, I think he acted very generously.”

“Generously! to men who had risked their lives for him, and besides had done him a great service?”

“A great service--what was that?”

“Why, it seems that I crushed for him a parliament councillor.”

“What! that little man in black that you upset at the corner of Saint Jean Cemetery?”

“That’s the man, my dear fellow; he was an annoyance to the cardinal. Unfortunately, I didn’t crush him flat. It seems that he came to himself and that he will continue to be an annoyance.”

“See that, now!” said Porthos; “and I turned my horse aside from going plump on to him! That will be for another time.”

“He owed me for the councillor, the pettifogger!”

“But,” said Porthos, “if he was not crushed completely----”

“Ah! Monsieur de Richelieu would have said, ‘Five hundred crowns for the councillor.’ Well, let’s say no more about it. How much were your animals worth, Porthos?”

“Ah, if poor Musqueton were here he could tell you to a fraction.”

“No matter; you can tell within ten crowns.”

“Why, Vulcan and Bayard cost me each about two hundred pistoles, and putting Phoebus at a hundred and fifty, we should be pretty near the amount.”

“There will remain, then, four hundred and fifty pistoles,” said D’Artagnan, contentedly.

“Yes,” said Porthos, “but there are the equipments.”

“That is very true. Well, how much for the equipments?”

“If we say one hundred pistoles for the three----”

“Good for the hundred pistoles; there remains, then, three hundred and fifty.”

Porthos made a sign of assent.

“We will give the fifty pistoles to the hostess for our expenses,” said D’Artagnan, “and share the three hundred.”

“We will share,” said Porthos.

“A paltry piece of business!” murmured D’Artagnan crumpling his note.

“Pooh!” said Porthos, “it is always that. But tell me----”

“What?”

“Didn’t he speak of me in any way?”

“Ah! yes, indeed!” cried D’Artagnan, who was afraid of disheartening his friend by telling him that the cardinal had not breathed a word about him; “yes, surely, he said----”

“He said?” resumed Porthos.

“Stop, I want to remember his exact words. He said, ‘As to your friend, tell him he may sleep in peace.’”

“Good, very good,” said Porthos; “that signified as clear as daylight that he still intends to make me a baron.”

At this moment nine o’clock struck. D’Artagnan started.

“Ah, yes,” said Porthos, “there is nine o’clock. We have a rendezvous, you remember, at the Place Royale.”

“Ah! stop! hold your peace, Porthos, don’t remind me of it; ’tis that which has made me so cross since yesterday. I shall not go.”

“Why?” asked Porthos.

“Because it is a grievous thing for me to meet again those two men who caused the failure of our enterprise.”

“And yet,” said Porthos, “neither of them had any advantage over us. I still had a loaded pistol and you were in full fight, sword in hand.”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan; “but what if this rendezvous had some hidden purpose?”

“Oh!” said Porthos, “you can’t think that, D’Artagnan!”

D’Artagnan did not believe Athos to be capable of a deception, but he sought an excuse for not going to the rendezvous.

“We must go,” said the superb lord of Bracieux, “lest they should say we were afraid. We who have faced fifty foes on the high road can well meet two in the Place Royale.”

“Yes, yes, but they took part with the princes without apprising us of it. Athos and Aramis have played a game with me which alarms me. We discovered yesterday the truth; what is the use of going to-day to learn something else?”

“You really have some distrust, then?” said Porthos.

“Of Aramis, yes, since he has become an abbe. You can’t imagine, my dear fellow, the sort of man he is. He sees us on the road which leads him to a bishopric, and perhaps will not be sorry to get us out of his way.”

“Ah, as regards Aramis, that is another thing,” said Porthos, “and it wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

“Perhaps Monsieur de Beaufort will try, in his turn, to lay hands on us.”

“Nonsense! He had us in his power and he let us go. Besides we can be on our guard; let us take arms, let Planchet post himself behind us with his carbine.”

“Planchet is a Frondeur,” answered D’Artagnan.

“Devil take these civil wars! one can no more now reckon on one’s friends than on one’s footmen,” said Porthos. “Ah! if Musqueton were here! there’s a fellow who will never desert me!”

“So long as you are rich! Ah! my friend! ’tis not civil war that disunites us. It is that we are each of us twenty years older; it is that the honest emotions of youth have given place to suggestions of interest, whispers of ambition, counsels of selfishness. Yes, you are right; let us go, Porthos, but let us go well armed; were we not to keep the rendezvous, they would declare we were afraid. Halloo! Planchet! here! saddle our horses, take your carbine.”

“Whom are we going to attack, sir?”

“No one; a mere matter of precaution,” answered the Gascon.

“You know, sir, that they wished to murder that good councillor, Broussel, the father of the people?”

“Really, did they?” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes, but he has been avenged. He was carried home in the arms of the people. His house has been full ever since. He has received visits from the coadjutor, from Madame de Longueville, and the Prince de Conti; Madame de Chevreuse and Madame de Vendome have left their names at his door. And now, whenever he wishes----”

“Well, whenever he wishes?”

Planchet began to sing:

“Un vent de fronde
S’est leve ce matin;
Je crois qu’il gronde
Contre le Mazarin.
Un vent de fronde
S’est leve ce matin.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone to Porthos, “that Mazarin would have been much better satisfied had I crushed the life out of his councillor.”

“You understand, then, monsieur,” resumed Planchet, “that if it were for some enterprise like that undertaken against Monsieur Broussel that you should ask me to take my carbine----”

“No, don’t be alarmed; but where did you get all these details?”

“From a good source, sir; I heard it from Friquet.”

“From Friquet? I know that name----”

“A son of Monsieur de Broussel’s servant, and a lad that, I promise you, in a revolt will not give away his share to the dogs.”

“Is he not a singing boy at Notre Dame?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Yes, that is the very boy; he’s patronized by Bazin.”

“Ah, yes, I know.”

“Of what importance is this little reptile to you?” asked Porthos.

“Gad!” replied D’Artagnan; “he has already given me good information and he may do the same again.”

Whilst all this was going on, Athos and Aramis were entering Paris by the Faubourg St. Antoine. They had taken some refreshment on the road and hastened on, that they might not fail at the appointed place. Bazin was their only attendant, for Grimaud had stayed behind to take care of Musqueton. As they were passing onward, Athos proposed that they should lay aside their arms and military costume, and assume a dress more suited to the city.

“Oh, no, dear count!” cried Aramis, “is it not a warlike encounter that we are going to?”

“What do you mean, Aramis?”

“That the Place Royale is the termination to the main road to Vendomois, and nothing else.”

“What! our friends?”

“Are become our most dangerous enemies, Athos. Let us be on our guard.”

“Oh! my dear D’Herblay!”

“Who can say whether D’Artagnan may not have betrayed us to the cardinal? Who can tell whether Mazarin may not take advantage of this rendezvous to seize us?”

“What! Aramis, you think that D’Artagnan, that Porthos, would lend their hands to such an infamy?”

“Among friends, my dear Athos, no, you are right; but among enemies it would be only a stratagem.”

Athos crossed his arms and bowed his noble head.

“What can you expect, Athos? Men are so made; and we are not always twenty years old. We have cruelly wounded, as you know, that personal pride by which D’Artagnan is blindly governed. He has been beaten. Did you not observe his despair on the journey? As to Porthos, his barony was perhaps dependent on that affair. Well, he found us on his road and will not be baron this time. Perhaps that famous barony will have something to do with our interview this evening. Let us take our precautions, Athos.”

“But suppose they come unarmed? What a disgrace to us.”

“Oh, never fear! besides, if they do, we can easily make an excuse; we came straight off a journey and are insurgents, too.”

“An excuse for us! to meet D’Artagnan with a false excuse! to have to make a false excuse to Porthos! Oh, Aramis!” continued Athos, shaking his head mournfully, “upon my soul, you make me the most miserable of men; you disenchant a heart not wholly dead to friendship. Go in whatever guise you choose; for my part, I shall go unarmed.”

“No, for I will not allow you to do so. ’Tis not one man, not Athos only, not the Comte de la Fere whom you will ruin by this amiable weakness, but a whole party to whom you belong and who depend upon you.”

“Be it so then,” replied Athos, sorrowfully.

And they pursued their road in mournful silence.

Scarcely had they reached by the Rue de la Mule the iron gate of the Place Royale, when they perceived three cavaliers, D’Artagnan, Porthos, and Planchet, the two former wrapped up in their military cloaks under which their swords were hidden, and Planchet, his musket by his side. They were waiting at the entrance of the Rue Sainte Catharine, and their horses were fastened to the rings of the arcade. Athos, therefore, commanded Bazin to fasten up his horse and that of Aramis in the same manner.

They then advanced two and two, and saluted each other politely.

“Now where will it be agreeable to you that we hold our conference?” inquired Aramis, perceiving that people were stopping to look at them, supposing that they were going to engage in one of those far-famed duels still extant in the memory of the Parisians, and especially the inhabitants of the Place Royale.

“The gate is shut,” said Aramis, “but if these gentlemen like a cool retreat under the trees, and perfect seclusion, I will get the key from the Hotel de Rohan and we shall be well suited.”

D’Artagnan darted a look into the obscurity of the Place. Porthos ventured to put his head between the railings, to try if his glance could penetrate the gloom.

“If you prefer any other place,” said Athos, in his persuasive voice, “choose for yourselves.”

“This place, if Monsieur d’Herblay can procure the key, is the best that we can have,” was the answer.

Aramis went off at once, begging Athos not to remain alone within reach of D’Artagnan and Porthos; a piece of advice which was received with a contemptuous smile.

Aramis returned soon with a man from the Hotel de Rohan, who was saying to him:

“You swear, sir, that it is not so?”

“Stop,” and Aramis gave him a louis d’or.

“Ah! you will not swear, my master,” said the concierge, shaking his head.

“Well, one can never say what may happen; at present we and these gentlemen are excellent friends.”

“Yes, certainly,” added Athos and the other two.

D’Artagnan had heard the conversation and had understood it.

“You see?” he said to Porthos.

“What do I see?”

“That he wouldn’t swear.”

“Swear what?”

“That man wanted Aramis to swear that we are not going to the Place Royale to fight.”

“And Aramis wouldn’t swear?”

“No.”

“Attention, then!”

Athos did not lose sight of the two speakers. Aramis opened the gate and faced around in order that D’Artagnan and Porthos might enter. In passing through the gate, the hilt of the lieutenant’s sword was caught in the grating and he was obliged to pull off his cloak; in doing so he showed the butt end of his pistols and a ray of the moon was reflected on the shining metal.

“Do you see?” whispered Aramis to Athos, touching his shoulder with one hand and pointing with the other to the arms which the Gascon wore under his belt.

“Alas! I do!” replied Athos, with a deep sigh.

He entered third, and Aramis, who shut the gate after him, last. The two serving-men waited without; but as if they likewise mistrusted each other, they kept their respective distances.

The Place Royale.

They proceeded silently to the centre of the Place, but as at this very moment the moon had just emerged from behind a cloud, they thought they might be observed if they remained on that spot and therefore regained the shade of the lime-trees.

There were benches here and there; the four gentlemen stopped near them; at a sign from Athos, Porthos and D’Artagnan sat down, the two others stood in front of them.

After a few minutes of silent embarrassment, Athos spoke.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “our presence here is the best proof of former friendship; not one of us has failed the others at this rendezvous; not one has, therefore, to reproach himself.”

“Hear me, count,” replied D’Artagnan; “instead of making compliments to each other, let us explain our conduct to each other, like men of right and honest hearts.”

“I wish for nothing more; have you any cause of complaint against me or Monsieur d’Herblay? If so, speak out,” answered Athos.

“I have,” replied D’Artagnan. “When I saw you at your chateau at Bragelonne, I made certain proposals to you which you perfectly understood; instead of answering me as a friend, you played with me as a child; the friendship, therefore, that you boast of was not broken yesterday by the shock of swords, but by your dissimulation at your castle.”

“D’Artagnan!” said Athos, reproachfully.

“You asked for candor and you have it. You ask what I have against you; I tell you. And I have the same sincerity to show you, if you wish, Monsieur d’Herblay; I acted in a similar way to you and you also deceived me.”

“Really, monsieur, you say strange things,” said Aramis. “You came seeking me to make to me certain proposals, but did you make them? No, you sounded me, nothing more. Very well what did I say to you? that Mazarin was contemptible and that I wouldn’t serve Mazarin. But that is all. Did I tell you that I wouldn’t serve any other? On the contrary, I gave you to understand, I think, that I adhered to the princes. We even joked very pleasantly, if I remember rightly, on the very probable contingency of your being charged by the cardinal with my arrest. Were you a party man? There is no doubt of that. Well, why should not we, too, belong to a party? You had your secret and we had ours; we didn’t exchange them. So much the better; it proves that we know how to keep our secrets.”

“I do not reproach you, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan; “’tis only because Monsieur de la Fere has spoken of friendship that I question your conduct.”

“And what do you find in it that is worthy of blame?” asked Aramis, haughtily.

The blood mounted instantly to the temples of D’Artagnan, who arose, and replied:

“I consider it worthy conduct of a pupil of Jesuits.”

On seeing D’Artagnan rise, Porthos rose also; these four men were therefore all standing at the same time, with a menacing aspect, opposite to each other.

Upon hearing D’Artagnan’s reply, Aramis seemed about to draw his sword, when Athos prevented him.

“D’Artagnan,” he said, “you are here to-night, still infuriated by yesterday’s adventure. I believed your heart noble enough to enable a friendship of twenty years to overcome an affront of a quarter of an hour. Come, do you really think you have anything to say against me? Say it then; if I am in fault I will avow the error.”

The grave and harmonious tones of that beloved voice seemed to have still its ancient influence, whilst that of Aramis, which had become harsh and tuneless in his moments of ill-humor, irritated him. He answered therefore:

“I think, monsieur le comte, that you had something to communicate to me at your chateau of Bragelonne, and that gentleman”--he pointed to Aramis--“had also something to tell me when I was in his convent. At that time I was not concerned in the adventure, in the course of which you have so successfully estopped me! However, because I was prudent you must not take me for a fool. If I had wished to widen the breach between those whom Monsieur d’Herblay chooses to receive with a rope ladder and those whom he receives with a wooden ladder, I could have spoken out.”

“What are you meddling with?” cried Aramis, pale with anger, suspecting that D’Artagnan had acted as a spy on him and had seen him with Madame de Longueville.

“I never meddle save with what concerns me, and I know how to make believe that I haven’t seen what does not concern me; but I hate hypocrites, and among that number I place musketeers who are abbes and abbes who are musketeers; and,” he added, turning to Porthos “here’s a gentleman who’s of the same opinion as myself.”

Porthos, who had not spoken one word, answered merely by a word and a gesture.

He said “yes” and he put his hand on his sword.

Aramis started back and drew his. D’Artagnan bent forward, ready either to attack or to stand on his defense.

Athos at that moment extended his hand with the air of supreme command which characterized him alone, drew out his sword and the scabbard at the same time, broke the blade in the sheath on his knee and threw the pieces to his right. Then turning to Aramis:

“Aramis,” he said, “break your sword.”

Aramis hesitated.

“It must be done,” said Athos; then in a lower and more gentle voice, he added. “I wish it.”

Then Aramis, paler than before, but subdued by these words, snapped the serpent blade between his hands, and then folding his arms, stood trembling with rage.

These proceedings made D’Artagnan and Porthos draw back. D’Artagnan did not draw his sword; Porthos put his back into the sheath.

“Never!” exclaimed Athos, raising his right hand to Heaven, “never! I swear before God, who seeth us, and who, in the darkness of this night heareth us, never shall my sword cross yours, never my eye express a glance of anger, nor my heart a throb of hatred, at you. We lived together, we loved, we hated together; we shed, we mingled our blood together, and too probably, I may still add, that there may be yet a bond between us closer even than that of friendship; perhaps there may be the bond of crime; for we four, we once did condemn, judge and slay a human being whom we had not any right to cut off from this world, although apparently fitter for hell than for this life. D’Artagnan, I have always loved you as my son; Porthos, we slept six years side by side; Aramis is your brother as well as mine, and Aramis has once loved you, as I love you now and as I have ever loved you. What can Cardinal Mazarin be to us, to four men who compelled such a man as Richelieu to act as we pleased? What is such or such a prince to us, who fixed the diadem upon a great queen’s head? D’Artagnan, I ask your pardon for having yesterday crossed swords with you; Aramis does the same to Porthos; now hate me if you can; but for my own part, I shall ever, even if you do hate me, retain esteem and friendship for you. I repeat my words, Aramis, and then, if you desire it, and if they desire it, let us separate forever from our old friends.”

There was a solemn, though momentary silence, which was broken by Aramis.

“I swear,” he said, with a calm brow and kindly glance, but in a voice still trembling with recent emotion, “I swear that I no longer bear animosity to those who were once my friends. I regret that I ever crossed swords with you, Porthos; I swear not only that it shall never again be pointed at your breast, but that in the bottom of my heart there will never in future be the slightest hostile sentiment; now, Athos, come.”

Athos was about to retire.

“Oh! no! no! do not go away!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, impelled by one of those irresistible impulses which showed the nobility of his nature, the native brightness of his character; “I swear that I would give the last drop of my blood and the last fragment of my limbs to preserve the friendship of such a friend as you, Athos--of such a man as you, Aramis.” And he threw himself into the arms of Athos.

“My son!” exclaimed Athos, pressing him in his arms.

“And as for me,” said Porthos, “I swear nothing, but I’m choked. Forsooth! If I were obliged to fight against you, I think I should allow myself to be pierced through and through, for I never loved any one but you in the wide world;” and honest Porthos burst into tears as he embraced Athos.

“My friends,” said Athos, “this is what I expected from such hearts as yours. Yes, I have said it and I now repeat it: our destinies are irrevocably united, although we now pursue divergent roads. I respect your convictions, and whilst we fight for opposite sides, let us remain friends. Ministers, princes, kings, will pass away like mountain torrents; civil war, like a forest flame; but we--we shall remain; I have a presentiment that we shall.”

“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “let us still be musketeers, and let us retain as our battle-standard that famous napkin of the bastion St. Gervais, on which the great cardinal had three fleurs-de-lis embroidered.”

“Be it so,” cried Aramis. “Cardinalists or Frondeurs, what matters it? Let us meet again as capital seconds in a duel, devoted friends in business, merry companions in our ancient pleasures.”

“And whenever,” added Athos, “we meet in battle, at this word, ‘Place Royale!’ let us put our swords into our left hands and shake hands with the right, even in the very lust and music of the hottest carnage.”

“You speak charmingly,” said Porthos.

“And are the first of men!” added D’Artagnan. “You excel us all.”

Athos smiled with ineffable pleasure.

“’Tis then all settled. Gentlemen, your hands; are we not pretty good Christians?”

“Egad!” said D’Artagnan, “by Heaven! yes.”

“We should be so on this occasion, if only to be faithful to our oath,” said Aramis.

“Ah, I’m ready to do what you will,” cried Porthos; “even to swear by Mahomet. Devil take me if I’ve ever been so happy as at this moment.”

And he wiped his eyes, still moist.

“Has not one of you a cross?” asked Athos.

Aramis smiled and drew from his vest a cross of diamonds, which was hung around his neck by a chain of pearls. “Here is one,” he said.

“Well,” resumed Athos, “swear on this cross, which, in spite of its magnificent material, is still a cross; swear to be united in spite of everything, and forever, and may this oath bind us to each other, and even, also, our descendants! Does this oath satisfy you?”

“Yes,” said they all, with one accord.

“Ah, traitor!” muttered D’Artagnan, leaning toward Aramis and whispering in his ear, “you have made us swear on the crucifix of a Frondeuse.”

The Ferry across the Oise.

We hope that the reader has not quite forgotten the young traveler whom we left on the road to Flanders.

In losing sight of his guardian, whom he had quitted, gazing after him in front of the royal basilican, Raoul spurred on his horse, in order not only to escape from his own melancholy reflections, but also to hide from Olivain the emotion his face might betray.

One hour’s rapid progress, however, sufficed to disperse the gloomy fancies that had clouded the young man’s bright anticipations; and the hitherto unfelt pleasure of freedom--a pleasure which is sweet even to those who have never known dependence--seemed to Raoul to gild not only Heaven and earth, but especially that blue but dim horizon of life we call the future.

Nevertheless, after several attempts at conversation with Olivain he foresaw that many days passed thus would prove exceedingly dull; and the count’s agreeable voice, his gentle and persuasive eloquence, recurred to his mind at the various towns through which they journeyed and about which he had no longer any one to give him those interesting details which he would have drawn from Athos, the most amusing and the best informed of guides. Another recollection contributed also to sadden Raoul: on their arrival at Sonores he had perceived, hidden behind a screen of poplars, a little chateau which so vividly recalled that of La Valliere to his mind that he halted for nearly ten minutes to gaze at it, and resumed his journey with a sigh too abstracted even to reply to Olivain’s respectful inquiry about the cause of so much fixed attention. The aspect of external objects is often a mysterious guide communicating with the fibres of memory, which in spite of us will arouse them at times; this thread, like that of Ariadne, when once unraveled will conduct one through a labyrinth of thought, in which one loses one’s self in endeavoring to follow that phantom of the past which is called recollection.

Now the sight of this chateau had taken Raoul back fifty leagues westward and had caused him to review his life from the moment when he had taken leave of little Louise to that in which he had seen her for the first time; and every branch of oak, every gilded weathercock on roof of slates, reminded him that, instead of returning to the friends of his childhood, every instant estranged him further and that perhaps he had even left them forever.

With a full heart and burning head he desired Olivain to lead on the horses to a wayside inn, which he observed within gunshot range, a little in advance of the place they had reached.

As for himself, he dismounted and remained under a beautiful group of chestnuts in flower, amidst which were murmuring a multitude of happy bees, and bade Olivain send the host to him with writing paper and ink, to be placed on a table which he found there, conveniently ready. Olivain obeyed and continued on his way, whilst Raoul remained sitting, with his elbow leaning on the table, from time to time gently shaking the flowers from his head, which fell upon him like snow, and gazing vaguely on the charming landscape spread out before him, dotted over with green fields and groups of trees. Raoul had been there about ten minutes, during five of which he was lost in reverie, when there appeared within the circle comprised in his rolling gaze a man with a rubicund face, who, with a napkin around his body, another under his arm, and a white cap upon his head, approached him, holding paper, pen and ink in hand.

“Ha! ha!” laughed the apparition, “every gentleman seems to have the same fancy, for not a quarter of an hour ago a young lad, well mounted like you, as tall as you and of about your age, halted before this clump of trees and had this table and this chair brought here, and dined here, with an old gentleman who seemed to be his tutor, upon a pie, of which they haven’t left a mouthful, and two bottles of Macon wine, of which they haven’t left a drop, but fortunately we have still some of the same wine and some of the same pies left, and if your worship will but give your orders----”

“No, friend " replied Raoul, smiling, “I am obliged to you, but at this moment I want nothing but the things for which I have asked--only I shall be very glad if the ink prove black and the pen good; upon these conditions I will pay for the pen the price of the bottle, and for the ink the price of the pie.”

“Very well, sir,” said the host, “I’ll give the pie and the bottle of wine to your servant, and in this way you will have the pen and ink into the bargain.”

“Do as you like,” said Raoul, who was beginning his apprenticeship with that particular class of society, who, when there were robbers on the highroads, were connected with them, and who, since highwaymen no longer exist, have advantageously and aptly filled their vacant place.

The host, his mind at ease about his bill, placed pen, ink and paper upon the table. By a lucky chance the pen was tolerably good and Raoul began to write. The host remained standing in front of him, looking with a kind of involuntary admiration at his handsome face, combining both gravity and sweetness of expression. Beauty has always been and always will be all-powerful.

“He’s not a guest like the other one here just now,” observed mine host to Olivain, who had rejoined his master to see if he wanted anything, “and your young master has no appetite.”

“My master had appetite enough three days ago, but what can one do? he lost it the day before yesterday.”

And Olivain and the host took their way together toward the inn, Olivain, according to the custom of serving-men well pleased with their place, relating to the tavern-keeper all that he could say in favor of the young gentleman; whilst Raoul wrote on thus:

“Sir,--After a four hours’ march I stop to write to you, for I miss you every moment, and I am always on the point of turning my head as if to reply when you speak to me. I was so bewildered by your departure and so overcome with grief at our separation, that I am sure I was able to but very feebly express all the affection and gratitude I feel toward you. You will forgive me, sir, for your heart is of such a generous nature that you can well understand all that has passed in mine. I entreat you to write to me, for you form a part of my existence, and, if I may venture to tell you so, I also feel anxious. It seemed to me as if you were yourself preparing for some dangerous undertaking, about which I did not dare to question you, since you told me nothing. I have, therefore, as you see, great need of hearing from you. Now that you are no longer beside me I am afraid every moment of erring. You sustained me powerfully, sir, and I protest to you that to-day I feel very lonely. Will you have the goodness, sir, should you receive news from Blois, to send me a few lines about my little friend Mademoiselle de la Valliere, about whose health, when we left, so much anxiety was felt? You can understand, honored and dear guardian, how precious and indispensable to me is the remembrance of the years that I have passed with you. I hope that you will sometimes, too, think of me, and if at certain hours you should miss me, if you should feel any slight regret at my absence, I shall be overwhelmed with joy at the thought that you appreciate my affection for and my devotion to yourself, and that I have been able to prove them to you whilst I had the happiness of diving with you.”

After finishing this letter Raoul felt more composed; he looked well around him to see if Olivain and the host might not be watching him, whilst he impressed a kiss upon the paper, a mute and touching caress, which the heart of Athos might well divine on opening the letter.

During this time Olivain had finished his bottle and eaten his pie; the horses were also refreshed. Raoul motioned to the host to approach, threw a crown upon the table, mounted his horse, and posted his letter at Senlis. The rest that had been thus afforded to men and horses enabled them to continue their journey at a good round pace. At Verberie, Raoul desired Olivain to make some inquiry about the young man who was preceding them; he had been observed to pass only three-quarters of an hour previously, but he was well mounted, as the tavern-keeper had already said, and rode at a rapid pace.

“Let us try and overtake this gentleman,” said Raoul to Olivain; “like ourselves he is on his way to join the army and may prove agreeable company.”

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when Raoul arrived at Compiegne; there he dined heartily and again inquired about the young gentleman who was in advance of them. He had stopped, like Raoul, at the Hotel of the Bell and Bottle, the best at Compiegne; and had started again on his journey, saying that he should sleep at Noyon.

“Well, let us sleep at Noyon,” said Raoul.

“Sir,” replied Olivain, respectfully, “allow me to remark that we have already much fatigued the horses this morning. I think it would be well to sleep here and to start again very early to-morrow. Eighteen leagues is enough for the first stage.”

“The Comte de la Fere wished me to hasten on,” replied Raoul, “that I might rejoin the prince on the morning of the fourth day; let us push on, then, to Noyon; it will be a stage similar to those we traveled from Blois to Paris. We shall arrive at eight o’clock. The horses will have a long night’s rest, and at five o’clock to-morrow morning we can be again on the road.”

Olivain dared offer no opposition to this determination but he followed his master, grumbling.

“Go on, go on,” said he, between his teeth, “expend your ardor the first day; to-morrow, instead of journeying twenty leagues, you will travel ten, the day after to-morrow, five, and in three days you will be in bed. There you must rest; young people are such braggarts.”

It was easy to see that Olivain had not been taught in the school of the Planchets and the Grimauds. Raoul really felt tired, but he was desirous of testing his strength, and, brought up in the principles of Athos and certain of having heard him speak a thousand times of stages of twenty-five leagues, he did not wish to fall far short of his model. D’Artagnan, that man of iron, who seemed to be made of nerve and muscle only, had struck him with admiration. Therefore, in spite of Olivain’s remarks, he continued to urge his steed more and more, and following a pleasant little path, leading to a ferry, and which he had been assured shortened the journey by the distance of one league, he arrived at the summit of a hill and perceived the river flowing before him. A little troop of men on horseback were waiting on the edge of the stream, ready to embark. Raoul did not doubt this was the gentleman and his escort; he called out to him, but they were too distant to be heard; then, in spite of the weariness of his beast, he made it gallop but the rising ground soon deprived him of all sight of the travelers, and when he had again attained a new height, the ferryboat had left the shore and was making for the opposite bank. Raoul, seeing that he could not arrive in time to cross the ferry with the travelers, halted to wait for Olivain. At this moment a shriek was heard that seemed to come from the river. Raoul turned toward the side whence the cry had sounded, and shaded his eyes from the glare of the setting sun with his hand.

“Olivain!” he exclaimed, “what do I see below there?”

A second scream, more piercing than the first, now sounded.

“Oh, sir!” cried Olivain, “the rope which holds the ferryboat has broken and the boat is drifting. But what do I see in the water--something struggling?”

“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Raoul, fixing his glance on one point in the stream, splendidly illumined by the setting sun, “a horse, a rider!”

“They are sinking!” cried Olivain in his turn.

It was true, and Raoul was convinced that some accident had happened and that a man was drowning; he gave his horse its head, struck his spurs into its sides, and the animal, urged by pain and feeling that he had space open before him, bounded over a kind of paling which inclosed the landing place, and fell into the river, scattering to a distance waves of white froth.

“Ah, sir!” cried Olivain, “what are you doing? Good God!”

Raoul was directing his horse toward the unhappy man in danger. This was, in fact, a custom familiar to him. Having been brought up on the banks of the Loire, he might have been said to have been cradled on its waves; a hundred times he had crossed it on horseback, a thousand times had swum across. Athos, foreseeing the period when he should make a soldier of the viscount, had inured him to all kinds of arduous undertakings.

“Oh, heavens!” continued Olivain, in despair, “what would the count say if he only saw you now!”

“The count would do as I do,” replied Raoul, urging his horse vigorously forward.

“But I--but I,” cried Olivain, pale and disconsolate rushing about on the shore, “how shall I cross?”

“Leap, coward!” cried Raoul, swimming on; then addressing the traveler, who was struggling twenty yards in front of him: “Courage, sir!” said he, “courage! we are coming to your aid.”

Olivain advanced, retired, then made his horse rear--turned it and then, struck to the core by shame, leaped, as Raoul had done, only repeating:

“I am a dead man! we are lost!”

In the meantime, the ferryboat had floated away, carried down by the stream, and the shrieks of those whom it contained resounded more and more. A man with gray hair had thrown himself from the boat into the river and was swimming vigorously toward the person who was drowning; but being obliged to go against the current he advanced but slowly. Raoul continued his way and was visibly gaining ground; but the horse and its rider, of whom he did not lose sight, were evidently sinking. The nostrils of the horse were no longer above water, and the rider, who had lost the reins in struggling, fell with his head back and his arms extended. One moment longer and all would disappear.

“Courage!” cried Raoul, “courage!”

“Too late!” murmured the young man, “too late!”

The water closed above his head and stifled his voice.

Raoul sprang from his horse, to which he left the charge of its own preservation, and in three or four strokes was at the gentleman’s side; he seized the horse at once by the curb and raised its head above water; the animal began to breathe again and, as if he comprehended that they had come to his aid, redoubled his efforts. Raoul at the same time seized one of the young man’s hands and placed it on the mane, which it grasped with the tenacity of a drowning man. Thus, sure that the rider would not release his hold, Raoul now only directed his attention to the horse, which he guided to the opposite bank, helping it to cut through the water and encouraging it with words.

All at once the horse stumbled against a ridge and then placed its foot on the sand.

“Saved!” exclaimed the man with gray hair, who also touched bottom.

“Saved!” mechanically repeated the young gentleman, releasing the mane and sliding from the saddle into Raoul’s arms; Raoul was but ten yards from the shore; there he bore the fainting man, and laying him down upon the grass, unfastened the buttons of his collar and unhooked his doublet. A moment later the gray-headed man was beside him. Olivain managed in his turn to land, after crossing himself repeatedly; and the people in the ferryboat guided themselves as well as they were able toward the bank, with the aid of a pole which chanced to be in the boat.

Thanks to the attentions of Raoul and the man who accompanied the young gentleman, the color gradually returned to the pale cheeks of the dying man, who opened his eyes, at first entirely bewildered, but who soon fixed his gaze upon the person who had saved him.

“Ah, sir,” he exclaimed, “it was you! Without you I was a dead man--thrice dead.”

“But one recovers, sir, as you perceive,” replied Raoul, “and we have but had a little bath.”

“Oh! sir, what gratitude I feel!” exclaimed the man with gray hair.

“Ah, there you are, my good D’Arminges; I have given you a great fright, have I not? but it is your own fault. You were my tutor, why did you not teach me to swim?”

“Oh, monsieur le comte,” replied the old man, “had any misfortune happened to you, I should never have dared to show myself to the marshal again.”

“But how did the accident happen?” asked Raoul.

“Oh, sir, in the most natural way possible,” replied he to whom they had given the title of count. “We were about a third of the way across the river when the cord of the ferryboat broke. Alarmed by the cries and gestures of the boatmen, my horse sprang into the water. I cannot swim, and dared not throw myself into the river. Instead of aiding the movements of my horse, I paralyzed them; and I was just going to drown myself with the best grace in the world, when you arrived just in time to pull me out of the water; therefore, sir, if you will agree, henceforward we are friends until death.”

“Sir,” replied Raoul, bowing, “I am entirely at your service, I assure you.”

“I am called the Count de Guiche,” continued the young man; “my father is the Marechal de Grammont; and now that you know who I am, do me the honor to inform me who you are.”

“I am the Viscount de Bragelonne,” answered Raoul, blushing at being unable to name his father, as the Count de Guiche had done.

“Viscount, your countenance, your goodness and your courage incline me toward you; my gratitude is already due. Shake hands--I crave your friendship.”

“Sir,” said Raoul, returning the count’s pressure of the hand, “I like you already, from my heart; pray regard me as a devoted friend, I beseech you.”

And now, where are you going, viscount?” inquired De Guiche.

“To join the army, under the prince, count.”

“And I, too!” exclaimed the young man, in a transport of joy. “Oh, so much the better, we will fire the first shot together.”

“It is well; be friends,” said the tutor; “young as you both are, you were perhaps born under the same star and were destined to meet. And now,” continued he, “you must change your clothes; your servants, to whom I gave directions the moment they had left the ferryboat, ought to be already at the inn. Linen and wine are both being warmed; come.”

The young men had no objection to this proposition; on the contrary, they thought it very timely.

They mounted again at once, whilst looks of admiration passed between them. They were indeed two elegant horsemen, with figures slight and upright, noble faces, bright and proud looks, loyal and intelligent smiles.

De Guiche might have been about eighteen years of age, but he was scarcely taller than Raoul, who was only fifteen.

Skirmishing.

The halt at Noyon was but brief, every one there being wrapped in profound sleep. Raoul had desired to be awakened should Grimaud arrive, but Grimaud did not arrive. Doubtless, too, the horses on their part appreciated the eight hours of repose and the abundant stabling which was granted them. The Count de Guiche was awakened at five o’clock in the morning by Raoul, who came to wish him good-day. They breakfasted in haste, and at six o’clock had already gone ten miles.

The young count’s conversation was most interesting to Raoul, therefore he listened much, whilst the count talked well and long. Brought up in Paris, where Raoul had been but once; at the court, which Raoul had never seen; his follies as page; two duels, which he had already found the means of fighting, in spite of the edicts against them and, more especially, in spite of his tutor’s vigilance--these things excited the greatest curiosity in Raoul. Raoul had only been at M. Scarron’s house; he named to Guiche the people whom he had seen there. Guiche knew everybody--Madame de Neuillan, Mademoiselle d’Aubigne, Mademoiselle de Scudery, Mademoiselle Paulet, Madame de Chevreuse. He criticised everybody humorously. Raoul trembled, lest he should laugh among the rest at Madame de Chevreuse, for whom he entertained deep and genuine sympathy, but either instinctively, or from affection for the duchess, he said everything in her favor. His praises increased Raoul’s friendship twofold. Then came the question of gallantry and love affairs. Under this head, also, Bragelonne had much more to hear than to tell. He listened attentively and fancied that he discovered through three or four rather frivolous adventures, that the count, like himself, had a secret to hide in the depths of his heart.

De Guiche, as we have said before, had been educated at the court, and the intrigues of this court were not unknown to him. It was the same court of which Raoul had so often heard the Comte de la Fere speak, except that its aspect had much changed since the period when Athos had himself been part of it; therefore everything which the Count de Guiche related was new to his traveling companion. The young count, witty and caustic, passed all the world in review; the queen herself was not spared, and Cardinal Mazarin came in for his share of ridicule.

The day passed away as rapidly as an hour. The count’s tutor, a man of the world and a bon vivant, up to his eyes in learning, as his pupil described him, often recalled the profound erudition, the witty and caustic satire of Athos to Raoul; but as regarded grace, delicacy, and nobility of external appearance, no one in these points was to be compared to the Comte de la Fere.

The horses, which were more kindly used than on the previous day, stopped at Arras at four o’clock in the evening. They were approaching the scene of war; and as bands of Spaniards sometimes took advantage of the night to make expeditions even as far as the neighborhood of Arras, they determined to remain in the town until the morrow. The French army held all between Pont-a-Marc as far as Valenciennes, falling back upon Douai. The prince was said to be in person at Bethune.

The enemy’s army extended from Cassel to Courtray; and as there was no species of violence or pillage it did not commit, the poor people on the frontier quitted their isolated dwellings and fled for refuge into the strong cities which held out a shelter to them. Arras was encumbered with fugitives. An approaching battle was much spoken of, the prince having manoeuvred, until that movement, only in order to await a reinforcement that had just reached him.

The young men congratulated themselves on having arrived so opportunely. The evening was employed in discussing the war; the grooms polished their arms; the young men loaded the pistols in case of a skirmish, and they awoke in despair, having both dreamed that they had arrived too late to participate in the battle. In the morning it was rumored that Prince de Conde had evacuated Bethune and fallen back on Carvin, leaving, however, a strong garrison in the former city.

But as there was nothing positively certain in this report, the young warriors decided to continue their way toward Bethune, free on the road to diverge to the right and march to Carvin if necessary.

The count’s tutor was well acquainted with the country; he consequently proposed to take a crossroad, which lay between that of Lens and that of Bethune. They obtained information at Ablain, and a statement of their route was left for Grimaud. About seven o’clock in the morning they set out. De Guiche, who was young and impulsive, said to Raoul, “Here we are, three masters and three servants. Our valets are well armed and yours seems to be tough enough.”

“I have never seen him put to the test,” replied Raoul, “but he is a Breton, which promises something.”

“Yes, yes,” resumed De Guiche; “I am sure he can fire a musket when required. On my side I have two sure men, who have been in action with my father. We therefore represent six fighting men; if we should meet a little troop of enemies, equal or even superior in number to our own, shall we charge them, Raoul?”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the viscount.

“Holloa! young people--stop there!” said the tutor, joining in the conversation. “Zounds! how you manoeuvre my instructions, count! You seem to forget the orders I received to conduct you safe and sound to his highness the prince! Once with the army you may be killed at your good pleasure; but until that time, I warn you that in my capacity of general of the army I shall order a retreat and turn my back on the first red coat we come across.” De Guiche and Raoul glanced at each other, smiling.

They arrived at Ablain without accident. There they inquired and learned that the prince had in reality quitted Bethune and stationed himself between Cambria and La Venthie. Therefore, leaving directions at every place for Grimaud, they took a crossroad which conducted the little troop by the bank of a small stream flowing into the Lys. The country was beautiful, intersected by valleys as green as the emerald. Here and there they passed little copses crossing the path which they were following. In anticipation of some ambuscade in each of these little woods the tutor placed his two servants at the head of the band, thus forming the advance guard. Himself and the two young men represented the body of the army, whilst Olivain, with his rifle upon his knee and his eyes upon the watch, protected the rear.

They had observed for some time before them, on the horizon, a rather thick wood; and when they had arrived at a distance of a hundred steps from it, Monsieur d’Arminges took his usual precautions and sent on in advance the count’s two grooms. The servants had just disappeared under the trees, followed by the tutor, and the young men were laughing and talking about a hundred yards off. Olivain was at the same distance in the rear, when suddenly there resounded five or six musket-shots. The tutor cried halt; the young men obeyed, pulling up their steeds, and at the same moment the two valets were seen returning at a gallop.

The young men, impatient to learn the cause of the firing, spurred on toward the servants. The tutor followed them.

“Were you stopped?” eagerly inquired the two youths.

“No,” replied the servants, “it is even probable that we have not been seen; the shots were fired about a hundred paces in advance of us, in the thickest part of the wood, and we returned to ask your advice.”

“My advice is this,” said Monsieur d’Arminges, “and if needs be, my will, that we beat a retreat. There may be an ambuscade concealed in this wood.”

“Did you see nothing there?” asked the count.

“I thought I saw,” said one of the servants, “horsemen dressed in yellow, creeping along the bed of the stream.

“That’s it,” said the tutor. “We have fallen in with a party of Spaniards. Come back, sirs, back.”

The two youths looked at each other, and at this moment a pistol-shot and cries for help were heard. Another glance between the young men convinced them both that neither had any wish to go back, and as the tutor had already turned his horse’s head, they both spurred forward, Raoul crying: “Follow me, Olivain!” and the Count de Guiche: “Follow, Urban and Planchet!” And before the tutor could recover from his surprise they had both disappeared into the forest. Whilst they spurred their steeds they held their pistols ready also. In five minutes they arrived at the spot whence the noise had proceeded, and then restraining their horses, they advanced cautiously.

“Hush,” whispered De Guiche, “these are cavaliers.”

“Yes, three on horseback and three who have dismounted.”

“Can you see what they are doing?”

“Yes, they appear to be searching a wounded or dead man.”

“It is some cowardly assassination,” said De Guiche.

“They are soldiers, though,” resumed De Bragelonne.

“Yes, skirmishers; that is to say, highway robbers.”

“At them!” cried Raoul. “At them!” echoed De Guiche.

“Oh! gentlemen! gentlemen! in the name of Heaven!” cried the poor tutor.

But he was not listened to, and his cries only served to arouse the attention of the Spaniards.

The men on horseback at once rushed at the two youths, leaving the three others to complete the plunder of the dead or wounded travelers; for on approaching nearer, instead of one extended figure, the young men discovered two. De Guiche fired the first shot at ten paces and missed his man; and the Spaniard, who had advanced to meet Raoul, aimed in his turn, and Raoul felt a pain in the left arm, similar to that of a blow from a whip. He let off his fire at but four paces. Struck in the breast and extending his arms, the Spaniard fell back on the crupper, and the terrified horse, turning around, carried him off.

Raoul at this moment perceived the muzzle of a gun pointed at him, and remembering the recommendation of Athos, he, with the rapidity of lightning, made his horse rear as the shot was fired. His horse bounded to one side, losing its footing, and fell, entangling Raoul’s leg under its body. The Spaniard sprang forward and seized the gun by its muzzle, in order to strike Raoul on the head with the butt. In the position in which Raoul lay, unfortunately, he could neither draw his sword from the scabbard, nor his pistols from their holsters. The butt end of the musket hovered over his head, and he could scarcely restrain himself from closing his eyes, when with one bound Guiche reached the Spaniard and placed a pistol at his throat. “Yield!” he cried, “or you are a dead man!” The musket fell from the soldier’s hands, who yielded on the instant. Guiche summoned one of his grooms, and delivering the prisoner into his charge, with orders to shoot him through the head if he attempted to escape, he leaped from his horse and approached Raoul.

“Faith, sir,” said Raoul, smiling, although his pallor betrayed the excitement consequent on a first affair, “you are in a great hurry to pay your debts and have not been long under any obligation to me. Without your aid,” continued he, repeating the count’s words “I should have been a dead man--thrice dead.”

“My antagonist took flight,” replied De Guiche “and left me at liberty to come to your assistance. But are you seriously wounded? I see you are covered with blood!”

“I believe,” said Raoul, “that I have got something like a scratch on the arm. If you will help me to drag myself from under my horse I hope nothing need prevent us continuing our journey.”

Monsieur d’Arminges and Olivain had already dismounted and were attempting to raise the struggling horse. At last Raoul succeeded in drawing his foot from the stirrup and his leg from under the animal, and in a second he was on his feet again.

“Nothing broken?” asked De Guiche.

“Faith, no, thank Heaven!” replied Raoul; “but what has become of the poor wretches whom these scoundrels were murdering?”

“I fear we arrived too late. They have killed them, I think, and taken flight, carrying off their booty. My servants are examining the bodies.”

“Let us go and see whether they are quite dead, or if they can still be helped,” suggested Raoul. “Olivain, we have come into possession of two horses, but I have lost my own. Take for yourself the better of the two and give me yours.”

They approached the spot where the unfortunate victims lay.

The Monk.

Two men lay prone upon the ground, one bathed in blood and motionless, with his face toward the earth; this one was dead. The other leaned against a tree, supported there by the two valets, and was praying fervently, with clasped hands and eyes raised to Heaven. He had received a ball in his thigh, which had broken the bone. The young men first approached the dead man.

“He is a priest,” said Bragelonne, “he has worn the tonsure. Oh, the scoundrels! to lift their hands against a minister of God.”

“Come here, sir,” said Urban, an old soldier who had served under the cardinal duke in all his campaigns; “come here, there is nothing to be done with him, whilst we may perhaps be able to save the other.”

The wounded man smiled sadly. “Save me! Oh, no!” said he, “but help me to die, if you can.”

“Are you a priest?” asked Raoul.

“No sir.”

“I ask, as your unfortunate companion appeared to me to belong to the church.”

“He is the curate of Bethune, sir, and was carrying the holy vessels belonging to his church, and the treasure of the chapter, to a safe place, the prince having abandoned our town yesterday; and as it was known that bands of the enemy were prowling about the country, no one dared to accompany the good man, so I offered to do so.

“And, sir,” continued the wounded man, “I suffer much and would like, if possible, to be carried to some house.”

“Where you can be relieved?” asked De Guiche.

“No, where I can confess.”

“But perhaps you are not so dangerously wounded as you think,” said Raoul.

“Sir,” replied the wounded man, “believe me, there is no time to lose; the ball has broken the thigh bone and entered the intestines.”

“Are you a surgeon?” asked De Guiche.

“No, but I know a little about wounds, and mine, I know, is mortal. Try, therefore, either to carry me to some place where I may see a priest or take the trouble to send one to me here. It is my soul that must be saved; as for my body, it is lost.”

“To die whilst doing a good deed! It is impossible. God will help you.”

“Gentlemen, in the name of Heaven!” said the wounded man, collecting all his forces, as if to get up, “let us not lose time in useless words. Either help me to gain the nearest village or swear to me on your salvation that you will send me the first monk, the first cure, the first priest you may meet. But,” he added in a despairing tone, “perhaps no one will dare to come for it is known that the Spaniards are ranging through the country, and I shall die without absolution. My God! my God! Good God! good God!” added the wounded man, in an accent of terror which made the young men shudder; “you will not allow that? that would be too terrible!”

“Calm yourself, sir,” replied De Guiche. “I swear to you, you shall receive the consolation that you ask. Only tell us where we shall find a house at which we can demand aid and a village from which we can fetch a priest.”

“Thank you, and God reward you! About half a mile from this, on the same road, there is an inn, and about a mile further on, after leaving the inn, you will reach the village of Greney. There you must find the curate, or if he is not at home, go to the convent of the Augustines, which is the last house on the right, and bring me one of the brothers. Monk or priest, it matters not, provided only that he has received from holy church the power of absolving in articulo mortis.”

“Monsieur d’Arminges,” said De Guiche, “remain beside this unfortunate man and see that he is removed as gently as possible. The vicomte and myself will go and find a priest.”

“Go, sir,” replied the tutor; “but in Heaven’s name do not expose yourself to danger!”

“Do not fear. Besides, we are safe for to-day; you know the axiom, ‘Non bis in idem.’”

“Courage, sir,” said Raoul to the wounded man. “We are going to execute your wishes.”

“May Heaven prosper you!” replied the dying man, with an accent of gratitude impossible to describe.

The two young men galloped off in the direction mentioned and in ten minutes reached the inn. Raoul, without dismounting, called to the host and announced that a wounded man was about to be brought to his house and begged him in the meantime to prepare everything needful. He desired him also, should he know in the neighborhood any doctor or chirurgeon, to fetch him, taking on himself the payment of the messenger.

The host, who saw two young noblemen, richly clad, promised everything they required, and our two cavaliers, after seeing that preparations for the reception were actually begun, started off again and proceeded rapidly toward Greney.

They had gone rather more than a league and had begun to descry the first houses of the village, the red-tiled roofs of which stood out from the green trees which surrounded them, when, coming toward them mounted on a mule, they perceived a poor monk, whose large hat and gray worsted dress made them take him for an Augustine brother. Chance for once seemed to favor them in sending what they were so assiduously seeking. He was a man about twenty-two or twenty-three years old, but who appeared much older from ascetic exercises. His complexion was pale, not of that deadly pallor which is a kind of neutral beauty, but of a bilious, yellow hue; his colorless hair was short and scarcely extended beyond the circle formed by the hat around his head, and his light blue eyes seemed destitute of any expression.

“Sir,” began Raoul, with his usual politeness, “are you an ecclesiastic?”

“Why do you ask me that?” replied the stranger, with a coolness which was barely civil.

“Because we want to know,” said De Guiche, haughtily.

The stranger touched his mule with his heel and continued his way.

In a second De Guiche had sprung before him and barred his passage. “Answer, sir,” exclaimed he; “you have been asked politely, and every question is worth an answer.”

“I suppose I am free to say or not to say who I am to two strangers who take a fancy to ask me.”

It was with difficulty that De Guiche restrained the intense desire he had of breaking the monk’s bones.

“In the first place,” he said, making an effort to control himself, “we are not people who may be treated anyhow; my friend there is the Viscount of Bragelonne and I am the Count de Guiche. Nor was it from caprice we asked the question, for there is a wounded and dying man who demands the succor of the church. If you be a priest, I conjure you in the name of humanity to follow me to aid this man; if you be not, it is a different matter, and I warn you in the name of courtesy, of which you appear profoundly ignorant, that I shall chastise you for your insolence.”

The pale face of the monk became so livid and his smile so strange, that Raoul, whose eyes were still fixed upon him, felt as if this smile had struck to his heart like an insult.

“He is some Spanish or Flemish spy,” said he, putting his hand to his pistol. A glance, threatening and transient as lightning, replied to Raoul.

“Well, sir,” said De Guiche, “are you going to reply?”

“I am a priest,” said the young man.

“Then, father,” said Raoul, forcing himself to convey a respect by speech that did not come from his heart, “if you are a priest you have an opportunity, as my friend has told you, of exercising your vocation. At the next inn you will find a wounded man, now being attended by our servants, who has asked the assistance of a minister of God.”

“I will go,” said the monk.

And he touched his mule.

“If you do not go, sir,” said De Guiche, “remember that we have two steeds able to catch your mule and the power of having you seized wherever you may be; and then I swear your trial will be summary; one can always find a tree and a cord.”

The monk’s eye again flashed, but that was all; he merely repeated his phrase, “I will go,”--and he went.

“Let us follow him,” said De Guiche; “it will be the surest plan.”

“I was about to propose so doing,” answered De Bragelonne.

In the space of five minutes the monk turned around to ascertain whether he was followed or not.

“You see,” said Raoul, “we have done wisely.”

“What a horrible face that monk has,” said De Guiche.

“Horrible!” replied Raoul, “especially in expression.”

“Yes, yes,” said De Guiche, “a strange face; but these monks are subject to such degrading practices; their fasts make them pale, the blows of the discipline make them hypocrites, and their eyes become inflamed through weeping for the good things of this life we common folk enjoy, but they have lost.”

“Well,” said Raoul, “the poor man will get his priest, but, by Heaven, the penitent appears to me to have a better conscience than the confessor. I confess I am accustomed to priests of a very different appearance.”

“Ah!” exclaimed De Guiche, “you must understand that this is one of those wandering brothers, who go begging on the high road until some day a benefice falls down from Heaven on them; they are mostly foreigners--Scotch, Irish or Danish. I have seen them before.”

“As ugly?”

“No, but reasonably hideous.”

“What a misfortune for the wounded man to die under the hands of such a friar!”

“Pshaw!” said De Guiche. “Absolution comes not from him who administers it, but from God. However, for my part, I would rather die unshriven than have anything to say to such a confessor. You are of my opinion, are you not, viscount? and I see you playing with the pommel of your sword, as if you had a great inclination to break the holy father’s head.”

“Yes, count, it is a strange thing and one which might astonish you, but I feel an indescribable horror at the sight of yonder man. Have you ever seen a snake rise up on your path?”

“Never,” answered De Guiche.

“Well, it has happened to me to do so in our Blaisois forests, and I remember that the first time I encountered one with its eyes fixed upon me, curled up, swinging its head and pointing its tongue, I remained fixed, pale and as though fascinated, until the moment when the Comte de la Fere----”

“Your father?” asked De Guiche.

“No, my guardian,” replied Raoul, blushing.

“Very well----”

“Until the moment when the Comte de la Fere,” resumed Raoul, “said, ‘Come, Bragelonne, draw your sword;’ then only I rushed upon the reptile and cut it in two, just at the moment when it was rising on its tail and hissing, ere it sprang upon me. Well, I vow I felt exactly the same sensation at sight of that man when he said, ‘Why do you ask me that?’ and looked so strangely at me.”

“Then you regret that you did not cut your serpent in two morsels?”

“Faith, yes, almost,” said Raoul.

They had now arrived within sight of the little inn and could see on the opposite side the procession bearing the wounded man and guided by Monsieur d’Arminges. The youths spurred on.

“There is the wounded man,” said De Guiche, passing close to the Augustine brother. “Be good enough to hurry yourself a little, monsieur monk.”

As for Raoul, he avoided the monk by the whole width of the road and passed him, turning his head away in repulsion.

The young men rode up to the wounded man to announce that they were followed by the priest. He raised himself to glance in the direction which they pointed out, saw the monk, and fell back upon the litter, his face illumined by joy.

“And now,” said the youths, “we have done all we can for you; and as we are in haste to rejoin the prince’s army we must continue our journey. You will excuse us, sir, but we are told that a battle is expected and we do not wish to arrive the day after it.”

“Go, my young sirs,” said the sick man, “and may you both be blessed for your piety. You have done for me, as you promised, all that you could do. As for me I can only repeat, may God protect you and all dear to you!”

“Sir,” said De Guiche to his tutor, “we will precede you, and you can rejoin us on the road to Cambrin.”

The host was at his door and everything was prepared--bed, bandages, and lint; and a groom had gone to Lens, the nearest village, for a doctor.

“Everything,” said he to Raoul, “shall be done as you desire; but you will not stop to have your wound dressed?”

“Oh, my wound--mine--’tis nothing,” replied the viscount; “it will be time to think about it when we next halt; only have the goodness, should you see a cavalier who makes inquiries about a young man on a chestnut horse followed by a servant, to tell him, in fact, that you have seen me, but that I have continued my journey and intend to dine at Mazingarbe and to stop at Cambrin. This cavalier is my attendant.”

“Would it not be safer and more certain if I should ask him his name and tell him yours?” demanded the host.

“There is no harm in over-precaution. I am the Viscount de Bragelonne and he is called Grimaud.”

At this moment the wounded man arrived from one direction and the monk from the other, the latter dismounting from his mule and desiring that it should be taken to the stables without being unharnessed.

“Sir monk,” said De Guiche, “confess well that brave man; and be not concerned for your expenses or for those of your mule; all is paid.”

“Thanks, monsieur,” said the monk, with one of those smiles that made Bragelonne shudder.

“Come, count,” said Raoul, who seemed instinctively to dislike the vicinity of the Augustine; “come, I feel ill here,” and the two young men spurred on.

The litter, borne by two servants, now entered the house. The host and his wife were standing on the steps, whilst the unhappy man seemed to suffer dreadful pain and yet to be concerned only to know if he was followed by the monk. At sight of this pale, bleeding man, the wife grasped her husband’s arm.

“Well, what’s the matter?” asked the latter, “are you going to be ill just now?”

“No, but look,” replied the hostess, pointing to the wounded man; “I ask you if you recognize him?”

“That man--wait a bit.”

“Ah! I see you know him,” exclaimed the wife; “for you have become pale in your turn.”

“Truly,” cried the host, “misfortune is coming on our house; it is the former executioner of Bethune.”

“The former executioner of Bethune!” murmured the young monk, shrinking back and showing on his countenance the feeling of repugnance which his penitent inspired.

Monsieur d’Arminges, who was at the door, perceived his hesitation.

“Sir monk,” said he, “whether he is now or has been an executioner, this unfortunate being is none the less a man. Render to him, then, the last service he can by any possibility ask of you, and your work will be all the more meritorious.”

The monk made no reply, but silently wended his way to the room where the two valets had deposited the dying man on a bed. D’Arminges and Olivain and the two grooms then mounted their horses, and all four started off at a quick trot to rejoin Raoul and his companion. Just as the tutor and his escort disappeared in their turn, a new traveler stopped on the threshold of the inn.

“What does your worship want?” demanded the host, pale and trembling from the discovery he had just made.

The traveler made a sign as if he wished to drink, and then pointed to his horse and gesticulated like a man who is brushing something.

“Ah, diable!” said the host to himself; “this man seems dumb. And where will your worship drink?”

“There,” answered the traveler, pointing to the table.

“I was mistaken,” said the host, “he’s not quite dumb. And what else does your worship wish for?”

“To know if you have seen a young man pass, fifteen years of age, mounted on a chestnut horse and followed by a groom?”

“The Viscount de Bragelonne?

“Just so.”

“Then you are called Monsieur Grimaud?”

The traveler made a sign of assent.

“Well, then,” said the host, “your young master was here a quarter of an hour ago; he will dine at Mazingarbe and sleep at Cambrin.”

“How far is Mazingarbe?”

“Two miles and a half.”

“Thank you.”

Grimaud was drinking his wine silently and had just placed his glass on the table to be filled a second time, when a terrific scream resounded from the room occupied by the monk and the dying man. Grimaud sprang up.

“What is that?” said he; “whence comes that cry?”

“From the wounded man’s room,” replied the host.

“What wounded man?”

“The former executioner of Bethune, who has just been brought in here, assassinated by Spaniards, and who is now being confessed by an Augustine friar.”

“The old executioner of Bethune,” muttered Grimaud; “a man between fifty-five and sixty, tall, strong, swarthy, black hair and beard?”

“That is he, except that his beard has turned gray and his hair is white; do you know him?” asked the host.

“I have seen him once,” replied Grimaud, a cloud darkening his countenance at the picture so suddenly summoned to the bar of recollection.

At this instant a second cry, less piercing than the first, but followed by prolonged groaning, was heard.

The three listeners looked at one another in alarm.

“We must see what it is,” said Grimaud.

“It sounds like the cry of one who is being murdered,” murmured the host.

“Mon Dieu!” said the woman, crossing herself.

If Grimaud was slow in speaking, we know that he was quick to act; he sprang to the door and shook it violently, but it was bolted on the other side.

“Open the door!” cried the host; “open it instantly, sir monk!”

No reply.

“Unfasten it, or I will break it in!” said Grimaud.

The same silence, and then, ere the host could oppose his design, Grimaud seized a pair of pincers he perceived in a corner and forced the bolt. The room was inundated with blood, dripping from the mattresses upon which lay the wounded man, speechless; the monk had disappeared.

“The monk!” cried the host; “where is the monk?”

Grimaud sprang toward an open window which looked into the courtyard.

“He has escaped by this means,” exclaimed he.

“Do you think so?” said the host, bewildered; “boy, see if the mule belonging to the monk is still in the stable.”

“There is no mule,” cried he to whom this question was addressed.

The host clasped his hands and looked around him suspiciously, whilst Grimaud knit his brows and approached the wounded man, whose worn, hard features awoke in his mind such awful recollections of the past.

“There can be no longer any doubt but that it is himself,” said he.

“Does he still live?” inquired the innkeeper.

Making no reply, Grimaud opened the poor man’s jacket to feel if the heart beat, whilst the host approached in his turn; but in a moment they both fell back, the host uttering a cry of horror and Grimaud becoming pallid. The blade of a dagger was buried up to the hilt in the left side of the executioner.

“Run! run for help!” cried Grimaud, “and I will remain beside him here.”

The host quitted the room in agitation, and as for his wife, she had fled at the sound of her husband’s cries.

The Absolution.

This is what had taken place: We have seen that it was not of his own free will, but, on the contrary, very reluctantly, that the monk attended the wounded man who had been recommended to him in so strange a manner. Perhaps he would have sought to escape by flight had he seen any possibility of doing so. He was restrained by the threats of the two gentlemen and by the presence of their attendants, who doubtless had received their instructions. And besides, he considered it most expedient, without exhibiting too much ill-will, to follow to the end his role as confessor.

The monk entered the chamber and approached the bed of the wounded man. The executioner searched his face with the quick glance peculiar to those who are about to die and have no time to lose. He made a movement of surprise and said:

“Father, you are very young.”

“Men who bear my robe have no, age,” replied the monk, dryly.

“Alas, speak to me more gently, father; in my last moments I need a friend.”

“Do you suffer much?” asked the monk.

“Yes, but in my soul much more than in my body.”

“We will save your soul,” said the young man; “but are you really the executioner of Bethune, as these people say?”

“That is to say,” eagerly replied the wounded man, who doubtless feared that the name of executioner would take from him the last help that he could claim--”that is to say, I was, but am no longer; it is fifteen years since I gave up the office. I still assist at executions, but no longer strike the blow myself--no, indeed.”

“You have, then, a repugnance to your profession?”

“So long as I struck in the name of the law and of justice my profession allowed me to sleep quietly, sheltered as I was by justice and law; but since that terrible night when I became an instrument of private vengeance and when with personal hatred I raised the sword over one of God’s creatures--since that day----”

The executioner paused and shook his head with an expression of despair.

“Tell me about it,” said the monk, who, sitting on the foot of the bed, began to be interested in a story so strangely introduced.

“Ah!” cried the dying man, with all the effusiveness of a grief declared after long suppression, “ah! I have sought to stifle remorse by twenty years of good deeds; I have assuaged the natural ferocity of those who shed blood; on every occasion I have exposed my life to save those who were in danger, and I have preserved lives in exchange for that I took away. That is not all; the money gained in the exercise of my profession I have distributed to the poor; I have been assiduous in attending church and those who formerly fled from me have become accustomed to seeing me. All have forgiven me, some have even loved me; but I think that God has not pardoned me, for the memory of that execution pursues me constantly and every night I see that woman’s ghost rising before me.”

“A woman! You have assassinated a woman, then?” cried the monk.

“You also!” exclaimed the executioner, “you use that word which sounds ever in my ears--‘assassinated!’ I have assassinated, then, and not executed! I am an assassin, then, and not an officer of justice!” and he closed his eyes with a groan.

The monk doubtless feared that he would die without saying more, for he exclaimed eagerly:

“Go on, I know nothing, as yet; when you have finished your story, God and I will judge.”

“Oh, father,” continued the executioner, without opening his eyes, as if he feared on opening them to see some frightful object, “it is especially when night comes on and when I have to cross a river, that this terror which I have been unable to conquer comes upon me; it then seems as if my hand grew heavy, as if the cutlass was still in its grasp, as if the water had the color of blood, and all the voices of nature--the whispering of the trees, the murmur of the wind, the lapping of the wave--united in a voice tearful, despairing, terrible, crying to me, ‘Place for the justice of God!’”

“Delirium!” murmured the monk, shaking his head.

The executioner opened his eyes, turned toward the young man and grasped his arm.

“‘Delirium,’” he repeated; “‘delirium,’ do you say? Oh, no! I remember too well. It was evening; I had thrown the body into the river and those words which my remorse repeats to me are those which I in my pride pronounced. After being the instrument of human justice I aspired to be that of the justice of God.”

“But let me see, how was it done? Speak,” said the monk.

“It was at night. A man came to me and showed me an order and I followed him. Four other noblemen awaited me. They led me away masked. I reserved the right of refusing if the office they required of me should seem unjust. We traveled five or six leagues, serious, silent, and almost without speaking. At length, through the window of a little hut, they showed me a woman sitting, leaning on a table, and said, ‘there is the person to be executed.’”

“Horrible!” said the monk. “And you obeyed?”

“Father, that woman was a monster. It was said that she had poisoned her second husband; she had tried to assassinate her brother-in-law; she had just poisoned a young woman who was her rival, and before leaving England she had, it was believed, caused the favorite of the king to be murdered.”

“Buckingham?” cried the monk.

“Yes, Buckingham.”

“The woman was English, then?”

“No, she was French, but she had married in England.”

The monk turned pale, wiped his brow and went and bolted the door. The executioner thought that he had abandoned him and fell back, groaning, upon his bed.

“No, no; I am here,” said the monk, quickly coming back to him. “Go on; who were those men?”

“One of them was a foreigner, English, I think. The four others were French and wore the uniform of musketeers.”

“Their names?” asked the monk.

“I don’t know them, but the four other noblemen called the Englishman ‘my lord.’”

“Was the woman handsome?”

“Young and beautiful. Oh, yes, especially beautiful. I see her now, as on her knees at my feet, with her head thrown back, she begged for life. I have never understood how I could have laid low a head so beautiful, with a face so pale.”

The monk seemed agitated by a strange emotion; he trembled all over; he seemed eager to put a question which yet he dared not ask. At length, with a violent effort at self-control:

“The name of that woman?” he said.

“I don’t know what it was. As I have said, she was twice married, once in France, the second time in England.”

“She was young, you say?”

“Twenty-five years old.”

“Beautiful?”

“Ravishingly.”

“Blond?”

“Yes.”

“Abundance of hair--falling over her shoulders?”

“Yes.”

“Eyes of an admirable expression?”

“When she chose. Oh, yes, it is she!”

“A voice of strange sweetness?”

“How do you know it?”

The executioner raised himself on his elbow and gazed with a frightened air at the monk, who became livid.

“And you killed her?” the monk exclaimed. “You were the tool of those cowards who dared not kill her themselves? You had no pity for that youthfulness, that beauty, that weakness? you killed that woman?”

“Alas! I have already told you, father, that woman, under that angelic appearance, had an infernal soul, and when I saw her, when I recalled all the evil she had done to me----”

“To you? What could she have done to you? Come, tell me!”

“She had seduced and ruined my brother, a priest. She had fled with him from her convent.”

“With your brother?”

“Yes, my brother was her first lover, and she caused his death. Oh, father, do not look in that way at me! Oh, I am guilty, then; you will not pardon me?”

The monk recovered his usual expression.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “I will pardon you if you tell me all.”

“Oh!” cried the executioner, “all! all! all!”

“Answer, then. If she seduced your brother--you said she seduced him, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“If she caused his death--you said that she caused his death?”

“Yes,” repeated the executioner.

“Then you must know what her name was as a young girl.”

“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried the executioner, “I think I am dying. Absolution, father! absolution.”

“Tell me her name and I will give it.”

“Her name was----My God, have pity on me!” murmured the executioner; and he fell back on the bed, pale, trembling, and apparently about to die.

“Her name!” repeated the monk, bending over him as if to tear from him the name if he would not utter it; “her name! Speak, or no absolution!”

The dying man collected all his forces.

The monk’s eyes glittered.

“Anne de Bueil,” murmured the wounded man.

“Anne de Bueil!” cried the monk, standing up and lifting his hands to Heaven. “Anne de Bueil! You said Anne de Bueil, did you not?”

“Yes, yes, that was her name; and now absolve me, for I am dying.”

“I, absolve you!” cried the priest, with a laugh which made the dying man’s hair stand on end; “I, absolve you? I am not a priest.”

“You are not a priest!” cried the executioner. “What, then, are you?”

“I am about to tell you, wretched man.”

“Oh, mon Dieu!”

“I am John Francis de Winter.”

“I do not know you,” said the executioner.

“Wait, wait; you are going to know me. I am John Francis de Winter,” he repeated, “and that woman----”

“Well, that woman?”

“Was my mother!”

The executioner uttered the first cry, that terrible cry which had been first heard.

“Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” he murmured; “if not in the name of God, at least in your own name; if not as priest, then as son.”

“Pardon you!” cried the pretended monk, “pardon you! Perhaps God will pardon you, but I, never!”

“For pity’s sake,” said the executioner, extending his arms.

“No pity for him who had no pity! Die, impenitent, die in despair, die and be damned!” And drawing a poniard from beneath his robe he thrust it into the breast of the wounded man, saying, “Here is my absolution!”

Then was heard that second cry, not so loud as the first and followed by a long groan.

The executioner, who had lifted himself up, fell back upon his bed. As to the monk, without withdrawing the poniard from the wound, he ran to the window, opened it, leaped out into the flowers of a small garden, glided onward to the stable, took out his mule, went out by a back gate, ran to a neighbouring thicket, threw off his monkish garb, took from his valise the complete habiliment of a cavalier, clothed himself in it, went on foot to the first post, secured there a horse and continued with a loose rein his journey to Paris.

Grimaud Speaks.

Grimaud was left alone with the executioner, who in a few moments opened his eyes.

“Help, help,” he murmured; “oh, God! have I not a single friend in the world who will aid me either to live or to die?”

“Take courage,” said Grimaud; “they are gone to find assistance.”

“Who are you?” asked the wounded man, fixing his half opened eyes on Grimaud.

“An old acquaintance,” replied Grimaud.

“You?” and the wounded man sought to recall the features of the person now before him.

“Under what circumstances did we meet?” he asked again.

“One night, twenty years ago, my master fetched you from Bethune and conducted you to Armentieres.”

“I know you well now,” said the executioner; “you were one of the four grooms.”

“Just so.”

“Where do you come from now?”

“I was passing by and drew up at this inn to rest my horse. They told me the executioner of Bethune was here and wounded, when you uttered two piercing cries. At the first we ran to the door and at the second forced it open.”

“And the monk?” exclaimed the executioner, “did you see the monk?”

“What monk?”

“The monk that was shut in with me.”

“No, he was no longer here; he appears to have fled by the window. Was he the man that stabbed you?”

“Yes,” said the executioner.

Grimaud moved as if to leave the room.

“What are you going to do?” asked the wounded man.

“He must be apprehended.”

“Do not attempt it; he has revenged himself and has done well. Now I may hope that God will forgive me, since my crime is expiated.”

“Explain yourself.” said Grimaud.

“The woman whom you and your masters commanded me to kill----”

“Milady?”

“Yes, Milady; it is true you called her thus.”

“What has the monk to do with this Milady?”

“She was his mother.”

Grimaud trembled and stared at the dying man in a dull and leaden manner.

“His mother!” he repeated.

“Yes, his mother.”

“But does he know this secret, then?”

“I mistook him for a monk and revealed it to him in confession.”

“Unhappy man!” cried Grimaud, whose face was covered with sweat at the bare idea of the evil results such a revelation might cause; “unhappy man, you named no one, I hope?”

“I pronounced no name, for I knew none, except his mother’s, as a young girl, and it was by this name that he recognized her, but he knows that his uncle was among her judges.”

Thus speaking, he fell back exhausted. Grimaud, wishing to relieve him, advanced his hand toward the hilt of the dagger.

“Touch me not!” said the executioner; “if this dagger is withdrawn I shall die.”

Grimaud remained with his hand extended; then, striking his forehead, he exclaimed:

“Oh! if this man should ever discover the names of the others, my master is lost.”

“Haste! haste to him and warn him,” cried the wounded man, “if he still lives; warn his friends, too. My death, believe me, will not be the end of this atrocious misadventure.”

“Where was the monk going?” asked Grimaud.

“Toward Paris.”

“Who stopped him?”

“Two young gentlemen, who were on their way to join the army and the name of one of whom I heard his companion mention--the Viscount de Bragelonne.”

“And it was this young man who brought the monk to you? Then it was the will of God that it should be so and this it is which makes it all so awful,” continued Grimaud. “And yet that woman deserved her fate; do you not think so?”

“On one’s death-bed the crimes of others appear very small in comparison with one’s own,” said the executioner; and falling back exhausted he closed his eyes.

Grimaud was reluctant to leave the man alone and yet he perceived the necessity of starting at once to bear these tidings to the Comte de la Fere. Whilst he thus hesitated the host re-entered the room, followed not only by a surgeon, but by many other persons, whom curiosity had attracted to the spot. The surgeon approached the dying man, who seemed to have fainted.

“We must first extract the steel from the side,” said he, shaking his head in a significant manner.

The prophecy which the wounded man had just uttered recurred to Grimaud, who turned away his head. The weapon, as we have already stated, was plunged into the body to the hilt, and as the surgeon, taking it by the end, drew it forth, the wounded man opened his eyes and fixed them on him in a manner truly frightful. When at last the blade had been entirely withdrawn, a red froth issued from the mouth of the wounded man and a stream of blood spouted afresh from the wound when he at length drew breath; then, fixing his eyes upon Grimaud with a singular expression, the dying man uttered the last death-rattle and expired.

Then Grimaud, lifting the dagger from the pool of blood which was gliding along the room, to the horror of all present, made a sign to the host to follow him, paid him with a generosity worthy of his master and again mounted his horse. Grimaud’s first intention had been to return to Paris, but he remembered the anxiety which his prolonged absence might occasion Raoul, and reflecting that there were now only two miles between the vicomte and himself and a quarter of an hour’s riding would unite them, and that the going, returning and explanation would not occupy an hour, he put spurs to his horse and a few minutes after had reached the only inn of Mazingarbe.

Raoul was seated at table with the Count de Guiche and his tutor, when all at once the door opened and Grimaud presented himself, travel-stained, dirty, and sprinkled with the blood of the unhappy executioner.

“Grimaud, my good Grimaud!” exclaimed Raoul “here you are at last! Excuse me, sirs, this is not a servant, but a friend. How did you leave the count?” continued he. “Does he regret me a little? Have you seen him since I left him? Answer, for I have many things to tell you, too; indeed, the last three days some odd adventures have happened--but what is the matter? how pale you are! and blood, too! What is this?”

“It is the blood of the unfortunate man whom you left at the inn and who died in my arms.”

“In your arms?--that man! but know you who he was?”

“He used to be the headsman of Bethune.”

“You knew him? and he is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sir,” said D’Arminges, “it is the common lot; even an executioner is not exempted. I had a bad opinion of him the moment I saw his wound, and since he asked for a monk you know that it was his opinion, too, that death would follow.”

At the mention of the monk, Grimaud became pale.

“Come, come,” continued D’Arminges, “to dinner;” for like most men of his age and generation he did not allow sentiment or sensibility to interfere with a repast.

“You are right, sir,” said Raoul. “Come, Grimaud, order dinner for yourself and when you have rested a little we can talk.”

“No, sir, no,” said Grimaud. “I cannot stop a moment; I must start for Paris again immediately.”

“What? You start for Paris? You are mistaken; it is Olivain who leaves me; you are to remain.”

“On the contrary, Olivain is to stay and I am to go. I have come for nothing else but to tell you so.”

“But what is the meaning of this change?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I cannot explain myself.”

“Come, tell me, what is the joke?”

“Monsieur le vicomte knows that I never joke.”

“Yes, but I know also that Monsieur le Comte de la Fere arranged that you were to remain with me and that Olivain should return to Paris. I shall follow the count’s directions.”

“Not under present circumstances, monsieur.”

“Perhaps you mean to disobey me?”

“Yes, monsieur, I must.”

“You persist, then?”

“Yes, I am going; may you be happy, monsieur,” and Grimaud saluted and turned toward the door to go out.

Raoul, angry and at the same time uneasy, ran after him and seized him by the arm. “Grimaud!” he cried; “remain; I wish it.”

“Then,” replied Grimaud, “you wish me to allow monsieur le comte to be killed.” He saluted and made a movement to depart.

“Grimaud, my friend,” said the viscount, “will you leave me thus, in such anxiety? Speak, speak, in Heaven’s name!” And Raoul fell back trembling upon his chair.

“I can tell you but one thing, sir, for the secret you wish to know is not my own. You met a monk, did you not?”

“Yes.”

The young men looked at each other with an expression of fear.

“You conducted him to the wounded man and you had time to observe him, and perhaps you would know him again were you to meet him.”

“Yes, yes!” cried both young men.

“Very well; if ever you meet him again, wherever it may be, whether on the high road or in the street or in a church, anywhere that he or you may be, put your foot on his neck and crush him without pity, without mercy, as you would crush a viper or a scorpion! destroy him utterly and quit him not until he is dead; the lives of five men are not safe, in my opinion, as long as he is on the earth.”

And without adding another word, Grimaud, profiting by the astonishment and terror into which he had thrown his auditors, rushed from the room. Two minutes later the thunder of a horse’s hoofs was heard upon the road; it was Grimaud, on his way to Paris. When once in the saddle Grimaud reflected on two things; first, that at the pace he was going his horse would not carry him ten miles, and secondly, that he had no money. But Grimaud’s ingenuity was more prolific than his speech, and therefore at the first halt he sold his steed and with the money obtained from the purchase took post horses.

On the Eve of Battle.

Raoul was aroused from his sombre reflections by his host, who rushed into the apartment crying out, “The Spaniards! the Spaniards!”

That cry was of such importance as to overcome all preoccupation. The young men made inquiries and ascertained that the enemy was advancing by way of Houdin and Bethune.

While Monsieur d’Arminges gave orders for the horses to be made ready for departure, the two young men ascended to the upper windows of the house and saw in the direction of Marsin and of Lens a large body of infantry and cavalry. This time it was not a wandering troop of partisans; it was an entire army. There was therefore nothing for them to do but to follow the prudent advice of Monsieur d’Arminges and beat a retreat. They quickly went downstairs. Monsieur d’Arminges was already mounted. Olivain had ready the horses of the young men, and the lackeys of the Count de Guiche guarded carefully between them the Spanish prisoner, mounted on a pony which had been bought for his use. As a further precaution they had bound his hands.

The little company started off at a trot on the road to Cambrin, where they expected to find the prince. But he was no longer there, having withdrawn on the previous evening to La Bassee, misled by false intelligence of the enemy’s movements. Deceived by this intelligence he had concentrated his forces between Vieille-Chapelle and La Venthie; and after a reconnoissance along the entire line, in company with Marshal de Grammont, he had returned and seated himself before a table, with his officers around him. He questioned them as to the news they had each been charged to obtain, but nothing positive had been learned. The hostile army had disappeared two days before and seemed to have gone out of existence.

Now an enemy is never so near and consequently so threatening, as when he has completely disappeared. The prince was, therefore, contrary to his custom, gloomy and anxious, when an officer entered and announced to Marshal de Grammont that some one wished to see him.

The Duc de Grammont received permission from the prince by a glance and went out. The prince followed him with his eyes and continued looking at the door; no one ventured to speak, for fear of disturbing him.

Suddenly a dull and heavy noise was heard. The prince leaped to his feet, extending his hand in the direction whence came the sound, there was no mistaking it--it was the noise of cannon. Every one stood up.

At that moment the door opened.

“Monseigneur,” said Marshal de Grammont, with a radiant face, “will your highness permit my son, Count de Guiche, and his traveling companion, Viscount de Bragelonne, to come in and give news of the enemy, whom they have found while we were looking for him?”

“What!” eagerly replied the prince, “will I permit? I not only permit, I desire; let them come in.”

The marshal introduced the two young men and placed them face to face with the prince.

“Speak, gentlemen,” said the prince, saluting them; “first speak; we shall have time afterward for the usual compliments. The most urgent thing now is to learn where the enemy is and what he is doing.”

It fell naturally to the Count de Guiche to make reply; not only was he the elder, but he had been presented to the prince by his father. Besides, he had long known the prince, whilst Raoul now saw him for the first time. He therefore narrated to the prince what they had seen from the inn at Mazingarbe.

Meanwhile Raoul closely observed the young general, already made so famous by the battles of Rocroy, Fribourg, and Nordlingen.

Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Conde, who, since the death of his father, Henri de Bourbon, was called, in accordance with the custom of that period, Monsieur le Prince, was a young man, not more than twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with the eye of an eagle--agl’ occhi grifani, as Dante says--aquiline nose, long, waving hair, of medium height, well formed, possessed of all the qualities essential to the successful soldier--that is to say, the rapid glance, quick decision, fabulous courage. At the same time he was a man of elegant manners and strong mind, so that in addition to the revolution he had made in war, by his new contributions to its methods, he had also made a revolution at Paris, among the young noblemen of the court, whose natural chief he was and who, in distinction from the social leaders of the ancient court, modeled after Bassompierre, Bellegarde and the Duke d’Angouleme, were called the petits-maitres.

At the first words of the Count de Guiche, the prince, having in mind the direction whence came the sound of cannon, had understood everything. The enemy was marching upon Lens, with the intention, doubtless, of securing possession of that town and separating from France the army of France. But in what force was the enemy? Was it a corps sent out to make a diversion? Was it an entire army? To this question De Guiche could not respond.

Now, as these questions involved matters of gravest consequence, it was these to which the prince had especially desired an answer, exact, precise, positive.

Raoul conquered the very natural feeling of timidity he experienced and approaching the prince:

“My lord,” he said, “will you permit me to hazard a few words on that subject, which will perhaps relieve you of your uncertainty?”

The prince turned and seemed to cover the young man with a single glance; he smiled on perceiving that he was a child hardly fifteen years old.

“Certainly, monsieur, speak,” he said, softening his stern, accented tones, as if he were speaking to a woman.

“My lord,” said Raoul, blushing, “might examine the Spanish prisoner.”

“Have you a Spanish prisoner?” cried the prince.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ah, that is true,” said De Guiche; “I had forgotten it.”

“That is easily understood; it was you who took him, count,” said Raoul, smiling.

The old marshal turned toward the viscount, grateful for that praise of his son, whilst the prince exclaimed:

“The young man is right; let the prisoner be brought in.”

Meanwhile the prince took De Guiche aside and asked him how the prisoner had been taken and who this young man was.

“Monsieur,” said the prince, turning toward Raoul, “I know that you have a letter from my sister, Madame de Longueville; but I see that you have preferred commending yourself to me by giving me good counsel.”

“My lord,” said Raoul, coloring up, “I did not wish to interrupt your highness in a conversation so important as that in which you were engaged with the count. But here is the letter.”

“Very well,” said the prince; “give it to me later. Here is the prisoner; let us attend to what is most pressing.”

The prisoner was one of those military adventurers who sold their blood to whoever would buy, and grew old in stratagems and spoils. Since he had been taken he had not uttered a word, so that it was not known to what country he belonged. The prince looked at him with unspeakable distrust.

“Of what country are you?” asked the prince.

The prisoner muttered a few words in a foreign tongue.

“Ah! ah! it seems that he is a Spaniard. Do you speak Spanish, Grammont?”

“Faith, my lord, but indifferently.”

“And I not at all,” said the prince, laughing. “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to those who were near him “can any one of you speak Spanish and serve me as interpreter?”

“I can, my lord,” said Raoul.

“Ah, you speak Spanish?”

“Enough, I think, to fulfill your highness’s wishes on this occasion.”

Meanwhile the prisoner had remained impassive and as if he had no understanding of what was taking place.

“My lord asks of what country you are,” said the young man, in the purest Castilian.

“Ich bin ein Deutscher,” replied the prisoner.

“What in the devil does he say?” asked the prince. “What new gibberish is that?”

“He says he is German, my lord,” replied Raoul; “but I doubt it, for his accent is bad and his pronunciation defective.”

“Then you speak German, also?” asked the prince.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well enough to question him in that language?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Question him, then.”

Raoul began the examination, but the result justified his opinion. The prisoner did not understand, or seemed not to understand, what Raoul said to him; and Raoul could hardly understand his replies, containing a mixture of Flemish and Alsatian. However, amidst all the prisoner’s efforts to elude a systematic examination, Raoul had recognized his natural accent.

“Non siete Spagnuolo,” he said; “non siete Tedesco; siete Italiano.”

The prisoner started and bit his lips.

“Ah, that,” said the prince, “I understand that language thoroughly; and since he is Italian I will myself continue the examination. Thank you, viscount,” continued the prince, laughing, “and I appoint you from this moment my interpreter.”

But the prisoner was not less unwilling to respond in Italian than in the other languages; his aim was to elude the examination. Therefore, he knew nothing either of the enemy’s numbers, or of those in command, or of the purpose of the army.

“Very good,” said the prince, understanding the reason of that ignorance; “the man was caught in the act of assassination and robbery; he might have purchased his life by speaking; he doesn’t wish to speak. Take him out and shoot him.”

The prisoner turned pale. The two soldiers who had brought him in took him, each by one arm, and led him toward the door, whilst the prince, turning to Marshal de Grammont, seemed to have already forgotten the order he had given.

When he reached the threshold of the door the prisoner stopped. The soldiers, who knew only their orders, attempted to force him along.

“One moment,” said the prisoner, in French. “I am ready to speak, my lord.”

“Ah! ah!” said the prince, laughing, “I thought we should come to that. I have a sure method of limbering tongues. Young men, take advantage of it against the time when you may be in command.”

“But on condition,” continued the prisoner, “that your highness will swear that my life shall be safe.”

“Upon my honor,” said the prince.

“Question, then, my lord.”

“Where did the army cross the Lys?”

“Between Saint-Venant and Aire.”

“By whom is it commanded?”

“By Count de Fuonsaldagna, General Beck and the archduke.”

“Of how many does it consist?”

“Eighteen thousand men and thirty-six cannon.”

“And its aim is?”

“Lens.”

“You see; gentlemen!” said the prince, turning with a triumphant air toward Marshal de Grammont and the other officers.

“Yes, my lord,” said the marshal, “you have divined all that was possible to human genius.”

“Recall Le Plessis, Bellievre, Villequier and D’Erlac,” said the prince, “recall all the troops that are on this side of the Lys. Let them hold themselves in readiness to march to-night. To-morrow, according to all probability, we shall attack the enemy.”

“But, my lord,” said Marshal de Grammont, “consider that when we have collected all our forces we shall have hardly thirteen thousand men.”

“Monsieur le marechal,” said the prince, with that wonderful glance that was peculiar to him, “it is with small armies that great battles are won.”

Then turning toward the prisoner, “Take away that man,” he said, “and keep him carefully in sight. His life is dependent on the information he has given us; if it is true, he shall be free; if false, let him be shot.”

The prisoner was led away.

“Count de Guiche,” said the prince, “it is a long time since you saw your father, remain here with him. Monsieur,” he continued, addressing Raoul, “if you are not too tired, follow me.”

“To the end of the world, my lord!” cried Raoul, feeling an unknown enthusiasm for that young general, who seemed to him so worthy of his renown.

The prince smiled; he despised flatterers, but he appreciated enthusiasts.

“Come, monsieur,” he said, “you are good in council, as we have already discovered; to-morrow we shall know if you are good in action.”

“And I,” said the marshal, “what am I to do?”

“Wait here to receive the troops. I shall either return for them myself or shall send a courier directing you to bring them to me. Twenty guards, well mounted, are all that I shall need for my escort.”

“That is very few,” said the marshal.

“It is enough,” replied the prince. “Have you a good horse, Monsieur de Bragelonne?”

“My horse was killed this morning, my lord, and I am mounted provisionally on my lackey’s.”

“Choose for yourself in my stables the horse you like best. No false modesty; take the best horse you can find. You will need it this evening, perhaps; you will certainly need it to-morrow.”

Raoul didn’t wait to be told twice; he knew that with superiors, especially when those superiors are princes, the highest politeness is to obey without delay or argument; he went down to the stables, picked out a pie-bald Andalusian horse, saddled and bridled it himself, for Athos had advised him to trust no one with those important offices at a time of danger, and went to rejoin the prince, who at that moment mounted his horse.

“Now, monsieur,” he said to Raoul, “will you give me the letter you have brought?”

Raoul handed the letter to the prince.

“Keep near me,” said the latter.

The prince threw his bridle over the pommel of the saddle, as he was wont to do when he wished to have both hands free, unsealed the letter of Madame de Longueville and started at a gallop on the road to Lens, attended by Raoul and his small escort, whilst messengers sent to recall the troops set out with a loose rein in other directions. The prince read as he hastened on.

“Monsieur,” he said, after a moment, “they tell me great things of you. I have only to say, after the little that I have seen and heard, that I think even better of you than I have been told.’

Raoul bowed.

Meanwhile, as the little troop drew nearer to Lens, the noise of the cannon sounded louder. The prince kept his gaze fixed in the direction of the sound with the steadfastness of a bird of prey. One would have said that his gaze could pierce the branches of trees which limited his horizon. From time to time his nostrils dilated as if eager for the smell of powder, and he panted like a horse.

At length they heard the cannon so near that it was evident they were within a league of the field of battle, and at a turn of the road they perceived the little village of Aunay.

The peasants were in great commotion. The report of Spanish cruelty had gone out and every one was frightened. The women had already fled, taking refuge in Vitry; only a few men remained. On seeing the prince they hastened to meet him. One of them recognized him.

“Ah, my lord,” he said, “have you come to drive away those rascal Spaniards and those Lorraine robbers?”

“Yes,” said the prince, “if you will serve me as guide.”

“Willingly, my lord. Where does your highness wish to go?”

“To some elevated spot whence I can look down on Lens and the surrounding country----”

“In that case, I’m your man.”

“I can trust you--you are a true Frenchman?”

“I am an old soldier of Rocroy, my lord.”

“Here,” said the prince, handing him a purse, “here is for Rocroy. Now, do you want a horse, or will you go afoot?”

“Afoot, my lord; I have served always in the infantry. Besides, I expect to lead your highness into places where you will have to walk.”

“Come, then,” said the prince; “let us lose no time.”

The peasant started off, running before the prince’s horse; then, a hundred steps from the village, he took a narrow road hidden at the bottom of the valley. For a half league they proceeded thus, the cannon-shot sounding so near that they expected at each discharge to hear the hum of the balls. At length they entered a path which, going out from the road, skirted the mountainside. The prince dismounted, ordered one of his aids and Raoul to follow his example, and directed the others to await his orders, keeping themselves meanwhile on the alert. He then began to ascend the path.

In about ten minutes they reached the ruins of an old chateau; those ruins crowned the summit of a hill which overlooked the surrounding country. At a distance of hardly a quarter of a league they looked down on Lens, at bay, and before Lens the enemy’s entire army.

With a single glance the prince took in the extent of country that lay before him, from Lens as far as Vimy. In a moment the plan of the battle which on the following day was to save France the second time from invasion was unrolled in his mind. He took a pencil, tore a page from his tablets and wrote:

My Dear Marshal,--In an hour Lens will be in the enemy’s possession. Come and rejoin me; bring with you the whole army. I shall be at Vendin to place it in position. To-morrow we shall retake Lens and beat the enemy.”

Then, turning toward Raoul: “Go, monsieur,” he said; “ride fast and give this letter to Monsieur de Grammont.”

Raoul bowed, took the letter, went hastily down the mountain, leaped on his horse and set out at a gallop. A quarter of an hour later he was with the marshal.

A portion of the troops had already arrived and the remainder was expected from moment to moment. Marshal de Grammont put himself at the head of all the available cavalry and infantry and took the road to Vendin, leaving the Duc de Chatillon to await and bring on the rest. All the artillery was ready to move, and started off at a moment’s notice.

It was seven o’clock in the evening when the marshal arrived at the appointed place. The prince awaited him there. As he had foreseen, Lens had fallen into the hands of the enemy immediately after Raoul’s departure. The event was announced by the cessation of the firing.

As the shadows of night deepened the troops summoned by the prince arrived in successive detachments. Orders were given that no drum should be beaten, no trumpet sounded.

At nine o’clock the night had fully come. Still a last ray of twilight lighted the plain. The army marched silently, the prince at the head of the column. Presently the army came in sight of Lens; two or three houses were in flames and a dull noise was heard which indicated what suffering was endured by a town taken by assault.

The prince assigned to every one his post. Marshal de Grammont was to hold the extreme left, resting on Mericourt. The Duc de Chatillon commanded the centre. Finally, the prince led the right wing, resting on Aunay. The order of battle on the morrow was to be that of the positions taken in the evening. Each one, on awaking, would find himself on the field of battle.

The movement was executed in silence and with precision. At ten o’clock every one was in his appointed position; at half-past ten the prince visited the posts and gave his final orders for the following day.

Three things were especially urged upon the officers, who were to see that the soldiers observed them scrupulously: the first, that the different corps should so march that cavalry and infantry should be on the same line and that each body should protect its gaps; the second, to go to the charge no faster than a walk; the third, to let the enemy fire first.

The prince assigned the Count de Guiche to his father and kept Bragelonne near his own person; but the two young men sought the privilege of passing the night together and it was accorded them. A tent was erected for them near that of the marshal.

Although the day had been fatiguing, neither of them was inclined to sleep. And besides, even for old soldiers the evening before a battle is a serious time; it was so with greater reason to two young men who were about to witness for the first time that terrible spectacle. On the evening before a battle one thinks of a thousand things forgotten till then; those who are indifferent to one another become friends and those who are friends become brothers. It need not be said that if in the depths of the heart there is a sentiment more tender, it reaches then, quite naturally, the highest exaltation of which it is capable. Some sentiment of this kind must have been cherished by each one of these two friends, for each of them almost immediately sat down by himself at an end of the tent and began to write.

The letters were long--the four pages were covered with closely written words. The writers sometimes looked up at each other and smiled; they understood without speaking, their organizations were so delicate and sympathetic. The letters being finished, each put his own into two envelopes, so that no one, without tearing the first envelope, could discover to whom the second was addressed; then they drew near to each other and smilingly exchanged their letters.

“In case any evil should happen to me,” said Bragelonne.

“In case I should be killed,” said De Guiche.

They then embraced each other like two brothers, and each wrapping himself in his cloak they soon passed into that kindly sleep of youth which is the prerogative of birds, flowers and infants.

A Dinner in the Old Style.

The second interview between the former musketeers was not so formal and threatening as the first. Athos, with his superior understanding, wisely deemed that the supper table would be the most complete and satisfactory point of reunion, and at the moment when his friends, in deference to his deportment and sobriety, dared scarcely speak of some of their former good dinners, he was the first to propose that they should all assemble around some well spread table and abandon themselves unreservedly to their own natural character and manners--a freedom which had formerly contributed so much to that good understanding between them which gave them the name of the inseparables. For different reasons this was an agreeable proposition to them all, and it was therefore agreed that each should leave a very exact address and that upon the request of any of the associates a meeting should be convoked at a famous eating house in the Rue de la Monnaie, of the sign of the Hermitage. The first rendezvous was fixed for the following Wednesday, at eight o’clock in the evening precisely.

On that day, in fact, the four friends arrived punctually at the hour, each from his own abode or occupation. Porthos had been trying a new horse; D’Artagnan was on guard at the Louvre; Aramis had been to visit one of his penitents in the neighborhood; and Athos, whose domicile was established in the Rue Guenegaud, found himself close at hand. They were, therefore, somewhat surprised to meet altogether at the door of the Hermitage, Athos starting out from the Pont Neuf, Porthos by the Rue de la Roule, D’Artagnan by the Rue des Fosse Saint Germain l’Auxerrois, and Aramis by the Rue de Bethisy.

The first words exchanged between the four friends, on account of the ceremony which each of them mingled with their demonstration, were somewhat forced and even the repast began with a kind of stiffness. Athos perceived this embarrassment, and by way of supplying an effectual remedy, called for four bottles of champagne.

At this order, given in Athos’s habitually calm manner, the face of the Gascon relaxed and Porthos’s brow grew smooth. Aramis was astonished. He knew that Athos not only never drank, but more, that he had a kind of repugnance to wine. This astonishment was doubled when Aramis saw Athos fill a bumper and toss it off with all his former enthusiasm. His companions followed his example. In a very few minutes the four bottles were empty and this excellent specific succeeded in dissipating even the slightest cloud that might have rested on their spirits. Now the four friends began to speak loud, scarcely waiting till one had finished before another began, and each assumed his favorite attitude on or at the table. Soon--strange fact--Aramis undid two buttons of his doublet, seeing which, Porthos unfastened his entirely.

Battles, long journeys, blows given and received, sufficed for the first themes of conversation, which turned upon the silent struggles sustained against him who was now called the great cardinal.

“Faith,” said Aramis, laughing, “we have praised the dead enough, let us revile the living a little; I should like to say something evil of Mazarin; is it permissible?”

“Go on, go on,” replied D’Artagnan, laughing heartily; “relate your story and I will applaud it if it is a good one.”

“A great prince,” said Aramis, “with whom Mazarin sought an alliance, was invited by him to send him a list of the conditions on which he would do him the honor to negotiate with him. The prince, who had a great repugnance to treat with such an ill-bred fellow, made out a list, against the grain, and sent it. In this list there were three conditions which displeased Mazarin and he offered the prince ten thousand crowns to renounce them.”

“Ah, ha, ha!” laughed the three friends, “not a bad bargain; and there was no fear of being taken at his word; what did the prince do then?”

“The prince immediately sent fifty thousand francs to Mazarin, begging him never to write to him again, and offered twenty thousand francs more, on condition that he would never speak to him. What did Mazarin do?”

“Stormed!” suggested Athos.

“Beat the messenger!” cried Porthos.

“Accepted the money!” said D’Artagnan.

“You have guessed it,” answered Aramis; and they all laughed so heartily that the host appeared in order to inquire whether the gentlemen wanted anything; he thought they were fighting.

At last their hilarity calmed down and:

“Faith!” exclaimed D’Artagnan to the two friends, “you may well wish ill to Mazarin; for I assure you, on his side he wishes you no good.”

“Pooh! really?” asked Athos. “If I thought the fellow knew me by my name I would be rebaptized, for fear it might be thought I knew him.”

“He knows you better by your actions than your name; he is quite aware that there are two gentlemen who greatly aided the escape of Monsieur de Beaufort, and he has instigated an active search for them, I can answer for it.”

“By whom?”

“By me; and this morning he sent for me to ask me if I had obtained any information.”

“And what did you reply?”

“That I had none as yet; but that I was to dine to-day with two gentlemen, who would be able to give me some.”

“You told him that?” said Porthos, a broad smile spreading over his honest face. “Bravo! and you are not afraid of that, Athos?”

“No,” replied Athos, “it is not the search of Mazarin that I fear.”

“Now,” said Aramis, “tell me a little what you do fear.”

“Nothing for the present; at least, nothing in good earnest.”

“And with regard to the past?” asked Porthos.

“Oh! the past is another thing,” said Athos, sighing; “the past and the future.”

“Are you afraid for your young Raoul?” asked Aramis.

“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “one is never killed in a first engagement.”

“Nor in the second,” said Aramis

“Nor in the third,” returned Porthos; “and even when one is killed, one rises again, the proof of which is, that here we are!”

“No,” said Athos, “it is not Raoul about whom I am anxious, for I trust he will conduct himself like a gentleman; and if he is killed--well, he will die bravely; but hold--should such a misfortune happen--well--” Athos passed his hand across his pale brow.

“Well?” asked Aramis.

“Well, I shall look upon it as an expiation.”

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan; “I know what you mean.”

“And I, too,” added Aramis; “but you must not think of that, Athos; what is past, is past.”

“I don’t understand,” said Porthos.

“The affair at Armentieres,” whispered D’Artagnan.

“The affair at Armentieres?” asked he again.

“Milady.”

“Oh, yes!” said Porthos; “true, I had forgotten it!”

Athos looked at him intently.

“You have forgotten it, Porthos?” said he.

“Faith! yes, it is so long ago,” answered Porthos.

“This affair does not, then, weigh upon your conscience?”

“Faith, no.”

“And you, D’Artagnan?”

“I--I own that when my mind returns to that terrible period I have no recollection of anything but the rigid corpse of poor Madame Bonancieux. Yes, yes,” murmured he, “I have often felt regret for the victim, but never the very slightest remorse for the assassin.”

Athos shook his dead doubtfully.

“Consider,” said Aramis, “if you admit divine justice and its participation in the things of this world, that woman was punished by the will of heaven. We were but the instruments, that is all.”

“But as to free will, Aramis?”

“How acts the judge? He has a free will, yet he fearlessly condemns. What does the executioner? He is master of his arm, yet he strikes without remorse.”

“The executioner!” muttered Athos, as if arrested by some recollection.

“I know that it is terrible,” said D’Artagnan; “but when I reflect that we have killed English, Rochellais, Spaniards, nay, even French, who never did us any other harm but to aim at and to miss us, whose only fault was to cross swords with us and to be unable to ward off our blows--I can, on my honor, find an excuse for my share in the murder of that woman.”

“As for me,” said Porthos, “now that you have reminded me of it, Athos, I have the scene again before me, as if I now were there. Milady was there, as it were, where you sit.” (Athos changed color.) “I--I was where D’Artagnan stands. I wore a long sword which cut like a Damascus--you remember it, Aramis for you always called it Balizarde. Well, I swear to you, all three, that had the executioner of Bethune--was he not of Bethune?--yes, egad! of Bethune!--not been there, I would have cut off the head of that infamous being without thinking of it, or even after thinking of it. She was a most atrocious woman.”

“And then,” said Aramis, with the tone of philosophical indifference which he had assumed since he had belonged to the church and in which there was more atheism than confidence in God, “what is the use of thinking of it all? At the last hour we must confess this action and God knows better than we can whether it is a crime, a fault, or a meritorious deed. I repent of it? Egad! no. Upon my honor and by the holy cross; I only regret it because she was a woman.”

“The most satisfactory part of the matter,” said D’Artagnan, “is that there remains no trace of it.”

“She had a son,” observed Athos.

“Oh! yes, I know that,” said D’Artagnan, “and you mentioned it to me; but who knows what has become of him? If the serpent be dead, why not its brood? Do you think his uncle De Winter would have brought up that young viper? De Winter probably condemned the son as he had done the mother.”

“Then,” said Athos, “woe to De Winter, for the child had done no harm.”

“May the devil take me, if the child be not dead,” said Porthos. “There is so much fog in that detestable country, at least so D’Artagnan declares.”

Just as the quaint conclusion reached by Porthos was about to bring back hilarity to faces now more or less clouded, hasty footsteps were heard upon the stair and some one knocked at the door.

“Come in,” cried Athos.

“Please your honors,” said the host, “a person in a great hurry wishes to speak to one of you.”

“To which of us?” asked all the four friends.

“To him who is called the Comte de la Fere.”

“It is I,” said Athos, “and what is the name of the person?”

“Grimaud.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Athos, turning pale. “Back already! What can have happened, then, to Bragelonne?”

“Let him enter,” cried D’Artagnan; “let him come up.”

But Grimaud had already mounted the staircase and was waiting on the last step; so springing into the room he motioned the host to leave it. The door being closed, the four friends waited in expectation. Grimaud’s agitation, his pallor, the sweat which covered his face, the dust which soiled his clothes, all indicated that he was the messenger of some important and terrible news.

“Your honors,” said he, “that woman had a child; that child has become a man; the tigress had a little one, the tiger has roused himself; he is ready to spring upon you--beware!”

Athos glanced around at his friends with a melancholy smile. Porthos turned to look at his sword, which was hanging on the wall; Aramis seized his knife; D’Artagnan arose.

“What do you mean, Grimaud?” he exclaimed.

“That Milady’s son has left England, that he is in France, on his road to Paris, if he be not here already.”

“The devil he is!” said Porthos. “Are you sure of it?”

“Certain,” replied Grimaud.

This announcement was received in silence. Grimaud was so breathless, so exhausted, that he had fallen back upon a chair. Athos filled a beaker with champagne and gave it to him.

“Well, after all,” said D’Artagnan, “supposing that he lives, that he comes to Paris; we have seen many other such. Let him come.”

“Yes,” echoed Porthos, glancing affectionately at his sword, still hanging on the wall; “we can wait for him; let him come.”

“Moreover, he is but a child,” said Aramis.

Grimaud rose.

“A child!” he exclaimed. “Do you know what he has done, this child? Disguised as a monk he discovered the whole history in confession from the executioner of Bethune, and having confessed him, after having learned everything from him, he gave him absolution by planting this dagger into his heart. See, it is on fire yet with his hot blood, for it is not thirty hours since it was drawn from the wound.”

And Grimaud threw the dagger on the table.

D’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis rose and in one spontaneous motion rushed to their swords. Athos alone remained seated, calm and thoughtful.

“And you say he is dressed as a monk, Grimaud?”

“Yes, as an Augustine monk.”

“What sized man is he?”

“About my height; thin, pale, with light blue eyes and tawny flaxen hair.”

“And he did not see Raoul?” asked Athos.

“Yes, on the contrary, they met, and it was the viscount himself who conducted him to the bed of the dying man.”

Athos, in his turn, rising without speaking, went and unhooked his sword.

“Heigh, sir,” said D’Artagnan, trying to laugh, “do you know we look very much like a flock of silly, mouse-evading women! How is it that we, four men who have faced armies without blinking, begin to tremble at the mention of a child?”

“It is true,” said Athos, “but this child comes in the name of Heaven.”

And very soon they left the inn.

A Letter from Charles the First.

The reader must now cross the Seine with us and follow us to the door of the Carmelite Convent in the Rue Saint Jacques. It is eleven o’clock in the morning and the pious sisters have just finished saying mass for the success of the armies of King Charles I. Leaving the church, a woman and a young girl dressed in black, the one as a widow and the other as an orphan, have re-entered their cell.

The woman kneels on a prie-dieu of painted wood and at a short distance from her stands the young girl, leaning against a chair, weeping.

The woman must have once been handsome, but traces of sorrow have aged her. The young girl is lovely and her tears only embellish her; the lady appears to be about forty years of age, the girl about fourteen.

“Oh, God!” prayed the kneeling suppliant, “protect my husband, guard my son, and take my wretched life instead!”

“Oh, God!” murmured the girl, “leave me my mother!”

“Your mother can be of no use to you in this world, Henrietta,” said the lady, turning around. “Your mother has no longer either throne or husband; she has neither son, money nor friends; the whole world, my poor child, has abandoned your mother!” And she fell back, weeping, into her daughter’s arms.

“Courage, take courage, my dear mother!” said the girl.

“Ah! ’tis an unfortunate year for kings,” said the mother. “And no one thinks of us in this country, for each must think about his own affairs. As long as your brother was with me he kept me up; but he is gone and can no longer send us news of himself, either to me or to your father. I have pledged my last jewels, sold your clothes and my own to pay his servants, who refused to accompany him unless I made this sacrifice. We are now reduced to live at the expense of these daughters of Heaven; we are the poor, succored by God.”

“But why not address yourself to your sister, the queen?” asked the girl.

“Alas! the queen, my sister, is no longer queen, my child. Another reigns in her name. One day you will be able to understand how all this is.”

“Well, then, to the king, your nephew. Shall I speak to him? You know how much he loves me, my mother.

“Alas! my nephew is not yet king, and you know Laporte has told us twenty times that he himself is in need of almost everything.”

“Then let us pray to Heaven,” said the girl.

The two women who thus knelt in united prayer were the daughter and grand-daughter of Henry IV., the wife and daughter of Charles I.

They had just finished their double prayer, when a nun softly tapped at the door of the cell.

“Enter, my sister,” said the queen.

“I trust your majesty will pardon this intrusion on her meditations, but a foreign lord has arrived from England and waits in the parlor, demanding the honor of presenting a letter to your majesty.”

“Oh, a letter! a letter from the king, perhaps. News from your father, do you hear, Henrietta? And the name of this lord?”

“Lord de Winter.”

“Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the queen, “the friend of my husband. Oh, bid him enter!”

And the queen advanced to meet the messenger, whose hand she seized affectionately, whilst he knelt down and presented a letter to her, contained in a case of gold.

“Ah! my lord!” said the queen, “you bring us three things which we have not seen for a long time. Gold, a devoted friend, and a letter from the king, our husband and master.”

De Winter bowed again, unable to reply from excess of emotion.

On their side the mother and daughter retired into the embrasure of a window to read eagerly the following letter:

Dear Wife,--We have now reached the moment of decision. I have concentrated here at Naseby camp all the resources Heaven has left me, and I write to you in haste from thence. Here I await the army of my rebellious subjects. I am about to struggle for the last time with them. If victorious, I shall continue the struggle; if beaten, I am lost. I shall try, in the latter case (alas! in our position, one must provide for everything), I shall try to gain the coast of France. But can they, will they receive an unhappy king, who will bring such a sad story into a country already agitated by civil discord? Your wisdom and your affection must serve me as guides. The bearer of this letter will tell you, madame, what I dare not trust to pen and paper and the risks of transit. He will explain to you the steps that I expect you to pursue. I charge him also with my blessing for my children and with the sentiments of my soul for yourself, my dearest sweetheart.”

The letter bore the signature, not of “Charles, King,” but of “Charles--still king.”

“And let him be no longer king,” cried the queen. “Let him be conquered, exiled, proscribed, provided he still lives. Alas! in these days the throne is too dangerous a place for me to wish him to retain it. But my lord, tell me,” she continued, “hide nothing from me--what is, in truth, the king’s position? Is it as hopeless as he thinks?”

“Alas! madame, more hopeless than he thinks. His majesty has so good a heart that he cannot understand hatred; is so loyal that he does not suspect treason! England is torn in twain by a spirit of disturbance which, I greatly fear, blood alone can exorcise.”

“But Lord Montrose,” replied the queen, “I have heard of his great and rapid successes of battles gained. I heard it said that he was marching to the frontier to join the king.”

“Yes, madame; but on the frontier he was met by Lesly; he had tried victory by means of superhuman undertakings. Now victory has abandoned him. Montrose, beaten at Philiphaugh, was obliged to disperse the remains of his army and to fly, disguised as a servant. He is at Bergen, in Norway.”

“Heaven preserve him!” said the queen. “It is at least a consolation to know that some who have so often risked their lives for us are safe. And now, my lord, that I see how hopeless the position of the king is, tell me with what you are charged on the part of my royal husband.”

“Well, then, madame,” said De Winter, “the king wishes you to try and discover the dispositions of the king and queen toward him.”

“Alas! you know that even now the king is but a child and the queen a woman weak enough. Here, Monsieur Mazarin is everything.”

“Does he desire to play the part in France that Cromwell plays in England?”

“Oh, no! He is a subtle, conscienceless Italian, who though he very likely dreams of crime, dares not commit it; and unlike Cromwell, who disposes of both Houses, Mazarin has had the queen to support him in his struggle with the parliament.”

“More reason, then, he should protect a king pursued by parliament.”

The queen shook her head despairingly.

“If I judge for myself, my lord,” she said, “the cardinal will do nothing, and will even, perhaps, act against us. The presence of my daughter and myself in France is already irksome to him; much more so would be that of the king. My lord,” added Henrietta, with a melancholy smile, “it is sad and almost shameful to be obliged to say that we have passed the winter in the Louvre without money, without linen, almost without bread, and often not rising from bed because we wanted fire.”

“Horrible!” cried De Winter; “the daughter of Henry IV., and the wife of King Charles! Wherefore did you not apply, then, madame, to the first person you saw from us?”

“Such is the hospitality shown to a queen by the minister from whom a king demands it.”

“But I heard that a marriage between the Prince of Wales and Mademoiselle d’Orleans was spoken of,” said De Winter.

“Yes, for an instant I hoped it was so. The young people felt a mutual esteem; but the queen, who at first sanctioned their affection, changed her mind, and Monsieur, the Duc d’Orleans, who had encouraged the familiarity between them, has forbidden his daughter to think any more about the union. Oh, my lord!” continued the queen, without restraining her tears, “it is better to fight as the king has done, and to die, as perhaps he will, than live in beggary like me.”

“Courage, madame! courage! Do not despair! The interests of the French crown, endangered at this moment, are to discountenance rebellion in a neighboring nation. Mazarin, as a statesman, will understand the politic necessity.”

“Are you sure,” said the queen doubtfully, “that you have not been forestalled?”

“By whom?”

“By the Joices, the Prinns, the Cromwells?”

“By a tailor, a coachmaker, a brewer! Ah! I hope, madame, that the cardinal will not enter into negotiations with such men!”

“Ah! what is he himself?” asked Madame Henrietta.

“But for the honor of the king--of the queen.”

“Well, let us hope he will do something for the sake of their honor,” said the queen. “A true friend’s eloquence is so powerful, my lord, that you have reassured me. Give me your hand and let us go to the minister; and yet,” she added, “suppose he should refuse and that the king loses the battle?”

“His majesty will then take refuge in Holland, where I hear his highness the Prince of Wales now is.”

“And can his majesty count upon many such subjects as yourself for his flight?”

“Alas! no, madame,” answered De Winter; “but the case is provided for and I am come to France to seek allies.”

“Allies!” said the queen, shaking her head.

“Madame,” replied De Winter, “provided I can find some of my good old friends of former times I will answer for anything.”

“Come then, my lord,” said the queen, with the painful doubt that is felt by those who have suffered much; “come, and may Heaven hear you.”

Cromwell’s Letter.

At the very moment when the queen quitted the convent to go to the Palais Royal, a young man dismounted at the gate of this royal abode and announced to the guards that he had something of importance to communicate to Cardinal Mazarin. Although the cardinal was often tormented by fear, he was more often in need of counsel and information, and he was therefore sufficiently accessible. The true difficulty of being admitted was not to be found at the first door, and even the second was passed easily enough; but at the third watched, besides the guard and the doorkeepers, the faithful Bernouin, a Cerberus whom no speech could soften, no wand, even of gold, could charm.

It was therefore at the third door that those who solicited or were bidden to an audience underwent their formal interrogatory.

The young man having left his horse tied to the gate in the court, mounted the great staircase and addressed the guard in the first chamber.

“Cardinal Mazarin?” said he.

“Pass on,” replied the guard.

The cavalier entered the second hall, which was guarded by the musketeers and doorkeepers.

“Have you a letter of audience?” asked a porter, advancing to the new arrival.

“I have one, but not one from Cardinal Mazarin.”

“Enter, and ask for Monsieur Bernouin,” said the porter, opening the door of the third room. Whether he only held his usual post or whether it was by accident, Monsieur Bernouin was found standing behind the door and must have heard all that had passed.

“You seek me, sir,” said he. “From whom may the letter be you bear to his eminence?”

“From General Oliver Cromwell,” said the new comer. “Be so good as to mention this name to his eminence and to bring me word whether he will receive me--yes or no.”

Saying which, he resumed the proud and sombre bearing peculiar at that time to Puritans. Bernouin cast an inquisitorial glance at the person of the young man and entered the cabinet of the cardinal, to whom he transmitted the messenger’s words.

“A man bringing a letter from Oliver Cromwell?” said Mazarin. “And what kind of a man?”

“A genuine Englishman, your eminence. Hair sandy-red--more red than sandy; gray-blue eyes--more gray than blue; and for the rest, stiff and proud.”

“Let him give in his letter.”

“His eminence asks for the letter,” said Bernouin, passing back into the ante-chamber.

“His eminence cannot see the letter without the bearer of it,” replied the young man; “but to convince you that I am really the bearer of a letter, see, here it is; and kindly add,” continued he, “that I am not a simple messenger, but an envoy extraordinary.”

Bernouin re-entered the cabinet, returning in a few seconds. “Enter, sir,” said he.

The young man appeared on the threshold of the minister’s closet, in one hand holding his hat, in the other the letter. Mazarin rose. “Have you, sir,” asked he, “a letter accrediting you to me?”

“There it is, my lord,” said the young man.

Mazarin took the letter and read it thus:

“Mr. Mordaunt, one of my secretaries, will remit this letter of introduction to His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, in Paris. He is also the bearer of a second confidential epistle for his eminence.

“Oliver Cromwell.”

“Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, “give me this second letter and sit down.”

The young man drew from his pocket a second letter, presented it to the cardinal, and took his seat. The cardinal, however, did not unseal the letter at once, but continued to turn it again and again in his hand; then, in accordance with his usual custom and judging from experience that few people could hide anything from him when he began to question them, fixing his eyes upon them at the same time, he thus addressed the messenger:

“You are very young, Monsieur Mordaunt, for this difficult task of ambassador, in which the oldest diplomatists often fail.”

“My lord, I am twenty-three years of age; but your eminence is mistaken in saying that I am young. I am older than your eminence, although I possess not your wisdom. Years of suffering, in my opinion, count double, and I have suffered for twenty years.”

“Ah, yes, I understand,” said Mazarin; “want of fortune, perhaps. You are poor, are you not?” Then he added to himself: “These English Revolutionists are all beggars and ill-bred.”

“My lord, I ought to have a fortune of six millions, but it has been taken from me.”

“You are not, then, a man of the people?” said Mazarin, astonished.

“If I bore my proper title I should be a lord. If I bore my name you would have heard one of the most illustrious names of England.”

“What is your name, then?” asked Mazarin.

“My name is Mordaunt,” replied the young man, bowing.

Mazarin now understood that Cromwell’s envoy desired to retain his incognito. He was silent for an instant, and during that time he scanned the young man even more attentively than he had done at first. The messenger was unmoved.

“Devil take these Puritans,” said Mazarin aside; “they are carved from granite.” Then he added aloud, “But you have relations left you?”

“I have one remaining. Three times I presented myself to ask his support and three times he ordered his servants to turn me away.”

“Oh, mon Dieu! my dear Mr. Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, hoping by a display of affected pity to catch the young man in a snare, “how extremely your history interests me! You know not, then, anything of your birth--you have never seen your mother?”

“Yes, my lord; she came three times, whilst I was a child, to my nurse’s house; I remember the last time she came as well as if it were to-day.”

“You have a good memory,” said Mazarin.

“Oh! yes, my lord,” said the young man, with such peculiar emphasis that the cardinal felt a shudder run through every vein.

“And who brought you up?” he asked again.

“A French nurse, who sent me away when I was five years old because no one paid her for me, telling me the name of a relation of whom she had heard my mother often speak.”

“What became of you?”

“As I was weeping and begging on the high road, a minister from Kingston took me in, instructed me in the Calvinistic faith, taught me all he knew himself and aided me in my researches after my family.”

“And these researches?”

“Were fruitless; chance did everything.”

“You discovered what had become of your mother?”

“I learned that she had been assassinated by my relation, aided by four friends, but I was already aware that I had been robbed of my wealth and degraded from my nobility by King Charles I.”

“Oh! I now understand why you are in the service of Cromwell; you hate the king.”

“Yes, my lord, I hate him!” said the young man.

Mazarin marked with surprise the diabolical expression with which the young man uttered these words. Just as, ordinarily, faces are colored by blood, his face seemed dyed by hatred and became livid.

“Your history is a terrible one, Mr. Mordaunt, and touches me keenly; but happily for you, you serve an all-powerful master; he ought to aid you in your search; we have so many means of gaining information.”

“My lord, to a well-bred dog it is only necessary to show one end of a track; he is certain to reach the other.”

“But this relation you mentioned--do you wish me to speak to him?” said Mazarin, who was anxious to make a friend about Cromwell’s person.

“Thanks, my lord, I will speak to him myself. He will treat me better the next time I see him.”

“You have the means, then, of touching him?”

“I have the means of making myself feared.”

Mazarin looked at the young man, but at the fire which shot from his glance he bent his head; then, embarrassed how to continue such a conversation, he opened Cromwell’s letter.

The young man’s eyes gradually resumed their dull and glassy appearance and he fell into a profound reverie. After reading the first lines of the letter Mazarin gave a side glance at him to see if he was watching the expression of his face as he read. Observing his indifference, he shrugged his shoulders, saying:

“Send on your business those who do theirs at the same time! Let us see what this letter contains.”

We here present the letter verbatim:

“To his Eminence, Monseigneur le Cardinal Mazarini:

“I have wished, monseigneur, to learn your intentions relating to the existing state of affairs in England. The two kingdoms are so near that France must be interested in our situation, as we are interested in that of France. The English are almost of one mind in contending against the tyranny of Charles and his adherents. Placed by popular confidence at the head of that movement, I can appreciate better than any other its significance and its probable results. I am at present in the midst of war, and am about to deliver a decisive battle against King Charles. I shall gain it, for the hope of the nation and the Spirit of the Lord are with me. This battle won by me, the king will have no further resources in England or in Scotland; and if he is not captured or killed, he will endeavor to pass over into France to recruit soldiers and to refurnish himself with arms and money. France has already received Queen Henrietta, and, unintentionally, doubtless, has maintained a centre of inextinguishable civil war in my country. But Madame Henrietta is a daughter of France and was entitled to the hospitality of France. As to King Charles, the question must be viewed differently; in receiving and aiding him, France will censure the acts of the English nation, and thus so essentially harm England, and especially the well-being of the government, that such a proceeding will be equivalent to pronounced hostilities.”

At this moment Mazarin became very uneasy at the turn which the letter was taking and paused to glance under his eyes at the young man. The latter continued in thought. Mazarin resumed his reading:

“It is important, therefore, monseigneur, that I should be informed as to the intentions of France. The interests of that kingdom and those of England, though taking now diverse directions, are very nearly the same. England needs tranquillity at home, in order to consummate the expulsion of her king; France needs tranquillity to establish on solid foundations the throne of her young monarch. You need, as much as we do, that interior condition of repose which, thanks to the energy of our government, we are about to attain.

“Your quarrels with the parliament, your noisy dissensions with the princes, who fight for you to-day and to-morrow will fight against you, the popular following directed by the coadjutor, President Blancmesnil, and Councillor Broussel--all that disorder, in short, which pervades the several departments of the state, must lead you to view with uneasiness the possibility of a foreign war; for in that event England, exalted by the enthusiasm of new ideas, will ally herself with Spain, already seeking that alliance. I have therefore believed, monseigneur, knowing your prudence and your personal relation to the events of the present time, that you will choose to hold your forces concentrated in the interior of the French kingdom and leave to her own the new government of England. That neutrality consists simply in excluding King Charles from the territory of France and in refraining from helping him--a stranger to your country--with arms, with money or with troops.

“My letter is private and confidential, and for that reason I send it to you by a man who shares my most intimate counsels. It anticipates, through a sentiment which your eminence will appreciate, measures to be taken after the events. Oliver Cromwell considered it more expedient to declare himself to a mind as intelligent as Mazarin’s than to a queen admirable for firmness, without doubt, but too much guided by vain prejudices of birth and of divine right.

“Farewell, monseigneur; should I not receive a reply in the space of fifteen days, I shall presume my letter will have miscarried.

“Oliver Cromwell.”

“Mr. Mordaunt,” said the cardinal, raising his voice, as if to arouse the dreamer, “my reply to this letter will be more satisfactory to General Cromwell if I am convinced that all are ignorant of my having given one; go, therefore, and await it at Boulogne-sur-Mer, and promise me to set out to-morrow morning.”

“I promise, my lord,” replied Mordaunt; “but how many days does your eminence expect me to await your reply?”

“If you do not receive it in ten days you can leave.”

Mordaunt bowed.

“That is not all, sir,” continued Mazarin; “your private adventures have touched me to the quick; besides, the letter from Mr. Cromwell makes you an important person as ambassador; come, tell me, what can I do for you?”

Mordaunt reflected a moment and, after some hesitation, was about to speak, when Bernouin entered hastily and bending down to the ear of the cardinal, whispered:

“My lord, the Queen Henrietta Maria, accompanied by an English noble, is entering the Palais Royal at this moment.”

Mazarin made a bound from his chair, which did not escape the attention of the young man and suppressed the confidence he was about to make.

“Sir,” said the cardinal, “you have heard me? I fix on Boulogne because I presume that every town in France is indifferent to you; if you prefer another, name it; but you can easily conceive that, surrounded as I am by influences I can only muzzle by discretion, I desire your presence in Paris to be unknown.”

“I go, sir,” said Mordaunt, advancing a few steps to the door by which he had entered.

“No, not that way, I beg, sir,” quickly exclaimed the cardinal, “be so good as to pass by yonder gallery, by which you can regain the hall. I do not wish you to be seen leaving; our interview must be kept secret.”

Mordaunt followed Bernouin, who led him through the adjacent chamber and left him with a doorkeeper, showing him the way out.

Henrietta Maria and Mazarin.

The cardinal rose, and advanced in haste to receive the queen of England. He showed the more respect to this queen, deprived of every mark of pomp and stripped of followers, as he felt some self-reproach for his own want of heart and his avarice. But supplicants for favor know how to accommodate the expression of their features, and the daughter of Henry IV. smiled as she advanced to meet a man she hated and despised.

“Ah!” said Mazarin to himself, “what a sweet face; does she come to borrow money of me?”

And he threw an uneasy glance at his strong box; he even turned inside the bevel of the magnificent diamond ring, the brilliancy of which drew every eye upon his hand, which indeed was white and handsome.

“Your eminence,” said the august visitor, “it was my first intention to speak of the matters that have brought me here to the queen, my sister, but I have reflected that political affairs are more especially the concern of men.”

“Madame,” said Mazarin, “your majesty overwhelms me with flattering distinction.”

“He is very gracious,” thought the queen; “can he have guessed my errand?”

“Give,” continued the cardinal, “your commands to the most respectful of your servants.”

“Alas, sir,” replied the queen, “I have lost the habit of commanding and have adopted instead that of making petitions. I am here to petition you, too happy should my prayer be favorably heard.”

“I am listening, madame, with the greatest interest,” said Mazarin.

“Your eminence, it concerns the war which the king, my husband, is now sustaining against his rebellious subjects. You are perhaps ignorant that they are fighting in England,” added she, with a melancholy smile, “and that in a short time they will fight in a much more decided fashion than they have done hitherto.”

“I am completely ignorant of it, madame,” said the cardinal, accompanying his words with a slight shrug of the shoulders; “alas, our own wars quite absorb the time and the mind of a poor, incapable, infirm old minister like me.”

“Well, then, your eminence,” said the queen, “I must inform you that Charles I., my husband, is on the eve of a decisive engagement. In case of a check” (Mazarin made a slight movement), “one must foresee everything; in the case of a check, he desires to retire into France and to live here as a private individual. What do you say to this project?”

The cardinal had listened without permitting a single fibre of his face to betray what he felt, and his smile remained as it ever was--false and flattering; and when the queen finished speaking, he said:

“Do you think, madame, that France, agitated and disturbed as it is, would be a safe retreat for a dethroned king? How will the crown, which is scarce firmly set on the head of Louis XIV., support a double weight?”

“The weight was not so heavy when I was in peril,” interrupted the queen, with a sad smile, “and I ask no more for my husband than has been done for me; you see that we are very humble monarchs, sir.”

“Oh, you, madame,” the cardinal hastened to say, in order to cut short the explanation he foresaw was coming, “with regard to you, that is another thing. A daughter of Henry IV., of that great, that sublime sovereign----”

“All which does not prevent you refusing hospitality to his son-in-law, sir! Nevertheless, you ought to remember that that great, that sublime monarch, when proscribed at one time, as my husband may be, demanded aid from England and England accorded it to him; and it is but just to say that Queen Elizabeth was not his niece.”

“Peccato!” said Mazarin, writhing beneath this simple eloquence, “your majesty does not understand me; you judge my intentions wrongly, and that is partly because, doubtless, I explain myself in French.”

“Speak Italian, sir. Ere the cardinal, your predecessor, sent our mother, Marie de Medicis, to die in exile, she taught us that language. If anything yet remains of that great, that sublime king, Henry, of whom you have just spoken, he would be much surprised at so little pity for his family being united to such a profound admiration of himself.”

The perspiration stood in large drops on Mazarin’s brow.

“That admiration is, on the contrary, so great, so real, madame,” returned Mazarin, without noticing the change of language offered to him by the queen, “that if the king, Charles I.--whom Heaven protect from evil!--came into France, I would offer him my house--my own house; but, alas! it would be but an unsafe retreat. Some day the people will burn that house, as they burned that of the Marechal d’Ancre. Poor Concino Concini! And yet he but desired the good of the people.”

“Yes, my lord, like yourself!” said the queen, ironically.

Mazarin pretended not to understand the double meaning of his own sentence, but continued to compassionate the fate of Concino Concini.

“Well then, your eminence,” said the queen, becoming impatient, “what is your answer?”

“Madame,” cried Mazarin, more and more moved, “will your majesty permit me to give you counsel?”

“Speak, sir,” replied the queen; “the counsels of so prudent a man as yourself ought certainly to be available.”

“Madame, believe me, the king ought to defend himself to the last.”

“He has done so, sir, and this last battle, which he encounters with resources much inferior to those of the enemy, proves that he will not yield without a struggle; but in case he is beaten?”

“Well, madame, in that case, my advice--I know that I am very bold to offer advice to your majesty--my advice is that the king should not leave his kingdom. Absent kings are very soon forgotten; if he passes over into France his cause is lost.”

“But,” persisted the queen, “if such be your advice and you have his interest at heart, send him help of men and money, for I can do nothing for him; I have sold even to my last diamond to aid him. If I had had a single ornament left, I should have bought wood this winter to make a fire for my daughter and myself.”

“Oh, madame,” said Mazarin, “your majesty knows not what you ask. On the day when foreign succor follows in the train of a king to replace him on his throne, it is an avowal that he no longer possesses the help and love of his own subjects.”

“To the point, sir,” said the queen, “to the point, and answer me, yes or no; if the king persists in remaining in England will you send him succor? If he comes to France will you accord him hospitality? What do you intend to do? Speak.”

“Madame,” said the cardinal, affecting an effusive frankness of speech, “I shall convince your majesty, I trust, of my devotion to you and my desire to terminate an affair which you have so much at heart. After which your majesty will, I think, no longer doubt my zeal in your behalf.”

The queen bit her lips and moved impatiently on her chair.

“Well, what do you propose to do?” she, said at length; “come, speak.”

“I will go this instant and consult the queen, and we will refer the affair at once to parliament.”

“With which you are at war--is it not so? You will charge Broussel to report it. Enough, sir, enough. I understand you or rather, I am wrong. Go to the parliament, for it was from this parliament, the enemy of monarchs, that the daughter of the great, the sublime Henry IV., whom you so much admire, received the only relief this winter which prevented her from dying of hunger and cold!”

And with these words Henrietta rose in majestic indignation, whilst the cardinal, raising his hands clasped toward her, exclaimed, “Ah, madame, madame, how little you know me, mon Dieu!”

But Queen Henrietta, without even turning toward him who made these hypocritical pretensions, crossed the cabinet, opened the door for herself and passing through the midst of the cardinal’s numerous guards, courtiers eager to pay homage, the luxurious show of a competing royalty, she went and took the hand of De Winter, who stood apart in isolation. Poor queen, already fallen! Though all bowed before her, as etiquette required, she had now but a single arm on which she could lean.

“It signifies little,” said Mazarin, when he was alone. “It gave me pain and it was an ungracious part to play, but I have said nothing either to the one or to the other. Bernouin!”

Bernouin entered.

“See if the young man with the black doublet and the short hair, who was with me just now, is still in the palace.”

Bernouin went out and soon returned with Comminges, who was on guard.

“Your eminence,” said Comminges, “as I was re-conducting the young man for whom you have asked, he approached the glass door of the gallery, and gazed intently upon some object, doubtless the picture by Raphael, which is opposite the door. He reflected for a second and then descended the stairs. I believe I saw him mount a gray horse and leave the palace court. But is not your eminence going to the queen?”

“For what purpose?”

“Monsieur de Guitant, my uncle, has just told me that her majesty had received news of the army.”

“It is well; I will go.”

Comminges had seen rightly, and Mordaunt had really acted as he had related. In crossing the gallery parallel to the large glass gallery, he perceived De Winter, who was waiting until the queen had finished her negotiation.

At this sight the young man stopped short, not in admiration of Raphael’s picture, but as if fascinated at the sight of some terrible object. His eyes dilated and a shudder ran through his body. One would have said that he longed to break through the wall of glass which separated him from his enemy; for if Comminges had seen with what an expression of hatred the eyes of this young man were fixed upon De Winter, he would not have doubted for an instant that the Englishman was his eternal foe.

But he stopped, doubtless to reflect; for instead of allowing his first impulse, which had been to go straight to Lord de Winter, to carry him away, he leisurely descended the staircase, left the palace with his head down, mounted his horse, which he reined in at the corner of the Rue Richelieu, and with his eyes fixed on the gate, waited until the queen’s carriage had left the court.

He had not long to wait, for the queen scarcely remained a quarter of an hour with Mazarin, but this quarter of an hour of expectation appeared a century to him. At last the heavy machine, which was called a chariot in those days, came out, rumbling against the gates, and De Winter, still on horseback, bent again to the door to converse with her majesty.

The horses started on a trot and took the road to the Louvre, which they entered. Before leaving the convent of the Carmelites, Henrietta had desired her daughter to attend her at the palace, which she had inhabited for a long time and which she had only left because their poverty seemed to them more difficult to bear in gilded chambers.

Mordaunt followed the carriage, and when he had watched it drive beneath the sombre arches he went and stationed himself under a wall over which the shadow was extended, and remained motionless, amidst the moldings of Jean Goujon, like a bas-relievo, representing an equestrian statue.

How, sometimes, the Unhappy mistake Chance for Providence.

“Well, madame,” said De Winter, when the queen had dismissed her attendants.

“Well, my lord, what I foresaw has come to pass.”

“What? does the cardinal refuse to receive the king? France refuse hospitality to an unfortunate prince? Ay, but it is for the first time, madame!”

“I did not say France, my lord; I said the cardinal, and the cardinal is not even a Frenchman.”

“But did you see the queen?”

“It is useless,” replied Henrietta, “the queen will not say yes when the cardinal says no. Are you not aware that this Italian directs everything, both indoors and out? And moreover, I should not be surprised had we been forestalled by Cromwell. He was embarrassed whilst speaking to me and yet quite firm in his determination to refuse. Then did you not observe the agitation in the Palais Royal, the passing to and fro of busy people? Can they have received any news, my lord?”

“Not from England, madame. I made such haste that I am certain of not having been forestalled. I set out three days ago, passing miraculously through the Puritan army, and I took post horses with my servant Tony; the horses upon which we were mounted were bought in Paris. Besides, the king, I am certain, awaits your majesty’s reply before risking anything.”

“You will tell him, my lord,” resumed the queen, despairingly, “that I can do nothing; that I have suffered as much as himself--more than he has--obliged as I am to eat the bread of exile and to ask hospitality from false friends who smile at my tears; and as regards his royal person, he must sacrifice it generously and die like a king. I shall go and die by his side.”

“Madame, madame,” exclaimed De Winter, “your majesty abandons yourself to despair; and yet, perhaps, there still remains some hope.”

“No friends left, my lord; no other friends left in the wide world but yourself! Oh, God!” exclaimed the poor queen, raising her eyes to Heaven, “have You indeed taken back all the generous hearts that once existed in the world?”

“I hope not, madame,” replied De Winter, thoughtfully; “I once spoke to you of four men.”

“What can be done with four?”

“Four devoted, resolute men can do much? assure yourself, madame; and those of whom I speak performed great things at one time.”

“And where are these four men?”

“Ah, that is what I do not know. It is twenty years since I saw them, and yet whenever I have seen the king in danger I have thought of them.”

“And these men were your friends?”

“One of them held my life in his hands and gave it to me. I know not whether he is still my friend, but since that time I have remained his.”

“And these men are in France, my lord?”

“I believe so.”

“Tell me their names; perhaps I may have heard them mentioned and might be able to aid you in finding them.”

“One of them was called the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”

“Ah, my lord, if I mistake not, the Chevalier d’Artagnan is lieutenant of royal guards; but take care, for I fear that this man is entirely devoted to the cardinal.”

“That would be a misfortune,” said De Winter, “and I shall begin to think that we are really doomed.”

“But the others,” said the queen, who clung to this last hope as a shipwrecked man clings to the hull of his vessel. “The others, my lord!”

“The second--I heard his name by chance; for before fighting us, these four gentlemen told us their names; the second was called the Comte de la Fere. As for the two others, I had so much the habit of calling them by nicknames that I have forgotten their real ones.”

“Oh, mon Dieu, it is a matter of the greatest urgency to find them out,” said the queen, “since you think these worthy gentlemen might be so useful to the king.”

“Oh, yes,” said De Winter, “for they are the same men. Listen, madame, and recall your remembrances. Have you never heard that Queen Anne of Austria was once saved from the greatest danger ever incurred by a queen?”

“Yes, at the time of her relations with Monsieur de Buckingham; it had to do in some way with certain studs and diamonds.”

“Well, it was that affair, madame; these men are the ones who saved her; and I smile with pity when I reflect that if the names of those gentlemen are unknown to you it is because the queen has forgotten them, who ought to have made them the first noblemen of the realm.”

“Well, then, my lord, they must be found; but what can four men, or rather three men do--for I tell you, you must not count on Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“It will be one valiant sword the less, but there will remain still three, without reckoning my own; now four devoted men around the king to protect him from his enemies, to be at his side in battle, to aid him with counsel, to escort him in flight, are sufficient, not to make the king a conqueror, but to save him if conquered; and whatever Mazarin may say, once on the shores of France your royal husband may find as many retreats and asylums as the seabird finds in a storm.”

“Seek, then, my lord, seek these gentlemen; and if they will consent to go with you to England, I will give to each a duchy the day that we reascend the throne, besides as much gold as would pave Whitehall. Seek them, my lord, and find them, I conjure you.”

“I will search for them, madame,” said De Winter “and doubtless I shall find them; but time fails me. Has your majesty forgotten that the king expects your reply and awaits it in agony?”

“Then indeed we are lost!” cried the queen, in the fullness of a broken heart.

At this moment the door opened and the young Henrietta appeared; then the queen, with that wonderful strength which is the privilege of parents, repressed her tears and motioned to De Winter to change the subject.

But that act of self-control, effective as it was, did not escape the eyes of the young princess. She stopped on the threshold, breathed a sigh, and addressing the queen:

“Why, then, do you always weep, mother, when I am away from you?” she said.

The queen smiled, but instead of answering:

“See, De Winter,” she said, “I have at least gained one thing in being only half a queen; and that is that my children call me ‘mother’ instead of ‘madame.’”

Then turning toward her daughter:

“What do you want, Henrietta?” she demanded.

“My mother,” replied the young princess, “a cavalier has just entered the Louvre and wishes to present his respects to your majesty; he arrives from the army and has, he says, a letter to remit to you, on the part of the Marechal de Grammont, I think.”

“Ah!” said the queen to De Winter, “he is one of my faithful adherents; but do you not observe, my dear lord, that we are so poorly served that it is left to my daughter to fill the office of doorkeeper?”

“Madame, have pity on me,” exclaimed De Winter; “you wring my heart!”

“And who is this cavalier, Henrietta?” asked the queen.

“I saw him from the window, madame; he is a young man that appears scarce sixteen years of age, and is called the Viscount de Bragelonne.”

The queen, smiling, made a sign with her head; the young princess opened the door and Raoul appeared on the threshold.

Advancing a few steps toward the queen, he knelt down.

“Madame,” said he, “I bear to your majesty a letter from my friend the Count de Guiche, who told me he had the honor of being your servant; this letter contains important news and the expression of his respect.”

At the name of the Count de Guiche a blush spread over the cheeks of the young princess and the queen glanced at her with some degree of severity.

“You told me that the letter was from the Marechal de Grammont, Henrietta!” said the queen.

“I thought so, madame,” stammered the young girl.

“It is my fault, madame,” said Raoul. “I did announce myself, in truth, as coming on the part of the Marechal de Grammont; but being wounded in the right arm he was unable to write and therefore the Count de Guiche acted as his secretary.”

“There has been fighting, then?” asked the queen, motioning to Raoul to rise.

“Yes, madame,” said the young man.

At this announcement of a battle having taken place, the princess opened her mouth as though to ask a question of interest; but her lips closed again without articulating a word, while the color gradually faded from her cheeks.

The queen saw this, and doubtless her maternal heart translated the emotion, for addressing Raoul again:

“And no evil has happened to the young Count de Guiche?” she asked; “for not only is he our servant, as you say, sir, but more--he is one of our friends.”

“No, madame,” replied Raoul; “on the contrary, he gained great glory and had the honor of being embraced by his highness, the prince, on the field of battle.”

The young princess clapped her hands; and then, ashamed of having been betrayed into such a demonstration of joy, she half turned away and bent over a vase of roses, as if to inhale their odor.

“Let us see,” said the queen, “what the count says.” And she opened the letter and read:

“Madame,--Being unable to have the honor of writing to you myself, by reason of a wound I have received in my right hand, I have commanded my son, the Count de Guiche, who, with his father, is equally your humble servant, to write to tell you that we have just gained the battle of Lens, and that this victory cannot fail to give great power to Cardinal Mazarin and to the queen over the affairs of Europe. If her majesty will have faith in my counsels she ought to profit by this event to address at this moment, in favor of her august husband, the court of France. The Vicomte de Bragelonne, who will have the honor of remitting this letter to your majesty, is the friend of my son, who owes to him his life; he is a gentleman in whom your majesty may confide entirely, in case your majesty may have some verbal or written order to remit to me.

“I have the honor to be, with respect, etc.,

“Marechal de Grammont.”

At the moment mention occurred of his having rendered a service to the count, Raoul could not help turning his glance toward the young princess, and then he saw in her eyes an expression of infinite gratitude to the young man; he no longer doubted that the daughter of King Charles I. loved his friend.

“The battle of Lens gained!” said the queen; “they are lucky here indeed; they can gain battles! Yes, the Marechal de Grammont is right; this will change the aspect of French affairs, but I much fear it will do nothing for English, even if it does not harm them. This is recent news, sir,” continued she, “and I thank you for having made such haste to bring it to me; without this letter I should not have heard till to-morrow, perhaps after to-morrow--the last of all Paris.”

“Madame,” said Raoul, “the Louvre is but the second palace this news has reached; it is as yet unknown to all, and I had sworn to the Count de Guiche to remit this letter to your majesty before even I should embrace my guardian.”

“Your guardian! is he, too, a Bragelonne?” asked Lord de Winter. “I once knew a Bragelonne--is he still alive?”

“No, sir, he is dead; and I believe it is from him my guardian, whose near relation he was, inherited the estate from which I take my name.”

“And your guardian, sir,” asked the queen, who could not help feeling some interest in the handsome young man before her, “what is his name?”

“The Comte de la Fere, madame,” replied the young man, bowing.

De Winter made a gesture of surprise and the queen turned to him with a start of joy.

“The Comte de la Fere!” she cried. “Have you not mentioned that name to me?”

As for De Winter he could scarcely believe that he had heard aright. “The Comte de la Fere!” he cried in his turn. “Oh, sir, reply, I entreat you--is not the Comte de la Fere a noble whom I remember, handsome and brave, a musketeer under Louis XIII., who must be now about forty-seven or forty-eight years of age?”

“Yes, sir, you are right in every particular!”

“And who served under an assumed name?”

“Under the name of Athos. Latterly I heard his friend, Monsieur d’Artagnan, give him that name.”

“That is it, madame, that is the same. God be praised! And he is in Paris?” continued he, addressing Raoul; then turning to the queen: “We may still hope. Providence has declared for us, since I have found this brave man again in so miraculous a manner. And, sir, where does he reside, pray?”

“The Comte de la Fere lodges in the Rue Guenegaud, Hotel du Grand Roi Charlemagne.”

“Thanks, sir. Inform this dear friend that he may remain within, that I shall go and see him immediately.”

“Sir, I obey with pleasure, if her majesty will permit me to depart.”

“Go, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the queen, “and rest assured of our affection.”

Raoul bent respectfully before the two princesses, and bowing to De Winter, departed.

The queen and De Winter continued to converse for some time in low voices, in order that the young princess should not overhear them; but the precaution was needless: she was in deep converse with her own thoughts.

Then, when De Winter rose to take leave:

“Listen, my lord,” said the queen; “I have preserved this diamond cross which came from my mother, and this order of St. Michael which came from my husband. They are worth about fifty thousand pounds. I had sworn to die of hunger rather than part with these precious pledges; but now that this ornament may be useful to him or his defenders, everything must be sacrificed. Take them, and if you need money for your expedition, sell them fearlessly, my lord. But should you find the means of retaining them, remember, my lord, that I shall esteem you as having rendered the greatest service that a gentleman can render to a queen; and in the day of my prosperity he who brings me this order and this cross shall be blessed by me and my children.”

“Madame,” replied De Winter, “your majesty will be served by a man devoted to you. I hasten to deposit these two objects in a safe place, nor should I accept them if the resources of our ancient fortune were left to us, but our estates are confiscated, our ready money is exhausted, and we are reduced to turn to service everything we possess. In an hour hence I shall be with the Comte de la Fere, and to-morrow your majesty shall have a definite reply.”

The queen tendered her hand to Lord de Winter, who, kissing it respectfully, went out and traversed alone and unconducted those large, dark and deserted apartments, brushing away tears which, blase as he was by fifty years spent as a courtier, he could not withhold at the spectacle of royal distress so dignified, yet so intense.

Uncle and Nephew.

The horse and servant belonging to De Winter were waiting for him at the door; he proceeded toward his abode very thoughtfully, looking behind him from time to him to contemplate the dark and silent frontage of the Louvre. It was then that he saw a horseman, as it were, detach himself from the wall and follow him at a little distance. In leaving the Palais Royal he remembered to have observed a similar shadow.

“Tony,” he said, motioning to his groom to approach.

“Here I am, my lord.”

“Did you remark that man who is following us?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Who is he?”

“I do not know, only he has followed your grace from the Palais Royal, stopped at the Louvre to wait for you, and now leaves the Louvre with you.”

“Some spy of the cardinal,” said De Winter to him, aside. “Let us pretend not to notice that he is watching us.”

And spurring on he plunged into the labyrinth of streets which led to his hotel, situated near the Marais, for having for so long a time lived near the Place Royale, Lord de Winter naturally returned to lodge near his ancient dwelling.

The unknown spurred his horse to a gallop.

De Winter dismounted at his hotel and went up into his apartment, intending to watch the spy; but as he was about to place his gloves and hat on a table, he saw reflected in a glass opposite to him a figure which stood on the threshold of the room. He turned around and Mordaunt stood before him.

There was a moment of frozen silence between these two.

“Sir,” said De Winter, “I thought I had already made you aware that I am weary of this persecution; withdraw, then, or I shall call and have you turned out as you were in London. I am not your uncle, I know you not.”

“My uncle,” replied Mordaunt, with his harsh and bantering tone, “you are mistaken; you will not have me turned out this time as you did in London--you dare not. As for denying that I am your nephew, you will think twice about it, now that I have learned some things of which I was ignorant a year ago.”

“And how does it concern me what you have learned?” said De Winter.

“Oh, it concerns you very closely, my uncle, I am sure, and you will soon be of my opinion,” added he, with a smile which sent a shudder through the veins of him he thus addressed. “When I presented myself before you for the first time in London, it was to ask you what had become of my fortune; the second time it was to demand who had sullied my name; and this time I come before you to ask a question far more terrible than any other, to say to you as God said to the first murderer: ‘Cain, what hast thou done to thy brother Abel?’ My lord, what have you done with your sister--your sister, who was my mother?”

De Winter shrank back from the fire of those scorching eyes.

“Your mother?” he said.

“Yes, my lord, my mother,” replied the young man, advancing into the room until he was face to face with Lord de Winter, and crossing his arms. “I have asked the headsman of Bethune,” he said, his voice hoarse and his face livid with passion and grief. “And the headsman of Bethune gave me a reply.”

De Winter fell back in a chair as though struck by a thunderbolt and in vain attempted a reply.

“Yes,” continued the young man; “all is now explained; with this key I open the abyss. My mother inherited an estate from her husband, you have assassinated her; my name would have secured me the paternal estate, you have deprived me of it; you have despoiled me of my fortune. I am no longer astonished that you knew me not. I am not surprised that you refused to recognize me. When a man is a robber it is hard to call him nephew whom he has impoverished; when one is a murderer, to recognize the man whom one has made an orphan.”

These words produced a contrary effect to that which Mordaunt had anticipated. De Winter remembered the monster that Milady had been; he rose, dignified and calm, restraining by the severity of his look the wild glance of the young man.

“You desire to fathom this horrible secret?” said De Winter; “well, then, so be it. Know, then, what manner of woman it was for whom to-day you call me to account. That woman had, in all probability, poisoned my brother, and in order to inherit from me she was about to assassinate me in my turn. I have proof of it. What say you to that?”

“I say that she was my mother.”

“She caused the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham to be stabbed by a man who was, ere that, honest, good and pure. What say you to that crime, of which I have the proof?”

“She was my mother.”

“On our return to France she had a young woman who was attached to one of her opponents poisoned in the convent of the Augustines at Bethune. Will this crime persuade you of the justice of her punishment--for of all this I have the proofs?”

“She was my mother!” cried the young man, who uttered these three successive exclamations with constantly increasing force.

“At last, charged with murders, with debauchery, hated by every one and yet threatening still, like a panther thirsting for blood, she fell under the blows of men whom she had rendered desperate, though they had never done her the least injury; she met with judges whom her hideous crimes had evoked; and that executioner you saw--that executioner who you say told you everything--that executioner, if he told you everything, told you that he leaped with joy in avenging on her his brother’s shame and suicide. Depraved as a girl, adulterous as a wife, an unnatural sister, homicide, poisoner, execrated by all who knew her, by every nation that had been visited by her, she died accursed by Heaven and earth.”

A sob which Mordaunt could not repress burst from his throat and his livid face became suffused with blood; he clenched his fists, sweat covered his face, his hair, like Hamlet’s, stood on end, and racked with fury he cried out:

“Silence, sir! she was my mother! Her crimes, I know them not; her disorders, I know them not; her vices, I know them not. But this I know, that I had a mother, that five men leagued against one woman, murdered her clandestinely by night--silently--like cowards. I know that you were one of them, my uncle, and that you cried louder than the others: ‘She must die.’ Therefore I warn you, and listen well to my words, that they may be engraved upon your memory, never to be forgotten: this murder, which has robbed me of everything--this murder, which has deprived me of my name--this murder, which has impoverished me--this murder, which has made me corrupt, wicked, implacable--I shall summon you to account for it first and then those who were your accomplices, when I discover them!”

With hatred in his eyes, foaming at his mouth, and his fist extended, Mordaunt had advanced one more step, a threatening, terrible step, toward De Winter. The latter put his hand to his sword, and said, with the smile of a man who for thirty years has jested with death:

“Would you assassinate me, sir? Then I shall recognize you as my nephew, for you would be a worthy son of such a mother.”

“No,” replied Mordaunt, forcing his features and the muscles of his body to resume their usual places and be calm; “no, I shall not kill you; at least not at this moment, for without you I could not discover the others. But when I have found them, then tremble, sir. I stabbed to the heart the headsman of Bethune, without mercy or pity, and he was the least guilty of you all.”

With these words the young man went out and descended the stairs with sufficient calmness to pass unobserved; then upon the lowest landing place he passed Tony, leaning over the balustrade, waiting only for a call from his master to mount to his room.

But De Winter did not call; crushed, enfeebled, he remained standing and with listening ear; then only when he had heard the step of the horse going away he fell back on a chair, saying:

“My God, I thank Thee that he knows me only.”

Paternal Affection.

Whilst this terrible scene was passing at Lord de Winter’s, Athos, seated near his window, his elbow on the table and his head supported on his hand, was listening intently to Raoul’s account of the adventures he met with on his journey and the details of the battle.

Listening to the relation of those emotions so fresh and pure, the fine, noble face of Athos betrayed indescribable pleasure; he inhaled the tones of that young voice, as harmonious music. He forgot all that was dark in the past and that was cloudy in the future. It almost seemed as if the return of this much loved boy had changed his fears to hopes. Athos was happy--happy as he had never been before.

“And you assisted and took part in this great battle, Bragelonne!” cried the former musketeer.

“Yes, sir.”

“And it was a fierce one?”

“His highness the prince charged eleven times in person.”

“He is a great commander, Bragelonne.”

“He is a hero, sir. I did not lose sight of him for an instant. Oh! how fine it is to be called Conde and to be so worthy of such a name!”

“He was calm and radiant, was he not?”

“As calm as at parade, radiant as at a fete. When we went up to the enemy it was slowly; we were forbidden to draw first and we were marching toward the Spaniards, who were on a height with lowered muskets. When we arrived about thirty paces from them the prince turned around to the soldiers: ‘Comrades,’ he said, ‘you are about to suffer a furious discharge; but after that you will make short work with those fellows.’ There was such dead silence that friends and enemies could have heard these words; then raising his sword, ‘Sound trumpets!’ he cried.”

“Well, very good; you will do as much when the opportunity occurs, will you, Raoul?”

“I know not, sir, but I thought it really very fine and grand!”

“Were you afraid, Raoul?” asked the count.

“Yes, sir,” replied the young man naively; “I felt a great chill at my heart, and at the word ‘fire,’ which resounded in Spanish from the enemy’s ranks, I closed my eyes and thought of you.”

“In honest truth, Raoul?” said Athos, pressing his hand.

“Yes, sir; at that instant there was such a rataplan of musketry that one might have imagined the infernal regions had opened. Those who were not killed felt the heat of the flames. I opened my eyes, astonished to find myself alive and even unhurt; a third of the squadron were lying on the ground, wounded, dead or dying. At that moment I encountered the eye of the prince. I had but one thought and that was that he was observing me. I spurred on and found myself in the enemy’s ranks.”

“And the prince was pleased with you?”

“He told me so, at least, sir, when he desired me to return to Paris with Monsieur de Chatillon, who was charged to carry the news to the queen and to bring the colors we had taken. ‘Go,’ said he; ‘the enemy will not rally for fifteen days and until that time I have no need of your service. Go and see those whom you love and who love you, and tell my sister De Longueville that I thank her for the present that she made me of you.’ And I came, sir,” added Raoul, gazing at the count with a smile of real affection, “for I thought you would be glad to see me again.”

Athos drew the young man toward him and pressed his lips to his brow, as he would have done to a young daughter.

“And now, Raoul,” said he, “you are launched; you have dukes for friends, a marshal of France for godfather, a prince of the blood as commander, and on the day of your return you have been received by two queens; it is not so bad for a novice.”

“Oh sir,” said Raoul, suddenly, “you recall something, which, in my haste to relate my exploits, I had forgotten; it is that there was with Her Majesty the Queen of England, a gentleman who, when I pronounced your name, uttered a cry of surprise and joy; he said he was a friend of yours, asked your address, and is coming to see you.”

“What is his name?”

“I did not venture to ask, sir; he spoke elegantly, although I thought from his accent he was an Englishman.”

“Ah!” said Athos, leaning down his head as if to remember who it could be. Then, when he raised it again, he was struck by the presence of a man who was standing at the open door and was gazing at him with a compassionate air.

“Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the count.

“Athos, my friend!”

And the two gentlemen were for an instant locked in each other’s arms; then Athos, looking into his friend’s face and taking him by both hands, said:

“What ails you, my lord? you appear as unhappy as I am the reverse.”

“Yes, truly, dear friend; and I may even say the sight of you increases my dismay.”

And De Winter glancing around him, Raoul quickly understood that the two friends wished to be alone and he therefore left the room unaffectedly.

“Come, now that we are alone,” said Athos, “let us talk of yourself.”

“Whilst we are alone let us speak of ourselves,” replied De Winter. “He is here.”

“Who?”

“Milady’s son.”

Athos, again struck by this name, which seemed to pursue him like an echo, hesitated for a moment, then slightly knitting his brows, he calmly said:

“I know it, Grimaud met him between Bethune and Arras and then came here to warn me of his presence.”

“Does Grimaud know him, then?”

“No; but he was present at the deathbed of a man who knew him.”

“The headsman of Bethune?” exclaimed De Winter.

“You know about that?” cried Athos, astonished.

“He has just left me,” replied De Winter, “after telling me all. Ah! my friend! what a horrible scene! Why did we not destroy the child with the mother?”

“What need you fear?” said Athos, recovering from the instinctive fear he had at first experienced, by the aid of reason; “are we not men accustomed to defend ourselves? Is this young man an assassin by profession--a murderer in cold blood? He has killed the executioner of Bethune in an access of passion, but now his fury is assuaged.”

De Winter smiled sorrowfully and shook his head.

“Do you not know the race?” said he.

“Pooh!” said Athos, trying to smile in his turn. “It must have lost its ferocity in the second generation. Besides, my friend, Providence has warned us, that we may be on our guard. All we can now do is to wait. Let us wait; and, as I said before, let us speak of yourself. What brings you to Paris?”

“Affairs of importance which you shall know later. But what is this that I hear from Her Majesty the Queen of England? Monsieur d’Artagnan sides with Mazarin! Pardon my frankness, dear friend. I neither hate nor blame the cardinal, and your opinions will be held ever sacred by me. But do you happen to belong to him?”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” replied Athos, “is in the service; he is a soldier and obeys all constitutional authority. Monsieur d’Artagnan is not rich and has need of his position as lieutenant to enable him to live. Millionaires like yourself, my lord, are rare in France.”

“Alas!” said De Winter, “I am at this moment as poor as he is, if not poorer. But to return to our subject.”

“Well, then, you wish to know if I am of Mazarin’s party? No. Pardon my frankness, too, my lord.”

“I am obliged to you, count, for this pleasing intelligence! You make me young and happy again by it. Ah! so you are not a Mazarinist? Delightful! Indeed, you could not belong to him. But pardon me, are you free? I mean to ask if you are married?”

“Ah! as to that, no,” replied Athos, laughing.

“Because that young man, so handsome, so elegant, so polished----”

“Is a child I have adopted and who does not even know who was his father.”

“Very well; you are always the same, Athos, great and generous. Are you still friends with Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Aramis?”

“Add Monsieur d’Artagnan, my lord. We still remain four friends devoted to each other; but when it becomes a question of serving the cardinal or of fighting him, of being Mazarinists or Frondists, then we are only two.”

“Is Monsieur Aramis with D’Artagnan?” asked Lord de Winter.

“No,” said Athos; “Monsieur Aramis does me the honor to share my opinions.”

“Could you put me in communication with your witty and agreeable friend? Is he much changed?”

“He has become an abbe, that is all.”

“You alarm me; his profession must have made him renounce any great undertakings.”

“On the contrary,” said Athos, smiling, “he has never been so much a musketeer as since he became an abbe, and you will find him a veritable soldier.”

“Could you engage to bring him to me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, on the Pont du Louvre?”

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed Athos, smiling, “you have a duel in prospect.”

“Yes, count, and a splendid duel, too; a duel in which I hope you will take your part.”

“Where are we to go, my lord?”

“To Her Majesty the Queen of England, who has desired me to present you to her.”

“This is an enigma,” said Athos, “but it matters not; since you know the solution of it I ask no further. Will your lordship do me the honor to sup with me?”

“Thanks, count, no,” replied De Winter. “I own to you that that young man’s visit has subdued my appetite and probably will rob me of my sleep. What undertaking can have brought him to Paris? It was not to meet me that he came, for he was ignorant of my journey. This young man terrifies me, my lord; there lies in him a sanguinary predisposition.”

“What occupies him in England?”

“He is one of Cromwell’s most enthusiastic disciples.”

“But what attached him to the cause? His father and mother were Catholics, I believe?”

“His hatred of the king, who deprived him of his estates and forbade him to bear the name of De Winter.”

“And what name does he now bear?”

“Mordaunt.”

“A Puritan, yet disguised as a monk he travels alone in France.”

“Do you say as a monk?”

“It was thus, and by mere accident--may God pardon me if I blaspheme--that he heard the confession of the executioner of Bethune.”

“Then I understand it all! he has been sent by Cromwell to Mazarin, and the queen guessed rightly; we have been forestalled. Everything is clear to me now. Adieu, count, till to-morrow.”

“But the night is dark,” said Athos, perceiving that Lord de Winter seemed more uneasy than he wished to appear; “and you have no servant.”

“I have Tony, a safe if simple youth.”

“Halloo, there, Grimaud, Olivain, and Blaisois! call the viscount and take the musket with you.”

Blaisois was the tall youth, half groom, half peasant, whom we saw at the Chateau de Bragelonne, whom Athos had christened by the name of his province.

“Viscount,” said Athos to Raoul, as he entered, “you will conduct my lord as far as his hotel and permit no one to approach him.”

“Oh! count,” said De Winter, “for whom do you take me?”

“For a stranger who does not know Paris,” said Athos, “and to whom the viscount will show the way.”

De Winter shook him by the hand.

“Grimaud,” said Athos, “put yourself at the head of the troop and beware of the monk.”

Grimaud shuddered, and nodding, awaited the departure, regarding the butt of his musket with silent eloquence. Then obeying the orders given him by Athos, he headed the small procession, bearing the torch in one hand and the musket in the other, until it reached De Winter’s inn, when pounding on the portal with his fist, he bowed to my lord and faced about without a word.

The same order was followed in returning, nor did Grimaud’s searching glance discover anything of a suspicious appearance, save a dark shadow, as it were, in ambuscade, at the corner of the Rue Guenegaud and of the Quai. He fancied, also, that in going he had already observed the street watcher who had attracted his attention. He pushed on toward him, but before he could reach it the shadow had disappeared into an alley, into which Grimaud deemed it scarcely prudent to pursue it.

The next day, on awaking, the count perceived Raoul by his bedside. The young man was already dressed and was reading a new book by M. Chapelain.

“Already up, Raoul?” exclaimed the count.

“Yes, sir,” replied Raoul, with slight hesitation; “I did not sleep well.”

“You, Raoul, not sleep well! then you must have something on your mind!” said Athos.

“Sir, you will perhaps think that I am in a great hurry to leave you when I have only just arrived, but----”

“Have you only two days of leave, Raoul?”

“On the contrary, sir, I have ten; nor is it to the camp I wish to go.”

“Where, then?” said Athos, smiling, “if it be not a secret. You are now almost a man, since you have made your first passage of arms, and have acquired the right to go where you will without consulting me.”

“Never, sir,” said Raoul, “as long as I possess the happiness of having you for a protector, shall I deem I have the right of freeing myself from a guardianship so valuable to me. I have, however, a wish to go and pass a day at Blois. You look at me and you are going to laugh at me.”

“No, on the contrary, I am not inclined to laugh,” said Athos, suppressing a sigh. “You wish to see Blois again; it is but natural.”

“Then you permit me to go, you are not angry in your heart?” exclaimed Raoul, joyously.

“Certainly; and why should I regret what gives you pleasure?”

“Oh! how kind you are,” exclaimed the young man, pressing his guardian’s hand; “and I can set out immediately?”

“When you like, Raoul.”

“Sir,” said Raoul, as he turned to leave the room, “I have thought of one thing, and that is about the Duchess of Chevreuse, who was so kind to me and to whom I owe my introduction to the prince.”

“And you ought to thank her, Raoul. Well, try the Hotel de Luynes, Raoul, and ask if the duchess can receive you. I am glad to see you pay attention to the usages of the world. You must take Grimaud and Olivain.”

“Both, sir?” asked Raoul, astonished.

“Both.”

Raoul went out, and when Athos heard his young, joyous voice calling to Grimaud and Olivain, he sighed.

“It is very soon to leave me,” he thought, “but he follows the common custom. Nature has made us thus; she makes the young look ever forward, not behind. He certainly likes the child, but will he love me less as his affection grows for her?”

And Athos confessed to himself that, he was unprepared for so prompt a departure; but Raoul was so happy that this reflection effaced everything else from the consideration of his guardian.

Everything was ready at ten o’clock for the departure, and as Athos was watching Raoul mount, a groom rode up from the Duchess de Chevreuse. He was charged to tell the Comte de la Fere, that she had learned of the return of her youthful protege, and also the manner he had conducted himself on the field, and she added that she should be very glad to offer him her congratulations.

“Tell her grace,” replied Athos, “that the viscount has just mounted his horse to proceed to the Hotel de Luynes.”

Then, with renewed instructions to Grimaud, Athos signified to Raoul that he could set out, and ended by reflecting that it was perhaps better that Raoul should be away from Paris at that moment.

Another Queen in Want of Help.

Athos had not failed to send early to Aramis and had given his letter to Blaisois, the only serving-man whom he had left. Blaisois found Bazin donning his beadle’s gown, his services being required that day at Notre Dame.

Athos had desired Blaisois to try to speak to Aramis himself. Blaisois, a tall, simple youth, who understood nothing but what he was expressly told, asked, therefore for the Abbe d’Herblay, and in spite of Bazin’s assurances that his master was not at home, he persisted in such a manner as to put Bazin into a passion. Blaisois seeing Bazin in clerical guise, was a little discomposed at his denials and wanted to pass at all risks, believing too, that the man with whom he had to do was endowed with the virtues of his cloth, namely, patience and Christian charity.

But Bazin, still the servant of a musketeer, when once the blood mounted to his fat cheeks, seized a broomstick and began belaboring Blaisois, saying:

“You have insulted the church, my friend, you have insulted the church!”

At this moment Aramis, aroused by this unusual disturbance, cautiously opened the door of his room; and Blaisois, looking reproachfully at the Cerberus, drew the letter from his pocket and presented it to Aramis.

“From the Comte de la Fere,” said Aramis. “All right.” And he retired into his room without even asking the cause of so much noise.

Blaisois returned disconsolate to the Hotel of the Grand Roi Charlemagne and when Athos inquired if his commission was executed, he related his adventure.

“You foolish fellow!” said Athos, laughing. “And you did not tell him that you came from me?”

“No, sir.”

At ten o’clock Athos, with his habitual exactitude, was waiting on the Pont du Louvre and was almost immediately joined by Lord de Winter.

They waited ten minutes and then his lordship began to fear Aramis was not coming to join them.

“Patience,” said Athos, whose eyes were fixed in the direction of the Rue du Bac, “patience; I see an abbe cuffing a man, then bowing to a woman; it must be Aramis.”

It was indeed Aramis. Having run against a young shopkeeper who was gaping at the crows and who had splashed him, Aramis with one blow of his fist had distanced him ten paces.

At this moment one of his penitents passed, and as she was young and pretty Aramis took off his cap to her with his most gracious smile.

A most affectionate greeting, as one can well believe took place between him and Lord de Winter.

“Where are we going?” inquired Aramis; “are we going to fight, perchance? I carry no sword this morning and cannot return home to procure one.”

“No,” said Lord de Winter, “we are going to pay a visit to Her Majesty the Queen of England.”

“Oh, very well,” replied Aramis; then bending his face down to Athos’s ear, “what is the object of this visit?” continued he.

“Nay, I know not; some evidence required from us, perhaps.”

“May it not be about that cursed affair?” asked Aramis, “in which case I do not greatly care to go, for it will be to pocket a lecture; and since it is my function to give them to others I am rather averse to receiving them myself.”

“If it were so,” answered Athos, “we should not be taken there by Lord de Winter, for he would come in for his share; he was one of us.”

“You’re right; yes, let us go.”

On arriving at the Louvre Lord de Winter entered first; indeed, there was but one porter there to receive them at the gate.

It was impossible in daylight for the impoverished state of the habitation grudging charity had conceded to an unfortunate queen to pass unnoticed by Athos, Aramis, and even the Englishman. Large rooms, completely stripped of furniture, bare walls upon which, here and there, shone the old gold moldings which had resisted time and neglect, windows with broken panes (impossible to close), no carpets, neither guards nor servants: this is what first met the eyes of Athos, to which he, touching his companion’s elbow, directed his attention by his glances.

“Mazarin is better lodged,” said Aramis.

“Mazarin is almost king,” answered Athos; “Madame Henrietta is almost no longer queen.”

“If you would condescend to be clever, Athos,” observed Aramis, “I really do think you would be wittier than poor Monsieur de Voiture.”

Athos smiled.

The queen appeared to be impatiently expecting them, for at the first slight noise she heard in the hall leading to her room she came herself to the door to receive these courtiers in the corridors of Misfortune.

“Enter. You are welcome, gentlemen,” she said.

The gentlemen entered and remained standing, but at a motion from the queen they seated themselves. Athos was calm and grave, but Aramis was furious; the sight of such royal misery exasperated him and his eyes examined every new trace of poverty that presented itself.

“You are examining the luxury I enjoy,” said the queen, glancing sadly around her.

“Madame,” replied Aramis, “I must ask your pardon, but I know not how to hide my indignation at seeing how a daughter of Henry IV. is treated at the court of France.”

“Monsieur Aramis is not an officer?” asked the queen of Lord de Winter.

“That gentleman is the Abbe d’Herblay,” replied he.

Aramis blushed. “Madame,” he said, “I am an abbe, it is true, but I am so against my will. I never had a vocation for the bands; my cassock is fastened by one button only, and I am always ready to become a musketeer once more. This morning, being ignorant that I should have the honor of seeing your majesty, I encumbered myself with this dress, but you will find me none the less a man devoted to your majesty’s service, in whatever way you may see fit to use me.”

“The Abbe d’Herblay,” resumed De Winter, “is one of those gallant musketeers formerly belonging to His Majesty King Louis XIII., of whom I have spoken to you, madame.” Then turning to Athos, he continued, “And this gentleman is that noble Comte de la Fere, whose high reputation is so well known to your majesty.”

“Gentlemen,” said the queen, “a few years ago I had around me ushers, treasures, armies; and by the lifting of a finger all these were busied in my service. To-day, look around you, and it may astonish you, that in order to accomplish a plan which is dearer to me than life I have only Lord de Winter, the friend of twenty years, and you, gentlemen, whom I see for the first time and whom I know but as my countrymen.”

“It is enough,” said Athos, bowing low, “if the lives of three men can purchase yours, madame.”

“I thank you, gentlemen. But hear me,” continued she. “I am not only the most miserable of queens, but the most unhappy of mothers, the most wretched of wives. My children, two of them, at least, the Duke of York and the Princess Elizabeth, are far away from me, exposed to the blows of the ambitious and our foes; my husband, the king, is leading in England so wretched an existence that it is no exaggeration to aver that he seeks death as a thing to be desired. Hold! gentlemen, here is the letter conveyed to me by Lord de Winter. Read it.”

Obeying the queen, Athos read aloud the letter which we have already seen, in which King Charles demanded to know whether the hospitality of France would be accorded him.

“Well?” asked Athos, when he had closed the letter.

“Well,” said the queen, “it has been refused.”

The two friends exchanged a smile of contempt.

“And now,” said Athos, “what is to be done? I have the honor to inquire from your majesty what you desire Monsieur d’Herblay and myself to do in your service. We are ready.”

“Ah, sir, you have a noble heart!” exclaimed the queen, with a burst of gratitude; whilst Lord de Winter turned to her with a glance which said, “Did I not answer for them?”

“But you, sir?” said the queen to Aramis.

“I, madame,” replied he, “follow Monsieur de la Fere wherever he leads, even were it on to death, without demanding wherefore; but when it concerns your majesty’s service, then,” added he, looking at the queen with all the grace of former days, “I precede the count.”

“Well, then, gentlemen,” said the queen, “since it is thus, and since you are willing to devote yourselves to the service of a poor princess whom the whole world has abandoned, this is what is required to be done for me. The king is alone with a few gentlemen, whom he fears to lose every day; surrounded by the Scotch, whom he distrusts, although he be himself a Scotchman. Since Lord de Winter left him I am distracted, sirs. I ask much, too much, perhaps, for I have no title to request it. Go to England, join the king, be his friends, protectors, march to battle at his side, and be near him in his house, where conspiracies, more dangerous than the perils of war, are hatching every day. And in exchange for the sacrifice that you make, gentlemen, I promise--not to reward you, I believe that word would offend you--but to love you as a sister, to prefer you, next to my husband and my children, to every one. I swear it before Heaven.”

And the queen raised her eyes solemnly upward.

“Madame,” said Athos, “when must we set out?”

“You consent then?” exclaimed the queen, joyfully.

“Yes, madame; only it seems to me that your majesty goes too far in engaging to load us with a friendship so far above our merit. We render service to God, madame in serving a prince so unfortunate, a queen so virtuous. Madame, we are yours, body and soul.”

“Oh, sirs,” said the queen, moved even to tears, “this is the first time for five years I have felt the least approach to joy or hope. God, who can read my heart, all the gratitude I feel, will reward you! Save my husband! Save the king, and although you care not for the price that is placed upon a good action in this world, leave me the hope that we shall meet again, when I may be able to thank you myself. In the meantime, I remain here. Have you anything to ask of me? From this moment I become your friend, and since you are engaged in my affairs I ought to occupy myself in yours.”

“Madame,” replied Athos, “I have only to ask your majesty’s prayers.”

“And I,” said Aramis, “I am alone in the world and have only your majesty to serve.”

The queen held out her hand, which they kissed, and she said in a low tone to De Winter:

“If you need money, my lord, separate the jewels I have given you; detach the diamonds and sell them to some Jew. You will receive for them fifty or sixty thousand francs; spend them if necessary, but let these gentlemen be treated as they deserve, that is to say, like kings.”

The queen had two letters ready, one written by herself, the other by her daughter, the Princess Henrietta. Both were addressed to King Charles. She gave the first to Athos and the other to Aramis, so that should they be separated by chance they might make themselves known to the king; after which they withdrew.

At the foot of the staircase De Winter stopped.

“Not to arouse suspicions, gentlemen,” said he, “go your way and I will go mine, and this evening at nine o’clock we will assemble again at the Gate Saint Denis. We will travel on horseback as far as our horses can go and afterward we can take the post. Once more, let me thank you, my good friends, both in my own name and the queen’s.”

The three gentlemen then shook hands, Lord de Winter taking the Rue Saint Honore, and Athos and Aramis remaining together.

“Well,” said Aramis, when they were alone, “what do you think of this business, my dear count?”

“Bad,” replied Athos, “very bad.”

“But you received it with enthusiasm.”

“As I shall ever receive the defense of a great principle, my dear D’Herblay. Monarchs are only strong by the assistance of the aristocracy, but aristocracy cannot survive without the countenance of monarchs. Let us, then, support monarchy, in order to support ourselves.

“We shall be murdered there,” said Aramis. “I hate the English--they are coarse, like every nation that swills beer.”

“Would it be better to remain here,” said Athos, “and take a turn in the Bastile or the dungeon of Vincennes for having favored the escape of Monsieur de Beaufort? I’faith, Aramis, believe me, there is little left to regret. We avoid imprisonment and we play the part of heroes; the choice is easy.”

“It is true; but in everything, friend, one must always return to the same question--a stupid one, I admit, but very necessary--have you any money?”

“Something like a hundred pistoles, that my farmer sent to me the day before I left Bragelonne; but out of that sum I ought to leave fifty for Raoul--a young man must live respectably. I have then about fifty pistoles. And you?”

“As for me, I am quite sure that after turning out all my pockets and emptying my drawers I shall not find ten louis at home. Fortunately Lord de Winter is rich.”

“Lord de Winter is ruined for the moment; Oliver Cromwell has annexed his income resources.”

“Now is the time when Baron Porthos would be useful.”

“Now it is that I regret D’Artagnan.”

“Let us entice them away.”

“This secret, Aramis, does not belong to us; take my advice, then, and let no one into our confidence. And moreover, in taking such a step we should appear to be doubtful of ourselves. Let us regret their absence to ourselves for our own sakes, but not speak of it.”

“You are right; but what are you going to do until this evening? I have two things to postpone.”

“And what are they?”

“First, a thrust with the coadjutor, whom I met last night at Madame de Rambouillet’s and whom I found particular in his remarks respecting me.”

“Oh, fie--a quarrel between priests, a duel between allies!”

“What can I do, friend? he is a bully and so am I; his cassock is a burden to him and I imagine I have had enough of mine; in fact, there is so much resemblance between us that I sometimes believe he is Aramis and I am the coadjutor. This kind of life fatigues and oppresses me; besides, he is a turbulent fellow, who will ruin our party. I am convinced that if I gave him a box on the ear, such as I gave this morning to the little citizen who splashed me, it would change the appearance of things.”

“And I, my dear Aramis,” quietly replied Athos, “I think it would only change Monsieur de Retz’s appearance. Take my advice, leave things just as they are; besides, you are neither of you now your own masters; he belongs to the Fronde and you to the queen of England. So, if the second matter which you regret being unable to attend to is not more important than the first----”

“Oh! that is of the first importance.”

“Attend to it, then, at once.”

“Unfortunately, it is a thing that I can’t perform at any time I choose. It was arranged for the evening and no other time will serve.”

“I understand,” said Athos smiling, “midnight.”

“About that time.”

“But, my dear fellow, those are things that bear postponement and you must put it off, especially with so good an excuse to give on your return----”

“Yes, if I return.”

“If you do not return, how does it concern you? Be reasonable. Come, you are no longer twenty years old.”

“To my great regret, mordieu! Ah, if I were but twenty years old!”

“Yes,” said Athos, “doubtless you would commit great follies! But now we must part. I have one or two visits to make and a letter yet to write. Call for me at eight o’clock or shall I wait supper for you at seven?”

“That will do very well,” said Aramis. “I have twenty visits to make and as many letters to write.”

They then separated. Athos went to pay a visit to Madame de Vendome, left his name at Madame de Chevreuse’s and wrote the following letter to D’Artagnan:

“Dear Friend,--I am about to set off with Aramis on important business. I wished to make my adieux to you, but time does not permit. Remember that I write to you now to repeat how much affection for you I still cherish.

“Raoul is gone to Blois and is ignorant of my departure; watch over him in my absence as much as you possibly can; and if by chance you receive no news of me three months hence, tell him to open a packet which he will find addressed to him in my bronze casket at Blois, of which I send you now the key.

“Embrace Porthos from Aramis and myself. Adieu, perhaps farewell.”

At the hour agreed upon Aramis arrived; he was dressed as an officer and had the old sword at his side which he had drawn so often and which he was more than ever ready to draw.

“By-the-bye,” he said, “I think that we are decidedly wrong to depart thus, without leaving a line for Porthos and D’Artagnan.”

“The thing is done, dear friend,” said Athos; “I foresaw that and have embraced them both from you and myself.”

“You are a wonderful man, my dear count,” said Aramis; “you think of everything.”

“Well, have you made up your mind to this journey?”

“Quite; and now that I reflect about it, I am glad to leave Paris at this moment.”

“And so am I,” replied Athos; “my only regret is not having seen D’Artagnan; but the rascal is so cunning, he might have guessed our project.”

When supper was over Blaisois entered. “Sir,” said he, “here is Monsieur d’Artagnan’s answer.”

“But I did not tell you there would be an answer, stupid!” said Athos.

“And I set off without waiting for one, but he called me back and gave me this;” and he presented a little leather bag, plump and giving out a golden jingle.

Athos opened it and began by drawing forth a little note, written in these terms:

“My dear Count,--When one travels, and especially for three months, one never has a superfluity of money. Now, recalling former times of mutual distress, I send you half my purse; it is money to obtain which I made Mazarin sweat. Don’t make a bad use of it, I entreat you.

“As to what you say about not seeing you again, I believe not a word of it; with such a heart as yours--and such a sword--one passes through the valley of the shadow of death a dozen times, unscathed and unalarmed. Au revoir, not farewell.

“It is unnecessary to say that from the day I saw Raoul I loved him; nevertheless, believe that I heartily pray that I may not become to him a father, however much I might be proud of such a son.

“Your

“D’Artagnan.

“P.S.--Be it well understood that the fifty louis which I send are equally for Aramis as for you--for you as Aramis.”

Athos smiled, and his fine eye was dimmed by a tear. D’Artagnan, who had loved him so tenderly, loved him still, although a Mazarinist.

“There are the fifty louis, i’faith,” said Aramis, emptying the purse on the table, all bearing the effigy of Louis XIII. “Well, what shall you do with this money, count? Shall you keep it or send it back?”

“I shall keep it, Aramis, and even though I had no need of it I still should keep it. What is offered from a generous heart should be accepted generously. Take twenty-five of them, Aramis, and give me the remaining twenty-five.”

“All right; I am glad to see you are of my opinion. There now, shall we start?”

“When you like; but have you no groom?”

“No; that idiot Bazin had the folly to make himself verger, as you know, and therefore cannot leave Notre Dame.

“Very well, take Blaisois, with whom I know not what to do, since I already have Grimaud.”

“Willingly,” said Aramis.

At this moment Grimaud appeared at the door. “Ready,” said he, with his usual curtness.

“Let us go, then,” said Athos.

The two friends mounted, as did their servants. At the corner of the Quai they encountered Bazin, who was running breathlessly.

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed he, “thank Heaven I have arrived in time. Monsieur Porthos has just been to your house and has left this for you, saying that the letter was important and must be given to you before you left.”

“Good,” said Aramis, taking a purse which Bazin presented to him. “What is this?”

“Wait, your reverence, there is a letter.”

“You know I have already told you that if you ever call me anything but chevalier I will break every bone in your body. Give me the letter.”

“How can you read?” asked Athos, “it is as dark as a cold oven.”

“Wait,” said Bazin, striking a flint, and setting afire a twisted wax-light, with which he started the church candles. Thus illumined, Aramis read the following epistle:

My dear D’Herblay,--I learned from D’Artagnan who has embraced me on the part of the Comte de la Fere and yourself, that you are setting out on a journey which may perhaps last two or three months; as I know that you do not like to ask money of your friends I offer you some of my own accord. Here are two hundred pistoles, which you can dispose of as you wish and return to me when opportunity occurs. Do not fear that you put me to inconvenience; if I want money I can send for some to any of my chateaux; at Bracieux alone, I have twenty thousand francs in gold. So, if I do not send you more it is because I fear you would not accept a larger sum.

“I address you, because you know, that although I esteem him from my heart I am a little awed by the Comte de la Fere; but it is understood that what I offer you I offer him at the same time.

“I am, as I trust you do not doubt, your devoted

“Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.

“Well,” said Aramis, “what do you say to that?”

“I say, my dear D’Herblay, that it is almost sacrilege to distrust Providence when one has such friends, and therefore we will divide the pistoles from Porthos, as we divided the louis sent by D’Artagnan.”

The division being made by the light of Bazin’s taper, the two friends continued their road and a quarter of an hour later they had joined De Winter at the Porte Saint Denis.

In which it is proved that first Impulses are oftentimes the best.

The three gentlemen took the road to Picardy, a road so well known to them and which recalled to Athos and Aramis some of the most picturesque adventures of their youth.

“If Musqueton were with us,” observed Athos, on reaching the spot where they had had a dispute with the paviers, “how he would tremble at passing this! Do you remember, Aramis, that it was here he received that famous bullet wound?”

“By my faith, ’twould be excusable in him to tremble,” replied Aramis, “for even I feel a shudder at the recollection; hold, just above that tree is the little spot where I thought I was killed.”

It was soon time for Grimaud to recall the past. Arriving before the inn at which his master and himself had made such an enormous repast, he approached Athos and said, showing him the airhole of the cellar:

“Sausages!”

Athos began to laugh, for this juvenile escapade of his appeared to be as amusing as if some one had related it of another person.

At last, after traveling two days and a night, they arrived at Boulogne toward the evening, favored by magnificent weather. Boulogne was a strong position, then almost a deserted town, built entirely on the heights; what is now called the lower town did not then exist.

“Gentlemen,” said De Winter, on reaching the gate of the town, “let us do here as at Paris--let us separate to avoid suspicion. I know an inn, little frequented, but of which the host is entirely devoted to me. I will go there, where I expect to find letters, and you go to the first tavern in the town, to L’Epee du Grand Henri for instance, refresh yourselves, and in two hours be upon the jetty; our boat is waiting for us there.”

The matter being thus decided, the two friends found, about two hundred paces further, the tavern indicated. Their horses were fed, but not unsaddled; the grooms supped, for it was already late, and their two masters, impatient to return, appointed a place of meeting with them on the jetty and desired them on no account to exchange a word with any one. It is needless to say that this caution concerned Blaisois alone--long enough since it had been a useless one to Grimaud.

Athos and Aramis walked down toward the port. From their dress, covered with dust, and from a certain easy manner by means of which a man accustomed to travel is always recognizable, the two friends excited the attention of a few promenaders. There was more especially one upon whom their arrival had produced a decided impression. This man, whom they had noticed from the first for the same reason they had themselves been remarked by others, was walking in a listless way up and down the jetty. From the moment he perceived them he did not cease to look at them and seemed to burn with the wish to speak to them.

On reaching the jetty Athos and Aramis stopped to look at a little boat made fast to a pile and ready rigged as if waiting to start.

“That is doubtless our boat,” said Athos.

“Yes,” replied Aramis, “and the sloop out there making ready to sail must be that which is to take us to our destination; now,” continued he, “if only De Winter does not keep us waiting. It is not at all amusing here; there is not a single woman passing.”

“Hush!” said Athos, “we are overheard.”

In truth, the walker, who, during the observations of the two friends, had passed and repassed behind them several times, stopped at the name of De Winter; but as his face betrayed no emotion at mention of this name, it might have been by chance he stood so still.

“Gentlemen,” said the man, who was young and pale, bowing with ease and courtesy, “pardon my curiosity, but I see you come from Paris, or at least that you are strangers at Boulogne.”

“We come from Paris, yes,” replied Athos, with the same courtesy; “what is there we can do for you?”

“Sir,” said the young man, “will you be so good as to tell me if it be true that Cardinal Mazarin is no longer minister?”

“That is a strange question,” said Aramis.

“He is and he is not,” replied Athos; “that is to say, he is dismissed by one-half of France, but by intrigues and promises he makes the other half sustain him; you will perceive that this may last a long time.”

“However, sir,” said the stranger, “he has neither fled nor is in prison?”

“No, sir, not at this moment at least.”

“Sirs, accept my thanks for your politeness,” said the young man, retreating.

“What do you think of that interrogator?” asked Aramis.

“I think he is either a dull provincial person or a spy in search of information.”

“And you replied to him with that notion?”

“Nothing warranted me to answer him otherwise; he was polite to me and I was so to him.”

“But if he be a spy----”

“What do you think a spy would be about here? We are not living in the time of Cardinal Richelieu, who would have closed the ports on bare suspicion.”

“It matters not; you were wrong to reply to him as you did,” continued Aramis, following with his eyes the young man, now vanishing behind the cliffs.

“And you,” said Athos, “you forget that you committed a very different kind of imprudence in pronouncing Lord de Winter’s name. Did you not see that at that name the young man stopped?”

“More reason, then, when he spoke to you, for sending him about his business.”

“A quarrel?” asked Athos.

“And since when have you become afraid of a quarrel?”

“I am always afraid of a quarrel when I am expected at any place and when such a quarrel might possibly prevent my reaching it. Besides, let me own something to you. I am anxious to see that young man nearer.”

“And wherefore?”

“Aramis, you will certainly laugh at me, you will say that I am always repeating the same thing, you will call me the most timorous of visionaries; but to whom do you see a resemblance in that young man?”

“In beauty or on the contrary?” asked Aramis, laughing.

“In ugliness, in so far as a man can resemble a woman.”

“Ah! Egad!” cried Aramis, “you set me thinking. No, in truth you are no visionary, my dear friend, and now I think of it--you--yes, i’faith, you’re right--those delicate, yet firm-set lips, those eyes which seem always at the command of the intellect and never of the heart! Yes, it is one of Milady’s bastards!”

“You laugh Aramis.”

“From habit, that is all. I swear to you, I like no better than yourself to meet that viper in my path.”

“Ah! here is De Winter coming,” said Athos.

“Good! one thing now is only awanting and that is, that our grooms should not keep us waiting.”

“No,” said Athos. “I see them about twenty paces behind my lord. I recognize Grimaud by his long legs and his determined slouch. Tony carries our muskets.”

“Then we set sail to-night?” asked Aramis, glancing toward the west, where the sun had left a single golden cloud, which, dipping into the ocean, appeared by degrees to be extinguished.

“Probably,” said Athos.

“Diable!” resumed Aramis, “I have little fancy for the sea by day, still less at night; the sounds of wind and wave, the frightful movements of the vessel; I confess I prefer the convent of Noisy.”

Athos smiled sadly, for it was evident that he was thinking of other things as he listened to his friend and moved toward De Winter.

“What ails our friend?” said Aramis, “he resembles one of Dante’s damned, whose neck Apollyon has dislocated and who are ever looking at their heels. What the devil makes him glower thus behind him?”

When De Winter perceived them, in his turn he advanced toward them with surprising rapidity.

“What is the matter, my lord?” said Athos, “and what puts you out of breath thus?”

“Nothing,” replied De Winter; “nothing; and yet in passing the heights it seemed to me----” and he again turned round.

Athos glanced at Aramis.

“But let us go,” continued De Winter; “let us be off; the boat must be waiting for us and there is our sloop at anchor--do you see it there? I wish I were on board already,” and he looked back again.

“He has seen him,” said Athos, in a low tone, to Aramis.

They had reached the ladder which led to the boat. De Winter made the grooms who carried the arms and the porters with the luggage descend first and was about to follow them.

At this moment Athos perceived a man walking on the seashore parallel to the jetty, and hastening his steps, as if to reach the other side of the port, scarcely twenty steps from the place of embarking. He fancied in the darkness that he recognized the young man who had questioned him. Athos now descended the ladder in his turn, without losing sight of the young man. The latter, to make a short cut, had appeared on a sluice.

“He certainly bodes us no good,” said Athos; “but let us embark; once out at sea, let him come.”

And Athos sprang into the boat, which was immediately pushed off and which soon sped seawards under the efforts of four stalwart rowers.

But the young man had begun to follow, or rather to advance before the boat. She was obliged to pass between the point of the jetty, surmounted by a beacon just lighted, and a rock which jutted out. They saw him in the distance climbing the rock in order to look down upon the boat as it passed.

“Ay, but,” said Aramis, “that young fellow is decidedly a spy.”

“Which is the young man?” asked De Winter, turning around.

“He who followed us and spoke to us awaits us there; behold!”

De Winter turned and followed the direction of Aramis’s finger. The beacon bathed with light the little strait through which they were about to pass and the rock where the young man stood with bare head and crossed arms.

“It is he!” exclaimed De Winter, seizing the arm of Athos; “it is he! I thought I recognized him and I was not mistaken.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Aramis.

“Milady’s son,” replied Athos.

“The monk!” exclaimed Grimaud.

The young man heard these words and bent so forward over the rock that one might have supposed he was about to precipitate himself from it.

“Yes, it is I, my uncle--I, the son of Milady--I, the monk--I, the secretary and friend of Cromwell--I know you now, both you and your companions.”

In that boat sat three men, unquestionably brave, whose courage no man would have dared dispute; nevertheless, at that voice, that accent and those gestures, they felt a chill access of terror cramp their veins. As for Grimaud, his hair stood on end and drops of sweat ran down his brow.

“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, “that is the nephew, the monk, and the son of Milady, as he says himself.”

“Alas, yes,” murmured De Winter.

“Then wait,” said Aramis; and with the terrible coolness which on important occasions he showed, he took one of the muskets from Tony, shouldered and aimed it at the young man, who stood, like the accusing angel, upon the rock.

“Fire!” cried Grimaud, unconsciously.

Athos threw himself on the muzzle of the gun and arrested the shot which was about to be fired.

“The devil take you,” said Aramis. “I had him so well at the point of my gun I should have sent a ball into his breast.”

“It is enough to have killed the mother,” said Athos, hoarsely.

“The mother was a wretch, who struck at us all and at those dear to us.”

“Yes, but the son has done us no harm.”

Grimaud, who had risen to watch the effect of the shot, fell back hopeless, wringing his hands.

The young man burst into a laugh.

“Ah, it is certainly you!” he cried. “I know you even better now.”

His mocking laugh and threatening words passed over their heads, carried by the breeze, until lost in the depths of the horizon. Aramis shuddered.

“Be calm,” exclaimed Athos, “for Heaven’s sake! have we ceased to be men?”

“No,” said Aramis, “but that fellow is a fiend; and ask the uncle whether I was wrong to rid him of his dear nephew.”

De Winter only replied by a groan.

“It was all up with him,” continued Aramis; “ah I much fear that with all your wisdom such mercy yet will prove supernal folly.”

Athos took Lord de Winter’s hand and tried to turn the conversation.

“When shall we land in England?” he asked; but De Winter seemed not to hear his words and made no reply.

“Hold, Athos,” said Aramis, “perhaps there is yet time. See if he is still in the same place.”

Athos turned around with an effort; the sight of the young man was evidently painful to him, and there he still was, in fact, on the rock, the beacon shedding around him, as it were, a doubtful aureole.

“Decidedly, Aramis,” said Athos, “I think I was wrong not to let you fire.”

“Hold your tongue,” replied Aramis; “you would make me weep, if such a thing were possible.”

At this moment they were hailed by a voice from the sloop and a few seconds later men, servants and baggage were aboard. The captain was only waiting for his passengers; hardly had they put foot on deck ere her head was turned towards Hastings, where they were to disembark. At this instant the three friends turned, in spite of themselves, a last look on the rock, upon the menacing figure which pursued them and now stood out with a distinctness still. Then a voice reached them once more, sending this threat: “To our next meeting, sirs, in England.”

Te Deum for the Victory of Lens.

The bustle which had been observed by Henrietta Maria and for which she had vainly sought to discover a reason, was occasioned by the battle of Lens, announced by the prince’s messenger, the Duc de Chatillon, who had taken such a noble part in the engagement; he was, besides, charged to hang five and twenty flags, taken from the Lorraine party, as well as from the Spaniards, upon the arches of Notre Dame.

Such news was decisive; it destroyed, in favor of the court, the struggle commenced with parliament. The motive given for all the taxes summarily imposed and to which the parliament had made opposition, was the necessity of sustaining the honor of France and the uncertain hope of beating the enemy. Now, since the affair of Nordlingen, they had experienced nothing but reverses; the parliament had a plea for calling Mazarin to account for imaginary victories, always promised, ever deferred; but this time there really had been fighting, a triumph and a complete one. And this all knew so well that it was a double victory for the court, a victory at home and abroad; so that even when the young king learned the news he exclaimed, “Ah, gentlemen of the parliament, we shall see what you will say now!” Upon which the queen had pressed the royal child to her heart, whose haughty and unruly sentiments were in such harmony with her own. A council was called on the same evening, but nothing transpired of what had been decided on. It was only known that on the following Sunday a Te Deum would be sung at Notre Dame in honor of the victory of Lens.

The following Sunday, then, the Parisians arose with joy; at that period a Te Deum was a grand affair; this kind of ceremony had not then been abused and it produced a great effect. The shops were deserted, houses closed; every one wished to see the young king with his mother, and the famous Cardinal Mazarin whom they hated so much that no one wished to be deprived of his presence. Moreover, great liberty prevailed throughout the immense crowd; every opinion was openly expressed and chorused, so to speak, of coming insurrection, as the thousand bells of all the Paris churches rang out the Te Deum. The police belonging to the city being formed by the city itself, nothing threatening presented itself to disturb this concert of universal hatred or freeze the frequent scoffs of slanderous lips.

Nevertheless, at eight o’clock in the morning the regiment of the queen’s guards, commanded by Guitant, under whom was his nephew Comminges, marched publicly, preceded by drums and trumpets, filing off from the Palais Royal as far as Notre Dame, a manoeuvre which the Parisians witnessed tranquilly, delighted as they were with military music and brilliant uniforms.

Friquet had put on his Sunday clothes, under the pretext of having a swollen face which he had managed to simulate by introducing a handful of cherry kernels into one side of his mouth, and had procured a whole holiday from Bazin. On leaving Bazin, Friquet started off to the Palais Royal, where he arrived at the moment of the turning out of the regiment of guards; and as he had only gone there for the enjoyment of seeing it and hearing the music, he took his place at their head, beating the drum on two pieces of slate and passing from that exercise to that of the trumpet, which he counterfeited quite naturally with his mouth in a manner which had more than once called forth the praises of amateurs of imitative harmony.

This amusement lasted from the Barriere des Sergens to the place of Notre Dame, and Friquet found in it very real enjoyment; but when at last the regiment separated, penetrated the heart of the city and placed itself at the extremity of the Rue Saint Christophe, near the Rue Cocatrix, in which Broussel lived, then Friquet remembered that he had not had breakfast; and after thinking in which direction he had better turn his steps in order to accomplish this important act of the day, he reflected deeply and decided that Councillor Broussel should bear the cost of this repast.

In consequence he took to his heels, arrived breathlessly at the councillor’s door, and knocked violently.

His mother, the councillor’s old servant, opened it.

“What doest thou here, good-for-nothing?” she said, “and why art thou not at Notre Dame?”

“I have been there, mother,” said Friquet, “but I saw things happen of which Master Broussel ought to be warned, and so with Monsieur Bazin’s permission--you know, mother, Monsieur Bazin, the verger--I came to speak to Monsieur Broussel.”

“And what hast thou to say, boy, to Monsieur Broussel?”

“I wish to tell him,” replied Friquet, screaming with all his might, “that there is a whole regiment of guards coming this way. And as I hear everywhere that at the court they are ill-disposed to him, I wish to warn him, that he may be on his guard.”

Broussel heard the scream of the young oddity, and, enchanted with this excess of zeal, came down to the first floor, for he was, in truth, working in his room on the second.

“Well,” said he, “friend, what matters the regiment of guards to us, and art thou not mad to make such a disturbance? Knowest thou not that it is the custom of these soldiers to act thus and that it is usual for the regiment to form themselves into two solid walls when the king goes by?”

Friquet counterfeited surprise, and twisting his new cap around in his fingers, said:

“It is not astonishing for you to know it, Monsieur Broussel, who knows everything; but as for me, by holy truth, I did not know it and I thought I would give you good advice; you must not be angry with me for that, Monsieur Broussel.”

“On the contrary, my boy, on the contrary, I am pleased with your zeal. Dame Nanette, look for those apricots which Madame de Longueville sent to us yesterday from Noisy and give half a dozen of them to your son, with a crust of new bread.”

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you, Monsieur Broussel,” said Friquet; “I am so fond of apricots!”

Broussel then proceeded to his wife’s room and asked for breakfast; it was nine o’clock. The councillor placed himself at the window; the street was completely deserted, but in the distance was heard, like the noise of the tide rushing in, the deep hum of the populous waves increasing now around Notre Dame.

This noise redoubled when D’Artagnan, with a company of musketeers, placed himself at the gates of Notre Dame to secure the service of the church. He had instructed Porthos to profit by this opportunity to see the ceremony; and Porthos, in full dress, mounted his finest horse, taking the part of supernumerary musketeer, as D’Artagnan had so often done formerly. The sergeant of this company, a veteran of the Spanish wars, had recognized Porthos, his old companion, and very soon all those who served under him were placed in possession of startling facts concerning the honor of the ancient musketeers of Treville. Porthos had not only been well received by the company, but he was moreover looked on with great admiration.

At ten o’clock the guns of the Louvre announced the departure of the king, and then a movement, similar to that of trees in a stormy wind that bend and writhe with agitated tops, ran though the multitude, which was compressed behind the immovable muskets of the guard. At last the king appeared with the queen in a gilded chariot. Ten other carriages followed, containing the ladies of honor, the officers of the royal household, and the court.

“God save the king!” was the cry in every direction; the young monarch gravely put his head out of the window, looked sufficiently grateful and even bowed; at which the cries of the multitude were renewed.

Just as the court was settling down in the cathedral, a carriage, bearing the arms of Comminges, quitted the line of the court carriages and proceeded slowly to the end of the Rue Saint Christophe, now entirely deserted. When it arrived there, four guards and a police officer, who accompanied it, mounted into the heavy machine and closed the shutters; then through an opening cautiously made, the policeman began to watch the length of the Rue Cocatrix, as if he was waiting for some one.

All the world was occupied with the ceremony, so that neither the chariot nor the precautions taken by those who were within it had been observed. Friquet, whose eye, ever on the alert, could alone have discovered them, had gone to devour his apricots upon the entablature of a house in the square of Notre Dame. Thence he saw the king, the queen and Monsieur Mazarin, and heard the mass as well as if he had been on duty.

Toward the end of the service, the queen, seeing Comminges standing near her, waiting for a confirmation of the order she had given him before quitting the Louvre, said in a whisper:

“Go, Comminges, and may God aid you!”

Comminges immediately left the church and entered the Rue Saint Christophe. Friquet, seeing this fine officer thus walk away, followed by two guards, amused himself by pursuing them and did this so much the more gladly as the ceremony ended at that instant and the king remounted his carriage.

Hardly had the police officer observed Comminges at the end of the Rue Cocatrix when he said one word to the coachman, who at once put his vehicle into motion and drove up before Broussel’s door. Comminges knocked at the door at the same moment, and Friquet was waiting behind Comminges until the door should be opened.

“What dost thou there, rascal?” asked Comminges.

“I want to go into Master Broussel’s house, captain,” replied Friquet, in that wheedling way the “gamins” of Paris know so well how to assume when necessary.

“And on what floor does he live?” asked Comminges.

“In the whole house,” said Friquet; “the house belongs to him; he occupies the second floor when he works and descends to the first to take his meals; he must be at dinner now; it is noon.”

“Good,” said Comminges.

At this moment the door was opened, and having questioned the servant the officer learned that Master Broussel was at home and at dinner.

Broussel was seated at the table with his family, having his wife opposite to him, his two daughters by his side, and his son, Louvieres, whom we have already seen when the accident happened to the councillor--an accident from which he had quite recovered--at the bottom of the table. The worthy man, restored to perfect health, was tasting the fine fruit which Madame de Longueville had sent to him.

At sight of the officer Broussel was somewhat moved, but seeing him bow politely he rose and bowed also. Still, in spite of this reciprocal politeness, the countenances of the women betrayed a certain amount of uneasiness; Louvieres became very pale and waited impatiently for the officer to explain himself.

“Sir,” said Comminges, “I am the bearer of an order from the king.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Broussel, “what is this order?” And he held out his hand.

“I am commissioned to seize your person, sir,” said Comminges, in the same tone and with the same politeness; “and if you will believe me you had better spare yourself the trouble of reading that long letter and follow me.”

A thunderbolt falling in the midst of these good people, so peacefully assembled there, would not have produced a more appalling effect. It was a horrible thing at that period to be imprisoned by the enmity of the king. Louvieres sprang forward to snatch his sword, which stood against a chair in a corner of the room; but a glance from the worthy Broussel, who in the midst of It all did not lose his presence of mind, checked this foolhardy action of despair. Madame Broussel, separated by the width of the table from her husband, burst into tears, and the young girls clung to their father’s arms.

“Come, sir,” said Comminges, “make haste; you must obey the king.”

“Sir,” said Broussel, “I am in bad health and cannot give myself up a prisoner in this state; I must have time.”

“It is impossible,” said Comminges; “the order is strict and must be put into execution this instant.”

“Impossible!” said Louvieres; “sir, beware of driving us to despair.”

“Impossible!” cried a shrill voice from the end of the room.

Comminges turned and saw Dame Nanette, her eyes flashing with anger and a broom in her hand.

“My good Nanette, be quiet, I beseech you,” said Broussel.

“Me! keep quiet while my master is being arrested! he, the support, the liberator, the father of the people! Ah! well, yes; you have to know me yet. Are you going?” added she to Comminges.

The latter smiled.

“Come, sir,” said he, addressing Broussel, “silence that woman and follow me.”

“Silence me! me! me!” said Nanette. “Ah! yet one wants some one besides you for that, my fine king’s cockatoo! You shall see.” And Dame Nanette sprang to the window, threw it open, and in such a piercing voice that it might have been heard in the square of Notre Dame:

“Help!” she screamed, “my master is being arrested; the Councillor Broussel is being arrested! Help!”

“Sir,” said Comminges, “declare yourself at once; will you obey or do you intend to rebel against the king?”

“I obey, I obey, sir!” cried Broussel, trying to disengage himself from the grasp of his two daughters and by a look restrain his son, who seemed determined to dispute authority.

“In that case,” commanded Comminges, “silence that old woman.”

“Ah! old woman!” screamed Nanette.

And she began to shriek more loudly, clinging to the bars of the window:

“Help! help! for Master Broussel, who is arrested because he has defended the people! Help!”

Comminges seized the servant around the waist and would have dragged her from her post; but at that instant a treble voice, proceeding from a kind of entresol, was heard screeching:

“Murder! fire! assassins! Master Broussel is being killed! Master Broussel is being strangled.”

It was Friquet’s voice; and Dame Nanette, feeling herself supported, recommenced with all her strength to sound her shrilly squawk.

Many curious faces had already appeared at the windows and the people attracted to the end of the street began to run, first men, then groups, and then a crowd of people; hearing cries and seeing a chariot they could not understand it; but Friquet sprang from the entresol on to the top of the carriage.

“They want to arrest Master Broussel!” he cried; “the guards are in the carriage and the officer is upstairs!”

The crowd began to murmur and approached the house. The two guards who had remained in the lane mounted to the aid of Comminges; those who were in the chariot opened the doors and presented arms.

“Don’t you see them?” cried Friquet, “don’t you see? there they are!”

The coachman turning around, gave Friquet a slash with his whip which made him scream with pain.

“Ah! devil’s coachman!” cried Friquet, “you’re meddling too! Wait!”

And regaining his entresol he overwhelmed the coachman with every projectile he could lay hands on.

The tumult now began to increase; the street was not able to contain the spectators who assembled from every direction; the crowd invaded the space which the dreaded pikes of the guards had till then kept clear between them and the carriage. The soldiers, pushed back by these living walls, were in danger of being crushed against the spokes of the wheels and the panels of the carriages. The cries which the police officer repeated twenty times: “In the king’s name,” were powerless against this formidable multitude--seemed, on the contrary, to exasperate it still more; when, at the shout, “In the name of the king,” an officer ran up, and seeing the uniforms ill-treated, he sprang into the scuffle sword in hand, and brought unexpected help to the guards. This gentleman was a young man, scarcely sixteen years of age, now white with anger. He leaped from his charger, placed his back against the shaft of the carriage, making a rampart of his horse, drew his pistols from their holsters and fastened them to his belt, and began to fight with the back sword, like a man accustomed to the handling of his weapon.

During ten minutes he alone kept the crowd at bay; at last Comminges appeared, pushing Broussel before him.

“Let us break the carriage!” cried the people.

“In the king’s name!” cried Comminges.

“The first who advances is a dead man!” cried Raoul, for it was in fact he, who, feeling himself pressed and almost crushed by a gigantic citizen, pricked him with the point of his sword and sent him howling back.

Comminges, so to speak, threw Broussel into the carriage and sprang in after him. At this moment a shot was fired and a ball passed through the hat of Comminges and broke the arm of one of the guards. Comminges looked up and saw amidst the smoke the threatening face of Louvieres appearing at the window of the second floor.

“Very well, sir,” said Comminges, “you shall hear of this anon.”

“And you of me, sir,” said Louvieres; “and we shall see then who can speak the loudest.”

Friquet and Nanette continued to shout; the cries, the noise of the shot and the intoxicating smell of powder produced their usual maddening effects.

“Down with the officer! down with him!” was the cry.

“One step nearer,” said Comminges, putting down the sashes, that the interior of the carriage might be well seen, and placing his sword on his prisoner’s breast, “one step nearer, and I kill the prisoner; my orders were to carry him off alive or dead. I will take him dead, that’s all.”

A terrible cry was heard, and the wife and daughters of Broussel held up their hands in supplication to the people; the latter knew that this officer, who was so pale, but who appeared so determined, would keep his word; they continued to threaten, but they began to disperse.

“Drive to the palace,” said Comminges to the coachman, who was by then more dead than alive.

The man whipped his animals, which cleared a way through the crowd; but on arriving on the Quai they were obliged to stop; the carriage was upset, the horses carried off, stifled, mangled by the crowd. Raoul, on foot, for he had not time to mount his horse again, tired, like the guards, of distributing blows with the flat of his sword, had recourse to its point. But this last and dreaded resource served only to exasperate the multitude. From time to time a shot from a musket or the blade of a rapier flashed among the crowd; projectiles continued to hail down from the windows and some shots were heard, the echo of which, though they were probably fired in the air, made all hearts vibrate. Voices, unheard except on days of revolution, were distinguished; faces were seen that only appeared on days of bloodshed. Cries of “Death! death to the guards! to the Seine with the officer!” were heard above all the noise, deafening as it was. Raoul, his hat in ribbons, his face bleeding, felt not only his strength but also his reason going; a red mist covered his sight, and through this mist he saw a hundred threatening arms stretched over him, ready to seize upon him when he fell. The guards were unable to help any one--each one was occupied with his self-preservation. All was over; carriages, horses, guards, and perhaps even the prisoner were about to be torn to shreds, when all at once a voice well known to Raoul was heard, and suddenly a great sword glittered in the air; at the same time the crowd opened, upset, trodden down, and an officer of the musketeers, striking and cutting right and left, rushed up to Raoul and took him in his arms just as he was about to fall.

“God’s blood!” cried the officer, “have they killed him? Woe to them if it be so!”

And he turned around, so stern with anger, strength and threat, that the most excited rebels hustled back on one another, in order to escape, and some of them even rolled into the Seine.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” murmured Raoul.

“Yes, ‘sdeath! in person, and fortunately it seems for you, my young friend. Come on, here, you others,” he continued, rising in his stirrups, raising his sword, and addressing those musketeers who had not been able to follow his rapid onslaught. “Come, sweep away all that for me! Shoulder muskets! Present arms! Aim----”

At this command the mountain of populace thinned so suddenly that D’Artagnan could not repress a burst of Homeric laughter.

“Thank you, D’Artagnan,” said Comminges, showing half of his body through the window of the broken vehicle, “thanks, my young friend; your name--that I may mention it to the queen.”

Raoul was about to reply when D’Artagnan bent down to his ear.

“Hold your tongue,” said he, “and let me answer. Do not lose time, Comminges,” he continued; “get out of the carriage if you can and make another draw up; be quick, or in five minutes the mob will be on us again with swords and muskets and you will be killed. Hold! there’s a carriage coming over yonder.”

Then bending again to Raoul, he whispered: “Above all things do not divulge your name.”

“That’s right. I will go,” said Comminges; “and if they come back, fire!”

“Not at all--not at all,” replied D’Artagnan; “let no one move. On the contrary, one shot at this moment would be paid for dearly to-morrow.”

Comminges took his four guards and as many musketeers and ran to the carriage, from which he made the people inside dismount, and brought them to the vehicle which had upset. But when it was necessary to convey the prisoner from one carriage to the other, the people, catching sight of him whom they called their liberator, uttered every imaginable cry and knotted themselves once more around the vehicle.

“Start, start!” said D’Artagnan. “There are ten men to accompany you. I will keep twenty to hold in check the mob; go, and lose not a moment. Ten men for Monsieur de Comminges.”

As the carriage started off the cries were redoubled and more than ten thousand people thronged the Quai and overflowed the Pont Neuf and adjacent streets. A few shots were fired and one musketeer was wounded.

“Forward!” cried D’Artagnan, driven to extremities, biting his moustache; and then he charged with his twenty men and dispersed them in fear. One man alone remained in his place, gun in hand.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “it is thou who wouldst have him assassinated? Wait an instant.” And he pointed his gun at D’Artagnan, who was riding toward him at full speed. D’Artagnan bent down to his horse’s neck the young man fired, and the ball severed the feathers from the hat. The horse started, brushed against the imprudent man, who thought by his strength alone to stay the tempest, and he fell against the wall. D’Artagnan pulled up his horse, and whilst his musketeers continued to charge, he returned and bent with drawn sword over the man he had knocked down.

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Raoul, recognizing the young man as having seen him in the Rue Cocatrix, “spare him! it is his son!”

D’Artagnan’s arm dropped to his side. “Ah, you are his son!” he said; “that is a different thing.”

“Sir, I surrender,” said Louvieres, presenting his unloaded musket to the officer.

“Eh, no! do not surrender, egad! On the contrary, be off, and quickly. If I take you, you will be hung!”

The young man did not wait to be told twice, but passing under the horse’s head disappeared at the corner of the Rue Guenegaud.

“I’faith!” said D’Artagnan to Raoul, “you were just in time to stay my hand. He was a dead man; and on my honor, if I had discovered that it was his son, I should have regretted having killed him.”

“Ah! sir!” said Raoul, “allow me, after thanking you for that poor fellow’s life, to thank you on my own account. I too, sir, was almost dead when you arrived.”

“Wait, wait, young man; do not fatigue yourself with speaking. We can talk of it afterward.”

Then seeing that the musketeers had cleared the Quai from the Pont Neuf to the Quai Saint Michael, he raised his sword for them to double their speed. The musketeers trotted up, and at the same time the ten men whom D’Artagnan had given to Comminges appeared.

“Halloo!” cried D’Artagnan; “has something fresh happened?”

“Eh, sir!” replied the sergeant, “their vehicle has broken down a second time; it really must be doomed.”

“They are bad managers,” said D’Artagnan, shrugging his shoulders. “When a carriage is chosen, it ought to be strong. The carriage in which a Broussel is to be arrested ought to be able to bear ten thousand men.”

“What are your commands, lieutenant?”

“Take the detachment and conduct him to his place.”

“But you will be left alone?”

“Certainly. So you suppose I have need of an escort? Go.”

The musketeers set off and D’Artagnan was left alone with Raoul.

“Now,” he said, “are you in pain?”

“Yes; my head is not only swimming but burning.”

“What’s the matter with this head?” said D’Artagnan, raising the battered hat. “Ah! ah! a bruise.”

“Yes, I think I received a flower-pot upon my head.”

“Brutes!” said D’Artagnan. “But were you not on horseback? you have spurs.”

“Yes, but I got down to defend Monsieur de Comminges and my horse was taken away. Here it is, I see.”

At this very moment Friquet passed, mounted on Raoul’s horse, waving his parti-colored cap and crying, “Broussel! Broussel!”

“Halloo! stop, rascal!” cried D’Artagnan. “Bring hither that horse.”

Friquet heard perfectly, but he pretended not to do so and tried to continue his road. D’Artagnan felt inclined for an instant to pursue Master Friquet, but not wishing to leave Raoul alone he contented himself with taking a pistol from the holster and cocking it.

Friquet had a quick eye and a fine ear. He saw D’Artagnan’s movement, heard the sound of the click, and stopped at once.

“Ah! it is you, your honor,” he said, advancing toward D’Artagnan; “and I am truly pleased to meet you.”

D’Artagnan looked attentively at Friquet and recognized the little chorister of the Rue de la Calandre.

“Ah! ’tis thou, rascal!” said he, “come here: so thou hast changed thy trade; thou art no longer a choir boy nor a tavern boy; thou hast become a horse stealer?”

“Ah, your honor, how can you say so?” exclaimed Friquet. “I was seeking the gentleman to whom this horse belongs--an officer, brave and handsome as a youthful Caesar;” then, pretending to see Raoul for the first time:

“Ah! but if I mistake not,” continued he, “here he is; you won’t forget the boy, sir.”

Raoul put his hand in his pocket.

“What are you about?” asked D’Artagnan.

“To give ten francs to this honest fellow,” replied Raoul, taking a pistole from his pocket.

“Ten kicks on his back!” said D’Artagnan; “be off, you little villain, and forget not that I have your address.”

Friquet, who did not expect to be let off so cheaply, bounded off like a gazelle up the Quai a la Rue Dauphine, and disappeared. Raoul mounted his horse, and both leisurely took their way to the Rue Tiquetonne.

D’Artagnan watched over the youth as if he had been his own son.

They arrived without accident at the Hotel de la Chevrette.

The handsome Madeleine announced to D’Artagnan that Planchet had returned, bringing Musqueton with him, who had heroically borne the extraction of the ball and was as well as his state would permit.

D’Artagnan desired Planchet to be summoned, but he had disappeared.

“Then bring some wine,” said D’Artagnan. “You are much pleased with yourself,” said he to Raoul when they were alone, “are you not?”

“Well, yes,” replied Raoul. “It seems to me I did my duty. I defended the king.”

“And who told you to defend the king?”

“The Comte de la Fere himself.”

“Yes, the king; but to-day you have not fought for the king, you have fought for Mazarin; which is not quite the same thing.”

“But you yourself?”

“Oh, for me; that is another matter. I obey my captain’s orders. As for you, your captain is the prince, understand that rightly; you have no other. But has one ever seen such a wild fellow,” continued he, “making himself a Mazarinist and helping to arrest Broussel! Breathe not a word of that, or the Comte de la Fere will be furious.”

“You think the count will be angry with me?”

“Think it? I’m certain of it; were it not for that, I should thank you, for you have worked for us. However, I scold you instead of him, and in his place; the storm will blow over more easily, believe me. And moreover, my dear child,” continued D’Artagnan, “I am making use of the privilege conceded to me by your guardian.”

“I do not understand you, sir,” said Raoul.

D’Artagnan rose, and taking a letter from his writing-desk, presented it to Raoul. The face of the latter became serious when he had cast his eyes upon the paper.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” he said, raising his fine eyes to D’Artagnan, moist with tears, “the count has left Paris without seeing me?”

“He left four days ago,” said D’Artagnan.

“But this letter seems to intimate that he is about to incur danger, perhaps death.”

“He--he--incur danger of death! No, be not anxious; he is traveling on business and will return ere long. I hope you have no repugnance to accept me as your guardian in the interim.”

“Oh, no, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Raoul, “you are such a brave gentleman and the Comte de la Fere has so much affection for you!”

“Eh! Egad! love me too; I will not torment you much, but only on condition that you become a Frondist, my young friend, and a hearty Frondist, too.”

“But can I continue to visit Madame de Chevreuse?”

“I should say you could! and the coadjutor and Madame de Longueville; and if the worthy Broussel were there, whom you so stupidly helped arrest, I should tell you to excuse yourself to him at once and kiss him on both cheeks.”

“Well, sir, I will obey you, although I do not understand you.

“It is unnecessary for you to understand. Hold,” continued D’Artagnan, turning toward the door, which had just opened, “here is Monsieur du Vallon, who comes with his coat torn.”

“Yes, but in exchange,” said Porthos, covered with perspiration and soiled by dust, “in exchange, I have torn many skins. Those wretches wanted to take away my sword! Deuce take ‘em, what a popular commotion!” continued the giant, in his quiet manner; “but I knocked down more than twenty with the hilt of Balizarde. A draught of wine, D’Artagnan.”

“Oh I’ll answer for you,” said the Gascon, filling Porthos’s glass to the brim; “but when you have drunk, give me your opinion.”

“Upon what?” asked Porthos.

“Look here,” resumed D’Artagnan; “here is Monsieur de Bragelonne, who determined at all risks to aid the arrest of Broussel and whom I had great difficulty to prevent defending Monsieur de Comminges.”

“The devil!” said Porthos; “and his guardian, what would he have said to that?”

“Do you hear?” interrupted D’Artagnan; “become a Frondist, my friend, belong to the Fronde, and remember that I fill the count’s place in everything;” and he jingled his money.

“Will you come?” said he to Porthos.

“Where?” asked Porthos, filling a second glass of wine.

“To present our respects to the cardinal.”

Porthos swallowed the second glass with the same grace with which he had imbibed the first, took his beaver and followed D’Artagnan. As for Raoul, he remained bewildered with what he had seen, having been forbidden by D’Artagnan to leave the room until the tumult was over.

The Beggar of St. Eustache.

D’Artagnan had calculated that in not going at once to the Palais Royal he would give Comminges time to arrive before him, and consequently to make the cardinal acquainted with the eminent services which he, D’Artagnan, and his friend had rendered to the queen’s party in the morning.

They were indeed admirably received by Mazarin, who paid them numerous compliments, and announced that they were more than half on their way to obtain what they desired, namely, D’Artagnan his captaincy, Porthos his barony.

D’Artagnan would have preferred money in hand to all that fine talk, for he knew well that to Mazarin it was easy to promise and hard to perform. But, though he held the cardinal’s promises as of little worth, he affected to be completely satisfied, for he was unwilling to discourage Porthos.

Whilst the two friends were with the cardinal, the queen sent for him. Mazarin, thinking that it would be the means of increasing the zeal of his two defenders if he procured them personal thanks from the queen, motioned them to follow him. D’Artagnan and Porthos pointed to their dusty and torn dresses, but the cardinal shook his head.

“Those costumes,” he said, “are of more worth than most of those which you will see on the backs of the queen’s courtiers; they are costumes of battle.”

D’Artagnan and Porthos obeyed. The court of Anne of Austria was full of gayety and animation; for, after having gained a victory over the Spaniard, it had just gained another over the people. Broussel had been conducted out of Paris without further resistance, and was at this time in the prison of Saint Germain; while Blancmesnil, who was arrested at the same time, but whose arrest had been made without difficulty or noise, was safe in the Castle of Vincennes.

Comminges was near the queen, who was questioning him upon the details of his expedition, and every one was listening to his account, when D’Artagnan and Porthos were perceived at the door, behind the cardinal.

“Ah, madame,” said Comminges, hastening to D’Artagnan, “here is one who can tell you better than myself, for he was my protector. Without him I should probably at this moment be a dead fish in the nets at Saint Cloud, for it was a question of nothing less than throwing me into the river. Speak, D’Artagnan, speak.”

D’Artagnan had been a hundred times in the same room with the queen since he had become lieutenant of the musketeers, but her majesty had never once spoken to him.

“Well, sir,” at last said Anne of Austria, “you are silent, after rendering such a service?”

“Madame,” replied D’Artagnan, “I have nought to say, save that my life is ever at your majesty’s service, and that I shall only be happy the day I lose it for you.

“I know that, sir; I have known that,” said the queen, “a long time; therefore I am delighted to be able thus publicly to mark my gratitude and my esteem.”

“Permit me, madame,” said D’Artagnan, “to reserve a portion for my friend; like myself” (he laid an emphasis on these words) “an ancient musketeer of the company of Treville; he has done wonders.”

“His name?” asked the queen.

“In the regiment,” said D’Artagnan, “he is called Porthos” (the queen started), “but his true name is the Chevalier du Vallon.”

“De Bracieux de Pierrefonds,” added Porthos.

“These names are too numerous for me to remember them all, and I will content myself with the first,” said the queen, graciously. Porthos bowed. At this moment the coadjutor was announced; a cry of surprise ran through the royal assemblage. Although the coadjutor had preached that same morning it was well known that he leaned much to the side of the Fronde; and Mazarin, in requesting the archbishop of Paris to make his nephew preach, had evidently had the intention of administering to Monsieur de Retz one of those Italian kicks he so much enjoyed giving.

The fact was, in leaving Notre Dame the coadjutor had learned the event of the day. Although almost engaged to the leaders of the Fronde he had not gone so far but that retreat was possible should the court offer him the advantages for which he was ambitious and to which the coadjutorship was but a stepping-stone. Monsieur de Retz wished to become archbishop in his uncle’s place, and cardinal, like Mazarin; and the popular party could with difficulty accord him favors so entirely royal. He therefore hastened to the palace to congratulate the queen on the battle of Lens, determined beforehand to act with or against the court, as his congratulations were well or ill received.

The coadjutor possessed, perhaps, as much wit as all those put together who were assembled at the court to laugh at him. His speech, therefore, was so well turned, that in spite of the great wish felt by the courtiers to laugh, they could find no point on which to vent their ridicule. He concluded by saying that he placed his feeble influence at her majesty’s command.

During the whole time he was speaking, the queen appeared to be well pleased with the coadjutor’s harangue; but terminating as it did with such a phrase, the only one which could be caught at by the jokers, Anne turned around and directed a glance toward her favorites, which announced that she delivered up the coadjutor to their tender mercies. Immediately the wits of the court plunged into satire. Nogent-Beautin, the fool of the court, exclaimed that “the queen was very happy to have the succor of religion at such a moment.” This caused a universal burst of laughter. The Count de Villeroy said that “he did not know how any fear could be entertained for a moment, when the court had, to defend itself against the parliament and the citizens of Paris, his holiness the coadjutor, who by a signal could raise an army of curates, church porters and vergers.”

The Marechal de la Meilleraie added that in case the coadjutor should appear on the field of battle it would be a pity that he should not be distinguished in the melee by wearing a red hat, as Henry IV. had been distinguished by his white plume at the battle of Ivry.

During this storm, Gondy, who had it in his power to make it most unpleasant for the jesters, remained calm and stern. The queen at last asked him if he had anything to add to the fine discourse he had just made to her.

“Yes, madame,” replied the coadjutor; “I have to beg you to reflect twice ere you cause a civil war in the kingdom.”

The queen turned her back and the laughing recommenced.

The coadjutor bowed and left the palace, casting upon the cardinal such a glance as is best understood by mortal foes. That glance was so sharp that it penetrated the heart of Mazarin, who, reading in it a declaration of war, seized D’Artagnan by the arm and said:

“If occasion requires, monsieur, you will remember that man who has just gone out, will you not?”

“Yes, my lord,” he replied. Then, turning toward Porthos, “The devil!” said he, “this has a bad look. I dislike these quarrels among men of the church.”

Gondy withdrew, distributing benedictions on his way, and finding a malicious satisfaction in causing the adherents of his foes to prostrate themselves at his feet.

“Oh!” he murmured, as he left the threshold of the palace: “ungrateful court! faithless court! cowardly court! I will teach you how to laugh to-morrow--but in another manner.”

But whilst they were indulging in extravagant joy at the Palais Royal, to increase the hilarity of the queen, Mazarin, a man of sense, and whose fear, moreover, gave him foresight, lost no time in making idle and dangerous jokes; he went out after the coadjutor, settled his account, locked up his gold, and had confidential workmen to contrive hiding places in his walls.

On his return home the coadjutor was informed that a young man had come in after his departure and was waiting for him; he started with delight when, on demanding the name of this young man, he learned that it was Louvieres. He hastened to his cabinet. Broussel’s son was there, still furious, and still bearing bloody marks of his struggle with the king’s officers. The only precaution he had taken in coming to the archbishopric was to leave his arquebuse in the hands of a friend.

The coadjutor went to him and held out his hand. The young man gazed at him as if he would have read the secret of his heart.

“My dear Monsieur Louvieres,” said the coadjutor, “believe me, I am truly concerned for the misfortune which has happened to you.”

“Is that true, and do you speak seriously?” asked Louvieres.

“From the depth of my heart,” said Gondy.

“In that case, my lord, the time for words has passed and the hour for action is at hand; my lord, in three days, if you wish it, my father will be out of prison and in six months you may be cardinal.”

The coadjutor started.

“Oh! let us speak frankly,” continued Louvieres, “and act in a straightforward manner. Thirty thousand crowns in alms is not given, as you have done for the last six months, out of pure Christian charity; that would be too grand. You are ambitious--it is natural; you are a man of genius and you know your worth. As for me, I hate the court and have but one desire at this moment--vengeance. Give us the clergy and the people, of whom you can dispose, and I will bring you the citizens and the parliament; with these four elements Paris is ours in a week; and believe me, monsieur coadjutor, the court will give from fear what it will not give from good-will.”

It was now the coadjutor’s turn to fix his piercing eyes on Louvieres.

“But, Monsieur Louvieres, are you aware that it is simply civil war you are proposing to me?”

“You have been preparing long enough, my lord, for it to be welcome to you now.”

“Never mind,” said the coadjutor; “you must be well aware that this requires reflection.”

“And how many hours of reflection do you ask?”

“Twelve hours, sir; is it too long?”

“It is now noon; at midnight I will be at your house.”

“If I should not be in, wait for me.”

“Good! at midnight, my lord.”

“At midnight, my dear Monsieur Louvieres.”

When once more alone Gondy sent to summon all the curates with whom he had any connection to his house. Two hours later, thirty officiating ministers from the most populous, and consequently the most disturbed parishes of Paris had assembled there. Gondy related to them the insults he had received at the Palais Royal and retailed the jests of Beautin, the Count de Villeroy and Marechal de la Meilleraie. The curates asked him what was to be done.

“Simply this,” said the coadjutor. “You are the directors of all consciences. Well, undermine in them the miserable prejudice of respect and fear of kings; teach your flocks that the queen is a tyrant; and repeat often and loudly, so that all may know it, that the misfortunes of France are caused by Mazarin, her lover and her destroyer; begin this work to-day, this instant even, and in three days I shall expect the result. For the rest, if any one of you have further or better counsel to expound, I will listen to him with the greatest pleasure.”

Three curates remained--those of St. Merri, St. Sulpice and St. Eustache. The others withdrew.

“You think, then, that you can help me more efficaciously than your brothers?” said Gondy.

“We hope so,” answered the curates.

“Let us hear. Monsieur de St. Merri, you begin.”

“My lord, I have in my parish a man who might be of the greatest use to you.”

“Who and what is this man?”

“A shopkeeper in the Rue des Lombards, who has great influence upon the commerce of his quarter.”

“What is his name?”

“He is named Planchet, who himself also caused a rising about six weeks ago; but as he was searched for after this emeute he disappeared.”

“And can you find him?”

“I hope so. I think he has not been arrested, and as I am his wife’s confessor, if she knows where he is I shall know it too.”

“Very well, sir, find this man, and when you have found him bring him to me.”

“We will be with you at six o’clock, my lord.”

“Go, my dear curate, and may God assist you!”

“And you, sir?” continued Gondy, turning to the curate of St. Sulpice.

“I, my lord,” said the latter, “I know a man who has rendered great services to a very popular prince and who would make an excellent leader of revolt. Him I can place at your disposal; it is Count de Rochefort.”

“I know him also, but unfortunately he is not in Paris.”

“My lord, he has been for three days at the Rue Cassette.”

“And wherefore has he not been to see me?”

“He was told--my lord will pardon me----”

“Certainly, speak.”

“That your lordship was about to treat with the court.”

Gondy bit his lips.

“They are mistaken; bring him here at eight o’clock, sir, and may Heaven bless you as I bless you!”

“And now ’tis your turn,” said the coadjutor, turning to the last that remained; “have you anything as good to offer me as the two gentlemen who have left us?”

“Better, my lord.”

“Diable! think what a solemn engagement you are making; one has offered a wealthy shopkeeper, the other a count; you are going, then, to offer a prince, are you?”

“I offer you a beggar, my lord.”

“Ah! ah!” said Gondy, reflecting, “you are right, sir; some one who could raise the legion of paupers who choke up the crossings of Paris; some one who would know how to cry aloud to them, that all France might hear it, that it is Mazarin who has reduced them to poverty.”

“Exactly your man.”

“Bravo! and the man?”

“A plain and simple beggar, as I have said, my lord, who asks for alms, as he gives holy water; a practice he has carried on for six years on the steps of St. Eustache.”

“And you say that he has a great influence over his compeers?”

“Are you aware, my lord, that mendacity is an organized body, a kind of association of those who have nothing against those who have everything; an association in which every one takes his share; one that elects a leader?”

“Yes, I have heard it said,” replied the coadjutor.

“Well, the man whom I offer you is a general syndic.”

“And what do you know of him?”

“Nothing, my lord, except that he is tormented with remorse.”

“What makes you think so?”

“On the twenty-eighth of every month he makes me say a mass for the repose of the soul of one who died a violent death; yesterday I said this mass again.”

“And his name?”

“Maillard; but I do not think it is his right one.”

“And think you that we should find him at this hour at his post?”

“Certainly.”

“Let us go and see your beggar, sir, and if he is such as you describe him, you are right--it will be you who have discovered the true treasure.”

Gondy dressed himself as an officer, put on a felt cap with a red feather, hung on a long sword, buckled spurs to his boots, wrapped himself in an ample cloak and followed the curate.

The coadjutor and his companion passed through all the streets lying between the archbishopric and the St. Eustache Church, watching carefully to ascertain the popular feeling. The people were in an excited mood, but, like a swarm of frightened bees, seemed not to know at what point to concentrate; and it was very evident that if leaders of the people were not provided all this agitation would pass off in idle buzzing.

On arriving at the Rue des Prouvaires, the curate pointed toward the square before the church.

“Stop!” he said, “there he is at his post.”

Gondy looked at the spot indicated and perceived a beggar seated in a chair and leaning against one of the moldings; a little basin was near him and he held a holy water brush in his hand.

“Is it by permission that he remains there?” asked Gondy.

“No, my lord; these places are bought. I believe this man paid his predecessor a hundred pistoles for his.”

“The rascal is rich, then?”

“Some of those men sometimes die worth twenty thousand and twenty-five and thirty thousand francs and sometimes more.”

“Hum!” said Gondy, laughing; “I was not aware my alms were so well invested.”

In the meantime they were advancing toward the square, and the moment the coadjutor and the curate put their feet on the first church step the mendicant arose and proffered his brush.

He was a man between sixty-six and sixty-eight years of age, little, rather stout, with gray hair and light eyes. His countenance denoted the struggle between two opposite principles--a wicked nature, subdued by determination, perhaps by repentance.

He started on seeing the cavalier with the curate. The latter and the coadjutor touched the brush with the tips of their fingers and made the sign of the cross; the coadjutor threw a piece of money into the hat, which was on the ground.

“Maillard,” began the curate, “this gentleman and I have come to talk with you a little.”

“With me!” said the mendicant; “it is a great honor for a poor distributor of holy water.”

There was an ironical tone in his voice which he could not quite disguise and which astonished the coadjutor.

“Yes,” continued the curate, apparently accustomed to this tone, “yes, we wish to know your opinion of the events of to-day and what you have heard said by people going in and out of the church.”

The mendicant shook his head.

“These are melancholy doings, your reverence, which always fall again upon the poor. As to what is said, everybody is discontented, everybody complains, but ‘everybody’ means ‘nobody.’”

“Explain yourself, my good friend,” said the coadjutor.

“I mean that all these cries, all these complaints, these curses, produce nothing but storms and flashes and that is all; but the lightning will not strike until there is a hand to guide it.”

“My friend,” said Gondy, “you seem to be a clever and a thoughtful man; are you disposed to take a part in a little civil war, should we have one, and put at the command of the leader, should we find one, your personal influence and the influence you have acquired over your comrades?”

“Yes, sir, provided this war were approved of by the church and would advance the end I wish to attain--I mean, the remission of my sins.”

“The war will not only be approved of, but directed by the church. As for the remission of your sins, we have the archbishop of Paris, who has the very greatest power at the court of Rome, and even the coadjutor, who possesses some plenary indulgences; we will recommend you to him.”

“Consider, Maillard,” said the curate, “that I have recommended you to this gentleman, who is a powerful lord, and that I have made myself responsible for you.”

“I know, monsieur le cure,” said the beggar, “that you have always been very kind to me, and therefore I, in my turn, will be serviceable to you.”

“And do you think your power as great with the fraternity as monsieur le cure told me it was just now?”

“I think they have some esteem for me,” said the mendicant with pride, “and that not only will they obey me, but wherever I go they will follow me.”

“And could you count on fifty resolute men, good, unemployed, but active souls, brawlers, capable of bringing down the walls of the Palais Royal by crying, ‘Down with Mazarin,’ as fell those at Jericho?”

“I think,” said the beggar, “I can undertake things more difficult and more important than that.”

“Ah, ah,” said Gondy, “you will undertake, then, some night, to throw up some ten barricades?”

“I will undertake to throw up fifty, and when the day comes, to defend them.”

“I’faith!” exclaimed Gondy, “you speak with a certainty that gives me pleasure; and since monsieur le cure can answer for you----”

“I answer for him,” said the curate.

“Here is a bag containing five hundred pistoles in gold; make all your arrangements, and tell me where I shall be able to find you this evening at ten o’clock.”

“It must be on some elevated place, whence a given signal may be seen in every part of Paris.”

“Shall I give you a line for the vicar of St. Jacques de la Boucherie? he will let you into the rooms in his tower,” said the curate.

“Capital,” answered the mendicant.

“Then,” said the coadjutor, “this evening, at ten o’clock, and if I am pleased with you another bag of five hundred pistoles will be at your disposal.”

The eyes of the mendicant dashed with cupidity, but he quickly suppressed his emotion.

“This evening, sir,” he replied, “all will be ready.”

The Tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie.

At a quarter to six o’clock, Monsieur de Gondy, having finished his business, returned to the archiepiscopal palace.

At six o’clock the curate of St. Merri was announced.

The coadjutor glanced rapidly behind and saw that he was followed by another man. The curate then entered, followed by Planchet.

“Your holiness,” said the curate, “here is the person of whom I had the honor to speak to you.”

Planchet saluted in the manner of one accustomed to fine houses.

“And you are disposed to serve the cause of the people?” asked Gondy.

“Most undoubtedly,” said Planchet. “I am a Frondist from my heart. You see in me, such as I am, a person sentenced to be hung.”

“And on what account?”

“I rescued from the hands of Mazarin’s police a noble lord whom they were conducting back to the Bastile, where he had been for five years.”

“Will you name him?”

“Oh, you know him well, my lord--it is Count de Rochefort.”

“Ah! really, yes,” said the coadjutor, “I have heard this affair mentioned. You raised the whole district, so they told me!”

“Very nearly,” replied Planchet, with a self-satisfied air.

“And your business is----”

“That of a confectioner, in the Rue des Lombards.”

“Explain to me how it happens that, following so peaceful a business, you had such warlike inclinations.”

“Why does my lord, belonging to the church, now receive me in the dress of an officer, with a sword at his side and spurs to his boots?”

“Not badly answered, i’faith,” said Gondy, laughing; “but I have, you must know, always had, in spite of my bands, warlike inclinations.”

“Well, my lord, before I became a confectioner I myself was three years sergeant in the Piedmontese regiment, and before I became sergeant I was for eighteen months the servant of Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“The lieutenant of musketeers?” asked Gondy.

“Himself, my lord.”

“But he is said to be a furious Mazarinist.”

“Phew!” whistled Planchet.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, my lord; Monsieur d’Artagnan belongs to the service; Monsieur d’Artagnan makes it his business to defend the cardinal, who pays him, as much as we make it ours, we citizens, to attack him, whom he robs.”

“You are an intelligent fellow, my friend; can we count upon you?”

“You may count upon me, my lord, provided you want to make a complete upheaval of the city.”

“‘Tis that exactly. How many men, think you, you could collect together to-night?”

“Two hundred muskets and five hundred halberds.”

“Let there be only one man in every district who can do as much and by to-morrow we shall have quite a powerful army. Are you disposed to obey Count de Rochefort?”

“I would follow him to hell, and that is saying not a little, as I believe him entirely capable of the descent.”

“Bravo!”

“By what sign to-morrow shall we be able to distinguish friends from foes?”

“Every Frondist must put a knot of straw in his hat.”

“Good! Give the watchword.”

“Do you want money?”

“Money never comes amiss at any time, my lord; if one has it not, one must do without it; with it, matters go on much better and more rapidly.”

Gondy went to a box and drew forth a bag.

“Here are five hundred pistoles,” he said; “and if the action goes off well you may reckon upon a similar sum to-morrow.”

“I will give a faithful account of the sum to your lordship,” said Planchet, putting the bag under his arm.

“That is right; I recommend the cardinal to your attention.”

“Make your mind easy, he is in good hands.”

Planchet went out, the curate remaining for a moment

“Are you satisfied, my lord?” he asked.

“Yes; he appears to be a resolute fellow.”

“Well, he will do more than he has promised.”

“He will do wonders then.”

The curate rejoined Planchet, who was waiting for him on the stairs. Ten minutes later the curate of St. Sulpice was announced. As soon as the door of Gondy’s study was opened a man rushed in. It was the Count de Rochefort.

“‘Tis you, then, my dear count,” cried Gondy, offering his hand.

“You have made up your mind at last, my lord?” said Rochefort.

“It has been made up a long time,” said Gondy.

“Let us say no more on the subject; you tell me so, I believe you. Well, we are going to give a ball to Mazarin.”

“I hope so.”

“And when will the dance begin?”

“The invitations are given for this evening,” said the coadjutor, “but the violins will not begin to play until to-morrow morning.”

“You may reckon upon me and upon fifty soldiers which the Chevalier d’Humieres has promised me whenever I need them.”

“Upon fifty soldiers?”

“Yes, he is making recruits and he will lend them to me; if any are missing when the fete is over, I shall replace them.”

“Good, my dear Rochefort; but that is not all. What have you done with Monsieur de Beaufort?”

“He is in Vendome, where he will wait until I write to him to return to Paris.”

“Write to him; now’s the time.”

“You are sure of your enterprise?”

“Yes, but he must make haste; for hardly will the people of Paris have revolted before we shall have a score of princes begging to lead them. If he defers he will find the place of honor taken.”

“Shall I send word to him as coming from you?”

“Yes certainly.”

“Shall I tell him that he can count on you?”

“To the end.”

“And you will leave the command to him?”

“Of the war, yes, but in politics----”

“You must know it is not his element.”

“He must leave me to negotiate for my cardinal’s hat in my own fashion.”

“You care about it, then, so much?”

“Since they force me to wear a hat of a form which does not become me,” said Gondy, “I wish at least that the hat should be red.”

“One must not dispute matters of taste and colors,” said Rochefort, laughing. “I answer for his consent.”

“How soon can he be here?”

“In five days.”

“Let him come and he will find a change, I will answer for it.”

“Therefore, go and collect your fifty men and hold yourself in readiness.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“Is there any signal for the general rally?”

“A knot of straw in the hat.”

“Very good. Adieu, my lord.”

“Adieu, my dear Rochefort.”

“Ah, Monsieur Mazarin, Monsieur Mazarin,” said Rochefort, leading off his curate, who had not found an opportunity of uttering a single word during the foregoing dialogue, “you will see whether I am too old to be a man of action.”

It was half-past nine o’clock and the coadjutor required half an hour to go from the archbishop’s palace to the tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie. He remarked that a light was burning in one of the highest windows of the tower. “Good,” said he, “our syndic is at his post.”

He knocked and the door was opened. The vicar himself awaited him, conducted him to the top of the tower, and when there pointed to a little door, placed the light which he had brought with him in a corner of the wall, that the coadjutor might be able to find it on his return, and went down again. Although the key was in the door the coadjutor knocked.

“Come in,” said a voice which he recognized as that of the mendicant, whom he found lying on a kind of truckle bed. He rose on the entrance of the coadjutor, and at that moment ten o’clock struck.

“Well,” said Gondy, “have you kept your word with me?”

“Not exactly,” replied the mendicant.

“How is that?”

“You asked me for five hundred men, did you not? Well, I have ten thousand for you.”

“You are not boasting?”

“Do you wish for a proof?”

“Yes.”

There were three candles alight, each of which burnt before a window, one looking upon the city, the other upon the Palais Royal, and a third upon the Rue Saint Denis.

The man went silently to each of the candles and blew them out one after the other.

“What are you doing?” asked the coadjutor.

“I have given the signal.”

“For what?”

“For the barricades. When you leave this you will behold my men at work. Only take care you do not break your legs in stumbling over some chain or your neck by falling in a hole.”

“Good! there is your money, the same sum as that you have received already. Now remember that you are a general and do not go and drink.”

“For twenty years I have tasted nothing but water.”

The man took the bag from the hands of the coadjutor, who heard the sound of his fingers counting and handling the gold pieces.

“Ah! ah!” said the coadjutor, “you are avaricious, my good fellow.”

The mendicant sighed and threw down the bag.

“Must I always be the same?” said he, “and shall I never succeed in overcoming the old leaven? Oh, misery, oh, vanity!”

“You take it, however.”

“Yes, but I make hereby a vow in your presence, to employ all that remains to me in pious works.”

His face was pale and drawn, like that of a man who had just undergone some inward struggle.

“Singular man!” muttered Gondy, taking his hat to go away; but on turning around he saw the beggar between him and the door. His first idea was that this man intended to do him some harm, but on the contrary he saw him fall on his knees before him with his hands clasped.

“Your blessing, your holiness, before you go, I beseech you!” he cried.

“Your holiness!” said Gondy; “my friend, you take me for some one else.”

“No, your holiness, I take you for what you are, that is to say, the coadjutor; I recognized you at the first glance.”

Gondy smiled. “And you want my blessing?” he said.

“Yes, I have need of it.”

The mendicant uttered these words in a tone of such humility, such earnest repentance, that Gondy placed his hand upon him and gave him his benediction with all the unction of which he was capable.

“Now,” said Gondy, “there is a communion between us. I have blessed you and you are sacred to me. Come, have you committed some crime, pursued by human justice, from which I can protect you?”

The beggar shook his head. “The crime which I have committed, my lord, has no call upon human justice, and you can only deliver me from it by blessing me frequently, as you have just done.”

“Come, be candid,” said the coadjutor, “you have not all your life followed the trade which you do now?”

“No, my lord. I have pursued it for six years only.”

“And previously, where were you?”

“In the Bastile.”

“And before you went to the Bastile?”

“I will tell you, my lord, on the day when you are willing to hear my confession.”

“Good! At whatsoever hour of the day or night you may present yourself, remember that I shall be ready to give you absolution.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the mendicant in a hoarse voice. “But I am not yet ready to receive it.”

“Very well. Adieu.”

“Adieu, your holiness,” said the mendicant, opening the door and bending low before the prelate.

The Riot.

It was about eleven o’clock at night. Gondy had not walked a hundred steps ere he perceived the strange change which had been made in the streets of Paris.

The whole city seemed peopled with fantastic beings; silent shadows were seen unpaving the streets and others dragging and upsetting great wagons, whilst others again dug ditches large enough to ingulf whole regiments of horsemen. These active beings flitted here and there like so many demons completing some unknown labor; these were the beggars of the Court of Miracles--the agents of the giver of holy water in the Square of Saint Eustache, preparing barricades for the morrow.

Gondy gazed on these deeds of darkness, on these nocturnal laborers, with a kind of fear; he asked himself, if, after having called forth these foul creatures from their dens, he should have the power of making them retire again. He felt almost inclined to cross himself when one of these beings happened to approach him. He reached the Rue Saint Honore and went up it toward the Rue de la Ferronnerie; there the aspect changed; here it was the tradesmen who were running from shop to shop; their doors seemed closed like their shutters, but they were only pushed to in such a manner as to open and allow the men, who seemed fearful of showing what they carried, to enter, closing immediately. These men were shopkeepers, who had arms to lend to those who had none.

One individual went from door to door, bending under the weight of swords, guns, muskets and every kind of weapon, which he deposited as fast as he could. By the light of a lantern the coadjutor recognized Planchet.

The coadjutor proceeded onward to the quay by way of the Rue de la Monnaie; there he found groups of bourgeois clad in black cloaks or gray, according as they belonged to the upper or lower bourgeoisie. They were standing motionless, while single men passed from one group to another. All these cloaks, gray or black, were raised behind by the point of a sword, or before by the barrel of an arquebuse or a musket.

On reaching the Pont Neuf the coadjutor found it strictly guarded and a man approached him.

“Who are you?” asked the man. “I do not know you for one of us.”

“Then it is because you do not know your friends, my dear Monsieur Louvieres,” said the coadjutor, raising his hat.

Louvieres recognized him and bowed.

Gondy continued his way and went as far as the Tour de Nesle. There he saw a lengthy chain of people gliding under the walls. They might be said to be a procession of ghosts, for they were all wrapped in white cloaks. When they reached a certain spot these men appeared to be annihilated, one after the other, as if the earth had opened under their feet. Gondy, edged into a corner, saw them vanish from the first until the last but one. The last raised his eyes, to ascertain, doubtless, that neither his companions nor himself had been watched, and, in spite of the darkness, he perceived Gondy. He walked straight up to him and placed a pistol to his throat.

“Halloo! Monsieur de Rochefort,” said Gondy, laughing, “are you a boy to play with firearms?”

Rochefort recognized the voice.

“Ah, it is you, my lord!” said he.

“The very same. What people are you leading thus into the bowels of the earth?”

“My fifty recruits from the Chevalier d’Humieres, who are destined to enter the light cavalry and who have only received as yet for their equipment their white cloaks.”

“And where are you going?”

“To the house of one of my friends, a sculptor, only we enter by the trap through which he lets down his marble.”

“Very good,” said Gondy, shaking Rochefort by the hand, who descended in his turn and closed the trap after him.

It was now one o’clock in the morning and the coadjutor returned home. He opened a window and leaned out to listen. A strange, incomprehensible, unearthly sound seemed to pervade the whole city; one felt that something unusual and terrible was happening in all the streets, now dark as ocean’s most unfathomable caves. From time to time a dull sound was heard, like that of a rising tempest or a billow of the sea; but nothing clear, nothing distinct, nothing intelligible; it was like those mysterious subterraneous noises that precede an earthquake.

The work of revolt continued the whole night thus. The next morning, on awaking, Paris seemed to be startled at her own appearance. It was like a besieged town. Armed men, shouldering muskets, watched over the barricades with menacing looks; words of command, patrols, arrests, executions, even, were encountered at every step. Those bearing plumed hats and gold swords were stopped and made to cry, “Long live Broussel!” “Down with Mazarin!” and whoever refused to comply with this ceremony was hooted at, spat upon and even beaten. They had not yet begun to slay, but it was well felt that the inclination to do so was not wanting.

The barricades had been pushed as far as the Palais Royal. From the Rue de Bons Enfants to that of the Ferronnerie, from the Rue Saint Thomas-du-Louvre to the Pont Neuf, from the Rue Richelieu to the Porte Saint Honore, there were more than ten thousand armed men; those who were at the front hurled defiance at the impassive sentinels of the regiment of guards posted around the Palais Royal, the gates of which were closed behind them, a precaution which made their situation precarious. Among these thousands moved, in bands numbering from one hundred to two hundred, pale and haggard men, clothed in rags, who bore a sort of standard on which was inscribed these words: “Behold the misery of the people!” Wherever these men passed, frenzied cries were heard; and there were so many of these bands that the cries were to be heard in all directions.

The astonishment of Mazarin and of Anne of Austria was great when it was announced to them that the city, which the previous evening they had left entirely tranquil, had awakened to such feverish commotion; nor would either the one or the other believe the reports that were brought to them, declaring they would rather rely on the evidence of their own eyes and ears. Then a window was opened and when they saw and heard they were convinced.

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders and pretended to despise the populace; but he turned visibly pale and ran to his closet, trembling all over, locked up his gold and jewels in his caskets and put his finest diamonds on his fingers. As for the queen, furious, and left to her own guidance, she went for the Marechal de la Meilleraie and desired him to take as many men as he pleased and to go and see what was the meaning of this pleasantry.

The marshal was ordinarily very adventurous and was wont to hesitate at nothing; and he had that lofty contempt for the populace which army officers usually profess. He took a hundred and fifty men and attempted to go out by the Pont du Louvre, but there he met Rochefort and his fifty horsemen, attended by more than five hundred men. The marshal made no attempt to force that barrier and returned up the quay. But at Pont Neuf he found Louvieres and his bourgeois. This time the marshal charged, but he was welcomed by musket shots, while stones fell like hail from all the windows. He left there three men.

He beat a retreat toward the market, but there he met Planchet with his halberdiers; their halberds were leveled at him threateningly. He attempted to ride over those gray cloaks, but the gray cloaks held their ground and the marshal retired toward the Rue Saint Honore, leaving four of his guards dead on the field of battle.

The marshal then entered the Rue Saint Honore, but there he was opposed by the barricades of the mendicant of Saint Eustache. They were guarded, not only by armed men, but even by women and children. Master Friquet, the owner of a pistol and of a sword which Louvieres had given him, had organized a company of rogues like himself and was making a tremendous racket.

The marshal thought this barrier not so well fortified as the others and determined to break through it. He dismounted twenty men to make a breach in the barricade, whilst he and others, remaining on their horses, were to protect the assailants. The twenty men marched straight toward the barrier, but from behind the beams, from among the wagon-wheels and from the heights of the rocks a terrible fusillade burst forth and at the same time Planchet’s halberdiers appeared at the corner of the Cemetery of the Innocents, and Louvieres’s bourgeois at the corner of the Rue de la Monnaie.

The Marechal de la Meilleraie was caught between two fires, but he was brave and made up his mind to die where he was. He returned blow for blow and cries of pain began to be heard in the crowd. The guards, more skillful, did greater execution; but the bourgeois, more numerous, overwhelmed them with a veritable hurricane of iron. Men fell around him as they had fallen at Rocroy or at Lerida. Fontrailles, his aide-de-camp, had an arm broken; his horse had received a bullet in his neck and he had difficulty in controlling him, maddened by pain. In short, he had reached that supreme moment when the bravest feel a shudder in their veins, when suddenly, in the direction of the Rue de l’Arbre-Sec, the crowd opened, crying: “Long live the coadjutor!” and Gondy, in surplice and cloak, appeared, moving tranquilly in the midst of the fusillade and bestowing his benedictions to the right and left, as undisturbed as if he were leading a procession of the Fete Dieu.

All fell to their knees. The marshal recognized him and hastened to meet him.

“Get me out of this, in Heaven’s name!” he said, “or I shall leave my carcass here and those of all my men.”

A great tumult arose, in the midst of which even the noise of thunder could not have been heard. Gondy raised his hand and demanded silence. All were still.

“My children,” he said, “this is the Marechal de la Meilleraie, as to whose intentions you have been deceived and who pledges himself, on returning to the Louvre, to demand of the queen, in your name, our Broussel’s release. You pledge yourself to that, marshal?” added Gondy, turning to La Meilleraie.

“Morbleu!” cried the latter, “I should say that I do pledge myself to it! I had no hope of getting off so easily.”

“He gives you his word of honor,” said Gondy.

The marshal raised his hand in token of assent.

“Long live the coadjutor!” cried the crowd. Some voices even added: “Long live the marshal!” But all took up the cry in chorus: “Down with Mazarin!”

The crowd gave place, the barricade was opened, and the marshal, with the remnant of his company, retreated, preceded by Friquet and his bandits, some of them making a presence of beating drums and others imitating the sound of the trumpet. It was almost a triumphal procession; only, behind the guards the barricades were closed again. The marshal bit his fingers.

In the meantime, as we have said, Mazarin was in his closet, putting his affairs in order. He called for D’Artagnan, but in the midst of such tumult he little expected to see him, D’Artagnan not being on service. In about ten minutes D’Artagnan appeared at the door, followed by the inseparable Porthos.

“Ah, come in, come in, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the cardinal, “and welcome your friend too. But what is going on in this accursed Paris?”

“What is going on, my lord? nothing good,” replied D’Artagnan, shaking his head. “The town is in open revolt, and just now, as I was crossing the Rue Montorgueil with Monsieur du Vallon, who is here, and is your humble servant, they wanted in spite of my uniform, or perhaps because of my uniform, to make us cry ‘Long live Broussel!’ and must I tell you, my lord what they wished us to cry as well?”

“Speak, speak.”

“‘Down with Mazarin!’ I’faith, the treasonable word is out.”

Mazarin smiled, but became very pale.

“And you did cry?” he asked.

“I’faith, no,” said D’Artagnan; “I was not in voice; Monsieur du Vallon has a cold and did not cry either. Then, my lord----”

“Then what?” asked Mazarin.

“Look at my hat and cloak.”

And D’Artagnan displayed four gunshot holes in his cloak and two in his beaver. As for Porthos’s coat, a blow from a halberd had cut it open on the flank and a pistol shot had cut his feather in two.

“Diavolo!” said the cardinal, pensively gazing at the two friends with lively admiration; “I should have cried, I should.”

At this moment the tumult was heard nearer.

Mazarin wiped his forehead and looked around him. He had a great desire to go to the window, but he dared not.

“See what is going on, Monsieur D’Artagnan,” said he.

D’Artagnan went to the window with his habitual composure. “Oho!” said he, “what is this? Marechal de la Meilleraie returning without a hat--Fontrailles with his arm in a sling--wounded guards--horses bleeding; eh, then, what are the sentinels about? They are aiming--they are going to fire!”

“They have received orders to fire on the people if the people approach the Palais Royal!” exclaimed Mazarin.

“But if they fire, all is lost!” cried D’Artagnan.

“We have the gates.”

“The gates! to hold for five minutes--the gates, they will be torn down, twisted into iron wire, ground to powder! God’s death, don’t fire!” screamed D’Artagnan, throwing open the window.

In spite of this recommendation, which, owing to the noise, could scarcely have been heard, two or three musket shots resounded, succeeded by a terrible discharge. The balls might be heard peppering the facade of the Palais Royal, and one of them, passing under D’Artagnan’s arm, entered and broke a mirror, in which Porthos was complacently admiring himself.

“Alack! alack!” cried the cardinal, “a Venetian glass!”

“Oh, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, quietly shutting the window, “it is not worth while weeping yet, for probably an hour hence there will not be one of your mirrors remaining in the Palais Royal, whether they be Venetian or Parisian.”

“But what do you advise, then?” asked Mazarin, trembling.

“Eh, egad, to give up Broussel as they demand! What the devil do you want with a member of the parliament? He is of no earthly use to anybody.”

“And you, Monsieur du Vallon, is that your advice? What would you do?”

“I should give up Broussel,” said Porthos.

“Come, come with me, gentlemen!” exclaimed Mazarin. “I will go and discuss the matter with the queen.”

He stopped at the end of the corridor and said:

“I can count upon you, gentlemen, can I not?”

“We do not give ourselves twice over,” said D’Artagnan; “we have given ourselves to you; command, we shall obey.”

“Very well, then,” said Mazarin; “enter this cabinet and wait till I come back.”

And turning off he entered the drawing-room by another door.

The Riot becomes a Revolution.

The closet into which D’Artagnan and Porthos had been ushered was separated from the drawing-room where the queen was by tapestried curtains only, and this thin partition enabled them to hear all that passed in the adjoining room, whilst the aperture between the two hangings, small as it was, permitted them to see.

The queen was standing in the room, pale with anger; her self-control, however, was so great that it might have been imagined that she was calm. Comminges, Villequier and Guitant were behind her and the women again were behind the men. The Chancellor Sequier, who twenty years previously had persecuted her so ruthlessly, stood before her, relating how his carriage had been smashed, how he had been pursued and had rushed into the Hotel d’O----, that the hotel was immediately invaded, pillaged and devastated; happily he had time to reach a closet hidden behind tapestry, in which he was secreted by an old woman, together with his brother, the Bishop of Meaux. Then the danger was so imminent, the rioters came so near, uttering such threats, that the chancellor thought his last hour had come and confessed himself to his brother priest, so as to be all ready to die in case he was discovered. Fortunately, however, he had not been taken; the people, believing that he had escaped by some back entrance, retired and left him at liberty to retreat. Then, disguised in he clothes of the Marquis d’O----, he had left the hotel, stumbling over the bodies of an officer and two guards who had been killed whilst defending the street door.

During the recital Mazarin entered and glided noiselessly up to the queen to listen.

“Well,” said the queen, when the chancellor had finished speaking; “what do you think of it all?”

“I think that matters look very gloomy, madame.”

“But what step would you propose to me?”

“I could propose one to your majesty, but I dare not.”

“You may, you may, sir,” said the queen with a bitter smile; “you were not so timid once.”

The chancellor reddened and stammered some words.

“It is not a question of the past, but of the present,” said the queen; “you said you could give me advice--what is it?”

“Madame,” said the chancellor, hesitating, “it would be to release Broussel.”

The queen, although already pale, became visibly paler and her face was contracted.

“Release Broussel!” she cried, “never!”

At this moment steps were heard in the ante-room and without any announcement the Marechal de la Meilleraie appeared at the door.

“Ah, there you are, marechal,” cried Anne of Austria joyfully. “I trust you have brought this rabble to reason.”

“Madame,” replied the marechal, “I have left three men on the Pont Neuf, four at the Halle, six at the corner of the Rue de l’Arbre-Sec and two at the door of your palace--fifteen in all. I have brought away ten or twelve wounded. I know not where I have left my hat, and in all probability I should have been left with my hat, had the coadjutor not arrived in time to rescue me.”

“Ah, indeed,” said the queen, “it would have much astonished me if that low cur, with his distorted legs, had not been mixed up with all this.”

“Madame,” said La Meilleraie, “do not say too much against him before me, for the service he rendered me is still fresh.”

“Very good,” said the queen, “be as grateful as you like, it does not implicate me; you are here safe and sound, that is all I wished for; you are not only welcome, but welcome back.”

“Yes, madame; but I only came back on one condition--that I would transmit to your majesty the will of the people.”

“The will!” exclaimed the queen, frowning. “Oh! oh! monsieur marechal, you must indeed have found yourself in wondrous peril to have undertaken so strange a commission!”

The irony with which these words were uttered did not escape the marechal.

“Pardon, madame,” he said, “I am not a lawyer, I am a mere soldier, and probably, therefore, I do not quite comprehend the value of certain words; I ought to have said the wishes, and not the will, of the people. As for what you do me the honor to say, I presume you mean I was afraid?”

The queen smiled.

“Well, then, madame, yes, I did feel fear; and though I have been through twelve pitched battles and I cannot count how many charges and skirmishes, I own for the third time in my life I was afraid. Yes, and I would rather face your majesty, however threatening your smile, than face those demons who accompanied me hither and who sprung from I know not whence, unless from deepest hell.”

(” Bravo,” said D’Artagnan in a whisper to Porthos; “well answered.”)

“Well,” said the queen, biting her lips, whilst her courtiers looked at each other with surprise, “what is the desire of my people?”

“That Broussel shall be given up to them, madame.”

“Never!” said the queen, “never!”

“Your majesty is mistress,” said La Meilleraie, retreating a few steps.

“Where are you going, marechal?” asked the queen.

“To give your majesty’s reply to those who await it.”

“Stay, marechal; I will not appear to parley with rebels.”

“Madame, I have pledged my word, and unless you order me to be arrested I shall be forced to return.”

Anne of Austria’s eyes shot glances of fire.

“Oh! that is no impediment, sir,” said she; “I have had greater men than you arrested--Guitant!”

Mazarin sprang forward.

“Madame, “said he, “if I dared in my turn advise----”

“Would it be to give up Broussel, sir? If so, you can spare yourself the trouble.”

“No,” said Mazarin; “although, perhaps, that counsel is as good as any other.”

“Then what may it be?”

“To call for monsieur le coadjuteur.”

“The coadjutor!” cried the queen, “that dreadful mischief maker! It is he who has raised all this revolt.”

“The more reason,” said Mazarin; “if he has raised it he can put it down.”

“And hold, madame,” suggested Comminges, who was near a window, out of which he could see; “hold, the moment is a happy one, for there he is now, giving his blessing in the square of the Palais Royal.”

The queen sprang to the window.

“It is true,” she said, “the arch hypocrite--see!”

“I see,” said Mazarin, “that everybody kneels before him, although he be but coadjutor, whilst I, were I in his place, though I am cardinal, should be torn to pieces. I persist, then, madame, in my wish” (he laid an emphasis on the word), “that your majesty should receive the coadjutor.”

“And wherefore do you not say, like the rest, your will?” replied the queen, in a low voice.

Mazarin bowed.

“Monsieur le marechal,” said the queen, after a moment’s reflection, “go and find the coadjutor and bring him to me.”

“And what shall I say to the people?”

“That they must have patience,” said Anne, “as I have.”

The fiery Spanish woman spoke in a tone so imperative that the marechal made no reply; he bowed and went out.

(D’Artagnan turned to Porthos. “How will this end?” he said.

“We shall soon see,” said Porthos, in his tranquil way.)

In the meantime Anne of Austria approached Comminges and conversed with him in a subdued tone, whilst Mazarin glanced uneasily at the corner occupied by D’Artagnan and Porthos. Ere long the door opened and the marechal entered, followed by the coadjutor.

“There, madame,” he said, “is Monsieur Gondy, who hastens to obey your majesty’s summons.”

The queen advanced a few steps to meet him, and then stopped, cold, severe, unmoved, with her lower lip scornfully protruded.

Gondy bowed respectfully.

“Well, sir,” said the queen, “what is your opinion of this riot?”

“That it is no longer a riot, madame,” he replied, “but a revolt.”

“The revolt is at the door of those who think my people can rebel,” cried Anne, unable to dissimulate before the coadjutor, whom she looked upon, and probably with reason, as the promoter of the tumult. “Revolt! thus it is called by those who have wished for this demonstration and who are, perhaps, the cause of it; but, wait, wait! the king’s authority will put all this to rights.”

“Was it to tell me that, madame,” coldly replied Gondy, “that your majesty admitted me to the honor of entering your presence?”

“No, my dear coadjutor,” said Mazarin; “it was to ask your advice in the unhappy dilemma in which we find ourselves.”

“Is it true,” asked Gondy, feigning astonishment, “that her majesty summoned me to ask for my opinion?”

“Yes,” said the queen, “it is requested.”

The coadjutor bowed.

“Your majesty wishes, then----”

“You to say what you would do in her place,” Mazarin hastened to reply.

The coadjutor looked at the queen, who replied by a sign in the affirmative.

“Were I in her majesty’s place,” said Gondy, coldly, “I should not hesitate; I should release Broussel.”

“And if I do not give him up, what think you will be the result?” exclaimed the queen.

“I believe that not a stone in Paris will remain unturned,” put in the marechal.

“It was not your opinion that I asked,” said the queen, sharply, without even turning around.

“If it is I whom your majesty interrogates,” replied the coadjutor in the same calm manner, “I reply that I hold monsieur le marechal’s opinion in every respect.”

The color mounted to the queen’s face; her fine blue eyes seemed to start out of her head and her carmine lips, compared by all the poets of the day to a pomegranate in flower, were trembling with anger. Mazarin himself, who was well accustomed to the domestic outbreaks of this disturbed household, was alarmed.

“Give up Broussel!” she cried; “fine counsel, indeed. Upon my word! one can easily see it comes from a priest.

Gondy remained firm, and the abuse of the day seemed to glide over his head as the sarcasms of the evening before had done; but hatred and revenge were accumulating in his heart silently and drop by drop. He looked coldly at the queen, who nudged Mazarin to make him say something in his turn.

Mazarin, according to his custom, was thinking much and saying little.

“Ho! ho!” said he, “good advice, advice of a friend. I, too, would give up that good Monsieur Broussel, dead or alive, and all would be at an end.”

“If you yield him dead, all will indeed be at an end, my lord, but quite otherwise than you mean.”

“Did I say ‘dead or alive?’” replied Mazarin. “It was only a way of speaking. You know I am not familiar with the French language, which you, monsieur le coadjuteur, both speak and write so well.”

(”This is a council of state,” D’Artagnan remarked to Porthos; “but we held better ones at La Rochelle, with Athos and Aramis.”

“At the Saint Gervais bastion,” said Porthos.

“There and elsewhere.”)

The coadjutor let the storm pass over his head and resumed, still with the same tranquillity:

“Madame, if the opinion I have submitted to you does not please you it is doubtless because you have better counsels to follow. I know too well the wisdom of the queen and that of her advisers to suppose that they will leave the capital long in trouble that may lead to a revolution.”

“Thus, then, it is your opinion,” said Anne of Austria, with a sneer and biting her lips with rage, “that yesterday’s riot, which to-day is already a rebellion, to-morrow may become a revolution?”

“Yes, madame,” replied the coadjutor, gravely.

“But if I am to believe you, sir, the people seem to have thrown off all restraint.”

“It is a bad year for kings,” said Gondy, shaking his head; “look at England, madame.”

“Yes; but fortunately we have no Oliver Cromwell in France,” replied the queen.

“Who knows?” said Gondy; “such men are like thunderbolts--one recognizes them only when they have struck.”

Every one shuddered and there was a moment of silence, during which the queen pressed her hand to her side, evidently to still the beatings of her heart.

(”Porthos,” murmured D’Artagnan, “look well at that priest.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, “I see him. What then?”

“Well, he is a man.”

Porthos looked at D’Artagnan in astonishment. Evidently he did not understand his meaning.)

“Your majesty,” continued the coadjutor, pitilessly, “is about to take such measures as seem good to you, but I foresee that they will be violent and such as will still further exasperate the rioters.”

“In that case, you, monsieur le coadjuteur, who have such power over them and are at the same time friendly to us,” said the queen, ironically, “will quiet them by bestowing your blessing upon them.”

“Perhaps it will be too late,” said Gondy, still unmoved; “perhaps I shall have lost all influence; while by giving up Broussel your majesty will strike at the root of the sedition and will gain the right to punish severely any revival of the revolt.”

“Have I not, then, that right?” cried the queen.

“If you have it, use it,” replied Gondy.

(”Peste!” said D’Artagnan to Porthos. “There is a man after my own heart. Oh! if he were minister and I were his D’Artagnan, instead of belonging to that beast of a Mazarin, mordieu! what fine things we would do together!”

“Yes,” said Porthos.)

The queen made a sign for every one, except Mazarin, to quit the room; and Gondy bowed, as if to leave with the rest.

“Stay, sir,” said Anne to him.

“Good,” thought Gondy, “she is going to yield.”

(”She is going to have him killed,” said D’Artagnan to Porthos, “but at all events it shall not be by me. I swear to Heaven, on the contrary, that if they fall upon him I will fall upon them.”

“And I, too,” said Porthos.)

“Good,” muttered Mazarin, sitting down, “we shall soon see something startling.”

The queen’s eyes followed the retreating figures and when the last had closed the door she turned away. It was evident that she was making unnatural efforts to subdue her anger; she fanned herself, smelled at her vinaigrette and walked up and down. Gondy, who began to feel uneasy, examined the tapestry with his eyes, touched the coat of mail which he wore under his long gown and felt from time to time to see if the handle of a good Spanish dagger, which was hidden under his cloak, was well within reach.

“And now,” at last said the queen, “now that we are alone, repeat your counsel, monsieur le coadjuteur.”

“It is this, madame: that you should appear to have reflected, and publicly acknowledge an error, which constitutes the extra strength of a strong government; release Broussel from prison and give him back to the people.”

“Oh!” cried Anne, “to humble myself thus! Am I, or am I not, the queen? This screaming mob, are they, or are they not, my subjects? Have I friends? Have I guards? Ah! by Notre Dame! as Queen Catherine used to say,” continued she, excited by her own words, “rather than give up this infamous Broussel to them I will strangle him with my own hands!”

And she sprang toward Gondy, whom assuredly at that moment she hated more than Broussel, with outstretched arms. The coadjutor remained immovable and not a muscle of his face was discomposed; only his glance flashed like a sword in returning the furious looks of the queen.

(“He were a dead man,” said the Gascon, “if there were still a Vitry at the court and if Vitry entered at this moment; but for my part, before he could reach the good prelate I would kill Vitry at once; the cardinal would be infinitely pleased with me.”

“Hush!” said Porthos; “listen.”)

“Madame,” cried the cardinal, seizing hold of Anne and drawing her back, “Madame, what are you about?”

Then he added in Spanish, “Anne, are you mad? You, a queen to quarrel like a washerwoman! And do you not perceive that in the person of this priest is represented the whole people of Paris and that it is dangerous to insult him at this moment, and if this priest wished it, in an hour you would be without a crown? Come, then, on another occasion you can be firm and strong; but to-day is not the proper time; to-day, flatter and caress, or you are only a common woman.”

(At the first words of this address D’Artagnan had seized Porthos’s arm, which he pressed with gradually increasing force. When Mazarin ceased speaking he said to Porthos in a low tone:

“Never tell Mazarin that I understand Spanish, or I am a lost man and you are also.”

“All right,” said Porthos.)

This rough appeal, marked by the eloquence which characterized Mazarin when he spoke in Italian or Spanish and which he lost entirely in speaking French, was uttered with such impenetrable expression that Gondy, clever physiognomist as he was, had no suspicion of its being more than a simple warning to be more subdued.

The queen, on her part, thus chided, softened immediately and sat down, and in an almost weeping voice, letting her arms fall by her side, said:

“Pardon me, sir, and attribute this violence to what I suffer. A woman, and consequently subject to the weaknesses of my sex, I am alarmed at the idea of civil war; a queen, accustomed to be obeyed, I am excited at the first opposition.”

“Madame,” replied Gondy, bowing, “your majesty is mistaken in qualifying my sincere advice as opposition. Your majesty has none but submissive and respectful subjects. It is not the queen with whom the people are displeased; they ask for Broussel and are only too happy, if you release him to them, to live under your government.”

Mazarin, who at the words, “It is not the queen with whom the people are displeased,” had pricked up his ears, thinking that the coadjutor was about to speak of the cries, “Down with Mazarin,” and pleased with Gondy’s suppression of this fact, he said with his sweetest voice and his most gracious expression:

“Madame, credit the coadjutor, who is one of the most able politicians we have; the first available cardinal’s hat seems to belong already to his noble brow.”

“Ah! how much you have need of me, cunning rogue!” thought Gondy.

(”And what will he promise us?” said D’Artagnan. “Peste, if he is giving away hats like that, Porthos, let us look out and both demand a regiment to-morrow. Corbleu! let the civil war last but one year and I will have a constable’s sword gilt for me.”

“And for me?” put in Porthos.

“For you? I will give you the baton of the Marechal de la Meilleraie, who does not seem to be much in favor just now.”)

“And so, sir,” said the queen, “you are seriously afraid of a public tumult.”

“Seriously,” said Gondy, astonished at not having further advanced; “I fear that when the torrent has broken its embankment it will cause fearful destruction.”

“And I,” said the queen, “think that in such a case other embankments should be raised to oppose it. Go; I will reflect.”

Gondy looked at Mazarin, astonished, and Mazarin approached the queen to speak to her, but at this moment a frightful tumult arose from the square of the Palais Royal.

Gondy smiled, the queen’s color rose and Mazarin grew even paler.

“What is that again?” he asked.

At this moment Comminges rushed into the room.

“Pardon, your majesty,” he cried, “but the people have dashed the sentinels against the gates and they are now forcing the doors; what are your commands?”

“Listen, madame,” said Gondy.

The moaning of waves, the noise of thunder, the roaring of a volcano, cannot be compared with the tempest of cries heard at that moment.

“What are my commands?” said the queen.

“Yes, for time presses.”

“How many men have you about the Palais Royal?”

“Six hundred.”

“Place a hundred around the king and with the remainder sweep away this mob for me.”

“Madame,” cried Mazarin, “what are you about?”

“Go!” said the queen.

Comminges went out with a soldier’s passive obedience.

At this moment a monstrous battering was heard. One of the gates began to yield.

“Oh! madame,” cried Mazarin, “you have ruined us all--the king, yourself and me.”

At this cry from the soul of the frightened cardinal, Anne became alarmed in her turn and would have recalled Comminges.

“It is too late,” said Mazarin, tearing his hair, “too late!”

The gale had given way. Hoarse shouts were heard from the excited mob. D’Artagnan put his hand to his sword, motioning to Porthos to follow his example.

“Save the queen!” cried Mazarin to the coadjutor.

Gondy sprang to the window and threw it open; he recognized Louvieres at the head of a troop of about three or four thousand men.

“Not a step further,” he shouted, “the queen is signing!”

“What are you saying?” asked the queen.

“The truth, madame,” said Mazarin, placing a pen and a paper before her, “you must;” then he added: “Sign, Anne, I implore you--I command you.”

The queen fell into a chair, took the pen and signed.

The people, kept back by Louvieres, had not made another step forward; but the awful murmuring, which indicates an angry people, continued.

The queen had written, “The keeper of the prison at Saint Germain will set Councillor Broussel at liberty;” and she had signed it.

The coadjutor, whose eyes devoured her slightest movements, seized the paper immediately the signature had been affixed to it, returned to the window and waved it in his hand.

“This is the order,” he said.

All Paris seemed to shout with joy, and then the air resounded with the cries of “Long live Broussel!” “Long live the coadjutor!”

“Long live the queen!” cried De Gondy; but the cries which replied to his were poor and few, and perhaps he had but uttered it to make Anne of Austria sensible of her weakness.

“And now that you have obtained what you want, go,” said she, “Monsieur de Gondy.”

“Whenever her majesty has need of me,” replied the coadjutor, bowing, “her majesty knows I am at her command.”

“Ah, cursed priest!” cried Anne, when he had retired, stretching out her arm to the scarcely closed door, “one day I will make you drink the dregs of the atrocious gall you have poured out on me to-day.”

Mazarin wished to approach her. “Leave me!” she exclaimed; “you are not a man!” and she went out of the room.

“It is you who are not a woman,” muttered Mazarin.

Then, after a moment of reverie, he remembered where he had left D’Artagnan and Porthos and that they must have overheard everything. He knit his brows and went direct to the tapestry, which he pushed aside. The closet was empty.

At the queen’s last word, D’Artagnan had dragged Porthos into the gallery. Thither Mazarin went in his turn and found the two friends walking up and down.

“Why did you leave the closet, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” asked the cardinal.

“Because,” replied D’Artagnan, “the queen desired every one to leave and I thought that this command was intended for us as well as for the rest.”

“And you have been here since----”

“About a quarter of an hour,” said D’Artagnan, motioning to Porthos not to contradict him.

Mazarin saw the sign and remained convinced that D’Artagnan had seen and heard everything; but he was pleased with his falsehood.

“Decidedly, Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are the man I have been seeking. You may reckon upon me and so may your friend.” Then bowing to the two musketeers with his most gracious smile, he re-entered his closet more calmly, for on the departure of De Gondy the uproar had ceased as though by enchantment.

Misfortune refreshes the Memory.

Anne of Austria returned to her oratory, furious.

“What!” she cried, wringing her beautiful hands, “What! the people have seen Monsieur de Conde, a prince of the blood royal, arrested by my mother-in-law, Maria de Medicis; they saw my mother-in-law, their former regent, expelled by the cardinal; they saw Monsieur de Vendome, that is to say, the son of Henry IV., a prisoner at Vincennes; and whilst these great personages were imprisoned, insulted and threatened, they said nothing; and now for a Broussel--good God! what, then, is to become of royalty?”

The queen unconsciously touched here upon the exciting question. The people had made no demonstration for the princes, but they had risen for Broussel; they were taking the part of a plebeian and in defending Broussel they instinctively felt they were defending themselves.

During this time Mazarin walked up and down the study, glancing from time to time at his beautiful Venetian mirror, starred in every direction. “Ah!” he said, “it is sad, I know well, to be forced to yield thus; but, pshaw! we shall have our revenge. What matters it about Broussel--it is a name, not a thing.”

Mazarin, clever politician as he was, was for once mistaken; Broussel was a thing, not a name.

The next morning, therefore, when Broussel made his entrance into Paris in a large carriage, having his son Louvieres at his side and Friquet behind the vehicle, the people threw themselves in his way and cries of “Long live Broussel!” “Long live our father!” resounded from all parts and was death to Mazarin’s ears; and the cardinal’s spies brought bad news from every direction, which greatly agitated the minister, but was calmly received by the queen. The latter seemed to be maturing in her mind some great stroke, a fact which increased the uneasiness of the cardinal, who knew the proud princess and dreaded much the determination of Anne of Austria.

The coadjutor returned to parliament more a monarch than king, queen, and cardinal, all three together. By his advice a decree from parliament summoned the citizens to lay down their arms and demolish the barricades. They now knew that it required but one hour to take up arms again and one night to reconstruct the barricades.

Rochefort had returned to the Chevalier d’Humieres his fifty horsemen, less two, missing at roll call. But the chevalier was himself at heart a Frondist and would hear nothing said of compensation.

The mendicant had gone to his old place on the steps of Saint Eustache and was again distributing holy water with one hand and asking alms with the other. No one could suspect that those two hands had been engaged with others in drawing out from the social edifice the keystone of royalty.

Louvieres was proud and satisfied; he had taken revenge on Mazarin and had aided in his father’s deliverance from prison. His name had been mentioned as a name of terror at the Palais Royal. Laughingly he said to the councillor, restored to his family:

“Do you think, father, that if now I should ask for a company the queen would give it to me?”

D’Artagnan profited by this interval of calm to send away Raoul, whom he had great difficulty in keeping shut up during the riot, and who wished positively to strike a blow for one party or the other. Raoul had offered some opposition at first; but D’Artagnan made use of the Comte de la Fere’s name, and after paying a visit to Madame de Chevreuse, Raoul started to rejoin the army.

Rochefort alone was dissatisfied with the termination of affairs. He had written to the Duc de Beaufort to come and the duke was about to arrive, and he world find Paris tranquil. He went to the coadjutor to consult with him whether it would not be better to send word to the duke to stop on the road, but Gondy reflected for a moment, and then said:

“Let him continue his journey.”

“All is not then over?” asked Rochefort.

“My dear count, we have only just begun.”

“What induces you to think so?”

“The knowledge that I have of the queen’s heart; she will not rest contented beaten.”

“Is she, then, preparing for a stroke?”

“I hope so.”

“Come, let us see what you know.”

“I know that she has written to the prince to return in haste from the army.”

“Ah! ha!” said Rochefort, “you are right. We must let Monsieur de Beaufort come.”

In fact, the evening after this conversation the report was circulated that the Prince de Conde had arrived. It was a very simple, natural circumstance and yet it created a profound sensation. It was said that Madame de Longueville, for whom the prince had more than a brother’s affection and in whom he had confided, had been indiscreet. His confidence had unveiled the sinister project of the queen.

Even on the night of the prince’s return, some citizens, bolder than the rest, such as the sheriffs, captains and the quartermaster, went from house to house among their friends, saying:

“Why do we not take the king and place him in the Hotel de Ville? It is a shame to leave him to be educated by our enemies, who will give him evil counsel; whereas, brought up by the coadjutor, for instance, he would imbibe national principles and love his people.”

That night the question was secretly agitated and on the morrow the gray and black cloaks, the patrols of armed shop-people, and the bands of mendicants reappeared.

The queen had passed the night in lonely conference with the prince, who had entered the oratory at midnight and did not leave till five o’clock in the morning.

At five o’clock Anne went to the cardinal’s room. If she had not yet taken any repose, he at least was already up. Six days had already passed out of the ten he had asked from Mordaunt; he was therefore occupied in revising his reply to Cromwell, when some one knocked gently at the door of communication with the queen’s apartments. Anne of Austria alone was permitted to enter by that door. The cardinal therefore rose to open it.

The queen was in a morning gown, but it became her still; for, like Diana of Poictiers and Ninon, Anne of Austria enjoyed the privilege of remaining ever beautiful; nevertheless, this morning she looked handsomer than usual, for her eyes had all the sparkle inward satisfaction adds to expression.

“What is the matter, madame?” said Mazarin, uneasily. “You seem secretly elated.”

“Yes, Giulio,” she said, “proud and happy; for I have found the means of strangling this hydra.”

“You are a great politician, my queen,” said Mazarin; “let us hear the means.” And he hid what he had written by sliding the letter under a folio of blank paper.

“You know,” said the queen, “that they want to take the king away from me?”

“Alas! yes, and to hang me.”

“They shall not have the king.”

“Nor hang me.”

“Listen. I want to carry off my son from them, with yourself. I wish that this event, which on the day it is known will completely change the aspect of affairs, should be accomplished without the knowledge of any others but yourself, myself, and a third person.”

“And who is this third person?”

“Monsieur le Prince.”

“He has come, then, as they told me?”

“Last evening.”

“And you have seen him?”

“He has just left me.”

“And will he aid this project?”

“The plan is his own.”

“And Paris?”

“He will starve it out and force it to surrender at discretion.”

“The plan is not wanting in grandeur; I see but one impediment.”

“What is it?”

“Impossibility.”

“A senseless word. Nothing is impossible.”

“On paper.”

“In execution. We have money?”

“A little,” said Mazarin, trembling, lest Anne should ask to draw upon his purse.

“Troops?”

“Five or six thousand men.”

“Courage?”

“Plenty.”

“Then the thing is easy. Oh! do think of it, Giulio! Paris, this odious Paris, waking up one morning without queen or king, surrounded, besieged, famished--having for its sole resource its stupid parliament and their coadjutor with crooked limbs!”

“Charming! charming!” said Mazarin. “I can imagine the effect, I do not see the means.”

“I will find the means myself.”

“You are aware it will be war, civil war, furious, devouring, implacable?”

“Oh! yes, yes, war,” said Anne of Austria. “Yes, I will reduce this rebellious city to ashes. I will extinguish the fire with blood! I will perpetuate the crime and punishment by making a frightful example. Paris!; I--I detest, I loathe it!”

“Very fine, Anne. You are now sanguinary; but take care. We are not in the time of Malatesta and Castruccio Castracani. You will get yourself decapitated, my beautiful queen, and that would be a pity.”

“You laugh.”

“Faintly. It is dangerous to go to war with a nation. Look at your brother monarch, Charles I. He is badly off, very badly.”

“We are in France, and I am Spanish.”

“So much the worse; I had much rather you were French and myself also; they would hate us both less.”

“Nevertheless, you consent?”

“Yes, if the thing be possible.”

“It is; it is I who tell you so; make preparations for departure.”

“I! I am always prepared to go, only, as you know, I never do go, and perhaps shall go this time as little as before.”

“In short, if I go, will you go too?”

“I will try.”

“You torment me, Giulio, with your fears; and what are you afraid of, then?”

“Of many things.”

“What are they?”

Mazarin’s face, smiling as it was, became clouded.

“Anne,” said he, “you are but a woman and as a woman you may insult men at your ease, knowing that you can do it with impunity. You accuse me of fear; I have not so much as you have, since I do not fly as you do. Against whom do they cry out? is it against you or against myself? Whom would they hang, yourself or me? Well, I can weather the storm--I, whom, notwithstanding, you tax with fear--not with bravado, that is not my way; but I am firm. Imitate me. Make less hubbub and think more deeply. You cry very loud, you end by doing nothing; you talk of flying----”

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders and taking the queen’s hand led her to the window.

“Look!” he said.

“Well?” said the queen, blinded by her obstinacy.

“Well, what do you see from this window? If I am not mistaken those are citizens, helmeted and mailed, armed with good muskets, as in the time of the League, and whose eyes are so intently fixed on this window that they will see you if you raise that curtain much; and now come to the other side--what do you see? Creatures of the people, armed with halberds, guarding your doors. You will see the same at every opening from this palace to which I should lead you. Your doors are guarded, the airholes of your cellars are guarded, and I could say to you, as that good La Ramee said to me of the Duc de Beaufort, you must be either bird or mouse to get out.”

“He did get out, nevertheless.”

“Do you think of escaping in the same way?”

“I am a prisoner, then?”

“Parbleu!” said Mazarin, “I have been proving it to you this last hour.”

And he quietly resumed his dispatch at the place where he had been interrupted.

Anne, trembling with anger and scarlet with humiliation, left the room, shutting the door violently after her. Mazarin did not even turn around. When once more in her own apartment Anne fell into a chair and wept; then suddenly struck with an idea:

“I am saved!” she exclaimed, rising; “oh, yes! yes! I know a man who will find the means of taking me from Paris, a man I have too long forgotten.” Then falling into a reverie, she added, however, with an expression of joy, “Ungrateful woman that I am, for twenty years I have forgotten this man, whom I ought to have made a marechal of France. My mother-in-law expended gold, caresses, dignities on Concini, who ruined her; the king made Vitry marechal of France for an assassination: while I have left in obscurity, in poverty, the noble D’Artagnan, who saved me!”

And running to a table, on which were paper, pens and ink, she hastily began to write.

The Interview.

It had been D’Artagnan’s practice, ever since the riots, to sleep in the same room as Porthos, and on this eventful morning he was still there, sleeping, and dreaming that a yellow cloud had overspread the sky and was raining gold pieces into his hat, which he held out till it was overflowing with pistoles. As for Porthos, he dreamed that the panels of his carriage were not capacious enough to contain the armorial bearings he had ordered to be painted on them. They were both aroused at seven o’clock by the entrance of an unliveried servant, who brought a letter for D’Artagnan.

“From whom?” asked the Gascon.

“From the queen,” replied the servant.

“Ho!” said Porthos, raising himself in his bed; “what does she say?”

D’Artagnan requested the servant to wait in the next room and when the door was closed he sprang up from his bed and read rapidly, whilst Porthos looked at him with starting eyes, not daring to ask a single question.

“Friend Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, handing the letter to him, “this time, at least, you are sure of your title of baron, and I of my captaincy. Read for yourself and judge.”

Porthos took the letter and with a trembling voice read the following words:

“The queen wishes to speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan, who must follow the bearer.”

“Well!” exclaimed Porthos; “I see nothing in that very extraordinary.”

“But I see much that is very extraordinary in it,” replied D’Artagnan. “It is evident, by their sending for me, that matters are becoming complicated. Just reflect a little what an agitation the queen’s mind must be in for her to have remembered me after twenty years.”

“It is true,” said Porthos.

“Sharpen your sword, baron, load your pistols, and give some corn to the horses, for I will answer for it, something lightning-like will happen ere to-morrow.”

“But, stop; do you think it can be a trap that they are laying for us?” suggested Porthos, incessantly thinking how his greatness must be irksome to inferior people.

“If it is a snare,” replied D’Artagnan, “I shall scent it out, be assured. If Mazarin is an Italian, I am a Gascon.”

And D’Artagnan dressed himself in an instant.

Whilst Porthos, still in bed, was hooking on his cloak for him, a second knock at the door was heard.

“Come in,” exclaimed D’Artagnan; and another servant entered.

“From His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin,” presenting a letter.

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos.

“A complicated affair,” said Porthos; “where will you begin?”

“It is arranged capitally; his eminence expects me in half an hour.”

“Good.”

“My friend,” said D’Artagnan, turning to the servant, “tell his eminence that in half an hour I shall be at his command.”

“It is very fortunate,” resumed the Gascon, when the valet had retired, “that he did not meet the other one.”

“Do you not think that they have sent for you, both for the same thing?”

“I do not think it, I am certain of it.”

“Quick, quick, D’Artagnan. Remember that the queen awaits you, and after the queen, the cardinal, and after the cardinal, myself.”

D’Artagnan summoned Anne of Austria’s servant and signified that he was ready to follow him into the queen’s presence.

The servant conducted him by the Rue des Petits Champs and turning to the left entered the little garden gate leading into the Rue Richelieu; then they gained the private staircase and D’Artagnan was ushered into the oratory. A certain emotion, for which he could not account, made the lieutenant’s heart beat: he had no longer the assurance of youth; experience had taught him the importance of past events. Formerly he would have approached the queen as a young man who bends before a woman; but now it was a different thing; he answered her summons as an humble soldier obeys an illustrious general.

The silence of the oratory was at last disturbed by the slight rustling of silk, and D’Artagnan started when he perceived the tapestry raised by a white hand, which, by its form, its color and its beauty he recognized as that royal hand which had one day been presented to him to kiss. The queen entered.

“It is you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” she said, fixing a gaze full of melancholy interest on the countenance of the officer, “and I know you well. Look at me well in your turn. I am the queen; do you recognize me?”

“No, madame,” replied D’Artagnan.

“But are you no longer aware,” continued Anne, giving that sweet expression to her voice which she could do at will, “that in former days the queen had once need of a young, brave and devoted cavalier--that she found this cavalier--and that, although he might have thought that she had forgotten him, she had kept a place for him in the depths of her heart?”

“No, madame, I was ignorant of that,” said the musketeer.

“So much the worse, sir,” said Anne of Austria; “so much the worse, at least for the queen, for to-day she has need of the same courage and the same devotion.”

“What!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “does the queen, surrounded as she is by such devoted servants, such wise counselors, men, in short, so great by merit or position--does she deign to cast her eyes on an obscure soldier?”

Anne understood this covert reproach and was more moved than irritated by it. She had many a time felt humiliated by the self-sacrifice and disinterestedness shown by the Gascon gentleman. She had allowed herself to be exceeded in generosity.

“All that you tell me of those by whom I am surrounded, Monsieur d’Artagnan, is doubtless true,” said the queen, “but I have confidence in you alone. I know that you belong to the cardinal, but belong to me as well, and I will take upon myself the making of your fortune. Come, will you do to-day what formerly the gentleman you do not know did for the queen?”

“I will do everything your majesty commands,” replied D’Artagnan.

The queen reflected for a moment and then, seeing the cautious demeanor of the musketeer:

“Perhaps you like repose?” she said.

“I do not know, for I have never had it, madame.”

“Have you any friends?”

“I had three, two of whom have left Paris, to go I know not where. One alone is left to me, but he is one of those known, I believe, to the cavalier of whom your majesty did me the honor to speak.”

“Very good,” said the queen; “you and your friend are worth an army.”

“What am I to do, madame?”

“Return at five o’clock and I will tell you; but do not breathe to a living soul, sir, the rendezvous which I give you.”

“No, madame.”

“Swear it upon the cross.”

“Madame, I have never been false to my word; when I say I will not do a thing, I mean it.”

The queen, although astonished at this language, to which she was not accustomed from her courtiers, argued from it a happy omen of the zeal with which D’Artagnan would serve her in the accomplishment of her project. It was one of the Gascon’s artifices to hide his deep cunning occasionally under an appearance of rough loyalty.

“Has the queen any further commands for me now?” asked D’Artagnan.

“No, sir,” replied Anne of Austria, “and you may retire until the time that I mentioned to you.”

D’Artagnan bowed and went out.

“Diable!” he exclaimed when the door was shut, “they seem to have the greatest need of me just now.”

Then, as the half hour had already glided by, he crossed the gallery and knocked at the cardinal’s door.

Bernouin introduced him.

“I come for your commands, my lord,” he said.

And according to his custom D’Artagnan glanced rapidly around and remarked that Mazarin had a sealed letter before him. But it was so placed on the desk that he could not see to whom it was addressed.

“You come from the queen?” said Mazarin, looking fixedly at D’Artagnan.

“I! my lord--who told you that?”

“Nobody, but I know it.”

“I regret infinitely to tell you, my lord, that you are mistaken,” replied the Gascon, impudently, firm to the promise he had just made to Anne of Austria.

“I opened the door of the ante-room myself and I saw you enter at the end of the corridor.”

“Because I was shown up the private stairs.”

“How so?”

“I know not; it must have been a mistake.”

Mazarin was aware that it was not easy to make D’Artagnan reveal anything he was desirous of hiding, so he gave up, for the time, the discovery of the mystery the Gascon was concealing.

“Let us speak of my affairs,” said Mazarin, “since you will tell me naught of yours. Are you fond of traveling?”

“My life has been passed on the high road.”

“Would anything retain you particularly in Paris?”

“Nothing but an order from a superior would retain me in Paris.”

“Very well. Here is a letter, which must be taken to its address.”

“To its address, my lord? But it has none.”

In fact, the side of the letter opposite the seal was blank.

“I must tell you,” resumed Mazarin, “that it is in a double envelope.”

“I understand; and I am to take off the first one when I have reached a certain place?”

“Just so, take it and go. You have a friend, Monsieur du Vallon, whom I like much; let him accompany you.”

“The devil!” said D’Artagnan to himself. “He knows that we overheard his conversation yesterday and he wants to get us away from Paris.”

“Do you hesitate?” asked Mazarin.

“No, my lord, and I will set out at once. There is one thing only which I must request.”

“What is it? Speak.”

“That your eminence will go at once to the queen.”

“What for?”

“Merely to say these words: ‘I am going to send Monsieur d’Artagnan away and I wish him to set out directly.’”

“I told you,” said Mazarin, “that you had seen the queen.”

“I had the honor of saying to your eminence that there had been some mistake.”

“What is the meaning of that?”

“May I venture to repeat my prayer to your eminence?”

“Very well; I will go. Wait here for me.” And looking attentively around him, to see if he had left any of his keys in his closets, Mazarin went out. Ten minutes elapsed, during which D’Artagnan made every effort to read through the first envelope what was written on the second. But he did not succeed.

Mazarin returned, pale, and evidently thoughtful. He seated himself at his desk and D’Artagnan proceeded to examine his face, as he had just examined the letter he held, but the envelope which covered his countenance appeared as impenetrable as that which covered the letter.

“Ah!” thought the Gascon; “he looks displeased. Can it be with me? He meditates. Is it about sending me to the Bastile? All very fine, my lord, but at the very first hint you give of such a thing I will strangle you and become Frondist. I should be carried home in triumph like Monsieur Broussel and Athos would proclaim me the French Brutus. It would be exceedingly droll.”

The Gascon, with his vivid imagination, had already seen the advantage to be derived from his situation. Mazarin gave, however, no order of the kind, but on the contrary began to be insinuating.

“You were right,” he said, “my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, and you cannot set out yet. I beg you to return me that dispatch.”

D’Artagnan obeyed, and Mazarin ascertained that the seal was intact.

“I shall want you this evening,” he said “Return in two hours.”

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “I have an appointment in two hours which I cannot miss.”

“Do not be uneasy,” said Mazarin; “it is the same.”

“Good!” thought D’Artagnan; “I fancied it was so.”

“Return, then, at five o’clock and bring that worthy Monsieur du Vallon with you. Only, leave him in the ante-room, as I wish to speak to you alone.”

D’Artagnan bowed, and thought: “Both at the same hour; both commands alike; both at the Palais Royal. Monsieur de Gondy would pay a hundred thousand francs for such a secret!”

“You are thoughtful,” said Mazarin, uneasily.

“Yes, I was thinking whether we ought to come armed or not.”

“Armed to the teeth!” replied Mazarin.

“Very well, my lord; it shall be so.”

D’Artagnan saluted, went out and hastened to repeat to his friend Mazarin’s flattering promises, which gave Porthos an indescribable happiness.

The Flight.

When D’Artagnan returned to the Palais Royal at five o’clock, it presented, in spite of the excitement which reigned in the town, a spectacle of the greatest rejoicing. Nor was that surprising. The queen had restored Broussel and Blancmesnil to the people and had therefore nothing to fear, since the people had nothing more just then to ask for. The return, also, of the conqueror of Lens was the pretext for giving a grand banquet. The princes and princesses were invited and their carriages had crowded the court since noon; then after dinner the queen was to have a play in her apartment. Anne of Austria had never appeared more brilliant than on that day--radiant with grace and wit. Mazarin disappeared as they rose from table. He found D’Artagnan waiting for him already at his post in the ante-room.

The cardinal advanced to him with a smile and taking him by the hand led him into his study.

“My dear M. d’Artagnan,” said the minister, sitting down, “I am about to give you the greatest proof of confidence that a minister can give an officer.”

“I hope,” said D’Artagnan, bowing, “that you give it, my lord, without hesitation and with the conviction that I am worthy of it.”

“More worthy than any one in Paris my dear friend; therefore I apply to you. We are about to leave this evening,” continued Mazarin. “My dear M. d’Artagnan, the welfare of the state is deposited in your hands.” He paused.

“Explain yourself, my lord, I am listening.”

“The queen has resolved to make a little excursion with the king to Saint Germain.”

“Aha!” said D’Artagnan, “that is to say, the queen wishes to leave Paris.”

“A woman’s caprice--you understand.”

“Yes, I understand perfectly,” said D’Artagnan.

“It was for this she summoned you this morning and that she told you to return at five o’clock.”

“Was it worth while to wish me to swear this morning that I would mention the appointment to no one?” muttered D’Artagnan. “Oh, women! women! whether queens or not, they are always the same.”

“Do you disapprove of this journey, my dear M. d’Artagnan?” asked Mazarin, anxiously.

“I, my lord?” said D’Artagnan; “why should I?”

“Because you shrug your shoulders.”

“It is a way I have of speaking to myself. I neither approve nor disapprove, my lord; I merely await your commands.”

“Good; it is you, accordingly, that I have pitched upon to conduct the king and the queen to Saint Germain.”

“Liar!” thought D’Artagnan.

“You see, therefore,” continued the cardinal, perceiving D’Artagnan’s composure, “that, as I have told you, the welfare of the state is placed in your hands.”

“Yes, my lord, and I feel the whole responsibility of such a charge.”

“You accept, however?”

“I always accept.”

“Do you think the thing possible?”

“Everything is possible.”

“Shall you be attacked on the road?”

“Probably.”

“And what will you do in that case?”

“I shall pass through those who attack me.”

“And suppose you cannot pass through them?”

“So much the worse for them; I shall pass over them.”

“And you will place the king and queen in safety also, at Saint Germain?”

“Yes.”

“On your life?”

“On my life.”

“You are a hero, my friend,” said Mazarin, gazing at the musketeer with admiration.

D’Artagnan smiled.

“And I?” asked Mazarin, after a moment’s silence.

“How? and you, my lord?”

“If I wish to leave?”

“That would be much more difficult.”

“Why so?”

“Your eminence might be recognized.”

“Even under this disguise?” asked Mazarin, raising a cloak which covered an arm-chair, upon which lay a complete dress for an officer, of pearl-gray and red, entirely embroidered with silver.

“If your eminence is disguised it will be almost easy.”

“Ah!” said Mazarin, breathing more freely.

“But it will be necessary for your eminence to do what the other day you declared you should have done in our place--cry, ‘Down with Mazarin!’”

“I will: ‘Down with Mazarin’”

“In French, in good French, my lord, take care of your accent; they killed six thousand Angevins in Sicily because they pronounced Italian badly. Take care that the French do not take their revenge on you for the Sicilian vespers.”

“I will do my best.”

“The streets are full of armed men,” continued D’Artagnan. “Are you sure that no one is aware of the queen’s project?”

Mazarin reflected.

“This affair would give a fine opportunity for a traitor, my lord; the chance of being attacked would be an excuse for everything.”

Mazarin shuddered, but he reflected that a man who had the least intention to betray would not warn first.

“And therefore,” added he, quietly, “I have not confidence in every one; the proof of which is, that I have fixed upon you to escort me.”

“Shall you not go with the queen?”

“No,” replied Mazarin.

“Then you will start after the queen?”

“No,” said Mazarin again.

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, who began to understand.

“Yes,” continued the cardinal. “I have my plan. With the queen I double her risk; after the queen her departure would double mine; then, the court once safe, I might be forgotten. The great are often ungrateful.”

“Very true,” said D’Artagnan, fixing his eyes, in spite of himself, on the queen’s diamond, which Mazarin wore on his finger. Mazarin followed the direction of his eyes and gently turned the hoop of the ring inside.

“I wish,” he said, with his cunning smile, “to prevent them from being ungrateful to me.”

“It is but Christian charity,” replied D’Artagnan, “not to lead one’s neighbors into temptation.”

“It is exactly for that reason,” said Mazarin, “that I wish to start before them.”

D’Artagnan smiled--he was just the man to understand the astute Italian. Mazarin saw the smile and profited by the moment.

“You will begin, therefore, by taking me first out of Paris, will you not, my dear M. d’Artagnan?”

“A difficult commission, my lord,” replied D’Artagnan, resuming his serious manner.

“But,” said Mazarin, “you did not make so many difficulties with regard to the king and queen.”

“The king and the queen are my king and queen,” replied the musketeer, “my life is theirs and I must give it for them. If they ask it what have I to say?”

“That is true,” murmured Mazarin, in a low tone, “but as thy life is not mine I suppose I must buy it, must I not?” and sighing deeply he began to turn the hoop of his ring outside again. D’Artagnan smiled. These two men met at one point and that was, cunning; had they been actuated equally by courage, the one would have done great things for the other.

“But, also,” said Mazarin, “you must understand that if I ask this service from you it is with the intention of being grateful.”

“Is it still only an intention, your eminence?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Stay,” said Mazarin, drawing the ring from his finger, “my dear D’Artagnan, there is a diamond which belonged to you formerly, it is but just it should return to you; take it, I pray.”

D’Artagnan spared Mazarin the trouble of insisting, and after looking to see if the stone was the same and assuring himself of the purity of its water, he took it and passed it on his finger with indescribable pleasure.

“I valued it much,” said Mazarin, giving a last look at it; “nevertheless, I give it to you with great pleasure.”

“And I, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, “accept it as it is given. Come, let us speak of your little affairs. You wish to leave before everybody and at what hour?”

“At ten o’clock.”

“And the queen, at what time is it her wish to start?”

“At midnight.”

“Then it is possible. I can get you out of Paris and leave you beyond the barriere, and can return for her.”

“Capital; but how will you get me out of Paris?”

“Oh! as to that, you must leave it to me.”

“I give you absolute power, therefore; take as large an escort as you like.”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“It seems to me, however,” said Mazarin, “the safest method.”

“Yes, for you, my lord, but not for the queen; you must leave it to me and give me the entire direction of the undertaking.”

“Nevertheless----”

“Or find some one else,” continued D’Artagnan, turning his back.

“Oh!” muttered Mazarin, “I do believe he is going off with the diamond! M. d’Artagnan, my dear M. d’Artagnan,” he called out in a coaxing voice, “will you answer for everything?”

“I will answer for nothing. I will do my best.”

“Well, then, let us go--I must trust to you.”

“It is very fortunate,” said D’Artagnan to himself.

“You will be here at half-past nine.”

“And I shall find your eminence ready?”

“Certainly, quite ready.”

“Well, then, it is a settled thing; and now, my lord, will you obtain for me an audience with the queen?”

“For what purpose?”

“I wish to receive her majesty’s commands from her own lips.”

“She desired me to give them to you.”

“She may have forgotten something.”

“You really wish to see her?”

“It is indispensable, my lord.”

Mazarin hesitated for one instant, but D’Artagnan was firm.

“Come, then,” said the minister; “I will conduct you to her, but remember, not one word of our conversation.”

“What has passed between us concerns ourselves alone, my lord,” replied D’Artagnan.

“Swear to be mute.”

“I never swear, my lord, I say yes or no; and, as I am a gentleman, I keep my word.”

“Come, then, I see that I must trust unreservedly to you.”

“Believe me, my lord, it will be your best plan.”

“Come,” said Mazarin, conducting D’Artagnan into the queen’s oratory and desiring him to wait there. He did not wait long, for in five minutes the queen entered in full gala costume. Thus dressed she scarcely appeared thirty-five years of age. She was still exceedingly handsome.

“It is you, Monsieur D’Artagnan,” she said, smiling graciously; “I thank you for having insisted on seeing me.”

“I ought to ask your majesty’s pardon, but I wished to receive your commands from your own mouth.”

“Do you accept the commission which I have intrusted to you?”

“With gratitude.”

“Very well, be here at midnight.”

“I will not fail.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued the queen, “I know your disinterestedness too well to speak of my own gratitude at such a moment, but I swear to you that I shall not forget this second service as I forgot the first.”

“Your majesty is free to forget or to remember, as it pleases you; and I know not what you mean,” said D’Artagnan, bowing.

“Go, sir,” said the queen, with her most bewitching smile, “go and return at midnight.”

And D’Artagnan retired, but as he passed out he glanced at the curtain through which the queen had entered and at the bottom of the tapestry he remarked the tip of a velvet slipper.

“Good,” thought he; “Mazarin has been listening to discover whether I betrayed him. In truth, that Italian puppet does not deserve the services of an honest man.”

D’Artagnan was not less exact to his appointment and at half-past nine o’clock he entered the ante-room.

He found the cardinal dressed as an officer, and he looked very well in that costume, which, as we have already said, he wore elegantly; only he was very pale and trembled slightly.

“Quite alone?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And that worthy Monsieur du Vallon, are we not to enjoy his society?”

“Certainly, my lord; he is waiting in his carriage at the gate of the garden of the Palais Royal.”

“And we start in his carriage, then?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And with us no other escort but you two?”

“Is it not enough? One of us would suffice.”

“Really, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, “your coolness startles me.”

“I should have thought, on the contrary, that it ought to have inspired you with confidence.”

“And Bernouin--do I not take him with me?”

“There is no room for him, he will rejoin your eminence.”

“Let us go,” said Mazarin, “since everything must be done as you wish.”

“My lord, there is time to draw back,” said D’Artagnan, “and your eminence is perfectly free.”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Mazarin; “let us be off.”

And so they descended the private stair, Mazarin leaning on the arm of D’Artagnan a hand the musketeer felt trembling. At last, after crossing the courts of the Palais Royal, where there still remained some of the conveyances of late guests, they entered the garden and reached the little gate. Mazarin attempted to open it by a key which he took from his pocket, but with such shaking fingers that he could not find the keyhole.

“Give it to me,” said D’Artagnan, who when the gate was open deposited the key in his pocket, reckoning upon returning by that gate.

The steps were already down and the door open. Musqueton stood at the door and Porthos was inside the carriage.

“Mount, my lord,” said D’Artagnan to Mazarin, who sprang into the carriage without waiting for a second bidding. D’Artagnan followed him, and Musqueton, having closed the door, mounted behind the carriage with many groans. He had made some difficulties about going, under pretext that he still suffered from his wound, but D’Artagnan had said to him:

“Remain if you like, my dear Monsieur Mouston, but I warn you that Paris will be burnt down to-night;” upon which Musqueton had declared, without asking anything further, that he was ready to follow his master and Monsieur d’Artagnan to the end of the world.

The carriage started at a measured pace, without betraying by the slightest sign that it contained people in a hurry. The cardinal wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and looked around him. On his left was Porthos, whilst D’Artagnan was on his right; each guarded a door and served as a rampart to him on either side. Before him, on the front seat, lay two pairs of pistols--one in front of Porthos and the other of D’Artagnan. About a hundred paces from the Palais Royal a patrol stopped the carriage.

“Who goes?” asked the captain.

“Mazarin!” replied D’Artagnan, bursting into a laugh. The cardinal’s hair stood on end. But the joke appeared an excellent one to the citizens, who, seeing the conveyance without escort and unarmed, would never have believed in the possibility of so great an imprudence.

“A good journey to ye,” they cried, allowing it to pass.

“Hem!” said D’Artagnan, “what does my lord think of that reply?”

“Man of talent!” cried Mazarin.

“In truth,” said Porthos, “I understand; but now----”

About the middle of the Rue des Petits Champs they were stopped by a second patrol.

“Who goes there?” inquired the captain of the patrol.

“Keep back, my lord,” said D’Artagnan. And Mazarin buried himself so far behind the two friends that he disappeared, completely hidden between them.

“Who goes there?” cried the same voice, impatiently whilst D’Artagnan perceived that they had rushed to the horses’ heads. But putting hid head out of the carriage:

“Eh! Planchet,” said he.

The chief approached, and it was indeed Planchet; D’Artagnan had recognized the voice of his old servant.

“How, sir!” said Planchet, “is it you?”

“Eh! mon Dieu! yes, my good friend, this worthy Porthos has just received a sword wound and I am taking him to his country house at Saint Cloud.”

“Oh! really,” said Planchet.

“Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “if you can still speak, say a word, my dear Porthos, to this good Planchet.”

“Planchet, my friend,” said Porthos, in a melancholy voice, “I am very ill; should you meet a doctor you will do me a favor by sending him to me.”

“Oh! good Heaven,” said Planchet, “what a misfortune! and how did it happen?”

“I will tell you all about it,” replied Musqueton.

Porthos uttered a deep groan.

“Make way for us, Planchet,” said D’Artagnan in a whisper to him, “or he will not arrive alive; the lungs are attacked, my friend.”

Planchet shook his head with the air of a man who says, “In that case things look ill.” Then he exclaimed, turning to his men:

“Let them pass; they are friends.

The carriage resumed its course, and Mazarin, who had held his breath, ventured to breathe again.

“Bricconi!” muttered he.

A few steps in advance of the gate of Saint Honore they met a third troop; this latter party was composed of ill-looking fellows, who resembled bandits more than anything else; they were the men of the beggar of Saint Eustache.

“Attention, Porthos!” cried D’Artagnan.

Porthos placed his hand on the pistols.

“What is it?” asked Mazarin.

“My lord, I think we are in bad company.”

A man advanced to the door with a kind of scythe in his hand. “Qui vive?” he asked.

“Eh, rascal!” said D’Artagnan, “do you not recognize his highness the prince’s carriage?”

“Prince or not,” said the man, “open. We are here to guard the gate, and no one whom we do not know shall pass.”

“What is to be done?” said Porthos.

“Pardieu! pass,” replied D’Artagnan.

“But how?” asked Mazarin.

“Through or over; coachman, gallop on.”

The coachman raised his whip.

“Not a step further,” said the man, who appeared to be the captain, “or I will hamstring your horses.”

“Peste!” said Porthos, “it would be a pity; animals which cost me a hundred pistoles each.”

“I will pay you two hundred for them,” said Mazarin.

“Yes, but when once they are hamstrung, our necks will be strung next.”

“If one of them comes to my side,” asked Porthos, “must I kill him?”

“Yes, by a blow of your fist, if you can; we will not fire but at the last extremity.”

“I can do it,” said Porthos.

“Come and open, then!” cried D’Artagnan to the man with the scythe, taking one of the pistols up by the muzzle and preparing to strike with the handle. And as the man approached, D’Artagnan, in order to have more freedom for his actions, leaned half out of the door; his eyes were fixed upon those of the mendicant, which were lighted up by a lantern. Without doubt he recognized D’Artagnan, for he became deadly pale; doubtless the musketeer knew him, for his hair stood up on his head.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he cried, falling back a step; “it is Monsieur d’Artagnan! let him pass.”

D’Artagnan was perhaps about to reply, when a blow, similar to that of a mallet falling on the head of an ox, was heard. The noise was caused by Porthos, who had just knocked down his man.

D’Artagnan turned around and saw the unfortunate man upon his back about four paces off.

“‘Sdeath!” cried he to the coachman. “Spur your horses! whip! get on!”

The coachman bestowed a heavy blow of the whip upon his horses; the noble animals bounded forward; then cries of men who were knocked down were heard; then a double concussion was felt, and two of the wheels seemed to pass over a round and flexible body. There was a moment’s silence, then the carriage cleared the gate.

“To Cours la Reine!” cried D’Artagnan to the coachman; then turning to Mazarin he said, “Now, my lord, you can say five paters and five aves, in thanks to Heaven for your deliverance. You are safe--you are free.”

Mazarin replied only by a groan; he could not believe in such a miracle. Five minutes later the carriage stopped, having reached Cours la Reine.

“Is my lord pleased with his escort?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Enchanted, monsieur,” said Mazarin, venturing his head out of one of the windows; “and now do as much for the queen.”

“It will not be so difficult,” replied D’Artagnan, springing to the ground. “Monsieur du Vallon, I commend his eminence to your care.”

“Be quite at ease,” said Porthos, holding out his hand, which D’Artagnan took and shook in his.

“Oh!” cried Porthos, as if in pain.

D’Artagnan looked with surprise at his friend.

“What is the matter, then?” he asked.

“I think I have sprained my wrist,’ said Porthos.

“The devil! why, you strike like a blind or a deaf man.”

“It was necessary; my man was going to fire a pistol at me; but you--how did you get rid of yours?”

“Oh, mine,” replied D’Artagnan, “was not a man.”

“What was it then?”

“It was an apparition.”

“And----”

“I charmed it away.”

Without further explanation D’Artagnan took the pistols which were upon the front seat, placed them in his belt, wrapped himself in his cloak, and not wishing to enter by the same gate as that through which they had left, he took his way toward the Richelieu gate.

The Carriage of Monsieur le Coadjuteur.

Instead of returning, then, by the Saint Honore gate, D’Artagnan, who had time before him, walked around and re-entered by the Porte Richelieu. He was approached to be examined, and when it was discovered by his plumed hat and his laced coat, that he was an officer of the musketeers, he was surrounded, with the intention of making him cry, “Down with Mazarin!” The demonstration did not fail to make him uneasy at first; but when he discovered what it meant, he shouted it in such a voice that even the most exacting were satisfied. He walked down the Rue Richelieu, meditating how he should carry off the queen in her turn, for to take her in a carriage bearing the arms of France was not to be thought of, when he perceived an equipage standing at the door of the hotel belonging to Madame de Guemenee.

He was struck by a sudden idea.

“Ah, pardieu!” he exclaimed; “that would be fair play.”

And approaching the carriage, he examined the arms on the panels and the livery of the coachman on his box. This scrutiny was so much the more easy, the coachman being sound asleep.

“It is, in truth, monsieur le coadjuteur’s carriage,” said D’Artagnan; “upon my honor I begin to think that Heaven favors us.”

He mounted noiselessly into the chariot and pulled the silk cord which was attached to the coachman’s little finger.

“To the Palais Royal,” he called out.

The coachman awoke with a start and drove off in the direction he was desired, never doubting but that the order had come from his master. The porter at the palace was about to close the gates, but seeing such a handsome equipage he fancied that it was some visit of importance and the carriage was allowed to pass and to stop beneath the porch. It was then only the coachman perceived the grooms were not behind the vehicle; he fancied monsieur le coadjuteur had sent them back, and without dropping the reins he sprang from his box to open the door. D’Artagnan, in his turn, sprang to the ground, and just at the moment when the coachman, alarmed at not seeing his master, fell back a step, he seized him by his collar with the left, whilst with the right hand he placed the muzzle of a pistol at his breast.

“Pronounce one single word,” muttered D’Artagnan, “and you are a dead man.”

The coachman perceived at once, by the expression of the man who thus addressed him, that he had fallen into a trap, and he remained with his mouth wide open and his eyes portentously staring.

Two musketeers were pacing the court, to whom D’Artagnan called by their names.

“Monsieur de Belliere,” said he to one of them, “do me the favor to take the reins from the hands of this worthy man, mount upon the box and drive to the door of the private stair, and wait for me there; it is an affair of importance on the service of the king.”

The musketeer, who knew that his lieutenant was incapable of jesting with regard to the service, obeyed without a word, although he thought the order strange. Then turning toward the second musketeer, D’Artagnan said:

“Monsieur du Verger, help me to place this man in a place of safety.”

The musketeer, thinking that his lieutenant had just arrested some prince in disguise, bowed, and drawing his sword, signified that he was ready. D’Artagnan mounted the staircase, followed by his prisoner, who in his turn was followed by the soldier, and entered Mazarin’s ante-room. Bernouin was waiting there, impatient for news of his master.

“Well, sir?” he said.

“Everything goes on capitally, my dear Monsieur Bernouin, but here is a man whom I must beg you to put in a safe place.”

“Where, then, sir?”

“Where you like, provided that the place which you shall choose has iron shutters secured by padlocks and a door that can be locked.”

“We have that, sir,” replied Bernouin; and the poor coachman was conducted to a closet, the windows of which were barred and which looked very much like a prison.

“And now, my good friend,” said D’Artagnan to him, “I must invite you to deprive yourself, for my sake, of your hat and cloak.”

The coachman, as we can well understand, made no resistance; in fact, he was so astonished at what had happened to him that he stammered and reeled like a drunken man; D’Artagnan deposited his clothes under the arm of one of the valets.

“And now, Monsieur du Verger,” he said, “shut yourself up with this man until Monsieur Bernouin returns to open the door. The duty will be tolerably long and not very amusing, I know; but,” added he, seriously, “you understand, it is on the king’s service.”

“At your command, lieutenant,” replied the musketeer, who saw the business was a serious one.

“By-the-bye,” continued D’Artagnan, “should this man attempt to fly or to call out, pass your sword through his body.”

The musketeer signified by a nod that these commands should be obeyed to the letter, and D’Artagnan went out, followed by Bernouin. Midnight struck.

“Lead me into the queen’s oratory,” said D’Artagnan, “announce to her I am here, and put this parcel, with a well-loaded musket, under the seat of the carriage which is waiting at the foot of the private stair.”

Bernouin conducted D’Artagnan to the oratory, where he sat down pensively. Everything had gone on as usual at the Palais Royal. As we said before, by ten o’clock almost all the guests had dispersed; those who were to fly with the court had the word of command and they were each severally desired to be from twelve o’clock to one at Cours la Reine.

At ten o’clock Anne of Austria had entered the king’s room. Monsieur had just retired, and the youthful Louis, remaining the last, was amusing himself by placing some lead soldiers in a line of battle, a game which delighted him much. Two royal pages were playing with him.

“Laporte,” said the queen, “it is time for his majesty to go to bed.”

The king asked to remain up, having, he said, no wish to sleep; but the queen was firm.

“Are you not going to-morrow morning at six o’clock, Louis, to bathe at Conflans? I think you wished to do so of your own accord?”

“You are right, madame,” said the king, “and I am ready to retire to my room when you have kissed me. Laporte, give the light to Monsieur the Chevalier de Coislin.”

The queen touched with her lips the white, smooth brow the royal child presented to her with a gravity which already partook of etiquette.

“Go to sleep soon, Louis,” said the queen, “for you must be awakened very early.”

“I will do my best to obey you, madame,” said the youthful king, “but I have no inclination to sleep.”

“Laporte,” said Anne of Austria, in an undertone, “find some very dull book to read to his majesty, but do not undress yourself.”

The king went out, accompanied by the Chevalier de Coislin, bearing the candlestick, and then the queen returned to her own apartment. Her ladies--that is to say Madame de Bregy, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, Madame de Motteville, and Socratine, her sister, so called on account of her sense--had just brought into her dressing-room the remains of the dinner, on which, according to her usual custom, she supped. The queen then gave her orders, spoke of a banquet which the Marquis de Villequier was to give to her on the day after the morrow, indicated the persons she would admit to the honor of partaking of it, announced another visit on the following day to Val-de-Grace, where she intended to pay her devotions, and gave her commands to her senior valet to accompany her. When the ladies had finished their supper the queen feigned extreme fatigue and passed into her bedroom. Madame de Motteville, who was on especial duty that evening, followed to aid and undress her. The queen then began to read, and after conversing with her affectionately for a few minutes, dismissed her.

It was at this moment D’Artagnan entered the courtyard of the palace, in the coadjutor’s carriage, and a few seconds later the carriages of the ladies-in-waiting drove out and the gates were shut after them.

A few minutes after twelve o’clock Bernouin knocked at the queen’s bedroom door, having come by the cardinal’s secret corridor. Anne of Austria opened the door to him herself. She was dressed, that is to say, in dishabille, wrapped in a long, warm dressing-gown.

“It is you, Bernouin,” she said. “Is Monsieur d’Artagnan there?”

“Yes, madame, in your oratory. He is waiting till your majesty is ready.”

“I am. Go and tell Laporte to wake and dress the king, and then pass on to the Marechal de Villeroy and summon him to me.”

Bernouin bowed and retired.

The queen entered her oratory, which was lighted by a single lamp of Venetian crystal, She saw D’Artagnan, who stood expecting her.

“Is it you?” she said.

“Yes, madame.”

“Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“And his eminence, the cardinal?”

“Has got off without any accident. He is awaiting your majesty at Cours la Reine.”

“But in what carriage do we start?”

“I have provided for everything; a carriage below is waiting for your majesty.”

“Let us go to the king.”

D’Artagnan bowed and followed the queen. The young Louis was already dressed, with the exception of his shoes and doublet; he had allowed himself to be dressed, in great astonishment, overwhelming Laporte with questions, who replied only in these words, “Sire, it is by the queen’s commands.”

The bedclothes were thrown back, exposing the king’s bed linen, which was so worn that here and there holes could be seen. It was one of the results of Mazarin’s niggardliness.

The queen entered and D’Artagnan remained at the door. As soon as the child perceived the queen he escaped from Laporte and ran to meet her. Anne then motioned to D’Artagnan to approach, and he obeyed.

“My son,” said Anne of Austria, pointing to the musketeer, calm, standing uncovered, “here is Monsieur d’Artagnan, who is as brave as one of those ancient heroes of whom you like so much to hear from my women. Remember his name well and look at him well, that his face may not be forgotten, for this evening he is going to render us a great service.”

The young king looked at the officer with his large-formed eye, and repeated:

“Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“That is it, my son.”

The young king slowly raised his little hand and held it out to the musketeer; the latter bent on his knee and kissed it.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” repeated Louis; “very well, madame.”

At this moment they were startled by a noise as if a tumult were approaching.

“What is that?” exclaimed the queen.

“Oh, oh!” replied D’Artagnan, straining both at the same time his quick ear and his intelligent glance, “it is the murmur of the populace in revolution.”

“We must fly,” said the queen.

“Your majesty has given me the control of this business; we had better wait and see what they want.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!”

“I will answer for everything.”

Nothing is so catching as confidence. The queen, full of energy and courage, was quickly alive to these two virtues in others.

“Do as you like,” she said, “I rely upon you.”

“Will your majesty permit me to give orders in your name throughout this business?”

“Command, sir.”

“What do the people want this time?” demanded the king.

“We are about to ascertain, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, as he rapidly left the room.

The tumult continued to increase and seemed to surround the Palais Royal entirely. Cries were heard from the interior, of which they could not comprehend the sense. It was evident that there was clamor and sedition.

The king, half dressed, the queen and Laporte remained each in the same state and almost in the same place, where they were listening and waiting. Comminges, who was on guard that night at the Palais Royal, ran in. He had about two hundred men in the courtyards and stables, and he placed them at the queen’s disposal.

“Well,” asked Anne of Austria, when D’Artagnan reappeared, “what does it mean?”

“It means, madame, that the report has spread that the queen has left the Palais Royal, carrying off the king, and the people ask to have proof to the contrary, or threaten to demolish the Palais Royal.”

“Oh, this time it is too much!” exclaimed the queen, “and I will prove to them I have not left.”

D’Artagnan saw from the expression of the queen’s face that she was about to issue some violent command. He approached her and said in a low voice:

“Has your majesty still confidence in me?”

This voice startled her. “Yes, sir,” she replied, “every confidence; speak.”

“Will the queen deign to follow my advice?”

“Speak.”

“Let your majesty dismiss M. de Comminges and desire him to shut himself up with his men in the guardhouse and in the stables.”

Comminges glanced at D’Artagnan with the envious look with which every courtier sees a new favorite spring up.

“You hear, Comminges?” said the queen.

D’Artagnan went up to him; with his usual quickness he caught the anxious glance.

“Monsieur de Comminges,” he said, “pardon me; we both are servants of the queen, are we not? It is my turn to be of use to her; do not envy me this happiness.”

Comminges bowed and left.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I have got one more enemy.”

“And now,” said the queen, addressing D’Artagnan, “what is to be done? for you hear that, instead of becoming calmer, the noise increases.”

“Madame,” said D’Artagnan, “the people want to see the king and they must see him.”

“What! must see him! Where--on the balcony?”

“Not at all, madame, but here, sleeping in his bed.”

“Oh, your majesty,” exclaimed Laporte, “Monsieur d’Artagnan is right.”

The queen became thoughtful and smiled, like a woman to whom duplicity is no stranger.

“Without doubt,” she murmured.

“Monsieur Laporte,” said D’Artagnan, “go and announce to the people through the grating that they are going to be satisfied and that in five minutes they shall not only see the king, but they shall see him in bed; add that the king sleeps and that the queen begs that they will keep silence, so as not to awaken him.”

“But not every one; a deputation of two or four people.”

“Every one, madame.”

“But reflect, they will keep us here till daybreak.

“It shall take but a quarter of an hour, I answer for everything, madame; believe me, I know the people; they are like a great child, who only wants humoring. Before the sleeping king they will be mute, gentle and timid as lambs.”

“Go, Laporte,” said the queen.

The young king approached his mother and said, “Why do as these people ask?”

“It must be so, my son,” said Anne of Austria.

“But if they say, ‘it must be’ to me, am I no longer king?”

The queen remained silent.

“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “will your majesty permit me to ask you a question?”

Louis XIV. turned around, astonished that any one should dare to address him. But the queen pressed the child’s hand.

“Yes, sir.” he said.

“Does your majesty remember, when playing in the park of Fontainebleau, or in the palace courts at Versailles, ever to have seen the sky grow suddenly dark and heard the sound of thunder?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Well, then, this noise of thunder, however much your majesty may have wished to continue playing, has said, ‘go in, sire. You must do so.’”

“Certainly, sir; but they tell me that the noise of thunder is the voice of God.”

“Well then, sire,” continued D’Artagnan, “listen to the noise of the people; you will perceive that it resembles that of thunder.”

In truth at that moment a terrible murmur was wafted to them by the night breeze; then all at once it ceased.

“Hold, sire,” said D’Artagnan, “they have just told the people that you are asleep; you see, you still are king.”

The queen looked with surprise at this strange man, whose brilliant courage made him the equal of the bravest, and who was, by his fine and quick intelligence, the equal of the most astute.

Laporte entered.

“Well, Laporte?” asked the queen.

“Madame,” he replied, “Monsieur d’Artagnan’s prediction has been accomplished; they are calm, as if by enchantment. The doors are about to be opened and in five minutes they will be here.”

“Laporte,” said the queen, “suppose you put one of your sons in the king’s place; we might be off during the time.”

“If your majesty desires it,” said Laporte, “my sons, like myself, are at the queen’s service.”

“Not at all,” said D’Artagnan; “should one of them know his majesty and discover but a substitute, all would be lost.”

“You are right, sir, always right,” said Anne of Austria. “Laporte, place the king in bed.”

Laporte placed the king, dressed as he was, in the bed and then covered him as far as the shoulders with the sheet. The queen bent over him and kissed his brow.

“Pretend to sleep, Louis,” said she.

“Yes,” said the king, “but I do not wish to be touched by any of those men.”

“Sire, I am here,” said D’Artagnan, “and I give you my word, that if a single man has the audacity, his life shall pay for it.”

“And now what is to be done?” asked the queen, “for I hear them.”

“Monsieur Laporte, go to them and again recommend silence. Madame, wait at the door, whilst I shall be at the head of the king’s bed, ready to die for him.”

Laporte went out; the queen remained standing near the hangings, whilst D’Artagnan glided behind the curtains.

Then the heavy and collected steps of a multitude of men were heard, and the queen herself raised the tapestry hangings and put her finger on her lips.

On seeing the queen, the men stopped short, respectfully.

“Enter, gentlemen, enter,” said the queen.

There was then amongst that crowd a moment’s hesitation, which looked like shame. They had expected resistance, they had expected to be thwarted, to have to force the gates, to overturn the guards. The gates had opened of themselves, and the king, ostensibly at least, had no other guard at his bed-head but his mother. The foremost of them stammered and attempted to fall back.

“Enter, gentlemen,” said Laporte, “since the queen desires you so to do.”

Then one more bold than the rest ventured to pass the door and to advance on tiptoe. This example was imitated by the rest, until the room filled silently, as if these men had been the humblest, most devoted courtiers. Far beyond the door the heads of those who were not able to enter could be seen, all craning to their utmost height to try and see.

D’Artagnan saw it all through an opening he had made in the curtain, and in the very first man who entered he recognized Planchet.

“Sir,” said the queen to him, thinking he was the leader of the band, “you wished to see the king and therefore I determined to show him to you myself. Approach and look at him and say if we have the appearance of people who wish to run away.”

“No, certainly,” replied Planchet, rather astonished at the unexpected honor conferred upon him.

“You will say, then, to my good and faithful Parisians,” continued Anne, with a smile, the expression of which did not deceive D’Artagnan, “that you have seen the king in bed, asleep, and the queen also ready to retire.”

“I shall tell them, madame, and those who accompany me will say the same thing; but----”

“But what?” asked Anne of Austria.

“Will your majesty pardon me,” said Planchet, “but is it really the king who is lying there?”

Anne of Austria started. “If,” she said, “there is one among you who knows the king, let him approach and say whether it is really his majesty lying there.”

A man wrapped in a cloak, in the folds of which his face was hidden, approached and leaned over the bed and looked.

For one second, D’Artagnan thought the man had some evil design and he put his hand to his sword; but in the movement made by the man in stooping a portion of his face was uncovered and D’Artagnan recognized the coadjutor.

“It is certainly the king,” said the man, rising again. “God bless his majesty!”

“Yes,” repeated the leader in a whisper, “God bless his majesty!” and all these men, who had entered enraged, passed from anger to pity and blessed the royal infant in their turn.

“Now,’, said Planchet, “let us thank the queen. My friends, retire.”

They all bowed, and retired by degrees as noiselessly as they had entered. Planchet, who had been the first to enter, was the last to leave. The queen stopped him.

“What is your name, my friend?” she said.

Planchet, much surprised at the inquiry, turned back.

“Yes,” continued the queen, “I think myself as much honored to have received you this evening as if you had been a prince, and I wish to know your name.”

“Yes,” thought Planchet, “to treat me as a prince. No, thank you.”

D’Artagnan trembled lest Planchet, seduced, like the crow in the fable, should tell his name, and that the queen, knowing his name, would discover that Planchet had belonged to him.

“Madame,” replied Planchet, respectfully, “I am called Dulaurier, at your service.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Dulaurier,” said the queen; “and what is your business?”

“Madame, I am a clothier in the Rue Bourdonnais.”

“That is all I wished to know,” said the queen. “Much obliged to you, Monsieur Dulaurier. You will hear again from me.”

“Come, come,” thought D’Artagnan, emerging from behind the curtain, “decidedly Monsieur Planchet is no fool; it is evident he has been brought up in a good school.”

The different actors in this strange scene remained facing one another, without uttering a single word; the queen standing near the door, D’Artagnan half out of his hiding place, the king raised on his elbow, ready to fall down on his bed again at the slightest sound that would indicate the return of the multitude, but instead of approaching, the noise became more and more distant and very soon it died entirely away.

The queen breathed more freely. D’Artagnan wiped his damp forehead and the king slid off his bed, saying, “Let us go.”

At this moment Laporte reappeared.

“Well?” asked the queen

“Well, madame,” replied the valet, “I followed them as far as the gates. They announced to all their comrades that they had seen the king and that the queen had spoken to them; and, in fact, they went away quite proud and happy.”

“Oh, the miserable wretches!” murmured the queen, “they shall pay dearly for their boldness, and it is I who promise this.”

Then turning to D’Artagnan, she said:

“Sir, you have given me this evening the best advice I have ever received. Continue, and say what we must do now.”

“Monsieur Laporte,” said D’Artagnan, “finish dressing his majesty.”

“We may go, then?” asked the queen.

“Whenever your majesty pleases. You have only to descend by the private stairs and you will find me at the door.”

“Go, sir,” said the queen; “I will follow you.”

D’Artagnan went down and found the carriage at its post and the musketeer on the box. D’Artagnan took out the parcel which he had desired Bernouin to place under the seat. It may be remembered that it was the hat and cloak belonging to Monsieur de Gondy’s coachman.

He placed the cloak on his shoulders and the hat on his head, whilst the musketeer got off the box.

“Sir,” said D’Artagnan, “you will go and release your companion, who is guarding the coachman. You must mount your horse and proceed to the Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette, whence you will take my horse and that of Monsieur du Vallon, which you must saddle and equip as if for war, and then you will leave Paris, bringing them with you to Cours la Reine. If, when you arrive at Cours la Reine, you find no one, you must go on to Saint Germain. On the king’s service.”

The musketeer touched his cap and went away to execute the orders thus received.

D’Artagnan mounted the box, having a pair of pistols in his belt, a musket under his feet and a naked sword behind him.

The queen appeared, and was followed by the king and the Duke d’Anjou, his brother.

“Monsieur the coadjutor’s carriage!” she exclaimed, falling back.

“Yes, madame,” said D’Artagnan; “but get in fearlessly, for I myself will drive you.”

The queen uttered a cry of surprise and entered the carriage, and the king and monsieur took their places at her side.

“Come, Laporte,” said the queen.

“How, madame!” said the valet, “in the same carriage as your majesties?”

“It is not a matter of royal etiquette this evening, but of the king’s safety. Get in, Laporte.”

Laporte obeyed.

“Pull down the blinds,” said D’Artagnan.

“But will that not excite suspicion, sir?” asked the queen.

“Your majesty’s mind may be quite at ease,” replied the officer; “I have my answer ready.”

The blinds were pulled down and they started at a gallop by the Rue Richelieu. On reaching the gate the captain of the post advanced at the head of a dozen men, holding a lantern in his hand.

D’Artagnan signed to them to draw near.

“Do you recognize the carriage?” he asked the sergeant.

“No,” replied the latter.

“Look at the arms.”

The sergeant put the lantern near the panel.

“They are those of monsieur le coadjuteur,” he said.

“Hush; he is enjoying a ride with Madame de Guemenee.”

The sergeant began to laugh.

“Open the gate,” he cried. “I know who it is!” Then putting his face to the lowered blinds, he said:

“I wish you joy, my lord!”

“Impudent fellow!” cried D’Artagnan, “you will get me turned off.”

The gate groaned on its hinges, and D’Artagnan, seeing the way clear, whipped his horses, who started at a canter, and five minutes later they had rejoined the cardinal.

“Musqueton!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “draw up the blinds of his majesty’s carriage.”

“It is he!” cried Porthos.

“Disguised as a coachman!” exclaimed Mazarin.

“And driving the coadjutor’s carriage!” said the queen.

“Corpo di Dio! Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Mazarin, “you are worth your weight in gold.”

How D’Artagnan and Porthos earned by selling Straw, the one Two Hundred and Nineteen, and the other Two Hundred and Fifteen Louis d’or.

Mazarin was desirous of setting out instantly for Saint Germain, but the queen declared that she should wait for the people whom she had appointed to meet her. However, she offered the cardinal Laporte’s place, which he accepted and went from one carriage to the other.

It was not without foundation that a report of the king’s intention to leave Paris by night had been circulated. Ten or twelve persons had been in the secret since six o’clock, and howsoever great their prudence might be, they could not issue the necessary orders for the departure without suspicion being generated. Besides, each individual had one or two others for whom he was interested; and as there could be no doubt but that the queen was leaving Paris full of terrible projects of vengeance, every one had warned parents and friends of what was about to transpire; so that the news of the approaching exit ran like a train of lighted gunpowder along the streets.

The first carriage which arrived after that of the queen was that of the Prince de Conde, with the princess and dowager princess. Both these ladies had been awakened in the middle of the night and did not know what it all was about. The second contained the Duke and Duchess of Orleans, the tall young Mademoiselle and the Abbe de la Riviere; and the third, the Duke de Longueville and the Prince de Conti, brother and brother-in-law of Conde. They all alighted and hastened to pay their respects to the king and queen in their coach. The queen fixed her eyes upon the carriage they had left, and seeing that it was empty, she said:

“But where is Madame de Longueville?”

“Ah, yes, where is my sister?” asked the prince.

“Madame de Longueville is ill,” said the duke, “and she desired me to excuse her to your majesty.”

Anne gave a quick glance to Mazarin, who answered by an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“What do you say of this?” asked the queen.

“I say that she is a hostage for the Parisians,” answered the cardinal.

“Why is she not come?” asked the prince in a low voice, addressing his brother.

“Silence,” whispered the duke, “she has her reasons.”

“She will ruin us!” returned the prince.

“She will save us,” said Conti.

Carriages now arrived in crowds; those of the Marechal de Villeroy, Guitant, Villequier and Comminges came into the line. The two musketeers arrived in their turn, holding the horses of D’Artagnan and Porthos in their hands. These two instantly mounted, the coachman of the latter replacing D’Artagnan on the coach-box of the royal coach. Musqueton took the place of the coachman, and drove standing, for reasons known to himself, like Automedon of antiquity.

The queen, though occupied by a thousand details, tried to catch the Gascon’s eye; but he, with his wonted prudence, had mingled with the crowd.

“Let us be the avant guard,” said he to Porthos, “and find good quarters at Saint Germain; nobody will think of us, and for my part I am greatly fatigued.”

“As for me,” replied Porthos, “I am falling asleep, which is strange, considering we have not had any fighting; truly the Parisians are idiots.”

“Or rather, we are very clever,” said D’Artagnan.

“Perhaps.”

“And how is your wrist?”

“Better; but do you think that we’ve got them this time?”

“Got what?”

“You your command, and I my title?”

“I’faith! yes--I should expect so; besides, if they forget, I shall take the liberty of reminding them.”

“The queen’s voice! she is speaking,” said Porthos; “I think she wants to ride on horseback.”

“Oh, she would like it, but----”

“But what?”

“The cardinal won’t allow it. Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the two musketeers, “accompany the royal carriage, we are going forward to look for lodgings.”

D’Artagnan started off for Saint Germain, followed by Porthos.

“We will go on, gentlemen,” said the queen.

And the royal carriage drove on, followed by the other coaches and about fifty horsemen.

They reached Saint German without any accident; on descending, the queen found the prince awaiting her, bare-headed, to offer her his hand.

“What an awakening for the Parisians!” said the queen, radiant.

“It is war,” said the prince.

“Well, then, let it be war! Have we not on our side the conqueror of Rocroy, of Nordlingen, of Lens?”

The prince bowed low.

It was then three o’clock in the morning. The queen walked first, every one followed her. About two hundred persons had accompanied her in her flight.

“Gentlemen,” said the queen, laughing, “pray take up your abode in the chateau; it is large, and there will be no want of room for you all; but, as we never thought of coming here, I am informed that there are, in all, only three beds in the whole establishment, one for the king, one for me----”

“And one for the cardinal,” muttered the prince.

“Am I--am I, then, to sleep on the floor?” asked Gaston d’Orleans, with a forced smile.

“No, my prince,” replied Mazarin, “the third bed is intended for your highness.”

“But your eminence?” replied the prince.

“I,” answered Mazarin, “I shall not sleep at all; I have work to do.”

Gaston desired that he should be shown into the room wherein he was to sleep, without in the least concerning himself as to where his wife and daughter were to repose.

“Well, for my part, I shall go to bed,” said D’Artagnan; “come, Porthos.”

Porthos followed the lieutenant with that profound confidence he ever had in the wisdom of his friend. They walked from one end of the chateau to the other, Porthos looking with wondering eyes at D’Artagnan, who was counting on his fingers.

“Four hundred, at a pistole each, four hundred pistoles.”

“Yes,” interposed Porthos, “four hundred pistoles; but who is to make four hundred pistoles?”

“A pistole is not enough,” said D’Artagnan, “‘tis worth a louis.”

“What is worth a louis?”

“Four hundred, at a louis each, make four hundred louis.”

“Four hundred?” said Porthos.

“Yes, there are two hundred of them, and each of them will need two, which will make four hundred.”

“But four hundred what?”

“Listen!” cried D’Artagnan.

But as there were all kinds of people about, who were in a state of stupefaction at the unexpected arrival of the court, he whispered in his friend’s ear.

“I understand,” answered Porthos, “I understand you perfectly, on my honor; two hundred louis, each of us, would be making a pretty thing of it; but what will people say?”

“Let them say what they will; besides, how will they know that we are doing it?”

“But who will distribute these things?” asked Porthos.

“Isn’t Musqueton there?”

“But he wears my livery; my livery will be known,” replied Porthos.

“He can turn his coat inside out.”

“You are always in the right, my dear friend,” cried Porthos; “but where the devil do you discover all the notions you put into practice?”

D’Artagnan smiled. The two friends turned down the first street they came to. Porthos knocked at the door of a house to the right, whilst D’Artagnan knocked at the door of a house to the left.

“Some straw,” they said.

“Sir, we don’t keep any,” was the reply of the people who opened the doors; “but please ask at the hay dealer’s.”

“Where is the hay dealer’s?”

“At the last large door in the street.”

“Are there any other people in Saint Germain who sell straw?”

“Yes; there’s the landlord of the Lamb, and Gros-Louis the farmer; they both live in the Rue des Ursulines.”

“Very well.”

D’Artagnan went instantly to the hay dealer and bargained with him for a hundred and fifty trusses of straw, which he obtained, at the rate of three pistoles each. He went afterward to the innkeeper and bought from him two hundred trusses at the same price. Finally, Farmer Louis sold them eighty trusses, making in all four hundred and thirty.

There was no more to be had in Saint Germain. This foraging did not occupy more than half an hour. Musqueton, duly instructed, was put at the head of this sudden and new business. He was cautioned not to let a bit of straw out of his hands under a louis the truss, and they intrusted to him straw to the amount of four hundred and thirty louis. D’Artagnan, taking with him three trusses of straw, returned to the chateau, where everybody, freezing with cold and more than half asleep, envied the king, the queen, and the Duke of Orleans, on their camp beds. The lieutenant’s entrance produced a burst of laughter in the great drawing-room; but he did not appear to notice that he was the object of general attention, but began to arrange, with so much cleverness, nicety and gayety, his straw bed, that the mouths of all these poor creatures, who could not go to sleep, began to water.

“Straw!” they all cried out, “straw! where is there any to be found?”

“I can show you,” answered the Gascon.

And he conducted them to Musqueton, who freely distributed the trusses at the rate of a louis apiece. It was thought rather dear, but people wanted to sleep, and who would not give even two or three louis for a few hours of sound sleep?

D’Artagnan gave up his bed to any one who wanted it, making it over about a dozen times; and since he was supposed to have paid, like the others, a louis for his truss of straw, he pocketed in that way thirty louis in less than half an hour. At five o’clock in the morning the straw was worth eighty francs a truss and there was no more to be had.

D’Artagnan had taken the precaution to set apart four trusses for his own use. He put in his pocket the key of the room where he had hidden them, and accompanied by Porthos returned to settle with Musqueton, who, naively, and like the worthy steward that he was, handed them four hundred and thirty louis and kept one hundred for himself.

Musqueton, who knew nothing of what was going on in the chateau, wondered that the idea had not occurred to him sooner. D’Artagnan put the gold in his hat, and in going back to the chateau settled the reckoning with Porthos, each of them had cleared two hundred and fifteen louis.

Porthos, however, found that he had no straw left for himself. He returned to Musqueton, but the steward had sold the last wisp. He then repaired to D’Artagnan, who, thanks to his four trusses of straw, was in the act of making up and tasting, by anticipation, the luxury of a bed so soft, so well stuffed at the head, so well covered at the foot, that it would have excited the envy of the king himself, if his majesty had not been fast asleep in his own. D’Artagnan could on no account consent to pull his bed to pieces again for Porthos, but for a consideration of four louis that the latter paid him for it, he consented that Porthos should share his couch with him. He laid his sword at the head, his pistols by his side, stretched his cloak over his feet, placed his felt hat on the top of his cloak and extended himself luxuriously on the straw, which rustled under him. He was already enjoying the sweet dream engendered by the possession of two hundred and nineteen louis, made in a quarter of an hour, when a voice was heard at the door of the hall, which made him stir.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” it cried.

“Here!” cried Porthos, “here!”

Porthos foresaw that if D’Artagnan was called away he should remain the sole possessor of the bed. An officer approached.

“I am come to fetch you, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“From whom?”

“His eminence sent me.”

“Tell my lord that I’m going to sleep, and I advise him, as a friend, to do the same.”

“His eminence is not gone to bed and will not go to bed, and wants you instantly.”

“The devil take Mazarin, who does not know when to sleep at the proper time. What does he want with me? Is it to make me a captain? In that case I will forgive him.”

And the musketeer rose, grumbling, took his sword, hat, pistols, and cloak, and followed the officer, whilst Porthos, alone and sole possessor of the bed, endeavored to follow the good example of falling asleep, which his predecessor had set him.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, on perceiving him, “I have not forgotten with what zeal you have served me. I am going to prove to you that I have not.”

“Good,” thought the Gascon, “this is a promising beginning.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he resumed, “do you wish to become a captain?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And your friend still longs to be made a baron?”

“At this very moment, my lord, he no doubt dreams that he is one already.”

“Then,” said Mazarin, taking from his portfolio the letter which he had already shown D’Artagnan, “take this dispatch and carry it to England.”

D’Artagnan looked at the envelope; there was no address on it.

“Am I not to know to whom to present it?”

“You will know when you reach London; at London you may tear off the outer envelope.”

“And what are my instructions?”

“To obey in every particular the man to whom this letter is addressed. You must set out for Boulogne. At the Royal Arms of England you will find a young gentleman named Mordaunt.”

“Yes, my lord; and what am I to do with this young gentleman?”

“Follow wherever he leads you.”

D’Artagnan looked at the cardinal with a stupefied air.

“There are your instructions,” said Mazarin; “go!”

“Go! ’tis easy to say so, but that requires money, and I haven’t any.”

“Ah!” replied Mazarin, “so you have no money?”

“None, my lord.”

“But the diamond I gave you yesterday?”

“I wish to keep it in remembrance of your eminence.”

Mazarin sighed.

“‘Tis very dear living in England, my lord, especially as envoy extraordinary.”

“Zounds!” replied Mazarin, “the people there are very sedate, and their habits, since the revolution, simple; but no matter.”

He opened a drawer and took out a purse.

“What do you say to a thousand crowns?”

D’Artagnan pouted out his lower lip in a most extraordinary manner.

“I reply, my lord, ’tis but little, as certainly I shall not go alone.”

“I suppose not. Monsieur du Vallon, that worthy gentleman, for, with the exception of yourself, Monsieur d’Artagnan, there’s not a man in France that I esteem and love so much as him----”

“Then, my lord,” replied D’Artagnan, pointing to the purse which Mazarin still held, “if you love and esteem him so much, you--understand me?”

“Be it so! on his account I add two hundred crowns.”

“Scoundrel!” muttered D’Artagnan. “But on our return,” he said aloud, “may we, that is, my friend and I, depend on having, he his barony, and I my promotion?”

“On the honor of Mazarin.”

“I should like another sort of oath better,” said D’Artagnan to himself; then aloud, “May I not offer my duty to her majesty the queen?”

“Her majesty is asleep and you must set off directly,” replied Mazarin; “go, pray, sir----”

“One word more, my lord; if there’s any fighting where I’m going, must I fight?”

“You are to obey the commands of the personage to whom I have addressed the inclosed letter.”

“‘Tis well,” said D’Artagnan, holding out his hand to receive the money. “I offer my best respects and services to you, my lord.”

D’Artagnan then, returning to the officer, said:

“Sir, have the kindness also to awaken Monsieur du Vallon and to say ’tis by his eminence’s order, and that I shall await him at the stables.”

The officer went off with an eagerness that showed the Gascon that he had some personal interest in the matter.

Porthos was snoring most musically when some one touched him on the shoulder.

“I come from the cardinal,” said the officer.

“Heigho!” said Porthos, opening his large eyes; “what have you got to say?”

“That his eminence has ordered you to England and that Monsieur d’Artagnan is waiting for you in the stables.”

Porthos sighed heavily, arose, took his hat, his pistols, and his cloak, and departed, casting a look of regret upon the couch where he had hoped to sleep so well.

No sooner had he turned his back than the officer laid himself down in it, and he had scarcely crossed the threshold before his successor, in his turn, was snoring immoderately. It was very natural, he being the only person in the whole assemblage, except the king, the queen, and the Duke of Orleans, who slept gratuitously.

In which we hear Tidings of Aramis.

D’Artagnan went straight to the stables; day was just dawning. He found his horse and that of Porthos fastened to the manger, but to an empty manger. He took pity on these poor animals and went to a corner of the stable, where he saw a little straw, but in doing so he struck his foot against a human body, which uttered a cry and arose on its knees, rubbing its eyes. It was Musqueton, who, having no straw to lie upon, had helped himself to that of the horses.

“Musqueton,” cried D’Artagnan, “let us be off! Let us set off.”

Musqueton, recognizing the voice of his master’s friend, got up suddenly, and in doing so let fall some louis which he had appropriated to himself illegally during the night.

“Ho! ho!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, picking up a louis and displaying it; “here’s a louis that smells confoundedly of straw.”

Musqueton blushed so confusedly that the Gascon began to laugh at him and said:

“Porthos would be angry, my dear Monsieur Musqueton, but I pardon you, only let us remember that this gold must serve us as a joke, so be gay--come along.”

Musqueton instantly assumed a jovial countenance, saddled the horses quickly and mounted his own without making faces over it.

Whilst this went on, Porthos arrived with a very cross look on his face, and was astonished to find the lieutenant resigned and Musqueton almost merry.

“Ah, that’s it!” he cried, “you have your promotion and I my barony.”

“We are going to fetch our brevets,” said D’Artagnan, “and when we come back, Master Mazarin will sign them.”

“And where are we going?” asked Porthos.

“To Paris first; I have affairs to settle.”

And they both set out for Paris.

On arriving at its gates they were astounded to see the threatening aspect of the capital. Around a broken-down carriage the people were uttering imprecations, whilst the persons who had attempted to escape were made prisoners--that is to say, an old man and two women. On the other hand, as the two friends approached to enter, they showed them every kind of civility, thinking them deserters from the royal party and wishing to bind them to their own.

“What is the king doing?” they asked.

“He is asleep.”

“And the Spanish woman?”

“Dreaming.”

“And the cursed Italian?”

“He is awake, so keep on the watch, as they are gone away; it’s for some purpose, rely on it. But as you are the strongest, after all,” continued D’Artagnan, “don’t be furious with old men and women, and keep your wrath for more appropriate occasions.”

The people listened to these words and let go the ladies, who thanked D’Artagnan with an eloquent look.

“Now! onward!” cried the Gascon.

And they continued their way, crossing the barricades, getting the chains about their legs, pushed about, questioning and questioned.

In the place of the Palais Royal D’Artagnan saw a sergeant, who was drilling six or seven hundred citizens. It was Planchet, who brought into play profitably the recollections of the regiment of Piedmont.

In passing before D’Artagnan he recognized his former master.

“Good-day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Planchet proudly.

“Good-day, Monsieur Dulaurier,” replied D’Artagnan.

Planchet stopped short, staring at D’Artagnan. The first row, seeing their sergeant stop, stopped in their turn, and so on to the very last.

“These citizens are dreadfully ridiculous,” observed D’Artagnan to Porthos and went on his way.

Five minutes afterward he entered the hotel of La Chevrette, where pretty Madeleine, the hostess, came to him.

“My dear Mistress Turquaine,” said the Gascon, “if you happen to have any money, lock it up quickly; if you happen to have any jewels, hide them directly; if you happen to have any debtors, make them pay you, or any creditors, don’t pay them.”

“Why, prithee?” asked Madeleine.

“Because Paris is going to be reduced to dust and ashes like Babylon, of which you have no doubt heard tell.”

“And are you going to leave me at such a time?”

“This very instant.”

“And where are you going?”

“Ah, if you could tell me that, you would be doing me a service.”

“Ah, me! ah, me!”

“Have you any letters for me?” inquired D’Artagnan, wishing to signify to the hostess that her lamentations were superfluous and that therefore she had better spare him demonstrations of her grief.

“There’s one just arrived,” and she handed the letter to D’Artagnan.

“From Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, recognizing the handwriting.

“Ah!” said Porthos, “let us hear what he says.”

D’Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:

“Dear D’Artagnan, dear Du Vallon, my good friends, perhaps this may be the last time that you will ever hear from me. Aramis and I are very unhappy; but God, our courage, and the remembrance of our friendship sustain us. Think often of Raoul. I intrust to you certain papers which are at Blois; and in two months and a half, if you do not hear of us, take possession of them.

“Embrace, with all your heart, the vicomte, for your devoted, friend,

“ATHOS.”

“I believe, by Heaven,” said D’Artagnan, “that I shall embrace him, since he’s upon our road; and if he is so unfortunate as to lose our dear Athos, from that very day he becomes my son.”

“And I,” said Porthos, “shall make him my sole heir.”

“Let us see, what more does Athos say?”

“Should you meet on your journey a certain Monsieur Mordaunt, distrust him, in a letter I cannot say more.”

“Monsieur Mordaunt!” exclaimed the Gascon, surprised.

“Monsieur Mordaunt! ’tis well,” said Porthos, “we shall remember that; but see, there is a postscript from Aramis.”

“So there is,” said D’Artagnan, and he read:

“We conceal the place where we are, dear friends, knowing your brotherly affection and that you would come and die with us were we to reveal it.”

“Confound it,” interrupted Porthos, with an explosion of passion which sent Musqueton to the other end of the room; “are they in danger of dying?”

D’Artagnan continued:

“Athos bequeaths to you Raoul, and I bequeath to you my revenge. If by any good luck you lay your hand on a certain man named Mordaunt, tell Porthos to take him into a corner and to wring his neck. I dare not say more in a letter.

“ARAMIS.”

“If that is all, it is easily done,” said Porthos.

“On the contrary,” observed D’Artagnan, with a vexed look; “it would be impossible.”

“How so?”

“It is precisely this Monsieur Mordaunt whom we are going to join at Boulogne and with whom we cross to England.”

“Well, suppose instead of joining this Monsieur Mordaunt we were to go and join our friends?” said Porthos, with a gesture fierce enough to have frightened an army.

“I did think of it, but this letter has neither date nor postmark.”

“True,” said Porthos. And he began to wander about the room like a man beside himself, gesticulating and half drawing his sword out of the scabbard.

As to D’Artagnan, he remained standing like a man in consternation, with the deepest affliction depicted on his face.

“Ah, this is not right; Athos insults us; he wishes to die alone; it is bad, bad, bad.”

Musqueton, witnessing this despair, melted into tears in a corner of the room.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “all this leads to nothing. Let us go on. We will embrace Raoul, and perhaps he will have news of Athos.”

“Stop--an idea!” cried Porthos; “indeed, my dear D’Artagnan, I don’t know how you manage, but you are always full of ideas; let us go and embrace Raoul.”

“Woe to that man who should happen to contradict my master at this moment,” said Musqueton to himself; “I wouldn’t give a farthing for his life.”

They set out. On arriving at the Rue Saint Denis, the friends found a vast concourse of people. It was the Duc de Beaufort, who was coming from the Vendomois and whom the coadjutor was showing to the Parisians, intoxicated with joy. With the duke’s aid they already considered themselves invincible.

The two friends turned off into a side street to avoid meeting the prince, and so reached the Saint Denis gate.

“Is it true,” said the guard to the two cavaliers, “that the Duc de Beaufort has arrived in Paris?”

“Nothing more certain; and the best proof of it is,” said D’Artagnan, “that he has dispatched us to meet the Duc de Vendome, his father, who is coming in his turn.”

“Long live De Beaufort!” cried the guards, and they drew back respectfully to let the two friends pass. Once across the barriers these two knew neither fatigue nor fear. Their horses flew, and they never ceased speaking of Athos and Aramis.

The camp had entered Saint Omer; the friends made a little detour and went to the camp, and gave the army an exact account of the flight of the king and queen. They found Raoul near his tent, reclining on a truss of hay, of which his horse stole some mouthfuls; the young man’s eyes were red and he seemed dejected. The Marechal de Grammont and the Comte de Guiche had returned to Paris and he was quite lonely. And as soon as he saw the two cavaliers he ran to them with open arms.

“Oh, is it you, dear friends? Did you come here to fetch me? Will you take me away with you? Do you bring me tidings of my guardian?”

“Have you not received any?” said D’Artagnan to the youth.

“Alas! sir, no, and I do not know what has become of him; so that I am really so unhappy that I weep.”

In fact, tears rolled down his cheeks.

Porthos turned aside, in order not to show by his honest round face what was passing in his mind.

“Deuce take it!” cried D’Artagnan, more moved than he had been for a long time, “don’t despair, my friend, if you have not received any letters from the count, we have received one.”

“Oh, really!” cried Raoul.

“And a comforting one, too,” added D’Artagnan, seeing the delight that his intelligence gave the young man.

“Have you it?” asked Raoul

“Yes--that is, I had it,” repined the Gascon, making believe to find it. “Wait, it ought to be there in my pocket; it speaks of his return, does it not, Porthos?”

All Gascon as he was, D’Artagnan could not bear alone the weight of that falsehood.

“Yes,” replied Porthos, coughing.

“Eh, give it to me!” said the young man.

“Eh! I read it a little while since. Can I have lost it? Ah! confound it! yes, my pocket has a hole in it.”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur Raoul!” said Musqueton, “the letter was very consoling. These gentlemen read it to me and I wept for joy.”

“But at any rate, you know where he is, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” asked Raoul, somewhat comforted.

“Ah! that’s the thing!” replied the Gascon. “Undoubtedly I know it, but it is a mystery.”

“Not to me, I hope?”

“No, not to you, so I am going to tell you where he is.”

Porthos devoured D’Artagnan with wondering eyes.

“Where the devil shall I say that he is, so that he cannot try to rejoin him?” thought D’Artagnan.

“Well, where is he, sir?” asked Raoul, in a soft and coaxing voice.

“He is at Constantinople.”

“Among the Turks!” exclaimed Raoul, alarmed. “Good heavens! how can you tell me that?”

“Does that alarm you?” cried D’Artagnan. “Pooh! what are the Turks to such men as the Comte de la Fere and the Abbe d’Herblay?”

“Ah, his friend is with him?” said Raoul. “That comforts me a little.”

“Has he wit or not--this demon D’Artagnan?” said Porthos, astonished at his friend’s deception.

“Now, sir,” said D’Artagnan, wishing to change the conversation, “here are fifty pistoles that the count has sent you by the same courier. I suppose you have no more money and that they will be welcome.”

“I have still twenty pistoles, sir.”

“Well, take them; that makes seventy.”

“And if you wish for more,” said Porthos, putting his hand to his pocket----

“Thank you, sir,” replied Raoul, blushing; “thank you a thousand times.”

At this moment Olivain appeared. “Apropos,” said D’Artagnan, loud enough for the servant to hear him, “are you satisfied with Olivain?”

“Yes, in some respects, tolerably well.”

Olivain pretended to have heard nothing and entered the tent.

“What fault do you find with the fellow?”

“He is a glutton.”

“Oh, sir!” cried Olivain, reappearing at this accusation.

“And a little bit of a thief.”

“Oh, sir! oh!”

“And, more especially, a notorious coward.”

“Oh, oh! sir! you really vilify me!” cried Olivain.

“The deuce!” cried D’Artagnan. “Pray learn, Monsieur Olivain, that people like us are not to be served by cowards. Rob your master, eat his sweetmeats, and drink his wine; but, by Jove! don’t be a coward, or I shall cut off your ears. Look at Monsieur Mouston, see the honorable wounds he has received, observe how his habitual valor has given dignity to his countenance.”

Musqueton was in the third heaven and would have embraced D’Artagnan had he dared; meanwhile he resolved to sacrifice his life for him on the next occasion that presented itself.

“Send away that fellow, Raoul,” said the Gascon; “for if he’s a coward he will disgrace thee some day.”

“Monsieur says I am coward,” cried Olivain, “because he wanted the other day to fight a cornet in Grammont’s regiment and I refused to accompany him.”

“Monsieur Olivain, a lackey ought never to disobey,” said D’Artagnan, sternly; then taking him aside, he whispered to him: “Thou hast done right; thy master was in the wrong; here’s a crown for thee, but should he ever be insulted and thou dost not let thyself be cut in quarters for him, I will cut out thy tongue. Remember that.”

Olivain bowed and slipped the crown into his pocket.

“And now, Raoul,” said the Gascon, “Monsieur du Vallon and I are going away as ambassadors, where, I know not; but should you want anything, write to Madame Turquaine, at La Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne and draw upon her purse as on a banker--with economy; for it is not so well filled as that of Monsieur d’Emery.”

And having, meantime, embraced his ward, he passed him into the robust arms of Porthos, who lifted him up from the ground and held him a moment suspended near the noble heart of the formidable giant.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “let us go.”

And they set out for Boulogne, where toward evening they arrived, their horses flecked with foam and dark with perspiration.

At ten steps from the place where they halted was a young man in black, who seemed waiting for some one, and who, from the moment he saw them enter the town, never took his eyes off them.

D’Artagnan approached him, and seeing him stare so fixedly, said:

“Well, friend! I don’t like people to quiz me!”

“Sir,” said the young man, “do you not come from Paris, if you please?”

D’Artagnan thought it was some gossip who wanted news from the capital.

“Yes, sir,” he said, in a softened tone.

“Are you not going to put up at the ‘Arms of England’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you not charged with a mission from his eminence, Cardinal Mazarin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In that case, I am the man you have to do with. I am M. Mordaunt.”

“Ah!” thought D’Artagnan, “the man I am warned against by Athos.”

“Ah!” thought Porthos, “the man Aramis wants me to strangle.”

They both looked searchingly at the young man, who misunderstood the meaning of that inquisition.

“Do you doubt my word?” he said. “In that case I can give you proofs.”

“No, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “and we place ourselves at your orders.”

“Well, gentlemen,” resumed Mordaunt, “we must set out without delay, to-day is the last day granted me by the cardinal. My ship is ready, and had you not come I must have set off without you, for General Cromwell expects my return impatiently.”

“So!” thought the lieutenant, “‘tis to General Cromwell that our dispatches are addressed.”

“Have you no letter for him?” asked the young man.

“I have one, the seal of which I am not to break till I reach London; but since you tell me to whom it is addressed, ’tis useless to wait till then.”

D’Artagnan tore open the envelope of the letter. It was directed to “Monsieur Oliver Cromwell, General of the Army of the English Nation.”

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan; “a singular commission.”

“Who is this Monsieur Oliver Cromwell?” inquired Porthos.

“Formerly a brewer,” replied the Gascon.

“Perhaps Mazarin wishes to make a speculation in beer, as we did in straw,” said Porthos.

“Come, come, gentlemen,” said Mordaunt, impatiently, “let us depart.”

“What!” exclaimed Porthos “without supper? Cannot Monsieur Cromwell wait a little?”

“Yes, but I?” said Mordaunt.

“Well, you,” said Porthos, “what then?”

“I cannot wait.”

“Oh! as to you, that is not my concern, and I shall sup either with or without your permission.”

The young man’s eyes kindled in secret, but he restrained himself.

“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “you must excuse famished travelers. Besides, our supper can’t delay you much. We will hasten on to the inn; you will meanwhile proceed on foot to the harbor. We will take a bite and shall be there as soon as you are.”

“Just as you please, gentlemen, provided we set sail,” he said.

“The name of your ship?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“The Standard.”

“Very well; in half an hour we shall be on board.”

And the friends, spurring on their horses, rode to the hotel, the “Arms of England.”

“What do you say of that young man?” asked D’Artagnan, as they hurried along.

“I say that he doesn’t suit me at all,” said Porthos, “and that I feel a strong itching to follow Aramis’s advice.”

“By no means, my dear Porthos; that man is a messenger of General Cromwell; it would insure for us a poor reception, I imagine, should it be announced to him that we had twisted the neck of his confidant.”

“Nevertheless,” said Porthos, “I have always noticed that Aramis gives good advice.”

“Listen,” returned D’Artagnan, “when our embassy is finished----”

“Well?”

“If it brings us back to France----”

“Well?”

“Well, we shall see.”

At that moment the two friends reached the hotel, “Arms of England,” where they supped with hearty appetite and then at once proceeded to the port.

There they found a brig ready to set sail, upon the deck of which they recognized Mordaunt walking up and down impatiently.

“It is singular,” said D’Artagnan, whilst the boat was taking them to the Standard, “it is astonishing how that young man resembles some one I must have known, but who it was I cannot yet remember.”

A few minutes later they were on board, but the embarkation of the horses was a longer matter than that of the men, and it was eight o’clock before they raised anchor.

The young man stamped impatiently and ordered all sail to be spread.

Porthos, completely used up by three nights without sleep and a journey of seventy leagues on horseback, retired to his cabin and went to sleep.

D’Artagnan, overcoming his repugnance to Mordaunt, walked with him upon the deck and invented a hundred stories to make him talk.

Musqueton was seasick.

The Scotchman.

And now our readers must leave the Standard to sail peaceably, not toward London, where D’Artagnan and Porthos believed they were going, but to Durham, whither Mordaunt had been ordered to repair by the letter he had received during his sojourn at Boulogne, and accompany us to the royalist camp, on this side of the Tyne, near Newcastle.

There, placed between two rivers on the borders of Scotland, but still on English soil, the tents of a little army extended. It was midnight. Some Highlanders were listlessly keeping watch. The moon, which was partially obscured by heavy clouds, now and then lit up the muskets of the sentinels, or silvered the walls, the roofs, and the spires of the town that Charles I. had just surrendered to the parliamentary troops, whilst Oxford and Newark still held out for him in the hopes of coming to some arrangement.

At one of the extremities of the camp, near an immense tent, in which the Scottish officers were holding a kind of council, presided over by Lord Leven, their commander, a man attired as a cavalier lay sleeping on the turf, his right hand extended over his sword.

About fifty paces off, another man, also appareled as a cavalier, was talking to a Scotch sentinel, and, though a foreigner, he seemed to understand without much difficulty the answers given in the broad Perthshire dialect.

As the town clock of Newcastle struck one the sleeper awoke, and with all the gestures of a man rousing himself out of deep sleep he looked attentively about him; perceiving that he was alone he rose and making a little circuit passed close to the cavalier who was speaking to the sentinel. The former had no doubt finished his questions, for a moment later he said good-night and carelessly followed the same path taken by the first cavalier.

In the shadow of a tent the former was awaiting him.

“Well, my dear friend?” said he, in as pure French as has ever been uttered between Rouen and Tours.

“Well, my friend, there is not a moment to lose; we must let the king know immediately.”

“Why, what is the matter?”

“It would take too long to tell you, besides, you will hear it all directly and the least word dropped here might ruin all. We must go and find Lord Winter.”

They both set off to the other end of the camp, but as it did not cover more than a surface of five hundred feet they quickly arrived at the tent they were looking for.

“Tony, is your master sleeping?” said one of the two cavaliers to a servant who was lying in the outer compartment, which served as a kind of ante-room.

“No, monsieur le comte,” answered the servant, “I think not; or at least he has not long been so, for he was pacing up and down for more than two hours after he left the king, and the sound of his footsteps has only ceased during the last ten minutes. However, you may look and see,” added the lackey, raising the curtained entrance of the tent.

Lord Winter was seated near an aperture, arranged as a window to let in the night air, his eyes mechanically following the course of the moon, intermittently veiled, as we before observed, by heavy clouds. The two friends approached Winter, who, with his head on his hands, was gazing at the heavens; he did not hear them enter and remained in the same attitude till he felt a hand upon his shoulder.

He turned around, recognized Athos and Aramis and held out his hand to them.

“Have you observed,” said he to them, “what a blood-red color the moon has to-night?”

“No,” replied Athos; “I thought it looked much the same as usual.”

“Look, again, chevalier,” returned Lord Winter.

“I must own,” said Aramis, “I am like the Comte de la Fere--I can see nothing remarkable about it.”

“My lord,” said Athos, “in a position so precarious as ours we must examine the earth and not the heavens. Have you studied our Scotch troops and have you confidence in them?”

“The Scotch?” inquired Winter. “What Scotch?”

“Ours, egad!” exclaimed Athos. “Those in whom the king has confided--Lord Leven’s Highlanders.”

“No,” said Winter, then he paused; “but tell me, can you not perceive the russet tint which marks the heavens?”

“Not the least in the world,” said Aramis and Athos at once.

“Tell me,” continued Winter, always possessed by the same idea, “is there not a tradition in France that Henry IV., the evening before the day he was assassinated, when he was playing at chess with M. de Bassompiere, saw clots of blood upon the chessboard?”

“Yes,” said Athos, “and the marechal has often told me so himself.”

“Then it was so,” murmured Winter, “and the next day Henry IV. was killed.”

“But what has this vision of Henry IV. to do with you, my lord?” inquired Aramis.

“Nothing; and indeed I am mad to trouble you with such things, when your coming to my tent at such an hour announces that you are the bearers of important news.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Athos, “I wish to speak to the king.”

“To the king! but the king is asleep.”

“I have something important to reveal to him.”

“Can it not be put off till to-morrow?”

“He must know it this moment, and perhaps it is already too late.”

“Come, then,” said Lord Winter.

Lord Winter’s tent was pitched by the side of the royal marquee, a kind of corridor communicating between the two. This corridor was guarded, not by a sentinel, but by a confidential servant, through whom, in case of urgency, Charles could communicate instantly with his faithful subject.

“These gentlemen are with me,” said Winter.

The lackey bowed and let them pass. As he had said, on a camp bed, dressed in his black doublet, booted, unbelted, with his felt hat beside him, lay the king, overcome by sleep and fatigue. They advanced, and Athos, who was the first to enter, gazed a moment in silence on that pale and noble face, framed in its long and now untidy, matted hair, the blue veins showing through the transparent temples, his eyes seemingly swollen by tears.

Athos sighed deeply; the sigh woke the king, so lightly did he sleep.

He opened his eyes.

“Ah!” said he, raising himself on his elbow, “is it you, Comte de la Fere?”

“Yes, sire,” replied Athos.

“You watch while I sleep and you have come to bring me some news?”

“Alas, sire,” answered Athos, “your majesty has guessed aright.”

“It is bad news?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Never mind; the messenger is welcome. You never come to me without conferring pleasure. You whose devotion recognizes neither country nor misfortune, you who are sent to me by Henrietta; whatever news you bring, speak out.”

“Sire, Cromwell has arrived this night at Newcastle.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the king, “to fight?”

“No, sire, but to buy your majesty.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, sire, that four hundred thousand pounds are owing to the Scottish army.”

“For unpaid wages; yes, I know it. For the last year my faithful Highlanders have fought for honor alone.”

Athos smiled.

“Well, sir, though honor is a fine thing, they are tired of fighting for it, and to-night they have sold you for two hundred thousand pounds--that is to say, for half what is owing them.”

“Impossible!” cried the king, “the Scotch sell their king for two hundred thousand pounds! And who is the Judas who has concluded this infamous bargain?”

“Lord Leven.”

“Are you certain of it, sir?”

“I heard it with my own ears.”

The king sighed deeply, as if his heart would break, and then buried his face in his hands.

“Oh! the Scotch,” he exclaimed, “the Scotch I called ‘my faithful,’ to whom I trusted myself when I could have fled to Oxford! the Scotch, my brothers! But are you well assured, sir?”

“Lying behind the tent of Lord Leven, I raised it and saw all, heard all!”

“And when is this to be consummated?”

“To-day--this morning; so your majesty must perceive there is no time to lose!”

“To do what? since you say I am sold.”

“To cross the Tyne, reach Scotland and rejoin Lord Montrose, who will not sell you.”

“And what shall I do in Scotland? A war of partisans, unworthy of a king.”

“The example of Robert Bruce will absolve you, sire.”

“No, no! I have fought too long; they have sold me, they shall give me up, and the eternal shame of treble treason shall fall on their heads.”

“Sire,” said Athos, “perhaps a king should act thus, but not a husband and a father. I have come in the name of your wife and daughter and of the children you have still in London, and I say to you, ‘Live, sire,’--it is the will of Heaven.”

The king raised himself, buckled on his belt, and passing his handkerchief over his moist forehead, said:

“Well, what is to be done?”

“Sire, have you in the army one regiment on which you can implicitly rely?”

“Winter,” said the king, “do you believe in the fidelity of yours?”

“Sire, they are but men, and men are become both weak and wicked. I will not answer for them. I would confide my life to them, but I should hesitate ere I trusted them with your majesty’s.”

“Well!” said Athos, “since you have not a regiment, we are three devoted men. It is enough. Let your majesty mount on horseback and place yourself in the midst of us; we will cross the Tyne, reach Scotland, and you will be saved.”

“Is this your counsel also, Winter?” inquired the king.

“Yes, sire.”

“And yours, Monsieur d’Herblay?”

“Yes, sire.”

“As you wish, then. Winter, give the necessary orders.”

Winter then left the tent; in the meantime the king finished his toilet. The first rays of daybreak penetrated the aperture of the tent as Winter re-entered it.

“All is ready, sire,” said he.

“For us, also?” inquired Athos.

“Grimaud and Blaisois are holding your horses, ready saddled.”

“In that case,” exclaimed Athos, “let us not lose an instant, but set off.”

“Come,” added the king.

“Sire,” said Aramis, “will not your majesty acquaint some of your friends of this?”

“Friends!” answered Charles, sadly, “I have but three--one of twenty years, who has never forgotten me, and two of a week’s standing, whom I shall never forget. Come, gentlemen, come!”

The king quitted his tent and found his horse ready waiting for him. It was a chestnut that the king had ridden for three years and of which he was very fond.

The horse neighed with pleasure at seeing him.

“Ah!” said the king, “I was unjust; here is a creature that loves me. You at least will be faithful to me, Arthur.”

The horse, as if it understood these words, bent its red nostrils toward the king’s face, and parting his lips displayed all its teeth, as if with pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” said the king, caressing it with his hand, “yes, my Arthur, thou art a fond and faithful creature.”

After this little scene Charles threw himself into the saddle, and turning to Athos, Aramis and Winter, said:

“Now, gentlemen, I am at your service.”

But Athos was standing with his eyes fixed on a black line which bordered the banks of the Tyne and seemed to extend double the length of the camp.

“What is that line?” cried Athos, whose vision was still rather obscured by the uncertain shades and demi-tints of daybreak. “What is that line? I did not observe it yesterday.”

“It must be the fog rising from the river,” said the king.

“Sire, it is something more opaque than the fog.”

“Indeed!” said Winter, “it appears to me like a bar of red color.”

“It is the enemy, who have made a sortie from Newcastle and are surrounding us!” exclaimed Athos.

“The enemy!” cried the king.

“Yes, the enemy. It is too late. Stop a moment; does not that sunbeam yonder, just by the side of the town, glitter on the Ironsides?”

This was the name given the cuirassiers, whom Cromwell had made his body-guard.

“Ah!” said the king, “we shall soon see whether my Highlanders have betrayed me or not.”

“What are you going to do?” exclaimed Athos.

“To give them the order to charge, and run down these miserable rebels.”

And the king, putting spurs to his horse, set off to the tent of Lord Leven.

“Follow him,” said Athos.

“Come!” exclaimed Aramis.

“Is the king wounded?” cried Lord Winter. “I see spots of blood on the ground.” And he set off to follow the two friends.

He was stopped by Athos.

“Go and call out your regiment,” said he; “I can foresee that we shall have need of it directly.”

Winter turned his horse and the two friends rode on. It had taken but two minutes for the king to reach the tent of the Scottish commander; he dismounted and entered.

The general was there, surrounded by the more prominent chiefs.

“The king!” they exclaimed, as all rose in bewilderment.

Charles was indeed in the midst of them, his hat on his head, his brows bent, striking his boot with his riding whip.

“Yes, gentlemen, the king in person, the king who has come to ask for some account of what has happened.”

“What is the matter, sire?” exclaimed Lord Leven.

“It is this, sir,” said the king, angrily, “that General Cromwell has reached Newcastle; that you knew it and I was not informed of it; that the enemy have left the town and are now closing the passages of the Tyne against us; that our sentinels have seen this movement and I have been left unacquainted with it; that, by an infamous treaty you have sold me for two hundred thousand pounds to Parliament. Of this treaty, at least, I have been warned. This is the matter, gentlemen; answer and exculpate yourselves, for I stand here to accuse you.”

“Sire,” said Lord Leven, with hesitation, “sire, your majesty has been deceived by false reports.”

“My own eyes have seen the enemy extend itself between myself and Scotland; and I can almost say that with my own ears I have heard the clauses of the treaty debated.”

The Scotch chieftains looked at each other in their turn with frowning brows.

“Sire,” murmured Lord Leven, crushed by shame, “sire, we are ready to give you every proof of our fidelity.”

“I ask but one,” said the king; “put the army in battle array and face the enemy.”

“That cannot be, sire,” said the earl.

“How, cannot be? What hinders it?” exclaimed the king.

“Your majesty is well aware that there is a truce between us and the English army.”

“And if there is a truce the English army has broken it by quitting the town, contrary to the agreement which kept it there. Now, I tell you, you must pass with me through this army across to Scotland, and if you refuse you may choose betwixt two names, which the contempt of all honest men will brand you with--you are either cowards or traitors!”

The eyes of the Scotch flashed fire; and, as often happens on such occasions, from shame they passed to effrontery and two heads of clans advanced upon the king.

“Yes,” said they, “we have promised to deliver Scotland and England from him who for the last five-and-twenty years has sucked the blood and gold of Scotland and England. We have promised and we will keep our promise. Charles Stuart, you are our prisoner.”

And both extended their hands as if to seize the king, but before they could touch him with the tips of their fingers, both had fallen, one dead, the other stunned.

Aramis had passed his sword through the body of the first and Athos had knocked down the other with the butt end of his pistol.

Then, as Lord Leven and the other chieftains recoiled before this unexpected rescue, which seemed to come from Heaven for the prince they already thought was their prisoner, Athos and Aramis dragged the king from the perjured assembly into which he had so imprudently ventured, and throwing themselves on horseback all three returned at full gallop to the royal tent.

On their road they perceived Lord Winter marching at the head of his regiment. The king motioned him to accompany them.

The Avenger.

They all four entered the tent; they had no plan ready--they must think of one.

The king threw himself into an arm-chair. “I am lost,” said he.

“No, sire,” replied Athos. “You are only betrayed.”

The king sighed deeply.

“Betrayed! yes betrayed by the Scotch, amongst whom I was born, whom I have always loved better than the English. Oh, traitors that ye are!”

“Sire,” said Athos, “this is not a moment for recrimination, but a time to show yourself a king and a gentleman. Up, sire! up! for you have here at least three men who will not betray you. Ah! if we had been five!” murmured Athos, thinking of D’Artagnan and Porthos.

“What do you say?” inquired Charles, rising.

“I say, sire, that there is now but one way open. Lord Winter answers for his regiment, or at least very nearly so--we will not split straws about words--let him place himself at the head of his men, we will place ourselves at the side of your majesty, and we will mow a swath through Cromwell’s army and reach Scotland.”

“There is another method,” said Aramis. “Let one of us put on the dress and mount the king’s horse. Whilst they pursue him the king might escape.”

“It is good advice,” said Athos, “and if the king will do one of us the honor we shall be truly grateful to him.”

“What do you think of this counsel, Winter?” asked the king, looking with admiration at these two men, whose chief idea seemed to be how they could take on their shoulders all the dangers that assailed him.

“I think the only chance of saving your majesty has just been proposed by Monsieur d’Herblay. I humbly entreat your majesty to choose quickly, for we have not an instant to lose.”

“But if I accept, it is death, or at least imprisonment, for him who takes my place.”

“He will have had the glory of having saved his king,” cried Winter.

The king looked at his old friend with tears in his eyes; undid the Order of the Saint Esprit which he wore, to honor the two Frenchmen who were with him, and passed it around Winter’s neck, who received on his knees this striking proof of his sovereign’s confidence and friendship.

“It is right,” said Athos; “he has served your majesty longer than we have.”

The king overheard these words and turned around with tears in his eyes.

“Wait a moment, sir,” said he; “I have an order for each of you also.”

He turned to a closet where his own orders were locked up, and took out two ribbons of the Order of the Garter.

“These cannot be for us,” said Athos.

“Why not, sir?” asked Charles.

“Such are for royalty, and we are simple commoners.”

“Speak not of crowns. I shall not find amongst them such great hearts as yours. No, no, you do yourselves injustice; but I am here to do you justice. On your knees, count.”

Athos knelt down and the king passed the ribbon down from left to right as usual, raised his sword, and instead of pronouncing the customary formula, “I make you a knight. Be brave, faithful and loyal,” he said, “You are brave, faithful and loyal. I knight you, monsieur le comte.”

Then turning to Aramis, he said:

“It is now your turn, monsieur le chevalier.”

The same ceremony recommenced, with the same words, whilst Winter unlaced his leather cuirass, that he might disguise himself like the king. Charles, having proceeded with Aramis as with Athos, embraced them both.

“Sire,” said Winter, who in this trying emergency felt all his strength and energy fire up, “we are ready.”

The king looked at the three gentlemen. “Then we must fly!” said he.

“Flying through an army, sire,” said Athos, “in all countries in the world is called charging.”

“Then I shall die, sword in hand,” said Charles. “Monsieur le comte, monsieur le chevalier, if ever I am king----”

“Sire, you have already done us more honor than simple gentlemen could ever aspire to, therefore gratitude is on our side. But we must not lose time. We have already wasted too much.”

The king again shook hands with all three, exchanged hats with Winter and went out.

Winter’s regiment was ranged on some high ground above the camp. The king, followed by the three friends, turned his steps that way. The Scotch camp seemed as if at last awakened; the soldiers had come out of their tents and taken up their station in battle array.

“Do you see that?” said the king. “Perhaps they are penitent and preparing to march.”

“If they are penitent,” said Athos, “let them follow us.”

“Well!” said the king, “what shall we do?”

“Let us examine the enemy’s army.”

At the same instant the eyes of the little group were fixed on the same line which at daybreak they had mistaken for fog and which the morning sun now plainly showed was an army in order of battle. The air was soft and clear, as it generally is at that early hour of the morning. The regiments, the standards, and even the colors of the horses and uniforms were now clearly distinct.

On the summit of a rising ground, a little in advance of the enemy, appeared a short and heavy looking man; this man was surrounded by officers. He turned a spyglass toward the little group amongst which the king stood.

“Does this man know your majesty personally?” inquired Aramis.

Charles smiled.

“That man is Cromwell,” said he.

“Then draw down your hat, sire, that he may not discover the substitution.”

“Ah!” said Athos, “how much time we have lost.”

“Now,” said the king, “give the word and let us start.”

“Will you not give it, sire?” asked Athos.

“No; I make you my lieutenant-general,” said the king.

“Listen, then, Lord Winter. Proceed, sire, I beg. What we are going to say does not concern your majesty.”

The king, smiling, turned a few steps back.

“This is what I propose to do,” said Athos. “We will divide our regiments into two squadrons. You will put yourself at the head of the first. We and his majesty will lead the second. If no obstacle occurs we will both charge together, force the enemy’s line and throw ourselves into the Tyne, which we must cross, either by fording or swimming; if, on the contrary, any repulse should take place, you and your men must fight to the last man, whilst we and the king proceed on our road. Once arrived at the brink of the river, should we even find them three ranks deep, as long as you and your regiment do your duty, we will look to the rest.”

“To horse!” said Lord Winter.

“To horse!” re-echoed Athos; “everything is arranged and decided.”

“Now, gentlemen,” cried the king, “forward! and rally to the old cry of France, ‘Montjoy and St. Denis!’ The war cry of England is too often in the mouths of traitors.”

They mounted--the king on Winter’s horse and Winter on that of the king; then Winter took his place at the head of the first squadron, and the king, with Athos on his right and Aramis on his left, at the head of the second.

The Scotch army stood motionless and silent, seized with shame at sight of these preparations.

Some of the chieftains left the ranks and broke their swords in two.

“There,” said the king, “that consoles me; they are not all traitors.”

At this moment Winter’s voice was raised with the cry of “Forward!”

The first squadron moved off; the second followed, and descended from the plateau. A regiment of cuirassiers, nearly equal as to numbers, issued from behind the hill and came full gallop toward it.

The king pointed this out.

“Sire,” said Athos, “we foresaw this; and if Lord Winter’s men but do their duty, we are saved, instead of lost.”

At this moment they heard above all the galloping and neighing of the horses Winter’s voice crying out:

“Sword in hand!”

At these words every sword was drawn, and glittered in the air like lightning.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the king in his turn, excited by this sight, “come, gentlemen, sword in hand!”

But Aramis and Athos were the only ones to obey this command and the king’s example.

“We are betrayed,” said the king in a low voice.

“Wait a moment,” said Athos, “perhaps they do not recognize your majesty’s voice, and await the order of their captain.”

“Have they not heard that of their colonel? But look! look!” cried the king, drawing up his horse with a sudden jerk, which threw it on its haunches, and seizing the bridle of Athos’s horse.

“Ah, cowards! traitors!” screamed Lord Winter, whose voice they heard, whilst his men, quitting their ranks, dispersed all over the plain.

About fifteen men were ranged around him and awaited the charge of Cromwell’s cuirassiers.

“Let us go and die with them!” said the king.

“Let us go,” said Athos and Aramis.

“All faithful hearts with me!” cried out Winter.

This voice was heard by the two friends, who set off, full gallop.

“No quarter!” cried a voice in French, answering to that of Winter, which made them tremble.

As for Winter, at the sound of that voice he turned pale, and was, as it were, petrified.

It was the voice of a cavalier mounted on a magnificent black horse, who was charging at the head of the English regiment, of which, in his ardor, he was ten steps in advance.

“‘Tis he!” murmured Winter, his eyes glazed and he allowed his sword to fall to his side.

“The king! the king!” cried out several voices, deceived by the blue ribbon and chestnut horse of Winter; “take him alive.”

“No! it is not the king!” exclaimed the cavalier. “Lord Winter, you are not the king; you are my uncle.”

At the same moment Mordaunt, for it was he, leveled his pistol at Winter; it went off and the ball entered the heart of the old cavalier, who with one bound on his saddle fell back into the arms of Athos, murmuring: “He is avenged!”

“Think of my mother!” shouted Mordaunt, as his horse plunged and darted off at full gallop.

“Wretch!” exclaimed Aramis, raising his pistol as he passed by him; but the powder flashed in the pan and it did not go off.

At this moment the whole regiment came up and they fell upon the few men who had held out, surrounding the two Frenchmen. Athos, after making sure that Lord Winter was really dead, let fall the corpse and said:

“Come, Aramis, now for the honor of France!” and the two Englishmen who were nearest to them fell, mortally wounded.

At the same moment a fearful “hurrah!” rent the air and thirty blades glittered about their heads.

Suddenly a man sprang out of the English ranks, fell upon Athos, twined arms of steel around him, and tearing his sword from him, said in his ear:

“Silence! yield--you yield to me, do you not?”

A giant had seized also Aramis’s two wrists, who struggled in vain to release himself from this formidable grasp.

“D’Art----” exclaimed Athos, whilst the Gascon covered his mouth with his hand.

“I am your prisoner,” said Aramis, giving up his sword to Porthos.

“Fire, fire!” cried Mordaunt, returning to the group surrounding the two friends.

“And wherefore fire?” said the colonel; “every one has yielded.”

“It is the son of Milady,” said Athos to D’Artagnan.

“I recognize him.”

“It is the monk,” whispered Porthos to Aramis.

“I know it.”

And now the ranks began to open. D’Artagnan held the bridle of Athos’s horse and Porthos that of Aramis. Both of them attempted to lead his prisoner off the battle-field.

This movement revealed the spot where Winter’s body had fallen. Mordaunt had found it out and was gazing on his dead relative with an expression of malignant hatred.

Athos, though now cool and collected, put his hand to his belt, where his loaded pistols yet remained.

“What are you about?” said D’Artagnan.

“Let me kill him.”

“We are all four lost, if by the least gesture you discover that you recognize him.”

Then turning to the young man he exclaimed:

“A fine prize! a fine prize, friend Mordaunt; we have both myself and Monsieur du Vallon, taken two Knights of the Garter, nothing less.”

“But,” said Mordaunt, looking at Athos and Aramis with bloodshot eyes, “these are Frenchmen, I imagine.”

“I’faith, I don’t know. Are you French, sir?” said he to Athos.

“I am,” replied the latter, gravely.

“Very well, my dear sir, you are the prisoner of a fellow countryman.”

“But the king--where is the king?” exclaimed Athos, anxiously.

D’Artagnan vigorously seized his prisoner’s hand, saying:

“Eh! the king? We have secured him.”

“Yes,” said Aramis, “through an infamous act of treason.”

Porthos pressed his friend’s hand and said to him:

“Yes, sir, all is fair in war, stratagem as well as force; look yonder!”

At this instant the squadron, that ought to have protected Charles’s retreat, was advancing to meet the English regiments. The king, who was entirely surrounded, walked alone in a great empty space. He appeared calm, but it was evidently not without a mighty effort. Drops of perspiration trickled down his face, and from time to time he put a handkerchief to his mouth to wipe away the blood that rilled from it.

“Behold Nebuchadnezzar!” exclaimed an old Puritan soldier, whose eyes flashed at the sight of the man they called the tyrant.

“Do you call him Nebuchadnezzar?” said Mordaunt, with a terrible smile; “no, it is Charles the First, the king, the good King Charles, who despoils his subjects to enrich himself.”

Charles glanced a moment at the insolent creature who uttered this, but did not recognize him. Nevertheless, the calm religious dignity of his countenance abashed Mordaunt.

“Bon jour, messieurs!” said the king to the two gentlemen who were held by D’Artagnan and Porthos. “The day has been unfortunate, but it is not your fault, thank God! But where is my old friend Winter?”

The two gentlemen turned away their heads in silence.

“In Strafford’s company,” said Mordaunt, tauntingly.

Charles shuddered. The demon had known how to wound him. The remembrance of Strafford was a source of lasting remorse to him, the shadow that haunted him by day and night. The king looked around him. He saw a corpse at his feet. It was Winter’s. He uttered not a word, nor shed a tear, but a deadly pallor spread over his face; he knelt down on the ground, raised Winter’s head, and unfastening the Order of the Saint Esprit, placed it on his own breast.

“Lord Winter is killed, then?” inquired D’Artagnan, fixing his eyes on the corpse.

“Yes,” said Athos, “by his own nephew.”

“Come, he was the first of us to go; peace be to him! he was an honest man,” said D’Artagnan.

“Charles Stuart,” said the colonel of the English regiment, approaching the king, who had just put on the insignia of royalty, “do you yield yourself a prisoner?”

“Colonel Tomlison,” said Charles, “kings cannot yield; the man alone submits to force.”

“Your sword.”

The king drew his sword and broke it on his knee.

At this moment a horse without a rider, covered with foam, his nostrils extended and eyes all fire, galloped up, and recognizing his master, stopped and neighed with pleasure; it was Arthur.

The king smiled, patted it with his hand and jumped lightly into the saddle.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “conduct me where you will.”

Turning back again, he said, “I thought I saw Winter move; if he still lives, by all you hold most sacred, do not abandon him.”

“Never fear, King Charles,” said Mordaunt, “the bullet pierced his heart.”

“Do not breathe a word nor make the least sign to me or Porthos,” said D’Artagnan to Athos and Aramis, “that you recognize this man, for Milady is not dead; her soul lives in the body of this demon.”

The detachment now moved toward the town with the royal captive; but on the road an aide-de-camp, from Cromwell, sent orders that Colonel Tomlison should conduct him to Holdenby Castle.

At the same time couriers started in every direction over England and Europe to announce that Charles Stuart was the prisoner of Oliver Cromwell.

Oliver Cromwell.

“Have you been to the general?” said Mordaunt to D’Artagnan and Porthos; “you know he sent for you after the action.”

“We want first to put our prisoners in a place of safety,” replied D’Artagnan. “Do you know, sir, these gentlemen are each of them worth fifteen hundred pounds?”

“Oh, be assured,” said Mordaunt, looking at them with an expression he vainly endeavoured to soften, “my soldiers will guard them, and guard them well, I promise you.”

“I shall take better care of them myself,” answered D’Artagnan; “besides, all they require is a good room, with sentinels, or their simple parole that they will not attempt escape. I will go and see about that, and then we shall have the honor of presenting ourselves to the general and receiving his commands for his eminence.”

“You think of starting at once, then?” inquired Mordaunt.

“Our mission is ended, and there is nothing more to detain us now but the good pleasure of the great man to whom we were sent.”

The young man bit his lips and whispered to his sergeant:

“You will follow these men and not lose sight of them; when you have discovered where they lodge, come and await me at the town gate.”

The sergeant made a sign of comprehension.

Instead of following the knot of prisoners that were being taken into the town, Mordaunt turned his steps toward the rising ground from whence Cromwell had witnessed the battle and on which he had just had his tent pitched.

Cromwell had given orders that no one was to be allowed admission; but the sentinel, who knew that Mordaunt was one of the most confidential friends of the general, thought the order did not extend to the young man. Mordaunt, therefore, raised the canvas, and saw Cromwell seated before a table, his head buried in his hands, his back being turned.

Whether he heard Mordaunt or not as he entered, Cromwell did not move. Mordaunt remained standing near the door. At last, after a few moments, Cromwell raised his head, and, as if he divined that some one was there, turned slowly around.

“I said I wished to be alone,” he exclaimed, on seeing the young man.

“They thought this order did not concern me, sir; nevertheless, if you wish it, I am ready to go.”

“Ah! is it you, Mordaunt?” said Cromwell, the cloud passing away from his face; “since you are here, it is well; you may remain.”

“I come to congratulate you.”

“To congratulate me--what for?”

“On the capture of Charles Stuart. You are now master of England.”

“I was much more really so two hours ago.”

“How so, general?”

“Because England had need of me to take the tyrant, and now the tyrant is taken. Have you seen him?”

“Yes, sir.” said Mordaunt.

“What is his bearing?”

Mordaunt hesitated; but it seemed as though he was constrained to tell the truth.

“Calm and dignified,” said he.

“What did he say?”

“Some parting words to his friends.”

“His friends!” murmured Cromwell. “Has he any friends?” Then he added aloud, “Did he make any resistance?”

“No, sir, with the exception of two or three friends every one deserted him; he had no means of resistance.”

“To whom did he give up his sword?”

“He did not give it up; he broke it.”

“He did well; but instead of breaking it, he might have used it to still more advantage.”

There was a momentary pause.

“I heard that the colonel of the regiment that escorted Charles was killed,” said Cromwell, staring very fixedly at Mordaunt.

“Yes, sir.”

“By whom?” inquired Cromwell.

“By me.”

“What was his name?”

“Lord Winter.”

“Your uncle?” exclaimed Cromwell.

“My uncle,” answered Mordaunt; “but traitors to England are no longer members of my family.”

Cromwell observed the young man a moment in silence, then, with that profound melancholy Shakespeare describes so well:

“Mordaunt,” he said, “you are a terrible servant.”

“When the Lord commands,” said Mordaunt, “His commands are not to be disputed. Abraham raised the knife against Isaac, and Isaac was his son.”

“Yes,” said Cromwell, “but the Lord did not suffer that sacrifice to be accomplished.”

“I have looked around me,” said Mordaunt, “and I have seen neither goat nor kid caught among the bushes of the plain.”

Cromwell bowed. “You are strong among the strong, Mordaunt,” he said; “and the Frenchmen, how did they behave?”

“Most fearlessly.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured Cromwell; “the French fight well; and if my glass was good and I mistake not, they were foremost in the fight.”

“They were,” replied Mordaunt.

“After you, however,” said Cromwell.

“It was the fault of their horses, not theirs.”

Another pause

“And the Scotch?”

“They kept their word and never stirred,” said Mordaunt.

“Wretched men!”

“Their officers wish to see you, sir.”

“I have no time to see them. Are they paid?”

“Yes, to-night.”

“Let them be off and return to their own country, there to hide their shame, if its hills are high enough; I have nothing more to do with them nor they with me. And now go, Mordaunt.”

“Before I go,” said Mordaunt, “I have some questions and a favor to ask you, sir.”

“A favor from me?”

Mordaunt bowed.

“I come to you, my leader, my head, my father, and I ask you, master, are you contented with me?”

Cromwell looked at him with astonishment. The young man remained immovable.

“Yes,” said Cromwell; “you have done, since I knew you, not only your duty, but more than your duty; you have been a faithful friend, a cautious negotiator, a brave soldier.”

“Do you remember, sir it was my idea, the Scotch treaty, for giving up the king?”

“Yes, the idea was yours. I had no such contempt for men before.”

“Was I not a good ambassador in France?”

“Yes, for Mazarin has granted what I desire.”

“Have I not always fought for your glory and interests?”

“Too ardently, perhaps; it is what I have just reproached you for. But what is the meaning of all these questions?”

“To tell you, my lord, that the moment has now arrived when, with a single word, you may recompense all these services.”

“Oh!” said Oliver, with a slight curl of his lip, “I forgot that every service merits some reward and that up to this moment you have not been paid.”

“Sir, I can take my pay at this moment, to the full extent of my wishes.”

“How is that?”

“I have the payment under my hand; I almost possess it.”

“What is it? Have they offered you money? Do you wish a step, or some place in the government?”

“Sir, will you grant me my request?”

“Let us hear what it is, first.”

“Sir, when you have told me to obey an order did I ever answer, ‘Let me see that order’?”

“If, however, your wish should be one impossible to fulfill?”

“When you have cherished a wish and have charged me with its fulfillment, have I ever replied, ‘It is impossible’?”

“But a request preferred with so much preparation----”

“Ah, do not fear, sir,” said Mordaunt, with apparent simplicity: “it will not ruin you.”

“Well, then,” said Cromwell, “I promise, as far as lies in my power, to grant your request; proceed.”

“Sir, two prisoners were taken this morning, will you let me have them?”

“For their ransom? have they then offered a large one?” inquired Cromwell.

“On the contrary, I think they are poor, sir.”

“They are friends of yours, then?”

“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Mordaunt, “they are friends, dear friends of mine, and I would lay down my life for them.”

“Very well, Mordaunt,” exclaimed Cromwell, pleased at having his opinion of the young man raised once more; “I will give them to you; I will not even ask who they are; do as you like with them.”

“Thank you, sir!” exclaimed Mordaunt, “thank you; my life is always at your service, and should I lose it I should still owe you something; thank you; you have indeed repaid me munificently for my services.”

He threw himself at the feet of Cromwell, and in spite of the efforts of the Puritan general, who did not like this almost kingly homage, he took his hand and kissed it.

“What!” said Cromwell, arresting him for a moment as he arose; “is there nothing more you wish? neither gold nor rank?”

“You have given me all you can give me, and from to-day your debt is paid.”

And Mordaunt darted out of the general’s tent, his heart beating and his eyes sparkling with joy.

Cromwell gazed a moment after him.

“He has slain his uncle!” he murmured. “Alas! what are my servants? Possibly this one, who asks nothing or seems to ask nothing, has asked more in the eyes of Heaven than those who tax the country and steal the bread of the poor. Nobody serves me for nothing. Charles, who is my prisoner, may still have friends, but I have none!”

And with a deep sigh he again sank into the reverie that had been interrupted by Mordaunt.

Jesus Seigneur.

Whilst Mordaunt was making his way to Cromwell’s tent, D’Artagnan and Porthos had brought their prisoners to the house which had been assigned to them as their dwelling at Newcastle.

The order given by Mordaunt to the sergeant had been heard by D’Artagnan, who accordingly, by an expressive glance, warned Athos and Aramis to exercise extreme caution. The prisoners, therefore, had remained silent as they marched along in company with their conquerors--which they could do with the less difficulty since each of them had occupation enough in answering his own thoughts.

It would be impossible to describe Musqueton’s astonishment when from the threshold of the door he saw the four friends approaching, followed by a sergeant with a dozen men. He rubbed his eyes, doubting if he really saw before him Athos and Aramis; and forced at last to yield to evidence, he was on the point of breaking forth in exclamations when he encountered a glance from the eyes of Porthos, the repressive force of which he was not inclined to dispute.

Musqueton remained glued to the door, awaiting the explanation of this strange occurrence. What upset him completely was that the four friends seemed to have no acquaintance with one another.

The house to which D’Artagnan and Porthos conducted Athos and Aramis was the one assigned to them by General Cromwell and of which they had taken possession on the previous evening. It was at the corner of two streets and had in the rear, bordering on the side street, stables and a sort of garden. The windows on the ground floor, according to a custom in provincial villages, were barred, so that they strongly resembled the windows of a prison.

The two friends made the prisoners enter the house first, whilst they stood at the door, desiring Musqueton to take the four horses to the stable.

“Why don’t we go in with them?” asked Porthos.

“We must first see what the sergeant wishes us to do,” replied D’Artagnan.

The sergeant and his men took possession of the little garden.

D’Artagnan asked them what they wished and why they had taken that position.

“We have had orders,” answered the man, “to help you in taking care of your prisoners.”

There could be no fault to find with this arrangement; on the contrary, it seemed to be a delicate attention, to be gratefully received; D’Artagnan, therefore, thanked the man and gave him a crown piece to drink to General Cromwell’s health.

The sergeant answered that Puritans never drank, and put the crown piece in his pocket.

“Ah!” said Porthos, “what a fearful day, my dear D’Artagnan!”

“What! a fearful day, when to-day we find our friends?”

“Yes; but under what circumstances?”

“‘Tis true that our position is an awkward one; but let us go in and see more clearly what is to be done.”

“Things look black enough,” replied Porthos; “I understand now why Aramis advised me to strangle that horrible Mordaunt.”

“Silence!” cried the Gascon; “do not utter that name.”

“But,” argued Porthos, “I speak French and they are all English.”

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos with that air of wonder which a cunning man cannot help feeling at displays of crass stupidity.

But as Porthos on his side could not comprehend his astonishment, he merely pushed him indoors, saying, “Let us go in.”

They found Athos in profound despondency; Aramis looked first at Porthos and then at D’Artagnan, without speaking, but the latter understood his meaning look.

“You want to know how we came here? ’Tis easily guessed. Mazarin sent us with a letter to General Cromwell.”

“But how came you to fall into company with Mordaunt, whom I bade you distrust?” asked Athos.

“And whom I advised you to strangle, Porthos,” said Aramis.

“Mazarin again. Cromwell had sent him to Mazarin. Mazarin sent us to Cromwell. There is a certain fatality in it.”

“Yes, you are right, D’Artagnan, a fatality that will separate and ruin us! So, my dear Aramis, say no more about it and let us prepare to submit to destiny.”

“Zounds! on the contrary, let us speak about it; for it was agreed among us, once for all, that we should always hold together, though engaged on opposing sides.”

“Yes,” added Athos, “I now ask you, D’Artagnan, what side you are on? Ah! behold for what end the wretched Mazarin has made use of you. Do you know in what crime you are to-day engaged? In the capture of a king, his degradation and his murder.”

“Oh! oh!” cried Porthos, “do you think so?”

“You are exaggerating, Athos; we are not so far gone as that,” replied the lieutenant.

“Good heavens! we are on the very eve of it. I say, why is the king taken prisoner? Those who wish to respect him as a master would not buy him as a slave. Do you think it is to replace him on the throne that Cromwell has paid for him two hundred thousand pounds sterling? They will kill him, you may be sure of it.”

“I don’t maintain the contrary,” said D’Artagnan. “But what’s that to us? I am here because I am a soldier and have to obey orders--I have taken an oath to obey, and I do obey; but you who have taken no such oath, why are you here and what cause do you represent?”

“That most sacred in the world,” said Athos; “the cause of misfortune, of religion, royalty. A friend, a wife, a daughter, have done us the honor to call us to their aid. We have served them to the best of our poor means, and God will recompense the will, forgive the want of power. You may see matters differently, D’Artagnan, and think otherwise. I will not attempt to argue with you, but I blame you.”

“Heyday!” cried D’Artagnan, “what matters it to me, after all, if Cromwell, who’s an Englishman, revolts against his king, who is a Scotchman? I am myself a Frenchman. I have nothing to do with these things--why hold me responsible?”

“Yes,” said Porthos.

“Because all gentlemen are brothers, because you are a gentleman, because the kings of all countries are the first among gentlemen, because the blind populace, ungrateful and brutal, always takes pleasure in pulling down what is above them. And you, you, D’Artagnan, a man sprung from the ancient nobility of France, bearing an honorable name, carrying a good sword, have helped to give up a king to beersellers, shopkeepers, and wagoners. Ah! D’Artagnan! perhaps you have done your duty as a soldier, but as a gentleman, I say that you are very culpable.”

D’Artagnan was chewing the stalk of a flower, unable to reply and thoroughly uncomfortable; for when turned from the eyes of Athos he encountered those of Aramis.

“And you, Porthos,” continued the count, as if in consideration for D’Artagnan’s embarrassment, “you, the best heart, the best friend, the best soldier that I know--you, with a soul that makes you worthy of a birth on the steps of a throne, and who, sooner or later, must receive your reward from an intelligent king--you, my dear Porthos, you, a gentleman in manners, in tastes and in courage, you are as culpable as D’Artagnan.”

Porthos blushed, but with pleasure rather than with confusion; and yet, bowing his head, as if humiliated, he said:

“Yes, yes, my dear count, I feel that you are right.”

Athos arose.

“Come,” he said, stretching out his hand to D’Artagnan, “come, don’t be sullen, my dear son, for I have said all this to you, if not in the tone, at least with the feelings of a father. It would have been easier to me merely to have thanked you for preserving my life and not to have uttered a word of all this.”

“Doubtless, doubtless, Athos. But here it is: you have sentiments, the devil knows what, such as every one can’t entertain. Who could suppose that a sensible man could leave his house, France, his ward--a charming youth, for we saw him in the camp--to fly to the aid of a rotten, worm-eaten royalty, which is going to crumble one of these days like an old hovel. The sentiments you air are certainly fine, so fine that they are superhuman.”

“However that may be, D’Artagnan,” replied Athos, without falling into the snare which his Gascon friend had prepared for him by an appeal to his parental love, “however that may be, you know in the bottom of your heart that it is true; but I am wrong to dispute with my master. D’Artagnan, I am your prisoner--treat me as such.”

“Ah! pardieu!” said D’Artagnan, “you know you will not be my prisoner very long.”

“No,” said Aramis, “they will doubtless treat us like the prisoners of the Philipghauts.”

“And how were they treated?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Why,” said Aramis, “one-half were hanged and the other half were shot.”

“Well, I,” said D’Artagnan “I answer that while there remains a drop of blood in my veins you will be neither hanged nor shot. Sang Diou! let them come on! Besides--do you see that door, Athos?”

“Yes; what then?”

“Well, you can go out by that door whenever you please; for from this moment you are free as the air.”

“I recognize you there, my brave D’Artagnan,” replied Athos; “but you are no longer our masters. That door is guarded, D’Artagnan; you know that.”

“Very well, you will force it,” said Porthos. “There are only a dozen men at the most.”

“That would be nothing for us four; it is too much for us two. No, divided as we now are, we must perish. See the fatal example: on the Vendomois road, D’Artagnan, you so brave, and you, Porthos, so valiant and so strong--you were beaten; to-day Aramis and I are beaten in our turn. Now that never happened to us when we were four together. Let us die, then, as De Winter has died; as for me, I will fly only on condition that we all fly together.”

“Impossible,” said D’Artagnan; “we are under Mazarin’s orders.”

“I know it and I have nothing more to say; my arguments lead to nothing; doubtless they are bad, since they have not determined minds so just as yours.”

“Besides,” said Aramis, “had they taken effect it would be still better not to compromise two excellent friends like D’Artagnan and Porthos. Be assured, gentlemen, we shall do you honor in our dying. As for myself, I shall be proud to face the bullets, or even the rope, in company with you, Athos; for you have never seemed to me so grand as you are to-day.”

D’Artagnan said nothing, but, after having gnawed the flower stalk, he began to bite his nails. At last:

“Do you imagine,” he resumed, “that they mean to kill you? And wherefore should they do so? What interest have they in your death? Moreover, you are our prisoners.”

“Fool!” cried Aramis; “knowest thou not, then, Mordaunt? I have but exchanged with him one look, yet that look convinced me that we were doomed.”

“The truth is, I’m very sorry that I did not strangle him as you advised me,” said Porthos.

“Eh! I make no account of the harm Mordaunt can do!” cried D’Artagnan. “Cap de Diou! if he troubles me too much I will crush him, the insect! Do not fly, then. It is useless; for I swear to you that you are as safe here as you were twenty years, ago--you, Athos, in the Rue Ferou, and you, Aramis, in the Rue de Vaugirard.”

“Stop,” cried Athos, extending his hand to one of the grated windows by which the room was lighted; “you will soon know what to expect, for here he is.”

“Who?”

“Mordaunt.”

In fact, looking at the place to which Athos pointed, D’Artagnan saw a cavalier coming toward the house at full gallop.

It was Mordaunt.

D’Artagnan rushed out of the room.

Porthos wanted to follow him.

“Stay,” said D’Artagnan, “and do not come till you hear me drum my fingers on the door.”

When Mordaunt arrived opposite the house he saw D’Artagnan on the threshold and the soldiers lying on the grass here and there, with their arms.

“Halloo!” he cried, “are the prisoners still there?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the sergeant, uncovering.

“‘Tis well; order four men to conduct them to my lodging.”

Four men prepared to do so.

“What is it?” said D’Artagnan, with that jeering manner which our readers have so often observed in him since they made his acquaintance. “What is the matter, if you please?”

“Sir,” replied Mordaunt, “I have ordered the two prisoners we made this morning to be conducted to my lodging.”

“Wherefore, sir? Excuse curiosity, but I wish to be enlightened on the subject.”

“Because these prisoners, sir, are at my disposal and I choose to dispose of them as I like.”

“Allow me--allow me, sir,” said D’Artagnan, “to observe you are in error. The prisoners belong to those who take them and not to those who only saw them taken. You might have taken Lord Winter--who, ’tis said, was your uncle--prisoner, but you preferred killing him; ’tis well; we, that is, Monsieur du Vallon and I, could have killed our prisoners--we preferred taking them.”

Mordaunt’s very lips grew white with rage.

D’Artagnan now saw that affairs were growing worse and he beat the guard’s march upon the door. At the first beat Porthos rushed out and stood on the other side of the door.

This movement was observed by Mordaunt.

“Sir!” he thus addressed D’Artagnan, “your resistance is useless; these prisoners have just been given me by my illustrious patron, Oliver Cromwell.”

These words struck D’Artagnan like a thunderbolt. The blood mounted to his temples, his eyes became dim; he saw from what fountainhead the ferocious hopes of the young man arose, and he put his hand to the hilt of his sword.

As for Porthos, he looked inquiringly at D’Artagnan.

This look of Porthos’s made the Gascon regret that he had summoned the brute force of his friend to aid him in an affair which seemed to require chiefly cunning.

“Violence,” he said to himself, “would spoil all; D’Artagnan, my friend, prove to this young serpent that thou art not only stronger, but more subtle than he is.”

“Ah!” he said, making a low bow, “why did you not begin by saying that, Monsieur Mordaunt? What! are you sent by General Oliver Cromwell, the most illustrious captain of the age?”

“I have this instant left him,” replied Mordaunt, alighting, in order to give his horse to a soldier to hold.

“Why did you not say so at once, my dear sir! all England is with Cromwell; and since you ask for my prisoners, I bend, sir, to your wishes. They are yours; take them.”

Mordaunt, delighted, advanced, Porthos looking at D’Artagnan with open-mouthed astonishment. Then D’Artagnan trod on his foot and Porthos began to understand that this was merely acting.

Mordaunt put his foot on the first step of the door and, with his hat in hand, prepared to pass by the two friends, motioning to the four men to follow him.

“But, pardon,” said D’Artagnan, with the most charming smile and putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “if the illustrious General Oliver Cromwell has disposed of our prisoners in your favour, he has, of course, made that act of donation in writing.”

Mordaunt stopped short.

“He has given you some little writing for me--the least bit of paper which may show that you come in his name. Be pleased to give me that scrap of paper so that I may justify, by a pretext at least, my abandoning my countrymen. Otherwise, you see, although I am sure that General Oliver Cromwell can intend them no harm, it would have a bad appearance.”

Mordaunt recoiled; he felt the blow and discharged a terrible look at D’Artagnan, who responded by the most amiable expression that ever graced a human countenance.

“When I tell you a thing, sir,” said Mordaunt, “you insult me by doubting it.”

“I!” cried D’Artagnan, “I doubt what you say? God keep me from it, my dear Monsieur Mordaunt! On the contrary, I take you to be a worthy and accomplished gentleman. And then, sir, do you wish me to speak freely to you?” continued D’Artagnan, with his frank expression.

“Speak out, sir,” said Mordaunt.

“Monsieur du Vallon, yonder, is rich and has forty thousand francs yearly, so he does not care about money. I do not speak for him, but for myself.”

“Well, sir? What more?”

“Well--I--I’m not rich. In Gascony ’tis no dishonor, sir, nobody is rich; and Henry IV., of glorious memory, who was the king of the Gascons, as His Majesty Philip IV. is the king of the Spaniards, never had a penny in his pocket.”

“Go on, sir, I see what you wish to get at; and if it is simply what I think that stops you, I can obviate the difficulty.”

“Ah, I knew well,” said the Gascon, “that you were a man of talent. Well, here’s the case, here’s where the saddle hurts me, as we French say. I am an officer of fortune, nothing else; I have nothing but what my sword brings me in--that is to say, more blows than banknotes. Now, on taking prisoners, this morning, two Frenchmen, who seemed to me of high birth--in short, two knights of the Garter--I said to myself, my fortune is made. I say two, because in such circumstances, Monsieur du Vallon, who is rich, always gives me his prisoners.”

Mordaunt, completely deceived by the wordy civility of D’Artagnan, smiled like a man who understands perfectly the reasons given him, and said:

“I shall have the order signed directly, sir, and with it two thousand pistoles; meanwhile, let me take these men away.”

“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “what signifies a delay of half an hour? I am a man of order, sir; let us do things in order.”

“Nevertheless,” replied Mordaunt, “I could compel you; I command here.”

“Ah, sir!” said D’Artagnan, “I see that although we have had the honor of traveling in your company you do not know us. We are gentlemen; we are, both of us, able to kill you and your eight men--we two only. For Heaven’s sake don’t be obstinate, for when others are obstinate I am obstinate likewise, and then I become ferocious and headstrong, and there’s my friend, who is even more headstrong and ferocious than myself. Besides, we are sent here by Cardinal Mazarin, and at this moment represent both the king and the cardinal, and are, therefore, as ambassadors, able to act with impunity, a thing that General Oliver Cromwell, who is assuredly as great a politician as he is a general, is quite the man to understand. Ask him then, for the written order. What will that cost you my dear Monsieur Mordaunt?”

“Yes, the written order,” said Porthos, who now began to comprehend what D’Artagnan was aiming at, “we ask only for that.”

However inclined Mordaunt was to have recourse to violence, he understood the reasons D’Artagnan had given him; besides, completely ignorant of the friendship which existed between the four Frenchmen, all his uneasiness disappeared when he heard of the plausible motive of the ransom. He decided, therefore, not only to fetch the order, but the two thousand pistoles, at which he estimated the prisoners. He therefore mounted his horse and disappeared.

“Good!” thought D’Artagnan; “a quarter of an hour to go to the tent, a quarter of an hour to return; it is more than we need.” Then turning, without the least change of countenance, to Porthos, he said, looking him full in the face: “Friend Porthos, listen to this; first, not a syllable to either of our friends of what you have heard; it is unnecessary for them to know the service we are going to render them.”

“Very well; I understand.”

“Go to the stable; you will find Musqueton there; saddle your horses, put your pistols in your saddle-bags, take out the horses and lead them to the street below this, so that there will be nothing to do but mount them; all the rest is my business.”

Porthos made no remark, but obeyed, with the sublime confidence he had in his friend.

“I go,” he said, “only, shall I enter the chamber where those gentlemen are?”

“No, it is not worth while.”

“Well, do me the kindness to take my purse. which I left on the mantelpiece.”

“All right.”

He then proceeded, with his usual calm gait, to the stable and went into the very midst of the soldiery, who, foreigner as he was, could not help admiring his height and the enormous strength of his great limbs.

At the corner of the street he met Musqueton and took him with him.

D’Artagnan, meantime, went into the house, whistling a tune which he had begun before Porthos went away.

“My dear Athos, I have reflected on your arguments and I am convinced. I am sorry to have had anything to do with this matter. As you say, Mazarin is a knave. I have resolved to fly with you, not a word--be ready. Your swords are in the corner; do not forget them, they are in many circumstances very useful; there is Porthos’s purse, too.”

He put it into his pocket. The two friends were perfectly stupefied.

“Well, pray, is there anything to be so surprised at?” he said. “I was blind; Athos has made me see, that’s all; come here.”

The two friends went near him.

“Do you see that street? There are the horses. Go out by the door, turn to the right, jump into your saddles, all will be right; don’t be uneasy at anything except mistaking the signal. That will be the signal when I call out--Jesus Seigneur!”

“But give us your word that you will come too, D’Artagnan,” said Athos.

“I swear I will, by Heaven.”

“‘Tis settled,” said Aramis; “at the cry ‘Jesus Seigneur’ we go out, upset all that stands in our way, run to our horses, jump into our saddles, spur them; is that all?”

“Exactly.”

“See, Aramis, as I have told you, D’Artagnan is first amongst us all,” said Athos.

“Very true,” replied the Gascon, “but I always run away from compliments. Don’t forget the signal: ‘Jesus Seigneur!’” and he went out as he came in, whistling the self-same air.

The soldiers were playing or sleeping; two of them were singing in a corner, out of tune, the psalm: “On the rivers of Babylon.”

D’Artagnan called the sergeant. “My dear friend, General Cromwell has sent Monsieur Mordaunt to fetch me. Guard the prisoners well, I beg of you.”

The sergeant made a sign, as much as to say he did not understand French, and D’Artagnan tried to make him comprehend by signs and gestures. Then he went into the stable; he found the five horses saddled, his own amongst the rest.

“Each of you take a horse by the bridle,” he said to Porthos and Musqueton; “turn to the left, so that Athos and Aramis may see you clearly from the window.”

“They are coming, then?” said Porthos.

“In a moment.”

“You didn’t forget my purse?”

“No; be easy.”

“Good.”

Porthos and Musqueton each took a horse by the bridle and proceeded to their post.

Then D’Artagnan, being alone, struck a light and lighted a small bit of tinder, mounted his horse and stopped at the door in the midst of the soldiers. There, caressing as he pretended, the animal with his hand, he put this bit of burning tinder in his ear. It was necessary to be as good a horseman as he was to risk such a scheme, for no sooner had the animal felt the burning tinder than he uttered a cry of pain and reared and jumped as if he had been mad.

The soldiers, whom he was nearly trampling, ran away.

“Help! help!” cried D’Artagnan; “stop--my horse has the staggers.”

In an instant the horse’s eyes grew bloodshot and he was white with foam.

“Help!” cried D’Artagnan. “What! will you let me be killed? Jesus Seigneur!”

No sooner had he uttered this cry than the door opened and Athos and Aramis rushed out. The coast, owing to the Gascon’s stratagem, was clear.

“The prisoners are escaping! the prisoners are escaping!” cried the sergeant.

“Stop! stop!” cried D’Artagnan, giving rein to his famous steed, who, darting forth, overturned several men.

“Stop! stop!” cried the soldiers, and ran for their arms.

But the prisoners were in their saddles and lost no time hastening to the nearest gate.

In the middle of the street they saw Grimaud and Blaisois, who were coming to find their masters. With one wave of his hand Athos made Grimaud, who followed the little troop, understand everything, and they passed on like a whirlwind, D’Artagnan still directing them from behind with his voice.

They passed through the gate like apparitions, without the guards thinking of detaining them, and reached the open country.

All this time the soldiers were calling out, “Stop! stop!” and the sergeant, who began to see that he was the victim of an artifice, was almost in a frenzy of despair. Whilst all this was going on, a cavalier in full gallop was seen approaching. It was Mordaunt with the order in his hand.

“The prisoners!” he exclaimed, jumping off his horse.

The sergeant had not the courage to reply; he showed him the open door, the empty room. Mordaunt darted to the steps, understood all, uttered a cry, as if his very heart was pierced, and fell fainting on the stone steps.

In which it is shown that under the most trying Circumstances noble Natures never lose their Courage, nor good Stomachs their Appetites.

The little troop, without looking behind them or exchanging a word, fled at a rapid gallop, fording a little stream, of which none of them knew the name, and leaving on their left a town which Athos declared to be Durham. At last they came in sight of a small wood, and spurring their horses afresh, rode in its direction.

As soon as they had disappeared behind a green curtain sufficiently thick to conceal them from the sight of any one who might be in pursuit they drew up to hold a council together. The two grooms held the horses, that they might take a little rest without being unsaddled, and Grimaud was posted as sentinel.

“Come, first of all,” said Athos to D’Artagnan, “my friend, that I may shake hands with you--you, our rescuer--you, the true hero of us all.”

“Athos is right--you have my adoration,” said Aramis, in his turn pressing his hand. “To what are you not equal, with your superior intelligence, infallible eye, your arm of iron and your enterprising mind!”

“Now,” said the Gascon, “that is all well, I accept for Porthos and myself everything--thanks and compliments; we have plenty of time to spare.”

The two friends, recalled by D’Artagnan to what was also due to Porthos, pressed his hand in their turn.

“And now,” said Athos, “it is not our plan to run anywhere and like madmen, but we must map up our campaign. What shall we do?”

“What are we going to do, i’faith? It is not very difficult to say.”

“Tell us, then, D’Artagnan.”

“We are going to reach the nearest seaport, unite our little resources, hire a vessel and return to France. As for me I will give my last sou for it. Life is the greatest treasure, and speaking candidly, ours hangs by a thread.”

“What do you say to this, Du Vallon?”

“I,” said Porthos, “I am entirely of D’Artagnan’s opinion; this is a ‘beastly’ country, this England.”

“You are quite decided, then, to leave it?” asked Athos of D’Artagnan.

“Egad! I don’t see what is to keep me here.”

A glance was exchanged between Athos and Aramis.

“Go, then, my friends,” said the former, sighing.

“How, go then?” exclaimed D’Artagnan. “Let us go, you mean?”

“No, my friend,” said Athos, “you must leave us.”

“Leave you!” cried D’Artagnan, quite bewildered at this unexpected announcement.

“Bah!” said Porthos, “why separate, since we are all together?”

“Because you can and ought to return to France; your mission is accomplished, but ours is not.”

“Your mission is not accomplished?” exclaimed D’Artagnan, looking in astonishment at Athos.

“No, my friend,” replied Athos, in his gentle but decided voice, “we came here to defend King Charles; we have but ill defended him--it remains for us to save him!”

“To save the king?” said D’Artagnan, looking at Aramis as he had looked at Athos.

Aramis contented himself by making a sign with his head.

D’Artagnan’s countenance took an expression of the deepest compassion; he began to think he had to do with madmen.

“You cannot be speaking seriously, Athos!” said he; “the king is surrounded by an army, which is conducting him to London. This army is commanded by a butcher, or the son of a butcher--it matters little--Colonel Harrison. His majesty, I can assure you, will be tried on his arrival in London; I have heard enough from the lips of Oliver Cromwell to know what to expect.”

A second look was exchanged between Athos and Aramis.

“And when the trial is ended there will be no delay in putting the sentence into execution,” continued D’Artagnan.

“And to what penalty do you think the king will be condemned?” asked Athos.

“The penalty of death, I greatly fear; they have gone too far for him to pardon them, and there is nothing left to them but one thing, and that is to kill him. Have you never heard what Oliver Cromwell said when he came to Paris and was shown the dungeon at Vincennes where Monsieur de Vendome was imprisoned?”

“What did he say?” asked Porthos.

“‘Princes must be knocked on the head.’”

“I remember it,” said Athos.

“And you fancy he will not put his maxim into execution, now that he has got hold of the king?”

“On the contrary, I am certain he will do so. But then that is all the more reason why we should not abandon the august head so threatened.”

“Athos, you are becoming mad.”

“No, my friend,” Athos gently replied, “but De Winter sought us out in France and introduced us, Monsieur d’Herblay and myself, to Madame Henrietta. Her majesty did us the honor to ask our aid for her husband. We engaged our word; our word included everything. It was our strength, our intelligence, our life, in short, that we promised. It remains now for us to keep our word. Is that your opinion, D’Herblay?”

“Yes,” said Aramis, “we have promised.”

“Then,” continued Athos, “we have another reason; it is this--listen: In France at this moment everything is poor and paltry. We have a king ten years old, who doesn’t yet know what he wants; we have a queen blinded by a belated passion; we have a minister who governs France as he would govern a great farm--that is to say, intent only on turning out all the gold he can by the exercise of Italian cunning and invention; we have princes who set up a personal and egotistic opposition, who will draw from Mazarin’s hands only a few ingots of gold or some shreds of power granted as bribes. I have served them without enthusiasm--God knows that I estimated them at their real value, and that they are not high in my esteem--but on principle. To-day I am engaged in a different affair. I have encountered misfortune in a high place, a royal misfortune, a European misfortune; I attach myself to it. If we can succeed in saving the king it will be good; if we die for him it will be grand.”

“So you know beforehand you must perish!” said D’Artagnan.

“We fear so, and our only regret is to die so far from both of you.”

“What will you do in a foreign land, an enemy’s country?”

“I traveled in England when I was young, I speak English like an Englishman, and Aramis, too, knows something of the language. Ah! if we had you, my friends! With you, D’Artagnan, with you, Porthos--all four reunited for the first time for twenty years--we would dare not only England, but the three kingdoms put together!”

“And did you promise the queen,” resumed D’Artagnan, petulantly, “to storm the Tower of London, to kill a hundred thousand soldiers, to fight victoriously against the wishes of the nation and the ambition of a man, and when that man is Cromwell? Do not exaggerate your duty. In Heaven’s name, my dear Athos, do not make a useless sacrifice. When I see you merely, you look like a reasonable being; when you speak, I seem to have to do with a madman. Come, Porthos, join me; say frankly, what do you think of this business?”

“Nothing good,” replied Porthos.

“Come,” continued D’Artagnan, who, irritated that instead of listening to him Athos seemed to be attending to his own thoughts, “you have never found yourself the worse for my advice. Well, then, believe me, Athos, your mission is ended, and ended nobly; return to France with us.”

“Friend,” said Athos, “our resolution is irrevocable.”

“Then you have some other motive unknown to us?”

Athos smiled and D’Artagnan struck his hand together in anger and muttered the most convincing reasons that he could discover; but to all these reasons Athos contented himself by replying with a calm, sweet smile and Aramis by nodding his head.

“Very well,” cried D’Artagnan, at last, furious, “very well, since you wish it, let us leave our bones in this beggarly land, where it is always cold, where fine weather is a fog, fog is rain, and rain a deluge; where the sun represents the moon and the moon a cream cheese; in truth, whether we die here or elsewhere matters little, since we must die.”

“Only reflect, my good fellow,” said Athos, “it is but dying rather sooner.”

“Pooh! a little sooner or a little later, it isn’t worth quarreling over.”

“If I am astonished at anything,” remarked Porthos, sententiously, “it is that it has not already happened.”

“Oh, it will happen, you may be sure,” said D’Artagnan. “So it is agreed, and if Porthos makes no objection----”

“I,” said Porthos, “I will do whatever you please; and besides, I think what the Comte de la Fere said just now is very good.”

“But your future career, D’Artagnan--your ambition, Porthos?”

“Our future, our ambition!” replied D’Artagnan, with feverish volubility. “Need we think of that since we are to save the king? The king saved--we shall assemble our friends together--we will head the Puritans--reconquer England; we shall re-enter London--place him securely on his throne----”

“And he will make us dukes and peers,” said Porthos, whose eyes sparkled with joy at this imaginary prospect.

“Or he will forget us,” added D’Artagnan.

“Oh!” said Porthos.

“Well, that has happened, friend Porthos. It seems to me that we once rendered Anne of Austria a service not much less than that which to-day we are trying to perform for Charles I.; but, none the less, Anne of Austria has forgotten us for twenty years.”

“Well, in spite of that, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “you are not sorry that you were useful to her?”

“No, indeed,” said D’Artagnan; “I admit even that in my darkest moments I find consolation in that remembrance.”

“You see, then, D’Artagnan, though princes often are ungrateful, God never is.”

“Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “I believe that were you to fall in with the devil, you would conduct yourself so well that you would take him with you to Heaven.”

“So, then?” said Athos, offering his hand to D’Artagnan.

“‘Tis settled,” replied D’Artagnan. “I find England a charming country, and I stay--but on one condition only.”

“What is it?”

“That I am not forced to learn English.”

“Well, now,” said Athos, triumphantly, “I swear to you, my friend, by the God who hears us--I believe that there is a power watching over us, and that we shall all four see France again.”

“So be it!” said D’Artagnan, “but I--I confess I have a contrary conviction.”

“Our good D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “represents among us the opposition in parliament, which always says no, and always does aye.”

“But in the meantime saves the country,” added Athos.

“Well, now that everything is decided,” cried Porthos, rubbing his hands, “suppose we think of dinner! It seems to me that in the most critical positions of our lives we have always dined.”

“Oh! yes, speak of dinner in a country where for a feast they eat boiled mutton, and as a treat drink beer. What the devil did you come to such a country for, Athos? But I forgot,” added the Gascon, smiling, “pardon, I forgot you are no longer Athos; but never mind, let us hear your plan for dinner, Porthos.”

“My plan!”

“Yes, have you a plan?”

“No! I am hungry, that is all.”

“Pardieu, if that is all, I am hungry, too; but it is not everything to be hungry, one must find something to eat, unless we browse on the grass, like our horses----”

“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, who was not quite so indifferent to the good things of the earth as Athos, “do you remember, when we were at Parpaillot, the beautiful oysters that we ate?”

“And the legs of mutton of the salt marshes,” said Porthos, smacking his lips.

“But,” suggested D’Artagnan, “have we not our friend Musqueton, who managed for us so well at Chantilly, Porthos?”

“Yes,” said Porthos, “we have Musqueton, but since he has been steward, he has become very heavy; never mind, let us call him, and to make sure that he will reply agreeably----

“Here! Mouston,” cried Porthos.

Mouston appeared, with a most piteous face.

“What is the matter, my dear M. Mouston?” asked D’Artagnan. “Are you ill?”

“Sir, I am very hungry,” replied Mouston.

“Well, it is just for that reason that we have called you, my good M. Mouston. Could you not procure us a few of those nice little rabbits, and some of those delicious partridges, of which you used to make fricassees at the hotel----? ‘Faith, I do not remember the name of the hotel.”

“At the hotel of----,” said Porthos; “by my faith--nor do I remember it either.”

“It does not matter; and a few of those bottles of old Burgundy wine, which cured your master so quickly of his sprain!”

“Alas! sir,” said Musqueton, “I much fear that what you ask for are very rare things in this detestable and barren country, and I think we should do better to go and seek hospitality from the owner of a little house we see on the fringe of the forest.”

“How! is there a house in the neighborhood?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Yes, sir,” replied Musqueton.

“Well, let us, as you say, go and ask a dinner from the master of that house. What is your opinion, gentlemen, and does not M. Mouston’s suggestion appear to you full of sense?”

“Oh!” said Aramis, “suppose the master is a Puritan?”

“So much the better, mordioux!” replied D’Artagnan; “if he is a Puritan we will inform him of the capture of the king, and in honor of the news he will kill for us his fatted hens.”

“But if he should be a cavalier?” said Porthos.

“In that case we will put on an air of mourning and he will pluck for us his black fowls.”

“You are very happy,” exclaimed Athos, laughing, in spite of himself, at the sally of the irresistible Gascon; “for you see the bright side of everything.”

“What would you have?” said D’Artagnan. “I come from a land where there is not a cloud in the sky.”

“It is not like this, then,” said Porthos stretching out his hand to assure himself whether a chill sensation he felt on his cheek was not really caused by a drop of rain.

“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan, “more reason why we should start on our journey. Halloo, Grimaud!”

Grimaud appeared.

“Well, Grimaud, my friend, have you seen anything?” asked the Gascon.

“Nothing!” replied Grimaud.

“Those idiots!” cried Porthos, “they have not even pursued us. Oh! if we had been in their place!”

“Yes, they are wrong,” said D’Artagnan. “I would willingly have said two words to Mordaunt in this little desert. It is an excellent spot for bringing down a man in proper style.”

“I think, decidedly,” observed Aramis, “gentlemen, that the son hasn’t his mother’s energy.”

“What, my good fellow!” replied Athos, “wait awhile; we have scarcely left him two hours ago--he does not know yet in what direction we came nor where we are. We may say that he is not equal to his mother when we put foot in France, if we are not poisoned or killed before then.”

“Meanwhile, let us dine,” suggested Porthos.

“I’faith, yes,” said Athos, “for I am hungry.”

“Look out for the black fowls!” cried Aramis.

And the four friends, guided by Musqueton, took up the way toward the house, already almost restored to their former gayety; for they were now, as Athos had said, all four once more united and of single mind.

Respect to Fallen Majesty.

As our fugitives approached the house, they found the ground cut up, as if a considerable body of horsemen had preceded them. Before the door the traces were yet more apparent; these horsemen, whoever they might be, had halted there.

“Egad!” cried D’Artagnan, “it’s quite clear that the king and his escort have been by here.”

“The devil!” said Porthos; “in that case they have eaten everything.”

“Bah!” said D’Artagnan, “they will have left a chicken, at least.” He dismounted and knocked on the door. There was no response.

He pushed open the door and found the first room empty and deserted.

“Well?” cried Porthos.

“I can see nobody,” said D’Artagnan. “Aha!”

“What?”

“Blood!”

At this word the three friends leaped from their horses and entered. D’Artagnan had already opened the door of the second room, and from the expression of his face it was clear that he there beheld some extraordinary object.

The three friends drew near and discovered a young man stretched on the ground, bathed in a pool of blood. It was evident that he had attempted to regain his bed, but had not had sufficient strength to do so.

Athos, who imagined that he saw him move, was the first to go up to him.

“Well?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“Well, if he is dead,” said Athos, “he has not been so long, for he is still warm. But no, his heart is beating. Ho, there, my friend!”

The wounded man heaved a sigh. D’Artagnan took some water in the hollow of his hand and threw it upon his face. The man opened his eyes, made an effort to raise his head, and fell back again. The wound was in the top of his skull and blood was flawing copiously.

Aramis dipped a cloth into some water and applied it to the gash. Again the wounded man opened his eyes and looked in astonishment at these strangers, who appeared to pity him.

“You are among friends,” said Athos, in English; “so cheer up, and tell us, if you have the strength to do so, what has happened?”

“The king,” muttered the wounded man, “the king is a prisoner.”

“You have seen him?” asked Aramis, in the same language.

The man made no reply.

“Make your mind easy,” resumed Athos, “we are all faithful servants of his majesty.”

“Is what you tell me true?” asked the wounded man.

“On our honor as gentlemen.”

“Then I may tell you all. I am brother to Parry, his majesty’s lackey.”

Athos and Aramis remembered that this was the name by which De Winter had called the man they had found in the passage of the king’s tent.

“We know him,” said Athos, “he never left the king.”

“Yes, that is he. Well, he thought of me, when he saw the king was taken, and as they were passing before the house he begged in the king’s name that they would stop, as the king was hungry. They brought him into this room and placed sentinels at the doors and windows. Parry knew this room, as he had often been to see me when the king was at Newcastle. He knew that there was a trap-door communicating with a cellar, from which one could get into the orchard. He made a sign, which I understood, but the king’s guards must have noticed it and held themselves on guard. I went out as if to fetch wood, passed through the subterranean passage into the cellar, and whilst Parry was gently bolting the door, pushed up the board and beckoned to the king to follow me. Alas! he would not. But Parry clasped his hands and implored him, and at last he agreed. I went on first, fortunately. The king was a few steps behind me, when suddenly I saw something rise up in front of me like a huge shadow. I wanted to cry out to warn the king, but that very moment I felt a blow as if the house was falling on my head, and fell insensible. When I came to myself again, I was stretched in the same place. I dragged myself as far as the yard. The king and his escort were no longer there. I spent perhaps an hour in coming from the yard to this place; then my strength gave out and I fainted again.”

“And now how are you feeling?”

“Very ill,” replied the wounded man.

“Can we do anything for you?” asked Athos.

“Help to put me on the bed; I think I shall feel better there.”

“Have you any one to depend on for assistance?”

“My wife is at Durham and may return at any moment. But you--is there nothing that you want?”

“We came here with the intention of asking for something to eat.”

“Alas, they have taken everything; there isn’t a morsel of bread in the house.”

“You hear, D’Artagnan?” said Athos; “we shall have to look elsewhere for our dinner.”

“It is all one to me now,” said D’Artagnan; “I am no longer hungry.”

“Faith! neither am I,” said Porthos.

They carried the man to his bed and called Grimaud to dress the wound. In the service of the four friends Grimaud had had so frequent occasion to make lint and bandages that he had become something of a surgeon.

In the meantime the fugitives had returned to the first room, where they took counsel together.

“Now,” said Aramis, “we know how the matter stands. The king and his escort have gone this way; we had better take the opposite direction, eh?”

Athos did not reply; he reflected.

“Yes,” said Porthos, “let us take the opposite direction; if we follow the escort we shall find everything devoured and die of hunger. What a confounded country this England is! This is the first time I have gone without my dinner for ten years, and it is generally my best meal.”

“What do you think, D’Artagnan?” asked Athos. “Do you agree with Aramis?”

“Not at all,” said D’Artagnan; “I am precisely of the contrary opinion.”

“What! you would follow the escort?” exclaimed Porthos, in dismay.

“No, I would join the escort.”

Athos’s eyes shone with joy.

“Join the escort!” cried Aramis.

“Let D’Artagnan speak,” said Athos; “you know he always has wise advice to give.”

“Clearly,” said D’Artagnan, “we must go where they will not look for us. Now, they will be far from looking for us among the Puritans; therefore, with the Puritans we must go.”

“Good, my friend, good!” said Athos. “It is excellent advice. I was about to give it when you anticipated me.”

“That, then, is your opinion?” asked Aramis.

“Yes. They will think we are trying to leave England and will search for us at the ports; meanwhile we shall reach London with the king. Once in London we shall be hard to find--without considering,” continued Athos, throwing a glance at Aramis, “the chances that may come to us on the way.”

“Yes,” said Aramis, “I understand.”

“I, however, do not understand,” said Porthos. “But no matter; since it is at the same time the opinion of D’Artagnan and of Athos, it must be the best.”

“But,” said Aramis, “shall we not be suspected by Colonel Harrison?”

“Egad!” cried D’Artagnan, “he’s just the man I count upon. Colonel Harrison is one of our friends. We have met him twice at General Cromwell’s. He knows that we were sent from France by Monsieur Mazarin; he will consider us as brothers. Besides, is he not a butcher’s son? Well, then, Porthos shall show him how to knock down an ox with a blow of the fist, and I how to trip up a bull by taking him by the horns. That will insure his confidence.”

Athos smiled. “You are the best companion that I know, D’Artagnan,” he said, offering his hand to the Gascon; “and I am very happy in having found you again, my dear son.”

This was, as we have seen, the term which Athos applied to D’Artagnan in his more expansive moods.

At this moment Grimaud came in. He had stanched the wound and the man was better.

The four friends took leave of him and asked if they could deliver any message for him to his brother.

“Tell him,” answered the brave man, “to let the king know that they have not killed me outright. However insignificant I am, I am sure that his majesty is concerned for me and blames himself for my death.”

“Be easy,” said D’Artagnan, “he will know all before night.”

The little troop recommenced their march, and at the end of two hours perceived a considerable body of horsemen about half a league ahead.

“My dear friends,” said D’Artagnan, “give your swords to Monsieur Mouston, who will return them to you at the proper time and place, and do not forget you are our prisoners.”

It was not long before they joined the escort. The king was riding in front, surrounded by troopers, and when he saw Athos and Aramis a glow of pleasure lighted his pale cheeks.

D’Artagnan passed to the head of the column, and leaving his friends under the guard of Porthos, went straight to Harrison, who recognized him as having met him at Cromwell’s and received him as politely as a man of his breeding and disposition could. It turned out as D’Artagnan had foreseen. The colonel neither had nor could have any suspicion.

They halted for the king to dine. This time, however, due precautions were taken to prevent any attempt at escape. In the large room of the hotel a small table was placed for him and a large one for the officers.

“Will you dine with me?” asked Harrison of D’Artagnan.

“Gad, I should be very happy, but I have my companion, Monsieur du Vallon, and the two prisoners, whom I cannot leave. Let us manage it better. Have a table set for us in a corner and send us whatever you like from yours.”

“Good,” answered Harrison.

The matter was arranged as D’Artagnan had suggested, and when he returned he found the king already seated at his little table, where Parry waited on him, Harrison and his officers sitting together at another table, and, in a corner, places reserved for himself and his companions.

The table at which the Puritan officers were seated was round, and whether by chance or coarse intention, Harrison sat with his back to the king.

The king saw the four gentlemen come in, but appeared to take no notice of them.

They sat down in such a manner as to turn their backs on nobody. The officers, table and that of the king were opposite to them.

“I’faith, colonel,” said D’Artagnan, “we are very grateful for your gracious invitation; for without you we ran the risk of going without dinner, as we have without breakfast. My friend here, Monsieur du Vallon, shares my gratitude, for he was particularly hungry.”

“And I am so still,” said Porthos bowing to Harrison.

“And how,” said Harrison, laughing, “did this serious calamity of going without breakfast happen to you?”

“In a very simple manner, colonel,” said D’Artagnan. “I was in a hurry to join you and took the road you had already gone by. You can understand our disappointment when, arriving at a pretty little house on the skirts of a wood, which at a distance had quite a gay appearance, with its red roof and green shutters, we found nothing but a poor wretch bathed--Ah! colonel, pay my respects to the officer of yours who struck that blow.”

“Yes,” said Harrison, laughing, and looking over at one of the officers seated at his table. “When Groslow undertakes this kind of thing there’s no need to go over the ground a second time.”

“Ah! it was this gentleman?” said D’Artagnan, bowing to the officer. “I am sorry he does not speak French, that I might tender him my compliments.”

“I am ready to receive and return them, sir,” said the officer, in pretty good French, “for I resided three years in Paris.”

“Then, sir, allow me to assure you that your blow was so well directed that you have nearly killed your man.”

“Nearly? I thought I had quite,” said Groslow.

“No. It was a very near thing, but he is not dead.”

As he said this, D’Artagnan gave a glance at Parry, who was standing in front of the king, to show him that the news was meant for him.

The king, too, who had listened in the greatest agony, now breathed again.

“Hang it,” said Groslow, “I thought I had succeeded better. If it were not so far from here to the house I would return and finish him.”

“And you would do well, if you are afraid of his recovering; for you know, if a wound in the head does not kill at once, it is cured in a week.”

And D’Artagnan threw a second glance toward Parry, on whose face such an expression of joy was manifested that Charles stretched out his hand to him, smiling.

Parry bent over his master’s hand and kissed it respectfully.

“I’ve a great desire to drink the king’s health,” said Athos.

“Let me propose it, then,” said D’Artagnan.

“Do,” said Aramis.

Porthos looked at D’Artagnan, quite amazed at the resources with which his companion’s Gascon sharpness continually supplied him. D’Artagnan took up his camp tin cup, filled it with wine and arose.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “let us drink to him who presides at the repast. Here’s to our colonel, and let him know that we are always at his commands as far as London and farther.”

And as D’Artagnan, as he spoke, looked at Harrison, the colonel imagined the toast was for himself. He arose and bowed to the four friends, whose eyes were fixed on Charles, while Harrison emptied his glass without the slightest misgiving.

The king, in return, looked at the four gentlemen and drank with a smile full of nobility and gratitude.

“Come, gentlemen,” cried Harrison, regardless of his illustrious captive, “let us be off.”

“Where do we sleep, colonel?”

“At Thirsk,” replied Harrison.

“Parry,” said the king, rising too, “my horse; I desire to go to Thirsk.”

“Egad!” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “your king has thoroughly taken me, and I am quite at his service.”

“If what you say is sincere,” replied Athos, “he will never reach London.”

“How so?”

“Because before then we shall have carried him off.”

“Well, this time, Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “upon my word, you are mad.”

“Have you some plan in your head then?” asked Aramis.

“Ay!” said Porthos, “the thing would not be impossible with a good plan.”

“I have none,” said Athos; “but D’Artagnan will discover one.”

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and they proceeded.

D’Artagnan hits on a Plan.

As night closed in they arrived at Thirsk. The four friends appeared to be entire strangers to one another and indifferent to the precautions taken for guarding the king. They withdrew to a private house, and as they had reason every moment to fear for their safety, they occupied but one room and provided an exit, which might be useful in case of an attack. The lackeys were sent to their several posts, except that Grimaud lay on a truss of straw across the doorway.

D’Artagnan was thoughtful and seemed for the moment to have lost his usual loquacity. Porthos, who could never see anything that was not self-evident, talked to him as usual. He replied in monosyllables and Athos and Aramis looked significantly at one another.

Next morning D’Artagnan was the first to rise. He had been down to the stables, already taken a look at the horses and given the necessary orders for the day, whilst Athos and Aramis were still in bed and Porthos snoring.

At eight o’clock the march was resumed in the same order as the night before, except that D’Artagnan left his friends and began to renew the acquaintance which he had already struck up with Monsieur Groslow.

Groslow, whom D’Artagnan’s praises had greatly pleased, welcomed him with a gracious smile.

“Really, sir,” D’Artagnan said to him, “I am pleased to find one with whom to talk in my own poor tongue. My friend, Monsieur du Vallon, is of a very melancholy disposition, so much so, that one can scarcely get three words out of him all day. As for our two prisoners, you can imagine that they are but little in the vein for conversation.”

“They are hot royalists,” said Groslow.

“The more reason they should be sulky with us for having captured the Stuart, for whom, I hope, you’re preparing a pretty trial.”

“Why,” said Groslow, “that is just what we are taking him to London for.”

“And you never by any chance lose sight of him, I presume?”

“I should think not, indeed. You see he has a truly royal escort.”

“Ay, there’s no fear in the daytime; but at night?”

“We redouble our precautions.”

“And what method of surveillance do you employ?”

“Eight men remain constantly in his room.”

“The deuce, he is well guarded, then. But besides these eight men, you doubtless place some guard outside?”

“Oh, no! Just think. What would you have two men without arms do against eight armed men?”

“Two men--how do you mean?”

“Yes, the king and his lackey.”

“Oh! then they allow the lackey to remain with him?”

“Yes; Stuart begged this favor and Harrison consented. Under pretense that he’s a king it appears he cannot dress or undress without assistance.”

“Really, captain,” said D’Artagnan, determined to continue on the laudatory tack on which he had commenced, “the more I listen to you the more surprised I am at the easy and elegant manner in which you speak French. You have lived three years in Paris? May I ask what you were doing there?”

“My father, who is a merchant, placed me with his correspondent, who in turn sent his son to join our house in London.”

“Were you pleased with Paris, sir?”

“Yes, but you are much in want of a revolution like our own--not against your king, who is a mere child, but against that lazar of an Italian, the queen’s favorite.”

“Ah! I am quite of your opinion, sir, and we should soon make an end of Mazarin if we had only a dozen officers like yourself, without prejudices, vigilant and incorruptible.”

“But,” said the officer, “I thought you were in his service and that it was he who sent you to General Cromwell.”

“That is to say I am in the king’s service, and that knowing he wanted to send some one to England, I solicited the appointment, so great was my desire to know the man of genius who now governs the three kingdoms. So that when he proposed to us to draw our swords in honor of old England you see how we snapped up the proposition.”

“Yes, I know that you charged by the side of Mordaunt.”

“On his right and left, sir. Ah! there’s another brave and excellent young man.”

“Do you know him?” asked the officer.

“Yes, very well. Monsieur du Vallon and myself came from France with him.”

“It appears, too, you kept him waiting a long time at Boulogne.”

“What would you have? I was like you, and had a king in keeping.”

“Aha!” said Groslow; “what king?”

“Our own, to be sure, the little one--Louis XIV.”

“And how long had you to take care of him?”

“Three nights; and, by my troth, I shall always remember those three nights with a certain pleasure.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that my friends, officers in the guards and mousquetaires, came to keep me company and we passed the night in feasting, drinking, dicing.”

“Ah true,” said the Englishman, with a sigh; “you Frenchmen are born boon companions.”

“And don’t you play, too, when you are on guard?”

“Never,” said the Englishman.

“In that case you must be horribly bored, and have my sympathy.”

“The fact is, I look to my turn for keeping guard with horror. It’s tiresome work to keep awake a whole night.”

“Yes, but with a jovial partner and dice, and guineas clinking on the cloth, the night passes like a dream. You don’t like playing, then?”

“On the contrary, I do.”

“Lansquenet, for instance?”

“Devoted to it. I used to play almost every night in France.”

“And since your return to England?”

“I have not handled a card or dice-box.”

“I sincerely pity you,” said D’Artagnan, with an air of profound compassion.

“Look here,” said the Englishman.

“Well?”

“To-morrow I am on guard.”

“In Stuart’s room?”

“Yes; come and pass the night with me.”

“Impossible!”

“Impossible! why so?”

“I play with Monsieur du Vallon every night. Sometimes we don’t go to bed at all!”

“Well, what of that?”

“Why, he would be annoyed if I did not play with him.”

“Does he play well?”

“I have seen him lose as much as two thousand pistoles, laughing all the while till the tears rolled down.”

“Bring him with you, then.”

“But how about our prisoners?”

“Let your servants guard them.”

“Yes, and give them a chance of escaping,” said D’Artagnan. “Why, one of them is a rich lord from Touraine and the other a knight of Malta, of noble family. We have arranged the ransom of each of them--2,000 on arriving in France. We are reluctant to leave for a single moment men whom our lackeys know to be millionaires. It is true we plundered them a little when we took them, and I will even confess that it is their purse that Monsieur du Vallon and I draw on in our nightly play. Still, they may have concealed some precious stone, some valuable diamond; so that we are like those misers who are unable to absent themselves from their treasures. We have made ourselves the constant guardians of our men, and while I sleep Monsieur du Vallon watches.”

“Ah! ah!” said Groslow.

“You see, then, why I must decline your polite invitation, which is especially attractive to me, because nothing is so wearisome as to play night after night with the same person; the chances always balance and at the month’s end nothing is gained or lost.”

“Ah!” said Groslow, sighing; “there is something still more wearisome, and that is not to play at all.”

“I can understand that,” said D’Artagnan.

“But, come,” resumed the Englishman, “are these men of yours dangerous?”

“In what respect?”

“Are they capable of attempting violence?”

D’Artagnan burst out laughing at the idea.

“Jesus Dieu!” he cried; “one of them is trembling with fever, having failed to adapt himself to this charming country of yours, and the other is a knight of Malta, as timid as a young girl; and for greater security we have taken from them even their penknives and pocket scissors.”

“Well, then,” said Groslow, “bring them with you.”

“But really----” said D’Artagnan.

“I have eight men on guard, you know. Four of them can guard the king and the other four your prisoners. I’ll manage it somehow, you will see.”

“But,” said D’Artagnan, “now I think of it--what is to prevent our beginning to-night?”

“Nothing at all,” said Groslow.

“Just so. Come to us this evening and to-morrow we’ll return your visit.”

“Capital! This evening with you, to-morrow at Stuart’s, the next day with me.”

“You see, that with a little forethought one can lead a merry life anywhere and everywhere,” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes, with Frenchmen, and Frenchmen like you.”

“And Monsieur du Vallon,” added the other. “You will see what a fellow he is; a man who nearly killed Mazarin between two doors. They employ him because they are afraid of him. Ah, there he is calling me now. You’ll excuse me, I know.”

They exchanged bows and D’Artagnan returned to his companions.

“What on earth can you have been saying to that bulldog?” exclaimed Porthos.

“My dear fellow, don’t speak like that of Monsieur Groslow. He’s one of my most intimate friends.”

“One of your friends!” cried Porthos, “this butcher of unarmed farmers!”

“Hush! my dear Porthos. Monsieur Groslow is perhaps rather hasty, it’s true, but at bottom I have discovered two good qualities in him--he is conceited and stupid.”

Porthos opened his eyes in amazement; Athos and Aramis looked at one another and smiled; they knew D’Artagnan, and knew that he did nothing without a purpose.

“But,” continued D’Artagnan, “you shall judge of him for yourself. He is coming to play with us this evening.”

“Oho!” said Porthos, his eyes glistening at the news. “Is he rich?”

“He’s the son of one of the wealthiest merchants in London.”

“And knows lansquenet?”

“Adores it.”

“Basset?”

“His mania.’

“Biribi?”

“Revels in it.”

“Good,” said Porthos; “we shall pass an agreeable evening.”

“The more so, as it will be the prelude to a better.”

“How so?”

“We invite him to play to-night; he has invited us in return to-morrow. But wait. To-night we stop at Derby; and if there is a bottle of wine in the town let Musqueton buy it. It will be well to prepare a light supper, of which you, Athos and Aramis, are not to partake--Athos, because I told him you had a fever; Aramis, because you are a knight of Malta and won’t mix with fellows like us. Do you understand?”

“That’s no doubt very fine,” said Porthos; “but deuce take me if I understand at all.”

“Porthos, my friend, you know I am descended on the father’s side from the Prophets and on the mother’s from the Sybils, and that I only speak in parables and riddles. Let those who have ears hear and those who have eyes see; I can tell you nothing more at present.”

“Go ahead, my friend,” said Athos; “I am sure that whatever you do is well done.”

“And you, Aramis, are you of that opinion?”

“Entirely so, my dear D’Artagnan.”

“Very good,” said D’Artagnan; “here indeed are true believers; it is a pleasure to work miracles before them; they are not like that unbelieving Porthos, who must see and touch before he will believe.”

“The fact is,” said Porthos, with an air of finesse, “I am rather incredulous.”

D’Artagnan gave him playful buffet on the shoulder, and as they had reached the station where they were to breakfast, the conversation ended there.

At five in the evening they sent Musqueton on before as agreed upon. Blaisois went with him.

In crossing the principal street in Derby the four friends perceived Blaisois standing in the doorway of a handsome house. It was there a lodging was prepared for them.

At the hour agreed upon Groslow came. D’Artagnan received him as he would have done a friend of twenty years’ standing. Porthos scanned him from head to foot and smiled when he discovered that in spite of the blow he had administered to Parry’s brother, he was not nearly so strong as himself. Athos and Aramis suppressed as well as they could the disgust they felt in the presence of such coarseness and brutality.

In short, Groslow seemed to be pleased with his reception.

Athos and Aramis kept themselves to their role. At midnight they withdrew to their chamber, the door of which was left open on the pretext of kindly consideration. Furthermore, D’Artagnan went with them, leaving Porthos at play with Groslow.

Porthos gained fifty pistoles from Groslow, and found him a more agreeable companion than he had at first believed him to be.

As to Groslow, he promised himself that on the following evening he would recover from D’Artagnan what he had lost to Porthos, and on leaving reminded the Gascon of his appointment.

The next day was spent as usual. D’Artagnan went from Captain Groslow to Colonel Harrison and from Colonel Harrison to his friends. To any one not acquainted with him he seemed to be in his normal condition; but to his friends--to Athos and Aramis--was apparent a certain feverishness in his gayety.

“What is he contriving?” asked Aramis.

“Wait,” said Athos.

Porthos said nothing, but he handled in his pocket the fifty pistoles he had gained from Groslow with a degree of satisfaction which betrayed itself in his whole bearing.

Arrived at Ryston, D’Artagnan assembled his friends. His face had lost the expression of careless gayety it had worn like a mask the whole day. Athos pinched Aramis’s hand.

“The moment is at hand,” he said.

“Yes,” returned D’Artagnan, who had overheard him, “to-night, gentlemen, we rescue the king.”

“D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “this is no joke, I trust? It would quite cut me up.”

“You are a very odd man, Athos,” he replied, “to doubt me thus. Where and when have you seen me trifle with a friend’s heart and a king’s life? I have told you, and I repeat it, that to-night we rescue Charles I. You left it to me to discover the means and I have done so.”

Porthos looked at D’Artagnan with an expression of profound admiration. Aramis smiled as one who hopes. Athos was pale, and trembled in every limb.

“Speak,” said Athos.

“We are invited,” replied D’Artagnan, “to pass the night with M. Groslow. But do you know where?”

“No.”

“In the king’s room.”

“The king’s room?” cried Athos.

“Yes, gentlemen, in the king’s room. Groslow is on guard there this evening, and to pass the time away he has invited us to keep him company.”

“All four of us?” asked Athos.

“Pardieu! certainly, all four; we couldn’t leave our prisoners, could we?”

“Ah! ah!” said Aramis.

“Tell us about it,” said Athos, palpitating.

“We are going, then, we two with our swords, you with daggers. We four have got to master these eight fools and their stupid captain. Monsieur Porthos, what do you say to that?”

“I say it is easy enough,” answered Porthos.

“We dress the king in Groslow’s clothes. Musqueton, Grimaud and Blaisois have our horses saddled at the end of the first street. We mount them and before daylight are twenty leagues distant.”

Athos placed his two hands on D’Artagnan’s shoulders, and gazed at him with his calm, sad smile.

“I declare, my friend,” said he, “that there is not a creature under the sky who equals you in prowess and in courage. Whilst we thought you indifferent to our sorrows, which you couldn’t share without crime, you alone among us have discovered what we were searching for in vain. I repeat it, D’Artagnan, you are the best one among us; I bless and love you, my dear son.”

“And to think that I couldn’t find that out,” said Porthos, scratching his head; “it is so simple.”

“But,” said Aramis, “if I understand rightly we are to kill them all, eh?”

Athos shuddered and turned pale.

“Mordioux!” answered D’Artagnan, “I believe we must. I confess I can discover no other safe and satisfactory way.”

“Let us see,” said Aramis, “how are we to act?”

“I have arranged two plans. Firstly, at a given signal, which shall be the words ‘At last,’ you each plunge a dagger into the heart of the soldier nearest to you. We, on our side, do the same. That will be four killed. We shall then be matched, four against the remaining five. If these five men give themselves up we gag them; if they resist, we kill them. If by chance our Amphitryon changes his mind and receives only Porthos and myself, why, then, we must resort to heroic measures and each give two strokes instead of one. It will take a little longer time and may make a greater disturbance, but you will be outside with swords and will rush in at the proper time.”

“But if you yourselves should be struck?” said Athos.

“Impossible!” said D’Artagnan; “those beer drinkers are too clumsy and awkward. Besides, you will strike at the throat, Porthos; it kills as quickly and prevents all outcry.”

“Very good,” said Porthos; “it will be a nice little throat cutting.”

“Horrible, horrible,” exclaimed Athos.

“Nonsense,” said D’Artagnan; “you would do as much, Mr. Humanity, in a battle. But if you think the king’s life is not worth what it must cost there’s an end of the matter and I send to Groslow to say I am ill.”

“No, you are right,” said Athos.

At this moment a soldier entered to inform them that Groslow was waiting for them.

“Where?” asked D’Artagnan.

“In the room of the English Nebuchadnezzar,” replied the staunch Puritan.

“Good,” replied Athos, whose blood mounted to his face at the insult offered to royalty; “tell the captain we are coming.”

The Puritan then went out. The lackeys had been ordered to saddle eight horses and to wait, keeping together and without dismounting, at the corner of a street about twenty steps from the house where the king was lodged.

It was nine o’clock in the evening; the sentinels had been relieved at eight and Captain Groslow had been on guard for an hour. D’Artagnan and Porthos, armed with their swords, and Athos and Aramis, each carrying a concealed poniard, approached the house which for the time being was Charles Stuart’s prison. The two latter followed their captors in the humble guise of captives, without arms.

“Od’s bodikins,” said Groslow, as the four friends entered, “I had almost given you up.”

D’Artagnan went up to him and whispered in his ear:

“The fact is, we, that is, Monsieur du Vallon and I, hesitated a little.”

“And why?”

D’Artagnan looked significantly toward Athos and Aramis.

“Aha,” said Groslow; “on account of political opinions? No matter. On the contrary,” he added, laughing, “if they want to see their Stuart they shall see him.

“Are we to pass the night in the king’s room?” asked D’Artagnan.

“No, but in the one next to it, and as the door will remain open it comes to the same thing. Have you provided yourself with money? I assure you I intend to play the devil’s game to-night.”

D’Artagnan rattled the gold in his pockets.

“Very good,” said Groslow, and opened the door of the room. “I will show you the way,” and he went in first.

D’Artagnan turned to look at his friends. Porthos was perfectly indifferent; Athos, pale, but resolute; Aramis was wiping a slight moisture from his brow.

The eight guards were at their posts. Four in the king’s room, two at the door between the rooms and two at that by which the friends had entered. Athos smiled when he saw their bare swords; he felt it was no longer to be a butchery, but a fight, and he resumed his usual good humor.

Charles was perceived through the door, lying dressed upon his bed, at the head of which Parry was seated, reading in a low voice a chapter from the Bible.

A candle of coarse tallow on a black table lighted up the handsome and resigned face of the king and that of his faithful retainer, far less calm.

From time to time Parry stopped, thinking the king, whose eyes were closed, was really asleep, but Charles would open his eyes and say with a smile:

“Go on, my good Parry, I am listening.”

Groslow advanced to the door of the king’s room, replaced on his head the hat he had taken off to receive his guests, looked for a moment contemptuously at this simple, yet touching scene, then turning to D’Artagnan, assumed an air of triumph at what he had achieved.

“Capital!” cried the Gascon, “you would make a distinguished general.”

“And do you think,” asked Groslow, “that Stuart will ever escape while I am on guard?”

“No, to be sure,” replied D’Artagnan; “unless, forsooth, the sky rains friends upon him.”

Groslow’s face brightened.

It is impossible to say whether Charles, who kept his eyes constantly closed, had noticed the insolence of the Puritan captain, but the moment he heard the clear tone of D’Artagnan’s voice his eyelids rose, in spite of himself.

Parry, too, started and stopped reading.

“What are you thinking about?” said the king; “go on, my good Parry, unless you are tired.”

Parry resumed his reading.

On a table in the next room were lighted candles, cards, two dice-boxes, and dice.

“Gentlemen,” said Groslow, “I beg you will take your places. I will sit facing Stuart, whom I like so much to see, especially where he now is, and you, Monsieur d’Artagnan, opposite to me.”

Athos turned red with rage. D’Artagnan frowned at him.

“That’s it,” said D’Artagnan; “you, Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, to the right of Monsieur Groslow. You, Chevalier d’Herblay, to his left. Du Vallon next me. You’ll bet for me and those gentlemen for Monsieur Groslow.”

By this arrangement D’Artagnan could nudge Porthos with his knee and make signs with his eyes to Athos and Aramis.

At the names Comte de la Fere and Chevalier d’Herblay, Charles opened his eyes, and raising his noble head, in spite of himself, threw a glance at all the actors in the scene.

At that moment Parry turned over several leaves of his Bible and read with a loud voice this verse in Jeremiah:

“God said, ‘Hear ye the words of the prophets my servants, whom I have sent unto you.”

The four friends exchanged glances. The words that Parry had read assured them that their presence was understood by the king and was assigned to its real motive. D’Artagnan’s eyes sparkled with joy.

“You asked me just now if I was in funds,” said D’Artagnan, placing some twenty pistoles upon the table. “Well, in my turn I advise you to keep a sharp lookout on your treasure, my dear Monsieur Groslow, for I can tell you we shall not leave this without robbing you of it.”

“Not without my defending it,” said Groslow.

“So much the better,” said D’Artagnan. “Fight, my dear captain, fight. You know or you don’t know, that that is what we ask of you.”

“Oh! yes,” said Groslow, bursting with his usual coarse laugh, “I know you Frenchmen want nothing but cuts and bruises.”

Charles had heard and understood it all. A slight color mounted to his cheeks. The soldiers then saw him stretch his limbs, little by little, and under the pretense of much heat throw off the Scotch plaid which covered him.

Athos and Aramis started with delight to find that the king was lying with his clothes on.

The game began. The luck had turned, and Groslow, having won some hundred pistoles, was in the merriest possible humor.

Porthos, who had lost the fifty pistoles he had won the night before and thirty more besides, was very cross and questioned D’Artagnan with a nudge of the knee as to whether it would not soon be time to change the game. Athos and Aramis looked at him inquiringly. But D’Artagnan remained impassible.

It struck ten. They heard the guard going its rounds.

“How many rounds do they make a night?” asked D’Artagnan, drawing more pistoles from his pocket.

“Five,” answered Groslow, “one every two hours.”

D’Artagnan glanced at Athos and Aramis and for the first time replied to Porthos’s nudge of the knee by a nudge responsive. Meanwhile, the soldiers whose duty it was to remain in the king’s room, attracted by that love of play so powerful in all men, had stolen little by little toward the table, and standing on tiptoe, lounged, watching the game, over the shoulders of D’Artagnan and Porthos. Those on the other side had followed their example, thus favoring the views of the four friends, who preferred having them close at hand to chasing them about the chamber. The two sentinels at the door still had their swords unsheathed, but they were leaning on them while they watched the game.

Athos seemed to grow calm as the critical moment approached. With his white, aristocratic hands he played with the louis, bending and straightening them again, as if they were made of pewter. Aramis, less self-controlled, fumbled continually with his hidden poniard. Porthos, impatient at his continued losses, kept up a vigorous play with his knee.

D’Artagnan turned, mechanically looking behind him, and between the figures of two soldiers he could see Parry standing up and Charles leaning on his elbow with his hands clasped and apparently offering a fervent prayer to God.

D’Artagnan saw that the moment was come. He darted a preparatory glance at Athos and Aramis, who slyly pushed their chairs a little back so as to leave themselves more space for action. He gave Porthos a second nudge of the knee and Porthos got up as if to stretch his legs and took care at the same time to ascertain that his sword could be drawn smoothly from the scabbard.

“Hang it!” cried D’Artagnan, “another twenty pistoles lost. Really, Captain Groslow, you are too much in fortune’s way. This can’t last,” and he drew another twenty from his pocket. “One more turn, captain; twenty pistoles on one throw--only one, the last.”

“Done for twenty,” replied Groslow.

And he turned up two cards as usual, a king for D’Artagnan and an ace for himself.

“A king,” said D’Artagnan; “it’s a good omen, Master Groslow--look out for the king.”

And in spite of his extraordinary self-control there was a strange vibration in the Gascon’s voice which made his partner start.

Groslow began turning the cards one after another. If he turned up an ace first he won; if a king he lost.

He turned up a king.

“At last!” cried D’Artagnan.

At this word Athos and Aramis jumped up. Porthos drew back a step. Daggers and swords were just about to shine, when suddenly the door was thrown open and Harrison appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a man enveloped in a large cloak. Behind this man could be seen the glistening muskets of half a dozen soldiers.

Groslow jumped up, ashamed at being surprised in the midst of wine, cards, and dice. But Harrison paid not the least attention to him, and entering the king’s room, followed by his companion:

“Charles Stuart,” said he, “an order has come to conduct you to London without stopping day or night. Prepare yourself, then, to start at once.”

“And by whom is this order given?” asked the king.

“By General Oliver Cromwell. And here is Mr. Mordaunt, who has brought it and is charged with its execution.”

“Mordaunt!” muttered the four friends, exchanging glances.

D’Artagnan swept up the money that he and Porthos had lost and buried it in his huge pocket. Athos and Aramis placed themselves behind him. At this movement Mordaunt turned around, recognized them, and uttered an exclamation of savage delight.

“I’m afraid we are prisoners,” whispered D’Artagnan to his friend.

“Not yet,” replied Porthos.

“Colonel, colonel,” cried Mordaunt, “you are betrayed. These four Frenchmen have escaped from Newcastle, and no doubt want to carry off the king. Arrest them.”

“Ah! my young man,” said D’Artagnan, drawing his sword, “that is an order sooner given than executed. Fly, friends, fly!” he added, whirling his sword around him.

The next moment he darted to the door and knocked down two of the soldiers who guarded it, before they had time to cock their muskets. Athos and Aramis followed him. Porthos brought up the rear, and before soldiers, officers, or colonel had time to recover their surprise all four were in the street.

“Fire!” cried Mordaunt; “fire upon them!”

Three or four shots were fired, but with no other result than to show the four fugitives turning the corner of the street safe and sound.

The horses were at the place fixed upon, and they leaped lightly into their saddles.

“Forward!” cried D’Artagnan, “and spur for your dear lives!”

They galloped away and took the road they had come by in the morning, namely, in the direction toward Scotland. A few hundred yards beyond the town D’Artagnan drew rein.

“Halt!” he cried, “this time we shall be pursued. We must let them leave the village and ride after us on the northern road, and when they have passed we will take the opposite direction.”

There was a stream close by and a bridge across it.

D’Artagnan led his horse under the arch of the bridge. The others followed. Ten minutes later they heard the rapid gallop of a troop of horsemen. A few minutes more and the troop passed over their heads.

London.

As soon as the noise of the hoofs was lost in the distance D’Artagnan remounted the bank of the stream and scoured the plain, followed by his three friends, directing their course, as well as they could guess, toward London.

“This time,” said D’Artagnan, when they were sufficiently distant to proceed at a trot, “I think all is lost and we have nothing better to do than to reach France. What do you say, Athos, to that proposition? Isn’t it reasonable?”

“Yes, dear friend,” Athos replied, “but you said a word the other day that was more than reasonable--it was noble and generous. You said, ‘Let us die here!’ I recall to you that word.”

“Oh,” said Porthos, “death is nothing: it isn’t death that can disquiet us, since we don’t know what it is. What troubles me is the idea of defeat. As things are turning out, I foresee that we must give battle to London, to the provinces, to all England, and certainly in the end we can’t fail to be beaten.”

“We ought to witness this great tragedy even to its last scene,” said Athos. “Whatever happens, let us not leave England before the crisis. Don’t you agree with me, Aramis?”

“Entirely, my dear count. Then, too, I confess I should not be sorry to come across Mordaunt again. It appears to me that we have an account to settle with him, and that it is not our custom to leave a place without paying our debts, of this kind, at least.”

“Ah! that’s another thing,” said D’Artagnan, “and I should not mind waiting in London a whole year for a chance of meeting this Mordaunt in question. Only let us lodge with some one on whom we can count; for I imagine, just now, that Noll Cromwell would not be inclined to trifle with us. Athos, do you know any inn in the whole town where one can find white sheets, roast beef reasonably cooked, and wine which is not made of hops and gin?”

“I think I know what you want,” replied Athos. “De Winter took us to the house of a Spaniard, who, he said, had become naturalized as an Englishman by the guineas of his new compatriots. What do you say to it, Aramis?”

“Why, the idea of taking quarters with Senor Perez seems to me very reasonable, and for my part I agree to it. We will invoke the remembrance of that poor De Winter, for whom he seemed to have a great regard; we will tell him that we have come as amateurs to see what is going on; we will spend with him a guinea each per day; and I think that by taking all these precautions we can be quite undisturbed.”

“You forget, Aramis, one precaution of considerable importance.”

“What is that?”

“The precaution of changing our clothes.”

“Changing our clothes!” exclaimed Porthos. “I don’t see why; we are very comfortable in those we wear.”

“To prevent recognition,” said D’Artagnan. “Our clothes have a cut which would proclaim the Frenchman at first sight. Now, I don’t set sufficient store on the cut of my jerkin to risk being hung at Tyburn or sent for change of scene to the Indies. I shall buy a chestnut-colored suit. I’ve remarked that your Puritans revel in that color.”

“But can you find your man?” said Aramis to Athos.

“Oh! to be sure, yes. He lives at the Bedford Tavern, Greenhall Street. Besides, I can find my way about the city with my eyes shut.”

“I wish we were already there,” said D’Artagnan; “and my advice is that we reach London before daybreak, even if we kill our horses.”

“Come on, then,” said Athos, “for unless I am mistaken in my calculations we have only eight or ten leagues to go.”

The friends urged on their horses and arrived, in fact, at about five o’clock in the morning. They were stopped and questioned at the gate by which they sought to enter the city, but Athos replied, in excellent English, that they had been sent forward by Colonel Harrison to announce to his colleague, Monsieur Bridge, the approach of the king. That reply led to several questions about the king’s capture, and Athos gave details so precise and positive that if the gatekeepers had any suspicions they vanished completely. The way was therefore opened to the four friends with all sorts of Puritan congratulations.

Athos was right. He went direct to the Bedford Tavern, and the host, who recognized him, was delighted to see him again with such a numerous and promising company.

Though it was scarcely daylight our four travelers found the town in a great bustle, owing to the reported approach of Harrison and the king.

The plan of changing their clothes was unanimously adopted. The landlord sent out for every description of garment, as if he wanted to fit up his wardrobe. Athos chose a black coat, which gave him the appearance of a respectable citizen. Aramis, not wishing to part with his sword, selected a dark-blue cloak of a military cut. Porthos was seduced by a wine-colored doublet and sea-green breeches. D’Artagnan, who had fixed on his color beforehand, had only to select the shade, and looked in his chestnut suit exactly like a retired sugar dealer.

“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “for the actual man. We must cut off our hair, that the populace may not insult us. As we no longer wear the sword of the gentleman we may as well have the head of the Puritan. This, as you know, is the important point of distinction between the Covenanter and the Cavalier.”

After some discussion this was agreed to and Musqueton played the role of barber.

“We look hideous,” said Athos.

“And smack of the Puritan to a frightful extent,” said Aramis.

“My head feels actually cold,” said Porthos.

“As for me, I feel anxious to preach a sermon,” said D’Artagnan.

“Now,” said Athos, “that we cannot even recognize one another and have therefore no fear of others recognizing us, let us go and see the king’s entrance.”

They had not been long in the crowd before loud cries announced the king’s arrival. A carriage had been sent to meet him, and the gigantic Porthos, who stood a head above the entire rabble, soon announced that he saw the royal equipage approaching. D’Artagnan raised himself on tiptoe, and as the carriage passed, saw Harrison at one window and Mordaunt at the other.

The next day, Athos, leaning out of his window, which looked upon the most populous part of the city, heard the Act of Parliament, which summoned the ex-king, Charles I., to the bar, publicly cried.

“Parliament indeed!” cried Athos. “Parliament can never have passed such an act as that.”

At this moment the landlord came in.

“Did parliament pass this act?” Athos asked of him in English.

“Yes, my lord, the pure parliament.”

“What do you mean by ‘the pure parliament’? Are there, then, two parliaments?”

“My friend,” D’Artagnan interrupted, “as I don’t understand English and we all understand Spanish, have the kindness to speak to us in that language, which, since it is your own, you must find pleasure in using when you have the chance.”

“Ah! excellent!” said Aramis.

As to Porthos, all his attention was concentrated on the allurements of the breakfast table.

“You were asking, then?” said the host in Spanish.

“I asked,” said Athos, in the same language, “if there are two parliaments, a pure and an impure?”

“Why, how extraordinary!” said Porthos, slowly raising his head and looking at his friends with an air of astonishment, “I understand English, then! I understand what you say!”

“That is because we are talking Spanish, my dear friend,” said Athos.

“Oh, the devil!” said Porthos, “I am sorry for that; it would have been one language more.”

“When I speak of the pure parliament,” resumed the host, “I mean the one which Colonel Bridge has weeded.”

“Ah! really,” said D’Artagnan, “these people are very ingenious. When I go back to France I must suggest some such convenient course to Cardinal Mazarin and the coadjutor. One of them will weed the parliament in the name of the court, and the other in the name of the people; and then there won’t be any parliament at all.”

“And who is this Colonel Bridge?” asked Aramis, “and how does he go to work to weed the parliament?”

“Colonel Bridge,” replied the Spaniard, “is a retired wagoner, a man of much sense, who made one valuable observation whilst driving his team, namely, that where there happened to be a stone on the road, it was much easier to remove the stone than try and make the wheel pass over it. Now, of two hundred and fifty-one members who composed the parliament, there were one hundred and ninety-one who were in the way and might have upset his political wagon. He took them up, just as he formerly used to take up the stones from the road, and threw them out of the house.”

“Neat,” remarked D’Artagnan. “Very!”

“And all these one hundred and ninety-one were Royalists?” asked Athos.

“Without doubt, senor; and you understand that they would have saved the king.”

“To be sure,” said Porthos, with majestic common sense; “they were in the majority.”

“And you think,” said Aramis, “he will consent to appear before such a tribunal?”

“He will be forced to do so,” smiled the Spaniard.

“Now, Athos!” said D’Artagnan, “do you begin to believe that it’s a ruined cause, and that what with your Harrisons, Joyces, Bridges and Cromwells, we shall never get the upper hand?”

“The king will be delivered at the tribunal,” said Athos; “the very silence of his supporters indicates that they are at work.”

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.

“But,” said Aramis, “if they dare to condemn their king, it can only be to exile or imprisonment.”

D’Artagnan whistled a little air of incredulity.

“We shall see,” said Athos, “for we shall go to the sittings, I presume.”

“You will not have long to wait,” said the landlord; “they begin to-morrow.”

“So, then, they drew up the indictments before the king was taken?”

“Of course,” said D’Artagnan; “they began the day he was sold.”

“And you know,” said Aramis, “that it was our friend Mordaunt who made, if not the bargain, at least the overtures.”

“And you know,” added D’Artagnan, “that whenever I catch him I will kill him, this Mordaunt.”

“And I, too,” exclaimed Porthos.

“And I, too,” added Aramis.

“Touching unanimity!” cried D’Artagnan, “which well becomes good citizens like us. Let us take a turn around the town and imbibe a little fog.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, “‘twill be at least a little change from beer.”

The Trial.

The next morning King Charles I. was haled by a strong guard before the high court which was to judge him. All London was crowding to the doors of the house. The throng was terrific, and it was not till after much pushing and some fighting that our friends reached their destination. When they did so they found the three lower rows of benches already occupied; but being anxious not to be too conspicuous, all, with the exception of Porthos, who had a fancy to display his red doublet, were quite satisfied with their places, the more so as chance had brought them to the centre of their row, so that they were exactly opposite the arm-chair prepared for the royal prisoner.

Toward eleven o’clock the king entered the hall, surrounded by guards, but wearing his head covered, and with a calm expression turned to every side with a look of complete assurance, as if he were there to preside at an assembly of submissive subjects, rather than to meet the accusations of a rebel court.

The judges, proud of having a monarch to humiliate, evidently prepared to enjoy the right they had arrogated to themselves, and sent an officer to inform the king that it was customary for the accused to uncover his head.

Charles, without replying a single word, turned his head in another direction and pulled his felt hat over it. Then when the officer was gone he sat down in the arm-chair opposite the president and struck his boots with a little cane which he carried in his hand. Parry, who accompanied him, stood behind him.

D’Artagnan was looking at Athos, whose face betrayed all those emotions which the king, possessing more self-control, had banished from his own. This agitation in one so cold and calm as Athos, frightened him.

“I hope,” he whispered to him, “that you will follow his majesty’s example and not get killed for your folly in this den.”

“Set your mind at rest,” replied Athos.

“Aha!” continued D’Artagnan, “it is clear that they are afraid of something or other; for look, the sentinels are being reinforced. They had only halberds before, now they have muskets. The halberds were for the audience in the rear; the muskets are for us.”

“Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty-five men,” said Porthos, counting the reinforcements.

“Ah!” said Aramis, “but you forget the officer.”

D’Artagnan grew pale with rage. He recognized Mordaunt, who with bare sword was marshalling the musketeers behind the king and opposite the benches.

“Do you think they have recognized us?” said D’Artagnan. “In that case I should beat a retreat. I don’t care to be shot in a box.”

“No,” said Aramis, “he has not seen us. He sees no one but the king. Mon Dieu! how he stares at him, the insolent dog! Does he hate his majesty as much as he does us?”

“Pardi,” answered Athos “we only carried off his mother; the king has spoiled him of his name and property.”

“True,” said Aramis; “but silence! the president is speaking to the king.”

“Stuart,” Bradshaw was saying, “listen to the roll call of your judges and address to the court any observations you may have to make.”

The king turned his head away, as if these words had not been intended for him. Bradshaw waited, and as there was no reply there was a moment of silence.

Out of the hundred and sixty-three members designated there were only seventy-three present, for the rest, fearful of taking part in such an act, had remained away.

When the name of Colonel Fairfax was called, one of those brief but solemn silences ensued, which announced the absence of the members who had no wish to take a personal part in the trial.

“Colonel Fairfax,” repeated Bradshaw.

“Fairfax,” answered a laughing voice, the silvery tone of which betrayed it as that of a woman, “is not such a fool as to be here.”

A loud laugh followed these words, pronounced with that boldness which women draw from their own weakness--a weakness which removes them beyond the power of vengeance.

“It is a woman’s voice,” cried Aramis; “faith, I would give a good deal if she is young and pretty.” And he mounted on the bench to try and get a sight of her.

“By my soul,” said Aramis, “she is charming. Look D’Artagnan; everybody is looking at her; and in spite of Bradshaw’s gaze she has not turned pale.”

“It is Lady Fairfax herself,” said D’Artagnan. “Don’t you remember, Porthos, we saw her at General Cromwell’s?”

The roll call continued.

“These rascals will adjourn when they find that they are not in sufficient force,” said the Comte de la Fere.

“You don’t know them. Athos, look at Mordaunt’s smile. Is that the look of a man whose victim is likely to escape him? Ah, cursed basilisk, it will be a happy day for me when I can cross something more than a look with you.”

“The king is really very handsome,” said Porthos; “and look, too, though he is a prisoner, how carefully he is dressed. The feather in his hat is worth at least five-and-twenty pistoles. Look at it, Aramis.”

The roll call finished, the president ordered them to read the act of accusation. Athos turned pale. A second time he was disappointed in his expectation. Notwithstanding the judges were so few the trial was to continue; the king then, was condemned in advance.

“I told you so, Athos,” said D’Artagnan, shrugging his shoulders. “Now take your courage in both hands and hear what this gentleman in black is going to say about his sovereign, with full license and privilege.”

Never till then had a more brutal accusation or meaner insults tarnished kingly majesty.

Charles listened with marked attention, passing over the insults, noting the grievances, and, when hatred overflowed all bounds and the accuser turned executioner beforehand, replying with a smile of lofty scorn.

“The fact is,” said D’Artagnan, “if men are punished for imprudence and triviality, this poor king deserves punishment. But it seems to me that that which he is just now undergoing is hard enough.”

“In any case,” Aramis replied, “the punishment should fall not on the king, but on his ministers; for the first article of the constitution is, ‘The king can do no wrong.’”

“As for me,” thought Porthos, giving Mordaunt his whole attention, “were it not for breaking in on the majesty of the situation I would leap down from the bench, reach Mordaunt in three bounds and strangle him; I would then take him by the feet and knock the life out of these wretched musketeers who parody the musketeers of France. Meantime, D’Artagnan, who is full of invention, would find some way to save the king. I must speak to him about it.”

As to Athos, his face aflame, his fists clinched, his lips bitten till they bled, he sat there foaming with rage at that endless parliamentary insult and that long enduring royal patience; the inflexible arm and steadfast heart had given place to a trembling hand and a body shaken by excitement.

At this moment the accuser concluded with these words: “The present accusation is preferred by us in the name of the English people.”

At these words there was a murmur along the benches, and a second voice, not that of a woman, but a man’s, stout and furious, thundered behind D’Artagnan.

“You lie!” it cried. “Nine-tenths of the English people are horrified at what you say.”

This voice was that of Athos, who, standing up with outstretched hand and quite out of his mind, thus assailed the public accuser.

King, judges, spectators, all turned their eyes to the bench where the four friends were seated. Mordaunt did the same and recognized the gentleman, around whom the three other Frenchmen were standing, pale and menacing. His eyes glittered with delight. He had discovered those to whose death he had devoted his life. A movement of fury called to his side some twenty of his musketeers, and pointing to the bench where his enemies were: “Fire on that bench!” he cried.

But with the rapidity of thought D’Artagnan seized Athos by the waist, and followed by Porthos with Aramis, leaped down from the benches, rushed into the passages, and flying down the staircase were lost in the crowd without, while the muskets within were pointed on some three thousand spectators, whose piteous cries and noisy alarm stopped the impulse already given to bloodshed.

Charles also had recognized the four Frenchmen. He put one hand on his heart to still its beating and the other over his eyes, that he might not witness the slaying of his faithful friends.

Mordaunt, pale and trembling with anger, rushed from the hall sword in hand, followed by six pikemen, pushing, inquiring and panting in the crowd; and then, having found nothing, returned.

The tumult was indescribable. More than half an hour passed before any one could make himself heard. The judges were looking for a new outbreak from the benches. The spectators saw the muskets leveled at them, and divided between fear and curiosity, remained noisy and excited.

Quiet was at length restored.

“What have you to say in your defense?” asked Bradshaw of the king.

Then rising, with his head still covered, in the tone of a judge rather than a prisoner, Charles began.

“Before questioning me,” he said, “reply to my question. I was free at Newcastle and had there concluded a treaty with both houses. Instead of performing your part of this contract, as I performed mine, you bought me from the Scotch, cheaply, I know, and that does honor to the economic talent of your government. But because you have paid the price of a slave, do you imagine that I have ceased to be your king? No. To answer you would be to forget it. I shall only reply to you when you have satisfied me of your right to question me. To answer you would be to acknowledge you as my judges, and I only acknowledge you as my executioners.” And in the middle of a deathlike silence, Charles, calm, lofty, and with his head still covered, sat down again in his arm-chair.

“Why are not my Frenchmen here?” he murmured proudly and turning his eyes to the benches where they had appeared for a moment; “they would have seen that their friend was worthy of their defense while alive, and of their tears when dead.”

“Well,” said the president, seeing that Charles was determined to remain silent, “so be it. We will judge you in spite of your silence. You are accused of treason, of abuse of power, and murder. The evidence will support it. Go, and another sitting will accomplish what you have postponed in this.”

Charles rose and turned toward Parry, whom he saw pale and with his temples dewed with moisture.

“Well, my dear Parry,” said he, “what is the matter, and what can affect you in this manner?”

“Oh, my king,” said Parry, with tears in his eyes and in a tone of supplication, “do not look to the left as we leave the hall.”

“And why, Parry?”

“Do not look, I implore you, my king.”

“But what is the matter? Speak,” said Charles, attempting to look across the hedge of guards which surrounded him.

“It is--but you will not look, will you?--it is because they have had the axe, with which criminals are executed, brought and placed there on the table. The sight is hideous.”

“Fools,” said Charles, “do they take me for a coward, like themselves? You have done well to warn me. Thank you, Parry.”

When the moment arrived the king followed his guards out of the hall. As he passed the table on which the axe was laid, he stopped, and turning with a smile, said:

“Ah! the axe, an ingenious device, and well worthy of those who know not what a gentleman is; you frighten me not, executioner’s axe,” added he, touching it with the cane which he held in his hand, “and I strike you now, waiting patiently and Christianly for you to return the blow.”

And shrugging his shoulders with unaffected contempt he passed on. When he reached the door a stream of people, who had been disappointed in not being able to get into the house and to make amends had collected to see him come out, stood on each side, as he passed, many among them glaring on him with threatening looks.

“How many people,” thought he, “and not one true friend.”

And as he uttered these words of doubt and depression within his mind, a voice beside him said:

“Respect to fallen majesty.”

The king turned quickly around, with tears in his eyes and heart. It was an old soldier of the guards who could not see his king pass captive before him without rendering him this final homage. But the next moment the unfortunate man was nearly killed with heavy blows of sword-hilts, and among those who set upon him the king recognized Captain Groslow.

“Alas!” said Charles, “that is a severe chastisement for a very trifling fault.”

He continued his walk, but he had scarcely gone a hundred paces, when a furious fellow, leaning between two soldiers, spat in the king’s face, as once an infamous and accursed Jew spit in the face of Jesus of Nazareth. Loud roars of laughter and sullen murmurs arose together. The crowd opened and closed again, undulating like a stormy sea, and the king imagined that he saw shining in the midst of this living wave the bright eyes of Athos.

Charles wiped his face and said with a sad smile: “Poor wretch, for half a crown he would do as much to his own father.”

The king was not mistaken. Athos and his friends, again mingling with the throng, were taking a last look at the martyr king.

When the soldier saluted Charles, Athos’s heart bounded for joy; and that unfortunate, on coming to himself, found ten guineas that the French gentleman had slipped into his pocket. But when the cowardly insulter spat in the face of the captive monarch Athos grasped his dagger. But D’Artagnan stopped his hand and in a hoarse voice cried, “Wait!”

Athos stopped. D’Artagnan, leaning on Athos, made a sign to Porthos and Aramis to keep near them and then placed himself behind the man with the bare arms, who was still laughing at his own vile pleasantry and receiving the congratulations of several others.

The man took his way toward the city. The four friends followed him. The man, who had the appearance of being a butcher, descended a little steep and isolated street, looking on to the river, with two of his friends. Arrived at the bank of the river the three men perceived that they were followed, turned around, and looking insolently at the Frenchmen, passed some jests from one to another.

“I don’t know English, Athos,” said D’Artagnan; “but you know it and will interpret for me.”

Then quickening their steps they passed the three men, but turned back immediately, and D’Artagnan walked straight up to the butcher and touching him on the chest with the tip of his finger, said to Athos:

“Say this to him in English: ‘You are a coward. You have insulted a defenseless man. You have defouled the face of your king. You must die.’”

Athos, pale as a ghost, repeated these words to the man, who, seeing the bodeful preparations that were making, put himself in an attitude of defense. Aramis, at this movement, drew his sword.

“No,” cried D’Artagnan, “no steel. Steel is for gentlemen.”

And seizing the butcher by the throat:

“Porthos,” said he, “kill this fellow for me with a single blow.”

Porthos raised his terrible fist, which whistled through the air like a sling, and the portentous mass fell with a smothered crash on the insulter’s skull and crushed it. The man fell like an ox beneath the poleaxe. His companions, horror-struck, could neither move nor cry out.

“Tell them this, Athos,” resumed D’Artagnan; “thus shall all die who forget that a captive man is sacred and that a captive king doubly represents the Lord.”

Athos repeated D’Artagnan’s words.

The fellows looked at the body of their companion, swimming in blood, and then recovering voice and legs together, ran screaming off.

“Justice is done,” said Porthos, wiping his forehead.

“And now,” said D’Artagnan to Athos, “entertain no further doubts about me; I undertake all that concerns the king.”

Whitehall.

The parliament condemned Charles to death, as might have been foreseen. Political judgments are generally vain formalities, for the same passions which give rise to the accusation ordain to the condemnation. Such is the atrocious logic of revolutions.

Although our friends were expecting that condemnation, it filled them with grief. D’Artagnan, whose mind was never more fertile in resources than in critical emergencies, swore again that he would try all conceivable means to prevent the denouement of the bloody tragedy. But by what means? As yet he could form no definite plan; all must depend on circumstances. Meanwhile, it was necessary at all hazards, in order to gain time, to put some obstacle in the way of the execution on the following day--the day appointed by the judges. The only way of doing that was to cause the disappearance of the London executioner. The headsman out of the way, the sentence could not be executed. True, they could send for the headsman of the nearest town, but at least a day would be gained, and a day might be sufficient for the rescue. D’Artagnan took upon himself that more than difficult task.

Another thing, not less essential, was to warn Charles Stuart of the attempt to be made, so that he might assist his rescuers as much as possible, or at least do nothing to thwart their efforts. Aramis assumed that perilous charge. Charles Stuart had asked that Bishop Juxon might be permitted to visit him. Mordaunt had called on the bishop that very evening to apprise him of the religious desire expressed by the king and also of Cromwell’s permission. Aramis determined to obtain from the bishop, through fear or by persuasion, consent that he should enter in the bishop’s place, and clad in his sacerdotal robes, the prison at Whitehall.

Finally, Athos undertook to provide, in any event, the means of leaving England--in case either of failure or of success.

The night having come they made an appointment to meet at eleven o’clock at the hotel, and each started out to fulfill his dangerous mission.

The palace of Whitehall was guarded by three regiments of cavalry and by the fierce anxiety of Cromwell, who came and went or sent his generals or his agents continually. Alone in his usual room, lighted by two candles, the condemned monarch gazed sadly on the luxury of his past greatness, just as at the last hour one sees the images of life more mildly brilliant than of yore.

Parry had not quitted his master, and since his condemnation had not ceased to weep. Charles, leaning on a table, was gazing at a medallion of his wife and daughter; he was waiting first for Juxon, then for martyrdom.

At times he thought of those brave French gentlemen who had appeared to him from a distance of a hundred leagues fabulous and unreal, like the forms that appear in dreams. In fact, he sometimes asked himself if all that was happening to him was not a dream, or at least the delirium of a fever. He rose and took a few steps as if to rouse himself from his torpor and went as far as the window; he saw glittering below him the muskets of the guards. He was thereupon constrained to admit that he was indeed awake and that his bloody dream was real.

Charles returned in silence to his chair, rested his elbow on the table, bowed his head upon his hand and reflected.

“Alas!” he said to himself, “if I only had for a confessor one of those lights of the church, whose soul has sounded all the mysteries of life, all the littlenesses of greatness, perhaps his utterance would overawe the voice that wails within my soul. But I shall have a priest of vulgar mind, whose career and fortune I have ruined by my misfortune. He will speak to me of God and death, as he has spoken to many another dying man, not understanding that this one leaves his throne to an usurper, his children to the cold contempt of public charity.”

And he raised the medallion to his lips.

It was a dull, foggy night. A neighboring church clock slowly struck the hour. The flickering light of the two candles showed fitful phantom shadows in the lofty room. These were the ancestors of Charles, standing back dimly in their tarnished frames.

An awful sadness enveloped the heart of Charles. He buried his brow in his hands and thought of the world, so beautiful when one is about to leave it; of the caresses of children, so pleasing and so sweet, especially when one is parting from his children never to see them again; then of his wife, the noble and courageous woman who had sustained him to the last moment. He drew from his breast the diamond cross and the star of the Garter which she had sent him by those generous Frenchmen; he kissed it, and then, as he reflected, that she would never again see those things till he lay cold and mutilated in the tomb, there passed over him one of those icy shivers which may be called forerunners of death.

Then, in that chamber which recalled to him so many royal souvenirs, whither had come so many courtiers, the scene of so much flattering homage, alone with a despairing servant, whose feeble soul could afford no support to his own, the king at last yielded to sorrow, and his courage sank to a level with that feebleness, those shadows, and that wintry cold. That king, who was so grand, so sublime in the hour of death, meeting his fate with a smile of resignation on his lips, now in that gloomy hour wiped away a tear which had fallen on the table and quivered on the gold embroidered cloth.

Suddenly the door opened, an ecclesiastic in episcopal robes entered, followed by two guards, to whom the king waved an imperious gesture. The guards retired; the room resumed its obscurity.

“Juxon!” cried Charles, “Juxon, thank you, my last friend; you come at a fitting moment.”

The bishop looked anxiously at the man sobbing in the ingle-nook.

“Come, Parry,” said the king, “cease your tears.”

“If it’s Parry,” said the bishop, “I have nothing to fear; so allow me to salute your majesty and to tell you who I am and for what I am come.”

At this sight and this voice Charles was about to cry out, when Aramis placed his finger on his lips and bowed low to the king of England.

“The chevalier!” murmured Charles.

“Yes, sire,” interrupted Aramis, raising his voice, “Bishop Juxon, the faithful knight of Christ, obedient to your majesty’s wishes.”

Charles clasped his hands, amazed and stupefied to find that these foreigners, without other motive than that which their conscience imposed on them, thus combated the will of a people and the destiny of a king.

“You!” he said, “you! how did you penetrate hither? If they recognize you, you are lost.”

“Care not for me, sire; think only of yourself. You see, your friends are wakeful. I know not what we shall do yet, but four determined men can do much. Meanwhile, do not be surprised at anything that happens; prepare yourself for every emergency.”

Charles shook his head.

“Do you know that I die to-morrow at ten o’clock?”

“Something, your majesty, will happen between now and then to make the execution impossible.”

The king looked at Aramis with astonishment.

At this moment a strange noise, like the unloading of a cart, and followed by a cry of pain, was heard beneath the window.

“Do you hear?” said the king.

“I hear,” said Aramis, “but I understand neither the noise nor the cry of pain.”

“I know not who can have uttered the cry,” said the king, “but the noise is easily understood. Do you know that I am to be beheaded outside this window? Well, these boards you hear unloaded are the posts and planks to build my scaffold. Some workmen must have fallen underneath them and been hurt.”

Aramis shuddered in spite of himself.

“You see,” said the king, “that it is useless for you to resist. I am condemned; leave me to my death.”

“My king,” said Aramis, “they well may raise a scaffold, but they cannot make an executioner.”

“What do you mean?” asked the king.

“I mean that at this hour the headsman has been got out of the way by force or persuasion. The scaffold will be ready by to-morrow, but the headsman will be wanting and they will put it off till the day after to-morrow.”

“What then?” said the king.

“To-morrow night we shall rescue you.”

“How can that be?” cried the king, whose face was lighted up, in spite of himself, by a flash of joy.

“Oh! sir,” cried Parry, “may you and yours be blessed!”

“How can it be?” repeated the king. “I must know, so that I may assist you if there is any chance.”

“I know nothing about it,” continued Aramis, “but the cleverest, the bravest, the most devoted of us four said to me when I left him, ‘Tell the king that to-morrow at ten o’clock at night, we shall carry him off.’ He has said it and will do it.”

“Tell me the name of that generous friend,” said the king, “that I may cherish for him an eternal gratitude, whether he succeeds or not.”

“D’Artagnan, sire, the same who had so nearly rescued you when Colonel Harrison made his untimely entrance.”

“You are, indeed, wonderful men,” said the king; “if such things had been related to me I should not have believed them.”

“Now, sire,” resumed Aramis, “listen to me. Do not forget for a single instant that we are watching over your safety; observe the smallest gesture, the least bit of song, the least sign from any one near you; watch everything, hear everything, interpret everything.”

“Oh, chevalier!” cried the king, “what can I say to you? There is no word, though it should come from the profoundest depth of my heart, that can express my gratitude. If you succeed I do not say that you will save a king; no, in presence of the scaffold as I am, royalty, I assure you, is a very small affair; but you will save a husband to his wife, a father to his children. Chevalier, take my hand; it is that of a friend who will love you to his last sigh.”

Aramis stooped to kiss the king’s hand, but Charles clasped his and pressed it to his heart.

At this moment a man entered, without even knocking at the door. Aramis tried to withdraw his hand, but the king still held it. The man was one of those Puritans, half preacher and half soldier, who swarmed around Cromwell.

“What do you want, sir?” said the king.

“I desire to know if the confession of Charles Stuart is at an end?” said the stranger.

“And what is it to you?” replied the king; “we are not of the same religion.”

“All men are brothers,” said the Puritan. “One of my brothers is about to die and I come to prepare him.”

“Bear with him,” whispered Aramis; “it is doubtless some spy.”

“After my reverend lord bishop,” said the king to the man, “I shall hear you with pleasure, sir.”

The man retired, but not before examining the supposed Juxon with an attention which did not escape the king.

“Chevalier,” said the king, when the door was closed, “I believe you are right and that this man only came here with evil intentions. Take care that no misfortune befalls you when you leave.”

“I thank your majesty,” said Aramis, “but under these robes I have a coat of mail, a pistol and a dagger.”

“Go, then, sir, and God keep you!”

The king accompanied him to the door, where Aramis pronounced his benediction upon him, and passing through the ante-rooms, filled with soldiers, jumped into his carriage and drove to the bishop’s palace. Juxon was waiting for him impatiently.

“Well?” said he, on perceiving Aramis.

“Everything has succeeded as I expected; spies, guards, satellites, all took me for you, and the king blesses you while waiting for you to bless him.”

“May God protect you, my son; for your example has given me at the same time hope and courage.”

Aramis resumed his own attire and left Juxon with the assurance that he might again have recourse to him.

He had scarcely gone ten yards in the street when he perceived that he was followed by a man, wrapped in a large cloak. He placed his hand on his dagger and stopped. The man came straight toward him. It was Porthos.

“My dear friend,” cried Aramis.

“You see, we had each our mission,” said Porthos; “mine was to guard you and I am doing so. Have you seen the king?”

“Yes, and all goes well.”

“We are to meet our friends at the hotel at eleven.”

It was then striking half-past ten by St. Paul’s.

Arrived at the hotel it was not long before Athos entered.

“All’s well,” he cried, as he entered; “I have hired a cedar wherry, as light as a canoe, as easy on the wing as any swallow. It is waiting for us at Greenwich, opposite the Isle of Dogs, manned by a captain and four men, who for the sum of fifty pounds sterling will keep themselves at our disposition three successive nights. Once on board we drop down the Thames and in two hours are on the open sea. In case I am killed, the captain’s name is Roger and the skiff is called the Lightning. A handkerchief, tied at the four corners, is to be the signal.”

Next moment D’Artagnan entered.

“Empty your pockets,” said he; “I want a hundred pounds, and as for my own----” and he emptied them inside out.

The sum was collected in a minute. D’Artagnan ran out and returned directly after.

“There,” said he, “it’s done. Ough! and not without a deal of trouble, too.”

“Has the executioner left London?” asked Athos.

“Ah, you see that plan was not sure enough; he might go out by one gate and return by another.”

“Where is he, then?”

“In the cellar.”

“The cellar--what cellar?”

“Our landlord’s, to be sure. Musqueton is propped against the door and here’s the key.”

“Bravo!” said Aramis, “how did you manage it?”

“Like everything else, with money; but it cost me dear.”

“How much?” asked Athos.

“Five hundred pounds.”

“And where did you get so much money?” said Athos. “Had you, then, that sum?”

“The queen’s famous diamond,” answered D’Artagnan, with a sigh.

“Ah, true,” said Aramis. “I recognized it on your finger.”

“You bought it back, then, from Monsieur des Essarts?” asked Porthos.

“Yes, but it was fated that I should not keep it.”

“So, then, we are all right as regards the executioner,” said Athos; “but unfortunately every executioner has his assistant, his man, or whatever you call him.”

“And this one had his,” said D’Artagnan; “but, as good luck would have it, just as I thought I should have two affairs to manage, our friend was brought home with a broken leg. In the excess of his zeal he had accompanied the cart containing the scaffolding as far as the king’s window, and one of the crossbeams fell on his leg and broke it.”

“Ah!” cried Aramis, “that accounts for the cry I heard.”

“Probably,” said D’Artagnan, “but as he is a thoughtful young man he promised to send four expert workmen in his place to help those already at the scaffold, and wrote the moment he was brought home to Master Tom Lowe, an assistant carpenter and friend of his, to go down to Whitehall, with three of his friends. Here’s the letter he sent by a messenger, for sixpence, who sold it to me for a guinea.”

“And what on earth are you going to do with it?” asked Athos.

“Can’t you guess, my dear Athos? You, who speak English like John Bull himself, are Master Tom Lowe, we, your three companions. Do you understand it now?”

Athos uttered a cry of joy and admiration, ran to a closet and drew forth workmen’s clothes, which the four friends immediately put on; they then left the hotel, Athos carrying a saw, Porthos a vise, Aramis an axe and D’Artagnan a hammer and some nails.

The letter from the executioner’s assistant satisfied the master carpenter that those were the men he expected.

The Workmen.

Toward midnight Charles heard a great noise beneath his window. It arose from blows of hammer and hatchet, clinking of pincers and cranching of saws.

Lying dressed upon his bed, the noise awoke him with a start and found a gloomy echo in his heart. He could not endure it, and sent Parry to ask the sentinel to beg the workmen to strike more gently and not disturb the last slumber of one who had been their king. The sentinel was unwilling to leave his post, but allowed Parry to pass.

Arriving at the window Parry found an unfinished scaffold, over which they were nailing a covering of black serge. Raised to the height of twenty feet, so as to be on a level with the window, it had two lower stories. Parry, odious as was this sight to him, sought for those among some eight or ten workmen who were making the most noise; and fixed on two men, who were loosening the last hooks of the iron balcony.

“My friends,” said Parry, mounting the scaffold and standing beside them, “would you work a little more quietly? The king wishes to get a sleep.”

One of the two, who was standing up, was of gigantic size and was driving a pick with all his might into the wall, whilst the other, kneeling beside him, was collecting the pieces of stone. The face of the first was lost to Parry in the darkness; but as the second turned around and placed his finger on his lips Parry started back in amazement.

“Very well, very well,” said the workman aloud, in excellent English. “Tell the king that if he sleeps badly to-night he will sleep better to-morrow night.”

These blunt words, so terrible if taken literally, were received by the other workmen with a roar of laughter. But Parry withdrew, thinking he was dreaming.

Charles was impatiently awaiting his return. At the moment he re-entered, the sentinel who guarded the door put his head through the opening, curious as to what the king was doing. The king was lying on his bed, resting on his elbow. Parry closed the door and approaching the king, his face radiant with joy:

“Sire,” he said, in a low voice, “do you know who these workmen are who are making so much noise?”

“I? No; how would you have me know?”

Parry bent his head and whispered to the king: “It is the Comte de la Fere and his friends.”

“Raising my scaffold!” cried the king, astounded.

“Yes, and at the same time making a hole in the wall.”

The king clasped his hands and raised his eyes to Heaven; then leaping down from his bed he went to the window, and pulling aside the curtain tried to distinguish the figures outside, but in vain.

Parry was not wrong. It was Athos he had recognized, and Porthos who was boring a hole through the wall.

This hole communicated with a kind of loft--the space between the floor of the king’s room and the ceiling of the one below it. Their plan was to pass through the hole they were making into this loft and cut out from below a piece of the flooring of the king’s room, so as to form a kind of trap-door.

Through this the king was to escape the next night, and, hidden by the black covering of the scaffold, was to change his dress for that of a workman, slip out with his deliverers, pass the sentinels, who would suspect nothing, and so reach the skiff that was waiting for him at Greenwich.

Day gilded the tops of the houses. The aperture was finished and Athos passed through it, carrying the clothes destined for the king wrapped in black cloth, and the tools with which he was to open a communication with the king’s room. He had only two hours’ work to do to open communication with the king and, according to the calculations of the four friends, they had the entire day before them, since, the executioner being absent, another must be sent for to Bristol.

D’Artagnan returned to change his workman’s clothes for his chestnut-colored suit, and Porthos to put on his red doublet. As for Aramis, he went off to the bishop’s palace to see if he could possibly pass in with Juxon to the king’s presence. All three agreed to meet at noon in Whitehall Place to see how things went on.

Before leaving the scaffold Aramis had approached the opening where Athos was concealed to tell him that he was about to make an attempt to gain another interview with the king.

“Adieu, then, and be of good courage,” said Athos. “Report to the king the condition of affairs. Say to him that when he is alone it will help us if he will knock on the floor, for then I can continue my work in safety. Try, Aramis, to keep near the king. Speak loud, very loud, for they will be listening at the door. If there is a sentinel within the apartment, kill him without hesitation. If there are two, let Parry kill one and you the other. If there are three, let yourself be slain, but save the king.”

“Be easy,” said Aramis; “I will take two poniards and give one to Parry. Is that all?”

“Yes, go; but urge the king strongly not to stand on false generosity. While you are fighting if there is a fight, he must flee. The trap once replaced over his head, you being on the trap, dead or alive, they will need at least ten minutes to find the hole by which he has escaped. In those ten minutes we shall have gained the road and the king will be saved.”

“Everything shall be done as you say, Athos. Your hand, for perhaps we shall not see each other again.”

Athos put his arm around Aramis’s neck and embraced him.

“For you,” he said. “Now if I die, say to D’Artagnan that I love him as a son, and embrace him for me. Embrace also our good and brave Porthos. Adieu.”

“Adieu,” said Aramis. “I am as sure now that the king will be saved as I am sure that I clasp the most loyal hand in the world.”

Aramis parted from Athos, went down from the scaffold in his turn and took his way to the hotel, whistling the air of a song in praise of Cromwell. He found the other two friends sitting at table before a good fire, drinking a bottle of port and devouring a cold chicken. Porthos was cursing the infamous parliamentarians; D’Artagnan ate in silence, revolving in his mind the most audacious plans.

Aramis related what had been agreed upon. D’Artagnan approved with a movement of the head and Porthos with his voice.

“Bravo!” he said; “besides, we shall be there at the time of the flight. What with D’Artagnan, Grimaud and Musqueton, we can manage to dispatch eight of them. I say nothing about Blaisois, for he is only fit to hold the horses. Two minutes a man makes four minutes. Musqueton will lose another, that’s five; and in five minutes we shall have galloped a quarter of a league.”

Aramis swallowed a hasty mouthful, gulped a glass of wine and changed his clothes.

“Now,” said he, “I’m off to the bishop’s. Take care of the executioner, D’Artagnan.”

“All right. Grimaud has relieved Musqueton and has his foot on the cellar door.”

“Well, don’t be inactive.”

“Inactive, my dear fellow! Ask Porthos. I pass my life upon my legs.”

Aramis again presented himself at the bishop’s. Juxon consented the more readily to take him with him, as he would require an assistant priest in case the king should wish to communicate. Dressed as Aramis had been the night before, the bishop got into his carriage, and the former, more disguised by his pallor and sad countenance than his deacon’s dress, got in by his side. The carriage stopped at the door of the palace.

It was about nine o’clock in the morning.

Nothing was changed. The ante-rooms were still full of soldiers, the passages still lined by guards. The king was already sanguine, but when he perceived Aramis his hope turned to joy. He embraced Juxon and pressed the hand of Aramis. The bishop affected to speak in a loud voice, before every one, of their previous interview. The king replied that the words spoken in that interview had borne their fruit, and that he desired another under the same conditions. Juxon turned to those present and begged them to leave him and his assistant alone with the king. Every one withdrew. As soon as the door was closed:

“Sire,” said Aramis, speaking rapidly, “you are saved; the London executioner has vanished. His assistant broke his leg last night beneath your majesty’s window--the cry we heard was his--and there is no executioner nearer at hand than Bristol.”

“But the Comte de la Fere?” asked the king.

“Two feet below you; take the poker from the fireplace and strike three times on the floor. He will answer you.”

The king did so, and the moment after, three muffled knocks, answering the given signal, sounded beneath the floor.

“So,” said Charles, “he who knocks down there----”

“Is the Comte de la Fere, sire,” said Aramis. “He is preparing a way for your majesty to escape. Parry, for his part, will raise this slab of marble and a passage will be opened.”

“Oh, Juxon,” said the king, seizing the bishop’s two hands in his own, “promise that you will pray all your life for this gentleman and for the other that you hear beneath your feet, and for two others also, who, wherever they may be, are on the watch for my safety.”

“Sire,” replied Juxon, “you shall be obeyed.”

Meanwhile, the miner underneath was heard working away incessantly, when suddenly an unexpected noise resounded in the passage. Aramis seized the poker and gave the signal to stop; the noise came nearer and nearer. It was that of a number of men steadily approaching. The four men stood motionless. All eyes were fixed on the door, which opened slowly and with a kind of solemnity.

A parliamentary officer, clothed in black and with a gravity that augured ill, entered, bowed to the king, and unfolding a parchment, read the sentence, as is usually done to criminals before their execution.

“What is this?” said Aramis to Juxon.

Juxon replied with a sign which meant that he knew no more than Aramis about it.

“Then it is for to-day?” asked the king.

“Was not your majesty warned that it was to take place this morning?”

“Then I must die like a common criminal by the hand of the London executioner?”

“The London executioner has disappeared, your majesty, but a man has offered his services instead. The execution will therefore only be delayed long enough for you to arrange your spiritual and temporal affairs.”

A slight moisture on his brow was the only trace of emotion that Charles evinced, as he learned these tidings. But Aramis was livid. His heart ceased beating, he closed his eyes and leaned upon the table. Charles perceived it and took his hand.

“Come, my friend,” said he, “courage.” Then he turned to the officer. “Sir, I am ready. There is but little reason why I should delay you. Firstly, I wish to communicate; secondly, to embrace my children and bid them farewell for the last time. Will this be permitted me?”

“Certainly,” replied the officer, and left the room.

Aramis dug his nails into his flesh and groaned aloud.

“Oh! my lord bishop,” he cried, seizing Juxon’s hands, “where is Providence? where is Providence?”

“My son,” replied the bishop, with firmness, “you see Him not, because the passions of the world conceal Him.”

“My son,” said the king to Aramis, “do not take it so to heart. You ask what God is doing. God beholds your devotion and my martyrdom, and believe me, both will have their reward. Ascribe to men, then, what is happening, and not to God. It is men who drive me to death; it is men who make you weep.”

“Yes, sire,” said Aramis, “yes, you are right. It is men whom I should hold responsible, and I will hold them responsible.”

“Be seated, Juxon,” said the king, falling upon his knees. “I have now to confess to you. Remain, sir,” he added to Aramis, who had moved to leave the room. “Remain, Parry. I have nothing to say that cannot be said before all.”

Juxon sat down, and the king, kneeling humbly before him, began his confession.

Remember!

The mob had already assembled when the confession terminated. The king’s children next arrived--the Princess Charlotte, a beautiful, fair-haired child, with tears in her eyes, and the Duke of Gloucester, a boy eight or nine years old, whose tearless eyes and curling lip revealed a growing pride. He had wept all night long, but would not show his grief before the people.

Charles’s heart melted within him at the sight of those two children, whom he had not seen for two years and whom he now met at the moment of death. He turned to brush away a tear, and then, summoning up all his firmness, drew his daughter toward him, recommending her to be pious and resigned. Then he took the boy upon his knee.

“My son,” he said to him, “you saw a great number of people in the streets as you came here. These men are going to behead your father. Do not forget that. Perhaps some day they will want to make you king, instead of the Prince of Wales, or the Duke of York, your elder brothers. But you are not the king, my son, and can never be so while they are alive. Swear to me, then, never to let them put a crown upon your head unless you have a legal right to the crown. For one day--listen, my son--one day, if you do so, they will doom you to destruction, head and crown, too, and then you will not be able to die with a calm conscience, as I die. Swear, my son.”

The child stretched out his little hand toward that of his father and said, “I swear to your majesty.”

“Henry,” said Charles, “call me your father.”

“Father,” replied the child, “I swear to you that they shall kill me sooner than make me king.”

“Good, my child. Now kiss me; and you, too, Charlotte. Never forget me.”

“Oh! never, never!” cried both the children, throwing their arms around their father’s neck.

“Farewell,” said Charles, “farewell, my children. Take them away, Juxon; their tears will deprive me of the courage to die.”

Juxon led them away, and this time the doors were left open.

Meanwhile, Athos, in his concealment, waited in vain the signal to recommence his work. Two long hours he waited in terrible inaction. A deathlike silence reigned in the room above. At last he determined to discover the cause of this stillness. He crept from his hole and stood, hidden by the black drapery, beneath the scaffold. Peeping out from the drapery, he could see the rows of halberdiers and musketeers around the scaffold and the first ranks of the populace swaying and groaning like the sea.

“What is the matter, then?” he asked himself, trembling more than the wind-swayed cloth he was holding back. “The people are hurrying on, the soldiers under arms, and among the spectators I see D’Artagnan. What is he waiting for? What is he looking at? Good God! have they allowed the headsman to escape?”

Suddenly the dull beating of muffled drums filled the square. The sound of heavy steps was heard above his head. The next moment the very planks of the scaffold creaked with the weight of an advancing procession, and the eager faces of the spectators confirmed what a last hope at the bottom of his heart had prevented him till then believing. At the same moment a well-known voice above him pronounced these words:

“Colonel, I want to speak to the people.”

Athos shuddered from head to foot. It was the king speaking on the scaffold.

In fact, after taking a few drops of wine and a piece of bread, Charles, weary of waiting for death, had suddenly decided to go to meet it and had given the signal for movement. Then the two wings of the window facing the square had been thrown open, and the people had seen silently advancing from the interior of the vast chamber, first, a masked man, who, carrying an axe in his hand, was recognized as the executioner. He approached the block and laid his axe upon it. Behind him, pale indeed, but marching with a firm step, was Charles Stuart, who advanced between two priests, followed by a few superior officers appointed to preside at the execution and attended by two files of partisans who took their places on opposite sides of the scaffold.

The sight of the masked man gave rise to a prolonged sensation. Every one was full of curiosity as to who that unknown executioner could be who presented himself so opportunely to assure to the people the promised spectacle, when the people believed it had been postponed until the following day. All gazed at him searchingly.

But they could discern nothing but a man of middle height, dressed in black, apparently of a certain age, for the end of a gray beard peeped out from the bottom of the mask that hid his features.

The king’s request had undoubtedly been acceded to by an affirmative sign, for in firm, sonorous accents, which vibrated in the depths of Athos’s heart, the king began his speech, explaining his conduct and counseling the welfare of the kingdom.

“Oh!” said Athos to himself, “is it indeed possible that I hear what I hear and that I see what I see? Is it possible that God has abandoned His representative on earth and left him to die thus miserably? And I have not seen him! I have not said adieu to him!”

A noise was heard like that the instrument of death would make if moved upon the block.

“Do not touch the axe,” said the king, and resumed his speech.

At the end of his speech the king looked tenderly around upon the people. Then unfastening the diamond ornament which the queen had sent him, he placed it in the hands of the priest who accompanied Juxon. Then he drew from his breast a little cross set in diamonds, which, like the order, had been the gift of Henrietta Maria.

“Sir,” said he to the priest, “I shall keep this cross in my hand till the last moment. Take it from me when I am--dead.”

“Yes, sire,” said a voice, which Athos recognized as that of Aramis.

He then took his hat from his head and threw it on the ground. One by one he undid the buttons of his doublet, took it off and deposited it by the side of his hat. Then, as it was cold, he asked for his gown, which was brought to him.

All the preparations were made with a frightful calmness. One would have thought the king was going to bed and not to his coffin.

“Will these be in your way?” he said to the executioner, raising his long locks; “if so, they can be tied up.”

Charles accompanied these words with a look designed to penetrate the mask of the unknown headsman. His calm, noble gaze forced the man to turn away his head. But after the searching look of the king he encountered the burning eyes of Aramis.

The king, seeing that he did not reply, repeated his question.

“It will do,” replied the man, in a tremulous voice, “if you separate them across the neck.”

The king parted his hair with his hands, and looking at the block he said:

“This block is very low, is there no other to be had?”

“It is the usual block,” answered the man in the mask.

“Do you think you can behead me with a single blow?” asked the king.

“I hope so,” was the reply. There was something so strange in these three words that everybody, except the king, shuddered.

“I do not wish to be taken by surprise,” added the king. “I shall kneel down to pray; do not strike then.”

“When shall I strike?”

“When I shall lay my head on the block and say ‘Remember!’ then strike boldly.”

“Gentlemen,” said the king to those around him, “I leave you to brave the tempest; I go before you to a kingdom which knows no storms. Farewell.”

He looked at Aramis and made a special sign to him with his head.

“Now,” he continued, “withdraw a little and let me say my prayer, I beseech you. You, also, stand aside,” he said to the masked man. “It is only for a moment and I know that I belong to you; but remember that you are not to strike till I give the signal.”

Then he knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and lowering his face to the planks, as if he would have kissed them, said in a low tone, in French, “Comte de la Fere, are you there?”

“Yes, your majesty,” he answered, trembling.

“Faithful friend, noble heart!” said the king, “I should not have been rescued. I have addressed my people and I have spoken to God; last of all I speak to you. To maintain a cause which I believed sacred I have lost the throne and my children their inheritance. A million in gold remains; it is buried in the cellars of Newcastle Keep. You only know that this money exists. Make use of it, then, whenever you think it will be most useful, for my eldest son’s welfare. And now, farewell.”

“Farewell, saintly, martyred majesty,” lisped Athos, chilled with terror.

A moment’s silence ensued and then, in a full, sonorous voice, the king exclaimed: “Remember!”

He had scarcely uttered the word when a heavy blow shook the scaffold and where Athos stood immovable a warm drop fell upon his brow. He reeled back with a shudder and the same moment the drops became a crimson cataract.

Athos fell on his knees and remained some minutes as if bewildered or stunned. At last he rose and taking his handkerchief steeped it in the blood of the martyred king. Then as the crowd gradually dispersed he leaped down, crept from behind the drapery, glided between two horses, mingled with the crowd and was the first to arrive at the inn.

Having gained his room he raised his hand to his face, and observing that his fingers were covered with the monarch’s blood, fell down insensible.

The Man in the Mask.

The snow was falling thick and icy. Aramis was the next to come in and to discover Athos almost insensible. But at the first words he uttered the comte roused himself from the kind of lethargy in which he had sunk.

“Well,” said Aramis, “beaten by fate!”

“Beaten!” said Athos. “Noble and unhappy king!”

“Are you wounded?” cried Aramis.

“No, this is his blood.”

“Where were you, then?”

“Where you left me--under the scaffold.”

“Did you see it all?”

“No, but I heard all. God preserve me from another such hour as I have just passed.”

“Then you know that I did not leave him?”

“I heard your voice up to the last moment.”

“Here is the order he gave me and the cross I took from his hand; he desired they should be returned to the queen.”

“Then here is a handkerchief to wrap them in,” replied Athos, drawing from his pocket the one he had steeped in the king’s blood.

“And what,” he continued, “has been done with the poor body?”

“By order of Cromwell royal honors will be accorded to it. The doctors are embalming the corpse, and when it is ready it will be placed in a lighted chapel.”

“Mockery,” muttered Athos, savagely; “royal honors to one whom they have murdered!”

“Well, cheer up!” said a loud voice from the staircase, which Porthos had just mounted. “We are all mortal, my poor friends.”

“You are late, my dear Porthos.”

“Yes, there were some people on the way who delayed me. The wretches were dancing. I took one of them by the throat and three-quarters throttled him. Just then a patrol rode up. Luckily the man I had had most to do with was some minutes before he could speak, so I took advantage of his silence to walk off.”

“Have you seen D’Artagnan?”

“We got separated in the crowd and I could not find him again.”

“Oh!” said Athos, satirically, “I saw him. He was in the front row of the crowd, admirably placed for seeing; and as on the whole the sight was curious, he probably wished to stay to the end.”

“Ah Comte de la Fere,” said a calm voice, though hoarse with running, “is it your habit to calumniate the absent?”

This reproof stung Athos to the heart, but as the impression produced by seeing D’Artagnan foremost in a coarse, ferocious crowd had been very strong, he contented himself with replying:

“I am not calumniating you, my friend. They were anxious about you here; I simply told them where you were. You didn’t know King Charles; to you he was only a foreigner and you were not obliged to love him.”

So saying, he stretched out his hand, but the other pretended not to see it and he let it drop again slowly by his side.

“Ugh! I am tired,” cried D’Artagnan, sitting down.

“Drink a glass of port,” said Aramis; “it will refresh you.”

“Yes, let us drink,” said Athos, anxious to make it up by hobnobbing with D’Artagnan, “let us drink and get away from this hateful country. The felucca is waiting for us, you know; let us leave to-night, we have nothing more to do here.”

“You are in a hurry, sir count,” said D’Artagnan.

“But what would you have us to do here, now that the king is dead?”

“Go, sir count,” replied D’Artagnan, carelessly; “you see nothing to keep you a little longer in England? Well, for my part, I, a bloodthirsty ruffian, who can go and stand close to a scaffold, in order to have a better view of the king’s execution--I remain.”

Athos turned pale. Every reproach his friend uttered struck deeply in his heart.

“Ah! you remain in London?” said Porthos.

“Yes. And you?”

“Hang it!” said Porthos, a little perplexed between the two, “I suppose, as I came with you, I must go away with you. I can’t leave you alone in this abominable country.”

“Thanks, my worthy friend. So I have a little adventure to propose to you when the count is gone. I want to find out who was the man in the mask, who so obligingly offered to cut the king’s throat.”

“A man in a mask?” cried Athos. “You did not let the executioner escape, then?”

“The executioner is still in the cellar, where, I presume, he has had an interview with mine host’s bottles. But you remind me. Musqueton!”

“Sir,” answered a voice from the depths of the earth.

“Let out your prisoner. All is over.”

“But,” said Athos, “who is the wretch that has dared to raise his hand against his king?”

“An amateur headsman,” replied Aramis, “who however, does not handle the axe amiss.”

“Did you not see his face?” asked Athos.

“He wore a mask.”

“But you, Aramis, who were close to him?”

“I could see nothing but a gray beard under the fringe of the mask.”

“Then it must be a man of a certain age.”

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “that matters little. When one puts on a mask, it is not difficult to wear a beard under it.”

“I am sorry I did not follow him,” said Porthos.

“Well, my dear Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “that’s the very thing it came into my head to do.”

Athos understood all now.

“Pardon me, D’Artagnan,” he said. “I have distrusted God; I could the more easily distrust you. Pardon me, my friend.”

“We will see about that presently,” said D’Artagnan, with a slight smile.

“Well, then?” said Aramis.

“Well, while I was watching--not the king, as monsieur le comte thinks, for I know what it is to see a man led to death, and though I ought to be accustomed to the sight it always makes me ill--while I was watching the masked executioner, the idea came to me, as I said, to find out who he was. Now, as we are wont to complete ourselves each by all the rest and to depend on one another for assistance, as one calls his other hand to aid the first, I looked around instinctively to see if Porthos was there; for I had seen you, Aramis, with the king, and you, count, I knew would be under the scaffold, and for that reason I forgive you,” he added, offering Athos his hand, “for you must have suffered much. I was looking around for Porthos when I saw near me a head which had been broken, but which, for better or worse, had been patched with plaster and with black silk. ‘Humph!’ thought I, ‘that looks like my handiwork; I fancy I must have mended that skull somewhere or other.’ And, in fact, it was that unfortunate Scotchman, Parry’s brother, you know, on whom Groslow amused himself by trying his strength. Well, this man was making signs to another at my left, and turning around I recognized the honest Grimaud. ‘Oh!’ said I to him. Grimaud turned round with a jerk, recognized me, and pointed to the man in the mask. ‘Eh!’ said he, which meant, ‘Do you see him?’ ‘Parbleu!’ I answered, and we perfectly understood one another. Well, everything was finished as you know. The mob dispersed. I made a sign to Grimaud and the Scotchman, and we all three retired into a corner of the square. I saw the executioner return into the king’s room, change his clothes, put on a black hat and a large cloak and disappear. Five minutes later he came down the grand staircase.”

‘You followed him?” cried Athos.

“I should think so, but not without difficulty. Every few minutes he turned around, and thus obliged us to conceal ourselves. I might have gone up to him and killed him. But I am not selfish, and I thought it might console you all a little to have a share in the matter. So we followed him through the lowest streets in the city, and in half an hour’s time he stopped before a little isolated house. Grimaud drew out a pistol. ‘Eh?’ said he, showing it. I held back his arm. The man in the mask stopped before a low door and drew out a key; but before he placed it in the lock he turned around to see if he was being followed. Grimaud and I got behind a tree, and the Scotchman having nowhere to hide himself, threw himself on his face in the road. Next moment the door opened and the man disappeared.”

“The scoundrel!” said Aramis. “While you have been returning hither he will have escaped and we shall never find him.”

“Come, now, Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “you must be taking me for some one else.”

“Nevertheless,” said Athos, “in your absence----”

“Well, in my absence haven’t I put in my place Grimaud and the Scotchman? Before he had taken ten steps beyond the door I had examined the house on all sides. At one of the doors, that by which he had entered, I placed our Scotchman, making a sign to him to follow the man wherever he might go, if he came out again. Then going around the house I placed Grimaud at the other exit, and here I am. Our game is beaten up. Now for the tally-ho.”

Athos threw himself into D’Artagnan’s arms.

“Friend,” he said, “you have been too good in pardoning me; I was wrong, a hundred times wrong. I ought to have known you better by this time; but we are all possessed of a malignant spirit, which bids us doubt.”

“Humph!” said Porthos. “Don’t you think the executioner might be Master Cromwell, who, to make sure of this affair, undertook it himself?”

“Ah! just so. Cromwell is stout and short, and this man thin and lanky, rather tall than otherwise.”

“Some condemned soldier, perhaps,” suggested Athos, “whom they have pardoned at the price of regicide.”

“No, no,” continued D’Artagnan, “it was not the measured step of a foot soldier, nor was it the gait of a horseman. If I am not mistaken we have to do with a gentleman.”

“A gentleman!” exclaimed Athos. “Impossible! It would be a dishonor to all the nobility.”

“Fine sport, by Jove!” cried Porthos, with a laugh that shook the windows. “Fine sport!”

“Are you still bent on departure, Athos?” asked D’Artagnan.

“No, I remain,” replied Athos, with a threatening gesture that promised no good to whomsoever it was addressed.

“Swords, then!” cried Aramis, “swords! let us not lose a moment.”

The four friends resumed their own clothes, girded on their swords, ordered Musqueton and Blaisois to pay the bill and to arrange everything for immediate departure, and wrapped in their large cloaks left in search of their game.

The night was dark, snow was falling, the streets were silent and deserted. D’Artagnan led the way through the intricate windings and narrow alleys of the city and ere long they had reached the house in question. For a moment D’Artagnan thought that Parry’s brother had disappeared; but he was mistaken. The robust Scotchman, accustomed to the snows of his native hills, had stretched himself against a post, and like a fallen statue, insensible to the inclemency of the weather, had allowed the snow to cover him. He rose, however, as they approached.

“Come,” said Athos, “here’s another good servant. Really, honest men are not so scarce as I thought.”

“Don’t be in a hurry to weave crowns for our Scotchman. I believe the fellow is here on his own account, for I have heard that these gentlemen born beyond the Tweed are very vindictive. I should not like to be Groslow, if he meets him.”

“Well?” said Athos, to the man, in English.

“No one has come out,” he replied.

“Then, Porthos and Aramis, will you remain with this man while we go around to Grimaud?”

Grimaud had made himself a kind of sentry box out of a hollow willow, and as they drew near he put his head out and gave a low whistle.

“Soho!” cried Athos.

“Yes,” said Grimaud.

“Well, has anybody come out?”

“No, but somebody has gone in.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“Ah! ah!” said D’Artagnan, “there are two of them, then!”

“I wish there were four,” said Athos; “the two parties would then be equal.”

“Perhaps there are four,” said D’Artagnan.

“What do you mean?”

“Other men may have entered before them and waited for them.”

“We can find out,” said Grimaud. At the same time he pointed to a window, through the shutters of which a faint light streamed.

“That is true,” said D’Artagnan, “let us call the others.”

They returned around the house to fetch Porthos and Aramis.

“Have you seen anything?” they asked.

“No, but we are going to,” replied D’Artagnan, pointing to Grimaud, who had already climbed some five or six feet from the ground.

All four came up together. Grimaud continued to climb like a cat and succeeded at last in catching hold of a hook, which served to keep one of the shutters back when opened. Then resting his foot on a small ledge he made a sign to show all was right.

“Well?” asked D’Artagnan.

Grimaud showed his closed hand, with two fingers spread out.

“Speak,” said Athos; “we cannot see your signs. How many are there?”

“Two. One opposite to me, the other with his back to me.”

“Good. And the man opposite to you is----

“The man I saw go in.”

“Do you know him?”

“I thought I recognized him, and was not mistaken. Short and stout.”

“Who is it?” they all asked together in a low tone.

“General Oliver Cromwell.”

The four friends looked at one another.

“And the other?” asked Athos.

“Thin and lanky.”

“The executioner,” said D’Artagnan and Aramis at the same time.

“I can see nothing but his back,” resumed Grimaud. “But wait. He is moving; and if he has taken off his mask I shall be able to see. Ah----”

And as if struck in the heart he let go the hook and dropped with a groan.

“Did you see him?” they all asked.

Yes,” said Grimaud, with his hair standing on end.

“The thin, spare man?”

“Yes.”

“The executioner, in short?” asked Aramis.

“Yes.”

“And who is it?” said Porthos.

“He--he--is----” murmured Grimaud, pale as a ghost and seizing his master’s hand.

“Who? He?” asked Athos.

“Mordaunt,” replied Grimaud.

D’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis uttered a cry of joy.

Athos stepped back and passed his hand across his brow.

“Fatality!” he muttered.

Cromwell’s House.

It was, in fact, Mordaunt whom D’Artagnan had followed, without knowing it. On entering the house he had taken off his mask and imitation beard, then, mounting a staircase, had opened a door, and in a room lighted by a single lamp found himself face to face with a man seated behind a desk.

This man was Cromwell.

Cromwell had two or three of these retreats in London, unknown except to the most intimate of his friends. Mordaunt was among these.

“It is you, Mordaunt,” he said. “You are late.”

“General, I wished to see the ceremony to the end, which delayed me.”

“Ah! I scarcely thought you were so curious as that.”

“I am always curious to see the downfall of your honor’s enemies, and he was not among the least of them. But you, general, were you not at Whitehall?”

“No,” said Cromwell.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Have you had any account of it?”

“None. I have been here since the morning. I only know that there was a conspiracy to rescue the king.”

“Ah, you knew that?” said Mordaunt.

“It matters little. Four men, disguised as workmen, were to get the king out of prison and take him to Greenwich, where a vessel was waiting.”

“And knowing all that, your honor remained here, far from the city, tranquil and inactive.”

“Tranquil, yes,” replied Cromwell. “But who told you I was inactive?”

“But--if the plot had succeeded?”

“I wished it to do so.”

“I thought your excellence considered the death of Charles I. as a misfortune necessary to the welfare of England.”

“Yes, his death; but it would have been more seemly not upon the scaffold.”

“Why so?” asked Mordaunt.

Cromwell smiled. “Because it could have been said that I had had him condemned for the sake of justice and had let him escape out of pity.”

“But if he had escaped?”

“Impossible; my precautions were taken.”

“And does your honor know the four men who undertook to rescue him?”

“The four Frenchmen, of whom two were sent by the queen to her husband and two by Mazarin to me.”

“And do you think Mazarin commissioned them to act as they have done?”

“It is possible. But he will not avow it.”

“How so?”

“Because they failed.”

“Your honor gave me two of these Frenchmen when they were only guilty of fighting for Charles I. Now that they are guilty of a conspiracy against England will your honor give me all four of them?”

“Take them,” said Cromwell.

Mordaunt bowed with a smile of triumphant ferocity.

“Did the people shout at all?” Cromwell asked.

“Very little, except ‘Long live Cromwell!’”

“Where were you placed?”

Mordaunt tried for a moment to read in the general’s face if this was simply a useless question, or whether he knew everything. But his piercing eyes could by no means penetrate the sombre depths of Cromwell’s.

“I was so situated as to hear and see everything,” he answered.

It was now Cromwell’s turn to look fixedly at Mordaunt, and Mordaunt to make himself impenetrable.

“It appears,” said Cromwell, “that this improvised executioner did his duty remarkably well. The blow, so they tell me at least, was struck with a master’s hand.”

Mordaunt remembered that Cromwell had told him he had had no detailed account, and he was now quite convinced that the general had been present at the execution, hidden behind some screen or curtain.

“In fact,” said Mordaunt, with a calm voice and immovable countenance, “a single blow sufficed.”

“Perhaps it was some one in that occupation,” said Cromwell.

“Do you think so, sir? He did not look like an executioner.”

“And who else save an executioner would have wished to fill that horrible office?”

“But,” said Mordaunt, “it might have been some personal enemy of the king, who had made a vow of vengeance and accomplished it in this way. Perhaps it was some man of rank who had grave reasons for hating the fallen king, and who, learning that the king was about to flee and escape him, threw himself in the way, with a mask on his face and an axe in his hand, not as substitute for the executioner, but as an ambassador of Fate.”

“Possibly.”

“And if that were the case would your honor condemn his action?”

“It is not for me to judge. It rests between his conscience and his God.”

“But if your honor knew this man?”

“I neither know nor wish to know him. Provided Charles is dead, it is the axe, not the man, we must thank.”

“And yet, without the man, the king would have been rescued.”

Cromwell smiled.

“They would have carried him to Greenwich,” he said, “and put him on board a felucca with five barrels of powder in the hold. Once out to sea, you are too good a politician not to understand the rest, Mordaunt.”

“Yes, they would have all been blown up.”

“Just so. The explosion would have done what the axe had failed to do. Men would have said that the king had escaped human justice and been overtaken by God’s. You see now why I did not care to know your gentleman in the mask; for really, in spite of his excellent intentions, I could not thank him for what he has done.”

Mordaunt bowed humbly. “Sir,” he said, “you are a profound thinker and your plan was sublime.”

“Say absurd, since it has become useless. The only sublime ideas in politics are those which bear fruit. So to-night, Mordaunt, go to Greenwich and ask for the captain of the felucca Lightning. Show him a white handkerchief knotted at the four corners and tell the crew to disembark and carry the powder back to the arsenal, unless, indeed----”

“Unless?” said Mordaunt, whose face was lighted by a savage joy as Cromwell spoke:

“This skiff might be of use to you for personal projects.”

“Oh, my lord, my lord!”

“That title,” said Cromwell, laughing, “is all very well here, but take care a word like that does not escape your lips in public.”

“But your honor will soon be called so generally.”

“I hope so, at least,” said Cromwell, rising and putting on his cloak.

“You are going, sir?”

“Yes,” said Cromwell. “I slept here last night and the night before, and you know it is not my custom to sleep three times in the same bed.”

“Then,” said Mordaunt, “your honor gives me my liberty for to-night?”

“And even for all day to-morrow, if you want it. Since last evening,” he added, smiling, “you have done enough in my service, and if you have any personal matters to settle it is just that I should give you time.”

“Thank you, sir; it will be well employed, I hope.”

Cromwell turned as he was going.

“Are you armed?” he asked.

“I have my sword.”

“And no one waiting for you outside?”

“No.”

“Then you had better come with me.”

“Thank you, sir, but the way by the subterranean passage would take too much time and I have none to lose.”

Cromwell placed his hand on a hidden handle and opened a door so well concealed by the tapestry that the most practiced eye could not have discovered it. It closed after him with a spring. This door communicated with a subterranean passage, leading under the street to a grotto in the garden of a house about a hundred yards from that of the future Protector.

It was just before this that Grimaud had perceived the two men seated together.

D’Artagnan was the first to recover from his surprise.

“Mordaunt,” he cried. “Ah! by Heaven! it is God Himself who sent us here.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, “let us break the door in and fall upon him.”

“No,” replied D’Artagnan, “no noise. Now, Grimaud, you come here, climb up to the window again and tell us if Mordaunt is alone and whether he is preparing to go out or go to bed. If he comes out we shall catch him. If he stays in we will break in the window. It is easier and less noisy than the door.”

Grimaud began to scale the wall again.

“Keep guard at the other door, Athos and Aramis. Porthos and I will stay here.”

The friends obeyed.

“He is alone,” said Grimaud.

“We did not see his companion come out.”

“He may have gone by the other door.”

“What is he doing?”

“Putting on his cloak and gloves.”

“He’s ours,” muttered D’Artagnan.

Porthos mechanically drew his dagger from the scabbard.

“Put it up again, my friend,” said D’Artagnan. “We must proceed in an orderly manner.”

“Hush!” said Grimaud, “he is coming out. He has put out the lamp, I can see nothing now.”

“Get down then and quickly.”

Grimaud leaped down. The snow deadened the noise of his fall.

“Now go and tell Athos and Aramis to stand on each side of the door and clap their hands if they catch him. We will do the same.”

The next moment the door opened and Mordaunt appeared on the threshold, face to face with D’Artagnan. Porthos clapped his hands and the other two came running around. Mordaunt was livid, but he uttered no cry nor called for assistance. D’Artagnan quietly pushed him in again, and by the light of a lamp on the staircase made him ascend the steps backward one by one, keeping his eyes all the time on Mordaunt’s hands, who, however, knowing that it was useless, attempted no resistance. At last they stood face to face in the very room where ten minutes before Mordaunt had been talking to Cromwell.

Porthos came up behind, and unhooking the lamp on the staircase relit that in the room. Athos and Aramis entered last and locked the door behind them.

“Oblige me by taking a seat,” said D’Artagnan, pushing a chair toward Mordaunt, who sat down, pale but calm. Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan drew their chairs near him. Athos alone kept away and sat in the furthest corner of the room, as if determined to be merely a spectator of the proceedings. He seemed to be quite overcome. Porthos rubbed his hands in feverish impatience. Aramis bit his lips till the blood came.

D’Artagnan alone was calm, at least in appearance.

“Monsieur Mordaunt,” he said, “since, after running after one another so long, chance has at last brought us together, let us have a little conversation, if you please.”

Conversational.

Though Mordaunt had been so completely taken by surprise and had mounted the stairs in such utter confusion, when once seated he recovered himself, as it were, and prepared to seize any possible opportunity of escape. His eye wandered to a long stout sword on his flank and he instinctively slipped it around within reach of his right hand.

D’Artagnan was waiting for a reply to his remark and said nothing. Aramis muttered to himself, “We shall hear nothing but the usual commonplace things.”

Porthos sucked his mustache, muttering, “A good deal of ceremony to-night about crushing an adder.” Athos shrunk into his corner, pale and motionless as a bas-relief.

The silence, however, could not last forever. So D’Artagnan began:

“Sir,” he said, with desperate politeness, “it seems to me that you change your costume almost as rapidly as I have seen the Italian mummers do, whom the Cardinal Mazarin brought over from Bergamo and whom he doubtless took you to see during your travels in France.”

Mordaunt did not reply.

“Just now,” D’Artagnan continued, “you were disguised--I mean to say, attired--as a murderer, and now----”

“And now I look very much like a man who is going to be murdered.”

“Oh! sir,” said D’Artagnan, “how can you talk like that when you are in the company of gentlemen and have such an excellent sword at your side?”

“No sword is excellent enough to be of use against four swords and daggers.”

“Well, that is scarcely the question. I had the honor of asking you why you altered your costume. The mask and beard became you very well, and as to the axe, I do not think it would be out of keeping even at this moment. Why, then, have you laid it aside?”

“Because, remembering the scene at Armentieres, I thought I should find four axes for one, as I was to meet four executioners.”

“Sir,” replied D’Artagnan, in the calmest manner possible, “you are very young; I shall therefore overlook your frivolous remarks. What took place at Armentieres has no connection whatever with the present occasion. We could scarcely have requested your mother to take a sword and fight us.”

“Aha! It is a duel, then?” cried Mordaunt, as if disposed to reply at once to the provocation.

Porthos rose, always ready for this kind of adventure.

“Pardon me,” said D’Artagnan. “Do not let us do things in a hurry. We will arrange the matter rather better. Confess, Monsieur Mordaunt, that you are anxious to kill some of us.”

“All,” replied Mordaunt.

“Then, my dear sir; I am convinced that these gentlemen return your kind wishes and will be delighted to kill you also. Of course they will do so as honorable gentlemen, and the best proof I can furnish is this----”

So saying, he threw his hat on the ground, pushed back his chair to the wall and bowed to Mordaunt with true French grace.

“At your service, sir,” he continued. “My sword is shorter than yours, it’s true, but, bah! I think the arm will make up for the sword.”

“Halt!” cried Porthos coming forward. “I begin, and without any rhetoric.”

“Allow me, Porthos,” said Aramis.

Athos did not move. He might have been taken for a statue. Even his breathing seemed to be arrested.

“Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “you shall have your turn. Monsieur Mordaunt dislikes you sufficiently not to refuse you afterward. You can see it in his eye. So pray keep your places, like Athos, whose calmness is entirely laudable. Besides, we will have no words about it. I have particular business to settle with this gentleman and I shall and will begin.”

Porthos and Aramis drew back, disappointed, and drawing his sword D’Artagnan turned to his adversary:

“Sir, I am waiting for you.”

“And for my part, gentlemen, I admire you. You are disputing which shall fight me first, but you do not consult me who am most concerned in the matter. I hate you all, but not equally. I hope to kill all four of you, but I am more likely to kill the first than the second, the second than the third, and the third than the last. I claim, then, the right to choose my opponent. If you refuse this right you may kill me, but I shall not fight.”

“It is but fair,” said Porthos and Aramis, hoping he would choose one of them.

Athos and D’Artagnan said nothing, but their silence seemed to imply consent.

“Well, then,” said Mordaunt, “I choose for my adversary the man who, not thinking himself worthy to be called Comte de la Fere, calls himself Athos.”

Athos sprang up, but after an instant of motionless silence he said, to the astonishment of his friends, “Monsieur Mordaunt, a duel between us is impossible. Submit this honour to somebody else.” And he sat down.

“Ah!” said Mordaunt, with a sneer, “there’s one who is afraid.”

“Zounds!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, bounding toward him, “who says that Athos is afraid?”

“Let him have his say, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, with a smile of sadness and contempt.

“Is it your decision, Athos?” resumed the Gascon.

“Irrevocably.”

“You hear, sir,” said D’Artagnan, turning to Mordaunt. “The Comte de la Fere will not do you the honor of fighting with you. Choose one of us to replace the Comte de la Fere.”

“As long as I don’t fight with him it is the same to me with whom I fight. Put your names into a hat and draw lots.”

“A good idea,” said D’Artagnan.

“At least that will conciliate us all,” said Aramis.

“I should never have thought of that,” said Porthos, “and yet it is very simple.”

“Come, Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “write this for us in those neat little characters in which you wrote to Marie Michon that the mother of this gentleman intended to assassinate the Duke of Buckingham.”

Mordaunt sustained this new attack without wincing. He stood with his arms folded, apparently as calm as any man could be in such circumstances. If he had not courage he had what is very like it, namely, pride.

Aramis went to Cromwell’s desk, tore off three bits of paper of equal size, wrote on the first his own name and on the others those of his two companions, and presented them open to Mordaunt, who by a movement of his head indicated that he left the matter entirely to Aramis. He then rolled them separately and put them in a hat, which he handed to Mordaunt.

Mordaunt put his hand into the hat, took out one of the three papers and disdainfully dropped it on the table without reading it.

“Ah! serpent,” muttered D’Artagnan, “I would give my chance of a captaincy in the mousquetaires for that to be my name.”

Aramis opened the paper, and in a voice trembling with hate and vengeance read “D’Artagnan.”

The Gascon uttered a cry of joy and turning to Mordaunt:

“I hope, sir,” said he, “you have no objection to make.”

“None, whatever,” replied the other, drawing his sword and resting the point on his boot.

The moment that D’Artagnan saw that his wish was accomplished and his man would not escape him, he recovered his usual tranquillity. He turned up his cuffs neatly and rubbed the sole of his right boot on the floor, but did not fail, however, to remark that Mordaunt was looking about him in a singular manner.

“Are you ready, sir?” he said at last.

“I was waiting for you, sir,” said Mordaunt, raising his head and casting at his opponent a look it would be impossible to describe.

“Well, then,” said the Gascon, “take care of yourself, for I am not a bad hand at the rapier.”

“Nor I either.”

“So much the better; that sets my mind at rest. Defend yourself.”

“One minute,” said the young man. “Give me your word, gentlemen, that you will not attack me otherwise than one after the other.”

“Is it to have the pleasure of insulting us that you say that, my little viper?”

“No, but to set my mind at rest, as you observed just now.”

“It is for something else than that, I imagine,” muttered D’Artagnan, shaking his head doubtfully.

“On the honor of gentlemen,” said Aramis and Porthos.

“In that case, gentlemen, have the kindness to retire into the corners, so as to give us ample room. We shall require it.”

“Yes, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “we must not leave this person the slightest pretext for behaving badly, which, with all due respect, I fancy he is anxious still to do.”

This new attack made no impression on Mordaunt. The space was cleared, the two lamps placed on Cromwell’s desk, in order that the combatants might have as much light as possible; and the swords crossed.

D’Artagnan was too good a swordsman to trifle with his opponent. He made a rapid and brilliant feint which Mordaunt parried.

“Aha!” he cried with a smile of satisfaction.

And without losing a minute, thinking he saw an opening, he thrust his right in and forced Mordaunt to parry a counter en quarte so fine that the point of the weapon might have turned within a wedding ring.

This time it was Mordaunt who smiled.

“Ah, sir,” said D’Artagnan, “you have a wicked smile. It must have been the devil who taught it you, was it not?”

Mordaunt replied by trying his opponent’s weapon with an amount of strength which the Gascon was astonished to find in a form apparently so feeble; but thanks to a parry no less clever than that which Mordaunt had just achieved, he succeeded in meeting his sword, which slid along his own without touching his chest.

Mordaunt rapidly sprang back a step.

“Ah! you lose ground, you are turning? Well, as you please, I even gain something by it, for I no longer see that wicked smile of yours. You have no idea what a false look you have, particularly when you are afraid. Look at my eyes and you will see what no looking-glass has ever shown you--a frank and honorable countenance.”

To this flow of words, not perhaps in the best taste, but characteristic of D’Artagnan, whose principal object was to divert his opponent’s attention, Mordaunt did not reply, but continuing to turn around he succeeded in changing places with D’Artagnan.

He smiled more and more sarcastically and his smile began to make the Gascon anxious.

“Come, come,” cried D’Artagnan, “we must finish with this,” and in his turn he pressed Mordaunt hard, who continued to lose ground, but evidently on purpose and without letting his sword leave the line for a moment. However, as they were fighting in a room and had not space to go on like that forever, Mordaunt’s foot at last touched the wall, against which he rested his left hand.

“Ah, this time you cannot lose ground, my fine friend!” exclaimed D’Artagnan. “Gentlemen, did you ever see a scorpion pinned to a wall? No. Well, then, you shall see it now.”

In a second D’Artagnan had made three terrible thrusts at Mordaunt, all of which touched, but only pricked him. The three friends looked on, panting and astonished. At last D’Artagnan, having got up too close, stepped back to prepare a fourth thrust, but the moment when, after a fine, quick feint, he was attacking as sharply as lightning, the wall seemed to give way, Mordaunt disappeared through the opening, and D’Artagnan’s blade, caught between the panels, shivered like a sword of glass. D’Artagnan sprang back; the wall had closed again.

Mordaunt, in fact, while defending himself, had manoeuvred so as to reach the secret door by which Cromwell had left, had felt for the knob with his left hand, pressed it and disappeared.

The Gascon uttered a furious imprecation, which was answered by a wild laugh on the other side of the iron panel.

“Help me, gentlemen,” cried D’Artagnan, “we must break in this door.”

“It is the devil in person!” said Aramis, hastening forward.

“He escapes us,” growled Porthos, pushing his huge shoulder against the hinges, but in vain. “‘Sblood! he escapes us.”

“So much the better,” muttered Athos.

“I thought as much,” said D’Artagnan, wasting his strength in useless efforts. “Zounds, I thought as much when the wretch kept moving around the room. I thought he was up to something.”

“It’s a misfortune, to which his friend, the devil, treats us,” said Aramis.

“It’s a piece of good fortune sent from Heaven,” said Athos, evidently much relieved.

“Really!” said D’Artagnan, abandoning the attempt to burst open the panel after several ineffectual attempts, “Athos, I cannot imagine how you can talk to us in that way. You cannot understand the position we are in. In this kind of game, not to kill is to let one’s self be killed. This fox of a fellow will be sending us a hundred iron-sided beasts who will pick us off like sparrows in this place. Come, come, we must be off. If we stay here five minutes more there’s an end of us.”

“Yes, you are right.”

“But where shall we go?” asked Porthos.

“To the hotel, to be sure, to get our baggage and horses; and from there, if it please God, to France, where, at least, I understand the architecture of the houses.”

So, suiting the action to the word, D’Artagnan thrust the remnant of his sword into its scabbard, picked up his hat and ran down the stairs, followed by the others.

The Skiff “Lightning.”

D’Artagnan had judged correctly; Mordaunt felt that he had no time to lose, and he lost none. He knew the rapidity of decision and action that characterized his enemies and resolved to act with reference to that. This time the musketeers had an adversary who was worthy of them.

After closing the door carefully behind him Mordaunt glided into the subterranean passage, sheathing on the way his now useless sword, and thus reached the neighboring house, where he paused to examine himself and to take breath.

“Good!” he said, “nothing, almost nothing--scratches, nothing more; two in the arm and one in the breast. The wounds that I make are better than that--witness the executioner of Bethune, my uncle and King Charles. Now, not a second to lose, for a second lost will perhaps save them. They must die--die all together--killed at one stroke by the thunder of men in default of God’s. They must disappear, broken, scattered, annihilated. I will run, then, till my legs no longer serve, till my heart bursts in my bosom but I will arrive before they do.”

Mordaunt proceeded at a rapid pace to the nearest cavalry barracks, about a quarter of a league distant. He made that quarter of a league in four or five minutes. Arrived at the barracks he made himself known, took the best horse in the stables, mounted and gained the high road. A quarter of an hour later he was at Greenwich.

“There is the port,” he murmured. “That dark point yonder is the Isle of Dogs. Good! I am half an hour in advance of them, an hour, perhaps. Fool that I was! I have almost killed myself by my needless haste. Now,” he added, rising in the stirrups and looking about him, “which, I wonder, is the Lightning?”

At this moment, as if in reply to his words, a man lying on a coil of cables rose and advanced a few steps toward him. Mordaunt drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and tying a knot at each corner--the signal agreed upon--waved it in the air and the man came up to him. He was wrapped in a large rough cape, which concealed his form and partly his face.

“Do you wish to go on the water, sir?” said the sailor.

“Yes, just so. Along the Isle of Dogs.”

“And perhaps you have a preference for one boat more than another. You would like one that sails as rapidly as----”

“Lightning,” interrupted Mordaunt.

“Then mine is the boat you want, sir. I’m your man.”

“I begin to think so, particularly if you have not forgotten a certain signal.”

“Here it is, sir,” and the sailor took from his coat a handkerchief, tied at each corner.

“Good, quite right!” cried Mordaunt, springing off his horse. “There’s not a moment to lose; now take my horse to the nearest inn and conduct me to your vessel.”

“But,” asked the sailor, “where are your companions? I thought there were four of you.”

“Listen to me, sir. I’m not the man you take me for; you are in Captain Rogers’s post, are you not? under orders from General Cromwell. Mine, also, are from him!”

“Indeed, sir, I recognize you; you are Captain Mordaunt.”

Mordaunt was startled.

“Oh, fear nothing,” said the skipper, showing his face. “I am a friend.”

“Captain Groslow!” cried Mordaunt.

“Himself. The general remembered that I had formerly been a naval officer and he gave me the command of this expedition. Is there anything new in the wind?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought, perhaps, that the king’s death----”

“Has only hastened their flight; in ten minutes they will perhaps be here.”

“What have you come for, then?”

“To embark with you.”

“Ah! ah! the general doubted my fidelity?”

“No, but I wish to have a share in my revenge. Haven’t you some one who will relieve me of my horse?”

Groslow whistled and a sailor appeared.

“Patrick,” said Groslow, “take this horse to the stables of the nearest inn. If any one asks you whose it is you can say that it belongs to an Irish gentleman.”

The sailor departed without reply.

“Now,” said Mordaunt, “are you not afraid that they will recognize you?”

“There is no danger, dressed as I am in this pilot coat, on a night as dark as this. Besides even you didn’t recognize me; they will be much less likely to.”

“That is true,” said Mordaunt, “and they will be far from thinking of you. Everything is ready, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“The cargo on board?”

“Yes.”

“Five full casks?”

“And fifty empty ones.”

“Good.”

“We are carrying port wine to Anvers.”

“Excellent. Now take me aboard and return to your post, for they will soon be here.”

“I am ready.”

“It is important that none of your crew should see me.”

“I have but one man on board, and I am as sure of him as I am of myself. Besides, he doesn’t know you; like his mates he is ready to obey our orders knowing nothing of our plan.”

“Very well; let us go.”

They then went down to the Thames. A boat was fastened to the shore by a chain fixed to a stake. Groslow jumped in, followed by Mordaunt, and in five minutes they were quite away from that world of houses which then crowded the outskirts of London; and Mordaunt could discern the little vessel riding at anchor near the Isle of Dogs. When they reached the side of this felucca, Mordaunt, dexterous in his eagerness for vengeance, seized a rope and climbed up the side of the vessel with a coolness and agility very rare among landsmen. He went with Groslow to the captain’s berth, a sort of temporary cabin of planks, for the chief apartment had been given up by Captain Rogers to the passengers, who were to be accommodated at the other end of the boat.

“They will have nothing to do, then at this end?” said Mordaunt.

“Nothing at all.”

“That’s a capital arrangement. Return to Greenwich and bring them here. I shall hide myself in your cabin. You have a longboat?”

“That in which we came.”

“It appeared light and well constructed.”

“Quite a canoe.”

“Fasten it to the poop with a rope; put the oars into it, so that it may follow in the track and there will be nothing to do except to cut the cord. Put a good supply of rum and biscuit in it for the seamen; should the night happen to be stormy they will not be sorry to find something to console themselves with.”

“Consider all this done. Do you wish to see the powder-room?”

“No. When you return I will set the fuse myself, but be careful to conceal your face, so that you cannot be recognized by them.”

“Never fear.”

“There’s ten o’clock striking at Greenwich.”

Groslow, then, having given the sailor on duty an order to be on the watch with more than usual vigilance, went down into the longboat and soon reached Greenwich. The wind was chilly and the jetty was deserted, as he approached it; but he had no sooner landed than he heard a noise of horses galloping upon the paved road.

These horsemen were our friends, or rather, an avant garde, composed of D’Artagnan and Athos. As soon as they arrived at the spot where Groslow stood they stopped, as if guessing that he was the man they wanted. Athos alighted and calmly opened the handkerchief tied at each corner, whilst D’Artagnan, ever cautious, remained on horseback, one hand upon his pistol, leaning forward watchfully.

On seeing the appointed signal, Groslow, who had at first crept behind one of the cannon planted on that spot, walked straight up to the gentlemen. He was so well wrapped up in his cloak that it would have been impossible to see his face even if the night had not been so dark as to render precaution superfluous; nevertheless, the keen glance of Athos perceived at once it was not Rogers who stood before them.

“What do you want with us?” he asked of Groslow.

“I wish to inform you, my lord,” replied Groslow, with an Irish accent, feigned of course, “that if you are looking for Captain Rogers you will not find him. He fell down this morning and broke his leg. But I’m his cousin; he told me everything and desired me to watch instead of him, and in his place to conduct, wherever they wished to go, the gentlemen who should bring me a handkerchief tied at each corner, like that one which you hold and one which I have in my pocket.”

And he drew out the handkerchief.

“Was that all he said?” inquired Athos.

“No, my lord; he said you had engaged to pay seventy pounds if I landed you safe and sound at Boulogne or any other port you choose in France.”

“What do you think of all this?” said Athos, in a low tone to D’Artagnan, after explaining to him in French what the sailor had said in English.

“It seems a likely story to me.”

“And to me, too.”

“Besides, we can but blow out his brains if he proves false,” said the Gascon; “and you, Athos, you know something of everything and can be our captain. I dare say you know how to navigate, should he fail us.”

“My dear friend, you guess well. My father meant me for the navy and I have some vague notions about navigation.”

“You see!” cried D’Artagnan.

They then summoned their friends, who, with Blaisois, Musqueton and Grimaud, promptly joined them, leaving Parry behind them, who was to take back to London the horses of the gentlemen and of their lackeys, which had been sold to the host in settlement of their account with him. Thanks to this stroke of business the four friends were able to take away with them a sum of money which, if not large, was sufficient as a provision against delays and accidents.

Parry parted from his friends regretfully; they had proposed his going with them to France, but he had straightway declined.

“It is very simple,” Musqueton had said; “he is thinking of Groslow.”

It was Captain Groslow, the reader will remember, who had broken Parry’s head.

D’Artagnan resumed immediately the attitude of distrust that was habitual with him. He found the wharf too completely deserted, the night too dark, the captain too accommodating. He had reported to Aramis what had taken place, and Aramis, not less distrustful than he, had increased his suspicions. A slight click of the tongue against his teeth informed Athos of the Gascon’s uneasiness.

“We have no time now for suspicions,” said Athos. “The boat is waiting for us; come.”

“Besides,” said Aramis, “what prevents our being distrustful and going aboard at the same time? We can watch the skipper.”

“And if he doesn’t go straight I will crush him, that’s all.”

“Well said, Porthos,” replied D’Artagnan. “Let us go, then. You first, Musqueton,” and he stopped his friends, directing the valets to go first, in order to test the plank leading from the pier to the boat.

The three valets passed without accident. Athos followed them, then Porthos, then Aramis. D’Artagnan went last, still shaking his head.

“What in the devil is the matter with you, my friend?” said Porthos. “Upon my word you would make Caesar afraid.”

“The matter is,” replied D’Artagnan, “that I can see upon this pier neither inspector nor sentinel nor exciseman.”

“And you complain of that!” said Porthos. “Everything goes as if in flowery paths.”

“Everything goes too well, Porthos. But no matter; we must trust in God.”

As soon as the plank was withdrawn the captain took his place at the tiller and made a sign to one of the sailors, who, boat-hook in hand, began to push out from the labyrinth of boats in which they were involved. The other sailor had already seated himself on the port side and was ready to row. As soon as there was room for rowing, his companion rejoined him and the boat began to move more rapidly.

“At last we are off!” exclaimed Porthos.

“Alas,” said Athos, “we depart alone.”

“Yes; but all four together and without a scratch; which is a consolation.”

“We are not yet at our destination,” observed the prudent D’Artagnan; “beware of misadventure.”

“Ah, my friend!” cried Porthos, “like the crows, you always bring bad omens. Who could intercept us on such a night as this, pitch dark, when one does not see more than twenty yards before one?”

“Yes, but to-morrow morning----”

“To-morrow we shall be at Boulogne.”

“I hope so, with all my heart,” said the Gascon, “and I confess my weakness. Yes, Athos, you may laugh, but as long as we were within gunshot of the pier or of the vessels lying by it I was looking for a frightful discharge of musketry which would crush us.”

“But,” said Porthos, with great wisdom, “that was impossible, for they would have killed the captain and the sailors.”

“Bah! much Monsieur Mordaunt would care. You don’t imagine he would consider a little thing like that?”

“At any rate,” said Porthos, “I am glad to hear D’Artagnan admit that he is afraid.”

“I not only confess it, but am proud of it,” returned the Gascon; “I’m not such a rhinoceros as you are. Oho! what’s that?”

“The Lightning,” answered the captain, “our felucca.”

“So far, so good,” laughed Athos.

They went on board and the captain instantly conducted them to the berth prepared for them--a cabin which was to serve for all purposes and for the whole party; he then tried to slip away under pretext of giving orders to some one.

“Stop a moment,” cried D’Artagnan; “pray how many men have you on board, captain?”

“I don’t understand,” was the reply.

“Explain it, Athos.”

Groslow, on the question being interpreted, answered, “Three, without counting myself.”

D’Artagnan understood, for while replying the captain had raised three fingers. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “I begin to be more at my ease, however, whilst you settle yourselves, I shall make the round of the boat.”

“As for me,” said Porthos, “I will see to the supper.”

“A very good idea, Porthos,” said the Gascon. “Athos lend me Grimaud, who in the society of his friend Parry has perhaps picked up a little English, and can act as my interpreter.”

“Go, Grimaud,” said Athos.

D’Artagnan, finding a lantern on the deck, took it up and with a pistol in his hand he said to the captain, in English, “Come,” (being, with the classic English oath, the only English words he knew), and so saying he descended to the lower deck.

This was divided into three compartments--one which was covered by the floor of that room in which Athos, Porthos and Aramis were to pass the night; the second was to serve as the sleeping-room for the servants, the third, under the prow of the ship, was under the temporary cabin in which Mordaunt was concealed.

“Oho!” cried D’Artagnan, as he went down the steps of the hatchway, preceded by the lantern, “what a number of barrels! one would think one was in the cave of Ali Baba. What is there in them?” he added, putting his lantern on one of the casks.

The captain seemed inclined to go upon deck again, but controlling himself he answered:

“Port wine.”

“Ah! port wine! ’tis a comfort,” said the Gascon, “since we shall not die of thirst. Are they all full?”

Grimaud translated the question, and Groslow, who was wiping the perspiration from off his forehead, answered:

“Some full, others empty.”

D’Artagnan struck the barrels with his hand, and having ascertained that he spoke the truth, pushed his lantern, greatly to the captain’s alarm, into the interstices between the barrels, and finding that there was nothing concealed in them:

“Come along,” he said; and he went toward the door of the second compartment.

“Stop!” said the Englishman, “I have the key of that door;” and he opened the door, with a trembling hand, into the second compartment, where Musqueton and Blaisois were preparing supper.

Here there was evidently nothing to seek or to apprehend and they passed rapidly to examine the third compartment.

This was the room appropriated to the sailors. Two or three hammocks hung upon the ceiling, a table and two benches composed the entire furniture. D’Artagnan picked up two or three old sails hung on the walls, and meeting nothing to suspect, regained by the hatchway the deck of the vessel.

“And this room?” he asked, pointing to the captain’s cabin.

“That’s my room,” replied Groslow.

“Open the door.”

The captain obeyed. D’Artagnan stretched out his arm in which he held the lantern, put his head in at the half opened door, and seeing that the cabin was nothing better than a shed:

“Good,” he said. “If there is an army on board it is not here that it is hidden. Let us see what Porthos has found for supper.” And thanking the captain, he regained the state cabin, where his friends were.

Porthos had found nothing, and with him fatigue had prevailed over hunger. He had fallen asleep and was in a profound slumber when D’Artagnan returned. Athos and Aramis were beginning to close their eyes, which they half opened when their companion came in again.

“Well!” said Aramis.

“All is well; we may sleep tranquilly.”

On this assurance the two friends fell asleep; and D’Artagnan, who was very weary, bade good-night to Grimaud and laid himself down in his cloak, with naked sword at his side, in such a manner that his body barricaded the passage, and it should be impossible to enter the room without upsetting him.

Port Wine.

In ten minutes the masters slept; not so the servants---hungry, and more thirsty than hungry.

Blaisois and Musqueton set themselves to preparing their bed which consisted of a plank and a valise. On a hanging table, which swung to and fro with the rolling of the vessel, were a pot of beer and three glasses.

“This cursed rolling!” said Blaisois. “I know it will serve me as it did when we came over.”

“And to think,” said Musqueton, “that we have nothing to fight seasickness with but barley bread and hop beer. Pah!”

“But where is your wicker flask, Monsieur Musqueton? Have you lost it?” asked Blaisois.

“No,” replied Musqueton, “Parry kept it. Those devilish Scotchmen are always thirsty. And you, Grimaud,” he said to his companion, who had just come in after his round with D’Artagnan, “are you thirsty?”

“As thirsty as a Scotchman!” was Grimaud’s laconic reply.

And he sat down and began to cast up the accounts of his party, whose money he managed.

“Oh, lackadaisy! I’m beginning to feel queer!” cried Blaisois.

“If that’s the case,” said Musqueton, with a learned air, “take some nourishment.”

“Do you call that nourishment?” said Blaisois, pointing to the barley bread and pot of beer upon the table.

“Blaisois,” replied Musqueton, “remember that bread is the true nourishment of a Frenchman, who is not always able to get bread, ask Grimaud.”

“Yes, but beer?” asked Blaisois sharply, “is that their true drink?”

“As to that,” answered Musqueton, puzzled how to get out of the difficulty, “I must confess that to me beer is as disagreeable as wine is to the English.”

“What! Monsieur Musqueton! The English--do they dislike wine?”

“They hate it.”

“But I have seen them drink it.”

“As a punishment. For example, an English prince died one day because they had put him into a butt of Malmsey. I heard the Chevalier d’Herblay say so.”

“The fool!” cried Blaisois, “I wish I had been in his place.”

“Thou canst be,” said Grimaud, writing down his figures.

“How?” asked Blaisois, “I can? Explain yourself.”

Grimaud went on with his sum and cast up the whole.

“Port,” he said, extending his hand in the direction of the first compartment examined by D’Artagnan and himself.

“Eh? eh? ah? Those barrels I saw through the door?”

“Port!” replied Grimaud, beginning a fresh sum.

“I have heard,” said Blaisois, “that port is a very good wine.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Musqueton, smacking his lips. “Excellent; there is port wine in the cellar of Monsieur le Baron de Bracieux.”

“Suppose we ask these Englishmen to sell us a bottle,” said the honest Blaisois.

“Sell!” cried Musqueton, about whom there was a remnant of his ancient marauding character left. “One may well perceive, young man, that you are inexperienced. Why buy what one can take?”

“Take!” said Blaisois; “covet the goods of your neighbor? That is forbidden, it seems to me.”

“Where forbidden?” asked Musqueton.

“In the commandments of God, or of the church, I don’t know which. I only know it says, ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods, nor yet his wife.’”

“That is a child’s reason, Monsieur Blaisois,” said Musqueton in his most patronizing manner. “Yes, you talk like a child--I repeat the word. Where have you read in the Scriptures, I ask you, that the English are your neighbors?”

“Where, that is true,” said Blaisois; “at least, I can’t now recall it.”

“A child’s reason--I repeat it,” continued Musqueton. “If you had been ten years engaged in war, as Grimaud and I have been, my dear Blaisois, you would know the difference there is between the goods of others and the goods of enemies. Now an Englishman is an enemy; this port wine belongs to the English, therefore it belongs to us.”

“And our masters?” asked Blaisois, stupefied by this harangue, delivered with an air of profound sagacity, “will they be of your opinion?”

Musqueton smiled disdainfully.

“I suppose that you think it necessary that I should disturb the repose of these illustrious lords to say, ‘Gentlemen, your servant, Musqueton, is thirsty.’ What does Monsieur Bracieux care, think you, whether I am thirsty or not?”

“‘Tis a very expensive wine,” said Blaisois, shaking his head.

“Were it liquid gold, Monsieur Blaisois, our masters would not deny themselves this wine. Know that Monsieur de Bracieux is rich enough to drink a tun of port wine, even if obliged to pay a pistole for every drop.” His manner became more and more lofty every instant; then he arose and after finishing off the beer at one draught he advanced majestically to the door of the compartment where the wine was. “Ah! locked!” he exclaimed; “these devils of English, how suspicious they are!”

“Locked!” said Blaisois; “ah! the deuce it is; unlucky, for my stomach is getting more and more upset.”

“Locked!” repeated Musqueton.

“But,” Blaisois ventured to say, “I have heard you relate, Monsieur Musqueton, that once on a time, at Chantilly, you fed your master and yourself by taking partridges in a snare, carp with a line, and bottles with a slipnoose.”

“Perfectly true; but there was an airhole in the cellar and the wine was in bottles. I cannot throw the loop through this partition nor move with a pack-thread a cask of wine which may perhaps weigh two hundred pounds.”

“No, but you can take out two or three boards of the partition,” answered Blaisois, “and make a hole in the cask with a gimlet.”

Musqueton opened his great round eyes to the utmost, astonished to find in Blaisois qualities for which he did not give him credit.

“‘Tis true,” he said; “but where can I get a chisel to take the planks out, a gimlet to pierce the cask?”

“Trousers,” said Grimaud, still squaring his accounts.

“Ah, yes!” said Musqueton.

Grimaud, in fact, was not only the accountant, but the armorer of the party; and as he was a man full of forethought, these trousers, carefully rolled up in his valise, contained every sort of tool for immediate use.

Musqueton, therefore, was soon provided with tools and he began his task. In a few minutes he had extracted three boards. He tried to pass his body through the aperture, but not being like the frog in the fable, who thought he was larger than he really was, he found he must take out three or four more before he could get through.

He sighed and set to work again.

Grimaud had now finished his accounts. He arose and stood near Musqueton.

“I,” he said.

“What?” said Musqueton.

“I can pass.”

“That is true,” said Musqueton, glancing at his friend’s long and thin body, “you will pass easily.”

“And he knows the full casks,” said Blaisois, “for he has already been in the hold with Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan. Let Monsieur Grimaud go in, Monsieur Mouston.”

“I could go in as well as Grimaud,” said Musqueton, a little piqued.

“Yes, but that would take too much time and I am thirsty. I am getting more and more seasick.”

“Go in, then, Grimaud,” said Musqueton, handing him the beer pot and gimlet.

“Rinse the glasses,” said Grimaud. Then with a friendly gesture toward Musqueton, that he might forgive him for finishing an enterprise so brilliantly begun by another, he glided like a serpent through the opening and disappeared.

Blaisois was in a state of great excitement; he was in ecstasies. Of all the exploits performed since their arrival in England by the extraordinary men with whom he had the honor to be associated, this seemed without question to be the most wonderful.

“You are about to see” said Musqueton, looking at Blaisois with an expression of superiority which the latter did not even think of questioning, “you are about to see, Blaisois, how we old soldiers drink when we are thirsty.”

“My cloak,” said Grimaud, from the bottom of the hold.

“What do you want?” asked Blaisois.

“My cloak--stop up the aperture with it.”

“Why?” asked Blaisois.

“Simpleton!” exclaimed Musqueton; “suppose any one came into the room.”

“Ah, true,” cried Blaisois, with evident admiration; “but it will be dark in the cellar.”

“Grimaud always sees, dark or light, night as well as day,” answered Musqueton.

“That is lucky,” said Blaisois. “As for me, when I have no candle I can’t take two steps without knocking against something.”

“That’s because you haven’t served,” said Musqueton. “Had you been in the army you would have been able to pick up a needle on the floor of a closed oven. But hark! I think some one is coming.”

Musqueton made, with a low whistling sound, the sign of alarm well known to the lackeys in the days of their youth, resumed his place at the table and made a sign to Blaisois to follow his example.

Blaisois obeyed.

The door of their cabin was opened. Two men, wrapped in their cloaks, appeared.

“Oho!” said they, “not in bed at a quarter past eleven. That’s against all rules. In a quarter of an hour let every one be in bed and snoring.”

These two men then went toward the compartment in which Grimaud was secreted; opened the door, entered and shut it after them.

“Ah!” cried Blaisois, “he is lost!”

“Grimaud’s a cunning fellow,” murmured Musqueton.

They waited for ten minutes, during which time no noise was heard that might indicate that Grimaud was discovered, and at the expiration of that anxious interval the two men returned, closed the door after them, and repeating their orders that the servants should go to bed and extinguish their lights, disappeared.

“Shall we obey?” asked Blaisois. “All this looks suspicious.”

“They said a quarter of an hour. We still have five minutes,” replied Musqueton.

“Suppose we warn the masters.”

“Let’s wait for Grimaud.”

“But perhaps they have killed him.”

“Grimaud would have cried out.”

“You know he is almost dumb.”

“We should have heard the blow, then.”

“But if he doesn’t return?”

“Here he is.”

At that very moment Grimaud drew back the cloak which hid the aperture and came in with his face livid, his eyes staring wide open with terror, so that the pupils were contracted almost to nothing, with a large circle of white around them. He held in his hand a tankard full of a dark substance, and approaching the gleam of light shed by the lamp he uttered this single monosyllable: “Oh!” with such an expression of extreme terror that Musqueton started, alarmed, and Blaisois was near fainting from fright.

Both, however, cast an inquisitive glance into the tankard--it was full of gunpowder.

Convinced that the ship was full of powder instead of having a cargo of wine, Grimaud hastened to awake D’Artagnan, who had no sooner beheld him than he perceived that something extraordinary had taken place. Imposing silence, Grimaud put out the little night lamp, then knelt down and poured into the lieutenant’s ear a recital melodramatic enough not to require play of feature to give it pith.

This was the gist of his strange story:

The first barrel that Grimaud had found on passing into the compartment he struck--it was empty. He passed on to another--it, also, was empty, but the third which he tried was, from the dull sound it gave out, evidently full. At this point Grimaud stopped and was preparing to make a hole with his gimlet, when he found a spigot; he therefore placed his tankard under it and turned the spout; something, whatever it was the cask contained, fell silently into the tankard.

Whilst he was thinking that he should first taste the liquor which the tankard contained before taking it to his companions, the door of the cellar opened and a man with a lantern in his hands and enveloped in a cloak, came and stood just before the hogshead, behind which Grimaud, on hearing him come in, instantly crept. This was Groslow. He was accompanied by another man, who carried in his hand something long and flexible rolled up, resembling a washing line. His face was hidden under the wide brim of his hat. Grimaud, thinking that they had come, as he had, to try the port wine, effaced himself behind his cask and consoled himself with the reflection that if he were discovered the crime was not a great one.

“Have you the wick?” asked the one who carried the lantern.

“Here it is,” answered the other.

At the voice of this last speaker, Grimaud started and felt a shudder creeping through his very marrow. He rose gently, so that his head was just above the round of the barrel, and under the large hat he recognized the pale face of Mordaunt.

“How long will this fuse burn?” asked this person.

“About five minutes,” replied the captain.

That voice also was known to Grimaud. He looked from one to the other and after Mordaunt he recognized Groslow.

“Then tell the men to be in readiness--don’t tell them why now. When the clock strikes a quarter after midnight collect your men. Get down into the longboat.”

“That is, when I have lighted the match?”

“I will undertake that. I wish to be sure of my revenge. Are the oars in the boat?”

“Everything is ready.”

“‘Tis well.”

Mordaunt knelt down and fastened one end of the train to the spigot, in order that he might have nothing to do but to set it on fire at the opposite end with the match.

He then arose.

“You hear me--at a quarter past midnight--in fact, in twenty minutes.”

“I understand all perfectly, sir,” replied Groslow; “but allow me to say there is great danger in what you undertake; would it not be better to intrust one of the men to set fire to the train?”

“My dear Groslow,” answered Mordaunt, “you know the French proverb, ‘Nothing one does not do one’s self is ever well done.’ I shall abide by that rule.”

Grimaud had heard all this, if he had not understood it. But what he saw made good what he lacked in perfect comprehension of the language. He had seen the two mortal enemies of the musketeers, had seen Mordaunt adjust the fuse; he had heard the proverb, which Mordaunt had given in French. Then he felt and felt again the contents of the tankard he held in his hand; and, instead of the lively liquor expected by Blaisois and Musqueton, he found beneath his fingers the grains of some coarse powder.

Mordaunt went away with the captain. At the door he stopped to listen.

“Do you hear how they sleep?” he asked.

In fact, Porthos could be heard snoring through the partition.

“‘Tis God who gives them into our hands,” answered Groslow.

“This time the devil himself shall not save them,” rejoined Mordaunt.

And they went out together.

End of the Port Wine Mystery.

Grimaud waited till he heard the bolt grind in the lock and when he was satisfied that he was alone he slowly rose from his recumbent posture.

“Ah!” he said, wiping with his sleeve large drops of sweat from his forehead, “how lucky it was that Musqueton was thirsty!”

He made haste to pass out by the opening, still thinking himself in a dream; but the sight of the gunpowder in the tankard proved to him that his dream was a fatal nightmare.

It may be imagined that D’Artagnan listened to these details with increasing interest; before Grimaud had finished he rose without noise and putting his mouth to Aramis’s ear, and at the same time touching him on the shoulder to prevent a sudden movement:

“Chevalier,” he said, “get up and don’t make the least noise.”

Aramis awoke. D’Artagnan, pressing his hand, repeated his call. Aramis obeyed.

“Athos is near you,” said D’Artagnan; “warn him as I have warned you.”

Aramis easily aroused Athos, whose sleep was light, like that of all persons of a finely organized constitution. But there was more difficulty in arousing Porthos. He was beginning to ask full explanation of that breaking in on his sleep, which was very annoying to him, when D’Artagnan, instead of explaining, closed his mouth with his hand.

Then our Gascon, extending his arms, drew to him the heads of his three friends till they almost touched one another.

“Friends,” he said, “we must leave this craft at once or we are dead men.”

“Bah!” said Athos, “are you still afraid?”

“Do you know who is captain of this vessel?”

“No.”

“Captain Groslow.”

The shudder of the three musketeers showed to D’Artagnan that his words began to make some impression on them.

“Groslow!” said Aramis; “the devil!

“Who is this Groslow?” asked Porthos. “I don’t remember him.”

“Groslow is the man who broke Parry’s head and is now getting ready to break ours.”

“Oh! oh!”

“And do you know who is his lieutenant?”

“His lieutenant? There is none,” said Athos. “They don’t have lieutenants in a felucca manned by a crew of four.”

“Yes, but Monsieur Groslow is not a captain of the ordinary kind; he has a lieutenant, and that lieutenant is Monsieur Mordaunt.”

This time the musketeers did more than shudder--they almost cried out. Those invincible men were subject to a mysterious and fatal influence which that name had over them; the mere sound of it filled them with terror.

“What shall we do?” said Athos.

“We must seize the felucca,” said Aramis.

“And kill him,” said Porthos.

“The felucca is mined,” said D’Artagnan. “Those casks which I took for casks of port wine are filled with powder. When Mordaunt finds himself discovered he will destroy all, friends and foes; and on my word he would be bad company in going either to Heaven or to hell.”

“You have some plan, then?” asked Athos.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Have you confidence in me?”

“Give your orders,” said the three musketeers.

“Wry well; come this way.”

D’Artagnan went toward a very small, low window, just large enough to let a man through. He turned it gently on its hinges.

“There,” he said, “is our road.”

“The deuce! it is a very cold one, my dear friend,” said Aramis.

“Stay here, if you like, but I warn you ’twill be rather too warm presently.”

“But we cannot swim to the shore.”

“The longboat is yonder, lashed to the felucca. We will take possession of it and cut the cable. Come, my friends.”

“A moment’s delay,” said Athos; “our servants?”

“Here we are!” they cried.

Meantime the three friends were standing motionless before the awful sight which D’Artagnan, in raising the shutters, had disclosed to them through the narrow opening of the window.

Those who have once beheld such a spectacle know that there is nothing more solemn, more striking, than the raging sea, rolling, with its deafening roar, its dark billows beneath the pale light of a wintry moon.

“Gracious Heaven, we are hesitating!” cried D’Artagnan; “if we hesitate what will the servants do?”

“I do not hesitate, you know,” said Grimaud.

“Sir,” interposed Blaisois, “I warn you that I can only swim in rivers.”

“And I not at all,” said Musqueton.

But D’Artagnan had now slipped through the window.

“You have decided, friend?” said Athos.

“Yes,” the Gascon answered; “Athos! you, who are a perfect being, bid spirit triumph over body. Do you, Aramis, order the servants. Porthos, kill every one who stands in your way.”

And after pressing the hand of Athos, D’Artagnan chose a moment when the ship rolled backward, so that he had only to plunge into the water, which was already up to his waist.

Athos followed him before the felucca rose again on the waves; the cable which tied the boat to the vessel was then seen plainly rising out of the sea.

D’Artagnan swam to it and held it, suspending himself by this rope, his head alone out of water.

In one second Athos joined him.

Then they saw, as the felucca turned, two other heads peeping, those of Aramis and Grimaud.

“I am uneasy about Blaisois,” said Athos; “he can, he says, only swim in rivers.”

“When people can swim at all they can swim anywhere. To the boat! to the boat!”

“But Porthos, I do not see him.”

“Porthos is coming--he swims like Leviathan.”

In fact, Porthos did not appear; for a scene, half tragedy and half comedy, had been performed by him with Musqueton and Blaisois, who, frightened by the noise of the sea, by the whistling of the wind, by the sight of that dark water yawning like a gulf beneath them, shrank back instead of going forward.

“Come, come!” said Porthos; “jump in.”

“But, monsieur,” said Musqueton, “I can’t swim; let me stay here.”

“And me, too, monsieur,” said Blaisois.

“I assure you, I shall be very much in the way in that little boat,” said Musqueton.

“And I know I shall drown before reaching it,” continued Blaisois.

“Come along! I shall strangle you both if you don’t get out,” said Porthos at last, seizing Musqueton by the throat. “Forward, Blaisois!”

A groan, stifled by the grasp of Porthos, was all the reply of poor Blaisois, for the giant, taking him neck and heels, plunged him into the water headforemost, pushing him out of the window as if he had been a plank.

“Now, Musqueton,” he said, “I hope you don’t mean to desert your master?”

“Ah, sir,” replied Musqueton, his eyes filling with tears, “why did you re-enter the army? We were all so happy in the Chateau de Pierrefonds!”

And without any other complaint, passive and obedient, either from true devotion to his master or from the example set by Blaisois, Musqueton leaped into the sea headforemost. A sublime action, at all events, for Musqueton looked upon himself as dead. But Porthos was not a man to abandon an old servant, and when Musqueton rose above the water, blind as a new-born puppy, he found he was supported by the large hand of Porthos and that he was thus enabled, without having occasion even to move, to advance toward the cable with the dignity of a very triton.

In a few minutes Porthos had rejoined his companions, who were already in the boat; but when, after they had all got in, it came to his turn, there was great danger that in putting his huge leg over the edge of the boat he would upset the little vessel. Athos was the last to enter.

“Are you all here?” he asked.

“Ah! have you your sword, Athos?” cried D’Artagnan.

“Yes.”

“Cut the cable, then.”

Athos drew a sharp poniard from his belt and cut the cord. The felucca went on, the boat continued stationary, rocked only by the swashing waves.

“Come, Athos!” said D’Artagnan, giving his hand to the count; “you are going to see something curious,” added the Gascon.

Fatality.

Scarcely had D’Artagnan uttered these words when a ringing and sudden noise was heard resounding through the felucca, which had now become dim in the obscurity of the night.

“That, you may be sure,” said the Gascon, “means something.”

They then at the same instant perceived a large lantern carried on a pole appear on the deck, defining the forms of shadows behind it.

Suddenly a terrible cry, a cry of despair, was wafted through space; and as if the shrieks of anguish had driven away the clouds, the veil which hid the moon was cleated away and the gray sails and dark shrouds of the felucca were plainly visible beneath the silvery light.

Shadows ran, as if bewildered, to and fro on the vessel, and mournful cries accompanied these delirious walkers. In the midst of these screams they saw Mordaunt upon the poop with a torch in hand.

The agitated figures, apparently wild with terror, consisted of Groslow, who at the hour fixed by Mordaunt had collected his men and the sailors. Mordaunt, after having listened at the door of the cabin to hear if the musketeers were still asleep, had gone down into the cellar, convinced by their silence that they were all in a deep slumber. Then he had run to the train, impetuous as a man who is excited by revenge, and full of confidence, as are those whom God blinds, he had set fire to the wick of nitre.

All this while Groslow and his men were assembled on deck.

“Haul up the cable and draw the boat to us,” said Groslow.

One of the sailors got down the side of the ship, seized the cable, and drew it; it came without the least resistance.

“The cable is cut!” he cried, “no boat!”

“How! no boat!” exclaimed Groslow; “it is impossible.”

“‘Tis true, however,” answered the sailor; “there’s nothing in the wake of the ship; besides, here’s the end of the cable.”

“What’s the matter?” cried Mordaunt, who, coming up out of the hatchway, rushed to the stern, waving his torch.

“Only that our enemies have escaped; they have cut the cord and gone off with the boat.”

Mordaunt bounded with one step to the cabin and kicked open the door.

“Empty!” he exclaimed; “the infernal demons!”

“We must pursue them,” said Groslow, “they can’t be gone far, and we will sink them, passing over them.”

“Yes, but the fire,” ejaculated Mordaunt; “I have lighted it.”

“Ten thousand devils!” cried Groslow, rushing to the hatchway; “perhaps there is still time to save us.”

Mordaunt answered only by a terrible laugh, threw his torch into the sea and plunged in after it. The instant Groslow put his foot upon the hatchway steps the ship opened like the crater of a volcano. A burst of flame rose toward the skies with an explosion like that of a hundred cannon; the air burned, ignited by flaming embers, then the frightful lightning disappeared, the brands sank, one after another, into the abyss, where they were extinguished, and save for a slight vibration in the air, after a few minutes had elapsed one would have thought that nothing had happened.

Only--the felucca had disappeared from the surface of the sea and Groslow and his three sailors were consumed.

The four friends saw all this--not a single detail of this fearful scene escaped them. At one moment, bathed as they were in a flood of brilliant light, which illumined the sea for the space of a league, they might each be seen, each by his own peculiar attitude and manner expressing the awe which, even in their hearts of bronze, they could not help experiencing. Soon a torrent of vivid sparks fell around them--then, at last, the volcano was extinguished--then all was dark and still--the floating bark and heaving ocean.

They sat silent and dejected.

“By Heaven!” at last said Athos, the first to speak, “by this time, I think, all must be over.”

“Here, my lords! save me! help!” cried a voice, whose mournful accents, reaching the four friends, seemed to proceed from some phantom of the ocean.

All looked around; Athos himself stared.

“‘Tis he! it is his voice!”

All still remained silent, the eyes of all were turned in the direction where the vessel had disappeared, endeavoring in vain to penetrate the darkness. After a minute or two they were able to distinguish a man, who approached them, swimming vigorously.

Athos extended his arm toward him, pointing him out to his companions.

“Yes, yes, I see him well enough,” said D’Artagnan.

“He--again!” cried Porthos, who was breathing like a blacksmith’s bellows; “why, he is made of iron.”

“Oh, my God!” muttered Athos.

Aramis and D’Artagnan whispered to each other.

Mordaunt made several strokes more, and raising his arm in sign of distress above the waves: “Pity, pity on me, gentlemen, in Heaven’s name! my strength is failing me; I am dying.”

The voice that implored aid was so piteous that it awakened pity in the heart of Athos.

“Poor fellow!” he exclaimed.

“Indeed!” said D’Artagnan, “monsters have only to complain to gain your sympathy. I believe he’s swimming toward us. Does he think we are going to take him in? Row, Porthos, row.” And setting the example he plowed his oar into the sea; two strokes took the bark on twenty fathoms further.

“Oh! you will not abandon me! You will not leave me to perish! You will not be pitiless!” cried Mordaunt.

“Ah! ah!” said Porthos to Mordaunt, “I think we have you now, my hero! and there are no doors by which you can escape this time but those of hell.”

“Oh! Porthos!” murmured the Comte de la Fere.

“Oh, pray, for mercy’s sake, don’t fly from me. For pity’s sake!” cried the young man, whose agony-drawn breath at times, when his head went under water, under the wave, exhaled and made the icy waters bubble.

D’Artagnan, however, who had consulted with Aramis, spoke to the poor wretch. “Go away,” he said; “your repentance is too recent to inspire confidence. See! the vessel in which you wished to fry us is still smoking; and the situation in which you are is a bed of roses compared to that in which you wished to place us and in which you have placed Monsieur Groslow and his companions.”

“Sir!” replied Mordaunt, in a tone of deep despair, “my penitence is sincere. Gentlemen, I am young, scarcely twenty-three years old. I was drawn on by a very natural resentment to avenge my mother. You would have done what I did.”

Mordaunt wanted now only two or three fathoms to reach the boat, for the approach of death seemed to give him supernatural strength.

“Alas!” he said, “I am then to die? You are going to kill the son, as you killed the mother! Surely, if I am culpable and if I ask for pardon, I ought to be forgiven.”

Then, as if his strength failed him, he seemed unable to sustain himself above the water and a wave passed over his head, which drowned his voice.

“Oh! this is torture to me,” cried Athos.

Mordaunt reappeared.

“For my part,” said D’Artagnan, “I say this must come to an end; murderer, as you were, of your uncle! executioner, as you were, of King Charles! incendiary! I recommend you to sink forthwith to the bottom of the sea; and if you come another fathom nearer, I’ll stave your wicked head in with this oar.”

“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried Athos, “my son, I entreat you; the wretch is dying, and it is horrible to let a man die without extending a hand to save him. I cannot resist doing so; he must live.”

“Zounds!” replied D’Artagnan, “why don’t you give yourself up directly, feet and hands bound, to that wretch? Ah! Comte de la Fere, you wish to perish by his hands! I, your son, as you call me--I will not let you!”

‘Twas the first time D’Artagnan had ever refused a request from Athos.

Aramis calmly drew his sword, which he had carried between his teeth as he swam.

“If he lays his hand on the boat’s edge I will cut it off, regicide that he is.”

“And I,” said Porthos. “Wait.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Aramis.

“Throw myself in the water and strangle him.”

“Oh, gentlemen!” cried Athos, “be men! be Christians! See! death is depicted on his face! Ah! do not bring on me the horrors of remorse! Grant me this poor wretch’s life. I will bless you--I----”

“I am dying!” cried Mordaunt, “come to me! come to me!”

D’Artagnan began to be touched. The boat at this moment turned around, and the dying man was by that turn brought nearer Athos.

“Monsieur the Comte de la Fere,” he cried, “I supplicate you! pity me! I call on you--where are you? I see you no longer--I am dying--help me! help me!”

“Here I am, sir!” said Athos, leaning and stretching out his arm to Mordaunt with that air of dignity and nobility of soul habitual to him; “here I am, take my hand and jump into our boat.”

Mordaunt made a last effort--rose--seized the hand thus extended to him and grasped it with the vehemence of despair.

“That’s right,” said Athos; “put your other hand here. “And he offered him his shoulder as another stay and support, so that his head almost touched that of Mordaunt; and these two mortal enemies were in as close an embrace as if they had been brothers.

“Now, sir,” said the count, “you are safe--calm yourself.”

“Ah! my mother,” cried Mordaunt, with eyes on fire with a look of hate impossible to paint, “I can only offer thee one victim, but it shall at any rate be the one thou wouldst thyself have chosen!”

And whilst D’Artagnan uttered a cry, Porthos raised the oar, and Aramis sought a place to strike, a frightful shake given to the boat precipitated Athos into the sea; whilst Mordaunt, with a shout of triumph, grasped the neck of his victim, and in order to paralyze his movements, twined arms and legs around the musketeer. For an instant, without an exclamation, without a cry for help, Athos tried to sustain himself on the surface of the waters, but the weight dragged him down; he disappeared by degrees; soon nothing was to be seen except his long, floating hair; then both men disappeared and the bubbling of the water, which, in its turn, was soon effaced, alone indicated the spot where these two had sunk.

Mute with horror, the three friends had remained open-mouthed, their eyes dilated, their arms extended like statues, and, motionless as they were, the beating of their hearts was audible. Porthos was the first who came to himself. He tore his hair.

“Oh!” he cried, “Athos! Athos! thou man of noble heart; woe is me! I have let thee perish!”

At this instant, in the midst of the silver circle illumined by the light of the moon the same whirlpool which had been made by the sinking men was again obvious, and first were seen, rising above the waves, a wisp of hair, then a pale face with open eyes, yet, nevertheless, the eyes of death; then a body, which, after rising of itself even to the waist above the sea, turned gently on its back, according to the caprice of the waves, and floated.

In the bosom of this corpse was plunged a poniard, the gold hilt of which shone in the moonbeams.

“Mordaunt! Mordaunt!” cried the three friends; “‘tis Mordaunt!”

“But Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

Suddenly the boat leaned on one side beneath a new and unexpected weight and Grimaud uttered a shout of joy; every one turned around and beheld Athos, livid, his eyes dim and his hands trembling, supporting himself on the edge of the boat. Eight vigorous arms lifted him up immediately and laid him in the boat, where directly Athos was warmed and reanimated, reviving with the caresses and cares of his friends, who were intoxicated with joy.

“You are not hurt?” asked D’Artagnan.

“No,” replied Athos; “and he----”

“Oh, he! now we may say at last, thank Heaven! he is really dead. Look!” and D’Artagnan, obliging Athos to look in the direction he pointed, showed him the body of Mordaunt floating on its back, which, sometimes submerged, sometimes rising, seemed still to pursue the four friends with looks of insult and mortal hatred.

At last he sank. Athos had followed him with a glance in which the deepest melancholy and pity were expressed.

“Bravo! Athos!” cried Aramis, with an emotion very rare in him.

“A capital blow you gave!” cried Porthos.

“I have a son. I wished to live,” said Athos.

“In short,” said D’Artagnan, “this has been the will of God.”

“It was not I who killed him,” said Athos in a soft, low tone, “‘twas destiny.”

How Musqueton, after being very nearly roasted, had a Narrow Escape of being eaten.

A deep silence reigned for a long time in the boat after the fearful scene described.

The moon, which had shone for a short time, disappeared behind the clouds; every object was again plunged in the obscurity that is so awful in the deserts and still more so in that liquid desert, the ocean, and nothing was heard save the whistling of the west wind driving along the tops of the crested billows.

Porthos was the first to speak.

“I have seen,” he said, “many dreadful things, but nothing that ever agitated me so much as what I have just witnessed. Nevertheless, even in my present state of perturbation, I protest that I feel happy. I have a hundred pounds’ weight less upon my chest. I breathe more freely.” In fact, Porthos breathed so loud as to do credit to the free play of his powerful lungs.

“For my part,” observed Aramis, “I cannot say the same as you do, Porthos. I am still terrified to such a degree that I scarcely believe my eyes. I look around the boat, expecting every moment to see that poor wretch holding between his hands the poniard plunged into his heart.”

“Oh! I feel easy,” replied Porthos. “The poniard was pointed at the sixth rib and buried up to the hilt in his body. I do not reproach you, Athos, for what you have done. On the contrary, when one aims a blow that is the regulation way to strike. So now, I breathe again--I am happy!”

“Don’t be in haste to celebrate a victory, Porthos,” interposed D’Artagnan; “never have we incurred a greater danger than we are now encountering. Men may subdue men--they cannot overcome the elements. We are now on the sea, at night, without any pilot, in a frail bark; should a blast of wind upset the boat we are lost.”

Musqueton heaved a deep sigh.

“You are ungrateful, D’Artagnan,” said Athos; “yes, ungrateful to Providence, to whom we owe our safety in the most miraculous manner. Let us sail before the wind, and unless it changes we shall be drifted either to Calais or Boulogne. Should our bark be upset we are five of us good swimmers, able enough to turn it over again, or if not, to hold on by it. Now we are on the very road which all the vessels between Dover and Calais take, ’tis impossible but that we should meet with a fisherman who will pick us up.”

“But should we not find any fisherman and should the wind shift to the north?”

“That,” said Athos, “would be quite another thing; and we should nevermore see land until we were upon the other side of the Atlantic.”

“Which implies that we may die of hunger,” said Aramis.

“‘Tis more than possible,” answered the Comte de la Fere.

Musqueton sighed again, more deeply than before.

“What is the matter? what ails you?” asked Porthos.

“I am cold, sir,” said Musqueton.

“Impossible! your body is covered with a coating of fat which preserves it from the cold air.”

“Ah! sir, ’tis this very coating of fat that makes me shiver.”

“How is that, Musqueton?

“Alas! your honor, in the library of the Chateau of Bracieux there are a lot of books of travels.”

“What then?”

“Amongst them the voyages of Jean Mocquet in the time of Henry IV.”

“Well?”

“In these books, your honor, ’tis told how hungry voyagers, drifting out to sea, have a bad habit of eating each other and beginning with----”

“The fattest among them!” cried D’Artagnan, unable in spite of the gravity of the occasion to help laughing.

“Yes, sir,” answered Musqueton; “but permit me to say I see nothing laughable in it. However,” he added, turning to Porthos, “I should not regret dying, sir, were I sure that by doing so I might still be useful to you.”

“Mouston,” replied Porthos, much affected, “should we ever see my castle of Pierrefonds again you shall have as your own and for your descendants the vineyard that surrounds the farm.”

“And you should call it ‘Devotion,’” added Aramis; “the vineyard of self-sacrifice, to transmit to latest ages the recollection of your devotion to your master.”

“Chevalier,” said D’Artagnan, laughing, “you could eat a piece of Mouston, couldn’t you, especially after two or three days of fasting?”

“Oh, no,” replied Aramis, “I should much prefer Blaisois; we haven’t known him so long.”

One may readily conceive that during these jokes which were intended chiefly to divert Athos from the scene which had just taken place, the servants, with the exception of Grimaud, were not silent. Suddenly Musqueton uttered a cry of delight, taking from beneath one of the benches a bottle of wine; and on looking more closely in the same place he discovered a dozen similar bottles, bread, and a monster junk of salted beef.

“Oh, sir!” he cried, passing the bottle to Porthos, “we are saved--the bark is supplied with provisions.”

This intelligence restored every one save Athos to gayety.

“Zounds!” exclaimed Porthos, “‘tis astonishing how empty violent agitation makes the stomach.”

And he drank off half a bottle at a draught and bit great mouthfuls of the bread and meat.

“Now,” said Athos, “sleep, or try to sleep, my friends, and I will watch.”

In a few moments, notwithstanding their wet clothes, the icy blast that blew and the previous scene of terror, these hardy adventurers, with their iron frames, inured to every hardship, threw themselves down, intending to profit by the advice of Athos, who sat at the helm, pensively wakeful, guiding the little bark the way it was to go, his eyes fixed on the heavens, as if he sought to verify not only the road to France, but the benign aspect of protecting Providence. After some hours of repose the sleepers were aroused by Athos.

Dawn was shedding its pallid, placid glimmer on the purple ocean, when at the distance of a musket shot from them was seen a dark gray mass, above which gleamed a triangular sail; then masters and servants joined in a fervent cry to the crew of that vessel to hear them and to save.

“A bark!” all cried together.

It was, in fact, a small craft from Dunkirk bound for Boulogne.

A quarter of an hour afterward the rowboat of this craft took them all aboard. Grimaud tendered twenty guineas to the captain, and at nine o’clock in the morning, having a fair wind, our Frenchmen set foot on their native land.

“Egad! how strong one feels here!” said Porthos, almost burying his large feet in the sands. “Zounds! I could defy a nation!”

“Be quiet, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “we are observed.”

“We are admired, i’faith,” answered Porthos.

“These people who are looking at us are only merchants,” said Athos, “and are looking more at the cargo than at us.”

“I shall not trust to that,” said the lieutenant, “and I shall make for the Dunes1 as soon as possible.”

The party followed him and soon disappeared with him behind the hillocks of sand unobserved. Here, after a short conference, they proposed to separate.

“And why separate?” asked Athos.

“Because,” answered the Gascon, “we were sent, Porthos and I, by Cardinal Mazarin to fight for Cromwell; instead of fighting for Cromwell we have served Charles I.--not the same thing by any means. In returning with the Comte de la Fere and Monsieur d’Herblay our crime would be confirmed. We have circumvented Cromwell, Mordaunt, and the sea, but we shall find a certain difficulty in circumventing Mazarin.”

“You forget,” replied Athos, “that we consider ourselves your prisoners and not free from the engagement we entered into.”

“Truly, Athos,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “I am vexed that such a man as you are should talk nonsense which schoolboys would be ashamed of. Chevalier,” he continued, addressing Aramis, who, leaning proudly on his sword, seemed to agree with his companion, “Chevalier, Porthos and I run no risk; besides, should any ill-luck happen to two of us, will it not be much better that the other two should be spared to assist those who may be apprehended? Besides, who knows whether, divided, we may not obtain a pardon--you from the queen, we from Mazarin--which, were we all four together, would never be granted. Come, Athos and Aramis, go to the right; Porthos, come with me to the left; these gentlemen should file off into Normandy, whilst we, by the nearest road, reach Paris.”

He then gave his friends minute directions as to their route.

“Ah! my dear friend,” exclaimed Athos, “how I should admire the resources of your mind did I not stop to adore those of your heart.”

And he gave him his hand.

“Isn’t this fox a genius, Athos?” asked the Gascon. “No! he knows how to crunch fowls, to dodge the huntsman and to find his way home by day or by night, that’s all. Well, is all said?”

“All.”

“Then let’s count our money and divide it. Ah! hurrah! there’s the sun! A merry morning to you, Sunshine. ’Tis a long time since I saw thee!”

“Come, come, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “do not affect to be strong-minded; there are tears in your eyes. Let us be open with each other and sincere.”

“What!” cried the Gascon, “do you think, Athos, we can take leave, calmly, of two friends at a time not free from danger to you and Aramis?”

“No,” answered Athos; “embrace me, my son.”

“Zounds!” said Porthos, sobbing, “I believe I’m crying; but how foolish all this is!”

Then they embraced. At that moment their fraternal bond of union was closer than ever, and when they parted, each to take the route agreed on, they turned back to utter affectionate expressions, which the echoes of the Dunes repeated. At last they lost sight of each other.

“Sacrebleu! D’Artagnan,” said Porthos, “I must out with it at once, for I can’t keep to myself anything I have against you; I haven’t been able to recognize you in this matter.”

“Why not?” said D’Artagnan, with his wise smile.

“Because if, as you say, Athos and Aramis are in real danger, this is not the time to abandon them. For my part, I confess to you that I was all ready to follow them and am still ready to rejoin them, in spite of all the Mazarins in the world.”

“You would be right, Porthos, but for one thing, which may change the current of your ideas; and that is, that it is not those gentlemen who are in the greatest danger, it is ourselves; it is not to abandon them that we have separated, but to avoid compromising them.”

“Really?” said Porthos, opening his eyes in astonishment.

“Yes, no doubt. If they are arrested they will only be put in the Bastile; if we are arrested it is a matter of the Place de Greve.”

“Oh! oh!” said Porthos, “there is quite a gap between that fate and the baronial coronet you promised me, D’Artagnan.”

“Bah! perhaps not so great as you think, Porthos; you know the proverb, ‘All roads lead to Rome.’”

“But how is it that we are incurring greater risks than Athos and Aramis?” asked Porthos.

“Because they have but fulfilled the mission confided to them by Queen Henrietta and we have betrayed that confided to us by Mazarin; because, going hence as emissaries to Cromwell, we became partisans of King Charles; because, instead of helping cut off the royal head condemned by those fellows called Mazarin, Cromwell, Joyce, Bridge, Fairfax, etc., we very nearly succeeded in saving it.”

“Upon my word that is true,” said Porthos; “but how can you suppose, my dear friend, that in the midst of his great preoccupations General Cromwell has had time to think----”

“Cromwell thinks of everything; Cromwell has time for everything; and believe me, dear friend, we ought not to lose our time--it is precious. We shall not be safe till we have seen Mazarin, and then----”

“The devil!” said Porthos; “what can we say to Mazarin?”

“Leave that to me--I have my plan. He laughs best who laughs last. Cromwell is mighty, Mazarin is tricky, but I would rather have to do with them than with the late Monsieur Mordaunt.”

“Ah!” said Porthos, “it is very pleasant to be able to say ‘the late Monsieur Mordaunt.’”

“My faith, yes,” said D’Artagnan. “But we must be going.”

The two immediately started across country toward the road to Paris, followed by Musqueton, who, after being too cold all night, at the end of a quarter of an hour found himself too warm.

  1. Dunes: Sandy hills about Dunkirk, from which it derives its name.

The Return.

During the six weeks that Athos and Aramis had been absent from France, the Parisians, finding themselves one morning without either queen or king, were greatly annoyed at being thus deserted, and the absence of Mazarin, a thing so long desired, did not compensate for that of the two august fugitives.

The first feeling that pervaded Paris on hearing of the flight to Saint Germain, was that sort of affright which seizes children when they awake in the night and find themselves alone. A deputation was therefore sent to the queen to entreat her to return to Paris; but she not only declined to receive the deputies, but sent an intimation by Chancellor Seguier, implying that if the parliament did not humble itself before her majesty by negativing all the questions that had been the cause of the quarrel, Paris would be besieged the very next day.

This threatening answer, unluckily for the court, produced quite a different effect to that which was intended. It wounded the pride of the parliament, which, supported by the citizens, replied by declaring that Cardinal Mazarin was the cause of all the discontent; denounced him as the enemy both of the king and the state, and ordered him to retire from the court that same day and from France within a week afterward; enjoining, in case of disobedience on his part, all the subjects of the king to pursue and take him.

Mazarin being thus placed beyond the pale of the protection of the law, preparations on both sides were commenced--by the queen, to attack Paris, by the citizens, to defend it. The latter were occupied in breaking up the pavement and stretching chains across the streets, when, headed by the coadjutor, appeared the Prince de Conti (the brother of the Prince de Conde) and the Duc de Longueville, his brother-in-law. This unexpected band of auxiliaries arrived in Paris on the tenth of January and the Prince of Conti was named, but not until after a stormy discussion, generalissimo of the army of the king, out of Paris.

As for the Duc de Beaufort, he arrived from Vendome, according to the annals of the day, bringing with him his high bearing and his long and beautiful hair, qualifications which gained him the sovereignty of the marketplaces.

The Parisian army had organized with the promptness characteristic of the bourgeois whenever they are moved by any sentiment whatever to disguise themselves as soldiers. On the nineteenth the impromptu army had attempted a sortie, more to assure itself and others of its actual existence than with any more serious intention. They carried a banner, on which could be read this strange device: “We are seeking our king.”

The next following days were occupied in trivial movements which resulted only in the carrying off of a few herds of cattle and the burning of two or three houses.

That was still the situation of affairs up to the early days of February. On the first day of that month our four companions had landed at Boulogne, and, in two parties, had set out for Paris. Toward the end of the fourth day of the journey Athos and Aramis reached Nanterre, which place they cautiously passed by on the outskirts, fearing that they might encounter some troop from the queen’s army.

It was against his will that Athos took these precautions, but Aramis had very judiciously reminded him that they had no right to be imprudent, that they had been charged by King Charles with a supreme and sacred mission, which, received at the foot of the scaffold, could be accomplished only at the feet of Queen Henrietta. Upon that, Athos yielded.

On reaching the capital Athos and Aramis found it in arms. The sentinel at the gate refused even to let them pass, and called his sergeant.

The sergeant, with the air of importance which such people assume when they are clad with military dignity, said:

“Who are you, gentlemen?”

“Two gentlemen.”

“And where do you come from?”

“From London.”

“And what are you going to do in Paris?”

“We are going with a mission to Her Majesty, the Queen of England.”

“Ah, every one seems to be going to see the queen of England. We have already at the station three gentlemen whose passports are under examination, who are on their way to her majesty. Where are your passports?”

“We have none; we left England, ignorant of the state of politics here, having left Paris before the departure of the king.”

“Ah!” said the sergeant, with a cunning smile, “you are Mazarinists, who are sent as spies.”

“My dear friend,” here Athos spoke, “rest assured, if we were Mazarinists we should come well prepared with every sort of passport. In your situation distrust those who are well provided with every formality.”

“Enter the guardroom,” said the sergeant; “we will lay your case before the commandant of the post.”

The guardroom was filled with citizens and common people, some playing, some drinking, some talking. In a corner, almost hidden from view, were three gentlemen, who had preceded Athos and Aramis, and an officer was examining their passports. The first impulse of these three, and of those who last entered, was to cast an inquiring glance at each other. The first arrivals wore long cloaks, in whose drapery they were carefully enveloped; one of them, shorter than the rest, remained pertinaciously in the background.

When the sergeant on entering the room announced that in all probability he was bringing in two Mazarinists, it appeared to be the unanimous opinion of the officers on guard that they ought not to pass.

“Be it so,” said Athos; “yet it is probable, on the contrary, that we shall enter, because we seem to have to do with sensible people. There seems to be only one thing to do, which is, to send our names to Her Majesty the Queen of England, and if she engages to answer for us I presume we shall be allowed to enter.”

On hearing these words the shortest of the other three men seemed more attentive than ever to what was going on, wrapping his cloak around him more carefully than before.

“Merciful goodness!” whispered Aramis to Athos, “did you see?”

“What?” asked Athos.

“The face of the shortest of those three gentlemen?”

“No.”

“He looked to me--but ’tis impossible.”

At this instant the sergeant, who had been for his orders, returned, and pointing to the three gentlemen in cloaks, said:

“The passports are in order; let these three gentlemen pass.”

The three gentlemen bowed and hastened to take advantage of this permission.

Aramis looked after them, and as the last of them passed close to him he pressed the hand of Athos.

“What is the matter with you, my friend?” asked the latter.

“I have--doubtless I am dreaming; tell me, sir,” he said to the sergeant, “do you know those three gentlemen who are just gone out?”

“Only by their passports; they are three Frondists, who are gone to rejoin the Duc de Longueville.”

“‘Tis strange,” said Aramis, almost involuntarily; “I fancied that I recognized Mazarin himself.”

The sergeant burst into a fit of laughter.

“He!” he cried; “he venture himself amongst us, to be hung! Not so foolish as all that.”

“Ah!” muttered Athos, “I may be mistaken, I haven’t the unerring eye of D’Artagnan.”

“Who is speaking of Monsieur D’Artagnan?” asked an officer who appeared at that moment upon the threshold of the room.

“What!” cried Aramis and Athos, “what! Planchet!”

“Planchet,” added Grimaud; “Planchet, with a gorget, indeed!”

“Ah, gentlemen!” cried Planchet, “so you are back again in Paris. Oh, how happy you make us! no doubt you come to join the princes!”

“As thou seest, Planchet,” said Aramis, whilst Athos smiled on seeing what important rank was held in the city militia by the former comrade of Musqueton, Bazin and Grimaud.

“And Monsieur d’Artagnan, of whom you spoke just now, Monsieur d’Herblay; may I ask if you have any news of him?”

“We parted from him four days ago and we have reason to believe that he has reached Paris before us.”

“No, sir; I am sure he hasn’t yet arrived. But then he may have stopped at Saint Germain.”

“I don’t think so; we appointed to meet at La Chevrette.”

“I was there this very day.”

“And had the pretty Madeleine no news?” asked Aramis, smiling.

“No, sir, and it must be admitted that she seemed very anxious.”

“In fact,” said Aramis, “there is no time lost and we made our journey quickly. Permit me, then, my dear Athos, without inquiring further about our friend, to pay my respects to M. Planchet.”

“Ah, monsieur le chevalier,” said Planchet, bowing.

“Lieutenant?” asked Aramis.

“Lieutenant, with a promise of becoming captain.”

“‘Tis capital; and pray, how did you acquire all these honors?”

“In the first place, gentlemen, you know that I was the means of Monsieur de Rochefort’s escape; well, I was very near being hung by Mazarin and that made me more popular than ever.”

“So, owing to your popularity----”

“No; thanks to something better. You know, gentlemen, that I served the Piedmont regiment and had the honor of being a sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“Well, one day when no one could drill a mob of citizens, who began to march, some with the right foot, others with the left, I succeeded, I did, in making them all begin with the same foot, and I was made lieutenant on the spot.”

“So I presume,” said Athos, “that you have a large number of the nobles with you?”

“Certainly. There are the Prince de Conti, the Duc de Longueville, the Duc de Beaufort, the Duc de Bouillon, the Marechal de la Mothe, the Marquis de Sevigne, and I don’t know who, for my part.”

“And the Vicomte Raoul de Bragelonne?” inquired Athos, in a tremulous voice. “D’Artagnan told me that he had recommended him to your care, in parting.”

“Yes, count; nor have I lost sight of him for a single instant since.”

“Then,” said Athos in a tone of delight, “he is well? no accident has happened to him?”

“None, sir.”

“And he lives?”

“Still at the Hotel of the Great Charlemagne.”

“And passes his time?”

“Sometimes with the queen of England, sometimes with Madame de Chevreuse. He and the Count de Guiche are like each other’s shadows.”

“Thanks, Planchet, thanks!” cried Athos, extending his hand to the lieutenant.

“Oh, sir!” Planchet only touched the tips of the count’s fingers.

“Well, what are you doing, count--to a former lackey?

“My friend,” said Athos, “he has given me news of Raoul.”

“And now, gentlemen,” said Planchet, who had not heard what they were saying, “what do you intend to do?”

“Re-enter Paris, if you will let us, my good Planchet.”

“Let you. sir? Now, as ever, I am nothing but your servant.” Then turning to his men:

“Allow these gentlemen to pass,” he said; “they are friends of the Duc de Beaufort.”

“Long live the Duc de Beaufort!” cried the sentinels.

The sergeant drew near to Planchet.

“What! without passports?” he murmured.

“Without passports,” said Planchet.

“Take notice, captain,” he continued, giving Planchet his expected title, “take notice that one of the three men who just now went out from here told me privately to distrust these gentlemen.”

“And I,” said Planchet, with dignity, “I know them and I answer for them.”

As he said this, he pressed Grimaud’s hand, who seemed honored by the distinction.

“Farewell till we meet again,” said Aramis, as they took leave of Planchet; “if anything happens to us we shall blame you for it.”

“Sir,” said Planchet, “I am in all things at your service.”

“That fellow is no fool,” said Aramis, as he got on his horse.

“How should he be?” replied Athos, whilst mounting also, “seeing he was used so long to brush your hats.”

The Ambassadors.

The two friends rode rapidly down the declivity of the Faubourg, but on arriving at the bottom were surprised to find that the streets of Paris had become rivers, and the open places lakes; after the great rains which fell in January the Seine had overflowed its banks and the river inundated half the capital. The two gentlemen were obliged, therefore, to get off their horses and take a boat; and in that strange manner they approached the Louvre.

Night had closed in, and Paris, seen thus, by the light of lanterns flickering on the pools of water, crowded with ferry-boats of every kind, including those that glittered with the armed patrols, with the watchword, passing from post to post--Paris presented such an aspect as to strongly seize the senses of Aramis, a man most susceptible to warlike impressions.

They reached the queen’s apartments, but were compelled to stop in the ante-chamber, since her majesty was at that moment giving audience to gentlemen bringing her news from England.

“We? too?” said Athos, to the footman who had given him that answer, “not only bring news from England, but have just come from there.”

“What? then, are your names, gentlemen?”

“The Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier d’Herblay,” said Aramis.

“Ah! in that case, gentlemen,” said the footman, on hearing the names which the queen had so often pronounced with hope, “in that case it is another thing, and I think her majesty will pardon me for not keeping you here a moment. Please follow me,” and he went on before, followed by Athos and Aramis.

On arriving at the door of the room where the queen was receiving he made a sign for them to wait and opening the door:

“Madame,” he said, “I hope your majesty will forgive me for disobeying your orders, when you learn that the gentlemen I have come to announce are the Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier d’Herblay.”

On hearing those two names the queen uttered a cry of joy, which the two gentlemen heard.

“Poor queen!” murmured Athos.

“Oh, let them come in! let them come in,” cried the young princess, bounding to the door.

The poor child was constant in her attendance on her mother and sought by her filial attentions to make her forget the absence of her two sons and her other daughter.

“Come in, gentlemen,” repeated the princess, opening the door herself.

The queen was seated on a fauteuil and before her were standing two or three gentlemen, and among them the Duc de Chatillon, the brother of the nobleman killed eight or nine years previously in a duel on account of Madame de Longueville, on the Place Royale. All these gentlemen had been noticed by Athos and Aramis in the guardhouse, and when the two friends were announced they started and exchanged some words in a low tone. “Well, sirs!” cried the queen, on perceiving the two friends, “you have come, faithful friends! But the royal couriers have been more expeditious than you, and here are Monsieur de Flamarens and Monsieur de Chatillon, who bring me from Her Majesty the Queen Anne of Austria, the very latest intelligence.”

Aramis and Athos were astounded by the calmness, even the gayety of the queen’s manner.

“Go on with your recital, sirs,” said the queen, turning to the Duc de Chatillon. “You said that His Majesty, King Charles, my august consort, had been condemned to death by a majority of his subjects!”

“Yes, madame,” Chatillon stammered out.

Athos and Aramis were more and more astonished.

“And that being conducted to the scaffold,” resumed the queen--”oh, my lord! oh, my king!--and that being led to the scaffold he had been saved by an indignant people.”

“Just so madame,” replied Chatillon, in so low a voice that though the two friends were listening eagerly they could hardly hear this affirmation.

The queen clasped her hands in enthusiastic gratitude, whilst her daughter threw her arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her--her own eyes streaming with tears.

“Now, madame, nothing remains to me except to proffer my respectful homage,” said Chatillon, who felt confused and ashamed beneath the stern gaze of Athos.

“One moment, yes,” answered the queen. “One moment--I beg--for here are the Chevalier d’Herblay and the Comte de la Fere, just arrived from London, and they can give you, as eye-witnesses, such details as you can convey to the queen, my royal sister. Speak, gentlemen, speak--I am listening; conceal nothing, gloss over nothing. Since his majesty still lives, since the honor of the throne is safe, everything else is a matter of indifference to me.”

Athos turned pale and laid his hand on his heart.

“Well!” exclaimed the queen, who remarked this movement and his paleness. “Speak, sir! I beg you to do so.”

“I beg you to excuse me, madame; I wish to add nothing to the recital of these gentlemen until they perceive themselves that they have perhaps been mistaken.”

“Mistaken!” cried the queen, almost suffocated by emotion; “mistaken! what has happened, then?”

“Sir,” interposed Monsieur de Flamarens to Athos, “if we are mistaken the error has originated with the queen. I do not suppose you will have the presumption to set it to rights--that would be to accuse Her Majesty, Queen Anne, of falsehood.”

“With the queen, sir?” replied Athos, in his calm, vibrating voice.

“Yes,” murmured Flamarens, lowering his eyes.

Athos sighed deeply.

“Or rather, sir,” said Aramis, with his peculiar irritating politeness, “the error of the person who was with you when we met you in the guardroom; for if the Comte de la Fere and I are not mistaken, we saw you in the company of a third gentleman.”

Chatillon and Flamarens started.

“Explain yourself, count!” cried the queen, whose anxiety grew greater every moment. “On your brow I read despair--your lips falter ere you announce some terrible tidings--your hands tremble. Oh, my God! my God! what has happened?”

“Lord!” ejaculated the young princess, falling on her knees, “have mercy on us!”

“Sir,” said Chatillon, “if you bring bad tidings it will be cruel in you to announce them to the queen.”

Aramis went so close to Chatillon as almost to touch him.

“Sir,” said he, with compressed lips and flashing eyes, “you have not the presumption to instruct the Comte de la Fere and myself what we ought to say here?”

During this brief altercation Athos, with his hands on his heart, his head bent low, approached the queen and in a voice of deepest sorrow said:

“Madame, princes--who by nature are above other men--receive from Heaven courage to support greater misfortunes than those of lower rank, for their hearts are elevated as their fortunes. We ought not, therefore, I think, to act toward a queen so illustrious as your majesty as we should act toward a woman of our lowlier condition. Queen, destined as you are to endure every sorrow on this earth, hear the result of our unhappy mission.”

Athos, kneeling down before the queen, trembling and very cold, drew from his bosom, inclosed in the same case, the order set in diamonds which the queen had given to Lord de Winter and the wedding ring which Charles I. before his death had placed in the hands of Aramis. Since the moment he had first received these two mementoes Athos had never parted with them.

He opened the case and offered them to the queen with deep and silent anguish.

The queen stretched out her hand, seized the ring, pressed it convulsively to her lips--and without being able to breathe a sigh, to give vent to a sob, she extended her arms, became deadly pale, and fell senseless in the arms of her attendants and her daughter.

Athos kissed the hem of the robe of the widowed queen and rising, with a dignity that made a deep impression on those around:

“I, the Comte de la Fere, a gentleman who has never deceived any human being, swear before God and before this unhappy queen, that all that was possible to save the king of England was done whilst we were on English ground. Now, chevalier,” he added, turning to Aramis, “let us go. Our duty is fulfilled.”

“Not yet.” said Aramis; “we have still a word to say to these gentlemen.”

And turning to Chatillon: “Sir, be so good as not to go away without giving me an opportunity to tell you something I cannot say before the queen.”

Chatillon bowed in token of assent and they all went out, stopping at the window of a gallery on the ground floor.

“Sir,” said Aramis, “you allowed yourself just now to treat us in a most extraordinary manner. That would not be endurable in any case, and is still less so on the part of those who came to bring the queen the message of a liar.”

“Sir!” cried De Chatillon.

“What have you done with Monsieur de Bruy? Has he by any possibility gone to change his face which was too like that of Monsieur de Mazarin? There is an abundance of Italian masks at the Palais Royal, from harlequin even to pantaloon.”

“Chevalier! chevalier!” said Athos.

“Leave me alone,” said Aramis impatiently. “You know well that I don’t like to leave things half finished.”

“Conclude, then, sir,” answered De Chatillon, with as much hauteur as Aramis.

“Gentlemen,” resumed Aramis, “any one but the Comte de la Fere and myself would have had you arrested--for we have friends in Paris--but we are contented with another course. Come and converse with us for just five minutes, sword in hand, upon this deserted terrace.”

“One moment, gentlemen,” cried Flamarens. “I know well that the proposition is tempting, but at present it is impossible to accept it.”

“And why not?” said Aramis, in his tone of raillery. “Is it Mazarin’s proximity that makes you so prudent?”

“Oh, you hear that, Flamarens!” said Chatillon. “Not to reply would be a blot on my name and my honor.”

“That is my opinion,” said Aramis.

“You will not reply, however, and these gentlemen, I am sure, will presently be of my opinion.”

Aramis shook his head with a motion of indescribable insolence.

Chatillon saw the motion and put his hand to his sword.

“Willingly,” replied De Chatillon.

“Duke,” said Flamarens, “you forget that to-morrow you are to command an expedition of the greatest importance, projected by the prince, assented to by the queen. Until to-morrow evening you are not at your own disposal.”

“Let it be then the day after to-morrow,” said Aramis.

“To-morrow, rather,” said De Chatillon, “if you will take the trouble of coming so far as the gates of Charenton.”

“How can you doubt it, sir? For the pleasure of a meeting with you I would go to the end of the world.”

“Very well, to-morrow, sir.”

“I shall rely on it. Are you going to rejoin your cardinal? Swear first, on your honor, not to inform him of our return.”

“Conditions?”

“Why not?”

“Because it is for victors to make conditions, and you are not yet victors, gentlemen.”

“Then let us draw on the spot. It is all one to us--to us who do not command to-morrow’s expedition.”

Chatillon and Flamarens looked at each other. There was such irony in the words and in the bearing of Aramis that the duke had great difficulty in bridling his anger, but at a word from Flamarens he restrained himself and contented himself with saying:

“You promise, sir--that’s agreed--that I shall find you to-morrow at Charenton?”

“Oh, don’t be afraid, sir,” replied Aramis; and the two gentlemen shortly afterward left the Louvre.

“For what reason is all this fume and fury?” asked Athos. “What have they done to you?”

“They--did you not see what they did?”

“No.”

“They laughed when we swore that we had done our duty in England. Now, if they believed us, they laughed in order to insult us; if they did not believe it they insulted us all the more. However, I’m glad not to fight them until to-morrow. I hope we shall have something better to do to-night than to draw the sword.”

“What have we to do?”

“Egad! to take Mazarin.”

Athos curled his lip with disdain.

“These undertakings do not suit me, as you know, Aramis.”

“Why?”

“Because it is taking people unawares.”

“Really, Athos, you would make a singular general. You would fight only by broad daylight, warn your foe before an attack, and never attempt anything by night lest you should be accused of taking advantage of the darkness.”

Athos smiled.

“You know one cannot change his nature,” he said. “Besides, do you know what is our situation, and whether Mazarin’s arrest wouldn’t be rather an encumbrance than an advantage?”

“Say at once you disapprove of my proposal.”

“I think you ought to do nothing, since you exacted a promise from these gentlemen not to let Mazarin know that we were in France.”

“I have entered into no engagement and consider myself quite free. Come, come.”

“Where?”

“Either to seek the Duc de Beaufort or the Duc de Bouillon, and to tell them about this.”

“Yes, but on one condition--that we begin by the coadjutor. He is a priest, learned in cases of conscience, and we will tell him ours.”

It was then agreed that they were to go first to Monsieur de Bouillon, as his house came first; but first of all Athos begged that he might go to the Hotel du Grand Charlemagne, to see Raoul.

They re-entered the boat which had brought them to the Louvre and thence proceeded to the Halles; and taking up Grimaud and Blaisois, they went on foot to the Rue Guenegaud.

But Raoul was not at the Hotel du Grand Charlemagne. He had received a message from the prince, to whom he had hastened with Olivain the instant he had received it.

The three Lieutenants of the Generalissimo.

The night was dark, but still the town resounded with those noises that disclose a city in a state of siege. Athos and Aramis did not proceed a hundred steps without being stopped by sentinels placed before the barricades, who demanded the watchword; and on their saying that they were going to Monsieur de Bouillon on a mission of importance a guide was given them under pretext of conducting them, but in fact as a spy over their movements.

On arriving at the Hotel de Bouillon they came across a little troop of three cavaliers, who seemed to know every possible password; for they walked without either guide or escort, and on arriving at the barricades had nothing to do but to speak to those who guarded them, who instantly let them pass with evident deference, due probably to their high birth.

On seeing them Athos and Aramis stood still.

“Oh!” cried Aramis, “do you see, count?”

“Yes,” said Athos.

“Who do these three cavaliers appear to you to be?”

“What do you think, Aramis?”

“Why, they are our men.”

“You are not mistaken; I recognize Monsieur de Flamarens.”

“And I, Monsieur de Chatillon.”

“As to the cavalier in the brown cloak----”

“It is the cardinal.”

“In person.”

“How the devil do they venture so near the Hotel de Bouillon?”

Athos smiled, but did not reply. Five minutes afterward they knocked at the prince’s door.

This door was guarded by a sentinel and there was also a guard placed in the courtyard, ready to obey the orders of the Prince de Conti’s lieutenant.

Monsieur de Bouillon had the gout, but notwithstanding his illness, which had prevented his mounting on horseback for the last month---that is, since Paris had been besieged--he was ready to receive the Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier d’Herblay.

He was in bed, but surrounded with all the paraphernalia of war. Everywhere were swords, pistols, cuirasses, and arquebuses, and it was plain that as soon as his gout was better Monsieur de Bouillon would give a pretty tangle to the enemies of the parliament to unravel. Meanwhile, to his great regret, as he said, he was obliged to keep his bed.

“Ah, gentlemen,” he cried, as the two friends entered, “you are very happy! you can ride, you can go and come and fight for the cause of the people. But I, as you see, am nailed to my bed--ah! this demon, gout--this demon, gout!”

“My lord,” said Athos, “we are just arrived from England and our first concern is to inquire after your health.”

“Thanks, gentlemen, thanks! As you see, my health is but indifferent. But you come from England. And King Charles is well, as I have just heard?”

“He is dead, my lord!” said Aramis.

“Pooh!” said the duke, too much astonished to believe it true.

“Dead on the scaffold; condemned by parliament.”

“Impossible!”

“And executed in our presence.”

“What, then, has Monsieur de Flamarens been telling me?”

“Monsieur de Flamarens?”

“Yes, he has just gone out.”

Athos smiled. “With two companions?” he said.

“With two companions, yes,” replied the duke. Then he added with a certain uneasiness, “Did you meet them?”

“Why, yes, I think so--in the street,” said Athos; and he looked smilingly at Aramis, who looked at him with an expression of surprise.

“The devil take this gout!” cried Monsieur de Bouillon, evidently ill at ease.

“My lord,” said Athos, “we admire your devotion to the cause you have espoused, in remaining at the head of the army whilst so ill, in so much pain.”

“One must,” replied Monsieur de Bouillon, “sacrifice one’s comfort to the public good; but I confess to you I am now almost exhausted. My spirit is willing, my head is clear, but this demon, the gout, o’ercrows me. I confess, if the court would do justice to my claims and give the head of my house the title of prince, and if my brother De Turenne were reinstated in his command I would return to my estates and leave the court and parliament to settle things between themselves as they might.”

“You are perfectly right, my lord.”

“You think so? At this very moment the court is making overtures to me; hitherto I have repulsed them; but since such men as you assure me that I am wrong in doing so, I’ve a good mind to follow your advice and to accept a proposition made to me by the Duc de Chatillon just now.”

“Accept it, my lord, accept it,” said Aramis.

“Faith! yes. I am even sorry that this evening I almost repulsed--but there will be a conference to-morrow and we shall see.”

The two friends saluted the duke.

“Go, gentlemen,” he said; “you must be much fatigued after your voyage. Poor King Charles! But, after all, he was somewhat to blame in all that business and we may console ourselves with the reflection that France has no cause of reproach in the matter and did all she could to serve him.”

“Oh! as to that,” said Aramis, “we are witnesses. Mazarin especially----”

“Yes, do you know, I am very glad to hear you give that testimony; the cardinal has some good in him, and if he were not a foreigner--well, he would be more justly estimated. Oh! the devil take this gout!”

Athos and Aramis took their leave, but even in the ante-chamber they could still hear the duke’s cries; he was evidently suffering the tortures of the damned.

When they reached the street, Aramis said:

“Well, Athos, what do you think?”

“Of whom?”

“Pardieu! of Monsieur de Bouillon.”

“My friend, I think that he is much troubled with gout.”

“You noticed that I didn’t breathe a word as to the purpose of our visit?”

“You did well; you would have caused him an access of his disease. Let us go to Monsieur de Beaufort.”

The two friends went to the Hotel de Vendome. It was ten o’clock when they arrived. The Hotel de Vendome was not less guarded than the Hotel de Bouillon, and presented as warlike an appearance. There were sentinels, a guard in the court, stacks of arms, and horses saddled. Two horsemen going out as Athos and Aramis entered were obliged to give place to them.

“Ah! ah! gentlemen,” said Aramis, “decidedly it is a night for meetings. We shall be very unfortunate if, after meeting so often this evening, we should not succeed in meeting to-morrow.”

“Oh, as to that, sir,” replied Chatillon (for it was he who, with Flamarens, was leaving the Duc de Beaufort), “you may be assured; for if we meet by night without seeking each other, much more shall we meet by day when wishing it.”

“I hope that is true,” said Aramis.

“As for me, I am sure of it,” said the duke.

De Flamarens and De Chatillon continued on their way and Athos and Aramis dismounted.

Hardly had they given the bridles of their horses to their lackeys and rid themselves of their cloaks when a man approached them, and after looking at them for an instant by the doubtful light of the lantern hung in the centre of the courtyard he uttered an exclamation of joy and ran to embrace them.

“Comte de la Fere!” the man cried out; “Chevalier d’Herblay! How does it happen that you are in Paris?”

“Rochefort!” cried the two friends.

“Yes! we arrived four or five days ago from the Vendomois, as you know, and we are going to give Mazarin something to do. You are still with us, I presume?”

“More than ever. And the duke?”

“Furious against the cardinal. You know his success--our dear duke? He is really king of Paris; he can’t go out without being mobbed by his admirers.”

“Ah! so much the better! Can we have the honor of seeing his highness?”

“I shall be proud to present you,” and Rochefort walked on. Every door was opened to him. Monsieur de Beaufort was at supper, but he rose quickly on hearing the two friends announced.

“Ah!” he cried, “by Jove! you’re welcome, sirs. You are coming to sup with me, are you not? Boisgoli, tell Noirmont that I have two guests. You know Noirmont, do you not? The successor of Father Marteau who makes the excellent pies you know of. Boisgoli, let him send one of his best, but not such a one as he made for La Ramee. Thank God! we don’t want either rope ladders or gag-pears now.”

“My lord,” said Athos, “do not let us disturb you. We came merely to inquire after your health and to take your orders.”

“As to my health, since it has stood five years of prison, with Monsieur de Chavigny to boot, ’tis excellent! As to my orders, since every one gives his own commands in our party, I shall end, if this goes on, by giving none at all.”

“In short, my lord,” said Athos, glancing at Aramis, “your highness is discontented with your party?”

“Discontented, sir! say my highness is furious! To such a degree, I assure you, though I would not say so to others, that if the queen, acknowledging the injuries she has done me, would recall my mother and give me the reversion of the admiralty, which belonged to my father and was promised me at his death, well! it would not be long before I should be training dogs to say that there were greater traitors in France than the Cardinal Mazarin!”

At this Athos and Aramis could not help exchanging not only a look but a smile; and had they not known it for a fact, this would have told them that De Chatillon and De Flamarens had been there.

“My lord,” said Athos, “we are satisfied; we came here only to express our loyalty and to say that we are at your lordship’s service and his most faithful servants.”

“My most faithful friends, gentlemen, my most faithful friends; you have proved it. And if ever I am reconciled with the court I shall prove to you, I hope, that I remain your friend, as well as that of--what the devil are their names--D’Artagnan and Porthos?”

“D’Artagnan and Porthos.”

“Ah, yes. You understand, then, Comte de la Fere, you understand, Chevalier d’Herblay, that I am altogether and always at your service.”

Athos and Aramis bowed and went out.

“My dear Athos,” cried Aramis, “I think you consented to accompany me only to give me a lesson--God forgive me!”

“Wait a little, Aramis; it will be time for you to perceive my motive when we have paid our visit to the coadjutor.”

“Let us then go to the archiepiscopal palace,” said Aramis.

They directed their horses to the city. On arriving at the cradle from which Paris sprang they found it inundated with water, and it was again necessary to take a boat. The palace rose from the bosom of the water, and to see the number of boats around it one would have fancied one’s self not in Paris, but in Venice. Some of these boats were dark and mysterious, others noisy and lighted up with torches. The friends slid in through this congestion of embarkation and landed in their turn. The palace was surrounded with water, but a kind of staircase had been fixed to the lower walls; and the only difference was, that instead of entering by the doors, people entered by the windows.

Thus did Athos and Aramis make their appearance in the ante-chamber, where about a dozen noblemen were collected in waiting.

“Good heavens!” said Aramis to Athos, “does the coadjutor intend to indulge himself in the pleasure of making us cool our hearts off in his ante-chamber?”

“My dear friend, we must take people as we find them. The coadjutor is at this moment one of the seven kings of Paris, and has a court. Let us send in our names, and if he does not send us a suitable message we will leave him to his own affairs or those of France. Let us call one of these lackeys, with a demi-pistole in the left hand.”

“Exactly so,” cried Aramis. “Ah! if I’m not mistaken here’s Bazin. Come here, fellow.”

Bazin, who was crossing the ante-chamber majestically in his clerical dress, turned around to see who the impertinent gentleman was who thus addressed him; but seeing his friends he went up to them quickly and expressed delight at seeing them.

“A truce to compliments,” said Aramis; “we want to see the coadjutor, and instantly, as we are in haste.”

“Certainly, sir--it is not such lords as you are who are allowed to wait in the ante-chamber, only just now he has a secret conference with Monsieur de Bruy.”

“De Bruy!” cried the friends, “‘tis then useless our seeing monsieur the coadjutor this evening,” said Aramis, “so we give it up.”

And they hastened to quit the palace, followed by Bazin, who was lavish of bows and compliments.

“Well,” said Athos, when Aramis and he were in the boat again, “are you beginning to be convinced that we should have done a bad turn to all these people in arresting Mazarin?”

“You are wisdom incarnate, Athos,” Aramis replied.

What had especially been observed by the two friends was the little interest taken by the court of France in the terrible events which had occurred in England, which they thought should have arrested the attention of all Europe.

In fact, aside from a poor widow and a royal orphan who wept in the corner of the Louvre, no one appeared to be aware that Charles I. had ever lived and that he had perished on the scaffold.

The two friends made an appointment for ten o’clock on the following day; for though the night was well advanced when they reached the door of the hotel, Aramis said that he had certain important visits to make and left Athos to enter alone.

At ten o’clock the next day they met again. Athos had been out since six o’clock.

“Well, have you any news?” Athos asked.

“Nothing. No one has seen D’Artagnan and Porthos has not appeared. Have you anything?”

“Nothing.”

“The devil!” said Aramis.

“In fact,” said Athos, “this delay is not natural; they took the shortest route and should have arrived before we did.”

“Add to that D’Artagnan’s rapidity in action and that he is not the man to lose an hour, knowing that we were expecting him.”

“He expected, you will remember, to be here on the fifth.”

“And here we are at the ninth. This evening the margin of possible delay expires.”

“What do you think should be done,” asked Athos. “if we have no news of them to-night?”

“Pardieu! we must go and look for them.”

“All right,” said Athos.

“But Raoul?” said Aramis.

A light cloud passed over the count’s face.

“Raoul gives me much uneasiness,” he said. “He received yesterday a message from the Prince de Conde; he went to meet him at Saint Cloud and has not returned.”

“Have you seen Madame de Chevreuse?”

“She was not at home. And you, Aramis, you were going, I think, to visit Madame de Longueville.”

“I did go there.”

“Well?”

“She was no longer there, but she had left her new address.”

“Where was she?”

“Guess; I give you a thousand chances.”

“How should I know where the most beautiful and active of the Frondists was at midnight? for I presume it was when you left me that you went to visit her.”

“At the Hotel de Ville, my dear fellow.”

“What! at the Hotel de Ville? Has she, then, been appointed provost of merchants?”

“No; but she has become queen of Paris, ad interim, and since she could not venture at once to establish herself in the Palais Royal or the Tuileries, she is installed at the Hotel de Ville, where she is on the point of giving an heir or an heiress to that dear duke.”

“You didn’t tell me of that, Aramis.”

“Really? It was my forgetfulness then; pardon me.”

“Now,” asked Athos, “what are we to do with ourselves till evening? Here we are without occupation, it seems to me.”

“You forget, my friend, that we have work cut out for us in the direction of Charenton; I hope to see Monsieur de Chatillon, whom I’ve hated for a long time, there.”

“Why have you hated him?”

“Because he is the brother of Coligny.”

“Ah, true! he who presumed to be a rival of yours, for which he was severely punished; that ought to satisfy you.”

“‘Yes, but it does not; I am rancorous--the only stigma that proves me to be a churchman. Do you understand? You understand that you are in no way obliged to go with me.”

“Come, now,” said Athos, “you are joking.”

“In that case, my dear friend, if you are resolved to accompany me there is no time to lose; the drum beats; I observed cannon on the road; I saw the citizens in order of battle on the Place of the Hotel de Ville; certainly the fight will be in the direction of Charenton, as the Duc de Chatillon said.”

“I supposed,” said Athos, “that last night’s conferences would modify those warlike arrangements.”

“No doubt; but they will fight, none the less, if only to mask the conferences.”

“Poor creatures!” said Athos, “who are going to be killed, in order that Monsieur de Bouillon may have his estate at Sedan restored to him, that the reversion of the admiralty may be given to the Duc de Beaufort, and that the coadjutor may be made a cardinal.”

“Come, come, dear Athos, confess that you would not be so philosophical if your Raoul were to be involved in this affair.”

“Perhaps you speak the truth, Aramis.”

“Well, let us go, then, where the fighting is, for that is the most likely place to meet with D’Artagnan, Porthos, and possibly even Raoul. Stop, there are a fine body of citizens passing; quite attractive, by Jupiter! and their captain--see! he has the true military style.”

“What, ho!” said Grimaud.

“What?” asked Athos.

“Planchet, sir.”

“Lieutenant yesterday,” said Aramis, “captain to-day, colonel, doubtless, to-morrow; in a fortnight the fellow will be marshal of France.”

“Question him about the fight,” said Athos.

Planchet, prouder than ever of his new duties, deigned to explain to the two gentlemen that he was ordered to take up his position on the Place Royale with two hundred men, forming the rear of the army of Paris, and to march on Charenton when necessary.

“This day will be a warm one,” said Planchet, in a warlike tone.

“No doubt,” said Aramis, “but it is far from here to the enemy.”

“Sir, the distance will be diminished,” said a subordinate.

Aramis saluted, then turning toward Athos:

“I don’t care to camp on the Place Royale with all these people,” he said. “Shall we go forward? We shall see better what is going on.”

“And then Monsieur de Chatillon will not come to the Place Royale to look for you. Come, then, my friend, we will go forward.”

“Haven’t you something to say to Monsieur de Flamarens on your own account?”

“My friend,” said Athos, “I have made a resolution never to draw my sword save when it is absolutely necessary.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“When I last drew my poniard.”

“Ah! Good! another souvenir of Monsieur Mordaunt. Well, my friend, nothing now is lacking except that you should feel remorse for having killed that fellow.”

“Hush!” said Athos, putting a finger on his lips, with the sad smile peculiar to him; “let us talk no more of Mordaunt--it will bring bad luck.” And Athos set forward toward Charenton, followed closely by Aramis.

The Battle of Charenton.

As Athos and Aramis proceeded, and passed different companies on the road, they became aware that they were arriving near the field of battle.

“Ah! my friend!” cried Athos, suddenly, “where have you brought us? I fancy I perceive around us faces of different officers in the royal army; is not that the Duc de Chatillon himself coming toward us with his brigadiers?”

“Good-day, sirs,” said the duke, advancing; “you are puzzled by what you see here, but one word will explain everything. There is now a truce and a conference. The prince, Monsieur de Retz, the Duc de Beaufort, the Duc de Bouillon, are talking over public affairs. Now one of two things must happen: either matters will not be arranged, or they will be arranged, in which last case I shall be relieved of my command and we shall still meet again.”

“Sir,” said Aramis, “you speak to the point. Allow me to ask you a question: Where are the plenipotentiaries?”

“At Charenton, in the second house on the right on entering from the direction of Paris.”

“And was this conference arranged beforehand?”

“No, gentlemen, it seems to be the result of certain propositions which Mazarin made last night to the Parisians.”

Athos and Aramis exchanged smiles; for they well knew what those propositions were, to whom they had been made and who had made them.

“And that house in which the plenipotentiaries are,” asked Athos, “belongs to----”

“To Monsieur de Chanleu, who commands your troops at Charenton. I say your troops, for I presume that you gentlemen are Frondeurs?”

“Yes, almost,” said Aramis.

“We are for the king and the princes,” added Athos.

“We must understand each other,” said the duke. “The king is with us and his generals are the Duke of Orleans and the Prince de Conde, although I must add ’tis almost impossible now to know to which party any one belongs.”

“Yes,” answered Athos, “but his right place is in our ranks, with the Prince de Conti, De Beaufort, D’Elbeuf, and De Bouillon; but, sir, supposing that the conference is broken off--are you going to try to take Charenton?”

“Such are my orders.”

“Sir, since you command the cavalry----”

“Pardon me, I am commander-in-chief.”

“So much the better. You must know all your officers--I mean those more distinguished.”

“Why, yes, very nearly.”

“Will you then kindly tell me if you have in your command the Chevalier d’Artagnan, lieutenant in the musketeers?”

“No, sir, he is not with us; he left Paris more than six weeks ago and is believed to have gone on a mission to England.”

“I knew that, but I supposed he had returned.”

“No, sir; no one has seen him. I can answer positively on that point, for the musketeers belong to our forces and Monsieur de Cambon, the substitute for Monsieur d’Artagnan, still holds his place.”

The two friends looked at each other.

“You see,” said Athos.

“It is strange,” said Aramis.

“It is absolutely certain that some misfortune has happened to them on the way.”

“If we have no news of them this evening, to-morrow we must start.”

Athos nodded affirmatively, then turning:

“And Monsieur de Bragelonne, a young man fifteen years of age, attached to the Prince de Conde--has he the honor of being known to you?” diffident in allowing the sarcastic Aramis to perceive how strong were his paternal feelings.

“Yes, surely, he came with the prince; a charming young man; he is one of your friends then, monsieur le comte?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Athos, agitated; “so much so that I wish to see him if possible.”

“Quite possible, sir; do me the favor to accompany me and I will conduct you to headquarters.”

“Halloo, there!” cried Aramis, turning around; “what a noise behind us!”

“A body of cavaliers is coming toward us,” said Chatillon.

“I recognize the coadjutor by his Frondist hat.”

“And I the Duc de Beaufort by his white plume of ostrich feathers.”

“They are coming, full gallop; the prince is with them--ah! he is leaving them!”

“They are beating the rappel!” cried Chatillon; “we must discover what is going on.”

In fact, they saw the soldiers running to their arms; the trumpets sounded; the drums beat; the Duc de Beaufort drew his sword. On his side the prince sounded a rappel and all the officers of the royalist army, mingling momentarily with the Parisian troops, ran to him.

“Gentlemen,” cried Chatillon, “the truce is broken, that is evident; they are going to fight; go, then, into Charenton, for I shall begin in a short time--there’s a signal from the prince!”

The cornet of a troop had in fact just raised the standard of the prince.

“Farewell, till the next time we meet,” cried Chatillon, and he set off, full gallop.

Athos and Aramis turned also and went to salute the coadjutor and the Duc de Beaufort. As to the Duc de Bouillon, he had such a fit of gout as obliged him to return to Paris in a litter; but his place was well filled by the Duc d’Elbeuf and his four sons, ranged around him like a staff. Meantime, between Charenton and the royal army was left a space which looked ready to serve as a last resting place for the dead.

“Gentlemen,” cried the coadjutor, tightening his sash, which he wore, after the fashion of the ancient military prelates, over his archiepiscopal simar, “there’s the enemy approaching. Let us save them half of their journey.”

And without caring whether he were followed or not he set off; his regiment, which bore the name of the regiment of Corinth, from the name of his archbishopric, darted after him and began the fight. Monsieur de Beaufort sent his cavalry, toward Etampes and Monsieur de Chanleu, who defended the place, was ready to resist an assault, or if the enemy were repulsed, to attempt a sortie.

The battle soon became general and the coadjutor performed miracles of valor. His proper vocation had always been the sword and he was delighted whenever he could draw it from the scabbard, no matter for whom or against whom.

Chanleu, whose fire at one time repulsed the royal regiment, thought that the moment was come to pursue it; but it was reformed and led again to the charge by the Duc de Chatillon in person. This charge was so fierce, so skillfully conducted, that Chanleu was almost surrounded. He commanded a retreat, which began, step by step, foot by foot; unhappily, in an instant he fell, mortally wounded. De Chatillon saw him fall and announced it in a loud voice to his men, which raised their spirits and completely disheartened their enemies, so that every man thought only of his own safety and tried to gain the trenches, where the coadjutor was trying to reform his disorganized regiment.

Suddenly a squadron of cavalry galloped up to encounter the royal troops, who were entering, pele-mele, the intrenchments with the fugitives. Athos and Aramis charged at the head of their squadrons; Aramis with sword and pistol in his hands, Athos with his sword in his scabbard, his pistol in his saddle-bags; calm and cool as if on the parade, except that his noble and beautiful countenance became sad as he saw slaughtered so many men who were sacrificed on the one side to the obstinacy of royalty and on the other to the personal rancor of the princes. Aramis, on the contrary, struck right and left and was almost delirious with excitement. His bright eyes kindled, and his mouth, so finely formed, assumed a wicked smile; every blow he aimed was sure, and his pistol finished the deed--annihilated the wounded wretch who tried to rise again.

On the opposite side two cavaliers, one covered with a gilt cuirass, the other wearing simply a buff doublet, from which fell the sleeves of a vest of blue velvet, charged in front. The cavalier in the gilt cuirass fell upon Aramis and struck a blow that Aramis parried with his wonted skill.

“Ah! ’tis you, Monsieur de Chatillon,” cried the chevalier; “welcome to you--I expected you.”

“I hope I have not made you wait too long, sir,” said the duke; “at all events, here I am.”

“Monsieur de Chatillon,” cried Aramis, taking from his saddle-bags a second pistol, “I think if your pistols have been discharged you are a dead man.”

“Thank God, sir, they are not!”

And the duke, pointing his pistol at Aramis, fired. But Aramis bent his head the instant he saw the duke’s finger press the trigger and the ball passed without touching him.

“Oh! you’ve missed me,” cried Aramis, “but I swear to Heaven! I will not miss you.”

“If I give you time!” cried the duke, spurring on his horse and rushing upon him with his drawn sword.

Aramis awaited him with that terrible smile which was peculiar to him on such occasions, and Athos, who saw the duke advancing toward Aramis with the rapidity of lightning, was just going to cry out, “Fire! fire, then!” when the shot was fired. De Chatillon opened his arms and fell back on the crupper of his horse.

The ball had entered his breast through a notch in the cuirass.

“I am a dead man,” he said, and fell from his horse to the ground.

“I told you this, I am now grieved I have kept my word. Can I be of any use to you?”

Chatillon made a sign with his hand and Aramis was about to dismount when he received a violent shock; ’twas a thrust from a sword, but his cuirass turned aside the blow.

He turned around and seized his new antagonist by the wrist, when he started back, exclaiming, “Raoul!”

“Raoul?” cried Athos.

The young man recognized at the same instant the voices of his father and the Chevalier d’Herblay; two officers in the Parisian forces rushed at that instant on Raoul, but Aramis protected him with his sword.

“My prisoner!” he cried.

Athos took his son’s horse by the bridle and led him forth out of the melee.

At this crisis of the battle, the prince, who had been seconding De Chatillon in the second line, appeared in the midst of the fight; his eagle eye made him known and his blows proclaimed the hero.

On seeing him, the regiment of Corinth, which the coadjutor had not been able to reorganize in spite of all his efforts, threw itself into the midst of the Parisian forces, put them into confusion and re-entered Charenton flying. The coadjutor, dragged along with his fugitive forces, passed near the group formed by Athos, Raoul and Aramis. Aramis could not in his jealousy avoid being pleased at the coadjutor’s misfortune, and was about to utter some bon mot more witty than correct, when Athos stopped him.

“On, on!” he cried, “this is no moment for compliments; or rather, back, for the battle seems to be lost by the Frondeurs.”

“It is a matter of indifference to me,” said Aramis; “I came here only to meet De Chatillon; I have met him, I am contented; ’tis something to have met De Chatillon in a duel!”

“And besides, we have a prisoner,” said Athos, pointing to Raoul.

The three cavaliers continued their road on full gallop.

“What were you doing in the battle, my friend?” inquired Athos of the youth; “‘twas not your right place, I think, as you were not equipped for an engagement!”

“I had no intention of fighting to-day, sir; I was charged, indeed, with a mission to the cardinal and had set out for Rueil, when, seeing Monsieur de Chatillon charge, an invincible desire possessed me to charge at his side. It was then that he told me two cavaliers of the Parisian army were seeking me and named the Comte de la Fere.”

“What! you knew we were there and yet wished to kill your friend the chevalier?”

“I did not recognize the chevalier in armor, sir!” said Raoul, blushing; “though I might have known him by his skill and coolness in danger.”

“Thank you for the compliment, my young friend,” replied Aramis, “we can see from whom you learned courtesy. Then you were going to Rueil?”

“Yes! I have a despatch from the prince to his eminence.”

“You must still deliver it,” said Athos.

“No false generosity, count! the fate of our friends, to say nothing of our own, is perhaps in that very despatch.”

“This young man must not, however, fail in his duty,” said Athos.

“In the first place, count, this youth is our prisoner; you seem to forget that. What I propose to do is fair in war; the vanquished must not be dainty in the choice of means. Give me the despatch, Raoul.”

The young man hesitated and looked at Athos as if seeking to read in his eyes a rule of conduct.

“Give him the despatch, Raoul! you are the chevalier’s prisoner.”

Raoul gave it up reluctantly; Aramis instantly seized and read it.

“You,” he said, “you, who are so trusting, read and reflect that there is something in this letter important for us to see.”

Athos took the letter, frowning, but an idea that he should find something in this letter about D’Artagnan conquered his unwillingness to read it.

“My lord, I shall send this evening to your eminence in order to reinforce the troop of Monsieur de Comminges, the ten men you demand. They are good soldiers, fit to confront the two violent adversaries whose address and resolution your eminence is fearful of.”

“Oh!” cried Athos.

“Well,” said Aramis, “what think you about these two enemies whom it requires, besides Comminges’s troop, ten good soldiers to confront; are they not as like as two drops of water to D’Artagnan and Porthos?”

“We’ll search Paris all day long,” said Athos, “and if we have no news this evening we will return to the road to Picardy; and I feel no doubt that, thanks to D’Artagnan’s ready invention, we shall then find some clew which will solve our doubts.”

“Yes, let us search Paris and especially inquire of Planchet if he has yet heard from his former master.”

“That poor Planchet! You speak of him very much at your ease, Aramis; he has probably been killed. All those fighting citizens went out to battle and they have been massacred.”

It was, then, with a sentiment of uneasiness whether Planchet, who alone could give them information, was alive or dead, that the friends returned to the Place Royale; to their great surprise they found the citizens still encamped there, drinking and bantering each other, although, doubtless, mourned by their families, who thought they were at Charenton in the thickest of the fighting.

Athos and Aramis again questioned Planchet, but he had seen nothing of D’Artagnan; they wished to take Planchet with them, but he could not leave his troop, who at five o’clock returned home, saying that they were returning from the battle, whereas they had never lost sight of the bronze equestrian statue of Louis XIII.

The Road to Picardy.

On leaving Paris, Athos and Aramis well knew that they would be encountering great danger; but we know that for men like these there could be no question of danger. Besides, they felt that the denouement of this second Odyssey was at hand and that there remained but a single effort to make.

Besides, there was no tranquillity in Paris itself. Provisions began to fail, and whenever one of the Prince de Conti’s generals wished to gain more influence he got up a little popular tumult, which he put down again, and thus for the moment gained a superiority over his colleagues.

In one of these risings. the Duc de Beaufort pillaged the house and library of Mazarin, in order to give the populace, as he put it, something to gnaw at. Athos and Aramis left Paris after this coup-d’etat, which took place on the very evening of the day in which the Parisians had been beaten at Charenton.

They quitted Paris, beholding it abandoned to extreme want, bordering on famine; agitated by fear, torn by faction. Parisians and Frondeurs as they were, the two friends expected to find the same misery, the same fears, the same intrigue in the enemy’s camp; but what was their surprise, after passing Saint Denis, to hear that at Saint Germain people were singing and laughing, and leading generally cheerful lives. The two gentlemen traveled by byways in order not to encounter the Mazarinists scattered about the Isle of France, and also to escape the Frondeurs, who were in possession of Normandy and who never failed to conduct captives to the Duc de Longueville, in order that he might ascertain whether they were friends or foes. Having escaped these dangers, they returned by the main road to Boulogne, at Abbeville, and followed it step by step, examining every track.

Nevertheless, they were still in a state of uncertainty. Several inns were visited by them, several innkeepers questioned, without a single clew being given to guide their inquiries, when at Montreuil Athos felt upon the table that something rough was touching his delicate fingers. He turned up the cloth and found these hieroglyphics carved upon the wood with a knife:

“Port .... D’Art .... 2d February.”

“This is capital!” said Athos to Aramis, “we were to have slept here, but we cannot--we must push on.” They rode forward and reached Abbeville. There the great number of inns puzzled them; they could not go to all; how could they guess in which those whom they were seeking had stayed?

“Trust me,” said Aramis, “do not expect to find anything in Abbeville. If we had only been looking for Porthos, Porthos would have stationed himself in one of the finest hotels and we could easily have traced him. But D’Artagnan is devoid of such weaknesses. Porthos would have found it very difficult even to make him see that he was dying of hunger; he has gone on his road as inexorable as fate and we must seek him somewhere else.”

They continued their route. It had now become a weary and almost hopeless task, and had it not been for the threefold motives of honor, friendship and gratitude, implanted in their hearts, our two travelers would have given up many a time their rides over the sand, their interrogatories of the peasantry and their close inspection of faces.

They proceeded thus to Peronne.

Athos began to despair. His noble nature felt that their ignorance was a sort of reflection upon them. They had not looked carefully enough for their lost friends. They had not shown sufficient pertinacity in their inquiries. They were willing and ready to retrace their steps, when, in crossing the suburb which leads to the gates of the town, upon a white wall which was at the corner of a street turning around the rampart, Athos cast his eyes upon a drawing in black chalk, which represented, with the awkwardness of a first attempt, two cavaliers riding furiously; one of them carried a roll of paper on which were written these words: “They are following us.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Athos, “here it is, as clear as day; pursued as he was, D’Artagnan would not have tarried here five minutes had he been pressed very closely, which gives us hopes that he may have succeeded in escaping.”

Aramis shook his head.

“Had he escaped we should either have seen him or have heard him spoken of.”

“You are right, Aramis, let us travel on.”

To describe the impatience and anxiety of these two friends would be impossible. Uneasiness took possession of the tender, constant heart of Athos, and fearful forecasts were the torment of the impulsive Aramis. They galloped on for two or three hours as furiously as the cavaliers on the wall. All at once, in a narrow pass, they perceived that the road was partially barricaded by an enormous stone. It had evidently been rolled across the pass by some arm of giant strength.

Aramis stopped.

“Oh!” he said, looking at the stone, “this is the work of either Hercules or Porthos. Let us get down, count, and examine this rock.”

They both alighted. The stone had been brought with the evident intention of barricading the road, but some one having perceived the obstacle had partially turned it aside.

With the assistance of Blaisois and Grimaud the friends succeeded in turning the stone over. Upon the side next the ground were scratched the following words:

“Eight of the light dragoons are pursuing us. If we reach Compiegne we shall stop at the Peacock. It is kept by a friend of ours.”

“At last we have something definite,” said Athos; “let us go to the Peacock.”

“Yes,” answered Aramis, “but if we are to get there we must rest our horses, for they are almost broken-winded.”

Aramis was right; they stopped at the first tavern and made each horse swallow a double quantity of corn steeped in wine; they gave them three hours’ rest and then set off again. The men themselves were almost dead with fatigue, but hope supported them.

In six hours they reached Compiegne and alighted at the Peacock. The host proved to be a worthy man, as bald as a Chinaman. They asked him if some time ago he had not received in his house two gentlemen who were pursued by dragoons; without answering he went out and brought in the blade of a rapier.

“Do you know that?” he asked.

Athos merely glanced at it.

“‘Tis D’Artagnan’s sword,” he said.

“Does it belong to the smaller or to the larger of the two?” asked the host.

“To the smaller.”

“I see that you are the friends of these gentlemen.”

“Well, what has happened to them?”

“They were pursued by eight of the light dragoons, who rode into the courtyard before they had time to close the gate.”

“Eight!” said Aramis; “it surprises me that two such heroes as Porthos and D’Artagnan should have allowed themselves to be arrested by eight men.”

“The eight men would doubtless have failed had they not been assisted by twenty soldiers of the regiment of Italians in the king’s service, who are in garrison in this town so that your friends were overpowered by numbers.”

“Arrested, were they?” inquired Athos; “is it known why?”

“No, sir, they were carried off instantly, and had not even time to tell me why; but as soon as they were gone I found this broken sword-blade, as I was helping to raise two dead men and five or six wounded ones.”

“‘Tis still a consolation that they were not wounded,” said Aramis.

“Where were they taken?” asked Athos.

“Toward the town of Louvres,” was the reply.

The two friends having agreed to leave Blaisois and Grimaud at Compiegne with the horses, resolved to take post horses; and having snatched a hasty dinner they continued their journey to Louvres. Here they found only one inn, in which was consumed a liqueur which preserves its reputation to our time and which is still made in that town.

“Let us alight here,” said Athos. “D’Artagnan will not have let slip an opportunity of drinking a glass of this liqueur, and at the same time leaving some trace of himself.”

They went into the town and asked for two glasses of liqueur, at the counter--as their friends must have done before them. The counter was covered with a plate of pewter; upon this plate was written with the point of a large pin: “Rueil . . . D . .”

“They went to Rueil,” cried Aramis.

“Let us go to Rueil,” said Athos.

“It is to throw ourselves into the wolf’s jaws,” said Aramis.

“Had I been as great a friend of Jonah as I am of D’Artagnan I should have followed him even into the inside of the whale itself; and you would have done the same, Aramis.”

“Certainly--but you make me out better than I am, dear count. Had I been alone I should scarcely have gone to Rueil without great caution. But where you go, I go.”

They then set off for Rueil. Here the deputies of the parliament had just arrived, in order to enter upon those famous conferences which were to last three weeks, and produced eventually that shameful peace, at the conclusion of which the prince was arrested. Rueil was crowded with advocates, presidents and councillors, who came from the Parisians, and, on the side of the court, with officers and guards; it was therefore easy, in the midst of this confusion, to remain as unobserved as any one might wish; besides, the conferences implied a truce, and to arrest two gentlemen, even Frondeurs, at this time, would have been an attack on the rights of the people.

The two friends mingled with the crowd and fancied that every one was occupied with the same thought that tormented them. They expected to hear some mention made of D’Artagnan or of Porthos, but every one was engrossed by articles and reforms. It was the advice of Athos to go straight to the minister.

“My friend,” said Aramis, “take care; our safety lies in our obscurity. If we were to make ourselves known we should be sent to rejoin our friends in some deep ditch, from which the devil himself could not take us out. Let us try not to find them out by accident, but from our notions. Arrested at Compiegne, they have been carried to Rueil; at Rueil they have been questioned by the cardinal, who has either kept them near him or sent them to Saint Germain. As to the Bastile, they are not there, though the Bastile is especially for the Frondeurs. They are not dead, for the death of D’Artagnan would make a sensation. As for Porthos, I believe him to be eternal, like God, although less patient. Do not let us despond, but wait at Rueil, for my conviction is that they are at Rueil. But what ails you? You are pale.”

“It is this,” answered Athos, with a trembling voice.

“I remember that at the Castle of Rueil the Cardinal Richelieu had some horrible ‘oubliettes’ constructed.”

“Oh! never fear,” said Aramis. “Richelieu was a gentleman, our equal in birth, our superior in position. He could, like the king, touch the greatest of us on the head, and touching them make such heads shake on their shoulders. But Mazarin is a low-born rogue, who can at the most take us by the collar, like an archer. Be calm--for I am sure that D’Artagnan and Porthos are at Rueil, alive and well.”

“But,” resumed Athos, “I recur to my first proposal. I know no better means than to act with candor. I shall seek, not Mazarin, but the queen, and say to her, ‘Madame, restore to us your two servants and our two friends.’”

Aramis shook his head.

“‘Tis a last resource, but let us not employ it till it is imperatively called for; let us rather persevere in our researches.”

They continued their inquiries and at last met with a light dragoon who had formed one of the guard which had escorted D’Artagnan to Rueil.

Athos, however, perpetually recurred to his proposed interview with the queen.

“In order to see the queen,” said Aramis, “we must first see the cardinal; and when we have seen the cardinal--remember what I tell you, Athos--we shall be reunited to our friends, but not in the way you wish. Now, that way of joining them is not very attractive to me, I confess. Let us act in freedom, that we may act well and quickly.”

“I shall go,” he said, “to the queen.”

“Well, then,” answered Aramis, “pray tell me a day or two beforehand, that I may take that opportunity of going to Paris.”

“To whom?”

“Zounds! how do I know? perhaps to Madame de Longueville. She is all-powerful yonder; she will help me. But send me word should you be arrested, for then I will return directly.”

“Why do you not take your chance and be arrested with me?”

“No, I thank you.”

“Should we, by being arrested, be all four together again, we should not, I am not sure, be twenty-four hours in prison without getting free.”

“My friend, since I killed Chatillon, adored of the ladies of Saint Germain, I am too great a celebrity not to fear a prison doubly. The queen is likely to follow Mazarin’s counsels and to have me tried.”

“Do you think she loves this Italian so much as they say she does?”

“Did she not love an Englishman?”

“My friend, she is a woman.”

“No, no, you are deceived--she is a queen.”

“Dear friend, I shall sacrifice myself and go and see Anne of Austria.”

“Adieu, Athos, I am going to raise an army.”

“For what purpose?”

“To come back and besiege Rueil.”

“Where shall we meet again?”

“At the foot of the cardinal’s gallows.”

The two friends departed--Aramis to return to Paris, Athos to take measures preparatory to an interview with the queen.

The Gratitude of Anne of Austria.

Athos found much less difficulty than he had expected in obtaining an audience of Anne of Austria. It was granted, and was to take place after her morning’s “levee,” at which, in accordance with his rights of birth, he was entitled to be present. A vast crowd filled the apartments of Saint Germain. Anne had never at the Louvre had so large a court; but this crowd represented chiefly the second class of nobility, while the Prince de Conti, the Duc de Beaufort and the coadjutor assembled around them the first nobility of France.

The greatest possible gayety prevailed at court. The particular characteristic of this was that more songs were made than cannons fired during its continuance. The court made songs on the Parisians and the Parisians on the court; and the casualties, though not mortal, were painful, as are all wounds inflicted by the weapon of ridicule.

In the midst of this seeming hilarity, nevertheless, people’s minds were uneasy. Was Mazarin to remain the favorite and minister of the queen? Was he to be carried back by the wind which had blown him there? Every one hoped so, so that the minister felt that all around him, beneath the homage of the courtiers, lay a fund of hatred, ill disguised by fear and interest. He felt ill at ease and at a loss what to do.

Conde himself, whilst fighting for him, lost no opportunity of ridiculing, of humbling him. The queen, on whom he threw himself as sole support, seemed to him now not much to be relied upon.

When the hour appointed for the audience arrived Athos was obliged to stay until the queen, who was waited upon by a new deputation from Paris, had consulted with her minister as to the propriety and manner of receiving them. All were fully engrossed with the affairs of the day; Athos could not therefore have chosen a more inauspicious moment to speak of his friends--poor atoms, lost in that raging whirlwind.

But Athos was a man of inflexible determination; he firmly adhered to a purpose once formed, when it seemed to him to spring from conscience and to be prompted by a sense of duty. He insisted on being introduced, saying that although he was not a deputy from Monsieur de Conti, or Monsieur de Beaufort, or Monsieur de Bouillon, or Monsieur d’Elbeuf, or the coadjutor, or Madame de Longueville, or Broussel, or the Parliament, and although he had come on his own private account, he nevertheless had things to say to her majesty of the utmost importance.

The conference being finished, the queen summoned him to her cabinet.

Athos was introduced and announced by name. It was a name that too often resounded in her majesty’s ears and too often vibrated in her heart for Anne of Austria not to recognize it; yet she remained impassive, looking at him with that fixed stare which is tolerated only in women who are queens, either by the power of beauty or by the right of birth.

“It is then a service which you propose to render us, count?” asked Anne of Austria, after a moment’s silence.

“Yes, madame, another service,” said Athos, shocked that the queen did not seem to recognize him.

Athos had a noble heart, and made, therefore, but a poor courtier.

Anne frowned. Mazarin, who was sitting at a table folding up papers, as if he had only been a secretary of state, looked up.

“Speak,” said the queen.

Mazarin turned again to his papers.

“Madame,” resumed Athos, “two of my friends, named D’Artagnan and Monsieur du Vallon, sent to England by the cardinal, suddenly disappeared when they set foot on the shores of France; no one knows what has become of them.”

“Well?” said the queen.

“I address myself, therefore, first to the benevolence of your majesty, that I may know what has become of my friends, reserving to myself, if necessary, the right of appealing hereafter to your justice.”

“Sir,” replied Anne, with a degree of haughtiness which to certain persons became impertinence, “this is the reason that you trouble me in the midst of so many absorbing concerns! an affair for the police! Well, sir, you ought to know that we no longer have a police, since we are no longer at Paris.”

“I think your majesty will have no need to apply to the police to know where my friends are, but that if you will deign to interrogate the cardinal he can reply without any further inquiry than into his own recollections.”

“But, God forgive me!” cried Anne, with that disdainful curl of the lips peculiar to her, “I believe that you are yourself interrogating.”

“Yes, madame, here I have a right to do so, for it concerns Monsieur d’Artagnan---d’Artagnan,” he repeated, in such a manner as to bow the regal brow with recollections of the weak and erring woman.

The cardinal saw that it was now high time to come to the assistance of Anne.

“Sir,” he said, “I can tell you what is at present unknown to her majesty. These individuals are under arrest. They disobeyed orders.”

“I beg of your majesty, then,” said Athos, calmly and not replying to Mazarin, “to quash these arrests of Messieurs d’Artagnan and du Vallon.”

“What you ask is merely an affair of discipline and does not concern me,” said the queen.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan never made such an answer as that when the service of your majesty was concerned,” said Athos, bowing with great dignity. He was going toward the door when Mazarin stopped him.

“You, too, have been in England, sir?” he said, making a sign to the queen, who was evidently going to issue a severe order.

“I was a witness of the last hours of Charles I. Poor king! culpable, at the most, of weakness, how cruelly punished by his subjects! Thrones are at this time shaken and it is to little purpose for devoted hearts to serve the interests of princes. This is the second time that Monsieur d’Artagnan has been in England. He went the first time to save the honor of a great queen; the second, to avert the death of a great king.”

“Sir,” said Anne to Mazarin, with an accent from which daily habits of dissimulation could not entirely chase the real expression, “see if we can do something for these gentlemen.”

“I wish to do, madame, all that your majesty pleases.”

“Do what Monsieur de la Fere requests; that is your name, is it not, sir?”

“I have another name, madame--I am called Athos.”

“Madame,” said Mazarin, with a smile, “you may rest easy; your wishes shall be fulfilled.”

“You hear, sir?” said the queen.

“Yes, madame, I expected nothing less from the justice of your majesty. May I not go and see my friends?”

“Yes, sir, you shall see them. But, apropos, you belong to the Fronde, do you not?”

“Madame, I serve the king.”

“Yes, in your own way.”

“My way is the way of all gentlemen, and I know only one way,” answered Athos, haughtily.

“Go, sir, then,” said the queen; “you have obtained what you wish and we know all we desire to know.”

Scarcely, however, had the tapestry closed behind Athos when she said to Mazarin:

“Cardinal, desire them to arrest that insolent fellow before he leaves the court.”

“Your majesty,” answered Mazarin, “desires me to do only what I was going to ask you to let me do. These bravoes who resuscitate in our epoch the traditions of another reign are troublesome; since there are two of them already there, let us add a third.”

Athos was not altogether the queen’s dupe, but he was not a man to run away on suspicion--above all, when distinctly told that he should see his friends again. He waited, then, in the ante-chamber with impatience, till he should be conducted to them.

He walked to the window and looked into the court. He saw the deputation from the Parisians enter it; they were coming to assign the definitive place for the conference and to make their bow to the queen. A very imposing escort awaited them without the gates.

Athos was looking on attentively, when some one touched him softly on the shoulder.

“Ah! Monsieur de Comminges,” he said.

“Yes, count, and charged with a commission for which I beg of you to accept my excuses.”

“What is it?”

“Be so good as to give me up your sword, count.”

Athos smiled and opened the window.

“Aramis!” he cried.

A gentleman turned around. Athos fancied he had seen him among the crowd. It was Aramis. He bowed with great friendship to the count.

“Aramis,” cried Athos, “I am arrested.”

“Good,” replied Aramis, calmly.

“Sir,” said Athos, turning to Comminges and giving him politely his sword by the hilt, “here is my sword; have the kindness to keep it safely for me until I quit my prison. I prize it--it was given to my ancestor by King Francis I. In his time they armed gentlemen, not disarmed them. Now, whither do you conduct me?”

“Into my room first,” replied Comminges; “the queen will ultimately decide your place of domicile.”

Athos followed Comminges without saying a single word.

Cardinal Mazarin as King.

The arrest produced no sensation, indeed was almost unknown, and scarcely interrupted the course of events. To the deputation it was formally announced that the queen would receive it.

Accordingly, it was admitted to the presence of Anne, who, silent and lofty as ever, listened to the speeches and complaints of the deputies; but when they had finished their harangues not one of them could say, so calm remained her face, whether or no she had heard them.

On the other hand, Mazarin, present at that audience, heard very well what those deputies demanded. It was purely and simply his removal, in terms clear and precise.

The discourse being finished, the queen remained silent.

“Gentlemen,” said Mazarin, “I join with you in supplicating the queen to put an end to the miseries of her subjects. I have done all in my power to ameliorate them and yet the belief of the public, you say, is that they proceed from me, an unhappy foreigner, who has been unable to please the French. Alas! I have never been understood, and no wonder. I succeeded a man of the most sublime genius that ever upheld the sceptre of France. The memory of Richelieu annihilates me. In vain--were I an ambitious man--should I struggle against such remembrances as he has left; but that I am not ambitious I am going to prove to you. I own myself conquered. I shall obey the wishes of the people. If Paris has injuries to complain of, who has not some wrongs to be redressed? Paris has been sufficiently punished; enough blood has flowed, enough misery has humbled a town deprived of its king and of justice. ’Tis not for me, a private individual, to disunite a queen from her kingdom. Since you demand my resignation, I retire.”

“Then,” said Aramis, in his neighbor’s ear, “the conferences are over. There is nothing to do but to send Monsieur Mazarin to the most distant frontier and to take care that he does not return even by that, nor any other entrance into France.”

“One instant, sir,” said the man in a gown, whom he addressed; “a plague on’t! how fast you go! one may soon see that you’re a soldier. There’s the article of remunerations and indemnifications to be discussed and set to rights.”

“Chancellor,” said the queen, turning to Seguier, our old acquaintance, “you will open the conferences. They can take place at Rueil. The cardinal has said several things which have agitated me, therefore I will not speak more fully now. As to his going or staying, I feel too much gratitude to the cardinal not to leave him free in all his actions; he shall do what he wishes to do.”

A transient pallor overspread the speaking countenance of the prime minister; he looked at the queen with anxiety. Her face was so passionless, that he, as every one else present, was incapable of reading her thoughts.

“But,” added the queen, “in awaiting the cardinal’s decision let there be, if you please, a reference to the king only.”

The deputies bowed and left the room.

“What!” exclaimed the queen, when the last of them had quitted the apartment, “you would yield to these limbs of the law--these advocates?”

“To promote your majesty’s welfare, madame,” replied Mazarin, fixing his penetrating eyes on the queen, “there is no sacrifice that I would not make.”

Anne dropped her head and fell into one of those reveries so habitual with her. A recollection of Athos came into her mind. His fearless deportment, his words, so firm, yet dignified, the shades which by one word he had evoked, recalled to her the past in all its intoxication of poetry and romance, youth, beauty, the eclat of love at twenty years of age, the bloody death of Buckingham, the only man whom she had ever really loved, and the heroism of those obscure champions who had saved her from the double hatred of Richelieu and the king.

Mazarin looked at her, and whilst she deemed herself alone and freed from the world of enemies who sought to spy into her secret thoughts, he read her thoughts in her countenance, as one sees in a transparent lake clouds pass--reflections, like thoughts, of the heavens.

“Must we, then,” asked Anne of Austria, “yield to the storm, buy peace, and patiently and piously await better times?”

Mazarin smiled sarcastically at this speech, which showed that she had taken the minister’s proposal seriously.

Anne’s head was bent down--she had not seen the Italian’s smile; but finding that her question elicited no reply she looked up.

“Well, you do not answer, cardinal, what do you think about it?”

“I am thinking, madame, of the allusion made by that insolent gentleman, whom you have caused to be arrested, to the Duke of Buckingham--to him whom you allowed to be assassinated--to the Duchess de Chevreuse, whom you suffered to be exiled--to the Duc de Beaufort, whom you imprisoned; but if he made allusion to me it was because he is ignorant of the relation in which I stand to you.”

Anne drew up, as she always did, when anything touched her pride. She blushed, and that she might not answer, clasped her beautiful hands till her sharp nails almost pierced them.

“That man has sagacity, honor and wit, not to mention likewise that he is a man of undoubted resolution. You know something about him, do you not, madame? I shall tell him, therefore, and in doing so I shall confer a personal favor on him, how he is mistaken in regard to me. What is proposed to me would be, in fact, almost an abdication, and an abdication requires reflection.”

“An abdication?” repeated Anne; “I thought, sir, that it was kings alone who abdicated!”

“Well,” replied Mazarin, “and am I not almost a king--king, indeed, of France? Thrown over the foot of the royal bed, my simar, madame, looks not unlike the mantle worn by kings.”

This was one of the humiliations which Mazarin made Anne undergo more frequently than any other, and one that bowed her head with shame. Queen Elizabeth and Catherine II. of Russia are the only two monarchs of their set on record who were at once sovereigns and lovers. Anne of Austria looked with a sort of terror at the threatening aspect of the cardinal--his physiognomy in such moments was not destitute of a certain grandeur.

“Sir,” she replied, “did I not say, and did you not hear me say to those people, that you should do as you pleased?”

“In that case,” said Mazarin, “I think it must please me best to remain; not only on account of my own interest, but for your safety.”

“Remain, then, sir; nothing can be more agreeable to me; only do not allow me to be insulted.”

“You are referring to the demands of the rebels and to the tone in which they stated them? Patience! They have selected a field of battle on which I am an abler general than they--that of a conference. No, we shall beat them by merely temporizing. They want food already. They will be ten times worse off in a week.”

“Ah, yes! Good heavens! I know it will end in that way; but it is not they who taunt me with the most wounding reproaches, but----”

“I understand; you mean to allude to the recollections perpetually revived by these three gentlemen. However, we have them safe in prison, and they are just sufficiently culpable for us to keep them in prison as long as we find it convenient. One only is still not in our power and braves us. But, devil take him! we shall soon succeed in sending him to join his boon companions. We have accomplished more difficult things than that. In the first place I have as a precaution shut up at Rueil, near me, under my own eyes, within reach of my hand, the two most intractable ones. To-day the third will be there also.”

“As long as they are in prison all will be well,” said Anne, “but one of these days they will get out.”

“Yes, if your majesty releases them.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Anne, following the train of her own thoughts on such occasions, “one regrets Paris!”

“Why so?”

“On account of the Bastile, sir, which is so strong and so secure.”

“Madame, these conferences will bring us peace; when we have peace we shall regain Paris; with Paris, the Bastile, and our four bullies shall rot therein.”

Anne frowned slightly when Mazarin, in taking leave, kissed her hand.

Mazarin, after this half humble, half gallant attention, went away. Anne followed him with her eyes, and as he withdrew, at every step he took, a disdainful smile was seen playing, then gradually burst upon her lips.

“I once,” she said, “despised the love of a cardinal who never said ‘I shall do,’ but, ‘I have done so and so.’ That man knew of retreats more secure than Rueil, darker and more silent even than the Bastile. Degenerate world!”

Precaution’s.

After quitting Anne, Mazarin took the road to Rueil, where he usually resided; in those times of disturbance he went about with numerous followers and often disguised himself. In military dress he was, indeed, as we have stated, a very handsome man.

In the court of the old Chateau of Saint Germain he entered his coach, and reached the Seine at Chatou. The prince had supplied him with fifty light horse, not so much by way of guard as to show the deputies how readily the queen’s generals dispersed their troops and to prove that they might be safely scattered at pleasure. Athos, on horseback, without his sword and kept in sight by Comminges, followed the cardinal in silence. Grimaud, finding that his master had been arrested, fell back into the ranks near Aramis, without saying a word and as if nothing had happened.

Grimaud had, indeed, during twenty-two years of service, seen his master extricate himself from so many difficulties that nothing less than Athos’s imminent death was likely to make him uneasy.

At the branching off of the road toward Paris, Aramis, who had followed in the cardinal’s suite, turned back. Mazarin went to the right hand and Aramis could see the prisoner disappear at the turning of the avenue. Athos, at the same moment, moved by a similar impulse, looked back also. The two friends exchanged a simple inclination of the head and Aramis put his finger to his hat, as if to bow, Athos alone comprehending by that signal that he had some project in his head.

Ten minutes afterward Mazarin entered the court of that chateau which his predecessor had built for him at Rueil; as he alighted, Comminges approached him.

“My lord,” he asked, “where does your eminence wish Monsieur Comte de la Fere to be lodged?”

“In the pavilion of the orangery, of course, in front of the pavilion where the guard is. I wish every respect to be shown the count, although he is the prisoner of her majesty the queen.”

“My lord,” answered Comminges, “he begs to be taken to the place where Monsieur d’Artagnan is confined--that is, in the hunting lodge, opposite the orangery.

Mazarin thought for an instant.

Comminges saw that he was undecided.

“‘Tis a very strong post,” he resumed, “and we have forty good men, tried soldiers, having no connection with Frondeurs nor any interest in the Fronde.”

“If we put these three men together, Monsieur Comminges,” said Mazarin, “we must double the guard, and we are not rich enough in fighting men to commit such acts of prodigality.”

Comminges smiled; Mazarin read and construed that smile.

“You do not know these men, Monsieur Comminges, but I know them, first personally, also by hearsay. I sent them to carry aid to King Charles and they performed prodigies to save him; had it not been for an adverse destiny, that beloved monarch would this day have been among us.”

“But since they served your eminence so well, why are they, my lord cardinal, in prison?”

“In prison?” said Mazarin, “and when has Rueil been a prison?”

“Ever since there were prisoners in it,” answered Comminges.

“These gentlemen, Comminges, are not prisoners,” returned Mazarin, with his ironical smile, “only guests; but guests so precious that I have put a grating before each of their windows and bolts to their doors, that they may not refuse to continue my visitors. So much do I esteem them that I am going to make the Comte de la Fere a visit, that I may converse with him tete-a-tete, and that we may not be disturbed at our interview you must conduct him, as I said before, to the pavilion of the orangery; that, you know, is my daily promenade. Well, while taking my walk I will call on him and we will talk. Although he professes to be my enemy I have sympathy for him, and if he is reasonable perhaps we shall arrange matters.”

Comminges bowed, and returned to Athos, who was awaiting with apparent calmness, but with real anxiety, the result of the interview.

“Well?” he said to the lieutenant.

“Sir,” replied Comminges, “it seems that it is impossible.”

“Monsieur de Comminges,” said Athos, “I have been a soldier all my life and I know the force of orders; but outside your orders there is a service you can render me.”

“I will do it with all my heart,” said Comminges; “for I know who you are and what service you once performed for her majesty; I know, too, how dear to you is the young man who came so valiantly to my aid when that old rogue of a Broussel was arrested. I am entirely at your service, except only for my orders.”

“Thank you, sir; what I am about to ask will not compromise you in any degree.”

“If it should even compromise me a little,” said Monsieur de Comminges, with a smile, “still make your demand. I don’t like Mazarin any better than you do. I serve the queen and that draws me naturally into the service of the cardinal; but I serve the one with joy and the other against my will. Speak, then, I beg of you; I wait and listen.”

“Since there is no harm,” said Athos, “in my knowing that D’Artagnan is here, I presume there will be none in his knowing that I am here.”

“I have received no orders on that point.”

“Well, then, do me the kindness to give him my regards and tell him that I am his neighbor. Tell him also what you have just told me--that Mazarin has placed me in the pavilion of the orangery in order to make me a visit, and assure him that I shall take advantage of this honor he proposes to accord to me to obtain from him some amelioration of our captivity.”

“Which cannot last,” interrupted Comminges; “the cardinal said so; there is no prison here.”

“But there are oubliettes!” replied Athos, smiling.

“Oh! that’s a different thing; yes, I know there are traditions of that sort,” said Comminges. “It was in the time of the other cardinal, who was a great nobleman; but our Mazarin--impossible! an Italian adventurer would not dare to go such lengths with such men as ourselves. Oubliettes are employed as a means of kingly vengeance, and a low-born fellow such as he is would not have recourse to them. Your arrest is known, that of your friends will soon be known; and all the nobility of France would demand an explanation of your disappearance. No, no, be easy on that score. I will, however, inform Monsieur d’Artagnan of your arrival here.”

Comminges then led the count to a room on the ground floor of a pavilion, at the end of the orangery. They passed through a courtyard as they went, full of soldiers and courtiers. In the centre of this court, in the form of a horseshoe, were the buildings occupied by Mazarin, and at each wing the pavilion (or smaller building), where D’Artagnan was confined, and that, level with the orangery, where Athos was to be. From the ends of these two wings extended the park.

Athos, when he reached his appointed room, observed through the gratings of his window, walls and roofs; and was told, on inquiry, by Comminges, that he was looking on the back of the pavilion where D’Artagnan was confined.

“Yes, ’tis too true,” said Comminges, “‘tis almost a prison; but what a singular fancy this is of yours, count--you, who are the very flower of our nobility--to squander your valor and loyalty amongst these upstarts, the Frondists! Really, count, if ever I thought that I had a friend in the ranks of the royal army, it was you. A Frondeur! you, the Comte de la Fere, on the side of Broussel, Blancmesnil and Viole! For shame! you, a Frondeur!”

“On my word of honor,” said Athos, “one must be either a Mazarinist or a Frondeur. For a long time I had these words whispered in my ears, and I chose the latter; at any rate, it is a French word. And now, I am a Frondeur--not of Broussel’s party, nor of Blancmesnil’s, nor am I with Viole; but with the Duc de Beaufort, the Ducs de Bouillon and d’Elbeuf; with princes, not with presidents, councillors and low-born lawyers. Besides, what a charming outlook it would have been to serve the cardinal! Look at that wall--without a single window--which tells you fine things about Mazarin’s gratitude!”

“Yes,” replied De Comminges, “more especially if it could reveal how Monsieur d’Artagnan for this last week has been anathematizing him.”

“Poor D’Artagnan’” said Athos, with the charming melancholy that was one of the traits of his character, “so brave, so good, so terrible to the enemies of those he loves. You have two unruly prisoners there, sir.”

“Unruly,” Comminges smiled; “you wish to terrify me, I suppose. When he came here, Monsieur D’Artagnan provoked and braved the soldiers and inferior officers, in order, I suppose, to have his sword back. That mood lasted some time; but now he’s as gentle as a lamb and sings Gascon songs, which make one die of laughing.”

“And Du Vallon?” asked Athos.

“Ah, he’s quite another sort of person--a formidable gentleman, indeed. The first day he broke all the doors in with a single push of his shoulder; and I expected to see him leave Rueil in the same way as Samson left Gaza. But his temper cooled down, like his friend’s; he not only gets used to his captivity, but jokes about it.”

“So much the better,” said Athos.

“Do you think anything else was to be expected of them?” asked Comminges, who, putting together what Mazarin had said of his prisoners and what the Comte de la Fere had said, began to feel a degree of uneasiness.

Athos, on the other hand, reflected that this recent gentleness of his friends most certainly arose from some plan formed by D’Artagnan. Unwilling to injure them by praising them too highly, he replied: “They? They are two hotheads--the one a Gascon, the other from Picardy; both are easily excited, but they quiet down immediately. You have had a proof of that in what you have just related to me.”

This, too, was the opinion of Comminges, who withdrew somewhat reassured. Athos remained alone in the vast chamber, where, according to the cardinal’s directions, he was treated with all the courtesy due to a nobleman. He awaited Mazarin’s promised visit to get some light on his present situation.

Strength and Sagacity.

Now let us pass the orangery to the hunting lodge. At the extremity of the courtyard, where, close to a portico formed of Ionic columns, were the dog kennels, rose an oblong building, the pavilion of the orangery, a half circle, inclosing the court of honor. It was in this pavilion, on the ground floor, that D’Artagnan and Porthos were confined, suffering interminable hours of imprisonment in a manner suitable to each different temperament.

D’Artagnan was pacing to and fro like a caged tiger; with dilated eyes, growling as he paced along by the bars of a window looking upon the yard of servant’s offices.

Porthos was ruminating over an excellent dinner he had just demolished.

The one seemed to be deprived of reason, yet he was meditating. The other seemed to meditate, yet he was more than half asleep. But his sleep was a nightmare, which might be guessed by the incoherent manner in which he sometimes snored and sometimes snorted.

“Look,” said D’Artagnan, “day is declining. It must be nearly four o’clock. We have been in this place nearly eighty-three hours.”

“Hem!” muttered Porthos, with a kind of pretense of answering.

“Did you hear, eternal sleeper?” cried D’Artagnan, irritated that any one could doze during the day, when he had the greatest difficulty in sleeping during the night.

“What?” said Porthos.

“I say we have been here eighty-three hours.”

“‘Tis your fault,” answered Porthos.

“How, my fault?”

“Yes, I offered you escape.”

“By pulling out a bar and pushing down a door?”

“Certainly.”

“Porthos, men like us can’t go out from here purely and simply.”

“Faith!” said Porthos, “as for me, I could go out with that purity and that simplicity which it seems to me you despise too much.”

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.

“And besides,” he said, “going out of this chamber isn’t all.”

“Dear friend,” said Porthos, “you appear to be in a somewhat better humor to-day than you were yesterday. Explain to me why going out of this chamber isn’t everything.”

“Because, having neither arms nor password, we shouldn’t take fifty steps in the court without knocking against a sentinel.”

Very well,” said Porthos, “we will kill the sentinel and we shall have his arms.”

“Yes, but before we can kill him--and he will be hard to kill, that Swiss--he will shriek out and the whole picket will come, and we shall be taken like foxes, we, who are lions, and thrown into some dungeon, where we shall not even have the consolation of seeing this frightful gray sky of Rueil, which no more resembles the sky of Tarbes than the moon is like the sun. Lack-a-day! if we only had some one to instruct us about the physical and moral topography of this castle. Ah! when one thinks that for twenty years, during which time I did not know what to do with myself, it never occurred to me to come to study Rueil.”

“What difference does that make?” said Porthos. “We shall go out all the same.”

“Do you know, my dear fellow, why master pastrycooks never work with their hands?”

“No,” said Porthos, “but I should be glad to be informed.”

“It is because in the presence of their pupils they fear that some of their tarts or creams may turn out badly cooked.”

“What then?”

“Why, then they would be laughed at, and a master pastrycook must never be laughed at.”

“And what have master pastrycooks to do with us?”

“We ought, in our adventures, never to be defeated or give any one a chance to laugh at us. In England, lately, we failed, we were beaten, and that is a blemish on our reputation.”

“By whom, then, were we beaten?” asked Porthos.

“By Mordaunt.”

“Yes, but we have drowned Monsieur Mordaunt.”

“That is true, and that will redeem us a little in the eyes of posterity, if posterity ever looks at us. But listen, Porthos: though Monsieur Mordaunt was a man not to be despised, Mazarin is not less strong than he, and we shall not easily succeed in drowning him. We must, therefore, watch and play a close game; for,” he added with a sigh, “we two are equal, perhaps, to eight others; but we are not equal to the four that you know of.”

“That is true,” said Porthos, echoing D’Artagnan’s sigh.

“Well, Porthos, follow my examples; walk back and forth till some news of our friends reaches us or till we are visited by a good idea. But don’t sleep as you do all the time; nothing dulls the intellect like sleep. As to what may lie before us, it is perhaps less serious than we at first thought. I don’t believe that Monsieur de Mazarin thinks of cutting off our heads, for heads are not taken off without previous trial; a trial would make a noise, and a noise would get the attention of our friends, who would check the operations of Monsieur de Mazarin.”

“How well you reason!” said Porthos, admiringly.

“Well, yes, pretty well,” replied D’Artagnan; “and besides, you see, if they put us on trial, if they cut off our heads, they must meanwhile either keep us here or transfer us elsewhere.”

“Yes, that is inevitable,” said Porthos.

“Well, it is impossible but that Master Aramis, that keen-scented bloodhound, and Athos, that wise and prudent nobleman, will discover our retreat. Then, believe me, it will be time to act.”

“Yes, we will wait. We can wait the more contentedly, that it is not absolutely bad here, but for one thing, at least.”

“What is that?”

“Did you observe, D’Artagnan, that three days running they have brought us braised mutton?”

“No; but if it occurs a fourth time I shall complain of it, so never mind.”

“And then I feel the loss of my house, ’tis a long time since I visited my castles.”

“Forget them for a time; we shall return to them, unless Mazarin razes them to the ground.”

“Do you think that likely?”

“No, the other cardinal would have done so, but this one is too mean a fellow to risk it.”

“You reconcile me, D’Artagnan.”

“Well, then, assume a cheerful manner, as I do; we must joke with the guards, we must gain the good-will of the soldiers, since we can’t corrupt them. Try, Porthos, to please them more than you are wont to do when they are under our windows. Thus far you have done nothing but show them your fist; and the more respectable your fist is, Porthos, the less attractive it is. Ah, I would give much to have five hundred louis, only.”

“So would I,” said Porthos, unwilling to be behind D’Artagnan in generosity; “I would give as much as a hundred pistoles.”

The two prisoners were at this point of their conversation when Comminges entered, preceded by a sergeant and two men, who brought supper in a basket with two handles, filled with basins and plates.

“What!” exclaimed Porthos, “mutton again?”

“My dear Monsieur de Comminges,” said D’Artagnan, “you will find that my friend, Monsieur du Vallon, will go to the most fatal lengths if Cardinal Mazarin continues to provide us with this sort of meat; mutton every day.”

“I declare,” said Porthos, “I shall eat nothing if they do not take it away.”

“Remove the mutton,” cried Comminges; “I wish Monsieur du Vallon to sup well, more especially as I have news to give him that will improve his appetite.”

“Is Mazarin dead?” asked Porthos.

“No; I am sorry to tell you he is perfectly well.”

“So much the worse,” said Porthos.

“What is that news?” asked D’Artagnan. “News in prison is a fruit so rare that I trust, Monsieur de Comminges, you will excuse my impatience--the more eager since you have given us to understand that the news is good.”

“Should you be glad to hear that the Comte de la Fere is well?” asked De Comminges.

D’Artagnan’s penetrating gray eyes were opened to the utmost.

“Glad!” he cried; “I should be more than glad! Happy--beyond measure!”

“Well, I am desired by him to give you his compliments and to say that he is in good health.”

D’Artagnan almost leaped with joy. A quick glance conveyed his thought to Porthos: “If Athos knows where we are, if he opens communication with us, before long Athos will act.”

Porthos was not very quick to understand the language of glances, but now since the name of Athos had suggested to him the same idea, he understood.

“Do you say,” asked the Gascon, timidly, “that the Comte de la Fere has commissioned you to give his compliments to Monsieur du Vallon and myself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you have seen him?”

“Certainly I have.”

“Where? if I may ask without indiscretion.”

“Near here,” replied De Comminges, smiling; “so near that if the windows which look on the orangery were not stopped up you could see him from where you are.”

“He is wandering about the environs of the castle,” thought D’Artagnan. Then he said aloud:

“You met him, I dare say, in the park--hunting, perhaps?”

“No; nearer, nearer still. Look, behind this wall,” said De Comminges, knocking against the wall.

“Behind this wall? What is there, then, behind this wall? I was brought here by night, so devil take me if I know where I am.”

“Well,” said Comminges, “suppose one thing.”

“I will suppose anything you please.”

“Suppose there were a window in this wall.”

“Well?”

“From that window you would see Monsieur de la Fere at his.”

“The count, then, is in the chateau?”

“Yes.”

“For what reason?”

“The same as yourself.”

“Athos--a prisoner?”

“You know well,” replied De Comminges, “that there are no prisoners at Rueil, because there is no prison.”

“Don’t let us play upon words, sir. Athos has been arrested.”

“Yesterday, at Saint Germain, as he came out from the presence of the queen.”

The arms of D’Artagnan fell powerless by his side. One might have supposed him thunderstruck; a paleness ran like a cloud over his dark skin, but disappeared immediately.

“A prisoner?” he reiterated.

“A prisoner,” repeated Porthos, quite dejected.

Suddenly D’Artagnan looked up and in his eyes there was a gleam which scarcely even Porthos observed; but it died away and he appeared more sorrowful than before.

“Come, come,” said Comminges, who, since D’Artagnan, on the day of Broussel’s arrest, had saved him from the hands of the Parisians, had entertained a real affection for him, “don’t be unhappy; I never thought of bringing you bad news. Laugh at the chance which has brought your friend near to you and Monsieur du Vallon, instead of being in the depths of despair about it.”

But D’Artagnan was still in a desponding mood.

“And how did he look?” asked Porthos, who, perceiving that D’Artagnan had allowed the conversation to drop, profited by it to put in a word or two.

“Very well, indeed, sir,” replied Comminges; “at first, like you, he seemed distressed; but when he heard that the cardinal was going to pay him a visit this very evening----”

“Ah!” cried D’Artagnan, “the cardinal is about to visit the Comte de la Fere?”

“Yes; and the count desired me to tell you that he should take advantage of this visit to plead for you and for himself.”

“Ah! our dear count!” said D’Artagnan.

“A fine thing, indeed!” grunted Porthos. “A great favor! Zounds! Monsieur the Comte de la Fere, whose family is allied to the Montmorency and the Rohan, is easily the equal of Monsieur de Mazarin.”

“No matter,” said D’Artagnan, in his most wheedling tone. “On reflection, my dear Du Vallon, it is a great honor for the Comte de la Fere, and gives good reason to hope. In fact, it seems to me so great an honor for a prisoner that I think Monsieur de Comminges must be mistaken.”

“What? I am mistaken?”

“Monsieur de Mazarin will not come to visit the Comte de la Fere, but the Comte de la Fere will be sent for to visit him.”

“No, no, no,” said Comminges, who made a point of having the facts appear exactly as they were, “I clearly understood what the cardinal said to me. He will come and visit the Comte de la Fere.”

D’Artagnan tried to gather from the expression of his eyes whether Porthos understood the importance of that visit, but Porthos did not even look toward him.

“It is, then, the cardinal’s custom to walk in his orangery?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Every evening he shuts himself in there. That, it seems, is where he meditates on state affairs.”

“In that case,” said D’Artagnan, “I begin to believe that Monsieur de la Fere will receive the visit of his eminence; he will, of course, have an escort.”

“Yes--two soldiers.”

“And will he talk thus of affairs in presence of two strangers?”

“The soldiers are Swiss, who understand only German. Besides, according to all probability they will wait at the door.”

D’Artagnan made a violent effort over himself to keep his face from being too expressive.

“Let the cardinal take care of going alone to visit the Comte de la Fere,” said D’Artagnan; “for the count must be furious.”

Comminges began to laugh. “Oh, oh! why, really, one would say that you four were anthropaphagi! The count is an affable man; besides, be is unarmed; at the first word from his eminence the two soldiers about him would run to his assistance.”

“Two soldiers,” said D’Artagnan, seeming to remember something, “two soldiers, yes; that, then, is why I hear two men called every evening and see them walking sometimes for half an hour, under my window.”

“That is it; they are waiting for the cardinal, or rather for Bernouin, who comes to call them when the cardinal goes out.”

“Fine-looking men, upon my word!” said D’Artagnan.

“They belong to the regiment that was at Lens, which the prince assigned to the cardinal.”

“Ah, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, as if to sum up in a word all that conversation, “if only his eminence would relent and grant to Monsieur de la Fere our liberty.”

“I wish it with all my heart,” said Comminges.

“Then, if he should forget that visit, you would find no inconvenience in reminding him of it?”

“Not at all.”

“Ah, that gives me more confidence.”

This skillful turn of the conversation would have seemed a sublime manoeuvre to any one who could have read the Gascon’s soul.

“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “I’ve one last favor to ask of you, Monsieur de Comminges.”

“At your service, sir.”

“You will see the count again?”

“To-morrow morning.”

“Will you remember us to him and ask him to solicit for me the same favor that he will have obtained?”

“You want the cardinal to come here?”

“No; I know my place and am not so presumptuous. Let his eminence do me the honor to give me a hearing; that is all I want.”

“Oh!” muttered Porthos, shaking his head, “never should I have thought this of him! How misfortune humbles a man!”

“I promise you it shall be done,” answered De Comminges.

“Tell the count that I am well; that you found me sad, but resigned.”

“I am pleased, sir, to hear that.”

“And the same, also, for Monsieur du Vallon----”

“Not for me ,” cried Porthos; “I am not by any means resigned.”

“But you will be resigned, my friend.”

“Never!”

“He will become so, monsieur; I know him better than he knows himself. Be silent, dear Du Vallon, and resign yourself.”

“Adieu, gentlemen,” said De Comminges; “sleep well!”

“We will try.”

De Comminges went away, D’Artagnan remaining apparently in the same attitude of humble resignation; but scarcely had he departed when he turned and clasped Porthos in his arms with an expression not to be doubted.

“Oh!” cried Porthos; “what’s the matter now? Have you gone mad, my dear friend?”

“What is the matter?” returned D’Artagnan; “we are saved!”

“I don’t see that at all,” answered Porthos. “I think we are all taken prisoners, except Aramis, and that our chances of getting out are lessened since one more of us is caught in Mazarin’s mousetrap.”

“Which is far too strong for two of us, but not strong enough for three of us,” returned D’Artagnan.

“I don’t understand,” said Porthos.

“Never mind; let’s sit down to table and take something to strengthen us for the night.”

“What are we to do, then, to-night?”

“To travel--perhaps.”

“But----”

“Sit down, dear friend, to table. When one is eating, ideas flow easily. After supper, when they are perfected, I will communicate my plans to you.”

So Porthos sat down to table without another word and ate with an appetite that did honor to the confidence that was ever inspired in him by D’Artagnan’s inventive imagination.

Strength and Sagacity--Continued.

Supper was eaten in silence, but not in sadness; for from time to time one of those sweet smiles which were habitual to him in moments of good-humor illumined the face of D’Artagnan. Not a scintilla of these was lost on Porthos; and at every one he uttered an exclamation which betrayed to his friend that he had not lost sight of the idea which possessed his brain.

At dessert D’Artagnan reposed in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and lounged about like a man perfectly at his ease.

Porthos rested his chin on his hands, placed his elbows on the table and looked at D’Artagnan with an expression of confidence which imparted to that colossus an admirable appearance of good-fellowship.

“Well?” said D’Artagnan, at last.

“Well!” repeated Porthos.

“You were saying, my dear friend----”

“No; I said nothing.”

“Yes; you were saying you wished to leave this place.”

“Ah, indeed! the will was never wanting.”

“To get away you would not mind, you added, knocking down a door or a wall.”

“‘Tis true--I said so, and I say it again.”

“And I answered you, Porthos, that it was not a good plan; that we couldn’t go a hundred steps without being recaptured, because we were without clothes to disguise ourselves and arms to defend ourselves.”

“That is true; we should need clothes and arms.”

“Well,” said D’Artagnan, rising, “we have them, friend Porthos, and even something better.”

“Bah!” said Porthos, looking around.

“Useless to look; everything will come to us when wanted. At about what time did we see the two Swiss guards walking yesterday?”

“An hour after sunset.”

“If they go out to-day as they did yesterday we shall have the honor, then, of seeing them in half an hour?”

“In a quarter of an hour at most.”

“Your arm is still strong enough, is it not, Porthos?”

Porthos unbuttoned his sleeve, raised his shirt and looked complacently on his strong arm, as large as the leg of any ordinary man.

“Yes, indeed,” said he, “I believe so.”

“So that you could without trouble convert these tongs into a hoop and yonder shovel into a corkscrew?”

“Certainly.” And the giant took up these two articles, and without any apparent effort produced in them the metamorphoses suggested by his companion.

“There!” he cried.

“Capital!” exclaimed the Gascon. “Really, Porthos, you are a gifted individual!”

“I have heard speak,” said Porthos, “of a certain Milo of Crotona, who performed wonderful feats, such as binding his forehead with a cord and bursting it--of killing an ox with a blow of his fist and carrying it home on his shoulders, et cetera. I used to learn all these feat by heart yonder, down at Pierrefonds, and I have done all that he did except breaking a cord by the corrugation of my temples.”

“Because your strength is not in your head, Porthos,” said his friend.

“No; it is in my arms and shoulders,” answered Porthos with gratified naivete.

“Well, my dear friend, let us approach the window and there you can match your strength against that of an iron bar.”

Porthos went to the window, took a bar in his hands, clung to it and bent it like a bow; so that the two ends came out of the sockets of stone in which for thirty years they had been fixed.

“Well! friend, the cardinal, although such a genius, could never have done that.”

“Shall I take out any more of them?” asked Porthos.

“No; that is sufficient; a man can pass through that.”

Porthos tried, and passed the upper portion of his body through.

“Yes,” he said.

“Now pass your arm through this opening.”

“Why?”

“You will know presently--pass it.”

Porthos obeyed with military promptness and passed his arm through the opening.

“Admirable!” said D’Artagnan.

“The scheme goes forward, it seems.”

“On wheels, dear friend.”

“Good! What shall I do now?”

“Nothing.”

“It is finished, then?”

“No, not yet.”

“I should like to understand,” said Porthos.

“Listen, my dear friend; in two words you will know all. The door of the guardhouse opens, as you see.”

“Yes, I see.”

“They are about to send into our court, which Monsieur de Mazarin crosses on his way to the orangery, the two guards who attend him.”

“There they are, coming out.”

“If only they close the guardhouse door! Good! They close it.”

“What, then?”

“Silence! They may hear us.”

“I don’t understand it at all.”

“As you execute you will understand.”

“And yet I should have preferred----”

“You will have the pleasure of the surprise.”

“Ah, that is true.”

“Hush!”

Porthos remained silent and motionless.

In fact, the two soldiers advanced on the side where the window was, rubbing their hands, for it was cold, it being the month of February.

At this moment the door of the guardhouse was opened and one of the soldiers was summoned away.

“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “I am going to call this soldier and talk to him. Don’t lose a word of what I’m going to say to you, Porthos. Everything lies in the execution.”

“Good, the execution of plots is my forte.”

“I know it well. I depend on you. Look, I shall turn to the left, so that the soldier will be at your right, as soon as he mounts on the bench to talk to us.”

“But supposing he doesn’t mount?”

“He will; rely upon it. As soon as you see him get up, stretch out your arm and seize him by the neck. Then, raising him up as Tobit raised the fish by the gills, you must pull him into the room, taking care to squeeze him so tight that he can’t cry out.”

“Oh!” said Porthos. “Suppose I happen to strangle him?”

“To be sure there would only be a Swiss the less in the world; but you will not do so, I hope. Lay him down here; we’ll gag him and tie him--no matter where--somewhere. So we shall get from him one uniform and a sword.”

“Marvelous!” exclaimed Porthos, looking at the Gascon with the most profound admiration.

“Pooh!” replied D’Artagnan.

“Yes,” said Porthos, recollecting himself, “but one uniform and one sword will not suffice for two.”

“Well; but there’s his comrade.”

“True,” said Porthos.

“Therefore, when I cough, stretch out your arm.”

“Good!”

The two friends then placed themselves as they had agreed, Porthos being completely hidden in an angle of the window.

“Good-evening, comrade,” said D’Artagnan in his most fascinating voice and manner.

“Good-evening, sir,” answered the soldier, in a strong provincial accent.

“‘Tis not too warm to walk,” resumed D’Artagnan.

“No, sir.”

“And I think a glass of wine will not be disagreeable to you?”

“A glass of wine will be extremely welcome.”

“The fish bites--the fish bites!” whispered the Gascon to Porthos.

“I understand,” said Porthos.

“A bottle, perhaps?”

“A whole bottle? Yes, sir.”

“A whole bottle, if you will drink my health.”

“Willingly,” answered the soldier.

“Come, then, and take it, friend,” said the Gascon.

“With all my heart. How convenient that there’s a bench here. Egad! one would think it had been placed here on purpose.”

“Get on it; that’s it, friend.”

And D’Artagnan coughed.

That instant the arm of Porthos fell. His hand of iron grasped, quick as lightning, firm as a pair of blacksmith’s pincers, the soldier’s throat. He raised him, almost stifling him as he drew him through the aperture, at the risk of flaying him in the passage. He then laid him down on the floor, where D’Artagnan, after giving him just time enough to draw his breath, gagged him with his long scarf; and the moment he had done so began to undress him with the promptitude and dexterity of a man who had learned his business on the field of battle. Then the soldier, gagged and bound, was placed upon the hearth, the fire of which had been previously extinguished by the two friends.

“Here’s a sword and a dress,” said Porthos.

“I take them,” said D’Artagnan, “for myself. If you want another uniform and sword you must play the same trick over again. Stop! I see the other soldier issue from the guardroom and come toward us.”

“I think,” replied Porthos, “it would be imprudent to attempt the same manoeuvre again; it is said that no man can succeed twice in the same way, and a failure would be ruinous. No; I will go down, seize the man unawares and bring him to you ready gagged.”

“That is better,” said the Gascon.

“Be ready,” said Porthos, as he slipped through the opening.

He did as he said. Porthos seized his opportunity, caught the next soldier by his neck, gagged him and pushed him like a mummy through the bars into the room, and entered after him. Then they undressed him as they had done the first, laid him on their bed and bound him with the straps which composed the bed--the bedstead being of oak. This operation proved as great a success as the first.

“There,” said D’Artagnan, “this is capital! Now let me try on the dress of yonder chap. Porthos, I doubt if you can wear it; but should it be too tight, never mind, you can wear the breastplate and the hat with the red feathers.”

It happened, however, that the second soldier was a Swiss of gigantic proportions, so, save that some few of the seams split, his uniform fitted Porthos perfectly.

They then dressed themselves.

“‘Tis done!” they both exclaimed at once. “As to you, comrades,” they said to the men, “nothing will happen to you if you are discreet; but if you stir you are dead men.”

The soldiers were complaisant; they had found the grasp of Porthos pretty powerful and that it was no joke to fight against it.

“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “you wouldn’t be sorry to understand the plot, would you, Porthos?”

“Well, no, not very.”

“Well, then, we shall go down into the court.”

“Yes.”

“We shall take the place of those two fellows.”

“Well?”

“We will walk back and forth.”

“That’s a good idea, for it isn’t warm.”

“In a moment the valet-de-chambre will call the guard, as he did yesterday and the day before.”

“And we shall answer?”

“No, on the contrary, we shall not answer.”

“As you please; I don’t insist on answering.”

“We will not answer, then; we will simply settle our hats on our heads and we will escort his eminence.”

“Where shall we escort him?”

“Where he is going--to visit Athos. Do you think Athos will be sorry to see us?”

“Oh!” cried Porthos, “oh! I understand.”

“Wait a little, Porthos, before crying out; for, on my word, you haven’t reached the end,” said the Gascon, in a jesting tone.

“What is to happen?” said Porthos.

“Follow me,” replied D’Artagnan. “The man who lives to see shall see.”

And slipping through the aperture, he alighted in the court. Porthos followed him by the same road, but with more difficulty and less diligence. They could hear the two soldiers shivering with fear, as they lay bound in the chamber.

Scarcely had the two Frenchmen touched the ground when a door opened and the voice of the valet-de-chambre called out:

“Make ready!”

At the same moment the guardhouse was opened and a voice called out:

“La Bruyere and Du Barthois! March!”

It seems that I am named La Bruyere,” remarked D’Artagnan.

“And I, Du Barthois,” added Porthos.

“Where are you?” asked the valet-de-chambre, whose eyes, dazzled by the light, could not clearly distinguish our heroes in the gloom.

“Here we are,” said the Gascon.

“What say you to that, Monsieur du Vallon?” he added in a low tone to Porthos.

“If it but lasts, most capital,” responded Porthos.

These two newly enlisted soldiers marched gravely after the valet-de-chambre, who opened the door of the vestibule, then another which seemed to be that of a waiting-room, and showing them two stools:

“Your orders are very simple,” he said; “don’t allow anybody, except one person, to enter here. Do you hear--not a single creature! Obey that person implicitly. On your return you cannot make a mistake. You have only to wait here till I release you.”

D’Artagnan was known to this valet-de-chambre, who was no other than Bernouin, and he had during the last six or eight months introduced the Gascon a dozen times to the cardinal. The Gascon, therefore, instead of answering, growled out “Ja! Ja!” in the most German and the least Gascon accent possible.

As for Porthos, on whom D’Artagnan had impressed the necessity of absolute silence and who did not even now begin to comprehend the scheme of his friend, which was to follow Mazarin in his visit to Athos, he was simply mute. All that he was allowed to say, in case of emergencies, was the proverbial Der Teufel!

Bernouin shut the door and went away. When Porthos heard the key turn in the lock he began to be alarmed, lest they should only have exchanged one prison for another.

“Porthos, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “don’t distrust Providence! Let me meditate and consider.”

“Meditate and consider as much as you like,” replied Porthos, who was now quite out of humor at seeing things take this turn.

“We have walked eight paces,” whispered D’Artagnan, “and gone up six steps, so hereabouts is the pavilion called the pavilion of the orangery. The Comte de la Fere cannot be far off, only the doors are locked.”

“That is a slight difficulty,” said Porthos, “and a good push with the shoulders----”

“For God’s sake, Porthos my friend, reserve your feats of strength, or they will not have, when needed the honor they deserve. Have you not heard that some one is coming here?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that some one will open the doors.”

“But, my dear fellow, if that some one recognizes us, if that some one cries out, we are lost; for you don’t propose, I imagine, that I shall kill that man of the church. That might do if we were dealing with Englishmen or Germans.”

“Oh, may God keep me from it, and you, too!” said D’Artagnan. “The young king would, perhaps, show us some gratitude; but the queen would never forgive us, and it is she whom we have to consider. And then, besides, the useless blood! never! no, never! I have my plan; let me carry it out and we shall laugh.”

“So much the better,” said Porthos; “I feel some need of it.”

“Hush!” said D’Artagnan; “the some one is coming.”

The sound of a light step was heard in the vestibule. The hinges of the door creaked and a man appeared in the dress of a cavalier, wrapped in a brown cloak, with a lantern in one hand and a large beaver hat pulled down over his eyes.

Porthos effaced himself against the wall, but he could not render himself invisible; and the man in the cloak said to him, giving him his lantern:

“Light the lamp which hangs from the ceiling.”

Then addressing D’Artagnan:

“You know the watchword?” he said.

“Ja!” replied the Gascon, determined to confine himself to this specimen of the German tongue.

“Tedesco!” answered the cavalier; “va bene.”

And advancing toward the door opposite to that by which he came in, he opened it and disappeared behind it, shutting it as he went.

“Now,” asked Porthos, “what are we to do?”

“Now we shall make use of your shoulder, friend Porthos, if this door proves to be locked. Everything in its proper time, and all comes right to those who know how to wait patiently. But first barricade the first door well; then we will follow yonder cavalier.”

The two friends set to work and crowded the space before the door with all the furniture in the room, as not only to make the passage impassable, but so to block the door that by no means could it open inward.

“There!” said D’Artagnan, “we can’t be overtaken. Come! forward!”

The Oubliettes of Cardinal Mazarin.

At first, on arriving at the door through which Mazarin had passed, D’Artagnan tried in vain to open it, but on the powerful shoulder of Porthos being applied to one of the panels, which gave way, D’Artagnan introduced the point of his sword between the bolt and the staple of the lock. The bolt gave way and the door opened.

“As I told you, everything can be attained, Porthos, women and doors, by proceeding with gentleness.”

“You’re a great moralist, and that’s the fact,” said Porthos.

They entered; behind a glass window, by the light of the cardinal’s lantern, which had been placed on the floor in the midst of the gallery, they saw the orange and pomegranate trees of the Castle of Rueil, in long lines, forming one great alley and two smaller side alleys.

“No cardinal!” said D’Artagnan, “but only his lantern; where the devil, then, is he?”

Exploring, however, one of the side wings of the gallery, after making a sign to Porthos to explore the other, he saw, all at once, at his left, a tub containing an orange tree, which had been pushed out of its place and in its place an open aperture.

Ten men would have found difficulty in moving that tub, but by some mechanical contrivance it had turned with the flagstone on which it rested.

D’Artagnan, as we have said, perceived a hole in that place and in this hole the steps of a winding staircase.

He called Porthos to look at it.

“Were our object money only,” he said, “we should be rich directly.”

“How’s that?”

“Don’t you understand, Porthos? At the bottom of that staircase lies, probably, the cardinal’s treasury of which folk tell such wonders, and we should only have to descend, empty a chest, shut the cardinal up in it, double lock it, go away, carrying off as much gold as we could, put back this orange-tree over the place, and no one in the world would ever ask us where our fortune came from--not even the cardinal.”

“It would be a happy hit for clowns to make, but as it seems to be unworthy of two gentlemen----” said Porthos.

“So I think; and therefore I said, ‘Were our object money only;’ but we want something else,” replied the Gascon.

At the same moment, whilst D’Artagnan was leaning over the aperture to listen, a metallic sound, as if some one was moving a bag of gold, struck on his ear; he started; instantly afterward a door opened and a light played upon the staircase.

Mazarin had left his lamp in the gallery to make people believe that he was walking about, but he had with him a waxlight, to help him to explore his mysterious strong box.

“Faith,” he said, in Italian, as he was reascending the steps and looking at a bag of reals, “faith, there’s enough to pay five councillors of parliament, and two generals in Paris. I am a great captain--that I am! but I make war in my own way.”

The two friends were crouching down, meantime, behind a tub in the side alley.

Mazarin came within three steps of D’Artagnan and pushed a spring in the wall; the slab turned and the orange tree resumed its place.

Then the cardinal put out the waxlight, slipped it into his pocket, and taking up the lantern: “Now,” he said, “for Monsieur de la Fere.”

“Very good,” thought D’Artagnan, “‘tis our road likewise; we will go together.”

All three set off on their walk, Mazarin taking the middle alley and the friends the side ones.

The cardinal reached a second door without perceiving he was being followed; the sand with which the alleys were covered deadened the sound of footsteps.

He then turned to the left, down a corridor which had escaped the attention of the two friends, but as he opened the door he paused, as if in thought.

“Ah! Diavolo!” he exclaimed, “I forgot the recommendation of De Comminges, who advised me to take a guard and place it at this door, in order not to put myself at the mercy of that four-headed combination of devils.” And with a movement of impatience he turned to retrace his steps.

“Do not give yourself the trouble, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, with his right foot forward, his beaver in his hand, a smile on his face, “we have followed your eminence step by step and here we are.”

“Yes--here we are,” said Porthos.

And he made the same friendly salute as D’Artagnan.

Mazarin gazed at each of them with an affrighted stare, recognized them, and let drop his lantern, uttering a cry of terror.

D’Artagnan picked it up; by good luck it had not been extinguished.

“Oh, what imprudence, my lord,” said D’Artagnan; “‘tis not good to be about just here without a light. Your eminence might knock against something, or fall into a hole.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” muttered Mazarin, unable to recover from his astonishment.

“Yes, my lord, it is I. I have the honor to present to you Monsieur du Vallon, that excellent friend of mine, in whom your eminence had the kindness to interest yourself formerly.”

And D’Artagnan held the lamp before the merry face of Porthos, who now began to comprehend the affair and be very proud of the whole undertaking.

“You were going to visit Monsieur de la Fere?” said D’Artagnan. “Don’t let us disarrange your eminence. Be so good as to show us the way and we will follow you.

Mazarin was by degrees recovering his senses.

“Have you been long in the orangery?” he asked in a trembling voice, remembering the visits he had been paying to his treasury.

Porthos opened his mouth to reply; D’Artagnan made him a sign, and his mouth, remaining silent, gradually closed.

“This moment come, my lord,” said D’Artagnan.

Mazarin breathed again. His fears were now no longer for his hoard, but for himself. A sort of smile played on his lips.

“Come,” he said, “you have me in a snare, gentlemen. I confess myself conquered. You wish to ask for liberty, and--I give it you.”

“Oh, my lord!” answered D’Artagnan, “you are too good; as to our liberty, we have that; we want to ask something else of you.”

“You have your liberty?” repeated Mazarin, in terror.

“Certainly; and on the other hand, my lord, you have lost it, and now, in accordance with the law of war, sir, you must buy it back again.”

Mazarin felt a shiver run through him--a chill even to his heart’s core. His piercing look was fixed in vain on the satirical face of the Gascon and the unchanging countenance of Porthos. Both were in shadow and the Sybil of Cuma herself could not have read them.

“To purchase back my liberty?” said the cardinal.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And how much will that cost me, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Zounds, my lord, I don’t know yet. We must ask the Comte de la Fere the question. Will your eminence deign to open the door which leads to the count’s room, and in ten minutes all will be settled.”

Mazarin started.

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “your eminence sees that we wish to act with all formality and due respect; but I must warn you that we have no time to lose; open the door then, my lord, and be so good as to remember, once for all, that on the slightest attempt to escape or the faintest cry for help, our position being very critical indeed, you must not be angry with us if we go to extremities.”

“Be assured,” answered Mazarin, “that I shall attempt nothing; I give you my word of honor.”

D’Artagnan made a sign to Porthos to redouble his watchfulness; then turning to Mazarin:

“Now, my lord, let us enter, if you please.”

Conferences.

Mazarin turned the lock of a double door, on the threshold of which they found Athos ready to receive his illustrious guests according to the notice Comminges had given him.

On perceiving Mazarin he bowed.

“Your eminence,” he said, “might have dispensed with your attendants; the honor bestowed on me is too great for me to be unmindful of it.”

“And so, my dear count,” said D’Artagnan, “his eminence didn’t actually insist on our attending him; it is Du Vallon and I who have insisted, and even in a manner somewhat impolite, perhaps, so great was our longing to see you.”

At that voice, that mocking tone, and that familiar gesture, accenting voice and tone, Athos made a bound of surprise.

“D’Artagnan! Porthos!” he exclaimed.

“My very self, dear friend.”

“Me, also!” repeated Porthos.

“What means this?” asked the count.

“It means,” replied Mazarin, trying to smile and biting his lips in the attempt, “that our parts are changed, and that instead of these gentlemen being my prisoners I am theirs; but, gentlemen, I warn you, unless you kill me, your victory will be of very short duration; people will come to the rescue.”

“Ah! my lord!” cried the Gascon, “don’t threaten! ’tis a bad example. We are so good and gentle to your eminence. Come, let us put aside all rancor and talk pleasantly.”

“There’s nothing I wish more,” replied Mazarin. “But don’t think yourselves in a better position than you are. In ensnaring me you have fallen into the trap yourselves. How are you to get away from here? remember the soldiers and sentinels who guard these doors. Now, I am going to show you how sincere I am.”

“Good,” thought D’Artagnan; “we must look about us; he’s going to play us a trick.”

“I offered you your liberty,” continued the minister; “will you take it? Before an hour has passed you will be discovered, arrested, obliged to kill me, which would be a crime unworthy of loyal gentlemen like you.”

“He is right,” thought Athos.

And, like every other reflection passing in a mind that entertained none but noble thoughts, this feeling was expressed in his eyes.

“And therefore,” said D’Artagnan, to clip the hope which Athos’s tacit adhesion had imparted to Mazarin, “we shall not proceed to that violence save in the last extremity.”

“If on the contrary,” resumed Mazarin, “you accept your liberty----”

“Why you, my lord, might take it away from us in less than five minutes afterward; and from my knowledge of you I believe you will so take it away from us.”

“No--on the faith of a cardinal. You do not believe me?”

“My lord, I never believe cardinals who are not priests.”

“Well, on the faith of a minister.”

“You are no longer a minister, my lord; you are a prisoner.”

“Then, on the honor of a Mazarin, as I am and ever shall be, I hope,” said the cardinal.

“Hem,” replied D’Artagnan. “I have heard speak of a Mazarin who had not much religion when his oaths were in question. I fear he may have been an ancestor of your eminence.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are a great wit and I am really sorry to be on bad terms with you.”

“My lord, let us come to terms; I ask nothing better.”

“Very well,” said Mazarin, “if I place you in security, in a manner evident, palpable----”

“Ah! that is another thing,” said Porthos.

“Let us see,” said Athos.

“Let us see,” said D’Artagnan.

“In the first place, do you accept?” asked the cardinal.

“Unfold your plan, my lord, and we will see.”

“Take notice that you are shut up--captured.”

“You well know, my lord, that there always remains to us a last resource.”

“What?”

“That of dying together.”

Mazarin shuddered.

“Listen,” he said; “at the end of yonder corridor is a door, of which I have the key, it leads into the park. Go, and take this key with you; you are active, vigorous, and you have arms. At a hundred steps, on turning to the left, you will find the wall of the park; get over it, and in three leaps you will be on the road and free.”

“Ah! by Jove, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, “you have well said, but these are only words. Where is the key you speak of?”

“Here it is.”

“Ah, my lord! You will conduct us yourself, then, to that door?”

“Very willingly, if it be necessary to reassure you,” answered the minister, and Mazarin, who was delighted to get off so cheaply, led the way, in high spirits, to the corridor and opened the door.

It led into the park, as the three fugitives perceived by the night breeze which rushed into the corridor and blew the wind into their faces.

“The devil!” exclaimed the Gascon, “‘tis a dreadful night, my lord. We don’t know the locality, and shall never find the wall. Since your eminence has come so far, come a few steps further; conduct us, my lord, to the wall.”

“Be it so,” replied the cardinal; and walking in a straight line he went to the wall, at the foot of which they all four arrived at the same instant.

“Are you satisfied, gentlemen?” asked Mazarin.

“I think so, indeed; we should be hard to please if we were not. Deuce take it! three poor gentlemen escorted by a prince of the church! Ah! apropos, my lord! you remarked that we were all active, vigorous and armed.”

“Yes.”

“You are mistaken. Monsieur du Vallon and I are the only two who are armed. The count is not; and should we meet with one of your patrol we must defend ourselves.”

“‘Tis true.”

“Where can we find another sword?” asked Porthos.

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “will lend his, which is of no use to him, to the Comte de la Fere.”

“Willingly,” said the cardinal; “I will even ask the count to keep it for my sake.”

“I promise you, my lord, never to part with it,” replied Athos.

“Well, well,” cried D’Artagnan, “this reconciliation is truly touching; have you not tears in your eyes, Porthos?”

“Yes,” said Porthos; “but I do not know if it is feeling or the wind that makes me weep; I think it is the wind.”

“Now climb up, Athos, quickly,” said D’Artagnan. Athos, assisted by Porthos, who lifted him up like a feather, arrived at the top.

“Now, jump down, Athos.”

Athos jumped and disappeared on the other side of the wall.

“Are you on the ground?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Yes.”

“Without accident?”

“Perfectly safe and sound.”

“Porthos, whilst I get up, watch the cardinal. No, I don’t want your help, watch the cardinal.”

“I am watching,” said Porthos. “Well?”

“You are right; it is more difficult than I thought. Lend me your back--but don’t let the cardinal go.”

Porthos lent him his back and D’Artagnan was soon on the summit of the wall, where he seated himself.

Mazarin pretended to laugh.

“Are you there?” asked Porthos.

“Yes, my friend; and now----”

“Now, what?” asked Porthos.

“Now give me the cardinal up here; if he makes any noise stifle him.”

Mazarin wished to call out, but Porthos held him tight and passed him to D’Artagnan, who seized him by the neck and made him sit down by him; then in a menacing tone, he said:

“Sir! jump directly down, close to Monsieur de la Fere, or, on the honor of a gentleman, I’ll kill you!”

“Monsieur, monsieur,” cried Mazarin, “you are breaking your word to me!”

“I--did I promise you anything, my lord?”

Mazarin groaned.

“You are free,” he said, “through me; your liberty was my ransom.”

“Agreed; but the ransom of that immense treasure buried under the gallery, to which one descends on pushing a spring hidden in the wall, which causes a tub to turn, revealing a staircase--must not one speak of that a little, my lord?”

“Diavolo!” cried Mazarin, almost choked, and clasping his hands; “I am a lost and ruined man!”

But without listening to his protestations of alarm, D’Artagnan slipped him gently down into the arms of Athos, who stood immovable at the bottom of the wall.

Porthos next made an effort which shook the solid wall, and by the aid of his friend’s hand gained the summit.

“I didn’t understand it all,” he said, “but I understand now; how droll it is!”

“You think so? so much the better; but that it may prove laughter-worthy even to the end, let us not lose time.” And he jumped off the wall.

Porthos did the same.

“Attend to monsieur le cardinal, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan; “for myself, I will reconnoitre.”

The Gascon then drew his sword and marched as avant guard.

“My lord,” he said, “which way do we go? Think well of your reply, for should your eminence be mistaken, there might ensue most grave results for all of us.”

“Along the wall, sir,” said Mazarin, “there will be no danger of losing yourselves.”

The three friends hastened on, but in a short time were obliged to slacken the pace. The cardinal could not keep up with them, though with every wish to do so.

Suddenly D’Artagnan touched something warm, which moved.

“Stop! a horse!” he cried; “I have found a horse!”

“And I, likewise,” said Athos.

“I, too,” said Porthos, who, faithful to the instructions, still held the cardinal’s arm.

“There’s luck, my lord! just as you were complaining of being tired and obliged to walk.”

But as he spoke the barrel of a pistol was presented at his breast and these words were pronounced:

“Touch it not!”

“Grimaud!” he cried; “Grimaud! what art thou about? Why, thou art posted here by Heaven!”

“No, sir,” said the honest servant, “it was Monsieur Aramis who posted me here to take care of the horses.”

“Is Aramis here?”

“Yes, sir; he has been here since yesterday.”

“What are you doing?”

“On the watch----”

“What! Aramis here?” cried Athos.

“At the lesser gate of the castle; he’s posted there.”

“Are you a large party?”

“Sixty.”

“Let him know.”

“This moment, sir.”

And believing that no one could execute the commission better than himself, Grimaud set off at full speed; whilst, enchanted at being all together again, the friends awaited his return.

There was no one in the whole group in a bad humor except Cardinal Mazarin.

In which we begin to think that Porthos will be at last a Baron, and D’Artagnan a Captain.

At the expiration of ten minutes Aramis arrived, accompanied by Grimaud and eight or ten followers. He was excessively delighted and threw himself into his friends’ arms.

“You are free, my brothers! free without my aid! and I shall have succeeded in doing nothing for you in spite of all my efforts.”

“Do not be unhappy, dear friend, on that account; if you have done nothing as yet, you will do something soon,” replied Athos.

“I had well concerted my plans,” pursued Aramis; “the coadjutor gave me sixty men; twenty guard the walls of the park, twenty the road from Rueil to Saint Germain, twenty are dispersed in the woods. Thus I was able, thanks to the strategic disposition of my forces, to intercept two couriers from Mazarin to the queen.”

Mazarin listened intently.

“But,” said D’Artagnan, “I trust that you honorably sent them back to monsieur le cardinal!”

“Ah, yes!” said Aramis, “toward him I should be very likely to practice such delicacy of sentiment! In one of the despatches the cardinal declares to the queen that the treasury is empty and that her majesty has no more money. In the other he announces that he is about to transport his prisoners to Melun, since Rueil seemed to him not sufficiently secure. You can understand, dear friend, with what hope I was inspired by that last letter. I placed myself in ambuscade with my sixty men; I encircled the castle; the riding horses I entrusted to Grimaud and I awaited your coming out, which I did not expect till to-morrow, and I didn’t hope to free you without a skirmish. You are free to-night, without fighting; so much the better! How did you manage to escape that scoundrel Mazarin? You must have much reason to complain of him.”

“Not very much,” said D’Artagnan.

“Really!”

“I might even say that we have some reason to praise him.”

“Impossible!”

“Yes, really; it is owing to him that we are free.”

“Owing to him?”

“Yes, he had us conducted into the orangery by Monsieur Bernouin, his valet-de-chambre, and from there we followed him to visit the Comte de la Fere. Then he offered us our liberty and we accepted it. He even went so far as to show us the way out; he led us to the park wall, which we climbed over without accident, and then we fell in with Grimaud.”

“Well!” exclaimed Aramis, “this will reconcile me to him; but I wish he were here that I might tell him that I did not believe him capable of so noble an act.”

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, no longer able to contain himself, “allow me to introduce to you the Chevalier d’Herblay, who wishes--as you may have heard--to offer his congratulations to your eminence.”

And he retired, discovering Mazarin, who was in great confusion, to the astonished gaze of Aramis.

“Ho! ho!” exclaimed the latter, “the cardinal! a glorious prize! Halloo! halloo! friends! to horse! to horse!”

Several horsemen ran quickly to him.

“Zounds!” cried Aramis, “I may have done some good; so, my lord, deign to receive my most respectful homage! I will lay a wager that ’twas that Saint Christopher, Porthos, who performed this feat! Apropos! I forgot----” and he gave some orders in a low voice to one of the horsemen.

“I think it will be wise to set off,” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes; but I am expecting some one, a friend of Athos.”

“A friend!” exclaimed the count.

“And here he comes, by Jupiter! galloping through the bushes.”

“The count! the count!” cried a young voice that made Athos start.

“Raoul! Raoul!” he ejaculated.

For one moment the young man forgot his habitual respect--he threw himself on his father’s neck.

“Look, my lord cardinal,” said Aramis, “would it not have been a pity to have separated men who love each other as we love? Gentlemen,” he continued, addressing the cavaliers, who became more and more numerous every instant; “gentlemen, encircle his eminence, that you may show him the greater honor. He will, indeed give us the favor of his company; you will, I hope, be grateful for it; Porthos, do not lose sight of his eminence.”

Aramis then joined Athos and D’Artagnan, who were consulting together.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, after a conference of five minutes’ duration, “let us begin our journey.”

“Where are we to go?” asked Porthos.

“To your house, dear Porthos, at Pierrefonds; your fine chateau is worthy of affording its princely hospitality to his eminence; it is, likewise, well situated--neither too near Paris, nor too far from it; we can establish a communication between it and the capital with great facility. Come, my lord, you shall be treated like a prince, as you are.”

“A fallen prince!” exclaimed Mazarin, piteously.

“The chances of war,” said Athos, “are many, but be assured we shall take no improper advantage of them.”

“No, but we shall make use of them,” said D’Artagnan.

The rest of the night was employed by these cavaliers in traveling with the wonderful rapidity of former days. Mazarin, still sombre and pensive, permitted himself to be dragged along in this way; it looked a race of phantoms. At dawn twelve leagues had been passed without drawing rein; half the escort were exhausted and several horses fell down.

“Horses, nowadays, are not what they were formerly,” observed Porthos; “everything degenerates.”

“I have sent Grimaud to Dammartin,” said Aramis. “He is to bring us five fresh horses--one for his eminence, four for us. We, at least, must keep close to monseigneur; the rest of the start will rejoin us later. Once beyond Saint Denis we shall have nothing to fear.”

Grimaud, in fact, brought back five horses. The nobleman to whom he applied, being a friend of Porthos, was very ready, not to sell them, as was proposed, but to lend them. Ten minutes later the escort stopped at Ermenonville, but the four friends went on with well sustained ardor, guarding Mazarin carefully. At noon they rode into the avenue of Pierrefonds.

“Ah!” said Musqueton, who had ridden by the side of D’Artagnan without speaking a word on the journey, “you may think what you will, sir, but I can breathe now for the first time since my departure from Pierrefonds;” and he put his horse to a gallop to announce to the other servants the arrival of Monsieur du Vallon and his friends.

“We are four of us,” said D’Artagnan; “we must relieve each other in mounting guard over my lord and each of us must watch three hours at a time. Athos is going to examine the castle, which it will be necessary to render impregnable in case of siege; Porthos will see to the provisions and Aramis to the troops of the garrison. That is to say, Athos will be chief engineer, Porthos purveyor-in-general, and Aramis governor of the fortress.”

Meanwhile, they gave up to Mazarin the handsomest room in the chateau.

“Gentlemen,” he said, when he was in his room, “you do not expect, I presume, to keep me here a long time incognito?”

“No, my lord,” replied the Gascon; “on the contrary, we think of announcing very soon that we have you here.”

“Then you will be besieged.”

“We expect it.”

“And what shall you do?”

“Defend ourselves. Were the late Cardinal Richelieu alive he would tell you a certain story of the Bastion Saint Gervais, which we four, with our four lackeys and twelve dead men, held out against a whole army.”

“Such feats, sir, are done once--and never repeated.”

“However, nowadays there’s no need of so much heroism. To-morrow the army of Paris will be summoned, the day after it will be here! The field of battle, instead, therefore, of being at Saint Denis or at Charenton, will be near Compiegne or Villars-Cotterets.”

“The prince will vanquish you, as he has always done.”

“‘Tis possible; my lord; but before an engagement ensues we shall move your eminence to another castle belonging to our friend Du Vallon, who has three. We will not expose your eminence to the chances of war.”

“Come,” answered Mazarin, “I see it will be necessary for me to capitulate.”

“Before a siege?”

“Yes; the conditions will be better than afterward.”

“Ah, my lord! as to conditions, you would soon see how moderate and reasonable we are!”

“Come, now, what are your conditions?”

“Rest yourself first, my lord, and we--we will reflect.”

“I do not need rest, gentlemen; I need to know whether I am among enemies or friends.”

“Friends, my lord! friends!”

“Well, then, tell me at once what you want, that I may see if any arrangement be possible. Speak, Comte de la Fere!”

“My lord,” replied Athos, “for myself I have nothing to demand. For France, were I to specify my wishes, I should have too much. I beg you to excuse me and propose to the chevalier.”

And Athos, bowing, retired and remained leaning against the mantelpiece, a spectator of the scene.

“Speak, then, chevalier!” said the cardinal. “What do you want? Nothing ambiguous, if you please. Be clear, short and precise.”

“As for me,” replied Aramis, “I have in my pocket the very programme of the conditions which the deputation--of which I formed one--went yesterday to Saint Germain to impose on you. Let us consider first the ancient rights. The demands in that programme must be granted.”

“We were almost agreed on those,” replied Mazarin; “let us pass on to private and personal stipulations.”

“You suppose, then, that there are some?” said Aramis, smiling.

“I do not suppose that you will all be quite so disinterested as Monsieur de la Fere,” replied the cardinal, bowing to Athos.

“My lord, you are right, and I am glad to see that you do justice to the count at last. The count has a mind above vulgar desires and earthly passions. He is a proud soul--he is a man by himself! You are right--he is worth us all, and we avow it to you!”

“Aramis,” said Athos, “are you jesting?”

“No, no, dear friend; I state only what we all know. You are right; it is not you alone this matter concerns, but my lord and his unworthy servant, myself.”

“Well, then, what do you require besides the general conditions before recited?”

“I require, my lord, that Normandy should be given to Madame de Longueville, with five hundred thousand francs and full absolution. I require that his majesty should deign to be godfather to the child she has just borne; and that my lord, after having been present at the christening, should go to proffer his homage to our Holy Father the Pope.”

“That is, you wish me to lay aside my ministerial functions, to quit France and be an exile.”

“I wish his eminence to become pope on the first opportunity, allowing me then the right of demanding full indulgences for myself and my friends.”

Mazarin made a grimace which was quite indescribable, and then turned to D’Artagnan.

“And you, sir?” he said.

“I, my lord,” answered the Gascon, “I differ from Monsieur d’Herblay entirely as to the last point, though I agree with him on the first. Far from wishing my lord to quit Paris, I hope he will stay there and continue to be prime minister, as he is a great statesman. I shall try also to help him to down the Fronde, but on one condition--that he sometimes remembers the king’s faithful servants and gives the first vacant company of musketeers to a man that I could name. And you, Monsieur du Vallon----”

“Yes, you, sir! Speak, if you please,” said Mazarin.

“As for me,” answered Porthos, “I wish my lord cardinal, in order to do honor to my house, which gives him an asylum, would in remembrance of this adventure erect my estate into a barony, with a promise to confer that order on one of my particular friends, whenever his majesty next creates peers.”

“You know, sir, that before receiving the order one must submit proofs.”

“My friends will submit them. Besides, should it be necessary, monseigneur will show him how that formality may be avoided.”

Mazarin bit his lips; the blow was direct and he replied rather dryly:

“All this appears to me to be ill conceived, disjointed, gentlemen; for if I satisfy some I shall displease others. If I stay in Paris I cannot go to Rome; if I became pope I could not continue to be prime minister; and it is only by continuing prime minister that I can make Monsieur d’Artagnan a captain and Monsieur du Vallon a baron.”

“True”" said Aramis, “so, as I am in a minority, I withdraw my proposition, so far as it relates to the voyage to Rome and monseigneur’s resignation.”

“I am to remain minister, then?” said Mazarin.

“You remain minister; that is understood,” said D’Artagnan; “France needs you.”

“And I desist from my pretensions,” said Aramis. “His eminence will continue to be prime minister and her majesty’s favorite, if he will grant to me and my friends what we demand for France and for ourselves.”

“Occupy yourselves with your own affairs, gentlemen, and let France settle matters as she will with me,” resumed Mazarin.

“Ho! ho!” replied Aramis. “The Frondeurs will have a treaty and your eminence must sign it before us, promising at the same time to obtain the queen’s consent to it.”

“I can answer only for myself,” said Mazarin. “I cannot answer for the queen. Suppose her majesty refuses?”

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “monseigneur knows very well that her majesty refuses him nothing.”

“Here, monseigneur,” said Aramis, “is the treaty proposed by the deputation of Frondeurs. Will your eminence please read and examine?”

“I am acquainted with it.”

“Sign it, then.”

“Reflect, gentlemen, that a signature given under circumstances like the present might be regarded as extorted by violence.”

“Monseigneur will be at hand to testify that it was freely given.”

“Suppose I refuse?”

“Then,” said D’Artagnan, “your eminence must expect the consequences of a refusal.”

“Would you dare to touch a cardinal?”

“You have dared, my lord, to imprison her majesty’s musketeers.”

“The queen will revenge me, gentlemen.”

“I do not think so, although inclination might lead her to do so, but we shall take your eminence to Paris, and the Parisians will defend us.”

“How uneasy they must be at this moment at Rueil and Saint Germain,” said Aramis. “How they must be asking, ‘Where is the cardinal?’ ‘What has become of the minister?’ ‘Where has the favorite gone?’ How they must be looking for monseigneur in all corners! What comments must be made; and if the Fronde knows that monseigneur has disappeared, how the Fronde must triumph!”

“It is frightful,” murmured Mazarin.

“Sign the treaty, then, monseigneur,” said Aramis.

“Suppose the queen should refuse to ratify it?”

“Ah! nonsense!” cried D’Artagnan, “I can manage so that her majesty will receive me well; I know an excellent method.”

“What?”

“I shall take her majesty the letter in which you tell her that the finances are exhausted.”

“And then?” asked Mazarin, turning pale.

“When I see her majesty embarrassed, I shall conduct her to Rueil, make her enter the orangery and show her a certain spring which turns a box.”

“Enough, sir,” muttered the cardinal, “you have said enough; where is the treaty?”

“Here it is,” replied Aramis. “Sign, my lord,” and he gave him a pen.

Mazarin arose, walked some moments, thoughtful, but not dejected.

“And when I have signed,” he said, “what is to be my guarantee?”

“My word of honor, sir,” said Athos.

Mazarin started, turned toward the Comte de la Fere, and looking for an instant at that grand and honest countenance, took the pen.

“It is sufficient, count,” he said, and signed the treaty.

“And now, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, “prepare to set off for Saint Germain and take a letter from me to the queen.”

Shows how with Threat and Pen more is effected than by the Sword.

D’Artagnan knew his part well; he was aware that opportunity has a forelock only for him who will take it and he was not a man to let it go by him without seizing it. He soon arranged a prompt and certain manner of traveling, by sending relays of horses to Chantilly, so that he might be in Paris in five or six hours. But before setting out he reflected that for a lad of intelligence and experience he was in a singular predicament, since he was proceeding toward uncertainty and leaving certainty behind him.

“In fact,” he said, as he was about to mount and start on his dangerous mission, “Athos, for generosity, is a hero of romance; Porthos has an excellent disposition, but is easily influenced; Aramis has a hieroglyphic countenance, always illegible. What will come out of those three elements when I am no longer present to combine them? The deliverance of the cardinal, perhaps. Now, the deliverance of the cardinal would be the ruin of our hopes; and our hopes are thus far the only recompense we have for labors in comparison with which those of Hercules were pygmean.”

He went to find Aramis.

“You, my dear Chevalier d’Herblay,” he said, “are the Fronde incarnate. Mistrust Athos, therefore, who will not prosecute the affairs of any one, even his own. Mistrust Porthos, especially, who, to please the count whom he regards as God on earth, will assist him in contriving Mazarin’s escape, if Mazarin has the wit to weep or play the chivalric.”

Aramis smiled; his smile was at once cunning and resolute.

“Fear nothing,” he said; “I have my conditions to impose. My private ambition tends only to the profit of him who has justice on his side.”

“Good!” thought D’Artagnan: “in this direction I am satisfied.” He pressed Aramis’s hand and went in search of Porthos.

“Friend,” he said, “you have worked so hard with me toward building up our fortune, that, at the moment when we are about to reap the fruits of our labours, it would be a ridiculous piece of silliness in you to allow yourself to be controlled by Aramis, whose cunning you know--a cunning which, we may say between ourselves, is not always without egotism; or by Athos, a noble and disinterested man, but blase, who, desiring nothing further for himself, doesn’t sympathize with the desires of others. What should you say if either of these two friends proposed to you to let Mazarin go?”

“Why, I should say that we had too much trouble in taking him to let him off so easily.”

“Bravo, Porthos! and you would be right, my friend; for in losing him you would lose your barony, which you have in your grasp, to say nothing of the fact that, were he once out of this, Mazarin would have you hanged.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Then I would kill him rather than let him go.”

“And you would act rightly. There is no question, you understand, provided we secure our own interests, of securing those of the Frondeurs; who, besides, don’t understand political matters as we old soldiers do.”

“Never fear, dear friend,” said Porthos. “I shall see you through the window as you mount your horse; I shall follow you with my eyes as long as you are in sight; then I shall place myself at the cardinal’s door--a door with glass windows. I shall see everything, and at the least suspicious sign I shall begin to exterminate.”

“Bravo!” thought D’Artagnan; “on this side I think the cardinal will be well guarded.” He pressed the hand of the lord of Pierrefonds and went in search of Athos.

“My dear Athos,” he said, “I am going away. I have only one thing to say to you. You know Anne of Austria; the captivity of Mazarin alone guarantees my life; if you let him go I am a dead man.”

“I needed nothing less than that consideration, my dear D’Artagnan, to persuade myself to adopt the role of jailer. I give you my word that you will find the cardinal where you leave him.”

“This reassures me more than all the royal signatures,” thought D’Artagnan. “Now that I have the word of Athos I can set out.”

D’Artagnan started alone on his journey, without other escort than his sword, and with a simple passport from Mazarin to secure his admission to the queen’s presence. Six hours after he left Pierrefonds he was at Saint Germain.

The disappearance of Mazarin was not as yet generally known. Anne of Austria was informed of it and concealed her uneasiness from every one. In the chamber of D’Artagnan and Porthos the two soldiers had been found bound and gagged. On recovering the use of their limbs and tongues they could, of course, tell nothing but what they knew--that they had been seized, stripped and bound. But as to what had been done by Porthos and D’Artagnan afterward they were as ignorant as all the inhabitants of the chateau.

Bernouin alone knew a little more than the others. Bernouin, seeing that his master did not return and hearing the stroke of midnight, had made an examination of the orangery. The first door, barricaded with furniture, had aroused in him certain suspicions, but without communicating his suspicions to any one he had patiently worked his way into the midst of all that confusion. Then he came to the corridor, all the doors of which he found open; so, too, was the door of Athos’s chamber and that of the park. From the latter point it was easy to follow tracks on the snow. He saw that these tracks tended toward the wall; on the other side he found similar tracks, then footprints of horses and then signs of a troop of cavalry which had moved away in the direction of Enghien. He could no longer cherish any doubt that the cardinal had been carried off by the three prisoners, since the prisoners had disappeared at the same time; and he had hastened to Saint Germain to warn the queen of that disappearance.

Anne had enforced the utmost secrecy and had disclosed the event to no one except the Prince de Conde, who had sent five or six hundred horsemen into the environs of Saint Germain with orders to bring in any suspicious person who was going away from Rueil, in whatsoever direction it might be.

Now, since D’Artagnan did not constitute a body of horsemen, since he was alone, since he was not going away from Rueil and was going to Saint Germain, no one paid any attention to him and his journey was not obstructed in any way.

On entering the courtyard of the old chateau the first person seen by our ambassador was Maitre Bernouin in person, who, standing on the threshold, awaited news of his vanished master.

At the sight of D’Artagnan, who entered the courtyard on horseback, Bernouin rubbed his eyes and thought he must be mistaken. But D’Artagnan made a friendly sign to him with his head, dismounted, and throwing his bridle to a lackey who was passing, he approached the valet-de-chambre with a smile on his lips.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the latter, like a man who has the nightmare and talks in his sleep, “Monsieur d’Artagnan!”

“Himself, Monsieur Bernouin.”

“And why have you come here?”

“To bring news of Monsieur de Mazarin--the freshest news there is.”

“What has become of him, then?”

“He is as well as you and I.”

“Nothing bad has happened to him, then?”

“Absolutely nothing. He felt the need of making a trip in the Ile de France, and begged us--the Comte de la Fere and Monsieur du Vallon--to accompany him. We were too devoted servants to refuse him a request of that sort. We set out last evening and here we are.”

“Here you are.”

“His eminence had something to communicate to her majesty, something secret and private--a mission that could be confided only to a sure man--and so has sent me to Saint Germain. And therefore, my dear Monsieur Bernouin, if you wish to do what will be pleasing to your master, announce to her majesty that I have come, and tell her with what purpose.”

Whether he spoke seriously or in jest, since it was evident that under existing circumstances D’Artagnan was the only man who could relieve the queen’s uneasiness, Bernouin went without hesitation to announce to her this strange embassy; and as he had foreseen, the queen gave orders to introduce Monsieur d’Artagnan at once.

D’Artagnan approached the sovereign with every mark of profound respect, and having fallen on his knees presented to her the cardinal’s letter

It was, however, merely a letter of introduction. The queen read it, recognized the writing, and, since there were no details in it of what had occurred, asked for particulars. D’Artagnan related everything with that simple and ingenuous air which he knew how to assume on occasions. The queen, as he went on, looked at him with increasing astonishment. She could not comprehend how a man could conceive such an enterprise and still less how he could have the audacity to disclose it to her whose interest and almost duty it was to punish him.

“How, sir!” she cried, as D’Artagnan finished, “you dare to tell me the details of your crime--to give me an account of your treason!”

“Pardon, madame, but I think that either I have expressed myself badly or your majesty has imperfectly understood me. There is here no question of crime or treason. Monsieur de Mazarin held us in prison, Monsieur du Vallon and myself, because we could not believe that he had sent us to England to quietly look on while they cut off the head of Charles I., brother-in-law of the late king, your husband, the consort of Madame Henrietta, your sister and your guest, and because we did all that we could do to save the life of the royal martyr. We were then convinced, my friend and I, that there was some error of which we were the victims, and that an explanation was called for between his eminence and ourselves. Now, that an explanation may bear fruit, it is necessary that it should be quietly conducted, far from noise and interruption. We have therefore taken away monsieur le cardinal to my friend’s chateau and there we have come to an understanding. Well, madame, it proved to be as we had supposed; there was a mistake. Monsieur de Mazarin had thought that we had rendered service to General Cromwell, instead of King Charles, which would have been a disgrace, rebounding from us to him, and from him to your majesty--a dishonor which would have tainted the royalty of your illustrious son. We were able to prove the contrary, and that proof we are ready to give to your majesty, calling in support of it the august widow weeping in the Louvre, where your royal munificence has provided for her a home. That proof satisfied him so completely that, as a sign of satisfaction, he has sent me, as your majesty may see, to consider with you what reparation should be made to gentlemen unjustly treated and wrongfully persecuted.”

“I listen to you, and I wonder at you, sir,” said the queen. “In fact, I have rarely seen such excess of impudence.”

“Your majesty, on your side,” said D’Artagnan, “is as much mistaken as to our intentions as the Cardinal Mazarin has always been.”

“You are in error, sir,” answered the queen. “I am so little mistaken that in ten minutes you shall be arrested, and in an hour I shall set off at the head of my army to release my minister.”

“I am sure your majesty will not commit such an act of imprudence, first, because it would be useless and would produce the most disastrous results. Before he could be possibly set free the cardinal would be dead; and indeed, so convinced is he of this, that he entreated me, should I find your majesty disposed to act in this way, to do all I could to induce you to change your resolution.”

“Well, then, I will content myself with arresting you!”

“Madame, the possibility of my arrest has been foreseen, and should I not have returned by to-morrow, at a certain hour the next day the cardinal will be brought to Paris and delivered to the parliament.”

“It is evident, sir, that your position has kept you out of relation to men and affairs; otherwise you would know that since we left Paris monsieur le cardinal has returned thither five or six times; that he has there met De Beaufort, De Bouillon, the coadjutor and D’Elbeuf and that not one of them had any desire to arrest him.”

“Your pardon, madame, I know all that. And therefore my friends will conduct monsieur le cardinal neither to De Beaufort, nor to De Bouillon, nor to the coadjutor, nor to D’Elbeuf. These gentlemen wage war on private account, and in buying them up, by granting them what they wished, monsieur le cardinal has made a good bargain. He will be delivered to the parliament, members of which can, of course, be bought, but even Monsieur de Mazarin is not rich enough to buy the whole body.”

“I think,” returned Anne of Austria, fixing upon him a glance, which in any woman’s face would have expressed disdain, but in a queen’s, spread terror to those she looked upon, “nay, I perceive you dare to threaten the mother of your sovereign.”

“Madame,” replied D’Artagnan, “I threaten simply and solely because I am obliged to do so. Believe me, madame, as true a thing as it is that a heart beats in this bosom--a heart devoted to you--believe that you have been the idol of our lives; that we have, as you well know--good Heaven!--risked our lives twenty times for your majesty. Have you, then, madame, no compassion for your servants who for twenty years have vegetated in obscurity, without betraying in a single sigh the solemn and sacred secrets they have had the honor to share with you? Look at me, madame--at me, whom you accuse of speaking loud and threateningly. What am I? A poor officer, without fortune, without protection, without a future, unless the eye of my queen, which I have sought so long, rests on me for a moment. Look at the Comte de la Fere, a type of nobility, a flower of chivalry. He has taken part against his queen, or rather, against her minister. He has not been unreasonably exacting, it seems to me. Look at Monsieur du Vallon, that faithful soul, that arm of steel, who for twenty years has awaited the word from your lips which will make him in rank what he is in sentiment and in courage. Consider, in short, your people who love you and who yet are famished, who have no other wish than to bless you, and who, nevertheless--no, I am wrong, your subjects, madame, will never curse you; say one word to them and all will be ended--peace succeed war, joy tears, and happiness to misfortune!”

Anne of Austria looked with wonderment on the warlike countenance of D’Artagnan, which betrayed a singular expression of deep feeling.

“Why did you not say all this before you took action, sir?” she said.

“Because, madame, it was necessary to prove to your majesty one thing of which you doubted---that is, that we still possess amongst us some valor and are worthy of some consideration at your hands.”

“And that valor would shrink from no undertaking, according to what I see.”

“It has hesitated at nothing in the past; why, then, should it be less daring in the future?”

“Then, in case of my refusal, this valor, should a struggle occur, will even go the length of carrying me off in the midst of my court, to deliver me into the hands of the Fronde, as you propose to deliver my minister?”

“We have not thought about it yet, madame,” answered D’Artagnan, with that Gascon effrontery which had in him the appearance of naivete; “but if we four had resolved upon it we should do it most certainly.”

“I ought,” muttered Anne to herself, “by this time to remember that these men are giants.”

“Alas, madame!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “this proves to me that not till to-day has your majesty had a just idea of us.”

“Perhaps,” said Anne; “but that idea, if at last I have it----”

“Your majesty will do us justice. In doing us justice you will no longer treat us as men of vulgar stamp. You will see in me an ambassador worthy of the high interests he is authorized to discuss with his sovereign.”

“Where is the treaty?”

“Here it is.”

Anne of Austria cast her eyes upon the treaty that D’Artagnan presented to her.

“I do not see here,” she said, “anything but general conditions; the interests of the Prince de Conti or of the Ducs de Beaufort, de Bouillon and d’Elbeuf and of the coadjutor, are herein consulted; but with regard to yours?”

“We do ourselves justice, madame, even in assuming the high position that we have. We do not think ourselves worthy to stand near such great names.”

“But you, I presume, have decided to assert your pretensions viva voce?”

“I believe you, madame, to be a great and powerful queen, and that it will be unworthy of your power and greatness if you do not recompense the arms which will bring back his eminence to Saint Germain.”

“It is my intention so to do; come, let us hear you. Speak.”

“He who has negotiated these matters (forgive me if I begin by speaking of myself, but I must claim that importance which has been given to me, not assumed by me) he who has arranged matters for the return of the cardinal, ought, it appears to me, in order that his reward may not be unworthy of your majesty, to be made commandant of the guards--an appointment something like that of captain of the musketeers.”

“‘Tis the appointment Monsieur de Treville held, you ask of me.”

“The place, madame, is vacant, and although ’tis a year since Monsieur de Treville has left it, it has not been filled.”

“But it is one of the principal military appointments in the king’s household.”

“Monsieur de Treville was but a younger son of a simple Gascon family, like me, madame; he occupied that post for twenty years.”

“You have an answer ready for everything,” replied the queen, and she took from her bureau a document, which she filled up and signed.

“Undoubtedly, madame,” said D’Artagnan, taking the document and bowing, “this is a noble reward; but everything in the world is unstable, and the man who happened to fall into disgrace with your majesty might lose this office to-morrow.”

“What more do you want?” asked the queen, coloring, as she found that she had to deal with a mind as subtle as her own.

“A hundred thousand francs for this poor captain of musketeers, to be paid whenever his services shall no longer be acceptable to your majesty.”

Anne hesitated.

“To think of the Parisians,” soliloquized D’Artagnan, “offering only the other day, by an edict of the parliament, six hundred thousand francs to any man soever who would deliver up the cardinal to them, dead or alive--if alive, in order to hang him; if dead, to deny him the rites of Christian burial!”

“Come,” said Anne, “‘tis reasonable, since you only ask from a queen the sixth of what the parliament has proposed;” and she signed an order for a hundred thousand francs.

“Now, then,” she said, “what next?”

“Madame, my friend Du Vallon is rich and has therefore nothing in the way of fortune to desire; but I think I remember that there was a question between him and Monsieur Mazarin as to making his estate a barony. Nay, it must have been a promise.”

“A country clown,” said Anne of Austria, “people will laugh.”

“Let them,” answered D’Artagnan. “But I am sure of one thing--that those who laugh at him in his presence will never laugh a second time.”

“Here goes the barony.” said the queen; she signed a patent.

“Now there remains the chevalier, or the Abbe d’Herblay, as your majesty pleases.”

“Does he wish to be a bishop?”

“No, madame, something easier to grant.”

“What?”

“It is that the king should deign to stand godfather to the son of Madame de Longueville.”

The queen smiled.

“Monsieur de Longueville is of royal blood, madame,” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes,” said the queen; “but his son?”

“His son, madame, must be, since the husband of the son’s mother is.”

“And your friend has nothing more to ask for Madame de Longueville?”

“No, madame, for I presume that the king, standing godfather to him, could do no less than present him with five hundred thousand francs, giving his father, also, the government of Normandy.”

“As to the government of Normandy,” replied the queen, “I think I can promise; but with regard to the present, the cardinal is always telling me there is no more money in the royal coffers.”

“We shall search for some, madame, and I think we can find a little, and if your majesty approves, we will seek for some together.”

“What next?”

“What next, madame?”

“Yes.”

“That is all.”

“Haven’t you, then, a fourth companion?”

“Yes, madame, the Comte de la Fere.”

“What does he ask?”

“Nothing.”

“There is in the world, then, one man who, having the power to ask, asks--nothing!”

“There is the Comte de la Fere, madame. The Comte de la Fere is not a man.”

“What is he, then?”

“The Comte de la Fere is a demi-god.”

“Has he not a son, a young man, a relative, a nephew, of whom Comminges spoke to me as being a brave boy, and who, with Monsieur de Chatillon, brought the standards from Lens?”

“He has, as your majesty has said, a ward, who is called the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

“If that young man should be appointed to a regiment what would his guardian say?”

“Perhaps he would accept.”

“Perhaps?”

“Yes, if your majesty herself should beg him to accept.”

“He must be indeed a strange man. Well, we will reflect and perhaps we will beg him. Are you satisfied, sir?”

“There is one thing the queen has not signed--her assent to the treaty.”

“Of what use to-day? I will sign it to-morrow.”

“I can assure her majesty that if she does not sign to-day she will not have time to sign to-morrow. Consent, then, I beg you, madame, to write at the bottom of this schedule, which has been drawn up by Mazarin, as you see:

“‘I consent to ratify the treaty proposed by the Parisians.’”

Anne was caught, she could not draw back--she signed; but scarcely had she done so when pride burst forth and she began to weep.

D’Artagnan started on seeing these tears. Since that period of history queens have shed tears, like other women.

The Gascon shook his head, these tears from royalty melted his heart.

“Madame,” he said, kneeling, “look upon the unhappy man at your feet. He begs you to believe that at a gesture of your majesty everything will be possible to him. He has faith in himself; he has faith in his friends; he wishes also to have faith in his queen. And in proof that he fears nothing, that he counts on nothing, he will restore Monsieur de Mazarin to your majesty without conditions. Behold, madame! here are the august signatures of your majesty’s hand; if you think you are right in giving them to me, you shall do so, but from this very moment you are free from any obligation to keep them.”

And D’Artagnan, full of splendid pride and manly intrepidity, placed in Anne’s hands, in a bundle, the papers that he had one by one won from her with so much difficulty.

There are moments--for if everything is not good, everything in this world is not bad--in which the most rigid and the coldest soul is softened by the tears of strong emotion, heart-arraigning sentiment: one of these momentary impulses actuated Anne. D’Artagnan, when he gave way to his own feelings--which were in accordance with those of the queen--had accomplished more than the most astute diplomacy could have attempted. He was therefore instantly recompensed, either for his address or for his sensibility, whichever it might be termed.

“You were right, sir,” said Anne. “I misunderstood you. There are the acts signed; I deliver them to you without compulsion. Go and bring me back the cardinal as soon as possible.”

“Madame,” faltered D’Artagnan, “‘tis twenty years ago--I have a good memory--since I had the honor behind a piece of tapestry in the Hotel de Ville, of kissing one of those lovely hands.”

“There is the other,” replied the queen; “and that the left hand should not be less liberal than the right,” she drew from her finger a diamond similar to the one formerly given to him, “take and keep this ring in remembrance of me.

“Madame,” said D’Artagnan, rising, “I have only one thing more to wish, which is, that the next thing you ask from me, shall be--my life.”

And with this conclusion--a way peculiar to himself--he rose and left the room.

“I never rightly understood those men,” said the queen, as she watched him retiring from her presence; “and it is now too late, for in a year the king will be of age.”

In twenty-four hours D’Artagnan and Porthos conducted Mazarin to the queen; and the one received his commission, the other his patent of nobility.

On the same day the Treaty of Paris was signed, and it was everywhere announced that the cardinal had shut himself up for three days in order to draw it up with the greatest care.

Here is what each of the parties concerned gained by that treaty:

Monsieur de Conti received Damvilliers, and having made his proofs as general, he succeeded in remaining a soldier, instead of being made cardinal. Moreover, something had been said of a marriage with Mazarin’s niece. The idea was welcomed by the prince, to whom it was of little importance whom he married, so long as he married some one.

The Duc de Beaufort made his entrance at court, receiving ample reparation for the wrongs he had suffered, and all the honor due to his rank. Full pardon was accorded to those who had aided in his escape. He received also the office of admiral, which had been held by his father, the Duc de Vendome and an indemnity for his houses and castles, demolished by the Parliament of Bretagne.

The Duc de Bouillon received domains of a value equal to that of his principality of Sedan, and the title of prince, granted to him and to those belonging to his house.

The Duc de Longueville gained the government of Pont-de-l’Arche, five hundred thousand francs for his wife and the honor of seeing her son held at the baptismal font by the young king and Henrietta of England.

Aramis stipulated that Bazin should officiate at that ceremony and that Planchet should furnish the christening sugar plums.

The Duc d’Elbeuf obtained payment of certain sums due to his wife, one hundred thousand francs for his eldest son and twenty-five thousand for each of the three others.

The coadjutor alone obtained nothing. They promised, indeed, to negotiate with the pope for a cardinal’s hat for him; but he knew how little reliance should be placed on such promises, made by the queen and Mazarin. Quite contrary to the lot of Monsieur de Conti, unable to be cardinal, he was obliged to remain a soldier.

And therefore, when all Paris was rejoicing in the expected return of the king, appointed for the next day, Gondy alone, in the midst of the general happiness, was dissatisfied; he sent for the two men whom he was wont to summon when in especially bad humor. Those two men were the Count de Rochefort and the mendicant of Saint Eustache. They came with their usual promptness, and the coadjutor spent with them a part of the night.

In which it is shown that it is sometimes more difficult for Kings to return to the Capitals of their Kingdoms, than to make an Exit.

Whilst D’Artagnan and Porthos were engaged in conducting the cardinal to Saint Germain, Athos and Aramis returned to Paris.

Each had his own particular visit to make.

Aramis rushed to the Hotel de Ville, where Madame de Longueville was sojourning. The duchess loudly lamented the announcement of peace. War had made her a queen; peace brought her abdication. She declared that she would never assent to the treaty and that she wished eternal war.

But when Aramis had presented that peace to her in a true light--that is to say, with all its advantages; when he had pointed out to her, in exchange for the precarious and contested royalty of Paris, the viceroyalty of Font-de-l’Arche, in other words, of all Normandy; when he had rung in her ears the five hundred thousand francs promised by the cardinal; when he had dazzled her eyes with the honor bestowed on her by the king in holding her child at the baptismal font, Madame de Longueville contended no longer, except as is the custom with pretty women to contend, and defended herself only to surrender at last.

Aramis made a presence of believing in the reality of her opposition and was unwilling to deprive himself in his own view of the credit of her conversion.

“Madame,” he said, “you have wished to conquer the prince your brother--that is to say, the greatest captain of the age; and when women of genius wish anything they always succeed in attaining it. You have succeeded; the prince is beaten, since he can no longer fight. Now attach him to our party. Withdraw him gently from the queen, whom he does not like, from Mazarin, whom he despises. The Fronde is a comedy, of which the first act only is played. Let us wait for a denouement--for the day when the prince, thanks to you, shall have turned against the court.”

Madame de Longueville was persuaded. This Frondist duchess trusted so confidently to the power of her fine eyes, that she could not doubt their influence even over Monsieur de Conde; and the chronicles of the time aver that her confidence was justified.

Athos, on quitting Aramis, went to Madame de Chevreuse. Here was another frondeuse to persuade, and she was even less open to conviction than her younger rival. There had been no stipulation in her favor. Monsieur de Chevreuse had not been appointed governor of a province, and if the queen should consent to be godmother it could be only of her grandson or granddaughter. At the first announcement of peace Madame de Chevreuse frowned, and in spite of all the logic of Athos to show her that a prolonged war would have been impracticable, contended in favor of hostilities.

“My fair friend,” said Athos, “allow me to tell you that everybody is tired of war. You will get yourself exiled, as you did in the time of Louis XIII. Believe me, we have passed the time of success in intrigue, and your fine eyes are not destined to be eclipsed by regretting Paris, where there will always be two queens as long as you are there.”

“Oh,” cried the duchess, “I cannot make war alone, but I can avenge myself on that ungrateful queen and most ambitious favorite-on the honor of a duchess, I will avenge myself.”

“Madame,” replied Athos, “do not injure the Vicomte de Bragelonne--do not ruin his prospects. Alas! excuse my weakness! There are moments when a man grows young again in his children.”

The duchess smiled, half tenderly, half ironically.

“Count,” she said, “you are, I fear, gained over to the court. I suppose you have a blue ribbon in your pocket?”

“Yes, madame; I have that of the Garter, which King Charles I. gave me some days before he died.”

“Come, I am growing an old woman!” said the duchess, pensively.

Athos took her hand and kissed it. She sighed, as she looked at him.

“Count,” she said, “Bragelonne must be a charming place. You are a man of taste. You have water--woods--flowers there?”

She sighed again and leaned her charming head, gracefully reclined, on her hand, still beautiful in form and color.

“Madame!” exclaimed Athos, “what were you saying just now about growing old? Never have I seen you look so young, so beautiful!”

The duchess shook her head.

“Does Monsieur de Bragelonne remain in Paris?” she inquired.

“What think you of it?” inquired Athos.

“Leave him with me,” replied the duchess.

“No, madame; if you have forgotten the history of Oedipus, I, at least, remember it.”

“Really, sir, you are delightful, and I should like to spend a month at Bragelonne.”

“Are you not afraid of making people envious of me, duchess?” replied Athos.

“No, I shall go incognito, count, under the name of Marie Michon.”

“You are adorable, madame.”

“But do not keep Raoul with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because he is in love.”

“He! he is quite a child!”

“And ’tis a child he loves.”

Athos became thoughtful.

“You are right, duchess. This singular passion for a child of seven may some day make him very unhappy. There is to be war in Flanders. He shall go thither.”

“And at his return you will send him to me. I will arm him against love.”

“Alas, madame!” exclaimed Athos, “to-day love is like war--the breastplate is becoming useless.”

Raoul entered at this moment; he came to announce that the solemn entrance of the king, queen, and her ministers was to take place on the ensuing day.

The next day, in fact, at daybreak, the court made preparations to quit Saint Germain.

Meanwhile, the queen every hour had been sending for D’Artagnan.

“I hear,” she said, “that Paris is not quiet. I am afraid for the king’s safety; place yourself close to the coach door on the right.”

“Reassure yourself, madame, I will answer for the king’s safety.”

As he left the queen’s presence Bernouin summoned him to the cardinal.

“Sir,” said Mazarin to him “an emeute is spoken of in Paris. I shall be on the king’s left and as I am the chief person threatened, remain at the coach door to the left.”

“Your eminence may be perfectly easy,” replied D’Artagnan; “they will not touch a hair of your head.”

“Deuce take it!” he thought to himself, “how can I take care of both? Ah! plague on’t, I will guard the king and Porthos shall guard the cardinal.”

This arrangement pleased every one. The queen had confidence in the courage of D’Artagnan, which she knew, and the cardinal in the strength of Porthos, which he had experienced.

The royal procession set out for Paris. Guitant and Comminges, at the head of the guards, marched first; then came the royal carriage, with D’Artagnan on one side, Porthos on the other; then the musketeers, for two and twenty years staunch friends of D’Artagnan. During twenty he had been lieutenant, their captain since the night before.

The cortege proceeded to Notre Dame, where a Te Deum was chanted. All Paris were in the streets. The Swiss were drawn up along the road, but as the road was long, they were placed at six or eight feet distant from each other and one deep only. This force was therefore wholly insufficient, and from time to time the line was broken through by the people and was formed again with difficulty. Whenever this occurred, although it proceeded only from goodwill and a desire to see the king and queen, Anne looked at D’Artagnan anxiously.

Mazarin, who had dispensed a thousand louis to make the people cry “Long live Mazarin,” and who had accordingly no confidence in acclamations bought at twenty pistoles each, kept one eye on Porthos; but that gigantic body-guard replied to the look with his great bass voice, “Be tranquil, my lord,” and Mazarin became more and more composed.

At the Palais Royal, the crowd, which had flowed in from the adjacent street was still greater; like an impetuous mob, a wave of human beings came to meet the carriage and rolled tumultuously into the Rue Saint Honore.

When the procession reached the palace, loud cries of “Long live their majesties!” resounded. Mazarin leaned out of the window. One or two shouts of “Long live the cardinal” saluted his shadow; but instantly hisses and yells stifled them remorselessly. Mazarin turned pale and shrank back in the coach.

“Low-born fellows!” ejaculated Porthos.

D’Artagnan said nothing, but twirled his mustache with a peculiar gesture which showed that his fine Gascon humor was awake.

Anne of Austria bent down and whispered in the young king’s ear:

“Say something gracious to Monsieur d’Artagnan, my son.”

The young king leaned toward the door.

“I have not said good-morning to you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said; “nevertheless, I have remarked you. It was you who were behind my bed-curtains that night the Parisians wished to see me asleep.”

“And if the king permits me,” returned the Gascon, “I shall be near him always when there is danger to be encountered.”

“Sir,” said Mazarin to Porthos, “what would you do if the crowd fell upon us?”

“Kill as many as I could, my lord.”

“Hem! brave as you are and strong as you are, you could not kill them all.”

“‘Tis true,” answered Porthos, rising on his saddle, in order that he might appraise the immense crowd, “there are a lot of them.”

“I think I should like the other fellow better than this one,” said Mazarin to himself, and he threw himself back in his carriage.

The queen and her minister, more especially the latter, had reason to feel anxious. The crowd, whilst preserving an appearance of respect and even of affection for the king and queen regent, began to be tumultuous. Reports were whispered about, like certain sounds which announce, as they whistle from wave to wave, the coming storm--and when they pass athwart a multitude, presage an emeute.

D’Artagnan turned toward the musketeers and made a sign imperceptible to the crowd, but very easily understood by that chosen regiment, the flower of the army.

The ranks closed firmly in and a kind of majestic tremor ran from man to man.

At the Barriere des Sergents the procession was obliged to stop. Comminges left the head of the escort and went to the queen’s carriage. Anne questioned D’Artagnan by a look. He answered in the same language.

“Proceed,” she said.

Comminges returned to his post. An effort was made and the living barrier was violently broken through.

Some complaints arose from the crowd and were addressed this time to the king as well as the minister.

“Onward!” cried D’Artagnan, in a loud voice.

“Onward!” cried Porthos.

But as if the multitude had waited only for this demonstration to burst out, all the sentiments of hostility that possessed it exploded simultaneously. Cries of “Down with Mazarin!” “Death to the cardinal!” resounded on all sides.

At the same time through the streets of Grenelle, Saint Honore, and Du Coq, a double stream of people broke the feeble hedge of Swiss guards and came like a whirlwind even to the very legs of Porthos’s horse and that of D’Artagnan.

This new eruption was more dangerous than the others, being composed of armed men. It was plain that it was not the chance combination of those who had collected a number of the malcontents at the same spot, but a concerted organized attack.

Each of these mobs was led by a chief, one of whom appeared to belong, not to the people, but to the honorable corporation of mendicants, and the other, notwithstanding his affected imitation of the people, might easily be discerned to be a gentleman. Both were evidently stimulated by the same impulse.

There was a shock which was perceived even in the royal carriage. Myriads of hoarse cries, forming one vast uproar, were heard, mingled with guns firing.

“Ho! Musketeers!” cried D’Artagnan.

The escort divided into two files. One of them passed around to the right of the carriage, the other to the left. One went to support D’Artagnan, the other Porthos. Then came a skirmish, the more terrible because it had no definite object; the more melancholy, because those engaged in it knew not for whom they were fighting. Like all popular movements, the shock given by the rush of this mob was formidable. The musketeers, few in number, not being able, in the midst of this crowd, to make their horses wheel around, began to give way. D’Artagnan offered to lower the blinds of the royal carriage, but the young king stretched out his arm, saying:

“No, sir! I wish to see everything.”

“If your majesty wishes to look out--well, then, look!” replied D’Artagnan. And turning with that fury which made him so formidable, he rushed toward the chief of the insurgents, a man who, with a huge sword in his hand, was trying to hew a passage to the coach door through the musketeers.

“Make room!” cried D’Artagnan. “Zounds! give way!”

At these words the man with a pistol and sword raised his head, but it was too late. The blow was sped by D’Artagnan; the rapier had pierced his bosom.

“Ah! confound it!” cried the Gascon, trying in vain, too late, to retract the thrust. “What the devil are you doing here, count?”

“Accomplishing my destiny,” replied Rochefort, falling on one knee. “I have already got up again after three stabs from you, I shall never rise after this fourth.”

“Count!” said D’Artagnan, with some degree of emotion, “I struck without knowing that it was you. I am sorry, if you die, that you should die with sentiments of hatred toward me.”

Rochefort extended his hand to D’Artagnan, who took it. The count wished to speak, but a gush of blood stifled him. He stiffened in the last convulsions of death and expired.

“Back, people!” cried D’Artagnan, “your leader is dead; you have no longer any business here.”

Indeed, as if De Rochefort had been the very soul of the attack, the crowd who had followed and obeyed him took to flight on seeing him fall. D’Artagnan charged, with a party of musketeers, up the Rue du Coq, and the portion of the mob he assailed disappeared like smoke, dispersing near the Place Saint Germain-l’Auxerrois and taking the direction of the quays.

D’Artagnan returned to help Porthos, if Porthos needed help; but Porthos, for his part, had done his work as conscientiously as D’Artagnan. The left of the carriage was as well cleared as the right, and they drew up the blind of the window which Mazarin, less heroic than the king, had taken the precaution to lower.

Porthos looked very melancholy.

“What a devil of a face you have, Porthos! and what a strange air for a victor!”

“But you,” answered Porthos, “seem to me agitated.”

“There’s a reason! Zounds! I have just killed an old friend.”

“Indeed!” replied Porthos, “who?”

“That poor Count de Rochefort.”

“Well! exactly like me! I have just killed a man whose face is not unknown to me. Unluckily, I hit him on the head and immediately his face was covered with blood.”

“And he said nothing as he died?”

“Yes; he exclaimed, ‘Oh!’”

“I suppose,” answered D’Artagnan, laughing, “if he only said that, it did not enlighten you much.”

“Well, sir!” cried the queen.

“Madame, the passage is quite clear and your majesty can continue your road.”

In fact, the procession arrived, in safety at Notre Dame, at the front gate of which all the clergy, with the coadjutor at their head, awaited the king, the queen and the minister, for whose happy return they chanted a Te Deum.

As the service was drawing to a close a boy entered the church in great excitement, ran to the sacristy, dressed himself quickly in the choir robes, and cleaving, thanks to that uniform, the crowd that filled the temple, approached Bazin, who, clad in his blue robe, was standing gravely in his place at the entrance to the choir.

Bazin felt some one pulling his sleeve. He lowered to earth his eyes, beatifically raised to Heaven, and recognized Friquet.

“Well, you rascal, what is it? How do you dare to disturb me in the exercise of my functions?” asked the beadle.

“Monsieur Bazin,” said Friquet, “Monsieur Maillard--you know who he is, he gives holy water at Saint Eustache----”

“Well, go on.”

“Well, he received in the scrimmage a sword stroke on the head. That great giant who was there gave it to him.”

“In that case,” said Bazin, “he must be pretty sick.”

“So sick that he is dying, and he wants to confess to the coadjutor, who, they say, has power to remit great sins.”

“And does he imagine that the coadjutor will put himself out for him?”

“To be sure; the coadjutor has promised.”

“Who told you that?”

“Monsieur Maillard himself.”

“You have seen him, then?”

“Certainly; I was there when he fell.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was shouting, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ ‘Death to the cardinal!’ ‘The Italian to the gallows!’ Isn’t that what you would have me shout?”

“Be quiet, you rascal!” said Bazin, looking uneasily around.

“So that he told me, that poor Monsieur Maillard, ‘Go find the coadjutor, Friquet, and if you bring him to me you shall be my heir.’ Say, then, Father Bazin--the heir of Monsieur Maillard, the giver of holy water at Saint Eustache! Hey! I shall have nothing to do but to fold my arms! All the same, I should like to do him that service--what do you say to it?”

“I will tell the coadjutor,” said Bazin.

In fact, he slowly and respectfully approached the prelate and spoke to him privately a few words, to which the latter responded by an affirmative sign. He then returned with the same slow step and said:

“Go and tell the dying man that he must be patient. Monseigneur will be with him in an hour.”

“Good!” said Friquet, “my fortune is made.”

“By the way,” said Bazin, “where was he carried?”

“To the tower Saint Jacques la Boucherie;” and delighted with the success of his embassy, Friquet started off at the top of his speed.

When the Te Deum was over, the coadjutor, without stopping to change his priestly dress, took his way toward that old tower which he knew so well. He arrived in time. Though sinking from moment to moment, the wounded man was not yet dead. The door was opened to the coadjutor of the room in which the mendicant was suffering.

A moment later Friquet went out, carrying in his hand a large leather bag; he opened it as soon as he was outside the chamber and to his great astonishment found it full of gold. The mendicant had kept his word and made Friquet his heir.

“Ah! Mother Nanette!” cried Friquet, suffocating; “ah! Mother Nanette!”

He could say no more; but though he hadn’t strength to speak he had enough for action. He rushed headlong to the street, and like the Greek from Marathon who fell in the square at Athens, with his laurel in his hand, Friquet reached Councillor Broussel’s threshold, and then fell exhausted, scattering on the floor the louis disgorged by his leather bag.

Mother Nanette began by picking up the louis; then she picked up Friquet.

In the meantime the cortege returned to the Palais Royal.

“That Monsieur d’Artagnan is a very brave man, mother,” said the young king.

“Yes, my son; and he rendered very important services to your father. Treat him kindly, therefore, in the future.”

“Captain,” said the young king to D’Artagnan, on descending from the carriage, “the queen has charged me to invite you to dinner to-day--you and your friend the Baron du Vallon.”

That was a great honor for D’Artagnan and for Porthos. Porthos was delighted; and yet during the entire repast he seemed to be preoccupied.

“What was the matter with you, baron?” D’Artagnan said to him as they descended the staircase of the Palais Royal. “You seemed at dinner to be anxious about something.”

“I was trying,” said Porthos, “to recall where I had seen that mendicant whom I must have killed.”

“And you couldn’t remember?”

“No.”

“Well, search, my friend, search; and when you have found, you will tell me, will you not?”

“Pardieu!” said Porthos.

Conclusion.

On going home, the two friends found a letter from Athos, who desired them to meet him at the Grand Charlemagne on the following day.

The friends went to bed early, but neither of them slept. When we arrive at the summit of our wishes, success has usually the power to drive away sleep on the first night after the fulfilment of long cherished hopes.

The next day at the appointed hour they went to see Athos and found him and Aramis in traveling costume.

“What!” cried Porthos, “are we all going away, then? I, so, have made my preparations this morning.”

“Oh, heavens! yes,” said Aramis. “There’s nothing to do in Paris now there’s no Fronde. The Duchess de Longueville has invited me to pass a few days in Normandy, and has deputed me, while her son is being baptized, to go and prepare her residence at Rouen; after which, if nothing new occurs, I shall go and bury myself in my convent at Noisy-le-Sec.”

“And I,” said Athos, “am returning to Bragelonne. You know, dear D’Artagnan, I am nothing more than a good honest country gentleman. Raoul has no fortune other than I possess, poor child! and I must take care of it for him, since I only lend him my name.”

“And Raoul--what shall you do with him?”

“I leave him with you, my friend. War has broken out in Flanders. You shall take him with you there. I am afraid that remaining at Blois would be dangerous to his youthful mind. Take him and teach him to be as brave and loyal as you are yourself.”

“Then,” replied D’Artagnan, “though I shall not have you, Athos, at all events I shall have that dear fair-haired head by me; and though he’s but a boy, yet, since your soul lives again in him, dear Athos, I shall always fancy that you are near me, sustaining and encouraging me.”

The four friends embraced with tears in their eyes.

Then they departed, without knowing whether they would ever see each other again.

D’Artagnan returned to the Rue Tiquetonne with Porthos, still possessed by the wish to find out who the man was that he had killed. On arriving at the Hotel de la Chevrette they found the baron’s equipage all really and Musqueton on his saddle.

“Come, D’Artagnan,” said Porthos, “bid adieu to your sword and go with me to Pierrefonds, to Bracieux, or to Du Vallon. We will grow old together and talk of our companions.”

“No!” replied D’Artagnan, “deuce take it, the campaign is going to begin; I wish to be there, I expect to get something by it.”

“What do you expect to get?”

“Why, I expect to be made Marechal of France!”

“Ha! ha!” cried Porthos, who was not completely taken in by D’Artagnan’s Gasconades.

“Come my brother, go with me,” added D’Artagnan, “and I will see that you are made a duke!”

“No,” answered Porthos, “Mouston has no desire to fight; besides, they have erected a triumphal arch for me to enter my barony, which will kill my neighbors with envy.”

“To that I can say nothing,” returned D’Artagnan, who knew the vanity of the new baron. “Then, here’s to our next merry meeting!”

“Adieu, dear captain,” said Porthos, “I shall always be happy to welcome you to my barony.”

“Yes, yes, when the campaign is over,” replied the Gascon.

“His honor’s equipage is waiting,” said Musqueton.

The two friends, after a cordial pressure of the hands, separated. D’Artagnan was standing at the door looking after Porthos with a mournful gaze, when the baron, after walking scarcely more than twenty paces, returned--stood still--struck his forehead with his finger and exclaimed:

“I recollect!”

“What?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“Who the beggar was that I killed.”

“Ah! indeed! and who was he?”

“‘Twas that low fellow, Bonancieux.”

And Porthos, enchanted at having relieved his mind, rejoined Musqueton and they disappeared around an angle of the street. D’Artagnan stood for an instant, mute, pensive and motionless; then, as he went in, he saw the fair Madeleine, his hostess, standing on the threshold.

“Madeleine,” said the Gascon, “give me your apartment on the first floor; now that I am a captain in the royal musketeers I must make an appearance; nevertheless, reserve my old room on the fifth story for me; one never knows what may happen.”

Ten Years Later

The Letter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Montalais redoubled her laughter and noisy provocations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wherever the viande passed, the soldiers ported arms.

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

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

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

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

“Montalais! Montalais! there are duties to be performed.”

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

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

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

“Poor Raoul!” sighed Louise.

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

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

“What next?” asked the younger of the two girls.

“Why, now write what you think, Louise,” replied Montalais.

“Are you quite sure I think of anything?”

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

“Do you think so, Montalais?”

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

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

“In the first place, you don’t think Monsieur Raoul; you think My dear Raoul.”

“Oh!----”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come in, come in, I implore you!” murmured Louise.

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

The Messenger.

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

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

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

“Ah, ah!” cried the soldier. “Officer, a messenger!”

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

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

“Do you know him?”

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

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

The messenger made an affirmative sign with his head.

“In that case,” said the guard, “I will go and seek the maitre d’hotel myself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Great news, Monsieur de Saint-Remy.”

“And good, I presume?”

“Excellent.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well?” exclaimed she.

“Well!” repeated Monsieur; “what is going on then?”

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

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

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

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

“On the part of M. le Prince,” said the maitre d’hotel promptly.

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

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

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

Monsieur pushed away his plate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This minute, monseigneur.”

“How is the king?”

“His majesty is in perfect health, monseigneur.”

“And my sister-in-law?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, read it, if you please, monsieur.”

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

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

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

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

Raoul bowed.

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

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

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

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

“His majesty is at Orleans, then?”

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

“Does the court accompany him?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

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

“His eminence appears to enjoy good health, monseigneur.”

“His nieces accompany him, no doubt?”

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

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

“Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini in particular,” replied Raoul discreetly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Monsieur Raoul!” said the voice.

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

The Interview.

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

“But my horse, madame?” said he.

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

“I obey, madame.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who, I? I have deceived you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Raoul bowed ceremoniously.

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

“Oh, she knows you--she knows all!”

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps this evening, mademoiselle; at latest, tomorrow.”

Montalais lifted her shoulders in sign of vexation.

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

“But, mesdemoiselles, you will be still beautiful!”

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

“And by whom?” said Louise, innocently.

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

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

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

“Console yourself, mademoiselle.”

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

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

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

“With all the court.”

“Mesdemoiselles de Mancini, will they be with them?”

“No, certainly not.”

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

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

“He!--the hypocrite!”

“Hush!” said Louise, pressing a finger on her friend’s rosy lips.

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

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

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

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

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

“No doubt, mademoiselle; but the cardinal is the cardinal.”

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

“He adores her.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I have no parents!” said she.

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

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

“No, M. Raoul--nothing, thank God!”

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

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

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

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

“It is a heavy step,” said Louise.

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

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

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

“But, mademoiselle---” said Raoul.

“Yes, I understand. Well, he is as discreet as I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, well!”

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

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

“Where do you wish me to go, madame?”

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

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

“You don’t know the news, then?” said Madame de Saint-Remy.

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

“What! have you seen nobody?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you see nobody concealed while you were there?”

“Madame!”

“I saw a man’s hat, I tell you--the hat of that fellow, that good-for-nothing!”

“Madame!” repeated Louise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But Louise--how shall I know----”

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

“Alas!” sighed Raoul.

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

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

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

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

Father and Son.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, monsieur, monsieur, what joy to see you once again!”

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

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

“To pay a visit to Monsieur?”

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

“You have seen Monsieur?” asked the vicomte, eagerly.

“I have had that honor.”

“At the castle?”

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

“Ah, indeed, vicomte? Accept my compliments thereupon.”

Raoul bowed.

“But you have seen some one else at Blois?”

“Monsieur, I saw her royal highness, Madame.”

“That’s very well: but it is not Madame that I mean.’

Raoul colored deeply, but made no reply.

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

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

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

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

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere--have you not?”

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

“And I asked you if you have seen her.”

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

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

“Mademoiselle de Montalais, monsieur.”

“And who is Mademoiselle de Montalais?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is the king well?”

“Perfectly.”

“And monsieur le prince also?”

“As usual, monsieur.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How he has grown!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He considered the figures of the most importance,” said Pittrino.

“He thought most of the legend,” said Cropole.

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

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

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

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

“Let us efface ‘Medici,’” said Pittrino, supplicatingly.

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

“Yes, in the plural.”

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

“Six physicians! impossible! And the composition?” cried Pittrino.

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

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

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

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

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

The Unknown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“What?”

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

Great astonishment was painted on the countenance of the unknown.

“The King of France coming to Blois?”

“He is on the road, monsieur.”

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

“Very well; but will monsieur keep all the apartments?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again the unknown colored. “Name your terms,” said he.

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

“That is my business.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How much does the hire amount to since yesterday?”

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

“Very well, and that of to-day?”

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

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

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

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

But it was seven that Cropole had required.

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

“There remains one louis, does there not, master hotelier?”

“Yes, monsieur, but----”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parry.

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

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

“Ah!” said the traveler. “Well?”

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

“Have you them?”

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

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

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

“Pay yourself,” added the unknown.

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

A sad smile passed over the lips of the gentleman.

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

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

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

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

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

“The king! the king!” repeated a noisy and eager crowd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A handsome likeness!” said Pittrino.

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

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

“Make way, monsieur l’hotelier, to the entrance of your house!”

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

The window was instantly closed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man raised his trembling hands towards heaven.

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

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

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

“At first the general would not receive me.”

“He took you for a spy?”

“Yes, my lord, but I wrote him a letter.”

“Well?”

“He read it, and received me, my lord.”

“Did that letter thoroughly explain my position and my views?”

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

“Well--then, Parry?”

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

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

“Yes, my lord.”

“And notwithstanding you had signed the name Parry?”

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

The young man leaned forward, thoughtful and sad.

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

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

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

“Yes, my lord; that is all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My lord, in the name of Heaven----”

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

“What are you going to do, my lord?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This word was the name of a woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the name of the third?” asked Monsieur.

“Mary, monseigneur,” replied the cardinal.

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

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

“What do you mean, nephew?” asked Madame.

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

“Well; I know them all.”

“Some of them are pretty.”

“Don’t say that too loud, monsieur my nephew; you will drive them wild.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here, Louise,” said Madame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah!” said he with a shudder.

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

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

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

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

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

Gaston perceived his nephew’s desire.

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

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

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

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

“Let us go on,” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am going to the king’s apartment,” replied the unknown, haughtily, but tranquilly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Who goes there?” said the guard.

“A friend,” replied the unknown.

“What do you want?”

“To speak to the king.”

“Do you, my dear monsieur? That’s not very likely.”

“Why not?”

“Because the king has gone to bed.”

“Gone to bed already?”

“Yes.”

“No matter: I must speak to him.”

“And I tell you that is impossible.”

“And yet----”

“Go back!”

“Do you require the word?”

“I have no account to render to you. Stand back!”

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

“Monsieur le mousquetaire,” said he, “are you a gentleman?”

“I have that honor.”

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

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

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

“Thank you. You have an officer, have you not?”

“Our lieutenant? Yes, monsieur.”

“Well, I wish to speak to him.”

“Oh, that’s a different thing. Come up, monsieur.”

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

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

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

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

“I have that honor,” replied the officer.

“Monsieur, I must absolutely speak to the king.”

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

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

“He will consent.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have seen my portrait, then?”

“No, sire.”

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

“No, sire, it is not even that.”

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

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

“The day----”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His Majesty the King of England!” said the officer.

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

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

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

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

“Will this closet suit you, my brother?”

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

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

“No, sire.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Speak on, my brother--speak on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His son has succeeded him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can it be so?” exclaimed Charles II.

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

“In the cardinal’s apartments?”

“Yes, in the cardinal’s apartments.”

“Then I am condemned, sire?”

Louis XIV. made no reply.

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

“To die?” murmured Louis XIV.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sire, a million would be quite sufficient.”

“That is very little.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But yet, sire, when you ask it----”

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

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

The Arithmetic of M. de Mazarin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is Brienne there?” asked he of Bernouin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am ready, monseigneur; what am I to write?”

“There, that’s the place: after the two lines already traced.”

“I am there.”

“Write seven hundred and sixty thousand livres.”

“That is written.”

“Upon Lyons----” The cardinal appeared to hesitate.

“Upon Lyons,” repeated Bernouin.

“Three millions nine hundred thousand livres.”

“Well, monseigneur?”

“Upon Bordeaux seven millions.”

“Seven?” repeated Bernouin.

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

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

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

“Seven millions upon Bordeaux.”

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

“Yes, monseigneur.”

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

“Must I put of the crown?” asked Bernouin.

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

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“And the ciphers?”

“Stand straight under one another.”

“Cast them up, Bernouin.”

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

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

Bernouin recommenced the addition.

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

Mazarin asked for the account, and revised it carefully.

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

“Ah, Bernouin, I wish the king had it.”

“Your eminence told me that this money was his majesty’s.”

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

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

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

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

“Well!” asked the cardinal, “what is the matter now?”

“The king, monseigneur,--the king!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Therefore you ought to assist in establishing a better.”

“What is that?”

“The restoration of Charles II., for example.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, monsieur, I say so.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Your eminence commanded me to cast up an account.”

“You did it, did you not?”

“Yes, my lord.”

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

“Your eminence said so.”

“Well, what sum did I say I wanted?”

“Forty-five millions, I think.”

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

“Thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty thousand.”

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

“However----” stammered the king.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely, sire.”

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

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

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

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

“Perfectly.”

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

“Anything else, my lord?”

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

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

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

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

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

Mazarin’s Policy

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

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

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

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

“And do you think I do not know it, sire?”

“You know what remains for me to say to you?”

“Listen, sire; these are King Charles’s own words----”

“Oh, impossible!”

“Listen. ‘And if that miserly, beggarly Italian,’ said he----”

“My lord cardinal!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, but you see I guessed what he wanted.”

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

“Sire,” said Mazarin, “I have studied policy thirty years; first, under the auspices of M. le Cardinal de Richelieu; and then alone. This policy has not always been over-honest, it must be allowed, but it has never been unskillful. Now that which is proposed to your majesty is dishonest and unskillful at the same time.”

“Dishonest, monsieur!”

“Sire, you entered into a treaty with Cromwell.”

“Yes, and in that very treaty Cromwell signed his name above mine.”

“Why did you sign yours so low down, sire? Cromwell found a good place, and he took it; that was his custom. I return, then, to M. Cromwell. You have a treaty with him, that is to say, with England, since when you signed that treaty M. Cromwell was England.”

“M. Cromwell is dead.”

“Do you think so, sire?”

“No doubt he is, since his son Richard has succeeded him, and has abdicated.”

“Yes, that is it exactly. Richard inherited after the death of his father, and England at the abdication of Richard. The treaty formed part of the inheritance, whether in the hands of M. Richard or in the hands of England. The treaty is, then, still as good, as valid as ever. Why should you evade it, sire? What is changed? Charles wants to-day what we were not willing to grant him ten years ago; but that was foreseen and provided against. You are the ally of England, sire, and not of Charles II. It was doubtless wrong, from a family point of view, to sign a treaty with a man who had cut off the head of the king your father’s brother-in-law, and to contract an alliance with a parliament which they call yonder the Rump Parliament; it was unbecoming, I acknowledge, but it was not unskillful from a political point of view, since, thanks to that treaty, I saved your majesty, then a minor, the trouble and danger of a foreign war, which the Fronde--you remember the Fronde sire?”--the young king hung his head--“which the Fronde might have fatally complicated. And thus I prove to your majesty that to change our plan now; without warning our allies, would be at once unskillful and dishonest. We should make war with the aggression on our side, we should make it, deserving to have it made against us, and we should have the appearance of fearing it whilst provoking it, for a permission granted to five hundred men, to two hundred men, to fifty men, to ten men, is still a permission. One Frenchman, that is the nation; one uniform, that is the army. Suppose, sire, for example, that, sooner or later, you should have war with Holland, which, sooner or later, will certainly happen; or with Spain, which will perhaps ensue if your marriage fails” (Mazarin stole a furtive glance at the king), “and there are a thousand causes that might yet make your marriage fail,--well, would you approve of England’s sending to the United Provinces or to Spain a regiment, a company, a squadron even, of English gentlemen? Would you think that they kept within the limits of their treaty of alliance?”

Louis listened; it seemed so strange to him that Mazarin should invoke good faith, and he the author of so many political tricks, called Mazarinades. “And yet,” said the king, “without any manifest authorization, I cannot prevent gentlemen of my states from passing over into England, if such should be their good pleasure.”

“You should compel them to return, sire, or at least protest against their presence as enemies in an allied country.”

“But come, my lord cardinal, you who are so profound a genius, try if you cannot find means to assist this poor king, without compromising ourselves.”

“And that is exactly what I am not willing to do, my dear sire,” said Mazarin. “If England were to act exactly according to my wishes, she could not act better than she does; if I directed the policy of England from this place, I should not direct it otherwise. Governed as she is governed, England is an eternal nest of contention for all Europe. Holland protects Charles II., let Holland do so; they will quarrel, they will fight. They are the only two maritime powers. Let them destroy each other’s navies, we can construct ours with the wrecks of their vessels; when we shall save our money to buy nails.”

“Oh, how paltry and mean is all this that you are telling me, monsieur le cardinal!”

“Yes, but nevertheless it is true, sire; you must confess that. Still further. Suppose I admit, for a moment, the possibility of breaking your word, and evading the treaty--such a thing sometimes happens, but that is when some great interest is to be promoted by it, or when the treaty is found to be too troublesome--well, you will authorize the engagement asked of you: France--her banner, which is the same thing--will cross the Straits and will fight; France will be conquered.”

“Why so?”

“Ma foi! we have a pretty general to fight under this Charles II.! Worcester gave us good proofs of that.”

“But he will no longer have to deal with Cromwell, monsieur.”

“But he will have to deal with Monk, who is quite as dangerous. The brave brewer of whom we are speaking was a visionary; he had moments of exaltation, of inflation, during which he ran over like an over-filled cask; and from the chinks there always escaped some drops of his thoughts, and by the sample the whole of his thought was to be made out. Cromwell has thus allowed us more than ten times to penetrate into his very soul, when one would have conceived that soul to be enveloped in triple brass, as Horace has it. But Monk! Oh, sire, God defend you from ever having anything to transact politically with Monk. It is he who has given me, in one year, all the gray hairs I have. Monk is no fanatic; unfortunately he is a politician; he does not overflow, he keeps close together. For ten years he has had his eyes fixed upon one object, and nobody has yet been able to ascertain what. Every morning, as Louis XI. advised, he burns his nightcap. Therefore, on the day when this plan slowly and solitarily ripened, shall break forth, it will break forthwith all the conditions of success which always accompany an unforeseen event. That is Monk, sire, of whom perhaps, you have never heard--of whom, perhaps, you did not even know the name before your brother Charles II., who knows what he is, pronounced it before you. He is a marvel of depth and tenacity, the two only things against which intelligence and ardor are blunted. Sire, I had ardor when I was young, I always was intelligent. I may safely boast of it, because I am reproached with it. I have done very well with these two qualities, since, from the son of a fisherman of Piscina, I have become prime minister to the king of France; and in that position your majesty will perhaps acknowledge I have rendered some service to the throne of your majesty. Well, sire, if I had met with Monk on my way, instead of Monsieur de Beaufort, Monsieur de Retz, or Monsieur le Prince--well, we should have been ruined. If you engage yourself rashly, sire, you will fall into the talons of this politic soldier. The casque of Monk, sire, is an iron coffer, in the recesses of which he shuts up his thoughts, and no one has the key of it. Therefore, near him, or rather before him, I bow, sire, for I have nothing but a velvet cap.”

“What do you think Monk wishes to do, then?”

“Eh! sire, if I knew that, I would not tell you to mistrust him, for I should be stronger than he; but with him, I am afraid to guess--to guess!--you understand my word?--for if I thought I had guessed, I should stop at an idea, and, in spite of myself, should pursue that idea. Since that man has been in power yonder, I am like one of the damned in Dante whose neck Satan has twisted, and who walk forward looking behind them. I am traveling towards Madrid, but I never lose sight of London. To guess, with that devil of a man, is to deceive one’s self, and to deceive one’s self is to ruin one’s self. God keep me from ever seeking to guess what he aims at; I confine myself to watching what he does, and that is well enough. Now I believe--you observe the meaning of the word I believe?--I believe, with respect to Monk, ties one to nothing--I believe that he has a strong inclination to succeed Cromwell. Your Charles II. has already caused proposals to be made to him by ten persons; he has satisfied himself with driving these ten meddlers from his presence, without saying anything to them but, ‘Begone, or I will have you hung.’ That man is a sepulcher! At this moment Monk is affecting devotion to the Rump Parliament; of this devotion, observe, I am not the dupe. Monk has no wish to be assassinated,--an assassination would stop him in the midst of his operations, and his work must be accomplished;--so I believe--but do not believe, what I believe, sire: for I say I believe from habit--I believe that Monk is keeping on friendly terms with the parliament till the day comes for dispersing it. You are asked for swords, but they are to fight against Monk. God preserve you from fighting against Monk sire; for Monk would beat us, and I should never console myself after being beaten by Monk. I should say to myself, Monk has foreseen that victory ten years. For God’s sake, sire, out of friendship for you, if not out of consideration for himself, let Charles II. keep quiet. Your majesty will give him a little income here; give him one of your chateaux. Yes, yes--wait awhile. But I forgot the treaty--that famous treaty of which we were just now speaking. Your majesty has not even the right to give him a chateau.”

“How is that?”

“Yes, yes, your majesty is bound not to grant hospitality to King Charles, and to compel him to leave France even. It was on this account we forced him to quit you, and yet here he is again. Sire, I hope you will give your brother to understand that he cannot remain with us; that it is impossible he should be allowed to compromise us, or I myself----”

“Enough, my lord,” said Louis XIV, rising. “In refusing me a million, perhaps you may be right; your millions are your own. In refusing me two hundred gentlemen, you are still further in the right; for you are prime minister, and you have, in the eyes of France, the responsibility of peace and war. But that you should pretend to prevent me, who am king, from extending my hospitality to the grandson of Henry IV., to my cousin-german, to the companion of my childhood--there your power stops, and there begins my will.”

“Sire,” said Mazarin, delighted at being let off so cheaply, and who had, besides, only fought so earnestly to arrive at that,--“sire, I shall always bend before the will of my king. Let my king, then, keep near him, or in one of his chateaux, the king of England; let Mazarin know it, but let not the minister know it.”

“Good-night, my lord,” said Louis XIV., “I go away in despair.”

“But convinced, and that is all I desire, sire,” replied Mazarin.

The king made no answer, and retired quite pensive, convinced, not of all Mazarin had told him, but of one thing which he took care not to mention to him; and that was, that it was necessary for him to study seriously both his own affairs and those of Europe, for he found them very difficult and very obscure. Louis found the king of England seated in the same place where he had left him. On perceiving him, the English prince arose; but at the first glance he saw discouragement written in dark letters upon his cousin’s brow. Then, speaking first, as if to facilitate the painful avowal that Louis had to make to him,--

“Whatever it may be,” said he, “I shall never forget all the kindness, all the friendship you have exhibited towards me.”

“Alas!” replied Louis, in a melancholy tone, “only barren good-will, my brother.”

Charles II. became extremely pale; he passed his cold hand over his brow, and struggled for a few instants against a faintness that made him tremble. “I understand,” said he at last; “no more hope!”

Louis seized the hand of Charles II. “Wait, my brother,” said he; “precipitate nothing, everything may change; hasty resolutions ruin all causes, add another year of trial, I implore you, to the years you have already undergone. You have, to induce you to act now rather than at another time, neither occasion nor opportunity. Come with me, my brother; I will give you one of my residences, whichever you prefer, to inhabit. I, with you, will keep my eyes upon events; we will prepare. Come, then, my brother, have courage!”

Charles II. withdrew his hand from that of the king, and drawing back, to salute him with more ceremony, “With all my heart, thanks!” replied he, “sire; but I have prayed without success to the greatest king on earth; now I will go and ask a miracle of God.” And he went out without being willing to hear any more, his head carried loftily, his hand trembling, with a painful contraction of his noble countenance, and that profound gloom which, finding no more hope in the world of men, appeared to go beyond it, and ask it in worlds unknown. The officer of musketeers, on seeing him pass by thus pale, bowed almost to his knees as he saluted him. He then took a flambeau, called two musketeers, and descended the deserted staircase with the unfortunate king, holding in his left hand his hat, the plume of which swept the steps. Arrived at the door, the musketeer asked the king which way he was going, that he might direct the musketeers.

“Monsieur,” replied Charles II., in a subdued voice, “you who have known my father, say, did you ever pray for him? If you have done so, do not forget me in your prayers. Now, I am going alone, and beg of you not to accompany me, or have me accompanied any further.”

The officer bowed and sent away the musketeers into the interior of the palace. But he himself remained an instant under the porch watching the departing Charles II., till he was lost in the turn of the next street. “To him as to his father formerly,” murmured he, “Athos, if he were here, would say with reason,--‘Salute fallen majesty!’” Then, reascending the staircase: “Oh! the vile service that I follow!” said he at every step. “Oh! my pitiful master! Life thus carried on is no longer tolerable, and it is at length time that I should do something! No more generosity, no more energy! The master has succeeded, the pupil is starved forever. Mordioux! I will not resist. Come, you men,” continued he, entering the ante-chamber, “why are you all looking at me so? Extinguish these torches and return to your posts. Ah! you were guarding me? Yes, you watch over me, do you not, worthy fellows? Brave fools! I am not the Duc de Guise. Begone! They will not assassinate me in the little passage. Besides,” added he, in a low voice, “that would be a resolution, and no resolutions have been formed since Monsieur le Cardinal de Richelieu died. Now, with all his faults, that was a man! It is settled: to-morrow I will throw my cassock to the nettles.”

Then, reflecting: “No,” said he, “not yet! I have one great trial to make and I will make it; but that, and I swear it, shall be the last, Mordioux!”

He had not finished speaking when a voice issued from the king’s chamber. “Monsieur le lieutenant!” said this voice.

“Here am I,” replied he.

“The king desires to speak to you.”

“Humph!” said the lieutenant; “perhaps of what I was thinking about.” And he went into the king’s apartment.

The King and the Lieutenant

As soon as the king saw the officer enter, he dismissed his valet de chambre and his gentleman. “Who is on duty to-morrow, monsieur?” asked he.

The lieutenant bowed his head with military politeness and replied, “I am, sire.”

“What! still you?”

“Always I, sire.”

“How can that be, monsieur?”

“Sire, when traveling, the musketeers supply all the posts of your majesty’s household; that is to say, yours, her majesty the queen’s, and monsieur le cardinal’s, the latter of whom borrows of the king the best part, or rather the most numerous part, of the royal guard.”

“But in the interims?”

“There are no interims, sire, but for twenty or thirty men who rest out of a hundred and twenty. At the Louvre it is very different, and if I were at the Louvre I should rely upon my brigadier; but, when traveling, sire, no one knows what may happen, and I prefer doing my duty myself.”

“Then you are on guard every day?”

“And every night. Yes, sire.”

“Monsieur, I cannot allow that--I will have you rest.”

“That is very kind, sire, but I will not.”

“What do you say?” said the king who did not at first comprehend the full meaning of this reply.

“I say, sire, that I will not expose myself to the chance of a fault. If the devil had a trick to play on me, you understand, sire, as he knows the man with whom he has to deal, he would choose the moment when I should not be there. My duty and the peace of my conscience before everything, sire.”

“But such duty will kill you, monsieur.”

“Eh! sire, I have performed it for thirty years, and in all France and Navarre there is not a man in better health than I am. Moreover, I entreat you, sire, not to trouble yourself about me. That would appear very strange to me, seeing that I am not accustomed to it.”

The king cut short the conversation by a fresh question. “Shall you be here, then, to-morrow morning?”

“As at present? yes, sire.”

The king walked several times up and down his chamber; it was very plain that he burned with a desire to speak, but that he was restrained by some fear or other. The lieutenant, standing motionless, hat in hand, watched him making these evolutions, and, whilst looking at him, grumbled to himself, biting his mustache:

“He has not half a crown worth of resolution! Parole d’honneur! I would lay a wager he does not speak at all!”

The king continued to walk about, casting from time to time a side glance at the lieutenant. “He is the very image of his father,” continued the latter, in his secret soliloquy, “he is at once proud, avaricious, and timid. The devil take his master, say I.”

The king stopped. “Lieutenant,” said he.

“I am here, sire.”

“Why did you cry out this evening, down below in the salons--‘The king’s service! His majesty’s musketeers!’”

“Because you gave me the order, sire.”

“I?”

“Yourself.”

“Indeed, I did not say a word, monsieur.”

“Sire, an order is given by a sign, by a gesture, by a glance, as intelligibly, as freely, and as clearly as by word of mouth. A servant who has nothing but ears is not half a good servant.”

“Your eyes are very penetrating, then, monsieur.”

“How is that, sire?”

“Because they see what is not.”

“My eyes are good, though, sire, although they have served their master long and much: when they have anything to see, they seldom miss the opportunity. Now, this evening, they saw that your majesty colored with endeavoring to conceal the inclination to yawn, that your majesty looked with eloquent supplications, first at his eminence, and then at her majesty, the queen-mother, and at length to the entrance door, and they so thoroughly remarked all I have said, that they saw your majesty’s lips articulate these words: ‘Who will get me out of this?’”

“Monsieur!”

“Or something to this effect, sire--‘My musketeers!’ I could then no longer hesitate. That look was for me--the order was for me. I cried out instantly, ‘His Majesty’s musketeers!’ And, besides, that was shown to be true, sire, not only by your majesty’s not saying I was wrong, but proving I was right by going out at once.”

The king turned away to smile; then, after a few seconds, he again fixed his limpid eye upon that countenance, so intelligent, so bold, and so firm, that it might have been said to be the proud and energetic profile of the eagle facing the sun. “That is all very well,” said he, after a short silence, during which he endeavored, in vain, to make his officer lower his eyes.

But seeing the king said no more, the latter pirouetted on his heels, and took three steps towards the door, muttering, “He will not speak! Mordioux! he will not speak!”

“Thank you, monsieur,” said the king at last.

“Humph!” continued the lieutenant; “there was only wanting that. Blamed for having been less of a fool than another might have been.” And he went to the door, allowing his spurs to jingle in true military style. But when he was on the threshold, feeling that the king’s desire drew him back, he returned.

“Has your majesty told me all?” asked he, in a tone we cannot describe, but which, without appearing to solicit the royal confidence, contained so much persuasive frankness, that the king immediately replied:

“Yes, but draw near, monsieur.”

“Now then,” murmured the officer, “he is coming to it at last.”

“Listen to me.”

“I shall not lose a word, sire.”

“You will mount on horseback to-morrow, at about half-past four in the morning, and you will have a horse saddled for me.”

“From your majesty’s stables?”

“No, one of your musketeers’ horses.”

“Very well, sire. Is that all?”

“And you will accompany me.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

“Shall I come to seek your majesty, or shall I wait?”

“You will wait for me.”

“Where, sire?”

“At the little park-gate.”

The lieutenant bowed, understanding that the king had told him all he had to say. In fact, the king dismissed him with a gracious wave of the hand. The officer left the chamber of the king, and returned to place himself philosophically in his fauteuil, where, far from sleeping, as might have been expected, considering how late it was, he began to reflect more deeply than he had ever reflected before. The result of these reflections was not so melancholy as the preceding ones had been.

“Come, he has begun,” said he. “Love urges him on, and he goes forward--he goes forward! The king is nobody in his own palace; but the man perhaps may prove to be worth something. Well, we shall see to-morrow morning. Oh! oh!” cried he, all at once starting up, “that is a gigantic idea, mordioux! and perhaps my fortune depends, at least, upon that idea!” After this exclamation, the officer arose and marched, with his hands in the pockets of his justacorps, about the immense ante-chamber that served him as an apartment. The wax-light flamed furiously under the effects of a fresh breeze which stole in through the chinks of the door and the window, and cut the salle diagonally. It threw out a reddish, unequal light, sometimes brilliant, sometimes dull, and the tall shadow of the lieutenant was seen marching on the wall, in profile, like a figure by Callot, with his long sword and feathered hat.

“Certainly!” said he, “I am mistaken if Mazarin is not laying a snare for this amorous boy. Mazarin, this evening, gave an address, and made an appointment as complacently as M. Dangeau himself could have done--I heard him, and I know the meaning of his words. ‘To-morrow morning,’ said he, ‘they will pass opposite the bridge of Blois. Mordioux! that is clear enough, and particularly for a lover. That is the cause of this embarrassment; that is the cause of this hesitation; that is the cause of this order--‘Monsieur the lieutenant of my musketeers, be on horseback to-morrow at four o’clock in the morning.’ Which is as clear as if he had said,--‘Monsieur the lieutenant of my musketeers, to-morrow, at four, at the bridge of Blois--do you understand?’ Here is a state secret, then, which I, humble as I am, have in my possession, while it is in action. And how do I get it? Because I have good eyes, as his majesty just now said. They say he loves this little Italian doll furiously. They say he threw himself at his mother’s feet, to beg her to allow him to marry her. They say the queen went so far as to consult the court of Rome, whether such a marriage, contracted against her will, would be valid. Oh, if I were but twenty-five! If I had by my side those I no longer have! If I did not despise the whole world most profoundly, I would embroil Mazarin with the queen-mother, France with Spain, and I would make a queen after my own fashion. But let that pass.” And the lieutenant snapped his fingers in disdain.

“This miserable Italian--this poor creature--this sordid wretch--who has just refused the king of England a million, would not perhaps give me a thousand pistoles for the news I could carry him. Mordioux! I am falling into second childhood--I am becoming stupid indeed! The idea of Mazarin giving anything! ha! ha! ha!” and he laughed in a subdued voice.

“Well, let us go to sleep--let us go to sleep; and the sooner the better. My mind is wearied with my evening’s work, and will see things to-morrow more clearly than to-day.”

And upon this recommendation, made to himself, he folded his cloak around him, looking with contempt upon his royal neighbor. Five minutes after this he was asleep, with his hands clenched and his lips apart, giving escape, not to his secret, but to a sonorous sound, which rose and spread freely beneath the majestic roof of the ante-chamber.

Mary de Mancini

The sun had scarcely shed its first beams on the majestic trees of the park and the lofty turrets of the castle, when the young king, who had been awake more than two hours, possessed by the sleeplessness of love, opened his shutters himself, and cast an inquiring look into the courts of the sleeping palace. He saw that it was the hour agreed upon: the great court clock pointed to a quarter past four. He did not disturb his valet de chambre, who was sleeping soundly at some distance; he dressed himself, and the valet, in a great fright sprang up, thinking he had been deficient in his duty; but the king sent him back again, commanding him to preserve the most absolute silence. He then descended the little staircase, went out at a lateral door, and perceived at the end of the wall a mounted horseman holding another horse by the bridle. This horseman could not be recognized in his cloak and slouched hat. As to the horse, saddled like that of a rich citizen, it offered nothing remarkable to the most experienced eye. Louis took the bridle: the officer held the stirrup without dismounting, and asked his majesty’s orders in a low voice.

“Follow me,” replied the king.

The officer put his horse to the trot, behind that of his master, and they descended the hill towards the bridge. When they reached the other side of the Loire,--

“Monsieur,” said the king, “you will please to ride on till you see a carriage coming; then return and inform me. I will wait here.”

“Will your majesty deign to give me some description of the carriage I am charged to discover?”

“A carriage in which you will see two ladies, and probably their attendants likewise.”

“Sire, I should not wish to make a mistake; is there no other sign by which I may know this carriage?”

“It will bear, in all probability, the arms of monsieur le cardinal.”

“That is sufficient, sire,” replied the officer, fully instructed in the object of his search. He put his horse to the trot, and rode sharply on in the direction pointed out by the king. But he had scarcely gone five hundred paces when he saw four mules and then a carriage, loom up from behind a little hill. Behind this carriage came another. It required only one glance to assure him that these were the equipages he was in search of; he therefore turned his bridle, and rode back to the king.

“Sire,” said he, “here are the carriages. The first, as you said, contains two ladies with their femmes de chambre; the second contains the footmen, provisions, and necessaries.”

“That is well,” replied the king in an agitated voice. “Please to go and tell those ladies that a cavalier of the court wishes to pay his respects to them alone.”

The officer set off at a gallop. “Mordioux!” said he, as he rode on, “here is a new and an honorable employment, I hope! I complained of being nobody. I am the king’s confidant: that is enough to make a musketeer burst with pride.”

He approached the carriage, and delivered his message gallantly and intelligently. There were two ladies in the carriage: one of great beauty, although rather thin; the other less favored by nature, but lively, graceful, and uniting in the delicate lines of her brow all the signs of a strong will. Her eyes, animated and piercing in particular, spoke more eloquently than all the amorous phrases in fashion in those days of gallantry. It was to her D’Artagnan addressed himself, without fear of being mistaken, although the other was, as we have said, the more handsome of the two.

“Madame,” said he, “I am the lieutenant of the musketeers, and there is on the road a horseman who awaits you, and is desirous of paying his respects to you.”

At these words, the effect of which he watched closely, the lady with the black eyes uttered a cry of joy, leant out of the carriage window, and seeing the cavalier approaching, held out her arms, exclaiming:

“Ah, my dear sire!” and the tears gushed from her eyes.

The coachman stopped his team; the women rose in confusion from the back of the carriage, and the second lady made a slight curtsey, terminated by the most ironical smile that jealousy ever imparted to the lips of woman.

“Marie? dear Marie?” cried the king, taking the hand of the black-eyed lady in both his. And opening the heavy door himself, he drew her out of the carriage with so much ardor, that she was in his arms before she touched the ground. The lieutenant, posted on the other side of the carriage, saw and heard all without being observed.

The king offered his arm to Mademoiselle de Mancini, and made a sign to the coachman and lackeys to proceed. It was nearly six o’clock; the road was fresh and pleasant; tall trees with their foliage still inclosed in the golden down of their buds let the dew of morning filter from their trembling branches like liquid diamonds; the grass was bursting at the foot of the hedges; the swallows, having returned since only a few days, described their graceful curves between the heavens and the water; a breeze, laden with the perfumes of the blossoming woods, sighed along the road, and wrinkled the surface of the waters of the river; all these beauties of the day, all these perfumes of the plants, all these aspirations of the earth towards heaven, intoxicated the two lovers, walking side by side, leaning upon each other, eyes fixed upon eyes, hand clasping hand, and who, lingering as by a common desire, did not dare to speak they had so much to say.

The officer saw that the king’s horse, in wandering this way and that, annoyed Mademoiselle de Mancini. He took advantage of the pretext of securing the horse to draw near them, and dismounting, walked between the two horses he led; he did not lose a single word or gesture of the lovers. It was Mademoiselle de Mancini who at length began.

“Ah, my dear sire!” said she, “you do not abandon me, then?”

“No, Marie,” replied the king; “you see I do not.”

“I had so often been told, though, that as soon as we should be separated you would no longer think of me.”

“Dear Marie, is it then to-day only that you have discovered we are surrounded by people interested in deceiving us?”

“But, then, sire, this journey, this alliance with Spain? They are going to marry you off!”

Louis hung his head. At the same time the officer could see the eyes of Marie de Mancini shine in the sun with the brilliancy of a dagger starting from its sheath. “And you have done nothing in favor of our love?” asked the girl, after a silence of a moment.

“Ah! mademoiselle, how could you believe that? I threw myself at the feet of my mother; I begged her, I implored her; I told her all my hopes of happiness were in you, I even threatened----”

“Well?” asked Marie, eagerly.

“Well? the queen-mother wrote to the court of Rome, and received as answer, that a marriage between us would have no validity, and would be dissolved by the holy father. At length, finding there was no hope for us, I requested to have my marriage with the infanta at least delayed.”

“And yet that does not prevent your being on the road to meet her?”

“How can I help it? To my prayers, to my supplications, to my tears, I received no answer but reasons of state.”

“Well, well?”

“Well, what is to be done, mademoiselle, when so many wills are leagued against me?”

It was now Marie’s turn to hang her head. “Then I must bid you adieu for ever,” said she. “You know that I am being exiled; you know that I am going to be buried alive; you know still more that they want to marry me off, too.”

Louis became very pale, and placed his hand upon his heart.

“If I had thought that my life only had, been at stake, I have been so persecuted that I might have yielded; but I thought yours was concerned, my dear sire, and I stood out for the sake of preserving your happiness. "

“Oh, yes! my happiness, my treasure!” murmured the king, more gallantly than passionately, perhaps.

“The cardinal might have yielded,” said Marie, “if you had addressed yourself to him, if you had pressed him. For the cardinal to call the king of France his nephew! do you not perceive, sire? He would have made war even for that honor; the cardinal, assured of governing alone, under the double pretext of having brought up the king and given his niece to him in marriage--the cardinal would have fought all antagonists, overcome all obstacles. Oh, sire! I can answer for that. I am a woman, and I see clearly into everything where love is concerned.”

These words produced a strange effect upon the king. Instead of heightening his passion, they cooled it. He stopped, and said hastily,--

“What is to be said, mademoiselle? Everything has failed.”

“Except your will, I trust, my dear sire?”

“Alas!” said the king, coloring, “have I a will?”

“Oh!” said Mademoiselle de Mancini mournfully, wounded by that expression.

“The king has no will but that which policy dictates, but that which reasons of state impose upon him.”

“Oh! it is because you have no love,” cried Mary; “if you loved, sire, you would have a will.”

On pronouncing these words, Mary raised her eyes to her lover, whom she saw more pale and more cast down than an exile who is about to quit his native land forever. “Accuse me,” murmured the king, “but do not say I do not love you.”

A long silence followed these words, which the young king had pronounced with a perfectly true and profound feeling. “I am unable to think that to-morrow, and after to-morrow, I shall see you no more; I cannot think that I am going to end my sad days at a distance from Paris; that the lips of an old man, of an unknown, should touch that hand which you hold within yours; no, in truth, I cannot think of all that, my dear sire, without having my poor heart burst with despair.”

And Marie de Mancini did shed floods of tears. On his part, the king, much affected, carried his handkerchief to his mouth, and stifled a sob.

“See,” said she, “the carriages have stopped, my sister waits for me, the time is come; what you are about to decide upon will be decided for life. Oh, sire! you are willing, then, that I should lose you? You are willing, then, Louis, that she to whom you have said ‘I love you,’ should belong to another than to her king; to her master, to her lover? Oh! courage, Louis! courage! One word, a single word! Say ‘I will!’ and all my life is enchained to yours, and all my heart is yours forever.”

The king made no reply. Mary then looked at him as Dido looked at AEneas in the Elysian fields, fierce and disdainful.

“Farewell, then,” said she; “farewell life! love! heaven!”

And she took a step away. The king detained her, seized her hand, which he pressed to his lips, and despair prevailing over the resolution he appeared to have inwardly formed, he let fall upon that beautiful hand a burning tear of regret, which made Mary start, so really had that tear burnt her. She saw the humid eyes of the king, his pale brow, his convulsed lips, and cried, with an accent that cannot be described,--

“Oh, sire! you are a king, you weep, and yet I depart!”

As his sole reply, the king hid his face in his handkerchief. The officer uttered something so like a roar that it frightened the horses. Mademoiselle de Mancini, quite indignant, quitted the king’s arm, hastily entered the carriage, crying to the coachman, “Go on, go on, and quick!”

The coachman obeyed, flogged his mules, and the heavy carriage rocked upon its creaking axle, whilst the king of France, alone, cast down, annihilated, did not dare to look either behind or before him.

In which the King and the Lieutenant each give Proofs of Memory

When the king, like all the people in the world who are in love, had long and attentively watched disappear in the distance the carriage which bore away his mistress; when he had turned and turned again a hundred times to the same side and had at length succeeded in somewhat calming the agitation of his heart and thoughts, he recollected that he was not alone. The officer still held the horse by the bridle, and had not lost all hope of seeing the king recover his resolution. He had still the resource of mounting and riding after the carriage; they would have lost nothing by waiting a little. But the imagination of the lieutenant of the musketeers was too rich and too brilliant; it left far behind it that of the king, who took care not to allow himself to be carried away to any such excess. He contented himself with approaching the officer, and in a doleful voice, “Come,” said he, “let us be gone; all is ended. To horse!”

The officer imitated this carriage, this slowness, this sadness, and leisurely mounted his horse. The king pushed on sharply, the lieutenant followed him. At the bridge Louis turned around for the last time. The lieutenant, patient as a god who has eternity behind and before him, still hoped for a return of energy. But it was groundless, nothing appeared. Louis gained the street which led to the castle, and entered as seven was striking. When the king had returned, and the musketeer, who saw everything, had seen a corner of the tapestry over the cardinal’s window lifted up, he breathed a profound sigh, like a man unloosed from the tightest bounds, and said in a low voice:

“Now, then, my officer, I hope that it is over.”

The king summoned his gentleman. “Please to understand I shall receive nobody before two o’clock,” said he.

“Sire,” replied the gentleman, “there is, however, some one who requests admittance.”

“Who is that?”

“Your lieutenant of musketeers.”

“He who accompanied me?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Ah,” said the king, “let him come in.”

The officer entered. The king made a sign, and the gentleman and the valet retired. Louis followed them with his eyes until they had shut the door, and when the tapestries had fallen behind them,--“You remind me by your presence, monsieur, of something I had forgotten to recommend to you, that is to say, the most absolute discretion.”

“Oh! sire, why does your majesty give yourself the trouble of making me such a recommendation? It is plain you do not know me.”

“Yes, monsieur, that is true. I know that you are discreet; but as I had prescribed nothing----”

The officer bowed. “Has your majesty nothing else to say to me?”

“No, monsieur; you may retire.”

“Shall I obtain permission not to do so till I have spoken to the king, sire?”

“What have you to say to me? Explain yourself, monsieur.”

“Sire, a thing without importance to you, but which interests me greatly. Pardon me, then, for speaking of it. Without urgency, without necessity, I never would have done it, and I would have disappeared, mute and insignificant as I always have been.”

“How! Disappeared! I do not understand you, monsieur.”

“Sire, in a word,” said the officer, “I am come to ask for my discharge from your majesty’s service.”

The king made a movement of surprise, but the officer remained as motionless as a statue.

“Your discharge--yours, monsieur? and for how long a time, I pray?”

“Why, forever, sire.”

“What, you are desirous of quitting my service, monsieur?” said Louis, with an expression that revealed something more than surprise.

“Sire, I regret to say that I am.”

“Impossible!”

“It is so, however, sire. I am getting old; I have worn harness now thirty-five years; my poor shoulders are tired; I feel that I must give place to the young. I don’t belong to this age; I have still one foot in the old one; it results that everything is strange in my eyes, everything astonishes and bewilders me. In short, I have the honor to ask your majesty for my discharge.”

“Monsieur,” said the king, looking at the officer, who wore his uniform with an ease that would have caused envy in a young man, “you are stronger and more vigorous than I am.”

“Oh!” replied the officer, with an air of false modesty, “your majesty says so because I still have a good eye and a tolerably firm foot--because I can still ride a horse, and my mustache is black; but, sire, vanity of vanities all that--illusions all that--appearance, smoke, sire! I have still a youthful air, it is true, but I feel old, and within six months I am certain I shall be broken down, gouty, impotent. Therefore, then sire----”

“Monsieur,” interrupted the king, “remember your words of yesterday. You said to me in this very place where you now are, that you were endowed with the best health of any man in France; that fatigue was unknown to you! that you did not mind spending whole days and nights at your post. Did you tell me that, monsieur, or not? Try and recall, monsieur.”

The officer sighed. “Sire,” said he, “old age is boastful; and it is pardonable for old men to praise themselves when others no longer do it. It is very possible I said that; but the fact is, sire, I am very much fatigued, and request permission to retire.”

“Monsieur,” said the king, advancing towards the officer with a gesture full of majesty, “you are not assigning me the true reason. You wish to quit my service, it may be true, but you disguise from me the motive of your retreat.”

“Sire, believe that----”

“I believe what I see, monsieur; I see a vigorous, energetic man, full of presence of mind, the best soldier in France, perhaps; and this personage cannot persuade me the least in the world that you stand in need of rest.”

“Ah! sire,” said the lieutenant, with bitterness, “what praise! Indeed, your majesty confounds me! Energetic, vigorous, brave, intelligent, the best soldier in the army! But, sire, your majesty exaggerates my small portion of merit to such a point, that however good an opinion I may have of myself, I do not recognize myself; in truth I do not. If I were vain enough to believe only half of your majesty’s words, I should consider myself a valuable, indispensable man. I should say that a servant possessed of such brilliant qualities was a treasure beyond all price. Now, sire, I have been all my life--I feel bound to say it--except at the present time, appreciated, in my opinion, much below my value. I therefore repeat, your majesty exaggerates.”

The king knitted his brow, for he saw a bitter raillery beneath the words of the officer. “Come, monsieur,” said he, “let us meet the question frankly. Are you dissatisfied with my service, say? No evasions; speak boldly, frankly--I command you to do so.”

The officer, who had been twisting his hat about in his hands, with an embarrassed air, for several minutes, raised his head at these words. “Oh! sire,” said he, “that puts me a little more at my ease. To a question put so frankly, I will reply frankly. To tell the truth is a good thing, as much from the pleasure one feels in relieving one’s heart, as on account of the rarity of the fact. I will speak the truth, then, to my king, at the same time imploring him to excuse the frankness of an old soldier.”

Louis looked at his officer with anxiety, which he manifested by the agitation of his gesture. “Well, then speak,” said he, “for I am impatient to hear the truths you have to tell me.”

The officer threw his hat upon a table, and his countenance, always so intelligent and martial, assumed, all at once, a strange character of grandeur and solemnity. “Sire,” said he, “I quit the king’s service because I am dissatisfied. The valet, in these times, can approach his master as respectfully as I do, can give him an account of his labor, bring back his tools, return the funds that have been intrusted to him, and say, ‘Master, my day’s work is done. Pay me, if you please, and let us part.’”

“Monsieur! monsieur!” exclaimed the king, crimson with rage.

“Ah! sire,” replied the officer, bending his knee for a moment, “never was servant more respectful than I am before your majesty; only you commanded me to tell the truth. Now I have begun to tell it, it must come out, even if you command me to hold my tongue.”

There was so much resolution expressed in the deep-sunk muscles of the officer’s countenance, that Louis XIV. had no occasion to tell him to continue; he continued, therefore, whilst the king looked at him with a curiosity mingled with admiration.

“Sire, I have, as I have said, now served the house of France thirty-five years; few people have worn out so many swords in that service as I have, and the swords I speak of were good swords, too, sire. I was a boy, ignorant of everything except courage, when the king your father guessed that there was a man in me. I was a man, sire, when the Cardinal de Richelieu, who was a judge of manhood, discovered an enemy in me. Sire, the history of that enmity between the ant and the lion may be read from the first to the last line, in the secret archives of your family. If ever you feel an inclination to know it, do so, sire; the history is worth the trouble--it is I who tell you so. You will there read that the lion, fatigued, harassed, out of breath, at length cried for quarter, and the justice must be rendered him to say that he gave as much as he required. Oh! those were glorious times, sire, strewed over with battles like one of Tasso’s or Ariosto’s epics. The wonders of those times, to which the people of ours would refuse belief, were every-day occurrences. For five years together, I was a hero every day; at least, so I was told by persons of judgment; and that is a long period for heroism, trust me, sire, a period of five years. Nevertheless, I have faith in what these people told me, for they were good judges. They were named M. de Richelieu, M. de Buckingham, M. de Beaufort, M. de Retz, a mighty genius himself in street warfare,--in short, the king, Louis XIII., and even the queen, your noble mother, who one day condescended to say, ‘Thank you.’ I don’t know what service I had had the good fortune to render her. Pardon me, sire, for speaking so boldly; but what I relate to you, as I have already had the honor to tell your majesty, is history.”

The king bit his lips, and threw himself violently on a chair.

“I appear importunate to your majesty,” said the lieutenant. “Eh! sire, that is the fate of truth; she is a stern companion; she bristles all over with steel; she wounds those whom she attacks, and sometimes him who speaks her.”

“No, monsieur,” replied the king; “I bade you speak--speak then.”

“After the service of the king and the cardinal came the service of the regency, sire; I fought pretty well in the Fronde--much less, though, than the first time. The men began to diminish in stature. I have, nevertheless, led your majesty’s musketeers on some perilous occasions, which stand upon the orders of the day of the company. Mine was a beautiful luck at that time. I was the favorite of M. de Mazarin. Lieutenant here! lieutenant there! lieutenant to the right! lieutenant to the left! There was not a buffet dealt in France, of which your humble servant did not have the dealing; but soon France was not enough. The cardinal sent me to England on Cromwell’s account; another gentleman who was not over gentle, I assure you, sire. I had the honor of knowing him, and I was well able to appreciate him. A great deal was promised me on account of that mission. So, as I did much more than I had been bidden to do, I was generously paid, for I was at length appointed captain of the musketeers, that is to say, the most envied position in court, which takes precedence over the marshals of France, and justly, for who says captain of the musketeers says the flower of chivalry and king of the brave.”

“Captain, monsieur!” interrupted the king, “you make a mistake. Lieutenant, you mean.”

“Not at all, sire--I make no mistake; your majesty may rely upon me in that respect. Monsieur le cardinal gave me the commission himself.”

“Well!”

“But M. de Mazarin, as you know better than anybody, does not often give, and sometimes takes back what he has given; he took it back again as soon as peace was made and he was no longer in want of me. Certainly I was not worthy to replace M. de Treville, of illustrious memory; but they had promised me, and they had given me; they ought to have stopped there.”

“Is that what dissatisfies you, monsieur? Well I shall make inquiries. I love justice; and your claim, though made in military fashion, does not displease me.”

“Oh, sire!” said the officer, “your majesty has ill understood me; I no longer claim anything now.”

“Excess of delicacy, monsieur; but I will keep my eye upon your affairs, and later----”

“Oh, sire! what a word!--later! Thirty years have I lived upon that promising word, which has been pronounced by so many great personages, and which your mouth has, in its turn, just pronounced. Later--that is how I have received a score of wounds, and how I have reached fifty-four years of age without ever having had a louis in my purse, and without ever having met with a protector on my way,--I who have protected so many people! So I change my formula, sire; and when any one says to me ‘Later,’ I reply ‘Now.’ It is rest that I solicit, sire. That may be easily granted me. That will cost nobody anything.”

“I did not look for this language, monsieur, particularly from a man who has always lived among the great. You forget you are speaking to the king, to a gentleman who is, I suppose, of as good a house as yourself; and when I say later, I mean a certainty.”

“I do not at all doubt it, sire, but this is the end of the terrible truth I had to tell you. If I were to see upon that table a marshal’s stick, the sword of constable, the crown of Poland, instead of later, I swear to you, sire, that I should still say Now! Oh, excuse me, sire! I am from the country of your grandfather, Henry IV. I do not speak often; but when I do speak, I speak all.”

“The future of my reign has little temptation for you, monsieur, it appears,” said Louis, haughtily.

“Forgetfulness, forgetfulness everywhere!” cried the officer, with a noble air; “the master has forgotten the servant, so that the servant is reduced to forget his master. I live in unfortunate times, sire. I see youth full of discouragement and fear, I see it timid and despoiled, when it ought to be rich and powerful. I yesterday evening, for example, open the door to a king of England, whose father, humble as I am, I was near saving, if God had not been against me--God, who inspired His elect, Cromwell! I open, I said, the door, that is to say, the palace of one brother to another brother, and I see--stop, sire, that is a load on my heart!--I see the minister of that king drive away the proscribed prince, and humiliate his master by condemning to want another king, his equal. Then I see my prince, who is young, handsome, and brave, who has courage in his heart, and lightning in his eye,--I see him tremble before a priest, who laughs at him behind the curtain of his alcove, where he digests all the gold of France, which he afterwards stuffs into secret coffers. Yes--I understand your looks, sire. I am bold to madness; but what is to be said? I am an old man, and I tell you here, sire, to you, my king, things which I would cram down the throat of any one who should dare to pronounce them before me. You have commanded me to pour out the bottom of my heart before you, sire, and I cast at the feet of your majesty the pent-up indignation of thirty years, as I would pour out all my blood, if your majesty commanded me to do so.”

The king, without speaking a word, wiped the drops of cold and abundant perspiration which trickled from his temples. The moment of silence which followed this vehement outbreak represented for him who had spoken, and for him who had listened, ages of suffering.

“Monsieur,” said the king at length, “you spoke the word forgetfulness. I have heard nothing but that word; I will reply, then, to it alone. Others have perhaps been able to forget, but I have not, and the proof is, that I remember that one day of riot, that one day when the furious people, raging and roaring as the sea, invaded the royal palace; that one day when I feigned sleep in my bed, one man alone, naked sword in hand, concealed behind my curtain, watched over my life, ready to risk his own for me, as he had before risked it twenty times for the lives of my family. Was not the gentleman, whose name I then demanded, called M. d’Artagnan? say, monsieur.”

“Your majesty has a good memory,” replied the officer, coldly.

“You see, then,” continued the king, “if I have such remembrances of my childhood, what an amount I may gather in the age of reason.”

“Your majesty has been richly endowed by God,” said the officer, in the same tone.

“Come, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Louis, with feverish agitation, “ought you not to be as patient as I am? Ought you not to do as I do? Come!”

“And what do you do, sire?”

“I wait.”

“Your majesty may do so, because you are young; but I, sire, have not time to wait; old age is at my door, and death is behind it, looking into the very depths of my house. Your majesty is beginning life, its future is full of hope and fortune; but I, sire, I am on the other side of the horizon, and we are so far from each other, that I should never have time to wait till your majesty came up to me.”

Louis made another turn in his apartment, still wiping the moisture from his brow, in a manner that would have terrified his physicians, if his physicians had witnessed the state his majesty was in.

“It is very well, monsieur,” said Louis XIV., in a sharp voice; “you are desirous of having your discharge, and you shall have it. You offer me your resignation of the rank of lieutenant of the musketeers?”

“I deposit it humbly at your majesty’s feet, sire.”

“That is sufficient. I will order your pension.”

“I shall have a thousand obligations to your majesty.”

“Monsieur,” said the king, with a violent effort, “I think you are losing a good master.”

“And I am sure of it, sire.”

“Shall you ever find such another?”

“Oh, sire! I know that your majesty is alone in the world; therefore will I never again take service with any king upon earth, and will never again have other master than myself.”

“You say so?”

“I swear so, your majesty.”

“I shall remember that word, monsieur.”

D’Artagnan bowed.

“And you know I have a good memory,” said the king.

“Yes, sire, and yet I should desire that that memory should fail your majesty in this instance, in order that you might forget all the miseries I have been forced to spread before your eyes. Your majesty is so much above the poor and the mean that I hope----”

“My majesty, monsieur, will act like the sun, which looks upon all, great and small, rich and poor, giving luster to some, warmth to others, and life to all. Adieu Monsieur d’Artagnan--adieu: you are free.”

And the king, with a hoarse sob, which was lost in his throat, passed quickly into the next room. D’Artagnan took up his hat from the table upon which he had thrown it, and went out.

The Proscribed

D’Artagnan had not reached the bottom of the staircase, when the king called his gentleman. “I have a commission to give you, monsieur,” said he.

“I am at your majesty’s commands.”

“Wait, then.” And the young king began to write the following letter, which cost him more than one sigh, although, at the same time, something like a feeling of triumph glittered in his eyes:

“My Lord Cardinal,--Thanks to your good counsels and, above all, thanks to your firmness, I have succeeded in overcoming a weakness unworthy of a king. You have too ably arranged my destiny to allow gratitude not to stop me at the moment when I was about to destroy your work. I felt I was wrong to wish to make my life turn from the course you had marked out for it. Certainly it would have been a misfortune to France and my family if a misunderstanding had taken place between me and my minister. This, however, would certainly have happened if I had made your niece my wife. I am perfectly aware of this, and will henceforth oppose nothing to the accomplishment of my destiny. I am prepared, then, to wed the infanta, Maria Theresa. You may at once open the conference.--Your affectionate Louis.”

The king, after reperusing the letter, sealed it himself. “This letter for my lord cardinal,” said he.

The gentleman took it. At Mazarin’s door he found Bernouin waiting with anxiety.

“Well?” asked the minister’s valet de chambre.

“Monsieur,” said the gentleman, “here is a letter for his eminence.”

“A letter! Ah! we expected one after the little journey of the morning.”

“Oh! you know, then, that his majesty----”

“As first minister, it belongs to the duties of our charge to know everything. And his majesty prays and implores, I presume.”

“I don’t know, but he sighed frequently whilst he was writing.”

“‘Yes, yes, yes; we understand all that; people sigh sometimes from happiness as well as from grief, monsieur.”

“And yet the king did not look very happy when he returned, monsieur.”

“You did not see clearly. Besides, you only saw his majesty on his return, for he was only accompanied by the lieutenant of the guards. But I had his eminence’s telescope, I looked through it when he was tired, and I am sure they both wept.”

“Well! was it for happiness they wept?”

“No, but for love, and they vowed to each other a thousand tendernesses, which the king asks no better than to keep. Now this letter is a beginning of the execution.”

“And what does his eminence think of this love, which is, by the bye, no secret to anybody?”

Bernouin took the gentleman by the arm, and whilst ascending the staircase,--“In confidence,” said he, in a low voice, “his eminence looks for success in the affair. I know very well we shall have war with Spain; but, bah! war will please the nobles. My lord cardinal, besides, can endow his niece royally, nay, more than royally. There will be money, festivities, and fireworks--everybody will be delighted.”

“Well, for my part,” replied the gentleman, shaking his head, “it appears to me that this letter is very light to contain all that.”

“My friend,” replied Bernouin, “I am certain of what I tell you. M. d’Artagnan related all that passed to me.”

“Ay, ay! and what did he tell you? Let us hear.”

“I accosted him by asking him, on the part of the cardinal, if there were any news, without discovering my designs, observe, for M. d’Artagnan is a cunning hand. ‘My dear Monsieur Bernouin,’ he replied, ‘the king is madly in love with Mademoiselle de Mancini, that is all I have to tell you.’ And then I asked him ‘Do you think, to such a degree that it will urge him to act contrary to the designs of his eminence?’ ‘Ah! don’t ask me,’ said he; ‘I think the king capable of anything; he has a will of iron, and what he wills he wills in earnest. If he takes it into his head to marry Mademoiselle de Mancini, he will marry her, depend upon it.’ And thereupon he left me and went straight to the stables, took a horse, saddled it himself, jumped upon its back, and set off as if the devil were at his heels.”

“So that you believe, then----”

“I believe that monsieur the lieutenant of the guards knew more than he was willing to say.”

“In your opinion, then, M. d’Artagnan----”

“Is gone, according to all probability, after the exiles, to carry out all that can facilitate the success of the king’s love.”

Chatting thus, the two confidants arrived at the door of his eminence’s apartment. His eminence’s gout had left him; he was walking about his chamber in a state of great anxiety, listening at doors and looking out of windows. Bernouin entered, followed by the gentleman, who had orders from the king to place the letter in the hands of the cardinal himself. Mazarin took the letter, but before opening it, he got up a ready smile, a smile of circumstance, able to throw a veil over emotions of whatever sort they might be. So prepared, whatever was the impression received from the letter, no reflection of that impression was allowed to transpire upon his countenance.

“Well,” said he, when he had read and reread the letter, “very well, monsieur. Inform the king that I thank him for his obedience to the wishes of the queen-mother, and that I will do everything for the accomplishment of his will.”

The gentlemen left the room. The door had scarcely closed before the cardinal, who had no mask for Bernouin, took off that which had so recently covered his face, and with a most dismal expression,--“Call M. de Brienne,” said he. Five minutes afterward the secretary entered.

“Monsieur,” said Mazarin, “I have just rendered a great service to the monarchy, the greatest I have ever rendered it. You will carry this letter, which proves it, to her majesty the queen-mother, and when she shall have returned it to you, you will lodge it in portfolio B., which is filled with documents and papers relative to my ministry.”

Brienne went as desired, and, as the letter was unsealed, did not fail to read it on his way. There is likewise no doubt that Bernouin, who was on good terms with everybody, approached so near to the secretary as to be able to read the letter over his shoulder; so that the news spread with such activity through the castle, that Mazarin might have feared it would reach the ears of the queen-mother before M. de Brienne could convey Louis XIV.’s letter to her. A moment after orders were given for departure, and M. de Conde having been to pay his respects to the king on his pretended rising, inscribed the city of Poitiers upon his tablets, as the place of sojourn and rest for their majesties.

Thus in a few instants was unraveled an intrigue which had covertly occupied all the diplomacies of Europe. It had nothing, however, very clear as a result, but to make a poor lieutenant of musketeers lose his commission and his fortune. It is true, that in exchange he gained his liberty. We shall soon know how M. d’Artagnan profited by this. For the moment, if the reader will permit us, we shall return to the hostelry of les Medici, of which one of the windows opened at the very moment the orders were given for the departure of the king.

The window that opened was that of one of the rooms of Charles II. The unfortunate prince had passed the night in bitter reflections, his head resting on his hands, and his elbows on the table, whilst Parry, infirm and old, wearied in body and in mind, had fallen asleep in a corner. A singular fortune was that of this faithful servant, who saw beginning for the second generation the fearful series of misfortunes which had weighed so heavily on the first. When Charles II. had well thought over the fresh defeat he had experienced, when he perfectly comprehended the complete isolation into which he had just fallen, on seeing his fresh hope left behind him, he was seized as with a vertigo, and sank back in the large armchair in which he was seated. Then God took pity on the unhappy prince, and sent to console him sleep, the innocent brother of death. He did not wake till half-past six, that is to say, till the sun shone brightly into his chamber, and Parry, motionless with fear of waking him, was observing with profound grief the eyes of the young man already red with wakefulness, and his cheeks pale with suffering and privations.

At length the noise of some heavy carts descending towards the Loire awakened Charles. He arose, looked around him like a man who has forgotten everything, perceived Parry, shook him by the hand, and commanded him to settle the reckoning with Master Cropole. Master Cropole, being called upon to settle his account with Parry, acquitted himself, it must be allowed, like an honest man; he only made his customary remark, that the two travelers had eaten nothing, which had the double disadvantage of being humiliating for his kitchen, and of forcing him to ask payment for a repast not consumed, but not the less lost. Parry had nothing to say to the contrary, and paid.

“I hope,” said the king, “it has not been the same with the horses. I don’t see that they have eaten at your expense, and it would be a misfortune for travelers like us, who have a long journey to make, to have our horses fail us.”

But Cropole, at this doubt, assumed his majestic air, and replied that the stables of les Medici were not less hospitable than its refectory.

The king mounted his horse; his old servant did the same, and both set out towards Paris, without meeting a single person on their road, in the streets or the faubourgs of the city. For the prince the blow was the more severe, as it was a fresh exile. The unfortunates cling to the smallest hopes, as the happy do to the greatest good; and when they are obliged to quit the place where that hope has soothed their hearts, they experience the mortal regret which the banished man feels when he places his foot upon the vessel which is to bear him into exile. It appears that the heart already wounded so many times suffers from the least scratch; it appears that it considers as a good the momentary absence of evil, which is nothing but the absence of pain; and that God, into the most terrible misfortunes, has thrown hope as the drop of water which the rich bad man in hell entreated of Lazarus.

For one instant even the hope of Charles II. had been more than a fugitive joy;--that was when he found himself so kindly welcomed by his brother king; then it had taken a form that had become a reality; then, all at once, the refusal of Mazarin had reduced the fictitious reality to the state of a dream. This promise of Louis XIV., so soon retracted, had been nothing but a mockery; a mockery like his crown--like his scepter--like his friends--like all that had surrounded his royal childhood, and which had abandoned his proscribed youth. Mockery! everything was a mockery for Charles II. except the cold, black repose promised by death.

Such were the ideas of the unfortunate prince while sitting listlessly upon his horse, to which he abandoned the reins; he rode slowly along beneath the warm May sun, in which the somber misanthropy of the exile perceived a last insult to his grief.

“Remember!”

A horseman was going rapidly along the road leading towards Blois, which he had left nearly half an hour before, passed the two travelers, and, though apparently in haste, raised his hat as he passed them. The king scarcely observed this young man, who was about twenty-five years of age, and who, turning round several times, made friendly signals to a man standing before the gate of a handsome white-and-red house; that is to say, built of brick and stone, with a slated roof, situated on the left hand of the road the prince was traveling.

This man, old, tall, and thin, with white hair,--we speak of the one standing by the gate;--this man replied to the farewell signals of the young one by signs of parting as tender as could have been made by a father, The young man disappeared at the first turn of the road, bordered by fine trees, and the old man was preparing to return to the house, when the two travelers, arriving in front of the gate, attracted his attention.

The king, we have said, was riding with his head cast down, his arms inert, leaving his horse to go what pace he liked, whilst Parry, behind him, the better to imbibe the genial influence of the sun, had taken off his hat, and was looking about right and left. His eyes encountered those of the old man leaning against the gate; the latter, as if struck by some strange spectacle, uttered an exclamation, and made one step towards the two travelers. From Parry his eyes immediately turned towards the king, upon whom they rested for an instant. This exclamation, however rapid, was instantly reflected in a visible manner upon the features of the tall old man. For scarcely had he recognized the younger of the travelers--and we say recognized, for nothing but a perfect recognition could have explained such an act--scarcely, we say, had he recognized the younger of the two travelers, than he clapped his hands together, with respectful surprise, and, raising his hat from his head, bowed so profoundly that it might have been said he was kneeling. This demonstration, however absent, or rather, however absorbed was the king in his reflections, attracted his attention instantly; and checking his horse and turning towards Parry, he exclaimed, “Good God, Parry, who is that man who salutes me in such a marked manner? Can he know me, think you?”

Parry, much agitated and very pale, had already turned his horse towards the gate. “Ah, sire!” said he, stopping suddenly at five of six paces’ distance from the still bending man: “sire, I am seized with astonishment, for I think I recognize that brave man. Yes, it must be he! Will your majesty permit me to speak to him?”

“Certainly.”

“Can it be you, Monsieur Grimaud?” asked Parry.

“Yes, it is I,” replied the tall old man, drawing himself up, but without losing his respectful demeanor.

“Sire,” then said Parry, “I was not deceived. This good man is the servant of the Comte de la Fere, and the Comte de la Fere, if you remember, is the worthy gentleman of whom I have so often spoken to your majesty that the remembrance of him must remain, not only in your mind, but in your heart.”

“He who assisted my father at his last moments?” asked Charles, evidently affected at the remembrance.

“The same, sire.”

“Alas!” said Charles; and then addressing Grimaud, whose penetrating and intelligent eyes seemed to search and divine his thoughts,--“My friend,” said he, “does your master, Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, live in this neighborhood?”

“There,” replied Grimaud, pointing with his outstretched arm to the white-and-red house behind the gate.

“And is Monsieur le Comte de la Fere at home at present?”

“At the back, under the chestnut trees.”

“Parry,” said the king, “I will not miss this opportunity, so precious for me, to thank the gentleman to whom our house is indebted for such a noble example of devotedness and generosity. Hold my horse, my friend, if you please.” And, throwing the bridle to Grimaud, the king entered the abode of Athos, quite alone, as one equal enters the dwelling of another. Charles had been informed by the concise explanation of Grimaud,--“At the back, under the chestnut trees;” he left, therefore, the house on the left, and went straight down the path indicated. The thing was easy; the tops of those noble trees, already covered with leaves and flowers, rose above all the rest.

On arriving under the lozenges, by turns luminous and dark, which checkered the ground of this path according as the trees were more or less in leaf, the young prince perceived a gentleman walking with his arms behind him, apparently plunged in a deep meditation. Without doubt, he had often had this gentleman described to him, for, without hesitating, Charles II. walked straight up to him. At the sound of his footsteps, the Comte de la Fere raised his head, and seeing an unknown man of noble and elegant carriage coming towards him, he raised his hat and waited. At some paces from him, Charles II. likewise took off his hat. Then, as if in reply to the comte’s mute interrogation,--

“Monsieur le Comte,” said he,” I come to discharge a duty towards you. I have, for a long time, had the expression of a profound gratitude to bring you. I am Charles II., son of Charles Stuart, who reigned in England, and died on the scaffold.”

On hearing this illustrious name, Athos felt a kind of shudder creep through his veins, but at the sight of the young prince standing uncovered before him, and stretching out his hand towards him, two tears, for an instant, dimmed his brilliant eyes. He bent respectfully, but the prince took him by the hand.

“See how unfortunate I am, my lord count; it is only due to chance that I have met with you. Alas! I ought to have people around me whom I love and honor, whereas I am reduced to preserve their services in my heart, and their names in my memory: so that if your servant had not recognized mine, I should have passed by your door as by that of a stranger.”

“It is but too true,” said Athos, replying with his voice to the first part of the king’s speech, and with a bow to the second; “it is but too true, indeed, that your majesty has seen many evil days.”

“And the worst, alas!” replied Charles, “are perhaps still to come.”

“Sire, let us hope.”

“Count, count,” continued Charles, shaking his head, “I entertained hope till last night, and that of a good Christian, I swear.”

Athos looked at the king as if to interrogate him.

“Oh, the history is soon related,” said Charles. “Proscribed, despoiled, disdained, I resolved, in spite of all my repugnance, to tempt fortune one last time. Is it not written above, that, for our family, all good fortune and all bad fortune shall eternally come from France? You know something of that, monsieur,--you, who are one of the Frenchmen whom my unfortunate father found at the foot of his scaffold, on the day of his death, after having found them at his right hand on the day of battle.”

“Sire,” said Athos modestly, “I was not alone. My companions and I did, under the circumstances, our duty as gentlemen, and that was all. Your majesty was about to do me the honor to relate----”

“That is true. I had the protection,--pardon my hesitation, count, but, for a Stuart, you, who understand everything, you will comprehend that the word is hard to pronounce;--I had, I say, the protection of my cousin the stadtholder of Holland; but without the intervention, or at least without the authorization of France, the stadtholder would not take the initiative. I came, then, to ask this authorization of the king of France, who has refused me.”

“The king has refused you, sire!”

“Oh, not he; all justice must be rendered to my younger brother Louis; but Monsieur de Mazarin----”

Athos bit his lips.

“You perhaps think I should have expected this refusal?” said the king, who had noticed the movement.

“That was, in truth, my thought, sire,” replied Athos, respectfully, “I know that Italian of old.”

“Then I determined to come to the test, and know at once the last word of my destiny. I told my brother Louis, that, not to compromise either France or Holland, I would tempt fortune myself in person, as I had already done, with two hundred gentlemen, if he would give them to me, and a million, if he would lend it me.”

“Well, sire?”

“Well, monsieur, I am suffering at this moment something strange, and that is, the satisfaction of despair. There is in certain souls,--and I have just discovered that mine is of the number,--a real satisfaction in the assurance that all is lost, and the time is come to yield.”

“Oh, I hope,” said Athos, “that your majesty is not come to that extremity.”

“To say so, my lord count, to endeavor to revive hope in my heart, you must have ill understood what I have just told you. I came to Blois to ask of my brother Louis the alms of a million, with which I had the hopes of re-establishing my affairs; and my brother Louis has refused me. You see, then, plainly, that all is lost.”

“Will your majesty permit me to express a contrary opinion?”

“How is that, count? Do you think my heart of so low an order that I do not know how to face my position?”

“Sire, I have always seen that it was in desperate positions that suddenly the great turns of fortune have taken place.”

“Thank you, count, it is some comfort to meet with a heart like yours, that is to say, sufficiently trustful in God and in monarchy, never to despair of a royal fortune, however low it may be fallen. Unfortunately, my dear count, your words are like those remedies they call ‘sovereign,’ and which, though able to cure curable wounds or diseases, fail against death. Thank you for your perseverance in consoling me, count, thanks for your devoted remembrance, but I know in what I must trust--nothing will save me now. And see, my friend, I was so convinced, that I was taking the route of exile with my old Parry; I was returning to devour my poignant griefs in the little hermitage offered me by Holland. There, believe me, count, all will soon be over, and death will come quickly, it is called so often by this body, eaten up by its soul, and by this soul, which aspires to heaven.”

“Your majesty has a mother, a sister, and brothers; your majesty is the head of the family, and ought, therefore, to ask a long life of God, instead of imploring Him for a prompt death. Your majesty is an exile, a fugitive, but you have right on your side; you ought to aspire to combats, dangers, business, and not to rest in heavens.”

“Count,” said Charles II., with a smile of indescribable sadness, “have you ever heard of a king who reconquered his kingdom with one servant of the age of Parry, and with three hundred crowns which that servant carried in his purse?”

“No, sire; but I have heard--and that more than once--that a dethroned king has recovered his kingdom with a firm will, perseverance, some friends, and a million skillfully employed.”

“But you cannot have understood me. The million I asked of my brother Louis was refused me.”

“Sire,” said Athos, “will your majesty grant me a few minutes, and listen attentively to what remains for me to say to you?”

Charles II. looked earnestly at Athos. “Willingly, monsieur,” said he.

“Then I will show your majesty the way,” resumed the count, directing his steps towards the house. He then conducted the king to his study, and begged him to be seated. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty just now told me that, in the present state of England, a million would suffice for the recovery of your kingdom.”

“To attempt it at least, monsieur, and to die as a king if I should not succeed.”

“Well, then, sire, let your majesty, according to the promise you have made me, have the goodness to listen to what I have to say.” Charles made an affirmative sign with his head. Athos walked straight up to the door, the bolts of which he drew, after looking to see if anybody was near, and then returned. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty has kindly remembered that I lent assistance to the very noble and very unfortunate Charles I., when his executioners conducted him from St. James’s to Whitehall.”

“Yes, certainly, I do remember it, and always shall remember it.”

“Sire, it is a dismal history to be heard by a son who no doubt has had it related to him many times; and yet I ought to repeat it to your majesty without omitting one detail.”

“Speak on, monsieur.”

“When the king your father ascended the scaffold, or rather when he passed from his chamber to the scaffold on a level with his window, everything was prepared for his escape. The executioner was got out of the way; a hole contrived under the floor of his apartment; I myself was beneath the funeral vault, which I heard all at once creak beneath his feet.”

“Parry has related to me all these terrible details, monsieur.”

Athos bowed, and resumed. “But here is something he has not related to you, sire, for what follows passed between God, your father, and myself; and never has the revelation of it been made even to my dearest friends. ‘Go a little further off,’ said the august patient to the executioner; ‘it is but for an instant, and I know that I belong to you; but remember not to strike till I give the signal. I wish to offer up my prayers in freedom.’”

“Pardon me,” said Charles II., turning very pale, “but you, count, who know so many details of this melancholy event,--details which, as you said just now, have never been revealed to anyone,--do you know the name of that infernal executioner, of that base wretch who concealed his face that he might assassinate a king with impunity?”

Athos became slightly pale. “His name?” said he, “yes, I know it, but cannot tell it.”

“And what is become of him, for nobody in England knows his destiny?”

“He is dead.”

“But he did not die in his bed; he did not die a calm and peaceful death, he did not die the death of the good?”

“He died a violent death, in a terrible night, rendered so by the passions of man and a tempest from God. His body, pierced by a dagger, sank to the depths of the ocean. God pardon his murderer!”

“Proceed, then,” said Charles II., seeing that the count was unwilling to say more.

“The king of England, after having, as I have said, spoken thus to the masked executioner, added,--‘Observe, you will not strike till I shall stretch out my arms saying--REMEMBER!’”

“I was aware,” said Charles, in an agitated voice, “that that was the last word pronounced by my unfortunate father. But why and for whom?”

“For the French gentleman placed beneath his scaffold.”

“For you, then, monsieur?”

“Yes, sire; and every one of the words which he spoke to me, through the planks of the scaffold covered with a black cloth, still sounds in my ears. The king knelt down on one knee: ‘Comte de la Fere,’ said he, ‘are you there?’ ‘Yes, sire,’ replied I. Then the king stooped towards the boards.”

Charles II., also palpitating with interest, burning with grief, stooped towards Athos, to catch, one by one, every word that escaped from him. His head touched that of the comte.

“Then,” continued Athos, “the king stooped. ‘Comte de la Fere,’ said he, ‘I could not be saved by you: it was not to be. Now, even though I commit a sacrilege, I must speak to you. Yes, I have spoken to men--yes, I have spoken to God, and I speak to you the last. To sustain a cause which I thought sacred, I have lost the throne of my fathers and the heritage of my children.’”

Charles II. concealed his face in his hands, and a bitter tear glided between his white and slender fingers.

“‘I have still a million in gold,’ continued the king. ‘I buried it in the vaults of the castle of Newcastle, a moment before I left that city.’” Charles raised his head with an expression of such painful joy that it would have drawn tears from any one acquainted with his misfortunes.

“A million!” murmured he. “Oh, count!”

“‘You alone know that this money exists: employ it when you think it can be of the greatest service to my eldest son. And now, Comte de la Fere, bid me adieu!’

“‘Adieu, adieu, sire!’ cried I.”

Charles arose, and went and leant his burning brow against the window.

“It was then,” continued Athos, “that the king pronounced the word, ‘REMEMBER!’ addressed to me. You see, sire, that I have remembered.”

The king could not resist or conceal his emotion. Athos beheld the movement of his shoulders, which undulated convulsively; he heard the sobs which burst from his overcharged breast. He was silent himself, suffocated by the flood of bitter remembrances he had just poured upon that royal head. Charles II., with a violent effort, left the window, devoured his tears, and came and sat by Athos. “Sire,” said the latter, “I thought till to-day that the time had not yet arrived for the employment of that last resource; but, with my eyes fixed upon England, I felt it was approaching. To-morrow I meant to go and inquire in what part of the world your majesty was, and then I purposed going to you. You come to me, sire; that is an indication that God is with us.”

“My lord,” said Charles, in a voice choked by emotion, “you are, for me, what an angel sent from heaven would be,--you are a preserver sent to me from the tomb of my father himself; but, believe me, for ten years’ civil war has passed over my country, striking down men, tearing up the soil, it is no more probable that gold should remain in the entrails of the earth, than love in the hearts of my subjects.”

“Sire, the spot in which his majesty buried the million is well known to me, and no one, I am sure, has been able to discover it. Besides, is the castle of Newcastle quite destroyed? Have they demolished it stone by stone, and uprooted the soil to the last tree?”

“No, it is still standing: but at this moment General Monk occupies it and is encamped there. The only spot from which I could look for succor, where I possess a single resource, you see, is invaded by my enemies.”

“General Monk, sire, cannot have discovered the treasure which I speak of.”

“Yes, but can I go and deliver myself up to Monk, in order to recover this treasure? Ah! count, you see plainly I must yield to destiny, since it strikes me to the earth every time I rise. What can I do with Parry as my only servant, with Parry, whom Monk has already driven from his presence? No, no, no, count, we must yield to this last blow.”

“But what your majesty cannot do, and what Parry can no more attempt, do you not believe that I could succeed in accomplishing?”

“You--you, count--you would go?”

“If it please your majesty,” said Athos, bowing to the king, “yes, I will go, sire.”

“What! you so happy here, count?”

“I am never happy when I have a duty left to accomplish, and it is an imperative duty which the king your father left me to watch over your fortunes, and make a royal use of his money. So, if your majesty honors me with a sign, I will go with you.”

“Ah, monsieur!” said the king, forgetting all royal etiquette, and throwing his arms around the neck of Athos, “you prove to me that there is a God in heaven, and that this God sometimes sends messengers to the unfortunate who groan on the earth.”

Athos, exceedingly moved by this burst of feeling of the young man, thanked him with profound respect, and approached the window. “Grimaud!” cried he, “bring out my horses.”

“What, now--immediately!” said the king. “Ah, monsieur, you are indeed a wonderful man!”

“Sire,” said Athos, “I know nothing more pressing than your majesty’s service. Besides,” added he, smiling, “it is a habit contracted long since, in the service of the queen your aunt, and of the king your father. How is it possible for me to lose it at the moment your majesty’s service calls for it?”

“What a man!” murmured the king.

Then after a moment’s reflection,--“But no, count, I cannot expose you to such privations. I have no means of rewarding such services.”

“Bah!” said Athos, laughing. “Your majesty is joking, have you not a million? Ah! why am I not possessed of half such a sum! I would already have raised a regiment. But, thank God! I have still a few rolls of gold and some family diamonds left. Your majesty will, I hope, deign to share with a devoted servant.”

“With a friend--yes, count, but on condition that, in his turn, that friend will share with me hereafter!”

“Sire!” said Athos, opening a casket, from which he drew both gold and jewels, “you see, sire, we are too rich. Fortunately, there are four of us, in the event of our meeting with thieves.”

Joy made the blood rush to the pale cheeks of Charles II., as he saw Athos’s two horses, led by Grimaud, already booted for the journey, advance towards the porch.

“Blaisois, this letter for the Vicomte de Bragelonne. For everybody else I am gone to Paris. I confide the house to you, Blaisois.” Blaisois bowed, shook hands with Grimaud, and shut the gate.

In which Aramis is sought and only Bazin is found

Two hours had scarcely elapsed since the departure of the master of the house, who, in Blaisois’s sight, had taken the road to Paris, when a horseman, mounted on a good pied horse, stopped before the gate, and with a sonorous “hola!” called the stable-boys who, with the gardeners, had formed a circle round Blaisois, the historian-in-ordinary to the household of the chateau. This “hola,” doubtless well known to Master Blaisois, made him turn his head and exclaim--“Monsieur d’Artagnan! run quickly, you chaps, and open the gate.”

A swarm of eight brisk lads flew to the gate, which was opened as if it had been made of feathers; and every one loaded him with attentions, for they knew the welcome this friend was accustomed to receive from their master; and for such remarks the eye of the valet may always be depended upon.

“Ah!” said M. d’Artagnan, with an agreeable smile, balancing himself upon his stirrup to jump to the ground, “where is that dear count?”

“Ah! how unfortunate you are, monsieur!” said Blaisois: “and how unfortunate will monsieur le comte our master, think himself when he hears of your coming! As ill luck will have it, monsieur le comte left home two hours ago.”

D’Artagnan did not trouble himself about such trifles. “Very good!” said he. “You always speak the best French in the world; you shall give me a lesson in grammar and correct language, whilst I wait the return of your master.”

“That is impossible, monsieur,” said Blaisois; “you would have to wait too long.”

“Will he not come back to-day, then?”

“No, nor to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow. Monsieur le comte has gone on a journey.”

“A journey!” said D’Artagnan, surprised; “that’s a fable, Master Blaisois.”

“Monsieur, it is no more than the truth. Monsieur has done me the honor to give me the house in charge; and he added, with his voice so full of authority and kindness--that is all one to me: ‘You will say I have gone to Paris.’”

“Well!” cried D’Artagnan, “since he is gone towards Paris, that is all I wanted to know! you should have told me so at first, booby! He is then two hours in advance?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I shall soon overtake him. Is he alone?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Who is with him, then?”

“A gentleman whom I don’t know, an old man, and M. Grimaud.”

“Such a party cannot travel as fast as I can--I will start.”

“Will monsieur listen to me an instant?” said Blaisois, laying his hand gently on the reins of the horse.

“Yes, if you don’t favor me with fine speeches, and make haste.”

“Well, then, monsieur, that word Paris appears to me to be only an excuse.”

“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan, seriously, “an excuse, eh?”

“Yes, monsieur; and monsieur le comte is not going to Paris, I will swear.”

“What makes you think so?”

“This--M. Grimaud always knows where our master is going; and he had promised me that the first time he went to Paris, he would take a little money for me to my wife.”

“What, have you a wife, then?”

“I had one--she was of this country; but monsieur thought her a noisy scold, and I sent her to Paris; it is sometimes inconvenient, but very agreeable at others.”

“I understand; but go on. You do not believe the count gone to Paris?”

“No, monsieur; for then M. Grimaud would have broken his word; he would have perjured himself, and that is impossible.”

“That is impossible,” repeated D’Artagnan, quite in a study, because he was quite convinced. “Well, my brave Blaisois, many thanks to you.”

Blaisois bowed.

“Come, you know I am not curious--I have serious business with your master. Could you not, by a little bit of a word--you who speak so well--give me to understand--one syllable, only--I will guess the rest.”

“Upon my word, monsieur, I cannot. I am quite ignorant where monsieur le comte is gone. As to listening at doors, that is contrary to my nature; and besides it is forbidden here.”

“My dear fellow,” said D’Artagnan, “this is a very bad beginning for me. Never mind, you know when monsieur le comte will return, at least?”

“As little, monsieur, as the place of his destination.”

“Come, Blaisois, come, search.”

“Monsieur doubts my sincerity? Ah, monsieur, that grieves me much.”

“The devil take his gilded tongue!” grumbled D’Artagnan. “A clown with a word would be worth a dozen of him. Adieu!”

“Monsieur, I have the honor to present you my respects.”

“Cuistre!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “the fellow is unbearable.” He gave another look up to the house, turned his horse’s head, and set off like a man who has nothing either annoying or embarrassing in his mind. When he was at the end of the wall, and out of sight,--“Well, now, I wonder,” said he, breathing quickly, “whether Athos was at home. No; all those idlers, standing with their arms crossed, would have been at work if the eye of the master was near. Athos gone a journey?--that is incomprehensible. Bah! it is all devilish mysterious! And then--no--he is not the man I want. I want one of a cunning, patient mind. My business is at Melun, in a certain presbytery I am acquainted with. Forty-five leagues--four days and a half! Well, it is fine weather, and I am free. Never mind the distance!”

And he put his horse into a trot, directing his course towards Paris. On the fourth day he alighted at Melun as he had intended.

D’Artagnan was never in the habit of asking any one on the road for any common information. For these sorts of details, unless in very serious circumstances, he confided in his perspicacity, which was so seldom at fault, in his experience of thirty years, and in a great habit of reading the physiognomies of houses, as well as those of men. At Melun, D’Artagnan immediately found the presbytery--a charming house, plastered over red brick, with vines climbing along the gutters, and a cross, in carved stone, surmounting the ridge of the roof. From the ground-floor of this house came a noise, or rather a confusion of voices, like the chirping of young birds when the brood is just hatched under the down. One of these voices was spelling the alphabet distinctly. A voice, thick, yet pleasant, at the same time scolded the talkers and corrected the faults of the reader. D’Artagnan recognized that voice, and as the window of the ground-floor was open, he leant down from his horse under the branches and red fibers of the vine and cried “Bazin, my dear Bazin! good-day to you.”

A short, fat man, with a flat face, a craniun ornamented with a crown of gray hairs, cut short, in imitation of a tonsure, and covered with an old black velvet cap, arose as soon as he heard D’Artagnan--we ought not to say arose, but bounded up. In fact, Bazin bounded up, carrying with him his little low chair, which the children tried to take away, with battles more fierce than those of the Greeks endeavoring to recover the body of Patroclus from the hands of the Trojans. Bazin did more than bound; he let fall both his alphabet and his ferule. “You!” said he, “you, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Yes, myself! Where is Aramis--no, M. le Chevalier d’Herblay--no, I am still mistaken--Monsieur le Vicaire-General?”

“Ah, monsieur,” said Bazin, with dignity, “monseigneur is at his diocese.”

“What did you say?” said D’Artagnan. Bazin repeated the sentence.

“Ah, ah! but has Aramis a diocese?”

“Yes, monsieur. Why not?”

“Is he a bishop, then?”

“Why, where can you come from,” said Bazin, rather irreverently, “that you don’t know that?”

“My dear Bazin, we pagans, we men of the sword, know very well when a man is made a colonel, or maitre-de-camp, or marshal of France; but if he be made a bishop, archbishop, or pope--devil take me if the news reaches us before the three quarters of the earth have had the advantage of it!”

“Hush! hush!” said Bazin, opening his eyes: “do not spoil these poor children, in whom I am endeavoring to inculcate such good principles.” In fact, the children had surrounded D’Artagnan, whose horse, long sword, spurs, and martial air they very much admired. But above all, they admired his strong voice; so that, when he uttered his oath, the whole school cried out, “The devil take me!” with fearful bursts of laughter, shouts, and bounds, which delighted the musketeer, and bewildered the old pedagogue.

“There!” said he, “hold your tongues, you brats! You have come, M. d’Artagnan, and all my good principles fly away. With you, as usual, comes disorder. Babel is revived. Ah! Good Lord! Ah! the wild little wretches!” And the worthy Bazin distributed right and left blows which increased the cries of his scholars by changing the nature of them.

“At least,” said he, “you will no longer decoy any one here.”

“Do you think so?” said D’Artagnan, with a smile which made a shudder creep over the shoulders of Bazin.

“He is capable of it,” murmured he.

“Where is your master’s diocese?”

“Monseigneur Rene is bishop of Vannes.”

“Who had him nominated?”

“Why, monsieur le surintendant, our neighbor.”

“What! Monsieur Fouquet?”

“To be sure he did.”

“Is Aramis on good terms with him, then?”

“Monseigneur preached every Sunday at the house of monsieur le surintendant at Vaux; then they hunted together.”

“Ah!”

“And monseigneur composed his homilies--no, I mean his sermons--with monsieur le surintendant.”

“Bah! he preached in verse, then, this worthy bishop?”

“Monsieur, for the love of heaven, do not jest with sacred things.”

“There, Bazin, there! So, then, Aramis is at Vannes?”

“At Vannes, in Bretagne.”

“You are a deceitful old hunks, Bazin; that is not true.”

“See, monsieur, if you please; the apartments of the presbytery are empty.”

“He is right there,” said D’Artagnan, looking attentively at the house, the aspect of which announced solitude.

“But monseigneur must have written you an account of his promotion.”

“When did it take place?”

“A month back.”

“Oh! then there is no time lost. Aramis cannot yet have wanted me. But how is it, Bazin, you do not follow your master?”

“Monsieur, I cannot; I have occupations.”

“Your alphabet?”

“And my penitents.”

“What, do you confess, then? Are you a priest?”

“The same as one. I have such a call.”

“But the orders?”

“Oh,” said Bazin, without hesitation, “now that monseigneur is a bishop, I shall soon have my orders, or at least my dispensations.” And he rubbed his hands.

“Decidedly,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “there will be no means of uprooting these people. Get me some supper Bazin.”

“With pleasure, monsieur.”

“A fowl, a bouillon, and a bottle of wine.”

“This is Saturday, monsieur--it is a day of abstinence.”

“I have a dispensation,” said D’Artagnan.

Bazin looked at him suspiciously.

“Ah, ah, master hypocrite!” said the musketeer, “for whom do you take me? If you, who are the valet, hope for dispensation to commit a crime, shall not I, the friend of your bishop, have dispensation for eating meat at the call of my stomach? Make yourself agreeable with me, Bazin, or, by heavens! I will complain to the king, and you shall never confess. Now you know that the nomination of bishops rests with the king--I have the king, I am the stronger.”

Bazin smiled hypocritically. “Ah, but we have monsieur le surintendant,” said he.

“And you laugh at the king, then?”

Bazin made no reply; his smile was sufficiently eloquent.

“My supper,” said D’Artagnan, “it is getting towards seven o’clock.”

Bazin turned round and ordered the eldest of the pupils to inform the cook. In the meantime, D’Artagnan surveyed the presbytery.

“Phew!” said he, disdainfully, “monseigneur lodged his grandeur very meanly here.”

“We have the Chateau de Vaux,” said Bazin.

“Which is perhaps equal to the Louvre?” said D’Artagnan, jeeringly.

“Which is better,” replied Bazin, with the greatest coolness imaginable.

“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan.

He would perhaps have prolonged the discussion, and maintained the superiority of the Louvre, but the lieutenant perceived that his horse remained fastened to the bars of a gate.

“The devil!” said he. “Get my horse looked after; your master the bishop has none like him in his stables.”

Bazin cast a sidelong glance at the horse, and replied, “Monsieur le surintendant gave him four from his own stables; and each of the four is worth four of yours.”

The blood mounted to the face of D’Artagnan. His hand itched and his eye glanced over the head of Bazin, to select the place upon which he should discharge his anger. But it passed away; reflection came, and D’Artagnan contented himself with saying,--

“The devil! the devil! I have done well to quit the service of the king. Tell me, worthy Master Bazin,” added he, “how many musketeers does monsieur le surintendant retain in his service?”

“He could have all there are in the kingdom with his money,” replied Bazin, closing his book, and dismissing the boys with some kindly blows of his cane.

“The devil! the devil!” repeated D’Artagnan, once more, as if to annoy the pedagogue. But as supper was now announced, he followed the cook, who introduced him into the refectory, where it awaited him. D’Artagnan placed himself at the table, and began a hearty attack upon his fowl.

“It appears to me,” said D’Artagnan, biting with all his might at the tough fowl they had served up to him, and which they had evidently forgotten to fatten,--“it appears that I have done wrong in not seeking service with that master yonder. A powerful noble this intendant, seemingly! In good truth, we poor fellows know nothing at the court, and the rays of the sun prevent our seeing the large stars, which are also suns, at a little greater distance from our earth,--that is all.”

As D’Artagnan delighted, both from pleasure and system, in making people talk about things which interested him, he fenced in his best style with Master Bazin, but it was pure loss of time; beyond the tiresome and hyperbolical praises of monsieur le surintendant of the finances, Bazin, who, on his side, was on his guard, afforded nothing but platitudes to the curiosity of D’Artagnan, so that our musketeer, in a tolerably bad humor, desired to go to bed as soon as he had supped. D’Artagnan was introduced by Bazin into a mean chamber, in which there was a poor bed; but D’Artagnan was not fastidious in that respect. He had been told that Aramis had taken away the key of his own private apartment, and as he knew Aramis was a very particular man, and had generally many things to conceal in his apartment, he had not been surprised. He, therefore, although it appeared comparatively even harder, attacked the bed as bravely as he had done the fowl; and, as he had as good an inclination to sleep as he had had to eat, he took scarcely longer time to be snoring harmoniously than he had employed in picking the last bones of the bird.

Since he was no longer in the service of any one, D’Artagnan had promised himself to indulge in sleeping as soundly as he had formerly slept lightly; but with whatever good faith D’Artagnan had made himself this promise, and whatever desire he might have to keep it religiously, he was awakened in the middle of the night by a loud noise of carriages, and servants on horseback. A sudden illumination flashed over the walls of his chamber; he jumped out of bed and ran to the window in his shirt. “Can the king be coming this way?” he thought, rubbing his eyes; “in truth, such a suite can only be attached to royalty.”

“Vive monsieur le surintendant!” cried, or rather vociferated, from a window on the ground-floor, a voice which he recognized as Bazin’s, who at the same time waved a handkerchief with one hand, and held a large candle in the other. D’Artagnan then saw something like a brilliant human form leaning out of the principal carriage; at the same time loud bursts of laughter, caused, no doubt, by the strange figure of Bazin, and issuing from the same carriage, left, as it were, a train of joy upon the passage of the rapid cortege.

“I might easily see it was not the king,” said D’Artagnan; “people don’t laugh so heartily when the king passes. Hola, Bazin!” cried he to his neighbor, three-quarters of whose body still hung out of the window, to follow the carriage with his eyes as long as he could. “What is all that about?”

“It is M. Fouquet,” said Bazin, in a patronizing tone.

“And all those people?”

“That is the court of M. Fouquet.”

“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan; “what would M. de Mazarin say to that if he heard it?” And he returned to his bed, asking himself how Aramis always contrived to be protected by the most powerful personages in the kingdom. “Is it that he has more luck than I, or that I am a greater fool than he? Bah!” that was the concluding word by the aid of which D’Artagnan, having become wise, now terminated every thought and every period of his style. Formerly he said, “Mordioux!” which was a prick of the spur, but now he had become older, and he murmured that philosophical “Bah!” which served as a bridle to all the passions.

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

When D’Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the absence of the Vicar-General d’Herblay was real, and that his friend was not to be found at Melun or in its vicinity, he left Bazin without regret, cast an ill-natured glance at the magnificent Chateau de Vaux which was beginning to shine with that splendor which brought on its ruin, and, compressing his lips like a man full of mistrust and suspicion, he put spurs to his pied horse, saying, “Well, well! I have still Pierrefonds left, and there I shall find the best man and the best filled coffer. And that is all I want, for I have an idea of my own.”

We will spare our readers the prosaic incidents of D’Artagnan’s journey, which terminated on the morning of the third day within sight of Pierrefonds. D’Artagnan came by the way of Nanteuil-le-Hardouin and Crepy. At a distance he perceived the Castle of Louis of Orleans, which, having become part of the crown domain, was kept by an old concierge. This was one of those marvelous manors of the middle ages, with walls twenty feet in thickness, and a hundred in height.

D’Artagnan rode slowly past its walls, measured its towers with his eye and descended into the valley. From afar he looked down upon the chateau of Porthos, situated on the shores of a small lake, and contiguous to a magnificent forest. It was the same place we have already had the honor of describing to our readers; we shall therefore satisfy ourselves with naming it. The first thing D’Artagnan perceived after the fine trees, the May sun gilding the sides of the green hills, the long rows of feather-topped trees which stretched out towards Compiegne, was a large rolling box, pushed forward by two servants and dragged by two others. In this box there was an enormous green-and-gold thing, which went along the smiling glades of the park, thus dragged and pushed. This thing, at a distance, could not be distinguished, and signified absolutely nothing; nearer, it was a hogshead muffled in gold-bound green cloth; when close, it was a man, or rather a poussa, the interior extremity of whom, spreading over the interior of the box, entirely filled it, when still closer, the man was Mousqueton--Mousqueton, with gray hair and a face as red as Punchinello’s.

“Pardieu!” cried D’Artagnan; “why, that’s my dear Monsieur Mousqueton!”

“Ah!” cried the fat man--“ah! what happiness! what joy! There’s M. d’Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!” These last words were addressed to the lackeys who pushed and dragged him. The box stopped, and the four lackeys, with a precision quite military, took off their laced hats and ranged themselves behind it.

“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Mousqueton, “why can I not embrace your knees? But I have become impotent, as you see.”

“Dame! my dear Mousqueton, it is age.”

“No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities--troubles.”

“Troubles! you, Mousqueton?” said D’Artagnan making the tour of the box; “are you out of your mind, my dear friend? Thank God! you are as hearty as a three-hundred-year-old oak.”

“Ah! but my legs, monsieur, my legs!” groaned the faithful servant.

“What’s the matter with your legs?”

“Oh, they will no longer bear me!”

“Ah, the ungrateful things! And yet you feed them well, Mousqueton, apparently.”

“Alas, yes! They can reproach me with nothing in that respect,” said Mousqueton, with a sigh; “I have always done what I could for my poor body; I am not selfish.” And Mousqueton sighed afresh.

“I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron, too, as he sighs after that fashion?” thought D’Artagnan.

“Mon Dieu, monsieur!” said Mousqueton, as if rousing himself from a painful reverie; “how happy monseigneur will be that you have thought of him!”

“Kind Porthos!” cried D’Artagnan, “I am anxious to embrace him.”

“Oh!” said Mousqueton, much affected, “I shall certainly write to him.”

“What!” cried D’Artagnan, “you will write to him?”

“This very day; I shall not delay it an hour.”

“Is he not here, then?”

“No, monsieur.”

“But is he near at hand?--is he far off?”

“Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell?”

“Mordioux!” cried the musketeer, stamping with his foot, “I am unfortunate. Porthos such a stay-at-home!”

“Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man than monseigneur, but----”

“But what?”

“When a friend presses you----”

“A friend?”

“Doubtless--the worthy M. d’Herblay.”

“What, has Aramis pressed Porthos?”

“This is how the thing happened, Monsieur d’Artagnan. M. d’Herblay wrote to monseigneur----”

“Indeed!”

“A letter, monsieur, such a pressing letter that it threw us all into a bustle.”

“Tell me all about it, my dear friend.” said D’Artagnan; “but remove these people a little further off first.”

Mousqueton shouted, “Fall back, you fellows,” with such powerful lungs that the breath, without the words, would have been sufficient to disperse the four lackeys. D’Artagnan seated himself on the shaft of the box and opened his ears. “Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “monseigneur, then, received a letter from M. le Vicaire-General d’Herblay, eight or nine days ago; it was the day of the rustic pleasures, yes, it must have been Wednesday.”

“What do you mean?” said D’Artagnan. “The day of rustic pleasures?”

“Yes, monsieur; we have so many pleasures to take in this delightful country, that we were encumbered by them; so much so, that we have been forced to regulate the distribution of them.”

“How easily do I recognize Porthos’s love of order in that! Now, that idea would never have occurred to me; but then I am not encumbered with pleasures.”

“We were, though,” said Mousqueton.

“And how did you regulate the matter, let me know?” said D’Artagnan.

“It is rather long, monsieur.”

“Never mind, we have plenty of time; and you speak so well, my dear Mousqueton, that it is really a pleasure to hear you.”

“It is true,” said Mousqueton, with a sigh of satisfaction, which emanated evidently from the justice which had been rendered him, “it is true I have made great progress in the company of monseigneur.”

“I am waiting for the distribution of the pleasures, Mousqueton, and with impatience. I want to know if I have arrived on a lucky day.”

“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Mousqueton in a melancholy tone, “since monseigneur’s departure all the pleasures have gone too!”

“Well, my dear Mousqueton, refresh your memory.”

“With what day shall I begin?”

“Eh, pardieux! begin with Sunday; that is the Lord’s day.”

“Sunday, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“Sunday pleasures are religious: monseigneur goes to mass, makes the bread-offering, and has discourses and instructions made to him by his almoner-in-ordinary. That is not very amusing, but we expect a Carmelite from Paris who will do the duty of our almonry, and who, we are assured, speaks very well, which will keep us awake, whereas our present almoner always sends us to sleep. These are Sunday religious pleasures. On Monday, worldly pleasures.”

“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, “what do you mean by that? Let us have a glimpse at your worldly pleasures.”

“Monsieur, on Monday we go into the world; we pay and receive visits, we play on the lute, we dance, we make verses, and burn a little incense in honor of the ladies.”

“Peste! that is the height of gallantry,” said the musketeer, who was obliged to call to his aid all the strength of his facial muscles to suppress an enormous inclination to laugh.

“Tuesday, learned pleasures.”

“Good!” cried D’Artagnan. “What are they? Detail them, my dear Mousqueton.”

“Monseigneur has bought a sphere or globe, which I shall show you; it fills all the perimeter of the great tower, except a gallery which he has had built over the sphere: there are little strings and brass wires to which the sun and moon are hooked. It all turns; and that is very beautiful. Monseigneur points out to me seas and distant countries. We don’t intend to visit them, but it is very interesting.”

“Interesting! yes, that’s the word,” repeated D’Artagnan. “And Wednesday?”

“Rustic pleasures, as I have had the honor to tell you, monsieur le chevalier. We look over monseigneur’s sheep and goats; we make the shepherds dance to pipes and reeds, as is written in a book monseigneur has in his library, which is called ‘Bergeries.’ The author died about a month ago.”

“Monsieur Racan, perhaps,” said D’Artagnan,

“Yes, that was his name--M. Racan. But that is not all: we angle in the little canal, after which we dine, crowned with flowers. That is Wednesday.”

“Peste!” said D’Artagnan, “you don’t divide your pleasures badly. And Thursday?--what can be left for poor Thursday?”

“It is not very unfortunate, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, smiling. “Thursday, Olympian pleasures. Ah, monsieur, that is superb! We get together all monseigneur’s young vassals, and we make them throw the disc, wrestle, and run races. Monseigneur can’t run now, no more can I; but monseigneur throws the disc as nobody else can throw it. And when he does deal a blow, oh, that proves a misfortune!”

“How so?”

“Yes, monsieur, we were obliged to renounce the cestus. He cracked heads; he broke jaws--beat in ribs. It was charming sport; but nobody was willing to play with him.”

“Then his wrist----”

“Oh, monsieur, firmer than ever. Monseigneur gets a trifle weaker in his legs,--he confesses that himself; but his strength has all taken refuge in his arms, so that----”

“So that he can knock down bullocks, as he used formerly.”

“Monsieur, better than that--he beats in walls. Lately, after having supped with one of our farmers--you know how popular and kind monseigneur is--after supper as a joke, he struck the wall a blow. The wall crumbled away beneath his hand, the roof fell in, and three men and an old woman were stifled.”

“Good God, Mousqueton! And your master?”

“Oh, monseigneur, a little skin was rubbed off his head. We bathed the wounds with some water which the monks gave us. But there was nothing the matter with his hand.”

“Nothing?”

“No, nothing, monsieur.”

“Deuce take the Olympic pleasures! They must cost your master too dear, for widows and orphans----”

“They all had pensions, monsieur; a tenth of monseigneur’s revenue was spent in that way.”

“Then pass on to Friday,” said D’Artagnan.

“Friday, noble and warlike pleasures. We hunt, we fence, we dress falcons and break horses. Then, Saturday is the day for intellectual pleasures: we adorn our minds; we look at monseigneur’s pictures and statues; we write, even, and trace plans: and then we fire monseigneur’s cannon.”

“You draw plans, and fire cannon?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Why, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “M. du Vallon, in truth, possesses the most subtle and amiable mind that I know. But there is one kind of pleasure you have forgotten, it appears to me.”

“What is that, monsieur?” asked Mousqueton, with anxiety.

“The material pleasures.”

Mousqueton colored. “What do you mean by that, monsieur?” said he, casting down his eyes.

“I mean the table--good wine--evenings occupied in passing the bottle.”

“Ah, monsieur, we don’t reckon those pleasures,--we practice them every day.”

“My brave Mousqueton,” resumed D’Artagnan, “pardon me, but I was so absorbed in your charming recital that I have forgotten the principal object of our conversation, which was to learn what M. le Vicaire-General d’Herblay could have to write to your master about.”

“That is true, monsieur,” said Mousqueton; “the pleasures have misled us. Well, monsieur, this is the whole affair.”

“I am all attention, Mousqueton.”

“On Wednesday----”

“The day of the rustic pleasures?”

“Yes--a letter arrived; he received it from my hands. I had recognized the writing.”

“Well?”

“Monseigneur read it and cried out, ‘Quick, my horses! my arms!’”

“Oh, good Lord! then it was for some duel?” said D’Artagnan.

“No, monsieur, there were only these words: ‘Dear Porthos, set out, if you would wish to arrive before the Equinox. I expect you.’”

“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, thoughtfully, “that was pressing, apparently.”

“I think so; therefore,” continued Mousqueton, “monseigneur set out the very same day with his secretary, in order to endeavor to arrive in time.”

“And did he arrive in time?”

“I hope so. Monseigneur, who is hasty, as you know, monsieur, repeated incessantly, ‘Tonno Dieu! What can this mean? The Equinox? Never mind, a fellow must be well mounted to arrive before I do.’”

“And you think Porthos will have arrived first, do you?” asked D’Artagnan.

“I am sure of it. This Equinox, however rich he may be, has certainly no horses so good as monseigneur’s.”

D’Artagnan repressed his inclination to laugh, because the brevity of Aramis’s letter gave rise to reflection. He followed Mousqueton, or rather Mousqueton’s chariot, to the castle. He sat down to a sumptuous table, of which they did him the honors as to a king. But he could draw nothing from Mousqueton,--the faithful servant seemed to shed tears at will, but that was all.

D’Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed, reflected much upon the meaning of Aramis’s letter; puzzled himself as to the relation of the Equinox with the affairs of Porthos; and being unable to make anything out unless it concerned some amour of the bishop’s, for which it was necessary that the days and nights should be equal, D’Artagnan left Pierrefonds as he had left Melun, as he had left the chateau of the Comte de la Fere. It was not, however, without a melancholy, which might in good sooth pass for one of the most dismal of D’Artagnan’s moods. His head cast down, his eyes fixed, he suffered his legs to hang on each side of his horse, and said to himself, in that vague sort of reverie which ascends sometimes to the sublimest eloquence:

“No more friends! no more future! no more anything! My energies are broken like the bonds of our ancient friendship. Oh, old age is coming, cold and inexorable; it envelops in its funereal crape all that was brilliant, all that was embalming in my youth; then it throws that sweet burthen on its shoulders and carries it away with the rest into the fathomless gulf of death.”

A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave and so strong against all the misfortunes of life; and during some moments the clouds appeared black to him, the earth slippery and full of pits as that of cemeteries.

“Whither am I going?” said he to himself. “What am I going to do! Alone, quite alone--without family, without friends! Bah!” cried he all at once. And he clapped spurs to his horse, who, having found nothing melancholy in the heavy oats of Pierrefonds profited by this permission to show his gayety in a gallop which absorbed two leagues. “To Paris!” said D’Artagnan to himself. And on the morrow he alighted in Paris. He had devoted six days to this journey.

What D’Artagnan went to Paris for

The lieutenant dismounted before a shop in the Rue des Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon d’Or. A man of good appearance, wearing a white apron, and stroking his gray mustache with a large hand, uttered a cry of joy on perceiving the pied horse. “Monsieur le chevalier,” said he, “ah, is that you?”

“Bon jour, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, stooping to enter the shop.

“Quick, somebody,” cried Planchet, “to look after Monsieur d’Artagnan’s horse,--somebody to get ready his room,--somebody to prepare his supper.”

“Thanks, Planchet. Good-day, my children!” said D’Artagnan to the eager boys.

“Allow me to send off this coffee, this treacle, and these raisins,” said Planchet; “they are for the store-room of monsieur le surintendant.”

“Send them off, send them off!”

“That is only the affair of a moment, then we shall sup.”

“Arrange it that we may sup alone; I want to speak to you.”

Planchet looked at his old master in a significant manner.

“Oh, don’t be uneasy, it is nothing unpleasant,” said D’Artagnan .

“So much the better--so much the better!” And Planchet breathed freely again, whilst D’Artagnan seated himself quietly down in the shop, upon a bale of corks, and made a survey of the premises. The shop was well stocked; there was a mingled perfume of ginger, cinnamon, and ground pepper, which made D’Artagnan sneeze. The shop-boy, proud of being in company with so renowned a warrior, of a lieutenant of musketeers, who approached the person of the king, began to work with an enthusiasm which was something like delirium, and to serve the customers with a disdainful haste that was noticed by several.

Planchet put away his money, and made up his accounts, amidst civilities addressed to his former master. Planchet had with his equals the short speech and the haughty familiarity of the rich shopkeeper who serves everybody and waits for nobody. D’Artagnan observed this habit with a pleasure which we shall analyze presently. He saw night come on by degrees, and at length Planchet conducted him to a chamber on the first story, where, amidst bales and chests, a table very nicely set out awaited the two guests.

D’Artagnan took advantage of a moment’s pause to examine the countenance of Planchet, whom he had not seen for a year. The shrewd Planchet had acquired a slight protuberance in front, but his countenance was not puffed. His keen eye still played with facility in its deep-sunk orbit; and fat, which levels all the characteristic saliences of the human face, had not yet touched either his high cheek-bones, the sign of cunning and cupidity, or his pointed chin, the sign of acuteness and perseverance. Planchet reigned with as much majesty in his dining-room as in his shop. He set before his master a frugal, but perfectly Parisian repast: roast meat, cooked at the baker’s, with vegetables, salad, and a dessert borrowed from the shop itself. D’Artagnan was pleased that the grocer had drawn from behind the fagots a bottle of that Anjou wine which during all his life had been D’Artagnan’s favorite wine.

“Formerly, monsieur,” said Planchet, with a smile full of bonhomie, “it was I who drank your wine; now you do me the honor to drink mine.”

“And, thank God, friend Planchet, I shall drink it for a long time to come, I hope; for at present I am free.”

“Free? You have leave of absence, monsieur?”

“Unlimited.”

“You are leaving the service?” said Planchet, stupefied.

“Yes, I am resting.”

“And the king?” cried Planchet, who could not suppose it possible that the king could do without the services of such a man as D’Artagnan.

“The king will try his fortune elsewhere. But we have supped well, you are disposed to enjoy yourself; you invite me to confide in you. Open your ears, then.”

“They are open.” And Planchet, with a laugh more frank than cunning, opened a bottle of white wine.

“Leave me my reason, at least.”

“Oh, as to you losing your head--you, monsieur!”

“Now my head is my own, and I mean to take better care of it than ever. In the first place we shall talk business. How fares our money-box?”

“Wonderfully well, monsieur. The twenty thousand livres I had of you are still employed in my trade, in which they bring me nine per cent. I give you seven, so I gain two by you.”

“And you are still satisfied?”

“Delighted. Have you brought me any more?”

“Better than that. But do you want any?”

“Oh! not at all. Every one is willing to trust me now. I am extending my business.”

“That was your intention.”

“I play the banker a little. I buy goods of my needy brethren; I lend money to those who are not ready for their payments.”

“Without usury?”

“Oh! monsieur, in the course of the last week I have had two meetings on the boulevards, on account of the word you have just pronounced.”

“What?”

“You shall see: it concerned a loan. The borrower gives me in pledge some raw sugars, on condition that I should sell if repayment were not made within a fixed period. I lend a thousand livres. He does not pay me and I sell the sugars for thirteen hundred livres. He learns this and claims a hundred crowns. Ma foi! I refused, pretending that I could not sell them for more than nine hundred livres. He accused me of usury. I begged him to repeat that word to me behind the boulevards. He was an old guard, and he came: and I passed your sword through his left thigh.”

“Tu dieu! what a pretty sort of banker you make!” said D’Artagnan.

“For above thirteen per cent. I fight,” replied Planchet; “that is my character.”

“Take only twelve,” said D’Artagnan, “and call the rest premium and brokerage.”

“You are right, monsieur; but to your business.”

“Ah! Planchet, it is very long and very hard to speak.”

“Do speak it, nevertheless.”

D’Artagnan twisted his mustache like a man embarrassed with the confidence he is about to make and mistrustful of his confidant.

“Is it an investment?” asked Planchet.

“Why, yes.”

“At good profit?”

“A capital profit,--four hundred per cent., Planchet.”

Planchet gave such a blow with his fist upon the table, that the bottles bounded as if they had been frightened.

“Good heavens! is that possible?”

“I think it will be more,” replied D’Artagnan coolly; “but I like to lay it at the lowest!”

“The devil!” said Planchet, drawing nearer. “Why monsieur, that is magnificent! Can one put much money in it?”

“Twenty thousand livres each, Planchet.”

“Why, that is all you have, monsieur. For how long a time?”

“For a month.”

“And that will give us----”

“Fifty thousand livres each, profit.”

“It is monstrous! It is worth while to fight for such interest as that!”

“In fact, I believe it will be necessary to fight not a little,” said D’Artagnan, with the same tranquillity; “but this time there are two of us, Planchet, and I shall take all the blows to myself.”

“Oh! monsieur, I will not allow that.”

“Planchet, you cannot be concerned in it; you would be obliged to leave your business and your family.”

“The affair is not in Paris, then?”

“No.”

“Abroad?”

“In England.”

“A speculative country, that is true,” said Planchet,--“a country that I know well. What sort of an affair, monsieur, without too much curiosity?”

“Planchet, it is a restoration.”

“Of monuments?”

“Yes, of monuments; we shall restore Whitehall.”

“That is important. And in a month, you think?”

“I shall undertake it.”

“That concerns you, monsieur, and when once you are engaged----”

“Yes, that concerns me. I know what I am about; nevertheless, I will freely consult with you.”

“You do me great honor; but I know very little about architecture.”

“Planchet, you are wrong; you are an excellent architect, quite as good as I am, for the case in question.”

“Thanks, monsieur. But your old friends of the musketeers?”

“I have been, I confess, tempted to speak of the thing to those gentlemen, but they are all absent from their houses. It is vexatious, for I know none more bold or more able.”

“Ah! then it appears there will be an opposition, and the enterprise will be disputed?”

“Oh, yes, Planchet, yes.”

“I burn to know the details, monsieur.”

“Here they are, Planchet--close all the doors tight.”

“Yes, monsieur.” And Planchet double-locked them.

“That is well; now draw near.” Planchet obeyed.

“And open the window, because the noise of the passers-by and the carts will deafen all who might hear us.” Planchet opened the window as desired, and the gust of tumult which filled the chamber with cries, wheels, barkings, and steps deafened D’Artagnan himself, as he had wished. He then swallowed a glass of white wine and began in these terms: “Planchet, I have an idea.”

“Ah! monsieur, I recognize you so well in that!” replied Planchet, panting with emotion.

Of the Society which was formed in the Rue des Lombards, at the Sign of the Pilon d’Or, to carry out M. d’Artagnan’s Idea

After a moment’s silence, in which D’Artagnan appeared to be collecting, not one idea, but all his ideas--“It cannot be, my dear Planchet,” said he, “that you have not heard of his majesty Charles I. of England?”

“Alas! yes, monsieur, since you left France in order to assist him, and that, in spite of that assistance, he fell, and was near dragging you down in his fall.”

“Exactly so; I see you have a good memory, Planchet.”

“Peste! the astonishing thing would be, if I could have lost that memory, however bad it might have been. When one has heard Grimaud, who, you know, is not given to talking, relate how the head of King Charles fell, how you sailed the half of a night in a scuttled vessel, and saw floating on the water that good M. Mordaunt with a certain gold-hafted dagger buried in his breast, one is not very likely to forget such things.”

“And yet there are people who forget them, Planchet.”

“Yes, such as have not seen them, or have not heard Grimaud relate them.”

“Well, it is all the better that you recollect all that; I shall only have to remind you of one thing, and that is that Charles I. had a son.”

“Without contradicting you, monsieur, he had two,” said Planchet; “for I saw the second one in Paris, M. le Duke of York, one day, as he was going to the Palais Royal, and I was told that he was not the eldest son of Charles I. As to the eldest, I have the honor of knowing him by name, but not personally.”

“That is exactly the point, Planchet, we must come to: it is to this eldest son, formerly called the Prince of Wales, and who is now styled Charles II., king of England.”

“A king without a kingdom, monsieur,” replied Planchet, sententiously.

“Yes, Planchet, and you may add an unfortunate prince, more unfortunate than the poorest man of the people lost in the worst quarter of Paris.”

Planchet made a gesture full of that sort of compassion which we grant to strangers with whom we think we can never possibly find ourselves in contact. Besides, he did not see in this politico-sentimental operation any sign of the commercial idea of M. d’Artagnan, and it was in this idea that D’Artagnan, who was, from habit, pretty well acquainted with men and things, had principally interested Planchet.

“I am coming to our business. This young Prince of Wales, a king without a kingdom, as you have so well said, Planchet, has interested me. I, D’Artagnan, have seen him begging assistance of Mazarin, who is a miser, and the aid of Louis, who is a child, and it appeared to me, who am acquainted with such things, that in the intelligent eye of the fallen king, in the nobility of his whole person, a nobility apparent above all his miseries, I could discern the stuff of a man and the heart of a king.”

Planchet tacitly approved of all this; but it did not at all, in his eyes at least, throw any light upon D’Artagnan’s idea. The latter continued: “This, then, is the reasoning which I made with myself. Listen attentively, Planchet, for we are coming to the conclusion.”

“I am listening.”

“Kings are not so thickly sown upon the earth, that people can find them whenever they want them. Now, this king without a kingdom is, in my opinion, a grain of seed which will blossom in some season or other, provided a skillful, discreet, and vigorous hand sow it duly and truly, selecting soil, sky, and time.”

Planchet still approved by a nod of his head, which showed that he did not perfectly comprehend all that was said.

“‘Poor little seed of a king,’ said I to myself, and really I was affected, Planchet, which leads me to think I am entering upon a foolish business. And that is why I wished to consult you, my friend.”

Planchet colored with pleasure and pride.

“‘Poor little seed of a king! I will pick you up and cast you into good ground.’”

“Good God!” said Planchet, looking earnestly at his old master, as if in doubt as to the state of his reason.

“Well, what is it?” said D’Artagnan; “who hurts you?”

“Me! nothing, monsieur.”

“You said, ‘Good God!’”

“Did I?”

“I am sure you did. Can you already understand?”

“I confess, M. d’Artagnan, that I am afraid----”

“To understand?”

“Yes.”

“To understand that I wish to replace upon his throne this King Charles II., who has no throne? Is that it?”

Planchet made a prodigious bound in his chair. “Ah, ah!” said he, in evident terror, “that is what you call a restoration!”

“Yes, Planchet; is it not the proper term for it?”

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt! But have you reflected seriously?”

“Upon what?”

“Upon what is going on yonder.”

“Where?”

“In England.”

“And what is that? let us see, Planchet.”

“In the first place, monsieur, I ask your pardon for meddling in these things, which have nothing to do with my trade; but since it is an affair that you propose to me--for you are proposing an affair, are you not?----”

“A superb one, Planchet.”

“But as it is business you propose to me, I have the right to discuss it.”

“Discuss it, Planchet; out of discussion is born light.”

“Well, then, since I have monsieur’s permission, I will tell him that there is yonder, in the first place, the parliament.”

“Well, next?”

“And then the army.”

“Good! Do you see anything else?”

“Why, then the nation.”

“Is that all?”

“The nation which consented to the overthrow and death of the late king, the father of this one, and which will not be willing to belie its acts.”

“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “you argue like a cheese! The nation--the nation is tired of these gentlemen who give themselves such barbarous names, and who sing songs to it. Chanting for chanting, my dear Planchet; I have remarked that nations prefer singing a merry chant to the plain chant. Remember the Fronde; what did they sing in those times? Well those were good times.”

“Not too good, not too good! I was near being hung in those times.”

“Well, but you were not.”

“No.”

“And you laid the foundation of your fortune in the midst of all those songs?”

“That is true.”

“Then you have nothing to say against them.”

“Well, I return, then, to the army and parliament.”

“I say that I borrow twenty thousand livres of M. Planchet, and that I put twenty thousand livres of my own to it, and with these forty thousand livres I raise an army.”

Planchet clasped his hands; he saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest, and, in good truth, he believed his master had lost his senses.

“An army!--ah, monsieur,” said he, with his most agreeable smile, for fear of irritating the madman, and rendering him furious,--“an army!--how many?”

“Of forty men,” said D’Artagnan.

“Forty against forty thousand! that is not enough. I know very well that you, M. d’Artagnan, alone, are equal to a thousand men, but where are we to find thirty-nine men equal to you? Or, if we could find them, who would furnish you with money to pay them?”

“Not bad, Planchet. Ah, the devil! you play the courtier.”

“No, monsieur, I speak what I think, and that is exactly why I say that, in the first pitched battle you fight with your forty men, I am very much afraid----”

“Therefore I shall fight no pitched battles, my dear Planchet,” said the Gascon, laughing. “We have very fine examples in antiquity of skillful retreats and marches, which consisted in avoiding the enemy instead of attacking them. You should know that, Planchet, you who commanded the Parisians the day on which they ought to have fought against the musketeers, and who so well calculated marches and countermarches, that you never left the Palais Royal.”

Planchet could not help laughing. “It is plain,” replied he, “that if your forty men conceal themselves, and are not unskillful, they may hope not to be beaten: but you propose obtaining some result, do you not?”

“No doubt. This, then, in my opinion, is the plan to be proceeded upon in order quickly to replace his majesty Charles II. on his throne.”

“Good!” said Planchet, increasing his attention; “let us see your plan. But in the first place it seems to me we are forgetting something.”

“What is that?”

“We have set aside the nation, which prefers singing merry songs to psalms, and the army, which we will not fight: but the parliament remains, and that seldom sings.”

“Nor does it fight. How is it, Planchet, that an intelligent man like you should take any heed of a set of brawlers who call themselves Rumps and Barebones. The parliament does not trouble me at all, Planchet.”

“As soon as it ceases to trouble you, monsieur, let us pass on.”

“Yes, and arrive at the result. You remember Cromwell, Planchet?”

“I have heard a great deal of talk about him.”

“He was a rough soldier.”

“And a terrible eater, moreover.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Why, at one gulp he swallowed all England.”

“Well, Planchet, the evening before the day on which he swallowed England, if any one had swallowed M. Cromwell?”

“Oh, monsieur, it is one of the axioms of mathematics that the container must be greater than the contained.”

“Very well! That is our affair, Planchet.”

“But M. Cromwell is dead, and his container is now the tomb.”

“My dear Planchet, I see with pleasure that you have not only become a mathematician, but a philosopher.”

“Monsieur, in my grocery business I use much printed paper, and that instructs me.”

“Bravo! You know then, in that case--for you have not learnt mathematics and philosophy without a little history--that after this Cromwell so great, there came one who was very little.”

“Yes; he was named Richard, and he has done as you have, M. d’Artagnan--he has tendered his resignation.”

“Very well said--very well! After the great man who is dead, after the little one who tendered his resignation, there came a third. This one is named Monk; he is an able general, considering he has never fought a battle; he is a skillful diplomatist, considering that he never speaks in public, and that having to say ‘good-day’ to a man, he meditates twelve hours, and ends by saying ‘good-night;’ which makes people exclaim ‘miracle!’ seeing that it falls out correctly.”

“That is rather strong,” said Planchet; “but I know another political man who resembles him very much.”

“M. Mazarin you mean?”

“Himself.”

“You are right, Planchet; only M. Mazarin does not aspire to the throne of France; and that changes everything. Do you see? Well, this M. Monk, who has England ready-roasted in his plate, and who is already opening his mouth to swallow it--this M. Monk, who says to the people of Charles II., and to Charles II. himself, ‘Nescio vos’----”

“I don’t understand English,” said Planchet.

“Yes, but I understand it,” said D’Artagnan. “‘Nescio vos’ means ‘I do not know you.’ This M. Monk, the most important man in England, when he shall have swallowed it----”

“Well?” asked Planchet.

“Well, my friend, I shall go over yonder, and with my forty men, I shall carry him off, pack him up, and bring him into France, where two modes of proceeding present themselves to my dazzled eyes.”

“Oh! and to mine too,” cried Planchet, transported with enthusiasm. “We will put him in a cage and show him for money.”

“Well, Planchet, that is a third plan, of which I had not thought.”

“Do you think it a good one?”

“Yes, certainly, but I think mine better.”

“Let us see yours, then.”

“In the first place, I shall set a ransom on him.”

“Of how much?”

“Peste! a fellow like that must be well worth a hundred thousand crowns.”

“Yes, yes!”

“You see, then--in the first place, a ransom of a hundred thousand crowns.”

“Or else----”

“Or else, what is much better, I deliver him up to King Charles, who, having no longer either a general or an army to fear, nor a diplomatist to trick him, will restore himself, and when once restored, will pay down to me the hundred thousand crowns in question. That is the idea I have formed; what do you say to it, Planchet?”

“Magnificent, monsieur!” cried Planchet, trembling with emotion. “How did you conceive that idea?”

“It came to me one morning on the banks of the Loire, whilst our beloved king, Louis XIV., was pretending to weep upon the hand of Mademoiselle de Mancini.”

“Monsieur, I declare the idea is sublime. But----”

“Ah! is there a but?”

“Permit me! But this is a little like the skin of that fine bear--you know--that they were about to sell, but which it was necessary to take from the back of the living bear. Now, to take M. Monk, there will be a bit of scuffle, I should think.”

“No doubt; but as I shall raise an army to----”

“Yes, yes--I understand, parbleu!--a coup-de-main. Yes, then, monsieur, you will triumph, for no one equals you in such sorts of encounters.”

“I certainly am lucky in them,” said D’Artagnan, with a proud simplicity. “You know that if for this affair I had my dear Athos, my brave Porthos, and my cunning Aramis, the business would be settled; but they are all lost, as it appears, and nobody knows where to find them. I will do it, then, alone. Now, do you find the business good, and the investment advantageous?”

“Too much so--too much so.”

“How can that be?”

“Because fine things never reach the expected point.”

“This is infallible, Planchet, and the proof is that I undertake it. It will be for you a tolerably pretty gain, and for me a very interesting stroke. It will be said, ‘Such was the old age of M. d’Artagnan,’ and I shall hold a place in tales and even in history itself, Planchet. I am greedy of honor.”

“Monsieur,” cried Planchet, “when I think that it is here, in my home, in the midst of my sugar, my prunes, and my cinnamon, that this gigantic project is ripened, my shop seems a palace to me.”

“Beware, beware, Planchet! If the least report of this escapes, there is the Bastile for both of us. Beware, my friend, for this is a plot we are hatching. M. Monk is the ally of M. Mazarin--beware!”

“Monsieur, when a man has had the honor to belong to you, he knows nothing of fear; and when he has the advantage of being bound up in interests with you, he holds his tongue.”

“Very well, that is more your affair than mine, seeing that in a week I shall be in England.”

“Depart, monsieur, depart--the sooner the better.”

“Is the money, then, ready?”

“It will be to-morrow, to-morrow you shall receive it from my own hands. Will you have gold or silver?”

“Gold; that is most convenient. But how are we going to arrange this? Let us see.”

“Oh, good Lord! in the simplest way possible. You shall give me a receipt, that is all.”

“No, no,” said D’Artagnan, warmly; “we must preserve order in all things.”

“That is likewise my opinion; but with you, M. d’Artagnan----”

“And if I should die yonder--if I should be killed by a musket-ball--if I should burst from drinking beer?”

“Monsieur, I beg you to believe that in that case I should be so much afflicted at your death, that I should not think about the money.”

“Thank you, Planchet; but no matter. We shall, like two lawyers’ clerks, draw up together an agreement, a sort of act, which may be called a deed of company.”

“Willingly, monsieur.”

“I know it is difficult to draw such a thing up, but we can try.”

“Let us try, then.” And Planchet went in search of pens, ink, and paper. D’Artagnan took the pen and wrote:--“Between Messire d’Artagnan, ex-lieutenant of the king’s musketeers, at present residing in the Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette; and the Sieur Planchet, grocer, residing in the Rue les Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon d’Or, it has been agreed as follows:--A company, with a capital of forty thousand livres, and formed for the purpose of carrying out an idea conceived by M. d’Artagnan, and the said Planchet approving of it in all points, will place twenty thousand livres in the hands of M. d’Artagnan. He will require neither repayment nor interest before the return of M. d’Artagnan from a journey he is about to take into England. On his part, M. d’Artagnan undertakes to find twenty thousand livres, which he will join to the twenty thousand already laid down by the Sieur Planchet. He will employ the said sum of forty thousand livres according to his judgment in an undertaking which is described below. On the day when M. d’Artagnan shall have re-established, by whatever means, his majesty King Charles II. upon the throne of England, he will pay into the hands of M. Planchet the sum of----”

“The sum of a hundred and fifty thousand livres,” said Planchet, innocently, perceiving that D’Artagnan hesitated.

“Oh, the devil, no!” said D’Artagnan, “the division cannot be made by half; that would not be just.”

“And yet, monsieur; we each lay down half,” objected Planchet, timidly.

“Yes; but listen to this clause, my dear Planchet, and if you do not find it equitable in every respect when it is written, well, we can scratch it out again:--‘Nevertheless, as M. d’Artagnan brings to the association, besides his capital of twenty thousand livres, his time, his idea, his industry and his skin,--things which he appreciates strongly, particularly the last,--M. d’Artagnan will keep, of the three hundred thousand livres two hundred thousand livres for himself, which will make his share two-thirds.”

“Very well,” said Planchet.

“Is it just?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Perfectly just, monsieur.”

“And you will be contented with a hundred thousand livres?”

“Peste! I think so. A hundred thousand for twenty thousand!”

“And in a month, understand.”

“How, in a month?”

“Yes, I only ask one month.”

“Monsieur,” said Planchet, generously, “I give you six weeks.”

“Thank you,” replied the musketeer, politely; after which the two partners reperused their deed.

“That is perfect, monsieur,” said Planchet, “and the late M. Coquenard, the first husband of Madame la Baronne du Vallon, could not have done it better.”

“Do you find it so? Let us sign it, then.” And both affixed their signatures.

“In this fashion,” said D’Artagnan, “I shall be under obligations to no one.”

“But I shall be under obligations to you,” said Planchet.

“No; for whatever store I set by it, Planchet, I may lose my skin yonder, and you will lose all. A propos--peste!--that makes me think of the principal, an indispensable clause. I shall write it:--‘In the case of M. d’Artagnan dying in this enterprise, liquidation will be considered made, and the Sieur Planchet will give quittance from that moment to the shade of Messire d’Artagnan for the twenty thousand livres paid by him into the hands of the said company.’”

This last clause made Planchet knit his brows a little, but when he saw the brilliant eye, the muscular hand, the supple and strong back of his associate, he regained his courage, and, without regret, he at once added another stroke to his signature. D’Artagnan did the same. Thus was drawn the first known company contract; perhaps such things have been abused a little since, both in form and principle.

“Now,” said Planchet, pouring out the last glass of Anjou wine for D’Artagnan,--“now go to sleep, my dear master.”

“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “for the most difficult part now remains to be done, and I will think over that difficult part.”

“Bah!” said Planchet; “I have such great confidence in you, M. d’Artagnan, that I would not give my hundred thousand livres for ninety thousand livres down.”

“And devil take me if I don’t think you are right!” Upon which D’Artagnan took a candle and went up to his bedroom.

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

D’Artagnan reflected to such good purpose during the night that his plan was settled by morning. “This is it,” said he, sitting up in bed, supporting his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand;--“this is it. I shall seek out forty steady, firm men, recruited among people a little compromised, but having habits of discipline. I shall promise them five hundred livres for a month if they return, nothing if they do not return, or half for their kindred. As to food and lodging, that concerns the English, who have cattle in their pastures, bacon in their bacon-racks, fowls in their poultry-yards, and corn in their barns. I will present myself to General Monk with my little body of troops. He will receive me. I shall win his confidence, and take advantage of it, as soon as possible.”

But without going farther, D’Artagnan shook his head and interrupted himself. “No,” said he; “I should not dare to relate this to Athos; the way is therefore not honorable. I must use violence,” continued he,--“very certainly I must, but without compromising my loyalty. With forty men I will traverse the country as a partisan. But if I fall in with, not forty thousand English, as Planchet said, but purely and simply with four hundred, I shall be beaten. Supposing that among my forty warriors there should be found at least ten stupid ones--ten who will allow themselves to be killed one after the other, from mere folly? No; it is, in fact, impossible to find forty men to be depended upon--they do not exist. I must learn how to be contented with thirty. With ten men less I should have the right of avoiding any armed encounter, on account of the small number of my people; and if the encounter should take place, my chance is better with thirty men than forty. Besides, I should save five thousand francs; that is to say, the eighth of my capital; that is worth the trial. This being so, I should have thirty men. I shall divide them into three bands,--we will spread ourselves about over the country, with an injunction to reunite at a given moment; in this fashion, ten by ten, we should excite no suspicion--we should pass unperceived. Yes, yes, thirty--that is a magic number. There are three tens--three, that divine number! And then, truly, a company of thirty men, when all together, will look rather imposing. Ah! stupid wretch that I am!” continued D’Artagnan, “I want thirty horses. That is ruinous. Where the devil was my head when I forgot the horses? We cannot, however, think of striking such a blow without horses. Well, so be it, that sacrifice must be made; we can get the horses in the country--they are not bad, besides. But I forgot--peste! Three bands--that necessitates three leaders; there is the difficulty. Of the three commanders I have already one--that is myself;--yes, but the two others will of themselves cost almost as much money as all the rest of the troop. No; positively I must have but one lieutenant. In that ease, then, I should reduce my troop to twenty men. I know very well that twenty men is but very little; but since with thirty I was determined not to seek to come to blows, I should do so more carefully still with twenty. Twenty--that is a round number; that, besides, reduces the number of the horses by ten, which is a consideration; and then, with a good lieutenant--Mordioux! what things patience and calculation are! Was I not going to embark with forty men, and I have now reduced them to twenty for an equal success? Ten thousand livres saved at one stroke, and more safety; that is well! Now, then, let us see; we have nothing to do but to find this lieutenant--let him be found, then; and after--That is not so easy; he must be brave and good, a second myself. Yes, but a lieutenant must have my secret, and as that secret is worth a million, and I shall only pay my man a thousand livres, fifteen hundred at the most, my man will sell the secret to Monk. Mordioux! no lieutenant. Besides, this man, were he as mute as a disciple of Pythagoras,--this man would be sure to have in the troop some favourite soldier, whom he would make his sergeant, the sergeant would penetrate the secret of the lieutenant, in case the latter should be honest and unwilling to sell it. Then the sergeant, less honest and less ambitious, will give up the whole for fifty thousand livres. Come, come! that is impossible. The lieutenant is impossible. But then I must have no fractions; I cannot divide my troop into two, and act upon two points, at once, without another self, who--But what is the use of acting upon two points, as we have only one man to take? What can be the good of weakening a corps by placing the right here, and the left there? A single corps--Mordioux! a single one, and that commanded by D’Artagnan. Very well. But twenty men marching in one band are suspected by everybody; twenty horsemen must not be seen marching together, or a company will be detached against them and the password will be required; the which company, upon seeing them embarrassed to give it, would shoot M. d’Artagnan and his men like so many rabbits. I reduce myself then to ten men; in this fashion I shall act simply and with unity; I shall be forced to be prudent, which is half the success in an affair of the kind I am undertaking; a greater number might, perhaps, have drawn me into some folly. Ten horses are not many, either to buy or take. A capital idea; what tranquillity it infuses into my mind! no more suspicions--no passwords--no more dangers! Ten men, they are valets or clerks. Ten men, leading ten horses laden with merchandise of whatever kind, are tolerated, well received everywhere. Ten men travel on account of the house of Planchet & Co., of France--nothing can be said against that. These ten men, clothed like manufacturers, have a good cutlass or a good musket at their saddle-bow, and a good pistol in the holster. They never allow themselves to be uneasy, because they have no evil designs. They are, perhaps, in truth, a little disposed to be smugglers, but what harm is in that? Smuggling is not, like polygamy, a hanging offense. The worst that can happen to us is the confiscation of our merchandise. Our merchandise confiscated--fine affair that! Come, come! it is a superb plan. Ten men only--ten men, whom I will engage for my service; ten men who shall be as resolute as forty, who would cost me four times as much, and to whom, for greater security, I will never open my mouth as to my designs, and to whom I shall only say, ‘My friends, there is a blow to be struck.’ Things being after this fashion, Satan will be very malicious if he plays me one of his tricks. Fifteen thousand livres saved--that’s superb--out of twenty!”

Thus fortified by his laborious calculations, D’Artagnan stopped at this plan, and determined to change nothing in it. He had already on a list furnished by his inexhaustible memory, ten men illustrious amongst the seekers of adventures, ill-treated by fortune, and not on good terms with justice. Upon this D’Artagnan rose, and instantly set off on the search, telling Planchet not to expect him to breakfast, and perhaps not to dinner. A day and a half spent in rummaging amongst certain dens of Paris sufficed for his recruiting; and, without allowing his adventurers to communicate with each other, he had picked up and got together, in less than thirty hours, a charming collection of ill-looking faces, speaking a French less pure than the English they were about to attempt. These men were, for the most part, guards, whose merit D’Artagnan had had an opportunity of appreciating in various encounters, whom drunkenness, unlucky sword-thrusts, unexpected winnings at play, or the economical reforms of Mazarin, had forced to seek shade and solitude, those two great consolers of irritated and chafing spirits. They bore upon their countenances and in their vestments the traces of the heartaches they had undergone. Some had their visages scarred,--all had their clothes in rags. D’Artagnan comforted the most needy of these brotherly miseries by a prudent distribution of the crowns of the society; then, having taken care that these crowns should be employed in the physical improvement of the troop, he appointed a trysting place in the north of France, between Berghes and Saint Omer. Six days were allowed as the utmost term, and D’Artagnan was sufficiently acquainted with the good-will, the good-humor, and the relative probity of these illustrious recruits, to be certain that not one of them would fail in his appointment. These orders given, this rendezvous fixed, he went to bid farewell to Planchet, who asked news of his army. D’Artagnan did not think proper to inform him of the reduction he had made in his personnel. He feared that the confidence of his associate would be abated by such an avowal. Planchet was delighted to learn that the army was levied, and that he (Planchet) found himself a kind of half king, who from his throne-counter kept in pay a body of troops destined to make war against perfidious Albion, that enemy of all true French hearts. Planchet paid down in double louis, twenty thousand livres to D’Artagnan, on the part of himself (Planchet), and twenty thousand livres, still in double louis, in account with D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan placed each of the twenty thousand francs in a bag, and weighing a hag in each hand,--“This money is very embarrassing, my dear Planchet,” said he. “Do you know this weighs thirty pounds?”

“Bah! your horse will carry that like a feather.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “Don’t tell me such things, Planchet: a horse overloaded with thirty pounds, in addition to the rider and his portmanteau, cannot cross a river so easily--cannot leap over a wall or ditch so lightly; and the horse failing, the horseman fails. It is true that you, Planchet, who have served in the infantry, may not be aware of all that.”

“Then what is to be done, monsieur?” said Planchet, greatly embarrassed.

“Listen to me,” said D’Artagnan. “I will pay my army on its return home. Keep my half of twenty thousand livres, which you can use during that time.”

“And my half?” said Planchet.

“I shall take that with me.”

“Your confidence does me honor,” said Planchet: “but supposing you should not return?”

“That is possible, though not very probable. Then, Planchet, in case I should not return--give me a pen! I will make my will.” D’Artagnan took a pen and some paper, and wrote upon a plain sheet,--“I, D’Artagnan, possess twenty thousand livres, laid up cent by cent during thirty years that I have been in the service of his majesty the king of France. I leave five thousand to Athos, five thousand to Porthos and five thousand to Aramis, that they may give the said sums in my name and their own to my young friend Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne. I give the remaining five thousand to Planchet, that he may distribute the fifteen thousand with less regret among my friends. With which purpose I sign these presents.--D’Artagnan.

Planchet appeared very curious to know what D’Artagnan had written.

“Here,” said the musketeer, “read it”

On reading the last lines the tears came into Planchet’s eyes. “You think, then, that I would not have given the money without that? Then I will have none of your five thousand francs.”

D’Artagnan smiled. “Accept it, accept it, Planchet; and in that way you will only lose fifteen thousand francs instead of twenty thousand, and you will not be tempted to disregard the signature of your master and friend, by losing nothing at all.”

How well that dear Monsieur d’Artagnan knew the hearts of men and grocers! They who have pronounced Don Quixote mad because he rode out to the conquest of an empire with nobody but Sancho, his squire, and they who have pronounced Sancho mad because he accompanied his master in his attempt to conquer the said empire,--they certainly will have no hesitation in extending the same judgment to D’Artagnan and Planchet. And yet the first passed for one of the most subtle spirits among the astute spirits of the court of France. As to the second, he had acquired by good right the reputation of having one of the longest heads among the grocers of the Rue des Lombards; consequently of Paris, and consequently of France. Now, to consider these two men from the point of view from which you would consider other men, and the means by the aid of which they contemplated to restore a monarch to his throne, compared with other means, the shallowest brains of the country where brains are most shallow must have revolted against the presumptuous madness of the lieutenant and the stupidity of his associate. Fortunately, D’Artagnan was not a man to listen to the idle talk of those around him, or to the comments that were made on himself. He had adopted the motto, “Act well, and let people talk.” Planchet on his part, had adopted this, “Act and say nothing.” It resulted from this, that, according to the custom of all superior geniuses, these two men flattered themselves intra pectus, with being in the right against all who found fault with them.

As a beginning, D’Artagnan set out in the finest of possible weather, without a cloud in the heavens--without a cloud on his mind, joyous and strong, calm and decided, great in his resolution, and consequently carrying with him a tenfold dose of that potent fluid which the shocks of mind cause to spring from the nerves, and which procure for the human machine a force and an influence of which future ages will render, according to all probability, a more arithmetical account than we can possibly do at present. He was again, as in times past, on that same road of adventures which had led him to Boulogne, and which he was now traveling for the fourth time. It appeared to him that he could almost recognize the trace of his own steps upon the road, and that of his first upon the doors of the hostelries;--his memory, always active and present, brought back that youth which neither thirty years later his great heart nor his wrist of steel would have belied. What a rich nature was that of this man! He had all the passions, all the defects, all the weaknesses, and the spirit of contradiction familiar to his understanding changed all these imperfections into corresponding qualities. D’Artagnan, thanks to his ever active imagination, was afraid of a shadow; and ashamed of being afraid, he marched straight up to that shadow, and then became extravagant in his bravery if the danger proved to be real. Thus everything in him was emotion, and therefore enjoyment. He loved the society of others, but never became tired of his own; and more than once, if he could have been heard when he was alone, he might have been seen laughing at the jokes he related to himself or the tricks his imagination created just five minutes before ennui might have been looked for. D’Artagnan was not perhaps so gay this time as he would have been with the prospect of finding some good friends at Calais, instead of joining the ten scamps there; melancholy, however, did not visit him more than once a day, and it was about five visits that he received from that somber deity before he got sight of the sea at Boulogne, and then these visits were indeed but short. But when once D’Artagnan found himself near the field of action, all other feelings but that of confidence disappeared never to return. From Boulogne he followed the coast to Calais. Calais was the place of general rendezvous, and at Calais he had named to each of his recruits the hostelry of “Le Grand Monarque,” where living was not extravagant, where sailors messed, and where men of the sword, with sheath of leather, be it understood, found lodging, table, food, and all the comforts of life, for thirty sous per diem. D’Artagnan proposed to himself to take them by surprise in flagrante delicto of wandering life, and to judge by the first appearance if he could count on them as trusty companions.

He arrived at Calais at half past four in the afternoon.

D’Artagnan travels for the House of Planchet and Company

The hostelry of “Le Grand Monarque” was situated in a little street parallel to the port without looking out upon the port itself. Some lanes cut--as steps cut the two parallels of the ladder--the two great straight lines of the port and the street. By these lanes passengers came suddenly from the port into the street, or from the street on to the port. D’Artagnan, arrived at the port, took one of these lanes, and came out in front of the hostelry of “Le Grand Monarque.” The moment was well chosen and might remind D’Artagnan of his start in life at the hostelry of the “Franc-Meunier” at Meung. Some sailors who had been playing at dice had started a quarrel, and were threatening each other furiously. The host, hostess, and two lads were watching with anxiety the circle of these angry gamblers, from the midst of which war seemed ready to break forth, bristling with knives and hatchets. The play, nevertheless, was continued. A stone bench was occupied by two men, who appeared thence to watch the door; four tables, placed at the back of the common chamber, were occupied by eight other individuals. Neither the men at the door, nor those at the tables, took any part in the play or the quarrel. D’Artagnan recognized his ten men in these cold, indifferent spectators. The quarrel went on increasing. Every passion has, like the sea, its tide which ascends and descends. Reaching the climax of passion, one sailor overturned the table and the money which was upon it. The table fell, and the money rolled about. In an instant all belonging to the hostelry threw themselves upon the stakes, and many a piece of silver was picked up by people who stole away whilst the sailors were scuffling with each other.

The two men on the bench and the eight at the tables, although they seemed perfect strangers to each other, these ten men alone, we say, appeared to have agreed to remain impassible amidst the cries of fury and the chinking of money. Two only contented themselves with pushing with their feet combatants who came under their table. Two others, rather than take part in this disturbance, buried their hands in their pockets; and another two jumped upon the table they occupied, as people do to avoid being submerged by overflowing water.

“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan to himself, not having lost one of the details we have related, “this is a very fair gathering--circumspect, calm, accustomed to disturbance, acquainted with blows! Peste! I have been lucky.”

All at once his attention was called to a particular part of the room. The two men who had pushed the strugglers with their feet were assailed with abuse by the sailors, who had become reconciled. One of them, half drunk with passion, and quite drunk with beer, came, in a menacing manner, to demand of the shorter of these two sages by what right he had touched with his foot creatures of the good God, who were not dogs. And whilst putting this question, in order to make it more direct, he applied his great fist to the nose of D’Artagnan’s recruit.

This man became pale, without its being to be discerned whether his pallor arose from anger or from fear; seeing which, the sailor concluded it was from fear, and raised his fist with the manifest intention of letting it fall upon the head of the stranger. But though the threatened man did not appear to move, he dealt the sailor such a severe blow in the stomach that he sent him rolling and howling to the other side of the room. At the same instant, rallied by the esprit de corps, all the comrades of the conquered man fell upon the conqueror.

The latter, with the same coolness of which he had given proof, without committing the imprudence of touching his weapons, took up a beer-pot with a pewter-lid, and knocked down two or three of his assailants; then, as he was about to yield to numbers, the seven other silent men at the tables, who had not stirred, perceived that their cause was at stake, and came to the rescue. At the same time, the two indifferent spectators at the door turned round with frowning brows, indicating their evident intention of taking the enemy in the rear, if the enemy did not cease their aggressions.

The host, his helpers, and two watchmen who were passing, and who from curiosity had penetrated too far into the room, were mixed up in the tumult and showered with blows. The Parisians hit like Cyclops, with an ensemble and a tactic delightful to behold. At length, obliged to beat a retreat before superior numbers, they formed an intrenchment behind the large table, which they raised by main force; whilst the two others, arming themselves each with a trestle, and using it like a great sledge-hammer, knocked down at a blow eight sailors upon whose heads they had brought their monstrous catapult in play. The floor was already strewn with wounded, and the room filled with cries and dust, when D’Artagnan, satisfied with the test, advanced, sword in hand, and striking with the pommel every head that came in his way, he uttered a vigorous hola! which put an instantaneous end to the conflict. A great backflood directly took place from the center to the sides of the room, so that D’Artagnan found himself isolated and dominator.

“What is all this about?” then demanded he of the assembly, with the majestic tone of Neptune pronouncing the Quos ego.

At the very instant, at the first sound of his voice, to carry on the Virgilian metaphor, D’Artagnan’s recruits, recognizing each his sovereign lord, discontinued their plank-fighting and trestle blows. On their side, the sailors, seeing that long naked sword, that martial air, and the agile arm which came to the rescue of their enemies, in the person of a man who seemed accustomed to command, the sailors picked up their wounded and their pitchers. The Parisians wiped their brows, and viewed their leader with respect. D’Artagnan was loaded with thanks by the host of “Le Grand Monarque.” He received them like a man who knows that nothing is being offered that does not belong to him, and then said he would go and walk upon the port till supper was ready. Immediately each of the recruits, who understood the summons, took his hat, brushed the dust off his clothes, and followed D’Artagnan. But D’Artagnan whilst walking and observing, took care not to stop; he directed his course towards the downs, and the ten men--surprised at finding themselves going in the track of each other, uneasy at seeing on their right, on their left, and behind them, companions upon whom they had not reckoned--followed him, casting furtive glances at each other. It was not till he had arrived at the hollow part of the deepest down that D’Artagnan, smiling to see them outdone, turned towards them, making a friendly sign with his hand.

“Eh! come, come, gentlemen,” said he, “let us not devour each other; you are made to live together, to understand each other in all respects, and not to devour one another.”

Instantly all hesitation ceased; the men breathed as if they had been taken out of a coffin, and examined each other complacently. After this examination they turned their eyes towards their leader, who had long been acquainted with the art of speaking to men of that class, and who improvised the following little speech, pronounced with an energy truly Gascon:

“Gentlemen, you all know who I am. I have engaged you from knowing you to be brave, and willing to associate you with me in a glorious enterprise. Imagine that in laboring for me you labor for the king. I only warn you that if you allow anything of this supposition to appear, I shall be forced to crack your skulls immediately, in the manner most convenient to me. You are not ignorant, gentlemen, that state secrets are like a mortal poison: as long as that poison is in its box and the box is closed, it is not injurious; out of the box, it kills. Now draw near and you shall know as much of this secret as I am able to tell you.” All drew close to him with an expression of curiosity. “Approach,” continued D’Artagnan, “and let not the bird which passes over our heads, the rabbit which sports on the downs, the fish which bounds from the waters, hear us. Our business is to learn and to report to monsieur le surintendant of the finances to what extent English smuggling is injurious to the French merchants. I shall enter every place, and see everything. We are poor Picard fishermen, thrown upon the coast by a storm. It is certain that we must sell fish, neither more nor less, like true fishermen. Only people might guess who we are, and might molest us; it is therefore necessary that we should be in a condition to defend ourselves. And this is why I have selected men of spirit and courage. We shall lead a steady life, and not incur much danger; seeing that we have behind us a powerful protector, thanks to whom no embarrassment is possible. One thing alone puzzles me; but I hope that after a short explanation, you will relieve me from that difficulty. The thing which puzzles me is taking with me a crew of stupid fishermen, which crew will annoy me immensely, whilst if, by chance, there were among you any who have seen the sea----”

“Oh! don’t let that trouble you,” said one of the recruits; “I was a prisoner among the pirates of Tunis three years, and can maneuver a boat like an admiral.”

“See,” said D’Artagnan, “what an admirable thing chance is!” D’Artagnan pronounced these words with an indefinable tone of feigned bonhomie, for he knew very well that the victim of pirates was an old corsair, and had engaged him in consequence of that knowledge. But D’Artagnan never said more than there was need to say, in order to leave people in doubt. He paid himself with the explanation, and welcomed the effect, without appearing to be preoccupied with the cause.

“And I,” said a second, “I, by chance, had an uncle who directed the works of the port of La Rochelle. When quite a child, I played about the boats, and I know how to handle an oar or a sail as well as the best Ponantais sailor.” The latter did not lie much more than the first, for he had rowed on board his majesty’s galleys six years, at Ciotat. Two others were more frank: they confessed honestly that they had served on board a vessel as soldiers on punishment, and did not blush for it. D’Artagnan found himself, then, the leader of ten men of war and four sailors, having at once a land army and a sea force, which would have earned the pride of Planchet to its height, if Planchet had known the details.

Nothing was now left but arranging the general orders, and D’Artagnan gave them with precision. He enjoined his men to be ready to set out for the Hague, some following the coast which leads to Breskens, others the road to Antwerp. The rendezvous was given, by calculating each day’s march, a fortnight from that time upon the chief place at the Hague. D’Artagnan recommended his men to go in couples, as they liked best, from sympathy. He himself selected from among those with the least disreputable look, two guards whom he had formerly known, and whose only faults were being drunkards and gamblers. These men had not entirely lost all ideas of civilization, and under proper garments their hearts would beat again. D’Artagnan, not to create any jealousy with the others, made the rest go forward. He kept his two selected ones, clothed them from his own wardrobe, and set out with them.

It was to these two, whom he seemed to honor with an absolute confidence, that D’Artagnan imparted a false secret, destined to secure the success of the expedition. He confessed to them that the object was not to learn to what extent the French merchants were injured by English smuggling, but to learn how far French smuggling could annoy English trade. These men appeared convinced; they were effectively so. D’Artagnan was quite sure that at the first debauch when thoroughly drunk, one of the two would divulge the secret to the whole band. His game appeared infallible.

A fortnight after all we have said had taken place at Calais, the whole troop assembled at the Hague.

Then D’Artagnan perceived that all his men, with remarkable intelligence, had already travestied themselves into sailors, more or less ill-treated by the sea. D’Artagnan left them to sleep in a den in Newkerke street, whilst he lodged comfortably upon the Grand Canal. He learned that the king of England had come back to his old ally, William II. of Nassau, stadtholder of Holland. He learned also that the refusal of Louis XIV. had a little cooled the protection afforded him up to that time, and in consequence he had gone to reside in a little village house at Scheveningen, situated in the downs, on the sea-shore, about a league from the Hague.

There, it was said, the unfortunate banished king consoled himself in his exile, by looking, with the melancholy peculiar to the princes of his race, at that immense North Sea, which separated him from his England, as it had formerly separated Mary Stuart from France. There behind the trees of the beautiful wood of Scheveningen on the fine sand upon which grows the golden broom of the down, Charles II. vegetated as it did, more unfortunate, for he had life and thought, and he hoped and despaired by turns.

D’Artagnan went once as far as Scheveningen, in order to be certain that all was true that was said of the king. He beheld Charles II., pensive and alone, coming out of a little door opening into the wood, and walking on the beach in the setting sun, without even attracting the attention of the fishermen, who, on their return in the evening, drew, like the ancient mariners of the Archipelago, their barks up upon the sand of the shore.

D’Artagnan recognized the king; he saw him fix his melancholy look upon the immense extent of the waters, and absorb upon his pale countenance the red rays of the sun already cut by the black line of the horizon. Then Charles returned to his isolated abode, always alone, slow and sad, amusing himself with making the friable and moving sand creak beneath his feet.

That very evening D’Artagnan hired for a thousand livres a fishing-boat worth four thousand. He paid a thousand livres down, and deposited the three thousand with a Burgomaster, after which he brought on board without their being seen, the ten men who formed his land army; and with the rising tide, at three o’clock in the morning, he got into the open sea, maneuvering ostensibly with the four others, and depending upon the science of his galley slave as upon that of the first pilot of the port.

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

While kings and men were thus occupied with England, which governed itself quite alone, and which, it must be said in its praise, had never been so badly governed, a man upon whom God had fixed his eye, and placed his finger, a man predestined to write his name in brilliant letters upon the page of history, was pursuing in the face of the world a work full of mystery and audacity. He went on, and no one knew whither he meant to go, although not only England, but France, and Europe, watched him marching with a firm step and head held high. All that was known of this man we are about to tell.

Monk had just declared himself in favor of the liberty of the Rump Parliament, a parliament which General Lambert, imitating Cromwell, whose lieutenant he had been, had just blocked up so closely, in order to bring it to his will, that no member, during all the blockade, was able to go out, and only one, Peter Wentworth, had been able to get in.

Lambert and Monk--everything was summed up in these two men; the first representing military despotism, the second pure republicanism. These men were the two sole political representatives of that revolution in which Charles I. had first lost his crown, and afterwards his head. As regarded Lambert, he did not dissemble his views; he sought to establish a military government, and to be himself the head of that government.

Monk, a rigid republican, some said, wished to maintain the Rump Parliament, that visible though degenerated representative of the republic. Monk, artful and ambitious, said others, wished simply to make of this parliament, which he affected to protect, a solid step by which to mount the throne which Cromwell had left empty, but upon which he had never dared to take his seat.

Thus Lambert by persecuting the parliament, and Monk by declaring for it, had mutually proclaimed themselves enemies of each other. Monk and Lambert, therefore, had at first thought of creating an army each for himself: Monk in Scotland, where were the Presbyterians and the royalists, that is to say, the malcontents; Lambert in London, where was found, as is always the case, the strongest opposition to the existing power which it had beneath its eyes.

Monk had pacified Scotland, he had there formed for himself an army, and found an asylum. The one watched the other. Monk knew that the day was not yet come, the day marked by the Lord for a great change; his sword, therefore, appeared glued to the sheath. Inexpugnable, in his wild and mountainous Scotland, an absolute general, king of an army of eleven thousand old soldiers, whom he had more than once led on to victory; as well informed, nay, even better, of the affairs of London, than Lambert, who held garrison in the city,--such was the position of Monk, when, at a hundred leagues from London, he declared himself for the parliament. Lambert, on the contrary, as we have said, lived in the capital. That was the center of all his operations, and he there collected around him all his friends, and all the people of the lower class, eternally inclined to cherish the enemies of constituted power.

It was then in London that Lambert learnt the support that, from the frontiers of Scotland, Monk lent to the parliament. He judged there was no time to be lost, and that the Tweed was not so far distant from the Thames that an army could not march from one river to the other, particularly when it was well commanded. He knew, besides, that as fast as the soldiers of Monk penetrated into England, they would form on their route that ball of snow, the emblem of the globe of fortune, which is for the ambitious nothing but a step growing unceasingly higher to conduct him to his object. He got together, therefore, his army, formidable at the same time for its composition and its numbers, and hastened to meet Monk, who, on his part, like a prudent navigator sailing amidst rocks, advanced by very short marches, listening to the reports and scenting the air which came from London.

The two armies came in sight of each other near Newcastle, Lambert, arriving first, encamped in the city itself. Monk, always circumspect, stopped where he was, and placed his general quarters at Coldstream, on the Tweed. The sight of Lambert spread joy through Monk’s army, whilst, on the contrary, the sight of Monk threw disorder into Lambert’s army. It might have been thought that these intrepid warriors, who had made such a noise in the streets of London, had set out with the hopes of meeting no one, and that now seeing that they had met an army, and that that army hoisted before them not only a standard, but still further, a cause and a principle,--it might have been believed, we say, that these intrepid warriors had begun to reflect, that they were less good republicans than the soldiers of Monk, since the latter supported the parliament; whilst Lambert supported nothing, not even himself.

As to Monk, if he had had to reflect, or if he did reflect, it must have been after a sad fashion, for history relates--and that modest dame, it is well known, never lies--history relates, that the day of his arrival at Coldstream search was made in vain throughout the place for a single sheep.

If Monk had commanded an English army, that was enough to have brought about a general desertion. But it is not with the Scotch as it is with the English, to whom that fluid flesh which is called blood is a paramount necessity; the Scotch, a poor and sober race, live upon a little barley crushed between two stones, diluted with the water of the fountain, and cooked upon another stone, heated.

The Scotch, their distribution of barley being made, cared very little whether there was or was not any meat in Coldstream. Monk, little accustomed to barley-cakes, was hungry, and his staff, at least as hungry as himself, looked with anxiety right and left, to know what was being prepared for supper.

Monk ordered search to be made; his scouts had on arriving in the place found it deserted and the cupboards empty; upon butchers and bakers it was of no use depending in Coldstream. The smallest morsel of bread, then, could not be found for the general’s table.

As accounts succeeded each other, all equally unsatisfactory, Monk, seeing terror and discouragement upon every face, declared that he was not hungry; besides they should eat on the morrow, since Lambert was there probably with the intention of giving battle, and consequently would give up his provisions, if he were forced from Newcastle, or forever to relieve Monk’s soldiers from hunger if he conquered.

This consolation was only efficacious upon a very small number; but of what importance was it to Monk? for Monk was very absolute, under the appearance of the most perfect mildness. Every one, therefore, was obliged to be satisfied, or at least to appear so. Monk quite as hungry as his people, but affecting perfect indifference for the absent mutton, cut a fragment of tobacco, half an inch long, from the carotte of a sergeant who formed part of his suite, and began to masticate the said fragment, assuring his lieutenants that hunger was a chimera, and that, besides, people were never hungry when they had anything to chew.

This joke satisfied some of those who had resisted Monk’s first deduction drawn from the neighborhood of Lambert’s army; the number of the dissentients diminished greatly; the guard took their posts, the patrols began, and the general continued his frugal repast beneath his open tent.

Between his camp and that of the enemy stood an old abbey, of which, at the present day, there only remain some ruins, but which then was in existence, and was called Newcastle Abbey. It was built upon a vast site, independent at once of the plain and of the river, because it was almost a marsh fed by springs and kept up by rains. Nevertheless, in the midst of these pools of water, covered with long grass, rushes, and reeds, were seen solid spots of ground, formerly used as the kitchen-garden, the park, the pleasure-gardens, and other dependencies of the abbey, looking like one of those great sea-spiders, whose body is round, whilst the claws go diverging round from this circumference.

The kitchen-garden, one of the longest claws of the abbey, extended to Monk’s camp. Unfortunately it was, as we have said, early in June, and the kitchen-garden, being abandoned, offered no resources.

Monk had ordered this spot to be guarded, as most subject to surprises. The fires of the enemy’s general were plainly to be perceived on the other side of the abbey. But between these fires and the abbey extended the Tweed, unfolding its luminous scales beneath the thick shade of tall green oaks. Monk was perfectly well acquainted with this position, Newcastle and its environs having already more than once been his headquarters. He knew that by day his enemy might without doubt throw a few scouts into these ruins and promote a skirmish, but that by night he would take care to abstain from such a risk. He felt himself, therefore, in security.

Thus his soldiers saw him, after what he boastingly called his supper--that is to say, after the exercise of mastication reported by us at the commencement of this chapter--like Napoleon on the eve of Austerlitz, seated asleep in his rush chair, half beneath the light of his lamp, half beneath the reflection of the moon, commencing its ascent in the heavens, which denoted that it was nearly half past nine in the evening. All at once Monk was roused from his half sleep, fictitious perhaps, by a troop of soldiers, who came with joyous cries, and kicked the poles of his tent with a humming noise as if on purpose to wake him. There was no need of so much noise; the general opened his eyes quickly.

“Well, my children, what is going on now?” asked the general.

“General!” replied several voices at once, “General! you shall have some supper.”

“I have had my supper, gentlemen,” replied he, quietly, “and was comfortably digesting it, as you see. But come in, and tell me what brings you hither.”

“Good news, general.”

“Bah! Has Lambert sent us word that he will fight to-morrow?”

“No, but we have just captured a fishing-boat conveying fish to Newcastle.”

“And you have done very wrong, my friends. These gentlemen from London are delicate, must have their first course; you will put them sadly out of humor this evening, and to-morrow they will be pitiless. It would really be in good taste to send back to Lambert both his fish and his fishermen, unless----” and the general reflected an instant.

“Tell me,” continued he, “what are these fishermen, if you please?”

“Some Picard seamen who were fishing on the coasts of France or Holland, and who have been thrown upon ours by a gale of wind.”

“Do any among them speak our language?”

“The leader spoke some few words of English.”

The mistrust of the general was awakened in proportion as fresh information reached him. “That is well,” said he. “I wish to see these men, bring them to me.”

An officer immediately went to fetch them.

“How many are there of them?” continued Monk; “and what is their vessel?”

“There are ten or twelve of them, general, and they were aboard of a kind of chasse-maree, as it is called--Dutch-built, apparently.”

“And you say they were carrying fish to Lambert’s camp?”

“Yes, general, and they seem to have had good luck in their fishing.”

“Humph! we shall see that,” said Monk.

At this moment the officer returned, bringing the leader of the fishermen with him. He was a man from fifty to fifty-five years old, but good-looking for his age. He was of middle height, and wore a justaucorps of coarse wool, a cap pulled down over his eyes, a cutlass hung from his belt, and he walked with the hesitation peculiar to sailors, who, never knowing, thanks to the movement of the vessel, whether their foot will be placed upon the plank or upon nothing, give to every one of their steps a fall as firm as if they were driving a pile. Monk, with an acute and penetrating look, examined the fisherman for some time, while the latter smiled, with that smile half cunning, half silly, peculiar to French peasants.

“Do you speak English?” asked Monk, in excellent French.

“Ah! but badly, my lord,” replied the fisherman.

This reply was made much more with the lively and sharp accentuation of the people beyond the Loire, than with the slightly-drawling accent of the countries of the west and north of France.

“But you do speak it?” persisted Monk, in order to examine his accent once more.

“Eh! we men of the sea,” replied the fisherman, “speak a little of all languages.”

“Then you are a sea fisherman?”

“I am at present, my lord--a fisherman, and a famous fisherman too. I have taken a barbel that weighs at least thirty pounds, and more than fifty mullets; I have also some little whitings that will fry beautifully.”

“You appear to me to have fished more frequently in the Gulf of Gascony than in the Channel,” said Monk, smiling.

“Well, I am from the south; but does that prevent me from being a good fisherman, my lord?”

“Oh! not at all; I shall buy your fish. And now speak frankly; for whom did you destine them?”

“My lord, I will conceal nothing from you. I was going to Newcastle, following the coast, when a party of horsemen who were passing along in an opposite direction made a sign to my bark to turn back to your honor’s camp, under penalty of a discharge of musketry. As I was not armed for fighting,” added the fisherman, smiling, “I was forced to submit.”

“And why did you go to Lambert’s camp in preference to mine?”

“My lord, I will be frank; will your lordship permit me?”

“Yes, and even if need be shall command you to be so.”

“Well, my lord, I was going to M. Lambert’s camp because those gentlemen from the city pay well--whilst your Scotchmen, Puritans, Presbyterians, Covenanters, or whatever you choose to call them, eat but little, and pay for nothing.”

Monk shrugged his shoulders, without, however, being able to refrain from smiling at the same time. “How is it that, being from the south, you come to fish on our coasts?”

“Because I have been fool enough to marry in Picardy.”

“Yes; but even Picardy is not England.”

“My lord, man shoves his boat into the sea, but God and the wind do the rest, and drive the boat where they please.”

“You had, then, no intention of landing on our coasts?”

“Never.”

“And what route were you steering?”

“We were returning from Ostend, where some mackerel had already been seen, when a sharp wind from the south drove us from our course; then, seeing that it was useless to struggle against it, we let it drive us. It then became necessary, not to lose our fish, which were good, to go and sell them at the nearest English port, and that was Newcastle. We were told the opportunity was good, as there was an increase of population in the camp, an increase of population in the city; both, we were told, were full of gentlemen, very rich and very hungry. So we steered our course towards Newcastle.”

“And your companions, where are they?”

“Oh, my companions have remained on board; they are sailors without the least instruction.”

“Whilst you----” said Monk.

“Who, I?” said the patron, laughing; “I have sailed about with my father, and I know what is called a sou, a crown, a pistole, a louis, and a double louis, in all the languages of Europe; my crew, therefore, listen to me as they would to an oracle, and obey me as if I were an admiral.”

“Then it was you who preferred M. Lambert as the best customer?”

“Yes, certainly. And, to be frank, my lord, was I wrong?”

“You will see that by and by.”

“At all events, my lord, if there is a fault, the fault is mine; and my comrades should not be dealt hardly with on that account.”

“This is decidedly an intelligent, sharp fellow,” thought Monk. Then, after a few minutes, silence employed in scrutinizing the fisherman,--“You come from Ostend, did you not say?” asked the general.

“Yes, my lord, in a straight line.”

“You have then heard of the affairs of the day; for I have no doubt that both in France and Holland they excite interest. What is he doing who calls himself king of England?”

“Oh, my lord!” cried the fisherman, with loud and expansive frankness, “that is a lucky question, and you could not put it to anybody better than to me, for in truth I can make you a famous reply. Imagine, my lord, that when putting into Ostend to sell the few mackerel we had caught, I saw the ex-king walking on the downs waiting for his horses, which were to take him to the Hague. He is a rather tall, pale man, with black hair, and somewhat hard-featured. He looks ill, and I don’t think the air of Holland agrees with him.”

Monk followed with the greatest attention the rapid, heightened, and diffuse conversation of the fisherman, in a language which was not his own, but which, as we have said, he spoke with great facility. The fisherman on his part, employed sometimes a French word, sometimes an English word, and sometimes a word which appeared not to belong to any language, but was, in truth, pure Gascon. Fortunately his eyes spoke for him, and that so eloquently, that it was possible to lose a word from his mouth, but not a single intention from his eyes. The general appeared more and more satisfied with his examination. “You must have heard that this ex-king, as you call him, was going to the Hague for some purpose?”

“Oh, yes,” said the fisherman, “I heard that.”

“And what was his purpose?”

“Always the same,” said the fisherman. “Must he not always entertain the fixed idea of returning to England?”

“That is true,” said Monk, pensively.

“Without reckoning,” added the fisherman, “that the stadtholder--you know, my lord, William II.?”

“Well?”

“He will assist him with all his power.”

“Ah! did you hear that said?”

“No, but I think so.”

“You are quite a politician, apparently,” said Monk.

“Why, we sailors, my lord, who are accustomed to study the water and the air--that is to say, the two most changeable things in the world--are seldom deceived as to the rest.”

“Now, then,” said Monk, changing the conversation, “I am told you are going to provision us.”

“I shall do my best, my lord.”

“How much do you ask for your fish in the first place?”

“Not such a fool as to name a price, my lord.”

“Why not?”

“Because my fish is yours.”

“By what right?”

“By that of the strongest.”

“But my intention is to pay you for it.”

“That is very generous of you, my lord.”

“And the worth of it----”

“My lord, I fix no price.”

“What do you ask, then?”

“I only ask to be permitted to go away.”

“Where?--to General Lambert’s camp?”

“I!” cried the fisherman; “what should I go to Newcastle for, now I have no longer any fish?”

“At all events, listen to me.”

“I do, my lord.”

“I shall give you some advice.”

“How, my lord!--pay me and give me good advice likewise! You overwhelm me, my lord.”

Monk looked more earnestly than ever at the fisherman, about whom he still appeared to entertain some suspicion. “Yes, I shall pay you, and give you a piece of advice, for the two things are connected. If you return, then, to General Lambert----”

The fisherman made a movement of his head and shoulders, which signified, “If he persists in it, I won’t contradict him.”

“Do not cross the marsh,” continued Monk: “you will have money in your pocket, and there are in the marsh some Scotch ambuscaders I have placed there. Those people are very intractable; they understand but very little of the language which you speak, although it appears to me to be composed of three languages. They might take from you what I had given you, and, on your return to your country, you would not fail to say that General Monk has two hands, the one Scotch, and the other English; and that he takes back with the Scotch hand what he has given with the English hand.”

“Oh! general, I shall go where you like, be sure of that,” said the fisherman, with a fear too expressive not to be exaggerated. “I only wish to remain here, if you will allow me to remain.”

“I readily believe you,” said Monk, with an imperceptible smile, “but I cannot, nevertheless, keep you in my tent.”

“I have no such wish, my lord, and desire only that your lordship should point out where you will have me posted. Do not trouble yourself about us--with us a night soon passes away.”

“You shall be conducted to your bark.”

“As your lordship pleases. Only, if your lordship would allow me to be taken back by a carpenter, I should be extremely grateful.”

“Why so?”

“Because the gentlemen of your army, in dragging my boat up the river with a cable pulled by their horses, have battered it a little upon the rocks of the shore, so that I have at least two feet of water in my hold, my lord.”

“The greater reason why you should watch your boat, I think.”

“My lord, I am quite at your orders,” said the fisherman; “I shall empty my baskets where you wish; then you will pay me, if you please to do so; and you will send me away, if it appears right to you. You see I am very easily managed and pleased, my lord.”

“Come, come, you are a very good sort of a fellow,” said Monk, whose scrutinizing glance had not been able to find a single shade in the clear eye of the fisherman. “Holloa, Digby!” An aide-de-camp appeared. “You will conduct this good fellow and his companions to the little tents of the canteens, in front of the marshes, so that they will be near their bark, and yet will not sleep on board to-night. What is the matter, Spithead?”

Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monk had borrowed a piece of tobacco for his supper. Spithead, having entered the general’s tent without being sent for, had drawn this question from Monk.

“My lord,” said he, “a French gentleman has just presented himself at the outposts and wishes to speak to your honor.”

All this was said, be it understood, in English; but notwithstanding, it produced a slight emotion in the fisherman, which Monk, occupied with his sergeant, did not remark.

“Who is the gentleman?” asked Monk.

“My lord,” replied Spithead, “he told it me, but those devils of French names are so difficult to pronounce for a Scotch throat, that I could not retain it. I believe, however, from what the guards say, that it is the same gentleman who presented himself yesterday at the halt, and whom your honor would not receive.”

“That is true; I was holding a council of officers.”

“Will your honor give any orders respecting this gentleman?”

“Yes, let him be brought here.”

“Must we take any precautions?”

“Such as what?”

“Binding his eyes, for instance.”

“To what purpose? He can only see what I desire should be seen; that is to say, that I have around me eleven thousand brave men, who ask no better than to have their throats cut in honor of the parliament of Scotland and England.”

“And this man, my lord?” said Spithead, pointing to the fisherman, who, during this conversation, had remained standing and motionless, like a man who sees but does not understand.

“Ah, that is true,” said Monk. Then turning towards the fisherman,--“I shall see you again, my brave fellow,” said he; “I have selected a lodging for you. Digby, take him to it. Fear nothing: your money shall be sent to you presently.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the fisherman, and after having bowed, he left the tent, accompanied by Digby. Before he had gone a hundred paces he found his companions, who were whispering with a volubility which did not appear exempt from uneasiness, but he made them a sign which seemed to reassure them. “Hola, you fellows!” said the patron, “come this way. His lordship, General Monk, has the generosity to pay us for our fish, and the goodness to give us hospitality for to-night.”

The fishermen gathered round their leader, and, conducted by Digby, the little troop proceeded towards the canteens, the post, as may be remembered, which had been assigned them. As they went along in the dark, the fishermen passed close to the guards who were conducting the French gentleman to General Monk. This gentleman was on horseback, and enveloped in a large cloak, which prevented the patron from seeing him, however great his curiosity might be. As to the gentleman, ignorant that he was elbowing compatriots, he did not pay any attention to the little troop.

The aid-de-camp settled his guests in a tolerably comfortable tent, from which was dislodged an Irish canteen woman, who went, with her six children, to sleep where she could. A large fire was burning in front of this tent, and threw its purple light over the grassy pools of the marsh, rippled by a fresh breeze. The arrangements made, the aid-de-camp wished the fishermen good-night, calling to their notice that they might see from the door of the tent the masts of their bark, which was tossing gently on the Tweed, a proof that it had not yet sunk. The sight of this appeared to delight the leader of the fishermen infinitely.

The Treasure

The French gentleman whom Spithead had announced to Monk, and who, closely wrapped in his cloak, had passed by the fishermen who left the general’s tent five minutes before he entered it,--the French gentleman went through the various posts without even casting his eyes around him, for fear of appearing indiscreet. As the order had been given, he was conducted to the tent of the general. The gentleman was left alone in the sort of ante-chamber in front of the principal body of the tent, where he awaited Monk, who only delayed till he had heard the report of his people, and observed through the opening of the canvas the countenance of the person who solicited an audience.

Without doubt, the report of those who had accompanied the French gentleman established the discretion with which he had behaved, for the first impression the stranger received of the welcome made him by the general was more favorable than he could have expected at such a moment, and on the part of so suspicious a man. Nevertheless, according to his custom, when Monk found himself in the presence of a stranger, he fixed upon him his penetrating eyes, which scrutiny, the stranger, on his part, sustained without embarrassment or notice. At the end of a few seconds, the general made a gesture with his hand and head in sign of attention.

“My lord,” said the gentleman, in excellent English. “I have requested an interview with your honor, for an affair of importance.”

“Monsieur,” replied Monk, in French, “you speak our language well for a son of the continent. I ask your pardon--for doubtless the question is indiscreet--do you speak French with the same purity?”

“There is nothing surprising, my lord, in my speaking English tolerably; I resided for some time in England in my youth, and since then I have made two voyages to this country.” These words were spoken in French, and with a purity of accent that bespoke not only a Frenchman, but a Frenchman from the vicinity of Tours.

“And what part of England have you resided in, monsieur?”

“In my youth, London, my lord, then, about 1635, I made a pleasure trip to Scotland; and lastly, in 1648, I lived for some time at Newcastle, particularly in the convent, the gardens of which are now occupied by your army.”

“Excuse me, monsieur, but you must comprehend that these questions are necessary on my part--do you not?”

“It would astonish me, my lord, if they were not asked.”

“Now, then, monsieur, what can I do to serve you? What do you wish?”

“This, my lord;--but, in the first place, are we alone?”

“Perfectly so, monsieur, except, of course, the post which guards us.” So saying, Monk pulled open the canvas with his hand, and pointed to the soldier placed at ten paces from the tent, and who, at the first call could have rendered assistance in a second.

“In that case my lord,” said the gentleman, in as calm a tone as if he had been for a length of time in habits of intimacy with his interlocutor, I have made up my mind to address myself to you, because I believe you to be an honest man. Indeed, the communication I am about to make to you will prove to you the esteem in which I hold you.”

Monk, astonished at this language, which established between him and the French gentleman equality at least, raised his piercing eye to the stranger’s face, and with a sensible irony conveyed by the inflection of his voice alone, for not a muscle of his face moved,--“I thank you, monsieur,” said he; “but, in the first place, to whom have I the honor of speaking?”

“I sent you my name by your sergeant, my lord.”

“Excuse him, monsieur, he is a Scotchman,--he could not retain it.”

“I am called the Comte de la Fere, monsieur,” said Athos, bowing.

“The Comte de la Fere?” said Monk, endeavoring to recollect the name. “Pardon me, monsieur, but this appears to be the first time I have ever heard that name. Do you fill any post at the court of France?”

“None; I am a simple gentleman.”

“What dignity?”

“King Charles I. made me a knight of the Garter, and Queen Anne of Austria has given me the cordon of the Holy Ghost. These are my only dignities.”

“The Garter! the Holy Ghost! Are you a knight of those two orders, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“And on what occasions have such favors been bestowed upon you?”

“For services rendered to their majesties.”

Monk looked with astonishment at this man, who appeared to him so simple and so great at the same time. Then, as if he had renounced endeavoring to penetrate this mystery of a simplicity and grandeur upon which the stranger did not seem disposed to give him any other information than that which he had already received,--“Did you present yourself yesterday at our advanced posts?”

“And was sent back? Yes, my lord.”

“Many officers, monsieur, would permit no one to enter their camp, particularly on the eve of a probable battle. But I differ from my colleagues, and like to leave nothing behind me. Every advice is good to me; all danger is sent to me by God, and I weigh it in my hand with the energy He has given me. So, yesterday, you were only sent back on account of the council I was holding. To-day I am at liberty,--speak.”

“My lord, you have done much better in receiving me, for what I have to say has nothing to do with the battle you are about to fight with General Lambert, or with your camp; and the proof is, that I turned away my head that I might not see your men, and closed my eyes that I might not count your tents. No, I come to speak to you, my lord, on my own account.”

“Speak, then, monsieur,” said Monk.

“Just now,” continued Athos, “I had the honor of telling your lordship that for a long time I lived in Newcastle; it was in the time of Charles I., and when the king was given up to Cromwell by the Scots.”

“I know,” said Monk, coldly.

“I had at that time a large sum in gold, and on the eve of the battle, from a presentiment perhaps of the turn which things would take on the morrow, I concealed it in the principal vault of the convent of Newcastle, in the tower whose summit you now see silvered by the moonbeams. My treasure has then remained interred there, and I have come to entreat your honor to permit me to withdraw it before, perhaps, the battle turning that way, a mine or some other war engine has destroyed the building and scattered my gold, or rendered it so apparent that the soldiers will take possession of it.”

Monk was well acquainted with mankind, he saw in the physiognomy of this gentleman all the energy, all the reason, all the circumspection possible, he could therefore only attribute to a magnanimous confidence the revelation the Frenchman had made him, and he showed himself profoundly touched by it.

“Monsieur,” said he, “you have augured well of me. But is the sum worth the trouble to which you expose yourself? Do you even believe that it can be in the place where you left it?”

“It is there, monsieur, I do not doubt.”

“That is a reply to one question; but to the other. I asked you if the sum was so large as to warrant your exposing yourself thus.”

“It is really large; yes, my lord, for it is a million I inclosed in two barrels.”

“A million!” cried Monk, at whom this time, in turn, Athos looked earnestly and long. Monk perceived this, and his mistrust returned.

“Here is a man,” said he, “who is laying a snare for me. So you wish to withdraw this money, monsieur,” replied he, “as I understand?”

“If you please, my lord.”

“To-day?”

“This very evening, and that on account of the circumstances I have named.”

“But, monsieur,” objected Monk, “General Lambert is as near the abbey where you have to act as I am. Why, then, have you not addressed yourself to him?”

“Because, my lord, when one acts in important matters, it is best to consult one’s instinct before everything. Well, General Lambert does not inspire me with so much confidence as you do.”

“Be it so, monsieur. I shall assist you in recovering your money, if, however, it can still be there; for that is far from likely. Since 1648 twelve years have rolled away, and many events have taken place.” Monk dwelt upon this point to see if the French gentleman would seize the evasions that were open to him, but Athos did not hesitate.

“I assure you, my lord,” he said firmly, “that my conviction is, that the two barrels have neither changed place nor master.” This reply had removed one suspicion from the mind of Monk, but it had suggested another. Without doubt this Frenchman was some emissary sent to entice into error the protector of the parliament; the gold was nothing but a lure; and by the help of this lure they thought to excite the cupidity of the general. This gold might not exist. It was Monk’s business, then, to seize the Frenchman in the act of falsehood and trick, and to draw from the false step itself in which his enemies wished to entrap him, a triumph for his renown. When Monk was determined how to act,--

“Monsieur,” said he to Athos, “without doubt you will do me the honor to share my supper this evening?”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Athos, bowing, “for you do me an honor of which I feel myself worthy, by the inclination which drew me towards you.”

“It is so much the more gracious on your part to accept my invitation with such frankness, as my cooks are but few and inexperienced, and my providers have returned this evening empty-handed; so that if it had not been for a fisherman of your nation who strayed into our camp, General Monk would have gone to bed without his supper to-day; I have, then, some fresh fish to offer you, as the vendor assures me.”

“My lord, it is principally for the sake of having the honor to pass another hour with you.”

After this exchange of civilities, during which Monk had lost nothing of his circumspection, the supper, or what was to serve for one, had been laid upon a deal table. Monk invited the Comte de la Fere to be seated at this table, and took his place opposite to him. A single dish of boiled fish, set before the two illustrious guests, was more tempting to hungry stomachs than to delicate palates.

Whilst supping, that is, while eating the fish, washed down with bad ale, Monk got Athos to relate to him the last events of the Fronde, the reconciliation of M. de Conde with the king, and the probable marriage of the infanta of Spain; but he avoided, as Athos himself avoided it, all allusion to the political interests which united, or rather which disunited at this time, England, France and Holland.

Monk, in this conversation, convinced himself of one thing, which he must have remarked after the first words exchanged: that was, that he had to deal with a man of high distinction. He could not be an assassin, and it was repugnant to Monk to believe him to be a spy, but there was sufficient finesse and at the same time firmness in Athos to lead Monk to fancy he was a conspirator. When they had quitted table, “You still believe in your treasure, then, monsieur?” asked Monk.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Quite seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“And you think you can find the place again where it was buried?”

“At the first inspection.”

“Well, monsieur, from curiosity I shall accompany you. And it is so much the more necessary that I should accompany you, that you would find great difficulties in passing through the camp without me or one of my lieutenants.”

“General, I would not suffer you to inconvenience yourself if I did not, in fact, stand in need of your company; but as I recognize that this company is not only honorable, but necessary, I accept it.”

“Do you desire we should take any people with us?” asked Monk.

“General, I believe that would be useless, if you yourself do not see the necessity for it. Two men and a horse will suffice to transport the two casks on board the felucca which brought me hither.”

“But it will be necessary to pick, dig and remove the earth, and split stones; you don’t intend doing this work yourself, monsieur, do you?”

“General, there is no picking or digging required. The treasure is buried in the sepulchral vault of the convent, under a stone in which is fixed a large iron ring and under which are four steps leading down. The two casks are there, placed end to end, covered with a coat of plaster in the form of a bier. There is, besides, an inscription, which will enable me to recognize the stone; and as I am not willing, in an affair of delicacy and confidence, to keep the secret from your honor, here is the inscription:--‘Hic jacet venerabilis, Petrus Gulielmus Scott, Canon Honorab. Conventus Novi Castelli. Obiit quarta et decima. Feb. ann. Dom. MCCVIII. Requiescat in pace.’”

Monk did not lose a single word.- He was astonished either at the marvelous duplicity of this man and the superior style in which he played his part, or at the good loyal faith with which he presented his request, in a situation in which concerning a million of money, risked against the blow from a dagger, amidst an army that would have looked upon the theft as a restitution.

“Very well,” said he; “I shall accompany you; and the adventure appears to me so wonderful, that I shall carry the torch myself.” And saying these words, he girded on a short sword, placed a pistol in his belt, disclosing in this movement, which opened his doublet a little, the fine rings of a coat of mail, destined to protect him from the first dagger-thrust of an assassin. After which he took a Scotch dirk in his left hand, and then turning to Athos, “Are you ready, monsieur?” said he.

“I am.”

Athos, as if in opposition to what Monk had done, unfastened his poniard, which he placed upon the table; unhooked his sword-belt, which he laid close to his poniard; and, without affectation, opening his doublet as if to look for his handkerchief, showed beneath his fine cambric shirt his naked breast, without weapons either offensive or defensive.

“This is truly a singular man,” said Monk; “he is without any arms; he has an ambuscade placed somewhere yonder.”

“General,” said he, as if he had divined Monk’s thought, “you wish we should be alone; that is very right, but a great captain ought never to expose himself with temerity. It is night, the passage of the marsh may present dangers; be accompanied.”

“You are right,” replied he, calling Digby. The aid-de-camp appeared. “Fifty men with swords and muskets,” said he, looking at Athos.

“That is too few if there is danger, too many if there is not.”

“I will go alone,” said Monk; “I want nobody. Come, monsieur.”

The March

Athos and Monk passed over, in going from the camp towards the Tweed, that part of the ground which Digby had traversed with the fishermen coming from the Tweed to the camp. The aspect of this place, the aspect of the changes man had wrought in it, was of a nature to produce a great effect upon a lively and delicate imagination like that of Athos. Athos looked at nothing but these desolate spots; Monk looked at nothing but Athos--at Athos, who, with his eyes sometimes directed towards heaven, and sometimes towards the earth, sought, thought, and sighed.

Digby, whom the last orders of the general, and particularly the accent with which he had given them, had at first a little excited, followed the pair at about twenty paces, but the general having turned round as if astonished to find his orders had not been obeyed, the aid-de-camp perceived his indiscretion and returned to his tent.

He supposed that the general wished to make, incognito, one of those reviews of vigilance which every experienced captain never fails to make on the eve of a decisive engagement: he explained to himself the presence of Athos in this case as an inferior explains all that is mysterious on the part of his leader. Athos might be, and, indeed, in the eyes of Digby, must be, a spy, whose information was to enlighten the general.

At the end of a walk of about ten minutes among the tents and posts, which were closer together near the headquarters, Monk entered upon a little causeway which diverged into three branches. That on the left led to the river, that in the middle to Newcastle Abbey on the marsh, that on the right crossed the first lines of Monk’s camp, that is to say, the lines nearest to Lambert’s army. Beyond the river was an advanced post belonging to Monk’s army, which watched the enemy; it was composed of one hundred and fifty Scots. They had swum across the Tweed, and, in case of attack, were to recross it in the same manner, giving the alarm; but as there was no post at that spot, and as Lambert’s soldiers were not so prompt at taking to the water as Monk’s were, the latter appeared not to have much uneasiness on that side. On this side of the river, at about five hundred paces from the old abbey, the fishermen had taken up their abode amidst a crowd of small tents raised by the soldiers of the neighboring clans, who had with them their wives and children. All this confusion, seen by the moon’s light, presented a striking coup d’oeil; the half shadow enlarged every detail, and the light, that flatterer which only attaches itself to the polished side of things, courted upon each rusty musket the point still left intact, and upon every rag of canvas the whitest and least sullied part.

Monk arrived then with Athos, crossing this spot, illumined with a double light, the silver splendor of the moon, and the red blaze of the fires at the meeting of the three causeways; there he stopped, and addressing his companion,--“Monsieur,” said he, “do you know your road?”

“General, if I am not mistaken, the middle causeway leads straight to the abbey.”

“That is right; but we shall want lights to guide us in the vaults.” Monk turned round.

“Ah! I thought Digby was following us!” said he. “So much the better; he will procure us what we want.”

“Yes, general, there is a man yonder who has been walking behind us for some time.”

“Digby!” cried Monk. “Digby! come here, if you please.”

But, instead of obeying, the shadow made a motion of surprise, and, retreating instead of advancing, it bent down and disappeared along the jetty on the left, directing its course towards the lodging of the fishermen.

“It appears not to be Digby,” said Monk.

Both had followed the shadow which had vanished. But it was not so rare a thing for a man to be wandering about at eleven o’clock at night, in a camp in which are reposing ten or eleven thousand men, as to give Monk and Athos any alarm at his disappearance.

“As it is so,” said Monk, “and we must have a light, a lantern, a torch, or something by which we may see where to set our feet, let us seek this light.”

“General, the first soldier we meet will light us.”

“No,” said Monk, in order to discover if there were not any connivance between the Comte de la Fere and the fisherman. “No, I should prefer one of these French sailors who came this evening to sell me their fish. They leave to-morrow, and the secret will be better kept by them; whereas, if a report should be spread in the Scotch army, that treasures are to be found in the abbey of Newcastle, my Highlanders will believe there is a million concealed beneath every slab, and they will not leave stone upon stone in the building.”

“Do as you think best, general,” replied Athos in a natural tone of voice, making evident that soldier or fisherman was the same to him, and that he had no preference.

Monk approached the causeway behind which had disappeared the person he had taken for Digby, and met a patrol who, making the tour of the tents, was going towards headquarters; he was stopped with his companion, gave the password, and went on. A soldier, roused by the noise, unrolled his plaid, and looked up to see what was going forward. “Ask him,” said Monk to Athos, “where the fishermen are; if I were to speak to him, he would know me.”

Athos went up to the soldier, who pointed out the tent to him; immediately Monk and Athos turned towards it. It appeared to the general that at the moment they came up, a shadow like that they had already seen glided into this tent; but on drawing nearer he perceived he must have been mistaken, for all of them were asleep pele mele, and nothing was seen but arms and legs joined, crossed, and mixed. Athos, fearing lest he should be suspected of connivance with some of his compatriots, remained outside the tent.

“Hola!” said Monk, in French, “wake up here.” Two or three of the sleepers got up.

“I want a man to light me,” continued Monk.

“Your honor may depend upon us,” said a voice which made Athos start. “Where do you wish us to go?”

“You shall see. A light! come, quickly!”

“Yes, your honor. Does it please your honor that I should accompany you?”

“You or another, it is of very little consequence, provided I have a light.”

“It is strange!” thought Athos, “what a singular voice that man has!”

“Some fire, you fellows!” cried the fisherman; “come, make haste!”

Then addressing his companion nearest to him in a low voice:--“Get a light, Menneville,” said he, “and hold yourself ready for anything.”

One of the fishermen struck light from a stone, set fire to some tinder, and by the aid of a match lit a lantern. The light immediately spread all over the tent.

“Are you ready, monsieur?” said Monk to Athos, who had turned away, not to expose his face to the light.

“Yes, general,” replied he.

“Ah! the French gentleman!” said the leader of the fishermen to himself. “Peste! I have a great mind to charge you with the commission, Menneville; he may know me. Light! light!” This dialogue was pronounced at the back of the tent, and in so low a voice that Monk could not hear a syllable of it; he was, besides, talking with Athos. Menneville got himself ready in the meantime, or rather received the orders of his leader.

“Well?” said Monk.

“I am ready, general,” said the fisherman.

Monk, Athos, and the fisherman left the tent.

“It is impossible!” thought Athos. “What dream could put that into my head?”

“Go forward; follow the middle causeway, and stretch out your legs,” said Monk to the fisherman.

They were not twenty paces on their way when the same shadow that had appeared to enter the tent came out of it again, crawled along as far as the piles, and, protected by that sort of parapet placed along the causeway, carefully observed the march of the general. All three disappeared in the night haze. They were walking towards Newcastle, the white stones of which appeared to them like sepulchres. After standing for a few seconds under the porch, they penetrated into the interior. The door had been broken open by hatchets. A post of four men slept in safety in a corner, so certain were they that the attack would not take place on that side.

“Will not these men be in your way?” said Monk to Athos.

“On the contrary, monsieur, they will assist in rolling out the barrels, if your honor will permit them.”

“You are right.”

The post, though fast asleep, roused up at the first steps of the three visitors amongst the briars and grass that invaded the porch. Monk gave the password, and penetrated into the interior of the convent, preceded by the light. He walked last, watching the least movement of Athos, his naked dirk in his sleeve, and ready to plunge it into the back of the gentleman at the first suspicious gesture he should see him make. But Athos, with a firm and sure step, crossed the chambers and courts.

Not a door, not a window was left in this building. The doors had been burnt, some on the spot, and the charcoal of them was still jagged with the action of the fire, which had gone out of itself, powerless, no doubt, to get to the heart of those massive joints of oak fastened together with iron nails. As to the windows, all the panes having been broken, night birds, alarmed by the torch, flew away through their holes. At the same time, gigantic bats began to trace their vast, silent circles around the intruders, whilst the light of the torch made their shadows tremble on the high stone walls. Monk concluded there could be no man in the convent, since wild beasts and birds were there still, and fled away at his approach.

After having passed the rubbish, and torn away more than one branch of ivy that had made itself a guardian of the solitude, Athos arrived at the vaults situated beneath the great hall, but the entrance of which was from the chapel. There he stopped. “Here we are, general,” said he.

“This, then, is the slab?”

“Yes.”

“Ay, and here is the ring--but the ring is sealed into the stone.”

“We must have a lever.”

“That’s a thing very easy to find.”

Whilst looking round them, Athos and Monk perceived a little ash of about three inches in diameter, which had shot up in an angle of the wall, reaching a window, concealed by its branches.

“Have you a knife?” said Monk to the fisherman.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Cut down this tree; then.”

The fisherman obeyed, but not without notching his cutlass. When the ash was cut and fashioned into the shape of a lever, the three men penetrated into the vault.

“Stop where you are,” said Monk to the fisherman. “We are going to dig up some powder; your light may be dangerous.”

The man drew back in a sort of terror, and faithfully kept to the post assigned him, whilst Monk and Athos turned behind a column at the foot of which, penetrating through a crack, was a moonbeam, reflected exactly on the stone which the Comte de la Fere had come so far in search.

“This is it,” said Athos, pointing out to the general the Latin inscription.

“Yes,” said Monk.

Then, as if still willing to leave the Frenchman one means of evasion,--

“Do you not observe that this vault has already been broken into,” continued he, “and that several statues have been knocked down?”

“My lord, you have, without doubt, heard that the religious respect of your Scots loves to confide to the statues of the dead the valuable objects they have possessed during their lives. Therefore, the soldiers had reason to think that under the pedestals of the statues which ornament most of these tombs, a treasure was hidden. They have consequently broken down pedestal and statue: but the tomb of the venerable canon, with which we have to do, is not distinguished by any monument. It is simple, therefore it has been protected by the superstitious fear which your Puritans have always had of sacrilege. Not a morsel of the masonry of this tomb has been chipped off.”

“That is true,” said Monk.

Athos seized the lever.

“Shall I help you?” said Monk.

“Thank you, my lord; but I am not willing that your honor should lend your hand to a work of which, perhaps, you would not take the responsibility if you knew the probable consequences of it.”

Monk raised his head.

“What do you mean by that, monsieur?”

“I mean--but that man----”

“Stop,” said Monk; “I perceive what you are afraid of. I shall make a trial.” Monk turned towards the fisherman, the whole of whose profile was thrown upon the wall.

“Come here, friend!” said he in English, and in a tone of command.

The fisherman did not stir.

“That is well,” continued he: “he does not know English. Speak to me, then, in English, if you please, monsieur.”

“My lord,” replied Athos, “I have frequently seen men in certain circumstances have sufficient command over themselves not to reply to a question put to them in a language they understood. The fisherman is perhaps more learned than we believe him to be. Send him away, my lord, I beg you.”

“Decidedly,” said Monk, “he wishes to have me alone in this vault. Never mind, we shall go through with it; one man is as good as another man; and we are alone. My friend,” said Monk to the fisherman, “go back up the stairs we have just descended, and watch that nobody comes to disturb us.” The fisherman made a sign of obedience. “Leave your torch,” said Monk; “it would betray your presence, and might procure you a musket-ball.”

The fisherman appeared to appreciate the counsel; he laid down the light, and disappeared under the vault of the stairs. Monk took up the torch, and brought it to the foot of the column.

“Ah, ah!” said he; “money, then, is concealed under this tomb?”

“Yes, my lord; and in five minutes you will no longer doubt it.”

At the same time Athos struck a violent blow upon the plaster, which split, presenting a chink for the point of the lever. Athos introduced the bar into this crack, and soon large pieces of plaster yielded, rising up like rounded slabs. Then the Comte de la Fere seized the stones and threw them away with a force that hands so delicate as his might not have been supposed capable of having.

“My lord,” said Athos, “this is plainly the masonry of which I told your honor.”

“Yes; but I do not yet see the casks,” said Monk.

“If I had a dagger,” said Athos, looking round him, “you should soon see them, monsieur. Unfortunately, I left mine in your tent.”

“I would willingly offer you mine,” said Monk, “but the blade is too thin for such work.”

Athos appeared to look around him for a thing of some kind that might serve as a substitute for the weapon he desired. Monk did not lose one of the movements of his hands, or one of the expressions of his eyes. “Why do you not ask the fisherman for his cutlass?” said Monk; “he has a cutlass.”

“Ah! that is true,” said Athos, “for he cut the tree down with it.” And he advanced towards the stairs.

“Friend,” said he to the fisherman, “throw me down your cutlass, if you please; I want it.”

The noise of the falling weapon sounded on the steps.

“Take it,” said Monk; “it is a solid instrument, as I have seen, and a strong hand might make good use of it.”

Athos only appeared to give to the words of Monk the natural and simple sense under which they were to be heard and understood. Nor did he remark, or at least appear to remark, that when he returned with the weapon, Monk drew back, placing his left hand on the stock of his pistol; in the right he already held his dirk. He went to work then, turning his back to Monk, placing his life in his hands, without possible defense. He then struck, during several seconds, so skillfully and sharply upon the intermediary plaster, that it separated into two parts, and Monk was able to discern two barrels placed end to end, and which their weight maintained motionless in their chalky envelope.

“My lord,” said Athos, “you see that my presentiments have not been disappointed.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Monk, “and I have good reason to believe you are satisfied; are you not?”

“Doubtless, I am; the loss of this money would have been inexpressibly great to me: but I was certain that God, who protects the good cause, would not have permitted this gold, which should procure its triumph, to be diverted to baser purposes.”

“You are, upon my honor, as mysterious in your words as in your actions, monsieur,” said Monk. “Just now I did not perfectly understand you when you said that you were not willing to throw upon me the responsibility of the work we were accomplishing.”

“I had reason to say so, my lord.”

“And now you speak to me of the good cause. What do you mean by the words ‘the good cause’? We are defending at this moment, in England, five or six causes, which does not prevent every one from considering his own not only as the good cause, but as the best. What is yours, monsieur? Speak boldly, that we may see if, upon this point, to which you appear to attach a great importance, we are of the same opinion.”

Athos fixed upon Monk one of those penetrating looks which seem to convey to him to whom they are directed a challenge to conceal a single one of his thoughts; then, taking off his hat, he began in a solemn voice, while his interlocutor, with one hand upon his visage, allowed that long and nervous hand to compress his mustache and beard, while his vague and melancholy eye wandered about the recesses of the vaults.

Heart and Mind

“My lord,” said the Comte de la Fere, “you are a noble Englishman, you are a loyal man; you are speaking to a noble Frenchman, to a man of heart. The gold contained in these two casks before us, I have told you was mine. I was wrong--it is the first lie I have pronounced in my life, a temporary lie, it is true. This gold is the property of King Charles II., exiled from his country, driven from his palaces, the orphan at once of his father and his throne, and deprived of everything, even of the melancholy happiness of kissing on his knees the stone upon which the hands of his murderers have written that simple epitaph which will eternally cry out for vengeance upon them:--‘Here lies Charles I.’”

Monk grew slightly pale, and an imperceptible shudder crept over his skin and raised his gray mustache.

“I,” continued Athos, “I, Comte de la Fere, the last, only faithful friend the poor abandoned prince has left, I have offered him to come hither to find the man upon whom now depends the fate of royalty and of England; and I have come, and placed myself under the eye of this man, and have placed myself naked and unarmed in his hands, saying:--‘My lord, here are the last resources of a prince whom God made your master, whom his birth made your king; upon you, and you alone, depend his life and his future. Will you employ this money in consoling England for the evils it must have suffered from anarchy; that is to say, will you aid, and if not aid, will you allow King Charles II. to act? You are master, you are king, all-powerful master and king, for chance sometimes defeats the work of time and God. I am here alone with you, my lord: if divided success alarms you, if my complicity annoys you, you are armed, my lord, and here is a grave ready dug; if, on the contrary, the enthusiasm of your cause carries you away, if you are what you appear to be, if your hand in what it undertakes obeys your mind, .and your mind your heart, here are the means of ruining forever the cause of your enemy, Charles Stuart. Kill, then, the man you have before you, for that man will never return to him who has sent him without bearing with him the deposit which Charles I., his father, confided to him, and keep the gold which may assist in carrying on the civil war. Alas! my lord, it is the fate of this unfortunate prince. He must either corrupt or kill, for everything resists him, everything repulses him, everything is hostile to him; and yet he is marked with the divine seal, and he must, not to belie his blood, reascend the throne, or die upon the sacred soil of his country.’

“My lord, you have heard me. To any other but the illustrious man who listens to me, I would have said: ‘My lord, you are poor; my lord, the king offers you this million as an earnest of an immense bargain; take it, and serve Charles II. as I served Charles I., and I feel assured that God, who listens to us, who sees us, who alone reads in your heart, shut from all human eyes,--I am assured God will give you a happy eternal life after a happy death.’ But to General Monk, to the illustrious man of whose standard I believe I have taken measure, I say: ‘My lord, there is for you in the history of peoples and kings a brilliant place, an immortal, imperishable glory, if alone, without any other interest but the good of your country and the interests of justice, you become the supporter of your king. Many others have been conquerors and glorious usurpers; you, my lord, you will be content with being the most virtuous, the most honest, and the most incorruptible of men: you will have held a crown in your hand, and instead of placing it upon your own brow, you will have deposited it upon the head of him for whom it was made. Oh, my lord, act thus, and you will leave to posterity the most enviable of names, in which no human creature can rival you.’”

Athos stopped. During the whole time that the noble gentleman was speaking, Monk had not given one sign of either approbation or disapprobation; scarcely even, during this vehement appeal, had his eyes been animated with that fire which bespeaks intelligence. The Comte de la Fere looked at him sorrowfully, and on seeing that melancholy countenance, felt discouragement penetrate to his very heart. At length Monk appeared to recover, and broke the silence.

“Monsieur,” said he, in a mild, calm tone, “in reply to you, I will make use of your own words. To any other but yourself I would reply by expulsion, imprisonment, or still worse, for, in fact, you tempt me and you force me at the same time. But you are one of those men, monsieur, to whom it is impossible to refuse the attention and respect they merit; you are a brave gentleman, monsieur--I say so, and I am a judge. You just now spoke of a deposit which the late king transmitted through you to his son--are you, then, one of those Frenchmen who, as I have heard, endeavored to carry off Charles I. from Whitehall?”

“Yes, my lord, it was I who was beneath the scaffold during the execution; I, who had not been able to redeem it, received upon my brow the blood of the martyred king. I received, at the same time, the last word of Charles I., it was to me he said, ‘Remember!’ and in saying, ‘Remember!’ he alluded to the money at your feet, my lord.”

“I have heard much of you, monsieur,” said Monk, “but I am happy to have, in the first place, appreciated you by my own observations, and not by my remembrances. I will give you, then, explanations that I have given to no other, and you will appreciate what a distinction I make between you and the persons who have hitherto been sent to me.”

Athos bowed, and prepared to absorb greedily the words which fell, one by one, from the mouth of Monk,--those words rare and precious as the dew in the desert.

“You spoke to me,” said Monk, “of Charles II.; but pray, monsieur, of what consequence to me is that phantom of a king? I have grown old in a war and in a policy which are nowadays so closely linked together, that every man of the sword must fight in virtue of his rights or his ambition with a personal interest, and not blindly behind an officer, as in ordinary wars. For myself, I perhaps desire nothing, but I fear much. In the war of to-day rests the liberty of England, and, perhaps, that of every Englishman. How can you expect that I, free in the position I have made for myself, should go willingly and hold out my hands to the shackles of a stranger? That is all Charles is to me. He has fought battles here which he has lost, he is therefore a bad captain; he has succeeded in no negotiation, he is therefore a bad diplomatist; he has paraded his wants and his miseries in all the courts of Europe, he has therefore a weak and pusillanimous heart. Nothing noble, nothing great, nothing strong has hitherto emanated from that genius which aspires to govern one of the greatest kingdoms of the earth. I know this Charles, then, under none but bad aspects, and you would wish me, a man of good sense, to go and make myself gratuitously the slave of a creature who is inferior to me in military capacity, in politics, and in dignity! No, monsieur. When some great and noble action shall have taught me to value Charles, I shall perhaps recognize his rights to a throne from which we have cast the father because he wanted the virtues which his son has hitherto lacked, but, in fact of rights, I only recognize my own; the revolution made me a general, my sword will make me protector, if I wish it. Let Charles show himself, let him present himself, let him enter the competition open to genius, and, above all, let him remember that he is of a race from whom more will be expected than from any other. Therefore, monsieur, say no more about him. I neither refuse nor accept: I reserve myself--I wait.”

Athos knew Monk to be too well informed of all concerning Charles to venture to urge the discussion further; it was neither the time nor the place. “My lord,” then said he, “I have nothing to do but to thank you.”

“And why, monsieur? Because you have formed a correct opinion of me, or because I have acted according to your judgment? Is that, in truth, worthy of thanks? This gold which you are about to carry to Charles will serve me as a test for him, by seeing the use he will make of it. I shall have an opinion which now I have not.”

“And yet does not your honor fear to compromise yourself by allowing such a sum to be carried away for the service of your enemy?”

“My enemy, say you? Eh, monsieur, I have no enemies. I am in the service of the parliament, which orders me to fight General Lambert and Charles Stuart--its enemies, and not mine. I fight them. If the parliament, on the contrary, ordered me to unfurl my standards on the port of London, and to assemble my soldiers on the banks to receive Charles II.----”

“You would obey?” cried Athos, joyfully.

“Pardon me,” said Monk, smiling, “I was going--I, a gray-headed man--in truth, how could I forget myself? was going to speak like a foolish young man.”

“Then you would not obey?” said Athos.

“I do not say that either, monsieur. The welfare of my country before everything. God, who has given me the power, has, no doubt, willed that I should have that power for the good of all, and He has given me, at the same time, discernment. If the parliament were to order such a thing, I should reflect.”

The brow of Athos became clouded. “Then I may positively say that your honor is not inclined to favor King Charles II.?”

“You continue to question me, monsieur le comte; allow me to do so in turn, if you please.”

“Do, monsieur; and may God inspire you with the idea of replying to me as frankly as I shall reply to you.”

“When you shall have taken this money back to your prince, what advice will you give him?”

Athos fixed upon Monk a proud and resolute look.

“My lord,” said he, “with this million, which others would perhaps employ in negotiating, I would advise the king to raise two regiments, to enter Scotland, which you have just pacified: to give to the people the franchises which the revolution promised them, and in which it has not, in all cases, kept its word. I should advise him to command in person this little army, which would, believe me, increase, and to die, standard in hand, and sword in its sheath, saying, ‘Englishmen! I am the third king of my race you have killed; beware of the justice of God!’”

Monk hung down his head, and mused for an instant. “If he succeeded,” said he, “which is very improbable, but not impossible--for everything is possible in this world--what would you advise him to do?”

“To think that by the will of God he lost his crown but by the good will of men he recovered it.”

An ironical smile passed over the lips of Monk.

“Unfortunately, monsieur,” said he, “kings do not know how to follow good advice.”

“Ah, my lord, Charles II. is not a king,” replied Athos, smiling in his turn, but with a very different expression from Monk.

“Let us terminate this, monsieur le comte,--that is your desire, is it not?”

Athos bowed.

“I shall give orders to have these two casks transported whither you please. Where are you lodging, monsieur?”

“In a little hamlet at the mouth of the river, your honor.”

“Oh, I know the hamlet; it consists of five or six houses, does it not?”

“Exactly. Well, I inhabit the first,--two net-makers occupy it with me; it is their bark which brought me ashore.”

“But your own vessel, monsieur?”

“My vessel is at anchor, a quarter of a mile at sea, and waits for me.”

“You do not think, however, of setting out immediately?”

“My lord, I shall try once more to convince your honor.”

“You will not succeed,” replied Monk; “but it is of consequence that you should depart from Newcastle without leaving of your passage the least suspicion that might prove injurious to me or you. To-morrow my officers think Lambert will attack me. I, on the contrary, am convinced that he will not stir; it is in my opinion impossible. Lambert leads an army devoid of homogeneous principles, and there is no possible army with such elements. I have taught my soldiers to consider my authority subordinate to another, therefore after me, round me, and beneath me they still look for something. It would result that if I were dead, whatever might happen, my army would not be demoralized all at once; it results, that if I choose to absent myself, for instance, as it does please me to do sometimes, there would not be in the camp the shadow of uneasiness or disorder. I am the magnet--the sympathetic and natural strength of the English. All those scattered irons that will be sent against me I shall attract to myself. Lambert, at this moment, commands eighteen thousand deserters, but I have never mentioned that to my officers, you may easily suppose. Nothing is more useful to an army than the expectation of a coming battle; everybody is awake--everybody is on guard. I tell you this that you may live in perfect security. Do not be in a hurry, then, to cross the seas; within a week there will be something fresh, either a battle or an accomodation. Then, as you have judged me to be a honorable man, and confided your secret to me, I have to thank you for this confidence, and I shall come and pay you a visit or send for you. Do not go before I send you word. I repeat the request.”

“I promise you, general,” cried Athos, with a joy so great, that in spite of all his circumspection, he could not prevent its sparkling in his eyes.

Monk surprised this flash, and immediately extinguished it by one of those silent smiles which always caused his interlocutors to know they had made no inroad on his mind.

“Then, my lord, it is a week that you desire me to wait?”

“A week? yes, monsieur.”

“And during these days what shall I do?”

“If there should be a battle, keep at a distance from it, I beseech you. I know the French delight in such amusements,--you might take a fancy to see how we fight, and you might receive some chance shot. Our Scotchmen are very bad marksmen, and I do not wish that a worthy gentleman like you should return to France wounded. Nor should I like to be obliged myself, to send to your prince his million left here by you, for then it would be said, and with some reason, that I paid the Pretender to enable him to make war against the parliament. Go, then, monsieur, and let it be done as has been agreed upon.”

“Ah, my lord,” said Athos, “what joy it would give me to be the first that penetrated to the noble heart which beats beneath that cloak!”

“You think, then, that I have secrets,” said Monk, without changing the half cheerful expression of his countenance. “Why, monsieur, what secret can you expect to find in the hollow head of a soldier? But it is getting late, and our torch is almost out; let us call our man.”

“Hola!” cried Monk in French, approaching the stairs; “hola! fisherman!”

The fisherman, benumbed by the cold night air, replied in a hoarse voice, asking what they wanted of him.

“Go to the post,” said Monk, “and order a sergeant, in the name of General Monk, to come here immediately.”

This was a commission easily performed; for the sergeant, uneasy at the general’s being in that desolate abbey, had drawn nearer by degrees, and was not much further off than the fisherman. The general’s order was therefore heard by him, and he hastened to obey it.

“Get a horse and two men,” said Monk.

“A horse and two men?” repeated the sergeant.

“Yes,” replied Monk. “Have you any means of getting a horse with a pack-saddle or two paniers?”

“No doubt, at a hundred paces off, in the Scotch camp.”

“Very well.”

“What shall I do with the horse, general?”

“Look here.”

The sergeant descended the three steps which separated him from Monk, and came into the vault.

“You see,” said Monk, “that gentleman yonder?”

“Yes, general.”

“And you see these two casks?”

“Perfectly.”

“They are two casks, one containing powder, and the other balls; I wish these casks to be transported to the little hamlet at the mouth of the river, and which I intend to occupy to-morrow with two hundred muskets. You understand that the commission is a secret one, for it is a movement that may decide the fate of the battle.”

“Oh, general!” murmured the sergeant.

“Mind, then! Let these casks be fastened on to the horse, and let them be escorted by two men and you to the residence of this gentleman, who is my friend. But take care that nobody knows it.”

“I would go by the marsh if I knew the road,” said the sergeant.

“I know one myself,” said Athos; “it is not wide, but it is solid, having been made upon piles; and with care we shall get over safely enough.”

“Do everything this gentleman shall order you to do.”

“Oh! oh! the casks are heavy,” said the sergeant, trying to lift one.

“They weigh four hundred pounds each, if they contain what they ought to contain, do they not, monsieur?”

“Thereabouts,” said Athos.

The sergeant went in search of the two men and the horse. Monk, left alone with Athos, affected to speak to him on nothing but indifferent subjects while examining the vault in a cursory manner. Then, hearing the horse’s steps,--

“I leave you with your men, monsieur,” said he, “and return to the camp. You are perfectly safe.”

“I shall see you again, then, my lord?” asked Athos.

“That is agreed upon, monsieur, and with much pleasure.”

Monk held out his hand to Athos.

“Ah! my lord, if you would!” murmured Athos.

“Hush! monsieur, it is agreed that we shall speak no more of that.” And bowing to Athos, he went up the stairs, meeting about half-way his men, who were coming down. He had not gone twenty paces, when a faint but prolonged whistle was heard at a distance. Monk listened, but seeing nothing and hearing nothing, he continued his route, Then he remembered the fisherman, and looked about for him; but the fisherman had disappeared. If he had, however, looked with more attention, he might have seen that man, bent double, gliding like a serpent along the stones and losing himself in the mist that floated over the surface of the marsh. He might have equally seen, had he attempted to pierce that mist, a spectacle that might have attracted his attention; and that was the rigging of the vessel, which had changed place, and was now nearer the shore. But Monk saw nothing; and thinking he had nothing to fear, he entered the deserted causeway which led to his camp. It was then that the disappearance of the fisherman appeared strange, and that a real suspicion began to take possession of his mind. He had just placed at the orders of Athos the only post that could protect him. He had a mile of causeway to traverse before he could regain his camp. The fog increased with such intensity that he could scarcely distinguish objects at ten paces’ distance. Monk then thought he heard the sound of an oar over the marsh on the right. “Who goes there?” said he.

But nobody answered; then he cocked his pistol, took his sword in his hand, and quickened his pace without, however, being willing to call anybody. Such a summons, for which there was no absolute necessity, appeared unworthy of him.

The Next Day

It was seven o’clock in the morning, the first rays of day lightened the pools of the marsh, in which the sun was reflected like a red ball, when Athos, awaking and opening the window of his bed-chamber, which looked out upon the banks of the river, perceived, at fifteen paces’ distance from him, the sergeant and the men who had accompanied him the evening before, and who, after having deposited the casks at his house, had returned to the camp by the causeway on the right.

Why had these men come back after having returned to the camp? That was the question which first presented itself to Athos. The sergeant, with his head raised, appeared to be watching the moment when the gentleman should appear, to address him. Athos, surprised to see these men, whom he had seen depart the night before, could not refrain from expressing his astonishment to them.

“There is nothing surprising in that, monsieur,” said the sergeant; “for yesterday the general commanded me to watch over your safety, and I thought it right to obey that order.”

“Is the general at the camp?” asked Athos.

“No doubt he is, monsieur; as when he left you he was going back.”

“Well, wait for me a moment; I am going thither to render an account of the fidelity with which you fulfilled your duty, and to get my sword, which I left upon the table in the tent.”

“That happens very well,” said the sergeant, “for we were about to request you to do so.”

Athos fancied he could detect an air of equivocal bonhomie upon the countenance of the sergeant; but the adventure of the vault might have excited the curiosity of the man, and it was not surprising that he allowed some of the feelings which agitated his mind to appear in his face. Athos closed the doors carefully, confiding the keys to Grimaud, who had chosen his domicile beneath the shed itself, which led to the cellar where the casks had been deposited. The sergeant escorted the Comte de la Fere to the camp. There a fresh guard awaited him, and relieved the four men who had conducted Athos.

This fresh guard was commanded by the aid-de-camp Digby, who, on their way, fixed upon Athos looks so little encouraging, that the Frenchman asked himself whence arose, with regard to him, this vigilance and this severity, when the evening before he had been left perfectly free. He nevertheless continued his way to the headquarters, keeping to himself the observations which men and things forced him to make. He found in the general’s tent, to which he had been introduced the evening before, three superior officers: these were Monk’s lieutenant and two colonels. Athos perceived his sword; it was still on the table where he left it. Neither of the officers had seen Athos, consequently neither of them knew him. Monk’s lieutenant asked, at the appearance of Athos, if that were the same gentleman with whom the General had left the tent.

“Yes, your honor,” said the sergeant; “it is the same.”

“But,” said Athos haughtily, “I do not deny it, I think; and now, gentlemen, in turn, permit me to ask you to what purpose these questions are asked, and particularly some explanation upon the tone in which you ask them?”

“Monsieur,” said the lieutenant, “if we address these questions to you, it is because we have a right to do so, and if we make them in a particular tone, it is because that tone, believe me, agrees with the circumstances.”

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “you do not know who I am; but I must tell you I acknowledge no one here but General Monk as my equal. Where is he? Let me be conducted to him, and if he has any questions to put to me, I will answer him and to his satisfaction, I hope. I repeat, gentlemen, where is the general?”

“Eh! good God! you know better than we do where he is,” said the lieutenant.

“I?”

“Yes, you.”

“Monsieur,” said Athos, “I do not understand you.”

“You will understand me--and, in the first place, do not speak so loud.”

Athos smiled disdainfully.

“We don’t ask you to smile,” said one of the colonels warmly; “we require you to answer.”

“And I, gentlemen, declare to you that I will not reply until I am in the presence of the general.”

“But,” replied the same colonel who had already spoken, “you know very well that is impossible.”

“This is the second time I have received this strange reply to the wish I express,” said Athos. “Is the general absent?”

This question was made with such apparent good faith, and the gentleman wore an air of such natural surprise, that the three officers exchanged a meaning look. The lieutenant, by a tacit convention with the other two, was spokesman.”

“Monsieur, the general left you last night on the borders of the monastery.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“And you went----”

“It is not for me to answer you, but for those who have accompanied me. They were your soldiers, ask them.”

“But if we please to question you?”

“Then it will please me to reply, monsieur, that I do not recognize any one here, that I know no one here but the general, and that it is to him alone I will reply.”

“So be it, monsieur; but as we are the masters, we constitute ourselves a council of war, and when you are before judges you must reply.”

The countenance of Athos expressed nothing but astonishment and disdain, instead of the terror the officers expected to read in it at this threat.

“Scotch or English judges upon me, a subject of the king of France; upon me, placed under the safeguard of British honor! You are mad, gentlemen!” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders.

The officers looked at each other. “Then, monsieur,” said one of them, “do you pretend not to know where the general is?”

“To that, monsieur, I have already replied.”

“Yes, but you have already replied an incredible thing.”

“It is true, nevertheless, gentlemen. Men of my rank are not generally liars. I am a gentleman, I have told you, and when I have at my side the sword which, by an excess of delicacy, I left last night upon the table whereon it still lies, believe me, no man says that to me which I am unwilling to hear. I am at this moment disarmed; if you pretend to be my judges, try me; if you are but my executioners, kill me.”

“But, monsieur----” asked the lieutenant, in a more courteous voice, struck with the lofty coolness of Athos.

“Sir, I came to speak confidentially with your general about affairs of importance. It was not an ordinary welcome that he gave me. The accounts your soldiers can give you may convince you of that. If, then, the general received me in that manner, he knew my titles to his esteem. Now, you do not suspect, I should think that I should reveal my secrets to you, and still less his.”

“But these casks, what do they contain?”

“Have you not put that question to your soldiers? What was their reply?”

“That they contained powder and ball.”

“From whom had they that information? They must have told you that.”

“From the general; but we are not dupes.”

“Beware, gentlemen, it is not to me you are now giving the lie, it is to your leader.”

The officers again looked at each other. Athos continued: “Before your soldiers the general told me to wait a week, and at the expiration of that week he would give me the answer he had to make me. Have I fled away? No, I wait.”

“He told you to wait a week!” cried the lieutenant.

“He told me that so clearly, sir, that I have a sloop at the mouth of the river, which I could with ease have joined yesterday, and embarked. Now, if I have remained, it was only in compliance with the desire of your general, his honor having requested me not to depart without a last audience, which fixed at a week hence. I repeat to you, then, I am waiting.”

The lieutenant turned towards the other officers, and said, in a low voice: “If this gentleman speaks truth, there may still be some hope. The general may be carrying out some negotiations so secret, that he thought it imprudent to inform even us. Then the time limited for his absence would be a week.” Then, turning towards Athos: “Monsieur,” said he, “your declaration is of the most serious importance; are you willing to repeat it under the seal of an oath?”

“Sir,” replied Athos, “I have always lived in a world where my simple word was regarded as the most sacred of oaths.”

“This time, however, monsieur, the circumstance is more grave than any you may have been placed in. The safety of the whole army is at stake. Reflect, the general has disappeared, and our search for him has been vain. Is this disappearance natural? Has a crime been committed? Are we not bound to carry our investigations to extremity? Have we any right to wait with patience? At this moment, everything, monsieur, depends upon the words you are about to pronounce.”

“Thus questioned, gentlemen, I no longer hesitate,” said Athos. “Yes, I came hither to converse confidentially with General Monk, and ask him for an answer regarding certain interests; yes, the general being, doubtless, unable to pronounce before the expected battle, begged me to remain a week in the house I inhabit, promising me that in a week I should see him again. Yes, all this is true, and I swear it by the God who is the absolute master of my life and yours.” Athos pronounced these words with so much grandeur and solemnity, that the three officers were almost convinced. Nevertheless, one of the colonels made a last attempt.

“Monsieur,” said he, “although we may be now persuaded of the truth of what you say, there is yet a strange mystery in all this. The general is too prudent a man to have thus abandoned his army on the eve of a battle without having at least given notice of it to one of us. As for myself, I cannot believe but that some strange event has been the cause of this disappearance. Yesterday some foreign fishermen came to sell their fish here; they were lodged yonder among the Scots; that is to say, on the road the general took with this gentleman, to go to the abbey, and to return from it. It was one of those fishermen that accompanied the general with a light. And this morning, bark and fishermen have all disappeared, carried away by the night’s tide.”

“For my part,” said the lieutenant, “I see nothing in that that is not quite natural, for these people were not prisoners.”

“No, but I repeat it was one of them who lighted the general and this gentleman to the abbey, and Digby assures us that the general had strong suspicions concerning those people. Now, who can say whether these people were not connected with this gentleman; and that, the blow being struck, the gentleman, who is evidently brave, did not remain to reassure us by his presence, and to prevent our researches being made in a right direction?”

This speech made an impression upon the other two officers.

“Sir,” said Athos, “permit me to tell you, that your reasoning, though specious in appearance, nevertheless wants consistency, as regards me. I have remained, you say, to divert suspicion. Well! on the contrary, suspicions arise in me as well as in you; and I say, it is impossible, gentlemen, that the general, on the eve of a battle, should leave his army without saying anything to at least one of his officers. Yes, there is some strange event connected with this; instead of being idle and waiting, you must display all the activity and all the vigilance possible. I am your prisoner, gentlemen, upon parole or otherwise. My honor is concerned in ascertaining what has become of General Monk, and to such a point, that if you were to say to me, ‘Depart!’ I should reply ‘No, I will remain!’ And if you were to ask my opinion, I should add: ‘Yes, the general is the victim of some conspiracy, for, if he had intended to leave the camp he would have told me so.’ Seek then, search the land, search the sea; the general has not gone of his own good will.”

The lieutenant made a sign to the other two officers.

“No, monsieur,” said he, “no; in your turn you go too far. The general has nothing to suffer from these events, and, no doubt, has directed them. What Monk is now doing he has often done before. We are wrong in alarming ourselves; his absence will, doubtless, be of short duration; therefore, let us beware, lest by a pusillanimity which the general would consider a crime, of making his absence public, and by that means demoralize the army. The general gives a striking proof of his confidence in us; let us show ourselves worthy of it. Gentlemen, let the most profound silence cover all this with an impenetrable veil; we will detain this gentleman, not from mistrust of him with regard to the crime, but to assure more effectively the secret of the general’s absence by keeping among ourselves; therefore, until fresh orders, the gentleman will remain at headquarters.”

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “you forget that last night the general confided to me a deposit over which I am bound to watch. Give me whatever guard you like, chain me if you like, but leave me the house I inhabit for my prison. The general, on his return, would reproach you, I swear on the honor of a gentleman, for having displeased him in this.”

“So be it, monsieur,” said the lieutenant; “return to your abode.”

Then they placed over Athos a guard of fifty men, who surrounded his house, without losing sight of him for a minute.

The secret remained secure, but hours, days passed away without the general’s returning, or without anything being heard of him.

Smuggling

Two days after the events we have just related, and while General Monk was expected every minute in the camp to which he did not return, a little Dutch felucca, manned by eleven men, cast anchor upon the coast of Scheveningen, nearly within cannon-shot of the port. It was night, the darkness was great, the tide rose in the darkness; it was a capital time to land passengers and merchandise.

The road of Scheveningen forms a vast crescent; it is not very deep and not very safe; therefore, nothing is seen stationed there but large Flemish hoys, or some of those Dutch barks which fishermen draw up on the sand on rollers, as the ancients did, according to Virgil. When the tide is rising, and advancing on land, it is not prudent to bring the vessels too close inshore, for, if the wind is fresh, the prows are buried in the sand; and the sand of that coast is spongy; it receives easily, but does not yield so well. It was on this account, no doubt, that a boat was detached from the bark as soon as the latter had cast anchor, and came with eight sailors, amidst whom was to be seen an object of an oblong form, a sort of large pannier or bale.

The shore was deserted; the few fishermen inhabiting the down were gone to bed. The only sentinel that guarded the coast (a coast very badly guarded, seeing that a landing from large ships was impossible), without having been able to follow the example of the fishermen, who were gone to bed, imitated them so far, that he slept at the back of his watch-box as soundly as they slept in their beds. The only noise to be heard, then, was the whistling of the night breeze among the bushes and the brambles of the downs. But the people who were approaching were doubtless mistrustful people, for this real silence and apparent solitude did not satisfy them. Their boat, therefore, scarcely as visible as a dark speck upon the ocean, glided along noiselessly, avoiding the use of their oars for fear of being heard, and gained the nearest land.

Scarcely had it touched the ground when a single man jumped out of the boat, after having given a brief order, in a manner which denoted the habit of commanding. In consequence of this order, several muskets immediately glittered in the feeble light reflected from that mirror of the heavens, the sea; and the oblong bale of which we spoke, containing no doubt some contraband object, was transported to land, with infinite precautions. Immediately after that, the man who had landed first set off at a rapid pace diagonally towards the village of Scheveningen, directing his course to the nearest point of the wood. When there, he sought for that house already described as the temporary residence--and a very humble residence--of him who was styled by courtesy king of England.

All were asleep there, as everywhere else, only a large dog, of the race of those which the fishermen of Scheveningen harness to little carts to carry fish to the Hague, began to bark formidably as soon as the stranger’s steps were audible beneath the windows. But the watchfulness, instead of alarming the newly-landed man, appeared, on the contrary, to give him great joy, for his voice might perhaps have proved insufficient to rouse the people of the house, whilst, with an auxiliary of that sort, his voice became almost useless. The stranger waited, then, till these reiterated and sonorous barkings should, according to all probability, have produced their effect, and then he ventured a summons. On hearing his voice, the dog began to roar with such violence that another voice was soon heard from the interior, quieting the dog. With that the dog was quieted.

“What do you want?” asked that voice, at the same time weak, broken, and civil.

“I want his majesty King Charles II., king of England,” said the stranger.

“What do you want with him?”

“I want to speak to him.”

“Who are you?”

“Ah! Mordioux! you ask too much; I don’t like talking through doors.”

“Only tell me your name.”

“I don’t like to declare my name in the open air, either; besides, you may be sure I shall not eat your dog, and I hope to God he will be as reserved with respect to me.”

“You bring news, perhaps, monsieur, do you not?” replied the voice, patient and querulous as that of an old man.

“I will answer for it, I bring you news you little expect. Open the door, then, if you please, hein!”

“Monsieur,” persisted the old man, “do you believe, upon your soul and conscience, that your news is worth waking the king?”

“For God’s sake, my dear monsieur, draw your bolts; you will not be sorry, I swear, for the trouble it will give you. I am worth my weight in gold, parole d’honneur!”

“Monsieur, I cannot open the door till you have told me your name.”

“Must I, then?”

“It is by the order of my master, monsieur.”

“Well, my name is--but, I warn you, my name will tell you absolutely nothing.”

“Never mind, tell it, notwithstanding.”

“Well, I am the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”

The voice uttered an exclamation.

“Oh! good heavens!” said a voice on the other side of the door. “Monsieur d’Artagnan. What happiness! I could not help thinking I knew that voice.”

“Humph!” said D’Artagnan. “My voice is known here! That’s flattering.”

“Oh! yes, we know it,” said the old man, drawing the bolts; “and here is the proof.” And at these words he let in D’Artagnan, who, by the light of the lantern he carried in his hand, recognized his obstinate interlocutor.

“Ah! Mordioux!” cried he: “why, it is Parry! I ought to have known that.”

“Parry, yes, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is I. What joy to see you once again!”

“You are right there, what joy!” said D’Artagnan, pressing the old man’s hand. “There, now you’ll go and inform the king, will you not?”

“But the king is asleep, my dear monsieur.”

“Mordioux! then wake him. He won’t scold you for having disturbed him, I will promise you.”

“You come on the part of the count, do you not?”

“The Comte de la Fere?”

“From Athos?”

“Ma foi! no; I come on my own part. Come, Parry, quick! The king--I want the king.”

Parry did not think it his duty to resist any longer; he knew D’Artagnan of old; he knew that, although a Gascon, his words never promised more than they could stand to. He crossed a court and a little garden, appeased the dog, that seemed most anxious to taste of the musketeer’s flesh, and went to knock at the window of a chamber forming the ground-floor of a little pavilion. Immediately a little dog inhabiting that chamber replied to the great dog inhabiting the court.

“Poor king!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “these are his body-guards. It is true he is not the worse guarded on that account.”

“What is wanted with me?” asked the king, from the back of the chamber.

“Sire, it is M. le Chevalier d’Artagnan, who brings you some news.”

A noise was immediately heard in the chamber, a door was opened, and a flood of light inundated the corridor and the garden. The king was working by the light of a lamp. Papers were lying about upon his desk, and he had commenced the foul copy of a letter which showed, by the numerous erasures, the trouble he had had in writing it.

“Come in, monsieur le chevalier,” said he, turning around. Then perceiving the fisherman, “What do you mean, Parry? Where is M. le Chevalier d’Artagnan?” asked Charles.

“He is before you, sire,” said M. d’Artagnan.

“What, in that costume?”

“Yes; look at me, sire; do you not remember having seen me at Blois, in the ante-chambers of King Louis XIV.?”

“Yes, monsieur, and I remember I was much pleased with you.”

D’Artagnan bowed. “It was my duty to behave as I did, the moment I knew that I had the honor of being near your majesty.”

“You bring me news, do you say?”

“Yes, sire.”

“From the king of France?”

“Ma foi! no, sire,” replied D’Artagnan. “Your majesty must have seen yonder that the king of France is only occupied with his own majesty.”

Charles raised his eyes towards heaven.

“No, sire, no,” continued D’Artagnan. “I bring news entirely composed of personal facts. Nevertheless, I hope your majesty will listen to the facts and news with some favor.”

“Speak, monsieur.”

“If I am not mistaken, sire, your majesty spoke a great deal, at Blois, of the embarrassed state in which the affairs of England are.”

Charles colored. “Monsieur,” said he, “it was to the king of France I related----”

“Oh! your majesty is mistaken,” said the musketeer, coolly; “I know how to speak to kings in misfortune. It is only when they are in misfortune that they speak to me; once fortunate, they look upon me no more. I have, then, for your majesty, not only the greatest respect, but, still more, the most absolute devotion; and that, believe me, with me, sire, means something. Now, hearing your majesty complain of fate, I found that you were noble and generous, and bore misfortune well.”

“In truth,” said Charles, much astonished, “I do not know which I ought to prefer, your freedoms or your respects.”

“You will choose presently, sire,” said D’Artagnan. “Then your majesty complained to your brother, Louis XIV., of the difficulty you experienced in returning to England and regaining your throne for want of men and money.”

Charles allowed a movement of impatience to escape him.

“And the principal object your majesty found in your way,” continued D’Artagnan, “was a certain general commanding the armies of the parliament, and who was playing yonder the part of another Cromwell. Did not your majesty say so?”

“Yes, but I repeat to you, monsieur, those words were for the king’s ears alone.”

“And you will see, sire, that it is very fortunate that they fell into those of his lieutenant of musketeers. That man so troublesome to your majesty was one General Monk, I believe; did I not hear his name correctly, sire?”

“Yes, monsieur, but once more, to what purpose are all these questions?”

“Oh! I know very well, sire, that etiquette will not allow kings to be questioned. I hope, however, presently you will pardon my want of etiquette. Your majesty added that, notwithstanding, if you could see him, confer with him, and meet him face to face, you would triumph, either by force or persuasion, over that obstacle--the only serious one, the only insurmountable one, the only real one you met with on your road.”

“All that is true, monsieur: my destiny, my future, my obscurity, or my glory depend upon that man; but what do you draw from that?”

“One thing alone, that if this General Monk is troublesome to the point your majesty describes, it would be expedient to get rid of him or to make an ally of him.”

“Monsieur, a king who has neither army nor money, as you have heard my conversation with my brother Louis, has no means of acting against a man like Monk.”

“Yes, sire, that was your opinion, I know very well; but, fortunately, for you, it was not mine.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That, without an army and without a million, I have done--I, myself--what your majesty thought could alone be done with an army and a million.”

“How! What do you say? What have you done?”

“What have I done? Eh! well, sire, I went yonder to take this man who is so troublesome to your majesty.”

“In England?”

“Exactly, sire.”

“You went to take Monk in England?”

“Should I by chance have done wrong, sire?”

“In truth, you are mad, monsieur!”

“Not the least in the world, sire.”

“You have taken Monk?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Where?”

“In the midst of his camp.”

The king trembled with impatience.

“And having taken him on the causeway of Newcastle, I bring him to your majesty,” said D’Artagnan, simply.

“You bring him to me!” cried the king, almost indignant at what he considered a mystification.

“Yes, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, the same tone, “I bring him to you; he is down below yonder, in a large chest pierced with holes, so as to allow him to breathe.”

“Good God!”

“Oh! don’t be uneasy, sire, we have taken the greatest possible care of him. He comes in good state, and in perfect condition. Would your majesty please to see him, to talk with him, or to have him thrown into the sea?”

“Oh, heavens!” repeated Charles, “oh, heavens! do you speak the truth, monsieur? Are you not insulting me with some unworthy joke? You have accomplished this unheard-of act of audacity and genius--impossible!”

“Will your majesty permit me to open the window?” said D’Artagnan, opening it.

The king had not time to reply, yes on no. D’Artagnan gave a shrill and prolonged whistle, which he repeated three times through the silence of the night.

“There!” said he, “he will be brought to your majesty.”

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

The king could not overcome his surprise, and looked sometimes at the smiling face of the musketeer, and sometimes at the dark window which opened into the night. But before he had fixed his ideas, eight of D’Artagnan’s men, for two had remained to take care of the bark, brought to the house, where Parry received him, that object of an oblong form, which, for the moment inclosed the destinies of England. Before he left Calais, D’Artagnan had had made in that city a sort of coffin, large and deep enough for a man to turn in it at his ease. The bottom and sides, properly upholstered, formed a bed sufficiently soft to prevent the rolling of the ship turning this kind of cage into a rat-trap. The little grating, of which D’Artagnan had spoken to the king, like the visor of a helmet, was placed opposite to the man’s face. It was so constructed that, at the least cry, a sudden pressure would stifle that cry, and, if necessary, him who had uttered that cry.

D’Artagnan was so well acquainted with his crew and his prisoner, that during the whole voyage he had been in dread of two things: either that the general would prefer death to this sort of imprisonment, and would smother himself by endeavoring to speak, or that his guards would allow themselves to be tempted by the offers of the prisoner, and put him, D’Artagnan, into the box instead of Monk.

D’Artagnan, therefore, had passed the two days and the two nights of the voyage close to the coffin, alone with the general, offering him wine and food, which the latter had refused, and constantly endeavoring to reassure him upon the destiny which awaited him at the end of this singular captivity. Two pistols on the table and his naked sword made D’Artagnan easy with regard to indiscretions from without.

When once at Scheveningen he had felt completely reassured. His men greatly dreaded any conflict with the lords of the soil. He had, besides, interested in his cause him who had morally served him as lieutenant, and whom we have seen reply to the name of Menneville. The latter, not being a vulgar spirit, had more to risk than the others, because he had more conscience. He believed in a future in the service of D’Artagnan, and consequently would have allowed himself to be cut to pieces, rather than violate the order given by his leader. Thus it was that, once landed, it was to him D’Artagnan had confided the care of the chest and the general’s breathing. It was he, too, he had ordered to have the chest brought by the seven men as soon as he should hear the triple whistle. We have seen that the lieutenant obeyed. The coffer once in the house, D’Artagnan dismissed his men with a gracious smile, saying, “Messieurs, you have rendered a great service to King Charles II., who in less than six weeks will be king of England. Your gratification will then be doubled. Return to the boat and wait for me.” Upon which they departed with such shouts of joy as terrified even the dog himself.

D’Artagnan had caused the coffer to be brought as far as the king’s ante-chamber. He then, with great care, closed the door of this ante-chamber, after which he opened the coffer, and said to the general:

“General, I have a thousand excuses to make to you; my manner of acting has not been worthy of such a man as you, I know very well; but I wished you to take me for the captain of a bark. And then England is a very inconvenient country for transports. I hope, therefore, you will take all that into consideration. But now, general, you are at liberty to get up and walk.” This said, he cut the bonds which fastened the arms and hands of the general. The latter got up, and then sat down with the countenance of a man who expects death. D’Artagnan opened the door of Charles’s study, and said, “Sire, here is your enemy, M. Monk; I promised myself to perform this service for your majesty. It is done; now order as you please. M. Monk,” added he, turning towards the prisoner, “you are in the presence of his majesty Charles II., sovereign lord of Great Britain.”

Monk raised towards the prince his coldly stoical look, and replied: “I know no king of Great Britain; I recognize even here no one worthy of bearing the name of gentleman: for it is in the name of King Charles II. that an emissary, whom I took for an honest man, came and laid an infamous snare for me. I have fallen into that snare; so much the worse for me. Now, you the tempter,” said he to the king, “you the executor,” said he to D’Artagnan; “remember what I am about to say to you; you have my body, you may kill it, and I advise you to do so, for you shall never have my mind or my will. And now, ask me not a single word, as from this moment I will not open my mouth even to cry out. I have said.”

And he pronounced these words with the savage, invincible resolution of the most mortified Puritan. D’Artagnan looked at his prisoner like a man, who knows the value of every word, and who fixes that value according to the accent with which it has been pronounced.

“The fact is,” said he, in a whisper to the king, “the general is an obstinate man; he would not take a mouthful of bread, nor swallow a drop of wine, during the two days of our voyage. But as from this moment it is your majesty who must decide his fate, I wash my hands of him.”

Monk, erect, pale, and resigned, waited with his eyes fixed and his arms folded. D’Artagnan turned towards him. “You will please to understand perfectly,” said he, “that your speech, otherwise very fine, does not suit anybody, not even yourself. His majesty wished to speak to you, you refused him an interview; why, now that you are face to face, that you are here by a force independent of your will, why do you confine yourself to rigors which I consider useless and absurd? Speak! what the devil! speak, if only to say ‘No.’”

Monk did not unclose his lips, Monk did not turn his eyes; Monk stroked his mustache with a thoughtful air, which announced that matters were going on badly.

During all this time Charles II. had fallen into a profound reverie. For the first time he found himself face to face with Monk; with the man he had so much desired to see; and, with that peculiar glance which God has given to eagles and kings, he had fathomed the abyss of his heart. He beheld Monk, then, resolved positively to die rather than speak, which was not to be wondered at in so considerable a man, the wound in whose mind must at the moment have been cruel. Charles II. formed, on the instant, one of those resolutions upon which an ordinary man risks his life, a general his fortune, and a king his kingdom. “Monsieur,” said he to Monk, “you are perfectly right upon certain points; I do not, therefore, ask you to answer me, but to listen to me.”

There was a moment’s silence, during which the king looked at Monk, who remained impassible.

“You have made me just now a painful reproach, monsieur,” continued the king; “you said that one of my emissaries had been to Newcastle to lay a snare for you, and that, parenthetically, cannot be understood by M. d’Artagnan, here, and to whom, before everything, I owe sincere thanks for his generous, his heroic devotion.”

D’Artagnan bowed with respect; Monk took no notice.

“For M. d’Artagnan--and observe, M. Monk, I do not say this to excuse myself--for M. d’Artagnan,” continued the king, “went to England of his free will, without interest, without orders, without hope, like a true gentleman as he is, to render a service to an unfortunate king, and to add to the illustrious actions of an existence, already so well filled, one glorious deed more.”

D’Artagnan colored a little, and coughed to keep his countenance. Monk did not stir.

“You do not believe what I tell you, M. Monk,” continued the king. “I can understand that,--such proofs of devotion are so rare, that their reality may well be put in doubt.”

“Monsieur would do wrong not to believe you, sire,” cried D’Artagnan: “for that which your majesty has said is the exact truth, and the truth so exact that it seems, in going to fetch the general, I have done something which sets everything wrong. In truth, if it be so, I am in despair.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king, pressing the hand of the musketeer, “you have obliged me as much as if you had promoted the success of my cause, for you have revealed to me an unknown friend, to whom I shall ever be grateful, and whom I shall always love.” And the king pressed his hand cordially. “And,” continued he, bowing to Monk, “an enemy whom I shall henceforth esteem at his proper value.”

The eyes of the Puritan flashed, but only once, and his countenance, for an instant, illuminated by that flash, resumed its somber impassibility.

“Then, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Charles, “this is what was about to happen: M. le Comte de la Fere, whom you know, I believe, has set out for Newcastle.”

“What, Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

“Yes, that was his nom de guerre, I believe. The Comte de la Fere had then set out for Newcastle, and was going, perhaps, to bring the general to hold a conference with me or with those of my party, when you violently, as it appears, interfered with the negotiation.”

“Mordioux!” replied D’Artagnan, “he entered the camp the very evening in which I succeeded in getting into it with my fishermen----”

An almost imperceptible frown on the brow of Monk told D’Artagnan that he had surmised rightly.

“Yes, yes,” muttered he; “I thought I knew his person; I even fancied I knew his voice. Unlucky wretch that I am! Oh! sire, pardon me! I thought I had so successfully steered my bark.”

“There is nothing ill in it, sir,” said the king, “except that the general accuses me of having laid a snare for him, which is not the case. No, general, those are not the arms which I contemplated employing with you as you will soon see. In the meanwhile, when I give you my word upon the honor of a gentleman, believe me, sir, believe me! Now, Monsieur d’Artagnan, a word with you, if you please.”

“I listen on my knees, sire.”

“You are truly at my service, are you not?”

“Your majesty has seen I am, too much so.”

“That is well; from a man like you one word suffices. In addition to that word you bring actions. General, have the goodness to follow me. Come with us, M. d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan, considerably surprised, prepared to obey. Charles II. went out, Monk followed him, D’Artagnan followed Monk. Charles took the path by which D’Artagnan had come to his abode; the fresh sea breezes soon caressed the faces of the three nocturnal travelers, and, at fifty paces from the little gate which Charles opened, they found themselves upon the down in the face of the ocean, which, having ceased to rise, reposed upon the shore like a wearied monster. Charles II. walked pensively along, his head hanging down and his hand beneath his cloak. Monk followed him, with crossed arms and an uneasy look. D’Artagnan came last, with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Where is the boat in which you came, gentlemen?” said Charles to the musketeer.

“Yonder, sire, I have seven men and an officer waiting me in that little bark which is lighted by a fire.”

“Yes, I see; the boat is drawn upon the sand, but you certainly did not come from Newcastle in that frail bark?”

“No, sire; I freighted a felucca, at my own expense, which is at anchor within cannon-shot of the downs. It was in that felucca we made the voyage.”

“Sir,” said the king to Monk, “you are free.”

However firm of his will, Monk could not suppress an exclamation. The king added an affirmative motion of his head, and continued: “We shall waken a fisherman of the village, who will put his boat to sea immediately, and will take you back to any place you may command him. M. d’Artagnan here will escort your honor. I place M. d’Artagnan under the safeguard of your loyalty, M. Monk.”

Monk allowed a murmur of surprise to escape him, and D’Artagnan a profound sigh. The king, without appearing to notice either, knocked against the deal trellis which inclosed the cabin of the principal fisherman inhabiting the down.

“Hey! Keyser!” cried he, “awake!”

“Who calls me?” asked the fisherman.

“I, Charles the king.”

“Ah, my lord!” cried Keyser, rising ready dressed from the sail in which he slept, as people sleep in a hammock. “What can I do to serve you?”

“Captain Keyser,” said Charles, “you must set sail immediately. Here is a traveler who wishes to freight your bark, and will pay you well; serve him well.” And the king drew back a few steps to allow Monk to speak to the fisherman.

“I wish to cross over into England,” said Monk, who spoke Dutch enough to make himself understood.

“This minute,” said the patron, “this very minute, if you wish it.”

“But will that be long?” said Monk.

“Not half an hour, your honor. My eldest son is at this moment preparing the boat, as we were going out fishing at three o’clock in the morning.”

“Well, is all arranged?” asked the king, drawing near.

“All but the price,” said the fisherman; “yes, sire.”

“That is my affair,” said Charles, “the gentleman is my friend.”

Monk started and looked at Charles on hearing this word.

“Very well, my lord,” replied Keyser. And at that moment they heard Keyser’s eldest son, signaling from the shore with the blast of a bull’s horn.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the king, “depart.”

“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “will it please your majesty to grant me a few minutes? I have engaged men, and I am going without them; I must give them notice.”

“Whistle to them,” said Charles, smiling.

D’Artagnan, accordingly, whistled, whilst the patron Keyser replied to his son; and four men, led by Menneville, attended the first summons.

“Here is some money in account,” said D’Artagnan, putting into their hands a purse containing two thousand five hundred livres in gold. “Go and wait for me at Calais, you know where.” And D’Artagnan heaved a profound sigh, as he let the purse fall into the hands of Menneville.

“What, are you leaving us?” cried the men.

“For a short time,” said D’Artagnan, “or for a long time, who knows? But with 2,500 livres, and the 2,500 you have already received, you are paid according to our agreement. We are quits, then, my friend.”

“But the boat?”

“Do not trouble yourself about that.”

“Our things are on board the felucca.”

“Go and seek them, and then set off immediately.”

“Yes, captain.”

D’Artagnan returned to Monk, saying,--“Monsieur, I await your orders, for I understand we are to go together, unless my company be disagreeable to you.”

“On the contrary, monsieur,” said Monk.

“Come, gentlemen, on board,” cried Keyser’s son.

Charles bowed to the general with grace and dignity, saying,--“You will pardon me this unfortunate accident, and the violence to which you have been subjected, when you are convinced that I was not the cause of them.”

Monk bowed profoundly without replying. On his side, Charles affected not to say a word to D’Artagnan in private, but aloud,--“Once more, thanks, monsieur le chevalier,” said he, “thanks for your services. They will be repaid you by the Lord God, who, I hope, reserves trials and troubles for me alone.”

Monk followed Keyser, and his son embarked with them. D’Artagnan came after, muttering to himself,--“Poor Planchet! poor Planchet! I am very much afraid we have made a bad speculation.”

The Shares of Planchet and Company rise again to Par

During the passage, Monk only spoke to D’Artagnan in cases of urgent necessity. Thus, when the Frenchman hesitated to come and take his meals, poor meals, composed of salt fish, biscuit, and Hollands gin, Monk called him, saying,--“To table, monsieur, to table!”

This was all. D’Artagnan, from being himself on all great occasions extremely concise, did not draw from the general’s conciseness a favorable augury of the result of his mission. Now, as D’Artagnan had plenty of time for reflection, he battered his brains during this time in endeavoring to find out how Athos had seen King Charles, how he had conspired his departure with him, and lastly, how he had entered Monk’s camp; and the poor lieutenant of musketeers plucked a hair from his mustache every time he reflected that the horseman who accompanied Monk on the night of the famous abduction must have been Athos.

At length, after a passage of two nights and two days, the patron Keyser touched at the point where Monk, who had given all the orders during the voyage, had commanded they should land. It was exactly at the mouth of the little river, near which Athos had chosen his abode.

Daylight was waning, a splendid sun, like a red steel buckler, was plunging the lower extremity of its disc beneath the blue line of the sea. The felucca was making fair way up the river, tolerably wide in that part, but Monk, in his impatience, desired to be landed, and Keyser’s boat set him and D’Artagnan upon the muddy bank, amidst the reeds. D’Artagnan, resigned to obedience, followed Monk exactly as a chained bear follows his master; but the position humiliated him not a little, and he grumbled to himself that the service of kings was a bitter one, and that the best of them was good for nothing. Monk walked with long and hasty strides; it might be thought that he did not yet feel certain of having reached English land. They had already begun to perceive distinctly a few of the cottages of the sailors and fishermen spread over the little quay of this humble port, when, all at once, D’Artagnan cried out,--“God pardon me, there is a house on fire!”

Monk raised his eyes, and perceived there was, in fact, a house which the flames were beginning to devour. It had begun at a little shed belonging to the house, the roof of which had caught. The fresh evening breeze agitated the fire. The two travelers quickened their steps, hearing loud cries, and seeing, as they drew nearer, soldiers with their glittering arms pointing towards the house on fire. It was doubtless this menacing occupation which had made them neglect to signal the felucca. Monk stopped short for an instant, and, for the first time, formulated his thoughts into words. “Eh! but,” said he, “perhaps they are not my soldiers, but Lambert’s.”

These words contained at once a sorrow, an apprehension, and a reproach perfectly intelligible to D’Artagnan. In fact, during the general’s absence, Lambert might have given battle, conquered, and dispersed the parliament’s army, and taken with his own the place of Monk’s army, deprived of its strongest support. At this doubt, which passed from the mind of Monk to his own, D’Artagnan reasoned in this manner: “One of two things is going to happen; either Monk has spoken correctly, and there are no longer any but Lambertists in the country--that is to say, enemies, who would receive me wonderfully well, since it is to me they owe their victory; or nothing is changed, and Monk, transported with joy at finding his camp still in the same place, will not prove too severe in his settlement with me.” Whilst thinking thus, the two travelers advanced, and began to mingle with a little knot of sailors, who looked on with sorrow at the burning house, but did not dare to say anything on account of the threats of the soldiers.

Monk addressed one of these sailors:--“What is going on here?” asked he.

“Sir,” replied the man, not recognizing Monk as an officer, under the thick cloak which enveloped him, “that house was inhabited by a foreigner, and this foreigner became suspected by the soldiers. They wanted to get into his house under pretense of taking him to the camp; but he, without being frightened by their number, threatened death to the first who should cross the threshold of his door, and as there was one who did venture, the Frenchman stretched him on the earth with a pistol-shot.”

“Ah! he is a Frenchman, is he?” said D’Artagnan, rubbing his hands. “Good!”

“How good?” replied the fisherman.

“No, I don’t mean that.--What then--my tongue slipped.”

“What then, sir--why, the other men became as enraged as so many lions: they fired more than a hundred shots at the house; but the Frenchman was sheltered by the wall, and every time they tried to enter by the door they met with a shot from his lackey, whose aim is deadly, d’ye see? Every time they threatened the window, they met with a pistol-shot from the master. Look and count--there are seven men down.

“Ah! my brave countryman,” cried D’Artagnan, “wait a little, wait a little. I will be with you, and we will settle with this rabble.”

“One instant, sir,” said Monk, “wait.”

“Long?”

“No; only the time to ask a question.” Then, turning towards the sailor, “My friend,” asked he with an emotion which, in spite of all his self-command, he could not conceal, “whose soldiers are these, pray tell me?”

“Whose should they be but that madman, Monk’s?”

“There has been no battle, then?”

“A battle, ah, yes! for what purpose? Lambert’s army is melting away like snow in April. All come to Monk, officers and soldiers. In a week Lambert won’t have fifty men left.”

The fisherman was interrupted by a fresh discharge directed against the house, and by another pistol-shot which replied to the discharge and struck down the most daring of the aggressors. The rage of the soldiers was at its height. The fire still continued to increase, and a crest of flame and smoke whirled and spread over the roof of the house. D’Artagnan could no longer contain himself. “Mordioux!” said he to Monk, glancing at him sideways: “you are a general, and allow your men to burn houses and assassinate people, while you look on and warm your hands at the blaze of the conflagration? Mordioux! you are not a man.”

“Patience, sir, patience!” said Monk, smiling.

“Patience! yes, until that brave gentleman is roasted--is that what you mean?” And D’Artagnan rushed forward.

“Remain where you are, sir,” said Monk, in a tone of command. And he advanced towards the house, just as an officer had approached it, saying to the besieged: “The house is burning, you will be roasted within an hour! There is still time--come, tell us what you know of General Monk, and we will spare your life. Reply, or by Saint Patrick----”

The besieged made no answer; he was no doubt reloading his pistol.

“A reinforcement is expected,” continued the officer; “in a quarter of an hour there will be a hundred men around your house.”

“I reply to you,” said the Frenchman. “Let your men be sent away; I will come out freely and repair to the camp alone, or else I will be killed here!”

“Mille tonnerres!” shouted D’Artagnan; “why that’s the voice of Athos! Ah, canailles!” and the sword of D’Artagnan flashed from its sheath. Monk stopped him and advanced himself, exclaiming, in a sonorous voice: “Hola! what is going on here? Digby, whence this fire? why these cries?”

“The general!” cried Digby, letting the point of his sword fall.

“The general!” repeated the soldiers.

“Well, what is there so astonishing in that?” said Monk, in a calm tone. Then, silence being re-established--“Now,” said he, “who lit this fire?”

The soldiers hung their heads.

“What! do I ask a question, and nobody answers me?” said Monk. “What! do I find a fault, and nobody repairs it? The fire is still burning, I believe.”

Immediately the twenty men rushed forward, seizing pails, buckets, jars, barrels, and extinguishing the fire with as much ardor as they had, an instant before employed in promoting it. But already, and before all the rest, D’Artagnan had applied a ladder to the house crying, “Athos! it is I, D’Artagnan! Do not kill me my dearest friend!” And in a moment the count was clasped in his arms.

In the meantime, Grimaud, preserving his calmness, dismantled the fortification of the ground-floor, and after having opened the door, stood with his arms folded quietly on the sill. Only, on hearing the voice of D’Artagnan, he uttered an exclamation of surprise. The fire being extinguished, the soldiers presented themselves, Digby at their head.

“General,” said he, “excuse us; what we have done was for love of your honor, whom we thought lost.”

“You are mad, gentlemen. Lost! Is a man like me to be lost? Am I not permitted to be absent, according to my pleasure, without giving formal notice? Do you, by chance, take me for a citizen from the city? Is a gentleman, my friend, my guest, to be besieged, entrapped, and threatened with death, because he is suspected? What signifies that word, suspected? Curse me if I don’t have every one of you shot like dogs that the brave gentleman has left alive!”

“General,” said Digby, piteously, “there were twenty-eight of us, and see, there are eight on the ground.”

“I authorize M. le Comte de la Fere to send the twenty to join the eight,” said Monk, stretching out his hand to Athos. “Let them return to camp. Mr. Digby, you will consider yourself under arrest for a month.”

“General----”

“That is to teach you, sir, not to act, another time, without orders.”

“I had those of the lieutenant, general.”

“The lieutenant has no such orders to give you, and he shall be placed under arrest, instead of you, if he has really commanded you to burn this gentleman.”

“He did not command that, general; he commanded us to bring him to the camp; but the count was not willing to follow us.”

“I was not willing that they should enter and plunder my house,” said Athos to Monk, with a significant look.

“And you were quite right. To the camp, I say.” The soldiers departed with dejected looks. “Now we are alone,” said Monk to Athos, “have the goodness to tell me, monsieur, why you persisted in remaining here, whilst you had your felucca----”

“I waited for you, general,” said Athos. “Had not your honor appointed to meet me in a week?”

An eloquent look from D’Artagnan made it clear to Monk that these two men, so brave and so loyal, had not acted in concert for his abduction. He knew already it could not be so.

“Monsieur,” said he to D’Artagnan, “you were perfectly right. Have the kindness to allow me a moment’s conversation with M. le Comte de la Fere?”

D’Artagnan took advantage of this to go and ask Grimaud how he was. Monk requested Athos to conduct him to the chamber he lived in.

This chamber was still full of smoke and rubbish. More than fifty balls had passed through the windows and mutilated the walls. They found a table, inkstand, and materials for writing. Monk took up a pen, wrote a single line, signed it, folded the paper, sealed the letter with the seal of his ring, and handed over the missive to Athos, saying, “Monsieur, carry, if you please, this letter to King Charles II., and set out immediately, if nothing detains you here any longer.”

“And the casks?” said Athos.

“The fisherman who brought me hither will assist you in transporting them on board. Depart, if possible, within an hour.”

“Yes, general,” said Athos.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried Monk, from the window. D’Artagnan ran up precipitately

“Embrace your friend and bid him adieu, sir; he is returning to Holland.”

“To Holland!” cried D’Artagnan; “and I?”

“You are at liberty to follow him, monsieur, but I request you to remain,” said Monk. “Will you refuse me?”

“Oh, no, general; I am at your orders.”

D’Artagnan embraced Athos, and only had time to bid him adieu. Monk watched them both. Then he took upon himself the preparations for the departure, the transportation of the casks on board, and the embarking of Athos; then, taking D’Artagnan by the arm, who was quite amazed and agitated, he led him towards Newcastle. Whilst going along, the general leaning on his arm, D’Artagnan could not help murmuring to himself,--“Come, come, it seems to me that the shares of the firm of Planchet and Company are rising.”

Monk reveals himself

D’Artagnan, although he flattered himself with better success, had, nevertheless, not too well comprehended his situation. It was a strange and grave subject for him to reflect upon--this voyage of Athos into England; this league of the king with Athos, and that extraordinary combination of his design with that of the Comte de la Fere. The best way was to let things follow their own train. An imprudence had been committed, and, whilst having succeeded, as he had promised, D’Artagnan found that he had gained no advantage by his success. Since everything was lost, he could risk no more.

D’Artagnan followed Monk through his camp. The return of the general had produced a marvelous effect, for his people had thought him lost. But Monk, with his austere look and icy demeanor, appeared to ask of his eager lieutenants and delighted soldiers the cause of all this joy. Therefore, to the lieutenants who had come to meet him, and who expressed the uneasiness with which they had learnt his departure,--

“Why is all this?” said he; “am I obliged to give you an account of myself?”

“But, your honor, the sheep may well tremble without the shepherd.”

“Tremble!” replied Monk, in his calm and powerful voice; “ah, monsieur, what a word! Curse me, if my sheep have not both teeth and claws; I renounce being their shepherd. Ah, you tremble, gentlemen, do you?”

“Yes, general, for you.”

“Oh! pray meddle with your own concerns. If I have not the wit God gave to Oliver Cromwell, I have that which He has sent to me: I am satisfied with it, however little it may be.”

The officer made no reply; and Monk, having imposed silence on his people, all remained persuaded that he had accomplished some important work or made some important trial. This was forming a very poor conception of his patience and scrupulous genius. Monk, if he had the good faith of the Puritans, his allies, must have returned fervent thanks to the patron saint who had taken him from the box of M. d’Artagnan. Whilst these things were going on, our musketeer could not help constantly repeating,--

“God grant that M. Monk may not have as much pride as I have; for I declare if any one had put me into a coffer with that grating over my mouth, and carried me packed up, like a calf, across the seas, I should cherish such a memory of my piteous looks in that coffer, and such an ugly animosity against him who had inclosed me in it, I should dread so greatly to see a sarcastic smile blooming upon the face of the malicious wretch, or in his attitude any grotesque imitation of my position in the box, that, Mordioux! I should plunge a good dagger into his throat in compensation for the grating, and would nail him down in a veritable bier, in remembrance of the false coffin in which I had been left to grow moldy for two days.”

And D’Artagnan spoke honestly when he spoke thus; for the skin of our Gascon was a very thin one. Monk, fortunately, entertained other ideas. He never opened his mouth to his timid conqueror concerning the past; but he admitted him very near to his person in his labors, took him with him to several reconnoiterings, in such a way as to obtain that which he evidently warmly desired,--a rehabilitation in the mind of D’Artagnan. The latter conducted himself like a past-master in the art of flattery: he admired all Monk’s tactics, and the ordering of his camp, he joked very pleasantly upon the circumvallations of Lambert’s camp, who had, he said, very uselessly given himself the trouble to inclose a camp for twenty thousand men, whilst an acre of ground would have been quite sufficient for the corporal and fifty guards who would perhaps remain faithful to him.

Monk, immediately after his arrival, had accepted the proposition made by Lambert the evening before, for an interview, and which Monk’s lieutenants had refused under the pretext that the general was indisposed. This interview was neither long nor interesting: Lambert demanded a profession of faith from his rival. The latter declared he had no other opinion than that of the majority. Lambert asked if it would not be more expedient to terminate the quarrel by an alliance than by a battle. Monk hereupon demanded a week for consideration. Now, Lambert could not refuse this: and Lambert, nevertheless, had come, saying that he should devour Monk’s army. Therefore, at the end of the interview, which Lambert’s party watched with impatience, nothing was decided--neither treaty nor battle--the rebel army, as M. d’Artagnan had foreseen, began to prefer the good cause to the bad one, and the parliament, rumpish as it was, to the pompous nothings of Lambert’s designs.

They remembered, likewise, the good feasts of London---the profusion of ale and sherry with which the citizens of London paid their friends the soldiers;--they looked with terror at the black war bread, at the troubled waters of the Tweed,--too salt for the glass, not enough so for the pot; and they said to themselves, “Are not the roast meats kept warm for Monk in London?” From that time nothing was heard of but desertion in Lambert’s army. The soldiers allowed themselves to be drawn away by the force of principles, which are, like discipline, the obligatory tie in everybody constituted for any purpose. Monk defended the parliament--Lambert attacked it. Monk had no more inclination to support parliament than Lambert, but he had it inscribed on his standards, so that all those of the contrary party were reduced to write upon theirs “Rebellion,” which sounded ill to puritan ears. They flocked, then, from Lambert to Monk, as sinners flock from Baal to God.

Monk made his calculations, at a thousand desertions a day Lambert had men enough to last twenty days; but there is in sinking things such a growth of weight and swiftness, which combine with each other, that a hundred left the first day, five hundred the second, a thousand the third. Monk thought he had obtained his rate. But from one thousand the deserters increased to two thousand, then to four thousand, and, a week after, Lambert, perceiving that he had no longer the possibility of accepting battle, if it were offered to him, took the wise resolution of decamping during the night, returning to London, and being beforehand with Monk in constructing a power with the wreck of the military party.

But Monk, free and without uneasiness, marched towards London as a conqueror, augmenting his army with all the floating parties on his way. He encamped at Barnet, that is to say, within four leagues of the capital, cherished by the parliament, which thought it beheld in him a protector, and awaited by the people, who were anxious to see him reveal himself, that they might judge him. D’Artagnan himself had not been able to fathom his tactics; he observed--he admired. Monk could not enter London with a settled determination without bringing about civil war. He temporized for a short time.

Suddenly, when least expected, Monk drove the military party out of London, and installed himself in the city amidst the citizens, by order of the parliament; then, at the moment when the citizens were crying out against Monk--at the moment when the soldiers themselves were accusing their leader--Monk, finding himself certain of a majority, declared to the Rump Parliament that it must abdicate--be dissolved--and yield its place to a government which would not be a joke. Monk pronounced this declaration, supported by fifty thousand swords, to which, that same evening, were united, with shouts of delirious joy, the five hundred thousand inhabitants of the good city of London. At length, at the moment when the people, after their triumphs and festive repasts in the open streets, were looking about for a master, it was affirmed that a vessel had left the Hague, bearing Charles II. and his fortunes.

“Gentlemen,” said Monk to his officers, “I am going to meet the legitimate king. He who loves me will follow me.” A burst of acclamations welcomed these words, which D’Artagnan did not hear without the greatest delight.

“Mordioux!” said he to Monk, “that is bold, monsieur.”

“You will accompany me, will you not?” said Monk.

“Pardieu! general. But tell me, I beg, what you wrote by Athos, that is to say, the Comte de la Fere--you know--the day of our arrival?”

“I have no secrets from you now,” replied Monk. “I wrote these words: ‘Sire, I expect your majesty in six weeks at Dover.’”

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, “I no longer say it is bold; I say it is well played; it is a fine stroke!”

“You are something of a judge in such matters,” replied Monk.

And this was the only time the general had ever made an allusion to his voyage to Holland.

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

The king of England made his entree into Dover with great pomp, as he afterwards did in London. He had sent for his brothers; he had brought over his mother and sister. England had been for so long a time given up to herself--that is to say, to tyranny, mediocrity, and nonsense--that this return of Charles II., whom the English only knew as the son of the man whose head they had cut off, was a festival for the three kingdoms. Consequently, all the good wishes, all the acclamations which accompanied his return, struck the young king so forcibly that he stooped and whispered in the ear of James of York, his younger brother, “In truth, James, it seems to have been our own fault that we were so long absent from a country where we are so much beloved!” The pageant was magnificent. Beautiful weather favored the solemnity. Charles had regained all his youth, all his good humor; he appeared to be transfigured; hearts seemed to smile on him like the sun. Amongst this noisy crowd of courtiers and worshippers, who did not appear to remember they had conducted to the scaffold at Whitehall the father of the new king, a man, in the garb of a lieutenant of musketeers, looked, with a smile upon his thin, intellectual lips, sometimes at the people vociferating their blessings, and sometimes at the prince, who pretended emotion, and who bowed most particularly to the women, whose bouquets fell beneath his horse’s feet.

“What a fine trade is that of king!” said this man, so completely absorbed in contemplation that he stopped in the middle of his road, leaving the cortege to file past. “Now, there is, in good truth, a prince all bespangled over with gold and diamonds, enamelled with flowers like a spring meadow; he is about to plunge his empty hands into the immense coffer in which his now faithful--but so lately unfaithful--subjects have amassed one or two cartloads of ingots of gold. They cast bouquets enough upon him to smother him; and yet, if he had presented himself to them two months ago, they would have sent as many bullets and balls at him as they now throw flowers. Decidedly it is worth something to be born in a certain sphere, with due respect to the lowly, who pretend that it is of very little advantage to them to be born lowly.” The cortege continued to file on, and, with the king, the acclamations began to die away in the direction of the palace which, however, did not prevent our officer from being pushed about.

“Mordioux!” continued the reasoner, “these people tread upon my toes and look upon me as of very little consequence, or rather of none at all, seeing that they are Englishmen and I am a Frenchman. If all these people were asked,--‘Who is M. d’Artagnan?’ they would reply, ‘Nescio vos.’ But let any one say to them, ‘There is the king going by,’ ‘There is M. Monk going by,’ they would run away, shouting,--‘Vive le roi!’ ‘Vive M. Monk!’ till their lungs were exhausted. And yet,” continued he, surveying, with that look sometimes so keen and sometimes so proud, the diminishing crowd,--“and yet, reflect a little, my good people, on what your king has done, on what M. Monk has done, and then think what has been done by this poor unknown, who is called M. d’Artagnan! It is true you do not know him, since he is here unknown, and that prevents your thinking about the matter! But, bah! what matters it! All that does not prevent Charles II. from being a great king, although he has been exiled twelve years, or M. Monk from being a great captain, although he did make a voyage to Holland in a box. Well, then, since it is admitted that one is a great king and the other a great captain,--‘Hurrah for King Charles II.!--Hurrah for General Monk!’” And his voice mingled with the voices of the hundreds of spectators, over which it sounded for a moment. Then, the better to play the devoted man, he took off his hat and waved it in the air. Some one seized his arm in the very height of his expansive royalism. (In 1660 that was so termed which we now call royalism.)

“Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, “you here!” And the two friends seized each other’s hands.

“You here!--and being here,” continued the musketeer, “you are not in the midst of all these courtiers my dear comte! What! you, the hero of the fete, you are not prancing on the left hand of the king, as M. Monk is prancing on the right? In truth, I cannot comprehend your character, nor that of the prince who owes you so much!”

“Always scornful, my dear D’Artagnan!” said Athos. “Will you never correct yourself of that vile habit?”

“But, you do not form part of the pageant?”

“I do not, because I was not willing to do so.”

“And why were you not willing?”

“Because I am neither envoy nor ambassador, nor representative of the king of France; and it does not become me to exhibit myself thus near the person of another king than the one God has given me for a master.”

“Mordioux! you came very near to the person of the king, his father.”

“That was another thing, my friend; he was about to die.”

“And yet that which you did for him----”

“I did it because it was my duty to do it. But you know I hate all ostentation. Let King Charles II., then, who no longer stands in need of me, leave me to my rest, and in the shadow; that is all I claim of him.”

D’Artagnan sighed.

“What is the matter with you?” said Athos. “One would say that this happy return of the king to London saddens you, my friend; you who have done at least as much for his majesty as I have.”

“Have I not,” replied D’Artagnan, with his Gascon laugh, “have I not done much for his majesty, without any one suspecting it?”

“Yes, yes, but the king is well aware of it my friend,” cried Athos.

“He is aware of it!” said the musketeer bitterly. “By my faith! I did not suspect so, and I was even a moment ago trying to forget it myself.”

“But he, my friend, will not forget it, I will answer for him.”

“You tell me that to console me a little, Athos.”

“For what?”

“Mordioux! for all the expense I incurred. I have ruined myself, my friend, ruined myself for the restoration of this young prince who has just passed, cantering on his isabelle colored horse.”

“The king does not know you have ruined yourself, my friend, but he knows he owes you much.”

“And say, Athos, does that advance me in any respect? for, to do you justice, you have labored nobly. But I--I, who in appearance marred your combinations, it was I who really made them succeed. Follow my calculations; closely, you might not have, by persuasions or mildness convinced General Monk, whilst I so roughly treated this dear general, that I furnished your prince with an opportunity of showing himself generous: this generosity was inspired in him by the fact of my fortunate mistake, and Charles is paid by the restoration which Monk has brought about.”

“All that, my dear friend, is strikingly true,” replied Athos.

“Well, strikingly true as it may be, it is not less true, my friend, that I shall return--greatly beloved by M. Monk, who calls me dear captain all day long, although I am neither dear to him nor a captain;--and much appreciated by the king, who has already forgotten my name;--it is not less true, I say, that I shall return to my beautiful country, cursed by the soldiers I had raised with the hopes of large pay, cursed by the brave Planchet, of whom I borrowed a part of his fortune.”

“How is that? What the devil had Planchet to do in all this?”

“Ah, yes, my friend, but this king, so spruce, so smiling, so adored, M. Monk fancies he has recalled him, you fancy you have supported him, I fancy I have brought him back, the people fancy they have reconquered him, he himself fancies he has negotiated his restoration; and yet nothing of all this is true, for Charles II., king of England, Scotland, and Ireland, has been replaced upon the throne by a French grocer, who lives in the Rue des Lombards, and is named Planchet. And such is grandeur! ‘Vanity!’ says the Scripture: ‘vanity, all is vanity.’”

Athos could not help laughing at this whimsical outbreak of his friend.

“My dear D’Artagnan,” said he, pressing his hand affectionately, “should you not exercise a little more philosophy? Is it not some further satisfaction to you to have saved my life as you did by arriving so fortunately with Monk, when those damned parliamentarians wanted to burn me alive?”

“Well, but you, in some degree, deserved a little burning, my friend.”

“How so? What, for having saved King Charles’s million?”

“What million?”

“Ah, that is true! you never knew that, my friend; but you must not be angry, for it was not my secret. That word ‘Remember’ which the king pronounced upon the scaffold.”

“And which means ‘souviens-toi!’”

“Exactly. That was signified. ‘Remember there is a million buried in the vaults of Newcastle Abbey, and that that million belongs to my son.’”

“Ah! very well, I understand. But what I understand likewise, and what is very frightful, is, that every time his majesty Charles II. will think of me, he will say to himself: ‘There is the man who came very near making me lose my crown. Fortunately I was generous, great, full of presence of mind.’ That will be said by the young gentleman in a shabby black doublet, who came to the chateau of Blois, hat in hand, to ask me if I would give him access to the king of France.”

“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” said Athos, laying his hand on the shoulder of the musketeer, “you are unjust.”

“I have a right to be so.”

“No--for you are ignorant of the future.”

D’Artagnan looked his friend full in the face, and began to laugh. “In truth, my dear Athos,” said he, “you have some sayings so superb, that they only belong to you and M. le Cardinal Mazarin.”

Athos frowned slightly.

“I beg your pardon,” continued D’Artagnan, laughing, “I beg your pardon, if I have offended you. The future! Nein! what pretty words are words that promise, and how well they fill the mouth in default of other things! Mordioux! After having met with so many who promised, when shall I find one who will give? But, let that pass!” continued D’Artagnan. “What are you doing here, my dear Athos? Are you the king’s treasurer?”

“How--why the king’s treasurer?”

“Well, since the king possesses a million, he must want a treasurer. The king of France, although he is not worth a sou, has still a superintendent of finance, M. Fouquet. It is true that, in exchange, M. Fouquet, they say, has a good number of millions of his own.”

“Oh! our million was spent long ago,” said Athos, laughing in his turn.

“I understand, it was frittered away in satin, precious stones, velvet, and feathers of all sorts and colors. All these princes and princesses stood in great need of tailors and dressmakers. Eh! Athos, do you remember what we fellows spent in equipping ourselves for the campaign of La Rochelle, and to make our appearance on horseback? Two or three thousand livres, by my faith! But a king’s robe is more ample; it would require a million to purchase the stuff. At least, Athos, if you are not treasurer, you are on a good footing at court.”

“By the faith of a gentleman, I know nothing about it,” said Athos, simply.

“What! you know nothing about it?”

“No! I have not seen the king since we left Dover.”

“Then he has forgotten you, too! Mordioux! That is shameful!”

“His majesty has had so much business to transact.”

“Oh!” cried D’Artagnan, with one of those intelligent grimaces which he alone knew how to make, “that is enough to make me recover my love for Monseigneur Giulio Mazarini. What, Athos the king has not seen you since then?”

“No.”

“And you are not furious?”

“I! Why should I be? Do you imagine, my dear D’Artagnan, that it was on the king’s account I acted as I have done? I did not know the young man. I defended the father, who represented a principle--sacred in my eyes, and I allowed myself to be drawn towards the son from sympathy for this same principle. Besides, he was a worthy knight, a noble creature, that father: do you remember him?”

“Yes; that is true; he was a brave, an excellent man, who led a sad life, but made a fine end.”

“Well, my dear D’Artagnan, understand this; to that king, to that man of heart, to that friend of my thoughts, if I durst venture to say so, I swore at the last hour to preserve faithfully the secret of a deposit which was to be transmitted to his son, to assist him in his hour of need. This young man came to me; he described his destitution; he was ignorant that he was anything to me save a living memory of his father. I have accomplished towards Charles II. what I promised Charles I.; that is all! Of what consequence is it to me, then, whether he be grateful or not? It is to myself I have rendered a service, by relieving myself of this responsibility, and not to him.”

“Well, I have always said,” replied D’Artagnan, with a sigh, “that disinterestedness was the finest thing in the world.”

“Well, and you, my friend,” resumed Athos, “are you not in the same situation as myself? If I have properly understood your words, you allowed yourself to be affected by the misfortunes of this young man; that, on your part, was much greater than it was upon mine, for I had a duty to fulfill, whilst you were under no obligation to the son of the martyr. You had not, on your part, to pay him the price of that precious drop of blood which he let fall upon my brow, through the floor of his scaffold. That which made you act was heart alone--the noble and good heart which you possess beneath your apparent skepticism and sarcastic irony; you have engaged the fortune of a servitor, and your own, I suspect, my benevolent miser! and your sacrifice is not acknowledged! Of what consequence is it? You wish to repay Planchet his money. I can comprehend that, my friend: for it is not becoming in a gentleman to borrow from his inferior, without returning to him principal and interest. Well, I will sell La Fere if necessary, and if not, some little farm. You shall pay Planchet, and there will be enough, believe me, of corn left in my granaries for us two and Raoul. In this way, my friend, you will be under obligations to nobody but yourself, and, if I know you well, it will not be a small satisfaction to your mind to be able to say, ‘I have made a king!’ Am I right?”

“Athos! Athos!” murmured D’Artagnan, thoughtfully, “I have told you more than once that the day on which you will preach I shall attend the sermon; the day on which you will tell me there is a hell--Mordioux! I shall be afraid of the gridiron and the pitchforks. You are better than I, or rather, better than anybody, and I only acknowledge the possession of one quality, and that is, of not being jealous. Except that defect, damme, as the English say, if I have not all the rest.”

“I know no one equal to D’Artagnan,” replied Athos; “but here we are, having quietly reached the house I inhabit. Will you come in, my friend?”

“Eh! why, this is the tavern of the Corne du Cerf, I think,” said D’Artagnan.

“I confess I chose it on purpose. I like old acquaintances; I like to sit down on that place, whereon I sank, overcome by fatigue, overwhelmed with despair, when you returned on the 31st of January.”

“After having discovered the abode of the masked executioner? Yes, that was a terrible day!”

“Come in, then,” said Athos, interrupting him.

They entered the large apartment, formerly the common one. The tavern, in general, and this room in particular, had undergone great changes; the ancient host of the musketeers, having become tolerably rich for an innkeeper, had closed his shop, and made of this room of which we were speaking, a store-room for colonial provisions. As for the rest of the house, he let it ready furnished to strangers. It was with unspeakable emotion D’Artagnan recognized all the furniture of the chamber of the first story; the wainscoting, the tapestries, and even that geographical chart which Porthos had so fondly studied in his moments of leisure.

“It is eleven years ago,” cried D’Artagnan. “Mordioux! it appears to me a century!”

“And to me but a day,” said Athos. “Imagine the joy I experience, my friend, in seeing you there, in pressing your hand, in casting from me sword and dagger, and tasting without mistrust this glass of sherry. And, oh! what still further joy it would be, if our two friends were there, at the two corners of the tables, and Raoul, my beloved Raoul, on the threshold, looking at us with his large eyes, at once so brilliant and so soft!”

“Yes, yes,” said D’Artagnan, much affected, “that is true. I approve particularly of the first part of your thought; it is very pleasant to smile there where we have so legitimately shuddered in thinking that from one moment to another M. Mordaunt might appear upon the landing.”

At this moment the door opened, and D’Artagnan, brave as he was, could not restrain a slight movement of fright. Athos understood him, and, smiling,--

“It is our host,” said he, “bringing me a letter.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the good man; “here is a letter for your honor.”

“Thank you,” said Athos, taking the letter without looking at it. “Tell me, my dear host, if you do not remember this gentleman?”

The old man raised his head, and looked attentively at D’Artagnan.

“No,” said he.

“It is,” said Athos, “one of those friends of whom I have spoken to you, and who lodged here with me eleven years ago.”

“Oh! but,” said the old man, “so many strangers have lodged here!”

“But we lodged here on the 30th of January, 1649,” added Athos, believing he should stimulate the lazy memory of the host by this remark.

“That is very possible,” replied he, smiling; “but it is so long ago!” and he bowed, and went out.

“Thank you,” said D’Artagnan--“perform exploits, accomplish revolutions, endeavor to engrave your name in stone or bronze with strong swords! there is something more rebellious, more hard, more forgetful than iron, bronze, or stone, and that is, the brain of a lodging-house keeper who has grown rich in the trade,--he does not know me! Well, I should have known him, though.”

Athos, smiling at his friend’s philosophy, unsealed his letter.

“Ah!” said he, “a letter from Parry.”

“Oh! oh!” said D’Artagnan; “read it, my friend, read it! No doubt it contains news.”

Athos shook his head, and read:

Monsieur le Comte.--The king has experienced much regret at not seeing you to-day beside him, at his entrance. His majesty commands me to say so, and to recall him to your memory. His majesty will expect you this evening, at the palace of St. James, between nine and ten o’clock.

“I am, respectfully, monsieur le comte, your honor’s very humble and very obedient servant,--Parry.”

“You see, my dear D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “we must not despair of the hearts of kings.”

“Not despair! you are right to say so!” replied D’Artagnan.

“Oh! my dear, very dear friend,” resumed Athos, whom the almost imperceptible bitterness of D’Artagnan had not escaped. “Pardon me! can I have unintentionally wounded my best comrade?”

“You are mad, Athos, and to prove it, I shall conduct you to the palace; to the very gate, I mean; the walk will do me good.”

“You shall go in with me, my friend; I will speak to his majesty.”

“No, no!” replied D’Artagnan, with true pride, free from all mixture; “if there is anything worse than begging yourself, it is making others beg for you. Come, let us go, my friend, the walk will be charming; on the way I shall show you the house of M. Monk, who has detained me with him. A beautiful house, by my faith. Being a general in England is better than being a marechal in France, please to know.”

Athos allowed himself to be led along, quite saddened by D’Artagnan’s forced attempts at gayety. The whole city was in a state of joy; the two friends were jostled at every moment by enthusiasts who required them, in their intoxication, to cry out, “Long live good King Charles!” D’Artagnan replied by a grunt, and Athos by a smile. They arrived thus in front of Monk’s house, before which, as we have said, they had to pass on their way to St. James’s.

Athos and D’Artagnan said but little on the road, for the simple reason that they would have had so many things to talk about if they had spoken. Athos thought that by speaking he should evince satisfaction, and that might wound D’Artagnan. The latter feared that in speaking he should allow some little bitterness to steal into his words which would render his company unpleasant to his friend. It was a singular emulation of silence between contentment and ill-humor. D’Artagnan gave way first to that itching at the tip of his tongue which he so habitually experienced.

“Do you remember, Athos,” said he, “the passage of the ‘Memoires de D’Aubigny,’ in which that devoted servant, a Gascon like myself, poor as myself, and, I was going to add, brave as myself, relates instances of the meanness of Henry IV.? My father always told me, I remember, that D’Aubigny was a liar. But, nevertheless, examine how all the princes, the issue of the great Henry, keep up the character of the race.”

“Nonsense!” said Athos, “the kings of France misers? You are mad, my friend.”

“Oh! you are so perfect yourself, you never agree to the faults of others. But, in reality, Henry IV. was covetous, Louis XIII., his son, was so likewise; we know something of that, don’t we? Gaston carried this vice to exaggeration, and has made himself, in this respect, hated by all who surround him. Henriette, poor woman, might well be avaricious, she who did not eat every day, and could not warm herself every winter; and that is an example she has given to her son Charles II., grandson of the great Henry IV., who is as covetous as his mother and his grandfather. See if I have well traced the genealogy of the misers?”

“D’Artagnan, my friend,” cried Athos, “you are very rude towards that eagle race called the Bourbons.”

“Eh! and I have forgotten the best instance of all--the other grandson of the Bearnais, Louis XIV., my ex-master. Well, I hope he is miserly enough, he who would not lend a million to his brother Charles! Good! I see you are beginning to be angry. Here we are, by good luck, close to my house, or rather to that of my friend, M. Monk.”

“My dear D’Artagnan, you do not make me angry, you make me sad; it is cruel, in fact, to see a man of your deserts out of the position his services ought to have acquired; it appears to me, my dear friend, that your name is as radiant as the greatest names in war and diplomacy. Tell me if the Luynes, the Ballegardes, and the Bassompierres have merited, as we have, fortunes and honors? You are right, my friend, a hundred times right.”

D’Artagnan sighed, and preceded his friend under the porch of the mansion Monk inhabited, at the extremity of the city. “Permit me,” said he, “to leave my purse at home; for if in the crowd those clever pickpockets of London, who are much boasted of, even in Paris, were to steal from me the remainder of my poor crowns, I should not be able to return to France. Now, content I left France, and wild with joy I should return to it, seeing that all my prejudices of former days against England have returned, accompanied by many others.”

Athos made no reply.

“So then, my dear friend, one second, and I will follow you,” said D’Artagnan. “I know you are in a hurry to go yonder to receive your reward, but, believe me, I am not less eager to partake of your joy, although from a distance. Wait for me.” And D’Artagnan was already passing through the vestibule, when a man, half servant, half soldier, who filled in Monk’s establishment the double functions of porter and guard, stopped our musketeer, saying to him in English:

“I beg your pardon, my Lord d’Artagnan!”

“Well,” replied the latter: “what is it? Is the general going to dismiss me? I only needed to be expelled by him.”

These words, spoken in French, made no impression upon the person to whom they were addressed and who himself only spoke an English mixed with the rudest Scotch. But Athos was grieved at them, for he began to think D’Artagnan was not wrong.

The Englishman showed D’Artagnan a letter: “From the general,” said he.

“Aye! that’s it, my dismissal!” replied the Gascon. “Must I read it, Athos?”

“You must be deceived,” said Athos, “or I know no more honest people in the world but you and myself.”

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and unsealed the letter, while the impassible Englishman held for him a large lantern, by the light of which he was enabled to read it.

“Well, what is the matter?” said Athos, seeing the countenance of the reader change.

“Read it yourself,” said the musketeer.

Athos took the paper and read:

Monsieur d’Artagnan.--The king regrets very much you did not come to St. Paul’s with his cortege. He missed you, as I also have missed you, my dear captain. There is but one means of repairing all this. His majesty expects me at nine o’clock at the palace of St. James’s: will you be there at the same time with me? His gracious majesty appoints that hour for an audience he grants you.”

This letter was from Monk.

The Audience.

“Well?” cried Athos with a mild look of reproach when D’Artagnan had read the letter addressed to him by Monk.

“Well!” said D’Artagnan, red with pleasure, and a little with shame, at having so hastily accused the king and Monk. “This is a politeness,--which leads to nothing, it is true, but yet it is a politeness.”

“I had great difficulty in believing the young prince ungrateful,” said Athos.

“The fact is, that his present is still too near his past,” replied D’Artagnan; “after all, everything to the present moment proved me right.”

“I acknowledge it, my dear friend, I acknowledge it. Ah! there is your cheerful look returned. You cannot think how delighted I am.”

“Thus you see,” said D’Artagnan, “Charles II. receives M. Monk at nine o’clock; he will receive me at ten; it is a grand audience, of the sort which at the Louvre are called ‘distributions of court holy water.’ Come, let us go and place ourselves under the spout, my dear friend! Come along.”

Athos replied nothing; and both directed their steps, at a quick pace, towards the palace of St. James’s, which the crowd still surrounded, to catch, through the windows, the shadows of the courtiers, and the reflection of the royal person. Eight o’clock was striking when the two friends took their places in the gallery filled with courtiers and politicians. Every one looked at these simply-dressed men in foreign costumes, at these two noble heads so full of character and meaning. On their side, Athos and D’Artagnan, having with two glances taken the measure of the whole assembly, resumed their chat.

A great noise was suddenly heard at the extremity of the gallery,--it was General Monk, who entered, followed by more than twenty officers, all eager for a smile, as only the evening before he was master of all England, and a glorious morrow was looked to, for the restorer of the Stuart family.

“Gentlemen,” said Monk, turning round, “henceforward I beg you to remember that I am no longer anything. Lately I commanded the principal army of the republic; now that army is the king’s, into whose hands I am about to surrender, at his command, my power of yesterday.”

Great surprise was painted on all the countenances, and the circle of adulators and suppliants which surrounded Monk an instant before, was enlarged by degrees, and ended by being lost in the large undulations of the crowd. Monk was going into the ante-chamber as others did. D’Artagnan could not help remarking this to the Comte de la Fere, who frowned on beholding it. Suddenly the door of the royal apartment opened, and the young king appeared, preceded by two officers of his household.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said he. “Is General Monk here?”

“I am here, sire,” replied the old general.

Charles stepped hastily towards him, and seized his hand with the warmest demonstration of friendship. “General,” said the king, aloud, “I have just signed your patent,--you are Duke of Albemarle; and my intention is that no one shall equal you in power and fortune in this kingdom, where--the noble Montrose excepted--no one has equaled you in loyalty, courage, and talent. Gentlemen, the duke is commander of our armies of land and sea; pay him your respects, if you please, in that character.”

Whilst every one was pressing round the general, who received all this homage without losing his impassibility for an instant, D’Artagnan said to Athos: “When one thinks that this duchy, this commander of the land and sea forces, all these grandeurs, in a word, have been shut up in a box six feet long and three feet wide----”

“My friend,” replied Athos, “much more imposing grandeurs are confined in boxes still smaller,--and remain there forever.”

All at once Monk perceived the two gentlemen, who held themselves aside until the crowd had diminished; he made himself a passage towards them, so that he surprised them in the midst of their philosophical reflections. “Were you speaking of me?” said he, with a smile.

“My lord,” replied Athos, “we were speaking likewise of God.”

Monk reflected for a moment, and then replied gayly: “Gentlemen, let us speak a little of the king likewise, if you please; for you have, I believe, an audience of his majesty.”

“At nine o’clock,” said Athos.

“At ten o’clock,” said D’Artagnan.

“Let us go into this closet at once,” replied Monk, making a sign to his two companions to precede him; but to that neither would consent.

The king, during this discussion so characteristic of the French, had returned to the center of the gallery.

“Oh! my Frenchmen!” said he, in that tone of careless gayety which, in spite of so much grief and so many crosses, he had never lost. “My Frenchmen! my consolation!” Athos and D’Artagnan bowed.

“Duke, conduct these gentlemen into my study. I am at your service, messieurs,” added he in French. And he promptly expedited his court, to return to his Frenchmen, as he called them. “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said he, as he entered his closet, “I am glad to see you again.”

“Sire, my joy is at its height, at having the honor to salute your majesty in your own palace of St. James’s.”

“Monsieur, you have been willing to render me a great service, and I owe you my gratitude for it. If I did not fear to intrude upon the rights of our commanding general, I would offer you some post worthy of you near our person.”

“Sire,” replied D’Artagnan, “I have quitted the service of the king of France, making a promise to my prince not to serve any other king.”

“Humph!” said Charles, “I am sorry to hear that; I should like to do much for you; I like you very much.”

“Sire----”

“But let us see,” said Charles with a smile, “if we cannot make you break your word. Duke, assist me. If you were offered, that is to say, if I offered you the chief command of my musketeers?” D’Artagnan bowed lower than before.

“I should have the regret to refuse what your gracious majesty would offer me,” said he; “a gentleman has but his word, and that word, as I have had the honor to tell your majesty, is engaged to the king of France.”

“We shall say no more about it, then,” said the king, turning towards Athos, and leaving D’Artagnan plunged in the deepest pangs of disappointment.

“Ah! I said so!” muttered the musketeer. “Words! words! Court holy water! Kings have always a marvellous talent for offering us that which they know we will not accept, and in appearing generous without risk. So be it!--triple fool that I was to have hoped for a moment!”

During this time Charles took the hand of Athos. “Comte,” said he, “you have been to me a second father; the services you have rendered me are above all price. I have, nevertheless, thought of a recompense. You were created by my father a Knight of the Garter---that is an order which all the kings of Europe cannot bear; by the queen regent, Knight of the Holy Ghost--which is an order not less illustrious; I join to it that of the Golden Fleece sent me by the king of France, to whom the king of Spain, his father-in-law, gave two on the occasion of his marriage; but in return, I have a service to ask of you.”

“Sire,” said Athos. with confusion, “the Golden Fleece for me! when the king of France is the only person in my country who enjoys that distinction?”

I wish you to be in your country and all others the equal of all those whom sovereigns have honored with their favor,” said Charles, drawing the chain from his neck; “and I am sure, comte, my father smiles on me from his grave.”

“It is unaccountably strange,” said D’Artagnan to himself, whilst his friend, on his knees, received the eminent order which the king conferred on him--“it is almost incredible that I have always seen showers of prosperity fall upon all who surrounded me, and that not a drop ever reached me! If I were a jealous man it would be enough to make one tear one’s hair, parole d’honneur!”

Athos rose from his knees, and Charles embraced him tenderly. “General!” said he to Monk--then stopping with a smile, “pardon me, duke, I mean. No wonder if I make a mistake; the word duke is too short for me, I always seek some title to lengthen it. I should wish to see you so near my throne, that I might say to you as to Louis XIV., my brother! Oh! I have it, and you will be almost my brother, for I make you viceroy of Ireland and of Scotland. my dear duke. So, after that fashion, henceforward I shall not make a mistake.”

The duke seized the hand of the king, but without enthusiasm, without joy, as he did everything. His heart, however, had been moved by this last favor. Charles, by skillfully husbanding his generosity, had given the duke time to wish, although he might not have wished for so much as was given him.

“Mordioux!” grumbled D’Artagnan, “there is the shower beginning again! Oh! it is enough to turn one’s brain!” and he turned away with an air so sorrowful and so comically piteous, that the king, who caught it, could not restrain a smile. Monk was preparing to leave the room, to take leave of Charles.

“What! my trusty and well-beloved!” said the king to the duke, “are you going?”

“With your majesty’s permission, for in truth I am weary. The emotions of the day have worn me out; I stand in need of rest.”

“But,” said the king, “you are not going without M. d’Artagnan, I hope.”

“Why not, sire?” said the old warrior.

“Well! you know very well why,” said the king.

Monk looked at Charles with astonishment.

“Oh! it may be possible; but if you forget, you, M. d’Artagnan, do not.”

Astonishment was painted on the face of the musketeer.

“Well, then, duke,” said the king, “do you not lodge with M. d’Artagnan?”

“I had the honor of offering M. d’Artagnan a lodging; yes, sire.”

“That idea is your own, and yours solely?”

“Mine and mine only; yes, sire.”

“Well! but it could not be otherwise--the prisoner always lodges with his conqueror.”

Monk colored in his turn. “Ah! that is true,” said he, “I am M. d’Artagnan’s prisoner.”

“Without doubt, duke, since you are not yet ransomed, but have no care of that; it was I who took you out of M. d’Artagnan’s hands, and it is I who will pay your ransom.”

The eyes of D’Artagnan regained their gayety and their brilliancy. The Gascon began to understand. Charles advanced towards him.

“The general,” said he, “is not rich, and cannot pay you what he is worth. I am richer, certainly, but now that he is a duke, and if not a king, almost a king, he is worth a sum I could not perhaps pay. Come, M. d’Artagnan, be moderate with me; how much do I owe you?”

D’Artagnan, delighted at the turn things were taking, but not for a moment losing his self-possession, replied,--“Sire, your majesty has no occasion to be alarmed. When I had the good fortune to take his grace, M. Monk was only a general; it is therefore only a general’s ransom that is due to me. But if the general will have the kindness to deliver me his sword, I shall consider myself paid; for there is nothing in the world but the general’s sword which is worth so much as himself.”

“Odds fish! as my father said,” cried Charles. “That is a gallant proposal, and a gallant man, is he not, duke?”

“Upon my honor, yes, sire,” and he drew his sword. “Monsieur,” said he to D’Artagnan, “here is what you demand. Many may have handled a better blade; but however modest mine may be, I have never surrendered it to any one.”

D’Artagnan received with pride the sword which had just made a king.

“Oh! oh!” cried Charles II.; “what, a sword that has restored me to my throne--to go out of the kingdom--and not, one day, to figure among the crown jewels. No, on my soul! that shall not be! Captain d’Artagnan, I will give you two hundred thousand crowns for your sword! If that is too little, say so.”

“It is too little, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, with inimitable seriousness. “In the first place, I do not at all wish to sell it; but your majesty desires me to do so, and that is an order. I obey, then, but the respect I owe to the illustrious warrior who hears me commands me to estimate at a third more the reward of my victory. I ask then three hundred thousand crowns for the sword, or I shall give it to your majesty for nothing.” And taking it by the point he presented it to the king. Charles broke into hilarious laughter.

“A gallant man, and a merry companion! Odds fish! is he not, duke? is he not, comte? He pleases me! I like him! Here, Chevalier d’Artagnan, take this.” And going to the table, he took a pen and wrote an order upon his treasurer for three hundred thousand crowns.

D’Artagnan took it, and turning gravely towards Monk: “I have still asked too little, I know,” said he, “but believe me, your grace, I would rather have died than allow myself to be governed by avarice.”

The king began to laugh again, like the happiest cockney of his kingdom.

“You will come and see me again before you go, chevalier?” said he; “I shall want to lay in a stock of gayety now my Frenchmen are leaving me.”

“Ah! sire, it will not be with the gayety as with the duke’s sword; I will give it to your majesty gratis,” replied D’Artagnan, whose feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground.

“And you, comte,” added Charles, turning towards Athos, “come again, also, I have an important message to confide to you. Your hand, duke.” Monk pressed the hand of the king.

“Adieu! gentlemen,” said Charles, holding out each of his hands to the two Frenchmen, who carried them to their lips.

“Well,” said Athos, when they were out of the palace, “are you satisfied?”

“Hush!” said D’Artagnan, wild with joy, “I have not yet returned from the treasurer’s--a shutter may fall upon my head.”

Of the Embarrassment of Riches

D’Artagnan lost no time, and as soon as the thing was suitable and opportune, he paid a visit to the lord treasurer of his majesty. He had then the satisfaction to exchange a piece of paper, covered with very ugly writing, for a prodigious number of crowns, recently stamped with the effigies of his very gracious majesty Charles II.

D’Artagnan easily controlled himself: and yet, on this occasion, he could not help evincing a joy which the reader will perhaps comprehend, if he deigns to have some indulgence for a man who, since his birth, had never seen so many pieces and rolls of pieces juxtaplaced in an order truly agreeable to the eye. The treasurer placed all the rolls in bags, and closed each bag with a stamp sealed with the arms of England, a favor which treasurers do not grant to everybody. Then impassible, and just as polite as he ought to be towards a man honored with the friendship of the king, he said to D’Artagnan:

“Take away your money, sir.” Your money! These words made a thousand chords vibrate in the heart of D’Artagnan, which he had never felt before. He had the bags packed in a small cart, and returned home meditating deeply. A man who possesses three hundred thousand crowns can no longer expect to wear a smooth brow; a wrinkle for every hundred thousand livres is not too much.

D’Artagnan shut himself up, ate no dinner, closed his door to everybody, and, with a lighted lamp, and a loaded pistol on the table, he watched all night, ruminating upon the means of preventing these lovely crowns, which from the coffers of the king had passed into his coffers, from passing from his coffers into the pockets of any thief whatever. The best means discovered by the Gascon was to inclose his treasure, for the present, under locks so solid that no wrist could break them, and so complicated that no master-key could open them. D’Artagnan remembered that the English are masters in mechanics and conservative industry; and he determined to go in the morning in search of a mechanic who would sell him a strong box. He did not go far; Master Will Jobson, dwelling in Piccadilly, listened to his propositions, comprehended his wishes, and promised to make him a safety lock that should relieve him from all future fear.

“I will give you,” said he, “a piece of mechanism entirely new. At the first serious attempt upon your lock, an invisible plate will open of itself and vomit forth a pretty copper bullet of the weight of a mark--which will knock down the intruder, and not without a loud report. What do you think of it?”

“I think it very ingenious,” cried D’Artagnan, “the little copper bullet pleases me mightily. So now, sir mechanic, the terms?”

“A fortnight for the execution, and fifteen hundred crowns payable on delivery,” replied the artisan.

D’Artagnan’s brow darkened. A fortnight was delay enough to allow the thieves of London time to remove all occasion for the strong box. As to the fifteen hundred crowns--that would be paying too dear for what a little vigilance would procure him for nothing.

“I will think of it,” said he, “thank you, sir.” And he returned home at full speed; nobody had yet touched his treasure. That same day Athos paid a visit to his friend and found him so thoughtful that he could not help expressing his surprise.

“How is this?” said he, “you are rich and not gay--you, who were so anxious for wealth!”

“My friend, the pleasures to which we are not accustomed oppress us more than the griefs with which we are familiar. Give me your opinion, if you please. I can ask you, who have always had money: when we have money, what do we do with it?”

“That depends.”

“What have you done with yours, seeing that it has not made you a miser or a prodigal? For avarice dries up the heart, and prodigality drowns it--is not that so?”

“Fabricius could not have spoken more justly. But in truth, my money has never been a burden to me.”

“How so? Do you place it out at interest?”

“No; you know I have a tolerably handsome house; and that house composes the better part of my property.”

“I know it does.”

“So that you can be as rich as I am, and, indeed more rich, whenever you like, by the same means.”

“But your rents,--do you lay them by?”

“What do you think of a chest concealed in a wall?”

“I never made use of such a thing.”

“Then you must have some confidant, some safe man of business who pays you interest at a fair rate.”

“Not at all.”

“Good heavens! what do you do with it, then?”

“I spend all I have, and I only have what I spend, my dear D’Artagnan.”

“Ah that may be. But you are something of a prince, fifteen or sixteen thousand livres melt away between your fingers; and then you have expenses and appearances----”

“Well, I don’t see why you should be less of a noble than I am, my friend; your money would be quite sufficient.”

“Three hundred thousand crowns! Two-thirds too much!”

“I beg your pardon--did you not tell me?--I thought I heard you say--I fancied you had a partner----”

“Ah! Mordioux! that’s true,” cried D’Artagnan, coloring; “there is Planchet. I had forgotten Planchet, upon my life! Well! there are my three hundred thousand crowns broken into. That’s a pity! it was a round sum, and sounded well. That is true, Athos; I am no longer rich. What a memory you have!”

“Tolerably good; yes, thank God!”

“The worthy Planchet!” grumbled D’Artagnan; “his was not a bad dream! What a speculation! Peste! Well! what is said is said.”

“How much are you to give him?”

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “he is not a bad fellow; I shall arrange matters with him. I have had a great deal of trouble, you see, and expenses; all that must be taken into account.”

“My dear friend, I can depend upon you, and have no fear for the worthy Planchet; his interests are better in your hands than in his own. But now that you have nothing more to do here, we shall depart, if you please. You can go and thank his majesty, ask if he has any commands, and in six days we may be able to get sight of the towers of Notre Dame.”

“My friend, I am most anxious to be off, and will go at once and pay my respects to the king.”

“I,” said Athos, “am going to call upon some friends in the city, and shall then be at your service.”

“Will you lend me Grimaud?”

“With all my heart. What do you want to do with him?”

“Something very simple, and which will not fatigue him; I shall only beg him to take charge of my pistols, which lie there on the table near that coffer.”

“Very well!” replied Athos, imperturbably.

“And he will not stir, will he?”

“Not more than the pistols themselves.”

“Then I shall go and take leave of his majesty. Au revoir!”

D’Artagnan arrived at St. James’s, where Charles II. who was busy writing, kept him in the ante-chamber a full hour. Whilst walking about in the gallery, from the door to the window, from the window to the door, he thought he saw a cloak like Athos’s cross the vestibule; but at the moment he was going to ascertain if it were he, the usher summoned him to his majesty’s presence. Charles II. rubbed his hands while receiving the thanks of our friend.

“Chevalier,” said he, “you are wrong to express gratitude to me; I have not paid you a quarter of the value of the history of the box into which you put the brave general--the excellent Duke of Albemarle, I mean.” And the king laughed heartily.

D’Artagnan did not think it proper to interrupt his majesty, and bowed with much modesty.

“A propos,” continued Charles, “do you think my dear Monk has really pardoned you?”

“Pardoned me! yes, I hope so, sire!”

“Eh!--but it was a cruel trick! Odds fish! to pack up the first personage of the English revolution like a herring. In your place I would not trust him, chevalier.”

“But, sire----”

“Yes, I know very well that Monk calls you his friend, but he has too penetrating an eye not to have a memory, and too lofty a brow not to be very proud, you know grande supercilium.”

“I shall certainly learn Latin,” said D’Artagnan to himself.

“But stop,” cried the merry monarch, “I must manage your reconciliation; I know how to set about it; so----”

D’Artagnan bit his mustache. “Will your majesty permit me to tell you the truth?”

“Speak, chevalier, speak.”

“Well, sire, you alarm me greatly. If your majesty undertakes the affair, as you seem inclined to do, I am a lost man; the duke will have me assassinated.”

The king burst into a fresh roar of laughter, which changed D’Artagnan’s alarm into downright terror.

“Sire, I beg you to allow me to settle this matter myself, and if your majesty has no further need of my services----”

“No, chevalier. What, do you want to leave us?” replied Charles, with a hilarity that grew more and more alarming.

“If your majesty has no more commands for me.”

Charles became more serious.

“One single thing. See my sister, the Lady Henrietta. Do you know her?”

“No, sire, but--an old soldier like me is not an agreeable spectacle for a young and gay princess.”

“Ah! but my sister must know you; she must in case of need have you to depend upon.”

“Sire, every one that is dear to your majesty will be sacred to me.”

“Very well!--Parry! Come here, Parry!”

The side door opened and Parry entered, his face beaming with pleasure as soon as he saw D’Artagnan.

“What is Rochester doing?” said the king.

“He is on the canal with the ladies,” replied Parry.

“And Buckingham?”

“He is there also.”

“That is well. You will conduct the chevalier to Villiers; that is the Duke of Buckingham, chevalier; and beg the duke to introduce M. d’Artagnan to the Princess Henrietta.”

Parry bowed and smiled to D’Artagnan.

“Chevalier,” continued the king, “this is your parting audience; you can afterwards set out as soon as you please.”

“Sire, I thank you.”

“But be sure you make your peace with Monk!”

“Oh, sire----”

“You know there is one of my vessels at your disposal?”

“Sire, you overpower me; I cannot think of putting your majesty’s officers to inconvenience on my account.”

The king slapped D’Artagnan upon the shoulder.

“Nobody will be inconvenienced on your account, chevalier, but for that of an ambassador I am about sending to France, and to whom you will willingly serve as a companion, I fancy, for you know him.”

D’Artagnan appeared astonished.

“He is a certain Comte de la Fere,--whom you call Athos,” added the king, terminating the conversation, as he had begun it, by a joyous burst of laughter. “Adieu, chevalier, adieu. Love me as I love you.” And thereupon making a sign to Parry to ask if there were any one waiting for him in the adjoining closet, the king disappeared into that closet, leaving the chevalier perfectly astonished by this singular audience. The old man took his arm in a friendly way, and led him towards the garden.

On the Canal

Upon the green waters of the canal bordered with marble, upon which time had already scattered black spots and tufts of mossy grass, there glided majestically a long, flat bark adorned with the arms of England, surmounted by a dais, and carpeted with long damasked stuffs, which trailed their fringes in the water. Eight rowers, leaning lazily to their oars, made it move upon the canal with the graceful slowness of the swans, which, disturbed in their ancient possessions by the approach of the bark, looked from a distance at this splendid and noisy pageant. We say noisy--for the bark contained four guitar and lute players, two singers, and several courtiers, all sparkling with gold and precious stones, and showing their white teeth in emulation of each other, to please the Lady Henrietta Stuart, grand-daughter of Henry IV., daughter of Charles I., and sister of Charles II., who occupied the seat of honor under the dais of the bark. We know this young princess, we have seen her at the Louvre with her mother, wanting wood, wanting bread, and fed by the coadjuteur and the parliament. She had, therefore, like her brothers, passed through an uneasy youth; then, all at once, she had just awakened from a long and horrible dream, seated on the steps of a throne, surrounded by courtiers and flatterers. Like Mary Stuart on leaving prison, she aspired not only to life and liberty, but to power and wealth.

The Lady Henrietta, in growing, had attained remarkable beauty, which the recent restoration had rendered celebrated. Misfortune had taken from her the luster of pride, but prosperity had restored it to her. She was resplendent, then, in her joy and her happiness,--like those hot-house flowers which, forgotten during a frosty autumn night, have hung their heads, but which on the morrow, warmed once more by the atmosphere in which they were born, rise again with greater splendor than ever. Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, son of him who played so conspicuous a part in the early chapters of this history,--Villiers of Buckingham, a handsome cavalier, melancholy with women, a jester with men,--and Wilmot, Lord Rochester, a jester with both sexes, were standing at this moment before the Lady Henrietta, disputing the privilege of making her smile. As to that young and beautiful princess, reclining upon a cushion of velvet bordered with gold, her hands hanging listlessly so as to dip in the water, she listened carelessly to the musicians without hearing them, and heard the two courtiers without appearing to listen to them.

This Lady Henrietta--this charming creature--this woman who joined the graces of France to the beauties of England, not having yet loved, was cruel in her coquetry. The smile, then,--that innocent favor of young girls,--did not even lighten her countenance; and if, at times, she did raise her eyes, it was to fasten them upon one or other of the cavaliers with such a fixity, that their gallantry, bold as it generally was, took the alarm, and became timid.

In the meanwhile the boat continued its course, the musicians made a great noise, and the courtiers began, like them, to be out of breath. Besides, the excursion became doubtless monotonous to the princess, for all at once, shaking her head with an air of impatience,--“Come, gentlemen,--enough of this;--let us land.”

“Ah, madam,” said Buckingham, “we are very unfortunate! We have not succeeded in making the excursion agreeable to your royal highness.”

“My mother expects me,” replied the princess; “and I must frankly admit, gentlemen, I am bored.” And whilst uttering this cruel word, Henrietta endeavored to console by a look each of the two young men, who appeared terrified at such frankness. The look produced its effect--the two faces brightened; but immediately, as if the royal coquette thought she had done too much for simple mortals, she made a movement, turned her back on both her adorers, and appeared plunged in a reverie in which it was evident they had no part.

Buckingham bit his lips with anger, for he was truly in love with Lady Henrietta, and, in that case, took everything in a serious light. Rochester bit his lips likewise; but his wit always dominated over his heart, it was purely and simply to repress a malicious smile. The princess was then allowing the eyes she turned from the young nobles to wander over the green and flowery turf of the park, when she perceived Parry and D’Artagnan at a distance.

“Who is coming yonder?” said she.

The two young men turned round with the rapidity of lightning.

“Parry,” replied Buckingham, “nobody but Parry.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Rochester, “but I think he has a companion.”

“Yes,” said the princess, at first with languor, but then,--“What mean those words, ‘Nobody but Parry;’ say, my lord?”

“Because, madam,” replied Buckingham, piqued, “because the faithful Parry, the wandering Parry, the eternal Parry, is not, I believe, of much consequence.”

“You are mistaken, duke. Parry--the wandering Parry, as you call him--has always wandered in the service of my family, and the sight of that old man always gives me satisfaction.”

The Lady Henrietta followed the usual progress of pretty women, particularly coquettish women; she passed from caprice to contradiction;--the gallant had undergone the caprice, the courtier must bend beneath the contradictory humor. Buckingham bowed, but made no reply.

“It is true, madam,” said Rochester, bowing in his turn, “that Parry is the model of servants; but, madam, he is no longer young, and we laugh only when we see cheerful objects. Is an old man a gay object?”

“Enough, my lord,” said the princess, coolly; “the subject of conversation is unpleasant to me.”

Then, as if speaking to herself, “It is really unaccountable,” said she, “how little regard my brother’s friends have for his servants.”

“Ah, madam,” cried Buckingham, “your royal highness pierces my heart with a dagger forged by your own hands.”

“What is the meaning of that speech, which is turned so like a French madrigal, duke? I do not understand it.”

“It means, madam, that you yourself, so good, so charming, so sensible, you have laughed sometimes--smiled, I should say--at the idle prattle of that good Parry, for whom your royal highness to-day entertains such a marvelous susceptibility.”

“Well, my lord, if I have forgotten myself so far,” said Henrietta, “you do wrong to remind me of it.” And she made a sign of impatience. “The good Parry wants to speak to me, I believe: please order them to row to the shore, my Lord Rochester.”

Rochester hastened to repeat the princess’s command; and a moment later the boat touched the bank.

“Let us land, gentlemen,” said Henrietta, taking the arm which Rochester offered her, although Buckingham was nearer to her, and had presented his. Then Rochester, with an ill-dissembled pride, which pierced the heart of the unhappy Buckingham through and through, led the princess across the little bridge which the rowers had cast from the royal boat to the shore.

“Which way will your royal highness go?” asked Rochester.

“You see, my lord, towards that good Parry, who is wandering, as my lord of Buckingham says, and seeking me with eyes weakened by the tears he has shed over our misfortunes.”

“Good heavens!” said Rochester, “how sad your royal highness is to-day; in truth we seem ridiculous fools to you, madam.”

“Speak for yourself, my lord,” interrupted Buckingham with vexation; “for my part, I displease her royal highness to such a degree, that I appear absolutely nothing to her.”

Neither Rochester nor the princess made any reply; Henrietta only urged her companion more quickly on. Buckingham remained behind, and took advantage of this isolation to give himself up to his anger; he bit his handkerchief so furiously that it was soon in shreds.

“Parry my good Parry,” said the princess, with her gentle voice, “come hither. I see you are seeking me, and I am waiting for you.”

“Ah, madam,” said Rochester, coming charitably to the help of his companion, who had remained, as we have said, behind, “if Parry cannot see your royal highness, the man who follows him is a sufficient guide, even for a blind man, for he has eyes of flame. That man is a double-lamped lantern.”

“Lighting a very handsome martial countenance,” said the princess, determined to be as ill-natured as possible. Rochester bowed. “One of those vigorous soldiers’ heads seen nowhere but in France,” added the princess, with the perseverance of a woman sure of impunity.

Rochester and Buckingham looked at each other, as much as to say,--“What can be the matter with her?”

“See, my lord of Buckingham, what Parry wants,” said Henrietta. “Go!”

The young man, who considered this order as a favor, resumed his courage, and hastened to meet Parry, who, followed by D’Artagnan, advanced slowly on account of his age. D’Artagnan walked slowly but nobly, as D’Artagnan, doubled by the third of a million, ought to walk, that is to say, without conceit or swagger, but without timidity. When Buckingham, very eager to comply with the desire of the princess, who had seated herself on a marble bench, as if fatigued with the few steps she had gone,--when Buckingham, we say, was at a distance of only a few paces from Parry, the latter recognized him.

“Ah I my lord!” cried he, quite out of breath, “will your grace obey the king?”

“In what, Mr. Parry?” said the young man, with a kind of coolness tempered by a desire to make himself agreeable to the princess.

“Well, his majesty begs your grace to present this gentleman to her royal highness the Princess Henrietta.”

“In the first place, what is the gentleman’s name?” said the duke, haughtily.

D’Artagnan, as we know, was easily affronted, and the Duke of Buckingham’s tone displeased him. He surveyed the courtier from head to foot, and two flashes beamed from beneath his bent brows. But, after a struggle,--“Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan, my lord,” replied he, quietly.

“Pardon me, sir, that name teaches me your name but nothing more.”

“You mean----”

“I mean I do not know you.”

“I am more fortunate than you, sir,” replied D’Artagnan, “for I have had the honor of knowing your family, and particularly my lord Duke of Buckingham, your illustrious father.”

“My father?” said Buckingham. “Well, I think I now remember. Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan, do you say?”

D’Artagnan bowed. “In person,” said he.

“Pardon me, but are you one of those Frenchmen who had secret relations with my father?”

“Exactly, my lord duke, I am one of those Frenchmen.”

“Then, sir, permit me to say that it was strange my father never heard of you during his lifetime.”

“No, monsieur, but he heard of me at the moment of his death: it was I who sent to him, through the hands of the valet de chambre of Anne of Austria, notice of the dangers which threatened him; unfortunately, it came too late.”

“Never mind, monsieur,” said Buckingham. “I understand now, that, having had the intention of rendering a service to the father, you have come to claim the protection of the son.”

“In the first place, my lord,” replied D’Artagnan, phlegmatically, “I claim the protection of no man. His majesty Charles II., to whom I have had the honor of rendering some services--I may tell you, my lord, my life has been passed in such occupations--King Charles II., then, who wishes to honor me with some kindness, desires me to be presented to her royal highness the Princess Henrietta, his sister, to whom I shall, perhaps, have the good fortune to be of service hereafter. Now, the king knew that you at this moment were with her royal highness, and sent me to you. There is no other mystery, I ask absolutely nothing of you; and if you will not present me to her royal highness, I shall be compelled to do without you, and present myself.”

“At least, sir,” said Buckingham, determined to have the last word, “you will not refuse me an explanation provoked by yourself.”

“I never refuse, my lord,” said D’Artagnan.

“As you have had relations with my father, you must be acquainted with some private details?”

“These relations are already far removed from us, my lord--for you were not then born--and for some unfortunate diamond studs, which I received from his hands and carried back to France, it is really not worth while awakening so many remembrances.”

“Ah! sir,” said Buckingham, warmly, going up to D’Artagnan, and holding out his hand to him, “it is you, then--you whom my father sought everywhere and who had a right to expect so much from us.”

“To expect, my lord, in truth, that is my forte; all my life I have expected.”

At this moment, the princess, who was tired of not seeing the stranger approach her, arose and came towards them.

“At least, sir,” said Buckingham, “you shall not wait for the presentation you claim of me.”

Then turning toward the princess and bowing: “Madam,” said the young man, “the king, your brother, desires me to have the honor of presenting to your royal highness, Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan.”

“In order that your royal highness may have, in case of need, a firm support and a sure friend,” added Parry. D’Artagnan bowed.

“You have still something to say, Parry,” replied Henrietta, smiling upon D’Artagnan, while addressing the old servant.

“Yes, madam, the king desires you to preserve religiously in your memory the name and merit of M. d’Artagnan, to whom his majesty owes, he says, the recovery of his kingdom.” Buckingham, the princess, and Rochester looked at each other.

“That,” said D’Artagnan, “is another little secret, of which, in all probability, I shall not boast to his majesty’s son, as I have done to you with respect to the diamond studs.”

“Madam,” said Buckingham, “monsieur has just, for the second time, recalled to my memory an event which excites my curiosity to such a degree, that I shall venture to ask your permission to take him to one side for a moment, to converse in private.”

“Do, my lord,” said the princess, “but restore to the sister, as quickly as possible, this friend so devoted to the brother.” And she took the arm of Rochester whilst Buckingham took that of D’Artagnan.

“Oh! tell me, chevalier,” said Buckingham, “all that affair of the diamonds, which nobody knows in England, not even the son of him who was the hero of it.”

“My lord, one person alone had a right to relate all that affair, as you call it, and that was your father; he thought proper to be silent. I must beg you to allow me to be so likewise.” And D’Artagnan bowed like a man upon whom it was evident no entreaties could prevail.

“Since it is so, sir,” said Buckingham, “pardon my indiscretion, I beg you; and if, at any time, I should go into France----” and he turned round to take a last look at the princess, who took but little notice of him, totally occupied as she was, or appeared to be, with Rochester. Buckingham sighed.

“Well?” said D’Artagnan.

“I was saying that if, any day, I were to go to France----”

“You will go, my lord,” said D’Artagnan. “I shall answer for that.”

“And how so?”

“Oh, I have strange powers of prediction; if I do predict anything I am seldom mistaken. If, then, you do come to France?”

“Well, then, monsieur, you, of whom kings ask that valuable friendship which restores crowns to them, I will venture to beg of you a little of that great interest you took in my father.”

“My lord,” replied D’Artagnan, “believe me, I shall deem myself highly honored if, in France, you remember having seen me here. And now permit----”

Then, turning towards the princess: “Madam,” said he, “your royal highness is a daughter of France; and in that quality I hope to see you again in Paris. One of my happy days will be that on which your royal highness shall give me any command whatever, thus proving to me that you have not forgotten the recommendations of your august brother.” And he bowed respectfully to the young princess, who gave him her hand to kiss with a right royal grace.

“Ah! madam,” said Buckingham, in a subdued voice, “what can a man do to obtain a similar favor from your royal highness?”

“Dame! my lord,” replied Henrietta, “ask Monsieur d’Artagnan; he will tell you.”

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

The king’s words regarding the wounded pride of Monk had not inspired D’Artagnan with a small portion of apprehension. The lieutenant had had, all his life, the great art of choosing his enemies; and when he had found them implacable and invincible, it was when he had not been able, under any pretense, to make them otherwise. But points of view change greatly in the course of a life. It is a magic lantern, of which the eye of man every year changes the aspects. It results that from the last day of a year on which we saw white, to the first day of the year on which we shall see black, there is but the interval of a single night.

Now, D’Artagnan, when he left Calais with his ten scamps, would have hesitated as little in attacking a Goliath, a Nebuchadnezzar, or a Holofernes as he would in crossing swords with a recruit or caviling with a landlady. Then he resembled the sparrow-hawk which, when fasting, will attack a ram. Hunger is blind. But D’Artagnan satisfied--D’Artagnan rich--D’Artagnan a conqueror--D’Artagnan proud of so difficult a triumph--D’Artagnan had too much to lose not to reckon, figure by figure, with probable misfortune.

His thoughts were employed, therefore, all the way on the road from his presentation, with one thing, and that was, how he should conciliate a man like Monk, a man whom Charles himself, kind as he was, conciliated with difficulty; for, scarcely established, the protected might again stand in need of the protector, and would, consequently, not refuse him, such being the case, the petty satisfaction of transporting M. d’Artagnan, or of confining him in one of the Middlesex prisons, or drowning him a little on his passage from Dover to Boulogne. Such sorts of satisfaction kings are accustomed to render to viceroys without disagreeable consequences.

It would not be at all necessary for the king to be active in that contrepartie of the play in which Monk should take his revenge. The part of the king would be confined to simply pardoning the viceroy of Ireland all he should undertake against D’Artagnan. Nothing more was necessary to place the conscience of the Duke of Albemarle at rest than a te absolvo said with a laugh, or the scrawl of “Charles the King,” traced at the foot of a parchment; and with these two words pronounced, and these two words written, poor D’Artagnan was forever crushed beneath the ruins of his imagination.

And then, a thing sufficiently disquieting for a man with such foresight as our musketeer, he found himself alone; and even the friendship of Athos could not restore his confidence. Certainly if the affair had only concerned a free distribution of sword-thrusts, the musketeer would have counted upon his companion; but in delicate dealings with a king, when the perhaps of an unlucky chance should arise in justification of Monk or of Charles of England, D’Artagnan knew Athos well enough to be sure he would give the best possible coloring to the loyalty of the survivor, and would content himself with shedding floods of tears on the tomb of the dead, supposing the dead to be his friend, and afterwards composing his epitaph in the most pompous superlatives.

“Decidedly,” thought the Gascon; and this thought was the result of the reflections which he had just whispered to himself and which we have repeated aloud--“decidedly, I must be reconciled with M. Monk, and acquire a proof of his perfect indifference for the past. If, and God forbid it should be so! he is still sulky and reserved in the expression of this sentiment, I shall give my money to Athos to take away with him, and remain in England just long enough to unmask him, then, as I have a quick eye and a light foot, I shall notice the first hostile sign; to decamp or conceal myself at the residence of my lord of Buckingham, who seems a good sort of devil at the bottom, and to whom, in return for his hospitality, I shall relate all that history of the diamonds, which can now compromise nobody but an old queen, who need not be ashamed, after being the wife of a miserly creature like Mazarin, of having formerly been the mistress of a handsome nobleman like Buckingham. Mordioux! that is the thing, and this Monk shall not get the better of me. Eh? and besides I have an idea!”

We know that, in general, D’Artagnan was not wanting in ideas; and during this soliloquy, D’Artagnan buttoned his vest up to the chin, and nothing excited his imagination like this preparation for a combat of any kind, called accinction by the Romans. He was quite heated when he reached the mansion of the Duke of Albemarle. He was introduced to the viceroy with a promptitude which proved that he was considered as one of the household. Monk was in his business-closet.

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, with that expression of frankness which the Gascon knew so well how to assume, “my lord, I have come to ask your grace’s advice!”

Monk, as closely buttoned up morally as his antagonist was physically, replied: “Ask, my friend;” and his countenance presented an expression not less open than that of D’Artagnan.

“My lord, in the first place, promise me secrecy and indulgence.”

“I promise you all you wish. What is the matter? Speak!”

“It is, my lord, that I am not quite pleased with the king.”

“Indeed! And on what account, my dear lieutenant?”

“Because his majesty gives way sometimes to jest very compromising for his servants; and jesting, my lord, is a weapon that seriously wounds men of the sword, as we are.”

Monk did all in his power not to betray his thought, but D’Artagnan watched him with too close an attention not to detect an almost imperceptible flush upon his face. “Well, now, for my part,” said he, with the most natural air possible, “I am not an enemy of jesting, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; my soldiers will tell you that even many times in camp, I listened very indifferently, and with a certain pleasure, to the satirical songs which the army of Lambert passed into mine, and which, certainly, would have caused the ears of a general more susceptible than I am to tingle.”

“Oh, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, “I know you are a complete man; I know you have been, for a long time placed above human miseries; but there are jests and jests of a certain kind, which have the power of irritating me beyond expression.”

“May I inquire what kind, my friend?”

“Such as are directed against my friends or against people I respect, my lord!”

Monk made a slight movement, which D’Artagnan perceived. “Eh! and in what,” asked Monk, “in what can the stroke of a pin which scratches another tickle your skin? Answer me that.”

“My lord, I can explain it to you in one single sentence; it concerns you.”

Monk advanced a single step towards D’Artagnan. “Concerns me?” said he.

“Yes, and this is what I cannot explain; but that arises, perhaps, from my want of knowledge of his character. How can the king have the heart to jest about a man who has rendered him so many and such great services? How can one understand that he should amuse himself in setting by the ears a lion like you with a gnat like me?”

“I cannot conceive that in any way,” said Monk.

“But so it is. The king, who owed me a reward, might have rewarded me as a soldier, without contriving that history of the ransom, which affects you, my lord.”

“No,” said Monk, laughing: “it does not affect me in any way, I can assure you.”

“Not as regards me, I can understand, you know me, my lord, I am so discreet that the grave would appear a babbler compared to me; but--do you understand, my lord?”

“No,” replied Monk, with persistent obstinacy.

“If another knew the secret which I know----”

“What secret?”

“Eh! my lord, why, that unfortunate secret of Newcastle.”

“Oh! the million of M. le Comte de la Fere?”

“No, my lord, no; the enterprise made upon you grace’s person.”

“It was well played, chevalier, that is all, and no more is to be said about it: you are a soldier, both brave and cunning, which proves that you unite the qualities of Fabius and Hannibal. You employed your means, force and cunning: there is nothing to be said against that: I ought to have been on guard.”

“Ah! yes; I know, my lord, and I expected nothing less from your partiality; so that if it were only the abduction in itself, Mordieux! that would be nothing; but there are----”

“What?”

“The circumstances of that abduction.”

“What circumstances?”

“Oh! you know very well what I mean, my lord.”

“No, curse me if I do.”

“There is--in truth, it is difficult to speak it.”

“There is?”

“Well, there is that devil of a box!”

Monk colored visibly. “Well, I have forgotten it.”

“Deal box,” continued D’Artagnan, “with holes for the nose and mouth. In truth, my lord, all the rest was well; but the box, the box! that was really a coarse joke.” Monk fidgeted about in his chair. “And, notwithstanding my having done that,” resumed D’Artagnan, “I, a soldier of fortune, it was quite simple, because by the side of that action, a little inconsiderate I admit, which I committed, but which the gravity of the case may excuse, I am circumspect and reserved.”

“Oh!” said Monk, “believe me, I know you well, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and I appreciate you.”

D’Artagnan never took his eyes off Monk; studying all which passed in the mind of the general, as he prosecuted his idea. “But it does not concern me,” resumed he.

“Well, then, whom does it concern?” said Monk, who began to grow a little impatient.

“It relates to the king, who will never restrain his tongue.”

“Well! and suppose he should say all he knows?” said Monk, with a degree of hesitation.

“My lord,” replied D’Artagnan, “do not dissemble, I implore you, with a man who speaks so frankly as I do. You have a right to feel your susceptibility excited, however benignant it may be. What, the devil! it is not the place for a man like you, a man who plays with crowns and scepters as a Bohemian plays with his balls; it is not the place of a serious man, I said, to be shut up in a box like some freak of natural history; for you must understand it would make all your enemies ready to burst with laughter, and you are so great, so noble, so generous, that you must have many enemies. This secret is enough to set half the human race laughing, if you were represented in that box. It is not decent to have the second personage in the kingdom laughed at.”

Monk was quite out of countenance at the idea of seeing himself represented in his box. Ridicule, as D’Artagnan had judiciously foreseen, acted upon him in a manner which neither the chances of war, the aspirations of ambition, nor the fear of death had been able to do.

“Good,” thought the Gascon, “he is frightened: I am safe.”

“Oh! as to the king,” said Monk, “fear nothing, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; the king will not jest with Monk, I assure you!”

The momentary flash of his eye was noticed by D’Artagnan. Monk lowered his tone immediately: “The king,” continued he, “is of too noble a nature, the king’s heart is too high to allow him to wish ill to those who do him good.”

“Oh! certainly,” cried D’Artagnan. “I am entirely of your grace’s opinion with regard to his heart, but not as to his head--it is good, but it is trifling.”

“The king will not trifle with Monk, be assured.”

“Then you are quite at ease, my lord?”

“On that side, at least! yes, perfectly.”

“Oh! I understand you; you are at ease as far as the king is concerned?”

“I have told you I was.”

“But you are not so much so on my account?”

“I thought I had told you that I had faith in your loyalty and discretion.”

“No doubt, no doubt, but you must remember one thing----”

“What is that?”

“That I was not alone, that I had companions; and what companions!”

“Oh! yes, I know them.”

“And, unfortunately, my lord, they know you, too!”

“Well?”

“Well; they are yonder, at Boulogne, waiting for me.”

“And you fear----”

“Yes, I fear that in my absence--Parbleu! If I were near them, I could answer for their silence.”

“Was I not right in saying that the danger, if there was any danger, would not come from his majesty, however disposed he may be to jest, but from your companions, as you say? To be laughed at by a king may be tolerable, but by the horse-boys and scamps of the army! Damn it!”

“Yes, I understand, that would be unbearable, that is why, my lord, I came to say,--do you not think it would be better for me to set out for France as soon as possible?”

“Certainly, if you think your presence----”

“Would impose silence upon these scoundrels? Oh! I am sure of that, my lord.”

“Your presence will not prevent the report from spreading, if the tale has already transpired.”

“Oh! it has not transpired, my lord, I will wager. At all events, be assured I am determined upon one thing.”

“What is that?”

“To blow out the brains of the first who shall have propagated that report, and of the first who has heard it. After which I shall return to England to seek an asylum, and perhaps employment with your grace.”

“Oh, come back! come back!”

“Unfortunately, my lord, I am acquainted with nobody here but your grace, and if I should no longer find you, or if you should have forgotten me in your greatness?”

“Listen to me, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” replied Monk; “you are a superior man, full of intelligence and courage; you deserve all the good fortune this world can bring you; come with me into Scotland, and, I swear to you, I shall arrange for you a fate which all may envy.”

“Oh! my lord, that is impossible. At present I have a sacred duty to perform; I have to watch over your glory, I have to prevent a low jester from tarnishing in the eyes of our contemporaries--who knows? in the eyes of posterity--the splendor of your name.”

“Of posterity, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Doubtless. It is necessary, as regards posterity, that all the details of that history should remain a mystery; for, admit that this unfortunate history of the deal box should spread, and it should be asserted that you had not re-established the king loyally, and of your own free will, but in consequence of a compromise entered into at Scheveningen between you two. It would be vain for me to declare how the thing came about, for though I know I should not be believed, it would be said that I had received my part of the cake, and was eating it.”

Monk knitted his brow.--“Glory, honor, probity!” said he, “you are but empty words.”

“Mist!” replied D’Artagnan; “nothing but mist, through which nobody can see clearly.”

“Well, then, go to France, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Monk; “go, and to render England more attractive and agreeable to you, accept a remembrance of me.

“What now?” thought D’Artagnan.

“I have on the banks of the Clyde,” continued Monk, “a little house in a grove, cottage as it is called here. To this house are attached a hundred acres of land. Accept it as a souvenir.”

“Oh my lord!----”

“Faith! you will be there in your own home, and that will be the place of refuge you spoke of just now.”

“For me to be obliged to your lordship to such an extent! Really, your grace, I am ashamed.”

“Not at all, not at all, monsieur,” replied Monk, with an arch smile; “it is I who shall be obliged to you. And,” pressing the hand of the musketeer, “I shall go and draw up the deed of gift,”--and he left the room.

D’Artagnan looked at him as he went out with something of a pensive and even an agitated air.

“After all,” said he, “he is a brave man. It is only a sad reflection that it is from fear of me, and not affection that he acts thus. Well, I shall endeavor that affection may follow.” Then, after an instant’s deeper reflection,--“Bah!” said he, “to what purpose? He is an Englishman.” And he in his turn went out, a little confused after the combat.

“So,” said he, “I am a land-owner! But how the devil am I to share the cottage with Planchet? Unless I give him the land, and I take the chateau, or that he takes the house and I--nonsense! M. Monk will never allow me to share a house he has inhabited, with a grocer. He is too proud for that. Besides, why should I say anything about it to him? It was not with the money of the company I have acquired that property, it was with my mother-wit alone; it is all mine, then. So, now I will go and find Athos.” And he directed his steps towards the dwelling of the Comte de la Fere

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

“Decidedly,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I have struck a good vein. That star which shines once in the life of every man, which shone for Job and Iris, the most unfortunate of the Jews and the poorest of the Greeks, is come at last to shine on me. I will commit no folly, I will take advantage of it; it comes quite late enough to find me reasonable.”

He supped that evening, in very good humor, with his friend Athos; he said nothing to him about the expected donation, but he could not forbear questioning his friend, while eating, about country produce, sowing, and planting. Athos replied complacently, as he always did. His idea was that D’Artagnan wished to become a land-owner, only he could not help regretting, more than once, the absence of the lively humor and amusing sallies of the cheerful companion of former days. In fact, D’Artagnan was so absorbed, that, with his knife, he took advantage of the grease left at the bottom of his plate, to trace ciphers and make additions of surprising rotundity.

The order, or rather license, for their embarkation, arrived at Athos’s lodgings that evening. While this paper was remitted to the comte, another messenger brought to D’Artagnan a little bundle of parchments, adorned with all the seals employed in setting off property deeds in England. Athos surprised him turning over the leaves of these different acts which establish the transmission of property. The prudent Monk--others would say the generous Monk--had commuted the donation into a sale, and acknowledged the receipt of the sum of fifteen thousand crowns as the price of the property ceded. The messenger was gone. D’Artagnan still continued reading, Athos watched him with a smile. D’Artagnan, surprising one of those smiles over his shoulder, put the bundle in its wrapper.

“I beg your pardon,” said Athos.

“Oh! not at all, my friend,” replied the lieutenant, “I shall tell you----”

“No, don’t tell me anything, I beg you; orders are things so sacred, that to one’s brother, one’s father, the person charged with such orders should never open his mouth. Thus I, who speak to you, and love you more tenderly than brother, father, or all the world----”

“Except your Raoul?”

“I shall love Raoul still better when he shall be a man, and I shall have seen him develop himself in all the phases of his character and his actions--as I have seen you, my friend.”

“You said, then, that you had an order likewise, and that you would not communicate it to me.”

“Yes, my dear D’Artagnan.”

The Gascon sighed. “There was a time,” said he, “when you would have placed that order open upon the table, saying, ‘D’Artagnan, read this scrawl to Porthos, Aramis, and to me.’”

“That is true. Oh! that was the time of youth, confidence, the generous season when the blood commands, when it is warmed by feeling!”

“Well! Athos, will you allow me to tell you?”

“Speak, my friend!”

“That delightful time, that generous season, that ruling by warm blood, were all very fine things, no doubt; but I do not regret them at all. It is absolutely like the period of studies. I have constantly met with fools who would boast of the days of pensums, ferules and crusts of dry bread. It is singular, but I never loved all that; for my part, however active and sober I might be (you know if I was so, Athos), however simple I might appear in my clothes, I would not the less have preferred the braveries and embroideries of Porthos to my little perforated cassock, which gave passage to the wind in winter and the sun in summer. I should always, my friend, mistrust him who would pretend to prefer evil to good. Now, in times past all went wrong with me, and every month found a fresh hole in my cassock and in my skin, a gold crown less in my poor purse; of that execrable time of small beer and see-saw, I regret absolutely nothing, nothing, nothing save our friendship; for within me I have a heart, and it is a miracle that heart has not been dried up by the wind of poverty which passed through the holes of my cloak, or pierced by the swords of all shapes which passed through the holes in my poor flesh.”

“Do not regret our friendship,” said Athos, “that will only die with ourselves. Friendship is composed, above all things, of memories and habits, and if you have just now made a little satire upon mine, because I hesitate to tell you the nature of my mission into France----”

“Who! I?--Oh! heavens! if you knew, my dear friend, how indifferent all the missions of the world will henceforth become to me!” And he laid his hand upon the parchment in his vest pocket.

Athos rose from the table and called the host in order to pay the reckoning.

“Since I have known you, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “I have never discharged the reckoning. Porthos often did, Aramis sometimes, and you, you almost always drew out your purse with the dessert. I am now rich and should like to try if it is heroic to pay.”

“Do so,” said Athos; returning his purse to his pocket.

The two friends then directed their steps towards the port, not, however, without D’Artagnan’s frequently turning round to watch the transportation of his dear crowns. Night had just spread her thick veil over the yellow waters of the Thames; they heard those noises of casks and pulleys, the preliminaries of preparing to sail which had so many times made the hearts of the musketeers beat when the dangers of the sea were the least of those they were going to face. This time they were to embark on board a large vessel which awaited them at Gravesend, and Charles II., always delicate in small matters, had sent one of his yachts, with twelve men of his Scotch guard, to do honor to the ambassador he was sending to France. At midnight the yacht had deposited its passengers on board the vessel, and at eight o’clock in the morning, the vessel landed the ambassador and his friend on the wharf at Boulogne. Whilst the comte, with Grimaud, was busy procuring horses to go straight to Paris, D’Artagnan hastened to the hostelry where, according to his orders, his little army was to wait for him. These gentlemen were at breakfast upon oysters, fish, and spiced brandy, when D’Artagnan appeared. They were all very gay, but not one of them had yet exceeded the bounds of reason. A hurrah of joy welcomed the general. “Here I am,” said D’Artagnan, “the campaign is ended. I am come to bring to each his supplement of pay, as agreed upon.” Their eyes sparkled. “I will lay a wager there are not, at this moment, a hundred crowns remaining in the purse of the richest among you.”

“That is true,” cried they in chorus.

“Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “then, this is the last order. The treaty of commerce has been concluded thanks to our coup-de-main which made us masters of the most skillful financier of England, for now I am at liberty to confess to you that the man we had to carry off was the treasurer of General Monk.”

This word treasurer produced a certain effect on his army. D’Artagnan observed that the eyes of Menneville alone did not evince perfect faith. “This treasurer,” he continued, “I conveyed to a neutral territory, Holland; I forced him to sign the treaty; I have even reconducted him to Newcastle, and as he was obliged to be satisfied with our proceedings towards him--the deal coffer being always carried without jolting, and being lined softly, I asked for a gratification for you. Here it is.” He threw a respectable-looking purse upon the cloth; and all involuntarily stretched out their hands. “One moment, my lambs,” said D’Artagnan; “if there are profits, there are also charges.”

“Oh! oh!” murmured they.

“We are about to find ourselves, my friends, in a position that would not be tenable for people without brains. I speak plainly: we are between the gallows and the Bastile.”

“Oh! oh!” said the chorus.

“That is easily understood. It was necessary to explain to General Monk the disappearance of his treasurer. I waited, for that purpose, till the very unhopedfor moment of the restoration of King Charles II., who is one of my friends.”

The army exchanged a glance of satisfaction in reply to the sufficiently proud look of D’Artagnan. “The king being restored, I restored to Monk his man of business, a little plucked, it is true, but, in short, I restored him. Now, General Monk, when he pardoned me, for he has pardoned me, could not help repeating these words to me, which I charge every one of you to engrave deeply there, between the eyes, under the vault of the cranium:--‘Monsieur, the joke has been a good one, but I don’t naturally like jokes; if ever a word of what you have done’ (you understand me, Menneville) ‘escapes from your lips, or the lips of your companions, I have, in my government of Scotland and Ireland, seven hundred and forty-one wooden gibbets, of strong oak, clamped with iron, and freshly greased every week. I will make a present of one of these gibbets to each of you, and observe well, M. d’Artagnan,’ added he (observe it also, M. Menneville), ‘I shall still have seven hundred and thirty left for my private pleasure. And still further----’”

“Ah! ah!” said the auxiliaries, “is there more still?”

“A mere trifle. ‘Monsieur d’Artagnan, I send to the king of France the treaty in question, with a request that he will cast into the Bastile provisionally, and then send to me, all who have taken part in this expedition; and that is a prayer with which the king will certainly comply.’”

A cry of terror broke from all corners of the table.

“There! there! there,” said D’Artagnan, “this brave M. Monk has forgotten one thing, and that is he does not know the name of any one of you, I alone know you, and it is not I, you may well believe, who will betray you. Why should I? As for you--I cannot suppose you will be silly enough to denounce yourselves, for then the king, to spare himself the expense of feeding and lodging you, will send you off to Scotland, where the seven hundred and forty-one gibbets are to be found. That is all, messieurs; I have not another word to add to what I have had the honor to tell you. I am sure you have understood me perfectly well, have you not, M. Menneville?”

“Perfectly,” replied the latter.

“Now the crowns!” said D’Artagnan. “Shut the doors,” he cried, and opened the bag upon the table, from which rolled several fine gold crowns. Every one made a movement towards the floor.

“Gently!” cried D’Artagnan. “Let no one stoop, and then I shall not be out in my reckoning.” He found it all right, gave fifty of those splendid crowns to each man, and received as many benedictions as he bestowed pieces. “Now,” said he, “if it were possible for you to reform a little, if you could become good and honest citizens----”

“That is rather difficult,” said one of the troop.

“What then, captain?” said another.

“Because I might be able to find you again, and, who knows what other good fortune?” He made a sign to Menneville, who listened to all he said with a composed air. “Menneville,” said he, “come with me. Adieu my brave fellows! I need not warn you to be discreet.”

Menneville followed him, whilst the salutations of the auxiliaries were mingled with the sweet sound of the money clinking in their pockets.

“Menneville,” said D’Artagnan, when they were once in the street, “you were not my dupe; beware of being so. You did not appear to me to have any fear of the gibbets of Monk, or the Bastile of his majesty, King Louis XIV., but you will do me the favor of being afraid of me. Then listen at the smallest word that shall escape you, I will kill you as I would a fowl. I have absolution from our holy father, the pope, in my pocket.”

“I assure you I know absolutely nothing, my dear M. d’Artagnan, and that your words have all been to me so many articles of faith.”

“I was quite sure you were an intelligent fellow,” said the musketeer; “I have tried you for a length of time. These fifty gold crowns which I give you above the rest will prove the esteem I have for you. Take them.”

“Thanks, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Menneville.

“With that sum you can really become an honest man,” replied D’Artagnan, in the most serious tone possible. “It would be disgraceful for a mind like yours, and a name you no longer dare to bear, to sink forever under the rust of an evil life. Become a gallant man, Menneville, and live for a year upon those hundred gold crowns: it is a good provision; twice the pay of a high officer. In a year come to me, and, Mordioux! I will make something of you.”

Menneville swore, as his comrades had sworn, that he would be as silent as the grave. And yet some one must have spoken; and as, certainly, it was not one of the nine companions, and quite as certainly, it was not Menneville, it must have been D’Artagnan, who, in his quality of a Gascon, had his tongue very near to his lips. For, in short, if it were not he, who could it be? And how can it be explained that the secret of the deal coffer pierced with holes should come to our knowledge, and in so complete a fashion that we have, as has been seen, related the history of it in all its most minute details; details which, besides, throw a light as new as unexpected upon all that portion of the history of England which has been left, up to the present day, completely in darkness by the historian of our neighbors?

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

His accounts once settled, and his recommendations made, D’Artagnan thought of nothing but returning to Paris as soon as possible. Athos, on his part, was anxious to reach home and to rest a little. However whole the character and the man may remain after the fatigues of a voyage, the traveler perceives with pleasure, at the close of the day--even though the day has been a fine one--that night is approaching, and will bring a little sleep with it. So, from Boulogne to Paris, jogging on, side by side, the two friends, in some degree absorbed each in his individual thoughts, conversed of nothing sufficiently interesting for us to repeat to our readers. Each of them given up to his personal reflections, and constructing his future after his own fashion, was, above all, anxious to abridge the distance by speed. Athos and D’Artagnan arrived at the gates of Paris on the evening of the fourth day after leaving Boulogne.

“Where are you going, my friend?” asked Athos. “I shall direct my course straight to my hotel.”

“And I straight to my partner’s.”

“To Planchet’s?”

“Yes; at the Pilon d’Or.”

“Well, but shall we not meet again?”

“If you remain in Paris, yes, for I shall stay here.”

“No: after having embraced Raoul, with whom I have appointed a meeting at my hotel, I shall set out immediately for La Fere.”

“Well, adieu, then, dear and true friend.”

“Au revoir! I should rather say, for why can you not come and live with me at Blois? You are free, you are rich, I shall purchase for you, if you like, a handsome estate in the vicinity of Chiverny or of Bracieux. On the one side you will have the finest woods in the world, which join those of Chambord; on the other, admirable marshes. You who love sporting, and who, whether you admit it or not, are a poet, my dear friend, you will find pheasants, rail and teal, without counting sunsets and excursions on the water, to make you fancy yourself Nimrod and Apollo themselves. While awaiting the purchase, you can live at La Fere, and we shall go together to fly our hawks among the vines, as Louis XIII. used to do. That is a quiet amusement for old fellows like us.”

D’Artagnan took the hands of Athos in his own. “Dear count,” said he, “I shall say neither ‘Yes’ nor ‘No.’ Let me pass in Paris the time necessary for the regulation of my affairs, and accustom myself, by degrees, to the heavy and glittering idea which is beating in my brain and dazzles me. I am rich, you see, and from this moment until the time when I shall have acquired the habit of being rich, I know myself, and I shall be an insupportable animal. Now, I am not enough of a fool to wish to appear to have lost my wits before a friend like you, Athos. The cloak is handsome, the cloak is richly gilded, but it is new, and does not seem to fit me.”

Athos smiled. “So be it,” said he. “But a propos of this cloak, dear D’Artagnan, will you allow me to offer you a little advice?”

“Yes, willingly.”

“You will not be angry?”

“Proceed.”

“When wealth comes to a man late in life or all at once, that man, in order not to change, must most likely become a miser--that is to say, not spend much more money than he had done before; or else become a prodigal, and contract so many debts as to become poor again.”

“Oh! but what you say looks very much like a sophism, my dear philosophic friend.”

“I do not think so. Will you become a miser?”

“No, pardieu! I was one already, having nothing. Let us change.”

“Then be prodigal.”

“Still less, Mordioux! Debts terrify me. Creditors appear to me, by anticipation like those devils who turn the damned upon the gridirons, and as patience is not my dominant virtue, I am always tempted to thrash those devils.”

“You are the wisest man I know, and stand in no need of advice from any one. Great fools must they be who think they have anything to teach you. But are we not at the Rue Saint Honore?”

“Yes, dear Athos.”

“Look yonder, on the left, that small, long white house is the hotel where I lodge. You may observe that it has but two stories; I occupy the first; the other is let to an officer whose duties oblige him to be absent eight or nine months in the year,--so I am in that house as in my own home, without the expense.”

“Oh! how well you manage, Athos! What order and what liberality! They are what I wish to unite! But, of what use trying! that comes from birth, and cannot be acquired.”

“You are a flatterer! Well! adieu, dear friend. A propos, remember me to Master Planchet; he was always a bright fellow.”

“And a man of heart, too, Athos. Adieu.”

And they separated. During all this conversation, D’Artagnan had not for a moment lost sight of a certain pack-horse, in whose panniers, under some hay, were spread the sacoches (messenger’s bags) with the portmanteau. Nine o’clock was striking at Saint-Merri. Planchet’s helps were shutting up his shop. D’Artagnan stopped the postilion who rode the pack-horse, at the corner of the Rue des Lombards, under a penthouse, and calling one of Planchet’s boys, he desired him not only to take care of the two horses, but to watch the postilion; after which he entered the shop of the grocer, who had just finished supper, and who, in his little private room, was, with a degree of anxiety, consulting the calendar, on which, every evening, he scratched out the day that was past. At the moment when Planchet, according to his daily custom, with the back of his pen, erased another day, D’Artagnan kicked the door with his foot, and the blow made his steel spur jingle. “Oh! good Lord!” cried Planchet. The worthy grocer could say no more; he had just perceived his partner. D’Artagnan entered with a bent back and a dull eye: the Gascon had an idea with regard to Planchet.

“Good God!” thought the grocer, looking earnestly at the traveler, “he looks sad!” The musketeer sat down.

“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Planchet, with a horrible palpitation of the heart. “Here you are! and your health?”

“Tolerably good, Planchet, tolerably good!” said D’Artagnan, with a profound sigh.

“You have not been wounded, I hope?”

“Phew!”

“Ah, I see,” continued Planchet, more and more alarmed, “the expedition has been a trying one?”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan. A shudder ran down Planchet’s back. “I should like to have something to drink,” said the musketeer, raising his head piteously.

Planchet ran to the cupboard, and poured out to D’Artagnan some wine in a large glass. D’Artagnan examined the bottle.

“What wine is that?” asked he.

“Alas! that which you prefer, monsieur,” said Planchet; “that good old Anjou wine, which was one day nearly costing us all so dear.”

“Ah!” replied D’Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, “Ah! my poor Planchet, ought I still to drink good wine?”

“Come! my dear master,” said Planchet, making a superhuman effort, whilst all his contracted muscles, his pallor, and his trembling, betrayed the most acute anguish. “Come! I have been a soldier and consequently have some courage; do not make me linger, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; our money is lost, is it not?”

Before he answered, D’Artagnan took his time, and that appeared an age to the poor grocer. Nevertheless he did nothing but turn about on his chair.

“And if that were the case,” said he, slowly, moving his head up and down, “if that were the case, what would you say, my dear friend?”

Planchet, from being pale, turned yellow. It might have been thought he was going to swallow his tongue, so full became his throat, so red were his eyes!

“Twenty thousand livres!” murmured he. “Twenty thousand livres, and yet----”

D’Artagnan, with his neck elongated, his legs stretched out, and his hands hanging listlessly, looked like a statue of discouragement. Planchet drew up a sigh from the deepest cavities of his breast.

“Well,” said he, “I see how it is. Let us be men! It is all over, is it not? The principal thing is, monsieur, that your life is safe.”

“Doubtless! doubtless!--life is something--but I am ruined!”

“Cordieu! monsieur!” said Planchet, “if it is so, we must not despair for that; you shall become a grocer with me; I shall take you for my partner, we will share the profits, and if there should be no more profits, well, why then we shall share the almonds, raisins and prunes, and we will nibble together the last quarter of Dutch cheese.”

D’Artagnan could hold out no longer. “Mordioux!” cried he, with great emotion, “thou art a brave fellow on my honor, Planchet. You have not been playing a part, have you? You have not seen the pack-horse with the bags under the shed yonder?”

“What horse? What bags?” said Planchet, whose trembling heart began to suggest that D’Artagnan was mad.

“Why, the English bags, Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, all radiant, quite transfigured.

“Ah! good God!” articulated Planchet, drawing back before the dazzling fire of his looks.

“Imbecile!” cried D’Artagnan, “you think me mad! Mordioux! On the contrary, never was my head more clear, or my heart more joyous. To the bags, Planchet, to the bags!”

“But to what bags, good heavens!”

D’Artagnan pushed Planchet towards the window.

“Under the shed yonder, don’t you see a horse?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you see how his back is laden?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Don’t you see your lad talking with the postilion?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“Well, you know the name of that lad, because he is your own. Call him.”

“Abdon! Abdon!” vociferated Planchet, from the window.

“Bring the horse!” shouted D’Artagnan.

“Bring the horse!” screamed Planchet.

“Now give ten crowns to the postilion,” said D’Artagnan, in the tone he would have employed in commanding a maneuver; “two lads to bring up the two first bags, two to bring up the two last,--and move, Mordioux! be lively!”

Planchet rushed down the stairs, as if the devil had been at his heels. A moment later the lads ascended the staircase, bending beneath their burden. D’Artagnan sent them off to their garrets, carefully closed the door, and addressing Planchet, who, in his turn, looked a little wild,--

“Now, we are by ourselves,” said he, and he spread upon the floor a large cover, and emptied the first bag into it. Planchet did the same with the second; then D’Artagnan, all in a tremble, let out the precious bowels of the third with a knife. When Planchet heard the provoking sound of the silver and gold--when he saw bubbling out of the bags the shining crowns, which glittered like fish from the sweep-net--when he felt himself plunging his hands up to the elbow in that still rising tide of yellow and white coins, a giddiness seized him, and like a man struck by lightning, he sank heavily down upon the enormous heap, which his weight caused to roll away in all directions. Planchet, suffocated with joy, had lost his senses. D’Artagnan threw a glass of white wine in his face, which incontinently recalled him to life.

“Ah! good heavens! good heavens! good heavens!” said Planchet, wiping his mustache and beard.

At that time, as they do now, grocers wore the cavalier mustache and the lansquenet beard, only the money baths, already rare in those days, have become almost unknown now.

“Mordieux!” said D’Artagnan, “there are a hundred thousand crowns for you, partner. Draw your share, if you please, and I will draw mine.”

“Oh! the lovely sum! Monsieur d’Artagnan, the lovely sum!”

“I confess that half an hour ago I regretted that I had to give you so much, but I now no longer regret it; thou art a brave grocer, Planchet. There, let us close our accounts, for, as they say, short reckonings make long friends.”

“Oh! rather, in the first place, tell me the whole history,” said Planchet; “that must be better than the money.”

“Ma foi!” said D’Artagnan, stroking his mustache, “I can’t say no, and if ever the historian turns to me for information, he will be able to say he has not dipped his bucket into a dry spring. Listen, then, Planchet, I will tell you all about it.”

“And I shall build piles of crowns,” said Planchet. “Begin, my dear master.”

“Well, this is it,” said D’Artagnan, drawing breath.

“And that is it,” said Planchet, picking up his first handful of crowns.

Mazarin’s Gaming Party

In a large chamber of the Palais Royal, hung with a dark colored velvet, which threw into strong relief the gilded frames of a great number of magnificent pictures, on the evening of the arrival of the two Frenchmen, the whole court was assembled before the alcove of M. le Cardinal de Mazarin, who gave a card party to the king and queen.

A small screen separated three prepared tables. At one of these tables the king and the two queens were seated. Louis XIV., placed opposite to the young queen, his wife, smiled upon her with an expression of real happiness. Anne of Austria held the cards against the cardinal, and her daughter-in-law assisted her in the game, when she was not engaged in smiling at her husband. As for the cardinal, who was lying on his bed with a weary and careworn face, his cards were held by the Comtesse de Soissons, and he watched them with an incessant look of interest and cupidity.

The cardinal’s face had been painted by Bernouin; but the rouge, which glowed only on his cheeks, threw into stronger contrast the sickly pallor of his countenance and the shining yellow of his brow. His eyes alone acquired a more brilliant luster from this auxiliary, and upon those sick man’s eyes were, from time to time, turned the uneasy looks of the king, the queen, and the courtiers. The fact is, that the two eyes of the Signor Mazarin were the stars more or less brilliant in which the France of the seventeenth century read its destiny every evening and every morning.

Monseigneur neither won nor lost; he was, therefore neither gay nor sad. It was a stagnation in which, full of pity for him, Anne of Austria would not have willingly left him; but in order to attract the attention of the sick man by some brilliant stroke, she must have either won or lost. To win would have been dangerous, because Mazarin would have changed his indifference into an ugly grimace; to lose would likewise have been dangerous, because she must have cheated, and the infanta, who watched her game, would, doubtless, have exclaimed against her partiality for Mazarin. Profiting by this calm, the courtiers were chatting. When not in a bad humor, M. de Mazarin was a very debonnaire prince, and he, who prevented nobody from singing, provided they paid, was not tyrant enough to prevent people from talking, provided they made up their minds to lose.

They were therefore chatting. At the first table, the king’s younger brother, Philip, Duc d’Anjou, was admiring his handsome face in the glass of a box. His favorite, the Chevalier de Lorraine, leaning over the back of the prince’s chair, was listening, with secret envy, to the Comte de Guiche, another of Philip’s favorites, who was relating in choice terms the various vicissitudes of fortune of the royal adventurer Charles II. He told, as so many fabulous events, all the history of his perigrinations in Scotland, and his terrors when the enemy’s party was so closely on his track, of nights spent in trees, and days spent in hunger and combats. By degrees, the fate of the unfortunate king interested his auditors so greatly, that the play languished even at the royal table, and the young king, with a pensive look and downcast eye, followed, without appearing to give any attention to it, the smallest details of this Odyssey, very picturesquely related by the Comte de Guiche.

The Comtesse de Soissons interrupted the narrator: “Confess, count, you are inventing.”

“Madame, I am repeating like a parrot all the stories related to me by different Englishmen. To my shame I am compelled to say, I am as exact as a copy.”

“Charles II. would have died before he could have endured all that.”

Louis XIV. raised his intelligent and proud head. “Madame,” said he, in a grave tone, still partaking something of the timid child, “monsieur le cardinal will tell you that during my minority the affairs of France were in jeopardy,--and that if I had been older, and obliged to take sword in hand, it would sometimes have been for the evening meal.”

“Thanks to God,” said the cardinal, who spoke for the first time, “your majesty exaggerates, and your supper has always been ready with that of your servants.”

The king colored.

“Oh!” cried Philip, inconsiderately, from his place, and without ceasing to admire himself,--“I recollect once, at Melun, the supper was laid for nobody, and that the king ate two-thirds of a slice of bread, and abandoned to me the other third.”

The whole assembly, seeing Mazarin smile, began to laugh. Courtiers flatter kings with the remembrance of past distresses, as with the hopes of future good fortune.

“It is not to be denied that the crown of France has always remained firm upon the heads of its kings,” Anne of Austria hastened to say, “and that it has fallen off of that of the king of England; and when by chance that crown oscillated a little,--for there are throne-quakes as well as earthquakes,--every time, I say, that rebellion threatened it, a good victory restored tranquillity.”

“With a few gems added to the crown,” said Mazarin.

The Comte de Guiche was silent: the king composed his countenance, and Mazarin exchanged looks with Anne of Austria, as if to thank her for her intervention.

“It is of no consequence,” said Philip, smoothing his hair; “my cousin Charles is not handsome, but he is very brave, and fought like a landsknecht; and if he continues to fight thus, no doubt he will finish by gaining a battle, like Rocroy----”

“He has no soldiers,” interrupted the Chevalier de Lorraine.

“The king of Holland, his ally, will give him some. I would willingly have given him some if I had been king of France.”

Louis XIV. blushed excessively. Mazarin affected to be more attentive to his game than ever.

“By this time,” resumed the Comte de Guiche, “the fortune of this unhappy prince is decided. If he has been deceived by Monk, he is ruined. Imprisonment, perhaps death, will finish what exile, battles, and privations have commenced.”

Mazarin’s brow became clouded.

“Is it certain,” said Louis XIV. “that his majesty Charles II., has quitted the Hague?”

“Quite certain, your majesty,” replied the young man; “my father has received a letter containing all the details; it is even known that the king has landed at Dover; some fishermen saw him entering the port; the rest is still a mystery.”

“I should like to know the rest,” said Philip, impetuously. “You know,--you, my brother.”

Louis XIV. colored again. That was the third time within an hour. “Ask my lord cardinal,” replied he, in a tone which made Mazarin, Anne of Austria, and everybody else open their eyes.

“That means, my son,” said Anne of Austria, laughing, “that the king does not like affairs of state to be talked of out of the council.”

Philip received the reprimand with good grace, and bowed, first smiling at his brother, and then his mother. But Mazarin saw from the corner of his eye that a group was about to be formed in the corner of the room, and that the Duc d’Anjou, with the Comte de Guiche, and the Chevalier de Lorraine, prevented from talking aloud, might say, in a whisper, what it was not convenient should be said. He was beginning, then, to dart at them glances full of mistrust and uneasiness, inviting Anne of Austria to throw perturbation in the midst of the unlawful assembly, when, suddenly, Bernouin, entering from behind the tapestry of the bedroom, whispered in the ear of Mazarin, “Monseigneur, an envoy from his majesty, the king of England.”

Mazarin could not help exhibiting a slight emotion, which was perceived by the king. To avoid being indiscreet, rather than to appear useless, Louis XIV. rose immediately, and approaching his eminence, wished him good-night. All the assembly had risen with a great noise of rolling of chairs and tables being pushed away.

“Let everybody depart by degrees,” said Mazarin in a whisper to Louis XIV., “and be so good as to excuse me a few minutes. I am going to dispatch an affair about which I wish to converse with your majesty this very evening.”

“And the queens?” asked Louis XIV.

“And M. le Duc d’Anjou,” said his eminence.

At the same time he turned round in his ruelle, the curtains of which, in falling, concealed the bed. The cardinal, nevertheless, did not lose sight of the conspirators.

“M. le Comte de Guiche,” said he, in a fretful voice, whilst putting on, behind the curtain, his dressing-gown, with the assistance of Bernouin.

“I am here, my lord,” said the young man, as he approached.

“Take my cards, you are lucky. Win a little money for me of these gentlemen.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The young man sat down at the table from which the king withdrew to talk with the two queens. A serious game was commenced between the comte and several rich courtiers. In the meantime Philip was discussing the questions of dress with the Chevalier de Lorraine, and they had ceased to hear the rustling of the cardinal’s silk robe from behind the curtain. His eminence had followed Bernouin into the closet adjoining the bedroom.

An Affair of State

The cardinal, on passing into his cabinet, found the Comte de la Fere, who was waiting for him, engaged in admiring a very fine Raphael placed over a sideboard covered with plate. His eminence came in softly, lightly, and silently as a shadow, and surprised the countenance of the comte, as he was accustomed to do, pretending to divine by the simple expression of the face of his interlocutor what would be the result of the conversation.

But this time Mazarin was foiled in his expectation: he read nothing upon the face of Athos, not even the respect he was accustomed to see on all faces. Athos was dressed in black, with a simple lacing of silver. He wore the Holy Ghost, the Garter, and the Golden Fleece, three orders of such importance, that a king alone, or else a player, could wear them at once.

Mazarin rummaged a long time in his somewhat troubled memory to recall the name he ought to give to this icy figure, but he did not succeed. “I am told,” said he, at length, “you have a message from England for me.”

And he sat down, dismissing Bernouin, who, in his quality of secretary, was getting his pen ready.

“On the part of his majesty, the king of England, yes, your eminence.”

“You speak very good French for an Englishman monsieur,” said Mazarin, graciously, looking through his fingers at the Holy Ghost, Garter, and Golden Fleece, but more particularly at the face of the messenger.

“I am not an Englishman, but a Frenchman, monsieur le cardinal,” replied Athos.

“It is remarkable that the king of England should choose a Frenchman for his ambassador; it is an excellent augury. Your name, monsieur, if you please.”

“Comte de la Fere,” replied Athos, bowing more slightly than the ceremonial and pride of the all-powerful minister required.

Mazarin bent his shoulders, as if to say:--

“I do not know that name.”

Athos did not alter his carriage.

“And you come, monsieur,” continued Mazarin, “to tell me----”

“I come on the part of his majesty the king of Great Britain to announce to the king of France”--Mazarin frowned--“to announce to the king of France,” continued Athos, imperturbably, “the happy restoration of his majesty Charles II. to the throne of his ancestors.”

This shade did not escape his cunning eminence. Mazarin was too much accustomed to mankind, not to see in the cold and almost haughty politeness of Athos, an index of hostility, which was not of the temperature of that hot-house called a court.

“You have powers. I suppose?” asked Mazarin, in a short, querulous tone.

“Yes, monseigneur.” And the word “monseigneur” came so painfully from the lips of Athos that it might be said it skinned them.

Athos took from an embroidered velvet bag which he carried under his doublet a dispatch. The cardinal held out his hand for it. “Your pardon, monseigneur,” said Athos. “My dispatch is for the king.”

“Since you are a Frenchman, monsieur, you ought to know the position of a prime minister at the court of France.”

“There was a time,” replied Athos, “when I occupied myself with the importance of prime ministers, but I have formed, long ago, a resolution to treat no longer with any but the king.”

“Then, monsieur,” said Mazarin, who began to be irritated, “you will neither see the minister nor the king.”

Mazarin rose. Athos replaced his dispatch in its bag, bowed gravely, and made several steps towards the door. This coolness exasperated Mazarin. “What strange diplomatic proceedings are these!” cried he. “Have we returned to the times when Cromwell sent us bullies in the guise of charges d’affaires? You want nothing monsieur, but the steel cap on your head, and a Bible at your girdle.”

“Monsieur,” said Athos, dryly, “I have never had, as you have, the advantage of treating with Cromwell; and I have only seen his charges d’affaires sword in hand, I am therefore ignorant of how he treated with prime ministers. As for the king of England, Charles II., I know that when he writes to his majesty King Louis XIV., he does not write to his eminence the Cardinal Mazarin. I see no diplomacy in that distinction.”

“Ah!” cried Mazarin, raising his attenuated hand and striking his head, “I remember now!” Athos looked at him in astonishment. “Yes, that is it!” said the cardinal, continuing to look at his interlocutor; “yes, that is certainly it. I know you now, monsieur. Ah! diavolo! I am no longer astonished.”

“In fact, I was astonished that, with your eminence’s excellent memory,” replied Athos, smiling, “you had not recognized me before.”

“Always refractory and grumbling--monsieur--monsieur--What do they call you? Stop--a name of a river--Potamos; no--the name of an island--Naxos; no, per Giove!--the name of a mountain--Athos! now I have it. Delighted to see you again, and to be no longer at Rueil, where you and your damned companions made me pay ransom. Fronde! still Fronde! accursed Fronde! Oh, what grudges! Why, monsieur, have your antipathies survived mine? If any one had cause to complain, I think it could not be you, who got out of the affair not only in a sound skin, but with the cordon of the Holy Ghost around your neck.”

“My lord cardinal,” replied Athos, “permit me not to enter into considerations of that kind. I have a mission to fulfill. Will you facilitate the means of my fulfilling that mission, or will you not?”

“I am astonished,” said Mazarin,--quite delighted at having recovered his memory, and bristling with malice--“I am astonished, Monsieur--Athos--that a Frondeur like you should have accepted a mission for the Mazarin, as used to be said in the good old times----” And Mazarin began to laugh, in spite of a painful cough, which cut short his sentences, converting them into sobs.

“I have only accepted the mission near the king of France, monsieur le cardinal,” retorted the comte, though with less asperity, for he thought he had sufficiently the advantage to show himself moderate.

“And yet, Monsieur le Frondeur,” said Mazarin gayly, “the affair which you have taken in charge must, from the king----”

“With which I have been given in charge, monseigneur. I do not run after affairs.”

“Be it so. I say that this negotiation must pass through my hands. Let us lose no precious time, then. Tell me the conditions.”

“I have had the honor of assuring your eminence that only the letter of his majesty King Charles II. contains the revelation of his wishes.”

“Pooh! you are ridiculous with your obstinacy, Monsieur Athos. It is plain you have kept company with the Puritans yonder. As to your secret, I know it better than you do; and you have done wrongly, perhaps, in not having shown some respect for a very old and suffering man, who has labored much during his life, and kept the field for his ideas as bravely as you have for yours. You will not communicate your letter to me? You will say nothing to me? Very well! Come with me into my chamber; you shall speak to the king--and before the king.--Now, then, one last word: who gave you the Fleece? I remember you passed for having the Garter; but as to the Fleece, I do not know----”

“Recently, my lord, Spain, on the occasion of the marriage of his majesty Louis XIV., sent King Charles II. a brevet of the Fleece in blank, Charles II. immediately transmitted it to me, filling up the blank with my name.”

Mazarin arose, and leaning on the arm of Bernouin, he returned to his ruelle at the moment the name of M. le Prince was being announced. The Prince de Conde, the first prince of the blood, the conqueror of Rocroy, Lens and Nordlingen, was, in fact, entering the apartment of Monseigneur de Mazarin, followed by his gentlemen, and had already saluted the king, when the prime minister raised his curtain. Athos had time to see Raoul pressing the hand of the Comte de Guiche, and send him a smile in return for his respectful bow. He had time, likewise, to see the radiant countenance of the cardinal, when he perceived before him, upon the table, an enormous heap of gold, which the Comte de Guiche had won in a run of luck, after his eminence had confided his cards to him. So forgetting ambassador, embassy and prince, his first thought was of the gold. “What!” cried the old man--“all that--won?”

“Some fifty thousand crowns; yes, monseigneur!” replied the Comte de Guiche, rising. “Must I give up my place to your eminence, or shall I continue?”

“Give up! give up! you are mad. You would lose all you have won. Peste!”

“My lord!” said the Prince de Conde, bowing.

“Good-evening, monsieur le prince,” said the minister, in a careless tone; “it is very kind of you to visit an old sick friend.”

“A friend!” murmured the Comte de la Fere, at witnessing with stupor this monstrous alliance of words;--“friends! when the parties are Conde and Mazarin!”

Mazarin seemed to divine the thought of the Frondeur, for he smiled upon him with triumph, and immediately,--“Sire,” said he to the king, “I have the honor of presenting to your majesty, Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, ambassador from his Britannic majesty. An affair of state, gentlemen,” added he, waving his hand to all who filled the chamber, and who, the Prince de Conde at their head, all disappeared at the simple gesture. Raoul, after a last look cast at the comte, followed M. de Conde. Philip of Anjou and the queen appeared to be consulting about departing.

“A family affair,” said Mazarin, suddenly, detaining them in their seats. “This gentleman is the bearer of a letter in which King Charles II., completely restored to his throne, demands an alliance between Monsieur, the brother of the king, and Mademoiselle Henrietta, grand-daughter of Henry IV. Will you remit your letter of credit to the king, monsieur le comte?”

Athos remained for a minute stupefied. How could the minister possibly know the contents of the letter which had never been out of his keeping for a single instant? Nevertheless, always master of himself, he held out the dispatch to the young king, Louis XIV., who took it with a blush. A solemn silence reigned in the cardinal’s chamber. It was only troubled by the dull sound of the gold, which Mazarin with his yellow dry hand, piled up in a casket, whilst the king was reading.

The Recital

The maliciousness of the cardinal did not leave much for the ambassador to say; nevertheless, the word “restoration” had struck the king, who, addressing the comte, upon whom his eyes had been fixed since his entrance,--“Monsieur,” said he, “will you have the kindness to give us some details concerning the affairs of England. You come from that country, you are a Frenchman, and the orders which I see glittering upon your person announce you to be a man of merit as well as a man of quality.”

“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, turning towards the queen-mother, “is an ancient servant of your majesty’s, Monsieur le Comte de la Fere.”

Anne of Austria was as oblivious as a queen whose life had been mingled with fine and stormy days. She looked at Mazarin, whose evil smile promised her something disagreeable; then she solicited from Athos, by another look, an explanation.

“Monsieur,” continued the cardinal, “was a Treville musketeer, in the service of the late king. Monsieur is well acquainted with England, whither he has made several voyages at various periods; he is a subject of the highest merit.

These words made allusion to all the memories which Anne of Austria trembled to evoke. England, that was her hatred of Richelieu and her love for Buckingham; a Treville musketeer, that was the whole Odyssey of the triumphs which had made the heart of the young woman throb, and of the dangers which had been so near overturning the throne of the young queen. These words had much power, for they rendered mute and attentive all the royal personages, who, with very various sentiments, set about recomposing at the same time the mysteries which the young had not seen, and which the old had believed to be forever effaced.

“Speak, monsieur,” said Louis XIV., the first to escape from troubles, suspicions, and remembrances.

“Yes, speak,” added Mazarin, to whom the little malicious thrust directed against Anne of Austria had restored energy and gayety.

“Sire,” said the comte, “a sort of miracle has changed the whole destiny of Charles II. That which men, till that time, had been unable to do, God resolved to accomplish.”

Mazarin coughed while tossing about in his bed.

“King Charles II.,” continued Athos, “left the Hague neither as a fugitive nor a conqueror, but as an absolute king, who, after a distant voyage from his kingdom, returns amidst universal benedictions.”

“A great miracle, indeed,” said Mazarin; “for, if the news was true, King Charles II., who has just returned amidst benedictions, went away amidst musket-shots.”

The king remained impassible. Philip, younger and more frivolous, could not repress a smile, which flattered Mazarin as an applause of his pleasantry.

“It is plain,” said the king, “there is a miracle; but God, who does so much for kings, monsieur le comte, nevertheless employs the hand of man to bring about the triumph of His designs. To what men does Charles II. principally owe his re-establishment?”

“Why,” interrupted Mazarin, without any regard for the king’s pride--“does not your majesty know that it is to M. Monk?”

“I ought to know it,” replied Louis XIV., resolutely; “and yet I ask my lord ambassador the causes of the change in this General Monk?”

“And your majesty touches precisely the question,” replied Athos, “for without the miracle of which I have had the honor to speak, General Monk would probably have remained an implacable enemy of Charles II. God willed that a strange, bold, and ingenious idea should enter into the mind of a certain man, whilst a devoted and courageous idea took possession of the mind of another man. The combinations of these two ideas brought about such a change in the position of M. Monk, that, from an inveterate enemy, he became a friend to the deposed king.”

“These are exactly the details I asked for,” said the king. “Who and what are the two men of whom you speak?”

“Two Frenchmen, sire.”

“Indeed! I am glad of that.”

“And the two ideas,” said Mazarin;--“I am more curious about ideas than about men, for my part.”

“Yes,” murmured the king.

“The second idea, the devoted, reasonable idea--the least important, sir--was to go and dig up a million in gold, buried by King Charles I. at Newcastle, and to purchase with that gold the adherence of Monk.”

“Oh, oh!” said Mazarin, reanimated by the word million. “But Newcastle was at the time occupied by Monk.”

“Yes, monsieur le cardinal, and that is why I venture to call the idea courageous as well as devoted. It was necessary, if Monk refused the offers of the negotiator, to reinstate King Charles II. in possession of this million, which was to be torn, as it were, from the loyalty and not the royalism of General Monk. This was effected in spite of many difficulties: the general proved to be loyal, and allowed the money to be taken away.”

“It seems to me,” said the timid, thoughtful king, “that Charles II. could not have known of this million whilst he was in Paris.”

“It seems to me,” rejoined the cardinal, maliciously, “that his majesty the king of Great Britain knew perfectly well of this million, but that he preferred having two millions to having one.”

“Sire,” said Athos, firmly, “the king of England, whilst in France, was so poor that he had not even money to take the post; so destitute of hope that he frequently thought of dying. He was so entirely ignorant of the existence of the million at Newcastle, that but for a gentleman--one of your majesty’s subjects--the moral depositary of the million, who revealed the secret to King Charles II., that prince would still be vegetating in the most cruel forgetfulness.”

“Let us pass on to the strange, bold and ingenious idea,” interrupted Mazarin, whose sagacity foresaw a check. “What was that idea?”

“This--M. Monk formed the only obstacle to the re-establishment of the fallen king. A Frenchman imagined the idea of suppressing this obstacle.”

“Oh! oh! but he is a scoundrel, that Frenchman,” said Mazarin, “and the idea is not so ingenious as to prevent its author being tied up by the neck at the Place de Greve, by decree of the parliament.”

“Your eminence is mistaken,” replied Athos, dryly; “I did not say that the Frenchman in question had resolved to assassinate M. Monk, but only to suppress him. The words of the French language have a value which the gentlemen of France know perfectly. Besides, this is an affair of war; and when men serve kings against their enemies they are not to be condemned by a parliament--God is their judge. This French gentleman, then, formed the idea of gaining possession of the person of Monk, and he executed his plan.”

The king became animated at the recital of great actions. The king’s younger brother struck the table with his hand, exclaiming, “Ah! that is fine!”

“He carried off Monk?” said the king. “Why, Monk was in his camp.”

“And the gentleman was alone, sire.”

“That is marvelous!” said Philip.

“Marvelous, indeed!” cried the king.

“Good! There are the two little lions unchained,” murmured the cardinal. And with an air of spite, which he did not dissemble: “I am unacquainted with these details, will you guarantee their authenticity, monsieur?”

“All the more easily, my lord cardinal, from having seen the events.”

“You have?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

The king had involuntarily drawn close to the count, the Duc d’Anjou had turned sharply round, and pressed Athos on the other side.

“What next? monsieur, what next?” cried they both at the same time.

“Sire, M. Monk, being taken by the Frenchman, was brought to King Charles II., at the Hague. The king gave back his freedom to Monk, and the grateful general, in return, gave Charles II. the throne of Great Britain, for which so many valiant men had fought in vain.”

Philip clapped his hands with enthusiasm; Louis XIV., more reflective, turned towards the Comte de la Fere.

“Is this true,” said he, “in all its details?”

“Absolutely true, sire.”

“That one of my gentlemen knew the secret of the million, and kept it?”

“Yes, sire.”

“The name of that gentleman?”

“It was your humble servant,” said Athos, simply, and bowing.

A murmur of admiration made the heart of Athos swell with pleasure. He had reason to be proud, at least. Mazarin, himself, had raised his arms towards heaven.

“Monsieur,” said the king, “I shall seek, and find means to reward you.” Athos made a movement. “Oh, not for your honesty, to be paid for that would humiliate you, but I owe you a reward for having participated in the restoration of my brother, King Charles II.”

“Certainly,” said Mazarin.

“It is the triumph of a good cause which fills the whole house of France with joy,” said Anne of Austria.

“I continue,” said Louis XIV. “Is it also true that a single man penetrated to Monk, in his camp, and carried him off?”

“That man had ten auxiliaries, taken from a very inferior rank.”

“And nothing but them?”

“Nothing more.”

“And he is named?”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan, formerly lieutenant of the musketeers of your majesty.”

Anne of Austria colored; Mazarin became yellow with shame; Louis XIV. was deeply thoughtful, and a drop of moisture fell from his pale brow. “What men!” murmured he. And, involuntarily, he darted a glance at the minister which would have terrified him, if Mazarin, at the moment, had not concealed his head under his pillow.

“Monsieur,” said the young Duc d’Anjou, placing his hand, delicate and white as that of a woman, upon the arm of Athos, “tell that brave man, I beg you, that Monsieur, brother of the king, will to-morrow drink his health before five hundred of the best gentlemen of France.” And, on finishing these words, the young man, perceiving that his enthusiasm had deranged one of his ruffles, set to work to put it to rights with the greatest care imaginable.

“Let us resume business, sire,” interrupted Mazarin who never was enthusiastic, and who wore no ruffles.

“Yes, monsieur,” replied Louis XIV. “Pursue your communication, monsieur le comte,” added he, turning towards Athos.

Athos immediately began and offered in due form the hand of the Princess Henrietta Stuart to the young prince, the king’s brother. The conference lasted an hour; after which the doors of the chamber were thrown open to the courtiers, who resumed their places as if nothing had been kept from them in the occupations of that evening. Athos then found himself again with Raoul, and the father and son were able to clasp each other’s hands.

In which Mazarin becomes Prodigal

Whilst Mazarin was endeavoring to recover from the serious alarm he had just experienced, Athos and Raoul were exchanging a few words in a corner of the apartment. “Well, here you are at Paris, then, Raoul?” said the comte.

“Yes, monsieur, since the return of M. le Prince.”

“I cannot converse freely with you here, because we are observed; but I shall return home presently, and shall expect you as soon as your duty permits.”

Raoul bowed, and, at that moment, M. le Prince came up to them. The prince had that clear and keen look which distinguishes birds of prey of the noble species; his physiognomy itself presented several distinct traits of this resemblance. It is known that in the Prince de Conde, the aquiline nose rose out sharply and incisively from a brow slightly retreating, rather low than high, and according to the railers of the court,--a pitiless race even for genius,--constituted rather an eagle’s beak than a human nose, in the heir of the illustrious princes of the house of Conde. This penetrating look, this imperious expression of the whole countenance generally disturbed those to whom the prince spoke, more than either majesty or regular beauty could have done in the conqueror of Rocroy. Besides this, the fire mounted so suddenly to his projecting eyes, that with the prince every sort of animation resembled passion. Now, on account of his rank, everybody at the court respected M. le Prince, and many even, seeing only the man, carried their respect as far as terror.

Louis de Conde then advanced towards the Comte de la Fere and Raoul, with the marked intention of being saluted by the one, and of speaking to the other. No man bowed with more reserved grace than the Comte de la Fere. He disdained to put into a salutation all the shades which a courtier ordinarily borrows from the same color--the desire to please. Athos knew his own personal value, and bowed to the prince like a man, correcting by something sympathetic and undefinable that which might have appeared offensive to the pride of the highest rank in the inflexibility of his attitude. The prince was about to speak to Raoul. Athos forestalled him. “If M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne,” said he, “were not one of the humble servants of your royal highness, I would beg him to pronounce my name before you--mon prince.”

“I have the honor to address Monsieur le Comte de la Fere,” said Conde instantly.

“My protector,” added Raoul, blushing.

“One of the most honorable men in the kingdom,” continued the prince; “one of the first gentlemen of France, and of whom I have heard so much that I have frequently desired to number him among my friends.”

“An honour of which I should be unworthy,” replied Athos, “but for the respect and admiration I entertain for your royal highness.”

“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the prince, “is a good officer, and it is plainly seen that he has been to a good school. Ah, monsieur le comte, in your time, generals had soldiers!”

“That is true, my lord, but nowadays soldiers have generals.”

This compliment, which savored so little of flattery, gave a thrill of joy to the man whom already Europe considered a hero; and who might be thought to be satiated with praise.

“I regret very much,” continued the prince, “that you should have retired from the service, monsieur le comte, for it is more than probable that the king will soon have a war with Holland or England, and opportunities for distinguishing himself would not be wanting for a man who, like you, knows Great Britain as well as you do France.”

“I believe I may say, monseigneur, that I have acted wisely in retiring from the service,” said Athos, smiling. “France and Great Britain will henceforward live like two sisters, if I can trust my presentiments.”

“Your presentiments?”

“Stop, monseigneur, listen to what is being said yonder, at the table of my lord the cardinal.”

“Where they are playing?”

“Yes, my lord.”

The cardinal had just raised himself on one elbow, and made a sign to the king’s brother, who went to him.

“My lord,” said the cardinal, “pick up, if you please, all those gold crowns.” And he pointed to the enormous pile of yellow and glittering pieces which the Comte de Guiche had raised by degrees before him by a surprising run of luck at play.

“For me?” cried the Duc d’Anjou.

“Those fifty thousand crowns; yes, monseigneur, they are yours.”

“Do you give them to me?”

“I have been playing on your account, monseigneur,” replied the cardinal, getting weaker and weaker, as if this effort of giving money had exhausted all his physical and moral faculties.

“Oh, good heavens!” exclaimed Philip, wild with joy, “what a fortunate day!” And he himself, making a rake of his fingers, drew a part of the sum into his pockets, which he filled, and still full a third remained on the table.

“Chevalier,” said Philip to his favorite, the Chevalier de Lorraine, “come hither, chevalier.” The favorite quickly obeyed. “Pocket the rest,” said the young prince.

This singular scene was considered by the persons present only as a touching kind of family fete. The cardinal assumed the airs of a father with the sons of France, and the two young princes had grown up under his wing. No one then imputed to pride, or even impertinence, as would be done nowadays, this liberality on the part of the first minister. The courtiers were satisfied with envying the prince.--The king turned away his head.

“I never had so much money before,” said the young prince, joyously, as he crossed the chamber with his favorite to go to his carriage. “No, never! What a weight these crowns are!”

“But why has monsieur le cardinal given all this money at once?” asked M. le Prince of the Comte de la Fere. “He must be very ill, the dear cardinal!”

“Yes, my lord, very ill; without doubt; he looks very ill, as your royal highness may perceive.”

“But surely he will die of it. A hundred and fifty thousand crowns! Oh, it is incredible! But, comte tell me a reason for it?”

“Patience, monseigneur, I beg of you. Here comes M. le Duc d’Anjou, talking with the Chevalier de Lorraine; I should not be surprised if they spared us the trouble of being indiscreet. Listen to them.”

In fact the chevalier said to the prince in a low voice, “My lord, it is not natural for M. Mazarin to give you so much money. Take care! you will let some of the pieces fall, my lord. What design has the cardinal upon you to make him so generous?”

“As I said,” whispered Athos in the prince’s ear; “that, perhaps, is the best reply to your question.”

“Tell me, my lord,” repeated the chevalier impatiently, as he was calculating, by weighing them in his pocket, the quota of the sum which had fallen to his share by rebound.

“My dear chevalier, a wedding present.”

“How a wedding present?”

“Eh! yes, I am going to be married,” replied the Duc d’Anjou, without perceiving, at the moment, he was passing the prince and Athos, who both bowed respectfully.

The chevalier darted at the young duke a glance so strange, and so malicious, that the Comte de la Fere quite started on beholding it.

“You! you to be married!” repeated he; “oh! that’s impossible. You would not commit such a folly!”

“Bah! I don’t do it myself; I am made to do it,” replied the Duc d’Anjou. “But come, quick! let us get rid of our money.” Thereupon he disappeared with his companion, laughing and talking, whilst all heads were bowed on his passage.

“Then,” whispered the prince to Athos, “that is the secret.”

“It was not I that told you so, my lord.”

“He is to marry the sister of Charles II.?”

“I believe so.”

The prince reflected for a moment, and his eye shot forth one of its not unfrequent flashes. “Humph!” said he slowly, as if speaking to himself; “our swords are once more to be hung on the wall--for a long time!” and he sighed.

All that sigh contained of ambition silently stifled, of extinguished illusions and disappointed hopes, Athos alone divined, for he alone had heard that sigh. Immediately after, the prince took leave and the king left the apartment. Athos, by a sign made to Bragelonne, renewed the desire he had expressed at the beginning of the scene. By degrees the chamber was deserted, and Mazarin was left alone, a prey to suffering which he could no longer dissemble. “Bernouin! Bernouin!” cried he, in a broken voice.

“What does monseigneur want?”

“Guenaud--let Guenaud be sent for,” said his eminence. “I think I’m dying.”

Bernouin, in great terror, rushed into the cabinet to give the order, and the piqueur, who hastened to fetch the physician, passed the king’s carriage in the Rue Saint Honore.

Guenaud

The cardinal’s order was pressing; Guenaud quickly obeyed it. He found his patient stretched on his bed, his legs swelled, his face livid, and his stomach collapsed. Mazarin had a severe attack of gout. He suffered tortures with the impatience of a man who has not been accustomed to resistances. On seeing Guenaud: “Ah!” said he; “now I am saved!”

Guenaud was a very learned and circumspect man, who stood in no need of the critiques of Boileau to obtain a reputation. When facing a disease, if it were personified in a king, he treated the patient as a Turk treats a Moor. He did not, therefore, reply to Mazarin as the minister expected: “Here is the doctor; good-bye disease!” On the contrary, on examining his patient, with a very serious air:

“Oh! oh!” said he.

“Eh! what! Guenaud! How you look at me!”

“I look as I should on seeing your complaint, my lord; it is a very dangerous one.”

“The gout--oh! yes, the gout.”

“With complications, my lord”

Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow, and, questioning by look and gesture: “What do you mean by that? Am I worse than I believe myself to be?”

“My lord,” said Guenaud, seating himself beside the bed, “your eminence has worked very hard during your life; your eminence has suffered much.”

“But I am not old, I fancy. The late M. de Richelieu was but seventeen months younger than I am when he died, and died of a mortal disease. I am young, Guenaud: remember, I am scarcely fifty-two.”

“Oh! my lord, you are much more than that. How long did the Fronde last?”

“For what purpose do you put such a question to me?”

“For a medical calculation, monseigneur.”

“Well, some ten years--off and on.”

“Very well, be kind enough to reckon every year of the Fronde as three years--that makes thirty; now twenty and fifty-two makes seventy-two years. You are seventy-two, my lord; and that is a great age.”

Whilst saying this, he felt the pulse of his patient. This pulse was full of such fatal indications, that the physician continued, notwithstanding the interruptions of the patient: “Put down the years of the Fronde at four each, and you have lived eighty-two years.”

“Are you speaking seriously, Guenaud?”

“Alas! yes, monseigneur.”

“You take a roundabout way, then, to inform me that I am very ill?”

“Ma foi! yes, my lord, and with a man of the mind and courage of your eminence, it ought not to be necessary to do.”

The cardinal breathed with such difficulty that he inspired pity even in a pitiless physician. “There are diseases and diseases,” resumed Mazarin. “From some of them people escape.”

“That is true, my lord.”

“Is it not?” cried Mazarin, almost joyously; “for, in short, what else would be the use of power, of strength of will? What would the use of genius be--your genius, Guenaud? What would be the use of science and art, if the patient, who disposes of all that, cannot be saved from peril?”

Guenaud was about to open his mouth, but Mazarin continued:

“Remember,” said he, “I am the most confiding of your patients; remember I obey you blindly, and that consequently----”

“I know all that,” said Guenaud.

“I shall be cured, then?”

“Monseigneur, there is neither strength of will, nor power, nor genius, nor science that can resist a disease which God doubtless sends, or which He casts upon the earth at the creation, with full power to destroy and kill mankind. When the disease is mortal, it kills, and nothing can----”

“Is--my--disease--mortal?” asked Mazarin.

“Yes, my lord.”

His eminence sank down for a moment, like an unfortunate wretch who is crushed by a falling column. But the spirit of Mazarin was a strong one, or rather his mind was a firm one. “Guenaud,” said he, recovering from his first shock, “you will permit me to appeal from your judgment. I will call together the most learned men of Europe: I will consult them. I will live, in short, by the virtue of I care not what remedy.”

“My lord must not suppose,” said Guenaud, “that I have the presumption to pronounce alone upon an existence so valuable as yours. I have already assembled all the good physicians and practitioners of France and Europe. There were twelve of them.”

“And they said----”

“They said that your eminence was suffering from a mortal disease; I have the consultation signed in my portfolio. If your eminence will please to see it, you will find the names of all the incurable diseases we have met with. There is first----”

“No, no!” cried Mazarin, pushing away the paper. “No, no, Guenaud, I yield! I yield!” And a profound silence, during which the cardinal resumed his senses and recovered his strength, succeeded to the agitation of this scene. “There is another thing,” murmured Mazarin; “there are empirics and charlatans. In my country, those whom physicians abandon run the chance of a quack, who kills them ten times but saves them a hundred times.”

“Has not your eminence observed, that during the last month I have changed my remedies ten times?”

“Yes. Well?”

“Well, I have spent fifty thousand crowns in purchasing the secrets of all these fellows: the list is exhausted, and so is my purse. You are not cured; and but for my art, you would be dead.”

“That ends it!” murmured the cardinal; “that ends it.” And he threw a melancholy look upon the riches which surrounded him. “And must I quit all that?” sighed he. “I am dying, Guenaud! I am dying!”

“Oh! not yet, my lord,” said the physician.

Mazarin seized his hand. “In what time?” asked he, fixing his two large eyes upon the impassible countenance of the physician.

“My lord, we never tell that.”

“To ordinary men, perhaps not;--but to me--to me, whose every minute is worth a treasure. Tell me, Guenaud, tell me!”

“No, no, my lord.”

“I insist upon it, I tell you. Oh! give me a month and for every one of those thirty days I will pay you a hundred thousand crowns.”

“My lord,” replied Guenaud, in a firm voice, “it is God who can give you days of grace, and not I. God only allows you a fortnight.”

The cardinal breathed a painful sigh, and sank back upon his pillow, murmuring, “Thank you, Guenaud, thank you!”

The physician was about to depart; the dying man, raising himself up: “Silence!” said he, with flaming eyes, “silence!”

“My lord, I have known this secret two months; you see that I have kept it faithfully.”

“Go, Guenaud, I will take care of your fortunes, go and tell Brienne to send me a clerk called M. Colbert. Go!”

Colbert

Colbert was not far off. During the whole evening he had remained in one of the corridors, chatting with Bernouin and Brienne, and commenting, with the ordinary skill of people of a court, upon the news which developed like air-bubbles upon the water, on the surface of each event. It is doubtless time to trace, in a few words, one of the most interesting portraits of the age, and to trace it with as much truth, perhaps, as contemporary painters have been able to do. Colbert was a man in whom the historian and the moralist have an equal right.

He was thirteen years older than Louis XIV., his future master. Of middle height, rather lean than otherwise, he had deep-set eyes, a mean appearance, his hair was coarse, black and thin, which, say the biographers of his time, made him take early to the skull-cap. A look of severity, or harshness even, a sort of stiffness, which, with inferiors, was pride, with superiors an affectation of superior virtue; a surly cast of countenance upon all occasions, even when looking at himself in a glass alone--such is the exterior of this personage. As to the moral part of his character, the depth of his talent for accounts, and his ingenuity in making sterility itself productive, were much boasted of. Colbert had formed the idea of forcing governors of frontier places to feed the garrisons without pay, with what they drew from contributions. Such a valuable quality made Mazarin think of replacing Joubert, his intendant, who had recently died, by M. Colbert, who had such skill in nibbling down allowances. Colbert by degrees crept into court, notwithstanding his lowly birth, for he was the son of a man who sold wine as his father had done, but who afterwards sold cloth, and then silk stuffs. Colbert, destined for trade, had been clerk in Lyons to a merchant, whom he had quitted to come to Paris in the office of a Chatelet procureur named Biterne. It was here he learned the art of drawing up an account, and the much more valuable one of complicating it.

This stiffness of manner in Colbert had been of great service to him; it is so true that Fortune, when she has a caprice, resembles those women of antiquity, who, when they had a fancy, were disgusted by no physical or moral defects in either men or things. Colbert, placed with Michel Letellier, secretary of state in 1648, by his cousin Colbert, Seigneur de Saint-Penange, who protected him, received one day from the minister a commission for Cardinal Mazarin. His eminence was then in the enjoyment of flourishing health, and the bad years of the Fronde had not yet counted triple and quadruple for him. He was at Sedan, very much annoyed at a court intrigue in which Anne of Austria seemed inclined to desert his cause.

Of this intrigue Letellier held the thread. He had just received a letter from Anne of Austria, a letter very valuable to him, and strongly compromising Mazarin; but, as he already played the double part which served him so well, and by which he always managed two enemies so as to draw advantage from both, either by embroiling them more and more or by reconciling them, Michel Letellier wished to send Anne of Austria’s letter to Mazarin, in order that he might be acquainted with it, and consequently pleased with his having so willingly rendered him a service. To send the letter was an easy matter; to recover it again, after having communicated it, that was the difficulty. Letellier cast his eyes around him, and seeing the black and meager clerk with the scowling brow, scribbling away in his office, he preferred him to the best gendarme for the execution of this design.

Colbert was commanded to set out for Sedan, with positive orders to carry the letter to Mazarin, and bring it back to Letellier. He listened to his orders with scrupulous attention, required the instructions to be repeated twice, and was particular in learning whether the bringing back was as necessary as the communicating, and Letellier replied sternly, “More necessary.” Then he set out, traveled like a courier, without any care for his body, and placed in the hands of Mazarin, first a letter from Letellier, which announced to the cardinal the sending of the precious letter, and then that letter itself. Mazarin colored greatly whilst reading Anne of Austria’s letter, gave Colbert a gracious smile and dismissed him.

“When shall I have the answer, monseigneur?”

“To-morrow.”

“To-morrow morning?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

The clerk turned upon his heel, after making his very best bow. The next day he was at his post at seven o’clock. Mazarin made him wait till ten. He remained patiently in the ante-chamber; his turn having come, he entered; Mazarin gave him a sealed packet. On the envelope of this packet were these words:--Monsieur Michel Letellier, etc. Colbert looked at the packet with much attention; the cardinal put on a pleasant countenance and pushed him towards the door.

“And the letter of the queen-mother, my lord?” asked Colbert.

“It is with the rest, in the packet,” said Mazarin.

“Oh! very well,” replied Colbert, and placing his hat between his knees, he began to unseal the packet.

Mazarin uttered a cry. “What are you doing?” said he, angrily.

“I am unsealing the packet, my lord.”

“You mistrust me, then, master pedant, do you? Did any one ever see such impertinence?”

“Oh! my lord, do not be angry with me! It is certainly not your eminence’s word I place in doubt, God forbid!”

“What then?”

“It is the carefulness of your chancery, my lord. What is a letter? A rag. May not a rag be forgotten? And look, my lord, look if I was not right. Your clerks have forgotten the rag; the letter is not in the packet.”

“You are an insolent fellow, and you have not looked,” cried Mazarin, very angrily, “begone and wait my pleasure.” Whilst saying these words, with perfectly Italian subtlety he snatched the packet from the hands of Colbert, and re-entered his apartments.

But this anger could not last so long as not to be replaced in time by reason. Mazarin, every morning, on opening his closet door, found the figure of Colbert like a sentinel behind the bench, and this disagreeable figure never failed to ask him humbly, but with tenacity, for the queen-mother’s letter. Mazarin could hold out no longer, and was obliged to give it up. He accompanied this restitution with a most severe reprimand, during which Colbert contented himself with examining, feeling, even smelling, as it were, the paper, the characters, and the signature, neither more nor less than if he had to deal with the greatest forger in the kingdom. Mazarin behaved still more rudely to him, but Colbert, still impassible, having obtained a certainty that the letter was the true one, went off as if he had been deaf. This conduct obtained for him afterwards the post of Joubert; for Mazarin, instead of bearing malice, admired him, and was desirous of attaching so much fidelity to himself.

It may be judged by this single anecdote, what the character of Colbert was. Events, developing themselves, by degrees allowed all the powers of his mind to act freely. Colbert was not long in insinuating himself into the good graces of the cardinal: he became even indispensable to him. The clerk was acquainted with all his accounts without the cardinal’s ever having spoken to him about them. This secret between them was a powerful tie, and this was why, when about to appear before the Master of another world, Mazarin was desirous of taking good counsel in disposing of the wealth he was so unwillingly obliged to leave in this world. After the visit of Guenaud, he therefore sent for Colbert, desired him to sit down. and said to him: “Let us converse, Monsieur Colbert, and seriously, for I am very ill, and I may chance to die.”

“Man is mortal,” replied Colbert.

“I have always remembered that, M. Colbert, and I have worked with that end in view. You know that I have amassed a little wealth.”

“I know you have, monseigneur.”

“At how much do you estimate, as near as you can, the amount of this wealth, M. Colbert?”

“At forty millions, five hundred and sixty thousand, two hundred livres, nine cents, eight farthings,” replied Colbert.

The cardinal heaved a deep sigh, and looked at Colbert with wonder, but he allowed a smile to steal across his lips.

“Known money,” added Colbert, in reply to that smile.

The cardinal gave quite a start in bed. “What do you mean by that?” said he.

“I mean,” said Colbert, “that besides those forty millions, five hundred and sixty thousand, two hundred livres, nine cents, eight farthings, there are thirteen millions that are not known.”

“Ouf!” sighed Mazarin, “what a man!”

At this moment the head of Bernouin appeared through the embrasure of the door.

“What is it?” asked Mazarin, “and why do you disturb me?”

“The Theatin father, your eminence’s director, was sent for this evening; and he cannot come again to my lord till after to-morrow.”

Mazarin looked at Colbert, who rose and took his hat saying: “I shall come again, my lord.”

Mazarin hesitated. “No, no,” said he; “I have as much business to transact with you as with him. Besides, you are my other confessor--and what I have to say to one the other may hear. Remain where you are, Colbert.”

“But, my lord, if there be no secret of penitence, will the director consent to my being here?”

“Do not trouble yourself about that; come into the ruelle.”

“I can wait outside, monseigneur.”

“No, no, it will do you good to hear the confession of a rich man.”

Colbert bowed and went into the ruelle.

“Introduce the Theatin father,” said Mazarin, closing the curtains.

Confession of a Man of Wealth

The Theatin entered deliberately, without being too much astonished at the noise and agitation which anxiety for the cardinal’s health had raised in his household. “Come in, my reverend father,” said Mazarin, after a last look at the ruelle, “come in and console me.”

“That is my duty, my lord,” replied the Theatin.

“Begin by sitting down, and making yourself comfortable, for I am going to begin with a general confession, you will afterwards give me a good absolution, and I shall believe myself more tranquil.”

“My lord,” said the father, “you are not so ill as to make a general confession urgent--and it will be very fatiguing--take care.”

“You suspect then, that it may be long, father”

“How can I think it otherwise, when a man has lived so completely as your eminence has done?”

“Ah! that is true!--yes--the recital may be long.”

“The mercy of God is great,” snuffled the Theatin.

“Stop,” said Mazarin; “there I begin to terrify myself with having allowed so many things to pass which the Lord might reprove.”

“Is not that always so?” said the Theatin naively, removing further from the lamp his thin pointed face, like that of a mole. “Sinners are so forgetful beforehand, and scrupulous when it is too late.”

“Sinners?” replied Mazarin. “Do you use that word ironically, and to reproach me with all the genealogies I have allowed to be made on my account--I--the son of a fisherman, in fact?”1

“Hum!” said the Theatin.

“That is a first sin, father; for I have allowed myself made to descend from two old Roman consuls, S. Geganius Macerinus 1st, Macerinus 2d, and Proculus Macerinus 3d, of whom the Chronicle of Haolander speaks. From Macerinus to Mazarin the proximity was tempting. Macerinus, a diminutive, means leanish, poorish, out of case. Oh! reverend father! Mazarini may now be carried to the augmentative Maigre, thin as Lazarus. Look! ' and he showed his fleshless arms.

“In your having been born of a family of fishermen I see nothing injurious to you; for--St. Peter was a fisherman; and if you are a prince of the church, my lord, he was the supreme head of it. Pass on, if you please.”

“So much the more for my having threatened with the Bastile a certain Bounet, a priest of Avignon, who wanted to publish a genealogy of the Casa Mazarini much too marvelous.”

“To be probable?” replied the Theatin.

“Oh! if I had acted up to his idea, father, that would have been the vice of pride--another sin.”

“It was excess of wit, and a person is not to be reproached with such sorts of abuses. Pass on, pass on!”

“I was all pride. Look you, father, I will endeavor to divide that into capital sins.”

“I like divisions, when well made.”

“I am glad of that. You must know that in 1630--alas! that is thirty-one years ago----”

“You were then twenty-nine years old, monseigneur.”

“A hot-headed age. I was then something of a soldier, and I threw myself at Casal into the arquebuscades, to show that I rode on horseback as well as an officer. It is true, I restored peace between the French and the Spaniards. That redeems my sin a little.”

“I see no sin in being able to ride well on horseback,” said the Theatin; “that is in perfect good taste, and does honor to our gown. As a Christian, I approve of your having prevented the effusion of blood; as a monk I am proud of the bravery a monk has exhibited.”

Mazarin bowed his head humbly. “Yes,” said he, “but the consequences?”

“What consequences?”

“Eh! that damned sin of pride has roots without end. From the time that I threw myself in that manner between two armies, that I had smelt powder and faced lines of soldiers, I have held generals a little in contempt.”

“Ah!” said the father.

“There is the evil; so that I have not found one endurable since that time.”

“The fact is,” said the Theatin, “that the generals we have had have not been remarkable.”

“Oh!” cried Mazarin, “there was Monsieur le Prince. I have tormented him thoroughly.”

“He is not much to be pitied: he has acquired sufficient glory, and sufficient wealth.”

“That may be, for Monsieur le Prince; but M. Beaufort, for example--whom I held suffering so long in the dungeon of Vincennes?”

“Ah! but he was a rebel, and the safety of the state required that you should make a sacrifice. Pass on!”

“I believe I have exhausted pride. There is another sin which I am afraid to qualify.”

“I can qualify it myself. Tell it.”

“A great sin, reverend father!”

“We shall judge, monseigneur.”

“You cannot fail to have heard of certain relations which I have had--with her majesty the queen-mother;--the malevolent----”

“The malevolent, my lord, are fools. Was it not necessary for the good of the state and the interests of the young king, that you should live in good intelligence with the queen? Pass on, pass on!”

“I assure you,” said Mazarin, “you remove a terrible weight from my breast.”

“These are all trifles!--look for something serious.”

“I have had much ambition, father.”

“That is the march of great minds and things, my lord.”

“Even the longing for the tiara?”

“To be pope is to be the first of Christians. Why should you not desire that?”

“It has been printed that, to gain that object, I had sold Cambria to the Spaniards.”

“You have, perhaps, yourself written pamphlets without severely persecuting pamphleteers.”

“Then, reverend father, I have truly a clean breast. I feel nothing remaining but slight peccadilloes.”

“What are they?”

“Play.”

“That is rather worldly: but you were obliged by the duties of greatness to keep a good house.”

“I like to win.”

“No player plays to lose.”

“I cheated a little.”

“You took your advantage. Pass on.”

“Well! reverend father, I feel nothing else upon my conscience. Give me absolution, and my soul will be able, when God shall please to call it, to mount without obstacle to the throne----”

The Theatin moved neither his arms nor his lips. “What are you waiting for, father?” said Mazarin.

“I am waiting for the end.”

“The end of what?”

“Of the confession, monsieur.”

“But I have ended.”

“Oh, no; your eminence is mistaken.”

“Not that I know of.”

“Search diligently.”

“I have searched as well as possible.”

“Then I shall assist your memory.”

“Do.”

The Theatin coughed several times. “You have said nothing of avarice, another capital sin, nor of those millions,” said he.

“What millions, father?”

“Why, those you possess, my lord.”

“Father, that money is mine, why should I speak to you about that?”

“Because, see you, our opinions differ. You say that money is yours, whilst I--I believe it is rather the property of others.”

Mazarin lifted his cold hand to his brow, which was beaded with perspiration. “How so?” stammered he.

“This way. Your excellency has gained much wealth--in the service of the king.”

“Hum! much--that is, not too much.”

“Whatever it may be, whence came that wealth?

“From the state.”

“The state, that is the king.”

“But what do you conclude from that, father?” said Mazarin, who began to tremble.

“I cannot conclude without seeing a list of the riches you possess. Let us reckon a little, if you please. You have the bishopric of Metz?”

“Yes.”

“The abbeys of St. Clement, St. Arnould, and St. Vincent, all at Metz?”

“Yes.”

“You have the abbey of St. Denis, in France, a magnificent property?”

“Yes, father.”

“You have the abbey of Cluny, which is rich?”

“I have.”

“That of St. Medard at Soissons, with a revenue of one hundred thousand livres?”

“I cannot deny it.”

“That of St. Victor, at Marseilles,--one of the best in the south?”

“Yes, father.”

“A good million a year. With the emoluments of the cardinalship and the ministry, I say too little when I say two millions a year.”

“Eh!”

“In ten years that is twenty millions,--and twenty millions put out at fifty per cent give, by progression, twenty-three millions in ten years.”

“How well you reckon for a Theatin!”

“Since your eminence placed our order in the convent we occupy, near St. Germain des Pres, in 1641, I have kept the accounts of the society.”

“And mine likewise, apparently, father.”

“One ought to know a little of everything, my lord.”

“Very well. Conclude, at present.”

“I conclude that your baggage is too heavy to allow you to pass through the gates of Paradise.”

“Shall I be damned?”

“If you do not make restitution, yes.”

Mazarin uttered a piteous cry. “Restitution!--but to whom, good God?”

“To the owner of that money,--to the king.”

“But the king did not give it all to me.”

“One moment,--does not the king sign the ordonnances?”

Mazarin passed from sighs to groans. “Absolution! absolution!” cried he.

“Impossible, my lord. Restitution! restitution!” replied the Theatin.

“But you absolve me from all other sins, why not from that?”

“Because,” replied the father, “to absolve you for that motive would be a sin for which the king would never absolve me, my lord.”

Thereupon the confessor quitted his penitent with an air full of compunction. He then went out in the same manner he had entered.

“Oh, good God!” groaned the cardinal. “Come here, Colbert, I am very, very ill indeed, my friend.”

  1. This is quite untranslatable--it being a play upon the words pecheur, a sinner, and pecheur, a fisherman. It is in very bad taste.--TRANS.

The Donation

Colbert reappeared beneath the curtains.

“Have you heard?” said Mazarin.

“Alas! yes, my lord.”

“Can he be right? Can all this money be badly acquired?”

“A Theatin, monseigneur, is a bad judge in matters of finance,” replied Colbert, coolly. “And yet it is very possible that, according to his theological ideas, your eminence has been, in a certain degree, in the wrong. People generally find they have been so,--when they die.”

“In the first place, they commit the wrong of dying, Colbert.”

“That is true, my lord. Against whom, however, did the Theatin make out that you had committed these wrongs? Against the king?!”

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders. “As if I had not saved both his state and his finances.”

“That admits of no contradiction, my lord.”

“Does it? Then I have received a merely legitimate salary, in spite of the opinion of my confessor?”

“That is beyond doubt.”

“And I might fairly keep for my own family, which is so needy, a good fortune,--the whole, even, of which I have earned?”

“I see no impediment to that, monseigneur.”

“I felt assured that in consulting you, Colbert, I should have good advice,” replied Mazarin, greatly delighted.

Colbert resumed his pedantic look. “My lord,” interrupted he, “I think it would be quite as well to examine whether what the Theatin said is not a snare.”

“Oh! no; a snare? What for? The Theatin is an honest man.”

“He believed your eminence to be at death’s door, because your eminence consulted him. Did not I hear him say--‘Distinguish that which the king has given you from that which you have given yourself.’ Recollect, my lord, if he did not say something a little like that to you?--that is quite a theatrical speech.”

“That is possible.”

“In which case, my lord, I should consider you as required by the Theatin to----”

“To make restitution!” cried Mazarin, with great warmth.

“Eh! I do not say no.”

“What, of all! You do not dream of such a thing! You speak just as the confessor did.”

“To make restitution of a part,--that is to say, his majesty’s part; and that, monseigneur, may have its dangers. Your eminence is too skillful a politician not to know that, at this moment, the king does not possess a hundred and fifty thousand livres clear in his coffers.”

“That is not my affair,” said Mazarin, triumphantly; “that belongs to M. le Surintendant Fouquet, whose accounts I gave you to verify some months ago.”

Colbert bit his lips at the name of Fouquet. “His majesty,” said he, between his teeth, “has no money but that which M. Fouquet collects: your money, monseigneur, would afford him a delicious banquet.”

“Well, but I am not the superintendent of his majesty’s finances--I have my purse--surely I would do much for his majesty’s welfare--some legacy--but I cannot disappoint my family.”

“The legacy of a part would dishonor you and offend the king. Leaving a part to his majesty is to avow that that part has inspired you with doubts as to the lawfulness of the means of acquisition.”

“Monsieur Colbert!”

“I thought your eminence did me the honor to ask my advice?”

“Yes, but you are ignorant of the principal details of the question.”

“I am ignorant of nothing, my lord; during ten years, all the columns of figures which are found in France have passed in review before me, and if I have painfully nailed them into my brain, they are there now so well riveted, that, from the office of M. Letellier, who is sober, to the little secret largesses of M. Fouquet, who is prodigal, I could recite, figure by figure, all the money that is spent in France from Marseilles to Cherbourg.”

“Then, you would have me throw all my money into the coffers of the king!” cried Mazarin, ironically; and from whom, at the same time, the gout forced painful moans. “Surely the king would reproach me with nothing, but he would laugh at me, while squandering my millions, and with good reason.”

“Your eminence has misunderstood me. I did not, the least in the world, pretend that his majesty ought to spend your money.”

“You said so clearly, it seems to me, when you advised me to give it to him.”

“Ah,” replied Colbert, “that is because your eminence, absorbed as you are by your disease, entirely loses sight of the character of Louis XIV.”

“How so?”

“That character, if I may venture to express myself thus, resembles that which my lord confessed just now to the Theatin.”

“Go on--that is?”

“Pride! Pardon me, my lord, haughtiness, nobleness; kings have no pride, that is a human passion.”

“Pride,--yes, you are right. Next?”

“Well, my lord, if I have divined rightly, your eminence has but to give all your money to the king, and that immediately.”

“But for what?” said Mazarin, quite bewildered.

“Because the king will not accept of the whole.”

“What, and he a young man, and devoured by ambition?”

“Just so.”

“A young man who is anxious for my death----”

“My lord!”

“To inherit, yes, Colbert, yes; he is anxious for my death in order to inherit. Triple fool that I am! I would prevent him!”

“Exactly: if the donation were made in a certain form he would refuse it.”

“Well, but how?”

“That is plain enough. A young man who has yet done nothing--who burns to distinguish himself--who burns to reign alone, will never take anything ready built, he will construct for himself. This prince, monseigneur, will never be content with the Palais Royal, which M. de Richelieu left him, nor with the Palais Mazarin, which you have had so superbly constructed, nor with the Louvre, which his ancestors inhabited; nor with St. Germain, where he was born. All that does not proceed from himself, I predict, he will disdain.”

“And you will guarantee, that if I give my forty millions to the king----”

“Saying certain things to him at the same time, I guarantee he will refuse them.”

“But those things--what are they?”

“I will write them, if my lord will have the goodness to dictate them.”

“Well, but, after all, what advantage will that be to me?”

“An enormous one. Nobody will afterwards be able to accuse your eminence of that unjust avarice with which pamphleteers have reproached the most brilliant mind of the present age.”

“You are right, Colbert, you are right; go, and seek the king, on my part, and take him my will.”

“Your donation, my lord.”

“But, if he should accept it; if he should even think of accepting it!”

“Then there would remain thirteen millions for your family, and that is a good round sum.”

“But then you would be either a fool or a traitor.”

“And I am neither the one nor the other, my lord. You appear to be much afraid that the king will accept; you have a deal more reason to fear that he will not accept.”

“But, see you, if he does not accept, I should like to guarantee my thirteen reserved millions to him--yes, I will do so--yes. But my pains are returning, I shall faint. I am very, very ill, Colbert; I am very near my end!”

Colbert started. The cardinal was indeed very ill; large drops of sweat flowed down upon his bed of agony, and the frightful pallor of a face streaming with water was a spectacle which the most hardened practitioner could not have beheld without compassion. Colbert was, without doubt, very much affected, for he quitted the chamber, calling Bernouin to attend the dying man and went into the corridor. There, walking about with a meditative expression, which almost gave nobility to his vulgar head, his shoulders thrown up, his neck stretched out, his lips half open, to give vent to unconnected fragments of incoherent thoughts, he lashed up his courage to the pitch of the undertaking contemplated, whilst within ten paces of him, separated only by a wall, his master was being stifled by anguish which drew from him lamentable cries, thinking no more of the treasures of the earth, or of the joys of Paradise, but much of all the horrors of hell. Whilst burning-hot napkins, physic, revulsives, and Guenaud, who was recalled, were performing their functions with increased activity, Colbert, holding his great head in both his hands, to compress within it the fever of the projects engendered by the brain, was meditating the tenor of the donation he would make Mazarin write, at the first hour of respite his disease should afford him. It would appear as if all the cries of the cardinal, and all the attacks of death upon this representative of the past, were stimulants for the genius of this thinker with the bushy eyebrows, who was turning already towards the rising sun of a regenerated society. Colbert resumed his place at Mazarin’s pillow at the first interval of pain, and persuaded him to dictate a donation thus conceived.

“About to appear before God, the Master of mankind, I beg the king, who was my master on earth, to resume the wealth which his bounty has bestowed upon me, and which my family would be happy to see pass into such illustrious hands. The particulars of my property will be found--they are drawn up--at the first requisition of his majesty, or at the last sigh of his most devoted servant,

Jules, Cardinal de Mazarin.”

The cardinal sighed heavily as he signed this; Colbert sealed the packet, and carried it immediately to the Louvre, whither the king had returned.

He then went back to his own home, rubbing his hands with the confidence of a workman who has done a good day’s work.

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

The news of the extreme illness of the cardinal had already spread, and attracted at least as much attention among the people of the Louvre as the news of the marriage of Monsieur, the king’s brother, which had already been announced as an official fact. Scarcely had Louis XIV. returned home, with his thoughts fully occupied with the various things he had seen and heard in the course of the evening, when an usher announced that the same crowd of courtiers who, in the morning, had thronged his lever, presented themselves again at his coucher, a remarkable piece of respect which, during the reign of the cardinal, the court, not very discreet in its preferences, had accorded to the minister, without caring about displeasing the king.

But the minister had had, as we have said, an alarming attack of gout, and the tide of flattery was mounting towards the throne. Courtiers have a marvelous instinct in scenting the turn of events; courtiers possess a supreme kind of science; they are diplomatists in throwing light upon the unraveling of complicated intrigues, captains in divining the issue of battles, and physicians in curing the sick. Louis XIV., to whom his mother had taught this axiom, together with many others, understood at once that the cardinal must be very ill.

Scarcely had Anne of Austria conducted the young queen to her apartments and taken from her brow the head-dress of ceremony, when she went to see her son in his cabinet, where, alone, melancholy and depressed, he was indulging, as if to exercise his will, in one of those terrible inward passions--king’s passions--which create events when they break out, and with Louis XIV., thanks to his astonishing command over himself, became such benign tempests, that his most violent, his only passion, that which Saint Simon mentions with astonishment, was that famous fit of anger which he exhibited fifty years later, on the occasion of a little concealment of the Duc de Maine’s. and which had for result a shower of blows inflicted with a cane upon the back of a poor valet who had stolen a biscuit. The young king then was, as we have seen, a prey to a double excitement; and he said to himself as he looked in a glass, “O king!--king by name, and not in fact;--phantom, vain phantom art thou!--inert statue, which has no other power than that of provoking salutations from courtiers, when wilt thou be able to raise thy velvet arm, or clench thy silken hand? when wilt thou be able to open, for any purpose but to sigh, or smile, lips condemned to the motionless stupidity of the marbles in thy gallery?”

Then, passing his hand over his brow, and feeling the want of air, he approached a window, and looking down, saw below some horsemen talking together, and groups of timid observers. These horsemen were a fraction of the watch: the groups were busy portions of the people, to whom a king is always a curious thing, the same as a rhinoceros, a crocodile, or a serpent. He struck his brow with his open hand, crying,--“King of France! what title! People of France! what a heap of creatures! I have just returned to my Louvre; my horses, just unharnessed, are still smoking, and I have created interest enough to induce scarcely twenty persons to look at me as I passed. Twenty! what do I say? no; there were not twenty anxious to see the king of France. There are not even ten archers to guard my place of residence: archers, people, guards, all are at the Palais Royal! Why, my good God! have not I, the king, the right to ask of you all that?”

“Because,” said a voice, replying to his, and which sounded from the other side of the door of the cabinet, “because at the Palais Royal lies all the gold,--that is to say, all the power of him who desires to reign.”

Louis turned sharply round. The voice which had pronounced these words was that of Anne of Austria. The king started, and advanced towards her. “I hope,” said he, “your majesty has paid no attention to the vain declamations which the solitude and disgust familiar to kings suggest to the happiest dispositions?”

“I only paid attention to one thing, my son, and that was, that you were complaining.”

“Who! I? Not at all,” said Louis XIV.; “no, in truth, you err, madame.”

“What were you doing, then?”

“I thought I was under the ferule of my professor, and developing a subject of amplification.”

“My son,” replied Anne of Austria, shaking her head, “you are wrong not to trust my word; you are wrong not to grant me your confidence. A day will come, and perhaps quickly, wherein you will have occasion to remember that axiom:--‘Gold is universal power; and they alone are kings who are all-powerful.’”

“Your intention,” continued the king, “was not, however, to cast blame upon the rich men of this age, was it?

“No,” said the queen, warmly; “no, sire; they who are rich in this age, under your reign, are rich because you have been willing they should be so, and I entertain against them neither malice nor envy; they have, without doubt, served your majesty sufficiently well for your majesty to have permitted them to reward themselves. That is what I mean to say by the words for which you reproach me.”

“God forbid, madame, that I should ever reproach my mother with anything!”

“Besides,” continued Anne of Austria, “the Lord never gives the goods of this world but for a season; the Lord--as correctives to honor and riches--the Lord has placed sufferings, sickness, and death; and no one,” added she, with a melancholy smile, which proved she made the application of the funeral precept to herself, “no man can take his wealth or greatness with him to the grave. It results, therefore, that the young gather the abundant harvest prepared for them by the old.”

Louis listened with increased attention to the words which Anne of Austria, no doubt, pronounced with a view to console him. “Madame,” said he, looking earnestly at his mother, “one would almost say in truth that you had something else to announce to me.”

“I have absolutely nothing, my son; only you cannot have failed to remark that his eminence the cardinal is very ill.”

Louis looked at his mother, expecting some emotion in her voice, some sorrow in her countenance. The face of Anne of Austria appeared a little changed, but that was from sufferings of quite a personal character. Perhaps the alteration was caused by the cancer which had begun to consume her breast. “Yes, madame,” said the king; “yes, M. de Mazarin is very ill.”

“And it would be a great loss to the kingdom if God were to summon his eminence away. Is not that your opinion as well as mine, my son?” said the queen.

“Yes, madame; yes, certainly, it would be a great loss for the kingdom,” said Louis, coloring; “but the peril does not seem to me to be so great; besides, the cardinal is still young.” The king had scarcely ceased speaking when an usher lifted the tapestry, and stood with a paper in his hand, waiting for the king to speak to him.

“What have you there?” asked the king.

“A message from M. de Mazarin,” replied the usher.

“Give it to me,” said the king; and he took the paper. But at the moment he was about to open it, there was a great noise in the gallery, the ante-chamber, and the court.

“Ah, ah,” said Louis XIV., who doubtless knew the meaning of that triple noise. “How could I say there was but one king in France! I was mistaken, there are two.”

As he spoke or thought thus, the door opened, and the superintendent of the finances, Fouquet, appeared before his nominal master. It was he who made the noise in the ante-chamber, it was his horses that made the noise in the courtyard. In addition to all this, a loud murmur was heard along his passage, which did not die away till some time after he had passed. It was this murmur which Louis XIV. regretted so deeply not hearing as he passed, and dying away behind him.

“He is not precisely a king, as you fancy,” said Anne of Austria to her son; “he is only a man who is much too rich--that is all.”

Whilst saying these words, a bitter feeling gave to these words of the queen a most hateful expression; whereas the brow of the king, calm and self-possessed, on the contrary, was without the slightest wrinkle. He nodded, therefore, familiarly to Fouquet, whilst he continued to unfold the paper given to him by the usher. Fouquet perceived this movement, and with a politeness at once easy and respectful, advanced towards the queen, so as not to disturb the king. Louis had opened the paper, and yet he did not read it. He listened to Fouquet paying the most charming compliments to the queen upon her hand and arm. Anne of Austria’s frown relaxed a little, she even almost smiled. Fouquet perceived that the king, instead of reading, was looking at him; he turned half round, therefore, and while continuing his conversation with the queen, faced the king.

“You know, Monsieur Fouquet,” said Louis, “how ill M. Mazarin is?”

“Yes, sire, I know that,” said Fouquet; “in fact, he is very ill. I was at my country-house of Vaux when the news reached me; and the affair seemed so pressing that I left at once.”

“You left Vaux this evening, monsieur?”

“An hour and a half ago, yes, your majesty,” said Fouquet, consulting a watch, richly ornamented with diamonds.

“An hour and a half!” said the king, still able to restrain his anger, but not to conceal his astonishment.

“I understand you, sire. Your majesty doubts my word, and you have reason to do so, but I have really come in that time, though it is wonderful! I received from England three pairs of very fast horses, as I had been assured. They were placed at distances of four leagues apart, and I tried them this evening. They really brought me from Vaux to the Louvre in an hour and a half, so your majesty sees I have not been cheated.” The queen-mother smiled with something like secret envy. But Fouquet caught her thought. “Thus, madame,” he promptly said, “such horses are made for kings, not for subjects; for kings ought never to yield to any one in anything.”

The king looked up.

“And yet,” interrupted Anne of Austria, “you are not a king, that I know of, M. Fouquet.”

“Truly not, madame; therefore the horses only await the orders of his majesty to enter the royal stables; and if I allowed myself to try them, it was only for fear of offering to the king anything that was not positively wonderful.”

The king became quite red.

“You know, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the queen, “that at the court of France it is not the custom for a subject to offer anything to his king.”

Louis started.

“I hoped, madame,” said Fouquet, much agitated, “that my love for his majesty, my incessant desire to please him, would serve to compensate the want of etiquette. It was not so much a present that I permitted myself to offer, as the tribute I paid.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the king politely, “and I am gratified by your intention, for I love good horses; but you know I am not very rich; you, who are my superintendent of finances, know it better than any one else. I am not able, then, however willing I may be, to purchase such a valuable set of horses.”

Fouquet darted a haughty glance at the queen-mother, who appeared to triumph at the false position in which the minister had placed himself, and replied:--

“Luxury is the virtue of kings, sire: it is luxury which makes them resemble God: it is by luxury they are more than other men. With luxury a king nourishes his subjects, and honors them. Under the mild heat of this luxury of kings springs the luxury of individuals, a source of riches for the people. His majesty, by accepting the gift of these six incomparable horses, would stimulate the pride of his own breeders, of Limousin, Perche, and Normandy, and this emulation would have been beneficial to all. But the king is silent, and consequently I am condemned.”

During this speech, Louis was, unconsciously, folding and unfolding Mazarin’s paper, upon which he had not cast his eyes. At length he glanced upon it, and uttered a faint cry at reading the first line.

“What is the matter, my son?” asked the queen, anxiously, and going towards the king.

“From the cardinal,” replied the king, continuing to read; “yes, yes, it is really from him.”

“Is he worse, then?”

“Read!” said the king, passing the parchment to his mother, as if he thought that nothing less than reading would convince Anne of Austria of a thing so astonishing as was conveyed in that paper.

Anne of Austria read in turn, and as she read, her eyes sparkled with a joy all the greater from her useless endeavor to hide it, which attracted the attention of Fouquet.

“Oh! a regularly drawn up deed of gift,” said she.

“A gift?” repeated Fouquet.

“Yes,” said the king, replying pointedly to the superintendent of finances, “yes, at the point of death, monsieur le cardinal makes me a donation of all his wealth.”

“Forty millions,” cried the queen. “Oh, my son! this is very noble on the part of his eminence, and will silence all malicious rumors; forty millions scraped together slowly, coming back all in one heap to the treasury! It is the act of a faithful subject and a good Christian.” And having once more cast her eyes over the act, she restored it to Louis XIV., whom the announcement of the sum greatly agitated. Fouquet had taken some steps backwards and remained silent. The king looked at him, and held the paper out to him, in turn. The superintendent only bestowed a haughty look of a second upon it; then bowing,--“Yes, sire,” said he, “a donation, I see.”

“You must reply to it, my son,” said Anne of Austria; “you must reply to it, and immediately.”

“But how, madame?”

“By a visit to the cardinal.”

“Why, it is but an hour since I left his eminence,” said the king.

“Write, then, sire.”

“Write!” said the young king, with evident repugnance.

“Well!” replied Anne of Austria, “it seems to me, my son, that a man who has just made such a present has a good right to expect to be thanked for it with some degree of promptitude.” Then turning towards Fouquet: “Is not that likewise your opinion, monsieur?”

“That the present is worth the trouble? Yes madame,” said Fouquet, with a lofty air that did not escape the king.

“Accept, then, and thank him,” insisted Anne of Austria.

“What says M. Fouquet?” asked Louis XIV.

“Does your majesty wish to know my opinion?”

“Yes.”

“Thank him, sire----”

“Ah!” said the queen.

“But do not accept,” continued Fouquet.

“And why not?” asked the queen.

“You have yourself said why, madame,” replied Fouquet; “because kings cannot and ought not to receive presents from their subjects.”

The king remained silent between these two contrary opinions.

“But forty millions!” said Anne of Austria, in the same tone as that in which, at a later period, poor Marie Antoinette replied, “You will tell me as much!”

“I know,” said Fouquet, laughing, “forty millions makes a good round sum,--such a sum as could almost tempt a royal conscience.”

“But monsieur,” said Anne of Austria, “instead of persuading the king not to receive this present, recall to his majesty’s mind, you, whose duty it is, that these forty millions are a fortune to him.”

“It is precisely, madame, because these forty millions would be a fortune that I will say to the king, ‘Sire, if it be not decent for a king to accept from a subject six horses, worth twenty thousand livres, it would be disgraceful for him to owe a fortune to another subject, more or less scrupulous in the choice of the materials which contributed to the building up of that fortune.’”

“It ill becomes you, monsieur, to give your king a lesson,” said Anne of Austria; “better procure for him forty millions to replace those you make him lose.”

“The king shall have them whenever he wishes,” said the superintendent of finances, bowing.

“Yes, by oppressing the people,” said the queen.

“And were they not oppressed, madame,” replied Fouquet, “when they were made to sweat the forty millions given by this deed? Furthermore, his majesty has asked my opinion, I have given it; if his majesty ask my concurrence, it will be the same.”

“Nonsense! accept, my son, accept,” said Anne of Austria. “You are above reports and interpretations.”

“Refuse, sire,” said Fouquet. “As long as a king lives, he has no other measure but his conscience,--no other judge than his own desires; but when dead, he has posterity, which applauds or accuses.”

“Thank you, mother,” replied Louis, bowing respectfully to the queen. “Thank you, Monsieur Fouquet,” said he, dismissing the superintendent civilly.

“Do you accept?” asked Anne of Austria, once more.

“I shall consider of it,” replied he, looking at Fouquet.

Agony

The day that the deed of gift had been sent to the king, the cardinal caused himself to be transported to Vincennes. The king and the court followed him thither. The last flashes of this torch still cast splendor enough around to absorb all other lights in its rays. Besides, as it has been seen, the faithful satellite of his minister, young Louis XIV., marched to the last minute in accordance with his gravitation. The disease, as Guenaud had predicted, had become worse; it was no longer an attack of gout, it was an attack of death; then there was another thing which made that agony more agonizing still,--and that was the agitation brought into his mind by the donation he had sent to the king, and which, according to Colbert, the king ought to send back unaccepted to the cardinal. The cardinal had, as we have said, great faith in the predictions of his secretary; but the sum was a large one, and whatever might be the genius of Colbert, from time to time the cardinal thought to himself that the Theatin also might possibly have been mistaken, and that there was at least as much chance of his not being damned, as there was of Louis XIV. sending back his millions.

Besides, the longer the donation was in coming back, the more Mazarin thought that forty millions were worth a little risk, particularly of so hypothetic a thing as the soul. Mazarin, in his character of cardinal and prime minister, was almost an atheist, and quite a materialist. Every time that the door opened, he turned sharply round towards that door, expecting to see the return of his unfortunate donation; then, deceived in his hope, he fell back again with a sigh, and found his pains so much the greater for having forgotten them for an instant.

Anne of Austria had also followed the cardinal; her heart, though age had made it selfish, could not help evincing towards the dying man a sorrow which she owed him as a wife, according to some; and as a sovereign, according to others. She had, in some sort, put on a mourning countenance beforehand, and all the court wore it as she did.

Louis, in order not to show on his face what was passing at the bottom of his heart, persisted in remaining in his own apartments, where his nurse alone kept him company; the more he saw the approach of the time when all constraint would be at an end, the more humble and patient he was, falling back upon himself, as all strong men do when they form great designs, in order to gain more spring at the decisive moment. Extreme unction had been administered to the cardinal, who, faithful to his habits of dissimulation, struggled against appearances, and even against reality, receiving company in his bed, as if he only suffered from a temporary complaint.

Guenaud, on his part, preserved profound secrecy; wearied with visits and questions, he answered nothing but “his eminence is still full of youth and strength, but God wills that which He wills, and when He has decided that man is to be laid low, he will be laid low.” These words, which he scattered with a sort of discretion, reserve, and preference, were commented upon earnestly by two persons,--the king and the cardinal. Mazarin, notwithstanding the prophecy of Guenaud, still lured himself with a hope, or rather played his part so well, that the most cunning, when saying that he lured himself, proved that they were his dupes.

Louis, absent from the cardinal for two days; Louis with his eyes fixed upon that same donation which so constantly preoccupied the cardinal; Louis did not exactly know how to make out Mazarin’s conduct. The son of Louis XIII., following the paternal traditions, had, up to that time, been so little of a king that, whilst ardently desiring royalty, he desired it with that terror which always accompanies the unknown. Thus, having formed his resolution, which, besides, he communicated to nobody, he determined to have an interview with Mazarin. It was Anne of Austria, who, constant in her attendance upon the cardinal, first heard this proposition of the king’s, and transmitted it to the dying man, whom it greatly agitated. For what purpose could Louis wish for an interview? Was it to return the deed, as Colbert had said he would? Was it to keep it, after thanking him, as Mazarin thought he would? Nevertheless, as the dying man felt that the uncertainty increased his torments, he did not hesitate an instant.

“His majesty will be welcome,--yes, very welcome,” cried he, making a sign to Colbert, who was seated at the foot of the bed, and which the latter understood perfectly. “Madame,” continued Mazarin, “will your majesty be good enough to assure the king yourself of the truth of what I have just said?”

Anne of Austria rose; she herself was anxious to have the question of the forty millions settled--the question which seemed to lie heavy on the mind of every one. Anne of Austria went out; Mazarin made a great effort, and, raising himself up towards Colbert: “Well, Colbert,” said he, “two days have passed away--two mortal days--and, you see, nothing has been returned from yonder.”

“Patience, my lord,” said Colbert.

“Are you mad, you wretch? You advise me to have patience! Oh, in sad truth, Colbert, you are laughing at me. I am dying, and you call out to me to wait!”

“My lord,” said Colbert, with his habitual coolness, “it is impossible that things should not come out as I have said. His majesty is coming to see you, and no doubt he brings back the deed himself.”

“Do you think so? Well, I, on the contrary, am sure that his majesty is coming to thank me.”

At this moment Anne of Austria returned. On her way to the apartments of her son she had met with a new empiric. This was a powder which was said to have power to save the cardinal; and she brought a portion of this powder with her. But this was not what Mazarin expected; therefore he would not even look at it, declaring that life was not worth the pains that were taken to preserve it. But, whilst professing this philosophical axiom, his long-confined secret escaped him at last.

“That, madame,” said he, “that is not the interesting part of my situation. I made, two days ago, a little donation to the king; up to this time, from delicacy, no doubt, his majesty has not condescended to say anything about it; but the time for explanation is come, and I implore your majesty to tell me if the king has made up his mind on that matter.”

Anne of Austria was about to reply, when Mazarin stopped her.

“The truth, madame,” said he--“in the name of Heaven, the truth! Do not flatter a dying man with a hope that may prove vain.” There he stopped, a look from Colbert telling him that he was on a wrong tack.

“I know,” said Anne of Austria, taking the cardinal’s hand, “I know that you have generously made, not a little donation, as you modestly call it, but a magnificent gift. I know how painful it would be to you if the king----”

Mazarin listened, dying as he was, as ten living men could not have listened.

“If the king----” replied he.

“If the king,” continued Anne of Austria, “should not freely accept what you offer so nobly.”

Mazarin allowed himself to sink back upon his pillow like Pantaloon; that is to say, with all the despair of a man who bows before the tempest; but he still preserved sufficient strength and presence of mind to cast upon Colbert one of those looks which are well worth ten sonnets, which is to say, ten long poems.

“Should you not,” added the queen, “have considered the refusal of the king as a sort of insult?” Mazarin rolled his head about upon his pillow, without articulating a syllable. The queen was deceived, or feigned to be deceived, by this demonstration.

“Therefore,” resumed she, “I have circumvented him with good counsels; and as certain minds, jealous, no doubt, of the glory you are about to acquire by this generosity, have endeavored to prove to the king that he ought not to accept this donation, I have struggled in your favor, and so well have I struggled, that you will not have, I hope, that distress to undergo.”

“Ah!” murmured Mazarin, with languishing eyes, “ah! that is a service I shall never forget for a single minute of the few hours I still have to live.”

“I must admit,” continued the queen, “that it was not without trouble I rendered it to your eminence.”

“Ah, peste! I believe that. Oh! oh!”

“Good God! what is the matter?”

“I am burning!”

“Do you suffer much?”

“As much as one of the damned.”

Colbert would have liked to sink through the floor.

“So, then,” resumed Mazarin, “your majesty thinks that the king----“he stopped several seconds--”that the king is coming here to offer me some small thanks?”

“I think so,” said the queen. Mazarin annihilated Colbert with his last look.

At that moment the ushers announced that the king was in the ante-chambers, which were filled with people. This announcement produced a stir of which Colbert took advantage to escape by the door of the ruelle. Anne of Austria arose, and awaited her son, standing. Louis IV. appeared at the threshold of the door, with his eyes fixed upon the dying man, who did not even think it worth while to notice that majesty from whom he thought he had nothing more to expect. An usher placed an armchair close to the bed. Louis bowed to his mother, then to the cardinal, and sat down. The queen took a seat in her turn.

Then, as the king looked behind him, the usher understood that look and made a sign to the courtiers who filled up the doorway to go out, which they instantly did. Silence fell upon the chamber with the velvet curtains. The king, still very young, and very timid in the presence of him who had been his master from his birth, still respected him much, particularly now, in the supreme majesty of death. He did not dare, therefore, to begin the conversation, feeling that every word must have its weight not only upon things of this world, but of the next. As to the cardinal, at that moment he had but one thought--his donation. It was not physical pain which gave him that air of despondency, and that lugubrious look; it was the expectation of the thanks that were about to issue from the king’s mouth, and cut off all hope of restitution. Mazarin was the first to break the silence. “Is your majesty come to make any stay at Vincennes?” said he.

Louis made an affirmative sign with his head.

“That is a gracious favor,” continued Mazarin, “granted to a dying man, and which will render death less painful to him.”

“I hope,” replied the king, “I am come to visit, not a dying man, but a sick man, susceptible of cure.”

Mazarin replied by a movement of the head.

“Your majesty is very kind; but I know more than you on that subject. The last visit, sire,” said he, “the last visit.”

“If it were so, monsieur le cardinal,” said Louis, “I would come a last time to ask the counsels of a guide to whom I owe everything.”

Anne of Austria was a woman; she could not restrain her tears. Louis showed himself much affected, and Mazarin still more than his two guests, but from very different motives. Here the silence returned. The queen wiped her eyes, and the king resumed his firmness.

“I was saying,” continued the king, “that I owed much to your eminence.” The eyes of the cardinal devoured the king, for he felt the great moment had come. “And,” continued Louis, “the principal object of my visit was to offer you very sincere thanks for the last evidence of friendship you have kindly sent me.”

The cheeks of the cardinal became sunken, his lips partially opened, and the most lamentable sigh he had ever uttered was about to issue from his chest.

“Sire,” said he, “I shall have despoiled my poor family; I shall have ruined all who belong to me, which may be imputed to me as an error; but, at least, it shall not be said of me that I have refused to sacrifice everything to my king.”

Anne of Austria’s tears flowed afresh.

“My dear Monsieur Mazarin,” said the king, in a more serious tone than might have been expected from his youth, “you have misunderstood me, apparently.”

Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow.

“I have no purpose to despoil your dear family, nor to ruin your servants. Oh, no, that must never be!”

“Humph!” thought Mazarin, “he is going to restore me some scraps; let us get the largest piece we can.”

“The king is going to be foolishly affected and play the generous,” thought the queen; “he must not be allowed to impoverish himself; such an opportunity for getting a fortune will never occur again.”

“Sire,” said the cardinal, aloud, “my family is very numerous, and my nieces will be destitute when I am gone.”

“Oh,” interrupted the queen, eagerly, “have no uneasiness with respect to your family, dear Monsieur Mazarin; we have no friends dearer than your friends; your nieces shall be my children, the sisters of his majesty; and if a favor be distributed in France, it shall be to those you love.”

“Smoke!” thought Mazarin, who knew better than any one the faith that can be put in the promises of kings. Louis read the dying man’s thought in his face.

“Be comforted, my dear Monsieur Mazarin,” said he, with a half-smile, sad beneath its irony; “the Mesdemoiselles de Mancini will lose, in losing you, their most precious good; but they shall none the less be the richest heiresses of France; and since you have been kind enough to give me their dowry”--the cardinal was panting--“I restore it to them,” continued Louis, drawing from his breast and holding towards the cardinal’s bed the parchment which contained the donation that, during two days, had kept alive such tempests in the mind of Mazarin.

“What did I tell you, my lord?” murmured in the alcove a voice which passed away like a breath.

“Your majesty returns my donation!” cried Mazarin, so disturbed by joy as to forget his character of a benefactor.

“Your majesty rejects the forty millions!” cried Anne of Austria, so stupefied as to forget her character of an afflicted wife, or queen.

“Yes, my lord cardinal; yes, madame,” replied Louis XIV., tearing the parchment which Mazarin had not yet ventured to clutch; “yes, I annihilate this deed, which despoiled a whole family. The wealth acquired by his eminence in my service is his own wealth and not mine.”

“But, sire, does your majesty reflect,” said Anne of Austria, “that you have not ten thousand crowns in your coffers?”

“Madame, I have just performed my first royal action, and I hope it will worthily inaugurate my reign.”

“Ah! sire, you are right!” cried Mazarin; “that is truly great--that is truly generous which you have just done.” And he looked, one after the other, at the pieces of the act spread over his bed, to assure himself that it was the original and not a copy that had been torn. At length his eyes fell upon the fragment which bore his signature, and recognizing it, he sunk back on his bolster in a swoon. Anne of Austria, without strength to conceal her regret, raised her hands and eyes toward heaven.

“Oh! sire,” cried Mazarin, “may you be blessed! My God! May you be beloved by all my family. Per Baccho! If ever any of those belonging to me should cause your displeasure, sire, only frown, and I will rise from my tomb!”

This pantalonnade did not produce all the effect Mazarin had counted upon. Louis had already passed to considerations of a higher nature, and as to Anne of Austria, unable to bear, without abandoning herself to the anger she felt burning within her, the magnanimity of her son and the hypocrisy of the cardinal, she arose and left the chamber, heedless of thus betraying the extent of her grief. Mazarin saw all this, and fearing that Louis XIV. might repent his decision, in order to draw attention another way he began to cry out, as, at a later period, Scapin was to cry out, in that sublime piece of pleasantry with which the morose and grumbling Boileau dared to reproach Moliere. His cries, however, by degrees, became fainter; and when Anne of Austria left the apartment, they ceased altogether.

“Monsieur le cardinal,” said the king, “have you any recommendations to make to me?”

“Sire,” replied Mazarin, “you are already wisdom itself, prudence personified; of your generosity I shall not venture to speak; that which you have just done exceeds all that the most generous men of antiquity or of modern times have ever done.”

The king received this praise coldly.

“So you confine yourself,” said he, “to your thanks--and your experience, much more extensive than my wisdom, my prudence, or my generosity, does not furnish you with a single piece of friendly advice to guide my future.”

Mazarin reflected for a moment. “You have just done much for me, sire,” said he, “that is, for my family.”

“Say no more about that,” said the king.

“Well!” continued Mazarin, “I shall give you something in exchange for these forty millions you have refused so royally.”

Louis XIV. indicated by a movement that these flatteries were displeasing to him. “I shall give you a piece of advice,” continued Mazarin; “yes, a piece of advice--advice more precious than the forty millions.”

“My lord cardinal!” interrupted Louis.

“Sire, listen to this advice.”

“I am listening.”

“Come nearer, sire, for I am weak!--nearer, sire, nearer!”

The king bent over the dying man. “Sire,” said Mazarin, in so low a tone that the breath of his words arrived only like a recommendation from the tomb in the attentive ears of the king--“Sire, never have a prime minister.”

Louis drew back astonished. The advice was a confession--a treasure, in fact, was that sincere confession of Mazarin. The legacy of the cardinal to the young king was composed of six words only, but those six words, as Mazarin had said, were worth forty millions. Louis remained for an instant bewildered. As for Mazarin, he appeared only to have said something quite natural. A little scratching was heard along the curtains of the alcove. Mazarin understood: “Yes, yes!” cried he warmly, “yes, sire, I recommend to you a wise man, an honest man, and a clever man.”

“Tell me his name, my lord.”

“His name is yet almost unknown, sire; it is M. Colbert, my attendant. Oh! try him,” added Mazarin, in an earnest voice; “all that he has predicted has come to pass, he has a safe glance, he is never mistaken either in things or in men--which is more surprising still. Sire, I owe you much, but I think I acquit myself of all towards you in giving you M. Colbert.”

“So be it,” said Louis, faintly, for, as Mazarin had said, the name of Colbert was quite unknown to him, and he thought the enthusiasm of the cardinal partook of the delirium of a dying man. The cardinal sank back on his pillows.

“For the present, adieu, sire! adieu,” murmured Mazarin. “I am tired, and I have yet a rough journey to take before I present myself to my new Master. Adieu, sire!”

The young king felt the tears rise to his eyes; he bent over the dying man, already half a corpse, and then hastily retired.

The First Appearance of Colbert

The whole night was passed in anguish, common to the dying man and to the king: the dying man expected his deliverance, the king awaited his liberty. Louis did not go to bed. An hour after leaving the chamber of the cardinal, he learned that the dying man, recovering a little strength, had insisted upon being dressed, adorned and painted, and seeing the ambassadors. Like Augustus, he no doubt considered the world a great stage, and was desirous of playing out the last act of the comedy. Anne of Austria reappeared no more in the cardinal’s apartments; she had nothing more to do there. Propriety was the pretext for her absence. On his part, the cardinal did not ask for her: the advice the queen had given her son rankled in his heart.

Towards midnight, while still painted, Mazarin’s mortal agony came on. He had revised his will, and as this will was the exact expression of his wishes, and as he feared that some interested influence might take advantage of his weakness to make him change something in it, he had given orders to Colbert, who walked up and down the corridor which led to the cardinal’s bed-chamber, like the most vigilant of sentinels. The king, shut up in his own apartment, dispatched his nurse every hour to Mazarin’s chamber, with orders to bring him back the exact bulletin of the cardinal’s state. After having heard that Mazarin was dressed, painted, and had seen the ambassadors, Louis heard that the prayers for the dying were being read for the cardinal. At one o’clock in the morning, Guenaud had administered the last remedy. This was a relic of the old customs of that fencing time, which was about to disappear to give place to another time, to believe that death could be kept off by some good secret thrust. Mazarin, after having taken the remedy, respired freely for nearly ten minutes. He immediately gave orders that the news should be spread everywhere of a fortunate crisis. The king, on learning this, felt as if a cold sweat were passing over his brow;--he had had a glimpse of the light of liberty; slavery appeared to him more dark and less acceptable than ever. But the bulletin which followed entirely changed the face of things. Mazarin could no longer breathe at all, and could scarcely follow the prayers which the cure of Saint-Nicholas-des-Champs recited near him. The king resumed his agitated walk about his chamber, and consulted, as he walked, several papers drawn from a casket of which he alone had the key. A third time the nurse returned. M. de Mazarin had just uttered a joke, and had ordered his “Flora,” by Titian, to be revarnished. At length, towards two o’clock in the morning, the king could no longer resist his weariness: he had not slept for twenty-four hours. Sleep, so powerful at his age, overcame him for about an hour. But he did not go to bed for that hour, he slept in a fauteuil. About four o’clock his nurse awoke him by entering the room.

“Well?” asked the king.

“Well, my dear sire,” said the nurse, clasping her hands with an air of commiseration. “Well, he is dead!”

The king arose at a bound, as if a steel spring had been applied to his legs. “Dead!” cried he.

“Alas! yes.”

“Is it quite certain?”

“Yes.”

“Official?”

“Yes.”

“Has the news been made public?”

“Not yet.”

“Who told you, then, that the cardinal was dead?”

“M. Colbert.”

“M. Colbert?”

“Yes.”

“And was he sure of what he said?”

“He came out of the chamber, and had held a glass for some minutes before the cardinal’s lips.”

“Ah!” said the king. “And what is become of M. Colbert?”

“He has just left his eminence’s chamber.”

“Where is he?”

“He followed me.”

“So that he is----”

“Sire, waiting at your door, till it shall be your good pleasure to receive him.”

Louis ran to the door, opened it himself, and perceived Colbert standing waiting in the passage. The king started at sight of this statue, all clothed in black. Colbert, bowing with profound respect, advanced two steps towards his majesty. Louis re-entered his chamber, making Colbert a sign to follow. Colbert entered; Louis dismissed the nurse, who closed the door as she went out. Colbert remained modestly standing near that door.

“What do you come to announce to me, monsieur?” said Louis, very much troubled at being thus surprised in his private thoughts, which he could not completely conceal.

“That monsieur le cardinal has just expired, sire; and that I bring your majesty his last adieu.”

The king remained pensive for a minute; and during that minute he looked attentively at Colbert;--it was evident that the cardinal’s last words were in his mind. “Are you, then, M. Colbert?” asked he.

“Yes, sire.”

“His faithful servant, as his eminence himself told me?”

“Yes, sire.”

“The depositary of many of his secrets?”

“Of all of them.”

“The friends and servants of his eminence will be dear to me, monsieur, and I shall take care that you are well placed in my employment.”

Colbert bowed.

“You are a financier, monsieur, I believe?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And did monsieur le cardinal employ you in his stewardship?”

“I had that honor, sire.”

“You never did anything personally for my household, I believe?”

“Pardon me, sire, it was I who had the honor of giving monsieur le cardinal the idea of an economy which puts three hundred thousand francs a year into your majesty’s coffers.”

“What economy was that, monsieur?” asked Louis XIV.

“Your majesty knows that the hundred Swiss have silver lace on each side of their ribbons?”

“Doubtless.”

“Well, sire, it was I who proposed that imitation silver lace should be placed upon these ribbons, it could not be detected, and a hundred thousand crowns serve to feed a regiment during six months; and is the price of ten thousand good muskets or the value of a vessel of ten guns, ready for sea.”

“That is true,” said Louis XIV., considering more attentively, “and, ma foi! that was a well placed economy; besides, it was ridiculous for soldiers to wear the same lace as noblemen.”

“I am happy to be approved of by your majesty.”

“Is that the only appointment you held about the cardinal?” asked the king.

“It was I who was appointed to examine the accounts of the superintendent, sire.”

“Ah!” said Louis, who was about to dismiss Colbert, but whom that word stopped; “ah! it was you whom his eminence had charged to control M. Fouquet, was it? And the result of the examination?”

“Is that there is a deficit, sire; but if your majesty will permit me----”

“Speak, M. Colbert.”

“I ought to give your majesty some explanations.”

“Not at all, monsieur, it is you who have controlled these accounts, give me the result.”

“That is very easily done, sire; emptiness everywhere, money nowhere.”

“Beware, monsieur; you are roughly attacking the administration of M. Fouquet, who, nevertheless, I have heard say, is an able man.”

Colbert colored, and then became pale, for he felt that from that minute he entered upon a struggle with a man whose power almost equaled the sway of him who had just died. “Yes, sire, a very able man,” repeated Colbert, bowing.

“But if M. Fouquet is an able man, and, in spite of that ability, if money be wanting, whose fault is it?”

“I do not accuse, sire, I verify.”

“That is well; make out your accounts, and present them to me. There is a deficit, you say? A deficit may be temporary; credit returns and funds are restored.”

“No, sire.”

“Upon this year, perhaps, I understand that; but upon next year?”

“Next year is eaten as bare as the current year.”

“But the year after, then?”

“Will be just like next year.”

“What do you tell me, Monsieur Colbert?”

“I say there are four years engaged beforehand.

“They must have a loan, then.”

“They must have three, sire.”

“I will create offices to make them resign, and the salary of the posts shall be paid into the treasury.”

“Impossible, sire, for there have already been creations upon creations of offices, the provisions of which are given in blank, so that the purchasers enjoy them without filling them. That is why your majesty cannot make them resign. Further, upon each agreement M. Fouquet has made an abatement of a third, so that the people have been plundered, without your majesty profiting by it. Let your majesty set down clearly your thought, and tell me what you wish me to explain.”

“You are right, clearness is what you wish, is it not?”

“Yes, sire, clearness. God is God above all things, because He made light.”

“Well, for example,” resumed Louis XIV., “if today, the cardinal being dead, and I being king, suppose I wanted money?”

“Your majesty would not have any.”

“Oh! that is strange, monsieur! How! my superintendent would not find me any money?”

Colbert shook his large head.

“How is that?” said the king, “is the income of the state so much in debt that there is no longer any revenue?”

“Yes, sire.”

The king started. “Explain me that, M. Colbert,” added he with a frown. “If it be so, I will get together the ordonnances to obtain a discharge from the holders, a liquidation at a cheap rate.”

“Impossible, for the ordonnances have been converted into bills, which bills, for the convenience of return and facility of transaction, are divided into so many parts that the originals can no longer be recognized.”

Louis, very much agitated, walked about, still frowning. “But, if this is as you say, Monsieur Colbert,” said he, stopping all at once, “I shall be ruined before I begin to reign.”

“You are, in fact, sire,” said the impassible caster-up of figures.

“Well, but yet, monsieur, the money is somewhere?”

“Yes, sire, and even as a beginning, I bring your majesty a note of funds which M. le Cardinal Mazarin was not willing to set down in his testament, neither in any act whatever, but which he confided to me.”

“To you?”

“Yes, sire, with an injunction to remit it to your majesty.”

“What! besides the forty millions of the testament?”

“Yes, sire.”

“M. de Mazarin had still other funds?”

Colbert bowed.

“Why, that man was a gulf!” murmured the king. “M. de Mazarin on one side, M. Fouquet on the other,--more than a hundred millions perhaps between them! No wonder my coffers should be empty!” Colbert waited without stirring.

“And is the sum you bring me worth the trouble?” asked the king.

“Yes, sire, it is a round sum.”

“Amounting to how much?”

“To thirteen millions of livres, sire.”

“Thirteen millions!” cried Louis, trembling with joy: “do you say thirteen millions, Monsieur Colbert?”

“I said thirteen millions, yes, your majesty.”

“Of which everybody is ignorant?”

“Of which everybody is ignorant.”

“Which are in your hands?”

“In my hands, yes, sire.”

“And which I can have?”

“Within two hours, sire.”

“But where are they, then?”

“In the cellar of a house which the cardinal possessed in the city, and which he was so kind as to leave me by a particular clause of his will.”

“You are acquainted with the cardinal’s will, then?”

“I have a duplicate of it, signed by his hand.”

“A duplicate?”

“Yes, sire, and here it is.” Colbert drew the deed quietly from his pocket and showed it to the king. The king read the article relative to the donation of the house.

“But,” said he, “there is no question here but of the house; there is nothing said of the money.”

“Your pardon, sire, it is in my conscience.”

“And Monsieur Mazarin has intrusted it to you?”

“Why not, sire?”

“He! a man mistrustful of everybody?”

“He was not so of me, sire, as your majesty may perceive.”

Louis fixed his eyes with admiration upon that vulgar but expressive face. “You are an honest man, M. Colbert,” said the king.

“That is not a virtue, it is a duty,” replied Colbert, coolly.

“But,” added Louis, “does not the money belong to the family?”

“If this money belonged to the family it would be disposed of in the testament, as the rest of his fortune is. If this money belonged to the family, I, who drew up the deed of donation in favor of your majesty, should have added the sum of thirteen millions to that of forty millions which was offered to you.”

“How!” exclaimed Louis XIV., “was it you who drew up the deed of donation?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And yet the cardinal was attached to you?” added the king ingenuously.

“I had assured his eminence you would by no means accept the gift,” said Colbert in that same quiet manner we have described, and which, even in the common habits of life, had something solemn in it.

Louis passed his hand over his brow. “Oh! how young I am,” murmured he, “to have the command of men.”

Colbert waited the end of this monologue. He saw Louis raise his head. “At what hour shall I send the money to your majesty?” asked he.

“To-night, at eleven o’clock; I desire that no one may know that I possess this money.”

Colbert made no more reply than if the thing had not been said to him.

“Is the amount in ingots, or coined gold?”

“In coined gold, sire.”

“That is well.”

“Where shall I send it?”

“To the Louvre. Thank you, M. Colbert.”

Colbert bowed and retired. “Thirteen millions!” exclaimed Louis, as soon as he was alone. “This must be a dream!” Then he allowed his head to sink between his hands, as if he were really asleep. But at the end of a moment he arose, and opening the window violently he bathed his burning brow in the keen morning air, which brought to his senses the scent of the trees, and the perfume of flowers. A splendid dawn was gilding the horizon, and the first rays of the sun bathed in flame the young king’s brow. “This is the dawn of my reign,” murmured Louis XIV. “It’s a presage sent by the Almighty.”

The First Day of the Royalty of Louis XIV

In the morning, the news of the death of the cardinal was spread through the castle, and thence speedily reached the city. The ministers Fouquet, Lyonne, and Letellier entered la salle des seances, to hold a council. The king sent for them immediately. “Messieurs,” said he, “as long as monsieur le cardinal lived, I allowed him to govern my affairs; but now I mean to govern them myself. You will give me your advice when I ask it. You may go.”

The ministers looked at each other with surprise. If they concealed a smile it was with a great effort, for they knew that the prince, brought up in absolute ignorance of business, by this took upon himself a burden much too heavy for his strength. Fouquet took leave of his colleagues upon the stairs, saying:--“Messieurs! there will be so much less labor for us.”

And he climbed gayly into his carriage. The others, a little uneasy at the turn things had taken, went back to Paris together. Towards ten o’clock the king repaired to the apartment of his mother, with whom he had a long and private conversation. After dinner, he got into his carriage, and went straight to the Louvre. There he received much company, and took a degree of pleasure in remarking the hesitation of each, and the curiosity of all. Towards evening he ordered the doors of the Louvre to be closed, with the exception of one only, which opened on the quay. He placed on duty at this point two hundred Swiss, who did not speak a word of French, with orders to admit all who carried packages, but no others; and by no means to allow any one to go out. At eleven o’clock precisely, he heard the rolling of a heavy carriage under the arch, then of another, then of a third; after which the gate grated upon its hinges to be closed. Soon after, somebody scratched with his nail at the door of the cabinet. The king opened it himself, and beheld Colbert, whose first word was this:--“The money is in your majesty’s cellar.”

The king then descended and went himself to see the barrels of specie, in gold and silver, which, under the direction of Colbert, four men had just rolled into a cellar of which the king had given Colbert the key in the morning. This review completed, Louis returned to his apartments, followed by Colbert, who had not apparently warmed with one ray of personal satisfaction.

“Monsieur,” said the king, “what do you wish that I should give you, as a recompense for this devotedness and probity?”

“Absolutely nothing, sire.”

“How nothing? Not even an opportunity of serving me?”

“If your majesty were not to furnish me with that opportunity, I should not the less serve you. It is impossible for me not to be the best servant of the king.”

“You shall be intendant of the finances, M. Colbert.”

“But there is already a superintendent, sire.”

“I know that.”

“Sire, the superintendent of the finances is the most powerful man in the kingdom.”

“Ah!” cried Louis, coloring, “do you think so?”

“He will crush me in a week, sire. Your majesty gives me a controle for which strength is indispensable. An intendant under a superintendent,--that is inferiority.”

“You want support--you do not reckon upon me?”

“I had the honor of telling your majesty that during the lifetime of M. de Mazarin, M. Fouquet was the second man in the kingdom; now M. de Mazarin is dead, M. Fouquet is become the first.”

“Monsieur, I agree to what you told me of all things up to to-day; but to-morrow, please to remember, I shall no longer suffer it.”

“Then I shall be of no use to your majesty?”

“You are already, since you fear to compromise yourself in serving me.”

“I only fear to be placed so that I cannot serve your majesty.”

“What do you wish, then?”

“I wish your majesty to allow me assistance in the labors of the office of intendant.”

“The post would lose its value.”

“It would gain in security.”

“Choose your colleagues.”

“Messieurs Breteuil, Marin, Harvard.”

“To-morrow the ordonnance shall appear.

“Sire, I thank you.”

“Is that all you ask?

“No, sire, one thing more.”

“What is that?”

“Allow me to compose a chamber of justice.”

“What would this chamber of justice do?”

“Try the farmers-general and contractors, who, during ten years, have been robbing the state.”

“Well, but what would you do with them?”

“Hang two or three, and that would make the rest disgorge.”

“I cannot commence my reign with executions, Monsieur Colbert.”

“On the contrary, sire, you had better, in order not to have to end with them.”

The king made no reply. “Does your majesty consent?” said Colbert.

“I will reflect upon it, monsieur.”

“It will be too late when reflection may be made.”

“Why?”

“Because you have to deal with people stronger than ourselves, if they are warned.”

“Compose that chamber of justice, monsieur.”

“I will, sire.”

“Is that all?”

“No, sire; there is still another important affair. What rights does your majesty attach to this office of intendant?”

“Well--I do not know--the customary ones.”

“Sire, I desire that this office be invested with the right of reading the correspondence with England.”

“Impossible, monsieur, for that correspondence is kept from the council; monsieur le cardinal himself carried it on.”

“I thought your majesty had this morning declared that there should no longer be a council?”

“Yes, I said so.”

“Let your majesty then have the goodness to read all the letters yourself, particularly those from England; I hold strongly to this article.”

“Monsieur, you shall have that correspondence, and render me an account of it.”

“Now, sire, what shall I do with respect to the finances?”

“Everything M. Fouquet has not done.”

“That is all I ask of your majesty. Thanks, sire, I depart in peace;” and at these words he took his leave. Louis watched his departure. Colbert was not yet a hundred paces from the Louvre when the king received a courier from England. After having looked at and examined the envelope, the king broke the seal precipitately, and found a letter from Charles II. The following is what the English prince wrote to his royal brother:--

“Your majesty must be rendered very uneasy by the illness of M. le Cardinal Mazarin; but the excess of danger can only prove of service to you. The cardinal is given over by his physician. I thank you for the gracious reply you have made to my communication touching the Princess Henrietta, my sister, and, in a week, the princess and her court will set out for Paris. It is gratifying to me to acknowledge the fraternal friendship you have evinced towards me, and to call you, more justly than ever, my brother. It is gratifying to me, above everything, to prove to your majesty how much I am interested in all that may please you. You are having Belle-Isle-en-Mer secretly fortified. That is wrong. We shall never be at war against each other. That measure does not make me uneasy, it makes me sad. You are spending useless millions, tell your ministers so; and rest assured that I am well informed; render me the same service, my brother, if occasion offers.”

The king rang his bell violently, and his valet de chambre appeared. “Monsieur Colbert is just gone; he cannot be far off. Let him be called back!” exclaimed he.

The valet was about to execute the order, when the king stopped him.

“No,” said he, “no, I see the whole scheme of that man. Belle-Isle belongs to M. Fouquet; Belle-Isle is being fortified: that is a conspiracy on the part of M. Fouquet. The discovery of that conspiracy is the ruin of the superintendent, and that discovery is the result of the correspondence with England: this is why Colbert wished to have that correspondence. Oh! but I cannot place all my dependence upon that man; he has a good head, but I must have an arm!” Louis, all at once, uttered a joyful cry. “I had,” said he, “a lieutenant of musketeers!”

“Yes, sire--Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“He quitted the service for a time.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Let him be found, and be here to-morrow the first thing in the morning.”

The valet de chambre bowed and went out.

“Thirteen millions in my cellar,” said the king; “Colbert carrying my purse and D’Artagnan my sword--I am king.”

A Passion

The day of his arrival, on returning from the Palais Royal, Athos, as we have seen, went straight to his hotel in the Rue Saint-Honore. He there found the Vicomte de Bragelonne waiting for him in his chamber, chatting with Grimaud. It was not an easy thing to talk with this old servant. Two men only possessed the secret, Athos and D’Artagnan. The first succeeded, because Grimaud sought to make him speak himself; D’Artagnan, on the contrary, because he knew how to make Grimaud talk. Raoul was occupied in making him describe the voyage to England, and Grimaud had related it in all its details, with a limited number of gestures and eight words, neither more nor less. He had, at first, indicated by an undulating movement of his hand, that his master and he had crossed the sea. “Upon some expedition?” Raoul had asked.

Grimaud by bending down his head had answered, “Yes.”

“When monsieur le comte incurred much danger?” asked Raoul.

“Neither too much nor too little,” was replied by a shrug of the shoulders.

“But, still, what sort of danger?” insisted Raoul.

Grimaud pointed to the sword; he pointed to the fire and to a musket that was hanging on the wall.

“Monsieur le comte had an enemy there, then?” cried Raoul.

“Monk,” replied Grimaud.

“It is strange,” continued Raoul, “that monsieur le comte persists in considering me a novice, and not allowing me to partake the honor and danger of his adventure.”

Grimaud smiled. It was at this moment Athos came in. The host was lighting him up the stairs, and Grimaud, recognizing the step of his master, hastened to meet him, which cut short the conversation. But Raoul was launched on the sea of interrogatories, and did not stop. Taking both hands of the comte, with warm, but respectful tenderness,--“How is it, monsieur,” said he, “that you have set out upon a dangerous voyage without bidding me adieu, without commanding the aid of my sword, of myself, who ought to be your support, now I have the strength; whom you have brought up like a man? Ah! monsieur, can you expose me to the cruel trial of never seeing you again?”

“Who told you, Raoul,” said the comte, placing his cloak and hat in the hands of Grimaud, who had unbuckled his sword, “who told you that my voyage was a dangerous one?”

“I,” said Grimaud.

“And why did you do so?” said Athos, sternly.

Grimaud was embarrassed; Raoul came to his assistance, by answering for him. “It is natural, monsieur that our good Grimaud should tell me the truth in what concerns you. By whom should you be loved and supported, if not by me?”

Athos did not reply. He made a friendly motion to Grimaud, which sent him out of the room, he then seated himself in a fauteuil, whilst Raoul remained standing before him.

“But is it true,” continued Raoul, “that your voyage was an expedition, and that steel and fire threatened you?”

“Say no more about that, vicomte,” said Athos mildly. “I set out hastily, it is true: but the service of King Charles II. required a prompt departure. As to your anxiety, I thank you for it, and I know that I can depend upon you. You have not wanted for anything, vicomte, in my absence, have you?”

“No, monsieur, thank you.”

“I left orders with Blaisois to pay you a hundred pistoles, if you should stand in need of money.”

“Monsieur, I have not seen Blaisois.”

“You have been without money, then?”

“Monsieur, I had thirty pistoles left from the sale of the horses I took in my last campaign, and M. le Prince had the kindness to allow me to win two hundred pistoles at his play-table three months ago.”

“Do you play? I don’t like that, Raoul.”

“I never play, monsieur; it was M. le Prince who ordered me to hold his cards at Chantilly--one night when a courier came to him from the king. I won, and M. le Prince commanded me to take the stakes.”

“Is that a practice in the household, Raoul?” asked Athos with a frown.

“Yes, monsieur; every week M. le Prince affords, upon one occasion or another, a similar advantage to one of his gentlemen. There are fifty gentlemen in his highness’s household; it was my turn.”

“Very well! You went into Spain, then?”

“Yes, monsieur, I made a very delightful and interesting journey.”

“You have been back a month, have you not?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“And in the course of that month?”

“In that month----”

“What have you done?”

“My duty, monsieur.”

“Have you not been home, to La Fere?”

Raoul colored. Athos looked at him with a fixed but tranquil expression.

“You would be wrong not to believe me,” said Raoul. “I feel that I colored, and in spite of myself. The question you did me the honor to ask me is of a nature to raise in me much emotion. I color, then, because I am agitated, not because I meditate a falsehood.”

“I know, Raoul, you never lie.”

“No, monsieur.”

“Besides, my young friend, you would be wrong; what I wanted to say----”

“I know quite well, monsieur. You would ask me if I have not been to Blois?”

“Exactly so.”

“I have not been there; I have not even seen the person to whom you allude.”

Raoul’s voice trembled as he pronounced these words. Athos, a sovereign judge in all matters of delicacy, immediately added, “Raoul, you answer with a painful feeling; you are unhappy.”

“Very, monsieur; you have forbidden me to go to Blois, or to see Mademoiselle de la Valliere again.” Here the young man stopped. That dear name, so delightful to pronounce, made his heart bleed, although so sweet upon his lips.

“And I have acted rightly, Raoul,” Athos hastened to reply. “I am neither an unjust nor a barbarous father; I respect true love; but I look forward for you to a future--an immense future. A new reign is about to break upon us like a fresh dawn. War calls upon a young king full of chivalric spirit. What is wanting to assist this heroic ardor is a battalion of young and free lieutenants who would rush to the fight with enthusiasm and fall, crying: ‘Vive le Roi!’ instead of ‘Adieu, my dear wife.’ You understand that, Raoul. However brutal my reasoning may appear, I conjure you, then, to believe me, and to turn away your thoughts from those early days of youth in which you took up this habit of love--days of effeminate carelessness, which soften the heart and render it incapable of consuming those strong, bitter draughts called glory and adversity. Therefore, Raoul, I repeat to you, you should see in my counsel only the desire of being useful to you, only the ambition of seeing you prosper. I believe you capable of becoming a remarkable man. March alone, and you will march better, and more quickly.”

“You have commanded, monsieur,” replied Raoul, “and I obey.”

“Commanded!” cried Athos. “Is it thus you reply to me? I have commanded you! Oh! you distort my words as you misconceive my intentions. I do not command you; I request you.”

“No, monsieur, you have commanded,” said Raoul, persistently; “had you only requested me, your request is even more effective than your order. I have not seen Mademoiselle de la Valliere again.”

“But you are unhappy! you are unhappy!” insisted Athos.

Raoul made no reply.

“I find you pale; I find you dull. The sentiment is strong, then?”

“It is a passion,” replied Raoul.

“No--a habit.”

“Monsieur, you know I have traveled much, that I have passed two years far away from her. A habit would yield to an absence of two years, I believe; whereas, on my return, I loved, not more, that was impossible, but as much. Mademoiselle de la Valliere is for me the one lady above all others; but you are for me a god upon earth--to you I sacrifice everything.”

“You are wrong,” said Athos; “I have no longer any right over you. Age has emancipated you; you no longer even stand in need of my consent. Besides, I will not refuse my consent after what you have told me. Marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere, if you like.”

Raoul was startled, but suddenly: “You are very kind, monsieur,” said he, “and your concession excites my warmest gratitude, but I will not accept it.”

“Then you now refuse?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I will not oppose you in anything, Raoul.”

“But you have at the bottom of your heart an idea against this marriage: it is not your choice.”

“That is true.”

“That is sufficient to make me resist: I will wait.”

“Beware, Raoul! What you are now saying is serious.”

“I know it is, monsieur; as I said, I will wait.”

“Until I die?” said Athos, much agitated.

“Oh! monsieur,” cried Raoul, with tears in his eyes, “is it possible that you should wound my heart thus? I have never given you cause of complaint!”

“Dear boy, that is true,” murmured Athos, pressing his lips violently together to conceal the emotion of which he was no longer master. “No, I will no longer afflict you; only I do not comprehend what you mean by waiting. Will you wait till you love no longer?”

“Ah! for that!--no, monsieur. I will wait till you change your opinion.”

“I should wish to put the matter to a test, Raoul; I should like to see if Mademoiselle de la Valliere will wait as you do.”

“I hope so, monsieur.”

“But take care, Raoul! suppose she did not wait? Ah, you are so young, so confiding, so loyal! Women are changeable.”

“You have never spoken ill to me of women, monsieur; you have never had to complain of them; why should you doubt of Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”

“That is true,” said Athos, casting down his eyes; “I have never spoken ill to you of women; I have never had to complain of them; Mademoiselle de la Valliere never gave birth to a suspicion; but when we are looking forward, we must go even to exceptions, even to improbabilities! If, I say, Mademoiselle de la Valliere should not wait for you?”

“How, monsieur?”

“If she turned her eyes another way.”

“If she looked favorably upon another, do you mean, monsieur?” said Raoul, pale with agony.

“Exactly.”

“Well, monsieur, I would kill him,” said Raoul, simply, “and all the men whom Mademoiselle de la Valliere should choose, until one of them had killed me, or Mademoiselle de la Valliere had restored me her heart.”

Athos started. “I thought,” resumed he, in an agitated voice, “that you called me just now your god, your law in this world.”

“Oh!” said Raoul, trembling, “you would forbid me the duel?”

“Suppose I did forbid it, Raoul?”

“You would forbid me to hope, monsieur; consequently you would not forbid me to die.”

Athos raised his eyes toward the vicomte. He had pronounced these words with the most melancholy inflection, accompanied by the most melancholy look. “Enough,”said Athos, after a long silence, “enough of this subject, upon which we both go too far. Live as well as you are able, Raoul, perform your duties, love Mademoiselle de; la Valliere; in a word, act like a man, since you have attained the age of a man; only do not forget that I love you tenderly, and that you profess to love me.”

“Ah! monsieur le comte!” cried Raoul, pressing the hand of Athos to his heart.

“Enough, dear boy, leave me; I want rest. A propos, M. d’Artagnan has returned from England with me; you owe him a visit.”

“I will pay it, monsieur, with great pleasure. I love Monsieur d’Artagnan exceedingly.”

“You are right in doing so; he is a worthy man and a brave cavalier.”

“Who loves you dearly.”

“I am sure of that. Do you know his address?”

“At the Louvre, I suppose, or wherever the king is. Does he not command the musketeers?”

“No; at present M. d’Artagnan is absent on leave; he is resting for awhile. Do not, therefore, seek him at the posts of his service. You will hear of him at the house of a certain Planchet.”

“His former lackey?”

“Exactly, turned grocer.”

“I know; Rue des Lombards?”

“Somewhere thereabouts, or Rue des Arcis.”

“I will find it, monsieur,--I will find it.”

“You will say a thousand kind things to him, on my part, and ask him to come and dine with me before I set out for La Fere.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Good-night, Raoul!”

“Monsieur, I see you wear an order I never saw you wear before; accept my compliments!”

“The Fleece! that is true. A bauble, my boy, which no longer amuses an old child like myself. Goodnight, Raoul!”

D’Artagnan’s Lesson

Raoul did not meet with D’Artagnan the next day, as he had hoped. He only met with Planchet, whose joy was great at seeing the young man again, and who contrived to pay him two or three little soldierly compliments, savoring very little of the grocer’s shop. But as Raoul was returning the next day from Vincennes, at the head of fifty dragoons confided to him by Monsieur le Prince, he perceived, in La Place Baudoyer, a man with his nose in the air, examining a house as we examine a horse we have a fancy to buy. This man, dressed in citizen costume buttoned up like a military pourpoint, a very small hat on his head, but a long shagreen-mounted sword by his side, turned his head as soon as he heard the steps of the horses, and left off looking at the house to look at the dragoons. It was simply M. d’Artagnan; D’Artagnan on foot; D’Artagnan with his hands behind him, passing a little review upon the dragoons, after having reviewed the buildings. Not a man, not a tag, not a horse’s hoof escaped his inspection. Raoul rode at the side of his troop; D’Artagnan perceived him the last. “Eh!” said he, “Eh! Mordioux!”

“I was not mistaken!” cried Raoul, turning his horse towards him.

“Mistaken--no! Good-day to you,” replied the ex-musketeer; whilst Raoul eagerly pressed the hand of his old friend. “Take care, Raoul,” said D’Artagnan, “the second horse of the fifth rank will lose a shoe before he gets to the Pont Marie; he has only two nails left in his off fore-foot.”

“Wait a minute, I will come back,” said Raoul.

“Can you quit your detachment?”

“The cornet is there to take my place.”

“Then you will come and dine with me?”

“Most willingly, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Be quick, then; leave your horse, or make them give me one.”

“I prefer coming back on foot with you.”

Raoul hastened to give notice to the cornet, who took his post; he then dismounted, gave his horse to one of the dragoons, and with great delight seized the arm of M. d’Artagnan, who had watched him during all these little evolutions with the satisfaction of a connoisseur.

“What, do you come from Vincennes?” said he.

“Yes, monsieur le chevalier.”

“And the cardinal?”

“Is very ill, it is even reported he is dead.’

“Are you on good terms with M. Fouquet?” asked D’Artagnan, with a disdainful movement of the shoulders, proving that the death of Mazarin did not affect him beyond measure.

“With M. Fouquet?” said Raoul; “I do not know him.”

“So much the worse! so much the worse! for a new king always seeks to get good men in his employment.”

“Oh! the king means no harm,” replied the young man.

“I say nothing about the crown,” cried D’Artagnan; “I am speaking of the king--the king, that is M. Fouquet, if the cardinal is dead. You must contrive to stand well with M. Fouquet, if you do not wish to molder away all your life as I have moldered. It is true you have, fortunately, other protectors.”

“M. le Prince, for instance.”

“Worn out! worn out!”

“M. le Comte de la Fere?”

“Athos! Oh! that’s different; yes, Athos--and if you have any wish to make your way in England, you cannot apply to a better person; I can even say, without too much vanity, that I myself have some credit at the court of Charles II. There is a king--God speed him!”

“Ah!” cried Raoul, with the natural curiosity of well-born young people, while listening to experience and courage.

“Yes, a king who amuses himself, it is true, but who has had a sword in his hand, and can appreciate useful men. Athos is on good terms with Charles II. Take service there, and leave these scoundrels of contractors and farmers-general, who steal as well with French hands as others have done with Italian hands; leave the little snivelling king, who is going to give us another reign of Francis II. Do you know anything of history, Raoul?”

“Yes, monsieur le chevalier.”

“Do you know, then, that Francis II. had always the earache?”

“No, I did not know that.”

“That Charles IV. had always the headache?”

“Indeed!”

“And Henry III. always the stomach-ache?”

Raoul began to laugh.

“Well, my dear friend, Louis XIV. always has the heartache; it is deplorable to see a king sighing from morning till night without saying once in course of the day, ventre-saint-gris! corboeuf! or anything to rouse one.”

“Was that the reason why you quitted the service, monsieur le chevalier?”

“Yes.”

“But you yourself, M. d’Artagnan, are throwing the handle after the axe; you will not make a fortune.”

“Who? I?” replied D’Artagnan, in a careless tone; “I am settled--I had some family property.”

Raoul looked at him. The poverty of D’Artagnan was proverbial. A Gascon, he exceeded in ill-luck all the gasconnades of France and Navarre; Raoul had a hundred times heard Job and D’Artagnan named together, as the twins Romulus and Remus. D’Artagnan caught Raoul’s look of astonishment.

“And has not your father told you I have been in England?”

“Yes, monsieur le chevalier.”

“And that I there met with a very lucky chance?”

“No, monsieur, I did not know that.”

“Yes, a very worthy friend of mine, a great nobleman, the viceroy of Scotland and Ireland, has endowed me with an inheritance.”

“An inheritance?”

“And a good one, too.”

“Then you are rich?”

“Bah!”

“Receive my sincere congratulation.”

“Thank you! Look, that is my house.”

“Place de Greve?”

“Yes, don’t you like this quarter?”

“On the contrary, the look-out over the water is pleasant. Oh! what a pretty old house!”

“The sign Notre Dame; it is an old cabaret, which I have transformed into a private house in two days.”

“But the cabaret is still open?”

“Pardieu!”

“And where do you lodge, then?

“I? I lodge with Planchet.”

“You said, just now, ‘This is my house.’”

“I said so, because, in fact, it is my house. I have bought it.”

“Ah!” said Raoul.

“At ten years’ purchase, my dear Raoul; a superb affair, I bought the house for thirty thousand livres; it has a garden which opens to the Rue de la Mortillerie; the cabaret lets for a thousand livres, with the first story; the garret, or second floor, for five hundred livres.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Five hundred livres for a garret? Why, it is not habitable.”

“Therefore no one inhabits it, only, you see this garret has two windows which look out upon the Place.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Well, then, every time anybody is broken on the wheel or hung, quartered, or burnt, these two windows let for twenty pistoles.”

“Oh!” said Raoul, with horror.

“It is disgusting, is it not?” said D’Artagnan.

“Oh!” repeated Raoul.

“It is disgusting, but so it is. These Parisian cockneys are sometimes real anthropophagi. I cannot conceive how men, Christians, can make such speculations.”

“That is true.”

“As for myself,” continued D’Artagnan, “if I inhabited that house, on days of execution I would shut it up to the very keyholes; but I do not inhabit it.”

“And you let the garret for five hundred livres?”

“To the ferocious cabaretier, who sub-lets it. I said, then, fifteen hundred livres.”

“The natural interest of money,” said Raoul,--“five per cent.”

“Exactly so. I then have left the side of the house at the back, store-rooms, and cellars, inundated every winter, two hundred livres; and the garden, which is very fine, well planted, well shaded under the walls and the portal of Saint-Gervais-Saint-Protais, thirteen hundred livres.”

“Thirteen hundred livres! why, that is royal!”

“This is the whole history. I strongly suspect some canon of the parish (these canons are all as rich as Croesus)--I suspect some canon of having hired the garden to take his pleasure in. The tenant has given the name of M. Godard. That is either a false name or a real name; if true, he is a canon; if false, he is some unknown; but of what consequence is it to me? he always pays in advance. I had also an idea just now, when I met you, of buying a house in the Place Baudoyer, the back premises of which join my garden, and would make a magnificent property. Your dragoons interrupted my calculations. But come, let us take the Rue de la Vannerie: that will lead us straight to M. Planchet’s.” D’Artagnan mended his pace, and conducted Raoul to Planchet’s dwelling, a chamber of which the grocer had given up to his old master. Planchet was out, but the dinner was ready. There was a remains of military regularity and punctuality preserved in the grocer’s household. D’Artagnan returned to the subject of Raoul’s future.

“Your father brings you up rather strictly?” said he.

“Justly, monsieur le chevalier.”

“Oh, yes, I know Athos is just, but close, perhaps?”

“A royal hand, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Well, never want, my boy! If ever you stand in need of a few pistoles, the old musketeer is at hand.”

“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan!”

“Do you play a little?”

“Never.”

“Successful with the ladies, then?--Oh, my little Aramis! That, my dear friend, costs even more than play. It is true we fight when we lose, that is a compensation. Bah! that little sniveller, the king, makes winners give him his revenge. What a reign! my poor Raoul, what a reign! When we think that, in my time, the musketeers were besieged in their houses like Hector and Priam in the city of Troy, and the women wept, and then the walls laughed, and then five hundred beggarly fellows clapped their hands, and cried, ‘Kill! kill!’ when not one musketeer was hurt. Mordioux! you will never see anything like that.”

“You are very hard upon the king, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; and yet you scarcely know him.”

“I! Listen, Raoul. Day by day, hour by hour,--take note of my words,--I will predict what he will do. The cardinal being dead, he will fret; very well, that is the least silly thing he will do, particularly if he does not shed a tear.”

“And then?”

“Why then he will get M. Fouquet to allow him a pension, and will go and compose verses at Fontainebleau, upon some Mancini or other, whose eyes the queen will scratch out. She is a Spaniard, you see,--this queen of ours, and she has, for mother-in-law, Madame Anne of Austria. I know something of the Spaniards of the house of Austria.”

“And next?”

“Well, after having torn off the silver lace from the uniforms of his Swiss, because lace is too expensive, he will dismount the musketeers, because the oats and hay of a horse cost five sols a day.”

“Oh! do not say that.”

“Of what consequence is it to me? I am no longer a musketeer, am I? Let them be on horseback, let them be on foot, let them carry a larding-pin, a spit, a sword, or nothing--what is it to me?”

“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, I beseech you speak no more ill of the king. I am almost in his service, and my father would be very angry with me for having heard, even from your mouth, words injurious to his majesty.”

“Your father, eh? He is a knight in every bad cause. Pardieu! yes, your father is a brave man, a Caesar, it is true--but a man without perception.”

“Now, my dear chevalier,” exclaimed Raoul, laughing, “are you going to speak ill of my father, of him you call the great Athos. Truly you are in a bad vein to-day; riches render you as sour as poverty renders other people.”

“Pardieu! you are right. I am a rascal and in my dotage; I am an unhappy wretch grown old; a tent-cord untwisted, a pierced cuirass, a boot without a sole, a spur without a rowel;--but do me the pleasure to add one thing.”

“What is that, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Simply say: ‘Mazarin was a pitiful wretch.’”

“Perhaps he is dead.”

“More the reason--I say was; if I did not hope that he was dead, I would entreat you to say: ‘Mazarin is a pitiful wretch.’ Come, say so, say so, for love of me.”

“Well, I will.”

“Say it!”

“Mazarin was a pitiful wretch,” said Raoul, smiling at the musketeer, who roared with laughter, as in his best days.

“A moment,” said the latter; “you have spoken my first proposition, here is the conclusion of it,--repeat, Raoul, repeat: ‘But I regret Mazarin.’”

“Chevalier!”

“You will not say it? Well, then, I will say it twice for you.”

“But you would regret Mazarin?”

And they were still laughing and discussing this profession of principles, when one of the shop-boys entered. “A letter, monsieur,” said he, “for M. d’Artagnan.”

“Thank you; give it me,” cried the musketeer.

“The handwriting of monsieur le comte,” said Raoul.

“Yes, yes.” And D’Artagnan broke the seal.

“Dear friend,” said Athos, “a person has just been here to beg me to seek for you, on the part of the king.”

“Seek me!” said D’Artagnan, letting the paper fall upon the table. Raoul picked it up, and continued to read aloud:--

“Make haste. His majesty is very anxious to speak to you, and expects you at the Louvre.”

“Expects me?” again repeated the musketeer.

“He, he, he!” laughed Raoul.

“Oh, oh!” replied D’Artagnan. “What the devil can this mean?”

The King

The first moment of surprise over, D’Artagnan reperused Athos’s note. “It is strange,” said he, “that the king should send for me.”

“Why so?” said Raoul; “do you not think, monsieur, that the king must regret such a servant as you?”

“Oh, oh!” cried the officer, laughing with all his might; “you are poking fun at me, Master Raoul. If the king had regretted me, he would not have let me leave him. No, no; I see in it something better, or worse, if you like.”

“Worse! What can that be, monsieur le chevalier?”

“You are young, you are a boy, you are admirable. Oh, how I should like to be as you are! To be but twenty-four, with an unfurrowed brow, under which the brain is void of everything but women, love, and good intentions. Oh, Raoul, as long as you have not received the smiles of kings, the confidence of queens; as long as you have not had two cardinals killed under you, the one a tiger, the other a fox, as long as you have not--But what is the good of all this trifling? We must part, Raoul.”

“How you say the word! What a serious face!”

“Eh! but the occasion is worthy of it. Listen to me. I have a very good recommendation to tender you.”

“I am all attention, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“You will go and inform your father of my departure.”

“Your departure?”

“Pardieu! You will tell him that I am gone into England; and that I am living in my little country-house.”

“In England, you!--And the king’s orders?”

“You get more and more silly: do you imagine that I am going to the Louvre, to place myself at the disposal of that little crowned wolf-cub?”

“The king a wolf-cub? Why, monsieur le chevalier, you are mad!”

“On the contrary, I never was so sane. You do not know what he wants to do with me, this worthy son of Louis le Juste!--But, Mordioux! that is policy. He wishes to ensconce me snugly in the Bastile--purely and simply, look you!”

“What for?” cried Raoul, terrified at what he heard.

“On account of what I told him one day at Blois. I was warm; he remembers it.”

“You told him what?”

“That he was mean, cowardly, and silly.”

“Good God!” cried Raoul, “is it possible that such words should have issued from your mouth?”

“Perhaps I don’t give the letter of my speech, but I give the sense of it.”

“But did not the king have you arrested immediately?”

“By whom? It was I who commanded the musketeers; he must have commanded me to convey myself to prison; I would never have consented: I would have resisted myself. And then I went into England--no more D’Artagnan. Now, the cardinal is dead, or nearly so, they learn that I am in Paris, and they lay their hands on me.”

“The cardinal was your protector?”

“The cardinal knew me; he knew certain particularities of me; I also knew some of his; we appreciated each other mutually. And then, on rendering his soul to the devil, he would recommend Anne of Austria to make me the inhabitant of a safe place. Go then, and find your father, relate the fact to him--and adieu!”

“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Raoul, very much agitated, after having looked out at the window, “you cannot even fly!”

“Why not?”

“Because there is below an officer of the Swiss guards waiting for you.”

“Well!”

“Well, he will arrest you.”

D’Artagnan broke into a Homeric laugh.

“Oh! I know very well that you will resist, that you will fight, even; I know very well that you will prove the conqueror; but that amounts to rebellion, and you are an officer yourself, knowing what discipline is.”

“Devil of a boy, how logical that is!” grumbled D’Artagnan.

“You approve of it. do you not?”

“Yes, instead of passing into the street, where that idiot is waiting for me, I will slip quietly out at the back. I have a horse in the stable, and a good one. I will ride him to death; my means permit me to do so, and by killing one horse after another, I shall arrive at Boulogne in eleven hours; I know the road. Only tell your father one thing.”

“What is that?”

“That is--that the thing he knows about is placed at Planchet’s house, except a fifth, and that----”

“But, my dear M. d’Artagnan, rest assured that if you fly, two things will be said of you.”

“What are they, my dear friend?”

“The first, that you have been afraid.”

“Ah! and who will dare to say that?”

“The king first.”

“Well! but he will tell the truth,--I am afraid.”

“The second, that you knew yourself guilty.”

“Guilty of what?”

“Why, of the crimes they wish to impute to you.”

“That is true again. So, then, you advise me to go and get myself made a prisoner in the Bastile?”

“M. le Comte de la Fere would advise you just as I do.”

“Pardieu! I know he would,” said D’Artagnan thoughtfully. “You are right, I shall not escape. But if they cast me into the Bastile?”

“We will get you out again,” said Raoul, with a quiet, calm air.

“Mordioux! You said that after a brave fashion, Raoul,” said D’Artagnan, seizing his hand, “that savors of Athos, distinctly. Well, I will go, then. Do not forget my last word.”

“Except a fifth,” said Raoul.

“Yes, you are a fine boy! and I wish you to add one thing to that last word.”

“Speak, chevalier!”

“It is that if you cannot get me out of the Bastile, and I remain there--oh! that will be so, and I shall be a detestable prisoner; I, who have been a passable man,--in that case, I give three-fifths to you, and the fourth to your father.”

“Chevalier!”

“Mordioux! If you will have some masses said for me, you are welcome.”

That being said, D’Artagnan took his belt from the hook, girded on his sword, took a hat the feather of which was fresh, and held his hand out to Raoul, who threw himself into his arms. When in the shop, he cast a quick glance at the shop-lads, who looked upon the scene with a pride mingled with some inquietude; then plunging his hands into a chest of currants, he went straight to the officer who was waiting for him at the door.

“Those features! Can it be you, Monsieur de Friedisch?” cried D’Artagnan, gayly. “Eh! eh! what, do we arrest our friends?”

“Arrest!” whispered the lads among themselves.

“Yes, it is I, Monsieur d’Artagnan! Good-day to you!” said the Swiss, in his mountain patois.

“Must I give you up my sword? I warn you, that it is long and heavy; you had better let me wear it to the Louvre: I feel quite lost in the streets without a sword, and you would be more at a loss than I should, with two.”

“The king has given no orders about it,” replied the Swiss, “so keep your sword.”

“Well, that is very polite on the part of the king. Let us go, at once.”

Monsieur Friedisch was not a talker, and D’Artagnan had too many things to think about to say much. From Planchet’s shop to the Louvre was not far--they arrived in ten minutes. It was a dark night. M. de Friedisch wanted to enter by the wicket. “No,” said D’Artagnan, “you would lose time by that; take the little staircase.”

The Swiss did as D’Artagnan advised, and conducted him to the vestibule of the king’s cabinet. When arrived there, he bowed to his prisoner, and, without saying anything, returned to his post. D’Artagnan had not had time to ask why his sword was not taken from him, when the door of the cabinet opened, and a valet de chambre called “M. D’Artagnan!” The musketeer assumed his parade carriage and entered, with his large eyes wide open, his brow calm, his mustache stiff. The king was seated at a table writing. He did not disturb himself when the step of the musketeer resounded on the floor; he did not even turn his head. D’Artagnan advanced as far as the middle of the room, and seeing that the king paid no attention to him, and suspecting, besides, that this was nothing but affectation, a sort of tormenting preamble to the explanation that was preparing, he turned his back on the prince, and began to examine the frescoes on the cornices, and the cracks in the ceiling. This maneuver was accompanied by a little tacit monologue. “Ah! you want to humble me, do you?--you, whom I have seen so young--you, whom I have served as I would my own child,--you, whom I have served as I would a God--that is to say, for nothing. Wait awhile! wait awhile! you shall see what a man can do who has snuffed the air of the fire of the Huguenots, under the beard of monsieur le cardinal--the true cardinal.” At this moment Louis turned round.

“Ah! are you there, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” said he.

D’Artagnan saw the movement and imitated it. “Yes, sire,” said he.

“Very well; have the goodness to wait till I have cast this up.”

D’Artagnan made no reply; he only bowed. “That is polite enough,” thought he; “I have nothing to say.”

Louis made a violent dash with his pen, and threw it angrily away.

“Ah! go on, work yourself up!” thought the musketeer; “you will put me at my ease. You shall find I did not empty the bag, the other day, at Blois.”

Louis rose from his seat, passed his hand over his brow, then, stopping opposite to D’Artagnan, he looked at him with an air at once imperious and kind. “What the devil does he want with me? I wish he would begin!” thought the musketeer.

“Monsieur,” said the king, “you know, without doubt, that monsieur le cardinal is dead?”

“I suspected so, sire.”

“You know that, consequently, I am master in my own kingdom?”

“That is not a thing that dates from the death of monsieur le cardinal, sire; a man is always master in his own house, when he wishes to be so.”

“Yes; but do you remember all you said to me at Blois?”

“Now we come to it,” thought D’Artagnan, “I was not deceived. Well, so much the better, it is a sign that my scent is tolerably keen yet.”

“You do not answer me,” said Louis.

“Sire, I think I recollect.”

“You only think?”

“It is so long ago.”

“If you do not remember, I do. You said to me,--listen with attention.”

“Ah! I shall listen with all my ears, sire; for it is very likely the conversation will turn in a fashion very interesting to me.”

Louis once more looked at the musketeer, The latter smoothed the feather of his hat, then his mustache, and waited bravely. Louis XIV. continued: “You quitted my service, monsieur, after having told me the whole truth?”

“Yes, sire.”

“That is, after having declared to me all you thought to be true, with regard to my mode of thinking and acting. That is always a merit. You began by telling me that you had served my family thirty years, and were fatigued.”

“I said so; yes, sire.”

“And you afterwards admitted that that fatigue was a pretext, and that discontent was the real cause.”

“I was discontented, in fact, but that discontent has never betrayed itself, that I know of, and if, like a man of heart, I have spoken out before your majesty, I have not even thought of the matter, before anybody else.”

“Do not excuse yourself, D’Artagnan, but continue to listen to me. When making me the reproach that you were discontented, you received in reply a promise:--‘Wait.’--Is not that true?”

“Yes, sire, as true as what I told you.”

“You answered me, ‘Hereafter! No, now, immediately.’ Do not excuse yourself, I tell you. It was natural, but you had no charity for your poor prince, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Sire! charity for a king, on the part of a poor soldier!”

“You understand me very well; you knew that I stood in need of it; you knew very well that I was not master; you knew very well that my hope was in the future. Now, you answered me when I spoke of that future, ‘My discharge,--and that directly.’”

“That is true,” murmured D’Artagnan, biting his mustache.

“You did not flatter me when I was in distress,” added Louis.

“But,” said D’Artagnan, raising his head nobly, “if I did not flatter your majesty when poor, neither did I betray you. I have shed my blood for nothing; I have watched like a dog at a door, knowing full well that neither bread nor bone would be thrown to me. I, although poor likewise, asked nothing of your majesty but the discharge you speak of.”

“I know you are a brave man, but I was a young man, and you ought to have had some indulgence for me. What had you to reproach the king with?--that he left King Charles II. without assistance?--let us say further--that he did not marry Mademoiselle de Mancini?” When saying these words, the king fixed upon the musketeer a searching look.

“Ah! ah!” thought the latter, “he is doing far more than remembering, he divines. The devil!”

“Your sentence,” continued Louis, “fell upon the king and fell upon the man. But, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that weakness, for you considered it a weakness?”--D’Artagnan made no reply--“you reproached me also with regard to monsieur, the defunct cardinal. Now, monsieur le cardinal, did he not bring me up, did he not support me?--elevating himself and supporting himself at the same time, I admit; but the benefit was discharged. As an ingrate or an egotist, would you, then, have better loved or served me?”

“Sire!”

“We will say no more about it, monsieur; it would only create in you too many regrets, and me too much pain.”

D’Artagnan was not convinced. The young king, in adopting a tone of hauteur with him, did not forward his purpose.

“You have since reflected?” resumed Louis.

“Upon what, sire?” asked D’Artagnan, politely.

“Why, upon all that I have said to you, monsieur.”

“Yes, sire, no doubt----”

“And you have only waited for an opportunity of retracting your words?”

“Sire!”

“You hesitate, it seems.”

“I do not understand what your majesty did me the honor to say to me.”

Louis’s brow became cloudy.

“Have the goodness to excuse me, sire; my understanding is particularly thick; things do not penetrate it without difficulty; but it is true, when once they get in, they remain there.”

“Yes, yes; you appear to have a memory.”

“Almost as good a one as your majesty’s.”

“Then give me quickly one solution. My time is valuable. What have you been doing since your discharge?”

“Making my fortune, sire.”

“The expression is crude, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Your majesty takes it in bad part, certainly. I entertain nothing but the profoundest respect for the king; and if I have been impolite, which might be excused by my long sojourn in camps and barracks, your majesty is too much above me to be offended at a word that innocently escapes from a soldier.”

“In fact, I know you performed a brilliant action in England, monsieur. I only regret that you have broken your promise.”

“I!” cried D’Artagnan.

“Doubtless. You engaged your word not to serve any other prince on quitting my service. Now it was for King Charles II. that you undertook the marvelous carrying off of M. Monk.”

“Pardon me, sire, it was for myself.”

“And did you succeed?”

“Like the captains of the fifteenth century, coups-de-main and adventures.”

“What do you call succeeding?--a fortune?”

“A hundred thousand crowns, sire, which I now possess--that is, in one week three times as much money as I ever had in fifty years.”

“It is a handsome sum. But you are ambitious, I perceive.”

“I, sire? The quarter of that would be a treasure; and I swear to you I have no thought of augmenting it.”

“What! you contemplate remaining idle?”

“Yes, sire.”

“You mean to drop the sword?”

“That I have already done.”

“Impossible, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Louis, firmly.

“But, sire----”

“Well?”

“And why, sire?”

“Because it is my wish you should not!” said the young prince, in a voice so stern and imperious that D’Artagnan evinced surprise and even uneasiness.

“Will your majesty allow me one word of reply?” said he.

“Speak.”

“I formed that resolution when I was poor and destitute.”

“So be it. Go on.”

“Now, when by my energy I have acquired a comfortable means of subsistence, would your majesty despoil me of my liberty? Your majesty would condemn me to the lowest, when I have gained the highest?”

“Who gave you permission, monsieur to fathom my designs, or to reckon with me?” replied Louis, in a voice almost angry; “who told you what I shall do or what you will yourself do?”

“Sire,” said the musketeer, quietly, “as far as I see, freedom is not the order of the conversation, as it was on the day we came to an explanation at Blois.”

“No, monsieur; everything is changed.”

“I tender your majesty my sincere compliments upon that, but----”

“But you don’t believe it?”

“I am not a great statesman, and yet I have my eye upon affairs; it seldom fails; now, I do not see exactly as your majesty does, sire. The reign of Mazarin is over, but that of the financiers is begun. They have the money; your majesty will not often see much of it. To live under the paw of these hungry wolves is hard for a man who reckoned upon independence.”

At this moment some one scratched at the door of the cabinet; the king raised his head proudly. “Your pardon, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said he; “it is M. Colbert, who comes to make me a report. Come in M. Colbert.”

D’Artagnan drew back. Colbert entered with papers in his hand, and went up to the king. There can be little doubt that the Gascon did not lose the opportunity of applying his keen, quick glance to the new figure which presented itself.

“Is the inquiry made?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And the opinion of the inquisitors?”

“Is that the accused merit confiscation and death.”

“Ah! ah!” said the king, without changing countenance, and casting an oblique look at D’Artagnan. “And your own opinion, M. Colbert?” said he.

Colbert looked at D’Artagnan in his turn. That imposing countenance checked the words upon his lips. Louis perceived this. “Do not disturb yourself,” said he; “it is M. d’Artagnan,--do you not know M. d’Artagnan again?”

These two men looked at each other--D’Artagnan, with eyes open and bright as the day--Colbert, with his half closed, and dim. The frank intrepidity of the one annoyed the other; the circumspection of the financier disgusted the soldier. “Ah! ah! this is the gentleman who made that brilliant stroke in England,” said Colbert. And he bowed slightly to D’Artagnan.

“Ah! ah!” said the Gascon, “this is the gentleman who clipped off the lace from the uniform of the Swiss! A praiseworthy piece of economy.”

The financier thought to pierce the musketeer; but the musketeer ran the financier through.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” resumed the king, who had not remarked all the shades of which Mazarin would have missed not one, “this concerns the farmers of the revenue who have robbed me, whom I am hanging, and whose death-warrants I am about to sign.”

“Oh! oh!” said D’Artagnan, starting.

“What did you say?”

“Oh! nothing, sire. This is no business of mine.”

The king had already taken up the pen, and was applying it to the paper. “Sire,” said Colbert in a subdued voice, “I beg to warn your majesty, that if an example be necessary, there will be difficulty in the execution of your orders.”

“What do you say?” said Louis.

“You must not conceal from yourself,” continued Colbert quietly, “that attacking the farmers-general is attacking the superintendence. The two unfortunate guilty men in question are the particular friends of a powerful personage, and the punishment, which otherwise might be comfortably confined to the Chatelet will doubtless be a signal for disturbances!”

Louis colored and turned towards D’Artagnan, who took a slight bite at his mustache, not without a smile of pity for the financier, and for the king who had to listen to him so long. But Louis seized the pen, and with a movement so rapid, that his hand shook, he affixed his signature at the bottom of the two papers presented by Colbert,--then looking the latter in the face,--“Monsieur Colbert’” said he, “when you speak to me on business, exclude more frequently the word difficulty from your reasonings and opinions; as to the word impossibility, never pronounce it.”

Colbert bowed, much humiliated at having to undergo such a lesson before the musketeer; he was about to go out, but, jealous to repair his check: “I forgot to announce to your majesty,” said he, “that the confiscations amount to the sum of five millions of livres.”

“That’s pretty well!” thought D’Artagnan.

“Which makes in my coffers?” said the king.

“Eighteen millions of livres, sire,” replied Colbert, bowing.

“Mordioux!” growled D’Artagnan, “that’s glorious!”

“Monsieur Colbert,” added the king, “you will, if you please, go through the gallery where M. Lyonne is waiting, and will tell him to bring hither what he has drawn up--by my order.”

“Directly, sire; if your majesty wants me no more this evening?”

“No, monsieur: good-night!” And Colbert went out.

“Now, let us return to our affair, M. d’Artagnan,” said the king, as if nothing had happened. “You see that, with respect to money, there is already a notable change.”

“Something to the tune of from zero to eighteen millions,” replied the musketeer, gayly. “Ah! that was what your majesty wanted the day King Charles II. came to Blois. The two states would not have been embroiled to-day; for I must say, that there also I see another stumbling-block.”

“Well, in the first place,” replied Louis, “you are unjust, monsieur; for, if Providence had made me able to give my brother the million that day, you would not have quitted my service, and, consequently, you would not have made your fortune, as you told me just now you have done. But, in addition to this, I have had another piece of good fortune; and my difference with Great Britain need not alarm you.”

A valet de chambre interrupted the king by announcing M. Lyonne. “Come in, monsieur,” said the king; “you are punctual; that is like a good servant. Let us see your letter to my brother Charles II.”

D’Artagnan pricked up his ears. “A moment, monsieur,” said Louis, carelessly to the Gascon, “I must expedite to London my consent to the marriage of my brother, M. le Duc d’Anjou, with the Princess Henrietta Stuart.”

“He is knocking me about, it seems,” murmured D’Artagnan, whilst the king signed the letter, and dismissed M. de Lyonne, “but, ma foi! the more he knocks me about in this manner, the better I like it.”

The king followed M. de Lyonne with his eyes, till the door was closed behind him; he even made three steps, as if he would follow the minister, but, after these three steps, stopping, pausing, and coming back to the musketeer,--“Now, monsieur,” said he, “let us hasten to terminate our affair. You told me the other day, at Blois, that you were not rich?”

“But I am now, sire.”

“Yes, but that does not concern me; you have your own money, not mine; that does not enter into my account.”

“I do not well understand what your majesty means.”

“Then, instead of leaving you to draw out words, speak, spontaneously. Should you be satisfied with twenty thousand livres a year as a fixed income?”

“But, sire,” said D’Artagnan, opening his eyes to the utmost.

“Would you be satisfied with four horses furnished and kept, and with a supplement of funds such as you might require, according to occasions and needs, or would you prefer a fixed sum which would be, for example, forty thousand livres? Answer.”

“Sire, your majesty----”

“Yes, you are surprised; that is natural, and I expected it. Answer me, come! or I shall think you have no longer that rapidity of judgment I have so much admired in you.”

“It is certain, sire, that twenty thousand livres a year make a handsome sum; but----”

“No buts! Yes or no, is it an honorable indemnity?”

“Oh! very certainly.”

“You will be satisfied with it? That is well. It will be better to reckon the extra expenses separately; you can arrange that with Colbert. Now let us pass to something more important.”

“But, sire, I told your majesty----”

“That you wanted rest, I know you did: only I replied that I would not allow it--I am master, I suppose?”

“Yes, sire.”

“That is well. You were formerly in the way of becoming captain of the musketeers?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Well, here is your commission signed. I place it in this drawer. The day on which you shall return from a certain expedition which I have to confide to you, on that day you may yourself take the commission from the drawer.” D’Artagnan still hesitated, and hung down his head. “Come, monsieur,” said the king, “one would believe, to look at you, that you did not know that at the court of the most Christian king, the captain-general of the musketeers takes precedence of the marechals of France.”

“Sire, I know he does.

“Then, am I to think you do put no faith in my word?”

“Oh! sire, never--never dream of such a thing.”

“I have wished to prove to you, that you, so good a servant, had lost a good master; am I anything like the master that will suit you?”

“I begin to think you are, sire.”

“Then, monsieur, you will resume your functions. Your company is quite disorganized since your departure and the men go about drinking and rioting in the cabarets where they fight, in spite of my edicts, and those of my father. You will reorganize the service as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sire.”

“You will not again quit my person.”

“Very well, sire,”

“You will march with me to the army, you will encamp round my tent.”

“Then, sire,” said D’Artagnan, “if it is only to impose upon me a service like that, your majesty need not give me twenty thousand livres a year. I shall not earn them.”

“I desire that you shall keep open house; I desire that you should keep a liberal table; I desire that my captain of musketeers should be a personage.”

“And I,” said D’Artagnan, bluntly; “I do not like easily found money; I like money won! Your majesty gives me an idle trade, which the first comer would perform for four thousand livres.”

Louis XIV. began to laugh. “You are a true Gascon, Monsieur d’Artagnan; you will draw my heart’s secret from me.”

“Bah! has your majesty a secret, then?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Well! then I accept the twenty thousand livres, for I will keep that secret, and discretion is above all price, in these times. Will your majesty speak now?”

“Boot yourself, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and to horse!”

“Directly, sire.”

“Within two days.”

“That is well, sire: for I have my affairs to settle before I set out; particularly if it is likely there should be any blows stirring.”

“That may happen.”

“We can receive them! But, sire, you have addressed yourself to avarice, to ambition; you have addressed yourself to the heart of M. d’Artagnan, but you have forgotten one thing.”

“What is that?”

“You have said nothing to his vanity, when shall I be a knight of the king’s orders?”

“Does that interest you?”

“Why, yes, sire. My friend Athos is quite covered with orders, and that dazzles me.”

“You shall be a knight of my order a month after you have taken your commission of captain.”

“Ah! ah!” said the officer, thoughtfully, “after the expedition.”

“Precisely.”

“Where is your majesty going to send me?”

“Are you”acquainted with Bretagne?”

“Have you any friends there?”

“In Bretagne? No, ma foi!”

“So much the better. Do you know anything about fortifications?”

“I believe I do, sire,” said D’Artagnan, smiling.

“That is to say you can readily distinguish a fortress from a simple fortification, such as is allowed to chatelains or vassals?”

“I distinguish a fort from a rampart as I distinguish a cuirass from a raised pie-crust, sire. Is that sufficient?”

“Yes, monsieur. You will set out then.”

“For Bretagne?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Absolutely alone. That is to say, you must not even take a lackey with you.”

“May I ask your majesty for what reason?”

“Because, monsieur, it will be necessary to disguise yourself sometimes, as the servant of a good family. Your face is very well known in France, M. d’Artagnan.”

“And then, sire?”

“And then you will travel slowly through Bretagne, and will examine carefully the fortifications of that country.”

“The coasts?”

“Yes, and the isles, commencing by Belle-Isle-en-Mer.”

“Ah! which belongs to M. Fouquet!” said D’Artagnan, in a serious tone, raising his intelligent eye to Louis XIV.

“I fancy you are right, monsieur, and that Belle-Isle does belong to M. Fouquet, in fact.”

“Then your majesty wishes me to ascertain if Belle-Isle is a strong place?”

“Yes.”

“If the fortifications of it are new or old?”

“Precisely.”

“And if the vassals of M. Fouquet are sufficiently numerous to form a garrison?”

“That is what I want to know; you have placed your finger on the question.”

“And if they are not fortifying, sire?”

“You will travel about Bretagne, listening and judging.”

“Then I am a king’s spy?” said D’Artagnan, bluntly, twisting his mustache.

“No, monsieur.”

“Your pardon, sire; I spy on your majesty’s account.”

“You start on a voyage of discovery, monsieur. Would you march at the head of your musketeers, with your sword in your hand, to observe any spot whatever, or an enemy’s position?”

At this word D’Artagnan started.

“Do you,” continued the king, “imagine yourself to be a spy?”

“No, no,” said D’Artagnan, but pensively; “the thing changes its face when one observes an enemy; one is but a soldier. And if they are fortifying Belle-Isle?” added he, quickly.

“You will take an exact plan of the fortifications.”

“Will they permit me to enter?”

“That does not concern me; that is your affair. Did you not understand that I reserved for you a supplement of twenty thousand livres per annum, if you wished it?”

“Yes, sire; but if they are not fortifying?”

“You will return quietly, without fatiguing your horse.”

“Sire, I am ready.”

“You will begin to-morrow by going to monsieur le surintendant’s to take the first quarter of the pension I give you. Do you know M. Fouquet?”

“Very little, sire; but I beg your majesty to observe that I don’t think it immediately necessary that I should know him.”

“Your pardon, monsieur; for he will refuse you the money I wish you to take; and it is that refusal I look for.”

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan. “Then, sire?”

“The money being refused, you will go and seek it at M. Colbert’s. A propos, have you a good horse?”

“An excellent one, sire.”

“How much did it cost you?”

“A hundred and fifty pistoles.”

“I will buy it of you. Here is a note for two hundred pistoles.”

“But I want my horse for my journey, sire.”

“Well!”

“Well, and you take mine from me.”

“Not at all. On the contrary, I give it you. Only as it is now mine and not yours, I am sure you will not spare it.”

“Your majesty is in a hurry, then?”

“A great hurry.”

“Then what compels me to wait two days?”

“Reasons known to myself.”

“That’s a different affair. The horse may make up the two days, in the eight he has to travel; and then there is the post.”

“No, no, the post compromises, Monsieur d’Artagnan. Begone and do not forget you are my servant.”

“Sire, it is not my duty to forget it! At what hour to-morrow shall I take my leave of your majesty?”

“Where do you lodge?”

“I must henceforward lodge at the Louvre.”

“That must not be now--keep your lodgings in the city: I will pay for them. As to your departure, it must take place at night; you must set out without being seen by any one, or, if you are seen, it must not be known that you belong to me. Keep your mouth shut, monsieur.”

“Your majesty spoils all you have said by that single word.”

“I asked you where you lodged, for I cannot always send to M. le Comte de la Fere to seek you.”

“I lodge with M. Planchet, a grocer, Rue des Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon d’Or.”

“Go out but little, show yourself less, and await my orders.”

“And yet, sire, I must go for the money.”

“That is true, but when going to the superintendence, where so many people are constantly going, you must mingle with the crowd.”

“I want the notes, sire, for the money.”

“Here they are.” The king signed them, and D’Artagnan looked on, to assure himself of their regularity.

“Adieu! Monsieur d’Artagnan,” added the king; “I think you have perfectly understood me.”

“I? I understand that your majesty sends me to Belle-Isle-en-Mer, that is all.”

“To learn?”

“To learn how M. Fouquet’s works are going on; that is all.”

“Very well: I admit you may be taken.”

“And I do not admit it,” replied the Gascon, boldly.

“I admit you may be killed,” continued the king.

“That is not probable, sire.”

“In the first case, you must not speak; in the second there must be no papers found upon you.”

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders without ceremony, and took leave of the king, saying to himself:--“The English shower continues--let us remain under the spout!”

The Houses of M. Fouquet

Whilst D’Artagnan was returning to Planchet’s house, his head aching and bewildered with all that had happened to him, there was passing a scene of quite a different character, and which, nevertheless is not foreign to the conversation our musketeer had just had with the king; only this scene took place out of Paris, in a house possessed by the superintendent Fouquet in the village of Saint-Mande. The minister had just arrived at this country-house, followed by his principal clerk, who carried an enormous portfolio full of papers to be examined, and others waiting for signature. As it might be about five o’clock in the afternoon, the masters had dined: supper was being prepared for twenty subaltern guests. The superintendent did not stop: on alighting from his carriage, he, at the same bound, sprang through the doorway, traversed the apartments and gained his cabinet, where he declared he would shut himself up to work, commanding that he should not be disturbed for anything but an order from the king. As soon as this order was given, Fouquet shut himself up, and two footmen were placed as sentinels at his door. Then Fouquet pushed a bolt which displaced a panel that walled up the entrance, and prevented everything that passed in this apartment from being either seen or heard. But, against all probability, it was only for the sake of shutting himself up that Fouquet shut himself up thus, for he went straight to a bureau, seated himself at it, opened the portfolio, and began to make a choice amongst the enormous mass of papers it contained. It was not more than ten minutes after he had entered, and taken all the precautions we have described, when the repeated noise of several slight equal knocks struck his ear, and appeared to fix his utmost attention. Fouquet raised his head, turned his ear, and listened.

The strokes continued. Then the worker arose with a slight movement of impatience and walked straight up to a glass behind which the blows were struck by a hand, or by some invisible mechanism. It was a large glass let into a panel. Three other glasses, exactly similar to it, completed the symmetry of the apartment. Nothing distinguished that one from the others. Without doubt, these reiterated knocks were a signal; for, at the moment Fouquet approached the glass listening, the same noise was renewed, and in the same measure. “Oh! oh!” murmured the intendent, with surprise, “who is yonder? I did not expect anybody to-day.” And, without doubt, to respond to that signal, he pulled out a gilded nail near the glass, and shook it thrice. Then returning to his place, and seating himself again, “Ma foi! let them wait,” said he. And plunging again into the ocean of papers unrolled before him, he appeared to think of nothing now but work. In fact with incredible rapidity and marvelous lucidity, Fouquet deciphered the largest papers and most complicated writings, correcting them, annotating them with a pen moved as if by a fever, and the work melting under his hands, signatures, figures, references, became multiplied as if ten clerks--that is to say, a hundred fingers and ten brains had performed the duties, instead of the five fingers and single brain of this man. From time to time, only, Fouquet, absorbed by his work, raised his head to cast a furtive glance upon a clock placed before him. The reason of this was, Fouquet set himself a task, and when this task was once set, in one hour’s work he, by himself, did what another would not have accomplished in a day; always certain, consequently, provided he was not disturbed, of arriving at the close in the time his devouring activity had fixed. But in the midst of his ardent labor, the soft strokes upon the little bell placed behind the glass sounded again, hasty, and, consequently, more urgent.

“The lady appears to be impatient,” said Fouquet. “Humph! a calm! That must be the comtesse; but, no, the comtesse is gone to Rambouillet for three days. The presidente, then? Oh! no, the presidente would not assume such grand airs; she would ring very humbly, then she would wait my good pleasure. The greatest certainty is, that I do not know who it can be, but that I know who it cannot be. And since it is not you, marquise, since it cannot be you, deuce take the rest!” And he went on with his work in spite of the reiterated appeals of the bell. At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, impatience prevailed over Fouquet in his turn: he might be said to consume, rather than to complete the rest of his work; he thrust his papers into his portfolio, and giving a glance at the mirror, whilst the taps continued faster than ever: “Oh! oh!” said he, “whence comes all this racket? What has happened, and who can the Ariadne be who expects me so impatiently. Let us see!”

He then applied the tip of his finger to the nail parallel to the one he had drawn. Immediately the glass moved like a folding-door and discovered a secret closet, rather deep, in which the superintendent disappeared as if going into a vast box. When there, he touched another spring, which opened, not a board, but a block of the wall, and he went out by that opening, leaving the door to shut of itself. Then Fouquet descended about a score of steps which sank, winding, underground, and came to a long, subterranean passage, lighted by imperceptible loopholes. The walls of this vault were covered with slabs or tiles, and the floor with carpeting. This passage was under the street itself, which separated Fouquet’s house from the Park of Vincennes. At the end of the passage ascended a winding staircase parallel with that by which Fouquet had entered. He mounted these other stairs, entered by means of a spring placed in a closet similar to that in his cabinet, and from this closet an untenanted chamber furnished with the utmost elegance. As soon as he entered, he examined carefully whether the glass closed without leaving any trace, and, doubtless satisfied with his observation, he opened by means of a small gold key the triple fastenings of a door in front of him. This time the door opened upon a handsome cabinet sumptuously furnished, in which was seated upon cushions a lady of surpassing beauty, who at the sound of the lock sprang towards Fouquet. “Ah! good heavens!” cried the latter, starting back with astonishment. “Madame la Marquise de Belliere, you here?”

“Yes,” murmured la marquise. “Yes; it is I, monsieur.”

“Marquise! dear marquise!” added Fouquet, ready to prostrate himself. “Ah! my God! how did you come here? And I, to keep you waiting!”

“A long time, monsieur; yes, a very long time!”

“I am happy in thinking this waiting has appeared long to you, marquise!”

“Oh! an eternity, monsieur; oh! I rang more than twenty times. Did you not hear me?”

“Marquise, you are pale, you tremble.”

“Did you not hear, then, that you were summoned?”

“Oh, yes; I heard plainly enough, madame; but I could not come. After your rigors and your refusals, how could I dream it was you? If I could have had any suspicion of the happiness that awaited me, believe me, madame, I would have quitted everything to fall at your feet, as I do at this moment.”

“Are we quite alone, monsieur?” asked the marquise, looking round the room.

“Oh, yes, madame, I can assure you of that.”

“Really?” said the marquise, in a melancholy tone.

“You sigh!” said Fouquet.

“What mysteries! what precautions!” said the marquise, with a slight bitterness of expression; “and how evident it is that you fear the least suspicion of your amours to escape.”

“Would you prefer their being made public?”

“Oh, no; you act like a delicate man,” said the marquise, smiling.

“Come, dear marquise, punish me not with reproaches, I implore you.”

“Reproaches! Have I a right to make you any?”

“No, unfortunately, no; but tell me, you, who during a year I have loved without return or hope----”

“You are mistaken--without hope it is true, but not without return.”

“What! for me, of my love! there is but one proof, and that proof I still want.”

“I am here to bring it, monsieur.”

Fouquet wished to clasp her in his arms, but she disengaged herself with a gesture.

“You persist in deceiving yourself, monsieur, and never will accept of me the only thing I am willing to give you--devotion.”

“Ah, then, you do not love me? Devotion is but a virtue, love is a passion.”

“Listen to me, I implore you: I should not have come hither without a serious motive: you are well assured of that, are you not?”

“The motive is of very little consequence, so that you are but here--so that I see you--so that I speak to you!”

“You are right; the principal thing is that I am here without any one having seen me, and that I can speak to you.”--Fouquet sank on his knees before her. “Speak! speak, madame!” said he, “I listen to you.”

The marquise looked at Fouquet, on his knees at her feet, and there was in the looks of the woman a strange mixture of love and melancholy. “Oh!” at length murmured she, “would that I were she who has the right of seeing you every minute, of speaking to you every instant! would that I were she who might watch over you, she who would have no need of mysterious springs, to summon and cause to appear, like a sylph, the man she loves, to look at him for an hour, and then see him disappear in the darkness of a mystery, still more strange at his going out than at his coming in. Oh! that would be to live a happy woman!”

“Do you happen, marquise,” said Fouquet, smiling, “to be speaking of my wife?”

“Yes, certainly, of her I spoke.”

“Well, you need not envy her lot, marquise; of all the women with whom I have any relations, Madame Fouquet is the one I see the least of, and who has the least intercourse with me.”

“At least, monsieur, she is not reduced to place, as I have done, her hand upon the ornament of a glass to call you to her; at least you do not reply to her by the mysterious, alarming sound of a bell, the spring of which comes from I don’t know where; at least you have not forbidden her to endeavor to discover the secret of these communications under pain of breaking off forever your connections with her, as you have forbidden all who have come here before me, and all who will come after me.”

“Dear marquise, how unjust you are, and how little do you know what you are doing in thus exclaiming against mystery; it is with mystery alone we can love without trouble; it is with love without trouble alone that we can be happy. But let us return to ourselves, to that devotion of which you were speaking, or rather let me labor under a pleasing delusion, and believe that this devotion is love.”

“Just now,” repeated the marquise, passing over her eyes a hand that might have been a model for the graceful contours of antiquity; “just now I was prepared to speak, my ideas were clear and bold, now I am quite confused, quite troubled; I fear I bring you bad news.”

“If it is to that bad news I owe your presence, marquise, welcome be even that bad news! or rather, marquise, since you allow that I am not quite indifferent to you, let me hear nothing of the bad news, but speak of yourself.”

“No, no, on the contrary, demand it of me; require me to tell it to you instantly, and not to allow myself to be turned aside by any feeling whatever. Fouquet, my friend! it is of immense importance!”

“You astonish me, marquise; I will even say you almost frighten me. You, so serious, so collected; you who know the world we live in so well. Is it, then important?”

“Oh! very important.”

“In the first place, how did you come here?”

“You shall know that presently; but first to something of more consequence.”

“Speak, marquise, speak! I implore you, have pity on my impatience.”

“Do you know that Colbert is made intendant of the finances?”

“Bah! Colbert, little Colbert.”

“Yes, Colbert, little Colbert.”

“Mazarin’s factotum?”

“The same.”

“Well! what do you see so terrific in that, dear marquise? little Colbert is intendant; that is astonishing, I confess, but is not terrific.”

“Do you think the king has given, without a pressing motive, such a place to one you call a little cuistre?”

“In the first place, is it positively true that the king has given it to him?”

“It is so said.”

“Ay, but who says so?”

“Everybody.”

“Everybody, that’s nobody; mention some one likely to be well informed who says so.”

“Madame Vanel.”

“Ah! now you begin to frighten me in earnest,” said Fouquet, laughing; “if any one is well informed, or ought to be well informed, it is the person you name.”

“Do not speak ill of poor Marguerite, Monsieur Fouquet, for she still loves you.”

“Bah! indeed? That is scarcely credible. I thought little Colbert, as you said just now, had passed over that love, and left the impression upon it of a spot of ink or a stain of grease.”

“Fouquet! Fouquet! Is this the way you always treat the poor creatures you desert?”

“Why, you surely are not going to undertake the defense of Madame Vanel?”

“Yes, I will undertake it: for, I repeat, she loves you still, and the proof is she saves you.”

“But your interposition, marquise; that is very cunning on her part. No angel could be more agreeable to me, or could lead me more certainly to salvation. But, let me ask you do you know Marguerite?”

“She was my convent friend.”

“And you say that she has informed you that Monsieur Colbert was named intendant?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Well, enlighten me, marquise; granted Monsieur Colbert is intendant--so be it. In what can an intendant, that is to say my subordinate, my clerk, give me umbrage or injure me, even if he is Monsieur Colbert?”

“You do not reflect, monsieur, apparently,” replied the marquise.

“Upon what?”

“This: that Monsieur Colbert hates you.”

“Hates me?” cried Fouquet. “Good heavens! marquise, whence do you come? where can you live? Hates me! why all the world hates me, he, of course as others do.”

“He more than others.”

“More than others--let him.”

“He is ambitious.”

“Who is not, marquise?”

“‘Yes, but with him ambition has no bounds.”

“I am quite aware of that, since he made it a point to succeed me with Madame Vanel.”

“And obtained his end; look at that.”

“Do you mean to say he has the presumption to hope to pass from intendant to superintendent?”

“Have you not yourself already had the same fear?”

“Oh! oh!” said Fouquet, “to succeed with Madame Vanel is one thing, to succeed me with the king is another. France is not to be purchased so easily as the wife of a maitre des comptes.”

“Eh! monsieur, everything is to be bought; if not by gold, by intrigue.”

“Nobody knows to the contrary better than you, madame, you to whom I have offered millions.”

“Instead of millions, Fouquet, you should have offered me a true, only and boundless love: I might have accepted that. So you see, still, everything is to be bought, if not in one way, by another.”

“So, Colbert, in your opinion, is in a fair way of bargaining for my place of superintendent. Make yourself easy on that head, my dear marquise; he is not yet rich enough to purchase it.”

“But if he should rob you of it?”

“Ah! that is another thing. Unfortunately, before he can reach me, that is to say, the body of the place, he must destroy, must make a breach in the advanced works, and I am devilishly well fortified, marquise.”

“What you call your advanced works are your creatures, are they not--your friends?”

“Exactly so.”

“And is M. d’Eymeris one of your creatures?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Is M. Lyodot one of your friends?”

“Certainly.”

“M. de Vanin?”

“M. de Vanin! ah! they may do what they like with him, but----”

“But----”

“But they must not touch the others!”

“Well, if you are anxious they should not touch MM. d’Eymeris and Lyodot, it is time to look about you.”

“Who threatens them?”

“Will you listen to me now?”

“Attentively, marquise.”

“Without interrupting me?”

“Speak.”

“Well, this morning Marguerite sent for me.”

“And what did she want with you?”

“‘I dare not see M. Fouquet myself,’ said she.”

“Bah! why should she think I would reproach her? Poor woman, she vastly deceives herself.”

“‘See him yourself,’ said she, ‘and tell him to beware of M. Colbert.’”

“What! she warned me to beware of her lover?”

“I have told you she still loves you.”

“Go on, marquise.”

“‘M. Colbert,’ she added, ‘came to me two hours ago, to inform me he was appointed intendant.’”

“I have already told you marquise, that M. Colbert would only be the more in my power for that.”

“Yes, but that is not all: Marguerite is intimate, as you know, with Madame d’Eymeris and Madame Lyodot.”

“I know it.”

“Well, M. Colbert put many questions to her, relative to the fortunes of those two gentlemen, and as to the devotion they had for you.”

“Oh, as to those two, I can answer for them; they must be killed before they will cease to be mine.”

“Then, as Madame Vanel was obliged to quit M. Colbert for an instant to receive a visitor, and as M. Colbert is industrious, scarcely was the new intendant left alone, before he took a pencil from his pocket, and as there was paper on the table, began to make notes.”

“Notes concerning d’Eymeris and Lyodot?”

“Exactly.”

“I should like to know what those notes were about.”

“And that is just what I have brought you.”

“Madame Vanel has taken Colbert’s notes and sent them to me?”

“No, but by a chance which resembles a miracle, she has a duplicate of those notes.”

“How could she get that?”

“Listen; I told you that Colbert found paper on the table.”

“Yes.”

“That he took a pencil from his pocket.”

“Yes.”

“And wrote upon that paper.”

“Yes.”

“Well, this pencil was a lead-pencil, consequently hard; so it marked in black upon the first sheet, and in white upon the second.”

“Go on.”

“Colbert, when tearing off the first sheet, took no notice of the second.”

“Well?”

“Well, on the second was to be read what had been written on the first, Madame Vanel read it, and sent for me.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Then, when she was assured I was your devoted friend, she gave me the paper, and told me the secret of this house.”

“And this paper?” said Fouquet, in some degree of agitation.

“Here it is, monsieur--read it,” said the marquise.

Fouquet read:

“Names of the farmers of revenue to be condemned by the Chamber of Justice: D’Eymeris, friend of M. F.; Lyodot, friend of M. F.; De Vanin, indif.”

“D’Eymeris and Lyodot!” cried Fouquet, reading the paper eagerly again.

“Friends of M. F.,” pointed the marquise with her finger.

“But what is the meaning of these words: ‘To be condemned by the Chamber of Justice’?”

“Dame!” said the marquise, “that is clear enough, I think. Besides, that is not all. Read on, read on;” and Fouquet continued,---“The two first to death, the third to be dismissed, with MM. d’Hautemont and de la Vallette, who will only have their property confiscated.”

“Great God!” cried Fouquet, “to death, to death! Lyodot and D’Eymeris. But even if the Chamber of Justice should condemn them to death, the king will never ratify their condemnation, and they cannot be executed without the king’s signature.”

“The king has made M. Colbert intendant.”

“Oh!” cried Fouquet, as if he caught a glimpse of the abyss that yawned beneath his feet, “impossible! impossible! But who passed a pencil over the marks made by Colbert?”

“I did. I was afraid the first would be effaced.”

“Oh! I will know all.”

“You will know nothing, monsieur; you despise your enemy too much for that.”

“Pardon me, my dear marquise; excuse me; yes, M. Colbert is my enemy, I believe him to be so; yes, M. Colbert is a man to be dreaded, I admit. But I! I have time, and as you are here, as you have assured me of your devotion, as you have allowed me to hope for your love, as we are alone----”

“I came here to save you, Monsieur Fouquet, and not to ruin myself,” said the marquise, rising--“therefore, beware!----”

“Marquise, in truth you terrify yourself too much at least, unless this terror is but a pretext----”

“He is very deep, very deep; this M. Colbert: beware!”

Fouquet, in his turn, drew himself up. “And I?” asked he.

“And you, you have only a noble heart. Beware! beware!”

“So?”

“I have done what was right, my friend, at the risk of my reputation. Adieu!”

“Not adieu, au revoir!”

“Perhaps,” said the marquise, giving her hand to Fouquet to kiss, and walking towards the door with so firm a step, that he did not dare to bar her passage. As to Fouquet, he retook, with his head hanging down and a fixed cloud on his brow, the path of the subterranean passage along which ran the metal wires that communicated from one house to the other, transmitting, through two glasses, the wishes and signals of hidden correspondents.

The Abbe Fouquet

Fouquet hastened back to his apartment by the subterranean passage, and immediately closed the mirror with the spring. He was scarcely in his closet, when he heard some one knocking violently at the door, and a well-known voice crying:--“Open the door, monseigneur, I entreat you, open the door!” Fouquet quickly restored a little order to everything that might have revealed either his absence or his agitation: he spread his papers over the desk, took up a pen, and, to gain time, said, through the closed door,--“Who is there?”

“What, monseigneur, do you not know me?” replied the voice.

“Yes, yes,” said Fouquet to himself, “yes, my friend I know you well enough.” And then, aloud: “Is it not Gourville?”

“Why, yes, monseigneur.”

Fouquet arose, cast a last look at one of his glasses, went to the door, pushed back the bolt, and Gourville entered. “Ah, monseigneur! monseigneur!” cried he, “what cruelty!”

“In what?”

“I have been a quarter of an hour imploring you to open the door, and you would not even answer me.”

“Once for all, you know that I will not be disturbed when I am busy. Now, although I might make you an exception, Gourville, I insist upon my orders being respected by others.”

“Monseigneur, at this moment, orders, doors, bolts, locks, and walls, I could have broken, forced and overthrown!”

“Ah! ah! it relates to some great event, then?” asked Fouquet.

“Oh! I assure you it does, monseigneur,” replied Gourville.

“And what is this event?” said Fouquet, a little troubled by the evident agitation of his most intimate confidant.

“There is a secret chamber of justice instituted, monseigneur.”

“I know there is, but do the members meet, Gourville?”

“They not only meet, but they have passed a sentence, monseigneur.”

“A sentence?” said the superintendent, with a shudder and pallor he could not conceal. “A sentence!--and on whom?”

“Two of your best friends.”

“Lyodot and D’Eymeris, do you mean? But what sort of a sentence?”

“Sentence of death.”

“Passed? Oh! you must be mistaken, Gourville; that is impossible.”

“Here is a copy of the sentence which the king is to sign to-day, if he has not already signed it.”

Fouquet seized the paper eagerly, read it, and returned it to Gourville. “The king will never sign that,” said he.

Gourville shook his head.

“Monseigneur, M. Colbert is a bold councilor: do not be too confident!”

“Monsieur Colbert again!” cried Fouquet. “How is it that that name rises upon all occasions to torment my ears, during the last two or three days? Thou make so trifling a subject of too much importance, Gourville. Let M. Colbert appear, I will face him; let him raise his head, I will crush him; but you understand, there must be an outline upon which my look may fall, there must be a surface upon which my feet may be placed.”

“Patience, monseigneur, for you do not know what Colbert is--study him quickly; it is with this dark financier as it is with meteors, which the eye never sees completely before their disastrous invasion; when we feel them we are dead.”

“Oh! Gourville, this is going too far,” replied Fouquet, smiling; “allow me, my friend, not to be so easily frightened; M. Colbert a meteor! Corbleu, we confront the meteor. Let us see acts, and not words. What has he done?”

“He has ordered two gibbets of the executioner of Paris,” answered Gourville.

Fouquet raised his head, and a flash gleamed from his eyes. “Are you sure of what you say?” cried he.

“Here is the proof, monseigneur.” And Gourville held out to the superintendent a note communicated by a certain secretary of the Hotel de Ville, who was one of Fouquet’s creatures.

“Yes, that is true,” murmured the minister; “the scaffold may be prepared, but the king has not signed; Gourville, the king will not sign.”

“I shall soon know,” said Gourville.

“How?”

“If the king has signed, the gibbets will be sent this evening to the Hotel de Ville, in order to be got up and ready by to-morrow morning.”

“Oh! no, no!” cried the superintendent once again; “you are all deceived, and deceive me in my turn; Lyodot came to see me only the day before yesterday; only three days ago I received a present of some Syracuse wine from poor D’Eymeris.”

“What does that prove?” replied Gourville, “except that the chamber of justice has been secretly assembled, has deliberated in the absence of the accused, and that the whole proceeding was complete when they were arrested.”

“What! are they, then, arrested?”

“No doubt they are.”

“But where, when, and how have they been arrested?”

“Lyodot, yesterday at daybreak; D’Eymeris, the day before yesterday, in the evening, as he was returning from the house of his mistress; their disappearance had disturbed nobody; but at length M. Colbert all at once raised the mask, and caused the affair to be published; it is being cried by sound of trumpet, at this moment in Paris, and, in truth, monseigneur, there is scarcely anybody but yourself ignorant of the event.”

Fouquet began to walk about his chamber with an uneasiness that became more and more serious.

“What do you decide upon, monseigneur?” said Gourville.

“If it really were as you say, I would go to the king,” cried Fouquet. “But as I go to the Louvre, I will pass by the Hotel de Ville. We shall see if the sentence is signed.”

“Incredulity! thou art the pest of all great minds,” said Gourville, shrugging his shoulders.

“Gourville!”

“Yes,” continued he, “and incredulity! thou ruinest, as contagion destroys the most robust health, that is to say, in an instant.”

“Let us go,” cried Fouquet; “desire the door to be opened, Gourville.”

“Be cautious,” said the latter, “the Abbe Fouquet is there.”

“Ah! my brother,” replied Fouquet, in a tone of annoyance, “he is there, is he? he knows all the ill news, then, and is rejoiced to bring it to me, as usual. The devil! if my brother is there, my affairs are bad, Gourville; why did you not tell me that sooner: I should have been the more readily convinced.”

“‘Monseigneur calumniates him,” said Gourville, laughing, “if he is come, it is not with a bad intention.”

“What, do you excuse him?” cried Fouquet; “a fellow without a heart, without ideas; a devourer of wealth.”

“He knows you are rich.”

“And would ruin me.”

“No, but he would like to have your purse. That is all.”

“Enough! enough! A hundred thousand crowns per month, during two years. Corbleu! it is I that pay, Gourville, and I know my figures.” Gourville laughed in a silent, sly manner. “Yes, yes, you mean to say it is the king pays,” said the superintendent. “Ah, Gourville, that is a vile joke; this is not the place.”

“Monseigneur, do not be angry.”

“Well, then, send away the Abbe Fouquet; I have not a sou.” Gourville made a step towards the door. “He has been a month without seeing me,” continued Fouquet, “why could he not be two months?”

“Because he repents of living in bad company,” said Gourville, “and prefers you to all his bandits.”

“Thanks for the preference! You make a strange advocate, Gourville, to-day--the advocate of the Abbe Fouquet!”

“Eh! but everything and every man has a good side--their useful side, monseigneur.”

“The bandits whom the abbe keeps in pay and drink have their useful side, have they? Prove that, if you please.”

“Let the circumstance arise, monseigneur, and you will be very glad to have these bandits under your hand.”

“You advise me, then, to be reconciled to the abbe?” said Fouquet, ironically.

“I advise you, monseigneur, not to quarrel with a hundred or a hundred and twenty loose fellows, who, by putting their rapiers end to end, would form a cordon of steel capable of surrounding three thousand men.”

Fouquet darted a searching glance at Gourville, and passing before him,--“That is all very well, let M. l’Abbe Fouquet be introduced,” said he to the footman. “You are right, Gourville.”

Two minutes after, the Abbe Fouquet appeared in the doorway, with profound reverences. He was a man of from forty to forty-five years of age, half churchman half soldier,--a spadassin, grafted upon an abbe; upon seeing that he had not a sword by his side, you might be sure he had pistols. Fouquet saluted him more as an elder brother than as a minister.

“What can I do to serve you, monsieur l’abbe?” said he.

“Oh! oh! how coldly you speak to me, brother!”

“I speak like a man who is in a hurry, monsieur.”

The abbe looked maliciously at Gourville, and anxiously at Fouquet, and said, “I have three hundred pistoles to pay to M. de Bregi this evening. A play debt, a sacred debt.”

“What next?” said Fouquet bravely, for he comprehended that the Abbe Fouquet would not have disturbed him for such a want.

“A thousand to my butcher, who will supply no more meat.”

“Next?”

“Twelve hundred to my tailor,” continued the abbe; “the fellow has made me take back seven suits of my people’s, which compromises my liveries, and my mistress talks of replacing me by a farmer of the revenue, which would be a humiliation for the church.”

“What else?” said Fouquet.

“You will please to remark,” said the abbe, humbly, “that I have asked nothing for myself.”

“That is delicate, monsieur,” replied Fouquet; “so, as you see, I wait.”

“And I ask nothing, oh! no,--it is not for want of need, though, I assure you.”

The minister reflected a minute. “Twelve hundred pistoles to the tailor; that seems a great deal for clothes,” said he.

“I maintain a hundred men,” said the abbe, proudly; “that is a charge, I believe.”

“Why a hundred men?” said Fouquet. “Are you a Richelieu or a Mazarin, to require a hundred men as a guard? What use do you make of these men?--speak.”

“And do you ask me that?” cried the Abbe Fouquet; “ah! how can you put such a question,--why I maintain a hundred men? Ah!”

“Why, yes, I do put that question to you. What have you to do with a hundred men?--answer.”

“Ingrate!” continued the abbe, more and more affected.

“Explain yourself.”

“Why, monsieur the superintendent, I only want one valet de chambre, for my part, and even if I were alone, could help myself very well; but you, you who have so many enemies--a hundred men are not enough for me to defend you with. A hundred men!--you ought to have ten thousand. I maintain, then, these men in order that in public places, in assemblies, no voice may be raised against you, and without them, monsieur, you would be loaded with imprecations, you would be torn to pieces, you would not last a week; no, not a week, do you understand?”

“Ah! I did not know you were my champion to such an extent, monsieur l’abbe.”

“You doubt it!” cried the abbe. “Listen, then, to what happened, no longer ago than yesterday, in the Rue de la Hochette. A man was cheapening a fowl.”

“Well, how could that injure me, abbe?”

“This way. The fowl was not fat. The purchaser refused to give eighteen sous for it, saying that he could not afford eighteen sous for the skin of a fowl from which M. Fouquet had sucked all the fat.”

“Go on.”

“The joke caused a deal of laughter,” continued the abbe; “laughter at your expense, death to the devils! and the canaille were delighted. The joker added, ‘Give me a fowl fed by M. Colbert, if you like! and I will pay all you ask.’ And immediately there was a clapping of hands. A frightful scandal! you understand; a scandal which forces a brother to hide his face.”

Fouquet colored. “And you veiled it?” said the superintendent.

“No, for it so happened I had one of my men in the crowd; a new recruit from the provinces, one M. Menneville, whom I like very much. He made his way through the press, saying to the joker: ‘Mille barbes! Monsieur the false joker, here’s a thrust for Colbert!’ ‘And one for Fouquet,’ replied the joker. Upon which they drew in front of the cook’s shop, with a hedge of the curious round them, and five hundred as curious at the windows.”

“Well?” said Fouquet.

“Well, monsieur, my Menneville spitted the joker, to the great astonishment of the spectators, and said to the cook:--‘Take this goose, my friend, it is fatter than your fowl.’ That is the way, monsieur,” ended the abbe, triumphantly, “in which I spend my revenues; I maintain the honor of the family, monsieur.” Fouquet hung his head. “And I have a hundred as good as he,” continued the abbe.

“Very well,” said Fouquet, “give the account to Gourville, and remain here this evening.”

“Shall we have supper?”

“Yes, there will be supper.”

“But the chest is closed.”

“Gourville will open it for you. Leave us, monsieur l’abbe, leave us.”

“Then we are friends?” said the abbe, with a bow.

Oh yes. friends. Come Gourville.”

“Are you going out? You will not stay to supper, then?”

“I shall be back in an hour; rest easy, abbe.” Then aside to Gourville--“Let them put to my English horses,” said he, “and direct the coachman to stop at the Hotel de Ville de Paris.”

M. de la Fontaine’s Wine

Carriages were already bringing the guests of Fouquet to Saint-Mande; already the whole house was getting warm with the preparations for supper, when the superintendent launched his fleet horses upon the road to Paris, and going by the quays, in order to meet fewer people on the way, soon reached the Hotel de Ville. It wanted a quarter to eight. Fouquet alighted at the corner of the Rue de Long-pont, and, on foot, directed his course towards the Place de Greve, accompanied by Gourville. At the turning of the Place they saw a man dressed in black and violet, of dignified mien, who was preparing to get into a hired carriage, and told the coachman to stop at Vincennes. He had before him a large hamper filled with bottles, which he had just purchased at the cabaret with the sign of “L’Image-de-Notre-Dame.”

“Eh, but! that is Vatel! my maitre d’hotel!” said Fouquet to Gourville.

“Yes, monseigneur,” replied the latter.

“What can he have been doing at the sign of L’Image-de-Notre-Dame?”

“Buying wine, no doubt.”

“What! buy wine for me, at a cabaret?” said Fouquet. “My cellar, then, must be in a miserable condition!” and he advanced towards the maitre d’hotel who was arranging his bottles in the carriage with the most minute care.

“Hola! Vatel,” said he, in the voice of a master.

“Take care, monseigneur!” said Gourville, “you will be recognized.”

“Very well! Of what consequence?--Vatel!

The man dressed in black and violet turned round. He had a good and mild countenance, without expression--a mathematician minus the pride. A certain fire sparkled in the eyes of this personage, a rather sly smile played round his lips; but the observer might soon have remarked that this fire and this smile applied to nothing, enlightened nothing. Vatel laughed like an absent man, and amused himself like a child. At the sound of his master’s voice he turned round, exclaiming: “Oh! monseigneur!”

“Yes, it is I. What the devil are you doing here, Vatel? Wine! You are buying wine at a cabaret in the Place de Greve!”

“But, monseigneur,” said Vatel, quietly, after having darted a hostile glance at Gourville, “why am I interfered with here? Is my cellar kept in bad order?”

“No, certes, Vatel, no, but----”

“But what?” replied Vatel. Gourville touched Fouquet’s elbow.

“Don’t be angry, Vatel, I thought my cellar--your cellar--sufficiently well stocked for us to be able to dispense with recourse to the cellar of L’Image de-Notre-Dame.”

“Eh, monsieur,” said Vatel, shrinking from monseigneur to monsieur with a degree of disdain: “your cellar is so well stocked that when certain of your guests dine with you they have nothing to drink.”

Fouquet, in great surprise, looked at Gourville. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that your butler had not wine for all tastes, monsieur; and that M. de la Fontaine, M. Pellisson, and M. Conrart, do not drink when they come to the house--these gentlemen do not like strong wine. What is to be done, then?”

“Well, and therefore?”

“Well, then, I have found here a vin de Joigny, which they like. I know they come once a week to drink at the Image-de-Notre-Dame. That is the reason I am making this provision.”

Fouquet had no more to say; he was convinced. Vatel, on his part, had much more to say, without doubt, and it was plain he was getting warm. “It is just as if you would reproach me, monseigneur, for going to the Rue Planche Milbray, to fetch, myself, the cider M. Loret drinks when he comes to dine at your house.”

“Loret drinks cider at my house!” cried Fouquet, laughing.

“Certainly he does, monsieur, and that is the reason why he dines there with pleasure.”

“Vatel,” cried Fouquet, pressing the hand of his maitre d’hotel, “you are a man! I thank you, Vatel, for having understood that at my house M. de la Fontaine, M. Conrart, and M. Loret, are as great as dukes and peers, as great as princes, greater than myself. Vatel, you are a good servant, and I double your salary.”

Vatel did not even thank his master, he merely shrugged his shoulders a little, murmuring this superb sentiment: “To be thanked for having done one’s duty is humiliating.”

“He is right,” said Gourville, as he drew Fouquet’s attention, by a gesture, to another point. He showed him a low-built tumbrel, drawn by two horses, upon which rocked two strong gibbets, bound together, back to back, by chains, whilst an archer, seated upon the cross-beam, suffered, as well as he could, with his head cast down, the comments of a hundred vagabonds, who guessed the destination of the gibbets, and were escorting them to the Hotel de Ville. Fouquet started. “It is decided, you see,” said Gourville.

“But it is not done,” replied Fouquet.

“Oh, do not flatter yourself, monseigneur; if they have thus lulled your friendship and suspicions--if things have gone so far, you will be able to undo nothing.”

“But I have not given my sanction.”

“M. de Lyonne has ratified for you.”

“I will go to the Louvre.”

“Oh, no, you will not.”

“Would you advise such baseness?” cried Fouquet, “would you advise me to abandon my friends? would you advise me, whilst able to fight, to throw the arms I hold in my hand to the ground?”

“I do not advise you to do anything of the kind, monseigneur. Are you in a position to quit the post of superintendent at this moment?”

“No.”

“Well, if the king wishes to displace you----”

“He will displace me absent as well as present.”

“Yes, but you will not have insulted him.”

“Yes, but I shall have been base; now I am not willing that my friends should die; and they shall not die!”

“For that it is necessary you should go to the Louvre, is it not?”

“Gourville!”

“Beware! once at the Louvre, you will be forced to defend your friends openly, that is to say, to make a profession of faith; or you will be forced to abandon them irrevocably.”

“Never!”

“Pardon me,--the king will propose the alternative to you, rigorously, or else you will propose it to him yourself.”

“That is true.”

“That is the reason why conflict must be avoided. Let us return to Saint-Mande, monseigneur.”

“Gourville, I will not stir from this place, where the crime is to be carried out, where my disgrace is to be accomplished; I will not stir, I say, till I have found some means of combating my enemies.”

“Monseigneur,” replied Gourville, “you would excite my pity, if I did not know you for one of the great spirits of this world. You possess a hundred and fifty millions, you are equal to the king in position, and a hundred and fifty millions his superior in money. M. Colbert has not even had the wit to have the will of Mazarin accepted. Now, when a man is the richest person in a kingdom, and will take the trouble to spend the money, if things are done he does not like it is because he is a poor man. Let us return to Saint-Mande, I say.”

“To consult with Pellisson?--we will.”

“So be it,” said Fouquet, with angry eyes;--“yes, to Saint-Mande!” He got into his carriage again and Gourville with him. Upon their road, at the end of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, they overtook the humble equipage of Vatel, who was quietly conveying home his vin de Joigny. The black horses, going at a swift pace, alarmed as they passed, the timid hack of the maitre d’hotel, who, putting his head out at the window, cried, in a fright, “Take care of my bottles!”

The Gallery of Saint-Mande

Fifty persons were waiting for the superintendent. He did not even take the time to place himself in the hands of his valet de chambre for a minute, but from the perron went straight into the premier salon. There his friends were assembled in full chat. The intendant was about to order supper to be served, but, above all, the Abbe Fouquet watched for the return of his brother, and was endeavoring to do the honors of the house in his absence. Upon the arrival of the superintendent, a murmur of joy and affection was heard; Fouquet, full of affability, good humor, and munificence, was beloved by his poets, his artists, and his men of business. His brow, upon which his little court read, as upon that of a god, all the movements of his soul, and thence drew rules of conduct,--his brow, upon which affairs of state never impressed a wrinkle, was this evening paler than usual, and more than one friendly eye remarked that pallor. Fouquet placed himself at the head of the table, and presided gayly during supper. He recounted Vatel’s expedition to La Fontaine, related the history of Menneville and the skinny fowl to Pellisson, in such a manner that all the table heard it. A tempest of laughter and jokes ensued, which was only checked by a serious and even sad gesture from Pellisson. The Abbe Fouquet, not being able to comprehend why his brother should have led the conversation in that direction, listened with all his ears, and sought in the countenance of Gourville, or in that of his brother, an explanation which nothing afforded him. Pellisson took up the matter:--“Did they mention M. Colbert, then?” said he.

“Why not?” replied Fouquet; “if true, as it is said to be, that the king has made him his intendant?” Scarcely had Fouquet uttered these words, with a marked intention, than an explosion broke forth among the guests.

“The miser!” said one.

“The mean, pitiful fellow!” said another.

“The hypocrite!” said a third.

Pellisson exchanged a meaning look with Fouquet. “Messieurs,” said he, “in truth we are abusing a man whom no one knows: it is neither charitable nor reasonable; and here is monsieur le surintendant, who, I am sure, agrees with me.”

“Entirely,” replied Fouquet. “Let the fat fowls of M. Colbert alone; our business to-day is with the faisans truffes of M. Vatel.” This speech stopped the dark cloud which was beginning to throw its shade over the guests. Gourville succeeded so well in animating the poets with the vin de Joigny; the abbe, intelligent as a man who stands in need of his host’s money, so enlivened the financiers and the men of the sword, that, amidst the vapors of this joy and the noise of conversation, inquietudes disappeared completely. The will of Cardinal Mazarin was the text of the conversation at the second course and dessert; then Fouquet ordered bowls of sweetmeats and fountains of liquors to be carried into the salon adjoining the gallery. He led the way thither conducting by the hand a lady, the queen, by his preference, of the evening. The musicians then supped, and the promenades in the gallery and the gardens commenced, beneath a spring sky, mild and flower-scented. Pellisson then approached the superintendent, and said: “Something troubles monseigneur?”

“Greatly,” replied the minister, “ask Gourville to tell you what it is.” Pellisson, on turning round, found La Fontaine treading upon his heels. He was obliged to listen to a Latin verse, which the poet had composed upon Vatel. La Fontaine had, for an hour, been scanning this verse in all corners, seeking some one to pour it out upon advantageously. He thought he had caught Pellisson, but the latter escaped him; he turned towards Sorel, who had, himself, just composed a quatrain in honor of the supper, and the Amphytrion. La Fontaine in vain endeavored to gain attention to his verses; Sorel wanted to obtain a hearing for his quatrain. He was obliged to retreat before M. le Comte de Chanost whose arm Fouquet had just taken. L’Abbe Fouquet perceived that the poet, absent-minded, as usual, was about to follow the two talkers, and he interposed. La Fontaine seized upon him, and recited his verses. The abbe, who was quite innocent of Latin, nodded his head, in cadence, at every roll which La Fontaine impressed upon his body, according to the undulations of the dactyls and spondees. While this was going on, behind the confiture-basins, Fouquet related the event of the day to his son-in-law, M. de Chanost. “We will send the idle and useless to look at the fireworks,” said Pellisson to Gourville, “whilst we converse here.”

“So be it,” said Gourville, addressing four words to Vatel. The latter then led towards the gardens the major part of the beaux, the ladies and the chatterers, whilst the men walked in the gallery, lighted by three hundred wax-lights, in the sight of all; the admirers of fireworks all ran away towards the garden. Gourville approached Fouquet, and said: “Monsieur, we are here.”

“All!” said Fouquet.

“Yes,--count.” The superintendent counted; there were eight persons. Pellisson and Gourville walked arm in arm, as if conversing upon vague and frivolous subjects. Sorel and two officers imitated them, in an opposite direction. The Abbe Fouquet walked alone. Fouquet, with M. de Chanost, walked as if entirely absorbed in the conversation of his son-in-law. “Messieurs,” said he, “let no one of you raise his head as he walks, or appear to pay attention to me; continue walking, we are alone, listen to me.”

A perfect silence ensued, disturbed only by the distant cries of the joyous guests, from the groves whence they beheld the fireworks. It was a whimsical spectacle this, of these men walking in groups, as if each one was occupied about something, whilst lending attention really to only one amongst them, who, himself, seemed to be speaking only to his companion. “Messieurs,” said Fouquet, “you have, without doubt, remarked the absence of two of my friends this evening, who were with us on Wednesday. For God’s sake, abbe, do not stop,--it is not necessary to enable you to listen; walk on, carrying your head in a natural way, and as you have an excellent sight, place yourself at the window, and if any one returns towards the gallery, give us notice by coughing.”

The abbe obeyed.

“I have not observed their absence,” said Pellisson, who, at this moment, was turning his back to Fouquet and walking the other way.

“I do not see M. Lyodot,” said Sorel, “who pays me my pension.”

“And I,” said the abbe, at the window, “do not see M. d’Eymeris, who owes me eleven hundred livres from our last game at Brelan.”

“Sorel,” continued Fouquet, walking bent, and gloomily, “you will never receive your pension any more from M. Lyodot; and you, abbe, will never be paid your eleven hundred livres by M. d’Eymeris, for both are doomed to die.”

“To die!” exclaimed the whole assembly, arrested, in spite of themselves, in the comedy they were playing, by that terrible word.

“Recover yourselves, messieurs,” said Fouquet, “for perhaps we are watched--I said: to die!”

“To die!” repeated Pellisson; “what, the men I saw six days ago, full of health, gayety, and the spirit of the future! What then is man, good God! that disease should thus bring him down, all at once!”

“It is not a disease,” said Fouquet.

“Then there is a remedy,” said Sorel.

“No remedy. Messieurs de Lyodot and D’Eymeris are on the eve of their last day.”

“Of what are these gentlemen dying, then?” asked an officer.

“Ask of him who kills them,” replied Fouquet.

“Who kills them? Are they being killed, then?” cried the terrified chorus.

“They do better still; they are hanging them,” murmured Fouquet, in a sinister voice, which sounded like a funeral knell in that rich gallery, splendid with pictures, flowers, velvet, and gold. Involuntarily every one stopped; the abbe quitted his window; the first fusees of the fireworks began to mount above the trees. A prolonged cry from the gardens attracted the superintendent to enjoy the spectacle. He drew near to a window, and his friends placed themselves behind him, attentive to his least wish. “Messieurs,” said he, “M. Colbert has caused to be arrested, tried and will execute my two friends; what does it become me to do?”

“Mordieu!” exclaimed the abbe, the first one to speak, “run M. Colbert through the body.”

“Monseigneur,” said Pellisson, “you must speak to his majesty.”

“The king, my dear Pellisson, himself signed the order for the execution.”

“Well!” said the Comte de Chanost, “the execution must not take place, then; that is all.”

“Impossible,” said Gourville, “unless we could corrupt the jailers.”

“Or the governor,” said Fouquet.

“This night the prisoners might be allowed to escape.”

“Which of you will take charge of the transaction?”

“I,” said the abbe, “will carry the money.”

“And I,” said Pellisson, “will be the bearer of the words.”

“Words and money,” said Fouquet, “five hundred thousand livres to the governor of the conciergerie, that is sufficient, nevertheless, it shall be a million, if necessary.”

“A million!” cried the abbe; “why, for less than half, I would have half Paris sacked.”

“There must be no disorder,” said Pellisson. “The governor being gained, the two prisoners escape; once clear of the fangs of the law, they will call together the enemies of Colbert, and prove to the king that his young justice, like all other monstrosities, is not infallible.”

“Go to Paris, then, Pellisson,” said Fouquet, “and bring hither the two victims; to-morrow we shall see.”

Gourville gave Pellisson the five hundred thousand livres.” Take care the wind does not carry you away,” said the abbe; “what a responsibility. Peste! Let me help you a little.”

“Silence!” said Fouquet, “somebody is coming. Ah! the fireworks are producing a magical effect.” At this moment a shower of sparks fell rustling among the branches of the neighboring trees. Pellisson and Gourville went out together by the door of the gallery; Fouquet descended to the garden with the five last plotters.

Epicureans

As Fouquet was giving, or appearing to give, all his attention to the brilliant illuminations, the languishing music of the violins and hautboys, the sparkling sheaves of the artificial fires, which, inflaming the heavens with glowing reflections, marked behind the trees the dark profile of the donjon of Vincennes; as, we say, the superintendent was smiling on the ladies and the poets the fete was every whit as gay as usual; and Vatel, whose restless, even jealous look, earnestly consulted the aspect of Fouquet, did not appear dissatisfied with the welcome given to the ordering of the evening’s entertainment. The fireworks over, the company dispersed about the gardens and beneath the marble porticoes with the delightful liberty which reveals in the master of the house so much forgetfulness of greatness, so much courteous hospitality, so much magnificent carelessness. The poets wandered about, arm in arm, through the groves; some reclined upon beds of moss, to the great damage of velvet clothes and curled heads, into which little dried leaves and blades of grass insinuated themselves. The ladies, in small numbers, listened to the songs of the singers and the verses of the poets; others listened to the prose, spoken with much art, by men who were neither actors nor poets, but to whom youth and solitude gave an unaccustomed eloquence, which appeared to them better than everything else in the world. “Why,” said La Fontaine, “does not our master Epicurus descend into the garden? Epicurus never abandoned his pupils, the master is wrong.”

“Monsieur,” said Conrart, “you yourself are in the wrong persisting in decorating yourself with the name of an Epicurean; indeed, nothing here reminds me of the doctrine of the philosopher of Gargetta.”

“Bah!” said La Fontaine, “is it not written that Epicurus purchased a large garden and lived in it tranquilly with his friends?”

“That is true.”

“Well, has not M. Fouquet purchased a large garden at Saint-Mande, and do we not live here very tranquilly with him and his friends?”

“Yes, without doubt; unfortunately it is neither the garden nor the friends which constitute the resemblance. Now, what likeness is there between the doctrine of Epicurus and that of M. Fouquet?”

“This--pleasure gives happiness.”

“Next?”

“Well, I do not think we ought to consider ourselves unfortunate, for my part, at least. A good repast--vin de Foigny, which they have the delicacy to go and fetch for me from my favorite cabaret--not one impertinence heard during a supper an hour long, in spite of the presence of ten millionaires and twenty poets.”

“I stop you there. You mentioned vin de Foigny, and a good repast, do you persist in that?”

“I persist,--anteco, as they say at Port Royal.”

“Then please to recollect that the great Epicurus lived, and made his pupils live, upon bread, vegetables, and water.”

“That is not certain,” said La Fontaine; “and you appear to me to be confounding Epicurus with Pythagoras, my dear Conrart.”

“Remember, likewise, that the ancient philosopher was rather a bad friend of the gods and the magistrates.”

“Oh! that is what I will not admit,” replied La Fontaine. “Epicurus was like M. Fouquet.”

“Do not compare him to monsieur le surintendant,” said Conrart, in an agitated voice, “or you would accredit the reports which are circulated concerning him and us.”

“What reports?”

“That we are bad Frenchmen, lukewarm with regard to the king, deaf to the law.”

“I return, then, to my text,” said La Fontaine. “Listen, Conrart, this is the morality of Epicurus, whom, besides, I consider, if I must tell you so, as a myth. Antiquity is mostly mythical. Jupiter, if we give a little attention to it, is life. Alcides is strength. The words are there to bear me out; Zeus, that is, zen, to live. Alcides, that is, alce, vigor. Well, Epicurus, that is mild watchfulness, that is protection; now who watches better over the state, or who protects individuals better than M. Fouquet does?”

“You talk etymology and not morality; I say that we modern Epicureans are indifferent citizens.”

“Oh!” cried La Fontaine, “if we become bad citizens, it is not through following the maxims of our master. Listen to one of his principal aphorisms.”

“I--will.”

“Pray for good leaders.”

“Well?”

“Well! what does M. Fouquet say to us every day? ‘When shall we be governed?’ Does he say so? Come, Conrart, be frank.”

“He says so, that is true.”

“Well, that is a doctrine of Epicurus.”

“Yes; but that is a little seditious, observe.”

“What! seditious to wish to be governed by good heads or leaders?”

“Certainly, when those who govern are bad.”

“Patience, I have a reply for all.”

“Even for what I have just said to you?”

“Listen! would you submit to those who govern ill? Oh! it is written: Cacos politeuousi. You grant me the text?”

“Pardieu! I think so. Do you know, you speak Greek as well as AEsop did, my dear La Fontaine.”

“Is there any wickedness in that, my dear Conrart?”

“God forbid I should say so.”

“Then let us return to M. Fouquet. What did he repeat to us all the day? Was it not this? ‘What a cuistre is that Mazarin! what an ass! what a leech! We must, however, submit to the fellow.’ Now, Conrart, did he say so, or did he not?”

“I confess that he said it, and even perhaps too often.”

“Like Epicurus, my friend, still like Epicurus; I repeat, we are Epicureans, and that is very amusing.”

“Yes, but I am afraid there will rise up, by the side of us, a sect like that of Epictetus, you know him well; the philosopher of Hieropolis, he who called bread luxury, vegetables prodigality, and clear water drunkenness; he who, being beaten by his master, said to him, grumbling a little it is true, but without being angry, ‘I will lay a wager you have broken my leg!’--and who won his wager.”

“He was a goose, that fellow Epictetus.”

“Granted, but he might easily become the fashion by only changing his name into that of Colbert.”

“Bah!” replied La Fontaine, “that is impossible. Never will you find Colbert in Epictetus.”

“You are right, I shall find--Coluber there, at the most.”

“Ah! you are beaten, Conrart; you are reduced to a play upon words. M. Arnaud pretends that I have no logic; I have more than M. Nicolle.”

“Yes,” replied Conrart, “you have logic, but you are a Jansenist.”

This peroration was hailed with a boisterous shout of laughter; by degrees the promenaders had been attracted by the exclamations of the two disputants around the arbor under which they were arguing. The discussion had been religiously listened to, and Fouquet himself, scarcely able to suppress his laughter, had given an example of moderation. But with the denouement of the scene he threw off all restraint, and laughed aloud. Everybody laughed as he did, and the two philosophers were saluted with unanimous felicitations. La Fontaine, however, was declared conqueror, on account of his profound erudition and his irrefragable logic. Conrart obtained the compensation due to an unsuccessful combatant; he was praised for the loyalty of his intentions, and the purity of his conscience.

At the moment when this jollity was manifesting itself by the most lively demonstrations, when the ladies were reproaching the two adversaries with not having admitted women into the system of Epicurean happiness, Gourville was seen hastening from the other end of the garden, approaching Fouquet, and detaching him, by his presence alone, from the group. The superintendent preserved on his face the smile and character of carelessness; but scarcely was he out of sight than he threw off the mask.

“Well!” said he, eagerly, “where is Pellisson! What is he doing?”

“Pellisson has returned from Paris.”

“Has he brought back the prisoners?”

“He has not even seen the concierge of the prison.”

“What! did he not tell him he came from me?”

“He told him so, but the concierge sent him this reply: ‘If any one came to me from M. Fouquet, he would have a letter from M. Fouquet.’”

“Oh!” cried the latter, “if a letter is all he wants----”

“It is useless, monsieur!” said Pellisson, showing himself at the corner of the little wood, “useless! Go yourself, and speak in your own name.”

“You are right. I will go in, as if to work; let the horses remain harnessed, Pellisson. Entertain my friends, Gourville.”

“One last word of advice, monseigneur,” replied the latter.

“Speak, Gourville.”

“Do not go to the concierge save at the last minute; it is brave, but it is not wise. Excuse me, Monsieur Pellisson, if I am not of the same opinion as you; but take my advice, monseigneur, send again a message to this concierge,--he is a worthy man, but do not carry it yourself.”

“I will think of it,” said Fouquet; “besides, we have all the night before us.”

“Do not reckon too much on time; were the hours we have twice as many as they are, they would not be too much,” replied Pellisson; “it is never a fault to arrive too soon.”

“Adieu!” said the superintendent; “come with me, Pellisson. Gourville, I commend my guests to your care.” And he set off. The Epicureans did not perceive that the head of the school had left them; the violins continued playing all night long.

A Quarter of an Hour’s Delay

Fouquet, on leaving his house for the second time that day, felt himself less heavy and less disturbed than might have been expected. He turned towards Pellisson, who was meditating in the corner of the carriage some good arguments against the violent proceedings of Colbert.

“My dear Pellisson,” said Fouquet, “it is a great pity you are not a woman.”

“I think, on the contrary, it is very fortunate,” replied Pellisson, “for, monseigneur, I am excessively ugly.”

“Pellisson! Pellisson!” said the superintendent, laughing: “you repeat too often you are ‘ugly,’ not to leave people to believe that it gives you much pain.”

“In fact it does, monseigneur, much pain; there is no man more unfortunate than I: I was handsome, the smallpox rendered me hideous; I am deprived of a great means of attraction; now, I am your principal clerk or something of that sort; I take great interest in your affairs, and if, at this moment, I were a pretty woman, I could render you an important service.”

“What?”

“I would go and find the concierge of the Palais. I would seduce him, for he is a gallant man, extravagantly partial to women; then I would get away our two prisoners.”

“I hope to be able to do so myself, although I am not a pretty woman,” replied Fouquet.

“Granted, monseigneur; but you are compromising yourself very much.”

“Oh!” cried Fouquet, suddenly, with one of those secret transports which the generous blood of youth, or the remembrance of some sweet emotion, infuses into the heart. “Oh! I know a woman who will enact the personage we stand in need of, with the lieutenant-governor of the conciergerie.”

“And, on my part, I know fifty, monseigneur; fifty trumpets, which will inform the universe of your generosity, of your devotion to your friends, and, consequently, will ruin you sooner or later in ruining themselves.”

“I do not speak of such women, Pellisson, I speak of a noble and beautiful creature who joins to the intelligence and wit of her sex the valor and coolness of ours; I speak of a woman, handsome enough to make the walls of a prison bow down to salute her, discreet enough to let no one suspect by whom she has been sent.”

“A treasure!” said Pellisson, “you would make a famous present to monsieur the governor of the conciergerie! Peste! monseigneur, he might have his head cut off; but he would, before dying, have had such happiness as no man had enjoyed before him.”

“And I add,” said Fouquet, “that the concierge of the Palais would not have his head cut off, for he would receive of me my horses to effect his escape, and five hundred thousand livres wherewith to live comfortably in England: I add, that this lady, my friend, would give him nothing but the horses and the money. Let us go and seek her, Pellisson.”

The superintendent reached forth his hand towards the gold and silken cord placed in the interior of his carriage, but Pellisson stopped him. “Monseigneur,” said he, “you are going to lose as much time in seeking this lady as Columbus took to discover the new world. Now, we have but two hours in which we can possibly succeed; the concierge once gone to bed, how shall we get at him without making a disturbance? When daylight dawns, how can we conceal our proceedings? Go, go yourself, monseigneur, and do not seek either woman or angel to-night.”

“But, my dear Pellisson, here we are before her door.”

“What! before the angel’s door?”

“Why, yes!”

“This is the hotel of Madame de Belliere!”

“Hush!”

“Ah! Good Lord!” exclaimed Pellisson.

“What have you to say against her?”

“Nothing, alas! and it is that which causes my despair. Nothing, absolutely nothing. Why can I not, on the contrary, say ill enough of her to prevent your going to her?”

But Fouquet had already given orders to stop, and the carriage was motionless. “Prevent me!” cried Fouquet; “why, no power on earth should prevent my going to pay my compliments to Madame de Plessis-Belliere, besides, who knows that we shall not stand in need of her!”

“No, monseigneur no!”

“But I do not wish you to wait for me, Pellisson,” replied Fouquet, sincerely courteous.

“The more reason I should, monseigneur; knowing that you are keeping me waiting, you will, perhaps, stay a shorter time. Take care! You see there is a carriage in the courtyard: she has some one with her.” Fouquet leant towards the steps of the carriage. “One word more,” cried Pellisson; “do not go to this lady till you have been to the concierge, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Eh! five minutes, Pellisson,” replied Fouquet, alighting at the steps of the hotel, leaving Pellisson in the carriage, in a very ill-humor. Fouquet ran upstairs, told his name to the footman, which excited an eagerness and a respect that showed the habit the mistress of the house had of honoring that name in her family. “Monsieur le surintendant,” cried the marquise, advancing, very pale, to meet him; “what an honor! what an unexpected pleasure!” said she. Then, in a low voice, “Take care!” added the marquise, “Marguerite Vanel is here!”

“Madame,” replied Fouquet, rather agitated, “I came on business. One single word, and quickly, if you please!” And he entered the salon. Madame Vanel had risen, paler, more livid, than Envy herself. Fouquet in vain addressed her, with the most agreeable, most pacific salutation; she only replied by a terrible glance darted at the marquise and Fouquet. This keen glance of a jealous woman is a stiletto which pierces every cuirass; Marguerite Vanel plunged it straight into the hearts of the two confidants. She made a courtesy to her friend, a more profound one to Fouquet, and took leave, under pretense of having a number of visits to make, without the marquise trying to prevent her, or Fouquet, a prey to anxiety, thinking further about her. She was scarcely out of the room, and Fouquet left alone with the marquise, before he threw himself on his knees, without saying a word. “I expected you,” said the marquise, with a tender sigh.

“Oh! no,” cried he, “or you would have sent away that woman.”

“She has been here little more than half an hour, and I had no expectation she would come this evening.”

“You love me just a little, then, marquise?”

“That is not the question now; it is of your danger; how are your affairs going on?”

“I am going this evening to get my friends out of the prisons of the Palais.”

“How will you do that?”

“By buying and bribing the governor.”

“He is a friend of mine; can I assist you, without injuring you?”

“Oh! marquise, it would be a signal service; but how can you be employed without your being compromised? Now, never shall my life, my power, or even my liberty, be purchased at the expense of a single tear from your eyes, or of one frown of pain upon your brow.”

“Monseigneur, no more such words, they bewilder me; I have been culpable in trying to serve you, without calculating the extent of what I was doing. I love you in reality, as a tender friend; and as a friend, I am grateful for your delicate attentions--but, alas!--alas! you will never find a mistress in me.”

“Marquise!” cried Fouquet, in a tone of despair; “why not?”

“Because you are too much beloved,” said the young woman, in a low voice; “because you are too much beloved by too many people--because the splendor of glory and fortune wound my eyes, whilst the darkness of sorrow attracts them; because, in short, I, who have repulsed you in your proud magnificence; I who scarcely looked at you in your splendor, I came, like a mad woman, to throw myself, as it were, into your arms, when I saw a misfortune hovering over your head. You understand me now, monseigneur? Become happy again, that I may remain chaste in heart and in thought; your misfortune entails my ruin.”

“Oh! madame,” said Fouquet, with an emotion he had never before felt; “were I to fall to the lowest degree of human misery, and hear from your mouth that word which you now refuse me, that day, madame, you will be mistaken in your noble egotism; that day you will fancy you are consoling the most unfortunate of men, and you will have said, I love you, to the most illustrious, the most delighted, the most triumphant of the happy beings of this world.”

He was still at her feet, kissing her hand, when Pellisson entered precipitately, crying, in very ill-humor, “Monseigneur! madame! for Heaven’s sake! excuse me. Monseigneur, you have been here half an hour. Oh! do not both look at me so reproachfully. Madame, pray who is that lady who left your house soon after monseigneur came in?”

“Madame Vanel,” said Fouquet.

“Ha!” cried Pellisson, “I was sure of that.”

“Well! what then?”

“Why, she got into her carriage, looking deadly pale.”

“What consequence is that to me?”

“Yes, but what she said to her coachman is of consequence to you.”

“Kind heaven!” cried the marquise, “what was that?”

“To M. Colbert’s!” said Pellisson, in a hoarse voice.

“Bon Dieu!--begone, begone, monseigneur!” replied the marquise, pushing Fouquet out of the salon, whilst Pellisson dragged him by the hand.

“Am I, then, indeed,” said the superintendent, “become a child, to be frightened by a shadow?”

“You are a giant,” said the marquise, “whom a viper is trying to bite in the heel.”

Pellisson continued to drag Fouquet to the carriage. “To the Palais at full speed!” cried Pellisson to the coachman. The horses set off like lightning; no obstacle relaxed their pace for an instant. Only, at the arcade Saint-Jean, as they were coming out upon the Place de Greve, a long file of horsemen, barring the narrow passage, stopped the carriage of the superintendent. There was no means of forcing this barrier; it was necessary to wait till the mounted archers of the watch, for it was they who stopped the way, had passed with the heavy carriage they were escorting, and which ascended rapidly towards the Place Baudoyer. Fouquet and Pellisson took no further account of this circumstance beyond deploring the minute’s delay they had thus to submit to. They entered the habitation of the concierge du Palais five minutes after. That officer was still walking about in the front court. At the name of Fouquet, whispered in his ear by Pellisson, the governor eagerly approached the carriage, and, hat in his hand, was profuse in his attentions. “What an honor for me, monseigneur,” said he.

“One word, monsieur le gouverneur, will you take the trouble to get into my carriage?” The officer placed himself opposite Fouquet in the coach.

“Monsieur,” said Fouquet, “I have a service to ask of you.”

“Speak, monseigneur.”

“A service that will be compromising for you, monsieur, but which will assure to you forever my protection and my friendship.”

“Were it to cast myself into the fire for you, monseigneur, I would do it.”

“That is well,” said Fouquet; “what I require is much more simple.”

“That being so, monseigneur, what is it?”

“To conduct me to the chamber of Messieurs Lyodot and D’Eymeris.”

“Will monseigneur have the kindness to say for what purpose?”

“I will tell you in their presence, monsieur; at the same time that I will give you ample means of palliating this escape.”

“Escape! Why, then, monseigneur does not know?”

“What?”

“That Messieurs Lyodot and D’Eymeris are no longer here.”

“Since when?” cried Fouquet, in great agitation.

“About a quarter of an hour.”

“Whither have they gone, then?”

“To Vincennes--to the donjon.”

“Who took them from here?”

“An order from the king.”

“Oh! woe! woe!” exclaimed Fouquet, striking his forehead. “Woe!” and without saying a single word more to the governor, he threw himself back in his carriage, despair in his heart, and death on his countenance.

“Well!” said Pellisson, with great anxiety.

“Our friends are lost. Colbert is conveying them to the donjon. They crossed our very path under the arcade Saint-Jean.”

Pellisson, struck as by a thunderbolt, made no reply. With a single reproach he would have killed his master. “Where is monseigneur going?” said the footman.

“Home--to Paris. You, Pellisson, return to Saint-Mande, and bring the Abbe Fouquet to me within an hour. Begone!”

Plan of Battle

The night was already far advanced when the Abbe Fouquet joined his brother. Gourville had accompanied him. These three men, pale with dread of future events, resembled less three powers of the day than three conspirators, united by one single thought of violence. Fouquet walked for a long time, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, striking his hands one against the other. At length, taking courage, in the midst of a deep sigh: “Abbe,” said he, “you were speaking to me only to-day of certain people you maintain.”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the abbe.

“Tell me precisely who are these people.” The abbe hesitated.

“Come! no fear, I am not threatening; no romancing, for I am not joking.”

“Since you demand the truth, monseigneur, here it is:--I have a hundred and twenty friends or companions of pleasure, who are sworn to me as the thief is to the gallows.”

“And you think you can depend upon them?”

“Entirely.”

“And you will not compromise yourself?”

“I will not even make my appearance.”

“And are they men of resolution?”

“They would burn Paris, if I promised them they should not be burnt in turn.”

“The thing I ask of you, abbe,” said Fouquet, wiping the sweat which fell from his brow, “is to throw your hundred and twenty men upon the people I will point out to you, at a certain moment given--is it possible?”

“It will not be the first time such a thing has happened to them, monseigneur.”

“That is well: but would these bandits attack an armed force?”

“They are used to that.”

“Then get your hundred and twenty men together, abbe.”

“Directly. But where?”

“On the road to Vincennes, to-morrow, at two o’clock precisely.”

“To carry off Lyodot and D’Eymeris? There will be blows to be got!”

“A number, no doubt; are you afraid?”

“Not for myself, but for you.”

“Your men will know, then, what they have to do?”

“They are too intelligent not to guess it. Now, a minister who gets up a riot against his king--exposes himself----”

“Of what importance is that to you, I pray? Besides, if I fall, you fall with me.”

“It would then be more prudent, monsieur, not to stir in the affair, and leave the king to take this little satisfaction.”

“Think well of this, abbe, Lyodot and D’Eymeris at Vincennes are a prelude of ruin for my house. I repeat it--I arrested, you will be imprisoned--I imprisoned, you will be exiled.”

“Monsieur, I am at your orders; have you any to give me?”

“What I told you--I wish that, to-morrow, the two financiers of whom they mean to make victims, whilst there remain so many criminals unpunished, should be snatched from the fury of my enemies. Take your measures accordingly. Is it possible?”

“It is possible.”

“Describe your plan.”

“It is of rich simplicity. The ordinary guard at executions consists of twelve archers.”

“There will be a hundred to-morrow.”

“I reckon so. I even say more--there will be two hundred.”

“Then your hundred and twenty men will not be enough.”

“Pardon me. In every crowd composed of a hundred thousand spectators, there are ten thousand bandits or cut-purses--only they dare not take the initiative.”

“Well?”

“There will then be, to-morrow, on the Place de Greve, which I choose as my battle-field, ten thousand auxiliaries to my hundred and twenty men. The attack commenced by the latter, the others will finish it.”

“That all appears feasible. But what will be done with regard to the prisoners upon the Place de Greve?”

“This: they must be thrust into some house--that will make a siege necessary to get them out again. And stop! here is another idea, more sublime still: certain houses have two issues--one upon the Place, and the other into the Rue de la Mortellerie, or la Vennerie, or la Texeranderie. The prisoners entering by one door will go out at another.”

“Yes, but fix upon something positive.”

“I am seeking to do so.”

“And I,” cried Fouquet, “I have found it. Listen to what has occurred to me at this moment.”

“I am listening.”

Fouquet made a sign to Gourville, who appeared to understand. “One of my friends lends me sometimes the keys of a house which he rents, Rue Baudoyer, the spacious gardens of which extend behind a certain house on the Place de Greve.”

“That is the place for us,” said the abbe. “What house?”

“A cabaret, pretty well frequented, whose sign represents the image of Notre Dame.”

“I know it,” said the abbe.

“This cabaret has windows opening upon the Place, a place of exit into the court, which must abut upon the gardens of my friend by a door of communication.”

“Good!” said the abbe.

“Enter by the cabaret, take the prisoners in; defend the door while you enable them to fly by the garden and the Place Baudoyer.”

“That is all plain. Monsieur, you would make an excellent general, like monsieur le prince.”

“Have you understood me?”

“Perfectly well.”

“How much will it amount to, to make your bandits all drunk with wine, and to satisfy them with gold?”

“Oh, monsieur, what an expression! Oh! monsieur, if they heard you: some of them are very susceptible.”

“I mean to say they must be brought no longer to know the heavens from the earth; for I shall to-morrow contend with the king; and when I fight I mean to conquer--please to understand.”

“It shall be done, monsieur. Give me your other ideas.”

“That is your business.”

“Then give me your purse.”

“Gourville, count a hundred thousand livres for the abbe.”

“Good! and spare nothing, did you not say?”

“Nothing.”

“That is well.”

“Monseigneur,” objected Gourville, “if this should be known, we should lose our heads.”

“Eh! Gourville,” replied Fouquet, purple with anger, “you excite my pity. Speak for yourself, if you please. My head does not shake in that manner upon my shoulders. Now, abbe, is everything arranged?”

“Everything.”

“At two o’clock to-morrow.”

“At twelve, because it will be necessary to prepare our auxiliaries in a secret manner.”

“That is true; do not spare the wine of the cabaretier.”

“I will spare neither his wine nor his house,” replied the abbe, with a sneering laugh. “I have my plan, I tell you; leave me to set it in operation, and you shall see.”

“Where shall you be yourself?”

“Everywhere; nowhere.”

“And how shall I receive information?”

“By a courier whose horse shall be kept in the very garden of your friend. A propos, the name of your friend?”

Fouquet looked again at Gourville. The latter came to the succor of his master, saying, “Accompanying monsieur l’abbe for several reasons, only the house is easily to be known, the ‘Image-de-Notre-Dame’ in the front, a garden, the only one in the quarter, behind.”

“Good, good! I will go and give notice to my soldiers.”

“Accompany him, Gourville,” said Fouquet, “and count him down the money. One moment, abbe--one moment, Gourville--what name will be given to this carrying off?”

“A very natural one, monsieur--the Riot.”

“The riot on account of what? For, if ever the people of Paris are disposed to pay their court to the king, it is when he hangs financiers.”

“I will manage that,” said the abbe.

“Yes; but you may manage it badly, and people will guess.”

“Not at all,--not at all. I have another idea.”

“What is that?”

“My men shall cry out, ‘Colbert, vive Colbert!’ and shall throw themselves upon the prisoners as if they would tear them in pieces, and shall force them from the gibbets, as too mild a punishment.”

“Ah! that is an idea,” said Gourville. “Peste! monsieur l’abbe, what an imagination you have!”

“Monsieur, we are worthy of our family,” replied the abbe, proudly.

“Strange fellow,” murmured Fouquet. Then he added, “That is ingenious. Carry it out, but shed no blood.”

Gourville and the abbe set off together, with their heads full of the meditated riot. The superintendent laid himself down upon some cushions, half valiant with respect to the sinister projects of the morrow, half dreaming of love.

The Cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame

At two o’clock the next day fifty thousand spectators had taken their position upon the Place, around the two gibbets which had been elevated between the Quai de la Greve and the Quai Pelletier; one close to the other, with their backs to the embankment of the river. In the morning also, all the sworn criers of the good city of Paris had traversed the quarters of the city, particularly the halles and the faubourgs, announcing with their hoarse and indefatigable voices, the great justice done by the king upon two speculators, two thieves, devourers of the people. And these people, whose interests were so warmly looked after, in order not to fail in respect for their king quitted shops, stalls, and ateliers to go and evince a little gratitude to Louis XIV., absolutely like invited guests, who feared to commit an impoliteness in not repairing to the house of him who had invited them. According to the tenor of the sentence, which the criers read aloud and incorrectly, two farmers of the revenues, monopolists of money, dilapidators of the royal provisions, extortioners, and forgers, were about to undergo capital punishment on the Place de Greve, with their names blazoned over their heads, according to their sentence. As to those names, the sentence made no mention of them. The curiosity of the Parisians was at its height, and, as we have said, an immense crowd waited with feverish impatience the hour fixed for the execution. The news had already spread that the prisoners, transferred to the Chateau of Vincennes, would be conducted from that prison to the Place de Greve. Consequently, the faubourg and the Rue Saint Antoine were crowded, for the population of Paris in those days of great executions was divided into two categories: those who came to see the condemned pass--these were of timid and mild hearts, but philosophically curious--and those who wished to see the condemned die--these had hearts that hungered for sensation. On this day M. d’Artagnan received his last instructions from the king, and made his adieus to his friends, the number of whom was, at the moment, reduced to Planchet, traced the plan of his day, as every busy man whose moments are counted ought to do because he appreciates their importance.

“My departure is to be,” said he, “at break of day, three o’clock in the morning; I have then fifteen hours before me. Take from them the six hours of sleep which are indispensable for me--six; one hour for repasts--seven; one hour for a farewell visit to Athos--eight; two hours for chance circumstances---total, ten. There are then five hours left. One hour to get my money,--that is, to have payment refused by M. Fouquet; another hour to go and receive my money of M. Colbert, together with his questions and grimaces; one hour to look over my clothes and arms, and get my boots cleaned. I have still two hours left. Mordioux! how rich I am!” And so saying, D’Artagnan felt a strange joy, a joy of youth, a perfume of those great and happy years of former times mount into his brain and intoxicate him. “During these two hours I will go,” said the musketeer, “and take my quarter’s rent of the Image-de-Notre-Dame. That will be pleasant. Three hundred and seventy-five livres. Mordioux! but that is astonishing! If the poor man who has but one livre in his pocket, found a livre and twelve deniers, that would be justice, that would be excellent; but never does such a godsend fall to the lot of the poor man. The rich man, on the contrary, makes himself revenues with his money, which he does not even touch. Here are three hundred and seventy-five livres which fall to me from heaven. I will go then to the Image-de-Notre-Dame, and drink a glass of Spanish wine with my tenant, which he cannot fail to offer me. But order must be observed, Monsieur d’Artagnan, order must be observed! Let us organize our time, then, and distribute the employment of it! Art. 1st, Athos; Art. 2d, the Image-de-Notre-Dame; Art. 3d, M. Fouquet, Art. 4th, M. Colbert; Art. 5th, supper; Art. 6th, clothes, boots, horse, portmanteau; Art. 7th and last, sleep.”

In consequence of this arrangement, D’Artagnan went straight to the Comte de la Fere, to whom modestly and ingenuously he related a part of his fortunate adventures. Athos had not been without uneasiness on the subject of D’Artagnan’s visit to the king; but few words sufficed for an explanation of that. Athos divined that Louis had charged D’Artagnan with some important mission, and did not even make an effort to draw the secret from him. He only recommended him to take care of himself, and offered discreetly to accompany him if that were desirable.

“But, my dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, “I am going nowhere.”

“What! you come and bid me adieu, and are going nowhere?”

“Oh! yes, yes,” replied D’Artagnan, coloring a little, “I am going to make an acquisition.”

“That is quite another thing. Then I change my formula. Instead of ‘Do not get yourself killed,’ I will say,--‘Do not get yourself robbed.’”

“My friend, I will inform you if I set eyes on any property that pleases me, and shall expect you will favor me with your opinion.”

“Yes, yes,” said Athos, too delicate to permit himself even the consolation of a smile. Raoul imitated the paternal reserve. But D’Artagnan thought it would appear too mysterious to leave his friends under a pretense, without even telling them the route he was about to take.

“I have chosen Le Mans,” said he to Athos. “Is it a good country?”

“Excellent, my friend,” replied the count, without making him observe that Le Mans was in the same direction as La Touraine, and that by waiting two days, at most, he might travel with a friend. But D’Artagnan, more embarrassed than the count, dug, at every explanation, deeper into the mud, into which he sank by degrees. “I shall set out to-morrow at daybreak,” said he at last. “Till that time, will you come with me, Raoul?”

“Yes, monsieur le chevalier,” said the young man, “if monsieur le comte does not want me.”

“No, Raoul; I am to have an audience to-day of Monsieur, the king’s brother; that is all I have to do.”

Raoul asked Grimaud for his sword, which the old man brought him immediately. “Now then,” added D’Artagnan, opening his arms to Athos, “adieu, my dear friend!” Athos held him in a long embrace, and the musketeer, who knew his discretion so well, murmured in his ear--“An affair of state,” to which Athos only replied by a pressure of the hand, still more significant. They then separated. Raoul took the arm of his old friend, who led him along the Rue-Saint-Honore. “I am conducting you to the abode of the god Plutus,” said D’Artagnan to the young man; “prepare yourself. The whole day you will witness the piling up of crowns. Heavens! how I am changed!”

“Oh! what numbers of people there are in the street!” said Raoul.

“Is there a procession to-day?” asked D’Artagnan of a passer-by.

“Monsieur, it is a hanging,” replied the man.

“What! a hanging at the Greve?” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“The devil take the rogue who gets himself hung the day I want to go and take my rent!” cried D’Artagnan. “Raoul, did you ever see anybody hung?”

“Never, monsieur--thank God!”

“Oh! how young that sounds! If you were on guard in the trenches, as I was, and a spy! But, pardon me, Raoul, I am doting--you are quite right, it is a hideous sight to see a person hung! At what hour do they hang them, monsieur, if you please?”

“Monsieur,” replied the stranger respectfully, delighted at joining conversation with two men of the sword, “it will take place about three o’clock.”

“Aha! it is now only half-past one; let us step out, we shall be there in time to touch my three hundred and seventy-five livres, and get away before the arrival of the malefactor.”

“Malefactors, monsieur,” continued the bourgeois; “there are two of them.”

“Monsieur, I return you many thanks,” said D’Artagnan, who, as he grew older, had become polite to a degree. Drawing Raoul along, he directed his course rapidly in the direction of La Greve. Without that great experience musketeers have of a crowd, to which were joined an irresistible strength of wrist, and an uncommon suppleness of shoulders, our two travelers would not have arrived at their place of destination. They followed the line of the Quai, which they had gained on quitting the Rue Saint-Honore, where they left Athos. D’Artagnan went first; his elbow, his wrist, his shoulder formed three wedges which he knew how to insinuate with skill into the groups, to make them split and separate like firewood. He made use sometimes of the hilt of his sword as an additional help: introducing it between ribs that were too rebellious, making it take the part of a lever or crowbar, to separate husband from wife, uncle from nephew, and brother from brother. And all this was done so naturally, and with such gracious smiles, that people must have had ribs of bronze not to cry thank you when the wrist made its play, or hearts of diamond not to be enchanted when such a bland smile enlivened the lips of the musketeer. Raoul, following his friend, cajoled the women who admired his beauty, pushed back the men who felt the rigidity of his muscles, and both opened, thanks to these maneuvers, the compact and muddy tide of the populace. They arrived in sight of the two gibbets, from which Raoul turned away his eyes in disgust. As for D’Artagnan, he did not even see them; his house with its gabled roof, its windows crowded with the curious, attracted and even absorbed all the attention he was capable of. He distinguished in the Place and around the houses a good number of musketeers on leave, who, some with women, others with friends, awaited the crowning ceremony. What rejoiced him above all was to see that his tenant, the cabaretier, was so busy he hardly knew which way to turn. Three lads could not supply the drinkers. They filled the shop, the chambers, and the court, even. D’Artagnan called Raoul’s attention to this concourse, adding: “The fellow will have no excuse for not paying his rent. Look at those drinkers, Raoul, one would say they were jolly companions. Mordioux! why, there is no room anywhere!” D’Artagnan, however, contrived to catch hold of the master by the corner of his apron, and to make himself known to him.

“Ah, monsieur le chevalier,” said the cabaretier, half distracted, “one minute if you please. I have here a hundred mad devils turning my cellar upside down.”

“The cellar, if you like, but not the money-box.”

“Oh, monsieur, your thirty-seven and a half pistoles are all counted out ready for you, upstairs in my chamber, but there are in that chamber thirty customers, who are sucking the staves of a little barrel of Oporto which I tapped for them this very morning. Give me a minute,--only a minute.”

“So be it; so be it.”

“I will go,” said Raoul, in a low voice, to D’Artagnan; “this hilarity is vile!”

“Monsieur,” replied D’Artagnan, sternly, “you will please to remain where you are. The soldier ought to familiarize himself with all kinds of spectacles. There are in the eye, when it is young, fibers which we must learn how to harden; and we are not truly generous and good save from the moment when the eye has become hardened, and the heart remains tender. Besides, my little Raoul, would you leave me alone here? That would be very wrong of you. Look, there is yonder in the lower court a tree, and under the shade of that tree we shall breathe more freely than in this hot atmosphere of spilt wine.”

From the spot on which they had placed themselves the two new guests of the Image-de-Notre-Dame heard the ever-increasing hubbub of the tide of people, and lost neither a cry nor a gesture of the drinkers, at tables in the cabaret, or disseminated in the chambers. If D’Artagnan had wished to place himself as a vidette for an expedition, he could not have succeeded better. The tree under which he and Raoul were seated covered them with its already thick foliage; it was a low, thick chestnut-tree, with inclined branches, that cast their shade over a table so dilapidated the drinkers had abandoned it. We said that from this post D’Artagnan saw everything. He observed the goings and comings of the waiters; the arrival of fresh drinkers; the welcome, sometimes friendly, sometimes hostile, given to the newcomers by others already installed. He observed all this to amuse himself, for the thirty-seven and a half pistoles were a long time coming. Raoul recalled his attention to it. “Monsieur,” said he, “you do not hurry your tenant, and the condemned will soon be here. There will then be such a press we shall not be able to get out.”

“You are right,” said the musketeer; “Hola! oh! somebody there! Mordioux!” But it was in vain he cried and knocked upon the wreck of the old table, which fell to pieces beneath his fist; nobody came.

D’Artagnan was preparing to go and seek the cabaretier himself, to force him to a definite explanation, when the door of the court in which he was with Raoul, a door which communicated with the garden situated at the back, opened, and a man dressed as a cavalier, with his sword in the sheath, but not at his belt, crossed the court without closing the door; and having cast an oblique glance at D’Artagnan and his companion, directed his course towards the cabaret itself, looking about in all directions with his eyes capable of piercing walls of consciences. “Humph!” said D’Artagnan, “my tenants are communicating. That, no doubt, now, is some amateur in hanging matters.” At the same moment the cries and disturbance in the upper chambers ceased. Silence, under such circumstances, surprises more than a twofold increase of noise. D’Artagnan wished to see what was the cause of this sudden silence. He then perceived that this man, dressed as a cavalier, had just entered the principal chamber, and was haranguing the tipplers, who all listened to him with the greatest attention. D’Artagnan would perhaps have heard his speech but for the dominant noise of the popular clamors, which made a formidable accompaniment to the harangue of the orator. But it was soon finished, and all the people the cabaret contained came out, one after the other, in little groups, so that there only remained six in the chamber; one of these six, the man with the sword, took the cabaretier aside, engaging him in discourse more or less serious, whilst the others lit a great fire in the chimney-place--a circumstance rendered strange by the fine weather and the heat.

“It is very singular,” said D’Artagnan to Raoul, “but I think I know those faces yonder.”

“Don’t you think you can smell the smoke here?” said Raoul

“I rather think I can smell a conspiracy,” replied D’Artagnan.

He had not finished speaking, when four of these men came down into the court, and without the appearance of any bad design, mounted guard at the door of communication, casting, at intervals, glances at D’Artagnan, which signified many things.

“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, in a low voice, “there is something going on. Are you curious, Raoul?”

“According to the subject, chevalier.”

“Well, I am as curious as an old woman. Come a little more in front; we shall get a better view of the place. I would lay a wager that view will be something curious.”

“But you know, monsieur le chevalier, that I am not willing to become a passive and indifferent spectator of the death of the two poor devils.”

“And I, then--do you think I am a savage? We will go in again, when it is time to do so. Come along!” And they made their way towards the front of the house, and placed themselves near the window which, still more strangely than the rest, remained unoccupied. The two last drinkers, instead of looking out at this window, kept up the fire. On seeing D’Artagnan and his friend enter:--“Ah! ah! a reinforcement,” murmured they.

D’Artagnan jogged Raoul’s elbow. “Yes, my braves, a reinforcement,” said he; “cordieu! there is a famous fire. Whom are you going to cook?”

The two men uttered a shout of jovial laughter, and, instead of answering, threw on more wood. D’Artagnan could not take his eyes off them.

“I suppose,” said one of the fire-makers, “they sent you to tell us the time--did not they?”

“Without doubt they have,” said D’Artagnan, anxious to know what was going on; “why should I be here else, if it were not for that?”

“Then place yourself at the window, if you please, and observe.” D’Artagnan smiled in his mustache, made a sign to Raoul, and placed himself at the window.

Vive Colbert!

The spectacle which the Greve now presented was a frightful one. The heads, leveled by the perspective, extended afar, thick and agitated as the ears of corn in a vast plain. From time to time a fresh report, or a distant rumor, made the heads oscillate and thousands of eyes flash. Now and then there were great movements. All those ears of corn bent, and became waves more agitated than those of the ocean, which rolled from the extremities to the center, and beat, like the tides, against the hedge of archers who surrounded the gibbets. Then the handles of the halberds were let fall upon the heads and shoulders of the rash invaders; at times, also, it was the steel as well as the wood, and, in that case, a large empty circle was formed around the guard; a space conquered upon the extremities, which underwent, in their turn the oppression of the sudden movement, which drove them against the parapets of the Seine. From the window, that commanded a view of the whole Place, D’Artagnan saw, with interior satisfaction, that such of the musketeers and guards as found themselves involved in the crowd, were able, with blows of their fists and the hilts of their swords, to keep room. He even remarked that they had succeeded, by that esprit de corps which doubles the strength of the soldier, in getting together in one group to the amount of about fifty men; and that, with the exception of a dozen stragglers whom he still saw rolling here and there, the nucleus was complete, and within reach of his voice. But it was not the musketeers and guards only that drew the attention of D’Artagnan. Around the gibbets, and particularly at the entrances to the arcade of Saint Jean, moved a noisy mass, a busy mass; daring faces, resolute demeanors were to be seen here and there, mingled with silly faces and indifferent demeanors; signals were exchanged, hands given and taken. D’Artagnan remarked among the groups, and those groups the most animated, the face of the cavalier whom he had seen enter by the door of communication from his garden, and who had gone upstairs to harangue the drinkers. That man was organizing troops and giving orders.

“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I was not deceived; I know that man,--it is Menneville. What the devil is he doing here?”

A distant murmur, which became more distinct by degrees, stopped this reflection, and drew his attention another way. This murmur was occasioned by the arrival of the culprits; a strong picket of archers preceded them, and appeared at the angle of the arcade. The entire crowd now joined as if in one cry; all the cries united formed one immense howl. D’Artagnan saw Raoul was becoming pale, and he slapped him roughly on the shoulder. The fire-keepers turned round on hearing the great cry, and asked what was going on. “The condemned are arrived,” said D’Artagnan. “That’s well,” replied they, again replenishing the fire. D’Artagnan looked at them with much uneasiness; it was evident that these men who were making such a fire for no apparent purpose had some strange intentions. The condemned appeared upon the Place. They were walking, the executioner before them, whilst fifty archers formed a hedge on their right and their left. Both were dressed in black; they appeared pale, but firm. They looked impatiently over the people’s heads, standing on tip-toe at every step. D’Artagnan remarked this. “Mordioux!” cried he, “they are in a great hurry to get a sight of the gibbet!” Raoul drew back, without, however, having the power to leave the window. Terror even has its attractions.

“To the death! to the death!” cried fifty thousand voices.

“Yes; to the death!” howled a hundred frantic others, as if the great mass had given them the reply.

“To the halter! to the halter!” cried the great whole; “Vive le roi!”

“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “this is droll; I should have thought it was M. Colbert who had caused them to be hung.”

There was, at this moment, a great rolling movement in the crowd, which stopped for a moment the march of the condemned. The people of a bold and resolute mien, whom D’Artagnan had observed, by dint of pressing, pushing, and lifting themselves up, had succeeded in almost touching the hedge of archers. The cortege resumed its march. All at once, to cries of “Vive Colbert!” those men, of whom D’Artagnan never lost sight, fell upon the escort, which in vain endeavored to stand against them. Behind these men was the crowd. Then commenced, amidst a frightful tumult, as frightful a confusion. This time there was something more than cries of expectation or cries of joy, there were cries of pain. Halberds struck men down, swords ran them through, muskets were discharged at them. The confusion became then so great that D’Artagnan could no longer distinguish anything. Then, from this chaos, suddenly surged something like a visible intention, like a will pronounced. The condemned had been torn from the hands of the guards, and were being dragged towards the house of L’Image-de-Notre-Dame. Those who dragged them shouted, “Vive Colbert!” The people hesitated, not knowing which they ought to fall upon, the archers or the aggressors. What stopped the people was, that those who cried “Vive Colbert!” began to cry, at the same time, “No halter! no halter! to the fire! to the fire! burn the thieves! burn the extortioners!” This cry, shouted with an ensemble, obtained enthusiastic success. The populace had come to witness an execution, and here was an opportunity offered them of performing one themselves. It was this that must be most agreeable to the populace: therefore, they ranged, themselves immediately on the party of the aggressors against the archers, crying with the minority, which had become, thanks to them, the most compact majority: “Yes, yes: to the fire with the thieves! Vive Colbert!”

“Mordioux!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “this begins to look serious.”

One of the men who remained near the chimney approached the window, a firebrand in his hand. “Ah, ah!” said he, “it gets warm.” Then, turning to his companion: “There is the signal,” added he; and he immediately applied the burning brand to the wainscoting. Now, this cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame was not a very newly-built house, and therefore did not require much entreating to take fire. In a second the boards began to crackle, and the flames arose sparkling to the ceiling. A howling from without replied to the shouts of the incendiaries. D’Artagnan, who had not seen what passed, from being engaged at the window, felt, at the same time, the smoke which choked him and the fire that scorched him. “Hola!” cried he, turning round, “is the fire here? Are you drunk or mad, my masters?”

The two men looked at each other with an air of astonishment. “In what?” asked they of D’Artagnan; “was it not a thing agreed upon?”

“A thing agreed upon that you should burn my house!” vociferated D’Artagnan, snatching the brand from the hand of the incendiary, and striking him with it across the face. The second wanted to assist his comrade, but Raoul, seizing him by the middle, threw him out of the window, whilst D’Artagnan pushed his man down the stairs. Raoul, first disengaged, tore the burning wainscoting down, and threw it flaming into the chamber. At a glance D’Artagnan saw there was nothing to be feared from the fire, and sprang to the window. The disorder was at its height. The air was filled with simultaneous cries of “To the fire!” “To the death!” “To the halter!” “To the stake!” “Vive Colbert!” “Vive le roi!” The group which had forced the culprits from the hands of the archers had drawn close to the house, which appeared to be the goal towards which they dragged them. Menneville was at the head of this group, shouting louder than all the others, “To the fire! to the fire! Vive Colbert!” D’Artagnan began to comprehend what was meant. They wanted to burn the condemned, and his house was to serve as a funeral pile.

“Halt, there!” cried he, sword in hand, and one foot upon the window. “Menneville, what do you want to do?”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” cried the latter; “give way, give way!”

“To the fire! to the fire with the thieves! Vive Colbert!”

These cries exasperated D’Artagnan. “Mordioux!” said he. “What! burn the poor devils who are only condemned to be hung? that is infamous!”

Before the door, however, the mass of anxious spectators, rolled back against the walls, had become more thick, and closed up the way. Menneville and his men, who were dragging along the culprits, were within ten paces of the door.

Menneville made a last effort. “Passage! passage!” cried he, pistol in hand.

“Burn them! burn them!” repeated the crowd. “The Image-de-Notre-Dame is on fire! Burn the thieves! burn the monopolists in the Image-de-Notre-Dame!”

There now remained no doubt, it was plainly D’Artagnan’s house that was their object. D’Artagnan remembered the old cry, always so effective from his mouth:

“A moi! mousquetaires!” shouted he, with the voice of a giant, with one of those voices which dominate over cannon, the sea, the tempest. “A moi! mousquetaires!” And suspending himself by the arm from the balcony, he allowed himself to drop amidst the crowd, which began to draw back from a house that rained men. Raoul was on the ground as soon as he, both sword in hand. All the musketeers on the Place heard that challenging cry--all turned round at that cry, and recognized D’Artagnan. “To the captain, to the captain!” cried they, in their turn. And the crowd opened before them as though before the prow of a vessel. At that moment D’Artagnan and Menneville found themselves face to face. “Passage, passage!” cried Menneville, seeing that he was within an arm’s length of the door.

“No one passes here,” said D’Artagnan.

“Take that, then!” said Menneville, firing his pistol, almost within arm’s length. But before the cock fell, D’Artagnan had struck up Menneville’s arm with the hilt of his sword and passed the blade through his body.

“I told you plainly to keep yourself quiet,” said D’Artagnan to Menneville, who rolled at his feet.

“Passage! passage!” cried the companions of Menneville, at first terrified, but soon recovering, when they found they had only to do with two men. But those two men were hundred-armed giants, the swords flew about in their hands like the burning glaive of the archangel. They pierce with its point, strike with the flat, cut with the edge, every stroke brings down a man. “For the king!” cried D’Artagnan, to every man he struck at, that is to say, to every man that fell. This cry became the charging word for the musketeers, who guided by it, joined D’Artagnan. During this time the archers, recovering from the panic they had undergone, charge the aggressors in the rear, and regular as mill strokes, overturn or knock down all that oppose them. The crowd, which sees swords gleaming, and drops of blood flying in the air--the crowd falls back and crushes itself. At length cries for mercy and of despair resound; that is, the farewell of the vanquished. The two condemned are again in the hands of the archers. D’Artagnan approaches them, seeing them pale and sinking: “Console yourselves, poor men,” said he, “you will not undergo the frightful torture with which these wretches threatened you. The king has condemned you to be hung: you shall only be hung. Go on, hang them, and it will be over.”

There is no longer anything going on at the Image-de-Notre-Dame. The fire has been extinguished with two tuns of wine in default of water. The conspirators have fled by the garden. The archers were dragging the culprits to the gibbets. From this moment the affair did not occupy much time. The executioner, heedless about operating according to the rules of art, made such haste that he dispatched the condemned in a couple of minutes. In the meantime the people gathered around D’Artagnan,--they felicitated, they cheered him. He wiped his brow, streaming with sweat, and his sword, streaming with blood. He shrugged his shoulders at seeing Menneville writhing at his feet in the last convulsions. And, while Raoul turned away his eyes in compassion, he pointed to the musketeers the gibbets laden with their melancholy fruit. “Poor devils!” said he, “I hope they died blessing me, for I saved them with great difficulty.” These words caught the ear of Menneville at the moment when he himself was breathing his last sigh. A dark, ironical smile flitted across his lips, he wished to reply, but the effort hastened the snapping of the chord of life--he expired.

“Oh! all this is very frightful!” murmured Raoul: “let us begone, monsieur le chevalier.”

“You are not wounded?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Not at all, thank you.”

“That’s well! Thou art a brave fellow, mordioux! The head of the father, and the arm of Porthos. Ah! if he had been here, good Porthos, you would have seen something worth looking at.” Then as if by way of remembrance--

“But where the devil can that brave Porthos be?” murmured D’Artagnan.

“Come, chevalier, pray come away,” urged Raoul.

“One minute, my friend, let me take my thirty-seven and a half pistoles and I am at your service. The house is a good property,” added D’Artagnan, as he entered the Image-de-Notre-Dame, “but decidedly, even if it were less profitable, I should prefer its being in another quarter.”

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

Whilst this violent, noisy, and bloody scene was passing on the Greve, several men, barricaded behind the gate of communication with the garden, replaced their swords in their sheaths, assisted one among them to mount a ready saddled horse which was waiting in the garden, and like a flock of startled birds, fled in all directions, some climbing the walls, others rushing out at the gates with all the fury of a panic. He who mounted the horse, and gave him the spur so sharply that the animal was near leaping the wall, this cavalier, we say, crossed the Place Baudoyer, passed like lightning before the crowd in the streets, riding against, running over and knocking down all that came in his way, and, ten minutes after, arrived at the gates of the superintendent, more out of breath than his horse. The Abbe Fouquet, at the clatter of the hoofs on the pavement, appeared at a window of the court, and before even the cavalier had set foot to the ground, “Well! Danecamp?” cried he, leaning half out of the window.

“Well, it is all over,” replied the cavalier.

“All over!” cried the abbe. “Then they are saved?”

“No, monsieur,” replied the cavalier, “they are hung.”

“Hung!” repeated the abbe, turning pale. A lateral door suddenly opened, and Fouquet appeared in the chamber, pale, distracted, with lips half opened, breathing a cry of grief and anger. He stopped upon the threshold to listen to what was addressed from the court to the window.

“Miserable wretches!” said the abbe. “you did not fight, then?”

“Like lions.”

“Say like cowards.”

“Monsieur!”

“A hundred men accustomed to war, sword in hand, are worth ten thousand archers in a surprise. Where is Menneville, that boaster, that braggart, who was to come back either dead or a conqueror?”

“Well, monsieur, he has kept his word. He is dead!”

“Dead! Who killed him?”

“A demon disguised as a man, a giant armed with ten flaming swords--a madman, who at one blow extinguished the fire, put down the riot, and caused a hundred musketeers to rise up out of the pavement of the Greve.”

Fouquet raised his brow, streaming with sweat, murmuring, “Oh! Lyodot and D’Eymeris! dead! dead! dead! and I dishonored.”

The abbe turned round, and perceiving his brother, despairing and livid, “Come, come,” said he, “it is a blow of fate, monsieur; we must not lament thus. Our attempt has failed, because God----”

“Be silent, abbe! be silent!” cried Fouquet; “your excuses are blasphemies. Order that man up here, and let him relate the details of this terrible event.”

“But, brother----”

“Obey, monsieur!”

The abbe made a sign, and in half a minute the man’s step was heard upon the stairs. At the same time Gourville appeared behind Fouquet, like the guardian angel of the superintendent, pressing one finger on his lips to enjoin observation even amidst the bursts of his grief. The minister resumed all the serenity that human strength left at the disposal of a heart half broken with sorrow. Danecamp appeared. “Make your report,” said Gourville.

“Monsieur,” replied the messenger, “we received orders to carry off the prisoners, and to cry ‘Vive Colbert!’ whilst carrying them off.”

“To burn them alive, was it not, abbe?” interrupted Gourville.

“Yes, yes, the order was given to Menneville. Menneville knew what was to be done, and Menneville is dead.”

This news appeared rather to reassure Gourville than to sadden him.

“Yes, certainly to burn them alive,” said the abbe, eagerly.

“Granted, monsieur, granted,” said the man, looking into the eyes and the faces of the two interlocutors, to ascertain what there was profitable or disadvantageous to himself in telling the truth.

“Now, proceed,” said Gourville.

“The prisoners,” cried Danecamp, “were brought to the Greve, and the people, in a fury, insisted upon their being burnt instead of being hung.”

“And the people were right,” said the abbe. “Go on.”

“But,” resumed the man, “at the moment the archers were broken, at the moment the fire was set to one of the houses of the Place destined to serve as a funeral-pile for the guilty, this fury, this demon, this giant of whom I told you, and who we had been informed, was the proprietor of the house in question, aided by a young man who accompanied him, threw out of the window those who kept up the fire, called to his assistance the musketeers who were in the crowd, leapt himself from the window of the first story into the Place, and plied his sword so desperately that the victory was restored to the archers, the prisoners were retaken, and Menneville killed. When once recaptured, the condemned were executed in three minutes.” Fouquet, in spite of his self-command, could not prevent a deep groan escaping him.

“And this man, the proprietor of the house, what is his name?” said the abbe.

“I cannot tell you, not having even been able to get sight of him; my post had been appointed in the garden, and I remained at my post: only the affair was related to me as I repeat it. I was ordered, when once the affair was at an end, to come at best speed arid announce to you the manner in which it finished. According to this order, I set out, full gallop, and here I am.”

“Very well, monsieur, we have nothing else to ask of you,” said the abbe, more and more dejected, in proportion as the moment approached for finding himself alone with his brother.

“Have you been paid?” asked Gourville.

“Partly, monsieur,” replied Danecamp.

“Here are twenty pistoles. Begone, monsieur, and never forget to defend, as this time has been done, the true interests of the king.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said the man, bowing and pocketing the money. After which he went out. Scarcely had the door closed after him when Fouquet, who had remained motionless, advanced with a rapid step and stood between the abbe and Gourville. Both of them at the same time opened their mouths to speak to him. “No excuses,” said he, “no recriminations against anybody. If I had not been a false friend I should not have confided to any one the care of delivering Lyodot and D’Eymeris. I alone am guilty; to me alone are reproaches and remorse due. Leave me, abbe.”

“And yet, monsieur, you will not prevent me,” replied the latter, “from endeavoring to find out the miserable fellow who has intervened to the advantage of M. Colbert in this so well-arranged affair; for, if it is good policy to love our friends dearly, I do not believe that is bad which consists in obstinately pursuing our enemies.”

“A truce to policy, abbe; begone, I beg of you, and do not let me hear any more of you till I send for you; what we most need is circumspection and silence. You have a terrible example before you, gentlemen: no reprisals, I forbid them.”

“There are no orders,” grumbled the abbe, “which will prevent me from avenging a family affront upon the guilty person.”

“And I,” cried Fouquet, in that imperative tone to which one feels there is nothing to reply, “if you entertain one thought, one single thought, which is not the absolute expression of my will, I will have you cast into the Bastile two hours after that thought has manifested itself. Regulate your conduct accordingly, abbe.”

The abbe colored and bowed. Fouquet made a sign to Gourville to follow him, and was already directing his steps towards his cabinet, when the usher announced with a loud voice: “Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan.”

“Who is he?” said Fouquet, negligently, to Gourville.

“An ex-lieutenant of his majesty’s musketeers,” replied Gourville, in the same tone. Fouquet did not even take the trouble to reflect, and resumed his walk. “I beg your pardon, monseigneur!” said Gourville, “but I have remembered, this brave man has quitted the king’s service, and probably comes to receive an installment of some pension or other.”

“Devil take him!” said Fouquet, “why does he choose his opportunity so ill?”

“Permit me then, monseigneur, to announce your refusal to him; for he is one of my acquaintance, and is a man whom, in our present circumstances, it would be better to have as a friend than an enemy.”

“Answer him as you please,” said Fouquet.

“Eh! good Lord!” said the abbe, still full of malice, like an egotistical man; “tell him there is no money, particularly for musketeers.”

But scarcely had the abbe uttered this imprudent speech, when the partly open door was thrown back, and D’Artagnan appeared.

“Eh! Monsieur Fouquet,” said he, “I was well aware there was no money for musketeers here. Therefore I did not come to obtain any, but to have it refused. That being done, receive my thanks. I give you good-day, and will go and seek it at M. Colbert’s.” And he went out, making an easy bow.

“Gourville,” said Fouquet, “run after that man and bring him back.” Gourville obeyed, and overtook D’Artagnan on the stairs.

D’Artagnan, hearing steps behind him, turned round and perceived Gourville. “Mordioux! my dear monsieur,” said he, “these are sad lessons which you gentlemen of finance teach us; I come to M. Fouquet to receive a sum accorded by his majesty, and I am received like a mendicant who comes to ask charity, or a thief who comes to steal a piece of plate.”

“But you pronounced the name of M. Colbert, my dear M. d’Artagnan; you said you were going to M. Colbert’s?”

“I certainly am going there, were it only to ask satisfaction of the people who try to burn houses, crying ‘Vive Colbert!’”

Gourville pricked up his ears. “Oh, oh!” said he, “you allude to what has just happened at the Greve?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“And in what did that which has taken place concern you?”

“What! do you ask me whether it concerns me or does not concern me, if M. Colbert pleases to make a funeral-pile of my house?”

“So ho, your house--was it your house they wanted to burn?”

“Pardieu! was it!”

“Is the cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame yours, then?”

“It has been this week.”

“Well, then, are you the brave captain, are you the valiant blade who dispersed those who wished to burn the condemned?”

“My dear Monsieur Gourville, put yourself in my place. I was an agent of the public force and a landlord, too. As a captain, it is my duty to have the orders of the king accomplished. As a proprietor, it is to my interest my house should not be burnt. I have at the same time attended to the laws of interest and duty in replacing Messieurs Lyodot and D’Eymeris in the hands of the archers.”

“Then it was you who threw the man out of the window?”

“It was I, myself,” replied D’Artagnan, modestly

“And you who killed Menneville?”

“I had that misfortune,” said D’Artagnan, bowing like a man who is being congratulated.

“It was you, then, in short, who caused the two condemned persons to be hung?”

“Instead of being burnt, yes, monsieur, and I am proud of it. I saved the poor devils from horrible tortures. Understand, my dear Monsieur de Gourville, that they wanted to burn them alive. It exceeds imagination!”

“Go, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, go,” said Gourville, anxious to spare Fouquet the sight of the man who had just caused him such profound grief.

“No,” said Fouquet, who had heard all from the door of the ante-chamber; “not so; on the contrary, Monsieur d’Artagnan, come in.”

D’Artagnan wiped from the hilt of his sword a last bloody trace, which had escaped his notice, and returned. He then found himself face to face with these three men, whose countenances wore very different expressions. With the abbe it was anger, with Gourville stupor, with Fouquet it was dejection.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur le ministre,” said D’Artagnan, “but my time is short; I have to go to the office of the intendant, to have an explanation with Monsieur Colbert, and to receive my quarter’s pension.”

“But, monsieur,” said Fouquet, “there is money here.” D’Artagnan looked at the superintendent with astonishment. “You have been answered inconsiderately, monsieur, I know, because I heard it,” said the minister; “a man of your merit ought to be known by everybody.” D’Artagnan bowed. “Have you an order?” added Fouquet.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Give it me, I will pay you myself; come with me.” He made a sign to Gourville and the abbe, who remained in the chamber where they were. He led D’Artagnan into his cabinet. As soon as the door was shut,--“How much is due to you, monsieur?”

“Why, something like five thousand livres, monseigneur.”

“For arrears of pay?”

“For a quarter’s pay.”

“A quarter consisting of five thousand livres!” said Fouquet, fixing upon the musketeer a searching look. Does the king, then, give you twenty thousand livres a year?”

“Yes, monseigneur, twenty thousand livres a year. Do you think it is too much?”

“I?” cried Fouquet, and he smiled bitterly. “If I had any knowledge of mankind, if I were--instead of being a frivolous, inconsequent, and vain spirit--of a prudent and reflective spirit; if, in a word, I had, as certain persons have known how, regulated my life, you would not receive twenty thousand livres a year, but a hundred thousand, and you would not belong to the king, but to me.”

D’Artagnan colored slightly. There is sometimes in the manner in which a eulogium is given, in the voice, in the affectionate tone, a poison so sweet, that the strongest mind is intoxicated by it. The superintendent terminated his speech by opening a drawer, and taking from it four rouleaux which he placed before D’Artagnan. The Gascon opened one. “Gold!” said he.

“It will be less burdensome, monsieur.”

“But then, monsieur, these make twenty thousand livres.”

“No doubt they do.”

“But only five are due to me.”

“I wish to spare you the trouble of coming four times to my office.”

“You overwhelm me, monsieur.”

“I do only what I ought to do, monsieur le chevalier; and I hope you will not bear me any malice on account of the rude reception my brother gave you. He is of a sour, capricious disposition.”

“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “believe me, nothing would grieve me more than an excuse from you.”

“Therefore I will make no more, and will content myself with asking you a favor.”

“Oh, monsieur.”

Fouquet drew from his finger a ring worth about a thousand pistoles. “Monsieur,” said he, “this stone was given me by a friend of my childhood, by a man to whom you have rendered a great service.”

“A service--I?” said the musketeer, “I have rendered a service to one of your friends?”

“You cannot have forgotten it, monsieur, for it dates this very day.”

“And that friend’s name was----”

“M. d’Eymeris.”

“One of the condemned?”

“Yes, one of the victims. Well! Monsieur d’Artagnan, in return for the service you have rendered him, I beg you to accept this diamond. Do so for my sake.”

“Monsieur! you----”

“Accept it, I say. To-day is with me a day of mourning; hereafter you will, perhaps, learn why; to-day I have lost one friend; well, I will try to get another.”

“But, Monsieur Fouquet----”

“Adieu! Monsieur d’Artagnan, adieu!” cried Fouquet, with much emotion; “or rather, au revoir.” And the minister quitted the cabinet, leaving in the hands of the musketeer the ring and the twenty thousand livres.

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, after a moment’s dark reflection. “How on earth am I to understand what this means? Mordioux! I can understand this much, only: he is a gallant man! I will go and explain matters to M. Colbert.” And he went out.

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

M. Colbert resided in the Rue Neuve des Petits-Champs in a house which had belonged to Beautru. D’Artagnan’s legs cleared the distance in a short quarter of an hour. When he arrived at the residence of the new favorite, the court was full of archers and police, who came to congratulate him, or to excuse themselves according to whether he should choose to praise or blame. The sentiment of flattery is instinctive with people of abject condition; they have the sense of it, as the wild animal has that of hearing and smell. These people, or their leader, understood that there was a pleasure to offer to M. Colbert, in rendering him an account of the fashion in which his name had been pronounced during the rash enterprise of the morning. D’Artagnan made his appearance just as the chief of the watch was giving his report. He stood close to the door, behind the archers. That officer took Colbert on one side, in spite of his resistance and the contraction of his bushy eyebrows. “In case,” said he, “you really desired, monsieur, that the people should do justice on the two traitors, it would have been wise to warn us of it; for, indeed, monsieur, in spite of our regret at displeasing you, or thwarting your views, we had our orders to execute.”

“Triple fool!” replied Colbert, furiously shaking his hair, thick and black as a mane, “what are you telling me? What! that I could have had an idea of a riot! Are you mad or drunk?”

“But, monsieur, they cried, ‘Vive Colbert!’” replied the trembling watch.

“A handful of conspirators----”

“No, no; a mass of people.”

“Ah! indeed,” said Colbert, expanding. “A mass of people cried, ‘Vive Colbert!’ Are you certain of what you say, monsieur?”

“We had nothing to do but open our ears, or rather to close them, so terrible were the cries.”

“And this was from the people, the real people?”

“Certainly, monsieur; only these real people beat us.”

“Oh! very well,” continued Colbert, thoughtfully. “Then you suppose it was the people alone who wished to burn the condemned?”

“Oh! yes, monsieur.”

“That is quite another thing. You strongly resisted, then?”

“We had three of our men crushed to death, monsieur!”

“But you killed nobody yourselves?”

“Monsieur, a few of the rioters were left upon the square, and one among them who was not a common man.”

“Who was he?”

“A certain Menneville, upon whom the police have a long time had an eye.”

“Menneville!” cried Colbert, “what, he who killed Rue de la Huchette, a worthy man who wanted a fat fowl?”

“Yes, monsieur; the same.”

“And did this Menneville also cry, ‘Vive Colbert’?”

“Louder than all the rest, like a madman.”

Colbert’s brow grew dark and wrinkled. A kind of ambitious glory which had lighted his face was extinguished, like the light of glow-worms we crush beneath the grass. “Then you say,” resumed the deceived intendant, “that the initiative came from the people? Menneville was my enemy, I would have had him hung, and he knew it well. Menneville belonged to the Abbe Fouquet--the affair originated with Fouquet; does not everybody know that the condemned were his friends from childhood?”

“That is true,” thought D’Artagnan, “and thus are all my doubts cleared up. I repeat it, Monsieur Fouquet many be called what they please, but he is a very gentlemanly man;”

“And,” continued Colbert, “are you quite sure Menneville is dead?”

D’Artagnan thought the time was come for him to make his appearance. “Perfectly, monsieur;” replied he, advancing suddenly.

“Oh! is that you, monsieur?” said Colbert.

“In person,” replied the musketeer with his deliberate tone; “it appears that you had in Menneville a pretty enemy.”

“It was not I, monsieur, who had an enemy,” replied Colbert; “it was the king.”

“Double brute!” thought D’Artagnan, “to think to play the great man and the hypocrite with me. Well,” continued he to Colbert, “I am very happy to have rendered so good a service to the king; will you take upon you to tell his majesty, monsieur l’intendant?”

“What commission is this you give me, and what do you charge me to tell his majesty, monsieur? Be precise, if you please,” said Colbert, in a sharp voice, tuned beforehand to hostility.

“I give you no commission,” replied D’Artagnan, with that calmness which never abandons the banterer; “I thought it would be easy for you to announce to his majesty that it was I who, being there by chance, did justice upon Menneville and restored things to order.”

Colbert opened his eyes and interrogated the chief of the watch with a look--“Ah! it is very true,” said the latter, “that this gentleman saved us.”

“Why did you not tell me monsieur, that you came to relate me this?” said Colbert with envy, “everything is explained, and more favorably for you than for anybody else.”

“You are in error, monsieur l’intendant, I did not at all come for the purpose of relating that to you.”

“It is an exploit, nevertheless.”

“Oh!” said the musketeer carelessly, “constant habit blunts the mind.”

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, then?”

“Simply to this: the king ordered me to come to you.”

“Ah!” said Colbert, recovering himself when he saw D’Artagnan draw a paper from his pocket; “it is to demand some money of me?”

“Precisely, monsieur.’

“Have the goodness to wait, if you please, monsieur, till I have dispatched the report of the watch.”

D’Artagnan turned upon his heel, insolently enough, and finding himself face to face with Colbert, after his first turn, he bowed to him as a harlequin would have done; then, after a second evolution, he directed his steps towards the door in quick time. Colbert was struck with this pointed rudeness, to which he was not accustomed. In general, men of the sword, when they came to his office, had such a want of money, that though their feet seemed to take root in the marble, they hardly lost their patience. Was D’Artagnan going straight to the king? Would he go and describe his rough reception, or recount his exploit? This was a matter for grave consideration. At all events, the moment was badly chosen to send D’Artagnan away, whether he came from the king, or on his own account. The musketeer had rendered too great a service, and that too recently, for it to be already forgotten. Therefore Colbert thought it would be better to shake off his arrogance and call D’Artagnan back. “Ho! Monsieur d’Artagnan,” cried Colbert, “what! are you leaving me thus?”

D’Artagnan turned round: “Why not?” said he, quietly, “we have no more to say to each other, have we?”

“You have, at least, money to receive, as you have an order?”

“Who, I? Oh! not at all, my dear Monsieur Colbert.”

“But, monsieur, you have an order. And, in the same manner as you give a sword-thrust, when you are required, I, on my part, pay when an order is presented to me. Present yours.”

“It is useless, my dear Monsieur Colbert,” said D’Artagnan, who inwardly enjoyed this confusion in the ideas of Colbert; “my order is paid.”

“Paid, by whom?”

“By monsieur le surintendant.”

Colbert grew pale.

“Explain yourself,” said he, in a stifled voice--“if you are paid why do you show me that paper?”

“In consequence of the word of order of which you spoke to me so ingeniously just now, dear M. Colbert; the king told me to take a quarter of the pension he is pleased to make me.”

“Of me?” said Colbert.

“Not exactly. The king said to me: ‘Go to M. Fouquet; the superintendent will, perhaps, have no money, then you will go and draw it of M. Colbert.’”

The countenance of M. Colbert brightened for a moment; but it was with his unfortunate physiognomy as with a stormy sky, sometimes radiant, sometimes dark as night, according as the lightning gleams or the cloud passes. “Eh! and was there any money in the superintendent’s coffers?” asked he.

“Why, yes, he could not be badly off for money,” replied D’Artagnan--“it may be believed, since M. Fouquet, instead of paying me a quarter or five thousand livres----”

“A quarter or five thousand livres!” cried Colbert, struck, as Fouquet had been, with the generosity of the sum for a soldier’s pension, “why, that would be a pension of twenty thousand livres?”

“Exactly, M. Colbert. Peste! you reckon like old Pythagoras; yes, twenty thousand livres.”

“Ten times the appointment of an intendant of the finances. I beg to offer you my compliments,” said Colbert, with a vicious smile.

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “the king apologized for giving me so little; but he promised to make it more hereafter, when he should be rich; but I must be gone, having much to do----”

“So, then, notwithstanding the expectation of the king, the superintendent paid you, did he?”

“In the same manner as, in opposition to the king’s expectation, you refused to pay me.”

“I did not refuse, monsieur, I only begged you to wait. And you say that M. Fouquet paid you your five thousand livres?”

“Yes, as you might have done; but he did even better than that, M. Colbert.”

“And what did he do?”

“He politely counted me down the sum-total, saying, that for the king, his coffers were always full.”

“The sum-total! M. Fouquet has given you twenty thousand livres instead of five thousand?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“And what for?”

“In order to spare me three visits to the money-chest of the superintendent, so that I have the twenty thousand livres in my pocket in good new coin. You see, then, that I am able to go away without standing in need of you, having come here only for form’s sake.” And D’Artagnan slapped his hand upon his pocket, with a laugh which disclosed to Colbert thirty-two magnificent teeth, as white as teeth of twenty-five years old and which seemed to say in their language: “Serve up to us thirty-two little Colberts, and we will chew them willingly.” The serpent is as brave as the lion, the hawk as courageous as the eagle, that cannot be contested. It can only be said of animals that are decidedly cowardly, and are so called, that they will be brave only when they have to defend themselves. Colbert was not frightened at the thirty-two teeth of D’Artagnan. He recovered, and suddenly,--“Monsieur,” said he, “monsieur le surintendant has done what he had no right to do.”

“What do you mean by that?” replied D’Artagnan.

“I mean that your note--will you let me see your note, if you please?”

“Very willingly; here it is.”

Colbert seized the paper with an eagerness which the musketeer did not remark without uneasiness, and particularly without a certain degree of regret at having trusted him with it. “Well, monsieur, the royal order says this:--‘At sight, I command that there be paid to M. d’Artagnan the sum of five thousand livres, forming a quarter of the pension I have made him.’”

“So, in fact, it is written,” said D’Artagnan, affecting calmness.

“Very well; the king only owed you five thousand livres; why has more been given to you?”

“Because there was more; and M. Fouquet was willing to give me more; that does not concern anybody.”

“It is natural,” said Colbert, with a proud ease, “that you should be ignorant of the usages of state-finance; but, monsieur, when you have a thousand livres to pay, what do you do?”

“I never have a thousand livres to pay,” replied D’Artagnan.

“Once more,” said Colbert, irritated--“once more, if you had any sum to pay, would you not pay what you ought?”

“That only proves one thing,” said D’Artagnan; “and that is, that you have your particular customs in finance, and M. Fouquet has his own.”

“Mine, monsieur, are the correct ones.”

“I do not say they are not.”

“And you have accepted what was not due to you.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes flashed. “What is not due to me yet, you meant to say, M. Colbert; for if I had received what was not due to me at all, I should have committed a theft.”

Colbert made no reply to this subtlety. “You then owe fifteen thousand livres to the public chest,” said he, carried away by his jealous ardor.

“Then you must give me credit for them,” replied D’Artagnan, with his imperceptible irony.

“Not at all, monsieur.”

“Well! what will you do, then? You will not take my rouleaux from me, will you?”

“You must return them to my chest.”

“I! Oh! Monsieur Colbert, don’t reckon upon that.”

“The king wants his money, monsieur.”

“And I, monsieur, I want the king’s money.”

“That may be but you must return this.”

“Not a sou. I have always understood that in matters of comptabilite, as you call it, a good cashier never gives back or takes back.”

“Then, monsieur, we shall see what the king will say about it. I will show him this note, which proves that M. Fouquet not only pays what he does not owe, but that he does not even take care of vouchers for the sums that he has paid.”

“Ah! now I understand why you have taken that paper, M. Colbert!”

Colbert did not perceive all that there was of a threatening character in his name pronounced in a certain manner. “You shall see hereafter what use I will make of it,” said he, holding up the paper in his fingers.

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, snatching the paper from him with a rapid movement; “I understand it perfectly well, M. Colbert; I have no occasion to wait for that.” And he crumpled up in his pocket the paper he had so cleverly seized.

“Monsieur, monsieur!” cried Colbert, “this is violence!”

“Nonsense! You must not be particular about a soldier’s manners!” replied D’Artagnan. “I kiss your hands, my dear M. Colbert.” And he went out, laughing in the face of the future minister.

“That man, now,” muttered he, “was about to grow quite friendly; it is a great pity I was obliged to cut his company so soon.”

Philosophy of the Heart and Mind

For a man who had seen so many much more dangerous ones, the position of D’Artagnan with respect to M. Colbert was only comic. D’Artagnan, therefore, did not deny himself the satisfaction of laughing at the expense of monsieur l’intendant, from the Rue des Petits-Champs to the Rue des Lombards. It was a great while since D’Artagnan had laughed so long together. He was still laughing when Planchet appeared, laughing likewise, at the door of his house; for Planchet, since the return of his patron, since the entrance of the English guineas, passed the greater part of his life in doing what D’Artagnan had only done from Rue-Neuve des Petits-Champs to the Rue des Lombards.

“You are home, then, my dear master?” said Planchet.

“No, my friend,” replied the musketeer, “I am off and that quickly. I will sup with you, go to bed, sleep five hours, and at break of day leap into my saddle. Has my horse had an extra feed?”

“Eh! my dear master,” replied Planchet, “you know very well that your horse is the jewel of the family; that my lads are caressing it all day, and cramming it with sugar, nuts, and biscuits. You ask me if he has had an extra feed of oats; you should ask if he has not had enough to burst him.”

“Very well, Planchet, that is all right. Now, then, I pass to what concerns me--my supper?”

“Ready. A smoking roast joint, white wine, crayfish and fresh-gathered cherries. All ready, my master.”

“You are a capital fellow, Planchet; come on, then, let us sup, and I will go to bed.”

During supper D’Artagnan observed that Planchet kept rubbing his forehead, as if to facilitate the issue of some idea closely pent within his brain. He looked with an air of kindness at this worthy companion of former adventures and misadventures, and, clinking glass against glass, “Come, Planchet,” said he, “let us see what it is that gives you so much trouble to bring forth. Mordioux! Speak freely, and quickly.”

“Well, this is it,” replied Planchet: “you appear to me to be going on some expedition or other.”

“I don’t say that I am not.”

“Then you have some new idea?”

“That is possible, too, Planchet.”

“Then there will be fresh capital to be ventured? I will lay down fifty thousand livres upon the idea you are about to carry out.” And so saying, Planchet rubbed his hands one against the other with a rapidity evincing great delight.

“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “there is but one misfortune in it.”

“And what is that?”

“That the idea is not mine. I can risk nothing upon it.”

These words drew a deep sigh from the heart of Planchet. That Avarice is an ardent counselor; she carries away her man, as Satan did Jesus, to the mountain, and when once she has shown to an unfortunate all the kingdoms of the earth, she is able to repose herself, knowing full well that she has left her companion, Envy, to gnaw his heart. Planchet had tasted of riches easily acquired, and was never afterwards likely to stop in his desires; but, as he had a good heart in spite of his covetousness, as he adored D’Artagnan, he could not refrain from making him a thousand recommendations, each more affectionate than the others. He would not have been sorry, nevertheless, to have caught a little hint of the secret his master concealed so well; tricks, turns, counsels and traps were all useless, D’Artagnan let nothing confidential escape him. The evening passed thus. After supper the portmanteau occupied D’Artagnan, he took a turn to the stable, patted his horse, and examined his shoes and legs, then, having counted over his money, he went to bed, sleeping as if only twenty, because he had neither inquietude nor remorse; he closed his eyes five minutes after he had blown out his lamp. Many events might, however, have kept him awake. Thought boiled in his brain, conjectures abounded, and D’Artagnan was a great drawer of horoscopes; but, with that imperturbable phlegm which does more than genius for the fortune and happiness of men of action, he put off reflection till the next day, for fear, he said, not to be fresh when he wanted to be so.

The day came. The Rue des Lombards had its share of the caresses of Aurora with the rosy fingers, and D’Artagnan arose like Aurora. He did not awaken anybody, he placed his portmanteau under his arm, descended the stairs without making one of them creak and without disturbing one of the sonorous snorings in every story from the garret to the cellar, then, having saddled his horse, shut the stable and house doors, he set off, at a foot-pace, on his expedition to Bretagne. He had done quite right not to trouble himself with all the political and diplomatic affairs which solicited his attention; for, in the morning, in freshness and mild twilight, his ideas developed themselves in purity and abundance. In the first place, he passed before the house of Fouquet, and threw in a large gaping box the fortunate order which, the evening before, he had had so much trouble to recover from the hooked fingers of the intendant. Placed in an envelope, and addressed to Fouquet, it had not even been divined by Planchet, who in divination was equal to Calchas or the Pythian Apollo. D’Artagnan thus sent back the order to Fouquet, without compromising himself, and without having thenceforward any reproaches to make himself. When he had effected this proper restitution, “Now,” said he to himself, “let us inhale much maternal air, much freedom from cares, much health, let us allow the horse Zephyr, whose flanks puff as if he had to respire an atmosphere to breathe, and let us be very ingenious in our little calculations. It is time,” said D’Artagnan, “to form a plan of the campaign, and, according to the method of M. Turenne, who has a large head full of all sorts of good counsels, before the plan of the campaign it is advisable to draw a striking portrait of the generals to whom we are opposed. In the first place, M. Fouquet presents himself. What is M. Fouquet? M. Fouquet,” replied D’Artagnan to himself, “is a handsome man, very much beloved by the women, a generous man very much beloved by the poets; a man of wit, much execrated by pretenders. Well, now I am neither woman, poet, nor pretender: I neither love nor hate monsieur le surintendant. I find myself, therefore, in the same position in which M. de Turenne found himself when opposed to the Prince de Conde at Jargeau, Gien and the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. He did not execrate monsieur le prince, it is true, but he obeyed the king. Monsieur le prince is an agreeable man, but the king is king. Turenne heaved a deep sigh, called Conde ‘My cousin,’ and swept away his army. Now what does the king wish? That does not concern me. Now, what does M. Colbert wish? Oh, that’s another thing. M. Colbert wishes all that M. Fouquet does not wish. Then what does M. Fouquet wish? Oh, that is serious. M. Fouquet wishes precisely for all which the king wishes.”

This monologue ended, D’Artagnan began to laugh, whilst making his whip whistle in the air. He was already on the high road, frightening the birds in the hedges, listening to the livres chinking and dancing in his leather pocket, at every step; and, let us confess it, every time that D’Artagnan found himself in such conditions tenderness was not his dominant vice. “Come,” said he, “I cannot think the expedition a very dangerous one; and it will fall out with my voyage as with that piece M. Monk took me to see in London, which was called, I think, ‘Much Ado about Nothing.’”

The Journey

It was perhaps the fiftieth time since the day on which we open this history, that this man. with a heart of bronze and muscles of steel, had left house and friends, everything, in short, to go in search of fortune and death. The one--that is to say. death--had constantly retreated before him, as if afraid of him; the other--that is to say, fortune--for a month past only had really made an alliance with him. Although he was not a great philosopher, after the fashion of either Epicurus or Socrates, he was a powerful spirit, having knowledge of life, and endowed with thought. No one is as brave, as adventurous, or as skillful as D’Artagnan, without being at the same time inclined to be a dreamer. He had picked up, here and there, some scraps of M. de la Rochefoucauld, worthy of being translated into Latin by MM. de Port Royal, and he had made a collection, en passant, in the society of Athos and Aramis, of many morsels of Seneca and Cicero, translated by them, and applied to the uses of common life. That contempt of riches which our Gascon had observed as an article of faith during the thirty-five first years of his life, had for a long time been considered by him as the first article of the code of bravery. “Article first,” said he, “A man is brave because he has nothing. A man has nothing because he despises riches.” Therefore, with these principles, which, as we have said had regulated the thirty-five first years of his life, D’Artagnan was no sooner possessed of riches, than he felt it necessary to ask himself if, in spite of his riches, he were still brave. To this, for any other but D’Artagnan, the events of the Place de Greve might have served as a reply. Many consciences would have been satisfied with them, but D’Artagnan was brave enough to ask himself sincerely and conscientiously if he were brave. Therefore to this:--

“But it appears to me that I drew promptly enough and cut and thrust pretty freely on the Place de Greve to be satisfied of my bravery,” D’Artagnan had himself replied. “Gently, captain, that is not an answer. I was brave that day, because they were burning my house, and there are a hundred, and even a thousand, to speak against one, that if those gentlemen of the riots had not formed that unlucky idea, their plan of attack would have succeeded, or, at least, it would not have been I who would have opposed myself to it. Now, what will be brought against me? I have no house to be burnt in Bretagne; I have no treasure there that can be taken from me.--No; but I have my skin; that precious skin of M. d’Artagnan, which to him is worth more than all the houses and all the treasures of the world. That skin to which I cling above everything, because it is, everything considered, the binding of a body which encloses a heart very warm and ready to fight, and, consequently, to live. Then, I do desire to live; and, in reality, I live much better, more completely, since I have become rich. Who the devil ever said that money spoiled life! Upon my soul, it is no such thing; on the contrary, it seems as if I absorbed a double quantity of air and sun. Mordioux! what will it be then, if I double that fortune, and if, instead of the switch I now hold in my hand, I should ever carry the baton of a marechal? Then I really don’t know if there will be, from that moment enough of air and sun for me. In fact, this is not a dream, who the devil would oppose it, if the king made me a marechal, as his father, King Louis XIII., made a duke and constable of Albert de Luynes? Am I not as brave, and much more intelligent, than that imbecile De Vitry? Ah! that’s exactly what will prevent my advancement: I have too much wit. Luckily, if there is any justice in this world, fortune owes me many compensations. She owes me certainly a recompense for all I did for Anne of Austria, and an indemnification for all she has not done for me. Then, at the present, I am very well with a king, and with a king who has the appearance of determining to reign. May God keep him in that illustrious road! For, if he is resolved to reign he will want me; and if he wants me, he will give me what he has promised me--warmth and light; so that I march, comparatively, now, as I marched formerly,--from nothing to everything. Only the nothing of to-day is the all of former days; there has only this little change taken place in my life. And now let us see! let us take the part of the heart, as I just now was speaking of it. But in truth, I only spoke of it from memory.” And the Gascon applied his hand to his breast, as if he were actually seeking the place where his heart was.

“Ah! wretch!” murmured he, smiling with bitterness. “Ah! poor mortal species! You hoped, for an instant, that you had not a heart, and now you find you have one--bad courtier as thou art,--and even one of the most seditious. You have a heart which speaks to you in favor of M. Fouquet. And what is M. Fouquet, when the king is in question?--A conspirator, a real conspirator, who did not even give himself the trouble to conceal his being a conspirator; therefore, what a weapon would you not have against him, if his good grace and his intelligence had not made a scabbard for that weapon. An armed revolt!--for, in fact, M. Fouquet has been guilty of an armed revolt. Thus, while the king vaguely suspects M. Fouquet of rebellion, I know it--I could prove that M. Fouquet had caused the shedding of the blood of his majesty’s subjects. Now, then, let us see? Knowing all that, and holding my tongue, what further would this heart wish in return for a kind action of M. Fouquet’s, for an advance of fifteen thousand livres, for a diamond worth a thousand pistoles, for a smile in which there was as much bitterness as kindness?--I save his life.”

“Now, then, I hope,” continued the musketeer, “that this imbecile of a heart is going to preserve silence, and so be fairly quits with M. Fouquet. Now, then, the king becomes my sun, and as my heart is quits with M. Fouquet, let him beware who places himself between me and my sun! Forward, for his majesty Louis XIV.!--Forward!”

These reflections were the only impediments which were able to retard the progress of D’Artagnan. These reflections once made, he increased the speed of his horse. But, however perfect his horse Zephyr might be, it could not hold out at such a pace forever. The day after his departure from Paris, he was left at Chartres, at the house of an old friend D’Artagnan had met with in an hotelier of that city. From that moment the musketeer travelled on post-horses. Thanks to this mode of locomotion, he traversed the space separating Chartres from Chateaubriand. In the last of these two cities, far enough from the coast to prevent any one guessing that D’Artagnan wished to reach the sea--far enough from Paris to prevent all suspicion of his being a messenger from Louis XIV., whom D’Artagnan had called his sun, without suspecting that he who was only at present a rather poor star in the heaven of royalty, would, one day, make that star his emblem; the messenger of Louis XIV., we say, quitted the post and purchased a bidet of the meanest appearance,--one of those animals which an officer of cavalry would never choose, for fear of being disgraced. Excepting the color, this new acquisition recalled to the mind of D’Artagnan the famous orange-colored horse, with which, or rather upon which, he had made his first appearance in the world. Truth to say, from the moment he crossed this new steed, it was no longer D’Artagnan who was travelling,--it was a good man clothed in an iron-gray justaucorps, brown haut-de-chausses, holding the medium between a priest and a layman; that which brought him nearest to the churchman was, that D’Artagnan had placed on his head a calotte of threadbare velvet, and over the calotte, a large black hat; no more sword, a stick, hung by a cord to his wrist, but to which, he promised himself, as an unexpected auxiliary, to join, upon occasion, a good dagger, ten inches long, concealed under his cloak. The bidet purchased at Chateaubriand completed the metamorphosis; it was called, or rather D’Artagnan called it, Furet (ferret).

“If I have changed Zephyr into Furet,” said D’Artagnan, “I must make some diminutive or other of my own name. So, instead of D’Artagnan, I will be Agnan, short; that is a concession which I naturally owe to my gray coat, my round hat, and my rusty calotte.”

Monsieur D’Artagnan traveled, then, pretty easily upon Furet, who ambled like a true butter-woman’s pad, and who, with his amble, managed cheerfully about twelve leagues a day, upon four spindle-shanks, of which the practiced eye of D’Artagnan had appreciated the strength and safety beneath the thick mass of hair which covered them. Jogging along, the traveler took notes, studied the country, which he traversed reserved and silent, ever seeking the most plausible pretext for reaching Belle-Isle-en-Mer, and for seeing everything without arousing suspicion. In this manner, he was enabled to convince himself of the importance the event assumed in proportion as he drew near to it. In this remote country, in this ancient duchy of Bretagne, which was not France at that period, and is not so even now, the people knew nothing of the king of France. They not only did not know him, but were unwilling to know him. One face--a single one--floated visibly for them upon the political current. Their ancient dukes no longer ruled them; government was a void--nothing more. In place of the sovereign duke, the seigneurs of parishes reigned without control; and, above these seigneurs, God, who has never been forgotten in Bretagne. Among these suzerains of chateaux and belfries, the most powerful, the richest, and the most popular, was M. Fouquet, seigneur of Belle-Isle. Even in the country, even within sight of that mysterious isle, legends and traditions consecrate its wonders. Every one might not penetrate it: the isle, of an extent of six leagues in length, and six in breadth, was a seignorial property, which the people had for a long time respected, covered as it was with the name of Retz, so redoubtable in the country. Shortly after the erection of this seignory into a marquisate, Belle-Isle passed to M. Fouquet. The celebrity of the isle did not date from yesterday; its name, or rather its qualification, is traced back to the remotest antiquity. The ancients called it Kalonese, from two Greek words, signifying beautiful isle. Thus at a distance of eighteen hundred years, it had borne, in another idiom, the same name it still bears. There was, then, something in itself in this property of M. Fouquet’s, besides its position of six leagues off the coast of France; a position which makes it a sovereign in its maritime solitude, like a majestic ship which disdains roads, and proudly casts anchor in mid-ocean.

D’Artagnan learnt all this without appearing the least in the world astonished. He also learnt that the best way to get intelligence was to go to La Roche-Bernard, a tolerably important city at the mouth of the Vilaine. Perhaps there he could embark; if not, crossing the salt marshes, he would repair to Guerande-en-Croisic, to wait for an opportunity to cross over to Belle-Isle. He had discovered, besides, since his departure from Chateaubriand, that nothing would be impossible for Furet under the impulsion of M. Agnan, and nothing to M. Agnan through the initiative of Furet. He prepared, then, to sup off a teal and a tourteau, in a hotel of La Roche-Bernard, and ordered to be brought from the cellar, to wash down these two Breton dishes, some cider, which, the moment it touched his lips, he perceived to be more Breton still.

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

Before taking his place at table, D’Artagnan acquired, as was his custom, all the information he could; but it is an axiom of curiosity, that every man who wishes to question well and fruitfully ought in the first place to lay himself open to questions. D’Artagnan sought, then, with his usual skill, a promising questioner in the hostelry of La Roche-Bernard. At the moment, there were in the house, on the first story, two travelers either preparing for supper, or at supper itself. D’Artagnan had seen their nags in the stable, and their equipages in the salle. One traveled with a lackey, undoubtedly a person of consideration;--two Perche mares, sleek, sound beasts, were suitable means of locomotion. The other, a little fellow, a traveler of meagre appearance, wearing a dusty surtout, dirty linen, and boots more worn by the pavement than the stirrup, had come from Nantes with a cart drawn by a horse so like Furet in color, that D’Artagnan might have gone a hundred miles without finding a better match. This cart contained divers large packets wrapped in pieces of old stuff.

“That traveler yonder,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “is the man for my money. He will do, he suits me; I ought to do for and suit him; M. Agnan, with the gray doublet and the rusty calotte, is not unworthy of supping with the gentleman of the old boots and still older horse.”

This said, D’Artagnan called the host, and desired him to send his teal, tourteau, and cider up to the chamber of the gentleman of modest exterior. He himself climbed, a plate in his hand, the wooden staircase which led to the chamber, and began to knock at the door.

“Come in!” said the unknown. D’Artagnan entered, with a simper on his lips, his plate under his arm, his hat in one hand, his candle in the other.

“Excuse me, monsieur,” said he, “I am, as you are, a traveler; I know no one in the hotel, and I have the bad habit of losing my spirits when I eat alone, so that my repast appears a bad one to me, and does not nourish me. Your face, which I saw just now, when you came down to have some oysters opened,--your face pleased me much. Besides, I have observed you have a horse just like mine, and that the host, no doubt on account of that resemblance, has placed them side by side in the stable, where they appear to agree amazingly well together. I therefore, monsieur, do not see any reason why the masters should be separated when the horses are united. Accordingly, I am come to request the pleasure of being admitted to your table. My name is Agnan, at your service, monsieur, the unworthy steward of a rich seigneur, who wishes to purchase some salt-mines in this country, and sends me to examine his future acquisitions. In truth, monsieur, I should be well pleased if my countenance were as agreeable to you as yours is to me; for, upon my honor, I am quite at your service.”

The stranger, whom D’Artagnan saw for the first time--for before he had only caught a glimpse of him,--the stranger had black and brilliant eyes, a yellow complexion, a brow a little wrinkled by the weight of fifty years, bonhomie in his features collectively, but some cunning in his look.

“One would say,” thought D’Artagnan, “that this merry fellow has never exercised more than the upper part of his head, his eyes, and his brain. He must be a man of science: his mouth, nose, and chin signify absolutely nothing.”

“Monsieur,” replied the latter, with whose mind and person we have been making so free, “you do me much honor; not that I am ever ennuye, for I have,” added he, smiling, “a company which amuses me always; but never mind that, I am very happy to receive you.” But when saying this, the man with the worn boots cast an uneasy look at his table, from which the oysters had disappeared, and upon which there was nothing left but a morsel of salt bacon.

“Monsieur,” D’Artagnan hastened to say, “the host is bringing me up a pretty piece of roasted poultry and a superb tourteau.” D’Artagnan had read in the look of his companion, however rapid it disappeared, the fear of an attack by a parasite: he divined justly. At this opening, the features of the man of modest exterior relaxed; and, as if he had watched the moment for his entrance, as D’Artagnan spoke, the host appeared, bearing the announced dishes. The tourteau and the teal were added to the morsel of broiled bacon; D’Artagnan and his guest bowed, sat down opposite to each other, and, like two brothers, shared the bacon and the other dishes.

“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “you must confess that association is a wonderful thing.”

“How so?” replied the stranger, with his mouth full.

“Well, I will tell you,” replied D’Artagnan.

The stranger gave a short truce to the movement of his jaws, in order to hear the better.

“In the first place,” continued D’Artagnan, “instead of one candle, which each of us had, we have two.”

“That is true!” said the stranger, struck with the extreme lucidity of the observation.

“Then I see that you eat my tourteau in preference, whilst I, in preference, eat your bacon.”

“That is true again.”

“And then, in addition to being better lighted and eating what we prefer, I place the pleasure of your company.”

“Truly, monsieur, you are very jovial,” said the unknown, cheerfully.

“Yes, monsieur; jovial, as all people are who carry nothing on their minds, or, for that matter, in their heads. Oh! I can see it is quite another sort of thing with you,” continued D’Artagnan; “I can read in your eyes all sorts of genius.”

“Oh, monsieur!”

“Come, confess one thing.”

“What is that?”

“That you are a learned man.”

“Ma foi! monsieur.”

“Hein?”

“Almost.”

“Come, then!”

“I am an author.”

“There!” cried D’Artagnan, clapping his hands, “I knew I could not be deceived! It is a miracle!”

“Monsieur----”

“What, shall I have the honor of passing the evening in the society of an author, of a celebrated author perhaps?”

“Oh!” said the unknown, blushing, “celebrated, monsieur, celebrated is not the word.”

“Modest!” cried D’Artagnan, transported, “he is modest!” Then, turning towards the stranger, with a character of blunt bonhomie: “But tell me at least the name of your works, monsieur; for you will please to observe you have not told me your name, and I have been forced to divine your genius.”

“My name is Jupenet, monsieur,” said the author.

“A fine name! a grand name! upon my honor; and I do not know why--pardon me the mistake, if it be one--but surely I have heard that name somewhere.”

“I have made verses,” said the poet modestly.

“Ah! that is it, then, I have heard them read.”

“A tragedy.”

“I must have seen it played.”

The poet blushed again, and said: “I do not think that can be the case, for my verses have never been printed.”

“Well, then, it must have been the tragedy which informed me of your name.”

“You are again mistaken, for MM. the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne, would have nothing to do with it,” said the poet, with a smile, the receipt for which certain sorts of pride alone knew the secret. D’Artagnan bit his lips. “Thus, then, you see, monsieur,” continued the poet, “you are in error on my account, and that not being at all known to you, you have never heard tell of me.”

“Ah! that confounds me. That name, Jupenet, appears to me, nevertheless, a fine name, and quite as worthy of being known as those of MM. Corneille, or Rotrou, or Garnier. I hope, monsieur, you will have the goodness to repeat to me a part of your tragedy presently, by way of dessert, for instance. That will be sugared roast meat,--mordioux! Ah! pardon me, monsieur, that was a little oath which escaped me, because it is a habit with my lord and master. I sometimes allow myself to usurp that little oath, as it seems in pretty good taste. I take this liberty only in his absence, please to observe, for you may understand that in his presence--but, in truth, monsieur, this cider is abominable; do you not think so? And besides, the pot is of such an irregular shape it will not stand on the table.”

“Suppose we were to make it level?”

“To be sure; but with what?”

“With this knife.”

“And the teal, with what shall we cut that up? Do you not, by chance, mean to touch the teal?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then----”

“Wait.”

And the poet rummaged in his pocket, and drew out a piece of brass, oblong, quadrangular, about a line in thickness, and an inch and a half in length. But scarcely had this little piece of brass seen the light, than the poet appeared to have committed an imprudence, and made a movement to put it back again in his pocket. D’Artagnan perceived this, for he was a man that nothing escaped. He stretched forth his hand towards the piece of brass: “Humph! that which you hold in your hand is pretty; will you allow me to look at it?”

“Certainly,” said the poet, who appeared to have yielded too soon to a first impulse. “Certainly, you may look at it: but it will be in vain for you to look at it,” added he, with a satisfied air; “if I were not to tell you its use, you would never guess it.”

D’Artagnan had seized as an avowal the hesitation of the poet, and his eagerness to conceal the piece of brass which a first movement had induced him to take out of his pocket. His attention, therefore, once awakened on this point, he surrounded himself with a circumspection which gave him a superiority on all occasions. Besides, whatever M. Jupenet might say about it, by a simple inspection of the object, he perfectly well knew what it was. It was a character in printing.

“Can you guess, now, what this is?” continued the poet.

“No,” said D’Artagnan, “no, ma foi!”

“Well, monsieur,” said M. Jupenet, “this little piece of metal is a printing letter.”

“Bah!

“A capital.”

“Stop, stop, stop;” said D’Artagnan, opening his eyes very innocently.

“Yes, monsieur, a capital; the first letter of my name.”

“And this is a letter, is it?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Well, I will confess one thing to you.

“And what is that?”

“No, I will not, I was going to say something stupid.”

“No, no,” said Master Jupenet, with a patronizing air.

“Well then, I cannot comprehend, if that is a letter, how you can make a word.”

“A word?”

“Yes, a printed word.”

“Oh, that’s very easy.”

“Let me see.”

“Does it interest you?”

“Enormously.”

“Well, I will explain the thing to you. Attend.”

“I am attending.”

“That is it.”

“Good.”

“Look attentively.”

“I am looking.” D’Artagnan, in fact, appeared absorbed in observations. Jupenet drew from his pocket seven or eight other pieces of brass smaller than the first.

“Ah, ah,” said D’Artagnan.

“What!”

“You have, then, a whole printing-office in your pocket. Peste! that is curious, indeed.”

“Is it not?”

“Good God, what a number of things we learn by traveling.”

“To your health!” said Jupenet, quite enchanted.

“To yours, mordioux, to yours. But--an instant--not in this cider. It is an abominable drink, unworthy of a man who quenches his thirst at the Hippocrene fountain--is not it so you call your fountain, you poets?”

“Yes, monsieur, our fountain is so called. That comes from two Greek words--hippos, which means a horse, and----”

“Monsieur,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you shall drink of a liquor which comes from one single French word, and is none the worse for that--from the word grape; this cider gives me the heartburn. Allow me to inquire of your host if there is not a good bottle of Beaugency, or of the Ceran growth, at the back of the large bins in his cellar.”

The host, being sent for, immediately attended.

“Monsieur,” interrupted the poet, “take care, we shall not have time to drink the wine, unless we make great haste, for I must take advantage of the tide to secure the boat.”

“What boat?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Why the boat which sets out for Belle-Isle!”

“Ah--for Belle-Isle,” said the musketeer, “that is good.”

“Bah! you will have plenty of time, monsieur,” replied the hotelier, uncorking the bottle, “the boat will not leave this hour.”

“But who will give me notice?” said the poet.

“Your fellow-traveler,” replied the host.

“But I scarcely know him.”

“When you hear him departing, it will be time for you to go.”

“Is he going to Belle-Isle, likewise, then?”

“The traveler who has a lackey?” asked D’Artagnan. “He is some gentleman, no doubt?”

“I know nothing of him.”

“What!--know nothing of him?”

“No, all I know is, that he is drinking the same wine as you.”

“Peste!--that is a great honor for us,” said D’Artagnan, filling his companion’s glass, whilst the host went out.

“So,” resumed the poet, returning to his dominant ideas, “you never saw any printing done?”

“Never.”

“Well, then, take the letters thus, which compose the word, you see: A B; ma foi! here is an R, two E E, then a G.” And he assembled the letters with a swiftness and skill which did not escape the eye of D’Artagnan.

“Abrege,” said he, as he ended.

“Good!” said D’Artagnan; “here are plenty of letters got together; but how are they kept so?” And he poured out a second glass for the poet. M. Jupenet smiled like a man who has an answer for everything; then he pulled out--still from his pocket--a little metal ruler, composed of two parts, like a carpenter’s rule, against which he put together, and in a line, the characters, holding them under his left thumb.

“And what do you call that little metal ruler?” said D’Artagnan, “for, I suppose, all these things have names.”

“This is called a composing-stick,” said Jupenet; “it is by the aid of this stick that the lines are formed.”

“Come, then, I was not mistaken in what I said; you have a press in your pocket,” said D’Artagnan, laughing with an air of simplicity so stupid, that the poet was completely his dupe.

“No,” replied he; “but I am too lazy to write, and when I have a verse in my head, I print it immediately. That is a labor spared.”

“Mordioux!” thought D’Artagnan to himself, “this must be cleared up.” And under a pretext, which did not embarrass the musketeer, who was fertile in expedients, he left the table, went downstairs, ran to the shed under which stood the poet’s little cart, poked the point of his poniard into the stuff which enveloped one of the packages, which he found full of types, like those which the poet had in his pocket.

“Humph!” said D’Artagnan, “I do not yet know whether M. Fouquet wishes to fortify Belle-Isle; but, at all events, here are some spiritual munitions for the castle.” Then, enchanted with his rich discovery he ran upstairs again, and resumed his place at the table.

D’Artagnan had learnt what he wished to know. He, however, remained, none the less, face to face with his partner, to the moment when they heard from the next room symptoms of a person’s being about to go out. The printer was immediately on foot; he had given orders for his horse to be got ready. His carriage was waiting at the door. The second traveler got into his saddle, in the courtyard, with his lackey. D’Artagnan followed Jupenet to the door; he embarked his cart and horse on board the boat. As to the opulent traveler, he did the same with his two horses and servant. But all the wit D’Artagnan employed in endeavoring to find out his name was lost--he could learn nothing. Only he took such notice of his countenance, that it was impressed upon his mind forever. D’Artagnan had a great inclination to embark with the two travelers, but an interest more powerful than curiosity--that of success--repelled him from the shore, and brought him back again to the hostelry. He entered with a sigh and went to bed directly in order to be ready early in the morning with fresh ideas and the sage counsel of sufficing sleep.

D’Artagnan continues his Investigations

At daybreak D’Artagnan saddled Furet, who had fared sumptuously all night, devouring the remainder of the oats and hay left by his companions. The musketeer sifted all he possibly could out of the host, whom he found cunning, mistrustful, and devoted, body and soul, to M. Fouquet. In order not to awaken the suspicions of this man, he carried on his fable of being a probable purchaser of some salt-mines. To have embarked for Belle-Isle at Roche-Bernard would have been to expose himself still further to comments which had, perhaps, been already made, and would be carried to the castle. Moreover, it was singular that this traveler and his lackey should have remained a mystery to D’Artagnan, in spite of all the questions addressed by him to the host, who appeared to know him perfectly well. The musketeer then made some inquiries concerning the salt-mines, and took the road to the marshes, leaving the sea on his right, and penetrating into that vast and desolate plain which resembles a sea of mud, of which, here and there, a few crests of salt silver the undulations. Furet walked admirably, with his little nervous legs, along the foot-wide causeways which separate the salt-mines. D’Artagnan, aware of the consequences of a fall, which would result in a cold bath, allowed him to go as he liked, contenting himself with looking at, on the horizon, three rocks, that rose up like lance-blades from the bosom of the plain, destitute of verdure. Pirial, the bourgs of Batz and Le Croisic, exactly resembling each other, attracted and suspended his attention. If the traveler turned round, the better to make his observations, he saw on the other side an horizon of three other steeples, Guerande, Le Poulighen, and Saint-Joachim, which, in their circumference, represented a set of skittles, of which he and Furet were but the wandering ball. Pirial was the first little port on his right. He went thither, with the names of the principal salters on his lips. At the moment he reached the little port of Pirial, five large barges, laden with stone, were leaving it. It appeared strange to D’Artagnan, that stones should be leaving a country where none are found. He had recourse to all the amenity of M. Agnan to learn from the people of the port the cause of this singular arrangement. An old fisherman replied to M. Agnan, that the stones very certainly did not come from Pirial or the marshes.

“Where do they come from, then?” asked the musketeer.

“Monsieur, they come from Nantes and Painboeuf.”

“Where are they going, then?”

“Monsieur, to Belle-Isle.”

“Ah! ah!” said D’Artagnan, in the same tone he had assumed to tell the printer that his character interested him; “are they building at Belle-Isle, then?”

“Why, yes, monsieur, M. Fouquet has the walls of the castle repaired every year.”

“Is it in ruins, then?”

“It is old.”

“Thank you.”

“The fact is,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “nothing is more natural; every proprietor has a right to repair his own property. It would be like telling me I was fortifying the Image-de-Notre-Dame, when I was simply obliged to make repairs. In good truth, I believe false reports have been made to his majesty, and he is very likely to be in the wrong.”

“You must confess,” continued he then, aloud, and addressing the fisherman--for his part of a suspicious man was imposed upon him by the object even of his mission--“you must confess, my dear monsieur, that these stones travel in a very curious fashion.”

“How so?” said the fisherman

“They come from Nantes or Painboeuf by the Loire, do they not?”

“With the tide.”

“That is convenient,--I don’t say it is not, but why do they not go straight from Saint-Nazaire to Belle-Isle?”

“Eh! because the chalands (barges) are fresh-water boats, and take the sea badly,” replied, the fisherman.

“That is not sufficient reason.”

“Pardon me, monsieur, one may see that you have never been a sailor, added the fisherman, not without a sort of disdain.

“Explain that to me, if you please, my good man. It appears to me that to come from Painboeuf to Pirial, and go from Pirial to Belle-Isle, is as if we went from Roche-Bernard to Nantes, and from Nantes to Pirial.”

“By water that would be the nearest way,” replied the fisherman imperturbably.

“But there is an elbow?”

The fisherman shook his head.

“The shortest road from one place to another is a straight line,” continued D’Artagnan.

“You forget the tide, monsieur.”

“Well! take the tide.”

“And the wind.”

“Well, and the wind.”

“Without doubt, the current of the Loire carries barks almost as far as Croisic. If they want to lie by a little, or to refresh the crew, they come to Pirial along the coast; from Pirial they find another inverse current, which carries them to the Isle-Dumal, two leagues and a half.”

“Granted.”

“There the current of the Vilaine throws them upon another isle, the isle of Hoedic.”

“I agree with that.”

“Well, monsieur, from that isle to Belle-Isle the way is quite straight. The sea broken both above and below, passes like a canal--like a mirror between the two isles; the chalands glide along upon it like ducks upon the Loire; that’s how it is.”

“It does not signify,” said the obstinate M. Agnan; “it is a long way round.”

“Ah! yes; but M. Fouquet will have it so,” replied, as conclusive, the fisherman, taking off his woolen cap at the enunciation of that respected name.

A look from D’Artagnan, a look as keen and piercing as a sword-blade, found nothing in the heart of the old man but simple confidence--on his features, nothing but satisfaction and indifference. He said, “M. Fouquet will have it so,” as he would have said, “God has willed it.”

D’Artagnan had already advanced too far in this direction; besides, the chalands being gone, there remained nothing at Pirial but a single bark--that of the old man, and it did not look fit for sea without great preparation. D’Artagnan therefore patted Furet, who as a new proof of his charming character, resumed his march with his feet in the salt-mines, and his nose to the dry wind, which bends the furze and the broom of this country. They reached Croisic about five o’clock.

If D’Artagnan had been a poet, it was a beautiful spectacle: the immense strand of a league or more, the sea covers at high tide, and which, at the reflux, appears gray and desolate, strewed with polypi and seaweed, with pebbles sparse and white, like bones in some vast old cemetery. But the soldier, the politician, and the ambitious man, had no longer the sweet consolation of looking towards heaven to read there a hope or a warning. A red sky signifies nothing to such people but wind and disturbance. White and fleecy clouds upon the azure only say that the sea will be smooth and peaceful. D’Artagnan found the sky blue, the breeze embalmed with saline perfumes, and he said: “I will embark with the first tide, if it be but in a nutshell.”

At Croisic as at Pirial, he had remarked enormous heaps of stone lying along the shore. These gigantic walls, diminished every tide by the barges for Belle-Isle were, in the eyes of the musketeer, the consequence and the proof of what he had well divined at Pirial. Was it a wall that M. Fouquet was constructing? Was it a fortification that he was erecting? To ascertain that he must make fuller observations. D’Artagnan put Furet into a stable; supped, went to bed, and on the morrow took a walk upon the port or rather upon the shingle. Le Croisic has a port of fifty feet, it has a look-out which resembles an enormous brioche (a kind of cake) elevated on a dish. The flat strand is the dish. Hundreds of barrowsful of earth amalgamated with pebbles, and rounded into cones, with sinuous. passages between, are look-outs and brioches at the same time.

It is so now, and it was so two hundred years ago, only the brioche was not so large, and probably there were to be seen no trellises of lath around the brioche, which constitute an ornament, planted like gardes-fous along the passages that wind towards the little terrace. Upon the shingle lounged three or four fishermen talking about sardines and shrimps. D’Artagnan, with his eyes animated by rough gayety, and a smile upon his lips, approached these fishermen.

“Any fishing going on to-day?” said he.

“Yes, monsieur,” replied one of them, “we are only waiting for the tide.”

“Where do you fish, my friends?”

“Upon the coasts, monsieur.”

“Which are the best coasts?”

“Ah, that is all according. The tour of the isles, for example?”

“Yes, but they are a long way off, those isles, are they not?”

“Not very; four leagues.”

“Four leagues! That is a voyage.”

The fisherman laughed in M. Agnan’s face.

“Hear me, then,” said the latter with an air of simple stupidity; four leagues off you lose sight of land, do you not?”

“Why, not always.”

“Ah, it is a long way--too long, or else I would have asked you to take me aboard, and to show me what I have never seen.”

“What is that?”

“A live sea-fish.”

“Monsieur comes from the province?” said a fisherman.

“Yes, I come from Paris.”

The Breton shrugged his shoulders; then:

“Have you ever seen M. Fouquet in Paris?” asked he.

“Often,” replied D’Artagnan.

“Often!” repeated the fishermen, closing their circle round the Parisian. “Do you know him?”

“A little, he is the intimate friend of my master.”

“Ah!” said the fisherman, in astonishment.

“And,” said D’Artagnan, “I have seen all his chateaux of Saint-Mande, of Vaux, and his hotel in Paris.”

“Is that a fine place?”

“Superb.”

“It is not so fine a place as Belle-Isle,” said the fisherman.

“Bah!” cried M. d’Artagnan, breaking into a laugh so loud that he angered all his auditors.

“It is very plain that you have never seen Belle-Isle,” said the most curious of the fishermen. “Do you know that there are six leagues of it, and that there are such trees on it as cannot be equaled even at Nantes-sur-le-Fosse?”

“Trees in the sea!” cried D’Artagnan; “well, I should like to see them.”

“That can be easily done; we are fishing at the Isle de Hoedic--come with us. From that place you will see, as a Paradise, the black trees of Belle-Isle against the sky; you will see the white line of the castle, which cuts the horizon of the sea like a blade.”

“Oh,” said D’Artagnan, “that must be very beautiful. But do you know there are a hundred belfries at M. Fouquet’s chateau of Vaux?”

The Breton raised his head in profound admiration, but he was not convinced. “A hundred belfries! Ah that may be, but Belle-Isle is finer than that. Should you like to see Belle-Isle?”

“Is that possible?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Yes, with permission of the governor.”

“But I do not know the governor.”

“As you know M. Fouquet, you can tell your name.”

“Oh, my friends, I am not a gentleman.”

“Everybody enters Belle-Isle,” continued the fisherman in his strong, pure language, “provided he means no harm to Belle-Isle or its master.”

A slight shudder crept over the body of the musketeer.

“That is true,” thought he. Then recovering himself, “If I were sure,” said he, “not to be sea-sick.”

“What, upon her?” said the fisherman, pointing with pride to his pretty round-bottomed bark.

“Well, you almost persuade me,” cried M. Agnan; “I will go and see Belle-Isle, but they will not admit me.”

“We shall enter, safe enough.”

“You! What for?”

“Why, dame! to sell fish to the corsairs.”

“Ha! Corsairs--what do you mean?”

“Well, I mean that M. Fouquet is having two corsairs built to chase the Dutch and the English, and we sell our fish to the crews of those little vessels.”

“Come, come!” said D’Artagnan to himself--“better and better. A printing-press, bastions, and corsairs! Well, M. Fouquet is not an enemy to be despised, as I presumed to fancy. He is worth the trouble of traveling to see him nearer.”

“We set out at half-past five,” said the fisherman gravely.

“I am quite ready, and I will not leave you now.” So D’Artagnan saw the fishermen haul their barks to meet the tide with a windlass. The sea rose, M. Agnan allowed himself to be hoisted on board, not without sporting a little fear and awkwardness, to the amusement of the young beach-urchins who watched him with their large intelligent eyes. He laid himself down upon a folded sail, not interfering with anything whilst the bark prepared for sea; and, with its large, square sail, it was fairly out within two hours. The fishermen, who prosecuted their occupation as they proceeded, did not perceive that their passenger had not become pale, neither groaned nor suffered; that in spite of that horrible tossing and rolling of the bark, to which no hand imparted direction, the novice passenger had preserved his presence of mind and his appetite. They fished, and their fishing was sufficiently fortunate. To lines bated with prawn, soles came, with numerous gambols, to bite. Two nets had already been broken by the immense weight of congers and haddocks; three sea-eels plowed the hold with their slimy folds and their dying contortions. D’Artagnan brought them good luck; they told him so. The soldier found the occupation so pleasant, that he put his hand to the work--that is to say, to the lines--and uttered roars of joy, and mordioux enough to have astonished his musketeers themselves every time that a shock given to his line by the captured fish required the play of the muscles of his arm, and the employment of his best dexterity. The party of pleasure had made him forget his diplomatic mission. He was struggling with a very large conger, and holding fast with one hand to the side of the vessel, in order to seize with the other the gaping jowl of his antagonist, when the master said to him, “Take care they don’t see you from Belle-Isle!”

These words produced the same effect upon D’Artagnan as the hissing of the first bullet on a day of battle; he let go of both line and conger, which, dragging each other, returned again to the water. D’Artagnan perceived, within half a league at most, the blue and marked profile of the rocks of Belle-Isle, dominated by the majestic whiteness of the castle. In the distance, the land with its forests and verdant plains; cattle on the grass. This was what first attracted the attention of the musketeer. The sun darted its rays of gold upon the sea, raising a shining mist round this enchanted isle. Little could be seen of it, owing to this dazzling light, but the salient points; every shadow was strongly marked, and cut with bands of darkness the luminous fields and walls. “Eh! eh!” said D’Artagnan, at the aspect of those masses of black rocks, “these are fortifications which do not stand in need of any engineer to render a landing difficult. How the devil can a landing be effected on that isle which God has defended so completely?”

“This way,” replied the patron of the bark, changing the sail, and impressing upon the rudder a twist which turned the boat in the direction of a pretty little port, quite coquettish, round, and newly battlemented.

“What the devil do I see yonder?” said D’Artagnan.

“You see Leomaria,” replied the fisherman.

“Well, but there?”

“That is Bragos.”

“And further on?”

“Sanger, and then the palace.”

“Mordioux! It is a world. Ah! there are some soldiers.”

“There are seventeen hundred men in Belle-Isle, monsieur,” replied the fisherman, proudly. “Do you know that the least garrison is of twenty companies of infantry?”

“Mordioux!” cried D’Artagnan, stamping with his foot. “His Majesty was right enough.”

They landed.

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

There is always something in a landing, if it be only from the smallest sea-boat--a trouble and a confusion which do not leave the mind the liberty of which it stands in need in order to study at the first glance the new locality presented to it. The movable bridges, the agitated sailors, the noise of the water on the pebbles, the cries and importunities of those who wait upon the shores, are multiplied details of that sensation which is summed up in one single result--hesitation. It was not, then, till after standing several minutes on the shore that D’Artagnan saw upon the port, but more particularly in the interior of the isle, an immense number of workmen in motion. At his feet D’Artagnan recognized the five chalands laden with rough stone he had seen leave the port of Pirial. The smaller stones were transported to the shore by means of a chain formed by twenty-five or thirty peasants. The large stones were loaded on trollies which conveyed them in the same direction as the others, that is to say, towards the works of which D’Artagnan could as yet appreciate neither the strength nor the extent. Everywhere was to be seen an activity equal to that which Telemachus observed on his landing at Salentum. D’Artagnan felt a strong inclination to penetrate into the interior; but he could not, under the penalty of exciting mistrust, exhibit too much curiosity. He advanced then little by little, scarcely going beyond the line formed by the fishermen on the beach, observing everything, saying nothing, and meeting all suspicion that might have been excited with a half-silly question or a polite bow. And yet, whilst his companions carried on their trade, giving or selling their fish to the workmen or the inhabitants of the city, D’Artagnan had gained ground by degrees, and, reassured by the little attention paid to him, he began to cast an intelligent and confident look upon the men and things that appeared before his eyes. And his very first glance fell on certain movements of earth about which the eye of a soldier could not be mistaken. At the two extremities of the port, in order that their fires should converge upon the great axis of the ellipsis formed by the basin, in the first place, two batteries had been raised, evidently destined to receive flank pieces, for D’Artagnan saw the workmen finishing the platform and making ready the demi-circumference in wood upon which the wheels of the pieces might turn to embrace every direction over the epaulement. By the side of each of these batteries other workmen were strengthening gabions filled with earth, the lining of another battery. The latter had embrasures, and the overseer of the works called successively men who, with cords, tied the saucissons and cut the lozenges and right angles of turfs destined to retain the matting of the embrasures. By the activity displayed in these works, already so far advanced, they might be considered as finished: they were not yet furnished with their cannons, but the platforms had their gites and their madriers all prepared; the earth, beaten carefully, was consolidated; and supposing the artillery to be on the island, in less than two or three days the port might be completely armed. That which astonished D’Artagnan, when he turned his eyes from the coast batteries to the fortifications of the city, was to see that Belle-Isle was defended by an entirely new system, of which he had often heard the Comte de la Fere speak as a wonderful advance, but of which he had as yet never seen the application. These fortifications belonged neither to the Dutch method of Marollais, nor to the French method of the Chevalier Antoine de Ville, but to the system of Manesson Mallet, a skillful engineer, who about six or eight years previously had quitted the service of Portugal to enter that of France. The works had this peculiarity, that instead of rising above the earth, as did the ancient ramparts destined to defend a city from escalades, they, on the contrary, sank into it; and what created the height of the walls was the depth of the ditches. It did not take long to make D’Artagnan perceive the superiority of such a system, which gives no advantage to cannon. Besides, as the fosses were lower than, or on a level with the sea, these fosses could be instantly inundated by means of subterranean sluices. Otherwise, the works were almost complete, and a group of workmen, receiving orders from a man who appeared to be conductor of the works, were occupied in placing the last stones. A bridge of planks thrown over the fosses for the greater convenience of the maneuvers connected with the barrows, joined the interior to the exterior. With an air of simple curiosity D’Artagnan asked if he might be permitted to cross the bridge, and he was told that no order prevented it. Consequently he crossed the bridge, and advanced towards the group.

This group was superintended by the man whom D’Artagnan had already remarked, and who appeared to be the engineer-in-chief. A plan was lying open before him upon a large stone forming a table, and at some paces from him a crane was in action. This engineer, who by his evident importance first attracted the attention of D’Artagnan, wore a justaucorps, which, from its sumptuousness was scarcely in harmony with the work he was employed in, that rather necessitated the costume of a master-mason than of a noble. He was a man of immense stature and great square shoulders, and wore a hat covered with feathers. He gesticulated in the most majestic manner, and appeared, for D’Artagnan only saw his back, to be scolding the workmen for their idleness and want of strength.

D’Artagnan continued to draw nearer. At that moment the man with the feathers ceased to gesticulate, and, with his hands placed upon his knees, was following, half-bent, the effort of six workmen to raise a block of hewn stone to the top of a piece of timber destined to support that stone, so that the cord of the crane might be passed under it. The six men, all on one side of the stone, united their efforts to raise it to eight or ten inches from the ground, sweating and blowing, whilst a seventh got ready against there should be daylight enough beneath it to slide in the roller that was to support it. But the stone had already twice escaped from their hands before gaining a sufficient height for the roller to be introduced. There can be no doubt that every time the stone escaped them, they bounded quickly backwards, to keep their feet from being crushed by the refalling stone. Every time, the stone, abandoned by them, sunk deeper into the damp earth, which rendered the operation more and more difficult. A third effort was followed by no better success, but with progressive discouragement. And yet, when the six men were bent towards the stone, the man with the feathers had himself, with a powerful voice, given the word of command, “Ferme!” which regulates maneuvers of strength. Then he drew himself up.

“Oh! oh!” said he, “what is all this about? Have I to do with men of straw? Corne de boeuf! stand on one side, and you shall see how this is to be done.”

“Peste!” said D’Artagnan, “will he pretend to raise that rock? that would be a sight worth looking at.”

The workmen, as commanded by the engineer, drew back with their ears down, and shaking their heads, with the exception of the one who held the plank, who prepared to perform the office. The man with the feathers went up to the stone, stooped, slipped his hands under the face lying upon the ground, stiffened his Herculean muscles, and without a strain, with a slow motion, like that of a machine, he lifted the end of the rock a foot from the ground. The workman who held the plank profited by the space thus given him, and slipped the roller under the stone.

“That’s the way,” said the giant, not letting the rock fall again, but placing it upon its support.

“Mordioux!” cried D’Artagnan, “I know but one man capable of such a feat of strength.”

“Hein!” cried the colossus, turning round.

“Porthos!” murmured D’Artagnan, seized with stupor, “Porthos at Belle-Isle!”

On his part, the man with the feathers fixed his eyes upon the disguised lieutenant, and, in spite of his metamorphosis, recognized him. “D’Artagnan!” cried he; and the color mounted to his face. “Hush!” said he to D’Artagnan.

“Hush!” in his turn, said the musketeer. In fact if Porthos had just been discovered by D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan had just been discovered by Porthos. The interest of the particular secret of each struck them both at the same instant. Nevertheless the first movement of the two men was to throw their arms around each other. What they wished to conceal from the bystanders, was not their friendship, but their names. But, after the embrace, came reflection.

“What the devil brings Porthos to Belle-Isle, lifting stones?” said D’Artagnan; only D’Artagnan uttered that question in a low voice. Less strong in diplomacy than his friend, Porthos thought aloud.

“How the devil did you come to Belle-Isle?” asked he of D’Artagnan; “and what do you want to do here?” It was necessary to reply without hesitation. To hesitate in his answer to Porthos would have been a check, for which the self-love of D’Artagnan would never have consoled itself.

“Pardieu! my friend, I am at Belle-Isle because you are.”

“Ah, bah!” said Porthos, visibly stupefied with the argument, and seeking to account for it to himself, with the felicity of deduction we know to be peculiar to him.

“Without doubt,” continued D’Artagnan, unwilling to give his friend time to recollect himself, “I have been to see you at Pierrefonds.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes.”

“And you did not find me there?”

“No, but I found Mouston.”

“Is he well?”

“Peste!”

“Well, but Mouston did not tell you I was here.”

“Why should he not Have I, perchance, deserved to lose his confidence?”

“No, but he did not know it.”

“Well; that is a reason at least that does not offend my self-love.”

“Then how did you manage to find me?”

“My dear friend, a great noble like you always leaves traces behind him on his passage; and I should think but poorly of myself, if I were not sharp enough to follow the traces of my friends.” This explanation, flattering as it was, did not entirely satisfy Porthos.

“But I left no traces behind me, for I came here disguised,” said Porthos.

“Ah! You came disguised did you?” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes.”

“And how?”

“As a miller.”

“And do you think a great noble, like you, Porthos, can affect common manners so as to deceive people?”

“Well, I swear to you, my friend, that I played my part so well that everybody was deceived.”

“Indeed! so well, that I have not discovered and joined you?”

“Yes; but how did you discover and join me?”

“Stop a bit. I was going to tell you how. Do you imagine Mouston----”

“Ah! it was that fellow, Mouston,” said Porthos, gathering up those two triumphant arches which served him for eyebrows.

“But stop, I tell you--it was no fault of Mouston’s because he was ignorant of where you were.”

“I know he was; and that is why I am in such haste to understand----”

“Oh! how impatient you are, Porthos.”

“When I do not comprehend, I am terrible.”

“Well, you will understand. Aramis wrote to you at Pierrefonds, did he not?”

“Yes.”

“And he told you to come before the equinox.”

“That is true.”

“Well! that is it,” said D’Artagnan, hoping that this reason would mystify Porthos. Porthos appeared to give himself up to a violent mental labor.

“Yes, yes,” said he, “I understand. As Aramis told me to come before the equinox, you have understood that that was to join him. You then inquired where Aramis was, saying to yourself, ‘Where Aramis is, there Porthos will be.’ You have learnt that Aramis was in Bretagne, and you said to yourself, ‘Porthos is in Bretagne.’”

“Exactly. In good truth, Porthos I cannot tell why you have not turned conjurer. So you understand that arriving at Roche-Bernard, I heard of the splendid fortifications going on at Belle-Isle. The account raised my curiosity, I embarked in a fishing boat, without dreaming that you were here: I came, and I saw a monstrous fine fellow lifting a stone Ajax could not have stirred. I cried out, ‘Nobody but the Baron de Bracieux could have performed such a feat of strength.’ You heard me, you turned round, you recognized me, we embraced; and, ma foi! if you like, my dear friend, we will embrace again.”

“Ah! now all is explained,” said Porthos; and he embraced D’Artagnan with so much friendship as to deprive the musketeer of his breath for five minutes.

“Why, you are stronger than ever,” said D’Artagnan, “and still, happily, in your arms.” Porthos saluted D’Artagnan with a gracious smile. During the five minutes D’Artagnan was recovering his breath, he reflected that he had a very difficult part to play. It was necessary that he always should question and never reply. By the time his respiration returned, he had fixed his plans for the campaign.

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

D’Artagnan immediately took the offensive. Now that I have told you all, dear friend, or rather now you have guessed all, tell me what you are doing here, covered with dust and mud?”

Porthos wiped his brow, and looked around him with pride. “Why, it appears,” said he, “that you may see what I am doing here.”

“No doubt, no doubt, you lift great stones.”

“Oh! to show these idle fellows what a man is,” said Porthos, with contempt. “But you understand----”

“Yes, that it is not your place to lift stones, although there are many whose place it is, who cannot lift them as you do. It was that which made me ask you, just now, What are you doing here, baron?”

“I am studying topography, chevalier.”

“You are studying topography?”

“Yes; but you--what are you doing in that common dress?”

D’Artagnan perceived he had committed a fault in giving expression to his astonishment. Porthos had taken advantage of it, to retort with a question. “Why,” said he, “you know I am a bourgeois, in fact; my dress, then, has nothing astonishing in it, since it conforms with my condition.”

“Nonsense! you are a musketeer.”

“You are wrong, my friend; I have given in my resignation.”

“Bah!”

“Oh, mon Dieu! yes.”

“And have you abandoned the service?”

“I have quitted it.”

“You have abandoned the king?”

“Quite.”

Porthos raised his arms towards heaven, like a man who has heard extraordinary news. “Well, that does confound me,” said he.

“It is nevertheless true.”

“And what led you to form such a resolution?”

“The king displeased me. Mazarin had disgusted me for a long time, as you know; so I threw my cassock to the nettles.”

“But Mazarin is dead.”

“I know that well enough, parbleu! Only, at the period of his death, my resignation had been given in and accepted two months. Then, feeling myself free, I set off for Pierrefonds, to see my friend Porthos. I had heard talk of the happy division you had made of your time, and I wished, for a fortnight, to divide mine after your fashion.”

“My friend, you know that it is not for a fortnight my house is open to you; it is for a year--for ten years--for life.”

“Thank you, Porthos.”

“Ah! but perhaps you want money--do you?” said Porthos, making something like fifty louis chink in his pocket. “In that case, you know----”

“No, thank you, I am not in want of anything. I placed my savings with Planchet, who pays me the interest of them.”

“Your savings?”

“Yes, to be sure,” said D’Artagnan: “why should I not put by my savings, as well as another, Porthos?”

“Oh, there is no reason why; on the contrary, I always suspected you--that is to say, Aramis always suspected you to have savings. For my own part, d’ye see, I take no concern about the management of my household; but I presume the savings of a musketeer must be small.”

“No doubt, relative to yourself, Porthos, who are a millionaire; but you shall judge. I had laid by twenty-five thousand livres.”

“That’s pretty well,” said Porthos, with an affable air.

“And,” continued D’Artagnan, “on the twenty-eighth of last month I added to it two hundred thousand livres more.”

Porthos opened his large eyes, which eloquently demanded of the musketeer, “Where the devil did you steal such a sum as that, my dear friend?” “Two hundred thousand livres!” cried he, at length.

“Yes; which, with the twenty-five I had, and twenty thousand I have about me, complete the sum of two hundred and forty-five thousand livres.”

“But tell me, whence comes this fortune?”

“I will tell you all about it presently, dear friend; but as you have, in the first place, many things to tell me yourself, let us have my recital in its proper order.”

“Bravo!” said Porthos, “then we are both rich. But what can I have to relate to you?”

“You have to relate to me how Aramis came to be named----”

“Ah! bishop of Vannes.”

“That’s it,” said D’Artagnan, “bishop of Vannes. Dear Aramis! do you know how he succeeded so well?”

“Yes, yes; without reckoning that he does not mean to stop there.”

“What! do you mean he will not be contented with violet stockings, and that he wants a red hat?”

“Hush! that is promised him.”

“Bah! by the king?”

“By somebody more powerful than the king.”

“Ah! the devil! Porthos: what incredible things you tell me, my friend!”

“Why incredible? Is there not always somebody in France more powerful than the king?”

“Oh, yes; in the time of King Louis XIII. it was Cardinal Richelieu; in the time of the Regency it was Cardinal Mazarin. In the time of Louis XIV. it is M.----”

“Go on.”

“It is M. Fouquet.”

“Jove! you have hit it the first time.”

“So, then, I suppose it is M. Fouquet who has promised Aramis the red hat?”

Porthos assumed an air of reserve. “Dear friend,” said he, “God preserve me from meddling with the affairs of others, above all from revealing secrets it may be to their interest to keep. When you see Aramis, he will tell you all he thinks he ought to tell you.”

“You are right, Porthos; and you are quite a padlock for safety. But, to revert to yourself?”

“Yes,” said Porthos.

“You said just now you came hither to study topography?”

“I did so.”

“Tudieu! my friend, what fine things you will do!”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, these fortifications are admirable.”

“Is that your opinion?”

“Decidedly it is. In truth, to anything but a regular siege, Belle-Isle is absolutely impregnable.”

Porthos rubbed his hands. “That is my opinion,” said he.

“But who the devil has fortified this paltry little place in this manner?”

Porthos drew himself up proudly: “Did not I tell you who?”

“No.”

“Do you not suspect?”

“No; all I can say is that he is a man who has studied all the systems, and who appears to me to have stopped at the best.”

“Hush!” said Porthos; “consider my modesty, my dear D’Artagnan.”

“In truth,” replied the musketeer, “can it be you--who--oh!”

“Pray--my dear friend----”

“You who have imagined, traced, and combined between these bastions, these redans, these curtains, these half-moons; and are preparing that covered way?”

“I beg you----”

“You who have built that lunette with its retiring angles and its salient angles?”

“My friend----”

“You who have given that inclination to the openings of your embrasures, by means of which you so effectively protect the men who serve the guns?”

“Eh! mon Dieu! yes.”

“Oh! Porthos, Porthos! I must bow down before you--I must admire you! But you have always concealed from us this superb, this incomparable genius. I hope, my dear friend, you will show me all this in detail.”

“Nothing more easy. Here lies my original sketch, my plan.”

“Show it me.” Porthos led D’Artagnan towards the stone that served him for a table, and upon which the plan was spread. At the foot of the plan was written, in the formidable writing of Porthos, writing of which we have already had occasion to speak:--

“Instead of making use of the square or rectangle, as has been done to this time, you will suppose your place inclosed in a regular hexagon, this polygon having the advantage of offering more angles than the quadrilateral one. Every side of your hexagon, of which you will determine the length in proportion to the dimensions taken upon the place, will be divided into two parts and upon the middle point you will elevate a perpendicular towards the center of the polygon, which will equal in length the sixth part of the side. By the extremities of each side of the polygon, you will trace two diagonals, which will cut the perpendicular. These will form the precise lines of your defense.”

“The devil!” said D’Artagnan, stopping at this point of the demonstration; “why, this is a complete system, Porthos.”

“Entirely,” said Porthos. “Continue.”

“No; I have read enough of it; but, since it is you, my dear Porthos, who direct the works, what need have you of setting down your system so formally in writing?”

“Oh! my dear friend, death!”

“How! death?”

“Why, we are all mortal, are we not?”

“That is true,” said D’Artagnan; “you have a reply for everything, my friend.” And he replaced the plan upon the stone.

But however short the time he had the plan in his hands, D’Artagnan had been able to distinguish, under the enormous writing of Porthos, a much more delicate hand, which reminded him of certain letters to Marie Michon, with which he had been acquainted in his youth. Only the India-rubber had passed and repassed so often over this writing that it might have escaped a less practiced eye than that of our musketeer.

“Bravo! my friend, bravo!” said D’Artagnan.

“And now you know all that you want to know, do you not?” said Porthos, wheeling about.

“Mordioux! yes, only do me one last favor, dear friend!”

“Speak, I am master here.”

“Do me the pleasure to tell me the name of that gentleman who is walking yonder.”

“Where, there?”

“Behind the soldiers.”

“Followed by a lackey?”

“Exactly.”

“In company with a mean sort of a fellow, dressed in black?”

“Yes, I mean him.”

“That is M. Getard.”

“And who is Getard, my friend?”

“He is the architect of the house.”

“Of what house?”

“Of M. Fouquet’s house.”

“Ah! ah!” cried D’Artagnan, “you are of the household of M. Fouquet, then, Porthos?”

“I! what do you mean by that?” said the topographer, blushing to the top of his ears.

“Why, you say the house, when speaking of Belle-Isle, as if you were speaking of the chateau of Pierrefonds.”

Porthos bit his lips. “Belle-Isle, my friend,” said he, “belongs to M. Fouquet, does it not?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“As Pierrefonds belongs to me?”

“I told you I believed so; there are no two words to that.”

“Did you ever see a man there who is accustomed to walk about with a ruler in his hand?”

“No; but I might have seen him there, if he really walked there.”

“Well, that gentleman is M. Boulingrin.”

“Who is M. Boulingrin?”

“Now, we are coming to it. If, when this gentleman is walking with a ruler in his hand, any one should ask me,--‘Who is M. Boulingrin?’ I should reply: ‘He is the architect of the house.’ Well! M. Getard is the Boulingrin of M. Fouquet. But he has nothing to do with the fortifications, which are my department alone; do you understand? mine, absolutely mine.”

“Ah! Porthos,” cried D’Artagnan, letting his arms fall as a conquered man gives up his sword; “ah! my friend, you are not only a herculean topographer, you are, still further, a dialectician of the first water.”

“Is it not powerfully reasoned?” said Porthos: and he puffed and blew like the conger which D’Artagnan had let slip from his hand.

“And now,” said D’Artagnan, “that shabby-looking man, who accompanies M. Getard, is he also of the household of M. Fouquet?”

“Oh! yes,” said Porthos, with contempt; “it is one M. Jupenet, or Juponet, a sort of poet.”

“Who is come to establish himself here?”

“I believe so.”

“I thought M. Fouquet had poets enough, yonder--Scudery, Loret, Pellisson, La Fontaine? If I must tell you the truth, Porthos, that poet disgraces you.”

“Eh!--my friend; but what saves us is that he is not here as a poet.”

“As what, then, is he?”

“As printer. And you make me remember, I have a word to say to the cuistre.”

“Say it, then.”

Porthos made a sign to Jupenet, who perfectly recollected D’Artagnan, and did not care to come nearer; which naturally produced another sign from Porthos. This was so imperative, he was obliged to obey. As he approached, “Come hither!” said Porthos. “You only landed yesterday and you have begun your tricks already.”

“How so, monsieur le baron?” asked Jupenet, trembling.

“Your press was groaning all night, monsieur,” said Porthos, “and you prevented my sleeping, corne de boeuf!”

“Monsieur----” objected Jupenet, timidly.

“You have nothing yet to print: therefore you have no occasion to set your press going. What did you print last night?”

“Monsieur, a light poem of my own composition.”

“Light! no, no, monsieur; the press groaned pitifully beneath it. Let it not happen again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“You promise me?”

“I do, monsieur!”

“Very well; this time I pardon you. Adieu!”

“Well, now we have combed that fellow’s head, let us breakfast.”

“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “let us breakfast.”

“Only,” said Porthos, “I beg you to observe, my friend, that we have only two hours for our repast.”

“What would you have? We will try to make two hours suffice. But why have you only two hours?”

“Because it is high tide at one o’clock, and, with the tide, I am going to Vannes. But, as I shall return tomorrow, my dear friend, you can stay here; you shall be master, I have a good cook and a good cellar.”

“No,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “better than that.”

“What?”

“You are going to Vannes, you say?”

“To a certainty.”

“To see Aramis?”

“Yes.”

“Well! I came from Paris on purpose to see Aramis.”

“That’s true.”

“I will go with you then.”

“Do; that’s the thing.”

“Only, I ought to have seen Aramis first, and you after. But man proposes, and God disposes. I have begun with you, and will finish with Aramis.”

“Very well!”

“And in how many hours can you go from here to Vannes?”

“Oh! pardieu! in six hours. Three hours by sea to Sarzeau, three hours by road from Sarzeau to Vannes.”

“How convenient that is! Being so near to the bishopric; do you often go to Vannes?”

“Yes; once a week. But, stop till I get my plan.”

Porthos picked up his plan, folded it carefully, and engulfed it in his large pocket.

“Good!” said D’Artagnan aside; “I think I now know the real engineer who is fortifying Belle-Isle.”

Two hours after, at high tide, Porthos and D’Artagnan set out for Sarzeau.

A Procession at Vannes

The passage from Belle-Isle to Sarzeau was made rapidly enough, thanks to one of those little corsairs of which D’Artagnan had been told during his voyage, and which, shaped for fast sailing and destined for the chase, were sheltered at that time in the roadstead of Loc-Maria, where one of them, with a quarter of its war-crew, performed duty between Belle-Isle and the continent. D’Artagnan had an opportunity of convincing himself that Porthos, though engineer and topographer, was not deeply versed in affairs of state. His perfect ignorance, with any other, might have passed for well-informed dissimulation. But D’Artagnan knew too well all the folds and refolds of his Porthos, not to find a secret if there were one there; like those regular, minute old bachelors, who know how to find, with their eyes shut, each book on the shelves of their library and each piece of linen in their wardrobe. So if he had found nothing, our cunning D’Artagnan, in rolling and unrolling his Porthos, it was because, in truth, there was nothing to be found.

“Be it so,” said D’Artagnan, “I shall get to know more at Vannes in half an hour than Porthos has discovered at Belle-Isle in two months. Only, in order that I may know something, it is important that Porthos should not make use of the only stratagem I leave at his disposal. He must not warn Aramis of my arrival.” All the care of the musketeer was then, for the moment, confined to the watching of Porthos. And let us hasten to say, Porthos did not deserve all this mistrust. Porthos thought of no evil. Perhaps, on first seeing him, D’Artagnan had inspired him with a little suspicion, but almost immediately D’Artagnan had reconquered in that good and brave heart the place he had always occupied, and not the least cloud darkened the large eye of Porthos, fixed from time to time with tenderness on his friend.

On landing, Porthos inquired if his horses were waiting, and soon perceived them at the crossing of the road that winds round Sarzeau, and which, without passing through that little city, leads towards Vannes. These horses were two in number, one for M. de Vallon, and one for his equerry; for Porthos had an equerry since Mouston was only able to use a carriage as a means of locomotion. D’Artagnan expected that Porthos would propose to send forward his equerry upon one horse to bring back another, and he--D’Artagnan--had made up his mind to oppose this proposition. But nothing D’Artagnan had expected happened. Porthos simply told the equerry to dismount and await his return at Sarzeau, whilst D’Artagnan would ride his horse; which was arranged.

“Eh! but you are quite a man of precaution, my dear Porthos,” said D’Artagnan to his friend, when he found himself in the saddle, upon the equerry’s horse.

“Yes, but this is a kindness on the part of Aramis. I have not my stud here, and Aramis has placed his stables at my disposal.”

“Good horses for bishop’s horses, mordioux!” said D’Artagnan. “It is true, Aramis is a bishop of a peculiar kind.”

“He is a holy man!” replied Porthos, in a tone almost nasal, and with his eyes raised towards heaven.

“Then he is much changed,” said D’Artagnan; “you and I have known him passably profane.”

“Grace has touched him,” said Porthos.

“Bravo,” said D’Artagnan, “that redoubles my desire to see my dear old friend.” And he spurred his horse, which sprang off into a more rapid pace.

“Peste!” said Porthos, “if we go on at this rate, we shall only take one hour instead of two.”

“To go how far, do you say, Porthos?”

“Four leagues and a half.”

“That will be a good pace.”

“I could have embarked you on the canal, but the devil take rowers and boat-horses! The first are like tortoises; the second like snails; and when a man is able to put a good horse between his knees, that horse is better than rowers or any other means.”

“You are right; you above all, Porthos, who always look magnificent on horseback.”

“Rather heavy, my friend; I was weighed the other day.”

“And what do you weigh?”

“Three hundred-weight!” said Porthos, proudly.

“Bravo!”

“So that you must perceive, I am forced to choose horses whose loins are straight and wide, otherwise I break them down in two hours.”

“Yes, giant’s horses you must have, must you not?”

“You are very polite, my friend,” replied the engineer, with affectionate majesty.

“As a case in point,” replied D’Artagnan, “your horse seems to sweat already.”

“Dame! It is hot! Ah, ah! do you see Vannes now?”

“Yes, perfectly. It is a handsome city, apparently.”

“Charming, according to Aramis, at least, but I think it black; but black seems to be considered handsome by artists: I am sorry for it.”

“Why so, Porthos?”

“Because I have lately had my chateau of Pierrefonds which was gray with age, plastered white.”

“Humph!” said D’Artagnan, “and white is more cheerful.”

“Yes, but it is less august, as Aramis tells me. Fortunately there are dealers in black as well as white. I will have Pierrefonds replastered in black; that’s all there is about it. If gray is handsome, you understand, my friend, black must be superb.”

“Dame!” said D’Artagnan, “that appears logical.”

“Were you never at Vannes, D’Artagnan?”

“Never.”

“Then you know nothing of the city?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, look!” said Porthos, raising himself in his stirrups, which made the fore-quarters of his horse bend sadly--“do you see that corner, in the sun, yonder?”

“Yes, I see it plainly.”

“Well, that is the cathedral.”

“Which is called?”

“Saint-Pierre. Now look again--in the faubourg on the left, do you see another cross?”

“Perfectly well.”

“That is Saint-Paterne, the parish preferred by Aramis.”

“Indeed!”

“Without doubt. Saint-Paterne, you see, passes for having been the first bishop of Vannes. It is true that Aramis pretends he was not. But he is so learned that that may be only a paro--a para---”

“A paradox,” said D’Artagnan.

“Precisely; thank you! my tongue trips, I am so hot.”

“My friend,” said D’Artagnan, “continue your interesting description, I beg. What is that large white building with many windows?”

“Oh! that is the college of the Jesuits. Pardieu! you have an apt hand. Do you see, close to the college, a large house with steeples, turrets, built in a handsome Gothic style, as that fool, M. Getard, says?”

“Yes, that is plainly to be seen. Well?”

“Well, that is where Aramis resides.”

“What! does he not reside at the episcopal palace?”

“No, that is in ruins. The palace likewise is in the city, and Aramis prefers the faubourgs. That is why, as I told you, he is partial to Saint-Paterne; Saint-Paterne is in the faubourg. Besides, there are in this faubourg a mall, a tennis-court, and a house of Dominicans. Look, that where the handsome steeple rises to the heavens.”

“Well?”

“Next, you see the faubourg is like a separate city, it has its walls, its towers, its ditches; the quay is upon it likewise, and the boats land at the quay. If our little corsair did not draw eight feet of water, we could have come full sail up to Aramis’s windows.”

“Porthos, Porthos,” cried D’Artagnan, “you are a well of knowledge, a spring of ingenious and profound reflections. Porthos, you no longer surprise me, you confound me.”

“Here we are,” said Porthos, turning the conversation with his usual modesty.

“And high time we were,” thought D’Artagnan, “for Aramis’s horse is melting away like a steed of ice.”

They entered almost at the same instant the faubourg; but scarcely had they gone a hundred paces when they were surprised to find the streets strewed with leaves and flowers. Against the old walls of Vannes hung the oldest and the strangest tapestries of France. From over balconies fell long white sheets stuck all over with bouquets. The streets were deserted; it was plain the entire population was assembled on one point. The blinds were closed, and the breeze penetrated into the houses under the hangings, which cast long, black shades between their places of issue and the walls. Suddenly, at the turning of a street, chants struck the ears of the newly arrived travelers. A crowd in holiday garb appeared through the vapors of incense which mounted to the heavens in blue fleeces, and clouds of rose-leaves fluttered as high as the first stories. Above all heads were to be seen the cross and banners, the sacred symbols of religion. Then, beneath these crosses and banners, as if protected by them, walked a whole world of young girls clothed in white, crowned with corn-flowers. At the two sides of the street, inclosing the cortege, marched the guards of the garrison, carrying bouquets in the barrels of their muskets and on the points of their lances. This was the procession.

Whilst D’Artagnan and Porthos were looking on with critical glances, which disguised an extreme impatience to get forward, a magnificent dais approached preceded by a hundred Jesuits and a hundred Dominicans, and escorted by two archdeacons, a treasurer, a penitent and twelve canons. A singer with a thundering voice--a man certainly picked out from all the voices of France, as was the drum-major of the imperial guard from all the giants of the empire--escorted by four other chanters, who appeared to be there only to serve him as an accompaniment, made the air resound, and the windows of the houses vibrate. Under the dais appeared a pale and noble countenance with black eyes, black hair streaked with threads of white, a delicate, compressed mouth, a prominent and angular chin. His head, full of graceful majesty, was covered with the episcopal mitre, a headdress which gave it, in addition to the character of sovereignty, that of asceticism and evangelic meditation.

“Aramis!” cried the musketeer, involuntarily, as this lofty countenance passed before him. The prelate started at the sound of the voice. He raised his large black eyes, with their long lashes, and turned them without hesitation towards the spot whence the exclamation proceeded. At a glance, he saw Porthos and D’Artagnan close to him. On his part, D’Artagnan, thanks to the keenness of his sight, had seen all, seized all. The full portrait of the prelate had entered his memory, never to leave it. One thing had particularly struck D’Artagnan. On perceiving him, Aramis had colored, then he had concentrated under his eyelids the fire of the look of the master, and the indefinable affection of the friend. It was evident that Aramis had asked himself this question:--“Why is D’Artagnan with Porthos, and what does he want at Vannes?” Aramis comprehended all that was passing in the mind of D’Artagnan, on turning his look upon him again, and seeing that he had not lowered his eyes. He knew the acuteness and intelligence of his friend, he feared to let him divine the secret of his blush and his astonishment. He was still the same Aramis, always having a secret to conceal. Therefore, to put an end to his look of an inquisitor which it was necessary to get rid of at all events, as, at any price, a general extinguishes a battery which annoys him, Aramis stretched forth his beautiful white hand, upon which sparkled the amethyst of the pastoral ring; he cut the air with sign of the cross, and poured out his benediction upon his two friends. Perhaps thoughtful and absent, D’Artagnan, impious in spite of himself, might not have bent beneath this holy benediction; but Porthos saw his distraction, and laying his friendly hand upon the back of his companion, he crushed him down towards the earth. D’Artagnan was forced to give way; indeed, he was little short of being flat on the ground. In the meantime Aramis had passed. D’Artagnan, like Antaeus, had only touched the ground, and he turned towards Porthos, almost angry. But there was no mistaking the intention of the brave Hercules; it was a feeling of religious propriety that had influenced him. Besides, speech with Porthos, instead of disguising his thought, always completed it.

“It is very polite of him,” said he, “to have given his benediction to us alone. Decidedly, he is a holy man, and a brave man.” Less convinced than Porthos, D’Artagnan made no reply.

“Observe, my friend,” continued Porthos, “he has seen us; and, instead of continuing to walk on at the simple pace of the procession, as he did just now,--see, what a hurry he is in; do you see how the cortege is increasing its speed? He is eager to join us and embrace us, is that dear Aramis.”

“That is true,” replied D’Artagnan, aloud.--Then to himself:--“It is equally true he has seen me, the fox, and will have time to prepare himself to receive me.”

But the procession had passed; the road was free. D’Artagnan and Porthos walked straight up to the episcopal palace, which was surrounded by a numerous crowd anxious to see the prelate return. D’Artagnan remarked that this crowd was composed principally of citizens and military men. He recognized in the nature of these partisans the address of his friend. Aramis was not the man to seek for a useless popularity. He cared very little for being beloved by people who could be of no service to him. Women, children, and old men, that is to say, the cortege of ordinary pastors, was not the cortege for him.

Ten minutes after the two friends had passed the threshold of the palace, Aramis returned like a triumphant conqueror; the soldiers presented arms to him as to a superior; the citizens bowed to him as to a friend and a patron, rather than as a head of the Church. There was something in Aramis resembling those Roman senators who had their doors always surrounded by clients. At the foot of the prison, he had a conference of half a minute with a Jesuit, who, in order to speak to him more secretly, passed his head under the dais. He then re-entered his palace; the doors closed slowly, and the crowd melted away, whilst chants and prayers were still resounding abroad. It was a magnificent day. Earthly perfumes were mingled with the perfumes of the air and the sea. The city breathed happiness, joy, and strength. D’Artagnan felt something like the presence of an invisible hand which had, all-powerfully, created this strength, this joy, this happiness, and spread everywhere these perfumes.

“Oh! oh!” said he, “Porthos has got fat; but Aramis is grown taller.”

The Grandeur of the Bishop of Vannes

Porthos and D’Artagnan had entered the bishop’s residence by a private door, as his personal friends. Of course, Porthos served D’Artagnan as guide. The worthy baron comported himself everywhere rather as if he were at home. Nevertheless, whether it was a tacit acknowledgment of the sanctity of the personage of Aramis and his character, or the habit of respecting him who imposed upon him morally, a worthy habit which had always made Porthos a model soldier and an excellent companion; for all these reasons, say we, Porthos preserved in the palace of His Greatness the Bishop of Vannes a sort of reserve which D’Artagnan remarked at once, in the attitude he took with respect to the valets and officers. And yet this reserve did not go so far as to prevent his asking questions. Porthos questioned. They learned that His Greatness had just returned to his apartment and was preparing to appear in familiar intimacy, less majestic than he had appeared with his flock. After a quarter of an hour, which D’Artagnan and Porthos passed in looking mutually at each other with the white of their eyes, and turning their thumbs in all the different evolutions which go from north to south, a door of the chamber opened and His Greatness appeared, dressed in the undress, complete, of a prelate. Aramis carried his head high, like a man accustomed to command: his violet robe was tucked up on one side, and his white hand was on his hip. He had retained the fine mustache, and the lengthened royale of the time of Louis XIII. He exhaled, on entering, that delicate perfume which, among elegant men and women of high fashion, never changes, and appears to be incorporated in the person, of whom it has become the natural emanation. In this case only, the perfume had retained something of the religious sublimity of incense. It no longer intoxicated, it penetrated; it no longer inspired desire, it inspired respect. Aramis, on entering the chamber did not hesitate an instant; and without pronouncing one word, which, whatever it might be, would have been cold on such an occasion, he went straight up to the musketeer, so well disguised under the costume of M. Agnan, and pressed him in his arms with a tenderness which the most distrustful could not have suspected of coldness or affectation.

D’Artagnan, on his part, embraced him with equal ardor. Porthos pressed the delicate hand of Aramis in his immense hands, and D’Artagnan remarked that His Greatness gave him his left hand, probably from habit, seeing that Porthos already ten times had been near injuring his fingers covered with rings, by pounding his flesh in the vise of his fist. Warned by the pain, Aramis was cautious, and only presented flesh to be bruised, and not fingers to be crushed, against gold or the angles of diamonds.

Between two embraces, Aramis looked D’Artagnan in the face, offered him a chair, sitting down himself in the shade, observing that the light fell full upon the face of his interlocutor. This maneuver, familiar to diplomatists and women, resembles much the advantage of the guard which, according to their skill or habit, combatants endeavor to take on the ground at a duel. D’Artagnan was not the dupe of this maneuver, but he did not appear to perceive it. He felt himself caught; but, precisely, because he was caught he felt himself on the road to discovery, and it little imported to him, old condottiere as he was, to be beaten in appearance, provided he drew from his pretended defeat the advantages of victory. Aramis began the conversation.

“Ah! dear friend! my good D’Artagnan,” said he, “what an excellent chance!”

“It is a chance, my reverend companion,” said D’Artagnan, “that I will call friendship. I seek you, as I always have sought you, when I had any grand enterprise to propose to you, or some hours of liberty to give you.”

“Ah! indeed,” said Aramis, without explosion, “you have been seeking me?”

“Eh! yes, he has been seeking you, Aramis,” said Porthos, “and the proof is that he has unharbored me at Belle-Isle. That is amiable, is it not?”

“Ah! yes,” said Aramis, “at Belle-Isle! certainly!”

“Good!” said D’Artagnan; “there is my booby Porthos, without thinking of it, has fired the first cannon of attack.”

“At Belle-Isle!” said Aramis, “in that hole, in that desert! That is kind, indeed!”

“And it was I who told him you were at Vannes,” continued Porthos, in the same tone.

D’Artagnan armed his mouth with a finesse almost ironical.

“Yes, I knew, but I was willing to see,” replied he.

“To see what?”

“If our old friendship still held out, if, on seeing each other, our hearts, hardened as they are by age, would still let the old cry of joy escape, which salutes the coming of a friend.”

“Well, and you must have been satisfied,” said Aramis.

“So, so.”

“How is that?”

“Yes, Porthos said hush! and you----”

“Well! and I?”

“And you gave me your benediction.”

“What would you have, my friend?” said Aramis, smiling; “that is the most precious thing that a poor prelate, like me, has to give.”

“Indeed, my dear friend!”

“Doubtless.”

“And yet they say at Paris that the bishopric of Vannes is one of the best in France.”

“Ah! you are now speaking of temporal wealth,” said Aramis, with a careless air.

“To be sure, I wish to speak of that; I hold by it, on my part.”

“In that case, let me speak of it,” said Aramis, with a smile.

“You own yourself to be one of the richest prelates in France?”

“My friend, since you ask me to give you an account, I will tell you that the bishopric of Vannes is worth about twenty thousand livres a year, neither more nor less. It is a diocese which contains a hundred and sixty parishes.”

“That is very pretty,” said D’Artagnan.

“It is superb!” said Porthos.

“And yet,” resumed D’Artagnan, throwing his eyes over Aramis, “you don’t mean to bury yourself here forever?”

“Pardon me. Only I do not admit the word bury.”

“But it seems to me, that at this distance from Paris a man is buried, or nearly so.”

“My friend, I am getting old,” said Aramis; “the noise and bustle of a city no longer suit me. At fifty-seven we ought to seek calm and meditation. I have found them here. What is there more beautiful, and stern at the same time, than this old Armorica. I find here, dear D’Artagnan, all that is opposite to what I formerly loved, and that is what must happen at the end of life, which is opposite to the beginning. A little of my odd pleasure of former times still comes to salute me here, now and then, without diverting me from the road of salvation. I am still of this world, and yet every step that I take brings me nearer to God.”

“Eloquent, wise and discreet; you are an accomplished prelate, Aramis, and I offer you my congratulations.”

“But,” said Aramis, smiling, “you did not come here only for the purpose of paying me compliments. Speak; what brings you hither! May it be that, in some fashion or other, you want me?”

“Thank God, no, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “it is nothing of that kind.--I am rich and free.”

“Rich!” exclaimed Aramis.

“Yes, rich for me; not for you or Porthos, understand. I have an income of about fifteen thousand livres.

Aramis looked at him suspiciously. He could not believe--particularly on seeing his friend in such humble guise--that he had made so fine a fortune. Then D’Artagnan, seeing that the hour of explanations was come, related the history of his English adventures. During the recital he saw, ten times, the eyes of the prelate sparkle, and his slender fingers work convulsively. As to Porthos, it was not admiration he manifested for D’Artagnan; it was enthusiasm, it was delirium. When D’Artagnan had finished, “Well!” said Aramis.

“Well!” said D’Artagnan, “you see, then, I have in England friends and property, in France a treasure. If your heart tells you so, I offer them to you. That is what I came here for.”

However firm was his look, he could not this time support the look of Aramis. He allowed, therefore, his eye to stray upon Porthos--like the sword which yields to too powerful a pressure, and seeks another road.

“At all events,” said the bishop, “you have assumed a singular traveling costume, old friend.”

“Frightful! I know it is. You may understand why I would not travel as a cavalier or a noble; since I became rich, I am miserly.”

“And you say, then, you came to Belle-Isle?” said Aramis, without transition.

“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan; “I knew I should find you and Porthos there.”

“Find me!” cried Aramis. “Me! for the last year past I have not once crossed the sea.”

“Oh,” said D’Artagnan, “I should never have supposed you such a housekeeper.”

“Ah, dear friend, I must tell you that I am no longer the Aramis of former times. Riding on horseback is unpleasant to me; the sea fatigues me. I am a poor, ailing priest, always complaining, always grumbling, and inclined to the austerities which appear to accord with old age,--preliminary parlayings with death. I linger, my dear D’Artagnan, I linger.”

“Well, that is all the better, my friend, for we shall probably be neighbors soon.”

“Bah!” said Aramis with a degree of surprise he did not even seek to dissemble. “You my neighbor!”

“Mordioux! yes.”

“How so?”

“I am about to purchase some very profitable salt-mines, which are situated between Pirial and Croisic. Imagine, my friend, a clear profit of twelve per cent. Never any deficiency, never any idle expenses; the ocean, faithful and regular, brings every twelve hours its contingency to my coffers. I am the first Parisian who has dreamt of such a speculation. Do not say anything about it, I beg of you, and in a short time we will communicate on the matter. I am to have three leagues of country for thirty thousand livres.”

Aramis darted a look at Porthos, as if to ask if all this were true, if some snare were not concealed beneath this outward indifference. But soon, as if ashamed of having consulted this poor auxiliary, he collected all his forces for a fresh assault and new defense. “I heard that you had had some difference with the court but that you had come out of it as you know how to get through everything, D’Artagnan, with the honors of war.”

“I!” said the musketeer, with a burst of laughter that did not conceal his embarrassment, for, from these words, Aramis was not unlikely to be acquainted with his last relations with the king. “I! Oh, tell me all about that, pray, Aramis?”

“Yes, it was related to me, a poor bishop, lost in the middle of the Landes, that the king had taken you as the confidant of his amours.”

“With whom?”

“With Mademoiselle de Mancini.”

D’Artagnan breathed freely again. “Ah! I don’t say no to that,” replied he.

“It appears that the king took you one morning over the bridge of Blois to talk with his lady-love.”

“That’s true,” said D’Artagnan. “And you know that, do you? Well, then, you must know that the same day I gave in my resignation!”

“What, sincerely?”

“Nothing more so.”

“It was after that, then, that you went to the Comte de la Fere’s?”

“Yes.”

“Afterwards to me?”

“Yes.”

“And then Porthos?”

“Yes.”

“Was it in order to pay us a simple visit?”

“No, I did not know you were engaged, and I wished to take you with me into England.”

“Yes, I understand; and then you executed alone, wonderful man as you are, what you wanted to propose to us all four. I suspected you had something to do with that famous restoration, when I learned that you had been seen at King Charles’s receptions, and that he appeared to treat you like a friend, or rather like a person to whom he was under an obligation.”

“But how the devil did you learn all that?” asked D’Artagnan, who began to fear that the investigation of Aramis had extended further than he wished.

“Dear D’Artagnan,” said the prelate, “my friendship resembles, in a degree, the solicitude of that night watch whom we have in the little tower of the mole, at the extremity of the quay. That brave man, every night, lights a lantern to direct the barks that come from sea. He is concealed in his sentry-box, and the fishermen do not see him; but he follows them with interest; he divines them; he calls them; he attracts them into the way to the port. I resemble this watcher: from time to time some news reaches me, and recalls to my remembrance all those I loved. Then I follow the friends of old days over the stormy ocean of the world, I, a poor watcher, to whom God has kindly given the shelter of a sentry-box.”

“Well, what did I do when I came from England?”

“Ah! there,” replied Aramis, “you get beyond my depth. I know nothing of you since your return. D’Artagnan, my eyes are dim. I regretted you did not think of me. I wept over your forgetfulness. I was wrong. I see you again, and it is a festival, a great festival, I assure you, solemnly! How is Athos?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“And our young pupil, Raoul?”

“He seems to have inherited the skill of his father, Athos, and the strength of his tutor, Porthos.”

“And on what occasion have you been able to judge of that?”

“Eh! mon Dieu! on the eve of my departure from Paris.”

“Indeed! tell me all about it!”

“Yes; there was an execution at the Greve, and in consequence of that execution, a riot. We happened by accident, to be in the riot; and in this riot we were obliged to have recourse to our swords. And he did wonders.”

“Bah! what did he do?”

“Why, in the first place, he threw a man out of the window, as he would have flung a sack full of flock.”

“Come, that’s pretty well,” said Porthos.

“Then he drew, and cut and thrust away, as we fellows used to do in the good old times.”

“And what was the cause of this riot?” said Porthos.

D’Artagnan remarked upon the face of Aramis a complete indifference to this question of Porthos. “Why,” said he, fixing his eyes upon Aramis, “on account of two farmers of the revenues, friends of M. Fouquet, whom the king forced to disgorge their plunder, and then hanged them.”

A scarcely perceptible contraction of the prelate’s brow showed that he had heard D’Artagnan’s reply.

“Oh, oh!” said Porthos; “and what were the names of these friends of M. Fouquet?”

“MM. d’Eymeris and Lyodot,” said D’Artagnan. “Do you know those names, Aramis?”

“No,” said the prelate, disdainfully; “they sound like the names of financiers.”

“Exactly; so they were.”

“Oh! M. Fouquet allows his friends to be hanged, then,” said Porthos.

“And why not?” said Aramis. “Why, it seems to me----”

“If these culprits were hanged, it was by order of the king. Now M. Fouquet, although superintendent of the finances, has not, I believe, the right of life and death.”

“That may be,” said Porthos; “but in the place of M. Fouquet----”

Aramis was afraid Porthos was about to say something awkward, so interrupted him. “Come, D’Artagnan,” said he; “this is quite enough about other people, let us talk a little about you.”

“Of me you know all that I can tell you. On the contrary let me hear a little about you, Aramis.”

“I have told you, my friend. There is nothing of Aramis left in me.”

“Nor of the Abbe d’Herblay even?”

“No, not even of him. You see a man whom Providence has taken by the hand, whom he has conducted to a position that he could never have dared even to hope for.”

“Providence?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Yes.”

“Well, that is strange! I was told it was M. Fouquet.”

“Who told you that?” cried Aramis, without being able, with all the power of his will, to prevent the color rising to his cheeks.

“Ma foi! why, Bazin!”

“The fool!”

“I do not say he is a man of genius, it is true; but he told me so; and after him, I repeat it to you.”

“I have never seen M. Fouquet,” replied Aramis with a look as pure and calm as that of a virgin who has never told a lie.

“Well, but if you had seen him and known him, there is no harm in that,” replied D’Artagnan. “M. Fouquet is a very good sort of a man.”

“Humph!”

“A great politician.” Aramis made a gesture of indifference.

“An all-powerful minister.”

“I only hold to the king and the pope.”

“Dame! listen then,” said D’Artagnan, in the most natural tone imaginable. “I said that because everybody here swears by M. Fouquet. The plain is M. Fouquet’s; the salt-mines I am about to buy are M. Fouquet’s; the island in which Porthos studies topography is M. Fouquet’s; the galleys are M. Fouquet’s. I confess, then, that nothing would have surprised me in your enfeoffment, or rather in that of your diocese, to M. Fouquet. He is a different master from the king, that is all; but quite as powerful as Louis.”

“Thank God! I am not vassal to anybody; I belong to nobody, and am entirely my own master,” replied Aramis, who, during this conversation, followed with his eye every gesture of D’Artagnan, every glance of Porthos. But D’Artagnan was impassible and Porthos motionless; the thrusts aimed so skillfully were parried by an able adversary; not one hit the mark. Nevertheless, both began to feel the fatigue of such a contest and the announcement of supper was well received by everybody. Supper changed the course of conversation. Besides, they felt that, upon their guard as each one had been, they could neither of them boast of having the advantage. Porthos had understood nothing of what had been meant. He had held himself motionless, because Aramis had made him a sign not to stir. Supper for him, was nothing but supper; but that was quite enough for Porthos. The supper, then, went off very well. D’Artagnan was in high spirits. Aramis exceeded himself in kind affability. Porthos ate like old Pelops. Their talk was of war, finance, the arts, and love. Aramis played astonishment at every word of politics. D’Artagnan risked. This long series of surprises increased the mistrust of D’Artagnan, as the eternal indifference of D’Artagnan provoked the suspicions of Aramis. At length D’Artagnan, designedly, uttered the name of Colbert; he had reserved that stroke for the last.

“Who is this Colbert?” asked the bishop.

“Oh! come,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “that is too strong! We must be careful, mordioux! we must be careful.”

And he then gave Aramis all the information respecting M. Colbert he could desire. The supper, or rather, the conversation, was prolonged till one o’clock in the morning between D’Artagnan and Aramis. At ten o’clock precisely, Porthos had fallen asleep in his chair and snored like an organ. At midnight he woke up and they sent him to bed. “Hum!” said he, “I was near falling asleep; but that was all very interesting you were talking about.”

At one o’clock Aramis conducted D’Artagnan to the chamber destined for him, which was the best in the episcopal residence. Two servants were placed at his command. To-morrow, at eight o’clock,” said he, taking leave of D’Artagnan, “we will take, if agreeable to you, a ride on horseback with Porthos.”

“At eight o’clock!” said D’Artagnan, “so late?”

“You know that I require seven hours, sleep.” said Aramis.

“That is true.”

“Good-night, dear friend!” And he embraced the musketeer cordially.

D’Artagnan allowed him to depart; then, as soon as the door closed, “Good!” cried he, “at five o’clock I will be on foot.”

This determination being made, he went to bed and quietly “put two and two together,” as people say.

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

Scarcely had D’Artagnan extinguished his taper, when Aramis, who had watched through his curtains the last glimmer of light in his friend’s apartment, traversed the corridor on tiptoe, and went to Porthos’s room. The giant, who had been in bed nearly an hour and a half, lay grandly stretched out on the down bed. He was in that happy calm of the first sleep, which, with Porthos, resisted the noise of bells or the report of cannon; his head swam in that soft oscillation which reminds us of the soothing movement of a ship. In a moment Porthos would have begun to dream. The door of the chamber opened softly under the delicate pressure of the hand of Aramis. The bishop approached the sleeper. A thick carpet deadened the sound of his steps, besides which Porthos snored in a manner to drown all noise. He laid one hand on his shoulder--“Rouse,” said he, “wake up, my dear Porthos.” The voice of Aramis was soft and kind, but it conveyed more than a notice,--it conveyed an order. His hand was light, but it indicated a danger. Porthos heard the voice and felt the hand of Aramis, even in the depth of his sleep. He started up. “Who goes there?” cried he, in his giant’s voice.

“Hush! hush! It is I,” said Aramis.

“You, my friend? And what the devil do you wake me for?”

“To tell you that you must set off directly.”

“Set off?”

“Yes.”

“Where for?”

“For Paris.”

Porthos bounded up in his bed, and then sank back again, fixing his great eyes in agitation upon Aramis.

“For Paris?”

“Yes.”

“A hundred leagues?” said he.

“A hundred and four,” replied the bishop.

“Oh! mon Dieu!” sighed Porthos, lying down again, like children who contend with their bonne to gain an hour or two more sleep.

“Thirty hours’ riding,” said Aramis, firmly. “You know there are good relays.”

Porthos pushed out one leg, allowing a groan to escape him.

“Come, come! my friend,” insisted the prelate with a sort of impatience.

Porthos drew the other leg out of the bed. “And is it absolutely necessary that I should go, at once?”

“Urgently necessary.”

Porthos got upon his feet, and began to shake both walls and floors with his steps of a marble statue.

“Hush! hush! for the love of Heaven, my dear Porthos!” said Aramis, “you will wake somebody.”

“Ah! that’s true,” replied Porthos, in a voice of thunder, “I forgot that; but be satisfied, I am on guard.” And so saying, he let fall a belt loaded with his sword and pistols, and a purse, from which the crowns escaped with a vibrating and prolonged noise. This noise made the blood of Aramis boil, whilst it drew from Porthos a formidable burst of laughter. “How droll that is!” said he, in the same voice.

“Not so loud, Porthos, not so loud.”

“True, true!” and he lowered his voice a half-note.

“I was going to say,” continued Porthos, “that it is droll that we are never so slow as when we are in a hurry, and never make so much noise as when we wish to be silent.”

“Yes, that is true, but let us give the proverb the lie, Porthos; let us make haste, and hold our tongue.”

“You see I am doing my best,” said Porthos, putting on his haut de chausses.

“Very well.”

“This is something in haste?”

“It is more than that, it is serious, Porthos.”

“Oh, oh!”

“D’Artagnan has questioned you, has he not?”

“Questioned me?”

“Yes, at Belle-Isle?”

“Not the least in the world.”

“Are you sure of that, Porthos?”

“Parbleu!”

“It is impossible. Recollect yourself.”

“He asked me what I was doing, and I told him studying topography. I would have made use of another word which you employed one day.”

“‘Castrametation’?”

“Yes, that’s it, but I never could recollect it.”

“All the better. What more did he ask you?”

“Who M. Getard was.”

“Next?”

“Who M. Jupenet was.”

“He did not happen to see our plan of fortifications, did he?”

“Yes.”

“The devil he did!”

“But don’t be alarmed, I had rubbed out your writing with India-rubber. It was impossible for him to suppose you had given me any advice in those works.”

“Ay, but our friend has phenomenally keen eyes.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I fear that everything is discovered, Porthos; the matter is, then, to prevent a great misfortune. I have given orders to my people to close all the gates and doors. D’Artagnan will not be able to get out before daybreak. Your horse is ready saddled; you will gain the first relay; by five o’clock in the morning you will have traversed fifteen leagues. Come!”

Aramis then assisted Porthos to dress, piece by piece, with as much celerity as the most skillful valet de chambre could have done. Porthos, half stupefied, let him do as he liked, and confounded himself in excuses. When he was ready, Aramis took him by the hand, and led him, making him place his foot with precaution on every step of the stairs, preventing him running against doorframes, turning him this way and that, as if Aramis had been the giant, and Porthos the dwarf. Soul set fire to and animated matter. A horse was waiting, ready saddled, in the courtyard. Porthos mounted. Then Aramis himself took the horse by the bridle, and led him over some dung spread in the yard, with the evident intention of suppressing noise. He, at the same time, held tight the horse’s nose, to prevent him neighing. When arrived at the outward gate, drawing Porthos towards him, who was going off without even asking him what for: “Now friend Porthos, now; without drawing bridle, till you get to Paris,” whispered he in his ears; “eat on horseback, drink on horseback, sleep on horseback, but lose not a minute.”

“That’s enough, I will not stop.”

“This letter to M. Fouquet; cost what it may, he must have it to-morrow before mid-day.”

“He shall.”

“And do not forget one thing, my friend.”

“What is that?”

“That you are riding out on a hunt for your brevet of duc and peer.”

“Oh! oh!” said Porthos, with his eyes sparkling; “I will do it in twenty-four hours, in that case.”

“Try.”

“Then let go the bridle--and forward, Goliath!”

Aramis did let go, not the bridle, but the horse’s nose. Porthos released his hand, clapped spurs to his horse, which set off at a gallop. As long as he could distinguish Porthos through the darkness, Aramis followed him with his eyes: when he was completely out of sight, he re-entered the yard. Nothing had stirred in D’Artagnan’s apartment. The valet placed on watch at the door had neither seen any light, nor heard any noise. Aramis closed his door carefully, sent the lackey to bed, and quickly sought his own. D’Artagnan really suspected nothing, therefore thought he had gained everything, when he awoke in the morning, about halfpast four. He ran to the window in his shirt. The window looked out upon the court. Day was dawning. The court was deserted; the fowls, even, had not left their roosts. Not a servant appeared. Every door was closed.

“Good! all is still,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “Never mind: I am up first in the house. Let us dress; that will be so much done.” And D’Artagnan dressed himself. But, this time, he endeavored not to give to the costume of M. Agnan that bourgeoise and almost ecclesiastical rigidity he had affected before; he managed, by drawing his belt tighter, by buttoning his clothes in a different fashion, and by putting on his hat a little on one side, to restore to his person a little of that military character, the absence of which had surprised Aramis. This being done, he made free, or affected to make free with his host, and entered his chamber without ceremony. Aramis was asleep or feigned to be so. A large book lay open upon his night-desk, a wax-light was still burning in its silver sconce. This was more than enough to prove to D’Artagnan the quiescence of the prelate’s night, and the good intentions of his waking. The musketeer did to the bishop precisely as the bishop had done to Porthos--he tapped him on the shoulder. Evidently Aramis pretended to sleep; for, instead of waking suddenly, he who slept so lightly required a repetition of the summons.

“Ah! ah! is that you?” said he, stretching his arms. “What an agreeable surprise! Ma foi! Sleep had made me forget I had the happiness to possess you. What o’clock is it?”

“I do not know,” said D’Artagnan, a little embarrassed. “Early, I believe. But, you know, that devil of a habit of waking with the day sticks to me still.”

“Do you wish that we should go out so soon?” asked Aramis. “It appears to me to be very early.”

“Just as you like.”

“I thought we had agreed not to get on horseback before eight.”

“Possibly; but I had so great a wish to see you, that I said to myself, the sooner the better.”

“And my seven hours, sleep!” said Aramis: “Take care; I had reckoned upon them, and what I lose of them I must make up.”

“But it seems to me that, formerly, you were less of a sleeper than that, dear friend; your blood was alive, and you were never to be found in bed.”

“And it is exactly on account of what you tell me that I am so fond of being there now.”

“Then you confess that it is not for the sake of sleeping that you have put me off till eight o’clock.”

“I have been afraid you would laugh at me, if I told you the truth.”

“Tell me, notwithstanding.”

“Well, from six to eight, I am accustomed to perform my devotions.”

“Your devotions?”

“Yes.”

“I did not believe a bishop’s exercises were so severe.”

“A bishop, my friend, must sacrifice more to appearance than a simple cleric.”

“Mordioux! Aramis, that is a word which reconciles me with your greatness. To appearances! That is a musketeer’s word, in good truth! Vivent les apparences, Aramis!”

“Instead of felicitating me upon it, pardon me, D’Artagnan. It is a very mundane word which I had allowed to escape me.”

“Must I leave you, then?”

“I want time to collect my thoughts, my friend, and for my usual prayers.”

“Well, I leave you to them; but on account of that poor pagan, D’Artagnan, abridge them for once, I beg; I thirst for speech with you.”

“Well, D’Artagnan, I promise you that within an hour and a half----”

“An hour and a half of devotions! Eh! my friend, be as reasonable with me as you can. Let me have the best bargain possible.”

Aramis began to laugh.

“Still agreeable, still young, still gay,” said he. “You have come into my diocese to set me quarrelling with grace.”

“Bah!”

“And you know well that I was never able to resist your seductions; you will cost me my salvation, D’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan bit his lips.

“Well,” said he, “I will take the sin on my own head, favor me with one simple Christian sign of the cross, favor me with one pater, and we will part.”

“Hush!” said Aramis, “we are already no longer alone, I hear strangers coming up.”

“Well, dismiss them.”

“Impossible, I made an appointment with them yesterday; it is the principal of the college of the Jesuits, and the superior of the Dominicans.”

“Your staff? Well, so be it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I will go and wake Porthos, and remain in his company till you have finished the conference.”

Aramis did not stir, his brow remained unbent, he betrayed himself by no gesture or word; “Go,” said he, as D’Artagnan advanced to the door. “A propos, do you know where Porthos sleeps?”

“No, but I will inquire.”

“Take the corridor, and open the second door on the left.”

“Thank you! au revoir.” And D’Artagnan departed in the direction pointed out by Aramis.

Ten minutes had not passed away when he came back. He found Aramis seated between the superior of the Dominicans and the principal of the college of the Jesuits, exactly in the same situation as he had found him formerly in the auberge at Crevecoeur. This company did not at all terrify the musketeer.

“What is it?” said Aramis, quietly. “You have apparently something to say to me, my friend.”

“It is,” replied D’Artagnan, fixing his eyes upon Aramis, “it is that Porthos is not in his apartment.”

“Indeed,” said Aramis, calmly; “are you sure?”

“Pardieu! I came from his chamber.”

“Where can he be, then?”

“That is what I am asking you.”

“And have not you inquired?”

“Yes, I have.”

“And what answer did you get?”

“That Porthos, often walking out in a morning, without saying anything, had probably gone out.”

“What did you do, then?”

“I went to the stables,” replied D’Artagnan, carelessly.

“What to do?”

“To see if Porthos had departed on horseback.”

“And?” interrogated the bishop.

“Well, there is a horse missing, stall No. 3, Goliath.”

All this dialogue, it may be easily understood, was not exempt from a certain affectation on the part of the musketeer, and a perfect complaisance on the part of Aramis.

“Oh! I guess how it is,” said Aramis, after having considered for a moment, “Porthos is gone out to give us a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

“Yes, the canal which goes from Vannes to the sea abounds in teal and snipes; that is Porthos’s favorite sport, and he will bring us back a dozen for breakfast.”

“Do you think so?” said D’Artagnan.

“I am sure of it. Where else can he be? I would lay a wager he took a gun with him.”

“Well, that is possible,” said D’Artagnan.

“Do one thing, my friend. Get on horseback, and join him.”

“You are right,” said D’Artagnan, “I will.”

“Shall I go with you?”

“No, thank you; Porthos is a rather remarkable man: I will inquire as I go along.”

“Will you take an arquebuse?”

“Thank you.”

“Order what horse you like to be saddled.”

“The one I rode yesterday, on coming from Belle-Isle.”

“So be it: use the horse as your own.”

Aramis rang, and gave orders to have the horse M. d’Artagnan had chosen, saddled.

D’Artagnan followed the servant charged with the execution of this order. When arrived at the door, the servant drew on one side to allow M. d’Artagnan to pass; and at that moment he caught the eye of his master. A knitting of the brow gave the intelligent spy to understand that all should be given to D’Artagnan he wished. D’Artagnan got into the saddle, and Aramis heard the steps of his horse on the pavement. An instant after, the servant returned.

“Well?” asked the bishop.

“Monseigneur, he has followed the course of the canal, and is going towards the sea,” said the servant.

“Very well!” said Aramis.

In fact, D’Artagnan, dismissing all suspicion, hastened towards the ocean, constantly hoping to see in the Landes, or on the beach, the colossal profile of Porthos. He persisted in fancying he could trace a horse’s steps in every puddle. Sometimes he imagined he heard the report of a gun. This illusion lasted three hours; during two of which he went forward in search of his friend--in the last he returned to the house.

“We must have crossed,” said he, “and I shall find them waiting for me at table.”

D’Artagnan was mistaken. He no more found Porthos at the palace than he had found him on the sea-shore. Aramis was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, looking very much concerned.

“Did my people not find you, my dear D’Artagnan?” cried he, as soon as he caught sight of the musketeer.

“No; did you send any one after me?”

“I am deeply concerned, my friend, deeply, to have induced you to make such a useless search, but, about seven o’clock, the almoner of Saint-Paterne came here. He had met Du Vallon, who was going away, and who being unwilling to disturb anybody at the palace, had charged him to tell me that, fearing M. Getard would play him some ill turn in his absence, he was going to take advantage of the morning tide to make a tour to Belle-Isle.”

“But tell me, Goliath has not crossed the four leagues of sea, I should think.”

“There are full six,” said Aramis.

“That makes it less probable still.”

“Therefore, my friend,” said Aramis, with one of his blandest smiles, “Goliath is in the stable, well pleased, I will answer for it, that Porthos is no longer on his back.” In fact, the horse had been brought back from the relay by the direction of the prelate, from whom no detail escaped. D’Artagnan appeared as well satisfied as possible with the explanation. He entered upon a part of dissimulation which agreed perfectly with the suspicions that arose more and more strongly in his mind. He breakfasted between the Jesuit and Aramis, having the Dominican in front of him, and smiling particularly at the Dominican, whose jolly, fat face pleased him much. The repast was long and sumptuous; excellent Spanish wine, fine Morbihan oysters, exquisite fish from the mouth of the Loire, enormous prawns from Paimboeuf, and delicious game from the moors, constituted the principal part of it. D’Artagnan ate much, and drank but little. Aramis drank nothing, unless it was water. After the repast,--

“You offered me an arquebuse,” said D’Artagnan.

“I did.”

“Lend it me, then.”

“Are you going shooting?”

“Whilst waiting for Porthos, it is the best thing I can do, I think.”

“Take which you like from the trophy.”

“Will you not come with me?”

“I would with great pleasure; but, alas! my friend, sporting is forbidden to bishops.”

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, “I did not know that.”

“Besides,” continued Aramis, “I shall be busy till mid-day.”

“I shall go alone, then?” said D’Artagnan.

“I am sorry to say you must; but come back to dinner.”

“Pardieu! the eating at your house is too good to make me think of not coming back.” And thereupon D’Artagnan quitted his host, bowed to the guests, and took his arquebuse; but instead of shooting, went straight to the little port of Vannes. He looked in vain to observe if anybody saw him; he could discern neither thing nor person. He engaged a little fishing boat for twenty-five livres, and set off at half-past eleven, convinced that he had not been followed; and that was true, he had not been followed; only a Jesuit brother, placed in the top of the steeple of his church, had not, since the morning, by the help of an excellent glass, lost sight of one of his steps. At three-quarters past eleven, Aramis was informed that D’Artagnan was sailing towards Belle-Isle. The voyage was rapid; a good north north-east wind drove him towards the isle. As he approached, his eyes were constantly fixed upon the coast. He looked to see if, upon the shore or upon the fortifications the brilliant dress and vast stature of Porthos should stand out against a slightly clouded sky; but his search was vain. He landed without having seen anything; and learnt from the first soldier interrogated by him, that M. du Vallon had not yet returned from Vannes. Then, without losing an instant, D’Artagnan ordered his little bark to put its head towards Sarzeau. We know that the wind changes with the different hours of the day. The breeze had veered from the north north-east to the south-east: the wind, then, was almost as good for the return to Sarzeau, as it had been for the voyage to Belle-Isle. In three hours D’Artagnan had touched the continent, two hours more sufficed for his ride to Vannes. In spite of the rapidity of his passage, what D’Artagnan endured of impatience and anger during that short passage, the deck alone of the vessel, upon which he stamped backwards and forwards for three hours, could testify. He made but one bound from the quay whereon he landed to the episcopal palace. He thought to terrify Aramis by the promptitude of his return; he wished to reproach him with his duplicity, and yet with reserve; but with sufficient spirit, nevertheless, to make him feel all the consequences of it, and force from him a part of his secret He hoped, in short--thanks to that heat of expression which is to secrets what the charge with the bayonet is to redoubts--to bring the mysterious Aramis to some manifestation or other. But he found, in the vestibule of the palace, the valet de chambre, who closed the passage, while smiling upon him with a stupid air.

“Monseigneur?” cried D’Artagnan, endeavoring to put him aside with his hand. Moved for an instant the valet resumed his station.

“Monseigneur?” said he.

“Yes, to be sure; do you not know me, imbecile?”

“Yes, you are the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”

“Then let me pass.”

“It is of no use.”

“Why of no use?”

“Because His Greatness is not at home.”

“What! His Greatness is not at home? where is he then?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes.”

“Whither?”

“I don’t know; but perhaps he tells monsieur le chevalier.”

“And how? where? in what fashion?”

“In this letter, which he gave me for monsieur le chevalier.” And the valet de chambre drew a letter from his pocket.

“Give it me, then, you rascal,” said D’Artagnan, snatching it from his hand. “Oh, yes,” continued he, at the first line, “yes, I understand; “and he read:--

“Dear Friend,--An affair of the most urgent nature calls me to a distant parish of my diocese. I hoped to see you again before I set out; but I lose that hope in thinking that you are going, no doubt, to remain two or three days at Belle-Isle, with our dear Porthos. Amuse yourself as well as you can; but do not attempt to hold out against him at table. This is a counsel I might have given even to Athos, in his most brilliant and best days. Adieu, dear friend; believe that I regret greatly not having better, and for a longer time, profited by your excellent company.”

“Mordioux!” cried D’Artagnan. “I am tricked. Ah! blockhead, brute, triple fool that I am! But those laugh best who laugh last. Oh, duped, duped like a monkey, cheated with an empty nutshell!” And with a hearty blow bestowed upon the nose of the smirking valet de chambre, he made all haste out of the episcopal palace. Furet, however good a trotter, was not equal to present circumstances. D’Artagnan therefore took the post, and chose a horse which he soon caused to demonstrate, with good spurs and a light hand, that deer are not the swiftest animals in nature.

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

From thirty to thirty-five hours after the events we have just related, as M. Fouquet, according to his custom, having interdicted his door, was working in the cabinet of his house at Saint-Mande, with which we are already acquainted, a carriage, drawn by four horses steaming with sweat, entered the court at full gallop. This carriage was, probably, expected, for three or four lackeys hastened to the door, which they opened. Whilst M. Fouquet rose from his bureau and ran to the window, a man got painfully out of the carriage descending with difficulty the three steps of the door, leaning upon the shoulders of the lackeys. He had scarcely uttered his name, when the valet upon whom he was not leaning sprang up the perron, and disappeared in the vestibule. This man went to inform his master; but he had no occasion to knock at the door: Fouquet was standing on the threshold.

“Monseigneur, the Bishop of Vannes,” said he.

“Very well!” replied his master.

Then, leaning over the banister of the staircase, of which Aramis was beginning to ascend the first steps,--

“Ah, dear friend!” said he, “you, so soon!”

“Yes; I, myself, monsieur! but bruised, battered, as you see.”

“Oh! my poor friend,” said Fouquet, presenting him his arm, on which Aramis leant, whilst the servants drew back respectfully.

“Bah!” replied Aramis, “it is nothing, since I am here; the principal thing was that I should get here, and here I am.”

“Speak quickly,” said Fouquet, closing the door of the cabinet behind Aramis and himself.

“Are we alone?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“No one observes us?--no one can hear us?”

“Be satisfied; nobody.”

“Is M. du Vallon arrived?”

“Yes.”

“And you have received my letter?”

“Yes. The affair is serious, apparently, since it necessitates your attendance in Paris, at a moment when your presence was so urgent elsewhere.”

“You are right, it could not be more serious.”

“Thank you! thank you! What is it about? But, for God’s sake! before anything else, take time to breathe, dear friend. You are so pale, you frighten me.”

“I am really in great pain. But, for Heaven’s sake, think nothing about me. Did M. du Vallon tell you nothing, when he delivered the letter to you?”

“No; I heard a great noise; I went to the window; I saw at the foot of the perron, a sort of horseman of marble; I went down, he held the letter out to me, and his horse fell down dead.”

“But he?”

“He fell with the horse; he was lifted, and carried to an apartment. Having read the letter, I went up to him, in hopes of obtaining more ample information; but he was asleep, and, after such a fashion, that it was impossible to wake him. I took pity on him; I gave orders that his boots should be cut from off his legs, and that he should be left quite undisturbed.”

“So far well; now, this is the question in hand, monseigneur. You have seen M. d’Artagnan in Paris, have you not?”

“Certes, and think him a man of intelligence, and even a man of heart; although he did bring about the death of our dear friends, Lyodot and D’Eymeris.”

“Alas! yes, I heard of that. At Tours I met the courier who was bringing me the letter from Gourville, and the dispatches from Pellisson. Have you seriously reflected on that event, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“And in it you perceived a direct attack upon your sovereignty?”

“And do you believe it to be so?”

“Oh, yes, I think so.”

“Well, I must confess, that sad idea occurred to me likewise.”

“Do not blind yourself, monsieur, in the name of Heaven! Listen attentively to me,--I return to D’Artagnan.”

“I am all attention.”

“Under what circumstances did you see him?”

“He came here for money.”

“With what kind of order?”

“With an order from the king.”

“Direct?”

“Signed by his majesty.”

“There, then! Well, D’Artagnan has been to Belle-Isle; he was disguised; he came in the character of some sort of an intendant, charged by his master to purchase salt-mines. Now, D’Artagnan has no other master but the king: he came, then, sent by the king. He saw Porthos.”

“Who is Porthos?”

“I beg your pardon, I made a mistake. He saw M. du Vallon at Belle-Isle; and he knows, as well as you and I do, that Belle-Isle is fortified.”

“And you think that the king sent him there?” said Fouquet, pensively.

“I certainly do.”

“And D’Artagnan, in the hands of the king, is a dangerous instrument?”

“The most dangerous imaginable.”

“Then I formed a correct opinion of him at the first glance.”

“How so?”

“I wished to attach him to myself.”

“If you judged him to be the bravest, the most acute, and the most adroit man in France, you judged correctly.”

“He must be had then, at any price.”

“D’Artagnan?”

“Is not that your opinion?”

“It may be my opinion, but you will never get him.”

“Why?”

“Because we have allowed the time to go by. He was dissatisfied with the court, we should have profited by that; since that, he has passed into England; there he powerfully assisted in the restoration, there he gained a fortune, and, after all, he returned to the service of the king. Well, if he has returned to the service of the king, it is because he is well paid in that service.”

“We will pay him even better, that is all.”

“Oh! monsieur, excuse me; D’Artagnan has a high respect for his word, and where that is once engaged he keeps it.”

“What do you conclude, then?” said Fouquet, with great inquietude.

“At present, the principal thing is to parry a dangerous blow.”

“And how is it to be parried?”

“Listen.”

“But D’Artagnan will come and render an account to the king of his mission.”

“Oh, we have time enough to think about that.”

“How so? You are much in advance of him, I presume?”

“Nearly ten hours.”

“Well, in ten hours----”

Aramis shook his pale head. “Look at these clouds which flit across the heavens; at these swallows which cut the air. D’Artagnan moves more quickly than the clouds or the birds; D’Artagnan is the wind which carries them.”

“A strange man!”

“I tell you, he is superhuman, monsieur. He is of my own age, and I have known him these five-and-thirty years.”

“Well?”

“Well, listen to my calculation, monsieur. I sent M. du Vallon off to you two hours after midnight. M. du Vallon was eight hours in advance of me, when did M. du Vallon arrive?”

“About four hours ago.”

“You see, then, that I gained four upon him; and yet Porthos is a staunch horseman, and he has left on the road eight dead horses, whose bodies I came to successively. I rode post fifty leagues; but I have the gout, the gravel, and what else I know not; so that fatigue kills me. I was obliged to dismount at Tours; since that, rolling along in a carriage, half dead, sometimes overturned, drawn upon the sides, and sometimes on the back of the carriage, always with four spirited horses at full gallop, I have arrived--arrived, gaining four hours upon Porthos; but, see you, D’Artagnan does not weigh three hundred-weight, as Porthos does; D’Artagnan has not the gout and gravel, as I have; he is not a horseman, he is a centaur. D’Artagnan, look you, set out for Belle-Isle when I set out for Paris; and D’Artagnan, notwithstanding my ten hours, advance, D’Artagnan will arrive within two hours after me.”

“But, then, accidents?”

“He never meets with accidents.”

“Horses may fail him.”

“He will run as fast as a horse.”

“Good God! what a man!”

“Yes, he is a man whom I love and admire. I love him because he is good, great, and loyal; I admire him because he represents in my eyes the culminating point of human power; but, whilst loving and admiring him, I fear him, and am on my guard against him. Now then, I resume, monsieur; in two hours D’Artagnan will be here; be beforehand with him. Go to the Louvre, and see the king, before he sees D’Artagnan.”

“What shall I say to the king?”

“Nothing; give him Belle-Isle.”

“Oh! Monsieur d’Herblay! Monsieur d’Herblay,” cried Fouquet, “what projects crushed all at once!”

“After one project that has failed, there is always another project that may lead to fortune; we should never despair. Go, monsieur, and go at once.”

“But that garrison, so carefully chosen, the king will change it directly.”

“That garrison, monsieur, was the king’s when it entered Belle-Isle; it is yours now; it is the same with all garrisons after a fortnight’s occupation. Let things go on, monsieur. Do you see any inconvenience in having an army at the end of a year, instead of two regiments? Do you not see that your garrison of today will make you partisans at La Rochelle, Nantes, Bordeaux, Toulouse--in short, wherever they may be sent to? Go to the king, monsieur; go; time flies, and D’Artagnan, while we are losing time, is flying, like an arrow, along the high-road.”

“Monsieur d’Herblay, you know that each word from you is a germ which fructifies in my thoughts. I will go to the Louvre.”

“Instantly, will you not?”

“I only ask time to change my dress.”

“Remember that D’Artagnan has no need to pass through Saint-Mande; but will go straight to the Louvre; that is cutting off an hour from the advantage that yet remains to us.”

“D’Artagnan may have everything except my English horses. I shall be at the Louvre in twenty-five minutes.” And, without losing a second, Fouquet gave orders for his departure.

Aramis had only time to say to him, “Return as quickly as you go; for I shall await you impatiently.”

Five minutes after, the superintendent was flying along the road to Paris. During this time Aramis desired to be shown the chamber in which Porthos was sleeping. At the door of Fouquet’s cabinet he was folded in the arms of Pellisson, who had just heard of his arrival, and had left his office to see him. Aramis received, with that friendly dignity which he knew so well how to assume, these caresses, respectful as earnest; but all at once stopping on the landing-place, “What is that I hear up yonder?”

There was, in fact, a hoarse, growling kind of noise, like the roar of a hungry tiger, or an impatient lion. “Oh, that is nothing,” said Pellisson, smiling.

“Well; but----”

“It is M. du Vallon snoring.”

“Ah! true,” said Aramis. “I had forgotten. No one but he is capable of making such a noise. Allow me, Pellisson, to inquire if he wants anything.”

“And you will permit me to accompany you?”

“Oh, certainly;” and both entered the chamber. Porthos was stretched upon the bed; his face was violet rather than red; his eyes were swelled; his mouth was wide open. The roaring which escaped from the deep cavities of his chest made the glass of the windows vibrate. To those developed and clearly defined muscles starting from his face, to his hair matted with sweat, to the energetic heaving of his chin and shoulders, it was impossible to refuse a certain degree of admiration. Strength carried to this point is semi-divine. The Herculean legs and feet of Porthos had, by swelling, burst his stockings; all the strength of his huge body was converted into the rigidity of stone. Porthos moved no more than does the giant of granite which reclines upon the plains of Agrigentum. According to Pellisson’s orders, his boots had been cut off, for no human power could have pulled them off. Four lackeys had tried in vain, pulling at them as they would have pulled capstans; and yet all this did not awaken him. They had hacked off his boots in fragments, and his legs had fallen back upon the bed. They then cut off the rest of his clothes, carried him to a bath, in which they let him soak a considerable time. They then put on him clean linen, and placed him in a well-warmed bed--the whole with efforts and pains which might have roused a dead man, but which did not make Porthos open an eye, or interrupt for a second the formidable diapason of his snoring. Aramis wished on his part, with his nervous nature, armed with extraordinary courage, to outbrave fatigue, and employ himself with Gourville and Pellisson, but he fainted in the chair in which he had persisted sitting. He was carried into the adjoining room, where the repose of bed soon soothed his failing brain.

In which Monsieur Fouquet acts

In the meantime Fouquet was hastening to the Louvre, at the best speed of his English horses. The king was at work with Colbert. All at once the king became thoughtful. The two sentences of death he had signed on mounting his throne sometimes recurred to his memory; they were two black spots which he saw with his eyes open; two spots of blood which he saw when his eyes were closed. “Monsieur,” said he, rather sharply, to the intendant; “it sometimes seems to me that those two men you made me condemn were not very great culprits.”

“Sire, they were picked out from the herd of the farmers of the financiers, which wanted decimating.”

“Picked out by whom?”

“By necessity, sire,” replied Colbert, coldly.

“Necessity!--a great word,” murmured the young king.

“A great goddess, sire.”

“They were devoted friends of the superintendent, were they not?”

“Yes, sire; friends who would have given up their lives for Monsieur Fouquet.”

“They have given them, monsieur,” said the king.

“That is true;--but uselessly, by good luck,--which was not their intention.”

“How much money had these men fraudulently obtained?”

“Ten millions, perhaps; of which six have been confiscated.”

“And is that money in my coffers?” said the king with a certain air of repugnance.

“It is there, sire; but this confiscation, whilst threatening M. Fouquet, has not touched him.”

“You conclude, then, M. Colbert----”

“That if M. Fouquet has raised against your majesty a troop of factious rioters to extricate his friends from punishment, he will raise an army when he has in turn to extricate himself from punishment.”

The king darted at his confidant one of those looks which resemble the livid fire of a flash of lightning, one of those looks which illuminate the darkness of the basest consciences. “I am astonished,” said he, “that, thinking such things of M. Fouquet, you did not come to give me your counsels thereupon.”

“Counsels upon what, sire?”

“Tell me, in the first place, clearly and precisely, what you think, M. Colbert.”

“Upon what subject, sire?”

“Upon the conduct of M. Fouquet.”

“I think, sire, that M. Fouquet, not satisfied with attracting all the money to himself, as M. Mazarin did, and by that means depriving your majesty of one part of your power, still wishes to attract to himself all the friends of easy life and pleasure--of what idlers call poetry, and politicians, corruption. I, think that, by holding the subjects of your majesty in pay, he trespasses upon the royal prerogative, and cannot, if this continues so, be long in placing your majesty among the weak and the obscure.”

“How would you qualify all these projects, M. Colbert?”

“The projects of M. Fouquet, sire?”

“Yes.”

“They are called crimes of lese majeste.”

“And what is done to criminals guilty of lese majeste?”

“They are arrested, tried, and punished.”

“You are quite sure that M. Fouquet has conceived the idea of the crime you impute to him?”

“I can say more, sire, there is even a commencement of the execution of it.”

“Well, then, I return to that which I was saying, M. Colbert.”

“And you were saying, sire?”

“Give me counsel.”

“Pardon me, sire, but in the first place, I have something to add.”

“Say--what?”

“An evident, palpable, material proof of treason.”

“And what is that?”

“I have just learnt that M. Fouquet is fortifying Belle-Isle.”

“Ah, indeed!”

“Yes, sire.”

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly. Do you know, sire, what soldiers there are in Belle-Isle?”

“No, ma foi! Do you?”

“I am ignorant, likewise, sire; I should therefore propose to your majesty to send somebody to Belle-Isle?”

“Who?”

“Me, for instance.”

“And what would you do at Belle-Isle?”

“Inform myself whether, after the example of the ancient feudal lords, M. Fouquet was battlementing his walls.”

“And with what purpose could he do that?”

“With the purpose of defending himself some day against his king.”

“But, if it be thus, M. Colbert,” said Louis, “we must immediately do as you say; M. Fouquet must be arrested.”

“That is impossible.”

“I thought I had already told you, monsieur, that I suppressed that word in my service.”

“The service of your majesty cannot prevent M. Fouquet from being surintendant-general.”

“Well?”

“That, in consequence of holding that post, he has for him all the parliament, as he has all the army by his largesses, literature by his favors, and the noblesse by his presents.”

“That is to say, then, that I can do nothing against M. Fouquet?”

“Absolutely nothing,--at least at present, sire.”

“You are a sterile counselor, M. Colbert.”

“Oh, no, sire; for I will not confine myself to pointing out the peril to your majesty.”

“Come, then, where shall we begin to undermine this Colossus; let us see;” and his majesty began to laugh bitterly.

“He has grown great by money; kill him by money, sire.”

“If I were to deprive him of his charge?”

“A bad means, sire.”

“The good--the good, then?”

“Ruin him, sire, that is the way.

“But how?”

“Occasions will not be wanting, take advantage of all occasions.”

“Point them out to me.”

“Here is one at once. His royal highness Monsieur is about to be married; his nuptials must be magnificent. That is a good occasion for your majesty to demand a million of M. Fouquet. M. Fouquet, who pays twenty thousand livres down when he need not pay more than five thousand, will easily find that million when your majesty demands it.”

“That is all very well; I will demand it,” said Louis.

“If your majesty will sign the ordonnance I will have the money got together myself.” And Colbert pushed a paper before the king, and presented a pen to him.

At that moment the usher opened the door and announced monsieur le surintendant. Louis turned pale. Colbert let the pen fall, and drew back from the king, over whom he extended his black wings like an evil spirit. The superintendent made his entrance like a man of the court, to whom a single glance was sufficient to make him appreciate the situation. That situation was not very encouraging for Fouquet, whatever might be his consciousness of strength. The small black eye of Colbert, dilated by envy, and the limpid eye of Louis XIV., inflamed by anger, signalled some pressing danger. Courtiers are, with regard to court rumors, like old soldiers, who distinguish through the blasts of wind and bluster of leaves the sound of the distant steps of an armed troop. They can, after having listened, tell pretty nearly how many men are marching, how many arms resound, how many cannons roll. Fouquet had then only to interrogate the silence which his arrival had produced; he found it big with menacing revelations. The king allowed him time enough to advance as far as the middle of the chamber. His adolescent modesty commanded this forbearance of the moment. Fouquet boldly seized the opportunity.

“Sire,” said he, “I was impatient to see your majesty.”

“What for?” asked Louis.

“To announce some good news to you.”

Colbert, minus grandeur of person, less largeness of heart, resembled Fouquet in many points. He had the same penetration, the same knowledge of men; moreover, that great power of self-compression which gives to hypocrites time to reflect, and gather themselves up to take a spring. He guessed that Fouquet was going to meet the blow he was about to deal him. His eyes glittered ominously.

“What news?” asked the king. Fouquet placed a roll of papers on the table.

“Let your majesty have the goodness to cast your eyes over this work,” said he. The king slowly unfolded the paper.

“Plans?” said he.

“Yes, sire.”

“And what are these plans?”

“A new fortification, sire.”

“Ah, ah!” said the king, “you amuse yourself with tactics and strategies, then, M. Fouquet?”

“I occupy myself with everything that may be useful to the reign of your majesty,” replied Fouquet.

“Beautiful descriptions!” said the king, looking at the design.

“Your majesty comprehends, without doubt,” said Fouquet, bending over the paper; “here is the circle of the walls, here are the forts, there the advanced works.”

“And what do I see here, monsieur?”

“The sea.”

“The sea all round?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And what is, then, the name of this place of which you show me the plan?”

“Sire, it is Belle-Isle-en-Mer,” replied Fouquet with simplicity.

At this word, at this name, Colbert made so marked a movement, that the king turned round to enforce the necessity for reserve. Fouquet did not appear to be the least in the world concerned by the movement of Colbert, or the king’s signal.

“Monsieur,” continued Louis, “you have then fortified Belle-Isle?”

“Yes, sire; and I have brought the plan and the accounts to your majesty,” replied Fouquet, “I have expended sixteen hundred thousand livres in this operation.”

“What to do?” replied Louis, coldly, having taken the initiative from a malicious look of the intendant.

“For an aim very easy to seize,” replied, Fouquet. “Your majesty was on cool terms with Great Britain.”

“Yes; but since the restoration of King Charles II. I have formed an alliance with him.”

“A month since, sire, your majesty has truly said; but it is more than six months since the fortifications of Belle-Isle were begun.”

“Then they have become useless.”

“Sire, fortifications are never useless. I fortified Belle-Isle against MM. Monk and Lambert and all those London citizens who were playing at soldiers. Belle-Isle will be ready fortified against the Dutch, against whom either England or your majesty cannot fail to make war.”

The king was again silent, and looked askant at Colbert. “Belle-Isle, I believe,” added Louis, “is yours, M. Fouquet?”

“No, sire.”

“Whose then?”

“Your majesty’s.”

Colbert was seized with as much terror as if a gulf had opened beneath his feet. Louis started with admiration, either at the genius or the devotion of Fouquet.

“Explain yourself, monsieur,” said he.

“Nothing more easy, sire; Belle-Isle is one of my estates; I have fortified it at my own expense. But as nothing in the world can oppose a subject making an humble present to his king, I offer your majesty the proprietorship of the estate, of which you will leave me the usufruct. Belle-Isle, as a place of war, ought to be occupied by the king. Your majesty will be able, henceforth, to keep a safe garrison there.”

Colbert felt almost sinking down upon the floor. To keep himself from falling, he was obliged to hold by the columns of the wainscoting.

“This is a piece of great skill in the art of war that you have exhibited here, monsieur,” said Louis.

“Sire, the initiative did not come from me,” replied Fouquet: “many others have inspired me with it. The plans themselves have been made by one of the most distinguished engineers.”

“His name?”

“M. du Vallon.”

“M. du Vallon?” resumed Louis, “I do not know him. It is much to be lamented, M. Colbert,” continued he, “that I do not know the names of the men of talent who do honor to my reign.” And while saying these words he turned towards Colbert. The latter felt himself crushed, the sweat flowed from his brow, no word presented itself to his lips, he suffered an inexpressible martyrdom. “You will recollect that name,” added Louis XIV.

Colbert bowed, but was paler than his ruffles of Flemish lace. Fouquet continued:

“The masonries are of Roman concrete; the architects amalgamated it for me after the best accounts of antiquity.”

“And the cannon?” asked Louis.

“Oh! sire, that concerns your majesty; it did not become me to place cannon in my own house, unless your majesty had told me it was yours.”

Louis began to float, undetermined between the hatred which this so powerful man inspired him with, and the pity he felt for the other, so cast down, who seemed to him the counterfeit of the former. But the consciousness of his kingly duty prevailed over the feelings of the man, and he stretched out his finger to the paper.

“It must have cost you a great deal of money to carry these plans into execution,” said he.

“I believe I had the honor of telling your majesty the amount.”

“Repeat it if you please, I have forgotten it.”

“Sixteen hundred thousand livres.”

“Sixteen hundred thousand livres! you are enormously rich, monsieur.”

“It is your majesty who is rich, since Belle-Isle is yours.”

“Yes, thank you; but however rich I may be, M. Fouquet----” The king stopped.

“Well, sire?” asked the superintendent.

“I foresee the moment when I shall want money.”

“You, sire? And at what moment, then?”

“To-morrow, for example.”

“Will your majesty do me the honor to explain yourself?”

“My brother is going to marry the English Princess.”

“Well, sire?”

“Well, I ought to give the bride a reception worthy of the granddaughter of Henry IV.”

“That is but just, sire.”

“Then I shall want money.”

“No doubt.”

“I shall want----” Louis hesitated. The sum he was going to demand was the same that he had been obliged to refuse Charles II. He turned towards Colbert, that he might give the blow.

“I shall want, to-morrow----” repeated he, looking at Colbert.

“A million,” said the latter, bluntly; delighted to take his revenge.

Fouquet turned his back upon the intendant to listen to the king. He did not turn round, but waited till the king repeated, or rather murmured, “A million.”

“Oh! sire,” replied Fouquet disdainfully, “a million! What will your majesty do with a million?”

“It appears to me, nevertheless----” said Louis XIV.

“That is not more than is spent at the nuptials of one of the most petty princes of Germany.”

“Monsieur!”

“Your majesty must have two millions at least. The horses alone would run away with five hundred thousand livres. I shall have the honor of sending your majesty sixteen hundred thousand livres this evening.”

“How,” said the king, “sixteen hundred thousand livres?”

“Look, sire,” replied Fouquet, without even turning towards Colbert, “I know that wants four hundred thousand livres of the two millions. But this monsieur of l’intendance” (pointing over his shoulder to Colbert who, if possible, became paler, behind him) “has in his coffers nine hundred thousand livres of mine.”

The king turned round to look at Colbert.

“But----” said the latter.

“Monsieur,” continued Fouquet, still speaking indirectly to Colbert, “monsieur has received a week ago sixteen hundred thousand livres; he has paid a hundred thousand livres to the guards, sixty-four thousand livres to the hospitals, twenty-five thousand to the Swiss, a hundred and thirty thousand for provisions, a thousand for arms, ten thousand for accidental expenses; I do not err, then, in reckoning upon nine hundred thousand livres that are left.” Then turning towards Colbert, like a disdainful head of office towards his inferior, “Take care, monsieur,” said he, “that those nine hundred thousand livres be remitted to his majesty this evening, in gold.”

“But,” said the king, “that will make two millions five hundred thousand livres.”

“Sire, the five hundred thousand livres over will serve as pocket money for his Royal Highness. You understand, Monsieur Colbert, this evening before eight o’clock.”

And with these words, bowing respectfully to the king, the superintendent made his exit backwards, without honoring with a single look the envious man, whose head he had just half shaved.

Colbert tore his ruffles to pieces in his rage, and bit his lips till they bled.

Fouquet had not passed the door of the cabinet, when an usher pushing by him, exclaimed: “A courier from Bretagne for his majesty.”

“M. d’Herblay was right,” murmured Fouquet, pulling out his watch; “an hour and fifty-five minutes. It was quite true.”

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

The reader guesses beforehand whom the usher preceded in announcing the courier from Bretagne. This messenger was easily recognized. It was D’Artagnan, his clothes dusty, his face inflamed, his hair dripping with sweat, his legs stiff; he lifted his feet painfully at every step, on which resounded the clink of his blood-stained spurs. He perceived in the doorway he was passing through, the superintendent coming out. Fouquet bowed with a smile to him who, an hour before, was bringing him ruin and death. D’Artagnan found in his goodness of heart, and in his inexhaustible vigor of body, enough presence of mind to remember the kind reception of this man; he bowed then, also, much more from benevolence and compassion, than from respect. He felt upon his lips the word which had so many times been repeated to the Duc de Guise: “Fly.” But to pronounce that word would have been to betray his cause; to speak that word in the cabinet of the king, and before an usher, would have been to ruin himself gratuitously, and could save nobody. D’Artagnan then contented himself with bowing to Fouquet and entered. At this moment the king floated between the joy the last words of Fouquet had given him, and his pleasure at the return of D’Artagnan. Without being a courtier, D’Artagnan had a glance as sure and as rapid as if he had been one. He read, on his entrance, devouring humiliation on the countenance of Colbert. He even heard the king say these words to him;--

“Ah! Monsieur Colbert, you have then nine hundred thousand livres at the intendance?” Colbert, suffocated, bowed, but made no reply. All this scene entered into the mind of D’Artagnan, by the eyes and ears, at once.

The first word of Louis to his musketeer, as if he wished it to contrast with what he was saying at the moment, was a kind “good day.” His second was to send away Colbert. The latter left the king’s cabinet, pallid and tottering, whilst D’Artagnan twisted up the ends of his mustache.

“I love to see one of my servants in this disorder,” said the king, admiring the martial stains upon the clothes of his envoy.

“I thought, sire, my presence at the Louvre was sufficiently urgent to excuse my presenting myself thus before you.”

“You bring me great news, then, monsieur?”

“Sire, the thing is this, in two words: Belle-Isle is fortified, admirably fortified; Belle-Isle has a double enciete, a citadel, two detached forts; its ports contain three corsairs; and the side batteries only await their cannon.”

“I know all that, monsieur,” replied the king.

“What! your majesty knows all that?” replied the musketeer, stupefied.

“I have the plan of the fortifications of Belle-Isle,” said the king.

“Your majesty has the plan?”

“Here it is.”

“It is really correct, sire: I saw a similar one on the spot.”

D’Artagnan’s brow became clouded.

“Ah! I understand all. Your majesty did not trust to me alone, but sent some other person,” said he in a reproachful tone.

“Of what importance is the manner, monsieur, in which I have learnt what I know, so that I know it?”

“Sire, sire,” said the musketeer, without seeking even to conceal his dissatisfaction; “but I must be permitted to say to your majesty, that it is not worth while to make me use such speed, to risk twenty times the breaking of my neck, to salute me on my arrival with such intelligence. Sire, when people are not trusted, or are deemed insufficient, they should scarcely be employed.” And D’Artagnan, with a movement perfectly military, stamped with his foot, and left upon the floor dust stained with blood. The king looked at him, inwardly enjoying his first triumph.

“Monsieur,” said he, at the expiration of a minute, “not only is Belle-Isle known to me, but, still further, Belle-Isle is mine.”

“That is well! that is well, sire, I ask but one thing more,” replied D’Artagnan.--“My discharge.”

“What! your discharge?”

“Without doubt I am too proud to eat the bread of the king without earning it, or rather by gaining it badly.--My discharge, sire!”

“Oh, oh!”

“I ask for my discharge, or I will take it.”

“You are angry, monsieur?”

“I have reason, mordioux! Thirty-two hours in the saddle, I ride night and day, I perform prodigies of speed, I arrive stiff as the corpse of a man who has been hung--and another arrives before me! Come, sire, I am a fool!--My discharge, sire!”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Louis, leaning his white hand upon the dusty arm of the musketeer, “what I tell you will not at all affect that which I promised you. A king’s word given must be kept.” And the king going straight to his table, opened a drawer, and took out a folded paper. “Here is your commission of captain of musketeers; you have won it, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan opened the paper eagerly, and scanned it twice. He could scarcely believe his eyes.

“And this commission is given you,” continued the king, “not only on account of your journey to Belle-Isle, but, moreover, for your brave intervention at the Place de Greve. There, likewise, you served me valiantly.”

“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, without his self-command being able to prevent a blush from mounting to his eyes--“you know that also, sire?”

“Yes, I know it.”

The king possessed a piercing glance and an infallible judgment, when it was his object to read men’s minds. “You have something to say,” said he to the musketeer, “something to say which you do not say. Come, speak freely, monsieur; you know that I told you, once for all, that you are to be always quite frank with me.”

“Well, sire! what I have to say is this, that I would prefer being made captain of musketeers for having charged a battery at the head of my company, or taken a city, than for causing two wretches to be hung.”

“Is this quite true you tell me?”

“And why should your majesty suspect me of dissimulation, I ask?”

“Because I know you well, monsieur; you cannot repent of having drawn your sword for me.”

“Well, in that your majesty is deceived, and greatly; yes, I do repent of having drawn my sword on account of the results that action produced; the poor men who were hung, sire, were neither your enemies nor mine; and they could not defend themselves.”

The king preserved silence for a moment. “And your companion, M. d’Artagnan, does he partake of your repentance?”

“My companion?”

“Yes, you were not alone, I have been told.”

“Alone, where?”

“At the Place de Greve.”

“No, sire, no,” said D’Artagnan, blushing at the idea that the king might have a suspicion that he, D’Artagnan, had wished to engross to himself all the glory that belonged to Raoul; “no, mordioux! and as your majesty says, I had a companion, and a good companion, too.”

“A young man?”

“Yes, sire; a young man. Oh! your majesty must accept my compliments, you are as well informed of things out of doors as things within. It is M. Colbert who makes all these fine reports to the king.”

“M. Colbert has said nothing but good of you, M. d’Artagnan, and he would have met with a bad reception if he had come to tell me anything else.”

“That is fortunate!”

“But he also said much good of that young man.”

“And with justice,” said the musketeer.

“In short, it appears that this young man is a fire-eater,” said Louis, in order to sharpen the sentiment which he mistook for envy.

“A fire-eater! Yes, sire,” repeated D’Artagnan, delighted on his part to direct the king’s attention to Raoul.

“Do you not know his name?”

“Well, I think----”

“You know him then?”

“I have known him nearly five-and-twenty years, sire.”

“Why, he is scarcely twenty-five years old!” cried the king.

“Well, sire! I have known him ever since he was born, that is all.”

“Do you affirm that?”

“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “your majesty questions me with a mistrust in which I recognize another character than your own. M. Colbert, who has so well informed you, has he not forgotten to tell you that this young man is the son of my most intimate friend?”

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne?”

“Certainly, sire. The father of the Vicomte de Bragelonne is M. le Comte de la Fere, who so powerfully assisted in the restoration of king Charles II. Bragelonne comes of a valiant race, sire.”

“Then he is the son of that nobleman who came to me, or rather to M. Mazarin, on the part of King Charles II., to offer me his alliance?”

“Exactly, sire.”

“And the Comte de la Fere is a great soldier, say you?”

“Sire, he is a man who has drawn his sword more times for the king, your father, than there are, at present, months in the happy life of your majesty.”

It was Louis XIV. who now bit his lip.

“That is well, M. d’Artagnan, very well! And M. le Comte de la Fere is your friend, say you?”

“For about forty years; yes, sire. Your majesty may see that I do not speak to you of yesterday.”

“Should you be glad to see this young man, M. d’Artagnan?”

“Delighted, sire.”

The king touched his bell, and an usher appeared. “Call M. de Bragelonne,” said the king.

“Ah! ah! he is here?” said D’Artagnan.

“He is on guard to-day, at the Louvre, with the company of the gentlemen of monsieur le prince.”

The king had scarcely ceased speaking, when Raoul presented himself, and, on seeing D’Artagnan, smiled on him with that charming smile which is only found upon the lips of youth.

“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan, familiarly, to Raoul, “the king will allow you to embrace me; only tell his majesty you thank him.”

Raoul bowed so gracefully, that Louis, to whom all superior qualities were pleasing when they did not overshadow his own, admired his beauty, strength and modesty.

“Monsieur,” said the king, addressing Raoul, “I have asked monsieur le prince to be kind enough to give you up to me; I have received his reply, and you belong to me from this morning. Monsieur le prince was a good master, but I hope you will not lose by the exchange.”

“Yes, yes, Raoul, be satisfied; the king has some good in him,” said D’Artagnan, who had fathomed the character of Louis, and who played with his self-love, within certain limits; always observing, be it understood, the proprieties and flattering, even when he appeared to be bantering.

“Sire,” said Bragelonne, with a voice soft and musical, and with the natural and easy elocution he inherited from his father, “sire, it is not from to-day that I belong to your majesty.”

“Oh! no, I know,” said the king, “you mean your enterprise of the Greve. That day, you were truly mine, monsieur.”

“Sire, it is not of that day I would speak; it would not become me to refer to so paltry a service in the presence of such a man as M. d’Artagnan. I would speak of a circumstance which created an epoch in my life, and which consecrated me, from the age of sixteen, to the devoted service of your majesty.”

“Ah! ah!” said the king, “what was that circumstance? Tell me, monsieur.”

“This is it, sire.--When I was setting out on my first campaign, that is to say, to join the army of monsieur le prince, M. le Comte de la Fere came to conduct me as far as Saint-Denis, where the remains of King Louis XIII. wait, upon the lowest steps of the funeral basilique, a successor, whom God will not send him, I hope, for many years. Then he made me swear upon the ashes of our masters, to serve royalty, represented by you--incarnate in you, sire--to serve it in word, in thought, and in action. I swore, and God and the dead were witnesses to my oath. During ten years, sire, I have not so often as I desired had occasion to keep it. I am a soldier of your majesty, and nothing else; and, on calling me nearer to you, I do not change my master, I only change my garrison.”

Raoul was silent, and bowed. Louis still listened after he had done speaking.

“Mordioux!” cried D’Artagnan, “that was well spoken! was it not, your majesty? A good race! a noble race!”

“Yes,” murmured the agitated king, without, however, daring to manifest his emotion, for it had no other cause than contact with a nature intrinsically noble. “Yes, monsieur, you say truly:--wherever you were, you were the king’s. But in changing your garrison, believe me you will find an advancement of which you are worthy.”

Raoul saw that this ended what the king had to say to him. And with the perfect tact which characterized his refined nature, he bowed and retired.

“Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me?” said the king, when he found himself again alone with D’Artagnan.

“Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will clothe European royalty in mourning.”

“What do you tell me?”

“Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the palace, struck my ear.”

“In truth, you terrify me, M. d’Artagnan.”

“Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a piqueur, who wore crape on his arm.”

“My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps.”

“Sire, he has rendered his last sigh.”

“And I was not warned of it!” cried the king, whose royal susceptibility saw an insult in the absence of this intelligence.

“Oh! do not be angry, sire,” said D’Artagnan; “neither the couriers of Paris, nor the couriers of the whole world, can travel with your servant; the courier from Blois will not be here these two hours, and he rides well, I assure you, seeing that I only passed him on the thither side of Orleans.”

“My uncle Gaston,” murmured Louis, pressing his hand to his brow, and comprising in those three words all that his memory recalled of that symbol of opposing sentiments.

“Eh! yes, sire, it is thus,” said D’Artagnan, philosophically replying to the royal thought, “it is thus the past flies away.”

“That is true, monsieur, that is true; but there remains for us, thank God! the future; and we will try to make it not too dark.”

“I feel confidence in your majesty on that head,” said D’Artagnan, bowing, “and now----”

“You are right, monsieur; I had forgotten the hundred leagues you have just ridden. Go, monsieur, take care of one of the best of soldiers, and when you have reposed a little, come and place yourself at my disposal.”

“Sire, absent or present, I am always yours.”

D’Artagnan bowed and retired. Then, as if he had only come from Fontainebleau, he quickly traversed the Louvre to rejoin Bragelonne.

A Lover and his Mistress

Whilst the wax-lights were burning in the castle of Blois, around the inanimate body of Gaston of Orleans, that last representative of the past; whilst the bourgeois of the city were thinking out his epitaph, which was far from being a panegyric; whilst madame the dowager, no longer remembering that in her young days she had loved that senseless corpse to such a degree as to fly the paternal palace for his sake, was making, within twenty paces of the funeral apartment, her little calculations of interest and her little sacrifices of pride; other interests and other prides were in agitation in all the parts of the castle into which a living soul could penetrate. Neither the lugubrious sounds of the bells, nor the voices of the chanters, nor the splendor of the waxlights through the windows, nor the preparations for the funeral, had power to divert the attention of two persons, placed at a window of the interior court---a window that we are acquainted with, and which lighted a chamber forming part of what were called the little apartments. For the rest, a joyous beam of the sun, for the sun appeared to care little for the loss France had just suffered; a sunbeam, we say, descended upon them, drawing perfumes from the neighboring flowers, and animating the walls themselves. These two persons, so occupied, not by the death of the duke, but by the conversation which was the consequence of that death, were a young woman and a young man. The latter personage, a man of from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, with a mien sometimes lively and sometimes dull, making good use of two large eyes, shaded with long eye-lashes, was short of stature and swart of skin; he smiled with an enormous, but well-furnished mouth, and his pointed chin, which appeared to enjoy a mobility nature does not ordinarily grant to that portion of the countenance, leant from time to time very lovingly towards his interlocutrix, who, we must say did not always draw back so rapidly as strict propriety had a right to require. The young girl--we know her, for we have already seen her, at that very same window by the light of that same sun--the young girl presented a singular mixture of shyness and reflection; she was charming when she laughed, beautiful when she became serious; but, let us hasten to say, she was more frequently charming than beautiful. These two appeared to have attained the culminating point of a discussion--half-bantering, half-serious.

“Now, Monsieur Malicorne,” said the young girl, “does it, at length, please you that we should talk reasonably?”

“You believe that that is very easy, Mademoiselle Aure,” replied the young man. “To do what we like, when we can only do what we are able----”

“Good! there he is bewildered in his phrases.”

“Who, I?”

“Yes, you quit that lawyer’s logic, my dear.”

“Another impossibility. Clerk I am, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”

“Demoiselle I am, Monsieur Malicorne.”

“Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm me by your rank; so I will say no more to you.”

“Well, no, I don’t overwhelm you; say what you have to tell me--say- it, I insist upon it.”

Well, I obey you.”

“That is truly fortunate.”

“Monsieur is dead.”

“Ah, peste! there’s news! And where do you come from, to be able to tell us that?”

“I come from Orleans, mademoiselle.”

“And is that all the news you bring?”

“Ah, no; I am come to tell you that Madame Henrietta of England is coming to marry the king’s brother.”

“Indeed, Malicorne, you are insupportable with your news of the last century. Now, mind, if you persist in this bad habit of laughing at people, I will have you turned out.”

“Oh!”

“Yes; for really you exasperate me.”

“There, there. Patience, mademoiselle.”

“You want to make yourself of consequence; I know well enough why. Go!”

“Tell me, and I will answer you frankly, yes, if the thing be true.”

“You know that I am anxious to have that commission of lady of honor, which I have been foolish enough to ask of you, and you do not use your credit.”

“Who, I?” Malicorne cast down his eyes, joined his hands, and assumed his sullen air. “And what credit can the poor clerk of a procurer have, pray?”

“Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for nothing, M. Malicorne.”

“A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”

“Your father is not in the secrets of monsieur le prince for nothing.”

“An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur money.”

“In a word, you are not the most cunning young fellow in the province for nothing.”

“You flatter me "

“Who, I?”

“Yes, you.”

“How so?”

“Since I maintain that I have no credit, and you maintain I have.”

“Well, then,--my commission?”

“Well,--your commission?”

“Shall I have it, or shall I not?”

“You shall have it.”

“Ay, but when?”

“When you like.”

“Where is it, then?”

“In my pocket.”

“How--in your pocket?”

“Yes.”

And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from his pocket a letter, upon which mademoiselle seized as a prey, and which she read eagerly. As she read, her face brightened.

“Malicorne,” cried she, after having read it, “in truth, you are a good lad.”

“What for, mademoiselle?”

“Because you might have been paid for this commission, and you have not.” And she burst into a loud laugh, thinking to put the clerk out of countenance; but Malicorne sustained the attack bravely.

“I do not understand you,” said he. It was now Montalais who was disconcerted in her turn. “I have declared my sentiments to you,” continued Malicorne. “You have told me three times, laughing all the while, that you did not love me; you have embraced me once without laughing, and that is all I want.”

“All?” said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a tone through which wounded pride was visible.

“Absolutely all, mademoiselle,” replied Malicorne.

“Ah!”--And this monosyllable indicated as much anger as the young man might have expected gratitude. He shook his head quietly.

“Listen, Montalais,” said he, without heeding whether that familiarity pleased his mistress or not; “let us not dispute about it.”

“And why not?”

“Because during the year which I have known you, you might have had me turned out of doors twenty times if I did not please you.”

“Indeed; and on what account should I have had you turned out?”

“Because I had been sufficiently impertinent for that.”

“Oh, that,--yes, that’s true.”

“You see plainly that you are forced to avow it,” said Malicorne.

“Monsieur Malicorne!”

“Don’t let us be angry; if you have retained me, then it has not been without cause.”

“It is not, at least, because I love you,” cried Montalais.

“Granted. I will even say that, at this moment, I am certain that you hate me.”

“Oh, you have never spoken so truly.”

“Well, on my part I detest you.”

“Ah! I take the act.”

“Take it. You find me brutal and foolish; on my part I find you have a harsh voice, and your face is too often distorted with anger. At this moment you would allow yourself to be thrown out of that window rather than allow me to kiss the tip of your finger; I would precipitate myself from the top of the balcony rather than touch the hem of your robe. But, in five minutes, you will love me, and I shall adore you. Oh, it is just so.”

“I doubt it.”

“And I swear it.”

“Coxcomb!”

“And then, that is not the true reason. You stand in need of me, Aure, and I of you. When it pleases you to be gay, I make you laugh; when it suits me to be loving, I look at you. I have given you a commission of lady of honor which you wished for; you will give me, presently, something I wish for.”

“I will?”

“Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my dear Aure, I declare to you that I wish for absolutely nothing, so be at ease.”

“You are a frightful man, Malicorne; I was going to rejoice at getting this commission, and thus you quench my joy.”

“Good; there is no time lost,--you will rejoice when I am gone.”

“Go, then; and after----”

“So be it; but in the first place, a piece of advice.”

“What is it?”

“Resume your good-humor,--you are ugly when you pout.”

“Coarse!”

“Come, let us tell the truth to each other, while we are about it.”

“Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man!”

“Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful girl!”

The young man leant with his elbow upon the window-frame; Montalais took a book and opened it. Malicorne stood up, brushed his hat with his sleeve; smoothed down his black doublet,--Montalais, though pretending to read, looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Good!” cried she, furious, “he has assumed his respectful air--and he will pout for a week.”

“A fortnight, mademoiselle,” said Malicorne, bowing.

Montalais lifted up her little doubled fist. “Monster!” said she; “oh! that I were a man!”

“What would you do to me?”

“I would strangle you.”

“Ah! very well, then,” said Malicorne; “I believe I begin to desire something.”

“And what do you desire, Monsieur Demon? That I should lose my soul from anger?”

Malicorne was rolling his hat respectfully between his fingers; but, all at once, he let fall his hat, seized the young girl by the shoulders, pulled her towards him and sealed her mouth with two lips that were very warm, for a man pretending to so much indifference. Aure would have cried out, but the cry was stifled in the kiss. Nervous and, apparently, angry, the young girl pushed Malicorne against the wall.

“Good!” said Malicorne, philosophically, “that’s enough for six weeks. Adieu, mademoiselle, accept my very humble salutation.” And he made three steps towards the door.

“Well! no,--you shall not go!” cried, Montalais, stamping with her little foot. “Stay where you are! I order you!”

“You order me?”

“Yes; am I not mistress?”

“Of my heart and soul, without doubt.”

“A pretty property! ma foi! The soul is silly and the heart dry.”

“Beware, Montalais, I know you,” said Malicorne; “you are going to fall in love with your humble servant.”

“Well, yes!” said she, hanging round his neck with childish indolence, rather than with loving abandonment. “Well, yes! for I must thank you at least.”

“And for what?”

“For the commission, is it not my whole future?”

“And mine.”

Montalais looked at him.

“It is frightful,” said she, “that one can never guess whether you are speaking seriously or not.”

“I cannot speak more seriously. I was going to Paris,--you are going there,--we are going there.”

“And so it was for that motive only you have served me, selfish fellow!”

“What would you have me say, Aure? I cannot live without you.”

“Well! in truth, it is just so with me; you are, nevertheless, it must be confessed, a very bad-hearted young man.”

“Aure, my dear Aure, take care! if you take to calling names again, you know the effect they produce upon me, and I shall adore you.” And so saying, Malicorne drew the young girl a second time towards him. But at that instant a step resounded on the staircase. The young people were so close, that they would have been surprised in the arms of each other, if Montalais had not violently pushed Malicorne, with his back against the door, just then opening. A loud cry, followed by angry reproaches, immediately resounded. It was Madame de Saint-Remy who uttered the cry and the angry words. The unlucky Malicorne almost crushed her between the wall and the door she was coming in at.

“It is again that good-for-nothing!” cried the old lady. “Always here!”

“Ah, madame!” replied Malicorne, in a respectful tone; “it is eight long days since I was here.”

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

Behind Madame de Saint-Remy stood Mademoiselle de la Valliere. She heard the explosion of maternal anger, and as she divined the cause of it, she entered the chamber trembling, and perceived the unlucky Malicorne, whose woeful countenance might have softened or set laughing whoever observed it coolly. He had promptly intrenched himself behind a large chair, as if to avoid the first attacks of Madame de Saint-Remy; he had no hopes of prevailing with words, for she spoke louder than he, and without stopping; but he reckoned upon the eloquence of his gestures. The old lady would neither listen to nor see anything; Malicorne had long been one of her antipathies. But her anger was too great not to overflow from Malicorne on his accomplice. Montalais had her turn.

“And you, mademoiselle; you may be certain I shall inform madame of what is going on in the apartment of one of her ladies of honor!”

“Oh, dear mother!” cried Mademoiselle de la Valliere, “for mercy’s sake, spare----”

“Hold your tongue, mademoiselle, and do not uselessly trouble yourself to intercede for unworthy people; that a young maid of honor like you should be subjected to a bad example is, certes, a misfortune great enough; but that you should sanction it by your indulgence is what I will not allow.”

“But in truth,” said Montalais, rebelling again, “I do not know under what pretense you treat me thus. I am doing no harm, I suppose?”

“And that great good-for-nothing, mademoiselle,” resumed Madame de Saint-Remy, pointing to Malicorne, “is he here to do any good, I ask you?”

“He is neither here for good nor harm, madame; he comes to see me, that is all.”

“It is all very well! all very well!” said the old lady. “Her royal highness shall be informed of it, and she will judge.”

“At all events, I do not see why,” replied Montalais, “it should be forbidden M. Malicorne to have intentions towards me, if his intentions are honorable.”

“Honorable intentions with such a face!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy.

“I thank you in the name of my face, madame,” said Malicorne.

“Come, my daughter, come,” continued Madame de Saint-Remy; “we will go and inform madame that at the very moment she is weeping for her husband, at the moment when we are all weeping for a master in this old castle of Blois, the abode of grief, there are people who amuse themselves with flirtations!”

“Oh!” cried both the accused, with one voice.

“A maid of honor! a maid of honor!” cried the old lady, lifting her hands towards heaven.

“Well! it is there you are mistaken, madame,” said Montalais, highly exasperated; “I am no longer a maid of honor, of madame’s at least.”

“Have you given in your resignation, mademoiselle? That is well! I cannot but applaud such a determination, and I do applaud it.”

“I do not give in my resignation, madame; I take another service,--that is all.”

“In the bourgeoisie or in the robe?” asked Madame de Saint-Remy, disdainfully.

“Please to learn, madame, that I am not a girl to serve either bourgeoises or robines, and that instead of the miserable court at which you vegetate, I am going to reside in a court almost royal.”

“Ha, ha! a royal court,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, forcing a laugh; “a royal court! What think you of that, my daughter?”

And she turned round towards Mademoiselle de la Valliere, whom she would by main force have dragged away from Montalais, and who, instead of obeying the impulse of Madame de Saint-Remy, looked first at her mother and then at Montalais with her beautiful conciliatory eyes.

“I did not say a royal court, madame,” replied Montalais; “because Madame Henrietta of England, who is about to become the wife of S. A. R. Monsieur, is not a queen. I said almost royal, and I spoke correctly, since she will be sister-in-law to the king.”

A thunderbolt falling upon the castle of Blois would not have astonished Madame de Saint-Remy more than the last sentence of Montalais.

“What do you say? of Son Altesse Royale Madame Henrietta?” stammered out the old lady.

“I say I am going to belong to her household, as maid of honor, that is what I say.”

“As maid of honor!” cried, at the same time, Madame de Saint-Remy with despair, and Mademoiselle de la Valliere with delight.

“Yes, madame, as maid of honor.”

The old lady’s head sank down as if the blow had been too severe for her. But, almost immediately recovering herself, she launched a last projectile at her adversary.

“Oh! oh!” said she, “I have heard of many of these sorts of promises beforehand, which often lead people to flatter themselves with wild hopes, and at the last moment, when the time comes to keep the promises, and have the hopes realized, they are surprised to see the great credit upon which they reckoned vanish like smoke.”

“Oh! madame, the credit of my protector is incontestable and his promises are as good as deeds.”

“And would it be indiscreet to ask you the name of this powerful protector?”

“Oh! mon Dieu! no! it is that gentleman there,” said Montalais, pointing to Malicorne, who, during this scene, had preserved the most imperturbable coolness, and the most comic dignity.

“Monsieur!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy, with an explosion of hilarity, “monsieur is your protector! Is the man whose credit is so powerful, and whose promises are as good as deeds, Monsieur Malicorne?”

Malicorne bowed.

As to Montalais, as her sole reply, she drew the brevet from her pocket, and showed it to the old lady.

“Here is the brevet,” said she.

At once all was over. As soon as she had cast a rapid glance over this fortunate brevet, the good lady clasped her hands, an unspeakable expression of envy and despair contracted her countenance, and she was obliged to sit down to avoid fainting. Montalais was not malicious enough to rejoice extravagantly at her victory, or to overwhelm the conquered enemy, particularly when that enemy was the mother of her friend; she used then, but did not abuse, her triumph. Malicorne was less generous; he assumed noble poses in his fauteuil, and stretched himself out with a familiarity which, two hours earlier, would have drawn upon him threats of a caning.

“Maid of honor to the young madame!” repeated Madame de Saint-Remy, still but half convinced.

“Yes, madame, and through the protection of M. Malicorne, moreover.”

“It is incredible!” repeated the old lady: “is it not incredible, Louise?” But Louise did not reply; she was sitting, thoughtful, almost sad; passing one hand over her beautiful brow she sighed heavily.

“Well, but, monsieur,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, all at once, “how did you manage to obtain this post?”

“I asked for it, madame.”

“Of whom?”

“One of my friends.”

“And have you friends sufficiently powerful at court to give you such proofs of their credit?”

“It appears so.”

“And may one ask the name of these friends?”

“I did not say I had many friends, madame, I said I had one friend.”

And that friend is called?”

“Peste! madame, you go too far! When one has a friend as powerful as mine, we do not publish his name in that fashion, in open day, in order that he may be stolen from us.”

“You are right, monsieur, to be silent as to that name; for I think it would be pretty difficult for you to tell it.”

“At all events,” said Montalais, “if the friend does not exist, the brevet does, and that cuts short the question.”

“Then, I conceive,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, with the gracious smile of the cat who is going to scratch, “when I found monsieur here just now----”

“Well?”

“He brought you the brevet.”

“Exactly, madame, you have guessed rightly.”

“Well, then, nothing can be more moral or proper.”

“I think so, madame.”

“And I have been wrong, as it appears, in reproaching you, mademoiselle.”

“Very wrong, madame; but I am so accustomed to your reproaches, that I pardon you these.”

“In that case, let us begone, Louise; we have nothing to do but to retire. Well!”

“Madame!” said La Valliere, starting, “did you speak?”

“You do not appear to be listening, my child.”

“No, madame, I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“A thousand things.”

“You bear me no ill-will, at least, Louise?” cried Montalais, pressing her hand.

“And why should I, my dear Aure?” replied the girl in a voice soft as a flute.

“Dame!” resumed Madame de Saint-Remy; “if she did bear you a little ill-will, poor girl, she could not be much blamed.”

“And why should she bear me ill-will, good gracious?”

“It appears to me that she is of as good a family, and as pretty as you.”

“Mother! mother!” cried Louise.

“Prettier a hundred times, madame--not of a better family; but that does not tell me why Louise should bear me ill-will”

“Do you think it will be very amusing for her to be buried alive at Blois, when you are going to shine at Paris?”

“But, madame, it is not I who prevent Louise following me thither; on the contrary, I should certainly be most happy if she came there.”

“But it appears that M. Malicorne, who is all-powerful at court----”

“Ah! so much the worse, madame,” said Malicorne, “every one for himself in this poor world.”

“Malicorne! Malicorne!” said Montalais. Then stooping towards the young man:--

“Occupy Madame de Saint-Remy, either in disputing with her, or making it up with her; I must speak to Louise.” And, at the same time, a soft pressure of the hand recompensed Malicorne for his future obedience. Malicorne went grumbling towards Madame de Saint-Remy, whilst Montalais said to her friend, throwing one arm around her neck:--

“What is the matter? Tell me. Is it true that you would not love me if I were to shine, as your mother says?”

“Oh, no!” said the young girl, with difficulty restraining her tears; “on the contrary, I rejoice at your good fortune.”

“Rejoice! why, one would say you are ready to cry!”

“Do people never weep except from envy?”

“Oh! yes, I understand; I am going to Paris, and that word Paris recalls to your mind a certain cavalier----”

“Aure!”

“A certain cavalier who formerly lived near Blois, and who now resides at Paris.”

“In truth, I know not what ails me, but I feel stifled.”

“Weep, then, weep, as you cannot give me a smile!”

Louise raised her sweet face, which the tears, rolling down one after the other, illumined like diamonds.

“Come, confess,” said Montalais.

“What shall I confess?”

“What makes you weep; people don’t weep without cause. I am your friend; whatever you would wish me to do, I will do. Malicorne is more powerful than you would think. Do you wish to go to Paris?”

“Alas!” sighed Louise.

“Do you wish to come to Paris?”

“To remain here alone, in this old castle, I who have enjoyed the delightful habit of listening to your songs, of pressing your hand, of running about the park with you. Oh! how I shall be ennuyee! how quickly I shall die!”

“Do you wish to come to Paris?”

Louise breathed another sigh.

“You do not answer me.”

“What would you that I should reply?”

“Yes or no; that is not very difficult I think.”

“Oh! you are very fortunate, Montalais!”

“That is to say you would like to be in my place.”

Louise was silent.

“Little obstinate thing!” said Montalais; “did ever any one keep her secrets from her friend thus? But confess that you would like to come to Paris, confess that you are dying with the wish to see Raoul again?”

“I cannot confess that.”

“Then you are wrong.”

“In what way?”

“Because----do you see this brevet?”

“To be sure I do.”

“Well, I would have got you a similar one.”

“By whose means?”

“Malicorne’s.”

“Aure, are you telling the truth? Is that possible?”

“Malicorne is there; and what he has done for me, he surely can do for you.”

Malicorne had heard his name pronounced twice; he was delighted at having an opportunity of coming to a conclusion with Madame de Saint-Remy, and he turned round:--

“What is the question, mademoiselle?”

“Come hither, Malicorne,” said Montalais, with an imperious gesture. Malicorne obeyed.

“A brevet like this,” said Montalais.

“How so?”

“A brevet like this; that is plain enough.

“But----”

“I want one--I must have one!”

“Oh! oh! you must have one!”

“Yes.”

“It is impossible, is it not, M. Malicorne?” said Louise, with her sweet, soft voice.

“If it is for you, mademoiselle----”

“For me. Yes, Monsieur Malicorne, it would be for me.”

“And if Mademoiselle de Montalais asks it at the same time----”

“Mademoiselle de Montalais does not ask it, she requires it.”

“Well! we will endeavor to obey you, mademoiselle.”

“And you will have her named?”

“We will try.”

“No evasive answers. Louise de la Valliere shall be maid of honor to Madame Henrietta within a week.”

“How you talk!”

“Within a week, or else----”

“Well! or else?”

“You may take back your brevet, Monsieur Malicorne; I will not leave my friend.”

“Dear Montalais!”

“That is right. Keep your brevet, Mademoiselle de la Valliere shall be a maid of honor.”

“Is that true?”

“Quite true.”

“I may then hope to go to Paris?”

“Depend upon it.”

“Oh! Monsieur Malicorne, what joy!” cried Louise, clapping her hands, and bounding with pleasure.

“Little dissembler!” said Montalais, “try again to make me believe you are not in love with Raoul.”

Louise blushed like a rose in June, but instead of replying, she ran and embraced her mother. “Madame,” said she, “do you know that M. Malicorne is going to have me appointed maid of honor?”

“M. Malicorne is a prince in disguise,” replied the old lady, “he is all-powerful, seemingly.”

“Should you also like to be maid of honor?” asked Malicorne of Madame de Saint-Remy. “Whilst I am about it, I might as well get everybody appointed.”

And upon that he went away, leaving the poor lady quite disconcerted.

“Humph!” murmured Malicorne as he descended the stairs,--“Humph! there goes another note of a thousand livres! but I must get through as well as I can; my friend Manicamp does nothing for nothing.”

Malicorne and Manicamp

The introduction of these two new personages into this history and that mysterious affinity of names and sentiments, merit some attention on the part of both historian and reader. We will then enter into some details concerning Messieurs Malicorne and Manicamp. Malicorne we know, had made the journey to Orleans in search of the brevet destined for Mademoiselle de Montalais, the arrival of which had produced such a strong feeling at the castle of Blois. At that moment, M. de Manicamp was at Orleans. A singular person was this M. de Manicamp; a very intelligent young fellow, always poor, always needy, although he dipped his hand freely into the purse of M. le Comte de Guiche, one of the best furnished purses of the period. M. le Comte de Guiche had had, as the companion of his boyhood, this De Manicamp, a poor gentleman, vassal-born, of the house of Grammont. M. de Manicamp, with his tact and talent, had created himself a revenue in the opulent family of the celebrated marechal. From his infancy he had, with calculation beyond his age, lent his name and complaisance to the follies of the Comte de Guiche. If his noble companion had stolen some fruit destined for Madame la Marechale, if he had broken a mirror, or put out a dog’s eye, Manicamp declared himself guilty of the crime committed, and received the punishment, which was not made the milder for falling on the innocent. But this was the way this system of abnegation was paid for: instead of wearing such mean habiliments as his paternal fortunes entitled him to, he was able to appear brilliant, superb, like a young noble of fifty thousand livres a year. It was not that he was mean in character or humble in spirit; no, he was a philosopher, or rather he had the indifference, the apathy, the obstinacy which banish from man every sentiment of the supernatural. His sole ambition was to spend money. But, in this respect, the worthy M. de Manicamp was a gulf. Three or four times every year he drained the Comte de Guiche, and when the Comte de Guiche was thoroughly drained, when he had turned out his pockets and his purse before him, when he declared that it would be at least a fortnight before paternal munificence would refill those pockets and that purse, Manicamp lost all his energy, he went to bed, remained there, ate nothing and sold his handsome clothes, under the pretense that, remaining in bed, he did not want them. During this prostration of mind and strength, the purse of the Comte de Guiche was getting full again, and when once filled, overflowed into that of De Manicamp, who bought new clothes, dressed himself again, and recommenced the same life he had followed before. The mania of selling his new clothes for a quarter of what they were worth had rendered our hero sufficiently celebrated in Orleans, a city where, in general, we should be puzzled to say why he came to pass his days of penitence. Provincial debauches, petits-maitres of six hundred livres a year, shared the fragments of his opulence.

Among the admirers of these splendid toilettes, our friend Malicorne was conspicuous; he was the son of a syndic of the city, of whom M. de Conde, always needy as a De Conde, often borrowed money at enormous interest. M. Malicorne kept the paternal money-chest; that is to say, that in those times of easy morals, he had made for himself, by following the example of his father, and lending at high interest for short terms, a revenue of eighteen hundred livres, without reckoning six hundred livres furnished by the generosity of the syndic, so that Malicorne was the king of the gay youth of Orleans, having two thousand four hundred livres to scatter, squander, and waste on follies of every kind. But, quite contrary to Manicamp, Malicorne was terribly ambitious. He loved from ambition; he spent money out of ambition; and he would have ruined himself for ambition. Malicorne had determined to rise, at whatever price it might cost, and for this, at whatever price it did cost, he had given himself a mistress and a friend. The mistress, Mademoiselle de Montalais, was cruel as regarded love; but she was of a noble family, and that was sufficient for Malicorne. The friend had little or no friendship, but he was the favorite of the Comte de Guiche, himself the friend of Monsieur, the king’s brother, and that was sufficient for Malicorne. Only, in the chapter of charges, Mademoiselle de Montalais cost per annum:--ribbons, gloves, and sweets, a thousand livres. De Manicamp cost--money lent, never returned--from twelve to fifteen hundred livres per annum. So that there was nothing left for Malicorne. Ah! yes, we are mistaken; there was left the paternal strong box. He employed a mode of proceeding, upon which he preserved the most profound secrecy, and which consisted in advancing to himself from the coffers of the syndic, half a dozen year’s profits, that is to say, fifteen thousand livres, swearing to himself--observe, quite to himself--to repay this deficiency as soon as an opportunity should present itself.

The opportunity was expected to be the concession of a good post in the household of Monsieur, when that household would be established at the period of his marriage. This juncture had arrived, and the household was about to be established. A good post in the family of a prince of the blood, when it is given by the credit, and on the recommendation of a friend, like the Comte de Guiche, is worth at least twelve thousand livres per annum; and by the means which M. Malicorne had taken to make his revenues fructify, twelve thousand livres might rise to twenty thousand. Then, when once an incumbent of this post, he would marry Mademoiselle de Montalais. Mademoiselle de Montalais, of a half noble family, not only would be dowered, but would ennoble Malicorne. But, in order that Mademoiselle de Montalais, who had not a large patrimonial fortune, although an only daughter, should be suitably dowered, it was necessary that she should belong to some great princess, as prodigal as the dowager Madame was covetous. And in order that the wife should not be of one party whilst the husband belonged to the other, a situation which presents serious inconveniences, particularly with characters like those of the future consorts--Malicorne had imagined the idea of making the central point of union the household of Monsieur, the king’s brother. Mademoiselle de Montalais would be maid of honor to Madame. M. Malicorne would be officer to Monsieur.

It is plain the plan was formed by a clear head; it is plain, also, that it had been bravely executed. Malicorne had asked Manicamp to ask a brevet of maid of honor of the Comte de Guiche; and the Comte de Guiche had asked this brevet of Monsieur, who had signed it without hesitation. The constructive plan of Malicorne--for we may well suppose that the combinations of a mind as active as his were not confined to the present, but extended to the future--the constructive plan of Malicorne, we say, was this:--To obtain entrance into the household of Madame Henrietta for a woman devoted to himself, who was intelligent, young, handsome, and intriguing; to learn, by means of this woman, all the feminine secrets of the young household, whilst he, Malicorne, and his friend Manicamp, should, between them, know all the male secrets of the young community. It was by these means that a rapid and splendid fortune might be acquired at one and the same time. Malicorne was a vile name; he who bore it had too much wit to conceal this truth from himself; but an estate might be purchased; and Malicorne of some place, or even De Malicorne itself, for short, would ring more nobly on the ear.

It was not improbable that a most aristocratic origin might be hunted up by the heralds for this name of Malicorne; might it not come from some estate where a bull with mortal horns had caused some great misfortune, and baptized the soil with the blood it had spilt? Certes, this plan presented itself bristling with difficulties: but the greatest of all was Mademoiselle de Montalais herself. Capricious, variable, close, giddy, free, prudish, a virgin armed with claws, Erigone stained with grapes, she sometimes overturned, with a single dash of her white fingers, or with a single puff from her laughing lips, the edifice which had exhausted Malicorne’s patience for a month.

Love apart, Malicorne was happy; but this love, which he could not help feeling, he had the strength to conceal with care; persuaded that at the lest relaxing of the ties by which he had bound his Protean female, the demon would overthrow him and laugh at him. He humbled his mistress by disdaining her. Burning with desire, when she advanced to tempt him, he had the art to appear ice, persuaded that if he opened his arms, she would run away laughing at him. On her side, Montalais believed she did not love Malicorne; whilst, on the contrary, in reality she did. Malicorne repeated to her so often his protestation of indifference, that she finished sometimes, by believing him; and then she believed she detested Malicorne. If she tried to bring him back by coquetry, Malicorne played the coquette better than she could. But what made Montalais hold to Malicorne in an indissoluble fashion, was that Malicorne always came cram full of fresh news from the court and the city; Malicorne always brought to Blois a fashion, a secret, or a perfume; that Malicorne never asked for a meeting, but, on the contrary, required to be supplicated to receive the favors he burned to obtain. On her side Montalais was no miser with stories. By her means Malicorne learnt all that passed at Blois, in the family of the dowager Madame; and he related to Manicamp tales that made him ready to die with laughing, which the latter, out of idleness, took ready-made to M. de Guiche, who carried them to Monsieur.

Such, in two words, was the woof of petty interests and petty conspiracies which united Blois with Orleans and Orleans with Paris; and which was about to bring into the last named city, where she was to produce so great a revolution, the poor little La Valliere, who was far from suspecting, as she returned joyfully, leaning on the arm of her mother, for what a strange future she was reserved. As to the good man, Malicorne--we speak of the syndic of Orleans--he did not see more clearly into the present than others did into the future; and had no suspicion as he walked, every day, between three and five o’clock, after his dinner, upon the Place Sainte-Catherine, in his gray coat, cut after the fashion of Louis XIII. and his cloth shoes with great knots of ribbon, that it was he who was paying for all those bursts of laughter, all those stolen kisses, all those whisperings, all those little keepsakes, and all those bubble projects which formed a chain of forty-five leagues in length, from the palais of Blois to the Palais-Royal.

Manicamp and Malicorne

Malicorne, then, left Blois, as we have said, and went to find his friend Manicamp, then in temporary retreat in the city of Orleans. It was just at the moment when that young nobleman was employed in selling the last decent clothing he had left. He had, a fortnight before extorted from the Comte de Guiche a hundred pistoles, all he had, to assist in equipping him properly to go and meet Madame, on her arrival at Havre. He had drawn from Malicorne, three days before, fifty pistoles, the price of the brevet obtained for Montalais. He had then no expectation of anything else, having exhausted all his resources, with the exception of selling a handsome suit of cloth and satin, embroidered and laced with gold, which had been the admiration of the court. But to be able to sell this suit, the last he had left--as we have been forced to confess to the reader--Manicamp had been obliged to take to his bed. No more fire, no more pocket-money, no more walking-money, nothing but sleep to take the place of repasts, companies and balls. It has been said--“he who sleeps, dines;” but it has never been affirmed--he who sleeps, plays--or he who sleeps, dances. Manicamp, reduced to this extremity of neither playing nor dancing, for a week at least, was, consequently, very sad; he was expecting a usurer, and saw Malicorne enter. A cry of distress escaped him.

“Eh! what!” said he, in a tone which nothing can describe, “is that you again, dear friend?”

“Humph! you are very polite!” said Malicorne.

“Ay, but look you, I was expecting money, and, instead of money, I see you.”

“And suppose I brought you some money?”

“Oh! that would be quite another thing. You are very welcome, my dear friend!”

And he held out his hand, not for the hand of Malicorne, but for the purse. Malicorne pretended to be mistaken, and gave him his hand.

“And the money?” said Manicamp.

“My dear friend, if you wish to have it, earn it.”

“What must be done for it?”

“Earn it, parbleu!”

“And after what fashion?”

“Oh! that is rather trying, I warn you.”

“The devil!”

“You must get out of bed, and go immediately to M. le Comte de Guiche.”

“I get out!” said Manicamp, stretching himself in his bed, complacently, “oh, no, thank you!”

“You have sold all your clothes?”

“No, I have one suit left, the handsomest even, but I expect a purchaser.”

“And the chausses?”

“Well, if you look, you will see them on that chair.”

“Very well! since you have some chausses and a pourpoint left, put your legs into the first and your back into the other; have a horse saddled, and set off.”

“Not I.”

“And why not?”

“Mordieu! don’t you know, then, that M. de Guiche is at Etampes?”

“No, I thought he was at Paris. You will then only have fifteen leagues to go, instead of thirty.”

“You are a wonderfully clever fellow! If I were to ride fifteen leagues in these clothes, they would never be fit to put on again; and, instead of selling them for thirty pistoles, I should be obliged to take fifteen.”

“Sell them for what you like, but I must have a second commission of maid of honor.”

“Good! for whom? Is Montalais doubled then?”

“Vile fellow!--It is you who are doubled. You swallow up two fortunes--mine, and that of M. le Comte de Guiche.”

“You should say, that of M. le Comte de Guiche and yours.”

“That is true; honor where it is due; but I return to my brevet.”

“And you are wrong.”

“Prove me that.”

“My friend, there will only be twelve maids of honor for madame, I have already obtained for you what twelve hundred women are trying for, and for that I was forced to employ all my diplomacy.”

“Oh! yes, I know you have been quite heroic, my dear friend.”

“We know what we are about,” said Manicamp.

“To whom do you tell that? When I am king, I promise you one thing.”

“What? To call yourself Malicorne the first?”

“No; to make you superintendent of my finances; but that is not the question now.”

“Unfortunately.”

“The present affair is to procure for me a second place of maid of honor.”

“My friend, if you were to promise me the price of heaven, I would decline to disturb myself at this moment.” Malicorne chinked the money in his pocket.

“There are twenty pistoles here,” said Malicorne.

“And what would you do with twenty pistoles, mon Dieu!”

“Well!” said Malicorne, a little angrily, “suppose I were to add them to the five hundred you already owe me?”

“You are right,” replied Manicamp, stretching out his hand again, “and from that point of view I can accept them. Give them to me.”

“An instant, what the devil! it is not only holding out your hand that will do; if I give you the twenty pistoles, shall I have my brevet?”

“To be sure you shall.”

“Soon?”

“To-day.”

“Oh! take care! Monsieur de Manicamp; you undertake much, and I do not ask that. Thirty leagues in a day is too much, you would kill yourself.”

“I think nothing impossible when obliging a friend.”

“You are quite heroic.”

“Where are the twenty pistoles?”

“Here they are,” said Malicorne, showing them.

“That’s well.”

“Yes, but my dear M. Manicamp, you would consume them in post-horses alone!”

“No, no, make yourself easy on that score.”

“Pardon me. Why, it is fifteen leagues from this place to Etampes?”

“Fourteen.”

“Well! fourteen be it; fourteen leagues makes seven posts; at twenty sous the post, seven livres; seven livres the courier, fourteen; as many for coming back, twenty-eight! as much for bed and supper, that makes sixty livres this complaisance would cost.”

Manicamp stretched himself like a serpent in his bed, and fixing his two great eyes upon Malicorne, “You are right,” said he; “I could not return before to-morrow;” and he took the twenty pistoles.

“Now, then, be off!”

“Well, as I cannot be back before to-morrow. we have time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to play.”

“What do you wish to play with?

“Your twenty pistoles, pardieu!”

“No; you always win.”

“I will wager them, then.”

“Against what?”

“Against twenty others.”

“And what shall be the object of the wager?”

“This. We have said it was fourteen leagues to Etampes?”

“Yes.”

“And fourteen leagues back?

“Doubtless.”

“Well; for these twenty-eight leagues you cannot allow less than fourteen hours?”

“That is agreed.”

“One hour to find the Comte de Guiche.

“Go on.”

“And an hour to persuade him to write a letter to Monsieur.”

“Just so.”

“Sixteen hours in all?”

“You reckon as well as M. Colbert.”

“It is now twelve o’clock.”

“Half-past.”

“Hein!--you have a handsome watch!”

“What were you saying?” said Malicorne, putting his watch quickly back into his fob.

“Ah! true; I was offering to lay you twenty pistoles against these you have lent me, that you will have the Comte de Guiche’s letter in----”

“How soon?”

“In eight hours.”

“Have you a winged horse, then?”

“That is no matter. Will you bet?”

“I shall have the comte’s letter in eight hours?”

“Yes.”

“In hand?”

“In hand.”

“Well, be it so; I lay,” said Malicorne, curious to know how this seller of clothes would get through.

“Is it agreed?”

“It is.”

“Pass me the pen, ink, and paper.

“Here they are.”

“Thank you.”

Manicamp raised himself with a sigh, and leaning on his left elbow, in his best hand, traced the following lines:--

“Good for an order for a place of maid of honor to Madame, which M. le Comte de Guiche will take upon him to obtain at sight.

“De Manicamp.”

This painful task accomplished, he laid himself down in bed again.

“Well!” asked Malicorne, “what does this mean?”

“That means that if you are in a hurry to have the letter from the Comte de Guiche for Monsieur, I have won my wager.”

“How the devil is that?”

“That is transparent enough, I think; you take that paper.”

“Well?”

“And you set out instead of me.”

“Ah!”

“You put your horses to their best speed.”

“Good!”

“In six hours you will be at Etampes; in seven hours you have the letter from the comte, and I shall have won my wager without stirring from my bed, which suits me and you too, at the same time, I am very sure.”

“Decidedly, Manicamp, you are a great man.”

“Hein! I know that.”

“I am to start then for Etampes?”

“Directly.”

“I am to go to the Comte de Guiche with this order?”

“He will give you a similar one for Monsieur.”

“Monsieur will approve?”

“Instantly.”

“And I shall have my brevet?”

“You will.”

“Ah!”

“Well, I hope I behave genteely?”

“Adorably.”

“Thank you.”

“You do as you please, then, with the Comte de Guiche, Malicorne?”

“Except making money of him--everything?”

“Diable! the exception is annoying; but then, if instead of asking him for money, you were to ask----”

“What?”

“Something important.”

“What do you call important?”

“Well! suppose one of your friends asked you to render him a service?”

“I would not render it to him.”

“Selfish fellow!”

“Or at least I would ask him what service he would render me in exchange.”

“Ah! that, perhaps, is fair. Well, that friend speaks to you.”

“What, you, Malicorne?”

“Yes; I.”

“Ah! ah! you are rich, then?”

“I have still fifty pistoles left.”

“Exactly the sum I want. Where are those fifty pistoles?”

“Here,” said Malicorne, slapping his pocket.

“Then speak, my friend; what do you want?”

Malicorne took up the pen, ink, and paper again, and presented them all to Manicamp. “Write!” said he.

“Dictate!”

“An order for a place in the household of Monsieur.”

“Oh!” said Manicamp, laying down the pen, “a place in the household of Monsieur for fifty pistoles?”

“You mistook me, my friend; you did not hear plainly.”

“What did you say, then?”

“I said five hundred.”

“And the five hundred?”

“Here they are.”

Manicamp devoured the rouleau with his eyes; but this time Malicorne held it at a distance.

“Eh! what do you say to that? Five hundred pistoles.”

“I say it is for nothing, my friend,” said Manicamp, taking up the pen again, “and you exhaust my credit. Dictate.”

Malicorne continued:

“Which my friend the Comte de Guiche will obtain for my friend Malicorne.”

“That’s it,” said Manicamp.

“Pardon me, you have forgotten to sign.”

“Ah! that is true. The five hundred pistoles?”

“Here are two hundred and fifty of them.”

“And the other two hundred and fifty?”

“When I am in possession of my place.”

Manicamp made a face.

“In that case give me the recommendation back again.”

“What to do?”

“To add two words to it.”

“Two words?”

“Yes, two words only.”

“What are they?”

“In haste.”

Malicorne returned the recommendation; Manicamp added the words.

“Good,” said Malicorne, taking back the paper.

Manicamp began to count out the pistoles.

“There want twenty,” said he.

“How so?”

“The twenty I have won.”

“In what way?”

“By laying that you would have the letter from the Comte de Guiche in eight hours.”

“Ah! that’s fair,” and he gave him the twenty pistoles.

Manicamp began to scoop up his gold by handfuls, and pour it in cascades upon his bed.

“This second place,” murmured Malicorne, whilst drying his paper, “which, at the first glance appears to cost me more than the first, but----” He stopped, took up the pen in his turn, and wrote to Montalais:--

“Mademoiselle,--Announce to your friend that her commission will not be long before it arrives; I am setting out to get it signed: that will be twenty-eight leagues I shall have gone for the love of you.”

Then with his sardonic smile, taking up the interrupted sentence:--“This place,” said he, “at the first glance, appears to cost more than the first; but--the benefit will be, I hope, in proportion with the expense, and Mademoiselle de la Valliere will bring me back more than Mademoiselle de Montalais, or else,--or else my name is not Malicorne. Farewell, Manicamp,” and he left the room.

The Courtyard of the Hotel Grammont

On Malicorne’s arrival at Orleans, he was informed that the Comte de Guiche had just set out for Paris. Malicorne rested himself for a couple of hours, and then prepared to continue his journey. He reached Paris during the night, and alighted at a small hotel, where, in his previous journeys to the capital, he had been accustomed to put up, and at eight o’clock the next morning presented himself at the Hotel Grammont. Malicorne arrived just in time, for the Comte de Guiche was on the point of taking leave of Monsieur before setting out for Havre, where the principal members of the French nobility had gone to await Madame’s arrival from England. Malicorne pronounced the name of Manicamp and was immediately admitted. He found the Comte de Guiche in the courtyard of the Hotel Grammont, inspecting his horses, which his trainers and equerries were passing in review before him. The count, in the presence of his tradespeople and of his servants, was engaged in praising or blaming, as the case seemed to deserve, the appointments, horses, and harness that were being submitted to him; when, in the midst of this important occupation, the name of Manicamp was announced.

“Manicamp!” he exclaimed, “let him enter by all means.” And he advanced a few steps toward the door.

Malicorne slipped through the half-open door, and looking at the Comte de Guiche, who was surprised to see a face he did not recognize, instead of the one he expected, said: “Forgive me, monsieur le comte, but I believe a mistake has been made. M. Manicamp himself was announced to you, instead of which it is only an envoy from him.”

“Ah!” exclaimed De Guiche, coldly, “and what do you bring me?”

“A letter, monsieur le comte.” Malicorne handed him the first document, and narrowly watched the count’s face, who, as he read it began to laugh.

“What!” he exclaimed, “another maid of honor? Are all the maids of honor in France, then, under his protection?”

Malicorne bowed. “Why does he not come himself?” he inquired.

“He is confined to his bed.”

“The deuce! he has no money then, I suppose,” said De Guiche, shrugging his shoulders. “What does he do with his money?”

Malicorne made a movement, to indicate that upon this subject he was as ignorant as the count himself. “Why does he not make use of his credit, then?” continued De Guiche.

“With regard to that, I think----”

“What?”

“That Manicamp has credit with no one but yourself, monsieur le comte!”

“He will not be at Havre, then?” Whereupon Malicorne made another movement.

“But every one will be there.”

“I trust, monsieur le comte, that he will not neglect so excellent an opportunity.”

“He should be at Paris by this time.”

“He will take the direct road perhaps to make up for lost time.”

“Where is he now?”

“At Orleans.”

“Monsieur,” said De Guiche, “you seem to me a man of very good taste.”

Malicorne was wearing some of Manicamp’s old-new clothes. He bowed in return, saying, “You do me a very great honor, monsieur le comte.”

“Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?”

“My name is Malicorne, monsieur.”

“M. de Malicorne, what do you think of these pistol-holsters?”

Malicorne was a man of great readiness, and immediately understood the position of affairs. Besides, the “de” which had been prefixed to his name, raised him to the rank of the person with whom he was conversing. He looked at the holsters with the air of a connoisseur and said, without hesitation: “Somewhat heavy, monsieur.”

“You see,” said De Guiche to the saddler, “this gentleman, who understands these matters well, thinks the holsters heavy, a complaint I had already made.” The saddler was full of excuses.

“What do you think,” asked De Guiche, “of this horse, which I have just purchased?”

“To look at it, it seems perfect, monsieur le comte; but I must mount it before I give you my opinion.”

“Do so, M. de Malicorne, and ride him round the court two or three times.”

The courtyard of the hotel was so arranged, that whenever there was any occasion for it, it could be used as a riding-school. Malicorne, with perfect ease, arranged the bridle and snaffle-reins, placed his left hand on the horse’s mane, and, with his foot in the stirrup, raised himself and seated himself in the saddle. At first, he made the horse walk the whole circuit of the court-yard at a foot-pace; next at a trot; lastly at a gallop. He then drew up close to the count, dismounted, and threw the bridle to a groom standing by. “Well,” said the count, “what do you think of it, M. de Malicorne?”

“This horse, monsieur le comte, is of the Mecklenburg breed. In looking whether the bit suited his mouth, I saw that he was rising seven, the very age when the training of a horse intended for a charger should commence. The forehand is light. A horse which holds its head high, it is said, never tires his rider’s hand. The withers are rather low. The drooping of the hindquarters would almost make me doubt the purity of its German breed, and I think there is English blood in him. He stands well on his legs, but he trots high, and may cut himself, which requires attention to be paid to his shoeing. He is tractable; and as I made him turn round and change his feet, I found him quick and ready in doing so.”

“Well said, M. de Malicorne,” exclaimed the comte; “you are a judge of horses, I perceive;” then, turning towards him again, he continued, “You are most becomingly dressed, M. de Malicorne. That is not a provincial cut, I presume. Such a style of dress is not to be met with at Tours or Orleans.”

“No, monsieur le comte; my clothes were made at Paris.”

“There is no doubt about that. But let us resume our own affair. Manicamp wishes for the appointment of a second maid of honor.”

“You perceive what he has written, monsieur le comte.”

“For whom was the first appointment?”

Malicorne felt the color rise in his face as he answered hurriedly.

“A charming maid of honor, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”

“Ah, ah! you are acquainted with her?”

“We are affianced, or nearly so.”

“That is quite another thing, then; a thousand compliments,” exclaimed De Guiche, upon whose lips a courtier’s jest was already fitting, but to whom the word “affianced,” addressed by Malicorne with respect to Mademoiselle de Montalais, recalled the respect due to women.

“And for whom is the second appointment destined?” asked De Guiche, “is it for anyone to whom Manicamp may happen to be affianced? In that case I pity her, poor girl! for she will have a sad fellow for a husband.”

“No, monsieur le comte, the second appointment is for Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere.”

“Unknown,” said De Guiche.

“Unknown? yes, monsieur,” said Malicorne, smiling in his turn.

“Very good. I will speak to Monsieur about it. By the by, she is of gentle birth?”

“She belongs to a very good family and is maid of honor to Madame.”

“That’s well. Will you accompany me to Monsieur?”

“Most certainly, if I may be permitted the honor.”

“Have you your carriage?”

“No; I came here on horseback.”

“Dressed as you are?”

“No, monsieur; I posted from Orleans, and I changed my traveling suit for the one I have on, in order to present myself to you.”

“True, you already told me you had come from Orleans;” saying which he crumpled Manicamp’s letter in his hand, and thrust it in his pocket.

“I beg your pardon,” said Malicorne, timidly; “but I do not think you have read all.”

“Not read all, do you say?”

“No, there were two letters in the same envelope.”

“Oh! are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Let us look, then,” said the count, as he opened the letter again.

“Ah! you are right,” he said, opening the paper which he had not yet read.

“I suspected it,” he continued--“another application for an appointment under Monsieur. This Manicamp is a regular vampire:--he is carrying on a trade in it.”

“No, monsieur le comte, he wishes to make a present of it.”

“To whom?”

“To myself, monsieur.”

“Why did you not say so at once, my dear M. Mauvaisecorne?”

“Malicorne, monsieur le comte.”

“Forgive me; it is the Latin that bothers me--that terrible mine of etymologies. Why the deuce are young men of family taught Latin? Mala and mauvaise--you understand it is the same thing. You will forgive me, I trust, M. de Malicorne.”

“Your kindness affects me much, monsieur: but it is a reason why I should make you acquainted with one circumstance without any delay.”

“What is it?”

“That I was not born a gentleman. I am not without courage, and not altogether deficient in ability; but my name is Malicorne simply.”

“You appear to me, monsieur!” exclaimed the count, looking at the astute face of his companion, “to be a most agreeable man. Your face pleases me, M. Malicorne, and you must possess some indisputably excellent qualities to have pleased that egotistical Manicamp. Be candid, and tell me whether you are not some saint descended upon the earth.”

“Why so?”

“For the simple reason that he makes you a present of anything. Did you not say that he intended to make you a present of some appointment in the king’s house

“I beg your pardon, count; but, if I succeed in obtaining the appointment, you, and not he, will have bestowed it on me.”

“Besides, he will not have given it to you for nothing, I suppose. Stay, I have it;--there is a Malicorne at Orleans, who lends money to the prince.”

“I think that must be my father, monsieur.”

“Ah! the prince has the father, and that terrible dragon of a Manicamp has the son. Take care, monsieur, I know him. He will fleece you completely.”

“The only difference is, that I lend without interest,” said Malicorne, smiling.

“I was correct in saying you were either a saint or very much resembled one. M. Malicorne, you shall have the post you want, or I will forfeit my name.”

“Ah! monsieur le comte, what a debt of gratitude shall I not owe you?” said Malicorne, transported.

“Let us go to the prince, my dear M. Malicorne.” And De Guiche proceeded toward the door, desiring Malicorne to follow him. At the very moment they were about to cross the threshold, a young man appeared on the other side. He was from twenty-four to twenty-five years of age, of pale complexion, bright eyes and brown hair and eyebrows.

“Good-day,” he said, suddenly, almost pushing De Guiche back into the courtyard again.

“Is that you, De Wardes?--What! and booted, spurred, and whip in hand, too?”

“The most befitting costume for a man about to set off for Havre. There will be no one left in Paris tomorrow.” And hereupon he saluted Malicorne with great ceremony, whose handsome dress gave him the appearance of a prince.

“M. Malicorne,” said De Guiche to his friend. De Wardes bowed.

“M. de Wardes,” said Guiche to Malicorne, who bowed in return. “By the by, De Wardes,” continued De Guiche, “you who are so well acquainted with these matters, can you tell us, probably, what appointments are still vacant at the court; or rather in the prince’s household?”

“In the prince’s household,” said De Wardes, looking up with an air of consideration, “let me see--the appointment of the master of the horse is vacant, I believe.”

“Oh,” said Malicorne, “there is no question of such a post as that, monsieur; my ambition is not nearly so exalted.”

De Wardes had a more penetrating observation than De Guiche, and fathomed Malicorne immediately. “The fact is,” he said, looking at him from head to foot, “a man must be either a duke or a peer to fill that post.”

“All I solicit,” said Malicorne, “is a very humble appointment; I am of little importance, and I do not rank myself above my position.”

“M. Malicorne, whom you see here,” said De Guiche to De Wardes, “is a very excellent fellow, whose only misfortune is that of not being of gentle birth. As far as I am concerned, you know, I attach little value to those who have but gentle birth to boast of.”

“Assuredly,” said De Wardes; “but will you allow me to remark, my dear count, that, without rank of some sort, one can hardly hope to belong to his royal highness’s household?”

“You are right,” said the count, “court etiquette is absolute. The devil!--we never so much as gave it a thought.”

“Alas! a sad misfortune for me, monsieur le comte,” said Malicorne, changing color.

“Yet not without remedy, I hope,” returned De Guiche.

“The remedy is found easily enough,” exclaimed De Wardes; “you can be created a gentleman. His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, did nothing else from morning till night”

“Hush, hush, De Wardes,” said the count; “no jests of that kind; it ill becomes us to turn such matters into ridicule. Letters of nobility, it is true, are purchasable; but that is a sufficient misfortune without the nobles themselves laughing at it.”

“Upon my word, De Guiche, you’re quite a Puritan, as the English say.”

At this moment the Vicomte de Bragelonne was announced by one of the servants in the courtyard, in precisely the same manner as he would have done in a room.

“Come here, my dear Raoul. What! you, too, booted and spurred? You are setting off, then?”

Bragelonne approached the group of young men, and saluted them with that quiet and serious manner peculiar to him. His salutation was principally addressed to De Wardes, with whom he was unacquainted, and whose features, on his perceiving Raoul, had assumed a strange sternness of expression. “I have come, De Guiche,” he said, “to ask your companionship. We set off for Havre, I presume.”

“This is admirable--delightful. We shall have a most enjoyable journey. M. Malicorne, M. Bragelonne--ah! M. de Wardes, let me present you.” The young men saluted each other in a restrained manner. Their very natures seemed, from the beginning, disposed to take exception to each other. De Wardes was pliant, subtle, full of dissimulation; Raoul was calm, grave, and upright. “Decide between us--between De Wardes and myself, Raoul.”

“Upon what subject?”

“Upon the subject of noble birth.”

“Who can be better informed on that subject than a De Grammont?”

“No compliments; it is your opinion I ask.”

“At least, inform me of the subject under discussion.”

“De Wardes asserts that the distribution of titles is abused; I, on the contrary, maintain that a title is useless to the man on whom it is bestowed.”

“And you are correct,” said Bragelonne, quietly.

“But, monsieur le vicomte,” interrupted De Wardes, with a kind of obstinacy, “I affirm that it is I who am correct.”

“What was your opinion, monsieur?”

“I was saying that everything is done in France at the present moment to humiliate men of family.”

“And by whom?”

“By the king himself. He surrounds himself with people who cannot show four quarterings.”

“Nonsense,” said De Guiche, “where could you possibly have seen that, De Wardes?”

“One example will suffice,” he returned, directing his look fully upon Raoul.

“State it then.”

“Do you know who has just been nominated captain-general of the musketeers?--an appointment more valuable than a peerage; for it gives precedence over all the marechals of France.”

Raoul’s color mounted in his face; for he saw the object De Wardes had in view. “No; who has been appointed? In any case it must have been very recently, for the appointment was vacant eight days ago; a proof of which is, that the king refused Monsieur, who solicited the post for one of his proteges.”

“Well, the king refused it to Monsieur’s protege, in order to bestow it upon the Chevalier d’Artagnan, a younger brother of some Gascon family, who has been trailing his sword in the ante-chambers during the last thirty years.”

“Forgive me if I interrupt you,” said Raoul, darting a glance full of severity at De Wardes; “but you give me the impression of being unacquainted with the gentleman of whom you are speaking.”

“I not acquainted with M. d’Artagnan? Can you tell me, monsieur, who does not know him?”

“Those who do know him, monsieur,” replied Raoul with still greater calmness and sternness of manner, “are in the habit of saying, that if he is not as good a gentleman as the king--which is not his fault--he is the equal of all the kings of the earth in courage and loyalty. Such is my opinion, monsieur, and I thank heaven I have known M. d’Artagnan from my birth.”

De Wardes was about to reply, when De Guiche interrupted him.

The Portrait of Madame

The discussion was becoming full of bitterness. De Guiche perfectly understood the whole matter for there was in Bragelonne’s face a look instinctively hostile, while in that of De Wardes there was something like a determination to offend. Without inquiring into the different feelings which actuated his two friends, De Guiche resolved to ward off the blow which he felt was on the point of being dealt by one of them, and perhaps by both. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we must take our leave of each other, I must pay a visit to Monsieur. You, De Wardes, will accompany me to the Louvre, and you Raoul, will remain here master of the house; and as all that is done here is under your advice, you will bestow the last glance upon my preparations for departure.”

Raoul, with the air of one who neither seeks nor fears a quarrel, bowed his head in token of assent, and seated himself upon a bench in the sun. “That is well,” said De Guiche, “remain where you are, Raoul, and tell them to show you the two horses I have just purchased; you will give me your opinion, for I only bought them on condition that you ratified the purchase. By the by, I have to beg your pardon for having omitted to inquire after the Comte de la Fere.” While pronouncing these latter words, he closely observed De Wardes, in order to perceive what effect the name of Raoul’s father would produce upon him. “I thank you,” answered the young man, “the count is very well.” A gleam of deep hatred passed into De Wardes’ eyes. De Guiche, who appeared not to notice the foreboding expression, went up to Raoul, and grasping him by the hand, said,--“It is agreed, then, Bragelonne, is it not, that you will rejoin us in the courtyard of the Palais-Royal?” He then signed to De Wardes to follow him who had been engaged in balancing himself first on one foot, then on the other. “We are going,” said he, “come, M. Malicorne.” This name made Raoul start; for it seemed that he had already heard it pronounced before, but he could not remember on what occasion. While trying to recall it half-dreamily, yet half-irritated at his conversation with De Wardes, the three young men set out on their way towards the Palais-Royal, where Monsieur was residing. Malicorne learned two things; the first, that the young men had something to say to each other, and the second, that he ought not to walk in the same line with them; and therefore he walked behind. “Are you mad?” said De Guiche to his companion, as soon as they had left the Hotel de Grammont; “you attack M. d’Artagnan, and that, too, before Raoul.”

“Well,” said De Wardes, “what then?”

“What do you mean by ‘what then?’”

“Certainly, is there any prohibition against attacking M. d’Artagnan?”

“But you know very well that M. d’Artagnan was one of those celebrated and terrible four men who were called the musketeers.”

“That they may be, but I do not perceive why, on that account, I should be forbidden to hate M. d’Artagnan.”

“What cause has he given you?”

“Me! personally, none.”

“Why hate him, therefore?”

“Ask my dead father that question.”

“Really, my dear De Wardes, you surprise me. M. d’Artagnan is not one to leave unsettled any enmity he may have to arrange, without completely clearing his account. Your father, I have heard, on his side, carried matters with a high hand. Moreover there are no enmities so bitter that they cannot be washed away by blood, by a good sword-thrust loyally given.”

“Listen to me, my dear De Guiche, this inveterate dislike existed between my father and M. d’Artagnan, and when I was quite a child, he acquainted me with the reason for it, and, as forming part of my inheritance, I regard it as a particular legacy bestowed upon me.”

“And does his hatred concern M. d’Artagnan alone?”

“As for that, M. d’Artagnan was so intimately associated with his three friends, that some portion of the full measure of my hatred falls to their lot, and that hatred is of such a nature, whenever the opportunity occurs, they shall have no occasion to complain of their allowance.”

De Guiche had kept his eyes fixed on De Wardes, and shuddered at the bitter manner in which the young man smiled. Something like a presentiment flashed across his mind; he knew that the time had passed away for grands coups entre gentilshommes; but that the feeling of hatred treasured up in the mind, instead of being diffused abroad, was still hatred all the same; that a smile was sometimes as full of meaning as a threat; and, in a word, that to the fathers who had hated with their hearts and fought with their arms, would now succeed the sons, who would indeed hate with their hearts, but would no longer combat their enemies, save by means of intrigue or treachery. As, therefore, it certainly was not Raoul whom he could suspect either of intrigue or treachery, it was on Raoul’s account that De Guiche trembled. However, while these gloomy forebodings cast a shade of anxiety over De Guiche’s countenance, De Wardes had resumed the entire mastery over himself.

“At all events,” he observed, “I have no personal ill-will towards M. de Bragelonne; I do not know him even.”

“In any case,” said De Guiche, with a certain amount of severity in his tone of voice, “do not forget one circumstance, that Raoul is my most intimate friend;” a remark at which De Wardes bowed.

The conversation terminated there, although De Guiche tried his utmost to draw out his secret from him; but, doubtless, De Wardes had determined to say nothing further, and he remained impenetrable. De Guiche therefore promised himself a more satisfactory result with Raoul. In the meantime they had reached the Palais-Royal, which was surrounded by a crowd of lookers-on. The household belonging to Monsieur awaited his command to mount their horses, in order to form part of the escort of the ambassadors, to whom had been intrusted the care of bringing the young princess to Paris. The brilliant display of horses, arms, and rich liveries, afforded some compensation in those times, thanks to the kindly feelings of the people, and to the traditions of deep devotion to their sovereigns, for the enormous expenses charged upon the taxes. Mazarin had said: “Let them sing, provided they pay;” while Louis XIV.’s remark was, “Let them look.” Sight had replaced the voice; the people could still look, but they were no longer allowed to sing. De Guiche left De Wardes and Malicorne at the bottom of the grand staircase, while he himself, who shared the favor and good graces of Monsieur with the Chevalier de Lorraine, who always smiled at him most affectionately, though he could not endure him, went straight to the prince’s apartments, whom he found engaged in admiring himself in the glass, and rouging his face. In a corner of the cabinet, the Chevalier de Lorraine was extended full length upon some cushions, having just had his long hair curled, with which he was playing in the same manner a woman would have done. The prince turned round as the count entered, and perceiving who it was, said:

“Ah! is that you, Guiche, come here and tell me the truth.”

“You know, my lord, it is one of my defects to speak the truth.”

“You will hardly believe, De Guiche, how that wicked chevalier has annoyed me.”

The chevalier shrugged his shoulders.

“Why, he pretends,” continued the prince, “that Mademoiselle Henrietta is better looking as a woman than I am as a man.”

“Do not forget, my lord,” said De Guiche, frowning slightly, “you require me to speak the truth?”

“Certainly,” said the prince, tremblingly.

“Well, and I shall tell it you.”

“Do not be in a hurry, Guiche,” exclaimed the prince, “you have plenty of time; look at me attentively, and try to recollect Madame. Besides, her portrait is here. Look at it.” And he held out to him a miniature of the finest possible execution. De Guiche took it, and looked at it for a long time attentively.

“Upon my honor, my lord, this is indeed a most lovely face.”

“But look at me, count, look at me,” said the prince endeavoring to direct upon himself the attention of the count, who was completely absorbed in contemplation of the portrait.

“It is wonderful,” murmured Guiche.

“Really one would almost imagine you had never seen the young lady before.”

“It is true, my lord, I have seen her, but it was five years ago; there is a great difference between a child twelve years old and a girl of seventeen.”

“Well, what is your opinion?”

“My opinion is that the portrait must be flattering, my lord.”

“Of that,” said the prince triumphantly, “there can be no doubt, but let us suppose that it is not, what would your opinion be?”

“My lord, that your highness is exceedingly happy to have so charming a bride.”

“Very well, that is your opinion of her, but of me?”

“My opinion, my lord, is that you are too handsome for a man.”

The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out laughing. The prince understood how severe towards himself this opinion of the Comte de Guiche was, and he looked somewhat displeased, saying, “My friends are not over indulgent.” De Guiche looked at the portrait again, and, after lengthened contemplation, returned it with apparent unwillingness, saying, “Most decidedly, my lord, I should rather prefer to look ten times at your highness, than to look at Madame once again.” It seemed as if the chevalier had detected some mystery in these words, which were incomprehensible to the prince, for he exclaimed: “Very well, get married yourself.” Monsieur continued painting himself, and when he had finished, looked at the portrait again once more, turned to admire himself in the glass, and smiled, and no doubt was satisfied with the comparison. “You are very kind to have come,” he said to Guiche, “I feared you would leave without bidding me adieu.”

“Your highness knows me too well to believe me capable of so great a disrespect.”

“Besides, I suppose you have something to ask from me before leaving Paris?”

“Your highness has indeed guessed correctly, for I have a request to make.”

“Very good, what is it?”

The Chevalier de Lorraine immediately displayed the greatest attention, for he regarded every favor conferred upon another as a robbery committed against himself. And, as Guiche hesitated, the prince said: “If it be money, nothing could be more fortunate, for I am in funds; the superintendent of the finances has sent me 500,000 pistoles.”

“I thank your highness; but it is not an affair of money.”

“What is it, then? Tell me.”

“The appointment of a maid of honor.”

“Oh! oh! Guiche, what a protector you have become of young ladies,” said the prince, “you never speak of any one else now!”

The Chevalier de Lorraine smiled, for he knew very well that nothing displeased the prince more than to show any interest in ladies. “My lord,” said the comte, “it is not I who am directly interested in the lady of whom I have just spoken; I am acting on behalf of one of my friends.”

“Ah! that is different; what is the name of the young lady in whom your friend is interested?”

“Mlle. de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere; she is already maid of honor to the dowager princess.”

“Why, she is lame,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, stretching himself on his cushions.

“Lame,” repeated the prince, “and Madame to have her constantly before her eyes? Most certainly not; it may be dangerous for her when in an interesting condition.”

The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out laughing.

“Chevalier,” said Guiche, “your conduct is ungenerous; while I am soliciting a favor, you do me all the mischief you can.”

“Forgive me, comte,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, somewhat uneasy at the tone in which Guiche had made his remark, “but I had no intention of doing so, and I begin to believe that I have mistaken one young lady for another.”

“There is no doubt of it, monsieur; and I do not hesitate to declare that such is the case.”

“Do you attach much importance to it, Guiche?” inquired the prince.

“I do, my lord.”

“Well, you shall have it, but ask me for no more appointments, for there are none to give away.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the chevalier, “midday already, that is the hour fixed for the departure.”

“You dismiss me, monsieur?” inquired Guiche.

“Really, count, you treat me very ill to-day,” replied the chevalier.

“For heaven’s sake, count, for heaven’s sake, chevalier,” said Monsieur, “do you not see how you are distressing me?”

“Your highness’s signature?” said Guiche.

“Take a blank appointment from that drawer, and give it to me.” Guiche handed the prince the document indicated, and at the same time presented him with a pen already dipped in ink; whereupon the prince signed. “Here,” he said, returning him the appointment, “but I give it on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you make friends with the chevalier.”

“Willingly,” said Guiche. And he held out his hand to the chevalier with an indifference amounting to contempt.

“Adieu, count,” said the chevalier, without seeming in any way to have noticed the count’s slight; “adieu, and bring us back a princess who will not talk with her own portrait too much.”

“Yes, set off and lose no time. By the by, who accompany you?”

“Bragelonne and De Wardes.”

“Both excellent and fearless companions.”

“Too fearless,” said the chevalier; “endeavor to bring them both back, count.”

“A bad heart, bad!” murmured De Guiche; “he scents mischief everywhere, and sooner than anything else.” And taking leave of the prince, he quitted the apartment. As soon as he reached the vestibule, he waved in the air the paper which the prince had signed. Malicorne hurried forward, and received it, trembling with delight. When, however, he held it in his hand Guiche observed that he still awaited something further.

“Patience, monsieur,” he said; “the Chevalier de Lorraine was there, and I feared an utter failure if I asked too much at once. Wait until I return. Adieu.”

“Adieu, monsieur le comte; a thousand thanks,” said Malicorne.

“Send Manicamp to me. By the way, monsieur, is it true that Mlle. de la Valliere is lame?” As he said this a horse drew up behind him, and on turning round he noticed that Bragelonne, who had just at that moment entered the courtyard, turned suddenly pale. The poor lover had heard the remark, which, however, was not the case with Malicorne, for he was already beyond the reach of the count’s voice.

“Why is Louise’s name spoken of here?” said Raoul to himself; “oh! let not De Wardes, who stands smiling yonder, even say a word about her in my presence.”

“Now, gentlemen,” exclaimed the Comte de Guiche, “prepare to start.”

At this moment the prince, who had completed his toilette, appeared at the window, and was immediately saluted by the acclamations of all who composed the escort, and ten minutes afterwards, banners, scarfs, and feathers were fluttering and waving in the air, as the cavalcade galloped away.

Havre

This brilliant and animated company, the members of which were inspired by various feelings, arrived at Havre four days after their departure from Paris. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon, and no intelligence had yet been received of Madame. They were soon engaged in quest of apartments; but the greatest confusion immediately ensued among the masters, and violent quarrels among their attendants. In the midst of this disorder, the Comte de Guiche fancied he recognized Manicamp. It was, indeed, Manicamp himself; but as Malicorne had taken possession of his very best costume, he had not been able to get any other than a suit of violet velvet trimmed with silver. Guiche recognized him as much by his dress as by his features, for he had very frequently seen Manicamp in his violet suit, which was his last resource. Manicamp presented himself to the count under an arch of torches, which set in a blaze, rather than illuminated, the gate by which Havre is entered, and which is situated close to the tower of Francis I. The count, remarking the woe-begone expression of Manicamp’s face, could not resist laughing. “Well, my poor Manicamp,” he exclaimed, “how violet you look; are you in mourning?”

“Yes,” replied Manicamp; “I am in mourning.”

“For whom, or for what?”

“For my blue-and-gold suit, which has disappeared, and in the place of which I could find nothing but this; and I was even obliged to economize from compulsion, in order to get possession of it.”

“Indeed?”

“It is singular you should be astonished at that, since you leave me without any money.”

“At all events, here you are, and that is the principal thing.”

“By the most horrible roads.”

“Where are you lodging?”

“Lodging?”

“Yes!”

“I am not lodging anywhere.”

De Guiche began to laugh. “Well,” said he, “where do you intend to lodge?”

“In the same place you do.”

“But I don’t know, myself.”

“What do you mean by saying you don’t know?”

“Certainly, how is it likely I should know where I should stay?”

“Have you not retained an hotel?”

“I?”

“Yes, you or the prince.”

“Neither of us has thought of it. Havre is of considerable size, I suppose; and provided I can get a stable for a dozen horses, and a suitable house in a good quarter----”

“Certainly, there are some very excellent houses.”

“Well then----”

“But not for us.”

“What do you mean by saying not for us?--for whom, then?”

“For the English, of course.”

“For the English?”

“Yes; the houses are all taken.”

“By whom?”

“By the Duke of Buckingham.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Guiche, whose attention this name had awakened.

“Yes, by the Duke of Buckingham. His Grace was preceded by a courier, who arrived here three days ago, and immediately retained all the houses fit for habitation the town possesses.”

“Come, come, Manicamp, let us understand each other.”

“Well, what I have told you is clear enough, it seems to me.”

“But surely Buckingham does not occupy the whole of Havre?”

“He certainly does not occupy it, since he has not yet arrived; but, once disembarked, he will occupy it.”

“Oh! oh!”

“It is quite clear you are not acquainted with the English; they have a perfect rage for monopolizing everything.”

“That may be; but a man who has the whole of one house, is satisfied with it, and does not require two.”

“Yes, but two men?”

“Be it so; for two men, two houses, or four or six, or ten, if you like; but there are a hundred houses at Havre.”

“Yes, and all the hundred are let.”

“Impossible!”

“What an obstinate fellow you are. I tell you Buckingham has hired all the houses surrounding the one which the queen dowager of England and the princess her daughter will inhabit.”

“He is singular enough, indeed,” said De Wardes, caressing his horse’s neck.

“Such is the case, however, monsieur.”

“You are quite sure of it, Monsieur de Manicamp?” and as he put this question, he looked slyly at De Guiche, as though to interrogate him upon the degree of confidence to be placed in his friend’s state of mind. During this discussion the night had closed in, and the torches, pages, attendants, squires, horses, and carriages, blocked up the gate and the open place; the torches were reflected in the channel, which the rising tide was gradually filling, while on the other side of the jetty might be noticed groups of curious lookers-on, consisting of sailors and townspeople, who seemed anxious to miss nothing of the spectacle. Amidst all this hesitation of purpose, Bragelonne, as though a perfect stranger to the scene, remained on his horse somewhat in the rear of Guiche, and watched the rays of light reflected on the water, inhaling with rapture the sea breezes, and listening to the waves which noisily broke upon the shore and on the beach, tossing the spray into the air with a noise that echoed in the distance. “But,” exclaimed De Guiche, “what is Buckingham’s motive for providing such a supply of lodgings?”

“Yes, yes,” said De Wardes; “what reason has he?”

“A very excellent one,” replied Manicamp.

“You know what it is, then?”

“I fancy I do.”

“Tell us then.”

“Bend your head down towards me.”

“What! may it not be spoken except in private?”

“You shall judge of that yourself.”

“Very well.” De Guiche bent down.

“Love,” said Manicamp.

“I do not understand you at all.”

“Say rather, you cannot understand me yet.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Very well; it is quite certain, count, that his royal highness will be the most unfortunate of husbands.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Duke of Buckingham----”

“It is a name of ill omen to the princes of the house of France.”

“And so the duke is madly in love with Madame, so the rumor runs, and will have no one approach her but himself.”

De Guiche colored. “Thank you, thank you,” said he to Manicamp, grasping his hand. Then, recovering himself, added, “Whatever you do, Manicamp, be careful that this project of Buckingham’s is not made known to any Frenchman here; for, if so, many a sword would be unsheathed in this country that does not fear English steel.”

“But after all,” said Manicamp, “I have had no satisfactory proof given me of the love in question, and it may be no more than an idle tale.”

“No, no,” said De Guiche, “it must be the truth;” and despite his command over himself, he clenched his teeth.

“Well,” said Manicamp, “after all, what does it matter to you? What does it matter to me whether the prince is to be what the late king was? Buckingham the father for the queen, Buckingham the son for the princess.”

“Manicamp! Manicamp!

“It is a fact, or at least, everybody says so.”

“Silence!” cried the count.

“But why, silence?” said De Wardes, “it is a highly creditable circumstance for the French nation. Are not you of my opinion, Monsieur de Bragelonne?”

“To what circumstance do you allude?” inquired De Bragelonne with an abstracted air.

“That the English should render homage to the beauty of our queens and our princesses.”

“Forgive me, but I have not been paying attention to what has passed; will you oblige me by explaining,

“There is no doubt it was necessary that Buckingham the father should come to Paris in order that his majesty, King Louis XIII., should perceive that his wife was one of the most beautiful women of the French court; and it seems necessary, at the present time, that Buckingham the son should consecrate, by the devotion of his worship, the beauty of a princess who has French blood in her veins. The fact of having inspired a passion on the other side of the Channel will henceforth confer a title to beauty on this.”

“Sir,” replied De Bragelonne, “I do not like to hear such matters treated so lightly. Gentlemen like ourselves should be careful guardians of the honor of our queens and our princesses. If we jest at them, what will our servants do?”

“How am I to understand that?” said De Wardes, whose ears tingled at the remark.

“In any way you choose, monsieur,” replied De Bragelonne, coldly.

“Bragelonne, Bragelonne,” murmured De Guiche.

“M. de Wardes,” exclaimed Manicamp, noticing that the young man had spurred his horse close to the side of Raoul.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said De Guiche, “do not set such an example in public, in the street too. De Wardes, you are wrong.”

“Wrong; in what way, may I ask?”

“You are wrong, monsieur, because you are always speaking ill of someone or something,” replied Raoul with undisturbed composure.

“Be indulgent, Raoul,” said De Guiche, in an undertone.

“Pray do not think of fighting, gentlemen!” said Manicamp, “before you have rested yourselves; for in that case you will not be able to do much.”

“Come,” said De Guiche, “forward, gentlemen!” and breaking through the horses and attendants, he cleared the way for himself towards the center of the square, through the crowd, followed by the whole cavalcade. A large gateway looking out upon a courtyard was open; Guiche entered the courtyard, and Bragelonne, De Wardes, Manicamp, and three or four other gentlemen, followed him. A sort of council of war was held, and the means to be employed for saving the dignity of the embassy were deliberated upon. Bragelonne was of opinion that the right of priority should be respected, while De Wardes suggested that the town should be sacked. This latter proposition appearing to Manicamp rather premature, he proposed instead that they should first rest themselves. This was the wisest thing to do, but, unhappily, to follow his advice, two things were wanting; namely, a house and beds. De Guiche reflected for awhile, and then said aloud, “Let him who loves me, follow me!”

“The attendants also?” inquired a page who had approached the group.

“Every one,” exclaimed the impetuous young man. “Manicamp, show us the way to the house. destined for her Royal Highness’s residence.”

Without in any way divining the count’s project, his friends followed him, accompanied by a crowd of people whose acclamations and delight seemed a happy omen for the success of that project with which they were yet unacquainted. The wind was blowing strongly from the harbor, and moaning in fitful gusts.

At Sea

The following day was somewhat calmer, although the gale still continued. The sun had, however, risen through a bank of orange clouds, tingeing with its cheerful rays the crests of the black waves. Watch was impatiently kept from the different look-outs. Towards eleven o’clock in the morning a ship, with sails full set, was signalled as in view; two others followed at the distance of about half a knot. They approached like arrows shot from the bow of a skillful archer; and yet the sea ran so high that their speed was as nothing compared to the rolling of the billows in which the vessels were plunging first in one direction and then in another. The English fleet was soon recognized by the line of the ships, and by the color of their pennants; the one which had the princess on board and carried the admiral’s flag preceded the others.

The rumor now spread that the princess was arriving. The whole French court ran to the harbor, while the quays and jetties were soon covered by crowds of people. Two hours afterwards, the other vessels had overtaken the flagship, and the three, not venturing perhaps to enter the narrow entrance of the harbor, cast anchor between Havre and La Heve. When the maneuver had been completed, the vessel which bore the admiral saluted France by twelve discharges of cannon, which were returned, discharge for discharge, from Fort Francis I. Immediately afterwards a hundred boats were launched; they were covered with the richest stuffs, and destined for the conveyance of the different members of the French nobility towards the vessels at anchor. But when it was observed that even inside the harbor the boats were tossed to and fro, and that beyond the jetty the waves rose mountains high, dashing upon the shore with a terrible uproar, it will readily be believed that not one of those frail boats would be able with safety to reach a fourth part of the distance between the shore and the vessels at anchor. A pilot-boat, however, notwithstanding the wind and the sea, was getting ready to leave the harbor, for the purpose of placing itself at the admiral’s disposal.

De Guiche, who had been looking among the different boats for one stronger than the others, which might offer a chance of reaching the English vessels, perceiving the pilot-boat getting ready to start, said to Raoul: “Do you not think, Raoul, that intelligent and vigorous men, as we are, ought to be ashamed to retreat before the brute strength of wind and waves?”

“That is precisely the very reflection I was silently making to myself,” replied Bragelonne.

“Shall we get into that boat, then, and push off? Will you come, De Wardes?”

“Take care, or you will get drowned,” said Manicamp.

“And for no purpose,” said De Wardes, “for with the wind in your teeth, as it will be, you will never reach the vessels.”

“You refuse, then?”

“Assuredly I do; I would willingly risk and lose my life in an encounter against men,” he said, glancing at Bragelonne, “but as to fighting with oars against waves, I have no taste for that.”

“And for myself,” said Manicamp, “even were I to succeed in reaching the ships, I should not be indifferent to the loss of the only good dress which I have left,--salt water would spoil it.”

“You, then, refuse also?” exclaimed De Guiche.

“Decidedly I do; I beg you to understand that most distinctly.”

“But,” exclaimed De Guiche, “look, De Wardes--look, Manicamp--look yonder, the princesses are looking at us from the poop of the admiral’s vessel.”

“An additional reason, my dear fellow, why we should not make ourselves ridiculous by being drowned while they are looking on.”

“Is that your last word, Manicamp?”

“Yes.”

“And then yours, De Wardes?”

“Yes.”

“Then I go alone.”

“Not so,” said Raoul, “for I shall accompany you; I thought it was understood I should do so.”

The fact is, that Raoul, uninfluenced by devotion, measuring the risk they run, saw how imminent the danger was, but he willingly allowed himself to accept a peril which De Wardes had declined.

The boat was about to set off when De Guiche called to the pilot. “Stay,” said he: “we want two places in your boat;” and wrapping five or six pistoles in paper, he threw them from the quay into the boat.

“It seems you are not afraid of salt water, young gentlemen.”

“We are afraid of nothing,” replied De Guiche.

“Come along, then.”

The pilot approached the side of the boat, and the two young men, one after the other, with equal vivacity, jumped into the boat. “Courage, my men,” said De Guiche; “I have twenty pistoles left in this purse, and as soon as we reach the admiral’s vessel they shall be yours.” The sailors bent themselves to their oars, and the boat bounded over the crest of the waves. The interest taken in this hazardous expedition was universal; the whole population of Havre hurried towards the jetties and every look was directed towards the little bark; at one moment it flew suspended on the crest of the foaming waves, then suddenly glided downwards towards the bottom of a raging abyss, where it seemed utterly lost. At the expiration of an hour’s struggling with the waves, it reached the spot where the admiral’s vessel was anchored, and from the side of which two boats had already been dispatched towards their aid. Upon the quarter-deck of the flagship, sheltered by a canopy of velvet and ermine, which was suspended by stout supports, Henrietta, the queen dowager, and the young princess--with the admiral, the Duke of Norfolk--standing beside them--watched with alarm this slender bark, at one moment tossed to the heavens, and the next buried beneath the waves, and against whose dark sail the noble figures of the two French gentlemen stood forth in relief like two luminous apparitions. The crew, leaning against the bulwarks and clinging to the shrouds, cheered the courage of the two daring young men, the skill of the pilot, and the strength of the sailors. They were received at the side of the vessel by a shout of triumph. The Duke of Norfolk, a handsome young man, from twenty-six to twenty-eight years of age, advanced to meet them. De Guiche and Bragelonne lightly mounted the ladder on the starboard side, and conducted by the Duke of Norfolk, who resumed his place near them, they approached to offer their homage to the princesses. Respect, and yet more, a certain apprehension, for which he could not account, had hitherto restrained the Comte de Guiche from looking at Madame attentively, who, however, had observed him immediately, and had asked her mother, “Is not that Monsieur in the boat yonder?” Madame Henrietta who knew Monsieur better than her daughter did, smiled at the mistake her vanity had led her into, and had answered, “No; it is only M. de Guiche, his favorite.” The princess, at this reply, was constrained to check an instinctive tenderness of feeling which the courage displayed by the count had awakened. At the very moment the princess had put this question to her mother, De Guiche had, at last, summoned courage to raise his eyes towards her and could compare the original with the portrait he had so lately seen. No sooner had he remarked her pale face, her eyes so full of animation, her beautiful nut-brown hair, her expressive lips, and her every gesture, which, while betokening royal descent, seemed to thank and to encourage him at one and the same time, than he was, for a moment, so overcome, that, had it not been for Raoul, on whose arm he leant, he would have fallen. His friend’s amazed look, and the encouraging gesture of the queen, restored Guiche to his self-possession. In a few words he explained his mission, explained in what way he had become the envoy of his royal highness; and saluted, according to their rank and the reception they gave him, the admiral and several of the English noblemen who were grouped around the princesses.

Raoul was then presented, and was most graciously received; the share that the Comte de la Fere had had in the restoration of Charles II. was known to all; and, more than that, it was the comte who had been charged with the negotiation of the marriage, by means of which the granddaughter of Henry IV. was now returning to France. Raoul spoke English perfectly, and constituted himself his friend’s interpreter with the young English noblemen, who were indifferently acquainted with the French language. At this moment a young man came forward, of extremely handsome features, and whose dress and arms were remarkable for their extravagance of material. He approached the princesses, who were engaged in conversation with the Duke of Norfolk, and, in a voice which ill concealed his impatience, said, “It is time now to disembark, your royal highness. “The younger of the princesses rose from her seat at this remark, and was about to take the hand which the young nobleman extended to her, with an eagerness which arose from a variety of motives, when the admiral intervened between them, observing; “A moment, if you please, my lord; it is not possible for ladies to disembark just now, the sea is too rough; it is probable the wind may abate before sunset, and the landing will not be effected, therefore, until this evening.”

“Allow me to observe, my lord,” said Buckingham, with an irritation of manner which he did not seek to disguise, “you detain these ladies, and you have no right to do so. One of them, unhappily, now belongs to France, and you perceive that France claims them by the voice of her ambassadors;” and at the same moment he indicated Raoul and Guiche, whom he saluted.

“I cannot suppose that these gentlemen intend to expose the lives of their royal highnesses,” replied the admiral.

“These gentlemen,” retorted Buckingham, “arrived here safely, notwithstanding the wind; allow me to believe that the danger will not be greater for their royal highnesses when the wind will be in their favor.”

“These envoys have shown how great their courage is,” said the admiral. “You may have observed that there was a great number of persons on shore who did not venture to accompany them. Moreover, the desire which they had to show their respect with the least possible delay to Madame and her illustrious mother induced them to brave the sea, which is very tempestuous to-day, even for sailors. These gentlemen, however, whom I recommend as an example for my officers to follow, can hardly be so for these ladies.”

Madame glanced at the Comte de Guiche, and perceived that his face was burning with confusion. This look had escaped Buckingham, who had eyes for nothing but Norfolk, of whom he was evidently very jealous; he seemed anxious to remove the princesses from the deck of a vessel where the admiral reigned supreme. “In that case,” returned Buckingham, “I appeal to Madame herself.”

“And I, my lord,” retorted the admiral, “I appeal to my own conscience, and to my own sense of responsibility. I have undertaken to convey Madame safe and sound to France, and I shall keep my promise.”

“But sir----” continued Buckingham.

“My lord, permit me to remind you that I command here.”

“Are you aware what you are saying, my lord?” replied Buckingham, haughtily.

“Perfectly so; I therefore repeat it: I alone command here, all yield obedience to me; the sea and the winds, the ships and men too.” This remark was made in a dignified and authoritative manner. Raoul observed its effect upon Buckingham, who trembled with anger from head to foot, and leaned against one of the poles of the tent to prevent himself falling; his eyes became suffused with blood, and the hand which he did not need for his support wandered towards the hilt of his sword.

“My lord,” said the queen, “permit me to observe that I agree in every particular with the Duke of Norfolk; if the heavens, instead of being clouded as they are at the present moment, were perfectly serene and propitious, we can still afford to bestow a few hours upon the officer who has conducted us so successfully, and with such extreme attention, to the French coast, where he is to take leave of us.”

Buckingham, instead of replying, seemed to seek counsel from the expression of Madame’s face. She, however, half-concealed beneath the thick curtains of the velvet and gold which sheltered her, had not listened to the discussion, having been occupied in watching the Comte de Guiche, who was conversing with Raoul. This was a fresh misfortune for Buckingham, who fancied he perceived in Madame Henrietta’s look a deeper feeling than that of curiosity. He withdrew, almost tottering in his gait, and nearly stumbled against the mainmast of the ship.

“The duke has not acquired a steady footing yet,” said the queen-mother, in French, “and that may possibly be his reason for wishing to find himself on firm land again.”

The young man overheard this remark, turned suddenly pale, and, letting his hands fall in great discouragement by his side, drew aside, mingling in one sigh his old affection and his new hatreds. The admiral, however, without taking any further notice of the duke’s ill-humor, led the princesses into the quarter-deck cabin, where dinner had been served with a magnificence worthy in every respect of his guests. The admiral seated himself at the right hand of the princess, and placed the Comte de Guiche on her left. This was the place Buckingham usually occupied; and when he entered the cabin, how profound was his unhappiness to see himself banished by etiquette from the presence of his sovereign, to a position inferior to that which, by rank, he was entitled to. De Guiche, on the other hand, paler still perhaps from happiness, than his rival was from anger, seated himself tremblingly next the princess, whose silken robe, as it lightly touched him, caused a tremor of mingled regret and happiness to pass through his whole frame. The repast finished, Buckingham darted forward to hand Madame Henrietta from the table; but this time it was De Guiche’s turn to give the duke a lesson. “Have the goodness, my lord, from this moment,” said he, “not to interpose between her royal highness and myself. From this moment, indeed, her royal highness belongs to France, and when she deigns to honor me by touching my hand it is the hand of Monsieur, the brother of the king of France, she touches.”

And saying this, he presented his hand to Madame Henrietta with such marked deference, and at the same time with a nobleness of mien so intrepid, that a murmur of admiration rose from the English, whilst a groan of despair escaped from Buckingham’s lips. Raoul, who loved, comprehended it all. He fixed upon his friend one of those profound looks which a bosom friend or mother can alone extend, either as protector or guardian, over the one who is about to stray from the right path. Towards two o’clock in the afternoon the sun shone forth anew, the wind subsided, the sea became smooth as a crystal mirror, and the fog, which had shrouded the coast, disappeared like a veil withdrawn from before it. The smiling hills of France appeared in full view with their numerous white houses rendered more conspicuous by the bright green of the trees or the clear blue sky.

The Tents

The admiral, as we have seen, was determined to pay no further attention to Buckingham’s threatening glances and fits of passion. In fact, from the moment they quitted England, he had gradually accustomed himself to his behavior. De Guiche had not yet in any way remarked the animosity which appeared to influence that young nobleman against him, but he felt, instinctively, that there could be no sympathy between himself and the favorite of Charles II. The queen-mother, with greater experience and calmer judgment, perceived the exact position of affairs, and, as she discerned its danger, was prepared to meet it, whenever the proper moment should arrive. Quiet had been everywhere restored, except in Buckingham’s heart; he, in his impatience, addressed himself to the princess, in a low tone of voice: “For Heaven’s sake, madame, I implore you to hasten your disembarkation. Do you not perceive how that insolent Duke of Norfolk is killing me with his attentions and devotions to you?”

Henrietta heard this remark; she smiled, and without turning her head towards him, but giving only to the tone of her voice that inflection of gentle reproach, and languid impertinence, which women and princesses so well know how to assume, she murmured, “I have already hinted, my lord, that you must have taken leave of your senses.”

Not a single detail escaped Raoul’s attention; he heard both Buckingham’s entreaty and the princess’s reply; he remarked Buckingham retire, heard his deep sigh, and saw him pass his hand across his face. He understood everything, and trembled as he reflected on the position of affairs, and the state of the minds of those about him. At last the admiral, with studied delay, gave the last orders for the departure of the boats.

Buckingham heard the directions given with such an exhibition of delight that a stranger would really imagine the young man’s reason was affected. As the Duke of Norfolk gave his commands, a large boat or barge, decked with flags, and capable of holding about twenty rowers and fifteen passengers, was slowly lowered from the side of the admiral’s vessel. The barge was carpeted with velvet and decorated with coverings embroidered with the arms of England, and with garlands of flowers; for, at that time, ornamentation was by no means forgotten in these political pageants. No sooner was this really royal boat afloat and the rowers with oars uplifted, awaiting, like soldiers presenting arms, the embarkation of the princess, than Buckingham ran forward to the ladder in order to take his place. His progress was, however, arrested by the queen. “My lord,” she said, “it is hardly becoming that you should allow my daughter and myself to land without having previously ascertained that our apartments are properly prepared. I beg your lordship to be good enough to precede us ashore, and to give directions that everything be in proper order on our arrival.”

This was a fresh disappointment for the duke, and, still more so, since it was so unexpected. He hesitated, colored violently, but could not reply. He had thought he might be able to keep near Madame during the passage to the shore, and, by this means, to enjoy to the very last moment the brief period fortune still reserved for him. The order, however, was explicit; and the admiral, who heard it given, immediately called out, “Launch the ship’s gig.” His directions were executed with that celerity which distinguishes every maneuver on board a man-of-war.

Buckingham, in utter hopelessness, cast a look of despair at the princess, of supplication towards the queen, and directed a glance full of anger towards the admiral. The princess pretended not to notice him, while the queen turned aside her head, and the admiral laughed outright, at the sound of which Buckingham seemed ready to spring upon him. The queen-mother rose, and with a tone of authority said, “Pray set off, sir.”

The young duke hesitated, looked around him, and with a last effort, half-choked by contending emotions, said, “And you, gentlemen, M. de Guiche and M. de Bragelonne, do not you accompany me?”

De Guiche bowed and said, “Both M. de Bragelonne and myself await her majesty’s orders; whatever the commands she imposes on us, we shall obey them.” Saying this, he looked towards the princess, who cast down her eyes.

“Your grace will remember,” said the queen, “that M. de Guiche is here to represent Monsieur; it is he who will do the honors of France, as you have done those of England; his presence cannot be dispensed with; besides, we owe him this slight favor for the courage he displayed in venturing to seek us in such a terrible stress of weather.”

Buckingham opened his lips, as if he were about to speak, but, whether thoughts or expressions failed him, not a syllable escaped them, and turning away, as though out of his mind, he leapt from the vessel into the boat. The sailors were just in time to catch hold of him to steady themselves; for his weight and the rebound had almost upset the boat.

“His grace cannot be in his senses,” said the admiral aloud to Raoul.

“I am uneasy on the Duke’s account,” replied Bragelonne.

While the boat was advancing towards the shore, the duke kept his eyes immovably fixed upon the admiral’s ship, like a miser torn away from his coffers, or a mother separated from her child, about to be led away to death. No one, however, acknowledged his signals, his frowns, or his pitiful gestures. In very anguish of mind, he sank down in the boat, burying his hands in his hair, whilst the boat, impelled by the exertions of the merry sailors, flew over the waves. On his arrival he was in such a state of apathy, that, had he not been received at the harbor by the messenger whom he had directed to precede him, he would hardly have had strength to ask his way. Having once, however, reached the house which had been set apart for him, he shut himself up, like Achilles in his tent. The barge bearing the princesses quitted the admiral’s vessel at the very moment Buckingham landed. It was followed by another boat filled with officers, courtiers, and zealous friends. Great numbers of the inhabitants of Havre, having embarked in fishing-cobles and boats of every description, set off to meet the royal barge. The cannon from the forts fired salutes, which were returned by the flagship and the two other vessels, and the flashes from the open mouths of the cannon floated in white fumes over the waves, and disappeared in the clear blue sky.

The princess landed at the decorated quay. Bands of gay music greeted her arrival, and accompanied her every step she took. During the time she was passing through the center of the town, and treading beneath her delicate feet the richest carpets and the gayest flowers, which had been strewn upon the ground, De Guiche and Raoul, escaping from their English friends, hurried through the town and hastened rapidly towards the place intended for the residence of Madame.

“Let us hurry forward,” said Raoul to De Guiche, “for if I read Buckingham’s character aright, he will create some disturbance, when he learns the result of our deliberations of yesterday.”

“Never fear,” said De Guiche, “De Wardes is there, who is determination itself, while Manicamp is the very personification of artless gentleness.”

De Guiche was not, however, the less diligent on that account, and five minutes afterwards they were within sight of the Hotel de Ville. The first thing which struck them was the number of people assembled in the square. “Excellent,” said De Guiche; “our apartments, I see, are prepared.”

In fact, in front of the Hotel de Ville, upon the wide open space before it, eight tents had been raised, surmounted by the flags of France and England united. The hotel was surrounded by tents, as by a girdle of variegated colors; ten pages and a dozen mounted troopers, who had been given to the ambassadors, for an escort, mounted guard before the tents. It had a singularly curious effect, almost fairy-like in its appearance. These tents had been constructed during the night-time. Fitted up, within and without, with the richest materials that De Guiche had been able to procure in Havre, they completely encircled the Hotel de Ville. The only passage which led to the steps of the hotel, and which was not inclosed by the silken barricade, was guarded by two tents, resembling two pavilions, the doorways of both of which opened towards the entrance. These two tents were destined for De Guiche and Raoul; in whose absence they were intended to be occupied, that of De Guiche by De Wardes, and that of Raoul by Manicamp. Surrounding these two tents, and the six others, a hundred officers, gentlemen, and pages, dazzling in their display of silk and gold, thronged like bees buzzing about a hive. Every one of them, their swords by their sides, was ready to obey the slightest sign either of De Guiche or Bragelonne, the leaders of the embassy.

At the very moment the two young men appeared at the end of one of the streets leading to the square, they perceived, crossing the square at full gallop, a young man on horseback, whose costume was of surprising richness. He pushed hastily through the crowd of curious lookers-on, and, at the sight of these unexpected erections, uttered a cry of anger and dismay. It was Buckingham, who had awakened from his stupor, in order to adorn himself with a costume perfectly dazzling from its beauty, and to await the arrival of the princess and the queen-mother at the Hotel de Ville. At the entrance to the tents, the soldiers barred his passage, and his further progress was arrested. Buckingham, hopelessly infuriated, raised his whip; but his arm was seized by a couple of officers. Of the two guardians of the tent, only one was there. De Wardes was in the interior of the Hotel de Ville, engaged in attending to the execution of some orders given by De Guiche. At the noise made by Buckingham Manicamp, who was indolently reclining upon the cushions at the doorway of one of the tents, rose with his usual indifference, and, perceiving that the disturbance continued, made his appearance from underneath the curtains. “What is the matter?” he said, in a gentle tone of voice, “and who is it making this disturbance?”

It so happened, that, at the moment he began to speak, silence had just been restored, and, although his voice was very soft and gentle in its tone, every one heard his question. Buckingham turned round; and looked at the tall, thin figure, and the listless expression of countenance of his questioner. Probably the personal appearance of Manicamp, who was dressed very plainly, did not inspire him with much respect, for he replied disdainfully, “Who may you be, monsieur?”

Manicamp, leaning on the arm of a gigantic trooper, as firm as the pillar of a cathedral, replied in his usual tranquil tone of voice,--“And you, monsieur?”

“I, monsieur, am the Duke of Buckingham; I have hired all the houses which surround the Hotel de Ville, where I have business to transact; and as these houses are let, they belong to me, and, as I hired them in order to preserve the right of free access to the Hotel de Ville, you are not justified in preventing me passing to it.”

“But who prevents you passing, monsieur?” inquired Manicamp.

“Your sentinels.”

“Because you wish to pass on horseback, and orders have been given to let only persons on foot pass.”

“No one has any right to give orders here, except myself,” said Buckingham.

“On what grounds?” inquired Manicamp, with his soft tone. “Will you do me the favor to explain this enigma to me?”

“Because, as I have already told you, I have hired all the houses looking on the square.”

“We are very well aware of that, since nothing but the square itself has been left for us.”

“You are mistaken, monsieur; the square belongs to me, as well as the houses in it.”

“Forgive me, monsieur, but you are mistaken there. In our country, we say, the highway belongs to the king, therefore this square is his majesty’s; and, consequently, as we are the king’s ambassadors, the square belongs to us.”

“I have already asked you who you are, monsieur,” exclaimed Buckingham, exasperated at the coolness of his interlocutor.

“My name is Manicamp,” replied the young man, in a voice whose tones were as harmonious and sweet as the notes of an AEolian harp.

Buckingham shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and said, “When I hired these houses which surround the Hotel de Ville, the square was unoccupied; these barracks obstruct my sight; I hereby order them to be removed.”

A hoarse and angry murmur ran through the crowd of listeners at these words. De Guiche arrived at this moment; he pushed through the crowd which separated him from Buckingham, and, followed by Raoul, arrived on the scene of action from one side, just as De Wardes came up from the other. “Pardon me, my lord; but if you have any complaint to make, have the goodness to address it to me, inasmuch as it was I who supplied the plans for the construction of these tents.”

“Moreover, I would beg you to observe, monsieur, that the term ‘barrack’ is a highly objectionable one!” added Manicamp, graciously.

“You were saying, monsieur--” continued De Guiche.

“I was saying, monsieur le comte,” resumed Buckingham, in a tone of anger more marked than ever, although in some measure moderated by the presence of an equal, “I was saying that it is impossible these tents can remain where they are.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed De Guiche, “and why?”

“Because I object to them.”

A movement of impatience escaped De Guiche, but a warning glance from Raoul restrained him.

“You should the less object to them, monsieur, on account of the abuse of priority you have permitted yourself to exercise.”

“Abuse!”

“Most assuredly. You commission a messenger, who hires in your name the whole of the town of Havre, without considering the members of the French court, who would be sure to arrive here to meet Madame. Your Grace will admit that this is hardly friendly conduct in the representative of a friendly nation.”

“The right of possession belongs to him who is first on the ground.”

“Not in France, monsieur.”

“Why not in France?”

“Because France is a country where politeness is observed.”

“Which means!” exclaimed Buckingham, in so violent a manner that those who were present drew back, expecting an immediate collision.

“Which means, monsieur,” replied De Guiche, now rather pale, “that I caused these tents to be raised as habitations for myself and my friends, as a shelter for the ambassadors of France, as the only place of refuge which your exactions have left us in the town; and that I and those who are with me, shall remain in them, at least, until an authority more powerful, and more supreme, than your own shall dismiss me from them.”

“In other words, until we are ejected, as the lawyers say,” observed Manicamp, blandly.

“I know an authority, monsieur, which I trust is such as you will respect,” said Buckingham, placing his hand on his sword.

At this moment, and as the goddess of Discord, inflaming all minds, was about to direct their swords against each other, Raoul gently placed his hand on Buckingham’s shoulder. “One word, my lord,” he said.

“My right, my right, first of all,” exclaimed the fiery young man.

“It is precisely upon that point I wish to have the honor of addressing a word to you.”

“Very well, monsieur, but let your remarks be brief.”

“One question is all I ask; you can hardly expect me to be briefer.”

“Speak, monsieur, I am listening.”

“Are you, or is the Duke of Orleans, going to marry the granddaughter of Henry IV.?”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Buckingham, retreating a few steps, bewildered.

“Have the goodness to answer me,” persisted Raoul, tranquilly.

“Do you mean to ridicule me, monsieur?” inquired Buckingham.

“Your question is a sufficient answer for me. You admit, then, that it is not you who are going to marry the princess?”

“Thou know it perfectly well, monsieur, I should imagine.”

“I beg your pardon, but your conduct has been such as to leave it not altogether certain.”

“Proceed, monsieur, what do you mean to convey?”

Raoul approached the duke. “Are you aware, my lord,” he said, lowering his voice, “that your extravagances very much resemble the excesses of jealousy? These jealous fits, with respect to any woman, are not becoming in one who is neither her lover nor her husband; and I am sure you will admit that my remark applies with still greater force, when the lady in question is a princess of the blood royal!”

“Monsieur,” exclaimed Buckingham, “do you mean to insult Madame Henrietta?”

“Be careful, my lord,” replied Bragelonne, coldly, “for it is you who insult her. A little while since, when on board the admiral’s ship, you wearied the queen, and exhausted the admiral’s patience. I was observing, my lord; and, at first, I concluded you were not in possession of your senses, but I have since surmised the real significance of your madness.”

“Monsieur!” exclaimed Buckingham.

“One moment more, for I have yet another word to add. I trust I am the only one of my companions who has guessed it.”

“Are you aware, monsieur,” said Buckingham, trembling with mingled feelings of anger and uneasiness, “are you aware that you are holding language towards me which requires to be checked?”

“Weigh your words well, my lord,” said Raoul, haughtily: “my nature is not such that its vivacities need checking; whilst you, on the contrary, are descended from a race whose passions are suspected by all true Frenchmen; I repeat, therefore, for the second time, be careful!”

“Careful of what, may I ask? Do you presume to threaten me?”

“I am the son of the Comte de la Fere, my lord, and I never threaten, because I strike first. Therefore, understand me well, the threat that I hold out to you is this----”

Buckingham clenched his hands, but Raoul continued, as though he had not observed the gesture. “At the very first word, beyond the respect and deference due to her royal highness, which you permit yourself to use towards her,--be patient, my lord, for I am perfectly so.”

“You?”

“Undoubtedly. So long as Madame remained on English territory, I held my peace; but from the very moment she stepped on French ground, and now that we have received her in the name of the prince, I warn you, that at the first mark of disrespect which you, in your insane attachment, exhibit towards the royal house of France, I shall have one of two courses to follow;--either I declare, in the presence of every one, the madness with which you are now affected, and I get you ignominiously ordered back to England; or if you prefer it, I will run my dagger through your throat in the presence of all here. This second alternative seems to me the least disagreeable, and I think I shall hold to it.”

Buckingham had become paler than the lace collar around his neck. “M. de Bragelonne,” he said, “is it, indeed, a gentleman who is speaking to me?”

“Yes; only the gentleman is speaking to a madman. Get cured, my lord, and he will hold quite another language to you.”

“But, M. de Bragelonne,” murmured the duke, in a voice, half-choked, and putting his hand to his neck,--“Do you not see I am choking?”

“If your death were to take place at this moment, my lord,” replied Raoul, with unruffled composure, “I should, indeed, regard it as a great happiness, for this circumstance would prevent all kinds of evil remarks; not alone about yourself, but also about those illustrious persons whom your devotion is compromising in so absurd a manner.”

“You are right, you are right,” said the young man, almost beside himself. “Yes, yes; better to die, than to suffer as I do at this moment.” And he grasped a beautiful dagger, the handle of which was inlaid with precious stones; and which he half drew from his breast.

Raoul thrust his hand aside. “Be careful what you do,” he said; “if you do not kill yourself, you commit a ridiculous action; and if you were to kill yourself, you sprinkle blood upon the nuptial robe of the princess of England.”

Buckingham remained a minute gasping for breath; during this interval, his lips quivered, his fingers worked convulsively, and his eyes wandered as though in delirium. Then suddenly, he said, “M. de Bragelonne, I know nowhere a nobler mind than yours; you are, indeed, a worthy son of the most perfect gentleman that ever lived. Keep your tents.” And he threw his arms round Raoul’s neck. All who were present, astounded at this conduct, which was the very reverse of what was expected, considering the violence of the one adversary and the determination of the other, began immediately to clap their hands, and a thousand cheers and joyful shouts arose from all sides. De Guiche, in his turn, embraced Buckingham somewhat against his inclination; but, at all events, he did embrace him. This was the signal for French and English to do the same; and they who, until that moment, had looked at each other with restless uncertainty, fraternized on the spot. In the meantime, the procession of the princess arrived, and had it not been for Bragelonne, two armies would have been engaged together in conflict, and blood have been shed upon the flowers with which the ground was covered. At the appearance, however, of the banners borne at the head of the procession, complete order was restored.

Night

Concord returned to its place amidst the tents. English and French rivaled each other in their devotion and courteous attention to the illustrious travelers. The English forwarded to the French baskets of flowers, of which they had made a plentiful provision to greet the arrival of the young princess; the French in return invited the English to a supper, which was to be given the next day. Congratulations were poured in upon the princess everywhere during her journey. From the respect paid her on all sides, she seemed like a queen; and from the adoration with which she was treated by two or three, she appeared an object of worship. The queen-mother gave the French the most affectionate reception. France was her native country, and she had suffered too much unhappiness in England for England to have made her forget France. She taught her daughter, then, by her own affection for it, that love for a country where they had both been hospitably received, and where a brilliant future opened before them. After the public entry was over, and the spectators in the streets had partially dispersed, and the sound of the music and cheering of the crowd could be heard only in the distance; when the night had closed in, wrapping with its star-covered mantle the sea, the harbor, the town, and surrounding country, De Guiche, still excited by the great events of the day, returned to his tent, and seated himself upon one of the stools with so profound an expression of distress that Bragelonne kept his eyes fixed on him, until he heard him sigh, and then he approached him. The count had thrown himself back on his seat, leaning his shoulders against the partition of the tent, and remained thus, his face buried in his hands, with heaving chest and restless limbs.

“You are suffering?” asked Raoul.

“Cruelly.”

“Bodily, I suppose?”

“Yes; bodily.”

“This has indeed been a harassing day,” continued the young man, his eyes fixed upon his friend.

“Yes; a night’s rest will probably restore me.”

“Shall I leave you?”

“No; I wish to talk to you.”

“You shall not speak to me, Guiche, until you have first answered my questions.”

“Proceed then.”

“You will be frank with me?”

“I always am.”

“Can you imagine why Buckingham has been so violent?”

“I suspect.”

“Because he is in love with Madame, is it not?”

“One could almost swear to it, to observe him.”

“You are mistaken; there is nothing of the kind.”

“It is you who are mistaken, Raoul; I have read his distress in his eyes, in his every gesture and action the whole day.”

“You are a poet, my dear count, and find subject for your muse everywhere.”

“I can perceive love clearly enough.”

“Where it does not exist?”

“Nay, where it does exist.”

“Do you not think you are deceiving yourself, Guiche?”

“I am convinced of what I say,” said the count.

“Now, inform me count,” said Raoul, fixing a penetrating look upon him, “what has happened to render you so clear-sighted?”

Guiche hesitated for a moment, and then answered, “Self-love, I suppose.”

“Self-love is a pedantic word, Guiche.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, generally, you are less out of spirits than seems to be the case this evening.”

“I am fatigued.”

“Listen to me, Guiche; we have been campaigners together; we have been on horseback for eighteen hours at a time, and our horses dying from exhaustion, or hunger, have fallen beneath us, and yet we have laughed at our mishaps. Believe me, it is not fatigue that saddens you to-night.”

“It is annoyance, then.”

“What annoyance?”

“That of this evening.”

“The mad conduct of the Duke of Buckingham, do you mean?”

“Of course; is it not vexatious for us, the representatives of our sovereign master, to witness the devotion of an Englishman to our future mistress, the second lady in point of rank in the kingdom?”

“Yes, you are right; but I do not think any danger is to be apprehended from Buckingham.”

“No; still he is intrusive. Did he not, on his arrival here, almost succeed in creating a disturbance between the English and ourselves; and, had it not been for you, for your admirable prudence, for your singular decision of character, swords would have been drawn in the very streets of the town.”

“You observe, however, that he has changed his tactics.”

“Yes, certainly; but this is the very thing that amazes me so much. You spoke to him in a low tone of voice, what did you say to him? You think he loves her; you admit that such a passion does not give way readily. He does not love her, then!” De Guiche pronounced the latter with so marked an expression that Raoul raised his head. The noble character of the young man’s countenance expressed a displeasure which could easily be read.

“What I said to him, count,” replied Raoul, “I will repeat to you. Listen to me. I said, ‘You are regarding with wistful feelings, and most injurious desire, the sister of your prince,--her to whom you are not affianced, who is not, who can never be anything to you; you are outraging those who, like ourselves, have come to seek a young lady to escort her to her husband.’”

“You spoke to him in that manner?” asked Guiche coloring.

“In those very terms; I even added more. ‘How would you regard us,’ I said, ‘if you were to perceive among us a man mad enough, disloyal enough, to entertain other than sentiments of the most perfect respect for a princess who is the destined wife of our master?’”

These words were so applicable to De Guiche that he turned pale, and, overcome by a sudden agitation, was barely able to stretch out one hand mechanically towards Raoul, as he covered his eyes and face with the other.

“But,” continued Raoul, not interrupted by this movement of his friend, “Heaven be praised, the French who are pronounced to be thoughtless and indiscreet, reckless, even, are capable of bringing a calm and sound judgment to bear on matters of such high importance. I added even more, for I said, ‘Learn, my lord, that we gentlemen of France devote ourselves to our sovereigns by sacrificing for them our affections, as well as our fortunes and our lives; and whenever it may chance to happen that the tempter suggests one of those vile thoughts that set the heart on fire, we extinguish the flame, even if it has to be done by shedding our blood for the purpose. Thus it is that the honor of three is saved: our country’s, our master’s, and our own. It is thus that we act, your Grace; it is thus that every man of honor ought to act. In this manner, my dear Guiche,” continued Raoul, “I addressed the Duke of Buckingham; and he admitted I was right, and resigned himself unresistingly to my arguments.”

De Guiche, who had hitherto sat leaning forward while Raoul was speaking, drew himself up, his eyes glancing proudly; he seized Raoul’s hand, his face, which had been as cold as ice, seemed on fire. “And you spoke magnificently,” he said, in a half-choked voice; “you are indeed a friend, Raoul. But now, I entreat you, leave me to myself.”

“Do you wish it?”

“Yes; I need repose. Many things have agitated me to-day, both in mind and body; when you return tomorrow I shall no longer be the same man.”

“I leave you, then,” said Raoul, as he withdrew. The count advanced a step towards his friend, and pressed him warmly in his arms. But in this friendly pressure Raoul could detect the nervous agitation of a great internal conflict.

The night was clear, starlit, and splendid; the tempest had passed away, and the sweet influences of the evening had restored life, peace and security everywhere. A few fleecy clouds were floating in the heavens, and indicated from their appearance a continuance of beautiful weather, tempered by a gentle breeze from the east. Upon the large square in front of the hotel, the shadows of the tents, intersected by the golden moonbeams, formed as it were a huge mosaic of jet and yellow flagstones. Soon, however, the entire town was wrapped in slumber; a feeble light still glimmered in Madame’s apartment, which looked out upon the square, and the soft rays from the expiring lamp seemed to be the image of the calm sleep of a young girl, hardly yet sensible of life’s anxieties, and in whom the flame of existence sinks placidly as sleep steals over the body.

Bragelonne quitted the tent with the slow and measured step of a man curious to observe, but anxious not to be seen. Sheltered behind the thick curtains of his own tent, embracing with a glance the whole square, he noticed that, after a few moments’ pause, the curtains of De Guiche’s tent were agitated, and then drawn partially aside. Behind them he could perceive the shadow of De Guiche, his eyes glittering in the obscurity, fastened ardently upon the princess’s sitting apartment, which was partially lighted by the lamp in the inner room. The soft light which illumined the windows was the count’s star. The fervent aspirations of his nature could be read in his eyes. Raoul, concealed in the shadow, divined the many passionate thoughts that established, between the tent of the young ambassador and the balcony of the princess, a mysterious and magical bond of sympathy--a bond created by thoughts imprinted with so much strength and persistence of will, that they must have caused happy and loving dreams to alight upon the perfumed couch, which the count, with the eyes of his soul, devoured so eagerly.

But De Guiche and Raoul were not the only watchers. The window of one of the houses looking on the square was opened too, the casement of the house where Buckingham resided. By the aid of the rays of light which issued from this latter, the profile of the duke could be distinctly seen, as he indolently reclined upon the carved balcony with its velvet hangings; he also was breathing in the direction of the princess’s apartment his prayers and the wild visions of his love.

Raoul could not resist smiling, as thinking of Madame, he said to himself, “Hers is, indeed, a heart well besieged;” and then added, compassionately, as he thought of Monsieur, “and he is a husband well threatened too; it is a good thing for him that he is a prince of such high rank, that he has an army to safeguard for him that which is his own.” Bragelonne watched for some time the conduct of the two lovers, listened to the loud and uncivil slumbers of Manicamp, who snored as imperiously as though he was wearing his blue and gold, instead of his violet suit.

Then he turned towards the night breeze which bore towards him, he seemed to think, the distant song of the nightingale; and, after having laid in a due provision of melancholy, another nocturnal malady, he retired to rest thinking, with regard to his own love affair, that perhaps four or even a larger number of eyes, quite as ardent as those of De Guiche and Buckingham, were coveting his own idol in the chateau at Blois. “And Mademoiselle de Montalais is by no means a very conscientious garrison,” said he to himself, sighing aloud.

From Havre to Paris

The next day the fetes took place, accompanied by all the pomp and animation that the resources of the town and the cheerful disposition of men’s minds could supply. During the last few hours spent in Havre, every preparation for the departure had been made. After Madame had taken leave of the English fleet, and, once again, had saluted the country in saluting its flags, she entered her carriage, surrounded by a brilliant escort. De Guiche had hoped that the Duke of Buckingham would accompany the admiral to England; but Buckingham succeeded in demonstrating to the queen that there would be great impropriety in allowing Madame to proceed to Paris almost unprotected. As soon as it had been settled that Buckingham was to accompany Madame, the young duke selected a corps of gentlemen and officers to form part of his own suite, so that it was almost an army that now set out towards Paris, scattering gold, and exciting the liveliest demonstrations as they passed through the different towns and villages on the route. The weather was very fine. France is a beautiful country, especially along the route by which the procession passed. Spring cast its flowers and its perfumed foliage on their path. Normandy, with its vast variety of vegetation, its blue skies and silver rivers, displayed itself in all the loveliness of a paradise to the new sister of the king. Fetes and brilliant displays received them everywhere along the line of march. De Guiche and Buckingham forgot everything; De Guiche in his anxiety to prevent any fresh attempts on the part of the duke, and Buckingham, in his desire to awaken in the heart of the princess a softer remembrance of the country to which the recollection of many happy days belonged. But, alas! the poor duke could perceive that the image of that country so cherished by himself became, from day to day, more and more effaced in Madame’s mind, in exact proportion as her affection for France became more deeply engraved on her heart. In fact, it was not difficult to perceive that his most devoted attention awakened no acknowledgment, and that the grace with which he rode one of his most fiery horses was thrown away, for it was only casually and by the merest accident that the princess’s eyes were turned towards him. In vain did he try, in order to fix upon himself one of those looks, which were thrown carelessly around, or bestowed elsewhere, to produce in the animal he rode its greatest display of strength, speed, temper and address; in vain did he, by exciting his horse almost to madness, spur him, at the risk of dashing himself in pieces against the trees, or of rolling in the ditches, over the gates and barriers which they passed, or down the steep declivities of the hills. Madame, whose attention had been aroused by the noise, turned her head for a moment to observe the cause of it, and then, slightly smiling, again entered into conversation with her faithful guardians, Raoul and De Guiche, who were quietly riding at her carriage doors. Buckingham felt himself a prey to all the tortures of jealousy; an unknown, unheard of anguish glided through his veins, and laid siege to his heart; and then, as if to show that he knew the folly of his conduct, and that he wished to correct, by the humblest submission, his flights of absurdity, he mastered his horse, and compelled him, reeking with sweat and flecked with foam, to champ his bit close beside the carriage, amidst the crowd of courtiers. Occasionally he obtained a word from Madame as a recompense, and yet her speech seemed almost a reproach.

“That is well, my lord,” she said, “now you are reasonable.”

Or from Raoul, “Your Grace is killing your horse.”

Buckingham listened patiently to Raoul’s remarks, for he instinctively felt, without having had any proof that such was the case, that Raoul checked the display of De Guiche’s feelings, and that, had it not been for Raoul, some mad act or proceeding, either of the count, or of Buckingham himself, would have brought about an open rupture, or a disturbance--perhaps even exile itself. From the moment of that excited conversation the two young men had held in front of the tents at Havre, when Raoul made the duke perceive the impropriety of his conduct, Buckingham felt himself attracted towards Raoul almost in spite of himself. He often entered into conversation with him, and it was nearly always to talk to him either of his father or of D’Artagnan, their mutual friend, in whose praise Buckingham was nearly as enthusiastic as Raoul. Raoul endeavored, as much as possible, to make the conversation turn upon this subject in De Wardes’s presence, who had, during the whole journey, been exceedingly annoyed at the superior position taken by Bragelonne, and especially by his influence over De Guiche. De Wardes had that keen and merciless penetration most evil natures possess; he had immediately remarked De Guiche’s melancholy, and divined the nature of his regard for the princess. Instead, however, of treating the subject with the same reserve which Raoul practiced; instead of regarding with that respect, which was their due, the obligations and duties of society, De Wardes resolutely attacked in the count the ever-sounding chord of juvenile audacity and pride. It happened one evening, during a halt at Nantes, that while De Guiche and De Wardes were leaning against a barrier, engaged in conversation, Buckingham and Raoul were also talking together as they walked up and down. Manicamp was engaged in devoted attendance on the princess, who already treated him without reserve, on account of his versatile fancy, his frank courtesy of manner, and conciliatory disposition.

“Confess,” said De Wardes, “that you are really ill and that your pedagogue of a friend has not succeeded in curing you.”

“I do not understand you,” said the count.

“And yet it is easy enough; you are dying of love.”

“You are mad, De Wardes.”

“Madness it would be, I admit, if Madame were really indifferent to your martyrdom; but she takes so much notice of it, observes it to such an extent, that she compromises herself, and I tremble lest, on our arrival at Paris, M. de Bragelonne may not denounce both of you.”

“For shame, De Wardes, again attacking De Bragelonne.”

“Come, come, a truce to child’s play,” replied the count’s evil genius, in an undertone; “you know as well as I do what I mean. Besides, you must have observed how the princess’s glance softens as she looks at you;--you can tell, by the very inflection of her voice, what pleasure she takes in listening to you, and can feel how thoroughly she appreciates the verses you recite to her. You cannot deny, too, that every morning she tells you how indifferently she slept the previous night.”

“True, De Wardes, quite true; but what good is there in your telling me all that?”

“Is it not important to know the exact position of affairs?”

“No, no; not when I am a witness of things that are enough to drive one mad.”

“Stay, stay,” said De Wardes; “look, she calls you,--do you understand? Profit by the occasion, while your pedagogue is absent.”

De Guiche could not resist; an invincible attraction drew him towards the princess. De Wardes smiled as he saw him withdraw.

“You are mistaken, monsieur,” said Raoul, suddenly stepping across the barrier against which the previous moment the two friends had been leaning. “The pedagogue is here, and has overheard you.”

De Wardes, at the sound of Raoul’s voice, which he recognized without having occasion to look at him, half drew his sword.

“Put up your sword,” said Raoul, “you know perfectly well that, until our journey is at an end, every demonstration of that nature is useless. Why do you distill into the heart of the man you term your friend all the bitterness that infects your own? As regards myself, you wish to arouse a feeling of deep dislike against a man of honor--my father’s friend and my own: and as for the count you wish him to love one who is destined for your master. Really, monsieur, I should regard you as a coward, and a traitor too, if I did not, with greater justice, regard you as a madman.”

“Monsieur,” exclaimed De Wardes, exasperated, “I was deceived, I find, in terming you a pedagogue. The tone you assume, and the style which is peculiarly your own, is that of a Jesuit, and not of a gentleman. Discontinue, I beg, whenever I am present, this style I complain of, and the tone also. I hate M. d’Artagnan because he was guilty of a cowardly act towards my father.”

“You lie, monsieur,” said Raoul, coolly.

“You give me the lie, monsieur?” exclaimed De Wardes.

“Why not, if what you assert is untrue?”

“You give me the lie and will not draw your sword?”

“I have resolved, monsieur, not to kill you until Madame shall have been delivered safely into her husband’s hands.”

“Kill me! Believe me, monsieur, your schoolmaster’s rod does not kill so easily.”

“No,” replied Raoul, sternly, “but M. d’Artagnan’s sword kills; and, not only do I possess his sword, but he has himself taught me how to use it: and with that sword, when a befitting time arrives, I will avenge his name---a name you have dishonored.”

“Take care, monsieur,” exclaimed De Wardes; “if you do not immediately give me satisfaction, I will avail myself of every means to revenge myself.”

“Indeed, monsieur,” said Buckingham, suddenly, appearing upon the scene of action, “that is a threat which savors of assassination, and therefore, ill becomes a gentleman.”

“What did you say, my lord?” said De Wardes, turning round towards him.

“I said, monsieur, that the words you spoken are displeasing to my English ears.”

“Very well, monsieur, if what you say is true,” exclaimed De Wardes, thoroughly incensed, “I at least find in you one who will not escape me. Understand my words as you like.”

“I take them in the manner they cannot but be understood,” replied Buckingham, with that haughty tone which characterized him. and which, even in ordinary conversation, gave a tone of defiance to everything he said; “M. de Bragelonne is my friend, you insult M. de Bragelonne, and you shall give me satisfaction for that insult.”

De Wardes cast a look upon De Bragelonne, who, faithful to the character he had assumed, remained calm and unmoved, even after the duke’s defiance.

“It would seem that I did not insult M. de Bragelonne, since M. de Bragelonne, who carries a sword by his side, does not consider himself insulted.”

“At all events you insult some one.”

“Yes, I insulted M. d’Artagnan,” resumed De Wardes, who had observed that this was the only means of stinging Raoul, so as to awaken his anger.

“That then,” said Buckingham, “is another matter.”

“Precisely so,” said De Wardes, “it is the province of M. d’Artagnan’s friends to defend him.”

“I am entirely of your opinion,” replied the duke, who had regained all his indifference of manner; “if M. de Bragelonne were offended, I could not reasonably be expected to espouse his quarrel, since he is himself here; but when you say that it is a quarrel of M. d’Artagnan----”

“You will of course leave me to deal with the matter,” said De Wardes.

“Nay, on the contrary, for I draw my sword,” said Buckingham, unsheathing it as he spoke; “for if M. d’Artagnan injured your father, he rendered, or at least did all that he could to render, a great service to mine.”

De Wardes was thunderstruck.

“M. d’Artagnan,” continued Buckingham, “is the bravest gentleman I know. I shall be delighted, as I owe him many personal obligations, to settle them with you, by crossing my sword with yours.” At the same moment Buckingham drew his sword gracefully from its scabbard, saluted Raoul, and put himself on guard.

De Wardes advanced a step to meet him.

“Stay, gentlemen,” said Raoul, advancing towards them, and placing his own drawn sword between the combatants, “the affair is hardly worth the trouble of blood being shed almost in the presence of the princess. M. de Wardes speaks ill of M. d’Artagnan, with whom he is not even acquainted.”

“What, monsieur,” said De Wardes, setting his teeth hard together, and resting the point of his sword on the toe of his boot, “do you assert that I do not know M. d’Artagnan?”

“Certainly not; you do not know him,” replied Raoul, coldly, “and you are even not aware where he is to he found.”

“Not know where he is?”

“Such must be the case, since you fix your quarrel with him upon strangers, instead of seeking M. d’Artagnan where he is to be found.” De Wardes turned pale. “Well, monsieur,” continued Raoul, “I will tell you where M. d’Artagnan is: he is now in Paris; when on duty he is to be met with at the Louvre,--when not on duty, in the Rue des Lombards. M. d’Artagnan can be easily discovered at either of those two places. Having, therefore, as you assert, so many causes of complaint against him, show your courage in seeking him out, and afford him an opportunity of giving you that satisfaction you seem to ask of every one but of himself.” De Wardes passed his hand across his forehead, which was covered with perspiration. “For shame, M. de Wardes! so quarrelsome a disposition is hardly becoming after the publication of the edicts against duels. Pray think of that; the king will be incensed at our disobedience, particularly at such a time,--and his majesty will be in the right.”

“Excuses,” murmured De Wardes; “mere pretexts.”

“Really, M. De Wardes,” resumed Raoul, “such remarks are the idlest bluster. You know very well that the Duke of Buckingham is a man of undoubted courage, who has already fought ten duels, and will probably fight eleven. His name alone is significant enough. As far as I am concerned, you are well aware that I can fight also. I fought at Sens, at Bleneau, at the Dunes in front of the artillery, a hundred paces in front of the line, while you--I say this parenthetically--were a hundred paces behind it. True it is, that on that occasion there was far too great a concourse of persons present for your courage to be observed, and on that account, perhaps, you did not reveal it; while here, it would be a display, and would excite remark--you wish that others should talk about you, in what manner you do not care. Do not depend upon me, M. de Wardes, to assist you in your designs, for I shall certainly not afford you that pleasure.”

“Sensibly observed,” said Buckingham, putting up his sword, “and I ask your forgiveness, M. de Bragelonne, for having allowed myself to yield to a first impulse.”

De Wardes, however, on the contrary, perfectly furious, bounded forward and raised his sword, threateningly, against Raoul, who had scarcely time to put himself in a posture of defense.

“Take care, monsieur,” said Bragelonne, tranquilly, “or you will put out one of my eyes.”

“You will not fight, then?” said De Wardes.

“Not at this moment, but this I promise to do; immediately on our arrival at Paris I will conduct you to M. d’Artagnan, to whom you shall detail all the causes of complaint you have against him. M. d’Artagnan will solicit the king’s permission to measure swords with you. The king will yield his consent, and when you shall have received the sword-thrust in due course, you will consider, in a calmer frame of mind, the precepts of the Gospel, which enjoin forgetfulness of injuries.”

“Ah!” exclaimed De Wardes, furious at this imperturbable coolness, “one can clearly see you are half a bastard, M. de Bragelonne.”

Raoul became as pale as death; his eyes flashed lightning, causing De Wardes involuntarily to fall back. Buckingham, also, who had perceived their expression, threw himself between the two adversaries, whom he had expected to see precipitate themselves on each other. De Wardes had reserved this injury for the last; he clasped his sword firmly in his hand, and awaited the encounter. “You are right, monsieur,” said Raoul, mastering his emotion, “I am only acquainted with my father’s name, but I know too well that the Comte de la Fere is too upright and honorable a man to allow me to fear for a single moment that there is, as you insinuate, any stain upon my birth. My ignorance, therefore, of my mother’s name is a misfortune for me, and not a reproach. You are deficient in loyalty of conduct; you are wanting in courtesy, in reproaching me with misfortune. It matters little, however, the insult has been given, and I consider myself insulted accordingly. It is quite understood, then, that after you shall have received satisfaction from M. d’Artagnan, you will settle your quarrel with me.”

“I admire your prudence, monsieur,” replied De Wardes with a bitter smile; “a little while ago you promised me a sword-thrust from M. d’Artagnan, and now, after I shall have received his, you offer me one from yourself.”

“Do not disturb yourself,” replied Raoul, with concentrated anger, “in all affairs of that nature, M. d’Artagnan is exceedingly skillful, and I will beg him as a favor to treat you as he did your father; in other words, to spare your life at least, so as to leave me the pleasure, after your recovery, of killing you outright; for you have the heart of a viper, M. de Wardes, and in very truth, too many precautions cannot be taken against you.”

“I shall take my precautions against you,” said De Wardes, “be assured of it.”

“Allow me, monsieur,” said Buckingham, “to translate your remark by a piece of advice I am about to give M. de Bragelonne; M. de Bragelonne, wear a cuirass.”

De Wardes clenched his hands. “Ah!” said he, “you two gentlemen intend to wait until you have taken that precaution before you measure your swords against mine.”

“Very well, monsieur,” said Raoul, “since you positively will have it so, let us settle the affair now.” And drawing his sword he advanced towards De Wardes.

“What are you going to do?” said Buckingham.

“Be easy,” said Raoul, “it will not be very long.”

De Wardes placed himself on his guard; their swords crossed. De Wardes flew upon Raoul with such impetuosity, that at the first clashing of the steel blades Buckingham clearly saw that Raoul was only trifling with his adversary. Buckingham stepped aside, and watched the combat. Raoul was as calm as if he were handling a foil, instead of a sword; having retreated a step, he parried three or four fierce thrusts which De Wardes made at him, caught the sword of the latter within his own, and sent it flying twenty paces the other side of the barrier. Then as De Wardes stood disarmed and astounded at his defeat Raoul sheathed his sword, seized him by the collar and the waist-band, and hurled his adversary to the other end of the barrier, trembling, and mad with rage.

“We shall meet again,” murmured De Wardes, rising from the ground and picking up his sword.

“I have done nothing for the last hour,” said Raoul, “but say the same thing.” Then, turning towards the duke, he said, “I entreat you to be silent about this affair; I am ashamed to have gone so far, but my anger carried me away, and I ask your forgiveness for it;--forget it, too.”

“Dear viscount,” said the duke, pressing within his own the vigorous and valiant hand of his companion, “allow me, on the contrary, to remember it, and to look after your safety; that man is dangerous,--he will kill you.”

“My father,” replied Raoul, “lived for twenty years under the menace of a much more formidable enemy, and he still lives.”

“Your father had good friends, viscount.”

“Yes,” sighed Raoul, “such friends indeed, that none are now left like them.”

“Do not say that, I beg, at the very moment I offer you my friendship;” and Buckingham opened his arms to embrace Raoul, who delightedly received the proffered alliance. “In my family,” added Buckingham, “you are aware, M. de Bragelonne, wee die to save our friends.”

“I know it well, duke,” replied Raoul.

An Account of what the Chevalier de Lorraine thought of Madame

Nothing further interrupted the journey. Under a pretext that was little remarked, M. de Wardes went forward in advance of the others. He took Manicamp with him, for his equable and dreamy disposition acted as a counterpoise to his own. It is a subject of remark, that quarrelsome and restless characters invariably seek the companionship of gentle, timorous dispositions, as if the former sought, in the contrast, a repose for their own ill-humor, and the latter a protection for their weakness. Buckingham and Bragelonne admitting De Guiche into their friendship, in concert with him, sang the praises of the princess during the whole of the journey. Bragelonne had, however, insisted that their three voices should be in concert, instead of singing in solo parts, as De Guiche and his rival seemed to have acquired a dangerous habit of investigation. This style of harmony pleased the queen-mother exceedingly, but it was not perhaps so agreeable to the young princess, who was an incarnation of coquetry, and who, without any fear as far as her own voice was concerned, sought opportunities of so perilously distinguishing herself. She possessed one of those fearless and incautious dispositions that find gratification in an excess of sensitiveness of feeling, and for whom, also, danger has a certain fascination. And so her glances, her smiles, her toilette, an inexhaustible armory of weapons of offense. were showered on the three young men with overwhelming force; and, from her well-stored arsenal issued glances, kindly recognitions, and a thousand other little charming attentions which were intended to strike at long range the gentlemen who formed the escort, the townspeople, the officers of the different cities she passed through, pages, populace, and servants; it was wholesale slaughter, a general devastation. By the time Madame arrived at Paris, she had reduced to slavery about a hundred thousand lovers: and brought in her train to Paris half a dozen men who were almost mad about her, and two who were, indeed, literally out of their minds. Raoul was the only person who divined the power of this woman’s attraction, and as his heart was already engaged, he arrived in the capital full of indifference and distrust. Occasionally during the journey he conversed with the queen of England respecting the power of fascination which Madame possessed, and the mother, whom so many misfortunes and deceptions had taught experience, replied: “Henrietta was sure to be illustrious in one way or another, whether born in a palace or born in obscurity; for she is a woman of great imagination, capricious and self-willed.” De Wardes and Manicamp, in their self-assumed character of courtiers, had announced the princess’s arrival. The procession was met at Nanterre by a brilliant escort of cavaliers and carriages. It was Monsieur himself, followed by the Chevalier de Lorraine and by his favorites, the latter being themselves followed by a portion of the king’s military household, who had arrived to meet his affianced bride. At St. Germain, the princess and her mother had changed their heavy traveling carriage, somewhat impaired by the journey, for a light, richly decorated chariot drawn by six horses with white and gold harness. Seated in this open carriage, as though upon a throne, and beneath a parasol of embroidered silk, fringed with feathers, sat the young and lovely princess, on whose beaming face were reflected the softened rose-tints which suited her delicate skin to perfection. Monsieur, on reaching the carriage, was struck by her beauty; he showed his admiration in so marked a manner that the Chevalier de Lorraine shrugged his shoulders as he listened to his compliments, while Buckingham and De Guiche were almost heart-broken. After the usual courtesies had been rendered, and the ceremony completed, the procession slowly resumed the road to Paris. The presentations had been carelessly made, and Buckingham, with the rest of the English gentlemen, had been introduced to Monsieur, from whom they had received but very indifferent attention. But, during their progress, as he observed that the duke devoted himself with his accustomed earnestness to the carriage-door, he asked the Chevalier de Lorraine, his inseparable companion, “Who is that cavalier?”

“He was presented to your highness a short while ago; it is the handsome Duke of Buckingham.”

“Ah, yes, I remember.”

“Madame’s knight,” added the favorite, with an inflection of the voice which envious minds can alone give to the simplest phrases.

“What do you say?” replied the prince.

“I said ‘Madame’s knight.’”

“Has she a recognized knight, then?”

“One would think you can judge of that for yourself; look, only, how they are laughing and flirting. All three of them.”

“What do you mean by all three?”

“Do you not see that De Guiche is one of the party?”

“Yes, I see. But what does that prove?”

“That Madame has two admirers instead of one.”

“Thou poison the simplest thing!”

“I poison nothing. Ah! your royal highness’s mind is perverted. The honors of the kingdom of France are being paid to your wife and you are not satisfied.”

The Duke of Orleans dreaded the satirical humor of the Chevalier de Lorraine whenever it reached a certain degree of bitterness, and he changed the conversation abruptly. “The princess is pretty,” said he, very negligently, as if he were speaking of a stranger.

“Yes,” replied the chevalier, in the same tone.

“You say ‘yes’ like a ‘no.’ She has very beautiful black eyes.”

“Yes, but small.”

“That is so, but they are brilliant. She is tall, and of a good figure.”

“I fancy she stoops a little, my lord?”

“I do not deny it. She has a noble appearance.”

“Yes, but her face is thin.”

“I thought her teeth beautiful.”

“They can easily be seen, for her mouth is large enough. Decidedly, I was wrong, my lord; you are certainly handsomer than your wife.”

“But do you think me as handsome as Buckingham?”

“Certainly, and he thinks so, too; for look, my lord, he is redoubling his attentions to Madame to prevent your effacing the impression he has made.”

Monsieur made a movement of impatience, but as he noticed a smile of triumph pass across the chevalier’s lips, he drew up his horse to a foot-pace. “Why,” said he, “should I occupy myself any longer about my cousin? Do I not already know her? Were we not brought up together? Did I not see her at the Louvre when she was quite a child?”

“A great change has taken place in her since then, prince. At the period you allude to, she was somewhat less brilliant, and scarcely so proud, either. One evening, particularly, you may remember, my lord, the king refused to dance with her, because he thought her plain and badly dressed!”

These words made the Duke of Orleans frown. It was by no means flattering for him to marry a princess of whom, when young, the king had not thought much. He would probably have retorted, but at this moment De Guiche quitted the carriage to join the prince. He had remarked the prince and the chevalier together, and full of anxious attention he seemed to try and guess the nature of the remarks which they had just exchanged. The chevalier, whether he had some treacherous object in view, or from imprudence, did not take the trouble to dissimulate. “Count,” he said, “you’re a man of excellent taste.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” replied De Guiche; “but why do you say that?”

“Well, I appeal to his highness.”

“No doubt of it,” said Monsieur, “and Guiche knows perfectly well that I regard him as a most finished cavalier.”

“Well, since that is decided, I resume. You have been in the princess’s society, count, for the last eight days, have you not?”

“Yes,” replied De Guiche, coloring in spite of himself.

“Well, then, tell us frankly, what do you think of her personal appearance?”

“Of her personal appearance?” returned De Guiche, stupefied.

“‘Yes; of her appearance, of her mind, of herself, in fact.”

Astounded by this question, De Guiche hesitated answering.

“Come, come, De Guiche,” resumed the chevalier, laughingly, “tell us your opinion frankly; the prince commands it.”

“Yes, yes,” said the prince, “be frank.”

De Guiche stammered out a few unintelligible words.

“I am perfectly well aware,” returned Monsieur, “that the subject is a delicate one, but you know you can tell me everything. What do you think of her?”

In order to avoid betraying his real thoughts, De Guiche had recourse to the only defense which a man taken by surprise really has, and accordingly told an untruth. “I do not find Madame,” he said, “either good or bad looking, yet rather good than bad looking.”

“What! count,” exclaimed the chevalier, “you who went into such ecstasies and uttered so many exclamations at the sight of her portrait.”

De Guiche colored violently. Very fortunately his horse, which was slightly restive, enabled him by a sudden plunge to conceal his agitation. “What portrait!” he murmured, joining them again. The chevalier had not taken his eyes off him.

“Yes, the portrait. Was not the miniature a good likeness?”

“I do not remember. I had forgotten the portrait; it quite escaped my recollection.”

“And yet it made a very marked impression upon you,” said the chevalier.

“That is not unlikely.”

“Is she witty, at all events?” inquired the duke.

“I believe so, my lord.”

“Is M. de Buckingham witty, too?” said the chevalier.

“I do not know.”

“My own opinion is, that he must be,” replied the chevalier, “for he makes Madame laugh, and she seems to take no little pleasure in his society, which never happens to a clever woman when in the company of a simpleton.”

“Of course, then, he must be clever,” said De Guiche, simply.

At this moment Raoul opportunely arrived, seeing how De Guiche was pressed by his dangerous questioner, to whom he addressed a remark, and in that way changed the conversation. The entree was brilliant and joyous.

The king, in honor of his brother, had directed that the festivities should be on a scale of the greatest possible magnificence. Madame and her mother alighted at the Louvre, where, during their exile, they had so gloomily submitted to obscurity, misery, and privations of every description. That palace, which had been so inhospitable a residence for the unhappy daughter of Henry IV., the naked walls, the uneven floorings, the ceilings matted with cobwebs, the vast dilapidated chimney-places, the cold hearths on which the charity extended to them by parliament hardly permitted a fire to glow, was completely altered in appearance. The richest hangings and the thickest carpets, glistening flagstones and pictures, with their richly gilded frames; in every direction could be seen candelabra, mirrors, and furniture and fittings of the most sumptuous character; in every direction, also, were guards of the proudest military bearing, with floating plumes, crowds of attendants and courtiers in the ante-chambers and upon the staircases. In the courtyards, where the grass had formerly been allowed to luxuriate, as if the ungrateful Mazarin had thought it a good idea to let the Parisians perceive that solitude and disorder were, with misery and despair, the fit accompaniments of fallen monarchy, the immense courtyards, formerly silent and desolate, were now thronged with courtiers whose horses were pacing and prancing to and fro. The carriages were filled with young and beautiful women, who awaited the opportunity of saluting, as she passed, the daughter of that daughter of France who, during her widowhood and exile, had sometimes gone without wood for her fire, and bread for her table, whom the meanest attendants at the chateau had treated with indifference and contempt. And so, Madame Henrietta once more returned to the Louvre, with her heart more swollen with bitter recollections than her daughter’s, whose disposition was fickle and forgetful, with triumph and delight. She knew but too well this brilliant reception was paid to the happy mother of a king restored to his throne, a throne second to none in Europe, while the worse than indifferent reception she had before met with was paid to her, the daughter of Henry IV., as a punishment for having been unfortunate. After the princesses had been installed in their apartments and had rested, the gentlemen who had formed their escort, having, in like manner, recovered from their fatigue, they resumed their accustomed habits and occupations. Raoul began by setting off to see his father, who had left for Blois. He then tried to see M. d’Artagnan, who, however, being engaged in the organization of a military household for the king, could not be found anywhere. Bragelonne next sought out De Guiche, but the count was occupied in a long conference with his tailors and with Manicamp, which consumed his whole time. With the Duke of Buckingham he fared still worse, for the duke was purchasing horses after horses, diamonds upon diamonds. He monopolized every embroiderer, jeweler, and tailor that Paris could boast of. Between De Guiche and himself a vigorous contest ensued, invariably a courteous one, in which, in order to insure success, the duke was ready to spend a million; while the Marechal de Grammont had only allowed his son sixty thousand francs. So Buckingham laughed and spent his money. Guiche groaned in despair, and would have shown it more violently, had it not been for the advice De Bragelonne gave him.

“A million!” repeated De Guiche daily; “I must submit. Why will not the marechal advance me a portion of my patrimony?”

“Because you would throw it away,” said Raoul.

“What can that matter to him? If I am to die of it, I shall die of it, and then I shall need nothing further.”

“But what need is there to die?” said Raoul.

“I do not wish to be conquered in elegance by an Englishman.”

“My dear count,” said Manicamp, “elegance is not a costly commodity, it is only a very difficult accomplishment.”

“Yes, but difficult things cost a good deal of money, and I have only got sixty thousand francs.”

“A very embarrassing state of things, truly,” said De Wardes; “even if you spent as much as Buckingham there is only nine hundred and forty thousand francs difference.”

“Where am I to find them?”

“Get into debt.”

“I am in debt already.”

“A greater reason for getting further.”

Advice like this resulted in De Guiche becoming excited to such an extent that he committed extravagances where Buckingham only incurred expenses. The rumor of this extravagant profuseness delighted the hearts of all the shopkeepers in Paris, from the hotel of the Duke of Buckingham to that of the Comte de Grammont nothing but miracles was attempted. While all this was going on, Madame was resting herself, and Bragelonne was engaged in writing to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. He had already dispatched four letters, and not an answer to any one of them had been received, when, on the very morning fixed for the marriage ceremony, which was to take place in the chapel at the Palais-Royal, Raoul, who was dressing, heard his valet announce M. de Malicorne. “What can this Malicorne want with me?” thought Raoul; and then said to his valet, “Let him wait.”

“It is a gentleman from Blois,” said the valet.

“Admit him at once,” said Raoul, eagerly.

Malicorne entered as brilliant as a star, and wearing a superb sword at his side. After having saluted Raoul most gracefully, he said: “M. de Bragelonne, I am the bearer of a thousand compliments from a lady to you.”

Raoul colored. “From a lady,” said he, “from a lady of Blois?”

“Yes, monsieur; from Mademoiselle de Montalais.”

“Thank you, monsieur; I recollect you now,” said Raoul. “And what does Mademoiselle de Montalais require of me?”

Malicorne drew four letters from his pocket, which he offered to Raoul.

“My own letters, is it possible?” he said, turning pale; “my letters, and the seals unbroken?”

“Monsieur, your letters did not find at Blois the person to whom they were addressed, and so they are now returned to you.”

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere has left Blois, then?” exclaimed Raoul.

“Eight days ago.”

“Where is she, then?”

“In Paris.”

“How was it known that these letters were from me?”

“Mademoiselle de Montalais recognized your handwriting and your seal,” said Malicorne.

Raoul colored and smiled. “Mademoiselle de Montalais is exceedingly amiable,” he said; “she is always kind and charming.”

“Always, monsieur.”

“Surely she could give me some precise information about Mademoiselle de la Valliere. I never could find her in this immense city.”

Malicorne drew another packet from his pocket.

“You may possibly find in this letter what you are anxious to learn.”

Raoul hurriedly broke the seal. The writing was that of Mademoiselle Aure, and inclosed were these words:--“Paris, Palais-Royal. The day of the nuptial blessing.”

“What does this mean?” inquired Raoul of Malicorne; “you probably know.”

“I do, monsieur.”

“For pity’s sake, tell me, then.”

“Impossible, monsieur.”

“Why so?”

“Because Mademoiselle Aure has forbidden me to do so.”

Raoul looked at his strange visitor, and remained silent;--“At least, tell me whether it is fortunate or unfortunate.”

“That you will see.”

“You are very severe in your reservations.”

“Will you grant me a favor, monsieur?” said Malicorne.

“In exchange for that you refuse me?”

“Precisely.”

“What is it?”

“I have the greatest desire to see the ceremony, and I have no ticket to admit me, in spite of all the steps I have taken to secure one. Could you get me admitted "

“Certainly.”

“Do me this kindness, then, I entreat.”

“Most willingly, monsieur; come with me.”

“I am exceedingly indebted to you, monsieur,” said Malicorne.

“I thought you were a friend of M. de Manicamp.”

“I am, monsieur; but this morning I was with him as he was dressing, and I let a bottle of blacking fall over his new dress, and he flew at me sword in hand, so that I was obliged to make my escape. That is the reason I could not ask him for a ticket. He wanted to kill me.”

“I can well believe it,” laughed Raoul. “I know Manicamp is capable of killing a man who has been unfortunate enough to commit the crime you have to reproach yourself with, but I will repair the mischief as far as you are concerned. I will but fasten my cloak, and shall then be ready to serve you, not only as a guide, but as your introducer, too.”

A Surprise for Madame de Montalais

Madame’s marriage was celebrated in the chapel of the Palais-Royal, in the presence of a crowd of courtiers, who had been most scrupulously selected. However, notwithstanding the marked favor which an invitation indicated, Raoul, faithful to his promise to Malicorne, who was so anxious to witness the ceremony, obtained admission for him. After he had fulfilled this engagement, Raoul approached De Guiche, who, as if in contrast with his magnificent costume, exhibited a countenance so utterly dejected, that the Duke of Buckingham was the only one present who could contend with him as far as pallor and discomfiture were concerned.

“Take care, count,” said Raoul, approaching his friend, and preparing to support him at the moment the archbishop blessed the married couple. In fact, the Prince of Conde was attentively scrutinizing these two images of desolation, standing like caryatides on either side of the nave of the church. The count, after that, kept a more careful watch over himself.

At the termination of the ceremony, the king and queen passed onward towards the grand reception-room, where Madame and her suite were to be presented to them. It was remarked that the king, who had seemed more than surprised at his sister-in-law’s appearance was most flattering in his compliments to her. Again, it was remarked that the queen-mother, fixing a long and thoughtful gaze upon Buckingham, leaned towards Madame de Motteville as though to ask her, “Do you not see how much he resembles his father?” and finally it was remarked that Monsieur watched everybody, and seemed quite discontented. After the reception of the princess and ambassadors, Monsieur solicited the king’s permission to present to him as well as to Madame the persons belonging to their new household.

“Are you aware, vicomte,” inquired the Prince de Conde of Raoul, “whether the household has been selected by a person of taste, and whether there are any faces worth looking at?”

“I have not the slightest idea, monseigneur,” replied Raoul.

“You affect ignorance, surely.”

“In what way, monseigneur?”

“You are a friend of De Guiche, who is one of the friends of the prince.”

“That may be so, monseigneur; but the matter having no interest whatever for me, I never questioned De Guiche on the subject; and De Guiche on his part, never having been questioned, did not communicate any particulars to me.”

“But Manicamp?”

“It is true I saw Manicamp at Havre, and during the journey here, but I was no more inquisitive with him than I had been towards De Guiche. Besides, is it likely that Manicamp should know anything of such matters? for he is a person of only secondary importance.”

“My dear vicomte, do you not know better than that?” said the prince; “why, it is these persons of secondary importance who, on such occasions, have all the influence; and the truth is, that nearly everything has been done through Manicamp’s presentations to De Guiche, and through De Guiche to Monsieur.”

“I assure you, monseigneur, I was ignorant of that,” said Raoul, “and what your highness does me the honor to impart is perfectly new to me.”

“I will most readily believe you, although it seems incredible; besides, we shall not have long to wait. See, the flying squadron is advancing, as good Queen Catherine used to say. Ah! ah! what pretty faces!”

A bevy of young girls at this moment entered the salon, conducted by Madame de Navailles, and to Manicamp’s credit be it said, if indeed he had taken that part in their selection which the Prince de Conde assigned him, it was a display calculated to dazzle those who, like the prince, could appreciate every character and style of beauty. A young, fair-complexioned girl, from twenty to one-and-twenty years of age, and whose large blue eyes flashed, as she opened them, in the most dazzling manner, walked at the head of the band and was the first presented.

“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente,” said Madame de Navailles to Monsieur, who, as he saluted his wife, repeated “Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”

“Ah! ah!” said the Prince de Conde to Raoul, “she is presentable enough.”

“Yes,” said Raoul, “but has she not a somewhat haughty style?”

“Bah! we know these airs very well, vicomte; three months hence she will be tame enough. But look, there, indeed, is a pretty face.”

“Yes,” said Raoul, “and one I am acquainted with.”

“Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais,” said Madame de Navailles. The name and Christian name were carefully repeated by Monsieur.

“Great heavens!” exclaimed Raoul, fixing his bewildered gaze upon the entrance doorway.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the prince; “was it Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais who made you utter such a ‘Great heavens’?”

“No, monseigneur, no,” replied Raoul, pale and trembling.

“Well, then, if it be not Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais, it is that pretty blonde who follows her. What beautiful eyes! She is rather thin, but has fascinations without number.”

“Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere!” said Madame de Navailles; and, as this name resounded through his whole being, a cloud seemed to rise from his breast to his eyes, so that he neither saw nor heard anything more; and the prince, finding him nothing more than a mere echo which remained silent under his railleries, moved forward to inspect somewhat closer the beautiful girls whom his first glance had already particularized.

“Louise here! Louise a maid of honor to Madame!” murmured Raoul, and his eyes, which did not suffice to satisfy his reason, wandered from Louise to Montalais. The latter had already emancipated herself from her assumed timidity, which she only needed for the presentation and for her reverences.

Mademoiselle de Montalais, from the corner of the room to which she had retired, was looking with no slight confidence at the different persons present; and, having discovered Raoul, she amused herself with the profound astonishment which her own and her friend’s presence there caused the unhappy lover. Her waggish and malicious look, which Raoul tried to avoid meeting, and which yet he sought inquiringly from time to time, placed him on the rack. As for Louise, whether from natural timidity, or some other reason for which Raoul could not account, she kept her eyes constantly cast down; intimidated, dazzled, and with impeded respiration, she withdrew herself as much as possible aside, unaffected even by the nudges Montalais gave her with her elbow. The whole scene was a perfect enigma for Raoul, the key to which he would have given anything to obtain. But no one was there who could assist him, not even Malicorne; who, a little uneasy at finding himself in the presence of so many persons of good birth, and not a little discouraged by Montalais’s bantering glances, had described a circle, and by degrees succeeded in getting a few paces from the prince, behind the group of maids of honor, and nearly within reach of Mademoiselle Aure’s voice, she being the planet around which he, as her attendant satellite, seemed constrained to gravitate. As he recovered his self-possession, Raoul fancied he recognized voices on his right hand that were familiar to him, and he perceived De Wardes, De Guiche, and the Chevalier de Lorraine, conversing together. It is true they were talking in tones so low, that the sound of their words could hardly be heard in the vast apartment. To speak in that manner from any particular place without bending down, or turning round, or looking at the person with whom one may be engaged in conversation, is a talent that cannot be immediately acquired by newcomers. Long study is needed for such conversations, which, without a look, gesture, or movement of the head, seem like the conversation of a group of statues. In fact, in the king’s and queen’s grand assemblies, while their majesties were speaking, and while every one present seemed to be listening in the midst of the most profound silence, some of these noiseless conversations took place, in which adulation was not the prevailing feature. But Raoul was one among others exceedingly clever in this art, so much a matter of etiquette, that from the movement of the lips he was often able to guess the sense of the words.

“Who is that Montalais?” inquired De Wardes, “and that La Valliere? What country-town have we had sent here?”

“Montalais?” said the chevalier,--“oh, I know her; she is a good sort of a girl, whom we shall find amusing enough. La Valliere is a charming girl, slightly lame.”

“Ah! bah!” said De Wardes.

“Do not be absurd, De Wardes, there are some very characteristic and ingenious Latin axioms about lame ladies.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said De Guiche, looking at Raoul with uneasiness, “be a little careful, I entreat you.”

But the uneasiness of the count, in appearance at least, was not needed. Raoul had preserved the firmest and most indifferent countenance, although he had not lost a word that passed. He seemed to keep an account of the insolence and license of the two speakers in order to settle matters with them at the earliest opportunity.

De Wardes seemed to guess what was passing in his mind, and continued:

“Who are these young ladies’ lovers?”

“Montalais’s lover?” said the chevalier.

“Yes, Montalais first.”

“You, I, or De Guiche,--whoever likes, in fact.”

“And the other?”

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”

“Yes.”

“Take care, gentlemen,” exclaimed De Guiche, anxious to put a stop to De Wardes’s reply; “take care, Madame is listening to us.”

Raoul thrust his hand up to the wrist into his justaucorps in great agitation. But the very malignity which he saw was excited against these poor girls made him take a serious resolution. “Poor Louise,” he thought, “has come here only with an honorable object in view and under honorable protection; and I must learn what that object is which she has in view, and who it is that protects her.” And following Malicorne’s maneuver, he made his way toward the group of the maids of honor. The presentations were soon over. The king, who had done nothing but look at and admire Madame, shortly afterwards left the reception-room, accompanied by the two queens. The Chevalier de Lorraine resumed his place beside Monsieur, and, as he accompanied him, insinuated a few drops of the venom he had collected during the last hour, while looking at some of the faces in the court, and suspecting that some of their hearts might be happy. A few of the persons present followed the king as he quitted the apartment; but such of the courtiers as assumed an independence of character, and professed a gallantry of disposition, began to approach the ladies of the court. The prince paid his compliments to Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, Buckingham devoted himself to Madame Chalais and Mademoiselle de Lafayette, whom Madame already distinguished by her notice, and whom she held in high regard. As for the Comte de Guiche, who had abandoned Monsieur as soon as he could approach Madame alone, he conversed, with great animation, with Madame de Valentinois, and with Mesdemoiselles de Crequy and de Chatillon.

Amid these varied political and amorous interests, Malicorne was anxious to gain Montalais’s attention; but the latter preferred talking with Raoul, even if it were only to amuse herself with his innumerable questions and his astonishment. Raoul had gone direct to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and had saluted her with the profoundest respect, at which Louise blushed, and could not say a word. Montalais, however, hurried to her assistance.

“Well, monsieur le vicomte, here we are, you see.”

“I do, indeed, see you,” said Raoul, smiling, “and it is exactly because you are here that I wish to ask for some explanation.”

Malicorne approached the group with his most fascinating smile.

“Go away, Malicorne; really, you are exceedingly indiscreet.” At this remark Malicorne bit his lips and retired a few steps, without making any reply. His smile, however, changed its expression, and from its former frankness, became mocking in its expression.

“You wished for an explanation, M. Raoul?” inquired Montalais.

“It is surely worth one, I think; Mademoiselle de la Valliere a maid of honor to Madame!”

“Why should not she be a maid of honor, as well as myself?” inquired Montalais.

“Pray accept my compliments, young ladies,” said Raoul, who fancied he perceived they were not disposed to answer him in a direct manner.

“Your remark was not made in a very complimentary manner, vicomte.”

“Mine?”

“Certainly; I appeal to Louise.”

“M. de Bragelonne probably thinks the position is above my condition,” said Louise, hesitatingly.

“Assuredly not,” replied Raoul, eagerly; “you know very well that such is not my feeling; were you called upon to occupy a queen’s throne, I should not be surprised; how much greater reason, then, such a position as this? The only circumstance that amazes me is that I should have learned it only to-day, and that by the merest accident.”

“That is true,” replied Montalais, with her usual giddiness; “you know nothing about it, and there is no reason you should. M. de Bragelonne had written several letters to you, but your mother was the only person who remained behind at Blois, and it was necessary to prevent these letters falling into her hands; I intercepted them, and returned them to M. Raoul, so that he believed you were still at Blois while you were here in Paris, and had no idea whatever, indeed, how high you had risen in rank.”

“Did you not inform M. Raoul, as I begged you to do?”

“Why should I? to give him an opportunity or making some of his severe remarks and moral reflections, and to undo what we had so much trouble in effecting? Certainly not.”

“Am I so very severe, then?” said Raoul, inquiringly.

“Besides,” said Montalais, “it is sufficient to say that it suited me. I was about setting off for Paris--you were away; Louise was weeping her eyes out; interpret that as you please; I begged a friend, a protector of mine, who had obtained the appointment for me, to solicit one for Louise; the appointment arrived. Louise left in order to get her costume prepared; as I had my own ready, I remained behind; I received your letters, and returned them to you, adding a few words, promising you a surprise. Your surprise is before you, monsieur, and seems to be a fair one enough; you have nothing more to ask. Come, M. Malicorne, it is now time to leave these young people together: they have many things to talk about; give me your hand; I trust that you appreciate the honor conferred upon you, M. Malicorne.”

“Forgive me,” said Raoul, arresting the giddy girl, and giving to his voice an intonation, the gravity of which contrasted with that of Montalais; “forgive me, but may I inquire the name of the protector you speak of; for if protection be extended towards you, Mademoiselle Montalais,--for which, indeed, so many reasons exist,” added Raoul, bowing, “I do not see that the same reasons exist why Mademoiselle de la Valliere should be similarly cared for.”

“But, M. Raoul,” said Louise, innocently, “there is no difference in the matter, and I do not see why I should not tell it you myself; it was M. Malicorne who obtained it for me.”

Raoul remained for a moment almost stupefied, asking himself if they were trifling with him; he then turned round to interrogate Malicorne, but he had been hurried away by Montalais, and was already at some distance from them. Mademoiselle de la Valliere attempted to follow her friend, but Raoul, with gentle authority, detained her.

“Louise, one word, I beg.”

“But, M. Raoul,” said Louise, blushing, “we are alone. Every one has left. They will become anxious, and will be looking for us.”

“Fear nothing,” said the young man, smiling, “we are neither of us of sufficient importance for our absence to be remarked.”

“But I have my duty to perform, M. Raoul.”

“Do not be alarmed, I am acquainted with these usages of the court; you will not be on duty until to-morrow; a few minutes are at your disposal, which will enable you to give me the information I am about to have the honor to ask you for.”

“How serious you are, M. Raoul!” said Louise.

“Because the circumstances are serious. Are you listening?”

“I am listening; I would only repeat, monsieur, that we are quite alone.”

“You are right,” said Raoul, and, offering her his hand, he led the young girl into the gallery adjoining the reception-room, the windows of which looked out upon the courtyard. Every one hurried towards the middle window, which had a balcony outside, from which all the details of the slow and formal preparations for departure could be seen. Raoul opened one of the side windows, and then, being alone with Louise, said to her: “You know, Louise, that from my childhood I have regarded you as my sister, as one who has been the confidante of all my troubles, to whom I have entrusted all my hopes.”

“Yes, M. Raoul,” she answered softly; “yes, M. Raoul, I know that.”

“You used, on your side, to show the same friendship towards me, and had the same confidence in me; why have you not, on this occasion, been my friend--why have you shown suspicion of me?”

Mademoiselle de la Valliere did not answer. “I fondly thought you loved me,” said Raoul, whose voice became more and more agitated; “I fondly thought you consented to all the plans we had, together, laid down for our own happiness, at the time when we wandered up and down the walks of Cour-Cheverny, under the avenue of poplar trees leading to Blois. You do not answer me, Louise. Is it possible,” he inquired, breathing with difficulty, “that you no longer love me?”

“I did not say so,” replied Louise, softly.

“Oh! tell me the truth, I implore you. All my hopes in life are centered in you. I chose you for your gentle and simple tastes. Do not suffer yourself to be dazzled, Louise, now that you are in the midst of a court where all that is pure too soon becomes corrupt--where all that is young too soon grows old. Louise, close your ears, so as not to hear what may be said; shut your eyes, so as not to see the examples before you; shut your lips, that you may not inhale the corrupting influences about you. Without falsehood or subterfuge, Louise, am I to believe what Mademoiselle de Montalais stated? Louise, did you come to Paris because I was no longer at Blois?”

La Valliere blushed and concealed her face in her hands.

“Yes, it was so, then!” exclaimed Raoul, delightedly; “that was, then, your reason for coming here. I love you as I never yet loved you. Thanks, Louise, for this devotion; but measures must be taken to place you beyond all insult, to shield you from every lure. Louise, a maid of honor in the court of a young princess in these days of free manners and inconstant affections---a maid of honor is placed as an object of attack without having any means of defence afforded her; this state of things cannot continue, you must be married in order to be respected.”

“Married?”

“Yes, here is my hand, Louise; will you place yours within it?”

“But your father?”

“My father leaves me perfectly free.”

“Yet----”

“I understand your scruples, Louise; I will consult my father.”

“Reflect, M. Raoul; wait.”

“Wait! it is impossible. Reflect, Louise, when you are concerned! it would be insulting,--give me your hand, dear Louise; I am my own master. My father will consent, I know; give me your hand, do not keep me waiting thus. One word in answer, one word only; if not, I shall begin to think that, in order to change you forever, nothing more was needed than a single step in the palace, a single breath of favor, a smile from the queen, a look from the king.”

Raoul had no sooner pronounced this latter word, than La Valliere became as pale as death, no doubt from fear at seeing the young man excite himself. With a movement as rapid as thought, she placed both her hands in those of Raoul, and then fled without adding a syllable; disappearing without casting a look behind her. Raoul felt his whole frame tremble at the contact of her hand; he received the compact as a solemn bargain wrung by affection from her child-like timidity.

The Consent of Athos

Raoul quitted the Palais-Royal full of ideas that admitted no delay in execution. He mounted his horse in the courtyard, and followed the road to Blois, while the marriage festivities of Monsieur and the princess of England were being celebrated with exceeding animation by the courtiers, but to the despair of De Guiche and Buckingham. Raoul lost no time on the road, and in sixteen hours he arrived at Blois. As he traveled along, he marshaled his arguments in the most becoming manner. Fever also is an argument that cannot be answered, and Raoul had an attack. Athos was in his study, making additions to his memoirs, when Raoul entered, accompanied by Grimaud. Keen-sighted and penetrating, a mere glance at his son told him that something extraordinary had befallen him.

“You seem to come on a matter of importance,” said he to Raoul, after he had embraced him, pointing to a seat.

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the young man; “and I entreat you to give me the same kind attention that has never yet failed me.”

“Speak, Raoul.”

“I present the case to you, monsieur, free from all preface, for that would be unworthy of you. Mademoiselle de la Valliere is in Paris as one of Madame’s maids of honor. I have pondered deeply on the matter; I love Mademoiselle de la Valliere above everything; and it is not proper to leave her in a position where her reputation, her virtue even, may be assailed. It is my wish, therefore, to marry her, monsieur, and I have come to solicit your consent to my marriage.”

While this communication was being made to him, Athos maintained the profoundest silence and reserve. Raoul, who had begun his address with an assumption of self-possession, finished it by allowing a manifest emotion to escape him at every word. Athos fixed upon Bragelonne a searching look, overshadowed indeed by a slight sadness.

“You have reflected well upon it?” he inquired.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I believe you are already acquainted with my views respecting this alliance?”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied Raoul, in a low tone of voice, “but you added, that if I persisted----”

“You do persist, then?”

Bragelonne stammered out an almost unintelligible assent.

“Your passion,” continued Athos, tranquilly, “must indeed be very great, since, notwithstanding my dislike to this union, you persist in wishing it.”

Raoul passed his trembling hand across his forehead to remove the perspiration that collected there. Athos looked at him, and his heart was touched by pity. He rose and said,----

“It is no matter. My own personal feelings are not to be taken into consideration since yours are concerned; you need my assistance; I am ready to give it. Tell me what you want.”

“Your kind indulgence, first of all, monsieur,” said Raoul, taking hold of his hand.

“You have mistaken my feelings, Raoul, I have more than mere indulgence for you in my heart.”

Raoul kissed as devotedly as a lover could have done the hand he held in his own.

“Come, come,” said Athos, “I am quite ready; what do you wish me to sign?”

“Nothing whatever, monsieur. only it would be very kind if you would take the trouble to write to the king to whom I belong, and solicit his majesty’s permission for me to marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Well thought, Raoul! After, or rather before myself, you have a master to consult, that master being the king; it is loyal in you to submit yourself voluntarily to this double proof; I will grant your request without delay, Raoul.”

The count approached the window, and leaning out, called to Grimaud, who showed his head from an arbor covered with jasmine, which he was occupied in trimming.

“My horses, Grimaud,” continued the count.

“Why this order, monsieur?” inquired Raoul.

“We shall set off in a few hours.”

“Whither?”

“For Paris.”

“Paris, monsieur?”

“Is not the king at Paris?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, ought we not to go there?”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Raoul, almost alarmed by this kind condescension. “I do not ask you to put yourself to such inconvenience, and a letter merely----”

“You mistake my position, Raoul; it is not respectful that a simple gentleman, such as I am, should write to his sovereign. I wish to speak, I ought to speak, to the king, and I will do so. We will go together, Raoul.”

“You overpower me with your kindness, monsieur.”

“How do you think his majesty is affected?”

“Towards me, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“Excellently well disposed.”

“You know that to be so?” continued the count.

“The king has himself told me so.”

“On what occasion?”

“Upon the recommendation of M. d’Artagnan, I believe, and on account of an affair in the Place de Greve, when I had the honor to draw my sword in the king’s service. I have reason to believe that, vanity apart, I stand well with his majesty.”

“So much the better.”

“But I entreat you, monsieur,” pursued Raoul, “not to maintain towards me your present grave and serious manner. Do not make me bitterly regret having listened to a feeling stronger than anything else.”

“That is the second time you have said so, Raoul; it was quite unnecessary, you require my formal consent, and you have it. We need talk no more on the subject, therefore. Come and see my new plantations, Raoul.”

The young man knew very well, that, after the expression of his father’s wish, no opportunity of discussion was left him. He bowed his head, and followed his father into the garden. Athos slowly pointed out to him the grafts, the cuttings, and the avenues he was planting. This perfect repose of manner disconcerted Raoul extremely; the affection with which his own heart was filled seemed so great that the whole world could hardly contain it. How, then, could his father’s heart remain void, and closed to its influence? Bragelonne, therefore, collecting all his courage, suddenly exclaimed,----

“It is impossible, monsieur, you can have any reason to reject Mademoiselle de la Valliere? In Heaven’s name, she is so good, so gentle and pure, that your mind, so perfect in its penetration, ought to appreciate her accordingly. Does any secret repugnance, or any hereditary dislike, exist between you and her family?”

“Look, Raoul, at that beautiful lily of the valley,” said Athos; “observe how the shade and the damp situation suit it, particularly the shadow which that sycamore-tree casts over it, so that the warmth, and not the blazing heat of the sun, filters through its leaves.”

Raoul stopped, bit his lips, and then with the blood mantling in his face, he said, courageously,--“One word of explanation, I beg, monsieur. You cannot forget that your son is a man.”

“In that case,” replied Athos, drawing himself up with sternness, “prove to me that you are a man, for you do not show yourself a son. I begged you to wait the opportunity of forming an illustrious alliance. I would have obtained a wife for you from the first ranks of the rich nobility. I wish you to be distinguished by the splendor which glory and fortune confer, for nobility of descent you have already.”

“Monsieur,” exclaimed Raoul, carried away by a first impulse, “I was reproached the other day for not knowing who my mother was.”

Athos turned pale; then, knitting his brows like the greatest of all the heathen deities:--“I am waiting to learn the reply you made,” he demanded, in an imperious manner.

“Forgive me! oh, forgive me,” murmured the young man, sinking at once from the lofty tone he had assumed.

“What was your reply, monsieur?” inquired the count, stamping his feet upon the ground.

“Monsieur, my sword was in my hand immediately, my adversary placed himself on guard, I struck his sword over the palisade, and threw him after it.”

“Why did you suffer him to live?”

“The king has prohibited duelling, and, at that moment, I was an ambassador of the king.”

“Very well,” said Athos, “but all the greater reason I should see his majesty.”

“What do you intend to ask him?”

“Authority to draw my sword against the man who has inflicted this injury upon me.”

“If I did not act as I ought to have done, I beg you to forgive me.”

“Did I reproach you, Raoul?”

“Still, the permission you are going to ask from the king?”

“I will implore his majesty to sign your marriage-contract, but on one condition.”

“Are conditions necessary with me, monsieur? Command, and you shall be obeyed.”

“On one condition, I repeat,” continued Athos; “that you tell me the name of the man who spoke of your mother in that way.”

“What need is there that you should know his name; the offense was directed against myself, and the permission once obtained from his majesty, to revenge it is my affair.”

“Tell me his name, monsieur.”

“I will not allow you to expose yourself.

“Do you take me for a Don Diego? His name, I say.”

“You insist upon it?”

“I demand it.”

“The Vicomte de Wardes.”

“Very well,” said Athos, tranquilly, “I know him. But our horses are ready, I see; and, instead of delaying our departure for a couple of hours, we will set off at once. Come, monsieur.”

Monsieur becomes jealous of the Duke of Buckingham

While the Comte de la Fere was proceeding on his way to Paris, accompanied by Raoul, the Palais-Royal was the theatre wherein a scene of what Moliere would have called excellent comedy was being performed. Four days had elapsed since his marriage, and Monsieur, having breakfasted very hurriedly, passed into his ante-chamber, frowning and out of temper. The repast had not been over-agreeable. Madame had had breakfast served in her own apartment, and Monsieur had breakfasted almost alone; the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp were the only persons present at the meal which lasted three-quarters of an hour without a single syllable having been uttered. Manicamp, who was less intimate with his royal highness than the Chevalier de Lorraine, vainly endeavored to detect, from the expression of the prince’s face, what had made him so ill-humored. The Chevalier de Lorraine, who had no occasion to speculate about anything, inasmuch as he knew all, ate his breakfast with that extraordinary appetite which the troubles of one’s friends but stimulates, and enjoyed at the same time both Monsieur’s ill-humor and the vexation of Manicamp. He seemed delighted, while he went on eating, to detain the prince, who was very impatient to move, still at table. Monsieur at times repented the ascendancy which he had permitted the Chevalier de Lorraine to acquire over him, and which exempted the latter from any observance of etiquette towards him. Monsieur was now in one of those moods, but he dreaded as much as he liked the chevalier, and contented himself with nursing his anger without betraying it. Every now and then Monsieur raised his eyes to the ceiling, then lowered them towards the slices of pate which the chevalier was attacking, and finally, not caring to betray his resentment, he gesticulated in a manner which Harlequin might have envied. At last, however, Monsieur could control himself no longer, and at the dessert, rising from the table in excessive wrath, as we have related, he left the Chevalier de Lorraine to finish his breakfast as he pleased. Seeing Monsieur rise from the table, Manicamp, napkin in hand, rose also. Monsieur ran rather than walked, towards the ante-chamber, where, noticing an usher in attendance, he gave him some directions in a low tone of voice. Then turning back again, but avoiding passing through the breakfast apartment, he crossed several rooms, with the intention of seeking the queen-mother in her oratory, where she usually remained.

It was about ten o’clock in the morning. Anne of Austria was engaged in writing as Monsieur entered. The queen-mother was extremely attached to her son, for he was handsome in person and amiable in disposition. He was, in fact, more affectionate, and, it might be, more effeminate than the king. He pleased his mother by those trifling sympathizing attentions all women are glad to receive. Anne of Austria, who would have been rejoiced to have had a daughter, almost found in this, her favorite son, the attentions, solicitude, and playful manners of a child of twelve years of age. All the time he passed with his mother he employed in admiring her arms, in giving his opinion upon her cosmetics, and receipts for compounding essences, in which she was very particular; and then, too, he kissed her hands and cheeks in the most childlike and endearing manner, and had always some sweetmeats to offer her, or some new style of dress to recommend. Anne of Austria loved the king, or rather the regal power in her eldest son; Louis XIV. represented legitimacy by right divine. With the king, her character was that of the queen-mother, with Philip she was simply the mother. The latter knew that, of all places of refuge, a mother’s heart is the most compassionate and surest. When quite a child he always fled there for refuge when he and his brother quarrelled, often, after having struck him, which constituted the crime of high treason on his part, after certain engagements with hands and nails, in which the king and his rebellious subject indulged in their night-dresses respecting the right to a disputed bed, having their servant Laporte as umpire,--Philip, conqueror, but terrified at victory, used to flee to his mother to obtain reinforcements from her, or at least the assurance of forgiveness, which Louis XIV. granted with difficulty, and after an interval. Anne, from this habit of peaceable intervention, succeeded in arranging the disputes of her sons, and in sharing, at the same time, all their secrets. The king, somewhat jealous of that maternal solicitude which was bestowed particularly upon his brother, felt disposed to show towards Anne of Austria more submission and attachment than his character really dictated. Anne of Austria had adopted this line of conduct especially towards the young queen. In this manner she ruled with almost despotic sway over the royal household, and she was already preparing her batteries to govern with the same absolute authority the household of her second son. Anne experienced almost a feeling of pride whenever she saw any one enter her apartment with woe-begone looks, pale cheeks, or red eyes, gathering from appearances that assistance was required either by the weakest or the most rebellious. She was writing, we have said, when Monsieur entered her oratory, not with red eyes or pale cheeks, but restless, out of temper, and annoyed. With an absent air he kissed his mother’s hands, and sat himself down before receiving her permission to do so. Considering the strict rules of etiquette established at the court of Anne of Austria, this forgetfulness of customary civilities was a sign of preoccupation, especially on Philip’s part, who, of his own accord, observed a respect towards her of a somewhat exaggerated character. If, therefore, he so notoriously failed in this regard, there must be a serious cause for it.

“What is the matter, Philip?” inquired Anne of Austria, turning towards her son.

“A good many things,” murmured the prince, in a doleful tone of voice.

“You look like a man who has a great deal to do,” said the queen, laying down her pen. Philip frowned, but did not reply. “Among the various subjects which occupy your mind,” said Anne of Austria, “there must surely be one that absorbs it more than others.”

“One indeed has occupied me more than any other.”

“Well, what is it? I am listening.”

Philip opened his mouth as if to express all the troubles his mind was filled with, and which he seemed to be waiting only for an opportunity of declaring. But he suddenly became silent, and a sigh alone expressed all that his heart was overflowing with.

“Come, Philip, show a little firmness,” said the queen-mother. “When one has to complain of anything, it is generally an individual who is the cause of it. Am I not right?”

“I do not say no, madame.”

“Whom do you wish to speak about? Come, take courage.”

“In fact, madame, what I might possibly have to say must be kept a profound secret; for when a lady is in the case----”

“Ah! you are speaking of Madame, then?” inquired the queen-mother, with a feeling of the liveliest curiosity.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, if you wish to speak of Madame, do not hesitate to do so. I am your mother, and she is no more than a stranger to me. Yet, as she is my daughter-in-law, rest assured I shall be interested, even were it for your own sake alone, in hearing all you may have to say about her.”

“Pray tell me, madame, in your turn, whether you have not remarked something?”

“‘Something’! Philip? Your words almost frighten me, from their want of meaning. What do you mean by ‘something’?”

“Madame is pretty, certainly.”

“No doubt of it.”

“Yet not altogether beautiful.”

“No, but as she grows older, she will probably become strikingly beautiful. You must have remarked the change which a few years have already made in her. Her beauty will improve more and more; she is now only sixteen years of age. At fifteen I was, myself, very thin; but even as she is at present, Madame is very pretty.”

“And consequently others have remarked it.”

“Undoubtedly, for a woman of ordinary rank is noticed--and with still greater reason a princess.”

“She has been well brought up, I suppose?”

“Madame Henrietta, her mother, is a woman somewhat cold in manner, slightly pretentious, but full of noble thoughts. The princess’s education may have been neglected, but her principles, I believe, are good. Such at least was the opinion I formed of her when she resided in France; but she afterwards returned to England, and I am ignorant what may have occurred there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply that there are some heads naturally giddy, which are easily turned by prosperity.”

“That is the very word, madame. I think the princess rather giddy.”

“We must not exaggerate, Philip; she is clever and witty, and has a certain amount of coquetry very natural in a young woman; but this defect in persons of high rank and position is a great advantage at a court. A princess who is tinged with coquetry usually forms a brilliant court around her; her smile stimulates luxury, arouses wit, and even courage; the nobles, too, fight better for a prince whose wife is beautiful.”

“Thank you extremely, madame,” said Philip, with some temper; “you really have drawn some very alarming pictures for me.”

“In what respect?” asked the queen, with pretended simplicity.

“You know, madame,” said Philip, dolefully, “whether I had or had not a very great dislike to getting married.”

“Now, indeed, you alarm me. You have some serious cause of complaint against Madame.”

“I do not precisely say it is serious.”

“In that case, then, throw aside your doleful looks. If you show yourself to others in your present state, people will take you for a very unhappy husband.”

“The fact is,” replied Philip, “I am not altogether satisfied as a husband, and I shall not be sorry if others know it.”

“For shame, Philip.”

“Well, then, madame, I will tell you frankly that I do not understand the life I am required to lead.”

“Explain yourself.”

“My wife does not seem to belong to me; she is always leaving me for some reason or another. In the mornings there are visits, correspondences, and toilettes; in the evenings, balls and concerts.”

“You are jealous, Philip.”

“I! Heaven forbid. Let others act the part of a jealous husband, not I. But I am annoyed.”

“All these things you reproach your wife with are perfectly innocent, and, so long as you have nothing of greater importance----”

“Yet, listen; without being very blamable, a woman can excite a good deal of uneasiness. Certain visitors may be received, certain preferences shown, which expose young women to remark, and which are enough to drive out of their senses even those husbands who are least disposed to be jealous.”

“Ah! now we are coming to the real point at last, and not without some difficulty. You speak of frequent visits, and certain preferences--very good; for the last hour we have been beating about the bush, and at last you have broached the true question. This is more serious than I thought. It is possible, then, that Madame can have given you grounds for these complaints against her?”

“Precisely so.”

“What, your wife, married only four days ago, prefers some other person to yourself? Take care, Philip, you exaggerate your grievances; in wishing to prove everything, you prove nothing.”

The prince, bewildered by his mother’s serious manner wished to reply, but he could only stammer out some unintelligible words.

“You draw back, then?” said Anne of Austria. “I prefer that, as it is an acknowledgment of your mistake.”

“No!” exclaimed Philip, “I do not draw back, and I will prove all I asserted. I spoke of preference and of visits, did I not? Well, listen.”

Anne of Austria prepared herself to listen, with that love of gossip which the best woman living and the best mother, were she a queen even, always finds in being mixed up with the petty squabbles of a household.

“Well,” said Philip, “tell me one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Why does my wife retain an English court about her?” said Philip, as he crossed his arms and looked his mother steadily in the face, as if he were convinced that she could not answer the question.

“For a very simple reason,” returned Anne of Austria; “because the English are her countrymen, because they have expended large sums in order to accompany her to France, and because it would be hardly polite--not politic, certainly--to dismiss abruptly those members of the English nobility who have not shrunk from any devotion or from any sacrifice.”

“A wonderful sacrifice indeed,” returned Philip, “to desert a wretched country to come to a beautiful one, where a greater effect can be produced for a crown than can be procured elsewhere for four! Extraordinary devotion, really, to travel a hundred leagues in company with a woman one is in love with!”

“In love, Philip! think what you are saying. Who is in love with Madame?”

“The Duke of Buckingham. Perhaps you will defend him, too.”

Anne of Austria blushed and smiled at the same time. The name of the Duke of Buckingham recalled certain recollections of a very tender and melancholy nature. “The Duke of Buckingham?” she murmured.

“Yes; one of those arm-chair soldiers----”

“The Buckinghams are loyal and brave,” said Anne of Austria, courageously.

“This is too bad; my own mother takes the part of my wife’s lover against me,” exclaimed Philip, incensed to such an extent that his weak organization was effected almost to tears.

“Philip, my son,” exclaimed Anne of Austria, “such an expression is unworthy of you. Your wife has no lover and, had she one, it would not be the Duke of Buckingham. The members of that family, I repeat are loyal and discreet, and the rights of hospitality are sure to be respected by them.”

“The Duke of Buckingham is an Englishman, madame,” said Philip; “and may I ask if the English so very religiously respect what belongs to princes of France?”

Anne blushed a second time, and turned aside under the pretext of taking her pen from her desk again, but in reality to conceal her confusion from her son. “Really, Philip,” she said, “you seem to discover expressions for the purpose of embarrassing me, and your anger blinds you while it alarms me; reflect a little.”

“There is no need for reflection, madame. I can see with my own eyes.”

“Well, and what do you see?”

“That Buckingham never quits my wife. He presumes to make presents to her, and she ventures to accept them. Yesterday she was talking about sachets a la violette; well, our French perfumers, you know very well, madame, for you have over and over again asked for it without success--our French perfumers, I say, have never been able to procure this scent. The duke, however, wore about him a sachet a la violette, and I am sure that the one my wife has came from him.”

“Indeed, monsieur,” said Anne of Austria, “you build your pyramids on needle points; be careful. What harm, I ask you, can there be in a man giving to his countrywoman a receipt for a new essence? These strange ideas, I protest, painfully recall your father to me; he who so frequently and so unjustly made me suffer.”

“The Duke of Buckingham’s father was probably more reserved and more respectful than his son,” said Philip, thoughtlessly, not perceiving how deeply he had wounded his mother’s feelings. The queen turned pale, and pressed her clenched hands upon her bosom; but, recovering herself immediately, she said, “You came here with some intention or another, I suppose?”

“Certainly.”

“What was it?”

“I came, madame, intending to complain energetically, and to inform you that I will not submit to such behavior from the Duke of Buckingham.”

“What do you intend to do, then?”

“I shall complain to the king.”

“And what do you expect the king to reply?”

“Very well, then,” said Monsieur, with an expression of stern determination on his countenance, which offered a singular contrast to its usual gentleness. “Very well. I will right myself!”

“What do you call righting yourself?” inquired Anne of Austria, in alarm.

“I will have the Duke of Buckingham quit the princess, I will have him quit France, and I will see that my wishes are intimated to him.”

“You will intimate nothing of the kind, Philip,” said the queen, “for if you act in that manner, and violate hospitality to that extent, I will invoke the severity of the king against you.”

“Do you threaten me, madame?” exclaimed Philip, almost in tears; “do you threaten me in the midst of my complaints!”

“I do not threaten you; I do but place an obstacle in the path of your hasty anger. I maintain that, to adopt towards the Duke of Buckingham, or any other Englishman, any rigorous measure--to take even a discourteous step towards him, would be to plunge France and England into the most disastrous disagreement. Can it be possible that a prince of the blood, the brother of the king of France, does not know how to hide an injury, even did it exist in reality, where political necessity requires it?” Philip made a movement. “Besides,” continued the queen, “the injury is neither true nor possible, and it is merely a matter of silly jealousy.”

“Madame, I know what I know.”

“Whatever you may know, I can only advise you to be patient.”

“I am not patient by disposition, madame.”

The queen rose, full of severity, and with an icy ceremonious manner. “Explain what you really require, monsieur,” she said.

“I do not require anything, madame; I simply express what I desire. If the Duke of Buckingham does not, of his own accord, discontinue his visits to my apartments I shall forbid him entrance.”

“That is a point you will refer to the king,” said Anne of Austria, her heart swelling as she spoke, and her voice trembling with emotion.

“But, madame,” exclaimed Philip, striking his hands together, “act as my mother and not as the queen, since I speak to you as a son; it is simply a matter of a few minutes’ conversation between the duke and myself.”

“It is that very conversation I forbid,” said the queen, resuming her authority, “because it is unworthy of you.”

“Be it so; I will not appear in the matter, but I shall intimate my will to Madame.”

“Oh!” said the queen-mother, with a melancholy arising from reflection, “never tyrannize over a wife--never behave too haughtily or imperiously towards your own. A woman unwillingly convinced is unconvinced.”

“What is to be done, then?--I will consult my friends about it.”

“Yes, your double-dealing advisers, your Chevalier de Lorraine--your De Wardes. Intrust the conduct of this affair to me. You wish the Duke of Buckingham to leave, do you not?”

“As soon as possible, madame.”

“Send the duke to me, then; smile upon your wife, behave to her, to the king, to every one, as usual. But follow no advice but mine. Alas! I too well know what any household comes to that is troubled by advisers.”

“You shall be obeyed, madame.”

“And you will be satisfied at the result. Send the duke to me.”

“That will not be difficult.”

“Where do you suppose him to be?”

“At my wife’s door, whose levee he is probably awaiting.”

“Very well,” said Anne of Austria, calmly. “Be good enough to tell the duke that I shall be charmed if he will pay me a visit.”

Philip kissed his mother’s hand, and started off to find the Duke of Buckingham.

Forever!

The Duke of Buckingham, obedient to the queen-mother’s invitation, presented himself in her apartments half an hour after the departure of the Duc d’Orleans. When his name was announced by the gentleman-usher in attendance, the queen, who was sitting with her elbow resting on a table, and her head buried in her hands, rose, and smilingly received the graceful and respectful salutation which the duke addressed to her. Anne of Austria was still beautiful. It is well known that at her then somewhat advanced age, her long auburn hair, perfectly formed hands, and bright ruby lips, were still the admiration of all who saw her. On the present occasion, abandoned entirely to a remembrance which evoked all the past in her heart, she looked almost as beautiful as in the days of her youth, when her palace was open to the visits of the Duke of Buckingham’s father, then a young and impassioned man, as well as an unfortunate prince, who lived for her alone, and died with her name upon his lips. Anne of Austria fixed upon Buckingham a look so tender in its expression, that it denoted, not alone the indulgence of maternal affection, but a gentleness of expression like the coquetry of a woman who loves.

“Your majesty,” said Buckingham, respectfully, “desired to speak to me.”

“Yes, duke,” said the queen, in English; “will you be good enough to sit down?”

The favor which Anne of Austria thus extended to the young man, and the welcome sound of the language of a country from which the duke had been estranged since his stay in France, deeply affected him. He immediately conjectured that the queen had a request to make of him. After having abandoned the first few moments to the irrepressible emotions she experienced, the queen resumed the smiling air with which she had received him. “What do you think of France?” she said, in French.

“It is a lovely country, madame,” replied the duke.

“Had you ever seen it before?”

“Once only, madame.”

“But, like all true Englishmen, you prefer England?”

“I prefer my own native land to France,” replied the duke; “but if your majesty were to ask me which of the two cities, London or Paris, I should prefer as a residence, I should be forced to answer, Paris.”

Anne of Austria observed the ardent manner with which these words had been pronounced. “I am told my lord, you have rich possessions in your own country and that you live in a splendid and time-honored palace.”

“It was my father’s residence,” replied Buckingham, casting down his eyes.

“Those are indeed great advantages and souvenirs,” replied the queen, alluding, in spite of herself, to recollections from which it is impossible voluntarily to detach one’s self.

“In fact,” said the duke, yielding to the melancholy influence of this opening conversation, “sensitive persons live as much in the past or the future, as in the present.”

“That is very true,” said the queen, in a low tone of voice. “It follows, then, my lord,’ she added, “that you, who are a man of feeling, will soon quit France in order to shut yourself up with your wealth and your relics of the past.”

Buckingham raised his head and said, “I think not, madame.”

“What do you mean?”

“On the contrary, I think of leaving England in order to take up my residence in France.”

It was now Anne of Austria’s turn to exhibit surprise. “Why?” she said. “Are you not in favor with the new king?”

“Perfectly so, madame, for his majesty’s kindness to me is unbounded.”

“It cannot,” said the queen, “be because your fortune has diminished, for it is said to be enormous.”

“My income, madame, has never been so large.”

“There is some secret cause, then?”

“No, madame,” said Buckingham, eagerly, “there is nothing secret in my reason for this determination. I prefer residence in France; I like a court so distinguished by its refinement and courtesy; I like the amusements, somewhat serious in their nature, which are not the amusements of my own country, and which are met with in France.”

Anne of Austria smiled shrewdly. “Amusements of a serious nature?” she said. “Has your Grace well reflected on their seriousness?” The duke hesitated. “There is no amusement so serious,” continued the queen, “as to prevent a man of your rank----”

“Your majesty seems to insist greatly on that point,” interrupted the duke.

“Do you think so, my lord?”

“If you will forgive me for saying so, it is the second time you have vaunted the attractions of England at the expense of the delight which all experience who live in France.”

Anne of Austria approached the young man, and placing her beautiful hand upon his shoulder, which trembled at the touch, said, “Believe me, monsieur, nothing can equal a residence in one’s own native country. I have very frequently had occasion to regret Spain. I have lived long, my lord, very long for a woman, and I confess to you, that not a year has passed I have not regretted Spain.”

“Not one year, madame?” said the young duke coldly. “Not one of those years when you reigned Queen of Beauty--as you still are, indeed?”

“A truce to flattery, duke, for I am old enough to be your mother.” She emphasized these latter words in a manner, and with a gentleness, which penetrated Buckingham’s heart. “Yes,” she said, “I am old enough to be your mother; and for this reason, I will give you a word of advice.”

“That advice being that I should return to London?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, my lord.”

The duke clasped his hands with a terrified gesture which could not fail of its effect upon the queen, already disposed to softer feelings by the tenderness of her own recollections. “It must be so,” added the queen.

“What!” he again exclaimed, “am I seriously told that I must leave,--that I must exile myself,--that I am to flee at once?”

“Exile yourself, did you say? One would fancy France was your native country.”

“Madame, the country of those who love is the country of those whom they love.”

“Not another word, my lord; you forget whom you are addressing.”

Buckingham threw himself on his knees. “Madame, you are the source of intelligence, of goodness, and of compassion; you are the first person in this kingdom, not only by your rank, but the first person in the world on account of your angelic attributes. I have said nothing, madame. Have I, indeed, said anything you should answer with such a cruel remark? What have I betrayed?”

“You have betrayed yourself,” said the queen, in a low tone of voice.

“I have said nothing,--I know nothing.”

“You forget you have spoken and thought in the presence of a woman, and besides----”

“Besides,” said the duke, “no one knows you are listening to me.”

“On the contrary, it is known; you have all the defects and all the qualities of youth.”

“I have been betrayed or denounced, then?”

“By whom?”

“By those who, at Havre, had, with infernal perspicacity, read my heart like an open book.”

“I do not know whom you mean.”

“M. de Bragelonne, for instance.”

“I know the name without being acquainted with the person to whom it belongs. M. de Bragelonne has said nothing.”

“Who can it be, then? If any one, madame, had had the boldness to notice in me that which I do not myself wish to behold----”

“What would you do, duke?”

“There are secrets which kill those who discover them.”

“He, then, who has discovered your secret, madman that you are, still lives; and, what is more, you will not slay him, for he is armed on all sides,--he is a husband, a jealous man,--he is the second gentleman in France,--he is my son, the Duc d’Orleans.”

The duke turned pale as death. “You are very cruel, madame,” he said.

“You see, Buckingham,” said Anne of Austria, sadly, “how you pass from one extreme to another, and fight with shadows, when it would seem so easy to remain at peace with yourself.”

“If we fight, madame, we die on the field of battle,” replied the young man, gently, abandoning himself to the most gloomy depression.

Anne ran towards him and took him by the hand. “Villiers,” she said, in English, with a vehemence of tone which nothing could resist, “what is it you ask? Do you ask a mother to sacrifice her son,--a queen to consent to the dishonor of her house? Child that you are, do not dream of it. What! in order to spare your tears am I to commit these crimes? Villiers! you speak of the dead; the dead, at least, were full of respect and submission; they resigned themselves to an order of exile; they carried their despair away with them in their hearts, like a priceless possession, because the despair was caused by the woman they loved, and because death, thus deceptive, was like a gift or a favor conferred upon them.”

Buckingham rose, his features distorted, and his hands pressed against his heart. “You are right, madame,” he said, “but those of whom you speak had received their order of exile from the lips of the one whom they loved; they were not driven away; they were entreated to leave, and were not laughed at.”

“No,” murmured Anne of Austria, “they were not forgotten. But who says you are driven away, or that you are exiled? Who says that your devotion will not be remembered? I do not speak on any one’s behalf but my own, when I tell you to leave. Do me this kindness--grant me this favor; let me, for this also, be indebted to one of your name.”

“It is for your sake, then, madame?”

“For mine alone.”

“No one whom I shall leave behind me will venture to mock,--no prince even who shall say, ‘I required it.’”

“Listen to me, duke,” and hereupon the dignified features of the queen assumed a solemn expression. “I swear to you that no one commands in this matter but myself. I swear to you that, not only shall no one either laugh or boast in any way, but no one even shall fail in the respect due to your rank. Rely upon me, duke, as I rely upon you.”

“You do not explain yourself, madame; my heart is full of bitterness, and I am in utter despair; no consolation, however gentle and affectionate, can afford me relief.”

“Do you remember your mother, duke?” replied the queen, with a winning smile.

“Very slightly, madame; yet I remember how she used to cover me with her caresses and her tears whenever I wept.”

“Villiers,” murmured the queen, passing her arm round the young man’s neck, “look upon me as your mother, and believe that no one shall ever make my son weep.”

“I thank you, madame,” said the young man, affected and almost suffocated by his emotion, “I feel there is indeed still room in my heart for a gentler and nobler sentiment than love.”

The queen-mother looked at him and pressed his hand. “Go,” she said.

“When must I leave? Command me.”

“At any time that may suit you, my lord,” resumed the queen; “you will choose your own day of departure. Instead, however, of setting off to-day, as you would doubtless wish to do, or to-morrow, as others may have expected, leave the day after to-morrow, in the evening; but announce to-day that it is your wish to leave.”

“My wish?” murmured the young duke.

“Yes, duke.”

“And shall I never return to France?”

Anne of Austria reflected for a moment, seemingly absorbed in sad and serious thought. “It would be a consolation for me,” she said, “if you were to return on the day when I shall be carried to my final resting-place at Saint-Denis beside the king, my husband.”

“Madame, you are goodness itself; the tide of prosperity is setting in on you; your cup brims over with happiness, and many long years are yet before you.”

“In that case you will not come for some time, then,” said the queen, endeavoring to smile.

“I shall not return,” said Buckingham, “young as I am. Death does not reckon by years; it is impartial; some die young, some reach old age.”

“I will not harbor any sorrowful ideas, duke. Let me comfort you; return in two years. I perceive from your face that the very idea which saddens you so much now, will have disappeared before six months have passed, and will be not only dead but forgotten in the period of absence I have assigned you.’

“I think you judged me better a little while ago madame,” replied the young man, “when you said that time is powerless against members of the family of Buckingham.”

“Silence,” said the queen, kissing the duke upon the forehead with an affection she could not restrain. “Go, go; spare me and forget yourself no longer. I am the queen; you are the subject of the king of England. King Charles awaits your return. Adieu, Villiers,--farewell.”

“Forever!” replied the young man, and he fled, endeavoring to master his emotion.

Anne leaned her head upon her hands, and then looking at herself in the glass, murmured, “It has been truly said, that a woman who has truly loved is always young, and that the bloom of twenty years ever lies concealed in some secret cloister of the heart.”

King Louis XIV. does not think Mademoiselle de la Valliere either rich enough or pretty enough for a Gentleman of the Rank of the Vicomte de Bragelonne

Raoul and the Comte de la Fere reached Paris the evening of the same day on which Buckingham had held the conversation with the queen-mother. The count had scarcely arrived, when, through Raoul, he solicited an audience of the king. His majesty had passed a portion of the morning in looking over, with Madame and the ladies of the court, various goods of Lyons manufacture, of which he had made his sister-in-law a present. A court dinner had succeeded, then cards, and afterwards, according to his usual custom, the king, leaving the card-tables at eight o’clock, passed into his cabinet in order to work with M. Colbert and M. Fouquet. Raoul entered the ante-chamber at the very moment the two ministers quitted it, and the king, perceiving him through the half-closed door, said, “What do you want, M. de Bragelonne?”

The young man approached: “An audience, sire,” he replied, “for the Comte de la Fere, who has just arrived from Blois, and is most anxious to have an interview with your majesty.”

“I have an hour to spare between cards and supper,” said the king. “Is the Comte de la Fere at hand?”

“He is below, and awaits your majesty’s permission.”

“Let him come up at once,” said the king, and five minutes afterwards Athos entered the presence of Louis XIV. He was received by the king with that gracious kindness of manner which Louis, with a tact beyond his years, reserved for the purpose of gaining those who were not to be conquered by ordinary favors. “Let me hope, comte,” said the king, “that you have come to ask me for something.”

“I will not conceal from your majesty,” replied the comte, “that I am indeed come for that purpose.”

“That is well,” said the king, joyously.

“It is not for myself, sire.”

“So much the worse; but, at least, I will do for your protege what you refuse to permit me to do for you.”

“Your majesty encourages me. I have come to speak on behalf of the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

“It is the same as if you spoke on your own behalf, comte.”

“Not altogether so, sire. I am desirous of obtaining from your majesty that which I cannot ask for myself. The vicomte thinks of marrying.”

“He is still very young; but that does not matter. He is an eminently distinguished man, I will choose a wife for him.”

“He has already chosen one, sire, and only awaits your consent.”

“It is only a question, then, of signing the marriage-contract?” Athos bowed. “Has he chosen a wife whose fortune and position accord with your own anticipations?”

Athos hesitated for a moment. “His affianced wife is of good birth, but has no fortune.”

“That is a misfortune we can remedy.”

“You overwhelm me with gratitude, sire; but your majesty will permit me to offer a remark?”

“Do so, comte.”

“Your majesty seems to intimate an intention of giving a marriage-portion to this young lady.”

“Certainly.”

“I should regret, sire, if the step I have taken towards your majesty should be attended by this result.”

“No false delicacy, comte; what is the bride’s name?”

“Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere,” said Athos, coldly.”

“I seem to know that name,” said the king, as if reflecting; “there was a Marquis de la Valliere”

“Yes, sire, it is his daughter.”

“But he died, and his widow married again M. de Saint-Remy, I think, steward of the wager Madame’s household.”

“Your majesty is correctly informed.”

“More than that, the young lady has lately become one of the princess’s maids of honor.”

“Your majesty is better acquainted with her history than I am.”

The king again reflected, and glancing at the comte’s anxious countenance, said: “The young lady does not seem to me to be very pretty, comte.”

“I am not quite sure,” replied Athos.

“I have seen her, but she hardly struck me as being so.”

“She seems to be a good and modest girl, but has little beauty, sire.”

“Beautiful fair hair, however.”

“I think so.”

“And her blue eyes are tolerably good.”

“Yes, sire.”

“With regard to beauty, then, the match is but an ordinary one. Now for the money side of the question.”

“Fifteen to twenty thousand francs dowry at the very outside, sire; the lovers are disinterested enough; for myself, I care little for money.”

“For superfluity, you mean; but a needful amount is of importance. With fifteen thousand francs, without landed property, a woman cannot live at court. We will make up the deficiency; I will do it for De Bragelonne.” The king again remarked the coldness with which Athos received the remark.

“Let us pass from the question of money to that of rank,” said Louis XIV.; “the daughter of the Marquis de la Valliere, that is well enough; but there is that excellent Saint-Remy, who somewhat damages the credit of the family; and you, comte, are rather particular, I believe, about your own family.”

“Sire, I no longer hold to anything but my devotion to your majesty.”

The king again paused. “A moment, comte. You have surprised me in no little degree from the beginning of your conversation. You came to ask me to authorize a marriage, and you seem greatly disturbed in having to make the request. Nay, pardon me, comte, but I am rarely deceived, young as I am; for while with some persons I place my friendship at the disposal of my understanding, with others I call my distrust to my aid, by which my discernment is increased. I repeat that you do not prefer your request as though you wished it success.”

“Well, sire, that is true.”

“I do not understand you, then; refuse.”

“Nay, sire; I love De Bragelonne with my whole heart; he is smitten with Mademoiselle de la Valliere, he weaves dreams of bliss for the future; I am not one who is willing to destroy the illusions of youth. This marriage is objectionable to me, but I implore your majesty to consent to it forthwith, and thus make Raoul happy.”

“Tell me, comte, is she in love with him?”

“If your majesty requires me to speak candidly, I do not believe in Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s affection; the delight at being at court, the honor of being in the service of Madame, counteract in her head whatever affection she may happen to have in her heart; it is a marriage similar to many others which already exist at court; but De Bragelonne wishes it, and so let it be.”

“And yet you do not resemble those easy-tempered fathers who volunteer as stepping-stones for their children,” said the king.

“I am determined enough against the viciously disposed, but not so against men of upright character. Raoul is suffering; he is in great distress of mind: his disposition, naturally light and cheerful, has become gloomy and melancholy. I do not wish to deprive your majesty of the services he may be able to render.”

“I understand you,” said the king; “and what is more, I understand your heart, too, comte.”

“There is no occasion, therefore,” replied the comte, “to tell your majesty that my object is to make these children, or rather Raoul, happy.”

“And I, too, as much as yourself, comte, wish to secure M. de Bragelonne’s happiness.”

“I only await your majesty’s signature. Raoul will have the honor of presenting himself before your majesty to receive your consent.”

“You are mistaken, comte,” said the king, firmly; “I have just said that I desire to secure M. de Bragelonne’s happiness, and from the present moment, therefore, I oppose his marriage.”

“But, sire,” exclaimed Athos, “your majesty has promised!”

“Not so, comte, I did not promise you, for it is opposed to my own views.”

“I appreciate your majesty’s considerate and generous intentions in my behalf; but I take the liberty of recalling to you that I undertook to approach you as an ambassador.”

“An ambassador, comte, frequently asks, but does not always obtain what he asks.”

“But, sire, it will be such a blow for De Bragelonne.”

“My hand shall deal the blow; I will speak to the vicomte.”

“Love, sir, is overwhelming in its might.”

“Love can be resisted, comte. I myself can assure you of that.”

“When one has the soul of a king,--your own, for instance, sire.”

“Do not make yourself uneasy on the subject. I have certain views for De Bragelonne. I do not say that he shall not marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere, but I do not wish him to marry so young; I do not wish him to marry her until she has acquired a fortune; and he, on his side, no less deserves favor, such as I wish to confer upon him. In a word, comte, I wish them to wait.”

“Yet once more, sire.”

“Comte, you told me you came to request a favor.”

“Assuredly, sire.”

“Grant me one, then, instead; let us speak no longer upon this matter. It is probable that, before long, war may be declared. I require men about me who are unfettered. I should hesitate to send under fire a married man, or a father of a family. I should hesitate also, on De Bragelonne’s account, to endow with a fortune, without some sound reason for it, a young girl, a perfect stranger; such an act would sow jealousy amongst my nobility.” Athos bowed, and remained silent.

“Is that all you wished to ask me?” added Louis XIV.

“Absolutely all, sire; and I take my leave of your majesty. Is it, however, necessary that I should inform Raoul?”

“Spare yourself the trouble and annoyance. Tell the vicomte that at my levee to-morrow morning I will speak to him. I shall expect you this evening, comte, to join my card-table.”

“I am in traveling-costume, sire.”

“A day will come, I hope, when you will leave me no more. Before long, comte, the monarchy will be established in such a manner as to enable me to offer a worthy hospitality to men of your merit.”

“Provided, sire, a monarch reigns grandly in the hearts of his subjects, the palace he inhabits matters little, since he is worshipped in a temple.” With these words Athos left the cabinet, and found De Bragelonne, who was awaiting him anxiously.

“Well, monsieur?” said the young man.

“The king, Raoul, is well intentioned towards us both; not, perhaps, in the sense you suppose, but he is kind, and generously disposed to our house.”

“You have bad news to communicate to me, monsieur,” said the young man, turning very pale.

“The king himself will inform you tomorrow morning that it is not bad news.”

“The king has not signed, however?”

“The king wishes himself to settle the terms of the contract, and he desires to make it so grand that he requires time for consideration. Throw the blame rather on your own impatience, than on the king’s good feeling towards you.”

Raoul, in utter consternation, on account of his knowledge of the count’s frankness as well as his diplomacy, remained plunged in dull and gloomy stupor.

“Will you not go with me to my lodgings?” said Athos.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur; I will follow you,” he stammered out, following Athos down the staircase.

“Since I am here,” said Athos, suddenly, “cannot I see M. d’Artagnan?”

“Shall I show you his apartments?” said De Bragelonne.

“Do so.”

“They are on the opposite staircase.”

They altered their course, but on reaching the landing of the grand staircase, Raoul perceived a servant in the Comte de Guiche’s livery, who ran towards him as soon as he heard his voice.

“What is it?” said Raoul.

“This note, monsieur. My master heard of your return and wrote to you without delay; I have been looking for you for the last half-hour.”

Raoul approached Athos as he unsealed the letter. saying, “With your permission, monsieur.”

“Certainly.”

“Dear Raoul,” wrote the Comte de Guiche, “I have an affair in hand which requires immediate attention; I know you have returned, come to me as soon as possible.”

Hardly had he finished reading it, when a servant in the livery of the Duke of Buckingham, turning out of the gallery, recognized Raoul, and approached him respectfully, saying, “From his Grace, monsieur.”

“Well, Raoul, as I see you are already as busy as a general of an army, I shall leave you, and will find M. d’Artagnan myself.”

“You will excuse me, I trust,” said Raoul.

“Yes, yes, I excuse you; adieu, Raoul; you will find me at my apartments until to-morrow; during the day I may set out for Blois, unless I have orders to the contrary.”

“I shall present my respects to you to-morrow, monsieur.”

As soon as Athos had left, Raoul opened Buckingham’s letter.

“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” it ran, “You are, of all the Frenchmen I have known, the one with whom I am most pleased; I am about to put your friendship to the proof. I have received a certain message, written in very good French. As I am an Englishman, I am afraid of not comprehending it very clearly. The letter has a good name attached to it, and that is all I can tell you. Will you be good enough to come and see me? for I am told you have arrived from Blois.

“Your devoted

“Villiers, Duke of Buckingham.”

“I am going now to see your master,” said Raoul to De Guiche’s servant, as he dismissed him; “and I shall be with the Duke of Buckingham in an hour,” he added, dismissing with these words the duke’s messenger.

Sword-thrusts in the Water

Raoul, on betaking himself to De Guiche, found him conversing with De Wardes and Manicamp. De Wardes, since the affair of the barricade, had treated Raoul as a stranger; they behaved as if they were not acquainted. As Raoul entered, De Guiche walked up to him; and Raoul, as he grasped his friend’s hand, glanced rapidly at his two companions, hoping to be able to read on their faces what was passing in their minds. De Wardes was cold and impenetrable; Manicamp seemed absorbed in the contemplation of some trimming to his dress. De Guiche led Raoul to an adjoining cabinet, and made him sit down, saying, “How well you look!”

“That is singular,” replied Raoul, “for I am far from being in good spirits.”

“It is your case, then, Raoul, as it is my own,--our love affairs do not progress.”

“So much the better, count, as far as you are concerned; the worst news would be good news.”

“In that case do not distress yourself, for, not only am I very unhappy, but, what is more, I see others about me who are happy.”

“Really, I do not understand you,” replied Raoul; “explain yourself.”

“You will soon learn. I have tried, but in vain, to overcome the feeling you saw dawn in me, increase and take entire possession of me. I have summoned all your advice and my own strength to my aid. I have well weighed the unfortunate affair in which I have embarked; I have sounded its depths; that it is an abyss, I am aware, but it matters little, for I shall pursue my own course.”

“This is madness, De Guiche! you cannot advance another step without risking your own ruin to-day, perhaps your life to-morrow.”

“Whatever may happen, I have done with reflections; listen.”

“And you hope to succeed; you believe that Madame will love you?”

“Raoul, I believe nothing; I hope, because hope exists in man, and never abandons him till death.”

“But, admitting that you obtain the happiness you covet, even then, you are more certainly lost than if you had failed in obtaining it.”

“I beseech you, Raoul, not to interrupt me any more; you could never convince me, for I tell you beforehand, I do not wish to be convinced; I have gone so far I cannot recede; I have suffered so much, death itself would be a boon. I no longer love to madness, Raoul, I am being engulfed by a whirlpool of jealousy.”

Raoul struck his hands together with an expression resembling anger. “Well?” said he.

“Well or ill matters little. This is what I claim from you, my friend, my almost brother. During the last three days Madame has been living in a perfect intoxication of gayety. On the first day, I dared not look at her; I hated her for not being as unhappy as myself. The next day I could not bear her out of my sight; and she, Raoul--at least I thought I remarked it--she looked at me, if not with pity, at least with gentleness. But between her looks and mine, a shadow intervened; another’s smile invited hers. Beside her horse another’s always gallops, which is not mine; in her ear another’s caressing voice, not mine, unceasingly vibrates. Raoul, for three days past my brain has been on fire; flame, not blood, courses through my veins. That shadow must be driven away, that smile must be quenched; that voice must be silenced.”

“You wish Monsieur’s death,” exclaimed Raoul.

“No, no, I am not jealous of the husband; I am jealous of the lover.”

“Of the lover?” said Raoul.

“Have you not observed it, you who were formerly so keen-sighted?”

“Are you jealous of the Duke of Buckingham?”

“To the very death.”

“Again jealous?”

“This time the affair will be easy to arrange between us; I have taken the initiative, and have sent him a letter.”

“It was you, then, who wrote to him?”

“How do you know that?”

“I know it, because he told me so. Look at this;” and he handed De Guiche the letter he had received nearly at the same moment as his own. De Guiche read it eagerly, and said, “He is a brave man, and more than that, a gallant man.”

“Most certainly the duke is a gallant man; I need not ask if you wrote to him in a similar style.”

“He will show you my letter when you call on him on my behalf.”

“But that is almost out of the question.”

“What is?”

“That I shall call on him for that purpose.”

“Why so?”

“The duke consults me as you do.”

“I suppose you will give me the preference! Listen to me, Raoul, I wish you to tell his Grace--it is a very simple matter--that to-day, to-morrow, the following day, or any other day he may choose. I will meet him at Vincennes.”

“Reflect, De Guiche.”

“I thought I told you I have reflected.”

“The duke is a stranger here; he is on a mission which renders his person inviolable.... Vincennes is close to the Bastile.”

“The consequences concern me.”

“But the motive for this meeting? What motive do you wish me to assign?”

“Be perfectly easy on that score, he will not ask any. The duke must be as sick of me as I am of him. I implore you, therefore, seek the duke, and if it is necessary to entreat him to accept my offer, I will do so.”

“That is useless. The duke has already informed me that he wishes to speak to me. The duke is now playing cards with the king. Let us both go there. I will draw him aside in the gallery: you will remain aloof. Two words will be sufficient.”

“That is well arranged. I will take De Wardes to keep me in countenance.”

“Why not Manicamp? De Wardes can join us at any time; we can leave him here.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“He knows nothing?”

“Positively nothing. You continue still on an unfriendly footing, then?”

“Has he not told you anything?”

“Nothing.”

“I do not like the man, and, as I never liked him, the result is, that I am on no worse terms with him to-day than I was yesterday.”

“Let us go, then.”

The four descended the stairs. De Guiche’s carriage was waiting at the door, and took them to the Palais-Royal. As they were going along, Raoul was engaged in devising his scheme of action. The sole depositary of two secrets, he did not despair of concluding some arrangement between the two parties. He knew the influence he exercised over Buckingham, and the ascendency he had acquired over De Guiche, and affairs did not look utterly hopeless. On their arrival in the gallery, dazzling with the blaze of light, where the most beautiful and illustrious women of the court moved to and fro, like stars in their own atmosphere, Raoul could not prevent himself for a moment forgetting De Guiche in order to seek out Louise, who, amidst her companions, like a dove completely fascinated, gazed long and fixedly upon the royal circle, which glittered with jewels and gold. All its members were standing, the king alone being seated. Raoul perceived Buckingham, who was standing a few places from Monsieur, in a group of French and English, who were admiring his aristocratic carriage and the incomparable magnificence of his costume. Some of the older courtiers remembered having seen his father, but their recollections were not prejudicial to the son.

Buckingham was conversing with Fouquet, who was talking with him aloud about Belle-Isle. “I cannot speak to him at present,” said Raoul.

“Wait, then, and choose your opportunity, but finish everything speedily. I am on thorns.”

“See, our deliverer approaches,” said Raoul, perceiving D’Artagnan, who, magnificently dressed in his new uniform of captain of the musketeers, had just made his entry in the gallery; and he advanced towards D’Artagnan.

“The Comte de la Fere has been looking for you, chevalier,” said Raoul.

“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “I have just left him.”

“I thought you would have passed a portion of the evening together.”

“We have arranged to meet again.”

As he answered Raoul, his absent looks were directed on all sides, as if seeking some one in the crowd, or looking for something in the room. Suddenly his gaze became fixed, like that of an eagle on its prey. Raoul followed the direction of his glance, and noticed that De Guiche and D’Artagnan saluted each other, but he could not distinguish at whom the captain’s inquiring and haughty glance was aimed.

“Chevalier,” said Raoul, “there is no one here but yourself who can render me a service.”

“What is it, my dear vicomte?”

“It is simply to go and interrupt the Duke of Buckingham, to whom I wish to say two words, and, as the duke is conversing with M. Fouquet, you understand that it would not do for me to throw myself into the middle of the conversation.”

“Ah, ah, is M. Fouquet there?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“Do you not see him?”

“Yes, now I do. But do you think I have a greater right than you have?”

“You are a more important personage.”

“Yes, you’re right; I am captain of the musketeers; I have had the post promised me so long, and have enjoyed it for so brief a period, that I am always forgetting my dignity.”

“You will do me this service, will you not?”

“M. Fouquet--the deuce!”

“Are you not on good terms with him?”

“It is rather he who may not be on good terms with me; however, since it must be done some day or another----”

“Stay; I think he is looking at you; or is it likely that it might be----”

“No, no, don’t deceive yourself, it is indeed me for whom this honor is intended.”

“The opportunity is a good one, then?”

“Do you think so?”

“Pray go.”

“Well, I will.”

De Guiche had not removed his eyes from Raoul, who made a sign to him that all was arranged. D’Artagnan walked straight up to the group, and civilly saluted M. Fouquet as well as the others.

“Good evening, M. d’Artagnan; we were speaking of Belle-Isle,” said Fouquet, with that usage of society, and that perfect knowledge of the language of looks, which require half a lifetime thoroughly to acquire, and which some persons, notwithstanding all their study, never attain.

“Of Belle-Isle-en-Mer! Ah!” said D’Artagnan. “It belongs to you, I believe, M. Fouquet?”

“M. Fouquet has just told me that he had presented it to the king,” said Buckingham.

“Do you know Belle-Isle, chevalier?” inquired Fouquet.

“I have only been there once,” replied D’Artagnan, with readiness and good-humor.

“Did you remain there long?”

“Scarcely a day.”

“Did you see much of it while you were there?”

“All that could be seen in a day.”

“A great deal can be seen with observation as keen as yours,” said Fouquet; at which D’Artagnan bowed.

During this Raoul made a sign to Buckingham. “M. Fouquet,” said Buckingham, “I leave the captain with you, he is more learned than I am in bastions, scarps, and counter-scarps, and I will join one of my friends, who has just beckoned me.” Saying this, Buckingham disengaged himself from the group, and advanced towards Raoul, stopping for a moment at the table where the queen-mother, the young queen, and the king were playing together.

“Now, Raoul,” said De Guiche, “there he is; be firm and quick.”

Buckingham, having made some complimentary remark to Madame, continued his way towards Raoul, who advanced to meet him, while De Guiche remained in his place, though he followed him with his eyes. The maneuver was so arranged that the young men met in an open space which was left vacant, between the group of players and the gallery, where they walked, stopping now and then for the purpose of saying a few words to some of the graver courtiers who were walking there. At the moment when the two lines were about to unite, they were broken by a third. It was Monsieur who advanced toward the Duke of Buckingham. Monsieur had his most engaging smile on his red and perfumed lips.

“My dear duke,” said he, with the most affectionate politeness; “is it really true what I have just been told?”

Buckingham turned round, he had not noticed Monsieur approach; but had merely heard his voice. He started in spite of his command over himself, and a slight pallor overspread his face. “Monseigneur,” he asked, “what has been told you that surprises you so much?”

“That which throws me into despair, and will, in truth, be a real cause of mourning for the whole court.”

“Your highness is very kind, for I perceive that you allude to my departure.”

“Precisely.”

Guiche had overheard the conversation from where he was standing, and started in his turn. “His departure,” he murmured. “What does he say?”

Philip continued with the same gracious air, “I can easily conceive, monsieur, why the king of Great Britain recalls you; we all know that King Charles II.; who appreciates true gentlemen, cannot dispense with you. But it cannot be supposed we can let you go without great regret; and I beg you to receive the expression of my own.”

“Believe me, monseigneur,” said the duke, “that if I quit the court of France----”

“Because you are recalled; but, if you suppose the expression of my own wish on the subject might possibly have any influence with the king, I will gladly volunteer to entreat his majesty Charles II. to leave you with us a little while longer.”

“I am overwhelmed, monseigneur, by so much kindness,” replied Buckingham, “but I have received positive commands. My residence in France was limited; I have prolonged it at the risk of displeasing my gracious sovereign. It is only this very day that I recollected I ought to have set off four days ago.”

“Indeed,” said Monsieur.

“Yes, but,” added Buckingham, raising his voice in such a manner that the princess could hear him,--“but I resemble that dweller in the East, who turned mad, and remained so for several days, owing to a delightful dream that he had had, but who one day awoke, if not completely cured, in some respects rational at least. The court of France has its intoxicating properties, which are not unlike this dream, my lord; but at last I wake and leave it. I shall be unable, therefore, to prolong my residence, as your highness has so kindly invited me to do.”

“When do you leave?” inquired Philip, with an expression full of interest.

“To-morrow, monseigneur. My carriages have been ready for three days.”

The Duc d’Orleans made a movement of the head, which seemed to signify, “Since you are determined, duke, there is nothing to be said.” Buckingham returned the gesture, concealing under a smile a contraction of his heart; and then Monsieur moved away in the same direction by which he had approached. At the same moment, however, De Guiche advanced from the opposite direction. Raoul feared that the impatient young man might possibly make the proposition himself, and hurried forward before him.

“No, no, Raoul, all is useless now,” said Guiche, holding both his hands toward the duke, and leading him behind a column. “Forgive me, duke, for what I wrote to you, I was mad; give me back my letter.”

“It is true,” said the duke, “you cannot owe me a grudge any longer now.”

“Forgive me, duke; my friendship, my lasting friendship is yours.”

“There is certainly no reason why you should bear me any ill-will from the moment I leave her never to see her again.”

Raoul heard these words, and comprehending that his presence was now useless between the two young men, who had now only friendly words to exchange, withdrew a few paces; a movement which brought him closer to De Wardes, who was conversing with the Chevalier de Lorraine respecting the departure of Buckingham. “A strategic retreat,” said De Wardes.

“Why so?”

“Because the dear duke saves a sword-thrust by it.” At which reply both laughed.

Raoul, indignant, turned round frowningly, flushed with anger and his lip curling with disdain. The Chevalier de Lorraine turned on his heel, but De Wardes remained and waited.

“You will not break yourself of the habit,” said Raoul to De Wardes, “of insulting the absent; yesterday it was M. d’Artagnan, to-day it is the Duke of Buckingham.”

“You know very well, monsieur,” returned De Wardes, “that I sometimes insult those who are present.”

De Wardes was close to Raoul, their shoulders met, their faces approached, as if to mutually inflame each other by the fire of their looks and of their anger. It could be seen that the one was at the height of fury, the other at the end of his patience. Suddenly a voice was heard behind them full of grace and courtesy saying, “I believe I heard my name pronounced.”

They turned round and saw D’Artagnan, who, with a smiling eye and a cheerful face, had just placed his hand on De Wardes’s shoulder. Raoul stepped back to make room for the musketeer. De Wardes trembled from head to foot, turned pale, but did not move. D’Artagnan, still with the same smile, took the place which Raoul abandoned to him.

“Thank you, my dear Raoul,” he said. “M. de Wardes, I wish to talk with you. Do not leave us Raoul; every one can hear what I have to say to M. de Wardes.” His smile immediately faded away, and his glance became cold and sharp as a sword.

“I am at your orders, monsieur,” said De Wardes.

“For a very long time,” resumed D’Artagnan, “I have sought an opportunity of conversing with you; to-day is the first time I have found it. The place is badly chosen, I admit, but you will perhaps have the goodness to accompany me to my apartments, which are on the staircase at the end of this gallery.”

“I follow you, monsieur,” said De Wardes.

“Are you alone here?” said D’Artagnan.

“No; I have M. Manicamp and M. de Guiche, two of my friends.”

“That’s well,” said D’Artagnan; “but two persons are not sufficient; you will be able to find a few others, I trust.”

“Certainly,” said the young man, who did not know what object D’Artagnan had in view. “As many as you please.”

“Are they friends?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Real friends?”

“No doubt of it.”

“Very well, get a good supply, then. Do you come, too, Raoul; bring M. de Guiche and the Duke of Buckingham.”

“What a disturbance,” replied De Wardes, attempting to smile. The captain slightly signed to him with his hand, as though to recommend him to be patient, and then led the way to his apartments.

Sword-thrusts in the Water (concluded)

D’Artagnan’s apartment was not unoccupied, for the Comte de la Fere, seated in the recess of a window, awaited him. “Well,” said he to D’Artagnan, as he saw him enter.

“Well,” said the latter, “M. de Wardes has done me the honor to pay me a visit, in company with some of his own friends, as well as of ours.” In fact, behind the musketeer appeared De Wardes and Manicamp followed by De Guiche and Buckingham, who looked surprised, not knowing what was expected of them. Raoul was accompanied by two or three gentlemen; and, as he entered, glanced round the room, and perceiving the count, he went and placed himself by his side. D’Artagnan received his visitors with all the courtesy he was capable of; he preserved his unmoved and unconcerned look. All the persons present were men of distinction, occupying posts of honor and credit at the court. After he had apologized to each of them for any inconvenience he might have put them to, he turned towards De Wardes, who, in spite of his customary self-command, could not prevent his face betraying some surprise mingled with not a little uneasiness.

“Now, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “since we are no longer within the precincts of the king’s palace, and since we can speak out without failing in respect to propriety, I will inform you why I have taken the liberty to request you to visit me here, and why I have invited these gentlemen to be present at the same time. My friend, the Comte de la Fere, has acquainted me with the injurious reports you are spreading about myself. You have stated that you regard me as your mortal enemy, because I was, so you affirm, that of your father.”

“Perfectly true, monsieur, I have said so,” replied De Wardes, whose pallid face became slightly tinged with color.

“You accuse me, therefore, of a crime, or a fault, or of some mean and cowardly act. Have the goodness to state your charge against me in precise terms.”

“In the presence of witnesses?”

“Most certainly in the presence of witnesses; and you see I have selected them as being experienced in affairs of honor.”

“You do not appreciate my delicacy, monsieur. I have accused you, it is true; but I have kept the nature of the accusation a perfect secret. I entered into no details; but have rested satisfied by expressing my hatred in the presence of those on whom a duty was almost imposed to acquaint you with it. You have not taken the discreetness I have shown into consideration, although you were interested in remaining silent. I can hardly recognize your habitual prudence in that, M. d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan, who was quietly biting the corner of his mustache, said, “I have already had the honor to beg you to state the particulars of the grievances you say you have against me.”

“Aloud?”

“Certainly, aloud.”

“In that case, I will speak.”

“Speak, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, bowing; “we are all listening to you.”

“Well, monsieur, it is not a question of a personal injury towards myself, but one towards my father.”

“That you have already stated.”

“Yes, but there are certain subjects which are only approached with hesitation.”

“If that hesitation, in your case, really does exist, I entreat you to overcome it.”

“Even if it refer to a disgraceful action?”

“Yes; in every and any case.”

Those who were present at this scene had, at first, looked at each other with a good deal of uneasiness. They were reassured, however, when they saw that D’Artagnan manifested no emotion whatever.

De Wardes still maintained the same unbroken silence. “Speak, monsieur,” said the musketeer; “you see you are keeping us waiting.”

“Listen, then:--My father loved a lady of noble birth, and this lady loved my father.” D’Artagnan and Athos exchanged looks. De Wardes continued: “M. d’Artagnan found some letters which indicated a rendezvous, substituted himself, under disguise, for the person who was expected, and took advantage of the darkness.”

“That is perfectly true,” said D’Artagnan.

A slight murmur was heard from those present. “Yes, I was guilty of that dishonorable action. You should have added, monsieur, since you are so impartial, that, at the period when the circumstance which you have just related, happened, I was not one-and-twenty years of age.”

“Such an action is not the less shameful on that account,” said De Wardes; “and it is quite sufficient for a gentleman to have attained the age of reason, to avoid committing an act of indelicacy.”

A renewed murmur was heard, but this time of astonishment, and almost of doubt.

“It was a most shameful deception, I admit,” said D’Artagnan, “and I have not waited for M. de Wardes’s reproaches to reproach myself for it, and very bitterly, too. Age has, however, made me more reasonable, and above all, more upright; and this injury has been atoned for by a long and lasting regret. But I appeal to you, gentlemen; this affair took place in 1626, at a period, happily for yourselves, known to you by tradition only, at a period when love was not over scrupulous, when consciences did not distill, as in the present day, poison and bitterness. We were young soldiers, always fighting, or being attacked, our swords always in our hands, or at least ready to be drawn from their sheaths. Death then always stared us in the face, war hardened us, and the cardinal pressed us sorely. I have repented of it, and more than that--I still repent it, M. de Wardes.”

“I can well understand that, monsieur, for the action itself needed repentance; but you were not the less the cause of that lady’s disgrace. She, of whom you have been speaking, covered with shame, borne down by the affront you brought upon her, fled, quitted France, and no one ever knew what became of her.”

“Stay,” said the Comte de la Fere, stretching his hand towards De Wardes, with a peculiar smile upon his face, “you are mistaken; she was seen; and there are persons even now present, who, having often heard her spoken of, will easily recognize her by the description I am about to give. She was about five-and-twenty years of age, slender in form, of a pale complexion, and fair-haired; she was married in England.”

“Married?” exclaimed De Wardes.

“So, you were not aware she was married? You see we are far better informed than yourself. Do you happen to know she was usually styled ‘My Lady,’ without the addition of any name to that description?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Good Heavens!” murmured Buckingham.

“Very well, monsieur. That woman, who came from England, returned to England after having thrice attempted M. d’Artagnan’s life. That was but just, you will say, since M. d’Artagnan had insulted her. But that which was not just was, that, when in England, this woman, by her seductions, completely enslaved a young man in the service of Lord de Winter, by name Felton. You change color, my lord,” said Athos turning to the Duke of Buckingham, “and your eyes kindle with anger and sorrow. Let your Grace finish the recital, then, and tell M. de Wardes who this woman was who placed the knife in the hand of your father’s murderer.”

A cry escaped from the lips of all present. The young duke passed his handkerchief across his forehead, which was covered with perspiration. A dead silence ensued among the spectators.

“You see, M. de Wardes,” said D’Artagnan, whom this recital had impressed more and more, as his own recollection revived as Athos spoke, “you see that my crime did not cause the destruction of any one’s soul, and that the soul in question may fairly be considered to have been altogether lost before my regret. It is, however, an act of conscience on my part. Now this matter is settled, therefore, it remains for me to ask with the greatest humility, your forgiveness for this shameless action, as most certainly I should have asked it of your father, if he were still alive, and if I had met him after my return to France, subsequent to the death of King Charles I.”

“That is too much, M. d’Artagnan,” exclaimed many voices, with animation.

“No, gentlemen,” said the captain. “And now, M. de Wardes, I hope all is finished between us, and that you will have no further occasion to speak ill of me again. Do you consider it completely settled?”

De Wardes bowed, and muttered to himself inarticulately.

“I trust also,” said D’Artagnan, approaching the young man closely, “that you will no longer speak ill of any one, as it seems you have the unfortunate habit of doing; for a man so puritanically conscientious as you are, who can reproach an old soldier for a youthful freak five-and-thirty years after it happened, will allow me to ask whether you who advocate such excessive purity of conscience, will undertake on your side to do nothing contrary either to conscience or the principle of honor. And now, listen attentively to what I am going to say, M. de Wardes, in conclusion. Take care that no tale, with which your name may be associated, reaches my ear.”

“Monsieur,” said De Wardes, “it is useless threatening to no purpose.”

“I have not yet finished, M. de Wardes, and you must listen to me still further.” The circle of listeners, full of eager curiosity, drew closer. “You spoke just now of the honor of a woman, and of the honor of your father. We were glad to hear you speak in that manner; for it is pleasing to think that such a sentiment of delicacy and rectitude, and which did not exist, it seems, in our minds, lives in our children; and it is delightful too, to see a young man, at an age when men from habit become the destroyers of the honor of women, respect and defend it.”

De Wardes bit his lips and clenched his hands, evidently much disturbed to learn how this discourse, the commencement of which was announced in so threatening a manner, would terminate.

“How did it happen, then, that you allowed yourself to say to M. de Bragelonne that he did not know who his mother was?”

Raoul’s eye flashed, as, darting forward, he exclaimed,--“Chevalier, this is a personal affair of my own!” At which exclamation, a smile, full of malice, passed across De Wardes’s face.

D’Artagnan put Raoul aside, saying,--“Do not interrupt me, young man.” And looking at De Wardes in an authoritative manner, he continued:--“I am now dealing with a matter which cannot be settled by means of the sword. I discuss it before men of honor, all of whom have more than once had their swords in their hands in affairs of honor. I selected them expressly. These gentlemen well know that every secret for which men fight ceases to be a secret. I again put my question to M. de Wardes. What was the subject of conversation when you offended this young man, in offending his father and mother at the same time?”

“It seems to me,” returned De Wardes, “that liberty of speech is allowed, when it is supported by every means which a man of courage has at his disposal.”

“Tell me what the means are by which a man of courage can sustain a slanderous expression.”

“The sword.”

“You fail, not only in logic, in your argument, but in religion and honor. You expose the lives of many others, without referring to your own, which seems to be full of hazard. Besides, fashions pass away, monsieur, and the fashion of duelling has passed away, without referring in any way to the edicts of his majesty which forbid it. Therefore, in order to be consistent with your own chivalrous notions, you will at once apologize to M. de Bragelonne; you will tell him how much you regret having spoken so lightly, and that the nobility and purity of his race are inscribed, not in his heart alone, but still more in every action of his life. You will do and say this, M. de Wardes, as I, an old officer, did and said just now to your boy’s mustache.”

“And if I refuse?” inquired De Wardes.

“In that case the result will be--”

“That which you think you will prevent,” said De Wardes, laughing; “the result will be that your conciliatory address will end in a violation of the king’s prohibition.”

“Not so,” said the captain, “you are quite mistaken.”

“What will be the result, then?”

“The result will be that I shall go to the king, with whom I am on tolerably good terms, to whom I have been happy enough to render certain services dating from a period when you were not born, and who at my request, has just sent me an order in blank for M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor of the Bastile; and I shall say to the king: ‘Sire, a man has in a most cowardly way insulted M. de Bragelonne by insulting his mother; I have written this man’s name upon the lettre de cachet which your majesty has been kind enough to give me, so that M. de Wardes is in the Bastile for three years.’” And D’Artagnan drawing the order signed by the king from his pocket, held it towards De Wardes.

Remarking that the young man was not quite convinced, and received the warning as an idle threat, he shrugged his shoulders and walked leisurely towards the table, upon which lay a writing-case and a pen, the length of which would have terrified the topographical Porthos. De Wardes then saw that nothing could well be more seriously intended than the threat in question for the Bastile, even at that period, was already held in dread. He advanced a step towards Raoul, and, in an almost unintelligible voice, said,--“I offer my apologies in the terms which M. d’Artagnan just now dictated, and which I am forced to make to you.”

“One moment, monsieur,” said the musketeer, with the greatest tranquillity, “you mistake the terms of the apology. I did not say, ‘and which I am forced to make’; I said, ‘and which my conscience induces me to make.’ This latter expression, believe me, is better than the former; and it will be far preferable, since it will be the most truthful expression of your own sentiments.”

“I subscribe to it,” said De Wardes; “but submit, gentlemen, that a thrust of a sword through the body, as was the custom formerly, was far better than tyranny like this.”

“No, monsieur,” replied Buckingham; “for the sword-thrust, when received, was no indication that a particular person was right or wrong; it only showed that he was more or less skillful in the use of the weapon.”

“Monsieur!” exclaimed De Wardes.

“There, now,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you are going to say something very rude, and I am rendering you a service by stopping you in time.”

“Is that all, monsieur?” inquired De Wardes.

“Absolutely everything,” replied D’Artagnan, “and these gentlemen, as well as myself, are quite satisfied with you.”

“Believe me monsieur, that your reconciliations are not successful.”

“In what way?”

“Because, as we are now about to separate. I would wager that M. de Bragelonne and myself are greater enemies than ever.”

“You are deceived, monsieur, as far as I am concerned,” returned Raoul; “for I do not retain the slightest animosity in my heart against you.”

This last blow overwhelmed De Wardes. He cast his eyes around him like a man bewildered. D’Artagnan saluted most courteously the gentlemen who had been present at the explanation; and every one, on leaving the room, shook hands with him; but not one hand was held out towards De Wardes. “Oh!” exclaimed the young man, abandoning himself to the rage which consumed him, “can I not find some one on whom to wreak my vengeance?”

“You can, monsieur, for I am here,” whispered a voice full of menace in his ear.

De Wardes turned round, and saw the Duke of Buckingham, who, having probably remained behind with that intention, had just approached him. “You, monsieur?” exclaimed De Wardes.

“Yes, I! I am no subject of the king of France; I am not going to remain on the territory, since I am about setting off for England. I have accumulated in my heart such a mass of despair and rage, that I, too, like yourself, need to revenge myself upon some one. I approve M. d’Artagnan’s principles profoundly, but I am not bound to apply them to you. I am an Englishman, and, in my turn, I propose to you what you proposed to others to no purpose. Since you, therefore, are so terribly incensed, take me as a remedy. In thirty-four hours’ time I shall be at Calais. Come with me; the journey will appear shorter if together, than if alone. We will fight, when we get there, upon the sands which are covered by the rising tide, and which form part of the French territory during six hours of the day, but belong to the territory of Heaven during the other six.”

“I accept willingly,” said De Wardes.

“I assure you,” said the duke, “that if you kill me, you will be rendering me an infinite service.”

“I will do my utmost to make myself agreeable to you, duke,” said De Wardes.

“It is agreed, then, that I carry you off with me?”

“I shall be at your commands. I needed some real danger and some mortal risk to run, to tranquilize me.”

“In that case, I think you have met with what you are looking for. Farewell, M. de Wardes; to-morrow morning, my valet will tell you the exact hour of our departure; we can travel together like two excellent friends. I generally travel as fast as I can. Adieu.”

Buckingham saluted De Wardes, and returned towards the king’s apartments; De Wardes, irritated beyond measure, left the Palais-Royal, and hurried through the streets homeward to the house where he lodged.

Baisemeaux de Montlezun

After the austere lesson administered to De Wardes, Athos and D’Artagnan together descended the staircase which led to the courtyard of the Palais-Royal. “You perceive,” said Athos to D’Artagnan, “that Raoul cannot, sooner or later, avoid a duel with De Wardes, for De Wardes is as brave as he is vicious and wicked.”

“I know such fellows well,” replied D’Artagnan; “I had an affair with the father. I assure you that, although at that time I had good muscles and a sort of brute courage--I assure you that the father did me some mischief. But you should have seen how I fought it out with him. Ah, Athos, such encounters never take place in these times! I had a hand which could never remain at rest, a hand like quicksilver,--you knew its quality, for you have seen me at work. My sword was no longer a piece of steel; it was a serpent that assumed every form and every length, seeking where it might thrust its head; in other words, where it might fix its bite. I advanced half a dozen paces, then three, and then, body to body, I pressed my antagonist closely, then I darted back again ten paces. No human power could resist that ferocious ardor. Well, De Wardes, the father, with the bravery of his race, with his dogged courage, occupied a good deal of my time; and my fingers, at the end of the engagement, were, I well remember, tired enough.”

“It is, then, as I said,” resumed Athos, “the son will always be looking out for Raoul, and will end by meeting him; and Raoul can easily be found when he is sought for.”

“Agreed; but Raoul calculates well; he bears no grudge against De Wardes,--he has said so; he will wait until he is provoked, and in that case his position is a good one. The king will not be able to get out of temper about the matter; besides we shall know how to pacify his majesty. But why so full of these fears and anxieties? You don’t easily get alarmed.”

“I will tell you what makes me anxious; Raoul is to see the king to-morrow, when his majesty will inform him of his wishes respecting a certain marriage. Raoul, loving as he does, will get out of temper, and once in an angry mood, if he were to meet De Wardes, the shell would explode.”

“We will prevent the explosion.”

“Not I,” said Athos, “for I must return to Blois. All this gilded elegance of the court, all these intrigues, sicken me. I am no longer a young man who can make terms with the meannesses of the day. I have read in the Great Book many things too beautiful and too comprehensive, to longer take any interest in the trifling phrases which these men whisper among themselves when they wish to deceive others. In one word, I am weary of Paris wherever and whenever you are not with me; and as I cannot have you with me always, I wish to return to Blois.”

“How wrong you are, Athos; how you gainsay your origin and the destiny of your noble nature. Men of your stamp are created to continue, to the very last moment, in full possession of their great faculties. Look at my sword, a Spanish blade, the one I wore at Rochelle; it served me for thirty years without fail; one day in the winter it fell upon the marble floor on the Louvre and was broken. I had a hunting-knife made of it which will last a hundred years yet. You, Athos, with your loyalty, your frankness, your cool courage and your sound information, are the very man kings need to warn and direct them. Remain here; Monsieur Fouquet will not last as long as my Spanish blade.”

“Is it possible,” said Athos, smiling, “that my friend, D’Artagnan, who, after having raised me to the skies, making me an object of worship, casts me down from the top of Olympus, and hurls me to the ground? I have more exalted ambition, D’Artagnan. To be a minister--to be a slave,--never! Am I not still greater? I am nothing. I remember having heard you occasionally call me ‘the great Athos;’ I defy you, therefore, if I were minister, to continue to bestow that title upon me. No, no; I do not yield myself in this manner.”

“We will not speak of it any more, then; renounce everything, even the brotherly feeling which unites us.”

“It is almost cruel what you say.”

D’Artagnan pressed Athos’s hand warmly. “No, no; renounce everything without fear. Raoul can get on without you. I am at Paris.”

“In that case I shall return to Blois. We will take leave of each other to-night, to-morrow at daybreak I shall be on my horse again.”

“You cannot return to your hotel alone; why did you not bring Grimaud with you?”

“Grimaud takes his rest now; he goes to bed early, for my poor old servant gets easily fatigued. He came from Blois with me, and I compelled him to remain within doors; for if, in retracing the forty leagues which separate us from Blois, he needed to draw breath even, he would die without a murmur. But I don’t want to lose Grimaud.”

“You shall have one of my musketeers to carry a torch for you. Hola! some one there,” called out D’Artagnan, leaning over the gilded balustrade. The heads of seven or eight musketeers appeared. “I wish some gentleman who is so disposed to escort the Comte de la Fere,” cried D’Artagnan.

“Thank you for your readiness, gentlemen,” said Athos; “I regret to have occasion to trouble you in this manner.”

“I would willingly escort the Comte de la Fere,” said some one, “if I had not to speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Who is that?” said D’Artagnan, looking into the darkness.

“I, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Heaven forgive me, if that is not Monsieur Baisemeaux’s voice.”

“It is, monsieur.”

“What are you doing in the courtyard, my dear Baisemeaux?”

“I am waiting your orders, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Wretch that I am,” thought D’Artagnan; “true, you have been told, I suppose, that some one was to be arrested, and have come yourself, instead of sending an officer?”

“I came because I had occasion to speak to you.”

“You did not send to me?”

“I waited until you were disengaged,” said Monsieur Baisemeaux, timidly.

“I leave you, D’Artagnan,” said Athos.

“Not before I have presented Monsieur Baisemeaux de Montlezun, the governor of the Bastile.”

Baisemeaux and Athos saluted each other.

“Surely you must know each other,” said D’Artagnan.

“I have an indistinct recollection of Monsieur Baisemeaux,” said Athos.

“You remember, my dear, Baisemeaux, the king’s guardsman with whom we used formerly to have such delightful meetings in the cardinal’s time?”

“Perfectly,” said Athos, taking leave of him with affability.

“Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, whose nom de guerre was Athos,” whispered D’Artagnan to Baisemeaux.

“Yes, yes, a brave man, one of the celebrated four.”

“Precisely so. But, my dear Baisemeaux, shall we talk now?”

“If you please.”

“In the first place, as for the orders--there are none. The king does not intend to arrest the person in question.”

“So much the worse,” said Baisemeaux with a sigh.

“What do you mean by so much the worse?” exclaimed D’Artagnan, laughing.

“No doubt of it,” returned the governor, “my prisoners are my income.”

“I beg your pardon, I did not see it in that light.”

“And so there are no orders,” repeated Baisemeaux with a sigh. “What an admirable situation yours is captain,” he continued, after a pause, “captain-lieutenant of the musketeers.”

“Oh, it is good enough; but I don’t see why you should envy me; you, governor of the Bastile, the first castle in France.”

“I am well aware of that,” said Baisemeaux, in a sorrowful tone of voice.

“You say that like a man confessing his sins. I would willingly exchange my profits for yours.”

“Don’t speak of profits to me if you wish to save me the bitterest anguish of mind.”

“Why do you look first on one side and then on the other, as if you were afraid of being arrested yourself, you whose business it is to arrest others?”

“I was looking to see whether any one could see or listen to us; it would be safer to confer more in private, if you would grant me such a favor.”

“Baisemeaux, you seem to forget we are acquaintances of five and thirty years’ standing. Don’t assume such sanctified airs; make yourself quite comfortable; I don’t eat governors of the Bastile raw.”

“Heaven be praised!”

“Come into the courtyard with me, it’s a beautiful moonlight night; we will walk up and down arm in arm under the trees, while you tell me your pitiful tale.” He drew the doleful governor into the courtyard, took him by the arm as he had said, and, in his rough, good-humored way, cried: “Out with it, rattle away, Baisemeaux; what have you got to say?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You prefer your own lamentations, then; my opinion is, it will be longer than ever. I’ll wager you are making fifty thousand francs out of your pigeons in the Bastile.”

“Would to heaven that were the case, M. d’Artagnan.”

“You surprise me, Baisemeaux; just look at you, acting the anchorite. I should like to show you your face in a glass, and you would see how plump and florid-looking you are, as fat and round as a cheese, with eyes like lighted coals; and if it were not for that ugly wrinkle you try to cultivate on your forehead, you would hardly look fifty years old, and you are sixty, if I am not mistaken.”

“All quite true.”

“Of course I knew it was true, as true as the fifty thousand francs profit you make,” at which remark Baisemeaux stamped on the ground.

“Well, well,” said D’Artagnan, “I will add up your accounts for you: you were captain of M. Mazarin’s guards; and twelve thousand francs a year would in twelve years amount to one hundred and forty thousand francs.”

“Twelve thousand francs! Are you mad?” cried Baisemeaux; “the old miser gave me no more than six thousand, and the expenses of the post amounted to six thousand five hundred francs. M. Colbert, who deducted the other six thousand francs, condescended to allow me to take fifty pistoles as a gratification; so that, if it were not for my little estate at Montlezun, which brings me in twelve thousand francs a year, I could not have met my engagements.”

“Well, then, how about the fifty thousand francs from the Bastile? There, I trust, you are boarded and lodged, and get your six thousand francs salary besides.”

“Admitted!”

“Whether the year be good or bad, there are fifty prisoners, who, on an average, bring you in a thousand francs a year each.”

“I don’t deny it.”

“Well, there is at once an income of fifty thousand francs; you have held the post three years, and must have received in that time one hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

“You forget one circumstance, dear M. d’Artagnan.”

“What is that?”

“That while you received your appointment as captain from the king himself, I received mine as governor from Messieurs Tremblay and Louviere.”

“Quite right, and Tremblay was not a man to let you have the post for nothing.”

“Nor Louviere either: the result was, that I gave seventy-five thousand francs to Tremblay as his share.”

“Very agreeable that! and to Louviere?”

“The very same.”

“Money down?”

“No: that would have been impossible. The king did not wish, or rather M. Mazarin did not wish, to have the appearance of removing those two gentlemen, who had sprung from the barricades; he permitted them therefore, to make certain extravagant conditions for their retirement.”

“What were those conditions?”

“Tremble...three years’ income for the good-will.”

“The deuce! so that the one hundred and fifty thousand francs have passed into their hands.”

“Precisely so.”

“And beyond that?”

“A sum of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, or fifteen thousand pistoles, whichever you please, in three payments.”

“Exorbitant.”

“Yes, but that is not all.”

“What besides?”

“In default of the fulfillment by me of any one of those conditions, those gentlemen enter upon their functions again. The king has been induced to sign that.”

“It is monstrous, incredible!”

“Such is the fact, however.”

“I do indeed pity you, Baisemeaux. But why, in the name of fortune, did M. Mazarin grant you this pretended favor? It would have been far better to have refused you altogether.”

“Certainly, but he was strongly persuaded to do so by my protector.”

“Who is he?”

“One of your own friends, indeed; M. d’Herblay.”

“M. d’Herblay! Aramis!”

“Just so; he has been very kind towards me.”

“Kind! to make you enter into such a bargain!”

“Listen! I wished to leave the cardinal’s service. M. d’Herblay spoke on my behalf to Louviere and Tremblay--they objected; I wished to have the appointment very much, for I knew what it could be made to produce; in my distress I confided in M. d’Herblay, and he offered to become my surety for the different payments.”

“You astound me! Aramis become your surety?”

“Like a man of honor; he procured the signature; Tremblay and Louviere resigned their appointments, I have paid every year twenty-five thousand francs to these two gentlemen; on the thirty-first of May every year, M. d’Herblay himself comes to the Bastile, and brings me five thousand pistoles to distribute between my crocodiles.”

“You owe Aramis one hundred and fifty thousand francs, then?”

“That is the very thing which is the cause of my despair, for I only owe him one hundred thousand.”

“I don’t quite understand you.”

“He came and settled with the vampires only two years. To-day, however, is the thirty-first of May, and he has not been yet, and to-morrow, at midday, the payment falls due; if, therefore, I don’t pay to-morrow, those gentlemen can, by the terms of the contract, break off the bargain; I shall be stripped of everything; I shall have worked for three years, and given two hundred and fifty thousand francs for nothing, absolutely for nothing at all, dear M. d’Artagnan.”

“This is very strange,” murmured D’Artagnan.

“You can now imagine that I may well have wrinkles on my forehead, can you not?”

“Yes, indeed!”

“And you can imagine, too, that notwithstanding I may be as round as a cheese, with a complexion like an apple, and my eyes like coals on fire, I may almost be afraid that I shall not have a cheese or an apple left me to eat, and that my eyes will be left me only to weep with.”

“It is really a very grievous affair.”

“I have come to you, M. d’Artagnan, for you are the only man who can get me out of my trouble.”

“In what way?”

“You are acquainted with the Abbe d’Herblay and you know that he is a somewhat mysterious gentleman.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you can, perhaps, give me the address of his presbytery, for I have been to Noisy-le-Sec, and he is no longer there.”

“I should think not, indeed. He is Bishop of Vannes.”

“What! Vannes in Bretagne?”

“Yes.”

The little man began to tear his hair, saying, “How can I get to Vannes from here by midday to-morrow? I am a lost man.”

“Your despair quite distresses me.”

“Vannes, Vannes!” cried Baisemeaux.

“But listen; a bishop is not always a resident. M. d’Herblay may not possibly be so far away as you fear.”

“Pray tell me his address.”

“I really don’t know it.”

“In that case I am lost. I will go and throw myself at the king’s feet.”

“But, Baisemeaux, I can hardly believe what you tell me; besides, since the Bastile is capable of producing fifty thousand francs a year, why have you not tried to screw one hundred thousand out of it?”

“Because I am an honest man, M. d’Artagnan, and because my prisoners are fed like ambassadors.”

“Well, you’re in a fair way to get out of your difficulties; give yourself a good attack of indigestion with your excellent living, and put yourself out of the way between this and midday to-morrow.”

“How can you be hard-hearted enough to laugh?”

“Nay, you really afflict me. Come, Baisemeaux, if you can pledge me your word of honor, do so, that you will not open your lips to any one about what I am going to say to you.”

“Never, never!”

“You wish to put your hand on Aramis?”

“At any cost!”

“Well, go and see where M. Fouquet is.”

“Why, what connection can there be----”

“How stupid you are! Don’t you know that Vannes is in the diocese of Belle-Isle, or Belle-Isle in the diocese of Vannes? Belle-Isle belongs to M. Fouquet, and M. Fouquet nominated M. d’Herblay to that bishopric!”

“I see, I see; you restore me to life again.”

“So much the better. Go and tell M. Fouquet very simply that you wish to speak to M. d’Herblay.”

“Of course, of course,” exclaimed Baisemeaux, delightedly.

“But,” said D’Artagnan, checking him by a severe look, “your word of honor?”

“I give you my sacred word of honor,” replied the little man, about to set off running.

“Where are you going?”

“To M. Fouquet’s house.”

“It is useless doing that, M. Fouquet is playing at cards with the king. All you can do is to pay M. Fouquet a visit early to-morrow morning.”

“I will do so. Thank you.”

“Good luck attend you,” said D’Artagnan.

“Thank you.”

“This is a strange affair,” murmured D’Artagnan, as he slowly ascended the staircase after he had left Baisemeaux. “What possible interest can Aramis have in obliging Baisemeaux in this manner? Well, I suppose we shall learn some day or another.”

The King’s Card-table

Fouquet was present, as D’Artagnan had said, at the king’s card-table. It seemed as if Buckingham’s departure had shed a balm on the lacerated hearts of the previous evening. Monsieur, radiant with delight, made a thousand affectionate signs to his mother. The Count de Guiche could not separate himself from Buckingham and while playing, conversed with him upon the circumstance of his projected voyage. Buckingham, thoughtful, and kind in his manner, like a man who has adopted a resolution, listened to the count, and from time to time cast a look full of regret and hopeless affection at Madame. The princess, in the midst of her elation of spirits, divided her attention between the king, who was playing with her, Monsieur, who quietly joked her about her enormous winnings, and De Guiche, who exhibited an extravagant delight. Of Buckingham she took but little notice; for her, this fugitive, this exile, was now simply a remembrance, no longer a man. Light hearts are thus constituted; while they themselves continue untouched, they roughly break off with every one who may possibly interfere with their little calculations of selfish comfort. Madame had received Buckingham’s smiles and attentions and sighs while he was present; but what was the good of sighing, smiling and kneeling at a distance? Can one tell in what direction the winds in the Channel, which toss mighty vessels to and fro, carry such sighs as these. The duke could not fail to mark this change, and his heart was cruelly hurt. Of a sensitive character, proud and susceptible of deep attachment, he cursed the day on which such a passion had entered his heart. The looks he cast, from time to time at Madame, became colder by degrees at the chilling complexion of his thoughts. He could hardly yet despair, but he was strong enough to impose silence upon the tumultuous outcries of his heart. In exact proportion, however, as Madame suspected this change of feeling, she redoubled her activity to regain the ray of light she was about to lose; her timid and indecisive mind was displayed in brilliant flashes of wit and humor. At any cost she felt that she must be remarked above everything and every one, even above the king himself. And she was so, for the queens, notwithstanding their dignity, and the king, despite the respect which etiquette required, were all eclipsed by her. The queens, stately and ceremonious, were softened and could not restrain their laughter. Madame Henrietta, the queen-mother, was dazzled by the brilliancy which cast distinction upon her family, thanks to the wit of the grand-daughter of Henry IV. The king, jealous, as a young man and as a monarch, of the superiority of those who surrounded him, could not resist admitting himself vanquished by a petulance so thoroughly French in its nature, whose energy was more than ever increased by English humor. Like a child, he was captivated by her radiant beauty, which her wit made still more dazzling. Madame’s eyes flashed like lightning. Wit and humor escaped from her scarlet lips, like persuasion from the lips of Nestor of old. The whole court, subdued by her enchanting grace, noticed for the first time that laughter could be indulged in before the greatest monarch in the world, like people who merited their appellation of the wittiest and most polished people in Europe.

Madame, from that evening, achieved and enjoyed a success capable of bewildering all not born to those altitudes termed thrones; which, in spite of their elevation, are sheltered from such giddiness. From that very moment Louis XIV. acknowledged Madame as a person to be recognized. Buckingham regarded her as a coquette deserving the cruelest tortures, and De Guiche looked upon her as a divinity; the courtiers as a star whose light might some day become the focus of all favor and power. And yet Louis XIV., a few years previously, had not even condescended to offer his hand to that “ugly girl” for a ballet; and Buckingham had worshipped this coquette “on both knees.” De Guiche had once looked upon this divinity as a mere woman; and the courtiers had not dared to extol this star in her upward progress, fearful to disgust the monarch whom such a dull star had formerly displeased.

Let us see what was taking place during this memorable evening at the king’s card-table. The young queen, although Spanish by birth, and the niece of Anne of Austria, loved the king, and could not conceal her affection. Anne of Austria, a keen observer, like all women, and imperious, like every queen, was sensible of Madame’s power, and acquiesced in it immediately, a circumstance which induced the young queen to raise the siege and retire to her apartments. The king hardly paid any attention to her departure, notwithstanding the pretended symptoms of indisposition by which it was accompanied. Encouraged by the rules of etiquette, which he had begun to introduce at the court as an element of every relation of life, Louis XIV. did not disturb himself; he offered his hand to Madame without looking at Monsieur his brother, and led the young princess to the door of her apartments. It was remarked that at the threshold of the door, his majesty, freed from every restraint, or not equal to the situation, sighed very deeply. The ladies present--for nothing escapes a woman’s glance--Mademoiselle Montalais, for instance--did not fail to say to each other, “the king sighed,” and “Madame sighed too.” This had been indeed the case. Madame had sighed very noiselessly, but with an accompaniment very far more dangerous for the king’s repose. Madame had sighed, first closing her beautiful black eyes, next opening them, and then, laden, as they were, with an indescribable mournfulness of expression, she had raised them towards the king, whose face at that moment visibly heightened in color. The consequence of these blushes, of these interchanged sighs, and of this royal agitation, was, that Montalais had committed an indiscretion which had certainly affected her companion, for Mademoiselle de la Valliere, less clear sighted, perhaps, turned pale when the king blushed; and her attendance being required upon Madame, she tremblingly followed the princess without thinking of taking the gloves, which court etiquette required her to do. True it is that this young country girl might allege as her excuse the agitation into which the king seemed to be thrown, for Mademoiselle de la Valliere, busily engaged in closing the door, had involuntarily fixed her eyes upon the king, who, as he retired backwards, had his face towards it. The king returned to the room where the card-tables were set out. He wished to speak to the different persons there, but it was easy to see that his mind was absent. He jumbled different accounts together, which was taken advantage of by some of the noblemen who had retained those habits since the time of Monsieur Mazarin--who had a poor memory, but was a good calculator. In this way Monsieur Manicamp, with a thoughtless and absent air--for M. Manicamp was the honestest man in the world appropriated twenty thousand francs, which were littering the table, and which did not seem to belong to any person in particular. In the same way, Monsieur de Wardes, whose head was doubtless a little bewildered by the occurrences of the evening, somehow forgot to leave behind him the sixty double louis which he had won for the Duke of Buckingham, and which the duke, incapable, like his father, of soiling his hands with coin of any sort, had left lying on the table before him. The king only recovered his attention in some degree at the moment that Monsieur Colbert, who had been narrowly observant for some minutes, approached, and, doubtless, with great respect, yet with much perseverance, whispered a counsel of some sort into the still tingling ears of the king. The king, at the suggestion, listened with renewed attention and immediately looking around him, said, “Is Monsieur Fouquet no longer here?”

“Yes, sire, I am here,” replied the superintendent, till then engaged with Buckingham, and approached the king, who advanced a step towards him with a smiling yet negligent air. “Forgive me,” said Louis, “if I interrupt your conversation; but I claim your attention wherever I may require your services.”

“I am always at the king’s service,” replied Fouquet.

“And your cash-box too,” said the king, laughing with a false smile.

“My cash-box more than anything else,” said Fouquet, coldly.

“The fact is, I wish to give a fete at Fontainebleau--to keep open house for fifteen days, and I shall require----” and he stopped glancing at Colbert. Fouquet waited without showing discomposure; and the king resumed, answering Colbert’s icy smile, “four million francs.”

“Four million,” repeated Fouquet, bowing profoundly. And his nails, buried in his bosom, were thrust into his flesh, but the tranquil expression of his face remained unaltered. “When will they be required, sire?”

“Take your time,--I mean--no, no, as soon as possible.”

“A certain time will be necessary, sire.”

“Time!” exclaimed Colbert, triumphantly.

“The time, monsieur,” said the superintendent, with the haughtiest disdain, “simply to count the money: a million can only be drawn and weighed in a day.”

“Four days then,” said Colbert.

“My clerks,” replied Fouquet, addressing himself to the king, “will perform wonders on his majesty’s service, and the sum shall be ready in three days.”

It was for Colbert now to turn pale. Louis looked at him astonished. Fouquet withdrew without any parade or weakness, smiling at his numerous friends, in whose countenances alone he read the sincerity of their friendship--an interest partaking of compassion. Fouquet, however, should not be judged by his smile, for, in reality he felt as if he had been stricken by death. Drops of blood beneath his coat stained the fine linen that clothed his chest. His dress concealed the blood, and his smile the rage which devoured him. His domestics perceived, by the manner in which he approached his carriage, that their master was not in the best of humors: the result of their discernment was, that his orders were executed with that exactitude of maneuver which is found on board a man-of-war, commanded during a storm by an ill-tempered captain. The carriage, therefore, did not simply roll along--it flew. Fouquet had hardly time to recover himself during the drive; on his arrival he went at once to Aramis, who had not yet retired for the night. As for Porthos, he had supped very agreeably off a roast leg of mutton, two pheasants, and a perfect heap of cray-fish; he then directed his body to be anointed with perfumed oils, in the manner of the wrestlers of old; and when this anointment was completed, he had himself wrapped in flannels and placed in a warm bed. Aramis, as we have already said, had not retired. Seated at his ease in a velvet dressing-gown, he wrote letter after letter in that fine and hurried handwriting, a page of which contained a quarter of a volume. The door was thrown hurriedly open, and the superintendent appeared, pale, agitated, anxious. Aramis looked up: “Good-evening,” said he, and his searching look detected his host’s sadness and disordered state of mind. “Was your play as good as his majesty’s?” asked Aramis, by way of beginning the conversation.

Fouquet threw himself upon a couch, and then pointed to the door to the servant who had followed him; when the servant had left he said, “Excellent.”

Aramis, who had followed every movement with his eyes, noticed that he stretched himself upon the cushions with a sort of feverish impatience. “You have lost as usual?” inquired Aramis, his pen still in his hand.

“Even more than usual,” replied Fouquet.

“You know how to support losses?”

“Sometimes.”

“What, Monsieur Fouquet a bad player!”

“There is play and play, Monsieur d’Herblay.”

“How much have you lost?” inquired Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.

Fouquet collected himself a moment, and then, without the slightest emotion, said, “The evening has cost me four millions,” and a bitter laugh drowned the last vibration of these words.

Aramis, who did not expect such an amount, dropped his pen. “Four millions,” he said; “you have lost four millions,--impossible!”

“Monsieur Colbert held my cards for me,” replied the superintendent, with a similar bitter laugh.

“Ah, now I understand; so, so, a new application for funds?”

“Yes, and from the king’s own lips. It was impossible to ruin a man with a more charming smile. What do you think of it?”

“It is clear that your destruction is the object in view.”

“That is your opinion?”

“Still. Besides, there is nothing in it which should astonish you, for we have foreseen it all along”

“Yes; but I did not expect four millions.”

“No doubt the amount is serious, but, after all, four millions are not quite the death of a man, especially when the man in question is Monsieur Fouquet.”

“My dear D’Herblay, if you knew the contents of my coffers, you would be less easy.”

“And you promised?”

“What could I do?”

“That’s true.”

“The very day I refuse, Colbert will procure the money; whence I know not, but he will procure it: and I shall be lost.”

“There is no doubt of that. In how many days did you promise these four millions?”

“In three days. The king seemed exceedingly pressed.”

“In three days?”

“When I think,” resumed Fouquet, “that just now as I passed along the streets, the people cried out, ‘There is the rich Monsieur Fouquet,’ it is enough to turn my brain.”

“Stay, monsieur, the matter is not worth so much trouble,” said Aramis, calmly, sprinkling some sand over the letter he had just written.

“Suggest a remedy, then, for this evil without a remedy.”

“There is only one remedy for you,--pay.”

“But it is very uncertain whether I have the money. Everything must be exhausted; Belle-Isle is paid for; the pension has been paid; and money, since the investigation of the accounts of those who farm the revenue, is scarce. Besides, admitting that I pay this time, how can I do so on another occasion? When kings have tasted money, they are like tigers who have tasted flesh, they devour everything. The day will arrive--must arrive--when I shall have to say, ‘Impossible, sire,’ and on that very day I am a lost man.”

Aramis raised his shoulders slightly, saying:

“A man in your position, my lord, is only lost when he wishes to be so.”

“A man, whatever his position may be, cannot hope to struggle against a king.”

“Nonsense; when I was young I wrestled successfully with the Cardinal Richelieu, who was king of France,--nay more--cardinal.”

“Where are my armies, my troops, my treasures? I have not even Belle-Isle.”

“Bah! necessity is the mother of invention, and when you think all is lost, something will be discovered which will retrieve everything.”

“Who will discover this wonderful something?”

“Yourself.”

“I! I resign my office of inventor.”

“Then I will.”

“Be it so. But set to work without delay.”

“Oh! we have time enough!”

“You kill me, D’Herblay, with your calmness,” said the superintendent, passing his handkerchief over his face.

“Do you not remember that I one day told you not to make yourself uneasy, if you possessed courage? Have you any?”

“I believe so.”

“Then don’t make yourself uneasy.”

“It is decided, then, that, at the last moment, you will come to my assistance.”

“It will only be the repayment of a debt I owe you.”

“It is the vocation of financiers to anticipate the wants of men such as yourself, D’Herblay.”

“If obligingness is the vocation of financiers, charity is the virtue of the clergy. Only, on this occasion, do you act, monsieur. You are not yet sufficiently reduced, and at the last moment we will see what is to be done.”

“We shall see, then, in a very short time.”

“Very well. However, permit me to tell you that, personally, I regret exceedingly that you are at present so short of money, because I was myself about to ask you for some.”

“For yourself?”

“For myself, or some of my people, for mine or for ours.”

“How much do you want?”

“Be easy on that score; a roundish sum, it is true, but not too exorbitant.”

“Tell me the amount.”

“Fifty thousand francs.”

“Oh! a mere nothing. Of course one has always fifty thousand francs. Why the deuce cannot that knave Colbert be as easily satisfied as you are--and I should give myself far less trouble than I do. When do you need this sum?”

“To-morrow morning; but you wish to know its destination.”

“Nay, nay, chevalier, I need no explanation.”

“To-morrow is the first of June.”

“Well?”

“One of our bonds becomes due.”

“I did not know we had any bond.”

“Certainly, to-morrow we pay our last third instalment.”

“What third?”

“Of the one hundred and fifty thousand francs to Baisemeaux.”

“Baisemeaux? Who is he?”

“The governor of the Bastile.”

“Yes, I remember. On what grounds am I to pay one hundred and fifty thousand francs for that man?”

“On account of the appointment which he, or rather we, purchased from Louviere and Tremblay.”

“I have a very vague recollection of the matter.”

“That is likely enough, for you have so many affairs to attend to. However, I do not believe you have any affair in the world of greater importance than this one.”

“Tell me, then, why we purchased this appointment.”

“Why, in order to render him a service in the first place, and afterwards ourselves.”

“Ourselves? You are joking.”

“Monseigneur, the time may come when the governor of the Bastile may prove a very excellent acquaintance.”

“I have not the good fortune to understand you, D’Herblay.”

“Monseigneur, we had our own poets, our own engineer, our own architect, our own musicians, our own printer, and our own painters; we needed our own governor of the Bastile.”

“Do you think so?”

“Let us not deceive ourselves, monseigneur; we are very much opposed to paying the Bastile a visit,” added the prelate, displaying, beneath his pale lips, teeth which were still the same beautiful teeth so much admired thirty years previously by Marie Michon.

“And you think it is not too much to pay one hundred and fifty thousand francs for that? I thought you generally put out money at better interest than that.”

“The day will come when you will admit your mistake.”

“My dear D’Herblay, the very day on which a man enters the Bastile, he is no longer protected by his past.”

“Yes, he is, if the bonds are perfectly regular; besides, that good fellow Baisemeaux has not a courtier’s heart. I am certain, my lord, that he will not remain ungrateful for that money, without taking into account, I repeat, that I retain the acknowledgments.”

“It is a strange affair! usury in a matter of benevolence.”

“Do not mix yourself up with it, monseigneur; if there be usury, it is I who practice it, and both of us reap the advantage from it--that is all.”

“Some intrigue, D’Herblay?”

“I do not deny it.”

“And Baisemeaux an accomplice in it?”

“Why not?--there are worse accomplices than he. May I depend, then, upon the five thousand pistoles to-morrow?”

“Do you want them this evening?”

“It would be better, for I wish to start early; poor Baisemeaux will not be able to imagine what has become of me, and must be upon thorns.”

“You shall have the amount in an hour. Ah, D’Herblay, the interest of your one hundred and fifty thousand francs will never pay my four millions for me.”

“Why not, monseigneur.”

“Good-night, I have business to transact with my clerks before I retire.”

“A good night’s rest, monseigneur.”

“D’Herblay, you wish things that are impossible.”

“Shall I have my fifty thousand francs this evening?”

“Yes.”

“Go to sleep, then, in perfect safety--it is I who tell you to do so.”

Notwithstanding this assurance, and the tone in which it was given, Fouquet left the room shaking his head, and heaving a sigh.

M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun’s Accounts

The clock of St. Paul was striking seven as Aramis, on horseback, dressed as a simple citizen, that is to say, in colored suit, with no distinctive mark about him, except a kind of hunting-knife by his side, passed before the Rue du Petit-Muse, and stopped opposite the Rue des Tourelles, at the gate of the Bastile. Two sentinels were on duty at the gate; they made no difficulty about admitting Aramis, who entered without dismounting, and they pointed out the way he was to go by a long passage with buildings on both sides. This passage led to the drawbridge, or, in other words, to the real entrance. The drawbridge was down, and the duty of the day was about being entered upon. The sentinel at the outer guardhouse stopped Aramis’s further progress, asking him, in a rough tone of voice, what had brought him there. Aramis explained, with his usual politeness, that a wish to speak to M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun had occasioned his visit. The first sentinel then summoned a second sentinel, stationed within an inner lodge, who showed his face at the grating, and inspected the new arrival most attentively. Aramis reiterated the expression of his wish to see the governor, whereupon the sentinel called to an officer of lower grade, who was walking about in a tolerably spacious courtyard and who, in turn, on being informed of his object, ran to seek one of the officers of the governor’s staff. The latter, after having listened to Aramis’s request, begged him to wait a moment, then went away a short distance, but returned to ask his name. “I cannot tell it you, monsieur,” said Aramis, “I need only mention that I have matters of such importance to communicate to the governor, that I can only rely beforehand upon one thing, that M. de Baisemeaux will be delighted to see me; nay, more than that, when you have told him that it is the person whom he expected on the first of June, I am convinced he will hasten here himself.” The officer could not possibly believe that a man of the governor’s importance should put himself out for a person of so little importance as the citizen-looking visitor on horseback. “It happens most fortunately, monsieur,” he said, “that the governor is just going out, and you can perceive his carriage with the horses already harnessed, in the courtyard yonder; there will be no occasion for him to come to meet you, as he will see you as he passes by.” Aramis bowed to signify his assent; he did not wish to inspire others with too exalted an opinion of himself, and therefore waited patiently and in silence, leaning upon the saddle-bow of his horse. Ten minutes had hardly elapsed when the governor’s carriage was observed to move. The governor appeared at the door, and got into the carriage, which immediately prepared to start. The same ceremony was observed for the governor himself as with a suspected stranger; the sentinel at the lodge advanced as the carriage was about to pass under the arch, and the governor opened the carriage-door, himself setting the example of obedience to orders; so that, in this way, the sentinel could convince himself that no one quitted the Bastile improperly. The carriage rolled along under the archway, but at the moment the iron-gate was opened, the officer approached the carriage, which had been again stopped, and said something to the governor, who immediately put his head out of the door-way, and perceived Aramis on horseback at the end of the drawbridge. He immediately uttered almost a shout of delight, and got out, or rather darted out of his carriage, running towards Aramis, whose hands he seized, making a thousand apologies. He almost embraced him. “What a difficult matter to enter the Bastile!” said Aramis. “Is it the same for those who are sent here against their wills, as for those who come of their own accord?”

“A thousand pardons, my lord. How delighted I am to see your Grace!”

“Hush! What are you thinking of, my dear M. Baisemeaux? What do you suppose would be thought of a bishop in my present costume?”

“Pray, excuse me, I had forgotten. Take this gentleman’s horse to the stables,” cried Baisemeaux.

“No, no,” said Aramis; “I have five thousand pistoles in the saddle-bags.”

The governor’s countenance became so radiant, that if the prisoners had seen him they would have imagined some prince of the blood royal had arrived. “Yes, you are right, the horse shall be taken to the government house. Will you get into the carriage, my dear M. d’Herblay? and it shall take us back to my house.”

“Get into a carriage to cross a courtyard! do you believe I am so great an invalid? No, no, we will go on foot.”

Baisemeaux then offered his arm as a support, but the prelate did not accept it. They arrived in this manner at the government house, Baisemeaux rubbing his hands and glancing at the horse from time to time, while Aramis was looking at the bleak bare walls. A tolerably handsome vestibule and a staircase of white stone led to the governor’s apartments, who crossed the ante-chamber, the dining-room, where breakfast was being prepared, opened a small side door, and closeted himself with his guest in a large cabinet, the windows of which opened obliquely upon the courtyard and the stables. Baisemeaux installed the prelate with that all-inclusive politeness of which a good man, or a grateful man, alone possesses the secret. An arm-chair, a footstool, a small table beside him, on which to rest his hand, everything was prepared by the governor himself. With his own hands, too, he placed upon the table, with much solicitude, the bag containing the gold, which one of the soldiers had brought up with the most respectful devotion; and the soldier having left the room, Baisemeaux himself closed the door after him, drew aside one of the window-curtains, and looked steadfastly at Aramis to see if the prelate required anything further.

“Well, my lord,” he said, still standing up, “of all men of their word, you still continue to be the most punctual.”

“In matters of business, dear M. de Baisemeaux, exactitude is not a virtue only, it is a duty as well.”

“Yes, in matters of business, certainly; but what you have with me is not of that character; it is a service you are rendering me.”

“Come, confess, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that, notwithstanding this exactitude, you have not been without a little uneasiness.”

“About your health, I certainly have,” stammered out Baisemeaux.

“I wished to come here yesterday, but I was not able, as I was too fatigued,” continued Aramis. Baisemeaux anxiously slipped another cushion behind his guest’s back. “But,” continued Aramis, “I promised myself to come and pay you a visit to-day, early in the morning.”

“You are really very kind, my lord.”

“And it was a good thing for me I was punctual, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, you were going out.” At which latter remark Baisemeaux colored and said, “It is true I was going out.”

“Then I prevent you,” said Aramis; whereupon the embarrassment of Baisemeaux became visibly greater. “I am putting you to inconvenience,” he continued, fixing a keen glance upon the poor governor; “if I had known that, I should not have come.”

“How can your lordship imagine that you could ever inconvenience me?”

“Confess you were going in search of money.”

“No,” stammered out Baisemeaux, “no! I assure you I was going to----”

“Does the governor still intend to go to M. Fouquet?” suddenly called out the major from below. Baisemeaux ran to the window like a madman. “No, no,” he exclaimed in a state of desperation, “who the deuce is speaking of M. Fouquet? are you drunk below there? why an I interrupted when I am engaged on business?”

“You were going to M. Fouquet’s,” said Aramis biting his lips, “to M. Fouquet, the abbe, or the superintendent?”

Baisemeaux almost made up his mind to tell an untruth, but he could not summon courage to do so. “To the superintendent,” he said.

“It is true, then, that you were in want of money, since you were going to a person who gives it away!”

“I assure you, my lord----”

“You were afraid?”

“My dear lord, it was the uncertainty and ignorance in which I was as to where you were to be found.”

“You would have found the money you require at M. Fouquet’s, for he is a man whose hand is always open.”

“I swear that I should never have ventured to ask M. Fouquet for money. I only wished to ask him for your address.”

“To ask M. Fouquet for my address?” exclaimed Aramis, opening his eyes in real astonishment.

“Yes,” said Baisemeaux, greatly disturbed by the glance which the prelate fixed upon him,--“at M. Fouquet’s certainly.”

“There is no harm in that, dear M. Baisemeaux, only I would ask, why ask my address of M. Fouquet?”

“That I might write to you.”

“I understand,” said Aramis, smiling, “but that is not what I meant; I do not ask you what you required my address for; I only ask why you should go to M. Fouquet for it?”

“Oh!” said Baisemeaux, “as Belle-Isle is the property of M. Fouquet, and as Belle-Isle is in the diocese of Vannes, and as you are bishop of Vannes----”

“But, my dear Baisemeaux, since you knew I was bishop of Vannes, you had no occasion to ask M. Fouquet for my address.”

“Well, monsieur,” said Baisemeaux, completely at bay, “if I have acted indiscreetly, I beg your pardon most sincerely.”

“Nonsense,” observed Aramis, calmly: “how can you possibly have acted indiscreetly?” And while he composed his face, and continued to smile cheerfully on the governor, he was considering how Baisemeaux, who was not aware of his address, knew, however, that Vannes was his residence. “I shall clear all this up,” he said to himself, and then speaking aloud, added,--“Well, my dear governor, shall we now arrange our little accounts?”

“I am at your orders, my lord; but tell me beforehand, my lord, whether you will do me the honor to breakfast with me as usual?”

“Very willingly, indeed.”

“Thai’s well,” said Baisemeaux, as he struck the bell before him three times.

“What does that mean?” inquired Aramis.

“That I have some one to breakfast with me, and that preparations are to be made accordingly.”

“And you rang thrice. Really, my dear governor, I begin to think you are acting ceremoniously with me.”

“No, indeed. Besides, the least I can do is to receive you in the best way I can.”

“But why so?”

“Because not even a prince could have done what you have done for me.”

“Nonsense! nonsense!”

“Nay, I assure you----”

“Let us speak of other matters,” said Aramis. “Or rather, tell me how your affairs here are getting on.”

“Not over well.”

“The deuce!”

“M. de Mazarin was not hard enough.”

“Yes, I see; you require a government full of suspicion--like that of the old cardinal, for instance.”

“Yes; matters went on better under him. The brother of his ‘gray eminence’ made his fortune here.”

“Believe me, my dear governor,” said Aramis, drawing closer to Baisemeaux, “a young king is well worth an old cardinal. Youth has its suspicions, its fits of anger, its prejudices, as old age has its hatreds, its precautions, and its fears. Have you paid your three years’ profits to Louviere and Tremblay?”

“Most certainly I have.”

“So that you have nothing more to give them than the fifty thousand francs I have brought with me?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you not saved anything, then?”

“My lord, in giving the fifty thousand francs of my own to these gentlemen, I assure you that I give them everything I gain. I told M. d’Artagnan so yesterday evening.”

“Ah!” said Aramis, whose eyes sparkled for a moment, but became immediately afterwards as unmoved as before; “so you have seen my old friend D’Artagnan; how was he?”

“Wonderfully well.”

“And what did you say to him, M. de Baisemeaux?”

“I told him,” continued the governor, not perceiving his own thoughtlessness, “I told him that I fed my prisoners too well.”

“How many have you?” inquired Aramis, in an indifferent tone of voice.

“Sixty.”

“Well, that is a tolerably round number.”

“In former times, my lord, there were, during certain years, as many as two hundred.”

“Still a minimum of sixty is not to be grumbled at.”

“Perhaps not; for, to anybody but myself, each prisoner would bring in two hundred and fifty pistoles; for instance, for a prince of the blood I have fifty francs a day.”

“Only you have no prince of the blood; at least, I suppose so,” said Aramis, with a slight tremor in his voice.

“No, thank Heaven!--I mean, no, unfortunately.”

“What do you mean by unfortunately?”

“Because my appointment would be improved by it. So, fifty francs per day for a prince of the blood, thirty-six for a marechal of France----”

“But you have as many marechals of France, I suppose, as you have princes of the blood?”

“Alas! no more. It is true lieutenant-generals and brigadiers pay twenty-six francs, and I have two of them. After that, come councilors of parliament, who bring me fifteen francs, and I have six of them.”

“I did not know,” said Aramis, “that councilors were so productive.”

“Yes, but from fifteen francs I sink at once to ten francs; namely, for an ordinary judge, and for an ecclesiastic.”

“And you have seven, you say; an excellent affair.”

“Nay, a bad one, and for this reason. How can I possibly treat these poor fellows, who are of some good, at all events, otherwise than as a councilor of parliament?”

“Yes, you are right; I do not see five francs difference between them.”

“You understand; if I have a fine fish, I pay four or five francs for it; if I get a fine fowl, it costs me a franc and a half. I fatten a good deal of poultry, but I have to buy grain, and you cannot imagine the army of rats that infest this place.”

“Why not get half a dozen cats to deal with them?”

“Cats, indeed; yes, they eat them, but I was obliged to give up the idea because of the way in which they treated my grain. I have been obliged to have some terrier dogs sent me from England to kill the rats. These dogs, unfortunately, have tremendous appetites; they eat as much as a prisoner of the fifth order, without taking into account the rabbits and fowls they kill.”

Was Aramis really listening or not? No one could have told; his downcast eyes showed the attentive man; but the restless hand betrayed the man absorbed in thought--Aramis was meditating.

“I was saying,” continued Baisemeaux, “that a good-sized fowl costs me a franc and a half, and that a fine fish costs me four or five francs. Three meals are served at the Bastile, and, as the prisoners, having nothing to do, are always eating, a ten-franc man costs me seven francs and a half.”

“But did you not say that you treated those at ten francs like those at fifteen?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Very well! Then you gain seven francs and a half upon those who pay you fifteen francs.”

“I must compensate myself somehow,” said Baisemeaux, who saw how he had been snapped up.

“You are quite right, my dear governor; but have you no prisoners below ten francs?”

“Oh, yes! we have citizens and barristers at five francs.

“And do they eat, too?”

“Not a doubt about it; only you understand that they do not get fish or poultry, nor rich wines at every meal; but at all events thrice a week they have a good dish at their dinner.”

“Really, you are quite a philanthropist, my dear governor, and you will ruin yourself.”

“No, understand me; when the fifteen-franc has not eaten his fowl, or the ten-franc has left his dish unfinished, I send it to the five-franc prisoner; it is a feast for the poor devil, and one must be charitable, you know.”

“And what do you make out of your five-franc prisoners?”

“A franc and a half.”

“Baisemeaux, you’re an honest fellow; in honest truth I say so.”

“Thank you, my lord. But I feel most for the small tradesmen and bailiffs’ clerks, who are rated at three francs. They do not often see Rhine carp or Channel sturgeon.”

“But do not the five-franc gentlemen sometimes leave some scraps?”

“Oh! my lord, do not believe I am so stingy as that; I delight the heart of some poor little tradesman or clerk by sending him a wing of a red partridge, a slice of venison, or a slice of a truffled pasty, dishes which he never tasted except in his dreams; these are the leavings of the twenty-four franc prisoners; and as he eats and drinks, at dessert he cries ‘Long live the King,’ and blesses the Bastile; with a couple of bottles of champagne, which cost me five sous, I made him tipsy every Sunday. That class of people call down blessings upon me, and are sorry to leave the prison. Do you know that I have remarked, and it does me infinite honor, that certain prisoners, who have been set at liberty, have, almost immediately afterwards, got imprisoned again? Why should this be the case, unless it be to enjoy the pleasures of my kitchen? It is really the fact.”

Aramis smiled with an expression of incredulity.

“You smile,” said Baisemeaux.

“I do,” returned Aramis.

“I tell you that we have names which have been inscribed on our books thrice in the space of two years.”

“I must see it before I believe it,” said Aramis.

“Well, I can show it to you, although it is prohibited to communicate the registers to strangers; and if you really wish to see it with your own eyes----”

“I should be delighted, I confess.”

“Very well,” said Baisemeaux, and he took out of a cupboard a large register. Aramis followed him most anxiously with his eyes, and Baisemeaux returned, placed the register upon the table, and turned over the leaves for a minute, and stayed at the letter M.

“Look here,” said he, “Martinier, January, 1659; Martinier, June, 1660; Martinier, March, 1661. Mazarinades, etc.; you understand it was only a pretext; people were not sent to the Bastile for jokes against M. Mazarin; the fellow denounced himself in order to get imprisoned here.”

“And what was his object?”

“None other than to return to my kitchen at three francs a day,.”

“Three francs--poor devil!”

“The poet, my lord, belongs to the lowest scale, the same style of board as the small tradesman and bailiff’s clerk; but I repeat, it is to those people only that I give these little surprises.”

Aramis mechanically turned over the leaves of the register, continuing to read the names, but without appearing to take any interest in the names he read.

“In 1661, you perceive,” said Baisemeaux, “eighty entries; and in 1659, eighty also.”

“Ah!” said Aramis. “Seldon; I seem to know that name. Was it not you who spoke to me about a certain young man?”

“Yes, a poor devil of a student, who made--What do you call that where two Latin verses rhyme together?”

“A distich.”

“Yes; that is it.”

“Poor fellow; for a distich.”

“Do you know that he made this distich against the Jesuits?”

“That makes no difference; the punishment seems very severe.”

“Do not pity him; last year you seemed to interest yourself in him.”

“Yes, I did so.”

“Well, as your interest is all-powerful here, my lord, I have treated him since that time as a prisoner at fifteen francs.”

“The same as this one, then,” said Aramis, who had continued turning over the leaves, and who had stopped at one of the names which followed Martinier.

“Yes, the same as that one.”

“Is that Marchiali an Italian?” said Aramis, pointing with his finger to the name which had attracted his attention.

“Hush!” said Baisemeaux.

“Why hush?” said Aramis, involuntarily clenching his white hand.

“I thought I had already spoken to you about that Marchiali.”

“No, it is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced.”

“That may be, but perhaps I have spoken to you about him without naming him.”

“Is he an old offender?” asked Aramis, attempting to smile.

“On the contrary, he is quite young.”

“Is his crime, then, very heinous?”

“Unpardonable.”

“Has he assassinated any one?”

“Bah!”

“An incendiary, then?”

“Bah!”

“Has he slandered any one?”

“No, no! It is he who--” and Baisemeaux approached Aramis’s ear, making a sort of ear-trumpet of his hands, and whispered: “It is he who presumes to resemble the----”

“Yes, yes.” said Aramis, “I now remember you already spoke about it last year to me; but the crime appeared to me so slight.

“Slight, do you say?”

“Or rather, so involuntary.”

“My lord, it is not involuntarily that such a resemblance is detected.”

“Well, the fact is, I had forgotten it. But, my dear host,” said Aramis, closing the register, “if I am not mistaken, we are summoned.”

Baisemeaux took the register, hastily restored it to its place in the closet, which he locked, and put the key in his pocket. “Will it be agreeable to your lordship to breakfast now?” said he; “for you are right in supposing that breakfast was announced.”

“Assuredly, my dear governor,” and they passed into the dining-room.

The Breakfast at Monsieur de Baisemeaux’s

Aramis was generally temperate; but on this occasion, while taking every care of his constitution, he did ample justice to Baisemeaux’s breakfast, which, in all respects, was most excellent. The latter, on his side, was animated with the wildest gayety; the sight of the five thousand pistoles, which he glanced at from time to time, seemed to open his heart. Every now and then he looked at Aramis with an expression of the deepest gratitude; while the latter, leaning back in his chair, took a few sips of wine from his glass, with the air of a connoisseur. “Let me never hear any ill words against the fare of the Bastile,” said he, half closing his eyes; “happy are the prisoners who can get only half a bottle of such Burgundy every day.”

“All those at fifteen francs drink it,” said Baisemeaux. “It is very old Volnay.”

“Does that poor student, Seldon, drink such good wine?”

“Oh, no!”

“I thought I heard you say he was boarded at fifteen francs.”

“He! no, indeed; a man who makes districts--distichs, I mean--at fifteen francs! No, no! it is his neighbor who is at fifteen francs.”

“Which neighbor?”

“The other, second Bertaudiere.”

“Excuse me, my dear governor; but you speak a language which requires quite an apprenticeship to understand.”

“Very true,” said the governor. “Allow me to explain: second Bertaudiere is the person who occupies the second floor of the tower of the Bertaudiere.”

“So that Bertaudiere is the name of one of the towers of the Bastile? The fact is, I think I recollect hearing that each tower has a name of its own. Whereabouts is the one you are speaking of?”

“Look,” said Baisemeaux, going to the window. “It is that tower to the left---the second one.”

“Is the prisoner at fifteen francs there?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Seven or eight years, nearly.”

“What do you mean by nearly? Do you not know the dates more precisely?”

“It was not in my time, M. d’Herblay.”

“But I should have thought that Louviere or Tremblay would have told you.”

“The secrets of the Bastile are never handed over with the keys of the governorship.”

“Indeed! Then the cause of his imprisonment is a mystery--a state secret.”

“Oh no! I do not suppose it is a state secret, but a secret--like everything else that happens at the Bastile.”

“But,” said Aramis, “why do you speak more freely of Seldon than of second Bertaudiere?”

“Because, in my opinion, the crime of the man who writes a distich is not so great as that of the man who resembles----”

“Yes, yes, I understand you. Still, do not the turnkeys talk with your prisoners?”

“Of course.”

“The prisoners, I suppose, tell them they are not guilty?”

“They are always telling them that; it is a matter of course; the same song over and over again.”

“But does not the resemblance you were speaking about just now strike the turnkeys?”

“My dear M. d’Herblay, it is only for men attached to the court, as you are, to take trouble about such matters.”

“You’re right, you’re right, my dear M. Baisemeaux. Let me give you another taste of this Volnay.”

“Not a taste merely, a full glass; fill yours too.”

“Nay, nay! You are a musketeer still, to the very tips of your fingers, while I have become a bishop. A taste for me; a glass for yourself.”

“As you please.” And Aramis and the governor nodded to each other, as they drank their wine. “But,” said Aramis, looking with fixed attention at the ruby-colored wine he had raised to the level of his eyes, as if he wished to enjoy it with all his senses at the same moment, “but what you might call a resemblance, another would not, perhaps, take any notice of.”

“Most certainly he would, though, if it were any one who knew the person he resembles.”

“I really think, dear M. Baisemeaux, that it can be nothing more than a resemblance of your own creation.”

“Upon my honor, it is not so.”

“Stay,” continued Aramis, “I have seen many persons very like the one we are speaking of; but, out of respect, no one ever said anything about it.”

“Very likely; because there is resemblance and resemblance. This is a striking one, and, if you were to see him, you would admit it to be so.”

“If I were to see him, indeed,” said Aramis, in an indifferent tone; “but in all probability I never shall.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I were even to put my foot inside one of those horrible dungeons, I should fancy I was buried there forever.”

“No, no; the cells are very good places to live in.”

“I really do not, and cannot believe it, and that is a fact.”

“Pray do not speak ill of second Bertaudiere. It is really a good room, very nicely furnished and carpeted. The young fellow has by no means been unhappy there; the best lodging the Bastile affords has been his. There is a chance for you.”

“Nay, nay,” said Aramis, coldly; “you will never make me believe there are any good rooms in the Bastile; and, as for your carpets, they exist only in your imagination. I should find nothing but spiders, rats, and perhaps toads, too.”

“Toads?” cried Baisemeaux.

“Yes, in the dungeons.”

“Ah! I don’t say there are not toads in the dungeons,” replied Baisemeaux. “But--will you be convinced by your own eyes?” he continued, with a sudden impulse.

“No, certainly not.”

“Not even to satisfy yourself of the resemblance which you deny, as you do the carpets?”

“Some spectral-looking person, a mere shadow; an unhappy, dying man.”

“Nothing of the kind--as brisk and vigorous a young fellow as ever lived.”

“Melancholy and ill-tempered, then?”

“Not at all; very gay and lively.”

“Nonsense; you are joking.”

“Will you follow me?” said Baisemeaux.

“What for?”

“To go the round of the Bastile.”

“Why?”

“You will then see for yourself--see with your own eyes.”

“But the regulations?”

“Never mind them. To-day my major has leave of absence; the lieutenant is visiting the post on the bastions; we are sole masters of the situation.”

“No, no, my dear governor; why, the very idea of the sound of the bolts makes me shudder. You will only have to forget me in second or fourth Bertaudiere, and then----”

“You are refusing an opportunity that may never present itself again. Do you know that, to obtain the favor I propose to you gratis, some of the princes of the blood have offered me as much as fifty thousand francs.”

“Really! he must be worth seeing, then?”

“Forbidden fruit, my lord, forbidden fruit. You who belong to the church ought to know that.”

“Well, if I had any curiosity, it would be to see the poor author of the distich.”

“Very well, we will see him, too; but if I were at all curious, it would be about the beautiful carpeted room and its lodger.”

“Furniture is very commonplace; and a face with no expression in it offers little or no interest.”

“But a boarder at fifteen francs is always interesting.”

“By the by, I forgot to ask you about that. Why fifteen francs for him, and only three francs for poor Seldon?”

“The distinction made in that instance was a truly noble act, and one which displayed the king’s goodness of heart to great advantage.”

“The king’s, you say.”

“The cardinal’s, I mean. ‘This unhappy man,’ said M. Mazarin, ‘is destined to remain in prison forever.’”

“Why so?”

“Why, it seems that his crime is a lasting one, and, consequently, his punishment ought to be so, too.”

“Lasting?”

“No doubt of it, unless he is fortunate enough to catch the small-pox, and even that is difficult, for we never get any impure air here.”

“Nothing can be more ingenious than your train of reasoning, my dear M. de Baisemeaux. Do you, however, mean to say that this unfortunate man must suffer without interruption or termination?”

“I did not say he was to suffer, my lord, a fifteen-franc boarder does not suffer.”

“He suffers imprisonment, at all events.”

“No doubt; there is no help for that, but this suffering is sweetened for him. You must admit that this young fellow was not born to eat all the good things he does eat; for instance, such things as we have on the table now; this pasty that has not been touched, these crawfish from the River Marne, of which we have hardly taken any, and which are almost as large as lobsters; all these things will at once be taken to second Bertaudiere, with a bottle of that Volnay which you think so excellent. After you have seen it you will believe it, I hope.”

“Yes, my dear governor, certainly; but all this time you are thinking only of your very happy fifteen-franc prisoner, and you forget poor Seldon, my protege.”

“Well, out of consideration for you, it shall be a gala day for him; he shall have some biscuits and preserves with this small bottle of port.”

“You are a good-hearted fellow; I have said so already, and I repeat it, my dear Baisemeaux.”

“Well, let us set off, then,” said the governor, a little bewildered, partly from the wine he had drunk, and partly from Aramis’s praises.

“Do not forget that I only go to oblige you,” said the prelate.

“Very well; but you will thank me when you get there.”

“Let us go, then.”

“Wait until I have summoned the jailer,” said Baisemeaux, as he struck the bell twice, at which summons a man appeared. “I am going to visit the towers,” said the governor. “No guards, no drums, no noise at all.”

“If I were not to leave my cloak here,” said Aramis, pretending to be alarmed; “I should really think I was going to prison on my own account.”

The jailer preceded the governor, Aramis walking on his right hand; some of the soldiers who happened to be in the courtyard drew themselves up in line, as stiff as posts, as the governor passed along. Baisemeaux led the way down several steps which conducted to a sort of esplanade; thence they arrived at the draw-bridge, where the sentinels on duty received the governor with the proper honors. The governor turned toward Aramis, and, speaking in such a tone that the sentinels could not lose a word, he observed,--“I hope you have a good memory, monsieur?”

“Why?” inquired Aramis.

“On account of your plans and your measurements, for you know that no one is allowed, not architects even, to enter where the prisoners are, with paper, pens or pencil.”

“Good,” said Aramis to himself, “it seems I am an architect, then. It sounds like one of D’Artagnan’s jokes, who perceived in me the engineer of Belle-Isle.” Then he added aloud: “Be easy on that score, monsieur; in our profession, a mere glance and a good memory are quite sufficient.”

Baisemeaux did not change countenance, and the soldiers took Aramis for what he seemed to be. “Very well; we will first visit la Bertaudiere, “said Baisemeaux, still intending the sentinels to hear him. Then, turning to the jailer, he added: “You will take the opportunity of carrying to No. 2 the few dainties I pointed out.”

“Dear M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, “you are always forgetting No. 3.”

“So I am,” said the governor; and upon that, they began to ascend. The number of bolts, gratings, and locks for this single courtyard would have sufficed for the safety of an entire city. Aramis was neither an imaginative nor a sensitive man; he had been somewhat of a poet in his youth, but his heart was hard and indifferent, as the heart of every man of fifty-five years of age is, who has been frequently and passionately attached to women in his lifetime, or rather who has been passionately loved by them. But when he placed his foot upon the worn stone steps, along which so many unhappy wretches had passed, when he felt himself impregnated, as it were, with the atmosphere of those gloomy dungeons, moistened with tears, there could be but little doubt he was overcome by his feelings, for his head was bowed and his eyes became dim, as he followed Baisemeaux without a syllable.

The Second Floor of la Bertaudiere

On the second flight of stairs, whether from fatigue or emotion, the breathing of the visitor began to fail him, and he leaned against the wall. “Will you begin with this one?” said Baisemeaux; “for since we are going to both, it matters very little whether we ascend from the second to the third story, or descend from the third to the second.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Aramis, eagerly, “higher, if you please; the one above is the more urgent.” They continued their ascent. “Ask the jailer for the keys,” whispered Aramis. Baisemeaux did so, took the keys, and, himself, opened the door of the third room. The jailer was the first to enter; he placed upon the table the provisions, which the kind-hearted governor called dainties, and then left the room. The prisoner had not stirred; Baisemeaux then entered, while Aramis remained at the threshold, from which place he saw a youth about eighteen years of age, who, raising his head at the unusual noise, jumped off the bed, as he perceived the governor, and clasping his hands together, began to cry out, “My mother, my mother,” in tones which betrayed such deep distress that Aramis, despite his command over himself, felt a shudder pass through his frame. “My dear boy,” said Baisemeaux, endeavoring to smile, “I have brought you a diversion and an extra,--the one for the mind, the other for the body; this gentleman has come to take your measure, and here are some preserves for your dessert.”

“Oh, monsieur,” exclaimed the young man, “keep me in solitude for a year, let me have nothing but bread and water for a year, but tell me that at the end of a year I shall leave this place, tell me that at the end of a year I shall see my mother again.”

“But I have heard you say that your mother was very poor, and that you were very badly lodged when you were living with her, while here--upon my word!”

“If she were poor, monsieur, the greater reason to restore her only means of support to her. Badly lodged with her! Oh, monsieur, every one is always well lodged when he is free.”

“At all events, since you yourself admit you have done nothing but write that unhappy distich----”

“But without any intention, I swear. Let me be punished--cut off the hand which wrote it, I will work with the other--but restore my mother to me.”

“My boy,” said Baisemeaux, “you know very well that it does not depend upon me; all I can do for you is to increase your rations, give you a glass of port wine now and then, slip in a biscuit for you between a couple of plates.”

“Great heaven!” exclaimed the young man, falling backward and rolling on the ground.

Aramis, unable to bear this scene any longer, withdrew as far as the landing. “Unhappy, wretched man,” he murmured.

“Yes, monsieur, he is indeed very wretched,” said the jailer; “but it is his parents’ fault.

“In what way?”

“No doubt. Why did they let him learn Latin? Too much knowledge, you see; it is that which does harm. Now I, for instance, can’t read or write, and therefore I am not in prison.” Aramis looked at the man, who seemed to think that being a jailer in the Bastile was not being in prison. As for Baisemeaux, noticing the little effect produced by his advice and his port wine, he left the dungeon quite upset. “You have forgotten to close the door,” said the jailer.

“So I have,” said Baisemeaux, “there are the keys, do you do it.”

“I will solicit the pardon of that poor boy,” said Aramis.

“And if you do not succeed,” said Baisemeaux, “at least beg that he may be transferred to the ten-franc list, by which both he and I shall be gainers.”

“If the other prisoner calls out for his mother in a similar manner,” said Aramis, “I prefer not to enter at all, but will take my measure from outside.”

“No fear of that, monsieur architect, the one we are now going to see is as gentle as a lamb; before he could call after his mother he must open his lips, and he never says a word.”

“Let us go in, then,” said Aramis, gloomily.

“Are you the architect of the prisons, monsieur?” said the jailer.

“I am.”

“It is odd, then, that you are not more accustomed to all this.”

Aramis perceived that, to avoid giving rise to any suspicions he must summon all his strength of mind to his assistance. Baisemeaux, who carried the keys, opened the door. “Stay outside,” he said to the jailer, “and wait for us at the bottom of the steps.” The jailer obeyed and withdrew.

Baisemeaux entered first and opened the second door himself. By the light which filtered through the iron-barred window, could be seen a handsome young man, short in stature, with closely cut hair, and a beard beginning to grow; he was sitting on a stool, his elbow resting on an armchair, and all the upper part of his body reclining against it. His dress, thrown upon the bed, was of rich black velvet, and he inhaled the fresh air which blew in upon his breast through a shirt of the very finest cambric. As the governor entered, the young man turned his head with a look full of indifference; and on recognizing Baisemeaux, he arose and saluted him courteously. But when his eyes fell upon Aramis, who remained in the background, the latter trembled, turned pale, and his hat, which he held in his hand, fell upon the ground, as if all his muscles had become relaxed at once. Baisemeaux, habituated to the presence of his prisoner, did not seem to share any of the sensations which Aramis experienced, but, with all the zeal of a good servant, he busied himself in arranging on the table the pasty and crawfish he had brought with him. Occupied in this manner, he did not remark how disturbed his guest had become. When he had finished, however, he turned to the young prisoner and said: “You are looking very well,--are you so?”

“Quite well, I thank you, monsieur,” replied the young man.

The effect of the voice was such as almost to overpower Aramis, and notwithstanding his control over himself, he advanced a few steps towards him, with his eyes wide open and his lips trembling. The movement he made was so marked that Baisemeaux, notwithstanding his preoccupation, observed it. “This gentleman is an architect who has come to examine your chimney,” said Baisemeaux, “does it smoke?”

“Never, monsieur.”

“You were saying just now,” said the governor, rubbing his hands together, “that it was not possible for a man to be happy in prison; here, however, is one who is so. You have nothing to complain of, I hope?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you ever feel weary?” said Aramis.

“Never.”

“Ha, ha,” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice; “was I right?”

“Well, my dear governor, it is impossible not to yield to evidence. Is it allowed to put any question to him?”

“As many as you like.”

“Very well; be good enough to ask him if he knows why he is here.”

“This gentleman requests me to ask you,” said Baisemeaux, “if you are aware of the cause of your imprisonment?”

“No, monsieur,” said the young man, unaffectedly, “I am not.”

“That is hardly possible,” said Aramis, carried away by his feelings in spite of himself; “if you were really ignorant of the cause of your detention, you would be furious.”

“I was so during the early days of my imprisonment.”

“Why are you not so now?”

“Because I have reflected.”

“That is strange,” said Aramis.

“Is it not odd?” said Baisemeaux.

“May one venture to ask you, monsieur, on what you have reflected?”

“I felt that as I had committed no crime, Heaven could not punish me.”

“What is a prison, then,” inquired Aramis, “if it be not a punishment?”

“Alas! I cannot tell, said the young man; “all that I can tell you now is the very opposite of what I felt seven years ago.”

“To hear you converse, to witness your resignation, one might almost believe that you liked your imprisonment?”

“I endure it.

“In the certainty of recovering your freedom some day, I suppose?”

“I have no certainty; hope I have, and that is all; and yet I acknowledge that this hope becomes less every day.”

“Still, why should you not again be free, since you have already been so?”

“That is precisely the reason,” replied the young man, “which prevents me expecting liberty; why should I have been imprisoned at all if it had been intended to release me afterwards?”

“How old are you?”

“I do not know.”

“What is your name?”

“I have forgotten the name by which I was called.”

“Who are your parents?”

“I never knew them.”

“But those who brought you up?”

“They did not call me their son.”

“Did you ever love any one before coming here?”

“I loved my nurse, and my flowers.”

“Was that all?”

“I also loved my valet.”

“Do you regret your nurse and your valet?”

“I wept very much when they died.”

“Did they die since you have been here, or before you came?”

“They died the evening before I was carried off.”

“Both at the same time?”

“Yes, both at the same time.”

“In what manner were you carried off?”

“A man came for me, directed me to get into a carriage, which was closed and locked, and brought me here.”

“Would you be able to recognize that man again?”

“He was masked.”

“Is not this an extraordinary tale?” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice, to Aramis, who could hardly breathe.

“It is indeed extraordinary,” he murmured.

“But what is still more extraordinary is, that he has never told me so much as he has just told you.”

“Perhaps the reason may be that you have never questioned him,” said Aramis.

“It’s possible,” replied Baisemeaux; “I have no curiosity. Have you looked at the room? it’s a fine one, is it not?”

“Very much so.”

“A carpet----”

“Beautiful.”

“I’ll wager he had nothing like it before he came here.”

“I think so, too.” And then again turning towards the young man, he said, “Do you not remember to have been visited at some time or another by a strange lady or gentleman?”

“Yes, indeed; thrice by a woman, who each time came to the door in a carriage, and entered covered with a veil, which she raised when we were together and alone.”

“Do you remember that woman?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say to you?”

The young man smiled mournfully, and then replied, “She inquired, as you have just done, if I were happy, and if I were getting weary?”

“What did she do on arriving, and on leaving you?”

“She pressed me in her arms, held me in her embrace, and kissed me.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Perfectly.”

“Do you recall her features distinctly?”

“Yes.”

“You would recognize her, then, if accident brought her before you, or led you into her presence?”

“Most certainly.”

A flush of fleeting satisfaction passed across Aramis’s face. At this moment Baisemeaux heard the jailer approaching. “Shall we leave?” he said, hastily, to Aramis.

Aramis, who probably had learnt all that he cared to know, replied, “When you like.”

The young man saw them prepare to leave, and saluted them politely. Baisemeaux replied merely by a nod of the head, while Aramis, with a respect, arising perhaps from the sight of such misfortune, saluted the prisoner profoundly. They left the room, Baisemeaux closing the door behind them.

“Well,” said Baisemeaux, as they descended the staircase, “what do you think of it all?”

“I have discovered the secret, my dear governor,” he said.

“Bah! what is the secret, then?”

“A murder was committed in that house.”

“Nonsense.”

“But attend; the valet and nurse died the same day.”

“Well.”

“And by poison. What do you think?”

“That it is very likely to be true.”

“What! that that young man is an assassin?”

“Who said that? What makes you think that poor young fellow could be an assassin?”

“The very thing I was saying. A crime was committed in his house,” said Aramis, “and that was quite sufficient; perhaps he saw the criminals, and it was feared that he might say something.”

“The deuce! if I only thought that----”

“Well?”

“I would redouble the surveillance.”

“Oh, he does not seem to wish to escape.”

“You do not know what prisoners are.”

“Has he any books?”

“None; they are strictly prohibited, and under M. de Mazarin’s own hand.”

“Have you the writing still?”

“Yes, my lord; would you like to look at it as you return to take your cloak?

“I should, for I like to look at autographs.”

“Well, then, this one is of the most unquestionable authenticity; there is only one erasure.”

“Ah, ah! an erasure; and in what respect?”

“With respect to a figure. At first there was written: ‘To be boarded at fifty francs.’”

“As princes of the blood, in fact?”

“But the cardinal must have seen his mistake, you understand; for he canceled the zero, and has added a one before the five. But, by the by----”

“What?”

“You do not speak of the resemblance.”

“I do not speak of it, dear M. de Baisemeaux, for a very simple reason--because it does not exist.”

“The deuce it doesn’t.”

“Or, if it does exist, it is only in your own imagination; but, supposing it were to exist elsewhere, I think it would be better for you not to speak about it.”

“Really.”

“The king, Louis XIV.--you understand--would be excessively angry with you, if he were to learn that you contributed in any way to spread the report that one of his subjects has the effrontery to resemble him.”

“It is true, quite true,” said Baisemeaux, thoroughly alarmed; “but I have not spoken of the circumstance to any one but yourself, and you understand, monseigneur, that I perfectly rely on your discretion.”

“Oh, be easy.”

“Do you still wish to see the note?”

“Certainly.”

While engaged in this manner in conversation, they had returned to the governor’s apartments; Baisemeaux took from the cupboard a private register, like the one he had already shown Aramis, but fastened by a lock, the key which opened it being one of a small bunch of keys which Baisemeaux always carried with him. Then placing the book upon the table, he opened it at the letter “M,” and showed Aramis the following note in the column of observations: “No books at any time; all linen and clothes of the finest and best quality to be procured; no exercise; always the same jailer; no communications with any one. Musical instruments; every liberty and every indulgence which his welfare may require, to be boarded at fifteen francs. M. de Baisemeaux can claim more if the fifteen francs be not sufficient.”

“Ah,” said Baisemeaux, “now I think of it, I shall claim it.”

Aramis shut the book. “Yes,” he said, “it is indeed M. de Mazarin’s handwriting; I recognize it well. Now, my dear governor,” he continued, as if this last communication had exhausted his interest, “let us now turn to our own little affairs.”

“Well, what time for repayment do you wish me to take? Fix it yourself.”

“There need not be any particular period fixed; give me a simple acknowledgment for one hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

“When to be made payable?”

“When I require it; but, you understand, I shall only wish it when you yourself do.”

“Oh, I am quite easy on that score,” said Baisemeaux, smiling; “but I have already given you two receipts.”

“Which I now destroy,” said Aramis; and after having shown the two receipts to Baisemeaux, he destroyed them. Overcome by so great a mark of confidence, Baisemeaux unhesitatingly wrote out an acknowledgment of a debt of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, payable at the pleasure of the prelate. Aramis, who had, by glancing over the governor’s shoulder, followed the pen as he wrote, put the acknowledgment into his pocket without seeming to have read it, which made Baisemeaux perfectly easy. “Now,” said Aramis, “you will not be angry with me if I were to carry off one of your prisoners?”

“What do you mean?”

“By obtaining his pardon, of course. Have I not already told you that I took a great interest in poor Seldon?”

“Yes, quite true, you did so.”

“Well?”

“That is your affair; do as you think proper. I see you have an open hand, and an arm that can reach a great way.”

“Adieu, adieu.” And Aramis left, carrying with him the governor’s best wishes.

The Two Friends

At the very time M. de Baisemeaux was showing Aramis the prisoners in the Bastile, a carriage drew up at Madame de Belliere’s door, and, at that still early hour, a young woman alighted, her head muffled in a silk hood. When the servants announced Madame Vanel to Madame de Belliere, the latter was engaged, or rather was absorbed, in reading, a letter, which she hurriedly concealed. She had hardly finished her morning toilette, her maid being still in the next room. At the name---at the footsteps of Marguerite Vanel--Madame de Belliere ran to meet her. She fancied she could detect in her friend’s eyes a brightness which was neither that of health nor of pleasure. Marguerite embraced her, pressed her hands, and hardly allowed her time to speak. “Dearest,” she said, “have you forgotten me? Have you quite given yourself up to the pleasures of the court?”

“I have not even seen the marriage fetes.”

“What are you doing with yourself, then?”

“I am getting ready to leave for Belliere.”

“For Belliere?”

“Yes.”

“You are becoming rustic in your tastes, then; I delight to see you so disposed. But you are pale.”

“No, I am perfectly well.”

“So much the better; I was becoming uneasy about you. You do not know what I have been told.”

“People say so many things.”

“Yes, but this is very singular.”

“How well you know how to excite curiosity, Marguerite.”

“Well, I was afraid of vexing you.”

“Never; you have yourself always admired me for my evenness of temper.”

“Well, then, it is said that--no, I shall never be able to tell you.”

“Do not let us talk about it, then,” said Madame de Belliere, who detected the ill-nature that was concealed by all these prefaces, yet felt the most anxious curiosity on the subject.

“Well, then, my dear marquise, it is said that, for some time past, you no longer continue to regret Monsieur de Belliere as you used to.”

“It is an ill-natured report, Marguerite. I do regret and shall always regret, my husband; but it is now two years since he died. I am only twenty-eight years old, and my grief at his loss ought not always to control every action and thought of my life. You, Marguerite, who are the model of a wife, would not believe me if I were to say so.”

“Why not? Your heart is so soft and yielding.” she said, spitefully.

“Yours is so too, Marguerite, and yet I did not perceive that you allowed yourself to be overcome by grief when your heart was wounded.” These words were in direct allusion to Marguerite’s rupture with the superintendent, and were also a veiled but direct reproach made against her friend’s heart.

As if she only awaited this signal to discharge her shaft, Marguerite exclaimed, “Well, Elise, it is said you are in love.” And she looked fixedly at Madame de Belliere, who blushed against her will.

“Women never escape slander,” replied the marquise, after a moment’s pause.

“No one slanders you, Elise.”

“What!--people say that I am in love, and yet they do not slander me!”

“In the first place, if it be true, it is no slander, but simply a scandal-loving report. In the next place--for you did not allow me to finish what I was saying--the public does not assert that you have abandoned yourself to this passion. It represents you, on the contrary, as a virtuous but loving woman, defending yourself with claws and teeth, shutting yourself up in your own house as in a fortress; in other respects, as impenetrable as that of Danae, notwithstanding Danae’s tower was made of brass.”

“You are witty, Marguerite,” said Madame de Belliere, angrily.

“You always flatter me, Elise. In short, however you are reported to be incorruptible and unapproachable. You cannot decide whether the world is calumniating you or not; but what is it you are musing about while I am speaking to you?”

“I?”

“Yes; you are blushing and do not answer me.”

“I was trying,” said the marquise, raising her beautiful eyes brightened with an indication of growing temper, “I was trying to discover to what you could possibly have alluded, you who are so learned in mythological subjects in comparing me to Danae.”

“You were trying to guess that?” said Marguerite, laughing.

“Yes; do you not remember that at the convent, when we were solving our problems in arithmetic--ah! what I have to tell you is learned also, but it is my turn--do you not remember, that if one of the terms were given, we were to find out the other? Therefore do you guess now?”

“I cannot conjecture what you mean.”

“And yet nothing is more simple. You pretend that I am in love, do you not?”

“So it is said.”

“Very well, it is not said, I suppose, that I am in love with an abstraction. There must surely be a name mentioned in this report.”

“Certainly, a name is mentioned.”

“Very well; it is not surprising, then, that I should try to guess this name, since you do not tell it.”

“My dear marquise, when I saw you blush, I did not think you would have to spend much time in conjectures.”

“It was the word Danae which you used that surprised me. Danae means a shower of gold, does it not?”

“That is to say that the Jupiter of Danae changed himself into a shower of gold for her.”

“My lover, then, he whom you assign me----”

“I beg your pardon; I am your friend, and assign you no one.”

“That may be; but those who are ill disposed towards me.”

“Do you wish to hear the name?”

“I have been waiting this half hour for it.”

“Well, then, you shall hear it. Do not be shocked; he is a man high in power.”

“Good,” said the marquise, as she clenched her hands like a patient at the approach of the knife.

“He is a very wealthy man,” continued Marguerite; “the wealthiest, it may be. In a word, it is----”

The marquise closed her eyes for a moment.

“It is the Duke of Buckingham,” said Marguerite, bursting into laughter. This perfidy had been calculated with extreme ability; the name that was pronounced, instead of the name which the marquise awaited, had precisely the same effect upon her as the badly sharpened axes that had hacked, without destroying, Messieurs de Chalais and De Thou upon the scaffold. She recovered herself, however, and said, “I was perfectly right in saying you were a witty woman, for you are making the time pass away most agreeably. This joke is a most amusing one, for I have never seen the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Never?” said Marguerite, restraining her laughter.

“I have never even left my own house since the duke has been at Paris.”

“Oh!” resumed Madame Vanel, stretching out her foot towards a paper which was lying on the carpet near the window; “it is not necessary for people to see each other, since they can write.” The marquise trembled, for this paper was the envelope of the letter she was reading as her friend had entered, and was sealed with the superintendent’s arms. As she leaned back on the sofa on which she was sitting, Madame de Belliere covered the paper with the thick folds of her large silk dress, and so concealed it.

“Come, Marguerite, tell me, is it to tell me all these foolish reports that you have come to see me so early in the day?”

“No, I came to see you, in the first place, and to remind you of those habits of our earlier days, so delightful to remember, when we used to wander about together at Vincennes, and, sitting beneath an oak, or in some sylvan shade, used to talk of those we loved, and who loved us.”

“Do you propose that we should go out together now?”

“My carriage is here, and I have three hours at my disposal.”

“I am not dressed yet, Marguerite; but if you wish that we should talk together, we can, without going to the woods of Vincennes, find in my own garden here, beautiful trees, shady groves, a greensward covered with daisies and violets, the perfume of which can be perceived from where we are sitting.”

“I regret your refusal, my dear marquise, for I wanted to pour out my whole heart into yours.”

“I repeat again, Marguerite, my heart is yours just as much in this room, or beneath the lime-trees in the garden here, as it would be under the oaks in the wood yonder.”

“It is not the same thing for me. In approaching Vincennes, marquise, my ardent aspirations approach nearer to that object towards which they have for some days past been directed.” The marquise suddenly raised her head. “Are you surprised, then, that I am still thinking of Saint-Mande?”

“Of Saint-Mande?” exclaimed Madame de Belliere; and the looks of both women met each other like two resistless swords.

“You, so proud!” said the marquise, disdainfully.

“I, so proud!” replied Madame Vanel. “Such is my nature. I do not forgive neglect--I cannot endure infidelity. When I leave any one who weeps at my abandonment, I feel induced still to love him; but when others forsake me and laugh at their infidelity, I love distractedly.”

Madame de Belliere could not restrain an involuntary movement.

“She is jealous,” said Marguerite to herself.

“Then,” continued the marquise, “you are quite enamored of the Duke of Buckingham--I mean of M. Fouquet?” Elise felt the allusion, and her blood seemed to congeal in her heart. “And you wished to go to Vincennes,--to Saint-Mande, even?”

“I hardly know what I wished: you would have advised me perhaps.”

“In what respect?”

“You have often done so.”

“Most certainly I should not have done so in the present instance, for I do not forgive as you do. I am less loving, perhaps; when my heart has been once wounded, it remains so always.”

“But M. Fouquet has not wounded you,” said Marguerite Vanel, with the most perfect simplicity.

“You perfectly understand what I mean. M. Fouquet has not wounded me; I do not know of either obligation or injury received at his hands, but you have reason to complain of him. You are my friend, and I am afraid I should not advise you as you would like.”

“Ah! you are prejudging the case.”

“The sighs you spoke of just now are more than indications.”

“You overwhelm me,” said the young woman suddenly, as if collecting her whole strength, like a wrestler preparing for a last struggle; “you take only my evil dispositions and my weaknesses into calculation, and do not speak of my pure and generous feelings. If, at this moment, I feel instinctively attracted towards the superintendent, if I even make an advance to him, which, I confess, is very probable, my motive for it is, that M. Fouquet’s fate deeply affects me, and because he is, in my opinion, one of the most unfortunate men living.”

“Ah!” said the marquise, placing her hand upon her heart, “something new, then, has occurred?”

“Do you not know it?”

“I am utterly ignorant of everything about him,” said Madame de Belliere, with the poignant anguish that suspends thought and speech, and even life itself.

“In the first place, then, the king’s favor is entirely withdrawn from M. Fouquet, and conferred on M. Colbert.”

“So it is stated.”

“It is very clear, since the discovery of the plot of Belle-Isle.”

“I was told that the discovery of the fortifications there had turned out to M. Fouquet’s honor.”

Marguerite began to laugh in so cruel a manner that Madame de Belliere could at that moment have delightedly plunged a dagger in her bosom. “Dearest,” continued Marguerite, “there is no longer any question of M. Fouquet’s honor; his safety is concerned. Before three days are passed the ruin of the superintendent will be complete.”

“Stay,” said the marquise, in her turn smiling, “that is going a little too fast.”

“I said three days, because I wish to deceive myself with a hope; but probably the catastrophe will be complete within twenty-four hours.”

“Why so?”

“For the simplest of all reasons,--that M. Fouquet has no more money.”

“In matters of finance, my dear Marguerite, some are without money to-day, who to-morrow can procure millions.”

“That might be M. Fouquet’s case when he had two wealthy and clever friends who amassed money for him, and wrung it from every possible or impossible source; but those friends are dead.”

“Money does not die, Marguerite; it may be concealed, but it can be looked for, bought and found.”

“You see things on the bright side, and so much the better for you. It is really very unfortunate that you are not the Egeria of M. Fouquet; you might now show him the source whence he could obtain the millions which the king asked him for yesterday.”

“Millions!” said the marquise, in terror.

“Four--an even number.”

“Infamous!” murmured Madame de Belliere, tortured by her friend’s merciless delight.

“M. Fouquet, I should think, must certainly have four millions,” she replied, courageously.

“If he has those which the king requires to-day,” said Marguerite, “he will not, perhaps, possess those which the king will demand in a month or so.”

“The king will exact money from him again, then?”

“No doubt; and that is my reason for saying that the ruin of poor M. Fouquet is inevitable. Pride will induce him to furnish the money, and when he has no more, he will fall.”

“It is true,” said the marquise, trembling; “the plan is a bold one; but tell me, does M. Colbert hate M. Fouquet so very much?”

“I think he does not like him. M. Colbert is powerful; he improves on close acquaintance, he has gigantic ideas, a strong will, and discretion, he will rise.”

“He will be superintendent?”

“It is probable. Such is the reason, my dear marquise, why I felt myself impressed in favor of that poor man, who once loved, and even adored me; and why, when I see him so unfortunate, I forgive his infidelity which I have reason to believe he also regrets; and why, moreover, I should not have been disinclined to afford him some consolation, or some good advice; he would have understood the step I had taken, and would have thought kindly of me for it. It is gratifying to be loved, you know. Men value love more highly when they are no longer blinded by its influence.”

The marquise, bewildered and overcome by these cruel attacks, which had been calculated with the greatest nicety and precision, hardly knew what answer to return; she even seemed to have lost all power of thought. Her perfidious friend’s voice had assumed the most affectionate tone; she spoke as a woman, but concealed the instincts of a wolf.

“Well,” said Madame de Belliere, who had a vague hope that Marguerite would cease to overwhelm a vanquished enemy, “why do you not go and see M. Fouquet?”

“Decidedly, marquise, you have made me reflect. No, it would be unbecoming for me to make the first advance. M. Fouquet no doubt loves me, but he is too proud. I cannot expose myself to an affront.... besides I have my husband to consider. You tell me nothing? Very well, I shall consult M. Colbert on the subject.” Marguerite rose smilingly, as though to take leave, but the marquise had not the strength to imitate her. Marguerite advanced a few paces, in order that she might continue to enjoy the humiliating grief in which her rival was plunged, and then said, suddenly,--“You do not accompany me to the door, then?” The marquise rose, pale and almost lifeless, without thinking of the envelope, which had occupied her attention so greatly at the commencement of the conversation, and which was revealed at the first step she took. She then opened the door of her oratory, and without even turning her head towards Marguerite Vanel, entered it, closing the door after her. Marguerite said, or rather muttered a few words, which Madame de Belliere did not even hear. As soon, however, as the marquise had disappeared, her envious enemy, not being able to resist the desire to satisfy herself that her suspicions were well founded, advanced stealthily towards it like a panther and seized the envelope. “Ah!” she said, gnashing her teeth, “it was indeed a letter from M. Fouquet she was reading when I arrived,” and then darted out of the room. During this interval, the marquise, having arrived behind the rampart, as it were, of her door, felt that her strength was failing her; for a moment she remained rigid, pale and motionless as a statue, and then, like a statue shaken on its base by an earthquake, tottered and fell inanimate on the carpet. The noise of the fall resounded at the same moment as the rolling of Marguerite’s carriage leaving the hotel.

Madame de Belliere’s Plate

The blow had been the more painful on account of its being unexpected. It was some time before the marquise recovered herself; but once recovered, she began to reflect upon the events so heartlessly announced to her. She therefore returned, at the risk even of losing her life in the way, to that train of ideas which her relentless friend had forced her to pursue. Treason, then--deep menaces, concealed under the semblance of public interest--such were Colbert’s maneuvers. A detestable delight at an approaching downfall, untiring efforts to attain this object, means of seduction no less wicked than the crime itself--such were the weapons Marguerite employed. The crooked atoms of Descartes triumphed; to the man without compassion was united a woman without heart. The marquise perceived, with sorrow rather than indignation, that the king was an accomplice in the plot which betrayed the duplicity of Louis XIII. in his advanced age, and the avarice of Mazarin at a period of life when he had not had the opportunity of gorging himself with French gold. The spirit of thus courageous woman soon resumed its energy, no longer overwhelmed by indulgence in compassionate lamentations. The marquise was not one to weep when action was necessary, nor to waste time in bewailing a misfortune as long as means still existed of relieving it. For some minutes she buried her face in her cold fingers, and then, raising her head, rang for her attendants with a steady hand, and with a gesture betraying a fixed determination of purpose. Her resolution was taken.

“Is everything prepared for my departure?” she inquired of one of her female attendants who entered.

“Yes, madame; but it was not expected that your ladyship would leave for Belliere for the next few days.”

“All my jewels and articles of value, then, are packed up?”

“Yes, madame; but hitherto we have been in the habit of leaving them in Paris. Your ladyship does not generally take your jewels with you into the country.”

“But they are all in order, you say?”

“Yes, in your ladyship’s own room.”

“The gold plate?”

“In the chest.”

“And the silver plate?”

“In the great oak closet.”

The marquise remained silent for a few moments, and then said calmly, “Let my goldsmith be sent for.”

Her attendants quitted the room to execute the order. The marquise, however, had entered her own room, and was inspecting her casket of jewels with the greatest attention. Never, until now, had she bestowed such close attention upon riches in which women take so much pride; never, until now, had she looked at her jewels except for the purpose of making a selection, according to their settings or their colors. On this occasion, however, she admired the size of the rubies and the brilliancy of the diamonds; she grieved over every blemish and every defect; she thought the gold light, and the stones wretched. The goldsmith, as he entered, found her thus occupied. “M. Faucheux,” she said, “I believe you supplied me with my gold service?”

“I did, your ladyship.”

“I do not now remember the amount of the account.”

“Of the new service, madame, or of that which M. de Belliere presented to you on your marriage? for I have furnished both.”

“First of all, the new one.”

“The covers, the goblets, and the dishes, with their covers, the eau-epergne, the ice-pails, the dishes for the preserves, and the tea and coffee urns, cost your ladyship sixty thousand francs.”

“No more?”

“Your ladyship thought the account very high.”

“Yes, yes; I remember, in fact, that it was dear; but it was the workmanship, I suppose?”

“Yes, madame; the designs, the chasings--all new patterns.”

“What proportion of the cost does the workmanship form? Do not hesitate to tell me.”

“A third of its value, madame.”

“There is the other service, the old one, that which belonged to my husband?”

“Yes, madame; there is less workmanship in that than in the other. Its intrinsic value does not exceed thirty thousand francs.”

“Thirty thousand,” murmured the marquise. “But, M. Faucheux, there is also the service which belonged to my mother; all that massive plate which I did not wish to part with, on account of the associations connected with it.”

“Ah! madame, that would indeed be an excellent resource for those who, unlike your ladyship, might not be in a position to keep their plate. In chasing that they worked in solid metal. But that service is no longer in fashion. Its weight is its only advantage.”

“That is all I care about. How much does it weigh?”

“Fifty thousand livres at the very least. I do not allude to the enormous vases for the buffet, which alone weigh five thousand livres, or ten thousand the pair.”

“One hundred and thirty,” murmured the marquise. “You are quite sure of your figures, M. Faucheux?”

“Positive, madame. Besides, there is no difficulty in weighing them.”

“The amount is entered in my books.”

“Your ladyship is extremely methodical, I am aware.”

“Let us now turn to another subject,” said Madame de, Belliere; and she opened one of her jewel-boxes.

“I recognize these emeralds,” said M. Faucheux; “for it was I who had the setting of them. They are the most beautiful in the whole court. No, I am mistaken; Madame de Chatillon has the most beautiful set; she had them from Messieurs de Guise; but your set madame, comes next.”

“What are they worth?”

“Mounted?”

“No; supposing I wished to sell them.”

“I know very well who would buy them,” exclaimed M. Faucheux.

“That is the very thing I ask. They could be sold, then?”

“All your jewels could be sold, madame. It is well known that you possess the most beautiful jewels in Paris. You are not changeable in your tastes; when you make a purchase it is of the very best; and what you purchase you do not part with.”

“What could these emeralds be sold for, then?”

“A hundred and thirty thousand francs.”

The marquise wrote down upon her tablets the amount which the jeweler mentioned. “The ruby necklace?” she said.

“Are they balas-rubies, madame?”

“Here they are.”

“They are beautiful--magnificent. I did not know that your ladyship had these stones.”

“What is their value?”

“Two hundred thousand francs. The center one is alone worth a hundred thousand.”

“I thought so,” said the marquise. “As for diamonds, I have them in numbers; rings, necklaces, sprigs, earrings, clasps. Tell me their value, M. Faucheux.”

The jeweler took his magnifying-glass and scales, weighed and inspected them, and silently made his calculations. “These stones,” he said, “must have cost your ladyship an income of forty thousand francs.”

“You value them at eight hundred thousand francs?”

“Nearly so.”

“It is about what I imagined---but the settings are not included?”

“No, madame; but if I were called upon to sell or to buy, I should be satisfied with the gold of the settings alone as my profit upon the transaction. I should make a good twenty-five thousand francs.”

“An agreeable sum.”

“Very much so, madame.”

“Will you accept that profit, then, on condition of converting the jewels into money?”

“But you do not intend to sell your diamonds, I suppose, madame?” exclaimed the bewildered jeweler.

“Silence, M. Faucheux, do not disturb yourself about that; give me an answer simply. You are an honorable man, with whom my family has dealt for thirty years; you knew my father and mother, whom your own father and mother served. I address you as a friend; will you accept the gold of the settings in return for a sum of ready money to be placed in my hands?”

“Eight hundred thousand francs! it is enormous.”

“I know it.”

“Impossible to find.”

“Not so.”

“But reflect, madame, upon the effect which will be produced by the sale of your jewels.”

“No one need know it. You can get sets of false jewels made for me, similar to the real. Do not answer a word; I insist upon it. Sell them separately, sell the stones only.”

“In that way it is easy. Monsieur is looking out for some sets of jewels as well as single stones for Madame’s toilette. There will be a competition for them. I can easily dispose of six hundred thousand francs’ worth to Monsieur. I am certain yours are the most beautiful.”

“When can you do so?”

“In less than three days’ time.”

“Very well, the remainder you will dispose of among private individuals. For the present, make me out a contract of sale, payment to be made in four days.”

“I entreat you to reflect, madame; for if you force the sale, you will lose a hundred thousand francs.”

“If necessary, I will lose two hundred; I wish everything to be settled this evening. Do you accept?”

“I do, your ladyship. I will not conceal from you that I shall make fifty thousand francs by the transaction.”

“So much the better for you. In what way shall I have the money?”

“Either in gold, or in bills of the bank of Lyons, payable at M. Colbert’s.”

“I agree,” said the marquise, eagerly; “return home and bring the sum in question in notes, as soon as possible.”

“Yes, madame, but for Heaven’s sake----”

“Not a word, M. Faucheux. By the by, I was forgetting the silver plate. What is the value of that which I have?”

“Fifty thousand francs, madame.”

“That makes a million,” said the marquise to herself. “M. Faucheux, you will take away with you both the gold and silver plate. I can assign, as a pretext, that I wish it remodelled on patterns more in accordance with my own taste. Melt it down, and return me its value in money, at once.”

“It shall be done, your ladyship.”

“You will be good enough to place the money in a chest, and direct one of your clerks to accompany the chest, and without my servants seeing him; and order him to wait for me in a carriage.”

“In Madame de Faucheux’s carriage?” said the jeweler.

“If you will allow it, and I will call for it at your house.”

“Certainly, your ladyship.”

“I will direct some of my servants to convey the plate to your house.” The marquise rung. “Let the small van be placed at M. Faucheux’s disposal,” she said. The jeweler bowed and left the house, directing that the van should follow him closely, saying aloud that the marquise was about to have her plate melted down in order to have other plate manufactured of a more modern style. Three hours afterwards she went to M. Faucheux’s house and received from him eight hundred thousand francs in gold inclosed in a chest, which one of the clerks could hardly carry towards Madame Faucheux’s carriage--for Madame Faucheux kept her carriage. As the daughter of a president of accounts, she had brought a marriage portion of thirty thousand crowns to her husband, who was syndic of the goldsmiths. These thirty thousand crowns had become very fruitful during twenty years. The jeweler, though a millionaire, was a modest man. He had purchased a substantial carriage, built in 1648, ten years after the king’s birth. This carriage, or rather house upon wheels, excited the admiration of the whole quarter in which he resided--it was covered with allegorical paintings, and clouds scattered over with stars. The marquise entered this somewhat extraordinary vehicle, sitting opposite the clerk, who endeavored to put his knees out of the way, afraid even of touching the marquise’s dress. It was the clerk, too, who told the coachman, who was very proud of having a marquise to drive, to take the road to Saint-Mande.

The Dowry

Monsieur Faucheux’s horses were serviceable animals, with thickset knees, and legs that had some difficulty in moving. Like the carriage, they belonged to the earlier part of the century. They were not as fleet as the English horses of M. Fouquet, and consequently took two hours to get to Saint-Mande. Their progress, it might be said, was majestic. Majesty, however, precludes hurry. The marquise stopped the carriage at the door so well known to her, although she had seen it only once, under circumstances, it will be remembered, no less painful than those which brought her now to it again. She drew a key from her pocket, and inserted it in the lock, pushed open the door, which noiselessly yielded to her touch, and directed the clerk to carry the chest upstairs to the first floor. The weight of the chest was so great that the clerk was obliged to get the coachman to assist him with it. They placed it in a small cabinet, anteroom, or boudoir rather, adjoining the saloon where we once saw M. Fouquet at the marquise’s feet. Madame de Belliere gave the coachman a louis, smiled gracefully at the clerk, and dismissed them both. She closed the door after them, and waited in the room, alone and barricaded. There was no servant to be seen about the rooms, but everything was prepared as though some invisible genius had divined the wishes and desires of an expected guest. The fire was laid, candles in the candelabra, refreshments upon the table, books scattered about, fresh-cut flowers in the vases. One might almost have imagined it an enchanted house. The marquise lighted the candles, inhaled the perfume of the flowers, sat down, and was soon plunged in profound thought. Her deep musings, melancholy though they were, were not untinged with a certain vague joy. Spread out before her was a treasure, a million wrung from her fortune as a gleaner plucks the blue corn-flower from her crown of flowers. She conjured up the sweetest dreams. Her principal thought, and one that took precedence of all others, was to devise means of leaving this money for M. Fouquet without his possibly learning from whom the gift had come. This idea, naturally enough, was the first to present itself to her mind. But although, on reflection, it appeared difficult to carry out, she did not despair of success. She would then ring to summon M. Fouquet and make her escape, happier than if, instead of having given a million, she had herself found one. But, being there, and having seen the boudoir so coquettishly decorated that it might almost be said the least particle of dust had but the moment before been removed by the servants; having observed the drawing-room, so perfectly arranged that it might almost be said her presence there had driven away the fairies who were its occupants, she asked herself if the glance or gaze of those whom she had displaced--whether spirits, fairies, elves, or human creatures--had not already recognized her. To secure success, it was necessary that some steps should be seriously taken, and it was necessary also that the superintendent should comprehend the serious position in which he was placed, in order to yield compliance with the generous fancies of a woman; all the fascinations of an eloquent friendship would be required to persuade him, and, should this be insufficient, the maddening influence of a devoted passion, which, in its resolute determination to carry conviction, would not be turned aside. Was not the superintendent, indeed, known for his delicacy and dignity of feeling? Would he allow himself to accept from any woman that of which she had stripped herself? No! He would resist, and if any voice in the world could overcome his resistance, it would be the voice of the woman he loved.

Another doubt, and that a cruel one, suggested itself to Madame de Belliere with a sharp, acute pain, like a dagger thrust. Did he really love her? Would that volatile mind, that inconstant heart, be likely to be fixed for a moment, even were it to gaze upon an angel? Was it not the same with Fouquet, notwithstanding his genius and his uprightness of conduct, as with those conquerors on the field of battle who shed tears when they have gained a victory?” I must learn if it be so, and must judge of that for myself,” said the marquise. “Who can tell whether that heart, so coveted, is not common in its impulses, and full of alloy? Who can tell if that mind, when the touchstone is applied to it, will not be found of a mean and vulgar character? Come, come,” she said, “this is doubting and hesitating too much--to the proof.” She looked at the timepiece. “It is now seven o’clock,” she said; “he must have arrived, it is the hour for signing his papers.” With a feverish impatience she rose and walked towards the mirror, in which she smiled with a resolute smile of devotedness; she touched the spring and drew out the handle of the bell. Then, as if exhausted beforehand by the struggle she had just undergone, she threw herself on her knees, in utter abandonment, before a large couch, in which she buried her face in her trembling hands. Ten minutes afterwards she heard the spring of the door sound. The door moved upon invisible hinges, and Fouquet appeared. He looked pale, and seemed bowed down by the weight of some bitter reflection. He did not hurry, but simply came at the summons. The pre-occupation of his mind must indeed have been very great, that a man so devoted to pleasure, for whom indeed pleasure meant everything, should obey such a summons so listlessly. The previous night, in fact, fertile in melancholy ideas, had sharpened his features, generally so noble in their indifference of expression, and had traced dark lines of anxiety around his eyes. Handsome and noble he still was, and the melancholy expression of his mouth, a rare expression with men, gave a new character to his features, by which his youth seemed to be renewed. Dressed in black, the lace in front of his chest much disarranged by his feverishly restless hand, the looks of the superintendent, full of dreamy reflection, were fixed upon the threshold of the room which he had so frequently approached in search of expected happiness. This gloomy gentleness of manner, this smiling sadness of expression, which had replaced his former excessive joy, produced an indescribable effect upon Madame de Belliere, who was regarding him at a distance.

A woman’s eye can read the face of the man she loves, its every feeling of pride, its every expression of suffering; it might almost be said that Heaven has graciously granted to women, on account of their very weakness, more than it has accorded to other creatures. They can conceal their own feelings from a man, but from them no man can conceal his. The marquise divined in a single glance the whole weight of the unhappiness of the superintendent. She divined a night passed without sleep, a day passed in deceptions. From that moment she was firm in her own strength, and she felt that she loved Fouquet beyond everything else. She arose and approached him, saying, “You wrote to me this morning to say you were beginning to forget me, and that I, whom you had not seen lately, had no doubt ceased to think of you. I have come to undeceive you, monsieur, and the more completely so, because there is one thing I can read in your eyes.”

“What is that, madame?” said Fouquet, astonished.

“That you have never loved me so much as at this moment; in the same manner you can read, in my present step towards you, that I have not forgotten you.”

“Oh! madame,” said Fouquet, whose face was for a moment lighted up by a sudden gleam of joy, “you are indeed an angel, and no man can suspect you. All he can do is to humble himself before you and entreat forgiveness.”

“Your forgiveness is granted, then,” said the marquise. Fouquet was about to throw himself upon his knees. “No, no,” she said, “sit here by my side. Ah! that is an evil thought which has just crossed your mind.”

“How do you detect it, madame?”

“By the smile that has just marred the expression of your countenance, Be candid, and tell me what your thought was--no secrets between friends.”

“Tell me, then, madame, why have you been so harsh these three or four months past?”

“Harsh?”

“Yes; did you not forbid me to visit you?”

“Alas!” said Madame de Belliere, sighing, “because your visit to me was the cause of your being visited with a great misfortune; because my house is watched; because the same eyes that have seen you already might see you again; because I think it less dangerous for you that I should come here than that you should come to my house; and, lastly, because I know you to be already unhappy enough not to wish to increase your unhappiness further.”

Fouquet started, for these words recalled all the anxieties connected with his office of superintendent--he who, for the last few minutes, had indulged in all the wild aspirations of the lover. “I unhappy?” he said, endeavoring to smile: “indeed, marquise, you will almost make me believe I am so, judging from your own sadness. Are your beautiful eyes raised upon me merely in pity? I was looking for another expression from them.”

“It is not I who am sad, monsieur; look in the mirror, there--it is yourself.”

“It is true I am somewhat pale, marquise; but it is from overwork; the king yesterday required a supply of money from me.”

“Yes, four millions, I am aware of it.”

“You know it?” exclaimed Fouquet, in a tone of surprise; “how can you have learnt it? It was after the departure of the queen, and in the presence of one person only, that the king----”

“You perceive that I do know it; is not that sufficient? Well, go on, monsieur, the money the king has required you to supply----”

“You understand, marquise, that I have been obliged to procure it, then to get it counted, afterwards registered--altogether a long affair. Since Monsieur de Mazarin’s death, financial affairs occasion some little fatigue and embarrassment. My administration is somewhat overtaxed, and this is the reason why I have not slept during the past night.”

“So that you have the amount?” inquired the marquise, with some anxiety.

“It would indeed be strange, marquise,” replied Fouquet, cheerfully, “if a superintendent of finances were not to have a paltry four millions in his coffers.”

“Yes, yes, I believe you either have, or will have them.”

“What do you mean by saying I shall have them?”

“It is not very long since you were required to furnish two millions.”

“On the contrary, to me it seems almost an age; but do not let us talk of money matters any longer.”

“On the contrary, we will continue to speak of them, for that is my only reason for coming to see you.”

“I am at a loss to compass your meaning,” said the superintendent, whose eyes began to express an anxious curiosity.

“Tell me, monsieur, is the office of superintendent a permanent position?”

“You surprise me, marchioness, for you speak as if you had some motive or interest in putting the question.”

“My reason is simple enough; I am desirous of placing some money in your hands, and naturally I wish to know if you are certain of your post.”

“Really, marquise, I am at a loss what to reply; I cannot conceive your meaning.”

“Seriously, then, dear M. Fouquet, I have certain funds which somewhat embarrass me. I am tired of investing my money in land, and am anxious to intrust it to some friend who will turn it to account.”

“Surely it does not press,” said M. Fouquet.

“On the contrary, it is very pressing.”

“Very well, we will talk of that by and by.”

“By and by will not do, for my money is there,” returned the marquise, pointing out the coffer to the superintendent, and showing him, as she opened it, the bundles of notes and heaps of gold. Fouquet, who had risen from his seat at the same moment as Madame de Belliere, remained for a moment plunged in thought; then suddenly starting back, he turned pale, and sank down in his chair, concealing his face in his hands. “Madame, madame,” he murmured, “what opinion can you have of me, when you make me such an offer?”

“Of you!” returned the marquise. “Tell me, rather, what you yourself think of the step I have taken.”

“You bring me this money for myself, and you bring it because you know me to be embarrassed. Nay, do not deny it, for I am sure of it. Can I not read your heart?”

“If you know my heart, then, can you not see that it is my heart I offer you?”

“I have guessed rightly, then,” exclaimed Fouquet. “In truth, madame, I have never yet given you the right to insult me in this manner.”

“Insult you,” she said, turning pale, “what singular delicacy of feeling! You tell me you love me; in the name of that affection you wish me to sacrifice my reputation and my honor, yet, when I offer you money which is my own, you refuse me.”

“Madame, you are at liberty to preserve what you term your reputation and your honor. Permit me to preserve mine. Leave me to my ruin, leave me to sink beneath the weight of the hatreds which surround me, beneath the faults I have committed, beneath the load even, of my remorse, but, for Heaven’s sake, madame, do not overwhelm me with this last infliction.”

“A short time since, M. Fouquet, you were wanting in judgment; now you are wanting in feeling.”

Fouquet pressed his clenched hand upon his breast, heaving with emotion, saying: “Overwhelm me, madame, for I have nothing to reply.”

“I offered you my friendship, M. Fouquet.”

“Yes, madame, and you limited yourself to that.”

“And what I am now doing is the act of a friend.”

“No doubt it is.”

“And you reject this mark of my friendship?”

“I do reject it.”

“Monsieur Fouquet, look at me,” said the marquise, with glistening eyes, “I now offer you my love.”

“Oh, madame,” exclaimed Fouquet.

“I have loved you for a long while past; women, like men, have a false delicacy at times. For a long time past I have loved you, but would not confess it. Well, then, you have implored this love on your knees, and I have refused you; I was blind, as you were a little while since; but as it was my love that you sought, it is my love I now offer you.”

“Oh! madame, you overwhelm me beneath a load of happiness.”

“Will you be happy, then, if I am yours--entirely?”

“It will be the supremest happiness for me.”

“Take me, then. If, however, for your sake I sacrifice a prejudice, do you, for mine, sacrifice a scruple.”

“Do not tempt me.”

“Do not refuse me.”

“Think seriously of what you are proposing.”

“Fouquet, but one word. Let it be ‘No,’ and I open this door,” and she pointed to the door which led into the streets, “and you will never see me again. Let that word be ‘Yes,’ and I am yours entirely.”

“Elsie! Elsie! But this coffer?”

“Contains my dowry.”

“It is your ruin,” exclaimed Fouquet, turning over the gold and papers; “there must be a million here.”

“Yes, my jewels, for which I care no longer if you do not love me, and for which, equally, I care no longer if you love me as I love you.”

“This is too much,” exclaimed Fouquet. “I yield, I yield, even were it only to consecrate so much devotion. I accept the dowry.”

“And take the woman with it,” said the marquise, throwing herself into his arms.

Le Terrain de Dieu

During the progress of these events Buckingham and De Wardes traveled in excellent companionship, and made the journey from Paris to Calais in undisturbed harmony together. Buckingham had hurried his departure, so that the greater part of his adieux were very hastily made. His visit to Monsieur and Madame, to the young queen, and to the queen-dowager, had been paid collectively--a precaution on the part of the queen-mother which saved him the distress of any private conversation with Monsieur, and also the danger of seeing Madame again. The carriages containing the luggage had already been sent on beforehand, and in the evening he set off in his traveling carriage with his attendants.

De Wardes, irritated at finding himself dragged away in so abrupt a manner by this Englishman, had sought in his subtle mind for some means of escaping from his fetters; but no one having rendered him any assistance in this respect, he was absolutely obliged, therefore, to submit to the burden of his own evil thoughts and caustic spirit.

Such of his friends in whom he had been able to confide, had, in their character of wits, rallied him upon the duke’s superiority. Others, less brilliant, but more sensible, had reminded him of the king’s orders prohibiting dueling. Others, again, and they the larger number, who, in virtue of charity, or national vanity, might have rendered him assistance, did not care to run the risk of incurring disgrace, and would, at the best, have informed the ministers of a departure which might end in a massacre on a small scale. The result was, that, after having fully deliberated upon the matter, De Wardes packed up his luggage, took a couple of horses, and, followed only by one servant, made his way towards the barrier, where Buckingham’s carriage was to await him.

The duke received his adversary as he would have done an intimate acquaintance, made room beside him on the same seat with himself, offered him refreshments, and spread over his knees the sable cloak that had been thrown on the front seat. They then conversed of the court, without alluding to Madame; of Monsieur, without speaking of domestic affairs; of the king, without speaking of his brother’s wife; of the queen-mother, without alluding to her daughter-in-law; of the king of England, without alluding to his sister-in-law; of the state of the affections of either of the travelers, without pronouncing any name that might be dangerous. In this way the journey, which was performed by short stages, was most agreeable, and Buckingham, almost a Frenchman from wit and education, was delighted at having so admirably selected his traveling companion. Elegant repasts were served, of which they partook but lightly; trials of horses made in the beautiful meadows that skirted the road; coursing indulged in, for Buckingham had his greyhounds with him; and in such ways did they pass away the pleasant time. The duke somewhat resembled the beautiful river Seine, which folds France a thousand times in its loving embrace, before deciding upon joining its waters with the ocean. In quitting France, it was her recently adopted daughter he had brought to Paris whom he chiefly regretted; his every thought was a remembrance of her--his every memory a regret. Therefore, whenever, now and then, despite his command over himself, he was lost in thought, De Wardes left him entirely to his musings. This delicacy might have touched Buckingham, and changed his feelings towards De Wardes, if the latter, while preserving silence, had shown a glance less full of malice, and a smile less false. Instinctive dislikes, however, are relentless; nothing appeases them; a few ashes may sometimes, apparently, extinguish them; but beneath those ashes the smothered embers rage more furiously. Having exhausted every means of amusement the route offered, they arrived, as we have said, at Calais towards the end of the sixth day. The duke’s attendants, since the previous evening, had traveled in advance, and now chartered a boat, for the purpose of joining the yacht, which had been tacking about in sight, or bore broadside on, whenever it felt its white wings wearied, within cannon-shot of the jetty.

The boat was destined for the transport of the duke’s equipages from the shore to the yacht. The horses had been embarked, having been hoisted from the boat upon the deck in baskets expressly made for the purpose, and wadded in such a manner that their limbs, even in the most violent fits of terror or impatience, were always protected by the soft support which the sides afforded, and their coats not even turned. Eight of these baskets, placed side by side, filled the ship’s hold. It is well known that in short voyages horses refuse to eat, but remain trembling all the while, with the best of food before them, such as they would have greatly coveted on land. By degrees, the duke’s entire equipage was transported on board the yacht; he was then informed that everything was in readiness, and that they only waited for him, whenever he would be disposed to embark with the French gentleman; for no one could possibly imagine that the French gentleman would have any other accounts to settle with his Grace than those of friendship. Buckingham desired the captain to be told to hold himself in readiness, but that, as the sea was beautiful, and as the day promised a splendid sunset, he did not intend to go on board until nightfall, and would avail himself of the evening to enjoy a walk on the strand. He added also, that, finding himself in such excellent company, he had not the least desire to hasten his embarkation.

As he said this he pointed out to those who surrounded him the magnificent spectacle which the sky presented, of deepest azure in the horizon, the amphitheatre of fleecy clouds ascending from the sun’s disc to the zenith, assuming the appearance of a range of snowy mountains, whose summits were heaped one upon another. The dome of clouds was tinged at its base with, as it were, the foam of rubies, fading away into opal and pearly tints, in proportion as the gaze was carried from base to summit. The sea was gilded with the same reflection, and upon the crest of every sparkling wave danced a point of light, like a diamond by lamplight. The mildness of the evening, the sea breezes, so dear to contemplative minds, setting in from the east and blowing in delicious gusts; then, in the distance, the black outline of the yacht with its rigging traced upon the empurpled background of the sky--while, dotting the horizon, might be seen, here and there, vessels with their trimmed sails, like the wings of a seagull about to plunge; such a spectacle indeed well merited admiration. A crowd of curious idlers followed the richly dressed attendants, amongst whom they mistook the steward and the secretary for the master and his friend. As for Buckingham, who was dressed very simply, in a gray satin vest, and doublet of violet-colored velvet, wearing his hat thrust over his eyes, and without orders or embroidery, he was taken no more notice of than De Wardes, who was in black, like an attorney.

The duke’s attendants had received directions to have a boat in readiness at the jetty head, and to watch the embarkation of their master, without approaching him until either he or his friend should summon them,--“whatever may happen,” he had added, laying a stress upon these words, so that they might not be misunderstood. Having walked a few paces upon the strand, Buckingham said to De Wardes, “I think it is now time to take leave of each other. The tide, you perceive, is rising; ten minutes hence it will have soaked the sands where we are now walking in such a manner that we shall not be able to keep our footing.”

“I await your orders, my lord, but----”

“But, you mean, we are still upon soil which is part of the king’s territory.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, do you see yonder a kind of little island surrounded by a circle of water? The pool is increasing every minute, and the isle is gradually disappearing. This island, indeed, belongs to Heaven, for it is situated between two seas, and is not shown on the king’s charts. Do you observe it?”

“Yes; but we can hardly reach it now, without getting our feet wet.”

“Yes; but observe that it forms an eminence tolerably high, and that the tide rises on every side, leaving the top free. We shall be admirably placed upon that little theatre. What do you think of it?”

“I shall be perfectly happy wherever I may have the honor of crossing my sword with your lordship’s.”

“Very well, then, I am distressed to be the cause of your wetting your feet, M. de Wardes, but it is most essential you should be able to say to the king: ‘Sire, I did not fight upon your majesty’s territory.’ Perhaps the distinction is somewhat subtle, but, since Port-Royal, your nation delights in subtleties of expression. Do not let us complain of this, however, for it makes your wit very brilliant, and of a style peculiarly your own. If you do not object, we will hurry ourselves, for the sea, I perceive, is rising fast, and night is setting in.”

“My reason for not walking faster was, that I did not wish to precede your Grace. Are you still on dry land, my lord?”

“Yes, at present I am. Look yonder! My servants are afraid we shall be drowned, and have converted the boat into a cruiser. Do you remark how curiously it dances upon the crests of the waves? But, as it makes me feel sea-sick, would you permit me to turn my back towards them?”

“You will observe, my lord, that in turning your back to them, you will have the sun full in your face.”

“Oh, its rays are very feeble at this hour and it will soon disappear; do not be uneasy on that score.”

“As you please, my lord; it was out of consideration for your lordship that I made the remark.”

“I am aware of that, M. de Wardes, and I fully appreciate your kindness. Shall we take off our doublets?”

“As you please, my lord.”

“Do not hesitate to tell me, M. de Wardes, if you do not feel comfortable upon the wet sand, or if you think yourself a little too close to the French territory. We could fight in England, or even upon my yacht.”

“We are exceedingly well placed here, my lord; only I have the honor to remark that, as the sea is rising fast, we have hardly time----”

Buckingham made a sign of assent, took off his doublet and threw it on the ground, a proceeding which De Wardes imitated. Both their bodies, which seemed like phantoms to those who were looking at them from the shore, were thrown strongly into relief by a dark red violet-colored shadow with which the sky became overspread.

“Upon my word, your Grace,” said De Wardes, “we shall hardly have time to begin. Do you not perceive how our feet are sinking into the sand?”

“I have sunk up to the ankles,” said Buckingham, “without reckoning that the water is even now breaking in upon us.”

“It has already reached me. As soon as you please, therefore, your Grace,” said De Wardes, who drew his sword, a movement imitated by the duke.

“M. de Wardes,” said Buckingham, “one final word. I am about to fight you because I do not like you,--because you have wounded me in ridiculing a certain devotional regard I have entertained, and one which I acknowledge that, at this moment, I still retain, and for which I would very willingly die. You are a bad and heartless man, M. de Wardes, and I will do my very utmost to take your life; for I feel assured that, if you survive this engagement, you will, in the future, work great mischief towards my friends. That is all I have to remark, M. de Wardes,” concluded Buckingham, as he saluted him.

“And I, my lord, have only this to reply to you: I have not disliked you hitherto, but, since you give me such a character, I hate you, and will do all I possibly can to kill you; “and De Wardes saluted Buckingham.

Their swords crossed at the same moment, like two flashes of lightning on a dark night. The swords seemed to seek each other, guessed their position, and met. Both were practiced swordsmen, and the earlier passes were without any result. The night was fast closing in, and it was so dark that they attacked and defended themselves almost instinctively. Suddenly De Wardes felt his sword arrested,--he had just touched Buckingham’s shoulder. The duke’s sword sunk as his arm was lowered.

“You are wounded, my lord,” said De Wardes, drawing back a step or two.

“Yes, monsieur, but only slightly.”

“Yet you quitted your guard.”

“Only from the first effect of the cold steel, but I have recovered. Let us go on, if you please.” And disengaging his sword with a sinister clashing of the blade, the duke wounded the marquis in the breast.

“A hit?” he said.

“No,” cried De Wardes, not moving from his place.

“I beg your pardon, but observing that your shirt was stained----” said Buckingham.

“Well,” said De Wardes furiously, “it is now your turn.”

And with a terrible lunge, he pierced Buckingham’s arm, the sword passing between the two bones. Buckingham, feeling his right arm paralyzed, stretched out his left, seized his sword, which was about falling from his nerveless grasp, and before De Wardes could resume his guard, he thrust him through the breast. De Wardes tottered, his knees gave way beneath him, and leaving his sword still fixed in the duke’s arm, he fell into the water, which was soon crimsoned with a more genuine reflection than that which it had borrowed from the clouds. De Wardes was not dead; he felt the terrible danger that menaced him, for the sea rose fast. The duke, too, perceived the danger. With an effort and an exclamation of pain he tore out the blade which remained in his arm, and turning towards De Wardes said, “Are you dead, marquis?”

“No,” replied De Wardes, in a voice choked by the blood which rushed from his lungs to his throat, “but very near it.”

“Well, what is to be done; can you walk?” said Buckingham, supporting him on his knee.

“Impossible,” he replied. Then falling down again, said, “Call to your people, or I shall be drowned.”

“Halloa! boat there! quick, quick!”

The boat flew over the waves, but the sea rose faster than the boat could approach. Buckingham saw that De Wardes was on the point of being again covered by a wave; he passed his left arm, safe and unwounded, round his body and raised him up. The wave ascended to his waist but did not move him. The duke immediately began to carry his late antagonist towards the shore. He had hardly gone ten paces, when a second wave, rushing onwards higher, more furious and menacing than the former, struck him at the height of his chest, threw him over and buried him beneath the water. At the reflux, however, the duke and De Wardes were discovered lying on the strand. De Wardes had fainted. At this moment four of the duke’s sailors, who comprehended the danger, threw themselves into the sea, and in a moment were close beside him. Their terror was extreme when they observed how their master became covered with blood, in proportion as the water with which it was impregnated, flowed towards his knees and feet; they wished to carry him.

“No, no,” exclaimed the duke, “take the marquis on shore first.”

“Death to the Frenchman!” cried the English sullenly.

“Wretched knaves!” exclaimed the duke, drawing himself up with a haughty gesture, which sprinkled them with blood, “obey directly! M. de Wardes on shore! M. de Wardes’s safety to be looked to first, or I will have you all hanged!”

The boat had by this time reached them; the secretary and steward leaped into the sea, and approached the marquis, who no longer showed any sign of life.

“I commit him to your care, as you value your lives,” said the duke. “Take M. de Wardes on shore.” They took him in their arms, and carried him to the dry sand, where the tide never rose so high. A few idlers and five or six fishermen had gathered on the shore, attracted by the strange spectacle of two men fighting with the water up to their knees. The fishermen, observing a group of men approaching carrying a wounded man, entered the sea until the water was up to their waists. The English transferred the wounded man to them, at the very moment the latter began to open his eyes again. The salt water and the fine sand had got into his wounds, and caused him the acutest pain. The duke’s secretary drew out a purse filled with gold from his pocket, and handed it to the one among those present who appeared of most importance, saying: “From my master, his Grace the Duke of Buckingham, in order that every possible care may be taken of the Marquis de Wardes.”

Then, followed by those who had accompanied him, he returned to the boat, which Buckingham had been enabled to reach with the greatest difficulty, but only after he had seen De Wardes out of danger. By this time it was high tide; embroidered coats and silk sashes were lost; many hats, too, had been carried away by the waves. The flow of the tide had borne the duke’s and De Wardes’s clothes to the shore, and De Wardes was wrapped in the duke’s doublet, under the belief that it was his own, when the fishermen carried him in their arms towards the town.

The Missing Viscount

As many of you have figured out, I am apparently still missing some chapters of the Musketeers saga here, specifically between Ten Years Later and Louise de la Valliere. Here, courtesy Mike Babylon, is a probable list of the missing chapters:

  1. Threefold Love
  2. M. De Lorraine’s Jealousy
  3. Monsieur is Jealous of De Guiche
  4. The Mediator
  5. The Advisers
  6. Fontainebleau
  7. The Bath
  8. The Butterfly-Chase
  9. What was Caught in the Hand After the Butterflies
  10. The Ballet of the Season
  11. The Nymphs of the Park of Fontainebleau
  12. What was Said Under the Royal Oak
  13. The King’s Uneasiness
  14. The King’s Secret
  15. Courses De Nuit
  16. In Which Madame Acquires a Proof that Listeners Can Hear What is Said
  17. Aramis’ Correpondence
  18. The Orderly Clerk
  19. Fontainebleau at Two O’Clock in the Morning
  20. The Labyrinth
  21. How Malicorne had been Turned out of the Hotel of the Beau Paon
  22. What Actually did Occur at the Inn Called the Beau Paon
  23. A Jesuit of the Eleventh Year
  24. The State Secret
  25. Mission
  26. Happy as a Prince
  27. Story of a Dryad and of a Naiad
  28. Conclusion of the Story of a Naiad and of a Dryad
  29. Royal Psychology
  30. Showing What Neither the Naiad Nor Dryad had Anticipated
  31. The New General of the Jesuits
  32. The Storm
  33. The Shower of Rain
  34. Toby
  35. Madame’s Four Chances
  36. The Lottery

Louise de la Valliere

Malaga

During the continuance of the long and violent debates between the opposite ambitions of the court and those of the heart, one of our characters, the least deserving of neglect, perhaps, was, however, very much neglected, very much forgotten, and exceedingly unhappy. In fact, D’Artagnan--D’Artagnan, we say, for we must call him by his name, to remind our readers of his existence--D’Artagnan, we repeat, had absolutely nothing whatever to do amid this brilliant, light-hearted world of fashion. After having followed the king during two whole days at Fontainebleau, and having critically observed all the pastoral fancies and seriocomic transformations of his sovereign, the musketeer felt that he needed something more than this to satisfy the cravings of his existence. At every moment assailed by people asking him, “How do you think this costume suits me, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” he would reply to them, in quiet, sarcastic tones, “Why, I think you are quite as well dressed as the best-dressed monkey to be found in the fair at St. Laurent.” It was just such a compliment as D’Artagnan would choose to pay where he did not feel disposed to pay any other; and, whether agreeable or not, the inquirer was obliged to be satisfied with it. Whenever any one asked him, “How do you intend to dress yourself this evening?” he replied, “I shall undress myself;” at which all the ladies laughed. But after a couple of days passed in this manner, the musketeer, perceiving that nothing serious was likely to arise which would concern him, and that the king had completely, or, at least, appeared to have completely, forgotten Paris, St. Mandé, and Belle-Isle--that M. Colbert’s mind was occupied with illuminations and fireworks--that for the next month, at least, the ladies had plenty of glances to bestow, and also to receive in exchange--D’Artagnan asked the king for leave of absence for a matter of private business. At the moment D’Artagnan I made his request his majesty was on the point of going to bed, quite exhausted from dancing.

“You wish to leave me, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” inquired the king, with an air of astonishment; for Louis XIV. could never understand that any one who had the distinguished honor of being near him could wish to leave him.

“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “I leave you simply because I am not of the slightest service to you in anything. Ah! if I could only hold the balancing-pole while you were dancing, it would be a very different affair.”

“But, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king gravely, people dance without a balancing-pole.”

“Ah! indeed,” said the musketeer, continuing his imperceptible tone of irony, “I had no idea at all of that.”

“You have not seen me dance, then?” inquired the king.

“Yes, but I always thought it would make you firmer. I was mistaken; a greater reason, therefore, that I should leave for a time. Sire, I repeat, you have no present occasion for my services; besides, if your majesty should have any need of me, you would know where to find me.”

“Very well,” said the king; and he granted him his leave of absence.

We shall not look for D’Artagnan, therefore, at Fontainebleau, for this would be quite useless; but, with the permission of our readers, we shall follow him to the Rue des Lombards, where he was located at the sign of the Pilon d’Or, in the house of our old friend Planchet. It was about eight o’clock in the evening, and the weather was exceedingly warm there was only one window open, and that one belonged to a room on the entresol. A perfume of spices, mingled with another perfume less exotic, but more penetrating, namely, that which arose from the street, ascended to salute the nostrils of the musketeer. D’Artagnan, reclining upon an immense straight-backed chair, with his legs not stretched out, but simply placed upon a stool, formed an angle of the most obtuse form that could possibly be seen. Both his arms were crossed over his head, his head reclining upon his left shoulder, like Alexander the Great. His eyes, usually so quick and intelligent in their expression, were now half-closed, and seemed fastened, as it were, upon a small corner of the blue sky, which was visible behind the opening of the chimneys; there was just enough blue, and no more, to put a piece into one of the sacks of lentils, or haricots,, which formed the principal furniture of the shop on the ground floor. Thus extended at his ease, and thus sheltered in his place of observation behind the window, D’Artagnan seemed as if he had ceased to be a soldier, as if he were no longer an officer belonging to the palace, but was, on the contrary, a quiet, easy-going citizen in a state of stagnation between his dinner and supper, or between his supper and his bed; one of those strong, ossified brains, which have no more room for a single idea, so fiercely does animal matter keep watch at the doors of intelligence, narrowly inspecting the contraband trade which might result from the introduction into the brain of a symptom of thought. We have already said night was closing in, the shops were being lighted while the windows of the upper apartments were being closed, and the irregular steps of a patrol of soldiers forming the night-watch could be heard in the distance. D’Artagnan continued, however, to think of nothing except the blue corner of the sky. A few paces from him, completely in the shade, lying on his stomach, upon a sack of Indian corn, was Planchet, with both his arms under his chin, and his eyes fixed on D’Artagnan, who was either thinking, dreaming, or sleeping, with his eyes open. Planchet had been watching him for a tolerably long time, and, by way of interruption, he began by exclaiming, “Hum! hum!” But D’Artagnan did not stir. Planchet then saw that it was necessary to have recourse to a more effectual means still; after a prolonged reflection on the subject, the most ingenious means which suggested itself to him, under present circumstances, was to let himself roll off the sack on to the floor, murmuring, at the same time, against himself, the word “stupid.” But, notwithstanding the noise produced by Planchet’s fall, D’Artagnan, who had, in the course of his existence, heard many other, and very different noises, did not appear to pay the least attention to the present one. Besides, an enormous cart, laden with stones, passing from La Rue St. Médérie, absorbed, in the noise of its wheels, the noise of Planchet’s fall. And yet Planchet fancied that, in token of tacit approval, he saw him imperceptibly smile at the word “stupid.” This emboldened him to say:

“Are you asleep, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“No, Planchet, I am not even asleep,” replied the musketeer.

“I am in despair,” said Planchet, “to hear such a word as eve’?. “

“Well, and why not? Is it not a good French word, Monsieur Planchet?”

“Of course, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“Well?”

“Well, then, the word distresses me beyond measure.”

“Tell me why you are distressed, Planchet,” said D’Artagnan.

“If you say that you are not even asleep, it is as much as to say that you have not even the consolation of being able to sleep; or, better still, it is precisely the same as telling me that you are getting bored to death.”

“Planchet, you know I am never bored.”

“Except to-day, and the day before yesterday.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is a week since you returned here from Fontainebleau; in other words, you have no longer your orders to issue, or your men to review and maneuver. You need the sound of guns, drums, and all that din and confusion; I, who have myself carried a musket, can easily believe that.”

“Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, “I assure you I am not bored the least in the world.”

“In that case, what are you doing, lying there as if you were dead?

“My dear Planchet, there was, once upon a time, at the siege of Rochelle, when I was there, when you were there, when we both were there, a certain Arab who was celebrated for the manner in which he adjusted culverins. He was a clever fellow, although very singular with regard to his complexion, which was the same color as your olives. Well, this Arab, whenever he had done eating or working, used to sit down to rest himself, as I am resting myself now, and smoked I cannot tell you what sort of magical leaves in a large amber-mouthed tube; and if any officer, happening to pass, reproached him for being always asleep, he used quietly to reply: ‘Better to sit down than to stand up, to lie down than to sit down, to be dead than to lie down.’ He was a very melancholy Arab, and I remember him perfectly well, from his color and style of conversation. He used to cut off the heads of the Protestants with extreme satisfaction. “

“Precisely; and then used to embalm them, when they were worth the trouble.”

“Yes; and when he was engaged in his embalming occupations, with his herbs and other plants about him, he looked like a basket-maker making baskets.”

“You are quite right, Planchet, he did so.”

“Oh! I can remember things very well, at times ‘

“I have no doubt of it; but what do you think of his mode of reasoning?”

“I think it very good in one sense, but very stupid in another. “

“Propound your meaning, Monsieur Planchet.”

“Well, monsieur, in point of fact, then, ‘better to sit down than to stand up,’ is plain enough, especially when one may be fatigued under certain circumstances;” and Planchet smiled in a roguish way. “As for ‘better to be lying down than sitting down,’ let that pass; but as for the last proposition, that it is ‘better to be dead than alive,’ it is, in my opinion, very absurd, my own undoubted preference being for my bed; and if you are not of my opinion, it is simply, as I have already had the honor of telling you, because you are boring yourself to death.”

“Planchet, do you know Monsieur la Fontaine?”

“The chemist at the corner of the Rue St. Médérie?”

“No, the writer of fables?”

“Oh! Maître Corbeau?”

“Exactly so; well, then, I am like his hare.”

“He has got a hare also, then?”

“He has all sorts of animals.”

“Well, what does his hare do, then?”

“His hare thinks.”

“Ah, ha!”

“Planchet, I am like Monsieur la Fontaine’s hare--I am thinking. “

“You’re thinking, you say?” said Planchet uneasily.

“Yes; your house is dull enough to drive people to think; you will admit that, I hope?”

“And yet, monsieur, you have a look out upon the street.” “Yes; and wonderfully interesting that is, of course.”

“But it is no less true, monsieur, that, if you were living at the back of the house, you would bore yourself--I mean, you would think--more than ever.”

“Upon my word, Planchet, I hardly know that.”

“Still,” said the grocer, “if your reflections were at all like those which led you to restore King Charles II.--” and Planchet finished by a little laugh, which was not without its meaning.

“Ah! Planchet, my friend,” returned D’Artagnan, “you are getting ambitious.”

“Is there no other king to be restored, Monsieur d’Artagnan--no other monk to be put into a box?”

“No, my dear Planchet; all the kings are seated on their various thrones; less comfortably so, perhaps, than I am upon this chair; but, at all events, there they are.” And D’Artagnan sighed very deeply.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Planchet, “you are making me very uneasy.”

“You’re very good, Planchet.”

“I begin to suspect something.”

“What is it?”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are getting thin.”

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, striking his chest, which sounded like an empty cuirass, “it is impossible, Planchet.”

“Ah!” said Planchet, slightly overcome, “if you were to get thin in my house--”

“Well?”

“I should do something rash.”

“What would you do? Tell me.”

“I should look out for the man who was the cause of all your anxieties.”

“Ah! according to your account, I am anxious now.”

“Yes, you are anxious; and you are getting thin, visibly getting thin. Malaga! if you go on getting thin in this way I will take my sword in my hand, and go straight to Monsieur d’Herblay, and have it out with him.”

“What!” said M. d’Artagnan, starting in his chair, “what’s that you say? And what has Monsieur d’Herblay’s name to do with your groceries”

“Just as you please. Get angry if you like, or call me names, if you prefer it; but the deuce is in it; I know what I know.”

D’Artagnan had, during this second outburst of Planchet so placed himself as not to lose a single look of his face that is, he sat with both his hands resting on both his knees and his head stretched out toward the grocer.

“Come, explain yourself,” he said, “and tell me how you could possibly utter such a blasphemy. Monsieur d’Herblay, your old master, my friend, an ecclesiastic, a musketeer turned bishop--do you mean to say you would raise your sword against him, Planchet?”

“I could raise my sword against my own father when I see you in such a state as you are now.”

“Monsieur d’Herblay, a gentleman!”

“It’s all the same to me whether he’s a gentleman or not. He gives you the blue devils, that is all I know. And the blue devils make people get thin. Malaga! I have no notion of Monsieur d’Artagnan leaving my house thinner than he entered it.”

“How does he give me the blue devils, as you call it? Come, explain, explain.”

“You have had the nightmare during the last three nights. “

“Yes, you; and in your nightmare you called out several times, ‘Aramis, sly Aramis!’”

“Ah! I said that, did I?” murmured D’Artagnan uneasily.

“Yes, those very words, upon my honor.”

“Well, what else? You know the saying, Planchet, ‘dreams go by contraries.’”

“Not so; for every time during the last three days, when you went out, you have not once failed to ask me, on your return, ‘Have you seen Monsieur d’Herblay?’ or else, ‘Have you received any letters for me from Monsieur d’Herblay?’”

“Well, it is very natural I should take an interest in my old friend,” said D’Artagnan.

“Of course; but not to such an extent as to get thin from it.”

“Planchet, I’ll get fatter; I’ll give you my word of honor, I will.”

“Very well, monsieur, I accept it; for I know that when you give your word of honor it is sacred.”

“I will not dream of Aramis any longer, and I will never ask you again if there are any letters from Monsieur d’Herblay, but on condition that you explain one thing to me.”

‘ Tell me what it is, monsieur.”

“I am a great observer; and just now you made use of a very singular oath, which is unusual for you.”

“You mean Malaga! I suppose?”

“Precisely.”

“It is the oath I have used ever since I have been a grocer. “

“Very proper, too; it is the name of a dried grape, or raisin, I believe?”

“It is my most ferocious oath; when I have once said Malaga! I am a man no longer.”

“Still, I never knew you use that oath before.”

“Very likely not, monsieur. I had a present made me of it,” said Planchet; and as he pronounced these words he winked his eye with a cunning expression which thoroughly awakened D’Artagnan’s attention.

“Come, come, Monsieur Planchet.”

“Why, I am not like you, monsieur,” said Planchet. “I don’t pass my life in thinking.”

“You are wrong, then.”

“I mean in boring myself to death. We have but a very short time to live--why not make the best of it?”

“You are an Epicurean philosopher, I begin to think, Planchet.”

“Why not? My hand is still as steady as ever; I can write, and can weigh out my sugar and spices; my foot is firm; I can dance and walk about; my stomach has its teeth still, for I eat and digest well; my heart is not quite hardened. Well, monsieur?”

“Well, what, Planchet?”

“Why, you see--” said the grocer, rubbing his hands together.

D’Artagnan crossed one leg over the other, and said:

“Planchet, my friend, I am astounded by surprise, for you are revealing yourself to me under a perfectly new light. “

Planchet, flattered in the highest degree by this remark, continued to rub his hands very hard together

“Ah, ah!” he said, “because I happen to be only stupid, you think me, perhaps, a positive fool.”

“Very good, Planchet; very well reasoned.”

“Follow my idea, monsieur, if you please. I said to myself,” continued Planchet, “that, without enjoyment, there is no happiness on this earth.”

“Quite true, what you say, Planchet,” interrupted D’Artagnan.

“At all events, if we cannot obtain pleasure--for pleasure is not so common a thing, after all--let us, at least, get consolations of some kind or other. “

“And so you console yourself?”

“Exactly so.”

“Tell me how you console yourself.”.

“I put on a buckler for the purpose of confronting ennui. I place my time at the direction of patience; and on the very eve of feeling I am going to get bored, I amuse myself.

“And you don’t find any difficulty in that?”

“None. “

“And you found it out quite by yourself?”

“Quite so.”

“It is miraculous.”

“What do you say?”

“I say that your philosophy is not to be matched in the whole world.”

“You think so? Follow my example, then.”

“It is a very tempting one.”

“Do as I do.”

“I could not wish for anything better; but all minds are not of the same stamp; and it might possibly happen that if I were required to amuse myself in the manner you do, I should bore myself horribly.”

‘Bah! at least try it first.”

“Well, tell me what you do.”

“Have you observed that I leave home occasionally?”

“Yes. “

“In any particular way?”

“Periodically. “

“That’s the very thing. You have noticed it, then?”

“My dear Planchet, you must understand that when people see each other every day, and one of the two absents c himself, the other misses him. Do you feel the want of my society when I am in the country?”

“Prodigiously; that is to say, I feel like a body without a soul.”

“That being understood, then, let us go on.”

“What are the periods when I absent myself?”

“On the 15th and 30th of every month.”

“And I remain away?”

“Sometimes two, sometimes three, and sometimes four days at a time.”

‘Have you ever given it a thought, what I have been absent for?”

“To look after your debts, I suppose.”

“And when I returned, how did you think I looked, as far as my face was concerned?”

“Exceedingly satisfied.”

“You admit, you say, that I always looked very satisfied. And what have you attributed my satisfaction to?”

“That your business was going on very well; that your purchases of rice, prunes, raw sugar, dried apples and pears, and treacle, were advantageous. You were always very picturesque in your notions and ideas, Planchet; and I was not in the slightest degree surprised to find you had selected grocery as an occupation, which is, of all trades the most varied, and the very pleasantest, as far as character is concerned; inasmuch as one handles so many natural and perfumed productions.”

“Perfectly true, monsieur; but you are very greatly mistaken. “

“In what way?”

“In thinking that I leave here every fortnight to collect my money or to make purchases. Oh, oh! how could you possibly have thought such a thing? Oh, oh, oh!”

And Planchet began to laugh in a manner that inspired D’Artagnan with very serious misgivings as to his sanity

“I confess,” said the musketeer, “that I do not precisely catch your meaning.”

“Very true, monsieur.”

“What do you mean by ‘very true’?”

“It must be true, since you say it; but pray, be assured that it in no way lessens my opinion of you.”

“Ah, that is very fortunate.”

“No; you are a man of genius; and whenever the question happens to be of war, tactics, surprises, or good honest blows to be dealt, why, kings are all nonsense compared to you. But for the consolations of the mind, the proper care of the body, the agreeable things of life, if one may say so--ah! monsieur, don’t talk to me about men of genius; they are nothing short of executioners “

“Good,” said D’Artagnan, quite fidgety with curiosity, “upon my word, you interest me in the highest degree.”

“You feel already less bored than you did just now, do you not?”

“I was not bored; yet, since you have been talking to me, I feel more amused.”

“Very good, then; that is not a bad beginning. I will cure you, rely upon that.”

“There is nothing I should like better.”

“Will you let me try, then?”

“Immediately, if you like.”

“Very well. Have you any horses here?”

“Yes; ten, twenty, thirty.”

“Oh, there is no occasion for so many as that; two will be quite sufficient.”

“They are quite at your disposal, Planchet.”

“Very good; then I shall carry you off with me.”

“When?”

“To-morrow. “

“Where?”

“Ah, you are asking me too much.”

“You will admit, however, that it is important I should know where I am going.”

“Do you like the country?”

“Only moderately, Planchet.”

“In that case, you like town better?”

“That is as it may be.”

“Very well; I am going to take you to a place half-town and half-country.”

“Good. “

“To a place where I am sure you will amuse yourself.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes; and more wonderful still, to a place from which you have just returned, for the purpose only, it would seem, of getting bored here.”

“It is to Fontainebleau you are going, then?”

“Exactly; to Fontainebleau.”

“And, in Heaven’s name, what Fontainebleau?”

Planchet answered D’Artagnan by a wink full of sly humor.

“You have some property there, you rascal.”

“Oh, a very paltry affair; a little bit of a house--nothing more. “

“I understand you.”

“But it is tolerable enough, after all.”

“I am going to Planchet’s country-seat!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

“Whenever you like.”

“Did we not fix to-morrow?”

“Let us say to-morrow, if you like; and then, besides, to-morrow is the 14th, that is to say, the day before the one when I am afraid of getting bored; so we will look upon it as an understood thing.”

“Agreed, by all means.”

“You will lend me one of your horses?”

“The best I have.”

“No; I prefer the gentlest of all; I never was a very good rider, as you know, and in my grocery business I have got more awkward than ever; besides----”

“Besides what?”

“Why,” added Planchet, “I do not wish to fatigue myself. “

“Why so?” D’Artagnan ventured to ask.

“Because I should lose half the pleasure I expect to enjoy,” replied Planchet.

And thereupon he rose from his sack of Indian corn, stretching himself, and making all his bones crack) one after the other, with a sort of harmony.

“Planchet! Planchet!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “I do declare that there is no sybarite upon the whole face of the globe who can for a moment be compared to you. Oh, Planchet, it is very clear that we have never yet eaten a ton of salt ;together.”

“Why so, monsieur?”

“Because, even now I can scarcely say I know you,” said D’Artagnan, “and because, in point of fact, I return to the opinion which, for a moment, I had formed of you that day at Boulogne, when you strangled, or did so as nearly as possible, Monsieur de Wardes’ valet, Lubin; in plain language, Planchet, that you are a man of great resources.”

Planchet began to laugh with a laugh full of self-conceit, bid the musketeer good-night, and went downstairs to his back shop, which he used as a bedroom. D’Artagnan resumed his original position upon his chair, and his brow, which had been unruffled for a moment, became more pensive than ever. He had already forgotten the whims and dreams of Planchet.

“Yes,” said he, taking up again the thread of his thoughts, which had been broken by the agreeable conversation in which we have just permitted our readers to participate. “Yes, yes, those three points include everything: First, to ascertain what Baisemeaux wanted with Aramis; secondly, to learn why Aramis does not let me hear from him; and, thirdly, to ascertain where Porthos is. The whole mystery lies in these three points. Since, therefore,” continued D’Artagnan, “our friends tell us nothing, we must have recourse to our own poor intelligence. I must do what I can, mordioux, or, rather, Malaga, as Planchet would say.”

A Letter from H. Baisemeaux.

D’ARTAGNAN, faithful to his plan, went the very next morning to pay a visit to M. de Baisemeaux. It was the cleaning up or tidying day at the Bastile; the cannons were furbished up, the staircases scraped and cleaned; and the jailers seemed to be carefully engaged in polishing even the keys themselves. As for the soldiers belonging to the garrison, they were walking about in the different courtyards, under the pretense that they were clean enough. The governor, Baisemeaux, received D’Artagnan with more than ordinary politeness, but he behaved toward him with so marked a reserve of manner that all D’Artagnan’s tact and cleverness could not get a syllable out of him. The more he kept himself within bounds, the more D’Artagnan’s suspicion increased. The latter even fancied he remarked that the governor was acting under the influence of a recent recommendation. Baisemeaux had not been at the Palais Royal with D’Artagnan the same cold and impenetrable man which the latter now found in the Baisemeaux of the Bastile. When D’Artagnan wished to make him talk about the urgent money matters which had brought Baisemeaux in search of D’Artagnan, and had rendered him expansive, notwithstanding what had passed on that evening, Baisemeaux pretended that he had some orders to give in the prison, and left D’Artagnan so long alone, waiting for him, that our musketeer, feeling sure that he should not get another syllable out of him, left the Bastile without waiting until Baisemeaux returned from his inspection. But D’Artagnan’s suspicions were aroused, and when once that was the case, D’Artagnan could not sleep or remain quiet for a moment. He was among men what the cat is among quadrupeds, the emblem of restlessness and impatience, at the same moment. A restless cat no more remains in the same place than a silk thread does which is wafted idly to and fro with every breath of air. A cat on the watch is as motionless as death stationed at its place of observation, and neither hunger nor thirst can possibly draw it away from its meditation. D’Artagnan, who was burning with impatience, suddenly threw aside the feeling, like a cloak which he felt too heavy on his shoulders, and said to himself that that which they were concealing from him was the very thing it was important he should know; and, consequently, he reasoned that Baisemeaux would not fail to put Aramis on his guard, if Aramis had given him any particular recommendation, and which was, in fact, the very thing that did happen.

Baisemeaux had hardly had time to return from the donjon than D’Artagnan placed himself in ambuscade clove to the Rue du Petit Muse, so as to see every one who might leave the gates of the Bastile. After he had spent an hour on the lookout from the “Golden Portcullis,” under the penthouse of which he could keep himself a little in the shade, D’Artagnan observed a soldier leave the Bastile. This was, indeed, the surest indication he could possibly have wished for, as every jailer or warder has certain days, and even certain hours, for leaving the Bastile, since all are alike prohibited from having either wives or lodgings in the castle, and can accordingly leave without exciting any curiosity; but a soldier once in barracks is kept there for twenty-four hours when on duty--and no one knew this better than D’Artagnan. The soldier in question, therefore, was not likely to leave in his regimentals, except on an express and urgent order. The soldier, we were saying, left the Bastile at a slow and lounging pace, like a happy mortal, in fact, who, instead of keeping sentry before a wearisome guardhouse, or upon a bastion no less wearisome, has the good luck to get a little liberty in addition to a walk--the two pleasures being reckoned as part of his time on duty. He bent his steps toward the Faubourg St. Antoine, enjoying the fresh air and the warmth of the sun, and looking at all the pretty faces he passed. D’Artagnan followed him at a distance; he had not yet arranged his ideas as to what was to be done.

“I must, first of all,” he thought, “see the fellow’s face. A man seen is a man judged of.”

D’Artagnan increased his pace, and, which was not very difficult, by the bye, soon got in advance of the soldier Not only did he observe that his face showed a tolerable amount of intelligence and resolution, but he noticed also that his nose was a little red.

“He has a weakness for brandy, I see,” said D’Artagnan to himself.

At the same moment that he remarked his red nose, he saw that the soldier had a white paper in his belt.

“Good! he has a letter,” added D’Artagnan.

The only difficulty was to get hold of the letter. But a soldier would, of course, be too delighted at having been selected by M. de Baisemeaux for a special messenger, and would not be likely to sell his message. As D’Artagnan was biting his nails, the soldier continued to advance more and more into the Faubourg St. Antoine.

“He is certainly going to St. Mandé,” he said to himself, “and I shall not be able to learn what the letter contains. “

It was enough to drive him wild.

“If I were in uniform,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I would have this fellow seized, and his letter with him. I could easily get assistance at the very first guardhouse; but the devil take me if I mention my name in an affair of this kind. If I were to treat him to something to drink, his suspicions would be roused; and, besides, he would make me drunk. Mordioux! my wits seems to have left me,” said D’Artagnan; “it is all over with me. Yet, supposing I were to attack this poor devil, make him draw his sword, and kill him for the sake of his letter? No harm in that, if it were a question of a letter from a queen to a nobleman, or a letter from a cardinal to a queen; but what miserable intrigues are those of Messieurs Aramis and Fouquet with Monsieur Colbert. A man’s life for that! No, no, indeed; not even ten crowns.”

As he philosophized in this manner, biting, first his nails, and then his mustache, he perceive a group of archers and a commissary of the police engaged in carrying away a man of very gentlemanly exterior, who was struggling with all his might against them. The archers had torn his clothes, and were dragging him roughly away. He begged they would lead him along more respectfully, asserting that he was a gentleman and a soldier. And observing our soldier walking in the street he called out:

“Help, comrade!”

The soldier walked on with the same step toward the man who had called out to him, followed by the crowd. An idea suddenly occurred to D’Artagnan; it was his first one, and we shall find it was not a bad one either. During the time the gentleman was relating to the soldier that he had just been seized in a house as a thief, when the truth was he was only there as a lover; and while the soldier was pitying him, and offering him consolation and advice with that gravity which a French soldier has always ready whenever his vanity or his esprit de corps is concerned, D’Artagnan glided behind the soldier, who was closely hemmed in by the crowd, and with a rapid gesture drew the paper out of his belt. As at this moment the gentleman with the torn clothes was pulling about the soldier, to show how the commissary of police had pulled him about, D’Artagnan effected his capture of the letter without the slightest inconvenience. He stationed himself about ten paces distant, behind the pillar of an adjoining house, and read on the address, “To Monsieur du Vallon, at Monsieur Fouquet’s, St. Mandé.”

“Good!” he said; and then he unsealed, without tearing the letter, drew out the paper, which was folded in four from the inside, and which contained only these words:

“DEAR MONSIEUR DU VALLON: Will you be good enough to tell Monsieur d’Herblay that he has been to the Bastile, and has been making inquiries?
“Your devoted
“DE BAISEMEAUX.”

“Very good! all right!” exclaimed D’Artagnan; “it is clear enough now. Porthos is engaged in it.”

Being now satisfied of what he wished to know:

“Mordioux!” thought the musketeer, “what is to be done with that poor devil of a soldier? That hot-headed, cunning fellow, De Baisemeaux, will make him pay dearly for my trick--if he returns without the letter, what will they do to him? Besides, I don’t want the letter; when the egg has been sucked, what is the good of the shell?”

D’Artagnan perceived that the commissary and the archers had succeeded in convincing the soldier, and went on their way with the prisoner, the latter being still surrounded by the crowd, and continuing his complaints. D’Artagnan advanced into the very middle of the crowd, let the letter fall, without any one having observed him, and then retreated rapidly. The soldier resumed his route toward St. Mandé, his mind occupied with the gentleman who had implored his protection. Suddenly he thought of his letter, and, looking at his belt, saw that it was no longer there. D’Artagnan derived no little satisfaction from his sudden terrified cry. The poor soldier, in the greatest anguish of mind, looked round him on every side, and at last, about twenty paces behind him, he perceived the blessed envelope. He pounced on it like a falcon on its prey. The envelope was certainly a little dusty, and rather crumpled, but at all events the letter itself was found again

D’Artagnan observed that the broken seal attracted the soldier’s attention a good deal, but he finished apparently by consoling himself, and returned the letter to his belt.

“Go on,” said D’Artagnan, “I have plenty of time before me, so you may precede me. It appears that Aramis is not at Paris, since Baisemeaux writes to Porthos. Dear Porthos, how delighted I shall be to see him again, and to have some conversation with him!” said the Gascon.

And, regulating his pace according to that of the soldier, he promised himself to arrive a quarter of an hour after him at M. Fouquet’s.

In Which the Reader Will Be Delighted to Find that Porthos Has Lost Nothing of His Strength.

D’Artagnan had, according to his usual style, calculated that every hour is worth sixty minutes, and every minute worth sixty seconds. Thanks to this perfectly exact calculation of minutes and seconds, he reached the surintendant’s door at the very moment the soldier was leaving it with his belt empty. D’Artagnan presented himself at the door, which a porter, with a profusely embroidered livery, held half-open for him. D’Artagnan would very much have liked to enter without giving his name, but this was impossible, and so he gave it. Notwithstanding this concession, which ought to have removed every difficulty in the way, at least D’Artagnan thought so, the concièrge hesitated; however, at the second repetition of the title, captain of the king’s guards, the concièrge, without quite leaving the passage clear for him, ceased to bar it completely. D’Artagnan understood that orders of the most positive character had been given. He decided, therefore, to tell a falsehood--a circumstance, moreover, which did not very seriously affect his peace of mind, when he sew that beyond the falsehood the safety of the state itself, or even purely and simply his own individual personal interest, might be at stake. He moreover added to the declarations which he had already made, that the soldier sent to M. du Vallon was his own messenger, and that the only object that letter had in view was to announce his intended arrival. From that moment, no one opposed D’Artagnan’s entrance any further, and he entered accordingly. A valet wished to accompany him, but he answered that it was useless to take that trouble on his account, inasmuch as he knew perfectly well where M. du Vallon was. There was nothing, of course, to say to a man so thoroughly and completely informed on all points, and D’Artagnan was permitted, therefore, to do as he liked. The terraces, the magnificent apartments, the gardens, were all reviewed and narrowly inspected by the musketeer. He walked for a quarter of an hour in this more than royal residence, which included as many wonders as articles of furniture, and as many servants as there were columns and doors.

“Decidedly,” he said to himself, “this mansion has no other limits than the limits of the earth. Is it probable Porthos has taken it into his head to go back to Pierrefonds without even leaving Monsieur Fouquet’s house?”

He finally reached a remote part of the château inclosed by a stone wall, which was covered with a profusion of thick plants luxuriant in blossoms as large and solid as fruit. At equal distances on the top of this wall were placed various statues, in timid or mysterious attitudes. These were vestals hidden beneath the long Greek peplum, with its thick, heavy folds, agile watchers, covered with their marble veils, and guarding the palace with their furtive glances. A statue of Hermes, with his finger on his lips; one of Iris, with extended wings; another of Night, sprinkled all over with poppies, dominated in the gardens and the outbuildings, which could be seen through the trees. All these statues threw in white relief their profiles upon the dark ground of the tall cypresses, which darted their black summits toward the sky. Around these cypresses were intwined climbing roses, whose flowering rings were fastened to every fork of every branch, and spread over the lower branches and upon the various statues showers of flowers of the richest fragrance. These enchantments seemed to the musketeer the result of the greatest efforts of the human mind. He felt in a dreamy, almost poetical frame of mind. The idea that Porthos was living in so perfect an Eden gave him a higher idea of Porthos, showing how true it is that even the very highest orders of minds are not quite exempt from the influence of surrounding circumstances. D’Artagnan found the door, and at the door a kind of spring which he detected; having touched it, the door flew open. D’Artagnan entered, closed the door behind him, and advanced into a pavilion built in a circular form, in which no other sound could be heard but cascades and the songs of birds. At the door of the pavilion he met a lackey.

“It is here, I believe,” said D’Artagnan, without hesitation, “that Monsieur le Baron du Vallon is staying?”

“Yes, monsieur,” answered the lackey.

“Have the goodness to tell him that Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan, captain of the king’s musketeers, is waiting to see him.”

D’Artagnan was introduced into the salon, and had not long to remain in expectation; a well-remembered step shook the floor of the adjoining room, a door opened, or, rather flew open, and Porthos appeared and threw himself into his friend’s arms with a sort of embarrassment which did not ill become him.

“You here?” he exclaimed.

“And you?” replied D’Artagnan. “Ah, you sly fellow!”

“Yes,” said Porthos, with a somewhat embarrassed smile; “yes, you see I am staying in Monsieur Fouquet’s house, at which you are not a little surprised, I suppose?”

“Not at all. Why should you not be one of Monsieur Fouquet’s friends? Monsieur Fouquet has a very large number, particularly among clever men.”

Porthos had the modesty not to take the compliment to himself.

“Besides,” he added, “you saw me at Belle-Isle.”

“A greater reason for my believing you to be one of Monsieur Fouquet’s friends.”

“The fact is, I am acquainted with him,” said Porthos, with a certain embarrassment of manner.

“Ah, friend Porthos’” said D’Artagnan, “how treacherously you have behaved toward me!”

“In what way?” exclaimed Porthos.

“What! you complete so admirable a work as the fortifications of Belle-Isle, and you do not tell me of it?”

Porthos colored.

“Nay, more than that,” continued D’Artagnan; “you saw me out yonder; you know I am in the king’s service, and yet you could not guess that the king, jealously desirous of learning the name of the man whose abilities have wrought a work of which he has heard the most wonderful accounts--you could not guess, I say, that the king sent me to learn who this man was?”

“What! the king sent you to learn--”

“Of course; but don’t let us speak of that any more.”

“Not speak of it!” said Porthos; “on the contrary, we will speak of it; and so the king knew that we were fortifying Belle-Isle?”

“Of course; does not the king know everything?”

“But he did not know who was fortifying it?”

“No; he only suspected, from what he had been told of the nature of the works, that it was some celebrated soldier or another.”

“The devil!” said Porthos, “if I had only known that!”

“You would not have run away from Vannes as you did, perhaps?”

“No; what did you say when you couldn’t find me?”

“My dear fellow, I reflected.”

“Ah, indeed; you reflect, do you? Well, and what has that reflection led to?”

“It led me to guess the whole truth.”

“Come, then, tell me, what did you guess, after all?” said Porthos, settling himself into an armchair, and assuming the airs of a sphinx.

“I guessed, in the first place, that you were fortifying Belle-Isle.”

“There was no great difficulty in that, for you saw me at work.

“Wait a minute. I also guessed something else--that you were fortifying Belle-Isle by Monsieur Fouquet’s orders.”

“That’s true.”

“But not all. Whenever I feel myself in train for guessing, I do not stop on my road; and so I guessed that Monsieur Fouquet wished to preserve the most absolute secrecy respecting these fortifications.”

“I believe that was his intention, in fact,” said Porthos.

“Yes; but do you know why he wished to keep it secret?”

“Because it should not be known, perhaps,” said Porthos.

“That was his principal reason. But his wish was subservient to an affair of generosity--”

“In fact,” said Porthos, “I have heard it said that Monsieur Fouquet was a very generous man.”

“To an affair of generosity which he wished to exhibit toward the king.”

“Oh, oh!”

“You seem surprised at it?”

“Yes. “

“And you did not know that?”

“No. “

“Well, I know it, then.”

“You’re a wizard.”

“Not in the slightest degree.”

“How do you know it, then?”

“By a very simple means. I heard Monsieur Fouquet himself say so to the king.”

“Say what to the king?”

“That he had fortified Belle-Isle on his majesty’s account, and that he made him a present of Belle-Isle.”

“And you heard Monsieur Fouquet say that to the king?”

“In those very words. He even added: ‘Belle-Isle has been fortified by an engineer, one of my friends, a man of a great deal of merit, whom I shall ask your majesty’s permission to present to you.’

“‘What is his name?’ said the king.

“‘The Baron du Vallon,’ Monsieur Fouquet replied.

“‘Very well,’ returned his majesty; ‘you will present him to me.’”

“The king said that?”

“Upon the word of a D’Artagnan!”

“Oh, oh!” said Porthos. “Why have I not been presented, then?”

“Have they not spoken to you about this presentation?”

“Yes, certainly; but I am always kept waiting for it.”

“Be easy; it will be sure to come.”

“Humph! humph!” grumbled Porthos, which D’Artagnan pretended not to hear; and, changing the conversation, he said:

“You seem to be living in a very solitary place here, my dear fellow?”

“I always preferred retirement. I am of a melancholy disposition,” replied Porthos, with a sigh.

“Really, that is odd,” said D’Artagnan; “I never remarked that before.”

“It is only since I have taken to reading,” said Porthos, with a thoughtful air.

“But the labors of the mind have not affected the health of the body, I trust?”

“Not in the slightest degree.”

“Your strength is as great as ever?”

“Too great, my friend, too great.”

“Ah! I heard that, for a short time after your arrival----”

“That I could hardly move a limb, I suppose?”

“How was it?” said D’Artagnan, smiling; “and why was it you could not move?”

Porthos, perceiving that he had made a mistake, wished to correct it. “Yes, I came from Belle-Isle here upon very hard horses,” he said, “and that fatigued me.”

“I am no longer astonished, then, since I, who followed you, found seven or eight lying dead on the road.”

“I am very heavy, you know,” said Porthos.

“So that you were bruised all over.”

“My fat melted, and that made me very ill.”

“Poor Porthos! But how did Aramis act toward you under those circumstances?”

“Very well, indeed. He had me attended to by Monsieur Fouquet’s own doctor. But just imagine, at the end of a week I could not breathe any longer!”

“What do you mean?”

“The room was too small, I absorbed too much air.”

“Indeed?”

“I was told so, at least; and so I was removed into another apartment.”

“Where you were able to breathe that time, I hope.”

“Yes, more freely; but no exercise--nothing to do. The doctor pretended that I was not to stir; I, on the contrary, felt that I was stronger than ever; that was the cause of a very serious accident.”

“What accident?”

“Fancy, my dear fellow, that I revolted against the directions of that ass of a doctor, and I resolved to go out, whether it suited him or not; and, consequently, I told the valet who waited on me to bring me my clothes.”

“You were quite naked, then?”

“Oh, no! on the contrary, I had a magnificent dressing-gown to wear. The lackey obeyed; I dressed myself in my own clothes, which had become too large for me; but a strange circumstance had happened--my feet had become too large.

“Yes, I quite understand.”

“And my boots had become too small.”

“You mean your feet were still swollen.”

“Exactly; you have hit it.”

Pardieu! And is that the accident you were going to tell me about?”

“Oh, yes! I did not make the same reflection you have done. I said to myself: ‘Since my feet have entered my boots ten times, there is no reason why they should not go in an eleventh.”

“Allow me to tell you, my dear Porthos, that, on this occasion, you have failed in your logic.”

“In short, then, they placed me opposite to a part of the room which was partitioned. I tried to get my boot on; I pulled it with my hands, I pushed with all the strength of the muscles of my leg, making the most unheard-of efforts, when suddenly the two tags of my boots remained in my hands, and my foot struck out like a catapult.”

“Catapult! how learned you are in fortifications, dear Porthos.”

“My foot darted out like a catapult, and came against the partition, which it broke in. I really thought that, like Samson, I had demolished the temple. And the number of pictures, the quantity of china, vases of flowers, carpets, and window-panes which fell down was really wonderful. “

“Indeed!”

“Without reckoning that on the other side of the partition was a small table laden with porcelain--”

“Which you knocked over?”

“Which I dashed to the other side of the room,” said Porthos, laughing.

“Upon my word, it is, as you say, astonishing,” replied D’Artagnan, beginning to laugh also; whereupon Porthos laughed louder than ever.

“I broke,” said Porthos, in a voice half-choked from his increasing mirth, “more than three thousand francs’ worth of china--oh! oh! oh!”

“Good!” said D’Artagnan.

“I smashed more than four thousand francs’ worth of glass--oh! oh! oh!”

“Excellent.”

“Without counting a luster, which fell on my head and was broken into a thousand pieces--oh! oh! oh!”

“Upon your head?” said D’Artagnan, holding his sides.

“On the top.”

“But your head was broken, I suppose?”

“No; since I tell you, on the contrary, my dear fellow, that it was the luster which was broken like glass, as it was, indeed.”

“Ah! the luster was glass, you say.”

“Venetian glass; a perfect curiosity, quite matchless, indeed, and weighed two hundred pounds.”

“And which fell upon your head?”

“Upon my head. Just imagine, a globe of crystal, gilded all over, the lower part beautifully incrusted, perfumes burning at the top, the jets from which flame issued when they were lighted.”

“I quite understand; but they were not lighted at the time, I suppose?”

“Happily not, or I should have been set on fire.”

“And you were only knocked down flat, instead?”

“Not at all.”

“How, not at all?”

“Why, the luster fell on my skull. It appears that we have upon the top of our heads en exceedingly thick crust.”

“Who told you that, Porthos?”

“The doctor. A sort of dome which would bear Notre Dame, at Paris.”

“Bah!”

“Yes, it seems that our skulls are made in that manner.”

“Speak for yourself, my dear fellow, it is your own skull that is made in that manner, and not the skulls of other people. “

“Well, that may be so,” said Porthos conceitedly, “so much, however, was that the case, in my instance, that no sooner did the luster fall upon the dome which we have at the top of our head than there was a report like a cannon, the crystal was broken to pieces, and I fell, covered from head to foot.”

“With blood, poor Porthos!”

“Not at all; with perfumes, which smelled like rich creams; it was delicious, but the odor was too strong, and I felt quite giddy from it; perhaps you have experienced it sometimes yourself, D’Artagnan?”

“Yes, in inhaling the scent of the lily of the valley; so that, my poor friend, you were knocked over by the shock and overpowered by the odor?”

“Yes; but what is very remarkable, for the doctor told me he had never seen anything like it--”

“You had a bump on your head, I suppose?” interrupted D’Artagnan.

“I had five.”

“Why five?”

“I will tell you; the luster had, at its lower extremity, five gilt ornaments excessively sharp.”

“Oh!”

“Well, these five ornaments penetrated my hair, which, as you see, I wear very thick.”

“Fortunately so.”

“And they made a mark on my skin. But just notice the singularity of it, these things seem really only to happen me. Instead of making indentations, they made bumps. The doctor could never succeed in explaining that to me satisfactorily. “

“Well, then, I will explain it to you.”

“You will do me a great service if you will,” said Porthos, winking his eyes, which, with him, was a sign of the profoundest attention.

“Since yon have been employing your brain in studies of an exalted character, in important calculations, and so on, the head has gained a certain advantage, so that your head is now too full of science.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it. The result is, that, instead of allowing any foreign matter to penetrate the interior of the head, your bony box or skull, which is already too full, avails itself of the openings which are made in it allowing this excess to escape.”

“Ah!” said Porthos, to whom this explanation appeared clearer than that of the doctor.

“The five protuberances, caused by the five ornaments of the luster, must certainly have been scientific masses brought to the surface by the force of circumstances.”

“In fact,” said Porthos, “the real truth is, that I felt far worse outside my head than inside. I will even confess that when I put my hat upon my head, clapping it on my head with that graceful energy which we gentlemen of the sword possess, if my fist was not very gently applied, I experienced the most painful sensations.”

“I quite believe you, Porthos.”

“Therefore, my friend,” said the giant, “Monsieur Fouquet decided, seeing how slightly built the house was, to give me another lodging, and so they brought me here.”

“It is the private park, I think, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Where the rendezvous are made; that park, indeed, which is so celebrated in some of those mysterious stories about the surintendant.”

“I don’t know; I have had no rendezvous or heard mysterious stories myself, but they have authorized me to exercise my muscles, and I take advantage of the permission by rooting up some of the trees.”

“What for?”

“To keep my hand in, and also to take some birds’ nests; I find that more convenient than climbing up the trees.”

“You are as pastoral as Tyrcis, my dear Porthos.”

“Yes, I like the small eggs; I like them very much better than larger ones. You have no idea how delicate an omelet is if made of four or five hundred eggs of linnets, chaffinches, starlings, blackbirds, and thrushes.”

“But five hundred eggs is perfectly monstrous!”

“A salad-bowl will hold them easily enough,” said Porthos.

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos admiringly for a full five minutes, as if he had seen him for the first time, while Porthos spread himself out joyously and proudly. They remained in this state several minutes, Porthos smiling, and D’Artagnan looking at him. D’Artagnan was evidently trying to give the conversation a new turn. “Do you amuse yourself much here, Porthos?” he asked at last, very likely after he had found out what he was searching for.

“Not always.”

“I can imagine that; but when you get thoroughly bored, by and by, what do you intend to do?”

“Oh! I shall not be here for any length of time. Aramis is waiting until the last bump on my head disappears, in order to present me to the king, who I am told cannot endure the sight of a bump.”

“Aramis is still in Paris, then?”

“No.”

“Whereabouts is he, then?”

“At Fontainebleau.”

“Alone?”

“With Monsieur Fouquet.”

“Very good. But do you happen to know one thing?”

“No, tell it me, and then I shall know.”

“Well, then, I think that Aramis is forgetting you.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes; for at Fontainebleau yonder, you must know, they are laughing, dancing, banqueting, and drawing the corks of Monsieur de Mazarin’s wine in fine style. Are you aware that they have a ballet every evening?”

“The deuce they have.”

“I assure you that dear Aramis is forgetting you.”

“Well, that is not at all unlikely, and I have myself thought so sometimes.”

“Unless he is playing you a trick, the sly fellow!”

“Oh!”

“You know that Aramis is as sly as a fox.”

“Yes; but to play me a trick--”

“Listen: in the first place, he puts you under a sort of sequestration.”

“He sequestrates me! Do you mean to say I am sequestrated?”

“I think so.”

“I wish you would have the goodness to prove that to me.”

“Nothing easier. Do you ever go out?”

“Do you ever ride on horseback?”

“Never.”

“Are your friends allowed to come and see you?”

“Never. “

“Very well, then; never to go out, never to ride on horseback, never to be allowed to see your friends, that is called being sequestrated.”

“But why should Aramis sequestrate me?” inquired Porthos.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “be frank, Porthos.”

“As gold.”

“It was Aramis who drew the plan of the fortifications at Belle-Isle, was it not?”

Porthos colored as he said, “Yes; but that was all he did.”

“Exactly, and my own opinion is that it was no very great affair after all.”

“That is mine, too.”

“Very good; I am delighted we are of the same opinion.”

“He never even came to Belle-Isle,” said Porthos.

“There now, you see.”

“It was I who went to Vannes, as you may have seen.”

“Say, rather, as I did see. Well, that is precisely the state of my case, my dear Porthos. Aramis, who only drew the plans, wishes to pass himself off as the engineer, while you, who, stone by stone, built the wall, the citadel, and the bastions, he wishes to reduce to the rank of a mere builder.”

“By builder, you mean mason, perhaps?”

“Mason; the very word.”

“Plasterer, in fact?”

“Precisely.”

“A laborer?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh! oh! my dear Aramis, you seem to think you are only twenty-five years of age still.”

“Yes, and that is not all, for he believes you are fifty.”

“I should have amazingly liked to have seen him at work.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“A fellow who has got the gout?”

“Yes.”

“Who has lost three of his teeth?”

“Four.”

“While I--look at mine.” And Porthos, opening his large mouth very wide, displayed two rows of teeth rather less white than snow, but as even, hard, and sound as ivory.

“You can hardly believe, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “what a fancy the king has for good teeth. Yours decide me; I will present you to the king myself.”

“You?”

“Why not? Do you think I have less credit at court than Aramis?”

“Oh, no!”

“Do you think that I have the slightest pretension upon the fortifications at Belle-Isle?”

“Certainly not.”

“It is your own interest alone which would induce me to do it.”

“I don’t doubt it in the least.”

“Well, I am the intimate friend of the king; and a proof of that is, that whenever there is anything disagreeable to tell him, it is I who have to do it.”

“But, dear D’Artagnan, if you present me--”

“Well?”

“Aramis will be angry.”

“With me?”

“No, with me.”

“Bah! whether he or I present you, since you are to be presented, what does it matter?”

“They were going to get me some clothes made.”

“Your own are splendid.”

“Oh! those I had ordered were far more beautiful.”

“Take care; the king likes simplicity.”

“In that case, I will be simple. But what will Monsieur Fouquet say when he learns that I have left?”

“Are you a prisoner, then, on parole?”

“No, not quite that. But I promised him I would not leave without letting him know.”

“Wait a minute; we shall return to that presently. Have you anything to do here?”

“I, nothing; nothing of any importance, at least.”

“Unless, indeed, you are Aramis’ representative for something of importance.”

“By no means.”

“What I tell you--pray understand that--is out of interest for you. I suppose, for instance, that you are commissioned to send messages and letters to him?”

“Ah! letters--yes. I send certain letters to him.”

“Where?”

“To Fontainebleau.”

“Have you any letters, then?”

“But--”

“Nay, let me speak. Have you any letters, I say?”

“I have just received one for him.”

“Interesting?”

“I suppose so.”

“You do not read them, then?”

“I am not at all curious,” said Porthos, as he drew out of his pocket the soldier’s letter which Porthos had not read, but which D’Artagnan had.

“Do you know what to do with it?” said D’Artagnan.

“Of course; do as I always do, send it to him.”

“Not so.”

“Why not? Keep it, then?”

“Did they not tell you that this letter was very important?”

“Very important.”

“Well, you must take it yourself to Fontainebleau.”

“To Aramis?”

“Yes.”

“Very good.”

“And since the king is there--”

“You will profit by that.”

“I shall profit by the opportunity to present you to the king.”

“Ah! D’Artagnan, there is no one like you to find expedients.”

“Therefore, instead of forwarding to our friend any messages, which may or may not be faithfully delivered, we will ourselves be the bearers of the letter.”

“I had never even thought of that, and yet it is simple enough.”

“And, therefore, because it is urgent, Porthos, we ought to set off at once.”

“In fact,” said Porthos, “the sooner we set off the less chance there is of Aramis’ letter meeting with any delay.”

“Porthos, your reasoning is always very accurate, and, in your case, logic seems to serve as an auxiliary to the imagination.”

“Do you think so?” said Porthos.

“It is the result of your hard reading,” replied D’Artagnan. “So come along, let us be off.”

“But,” said Porthos, “my promise to Monsieur Fouquet?”

“Not to leave St. Mandé without telling him of it.”

“Ah, Porthos!” said D’Artagnan, “how very young you are!”

“In what way?”

“You are going to Fontainebleau, are you not, where you will find Monsieur Fouquet?”

“Yes.”

“Probably in the king’s palace?”

“Yes,” repeated Porthos, with an air full of majesty.

“Well, you will accost him with these words: ‘Monsieur Fouquet, I have the honor to inform you that I have just left St. Mandé.’”

“And,” said Porthos, with the same majestic mien, “seeing me at Fontainebleau at the king’s, Monsieur Fouquet will not be able to tell me I am not speaking the truth.”

“My dear Porthos, I was just on the point of opening my lips to make the same remark, but you anticipate me in everything. Oh! Porthos, how fortunately you are gifted; age has not made any impression on you.”

“Not overmuch, certainly.”

“Then there is nothing more to say?”

“I think not.”

“All your scruples are removed?”

“Quite so.”

“In that case I shall carry you off with me.”

“Exactly; and I shall go and get my horse saddled.”

“You have horses here, then?”

“I have five.”

“You had them sent from Pierrefonds, I suppose?”

“No, Monsieur Fouquet gave them to me.”

“My dear Porthos we shall not want five horses for two persons; besides, I have already three in Paris, which will make eight, and that will be too many.”

“It would not be too many if I had some of my servants here; but, alas! I have not got them.”

“Do you regret them then?”

“I regret Mousqueton; I need Mousqueton.”

“What a good-hearted fellow you are, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan; “but the best thing you can do is to leave your horses here, as you have left Mousqueton out yonder.”

“Why so?”

“Because, by and by, it might turn out a very good thing if Monsieur Fouquet had never given you anything at all.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Porthos.

“It is not necessary you should understand.”

“But yet--”

“I will explain to you later, Porthos.”

“I’ll wager it is some piece of policy or other.”

“And of the most subtle character,” returned D’Artagnan.

Porthos bent his head at this word policy; then, after a moment’s reflection, he added, “I confess, D’Artagnan, that I am no politician.”

“I know that well.”

“Oh! no one knows what you told me yourself, you, the bravest of the brave.”

“What did I tell you, Porthos?”

“That every man has his day. You told me so, and I have experienced it myself. There are certain days when one feels less pleasure than others in exposing one’s self to a bullet or a sword-thrust.”

“Exactly my own idea.”

“And mine, too, although I can hardly believe in blows or thrusts which kill outright.”

“The deuce! and yet you have killed a few in your time.”

“Yes; but I have never been killed.”

“Your reason is a very good one.”

“Therefore, I do not believe I shall ever die from a thrust of a sword or a gunshot.”

“In that case, then, you are afraid of nothing. Ah! water perhaps?”

“Oh! I swim like an otter.”

“Of a quartan fever, then?”

“I never had one yet, and I don’t believe I ever shall; but there is one thing I will admit,” and Porthos dropped his voice.

“What is that?” asked D’Artagnan, adopting the same tone of voice as Porthos.

“I must confess,” repeated Porthos, “that I am horribly afraid of political matters.”

“Ah! bah!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

“Upon my word, it’s true,” said Porthos, in a stentorian voice. “I have seen His Eminence Monsieur le Cardinal de Richelieu, and His Eminence Monsieur le Cardinal de Mazarin; the one was a red politician, the other a black politician; I have never felt very much more satisfied with the one than with the other; the first struck off the heads of Monsieur de Marillac, Monsieur de Thou, Monsieur do Cinq-Mars, Monsieur Chalais, Monsieur de Boutteville, and Monsieur de Montmorency; the second got a whole crowd of Frondeurs cut in pieces, and we belonged to them.”

“On the contrary, we did not belong to them,” said D’Artagnan.

“Oh! indeed, yes; for, if I unsheathed my sword for the cardinal, I struck for the king.”

“Dear Porthos!”

“Well, I have done. My dread of politics is such that if there is any question of politics in the matter, I should far sooner prefer to return to Pierrefonds.”

“You would be quite right, if that were the case. But with me, dear Porthos, no politics at all, that is quite clear. You have labored hard in fortifying Belle-Isle; the king wished to know the name of the clever engineer under whose directions the works were carried on; you are modest, as all men of true genius are; perhaps Aramis wishes to put you under a bushel. But I happen to seize hold of you; I make it known who you are; I produce you; the king rewards you; and that is the only policy I have to do with.”

“And the only one I will have to do with, either,” said Porthos, holding out his hand to D’Artagnan.

But D’Artagnan knew Porthos’ grasp; he knew that once imprisoned within the baron’s five fingers, no hand ever left it without being half-crushed. He therefore held out, not his hand, but his fist, and Porthos did not even perceive the difference. The servants talked a little with each other in an undertone, and whispered a few words, which D’Artagnan understood, but which he took very good care not to let Porthos understand. “Our friend,” he said to himself, “was really and truly Aramis’ prisoner. Let us now see what the result will be of the liberation of the captive.”

The Rat and the Cheese.

D’Artagnan and Porthos returned on foot, as D’Artagnan had arrived. When D’Artagnan, as he entered the shop of the Pilon d’Or, had announced to Planchet that M. du Vallon would be one of the privileged travelers, and when the plume in Porthos’ hat had made the wooden candles suspended over the front jingle together, something almost like a melancholy presentiment troubled the delight which Planchet had promised himself for the next day. But the grocer’s heart was of sterling metal, a precious relic of the good old time, which always remains what it has always been for those who are getting old the time of their youth, and for those who are young the old age of their ancestors. Planchet, notwithstanding the sort of internal shiver, which he checked immediately he experienced it, received Porthos, therefore, with a respect mingled with the most tender cordiality. Porthos, who was a little cold and stiff in his manners at first, on account of the social difference which existed at that period between a baron and a grocer, soon began to get a little softened when he perceived so much good feeling and so many kind attentions in Planchet. He was particularly touched by the liberty which was permitted him to plunge his large hands into the boxes of dried fruits and preserves, into the sacks of nuts and almonds, and into the drawers full of sweetmeats. So that, notwithstanding Planchet’s pressing invitations to go upstairs to the entresol, he chose as his favorite seat, during the evening which he had to spend at Planchet’s house, the shop itself, where his fingers could always find whatever his nose had first detected for him. The delicious figs from Provence, filberts from the forest, Tours plums, were subjects of his interrupted attention for five consecutive hours. His teeth, like millstones, cracked heaps of nuts, the shells of which were scattered all over the floor, where they were trampled by every one who went in and out of the shop; Porthos pulled from the stalk with his lips, at one mouthful, bunches of the rich Muscatel raisins with their beautiful bloom, and a half pound of which passed at one gulp from his mouth to his stomach. In one of the corners of the shop, Planchet’s assistants, crouching down in a fright, looked at each other without venturing to open their lips. They did not know who Porthos was, for they had never seen him before. The race of those Titans who had worn the cuirasses of Hugues Capet, Philip Augustus, and Francis I. had already begun to disappear. They could not help thinking he might possibly be the ogre of the fairy tale, who was going to turn the whole contents of Planchet’s shop into his insatiable stomach, and that, too, without in the slightest degree displacing the barrels and chests that were in it. Cracking, munching, chewing, nibbling, sucking, and swallowing, Porthos occasionally said to the grocer:

“You do a very good business here, friend Planchet.”

“He will very soon have none at all to do if this continues,” grumbled the foreman, who had Planchet’s word that he should be his successor. And in his despair, he approached Porthos, who blocked up the whole of the passage reading from the back shop to the shop itself. He hoped that Porthos would rise, and that this movement would distract his devouring ideas.

“What do you want, my man?” asked Porthos very affably.

“I should like to pass you, monsieur, if it is not troubling you too much.”

“Very well,” said Porthos; “it does not trouble me in the least.”

At the same moment he took hold of the young fellow by the waistband, lifted him off the ground, and placed him very gently on the other side, smiling all the while with the same affable expression. As soon as Porthos had placed him on the ground, the lad’s legs so shook under him that he fell back upon some sacks of corks. But noticing the giant’s gentleness of manner, he ventured again, and said:

“Ah, monsieur! pray be careful.”

“What about?” inquired Porthos.

“You are positively putting fire into your body.”

“How is that, my good fellow?” said Porthos.

“All those things are very heating to the system.”

“Which?”

“Raisins, nuts, and almonds.”

“Yes; but if raisins, nuts, and almonds are heating----”

“There is no doubt at all of it, monsieur.”

“Honey is very cooling,” said Porthos, stretching out his hand toward a small barrel of honey which was opened, and he plunged the scoop, with which the wants of the customers were supplied, into it, and swallowed a good half pound at one gulp.

“I must trouble you for some water now, my man,” said Porthos.

“In a pail, monsieur?” asked the lad simply.

“No, in a water-bottle; that will be quite enough;” and raising the bottle to his mouth, as a trumpeter does his trumpet, he emptied the bottle at a single draught.

Planchet was moved in all the sentiments which correspond to the fibers of propriety and self-love. However, a worthy representative of the hospitality which prevailed in early days, he feigned to be talking very earnestly with D’Artagnan, and incessantly repeated: “Ah! monsieur, what a happiness! what an honor!”

“What time shall we have supper, Planchet?” inquired Porthos; “I feel hungry.”

The foreman clasped his hands together. The two others got under the counters, fearing that Porthos might have a taste for human flesh.

“We shall only take a sort of snack here,” said D’Artagnan; “and when we get to Planchet’s country-seat we shall have supper.”

“Ah! ah! so we are going to your country house, Planchet,” said Porthos; “so much the better.”

“You overwhelm me, Monsieur le Baron.”

The “Monsieur le Baron” had a great effect upon the men, who detected a personage of the highest quality in an appetite of that kind. They had never heard that an ogre was ever called “Monsieur le Baron.”

“I will take a few biscuits to eat on the road,” said Porthos carelessly; and he emptied a whole jar of aniseed biscuits into the huge pocket of his doublet.

“My shop is saved!” exclaimed Planchet.

“Yes, as the cheese was,” said the foreman.

“What cheese?”

“That Dutch cheese, inside which a rat had made his way, and we only found the rind left.”

Planchet looked all round his shop, and observing the different articles which had escaped Porthos’ teeth, he found the comparison somewhat exaggerated. The foreman, who remarked what was passing in his master’s mind, said: “Take care; he is not gone yet.”

“Have you any fruit here?” said Porthos, as he went upstairs to the entresol, where it had just been announced that some refreshment was prepared.

“Alas!” thought the grocer, addressing a look at D’Artagnan full of entreaty, which the latter half-understood.

As soon as they had finished eating they set off. It was late when the three riders, who had left Paris about six in the evening, arrived at Fontainebleau. The journey had passed very agreeably. Porthos took a fancy to Planchet’s society, because the latter was very respectful in his manners, and seemed delighted to talk to him about his meadows, his woods, and his rabbit-warrens. Porthos had all the taste and pride of a landed proprietor. When D’Artagnan saw his two companions in earnest conversation, he took the opposite side of the road, and letting his bridle drop upon his horse’s neck, separated himself from the whole world, as he had done from Porthos and Planchet. The moon shone softly through the foliage of the forest. The odors of the open country rose deliciously perfumed to the horses’ nostrils, and they snorted and pranced about delightedly. Porthos and Planchet began to talk about hay crops. Planchet admitted to Porthos that in the more advanced years of his life he had certainly neglected agricultural pursuits for commerce, but that his childhood had been passed in Picardy in the beautiful meadows where the grass grew as high as the knees, and where he had played under the green apple-trees covered with red-checked fruit; he went on to say that he had solemnly promised himself that as soon as he should have made his fortune he would return to nature, and end his days, as he had begun them, as near as he possibly could to the earth itself, where all men must go at last.

“Eh, eh!” said Porthos, “in that case, my dear Monsieur Planchet, your retreat is not far distant.”

“How so?”

“Why, you seem to be in the way of making your fortune very soon.”

“Well, we are getting on pretty well, I must admit.”

“Come, tell me what is the extent of your ambition, and what is the amount you intend to retire upon?”

“There is one circumstance, monsieur,” said Planchet without answering the question, “which occasions me a good deal of anxiety.”

“What is it?” inquired Porthos, looking all round him as if in search of the circumstance that annoyed Planchet, and desirous of freeing him from it.

“Why, formerly,” said the grocer, “you used to call me Planchet quite short, and you would have spoken to me then in a much more familiar manner than you do now.”

“Certainly, certainly, I should have said so formerly,” replied the good-natured Porthos, with an embarrassment full of delicacy, “but formerly--”

“Formerly I was Monsieur d’Artagnan’s lackey; is not that what you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Well; if I am not quite his lackey, I am as much as ever I was his devoted servant; and more than that, since that time--”

“Well, Planchet?”

“Since that time, I have had the honor of being in partnership with him.”

“Oh! oh!” said Porthos. “What, has D’Artagnan gone into the grocery business?”

“No, no,” said D’Artagnan, whom these words had drawn out of his reverie, and who entered into the conversation with that readiness and rapidity which distinguished every operation of his mind and body. “It was not D’Artagnan who entered into the grocery business, but Planchet who entered into a political affair with me.”

“Yes,” said Planchet, with mingled pride and satisfaction, “we transacted a little business which brought me in one hundred thousand francs, and Monsieur d’Artagnan two hundred thousand francs.”

“Oh! oh!” said Porthos, with admiration.

“So that, Monsieur le Baron,” continued the grocer, “I again beg you to be kind enough to call me Planchet, as you used to do; and to speak to me as familiarly as in old times. You cannot possibly imagine the pleasure that it would give me.

“If that be the case, my dear Planchet, I will do so, certainly,” replied Porthos. And as he was quite close to Planchet, he raised his hand, as if to strike him on the shoulder, in token of friendly cordiality; but a fortunate movement of the horse made him miss his aim, so that his hand fell on the crupper of Planchet’s horse, instead; which made the animal’s legs almost give way.

D’Artagnan burst out laughing, as he said, “Take care, Planchet, for if Porthos begins to like you so much he will caress you, and if he caresses you, he will knock you as flat as a pancake. Porthos is still as strong as ever, you know.”

“Oh!” said Planchet, “Mousqueton is not dead, and yet Monsieur le Baron is very fond of him.”

“Certainly,” said Porthos, with a sigh which made al1 the three horses rear; “and I was only saying, this very morning, to D’Artagnan, how much I regretted him. But tell me, Planchet?”

“Thank you, Monsieur le Baron, thank you.”

“Good lad, good lad! How many acres of park have you got?”

“Of park?”

“Yes; we will reckon up the meadows presently, and the woods afterward.”

“Whereabouts, monsieur?”

“At your château.”

“Oh, Monsieur le Baron; I have neither château, nor park, nor meadows, nor woods.”

“What have you got, then?” inquired Porthos, “and why do you call it a country-seat?”

“I did not call it a country-seat, Monsieur le Baron,” replied Planchet, somewhat humiliated, “but a country box.”

“Ah! ah! I understand. You are modest.”

“No, Monsieur le Baron; I speak the plain truth. I have rooms for a couple of friends, that’s all.”

“But in that case, whereabouts do your friends walk?”

“In the first place, they can walk about the king’s forest, which is very beautiful.”

“Yes, I know the forest is very fine,” said Porthos; “nearly as beautiful as my forest at Berry.”

Planchet opened his eyes very wide. “Have you a forest of the same kind as the forest at Fontainebleau, Monsieur le Baron?” he stammered out.

“Yes; I have two, indeed, but the one at Berry is my favorite.”

“Why so?” asked Planchet

“Because I don’t know where it ends; and, also, because it is full of poachers.”

“How can the poachers make the forest so agreeable to you?”

“Because they hunt my game, and I hunt them--which, in these peaceful times, is for me a picture of war on a small scale.”

They had reached this turn of the conversation when Planchet, looking up, perceived the house at the commencement of Fontainebleau, the outline of which stood out strongly upon the dark face of the heavens; while, rising above the compact and irregularly formed mass of buildings, the pointed roofs of the château were clearly visible, the slates of which glistened beneath the light of the moon like the scales of an immense fish. “Gentlemen,” said Planchet, “I have the honor to inform you that we have arrived at Fontainebleau.”

Planchet’s Country House.

The cavaliers looked up, and saw that what Planchet had announced to them was true. Ten minutes afterward they were in the street called the Rue de Lyon, on the opposite side of the inn of the sign of the Beau Paon. A high hedge of bushy elders, hawthorn, and wild hops formed an impenetrable fence, behind which rose a white house, with a large tiled roof. Two of the windows, which were quite dark, looked upon the street. Between the two a small door, with a porch supported by a couple of pillars, formed the entrance to the house. The door was gained by a step raised a little from the ground. Planchet got off his horse, as if he intended to knock at the door; but on second thought, he took hold of his horse by the bridle, and led it about thirty paces further on, his two companions following him. He then advanced about another thirty paces, until he arrived at the door of a cart-house lighted by an iron grating, and, lifting up a wooden latch, pushed open one of the folding-doors. He entered first, leading his horse after him by the bridle, into a small courtyard, where an odor met them which revealed their close vicinity to a stable. “That smells all right,” said Porthos loudly, getting off his horse, “and I almost begin to think I am near my own cows at Pierrefonds.”

“I have only one cow,” Planchet hastened to say modestly.

“And I have thirty,” said Porthos; “or rather, I don’t exactly know how many I have.”

When the two cavaliers had entered Planchet fastened the door behind them. In the meantime, D’Artagnan, who had dismounted with his usual agility, inhaled the fresh perfumed air with the delight a Parisian feels at the sight of green fields and fresh foliage, plucked a piece of honeysuckle with one hand, and of sweetbrier with the other. Porthos had laid hold of some pease which were twined round poles stuck into the ground, and ate, or rather browsed upon them, shells and all, and Planchet was busily engaged trying to wake up an old and infirm peasant, who was fast asleep in a shed, lying on a bed of moss, and dressed in an old stable suit of clothes. The peasant, recognizing Planchet, called him “the master,” to the grocer’s great satisfaction. “Stable the horses well, old fellow, and you shall have something good for yourself,” said Planchet.

“Yes, yes; fine animals they are, too,” said the peasant. “Oh! they shall have as much as they like.”

“Gently, my man,” said D’Artagnan, “we are getting on a little too fast. A few oats, and a good bed--nothing more.”

“Some bran and water for my horse,” said Porthos, “for it is very warm, I think.”

“Don’t be afraid, gentlemen,” replied Planchet; “Daddy Celestin is an old gendarme who fought at Ivry. He knows all about stables; so come into the house.” And he led the way along a well-sheltered walk, which crossed a kitchen-garden, then a small paddock, and came out into a little garden behind the house, the principal front of which, as we have already noticed, was facing the street. As they approached they could see, through the two open windows on the ground floor, which led into a sitting-room, the interior of Planchet’s residence. This room, softly lighted by a lamp placed on the table, seemed, from the end of the garden, like a smiling image of repose, comfort, and happiness. In every direction where the rays of light fell, whether upon a piece of old china or upon an article of furniture shining from excessive neatness, or upon the weapons hanging against the wall, the soft light was as softly reflected; and its rays seemed to linger everywhere upon something or another agreeable to the eye. The lamp which lighted the room, while the foliage of jasmine and climbing roses hung in masses from the window-frames, splendidly illuminated a damask tablecloth as white as snow. The table was laid for two persons. An amber-colored wine sparkled in the long cut-glass bottle, and a large jug of blue china, with a silver lid, was filled with foaming cider Near the table, in a high-backed armchair, reclined fast asleep a woman of about thirty years of age, her face the very picture of health and freshness. Upon her knees lay a large cat, with her paws folded under her, and her eyes half-closed, purring in that significant manner which, according to feline habits, indicates perfect contentment. The two friends paused before the window, in complete amazement, while Planchet, perceiving their astonishment, was, in no little degree, secretly delighted at it.”

“Ah! Planchet, you rascal,” said D’Artagnan, “I now understand your absences.”

“Oh! oh! there is some white linen!” said Porthos, in his turn, in a voice of thunder. At the sound of this voice the cat took flight, the housekeeper woke up suddenly, and Planchet, assuming a gracious air, introduced his two companions into the room, where the table was already laid.

“Permit me, my dear,” he said, “to present to you Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan, my patron.” D’Artagnan took the lady’s hand in his in the most courteous manner, and with precisely the same chivalrous air as he would have taken madame’s.

“Monsieur le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds,” added Planchet. Porthos bowed with a reverence of which Anne of Austria would have approved.

It was then Planchet’s turn, and he unhesitatingly embraced the lady in question, not, however, until he had made a sign as if requesting D’Artagnan’s and Porthos’ permission, a permission which was of course frankly conceded. D’Artagnan complimented Planchet, and said, “You are indeed a man who knows how to make life agreeable. “

“Life, monsieur,” said Planchet, laughing, “is a capital which a man ought to invest as sensibly as he possibly can.”

“And you get very good interest for yours,” said Porthos, with a burst of laughter like a peal of thunder.

Planchet turned to his housekeeper. “You have before you,” he said to her, “the two men who have influenced no small portion of my life. I have spoken to you about them both very frequently.”

“And to others as well,” said the lady, with a very decided Flemish accent.

“Madame is Dutch?” inquired D’Artagnan. Porthos curled his mustache, a circumstance which was not lost upon D’Artagnan, who remarked everything.

“I am from Antwerp,” said the lady.

“And her name is Madame Gechter,” said Planchet.

“You should not call her madame,” said D’Artagnan.

“Why not?” asked Planchet.

“Because it would make her seem older every time you call her so.”

“Well, I call her Trüchen.”

“And a very pretty name, too,” said Porthos.

“Trüchen,” said Planchet, “came to me from Flanders with her virtue and two thousand florins. She ran away from a brute of a husband who was in the habit of beating her. Being myself a Picard born, I was always very fond of the Artesian women, and it is only a step from Artois to Flanders; she came crying bitterly to her godfather, my predecessor in the Rue des Lombards; she placed her two thousand florins in my establishment, which I have turned to very good account, and which bring her in ten thousand.”

“Bravo, Planchet!”

“She is free and well off; she has a cow, a maid-servant, and old Celestin at her orders; she mends my linen, knits my winter stockings; she only sees me every fortnight, and seems anxious to make herself happy.”

“And I am very happy indeed,” said Trüchen, with perfect ingenuousness.

Porthos began to curl the other side of his mustache.

“The deuce,” thought D’Artagnan, “can Porthos have any intentions in that quarter?”

In the meantime Trüchen had set her cook to work, had laid the table for two more, and covered it with every possible delicacy, which converts a light supper into a substantial meal, and a meal into a regular feast. Fresh butter, salt beef, anchovies, tunny, a shopful of Planchet’s commodities, fowls, vegetables, salad, fish from the pond and the river, game from the forest--all the produce, in fact, of the province. Moreover, Planchet returned from the cellar, laden with ten bottles of wine, the glass of which could hardly be seen for the thick coating of dust which covered them. Porthos’ heart seemed to expand as he said, “I am hungry,” and he sat himself beside Mme. Trüchen, whom he looked at in the most killing manner. D’Artagnan seated himself on the other side of her, while Planchet, discreetly and full of delight, took his seat opposite.

“Do not trouble yourselves,” he said, “if Trüchen should leave the table now and then during supper; for she will have to look after your bedrooms.”

In fact, the housekeeper made her escape very frequently, and they could hear, on the first floor above them, the creaking of the wooden bedsteads and the rolling of the castors on the floor. While this was going on the three men, Porthos especially, ate and drank gloriously--it was wonderful to see them. The ten full bottles were ten empty ones by the time Trüchen returned with the cheese. D’Artagnan still preserved his dignity and self-possession, but Porthos had lost a portion of his; the mirth soon began to be somewhat uproarious. D’Artagnan recommended a new descent into the cellar, and, as Planchet did not walk with the steadiness of a well-trained foot-soldier, the captain of the musketeers proposed to accompany him. They set off, humming songs wild enough to frighten anybody who might be listening. Trüchen remained behind at table with Porthos. While the two wine-bibbers were looking behind the firewood for what they wanted, a sharp sonorous sound was heard like the impression of a pair of lips on a cheek.

“Porthos fancies himself at La Rochelle,” thought D’Artagnan, as they returned freighted with bottles. Planchet was singing so loudly that he was incapable of noticing anything. D’Artagnan, whom nothing ever escaped, remarked how much redder Trüchen’s left cheek was than her right.

Porthos was sitting on Trüchen’s left, and was curling with both his hands both sides of his mustache at once, and Trüchen was looking at him with a most bewitching smile. The sparkling wine of Anjou very soon produced a remarkable effect upon the three companions. D’Artagnan had hardly strength enough left to take the candlestick to light Planchet up his own staircase. Planchet was pulling Porthos along, who was following Trüchen, who was herself jovial enough. It was D’Artagnan who found out the rooms and the beds. Porthos threw himself into the one destined for him, after his friend had undressed him. D’Artagnan got into his own bed, saying to himself, “Mordioux! I had made up my mind never to touch that light-colored wine which brings my early camp days back again. Fy! fy! if my musketeers were only to see their captain in such a state.” And drawing the curtains of his bed, he added, “Fortunately enough, though, they will not see me.”

“The country is very amusing,” said Porthos, stretching out his legs, which passed through the wooden footboard, and made a tremendous noise, of which, however, no one in the house was capable of taking the slightest notice. By two o’clock in the morning every one was fast asleep.

Showing What Could Be Seen from Planchet’s House.

The next morning found the three heroes sleeping soundly. Trüchen had closed the outside blinds to keep the first rays of the sun from the heavy eyes of her guests, like a kind, good woman. It was still perfectly dark, then, beneath Porthos’ curtains and under Planchet’s canopy, when D’Artagnan, awakened by an indiscreet ray of light which made its way through the windows, jumped hastily out of bed, as if he wished to be the first at the assault. He took by assault Porthos’ room, which was next to his own. The worthy Porthos was sleeping with a noise like distant thunder; in the dim obscurity of the room his gigantic frame was prominently displayed, and his swollen fist hung down outside the bed upon the carpet. D’Artagnan awoke Porthos, who rubbed his eyes in a tolerably good humor. In the meantime, Planchet was dressing himself, and met at their bedroom doors his two guests, who were still somewhat unsteady from their previous evening’s entertainment. Although it was yet very early, the whole household was already up. The cook was mercilessly slaughtering poultry in the poultry-yard, and Celestin was gathering cherries in the garden. Porthos, brisk and lively as ever, held out his hand to Planchet, and D’Artagnan requested permission to embrace Mme. Trüchen. The latter, to show that she bore no ill-will, approached Porthos, upon whom she conferred the same favor. Porthos embraced Mme. Trüchen, heaving an enormous sigh. Planchet took both his friends by the hand.

“I am going to show you over the house,” he said; “when we arrived last evening it was as dark as an oven, and we were unable to see anything; but in broad daylight everything looks different, and you will be satisfied, I hope.”

“If we begin by the view you have,” said D’Artagnan, “that charms me beyond everything; I have always lived in royal mansions, you know, and royal personages have some very good ideas upon the selection of points of view.”

“I am a great stickler for a good view myself,” said Porthos. “At my Château de Pierrefonds, I have had four avenues laid out, at the end of each is a landscape of a different character altogether to the others.”

“You shall see my prospect,” said Planchet; and he led his two guests to a window.

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, “this is the Rue de Lyon.”

“Yes, I have two windows on this side, a paltry, insignificant view, for there is always that bustling and noisy inn, which is a very disagreeable neighbor. I had four windows here, but I have only kept two.”

“Let us go on,” said D’Artagnan.

They entered a corridor leading to the bedrooms, and Planchet pushed open the outside blinds.

“Halloo! what is that out yonder?” said Porthos.

“The forest,” said Planchet. “It is the horizon, a thick line of green, which is yellow in the spring, green in the summer, red in the autumn, and white in the winter.”

“All very well, but it is like a curtain, which prevents one seeing a greater distance.”

“Yes,” said Planchet, “still one can see, at all events, everything between.”

“Ah, the open country,” said Porthos. “But what is that I see out there--crosses and stones?”

“Ah! that is the cemetery,” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

“Precisely,” said Planchet, “I assure you it is very curious. Hardly a day passes that some one is not buried there; for Fontainebleau is by no means an inconsiderable place. Sometimes we see young girls clothed in white carrying banners; at others, some of the town council, or rich citizens, with choristers and all the parish authorities; and then, too, we see some of the officers of the king’s household.”

“I should not like that,” said Porthos.

“There is not much amusement in it, at all events,” said D’Artagnan.

“I assure you it encourages religious thoughts,” replied Planchet.

“Oh, I don’t deny that.”

“But,” continued Planchet, “we must all die one day or another, and I once met with a maxim somewhere which I have remembered, that the thought of death is a thought that will do us all good.”

“I am far from saying the contrary,” said Porthos.

“But,” objected D’Artagnan, “the thought of green fields, flowers, rivers, blue horizons, extensive and boundless plains, is no less likely to do us good.”

“If I had any, I should be far from rejecting them,” said Planchet; “but possessing only this little cemetery, full of flowers, so moss-grown, shady, and quiet, I am contented with it, and I think of those who live in town, in the Rue des Lombards, for instance, and who have to listen to the rumbling of a couple of thousand vehicles every day, and to the trampling of a hundred and fifty thousand foot passengers.”

“But living,” said Porthos; “living, remember that.”

“That is exactly the reason,” said Planchet timidly, “why I feel it does me good to see a few dead. “

“Upon my word,” said D’Artagnan, “that fellow Planchet was born to be a poet as well as a grocer.”

“Monsieur,” said Planchet, “I am one of those good-humored sort of men whom Heaven created for the purpose of living a certain space of time, and of considering all things good which they meet with during their stay on earth.”

D’Artagnan sat down close to the window, and as there seemed to be something substantial in Planchet’s philosophy, he mused over it.

“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Porthos, “if I am not mistaken, we are going to have a representation now, for I think I heard something like chanting.”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “I hear singing, too.”

“Oh, it is only a burial of a very poor description,” said Planchet disdainfully; “the officiating priest, the beadle, and one chorister boy, nothing more. You observe, messieurs, that the defunct lady or gentleman could not have been of very high rank.”

“No; no one seems to be following the coffin.”

“Yes,” said Porthos; “I see a man.”

“You are right; a man wrapped up in a cloak,” said D’Artagnan.

“It’s not worth looking at,” said Planchet.

“I find it interesting,” said D’Artagnan, leaning on the window.

“Come, come, you are beginning to take a fancy to the place already,” said Planchet delightedly; “it is exactly my own case. I was so melancholy at first that I could do nothing but make the sign of the cross all day, and the chants were like nails being driven into my head; but now, the chants lull me to sleep, and no bird I have ever seen or heard can sing better than those which are to be met with in this cemetery.”

“Well,” said Porthos, “this is beginning to get a little dull for me, and I prefer going downstairs.”

Planchet with one bound was beside his guest, to whom he offered his hand to lead him into the garden.

“What!” said Porthos to D’Artagnan, as he turned round, “are you going to remain here?”

“Yes; I shall join you presently.”

“Well, Monsieur d’Artagnan is right, after all,” said Planchet; “are they beginning to bury yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah! yes, the grave-digger is waiting until the cords are fastened round the bier. But, see, a woman has just entered the cemetery at the other end.”

“Yes, yes, my dear Planchet,” said D’Artagnan quickly, “leave me, leave me. I feel I am beginning already to be much comforted by my meditations, so do not interrupt me.”

Planchet left, and D’Artagnan remained, devouring with his eager gaze from behind the half-closed blinds what was taking place just before him. The two bearers of the corpse had unfastened the straps by which they had carried the litter, and were letting their burden glide gently into the open grave. At a few paces distant, the man with the cloak wrapped round him, the only spectator of this melancholy scene, was leaning with his back against a large cypress-tree, and kept his face and person entirely concealed from the grave-diggers and the priests; the corpse was buried in five minutes. The grave having been filled up, the priests turned away, and the grave-digger having addressed a few words to them, followed them as they moved away. The man in the mantle bowed as they passed him, and put a piece of money into the grave-digger’s hand.

Mordioux!” murmured D’Artagnan; “why, that man is Aramis himself.”

Aramis, in fact, remained alone, on that side at least; for hardly had he turned his head than a woman’s footsteps and the rustling of her dress were heard in the path close to him. He immediately turned round, and took off his hat with the most ceremonious respect; he led the lady under the shelter of some walnut and lime-trees which overshadowed a magnificent tomb.

“Ah! who would have thought it,” said D’Artagnan; “the Bishop of Vannes at a rendezvous! He is still the same Abbé Aramis as he was at Noisy le Sec. Yes,” he added, after a pause; “but as it is in a cemetery, the rendezvous is sacred.”

And he began to laugh.

The conversation lasted for fully half an hour. D’Artagnan could not see the lady’s face, for she kept her back toward him; but he saw perfectly well, by the erect attitude of both the speakers, by their gestures, by the measured and careful manner with which they glanced at each other, either by way of attack or defense, that they must be conversing about any other subject than that of love. At the end of the conversation the lady rose and bowed most profoundly to Aramis.

“Oh! oh!” said D’Artagnan; “this rendezvous finishes like one of a very tender nature, though. The cavalier kneels at the beginning, the young lady by and by gets tamed down, and then it is she who has to supplicate. Who is this girl? I would give anything to ascertain.”

This seemed impossible, however, for Aramis was the first to leave; the lady carefully concealed her head and face, and then immediately separated. D’Artagnan could hold out no longer; he ran to the window which looked out on the Rue de Lyon, and saw Aramis just entering the inn. The lady was proceeding in quite an opposite direction, and seemed, in fact, to be about to rejoin an equipage, consisting of two led horses and a carriage, which he could see standing close to the borders of the forest. She was walking slowly, her head bent down, absorbed in the deepest meditation.

Mordioux! mordioux! I must and will learn who that woman is,” said the musketeer again; and then, without further deliberation, he set off in pursuit of her. As he was passing along, he tried to think how he could possibly contrive to make her raise her veil. “She is not young,” he said, “and is a woman of high rank in society. I ought to know that figure and peculiar style of walk.” As he ran, the sound of his spurs and of his boots upon the hard ground of the street made a strange, jingling noise; a fortunate circumstance in itself, which he was far from reckoning upon. The noise disturbed the lady; she seemed to fancy she was being either followed or pursued, which was indeed the case, and turned round. D’Artagnan started as if he had received a charge of small shot in his legs, and then turning round as if he were going back the same way he had come, he murmured, “Madame de Chevreuse!” D’Artagnan would not go home until he had learned everything. He asked Celestin to inquire of the grave-digger whose body it was they had buried that morning.

“A poor Franciscan mendicant friar,” replied the latter, “who had not even a dog to love him in this world, and to accompany him to his last resting-place.”

“If that were really the case,” thought D’Artagnan, “we should not have found Aramis present at his funeral. The Bishop of Vannes is not precisely a dog as far as devotion goes; his scent, however, is quite as keen, I admit.”

How Porthos, Truchen and Planchet Parted with One Another on Friendly Terms, Thanks to D’Artagnan.

There was good living in Planchet’s house. Porthos broke a ladder and two cherry-trees, stripped the raspberry-bushes, and was only unable to succeed in reaching the strawberry-beds on account, as he said, of his belt. Trüchen, who had got quite sociable with the giant, said that it was not the belt so much as his corporation; and Porthos, in the state of the highest delight, embraced Trüchen, who gathered him a handful of strawberries, and made him eat them out of her hand. D’Artagnan, who arrived in the midst of these little innocent flirtations, scolded Porthos for his indolence, and silently pitied Planchet. Porthos breakfasted with a very good appetite, and when he had finished he said, looking at Trüchen, “I could make myself very happy here.” Trüchen smiled at his remark, and so did Planchet, but the latter not without some embarrassment.

D’Artagnan then addressed Porthos: “You must not let the delights of Capua make you forget the real object of our journey to Fontainebleau.”

“My presentation to the king?”

“Certainly. I am going to take a turn in the town to get everything ready for that. Do not think of leaving the house, I beg.”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Porthos.

Planchet looked at D’Artagnan nervously. “Will you be away long?” he inquired.

“No, my friend; and this very evening I will release you from two troublesome guests.”

“Oh! Monsieur d’Artagnan! can you say--”

“No, no; you are an excellent-hearted fellow, but your house is very small. Such a house, with only a couple of acres of land, would be fit for a king and make him very happy, too. But you were not born a great lord.”

“No more was Monsieur Porthos,” murmured Planchet.

“But he has become so, my good fellow; his income has been a hundred thousand francs a year for the last twenty years, and for the last fifty years has been the owner of a couple of fists and a backbone which are not to be matched throughout the whole realm of France. Porthos is a man of the very greatest consequence compared to you, and--well, I need say no more, for I know you are an intelligent fellow. “

“No, no, monsieur; explain what you mean.”

“Look at your orchard, how stripped it is, how empty your Larder, your bedstead broken, your cellar almost exhausted, look too--at Madame Trüchen--”

“Oh! my good gracious!” said Planchet.

“Madame Trüchen is an excellent person,” continued D’Artagnan, “but keep her for yourself, do you understand?” and he slapped him on the shoulder.

Planchet at this moment perceived Porthos and Trüchen sitting close together in an arbor; Trüchen, with a grace of manner peculiarly Flemish, was making a pair of earrings for Porthos out of a double cherry, while Porthos was laughing as amorously as Samson did with Delilah. Planchet pressed D’Artagnan’s hand, and ran toward the arbor. We must do Porthos the justice to say that he did not move as they approached, and, very likely, he did not think he was doing any harm. Nor indeed did Trüchen move either, which rather put Planchet out; but he, too, had been so accustomed to see fashionable people in his shop that he found no difficulty in putting a good countenance on what was disagreeable to him. Planchet seized Porthos by the arm, and proposed to go and look at the horses, but Porthos pretended that he was tired. Planchet then suggested that the Baron du Vallon should taste some noyeau of his own manufacture, which was not to be equaled anywhere; an offer which the baron immediately accepted; and, in this way, Planchet managed to engage his enemy’s attention during the whole of the day, by dint of sacrificing his cellar in preference to his amour propre. Two hours afterward D’Artagnan returned.

“Everything is arranged,” he said. “I saw his majesty at the very moment he was setting off for the chase; the king expects us this evening.”

“The king expects me!” cried Porthos, drawing himself up. It is a sad thing to have to confess, but a man’s heart is like a restless billow; for, from that very moment, Porthos ceased to look at Mme. Trüchen in that touching manner which had so softened her heart. Planchet encouraged these ambitious leanings in the best way he could. He talked over, or rather, gave exaggerated accounts of all the splendors of the last reign, its battles, sieges, and grand court ceremonies. He spoke of the luxurious display which the English made; the prizes which the three brave companions had won, and how D’Artagnan, who at the beginning had been the humblest of the three, had finished by becoming the head. He fired Porthos with a generous feeling of enthusiasm by reminding him of his early youth now passed away; he boasted as much as he could of the moral life this great lord had led, and how religiously he respected the ties of friendship; he was eloquent, and skillful in his choice of subjects. He delighted Porthos, frightened Trüchen, and made D’Artagnan think. At six o’clock the musketeer ordered the horses to be brought around, and told Porthos to get ready. He thanked Planchet for his kind hospitality, whispered a few words about a post he succeeded in obtaining for him at court, which immediately raised Planchet in Trüchen’s estimation, where the poor grocer--so good, so generous, so devoted--had become much lowered ever since the appearance and comparison with him of the two great gentlemen. Such, however, is a woman’s nature; they are anxious to possess what they have not got, and disdain it as soon as it is acquired. After having rendered this service to his friend Planchet, D’Artagnan said in a low tone of voice to Porthos: “That is a very beautiful ring you have on your finger.”

“It is worth three hundred pistoles,” said Porthos.

“Madame Trüchen will remember you better if you leave her that ring,” replied D’Artagnan, a suggestion which Porthos seemed to hesitate to adopt.

“You think it is not beautiful enough, perhaps,” said the musketeer. “I understand your feelings; a great lord as you are would not think of accepting the hospitality of an old servant without paying him most handsomely for it; but I am quite sure that Planchet is too good-hearted a fellow to remember that you have an income of a hundred thousand francs a year.”

“I have more than half a mind,” said Porthos, flattered by the remark, “to make Madame Trüchen a present of my little farm at Bracieux; it has twelve acres.”

“It is too much, my good Porthos, too much just at present. Keep it for a future occasion.” He then took the ring off Porthos’ finger, and approaching Trüchen, said to her: “Madame, Monsieur le Baron hardly knows how to entreat you, out of your regard for him, to accept this little ring. Monsieur du Vallon is one of the most generous and discreet men of my acquaintance. He wished to offer you a farm that he has at Bracieux, but I dissuaded him from it.”

“Oh!” said Trüchen, looking eagerly at the diamond.

“Monsieur le Baron!” exclaimed Planchet, quite overcome.

“My good friend,” stammered out Porthos, delighted at having been so well represented by D’Artagnan. These several exclamations uttered at the same moment, made quite a pathetic winding up of a day which might have finished in a very ridiculous manner. But D’Artagnan was there, and, on every occasion, wherever D’Artagnan had exercised any control, matters had ended only just in the way he wished and desired. There were general embracings; Trüchen, whom the baron’s munificence had restored to her proper position, very timidly, and blushing all the while, presented her forehead to the great lord with whom she had been on such very excellent terms the evening before. Planchet himself was overcome by a feeling of the deepest humility. Still, in the same generosity of disposition, Porthos would have emptied his pockets into the hands of the cook and of Celestin; but D’Artagnan stopped him.

“No,” he said, “it is now my turn.” And he gave one pistole to the woman and two to the man; and the benedictions which were showered down upon them would have rejoiced the heart of Harpagon himself, and have rendered even him prodigal of his money.

D’Artagnan made Planchet lead them to the château, and introduced Porthos into his own apartment, where he arrived safely without having been perceived by those he was afraid of meeting.

The Presentation of Porthos at Court.

At seven o’clock the same evening the king gave an audience to an ambassador from the United Provinces in the grand reception-room. The audience lasted a quarter of an hour. His majesty afterward received those who had been recently presented, together with a few ladies, who paid their respects the first. In one corner of the salon, concealed behind a column, Porthos and D’Artagnan were conversing together, waiting until their turn arrived.

“Have you heard the news?” inquired the musketeer of his friend.

“No.”

“Well, look then.” Porthos raised himself on tiptoe, and saw M. Fouquet, in full court dress, leading Aramis toward the king.

“Aramis,” said Porthos.

“Presented to the king by Monsieur Fouquet.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Porthos.

“For having fortified Belle-Isle,” continued D’Artagnan.

“And I?”

“You--oh! you, as I have already had the honor of telling you, are the good-natured, kind-hearted Porthos; and so they begged you to take care of St. Mandé a little.”

“Ah!” repeated Porthos.

“But, very happily, I was there,” said D’Artagnan, “and presently it will be my turn.”

At this moment Fouquet addressed the king. “Sire,” he said, “I have a favor to solicit of your majesty. Monsieur d’Herblay is not ambitious, but he knows he can be of some service to you. Your majesty needs a representative at Rome, who should be able to exercise a powerful influence there; may I request a cardinal’s hat for Monsieur d’Herblay?”

The king started. “I do not often solicit anything of your majesty,” said Fouquet.

“That is a reason, certainly,” replied the king, who always expressed any hesitation he might have in that manner, and to which remark there was nothing to say in reply.

Fouquet and Aramis looked at each other. The king resumed: “Monsieur d’Herblay can serve us equally well in France; an archbishopric, for instance.”

“Sire,” objected Fouquet, with a grace of manner peculiarly his own, “your majesty overwhelms Monsieur d’Herblay; the archbishopric may, in your majesty’s extreme kindness, be conferred in addition to the hat; the one does not exclude the other.”

The king admired the readiness which he displayed, and smiled, saying: “D’Artagnan himself could not have answered better.” He had no sooner pronounced the name than D’Artagnan appeared.

“Did your majesty call me?” he said.

Aramis and Fouquet drew back a step, as if they were about to retire.

“Will your majesty allow me,” said D’Artagnan quickly, as he led forward Porthos, “to present to your majesty Monsieur le Baron du Vallon, one of the bravest gentlemen of France?”

As soon as Aramis saw Porthos he turned as pale as death, while Fouquet clinched his hands under his ruffles. D’Artagnan smiled at both of them, while Porthos bowed, visibly overcome before the royal presence.

“Porthos here?” murmured Fouquet in Aramis’ ear

“Hush! there is some treachery at work,” said the latter.

“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “it is more than six years ago that I ought to have presented Monsieur du Vallon to your majesty; but certain men resemble stars, they move not unless their friends accompany them. The Pleiades are never disunited, and that is the reason I have selected, for the person of presenting him to you, the very moment when you see Monsieur d’Herblay by his side.”

Aramis almost lost countenance. He looked at D’Artagnan with a proud, haughty air, as though willing to accept the defiance which the latter seemed to throw down.

“Ah! these gentlemen are good friends, then?” said the king.

“Excellent friends, sire; the one can answer for the other. Ask Monsieur de Vannes how in what manner Belle-Isle was fortified?” Fouquet moved back a step.

“Belle-Isle,” said Aramis coldly, “has been fortified by that gentleman;” and he indicated Porthos with his hand, who bowed a second time. Louis could not withhold his admiration, though at the same time his suspicions were aroused.

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “but ask Monsieur le Baron whose assistance he had in carrying the works out?”

“Aramis’,” said Porthos frankly; and he pointed to the bishop.

“What the deuce does all this mean,” thought the bishop, “and what sort of a termination are we to expect to this comedy?”

“What!” exclaimed the king, “is the cardinal’s, I mean the bishop’s, name Aramis?”

“A nom de guerre,” said D’Artagnan.

“A name of friendship,” said Aramis.

“A truce to modesty,” exclaimed D’Artagnan; “beneath the priest’s robe, sire, is concealed the most brilliant officer, a gentleman of the most unparalleled intrepidity, and the wisest theologian in your kingdom.”

Louis raised his head. “And an engineer, also, it appears,” he said, admiring Aramis’ calm, imperturbable self-possession.

“An engineer for a particular purpose, sire,” said the latter.

“My companion in the musketeers, sire,” said D’Artagnan, with great warmth of manner, “the man who has more than a hundred times aided your father’s ministers by his advice--Monsieur d’Herblay, in a word, who, with Monsieur du Vallon, myself, and Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, who is known to your majesty, formed that quadrille which was a good deal talked about during the late king’s reign, and during your majesty’s minority.”

“And who has fortified Belle-Isle?” the king repeated, in a significant tone.

Aramis advanced, and said: “In order to serve the son as I have served the father.”

D’Artagnan looked at Aramis most narrowly while he uttered these words, which displayed so much true respect, so much warm devotion, such entire frankness and sincerity, that even he, D’Artagnan, the eternal doubter, he, the almost infallible in his judgment, was deceived by it. “A man who lies cannot speak in such a tone as that,” he said.

Louis was overcome by it. “In that case,” he said to Fouquet, who anxiously awaited the result of this proof, “the cardinal’s hat is promised. Monsieur d’Herblay, I pledge you my honor that the first promotion shall be yours. Thank Monsieur Fouquet for it.” Colbert overheard these words; they stung him to the quick, and he left the salon abruptly. “And, you, Monsieur du Vallon,” said the king, “what have you to ask? I am pleased to have it in my power to acknowledge the services of those who were faithful to my father.”

“Sire--” began Porthos, but he was unable to proceed with what he was going to say.

“Sire,” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “this worthy gentleman is overpowered by your majesty’s presence, he who has so valiantly sustained the looks and the fire of a thousand foes. But, knowing what his thoughts are, I--who am more accustomed to gaze upon the sun--can translate his thoughts; he needs nothing, his sole desire is to have the happiness of gazing upon your majesty for a quarter of an hour. “

“You shall sup with me this evening,” said the king, saluting Porthos with a gracious smile.

Porthos became crimson from delight and from pride. The king dismissed him, and D’Artagnan pushed him into the adjoining apartment, after he had embraced him warmly.

“Sit next to me at table,” said Porthos in his ear.

“Yes, my friend.”

“Aramis is annoyed with me, I think.”

“Aramis has never liked you so much as he does now. Fancy, it was I who was the means of his getting the cardinal’s hat.”

“Of course,” said Porthos. “By the bye, does the king like his guests to eat much at his table.”

“It is a compliment to himself if you do,” said D’Artagnan, “for he possesses a royal appetite.”

Explanations.

ARAMIS had cleverly managed to effect a diversion for the purpose of finding D’Artagnan and Porthos. He came up to the latter behind one of the columns, and as he pressed his hand, said, “So you have escaped from my prison?”

“Do not scold him,” said D’Artagnan; “it was I, dear Aramis, who set him free.”

“Ah! my friend,” replied Aramis, looking at Porthos, “could you not have waited with a little more patience?”

D’Artagnan came to the assistance of Porthos, who already began to breathe hard in perplexity.

“You see, you members of the Church are great politicians; we, mere soldiers, go at once to the point. The facts are these: I went to pay Baisemeaux a visit--”

Aramis pricked up his ears at this announcement.

“Stay!;’ said Porthos; “you make me remember that I have a letter from Baisemeaux for you, Aramis.” And Porthos held out to the bishop the letter we have already seen. Aramis begged to be allowed to read it, and read it without D’Artagnan feeling in the slightest degree embarrassed by the circumstance that he was so well acquainted with the contents of it. Besides, Aramis’ face was so impenetrable that D’Artagnan could not but admire him more than ever; after he had read it he put the letter into his pocket with the calmest possible air.

“You were saying, captain?” he observed.

“I was saying,” continued the musketeer, “that I had gone to pay Baisemeaux a visit on his majesty’s service.”

“On his majesty’s service?” said Aramis.

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “and, naturally enough, we talked about you and our friends. I must say that Baisemeaux received me coldly; so I soon took my leave of him. As I was returning, a soldier accosted me, and said (no doubt he recognized me, notwithstanding I was in private clothes) ‘Captain, will you be good enough to read the name written on this envelope?’ and I read, ‘To Monsieur du Vallon, at Monsieur Fouquet’s, St. Mandé.’ The deuce, said I to myself, Porthos has not returned, then, as I fancied, to Belle-Isle, or to Pierrefonds, but is at Monsieur Fouquet’s house, at St. Mandé; and as Monsieur Fouquet is not at St. Mandé, Porthos must be quite alone, or, at all events, with Aramis; I will go and see Porthos, and I accordingly went to see Porthos.”

“Very good,” said Aramis thoughtfully.

“You never told me that,” said Porthos.

“I did not have the time, my friend.”

“And you brought back Porthos with you to Fontainebleau?”

“Yes, to Planchet’s house.”

“Does Planchet live at Fontainebleau?” inquired Aramis.

“Yes, near the cemetery,” said Porthos, thoughtlessly.

“What do you mean by ‘near the cemetery’?” said Aramis suspiciously.

“Come,” thought the musketeer, “since there is to be a squabble, let us take advantage of it.”

“Yes, the cemetery,” said Porthos. “Planchet is a very excellent fellow, who makes very excellent preserves; but his house has windows which look out upon the cemetery. And a very melancholy prospect it is. So this morning--”

“This morning?” said Aramis, more and more excited.

D’Artagnan turned his back to them, and walked to the window, where he began to play a march upon one of the panes of glass.

“Yes, this morning, we saw a man buried there.”

“Ah! ah!”

“Very depressing, was it not? I should never be able to live in a house where burials can always be seen from it. D’Artagnan, on the contrary, seems to like it very much.”

“So D’Artagnan saw it as well?”

“Not simply saw it, he literally never took his eyes off the whole time.”

Aramis started, and turned to look at the musketeer, but the latter was engaged in earnest conversation with St. Aignan. Aramis continued to question Porthos, and when he had squeezed all the juice out of this enormous lemon, he threw the peel aside. He turned toward his friend D’Artagnan, and clapping him on the shoulder, when St. Aignan had left him, the king’s supper having been announced, said, “D’Artagnan.”

“Yes, my dear fellow,” he replied.

“We do not sup with his majesty, I believe?”

“Yes, indeed, I do.”

“Can you give me ten minutes’ conversation?”

“Twenty, if you like. His majesty will take quite that time to get properly seated at table.”

“Where shall we talk, then?”

“Here, upon these seats, if you like; the king has left, we can sit down, and the apartment is empty.”

“Let us sit down, then.”

They sat down, and Aramis took one of D’Artagnan’s hands in his.

“Tell me candidly, my dear friend, whether you have not counseled Porthos to distrust me a little?”

“I admit I have, but not as you understand it. I saw that Porthos was bored to death, and I wished, by presenting him to the king, to do for him, and for you, what you would never do for yourselves.”

“What is that?”

“Speak in your own praise.”

“And you have done it most nobly, I thank you.”

“And I brought the cardinal’s hat a little nearer, just as it seemed to be retreating from you.”

“Ah! I admit that,” said Aramis, with a singular smile, “you are, indeed, not to be matched for making your friends’ fortunes for them.”

“You see, then, that I only acted with the view of making Porthos’ fortune for him.”

“I meant to have done that myself; but your arm reaches further than ours.”

It was now D’Artagnan’s turn to smile.

“Come,” said Aramis, “we ought to deal truthfully with each other; do you still love me, D’Artagnan?”

“The same as I used to,” replied D’Artagnan, without compromising himself too much by this reply.

“In that case, thanks; and now, for the most perfect frankness,” said Aramis; “you came to Belle-Isle for the king. “

Pardieu!”

“You wished to deprive us of the pleasure of offering Belle-Isle completely fortified to the king?”

“But before I could deprive you of that pleasure, I ought to have been made acquainted with your intention of doing so.”

“You came to Belle-Isle without knowing anything?”

“Of you? yes. How the devil could I imagine that Aramis had become so clever an engineer as to be able to fortify like Polybius or Archimedes?”

“True. And yet you divined me yonder?”

“Oh! yes.”

“And Porthos, too?”

“I did not divine that Aramis was an engineer. I was only able to divine that Porthos might have become one. There is a saying, one becomes an orator, one is born a poet; but it has never been said, one is born Porthos, and one becomes an engineer.”

“Your wit is always amusing,” said Aramis coldly. “Well, then, I will go on.”

“Do so.”

“When you found out our secret, you made all the haste you could to communicate it to the king.”

“I certainly made as much haste as I could, since I saw that you were making still more. When a man weighing two hundred and fifty-eight pounds, as Porthos does, rides post; when a gouty prelate--I beg your pardon, but you told me you were so--when a prelate scours along the road; I naturally suppose that my two friends, who did not wish to be communicative with me, had certain matters of the highest importance to conceal from me, and so I made as much haste as my leanness and the absence of gout would allow. “

“Did it not occur to you, my dear friend, that you might be rendering Porthos and myself a very sad service?”

“Yes, I thought it not unlikely; but you and Porthos made me play a very ridiculous part at Belle-Isle.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Aramis.

“Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan.

“So that,” pursued Aramis, “you know now everything?”

“No, indeed.”

“You know I was obliged to inform Monsieur Fouquet of what had happened, in order that he might anticipate what you might have to tell the king?”

“That is rather obscure.”

“Not at all; Monsieur Fouquet has his enemies--you will admit that, I suppose?”

“Certainly.”

“And one in particular.”

“A dangerous one?”

“A mortal enemy. Well, in order to counteract that man’s influence, it was necessary that Monsieur Fouquet should give the king a proof of a great devotion to him, and of his readiness to make the greatest sacrifices. He surprised his majesty by offering him Belle-Isle. If you had been the first to reach Paris, the surprise would have been destroyed, it would have looked as if we had yielded to fear.”

“I understand.”

“That is the whole mystery,” said Aramis, satisfied that he had quite convinced the musketeer.

“Only,” said the latter, “it would have been more simple to have taken me aside, and said to me, ‘My dear D’Artagnan, we are fortifying Belle-Isle, and intend to offer it to the king. Tell us frankly for whom you are acting. Are you a friend of Monsieur Colbert, or of Monsieur Fouquet?’ Perhaps I should not have answered you, but you would have added. ‘Are you my friend?’ I should have said ‘Yes.’”

Aramis hung down his head.

“In this way,” continued D’Artagnan, “you would have paralyzed my movements, and I should have gone to the king and said, ‘Sire, Monsieur Fouquet is fortifying Belle-Isle, and exceedingly well, too; but here is a note, which the governor of Belle-Isle gave me for your majesty;’ or, ‘Monsieur Fouquet is about to wait upon your majesty to explain his intentions with regard to it.’ I should not have been placed in an absurd position; you would have enjoyed the surprise you wished for, and we should not have had any occasion to look askance at each other when we met.”

“While, on the contrary,” replied Aramis, “you have acted altogether as one friendly to Monsieur Colbert. And you really are a friend of his, I suppose?”

“Certainly not, indeed!” exclaimed the captain. “Monsieur Colbert is a mean fellow, and I hate him as I used to hate Mazarin, but without fearing him.”

“Well, then,” said Aramis, “I love Monsieur Fouquet, and his interests are mine. You know my position. I have no property or means whatever. Monsieur Fouquet gave me several livings, a bishopric as well; Monsieur Fouquet has served and obliged me like the generous-hearted man he is, and I know the world sufficiently well to appreciate a kindness when I meet with it. Monsieur Fouquet has won my regard, and I have devoted myself to his service.”

“You couldn’t do better. You will find him a very good master.”

Aramis bit his lips, and then said, “The best a man could possibly have.” He then paused for a minute, D’Artagnan taking good care not to interrupt him.

“I suppose you know how Porthos got mixed up in all this?”

“No,” said D’Artagnan; “I am curious, of course, but I never question a friend when he wishes to keep his real secret from me.”

“Well, then, I will tell you.”

“It is hardly worth the trouble, if the confidence is to bind me in any way.”

“Oh! do not be afraid; there is no man whom I love better than Porthos, because he is so simple-minded and good. Porthos is so straightforward in everything. Since I have become a bishop, I have looked for those simple natures, which make me love truth and hate intrigue.”

D’Artagnan simply stroked his mustache, but said nothing. “I saw Porthos and again cultivated his acquaintance; his own time hanging idly on his hands, his presence recalled my earlier and better days without engaging me in any present evil. I sent for Porthos to come to Vannes. Monsieur Fouquet, whose regard for me is very great, having learned that Porthos and I were attached to each other by old ties of friendship, promised him increase of rank at the earliest promotion, and that is the whole secret.”

“I shall not abuse your confidence,” said D’Artagnan.

“I am sure of that, my dear friend; no one has a finer sense of honor than yourself.”

“I flatter myself you are right, Aramis.”

“And now”--and here the prelate looked searchingly and scrutinizingly at his friend--”now let us talk of ourselves and for ourselves; will you become one of Monsieur Fouquet’s friends? Do not interrupt me until you know what that means.”

“Well, I am listening.”

“Will you become a maréchal of France, peer, duke, and the possessor of a duchy, with a million of francs?”

“But, my friend,” replied D’Artagnan, “what must one do to get all that?”

“Belong to Monsieur Fouquet.”

“But I already belong to the king.”

“Not exclusively, I suppose?”

“Oh! D’Artagnan cannot be divided.”

“You have, I presume, ambitions, as noble hearts like yours have?”

“Yes, certainly I have.”

“Well?”

“Well! I wish to be a maréchal; the king will make me maréchal, duke, peer; the king will make me all that.”

Aramis fixed a searching look upon D’Artagnan.

“Is not the king master?” said D’Artagnan.

“No one disputes it; but Louis XIII. was master also.”

“Oh! my dear friend, between Richelieu and Louis XIII. there was no D’Artagnan,” said the musketeer very quietly.

“There are many stumbling-blocks round the king,” said Aramis.

“Not for the king.”

“Very likely not; still--”

“One moment, Aramis; I observe that every one thinks of himself, and never of his poor young prince; I will maintain myself in maintaining him.”

“And if you meet with ingratitude?”

“The weak alone are afraid of that.”

“You are quite certain of yourself?”

“I think so.”

“Still the king may have no further need of you.”

“On the contrary, I think his need of me will be greater than ever; and hearken, my dear fellow, if it became necessary to arrest a new Condé, who would do it? This--this alone in all France!” and D’Artagnan struck his sword.

“You are right,” said Aramis, turning very pale; and then he rose and pressed D’Artagnan’s hand.

“That is the last summons for supper,” said the captain of the musketeers; “will you excuse me?”

Aramis threw his arm round the musketeer’s neck, and said, “A friend like you is the brightest jewel in the royal crown.” And they immediately separated.

“I was right,” thought D’Artagnan; “there is something on foot.”

“We must make haste with the explosion,” said Aramis, “for D’Artagnan has discovered the plot.”

Madame and de Guiche.

It will not be forgotten that the Comte de Guiche had left the queen-mother’s apartment on the day when Louis XIV. presented La Valliere with the beautiful bracelets he had won at the lottery. The comte walked to and fro for some time outside the palace, in the greatest distress, from a thousand suspicions and anxieties with which his mind was beset. Presently he stopped and waited on the terrace opposite the grove of trees, watching for madame’s departure. More than half an hour passed away; and as he was at that moment quite alone, the comte could hardly have had any very diverting ideas at his command. He drew his tablets from his pocket, and, after hesitating over and over again, determined to write these words: “Madame, I implore you to grant me one moment’s conversation. Do not be alarmed at this request, which contains nothing in any way opposed to the profound respect with which I subscribe myself, etc., etc.” He then signed and folded this singular supplication, when he suddenly observed several ladies leaving the château, and afterward several men also; in fact almost every person who had formed the queen’s circle. He saw La Valliere herself, then Montalais talking with Malicorne; he saw the departure of the very last of the numerous guests who had a short time before thronged the queen-mother’s cabinet.

Madame herself had not passed; she would be obliged, however, to cross the courtyard in order to enter her own apartments; and, from the terrace where he was standing, De Guiche could see all that was passing in the courtyard. At last he saw madame leave, attended by a couple of pages, who were carrying torches before her. She was walking very quickly; as soon as she reached the door she said:

“Let some one go and see after De Guiche, he has to render me an account of a mission he has to discharge for me; if he should be disengaged, request him to be good enough to come to my apartment.”

De Guiche remained silent and concealed in the shade; but, as soon as madame had withdrawn, he darted from the terrace down the steps, and assumed a most indifferent air, so that the pages who were hurrying toward his rooms might meet him.

“Ah! it is madame, then, who is seeking me!” he said to himself, quite overcome; and he crushed in his hand the letter which had now become useless.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said one of the pages, approaching him, “we are indeed most fortunate in meeting you.”

“Why so, messieurs?”

“A command from madame.”

“From madame!” said De Guiche, looking surprised.

“Yes, Monsieur le Comte, her royal highness has been asking for you; she expects to hear, she told us, the result of a commission you had to execute for her. Are you at liberty?”

“I am quite at her royal highness’ orders.”

“Will you have the goodness to follow us, then?”

When De Guiche ascended to the princess’ apartments, he found her pale and agitated. Montalais was standing at the door, apparently in some degree uneasy about what was passing in her mistress’ mind. De Guiche appeared.

“Ah! is that you, Monsieur de Guiche?” said madame; “come in, I beg. Mademoiselle de Montalais, I do not require your attendance any longer.”

Montalais, more puzzled than ever, courtesied and withdrew, and De Guiche and the princess were left alone. The comte had every advantage in his favor; it was madame who had summoned him to a rendezvous. But how was it possible for the comte to make use of this advantage? Madame was so whimsical, and her disposition was so changeable. She soon allowed this to be perceived, for, suddenly opening the conversation, she said: “Well! have you nothing to say to me?”

He imagined she must have guessed his thoughts; he fancied (for those who are in love are so constituted, they are as credulous and blind as poets or prophets), he fancied she knew how ardent was his desire to see her, and also the subject of it.

“Yes, madame,” he said, “and I think it very singular.”

“The affair of the bracelets,” she exclaimed eagerly, “you mean that, I suppose?”

“Yes, madame.”

“And you think the king is in love; do you not?”

De Guiche looked at her for some time; her eyes sank under his gaze, which seemed to read her very heart.

“I think,” he said, “that the king may possibly have had the idea of annoying some one here; were it not for that, the king would not show himself so earnest in his attentions as he is; he would not run the risk of compromising, from mere thoughtlessness of disposition, a young girl against whom no one has been hitherto able to say a word.”

“Indeed! the bold, shameless girl,” said the princess haughtily.

“I can positively assure your royal highness,” said De Guiche, with a firmness marked by great respect, “that Mademoiselle de la Valliere is beloved by a man who merits every respect, for he is a brave and honorable gentleman.”

“Bragelonne, perhaps?”

“My friend; yes, madame.”

“Well, and although he is your friend, what does that matter to the king?’’

“The king knows that Bragelonne is affianced to Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and as Raoul has served the king most valiantly, the king will not inflict an irreparable injury upon him.”

Madame began to laugh in a manner that produced a mournful impression upon De Guiche.

“I repeat, madame, I do not believe the king is in love with Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and the proof that I do not believe it is, that I was about to ask you whose amour propre it is likely the king is, in this circumstance, desirous of wounding? You, who are well acquainted with the whole court, can perhaps assist me in ascertaining that; and assuredly, with greater reason too, since it is everywhere said that your royal highness is on very intimate terms with the king.”

Madame bit her lips, and, unable to assign any good and sufficient reasons, changed the conversation. “Prove to me,” she said, fixing on him one of those looks in which the whole soul seems to pass into the eyes; “prove to me, I say, that you intended to interrogate me at the very moment I sent for you.”

De Guiche gravely drew from his tablets what he had written, and showed it to her.

“Sympathy,” she said.

“Yes,” said the comte, with an indescribable tenderness of tone, “sympathy. I have explained to you how and why I sought you; you, however, have yet to tell me, madame, why you sent for me.”

“True,” replied the princess. She hesitated, and then suddenly exclaimed, “Those bracelets will drive me mad.”

“You expected the king would offer them to you,” replied De Guiche.

“Why not?”

“But before you, madame, before you, his sister-in-law, was there not the queen herself to whom the king should have offered them?”

“Before La Valliere,” cried the princess, wounded to the quick, “could he not have presented them to me? Was there not the whole court, indeed, to choose from?”

“I assure you, madame,” said the comte respectfully, “that if any one heard you speak in this manner, if any one were to see how red your eyes are, and, Heaven forgive me, to see, too, that tear trembling on your eyelids, it would be said that your royal highness was jealous.”

“Jealous!” said the princess haughtily, “jealous of La Valliere!”

She expected to see De Guiche yield beneath her haughty gesture and her proud tone; but he simply and boldly replied, “Jealous of La Valliere; yes, madame.”

“Am I to suppose, monsieur,” she stammered out, “that your object is to insult me?”

“It is not possible, madame,” replied the comte, slightly agitated, but resolved to master that fiery nature.

“Leave the room,” said the princess, thoroughly exasperated; De Guiche’s coolness and silent respect having made her completely lose her temper.

De Guiche fell back a step, bowed slowly but with great respect, drew himself up, looking as white as his lace cuffs, and, in a voice slightly trembling, said, “It was hardly worth while to have hurried here to be subjected to this unmerited disgrace.” And he turned away with hasty steps.

He had scarcely gone half a dozen paces when madame darted, like a tigress, after him, seized him by the cuff, and, making him turn round again, said, trembling with passion as she did so, “The respect that you pretend to have is more insulting than insult itself. Insult me, if you please, but at least speak.”

“And do you, madame,” said the comte gently, as he drew his sword, “thrust this sword into my heart rather than kill me by slow degrees.”

At the look he fixed upon her--a look full of love, resolution, and despair even, she knew how readily the comte, so outwardly calm in appearance, would pass his sword through his own breast if she added another word. She tore the blade from his hands, and, pressing his arm with a feverish impatience, which might pass for tenderness, said, “Do not be too hard with me, comte. You see how I am suffering, and you have no pity for me.”

Tears, which were the last crisis of the attack, stifled her voice. As soon as De Guiche saw her weep he took her in his arms and carried her to an armchair; in another moment she would have been suffocated from suppressed passion.

“Oh, why,” he murmured, as he knelt by her side, “why do you conceal your troubles from me? Do you love any one--tell me? It would kill me, I know, but not until I should have comforted, consoled, and served you even.”

“And do you love me to that extent?” she replied, completely conquered.

“I do indeed love you to that extent, madame.”

She placed both her hands in his. “My heart is indeed another’s,” she murmured, in so low a tone that her voice could hardly be heard; but he heard it, and said:

“Is it the king you love?”

She gently shook her head, and her smile was like a clear bright streak in the clouds, through which, after the tempest had passed away, one almost fancies paradise is opening. “But,” she added, “there are other passions stirring in a high-born heart. Love is poetry; but the life of the heart is pride. Comte, I was born upon a throne; I am proud and jealous of my rank. Why does the king gather such unworthy objects round him?”

“Once more I repeat,” said the comte, “you are acting unjustly toward that poor girl, who will one day be my friend’s wife.”

“Are you simple enough to believe that, comte?”

“If I did not believe it,” he said, turning very pale, “Bragelonne should be informed of it to-morrow; indeed he should, if I thought that poor La Valliere had forgotten the vows she had exchanged with Raoul. But no; it would be cowardly to betray any woman’s secret; it would be criminal to disturb a friend’s peace of mind.”

“You think, then,” said the princess, with a wild burst of laughter, “that ignorance is happiness?”

“I believe it,” he replied.

“Prove it to me, then,” she said hurriedly.

“It is easily done, madame. It is reported through the whole court that the king loves you, and that you return his affection.”

“Well?” she said, breathing with difficulty.

“Well; admit for a moment that Raoul, my friend, had come and said to me, ‘Yes, the king loves madame, and has made an impression upon her heart,’ I should possibly have slain Raoul.”

“It would have been necessary,” said the princess, with the obstinacy of a woman who feels herself not easily overcome, “for Monsieur de Bragelonne to have had proofs before he could venture to speak to you in that manner.”

“Such, however, is the case,” replied De Guiche, with a deep sigh, “that not having been warned, I have never examined the matter seriously; and I now find that my ignorance has saved my life.”

“So, then, you would drive your selfishness and coldness to that extent,” said madame, “that you would let this unhappy young man continue to love La Valliere?”

“I would, until La Valliere’s guilt were revealed.”

“But the bracelets?”

“Well, madame, since you yourself expected to receive them from the king, what could I possibly have said?”

The argument was a telling one, and the princess was overwhelmed by it, and from that moment her defeat was assured. But as her heart and her mind were instinct with noble and generous feelings, she understood De Guiche’s extreme delicacy. She saw that in his heart he really suspected that the king was in love with La Valliere, and that he did not wish to resort to the common expedient of ruining a rival in the mind of a woman, by giving the latter the assurance and certainty that this rival’s affections were transferred to another woman. She guessed that his suspicions of La Valliere were aroused, and that, in order to leave himself time for his conviction to undergo a change, so as not to ruin her utterly, he was determined to pursue a certain straightforward line of conduct. She could read so much real greatness of character, and such true generosity of disposition in her lover, that her heart seemed to warm with affection toward him, whose passion for her was so pure and delicate in its nature. Despite his fear of incurring her displeasure, De Guiche, by retaining his position as a man of proud independence of feeling and of deep devotion, became almost a hero in her estimation, and reduced her to the state of a jealous and little-minded woman. She loved him for it so tenderly that she could not refuse to give him a proof of her affection.

“See how many words we have wasted,” she said, taking his hand, “suspicions, anxieties, mistrust, sufferings--I think we have mentioned all those words.”

“Alas! madame, yes.”

“Efface them from your heart as I drive them from mine. Whether La Valliere does or does not love the king, and whether the king does or does not love La Valliere--from this moment you and I will draw a distinction in the two characters I have to perform. You open your eyes so wide that I am sure you do not understand me.”

“You are so impetuous, madame, that I always tremble at the fear of displeasing you.”

“And see how he trembles now, poor fellow,” she said, with the most charming playfulness of manner. “Yes, monsieur, I have two characters to perform. I am the sister of the king, the sister-in-law of the king’s wife. In this character ought I not to take an interest in these domestic intrigues? Come, tell me what you think?”

“As little as possible, madame.”

“Agreed, monsieur; but it is a question of dignity, and then, you know, I am the wife of the king’s brother.” De Guiche sighed. “A circumstance,” she added, with an expression of great tenderness, “which will remind you that I am always to be treated with the profoundest respect. “

De Guiche fell at her feet, which he kissed, with the religious fervor of a worshiper. “And I begin to think that, really and truly, I have another character to perform. I was almost forgetting it.”

“Name it, oh! name it,” said De Guiche.

“I am a woman,” she said, in a voice lower than ever, “and I love another.” He rose; she opened her arms, and their lips were pressed together. A footstep was heard behind the tapestry, and Mlle. de Montalais appeared.

“What do you want?” said madame.

“Monsieur de Guiche is wanted,” said Montalais, who was just in time to see the agitation of the actors of these four characters; for De Guiche had constantly carried out his part with the greatest heroism.

Montalais and Malicorne.

Montalais was right. M. de Guiche, summoned in every direction, was very much exposed, even from the multiplication of matters, to the risk of not answering in any one direction. It so happened that, considering the awkwardness of the interruption, madame, notwithstanding her wounded pride, and her secret anger, could not, for the moment at least, reproach Montalais for having violated, in so bold a manner, the semi-royal order with which she had been dismissed on De Guiche’s entrance. De Guiche, also, lost his presence of mind, or it would be better to say that he had already lost it, before Montalais’ arrival, for, scarcely had he heard the young girl’s voice than, without taking leave of madame, as the most ordinary politeness required, even between persons equal in rank and station, he fled from her presence, his heart tumultuously throbbing, and his brain on fire, leaving the princess with one hand raised, as though about to bid him adieu. Montalais was at no loss, therefore, to perceive the agitation of the two lovers--the one who fled was agitated, and the one who remained was equally so.

“So, so,” murmured the young girl, as she glanced inquisitively round her, “this time, at least, I think I know as much as the most curious woman could possibly wish to know.” Madame felt so embarrassed by this inquisitorial look that, as if she heard Montalais’ muttered side remark, she did not speak a word to her maid of honor, but, casting down her eyes, retired at once to her bedroom. Montalais, observing this, stood listening for a moment, and then heard madame lock and bolt her door. By this she knew that the rest of the evening was at her own disposal; and making, behind the door which had just been closed, a gesture which indicated but little real respect for the princess, she went down the staircase in search of Malicorne, who was very busily engaged at that moment in watching a courier, who, covered with dust, had just left the Comte de Guiche’s apartments. Montalais knew that Malicorne was engaged in a matter of some importance; she therefore allowed him to look and stretch out his neck as much as he pleased; and it was only when Malicorne had resumed his natural position that she touched him on the shoulder.

“Well,” said Montalais, “what is the latest intelligence you have?”

“Monsieur de Guiche is in love with madame.”

“Fine news, truly! I know something more recent than that. “

“Well, what do you know?”

“That madame is in love with Monsieur de Guiche.”

“The one is the consequence of the other.”

“Not always, my good monsieur.”

“Is that remark intended for me7”

“Present company are always excepted.”

“Thank you,” said Malicorne. “Well, and in the other direction, what is there fresh?”

“The king wished, this evening, after the lottery to see Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Well, and he has seen her?”

“No, indeed.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The door was shut and locked.”

“So that--”

“So that the king was obliged to go back again, looking very sheepish, like a thief who has forgotten his implements. “

“Good. “

“And in the third direction?” inquired Montalais.

“The courier who has just arrived for De Guiche came from Monsieur de Bragelonne.”

“Excellent,” said Montalais, clapping her hands together.

“Why so?”

“Because we have work to do. If we get weary now something unfortunate will be sure to happen.”

“We must divide the work, then,” said Malicorne, “in order to avoid confusion.”

“Nothing easier,” replied Montalais. “Three intrigues, carefully nursed, and carefully encouraged, will produce, one with another, and, taking a low average, three love letters a day.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Malicorne, shrugging his shoulders, “you cannot mean what you say, darling; three letters a day, that may do for sentimental common people! A musketeer on duty, a young girl in a convent, may exchange letters with their lovers once a day, perhaps, from the top of a ladder, or through a hole in the wall. A letter contains all the poetry their poor little hearts have to boast of. But the cases we have in hand require to be dealt with very differently. “

“Well, finish,” said Montalais, out of patience with him. “Some one may come.”

“Finish! Why, I am only at the beginning. I have still three points as yet untouched.”

“Upon my word, he will be the death of me, with his Flemish indifference,” exclaimed Montalais.

“And you will drive me mad with your Italian vivacity. I was going to say that our lovers here will be writing volumes to each other. But what are you driving at?”

“At this: Not one of our lady correspondents will be able to keep the letters they may receive.”

“Very likely not.”

“Monsieur de Guiche will not be able to keep his either.”

“That is probable.”

“Very well, then; I will take care of all that.”

“That is the very thing which is impossible,” said Malicorne.

“Why so?”

“Because you are not your own mistress; your room is as much La Valliere’s as yours; and there are certain persons who will think nothing of visiting and searching a maid of honor’s room; so that I am terribly afraid of the queen, who is as jealous as a Spaniard; of the queen-mother, who is as jealous as a couple of Spaniards; and, last of all, of madame herself, who has jealousy enough for ten Spaniards.”

“You forget some one else.”

“Who?”

“Monsieur.”

“I was only speaking of the women. Let us add them up, then: we will call Monsieur, No. 1.”

“De Guiche?”

“No. 2.”

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne?”

“No. 3.”

“And the king, the king?”

“No. 4. Of course the king, who not only will be more jealous, but still more powerful than all the rest put together? Ah, my dear!”

“Into what a wasp’s nest you have thrust yourself!”

“And as yet not quite far enough, if you will follow me into it.”

“Most certainly I will follow you where you like.”

“Well, yet--”

“While we have time enough left, I think it will be more prudent to turn back.”

“But I, on the contrary, think the most prudent course to take is to put ourselves at once at the head of all these intrigues.”

“You will never be able to do it.”

“With you, I would carry on ten of them. I am in my element, you must know. I was born to live at the court, as the salamander is made to live in the fire.”

“Your comparison does not reassure me in the slightest degree in the world, my dear Montalais. I have heard it said, and by very learned men, too, that, in the first place, there are no salamanders at all, and that if there had been any, they would have been perfectly baked or roasted on leaving the fire.”

“Your learned men may be very wise as far as salamanders are concerned, but your learned men would never tell you what I can tell you, namely, that Aure de Montalais is destined, before a month is over, to become the first diplomatic genius in the court of France.”

“Be it so, but on condition that I shall be the second.”

“Agreed; an offensive and defensive alliance, of course.”

“Only be very careful of any letters.”

“I will hand them to you as I receive them.”

“What shall we tell the king about madame?”

“That madame is still in love with his majesty.”

“What shall we tell madame about the king?”

“That she would be exceedingly wrong not to humor him. “

“What shall we tell La Valliere about madame?”

“Whatever we choose, for La Valliere is in our power.”

“How so?”

“In two ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the first place, through the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

“Explain yourself.”

“You do not forget, I hope, that Monsieur de Bragelonne has written many letters to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”

“I forget nothing.”

“Well, then, it was I who received, and I who kept those letters.”

“And, consequently, it is you who have them still?”

“Yes.”

“Where? here?”

“Oh, no; I have them safe at Blois, in the little room you know well enough.”

“That dear little room, that darling little room, the antechamber of the palace I intend you to live in one of these days. But, I beg your pardon, you said that all those letters are in that little room?”

“Yes.”

“Did you not put them in a box?”

“Of course; in the same box where I put all the letters I received from you, and where I put mine also when your business or your amusements prevented you from coming to our rendezvous.”

“Ah! very good,” said Malicorne.

“Why are you so satisfied?”

“Because I see there is a possibility of not having to run to Blois after the letters, for I have them here.”

“You have brought the box away?”

“It was very dear to me, because it belonged to you.”

“Be sure and take care of it, for it contains original documents which will be of very great value by and by.”

“I am perfectly well aware of that indeed, and that is the very reason why I laugh as I do, and with all my heart, too.”

“And now, one last word.”

“Why the last?”

“Do we need any one to assist us?”

“No one at all.”

“Valets or maid-servants?”

“Bad--detestable. You will give the letters--you will receive them. Oh! we must have no pride in this affair, otherwise Monsieur Malicorne and Mademoiselle Aure, not transacting their own affairs themselves, will have to make up their minds to see them done by others.”

“You are quite right. But what is going on yonder in Monsieur de Guiche’s room?”

“Nothing; he is only opening his window.”

“Let us be gone.” And they both immediately disappeared, all the terms of the compact having been agreed upon.

The window which had just been opened was, in fact, that of the Comte de Guiche. It was not alone with the hope of catching a glimpse of madame through her curtains that he seated himself by the open window, for his preoccupation of mind had at that time a different origin. He had just received, as we have already stated, the courier who had been dispatched to him by Bragelonne, the latter having written to De Guiche a letter which had made the deepest impression upon him, and which he had read over and over again.

“Strange, strange!” he murmured. “How powerful are the means by which destiny hurries men on toward their fate!” Leaving the window in order to approach nearer to the light, he again read over the letter he had just received:

“CALAIS.
“MY DEAR COUNT: I found Monsieur de Wardes at Calais; he has been seriously wounded in an affair with the Duke of Buckingham. De Wardes is, as you know, unquestionably brave, but full of malevolent and wicked feelings. He conversed with me about yourself, for whom, he says, he has a warm regard, also about madame, whom he considers a beautiful and amiable woman. He has guessed your affection for a certain person. He also talked to me about the person for whom I have so ardent a regard, and showed the greatest interest on my behalf in expressing a deep pity for me, accompanied, however, by dark hints which alarmed me at first, but which I at last looked upon as the result of his usual love of mystery. These are the facts: he had received news of the court; you will understand, however, that it was only through Monsieur de Lorraine. The report is, so says the news, that a change has taken place in the king’s affections. You know whom that concerns. Afterward, the news continues, people are talking about one of the maids of honor, respecting whom various slanderous reports are being circulated. These vague phrases have not allowed me to sleep. I have been deploring, ever since yesterday, that my diffidence and vacillation of purpose should, notwithstanding a certain obstinacy of character I may possess, have left me unable to reply to these insinuations. In a word, therefore, Monsieur de Wardes was setting off for Paris, and I did not delay his departure with explanations; for it seemed rather hard, I confess, to cross-examine a man whose wounds are hardly yet closed. In short, he traveled by short stages, as he was anxious to leave, he said, in order to be present at a curious spectacle which the court cannot fail to offer within a very short time. He added a few congratulatory words, accompanied by certain sympathizing expressions. I could not understand the one any more than the other. I was bewildered by my own thoughts, and then tormented by a mistrust of this man--a mistrust which, you know better than any one else, I have never been able to overcome. As soon as he left my perception seemed to become clearer. It is hardly possible that a man of De Wardes’ character should not have communicated something of his own malicious nature to the statements he made to me. It is not unlikely, therefore, that in the mysterious hints which De Wardes threw out in my presence, there may not be a mysterious signification, which I might have some difficulty in applying either to myself or to some one with whom you are acquainted. Being compelled to leave as soon as possible, in obedience to the king’s commands, the idea did not occur to me of running after De Wardes in order to ask him to explain his reserve, but I have dispatched a courier to you with this letter, which will explain in detail all my various doubts. I regard you as myself; it is you who have thought, and it will be for you to act. Monsieur de Wardes will arrive very shortly; endeavor to learn what he meant, if you do not already know it. Monsieur de Wardes, moreover, pretended that the Duke of Buckingham left Paris on the very best of terms with madame. This was an affair which would have unhesitatingly made me draw my sword, had I not felt that I was under the necessity of dispatching the king’s mission before undertaking any quarrel. Burn this letter, which Olivian will hand you. Whatever Olivian says you may confidently rely upon. Will you have the goodness, my dear comte, to recall me to the remembrance of Mademoiselle de la Valliere, whose hands I kiss with the greatest respect.
“Your devoted,
“DE BRAGELLONE.
“P.S.--If anything serious should happen--we should be prepared for everything--dispatch a courier to me with this one single word, ‘Come,’ and I shall be in Paris within thirty-six hours after I shall have received your letter.”

De Guiche sighed, folded the letter up a third time, and, instead of burning it, as Raoul had recommended him to do, placed it in his pocket. He felt that he needed to read it over and over again.

“How much distress of mind, and yet how great a confidence, he shows!” murmured the comte; “he has poured out his whole soul in that letter. He says nothing of the Comte de la Fere, and speaks of his respect for Louise. He cautions me on my account, and entreats me on his own. Ah!” continued De Guiche, with a threatening gesture, “you interfere in my affairs, Monsieur de Wardes, do you? Very well, then; I shall now occupy myself with yours. And for you, poor Raoul, you who intrust your heart to my keeping, be assured I will watch over it.”

With this promise, De Guiche begged Malicorne to come immediately to his apartments, if it were possible. Malicorne acknowledged the invitation with an activity which was the first result of his conversation with Montalais. And while De Guiche, who thought that this motive was undiscovered, cross-examined Malicorne, the latter, who appeared to be working in the dark, soon guessed his questioner’s motives. The consequence was that, after a quarter of an hour’s conversation, during which De Guiche thought he had ascertained the whole truth with regard to La Valliere and the king, he had learned absolutely nothing more than his own eyes had already acquainted him with, while Malicorne learned, or guessed, that Raoul, who was absent, was fast becoming suspicious, and that De Guiche intended to watch over the treasure of the Hesperides. Malicorne accepted the office of dragon. De Guiche fancied he had done everything for his friend, and soon began to think of nothing but his own personal affairs. The next evening De Wardes’ return and his first appearance at the king’s reception were announced. When the visit had been paid the convalescent waited on Monsieur; De Guiche taking care, however, to be at Monsieur’s apartments before the visit took place.

How de Wardes Was Received at Court.

Monsieur had received De Wardes with that marked favor which all light and frivolous minds bestow on every novelty that may come in their way. De Wardes, who had been absent for a month, was like fresh fruit to him. To treat him with marked kindness was an infidelity to his old friends, and there is always something fascinating in that; moreover, it was a sort of reparation to De Wardes himself. Nothing, consequently, could exceed the favorable notice Monsieur took of him. The Chevalier de Lorraine, who feared this rival not a little, but who respected a character and disposition which were precisely parallel to his own in every particular, with the addition of a courage he did not himself possess, received De Wardes with a greater display of regard and affection than even Monsieur had done. De Guiche, as we have said, was there also, but kept a little in the background, waiting very patiently until all these embraces were over. De Wardes, while talking to the others, and even to Monsieur himself, had not for a moment lost sight of De Guiche, who, he instinctively felt, was there on his account. As soon as he had finished with the others, he went up to De Guiche. They both exchanged the most courteous compliments, after which De Wardes returned to Monsieur and the other gentlemen. In the midst of these congratulations madame was announced. She had been informed of De Wardes’ arrival, and knowing all the details of his voyage and of his duel, she was not sorry to be present at the remarks she knew would be made, without delay, by one who, she felt assured, was her personal enemy. Two or three of her ladies accompanied her. De Wardes saluted madame in the most graceful and respectful manner, and, as a commencement of hostilities, announced, in the first place, that he could furnish the Duke of Buckingham’s friends with the latest news about him. This was a direct answer to the coldness with which madame had received him. The attack was a vigorous one, and madame felt the blow, but without appearing to have even noticed it. He rapidly cast a glance at Monsieur and at De Guiche; the former had colored, and the latter had turned very pale. Madame alone preserved an unmoved countenance; but, as she knew how many unpleasant thoughts and feelings her enemy could awaken in the two persons who were listening to him, she smilingly bent forward toward the traveler, as if to listen to the news he had brought; but he was speaking of other matters. Madame was brave, even to imprudence; if she were to retreat, it would be inviting an attack; so, after the first disagreeable impression had passed away, she returned to the charge.

“Have you suffered much from your wounds, Monsieur de Wardes?” she inquired, “for we have been told that you had the misfortune to get wounded.”

It was now De Wardes’ turn to wince; he bit his lip, and replied, “No, madame, hardly at all.”

“Indeed! and yet in this terribly hot weather--”

“The sea-breezes are fresh and cool, madame, and then I had one consolation.”

“Indeed! What was it?”

“The knowledge that my adversary’s sufferings were still greater than my own.”

“Ah! you mean he was more seriously wounded than you were; I was not aware of that,” said the princess, with utter indifference.

“Oh, madame, you are mistaken, or rather you pretend to misunderstand my remark. I did not say that he was suffering more in body than myself; but his heart was seriously affected.”

De Guiche comprehended in what direction the struggle was approaching; he ventured to make a sign to madame, as if entreating her to retire from the contest. But she, without acknowledging De Guiche’s gesture, without pretending to have noticed it even, and still smiling, continued:

“Is it possible,” she said, “that the Duke of Buckingham’s heart was touched? I had no idea, until now, that a heart-wound could be cured.”

“Alas! madame,” replied De Wardes politely, “every woman believes that; and it is such a belief which gives them over us that superiority which confidence imposes.”

“You misunderstand altogether, dearest,” said the prince impatiently; “Monsieur de Wardes means that the Duke of Buckingham’s heart had been touched, not by a sword, but by something else.”

“Ah! very good, very good!” exclaimed madame. “It is a jest of Monsieur de Wardes’; very good; but I should like to know if the Duke of Buckingham would appreciate the jest. It is, indeed, a very great pity he is not here, Monsieur de Wardes.”

The young man’s eyes seemed to flash fire. “Oh!” he said, as he clinched his teeth, “there is nothing I should like better.”

De Guiche did not move. Madame seemed to expect that he would come to her assistance. Monsieur hesitated. The Chevalier de Lorraine advanced and continued the conversation.

“Madame,” he said, “De Wardes knows perfectly well that for a Buckingham’s heart to be touched is nothing new, and what he has said has already taken place.”

“Instead of an ally, I have two enemies,” murmured madame; “two determined enemies, and in league with each other.” And she changed the conversation. To change the conversation is, as every one knows, a right possessed by princes which etiquette requires all to respect. The remainder of the conversation was moderate enough in its tone; the principal actors had finished their parts. Madame withdrew early, and Monsieur, who wished to question her on several matters, offered her his hand on leaving. The chevalier was seriously afraid that a good understanding might be established between the husband and wife if he were to leave them quietly together. He therefore made his way to Monsieur’s apartments, in order to surprise him on his return, and to destroy with a few words all the good impressions that madame might have been able to sow in his heart. De Guiche advanced toward De Wardes, who was surrounded by a large number of persons, and thereby indicated his wish to converse with him; De Wardes, at the same time, showing by his looks and by a movement of his head that he perfectly understood him. There was nothing in these signs to enable strangers to suppose they were otherwise than upon the most friendly footing. De Guiche could therefore turn away from him, and wait until he was at liberty. He had not long to wait; for De Wardes, freed from his questioners, approached De Guiche, and both of them, after a fresh salutation, began to walk side by side together.

“You have made a good impression since your return, my dear De Wardes,” said the comte.

“Excellent, as you see.”

“And your spirits are just as lively as ever?”

“More than ever.”

“And a very great happiness, too.”

“Why not? Everything is so ridiculous in this world, everything so absurd around us.”

“You are right.”

“You are of my opinion, then?”

“I should think so. And what news do you bring us from yonder?”

“I? none at all. I have come to look for news here.”

“But, tell me, you surely must have seen some people at Boulogne, one of our friends, for instance; it is no great time ago.”

“Some people--one of our friends--”

“Your memory is short.”

“Ah! true; Bragelonne, you mean.”

“Exactly so.”

“Who was on his way to fulfill a mission, with which he was intrusted to King Charles II.”

“Precisely. Well, then, did he not tell you, or did not you tell him--”

“I do not precisely know what I told him, I must confess; but I do know what I did not tell him.” De Wardes was finesse itself. He perfectly well knew from De Guiche’s tone and manner, which was cold and dignified, that the conversation was about assuming a disagreeable turn. He resolved to let it take what course it pleased, and to keep strictly on his guard.

“May I ask what it was you did not tell him?” inquired De Guiche.

“That about La Valliere.”

“La Valliere--What is it; and what was that strange circumstance you seem to have known out yonder, which Bragelonne, who was here on the spot, was not acquainted with?”

“Do you really ask me that in a serious manner?”

“Nothing can be more so.”

“What! you, a member of the court, living in madame’s household, a friend of Monsieur’s, a guest at their table, the favorite of our lovely princess?”

De Guiche colored violently from anger. “What princess are you alluding to?” he said.

“I am only acquainted with one, my dear fellow. I am speaking of madame herself. Are you devoted to another princess, then? Come, tell me.”

De Guiche was on the point of launching out, but he saw the drift of the remark. A quarrel was imminent between the two young men. De Wardes wished the quarrel to be only in madame’s name, while De Guiche would not accept it except on La Valliere’s account. From this moment, it became a series of feigned attacks, which would have continued until one of the two had been touched home. De Guiche, therefore, resumed all the self-possession he could command.

“There is not the slightest question in the world of madame in this matter, my dear De Wardes,” said De Guiche, “but simply of what you were talking about just now.”

“What was I saying?”

“That you had concealed certain things from Bragelonne. “

“Certain things which you know as well as I do,” replied De Wardes.

“No, upon my honor.”

“Nonsense. “

“If you tell me what it is, I shall know, but not otherwise, I swear.”

“What! I, who have just arrived from a distance of sixty leagues, and you who have not stirred from this place, who have witnessed with your own eyes that which rumor informed me at Calais! Do you now tell me seriously that you do not know what it is about? Oh! comte, this is hardly charitable of you.”

“As you like it, De Wardes; but I again repeat, I know nothing. “

“You are very discreet; well, perhaps it is very prudent of you.”

“And so you will not tell me anything, will not tell me any more than you told Bragelonne?”

“You are pretending to be deaf, I see. I am convinced that madame could not possibly have more command over herself than you have over yourself.”

“Double hypocrite,” murmured De Guiche to himself, “you are again returning to the old subject.”

“Very well, then,” continued De Wardes, “since we find it so difficult to understand each other about La Valliere and Bragelonne, let us speak about your own affairs.”

“Nay,” said De Guiche, “I have no affairs of my own to talk about. You have not said anything about me, I suppose, to Bragelonne which you cannot repeat to myself?”

“No; but understand me, De Guiche, that however much I may be ignorant of certain matters, I am quite as conversant with others. If, for instance, we were conversing about certain intimacies of the Duke of Buckingham at Paris, as I did during my journey with the duke, I could tell you a great many interesting circumstances. Would you like me to mention them?”

De Guiche passed his hand across his forehead, which was covered with perspiration. “No, no,” he said, “a hundred times no! I have no curiosity for matters which do not concern me. The Duke of Buckingham is for me nothing more than a simple acquaintance, while Raoul is an intimate friend. I have not the slightest curiosity to learn what happened to the duke, while I have, on the contrary, the greatest interest to learn what happened to Raoul.”

“At Paris?”

“Yes, at Paris, or at Boulogne. You understand, I am on the spot; if anything should happen, I am here to meet it; while Raoul is absent, and has only myself to represent him; so Raoul’s affairs before my own.”

“But Raoul will return?”

“Not, however, until his mission is completed. In the meantime, you understand, evil reports cannot be permitted to circulate about him without my looking into them. “

“And for a greater reason still, that he will remain some time in London,” said De Wardes, chuckling.

“You think so,” said De Guiche simply.

“Think so, indeed! do you suppose that he was sent to London for no other purpose than to go there and return again immediately? No, no; he was sent to London to remain there.”

“Ah! De Wardes,” said De Guiche, seizing De Wardes’ hand violently, “that is a very serious suspicion concerning Bragelonne, which completely confirms what he wrote to me from Boulogne.”

De Wardes resumed his former coldness of manner; his love of raillery had led him too far, and by his own imprudence he had laid himself open to attack.

“Well, tell me, what did he write to you about?” he inquired.

“He told me that you had artfully insinuated some injurious remarks against La Valliere, and that you had seemed to laugh at his great confidence in that young girl.”

“Well, it is perfectly true I did so,” said De Wardes, “and I was quite ready at the time to hear from the Vicomte de Bragelonne that which every man expects from another whenever anything may have been said to displease him. In the same way, for instance, if I were seeking a quarrel with you, I should tell you that madame, after having shown the greatest preference for the Duke of Buckingham, is at this moment supposed to have sent the handsome duke away for your benefit.”

“Oh! that would not wound me in the slightest degree, my dear De Wardes,” said De Guiche, smiling, notwithstanding the shiver which ran through his whole frame. “Why, such a favor as that would be too great a happiness. “

“I admit that, but if I absolutely wished to quarrel with you, I should try and invent a falsehood, perhaps, and should speak to you about a certain arbor, where you and that illustrious princess were together--I should speak also of certain genuflections, of certain kissings of the hand; and you, who are so secret on all occasions, so hasty, and punctilious--”

“Well,” said De Guiche, interrupting him, with a smile upon his lips, although he almost felt as if he were going to die; “I swear I should not care for that, nor should I in any way contradict you; for you must know, my dear marquis, that for all matters which concern myself, I am a block of ice; but it is a very different thing when an absent friend is concerned, a friend who, on leaving, confided his interests to my safe keeping; for such a friend, De Wardes, believe me, I am like fire itself.”

“I understand you, Monsieur de Guiche; in spite of what you say, there cannot be any question between us just now, either of Bragelonne or of this young insignificant girl whose name is La Valliere.”

At this moment some of the younger courtiers were crossing the apartment, and having already heard the few words which had just been pronounced, were able also to hear those which were about to follow. De Wardes observed this, and continued, aloud: “Oh! if La Valliere were a coquette like madame, whose very innocent flirtations, I am sure, were, first of all, the cause of the Duke of Buckingham being sent back to England, and afterward were the reason of your being sent into exile; for you will not deny, I suppose, that madame’s seductive manners did have a certain influence over you?”

The courtiers drew nearer to the speakers, St. Aignan at their head, and then Manicamp.

“But, my dear fellow, whose fault was that?” said De Guiche, laughing. “I am a vain, conceited fellow, I know, and everybody else knows it, too. I took seriously that which was only intended as a jest, and I got myself exiled for my pains. But I saw my error. I overcame my vanity, and I obtained my recall by making the amende honorable, and by promising myself to overcome this defect; and the consequence is, that I am so thoroughly cured that I now laugh at the very thing which, three or four days ago, would have almost broken my heart. But Raoul is in love, and is loved in return; he cannot laugh at the reports which disturb his happiness--reports which you seem to have undertaken to interpret, when you know, marquis, as I do, as those gentlemen do, as every one does, in fact, that these reports are pure calumny.”

“Calumny!” exclaimed De Wardes, furious at seeing himself caught in the snare by De Guiche’s coolness of temper.

“Certainly, a calumny. Look at this letter from him, in which he tells me you have spoken ill of Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and where he asks me, if what you reported about this young girl be true or not. Do you wish me to appeal to these gentlemen, De Wardes, to decide?” And with admirable coolness, De Guiche read aloud the paragraph of the letter which referred to La Valliere. “And now,” continued De Guiche, “there is no doubt in the world, as far as I am concerned, that you wish to disturb Bragelonne’s peace of mind, and that your remarks were maliciously intended.”

De Wardes looked round him, to see if he could find support from any one; but at the idea that De Wardes had insulted, either directly or indirectly, the idol of the day, every one shook his head, and De Wardes saw that there was no one present who would have refused to say he was in the wrong.

“Messieurs,” said De Guiche, intuitively divining the general feeling, “my discussion with Monsieur de Wardes refers to a subject so delicate in its nature that it is most important no one should hear more than you have already heard. Close the doors, then, I beg you, and let us finish our conversation in the manner which becomes two gentlemen, one of whom has given the other the lie.”

“Messieurs, messieurs!” exclaimed those who were present.

“It is your opinion, then, that I was wrong in defending Mademoiselle de la Valliere?” said De Guiche. “In that case, I pass judgment upon myself, and am ready to withdraw the offensive words I may have used to Monsieur de Wardes. “

“The deuce! certainly not!” said St. Aignan. “Mademoiselle de la Valliere is an angel.”

“Virtue and purity itself,” said Manicamp.

“You see, Monsieur de Wardes,” said De Guiche, “I am not the only one who undertakes the defense of that poor girl. I entreat you, therefore, messieurs, a second time, to leave us. You see, it is impossible we could be more calm and composed than we are.”

It was the very thing the courtiers wished; some went out at one door, and the rest at the other, and the two young men were left alone.

“Well played,” said De Wardes, to the comte.

“Was it not?” replied the latter.

“How can it be wondered at, my dear fellow; I have got quite rusty in the country, while the command you have acquired over yourself, comte, confounds me; a man always gains something in women’s society; so, pray accept my congratulations.”

“I do accept them.”

“And I will make madame a present of them.”

“And now, my dear Monsieur de Wardes, let us speak as loud as you please.”

“Do not defy me.”

“I do defy you, for you are known to be an evil-minded man; if you do that, you will be looked upon as a coward, too; and Monsieur would have you hanged this evening at his window-casement. Speak, my dear De Wardes, speak.”

“I have fought already.”

“But not quite enough yet.”

“I see, you would not be sorry to fight with me while my wounds are still open.”

“No; better still.”

“The deuce! you are unfortunate in the moment you have chosen; a duel, after the one I have just fought, would hardly suit me; I have lost too much blood at Boulogne; at the slightest effort my wounds would open again, and you would really have too good a bargain with me.”

“True,” said De Guiche; “and yet, on your arrival here, your looks and your arms showed there was nothing the matter with you.”

“Yes, my arms are all right, but my legs are weak; and then, I have not had a foil in my hand since that devil of a duel; and you, I am sure, have been fencing every day, in order to carry your little conspiracy against me to a successful issue.”

“Upon my honor, monsieur,” replied De Guiche, “it is six months since I last practiced.”

“No, comte, after due reflection, I will not fight, at least, with you. I shall await Bragelonne’s return, since you say that it is Bragelonne who has fault to find with me.”

“Oh, no, indeed! You shall not wait until Bragelonne’s return,” exclaimed the comte, losing all command over himself, “for you have said that Bragelonne might possibly be some time before he returns; and, in the meanwhile, your wicked insinuations would have had their effect.”

“Yet I shall have my excuse. So take care.”

“I will give you a week to finish your recovery.”

“That is better. So let us wait a week.”

“Yes, yes, I understand; a week will give time to my adversary to make his escape. No, no; I will not give you one day, even.”

“You are mad, monsieur,” said De Wardes, retreating a step.

“And you are a coward, if you do not fight willingly. Nay, what is more, I will denounce you to the king, as having refused to fight, after having insulted La Valliere.”

“Ah!” said De Wardes, “you are dangerously treacherous, though you pass for a man of honor.”

“There is nothing more dangerous than the treachery, as you term it, of the man whose conduct is always loyal and upright.”

“Restore me the use of my legs, then, or get yourself bled, till you are as white as I am, so as to equalize our chances. “

“No, no; I have something better than that to propose.”

“What is it?”

“We will fight on horseback, and will exchange three pistol-shots each. You are a first-rate marksman. I have seen you bring down swallows with single balls, and at full gallop. Do not deny it, for I have seen you myself.”

“I believe you are right,” said De Wardes; “and as that is the case, it is not unlikely I might kill you.”

“You would be rendering me a very great service if you did. “

“I will do my best.”

“Is it agreed? Give me your hand upon it.”

“There it is; but on one condition, however.”

“Name it.”

“That not a word shall be said about it to the king.”

“Not a word, I swear.”

“I shall go and get my horse, then.”

“And I mine.”

“Where shall we meet?”

“In the open plain; I know an admirable place.”

“Shall we go together?”

“Why not?”

And both of them, on their way to the stables, passed beneath madame’s windows, which were faintly lighted; a shadow could be seen behind the lace curtains. “There is a woman,” said De Wardes, smiling, “who does not suspect that we are going to fight--to die, perhaps, on her account.”

The Combat.

De Wardes and De Guiche selected their horses, and then saddled them with their own hands, with holster saddles. De Guiche, having two pairs of pistols, went to his apartments to get them; and after having loaded them, gave the choice to De Wardes, who selected the pair he had made use of twenty times before--the same, indeed, with which De Guiche had seen him kill swallows flying. “You will not be surprised,” he said, “if I take every precaution. You know the weapons well, and, consequently, I am only making the chances equal.”

“Your remark was quite useless,” replied De Guiche, “and you have done no more than you are entitled to do.”

“Now,” said De Wardes, “I beg you to have the goodness to help me to mount; for I still experience a little difficulty in doing so.”

“In that case, we had better settle the matter on foot.”

“No; once in the saddle, I shall be all right.”

“Very good, then; so we will not speak of it again,” said De Guiche, as he assisted De Wardes to mount his horse.

“And now,” continued the young man, “in our eagerness to kill each other, we have neglected one circumstance.”

“What is that?”

“That it is quite dark, and we shall almost be obliged to grope about in order to kill each other.”

“Oh!” said De Guiche, “you are as anxious as I am that everything should be done in proper order.”

“Yes; but I do not wish people to say that you have assassinated me, any more than, supposing I were to kill you, I should myself like to be accused of such a crime.”

“Did any one make a similar remark about your duel with the Duke of Buckingham?” said De Guiche; “it took place precisely under the same conditions as ours.”

“Very true; but there was still light enough to see by: and we were up to our middles, almost, in the water; besides, there was a good number of spectators on shore, looking at us.”

“De Guiche reflected for a moment; and the thought which had already presented itself to him became more confirmed--that De Wardes wished to have witnesses present, in order to bring back the conversation about madame, and to give a new turn to the combat. He avoided saying a word in reply, therefore; and, as De Wardes once more looked at him interrogatively, he replied, by a movement of the head, that it would be best to let things remain as they were. The two adversaries consequently set off, and left the château by the same gate, close to which we may remember to have seen Montalais and Malicorne together. The night, as if to counteract the extreme heat of the day, had gathered the clouds together in masses which were moving slowly along from the west to the east. The vault above, without a clear spot anywhere visible, or without the faintest indication of thunder, seemed to hang heavily over the earth, and soon began, by the force of the wind, to be split up into fragments, like a huge sheet torn into shreds. Large and warm drops of rain began to fall heavily, and gathered the dust into globules, which rolled along the ground. At the same time the hedges, which seemed conscious of the approaching storm, the thirsty plants, the drooping branches of the trees, exhaled a thousand aromatic odors, which revived in the mind tender recollections, thoughts of youth, endless life, happiness, and love. “How fresh the earth smells,” said De Wardes; “it is a piece of coquetry of hers to draw us to her.”

“By the bye,” replied De Guiche, “several ideas have just occurred to me; and I wish to have your opinion upon them. “

“Relative to--”

“Relative to our engagement.”

“It is quite time, in fact, that we should begin to arrange matters.”

“Is it to be an ordinary combat, and conducted according to established custom?”

“Let me know first what your established custom is.”

“That we dismount in any particular plain that may suit us, then fasten our horses to the nearest object, meet each other with our pistols in our hands, afterward retire for a hundred and fifty paces, in order to advance on each other. “

“Very good; that is precisely the way in which I killed poor Follinent, three weeks ago, at St. Denis.”

“I beg your pardon, but you forget one circumstance.”

“What is that?”

“That in your duel with Follinent you advanced toward each other on foot, your swords between your teeth, and your pistols in your hands.”

“True.”

“While now, on the contrary, as I cannot walk, you yourself admit that we shall have to mount our horses again, and charge, and the first who wishes to fire will do so.”

“That is the best course, no doubt; but it is quite dark; we must make allowance for more missed shots than would be the case in the daytime.”

“Very well; each will fire three times; the pair of pistols already loaded, and one reload.”

“Excellent! Where shall our engagement take place?”

“Have you any preference?”

“No.”

“You see that small wood which lies before us.”

“The wood which is called Rochin?”

“Exactly.”

“You know it, then?”

“Perfectly.”

“You know that there is an open glade in the center?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this glade is admirably adapted for such a purpose, with a variety of roads, by-places, paths, ditches, windings, and avenues. We could not find a better spot.”

“I am perfectly satisfied, if you are so. We have arrived, if I am not mistaken.”

“Yes. Look at the beautiful open space in the center. The faint light which the stars afford seems concentrated in this spot; the woods which surround it seem, with their barriers, to form its natural limits.”

“Very good. Do, then, as you say.”

“Let us first settle the conditions.”

“These are mine; if you have any objection to make, you will state it.”

“I am listening.”

“If the horse be killed, its rider will be obliged to fight on foot.”

“That is a matter of course, since we have no change of horses here.”

“But that does not oblige his adversary to dismount.”

“His adversary will, in fact, be free to act as he likes.”

“The adversaries, having once met in close contact, can not quit each other under any circumstances, and may consequently fire muzzle to muzzle.”

“Agreed.”

“Three shots and no more will do, I suppose?”

“Quite sufficient, I think. Here are powder and balls for your pistols; measure out three charges, take three balls; I will do the same; then we will throw the rest of the powder and the balls away.”

“And we will solemnly swear,” said De Wardes, “that we have neither balls nor powder about us?”

“Agreed; and I swear it,” said De Guiche, holding his hand toward heaven, a gesture which De Wardes imitated.

“And now, my dear comte,” said De Wardes, “allow me to tell you that I am in no way your dupe. You already are, or soon will be, the accepted lover of madame. I have detected your secret, and you are afraid I shall tell others of it. You wish to kill me to insure my silence; that is very clear; and in your place, I should do the same.” De Guiche hung down his head. “Only,” continued De Wardes triumphantly, “was it really worth while, tell me, to throw this affair of Bragelonne’s upon my shoulders? But take care, my dear fellow, in bringing the wild boar to bay, you enrage him to madness; in running down the fox, you give him the ferocity of the jaguar. The consequence is that, brought to bay by you, I shall defend myself to the very last.”

“You will be quite right in doing so.”

“Yes; but take care; I shall work more harm than you think. In the first place, as a beginning, you will readily suppose that I have not been absurd enough to lock up my secret, or your secret rather, in my own breast. There is a friend of mine, who resembles me in every way, a man whom you know very well, who shares my secret with me; so, pray understand that if you kill me, my death will not have been of much service to you; while, on the contrary, if I kill you--and everything is possible, you know--you understand?” De Guiche shuddered. “If I kill you,” continued De Wardes, “you will have secured two mortal enemies to madame, who will do their very utmost to ruin her.”

“Oh! monsieur,” exclaimed De Guiche furiously, “do not reckon upon my death so easily. Of the two enemies you speak of, I trust most heartily to dispose of one immediately, and the other at the earliest possible opportunity.”

The only reply De Wardes made was a burst of laughter, so diabolical in its sound that a superstitious man would have been terrified by it. But De Guiche was not so impressionable as that. “I think,” he said, “that everything is now settled, Monsieur de Wardes; so have the goodness to take your place first, unless you would prefer me to do so.”

“By no means,” said De Wardes. “I shall be delighted to save you the slightest trouble.” And putting his horse into a gallop, he crossed the wide open space and took his stand at that point of circumference of the crossroad which was immediately opposite to where De Guiche was stationed. De Guiche remained motionless. At the distance of a hundred paces, the two adversaries were absolutely invisible to each other, being completely concealed by the thick shade of elms and chestnuts. A minute elapsed amid the profoundest silence. At the end of the minute each of them, in the deep shade of which he was concealed, heard the double click of the trigger, as they put the pistols on full cock. De Guiche, adopting the usual tactics, set his horse into a gallop, persuaded that he should render his safety doubly sure, both by the movement, as well as by the speed of the animal. He directed his course in a straight line toward the point where, in his opinion, De Wardes would be stationed; and he expected to meet De Wardes about halfway; but in this he was mistaken. He continued his course, presuming that his adversary was impatiently awaiting his approach. When, however, he had gone about two thirds of the distance, he saw the place suddenly illuminated and a ball flew by, cutting the plume of his hat in two. Nearly at the same moment, and as if the flash of the first shot had served to indicate the direction of the other, a second report was heard, and a second ball passed through the head of De Guiche’s horse, a little below the ear. The animal fell. These two reports, proceeding from the very opposite direction to that in which he expected to find De Wardes, surprised him a great deal; but as he was a man of amazing self-possession, he prepared himself for his horse falling, but not so completely, however, that the toe of his boot escaped being caught under the animal as it fell. Very fortunately the horse in its dying agonies moved so as to enable him to release the leg which was less entangled than the other. De Guiche rose, felt himself all over, and found that he was not wounded. At the very moment he had felt the horse tottering under him he had placed his pistols in the holsters, afraid that the force of the fall might explode one at least, if not both of them, by which he would have been disarmed, and left utterly without defense. Once upon his feet, he took the pistols out of the holsters, and advanced toward the spot, where, by the light of the flash, he had seen De Wardes appear. De Guiche had, at the first shot, accounted for the maneuver, than which nothing could have been simpler. Instead of advancing to meet De Guiche, or remaining in his place to await his approach, De Wardes, had, for about fifteen paces, followed the circle of the shadow which hid him from his adversary’s observation, and at the very moment when the latter presented his flank in his career, he had fired from the place where he stood, carefully taking his aim, and assisted instead of being inconvenienced by the horse’s gallop. It has been seen that, notwithstanding the darkness, the first ball had passed hardly more than an inch above De Guiche’s head. De Wardes had so confidently relied upon his aim that he thought he had seen De Guiche fall; his astonishment was extreme when he saw that he still remained erect in his saddle. He hastened to fire his second shot, but his hand trembled, and he killed the horse instead. It would be a most fortunate chance for him if De Guiche were to remain held fast under the animal. Before he could have freed himself, De Wardes would have loaded his pistol and had De Guiche at his mercy. But De Guiche, on the contrary, was up and had three shots to fire. De Guiche immediately understood the position of affairs. It would be necessary to exceed De Wardes in rapidity of execution. He advanced, therefore, so as to reach him before he should have time to reload his pistol. De Wardes saw him approaching like a tempest. The ball was rather tight, and offered some resistance to the ramrod. To load it carelessly would be to expose himself to lose his last chance; to take the proper care in loading it would be to lose his time, or, rather, it would be throwing away his life. He made his horse bound on one side. De Guiche turned round also, and at the moment the horse was quiet again he fired, and the ball carried off De Wardes’ hat from his head. De Wardes now knew that he had a moment’s time at his own disposal; he availed himself of it in order to finish loading his pistol. De Guiche, noticing that his adversary did not fall, threw the pistol he had just discharged aside, and walked straight toward De Wardes, elevating the second pistol as he did so. He had hardly proceeded more than two or three paces, when De Wardes took aim at him as he was walking and fired. An exclamation of anger was De Guiche’s answer; the comte’s arm contracted and dropped motionless by his side, and the pistol fell from his grasp. De Wardes observed the comte stoop down, pick up his pistol with his left hand, and again advance toward him. His anxiety was excessive. “I am lost,” murmured De Wardes, “he is not mortally wounded.” At the very moment, however, that De Guiche was about to raise his pistol against De Wardes, the head, shoulders, and limbs of the comte all seemed to give way. He heaved a deep-drawn sigh, tottered, and fell at the feet of De Wardes’ horse.

“That is all right,” said De Wardes, and gathering up the reins, he struck his spurs into his horse’s sides. The horse cleared the comte’s motionless body, and bore De Wardes rapidly back to the château. When he arrived there he remained a quarter of an hour deliberating within himself as to the proper course to be adopted. In his impatience to leave the field of battle he had omitted to ascertain whether De Guiche were dead or not. A double hypothesis presented itself to De Wardes’ agitated mind; either De Guiche was killed, or De Guiche was wounded only. If he were killed, why should he leave his body in that manner to the tender mercies of the wolves; it was a perfectly useless piece of cruelty, for if De Guiche were dead, he certainly could not breathe a syllable of what had passed; if he were not killed, why should he, De Wardes, in leaving him there uncared for, allow himself to be regarded as a savage, incapable of one generous feeling? This last consideration determined his line of conduct.

De Wardes immediately instituted inquiries after Manicamp. He was told that Manicamp had been looking after De Guiche, and, not knowing where to find him, had retired to bed. De Wardes went and woke the sleeper without any delay, and related the whole affair to him, which Manicamp listened to in perfect silence, but with an expression of momentarily increasing energy, of which his face could hardly have been supposed capable. It was only when De Wardes had finished that Manicamp uttered the words, “Let us go.”

As they proceeded Manicamp became more and more excited, and in proportion as De Wardes related the details of the affair to him, his countenance assumed every moment a darkening expression. “And so,” he said, when De Wardes had finished, “you think he is dead?”

“Alas, I do.”

“And you fought in that manner, without witnesses?”

“He insisted upon it.”

“It is very singular.”

“What do you mean by saying it is singular?”

“That it is so very unlike Monsieur de Guiche’s disposition.”

“You do not doubt my word, I suppose?”

“Hum! hum!”

“You do doubt it, then?”

“A little. But I shall doubt it more than ever, I warn you, if I find the poor fellow is really dead.”

“Monsieur Manicamp!”

“Monsieur de Wardes!”

“It seems you intend to insult me!”

“Just as you please. The fact is, I never could like those people who come and say, ‘I have killed such and such a gentleman in a corner; it is a great pity, but I killed him in a perfectly honorable manner.’ It has a very ugly appearance, Monsieur de Wardes.

“Silence! we have arrived.”

In fact, the open glade could now be seen, and in the open space lay the motionless body of the dead horse. To the right of the horse, upon the dark grass, with his face against the ground, the poor comte lay, bathed in his blood. He had remained in the same spot, and did not even seem to have made the slightest movement. Manicamp threw himself on his knees, lifted the comte in his arms, and found him quite cold, and steeped in blood. He let him gently fall again. Then, stretching out his hand and feeling all over the ground close to where the comte lay, he sought until he found De Guiche’s pistol.

“By heaven!” he said, rising to his feet, pale as death, and with the pistol in his hand, “you are not mistaken, he is quite dead.”

“Dead!” repeated De Wardes.

“Yes; and his pistol is still loaded,” added Manicamp, looking into the pan.

“But I told you that I took aim as he was walking toward me, and fired at him at the very moment he was going to fire at me.”

“Are you quite sure that you have fought with him, Monsieur de Wardes? I confess that I am very much afraid it has been a foul assassination. Nay, nay, no exclamations! You have had your three shots, and his pistol is still loaded. You have killed his horse, and he, De Guiche, one of the best marksmen in France, has not touched even either your horse or yourself. Well, Monsieur de Wardes, you have been very unlucky in bringing me here; all the blood in my body seems to have mounted to my head; and I verily believe that since so good an opportunity presents itself, I shall blow out your brains on the spot. So, Monsieur de Wardes, recommend your soul to heaven.”

“Monsieur Manicamp, you cannot think of such a thing!”

“On the contrary, I am thinking of it very strongly.”

“Would you assassinate me?”

“Without the slightest remorse, at least, for the present.”

“Are you a gentleman?”

“I have given a great many proofs of it.”

“Let me defend my life then at least.”

“Very likely; in order, I suppose, that you may do to me what you have done to poor De Guiche.”

And Manicamp slowly raised his pistol to the height of De Wardes’ breast, and, with arm stretched out, and a fixed, determined look on his face, took a careful aim. De Wardes did not attempt a flight; he was completely terrified. In the midst, however, of this horrible silence, which lasted about a second, but which seemed an age to De Wardes, a faint sigh was heard.

“Oh!” exclaimed De Wardes, “he still lives. Help, De Guiche, I am about to be assassinated!”

Manicamp fell back a step or two, and the two young men saw the comte raise himself slowly and painfully upon one hand. Manicamp threw the pistol away a dozen paces, and ran to his friend, uttering a cry of delight. De Wardes wiped his forehead, which was covered with a cold perspiration.

“It was just in time,” he murmured.

“Where are you hurt?” inquired Manicamp of De Guiche, “and whereabouts are you wounded?”

De Guiche showed him his mutilated hand and his chest covered with blood.

“Comte,” exclaimed De Wardes, “I am accused of having assassinated you. Speak, I implore you, and say that I fought loyally.”

“Perfectly so,” said the wounded man; “Monsieur de Wardes fought quite loyally, and whoever may say the contrary will make me his enemy.”

“Then, sir,” said Manicamp, “assist me, in the first place, to carry this fellow back, and I will afterward give you every satisfaction you please; or, if you are in a hurry, we can do better still; let us stanch the blood from the comte’s wounds here, with your pocket-handkerchief and mine, and then, as there are two shots left, we can have them between us.”

“Thank you,” said De Wardes. “Twice already, in one hour, I have seen death too close at hand to be agreeable; I don’t like his look at all, and I prefer your apologies.”

Manicamp burst out laughing, and De Guiche, too, in spite of his sufferings. The two young men wished to carry him, but he declared he felt quite strong enough to walk alone. The ball had broken his ring-finger and his little finger, and then had glanced along his side, but without penetrating deeply into his chest. It was the pain rather than the seriousness of the wound, therefore, which had overcome De Guiche. Manicamp passed his arm under one of the comte’s shoulders, and De Wardes did the same with the other, and in this way they brought him back to Fontainebleau, to the house of the same doctor who had been present at the death of the Franciscan, Aramis’ predecessor.

The King’s Supper.

The king, while these matters were being arranged, had sat down to the supper-table, and the not very large number of guests invited for that day had taken their seats, after the usual gesture intimating the royal permission to be seated. At this period of Louis XIV.’s reign, although etiquette was not governed by the strict regulations which subsequently were adopted, the French court had entirely thrown aside the traditions of good-fellowship and patriarchal affability which existed in the time of Henry IV., and which the auspicious mind of Louis XIII. had gradually replaced by the pompous state forms and ceremonies which he despaired of being able to fully realize.

The king, therefore, was seated alone at a small separate table, which, like the desk of a president, overlooked the adjoining tables. Although we say a small table, we must not omit to add that this small table was the largest one there. Moreover, it was the one on which were placed the greatest number and quantity of dishes, consisting of fish, game, meat, fruit, vegetables, and preserves. The king was young and full of vigor and energy, very fond of hunting, addicted to all violent exercises of the body, possessing, besides, like all the members of the Bourbon family, a rapid digestion and an appetite speedily renewed. Louis XIV. was a formidable table-companion; he delighted to criticise his cooks; but when he honored them by praise and commendation, the honor was overwhelming. The king began by eating several kinds of soup, either mixed together or taken separately. He intermixed or rather, he separated, each of the soups by a glass of old wine. He ate quickly, and somewhat greedily. Porthos, who from the beginning had, out of respect, been waiting for a jog of D’Artagnan’s arm, seeing the king make such rapid progress, turned to the musketeer and said, in a low tone:

“It seems as if one might go on now; his majesty is very encouraging, from the example he sets. Look.”

“The king eats,” said D’Artagnan, “but he talks at the same time; try and manage matters in such manner that, if he should happen to address a remark to you, he should not find you with your mouth full, which would be very disrespectful. “

“The best way, in that case,” said Porthos, “is to eat no supper at all; and yet I am very hungry, I admit, and everything looks and smells most invitingly, as if appealing to all my senses at once.”

“Don’t think of not eating, for a moment,” said D’Artagnan; “that would put his majesty out terribly. The king has a saying, ‘that he who works well, eats well,’ and he does not like people to eat indifferently at his table.”

“How can I avoid having my mouth full if I eat?” said Porthos.

“All you have to do,” replied the captain of the musketeers, “is simply to swallow what you have in it, whenever the king does you the honor to address a remark to you. “

“Very good,” said Porthos; and from that moment he began to eat with a well-bred enthusiasm of manner.

The king occasionally looked at the different persons who were at table with him, and en connoisseur, could appreciate the different dispositions of his guests.

“Monsieur du Vallon!” he said.

Porthos was enjoying a salmi de lievre, and swallowed half of the back. His name pronounced in such a manner had made him start, and by a vigorous effort of his gullet he absorbed the whole mouthful.

“Sire,” replied Porthos, in a stifled voice, but sufficiently intelligible, nevertheless.

“Let those filets d’agneau be handed to Monsieur du Vallon,” said the king; “do you like brown meats, Monsieur du Vallon?”

“Sire, I like everything,” replied Porthos.

D’Artagnan whispered:

“Everything your majesty sends me.”

Porthos repeated:

“Everything your majesty sends me,” an observation which the king apparently received with great satisfaction.

“People eat well, who work well,” replied the king, delighted to have en tête à tête a guest who could eat as Porthos did. Porthos received the dish of lamb, and put a portion of it on his own plate.

“Well?” said the king.

“Exquisite,” said Porthos calmly.

“Have you as good mutton in your part of the country, Monsieur du Vallon?” continued the king.

“Sire, I believe that from my own province, as everywhere else, the best of everything is sent to Paris for your majesty’s use; but on the other hand, I do not eat lamb in the same way your majesty does.”

“Ah! ah! and how do you eat it?”

“Generally, I have a lamb dressed quite whole.”

“Quite whole?”

“Yes, sire.”

“In what manner, then?”

“In this, sire: my cook, who is a German, first stuffs the lamb in question with small sausages, which he procures from Strasburg, force-meat balls, which he procures from Troyes, and larks, which he procures from Pithiviers; by some means or other, which I am not acquainted with, he bones the lamb as he would do a fowl, leaving the skin on, however, which forms a brown crust all over the animal; when it is cut in beautiful slices, in the same way as an enormous sausage, a rose-colored gravy pours forth, which is as agreeable to the eye as it is exquisite to the palate.”

And Porthos finished by smacking his lips.

The king opened his eyes with delight, and, while cutting some of the faisan en daubee, which was being handed to him, he said:

“That is a dish I should very much like to taste, Monsieur du Vallon. Is it possible--a whole lamb?”

“Completely so, sire.”

“Pass those pheasants to Monsieur du Vallon; I perceive he is an amateur.”

The order was immediately obeyed. Then, continuing the conversation, he said:

“And you do not find the lamb too fat?”

“No, sire; the fat falls down at the same time as the gravy does, and swims on the surface; then the servant who carves removes the fat with a spoon, which I have had expressly made for that purpose.”

“Where do you reside?” inquired the king.

“At Pierrefonds, sire.”

“At Pierrefonds? Where is that, Monsieur du Vallon--near Belle-Isle?”

“Oh, no, sire; Pierrefonds is in the Soissonnais.”

“I thought you alluded to the lamb on account of the salt marshes.”

“No, sire; I have marshes which are not salt, it is true, but which are not the less valuable on that account.”

The king had now arrived at the entremets, but without losing sight of Porthos, who continued to play his part in the best manner.

“You have an excellent appetite, Monsieur du Vallon,” said the king, “and you make an admirable guest at table.”

“Ah, sire, if your majesty were ever to pay a visit to Pierrefonds, we would both of us eat our lamb together; for your appetite is not an indifferent one, by any means.”

D’Artagnan gave Porthos a severe kick under the table, which made Porthos color up.

“At your majesty’s present happy age,” said Porthos, in order to repair the mistake he had made, “I was in the musketeers, and nothing could ever satisfy me then. Your majesty has an excellent appetite, as I have already had the honor of mentioning, but you select what you eat with too much refinement to be called a great eater.”

The king seemed charmed at his guest’s politeness.

“Will you try some of these creams?” he said to Porthos.

“Sire, your majesty treats me with far too much kindness to prevent me speaking the whole truth.”

“Pray do so, Monsieur du Vallon.”

“Well, sire, with regard to sweet dishes, I only recognize pastry, and even that should be rather solid; all these frothy substances swell the stomach and occupy a space which seems to me to be too precious to be so badly tenanted. “

“Ah! gentlemen,” said the king, indicating Porthos by a gesture, “here is indeed a perfect model of gastronomy. It was in such a manner that our fathers, who so well knew what good living was, used to eat, while we,” added his majesty, “can do nothing but trifle with our food.”

And as he spoke, he took the breast of a chicken with ham, while Porthos attacked a dish of partridges and landrails. The cup-bearer filled his majesty’s glass.

“Give Monsieur du Vallon some of my wine,” said the king.

This was one of the greatest honors of the royal table. D’Artagnan pressed his friend’s knee.

“If you could only manage to swallow the half of that boar’s head I see yonder,” said he to Porthos, “I shall believe you will be a duke and peer within the next twelve-month. “

“Presently,” said Porthos phlegmatically; “I shall come to it by and by.”

In fact, it was not long before it came to the boar’s turn, for the king seemed to take a pleasure in urging on his guest; he did not pass any of the dishes to Porthos until he had tasted them himself, and he accordingly took some of the boar’s head. Porthos showed that he could keep pace with his sovereign; and instead of eating the half, as D’Artagnan had told him, he ate three-quarters of it.

“It is impossible,” said the king, in an undertone, “that a gentleman who eats so good a supper every day, and who has such beautiful teeth, can be otherwise than the most straightforward, upright man in my kingdom.”

“Do you hear?” said D’Artagnan, in his friend’s ear.

“Yes, I think I am rather in favor,” said Porthos, balancing himself on his chair.

“Oh! you are in luck’s way.”

The king and Porthos continued to eat in the same manner, to the great satisfaction of the other guests, some of whom, from emulation, had attempted to follow them, but had been obliged to give up on the way. The king soon began to get flushed, and the reaction of the blood to his face announced that the moment of repletion had arrived. It was then that Louis XIV., instead of becoming gay and cheerful, as most good livers generally do, became dull, melancholy, and taciturn. Porthos, on the contrary, was lively and communicative. D’Artagnan’s foot had more than once to remind him of this peculiarity of the king. The dessert now made its appearance. The king had ceased to think anything further of Porthos; he turned his eyes anxiously toward the entrance door, and he was heard occasionally to inquire how it happened that M. de St. Aignan was so long in arriving. At last, at the moment when his majesty was finishing a pot of preserved plums with a deep sigh, St. Aignan appeared. The king’s eyes, which had become somewhat dull, immediately began to sparkle. The comte advanced toward the king’s table, and Louis arose at his approach. Everybody arose at the same time, including Porthos, who was just finishing an almond-cake capable of making the jaws of a crocodile stick together. The supper was over.

After Supper.

The king took St. Aignan by the arm, and passed into the adjoining apartment.

“What has detained you, comte?” said the king.

“I was bringing the answer, sire,” replied the comte.

“She has taken a long time to reply to what I wrote her.”

“Sire, your majesty has deigned to write in verse, and Mademoiselle de la Valliere wished to repay your majesty in the same coin; that is to say, in gold.”

“Verses! St. Aignan,” exclaimed the king, in ecstasy, “give them to me at once.”

And Louis broke the seal of a little letter, inclosing the verses which history has preserved entire for us, and which are more meritorious in intention than in execution. Such as they were, however, the king was enchanted with them, and exhibited his satisfaction by unequivocal transports of delight; but the universal silence which reigned in the rooms warned Louis, so sensitively particular with regard to good-breeding, that his delight might give rise to various interpretations. He turned aside and put the note in his pocket, and then advancing a few steps, which brought him again to the threshold of the door close to his guests, he said:

“Monsieur du Vallon, I have seen you to-day with the greatest pleasure, and my pleasure will be equally great to see you again.”

Porthos bowed as the Colossus of Rhodes would have done, and retired from the room with his face toward the king.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued the king, “you will await my orders in the gallery; I am obliged to you for having made me acquainted with Monsieur du Vallon. Gentlemen,” addressing himself to the other guests, “I return to Paris to-morrow, on account of the departure of the Spanish and Dutch ambassadors. Until to-morrow, then.”

The apartment was immediately cleared of the guests. The king took St. Aignan by the arm, made him read La Valliere’s verses over again, and said:

“What do you think of them?”

“Charming, sire.”

“They charm me, in fact; and if they were known--”

“Oh! the professional poets would be jealous of them; but it is not at all likely they will know anything about them.”

“Did you give her mine?”

“Oh, sire, she positively devoured them.”

“They were very weak, I am afraid.”

“That is not what Mademoiselle de la Valliere said of them. “

“Do you think she was pleased with them?”

“I am sure of it, sire.”

“I must answer them, then.”

“Oh, sire, immediately after supper? Your majesty will fatigue yourself.”

“You’re right; study after eating is very injurious.”

“The labor of a poet especially so; and, besides, there is great excitement prevailing at Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“With her as with all the ladies of the court.”

“Why?”

“On account of poor De Guiche’s accident.”

“Has anything serious happened to De Guiche, then?”

“Yes, sire; he has one hand nearly destroyed, a hole in his breast; in fact, he is dying.”

“Good heavens! who told you that?”

“Manicamp brought him back just now to the house of a doctor here in Fontainebleau, and the rumor soon reached us all here.”

“Brought back! Poor De Guiche; and how did it happen?”

“Ah! that is the very question. How did it happen?”

“You say that in a very singular manner, St. Aignan. Give me the details. What does he say, himself?”

“He says nothing, sire; but others do.”

“What others?”

“Those who brought him back, sire.”

“Who are they?”

“I do not know, sire; but Monsieur de Manicamp knows. Monsieur de Manicamp is one of his friends.”

“As everybody is, indeed,” said the king.

“Oh, no.” returned St. Aignan; “you are mistaken, sire; every one is not precisely friends with Monsieur de Guiche.”

“How do you know that?”

“Does your majesty require me to explain myself?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Well, sire, I believe I have heard something said about a quarrel between two gentlemen.”

“When?”

“This very evening, before your majesty’s supper was served.”

“That can hardly be. I have issued such stringent and severe ordinances with respect to dueling that no one, I presume, would dare to disobey them.”

“In that case, Heaven preserve me from excusing any one!” exclaimed St. Aignan. “Your majesty commanded me to speak, and I spoke accordingly.”

“Tell me, then, in what way the Comte de Guiche has been wounded?”

“Sire, it is said to have been at a boar-hunt.”

“This evening?”

“Yes, sire.”

“One of his hands shattered, and a hole in his breast. Who was at the hunt with Monsieur de Guiche?”

“I do not know, sire; but Monsieur de Manicamp knows, or ought to know.”

“You are concealing something from me, St. Aignan.”

“Nothing, sire, I assure you.”

“Then, explain to me how the accident happened; was it a musket that burst?”

“Very likely, sire. But yet, on reflection, it could hardly have been that, for De Guiche’s pistol was found close by him, still loaded.”

“His pistol? But a man does not go to a boar-hunt with a pistol, I should think.”

“Sire, it is also said that De Guiche’s horse was killed, and that the horse is still to be found in the wide-open glade in the forest.”

“His horse? De Guiche go on horseback to a boar-hunt? St. Aignan, I do not understand a syllable of what you have been telling me. Where did the affair happen?”

“At the Rond-point, in that part of the forest called the Bois-Rochin.”

“That will do. Call Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

St. Aignan obeyed, and the musketeer entered.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king, “you will leave this place by the little door of the private staircase.”

“Yes, sire.”

“You will mount your horse.”

“Yes, sire.”

“And you will proceed to the Rond-point du Bois-Rochin. Do you know the spot?”

“Yes, sire. I have fought there twice.”

“What!” exclaimed the king, amazed at the reply.

“Under the edicts, sire, of Cardinal Richelieu,” returned D’Artagnan, with his usual impassibility.

“That is very different, monsieur. You will, therefore, go there and will examine the locality very carefully. A man has been wounded there, and you will find a horse lying dead. You will tell me what your opinion is upon the whole affair.”

“Very good, sire.”

“It is a matter of course that it is your own opinion I require, and not that of any one else.”

“You shall have it in an hour’s time, sire.”

“I prohibit your speaking with any one, whoever it may be.”

“Except with the person who must give me a lantern,” said D’Artagnan.

“Oh! that is a matter of course,” said the king, laughing at the liberty, which he tolerated in no one but his captain of musketeers.

D’Artagnan left by the little staircase.

“Now, let my physician be sent for,” said Louis. Ten minutes afterward the king’s physician arrived, quite out of breath.

“You will go, monsieur,” said the king to him, “and accompany Monsieur de St. Aignan wherever he may take you; you will render me an account of the state of the person you may see in the house you will be taken to.”

The physician obeyed without a remark, as at that time people began to obey Louis XIV., and left the room preceding St. Aignan.

“Do you, St. Aignan, send Manicamp to me before the physician can possibly have spoken to him.”

And St. Aignan left in his turn.

Showing In What Way D’Artagnan Discharged the Mission with Which the King Had Intrusted Him.

While the king was engaged in making these last-mentioned arrangements in order to ascertain the truth, D’Artagnan, without losing a second, ran to the stable, took down the lantern, saddled his horse himself, and proceeded toward the place which his majesty had indicated. According to the promise he had made, he had neither seen nor met any one; and, as we have observed, he had carried his scruples so far as to do without the assistance of the helpers in the stables altogether. D’Artagnan was one of those who, in moments of difficulty, pride themselves on increasing their own value. By dint of hard galloping, he in less than five minutes reached the wood, fastened his horse to the first tree he came to, and penetrated to the broad open space on foot. He then began to inspect most carefully, on foot, and with his lantern in his hand, the whole surface of the Rond-point, went forward, turned back again, measured, examined, and after half an hour’s minute inspection, he returned silently to where he had left his horse, and pursued his way in deep reflection and at a footpace to Fontainebleau. Louis was waiting in his cabinet; he was alone, and with a pencil was scribbling on paper certain lines which D’Artagnan at the first glance recognized as being very unequal and very much scratched about. The conclusion he arrived at was that they must be verses. The king raised his head and perceived D’Artagnan.

“Well, monsieur,” he said, “do you bring me any news?”

“Yes, sire.”

“What have you seen?”

“As far as probability goes, sire,” D’Artagnan began to reply.

“It was certainty I requested of you.”

“I will approach it as near as I possibly can. The weather was very well adapted for investigations of the character I have just made; it has been raining this evening, and the roads were wet and muddy--”

“Well, the result, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Sire, your majesty told me that there was a horse lying dead in the cross-road of the Bois-Rochin, and I began, therefore, by studying the roads. I say the roads, because the center of the cross-road is reached by four separate roads. The one that I myself took was the only one that presented any fresh traces. Two horses had followed it side by side; their eight feet were marked very distinctly in the clay. One of the riders was more impatient than the other, for the footprints of the one were invariably in advance of the other about half a horse’s length.”

“Are you quite sure they came together?” said the king.

“Yes, sire. The horses are two rather large animals of equal pace--horses well used to maneuvers of all kinds, for they wheeled round the barrier of the Rond-point together.”

“Well--and after?”

“The two cavaliers paused there for a minute, no doubt to arrange the conditions of the engagement; the horses grew restless and impatient. One of the riders spoke, while the other listened and seemed to have contented himself by simply answering. His horse pawed the ground, which proves that his attention was so taken up by listening that he let the bridle fall from his hand.”

“A hostile meeting did take place, then?”

“Undoubtedly. “

“Continue; you are a most accurate observer.”

“One of the two cavaliers remained where he was standing, the one, in fact, who had been listening; the other crossed the open space, and at first placed himself directly opposite to his adversary. The one who had remained stationary traversed the Rond-point at a gallop, about two-thirds of its length, thinking that by this means he would gain upon his opponent; but the latter had followed the circumference of the wood.”

“You are ignorant of their names, I suppose?”

“Completely so, sire. Only he who followed the circumference of the wood was mounted on a black horse.”

“How do you know that?”

“I found a few hairs of his tail among the brambles which bordered the sides of the ditch.”

“Go on.”

“As for the other horse, there can be no trouble in describing him, since he was left dead on the field of battle.”

“What was the cause of his death?”

“A ball which had passed through his temple.”

“Was the ball that of a pistol or a gun?”

“It was a pistol-bullet, sire. Besides, the manner in which the horse was wounded explained to me the tactics of the man who had killed it. He had followed the circumference of the wood in order to take his adversary in flank. Moreover, I followed his foot-track on the grass.”

“The tracks of the black horse, do you mean?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Go on, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“As your majesty now perceives the position of the two adversaries, I will, for a moment, leave the cavalier who had remained stationary for the one who started off at a gallop.”

“Do so.”

“The horse of the cavalier who rode at full speed was killed on the spot.”

“How do you know that?”

“The cavalier had not time even to throw himself off his horse, and so fell with it. I observed the impression of his leg, which, with a great effort, he was enabled to extricate from under the horse. The spur, pressed down by the weight of the animal, had plowed up the ground.”

“Very good; and what did he do as soon as he rose up again?”

“He walked straight up to his adversary.”

“Who still remained upon the verge of the forest?”

“Yes, sire. Then, having reached a favorable distance, he stopped firmly, for the impression of both his heels are left in the ground quite close to each other, fired, and missed his adversary.”

“How do you know he did not hit him?”

“I found a hat with a ball through it.”

“Ah, a proof, then!” exclaimed the king.

“Insufficient, sire,” replied D’Artagnan coldly; “it is a hat without any letters indicating its ownership, without arms; a red feather, as all hats have; the lace, even, had nothing particular in it.”

“Did the man with the hat through which the bullet had passed fire a second time?”

“Oh, sire, he had already fired twice.”

“How did you ascertain that?”

“I found the waddings of the pistol.”

“And what became of the bullet which did not kill the horse?”

“It cut in two the feather of the hat belonging to him against whom it was directed, and broke a small birch at the other end of the open glade.”

“In that case, then, the man on the black horse was disarmed, while his adversary had still one more shot to fire?”

“Sire, while the dismounted rider was extricating himself from his horse, the other was reloading his pistol. Only, he was much agitated while he was loading it, and his hand trembled greatly.”

“How do you know that?”

“Half the charge fell to the ground, and he threw the ramrod aside, not having time to replace it in the pistol.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is marvelous what you tell me!”

“It is only close observation, sire, and the commonest highwayman would do as much.”

“The whole scene is before me from the manner in which you relate it.”

“I have, in fact, reconstructed it in my own mind, with merely a few alterations.”

“And now,” said the king, “let us return to the dismounted cavalier. You were saying that he had walked toward his adversary while the latter was loading his pistol.”

“Yes; but at the very moment he himself was taking aim, the other fired.”

“Oh!” said the king; “and the shot?”

“The shot told terribly, sire; the dismounted cavalier fell upon his face, after having staggered forward three or four paces.”

“Where was he hit?”

“In two places; in the first place, in his right hand, and then, by the same bullet, in his chest.”

“But how could you ascertain that?” inquired the king, full of admiration.

“By a very simple means; the butt-end of the pistol was covered with blood, and the trace of the bullet could be observed with fragments of a broken ring. The wounded man, in all probability, had the ring-finger and the little finger carried off.”

“A far as the hand goes, I have nothing to say; but the chest?”

“Sire, there were two small pools of blood, at a distance of about two feet and a half from each other. At one of these pools of blood the grass was torn up by the clinched hand; at the other, the grass was simply pressed down by the weight of the body.”

“Poor De Guiche!” exclaimed the king.

“Ah! it was Monsieur de Guiche, then?” said the musketeer very quietly. “I suspected it, but did not venture to mention it to your majesty.”

“And what made you suspect it?”

“I recognized the De Grammont arms upon the holsters of the dead horse.”

“And you think he is seriously wounded?”

“Very seriously; since he fell immediately, and remained a long time in the same place; however, he was able to walk, as he left the spot supported by two friends.”

“You met him returning, then?”

“No; but I observed the footprints of three men; the one on the right and the one on the left walked freely and easily, but the one in the middle dragged his feet as he walked; besides, he left traces of blood at every step he took.”

“Now, monsieur, since you saw the combat so distinctly that not a single detail seems to have escaped you, tell me something about De Guiche’s adversary?”

“()h, sire, I do not know him.”

“And yet you see everything very clearly.”

“Yes, sire, I see everything; but I do not tell all I see; and, since the poor devil has escaped, your majesty will permit me to say that I do not intend to denounce him.”

“And yet he is guilty, since he has fought a duel, monsieur. “

“Not guilty in my eyes, sire,” said D’Artagnan coldly.

“Monsieur!” exclaimed the king, “are you aware of what you are saying?”

“Perfectly, sire; but according to my notions, a man who fights a duel is a brave man; such, at least, is my own opinion; but your majesty may have another; that is very natural--you are the master here.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan, I ordered you, however--”

D’Artagnan interrupted the king by a respectful gesture.

“You ordered me, sire, to gather what particulars 1 could, respecting a hostile meeting that had taken place; those particulars you have. If you order me to arrest Monsieur de Guiche’s adversary, I will do so; but do not order me to denounce him to you for in that case I will not obey.”

“Very well. Arrest him, then.”

“Give me his name, sire.”

The king stamped his foot angrily; but after a moment’s reflection, he said:

“You are right--ten times, twenty times, a hundred times right.”

“That is my opinion, sire; I am happy that, this time, it accords with your majesty’s.”

“One word more. Who assisted De Guiche?”

“I do not know. sire.”

“But you speak of two men. There was a person present, then, as second?”

“There was no second, sire. Nay, more than that, when Monsieur de Guiche fell his adversary fled, without giving him any assistance.”

“The miserable coward!” exclaimed the king.

“The consequence of your ordinances, sire. If a man has fought well and fairly, and has already escaped one chance of death, he naturally wishes to escape a second. Monsieur de Botteville cannot be forgotten very easily.”

“And so, men turn cowards.”

“No; they become prudent.”

“And he has fled, then, you say?”

“Yes; and as fast as his horse could possibly carry him.”

“In what direction?”

“In the direction of the château.”

“Well, and after?”

“Afterward, as I have had the honor of telling your majesty, two men on foot arrived, who carried Monsieur de Guiche back with them.”

“What proof have you that these men arrived after the combat?”

“A very evident proof, sire; at the moment the encounter took place the rain had just ceased, the ground had not had time to imbibe the moisture and had, consequently, become damp; the footsteps sank in the ground; but while Monsieur de Guiche was lying there in a fainting condition, the ground became firm again, and the footsteps made a less sensible impression.”

Louis clapped his hands together in sign of admiration.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, “you are positively the cleverest man in my kingdom.”

“The very thing that Monsieur de Richelieu thought, and Monsieur de Mazarin said, sire.”

“And now, it remains for us to see if your sagacity is in fault.”

“Oh, sire, a man may be mistaken; errare humanum est,” said the musketeer philosophically.

“In that case, you are not human, Monsieur d’Artagnan, for I believe you never are mistaken.”

“Your majesty said that we were going to see whether such was the case or not.”

“Yes.”

“In what way, may I venture to ask?”

“I have sent for Monsieur de Manicamp, and Monsieur de Manicamp is coming.”

“And Monsieur de Manicamp knows the secret?”

“De Guiche has no secrets from Monsieur de Manicamp.”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“No one was present at the combat, I repeat; and unless Monsieur de Manicamp was one of the two men who brought him back--”

“Hush!” said the king; “he is coming. Remain there, and listen attentively.”

“Very good, sire.”

And, at the same moment, Manicamp and St. Aignan appeared at the threshold of the door.

The Encounter.

The king with his hand made, first to the musketeer and then to St. Aignan, an imperious and significant gesture, as much as to say, “On your lives, not a word.” D’Artagnan withdrew, like a soldier, into a corner of the room; St. Aignan, in his character of favorite, leaned over the back of the king’s chair. Manicamp, with his right foot properly advanced, a smile upon his lips, and his white and well-formed hands gracefully disposed, advanced to make his reverence to the king, who returned the salutation by a bow.

“Good-evening, Monsieur de Manicamp,” he said.

“Your majesty did me the honor to send for me,” said Manicamp.

“Yes, in order to learn from you all the details of the unfortunate accident which has befallen the Comte de Guiche.”

“Oh, sire, it is very grievous, indeed!”

“You were there?”

“Not precisely so, sire.”

“But you arrived on the scene where the accident occurred a few minutes after it took place?”

“I did so, sire; about half an hour afterward.”

“And where did the accident happen?”

“I believe, sire, the place is called the Rond-point du Bois-Rochin.”

“Oh! the rendezvous of the hunt?”

“The very spot, sire. “

“Very good; tell me what details you are acquainted with respecting this unhappy affair, Monsieur de Manicamp.”

“Perhaps your majesty has already been informed of them, and I fear to fatigue you by useless repetitions.”

“No, do not be afraid of that.”

Manicamp looked all round him; he only saw D’Artagnan leaning with his back against the wainscot--D’Artagnan, calm, kind, and good-natured as usual--and St. Aignan, whom he had accompanied, and who still leaned over the king’s armchair, with an expression of countenance equally full of good feeling. He determined, therefore, to speak out.

“Your majesty is perfectly aware,” he said, “that accidents are very frequent in hunting.”

“In hunting, do you say?”

“I mean, sire, when an animal is brought to bay.”

“Ah! ah!” said the king, “it was when the animal was brought to bay, then, that the accident happened?”

“Alas! sire, unhappily, it was so.”

The king paused for a moment before he said:

“What animal was being hunted?”

“A wild boar, sire.”

“And what could possibly have possessed De Guiche to go to a wild-boar hunt by himself; that is but a clownish idea of sport, and only fit for that class of people who, unlike the Maréchal de Grammont, have no dogs and huntsmen to hunt as gentlemen should do.”

Manicamp shrugged his shoulders.

“Youth is very rash,” he said sententiously.

“Well, go on,” said the king.

“At all events,” continued Manicamp, not venturing to be too precipitate and hasty, and letting his words fall very slowly one by one, “at all events, sire, poor De Guiche went hunting--quite alone.”

“Quite alone, indeed! What a sportsman! And is not Monsieur de Guiche aware that the wild boar always stands at bay?”

“That is the very thing that really happened, sire.”

“He had some idea, then, of the beast being there?”

“Yes, sire; some peasants had seen it among their potatoes.”

“And what kind of animal was it?”

“A short, thick beast.”

“You may as well tell me, monsieur, that De Guiche had some idea of committing suicide; for I have seen him hunt, and he is an active and vigorous hunter. Whenever he fires at an animal brought to bay and held in check by the dogs, he takes every possible precaution, and yet he fires with a carbine, and on this occasion he seems to have faced the boar with pistols only.”

Manicamp started.

“A costly pair of pistols, excellent weapons to fight a duel with a man, and not with a wild boar. What absurdity!”

“There are some things, sire, which are difficult of explanation.”

“You are quite right, and the event which we are now discussing is one of those things. Go on.”

During the recital, St. Aignan, who had probably made a sign to Manicamp to be careful what he was about, found that the king’s glance was constantly fixed upon himself, so that it was utterly impossible to communicate with Manicamp in any way. As for D’Artagnan, the statue of Silence at Athens was far more noisy and far more expressive than he. Manicamp, therefore, was obliged to continue in the same way he had begun, and so contrived to get more and more entangled in his explanation.

“Sire,” he said, “this is probably how the affair happened. Guiche was waiting to receive the boar as it rushed toward him.”

“On foot or on horseback?” inquired the king.

“On horseback. He fired upon the brute and missed his aim, and then it dashed upon him.”

“And the horse was killed?”

“Ah, your majesty knows that, then!”

“I have been told that a horse has been found lying dead in the crossroads of the Bois-Rochin, and I presumed it was De Guiche’s horse.”

“Perfectly true, sire; it was his.”

“Well, so much for the horse, and now for De Guiche?”

“De Guiche, once down, was attacked and worried by the wild boar, and wounded in the hand and in the chest.”

“It is a horrible accident, but it must be admitted it was De Guiche’s own fault. How could he possibly have gone to hunt such an animal merely armed with pistols; he must have forgotten the fable of Adonis?”

Manicamp rubbed his ear in seeming perplexity.

“Very true,” he said; “it was very imprudent.”

“Can you explain it, Monsieur Manicamp?”

“Sire, what is written, is written.”

“Ah! you are a fatalist.”

Manicamp looked very uncomfortable and ill at ease.

“I am angry with you, Monsieur Manicamp,” continued the king.

“With me, sire?”

“Yes. How was it that you, who are De Guiche’s intimate friend, and who know that he is subject to such acts of folly, did not stop him in time?”

Manicamp hardly knew what to do; the tone in which the king spoke was not exactly that of a credulous man. On the other hand, the tone did not indicate any particular severity, nor did he seem to care very much about the cross examination. There was more of raillery in it than of menace.

“And you say, then,” continued the king, “that it was positively De Guiche’s horse that was found dead?”

“Quite positive, sire.”

“Did that astonish you?”

“No, sire; for your majesty will remember that at the last hunt Monsieur de St. Maure had a horse killed under him, and in the same way.”

“Yes, but that one was ripped open.”

“Of course, sire.”

“Had De Guiche’s horse been ripped open like Monsieur de St. Maure’s horse, that would not have astonished me indeed.”

Manicamp opened his eyes very wide.

“Am I mistaken?” resumed the king. “Was it not in the temple that De Guiche’s horse was struck? You must admit, Monsieur de Manicamp, that that is a very singular wound.”

“You are aware, sire, that the horse is a very intelligent animal, and he endeavored to defend himself.”

“But a horse defends himself with his hind feet, and not with his head.”

“In that case, the terrified horse may have slipped or fallen down,” said Manicamp, “and the boar, you understand, sire, the boar--”

“Oh! I understand that perfectly, as far as the horse is concerned; but how about the rider?”

“Well, that, too, is simple enough; the boar left the horse and attacked the rider, and, as I have already had the honor of informing your majesty, shattered De Guiche’s hand at the very moment he was about to discharge his second pistol at him, and then, with a blow of his tusk, made that terrible hole in his chest.”

“Nothing can possibly be more likely; really, Monsieur de Manicamp, you are wrong in placing so little confidence in your own eloquence, and you can tell a story most admirably.”

“Your majesty is exceedingly kind,” said Manicamp, saluting him in the most embarrassed manner.

“From this day henceforth, I will prohibit any gentleman attached to my court going to a similar encounter. Really, one might just as well permit dueling.”

Manicamp started, and moved as if he were about to withdraw.

“Is your majesty satisfied?” he inquired.

“Delighted; hut do not withdraw yet, Monsieur de Manicamp,” said Louis; “I have something to say to you.”

“Well, well!” thought D’Artagnan, “there is another who is not up to our mark;” and he uttered a sigh which might signify, “Oh! the men of our stamp, where are they now?”

At this moment an usher lifted up the curtain before the door, and announced the king’s physician.

“Ah!” exclaimed Louis, “here comes Monsieur Valot, who has just been to see Monsieur de Guiche. We shall now hear news of the wounded man.”

Manicamp felt more uncomfortable than ever.

“In this way, at least,” added the king, “our conscience will be quite clear.”

And he looked at D’Artagnan, who did not seem in the slightest degree discomposed.

The Physician.

M. Valot entered. The position of the different persons present was precisely the same; the king was seated, St. Aignan still leaning over the back of his armchair, D’Artagnan with his back against the wall, and Manicamp still standing.

“Well, Monsieur Valot,” said the king, “have you obeyed my directions?”

“With the greatest alacrity, sire.”

“You went to the doctor’s house in Fontainebleau?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And you found Monsieur de Guiche there?”

“I did, sire.”

“What state was he in? Speak unreservedly.”

“In a very sad state, indeed, sire.”

“The wild boar did not quite devour him, however?”

“Devour whom?”

“De Guiche.”

“What wild boar?”

“The boar that wounded him.”

“Monsieur de Guiche wounded by a boar?”

“So it is said, at least.”

“By a poacher, rather, or by a jealous husband, or an ill used lover, who, in order to be revenged, fired upon him.”

“What is that you say, Monsieur Valot? Were not Monsieur de Guiche’s wounds produced by defending himself against a wild boar?”

“Monsieur de Guiche’s wounds were produced by a pistol-bullet which broke his ring-finger and the little finger of the right hand, and afterward buried itself in the intercostal muscles of the chest.”

“A bullet? Are you sure Monsieur de Guiche has been wounded by a bullet?” exclaimed the king, pretending to look much surprised.

“Indeed, I am, sire; so sure, in fact, that here it is.”

And he presented to the king a half-flattened bullet, which the king looked at, but did not touch.

“Did he have that in his chest, poor fellow?” he asked.

“Not precisely. The ball did not penetrate, but was flattened, as you see, either upon the trigger of the pistol or upon the right side of the breast-bone.”

“Good heavens!” said the king seriously, “you said nothing to me about this, Monsieur de Manicamp.”

“Sire--”

“What does all this mean, then, this invention about hunting a wild boar at nightfall? Come, speak, monsieur.”

“Sire--”

“It seems, then, that you are right,” said the king, turning round toward his captain of musketeers, “and that a duel actually took place.”

The king possessed, to a greater extent than any one else, the faculty enjoyed by the great in power or position, of compromising and dividing those beneath him. Manicamp darted a look full of reproaches at the musketeer. D’Artagnan understood the look at once, and not wishing to remain beneath the weight of such an accusation, advanced a step forward, and said:

“Sire, your majesty commanded me to go and explore the place where the crossroads meet in the Bois-Rochin, and to report to you, according to my own ideas, what had taken place there. I submitted my observations to you, but without denouncing any one. It was your majesty yourself who was the first to name the Comte de Guiche.”

“Well, monsieur, well,” said the king haughtily; “you have done your duty, and I am satisfied with you. But you, Monsieur de Manicamp, have failed in yours, for you have told me a falsehood.”

“A falsehood, sire? The expression is a hard one.”

“Find another instead, then.”

“Sire, I will not attempt to do so. I have already been unfortunate enough to displease your majesty, and it will, in every respect, be far better for me to accept most humbly any reproaches you may think proper to address to me.”

“You are right, monsieur; whoever conceals the truth from me risks my displeasure.”

“Sometimes, sire, one is ignorant of the truth.”

“No further falsehood, monsieur, or I double the punishment.”

Manicamp bowed and turned pale. D’Artagnan again made another step forward, determined to interfere, if the still increasing anger of the king attained certain limits.

“You see, monsieur,” continued the king, “that it is useless to deny the thing any longer. Monsieur de Guiche has fought a duel.”

“I do not deny it, sire, and it would have been generous in your majesty not to have forced me to tell a falsehood.”

“Forced? Who forced you?”

“Sire, Monsieur de Guiche is my friend. Your majesty has forbidden duels under pain of death. A falsehood might save my friend’s life, and I told it.”

“Good!” murmured D’Artagnan, “an excellent fellow, upon my word!”

“Instead of telling a falsehood, monsieur, you should have prevented him from fighting,” said the king.

“Oh, sire, your majesty, who is the most accomplished gentleman in France, knows quite as well as any of us other gentlemen that we have never considered Monsieur de Botteville dishonored for having suffered death on the Place de Grève. That which does, in truth, dishonor a man is to avoid meeting his enemy, and not to avoid meeting his executioner.”

“Well, monsieur, that may be so,” said Louis XIV.; “I am very desirous of suggesting a means of your repairing all.”

“If it be a means of which a gentleman may avail himself, I shall most eagerly do so.”

“The name of Monsieur de Guiche’s adversary?”

“Oh, oh!” murmured D’Artagnan, “are we going to take Louis XIII. as a model?”

“Sire!” said Manicamp, with an accent of reproach.

“You will not name him, it appears, then?” said the king.

“Sire, I do not know him.”

“Bravo!” murmured D’Artagnan.

“Monsieur de Manicamp, hand your sword to the captain.”

Manicamp bowed very gracefully, unbuckled his sword, smiling as he did so, and handed it for the musketeer to take. But St. Aignan advanced hurriedly between him and D’Artagnan.

“Sire,” he said, “will your majesty permit me to say a word?”

“Do so,” said the king, delighted perhaps at the bottom of his heart for some one to step between him and the wrath which he felt had carried him too far.

“Manicamp, you are a brave man, and the king will appreciate your conduct; but to wish to serve your friends too well, is to destroy them. Manicamp, you know the name the king asks you for?”

“It is perfectly true--I do know it.”

“You will give it up, then?”

“If I felt I ought to have mentioned it, I should have already done so.”

“Then I will tell it, for I am not so extremely sensitive on such points of honor as you are.”

“You are at liberty to do so, but it seems to me, however--”

“Oh! a truce to magnanimity; I will not permit you to go to the Bastile in that way. Do you speak, or I will.”

Manicamp was keen-witted enough, and perfectly understood that he had done quite sufficient to produce a good opinion of his conduct; it was now only a question of persevering in such a manner as to regain the good graces of the king.

“Speak, monsieur,” he said to St. Aignan; “I have on my own behalf done all that my conscience told me to do, and it must have been very importunate,” he added, turning toward the king, “since its mandates led me to disobey your majesty’s commands; but your majesty will forgive me, I hope, when you learn that I was anxious to preserve the honor of a lady.”

“Of a lady?” said the king, with some uneasiness.

“Yes, sire.”

“A lady was the cause of this duel?”

Manicamp bowed.

“If the position of the lady in question warrants it,” he said, “I shall not complain of your having acted with so much circumspection; on the contrary, indeed.”

“Sire, everything which concerns your majesty’s household, or the household of your majesty’s brother, is of importance in my eyes.”

“In my brother’s household,” repeated Louis XIV., with a slight hesitation. “The cause of the duel was a lady belonging to my brother’s household, do you say?”

“Or to madame’s.”

“Ah! to madame’s?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Well--and this lady?”

“Is one of the maids of honor of Her Royal Highness Madame la Duchesse d’Orléans.”

“For whom Monsieur de Guiche fought--do you say?”

“Yes, sire; and this time I tell no falsehood.”

Louis seemed restless and anxious.

“Gentlemen,” he said, turning toward the spectators of this scene, “will you have the goodness to retire for a moment? I wish to be alone with Monsieur de Manicamp; I know he has some very important communication to make for his own justification, and which he will not venture to do before witnesses. Put up your sword, Monsieur de Manicamp.

Manicamp returned his sword to his belt.

“The fellow, decidedly, has his wits about him,” murmured the musketeer, taking St. Aignan by the arm, and withdrawing with him.

“He will get out of it,” said the latter, in D’Artagnan’s ear.

“And with honor, too, comte.”

Manicamp cast a glance of recognition at St. Aignan and the captain, which passed unnoticed by the king.

“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan, as he left the room, “I had an indifferent opinion of the new generation. Well, I was mistaken, after all, and there is some good in them, I perceive.”

Valot preceded the favorite and the captain, leaving the king and Manicamp alone in the cabinet.

Wherein D’Artagnan Perceives that It Was He Who Was Mistaken and Manicamp Who Was Right.

The king, determined to be satisfied that no one was listening, went himself to the door, and then returned precipitately and placed himself opposite to Manicamp.

“And now we are alone, Monsieur de Manicamp, explain yourself.”

“With the greatest frankness sire,” replied the young man.

“And, in the first place, pray understand,” added the king, “that there is nothing to which I personally attach a greater importance than the honor of any lady.”

“That is the very reason, sire, why I endeavored to study your delicacy of sentiment and feeling.”

“Yes, I understand it all now. You say that it was one of the maids of honor of my sister-in-law who was the subject of dispute, and that the person in question, De Guiche’s adversary, the man, in point of fact, whom you will not name--”

“But whom Monsieur de St. Aignan will name, sire.”

“Yes, you say, however, that this man has insulted some one belonging to the household of madame.”

“Yes, sire; Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Ah!” said the king, as if he had expected the name, and yet as if its announcement had caused him a sudden pang, “ah! it was Mademoiselle de la Valliere who was insulted?”

“I do not say precisely that she was insulted, sire.”

“But, at all events--”

“I merely say that she was spoken of in terms far from respectful.”

“A man dares to speak in disrespectful terms of Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and yet you refuse to tell me the name of the insulter?”

“Sire, I thought it was quite understood that your majesty had abandoned the idea of making me denounce him.”

“Perfectly true, monsieur,” returned the king, controlling his anger; “besides, I shall always know in sufficient time the name of the man whom I shall feel it my duty to punish.”

Manicamp perceived that they had returned to the question again. As for the king, he saw he had allowed himself to be hurried away a little too far, and he therefore continued:

“And I will punish him--not because there is any question of Mademoiselle de la Valliere, although I esteem her very highly--but because a lady was the object of the quarrel. And I intend that ladies shall be respected at my court, and that quarrels shall be put a stop to altogether.”

Manicamp bowed.

“And now, Monsieur de Manicamp,” continued the king, “what was said about Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”

“Cannot your majesty guess?”

“I?”

“Your majesty can imagine the character of the jests in which young men permit themselves to indulge.”

“They very probably said that she was in love with some one?” the king ventured to remark.

“Probably so.”

“But Mademoiselle de la Valliere has a perfect right to love any one she pleases,” said the king.

“That is the very point De Guiche maintained.”

“And on account of which he fought, do you mean?”

“Yes, sire, the very sole cause.”

The king colored.

“And you do not know anything more, then?”

“In what respect, sire?”

“In the very interesting respect which you are now referring to.”

“What does your majesty wish to know?”

“Why, the name of the man with whom La Valliere is in love, and whom De Guiche’s adversary disputed her right to love.

“Sire, I know nothing--I have heard nothing--and have learned nothing, even accidentally; but De Guiche is a noble-hearted fellow, and if, momentarily, he substituted himself in the place or stead of La Valliere’s protector, it was because that protector was himself of too exalted a position to undertake her defense.”

These words were more than transparent; they made the king blush, but this time with pleasure. He struck Manicamp gently on the shoulder.

“Well, well, Monsieur de Manicamp, you are not only a ready, witty fellow, but a brave gentleman besides, and your friend De Guiche is a paladin quite after my own heart; you will express that to him from me.”

“Your majesty forgives me, then?”

“Completely.”

“And I am free?”

The king smiled, and held out his hand to Manicamp, which he took and kissed respectfully.

“And then,” added the king, “you relate stories so charmingly. “

“I, sire?”

“You told me, in the most admirable manner, the particulars of the accident which happened to De Guiche. I can see the wild boar rushing out of the wood--I can see the horse fall down, and the boar rush from the horse to the rider. You do not simply relate a story well, but you positively paint its incidents.”

“Sire, I think your majesty deigns to laugh at my expense,” said Manicamp.

“On the contrary,” said Louis seriously, “I have so little intention of laughing, Monsieur de Manicamp, that I wish you to relate this adventure to every one.”

“The adventure of the hunt?”

“Yes; in the same manner you told it to me, without changing a single word--you understand?”

“Perfectly, sire.

“And you will relate it, then?”

“Without losing a minute.”

“Very well; and now summon Monsieur d’Artagnan; I hope you are no longer afraid of him.”

“Oh, sire, from the very moment I am sure of your majesty’s kind dispositions, I no longer fear anything!”

Call him, then, said the king.

Manicamp opened the door, and said:

“Gentlemen, the king wishes you to return.”

D’Artagnan, St. Aignan, and Valot entered.

“Gentlemen,” said the king, “I summoned you for the purpose of saying that Monsieur de Manicamp’s explanation has entirely satisfied me.”

D’Artagnan glanced at Valot and St. Aignan, as much as to say:

“Well, did I not tell you so?”

The king led Manicamp to the door, and then, in a low tone of voice, said:

“See that Monsieur de Guiche takes good care of himself, and particularly that he recovers as soon as possible; I am very desirous of thanking him in the name of every lady, but let him take special care that he does not begin again.”

“Were he to die a hundred times, sire, he would begin again if your majesty’s honor were in any way called in question.”

This remark was direct enough. But we have already said that the incense of flattery was very pleasing to the king, and, provided he received it, he was not very particular as to its quality.

“Very well, very well,” he said, as he dismissed Manicamp, “I will see De Guiche myself, and make him listen to reason.”

And as Manicamp left the apartment, the king turned round toward the three spectators of this scene, and said:

“Tell me, Monsieur d’Artagnan, how does it happen that your sight is so imperfect?--you, whose eyes are generally so very good.”

“My sight bad, sire?”

“Certainly.”

“It must be the case, since your majesty says so; but in what respect, may I ask?”

“Why, with regard to what occurred in the Bois-Rochin.”

“Ah! ah!”

“Certainly. You pretend to have seen the tracks of two horses, to have detected the footprints of two men, and have described the particulars of an engagement, which you assert took place. Nothing of the sort occurred; pure illusion on your part.”

“Ah! ah!” said D’Artagnan.

“Exactly the same thing with the galloping to and fro of the horses, and the other indications of a struggle. It was the struggle of De Guiche against the wild boar, and absolutely nothing else; only the struggle was a long and a terrible one, it seems.”

“Ah! ah!” continued D’Artagnan.

“And when I think that I almost believed it for a moment; but then you spoke with such confidence.”

“I admit, sire, that I must have been very short-sighted,” said D’Artagnan, with a readiness of humor which delighted the king.

“You do admit, then?”

“Admit it, sire? Most assuredly I do.”

“So that now you see the thing--”

“In quite a different light to what I saw it half an hour ago.”

“And to what, then, do you attribute this difference in your opinion?”

“Oh! a very simple thing, sire; half an hour ago I returned from the Bois-Rochin, where I had nothing to light me but a stupid stable-lantern----”

“While now?”

“While now I have all the wax-lights of your cabinet, and more than that, your majesty’s own eyes, which illuminate everything, like the blazing sun at noonday.”

The king began to laugh, and St. Aignan broke out into convulsions of merriment.

“It is precisely like Monsieur Valot,” said D’Artagnan, resuming the conversation where the king had left off; “he has been imagining all along that not only was Monsieur de Guiche wounded by a bullet, but still more, that he extracted it, even, from his chest.”

“Upon my word,” said Valot, “I assure you--”

“Now, did you not believe that?” continued D’Artagnan.

“Yes,” said Valot; “not only did I believe it, but at this very moment I would swear it.”

“Well, my dear doctor, you have dreamed it.”

“I have dreamed it?”

“Monsieur de Guiche’s wound--a mere dream; the bullet, a dream. So, take my advice and say no more about it.”

“Well said,” returned the king. “Monsieur d’Artagnan’s advice is very good. Do not speak of your dream to any one, Monsieur Valot, and, upon the word of a gentleman, you will have no occasion to repent it. Good-evening, gentlemen; a very sad affair, indeed, is a wild-boar hunt!”

“A very serious thing, indeed,” repeated D’Artagnan, in a loud voice, “is a wild-boar hunt!” and he repeated it in every room through which he passed, and left the château, taking Valot with him.

“And now we are alone,” said the king to St. Aignan, “what is the name of De Guiche’s adversary?”

St. Aignan looked at the king.

“Oh! do not hesitate,” said the king; “you know that I must forgive.”

“De Wardes,” said St. Aignan.

“Very good,” said Louis XIV.; and then, hastily retiring to his own room, added to himself, “to forgive is not to forget.”

Showing the Advantage of Having Two Strings to One’s Bow.

Manicamp quitted the king’s apartment, delighted at having succeeded so well, when, just as he reached the bottom of the staircase, and was about passing before a doorway, he felt that some one suddenly pulled him by the sleeve. He turned round and recognized Montalais, who was waiting for him in the passage, and who, in a very mysterious manner, with her body bent forward, and in a low tone of voice, said to him:

“Follow me, monsieur, and without any delay, if you please.”

“Where to, mademoiselle?” inquired Manicamp.

“In the first place, a true knight would not have asked such a question, but would have followed me without requiring any explanation.”

“Well, mademoiselle, I am quite ready to conduct myself as a true knight.”

“No; it is too late, and you cannot take the credit of it. We are going to madame’s apartment, so come at once.”

“Ah! ah!” said Manicamp. “Lead on, then.”

And he followed Montalais, who ran before him as light as Galatea.

“This time,” said Manicamp, as he followed his guide, “I do not think that stories about hunting expeditions would be acceptable. We will try, however, and if need be--why, if there should be any occasion for it, we must try something else.”

Montalais still ran on.

“How fatiguing it is,” thought Manicamp, “to have need of one’s head and legs at the same time.”

At last, however, they arrived. Madame had just finished undressing, and was in a most elegant déshabille, but it must be understood that she had changed her dress before she had any idea of being subjected to the emotions which agitated her. She was waiting with the most restless impatience, and Montalais and Manicamp found her standing near the door. At the sound of their approaching footsteps madame came forward to meet them.

“Ah!” she said, “at last!”

“Here is Monsieur Manicamp,” replied Montalais.

Manicamp bowed with the greatest respect; madame signed to Montalais to withdraw, and she immediately obeyed. Madame followed her with her eyes, in silence, until the door closed behind her, and then, turning toward Manicamp, said:

“What is the matter?--and is it true, as I am told, Monsieur de Manicamp, that some one is lying wounded in the château?”

“Yes, madame, unfortunately so--Monsieur de Guiche.”

“Yes, Monsieur de Guiche,” repeated the princess. “I had, in fact, heard it rumored, but not confirmed. And so, in perfect truth, it is Monsieur de Guiche who has been so unfortunate?”

“Monsieur de Guiche himself, madame.”

“Are you aware, Monsieur de Manicamp,” said the princess hastily, “that the king has the strongest antipathy to duels?”

“Perfectly so, madame; but a duel with a wild beast is not amenable to his majesty.”

“Oh, you will not insult me by supposing that I should credit the absurd fable which has been reported, with what object I cannot tell, respecting Monsieur de Guiche having been wounded by a wild boar. No, no, monsieur; the real truth is known, and, in addition to the inconvenience of his wound, Monsieur de Guiche runs the risk of losing his liberty.”

“Alas! madame, I am well aware of that, but what is to be done?”

“You have seen the king?”

“Yes, madame.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him how Monsieur de Guiche had been to the chase, and how a wild boar had rushed forth out of the Bois-Rochin; how Monsieur de Guiche fired at it, and how, in fact, the furious brute dashed at De Guiche, killed his horse, and grievously wounded himself.”

“And the king believed that?”

“Perfectly.”

“Oh, you surprise me, Monsieur de Manicamp; you surprise me very much.”

And madame walked up and down the room, casting a searching look from time to time at Manicamp, who remained motionless and impassible in the same place. At last she stopped.

“And yet,” she said, “every one here seems united in giving another cause for this wound.”

“What cause, madame,” said Manicamp, “may I be permitted, without indiscretion, to ask your highness?”

“You ask such a question! You, Monsieur de Guiche’s intimate friend--his confidant, indeed!”

“Oh, madame, the intimate friend, yes; the confidant, no. De Guiche is a man who can keep his own secrets, who has some of his own certainly, but who never breathes a syllable about them. De Guiche is discretion itself madame.”

“Very well, then; those secrets which Monsieur de Guiche keeps so scrupulously, I shall have the pleasure of informing you of,” said the princess almost spitefully; “for the king may possibly question you a second time, and if, on the second occasion, you were to repeat the same story to him, he possibly might not be very well satisfied with it.”

“But, madame, I think your highness is mistaken with regard to the king. His majesty has been perfectly satisfied with me, I assure you.”

“In that case, permit me to assure you, Monsieur de Manicamp, that only proves one thing, which is, that his majesty is very easily satisfied.”

“I think your highness is mistaken in arriving at such an opinion; his majesty is well known not to be contented except with very good reasons.”

“And do you suppose that he will thank you for your officious falsehood, when he will learn to-morrow that Monsieur de Guiche had, on behalf of his friend, Monsieur de Bragelonne, a quarrel which ended in a hostile meeting?”

“A quarrel on Monsieur de Bragelonne’s account,” said Manicamp, with the most innocent expression in the world; “what does your royal highness do me the honor to tell me?”

“What is there astonishing in that? Monsieur de Guiche is susceptible, irritable, and easily loses his temper.”

“On the contrary, madame, I know Monsieur de Guiche to be very patient, and never susceptible or irritable except upon very good grounds.”

“But is not friendship a just ground?” said the princess.

“Oh, certainly, madame; and particularly for a heart like his.”

“Very good; you will not deny, I suppose, that Monsieur de Bragelonne is Monsieur de Guiche’s friend?”

“A very great friend.”

“Well, then, Monsieur de Guiche had taken Monsieur de Bragelonne’s part, and as Monsieur de Bragelonne was absent and could not fight, he fought for him.”

Manicamp began to smile, and moved his head and shoulders very slightly, as much as to say:

“Oh, if you will positively have it so--”

“But speak, at all events,” said the princess, out of patience, “speak!”

“I?”

“Of course; it is quite clear you are not of my opinion, and that you have something to say.”

“I have only one thing to say; madame.”

“Name it.”

“That I do not understand a single word of what you have just been telling me.”

“What! you do not understand a single word about Monsieur de Guiche’s quarrel with Monsieur de Wardes?” exclaimed the princess, almost out of temper.

Manicamp remained silent.

“A quarrel.” she continued, “which arose out of a conversation scandalous in its tone and purport, and more or less well founded, respecting the virtue of a certain lady.”

“Ah! of a certain lady--this is quite another thing,” said Manicamp.

“You begin to understand, do you not?”

“Your highness will excuse me, but I dare not--”

“You dare not,” said madame, exasperated; “very well, then, wait one moment, and I will dare.”

“Madame, madame!” exclaimed Manicamp, as if in great dismay, “be careful of what you are going to say.”

“It would seem, monsieur, that if I happened to be a man, you would challenge me, notwithstanding his majesty’s edicts, as Monsieur de Guiche challenged Monsieur de Wardes; and that, too, on account of the virtue of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Of Mademoiselle de la Valliere!” exclaimed Manicamp, starting backward, as if hers was the very last name he expected to hear pronounced.

“What makes you start in that manner, Monsieur de Manicamp?” said madame ironically; “do you mean to say you would be impertinent enough to suspect that young lady’s honor?”

“Madame, in the whole course of this affair there has not been the slightest question of Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s honor. “

“What! when two men have almost blown each other’s brains out on a woman’s behalf, do you mean to say she has had nothing to do with the affair, and that her name has not been called in question at all? I did not think you so good a courtier, Monsieur de Manicamp.”

“Pray forgive me, madame,” said the young man, “but we are very far from understanding each other. You do me the honor to speak one kind of language, while I am speaking altogether another.”

“I beg your pardon, but I do not understand your meaning.”

“Forgive me, then; but I fancied I understood your highness to remark that De Guiche and De Wardes had fought on Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s account.”

“Certainly.”

“On account of Mademoiselle de la Valliere, I think you said?” repeated Manicamp.

“I do not say that Monsieur de Guiche personally took an interest in Mademoiselle de la Valliere, but I say that he did so as representing or acting on behalf of another.”

“On behalf of another?”

“Come, do not always assume such a bewildered look. Does not every one here know that Monsieur de Bragelonne is affianced to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and that before he went on the mission with which the king intrusted him, he charged his friend, Monsieur de Guiche, to watch over that interesting young lady.”

“There is nothing more for me to say, then. Your highness is well informed.”

“Of everything; so I beg you to understand that clearly.”

Manicamp began to laugh, which almost exasperated the princess, who was not, as we know, of a very patient and enduring disposition.

“Madame,” resumed the discreet Manicamp, saluting the princess, “let us bury this affair altogether in forgetfulness, for it will never be quite cleared up.”

“Oh, as far as that goes, there is nothing more to do, and the information is complete. The king will learn that Monsieur de Guiche has taken up the cause of this little adventuress, who gives herself all the airs of a grand lady; he will learn that Monsieur de Bragelonne, having nominated his friend, Monsieur de Guiche, his guardian-in-ordinary of the garden of the Hesperides, the latter immediately fastened, as he was required to do, upon the Marquis de Wardes, who ventured to touch the golden apple. Moreover, you cannot pretend to deny, Monsieur de Manicamp--you who know everything so well--that the king, on his side, casts a longing eye upon this famous treasure, and that he will bear no slight grudge against Monsieur de Guiche for constituting himself the defender of it. Are you sufficiently well informed now, or do you require anything further--if so, speak, monsieur?”

“No, madame; there is nothing more I wish to know.”

“Learn, however--for you ought to know it, Monsieur de Manicamp--learn that his majesty’s indignation will be followed by terrible consequences. In princes of a similar temperament to that of his majesty, the passion which jealousy causes sweeps down like a whirlwind.”

“Which you will temper, madame.”

“I!” exclaimed the princess, with a gesture of indescribable irony. “I? and by what title, may I ask?”

“Because you detect injustice, madame.”

“And according to your account, then, it would be an injustice to prevent the king arranging his love affairs as he pleases.”

“You will intercede, however, in Monsieur de Guiche’s favor?”

“You are mad, monsieur,” said the princess, in a haughty tone of voice.

“On the contrary, I am in the most perfect possession of my senses; and, I repeat, you will defend Monsieur de Guiche before the king.”

“Why should I?”

“Because the cause of Monsieur de Guiche is your own, madame,” said Manicamp, with all the ardor with which his eyes were kindled.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, madame, that, with respect to the defense which Monsieur de Guiche undertook in Monsieur de Bragelonne’s absence, I am surprised that your highness has not detected a pretext in La Valliere’s name having been brought forward.”

“A pretext? But a pretext for what?” repeated the princess hesitatingly, for Manicamp’s steady look had just revealed something of the truth to her.

“I trust, madame,” said the young man, “I have said sufficient to induce your highness not to overwhelm before his majesty my poor friend, De Guiche, against whom all the malevolence of a party bitterly opposed to your own will now be directed.”

“You mean, on the contrary, I suppose, that all those who have no great affection for Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and even, perhaps, a few of those who have some regard for her, will be angry with the comte?”

“Oh, madame! why will you push your obstinacy to such an extent, and refuse to open your ears and listen to the counsel of one whose devotion to you is unbounded? Must I expose myself to the risk of your displeasure--am I really to be called upon to name, contrary to my own wish, the person who was the real cause of this quarrel?”

“The person?” said madame, blushing.

“Must I?” continued Manicamp, “tell you how poor De Guiche became irritated, furious, exasperated beyond all control, at the different rumors which are circulating about this person? Must I, if you persist in this willful blindness, and if respect should continue to prevent me naming her--must I, I repeat, call to your recollection the various scenes which Monsieur had with the Duke of Buckingham, and the insinuations which were reported respecting the duke’s exile? Must I remind you of the anxious care the comte always took in his efforts to please, to watch, to protect that person for whom alone he lives--for whom alone he breathes? Well, I will do so; and when I shall have made you recall all the particulars I refer to, you will perhaps understand how it happened that the comte, having lost all control over himself, and having been for some time past almost harassed to death by De Wardes, became, at the first disrespectful expression which the latter pronounced respecting the person in question, inflamed with passion, and panted only for an opportunity of revenging the affront.”

The princess concealed her face with her hands.

“Monsieur, monsieur!” she exclaimed, “do you know what you are saying, and to whom you are speaking?”

“Therefore, madame,” pursued Manicamp, as if he had not heard the exclamations of the princess, “nothing will astonish you any longer--neither the comte’s ardor in seeking the quarrel nor his wonderful address in transferring it to a quarter foreign to your own personal interests. That latter circumstance was, indeed, a marvelous instance of tact and perfect coolness, and if the person in whose behalf the comte so fought and shed his blood does, in reality, owe some gratitude to the poor wounded sufferer it is not on account of the blood he has shed or for the agony he has suffered, but for the steps he has taken to preserve from comment or reflection an honor which is more precious to him than his own.”

“Oh!” cried madame as if she had been alone, “is it possible the quarrel was on my account?”

Manicamp felt he could now breathe for a moment and gallantly had he won the right to do so. Madame on her side remained for some time plunged in a painful reverie. Her agitation could be seen by her quick respiration, by her languishing looks, by the frequency with which she pressed her hand upon her heart. But in her coquetry was not so much a passive quality as, on the contrary, a fire which sought for fuel to maintain itself, and which found what it required.

“If it be as you assert,” she said, “the comte will have obliged two persons at the same time; for Monsieur de Bragelonne also owes a deep debt of gratitude to Monsieur de Guiche--and with far greater reason indeed, because everywhere, and on every occasion, Mademoiselle de la Valliere will be regarded as having been defended by this generous champion.”

Manicamp perceived that there still remained some lingering doubt in the princess’ heart.

“A truly admirable service, indeed,” he said, “is the one he has rendered to Mademoiselle de la Valliere! A truly admirable service to Monsieur de Bragelonne! The duel has created a sensation which, in some respects, casts a dishonorable suspicion upon that young girl; a sensation, indeed, which will imbroil her with the vicomte. The consequence is, that De Wardes’ pistol-bullet has had three results instead of one; it destroys at the same time the honor of a woman, the happiness of a man, and, perhaps, it has wounded to death one of the best gentlemen in France. Oh, madame! your logic is cold and calculating; it always condemns--it never absolves.”

Manicamp’s concluding words scattered to the winds the last doubt which lingered, not in madame’s heart, but in her head. She was no longer a princess full of scruples, nor a woman with her ever-returning suspicions, but one whose heart had just felt the mortal chill of a wound.

“Wounded to death!” she murmured, in a faltering voice, “oh, Monsieur de Manicamp! did you not say wounded to death?”

Manicamp returned no other answer than a deep sigh.

“And so you said that the comte is dangerously wounded?” continued the princess.

“Yes, madame; one of his hands is shattered, and he has a bullet lodged in his breast.”

“Gracious heavens!” resumed the princess, with a feverish excitement, “this is horrible, Monsieur de Manicamp! a hand shattered, do you say, and a bullet in his breast? And that coward! that wretch! that assassin, De Wardes, who did it!”

Manicamp seemed overcome by a violent emotion. He had, in fact, displayed no little energy in the latter part of his speech. As for madame, she entirely threw aside all regard for the formal observances of propriety which society imposes; for when, with her, passion spoke in accents either of anger or sympathy, nothing could any longer restrain her impulses. Madame approached Manicamp, who had sunk down upon a seat, as if his grief were a sufficiently powerful excuse for his infraction of one of the laws of etiquette. “Monsieur,” she said, seizing him by the hand, “be frank with me.”

Manicamp looked up.

“Is Monsieur de Guiche in danger of death?”

“Doubly so, madame,” he replied; “in the first place, on account of the hemorrhage which has taken place, an artery having been injured in the hand; and next, in consequence of the wound in his breast, which may, the doctor is afraid of it at least, have injured some vital part.”

“He may die, then?”

“Die, yes, madame; and without even having had the consolation of knowing that you have been told of his devotion.”

“You will tell him.”

“I?”

“Yes; are you not his friend?”

“I? oh, no, madame; I will only tell Monsieur de Guiche--if, indeed, he is still in a condition to hear me--I will only tell him what I have seen; that is, your cruelty for him.”

“Oh, monsieur, you will not be guilty of such barbarity!”

“Indeed, madame, I shall speak the truth, for nature is very energetic in a man of his age. The physicians are clever men, and if, by chance, the poor comte should survive his wound, I should not wish him to die of a wound of the heart, after having escaped that of the body.” And Manicamp rose, and with an expression of profound respect, seemed to be desirous of taking leave.

“At least, monsieur,” said madame, stopping him with almost a suppliant air, “yon will be kind enough to tell me in what state your wounded friend is, and who is the physician who attends him?”

“As regards the state he is in, madame, he is seriously ill; his physician is Monsieur Valot, his majesty’s private medical attendant. Monsieur Valot is moreover assisted by a professional friend, to whose house Monsieur de Guiche has been carried.”

“What! he is not in the château?” said madame.

“Alas, madame! the poor fellow was so ill that he could not even be conveyed thither.”

“Give me the address, monsieur,” said the princess hurriedly; “I will send to inquire after him.”

“Rue du Feurre; a brick-built house, with white outside blinds. The doctor’s name is on the door.”

“You are returning to your wounded friend, Monsieur de Manicamp?”

“Yes, madame.”

“You will be able, then, to do me a service.”

“I am at your highness’ orders.”

“Do what you intended to do; return to Monsieur de Guiche, send away all those whom you may find there, and have the kindness yourself to go away, too.”

“Madame--”

“Let us waste no time in useless explanations. Accept the fact as I present it to you; see nothing in it beyond what is really there, and ask nothing further than what I tell you. I am going to send one of my ladies, perhaps two, because it is now getting late; I do not wish them to see you, or rather I do not wish you to see them. These are scruples which you can understand--you particularly, Monsieur de Manicamp, who seem to be capable of divining everything.”

“Oh, madame, perfectly; I can even do better still, I will precede, or rather, walk in advance of your attendants; it will, at the same time, be the means of showing them the way more accurately, and of protecting them, if it happened any occasion might occur, though there is no probability of their needing protection.”

“And by this means, then, they would be sure of entering without any difficulty, would they not?”

“Certainly, madame; for as I should be the first to pass, I should remove any difficulties which might chance to be in the way.”

“Very well; go, go, Monsieur de Manicamp, and wait at the bottom of the staircase.”

“I go at once, madame.”

“Stay.” Manicamp paused. “When you hear the footsteps of two women descending the stairs, go out, and, without once turning round, take the road which leads to where the poor comte is lying.”

“But if, by any mischance, two other persons were to descend, and I were to be mistaken?’’

“You will hear one of the two clap her hands together very softly. So go.”

Manicamp turned round, bowed once more, and left the room, his heart overflowing with joy. In fact, he knew very well that the presence of madame herself would be the best balm to apply to his friend’s wounds. A quarter of an hour had hardly elapsed when he heard the sound of a door being softly opened, and closed with the same precaution. He listened to the light footfalls gliding down the staircase, and then heard the signal agreed upon. He immediately went out, and faithful to his promise, bent his way, without once turning round his head, through the streets of Fontainebleau, toward the doctor’s dwelling.

M. Malicorne the Keeper of the Records of the Realm of France.

Two women, whose figures were completely concealed by their mantles, and whose masks effectually hid the upper portion of their faces, timidly followed Manicamp’s steps. On the first floor, behind curtains of red damask, the soft light of a lamp placed upon a low table faintly illumined the room, at the other extremity of which, on a large bedstead, supported by spiral columns, around which curtains of the same color as those which deadened the rays of the lamp had been closely drawn, lay De Guiche, his head supported by pillows, his eyes looking as if the mists of death seemed gathering there; his long black hair, scattered over the pillow, set off the young man’s hollowed and pale temples to great advantage. It could be easily perceived that fever was the principal occupant of that chamber. De Guiche was dreaming. His wandering mind was pursuing, through gloom and mystery, one of those wild creations which delirium engenders. Two or three drops of blood, still liquid, stained the floor. Manicamp hurriedly ran up the stairs, but paused at the threshold of the door, looked into the room, and seeing that everything was perfectly quiet, he advanced toward the foot of the large leathern armchair, a specimen of furniture of the reign of Henry IV., and seeing that the nurse, as a matter of course, had dropped off to sleep, he awoke her, and begged her to pass into the adjoining room.

Then, standing by the side of the bed, he remained for a moment deliberating whether it would be better to awake De Guiche in order to acquaint him with the good news. But as he began to hear behind the door the rustling of silk dresses and the hurried breathing of his two companions, and as he already saw that the curtain which hung before the doorway seemed on the point of being impatiently drawn aside, he passed round the bed and followed the nurse into the next room. As soon as he had disappeared the curtain was raised, and his two female companions entered the room he had just left. The one who entered the first made a gesture to her companion, which riveted her to the spot where she stood, close to the door, and then resolutely advanced toward the bed, drew back the curtains along the iron rod, and threw them in thick folds behind the head of the bed. She gazed upon the comte’s pallid face; remarked his right hand enveloped in linen whose dazzling whiteness was increased by the counterpane covered with dark leaves which was thrown across a portion of the sick couch. She shuddered as she saw a spot of blood becoming larger and larger upon the bandages. The young man’s white chest was quite uncovered, as if the cool night air would assist his respiration. A small bandage fastened the dressings of the wound, around which a bluish circle of extravasated blood was gradually increasing in size. A deep sigh broke from her lips. She leaned against one of the columns of the bed, and gazed, through the holes in her mask, upon the harrowing spectacle before her. A hoarse, harsh sigh passed like a death rattle through the comte’s clinched teeth. The masked lady seized his left hand, which felt as scorching as burning coals. But at the very moment she placed her icy hand upon it, the action of the cold was such that De Guiche opened his eyes, and by a look in which revived intelligence was dawning, seemed as if struggling back again into existence. The first thing upon which he fixed his gaze was this phantom standing erect by his bedside. At that sight his eyes became dilated, but without any appearance of consciousness in them. The lady thereupon made a sign to her companion, who had remained at the door; and in all probability the latter had already received her lesson, for in a clear tone of voice, and without any hesitation whatever, she pronounced these words: “Monsieur le Comte, her royal highness, madame, is desirous of knowing how you are able to bear your wound, and to express to you, by my lips, her great regret at seeing you suffer.”

As she pronounced the word “madame,” De Guiche started; he had not as yet remarked the person to whom the voice belonged, and he naturally turned toward the direction whence it proceeded. But as he felt the cold hand still resting on his own, he again turned toward the motionless figure beside him. “Was it you who spoke, madame?” he asked, in a weak voice, “or is there another person beside you in the room?”

“Yes,” replied the figure, in an almost unintelligible voice, as she bent down her head.

“Well,” said the wounded man, with a great effort, “I thank you. Tell madame that I no longer regret dying, since she has remembered me.”

At this word “dying,” pronounced by one whose life seemed to hang on a thread, the masked lady could not restrain her tears, which flowed under her mask, and which appeared upon her cheeks just where the mask left her face bare. If De Guiche had been in fuller possession of his senses, he would have seen her tears roll like glistening pearls, and fall upon his bed. The lady, forgetting that she wore her mask, raised her hand as though to wipe her eyes, and meeting the rough velvet, she tore away her mask in anger, and threw it on the floor. At the unexpected apparition before him, which seemed to issue from a cloud, De Guiche uttered a cry and stretched out his arms toward her; but every word perished on his lips, and his strength seemed utterly abandoning him. His right hand, which had followed his first impulse, without calculating the amount of strength he had left, fell back again upon the bed, and immediately afterward the white linen was stained with a larger spot than before. In the meantime, the young man’s eyes became dim, and closed, as if he were already struggling with the angel of death; and then, after a few involuntary movements, his head fell back motionless on his pillow; from pale he had become livid. The lady was frightened; but on this occasion, contrary to what is usually the case, fear became attractive. She leaned over the young man, gazed earnestly, fixedly at his pale and cold face, which she almost touched, then imprinted a rapid kiss upon De Guiche’s left hand, who, trembling as if an electric shock had passed through him, awoke a second time, opened his large eyes, incapable of recognition, and again fell into a state of complete insensibility. “Come,” she said to her companion, “we must not remain here any longer; I shall be committing some folly or other.”

“Madame, madame, your highness is forgetting your mask!” said her vigilant companion.

“Pick it up,” replied her mistress, as she tottered almost senseless toward the staircase, and as the street door had been left only half closed, the two women, light as birds, passed through it, and with hurried steps returned to the palace. One of them ascended toward madame’s apartments, where she disappeared; the other entered the rooms belonging to the maids of honor, namely, on the entresol, and having reached her own room, she sat down before a table, and without giving herself time even to breathe, wrote the following letter:

“This evening madame has been to see Monsieur de Guiche. Everything is going on well on this side. See that yours is the same, and do not forget to burn this paper.”

She then folded the letter in a long thin form, and leaving her room with every possible precaution, crossed a corridor which led to the apartments appropriated to the gentlemen attached to Monsieur’s service. She stopped before a door, under which, having previously knocked twice, in a short, quick manner, she thrust the paper, and fled. Then, returning to her own room, she removed every trace of her having gone out, and also of having written the letter. Amid the investigations she was so diligently pursuing she perceived on the table the mask which belonged to madame, and which, according to her mistress’ directions, she had brought back, but had forgotten to restore to her. “Oh! oh!” she said, “I must not forget to do to-morrow what I have forgotten to do to-day.”

And she took hold of the velvet mask by that part of it which covered the cheeks, and feeling that her thumb was wet, she looked at it. It was not only wet, but reddened. The mask had fallen upon one of the spots of blood which, we have already said, stained the floor, and from the black velvet outside which had accidentally come into contact with it, the blood had passed through to the inside, and stained the white cambric lining. “Oh! oh!” said Montalais, for doubtless our readers have already recognized her by these various maneuvers, “I shall not give her back her mask; it is far too precious now.”

And rising from her seat, she ran toward a box made of maple wood, which inclosed different articles of toilet and perfumery. “No, not here,” she said; “such a treasure must not be abandoned to the slightest chance of detection.”

Then, after a moment’s silence, and with a smile that was peculiarly her own, she added: “Beautiful mask, stained with the blood of that brave knight, you shall go and join that collection of wonders, La Valliere’s and Raoul’s letters, that loving collection, indeed, which will some day or other form part of the history of France and of royalty. You shall be taken under Monsieur Malicorne’s care,” said the laughing girl, as she began to undress herself, “under the protection of that worthy Monsieur Malicorne,” she said, blowing out the taper, “who thinks he was born only to become the chief usher of Monsieur’s apartments, and whom I will make keeper of the records and historiographer of the house of Bourbon, and of the first houses in the kingdom. Let him grumble now, that discontented Malicorne,” she added, as she drew the curtains and fell fast asleep.

The Journey.

The next day being agreed upon for the departure, the king, at eleven o’clock precisely, descended the grand staircase with the two queens and madame, in order to enter his carriage drawn by six horses which were pawing the ground in impatience at the foot of the staircase. The whole court awaited the royal appearance in the Fer-à-cheval crescent, in their traveling costumes; the large number of saddled horses and carriages of ladies and gentlemen of the court, surrounded by their attendants, servants, and pages, formed a spectacle whose brilliancy could scarcely be equaled. The king entered his carriage with the two queens; madame was in the same with Monsieur. The maids of honor followed the example, and took their seats, two by two, in the carriages destined for them. The weather was exceedingly warm, a light breeze, which, early in the morning, all had thought would have been just sufficient to cool the air, soon became fiercely heated by the rays of the sun, although it was hidden behind the clouds, and filtered through the heated vapor which rose from the ground like a scorching wind, bearing particles of fine dust against the faces of the hasty travelers. Madame was the first to complain of the heat. Monsieur’s only reply was to throw himself back in the carriage, as if he were about to faint, and to inundate himself with scents and perfumes, uttering the deepest sighs all the while; whereupon madame said to him, with her most amiable expression: “Really, Monsieur, I fancied that you would have been polite enough, on account of the terrible heat, to have left me my carriage to myself, and to have performed the journey yourself on horseback.”

“Ride on horseback!” cried the prince, with an accent of dismay which showed how little idea he had of adopting this strange project; “you cannot suppose such a thing, madame; my skin would peel off if I were to expose myself to such a burning air as this.

Madame began to laugh.

“You can take my parasol,” she said.

“But the trouble of holding it!” replied Monsieur, with the greatest coolness; “besides, I have no horse.”

“How, no horse?” replied the princess, who, if she did not obtain the solitude she required, at least obtained the amusement of teasing. “No horse! You are mistaken, Monsieur; for I see your favorite bay out yonder.”

“My bay horse!” exclaimed tile prince, attempting to lean forward to look out of the door; but the movement he was obliged to make cost him so much trouble that he soon hastened to resume his immobility.

“Yes,” said madame; “your horse, led by Monsieur de Malicorne.”

“Poor beast,” replied the prince; “how warm it will soon be!”

And with these words he closed his eyes, like a man on the point of death. Madame, on her side, reclined indolently in the other corner of the carriage, and closed her eyes also, not, however, to sleep, but to think more at her ease. In the meantime the king, seated in the front seat of the carriage, the back of which he had yielded up to the two queens, was a prey to that restless, feverish contrariety experienced by anxious lovers, who, without being able to quench their ardent thirst, are ceaselessly desirous of seeing the loved object, and then go away partially satisfied, without perceiving that they have acquired a more burning thirst than ever. The king, whose carriage headed the procession, could not from the place he occupied perceive the carriages of the ladies and maids of honor, which followed in a line behind it. Besides, he was obliged to answer the eternal questions of the young queen, who, happy to have with her “her dear husband,” as she called him in utter forgetfulness of royal etiquette, invested him with all her affection, stifled him with her attentions, afraid that some one might come to take him from her, or that he him self might suddenly take a fancy to leave her society. Anne of Austria, whom nothing at that moment occupied except the occasional sharp throbbings in her bosom, looked pleased and delighted, and although she perfectly conceived the king’s impatience, tantalizingly prolonged his sufferings by unexpectedly resuming the conversation at the very moment the king, absorbed in his own reflections, began to muse over his secret attachment. Everything seemed to combine--not alone the little teasing attentions of the queen, but also the queen-mother’s tantalizing interruptions--to make the king’s position almost insupportable; for he knew not how to control the restless longings of his heart. At first he complained of the heat--a complaint which was merely preliminary to other complaints, but with sufficient tact to prevent Maria Theresa guessing his real object. Understanding the king’s remark literally, she began to fan him with her ostrich plumes. But the heat passed away, and the king then complained of cramps and stiffness in his legs, and as the carriages at that moment stopped to change horses, the queen said: “Shall I get out with you? I too feel tired of sitting. We can walk on a little distance; the carriage will overtake us, and we can resume our places again presently.”

The king frowned; it is a hard trial a jealous woman makes her husband submit to whose fidelity she suspects, when, although herself a prey to jealousy, she watches herself so narrowly that she avoids giving any pretext for an angry feeling. The king, therefore, in the present case, could not refuse; he accepted the offer, alighted from the carriage, gave his arm to the queen, and walked up and down with her while the horses were being changed. As he walked along, he cast an envious glance upon the courtiers, who were fortunate enough to be performing the journey on horseback. The queen soon found out that the promenade she had suggested afforded the king as little pleasure as he had experienced from riding in the carriage. She accordingly expressed a wish to return to her carriage, and the king conducted her to the door, but did not get in with her. He stepped back a few paces, and looked among the file of carriages for the purpose of recognizing the one in which he took so strong an interest. At the door of the sixth carriage he saw La Valliere’s fair countenance. As the king thus stood motionless, wrapt in thought, without perceiving that everything was ready, and that he alone was causing the delay, he heard a voice close beside him addressing him in the most respectful manner. It was M. Malicorne, in a complete costume of an equerry, holding over his left arm the bridles of a couple of horses.

“Your majesty asked for a horse, I believe,” he said.

“A horse? Have you one of my horses here?” inquired the king, who endeavored to remember the person who addressed him, and whose face was not as yet very familiar to him

“Sire,” replied Malicorne, “at all events I have a horse which is at your majesty’s service.”

And Malicorne pointed at Monsieur’s bay horse, which madame had observed. It was a beautiful creature, and most royally caparisoned.

“This is not one of my horses, monsieur,” said the king.

“Sire, it is a horse out of his royal highness’ stables; but his royal highness does not ride when the weather is as hot as it is now.”

The king did not reply, but hastily approached the horse, which stood pawing the ground with his foot. Malicorne hastened to hold the stirrup for him, but the king was already in the saddle. Restored to good humor by this lucky accident, the king hastened toward the queen’s carriage, where he was anxiously expected; and notwithstanding Maria Theresa’s thoughtful and preoccupied air, he said: “I have been fortunate enough to find this horse, and I intend to avail myself of it. I felt stifled in the carriage. Adieu, ladies.”

Then bending most gracefully over the arched neck of his beautiful steed, he disappeared in a second. Anne of Austria leaned forward, in order to look after him as he rode away; he did not get very far, for when he reached the sixth carriage he reined in his horse suddenly and took off his hat. He saluted La Valliere, who uttered a cry of surprise as she saw him, blushing at the same time with pleasure. Montalais, who occupied the other seat in the carriage, made the king a most respectful bow. And then, with all the tact of a woman, she pretended to be exceedingly interested in the landscape, and withdrew herself into the left-hand corner. The conversation between the king and La Valliere began, as all lovers’ conversations generally do, namely, by eloquent looks and by a few words utterly void of common sense. The king explained how warm he had felt in his carriage, so much so indeed that he could almost regard the horse he then rode as a blessing thrown in his way. “And,” he added, “my benefactor is an exceedingly intelligent man, for he seemed to guess my thoughts intuitively. I have now only one wish, that of learning the name of the gentleman who so cleverly assisted his king out of his dilemma, and extricated him from his cruel position.”

Montalais, during this colloquy, the first words of which had awakened her attention, had slightly altered her position, and had contrived so as to meet the king’s look as he finished his remark. It followed very naturally that the king looked inquiringly as much at her as at La Valliere; she had every reason to suppose that it was she who was appealed to, and consequently might be permitted to answer. She therefore said: “Sire, the horse which your majesty is riding belongs to Monsieur, and was being led by one of his royal highness’ gentlemen.”

“And what is that gentleman’s name, may I ask, mademoiselle?”

“Monsieur de Malicorne, sire.”

The name produced its usual effect, for the king repeated it smilingly.

“Yes, sire,” replied Aure. “Stay, it is that gentleman who is galloping on my left hand;” and she pointed out Malicorne, who, with a very sanctified expression, was galloping on the left side of the carriage, knowing perfectly well that they were talking of him at that very moment, but sitting in his saddle as if he were deaf and dumb.

“Yes,” said the king, “that is the gentleman; I remember his face, and will not forget his name;” and the king looked tenderly at La Valliere.

Aure had now nothing further to do; she had let Malicorne’s name fall; the soil was good; all that was now left to be done was to let the name take root, and the event would bear its fruit in due time. She, consequently, threw herself back in her corner, feeling perfectly justified in making as many agreeable signs of recognition as she liked to Malicorne, since the latter had had the happiness of pleasing the king. As it will very readily be believed, Montalais was not mistaken; and Malicorne, with his quick ear and his sly look, seemed to interpret her remark as “All goes on well,” the whole being accompanied by a pantomimic action, which he fancied conveyed something resembling a kiss.

“Alas! mademoiselle,” said the king, after a moment’s pause, “the liberty and freedom of the country is soon about to cease; your attendance upon madame will be more strictly enforced, and we shall see each other no more.”

“Your majesty is too much attached to madame,” replied Louise, “not to come and see her very frequently; and whenever your majesty may pass across the apartments--”

“Ah!” said the king, in a tender voice, which was gradually lowered in its tone, “to perceive is not to see, and yet it seems that it would be quite sufficient for you.”

Louise did not answer a syllable; a sigh filled her heart almost to bursting, but she stifled it.

“You exercise a great control over yourself,” said the king to Louise, who smiled upon him with a melancholy expression. “Exert the strength you have in loving fondly,” he continued, “and I will bless Heaven for having bestowed it on you.”

La Valliere still remained silent, but raised her eyes, brimful of affection, toward the king. Louis, as if he had been overcome by this burning glance, passed his hand across his forehead, and pressing the sides of his horse with his knees, made him bound several paces forward. La Valliere, leaning back in her carriage, with her eyes half-closed, gazed fixedly upon the king, whose plumes were floating in the air; she could not but admire his graceful carriage, his delicate and nervous limbs, which pressed his horse’s side, and the regular outline of his features, which his beautiful curling hair set off to great advantage, revealing occasionally his small and well-formed ear. In fact, the poor girl was in love, and she reveled in her innocent affection. In a few moments the king was again by her side.

“Do you not perceive,” he said, “how terribly your silence affects me? Oh! mademoiselle, how pitilessly immovable you would become if you were ever to resolve to break off all acquaintance with any one; and then, too, I think you changeable; in fact--in fact, I dread this deep affection which fills my whole being.”

“Oh! sire, you are mistaken,” said La Valliere; “if ever I love, it will be for my whole life.”

“If you 1ove, you say,” exclaimed the king; “you do not love now, then?”

She hid her face in her hands.

“You see,” said the king, “that I am right in accusing you; you must admit that you are changeable, capricious, a coquette, perhaps.”

“()h, no! sire, be perfectly satisfied on that. No, I say again; no, no!”

“Promise me, then, that for me you will always be the same.”

“Oh! always, sire.”

“That you will never show any of that severity which would break my heart, none of that fickleness of manner which would be worse than death to me.”

“Oh! no, no!”

“Very well, then; but listen. I like promises, I like to place under the guarantee of an oath, under the protection of Heaven, in fact, everything which interests my heart and my affections. Promise me, or rather, swear to me, that if in the life we are about to commence, a life which will be full of sacrifice, mystery, anxiety, disappointment, and misunderstanding; swear to me that if we should be deceiving, or should misunderstand each other, or should be judging each other unjustly, for that indeed would be criminal in love such as ours; swear to me, Louise--”

She trembled with agitation to the very depths of her heart; it was the first time she had heard her name pronounced in that manner by her royal lover. As for the king, taking off his glove, and placing his ungloved hand within the carriage, he continued: “Swear, that never in all our quarrels will we allow one night even to pass by, if any misunderstanding should arise between us, without a visit, or at least a message, from either, in order to convey consolation and repose to the other.”

La Valliere took her lover’s burning hand between her own icy palms, and pressed it softly, until a movement of the horse, frightened by the proximity of the wheels, obliged her to abandon her happiness. She had sworn as he wished her.

“Return, sire,” she said, “return to the queen. I foresee a storm rising yonder, which threatens my peace of mind.”

Louis obeyed, saluted Mlle. de Montalais, and set off at a gallop to rejoin the queen’s carriage. As he passed Monsieur’s carriage, he observed that he was fast asleep, although madame, on her part, was wide awake. As the king passed her, she said, “What a beautiful horse, sire! Is it not Monsieur’s bay horse?”

The young queen merely remarked: “Are you better now, sire?”

Triumfeminate.

On the king’s arrival in Paris, he sat at the council which had been summoned, and worked for a certain portion of the day. The queen remained with the queen-mother, and burst into tears as soon as she had taken leave of the king. “Ah, madame!” she said, “the king no longer loves me! What will become of me?”

“A husband always loves his wife when she is like you,” replied Anne of Austria.

“A time may come when he will love another woman instead of me.”

“What do you call loving?”

“Always thinking of a person--always seeking her society. “

“Do you happen to have remarked,” said Anne of Austria, “that the king has ever done anything of the sort?”

“No, madame,” said the young queen hesitatingly.

“What is there to complain of, then, Marie?”

“You will admit that the king leaves me?”

“The king, my daughter, belongs to his people.”

“And that is the very reason why he no longer belongs to me; and that is the reason, too, why I shall find myself, as so many queens have been before me, forsaken and forgotten, while glory and honors will be reserved for others. Oh, my mother! the king is so handsome! how often will others tell him that they love him, and how much, indeed, they must do so!”

“It is very seldom that women love the man in loving the king. But should that happen, which I doubt, you should rather wish, Marie, that such women should really love your husband. In the first place, the devoted love of a mistress is a rapid element of the dissolution of a lover’s affection; and then, by dint of loving, the mistress loses all influence over her lover, whose power or wealth she does not covet, caring only for his affection. Wish, therefore, that the king should love but lightly and that his mistress should love with all her heart.”

“Oh, my mother, what power may not a deep affection exercise over him!”

“And yet you say you are abandoned?”

“Quite true, quite true; I speak absurdly. There is a feeling of anguish, however, which I can never control.”

“And that is?”

“The king may make a happy choice--may find a home, with all the tender influences of home, not far from that we can offer him--a home with children round him, the children of another woman than myself. Oh, madame! I should die if I were but to see the king’s children.”

“Marie, Marie,” replied the queen-mother, with a smile, and she took the young queen’s hand in her own, “remember what I am going to say, and let it always be a consolation to you: the king cannot have a dauphin without you.”

With this remark the queen-mother quitted her daughter-in-law, in order to meet madame, whose arrival in the grand cabinet had just been announced by one of the pages. Madame had scarcely taken time to change her dress. Her face revealed her agitation, which betrayed a plan the execution of which occupied, while the result disturbed, her mind.

“I came to ascertain,” she said, “if your majesties are suffering any fatigue from our journey.”

“None at all,” said the queen-mother.

“But a slight one,” replied Maria Theresa.

“I have suffered from annoyance more than from anything else,” said madame.

“What annoyance?” inquired Anne of Austria.

“The fatigue the king undergoes in riding about on horseback.”

“That does the king good.”

“And it was I who advised him to do it,” said Maria Theresa, turning pale.

Madame said not a word in reply; but one of those smiles which were peculiarly her own flitted for a moment across her lips, without passing over the rest of her face; then, immediately changing the conversation, she continued, “We shall find Paris precisely the Paris we left it; the same intrigues, plots, and flirtations going on.”

“Intrigues! What intrigues do you allude to?” inquired the queen-mother.

“People are talking a good deal about Monsieur Fouquet and Madame Plessis-Belliere.”

“Who makes up the number to about ten thousand,” replied the queen-mother. “But what are the plots you speak of?”

“We have, it seems, certain misunderstandings with Holland to settle.”

“What about?”

“Monsieur has been telling me the story of the medals.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the young queen, “you mean those medals which were struck in Holland, on which a cloud is seen passing across the sun, which is the king’s device. You are wrong in calling that a plot--it is an insult.”

“But so contemptible that the king can well despise it,” replied the queen-mother. “Well, what are the flirtations which are alluded to? Do you mean that of Madame d’Olonne?”

“No, no; nearer ourselves than that.”

“Casa de usted,” murmured the queen-mother, and without moving her lips, in her daughter-in-law’s ear, and also without being overheard by madame, who thus continued:

“You know the terrible news?”

“Oh, yes; Monsieur de Guiche’s wound.”

“And you attribute it, I suppose, as every one else does, to an accident which happened to him while hunting?”

“Yes, of course,” said both the queens together, their interest awakened.

Madame drew closer to them as she said, in a low tone of voice, “It was a duel.”

“Ah!” said Anne of Austria, in a severe tone; for in her ears the word “duel,” which had been forbidden in France during the time she had reigned over it, had a strange sound.

“A most deplorable duel, which has nearly cost Monsieur two of his best friends, and the king two of his best servants. “

“What was the cause of the duel?” inquired the young queen, animated by a secret instinct.

“Flirtations,” repeated madame triumphantly. “The gentlemen in question were conversing about the virtue of a particular lady belonging to the court. One of them thought that Pallas was a very second-rate person compared to her; the other pretended that the lady in question was an imitation of Venus alluring Mars; and thereupon the two gentlemen fought as fiercely as Hector and Achilles.”

“Venus alluring Mars?” said the young queen, in a low tone of voice, without venturing to examine into the allegory very deeply.

“Who is the lady?” inquired Anne of Austria abruptly. “You said, I believe, she was one of the ladies of honor?”

“Did I say so?” replied madame.

“Yes; at least I thought I heard you mention it.”

“Are you not aware that such a woman is of ill-omen to a royal house?”

“Is it not Mademoiselle de la Valliere?” said the queen-mother.

“Yes, indeed, that plain-looking creature.”

“I thought she was affianced to a gentleman who certainly is not, at least I suppose so, either Monsieur de Guiche or Monsieur de Wardes?”

“Very possibly, madame.”

The young queen took up a piece of tapestry, and began to unpick with an affectation of tranquillity which her trembling fingers contradicted.

“What were you saying about Venus and Mars?” pursued the queen-mother; “is there a Mars also?”

“She boasts of that being the case.”

“Did you say she boasts of it?”

“That was the cause of the duel.”

“And Monsieur de Guiche upheld the cause of Mars?”

“Yes, certainly; like the devoted servant he is.”

“The devoted servant of whom?” exclaimed the young queen, forgetting her reserve in allowing her jealous feeling to escape her.

“Mars, not being able to be defended except at the expense of this Venus,” replied madame, “Monsieur de Guiche maintained the perfect innocence of Mars, and no doubt affirmed that it was a mere boast of Venus.”

“And Monsieur de Wardes,” said Anne of Austria quietly, “spread the report that Venus was right, I suppose?”

“Oh, De Wardes,” thought madame, “you shall pay most dearly for the wound you have given that noblest--that best of men!” And she began to attack De Wardes with the greatest bitterness; thus discharging her own and De Guiche’s debt, with the assurance that she was working the future ruin of her enemy. She said so much, in fact, that had Manicamp been there, he would have regretted that he had shown such strong regard for his friend, in as much as it resulted in the ruin of his unfortunate foe.

“I see nothing in the whole affair but one cause of mischief, and that is La Valliere herself,” said the queen-mother.

The young queen resumed her work with a perfect indifference of manner, while madame listened eagerly.

“I do not yet quite understand what you said just now about the danger of coquetry,” resumed Anne of Austria.

“It is quite true,” madame hastened to say, “that if the girl had not been a coquette, Mars would not have thought at all about her.”

The repetition of this word Mars brought a passing color on the queen’s face; but she still continued her work.

“I will not permit that, in my court, gentlemen should be set against one another in this manner,” said Anne of Austria calmly. “Such manners were useful enough, perhaps, in a time when the divided nobility had no other rallying point than mere gallantry. At that time women, whose sway was absolute and undivided, were privileged to encourage men’s valor by frequent trials of their courage. But now, thank Heaven! there is but one master in France, and to him every thought of the mind, and every pulse of the body are due. I will not allow my son to be deprived of any one of his servants.” And she turned toward the young queen, saying, “What is to be done with this La Valliere?”

“La Valliere?” said the queen, apparently surprised, “I do not even know the name;” and she accompanied this remark by one of those cold fixed smiles which are only observed on royal lips.

Madame was herself a princess great in every respect, great in intelligence, great by birth and pride; the queen’s reply, however, completely astonished her, and she was obliged to pause for a moment in order to recover herself. “She is one of my maids of honor,” she replied, with a bow.

“In that case,” retorted Maria Theresa, in the same tone, “it is your affair, my sister, and not ours.”

“I beg your pardon,” resumed Anne of Austria, “it is my affair. And I perfectly well understand,” she pursued, addressing a look full of intelligence at madame, “madame’s motive for saying what she has just said.”

“Everything which emanates from you, madame,” said the English princess, “proceeds from the lips of Wisdom.”

“If we send this girl back again to her own family,’’ said Maria Theresa gently, “we must bestow a pension upon her.”

“Which I will provide for out of my income,” exclaimed madame.

“No, no,” interrupted Anne of Austria; “no disturbance, I beg. The king dislikes that the slightest disrespectful remark should be made of any lady. Let everything be done quite quietly. Will you have the kindness, madame, to send for this girl here; and you, my daughter, will have the goodness to retire to your own room.”

The old queen’s entreaties were commands, and as Maria Theresa rose to return to her own apartments, madame rose in order to send a page to summon La Valliere.

The First Quarrel.

La Valliere entered the queen-mother’s apartments without in the least suspecting that a serious plot was being concerted against her. She thought it was for something connected with her duties, and never had the queen-mother been unkind to her when such was the case. Besides, not being immediately under the control or direction of Anne of Austria, she could only have an official connection with her, to which her own gentleness of disposition, and the rank of the august princess, made her yield on every occasion with the best possible grace. She therefore advanced toward the queen-mother with that soft and gentle smile which constituted her principal charm, and as she did not approach sufficiently close, Anne of Austria signed to her to come nearer. Madame then entered the room, and with a perfectly calm air took her seat beside her mother-in-law, and continued the work which Maria Theresa had begun. When La Valliere, instead of the directions which she expected to receive immediately on entering the room, perceived these preparations, she looked with curiosity, if not with uneasiness, at the two princesses. Anne seemed full of thought, while madame maintained an affectation of indifference which would have alarmed a less timid person even than Louise.

“Mademoiselle,” said the queen-mother suddenly, without attempting to moderate or disguise her Spanish accent, which she never failed to do except when she was angry, “come closer; we were talking of you, as every one else seems to be doing.”

“Of me!” exclaimed La Valliere, turning pale.

“Do you pretend to be ignorant of it--are you not aware of the duel between Monsieur de Guiche and Monsieur de Wardes?”

“Oh, madame! I heard of it yesterday,” said La Valliere, clasping her hands together.

“And did you not foresee this quarrel?”

“Why should I, madame?”

“Because two men never fight without a motive, and because you must be aware of the motive which awakened the animosity of the two in question.”

“I am perfectly ignorant of it, madame.”

“A persevering denial is a very commonplace mode of defense, and you, who have great pretension to be witty and clever, ought to avoid commonplaces. What else have you to say?”

“Oh! madame, your majesty terrifies me with your cold severity of manner; but I do not understand how I can have incurred your displeasure, or in what respect people can occupy themselves about me.”

“Then I will tell you. Monsieur de Guiche has been obliged to undertake your defense.”

“My defense?”

“Yes. He is a gallant knight, and beautiful adventuresses like to see brave knights couch their lances in their honor. But for my part, I hate fields of battle, and more than all, do I hate adventures, and--take my remark as you please.”

La Valliere sank at the queen’s feet, who turned her back upon her. She stretched out her hands toward madame, who laughed in her face. A feeling of pride made her rise to her feet.

“I have begged your majesty to tell me what is the crime I am accused of; I can claim this at your majesty’s hands; and I observe that I am condemned before I am even permitted to justify myself.”

“Eh! indeed,” cried Anne of Austria, “listen to her beautiful phrases, madame, and to her fine sentiments; she is an inexhaustible well of tenderness and of heroic expressions. One can easily see, young lady, that we have cultivated our mind in the society of crowned heads.”

La Valliere felt struck to the heart; she became, not paler, but white as a lily, and all her strength forsook her.

“I wished to inform you,” interrupted the queen disdainfully, “that if you continue to nourish such feelings, you will humiliate us other women to such a degree that we shall be ashamed of appearing before you. Become simple in your manners. By the bye, I am informed that you are affianced; is it the case?”

La Valliere pressed her hand over her heart, which was wrung with a fresh pang.

“Answer when you are spoken to!”

“Yes, madame.”

“To a gentleman?”

“Yes, madame.”

“His name?”

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

“Are you aware that it is an exceedingly fortunate circumstance for you, mademoiselle, that such is the case; and without fortune or position as you are, or without any very great personal advantages, you ought to bless Heaven for having procured you such a future as seems to be in store for you.”

La Valliere did not reply.

“Where is this Vicomte de Bragelonne?” pursued the queen.

“In England,” said madame, “where the report of this young lady’s success will not fail to reach him.”

“Oh, Heaven!” murmured La Valliere, in despair.

“Very well, mademoiselle!” said Anne of Austria, “we will get this young gentleman to return, and send you away somewhere with him. If you are of a different opinion--for girls have strange views and fancies at times--trust to me, I will put you in a proper path again. I have done as much for girls who are not so good as you are, perhaps.”

La Valliere ceased to hear the queen, who pitilessly added: “I will send you somewhere by yourself, where you will be able to procure a little serious reflection. Reflection calms the ardor of the blood, and swallows up all the illusions of youth. I suppose you have understood what I have been saying?”

“Madame, madame!”

“Not a word.”

“I am innocent of everything your majesty can suppose. Oh, madame! you are a witness of my despair. I love, I respect your majesty so much.”

“It would be far better not to respect me at all,” said the queen, with a chilling irony of manner. “It would be far better if you were not innocent. Do you presume to suppose that I should be satisfied simply to leave you unpunished if you had committed the fault?”

“Oh, madame, you are killing me!”

“No acting, if you please, or I will undertake the dénouement of the comedy; leave the room; return to your own apartment, and I trust my lesson may be of service to you.”

“Madame!” said La Valliere to the Duchess d’Orléans, whose hands she seized in her own, “do you, who are so good, intercede for me.”

“I!” replied the latter, with an insulting joy, “I--good--Ah, mademoiselle, you think nothing of the kind;” and with a rude, hasty gesture she repulsed the young girl’s hand.

La Valliere, instead of giving way, as from her extreme pallor and from her tears the two princesses might possibly have expected, suddenly resumed her calm and dignified air; she bowed profoundly, and left the room.

“Well!” said Anne of Austria to madame, “do you think she will begin again?”

“I always suspect those gentle and patient characters,” replied madame. “Nothing is more full of courage than a patient heart, nothing is more self-reliant than a gentle spirit. “

“I feel I may almost venture to assure you she will think twice before she looks at the god Mars again.”

“So long as she does not obtain the protection of his buckler I do not care,” retorted madame.

A proud, defiant look of the queen-mother was the reply to this objection, which was by no means deficient in finesse; and both of them, almost sure of their victory, went to look for Maria Theresa, who had been engaged, while awaiting their arrival, in endeavoring to disguise her impatience.

It was about half-past six in the evening, and the king had just partaken of some refreshment. He lost no time; but no sooner was the repast finished, and business matters settled, than he took St. Aignan by the arm, and desired him to lead him to La Valliere’s apartments. The courtier uttered a loud exclamation.

“Well, what is that for? It is a habit you will have to adopt, and in order to adopt a habit you must begin by something or another at first.”

“Oh, sire!” said St. Aignan, “it is hardly possible, for every one can be seen entering or leaving those apartments. If, however, some pretext or other were made use of--if your majesty, for instance, would wait until madame were in her own apartments--”

“No pretexts; no delays. I have had enough of these impediments and these mysteries; I cannot perceive in what respect the king of France dishonors himself in conversing with an amiable and clever girl. Evil be to him who evil thinks.”

“Will your majesty forgive an excess of zeal on my part?”

“Speak freely.”

“And the queen?”

“True, true; I always wish the most entire respect to be shown to her majesty. Well, then, this evening only will I pay Mademoiselle de la Valliere a visit, and after to-day I will make use of any pretext you like. To-morrow we will devise all sorts of means; to-night I have not the time.”

St. Aignan did not reply; he descended the steps, preceding the king, and crossed the different courtyards with a feeling of shame, which the distinguished honor of accompanying the king did not remove. The reason was, that St. Aignan wished to stand well with madame, as well as the two queens; and also, that he did not, on the other hand, wish to displease Mlle. de la Valliere; and in order to carry out so many promising affairs, it was difficult to avoid jostling against some obstacle or other. Besides, the windows of the young queen’s rooms, those of the queen-mother’s, and of madame herself, looked out upon the courtyard of the maids of honor. To be seen, therefore, accompanying the king would be effectually to quarrel with three great and influential princesses--with three women whose authority was unbounded--for the purpose of supporting the ephemeral credit of a mistress. The unhappy St. Aignan, who had not displayed a very great amount of courage in taking La Valliere’s part in the park of Fontainebleau, did not feel himself any braver in the broad daylight, and found a thousand defects in the poor girl which he was most eager to communicate to the king. But his trial soon finished--the courtyards were crossed; not a curtain was drawn aside, nor a window opened. The king walked hastily, because of his impatience, and then also because of the long legs of St. Aignan, who preceded him. At the door, however, St. Aignan wished to retire, but the king desired him to remain; this was a delicate consideration on the king’s part, which the courtier could very well have dispensed with. He had to follow Louis into La Valliere’s apartment. As soon as the king arrived the young girl dried her tears, but did it so precipitately that the king perceived it. He questioned her most anxiously and tenderly, and pressed her to tell him the cause of her emotion.

“I have nothing the matter with me, sire,” she said.

“And yet you were weeping.”

“Oh, no, indeed, sire.”

“Look, St. Aignan, and tell me if I am mistaken.”

St. Aignan ought to have answered, but he was greatly embarrassed.

“At all events, your eyes are red, mademoiselle,” said the king.

“The dust of the road merely, sire.”

“No, no; you no longer possess that air of supreme contentment which renders you so beautiful and so attractive. You do not look at me. Why avoid my gaze?” he said, as she turned aside her head. “In Heaven’s name, what is the matter?” he inquired, beginning to lose all command over himself.

“Nothing at all, sire; and I am perfectly ready to assure your majesty that my mind is as free from anxiety as you could possibly wish.”

“Your mind at ease, when I see you are embarrassed at the slightest thing. Has any one wounded or annoyed you?”

“No, no, sire.”

“I insist upon knowing if such really be the case,” said the young prince, his eyes sparkling.

“No one, sire, no one has in any way offended me.”

“In that case, do resume your gentle air of gayety, or that sweet melancholy look which I so loved in you this morning; for pity’s sake, do so.”

“Yes, sire, yes.”

The king struck the ground impatiently with his foot, saying, “Such a change is positively inexplicable.” And he looked at St. Aignan, who had also remarked La Valliere’s heavy languor of manner, as well as the king’s impatience.

It was utterly useless for the king to entreat, and as useless for him to try his utmost to overcome her positiveness, which was but too apparent, and did not in reality exist; the poor girl was completely overwhelmed--the aspect of death itself could not have awakened her from her torpor. The king saw in her repeated negative replies a mystery full of unkindness; he began to look all round the apartment with a suspicious air. There happened to be in La Valliere’s room a miniature of Athos. The king remarked this portrait, which bore a considerable resemblance to Bragelonne, for it had been taken when the comte was quite a young man. He looked at it with a threatening air. La Valliere, in her depressed state of mind, and very far indeed from thinking of this portrait, could not conjecture the king’s preoccupation. And yet the king’s mind was occupied with a terrible remembrance, which had more than once taken possession of his mind, but which he had always driven away. He recalled the intimacy which had existed between the two young people from their birth; the engagement which had followed, and that Athos had himself come to solicit La Valliere’s hand for Raoul. He, therefore, could not but suppose that, on her return to Paris, La Valliere had found news from London awaiting her, and that this news had counterbalanced the influence which he had been enabled to exert over her. He immediately felt himself stung, as it were, by feelings of the wildest jealousy; and he again questioned her with increased bitterness. La Valliere could not reply, unless she were to acknowledge everything, which would be to accuse the queen, and madame also; and the consequence would be that she would have to enter into an open warfare with these two great and powerful princesses. She thought within herself that as she made no attempt to conceal from the king what was passing in her own mind, the king ought to be able to read her heart, in spite of her silence; and that, if he really loved her, he would have understood and guessed everything. What was sympathy, then, if it were not that divine flame which possesses the property of enlightening the heart and of saving lovers the necessity of an expression of their thoughts and feelings? She maintained her silence, therefore, satisfying herself with sighing, weeping, and concealing her face in her hands. These sighs and tears, which had at first distressed, and then terrified Louis XIV., now irritated him. He could not bear any opposition--not the opposition which tears and sighs exhibited any more than opposition of any other kind. His remarks, therefore, became bitter, urgent, and openly aggressive in their nature. This was a fresh cause of distress for the poor girl. From that very circumstance, therefore, which she regarded as an injustice on her lover’s part, she drew sufficient courage to bear, not only her other troubles, but even this one also.

The king next began to accuse her in direct terms. La Valliere did not even attempt to defend herself; she endured all his accusations without according any other reply than that of shaking her head; without making any other remark than that which escapes every heart in deep distress, by a prayerful appeal to Heaven for help. But this ejaculation, instead of calming the king’s displeasure, rather increased it. He, moreover, saw himself seconded by St. Aignan, for St. Aignan, as we have observed, having seen the storm increasing, and not knowing the extent of the regard of which Louis XIV. was capable, felt, by anticipation, all the collected wrath of the three princesses, and the near approach of poor La Valliere’s downfall; and he was not true knight enough to resist the fear that he himself might possibly be dragged down in the impending ruin. St. Aignan did not reply to the king’s questions except by short, dry remarks, pronounced half-aloud; and by abrupt gestures, whose object was to make things worse, and bring about a misunderstanding, the result of which would be to free him from the annoyance of having to cross the courtyards in broad open day, in order to follow his illustrious companion to La Valliere’s apartments. In the meantime, the king’s anger momentarily increased; he made two or three steps toward the door, as if to leave the room, but then returned; the young girl did not, however, raise her head, although the sound of his footsteps might have warned her that her lover was leaving her. He drew himself up for a moment before her, with his arms crossed.

“For the last time, mademoiselle,” he said, “will you speak? Will you assign a reason for this change, for this fickleness, for this caprice?”

“What can I say?” murmured La Valliere. “Do you not see, sire, that I am completely overwhelmed at this moment; that I have no power of will, or thought, or speech?”

“Is it so difficult, then, to speak the truth? You would have told me the truth in fewer words than those in which you have just now expressed yourself.”

“But the truth about what, sire?”

“About everything.”

La Valliere was just on the point of revealing the whole truth to the king, her arms made a sudden movement as if they were about to open, but her lips remained silent, and her arms again fell listlessly by her side. The poor girl had not yet endured sufficient unhappiness to risk the necessary revelation.

“I know nothing,” she stammered.

“Oh!” exclaimed the king, “this is no longer mere coquetry or caprice, it is treason.”

And this time nothing could restrain him, the impulses of his heart were not sufficient to induce him to turn back, and he darted out of the room with a gesture full of despair. St. Aignan followed him, wishing for nothing better than to leave the place.

Louis XIV. did not pause until he reached the staircase, and grasping the balustrade, said:

“You see how shamefully I have been duped?”

“How, sire?” inquired the favorite.

“De Guiche fought on the Vicomte de Bragelonne’s account, and this De Bragelonne--oh! St. Aignan, she still loves him. I vow to you, St. Aignan, that if in three days hence, there were to remain but an atom of affection for her in my heart, I should die from very shame!”

And the king resumed his way to his own apartments.

“I assured your majesty how it would be,” murmured St. Aignan, continuing to follow the king, and timidly glancing up at the different windows. Unfortunately, their return was different to what their departure had been. A curtain was stealthily drawn aside, madame was behind it. She had seen the king leave the apartments of the maids of honor, and as soon as she observed that his majesty had passed, she left her own apartments with hurried steps, and ran up the staircase which led to the room the king had just left.

Despair.

As soon as the king had left her, La Valliere raised herself from the ground, and extended her arms, as if to follow and detain him; but when, having violently closed the door, the sound of his retreating footsteps could be heard in the distance, she had hardly sufficient strength left to totter toward and fall at the foot of her crucifix. There she remained, broken-hearted, absorbed, and overwhelmed by her grief, forgetful of and indifferent to everything but her profound grief itself--a grief which she could not comprehend otherwise than by instinct and acute sensation. In the midst of the wild tumult of her thoughts, La Valliere heard her door open again; she started, and turned round, thinking that it was the king who had returned. She was deceived, however, for it was madame who appeared at the door. What did she now care for madame? Again she sank down, her head supported by her priedieu chair. It was madame, agitated, irritated, and threatening. But what was that to her?

“Mademoiselle,” said the princess, standing before La Valliere, “this is very fine, I admit, to kneel, and pray, and make a pretense of being religious; but however submissive you may be in your addresses to Heaven, it is desirable that you should pay some little attention to the wishes of those who reign and rule here below.”

La Valliere raised her head painfully in token of respect.

“Not long since,” continued madame, “a certain recommendation was addressed to you, I believe?”

La Valliere’s fixed and wild gaze showed how entire her forgetfulness or her ignorance was.

“The queen recommended you,” continued madame, “to conduct yourself in such a manner that no one could be justified in spreading any reports about you.”

La Valliere darted an inquiring look toward her.

“I will not,” continued madame, “allow my household, which is that of the first princess of the blood, to set an evil example to the court; you would be the cause of such an example. I beg you to understand, therefore, in the absence of any witness of your shame, for I do not wish to humiliate you, that you are from this moment at perfect liberty to leave, and that you can return to your mother at Blois.”

La Valliere could not sink lower, nor could she suffer more than she had already suffered. Her countenance did not even change, but she remained with her hands crossed over her knees, like the figure of the Magdalen.

“Did you hear me?” said madame.

A shiver which passed through her whole frame was La Valliere’s only reply. And as the victim gave no other signs of life, madame left the room. And then, her very respiration suspended, and her blood almost congealed, as it were, in her veins, La Valliere by degrees felt that the pulsations of her wrists, her neck, and temples began to throb more and more heavily. These pulsations, as they gradually increased, soon changed into a species of brain fever, and in her temporary delirium she saw the figures of her friends, contending with her enemies, floating before her vision. She heard, too, mingled together in her deafened ears words of menace and words of fond affection; she seemed raised out of her existence, as though it were upon the wines of a mighty tempest, and in the dim horizon of the path along which her delirium hurried her, she saw the stone which covered her tomb upraised, and the dark and appalling interior of eternal night revealed to her distracted gaze. But the horror of the dream which had possessed her senses soon faded away, and she was again restored to the habitual resignation of her character. A ray of hope penetrated her heart, as a ray of sunlight streams into the dungeon of some unhappy captive. Her mind reverted to the journey from Fontainebleau; she saw the king riding beside her carriage, telling her that he loved her, asking for her love in return, requiring her to swear, and himself swearing, too, that never should an evening pass by, if ever a misunderstanding were to arise between them, without a visit, a letter, a sign of some kind being sent, to replace the troubled anxiety of the evening by the calm repose of the night. It was the king who had suggested that, who had imposed a promise upon her, who had himself sworn it also. It was impossible, therefore, she reasoned, that the king should fail in keeping the promise which he had himself exacted from her, unless, indeed, the king were a despot who enforced love as he enforced obedience; unless, too, the king were truly indifferent, that the first obstacle in his way were sufficient to arrest his further progress. The king, that kind protector, who by a word, by a single word, could relieve her distress of mind, the king even joined her persecutors. Oh! his anger could not possibly last. Now that he was alone, he would be suffering all that she herself was a prey to. But he was not tied hand and foot as she was; he could act, could move about, could come to her, while she could do nothing but wait. And the poor girl waited and waited, with breathless anxiety, for she could not believe it possible that the king would not come.

It was now about half-past ten. He would either come to her, or write to her, or send some kind word by M. de St. Aignan. If he were to come, oh! how she would fly to meet him! how she would thrust aside that excess of delicacy which she now discovered was misunderstood! how eagerly she would explain: “It is not I who do not love you, it is the fault of others who will not allow me to love you!” And then it must be confessed that she reflected upon it, and also the more she reflected, Louis appeared to her to be less guilty. In fact, he was ignorant of everything. What must he have thought of the obstinacy with which she remained silent? Impatient and irritable as the king was known to be, it was extraordinary that he had been able to preserve his temper so long. And yet, had it been her own case, she undoubtedly would not have acted in such a manner, she would have understood everything, have guessed everything. Yes, but she was nothing but a poor, simple-minded girl, and not a great and powerful monarch. Oh! if he did but come, if he would but come! how eagerly she would forgive him for all he had just made her suffer! how much more tenderly she would love him because she had so suffered! And so she sat, with her head bent forward in eager expectation toward the door, her lips slightly parted, as if--and Heaven forgive her for the thought she mentally exclaimed--they were awaiting the kiss which the king’s lips had in the morning so sweetly indicated when he pronounced the word love! If the king did not come, at least he would write; it was a second chance--a chance less delightful, certainly, than the other, but which would show an affection just as strong, but only more timorous in its nature. Oh! how she would devour his letter, how eager she would be to answer it; and when the messenger who had brought it had left her, how she would kiss, read over and over again, press upon her heart the happy paper which would have brought her ease of mind, tranquillity, and perfect happiness! At all events, if the king did not come; if, however, the king did not write, he could not do otherwise than send St. Aignan, or St. Aignan could not do otherwise than come of his own accord. Even if it were a third person, how openly she would speak to him; the royal presence would not be there to freeze her words upon her tongue, and then no suspicious feeling would remain a moment longer in the king’s heart.

Everything with La Valliere, heart and look, body and mind, was concentrated in eager expectation. She said to herself that there was an hour left in which to indulge hope; that until midnight had struck, the king might come, or write, or send; that at midnight only would every expectation be useless, every hope lost. Whenever there was any noise in the palace the poor girl fancied she was the cause of it; whenever she heard any one pass in the courtyard below she imagined they were messengers of the king coming to her. Eleven o’clock struck; then a quarter-past eleven; then half-past. The minutes dragged slowly on in this anxiety, and yet they seemed to pass far too quickly. And now it struck a quarter to twelve. Midnight, midnight was near, the last, the final hope which remained came in its turn. With the last stroke of the clock the last ray of light seemed to fade away; and with the last ray, so faded her final hope. And so, the king himself had deceived her; it was he who had been the first to fail in keeping the oath which he had sworn that very day; twelve hours only between his oath and his perjured vow; it was not long, certainly, to have preserved the illusion. And so, not only did the king not love her, but still more he despised her whom every one overwhelmed; he despised her to the extent even of abandoning her to the shame of an expulsion which was equivalent to having an ignominious sentence passed upon her; and yet it was he, the king himself, who was the first cause of this ignominy. A bitter smile, the only symptom of anger which during this long conflict had passed across the victim’s angelic face, appeared upon her lips. What, in fact, now remained on earth for her, after the king was lost to her? Nothing. But Heaven still remained, and her thoughts flew thither. She prayed that the proper course for her to follow might be suggested. “It is from Heaven,” she thought, “that I do expect everything; it is from Heaven I ought to expect everything.” And she looked at her crucifix with a devotion full of tender love.

“There,” she said, “hangs before me a Master who never forgets and never abandons those who do not abandon and who do not forget Him; it is to Him alone that we must sacrifice ourselves.”

And, thereupon, could any one have gazed into the recesses of that chamber, they would have seen the poor despairing girl adopt a final resolution, and determine upon one last plan in her mind. Thereupon, and as her knees were no longer able to support her, she gradually sank down upon the priedieu, and with her head pressed against the wooden cross, her eyes fixed, and her respiration short and quick, she watched for the earliest rays of approaching daylight. At two o’clock in the morning she was still in the same bewilderment of mind, or rather, in the same ecstasy of feeling. Her thoughts had almost ceased to hold any communion with the things of this world. And when she saw the violet tints of early dawn visible upon the roofs of the palace, and vaguely revealing the outlines of the ivory cross which she held embraced, she rose from the ground with a new-born strength, kissed the feet of the divine martyr, descended the staircase leading from the room, and wrapped herself from head to foot in a mantle as she went alone. She reached the wicket at the very moment the guard of musketeers opened the gate to admit the first relief-guard belonging to one of the Swiss regiments. And then, gliding behind the soldiers, she reached the street before the officer in command of the patrol had even thought of asking who the young girl was who was making her escape from the palace at so early an hour.

The Flight.

La Valliere followed the patrol as it left the courtyard. The patrol bent its steps toward the right, by the Rue St Honoré, and mechanically La Valliere went to the left. Her resolution was taken--her determination fixed. She wished to betake herself to the convent of the Carmelites at Chaillot, the superior of which enjoyed a reputation for severity which made the worldly minded people of the court tremble. La Valliere had never seen Paris--she had never gone out on foot, and so would have been unable to find her way even had she been in a calmer frame of mind than was then the case, and this may explain why she ascended instead of descending the Rue St. Honoré. Her only thought was to get away from the Palais Royal, and this she was doing; she had heard it said that Chaillot looked out upon the Seine, and she accordingly directed her steps toward the Seine. She took the Rue du Coq, and not being able to cross the Louvre, bore toward the church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois, and proceeded along the site of the colonnade which was subsequently built there by Perrault. In a very short time she reached the quays. Her steps were rapid and agitated; she scarcely felt the weakness which reminded her of having sprained her foot when very young, and which obliged her to limp slightly. At any other hour in the day her countenance would have awakened the suspicions of the least clear-sighted persons, or have attracted the attention of the most indifferent passers-by. But at half-past two in the morning the streets of Paris are almost, if not quite, deserted, and scarcely any one is to be seen but the hard-working artisan on his way to earn his daily bread, or the dangerous idlers of the streets, who are returning to their homes after a night of riot and debauchery; for the former the day was beginning, for the latter it was just closing. La Valliere was afraid of those faces, in which her ignorance of Parisian types did not permit her to distinguish the type of probity from that of dishonesty. The appearance of misery alarmed her, and all whom she met seemed wretched and miserable. Her toilet, which was the same she had worn during the previous evening, was elegant even in its careless disorder; for it was the one in which she had presented herself to the queen-mother; and, moreover, when she drew aside the mantle which covered her face, in order to enable her to see the way she was going, her pallor and her beautiful eyes spoke an unknown language to the men she met, and, ignorantly, the poor fugitive seemed to invite the brutal remarks of the one class, or to appeal to the compassion of the other. La Valliere still walked on in the same way, breathless and hurried, until she reached the top of the Place de Grève. She stopped from time to time, placed her hand upon her heart, leaned against a wall until she could breathe freely again, and then continued her course more rapidly than before. On reaching the Place de Grève, La Valliere suddenly came upon a group of three drunken men, reeling and staggering along, who were just leaving a boat, which they had made fast to the quay; the boat was freighted with wines, and it was apparent that they had done complete justice to the merchandise. They were singing their convivial exploits in three different keys, when suddenly, as they reached the end of the railing leading down to the quay, they found an obstacle in their path in the shape of this young girl. La Valliere stopped; while they, on their side, at the appearance of the young girl dressed in court costume, also halted, and, seizing one another by the hand, they surrounded La Valliere, singing:

“Oh! you who sadly are wandering alone,
Come, come, and laugh with us.”

La Valliere at once understood that the men were addressing her, and wished to prevent her passing; she tried to do so several times, but all her efforts were useless. Her limbs failed her; she felt she was on the point of falling, and uttered a cry of terror. At the same moment the circle which surrounded her was suddenly broken through in a most violent manner. One of her insulters was knocked to the left, another fell rolling over and over to the right, close to the water’s edge, while the third could hardly keep his feet. An officer of the musketeers stood face to face with the young girl, with threatening brow and his hand raised to carry out his threat. The drunken fellows, at the sight of the uniform, made their escape with all dispatch, and the greater for the proof of strength which the wearer of the uniform had just afforded them.

“Is it possible,” exclaimed the musketeer, “that it can be Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”

La Valliere, bewildered by what had just happened, and confounded by hearing her name pronounced, looked up and recognized D’Artagnan.

“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan! it is indeed I;” and at the same moment she seized hold of his arm. “You will protect me, will you not?” she added, in a tone of entreaty.

“Most certainly I will protect you; but, in Heaven’s name, where are you going at this hour?”

“I am going to Chaillot.”

“You’re going to Chaillot by the way of La Rapée? Why, mademoiselle, you are turning your back to it.”

“In that case, monsieur, be kind enough to put me in the right way, and to go with me a short distance.”

“Most willingly.”

“But how does it happen that I have found you here? By what merciful direction were you so near at hand to come to my assistance? I almost seem to be dreaming, or to be losing my senses.”

“I happened to be here, mademoiselle, because I have a house in the Place de Grève, at the sign of the Notre Dame, the rent of which I went to receive yesterday, and where I, in fact, passed the night. And I also wished to be at the palace early, for the purpose of inspecting my posts.”

“Thank you,” said La Valliere.

“That is what I was doing,” said D’Artagnan to himself; “but what was she doing, and why was she going to Chaillot at such an hour?”

And he offered her his arm, which she took, and began to walk with increased precipitation, which concealed, however, a great weakness. D’Artagnan perceived it, and proposed to La Valliere that she should take a little rest, which she refused.

“You are ignorant, perhaps, where Chaillot is?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“Quite so.”

“It is a great distance.”

“That matters very little.”

“It is, at least, a league.”

“I can walk it.”

D’Artagnan did not reply; he could tell, merely by the tone of a voice, when a resolution was real or not. He rather bore along than accompanied La Valliere, until they perceived the elevated ground of Chaillot.

“What house are you going to, mademoiselle?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“To the Carmelites, monsieur.”

“To the Carmelites?” repeated D’Artagnan, in amazement.

“Yes; and since Heaven has directed you toward me to give me your support on my road, accept both my thanks and my adieus.”

“To the Carmelites! Your adieus! Are you going to become a nun?” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“What, you!!!”

There was in this “you,” which we have marked by three notes of exclamation, in order to render it as expressive as possible--there was, we repeat, in this “you” a complete poem; it recalled to La Valliere her old recollections of Blois, and her new recollections of Fontainebleau; it said to her, “You, who might be happy with Raoul; you, who might be powerful with Louis; you about to become a nun!”

“Yes, monsieur,” she said. “I am going to devote myself to the service of Heaven, and to renounce the old world altogether.”

“But are you not mistaken with regard to your vocation--are you not mistaken in supposing it to be the will of Heaven?”

“No; since Heaven has been pleased to throw you in my way. Had it not been for you, I should certainly have sunk from fatigue on the road; and since Heaven, I repeat, has thrown you in my way, it is because it has willed that I should carry out my intention.”

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan doubtingly, “that is a rather subtle distinction, I think.”

“Whatever it may be,” returned the young girl, “I have acquainted you with the steps I have taken, and with my fixed resolution. And now I have one last favor to ask of you, even while I return you my thanks. The king is entirely ignorant of my flight from the Palais Royal, and is ignorant also of what I am about to do.”

“The king ignorant, you say!” exclaimed D’Artagnan. “Take care, mademoiselle; you are not aware of what you are doing. No one ought to do anything with which the king is unacquainted, especially those who belong to the court.”

“I no longer belong to the court, monsieur.”

D’Artagnan looked at the young girl with increasing astonishment.

“Do not be uneasy, monsieur,” she continued; “I have well calculated everything, and, were it not so, it would now be too late to reconsider my resolution--it is decided.”

“Well, mademoiselle, what do you wish me to do?”

“In the name of that sympathy which misfortune inspires, by your generous feeling, and by your honor as a gentleman, I entreat you to swear to me one thing.”

“Name it.”

“Swear to me, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that you will not tell the king that you have seen me, and that I am at the Carmelites.”

“I will not swear that,” said D’Artagnan, shaking his head.

“Why?”

“Because I know the king, I know you, I know myself even, nay, the whole human race, too well; no, no, I will not swear that!”

“In that case,” cried La Valliere, with an energy of which one would hardly have thought her capable, “instead of the blessing which I should have implored for you until my dying day, I will invoke a curse, for you are rendering me the most miserable creature that ever lived.”

We have already observed that D’Artagnan could easily recognize the accents of truth and sincerity, and he could not resist this last appeal. He saw by her face how bitterly she suffered from a feeling of degradation; he remarked her trembling limbs, how her whole slight and delicate frame was violently agitated by some internal struggle, and clearly perceived that resistance might be fatal.

“I will do as you wish, then,” he said. “Be satisfied, mademoiselle, I will say nothing to the king.”

“Oh! thanks, thanks!” exclaimed La Valliere; “you are the most generous man breathing.”

And in her extreme delight she seized hold of D’Artagnan’s hands and pressed them between her own. D’Artagnan, who felt himself quite overcome, said:

“This is touching, upon my word! she begins where others leave off.”

And La Valliere, who, in the extremity of her distress, had sunk down upon the ground, rose and walked towards the convent of the Carmelites, which could now, in the dawning light, be perceived just before them. D’Artagnan followed her at a distance. The entrance-door was half open; she glided in like a shadow, and thanking D’Artagnan by a parting gesture, disappeared from his sight. When D’Artagnan found himself quite alone he reflected profoundly upon what had just taken place.

“Upon my word,” he said, “this looks very much like what is called a false position. To keep such a secret as that is to keep a burning coal in one’s breeches pocket, and trust that it may not burn the stuff. And yet, not to keep it when I have sworn to do so, is dishonorable. It generally happens that some bright idea or other occurs to me as I am going along; but I am very much mistaken if I shall not, now, have to go a long way in order to find the solution of this affair. Yes, but which way to go? Oh! toward Paris, of course; that is the best way, after all. Only one must make haste, and in order to make haste four legs are better than two, and I, unhappily, have only two. ‘A horse, a horse,’ as I heard them say at the theater in London, ‘my kingdom for a horse!’ And, now I think of it, it need not cost me so much as that, for at the Barriere de la Conference there is a guard of musketeers, and instead of the one horse I need, I shall find ten there.”

So, in pursuance of this resolution, which he had adopted with his usual rapidity, D’Artagnan immediately turned his back upon the heights of Chaillot, reached the guardhouse, took the fastest horse he could find there, and was at the palace in less than ten minutes. It was striking five as he reached the Palais Royal. The king, he was told, went to bed at his usual hour, after having been engaged with M. Colbert, and, in all probability, was still fast asleep.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “she spoke the truth, and the king is ignorant of everything; if he only knew one-half of what has happened, the Palais Royal by this time would be turned upside down.”

Showing How Louis, on His Side, Had Passed the Time from Ten to Half-Past Twelve at Night.

When the king left the apartment of the maids of honor he found Colbert awaiting him to receive his directions with regard to the next day’s ceremony, as the king was then to receive the Dutch and Spanish ambassadors. Louis XIV. had serious causes of dissatisfaction with the Dutch; the States had already been guilty of many mean shifts and evasions with France, and without perceiving or without caring about the chances of a rupture, they again abandoned the alliance with his most Christian majesty, for the purpose of entering into all kinds of plots with Spain. Louis XIV., at his accession, that is to say, at the death of Cardinal Mazarin, had found this political question roughly sketched out; the solution was difficult for a young man, but as, at that time, the king represented the whole nation, anything that the head resolved upon, the body would be found ready to carry out. Any sudden impulse of anger, the reaction of young and hot blood to the brain, would be quite sufficient to change an old form of policy and to create another and new system altogether. The part that diplomatists had to play in those days was that of arranging among themselves the different coups-d’état which their sovereign masters might wish to effect. Louis was not in that calm state of mind which could make trim capable of determining upon a wise course of policy. Still much agitated from the quarrel he had just had with La Valliere, he walked hastily into his cabinet, exceedingly desirous of finding an opportunity of producing an explosion after he had controlled himself for so long a time. Colbert, as he saw the king enter, knew the position of affairs at a glance, understood the king’s intentions, and resolved, therefore, to maneuver a little. When Louis requested to be informed what it would be necessary to say on the morrow, Colbert began by expressing his surprise that his majesty had not been properly informed by M. Fouquet.

“Monsieur Fouquet,” he said, “is perfectly acquainted with the whole of this Dutch affair; he receives the dispatches himself, direct.”

The king, who was accustomed to hear M. Colbert speak in not overscrupulous terms of M. Fouquet, allowed this remark to pass by unanswered, and merely listened. Colbert noticed the effect it had produced, and hastened to back out, saying that M. Fouquet was not on all occasions as blamable as at the first glance might seem to be the case, inasmuch as at that moment he was greatly occupied. The king looked up.

“What do you allude to?” he said.

“Sire, men are but men, and Monsieur Fouquet has his defects as well as his great qualities.”

“Ah, defects! who is without them, Monsieur Colbert?”

“Your majesty is not,” said Colbert boldly; for he knew how to convey a good deal of flattery in a light amount of blame, like the arrow which cleaves the air, notwithstanding its weight, thanks to the light feathers which bear it up.

The king smiled.

“What defect has Monsieur Fouquet, then?” he said.

“Still the same, sire; it is said he is in love.”

“In love? With whom?”

“I am not quite sure, sire; I have very little to do with matters of gallantry.”

“At all events, you know, since you speak of it.”

“I have heard a name mentioned.”

“Whose?”

“I cannot now remember whose, but I think it is one of madame’s maids of honor.”

The king started.

“You know more than you like to say, Monsieur Colbert,” he murmured.

“I assure you, no, sire.”

“At all events, madame’s maids of honor are all known, and in mentioning their names to you, you will perhaps recollect the one you allude to.”

“No, sire.”

“At least try.”

“It would be useless, sire. Whenever the name of any lady who runs the risk of being compromised is concerned, my memory is like a coffer of brass, the key of which I have lost.”

A dark cloud seemed to pass over the mind as well as across the face of the king; then, wishing to appear as if he were perfect master of himself and of his feelings, he said:

“And now for the affair concerning Holland.”

“In the first place, sire, at what hour will your majesty receive the ambassadors?”

“Early in the morning.”

“Eleven o’clock?”

“That is too late--say nine o’clock.”

“That will be too early, sire.”

“For friends, that would be a matter of no importance, one does what one likes with one’s friends; but for one’s enemies, in that case nothing could be better than if they were to feel hurt. I should not be sorry, I confess, to have to finish altogether with these marsh-birds, who annoy me with their cries.”

“It shall be precisely as your majesty desires. At nine o’clock, therefore, I will give the necessary orders. Is it to be a formal audience?”

“No. I wish to have an explanation with them, and not to imbitter matters, as is always the case when many persons are present; but at the same time, I wish to clear everything with them, in order not to have to begin over again. “

“Your majesty will inform me of the persons whom you wish to be present at the reception.”

“I will draw out a list of them. Let us speak of the ambassadors. What do they want?”

“Allies with Spain, they gain nothing; allies with France, they lose much.”

“How is that?”

“Allied with Spain, they see themselves bounded and protected by the possessions of their allies; they cannot touch them, however anxious they may be to do so. From Antwerp to Rotterdam is but a step, and that by the way of the Scheldt and the Meuse. If they wish to make a bite at the Spanish cake, you, sire, the son-in-law of the king of Spain, could, with your cavalry, go from your dominions to Brussels in a couple of days. Their design is, therefore, only to quarrel so far with you, and only to make you suspect Spain so far as will be sufficient to induce you not to interfere with their own affairs.”

“It would be far more simple, I should think,” replied the king, “to form a solid alliance with me, by means of which I should gain something, while they would gain everything. “

“Not so; for if, by chance, they were to have you, or France, rather, as a boundary, your majesty is not an agreeable neighbor. Young, ardent, war-like, the King of France might inflict some serious mischief on Holland, especially if he were to get near her.”

“I perfectly understand, Monsieur Colbert, and you have explained it very clearly; but be good enough to tell me the conclusion you have arrived at.”

“Your majesty’s own decisions are never deficient in wisdom.”

“What will these ambassadors say to me?”

“They will tell your majesty that they are ardently desirous of forming an alliance with you, which will be a falsehood; they will tell Spain that the three powers ought to unite so as to check the prosperity of England, and that will equally be a falsehood; for at present, the natural ally of your majesty is England, who has ships when you have none; England, who can counteract Dutch influence in India; England, in fact, a monarchical country, to which your majesty is attached by ties of relationship.”

“Good; but how would you answer?”

“I should answer, sire, with the greatest possible moderation of tone, that the disposition of Holland does not seem friendly toward the King of France; that the symptoms of public feeling among the Dutch are alarming as regards your majesty; that certain medals have been struck with insulting devices.”

“Toward me?” exclaimed the young king excitedly.

“Oh, no, sire, no; insulting is not the word; I was mistaken; I ought to have said immeasurably flattering to the Dutch. “

“Oh! if that be so, the pride of the Dutch is a matter of indifference to me,” said the king, sighing.

“Your majesty is right, a thousand times right. However, it is never a mistake in politics, your majesty knows better than myself, to be unjust in order to obtain a concession in your own favor. If your majesty were to complain as if your susceptibility were offended, you would stand in a far higher position with them.”

“What are those medals you speak of?” inquired Louis; “for if I allude to them I ought to know what to say.”

“Upon my word, sire, I cannot very well tell you--some overweeningly conceited device--that is the sense of it; the words have nothing to do with the thing itself.”

“Very good; I will mention the word ‘medal,’ and they can understand it if they like.”

“Oh! they will understand without any difficulty. Your majesty can also slip in a few words about certain pamphlets which are being circulated.”

“Never! Pamphlets befoul those who write them much more than those against whom they are written. Monsieur Colbert, I thank you; you can leave me now. Do not forget the hour I have fixed, and be there yourself.”

“Sire, I await your majesty’s list.”

“True,” returned the king; and he began to meditate; he did not think of the list in the slightest degree.

The clock struck half-past eleven. The king’s face revealed a violent conflict between pride and love. The political conversation had dispelled a good deal of the irritation which Louis had felt, and La Valliere’s pale, worn features, in his imagination, spoke a very different language to that of the Dutch medals or the Batavian pamphlets. He sat for ten minutes debating within himself whether he should or should not return to La Valliere; but Colbert having, with some urgency, respectfully requested that the list might be furnished him, the king blushed at thinking of mere matters of affection when matters of business required his attention. He, therefore, dictated: The queen-mother, the queen, madame, Mme. de Motteville, Mme. de Chatillon, Mme. de Noailles; and, for the men, M. le Prince, M. de Grammont, M. de Manicamp, M. de St. Aignan, and the officers on duty.

“The ministers,” said Colbert.

“As a matter of course, and the secretaries also.”

“Sire, I will leave at once in order to get everything prepared; the orders will be at the different residences tomorrow. “

“Say, rather, to-day,” replied Louis mournfully, as the clock struck twelve.

It was the very hour when poor La Valliere was almost dying from anguish and bitter suffering. The king’s attendants entered, it being the hour of his return to rest; the queen, indeed, had been waiting for more than an hour. Louis, accordingly, retired to his bedroom with a sigh; but as he sighed he congratulated himself on his courage, and applauded himself for having been as firm in love as in affairs of state.

The Ambassadors.

D’Artagnan had, with very few exceptions, learned almost all the particulars of what we have just been relating; for among his friends he reckoned all the useful, serviceable people in the royal household--officious attendants who were proud of being recognized by the captain of the musketeers, for the captain’s influence was very great; and then, in addition to any ambitious views they may have imagined he could promote, they were proud of being regarded as worth being spoken to by a man as brave as D’Artagnan. In this manner D’Artagnan learned every morning what he had not been able either to see or to ascertain the night before, from the simple fact of his not being ubiquitous; so that, with the information he had been able, by his own means, to pick up during the day, and with what he had gathered from others, he succeeded in making up a bundle of weapons, which he untied as occasion might require. In this way D’Artagnan’s two eyes rendered him the same service as the hundred eyes of Argus. Political secrets, beside revelations, hints, or scraps of conversation dropped by the courtiers on the threshold of the royal antechamber, in this way D’Artagnan managed to ascertain, and to put away everything in the vast and impenetrable tomb of his memory, by the side of those royal secrets so dearly bought and faithfully preserved. He, therefore, knew of the king’s interview with Colbert, and of the appointment made for the ambassadors in the morning, and, consequently, he knew that the question of the medals would be brought under debate; and while he was arranging and constructing the conversation upon a few chance words which had reached his ears, he returned to his post in the royal apartments, so as to be there at the very moment the king would awake. It happened that the king woke very early--proving thereby that he, too, on his side, had slept but indifferently. Toward seven o’clock, he half opened his door very gently. D’Artagnan was at his post. His majesty was pale, and seemed wearied; he had not, moreover, quite finished dressing.

“Send for Monsieur de St. Aignan,” he said.

St. Aignan very probably awaited a summons, for the messenger, when he reached his apartment, found him already dressed. St. Aignan hastened to the king in obedience to the summons. A moment afterward the king and St. Aignan passed by together, but the king walking first. D’Artagnan went to the window which looked out upon the courtyards; he had no need to put himself to the trouble of watching in what direction the king went, for he had no difficulty in guessing beforehand where his majesty was going. The king, in fact, bent his steps toward the apartments of the maids of honor--a circumstance which in no way astonished D’Artagnan, for he more than suspected, although La Valliere had not breathed a syllable on the subject, that the king had some kind of reparation to make. St. Aignan followed him as he had done the previous evening, rather less uneasy in his mind, though still slightly agitated, for he fervently trusted that at seven o’clock in the morning there might be only himself and the king awake among the august guests at the palace. D’Artagnan stood at the window, careless and perfectly calm in his manner. One could almost have sworn that he noticed nothing, and was utterly ignorant who were these two hunters after adventures who were passing across the courtyards wrapped up in their cloaks. And yet, all the while that D’Artagnan appeared not to be looking at them at all, he did not for one moment lose sight of them, and while he whistled that old march of the musketeers, which he rarely recalled except under great emergencies, he conjectured and prophesied how terrible would be the storm which would be raised on the king’s return. In fact, when the king entered La Valliere’s apartment and found the room empty and the bed untouched, he began to be alarmed, and called out to Montalais, who immediately answered the summons; but her astonishment was equal to the king’s. All that she could tell his majesty was, that she had fancied she had heard La Valliere weep during a portion of the night, but, knowing that his majesty had returned, she had not dared to inquire what was the matter.

“But,” inquired the king, “where do you suppose she is gone to?”

“Sire,” replied Montalais, “Louise is of a very sentimental disposition, and as I have often seen her rise at daybreak in order to go out into the garden, she may perhaps be there now.”

This appeared probable, and the king immediately ran down the staircase in search of the fugitive. D’Artagnan saw him appear very pale, and talking in an excited manner with his companion as he went toward the gardens, St. Aignan following him, out of breath. D’Artagnan did not stir from the window, but went on whistling, looking as if he saw nothing, and yet seeing everything.

“Come, come,” he murmured, when the king disappeared, “his majesty’s passion is stronger than I thought; he is now doing, I think, what he never did for Mademoiselle de Mancini.”

In a quarter of an hour the king again appeared; he had looked everywhere, was completely out of breath, and, as a matter of course, had not discovered anything. St. Aignan, who still followed him, was fanning himself with his hat, and, in a gasping voice, asking for information about La Valliere from such of the servants as were about, in fact, from every one he met. Among others he came across Manicamp, who had arrived from Fontainebleau by easy stages; for while others had performed the journey in six hours, he had taken twenty-four.

“Have you seen Mademoiselle de la Valliere?’’ St. Aignan asked him.

Whereupon Manicamp, dreamy and absent as usual, answered, thinking that some one was asking him about De Guiche:

“Thank you, the comte is a little better.”

And he continued on his way until he reached the antechamber where D’Artagnan was, and whom he asked to explain how it was the king looked, as he thought, so bewildered; to which D’Artagnan replied that he was quite mistaken, that the king, on the contrary, was as lively and merry as he could possibly be.

In the midst of all this eight o’clock struck. It was usual for the king to take his breakfast at this hour, for the code of etiquette prescribed that the king should always be hungry at eight o’clock. His breakfast was laid upon a small table in his bedroom, and he ate very fast. St. Aignan, of whom he would not lose sight, held his napkin in his hand. He then disposed of several military audiences, during which he dispatched St. Aignan to see what he could find out. Then, still occupied, still full of anxiety, still watching St. Aignan’s return, who had sent out his servants in every direction to make inquiries, and who had also gone himself, the hour of nine struck, and the king forthwith passed into his large cabinet.

As the clock was striking nine the ambassadors entered, and as it finished the two queens and madame made their appearance. There were three ambassadors from Holland, and two from Spain. The king glanced at them, and then bowed; and at the same moment St. Aignan entered, an entrance which the king regarded as far more important, in a different sense, however, than that of ambassadors, however numerous they were, and from whatever country they came; and so, setting everything else aside, the king made a sign of interrogation to St. Aignan, which the latter answered by a most decisive negative. The king almost entirely lost his courage; but as the queens, the members of the nobility who were present, and the ambassadors, had their eyes fixed upon him, he overcame his emotion by a violent effort, and invited the latter to speak. Whereupon one of the Spanish deputies made a long oration, in which he boasted the advantages which the Spanish alliance would offer.

The king interrupted him, saying, “Monsieur, I trust that whatever is advantageous for France must be exceedingly advantageous for Spain.”

This remark, and particularly the peremptory tone in which it was pronounced, made the ambassadors pale, and brought the color into the cheeks of the two queens, who, being Spanish, felt wounded by this reply in their pride of relationship and nationality.

The Dutch ambassador then began to address himself to the king, and complained of the injurious suspicions which the king exhibited against the government of his country.

The king interrupted him, saying, “It is very singular, monsieur, that you should come with any complaint, when it is I rather who have reason to be dissatisfied; and yet, you see, I do not complain.”

“Complain, sire; and in what respect?”

The king smiled bitterly. “Will you blame me, monsieur,” he said, “if I should happen to entertain suspicions against a government which authorizes and protects public insulters?”

“Sire!”

“I tell you,” resumed the king, exciting himself by a recollection of his own personal annoyance rather than from political grounds, “that Holland is a land of refuge for all who hate me, and especially for all who malign me.”

“Oh, sire!”

“You wish for proofs, perhaps? Very good; they can be had easily enough. Whence proceed all those insulting pamphlets which represent me as a monarch without glory and without authority? your printing-presses groan under their number. If my secretaries were here I would mention the titles of the works as well as the names of the printers. “

“Sire,” replied the ambassador, “a pamphlet can hardly be regarded as the work of a whole nation. Is it just, is it reasonable, that a great and powerful monarch like your majesty should render a whole nation responsible for the crime of a few madmen, who are starving or dying of hunger?”

“That may be the case, I admit. But when the mint at Amsterdam strikes off medals which reflect disgrace upon me, is that also the crime of a few madmen?”

“Medals!” stammered out the ambassador.

“Medals,” repeated the king, looking at Colbert.

“Your majesty,” the ambassador ventured, “should be quite sure--”

The king still looked at Colbert; but Colbert appeared not to understand him, and maintained an unbroken silence, notwithstanding the king’s repeated hints. D’Artagnan then approached the king, and taking a piece of money out of his pocket, he placed it in the king’s hands, saying: “That is the medal your majesty alludes to.”

The king looked at it, and with a glance which, ever since he had become his own master, had been always soaring in its gaze, observed an insulting device representing Holland arresting the progress of the sun, with this inscription: “ln conspectu meo stetit sol.”

“In my presence the sun stands still,” exclaimed the king furiously. “Ah! you will hardly deny it now, I suppose. “

“And the sun,” said D’Artagnan, “is this,” as he pointed to the panels of the cabinet, where the sun was brilliantly represented in every direction with this motto, “Nec pluribus impar.”

Louis’ anger, increased by the bitterness of his own personal sufferings, hardly required this additional circumstance to foment it. Every one saw, from the kindling passion in the king’s eyes, that an explosion was most imminent. A look from Colbert kept back the storm from bursting forth. The ambassador ventured to frame excuses by saying that the vanity of nations was a matter of little consequence; that Holland was proud that, with such limited resources, she had maintained her rank as a great nation, even against powerful monarchs, and that if a little smoke had intoxicated his countrymen, the king would be kindly disposed, and would excuse this intoxication. The king seemed as if he would be glad of some one’s advice; he looked at Colbert, who remained impassible; then at D’Artagnan, who simply shrugged his shoulders, a movement which was like the opening of the floodgates, whereby the king’s anger, which he had restrained for so long a period, now burst forth. As no one knew what direction his anger might take, all preserved a dead silence The second ambassador took advantage of it to begin his excuses also. While he was speaking, and while the king, who had again gradually returned to his own personal reflections, listened to the voice, full of nervous anxiety, with the air of an absent man listening to the murmuring of a cascade, D’Artagnan, on whose left hand St. Aignan was standing, approached the latter, and, in a voice which was loud enough to reach the king’s ears, said: “Have you heard the news?”

“What news?” said St. Aignan.

“About La Valliere.”

The king started, and involuntarily advanced a step nearer to them.

“What has happened to La Valliere?” inquired St. Aignan, in a tone which can very easily be imagined.

“Ah! poor girl! she is going to take the veil.”

“The veil!” exclaimed St. Aignan.

“The veil!” cried the king, in the midst of the ambassador’s discourse; but then, mindful of the rules of etiquette, he mastered himself, still listening, however, with wrapt attention.

“What order?” inquired St. Aignan.

“The Carmelites of Chaillot.”

“Who the deuce told you that?”

“She did herself.”

“You have seen her, then?”

“Nay, I even went with her to the Carmelites.”

The king did not lose a syllable of this conversation; and again he could hardly control his feelings.

“But what was the cause of her flight?” inquired St. Aignan.

“Because the poor girl was driven away from the court yesterday,” replied D’Artagnan.

He had no sooner said this than the king, with an authoritative gesture, said to the ambassador, “Enough, monsieur, enough.” Then, advancing toward the captain, he exclaimed: “Who says that La Valliere is going to take the religious vows?”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” answered the favorite.

“Is it true what you say?” said the king, turning toward the musketeer.

“As true as truth itself.”

The king clinched his hands, and turned pale. “You have something further to add, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” he said.

“I know nothing more, sire.”

“You added that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had been driven away from court.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Is that true, also?”

“Ascertain for yourself, sire. ‘

“And from whom?”

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, like a man declining to say anything further.

The king almost bounded from his seat, regardless of ambassadors, ministers, courtiers, and politics. The queen-mother rose; she had heard everything; or, if she had not heard everything, she had guessed it. Madame, almost fainting from anger and fear, endeavored to rise as the queen-mother had done; but she sank down again upon her chair, which by an instinctive movement she made roll back a few paces.

“Gentlemen,” said the king, “the audience is over; I will communicate my answer, or rather my will, to Spain and to Holland;” and, with a proud, imperious gesture, he dismissed the ambassadors.

“Take care, my son,” said the queen-mother indignantly, “you are hardly master of yourself, I think.”

“Ah, madame!” returned the young lion, with a terrible gesture, “if I am not master of myself, I will be, I promise you, of those who do me outrage. Come with me, Monsieur d’Artagnan, come.” And he quitted the room in the midst of a general stupefaction and dismay. The king hastily descended the staircase, and was about to cross the courtyard.

“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “your majesty mistakes the way.”

“No; I am going to the stables.”

“That is useless, sire, for I have horses ready for your majesty.”

The king’s only answer was a look, but this look promised more than the ambition of three D’Artagnans could have dared to hope.

Chaillot

Although they had not been summoned, Manicamp and Malicorne had followed the king and D’Artagnan. They were both exceedingly intelligent men; except that Malicorne was too precipitate, owing to his ambition; while Manicamp was frequently too tardy, owing to his idleness. On this occasion, however, they arrived at precisely the proper moment. Five horses were waiting in readiness. Two were seized upon by the king and D’Artagnan, two others by Manicamp and Malicorne, while a groom belonging to the stables mounted the fifth. The whole cavalcade set off at a gallop. D’Artagnan had been very careful in his selection of the horses; they were the very animals for distressed lovers--horses which did not simply run, but flew. Within ten minutes after their departure, the cavalcade, amid a cloud of dust, arrived at Chaillot. The king literally threw himself off his horse; but notwithstanding the rapidity with which he accomplished this maneuver, he found D’Artagnan already holding his stirrup. With a sign of acknowledgment to the musketeer, he threw the bridle to the groom, and darted into the vestibule, violently pushed open the door, and entered the reception-room. Manicamp, Malicorne, and the groom remained outside, D’Artagnan alone following him. When he entered the reception-room the first object which met his gaze was Louise herself, not simply on her knees, but lying at the foot of a large stone crucifix. The young girl was stretched upon the damp flagstones, scarcely visible in the gloom of the apartment, which was lighted only by means of a narrow window protected by bars and completely shaded by creeping plants. She was alone, inanimate, cold as the stone to which she was clinging. When the king saw her in this state he thought she was dead, and uttered a loud cry, which made D’Artagnan hurry into the room. The king had already passed one of his arms round her body, and D’Artagnan assisted him in raising the poor girl, whom the torpor of death seemed already to have taken possession of. D’Artagnan seized hold of the alarm-bell, and rang with all his might. The Carmelite sisters immediately hastened at the summons, and uttered loud exclamations of alarm and indignation at the sight of the two men holding a woman in their arms. The superior also hurried to the scene of action; but far more a creature of the world than any of the female members of the court, notwithstanding her austerity of manners, she recognized the king at the first glance, by the respect which those present exhibited for him, as well as by the imperious and authoritative way in which he had thrown the whole establishment into confusion. As soon as she saw the king, she retired to her own apartments, in order to avoid compromising her dignity. But by one of the nuns she sent various cordials, Hungary water, etc., etc., and ordered that all the doors should be immediately closed, a command which was just in time, for the king’s distress was fast becoming of a most clamorous and despairing character. He had almost decided to send for his own physician, when La Valliere exhibited signs of returning animation. The first object which met her gaze, as she opened her eyes, was the king at her feet; in all probability she did not recognize him, for she uttered a deep sigh full of anguish and distress. Louis fixed his eyes devouringly upon her face; and when, in the course of a few moments, she recognized the king, she endeavored to tear herself from his embrace.

“Oh, heavens!” she murmured, “is not the sacrifice yet made?”

“No, no!” exclaimed the king, “and it shall not be made, I swear.”

Notwithstanding her weakness and utter despair, she rose from the ground, saying, “It must be made, however; it must be; so do not stay me in my purpose.”

“I leave you to sacrifice yourself! I! never, never!” exclaimed the king.

“Well,” murmured D’Artagnan, “I may as well go now. As soon as they begin to speak we may as well save their having any listeners.” And he quitted the room, leaving the two lovers alone.

“Sire,” continued La Valliere, “not another word, I implore you. Do not destroy the only future I can hope for--my salvation; do not destroy the glory and brightness of your own future for a mere caprice.”

“A caprice!” cried the king.

“Oh, sire! it is now, only, that I can see clearly into your heart. “

“You, Louise, what mean you?”

“An inexplicable impulse, foolish and unreasonable in its nature, may momentarily appear to offer a sufficient excuse for your conduct; but there are duties imposed upon you which are incompatible with your regard for a poor girl such as I am. So, forget me.”

“I forget you!”

“You have already done so.”

“Rather would I die.”

“You cannot love one whose peace of mind you hold so lightly, and whom you so cruelly abandoned, last night, to the bitterness of death.”

“What can you mean? Explain yourself, Louise.”

“What did you ask me yesterday morning? To love you. What did you promise me in return? Never to let midnight pass without offering me an opportunity of reconciliation, whenever your anger might be aroused against me.”

“Oh! forgive me, Louise, forgive me! I was almost mad from jealousy.”

“Jealousy is an unworthy thought, sire. You may become jealous again, and will end by killing me. Be merciful, then, and leave me now to die.”

“Another word, mademoiselle, in that strain, and you will see me expire at your feet.”

“No, no, sire, I am better acquainted with my own demerits; and believe me, that to sacrifice yourself for one whom all despise would be needless.”

“Give me the names of those you have cause to complain of.”

“I have no complaints, sire, to prefer against any one; no one but myself to accuse. Farewell, sire; you are compromising yourself in speaking to me in such a manner.”

“Oh! be careful, Louise, in what you say; for you are reducing me to the very depths of despair.”

“Oh! sire, sire, leave me to the protection of Heaven, I implore you.”

“No, no; Heaven itself shall not tear you from me.”

“Save me, then,” cried the poor girl, “from those determined and pitiless enemies who are thirsting to destroy my very life and honor too. If you have courage enough to love me, show at least that you have power enough to defend me. But no; she whom you say you love, others insult and mock and drive shamelessly away.” And the gentle-hearted girl, forced by her own bitter distress to accuse others, wrung her hands in an uncontrollable agony of tears.

“You have been driven away!” exclaimed the king. “This is the second time I have heard that said.”

“I have been driven away with shame and ignominy, sire. You see, then, that I have no other protector but Heaven, no consolation but prayer, and this cloister is my only refuge.”

“My palace, my whole court, shall be yours. Oh! fear nothing further now, Louise; those, be they men or women, who yesterday drove you away, shall to-morrow tremble before you--to-morrow, do I say? nay, this very day have I already shown my displeasure--have already threatened. It is in my power, even now, to hurl the thunderbolt which I have hitherto withheld. Louise, Louise, you shall be cruelly revenged; tears of blood shall repay you for the tears you have shed. Give me only the names of your enemies.”

“Never, never!”

“How can I show any anger, then?”

“Sire, those upon whom your anger would have to fall would force you to draw back your hand upraised to punish. “

“Oh! you do not know me,” cried the king, exasperated. “Rather than draw back I would sacrifice my kingdom, and would curse my family. Yes, I would strike until this arm had utterly annihilated all those who had ventured to make themselves the enemies of the gentlest and best of creatures.”

And as he said these words. Louis struck his fist violently against the oaken wainscoting with a force which alarmed La Valliere; for his anger, owing to his unbounded power, had something imposing and threatening in it, and, like the tempest, might be mortal in its effects. She, who thought that her own sufferings could not be surpassed, was overwhelmed by a suffering which revealed itself by menace and by violence.

“Sire,” she said, “for the last time I implore you to leave me; already do I feel strengthened by the calm seclusion of this asylum, and the protection of Heaven has reassured me; for all the petty human meannesses of this world are forgotten beneath the divine protection. Once more, then, sire, and for the last time, I again implore you to leave me.”

“Confess, rather,” cried Louis, “that you have never loved me; admit that my humility and repentance are flattering to your pride; but that my distress affects you not; that the king of this wide realm is no longer regarded as a lover whose tenderness of devotion is capable of working out your happiness; but that he is a despot whose caprice has utterly destroyed in your heart the very last fiber of human feeling. Do not say you are seeking Heaven, say, rather, that you are fleeing the king.”

Louise’s heart wrung within her as she listened to his passionate utterance, which made the fever of passion course through every vein in her body. “But did you not hear me say that I have been driven away, scorned, despised?”

“I will make you the most respected, and most adored, and the most envied of my whole court.”

“Prove to me that you have not ceased to love me.”

“In what way?”

“By leaving me.”

“I will prove it to you by never leaving you again.”

“But do you imagine, sire, that I shall allow that; do you imagine that I will let you come to an open rupture with every member of your family; do you imagine that, for my sake, you could abandon mother, wife, and sister?”

“Ah! you have named them, then, at last; it is they, then, who have wrought this grievous injury? By the heaven above us, then, upon them shall my anger fall.”

“That is the reason why the future terrifies me, why I refuse everything, why I do not wish you to revenge me. Tears enough have already been shed, sufficient sorrow and affliction have already been occasioned. I, at least, will never be the cause of sorrow, or affliction, or distress, to whomsoever it may be, for I have mourned and suffered and wept too much myself.”

“And do you count my sufferings, my distress, and my tears, as nothing?”

“In Heaven’s name, sire, do not speak to me in that manner. I need all my courage to enable me to accomplish the sacrifice.”

“Louise, Louise, I implore you! whatever you desire, whatever you command, whether vengeance or forgiveness, your slightest wish shall be obeyed, but do not abandon me.”

“Alas! sire, we must part.”

“You do not love me, then?”

“Heaven knows I do!”

“It is false, Louise; it is false!”

“Oh! sire, if I did not love you, I should let you do what you please; I should let you revenge me, in return for the insult which has been inflicted on me; I should accept the sweet triumph to my pride which you propose; and yet you cannot deny that I reject even the sweet compensation which your affection affords, that affection which for me is life itself, for I wished to die when I thought that you loved me no longer.”

“Yes, yes; I now know, I now perceive it; you are the holiest, the best, the purest of women. There is no one so worthy as yourself, not alone of my own respect and devotion, but also of the respect and devotion of all who surround me; and therefore shall no one be loved like yourself; no one shall ever possess the influence over me that you wield. You wish me to be calm, to forgive; be it so, you shall find me perfectly unmoved. You wish to reign by gentleness and clemency, I will be clement and gentle. Dictate for me the conduct you wish me to adopt, and I will obey blindly.”

“In Heaven’s name, no, sire; what am I, a poor girl, to dictate to so great a monarch as yourself?”

“You are my life, the very spirit and principle of my being. Is it not the spirit that rules the body?”

“You love me, then, sire?”

“On my knees, yes; with my hands upraised to you, yes; with all the strength and power of my being, yes; I love you so deeply that I would happily lay down my life for you at your merest wish.”

“Oh! sire, now that I know you love me, I have nothing to wish for in the whole world. Give me your hand, sire, and then, farewell. I have enjoyed in this life all the happiness which I was destined to meet with.”

“Oh! no, no! your happiness is not a happiness of yesterday, it is of to-day, of to-morrow, ever enduring. The future is yours, everything which is mine is yours too. Away with these ideas of separation, away with these gloomy, despairing thoughts! You will live for me, as I will live for you, Louise.” And he threw himself at her feet, embracing her knees with the wildest transports of joy and gratitude.

“Oh! sire, sire! all that is but a wild dream.”

“Why, a wild dream?”

“Because I cannot return to the court. Exiled, how can I see you again? Would it not be far better to bury myself in a cloister for the rest of my life, with the rich consolation that your affection gives me, with the latest pulses of your heart beating for me, and your latest confession of attachment still ringing in my ears?”

“Exiled, you!” exclaimed Louis XIV.; “and who dares to exile, let me ask, when I recall?”

“Oh! sire, something which is greater than and superior to kings even--the world and public opinion. Reflect for a moment; you cannot love a woman who has been ignominiously driven away--love one whom your mother has stained with suspicion; one whom your sister has threatened with disgrace; such a woman, indeed, would be unworthy of you.”

“Unworthy! one who belongs to me?”

“Yes, sire, precisely on that account; from the very moment she belongs to you, the character of your mistress renders her unworthy.”

“You are right, Louise; every shade of delicacy of feeling is yours. Very well, you shall not be exiled.”

“Ah! from the tone in which you speak, you have not heard madame, that is very clear.”

“I will appeal from her to my mother.”

“Again, sire, you have not seen your mother.”

“She also? Poor Louise! every one’s hand, then, is against you.”

“Yes, yes, poor Louise, who was already bending beneath the fury of the storm when you arrived and crushed her beneath the weight of your displeasure.”

“Oh! forgive me.”

“You will not, I know, be able to make either of them yield; believe me, the evil cannot be repaired, for I will not allow you to use violence or to exercise your authority.”

“Very well, Louise; to prove to you how fondly I love you, I will do one thing; I will see madame; I will make her revoke her sentence; I will compel her to do so.”

“Compel? Oh! no, no!”

“True; you are right. I will bend her.”

Louise shook her head.

“I will entreat her, if it be necessary,” said Louis. “Will you believe in my affection after that?”

Louise drew herself up. “Oh, never, never shall you humiliate yourself on my account; sooner, a thousand times, would I die.”

Louis reflected, his features assumed a dark expression. “I will love as much as you have loved; I will suffer as keenly as you have suffered; this shall be my expiation in your eyes. Come, mademoiselle, put aside these paltry considerations; let us show ourselves as great as our sufferings, as strong as our affection for each other.” And as he said this he took her in his arms, and encircled her waist with both his hands, saying, “My own love! my own dearest and best beloved, follow me.”

She made a final effort, in which she concentrated--no longer all her firmness of will, for that had long since been overcome, but all her physical strength. “No!” she replied weakly, “no! no! I should die from shame.”

“No; you shall return like a queen. No one knows of your having left--except, indeed, D’Artagnan.”

“He has betrayed me, then?”

“In what way?”

“He promised me faithfully--”

“I promised not to say anything to the king,” said D’Artagnan, putting in his head through the half-opened door, “and I kept my word; I was speaking to Monsieur de St. Aignan, and it was not my fault if the king overheard me; was it, sire?”

“It is quite true,” said the king, “forgive him.”

La Valliere smiled, and held out her small white hand to the musketeer.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king, “be good enough to see if you can find a carriage for Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Sire,” said the captain, “the carriage is waiting at the gate.”

“You are the most perfect model of thoughtfulness,” exclaimed the king.

“You have taken a long time to find it out,” muttered D’Artagnan, notwithstanding he was flattered by the praise bestowed upon him.

La Valliere was overcome; after a little further hesitation, she allowed herself to be led away, half-fainting, by her royal lover. But as she was on the point of leaving the room, she tore herself from the king’s grasp, and returned to the stone crucifix, which she kissed, saying, “Oh, Heaven; it was Thou who drewest me hither! Thou, who hast rejected me; but Thy grace is infinite. Whenever I shall again return, forget that I have ever separated myself from Thee, for when I return, it will be--never to leave Thee again.”

The king could not restrain his emotion, and D’Artagnan, even, was overcome. Louis bore the young girl away, lifted her into the carriage, and directed D’Artagnan to seat himself beside her, while he, mounting his horse, spurred violently toward the Palais Royal, where, immediately on his arrival, he sent to request an audience of madame.

Madame.

From the manner in which the king had dismissed the ambassadors, even the least clear-sighted persons belonging to the court had imagined war would ensue. The ambassadors themselves, but slightly acquainted with the king’s domestic disturbances, had interpreted as directed against themselves the celebrated sentence: “If I be not master of myself, I, at least, will be so of those who insult me.” Happily for the destinies of France and Holland, Colbert had followed them out of the king’s presence for the purpose of explaining matters to them; but the two queens and madame, who were perfectly aware of every particular circumstance that had taken place in their several households, having heard the remark so full of dark meaning, retired to their own apartments in no little fear and chagrin. Madame, especially, felt that the royal anger might fall upon her, and, as she was brave and exceedingly proud, instead of seeking support and encouragement from the queen-mother, she had returned to her own apartments, if not without some uneasiness, at least without any intention of avoiding the encounter. Anne of Austria, from time to time at frequent intervals, sent messages to learn if the king had returned. The silence which the whole palace preserved upon the matter, and upon Louise’s disappearance, was indicative of a long train of misfortunes to all those who knew the haughty and irritable humor of the king. But madame remained perfectly unmoved in spite of all the flying rumors, shut herself up in her apartments, sent for Montalais, and, with a voice as calm as she could possibly command, desired her to relate all she knew about the event itself. At the moment that the eloquent Montalais was concluding, with all kinds of oratorical precautions, and was recommending, if not in actual language, at least in spirit, that she should show a forbearance toward La Valliere, M. Malicorne made his appearance to beg an audience of madame, on behalf of his majesty. Montalais’ worthy friend bore upon his countenance all the signs of the very liveliest emotion. It was impossible to be mistaken; the interview which the king requested would be one of the most interesting chapters in the history of the hearts of kings and of men. Madame was disturbed by her brother in-law’s arrival; she did not expect it so soon, nor had she, indeed, expected any direct step on Louis’ part. Besides, all women who wage war successfully by indirect means are invariably neither very skillful nor very strong when it becomes a question of accepting a pitched battle. Madame, however, was not one who ever drew back; she had the very opposite defect or qualification, in whichever light it may be considered; she took an exaggerated view of what constituted real courage; and therefore the king’s message, of which Malicorne had been the bearer, was regarded by her as the trumpet proclaiming the commencement of hostilities. She, therefore, boldly accepted the gage of battle. Five minutes afterward the king ascended the staircase. His color was heightened from having ridden hard. His dusty and disordered clothes formed a singular contrast with the fresh and perfectly arranged toilet of madame, who, notwithstanding her rouge, turned pale as the king entered her room. Louis lost no time in approaching the object of his visit; he sat down, and Montalais disappeared.

“My dear sister,” said the king, “you are aware that Mademoiselle de la Valliere fled from her own room this morning, and that she has retired to a cloister, overwhelmed by grief and despair.” As he pronounced these words, the king’s voice was singularly moved.

“Your majesty was the first to inform me of it,” replied madame.

“I should have thought that you might have learned it this morning, during the reception of the ambassadors,” said the king.

“From your emotion, sire, I imagined that something extraordinary had happened, but without knowing what.”

The king, with his usual frankness, went straight to the point. “Why have you sent Mademoiselle de la Valliere away?”

“Because I had reason to be dissatisfied with her conduct,” she replied dryly.

The king became crimson, and his eyes kindled with a fire which it required all madame’s courage to support. He mastered his anger, however, and continued, “A stronger reason than that is surely requisite, for one so good and kind as you are to turn away and dishonor, not only the young girl herself, but every member of her family as well. You know that the whole city has its eyes fixed upon the conduct of the female portion of the court. To dismiss a maid of honor is to attribute a crime to her--at the very least, a fault. What crime, what fault, has Mademoiselle de la Valliere been guilty of?”

“Since you constitute yourself the protector of Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” replied madame coldly, “I will give you those explanations which I should have a perfect right to withhold from every one.”

“Even from the king!” exclaimed Louis, as, with a sudden gesture, he covered his head with his hat.

“You have called me your sister,” said madame, “and I am in my own apartments.”

“It matters not,” said the youthful monarch, ashamed at having been hurried away by his anger; “neither you, nor any one else in this kingdom, can assert a right to withhold an explanation in my presence.”

“Since that is the way you regard it,” said madame, in a hoarse, angry tone of voice, “all that remains for me to do is to bow submission to your majesty. and to be silent.”

“No; let there be no equivocation between us.”

“The protection with which you surround Mademoiselle de la Valliere does not impose any respect.”

“No equivocation, I repeat; you are perfectly aware that, as the head of the nobility of France, I am accountable to all for the honor of every family. You dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere, or whoever else it may be--”

Madame shrugged her shoulders.

“Or whoever else it may be, I repeat,” continued the king; “and as, in acting in that manner, you cast a dishonorable reflection upon that person, I ask you for an explanation, in order that I may confirm or annul the sentence.

“Annul my sentence!” exclaimed madame haughtily. “What! when I have discharged one of my attendants, do you order me to take her back again?”

The king remained silent.

“This would cease to be an excess of power merely, sire; it would be indecorous and unseemly.”

“Madame!”

“As a woman, I should revolt against an abuse so insulting to me; I should no longer be able to regard myself as a princess of your blood, a daughter of a monarch; I should be the meanest of creatures, more humbled and disgraced than the servant I had sent away.”

The king rose from his seat in anger. “It cannot be a heart,” he cried, “you have beating in your bosom; if you act in such a way with me, I may have reason to act with similar severity.”

It sometimes happens that in a battle a chance ball may reach its mark. The observation which the king had made, without any particular intention, struck madame home, and staggered her for a moment; some day or other she might indeed have reason to dread reprisals. “At all events, sire,” she said, “explain what you require.”

“I ask, madame, what has Mademoiselle de la Valliere done to warrant your conduct toward her?”

“She is the most cunning fomenter of intrigues I know; she was the occasion of two personal friends engaging in mortal combat; and has made people talk of her in such shameless terms that the whole court is indignant at the mere sound of her name.”

“She! she!” cried the king.

“Under her soft and hypocritical manner,” continued madame, “she hides a disposition full of foul and dark deceit.”

“She!”

“You may possibly be deceived, sire, but I know her right well; she is capable of creating dispute and misunderstanding between the most affectionate relatives and the most intimate friends. You see that she has already sown discord between us two.”

“I do assure you--” said the king.

“Sire, look well into the case as it stood; we were living on the most friendly understanding, and by the artfulness of her tales and complaints, she has set your majesty against me.

“I swear to you.,” said the king, “that on no occasion has a bitter word ever passed her lips; I swear that, even in my wild bursts of passion, she would never allow me to menace any one; and I swear, too, that you do not possess a more devoted and respectful friend than she is.”

“Friend!” said madame, with an expression of supreme disdain.

“Take care, madame!” said the king; “you forget that you now understand me, and that from this moment everything is equalized. Mademoiselle de la Valliere will be whatever I may choose her to become; and to-morrow, if I were to determine to do so, I could seat her on a throne.”

“She will not have been born to a throne, at least, and whatever you may do can affect the future alone, but cannot affect the past.”

“Madame, toward you I have shown every kind consideration, and every eager desire to please you; do not remind me that I am master here.”

“That is the second time, sire, that you have made that remark, and I have already informed you I am ready to submit.”

“In that case, then, you will confer upon me the favor of receiving Mademoiselle do la Valliere back again.”

“For what purpose, sire, since you have a throne to bestow upon her? I am too insignificant to protect so exalted a personage.”

“Nay, a truce to this bitter and disdainful spirit. Grant me her forgiveness.”

“Never!”

“You drive me, then, to open warfare in my own family.”

“I, too, have my own family, where I can find refuge.”

“Do you mean that as a threat, and could you forget yourself so far? Do you believe that if you push the affront to that extent, your family would encourage you?”

“I hope, sire, that you will not force me to take any step which would be unworthy of my rank?”

“I hoped that you would remember a friendship, and that you would treat me as a brother.”

Madame paused for a moment. “I do not disown you for a brother,” she said, “in refusing your majesty an injustice. “

“An injustice!”

“Oh! sire, if I informed others of La Valliere’s conduct; if the queen knew--”

“Come, come, Henriette, let your heart speak; remember that you have loved me; remember, too, that human hearts should be as merciful as the heart of a sovereign master. Do not be inflexible with others; forgive La Valliere.”

“I cannot; she has offended me.”

“But for my sake.”

“Sire, for your sake I would do anything in the world, except that.”

“You will drive me to despair--you compel me to turn to the last resource of weak people, and seek counsel of my angry and wrathful disposition.”

“I advise you to be reasonable.”

“Reasonable! I can be so no longer.”

“Nay, sire; I pray you--”

“For pity’s sake, Henriette; it is the first time I have entreated any one, and I have no hope in any one but in you.”

“Oh, sire! you are weeping.”

“From rage, from humiliation. That I, the king, should have been obliged to descend to entreaty. I shall hate this moment during my whole life. You have made me suffer in one moment more distress and more degradation of feeling than I could have anticipated in the greatest extremity in life.” And the king rose and gave free vent to his tears, which, in fact, were tears of anger and shame.

Madame was not touched exactly--for the best women, when their pride is hurt, are without pity; but she was afraid that the tears the king was shedding might possibly carry away every soft and tender feeling in his heart. “Give what commands you please, sire,” she said; “and since you prefer my humiliation to your own--although mine is public and yours has been witnessed but by myself alone--speak, I will obey your majesty.”

“No, no, Henriette!” exclaimed Louis, transported with gratitude, “you will have yielded to a brother’s wishes.”

“I no longer have any brother, since I obey.”

“Will you accept my kingdom in grateful acknowledgment?”

“How passionately you love, sire, when you do love.”

He did not answer. He had seized upon madame’s hand and covered it with kisses. “And so you will receive this poor girl back again, and will forgive her; you will find how gentle and pure-hearted she is.”

“I will maintain her in my household.”

“No, you will give her your friendship, my sister.”

“I have never liked her.”

“Well, for my sake, you will treat her kindly, will you not, Henriette?”

“I will treat her as your mistress.”

The king rose suddenly to his feet. By this word, which had so unfortunately escaped her lips, madame had destroyed the whole merit of her sacrifice. The king felt freed from all obligation. Exasperated beyond measure, and bitterly offended, he replied:

“I thank you, madame; I shall never forget the service you have rendered me.” And, saluting her with an affectation of ceremony, he took his leave of her. As he passed before a glass, he saw that his eyes were red, and angrily stamped his foot on the ground. But it was too late, for Malicorne and D’Artagnan, who were standing at the door, had seen his eyes.

“The king has been crying,” thought Malicorne. D’Artagnan approached the king with a respectful air, and said in a low tone of voice:

“Sire, it would be better to return to your own apartments by the small staircase.”

“Why?”

“Because the dust of the road has left its traces on your face,” said D’Artagnan. “By Heaven!” he thought, “when the king has been giving way like a child, let those look to it who may make her weep for whom the king has shed tears.”

De la Valliere’s Pocket-Handkerchief.

Madame was not bad-hearted, she was only hasty and impetuous. The king was not imprudent, he was only in love. Hardly had they both entered into this sort of compact, which terminated in La Valliere’s recall, when they both sought to make as much as they could by their bargain. The king wished to see La Valliere every moment in the day; while madame, who was sensible of the king’s annoyance ever since he had so entreated her, would not abandon La Valliere without a contest. She planted every conceivable difficulty in the king’s path; he was, in fact, obliged, in order to get a glimpse of La Valliere, to be exceedingly devoted in his attentions to his sister-in-law, and this, indeed, was madame’s plan of policy. As she had chosen some one to second her efforts, and as this person was our old friend Montalais, the king found himself completely hemmed in every time he paid madame a visit; he was surrounded, and was never left a moment alone. Madame displayed in her conversations a charm of manner and brilliancy of wit which eclipsed everything. Montalais followed her, and soon rendered herself perfectly insupportable to the king, which was, in fact, the very thing she expected would happen. She then set Malicorne at the king, who found the means of informing his majesty that there was a young person belonging to the court who was exceedingly miserable; and on the king inquiring who this person was, Malicorne replied that it was Mlle. de Montalais. To this the king answered that it was perfectly just that a person should be unhappy when she rendered others so. Whereupon Malicorne explained how matters stood; for he had received his directions from Montalais. The king began to open his eyes; he remarked that as soon as he made his appearance madame made hers too; that she remained in the corridors until after he had left; that she accompanied him back to his own apartments, fearing that he might speak in the antechambers to one of her maids of honor. One evening she went further still. The king was seated, surrounded by the ladies who were present, and holding in his hand, concealed by his lace ruffle, a small note which he wished to slip into La Valliere’s hand. Madame guessed both his intention and the letter too. It was very difficult to prevent the king going wherever he pleased and yet it was necessary to prevent his going near La Valliere, to speak to her, as by so doing he could let the note fall into her lap behind her fan, and into her pocket-handkerchief. The king, who was also on the watch, suspected that a snare was being laid for him. He rose and pushed his chair, without affectation, near Mlle. de Chatillon, with whom he began to talk in a light tone. They were amusing themselves in making rhymes; from Mlle. de Chatillon he went to Montalais, and then to Mlle. de Tonnay-Charente. And thus, by this skillful maneuver, he found himself seated opposite to La Valliere, whom he completely concealed. Madame pretended to be greatly occupied; she was altering a group of flowers that she was working in tapestry. The king showed the corner of his letter to La Valliere, and the latter held out her handkerchief with a look which signaled, “Put the letter inside.” Then, as the king had placed his own handkerchief upon his chair, he was adroit enough to let it fall on the ground, so that La Valliere slipped her handkerchief on the chair. The king took it up quietly, without any one observing what he did, placed the letter within it, and returned the handkerchief to the place he had taken it from. There was only just time for La Valliere to stretch out her hand to take hold of the handkerchief with its valuable contents.

But madame, who had observed everything that had passed, said to Mlle. de Chatillon, “Chatillon, be good enough to pick up the king’s handkerchief, if you please; it has fallen on the carpet.”

The young girl obeyed with the utmost precipitation, the king having moved from his seat, and La Valliere being in no little degree nervous and confused.

“Ah! I beg your majesty’s pardon,” said Mlle. de Chatillon; “you have two handkerchiefs, I perceive.”

And the king was accordingly obliged to put into his pocket La Valliere’s handkerchief as well as his own. He certainly gained that souvenir of Louise, who lost, however, a copy of verses which had cost the king ten hours’ hard labor, and which, as far as he was concerned, was perhaps as good as a long poem. It would be impossible to describe the king’s anger and La Valliere’s despair; but shortly afterward a circumstance occurred which was more than remarkable. When the king left, in order to retire to his own apartments, Malicorne, informed of what had passed, one can hardly tell how, was waiting in the antechamber. The antechambers of the Palais Royal are naturally very dark, and, in the evening, they were but indifferently lighted. Nothing pleased the king more than this dim light. As a general rule, love, whose mind and heart are constantly in a blaze, dislikes light anywhere else than in the mind and heart. And so the antechamber was dark; a page carried a torch before the king, who walked on slowly, greatly annoyed at what had recently occurred.

Malicorne passed close to the king, almost stumbled against him, in fact, and begged his forgiveness with the profoundest humility; but the king, who was in an exceedingly ill temper, was very sharp in his reproof to Malicorne, who disappeared as soon and as quietly as he possibly could. Louis retired to rest, having had a misunderstanding with the queen; and the next day, as soon as he entered the cabinet, he wished to have La Valliere’s handkerchief in order to press his tips to it. He called his valet.

“Fetch me,” he said, “the coat I wore yesterday evening, but be very sure you do not touch anything it may contain.”

The order being obeyed, the king himself searched the pocket of the coat; he found only one handkerchief, and that his own; La Valliere’s had disappeared. While busied with all kinds of conjectures and suspicions, a letter was brought to him from La Valliere; it ran in these terms:

“How kind and good of you to have sent me those beautiful verses; how full of ingenuity and perseverance your affection is; how is it possible to help loving you so dearly!”

“What does this mean?” thought the king; “there must be some mistake. Look well about,” said he to the valet, “for a pocket-handkerchief must be in one of my pockets; and if you do not find it, or if you have touched it--” He reflected for a moment. To make a state matter of the loss of the handkerchief would be to act absurdly, and he therefore added, “There was a letter of some importance inside the handkerchief which had somehow got among the folds of it.”

“Sire,” said the valet, “your majesty had only one handkerchief, and that is it.”

“True, true,” replied the king, setting his teeth hard together. “Oh, poverty, how I envy you! Happy is the man who can empty his own pockets of letters and handkerchiefs!”

He read La Valliere’s letter over again, endeavoring to imagine in what conceivable way his verses could have reached their destination. There was a postscript to the letter:

“I send you back by your messenger this reply, so unworthy of what you sent me.”

“So far so good; I shall find out something now,” he said delightedly. “Who is waiting, and who brought me this letter?”

“Monsieur Malicorne,” replied the valet-de-chambre timidly.

“Desire him to come in.”

Malicorne entered.

“You come from Mademoiselle de la Valliere?” said the king, with a sigh.

“Yes, sire.”

“And you took Mademoiselle de la Valliere something from me?”

“I, sire?”

“Yes, you.”

“Oh, no, sire.’

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere says so distinctly.”

“Oh, sire, Mademoiselle de la Valliere is mistaken.”

The king frowned. “What jest is this?” he said; “explain yourself. Why does Mademoiselle de la Valliere call you my messenger? What did you take to that lady? Speak, monsieur, and quickly.”

“Sire, I merely took Mademoiselle de la Valliere a pocket-handkerchief, that was all.”

“A handkerchief--what handkerchief?”

“Sire, at the very moment when I had the misfortune to stumble against your majesty yesterday--a misfortune which I shall deplore to the last day of my life, especially after the dissatisfaction which you exhibited--I remained, sire, motionless with despair, your majesty being at too great a distance to hear my excuses, when I saw something white lying on the ground.”

“Ah!” said the king.

“I stooped down; it was a handkerchief. For a moment I had an idea that when I stumbled against your majesty I must have been the cause of the handkerchief falling from your pocket; but as I felt it all over very respectfully, I perceived a cipher at one of the corners, and on looking at it closely, I found it was Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s cipher. I presumed that on her way to madame’s apartment, in the earlier part of the evening, she had let her handkerchief fall, and I accordingly hastened to restore it to her as she was leaving; and that is all I gave to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, I entreat your majesty to believe.” Malicorne’s manner was so simple, so full of contrition, and marked with such extreme humility, that the king was greatly amused in listening to him. He was as pleased with him for what he had done as if he had rendered him the greatest service.

“This is the second fortunate meeting I have had with you, monsieur,” he said; “you may count upon my friendly feeling.

The plain and sober truth was, that Malicorne had picked the king’s pocket of the handkerchief as dexterously as any of the pickpockets of the good city of Paris could have done. Madame never knew of this little incident, but Montalais gave La Valliere some idea of the manner in which it had really happened, and La Valliere afterward told the king, who laughed exceedingly at it, and pronounced Malicorne to be a first-rate politician. Louis XIV. was right, and it is well known that he was tolerably acquainted with human nature.

Which Treats of Gardeners, of Ladders, and Maids of Honor.

Miracles, unfortunately, could not always last forever, while madame’s ill-humor still continued to last. In a week’s time matters had reached such a point that the king could no longer look at La Valliere without a look of suspicion crossing his own. Whenever a promenade was proposed, madame, in order to avoid the recurrence of similar scenes to that of the thunder-storm, or the royal oak, had a variety of indispositions ready prepared; and, thanks to them, she was unable to go out, and her maids of honor were obliged to retain indoors also. There was not the slightest chance or means of paying a nocturnal visit; for in this respect the king had, on the very first occasion, experienced a severe check, which happened in the following manner. As at Fontainebleau, he had taken St. Aignan with him one evening, when he wished to pay La Valliere a visit; but he had found no one but Mlle. de Tonnay-Charente, who had begun to call out fire and thieves in such a manner that a perfect legion of chamber-maids, attendants, and pages ran to her assistance; so that St. Aignan, who had remained behind in order to save the honor of his royal master, who had fled precipitately, was obliged to submit to a severe scolding from the queen-mother, as well as from madame herself. In addition, he had, the next morning, received two challenges from the De Montemarte family, and the king had been obliged to interfere. This mistake had been owing to the circumstance of madame having suddenly ordered a change in the apartments of her maids of honor, and directed La Valliere and Montalais to sleep in her own cabinet. Nothing, therefore, was now possible, not even any communication by letter; to write under the eyes of so ferocious an Argus as madame, whose kindness of disposition was so uncertain, was to run the risk of exposure to the greatest dangers; and it can well be conceived into what a state of continuous irritation and of ever-increasing anger all these petty annoyances threw the young lion. The king almost tormented himself to death endeavoring to discover a means of communication; and as he did not think proper to call in the aid of Malicorne or D’Artagnan, the means were not discovered at all. Malicorne had, indeed, some occasional brilliant flashes of imagination, with which he tried to inspire the king with confidence; but, whether from shame or suspicion, the king, who had at first begun to nibble at the bait, soon abandoned the hook. In this way, for instance, one evening, while the king was crossing the garden, and looking up at madame’s windows, Malicorne stumbled over a ladder lying beside a border of box, and said to Manicamp, who was walking with him behind the king, and who had not either stumbled over or seen anything:

“Did you not see that I just now stumbled against a ladder, and was nearly thrown down?”

“No,” said Manicamp, as usual very absent, “but it appears you did not fall.”

“That doesn’t matter; but it is not on that account the less dangerous to leave ladders lying about in that manner.”

“True, one might hurt one’s self, especially when troubled with fits of absence of mind.”

“I don’t mean that. What I did mean was, that it is dangerous to allow ladders to lie about so near the windows of the maids of honor.”

Louis started imperceptibly.

“Why so?” inquired Manicamp.

“Speak louder,” whispered Malicorne, as he touched him with his arm.

“Why so?” said Manicamp, louder.

The king listened.

“Because, for instance,” said Malicorne, “a ladder nineteen feet high is just the height of the cornice of those windows. “

Manicamp, instead of answering, was dreaming of something else.

“Ask me, can’t you, what windows I mean?” whispered Malicorne.

“But what windows are you referring to?” said Manicamp, aloud.

“The windows of madame’s apartments.”

“Ah!”

“Oh! I don’t say that any one would ever venture to go up a ladder into madame’s room; but in madame’s cabinet, merely separated by a partition, sleep two exceedingly pretty girls, Mesdemoiselles de La Valliere and De Montalais.”

“By a partition,” said Manicamp.

“Look; you see how brilliantly lighted madame’s apartments are? Well, do you see those two windows?”

“Yes.”

“And that window close to the others, but more dimly lighted?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is the room of the maids of honor. Look, look; there is Mademoiselle de la Valliere opening the window. Ah! how many soft things could an enterprising lover say to her, if he only suspected that there was lying here a ladder nineteen feet long, which would just reach the cornice.”

“But she is not alone; you said Mademoiselle de Montalais is with her.”

“Mademoiselle de Montalais counts for nothing; she is her oldest friend, and exceedingly devoted to her--a positive well, into which can be thrown all sorts of secrets one might wish to get rid of.”

The king did not lose a single syllable of this conversation, Malicorne had even remarked that his majesty had slackened his pace, in order to give him time to finish. So, when he arrived at the door, he dismissed every one, with the exception of Malicorne--a circumstance which excited no surprise, for it was known that the king was in love; and they suspected he was going to compose some verses by moonlight; and, although there was no moon that evening, the king might, nevertheless, have some verses to compose. Every one, therefore, took his leave; and immediately afterward the king turned toward Malicorne, who respectfully waited until his majesty should address him.

“What were you saying just now about a ladder, Monsieur Malicorne?” he asked.

“Did I say anything about ladders, sire?” said Malicorne, looking up as if in search of his words, which had flown away.

“Yes, of a ladder nineteen feet long.”

“Oh, yes, sire; I remember, but I spoke to Monsieur Manicamp, and I should not have said a word had I known your majesty could have heard us.”

“And why would you not have said a word?”

“Because I should not have liked to have got the gardener scolded who had left it there--poor fellow!”

“Don’t make yourself uneasy on that account. What is this ladder like?”

“If your majesty wishes to see it, nothing is easier, for there it is.”

“In that box hedge?”

“Exactly.”

“Show it to me.”

Malicorne turned back, and led the king up to the ladder, saying:

“This is it, sire.”

“Pull it this way a little.”

When Malicorne had brought the ladder on to the gravel walk, the king began to step its whole length.

“Hum!” he said “you say it is nineteen feet long?”

“Nineteen feet--that is rather long. I hardly believe it can be so long as that.”

“You cannot judge very correctly with the ladder in that position, sire. If it were upright, against a tree or a wall, for instance, you would be better able to judge, because the comparison would assist you a good deal.”

“Ah! it does not matter, Monsieur Malicorne; but I can hardly believe that the ladder is nineteen feet high.”

“I know how accurate your majesty’s glance is, and yet I would wager.”

The king shook his head.

“There is one unanswerable means of verifying it,” said Malicorne.

“What is that?”

“Every one knows, sire, that the ground-floor of the palace is eighteen feet high.”

“True, that is very well known.”

“Well, sire, if I place the ladder against the wall, we shall be able to ascertain.”

“True.”

Malicorne took up the ladder: like a feather, and placed it upright against the wall. And, in order to try the experiment, he chose, or chance perhaps, directed him to choose, the very window of the cabinet where La Valliere was. The ladder just reached the edge of the cornice, that is to say, the sill of the window; so that, by standing upon the last round but one of the latter, a man of about the middle height, as the king was, for instance, could easily hold a communication with those who might be in the room. Hardly had the ladder been properly placed than the king, dropping the assumed part he had been playing in the comedy, began to ascend the rounds of the ladder, which Malicorne held at the bottom. But hardly had he completed half the distance when a patrol of Swiss Guards appeared in the garden, and advanced straight toward them. The king descended with the utmost precipitation, and concealed himself among the trees. Malicorne at once perceived that he must offer himself as a sacrifice; for, if he, too, were to conceal himself, the guard would search everywhere until they had found either himself or the king, perhaps both. It would be far better, therefore, that he alone should be discovered. And, consequently, Malicorne hid himself so clumsily that he was the only one arrested. As soon as he was arrested Malicorne was taken to the guard-house; and there he declared who he was, and was immediately recognized. In the meantime, by concealing himself first behind one clump of trees and then behind another, the king reached the side door of his apartments, very much humiliated, and still more disappointed. More than that, the noise made in arresting Malicorne had drawn La Valliere and Montalais to their window; and even madame herself had appeared at her own, with a pair of wax-candles, asking what was the matter.

In the meantime, Malicorne sent for D’Artagnan, who did not lose a moment in hurrying to him. But it was in vain he attempted to make him understand his reasons, and in vain also that D’Artagnan did understand them; and, further, it was equally in vain that both their sharp and inventive minds endeavored to give another turn to the adventure, there was no other resource left for Malicorne but to let it be supposed that he had wished to enter Mlle. de Montalais’ apartment, as St. Aignan had passed for having wished to forge Mlle. de Tonnay-Charente’s door. Madame was inflexible; in the first place, because if Malicorne had, in fact, wished to enter her apartment at night, through the window, and by means of the ladder, in order to see Montalais, it was a punishable offense on Malicorne’s part, and he must be punished accordingly; and, in the second place, if Malicorne, instead of acting in his own name, had acted as an intermediary between La Valliere and a person whose name need not be mentioned, his crime was in that case even greater, since love, which is an excuse for everything, did not exist in the present case as an excuse for him. Madame, therefore, made the greatest possible disturbance about the matter, and obtained his dismissal from Monsieur’s household, without reflecting, poor blind creature, that both Malicorne and Montalais held her fast in their clutches in consequence of her visit to De Guiche, and in a variety of other ways equally delicate. Montalais, who was perfectly furious, wished to revenge herself immediately, but Malicorne pointed out to her that the king’s countenance would repay them for all the disgraces in the world, and that it was a great thing to have to suffer on his majesty’s account.

Malicorne was perfectly right, and, therefore, although Montalais had the spirit of ten women in her, he succeeded in bringing her round to his own opinion. And we must not omit to state that the king helped them to console themselves, for in the first place, he presented Malicorne with fifty thousand francs as a compensation for the post he had lost, and in the next place, he gave him an appointment in his own household, delighted to have an opportunity of revenging himself in such a manner upon madame for all she had made him and La’ Valliere suffer. But as he no longer had Malicorne to steal his pocket-handkerchiefs and to measure ladders for him, the poor lover was in a terrible state. There seemed to be no hope, therefore, of ever getting near La Valliere again so long as she should remain at the Palais Royal. All the dignities and all the money in the world could not remedy that. Fortunately, however, Malicorne was on the lookout, and this he did so successfully that he met Montalais, who, to do her justice, it must be admitted, did her best to meet Malicorne.

“What do you do during the night in madame’s apartment?” he asked the young girl.

“Why, I go to sleep, of course,” she replied.

“But it is very wrong to sleep; it can hardly be possible that with the pain you are suffering, you can manage to do so.”

“And what am I suffering from, may I ask?”

“Are you not in despair at my absence?”

“Of course not, since you have received fifty thousand francs and an appointment in the king’s household.”

“That is a matter of no moment; you are exceedingly afflicted at not seeing me as you used to see me formerly, and more than all, you are in despair at my having lost madame’s confidence. Come, now, is not that true?”

“Perfectly true.”

“Very good; your distress of mind prevents you sleeping at night, and so you sob, and sigh, and blow your nose ten times every minute as loud as possible.”

“But, my dear Malicorne, madame cannot endure the slightest noise near her.”

“I know that perfectly well; of course, she can’t endure anything; and so, I tell you, she will not lose a minute, when she sees your deep distress, in turning you out of her room without a moment’s delay.”

“I understand.”

“Very fortunate you do.”

“Well, and what will happen next?”

“The next thing that will happen will be, that La Valliere, finding herself alone without you, will groan and utter such loud lamentations that she will exhibit despair enough for two persons.”

“In that case she will be put into another room.”

“Precisely so.”

“Yes, but which?”

“Which?”

“Yes, that will puzzle you to say, Mr. Inventor-General.”

“Not at all; wherever and whatever the room may be, it will always be preferable to madame’s own room.”

“That is true.”

“Very good; so begin your lamentations a little to-night. “

“I certainly will not fail to do so.”

“And give La Valliere a hint also.”

“Oh! don’t fear her; she cries quite enough already to herself.”

“Very well; all she has to do is to cry out loud.”

And they separated.

Which Treats of Carpentry Operations, and Furnishes Details Upon the Mode of Construction of Staircases.

The advice which had been given to Montalais was communicated by her to La Valliere, who could not but acknowledge that it was by no means deficient in judgment, and who, after a certain amount of resistance, arising rather from her timidity than from her indifference to the project, resolved to put it into execution. This story of the two girls weeping, and filling madame’s bedroom with the noisiest lamentations, was Malicorne’s chef-d’oeuvre. As nothing is so probable as improbability, so natural as romance, this kind of Arabian Nights story succeeded perfectly with madame. The first thing she did was to send Montalais away, and then, three days, or rather three nights, afterward, she had La Valliere removed. She gave to the latter one of the small rooms on the top story, situated immediately over the apartments allotted to the gentlemen of Monsieur’s suite. One story only, that is to say, a mere flooring, separated the maids of honor from the officers and gentlemen of her husband’s household. A private staircase, which was placed under Mme. de Navailles’ surveillance, was the only means of communication. For greater safety, Mme. de Navailles, who had heard of his majesty’s previous attempts, had the windows of the rooms and the openings of the chimneys carefully barred. There was, therefore, every possible security provided for Mlle. de la Valliere, whose room bore more resemblance to a cage than to anything else. When Mlle. de la Valliere was in her own room, and she was there very frequently, for madame scarcely ever had any occasion for her services, since she once knew she was safe under Mme. de Navailles’ inspection, Mlle. de la Valliere had no other means of amusing herself than that of looking through the bars of her windows. It happened, therefore, that one morning, as she was looking out, as usual, she perceived Malicorne at one of the windows exactly opposite to her own. He held a carpenter’s rule in his hand, was surveying the buildings, and seemed to be adding up some figures on paper. La Valliere recognized Malicorne and bowed to him; Malicorne, in his turn, replied by a profound bow, and disappeared from the window. She was surprised at this marked coolness, so unusual with his unfailing good-humor, but she remembered that he had lost his appointment on her account, and that he could hardly be very amiably disposed toward her, since, in all probability, she would never be in a position to make him any recompense for what he had lost. She knew how to forgive offenses, and with still greater reason could she sympathize with misfortune. La Valliere would have asked Montalais her opinion, if she had been there; but she was absent, it being the hour she usually devoted to her own correspondence. Suddenly La Valliere observed something thrown from the window where Malicorne had been standing, pass across the open space which separated the two windows from each other, enter her room through the iron bars, and roll upon the floor. She advanced with no little curiosity toward this object, and picked it up; it was a winder for silk, only, in this instance, instead of silk, a small piece of paper was rolled round it. La Valliere unrolled it, and read the following:

“MADEMOISELLE: I am exceedingly anxious to learn two things: the first is, to know if the flooring of your apartment is wood or brick; the second, to know at what distance your bed is placed from the window. Forgive my importunity, and will you be good enough to send me an answer by the same way you receive this letter--that is to say, by means of the silk-winder; only, instead of throwing it into my room, as I have thrown it into yours, which will be too difficult for you to attempt, have the goodness merely to let it fall. Believe me, mademoiselle, your most humble and most respectful servant.
MALICORNE.
“Write the reply, if you please, upon the letter itself.”

“Ah! poor fellow,” exclaimed La Valliere, “he must have gone out of his mind;” and she directed toward her correspondent--of whom she caught but a faint glimpse, in consequence of the darkness of his room--a look full of compassionate consideration. Malicorne understood her, and shook his head, as if he meant to say, “No, no; I am not out of my mind; be quite satisfied.”

She smiled, as if still in doubt.

“No, no,” he signified by a gesture, “my head is perfectly right;” and pointed to his head; then, after moving his hand like a man who writes very rapidly, he put his hands together, as if entreating her to write.

La Valliere, even if he were mad, saw no impropriety in doing what Malicorne requested her; she took a pencil and wrote, “wood,” and then counted ten paces from her window to her bed, and wrote, “ten feet;” and having done this, she looked out again at Malicorne, who bowed to her, signifying that he was about to descend. La Valliere understood that it was to pick up the silk-winder. She approached the window, and in accordance with Malicorne’s instructions, let it fall. The winder was still rolling along the flagstones as Malicorne started after it, overtook and picked it up, began to peel it as a monkey would do with a nut, and ran straight toward M. de St. Aignan’s apartments. St. Aignan had selected, or rather solicited, that his rooms might be as near the king as possible, as certain plants seek the sun’s rays in order to develop themselves more luxuriantly. His apartment consisted of two rooms in that portion of the palace occupied by Louis XIV. himself. M. de St. Aignan was very proud of his proximity, which afforded easy access to his majesty, and, more than that, the favor of occasional unexpected meetings. At the moment we are now referring to, he was engaged in having both his rooms magnificently carpeted, with the expectation of receiving the honor of frequent visits from the king; for his majesty, since his passion for La Valliere, had chosen St. Aignan as his confidant, and could not, in fact, do without him either night or day. Malicorne introduced himself to the comte, and met with no difficulties, because he had been favorably noticed by the king; and also because the credit which one man may happen to enjoy is always a bait for others. St. Aignan asked his visitor if he brought any news with him.

“Yes; great news,” replied the latter.

“Ah! ah!” said St. Aignan, “what is it?”

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere has changed her quarters.”

“What do you mean?” said St. Aignan, opening his eyes very wide. “She was living in the same apartments as madame.”

“Precisely so; but madame got tired of her proximity, and has installed her in a room which is situated exactly above your future apartment.”

“What, up there!” exclaimed St. Aignan, with surprise, and pointing at the floor above him with his finger.

“No,” said Malicorne; “yonder,” indicating the building opposite.”

“What do you mean, then, by saying that her room is above my apartment?”

“Because I am sure that your apartment ought most naturally to be under Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room.”

St. Aignan, at this remark, gave poor Malicorne a look, similar to one of those La Valliere had already given a quarter of an hour before, that is to say, he thought he had lost his senses.

“Monsieur,” said Malicorne to him, “I wish to answer what you are thinking about.”

“What do you mean by ‘what I am thinking about?’”

“My reason is, that you have not clearly understood what I want to convey.”

“I admit it.”

“Well, then, you are aware that underneath the apartments set apart for madame’s maids of honor the gentlemen in attendance on the king and on Monsieur are lodged.”

“Yes, I know that, since Manicamp, De Wardes, and others are living there.”

“Precisely. Well, monsieur, admire the singularity of the circumstance; the two rooms destined for Monsieur de Guiche are exactly the very two rooms situated underneath those which Mademoiselle de Montalais and Mademoiselle de la Valliere occupy.”

“Well, what then?”

“‘What then,’ do you say? Why, these two rooms are empty, since Monsieur de Guiche is now lying wounded at Fontainebleau.”

“I assure you, my dear monsieur, I cannot guess your meaning.”

“Well, if I had the happiness to call myself St. Aignan I should guess immediately.”

“And what would you do then?”

“I should at once change the rooms I am occupying here for those which Monsieur de Guiche is not using yonder.”

“Can you suppose such a thing?” said St. Aignan disdainfully. “What, abandon the chief post of honor, the proximity to the king, a privilege conceded only to princes of the blood, to dukes, and peers? Permit me to tell you, my dear Monsieur de Malicorne, that you must be out of your senses.”

“Monsieur,” replied the young man seriously, “you commit two mistakes. My name is Malicorne, simply; and I am in perfect possession of all my senses.” Then, drawing a paper from his pocket, he said: “Listen to what I am going to say; and afterward I will show you this paper.”

“I am listening,” said St. Aignan.

“You know that madame looks after La Valliere as carefully as Argus did after the nymph Io.”

“I do.”

“You know that the king has sought for an opportunity, but uselessly, of speaking to the prisoner, and that neither you nor myself have yet succeeded in procuring him this piece of good fortune.”

“You certainly ought to know something on that subject, my poor Malicorne.”

“Very good; what do you suppose would happen to the man whose imagination devised some means of bringing the two lovers together?”

“Oh! the king would have no bounds to his gratitude.”

“Let me ask you, then, Monsieur de St. Aignan, whether you would not be curious to taste a little of this royal gratitude?”

“Certainly,” replied St. Aignan, “any favor of my master, as a recognition of the proper discharge of my duty, would assuredly be most precious to me.”

“In that case, look at this paper, Monsieur le Comte.”

“What is it--a plan?”

“Yes; a plan of Monsieur de Guiche’s two rooms, which, in all probability, will soon be your two rooms.”

“Oh, no; whatever may happen.”

“Why so?”

“Because my own rooms are the envy of too many gentlemen, to whom I shall not certainly give them up; Monsieur de Roquelaure, for instance, Monsieur de la Ferte, and Monsieur de Dangeau, would all be anxious to get them.”

“In that case I shall leave you, Monsieur le Comte, and I shall go and offer to one of those gentlemen the plan I have just shown you, together with the advantages annexed to it.”

“But why do you not keep them for yourself?” inquired St. Aignan suspiciously.

“Because the king would never do me the honor of paying me a visit openly, while he would readily go and see any one of those gentlemen.”

“What! the king would go and see any one of those gentlemen?”

“Go--most certainly would he, ten times instead of once. Is it possible you can ask me if the king would go to an apartment which would bring him nearer to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”

“Yes, indeed, admirably near her, with a whole door between them.”

Malicorne unfolded the piece of paper which had been wrapped round the bobbin.

“Monsieur le Comte,” he said, “have the goodness to observe that the flooring of Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room is merely a wooden flooring.”

“Well?”

“Well; all you would have to do would be to get hold of a journeyman carpenter, lock him up in your apartments, without letting him know where you have taken him to, and let him make a hole in your ceiling, and, consequently, in the flooring of Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed St. Aignan, as if dazzled.

“What is the matter?” said Malicorne.

“Nothing, except that you have hit upon a singularly bold idea, monsieur.”

“It will seem a very trifling one to the king, I assure you.”

“Lovers never think of the risk they run.”

“What danger do you apprehend, Monsieur le Comte?”

“Why, effecting such an opening as that will make a terrible noise, it will be heard over the whole palace.”

“Oh, Monsieur le Comte, I am quite sure that the carpenter I shall select will not make the slightest noise in the world. He will saw an opening six feet square, with a saw covered with tow, and no one, not even those adjoining, will know that he is at work.”

“My dear Monsieur Malicorne, you astound, you positively bewilder me.”

“To continue,” replied Malicorne quietly, “in the room, the ceiling of which you have cut through, you will put up a staircase, which will either allow Mademoiselle de la Valliere to descend into your room, or the king to ascend into Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room.”

“But the staircase will be seen.”

“No; for in your room it will be hidden by a partition, over which you will throw a tapestry similar to that which covers the rest of the apartment; and in Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room it will not be seen, for the trapdoor, which will be a part of the flooring itself, will be made to open under the bed.”

“Of course,” said St. Aignan, whose eyes began to sparkle with delight.

“And now, Monsieur le Comte, there is no occasion to make you admit that the king will frequently come to the room where such a staircase is constructed. I think that Monsieur Dangeau, particularly, will be struck by my idea, and I shall now go and explain to him.”

“But, my dear Monsieur Malicorne, you forget that you spoke to me about it the first, and that I have, consequently, the right of priority.”

“Do you wish for the preference?”

“Do I wish it? Of course I do.”

“The fact is, Monsieur de St. Aignan, I am presenting you with that which is as good as the promise of an additional step in the peerage, and perhaps even a good estate to accompany your dukedom.”

“At least,” replied St. Aignan, “it will give me an opportunity of showing the king that he is not mistaken in occasionally calling me his friend; an opportunity, dear Monsieur Malicorne, for which I am indebted to you.”

“And which you will not forget to remember?” inquired Malicorne, smiling.

“Nothing will delight me more, monsieur.”

“But I am not the king’s friend, I am simply his attendant. “

“Yes; and if you imagine that that staircase is as good as a dukedom for myself, I think there will certainly be letters of nobility for you.”

Malicorne bowed.

“All I have to do now,” said St. Aignan, “is to move as soon as possible.”

“I do not think the king will object to it; ask his permission, however.”

“I will go and see him this very moment.”

“And I will run and get the carpenter I was speaking of.”

“When will he be here?”

“This very evening.”

“Do not forget your precautions.”

“He shall be brought with his eyes bandaged.”

“And I will send you one of my carriages.”

“Without arms.”

“With one of my servants without livery. But stay, what will La Valliere say if she sees what is going on?”

“Oh! I can assure you she will be very much interested in the operation, and equally sure that if the king has not courage enough to ascend to her room, she will have sufficient curiosity to come down to him.”

“We will live in hope,” said St. Aignan; “and now I am off to his majesty. At what time will the carpenter be here?”

“At eight o’clock.”

“How long do you suppose he will take to make this opening?”

“About a couple of hours; only afterward he must have sufficient time to effect what may be called the junction between the two rooms. One night and a portion of the following day will do; we must not reckon upon less than two days, including putting up the staircase.”

“Two days? That is very long.”

“Nay, when one undertakes to open a door into paradise itself, we must, at least, take care it is properly done.”

“Quite right; so farewell for a short time, dear Monsieur Malicorne. I shall begin to remove the day after tomorrow, in the evening.”

The Promenade by Torchlight.

St. Aignan, delighted with what he had just heard, and rejoiced at what the future foreshadowed for him, bent his steps toward De Guiche’s two rooms. He who, a quarter of an hour previously, would not have yielded up his own rooms for a million of francs, was now ready to expend a million, if it were necessary, upon the acquisition of the two happy rooms he coveted so eagerly. But he did not meet with so many obstacles. M. de Guiche did not yet know whereabouts he was to lodge, and, besides, was still far too suffering to trouble himself about his lodgings; and so St. Aignan obtained De Guiche’s two rooms without difficulty. As for M. Dangeau, he was so immeasurably delighted that he did not even give himself the trouble to think whether St. Aignan had any particular reason for removing. Within an hour after St. Aignan’s new resolution he was in possession of the two rooms; and ten minutes later Malicorne entered, followed by the upholsterers. During this time the king asked for St. Aignan; the valet ran to his late apartments and found M. Dangeau there; Dangeau sent him on to De Guiche’s, and St. Aignan was found there; but a little delay had, of course, taken place, and the king had already exhibited once or twice evident signs of impatience, when St. Aignan entered his royal master’s presence, quite out of breath.

“You, too, abandon me, then,” said Louis XIV., in a similar tone of lamentation to that with which Cæsar, eighteen hundred years previously, had used the tu quoque.

“Sire, I am very far from abandoning you, for, on the contrary, I am busily occupied in changing my lodgings.”

“What do you mean? I thought you had finished moving three days ago?”

“Yes, sire. But I don’t find myself comfortable where I am and so I am going to change to the opposite side of the building.”

“Was I not right when I said you were abandoning me?” exclaimed the king. “Oh! this exceeds all endurance. But so it is; there was only one woman for whom my heart cared at all, and all my family is leagued together to tear her from me; and my friend, to whom I confided my distress, and who helped me to bear up under it, has become wearied of my complaints and is going to leave me without even asking my permission.”

St. Aignan began to laugh. The king at once guessed there must be some mystery in this want of respect.

“What is it?” cried the king, full of hope.

“This, sire: that the friend whom the king calumniates is going to try if he cannot restore to his sovereign the happiness he has lost.”

“Are you going to let me see La Valliere?” said Louis.

“I cannot say so positively, but I hope so.”

“How--how?--tell me that, St. Aignan. I wish to know what your project is, and to help you with all my power.”

“Sire,” replied St. Aignan, “I cannot, even myself, tell very well how I must set about attaining success; but I have every reason to believe that from to-morrow--”

“To-morrow, do you say? What happiness! But why are you changing your rooms?”

“ln order to serve your majesty to greater advantage.”

“How can your moving serve me?”

“Do you happen to know where the two rooms destined for De Guiche are situated?”

“Yes.”

“Well, your majesty now knows where I am going.”

“Very likely; but that does not help me.”

“What! is it possible you do not understand, sire, that above De Guiche’s lodgings are two rooms, one of which is Mademoiselle de Montalais’, and the other--”

“La Valliere’s, is it not so, St. Aignan? Oh, yes, yes! It is a brilliant idea, St. Aignan, a true friend’s idea, a poet’s idea; in bringing me nearer her from whom the world seems to unite to separate me, you are doing far more than Pylades did for Orestes, or Patroclus for Achilles.”

“Sire,” said St. Aignan, with a smile, “I question whether, if your majesty were to know my projects in their full extent, you would continue to confer such pompous qualifications upon me. Ah! sire, I know how very different are the epithets which certain Puritans of the court will not fail to apply to me when they learn what I intend to do for your majesty.”

“St. Aignan, I am dying from impatience; I am in a perfect fever; I shall never be able to wait until to-morrow--to-morrow! Why, to-morrow is an eternity.”

“And yet, sire, I shall require you, if you please, to go out presently and divert your impatience by a good walk.”

“With you--agreed; we will talk about your projects, we will talk of her.”

“Nay, sire; I remain here.”

“Whom shall I go out with, then?”

“With the queen and all the ladies of the court.”

“Nothing shall induce me to do that, St. Aignan.”

“And yet, sire, you must do it.”

“No, no--a thousand times, no! I will never again expose myself to the horrible torture of being close to her, of seeing her, of touching her dress as I pass by her, and yet not to be able to say a word to her. No, I renounce a torture which you suppose to be happiness, but which consumes and eats away my very life; to see her in the presence of strangers, and not to tell her that I love her, when my whole being reveals my affection and betrays me to every one; no, I have sworn never to do it again, and I will keep my oath.”

“Yet, sire, pray listen to me for a moment.”

“I will listen to nothing, St. Aignan.”

“In that case, I will continue; it is most urgent, sire--pray understand me, it is of the greatest importance--that madame and her maids of honor should be absent for two hours from the palace.”

“I cannot understand your meaning at all, St. Aignan.”

“It is hard for me to give my sovereign directions what to do; but in this circumstance I do give you directions, sire; and either a hunting or a promenade party must be got up.”

“But if I were to do what you wish it would be a caprice, a mere whim. In displaying such an impatient humor, I show my whole court that I have no control over my own feelings. Do not people already say that I am dreaming of the conquest of the world, but that I ought previously to begin by achieving a conquest over myself?”

“Those who say so, sire, are insolent and factious persons; but whoever they may be, if your majesty prefers to listen to them, I have nothing further to say. In such a case, that which we have fixed to take place to-morrow must be postponed indefinitely.”

“Nay, St. Aignan, I will go out this evening--I will go by torchlight to sleep at St. Germain; I will breakfast there to-morrow, and will return to Paris by three o’clock. Will that do?”

“Admirably.”

“In that case, I will set out this evening at eight o’clock.”

“Your majesty has fixed upon the exact minute.”

“And you positively will tell me nothing more?”

“It is because I have nothing more to tell you. Industry goes for something in this world, sire; but yet chance plays so important a part in it that I have been accustomed to leave her the narrowest part, confident that she will manage so as to always take the widest.”

“Well, I abandon myself entirely to you.”

“And you are quite right.”

Comforted in this manner, the king went immediately to madame, to whom he announced the intended expedition. Madame fancied at the first moment that she saw in this unexpectedly arranged party a plot of the king’s to converse with La Valliere, either on the road under cover of the darkness, or in some other way, but she took especial care not to show any of her fancies to her brother-in-law, and accepted the invitation with a smile upon her lips. She gave directions aloud that her maids of honor should accompany her, secretly intending in the evening to take the most effectual steps to interfere with his majesty’s attachment. Then, when she was alone, and at the very moment the poor lover, who had issued his orders for the departure, was reveling in the idea that Mlle. de la Valliere would form one of the party--at the very moment, perhaps, when he was luxuriating in the sad happiness which persecuted lovers enjoy of realizing by the sense of sight alone all the delights of an interdicted possession--at the very moment, we say, madame, who was surrounded by her maids of honor, said:

“Two ladies will be enough for me this evening, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and Mademoiselle de Montalais.”

La Valliere had anticipated the omission of herself, and was prepared for it; but persecution had rendered her courageous, and she did not give madame the pleasure of seeing on her face the impression of the shock her heart had received. On the contrary, smiling with that ineffable gentleness which gave an angelic expression to her features:

“In that case, madame, I shall be at liberty this evening, I suppose?” she said.

“Of course.”

“I shall be able to employ it, then, in progressing with that piece of tapestry which your highness has been good enough to notice, and which I have already had the honor of offering to you.”

And having made a respectful obeisance, she withdrew to her own apartment. Mlles. de Tonnay-Charente and De Montalais did the same. The rumor of the intended promenade was soon spread all over the palace; ten minutes afterward Malicorne learned madame’s resolution, and slipped under Montalais’ door a note, in the following terms:

“La Valliere must positively pass the night with madame.”

Montalais, in pursuance of the compact she had entered into, began by burning the paper, and then sat down to reflect. Montalais was a girl full of expedients, and so had very soon arranged her plan. Toward five o’clock, which was the hour for her to repair to madame’s apartment, she was running across the courtyard, and had reached within a dozen paces a group of officers, when she uttered a cry, fell gracefully on one knee, rose again, and walked on limpingly. The gentlemen ran forward to her assistance; Montalais had sprained her foot. Faithful to the discharge of her duty, she insisted, however, notwithstanding her accident, upon going to madame’s apartment.

“What is the matter, and why do you limp so?” she inquired. “I mistook you for La Valliere.”

Montalais related how it had happened, that in hurrying on, in order to arrive as quickly as possible, she had sprained her foot. Madame seemed to pity her, and wished to have a surgeon sent for immediately, but she, assuring her that there was nothing really serious in the accident, said:

“My only regret, madame, is that it will proclude my attendance on you, and I should have begged Mademoiselle de la Valliere to take my place with your royal highness, but--” seeing that madame frowned, she added, “I have not done so.”

“Why did you not do so?” inquired madame.

“Because poor La Valliere seemed so happy to have her liberty for a whole evening and night, too, that I did not feel courageous enough to ask her to take my place.”

“What, is she so delighted as that?” inquired madame, struck by these words.

“She is wild with delight; she, who is always so melancholy, was singing like a bird. Besides, your highness knows how much she detests going out, and also that her character has a spice of wildness in it.”

“Oh, oh!” thought madame, “this extreme delight hardly seems natural to me.”

“She has already made all her preparations for dining in her own room tête-à-tête with one of her favorite books. And then, as your highness has six other young ladies who would be delighted to accompany you, I did not make my proposal to La Valliere.”

Madame did not say a word in reply.

“Have I acted properly?” continued Montalais, with a slight fluttering of the heart, seeing the little success that attended the ruse de guerre which she had relied upon with so much confidence that she had not thought it even necessary to try and find another. “Does madame approve of what I have done?” she continued.

Madame was reflecting that the king could very easily leave St. Germain during the night, and that, as it was only four leagues and a half from Paris to St. Germain, he might very easily be in Paris in an hour’s time.

“Tell me,” she said, “whether La Valliere, when she heard of your accident, offered at least to bear you company?”

“Oh! she does not yet know of my accident; but even did she know of it, I should not most certainly ask her to do anything which might interfere with her own plans. I think she wishes this evening to realize quietly by herself that amusement of the late king, when he said to Monsieur de Cinq-Mars, ‘Let us amuse ourselves by doing nothing and making ourselves miserable.’”

Madame felt convinced that some mysterious love adventure was hidden beneath this strong desire for solitude. This mystery might possibly be Louis’ return during the night; it could not be doubted any longer La Valliere had been informed of his intended return, and that was the reason for her delight at having to remain behind at the Palais Royal. It was a plan settled and arranged beforehand.”

“I will not be their dupe, though,” said madame, and she took a decisive step. “Mademoiselle de Montalais,” she said, “will you have the goodness to inform your friend, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, that I am exceedingly sorry to disarrange her projects of solitude, but that instead of becoming ennuyèe by remaining behind alone, as she wished, she will be good enough to accompany us to St. Germain and get ennuyèe there?”

“Ah, poor La Valliere,” said Montalais compassionately, but with her heart throbbing with delight. “Oh, madame, could there not be some means--”

“Enough,” said madame; “I desire it. I prefer Mademoiselle la Baume le Blanc’s society to that of any one else. Go, and send her to me, and take care of your foot.”

Montalais did not wait for the order to be repeated; she returned to her room, wrote an answer to Malicorne, and slipped it under the carpet. The answer simply said:

“She is going.”

A Spartan could not have written more laconically.

“By this means,” thought madame, “I will look narrowly after all on the road; she shall sleep near me during the night, and his majesty must be very clever if he can exchange a single word with Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

La Valliere received the order to set off with the same indifferent gentleness with which she had received the order to remain. But inwardly her delight was extreme, and she looked upon this change in the princess’ resolution as a consolation which Providence had sent her. With less penetration than madame possessed, she attributed all to chance. While every one, with the exception of those in disgrace, of those who were ill, and those who were suffering from sprains, were proceeding toward St. Germain, Malicorne smuggled his workman into the palace in one of M. de St. Aignan’s carriages, and led him into the room corresponding to La Valliere’s room. The man set to work tempted by the splendid reward which had been promised him. As the very best tools and implements had been selected from the reserve stock belonging to the engineers attached to the king’s household--and among other, a saw with teeth so sharp and well tempered that it could, under water even, cut through oaken joists as hard as iron--the work in question advanced very rapidly, and a square portion of the ceiling, taken from between two of the joists, fell into the arms of St. Aignan, Malicorne, the workman, and a confidential valet, the latter being one brought into the world to see and hear everything, but to repeat nothing. In accordance with a new plan indicated by Malicorne, the opening was effected in an angle of the room, and for this reason: As there was no dressing-closet adjoining La Valliere’s room, she had solicited, and had that very morning obtained, a large screen intended to serve as a partition. The screen which had been conceded was perfectly sufficient to conceal the opening, which would, besides, be hidden by all the artifices which cabinet-makers have at their command. The opening having been made, the workman glided between the joists, and found himself in La Valliere’s room. When there, he cut a square opening in the flooring, and out of the boards he manufactured a trap so accurately fitting into the opening that the most practiced eye could hardly detect the necessary interstices made by joining the flooring. Malicorne had provided for everything; a ring and a couple of hinges, which had been bought for the purpose, were affixed to the trapdoor; and a small circular staircase had been bought ready made by the industrious Malicorne, who had paid two thousand francs for it. It was higher than was required, but the carpenter reduced the number of steps, and it was found to suit exactly. This staircase, destined to receive so illustrious a weight, was merely fastened to the wall by a couple of iron clamps, and its base was fixed into the floor of the comte’s room by two iron pegs screwed down tightly, so that the king, and all his cabinet councilors, too, might pass up and down the staircase without any fear. Every blow of the hammer fell upon a thick pad or cushion, and the saw was not used until the handle had been wrapped in wools, and the blade steeped in oil. The noisiest part of the work, moreover, had taken place during the night and early in the morning, that is to say, when La Valliere and madame were both absent. When, about two o’clock in the afternoon, the court returned to the Palais Royal, La Valliere went up into her own room. Everything was in its place, and not the smallest particle of sawdust, nor the smallest chip, was left to bear witness to the violation of her domicile. St. Aignan, however, who had wished to do his utmost in getting the work done, had torn his fingers, and his shirt, too, and had expended no ordinary quantity of perspiration in the king’s service. The palms of his hands, especially, were covered with blisters, occasioned by his having held the ladder for Malicorne. He had, moreover, brought, one by one, the five pieces of the staircase, each consisting of two steps. In fact, we can safely assert that if the king had seen him so ardently at work, his majesty would have sworn an eternal gratitude toward his faithful attendant. As Malicorne had anticipated, the workman had completely finished the job in twenty-four hours; he received twenty-four louis, and left overwhelmed with delight, for he had gained in one day as much as six months’ hard work would have procured him. No one had the slightest suspicion of what had taken place in the room under Mlle. de la Valliere’s apartment. But in the evening of the second day, at the very moment La Valliere had just left madame’s circle and had returned to her own room, she heard a slight creaking sound at the end of it. Astonished, she looked to see whence it proceeded, and the noise began again.

“Who is there?” she said, in a tone of alarm.

“I,” replied the well-known voice of the king.

“You! you!” cried the young girl, who for a moment fancied herself under the influence of a dream. “But where? You, sire?”

“Here,” replied the king, opening one of the folds of the screen and appearing like a ghost at the end of the room.

La Valliere uttered a loud cry, and fell trembling into an armchair as the king advanced respectfully toward her.

The Apparition.

La Valliere very soon recovered from her surprise, for, owing to his respectful bearing, the king inspired her with more confidence by his presence than his sudden appearance had deprived her of. But as he noticed that that which made La Valliere most uneasy was the means by which he had effected an entrance into her room, he explained to her the system of the staircase concealed by the screen, and strongly disavowed the notion of his being a supernatural appearance.

“Oh, sire!” said La Valliere, shaking her fair head with a most engaging smile, “present or absent, you do not appear to my mind more at one time than at another.”

“Which means, Louise--”

“Oh, what you know so well, sire; that there is not one moment in which the poor girl whose secret you surprised at Fontainebleau, and whom you came to snatch from the foot of the cross itself, does not think of you.”

“Louise, you overwhelm me with joy and happiness.”

La Valliere smiled mournfully, and continued: “But, sire, have you reflected that your ingenious invention could not be of the slightest service to us?”

“Why so? Tell me, I am waiting most anxiously.”

“Because this room may be subject to being searched at any moment of the day. Madame herself may, at any time, come here accidentally; my companions run in at any moment they please. To fasten the door on the inside, is to denounce myself as plainly as if I had written above, ‘no admittance, the king is here.’ Even now, sire, at this very moment, there is nothing to prevent the door opening, and your majesty being seen here.”

“In that case,” said the king laughingly, “I should indeed be taken for a phantom, for no one can tell in what way I came here. Besides, it is only phantoms who can pass through brick walls, or floors and ceilings.”

“Oh, sire, reflect for a moment how terrible the scandal would be! Nothing equal to it could ever have been previously said about the maids of honor, poor creatures! whom evil report, however, hardly ever spares.”

“And your conclusion from all this, my dear Louise; come, explain yourself.”

“Alas! it is a hard thing to say--but your majesty must suppress staircase plots, surprises, and all; for the evil consequences which would result from your being found here would be far greater than the happiness of seeing each other.”

“Well, Louise,” replied the king tenderly, “instead of removing this staircase by which I have ascended, there is a far more simple means, of which you have not thought.”

“A means--another means!”

“Yes, another. Oh, you do not love me as I love you, Louise, since my invention is quicker than yours.”

She looked at the king, who held out his hand to her, which she took and gently pressed between her own.

“You were saying,” continued the king, “that I shall be detected coming here, where any one who pleases can enter. “

“Stay, sire; at this very moment, even while you are speaking about it, I tremble with dread of your being discovered.”

“But you would not be found out, Louise, if you were to descend the staircase which leads to the room underneath.”

“Oh, sire! what do you say?” cried Louise, in alarm.

“You do not quite understand me, Louise, since you get offended at my very first word. First of all, do you know to whom the apartments underneath belong?”

“To Monsieur de Guiche, sire, I know.”

“Not at all; they are Monsieur de St. Aignan’s.”

“Are you sure?” cried La Valliere; and this exclamation which escaped from the young girl’s joyous heart made the king’s heart throb with delight.

“Yes, to St. Aignan, our friend,” he said.

“But, sire,” returned La Valliere, “I cannot visit Monsieur de St. Aignan’s rooms any more than I could Monsieur de Guiche’s. It is impossible--impossible.”

“And yet, Louise, I should have thought that, under the safeguard of the king, you could venture anything.”

“Under the safeguard of the king,” she said, with a look full of tenderness.

“You have faith in my word, I hope, Louise.”

“Yes, sire, when you are not present; but when you are present, when you speak to me, when I look upon you, I have faith in nothing.”

“What can possibly be done to reassure you?”

“It is scarcely respectful, I know, to doubt the king, but you are not the king for me.”

“Thank Heaven! I, at least, hope so most fervently; you see how anxiously I am trying to find or invent a means of removing all difficulty. Stay; would the presence of a third person reassure you?”

“The presence of Monsieur de St. Aignan would, certainly.”

“Really, Louise, you wound me by your suspicions.”

Louise did not answer, she merely looked steadfastly at him with that clear, piercing gaze which penetrates the very heart, and said softly to herself, “Alas! alas! it is not you of whom I am afraid, it is not you upon whom my doubts would fall.”

“Well,” said the king, sighing, “I agree; and Monsieur de St. Aignan, who enjoys the inestimable privilege of reassuring you, shall always be present at our conversations, I promise you.”

“You promise that, sire?”

“Upon my honor as a gentleman; and you, on your side--”

“Oh, wait, sire, that is not all yet; for such conversations ought, at least, to have a reasonable motive of some kind for Monsieur de St. Aignan.”

“Dear Louise, every shade of delicacy of feeling is yours, and my only wish is equal to you on that point. It shall be just as you wish; therefore our conversations shall have a reasonable motive, and I have already hit upon one; so that from to-morrow, if you like--”

“To-morrow?”

“Do you mean that that is not soon enough?” exclaimed the king, caressing La Valliere’s hand between his own.

At this moment the sound of steps was heard in the corridor.

“Sire! sire!” cried La Valliere, “some one is coming; do you hear? Oh! fly! fly! I implore you.”

The king made but one bound from the chair where he was sitting to his hiding-place behind the screen. He had barely time; for as he drew one of the folds before him the handle of the door was turned, and Montalais appeared at the threshold. As a matter of course, she entered quite naturally, and without any ceremony, for she knew perfectly well that to knock at the door beforehand would be showing a suspicion toward La Valliere which would be displeasing to her. She accordingly entered, and after a rapid glance round the room, whereby she observed two chairs very close to each other, she was so long in shutting the door, which seemed to be difficult to close, one can hardly tell how or why, that the king had ample time to raise the trapdoor, and to descend again to St. Aignan’s room.

“Louise,” she said to her, “I want to talk to you, and seriously, too.”

“Good heavens! my dear Aure, what is the matter now?”

“The matter is, that madame suspects everything.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Is there any occasion for us to enter into explanations, and do you not understand what I mean? Come, you must have noticed the fluctuations in madame’s humor during several days past; you must have noticed how she first kept you close beside her, then dismissed you, and then sent for you again.”

“Yes, I have noticed it, of course.”

“Well, it seems that madame has now succeeded in obtaining sufficient information, for she has now gone straight to the point, as there is nothing further left in France to withstand the torrent which sweeps away all obstacles before it; you know what I mean by the torrent?”

La Valliere hid her face in her hands.

“I mean,” continued Montalais pitilessly, “that torrent which has burst through the gates of the Carmelites of Chaillot, and overthrown all the prejudices of the court, as well at Fontainebleau as at Paris.”

“Alas! alas!” murmured La Valliere, her face still covered by her hands, and her tears streaming through her fingers.

“Oh, don’t distress yourself in that manner, for you have only heard half of your troubles.”

“In Heaven’s name!’ exclaimed the young girl, in great anxiety, “what is the matter?”

“Well, then, this is how the matter stands: madame, who can no longer rely upon any further assistance in France, for she has, one after the other, made use of the two queens, of Monsieur, and the whole court, too, now bethinks herself of a certain person who has certain pretended rights over you.”

La Valliere became as white as a marble statue.

“This person,” continued Montalais, “is not in Paris at this moment; but, if I am not mistaken, is in England.”

“Yes, yes,” breathed La Valliere, almost overwhelmed with terror.

“And is to be found, I think, at the court of Charles II.; am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this evening a letter has been dispatched by madame to St. James’, with directions for the courier to go straight on to Hampton Court, which I believe is one of the royal residences, situated about a dozen miles from London.”

“Yes; well?”

“Well; as madame writes regularly to London once a fortnight, and as the ordinary courier left for London not more than three days ago, I have been thinking that some serious circumstance could alone have induced her to write again so soon, for you know she is a very indolent correspondent.”

“Yes.”

“This letter has been written, therefore, something tells me so, at least, on your account.”

“On my account?” repeated the unhappy girl mechanically.

“And I, who saw the letter lying on madame’s desk, before she sealed it, fancied I could read--”

“What did you fancy you could read?”

“I might possibly have been mistaken, though--”

“Tell me, what was it?”

“The name of Bragelonne.”

La Valliere rose hurriedly from her chair, a prey to the most painful agitation. “Montalais,” she said, her voice broken by sobs, “all the smiling dreams of youth and innocence have fled already. I have nothing now to conceal, either from you or any one else. My life is exposed to every one’s inspection, and can be opened like a book, in which all the world can read, from the king himself to the first passer-by. Aure, dearest Aure, what can I do--what will become of me?”

Montalais approached close to her, and said, “Consult your own heart, of course.”

“Well; I do not love Monsieur de Bragelonne; when I say I do not love him, understand that I love him as the most affectionate sister could love the best of brothers; but that is not what he requires, nor what I have promised him.”

“In fact, you love the king,” said Montalais, “and that is a sufficiently good excuse.”

“Yes, I do love the king,” hoarsely murmured the young girl, “and I have paid dearly enough for pronouncing those words. And now, Montalais, tell me--what can you do, either for me, or against me, in my present position?”

“You must speak more clearly still.”

“What am I to say, then?”

“And so you have nothing very particular to tell me?”

“No!” said Louise, in astonishment.

“Very good; and so all you have to ask me is my advice respecting Monsieur Raoul.”

“Nothing else.”

“It is a very delicate subject,” replied Montalais.

“No, it is nothing of the kind. Ought I to marry him in order to keep the promise I made, or ought I to continue to listen to the king?”

“You have really placed me in a very difficult position,” said Montalais, smiling; “you ask me if you ought to marry Raoul, whose friend I am, and whom I shall mortally offend in giving my opinion against him; and then, you ask me if you should cease to listen to the king, whose subject I am, and whom I should also offend if I were to advise you in a particular way. Ah, Louise, you seem to hold a difficult position at a very cheap rate.”

“You have not understood me, Aure,” said La Valliere, wounded by the slightly mocking tone of her companion; “if I were to marry Monsieur de Bragelonne, I should be far from bestowing on him the happiness he deserves; but for the same reason, if I listen to the king he would become the possessor of one indifferently good in very many respects, I admit, but one on whom his affections confers an appearance of value. What I ask you, then, is to tell me some means of disengaging myself honorably either from the one or from the other; or, rather, I ask you, from which side you think I can free myself most honorably.”

“My dear Louise,” replied Montalais, after a pause, “I am not one of those seven wise men of Greece, and I have no perfectly invariable rules of conduct to govern me; but on the other hand, I have a little experience, and I can assure you that no woman ever asks for advice of the nature which you have just asked me without being in a terrible state of embarrassment. Besides, you have made a solemn promise, which every principle of honor would require you to fulfill; if, therefore, you are embarrassed in consequence of having undertaken such an engagement, it is not a stranger’s advice (every one is a stranger to a heart full of love), it is not my advice, I repeat, which will extricate you from your embarrassment. I shall not give it you, therefore; and for a greater reason still--because, were I in your place, I should feel much more embarrassed after the advice than before it. All I can do is, to repeat what I have already told you: shall I assist you?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Very well; That is all. Tell me in what way you wish me to help you; tell me for and against whom, in this way we shall not make any blunders?”

“But, first of all,” said La Valliere, pressing her companion’s hand, “for whom or against whom do you decide?”

“For you, if you are really and truly my friend.”

“Are you not madame’s confidante?”

“A greater reason for being of service to you; if I were not to know what is going on in that direction I should not be of any service at all, and consequently you would not obtain an advantage from my acquaintance. Friendships live and thrive upon a system of reciprocal benefits.”

“The result is, then, that you will remain at the same time madame’s friend also?”

“Evidently. Do you complain of that?”

“No,” said La Valliere thoughtfully, for that cynical frankness appeared to her an offense addressed both to the woman as well as to the friend.

“All well and good, then,” said Montalais, “for in that case, you would be very foolish.”

“You will serve me, then?”

“Devotedly so, if you will serve me in return.”

“One would almost say that you do not know my heart,” said La Valliere, looking at Montalais with her eyes wide open.

“Why, the fact is, that since we have belonged to the court, my dear Louise, we are very much changed.”

“In what way?”

“It is very simple. Were you the second Queen of France, yonder, at Blois?”

La Valliere hung down her head, and began to weep. Montalais looked at her in an indefinable manner, and murmured, “Poor girl!” and then, adding, “Poor king!” she kissed Louise on the forehead, and returned to her apartment, where Malicorne was waiting for her.

The Portrait.

In that malady, which is termed love, the paroxysms succeed each other at intervals, always more rapid from the moment the disease declares itself. By and by the paroxysms are less frequent, in proportion as the cure approaches. This being laid down as a general axiom, and as the heading of a particular chapter, we will now proceed with our recital. The next day, the day fixed by the king for the first conversation in St. Aignan’s room, La Valliere, on opening one of the folds of the screen, found upon the floor a letter in the king’s handwriting. The letter had been passed, through a slit in the floor, from the lower apartment to her own. No indiscreet hand or curious gaze could have brought or did bring this simple paper. This was one of Malicorne’s ideas. Having seen how very serviceable St. Aignan would become to the king on account of his apartment, he did not wish that the courtier should become still more indispensable as a messenger, and so he had, on his own private account, reserved this last post for himself. La Valliere most eagerly read the letter, which fixed two o’clock that same afternoon for the rendezvous, and which indicated the way of raising the trapdoor which was constructed out of the flooring. “Make yourself as beautiful as possible,” added the postscript of the letter, words which astonished the young girl, but at the same time reassured her. The hours passed away very slowly, but the time fixed, however, arrived at last. As punctual as the priestess Hero, Louise lifted up the trapdoor at the last stroke of the hour of two, and found the king upon the top steps, waiting for her with the greatest respect, in order to give her his hand to descend. The delicacy and deference shown in this attention affected her very powerfully. At the foot of the staircase the two lovers found the comte, who, with a smile and a low reverence distinguished by the best taste, expressed his thanks to La Valliere for the honor she conferred upon him. Then turning toward the king, he said:

“Sire, our man is here.” La Valliere looked at the king with some uneasiness.

“Mademoiselle,” said the king, “if I have begged you to do me the honor of coming down here, it was from an interested motive. I have procured a most admirable portrait-painter, who is celebrated for the fidelity of his likenesses, and I wish you to be kind enough to authorize him to paint yours. Besides, if you positively wish it, the portrait shall remain in your own possession.”

La Valliere blushed.

“You see,” said the king to her, “we shall not be three as you wished, but four instead. And so long as we are not alone, there can be as many present as you please.” La Valliere gently pressed her royal lover’s hand.

“Shall we pass into the next room, sire?” said St. Aignan, opening the door to let his guests precede him. The king walked behind La Valliere, and fixed his eyes lingeringly and passionately upon her neck as white as snow, upon which her long fair ringlets fell in heavy masses. La Valliere was dressed in a thick silk robe of pearl-gray color, with a tinge of rose, with jet ornaments, which displayed to greater effect the dazzling purity of her skin, holding in her slender and transparent hands a bouquet of heart’s ease, Bengal roses, and clematis, surrounded with leaves of the tenderest green, above which uprose, like a tiny goblet shedding perfumes, a Haarlem tulip of gray and violet tints, of a pure and beautiful species, which had cost the gardener five years’ toil of combinations and the king five thousand francs. Louis had placed this bouquet in La Valliere’s hand as he saluted her. In the room, the door of which St. Aignan had just opened, a young man was standing, dressed in a loose velvet coat, with beautiful black eyes and long brown hair. It was the painter; his canvas was quite ready, and his palette prepared for use. He bowed to La Valliere with that grave curiosity of an artist who is studying his model, saluted the king discreetly, as if he did not recognize him, and as he would, consequently, have saluted any other gentleman. Then, leading Mlle. de la Valliere to the seat which he had arranged for her, he begged her to sit down. The young girl assumed an attitude graceful and unrestrained, her hands occupied, and her limbs reclining on cushions; and in order that her gaze might not assume a vague or affected expression, the painter begged her to choose some kind of occupation, so as to engage her attention; whereupon, Louis XIV., smiling, sat down on the cushions at La Valliere’s feet; so that she, in the reclining posture she had assumed, leaning back in the armchair, holding her flowers in her hand, and he, with his eyes raised toward her and fixed devouringly on her face--they, both together, formed so charming a group that the artist contemplated it with professional delight, while on his side, St. Aignan regarded them with feelings of envy. The painter sketched rapidly; and very soon, beneath the earliest touches of the brush, there started into life, out of the gray background, the gentle, poetry-breathing face, with its soft calm eyes and delicately tinted cheeks, inframed in the masses of hair which fell about her neck. The lovers, however, spoke but little, and looked at each other a good deal; sometimes their eyes became so languishing in their gaze that the painter was obliged to interrupt his work in order to avoid representing an Erycina instead of a La Valliere. It was on such occasions that St. Aignan came to the rescue, and recited verses, or repeated one of those little tales as Patru related them, and which Tallemant des Reaux wrote so cleverly. Or it might be that La Valliere was fatigued, and the sitting was therefore suspended for awhile; and immediately a tray of precious porcelain, laden with the most beautiful fruits which could be obtained, and rich wines distilling their bright colors in silver goblets, beautifully chased, served as accessories to the picture of which the painter could but retrace the most ephemeral resemblance. Louis was intoxicated with love, La Valliere with happiness, St. Aignan with ambition, and the painter was storing up recollections for his old age. Two hours passed away in this manner, and four o’clock having struck, La Valliere rose and made a sign to the king. Louis also rose, approached the picture, and addressed a few flattering remarks to the painter.

St. Aignan also praised the picture, which, as he pretended, was already beginning to assume an accurate resemblance.

La Valliere, in her turn, blushingly thanked the painter, and passed into the next room, where the king followed her, after having previously summoned St. Aignan.

“Will you not come to-morrow?” he said to La Valliere.

“Oh! sire, pray think that some one will be sure to come to my room, and will not find me there.”

“Well?”

“What will become of me in that case?”

“You are very apprehensive, Louise.”

“But, at all events, suppose madame were to send for me?”

“Oh!” replied the king, “will the day never come when you yourself wil1 tell me to brave everything, so that I may not have to leave you again?”

“On that day, then, sire, I shall be quite out of my mind, and you ought not to believe me.”

“To-morrow, Louise.”

La Valliere sighed, but, without the courage to oppose her royal lover’s wish, she repeated, “To-morrow, then, since you desire it, sire,” and with these words she ran up the stairs lightly, and disappeared from her lover’s gaze.

“Well, sire? inquired St. Aignan, when she had left.

“Well, St. Aignan; yesterday I thought myself the happiest of men.”

“And does your majesty, then, regard yourself to-day,” said the comte, smiling, “as the unhappiest of men?”

“No; but my love for her is an unquenchable thirst; in vain do I drink, in vain do I swallow the drops of water which your industry procures for me; the more I drink, the more unquenchable is my thirst.”

“Sire, that is in some degree your own fault, and your majesty alone has made the position such as it is.”

“You are right.”

“In that case, therefore, the means to be happy is to fancy yourself satisfied, and to wait.”

“Wait! you know that word, then?”

“There, there, sire--do not despair; I have already been at work on your behalf--I have still other resources in store.”

The king shook his head in a despairing manner.

“What, sire! have you not been satisfied hitherto?”

“Oh! yes, indeed, yes, my dear St. Aignan; but find, for Heaven’s sake, find some further means yet!”

“Sire, I undertake to do my best, and that is all I can do.”

The king wished to see the portrait again, as he was unable to see the original. He pointed out several alterations to the painter, and left the room, and then St. Aignan dismissed the artist. The easel, paints, and painter himself, had scarcely gone, when Malicorne showed his head at the doorway. He was received by St. Aignan with open arms, but still with a little sadness, for the cloud which had passed across the royal sun veiled, in its turn, the faithful satellite, and Malicorne at a glance perceived the melancholy look which was visible upon St. Aignan’s face.

“Oh, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, “how sad you seem!”

“And good reason, too, my dear Monsieur Malicorne. Will you believe that the king is not satisfied?”

“Not satisfied with his staircase, do you mean?”

“Oh, no; on the contrary, he is delighted with the staircase.”

“The decoration of the apartments, I suppose, don’t please him?”

“Oh! he has not even thought of that. No, indeed, it seems that what has dissatisfied the king--”

“I will tell you, Monsieur le Comte--he is dissatisfied at finding himself the fourth person at a rendezvous of this kind. How is it possible you could not have guessed that?”

“Why, how is it likely I could have done so, dear Monsieur Malicorne, when I followed the king’s instructions to the very letter?”

“Did his majesty really insist on your being present?”

“Positively so.”

“And also required that the painter, whom I met downstairs just now, should be here, too?”

“He insisted upon it.”

“In that case, I can easily understand why his majesty is dissatisfied.”

“What! dissatisfied that I have so punctually and so literally obeyed his orders? I don’t understand you.”

Malicorne began to scratch his ear, as he asked, “What time did the king fix for the rendezvous in your apartments?”

“Two o’clock.”

“And you were waiting for the king?”

“Ever since half-past one; it would have been a fine thing, indeed, to have been unpunctual with his majesty.”

Malicorne, notwithstanding his respect for St. Aignan, could not resist shrugging his shoulders.

“And the painter,” he said, “did the king wish him to be here at two o’clock, also?”

“No; but I had him waiting here from midday. Far better, you know, for a painter to be kept waiting a couple of hours than the king a single minute.”

Malicorne began to laugh to himself.

“Come, dear Monsieur Malicorne,” said St. Aignan, “laugh less at me, and speak a little more freely, I beg.”

“Well, then, Monsieur le Comte, if you wish the king to be a little more satisfied the next time he comes--”

“‘Ventre saint-gris!’ as his father used to say; of course I wish it.”

“Well, all you have to do is, when the king comes tomorrow, to be obliged to go away on a most pressing matter of business, which cannot possibly be postponed, and stay away for twenty minutes.”

“What! leave the king alone for twenty minutes?” cried St. Aignan, in alarm.

“Very well; do as you like; don’t pay any attention to what I say,” said Malicorne, moving toward the door.

“Nay, nay, dear Monsieur Malicorne; on the contrary, go on--I begin to understand you. But the painter--”

“Oh! the painter must be half an hour late.”

“Half an hour--do you really think so?”

“Yes, I do, decidedly.”

“Very well, then; I will do as you tell me.”

“And my opinion is that you will be doing perfectly right. Will you allow me to come and inquire to-morrow, a little?”

“Of course.”

“I have the honor to be your most respectful servant, Monsieur de St. Aignan,” said Malicorne, bowing profoundly, and retiring from the room backward.

“There is no doubt that fellow has more invention than I have,” said St. Aignan, as if compelled by his conviction to admit it.

Hampton Court.

The revelation of which we have been witnesses, that Montalais made to La Valliere in a preceding chapter, very naturally makes us return to the principal hero of this tale, a poor wandering knight, roving about at the king’s caprice. If our readers will be good enough to follow us, we will, in his company, cross that strait more stormy than the Euripus--that which separates Calais from Dover; we will speed across that green and fertile country, with its numerous little streams; through Maidstone, and many other villages and towns, each prettier than the other, and finally arrive at London. From thence, like bloodhounds following a track, after having ascertained that Raoul had made his first stay at Whitehall, his second at St. James’, and having learned that he had been warmly received by Monk, and introduced into the best society of Charles II.’s court, we will follow him to one of Charles II.’s summer residences, near the town of Kingston, at Hampton Court, situated on the Thames. The river is not, at that spot, the boastful highway which bears upon its broad bosom its thousands of travelers; nor are its waters black and troubled as those of Cocytus, as it boastfully asserts, “I, too, am the sea.” No; at Hampton Court it is a soft and murmuring stream, with moss-grown banks, reflecting, in its broad mirror, the willows and beeches which ornament its sides, and on which may occasionally be seen a light bark indolently reclining among the tall reeds, in a little creek formed of alders and forget-me-nots. The surrounding country on all sides seemed smiling in happiness and wealth; the brick cottages, from whose chimneys the blue smoke was slowly ascending in wreaths, peeped forth from the belts of green holly which environed them; children dressed in red frocks appeared and disappeared amid the high grass, like poppies bowed by the gentle breath of the passing breeze. The sheep, ruminating with closed eyes, lay lazily about under the shadow of the stunted aspens, while far and near the kingfisher, clad in emerald and gold, skimmed swiftly along the surface of the water, like a magic ball, heedlessly touching, as he passed, the line of his brother angler, who sat watching in his boat the fish as they rose to the surface of the sparkling stream. High above this paradise of dark shadows and soft light arose the palace of Hampton Court, which had been built by Wolsey--a residence which the haughty cardinal had been obliged, timid courtier that he was, to offer to his master, Henry VIII., who had frowned with envy and feelings of cupidity at the aspect of the new palace. Hampton Court, with its brick walls, its large windows, its handsome iron gates, as well as its curious bell-turrets, its retired, covered walks, and interior fountains, like those of the Alhambra, was a perfect bower of roses, jasmine, and clematis. Every sense of sight and smell particularly, was gratified, and formed a most charming framework for the picture of love which Charles II. unrolled among the voluptuous paintings of Titian, of Pordenone, and of Vandyke; the same Charles whose father’s portrait--the martyr king--was hanging in his gallery, and who could show upon the wainscots of the various apartments the holes made by the balls of the puritanical followers of Cromwell, on the 24th of August, 1648, at the time they had brought Charles I. prisoner to Hampton Court. There it was that the king, intoxicated with pleasure and amusements, held his court--he who, a poet in feeling, thought himself justified in redeeming, by a whole day of voluptuousness, every minute which had been formerly passed in anguish and misery. It was not the soft greensward of Hampton Court--so soft that it almost resembled the richest velvet in the thickness of its texture--nor was it the beds of flowers, with their variegated hues, which encircled the foot of every tree, with rose-trees many feet in height, embracing most lovingly their trunks--nor even the enormous lime-trees, whose branches swept the earth like willows, offering a ready concealment for love or reflection beneath the shade of their foliage--it was none of these things for which Charles II. loved his palace of Hampton Court. Perhaps it might have been that beautiful sheet of water, which the cool breeze rippled like the wavy undulations of Cleopatra’s hair, waters bedecked with cresses and white water-lilies, with hardy bulbs which, half-unfolding themselves beneath the sun’s warm rays, reveal the golden-colored germs which lie concealed in their milk-white covering--murmuring waters, on the bosom of which the black swans majestically floated; and the restless water-fowl, with their tender broods covered with silken down, darted restlessly in every direction, in pursuit of the insects among the flags, or the frogs in their mossy retreats. Perhaps it might have been the enormous hollies, with their dark and tender green foliage; or the bridges which united the banks of the canals in their embrace; or the fawns browsing in the endless avenues of the park; or the numberless birds which hopped about the gardens, or flew from branch to branch, amid the dense foliage of the trees.

It might well have been any of these charms, for Hampton Court possessed them all; and possessed, too, almost forests of white roses, which climbed and trailed along the lofty trellises, showering down upon the ground their snowy leaves rich with odorous perfumes. But no, what Charles II. most loved in Hampton Court was the charming figures who, when midday was passed, flitted to and fro along the broad terraces of the gardens; like Louis XIV., he had had their wealth of beauties painted for his cabinet by one of the great artists of the period--an artist who well knew the secret of transferring to canvas a ray of light which had escaped from their beaming eyes laden with love and love’s delights.

The day of our arrival at Hampton Court is almost as clear and bright as a summer’s day in France; the atmosphere is laden with the delicious perfume of the geraniums, sweet-peas, syringes, and heliotrope which are scattered in profusion around. It is past midday, and the king, having dined, after his return from hunting, paid a visit to Lady Castlemaine, the lady who was reputed at the time to hold his heart in bondage; and with this proof of his devotion discharged, he was readily permitted to pursue his infidelities until evening arrived. Love and amusement ruled the whole court; it was the period when ladies would seriously interrogate their ruder companions as to their opinions upon a foot more or less captivating, according to whether it wore a pink or green silk stocking--for it was the period when Charles II. had declared that there was no hope of safety for a woman who wore green silk stockings, because Miss Lucy Stewart wore them of that color. While the king is endeavoring in all directions to inculcate others with his preferences on this point, we will ourselves bend our steps toward an avenue of beech-trees opposite the terrace, and listen to the conversation of a young girl in a dark-colored dress, who is walking with another of about her own age dressed in lilac and dark blue. They crossed a beautiful lawn in the middle of which arose a fountain with the figure of a siren executed in bronze, and strolled on, talking as they went, toward the terrace, along which, looking out upon the park, and interspersed at frequent intervals, were erected summer-houses, various in form and ornaments; these summer-houses were nearly all occupied; the two young women passed on, the one blushing deeply, while the other seemed dreamingly silent. At last, having reached the end of the terrace which looks on the river, and finding there a cool retreat, they sat down close to each other.

“Where are we going, Stewart?” said the younger to her companion.

“My dear Grafton, we are going where you yourself led the way.”

“I?”

“Yes, you; to the extremity of the palace, toward that seat yonder, where the young frenchman is seated, wasting his time in sighs and lamentations.”

Miss Mary Grafton hurriedly said:

“No, no; I am not going there.”

“Why not?”

“Let us go back, Stewart.”

“Nay, on the contrary, let us go on, and have an explanation.”

“About what?”

“About how it happens that the Vicomte de Bragelonne always accompanies you in all your walks, as you invariably accompany him in his.”

“And you conclude either that he loves me, or that I love him?”

“Why not? He is a most agreeable and charming companion. No one hears me, I hope,” said Lucy Stewart, as she turned round with a smile, which indicated, moreover, that her uneasiness on the subject was not extreme.

“No, no,” said Mary, “the king is engaged in his summer-house with the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Oh! apropos of the duke, Mary, it seems he has shown you great attention since his return from France; how is your own heart in that direction?”

Mary Grafton shrugged her shoulders with seeming indifference.

“Well, well, I will ask Bragelonne about that,” said Stewart, laughing; “let us go and find him at once.”

“What for?”

“I wish to speak to him.”

“Not yet; one word before you do; come, Stewart, you who know so many of the king’s secrets, tell me why Monsieur de Bragelonne is in England?”

“Because he was sent as an envoy from one sovereign to another.

“That may be; but, seriously, although politics do not much concern us, we know enough to be satisfied that Monsieur de Bragelonne has no mission of any serious import here.

“Well, then, listen,” said Stewart, with assumed gravity; “for your sake, I am going to betray a state secret. Shall I tell you the nature of the letter which King Louis XIV. gave Monsieur de Bragelonne for King Charles II.? I will; these are the very words: ‘My brother, the bearer of this is a gentleman attached to my court, and the son of one whom you regard most warmly. Treat him kindly, I beg, and try and make him like England.’”

“Did it say that?”

“Word for word--or something very like it. I will not answer for the form, but the substance I am sure of.”

“Well, and what conclusion do you, or rather, what conclusion does the king draw from that?”

“That the King of France has his own reasons for removing Monsieur de Bragelonne, and for getting him married--somewhere else than in France.”

“So that, then, in consequence of this letter--”

“King Charles received Monsieur de Bragelonne, as you are aware, in the most distinguished and friendly manner; the handsomest apartments in Whitehall were allotted to him; and as you are the most valuable and precious person in his court, inasmuch as you have rejected his heart--nay, do not blush--he wished you to take a fancy to this Frenchman, and he was desirous to confer upon him so costly a prize. And this is the reason why you, the heiress of three hundred thousand pounds, a future duchess, and one so beautiful, and so good, have been thrown in Bragelonne’s way, in all the promenades and parties of pleasure to which he was invited. In fact, it was a plot--a kind of conspiracy. “

Mary Grafton smiled with that charming expression which was habitual to her, and, pressing her companion’s arm, said:

“Thank the king, Lucy.”

“Yes, yes; but the Duke of Buckingham is jealous, so take care.”

Hardly had she pronounced these words than the duke appeared from one of the pavilions on the terrace, and approaching the two girls, with a smile, said:

“You are mistaken, Miss Lucy; I am not jealous, and the proof, Miss Mary, is yonder, in the person of Monsieur de Bragelonne himself, who ought to be the cause of my jealousy, but who is dreaming in pensive solitude. Poor fellow! Allow me to leave you for a few minutes, while I avail myself of those few minutes to converse with Miss Lucy Stewart, to whom I have something to say.” And then, bowing to Lucy, he added: “Will you do me the honor to accept my hand, in order that I may lead you to the king, who is waiting for us?”

With these words Buckingham, still smiling, took Miss Stewart’s hand and led her away. When by herself, Mary Grafton, her head gently inclined toward her shoulder, with that indolent gracefulness of action which distinguishes young English girls, remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on Raoul, but as if uncertain what to do. At last, after first blushing violently and then turning deathly pale, thus revealing the internal combat which assailed her heart, she seemed to make up her mind to adopt a decided course, and with a tolerably firm step advanced toward the seat on which Raoul was reclining, buried in the profoundest meditation, as we have already said. The sound of Miss Mary’s steps, though they could be hardly heard upon the greensward, awakened Raoul from his musing attitude; he turned round, perceived the young girl, and walked forward to meet the companion whom his happy destiny had thrown in his way.

“I have been sent to you, monsieur,” said Mary Grafton; “will you accept me?”

“To whom is my gratitude due for so great a happiness?” inquired Raoul.

“To the Duke of Buckingham,” replied Mary, affecting a gayety she did not really feel.

“To the Duke of Buckingham, do you say?--he who so passionately seeks your charming society? Am I really to believe you are serious, mademoiselle?”

“The fact is, monsieur, you perceive that everything seems to conspire to make us pass the best, or rather the longest, part of our days together. Yesterday it was the king who desired me to beg you to seat yourself next to me at dinner, to-day it is the Duke of Buckingham who begs me to come and place myself near you on this seat.”

“And he has gone away in order to leave us together?” asked Raoul, with some embarrassment.

“Look yonder, at the turning of that path; he is just out of sight, with Miss Stewart. Are these polite attentions usual in France, Monsieur le Comte?”

“I cannot very precisely say what people do in France, mademoiselle, for I can hardly be called a Frenchman. I have resided in many countries, and almost always as a soldier; and then I have spent a long period of my life in the country. I am almost a savage.”

“You do not like your residence in England, I fear?”

“I scarcely know,” said Raoul inattentively, and sighing deeply at the same time.

“What! you do not know?”

“Forgive me,” said Raoul, shaking his head, and collecting his thoughts, “I did not hear you.”

“Oh!” said the young girl, sighing in her tern, “how wrong the duke was to send me here!’’

“Wrong?” said Raoul. “Perhaps so; for I am but a rude, uncouth companion, and my society annoys you. The duke was, indeed, very wrong to send you.”

“It is precisely,” replied Mary Grafton, in a clear, calm voice, “because your society does not annoy me that the duke was wrong to send me to you.”

It was now Raoul’s turn to blush.

“But,” he resumed, “how happens it that the Duke of Buckingham should send you to me, and why should you have come? The duke loves you, and you love him.”

“No,” replied Mary seriously; “the duke does not love me, because he is in love with the Duchesse d’Orléans; and, as for myself, I have no affection for the duke.”

Raoul looked at the young lady with astonishment.

“Are you a friend of the Duke of Buckingham?” she inquired.

“The duke has honored me by calling me so ever since we met in France.”

“You are simple acquaintances, then?”

“No; for the duke is the most intimate friend of one whom I regard as a brother.”

“The Duc de Guiche?”

“Yes.”

“He who is in love with Madame la Duchesse d’Orléans.”

“Oh! what is that you are saying?”

“And who loves him in return,” continued the young girl quietly.

Raoul bent down his head, and Mary Grafton, sighing deeply, continued:

“They are very happy. But, leave me, Monsieur de Bragelonne, for the Duke of Buckingham has given you a very troublesome commission in offering me as a companion in your promenade. Your heart is elsewhere, and it is with the greatest difficulty you can be charitable enough to lend me your attention. Confess truly; it would be unfair on your part, vicomte, not to confess it.”

“Madame, I do confess it.”

She looked at him steadily. He was so noble and so handsome in his bearing, his eye revealed so much gentleness, candor, and resolution, that the idea could not possibly enter her mind that he was either rudely discourteous or a mere simpleton. She only perceived clearly enough that he loved another woman, and not herself, with the whole strength of his heart.

“Ah! I now understand you,” she said; “you have left your heart behind you in France.”

Raoul bowed.

“The duke is aware of your affection.”

“No one knows it,” replied Raoul.

“Why, therefore, do you tell me? Nay, answer me.”

“I cannot.”

“It is for me, then, to anticipate an explanation; you do not wish to tell me anything, because you are now convinced that I do not love the duke; because you see that I possibly might have loved you; because you are a gentleman of noble and delicate sentiments; and because, instead of accepting, even were it for the mere amusement of the passing hour, a hand which is almost pressed upon you, and because, instead of meeting my smiles with a smiling lip, you, who are young, have preferred to tell me, whom men have called beautiful, ‘My heart is far away in France.’ For this I thank you, Monsieur de Bragelonne; you are, indeed, a noble-hearted, noble-minded man, and I regard you yet more for it. As a friend only. And now let us cease speaking of myself, and talk of your own affairs. Forget that I have ever spoken to you of myself; tell me why you are sad, and why you have become more than usually so during these four past days?”

Raoul was deeply and sensibly moved by her sweet and melancholy tone; and as he could not at the moment find a word to say, the young girl again came to his assistance.

“Pity me,” she said. “My mother was born in France, and I can truly affirm that, I too, am French in blood as well as in feeling; but the heavy atmosphere and characteristic gloom of England seem to weigh like a burden upon me. Sometimes my dreams are golden-hued and full of wondrous enjoyment, but suddenly a mist arises and overspreads my dreams, and blots them out forever. Such, indeed, is the case at the present moment. Forgive me; I have now said enough on that subject; give me your hand, and relate your griefs to me as to a friend.”

“You say you are French in heart and soul.”

“Yes; not only I repeat it, that my mother was French, but further still, as my father, a friend of King Charles I., was exiled in France, I, during the trial of that prince, as well as during the Protector’s life, was brought up in Paris; at the Restoration of King Charles II. my poor father returned to England, where he died almost immediately afterward; and then the king created me a duchess, and has dowered me according to my rank.”

“Have you any relations in France?” Raoul inquired, with the deepest interest.

“I have a sister there, my senior by seven or eight years, who was married in France, and was early left a widow; her name is Madame de Belliere. Do you know her?” she added, observing Raoul start suddenly.

“I have heard her name mentioned.”

“She, too, loves with her whole heart; and her last letters inform me that she is happy, and her affection is, I conclude, returned. I told you, Monsieur de Bragelonne, that although I possess half of her nature, I do not share her happiness. But let us now speak of yourself; whom do you love in France?”

“A young girl as soft and as pure as a lily.”

“But if she loves you, why are you sad?”

“I have been told that she has ceased to love me.”

“You do not believe it, I trust?”

“He who wrote me so does not sign his letter.”

“An anonymous denunciation! some treachery, be assured,” said Miss Grafton.

“Stay,” said Raoul, showing the young girl a letter which he had read over a thousand times; she took it from his hand and read as follows:

“VICOMTE: You are perfectly right to amuse yourself yonder with the lovely faces of Charles II.’s court, for at Louis XIV.’s court, the castle in which your affections are enshrined is being besieged. Stay in London altogether, poor vicomte, or return without delay to Paris.”

“There is no signature,” said Miss Mary.

“None.”

“Believe it not, then.”

“Very good; but here is a second letter, from my friend De Guiche, which says, ‘I am lying here wounded and ill. Return, Raoul, oh, return!’”

“What do you intend doing?” inquired the young girl, with a feeling of oppression at her heart.

“My intention, as soon as I received this letter, was immediately to take my leave of the king.”

“When did you receive it?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“It is dated from Fontainebleau.”

“A singular circumstance, do you not think, for the court is now at Paris? At all events, I would have set off; but when I mentioned my intention to the king, he began to laugh, and said to me, ‘How comes it, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, that you think of leaving? Has your sovereign recalled you?’ I colored, naturally enough, for I was confused by the question; for the fact is, the king himself sent me here, and I have received no order to return.”

Mary frowned in deep thought, and said:

“Do you remain, then?”

“I must, mademoiselle.”

“Do you ever receive any letters from her to whom you are so devoted?”

“Never.”

“Never, do you say? Does she not love you, then?”

“At least, she has not written to me since my departure, although she used occasionally to write to me before. I trust she may have been prevented.”

“Hush! the duke is here.”

And Buckingham at that moment was seen at the end of the walk, approaching toward them, alone and smiling; he advanced slowly, and held out his hands to them both.

“Have you arrived at an understanding?” he said.

“About what?”

“About whatever might render you happy, dear Mary, and make Raoul less miserable.”

“I do not understand you, my lord,” said Raoul.

“That is my view of the subject, Miss Mary; do you wish me to mention it before Monsieur de Bragelonne?” he added, with a smile.

“If you mean,” replied the young girl haughtily, “that I was not indisposed to love Monsieur de Bragelonne, that is useless, for I have told him so myself.”

Buckingham reflected for a moment, and without seeming in any way discountenanced, as she expected, he said:

“My reason for leaving you with Monsieur de Bragelonne was that I thoroughly knew your refined delicacy of feeling, no less than the perfect loyalty of your mind and heart, and I hoped that Monsieur de Bragelonne’s cure might be effected by the hands of a physician such as you are.”

“But, my lord, before you spoke of Monsieur de Bragelonne’s heart, you spoke to me of your own. Do you mean to effect the cure of two hearts at the same time?”

“Perfectly true, madame; but you will do me the justice to admit that I have long discontinued a useless pursuit, acknowledging that my own wound is incurable.”

“My lord,” said Mary, collecting herself for a moment before she spoke, ‘Monsieur de Bragelonne is happy, for he loves and is beloved. He has no need of such a physician as I can be.”

“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said Buckingham, “is on the very eve of experiencing a serious misfortune, and he has greater need than ever of sympathy and affection.”

“Explain yourself, my lord,” inquired Raoul anxiously.

“No; gradually I will explain myself; but if you desire it, I can tell Miss Grafton what you may not listen to yourself. “

“My lord, you are putting me to the torture; you know something you wish to conceal from me?”

“I know that Miss Mary Grafton is the most charming object that a heart ill at ease could possibly meet with in its way through life.”

“I have already told you that the Vicomte de Bragelonne loves elsewhere,” said the young girl.

“He is wrong, then.”

“Do you assume to know, my lord, that I am wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Whom is it that he loves, then?” exclaimed the young girl.

“He loves a woman who is unworthy of him,” said Buckingham, with that calm, collected manner peculiar to an Englishman.

Miss Grafton uttered a cry, which, together with the remark that Buckingham had that moment made, spread over De Bragelonne’s features a deathly paleness, arising from the sudden surprise, and also from a vague fear of impending misfortune.

“My lord,” he exclaimed, “you have just pronounced words which compel me, without a moment’s delay, to seek their explanation at Paris.”

“You will remain here,” said Buckingham, “because you have no right to leave; and no one has the right to quit the service of the king for that of any woman, even were she as worthy of being loved as Mary Grafton is. “

“You will tell me all, then?”

“I will, on condition that you will remain.”

“I will remain, if you will promise to speak openly and without reserve.”

Thus far had their conversation proceeded, and Buckingham in all probability was on the point of revealing, not indeed all that had taken place, but at least all he was aware of, when one of the king’s attendants appeared at the end of the terrace, and advanced toward the summer-house where the king was sitting with Lucy Stewart. A courier followed him, covered with dust from head to foot, and who seemed as if he had but a few moments before dismounted from his horse.

“The courier from France! Madame’s courier!” exclaimed Raoul, recognizing the princess’ livery; and while the attendant and the courtier advanced toward the king, Buckingham and Miss Grafton exchanged a look full of intelligence with each other.

The Courier from Madame.

CHARLES II. was busily engaged in proving, or in endeavoring to prove, to Miss Stewart that she was the only person for whom he cared at all, and, consequently, he was swearing for her an affection similar to which his ancestor, Henry IV., had entertained for Gabrielle. Unfortunately for Charles II., he had hit upon an unlucky day, upon a day when Miss Stewart had taken it into her head to make him jealous, and therefore, instead of being touched by his offer, as the king had hoped, she laughed heartily.

“Oh! sire, sire,” she cried, laughing all the while, “if I were to be unfortunate enough to ask you for a proof of the affection you profess, how easy it would be to see that you are telling a falsehood.”

“Nay, listen to me,” said Charles; “you know my cartoons by Raphael; you know whether I care for them or not; the whole world envies me their possession, as you well know also; my father got Vandyke to purchase them. Would you like me to send them to your house this very day?”

“Oh, no!” replied the young girl; “pray keep them yourself, sire; my house is far too small to accommodate such visitors.”

“In that case you shall have Hampton Court to put the cartoons in.”

“Be less generous sire, and learn to love a little while longer, that is all I have to ask you.”

“I shall never cease to love you; is not that enough?”

“You are laughing, sire.”

“Do you wish me to weep, then?”

“No; but I should like to see you a little more melancholy. “

“Thank Heaven, I have been so long enough; fourteen years of exile, poverty, and misery, I think I may well regard it as a debt discharged; besides, melancholy makes people look so plain.”

“Far from that, for look at the young Frenchman.”

“What! the Vicomte de Bragelonne? Are you smitten, too? By Heaven! they will all become mad about him, one after the other; but he, on the contrary, has a reason for being melancholy.”

“Why so?”

“Oh, indeed! you wish me to betray state secrets, do you?”

“If I wish it, you must do it, since you told me you were quite ready to do everything I wished.”

“Well, then, he is bored in his own country. Does that satisfy you?”

“Bored?”

“Yes; a proof that he is a simpleton. I allow him to fall in love with Miss Mary Grafton, and he feels bored. Can you believe it?”

“Very good; it seems, then, that if you were to find Miss Lucy Stewart indifferent to you, you would console yourself by falling in love with Miss Mary Grafton.”

“I don’t say that; in the first place, you know that Mary Grafton does not care for me; besides, a man can only console himself for a lost affection by the discovery of a new one. Again, however, I repeat, the question is not of myself, but of that young man. One might almost be tempted to call the girl he has left behind him a Helen--a Helen before her introduction to Paris, of course.”

“He has left some one, then?”

“That is to say, some one has left him.”

“Poor fellow! so much the worse!”

“What do you mean by ‘so much the worse’?”

“Why not? why did he leave?”

“Do you think it was of his own wish or will that be left?”

“Was he obliged to leave, then?”

“He left Paris under orders, my dear Stewart; and prepare to be surprised--by express orders of the king.”

“Ah! I begin to see now.”

“At least, say nothing at all about it.”

“You know very well that I am quite as discreet as any man could be. And so the king sent him away?”

“Yes.”

“And during his absence he takes his mistress away from him?”

“Yes; and, will you believe it? the silly fellow, instead of thanking the king, is making himself miserable.”

“What! thank the king for depriving him of the woman he loves! Really, sire, yours is a most ungallant speech.”

“But, pray understand me. If she whom the king had run off with was either a Miss Grafton or a Miss Stewart, I should be of his opinion; nay, I should even think him not half miserable enough; but she is a little thin, lame thing. Deuce take such fidelity as that! Surely, one can hardly understand how a man can refuse a girl who is rich for one who is poverty itself--a girl who loves him for one who deceives and betrays him.”

“Do you think that Mary seriously wishes to please the vicomte, sire?”

“I do, indeed.”

“Very good! the vicomte will settle down in England, for Mary has a clear head, and when she fixes her mind upon anything she does so thoroughly.”

“Take care, my dear Miss Stewart; if the vicomte has any idea of adopting our country, he has not long to do so, for it was only the day before yesterday that he again asked me for permission to leave.”

“Which you refused him, I suppose?”

“I should think so, indeed; my royal brother is far too anxious for his absence; and, for myself, my amour propre is enlisted on his side, for I will never have it said that I had held out as a bait to this young man the noblest and gentlest creature in England “

“You are very gallant sire,” said Miss Stewart, with a pretty pout.

“I do not allude to Miss Stewart, for she is worthy a king’s devotion; and since she has captivated me, I trust that no one else will be caught by her; I say, therefore, finally, that the attention I have shown this young man will not have been thrown away; he will stay with us here, will marry here, or I am very much mistaken.”

“And I hope that when he is once married and settled, instead of being angry with your majesty, he will be grateful to you, for every one tries his utmost to please him; even the Duke of Buckingham, whose brilliancy, which is hardly credible, seems to pale before that of this young Frenchman.”

“And including Miss Stewart even, who calls him the most finished gentleman she ever saw.”

“Stay, sire; you have spoken quite enough, and quite highly enough, of Miss Grafton, to overlook what I may have said about De Bragelonne. But, by the bye, sire, your kindness for some time past astonishes me; you think of those who are absent, you forgive those who have done wrong; in fact, you are, as nearly as possible, perfect. How does it happen--”

“It is because you allow yourself to be loved,” he said, beginning to laugh.

“Oh! there must be some other reason.”

“Well, I am doing all I can to oblige my brother Louis XIV.”

“Nay, I must have another reason.”

“Well, then, the true motive is that Buckingham strongly recommended the young man to me, saying: ‘Sire, I begin by yielding up all claim to Miss Grafton; I pray you follow my example.’”

“The duke is, indeed, a true gentleman.”

“Oh, of course, of course; it is Buckingham’s turn now, I suppose, to turn your head. You seem determined to cross me in everything to-day.”

At this moment some one scratched at the door.

“Who is it who presumes to interrupt us?” exclaimed Charles impatiently.

“Really, sire, you are extremely vain with your ‘who is it who presumes?’ and in order to punish you for it--”

She went to the door and opened it.

“It is a courier from France,” said Miss Stewart.

“A courier from France!” exclaimed Charles; “from my sister, perhaps?”

“Yes, sire,” said the usher; “a special messenger.”

“Let him come in at once,” said Charles.

“You have a letter for me,” said the king to the courier, as he entered, “from the Duchess of Orléans?”

“Yes, sire,” replied the courier, “and so urgent in its nature that I have only been twenty-six hours in bringing it to your majesty, and yet I lost three-quarters of an hour at Calais.”

“Your zeal shall not be forgotten,” said the king, as he opened the letter. When he had read it he burst out laughing, and exclaimed: “Upon my word, I am at a loss to understand anything about it.”

He then read the letter a second time, Miss Stewart assuming a manner marked by the greatest reserve, and doing her utmost to restrain her ardent curiosity.

“Francis,” said the king to his valet, “see that this excellent fellow is well taken care of and sleeps soundly, and that on waking to-morrow morning he finds a purse of fifty sovereigns by his bedside.”

“Sire!” said the courier, amazed.

“Begone, begone; my sister was perfectly right in desiring you to use the utmost diligence; the affair was most pressing.”

And he again began to laugh louder than ever. The courier, the valet, and Miss Stewart hardly knew what sort of countenance to assume.

“Ah!” said the king, throwing himself back in his armchair; “when I think that you have knocked up--how many horses?”

“Two.”

“Two horses to bring this intelligence to me. That will do; you can leave us now.” The courier retired with the valet. Charles went to the window, which he opened, and leaning forward, called out:

“Duke! Buckingham! come here, there’s a good fellow.”

The duke hurried to him, in obedience to the summons; but when he reached the door, and perceived Miss Stewart, he hesitated to enter.

“Come in and shut the door,” said the king.

The duke obeyed, and, perceiving in what an excellent humor the king was, he advanced, smiling, toward him.

“Well, my dear duke, how do you get on with your Frenchman?”

“Sire, I am in the most perfect state of utter despair about him.”

“Why so?”

“Because charming Miss Grafton is willing to marry him, but he is unwilling.”

“Why, he is a perfect Boetian!” cried Miss Stewart. “Let him say either ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ and let the affair end.”

“But,” said Buckingham seriously, “you know, or you ought to know, madame, that Monsieur de Bragelonne is in love in another direction.”

“In that case,” said the king, coming to Miss Stewart’s help, “nothing is easier; let him say ‘No,’ then.”

“Very true; and I have proved to him he was wrong not to say ‘Yes.’”

“You told him candidly, I suppose, that La Valliere was deceiving him?”

“Yes, without the slightest reserve; and, as soon as I had done so, he gave a start, as if he were going to clear the Channel at a bound.”

“At all events,” said Miss Stewart, “he has done something; and a very good thing, too, upon my word.”

“But,” said Buckingham, “I stopped him; I have left him and Miss Mary in conversation together, and I sincerely trust that now he will not leave, as he seemed to have had an idea of doing.”

“An idea of leaving England?” cried the king.

“I, at one moment, hardly thought that any human power could have prevented him; but Miss Mary’s eyes are now bent fully on him, and he will remain.”

“Well, that is the very thing which deceives you, Buckingham,” said the king, with a peal of laughter; “the poor fellow is predestined.”

“Predestined to what?”

“If it were to be simply to be deceived, that is nothing; but, to look at him, it is a great deal.”

“At a distance, and with Miss Grafton’s aid, the blow will be warded off.”

“Far from it, far from it; neither distance nor Miss Grafton’s help will be of the slightest avail. Bragelonne will set off for Paris within an hour’s time.”

Buckingham started, and Miss Stewart opened her eyes very wide in astonishment.

“But, sire,” said the duke, “your majesty knows that it is impossible.”

“That is to say, my dear Buckingham, that it is impossible until the contrary happens.”

“Do not forget, Sire, that the young man is a perfect lion, and that his wrath is terrible.”

“I don’t deny it, my dear duke.”

“And that if he sees that his misfortune is certain, so much the worse for the author of it.”

“I don’t deny it; but what the deuce am I to do?”

“Were it the king himself,” cried Buckingham, “I would not answer for him.”

“Oh, the king has his musketeers to take care of him,” said Charles quietly; “I know that perfectly well, for I was kept dancing attendance in his antechamber at Blois. He has Monsieur d’Artagnan, and what better guardian could the king have than Monsieur d’Artagnan? I should make myself perfectly easy with twenty storms of passion, such as Bragelonne might display, if I had four guardians like D’Artagnan.”

“But I entreat your majesty, who is so good and kind, to reflect a little.”

“Stay,” said Charles II., presenting the letter to the duke, “read, and answer yourself what you would do in my place.”

Buckingham slowly took hold of madame’s letter, and, trembling with emotion, read the following words:

“For your own sake, for mine, for the honor and safety of every one, send Monsieur de Bragelonne back to France immediately. Your devoted sister,
“HENRIETTE.”

“Well, Villiers, what do you say?”

“Really, sire, I have nothing to say?” replied the duke, stupefied.

“Nay, would you, of all persons,” said the king artfully, “advise me not to listen to my sister when she writes so urgently?”

“Oh, no, no, sire; and yet--”

“You’ve not read the postscript, Villiers; it is under the fold of the letter, and escaped me at first; read it.”

And as the duke turned down a fold of the letter, he read:

“A thousand kind remembrances to those who love me.”

The duke’s head sank gradually on his breast; the paper trembled in his fingers, as if it had been changed to lead. The king paused for a moment, and, seeing that Buckingham did not speak:

“He must follow his destiny, as we ours,” continued the king; “every man has his share of grief in this world, I have had my own--I have had that of others who belong to me--and have thus had a double weight of woe to endure. But the deuce take all my cares now! Go, and bring our friend here, Villiers.”

The duke opened the trellised door of the summer-house, and pointing at Raoul and Mary, who were walking together side by side, said:

“What a cruel blow, sire, for poor Miss Grafton!”

“Nonsense! call him,” said Charles II., knitting his black brows together, “every one seems to be sentimental here. There, look at Miss Stewart who is wiping her eyes--now deuce take the French fellow!”

The duke called to Raoul, and taking Miss Grafton by the hand, he led her toward the king.

“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said Charles II., “did you not ask me, the day before yesterday, for permission to return to Paris?”

“Yes, sire,” replied Raoul, puzzled by this address.

“And I refused you, I think?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Were you not angry with me for it?”

“No, sire: your majesty had no doubt excellent reasons, for withholding it, for you are so wise and so good that everything you do is well done.”

“I alleged, I believe, as a reason, that the King of France had not recalled you?”

“Yes, sire, that was the reason you assigned.”

“Well, Monsieur de Bragelonne, I have reflected over the matter since; if the king did not, in fact, fix your return, he begged me to render your sojourn in England as agreeable as possible, since, however, you ask my permission to return, it is because your longer residence in England is no longer agreeable to you.”

“I do not say that, sire.”

“No; but your request, at least,” said the king, “signified that another place of residence would be more agreeable to you than this.”

At this moment Raoul turned toward the door, against which Miss Grafton was leaning, pale and sorrow-stricken; her other arm was passed through the arm of the duke.

“You do not reply,” pursued Charles; “the proverb is plain enough, that ‘Silence gives consent.’ Very good, Monsieur de Bragelonne; I am now in a position to satisfy you; whenever you please, therefore, you can leave for Paris, for which you have my authority.”

“Sire!” exclaimed Raoul, while Mary stifled an exclamation of grief which rose to her lips, unconsciously pressing Buckingham’s arm.

“You can be at Dover this evening,” continued the king; “the tide serves at two o’clock in the morning.”

Raoul, astounded, stammered out a few broken sentences, which equally answered the purpose both of thanks and of excuse.

“I, therefore, bid you adieu, Monsieur de Bragelonne, and wish you every sort of prosperity,” said the king, rising; “you will confer a pleasure on me by keeping this diamond in remembrance of me; I had intended it as a marriage gift.”

Miss Grafton felt her limbs almost giving way; and, as Raoul received the diamond from the king’s hand, he, too, felt his strength and courage failing him. He addressed a few respectful words to the king, a passing compliment to Miss Stewart, and looked for Buckingham to bid him adieu. The king profited by this moment to disappear. Raoul found the duke engaged in endeavoring to encourage Miss Grafton.

“Tell him to remain, I implore you!” said Buckingham to Mary.

“No, I will tell him to go,” replied Miss Grafton, with returning animation; “I am not one of those women who have more pride than heart; if she whom he loves is in France, let him return there and bless me for having advised him to go and seek his happiness there. If, on the contrary, she shall have ceased to love him, let him come back here again; I shall still love him, and his unhappiness will not have lessened him in my regard. In the arms of my house you will find that which heaven has engraved on my heart--Habenti parum, egenti cuncta. ‘To the rich is accorded little, to the poor everything.’”

“I do not believe, Bragelonne, that you will find yonder the equivalent of what you leave behind you here.”

“I think, or at least I hope,” said Raoul, with a gloomy air, “that she whom I love is worthy of my affection; but if it be true she is unworthy of me, as you have endeavored to make me believe, I will tear her image from my heart, duke, even were my heart broken in the attempt.”

Mary Grafton gazed upon him with an expression of the most indefinable pity, and Raoul returned her look with a sad, sorrowful smile, saying:

“Mademoiselle, the diamond which the king has given me was destined for you--give me leave to offer it for your acceptance; if I marry in France, you will send it me back; if I do not marry, keep it.”

And he bowed and left her.

“What does he mean?” thought Buckingham, while Raoul pressed Mary’s icy hand with marks of the most reverential respect.

Mary understood the look that Buckingham fixed upon her.

“If it were a wedding-ring, I would not accept it,” she said.

“And yet you were willing to ask him to return to you.”

“Oh! duke,” cried the young girl, in heart-broken accents, “a woman such as I am is never accepted as a consolation by a man like him.”

“You do not think he will return, then?”

“Never,” said Miss Grafton, in a choking voice.

“And I grieve to tell you, Mary, that he will find yonder his happiness destroyed, his mistress lost to him. His honor even has not escaped. What will be left him, then, Mary, equal to your affection? Do you answer, Mary, you who know yourself so well?”

Miss Grafton placed her white hand on Buckingham’s arm, and, while Raoul was hurrying away with headlong speed, she sang, in dying accents, the line from “Romeo and Juliet,” “I must be gone and live, or stay and die.”

As she finished the last word, Raoul had disappeared. Miss Grafton returned to her own apartments, paler even than death itself. Buckingham availed himself of the arrival of the courier, who had brought the letter to the king, to write to madame and to the Comte de Guiche. The king had not been mistaken, for at two in the morning the tide was at full flood, and Raoul had embarked for France.

St. Aignan Follows Malicorne’s Advice.

The king most assiduously followed the progress which was made in La Valliere’s portrait; and did so with a care and attention arising as much from a desire that it should resemble her as from the wish that the painter should prolong the period of its completion as much as possible. It was amusing to observe him follow the artist’s brush, awaiting the completion of a particular plan, or the result of a combination of colors, and suggesting various modifications to the painter, which the latter consented to adopt with the most respectful docility of disposition. And again, when the artist, following Malicorne’s advice, was a little late in arriving, and when St. Aignan had been obliged to be absent for some time, it was interesting to observe, though no one witnessed them, those moments of silence full of deep expression, which united in one sigh two souls most disposed to understand each other, and who by no means objected to the quiet and meditation they enjoyed together. The minutes fled rapidly by, as if on wings, and as the king drew closer to Louise and bent his burning gaze upon her, a noise was suddenly heard in the anteroom. It was the artist, who had just arrived; St. Aignan, too, had returned, full of apologies; and the king began to talk, and La Valliere to answer him very hurriedly, their eyes revealing to St. Aignan that they had enjoyed a century of happiness during his absence. In a word, Malicorne, philosopher that he was, though he knew it not, had learned how to inspire the king with an appetite in the midst of plenty, and with desire in the assurance of possession. La Valliere’s fears of interruption had never been realized, and no one imagined she was absent from her apartment two or three hours every day; she pretended that her health was very uncertain; those who went to her room always knocked before entering, and Malicorne, the man of so many ingenious inventions, had constructed an acoustic piece of mechanism, by means of which La Valliere, when in St. Aignan’s apartment, was always forewarned of any visits which were paid to the room she usually inhabited. In this manner, therefore, without leaving her own room, and having no confidante, she was able to return to her apartment, thus removing by her appearance, a little tardy, perhaps, the suspicions of the most determined skeptics. Malicorne having asked St. Aignan the next morning what news he had to report, the latter had been obliged to confess that the quarter of an hour’s liberty had made the king in most excellent humor.

“We must double the dose,” replied Malicorne, “but insensibly so; wait until they seem to wish it.”

They were so desirous for it however, that on the evening of the fourth day, at the moment when the painter was packing up his painting implements, during St. Aignan’s continued absence, St. Aignan on his return noticed upon La Valliere’s face a shade of disappointment and vexation which she could not conceal. The king was less reserved, and exhibited his annoyance by a very significant shrug of the shoulders, at which La Valliere could not help blushing.

“Very good!” thought St. Aignan to himself; “Monsieur Malicorne will be delighted this evening;” as he, in fact, was, when it was reported to him.

“It is very evident,” he remarked to the comte, “that Mademoiselle de la Valliere hoped that you would be, at least, ten minutes later.”

“And the king that I should be half an hour later, dear Monsieur Malicorne.”

“You will be but very indifferently devoted to the king,” replied the latter, “if you were to refuse his majesty that half-hour’s satisfaction.”

“But the painter,” objected St. Aignan.

“I will take care of him,” said Malicorne, “only I must study faces and circumstances a little before I act; those are my magical inventions and contrivances; and while sorcerers are enabled, by means of their astrolabe, to take the altitude of the sun, moon, and stars, I am satisfied merely by looking into people’s faces, in order to see if their eyes are encircled with dark lines, and if the mouth describes a convex or a concave arc.”

And the cunning Malicorne had every opportunity of watching narrowly and closely, for the very same evening the king accompanied the queen to madame’s apartments, and made himself so remarked by his serious face and his deep sigh, and looked at La Valliere with such a languishing expression, that Malicorne said to Montalais during the evening:

“To-morrow. “

And he went off to the painter’s house in the street of the Jardins St. Paul to beg him to postpone the next sitting for a couple of days. St. Aignan was not within, when La Valliere, who was now quite familiar with the lower story, lifted up the trapdoor and descended. The king, as usual, was waiting for her on the staircase, and held a bouquet in his hand; as soon as he saw her, he clasped her tenderly in his arms. La Valliere, much moved at the action, looked around the room, but as she saw the king was alone, she did not complain of it. They sat down, the king reclining near the cushions on which Louise was seated, with his head supported by her knees, placed there as an in asylum whence no one could banish him; he gazed ardently upon her, and as if the moment had arrived when nothing could interpose between their two hearts, she, too, gazed with similar passion upon him, and from her eyes, so soft and pure, there emanated a flame, whose rays first kindled and then inflamed the heart of the king, who, trembling with happiness as Louise’s hand rested on his head, grew giddy from excess of joy, and momentarily awaited either the painter’s or St. Aignan’s return to break the sweet illusion. But the door remained closed, and neither St. Aignan nor the painter appeared, nor did the hangings even move. A deep, mysterious silence reigned in the room--a silence which seemed to influence even the birds in their gilded prison. The king, completely overcome, turned round his head and buried his burning lips in La Valliere’s hands, who, herself, faint with excess of emotion, pressed her trembling hands against her lover’s lips. Louis threw himself upon his knees, and as La Valliere did not move her head, the king’s forehead being within reach of her lips, she furtively passed her lips across the perfumed locks which caressed her cheeks. The king seized her in his arms, and, unable to resist the temptation, they exchanged their first kiss--that burning kiss which changes love into a delirium. Suddenly a noise upon the upper floor was heard, which had, in fact, continued, though it had remained unnoticed for some time; it had at last aroused La Valliere’s attention, though but slowly so. As the noise, however, continued, as it forced itself upon the attention, and recalled the poor girl from her dreams of happiness to the sad reality of life, she arose in a state of utter bewilderment, though beautiful in her disorder, saying:

“Some one is waiting, for above--Louis, Louis, do you not hear?”

“Well, and am I not waiting for you also?” said the king, with infinite tenderness of tone. “Let others henceforth wait for you.”

But she gently shook her head, as she replied:

“Concealed happiness--concealed power--my pride should be silent as my heart.”

The noise was again resumed.

“I hear Montalais’ voice,” she said, and she hurried up the staircase; the king followed her, unable to let her leave his sight, and covering her hand with his kisses. “Yes, yes,” repeated La Valliere, who had passed halfway through the opening. “Yes, it is Montalais who is calling me; something important must hare happened.”

“Go, then, dearest love,” said the king, “but return quickly.”

“No, no, not to-day, sire. Adieu, adieu!” she said, as she stooped down once more to embrace her lover, and then escaped.

Montalais was, in fact, waiting for her, very pale and agitated.

“Quick, quick! he is coming,” she said.

“Who--who is coming?”

“Raoul,” murmured Montalais.

“It is I--I,” said a joyous voice, upon the last steps of the grand staircase.

La Valliere uttered a terrible shriek and threw herself back.

“I am here, dear Louise,” said Raoul, running toward her. “I knew but too well that you had not ceased to love me.”

La Valliere with a gesture, partly of extreme terror, and partly as if invoking a curse, attempted to speak, but could not articulate one word.

“No, no!” she said, as she fell into Montalais’ arms, murmuring, “Do not touch me, do not come near me.”

Montalais made a sign to Raoul, who stood almost petrified at the door, and did not even attempt to advance another step into the room. Then, looking toward the side of the room where the screen was, she exclaimed:

“Imprudent girl! she has not even closed the trapdoor!”

And she advanced toward the corner of the room to close the screen, and also, behind the screen, the trapdoor. But suddenly the king, who had heard Louise’s exclamation, darted through the opening, and hurried forward to her assistance. He threw himself on his knees before her, as he overwhelmed Montalais with questions, who hardly knew where she was. At the moment, however, the king threw himself on his knees, a cry of utter despair rang through the corridor, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. The king wished to see who had uttered the cry, and whose were the footsteps he had heard; and it was in vain that Montalais sought to retain him, for Louis, quitting his hold of La Valliere, hurried toward the door, too late, however, for Raoul was already at a distance, and the king saw only a kind of shadow turning the angle of the corridor.

Two Old Friends

While every one at court was busy with his own affairs, a man mysteriously took up his post behind the Place de Grève, in the house which we once saw besieged by d’Artagnan on the occasion of an emeute. The principal entrance of this house was in the Place Baudoyer. The house was tolerably large, surrounded by gardens, enclosed in the Rue St. Jean by the shops of tool-makers, which protected it from prying looks; and was walled in by a triple rampart of stone, noise, and verdure, like an embalmed mummy in its triple coffin.

The man to whom we have just alluded walked along with a firm step, although he was no longer in his early prime. His dark cloak and long sword outlined beneath the cloak plainly revealed a man seeking adventures; and judging from his curling mustaches, his fine and smooth skin, as seen under his sombrero, the gallantry of his adventures was unquestionable. In fact, hardly had the cavalier entered the house, when the clock of St. Gervais struck eight; and ten minutes afterwards a lady, followed by an armed servant, approached and knocked at the same door, which an old woman immediately opened for her. The lady raised her veil as she entered; though no longer a beauty, she was still a woman; she was no longer young, yet she was sprightly and of an imposing carriage. She concealed, beneath a rich toilet of exquisite taste, an age which Ninon de l’Enclos alone could have smiled at with impunity. Hardly had she reached the vestibule, when the cavalier, whose features we have only roughly sketched, advanced towards her, holding out his hand.

“Good-day, my dear Duchess,” he said.

“How do you do, my dear Aramis?” replied the duchess.

He led her to an elegantly furnished apartment, on whose high windows were reflected the expiring rays of the setting sun, which filtered through the dark crests of some adjoining firs. They sat down side by side. Neither of them thought of asking for additional light in the room, and they buried themselves thus in the shadow, as if they had wished to bury themselves in forgetfulness.

“Chevalier,” said the duchess, “you have never given me a single sign of life since our interview at Fontainebleau; and I confess that your presence there on the day of the Franciscan’s death, and your initiation in certain secrets, caused me the liveliest astonishment I ever experienced in my whole life.”

“I can explain my presence there to you, as well as my initiation,” said Aramis.

“But let us, first of all,” replied the duchess, quickly, “talk a little of ourselves, for our friendship is by no means of recent date.”

“Yes, Madame; and if Heaven wills it, we shall continue to be friends,- I will not say for a long time, but forever.”

“That is quite certain, Chevalier, and my visit is a proof of it.”

“Our interests, Madame the Duchess, are no longer the same that they used to be,” said Aramis, smiling without reserve in the dim light, which could not show that his smile was less agreeable and less bright than formerly.

“No, Chevalier, at the present day we have other interests. Every period of life brings its own; and as we now understand each other in conversing as perfectly as we formerly did without saying a word, let us talk, if you like.”

“I am at your orders, Duchess. Ah! I beg your pardon; how did you obtain my address, and what was your object?”

“You ask me why? I have told you. Curiosity, in the first place. I wished to know what you could have to do with the Franciscan with whom I had certain business, and who died so singularly. You know that on the occasion of our interview at Fontainebleau, in the cemetery, at the foot of the grave so recently closed, we were both so much overcome by our emotions that we omitted to confide anything to each other.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Well, then, I had no sooner left you than I repented, and have ever since been most anxious to ascertain the truth. You know that Madame de Longueville and myself are almost one, I suppose?”

“I was not aware of it,” said Aramis, discreetly.

“I remembered, then,” continued the duchess, “that neither of us said anything to the other in the cemetery; that you did not speak of the relationship in which you stood to the Franciscan, whose burial you had superintended, and that I did not refer to the position in which I stood to him,- all which seemed to me very unworthy of two such old friends as ourselves; and I have sought an opportunity of an interview with you in order to give you proof that I am devoted to you, and that Marie Michon, now no more, has left behind her a ghost with a good memory.”

Aramis bowed over the duchess’s hand, and pressed his lips upon it. “You must have had some trouble to find me again,” he said.

“Yes,” answered the duchess, annoyed to find the subject taking a turn which Aramis wished to give it; “but I knew that you were a friend of M. Fouquet, and so I inquired in that direction.”

“A friend! Oh,” exclaimed the chevalier, “you exaggerate, Madame! A poor priest who has been favored by so generous a protector, and whose heart is full of gratitude and devotion to him, is all that I am to M. Fouquet.”

“He made you a bishop?”

“Yes, Duchess.”

“So, my fine musketeer, that is your retirement!”

“In the same way that political intrigue is for yourself,” thought Aramis. “And so,” he said, “you inquired after me at M. Fouquet’s?”

“Easily enough. You had been to Fontainebleau with him, and had undertaken a voyage to your diocese,- which is Belle-Isle-en-Mer, I believe.”

“No, Madame,” said Aramis; “my diocese is Vannes.”

“I meant that. I only thought that Belle-Isle-en-Mer-”

“Is a property belonging to M. Fouquet,- nothing more.”

“Ah! I had been told that Belle-Isle was fortified; besides, I know that you are a military man, my friend.”

“I have forgotten everything of the kind since I entered the church,” said Aramis, annoyed.

“Very well. I then learned that you had returned from Vannes, and I sent to one of our friends, M. le Comte de la Fere, who is discretion itself; but he answered that he was not aware of your address.”

“So like Athos,” thought the bishop; “that which is actually good never alters.”

“Well, then, you know that I cannot venture to show myself here, and that the Queen-Mother has always some grievance or other against me.”

“Yes, indeed; and I am surprised at it.”

“Oh, there are various reasons for it! But, to continue, being obliged to conceal myself, I was fortunate enough to meet with M. d’Artagnan,- one of your old friends, I believe.”

“A friend of mine still, Duchess.”

“He gave me some information, and sent me to M. de Baisemeaux, the governor of the Bastille.”

Aramis started; and a light flashed from his eyes in the darkness of the room which he could not conceal from his keen-sighted friend. “M. de Baisemeaux!” he said; “why did d’Artagnan send you to M. de Baisemeaux?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“What can this possibly mean?” said the bishop, summoning all the resources of his mind to his aid, in order to carry on the combat in a befitting manner.

“M. de Baisemeaux is greatly indebted to you, d’Artagnan told me.”

“True, he is so.”

“And the address of a creditor is as easily ascertained as that of a debtor.”

“Also very true; and so Baisemeaux indicated to you-”

“St. Mandé, where I forwarded a letter to you-”

“Which I have in my hand, and which is most precious to me,” said Aramis, “because I am indebted to it for the pleasure of seeing you.”

The duchess, satisfied at having so successfully passed over the various difficulties of so delicate an explanation, began to breathe freely again; which Aramis, however, could not succeed in doing. “We had got as far as your visit to Baisemeaux, I believe?” said he.

“Nay,” said the duchess, laughing, “further than that.”

“In that case we must have been speaking about your grudge against the Queen-Mother.”

“Further still,” returned the duchess, “further still; we were talking of the connection-”

“Which existed between you and the Franciscan,” said Aramis, interrupting her eagerly; “well, I am listening to you very attentively.”

“It is easily explained,” returned the duchess, making up her mind. “You know that I am living at Brussels with M. de Laicques?”

“I have heard so, Madame.”

“You know that my children have ruined and stripped me of everything?”

“How terrible, dear Duchess!”

“Terrible, indeed! This obliged me to resort to some means of obtaining a livelihood, and particularly to avoid vegetating. I had old hatreds to turn to account, old friendships to serve; I no longer had either credit or protectors.”

“You, too, who had extended protection towards so many persons,” said Aramis, blandly.

“It is always the case, Chevalier. Well, at that time I saw the King of Spain.”

“Ah!”

“Who had just nominated a general of the Jesuits, according to the usual custom.”

“Is it usual, indeed?”

“Were you not aware of it?”

“I beg your pardon; I was inattentive.”

“You must be aware of that,- you who were on such good terms with the Franciscan.”

“With the general of the Jesuits, you mean?”

“Exactly. Well, then, I saw the King of Spain, who wished to do me a service, but was unable. He gave me recommendations, however, to Flanders, both for myself and for Laicques, and conferred a pension on me out of the funds of the order.”

“Of Jesuits?”

“Yes. The general- I mean the Franciscan- was sent to me; and in order to give regularity to the transaction, in accordance with the statutes of the order, I was reputed to be in a position to render certain services. You are aware that that is the rule?”

“I was not aware of it.”

Madame de Chevreuse paused to look at Aramis, but it was quite dark. “Well, such is the rule,” she resumed. “I ought, therefore, to seem to possess a power of usefulness of some kind or other. I proposed to travel for the order, and I was placed on the list of affiliated travellers. You understand that it was a formality, by means of which I received my pension, which was very convenient for me.”

“Good Heavens! Duchess, what you tell me is like a dagger-thrust to me. You obliged to receive a pension from the Jesuits?”

“No, Chevalier; from Spain.”

“Ah! except as a conscientious scruple, Duchess, you will admit that it is pretty nearly the same thing.”

“No, not at all.”

“But, surely, of your magnificent fortune there must remain-”

“Dampierre is all that remains.”

“And that is handsome enough.”

“Yes; but Dampierre is burdened, mortgaged, and somewhat in ruins, like its owner.”

“And can the Queen-Mother see all that without shedding a tear?” said Aramis, with a penetrating look, which encountered nothing but the darkness.

“Yes, she has forgotten everything.”

“You have, I believe, Duchess, attempted to get restored to favor?”

“Yes; but, most singularly, the young King inherits the antipathy that his dear father had for me. Ah, you too will tell me that I am indeed a woman to be hated, and that I am no longer one who can be loved.”

“Dear Duchess, pray arrive soon at the circumstance which brought you here; for I think we can be of service to each other.”

“Such has been my own thought. I came to Fontainebleau, then, with a double object in view. In the first place, I was summoned there by the Franciscan whom you knew. By the by, how did you know him?- for I have told you my story, and have not yet heard yours.”

“I knew him in a very natural way, Duchess. I studied theology with him at Parma; we became fast friends, but it happened, from time to time, that business or travels or war separated us from each other.”

“You were, of course, aware that he was the general of the Jesuits?”

“I suspected it.”

“But by what extraordinary chance did you come to the hotel where the affiliated travellers had met together?”

“Oh,” said Aramis, in a calm voice, “it was the merest chance in the world! I was going to Fontainebleau to see M. Fouquet, for the purpose of obtaining an audience of the King. I was passing by, unknown; I saw the poor dying monk in the road, and recognized him. You know the rest,- he died in my arms.”

“Yes, but bequeathing to you so vast a power in Heaven and on earth that you issue sovereign orders in his name.”

“He did leave me a few commissions to settle.”

“And for me?”

“I have told you,- a sum of twelve thousand livres was to be paid to you. I thought I had given you the necessary signature to enable you to receive it. Did you not get the money?”

“Oh, yes, yes! My dear prelate, you give your orders, I am informed, with so much mystery and such august majesty that it is generally believed you are the successor of the beloved dead.”

Aramis colored impatiently, and the duchess continued. “I have obtained information,” she said, “from the King of Spain himself; and he dispelled my doubts on the point. Every general of the Jesuits is nominated by him, and must be a Spaniard, according to the statutes of the order. You are not a Spaniard, nor have you been nominated by the King of Spain.”

Aramis did not reply to this remark, except to say, “You see, Duchess, how greatly you were mistaken, since the King of Spain told you that.”

“Yes, my dear Aramis; but there was something else of which I have been thinking.”

“What is that?”

“You know that I do a great deal of desultory thinking, and it occurred to me that you know the Spanish language.”

“Every Frenchman who has been actively engaged in the Fronde knows Spanish.”

“You have lived in Flanders?”

“Three years.”

“And have stayed at Madrid?”

“Fifteen months.”

“You are in a position, then, to become a naturalized Spaniard when you like.”

“Really?” said Aramis, with a frankness which deceived the duchess.

“Undoubtedly. Two years’ residence and an acquaintance with the language are indispensable. You have had three years and a half,- fifteen months more than is necessary.”

“What are you driving at, my dear lady?”

“At this,- I am on good terms with the King of Spain.”

“And I am not on bad terms,” thought Aramis to himself.

“Do you wish me to ask the King,” continued the duchess, “to confer the succession to the Franciscan’s office upon you?”

“Oh, Duchess!”

“You have it already, perhaps?” she said.

“No, upon my honor.”

“Very well, then, I can render you that service.”

“Why did you not render the same service to M. de Laicques, Duchess? He is a very talented man, and one whom you love.”

“Yes, no doubt; but that is not to be considered. At all events, putting Laicques aside, answer me, will you have it?”

“No, I thank you, Duchess.”

She paused. “He is nominated,” she thought; and then resumed aloud, “If you refuse me in this manner, it is not very encouraging for me to ask anything of you.”

“Oh, ask, pray ask!”

“Ask! I cannot do so if you have not the power to grant what I want.”

“However limited my power and ability, ask all the same.”

“I need a sum of money to restore Dampierre.”

“Ah!” replied Aramis, coldly, “money? Well, Duchess, how much would you require?”

“Oh, a tolerably round sum!”

“So much the worse,- you know I am not rich.”

“No, you are not; but the order is. And if you had been the general-”

“You know I am not the general.”

“In that case you have a friend who must be very wealthy,- M. Fouquet.”

“M. Fouquet! He is more than half ruined, Madame.”

“So it is said, but I would not believe it.”

“Why, Duchess?”

“Because I have, or rather Laicques has, certain letters in his possession from Cardinal Mazarin, which establish the existence of very strange accounts.”

“What accounts?”

“Relative to various sums of money borrowed and disposed of. I do not fully remember; but the point is that the superintendent, according to these letters, which are signed by Mazarin, had taken thirty millions from the coffers of the State. The case is a very serious one.”

Aramis clinched his hands in anxiety and apprehension. “Is it possible,” he said, “that you have such letters, and have not communicated them to M. Fouquet?”

“Ah!” replied the duchess, “I keep such little matters as these in reserve. When the day of need comes, we will take them from the closet.”

“And that day has arrived?” said Aramis.

“Yes.”

“And you are going to show those letters to M. Fouquet?”

“I prefer instead to talk about them with you.”

“You must be in sad want of money, my poor friend, to think of such things as these,- you, too, who held M. de Mazarin’s prose effusions in such indifferent esteem.”

“The fact is, I am in want of money.”

“And then,” continued Aramis, in cold accents, “it must have been very distressing to you to be obliged to have recourse to such a means. It is cruel.”

“Oh, if I had wished to do harm instead of good,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “instead of asking the general of the order or M. Fouquet for the five hundred thousand livres I require-”

“Five hundred thousand livres!”

“Yes; no more. Do you think it much? I require at least as much as that to restore Dampierre.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“I say, therefore, that instead of asking for this amount I should have gone to see my old friend the Queen-Mother; the letters from her husband, the Signor Mazarini, would have served me as an introduction, and I should have begged this mere trifle of her, saying to her, ‘I wish, Madame, to have the honor of receiving your Majesty at Dampierre. Permit me to put Dampierre in a fit state for that purpose.’”

Aramis did not say a single word in reply. “Well,” she said, “what are you thinking about?”

“I am making certain additions,” said Aramis.

“And M. Fouquet makes subtractions. I, on the other hand, am trying the art of multiplication. What excellent calculators we are! How well we could understand one another!”

“Will you allow me to reflect?” said Aramis.

“No; to such an overture between persons like ourselves, ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ should be the reply, and that immediately.”

“It is a snare,” thought the bishop; “it is impossible that Anne of Austria would listen to such a woman as this.”

“Well!” said the duchess.

“Well, Madame, I should be very much astonished if M. Fouquet had five hundred thousand livres at his disposal at the present moment.”

“It is of no use speaking of it further, then,” said the duchess, “and Dampierre must get restored how it can.”

“Oh, you are not embarrassed to such an extent as that, I suppose?”

“No; I am never embarrassed.”

“And the Queen,” continued the bishop, “will certainly do for you what the superintendent is unable to do.”

“Oh, certainly! But tell me, do you not think it would be better that I should speak myself to M. Fouquet about these letters?”

“You will do whatever you please in that respect, Duchess. M. Fouquet either feels or does not feel himself to be guilty. If he really be so, I know that he is proud enough not to confess it; if he be not so, he will be exceedingly offended at your menace.”

“As usual, you reason like an angel,” said the duchess, rising.

“And so you are going to denounce M. Fouquet to the Queen,” said Aramis.

“Denounce? Oh, what a disagreeable word! I shall not denounce, my dear friend. You now know matters of policy too well to be ignorant how easily these affairs are arranged. I shall merely side against M. Fouquet, and nothing more; and in a war of party against party a weapon is a weapon.”

“No doubt.”

“And once on friendly terms again with the Queen-Mother, I may be dangerous towards some persons.”

“You are at perfect liberty to be so, Duchess.”

“A liberty of which I shall avail myself, my dear friend.”

“You are not ignorant, I suppose, Duchess, that M. Fouquet is on the best terms with the King of Spain?”

“Oh, I suppose so!”

“If, therefore, you begin a party warfare against M. Fouquet, he will reply in the same way; for he too is at perfect liberty to do so, is he not?”

“Oh, certainly!”

“And as he is on good terms with Spain, he will make use of that friendship as a weapon.”

“You mean that he will be on good terms with the general of the order of the Jesuits, my dear Aramis.”

“That may be the case, Duchess.”

“And that, consequently, the pension I have been receiving from the order will be stopped.”

“I am greatly afraid it might be.”

“Well, I must contrive to console myself; for after Richelieu, after the Frondes, after exile, what is there left for Madame de Chevreuse to fear?”

“The pension, you are aware, is forty-eight thousand livres.”

“Alas! I am quite aware of it.”

“Moreover, in party contests, you know, the friends of the enemy do not escape.”

“Ah! you mean that poor Laicques will have to suffer.”

“I am afraid it is almost inevitable, Duchess.”

“Oh, he receives only twelve thousand livres’ pension.”

“Yes, but the King of Spain has some influence left; advised by M. Fouquet, he might get M. Laicques shut up in some fortress.”

“I have no great fear of that, my good friend; because, thanks to a reconciliation with Anne of Austria, I will undertake that France shall insist upon Laicques’s liberation.”

“True. In that case you will have something else to apprehend.”

“What can that be?” said the duchess, pretending to be surprised and terrified.

“You will learn- indeed, you must know it already- that having once been an affiliated member of the order, it is not easy to leave it; for the secrets that any particular member may have acquired are unwholesome, and carry with them the germs of misfortune for whoever may reveal them.”

The duchess considered for a moment, and then said, “That is more serious; I will think it over.”

Notwithstanding the profound obscurity in which he sat, Aramis seemed to feel a burning glance, like a hot iron, escape from his friend’s eyes and plunge into his heart.

“Let us recapitulate,” said Aramis, determined to keep himself on his guard, and gliding his hand into his breast, where he had a dagger concealed.

“Exactly, let us recapitulate; good accounts make good friends.”

“The suppression of your pension-”

“Forty-eight thousand livres and that of Laicques’s twelve make together sixty thousand livres; that is what you mean, I suppose?”

“Precisely; and I was trying to find out what would be your equivalent for that.”

“Five hundred thousand livres, which I shall get from the Queen.”

“Or which you will not get.”

“I know a means of procuring them,” said the duchess, thoughtlessly.

This remark made the chevalier prick up his ears; and from the moment when his adversary had committed this error, his mind was so thoroughly on its guard that he seemed every moment to gain the advantage more and more, and she, consequently, to lose it. “I will admit, for argument’s sake, that you obtain the money,” he resumed; “you will lose twice as much, having a hundred thousand livres’ pension to receive instead of sixty thousand, and that for a period of ten years.”

“Not so, for I shall only be subjected to this diminution of my income during the period of M. Fouquet’s remaining in power,- a period which I estimate at two months.”

“Ah!” said Aramis.

“I am frank, you see.”

“I thank you for it, Duchess; but you would be wrong to suppose that after M. Fouquet’s disgrace the order would resume the payment of your pension.”

“I know a means of making the order come down with its money, as I know a means of forcing the Queen-Mother to concede what I require.”

“In that case, Duchess, we are all obliged to strike our flags to you. The victory is yours, and the triumph also is yours. Be clement, I entreat you!”

“But is it possible,” resumed the duchess, without taking notice of the irony, “that you really draw back from a miserable sum of five hundred thousand livres when it is a question of sparing you- I mean your friend- I beg your pardon, I ought rather to say your protector- the disagreeable consequences which a party contest produces?”

“Duchess, I will tell you why. Supposing the five hundred thousand livres were to be given to you, M. de Laicques will require his share, which will be another five hundred thousand livres, I presume; and then, after M. de Laicques’s and your own portions, will come the portions for your children, your poor pensioners, and various other persons; and these letters, however compromising they may be, are not worth from three to four millions. Good heavens! Duchess, the Queen of France’s diamonds were surely worth more than these bits of waste paper signed by Mazarin; and yet their recovery did not cost a fourth part of what you ask for yourself.”

“Yes, that is true; but the merchant values his goods at his own price, and it is for the purchaser to buy or to refuse.”

“Stay a moment, Duchess; would you like me to tell you why I will not buy your letters?”

“Pray tell me.”

“Because the letters which you say are Mazarin’s are false.”

“Nonsense!”

“I have no doubt of it; for it would, to say the least, be very singular that after you had quarrelled with the Queen through M. Mazarin’s means, you should have kept up any intimate acquaintance with the latter; it would savor of passion, of treachery, of- Upon my word, I do not like to make use of the term.”

“Oh pray say it!”

“Of compliance.”

“That is quite true; but what is not less so is that which the letter contains.”

“I pledge you my word, Duchess, that you will not be able to make use of it with the Queen.”

“Oh, yes, indeed; I can make use of everything with the Queen.”

“Very good,” thought Aramis. “Croak on, old owl! hiss, viper that you are!”

But the duchess had said enough, and advanced a few steps towards the door. Aramis, however, had reserved a humiliation which she did not expect,- the imprecation of the vanquished behind the car of the conqueror. He rang the bell. Candles immediately appeared in the room; and the bishop found himself completely encircled by lights, which shone upon the worn, haggard face of the duchess. Aramis fixed a long and ironical look upon her pale and withered cheeks, upon her dim, dull eyes, and upon her lips, which she kept carefully closed over her blackened and scanty teeth. He, however, had thrown himself into a graceful attitude, with his haughty and intelligent head thrown back; he smiled so as to reveal his teeth, which were still brilliant and dazzling in the candle-light.

The old coquette understood the trick that had been played upon her. She was standing immediately before a large mirror, in which all her decrepitude, so carefully concealed, was only made more manifest by the contrast. Thereupon, without even saluting Aramis, who bowed with the ease and grace of the musketeer of early days, she hurried away with tottering steps, which her very haste only the more impeded. Aramis sprang across the room like a zephyr to lead her to the door. Madame de Chevreuse made a sign to her huge lackey, who resumed his musket; and she left the house where such tender friends had not been able to understand each other only because they had understood each other too well.

Wherein May Be Seen That a Bargain Which Cannot Be Made with One Person Can Be Carried Out with Another

Aramis had been perfectly correct in his supposition. Immediately on leaving the house in the Place Baudoyer, Madame de Chevreuse had proceeded homeward. She was doubtless afraid of being followed, and had sought in this way to cover her steps; but as soon as she had arrived within the door of the hotel, and assured herself that no one who could cause her any uneasiness was on her track, she opened the door of the garden leading into another street, and hurried towards the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, where M. Colbert resided.

We have already said that evening, or rather night, had closed in,- and it was a dark, thick night. Paris had once more sunk into its calm, quiescent state, enshrouding alike within its indulgent mantle the high-born duchess carrying out her political intrigue, and the simple citizen’s wife who having been detained late by a supper in the city was proceeding homewards, on the arm of a lover, by the longest possible route.

Madame de Chevreuse had been too well accustomed to nocturnal politics not to know that a minister never denies himself, even at his own private residence, to any young and beautiful woman who may chance to object to the dust and confusion of a public office; or to old women, as full of experience as of years, who dislike the indiscreet echo of official residences. A valet received the duchess under the peristyle, and received her, it must be admitted, with some indifference of manner; he intimated, after having looked at her face, that it was hardly at such an hour that one so advanced in years as herself could be permitted to disturb M. Colbert’s important occupations. But Madame de Chevreuse, without disquietude, wrote her name upon a leaf of her tablets,- a blusterous name, which had so often sounded disagreeably in the ears of Louis XIII and of the great cardinal. She wrote her name in the large ill-formed characters of the higher classes of that period, folded the paper in a manner peculiarly her own, and handed it to the valet without uttering a word, but with so haughty and imperious a gesture that the fellow, well accustomed to judge of people from their manners and appearance, perceived at once the quality of the person before him, bowed his head, and ran to M. Colbert’s room.

The minister could not control a sudden exclamation as he opened the paper; and the valet, gathering from it the interest with which his master regarded the mysterious visitor, returned as fast as he could to beg the duchess to follow him. She ascended to the first floor of the beautiful new house very slowly, rested herself on the landing-place in order not to enter the apartment out of breath, and appeared before M. Colbert, who with his own hands held open the folding-doors. The duchess paused at the threshold for the purpose of studying well the character of the man with whom she was about to converse. At the first glance the round, large, heavy head, thick brows, and ill-favored features of Colbert, who wore, thrust low down on his head, a cap like a priest’s calotte, seemed to indicate that but little difficulty was likely to be met with in her negotiations with him, but also that she was to expect little interest in the discussion of particulars; for there was scarcely any indication that that rude man could be susceptible to the attractions of a refined revenge or of an exalted ambition. But when on closer inspection the duchess perceived the small, piercingly black eyes, the longitudinal wrinkles of his high and massive forehead, the imperceptible twitching of the lips, on which were apparent traces of rough good-humor, she changed her mind and said to herself, “I have found the man I want.”

“What has procured me the honor of your visit, Madame?” he inquired.

“The need I have of you, Monsieur,” returned the duchess, “and that which you have of me.”

“I am delighted, Madame, with the first portion of your sentence; but so far as the second portion is concerned-”

Madame de Chevreuse sat down in the arm-chair which M. Colbert placed before her. “M. Colbert, you are the intendant of finances?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And are ambitious of becoming the superintendent?”

“Madame!”

“Nay, do not deny it! That would only unnecessarily prolong our conversation,- it is useless.”

“And yet, Madame,” replied the intendant, “however well disposed and inclined to show politeness I may be towards a lady of your position and merit, nothing will make me confess that I have ever entertained the idea of supplanting my superior.”

“I said nothing about supplanting, M. Colbert. Could I accidentally have made use of that word? I hardly think so. The word ‘replace’ is less aggressive in its signification, and more grammatically suitable, as M. de Voiture would say. I presume, therefore, that you are ambitious of replacing M. Fouquet.”

“M. Fouquet’s fortune, Madame, enables him to withstand all attempts. The superintendent in this age plays the part of the Colossus of Rhodes; the vessels pass beneath him, and do not overthrow him.”

“I ought to have availed myself of that very comparison. It is true. M. Fouquet plays the part of the Colossus of Rhodes; but I remember to have heard it said by M. Conrart (a member of the Academy, I believe), that when the Colossus of Rhodes fell from its lofty position, the merchant who had cast it down- a merchant, nothing more, M. Colbert- loaded four hundred camels with the ruins. A merchant!- that is considerably less than an intendant of finances.”

“Madame, I can assure you that I shall never overthrow M. Fouquet.”

“Very good, M. Colbert, since you persist in showing so much sensitiveness with me, as if you were ignorant that I am Madame de Chevreuse, and also that I am somewhat advanced in years,- in other words, that you have to do with a woman who has had political dealings with the Cardinal de Richelieu, and who has no time to lose,- since, I say, you commit that imprudence, I shall go and find others who are more intelligent and more desirous of making their fortunes.”

“How, Madame, how?”

“You give me a very poor idea of the negotiations of the present day, Monsieur. I assure you that if in my time a woman had gone to M. de Cinq-Mars, who was not moreover a man of a very high order of intellect, and had said to him about the cardinal what I have just now said to you of M. Fouquet, M. de Cinq-Mars would by this time have put his irons in the fire.”

“Nay, Madame, show a little indulgence.”

“Well, then, you do really consent to replace M. Fouquet?”

“Certainly, I do, if the King dismisses M. Fouquet.”

“Again a word too much; it is quite evident that if you have not yet succeeded in driving M. Fouquet from his post, it is because you have not been able to do so. Therefore I should be a simpleton if in coming to you I did not bring you the very thing you require.”

“I am distressed to be obliged to persist, Madame,” said Colbert, after a silence which enabled the duchess to sound the depth of his dissimulation; “but I must warn you that for the last six years denunciation after denunciation has been made against M. Fouquet, and he has remained unshaken and unaffected by them.”

“There is a time for everything, M. Colbert; those who were the authors of such denunciations were not called Madame de Chevreuse, and they had no proofs equal to the six letters from M. de Mazarin which establish the offence in question.”

“The offence!”

“The crime, if you like it better.”

“The crime- committed by M. Fouquet!”

“Nothing less. It is rather strange, M. Colbert; but your face, which just now was cold and indifferent, is now all lighted up.”

“A crime!”

“I am delighted to see it makes an impression upon you.”

“Oh, that is a word, Madame, which embraces so many things!”

“It embraces the post of superintendent of finance for yourself, and a letter of exile or the Bastille for M. Fouquet.”

“Forgive me, Madame the Duchess, but it is almost impossible that M. Fouquet can be exiled; to be imprisoned or disgraced, that alone is much.”

“Oh, I am perfectly aware of what I am saying!” returned Madame de Chevreuse, coldly. “I do not live at such a distance from Paris as not to know what takes place there. The King does not like M. Fouquet, and he would willingly sacrifice the superintendent if an opportunity were only presented.”

“It must be a good one, though.”

“Good enough, and one I estimate to be worth five hundred thousand livres.”

“In what way?” said Colbert.

“I mean, Monsieur, that holding this opportunity in my own hands I will not allow it to be transferred to yours except for a sum of five hundred thousand livres.”

“I understand you perfectly, Madame. But since you have fixed a price for the sale, let me now see the value of the articles to be sold.”

“Oh, a mere trifle,- six letters, as I have already told you, from M. de Mazarin; and the autographs will most assuredly not be regarded as too costly, if they establish in an irrefutable manner that M. Fouquet has embezzled large sums of money from the treasury and appropriated them to his own purposes.”

“In an irrefutable manner, do you say?” observed Colbert, whose eyes sparkled with delight.

“Irrefutable; would you like to read the letters?”

“With all my heart! Copies, of course?”

“Of course, the copies,” said the duchess, as she drew from her bosom a small packet of papers flattened by her velvet bodice. “Read!” she said.

Colbert eagerly snatched the papers and devoured them.

“Wonderful!” he said.

“It is clear enough, is it not?”

“Yes, Madame, yes. M. Mazarin must have handed the money to M. Fouquet, who must have kept it for his own purposes; but the question is, what money?”

“Exactly,- what money; if we come to terms, I will join to these six letters a seventh, which will supply you with the fullest particulars.”

Colbert reflected. “And the originals of these letters?”

“A useless question to ask; exactly as if I were to ask you, M. Colbert, whether the money-bags you will give me will be full or empty.”

“Very good, Madame.”

“Is it concluded?”

“No; for there is one circumstance to which neither of us has given any attention.”

“Name it!”

“M. Fouquet can be utterly ruined, under the circumstances you have detailed, only by means of legal proceedings.”

“Well?”

“A public scandal.”

“Yes, what then?”

“Neither the legal proceedings nor the scandal can be begun against him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he is procureur-général of the parliament; because, too, in France, the government, the army, the courts of law, and commerce are intimately connected by ties of good-will, which people call esprit de corps. So, Madame, the parliament will never permit its chief to be dragged before a public tribunal; and never, even if he be dragged there by royal authority, never will he be condemned.”

“Ah! ma foi! M. Colbert, that doesn’t concern me.”

“I am aware of that, Madame; but it concerns me, and it consequently diminishes the value of what you have brought to me. Of what use to bring me a proof of crime, without the possibility of condemnation?”

“Even if he be only suspected, M. Fouquet will lose his post of superintendent.”

“That would be a great achievement!” exclaimed Colbert, whose dark, gloomy features were momentarily lighted up by an expression of hate and vengeance.

“Ah, ah! M. Colbert,” said the duchess, “forgive me, but I did not think you were so impressionable. Very good; in that case, since you need more than I have to give you, there is no occasion to speak of the matter further.”

“Yes, Madame, we will go on talking of it; only, as the value of your commodities has decreased, you must lower your price.”

“You are bargaining, then?”

“Every man who wishes to deal loyally is obliged to do so.”

“How much will you offer me?”

“Two hundred thousand livres,” said Colbert.

The duchess laughed in his face, and then said suddenly, “Wait a moment, I have another arrangement to propose; will you give me three hundred thousand livres?”

“No, no.”

“Oh, you can either accept or refuse my terms; besides, that is not all.”

“More still? You are becoming too impracticable to deal with, Madame.”

“Less so than you think, perhaps, for it is not money I am going to ask you for.”

“What is it, then?”

“A service. You know that I have always been most affectionately attached to the Queen, and I am desirous of having an interview with her Majesty.”

“With the Queen?”

“Yes, M. Colbert, with the Queen, who is, I admit, no longer my friend, and who has ceased to be so for a long time past, but who may again become so if the opportunity be only given her.”

“Her Majesty has ceased to receive any one, Madame. She is a great sufferer, and you may be aware that the paroxysms of her disease occur with greater frequency than ever.”

“That is the very reason why I wish to have an interview with her Majesty. In Flanders we have many diseases of that kind.”

“Cancers?- a fearful, incurable disorder.”

“Do not believe that, M. Colbert. The Flemish peasant is something of a savage; he has not a wife exactly, but a female.”

“Well, Madame?”

“Well, M. Colbert, while he is smoking his pipe, the woman works; it is she who draws the water from the well,- she who loads the mule or the ass, and even bears herself a portion of the burden. Taking but little care of herself, she gets knocked about here and there, sometimes is even beaten. Cancers arise from contusions.”

“True, true!” said Colbert.

“The Flemish women do not die the sooner on that account. When they are great sufferers from this disease, they go in search of remedies; and the Béguines of Bruges are excellent doctors for every kind of disease. They have precious waters of one sort or another,- specifics of various kinds; and they give a bottle and a wax candle to the sufferer. They derive a profit from the priests, and serve God by the disposal of their two articles of merchandise. I will take the Queen some of this holy water, which I will procure from the Béguines of Bruges; her Majesty will recover, and will burn as many wax candles as she may think fit. You see, M. Colbert, to prevent my seeing the Queen is almost as bad as committing the crime of regicide.”

“You are, Madame the Duchess, a woman of great intelligence. You surprise me; still, I cannot but suppose that this charitable consideration towards the Queen covers some small personal interest of your own.”

“Have I tried to conceal it, M. Colbert? You spoke, I believe, of a small personal interest. Understand, then, that it is a great interest; and I will prove it to you by resuming what I was saying. If you procure me a personal interview with her Majesty, I will be satisfied with the three hundred thousand livres I have demanded; if not, I shall keep my letters, unless, indeed, you give me on the spot five hundred thousand livres for them.”

And rising from her seat with this decisive remark, the old duchess left M. Colbert in a disagreeable perplexity. To bargain any further was out of the question; not to purchase would involve infinite loss. “Madame,” he said, “I shall have the pleasure of handing you over a hundred thousand crowns; but how shall I get the actual letters?”

“In the simplest manner in the world, my dear M. Colbert,- whom will you trust?”

The financier began to laugh silently, so that his large eyebrows went up and down like the wings of a bat upon the deep lines of his yellow forehead. “No one,” he said.

“You surely will make an exception in your own favor, M. Colbert?”

“How is that, Madame?”

“I mean that if you would take the trouble to accompany me to the place where the letters are, they would be delivered into your own hands, and you would be able to verify and check them.”

“Quite true.”

“You would bring the hundred thousand crowns with you at the same time?- for I too do not trust any one.”

Colbert colored to the tips of his ears. Like all eminent men in the art of figures, he was of an insolent and mathematical probity. “I will take with me, Madame,” he said, “two orders for the amount agreed upon, payable at my treasury. Will that satisfy you?”

“Would that the orders on your treasury were for two millions, Monsieur the Intendant! I shall have the pleasure of showing you the way, then?”

“Allow me to order my carriage.”

“I have a carriage below, Monsieur.”

Colbert coughed like an irresolute man. He imagined for a moment that the proposition of the duchess was a snare; that perhaps some one was waiting at the door; and that she, whose secret had just been sold to Colbert for a hundred thousand crowns, had already offered it to Fouquet for the same sum. As he still hesitated a good deal, the duchess looked at him full in the face.

“You prefer your own carriage?” she said.

“I admit that I do.”

“You suppose that I am going to lead you into a snare or trap of some sort or other?”

“Madame the Duchess, you have the character of being somewhat inconsiderate at times; and as I am clothed in a sober, solemn character, a jest or practical joke might compromise me.”

“Yes; the fact is, you are afraid. Well, then, take your own carriage, as many servants as you like. Only, consider well,- what we two may arrange between us, we are the only persons who know it; what a third person may witness, we announce to the universe. After all, I do not make a point of it; my carriage shall follow yours, and I shall be satisfied to accompany you in your own carriage to the Queen.”

“To the Queen!”

“Have you forgotten that already? Is it possible that one of the clauses of the agreement, of so much importance to me, can have escaped you already? How trifling it seems to you, indeed! If I had known it, I should have doubled my price.”

“I have reflected, Madame, and I shall not accompany you.”

“Really,- and why not?”

“Because I have the most perfect confidence in you.”

“You overpower me. But how do I receive the hundred thousand crowns?”

“Here they are, Madame,” said Colbert, scribbling a few lines on a piece of paper, which he handed to the duchess, adding, “You are paid.”

“The trait is a fine one, M. Colbert, and I will reward you for it,” she said, beginning to laugh.

Madame de Chevreuse’s laugh had a very sinister sound. Every man who feels youth, faith, love, life itself, throbbing in his heart, would prefer tears to such a lamentable laugh.

The duchess opened the front of her dress and drew forth from her bosom, somewhat less white than it once had been, a small packet of papers, tied with a flame-colored ribbon, and still laughing, she said, “There, M. Colbert, are the originals of Cardinal Mazarin’s letters. They are now your own property,” she added, refastening the body of her dress. “Your fortune is secured; and now accompany me to the Queen.”

“No, Madame; if you are again about to run the chance of her Majesty’s displeasure, and it were known at the Palais-Royal that I had been the means of introducing you there, the Queen would never forgive me while she lived. No; there are certain persons at the palace who are devoted to me, who will procure you an admission without my being compromised.”

“Just as you please, provided I enter.”

“What do you term those religious women at Bruges who cure disorders?”

“Béguines.”

“Good; you are a Béguine.”

“As you please, but I must soon cease to be one.”

“That is your affair.”

“Excuse me, but I do not wish to be exposed to a refusal.”

“That is again your own affair, Madame. I am going to give directions to the head valet of the gentleman in waiting on her Majesty to allow admission to a Béguine, who brings an effectual remedy for her Majesty’s sufferings. You are the bearer of my letter, you will undertake to be provided with the remedy, and will give every explanation on the subject. I admit a knowledge of a Béguine, but I deny all knowledge of Madame de Chevreuse. Here, Madame, then, is your letter of introduction.”

The Skin of the Bear

Colbert handed the duchess the letter, and gently drew aside the chair behind which she was standing. Madame de Chevreuse, with a very slight bow, immediately left the room. Colbert, who had recognized Mazarin’s handwriting and had counted the letters, rang to summon his secretary, whom he enjoined to go in immediate search of M. Vanel, a counsellor of the parliament. The secretary replied that, according to his usual practice, M. Vanel had just at that moment entered the house, in order to render to the intendant an account of the principal details of the business which had been transacted during the day in the sitting of the parliament. Colbert approached one of the lamps, read the letters of the deceased cardinal over again, smiled repeatedly as he recognized the great value of the papers which Madame de Chevreuse had just delivered to him, and burying his head in his hands for a few minutes reflected profoundly. In the mean time a tall, large-made man entered the room; his spare, thin face, steady look, and hooked nose, as he entered Colbert’s cabinet with a modest assurance of manner, revealed a character at once supple and decided,- supple towards the master who could throw him the prey; firm towards the dogs who might possibly be disposed to dispute it with him. M. Vanel carried a voluminous bundle of papers under his arm, and placed it on the desk on which Colbert was leaning both his elbows, as he supported his head.

“Good-day, M. Vanel,” said the latter, rousing himself from his meditation.

“Good-day, Monseigneur,” said Vanel, naturally.

“You should say ‘Monsieur,’ and not ‘Monseigneur,’” replied Colbert, gently.

“We give the title of ‘Monseigneur’ to ministers,” returned Vanel, with extreme self-possession, “and you are a minister.”

“Not yet.”

“You are so in point of fact, and I call you ‘Monseigneur’ accordingly; besides, you are my seigneur, and that is sufficient. If you dislike my calling you ‘Monseigneur’ before others, allow me, at least, to call you so in private.”

Colbert raised his head to the height of the lamps, and read, or tried to read, upon Vanel’s face how much actual sincerity entered into this protestation of devotion. But the counsellor knew perfectly well how to sustain the weight of his look, even were it armed with the full authority of the title he had conferred. Colbert sighed. He had read nothing in Vanel’s face; Vanel might be sincere. Colbert recollected that this man, inferior to himself, was superior to him in having an unfaithful wife. At the moment he was pitying this man’s lot, Vanel coolly drew from his pocket a perfumed letter, sealed with Spanish wax, and held it towards Colbert, saying, “A letter from my wife, Monseigneur.”

Colbert coughed, took, opened, and read the letter, and then put it carefully away in his pocket; while Vanel, unconcerned, turned over the leaves of the papers he had brought with him.

“Vanel,” Colbert said suddenly to his protégé, “you are a hard-working man?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“Would twelve hours of labor frighten you?”

“I work fifteen hours every day.”

“Impossible! A counsellor need not work more than three hours a day in the parliament.”

“Oh! I am working up some returns for a friend of mine in the department of accounts; and as I still have time left on my hands, I am studying Hebrew.”

“Your reputation stands high in the parliament, Vanel.”

“I believe so, Monseigneur.”

“You must not grow rusty in your post of counsellor.”

“What must I do to avoid it?”

“Purchase a high place. Small ambitions are the most difficult to satisfy.”

“Small purses are the most difficult to fill, Monseigneur.”

“What post have you in view?” said Colbert.

“I see none,- not one.”

“There is one, certainly; but one need be the King himself to be able to buy it without inconvenience; and the King will not be inclined, I suppose, to purchase the post of procureur-général.”

At these words Vanel fixed his dull and humble look upon Colbert, who could hardly tell whether Vanel had comprehended him or not. “Why do you speak to me, Monseigneur,” said Vanel, “of the post of procureur-général to the parliament? I know no other post than the one M. Fouquet fills.”

“Exactly so, my dear counsellor.”

“You are not over-fastidious, Monseigneur, but before the post can be bought, it must be offered for sale.”

“I believe, M. Vanel, that it will be for sale before long.”

“For sale? What! M. Fouquet’s post of procureur-général?”

“So it is said.”

“The post which renders him inviolable, for sale! Oh, oh!” said Vanel, beginning to laugh.

“Would you be afraid, then, of the post?” said Colbert, gravely.

“Afraid! no; but-”

“Nor desirous of obtaining it?”

“You are laughing at me, Monseigneur,” replied Vanel; “is it likely that a counsellor of the parliament would not be desirous of becoming procureur-général?”

“Well, M. Vanel, since I tell you that the post will be shortly for sale-”

“I cannot help repeating, Monseigneur, that it is impossible; a man never throws away the buckler behind which he maintains his honor, his fortune, and his life.”

“There are certain men mad enough, Vanel, to fancy themselves out of the reach of all mischances.”

“Yes, Monseigneur; but such men never commit their mad acts for the advantage of the poor Vanels of the world.”

“Why not?”

“For the very reason that those Vanels are poor.”

“It is true that M. Fouquet’s post might cost a good round sum. What would you bid for it, M. Vanel?”

“Everything I am worth.”

“Which means-”

“Three or four hundred thousand livres.”

“And the post is worth-”

“A million and a half, at the very lowest. I know persons who have offered seventeen hundred thousand livres, without being able to persuade M. Fouquet to sell. Besides, supposing it were to happen that M. Fouquet wished to sell,- which I do not believe, in spite of what I have been told-”

“Ah, you have heard something about it, then! Who told you?”

“M. Gourville, M. Pélisson, and others.”

“Very good; if, therefore, M. Fouquet did wish to sell-”

“I could not buy it just yet, since the superintendent will only sell for ready money, and no one has a million and a half to throw down at once.”

Colbert suddenly interrupted the counsellor by an imperious gesture; he had begun to meditate. Observing his superior’s serious attitude, and his perseverance in continuing the conversation on this subject, Vanel awaited the solution without venturing to precipitate it.

“Explain fully to me,” said Colbert, at length, “the privileges of the office of procureur-général.”

“The right of impeaching every French subject who is not a Prince of the blood; the right of quashing all proceedings taken against any Frenchman who is neither King nor Prince. The procureur-général is the arm of the King to strike the evil-doer,- his arm also to extinguish the torch of justice. M. Fouquet, therefore, will be able, by stirring up the parliament, to maintain himself even against the King; and the King also, by humoring M. Fouquet, can get his edicts registered without opposition. The procureur-général can be a very useful or a very dangerous instrument.”

“Vanel, would you like to be procureur-général?” said Colbert, suddenly, softening both his look and his voice.

“I!” exclaimed the latter; “I have already had the honor to represent to you that I want about eleven hundred thousand livres to make up the amount.”

“Borrow that sum from your friends.”

“I have no friends richer than myself.”

“You are an honorable man, Vanel.”

“Ah, Monseigneur, if the world were to think as you do!”

“I think so, and that is quite enough; and if it should be needed, I will be your security.”

“Remember the proverb, Monseigneur.”

“What is that?”

“‘The endorser pays.’”

“Let that make no difference.”

Vanel rose, quite bewildered by this offer, which had been so suddenly and unexpectedly made to him by a man who treated the smallest affairs in a serious spirit. “You are not trifling with me, Monseigneur?” he said.

“Stay! we must act quickly. You say that M. Gourville has spoken to you about M. Fouquet’s post?”

“Yes, and M. Pélisson also.”

“Officially or officiously?”

“These were their words: ‘These parliamentary people are ambitious and wealthy; they ought to get together two or three millions among themselves, to present to their protector and great luminary, M. Fouquet.’”

“And what did you reply?”

“I said that, for my own part, I would give ten thousand livres if necessary.”

“Ah, you like M. Fouquet, then!” exclaimed Colbert, with a look full of hatred.

“No; but M. Fouquet is our chief. He is in debt,- is on the high-road to ruin; and we ought to save the honor of the body of which we are members.”

“This explains to me why M. Fouquet will be always safe and sound so long as he occupies his present post,” replied Colbert.

“Thereupon,” said Vanel, “M. Gourville added: ‘If we were to do anything out of charity to M. Fouquet, it could not be otherwise than most humiliating to him; and he would be sure to refuse it. Let the parliament subscribe among themselves to purchase in a proper manner the post of procureur-général. In that case all would go on well; the honor of our body would be saved, and M. Fouquet’s pride spared.’”

“That is an opening.”

“I considered it so, Monseigneur.”

“Well, M. Vanel, you will go at once, and find out either M. Gourville or M. Pélisson. Do you know any other friend of M. Fouquet?”

“I know M. de la Fontaine very well.”

“La Fontaine, the rhymester?”

“Yes; he used to write verses to my wife, when M. Fouquet was one of our friends.”

“Go to him, then, and try to procure an interview with the superintendent.”

“Willingly- but the sum?”

“On the day and hour when you arrange to settle the matter, M. Vanel, you shall be supplied with the money; so do not make yourself uneasy on that account.”

“Monseigneur, such munificence! You eclipse kings even,- you surpass M. Fouquet himself.”

“Stay a moment! Do not let us mistake each other. I do not make you a present of fourteen hundred thousand livres, M. Vanel, for I have children to provide for; but I will lend you that sum.”

“Ask whatever interest, whatever security you please, Monseigneur; I am quite ready. And when all your requisitions are satisfied, I will still repeat that you surpass kings and M. Fouquet in munificence. What conditions do you impose?”

“The repayment in eight years, and a mortgage upon the appointment itself.”

“Certainly. Is that all?”

“Wait a moment! I reserve to myself the right of purchasing the post from you at one hundred and fifty thousand livres’ profit for yourself, if in your mode of filling the office you do not follow out a line of conduct in conformity with the interests of the King and with my projects.”

“Ah! ah!” said Vanel, in a slightly altered tone.

“Is there anything in that which can possibly be objectionable to you, M. Vanel?” said Colbert, coldly.

“Oh, no, no!” replied Vanel, quickly.

“Very good. We will sign an agreement to that effect whenever you like. And now go as quickly as you can to M. Fouquet’s friends, and obtain an interview with the superintendent. Do not be too difficult in making whatever concessions may be required of you; and when once the arrangements are all made-”

“I will press him to sign.”

“Be most careful to do nothing of the kind; do not speak of signatures with M. Fouquet, nor of deeds, nor even ask him to pass his word. Understand this, otherwise you will lose everything. All you have to do is to get M. Fouquet to give you his hand on the matter. Go, go!”

An Interview with the Queen-Mother

The Queen-Mother was in her bedroom at the Palais-Royal, with Madame de Motteville and the Senora Molina. The King, who had been impatiently expected the whole day, had not made his appearance; and the Queen, who had grown quite impatient, had often sent to inquire about him. The whole atmosphere of the court seemed to indicate an approaching storm; the courtiers and the ladies of the court avoided meeting in the antechambers and the corridors, in order not to converse on compromising subjects.

Monsieur had joined the King early in the morning for a hunting-party; Madame remained in her own apartments, cool and distant to every one; and the Queen-Mother, after she had said her prayers in Latin, talked of domestic matters with her two friends in pure Castilian. Madame de Motteville, who understood the language perfectly, answered her in French. When the three ladies had exhausted every form of dissimulation and politeness to reach at last the charge that the King’s conduct was causing grief to the Queen and the Queen-Mother and all his family, and when in guarded phrases they had fulminated every variety of imprecation against Mademoiselle de la Valliere, the Queen-Mother terminated these recriminations by an exclamation indicative of her own reflections and character. “Estos hijos!” said she to Molina (which means, “These children!”- words full of meaning on a mother’s lips,- words full of terrible significance in the mouth of a Queen who, like Anne of Austria, hid many curious and dark secrets in her soul).

“Yes,” said Molina, “these children! for whom every mother becomes a sacrifice.”

“To whom,” replied the Queen, “a mother has sacrificed everything.”

Anne did not finish her phrase; for she fancied, when she raised her eyes towards the full-length portrait of the pale Louis XIII, that light had once more flashed from her husband’s dull eyes, and that his nostrils were inflated by wrath. The portrait became a living being; it did not speak, it threatened.

A profound silence succeeded the Queen’s last remark. La Molina began to turn over the ribbons and lace of a large work-table. Madame de Motteville, surprised at the look of mutual intelligence which had been exchanged between the confidante and her mistress, cast down her eyes like a discreet woman, and pretending to be observant of nothing that was passing listened with the utmost attention. She heard nothing, however, but a very significant “Hum!” on the part of the Spanish duenna, who was the image of circumspection, and a profound sigh on the part of the Queen. She looked up immediately. “You are suffering?” she said.

“No, Motteville, no; why do you say that?”

“Your Majesty just groaned.”

“You are right; I do suffer a little.”

“M. Vallot is not far off; I believe he is in Madame’s apartment.”

“Why is he with Madame?”

“Madame is troubled with nervous attacks.”

“A very fine disorder, indeed!” said the Queen. “M. Vallot is wrong in being there, when another physician might cure Madame.”

Madame de Motteville looked up with an air of great surprise, as she replied, “Another doctor instead of M. Vallot! Who, then?”

“Occupation, Motteville, occupation! Ah! if any one is really ill, it is my poor daughter.”

“And your Majesty too.”

“Less so this evening, though.”

“Do not believe that too confidently, Madame,” said De Motteville.

As if to justify the caution, a sharp pain seized the Queen, who turned deadly pale, and threw herself back in the chair, with every symptom of a sudden fainting-fit. “My drops!” she murmured.

“Ah! ah!” replied Molina, who went without haste to a richly gilded tortoise-shell cabinet, from which she took a large rock-crystal smelling-bottle, and brought it, open, to the Queen, who inhaled from it wildly several times, and murmured, “In that way the Lord will kill me; His holy will be done!”

“Your Majesty’s death is not so near at hand,” added Molina, replacing the smelling-bottle in the cabinet.

“Does your Majesty feel better now?” inquired Madame de Motteville.

“Much better,” returned the Queen, placing her finger on her lips, to impose silence on her favorite.

“It is very strange,” remarked Madame de Motteville, after a pause.

“What is strange?” said the Queen.

“Does your Majesty remember the day when this pain attacked you for the first time?”

“I remember only that it was a grievously sad day for me, Motteville.”

“But your Majesty had not always regarded that day as a sad one.”

“Why?”

“Because twenty-three years before, on that very day, his present Majesty, your own glorious son, was born at the very same hour.”

The Queen uttered a loud cry, buried her face in her hands, and seemed utterly lost for some moments. Was it remembrance or reflection, or was it grief? La Molina darted a look at Madame de Motteville almost furious in its reproachfulness. The poor woman, ignorant of its meaning, was about to make inquiries in her own defence, when suddenly Anne of Austria arose and said: “Yes, the 5th of September; my sorrow began on the 5th of September. The greatest joy, one day; the deepest sorrow, the next,- the sorrow,” she added in a low voice, “the bitter expiation of a too excessive joy.”

And from that moment Anne of Austria, whose memory and reason seemed to have become entirely suspended for a time, remained impenetrable, with vacant look, mind almost wandering, and hands hanging heavily down, as if life had almost departed.

“We must put her to bed,” said La Molina.

“Presently, Molina.”

“Let us leave the Queen alone,” added the Spanish attendant.

Madame de Motteville rose. Large and glistening tears were fast rolling down the Queen’s pallid face; and Molina, having observed this sign of weakness, fixed her vigilant black eyes upon her.

“Yes, yes,” replied the Queen. “Leave us, Motteville; go!”

The word “us” produced a disagreeable effect upon the ears of the French favorite; for it signified that an interchange of secrets or of revelations of the past was about to be made, and that one person was de trop in the conversation which seemed likely to take place.

“Will Molina be sufficient for your Majesty to-night?” inquired the Frenchwoman.

“Yes,” replied the Queen.

Madame de Motteville bowed in submission, and was about to withdraw, when suddenly an old female attendant, dressed as if she had belonged to the Spanish Court of the year 1620, opened the door and surprised the Queen in her tears, Madame de Motteville in her skilful retreat, and Molina in her strategy. “The remedy!” she cried delightedly to the Queen, as she unceremoniously approached the group.

“What remedy, Chica?” said Anne of Austria.

“For your Majesty’s sufferings,” the former replied.

“Who brings it?” asked Madame de Motteville, eagerly- “M. Vallot?”

“No; a lady from Flanders.”

“From Flanders? Is she Spanish?” inquired the Queen.

“I don’t know.”

“Who sent her?”

“M. Colbert.”

“Her name?”

“She did not mention it.”

“Her position in life?”

“She will answer that herself.”

“Her face?”

“She is masked.”

“Go, Molina; go and see!” cried the Queen.

“It is needless,” suddenly replied a voice, at once firm and gentle in its tone, which proceeded from the other side of the tapestry hangings,- a voice which startled the attendants and made the Queen tremble. At the same moment a woman, masked, appeared between the curtains, and before the Queen could speak, added, “I am connected with the order of the Béguines of Bruges, and do indeed bring with me the remedy which is certain to effect a cure of your Majesty’s complaint.”

No one uttered a sound, and the Béguine did not move a step.

“Speak!” said the Queen.

“I will when we are alone,” was the answer.

Anne of Austria looked at her attendants, who immediately withdrew. The Béguine thereupon advanced a few steps towards the Queen, and bowed reverently before her. The Queen gazed with increasing mistrust at this woman, who in her turn fixed a pair of brilliant eyes upon the Queen through openings in the mask.

“The Queen of France must indeed be very ill,” said Anne of Austria, “if it is known at the Béguinage of Bruges that she stands in need of being cured.”

“Your Majesty, thank God, is not ill beyond remedy.”

“But tell me, how do you happen to know that I am suffering?”

“Your Majesty has friends in Flanders.”

“And these friends have sent you?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Name them to me.”

“Impossible, Madame, since your Majesty’s memory has not been awakened by your heart.”

Anne of Austria looked up, endeavoring to discover through the concealment of the mask and through her mysterious language the name of this person who expressed herself with such familiarity and freedom; then suddenly, wearied by a curiosity at odds with her pride, she said, “You are ignorant, perhaps, that royal personages are never spoken to with the face masked.”

“Deign to excuse me, Madame,” replied the Béguine, humbly.

“I cannot excuse you; I will not forgive you if you do not throw your mask aside.”

“I have made a vow, Madame, to go to the help of those who are afflicted or suffering, without ever permitting them to behold my face. I might have been able to administer some relief to your body and to your mind; but since your Majesty forbids me, I will take my leave. Adieu, Madame, adieu!”

These words were uttered with a harmony of tone and respect of manner that destroyed the Queen’s anger and suspicion, but did not remove her feeling of curiosity. “You are right,” she said; “it ill becomes those who are suffering to reject the means of relief which Heaven sends them. Speak, then; and may you indeed be able, as you assert you are, to administer relief to my body. Alas! I think that God is about to make it suffer.”

“Let us first speak a little of the mind, if you please,” said the Béguine,- “of the mind, which I am sure must also suffer.”

“My mind?”

“There are cancers so insidious in their nature that their very pulsation is invisible. Such cancers, Madame, leave the ivory whiteness of the skin untouched, and marble not the firm, fair flesh with their blue tints; the physician who bends over the patient’s chest hears not, though he listens, the insatiable teeth of the disease grinding its onward progress through the muscles, as the blood flows freely on; neither iron nor fire has ever destroyed or disarmed the rage of these mortal scourges; their home is in the mind, which they corrupt; they grow in the heart until it breaks. Such, Madame, are these other cancers, fatal to queens: are you free from these evils?”

Anne slowly raised her arm, as dazzling in its perfect whiteness and as pure in its rounded outlines as it was in the time of her earlier days. “The evils to which you allude,” she said, “are the condition of the lives of the high in rank upon earth, to whom Heaven has imparted mind. When those evils become too heavy to be borne, the Lord lightens their burden by penitence and confession. Thus we lay down our burden, and the secrets which oppress us. But forget not that the same sovereign Lord apportions their trials to the strength of his creatures; and my strength is not inferior to my burden. For the secrets of others I have enough of the mercy of Heaven; for my own secrets not so much mercy as my confessor.”

“I find you, Madame, as courageous as ever against your enemies; I do not find you showing confidence in your friends.”

“Queens have no friends. If you have nothing further to say to me, if you feel yourself inspired by Heaven as a prophetess, leave me, I pray; for I dread the future.”

“I should have supposed,” said the Béguine, resolutely, “that you would dread the past even more.”

Hardly had these words escaped the Béguine’s lips, when the Queen rose proudly. “Speak!” she cried, in a short, imperious tone of voice; “explain yourself briefly, quickly, entirely; or else-”

“Nay, do not threaten me, your Majesty!” said the Béguine, gently. “I have come to you full of compassion and respect; I have come on the part of a friend.”

“Prove it, then! Comfort, instead of irritating me.”

“Easily enough; and your Majesty will see who is friendly to you. What misfortune has happened to your Majesty during these twenty-three years past?”

“Serious misfortunes, indeed! Have I not lost the King?”

“I speak not of misfortunes of that kind. I wish to ask you if, since- the birth of the King,- any indiscretion on a friend’s part has caused your Majesty distress?”

“I do not understand you,” replied the Queen, setting her teeth hard together in order to conceal her emotion.

“I will make myself understood, then. Your Majesty remembers that the King was born on the 5th of September, 1638, at quarter-past eleven o’clock.”

“Yes,” stammered the Queen.

“At half-past twelve,” continued the Béguine, “the Dauphin, who had been baptized by Monseigneur de Meaux in the King’s and in your own presence, was acknowledged as the heir of the crown of France. The King then went to the chapel of the old Château de St. Germain to hear the ‘Te Deum’ chanted.”

“Quite true, quite true,” murmured the Queen.

“Your Majesty’s confinement took place in the presence of Monsieur, his Majesty’s late uncle, of the princes, and of the ladies attached to the court. The King’s physician, Bouvard, and Honoré, the surgeon, were stationed in the antechamber; your Majesty slept from three o’clock until seven, I believe?”

“Yes, yes; but you tell me no more than every one else knows as well as you and myself.”

“I am now, Madame, approaching that with which very few persons are acquainted. Very few persons, did I say? Alas! I might say two only; for formerly there were but five in all, and for many years past the secret has been assured by the deaths of the principal participators in it. The late King sleeps now with his ancestors; Péronne, the midwife, soon followed him; Laporte is already forgotten.”

The Queen opened her lips as though about to reply; she felt beneath her icy hand, with which she touched her face, the beads of perspiration upon her brow.

“It was eight o’clock,” pursued the Béguine. “The King was seated at supper, full of joy and happiness; around him on all sides arose wild cries of delight and drinking of healths; the people cheered beneath the balconies; the Swiss Guards, the Musketeers, and the Royal Guard wandered through the city, borne about in triumph by the drunken students. Those boisterous sounds of the general joy disturbed the Dauphin, the future King of France, who was quietly lying in the arms of Madame de Hausac, his nurse, and whose eyes, when he should open them, might have observed two crowns at the foot of his cradle. Suddenly your Majesty uttered a piercing cry, and Dame Péronne flew to your bedside.

“The doctors were dining in a room at some distance from your chamber; the palace, abandoned in the general confusion, was without either sentinels or guards. The midwife, having questioned and examined your Majesty, gave a sudden exclamation of surprise, and taking you in her arms, bewildered, almost out of her senses from sheer distress of mind, despatched Laporte to inform the King that her Majesty the Queen wished to see him in her room.

“Laporte, you are aware, Madame, was a man of the most admirable calmness and presence of mind. He did not approach the King as if he were the bearer of alarming intelligence and, feeling his importance, wished to inspire the terror which he himself experienced; besides, it was not a very terrifying intelligence which awaited the King. At any rate, Laporte, with a smile upon his lips, approached the King’s chair, saying to him, ‘Sire, the Queen is very happy, and would be still more so to see your Majesty.’

“On that day Louis XIII would have given his crown away to the veriest beggar for a ‘God bless you.’ Animated, light-hearted, and full of gayety, the King rose from the table, and said to those around him, in a tone that Henry IV might have used, ‘Gentlemen, I am going to see my wife.’ He came to your bedside, Madame, at the very moment when Dame Péronne presented to him a second Prince, as beautiful and healthy as the former, and said, ‘Sire, Heaven will not allow the kingdom of France to fall into the female line.’ The King, yielding to a first impulse, clasped the child in his arms, and cried, ‘Oh, Heaven, I thank thee!’”

At this part of her recital the Béguine paused, observing how intensely the Queen was suffering. She had thrown herself back in her chair, and with her head bent forward and her eyes fixed, listened without seeming to hear, and her lips moved convulsively, breathing either a prayer to Heaven or imprecations against the woman before her.

“Ah! do not believe that if there has been but one Dauphin in France,” exclaimed the Béguine, “if the Queen allowed the second child to vegetate far from the throne,- do not believe that she was an unfeeling mother. Oh, no, no! There are those who know the floods of bitter tears she shed; there are those who have known and witnessed the passionate kisses she imprinted on that innocent creature in exchange for the life of misery and gloom to which State policy condemned the twin brother of Louis XIV.”

“Oh, Heaven!” murmured the Queen, feebly.

“It is known,” continued the Béguine, quickly, “that when the King perceived the effect which would result from the existence of two sons, both equal in age and pretensions, he trembled for the welfare of France, for the tranquillity of the State. It is known that the Cardinal de Richelieu, by the direction of Louis XIII, thought over the subject with deep attention, and after an hour’s meditation in his Majesty’s cabinet pronounced the following sentence: ‘A King is born, to succeed his Majesty. God has sent another, to succeed the first; but at present we need only the first-born. Let us conceal the second from France, as God has concealed him from his parents themselves. One Prince is peace and safety for the State; two competitors are civil war and anarchy.’”

The Queen rose suddenly from her seat, pale as death, her hands clinched together. “You know too much,” she said in a hoarse, thick voice, “since you refer to secrets of State. As for the friends from whom you have acquired this secret, they are false and treacherous. You are their accomplice in the crime which is now committed. Now, throw aside your mask, or I will have you arrested by my captain of the Guards. Do not think that this secret terrifies me! You have obtained it; you shall restore it to me. It will freeze in your bosom; neither your secret nor your life belongs to you from this moment.”

Anne of Austria, joining gesture to the threat, advanced two steps towards the Béguine. “Learn,” said the latter, “to know and value the fidelity, the honor, and the secrecy of the friends you have abandoned.” She then suddenly threw aside her mask.

“Madame de Chevreuse!” exclaimed the Queen.

“With your Majesty, the sole living confidante of the secret.”

“Ah,” murmured Anne of Austria, “come and embrace me, Duchess! Alas! you kill your friend in thus trifling with her terrible distress.”

The Queen, leaning her head upon the shoulder of the old duchess, burst into a flood of bitter tears. “How young you are still!” said the latter, in a hollow voice; “you can weep!”

Two Friends

The Queen looked steadily at Madame de Chevreuse, and said: “I believe you just now made use of the word ‘happy’ in speaking of me. Hitherto, Duchess, I had thought it impossible that a human creature could anywhere be found less happy than the Queen of France.”

“Your afflictions, Madame, have indeed been terrible enough; but by the side of those illustrious misfortunes to which we, two old friends separated by men’s malice, were just now alluding, you possess sources of pleasure, slight enough in themselves it may be, but which are greatly envied by the world.”

“What are they?” said Anne of Austria, bitterly. “How can you use the word ‘pleasure,’ Duchess,- you who just now admitted that my body and my mind both are in need of remedies?

Madame de Chevreuse collected herself for a moment, and then murmured, “How far removed Kings are from other people!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that they are so far removed from the vulgar herd that they forget that others ever stand in need of the bare necessaries of life. They are like the inhabitant of the African mountain who gazing from the verdant table-land, refreshed by the rills of melted snow, cannot comprehend that the dwellers in the plains below him are perishing from hunger and thirst in the midst of their lands burned up by the heat of the sun.”

The Queen slightly colored, for she now began to perceive the drift of her friend’s remark. “It was very wrong,” she said, “to have neglected you.”

“Oh, Madame, the King has inherited, it is said, the hatred his father bore me. The King would dismiss me if he knew I were in the Palais-Royal.”

“I cannot say that the King is very well disposed towards you, Duchess,” replied the Queen; “but I could- secretly, you know-” The duchess’s disdainful smile produced a feeling of uneasiness in the Queen’s mind. “Duchess,” she hastened to add, “you did perfectly right to come here.”

“Thanks, Madame.”

“Even were it only to give us the happiness of contradicting the report of your death.”

“Has it been said, then, that I was dead?”

“Everywhere.”

“And yet my children did not go into mourning.”

“Ah! you know, Duchess, the court is very frequently moving about from place to place; we see the gentlemen of Albert de Luynes but seldom, and many things escape our minds in the midst of the preoccupations which constantly engage us.”

“Your Majesty ought not to have believed the report of my death.”

“Why not? Alas! we are all mortal; and you may perceive how rapidly I- your younger sister, as we used formerly to say- am approaching the tomb.”

“If your Majesty had believed me dead, you ought to have been astonished not to have received any communication from me.”

“Death not unfrequently takes us by surprise, Duchess.”

“Oh, your Majesty, those who are burdened with secrets such as we have just now discussed have always an urgent desire to divulge them, which they must gratify before they die. Among the preparations for eternity is the task of putting one’s papers in order.” The Queen started. “Your Majesty will be sure to learn in a particular manner the day of my death.”

“Why so?”

“Because your Majesty will receive the next day, under several coverings, everything connected with our mysterious correspondence of former times.”

“Did you not burn it?” cried Anne, in alarm.

“Traitors only,” replied the duchess, “destroy a royal correspondence.”

“Traitors, do you say?”

“Yes, certainly; or rather they pretend to destroy, and keep or sell it. The faithful, on the contrary, most carefully secrete such treasures; for it may happen that some day or other they will wish to seek out their Queen in order to say to her: ‘Madame, I am getting old; my health is fast failing me. For me there is danger of death; for your Majesty, the danger that this secret may be revealed. Take, therefore, this dangerous paper, and burn it yourself.’”

“A dangerous paper? What one?”

“So far as I am concerned, I have but one, it is true; but that is indeed most dangerous in its nature.”

“Oh, Duchess, tell me, tell me!”

“A letter dated Tuesday, the 2d of August, 1644, in which you beg me to go to Noisy-le-Sec to see that unhappy child. In your own handwriting, Madame, there are those words, ‘that unhappy child!’”

A profound silence ensued. The Queen’s mind was wandering in the past; Madame de Chevreuse was watching the progress of her scheme. “Yes unhappy, most unhappy!” murmured Anne of Austria; “how sad the existence he led, poor child, to finish it in so cruel a manner!”

“Is he dead?” cried the duchess, suddenly, with a curiosity whose sincere accents the Queen instinctively detected.

“He died of consumption, died forgotten, died withered and blighted like the flowers a lover has given to his mistress, which she leaves to die secreted in a drawer where she has hidden them from the world.”

“Died?” repeated the duchess, with an air of discouragement which would have afforded the Queen the most unfeigned delight had it not been tempered in some measure by a mixture of doubt. “Died- at Noisy-le-Sec?”

“Yes, in the arms of his tutor,- a poor, honest man who did not long survive him.”

“That can be easily understood. It is so difficult to bear up under the weight of such a loss and such a secret,” said Madame de Chevreuse, the irony of which reflection the Queen pretended not to perceive. Madame de Chevreuse continued: “Well, Madame, I inquired some years ago at Noisy-le-Sec about this unhappy child. I was told that it was not believed he was dead; and that was my reason for not at once condoling with your Majesty. Oh, certainly, if I had believed it, never should the slightest allusion to so deplorable an event have reawakened your Majesty’s legitimate distress.”

“You say that it is not believed that the child died at Noisy?”

“No, Madame.”

“What did they say about him, then?”

“They said- But no doubt they were mistaken.”

“Nay, speak, speak!”

“They said that one evening about the year 1645 a lady, beautiful and majestic in her bearing, which was observed notwithstanding the mask and the mantle which concealed her figure,- a lady of rank, of very high rank no doubt,- came in a carriage to the place where the road branches off,- the very same spot, you know, where I awaited news of the young Prince when your Majesty was pleased to send me there.”

“Well, well?”

“That the boy’s tutor, or guardian, took the child to this lady.”

“Well, what next?”

“That both the child and his tutor left that part of the country the very next day.”

“There! you see there is some truth in what you relate, since in point of fact the poor child died from a sudden attack of illness, which up to the age of seven years makes the lives of all children, as doctors say, suspended as it were by a thread.”

“What your Majesty says is quite true. No one knows it better than you; no one believes it more than myself. But yet how strange it is-”

“What can it now be?” thought the Queen.

“The person who gave me these details, who had been sent to inquire after the child’s health-”

“Did you confide such a charge to any one else? Oh, Duchess!”

“Some one as dumb as your Majesty, as dumb as myself; we will suppose it was myself, Madame. This ‘some one,’ some months after, passing through Touraine-”

“Touraine!”

“Recognized both the tutor and the child too! I am wrong; he thought he recognized them, both living, cheerful, happy, and flourishing,- the one in a green old age, the other in the flower of his youth. Judge, after that, what truth can be attributed to the rumors which are circulated, or what faith, after that, can be placed in anything that may happen in the world. But I am fatiguing your Majesty; it was not my intention, however, to do so; and I will take my leave of you, after renewing to you the assurance of my most respectful devotion.”

“Stay, Duchess! Let us first talk a little about yourself.”

“Of myself, Madame? I am not worthy that you should bend your looks upon me.”

“Why not, indeed? Are you not the oldest friend I have? Are you angry with me, Duchess?”

“I, indeed! What motive could I have? If I had reason to be angry with your Majesty, should I have come here?”

“Duchess, age is fast creeping on us both; we should be united against that death whose approach threatens us.”

“You overpower me, Madame, with the kindness of your language.”

“No one has ever loved or served me as you have done, Duchess.”

“Your Majesty remembers it?”

“Always. Duchess, give me a proof of your friendship.”

“Ah, Madame, my whole being is devoted to your Majesty.”

“The proof I require is that you should ask something of me.”

“Ask?”

“Oh, I know you well,- no one is more disinterested, more noble, more truly royal.”

“Do not praise me too highly, Madame,” said the duchess, becoming uneasy.

“I could never praise you as much as you deserve to be praised.”

“And yet, age and misfortune effect a great change in people, Madame.”

“So much the better; for the beautiful, the haughty, the adored duchess of former days might have answered me ungratefully, ‘I do not wish for anything from you.’ Blessed be misfortunes, if they have come to you, since they will have changed you, and you will now perhaps answer me, ‘I accept.’”

The duchess’s look and smile became more gentle; she was under the charm, and no longer concealed her wishes.

“Speak, dearest!” said the Queen; “what do you want?”

“I must first explain to you-”

“Do so unhesitatingly.”

“Well, then, your Majesty can confer on me a pleasure unspeakable, a pleasure incomparable.”

“What is it?” said the Queen, a little distant in her manner, from an uneasiness of feeling produced by this remark. “But do not forget, my good Chevreuse, that I am quite as much under my son’s influence as I was formerly under my husband’s.”

“I will not be too hard, Madame.”

“Call me as you used to do; it will be a sweet echo of our happy youth.”

“Well, then, my dear mistress, my darling Anne-”

“Do you know Spanish still?”

“Yes.”

“Ask me in Spanish, then.”

“Here it is: Will your Majesty do me the honor to pass a few days with me at Dampierre?”

“Is that all?” said the Queen, stupefied.

“Yes.”

“Nothing more than that?”

“Good Heavens! Can you possibly imagine that in asking you that, I am not asking you the greatest conceivable favor? If that really be the case, you do not know me. Will you accept?”

“Yes, gladly. And I shall be happy,” continued the Queen, with some suspicion, “if my presence can in any way be useful to you.”

“Useful,” exclaimed the duchess, laughing,- “oh, no, no! agreeable, delicious, delightful,- yes, a thousand times yes! You promise me, then?”

“I swear it,” said the Queen, whereupon the Duchess seized her beautiful hand and covered it with kisses. The Queen could not help murmuring to herself, “She is a good-hearted woman, and very generous too.”

“Will your Majesty consent to wait a fortnight before you come?”

“Certainly; but why?”

“Because,” said the duchess, “knowing me to be in disgrace, no one would lend me the hundred thousand crowns which I require to put Dampierre in a state of repair. But when it is known that I require that sum for the purpose of receiving your Majesty at Dampierre properly, all the money in Paris will be at my disposal.”

“Ah!” said the Queen, gently nodding her head with an air of intelligence, “a hundred thousand crowns! you want a hundred thousand crowns to put Dampierre into repair?”

“Quite as much as that.”

“And no one will lend them to you?”

“No one.”

“I will lend them to you, if you like, Duchess.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t dare to accept!”

“You would be wrong if you did not. Besides, a hundred thousand crowns is really not much. I know but too well that your discreetness has never been properly acknowledged. Push that table a little towards me, Duchess, and I will write you an order on M. Colbert,- no, on M. Fouquet, who is a far more courteous and obliging man.”

“Will he pay it?”

“If he will not pay it, I will; but it will be the first time he will have refused me.”

The Queen wrote and handed the duchess the order, and afterwards dismissed her with a warm and cheerful embrace.

How Jean de la Fontaine Wrote His First Tale

All these intrigues are exhausted; the human mind, so complicated in its exhibitions, has developed itself freely in the three outlines which our recital has afforded. It is not unlikely that in the future we are now preparing, politics and intrigues may still appear; but the springs by which they work will be so carefully concealed that no one will be able to see aught but flowers and paintings,- just as at a theatre, where a Colossus appears upon the scene walking along moved by the small legs and slender arms of a child concealed within the framework.

We now return to St. Mandé, where the superintendent was in the habit of receiving his select society of epicureans. For some time past the host had been severely tried. Every one in the house was aware of and felt the minister’s distress. No more magnificent and recklessly improvident reunions! Money had been the pretext assigned by Fouquet; and never was any pretext, as Gourville wittily said, more fallacious, for there was not the slightest appearance of money.

M. Vatel was most resolutely painstaking in keeping up the reputation of the house, and yet the gardeners who supplied the kitchens complained of a ruinous delay. The agents for the supply of Spanish wines frequently sent drafts which no one honored; fishermen, whom the superintendent engaged on the coast of Normandy, calculated that if they were paid all that was due to them, the amount would enable them to retire comfortably for the rest of their lives; fish, which at a later period was to be the cause of Vatel’s death, did not arrive at all. However, on the ordinary day of reception, Fouquet’s friends flocked in more numerously than ever. Gourville and the Abbé Fouquet talked over money matters,- that is to say, the abbé borrowed a few pistoles from Gourville. Pélisson, seated with his legs crossed, was engaged in finishing the peroration of a speech with which Fouquet was to open the parliament; and this speech was a masterpiece, because Pélisson wrote it for his friend,- that is to say, he inserted everything in it which the latter would most certainly never have taken the trouble to say of his own accord. Presently Loret and La Fontaine would enter from the garden, engaged in a dispute upon the facility of making verses. The painters and musicians, in their turn, also were hovering near the dining-room. As soon as eight o’clock struck, the supper would be announced; for the superintendent never kept any one waiting. It was already half-past seven, and the guests were in good appetite.

As soon as all the guests were assembled, Gourville went straight up to Pélisson, awoke him out of his reverie, and led him into the middle of a room the doors of which he had closed.

“Well,” he said, “anything new?”

Pélisson raised his intelligent and gentle face, and said, “I have borrowed twenty-five thousand livres of my aunt, and I have them here in good money.”

“Good!” replied Gourville; “we want only one hundred and ninety-five thousand livres for the first payment.”

“The payment of what?” asked La Fontaine.

“What! absent-minded as usual? Why, it was you who told us that the small estate at Corbeil was going to be sold by one of M. Fouquet’s creditors; and you, also, who proposed that all his friends should subscribe. More than that, too, it was you who said that you would sell a corner of your house at Château-Thierry in order to furnish your own proportion; and now you come and ask, ‘The payment of what?’” This remark was received with a general laugh, which made La Fontaine blush. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “I had not forgotten it,- oh, no! only-”

“Only you remembered nothing about it,” replied Loret.

“That is the truth; and the fact is, he is quite right. There is a great difference between forgetting and not remembering.”

“Well, then,” added Pélisson, “you bring your mite in the shape of the price of the piece of land you have sold?”

“Sold? no!”

“And have you not sold the field, then?” inquired Gourville, in astonishment, for he knew the poet’s disinterestedness.

“My wife would not let me,” replied the latter, at which there were fresh bursts of laughter.

“And yet you went to Château-Thierry for that purpose,” said some one.

“Certainly I did, and on horseback.”

“Poor fellow!”

“I had eight different horses, and I was almost jolted to death.”

“You are an excellent fellow! And you rested yourself when you arrived there!”

“Rested! Oh! of course I did, for I had an immense deal of work to do.”

“How so?”

“My wife had been flirting with the man to whom I wished to sell the land. The fellow drew back from his bargain, and so I challenged him.”

“Very good; and you fought?”

“It seems not.”

“You know nothing about it, I suppose?”

“No; my wife and her relations interfered in the matter. I was kept a quarter of an hour with my sword in my hand; but I was not wounded.”

“And the adversary?”

“Neither was the adversary, for he never came on to the field.”

“Capital!” cried his friends, from all sides; “you must have been terribly angry.”

“Exceedingly so; I had caught cold. I returned home, and then my wife began to quarrel with me.”

“In real earnest?”

“Yes, in real earnest; she threw a loaf of bread at my head, a large loaf.”

“And what did you do?”

“Oh! I upset the table over her and her guests; and then I got upon my horse again, and here I am.”

Every one had great difficulty in keeping his countenance at the relation of this tragic comedy; and when the laughter had somewhat ceased, one of the guests present said to him, “Is that all you have brought us back?”

“Oh, no! I have an excellent idea in my head.”

“What is it?”

“Have you noticed that there is a good deal of sportive, jesting poetry written in France?”

“Yes, of course,” replied every one.

“And,” pursued La Fontaine, “only a very small portion of it is printed.”

“The laws are strict, you know.”

“That may be; but a rare article is a dear article, and that is the reason why I have written a small poem extremely licentious.”

“Oh, oh, dear poet!”

“Extremely obscene.”

“Oh! oh!”

“Extremely cynical.”

“Oh, the devil!”

“Yes,” continued the poet, with cold indifference; “I have introduced in it the greatest freedom of language I could possibly employ.”

Peals of laughter again broke forth, while the poet was thus announcing the quality of his wares. “And,” he continued, “I have tried to exceed everything that Boccaccio, Arétin and other masters of their craft have written in the same style.”

“Its fate is clear,” said Pélisson; “it will be scouted and forbidden.”

“Do you think so?” said La Fontaine, simply. “I assure you, I did not do it on my own account so much as on M. Fouquet’s.”

This wonderful conclusion raised the mirth of all present to a climax.

“And I have sold the first edition of this little book for eight hundred livres,” exclaimed La Fontaine, rubbing his hands together. “Serious and religious books sell at about half that rate.”

“It would have been better,” said Gourville, laughing, “to have written two religious books instead!”

“It would have been too long, and not amusing enough,” replied La Fontaine, tranquilly. “My eight hundred livres are in this little bag; I offer them as my contribution.”

As he said this, he placed his offering in the hands of their treasurer. It was then Loret’s turn, who gave a hundred and fifty livres. The others stripped themselves in the same way; and the total sum in the purse amounted to forty thousand livres. Never did more generous coins rattle in the divine balances in which charity weighs good hearts and good intentions against the counterfeit coin of devout hypocrites.

The money was still being counted over when the superintendent noiselessly entered the room. He had heard everything. This man, who had possessed so many millions, who had exhausted all pleasures and all honors, this generous heart, this inexhaustible brain,- Fouquet, who had, like two burning crucibles, devoured the material and moral substance of the first kingdom in the world, crossed the threshold with his eyes filled with tears, and passed his white and slender fingers through the gold and silver.

“Poor offering,” he said, in a tone tender and filled with emotion, “you will disappear in the smallest corner of my empty purse; but you have filled to overflowing that which nothing can ever exhaust,- my heart. Thank you, my friends,- thank you!” And as he could not embrace everyone present,- all were weeping a little, philosophers though they were,- he embraced La Fontaine, saying to him, “Poor fellow! so you have on my account been beaten by your wife and damned by your confessor?”

“Oh, it is a mere nothing!” replied the poet. “If your creditors will only wait a couple of years, I shall have written a hundred other tales, which at two editions each will pay off the debt.”

La Fontaine as a Negotiator

Fouquet pressed La Fontaine’s hand most warmly, saying to him, “My dear poet, write a hundred other tales, not only for the eighty pistoles which each of them will produce you, but still more to enrich our language with a hundred other masterpieces.”

“Oh! oh!” said La Fontaine, with a little air of pride, “you must not suppose that I have brought only this idea and the eighty pistoles to the superintendent.”

“Oh! indeed!” was the general acclamation from all parts of the room; “M. de la Fontaine is in funds to-day.”

“Heaven bless the idea, if it brings me one or two millions,” said Fouquet, gayly.

“Exactly,” replied La Fontaine.

“Quick, quick!” cried the assembly.

“Take care!” said Pélisson in La Fontaine’s ear. “You have had a most brilliant success up to the present moment; do not go too far.”

“Not at all, M. Pélisson; and you, who are a man of taste, will be the first to approve of what I have done.”

“Is it a matter of millions?” said Gourville.

“I have fifteen hundred thousand livres here, M. Gourville,” he replied, striking himself on the chest.

“The deuce take this Gascon from Château-Thierry!” cried Loret.

“It is not the pocket you should touch, but the brain,” said Fouquet.

“Stay a moment, Monsieur the Superintendent!” added La Fontaine; “you are not procureur-général,- you are a poet.”

“True, true!” cried Loret, Conrart, and every person present connected with literature.

“You are, I repeat, a poet and a painter, a sculptor, a friend of the arts and sciences; but acknowledge that you are no lawyer.”

“Oh, I do acknowledge it!” replied M. Fouquet, smiling.

“If you were to be nominated at the Academy, you would refuse, I think.”

“I think I should, with all due deference to the academicians.”

“Very good; if therefore you do not wish to belong to the Academy, why do you allow yourself to form one of the parliament?”

“Oh! oh!” said Pélisson; “we are talking politics.”

“I wish to know,” persisted La Fontaine, “whether the barrister’s gown does or does not become M. Fouquet.”

“There is no question of the gown at all,” retorted Pélisson, annoyed at the laughter of the company.

“On the contrary, the gown is in question,” said Loret.

“Take the gown away from the procureur-général,” said Conrart, “and we have M. Fouquet left us still, of whom we have no reason to complain; but as he is no procureur-général without his gown, we agree with M. de la Fontaine, and pronounce the gown to be nothing but a bugbear.”

”Fugiunt risus leporesque,” said Loret.

“The smiles and the graces,” said some one present.

“That is not the way,” said Pélisson, gravely, “that I translate lepores.”

“How do you translate it?” said La Fontaine.

“Thus: ‘The hares run away as soon as they see M. Fouquet.’”

A burst of laughter, in which the superintendent joined, followed this sally.

“But why hares?” objected Conrart, vexed.

“Because the hare will be the very one who will not be over-pleased to see M. Fouquet retaining the elements of strength which belong to his parliamentary position.”

“Oh! oh!” murmured the poets.

”Quo non ascendam,” said Conrart, “would seem to me impossible with a procureur’s gown.”

“And it seems so to me without that gown,” said the obstinate Pélisson. “What is your opinion, Gourville?”

“I think the gown in question is a very good thing,” replied the latter; “but I equally think that a million and a half is far better than the gown.”

“And I am of Gourville’s opinion,” exclaimed Fouquet, stopping the discussion by the expression of his own opinion, which would necessarily bear down all the others.

“A million and a half!” Pélisson grumbled out. “Now I happen to know an Indian fable-”

“Tell it to me,” said La Fontaine; “I ought to know it too.”

“Tell it, tell it!” said the others.

“There was a tortoise which was as usual well protected by its shell,” said Pélisson. “Whenever its enemies threatened it, it took refuge within its covering. One day some one said to it, ‘You must feel very hot in such a house as that in the summer, and you are altogether prevented from showing off your graces; here is a snake who will give you a million and a half for your shell.”

“Good!” said the superintendent, laughing.

“Well, what next?” said La Fontaine, much more interested in the apologue than in its moral.

“The tortoise sold his shell, and remained naked and defenceless. A vulture happened to see him, and being hungry broke the tortoise’s back with a blow of his beak and devoured it. The moral is that M. Fouquet should take very good care to keep his gown.”

La Fontaine understood the moral seriously. “You forget Aeschylus,” he said to his adversary.

“What do you mean?”

“Aeschylus was bald-headed; and a vulture-your vulture probably-who was a great lover of tortoises mistook at a distance his head for a block of stone, and let a tortoise which was shrunk up in his shell fall upon it.”

“Yes, yes, La Fontaine is right,” resumed Fouquet, who had become very thoughtful. “Whenever a vulture wishes to devour a tortoise, he well knows how to break his shell; and but too happy is that tortoise to which a snake pays a million and a half for his envelope. If any one were to bring me a generous-hearted snake like the one in your fable, Pélisson, I would give him my shell.”

”Rara avis in terris!” cried Conrart.

“And like a black swan, is he not?” added La Fontaine; “well, then, the bird in question, black and very rare, is already found.”

“Do you mean to say that you have found a purchaser for my post of procureur-général?” exclaimed Fouquet.

“I have, Monsieur.”

“But the superintendent has never said that he wished to sell,” resumed Pélisson.

“I beg your pardon,” said Conrart; “you yourself spoke about it-”

“Yes, I am a witness to that,” said Gourville.

“He seems very tenacious about his brilliant idea,” said Fouquet, laughing. “Well, La Fontaine, who is the purchaser?”

“A perfect black bird, a counsellor belonging to the parliament, an excellent fellow.”

“What is his name?”

“Vanel.”

“Vanel!” exclaimed Fouquet,- “Vanel, the husband of-”

“Precisely,- her husband; yes, Monsieur.”

“Poor fellow!” said Fouquet, with an expression of great interest; “he wishes to be procureur-général?”

“He wishes to be everything that you have been, Monsieur,” said Gourville, “and to do everything that you have done.”

“It is very agreeable; tell us all about it, La Fontaine.”

“It is very simple. I see him occasionally; and a short time ago I met him walking about on the Place de la Bastille, at the very moment when I was about to take the small carriage to come down here to St. Mandé.”

“He must have been watching his wife,” interrupted Loret.

“Oh, no!” said La Fontaine; “he is far from being jealous. He accosted me, embraced me, and took me to the inn called L’Image-Saint-Fiacre, and told me all about his troubles.”

“He has his troubles, then?”

“Yes; his wife wants to make him ambitious.”

“Well, and he told you-”

“That some one had spoken to him about a post in parliament; that M. Fouquet’s name had been mentioned; that ever since, Madame Vanel dreams of nothing else but being called Madame the Procureuse-Generale, and that she is dying of it every night she is not dreaming of it.”

“The deuce!”

“Poor woman!” said Fouquet.

“Wait a moment! Conrart is always telling me that I do not know how to conduct matters of business; you will see how I manage this one.”

“Well, go on!”

“‘I suppose you know’ said I to Vanel, ‘that the value of a post such as that which M. Fouquet holds is by no means trifling.’ ‘How much do you imagine it to be?’ he said. ‘M. Fouquet, I know, has refused seventeen hundred thousand livres.’ ‘My wife,’ replied Vanel, ‘had estimated it at about fourteen hundred thousand.’ ‘Ready money?’ I asked. ‘Yes; she has sold some property of hers in Guienne, and has received the purchase-money.’”

“That’s a pretty sum to touch all at once,” said the Abbé Fouquet, who had not hitherto said a word.

“Poor Madame Vanel!” murmured Fouquet.

Pélisson shrugged his shoulders. “A fiend!” he said in a low voice to Fouquet.

“That may be; it would be delightful to make use of this fiend’s money to repair the injury which an angel has done herself for me.”

Pélisson looked with a surprised air at Fouquet, whose thoughts were from that moment fixed upon a fresh object.

“Well!” inquired La Fontaine, “what about my negotiation?”

“Admirable, my dear poet!”

“Yes,” said Gourville; “but there are some persons who are anxious to have the steed who have not money enough to pay for the bridle.”

“And Vanel would draw back from his offer if he were to be taken at his word,” continued the Abbé Fouquet.

“I do not believe it,” said La Fontaine.

“What do you know about it?”

“Why, you have not yet heard the dénouement of my story.”

“If there is a dénouement, why do you beat about the bush so much?”

”Semper ad adventum. Is that correct?” said Fouquet, with the air of a nobleman who condescends to barbarisms. The Latinists clapped their hands.

“My dénouement,” cried La Fontaine, “is that Vanel, that determined black bird, knowing that I was coming to St. Mandé, implored me to bring him with me, and, if possible, to present him to M. Fouquet.”

“So that-”

“So that he is here; I left him in that part of the grounds called Bel-Air. Well, M. Fouquet, what is your reply?”

“Well, it is not fitting that the husband of Madame Vanel should catch cold on my grounds. Send for him, La Fontaine, since you know where he is.”

“I will go myself.”

“And I will accompany you,” said the Abbé Fouquet; “I can carry the money-bags.”

“No jesting,” said Fouquet, seriously; “let the business be a serious one if it is to be one at all. But, first of all, let us be hospitable. Make my apologies, La Fontaine, to that gentleman, and tell him that I am distressed to have kept him waiting, but that I was not aware he was there.”

La Fontaine set off at once, fortunately accompanied by Gourville; for absorbed in his own calculations, the poet would have mistaken the route, and was hurrying as fast as he could towards the village of St. Maur.

Within a quarter of an hour afterwards M. Vanel was introduced into the superintendent’s cabinet, the description and details of which have already been given at the beginning of this history. When Fouquet saw him enter, he called Pélisson, and whispered a few words in his ear: “Do not lose a word of what I am going to say. Let all the silver and gold plate, together with the jewels of every description, be packed up in the carriage. You will take the black horses; the jeweller will accompany you; and you will postpone the supper until Madame de Belliere’s arrival.”

“Will it be necessary to notify Madame de Belliere?” said Pélisson.

“No, that will be useless; I will do that.”

“Very well.”

“Go my friend!”

Pélisson set off, not quite clear as to his friend’s meaning or intention, but confident, like every true friend, in the judgment of the man he was blindly obeying. It is that which constitutes the strength of such men; distrust is awakened only by inferior natures.

Vanel bowed low to the superintendent, and was about to begin a speech.

“Be seated, Monsieur!” said Fouquet, politely. “I am told that you wish to purchase a post I hold. How much can you give me for it?”

“It is for you, Monseigneur, to fix the price. I know that offers of purchase have already been made to you for it.”

“Madame Vanel, I have been told, values it at fourteen hundred thousand livres.”

“That is all we have.”

“Can you give me the money immediately?”

“I have not the money with me,” said Vanel, frightened almost by the unpretending simplicity, amounting to greatness, of the man; for he had expected disputes and difficulties, and opposition of every kind.

“When will you be able to have it?”

“Whenever you please, Monseigneur”; and he began to be afraid that Fouquet was trifling with him.

“If it were not for the trouble you would have in returning to Paris, I would say at once; but we will arrange that the payment and the signature shall take place at six o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“Very good,” said Vanel, as cold as ice, and feeling quite bewildered.

“Adieu, M. Vanel! Present my humblest respects to Madame Vanel,” said Fouquet, as he rose; upon which Vanel, who felt the blood rushing up to his head, for he was quite confounded by his success, said seriously to the superintendent, “Will you give me your word, Monseigneur, upon this affair?”

Fouquet turned round his head, saying, “Pardieu! and you, Monsieur?”

Vanel hesitated, trembled all over, and at last finished by hesitatingly holding out his hand. Fouquet opened and nobly extended his own. This loyal hand lay for a moment in Vanel’s moist, hypocritical palm; and he pressed it in his own, in order the better to convince himself. The superintendent gently disengaged his hand, as he again said, “Adieu.” Vanel then ran hastily to the door, hurried along the vestibules, and fled.

Madame de Belliere’s Plate and Diamonds

Hardly had Fouquet dismissed Vanel than he began to reflect for a few moments: “A man never can do too much for the woman he has once loved. Marguerite wishes to be the wife of a procureur-général, and why not confer this pleasure upon her? And now that the most scrupulous and sensitive conscience will be unable to reproach me with anything, let my thoughts be bestowed on the woman who loves me. Madame de Belliere ought to be there by this time”; and he turned towards the secret door.

After Fouquet had locked himself in, he opened the subterranean passage, and rapidly hastened towards the means of communicating between the house at Vincennes and his own residence. He had neglected to apprise his friend of his approach by ringing the bell, perfectly assured that she would never fail to be exact at the rendezvous. In fact, the marchioness had arrived, and was waiting. The noise the superintendent made aroused her; she ran to take from under the door the letter which he had thrust there, and which simply said, “Come, Marchioness; we are waiting supper for you.” With her heart filled with happiness, Madame de Belliere ran to her carriage in the Avenue de Vincennes; in a few minutes she was holding out her hand to Gourville, who was standing at the entrance, where, in order the better to please his master, he had stationed himself to watch her arrival. She had not observed that Fouquet’s black horses had arrived at the same time, smoking and covered with foam, having returned to St. Mandé with Pélisson and the very jeweller to whom Madame de Belliere had sold her plate and her jewels. Pélisson introduced the goldsmith into the cabinet, which Fouquet had not yet left. The superintendent thanked him for having been good enough to regard as a simple deposit in his hands the valuable property which he had had every right to sell. He cast his eyes on the total of the account, which amounted to thirteen hundred thousand livres. Then, going to his desk, he wrote an order for fourteen hundred thousand livres, payable at sight, at his treasury, before twelve o’clock the next day.

“A hundred thousand livres’ profit! cried the goldsmith. “Oh, Monseigneur, what generosity!”

“Nay, nay, not so, Monsieur,” said Fouquet, touching him on the shoulder; “there are certain kindnesses which can never be repaid. The profit is about that which you would have made, but the interest of your money still remains to be arranged”; and saying this, he unfastened from his sleeve a diamond button, which the goldsmith himself had often valued at three thousand pistoles. “Take this,” he said to the goldsmith, “in remembrance of me; and farewell! You are an honest man.”

“And you, Monseigneur,” cried the goldsmith, completely overcome, “are a grand nobleman!”

Fouquet let the worthy goldsmith pass out of the room by a secret door, and then went to receive Madame de Belliere, who was already surrounded by all the guests. The marchioness was always beautiful, but now her loveliness was dazzling.

“Do you not think, gentlemen,” said Fouquet, “that Madame is incomparably beautiful this evening? And do you happen to know why?”

“Because Madame is the most beautiful of women,” said some one.

“No; but because she is the best. And yet-”

“Yet?” said the marchioness, smiling.

“And yet, all the jewels which Madame is wearing this evening are nothing but false stones.”

She blushed.

“Oh! oh!” exclaimed all the guests; “that can very well be said of one who has the finest diamonds in Paris.”

“Well?” said Fouquet to Pélisson, in a low tone.

“Well, at last I have understood you,” returned the latter; “and you have done well.”

“That is pleasant,” said the superintendent, with a smile.

“Supper is ready, Monseigneur,” said Vatel, with majestic air and tone.

The crowd of guests hurried more rapidly than is customary at ministerial entertainments towards the banqueting-room, where a magnificent spectacle presented itself. Upon the buffets, upon the side-tables, upon the supper-table itself, in the midst of flowers and light, glittered most dazzlingly the richest and most costly gold and silver plate that was ever seen,- relics of those ancient magnificent productions which the Florentine artists, whom the Medici family had patronized, had sculptured, chased, and cast for the purpose of holding flowers, at a time when gold yet existed in France. These hidden marvels, which had been buried during the civil wars, had timidly reappeared during the intervals of that war of good taste called the Fronde,- when noblemen, fighting against noblemen, killed but did not pillage one another. All that plate had Madame de Belliere’s arms engraved upon it. “Look!” cried La Fontaine, “here is a P and a B.”

But the most remarkable object present was the cover which Fouquet had assigned to the marchioness. Near her was a pyramid of diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, antique cameos; sardonyx stones, carved by the old Greeks of Asia Minor, with mountings of Mysian gold; curious mosaics of ancient Alexandria, mounted in silver; and massive Egyptian bracelets lay heaped up in a large plate of Palissy ware, supported by a tripod of gilt bronze which had been sculptured by Benvenuto. The marchioness turned pale as she recognized what she had never expected to see again. A profound silence seemed to seize upon every one of the restless and excited guests. Fouquet did not even make a sign in dismissal of the richly liveried servants who crowded like bees round the huge buffets and other tables in the room. “Gentlemen,” he said, “all this plate which you behold once belonged to Madame de Belliere, who having observed one of her friends in great distress, sent all this gold and silver, together with the heap of jewels now before her, to her goldsmith. This noble conduct of a devoted friend can well be understood by such friends as you. Happy, indeed, is that man who sees himself loved in such a manner! Let us drink to the health of Madame de Belliere.”

A tremendous burst of applause followed his words, and made poor Madame de Belliere sink back dumb and breathless on her seat. “And then,” added Pélisson, whom all nobleness aroused and all beauty charmed, “let us also drink to the health of him who inspired Madame’s noble conduct; for such a man is worthy of being worthily loved.”

It was now the marchioness’s turn. She rose, pale and smiling; and as she held out her glass with a faltering hand, and her trembling fingers touched those of Fouquet, her look, full of love, found its reflection and response in that of her ardent and generous-hearted lover.

Begun in this manner, the supper soon became a fête. No one sought for wit, because no one was without it. La Fontaine forgot his Gorgny wine, and allowed Vatel to reconcile him to the wines of the Rhone and those from the shores of Spain. The Abbé Fouquet became so good-natured that Gourville said to him, “Take care, Monsieur l’Abbé! If you are so tender, you will be eaten.”

The hours passed away so joyously that, contrary to his usual custom, the superintendent did not leave the table before the end of the dessert. He smiled upon his friends, delighted as a man is whose heart becomes intoxicated before his head; and for the first time he looked at the clock. Suddenly a carriage rolled into the courtyard; and, strange to say, it was heard high above the noise of the mirth which prevailed. Fouquet listened attentively, and then turned his eyes towards the antechamber. It seemed as if he could hear a step passing across it, and as if this step, instead of touching the ground, pressed upon his heart. Involuntarily his foot parted company with the foot which Madame de Belliere had rested on his for two hours.

“M. d’Herblay, Bishop of Vannes!” the usher announced; and Aramis’s grave and thoughtful face appeared in the door-way, between the remains of two garlands, the thread of which the flame of a lamp had just burned.

M. de Mazarin’s Receipt

Fouquet would have uttered an exclamation of delight on seeing another friend arrive, if the cold air and constrained appearance of Aramis had not restored all his reserve. “Are you going to join us at our dessert?” he asked. “And yet you would be frightened, perhaps, at the noise we madcaps are making.”

“Monseigneur,” replied Aramis, respectfully, “I will begin by begging you to excuse me for having interrupted this merry meeting; and then I will beg you to give me, after your pleasure, a moment’s audience on matters of business.”

As the word “business” had aroused the attention of some of the epicureans present, Fouquet rose, saying, “Business first of all, M. d’Herblay; we are too happy when matters of business arrive only at the end of a meal.”

As he said this, Fouquet took the hand of Madame de Belliere, who looked at him with a kind of uneasiness, and then led her to an adjoining salon, after having recommended her to the most reasonable of his guests. And then, taking Aramis by the arm, the superintendent led him towards his cabinet.

Aramis, on reaching the cabinet, forgot respect and etiquette; he threw himself into a chair, saying, “Guess whom I have seen this evening?”

“My dear Chevalier, every time you begin in that manner I am sure to hear you announce something disagreeable.

“Well, and this time you will not be mistaken, either, my dear friend,” replied Aramis.

“Do not keep me in suspense,” added the superintendent, phlegmatically.

“Well, then, I have seen Madame de Chevreuse.”

“The old duchess, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Her ghost, perhaps?”

“No, no; the old she-wolf herself.”

“Without teeth?”

“Possibly, but not without claws.”

“Well! what harm can she meditate against me? I am no miser, with women who are not prudes. Generosity is a quality that is always prized, even by the woman who no longer dares to provoke love.”

“Madame de Chevreuse knows very well that you are not avaricious, since she wishes to draw some money out of you.

“Indeed! under what pretext?”

“Oh, pretexts are never wanting with her! Let me tell you what hers is. It seems that the duchess has a good many letters of M. de Mazarin’s in her possession.”

“I am not surprised at that, for the prelate was gallant enough.”

“Yes; but these letters have nothing whatever to do with the prelate’s love-affairs. They concern, it is said, financial matters.”

“And accordingly they are less interesting.”

“Do you not suspect what I mean?”

“Not at all.”

“You have never heard that there was a charge of embezzlement?”

“Yes, a hundred, nay, a thousand times. Since I have been engaged in public matters I have hardly heard anything else but that,- just as in your own case when you, a bishop, are charged with impiety, or a musketeer, with cowardice. The very thing of which they are always accusing ministers of finance is the embezzlement of public funds.”

“Very good. But let us specify; for according to the duchess, M. de Mazarin specifies.”

“Let us see what he specifies.”

“Something like a sum of thirteen million livres, the disposal of which it would be very embarrassing for you to disclose.”

“Thirteen millions!” said the superintendent, stretching himself in his arm-chair, in order to enable him the more comfortably to look up towards the ceiling,- “thirteen millions! I am trying to remember them out of all those I have been accused of stealing.”

“Do not laugh, my dear monsieur; it is serious. It is certain that the duchess has certain letters in her possession; and these letters must be genuine, since she wished to sell them to me for five hundred thousand livres.”

“Oh, one can have a very tolerable calumny for such a sum as that!” replied Fouquet. “Ah! now I know what you mean”; and he began to laugh heartily.

“So much the better,” said Aramis, a little reassured.

“I remember the story of those thirteen millions now. Yes, yes, I remember them quite well.”

“I am delighted to hear it; tell me about them.”

“Well, then, one day Signor Mazarin, Heaven rest his soul! made a profit of thirteen millions upon a concession of lands in the Valtelline; he cancelled them in the registry of receipts, sent them to me, and then made me advance them to him for war expenses.”

“Very good; then there is no doubt of their proper disbursement?”

“No; the Cardinal placed them under my name, and gave me a receipt.”

“You have the receipt?”

“Of course,” said Fouquet, as he quietly rose from his chair, and went to his large ebony bureau, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gold.

“What I most admire in you,” said Aramis, with an air of great satisfaction, “is your memory, in the first place; then, your self-possession; and finally, the perfect order which prevails with you,- you, a poet par excellence.”

“Yes,” said Fouquet, “I am orderly out of a spirit of idleness, to save myself the trouble of looking after things; and so I know that Mazarin’s receipt is in the third drawer under the letter M. I open the drawer, and place my hand upon the very paper I need. In the night, without a light, I could find it”; and with a confident hand he felt the bundle of papers which were piled up in the open drawer. “Nay, more than that,” he continued, “I remember the paper as if I saw it. It is thick, somewhat crumpled, with gilt edges. Mazarin had made a blot upon the figure of the date. Ah!” he said, “the paper knows we are talking about it, and that we want it very much, and so it hides itself out of the way.” As the superintendent looked into the drawer, Aramis rose from his seat. “This is very singular,” said Fouquet.

“Your memory is treacherous, my dear Monseigneur; look in another drawer.”

Fouquet took out the bundle of papers, and turned them over once more; he then became very pale.

“Don’t confine your search to that drawer,” said Aramis; “look elsewhere.”

“Quite useless. I have never made a mistake. No one but myself arranges any papers of mine of this nature; no one but myself ever opens this drawer, of which, besides, no one but myself is aware of the secret.”

“What do you conclude, then?” said Aramis, agitated.

“That Mazarin’s receipt has been stolen from me. Madame de Chevreuse was right, Chevalier; I have appropriated the public funds; I have robbed the State coffers of thirteen millions of money; I am a thief, M. d’Herblay.”

“Nay, nay; do not get irritated, do not get excited!”

“And why not, Chevalier? Surely there is every reason for it. If the legal proceedings are well arranged, and a judgment is given in accordance with them, your friend the superintendent can follow to Montfauçon his colleague Enguerrand de Marigny and his predecessor Semblançay.”

“Oh,” said Aramis, smiling, “not so fast!”

“And why not? Why not so fast? What do you suppose Madame de Chevreuse will have done with those letters,- for you refused them, I suppose?”

“Yes; at once. I suppose that she went and sold them to M. Colbert.”

“Well?”

“I said I supposed so. I might have said I was sure of it, for I had her followed; and when she left me, she returned to her own house, went out by a back door, and proceeded straight to the intendant’s house in the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs.”

“Legal proceedings will be instituted, then scandal and dishonor will follow; and all will fall upon me like a thunderbolt, blindly, harshly, pitilessly.”

Aramis approached Fouquet, who sat trembling in his chair, close to the open drawers; he placed his hand on his shoulder, and in an affectionate tone of voice said, “Do not forget that the position of M. Fouquet can in no way be compared to that of Semblançay or of Marigny.”

“And why not, in Heaven’s name?”

“Because the proceedings against those ministers were determined, completed, and the sentence carried out; while in your case the same thing cannot take place.”

“Another blow! Why not? A peculator is, under any circumstances, a criminal.”

“Those criminals who know how to find a safe asylum are never in danger.”

“What! Make my escape,- fly?”

“No; I do not mean that. You forget that all such proceedings originate in the parliament; that they are instituted by the procureur-général, and that you are the procureur-général. You see that unless you wish to condemn yourself-”

“Oh!” cried Fouquet suddenly, dashing his fist upon the table.

“Well, what? What is the matter?”

“I am procureur-général no longer.”

Aramis at this reply became as livid as death; he pressed his hands together convulsively, and with a wild, haggard look, which almost annihilated Fouquet, said, laying a stress upon every syllable, “You are procureur-général no longer, do you say?”

“No.”

“Since when?”

“Since four or five hours ago.”

“Take care!” interrupted Aramis, coldly. “I do not think you are in full possession of your senses, my friend; collect yourself!”

“I tell you,” returned Fouquet, “that a little while ago some one came to me, brought by my friends, to offer me fourteen hundred thousand livres for the appointment, and that I have sold it.”

Aramis looked as if he had been thunder-stricken; the intelligent and mocking expression of his countenance was changed to an expression of gloom and terror which had more effect upon the superintendent than all the exclamations and speeches in the world. “You had need of money, then?” he said at last.

“Yes; to discharge a debt of honor”; and in a few words he gave Aramis an account of Madame de la Belliere’s generosity, and of the manner in which he had thought he ought to repay that generosity.

“Yes,” said Aramis; “that is, indeed, a fine trait. What has it cost?”

“Exactly the fourteen hundred thousand livres,- the price of my appointment.”

“Which you received in that manner, without reflection. Oh, imprudent friend!”

“I have not yet received the amount; but I shall to-morrow.”

“It is not yet completed, then?”

“It must be carried out, though; for I have given the goldsmith, for twelve o’clock to-morrow, an order upon my treasury, into which the purchaser’s money will be paid at six or seven o’clock.”

“Heaven be praised!” cried Aramis, clapping his hands together; “nothing is yet completed, since you have not been paid.”

“But the goldsmith?”

“You shall receive the fourteen hundred thousand livres from me at a quarter before twelve.”

“Stay a moment! It is at six o’clock, this very morning, that I am to sign.”

“Oh, I tell you that you will not sign!”

“I have given my word, Chevalier.”

“If you have given it, you will take it back again; that is all.”

“Ah! what are you saying to me?” cried Fouquet, in a most expressive tone. “Fouquet recall his word, after it has been once pledged!”

Aramis replied to the almost stern look of the minister with a look full of anger. “Monsieur,” he said, “I believe I have deserved to be called a man of honor, have I not? As a soldier I have risked my life five hundred times; as a priest I have rendered great services, both to the State and to my friends. The value of a word, once passed, is estimated according to the worth of the man who gives it. So long as it is in his own keeping it is of the purest, finest gold; when his wish to keep it has passed away, it is a two-edged sword. With that word, therefore, he defends himself as with an honorable weapon, considering that when he disregards his word,- that man of honor,- he endangers his life, he courts the risk rather than that his adversary should secure advantages. And then, Monsieur, he appeals to Heaven- and to justice.”

Fouquet bent down his head, as he replied: “I am a poor Breton, opinionated and commonplace; my mind admires and fears yours. I do not say that I keep my word from a moral instinct; I keep it, if you like, by force of habit. But at all events, the ordinary run of men are simple enough to admire this custom of mine. It is my single virtue; leave me the honor of it.”

“And so you are determined to sign the sale of the office which would defend you against all your enemies?”

“Yes, I shall sign.”

“You will deliver yourself up, then, bound hand and foot, from a false notion of honor, which the most scrupulous casuists would disdain?”

“I shall sign,” repeated Fouquet.

Aramis sighed deeply, and looked all round him with the impatient gesture of a man who would gladly dash something to pieces, as a relief to his feelings. “We have still one means left,” he said; “and I trust you will not refuse to make use of that?”

“Certainly not, if it be loyal and honorable,- as everything is, in fact, which you propose.”

“I know nothing more loyal than a renunciation of your purchaser. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Certainly; but-”

“‘But’!- if you allow me to manage the affair, I do not despair.”

“Oh, you shall be absolute master!”

“With whom are you in treaty? What man is it?”

“I am not aware whether you know the parliament?”

“Most of its members. One of the presidents, perhaps?”

“No; only a counsellor-”

“Ah, ah!”

“Who is named Vanel.”

Aramis became purple. “Vanel!” he cried, rising abruptly from his seat, “Vanel! the husband of Marguerite Vanel?”

“Exactly.”

“Of your former mistress?”

“Yes, my dear fellow. She is anxious to be Madame the Procureuse-General. I certainly owed poor Vanel that slight concession; and I am a gainer by it, since I at the same time confer a pleasure on his wife.”

Aramis walked straight to Fouquet, and took hold of his hand. “Do you know,” he said very calmly, “the name of Madame Vanel’s new lover?”

“Ah! she has a new lover, then? I was not aware of it; no, I have no idea what his name is.”

“His name is M. Jean Baptiste Colbert; he is intendant of the finances; he lives in the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, where Madame de Chevreuse has this evening carried Mazarin’s letters, which she wishes to sell.”

“Gracious Heaven!” murmured Fouquet, passing his hand across his forehead, from which the perspiration was starting.

“You now begin to understand, do you not?”

“That I am lost,- yes.”

“Do you now think it worth while to be so scrupulous with regard to keeping your word?”

“Yes,” said Fouquet.

“These obstinate people always contrive matters in such a way that one cannot but admire them,” murmured Aramis.

Fouquet held out his hand to him; and at the very moment a richly ornamented tortoise-shell clock, supported by golden figures, which was standing on a console table opposite to the fireplace, struck six. The sound of a door opening in the vestibule was heard.

“M. Vanel,” said Gourville, at the door of the cabinet, “inquiries if Monseigneur can receive him.”

Fouquet turned his eyes from those of Aramis and replied, “Let M. Vanel come in.”

M. Colbert’s Rough Draught

Vanel, who entered at this stage of the conversation, was for Aramis and Fouquet the full stop which terminates a sentence. But, for Vanel, Aramis’s presence in Fouquet’s cabinet had quite another signification. At his first step into the room he fixed upon the delicate yet firm countenance of the Bishop of Vannes a look of astonishment which soon became one of scrutinizing inquiry. As for Fouquet, a true politician,- that is to say, complete master of himself,- he had already, by the energy of his own resolute will, contrived to remove from his face all traces of the emotion which Aramis’s revelation had occasioned. He was no longer, therefore, a man overwhelmed by misfortune and reduced to expedients; he held his head proudly erect, and extended his hand with a gesture of welcome to Vanel. He was prime minister; he was in his own house. Aramis knew the superintendent well; the delicacy of the feelings of his heart and the exalted nature of his mind could no longer surprise him. He confined himself, then, for the moment- intending to resume later an active part in the conversation- to the difficult role of a man who looks on and listens in order to learn and understand.

Vanel was visibly overcome, and advanced into the middle of the cabinet, bowing to everything and everybody.

“I am come,” he said.

“You are exact, M. Vanel,” returned Fouquet.

“In matters of business, Monseigneur,” replied Vanel, “I look upon exactitude as a virtue.”

“No doubt, Monsieur.”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Aramis, indicating Vanel with his finger, but addressing himself to Fouquet; “this is the gentleman, I believe, who has come about the purchase of your appointment?”

“Yes, I am,” replied Vanel, astonished at the extremely haughty tone with which Aramis had put the question; “but in what way am I to address you, who do me the honor-”

“Call me Monseigneur,” replied Aramis, dryly.

Vanel bowed.

“Come, gentlemen,” said Fouquet, a truce to these ceremonies! Let us proceed to business.”

“Monseigneur sees,” said Vanel, “that I am waiting his pleasure.”

“On the contrary, it is I who wait,” replied Fouquet.

“What for, Monseigneur?”

“I thought that perhaps you would have something to say.”

“Oh,” said Vanel to himself, “he has reflected on the matter, and I am lost!” But resuming his courage he continued, “No, Monseigneur, nothing,- absolutely nothing more than what I said to you yesterday, and which I am ready to repeat now.”

“Come, now, tell me frankly, M. Vanel, is not the affair rather a burdensome one for you?”

“Certainly, Monseigneur; fourteen hundred thousand livres is an important sum.”

“So important, indeed,” said Fouquet, “that I have reflected-”

“You have been reflecting, do you say, Monseigneur?” exclaimed Vanel, anxiously.

“Yes, that you might not yet be in a position to purchase.”

“Oh, Monseigneur!”

“Do not make yourself uneasy on that score, M. Vanel! I shall not blame you for a failure in your word, which evidently will be due to inability on your part.”

“Oh, yes, Monseigneur, you would blame me, and you would be right in doing so,” said Vanel: “for a man must be either imprudent or a fool to undertake engagements which he cannot keep; and I, at least, have always regarded a thing agreed upon as a thing done.”

Fouquet colored, while Aramis uttered a “Hum!” of impatience.

“You would be wrong to emphasize such notions as those, Monsieur,” said the superintendent: “for a man’s mind is variable and full of little caprices, very excusable, and sometimes very worthy of respect; and a man may have wished for something yesterday, and to-day have changed his mind.”

Vanel felt a cold sweat trickle down his face. “Monseigneur!” he muttered.

Aramis, who was delighted to find the superintendent carrying on the debate with such clearness and precision, stood leaning his arm upon the marble top of a console table, and began to play with a small gold knife with a malachite handle. Fouquet did not hasten to reply; but after a moment’s pause, “Come, my dear M. Vanel,” he said, “I will explain to you how I am situated.” Vanel began to tremble. “Yesterday I wished to sell-”

“Monseigneur has done more than wish to sell; Monseigneur has sold.”

“Well, well, that may be so; but to-day I ask you, as a favor, to restore me my word which I pledged you.”

“I received your word as a perfect assurance that it would be kept.”

“I know that; and that is the reason why I now entreat you,- do you understand me?- I entreat you to restore it to me.”

Fouquet suddenly paused. The words “I entreat you,” the force of which he did not immediately perceive, seemed almost to choke him as he uttered it. Aramis, still playing with his knife, fixed a look upon Vanel which seemed to search the inmost recess of his heart.

Vanel simply bowed as he said, “I am overcome, Monseigneur, at the honor you do me to consult me upon a matter of business which is already completed; but-”

“Nay, do not say but, dear M. Vanel.”

“Alas! Monseigneur, you see,” he said, as he opened a large pocket-book, “I have brought the money with me,- the whole sum, I mean. And here, Monseigneur, is the contract of sale which I have just effected of a property belonging to my wife. The order is authentic in every way, the necessary signatures have been attached to it, and it is made payable at sight; it is ready money. In one word, the affair is complete.”

“My dear M. Vanel, there is not a matter of business in this world, however important it may be, which cannot be postponed in order to oblige-”

“Certainly,” said Vanel, awkwardly.

“To oblige a man who by that means might and would be made a devoted friend.”

“Certainly, Monseigneur.”

“And the more completely a friend, M. Vanel, in proportion to the importance of the service rendered, since the value of the service he had received would have been so considerable. Well, what do you decide?”

Vanel preserved silence. In the mean time Aramis had continued his observations. Vanel’s narrow face, his deeply sunk orbits, his arched eyebrows, had revealed to the Bishop of Vannes the type of an avaricious and ambitious character. Aramis’s method was to oppose one passion by another. He saw Fouquet defeated, demoralized; he threw himself into the contest with new weapons. “Excuse me, Monseigneur,” he said; “you forget to show M. Vanel that his own interests are diametrically opposed to this renunciation of the sale.”

Vanel looked at the bishop with astonishment; he had hardly expected to find an auxiliary in him. Fouquet also paused to listen to the bishop.

“Do you not see,” continued Aramis, “that M. Vanel, in order to purchase your appointment, has been obliged to sell a property which belongs to his wife? Well, that is no slight matter; for one cannot displace fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand livres, as he has done, without considerable loss and very serious inconvenience.”

“Perfectly true,” said Vanel, whose secret Aramis had with his keen-sighted gaze wrung from the bottom of his heart.

“Such embarrassments,” pursued Aramis, “resolve themselves into expenses; and when one has a large disbursement to make, expenses are to be considered.”

“Yes, yes,” said Fouquet, who began to understand Aramis’s meaning.

Vanel remained silent; he, too, had understood him.

Aramis observed his coldness of manner and his silence. “Very good,” he said to himself, “you are waiting, I see, until you know the amount; but do not fear! I shall send you such a flight of crowns that you cannot but capitulate on the spot.”

“We must offer M. Vanel a hundred thousand crowns at once,” said Fouquet, carried away by his generosity.

The sum was a good one. A prince, even, would have been satisfied with such a bonus. A hundred thousand crowns at that period was the dowry of a king’s daughter.

Vanel, however, did not move.

“He is a rascal!” thought the bishop; “we must offer the five hundred thousand livres at once!” and he made a sign to Fouquet.

“You seem to have spent more than that, dear M. Vanel,” said the superintendent. “The price of money is enormous. You must have made a great sacrifice in selling your wife’s property. Well, what can I have been thinking of? It is an order for five hundred thousand livres that I am about to sign for you; and even in that case I shall feel that I am greatly indebted to you.”

There was not a single gleam of delight or desire on Vanel’s face, which remained impassive; not a muscle of it changed in the slightest degree. Aramis cast a look of despair at Fouquet, and then, going straight up to Vanel and taking hold of him by the coat with the gesture used by men of high rank, he said: “M. Vanel, it is neither the inconvenience, nor the displacement of your money, nor the sale of your wife’s property even, that you are thinking of at this moment, it is something still more important. I can well understand it, so pay particular attention to what I am going to say.”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” Vanel replied, beginning to tremble. The fire in the eyes of the prelate scorched him.

“I offer you, therefore, in the superintendent’s name, not three hundred thousand livres, nor five hundred thousand, but a million. A million,- do you understand me?” he added, as he shook him nervously.

“A million!” repeated Vanel, as pale as death.

“A million; in other words, at the present rate of interest, an income of seventy thousand livres!”

“Come, Monsieur,” said Fouquet, “you can hardly refuse that. Answer! Do you accept?”

“Impossible!” murmured Vanel.

Aramis bit his lips, and something like a white cloud passed over his face. That cloud indicated thunder. He still kept his hold on Vanel. “You have purchased the appointment for fifteen hundred thousand livres, I think? Well, we will give you these fifteen hundred thousand livres; by paying M. Fouquet a visit, and shaking hands with him, you will have become a gainer of a million and a half. You get honor and profit at the same time, M. Vanel.”

“I cannot do it,” said Vanel, hoarsely.

“Very well,” replied Aramis, who had grasped Vanel so tightly by the coat that when he let go his hold Vanel staggered back a few paces,- “very well; one can now see clearly enough your object in coming here.”

“Yes,” said Fouquet, “one can easily see that.”

“But-” said Vanel, attempting to stand erect before the weakness of these two men of honor.

“The fellow presumes to speak!” said Aramis, with the tone of an emperor.

“Fellow?” repeated Vanel.

“The wretch, I meant to say,” added the prelate, who had now resumed his usual self-possession. “Come, Monsieur, produce your deed of sale! You should have it there, in one of your pockets, already prepared, as an assassin holds his pistol or his dagger concealed, under his cloak.”

Vanel began to mutter something.

“Enough!” cried Fouquet. “Where is this deed?”

Vanel tremblingly searched in his pockets; and as he drew out his pocketbook, a paper fell out of it, while Vanel offered the other to Fouquet. Aramis pounced upon the paper which had fallen out, the handwriting of which he recognized.

“I beg your pardon,” said Vanel; “that is a rough draught of the deed.”

“I see that very clearly,” retorted Aramis, with a smile more cutting than a lash of a whip would have been; “and what surprises me is that this draught is in M. Colbert’s handwriting. Look, Monseigneur, look!” And he handed the paper to Fouquet, who recognized the truth of his remark; for, covered with erasures, with inserted words, the margins filled with additions, this deed- an open proof of Colbert’s plot- had just revealed everything to its unhappy victim.

“Well!” murmured Fouquet.

Vanel, completely humiliated, seemed as if he were looking for some deep hole where he could hide himself.

“Well!” said Aramis, “if your name were not Fouquet, and if your enemy’s name were not Colbert,- if you had to deal only with this mean thief before you, I should say to you, ‘Repudiate it!’ Such a proof as this absolves you from your word. But these fellows would think you were afraid; they would fear you less than they do; therefore sign, Monseigneur!” and he held out a pen towards him.

Fouquet pressed Aramis’s hand; but instead of the deed which Vanel handed to him, he took the rough draught of it.

“No, not that paper,” said Aramis, hastily; “this is the one. The other is too precious a document for you to part with.”

“No, no!” replied Fouquet. “I will sign upon the paper of M. Colbert; and I write, ‘The writing is approved.’” He then signed, and said, “Here it is, M. Vanel”; and the latter seized the paper, laid down his money, and was about to retreat.

“One moment!” said Aramis. “Are you quite sure the exact amount is there? It ought to be counted over, M. Vanel, particularly since it is money which M. Colbert presents to the ladies. Ah, that worthy M. Colbert is not so generous as M. Fouquet!” and Aramis, spelling every word, every letter of the order to pay, distilled his wrath and his contempt, drop by drop, upon the miserable wretch, who had to submit to this torture for a quarter of an hour. He was then dismissed, not in words, but by a gesture, as one dismisses a beggar or discharges a menial.

As soon as Vanel had gone, the minister and the prelate, their eyes fixed on each other, remained silent for a few moments.

“Well,” said Aramis, the first to break the silence, “to what can that man be compared, who, entering into a conflict with an enemy armed from head to foot, thirsting for his life, strips himself, throws down his arms, and sends kisses to his adversary? Good faith, M. Fouquet, is a weapon which scoundrels very frequently make use of against men of honor, and it answers their purpose. Men of honor ought in their turn, also, to make use of bad faith against such scoundrels. You would soon see how strong they would become without ceasing to be men of honor.”

“It would be rascally conduct,” replied Fouquet.

“Not at all; it would be merely coquetting or playing with the truth. And now, since you have finished with this Vanel, since you have deprived yourself of the happiness of confounding him by repudiating your word, and since you have given up, to be used against yourself, the only weapon which can ruin us-”

“My dear friend,” said Fouquet, mournfully, “you are like the teacher of philosophy whom La Fontaine was telling us about the other day: he saw a child drowning, and began to read him a lecture divided into three heads.”

Aramis smiled as he said, “Philosophy,- yes, teacher,- yes; a drowning child,- yes; but a child that can be saved,- you shall see. And, first of all, let us talk about business.” Fouquet looked at him with an air of astonishment. “Did you not some time ago speak to me about an idea you had of giving a fête at Vaux?”

“Oh,” said Fouquet, “that was when affairs were flourishing!”

“A fête, I believe, to which the King, without prompting, invited himself?”

“No, no, my dear prelate; a fête to which M. Colbert advised the King to invite himself!”

“Ah! exactly; as it would be a fête of so costly a character that you would be ruined in giving it?”

“Precisely so. In other times, as I said just now, I had a kind of pride in showing my enemies the fruitfulness of my resources; I felt it a point of honor to strike them with amazement, in creating millions under circumstances where they had imagined nothing but bankruptcies possible. But at the present day I am arranging my accounts with the State, with the King, with myself; and I must now become a mean, stingy man. I shall be able to prove to the world that I can act or operate with my deniers as I used to do with my bags of pistoles; and beginning to-morrow, my equipages shall be sold, my houses mortgaged, my expenses contracted.”

“Beginning with to-morrow,” interrupted Aramis, quietly, “you will occupy yourself, without the slightest delay, with your fête at Vaux, which must hereafter be spoken of with the most magnificent productions of your most prosperous days.”

“You are mad, Chevalier d’Herblay.”

“I? You do not think that.”

“What do you mean, then? Do you not know that a fête at Vaux, of the very simplest possible character, would cost four or five millions?”

“I do not speak of a fête of the very simplest possible character, my dear superintendent.”

“But since the fête is to be given to the King,” replied Fouquet, who misunderstood Aramis’s idea, “it cannot be simple.”

“Just so; it ought to be on a scale of the most unbounded magnificence.”

“In that case I shall have to spend ten or twelve millions.”

“You shall spend twenty if you require it,” said Aramis, calmly.

“Where shall I get them?” exclaimed Fouquet.

“That is my affair, Monsieur the Superintendent; and do not be uneasy for a moment about it. The money will be placed at once at your disposal, sooner than you will have arranged the plans of your fête.”

“Chevalier! Chevalier!” said Fouquet, giddy with amazement, “whither are you hurrying me?”

“Across the gulf into which you were about to fall,” replied the Bishop of Vannes. “Take hold of my cloak and throw fear aside!”

“Why did you not tell me that sooner, Aramis? There was a day when with one million you could have saved me.”

“While to-day I can give you twenty,” said the prelate. “Such is the case, however. The reason is very simple. On the day you speak of I had not at my disposal the million which you needed, while now I can easily procure the twenty millions we require.”

“May Heaven hear you, and save me!”

Aramis smiled, with the singular expression habitual with him. “Heaven never fails to hear me,” he said; “perhaps because I pray with a loud voice.”

“I abandon myself to you unreservedly,” Fouquet murmured.

“No, no; I do not understand it in that manner. It is I who am entirely at your service. Therefore you, who have the clearest, the most delicate, and the most ingenious mind,- you shall have entire control over the fête, even to the very smallest details. Only-”

“Only?” said Fouquet, as a man accustomed to appreciate the value of a parenthesis.

“Well, then, leaving the entire invention of the details to you, I shall reserve to myself a general superintendence over the execution.”

“In what way?”

“I mean that you will make of me, on that day, a majordomo, a sort of inspector-general, or factotum,- something between a captain of the guard and manager or steward. I will look after the people, and will keep the keys of the doors. You will give your orders, of course; but will give them to no one but to me. They will pass through my lips, to reach those for whom they are intended,- you understand?”

“No, I do not understand.”

“But you agree?”

“Of course, of course, my friend.”

“That is all I care about. Thanks; and prepare your list of invitations.”

“Whom shall I invite?”

“Every one.”

In Which the Author Thinks It Is Now Time to Return to the Vicomte de Bragelonne

Our readers have observed in this history the adventures of the new and of the past generation unrolled, as it were, side by side. To the former, the reflection of the glory of earlier years, the experience of the bitter things of this world; to the former, also, the peace which takes possession of the heart, and the healing of the scars which were formerly deep and painful wounds. To the latter, the conflicts of love and vanity, bitter disappointments and ineffable delights,- life instead of memory. If any variety has been presented to the reader in the different episodes of this tale, it is to be attributed to the numerous shades of color which are presented on this double palette, where two pictures are seen side by side, mingling and harmonizing their severe and pleasing tones. The repose of the emotions of the one is found in the midst of the emotions of the other. After having talked reason with older heads, one likes to share in the wildness of young people. Therefore, if the threads of this story do not seem very intimately to connect the chapter we are now writing with that we have just written, we do not intend to give ourselves any more thought or trouble about it than Ruysdael took in painting an autumn sky after having finished a spring-time scene. We wish our readers to do as much, and to resume Raoul de Bragelonne’s story at the very place where our last sketch left him.

In a state of frenzy and dismay,- or rather without reason, without will, without purpose,- Raoul fled heedlessly away after the scene in La Valliere’s room. The King, Montalais, Louise, that chamber, that strange exclusion, Louise’s grief, Montalais’s terror, the King’s wrath,- all seemed to indicate some misfortune. But what? He had arrived from London because he had been told of the existence of a danger, and at once this danger showed itself. Was not that sufficient for a lover? Certainly it was; but it was insufficient for a pure and upright heart such as his. And yet Raoul did not seek for explanations in the quarter where all jealous or less timid lovers would have sought them. He did not go straightway to his mistress, and say, “Louise, is it true that you love me no longer? Is it true that you love another?” Full of courage, full of friendship, as he was full of love; a religious observer of his word, and believing the words of others,- Raoul said within himself, “Guiche wrote to put me on my guard; Guiche knows something; I will go and ask Guiche what he knows, and tell him what I have seen.”

The journey was not a long one. Guiche, who had been brought from Fontainebleau to Paris within the last two days, was beginning to recover from his wound, and to walk about a little in his room. He uttered a cry of joy as he saw Raoul enter his apartment with the eagerness of friendship. Raoul uttered a cry of grief on seeing De Guiche so pale, so thin, so melancholy. A few words, and a simple gesture which De Guiche made to put aside Raoul’s arm, were sufficient to inform the latter of the truth.

“Ah! so it is,” said Raoul, seating himself beside his friend; “one loves and dies.”

“No, no, not dies,” replied Guiche, smiling, “since I am now recovering, and since, too, I can press you in my arms.”

“Ah! I understand.”

“And I understand you too. You fancy I am unhappy, Raoul?”

“Alas!”

“No; I am the happiest of men. My body suffers, but not my mind or my heart. If you only knew- Oh, I am, indeed, the very happiest of men!”

“So much the better,” replied Raoul; “so much the better, provided it lasts.”

“It is over. I have had enough happiness to last me to my dying day, Raoul.”

“I have no doubt you have had; but she-”

“Listen! I love her, because- But you are not listening to me.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Your mind is preoccupied.”

“Well, yes; your health, in the first place-”

“It is not that.”

“My dear friend, you would be wrong, I think, to ask me any questions,- you, of all persons in the world;” and he laid so much weight upon the “you” that he completely enlightened his friend upon the nature of the evil and the difficulty of remedying it.

“You say that, Raoul, on account of what I wrote to you.”

“Certainly. We will talk over that matter a little when you shall have finished telling me of all your own pleasures and pains.”

“My dear friend, I am entirely at your service now.”

“Thank you. I have hurried, I have flown here,- I came here from London in half the time the government couriers usually take. Now, tell me, my dear friend, what did you want?”

“Nothing whatever, but to make you come.”

“Well, then, I am here.”

“All is quite right, then.”

“There is still something else, I imagine?”

“No, indeed.”

“De Guiche!”

“Upon my honor!”

“You cannot possibly have crushed all my hopes so violently, or have exposed me to being disgraced by the King for my return, which is in disobedience of his orders,- you cannot, in short, have planted jealousy in my heart, merely to say to me, ‘It is all right, sleep quietly!’”

“I do not say to you, Raoul, ‘Sleep quietly!’ But pray understand me; I never will, nor can I indeed, tell you anything else.”

“Oh, my friend, for whom do you take me?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you know anything, why conceal it from me? If you do not know anything, why did you warn me?”

“True, true! I was very wrong, and I regret having done so, Raoul. It seems nothing to write to a friend and say, ‘Come’; but to have this friend face to face, to feel him tremble and breathlessly wait to hear what one hardly dare tell him-”

“Dare! I have courage enough, if you have not,” exclaimed Raoul, in despair.

“See how unjust you are, and how soon you forget you have to do with a poor wounded fellow,- the half of your heart! Calm yourself, Raoul! I said to you, ‘Come’; you are here. Ask nothing further of the unhappy De Guiche.”

“You summoned me in the hope that I should see with my own eyes, did you not? Nay, do not hesitate, for I have seen all.”

“Oh!” exclaimed De Guiche.

“Or at least I thought-”

“There now, you see you are not sure. But if you have any doubt, my poor friend, what remains for me to do?”

“I have seen Louise agitated, Montalais in a state of bewilderment, the King-”

“The King?”

“Yes. You turn your head aside. The danger is there, the evil is there! tell me, is it not so,- it is the King?”

“I say nothing.”

“Oh, you say a thousand upon a thousand times more than nothing! Give me facts! for pity’s sake, give me proofs! My friend, the only friend I have, speak! My heart is crushed, wounded to death; I am dying from despair.”

“If that really be so, my dear Raoul,” replied De Guiche, “you relieve me from my difficulty, and I will tell you all, sure that I can tell you nothing but what is consoling, compared to the despair in which I now see you.”

“Go on, go on! I am listening.”

“Well, then, I can only tell you what you can learn from the first-comer.”

“From the first-comer? It is talked about?” cried Raoul.

“Before you say people talk about it, learn what it is that people can talk about. I assure you, solemnly, that people only talk about what may in truth be very innocent; perhaps a walk-”

“Ah! a walk with the King?”

“Yes, certainly, a walk with the King; and I believe the King has very frequently before taken walks with ladies, without on that account-”

“You would not have written to me, shall I say again, if there had been nothing unusual in this promenade?”

“I know that while the storm lasted, it would have been far better if the King had taken shelter somewhere else than to have remained with his head uncovered before La Valliere; but-”

“But?”

“The King is so courteous!”

“Oh, De Guiche, De Guiche, you are killing me!”

“Do not let us talk any more, then.”

“Nay; let us continue. This walk was followed by others, I suppose?”

“No- I mean yes; there was the adventure of the oak, I think. But I know nothing about the matter at all.” Raoul rose; De Guiche endeavored to imitate him, notwithstanding his weakness. “Well, I will not add another word; I have said either too much or not enough. Let others give you further information if they will, or if they can; my duty was to warn you, and that I have done. Watch over your own affairs now, yourself!”

“Question others? Alas! you are no true friend to speak to me in that manner,” said the young man, in utter distress. “The first man I shall question may be either evilly disposed or a fool,- if the former, he will tell me a lie to torment me; if the latter, he will do still worse. Ah! De Guiche, De Guiche, before two hours are over, I shall have been told ten falsehoods, and shall have as many duels on my hands. Save me, then! Is it not best to know one’s whole misfortune?”

“But I know nothing, I tell you. I was wounded, in a fever; my senses were gone, and I have only effaced impressions of it all. But there is no reason why we should search very far, when the very man we want is close at hand. Is not d’Artagnan your friend?”

“Oh, true, true!”

“Go to him, then. He will throw light on the subject and without seeking to injure your eyes.”

At this moment a lackey entered the room. “What is it?” said De Guiche.

“Some one is waiting for Monseigneur in the Cabinet des Porcelaines.”

“Very well. Will you excuse me, my dear Raoul? I am so proud since I have been able to walk again.”

“I would offer you my arm, De Guiche, if I did not guess that the person in question is a lady.”

“I believe so,” said De Guiche, smiling, as he quitted Raoul.

Raoul remained motionless, absorbed, overwhelmed, like the miner upon whom a vault has just fallen in: he is wounded, his life-blood is welling fast, his thoughts are confused; he endeavors to recover himself, and to save his life and his reason. A few minutes were all Raoul needed to dissipate the bewildering sensations which had been occasioned by these two revelations. He had already recovered the thread of his ideas, when suddenly through the door he fancied he recognized Montalais’s voice in the Cabinet des Porcelaines. “She!” he cried. “Yes; it is indeed her voice! Oh! here is a woman who can tell me the truth; but shall I question her here? She conceals herself even from me; she is coming, no doubt, from Madame. I will see her in her own apartment. She will explain her alarm, her flight, the strange manner in which I was driven out; she will tell me all that,- after M. d’Artagnan, who knows everything, shall have given me fresh strength and courage. Madame- a coquette, I fear, and yet a coquette who is herself in love- has her moments of kindness; a coquette who is as capricious and uncertain as life or death, but who causes De Guiche to say that he is the happiest of men. He at least is lying on roses.” And so he hastily quitted the count’s apartments; and reproaching himself as he went for having talked of nothing but his own affairs to De Guiche, he arrived at d’Artagnan’s quarters.

Bragelonne Continues His Inquiries

The captain was sitting buried in his leathern arm-chair, his spur fixed in the floor, his sword between his legs, and was occupied in reading a great number of letters, as he twisted his mustache. D’Artagnan uttered a welcome full of pleasure when he perceived his friend’s son. “Raoul, my boy,” he said, “by what lucky accident does it happen that the King has recalled you?”

These words did not sound over-agreeably in the young man’s ears, who as he seated himself replied, “Upon my word, I cannot tell you; all that I know is that I have come back.”

“Hum!” said d’Artagnan, folding up his letters and directing a look full of meaning at him. “What do you say, my boy?- that the King has not recalled you, and that you have returned? I do not at all understand that.”

Raoul was already pale enough, and he began to turn his hat round and round in his hand with an air of constraint.

“What the deuce is the matter, that you look as you do, and what makes you so dumb?” said the captain. “Do people catch that fashion in England? I have been in England, and came back again as lively as a chaffinch. Will you not say something?”

“I have too much to say.”

“Ah! ah! how is your father?”

“Forgive me, my dear friend; I was going to ask you that.”

D’Artagnan increased the sharpness of his penetrating gaze, which no secret was capable of resisting. “You are unhappy about something,” he said.

“I am, indeed; and you know very well what, M. d’Artagnan.”

“I?”

“Of course. Nay, do not pretend to be astonished.”

“I am not pretending to be astonished, my friend.”

“Dear captain, I know very well that in all trials of finesse, as well as in all trials of strength, I shall be beaten by you. You can see that at the present moment I am an idiot, a fool. I have neither head nor arm; do not despise, but help me. In a few words, I am the most wretched of living beings.”

“Oh! oh! why that?” inquired d’Artagnan, unbuckling his belt and softening the ruggedness of his smile.

“Because Mademoiselle de la Valliere is deceiving me.”

“She is deceiving you?” said d’Artagnan, not a muscle of whose face had moved. “Those are big words. Who makes use of them?”

“Every one.”

“Ah! if every one says so, there must be some truth in it. I begin to believe there is fire when I see the smoke. It is ridiculous, perhaps, but so it is.”

“Therefore you do believe?” exclaimed Bragelonne, quickly.

“I never mix myself up in affairs of that kind; you know that very well.”

“What! not for a friend, for a son?”

“Exactly. If you were a stranger, I should tell you- I should tell you nothing at all. How is Porthos, do you know?”

“Monsieur,” cried Raoul, pressing d’Artagnan’s hand, “I entreat you, in the name of the friendship you have vowed to my father!”

“The deuce take it, you are really ill- from curiosity.”

“No, it is not from curiosity; it is from love.”

“Good! Another grand word! If you were really in love, my dear Raoul, you would be very different.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you were so deeply in love that I could believe I was addressing myself to your heart- But it is impossible.”

“I tell you I love Louise to distraction.”

D’Artagnan could read to the very bottom of the young man’s heart.

“Impossible, I tell you,” he said. “You are like all young men,- you are not in love, you are out of your senses.”

“Well, suppose it were only that?”

“No sensible man ever succeeded in making much of a brain when the head was turned. I have lost my bearings in the same way a hundred times in my life. You would listen to me, but you would not hear me; you would hear, but you would not understand me; you would understand, but you would not obey me.”

“Oh, try, try!”

“I say more. Even if I were unfortunate enough to know something, and foolish enough to communicate it to you- You are my friend, you say?”

“Indeed, yes.”

“Very good. I should quarrel with you. You would never forgive me for having destroyed your illusion, as people say of love-affairs.”

“M. d’Artagnan, you know all; and yet you plunge me in perplexity, in despair, in death.”

“There, there!”

“I never complain, as you know; but as Heaven and my father would never forgive me for blowing out my brains, I will go and get the first person I meet to give me the information which you withhold; I will tell him he lies, and-”

“And you will kill him? A fine affair that would be! So much the better. What should I care for it? Kill my boy, kill, if it can give you any pleasure. It is exactly like a man with the toothache, who keeps on saying, ‘Oh, what torture I am suffering! I could bite iron.’ My answer always is, ‘Bite, my friend, bite; the tooth will remain all the same.’”

“I shall not kill any one, Monsieur,” said Raoul, gloomily.

“Yes, yes; you fellows of to-day put on those airs. Instead of killing, you will get killed yourself, I suppose you mean? Very fine indeed! How much I should regret you! I should say all day long: ‘Ah! what a high-flown simpleton that Bragelonne was,- doubly an ingrate! I have passed my whole life almost in teaching him how to hold his sword properly, and the silly fellow has got himself spitted like a lark.’ Go, then, Raoul, go and get yourself disposed of, if you like. I don’t know who taught you logic; but, God damn me,- as the English say,- whoever it was, Monsieur, has stolen your father’s money.”

Raoul buried his face in his hands, murmuring, “No, no; I have not a single friend in the world!”

“Oh, bah!” said d’Artagnan.

“I meet with nothing but raillery or indifference.”

“Idle fancies, Monsieur! I do not laugh at you, although I am a Gascon. And as for being indifferent, if I were so I should have sent you to all the devils a quarter of an hour ago; for you would sadden a man who was wild with joy, and would kill one who was sad. How now, young man! Do you wish me to disgust you with the girl to whom you are attached, and to teach you to execrate women, who are the honor and happiness of human life?”

“Oh, tell me, Monsieur, and I will bless you!”

“Do you think, my dear fellow, that I can have crammed into my brain all that business about the carpenter and the painter and the staircase and the portrait, and a hundred other tales to sleep over?”

“A carpenter! what do you mean?”

“Upon my word, I don’t know. Some one told me there was a carpenter who made an opening through a floor.”

“In La Valliere’s room?”

“Oh, I don’t know where!”

“In the King’s apartment, perhaps?”

“Of course! If it were in the King’s apartment, I should tell you, I suppose.”

“In whose room, then?”

“I have told you for the last hour that I know nothing of the whole affair.”

“But the painter, then,- the portrait?”

“It seems that the King wished to have the portrait of one of the ladies belonging to the court.”

“La Valliere’s?”

“Why, you seem to have only that name in your mouth! Who spoke to you of La Valliere?”

“If it be not her portrait, then, why do you suppose it would concern me?”

“I do not suppose it will concern you. But you ask me all sorts of questions, and I answer you; you wish to know the current scandal, and I tell you. Make the best you can of it!”

Raoul struck his forehead with his hand, in utter despair. “It will kill me! he said.

“So you have said already.”

“Yes, you’re right”; and he made a step or two as if he were going to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To find some one who will tell me the truth.”

“Who is that?”

“A woman.”

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere herself, I suppose you mean?” said d’Artagnan, with a smile. “Ah, a famous idea that! You wish to be consoled by some one, and you will be so at once. She will tell you nothing ill of herself, of course. So be off!”

“You are mistaken, Monsieur,” replied Raoul; “the woman I mean will tell me all the evil she possibly can.”

“Montalais, I’ll wager.”

“Yes, Montalais.”

“Ah! her friend, a woman who in that capacity will exaggerate all that is either bad or good in the matter. Do not talk to Montalais, my good Raoul.”

“You have some reason for wishing me not to talk with Montalais?”

“Well, I admit it. And, in point of fact, why should I play with you as a cat does with a poor mouse? You distress me,- you do indeed. And if I wish you not to speak to Montalais just now, it is because you will be betraying your secret, and people will take advantage of it. Wait, if you can!”

“I cannot.”

“So much the worse. Why, you see, Raoul, if I had an idea- but I have not got one.”

“Promise that you will pity me, my friend,- that is all I need,- and leave me to get out of the affair by myself.”

“Oh, yes, indeed, in order that you may get deeper into the mire! A capital idea, truly! Go and sit down at that table and take a pen in your hand.”

“What for?”

“To write to ask Montalais to give you an interview.”

“Ah!” said Raoul, snatching eagerly at the pen which the captain held out to him.

Suddenly the door opened; and one of the musketeers, approaching d’Artagnan, said, “Captain, Mademoiselle de Montalais is here, and wishes to speak to you.”

“To me?” murmured d’Artagnan. “Ask her to come in. I shall soon see,” he said to himself, “whether she wishes to speak to me or not.”

The cunning captain was quite right in his suspicions; for as soon as Montalais entered, she saw Raoul and exclaimed, “Monsieur! Monsieur!- I beg your pardon, M. d’Artagnan.”

“Oh, I forgive you, Mademoiselle,” said d’Artagnan; “I know that at my age those who look for me have great need of me.”

“I was looking for M. de Bragelonne,” replied Montalais.

“How fortunate! and I was looking for you!”

“Raoul, won’t you accompany Mademoiselle Montalais?”

“Oh, certainly!”

“Go along, then,” he said, as he gently pushed Raoul out of the cabinet; and then taking hold of Montalais’s hand, he said in a low voice, “Be kind towards him; spare him, and spare her too.”

“Ah!” she said in the same tone of voice, “it is not I who will speak to him.”

“Who, then?”

“It is Madame who has sent for him.”

“Very good,” cried d’Artagnan; “it is Madame, is it? In an hour’s time, then, the poor fellow will be cured.”

“Or else dead,” said Montalais, in a voice full of compassion. “Adieu, M. d’Artagnan!” she said; and she ran to join Raoul, who was waiting for her at a little distance from the door, very much puzzled and uneasy at the dialogue, which promised no good to him.

Two Jealousies

Lovers are very tender towards everything which concerns the person with whom they are in love. Raoul no sooner found himself alone with Montalais than he kissed her hand with rapture. “There, there,” said the young girl, sadly, “you are throwing your kisses away; I will guarantee that they will not bring you back any interest.”

“How so? Why? Will you explain to me, my dear Aure?”

“Madame will explain everything to you. I am going to take you to her apartments.”

“What!”

“Silence! and throw aside your wild and savage looks. The windows here have eyes; the walls have ears. Have the kindness not to look at me any longer; be good enough to speak to me aloud of the rain, of the fine weather, and of the charms of England.”

“At all events-” interrupted Raoul.

“I tell you, I warn you, that somewhere, I know not where, Madame is sure to have eyes and ears open. I am not very desirous, you can easily believe, to be dismissed or thrown into the Bastille. Let us talk, I tell you; or rather, do not let us talk at all.”

Raoul clinched his hands, and assumed the look and gait of a man of courage, but of a man of courage on his way to the torture. Montalais, glancing in every direction, walking along with an easy swinging gait, and holding up her head pertly in the air, preceded him to Madame’s apartments, where he was at once introduced. “Well,” he thought, “this day will pass away without my learning anything. De Guiche had too much consideration for my feelings. He has no doubt an understanding with Madame; and both of them, by a friendly plot, have agreed to postpone the solution of the problem. Why have I not here a good enemy,- that serpent De Wardes, for instance? That he would bite is very likely, but I should not hesitate any more. To hesitate, to doubt,- better by far to die!”

Raoul was in Madame’s presence. Henrietta, more charming than ever, was half lying, half reclining in her arm-chair, her little feet upon an embroidered velvet cushion; she was playing with a little kitten with long silky fur, which was biting her fingers and hanging by the lace of her collar.

Madame was thinking; she was thinking profoundly. It required both Montalais’s and Raoul’s voice to disturb her from her reverie.

“Your Highness sent for me?” repeated Raoul.

Madame shook her head, as if she were just awakening, and then said: “Good-morning, M. de Bragelonne. Yes, I sent for you. So you have returned from England?”

“Yes, Madame, and I am at your royal Highness’s commands.”

“Thank you. Leave us, Montalais!” and the latter left the room.

“You have a few minutes to give me, M. de Bragelonne, have you not?”

“All my life is at your royal Highness’s disposal,” Raoul returned, with respect, guessing that there was something serious under all these outward courtesies of Madame; nor was he displeased, indeed, to observe the seriousness of her manner, feeling persuaded that there was some sort of affinity between Madame’s sentiments and his own. In fact, every one at court of any perception at all well knew the capricious fancy and absurd despotism of the princess’s singular character. Madame had been flattered beyond all bounds by the King’s attentions; she had made herself talked about; she had inspired the Queen with that mortal jealousy which is the gnawing worm at the root of every woman’s happiness. Madame, in a word, in her attempts to cure a wounded pride, had found that her heart had become deeply and passionately attached.

We know what Madame had done to recall Raoul, who had been sent out of the way by Louis XIV. Raoul did not know of her letter to Charles II, although d’Artagnan had guessed its contents. Who will undertake to account for that seemingly inexplicable mixture of love and vanity, that passionate tenderness of feeling, that prodigious duplicity of conduct? No one can, indeed; not even the bad angel who kindles the love of coquetry in the heart of woman.

“M. de Bragelonne,” said the princess, after a moment’s pause, “have you returned satisfied?”

Bragelonne looked at Madame Henrietta, and seeing how pale she was, from what she was keeping back, from what she was burning to disclose, replied: “Satisfied? What is there for me to be satisfied or dissatisfied about, Madame?”

“But what are those things with which a man of your age and of your appearance is usually either satisfied or dissatisfied?”

“How eager she is?” thought Raoul, terrified. “What is it that she is going to breathe into my heart?” and then, frightened at what she might possibly be going to tell him, and wishing to put off the moment so wished for but so dreadful, when he should learn all, he replied, “I left behind me, Madame, a dear friend in good health, and on my return I find him very ill.”

“You refer to M. de Guiche,” replied Madame Henrietta, with the most imperturbable self-possession; “I have heard he is a very dear friend of yours.”

“He is, indeed, Madame.”

“Well, it is quite true he has been wounded; but he is better now. Oh, M. de Guiche is not to be pitied!” she said hurriedly; and then, recovering herself, added, “But has he anything to complain of? Has he complained of anything? Is there any cause of grief or sorrow with which we are not acquainted?”

“I allude only to his wound, Madame.”

“So much the better, then; for in other respects M. de Guiche seems to be very happy,- he is always in very high spirits. I am sure that you, M. de Bragelonne, would far prefer to be, like him, wounded only in the body,- for what indeed, is such a wound, after all?”

Raoul started. “Alas!” he said to himself, “she is returning to it.” He made no reply.

“What did you say?” she inquired.

“I did not say anything, Madame.”

“You did not say anything. You disapprove of my observation, then. You are perfectly satisfied, I suppose?”

Raoul approached closer to her. “Madame,” he said, “your royal Highness wishes to say something to me, and your instinctive kindness and generosity of disposition induce you to be careful and considerate as to your manner of conveying it. Will your royal Highness throw this kind forbearance aside? I am strong, and I am listening.”

“Ah!” replied Henrietta, “what do you understand, then?”

“That which your royal Highness wishes me to understand,” said Raoul, trembling, notwithstanding his command over himself, as he pronounced these words.

“In point of fact,” murmured the princess, “it seems cruel; but since I have begun-”

“Yes, Madame, since your Highness has deigned to begin, will you deign to finish-”

Henrietta rose hurriedly, and walked a few paces up and down her room. “What did M. de Guiche tell you?” she said suddenly.

“Nothing, Madame.”

“Nothing! Did he say nothing? Ah, how well I recognize him in that!”

“No doubt he wished to spare me.”

“And that is what friends call friendship. But surely M. d’Artagnan, whom you have just left, must have told you.”

“No more than De Guiche, Madame.”

Henrietta made a gesture full of impatience, as she said, “At least, you know all that the court has known?”

“I know nothing at all, Madame.”

“Not the scene in the storm?”

“Not the scene in the storm.”

“Not the tête-à-tête in the forest?”

“Not the tête-à-tête in the forest.”

“Nor the flight to Chaillot?”

Raoul, whose head drooped like the flower which has been cut down by the sickle, made an almost superhuman effort to smile as he replied with the greatest gentleness: “I have had the honor to tell your royal Highness that I am absolutely ignorant of everything,- that I am a poor unremembered outcast, who has this moment arrived from England. There have been so many stormy waves between myself and those whom I left behind me here, that the rumor of none of the circumstances your Highness refers to has been able to reach me.”

Henrietta was affected by his extreme pallor, his gentleness, and his great courage. The principal feeling in her heart at that moment was an eager desire to hear the nature of the remembrance which the poor lover retained of her who had made him suffer so much. “M. de Bragelonne,” said she, “that which your friends have refused to do, I will do for you, whom I like and esteem. I will be your friend. You hold your head high, as a man of honor should do; and I should regret that you should have to bow it down under ridicule, and in a few days, it may be, under contempt.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Raoul, perfectly livid. “Has it already gone so far?”

“If you do not know,” said the princess, “I see that you guess; you were affianced, I believe, to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“By that right, then, you deserve to be warned about her, as some day or other I shall be obliged to dismiss her from my service-”

“Dismiss La Valliere!” cried Bragelonne.

“Of course! Do you suppose that I shall always be accessible to the tears and protestations of the King? No, no; my house shall no longer be made a convenience for such practices. But you tremble!”

“No, Madame, no,” said Bragelonne, making an effort over himself. “I thought I should have died just now; that was all. Your royal Highness did me the honor to say that the King wept and implored you-”

“Yes; but in vain,” returned the princess, who then related to Raoul the scene that took place at Chaillot, and the King’s despair on his return. She told him of his indulgence to herself, and the terrible word with which the outraged princess, the humiliated coquette, had dashed aside the royal anger.

Raoul bowed his head.

“What do you think of it all?” she said.

“The King loves her,” he replied.

“But you seem to think she does not love him!”

“Alas, Madame, I still think of the time when she loved me.”

Henrietta was for a moment struck with admiration at this sublime disbelief; and then, shrugging her shoulders, she said: “You do not believe me, I see. Oh, how deeply you love her! And you doubt if she loves the King?”

“Until I have proof. Pardon! I have her word, you see; and she is a noble child.”

“You require a proof? Be it so! Come with me.”

A Domiciliary Visit

The princess, preceding Raoul, led him through the courtyard towards that part of the building which La Valliere inhabited; and ascending the same staircase which Raoul had himself ascended that very morning, she paused at the door of the room in which the young man had been so strangely received by Montalais. The opportunity had been well chosen to carry out the project which Madame Henrietta had conceived, for the château was empty. The King, the courtiers, and the ladies of the court had set off for St. Germain; Madame Henrietta alone, aware of Bragelonne’s return, and thinking over the advantages which might be drawn from this return, had feigned indisposition in order to remain behind. Madame was therefore confident of finding La Valliere’s room and Saint-Aignan’s apartment unoccupied. She took a pass-key from her pocket, and opened the door of her maid-of-honor’s room. Bragelonne’s gaze was immediately fixed upon the interior of the room, which he recognized at once; and the impression which the sight of it produced upon him was one of the first tortures that had awaited him. The princess looked at him, and her practised eye could at once detect what was passing in the young man’s heart.

“You asked me for proofs,” she said; “do not be astonished, then, if I give you them. But if you do not think you have courage enough to confront them, there is still time to withdraw.”

“I thank you, Madame,” said Bragelonne; “but I came here to be convinced. You promised to convince me; do so.”

“Enter, then,” said Madame, “and shut the door behind you.”

Bragelonne obeyed, and then turned towards the princess, whom he interrogated by a look.

“You know where you are, I suppose?” inquired Madame Henrietta.

“Everything leads me to believe that I am in Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room.”

“You are.”

“But I would observe to your Highness that this room is a room, and is not a proof.”

“Wait,” said the princess, as she walked to the foot of the bed, folded up the screen into its several compartments, and stooped down towards the floor. “Look here,” she continued; “stoop down, and lift up this trap-door.”

“A trap-door!” said Raoul, astonished; for d’Artagnan’s words recurred to his mind, and he remembered that d’Artagnan had made vague use of that word. He looked in vain for some cleft or crevice which might indicate an opening, or a ring to assist in lifting up some portion of the planking.

“Ah! that is true,” said Madame Henrietta, smiling; “I forgot the secret spring,- the fourth plank of the flooring. Press on the spot where you will observe a knot in the wood. Those are the instructions. Press, Viscount! press, I say, yourself!”

Raoul, pale as death, pressed his finger on the spot which had been indicated to him; at the same moment the spring began to work, and the trap rose of its own accord.

“It is very ingenious, certainly,” said the princess; “and one can see that the architect foresaw that it would be a small hand which would have to employ that device. See how easily the trap-door opens without assistance!”

“A staircase!” cried Raoul.

“Yes; and a very pretty one too,” said Madame Henrietta. “See, Viscount, the staircase has a balustrade, intended to prevent the falling of timid persons, who might be tempted to descend; and I will risk myself on it accordingly. Come, Viscount, follow me!”

“But before following you, Madame, may I ask whither this staircase leads?”

“Ah! true; I forgot to tell you. You know, perhaps, that formerly M. de Saint-Aignan lived in the very next apartment to the King’s?”

“Yes, Madame, I am aware of that,- that was the arrangement, at least, before I left; and more than once I have had the honor of visiting him in his old rooms.”

“Well, he obtained the King’s leave to change that convenient and beautiful apartment for the two rooms to which this staircase will conduct us, and which together form a lodging for him twice as small and at ten times greater distance from the King,- a close proximity to whom is by no means disdained, in general, by the gentlemen belonging to the court.”

“Very good, Madame,” returned Raoul; “but go on, I beg, for I do not yet understand.”

“Well, then, it accidentally happened,” continued the princess, “that M. de Saint-Aignan’s apartment is situated underneath the apartments of my maids of honor, and particularly underneath the room of La Valliere.”

“But what was the motive of this trap-door and this staircase?”

“That I cannot tell you. Would you like to go down to M. de Saint-Aignan’s rooms? Perhaps we shall there find the solution of the enigma.”

Madame set the example by going down herself; and Raoul, sighing deeply, followed her. At every step Bragelonne took, he advanced farther into that mysterious apartment which had been witness to La Valliere’s sighs, and still retained the sweetest perfume of her presence. Bragelonne fancied that he perceived, as he inhaled his every breath, that the young girl must have passed through there. Then succeeded to these emanations of herself, which he regarded as invisible though certain proofs, the flowers she preferred to all others, the books of her own selection. Had Raoul preserved a single doubt on the subject, it would have vanished at the secret harmony of tastes and disposition of the mind shown in the things of common use. La Valliere, in Bragelonne’s eyes, was present there in every article of furniture, in the color of the hangings, in everything that surrounded him. Dumb, and completely overwhelmed there was nothing further for him to learn, and he followed his pitiless conductress as blindly as the culprit follows the executioner. Madame, as cruel as all women of delicate and nervous temperaments are, did not spare him the slightest detail. But it must be admitted that notwithstanding the kind of apathy into which he had fallen, none of these details, even had he been left alone, would have escaped him. The happiness of the woman who loves, when that happiness is derived from a rival, is a torture for a jealous man; but for a jealous man such as Raoul was, for that heart which for the first time was steeped in gall and bitterness, Louise’s happiness was in reality an ignominious death, a death of body and soul. He divined all,- their hands clasped in each other’s, their faces drawn close together, and reflected, side by side, in loving proximity, as they gazed upon the mirrors around them,- so sweet an occupation for lovers, who, as they thus see themselves twice over, impress the picture more enduringly in their memories. He divined the kiss unseen behind the heavy curtains falling free of their bands. He translated into feverish pains the eloquence of the couches hid in their shadow. That luxury, that studied elegance, full of intoxication; that extreme care to spare the loved object every annoyance or to occasion her a delightful surprise; that strength and power of love multiplied by the strength and power of royalty itself,- struck Raoul a mortal blow. O, if there be anything which can assuage the tortures of jealousy, it is the inferiority of the man who is preferred to yourself; while, on the very contrary, if there be a hell within hell, a torture without name in language, it is the almightiness of a god placed at the disposal of a rival, together with youth, beauty, and grace. In moments such as these, God himself seems to have taken part against the rejected lover.

One final pang was reserved for poor Raoul. Madame Henrietta lifted a silk curtain, and behind the curtain he perceived La Valliere’s portrait. Not only the portrait of La Valliere, but of La Valliere eloquent of youth, beauty, and happiness, inhaling life and enjoyment at every pore, because at eighteen years of age love itself is life.

“Louise!” murmured Bragelonne, “Louise! is it true, then? Oh, you have never loved me, for never have you looked at me in that manner!” and he felt as if his heart were crushed within his bosom.

Madame Henrietta looked at him, almost envious of his extreme grief, although she well knew there was nothing to envy in it, and that she herself was as passionately loved by De Guiche as Louise by Bragelonne. Raoul interpreted Madame Henrietta’s look.

“Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Madame! In your presence I know I ought to have greater mastery over myself. But may the Lord God of Heaven and of earth grant that you may never be struck the blow which crushes me at this moment; for you are but a woman, and would not be able to endure so terrible an affliction. Forgive me! I am but a poor gentleman, while you belong to the race of the happy, of the all-powerful, of the elect-”

“M. de Bragelonne,” replied Henrietta, “a heart such as yours merits all the consideration and respect which a queen’s heart even can bestow. I am your friend, Monsieur; and as such, indeed, I would not allow your whole life to be poisoned by perfidy and covered with ridicule. It was I, indeed, who with more courage than any of your pretended friends,- I except M. de Guiche,- was the cause of your return from London; it is I, also, who have given you these melancholy proofs,- necessary however for your cure, if you are a lover with courage in his heart, and not a weeping Amadis. Do not thank me; pity me even, and do not serve the King less faithfully than you have done.”

Raoul smiled bitterly. “Ah! true, true; I was forgetting that! The King is my master.”

“Your liberty, nay, your very life, is at stake.”

A steady, penetrating look informed Madame Henrietta that she was mistaken, and that her last argument was not likely to affect the young man. “Take care, M. de Bragelonne,” she said; “for if you do not weigh well all your actions, you might throw into an extravagance of wrath a prince whose passions, once aroused, exceed the limits of reason, and you would thereby involve your friends and family in distress. You must bend; you must submit, and must cure yourself.”

“I thank you, Madame. I appreciate the advice your royal Highness is good enough to give me, and I will endeavor to follow it; but one final word, I beg.”

“Name it.”

“Should I be indiscreet in asking you the secret of this staircase, of this trapdoor,- a secret which you have discovered?”

“Oh, nothing is more simple! For the purpose of exercising a surveillance over the young girls who are attached to my service, I have duplicate keys of their doors. It seemed very strange to me that M. de Saint-Aignan should change his apartments; it seemed very strange that the King should come to see M. de Saint-Aignan every day; and finally, it seemed very strange that so many things should be done during your absence,- that the very habits and customs of the court seemed to be changed. I do not wish to be trifled with by the King, nor to serve as a cloak for his love-affairs; for after La Valliere, who weeps, he will take a fancy to Montalais, who laughs, and then to Tonnay-Charente, who sings. To act such a part as that would be unworthy of me. I have thrust aside the scruples which my friendship for you suggested. I have discovered the secret. I have wounded your feelings, I know, and I again entreat you to excuse me; but I had a duty to fulfill. I have discharged it. You are now forewarned. The tempest will soon burst; protect yourself.”

“You naturally expect, however, that a result of some kind must follow,” replied Bragelonne, with firmness; “for you do not suppose I shall silently accept the shame which is thrust upon me, or the treachery which has been practised against me?”

“You will take whatever steps in the matter you please, M. Raoul; only, do not betray the source whence you derived the truth. That is all I have to ask; that is the only price I require for the service I have rendered you.”

“Fear nothing, Madame!” said Bragelonne, with a bitter smile.

“I bribed the locksmith in whom the lovers had confided. You can just as well do so as myself, can you not?”

“Yes, Madame. Your royal Highness, however, has no other advice or caution to give me, except that of not betraying you?”

“None other.”

“I am, therefore, about to beg your royal Highness to allow me to remain here for one moment.”

“Without me?”

“Oh, no, Madame! It matters very little, for what I have to do can be done in your presence. I only ask one moment to write a line to some one.”

“It is dangerous, M. de Bragelonne. Take care!”

“No one can possibly know that your royal Highness has done me the honor to conduct me here. Besides, I shall sign the letter I am going to write.”

“Do as you please, then.”

Raoul drew out his tablet, and wrote rapidly on one of the leaves the following words:-

Monsieur The Count: Do not be surprised to find here this paper signed by me. The friend whom I shall very shortly send to call on you will have the honor to explain the object of my visit to you.

Vicomte Raoul De Bragelonne.

Rolling up the paper, and slipping it into the lock of the door which communicated with the room set apart for the two lovers, Raoul satisfied himself that the paper was so apparent that De Saint-Aignan could not but see it as he entered; then he rejoined the princess, who had already reached the top of the staircase. They then separated,- Raoul pretending to thank her Highness; Henrietta pitying, or seeming to pity, with all her heart the unhappy man she had just condemned to so fearful torture. “Oh,” she said as she saw him disappear, pale as death, his eye injected with blood, “if I had known this, I should have concealed the truth from that poor young man!”

Porthos’s Plan of Action

The multiplicity of the personages we have introduced into this long history compels that each shall appear only in his own turn and according to the exigencies of the recital. The result is that our readers have had no opportunity of again meeting our friend Porthos since his return from Fontainebleau. The honors which he had received from the King had not changed the tranquil, affectionate character of that worthy man; only, he held up his head a little higher than usual, and a majesty of demeanor as it were betrayed itself, since the honor of dining at the King’s table had been accorded him.

His Majesty’s banqueting-room had produced a certain effect upon Porthos. Le Seigneur de Bracieux et de Pierrefonds delighted to remember that during that memorable dinner the numerous array of servants and the large number of officials who were in attendance upon the guests gave a certain tone and effect to the repast, and seemed to furnish the room. Porthos proposed to confer upon Mouston a position of some kind or other, in order to establish a sort of hierarchy among his domestics, and to create a military household,- which was not unusual among the great captains of the age, since in the preceding century this luxury had been greatly encouraged by Messieurs de Treville, de Schomberg, de la Vieuville, without alluding to Messieurs de Richelieu, de Conde, and de Bouillon-Turenne. And, therefore, why should not he,- Porthos, the friend of the King and of M. Fouquet, a baron, an engineer, etc.,- why should not he indeed enjoy all the delightful privileges attached to large possessions and great merit? Somewhat neglected by Aramis, who we know was greatly occupied with M. Fouquet; neglected also, on account of his being on duty, by d’Artagnan; tired of Truchen and Planchet,- Porthos was surprised to find himself dreaming, without precisely knowing why; but if any one had said to him, “Do you want anything, Porthos?” he would most certainly have replied, “Yes.”

After one of those dinners, during which Porthos attempted to recall to his mind all the details of the royal banquet,- half joyful, thanks to the excellence of the wines; half melancholy, thanks to his ambitious ideas,- Porthos was gradually falling off into a gentle doze, when his servant entered to announce that M. de Bragelonne wished to speak to him. Porthos passed into an adjoining room, where he found his young friend in the disposition of mind of which we are already aware. Raoul advanced towards Porthos, and shook him by the hand. Porthos, surprised at his seriousness of aspect, offered him a seat.

“Dear M. du Vallon,” said Raoul, “I have a service to ask of you.”

“Nothing could happen more fortunately, my young friend,” replied Porthos. “I have had eight thousand livres sent me this morning from Pierrefonds; and if you want any money-”

“No, I thank you; it is not money, my dear friend.”

“So much the worse, then. I have always heard it said that that is the rarest service, but the easiest to render. The remark struck me; I like to cite remarks that strike me.”

“Your heart is as good as your mind is sound and true.”

“You are too kind, I’m sure. Will you have your dinner immediately?”

“No; I am not hungry.”

“Eh! What a dreadful country England is!”

“Not too much so; but-”

“Well, if such excellent fish and meat were not to be procured there, it would hardly be endurable.”

“Yes. I have come-”

“I am listening. Only allow me to take something to drink. One gets thirsty in Paris”; and Porthos ordered a bottle of champagne to be brought. Then, having first filled Raoul’s glass, he filled his own, took a large draught, and resumed: “I needed that, in order to listen to you with proper attention. I am now quite at your service. What have you to ask me, dear Raoul? What do you want?”

“Give me your opinion upon quarrels in general, my dear friend.”

“My opinion? Well- but- Explain your idea a little,” replied Porthos, rubbing his forehead.

“I mean,- are you generally of accommodating disposition whenever any misunderstanding arises between your friends and strangers?”

“Oh! of excellent disposition, as always.”

“Very good; but what do you do in such a case?”

“Whenever any friend of mine has a quarrel, I always act upon one principle.”

“What is that?”

“That all lost time is irreparable, and that one never arranges an affair so well as when the dispute is still warm.”

“Ah! indeed, that is your principle?”

“Thoroughly; so, as soon as a quarrel takes place, I bring the two parties together.”

“Exactly.”

“You understand that by this means it is impossible for an affair not to be arranged.”

“I should have thought,” said Raoul, with astonishment, “that, treated in this manner, an affair would, on the contrary-”

“Oh, not the least in the world! Just fancy now! I have had in my life something like a hundred and eighty to a hundred and ninety regular duels, without reckoning hasty encounters or chance meetings.”

“It is a very handsome number,” said Raoul, unable to resist a smile.

“A mere nothing; but I am so gentle. D’Artagnan reckons his duels by hundreds. It is very true he is a little too hard and sharp,- I have often told him so.”

“And so,” resumed Raoul, “you generally arrange the affairs of honor your friends confide to you.”

“There is not a single instance in which I have not finished by arranging every one of them,” said Porthos, with a gentleness and confidence which surprised Raoul.

“But the way in which you settle them is at least honorable, I suppose?”

“Oh, rely upon that! And at this stage I will explain my other principle to you. As soon as my friend has confided his quarrel to me, this is what I do: I go to his adversary at once, armed with a politeness and self-possession which are absolutely requisite under such circumstances.”

“That is the way, then,” said Raoul, bitterly, “that you arrange the affairs so safely?”

“I believe so. I go to the adversary, then, and say to him, ‘It is impossible, Monsieur, that you are ignorant of the extent to which you have insulted my friend.’” Raoul puckered his brows.

“It sometimes happens,- very often indeed,” pursued Porthos,- “that my friend has not been insulted at all; he has even been the first to give offence. You can imagine, therefore, whether my language is not well chosen”; and Porthos burst into a peal of laughter.

“Decidedly,” said Raoul to himself, while the formidable thunder of Porthos’s laughter was ringing in his ears’ “I am very unfortunate. De Guiche treats me with coldness, d’Artagnan with ridicule, Porthos is too tame; no one is ready to ‘arrange’ this affair in my way. And I came to Porthos because I wished to find a sword instead of cold reasoning. Ah, what wretched luck!”

Porthos, who had recovered himself, continued: “By a simple expression, I leave my adversary without an excuse.”

“That is as it may happen,” said Raoul, indifferently.

“Not at all; it is quite certain. I have not left him an excuse; and then it is that I display all my courtesy, in order to attain the happy issue of my project. I advance, therefore, with an air of great politeness, and taking my adversary by the hand-”

“Oh!” said Raoul, impatiently.

“‘Monsieur,’ I say to him, ‘now that you are convinced of having given the offence, we are sure of reparation; between my friend and yourself the future can offer only an exchange of gracious ceremonies. Consequently I am instructed to give you the length of my friend’s sword-’”

“What!” said Raoul.

“Wait a minute!- ‘the length of my friend’s sword. My horse is waiting below; my friend is in such and such a spot, and is impatiently awaiting your agreeable society. I will take you with me; we can call upon your second as we go along. The affair is arranged.’”

“And so,” said Raoul, pale with vexation, “You reconcile the two adversaries on the ground.”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Porthos. “Reconcile? What for?”

“You said that the affair was arranged.”

“Of course! since my friend is waiting for him.”

“Well, what then? If he is waiting-”

“Well, if he is waiting, it is merely to stretch his legs a little; the adversary, on the contrary, is stiff from riding. They place themselves in proper order, and my friend kills his opponent; the affair is ended.”

“Ah! he kills him?” cried Raoul.

“I should think so,” said Porthos. “It is likely I should ever have as a friend a man who allows himself to get killed? I have a hundred and one friends; at the head of the list stand your father, Aramis, and d’Artagnan,- all of whom are living and well, I believe.”

“Oh, my dear baron!” exclaimed Raoul, delightedly, as he embraced Porthos.

“You approve of my method, then?” said the giant.

“I approve of it so thoroughly that I shall have recourse to it this very day, without a moment’s delay,- at once, in fact. You are the very man I have been looking for.”

“Good! Here I am, then. You want to fight?”

“Absolutely so.”

“It is very natural. With whom?”

“With M. de Saint-Aignan.”

“I know him,- a most agreeable man, who was exceedingly polite to me the day I had the honor of dining with the King. I shall certainly return his politeness, even if that were not my usual custom. So, he has given you offence?”

“A mortal offence.”

“The devil! I can say ‘mortal offence’?”

“More than that, even, if you like.”

“That is very convenient.”

“I may look upon it as all arranged, may I not?” said Raoul, smiling.

“As a matter of course. Where will you be waiting for him?”

“Ah! I forgot. It is a very delicate matter. M. de Saint-Aignan is a great friend of the King.”

“So I have heard it said.”

“So that if I kill him-”

“Oh, you will kill him certainly; you must take every precaution to do so! But there is no difficulty in these matters now; if you had lived in our early days,- oh, that was something like!”

“My dear friend, you have not quite understood me. I mean that M. de Saint-Aignan being a friend of the King, the affair will be more difficult to manage, since the King might learn beforehand-”

“Oh, no; that is not likely. You know my method: ‘Monsieur, you have injured my friend, and-’”

“Yes, I know it.”

“And then: ‘Monsieur, I have horses below.’ I carry him off before he can have spoken to any one.”

“Will he allow himself, think you, to be carried off like that?”

“I should think so! I should like to see it fail! It would be the first time, if it did. It is true, though, that the young men of the present day- Bah! I would carry him off bodily, if it were necessary”; and Porthos, adding gesture to speech, lifted Raoul and his chair.

“Very good,” said Raoul, laughing. “All we have to do is to state the grounds of the quarrel to M. de Saint-Aignan.”

“Well; but that is done, it seems.”

“No, my dear M. du Vallon, the usage of the present day requires that the cause of the quarrel be explained.”

“By your new method, yes. Well, then, tell me what it is-”

“The fact is-”

“Deuce take it! See how troublesome this is! In former days we never had any occasion to talk. People fought then for the sake of fighting; and I, for one, know no better reason than that.”

“You are quite right, my friend.”

“However, tell me what the cause is.”

“It is too long a story to tell; only, as one must particularize to some extent-”

“Yes, yes, the devil!- with the new method.”

“As it is necessary, I said, to be specific, and as on the other hand the affair is full of difficulties and requires the most absolute secrecy-”

“Oh! oh!”

“You will have the kindness merely to tell M. de Saint-Aignan that he has insulted me,- in the first place, by changing his lodgings.”

“By changing his lodgings? Good!” said Porthos, who began to count on his fingers; “next?”

“Then, in getting a trap-door made in his new apartments.”

“I understand,” said Porthos; “a trapdoor! Upon my word, this is very serious; you ought to be furious at that. What the deuce does the fellow mean by getting trap-doors made without first consulting you? Trap-doors! Mordioux! I haven’t any, except in my dungeons at Bracieux.”

“And you will add,” said Raoul, “that my last motive for considering myself insulted is the portrait that M. de Saint-Aignan well knows.”

“Is it possible? A portrait too! A change of residence, a trap-door, and a portrait! Why, my dear friend, with but one of those causes of complaint there is enough, and more than enough, for all the gentlemen in France and Spain to cut one another’s throats; and that is saying but very little.”

“Well, my dear friend, you are furnished with all you need, I suppose?”

“I shall take a second horse with me. Select your own rendezvous; and while you are waiting there you can practise some of the best passes, so as to get your limbs as elastic as possible.”

“Thank you. I shall be waiting for you in the wood of Vincennes, close to Minimes.”

“All’s right, then. Where am I to find this M. de Saint-Aignan?”

“At the Palais-Royal.”

Porthos rang a huge hand-bell. “My court suit,” he said to the servant who answered the summons, “my horse, and a led horse to accompany me.” Then turning to Raoul as soon as the servant had quitted the room, he said, “Does your father know anything about this?”

“No; I am going to write to him.”

“And d’Artagnan?”

“No, nor d’Artagnan, either. He is very cautious, you know, and might have diverted me from my purpose.”

“D’Artagnan is a sound adviser, though,” said Porthos, astonished that in his own loyal faith in d’Artagnan any one could have thought of himself so long as there was a d’Artagnan in the world.

“Dear M. du Vallon,” replied Raoul, “do not question me any more, I implore you. I have told you all that I had to say; it is prompt action that I now expect, as sharp and decided as you know how to arrange it. That, indeed, is my reason for having chosen you.”

“You will be satisfied with me,” replied Porthos.

“Do not forget, either, that except ourselves no one must know anything of this meeting.”

“People always find these things out,” said Porthos, “when a dead body is discovered in a wood. But I promise you everything, my dear friend, except concealing the dead body. There it is; and it must be seen, as a matter of course. It is a principle of mine not to bury bodies. That has a smack of the assassin about it. Every risk must take its risk, as they say in Normandy.”

“To work, then, my dear friend!”

“Rely upon me,” said the giant, finishing the bottle, while the servant spread out upon a sofa the gorgeously decorated dress trimmed with lace. Raoul left the room, saying to himself with a secret delight: “Perfidious King! traitorous monarch! I cannot reach thee. I do not wish it; for the person of a king is sacred. But your accomplice, your panderer,- the coward who represents you,- shall pay for your crime. I will kill him in thy name, and afterwards we will think of Louise.”

The Change of Residence, the Trap-door, and the Portrait

Porthos, to his great delight intrusted with this mission, which made him feel young again, took half an hour less than his usual time to put on his court suit. To show that he was a man acquainted with the usages of the highest society, he had begun by sending his lackey to inquire if M. de Saint-Aignan were at home, and received, in answer, that M. le Comte de Saint-Aignan had had the honor of accompanying the King to St. Germain, as well as the whole court, but that Monsieur the Count had just at that moment returned. Immediately upon this reply, Porthos made haste, and reached De Saint-Aignan’s apartments just as the latter was having his boots taken off.

The expedition had been delightful. The King, who was in love more than ever and of course happier than ever, had behaved in the most charming manner to every one. Nothing could possibly equal his kindness. M. de Saint-Aignan, it may be remembered, was a poet, and fancied that he had proved that he was so under too many memorable circumstances to allow the title to be disputed by any one. An indefatigable rhymester, he had during the whole of the journey overwhelmed with quatrains, sextains and madrigals, first the King, and then La Valliere. The King was, on his side, in a similarly poetical mood, and had made a distich; while La Valliere, like all women who are in love, had composed two sonnets. As one may see, then, the day had not been a bad one for Apollo; and therefore, as soon as he had returned to Paris, De Saint-Aignan, who knew beforehand that his verses would be extensively circulated in court circles, occupied himself, with a little more attention than he had been able to bestow during the excursion, with the composition as well as with the idea itself. Consequently, with all the tenderness of a father about to start his children in life, he candidly asked himself whether the public would find these fruits of his imagination sufficiently elegant and graceful; and in order to make his mind easy on the subject, M. de Saint-Aignan recited to himself the madrigal he had composed, and which he had repeated from memory to the King, and which he had promised to write out for him on his return,-

“Iris, vos yeux malins ne disent pas toujours
Ce que votre pensee a votre coeur confie;
Iris, pourquoi faut-il que je passe ma vie
A plus aimer vos yeux qui m’ont joue ces tours?”

This madrigal, graceful as it was, failed to satisfy De Saint-Aignan when it had passed from oral delivery to the written form of poetry. Many had thought it charming,- its author first of all; but on second view it was not so pleasing. So De Saint-Aignan, sitting at his table, with one leg crossed over the other, and rubbing his brow, repeated,-

“Iris, vos yeux malins ne disent pas toujours-

“Oh! as to that, now,” he murmured, “that is irreproachable. I might even add that it is somewhat in the manner of Ronsard or Malherbe, which makes me proud. Unhappily, it is not so with the second line. There is good reason for the saying that the easiest line to make is the first.” And he continued:-

“Ce que votre pensee a votre coeur confie-.

Ah, there is the ‘thought’ confiding in the ‘heart’! Why should not the heart confide with as good reason in the thought? In faith, for my part, I see nothing to hinder. Where the devil have I been, to bring together these two hemistiches? Now, the third is good,-

Iris, pourquoi faut-il que je passe ma vie-

although the rhyme is not strong,- vie and confie. My faith! the Abbé Boyer, who is a great poet, has, like me, made a rhyme of vie and confie in the tragedy of ‘Oropaste, or the False Tonaxare’; without reckoning that M. Corneille did not scruple to do so in his tragedy of ‘Sophonisbe.’ Good, then, for vie and confie! Yes; but the line is impertinent. I remember now that the King bit his nail at that moment. In fact, it gives him the appearance of saying to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, ‘How does it happen that I am captivated by you?’ It would have been better, I think, to say,-

Que benis soient les dieux qui condamnent ma vie-

Condamnent! ah! well, yes, there is a compliment!- the King condemned to La Valliere- no!” Then he repeated:-

”Mais benis soient les dieux qui- destinent ma vie.

Not bad, although destinent ma vie is weak; but, good Heavens! everything can’t be strong in a quatrain. A plus aimer vos yeux,- in loving more whom, what? Obscurity. But obscurity is nothing; since La Valliere and the King have understood me, every one will understand me. Yes; but here is something melancholy,- the last hemistich: qui m’ont joue ces tours. The plural necessitated by the rhyme! And then to call the modesty of La Valliere a trick,- that is not happy! I shall be a byword to all my quill-driving acquaintances. They will say that my poems are verses in the grand-seigneur style; and if the King hears it said that I am a bad poet, he will take it into his head to believe it.”

While confiding these words to his heart and engaging his heart in these thoughts, the count was undressing himself. He had just taken off his coat, and was putting on his dressing-gown, when he was informed that M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds was waiting to be received.

“Eh!” he said, “what does that bunch of names mean? I don’t know him.”

“It is the same gentleman,” replied the lackey, “who had the honor of dining with you, Monseigneur, at the King’s table, when his Majesty was staying at Fontainebleau.”

“With the King, at Fontainebleau?” cried De Saint-Aignan. “Eh! quick, quick! introduce that gentleman.”

The lackey hastened to obey. Porthos entered. M. de Saint-Aignan had an excellent recollection of persons, and at the first glance he recognized the gentleman from the country who enjoyed so singular a reputation, and whom the King had received so favorably at Fontainebleau, in spite of the smiles of some of those who were present. He therefore advanced towards Porthos with all outward signs of good-will, which Porthos thought but natural, considering that he himself, whenever he called upon an adversary, hoisted the standard of the most refined politeness. De Saint-Aignan desired the servant to give Porthos a chair; and the latter, who saw nothing unusual in this act of politeness, sat down gravely, and coughed.

The ordinary courtesies having been exchanged between the two gentlemen, the count, since to him the visit was paid, said, “May I ask, Monsieur the Baron, to what happy circumstance I owe the favor of your visit?”

“The very thing I am about to have the honor of explaining to you, Monsieur the Count; but, I beg your pardon-”

“What is the matter, Monsieur?” inquired De Saint-Aignan.

“I regret to say that I have broken your chair.”

“Not at all, Monsieur,” said De Saint-Aignan; “not at all.”

“It is the fact, though, Monsieur the Count; I have broken it,- so much so, indeed, that if I remain in it I shall fall down, which would be an exceedingly disagreeable position for me in the discharge of the very serious mission which has been intrusted to me with regard to yourself.”

Porthos rose; and but just in time, for the chair had given way several inches. De Saint-Aignan looked about him for something more solid for his guest to sit upon.

“Modern articles of furniture,” said Porthos, while the count was looking about, “are constructed in a ridiculously light manner. In my early days, when I used to sit down with far more energy than now, I do not remember ever to have broken a chair, except in taverns, with my arms.” De Saint-Aignan smiled at this remark. “But,” said Porthos, as he settled himself on a couch, which creaked but did not give way beneath his weight, “that unfortunately has nothing whatever to do with my present visit.”

“Why unfortunately? Are you the bearer of a message of ill omen, Monsieur the Baron?”

“Of ill omen,- for a gentleman? Certainly not, Monsieur the Count,” replied Porthos, nobly. “I have simply come to say that you have seriously offended a friend of mine.”

“I, Monsieur?” exclaimed De Saint-Aignan,- “I have offended a friend of yours, do you say? May I ask his name?”

“M. Raoul de Bragelonne.”

“I have offended M. Raoul de Bragelonne!” cried De Saint-Aignan. “I really assure you, Monsieur, that it is quite impossible; for M. de Bragelonne, whom I know but very slightly,- nay, whom I know hardly at all,- is in England; and as I have not seen him for a long time past, I cannot possibly have offended him.”

“M. de Bragelonne is in Paris, Monsieur the Count,” said Porthos, perfectly unmoved; “and I repeat, it is quite certain you have offended him, since he himself told me you had. Yes, Monsieur, you have seriously offended him, mortally offended him, I repeat.”

“It is impossible, Monsieur the Baron, I swear,- quite impossible.”

“Besides,” added Porthos, “you cannot be ignorant of the circumstance, since M. de Bragelonne informed me that he had already apprised you of it by a note.”

“I give you my word of honor, Monsieur, that I have received no note whatever.”

“This is most extraordinary,” replied Porthos.

“I will convince you,” said De Saint-Aignan, “that I have received nothing in any way from him”; and he rang the bell. “Basque,” he said to the servant who entered, “how many letters or notes were sent here during my absence?”

“Three, Monsieur the Count,- a note from M. de Fiesque, one from Madame de Laferte, and a letter from M. de las Fuentes.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, Monsieur the Count.”

“Speak the truth before this gentleman,- the truth, you understand! I will take care you are not blamed.”

“There was a note, also, from- from-”

“Well, from whom?”

“From Mademoiselle de la Val-”

“That is quite sufficient,” interrupted Porthos. “I believe you, Monsieur the Count.”

De Saint-Aignan dismissed the valet and followed him to the door in order to close it after him; and when he had done so, looking straight before him, he happened to see in the keyhole of the adjoining apartment the paper which Bragelonne had slipped in there as he left. “What is this?” he said.

Porthos, who was sitting with his back to the room, turned round. “Oh, oh!” he said.

“A note in the keyhole!” exclaimed De Saint-Aignan.

“That is not unlikely to be the one we want, Monsieur the Count,” said Porthos.

De Saint-Aignan took out the paper. “A note from M. de Bragelonne!” he exclaimed.

“You see, Monsieur, I was right. Oh, when I say a thing-”

“Brought here by M. de Bragelonne himself,” the count murmured, turning pale. “This is infamous! How could he possibly have come here?” and the count rang again.

“Who has been here during my absence with the King?”

“No one, Monsieur.”

“That is impossible. Some one must have been here.”

“No one could possibly have entered, Monsieur; since I kept the keys in my own pocket.”

“And yet I find this letter in that lock yonder. Some one must have put it there; it could not have come alone.”

Basque opened his arms, as if signifying the most absolute ignorance on the subject.

“Probably it was M. de Bragelonne himself who placed it there,” said Porthos.

“In that case he must have entered here.”

“Without doubt, Monsieur.”

“How could that have been, since I have the key in my own pocket?” returned Basque, perseveringly.

De Saint-Aignan crumpled up the letter in his hand, after having read it.

“There is something mysterious about this,” he murmured, absorbed in thought.

Porthos left him to his reflections; but after a while returned to the mission he had undertaken. “Shall we return to our little affair?” he said, addressing De Saint-Aignan, as soon as the lackey had disappeared.

“I think I can now understand it, from this note which has arrived here in so singular a manner. M. de Bragelonne says that a friend will call.”

“I am his friend, and am the one he alludes to.”

“For the purpose of giving me a challenge?”

“Precisely.”

“And he complains that I have offended him?”

“Mortally so.”

“In what way, may I ask?- for his conduct is so mysterious that it at least needs some explanation.”

“Monsieur,” replied Porthos, “my friend cannot but be right; and so far as his conduct is concerned, if it be mysterious, as you say, you have only yourself to blame for it.”

Porthos pronounced these words with an amount of confidence which for a man who was unaccustomed to his ways must have indicated an infinity of sense.

“Mystery? Be it so; but what is the mystery about?” said De Saint-Aignan.

“You will think it best, perhaps,” Porthos replied, with a low bow, “that I do not enter into particulars, and for excellent reasons.”

“Oh, I perfectly understand you! We will touch very lightly upon it, then. So speak, Monsieur; I am listening.”

“In the first place, Monsieur,” said Porthos, “you have changed your apartments.”

“Yes, that is quite true.”

“You admit it, then,” said Porthos, with an air of satisfaction.

“Admit it? of course I admit it. Why should I not admit it, do you suppose?”

“You have admitted it. Very good,” said Porthos, lifting up one finger.

“But how can my having moved my lodgings have done M. de Bragelonne any harm? Have the goodness to tell me that, for I positively do not comprehend a word of what you are saying.”

Porthos stopped him, and then said with great gravity: “Monsieur, this is the first of M. de Bragelonne’s complaints against you. If he makes a complaint, it is because he feels himself insulted.”

De Saint-Aignan began to beat his foot impatiently on the floor. “This looks like a bad quarrel,” he said.

“No one can possibly have a bad quarrel with the Vicomte de Bragelonne,” returned Porthos; “but, at all events, you have nothing to add on the subject of your changing your apartments, I suppose?”

“Nothing. And what is the next point?”

“Ah, the next! You will observe, Monsieur, that the one I have already mentioned is a most serious injury, to which you have given no answer, or rather have answered very indifferently. So, Monsieur, you change your lodgings; that offends M. de Bragelonne, and you do not attempt to excuse yourself? Very well!”

“What!” cried De Saint-Aignan, who was irritated by the coolness of his visitor,- “what! Am I to consult M. de Bragelonne whether I am to move or not? You can hardly be serious, Monsieur.”

“Absolutely necessary, Monsieur; but, under any circumstances, you will admit that it is nothing in comparison with the second ground of complaint.”

“Well, what is that?”

Porthos assumed a very serious expression as he said, “How about the trap-door, Monsieur?”

De Saint-Aignan turned exceedingly pale. He pushed back his chair so abruptly that Porthos, simple as he was, perceived that the blow had told. “The trap-door?” murmured De Saint-Aignan.

“Yes, Monsieur, explain that if you can,” said Porthos, shaking his head.

De Saint-Aignan held down his head. “Oh, I have been betrayed,” he murmured; “everything is known!”

“Everything,” replied Porthos, who knew nothing.

“You see me overwhelmed,” pursued De Saint-Aignan,- “overwhelmed to such a degree that I hardly know what I am about.”

“A guilty conscience, Monsieur! Your affair is a bad one.”

“Monsieur!”

“And when the public shall learn all about it, and will judge-”

“Oh, Monsieur!” exclaimed the count, hurriedly, “such a secret ought not to be known, even by one’s confessor!”

“That we will think about,” said Porthos; “the secret will not go far, in fact.”

“But, Monsieur,” returned De Saint-Aignan, “is M. de Bragelonne, in penetrating the secret, aware of the danger to which he exposes himself and others?”

“M. de Bragelonne incurs no danger, Monsieur, nor does he fear any either,- as you, if it please Heaven, will find out very soon.”

“This fellow is a perfect madman,” thought De Saint-Aignan. “What, in Heaven’s name, does he want?” He then said aloud: “Come, Monsieur, let us hush up this affair.”

“You forget the portrait!” said Porthos, in a voice of thunder, which made the count’s blood freeze in his veins.

As the portrait in question was La Valliere’s portrait, and as no mistake could any longer exist on the subject, De Saint-Aignan’s eyes were completely opened. “Ah,” he exclaimed,- “ah, Monsieur, I remember now that M. de Bragelonne was engaged to be married to her.”

Porthos assumed an imposing air- all the majesty of ignorance, in fact- as he said: “It matters nothing whatever to me, nor to yourself indeed, whether or not my friend was, as you say, engaged to be married. I am even astonished that you should have made use of so indiscreet a remark. It may possibly do your cause harm, Monsieur.”

“Monsieur,” replied De Saint-Aignan, “you are the incarnation of intelligence, delicacy, and loyalty of feeling united. I see the whole matter now clearly enough.”

“So much the better,” said Porthos.

“And,” pursued De Saint-Aignan, “you have made me comprehend it in the most ingenious and the most delicate manner possible. Thank you, Monsieur, thank you.” Porthos drew himself up. “Only, now that I know everything, permit me to explain-”

Porthos shook his head as a man who does not wish to hear; but De Saint-Aignan continued: “I am in despair, I assure you, at all that has happened; but how would you have acted in my place? Come, between ourselves, tell me what would you have done?”

Porthos raised his head. “There is no question at all of what I should have done, young man; you have now,” he said, “been made acquainted with the three causes of complaint against you, I believe?”

“As for the first, my change of rooms,- and I now address myself to you, as a man of honor and of great intelligence,- could I, when the desire of so august a personage was so urgently expressed that I should move, ought I to have disobeyed?”

Porthos was about to speak, but De Saint-Aignan did not give him time to answer. “Ah! my frankness, I see, convinces you,” he said, interpreting the movement in his own interest. “You perceive that I am right?”

Porthos did not reply. De Saint-Aignan continued: “I pass to that unfortunate trap-door,” placing his hand on Porthos’s arm,- “that trap-door, the occasion and the means of so much unhappiness, and which was constructed for- you know what. Well, then, in plain truth, do you suppose that it was I who, of my own accord, in such a place too, had that trap-door made? Oh, no! you do not believe it; and here, again, you feel, you guess, you understand the influence of a will superior to my own. You can conceive the infatuation,- I do not speak of love, that madness irresistible! But, thank Heaven! happily the affair is with a man who has so much sensitiveness of feeling. If it were not so, indeed, what an amount of misery and scandal would fall upon her, poor girl! and upon him- whom I will not name.”

Porthos, confused and bewildered by the eloquence and gestures of De Saint-Aignan, made a thousand efforts to stem this torrent of words, of which, by the by, he did not understand a single one; he remained upright and motionless on his seat, and that was all he could do.

De Saint-Aignan continued, and gave a new inflection to his voice, and an increasing vehemence to his gesture: “As for the portrait,- for I readily believe the portrait is the principal cause of complaint,- tell me candidly if you think me to blame? Who was it that wished to have her portrait? Was it I? Who is in love with her? Is it I? Who desires her? Who has won her? Is it I? No, a thousand times no! I know M. de Bragelonne must be in a state of despair; I know these misfortunes are most cruel. But I, too, am suffering as well; and yet there is no possibility of offering any resistance. If he struggles, he will be derided; if he resists, he is lost. You will tell me, I know, that despair is madness; but you are reasonable,- you have understood me. I perceive by your serious, thoughtful, embarrassed air, even, that the importance of the situation in which we are placed has not escaped you. Return, therefore, to M. de Bragelonne; thank him- as I have indeed reason to thank him- for having chosen as an intermediary a man of your merit. Believe me that I shall, on my side, preserve an eternal gratitude for the man who has so ingeniously, so cleverly corrected the misunderstanding between us. And since ill-luck would have it that the secret should be known to four instead of to three, why, this secret, which might make the most ambitious man’s fortune, I am delighted to share with you, Monsieur; from the bottom of my heart I am delighted at it. From this very moment you can make use of me as you please; I place myself entirely at your mercy. What can I possibly do for you? What can I solicit, nay, require even? Speak, Monsieur, speak!”

According to the familiarly friendly fashion of that period, De Saint-Aignan threw his arms round Porthos, and clasped him tenderly in his embrace. Porthos allowed him to do this with the most complete indifference.

“Speak!” resumed De Saint-Aignan; what do you require?”

“Monsieur,” said Porthos, “I have a horse below; be good enough to mount him. He is a very good one, and will play you no tricks.”

“Mount on horseback! What for?” inquired De Saint-Aignan, with no little curiosity.

“To accompany me where M. de Bragelonne is awaiting us.”

“Ah! he wishes to speak to me, I suppose? I can well believe that; he wishes to have the details, very likely. Alas! it is a very delicate matter; but at the present moment I cannot, for the King is waiting for me.”

“The King will wait,” said Porthos.

“But where is M. de Bragelonne expecting me?”

“At the Minimes, at Vincennes.”

“Ah, indeed! but we are going to laugh over the affair when we get there?”

“I don’t think it likely,- not I, at least”; and the face of Porthos assumed a stern hardness of expression. “The Minimes is a rendezvous for duels.”

“Very well; what, then, have I to do at the Minimes?”

Porthos slowly drew his sword, and said, “That is the length of my friend’s sword.”

“Why, the man is mad!” cried De Saint-Aignan.

The color mounted to Porthos’s face, as he replied: “If I had not the honor of being in your own apartment, Monsieur, and of representing M. de Bragelonne’s interests, I would throw you out of the window. It will be merely a pleasure postponed, and you will lose nothing by waiting. Will you come to the Minimes, Monsieur?”

“Eh!”

“Will you go thither of your own free will?”

“But-”

“I will carry you if you do not come. Take care!”

“Basque!” cried M. de Saint-Aignan. As soon as Basque appeared, he said, “The King wishes to see Monsieur the Count.”

“That is very different,” said Porthos; “the King’s service before everything else. We will wait there until this evening, Monsieur.” And saluting De Saint-Aignan with his usual courtesy, Porthos left the room, delighted at having arranged another affair.

De Saint-Aignan looked after him as he left; and then hastily putting on his coat again, he ran off, arranging his dress as he went along, muttering to himself: “The Minimes! the Minimes! We will see how the King will like this challenge; for it is for him, after all, pardieu!”

Rival Politics

On his return from the ride which had been so prolific in poetical effusions, and in which everyone had paid tribute to the Muses, as the poets of the period used to say, the King found M. Fouquet waiting for an audience. Behind the King came M. Colbert, who had met the King in the corridor, as if on the watch for him, and followed him like a jealous and watchful shadow,- M. Colbert, with his square head, and his vulgar and untidy though rich costume, which gave him some resemblance to a Flemish gentleman after drinking beer. Fouquet, at the sight of his enemy, remained unmoved, and during the whole of the scene which followed observed that line of conduct so difficult to a man of refinement whose heart is filled with contempt, but who wishes to suppress every indication of it, lest he may do his adversary too much honor. Colbert did not conceal his insolent joy. In his opinion, M. Fouquet’s was a game very badly played and hopelessly lost, although not yet finished. Colbert belonged to that school of politicians who think cleverness alone worthy of their admiration, and success the only thing worth caring for. Colbert, moreover, who was not simply an envious and jealous man, but who had the King’s interest really at heart, because he was thoroughly imbued with the highest sense of probity in all matters of figures and accounts, could well afford to assign as a pretext for his conduct, that in hating and doing his utmost to ruin M. Fouquet he had nothing in view but the welfare of the State and the dignity of the crown.

None of these details escaped Fouquet’s observation. Through his enemy’s thick, bushy brows, and despite the restless movement of his eyelids, he could, by merely looking at his eyes, penetrate to the very bottom of Colbert’s heart; he saw, then, all there was in that heart,- hatred and triumph. But as he wished, while observing everything, to remain himself impenetrable, he composed his features, smiled with that charmingly sympathetic smile which was peculiarly his own, and saluted the King with the most dignified and graceful ease and elasticity of manner. “Sire,” he said, “I perceive by your Majesty’s joyous air that you have had a pleasant ride.”

“Charming, indeed, Monsieur the Superintendent, charming! You were very wrong not to come with us as I invited you to do.”

“I was working, Sire,” replied the superintendent, who did not take the trouble to turn aside his head even in recognition of Colbert’s presence.

“Ah! M. Fouquet,” cried the King, “there is nothing like the country. I should be delighted to live in the country always, in the open air and under the trees.”

“Oh! your Majesty is not yet weary of the throne, I trust?” said Fouquet.

“No; but thrones of soft turf are very delightful.”

“Your Majesty gratifies my utmost wishes in speaking in that manner, for I have a request to submit to you.”

“On whose behalf, Monsieur?”

“On behalf of the nymphs of Vaux, Sire.”

“Ah! ah!” said Louis XIV.

“Your Majesty once deigned to make me a promise,” said Fouquet.

“Yes, I remember it.”

“The fête at Vaux, the celebrated fête, is it not, Sire?” said Colbert, endeavoring to show his importance by taking part in the conversation.

Fouquet, with the profoundest contempt, did not take the slightest notice of the remark, as if, so far as he was concerned, Colbert had not spoken. “Your Majesty is aware,” he said, “that I destine my estate at Vaux to receive the most amiable of princes, the most powerful of monarchs.”

“I have given you my promise, Monsieur,” said Louis XIV, smiling; “and a King never departs from his word.”

“And I have come now, Sire, to inform your Majesty that I am ready to obey your orders in every respect.”

“Do you promise me many wonders, Monsieur the Superintendent?” said Louis, looking at Colbert.

“Wonders? Oh, no, Sire! I do not undertake that; but I hope to be able to procure your Majesty a little pleasure, perhaps even a little forgetfulness of the cares of State.”

“Nay, nay, M. Fouquet,” returned the King; “I insist upon the word ‘wonders.’ Oh, you are a magician! We know your power; we know that you could find gold, even were there none in the world. And, in fact, people say you make it.”

Fouquet felt that the shot was discharged from a double quiver, and that the King had launched an arrow from his own bow as well as one from Colbert’s. “Oh!” said he, laughingly, “the people know perfectly well out of what mine I procure the gold; they know it only too well, perhaps. Besides,” he added proudly, “I can assure your Majesty that the gold destined to pay the expenses of the fête at Vaux will cost neither blood nor tears; hard labor it may, perhaps. But that can be paid for.”

Louis remained silent; he wished to look at Colbert. Colbert, too, wished to reply; but a glance as swift as an eagle’s,- a proud, loyal, king-like glance, indeed,- which Fouquet darted at the latter, arrested the words upon his lips. The King, who had by this time recovered his self-possession, turned towards Fouquet, saying, “I presume, therefore, I am now to consider myself formally invited?”

“Yes, Sire, if it pleases your Majesty.”

“For what day?”

“Any day your Majesty may find most convenient.”

“You speak like an enchanter who improvises, M. Fouquet. I could not say so much, indeed.”

“Your Majesty will do, whenever you please, everything that a monarch can and ought to do. The King of France has servants at his bidding who are able to do anything on his behalf, to accomplish everything to gratify his pleasures.”

Colbert tried to look at the superintendent in order to see whether this remark was an approach to less hostile sentiments on his part. But Fouquet had not even looked at his enemy; so far as he was concerned, Colbert did not exist.

“Very good, then,” said the King; “will a week hence suit you?”

“Perfectly well, Sire.”

“This is Tuesday; if I give you until next Sunday week, will that be sufficient?”

“The delay which your Majesty deigns to accord me will greatly aid the various works which my architects have in hand for the purpose of adding to the amusement of your Majesty and your friends.”

“By the by, speaking of my friends,” resumed the King; “how do you intend to treat them?”

“The King is master everywhere, Sire; your Majesty will draw up your own list and give your own orders. All those you may deign to invite will be my guests,- my honored guests indeed.”

“I thank you!” returned the King, touched by the noble thought expressed in so noble a tone.

Fouquet therefore took leave of Louis XIV, after a few words had been added with regard to the details of certain matters of business. He felt that Colbert would remain behind with the King, that they would both converse about him, and that neither of them would spare him in the least degree. The satisfaction of being able to give a last and terrible blow to his enemy seemed to him almost like a compensation for everything to which they were about to subject him. He turned back again immediately, when he had already reached the door, and addressing the King, “Pardon, Sire,” said he,- “pardon!”

“Pardon for what?” said the King, graciously.

“For a serious fault which I committed unawares.”

“A fault! You! Ah, M. Fouquet, I shall be unable to do otherwise than forgive you. In what way or against whom have you been found wanting?”

“Against all propriety, Sire. I forgot to inform your Majesty of a circumstance of considerable importance.”

“What is it?”

Colbert trembled; he expected a denunciation. His conduct had been unmasked. A single syllable from Fouquet, a single proof formally advanced, and before the youthful loyalty of Louis XIV Colbert’s favor would disappear at once. The latter trembled, therefore, lest so daring a blow might not overthrow his whole scaffold. In point of fact, the opportunity was so admirably suited to be taken advantage of, that a skilful player like Aramis would not have let it slip. “Sire,” said Fouquet, with an easy air, “since you have had the kindness to forgive me, I am indifferent about my confession: this morning I sold one of the official appointments I hold.”

“One of your appointments?” said the King; “which?”

Colbert turned livid. “That which conferred upon me, Sire, a grand gown and an air of gravity,- the appointment of procureur-général.”

The King involuntarily uttered a loud exclamation and looked at Colbert, who with his face bedewed with perspiration felt almost on the point of fainting. “To whom have you sold this appointment, M. Fouquet?” inquired the King.

Colbert was obliged to lean against the side of the fire-place.

“To a councillor belonging to the parliament, Sire, whose name is Vanel.”

“Vanel?”

“A friend of the intendant Colbert,” added Fouquet, letting every word fall from his lips with inimitable nonchalance, and with an admirably assumed expression of forgetfulness and ignorance which neither painter, actor, nor poet could reproduce with brush, gesture, or pen. Then having finished, having overwhelmed Colbert beneath the weight of this superiority, the superintendent again saluted the King and quitted the room, partially revenged by the stupefaction of the King and the humiliation of the favorite.

“Is it really possible,” said the King, as soon as Fouquet had disappeared, “that he has sold that office?”

“Yes, Sire,” said Colbert, meaningly.

“He must be mad,” the King added.

Colbert this time did not reply; he had penetrated the King’s thought. That thought promised him revenge. His hatred was augmented by jealousy; and a threat of disgrace was now added to the plan he had arranged for his ruin. Colbert felt assured that for the future, as between Louis XIV and himself, his hostile ideas would meet with no obstacles, and that at the first fault committed by Fouquet which could be laid hold of as a pretext, the chastisement impending over him would be precipitated. Fouquet had thrown aside his weapons of defence; Hate and Jealousy had picked them up.

Colbert was invited by the King to the fête at Vaux; he bowed like a man confident in himself, and accepted the invitation with the air of one who confers a favor. The King was about writing down De Saint-Aignan’s name on his list of invitations, when the usher announced the Comte de Saint-Aignan. As soon as the royal “Mercury” entered, Colbert discreetly withdrew.

Rival Lovers

De Saint-Aignan had quitted Louis XIV hardly two hours before; but in the first effervescence of his affection, whenever Louis XIV did not see La Valliere he was obliged to talk of her. Now, the only person with whom he could speak about her at his ease was De Saint-Aignan, and that person had therefore become indispensable to him.

“Ah! is that you, Count?” the King exclaimed, as soon as he perceived him,- doubly delighted, not only to see him again, but also to get rid of Colbert, whose scowling face always put him out of humor,- “so much the better. I am very glad to see you; you will make one of the travelling-party, I suppose?”

“Of what travelling-party are you speaking, Sire?” inquired De Saint-Aignan.

“The one we are making up to go to the fête the superintendent is about to give at Vaux. Ah! De Saint-Aignan, you will at last see a fête, a royal fête, by the side of which all our amusements at Fontainebleau are petty, contemptible affairs.”

“At Vaux?- the superintendent going to give a fête in your Majesty’s honor? Nothing more than that!”

“‘Nothing more than that!’ do you say? It is very diverting to find you treating it with so much disdain. Are you, who express such indifference on the subject, aware that as soon as it is known that M. Fouquet is going to receive me at Vaux next Sunday week, people will be striving their very utmost to get invited to the fête? I repeat, De Saint-Aignan, you shall be one of the invited guests.”

“Very well, Sire; unless I shall in the mean time have undertaken a longer and less agreeable journey.”

“What journey?”

“The one across the Styx, Sire.”

“Bah!” said Louis XIV, laughing.

“No, seriously, Sire,” replied De Saint-Aignan, “I am invited there; and in such a way, in truth, that I hardly know what to say or how to act in order to refuse it.”

“I do not understand you. I know that you are in a poetical vein; but try not to sink from Apollo to Phoebus.”

“Very well; if your Majesty will deign to listen to me, I will not keep you in suspense any longer.”

“Speak!”

“Your Majesty knows the Baron du Vallon?”

“Yes, indeed,- a good servant to my father, the late King, and an admirable companion at table; for I think you are referring to him who dined with us at Fontainebleau?”

“Precisely; but you have omitted to add to his other qualifications, Sire, that he is a most charming killer of people.”

“What! does M. du Vallon wish to kill you?”

“Or to get me killed,- which is the same thing.”

“Bless my heart!”

“Do not laugh, Sire, for I am not saying a word that is not the exact truth.”

“And you say he wishes to get you killed?”

“That is that excellent person’s present idea.”

“Be easy; I will defend you, if he be in the wrong.”

“Ah! there is an ‘if’.”

“Of course! Answer me as candidly as if it were some one else’s affair instead of your own, my poor De Saint-Aignan: is he right or wrong?”

“Your Majesty shall be the judge.”

“What have you done to him?”

“To him, personally, nothing at all; but it seems I have to one of his friends.”

“It is all the same. Is his friend one of the celebrated ‘four’?”

“No! It is only the son of one of the celebrated ‘four.’”

“What have you done to the son? Come, tell me.”

“Why, I have helped some one to take his mistress from him.”

“You confess it, then?

“I cannot help confessing it, for it is true.”

“In that case you are wrong.”

“Ah! I am wrong?”

“Yes; and my faith, if he kills you-”

“Well?”

“Well, he will do what is right.”

“Ah! that is your Majesty’s way of reasoning, then?”

“Do you think it a bad way?”

“It is a very expeditious way.”

“‘Good justice is prompt’; so my grandfather Henry IV used to say.”

“In that case your Majesty will immediately sign my adversary’s pardon, for he is now waiting for me at the Minimes to kill me.”

“His name, and a parchment!”

“There is a parchment upon your Majesty’s table; and as for his name-”

“Well, what is it?”

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Sire.”

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne!” exclaimed the King, changing from a fit of laughter to the most profound stupor; and then after a moment’s silence, while he wiped his forehead, which was bedewed with perspiration, he again murmured, “Bragelonne!”

“No other than he, Sire.”

“Bragelonne, who was affianced to-”

“Yes, Sire.”

“He was in London, however.”

“Yes; but I can assure you, Sire, he is there no longer.”

“Is he in Paris?”

“He is at the Minimes, Sire, where he is waiting for me, as I have already had the honor of telling you.”

“Does he know all?”

“Yes; and many things besides. Perhaps your Majesty would like to look at the letter I have received from him”; and De Saint Aignan drew from his pocket the note with which we are already acquainted. “When your Majesty has read the letter, I will tell you how it reached me.”

The King read it in great agitation, and immediately said, “Well?”

“Well, Sire; your Majesty knows a certain carved lock, closing a certain door of ebony-wood, which separates a certain apartment from a certain blue and white sanctuary?”

“Of course! Louise’s boudoir.”

“Yes, Sire. Well, it was in the keyhole of that lock that I found that note. Who placed it there? Either M. de Bragelonne, or the devil himself; but inasmuch as the note smells of amber and not of sulphur, I conclude that it must be, not the devil, but M. de Bragelonne.”

Louis bent down his head, and seemed absorbed in sad and melancholy reflections. Perhaps something like remorse was at that moment passing through his heart. “Oh!” he said, “that secret discovered!”

“Sire, I shall do my utmost that the secret dies in the breast of the man who possesses it,” said De Saint-Aignan, in a tone of bravado, as he moved towards the door; but a gesture of the King made him pause.

“Where are you going?” he inquired.

“Where I am waited for, Sire.”

“What for?”

“To fight, in all probability.”

“You fight!” exclaimed the King. “One moment, if you please, Monsieur the Count!”

De Saint-Aignan shook his head, as a rebellious child does whenever any one interferes to prevent him from throwing himself into a well or playing with a knife.

“But yet, Sire-” he said.

“In the first place,” continued the King, “I require to be enlightened a little.”

“Upon that point, if your Majesty will be pleased to interrogate me,” replied De Saint-Aignan, “I will throw what light I can.”

“Who told you that M. de Bragelonne had penetrated into that room?”

“The letter which I found in the keyhole told me so.”

“Who told you that it was De Bragelonne who put it there?”

“Who but himself would have dared to undertake such a mission?”

“You are right. How was he able to get into your rooms?”

“Ah! that is very serious, inasmuch as all the doors were closed, and my lackey, Basque, had the keys in his pocket.”

“Your lackey must have been bribed.”

“Impossible, Sire; for if he had been bribed, those who did so would not have sacrificed the poor fellow, whom it is not unlikely they might want to turn to further use by and by, in showing so clearly that it was he of whom they had made use.”

“Quite true. And now there remains but one conjecture.”

“Let us see, Sire, if it is the same that has presented itself to my mind.”

“That he effected an entrance by means of the staircase.”

“Alas! Sire, that seems to me more than probable.”

“There is no doubt that some one sold the secret of the trap-door.”

“Either sold it or gave it.”

“Why do you make that distinction?”

“Because there are certain persons, Sire, who being above the price of a treason give, and do not sell.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, Sire, your Majesty’s mind is too clear-sighted not to guess what I mean, and you will save me the embarrassment of naming any one.”

“You are right: you mean Madame!”

“Ah!” said De Saint-Aignan.

“Madame, whose suspicions were aroused by your changing your lodgings.”

“Madame, who has keys of the apartments of her maids of honor, and is powerful enough to discover what no one but yourself or she would be able to discover.”

“And you suppose, then, that my sister has entered into an alliance with Bragelonne?”

“Eh! eh! Sire-”

“So far as to inform him of all the details of the affair?”

“Perhaps even further still.”

“Further? What do you mean?”

“Perhaps to the point of going with him.”

“Which way,- through your own apartments?”

“You think it impossible, Sire? Well, listen to me! Your Majesty knows that Madame is very fond of perfumes?”

“Yes, she acquired that taste from my mother.”

“Vervain particularly.”

“Yes, it is the scent she prefers to all others.”

“Very good, Sire! my apartments smell very strongly of vervain.”

The King remained silent and thoughtful for a few moments, and then resumed: “But why should Madame take Bragelonne’s part against me?” De Saint-Aignan could very easily have replied: “A woman’s jealousy!” In his question the King had probed his friend to the bottom of his heart to ascertain if he had learned the secret of his flirtation with his sister-in-law. But De Saint-Aignan was not an ordinary courtier; he did not lightly run the risk of finding out family secrets; and he was too good a friend of the Muses not to think very frequently of poor Ovidius Naso, whose eyes shed so many tears in expiation of his crime for having once beheld something, one hardly knows what, in the palace of Augustus. He therefore passed by Madame’s secret very skilfully. But since he had exhibited his sagacity in proving Madame’s presence in his rooms with Bragelonne, it was now necessary for him to pay interest on that self-conceit, and reply clearly to the question, “Why has Madame taken Bragelonne’s part against me?”

“Why?” replied De Saint-Aignan. “Your Majesty forgets, I presume, that the Comte de Guiche is the intimate friend of the Vicomte de Bragelonne?”

“I do not see the connection, however,” said the King.

“Ah! I beg your pardon then, Sire; but I thought the Comte de Guiche was a very great friend of Madame.”

“Quite true,” the King returned. “There is no occasion to search any further; the blow came from that direction.”

“And is not your Majesty of the opinion that in order to ward it off it will be necessary to deal another blow?”

“Yes; but not one of the kind given in the Bois de Vincennes,” replied the King.

“You forget, Sire,” said De Saint-Aignan, “that I am a gentleman, and that I have been challenged.”

“The challenge neither concerns nor was it intended for you.”

“But it is I who have been expected at the Minimes, Sire, during the last hour and more; and I shall be dishonored if I do not go there.”

“The first honor and duty of a gentleman is obedience to his sovereign.”

“Sire!”

“I order you to remain.”

“Sire!”

“Obey, Monsieur!”

“As your Majesty pleases.”

“Besides, I wish to have the whole of this affair explained; I wish to know how it is that I have been so insolently trifled with as to have the sanctuary of my affection pried into. It is not you, De Saint-Aignan, who ought to punish those who have acted in this manner; for it is not your honor they have attacked, but my own.”

“I implore your Majesty not to overwhelm M. de Bragelonne with your wrath; for although in the whole of this affair he may have shown himself deficient in prudence, he has not been so in his feelings of loyalty.”

“Enough! I shall know how to decide between the just and the unjust, even in the height of my anger. But take care that not a word of this is breathed to Madame!”

“But what am I to do with regard to M. de Bragelonne? He will be seeking me in every direction, and-”

“I shall either have spoken to him, or taken care that he has been spoken to before the evening is over.”

“Let me once more entreat your Majesty to be indulgent towards him.”

“I have been indulgent long enough, Count,” said Louis XIV, frowning; “it is time to show certain persons that I am master in my own palace.”

The King had hardly pronounced these words, which betokened that a fresh feeling of dissatisfaction was mingled with the remembrance of an old one, when the usher appeared at the door of the cabinet. “What is the matter,” inquired the King, “and why do you presume to come when I have not summoned you?”

“Sire,” said the usher, “your Majesty desired me to permit M. le Comte de la Fere to pass freely at any time when he might wish to speak to your Majesty.”

“Well?”

“M. le Comte de la Fere is now waiting to see your Majesty.”

The King and De Saint-Aignan at this reply exchanged a look which betrayed more uneasiness than surprise. Louis hesitated for a moment, but almost immediately forming a resolution, he said: “Go, De Saint-Aignan, and find Louise; inform her of the plot against us. Do not let her be ignorant that Madame is beginning again her persecutions, and that she has set to work those who would have done better had they remained neutral.”

“Sire-”

“If Louise gets nervous and frightened, reassure her; tell her that the King’s love is an impenetrable shield over her. If, as I suspect is the case, she already knows everything, or if she has already been herself subjected to an attack, tell her, be sure to tell her, De Saint-Aignan,” added the King, trembling with passion,- “tell her, I say, that this time, instead of defending her, I will avenge her, and that too so terribly that no one will in future even dare to raise his eyes towards her.”

“Is that all, Sire?”

“Yes; all. Go quickly, and remain faithful,- you who live in the midst of this hell without having, like myself, the hope of paradise.”

De Saint-Aignan almost exhausted himself in protestations of devotion, took the King’s hand, kissed it, and left the room radiant with delight.

King and Nobility

The King endeavored to recover his self-possession as quickly as possible, in order to meet M. de la Fere with an undisturbed countenance. He clearly saw that it was not mere chance which had induced the count’s visit. He had a vague impression of the serious import of that visit; but he felt that to a man of Athos’s tone of mind, to a person so distinguished, nothing disagreeable or disordered should be presented. As soon as the King had satisfied himself that so far as appearances were concerned he was perfectly calm again, he gave directions to the ushers to introduce the count.

A few minutes afterwards Athos, in full court dress and with his breast covered with the orders that he alone had the right to wear at the Court of France, presented himself with so grave and solemn an air that the King perceived at the first glance that he had not been mistaken in his anticipations. Louis advanced a step towards the count, and with a smile held out his hand to him, over which Athos bowed with the air of the deepest respect.

“M. le Comte de la Fere,” said the King, rapidly, “you are so seldom here that it is a very great happiness to see you.”

Athos bowed and replied, “I should wish always to enjoy the happiness of being near your Majesty.”

That reply, made in that tone, evidently signified, “I should wish to be one of your Majesty’s advisers, to save you from the commission of faults.” The King so understood it, and determined in this man’s presence to preserve all the advantages of calmness along with those of rank.

“I see you have something to say to me,” he said.

“Had it not been so, I should not have presumed to present myself before your Majesty.”

“Speak quickly; I am anxious to satisfy you,” returned the King, seating himself.

“I am persuaded,” replied Athos, in a slightly agitated tone of voice, “that your Majesty will give me every satisfaction.”

“Ah!” said the King, with a certain haughtiness of manner, “you have come to lodge a complaint here, then?”

“It would be a complaint,” returned Athos, “only in the event of your Majesty- But if you will deign to permit me, Sire, I will begin the conversation at the beginning.”

“I am listening.”

“Your Majesty will remember that at the period of the Duke of Buckingham’s departure I had the honor of an interview with you.”

“At or about that period I think I remember you did; only, with regard to the subject of the conversation, I have quite forgotten it.”

Athos started, as he replied: “I shall have the honor to recall it to your Majesty. It was with regard to a demand which I addressed to you respecting a marriage which M. de Bragelonne wished to contract with Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Ah!” thought the King, “we have come to it now. I remember,” he said, aloud.

“At that period,” pursued Athos, “your Majesty was so kind and generous towards M. de Bragelonne and myself that not a single word which then fell from your lips has escaped my memory; and when I asked your Majesty to accord me Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s hand for M. de Bragelonne, you refused.”

“Quite true,” said Louis, dryly.

“Alleging,” Athos hastened to say, “that the young lady had no position in society.”

Louis could hardly force himself to listen patiently.

“That,” added Athos, “she had but little fortune.”

The King threw himself back in his arm-chair.

“That her extraction was indifferent.”

A renewed impatience on the part of the King.

“And little beauty,” added Athos, pitilessly.

This last bolt buried itself deep in the King’s heart, and made him almost bound from his seat.

“You have a good memory, Monsieur,” he said.

“I invariably have, on all occasions when I have had the distinguished honor of an interview with your Majesty,” retorted the count, without being in the least disconcerted.

“Very good; it is admitted I said all that.”

“And I thanked your Majesty, because those words testified an interest in M. de Bragelonne, which did him much honor.”

“And you may possibly remember,” said the King, very deliberately, “that you had the greatest repugnance to this marriage?”

“Quite true, Sire.”

“And that you solicited my permission against your own inclination?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And, finally, I remember also,- for I have a memory nearly as good as your own,- I remember, I say, that you observed at the time: ‘I do not believe that Mademoiselle de la Valliere loves M. de Bragelonne.’ Is that true?”

The blow told well, but Athos did not shrink. “Sire,” he said, “I have already begged your Majesty’s forgiveness; but there are certain particulars in that conversation which will be intelligible in the dénouement.”

“Well, what is the dénouement, Monsieur?”

“This: your Majesty then said that you would defer the marriage out of regard for M. de Bragelonne’s own interests.”

The King remained silent.

“M. de Bragelonne is now so exceedingly unhappy that he cannot any longer defer asking your Majesty for a solution of the matter.”

The King turned pale; Athos looked at him with fixed attention.

“And what,” said the King, with considerable hesitation, “does M. de Bragelonne request?”

“Precisely the very thing that I came to ask your Majesty for at my last audience; namely, your Majesty’s consent to his marriage.”

The King remained silent.

“The obstacles in the way are all now quite removed for us,” continued Athos. “Mademoiselle de la Valliere, without fortune, birth, or beauty, is not the less on that account the only good match in the world for M. de Bragelonne, since he loves this young girl.”

The King pressed his hands impatiently together.

“Does your Majesty hesitate?” inquired the count, without losing a particle either of his firmness or his politeness.

“I do not hesitate,- I refuse,” replied the King.

Athos paused a moment, as if to collect himself. “I have had the honor,” he said in a mild tone, “to observe to your Majesty that no obstacle now interferes with M. de Bragelonne’s affections, and that his determination seems unalterable.”

“There is my will,- and that is an obstacle, I should imagine!”

“That is the most serious of all,” Athos replied quickly.

“Ah!”

“And may we therefore be permitted to ask your Majesty, with the greatest humility, for your reason for this refusal?”

“The reason! A question to me!” exclaimed the King.

“A demand, Sire!”

The King, leaning with both his hands upon the table, said in a deep tone of concentrated passion: “You have lost all recollection of what is usual at court. At court no one questions the King.”

“Very true, Sire; but if men do not question, they conjecture.”

“Conjecture! What may that mean?”

“Almost always the conjecture of the subject impugns the frankness of the King.”

“Monsieur!”

“And a want of confidence on the part of the subject,” pursued Athos, intrepidly.

“You are forgetting yourself,” said the King, hurried away by his anger in spite of his control over himself.

“Sire, I am obliged to seek elsewhere for what I thought I should find in your Majesty. Instead of obtaining a reply from you, I am compelled to make one for myself.”

The King rose. “Monsieur the Count,” he said, “I have now given you all the time I had at my disposal.”

This was a dismissal.

“Sire,” replied the count, “I have not yet had time to tell your Majesty what I came with the express object of saying, and I so rarely see your Majesty that I ought to avail myself of the opportunity.”

“Just now you spoke of conjectures; you are now becoming offensive.”

“Oh, Sire, offend your Majesty! I? Never! All my life have I maintained that kings are above all other men, not only in rank and power, but in nobleness of heart and dignity of mind. I never can bring myself to believe that my sovereign- he who passed his word to me- did so with a mental reservation.”

“What do you mean? What mental reservation?”

“I will explain my meaning,” said Athos, coldly. “If in refusing Mademoiselle de la Valliere to M. de Bragelonne your Majesty had some other object in view than the happiness and fortune of the viscount-”

“You perceive, Monsieur, that you are offending me.”

“If in requiring the viscount to delay his marriage your Majesty’s only object was to remove the gentleman to whom Mademoiselle de la Valliere was engaged-”

“Monsieur! Monsieur!”

“I have heard it said so in every direction, Sire. Your Majesty’s love for Mademoiselle de la Valliere is spoken of on all sides.”

The King tore his gloves, which he had been biting for some time. “Woe to those,” he cried, “who interfere in my affairs! I have chosen my course; I will crush all obstacles.”

“What obstacles?” said Athos.

The King stopped short, like a runaway horse whose bit being turned in his mouth bruises his palate. “I love Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” he said suddenly, with nobleness and with passion.

“But,” interrupted Athos, “that does not preclude your Majesty from allowing M. de Bragelonne to marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere. The sacrifice is worthy of so great a monarch; it is fully merited by M. de Bragelonne, who has already rendered great service to your Majesty, and who may well be regarded as a brave and worthy man. Your Majesty, therefore, in renouncing the affection you entertain, offers a proof at once of generosity, gratitude, and good policy.”

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere does not love M. de Bragelonne,” said the King, hoarsely.

“Does your Majesty know that to be the case?” remarked Athos, with a searching look.

“I do know it.”

“Within a short time, then; for doubtless had your Majesty known it when I first preferred my request, you would have taken the trouble to inform me.”

“Within a short time.”

Athos remained silent for a moment, and then resumed: “In that case I do not understand why your Majesty should have sent M. de Bragelonne to London. That exile, and with good reason, is a matter of astonishment to all who love the honor of the King.”

“Who presumes to speak of my honor, M. de la Fere?”

“The King’s honor, Sire, is made up of the honor of his whole nobility. Whenever the King offends one of his gentlemen,- that is, whenever he deprives him of the smallest particle of his honor,- it is from him, from the King himself, that that portion of honor is stolen.”

“M. de la Fere!” said the King, haughtily.

“Sire, you sent M. de Bragelonne to London either before you were Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s lover or since you have become so.”

The King, irritated beyond measure, especially because he felt that he was mastered, endeavored to dismiss Athos by a gesture.

“Sire,” replied the count, “I will tell you all; I will not leave your presence until I have been satisfied either by your Majesty or by myself,- satisfied if you prove to me that you are right, satisfied if I prove to you that you are wrong. Oh, you will listen to me, Sire! I am old now, and I am attached to everything that is really great and true in your kingdom. I am a gentleman who shed my blood for your father and for yourself, without ever having asked a single favor either from yourself or from your father. I have never inflicted the slightest wrong or injury on any one in this world, and have put kings under obligations to me. You will listen to me. I have come to ask you for an account of the honor of one of your servants whom you have deceived by a falsehood or betrayed through weakness. I know that these words irritate your Majesty; but on the other hand, the facts are killing us. I know you are inquiring what penalty you will inflict for my frankness; but I know what punishment I will implore God to inflict upon you when I set before him your perjury and my son’s unhappiness.”

The King during these remarks was walking hurriedly to and fro, his hand thrust into the breast of his coat, his head haughtily raised, his eyes blazing with wrath. “Monsieur,” he cried suddenly, “if I acted towards you as the King, you would be already punished; but I am only a man, and I have the right to love in this world every one who loves me,- a happiness which is so rarely found.”

“You cannot pretend to such a right as a man any more than as a king, Sire; or if you intended to exercise that right in a loyal manner, you should have told M. de Bragelonne so, and not have exiled him.”

“I think I am condescending to dispute with you, Monsieur!” interrupted Louis XIV, with that majesty of air and manner which he alone was able to give to his look and his voice.

“I was hoping that you would reply to me,” said the count.

“You shall know my reply, Monsieur, very soon.”

“You already know my thoughts on the subject,” was the Comte de la Fere’s answer.

“You have forgotten you are speaking to the King, Monsieur. It is a crime.”

“You have forgotten you are destroying the lives of two men, Sire. It is a mortal sin.”

“Go!- at once!”

“Not until I have said to you: Son of Louis XIII, you begin your reign badly, for you begin it by abduction and disloyalty! My race- myself, too- are now freed from all that affection and respect towards you to which I bound my son by oath in the vaults of St. Denis, in the presence of the relics of your noble forefathers. You are now become our enemy, Sire; and henceforth we have nothing to do save with Heaven, our sole master. Be warned!”

“Do you threaten?”

“Oh, no!” said Athos, sadly; “I have as little bravado as fear in my soul. The God of whom I spoke to you is now listening to me. He knows that for the safety and honor of your crown I would even yet shed every drop of blood which twenty years of civil and foreign warfare have left in my veins. I can well say, then, that I threaten the King as little as I threaten the man; but I tell you, Sire, you lose two servants,- for you have destroyed faith in the heart of the father, and love in the heart of the son: the one ceases to believe in the royal word, the other no longer believes in the loyalty of man or the purity of woman; the one is dead to every feeling of respect, the other to obedience. Adieu!”

Thus saying, Athos broke his sword across his knee, slowly placed the two pieces upon the floor, and saluting the King, who was almost choking from rage and shame, quitted the cabinet.

Louis, who sat near the table, completely overwhelmed, spent several minutes in recovering himself, then suddenly rose and rang the bell violently. “Tell M. d’Artagnan to come here,” he said to the terrified ushers.

After the Storm

Our readers will doubtless have been asking themselves how it happened that Athos, of whom not a word has been said for some time past, arrived so very opportunely at court. Our claim, as narrator, being that we unfold events in exact logical sequence, we hold ourselves ready to answer that question.

Porthos, faithful to his duty as an arranger of affairs, had immediately after leaving the Palais-Royal set off to join Raoul at the Minimes in the Bois de Vincennes, and had related everything, even to the smallest details, which had passed between De Saint-Aignan and himself. He finished by saying that the message which the King had sent to his favorite would not probably occasion more than a short delay, and that De Saint-Aignan, as soon as he could leave the King, would not lose a moment in accepting the invitation which Raoul had sent him.

But Raoul, less credulous than his old friend, had concluded, from Porthos’s recital, that if De Saint-Aignan was going to the King, De Saint-Aignan would tell the King everything, and that the King would therefore forbid De Saint-Aignan to obey the summons he had received to the hostile meeting. The consequence of his reflections was that he had left Porthos to remain at the place appointed for the meeting, in the very improbable case that De Saint-Aignan would come there; and had urged Porthos not to remain there more than an hour or an hour and a half. Porthos, however, formally refused to assent to that, but on the contrary installed himself in the Minimes as if he were going to take root there, making Raoul promise that when he had been to see his father, he would return to his own apartments, in order that Porthos’s servant might know where to find him in case M. de Saint-Aignan should happen to come to the rendezvous.

Bragelonne had left Vincennes, and had proceeded at once straight to the apartments of Athos, who had been in Paris during the last two days, and had been already informed of what had taken place by a letter from d’Artagnan. Raoul arrived at his father’s.

Athos, after having held out his hand to him, and embraced him most affectionately, made a sign for him to sit down. “I know you come to me as a man would go to a friend, Viscount, whenever he is suffering; tell me, therefore, what it is that brings you now.”

The young man bowed, and began his recital; more than once in the course of it his tears choked his utterance; and a sob checked in his throat compelled him to pause in his narration. However, he finished at last. Athos most probably already knew how matters stood, as we have just now said that d’Artagnan had already written to him; but preserving until the conclusion that calm, unruffled composure of manner which constituted the almost superhuman side of his character, he replied: “Raoul, I do not believe there is a word of truth in the rumors; I do not believe in the existence of what you fear, although I do not deny that persons most entitled to the fullest credit have already conversed with me on the subject. In my heart and soul I think it impossible that the King could be guilty of such an outrage upon a gentleman. I will answer for the King, therefore, and will soon bring you back the proof of what I say.”

Raoul, wavering like a drunken man between what he had seen with his own eyes and the imperturbable faith he had in a man who had never told a falsehood, bowed, and simply answered, “Go, then, Monsieur the Count; I will await your return”; and he sat down, burying his face in his hands.

Athos dressed, and then left him in order to wait upon the King; what occurred in the interview with the King is already known to our readers.

When he returned to his lodgings, Raoul, pale and dejected, had not quitted his attitude of despair. At the sound, however, of the opening doors and of his father’s footsteps, as he approached him, the young man raised his head. Athos’s face was very pale, his head uncovered, and his manner full of seriousness; he gave his cloak and hat to the lackey, dismissed him with a gesture, and sat down near Raoul.

“Well, Monsieur,” inquired the young man, “are you quite convinced now?”

“I am, Raoul; the King loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“He confesses it, then?” cried Raoul.

“Yes,” replied Athos.

“And she?”

“I have not seen her.”

“No; but the King spoke to you about her. What did he say?”

“He says that she loves him.”

“Oh, you see,- you see, Monsieur!” said the young man, with a gesture of despair.

“Raoul,” resumed the count, “I told the King, believe me, all that you yourself could possibly have said; and I believe I did so in becoming language, though sufficiently firm.”

“And what did you say to him, Monsieur?”

“I told him, Raoul, that everything was now at an end between him and ourselves; that you would never serve him again. I told him that I, too, should remain aloof. Nothing further remains for me, then, but to be satisfied of one thing.”

“What is that, Monsieur?”

“Whether you have determined to adopt any steps.”

“Any steps? Regarding what?”

“With reference to your disappointed affection and-”

“Finish, Monsieur!”

“And with reference to revenge; for I fear that you think of avenging your wrongs.”

“Oh, Monsieur, with regard to my affection, I shall perhaps, some day or other, succeed in tearing it from my heart; I trust I shall do so, aided by Heaven’s merciful help and your wise exhortations. So far as vengeance is concerned, it occurred to me only when under the influence of an evil thought, for I could not revenge myself upon the one who is actually guilty; I have therefore already renounced every idea of revenge.”

“And so you no longer think of seeking a quarrel with M. de Saint-Aignan?”

“No, Monsieur. I sent him a challenge. If he accepts it, I will maintain it; if he does not take it up, I will leave it where it is.”

“And La Valliere?”

“You cannot, I know, have seriously thought that I should dream of revenging myself upon a woman?” replied Raoul, with a smile so sad that a tear started even to the eyes of his father, who had so many times in the course of his life been bowed beneath his own sorrows and those of others.

Athos held out his hand to Raoul, which the latter seized most eagerly.

“And so, Monsieur the Count, you are quite satisfied that the misfortune is without a remedy?” inquired the young man.

Athos shook his head. “Poor boy!” he murmured.

“You think that I still hope,” said Raoul, “and you pity me. Oh, it is indeed a horrible suffering for me to despise, as I ought to do, her whom I have loved so devotedly. If I but had some real cause of complaint against her, I should be happy, and should be able to forgive her.”

Athos looked at his son with a sorrowful air. The few words which Raoul had just pronounced seemed to have issued out of his own heart. At this moment the servant announced M. d’Artagnan. This name sounded very differently to the ears of Athos and of Raoul.

The musketeer entered the room with a vague smile upon his lips. Raoul paused. Athos walked towards his friend with an expression of face which did not escape Bragelonne. D’Artagnan answered Athos’s look by a simple movement of the eyelid; and then, advancing toward Raoul, whom he took by the hand, he said, addressing both father and son, “Well, you are trying to console the boy, it seems.”

“And you, kind and good as usual, are come to help me in my difficult task.”

As he said this, Athos pressed d’Artagnan’s hand between both his own. Raoul fancied he observed in this pressure something beyond the sense his mere words conveyed.

“Yes,” replied the musketeer, smoothing his mustache with the hand that Athos had left free,- “yes, I have come also.”

“You are most welcome, Chevalier; not for the consolation you bring with you, but on your own account. I am already consoled,” said Raoul; and he attempted to smile, but the effect was far more sad than any tears d’Artagnan had ever seen shed.

“That is all well and good, then,” said d’Artagnan.

“Only,” continued Raoul, “you have arrived just as the count was about to give me the details of his interview with the King. You will allow the count to continue?” added the young man, as with his eyes fixed on the musketeer he seemed to search the depths of his heart.

“His interview with the King?” said d’Artagnan, in a tone so natural and unassumed that there was no reason to doubt his astonishment. “You have seen the King then, Athos?”

Athos smiled as he said, “Yes, I have seen him.”

“Ah, indeed! you were ignorant, then, that the count had seen his Majesty?” inquired Raoul, half reassured.

“My faith, yes! entirely.”

“In that case I am less uneasy,” said Raoul.

“Uneasy- and about what?” inquired Athos.

“Forgive me, Monsieur,” said Raoul; “but knowing so well the regard and affection you have for me, I was afraid you might possibly have expressed somewhat plainly to his Majesty my own sufferings and your indignation, and that the King had consequently-”

“And that the King had consequently-” repeated d’Artagnan; “well, go on, finish what you were going to say.”

“I have now to ask you to forgive me, M. d’Artagnan,” said Raoul. “For a moment, and I cannot help confessing it, I trembled lest you had come here, not as M. d’Artagnan, but as captain of the Musketeers.”

“You are mad, my poor boy,” cried d’Artagnan, with a burst of laughter in which an exact observer might perhaps have desired a little more frankness.

“So much the better,” said Raoul.

“Yes, mad; and do you know what I would advise you to do?”

“Tell me, Monsieur; for the advice is sure to be good, as it comes from you.”

“Very well, then. I advise you, after your long journey from England, after your visit to M. de Guiche, after your visit to Madame, after your visit to Porthos, after your journey to Vincennes,- I advise you, I say, to take a few hours’ rest; go and lie down, sleep for a dozen hours, and when you wake up, go and ride one of my horses until you have tired him to death.” And drawing Raoul towards him, d’Artagnan embraced him as if he were his own child. Athos did the like; only, it was very apparent that the father’s kiss was more tender and his embrace closer than those of the friend.

The young man again looked at his companions, endeavoring with the utmost strength of his intelligence to read what was in their minds; but his look was powerless upon the smiling countenance of the musketeer or upon the calm and composed features of the Comte de la Fere.

“Where are you going, Raoul?” inquired the latter, seeing that Bragelonne was preparing to go out.

“To my own apartments,” replied Raoul, in his soft and sad voice.

“We shall be sure to find you there, then, if we should have anything to say to you?”

“Yes, Monsieur; but do you suppose it likely you will have something to say to me?”

“How can I tell?” said Athos.

“Yes, new consolations,” said d’Artagnan, pushing him gently towards the door.

Raoul, observing the perfect composure which marked every gesture of his two friends, quitted the count’s room, carrying away with him nothing but the individual feeling of his own particular distress. “Thank Heaven!” he said; “since that is the case, I need only think of myself.” And wrapping himself in his cloak, in order to conceal from the passers-by in the streets his gloomy face, he started out to return to his own rooms, as he had promised Porthos.

The two friends watched the young man as he walked away with a feeling akin to pity; only, each expressed it in a very different way.

“Poor Raoul!” said Athos, sighing deeply.

“Poor Raoul!” said d’Artagnan, shrugging his shoulders.

Heu! Miser!

“Poor Raoul!” Athos had said; “Poor Raoul!” d’Artagnan had said: to be pitied by both these men, Raoul must indeed have been most unhappy. And when he found himself alone, face to face as it were with his own troubles, leaving behind him the intrepid friend and the indulgent father; when he recalled the avowal of the King’s affection, which had robbed him of Louise de la Valliere, whom he loved so deeply,- he felt his heart almost breaking; as indeed we all have at least once in our lives, at the first illusion destroyed, at the first love betrayed. “Oh,” he murmured, “all is over then! Nothing is now left me in this world,- nothing to look for, nothing to hope for! Guiche has told me so; my father has told me so, and M. d’Artagnan likewise. Everything is a mere idle dream in this life. That future which I have been hopelessly pursuing for the last ten years, a dream! that union of our hearts, a dream! that life formed of love and happiness, a dream! Poor fool, to publish my dreams in the face of my friends and my enemies,- that my friends may be saddened by my troubles and my enemies may laugh at my sorrows! So my unhappiness will soon become a notorious disgrace, a public scandal; so to-morrow I shall be ignominiously pointed at.”

Despite the composure which he had promised his father and d’Artagnan to observe, Raoul could not resist uttering a few words of dark menace. “And yet,” he continued, “if my name were De Wardes, and if I had the pliant character and strength of will of M. d’Artagnan, I should laugh, with my lips at least; I should convince other women that this perfidious girl, honored by my love, leaves me only one regret,- that of having been deceived by her counterfeit of honesty. Some men might perhaps make favor with the King at my expense: I should put myself on the track of those jesters; I should chastise a few of them,- the men would fear me, and by the time I had laid three at my feet I should be adored by the women. Yes, yes; that indeed would be the proper course to adopt, and the Comte de la Fere himself would not object to it. Has not he also been tried, in his earlier days, in the same manner as I have just been tried myself? Did he not replace love by intoxication? He has often told me so. Why should not I replace love by pleasure? He must have suffered as much as I suffer,- even more so, perhaps. The history of one man is the history of all men,- a lengthened trial, of greater or less duration, more or less bitter or sorrowful. The voice of human nature is nothing but one prolonged cry. But what are the sufferings of others compared to those from which I am now suffering? Does the open wound in another’s breast soften the pain of the gaping wound in our own? Or does the blood which is welling from another man’s side stanch that which is pouring from our own? Does the general anguish of our fellow-creatures lessen our own private and particular anguish? No, no; each suffers on his own account, each struggles with his own grief, each sheds his own tears. And besides, what has my life been up to the present moment? A cold, barren, sterile arena, in which I have always fought for others, never for myself,- sometimes for a king, sometimes for a woman. The King has betrayed me; the woman disdained me. Miserable, unhappy wretch that I am! Women! Can I not make all expiate the crime of one of their sex? What does that require? To have a heart no longer, or to forget that I ever had one; to be strong, even against weakness itself; to lean always, even when one feels that the support is giving way. What is needed to attain that result? To be young, handsome, strong, valiant, rich. I am, or shall be, all that. But, honor? What is honor, after all? A theory which every man understands in his own way. My father tells me: ‘Honor is the consideration of what is due to others, and particularly of what one owes to one’s self.’ But De Guiche and Manicamp, and De Saint-Aignan particularly would say to me, ‘Honor consists in serving the passions and pleasures of one’s King.’ Honor such as that, indeed, is easy and productive enough. With honor like that I can keep my post at the court, become a gentleman of the chamber, and have the command of a regiment. With honor such as that, I can be both duke and peer.

“The stain which that woman has just stamped upon me, the grief with which she has just broken my heart,- mine, Raoul’s, her friend from childhood,- in no way affect M. de Bragelonne, an excellent officer, a courageous leader, who will cover himself with glory at the first encounter, and who will become a hundred times greater than Mademoiselle de la Valliere is to-day, the mistress of the King; for the King will not marry her,- and the more publicly he proclaims her as his mistress, the more will he enlarge the band of shame which he places as a crown upon her brow; and when others shall despise her as I despise her, I shall have become famous. Alas! we had walked together side by side, she and I, during the earliest, the brightest, and best portion of our existence, hand in hand along the charming path of life, covered with the flowers of youth, and now we come to a cross road, where she separates herself from me, whence we shall follow different roads, which will lead us always farther apart. And to attain the end of this path, oh Heaven! I am alone, I am in despair, I am crushed. Oh, unhappy man that I am!”

Such were the sinister reflections in which Raoul was indulging when his foot mechanically paused at the door of his own dwelling. He had reached it without noticing the streets through which he had passed, without knowing how he had come; he pushed open the door, continued to advance, and ascended the staircase. The staircase, as in most of the houses at that period, was very dark, and the landings were obscure. Raoul lived on the first floor; he paused in order to ring. Olivain appeared, and took Raoul’s sword and cloak from his hands. Raoul himself opened the door which from the antechamber led into a small salon, richly furnished enough for the salon of a young man, and completely filled with flowers by Olivain, who knowing his master’s tastes had shown himself studiously attentive in gratifying them without caring whether his master perceived his attention or not. There was a portrait of La Valliere in the salon, which had been drawn by herself and given by her to Raoul. This portrait, fastened above a large easy-chair covered with dark-colored damask, was the first point towards which Raoul bent his steps, the first object on which he fixed his eyes. It was, moreover, Raoul’s usual habit to do so; every time he entered his room, this portrait, before anything else, attracted his attention. This time, as usual, he walked straight up to the portrait, placed his knees upon the armchair, and paused to look at it sadly. His arms were crossed upon his breast, his head slightly thrown back, his eyes filled with tears, his lips curved in a bitter smile. He looked at the portrait of her whom he so tenderly loved; and then all that he had said passed before his mind again, and all that he had suffered assailed his heart. After a long silence he murmured for the third time, “Miserable, unhappy wretch that I am!”

He had hardly pronounced these words, when he heard the sound of a sigh and a groan behind him. He turned sharply round, and perceived in the angle of the salon, standing up, a bending veiled female figure, which the opening door had concealed as he entered, and which, since he had not turned around, he had not perceived. He advanced towards this figure, whose presence in his room had not been announced to him; and as he bowed, and inquired at the same moment who she was, she suddenly raised her head, and removed the veil from her face, revealing her pale and sorrow-stricken features.

Raoul staggered back, as if he had seen a ghost. “Louise!” he cried, in a tone of such despair as one could hardly believe the human voice could express without breaking all the fibres of the heart.

Wounds Upon Wounds

Mademoiselle De La Valliere (for it was indeed she) advanced a few steps toward him. “Yes- Louise,” she murmured.

But this interval, short as it had been, was quite sufficient for Raoul to recover himself. “You, Mademoiselle?” he said; and then added, in an indefinable tone, “You here!”

“Yes, Raoul,” the young girl replied; “I have been waiting for you.”

“I beg your pardon. When I came into the room I was not aware-”

“I know- but I entreated Olivain not to tell you-”

Louise hesitated; and as Raoul did not attempt to interrupt her, a moment’s silence ensued, during which the sound of their throbbing hearts might have been heard, no longer in unison with each other, but the one beating as violently as the other. It was for Louise to speak, and she made an effort to do so. “I wished to speak to you,” she said. “It was absolutely necessary that I should see you- myself- alone. I have not hesitated to adopt a step which must remain secret; for no one, except yourself, could understand my motive, M. de Bragelonne.”

“In fact, Mademoiselle,” Raoul stammered out, almost breathless from emotion, “so far as I am concerned, and despite the good opinion you have of me, I confess-”

“Will you do me the great kindness to sit down and listen to me?” said Louise, interrupting him with her soft, sweet voice.

Bragelonne looked at her for a moment; then, mournfully shaking his head, he sat, or rather fell down, on a chair. “Speak!” he said.

Louise cast a glance all round her. This look was a timid entreaty, and implored secrecy far more effectually than her expressed words had done a few minutes before.

Raoul rose, and went to the door, which he opened. “Olivain,” he said, “I am not within for anyone”; and then turning towards Louise, he added, “Is not that what you wished?”

Nothing could have produced a greater effect upon Louise than these few words which seemed to signify, “You see that I still understand you.” She passed a handkerchief across her eyes, in order to remove a rebellious tear; and then, having collected herself for a moment, she said: “Raoul, do not turn your kind, frank look away from me! You are not one of those men who despise a woman for having given her heart to another, even though that love might render him unhappy or might wound his pride.”

Raoul did not reply.

“Alas!” continued La Valliere, “it is only too true. My cause is a bad one, and I know not in what way to begin. It will be better for me, I think, to relate to you very simply everything that has befallen me. As I shall speak the truth, I shall always find my path clear before me in the obscurity, hesitation, and obstacles which I have to brave in order to solace my heart, which is full to overflowing, and wishes to pour itself out at your feet.”

Raoul continued to preserve the same unbroken silence. La Valliere looked at him with an air that seemed to say, “Encourage me; for pity’s sake, but a single word!” But Raoul did not open his lips; and the young girl was obliged to continue.

“Just now,” she said, “M. de Saint-Aignan came to me by the King’s directions.” She cast down her eyes as she said this; while Raoul, on his side, turned his away, in order to avoid looking at her. “M. de Saint-Aignan came to me from the King,” she repeated, “and told me that you knew all”; and she attempted to look Raoul in the face, after inflicting this further wound upon him in addition to the many others he had already received; but it was impossible to meet Raoul’s eyes.

“He told me you were incensed with me,- justly so, I admit.”

This time Raoul looked at the young girl, and a smile full of disdain passed across his lips.

“Oh,” she continued, “I entreat you, do not say that you have had any other feeling against me than that of anger merely! Raoul, wait until I have told you all,- wait until I have said to you all that I had to say, all that I came to say!”

Raoul, by the strength of his own iron will, forced his features to assume a calmer expression; and the disdainful smile upon his lip passed away.

“In the first place,” said La Valliere,- “in the first place, with my hands raised in entreaty towards you, with my forehead bowed to the ground before you, I entreat you, as the most generous, as the noblest of men, to pardon, to forgive me. If I have left you in ignorance of what was passing in my own bosom, never, at least, would I have consented to deceive you. Oh, I entreat you, Raoul,- I implore you on my knees,- answer me one word, even though you wrong me in doing so! Better an injurious word from your lips than a suspicion in your heart!”

“I admire your subtlety of expression, Mademoiselle,” said Raoul, making an effort to remain calm. “To leave another in ignorance that you are deceiving him is loyal; but to deceive him- it seems that that would be very wrong, and that you would not do it.”

“Monsieur, for a long time I thought that I loved you better than anything else; and so long as I believed in my love for you, I told you that I loved you. At Blois I loved you. The King visited Blois; I believed I loved you still. I could have sworn it on the altar; but a day came when I was undeceived.”

“Well, on that day, Mademoiselle, knowing that I still continued to love you, true loyalty of conduct ought to have obliged you to tell me you had ceased to love me.”

“But on that day, Raoul,- on that day, when I read in the depths of my own heart, when I confessed to myself that you no longer filled my mind entirely, when I saw another future before me than that of being your friend, your life-long companion, your wife,- on that day, Raoul, you were not, alas! any more beside me.”

“But you knew where I was, Mademoiselle; you could have written to me.”

“Raoul, I did not dare to do so. Raoul, I have been weak and cowardly. I knew you so thoroughly- I knew how devotedly you loved me- that I trembled at the bare idea of the sorrow I was going to cause you; and that is so true, Raoul, that at this very moment I am now speaking to you, bending thus before you, my heart crushed in my bosom, my voice full of sighs, my eyes full of tears,- it is so perfectly true, that I have no other defence than my frankness, I have no other sorrow greater than that which I read in your eyes.”

Raoul attempted to smile.

“No,” said the young girl, with a profound conviction, “no, no; you will not do me so foul a wrong as to disguise your feelings before me now! You loved me, you were sure of your affection for me, you did not deceive yourself, you did not lie to your own heart; while I- I-” And pale as death, her arms thrown despairingly above her head, she fell on her knees.

“While you,” said Raoul,- “you told me you loved me, and yet you loved another.”

“Alas, yes!” cried the poor girl,- “alas, yes! I do love another; and that other- oh, for Heaven’s sake, let me say it, Raoul, for it is my only excuse- that other I love better than my own life, better than my own soul even. Forgive my fault or punish my treason, Raoul. I came here in no way to defend myself, but merely to say to you, ‘You know what it is to love!’ Well, I love! I love to that degree that I would give my life, my very soul, to the man I love. If he should ever cease to love me, I shall die of grief and despair, unless God helps me, unless the Lord shows pity upon me. Raoul, I came here to submit myself to your will, whatever it might be,- to die, if it were your wish I should die. Kill me, then, Raoul, if in your heart you believe I deserve death!”

“Take care, Mademoiselle!” said Raoul; “the woman who invites death is one who has nothing but her heart’s blood to offer to her deceived and betrayed lover.”

“You are right,” she said.

Raoul uttered a deep sigh as he exclaimed, “And you love without being able to forget!”

“I love without a wish to forget, without a wish ever to love any one else,” replied La Valliere.

“Very well,” said Raoul. “You have said to me, in fact, all you had to say, all I could possibly wish to know. And now, Mademoiselle, it is I who ask your forgiveness; for it is I who have almost been an obstacle in your life. I, too, have been wrong; for in deceiving myself I helped to deceive you.”

“Oh,” said La Valliere, “I do not ask you so much as that, Raoul!”

“I only am to blame, Mademoiselle,” continued Raoul. “Better informed than yourself of the difficulties of this life, I should have enlightened you. I ought not to have relied upon uncertainty; I ought to have extracted an answer from your heart, while I hardly even sought an acknowledgement from your lips. Once more, Mademoiselle, it is I who ask your forgiveness.”

“Impossible, impossible!” she cried; “you are mocking me.”

“How, impossible?”

“Yes, it is impossible to be good and excellent and perfect to that extent.”

“Take care!” said Raoul, with a bitter smile; “for presently you may say perhaps that I did not love you.”

“Oh, you love me like an affectionate brother; let me hope that, Raoul.”

“As a brother? Undeceive yourself, Louise! I loved you as a lover, as a husband, with the deepest, the truest, the fondest affection.”

“Raoul, Raoul!”

“As a brother? Oh, Louise! I loved you so much I would have given all my blood for you, drop by drop; all my flesh, shred by shred; all my eternity, hour by hour.”

“Raoul! Raoul! for pity’s sake!”

“I loved you so much, Louise, that my heart is dead, my faith extinguished, my eyes have lost their light. I loved you so much that I see nothing more either on earth or in Heaven.”

“Raoul, dear Raoul! spare me, I implore you!” cried La Valliere. “Oh, if I had known-”

“It is too late, Louise. You love, you are happy; I read your happiness through your tears,- behind the tears which the loyalty of your nature makes you shed; I feel the sighs which your love breathes forth. Louise, Louise, you have made me the most abjectly wretched man living; leave me, I entreat you! Adieu! adieu!”

“Forgive me, I entreat you!”

“Have I not done more? Have I not told you that I love you still?” She buried her face in her hands. “And to tell you that,- do you understand me, Louise?- to tell you that at such a moment as this, to tell you that as I have told you, is to pronounce my own sentence of death. Adieu!”

La Valliere wished to hold out her hands to him.

“We ought not to see each other again in this world,” he said; and as she was on the point of calling out in bitter agony at this remark, he placed his hand on her mouth to stifle the exclamation. She pressed her lips upon it and fell fainting.

“Olivain,” said Raoul, “take this young lady and bear her to the carriage which is waiting for her at the door.”

As Olivain lifted her up, Raoul made a movement towards La Valliere, as if to give her a first and last kiss, but stopping abruptly, he said, “No, she is not mine; I am not the King of France, to steal!” And he returned to his room; while the lackey carried La Valliere, still fainting, to the carriage.

What Raoul Had Guessed

After Raoul’s departure, and the two exclamations which had followed him, Athos and d’Artagnan found themselves alone, face to face. Athos immediately resumed the earnest manner which had possessed him when d’Artagnan arrived.

“Well,” Athos said, “what have you come to announce to me, my friend?”

“I?” inquired d’Artagnan.

“Yes; I do not see you in this way without some reason for it,” said Athos, smiling.

“The deuce!” said d’Artagnan.

“I will place you at your ease. The King is furious, is he not?”

“Well, I must say he is not altogether pleased.”

“And you have come-”

“By his direction; yes.”

“To arrest me, then?”

“My dear friend, you have hit the very mark.”

“Oh, I expected it! Come!”

“Oh! oh! The devil!” said d’Artagnan; “what a hurry you are in!”

“I am afraid of delaying you,” said Athos, smiling.

“I have plenty of time. Are you not curious, besides, to know how things went on between the King and me?”

“If you will be good enough to tell me, I will listen with the greatest pleasure,” said Athos, pointing out to d’Artagnan a large chair, in which the latter stretched himself in an easy attitude.

“Well, I will do so willingly enough,” continued d’Artagnan, “for the conversation is rather interesting. In the first place, the King sent for me.”

“As soon as I had left?”

“You were just going down the last steps of the staircase, as the musketeers told me. I arrived. My dear Athos, the King was not red in the face merely, he was positively purple. I was not aware, of course, of what had passed; only I saw a sword broken in two lying on the floor. ‘Captain d’Artagnan,’ cried the King, as soon as he saw me. ‘Sire,’ I replied. ‘I abandon M. de la Fere; he is an insolent man.’ ‘An insolent man!’ I exclaimed, in such a tone that the King stopped suddenly short. ‘Captain d’Artagnan,’ resumed the King, with his teeth clinched, ‘you will listen to me and obey me.’ ‘That is my duty, Sire.’ ‘I have wished to spare that gentleman, of whom I retain some kind recollections, the affront of having him arrested in my presence.’ ‘Ah! ah!’ I said quietly. ‘But you will take a carriage.’ At this I made a slight movement. ‘If you object to arrest him yourself,’ continued the King, ‘send me my captain of the Guards.’ ‘Sire,’ I replied, ‘there is no necessity for the captain of the Guards, since I am on duty.’ ‘I should not like to annoy you,’ said the King, kindly, ‘for you have always served me well, M. d’Artagnan.’ ‘You do not annoy me, Sire,’ I replied; ‘I am on duty, that is all.’ ‘But,’ said the King, in astonishment, ‘I believe the count is your friend?’ ‘If he were my father, Sire, it would not make me less on duty than I am.’ The King looked at me; he saw how unmoved my face was, and seemed satisfied. ‘You will arrest M. le Comte de la Fere, then?’ he inquired. ‘Most certainly, Sire, if you give me the order to do so.’ ‘Very well; I order you to do so.’ I bowed and replied, ‘Where is the count, Sire?’ ‘You will look for him.’ ‘And I am to arrest him wherever he may be?’ ‘Yes; but at his own house if possible. If he has started for his own estate, leave Paris at once, and arrest him on his way thither.’ I bowed; but as I did not move, he said, ‘Well?’ ‘I am waiting, Sire.’ ‘What are you waiting for?’ ‘For the signed order.’ The King seemed annoyed; for in point of fact it was the exercise of a fresh act of authority,- a repetition of the arbitrary act, if indeed it is to be considered as such. He took his pen slowly, and in no very good temper; then he wrote, ‘Order for M. le Chevalier d’Artagnan, captain of my Musketeers, to arrest M. le Comte de la Fere, wherever he is to be found.’ He then turned towards me; but I was looking on without moving a muscle of my face. In all probability he thought he perceived something like bravado in my tranquil manner, for he signed hurriedly; and then handing me the order, he said, ‘Go!’ I obeyed; and here I am.”

Athos pressed his friend’s hand. “Well, let us set off,” he said.

“Oh! surely,” said d’Artagnan, “you must have some trifling matters to arrange before you leave your apartments in this manner?”

“I? Not at all.”

“Why not?”

“Why, you know, d’Artagnan, I have always been a very simple traveller on this earth, ready to go to the end of the world by order of my sovereign, ready to quit it at the summons of my Maker. What does a man who is thus prepared require in such a case?- a portmanteau or a shroud. I am ready at this moment, as I have always been, dear friend, and can accompany you at once.”

“But Bragelonne-”

“I have brought him up in the same principles I laid down for my own guidance; and you observed that as soon as he perceived you he guessed, that very moment, the motive of your visit. We have thrown him off his guard for a moment; but do not be uneasy,- he is sufficiently prepared for my disgrace not to be too much alarmed at it. So, let us go.”

“Very well, let us go,” said d’Artagnan, quietly.

“As I broke my sword in the King’s presence, and threw the pieces at his feet, I presume that will dispense with the necessity of delivering it over to you.”

“You are quite right; and besides that, what the devil do you suppose I could do with your sword?”

“Am I to walk behind or before you?” inquired Athos, laughing.

“You will walk arm-in-arm with me,” replied d’Artagnan, as he took the count’s arm to descend the staircase; and in this manner they arrived at the landing. Grimaud, whom they had met in the anteroom, looked at them, as they went out together in this manner, with some little uneasiness; his experience of affairs was quite sufficient to give him good reason to suspect that there was something wrong.

“Ah! is that you, Grimaud?” said Athos, kindly. “We are going-”

“To take a turn in my carriage,” interrupted d’Artagnan, with a friendly nod of the head.

Grimaud thanked d’Artagnan by a grimace, which was evidently intended for a smile, and accompanied the two friends to the door. Athos entered first into the carriage; d’Artagnan followed him, without saying a word to the coachman. The departure had taken place so quietly that it excited no disturbance or attention even in the neighborhood. When the carriage had reached the quays, “You are taking me to the Bastille, I perceive,” said Athos.

“I?” said d’Artagnan. “I take you wherever you may choose to go; nowhere else, I can assure you.”

“What do you mean?” said the count, surprised.

“Pardieu!” said d’Artagnan, “you quite understand that I undertook the mission with no other object in view than that of carrying it out exactly as you liked. You did not think that I would have you thrown into prison like that, brutally, without reflection. If I had not anticipated that, I should have let the captain of the Guards undertake it.”

“And so-” said Athos.

“And so, I repeat, we will go wherever you may choose.”

“My dear friend,” said Athos, embracing d’Artagnan, “how like you that is!”

“Well, it seems simple enough to me. The coachman will take you to the barrier of the Cours-la-Reine; you will find a horse there which I have ordered to be kept ready for you; with that horse you will be able to do three posts without stopping; and I, on my side, will take care not to return to the King, to tell him that you have gone away, until it will be impossible to overtake you. In the mean time you will have reached Havre, and from Havre you will go to England, where you will find the charming residence which my friend M. Monk gave me,- to say nothing of the hospitality which King Charles will not fail to show you. Well, what do you think of this project?”

“Take me to the Bastille,” said Athos, smiling.

“You are an obstinate-headed fellow, dear Athos,” returned d’Artagnan; “reflect for a few moments.”

“Upon what?”

“That you are no longer twenty years of age. Believe me,- I speak according to my own knowledge and experience,- a prison is certain death for men of our time of life. No, no; I will never allow you to languish in prison. Why, the very thought of it turns my head.”

“Dear d’Artagnan,” Athos replied, “happily God made me as strong in body as in mind; and rely upon it, I shall be strong up to my last breath.”

“But this is not force; it is folly.”

“No, d’Artagnan, it is the highest order of reasoning. Do not suppose that I should in the slightest degree in the world discuss the question with you, whether you would not be ruined in endeavoring to save me. I should have done precisely as you have arranged, if flight had seemed proper to me; I should therefore have accepted from you what without any doubt you would have accepted from me. No! I know you too well even to breathe a word upon the subject.”

“Ah, if you would only let me do it,” said d’Artagnan, “how I would send the King running after you!”

“He is the King, dear friend.”

“Oh, that is all the same to me; and King though he be, I would plainly tell him, ‘Sire! imprison, exile, kill every one in France and Europe; order me to arrest, and even poniard whom you like,- even were it Monsieur, your own brother; but do not touch one of the four musketeers, or, if so, mordioux!’”

“My dear friend,” replied Athos, quietly, “I should like to persuade you of one thing; namely, that I wish to be arrested,- that I desire above all things that my arrest should take place.” D’Artagnan made a movement of his shoulders. “What does that mean? It is so. If you were to let me escape, it would be only to return of my own accord, and constitute myself a prisoner. I wish to prove to this young man, who is dazzled by the power and splendor of his crown, that he can be regarded as the first among men only by proving himself to be the most generous and the wisest among them. He may punish, imprison, or torture me,- it matters not. He abuses his opportunities, and I wish him to learn the bitterness of remorse, while Heaven teaches him what a chastisement is.”

“Well,” replied d’Artagnan, “I know only too well that when you have once said ‘No,’ you mean ‘No.’ I do not insist any longer. You wish to go to the Bastille?”

“I do wish to go there.”

“Let us go, then! To the Bastille!” cried d’Artagnan to the coachman; and throwing himself back in the carriage, he gnawed the ends of his mustache with a fury which to Athos, who knew him well, signified a resolution either already taken or in course of formation. A profound silence ensued in the carriage, which continued to roll on, but neither faster nor slower than before.

Athos took the musketeer by the hand. “You are not angry with me, d’Artagnan?” he said.

“I? Oh, no! certainly not, of course not! What you do from heroism, I should have done from obstinacy.”

“But you are quite of opinion, are you not, that Heaven will avenge me, d’Artagnan?”

“And I know some persons on earth who will lend a helping hand,” said the captain.

Three Guests Astonished to Find Themselves at Supper Together

The carriage arrived at the outer gate of the Bastille. A soldier on guard stopped it; but d’Artagnan had only to utter a single word to procure admittance, and the carriage passed on. While they were proceeding along the covered way which led to the courtyard of the governor’s residence, d’Artagnan, whose lynx eye saw everything, even through the walls, suddenly cried out, “What is that out yonder?”

“Well,” said Athos, quietly, “what is it?”

“Look yonder, Athos!”

“In the courtyard?”

“Yes, yes; make haste!”

“Well, a carriage; very likely conveying a prisoner like myself.”

“That would be too droll.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Make haste and look again, and look at the man who is just getting out of that carriage.”

At that very moment a second sentinel stopped d’Artagnan; and while the formalities were gone through, Athos could see at a hundred paces from him the man whom his friend had pointed out to him. He was, in fact, getting out of the carriage at the door of the governor’s house. “Well,” inquired d’Artagnan, “do you see him?”

“Yes; he is a man in a gray suit.”

“What do you say of him?”

“I cannot very well tell. He is, as I have just now told you, a man in a gray suit, who is getting out of a carriage; that is all.”

“Athos, I will wager anything it is he.”

“He?- who?”

“Aramis.”

“Aramis arrested? Impossible!”

“I do not say he is arrested, since we see him alone in his carriage.”

“Well, then, what is he doing here?”

“Oh, he knows Baisemeaux, the governor!” replied the musketeer, slyly. “My faith! we have arrived just in time.”

“What for?”

“In order to see what we can see.”

“I regret this meeting exceedingly. When Aramis sees me, he will be very much annoyed,- in the first place at seeing me, and in the next at being seen.”

“Very well reasoned.”

“Unfortunately, there is no remedy for it. Whenever any one meets another in the Bastille, even if he wished to draw back to avoid him, it would be impossible.”

“Athos, I have an idea: the question is, to spare Aramis the annoyance you were speaking of, is it not?”

“What is to be done?”

“I will tell you; or, in order to better explain myself, let me relate the affair in my own manner. I will not recommend you to tell a falsehood, for that would be impossible for you to do.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Well, I will lie for both of us; it is so easy to do that, with the nature and habits of a Gascon.”

Athos smiled. The carriage stopped where the one we have just now pointed out had stopped; namely, at the door of the governor’s house.

“It is understood, then?” said d’Artagnan, in a low voice to his friend.

Athos consented by a gesture.

They ascended the staircase. There will be no occasion for surprise at the facility with which they had entered the Bastille, if it be remembered that before passing the first gate- in fact, the most difficult of all- d’Artagnan had announced that he had brought a prisoner of State. At the third gate, on the contrary,- that is to say, when he had once fairly entered the prison,- he merely said to the sentinel, “To M. Baisemeaux”; and they both passed on. In a few minutes they were in the governor’s dining-room; and the first face which attracted d’Artagnan’s observation was that of Aramis, who was seated side by side with Baisemeaux, and awaited the announcement of a good meal, whose odor impregnated the whole apartment. If d’Artagnan pretended surprise, Aramis did not pretend at all; he started when he saw his two friends, and his emotion was very apparent. Athos and d’Artagnan, however, made their salutations; and Baisemeaux, amazed, completely stupefied by the presence of those three guests, began to perform a few evolutions around them.

“Ah, there!” said Aramis, “by what chance-”

“We were just going to ask you,” retorted d’Artagnan.

“Are we going to give ourselves up as prisoners?” cried Aramis, with an affectation of hilarity.

“Ah! ah!” said d’Artagnan; “it is true the walls smell deucedly like a prison. M. de Baisemeaux, you know you invited me to sup with you the other day.”

“I?” cried Baisemeaux.

“Ah! one would say you had fallen from the clouds. You do not recall it?”

Baisemeaux turned pale and then red; looked at Aramis, who looked at him; and finally stammered, “Certainly- I am delighted- but- upon my honor- I have not the slightest- Ah! I have such a wretched memory.”

“Well, I am wrong, I see,” said d’Artagnan, as if he were offended.

“Wrong, how?”

“Wrong to remember, it seems.”

Baisemeaux hurried towards him. “Do not stand on ceremony, my dear captain,” he said. “I have the poorest head in the kingdom. Take me from my pigeons and their pigeon-house, and I am no better than the rawest recruit.”

“At all events, you remember it now,” said d’Artagnan, boldly.

“Yes, yes,” replied the governor, hesitating; “I think I remember.”

“It was when you came to the palace to see me; you told me some story or other about your accounts with M. de Louviere and M. de Tremblay.”

“Oh, yes! perfectly.”

“And about M. d’Herblay’s kindness to you.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, looking the unhappy governor full in the face; “and yet you just now said you had no memory, M. de Baisemeaux.”

Baisemeaux interrupted the musketeer in the midst of his revelations. “Yes, yes, you’re quite right; it seems to me that I am still there. I beg a thousand pardons. But now, once for all, my dear M. d’Artagnan, be sure that at this present time, as at any other, whether invited or not, you are master here,- you and M. d’Herblay, your friend,” he said, turning towards Aramis; “and this gentleman too,” he added, bowing to Athos.

“Well, I thought it would be sure to turn out so,” replied d’Artagnan. “This is the occasion of my coming: Having nothing to do this evening at the Palais-Royal, I wished to judge for myself what your ordinary style of living was like; and as I was coming along I met Monsieur the Count.” Athos bowed. “The count, who had just left his Majesty, handed me an order which required immediate attention. We were close by here; I wished to call in, even if it were for no other object than that of shaking hands with you and of presenting the count to you, of whom you spoke so highly in the King’s presence that very evening when-”

“Certainly, certainly- M. le Comte de la Fere, is it not?”

“Precisely.”

“Monsieur the Count is welcome.”

“And he will sup with you two, I suppose; while I, unfortunate dog that I am, must run off on a matter of duty. Oh, what happy beings you are, compared to myself!” D’Artagnan added, sighing as loud as Porthos might have done.

“And so you are going away?” said Aramis and Baisemeaux together, with the same expression of delighted surprise, the tone of which was immediately noticed by d’Artagnan.

“I leave you in my place,” he said, “a noble and excellent guest”; and he touched Athos gently on the shoulder, who, astonished also, could not help exhibiting his surprise a little,- which was noticed by Aramis only, for M. de Baisemeaux was not quite equal to the three friends in point of intelligence.

“What! are you going to leave us?” resumed the governor.

“I shall be away only about an hour or an hour and a half. I will return in time for dessert.”

“Oh, we will wait for you!” said Baisemeaux.

“No, no; that would be really disobliging me.”

“You will be sure to return, though?” said Athos, with an expression of doubt.

“Most certainly,” he said, pressing his friend’s hand confidentially; and he added in a low voice, “Wait for me, Athos; be cheerful and lively as possible, and above all, don’t allude to business affairs, for Heaven’s sake!” and a renewed pressure of the hand impressed upon the count the necessity of being discreet and impenetrable.

Baisemeaux led d’Artagnan to the gate. Aramis, with many friendly protestations of delight, sat down by Athos, determined to make him speak; but Athos possessed all the virtues in their highest excellence. If necessity had required it, he would have been the finest orator in the world; but when there was need of silence he would die rather than utter a syllable.

Ten minutes after d’Artagnan’s departure, the three gentlemen sat down to table, which was covered with the most substantial display of gastronomic luxury. Large joints, exquisite dishes, preserves, the greatest variety of wines, appeared successively upon the table, which was served at the King’s expense, and of which expense M. Colbert would have no difficulty in saving two thirds, without any one in the Bastille being the worse for it.

Baisemeaux was the only one who ate and drank resolutely. Aramis allowed nothing to pass by him, but merely touched everything he took; Athos, after the soup and three hors d’oeuvres, ate nothing more. The style of conversation was such as it necessarily would be between three men so opposite in temper and ideas.

Aramis was incessantly asking himself by what extraordinary chance Athos was at Baisemeaux’s when d’Artagnan was no longer there, and why d’Artagnan did not remain when Athos was there. Athos sounded all the depths of the mind of Aramis, who lived in the midst of subterfuge, evasion, and intrigue; he studied his man well and thoroughly, and felt convinced that he was engaged upon some important project. And then he too began to think of his own personal affair, and to lose himself in conjectures as to d’Artagnan’s reason for having left the Bastille so abruptly, and for leaving behind him a prisoner so badly introduced and so badly looked after by the prison authorities.

But we shall not pause to examine into the thoughts and feelings of these personages; we will leave them to themselves, surrounded by the remains of poultry, game, and fish, mutilated by the generous knife of Baisemeaux. We are going to follow d’Artagnan instead, who, getting into the carriage which had brought him, cried out to the coachman, “To the King! and burn the pavement!”

What Took Place at the Louvre During the Supper at the Bastille

M. De Saint-Aignan had executed the commission with which the King had intrusted him for La Valliere, as we have already seen in one of the preceding chapters; but whatever his eloquence might have been, he did not succeed in persuading the young girl that she had in the King a protector powerful enough for her under any combination of circumstances, and that she had no need of any one else in the world when the King was on her side. In point of fact, at the very first word which the favorite mentioned of the discovery of the famous secret, Louise, in a passion of tears, abandoned herself in utter despair to a sorrow which would have been far from flattering for the King, if he had been a witness of it from a corner of the room. De Saint-Aignan, in his character of ambassador, felt greatly offended at it, as his master himself would have been, and returned to announce to the King what he had seen and heard. It is there that we now find him, in a state of great agitation, in the presence of the King, still more agitated than he.

“But,” said the King to the courtier, when the latter had finished his report, “what did she decide to do? Shall I, at least, see her presently before supper? Will she come to me, or shall I be obliged to go to her room?”

“I believe, Sire, that if your Majesty wishes to see her, you will not only have to take the first step in advance, but will have to go the whole way.”

“Nothing for me! Does that Bragelonne still possess her heart?” muttered the King between his teeth.

“Oh, Sire, that is not possible; for it is you alone whom Mademoiselle de la Valliere loves, and that, too, with all her heart. But you know that De Bragelonne belongs to that proud race who play the part of Roman heroes.”

The King smiled feebly; he knew how true the illustration was, for Athos had just left him.

“As for Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” De Saint-Aignan continued, “she was brought up under the care of the Dowager Madame; that is to say, in austere retirement. This engaged young couple coldly exchanged their little vows in the presence of the moon and the stars; and now, when they find they have to break those vows, it plays the very deuce with them.”

De Saint-Aignan thought he should have made the King laugh; but on the contrary, from a mere smile Louis passed to the greatest seriousness of manner. He already began to experience that remorse which the count had promised d’Artagnan he would inflict upon him. He reflected that, in fact, these young persons had loved and sworn fidelity to each other; that one of the two had kept his word, and that the other was too conscientious not to feel her perjury most bitterly; and with remorse, jealousy sharply pricked the King’s heart. He did not say another word; and instead of going to pay a visit to his mother or the Queen or Madame, in order to amuse himself a little and make the ladies laugh, as he himself used to say, he threw himself into the huge arm-chair in which his august father, Louis XIII, had passed so many weary days and years in company with Baradas and Cinq-Mars.

De Saint-Aignan perceived that the King was not to be amused at that moment; he tried a last resource, and pronounced Louise’s name, which made the King look up immediately. “What does your Majesty intend to do this evening? Shall Mademoiselle de la Valliere be informed of your intention to see her?”

“It seems she is already aware of that,” replied the King. “No, no, Saint-Aignan,” he continued, after a moment’s pause; “we will both of us pass our time in dreaming. When Mademoiselle de la Valliere shall have sufficiently regretted what she now regrets, she will deign, perhaps, to give us some news of herself.”

“Ah, Sire, is it possible you can so misunderstand that devoted heart?”

The King rose, flushed with vexation; he was a prey to jealousy in its turn. De Saint-Aignan was just beginning to feel that his position was becoming awkward, when the curtain before the door was raised. The King turned hastily round. His first idea was that a letter from Louise had arrived; but instead of a letter of love, he saw only his captain of Musketeers standing upright and silent in the doorway. “M. d’Artagnan!” he said. “Ah! well, Monsieur?”

D’Artagnan looked at De Saint-Aignan; Louis’s eyes took the same direction as those of his captain. These looks would have been clear to any one, and they were especially so to De Saint-Aignan. The courtier bowed and quitted the room, leaving the King and d’Artagnan alone.

“Is it done?” inquired the King.

“Yes, Sire,” replied the captain of the Musketeers, in a grave voice, “it is done!”

The King was unable to say another word. Pride, however, obliged him not to pause there. Whenever a sovereign has adopted a decisive course, even though it be unjust, he is compelled to prove to all witnesses, and particularly to himself, that he was quite right in so adopting it. A good means for effecting that- an almost infallible means, indeed- is to try to prove his victim to be in the wrong. Louis, brought up by Mazarin and Anne of Austria, knew better than any one else his vocation as a monarch; he therefore endeavored to prove it on the present occasion. After a few moments’ pause, which he had employed in making silently to himself the same reflections which we have just expressed aloud, he said in an indifferent tone, “What did the count say?”

“Nothing at all, Sire.”

“Surely he did not allow himself to be arrested without saying something?”

“He said he expected to be arrested, Sire.”

The King raised his head haughtily. “I presume,” he said, “that M. le Comte de la Fere has not continued to play his obstinate and rebellious part?”

“In the first place, Sire, what do you term rebellious?” quietly asked the musketeer. “Is that man a rebel, in the eyes of the King, who not only allows himself to be shut up in the Bastille, but who even opposes those who do not wish to take him there?”

“Who do not wish to take him there!” exclaimed the King. “What do you say, Captain? Are you mad?”

“I believe not, Sire.”

“You speak of persons who did not wish to arrest M. de la Fere?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And who are they?”

“Those whom your Majesty intrusted with that duty, apparently.”

“But it is you whom I intrusted with it,” exclaimed the King.

“Yes, Sire; it is I.”

“And you say that, despite my orders, you had the intention of not arresting the man who had insulted me!”

“Yes, Sire, that was really my intention. I even proposed to the count to mount a horse that I had had prepared for him at the Barriere de la Conferénce.”

“And what was your object in getting this horse ready?”

“Why, Sire, in order that M. le Comte de la Fere might be able to reach Havre, and from that place make his escape to England.”

“You betrayed me then, Monsieur?” cried the King, kindling with a wild pride.

“Exactly so.”

There was nothing to say in answer to statements made in such a tone; the King was astounded at such an obstinate and open resistance on the part of d’Artagnan. “At least you had a reason, M. d’Artagnan, for acting as you did?” said the King, proudly.

“I have always a reason, Sire.”

“Your reason cannot be your friendship for the count, at all events,- the only one that can be of any avail, the only one that could possibly excuse you,- for I placed you entirely at your ease in that respect.”

“Me, Sire?”

“Did I not give you the choice to arrest or not to arrest M. le Comte de la Fere?”

“Yes, Sire; but-”

“But what?” exclaimed the King, impatiently.

“But you warned me, Sire, that if I did not arrest him, your captain of the Guards should do so.”

“Was I not considerate enough towards you when I did not compel you to obey me?”

“To me, Sire, you were, but not to my friend; for my friend would be arrested all the same, whether by myself or by the captain of the Guards.”

“And this is your devotion, Monsieur,- a devotion which argues and reasons! You are no soldier, Monsieur!”

“I wait for your Majesty to tell me what I am.”

“Well, then,- you are a Frondeur.”

“And since there is no longer any Fronde, Sire, in that case-”

“But if what you say is true-”

“What I say is always true, Sire.”

“What have you come to say to me, Monsieur?”

“I have come to say to your Majesty: Sire, M. de la Fere is in the Bastille.”

“That is not your fault, it would seem.”

“That is true, Sire. But, at all events, he is there; and since he is there, it is important that your Majesty should know it.”

“Ah, M. d’Artagnan, so you set your King at defiance!”

“Sire-”

“M. d’Artagnan, I warn you that you are abusing my patience.”

“On the contrary, Sire.”

“What do you mean by ‘on the contrary’?”

“I have come to get myself arrested too.”

“To get yourself arrested,- you!”

“Of course. My friend will be lonely down there; and I have come to propose to your Majesty to permit me to bear him company. If your Majesty will but give the word, I will arrest myself; I shall not need the captain of the Guards for that, I assure you.”

The King darted towards the table and seized a pen to write the order for d’Artagnan’s imprisonment. “Pay attention, Monsieur, that this is forever!” cried the King, in a tone of stern menace.

“I can quite believe that,” returned the musketeer; “for when you have once done such an act as that, you will never be able to look me in the face again.”

The King dashed down his pen violently. “Leave the room, Monsieur!” he said.

“Oh, not so, Sire, if it please your Majesty!”

“How, not so?”

“Sire, I came to speak temperately to your Majesty. Your Majesty got into a passion with me: that is a misfortune; but I shall not the less on that account say what I had to say to you.”

“Your resignation, Monsieur,- your resignation!” cried the King.

“Sire, you know whether I care about my resignation or not, since at Blois, on the day when you refused King Charles the million which my friend the Comte de la Fere gave him, I tendered my resignation to your Majesty.”

“Very well, then, do it at once!”

“No, Sire; for there is no question of my resignation at the present moment. Your Majesty took up your pen just now to send me to the Bastille,- why should you change your intention?”

“D’Artagnan! Gascon that you are! who is the King, allow me to ask,- you or myself?”

“You, Sire, unfortunately.”

“What do you mean by ‘unfortunately’?”

“Yes, Sire; for if it were I-”

“If it were you, you would approve of M. d’Artagnan’s rebellious conduct, I suppose?”

“Certainly.”

“Really?” said the King, shrugging his shoulders.

“And I should tell my captain of the Musketeers,” continued d’Artagnan,- “I should tell him, looking at him all the while with human eyes and not with eyes like coals of fire, ‘M. d’Artagnan, I have forgotten that I am King; I have descended from my throne to insult a gentleman.’”

“Monsieur!” cried the King, “do you think you can excuse your friend by exceeding him in insolence?”

“Oh, Sire! I shall go much further than he did,” said d’Artagnan; “and it will be your own fault. I shall tell you what he, a man full of delicacy, did not tell you; I shall say: ‘Sire, you sacrificed his son, and he defended his son; you sacrificed him; he addressed you in the name of honor, of religion, of virtue,- you repulsed, pursued, imprisoned him.’ I shall be harder than he was, for I shall say to you: ‘Sire, choose! Do you wish to have friends or lackeys, soldiers or slaves, great men or puppets? Do you wish men to serve you or to crouch before you? Do you wish men to love you or to fear you? If you prefer baseness, intrigue, cowardice,- oh! say it, Sire! We will leave you,- we who are the only surviving illustrations, nay, I will say more, the only models of the valor of former times; we who have done our duty, and have exceeded, perhaps, in courage and in merit the men already great for posterity. Choose, Sire, and without delay! Whatever remains to you of the grand nobility, guard it with a jealous eye; of courtiers you will always have enough. Delay not- and send me to the Bastille with my friend; for if you have not known how to listen to the Comte de la Fere, that is to say, to the most sweet and noble voice of honor; if you do not know how to listen to d’Artagnan, that is to say, to the most candid and rough voice of sincerity,- you are a bad king, and to-morrow will be a poor king. Now, bad kings are hated; poor kings are driven away.’ That is what I had to say to you, Sire; you are wrong to have driven me to it.”

The King threw himself back in his chair, cold and livid. Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, he could not have been more astonished; he appeared as if his respiration had ceased, and as if he were at the point of death. That rough voice of sincerity, as d’Artagnan had called it, had pierced through his heart like a sword-blade.

D’Artagnan had said all that he had to say. Comprehending the King’s anger, he drew his sword, and approaching Louis XIV respectfully, placed it on the table. But the King, with a furious gesture, thrust aside the sword, which fell on the ground and rolled to d’Artagnan’s feet. Notwithstanding his mastery over himself, d’Artagnan too, in his turn, became pale and trembled with indignation. “A king,” he said, “may disgrace a soldier,- he may exile him, and may even condemn him to death; but were he a hundred times a king, he has no right to insult him by casting dishonor on his sword! Sire, a king of France has never repulsed with contempt the sword of a man such as I am! Stained with disgrace as this sword now is, it has henceforth no other sheath than either your heart or my own. I choose my own, Sire; give thanks for it to God, and my patience.” Then snatching up his sword, he cried, “My blood be upon your head!” and with a rapid gesture he placed the hilt upon the floor and directed the point of the blade towards his breast. The King, however, with a movement still more rapid than that of d’Artagnan, threw his right arm round the musketeer’s neck, and with his left hand seized hold of the blade by the middle, and returned it silently to the scabbard. D’Artagnan, upright, pale, and still trembling, suffered the King to do all, without aiding him, to the very end. Then Louis, overcome, returned to the table, took a pen, wrote a few lines, signed them, and offered the paper to d’Artagnan.

“What is this paper, Sire?” inquired the captain.

“An order for M. d’Artagnan to set the Comte de la Fere at liberty immediately.”

D’Artagnan seized the King’s hand and kissed it; he then folded the order, placed it in his belt, and quitted the room. Neither the King nor the captain spoke a word.

“Oh, human heart, director of kings!” murmured Louis, when alone; “when shall I learn to read in your recesses, as in the leaves of a book? No, I am not a bad king, nor am I a poor king; but I am still a child.”

Political Rivals

D’Artagnan had promised M. de Baisemeaux to return in time for dessert, and he kept his word. They had just reached the finer and more delicate class of wines and liqueurs with which the governor’s cellar had the reputation of being most admirably stocked, when the spurs of the captain resounded in the corridor, and he himself appeared at the threshold.

Athos and Aramis had played a close game; neither had been able to gain the slightest advantage over the other. They had supped, talked a good deal about the Bastille, of the last journey to Fontainebleau, of the intended fête that M. Fouquet was about to give at Vaux; they had generalized on every possible subject, and no one, excepting Baisemeaux, had alluded to private matters.

D’Artagnan arrived in the very midst of the conversation, still pale and disturbed by his interview with the King. Baisemeaux hastened to give him a chair; d’Artagnan accepted a glass of wine, and set it down empty. Athos and Aramis both remarked his emotion; as for Baisemeaux, he saw nothing more than the captain of the King’s Musketeers, to whom he endeavored to show every attention. To be near the King entitled any one to all privileges, in the eyes of M. de Baisemeaux.

But although Aramis had remarked that emotion, he had not been able to guess the cause of it. Athos alone believed that he had detected it. To him, d’Artagnan’s return, and particularly the manner in which he, usually so impassive, seemed overcome, signified, “I have just asked the King something which he has refused me.” Thoroughly convinced that his conjecture was correct, Athos smiled, rose from the table, and made a sign to d’Artagnan, as if to remind him that they had something else to do than to sup together. D’Artagnan immediately understood him, and replied by another sign. Aramis and Baisemeaux watched this silent dialogue, and looked inquiringly at each other. Athos felt that he was called upon to give an explanation of what was passing.

“The truth is, my friends,” said the Comte de la Fere, with a smile, “that you, Aramis, have been supping with a State criminal, and you, M. de Baisemeaux, with your prisoner.”

Baisemeaux uttered an exclamation of surprise and almost of delight. That worthy man took pride in his fortress. Profit aside, the more prisoners he had, the happier he was; and the higher the prisoners were in rank, the prouder he felt.

Aramis assumed an expression which he thought the situation required, and said: “Well, dear Athos, forgive me; but I almost suspected what has happened. Some prank of Raoul or La Valliere, is it not?”

“Alas!” said Baisemeaux.

“And,” continued Aramis, “you, a high and powerful nobleman as you are, forgetful that there are now only courtiers,- you have been to the King, and told him what you thought of his conduct?”

“Yes, you have guessed right.”

“So that,” said Baisemeaux, trembling at having supped so familiarly with a man who had fallen into disgrace with the King,- “so that, Monsieur the Count-”

“So that, my dear governor,” said Athos, “my friend d’Artagnan will communicate to you the contents of the paper which I perceive just peeping out of his belt, and which assuredly can be nothing else than the order for my incarceration.”

Baisemeaux held out his hand with his accustomed eagerness. D’Artagnan drew two papers from his belt, and presented one of them to the governor, who unfolded it, and then read, in a low tone of voice, looking at Athos over the paper, as he did so, and pausing from time to time: “‘Order to detain in my château of the Bastille M. le Comte de la Fere.’ Oh, Monsieur! this is indeed a very melancholy honor for me.”

“You will have a patient prisoner, Monsieur,” said Athos, in his calm, soft voice.

“A prisoner, too, who will not remain a month with you, my dear governor,” said Aramis; while Baisemeaux, still holding the order in his hand, transcribed it upon the prison registry.

“Not a day, or rather not even a night,” said d’Artagnan, displaying the second order of the King; “for now, dear M. de Baisemeaux, you will have the goodness to transcribe also this order for setting the count immediately at liberty.”

“Ah!” said Aramis, “it is a labor that you have spared me, d’Artagnan”; and he pressed the musketeer’s hand in a significant manner, and that of Athos at the same time.

“What!” said the latter, in astonishment, “the King sets me at liberty!”

“Read, my dear friend!” returned d’Artagnan.

Athos took the order and read it. “It is quite true,” he said.

“Are you sorry for it?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Oh, no, on the contrary! I wish the King no harm; and the greatest evil or misfortune that any one can wish kings is that they should commit an act of injustice. But you have had a difficult and painful task, I know. Tell me, have you not, d’Artagnan?”

“I? Not at all,” said the musketeer, laughing; “the King does everything I wish him to do.”

Aramis looked fixedly at d’Artagnan, and saw that he was not speaking the truth. But Baisemeaux had eyes for nothing but d’Artagnan, so great was his admiration for a man who could make the King do all he wished.

“And does the King exile Athos?” inquired Aramis.

“No, not precisely. The King did not explain himself upon that subject,” replied d’Artagnan; “but I think the count could not do better, unless indeed he wishes particularly to thank the King-”

“No, indeed,” replied Athos, smiling.

“Well, then, I think,” resumed d’Artagnan, “that the count cannot do better than to retire to his own château. However, my dear Athos, you have only to speak, to tell me what you want. If any particular place of residence is more agreeable to you than another, I can obtain it for you.”

“No, thank you,” said Athos; “nothing can be more agreeable to me, my dear friend, than to return to the solitude beneath my noble trees on the banks of the Loire. If Heaven be the overruling physician of the evils of the mind, Nature is a sovereign remedy. And so, Monsieur,” continued Athos, turning again towards Baisemeaux, “I am now free, I suppose?”

“Yes, Monsieur the Count, I think so,- at least, I hope so,” said the governor, turning over and over the two papers in question; “unless, however, M. d’Artagnan has a third order to give me.”

“No, my dear M. Baisemeaux, no,” said the musketeer; “the second is quite enough. We can stop there.”

“Ah! Monsieur the Count,” said Baisemeaux, addressing Athos, “you do not know what you are losing. I should have placed you at thirty livres, like the generals- what am I saying?- I mean at fifty livres, like the princes; and you would have supped every evening as you have supped to-night.”

“Allow me, Monsieur,” said Athos, “to prefer my mediocrity”; and then, turning to d’Artagnan, he said, “Let us go, my friend.”

“Let us go,” said d’Artagnan.

“Shall I have the happiness of having you as my companion?”

“To the city gate only,” replied d’Artagnan; “after which I will tell you what I told the King: ‘I am on duty.’”

“And you, dear Aramis,” said Athos, smiling; “will you accompany me? La Fere is on the road to Vannes.”

“Thank you, my dear friend,” said Aramis; “but I have an appointment in Paris this evening, and I cannot leave without very serious interests suffering by my absence.”

“In that case,” said Athos, “I must say adieu, and take my leave of you. My dear M. de Baisemeaux, I have to thank you exceedingly for your good will, and particularly for the specimen you have given me of the Bastille fare”; and having embraced Aramis, and shaken hands with M. de Baisemeaux, and having received their wishes for an agreeable journey from them both, Athos set off with d’Artagnan.

While the dénouement of the scene of the Palais-Royal was taking place at the Bastille, let us relate what was going on at the lodgings of Athos and of Bragelonne. Grimaud, as we have seen, had accompanied his master to Paris; and, as we have said, he was present when Athos went out. He had seen d’Artagnan gnaw the corners of his mustache; he had seen his master get into the carriage; he had narrowly examined both their countenances, and he had known them both for a sufficiently long period to read and understand, through the mask of their impassiveness, that serious events were taking place. As soon as Athos had gone, he began to reflect; then he remembered the strange manner in which Athos had taken leave of him, the embarrassment- imperceptible to any one but himself- of his master,- that man of clear ideas and straightforward will. He knew that Athos had taken nothing with him but the clothes he had on him at the time; and yet he thought he saw that Athos had not left for an hour merely, or even for a day: a long absence was signified by the manner in which he pronounced the word “Adieu.” All these circumstances recurred to his mind, with all his feelings of deep affection for Athos, with that horror of emptiness and solitude which invariably besets the minds of those who love; and all these, combined, rendered poor Grimaud very melancholy and particularly very apprehensive. Without being able to account to himself for what he did after his master’s departure, he wandered about the apartment, seeking as it were for some traces of him, like a faithful dog, who is not exactly uneasy about his absent master, but at least is restless. Only, as to the instinct of the animal Grimaud joined the reason of a man, he had at the same time restlessness and anxiety. Not having found any indication which could serve as a guide, and having neither seen nor discovered anything which could satisfy his doubts, Grimaud began to imagine what could have happened. Now, the imagination is the resource, or rather the punishment, of good and affectionate hearts. In fact, never does a good heart represent its absent friend to itself as being happy or cheerful. Never does the pigeon who travels inspire anything but terror to the pigeon who remains at home.

Grimaud soon passed from anxiety to terror; he carefully went over, in his own mind, everything that had taken place,- d’Artagnan’s letter to Athos, the letter which had seemed to distress Athos so much; then Raoul’s coming to Athos, upon which Athos had asked for his orders and his court dress; then his interview with the King, at the end of which Athos had returned home so gloomy; then the explanation between the father and the son, at the termination of which Athos had embraced Raoul with such sadness of expression, while Raoul himself went away sorrowfully; and finally, d’Artagnan’s arrival, biting his mustache, and his leaving again in the carriage, accompanied by the Comte de la Fere. All this composed a drama in five acts, very plain, especially so to an analyst as skilful as Grimaud.

In the first place Grimaud resorted to grand measures: he searched in his master’s coat for M. d’Artagnan’s letter; he found the letter still there, and this is what it contained:

My Dear Friend: Raoul has been to ask me for some particulars about the conduct of Mademoiselle de la Valliere during our young friend’s residence in London. I am a poor captain of Musketeers, whose ears are battered every day by the scandal of the barracks and the bedchamber. If I had told Raoul all I believe I know, the poor fellow would have died from it; but I am in the King’s service, and cannot speak of the King’s affairs. If your heart tells you to do it, set off at once; the matter concerns you more than myself, and almost as much as Raoul.”

Grimaud tore, not a handful, but a finger-and-thumbful of hair out of his head; he would have torn out more if his hair had been more abundant.

“Yes,” he said, “that is the key of the whole enigma. The young girl has been playing her pranks. What people say about her and the King is true, then. Our young master has been deceived; he ought to know it. Monsieur the Count has been to see the King, and has given him a piece of his mind; and then the King sent M. d’Artagnan to arrange the affair. Ah, my God!” continued Grimaud, “Monsieur the Count, I now remember, returned without his sword.”

This discovery made the perspiration break out all over poor Grimaud’s face. He did not waste any more time in useless conjecture, but clapped his hat on his head and started for Raoul’s lodgings.

Raoul, after Louise had left him, had mastered his grief, if not his affection; and compelled to look forward on that perilous road on which madness and rebellion were hurrying him, he had seen, from the very first glance, his father exposed to the royal obstinacy, since Athos had immediately exposed himself to that obstinacy. In this moment, when sympathy gave him insight, the unhappy young man recalled the mysterious signs which Athos had made, and the unexpected visit of d’Artagnan. The probable result of the conflict between a sovereign and a subject revealed itself to his terrified vision. As d’Artagnan was on duty, that is, fixed to his post, he certainly had not come to pay Athos a visit merely for the pleasure of seeing him. He must have come to say something to him. This something, in a crisis so serious, was either a misfortune or a danger. Raoul shuddered at his selfishness in having forgotten his father for his love,- in having occupied himself with dreams or the fascinations of despair at a time when it was perhaps necessary to repel an imminent attack directed against Athos. The idea nearly drove him wild; he buckled on his sword and ran towards his father’s lodgings. On his way thither he encountered Grimaud, who having set off from the opposite direction was running with equal eagerness in search of the truth. The two men embraced each other warmly; they were both at the same point of the parabola described by their imagination.

“Grimaud!” exclaimed Raoul.

“M. Raoul!” cried Grimaud.

“Is the count well?”

“Have you seen him?”

“No; where is he?”

“I am trying to find out.”

“And M. d’Artagnan?”

“Went out with him.”

“When?”

“Ten minutes after you had left.”

“In what way did they go out?”

“In a carriage.”

“Where did they go?”

“I have no idea at all.”

“Did my father take any money with him?”

“No.”

“Or his sword?”

“No.”

“Grimaud!”

“M. Raoul!”

“I have an idea that M. d’Artagnan came to-”

“Arrest Monsieur the Count, do you not think, Monsieur?”

“Yes, Grimaud.”

“I could have sworn it.”

“What road did they take?”

“The way leading towards the quays.”

“To the Bastille, then?”

“Ah, my God! yes.”

“Quick, quick! let us run.”

“Yes, let us run.”

“But whither?” said Raoul, overwhelmed.

“We will go to M. d’Artagnan’s first; we may perhaps learn something there.”

“No; if he has kept it from me at my father’s, he will do the same everywhere. Let us go to- Oh, good Heavens! why, I must be mad to-day, Grimaud.”

“Why so?”

“I have forgotten M. du Vallon-”

“M. Porthos?”

“Who is waiting for and expecting me still! Alas! I have told you correctly, I am mad!”

“Where is he, then?”

“At the Minimes of Vincennes.”

“Thank goodness, that is in the direction of the Bastille. I will run and saddle the horses, and we will go at once,” said Grimaud.

“Do, my friend, do!”

In Which Porthos Is Convinced Without Having Understood Anything

The worthy Porthos, faithful to all the laws of ancient chivalry, had determined to wait for M. de Saint-Aignan until sunset; and as De Saint-Aignan did not come, as Raoul had forgotten to communicate with his second, and as he found that waiting so long was very wearisome, Porthos had desired one of the gate-keepers to fetch him a few bottles of good wine and a good joint of meat,- so that he at least might have the diversion of enjoying from time to time a glass of wine and a mouthful of something to eat. He had just finished when Raoul arrived escorted by Grimaud, both of them riding at full speed. When Porthos saw the two cavaliers riding at such a pace along the road, he did not for a moment doubt but that they were the men he was expecting; and he rose from the grass upon which he had been indolently reclining, and began to stretch his legs and arms, saying, “See what it is to have good habits! The fellow has come, after all. If I had gone away, he would have found no one here, and would have taken an advantage from that.” He then threw himself into a martial attitude, and drew himself up to the full height of his gigantic stature. But instead of De Saint-Aignan, he saw only Raoul, who with the most despairing gestures accosted him by crying out, “Pray forgive me, my dear friend! I am most wretched.”

“Raoul!” cried Porthos, surprised.

“You have been angry with me?” said Raoul, embracing Porthos.

“I? What for?”

“For having forgotten you. But, you see, I have lost my head.”

“Ah, bah!”

“If you only knew, my friend!”

“You have killed him?”

“Whom?”

“De Saint-Aignan.”

“Alas! we are far from De Saint-Aignan.”

“What is the matter, then?”

“The matter is that M. le Comte de la Fere has been arrested.”

Porthos gave a start that would have thrown down a wall. “Arrested!” he cried out; “by whom?”

“By d’Artagnan.”

“It is impossible,” said Porthos.

“It is nevertheless true,” replied Raoul.

Porthos turned towards Grimaud, as if he needed a second confirmation of the intelligence. Grimaud nodded his head. “And where have they taken him?”

“Probably to the Bastille.”

“What makes you think that?”

“As we came along we questioned some persons who saw the carriage pass, and others who saw it enter the Bastille.”

“Oh, oh!” muttered Porthos; and he moved forward two steps.

“What do you intend to do?” inquired Raoul.

“I? Nothing; only, I will not have Athos remain at the Bastille.”

“Do you know,” said Raoul, advancing nearer to Porthos, “that the arrest was made by order of the King?”

Porthos looked at the young man as if to say, “What does that matter to me?” This dumb language seemed so eloquent of meaning to Raoul that he did not ask another question. He mounted his horse again; and Porthos, assisted by Grimaud, did the same.

“Let us arrange our plan of action,” said Raoul.

“Yes,” returned Porthos; “that is the best thing we can do.”

Raoul sighed deeply, and then paused suddenly.

“What is the matter?” asked Porthos; “are you faint?”

“No; powerless. Can we three pretend to go and take the Bastille?”

“Well, if d’Artagnan were only here,” replied Porthos, “I don’t know about that.”

Raoul was struck with admiration at the sight of that confidence, heroic in its simplicity. These were the celebrated men who by three or four attacked armies and assaulted castles, who had terrified death itself, and who survived the wrecks of an age, and were still stronger than the most robust among the young. “Monsieur,” said he to Porthos, “you have just given me an idea; we absolutely must see M. d’Artagnan.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“He ought by this time to have returned home, after having taken my father to the Bastille. Let us go to his house.”

“First inquire at the Bastille,” said Grimaud, who was in the habit of speaking little, but to the purpose.

Accordingly they hastened towards the fortress, when one of those chances which Heaven bestows on men of strong will caused Grimaud suddenly to perceive the carriage which was entering by the great gate of the drawbridge. This was at the moment when d’Artagnan was, as we have seen, returning from his visit to the King. In vain Raoul urged on his horse to overtake the carriage and see whom it contained. The horses had already gained the other side of the great gate, which again closed, while one of the sentries struck the nose of Raoul’s horse with his musket. Raoul turned about, only too happy to find that he had ascertained something respecting the carriage which had contained his father.

“We have him,” said Grimaud.

“If we wait a little, it is certain that he will leave; don’t you think so, my friend?”

“Unless, indeed, d’Artagnan also be a prisoner,” replied Porthos, “in which case everything is lost.”

Raoul returned no answer, for any hypothesis was admissible. He instructed Grimaud to lead the horses to the little Rue Jean-Beausire, so as to give rise to less suspicion, and himself with his piercing gaze watched for the exit either of d’Artagnan or the carriage. It was a fortunate plan; for twenty minutes had not elapsed before the gate reopened and the carriage reappeared. A dazzling of the eyes prevented Raoul from distinguishing what figures occupied the interior. Grimaud averred that he had seen two persons, and that one of them was his master. Porthos kept looking at Raoul and Grimaud by turns, in the hope of understanding their idea.

“It is clear,” said Grimaud, “that if the count is in the carriage, either he is set at liberty or they are taking him to another prison.”

“We shall soon see that by the road he takes,” answered Porthos.

“If he is set at liberty,” said Grimaud, “they will conduct him home.”

“True,” rejoined Porthos.

“The carriage does not take that way,” cried Raoul; and indeed the horses were just disappearing down the Faubourg St. Antoine.

“Let us hasten,” said Porthos; “we will attack the carriage on the road, and tell Athos to flee.”

“Rebellion,” murmured Raoul.

Raoul, le Vicomte de Bragellone: Raoul, d’Artagnan, Porthos, and Athos overtake a carriage.; Le Vicomte de Bragellone

Porthos darted a second glance at Raoul, quite worthy of the first. Raoul replied only by spurring the flanks of his steed. In a few moments the three cavaliers had overtaken the carriage, and followed it so closely that their horses’ breath moistened the back of it. D’Artagnan, whose senses were ever on the alert, heard the trot of the horses at the moment when Raoul was telling Porthos to pass the chariot so as to see who was the person accompanying Athos. Porthos complied, but could not see anything, for the blinds were lowered. Rage and impatience were gaining mastery over Raoul. He had just noticed the mystery preserved by Athos’s companion, and determined on proceeding to extremities. On his part d’Artagnan had clearly recognized Porthos, and Raoul also, from under the blinds, and had communicated to the count the result of his observation. They were desirous only of seeing whether Raoul and Porthos would push the affair to the uttermost. And this they speedily did. Raoul, presenting his pistol, threw himself on the leader, commanding the coachman to stop. Porthos seized the coachman and dragged him from his seat. Grimaud already had hold of the carriage door. Raoul threw open his arms, exclaiming, “Monsieur the Count! Monsieur the Count!”

“Ah! is it you, Raoul?” said Athos, intoxicated with joy.

“Not bad, indeed!” added d’Artagnan, with a burst of laughter; and they both embraced the young man and Porthos, who had captured them.

“My brave Porthos, best of friends!” cried Athos, “it is still the same with you.

“He is still only twenty,” said d’Artagnan. “Bravo, Porthos!”

“Confound it!” answered Porthos, slightly confused, “we thought that you were arrested.”

“While,” rejoined Athos, “I was, in fact, only taking a drive in M. d’Artagnan’s carriage.”

“But we followed you from the Bastille,” returned Raoul, with a tone of suspicion and reproach.

“Where we had been to take supper with our good friend M. Baisemeaux. You recollect Baisemeaux, Porthos?”

“Very well, indeed.”

“And there we saw Aramis.”

“In the Bastille?”

“At supper.”

“Ah!” said Porthos, again breathing freely.

“He gave us a thousand messages for you.”

“Thanks.”

“And where is Monsieur the Count going?” asked Grimaud, already recompensed by a smile from his master.

“We are going home to Blois.”

“How is that,- at once?”

“Yes; right forward.”

“Without any luggage?”

“Oh! Raoul would have been instructed to forward me mine, or to bring it with him on his return, if he returns.”

“If nothing detains him longer in Paris,” said d’Artagnan, with a glance firm and cutting as steel, and as painful (for it reopened the poor young fellow’s wounds), “he will do well to follow you, Athos.”

“There is nothing to keep me any longer in Paris,” said Raoul.

“Then we will go immediately,” replied Athos.

“And M. d’Artagnan?”

“Oh! as for me, I was only accompanying Athos as far as the barrier, and I return with Porthos.”

“Very good,” said the latter.

“Come, my son,” added the count, gently passing his arm round Raoul’s neck to draw him into the carriage, and again embracing him. “Grimaud,” continued the count, “you will return quietly to Paris with your horse and M. du Vallon’s, for Raoul and I will mount here and give up the carriage to these two gentlemen to return to Paris in; and then, as soon as you arrive, you will take my clothes and letters, and forward the whole to me at home.”

“But,” observed Raoul, who was anxious to make the count converse, “when you return to Paris, there will not be a single thing there for you,- which will be very inconvenient.”

“I think it will be a very long time, Raoul, ere I return to Paris. The last sojourn we have made there has not been of a nature to encourage me to repeat it.”

Raoul hung his head, and said not a word more. Athos descended from the carriage, and mounted the horse which had brought Porthos, and which seemed no little pleased at the exchange. Then they embraced, clasped one another’s hands, and interchanged a thousand pledges of eternal friendship. Porthos promised to spend a month with Athos at the first opportunity. D’Artagnan engaged to take advantage of his first leave of absence; and then, having embraced Raoul for the last time, “To you, my boy,” said he, “I will write.” Coming from d’Artagnan, who he knew wrote but very seldom, these words expressed everything. Raoul was moved even to tears. He tore himself away from the musketeer, and departed.

D’Artagnan rejoined Porthos in the carriage. “Well,” said he, “my dear friend, what a day we have had!”

“Indeed, yes,” answered Porthos.

“You must be quite worn out?”

“Not quite; however, I shall retire early to rest, so as to be ready tomorrow.”

“And wherefore?”

“Why, to complete what I have begun.”

“You make me shudder, my friend; you seem to me quite angry. What the devil have you begun which is not finished?”

“Listen! Raoul has not fought; it is necessary that I should fight.”

“With whom?- with the King?”

“How!” exclaimed Porthos, astounded, “with the King?”

“Yes, I say, you great baby! with the King.”

“I assure you it is with M. de Saint-Aignan.”

“Look now, this is what I mean: you draw your sword against the King in fighting with this gentleman.”

“Ah!” said Porthos, staring; “are you sure of it?”

“Indeed, I am.”

“How shall we arrange it, then?”

“We must try and make a good supper, Porthos. The captain of the Musketeers keeps a tolerable table. There you will see the handsome De Saint-Aignan, and will drink his health.”

“I!” cried Porthos, horrified.

“What!” said d’Artagnan, “you refuse to drink the King’s health?”

“But, body alive! I am not talking to you about the King at all; I am speaking of M. de Saint-Aignan.”

“But since I repeat that it is the same thing-”

“Ah, well, well!” said Porthos, overcome.

“You understand, don’t you?”

“No,” said Porthos; “but no matter.”

“Yes, it is all the same,” replied d’Artagnan; “let us go to supper, Porthos.”

M. de Baisemeaux’s “Society”

The reader has not forgotten that, on quitting the Bastille, d’Artagnan and the Comte de la Fere had left Aramis in close confabulation with Baisemeaux. When once these two guests had departed, Baisemeaux did not in the least perceive that the conversation suffered by their absence. He thought that wine after supper, and that of the Bastille in particular, was excellent; and that it was a stimulant quite sufficient to make an honest man talk. But he little knew his Greatness, who was never more impenetrable than at dessert. His Greatness, however, perfectly understood M. de Baisemeaux, when he reckoned on making the governor discourse by the means which the latter regarded as efficacious. The conversation, therefore, without flagging in appearance, flagged in reality; for Baisemeaux not only had it nearly all to himself, but further, kept speaking only of that singular event,- the incarceration of Athos, followed by so prompt an order to set him again at liberty. Nor, moreover, had Baisemeaux failed to observe that the order of arrest and that of liberation were both in the King’s hand. But the King would not take the trouble to write such orders except under pressing circumstances. All this was very interesting, and, above all, very puzzling to Baisemeaux; but as, on the other hand, all this was very clear to Aramis, the latter did not attach to the occurrence the same importance as did the worthy governor. Besides, Aramis rarely put himself out of the way for anything, and he had not yet told M. de Baisemeaux for what reason he had now done so; and so, at the very climax of Baisemeaux’s dissertation, Aramis suddenly interrupted him.

“Tell me, my dear M. Baisemeaux,” said he, “have you never had any other diversions at the Bastille than those at which I have assisted during the two or three visits I have had the honor to pay you?”

This address was so unexpected that the governor, like a vane which suddenly receives an impulsion opposed to that of the wind, was quite dumfounded at it. “Diversions!” said he; “but I take them continually, Monseigneur.”

“Oh, to be sure! And these diversions-”

“Are of every kind.”

“Visits, no doubt?”

“No, not visits. Visits are not frequent at the Bastille.”

“What! are visits rare, then?”

“Very rare.”

“Even on the part of your society?”

“What do you mean by my ‘society,’- the prisoners?”

“Oh, no! Your prisoners, indeed! I know well it is you who visit them, and not they you. By your society I mean, my dear M. Baisemeaux, the society of which you are a member.”

Baisemeaux looked fixedly at Aramis, and then, as if the idea which had flashed across his mind were impossible, “Oh!” he said, “I have very little society at present. If I must own it to you, my dear M. d’Herblay, the fact is, to stay at the Bastille appears for the most part distressing and distasteful to persons of the gay world. As for the ladies, it is never without a dread, which costs me infinite trouble to allay, that they come to my quarters. And, indeed, how should they avoid trembling a little, poor things, when they see those gloomy dungeons, and reflect that they are inhabited by prisoners who-” In proportion as the eyes of Baisemeaux concentrated their gaze on the face of Aramis, the worthy governor’s tongue faltered more and more, until finally it stopped altogether.

“No, you don’t understand me, my dear M. Baisemeaux,- you don’t understand me. I do not at all mean to speak of society in general, but of a particular society,- of the society, in a word, to which you are affiliated.”

Baisemeaux nearly dropped the glass of muscat which he was in the act of raising to his lips. “Affiliated?” cried he, “affiliated?”

“Yes, affiliated, undoubtedly,” repeated Aramis, with the greatest self-possession. “Are you not a member of a secret society, my dear M. Baisemeaux?”

“Secret?”

“Secret or mysterious.”

“Oh, M. d’Herblay!”

“See! you don’t deny it.”

“But, believe me-”

“I believe what I know.”

“I swear to you.”

“Listen to me, my dear M. Baisemeaux! I say ‘yes,’ you say ‘no.’ One of us two necessarily says what is true; and the other, it inevitably follows, what is false.”

“Well, and then?”

“Well, we shall come to an understanding presently.”

“Let us see,” said Baisemeaux; “let us see.”

“Now drink your glass of muscat, dear M. Baisemeaux,” said Aramis. “What the devil! you look quite scared.”

“No, no, not the least in the world; no.”

“Drink, then.”

Baisemeaux drank, but he swallowed the wrong way.

“Well,” resumed Aramis, “if, I say, you are not a member of a society, secret or mysterious, whichever you like to call it,- the epithet is of no consequence,- if, I say, you are not a member of a society similar to that I wish to designate, well, then, you will not understand a word of what I am going to say, that is all.”

“Oh! be sure beforehand that I shall not understand anything.”

“Well, well!”

“Try now; let us see.”

“That is what I am going to do. If, on the contrary, you are one of the members of this society, you will immediately answer me ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Begin your questions, then,” continued Baisemeaux, trembling.

“You will agree, dear M. de Baisemeaux,” continued Aramis, with the same impassiveness, “that it is evident a man cannot be a member of a society, it is evident that he cannot enjoy the advantages it offers to the affiliated, without being himself bound to certain little services.”

“In short,” stammered Baisemeaux, “that would be intelligible if-”

“Well,” resumed Aramis, “there is in the society of which I speak, and of which, as it seems, you are not a member-”

“Allow me,” said Baisemeaux; “I should not like to say absolutely.”

“There is an engagement entered into by all the governors and captains of fortresses affiliated to the order.” Baisemeaux grew pale. “Now the engagement,” continued Aramis, firmly, “is of this nature.”

Baisemeaux rose, manifesting unspeakable emotion. “Go on, dear M. d’Herblay; go on!” said he.

Aramis then spoke, or rather recited, the following sentence, in the same tone as if he had been reading it from a book: “The aforesaid captain or governor of a fortress shall allow to enter, when need shall arise, and on demand of the prisoner, a confessor affiliated to the order.” He stopped. Baisemeaux was quite distressing to look at, being so wretchedly pale and trembling. “Is not that the text of the agreement?” quietly asked Aramis.

“Monseigneur!” began Baisemeaux.

“Ah, well, you begin to understand, I think.”

“Monseigneur,” cried Baisemeaux, “do not trifle so with my unhappy mind! I find myself nothing in your hands, if you have the malignant desire to draw from me the little secrets of my administration.”

“Oh, by no means! Pray undeceive yourself, dear M. Baisemeaux; it is not the little secrets of your administration that I aim at, but those of your conscience.”

“Well, then, my conscience be it, my dear M. d’Herblay! But have some consideration for the situation I am in, which is no ordinary one.”

“It is no ordinary one, my dear Monsieur,” continued the inflexible Aramis, “if you are a member of this society; but it is quite a natural one if, free from all engagements, you are answerable only to the King.”

“Well, Monsieur, well! I obey only the King. Good God! whom else would you have a French gentleman obey?”

Aramis did not yield an inch; but with that silvery voice of his continued: “It is very pleasant for a French gentleman, for a prelate of France, to hear a man of your mark express himself so loyally, dear De Baisemeaux, and having heard you, to believe no more than you do.”

“Have you doubted, Monsieur?”

“I? Oh, no!”

“And so you doubt no longer?”

“I have no longer any doubt that such a man as you, Monsieur,” said Aramis, gravely, “does not faithfully serve the masters whom he voluntarily chose for himself.”

“Masters!” cried Baisemeaux.

“Yes, masters, I said.”

“M. d’Herblay, you are still jesting, are you not?”

“Oh, yes! I understand that it is a more difficult position to have several masters than one; but the embarrassment is owing to you, my dear Baisemeaux, and I am not the cause of it.”

“Certainly not,” returned the unfortunate governor, more embarrassed than ever; “but what are you doing? You are leaving the table?”

“Assuredly.”

“Are you going?”

“Yes, I am going.”

“But you are behaving very strangely towards me, Monseigneur.”

“I am behaving strangely,- in what respect?”

“Have you sworn, then, to put me to the torture?”

“No, I should be sorry to do so.”

“Remain, then.”

“I cannot.”

“And why?”

“Because I have no longer anything to do here; and, indeed, I have duties to fulfill elsewhere.”

“Duties so late as this?”

“Yes; understand me now, my dear M. de Baisemeaux. They told me at the place whence I came, ‘The aforesaid governor or captain will allow to enter, as need shall arise, on the prisoner’s demand, a confessor affiliated with the order.’ I came; you do not know what I mean, and so I shall return to tell them that they are mistaken, and that they must send me elsewhere.”

“What! you are-” cried Baisemeaux, looking at Aramis almost in terror.

“The confessor affiliated to the order,” said Aramis, without changing his voice.

But, gentle as the words were, they had the same effect on the unhappy governor as a clap of thunder. Baisemeaux became livid, and it seemed to him as if Aramis’s beaming eyes were two forks of flame, piercing to the very bottom of his soul. “The confessor!” murmured he; “you, Monseigneur, the confessor of the order!”

“Yes, I; but we have nothing to unravel together, seeing that you are not one of the affiliated.”

“Monseigneur!”

“And I understand that, not being so, you refuse to comply with its commands.”

“Monseigneur, I beseech you, condescend to hear me.”

“And wherefore?”

“Monseigneur, I do not say that I have nothing to do with the society.”

“Ah! ah!”

“I say not that I refuse to obey.”

“Nevertheless, M. de Baisemeaux, what has passed wears very much the air of resistance.”

“Oh, no, Monseigneur, no! I only wished to be certain.”

“To be certain of what?” said Aramis, in a tone of supreme contempt.

“Of nothing at all, Monseigneur.” Baisemeaux lowered his voice, and bending before the prelate said, “I am at all times and in all places at the disposal of my masters, but-”

“Very good. I like you better thus, Monsieur,” said Aramis, as he resumed his seat, and put out his glass to Baisemeaux, whose hand trembled so that he could not fill it. “You were saying ‘but’-” continued Aramis.

“But,” replied the unhappy man, “having no notice, I was far from expecting.”

“Does not the Gospel say, ‘Watch, for the moment is known only of God’? Do not the rules of the order say, ‘Watch; for that which I will, you ought always to will also’? And on what pretext is it that you did not expect the confessor, M. de Baisemeaux?”

“Because, Monseigneur, there is at present in the Bastille no prisoner ill.”

Aramis shrugged his shoulder. “What do you know about that?” said he.

“But nevertheless, it appears to me-”

“M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, turning round in his chair, “here is your servant, who wishes to speak with you”; and at this moment Baisemeaux’s servant appeared at the threshold of the door.

“What is it?” asked Baisemeaux, sharply.

“Monsieur,” said the man, “they are bringing you the doctor’s return.”

Aramis looked at Baisemeaux with a calm and confident eye.

“Well,” said Baisemeaux, “let the messenger enter.”

The messenger entered, saluted, and handed in the report. Baisemeaux ran his eye over it, and raising his head said, in surprise, “No. 2 Bertaudiere is ill.”

“How was it, then,” said Aramis, carelessly, “that you told me everybody was well in your hotel, M. de Baisemeaux?” and he emptied his glass without removing his eyes from Baisemeaux.

The governor then made a sign to the messenger, and when he had quitted the room said, still trembling, “I think that there is in the article, ‘on the prisoner’s demand.’”

“Yes, it is so”; answered Aramis. “But see what it is they want with you now, dear M. de Baisemeaux.”

At that moment a sergeant put his head in at the door. “What do you want now?” cried Baisemeaux. “Can you not leave me in peace for ten minutes?”

“Monsieur,” said the sergeant, “the sick man, No. 2 Bertaudiere, has commissioned the turnkey to request you to send him a confessor.”

Baisemeaux very nearly sank on the floor; but Aramis disdained to reassure him, just as he had disdained to terrify him. “What must I answer?” inquired Baisemeaux.

“Just what you please,” replied Aramis, compressing his lips; “that is your business. I am not governor of the Bastille.”

“Tell the prisoner,” cried Baisemeaux, quickly,- “tell the prisoner that his request is granted.” The sergeant left the room. “Oh, Monseigneur, Monseigneur,” murmured Baisemeaux, “how could I have suspected?- how could I have foreseen this?”

“Who told you to suspect, and who asked you to foresee?” contemptuously answered Aramis. “The order suspects, the order knows, the order foresees,- is not that enough?”

“What do you command?” added Baisemeaux.

“I?- nothing at all. I am nothing but a poor priest, a simple confessor. Have I your orders to go and see the sufferer?”

“Oh, Monseigneur, I do not order; I pray you to go.”

“’Tis well; then conduct me to him.”

The Man in the Iron Mask

The Prisoner

Since Aramis’s singular transformation into a confessor of the order, Baisemeaux was no longer the same man. Up to that period the place which Aramis had held in the worthy governor’s estimation was that of a prelate whom he respected and a friend to whom he owed a debt of gratitude; but after that revelation which had upset all his ideas, he felt himself an inferior, and that Aramis was his master. He himself lighted a lantern, summoned a turnkey, and said, returning to Aramis, “I am at your orders, Monseigneur.”

Aramis merely nodded his head, as much as to say, “Very good”; and signed to him with his hand to lead the way. Baisemeaux advanced, and Aramis followed him.

It was a beautiful starry night; the steps of the three men resounded on the flags of the terraces, and the clinking of the keys hanging from the jailer’s girdle made itself heard up to the stories of the towers, as if to remind the prisoners that liberty was out of their reach. It might have been said that the alteration effected in Baisemeaux had extended itself even to the prisoners. The turnkey, the same who on Aramis’s first arrival had shown himself so inquisitive and curious, had now become not only silent, but even impassible. He held his head down, and seemed afraid to keep his ears open. In this wise they reached the basement of the Bertaudiere, the first two stories of which were mounted silently and somewhat slowly; for Baisemeaux, though far from disobeying, was far from exhibiting any eagerness to obey. Finally, they arrived at the door. The jailer had the key ready, and opened the door. Baisemeaux showed a disposition to enter the prisoner’s chamber; but Aramis, stopping him on the threshold, said, “The rules do not allow the governor to hear the prisoner’s confession.”

Baisemeaux bowed, and made way for Aramis, who took the lantern and entered, and then signed to them to close the door behind him. For an instant he remained standing, listening to learn whether Baisemeaux and the turnkey had retired; but as soon as he was assured by the dying sound of their footsteps that they had left the tower, he put the lantern on the table and gazed around. On a bed of green serge, similar in all respects to the other beds in the Bastille, save that it was newer, under ample curtains half drawn, reposed a young man to whom we have once before introduced Aramis. According to custom, the prisoner was without a light. At the hour of curfew he was bound to extinguish his lamp; it may be seen how much he was favored in being allowed to keep it burning until that hour. Near the bed a large leathern arm-chair, with twisted legs, held his clothes. A little table- without pens, books, paper, or ink- stood deserted near the window; while several plates, still unemptied, showed that the prisoner had scarcely touched his recent repast. Aramis saw that the young man was stretched upon his bed, his face half concealed by his arms. The arrival of a visitor did not cause any change of position; either he was waiting in expectation or he was asleep. Aramis lighted the candle from the lantern, pushed back the arm-chair, and approached the bed with an appearance of mingled interest and respect.

The young man raised his head. “What is it?” said he.

“Have you not desired a confessor?” replied Aramis.

“Yes.”

“Because you are ill?”

“Yes.”

“Very ill?”

The young man gave Aramis a piercing glance, and answered, “I thank you.” After a moment’s silence, “I have seen you before,” he continued.

Aramis bowed.

Doubtless the scrutiny which the prisoner had just made of the cold, crafty, and imperious character stamped upon the features of the bishop of Vannes was little reassuring to one in his situation, for he added, “I am better.”

“And then?” said Aramis.

“Why, then, being better, I have no longer the same need of a confessor, I think.”

“Not even of the haircloth, of which the note you found in your bread informed you?”

The young man started; but before he had either assented or denied, Aramis continued, “Not even of the ecclesiastic from whom you were to hear an important revelation?”

“If it be so,” said the young man, sinking again on his pillow, “it is different; I listen.”

Aramis then looked at him more closely, and was struck with the easy majesty of his mien,- one which can never be acquired unless Heaven has implanted it in the blood or in the heart.

“Sit down, Monsieur!” said the prisoner.

Aramis bowed and obeyed.

“How does the Bastille agree with you?” asked the bishop.

“Very well.”

“You do not suffer?”

“No.”

“You have nothing to regret?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even your liberty?”

“What do you call liberty, Monsieur?” asked the prisoner, with the tone of a man who is preparing for a struggle.

“I call liberty the flowers, the air, light, the stars, the happiness of going whithersoever the nervous limbs of twenty years of age may wish to carry you.”

The young man smiled,- whether in resignation or contempt, it would have been difficult to tell. “Look!” said he; “I have in that Japanese vase two roses gathered yesterday evening in the bud from the governor’s garden. This morning they have blown and spread their vermilion chalices beneath my gaze; with every opening petal they unfold the treasures of their perfume, filling my chamber with fragrance. Look now on these two roses; even among roses these are beautiful, and the rose is the most beautiful of flowers. Why, then, do you bid me desire other flowers when I possess the loveliest of all?”

Aramis gazed at the young man in surprise.

“If flowers constitute liberty,” sadly resumed the captive, “I am free, for I possess them.”

“But the air!” cried Aramis,- “air so necessary to life!”

“Well, Monsieur,” returned the prisoner, “draw near to the window; it is open. Between Heaven and earth the wind whirls its storms of hail and lightning, wafts its warm mists, or breathes in gentle breezes. It caresses my face. When mounted on the back of this arm-chair, with my arm around the bars of the window to sustain myself, I fancy I am swimming in the wide expanse.”

The countenance of Aramis darkened as the young man spoke.

“Light!” continued the prisoner,- “I have what is better than light! I have the sun,- a friend who comes to visit me every day without the permission of the governor or the jailer’s company. He comes in at the window, and traces in my room a quadrilateral which starts from the window and reaches to the hangings of my bed. This luminous figure increases from ten o’clock till midday, and decreases from one till three slowly, as if, having hastened to come, it sorrowed at leaving me. When its last ray disappears, I have enjoyed its presence for four hours. Is not that sufficient? I have been told that there are unhappy beings who dig in quarries, and laborers who toil in mines, who never behold the sun at all.”

Aramis wiped the drops from his brow.

“As to the stars which are so delightful to view,” continued the young man, “they all resemble one another save in size and brilliancy. I am a favored mortal; for if you had not lighted that candle, you would have been able to see the beautiful star which I was gazing at from my couch before your arrival, and whose rays were playing over my eyes.”

Aramis lowered his head; he felt himself overwhelmed by the bitter flow of that sinister philosophy which is the religion of the captive.

“So much, then, for the flowers, the air, the daylight, and the stars,” tranquilly continued the young man; “there remains freedom of movement. Do I not walk all day in the governor’s garden if it is fine; here, if it rains; in the fresh air, if it is warm; in the warm, thanks to my fireplace, if it be cold? Ah, Monsieur, do you fancy,” continued the prisoner, not without bitterness, “that men have not done everything for me that a man can hope for or desire?”

“Men!” said Aramis, raising his head; “be it so! But it seems to me you forget Heaven.”

“Indeed, I have forgotten Heaven,” murmured the prisoner, without emotion; “but why do you mention it? Of what use is it to talk to a prisoner of Heaven?”

Aramis looked steadily at this singular youth, who possessed the resignation of a martyr with the smile of an atheist. “Is not God in everything?” he murmured in a reproachful tone.

“Say, rather, at the end of everything,” answered the prisoner, firmly.

“Be it so,” said Aramis; “but let us return to our starting-point.”

“I desire nothing better,” returned the young man.

“I am your confessor.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth.”

“All that I wish is to tell it to you.”

“Every prisoner has committed some crime for which he has been imprisoned. What crime, then, have you committed?”

“You asked me the same question the first time you saw me,” returned the prisoner.

“And then, as now, you evaded giving me an answer.”

“And what reason have you for thinking that I shall now reply to you?”

“Because this time I am your confessor.”

“Then, if you wish me to tell what crime I have committed, explain to me in what a crime consists; for as my conscience does not accuse me, I aver that I am not a criminal.”

“We are often criminals in the sight of the great of the earth, not alone for having ourselves committed crimes, but because we know that crimes have been committed.”

The prisoner manifested the deepest attention. “Yes, I understand you,” he said, after a pause; “yes, you are right, Monsieur. It is very possible that in that light I am a criminal in the eyes of the great.”

“Ah! then you know something,” said Aramis, who thought he had pierced not merely through a defect in the harness, but through the joints of it.

“No, I am not aware of anything,” replied the young man; “but sometimes I think, and I say to myself in those moments-”

“What do you say to yourself?”

“That if I were to think any further, I should either go mad or I should divine a great deal.”

“And then- and then-” said Aramis, impatiently.

“Then I leave off.”

“You leave off?”

“Yes; my head becomes confused, and my ideas melancholy. I feel ennui overtaking me; I wish-”

“What?”

“I don’t know; but I do not like to give myself up to longing for things which I do not possess, when I am so happy with what I have.”

“You are afraid of death?” said Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.

“Yes,” said the young man, smiling.

Aramis felt the chill of that smile, and shuddered. “Oh, as you fear death, you know more than you admit!” he cried.

“And you,” returned the prisoner, “who bade me to ask to see you,- you, who when I did ask for you came here promising a world of confidence,- how is it that, nevertheless, it is you who are silent, and ‘t is I who speak? Since, then, we both wear masks, either let us both retain them or put them aside together.”

Aramis felt the force and justice of the remark, saying to himself, “This is no ordinary man.” “Are you ambitious?” said he suddenly to the prisoner, aloud, without preparing him for the alteration.

“What do you mean by ambition?” replied the youth.

“It is,” replied Aramis, “a feeling which prompts a man to desire more than he has.”

“I said that I was contented, Monsieur; but perhaps I deceive myself. I am ignorant of the nature of ambition; but it is not impossible I may have some. Come, open my mind; I ask nothing better.”

“An ambitious man,” said Aramis, “is one who covets what is beyond his station.”

“I covet nothing beyond my station,” said the young man, with an assurance of manner which yet again made the bishop of Vannes tremble.

Aramis was silent. But to look at the kindling eye, the knitted brow, and the reflective attitude of the captive, it was evident that he expected something more than silence. That silence Aramis now broke. “You lied the first time I saw you,” said he.

“Lied!” cried the young man, starting up on his couch, with such a tone in his voice and such lightning in his eyes that Aramis recoiled in spite of himself.

“I should say,” returned Aramis, bowing, “you concealed from me what you knew of your infancy.”

“A man’s secrets are his own, Monsieur,” retorted the prisoner, “and not at the mercy of the first chance-comer.”

“True,” said Aramis, bowing still lower than before, “‘t is true; pardon me, but to-day do I still occupy the place of a chance-comer? I beseech you to reply, Monseigneur.”

This title slightly disturbed the prisoner; but nevertheless he did not appear astonished that it was given to him. “I do not know you, Monsieur,” said he.

“Oh, if I but dared, I would take your hand and would kiss it!”

The young man seemed as if he were going to give Aramis his hand; but the light which beamed in his eyes faded away, and he coldly and distrustfully withdrew his hand. “Kiss the hand of a prisoner!” he said, shaking his head; “to what purpose?”

“Why did you tell me,” said Aramis, “that you were happy here? Why, that you aspired to nothing? Why, in a word, by thus speaking, do you prevent me from being frank in my turn?”

The same light shone a third time in the young man’s eyes, but died as before, without leading to anything.

“You distrust me,” said Aramis.

“And why say you so, Monsieur?”

“Oh, for a very simple reason! If you know what you ought to know, you ought to mistrust everybody.”

“Then be not astonished that I am mistrustful, since you suspect me of knowing what I know not.”

Aramis was struck with admiration at this energetic resistance. “Oh, Monseigneur, you drive me to despair!” said he, striking the arm-chair with his fist.

“And on my part I do not comprehend you, Monsieur.”

“Well, then, try to understand me.” The prisoner looked fixedly at Aramis. “Sometimes it seems to me,” said the latter, “that I have before me the man whom I seek, and then-”

“And then your man disappears,- is it not so?” said the prisoner, smiling. “So much the better.”

Aramis rose. “Certainly,” said he; “I have nothing further to say to a man who mistrusts me as you do.”

“And I, Monsieur,” said the prisoner, in the same tone, “have nothing to say to a man who will not understand that a prisoner ought to be mistrustful of everybody.”

“Even of old friends?” said Aramis. “Oh, Monseigneur, you are too cautious!”

“Of my old friends?- you one of my old friends,- you?”

“Do you no longer remember,” said Aramis, “that you once saw in the village where your early years were spent-”

“Do you know the name of the village?” asked the prisoner.

“Noisy-le-Sec, Monseigneur,” answered Aramis, firmly.

“Go on!” said the young man, without expression of assent or denial on his countenance.

“Stay, Monseigneur!” said Aramis; “if you are positively resolved to carry on this game, let us break off. I am here to tell you many things, ‘t is true; but you must allow me to see that, on your side, you have a desire to know them. Before revealing the important matters I conceal, be assured that I am in need of some encouragement, if not candor; a little sympathy, if not confidence. But you keep yourself intrenched in a pretended ignorance which paralyzes me. Oh, not for the reason you think; for ignorant as you may be, or indifferent as you feign to be, you are none the less what you are, Monseigneur, and there is nothing- nothing, mark me!- which can cause you not to be so.”

“I promise you,” replied the prisoner, “to hear you without impatience. Only it appears to me that I have a right to repeat the question I have already asked, ‘who are you?’”

“Do you remember, fifteen or eighteen years ago, seeing at Noisy-le-Sec a cavalier, accompanied by a lady plainly dressed in black silk, with flame-colored ribbons in her hair?”

“Yes,” said the young man; “I once asked the name of this cavalier, and was told that he called himself the Abbé d’Herblay. I was astonished that the abbé had so warlike an air, and was told that there was nothing singular in that, seeing that he was one of Louis XIII’s musketeers.”

“Well,” said Aramis, “that musketeer of other times, that abbé afterwards, then bishop of Vannes, is to-day your confessor.”

“I know it; I recognized you.”

“Then, Monseigneur, if you know that, I must add a fact of which you are ignorant,- that if the King were to know this evening of the presence here of this musketeer, this abbé, this bishop, this confessor, he who has risked everything to visit you would to-morrow see glitter the executioner’s axe at the bottom of a dungeon more gloomy and more obscure than yours.”

While hearing these words, delivered with emphasis, the young man had raised himself on his couch and gazed more and more eagerly at Aramis. The result of this scrutiny was that he appeared to derive some confidence from it. “Yes,” he murmured, “I remember perfectly. The woman of whom you speak came once with you, and twice afterwards with the woman-” He hesitated.

“With another woman who came to see you every month,- is it not so, Monseigneur?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who this lady was?”

The light seemed ready to flash from the prisoner’s eyes. “I am aware that she was a lady of the court,” he said.

“You remember that lady well, do you not?”

“Oh, my recollection can hardly be very confused on this head!” said the young prisoner. “I saw that lady once with a gentleman about forty-five years old. I saw her once with you, and with the lady dressed in black with flame-colored ribbons. I have seen her twice since with the same person. These four persons, with my tutor and old Perronnette, my jailer and the governor of the prison, are the only persons with whom I have ever spoken, and, indeed, almost the only persons I have ever seen.”

“Then, you were in prison?”

“If I am a prisoner here, there I was comparatively free, although in a very narrow sense. A house which I never quitted, a garden surrounded with walls I could not clear,- these constituted my residence; but you know it, as you have been there. In a word, being accustomed to live within these bounds, I never cared to leave them. And so you will understand, Monsieur, that not having seen anything of the world, I can desire nothing; and therefore, if you relate anything, you will be obliged to explain everything to me.”

“And I will do so,” said Aramis, bowing; “for it is my duty, Monseigneur.”

“Well, then, begin by telling me who was my tutor.”

“A worthy and above all an honorable gentleman, Monseigneur; fit guide both for body and soul. Had you ever any reason to complain of him?”

“Oh, no; quite the contrary. But this gentleman of yours often used to tell me that my father and mother were dead. Did he deceive me, or did he speak the truth?”

“He was compelled to comply with the orders given him.”

“Then he lied?”

“In one respect. Your father is dead.”

“And my mother?”

“She is dead for you.”

“But then she lives for others, does she not?”

“Yes.”

“And I- and I, then [the young man looked sharply at Aramis], am compelled to live in the obscurity of a prison?”

“Alas! I fear so.”

“And that because my presence in the world would lead to the revelation of a great secret?”

“Certainly, a very great secret.”

“My enemy must indeed be powerful, to be able to shut up in the Bastille a child such as I then was.”

“He is.”

“More powerful than my mother, then?”

“And why do you ask that?”

“Because my mother would have taken my part.”

Aramis hesitated. “Yes, Monseigneur; more powerful than your mother.”

“Seeing, then, that my nurse and preceptor were carried off, and that I also was separated from them,- either they were, or I am, very dangerous to my enemy?”

“Yes; a peril from which he freed himself by causing the nurse and preceptor to disappear,” answered Aramis, quietly.

“Disappear!” cried the prisoner; “but how did they disappear?”

“In the surest possible way,” answered Aramis: “they are dead.”

The young man turned visibly pale, and passed his hand tremblingly over his face. “From poison?” he asked.

“From poison.”

The prisoner reflected a moment. “My enemy must indeed have been very cruel, or hard beset by necessity, to assassinate those two innocent persons, my sole support; for that worthy gentleman and that poor woman had never harmed a living being.”

“In your family, Monseigneur, necessity is stern. And so it is necessity which compels me, to my great regret, to tell you that this gentleman and the unhappy lady were assassinated.”

“Oh, you tell me nothing I am not aware of!” said the prisoner, knitting his brows.

“How?”

“I suspected it.”

“Why?”

“I will tell you.”

At this moment the young man, supporting himself on his elbows, drew close to Aramis’s face, with such an expression of dignity, of self-command, and of defiance even, that the bishop felt the electricity of enthusiasm strike in devouring flashes from that seared heart of his into his brain of adamant.

“Speak, Monseigneur! I have already told you that by conversing with you I endanger my life. Little value as it has, I implore you to accept it as the ransom of your own.”

“Well,” resumed the young man, “this is why I suspected that they had killed my nurse and my preceptor-”

“Whom you used to call your father.”

“Yes; whom I called my father, but whose son I well knew I was not.”

“Who caused you to suppose so?”

“Just as you, Monsieur, are too respectful for a friend, he was also too respectful for a father.”

“I, however,” said Aramis, “have no intention to disguise myself.”

The young man nodded assent, and continued: “Undoubtedly, I was not destined to perpetual seclusion,” said the prisoner; “and that which makes me believe so now, above all, is the care that was taken to render me as accomplished a cavalier as possible. The gentleman attached to my person taught me everything he knew himself- mathematics, a little geometry, astronomy, fencing, and riding. Every morning I went through military exercises, and practised on horseback. Well, one morning during summer, it being very hot, I went to sleep in the hall. Nothing up to that period, except the respect paid me by my tutor, had enlightened me, or even roused my suspicions. I lived as children, as birds, as plants, as the air and the sun do. I had just turned my fifteenth year-”

“This, then, was eight years ago?”

“Yes, nearly; but I have ceased to reckon time.”

“Excuse me; but what did your tutor tell you, to encourage you to work?”

“He used to say that a man was bound to make for himself in the world that fortune which Heaven had refused him at his birth. He added, that, being a poor obscure orphan, I had no one but myself to look to; and that nobody either did or ever would take any interest in me. I was, then, in the hall I have spoken of, asleep from fatigue in fencing. My tutor was in his room on the first floor, just over me. Suddenly I heard him exclaim; and then he called, ‘Perronnette! Perronnette!’ It was my nurse whom he called.”

“Yes; I know it,” said Aramis. “Continue, Monseigneur!”

“Very likely she was in the garden; for my tutor came hastily downstairs. I rose, anxious at seeing him anxious. He opened the garden door, still crying out, ‘Perronnette! Perronnette!’ The windows of the hall looked into the court. The shutters were closed; but through a chink in them I saw my tutor draw near a large well, which was almost directly under the windows of his study. He stooped over the brim, looked into the well, again cried out, and made wild and affrighted gestures. Where I was, I could not only see, but hear; and see and hear I did.”

“Go on, I pray you!” said Aramis.

“Dame Perronnette came running up, hearing the governor’s cries. He went to meet her, took her by the arm, and drew her quickly towards the edge; after which, as they both bent over it together, ‘Look, look!’ cried he; ‘what a misfortune!’ ‘Calm yourself, calm yourself,’ said Perronnette; ‘what is the matter?’ ‘The letter!’ he exclaimed; ‘do you see that letter?’ to the bottom of the well. ‘What letter?’ she cried. ‘The letter you see down there,- the last letter from the Queen.’ At this word I trembled. My tutor- he who passed for my father, he who was continually recommending to me modesty and humility- in correspondence with the Queen! ‘The Queen’s last letter!’ cried Perronnette, without showing other astonishment than at seeing this letter at the bottom of the well; ‘but how came it there?’ ‘A chance, Dame Perronnette,- a singular chance. I was entering my room; and on opening the door, the window too being open, a puff of air came suddenly and carried off this paper,- this letter from the Queen; I darted after it, and gained the window just in time to see it flutter a moment in the breeze and disappear down the well.’ ‘Well,’ said Dame Perronnette; ‘and if the letter has fallen into the well, ‘t is all the same as if it were burned; and as the Queen burns all her letters every time she comes-’ ‘Every time she comes!’ So this lady who came every month was the Queen,” said the prisoner.

“Yes,” nodded Aramis.

“‘Doubtless, doubtless,’ continued the old gentleman; ‘but this letter contained instructions,- how can I follow them?’ ‘Write immediately to her; give her a plain account of the accident, and the Queen will no doubt write you another letter in place of this.’ ‘Oh! the Queen would never believe the story,’ said the good gentleman, shaking his head; ‘she will imagine that I want to keep this letter instead of giving it up like the rest, so as to have a hold over her. She is so distrustful, and M. de Mazarin so- This devil of an Italian is capable of having us poisoned at the first breath of suspicion.’”

Aramis almost imperceptibly smiled.

“‘You know, Dame Perronnette, they are both so suspicious in all that concerns Philippe.’ ‘Philippe’ was the name they gave me,” said the prisoner. ‘Well, ‘t is no use hesitating,’ said Dame Perronnette; ‘somebody must go down the well.’ ‘Of course; so that the person who goes down may read the paper as he is coming up.’ ‘But let us choose some villager who cannot read, and then you will be at ease.’ ‘Granted; but will not any one who descends guess that a paper must be important for which we risk a man’s life? However, you have given me an idea, Dame Perronnette; somebody shall go down the well, but that somebody shall be myself.’ But at this notion Dame Perronnette lamented and cried in such a manner, and so implored the old nobleman, with tears in her eyes, that he promised her to obtain a ladder long enough to reach down, while she went in search of some stout-hearted youth, whom she was to persuade that a jewel had fallen into the well, and that this jewel was wrapped in a paper. ‘And as paper,’ remarked my preceptor, ‘naturally unfolds in water, the young man would not be surprised at finding nothing, after all, but the letter wide open.’ ‘But perhaps the writing will be already effaced by that time,’ said Dame Perronnette. ‘No consequence, provided we secure the letter. On returning it to the Queen, she will see at once that we have not betrayed her; and consequently, as we shall not rouse the distrust of Mazarin, we shall have nothing to fear from him.’ Having come to this resolution, they parted. I pushed back the shutter, and seeing that my tutor was about to re-enter, threw myself on my couch, in a confusion of brain caused by all I had just heard. My tutor opened the door a few moments after, and thinking I was asleep, gently closed it again. As soon as ever it was shut, I rose, and listening heard the sound of retiring footsteps. Then I returned to the shutter, and saw my tutor and Dame Perronnette go out together. I was alone in the house. They had hardly closed the gate before I sprang from the window and ran to the well. Then, just as my tutor had leaned over, so leaned I. Something white and luminous glistened in the green and quivering ripples of the water. The brilliant disk fascinated and allured me; my eyes became fixed, and I could hardly breathe. The well seemed to draw me in with its large mouth and icy breath; and I thought I read, at the bottom of the water, characters of fire traced upon the letter the Queen had touched. Then, scarcely knowing what I was about, and urged on by one of those instinctive impulses which drive men upon their destruction, I made fast one end of the rope to the bottom of the well-curb; I left the bucket hanging about three feet under water,- at the same time taking infinite pains not to disturb that coveted letter, which was beginning to change its white tint for a greenish hue,- proof enough that it was sinking,- and then, with a piece of wet canvas protecting my hands, slid down into the abyss. When I saw myself hanging over the dark pool, when I saw the sky lessening above my head, a cold shudder came over me, I was seized with giddiness, and the hair rose on my head; but my strong will mastered all. I gained the water, and at once plunged into it, holding on by one hand, while I immersed the other and seized the precious paper, which, alas! came in two in my grasp. I concealed the fragments in my coat, and helping myself with my feet against the side of the pit, and clinging on with my hands, agile and vigorous as I was, and above all pressed for time, I regained the brink, drenching it as I touched it with the water that streamed from all the lower part of my body. Once out of the well with my prize I rushed into the sunlight, and took refuge in a kind of shrubbery at the bottom of the garden. As I entered my hiding-place, the bell which resounded when the gate was opened, rang. It was my tutor returning. I had but just time. I calculated that it would take ten minutes before he would gain my place of concealment, even if, guessing where I was, he came straight to it; and twenty if he were obliged to look for me. But this was time enough to allow me to read the cherished letter, whose fragments I hastened to unite again. The writing was already fading, but I managed to decipher it all.”

“And what read you there, Monseigneur?” asked Aramis, deeply interested.

“Quite enough, Monsieur, to see that my tutor was a man of noble rank, and that Perronnette, without being a lady of quality, was far better than a servant; and also to perceive that I must myself be high-born, since the Queen, Anne of Austria, and Mazarin, the prime minister, commended me so earnestly to their care.”

Here the young man paused, quite overcome.

“And what happened?” asked Aramis.

“It happened, Monsieur,” answered he, “that the workmen they had summoned found nothing in the well, after the closest search; that my tutor perceived that the brink was watery; that I was not so well dried by the sun as to escape Dame Perronnette’s observing that my garments were moist; and, lastly, that I was seized with a violent fever, owing to the chill and the excitement of my discovery, an attack of delirium supervening, during which I related the whole adventure; so that, guided by my avowal, my tutor found under the bolster the two pieces of the Queen’s letter.”

“Ah!” said Aramis, “now I understand.”

“Beyond this, all is conjecture. Doubtless the unfortunate lady and gentleman, not daring to keep the occurrence secret, wrote all to the Queen, and sent back to her the torn letter.”

“After which,” said Aramis, “you were arrested and removed to the Bastille?”

“As you see.”

“Then your two attendants disappeared?”

“Alas!”

“Let us not take up our time with the dead, but see what can be done with the living. You told me you were resigned?”

“I repeat it.”

“Without any desire for freedom?”

“As I told you.”

“Without ambition, sorrow, or thought?”

The young man made no answer.

“Well,” asked Aramis, “why are you silent?”

“I think that I have spoken enough,” answered the prisoner, “and that now it is your turn. I am weary.”

Aramis gathered himself up, and a shade of deep solemnity spread itself over his countenance. It was evident that he had reached the crisis in the part he had come to the prison to play. “One question,” said Aramis.

“What is it? Speak!”

“In the house you inhabited there were neither looking-glasses nor mirrors, were there?”

“What are those two words, and what is their meaning?” asked the young man; “I do not even know them.”

“They designate two pieces of furniture which reflect objects; so that, for instance, you may see in them your own lineaments, as you see mine now, with the naked eye.”

“No; there was neither a glass nor a mirror in the house,” answered the young man.

Aramis looked round him. “Nor is there here, either,” he said; “they have taken the same precaution.”

“To what end?”

“You will know directly. Now, you have told me that you were instructed in mathematics, astronomy, fencing, and riding; but you have not said a word about history.”

“My tutor sometimes related to me the principal deeds of the King Saint Louis, King Francis I, and King Henry IV.”

“Is that all?”

“That is about all.”

“This also was done by design; just as you were deprived of mirrors, which reflect the present, so you were left in ignorance of history, which reflects the past. Since your imprisonment books have been forbidden you; so that you are unacquainted with a number of facts by means of which you would be able to reconstruct the shattered edifice of your recollections and your interests.”

“It is true,” said the young man.

“Listen, then: I will in a few words tell you what has passed in France during the last twenty-three or twenty-four years,- that is, from the probable date of your birth; in a word, from the time that interests you.”

“Say on!” and the young man resumed his serious and attentive attitude.

“Do you know who was the son of Henry IV?”

“At least I know who his successor was.”

“How?”

“By means of a coin dated 1610, which bears the effigy of Henry IV; and another of 1612, bearing that of Louis XIII. So I presumed that, there being only two years between the two dates, Louis was Henry’s successor.”

“Then,” said Aramis, “you know that the last reigning monarch was Louis XIII?”

“I do,” answered the youth, slightly reddening.

“Well, he was a prince full of noble ideas and great projects, always, alas! deferred by the troubles of the times and the struggle that his minister Richelieu had to maintain against the great nobles of France. The King himself was of a feeble character, and died young and unhappy.”

“I know it.”

“He had been long anxious about having an heir,- a care which weighs heavily on princes, who desire to leave behind them more than one pledge that they will be remembered and their work will be continued.”

“Did King Louis XIII die without children?” asked the prisoner, smiling.

“No; but he was long without one, and for a long while thought he should be the last of his race. This idea had reduced him to the depths of despair, when suddenly his wife, Anne of Austria-”

The prisoner trembled.

“Did you know,” said Aramis, “that Louis XIII’s wife was called Anne of Austria?”

“Continue!” said the young man, without replying to the question.

“When suddenly,” resumed Aramis, “the Queen announced an interesting event. There was great joy at the intelligence, and all prayed for her happy delivery. On the 5th of September, 1638, she gave birth to a son.” Here Aramis looked at his companion, and thought he observed him turning pale. “You are about to hear,” said Aramis, “an account which few could now give; for it refers to a secret which is thought to be buried with the dead or entombed in the abyss of the confessional.”

“And you will tell me this secret?” broke in the youth.

“Oh!” said Aramis, with unmistakable emphasis, “I do not know that I ought to risk this secret by intrusting it to one who has no desire to quit the Bastille.”

“I listen, Monsieur.”

“The Queen, then, gave birth to a son. But while the court was rejoicing over the event, when the King had shown the new-born child to the nobility and people, and was sitting gayly down to table to celebrate the event, the Queen, who was alone in her room, was again taken ill, and gave birth to a second son.”

“Oh!” said the prisoner, betraying a better acquaintance with affairs than he had admitted, “I thought that Monsieur was only born in-”

Aramis raised his finger. “Let me continue,” he said.

The prisoner sighed impatiently, and paused.

“Yes,” said Aramis, “the Queen had a second son, whom Dame Perronnette, the midwife, received in her arms.”

“Dame Perronnette!” murmured the young man.

“They ran at once to the banqueting-room, and whispered to the King what had happened; he rose and quitted the table. But this time it was no longer happiness that his face expressed, but something akin to terror. The birth of twins changed into bitterness the joy to which that of an only son had given rise, seeing that in France (a fact of which you are assuredly ignorant) it is the oldest of the king’s sons who succeeds his father-”

“I know it.”

“And that the doctors and jurists assert that there is ground for doubting whether he who first makes his appearance is the elder by the law of Heaven and of Nature.”

The prisoner uttered a smothered cry, and became whiter than the coverlet under which he hid himself.

“Now you understand,” pursued Aramis, “that the King, who with so much pleasure saw himself repeated in one, was in despair about two; fearing that the second might dispute the claim of the first to seniority, which had been recognized only two hours before, and so this second son, relying on party interests and caprices, might one day sow discord and engender civil war in the kingdom,- by these means destroying the very dynasty he should have strengthened.”

“Oh, I understand, I understand!” murmured the young man.

“Well,” continued Aramis, “this is what is related; this is why one of the Queen’s two sons, shamefully parted from his brother, shamefully sequestered, is buried in the profoundest obscurity; this is why that second son has disappeared, and so completely that not a soul in France, save his mother, is aware of his existence.”

“Yes; his mother, who has cast him off!” cried the prisoner, in a tone of despair.

“Except also,” Aramis went on, “the lady in the black dress; and, finally, excepting-”

“Excepting yourself, is it not,- you, who come and relate all this,- you, who come to rouse in my soul curiosity, hatred, ambition, and perhaps even the thirst of vengeance;- except you, Monsieur, who, if you are the man whom I expect, to whom the note I have received applies, whom, in short, Heaven ought to send me, must possess about you-”

“What?” asked Aramis.

“A portrait of the King, Louis XIV, who at this moment reigns upon the throne of France.”

“Here is the portrait,” replied the bishop, handing the prisoner a miniature in enamel, on which Louis was depicted life-like, with a handsome, lofty mien. The prisoner eagerly seized the portrait, and gazed at it with devouring eyes. “And now, Monseigneur,” said Aramis, “here is a mirror.”

Aramis left the prisoner time to recover his ideas.

“So high, so high!” murmured the young man, eagerly comparing the likeness of Louis with his own countenance reflected in the glass.

“What do you think of it?” at length said Aramis.

“I think that I am lost,” replied the captive; “the King will never set me free.”

“And I- I demand,” added the bishop, fixing his piercing eyes significantly upon the prisoner,- “I demand which of the two is the King,- the one whom this miniature portrays, or the one whom the glass reflects?”

“The King, Monsieur,” sadly replied the young man, “is he who is on the throne, who is not in prison, and who, on the other hand, can cause others to be entombed there. Royalty is power; and you see well how powerless I am.”

“Monseigneur,” answered Aramis, with a respect he had not yet manifested, “the King, mark me, will, if you desire it, be he who quitting his dungeon shall maintain himself upon the throne on which his friends will place him.”

“Tempt me not, Monsieur!” broke in the prisoner, bitterly.

“Be not weak, Monseigneur,” persisted Aramis, “I have brought all the proofs of your birth: consult them; satisfy yourself that you are a king’s son; and then let us act.”

“No, no; it is impossible.”

“Unless, indeed,” resumed the bishop, ironically, “it be the destiny of your race that the brothers excluded from the throne shall be always princes without valor and without honor, as was your uncle M. Gaston d’Orleans, who ten times conspired against his brother Louis XIII.”

“What!” cried the Prince, astonished; “my uncle Gaston ‘conspired against his brother,’- conspired to dethrone him?”

“Exactly, Monseigneur; for no other reason.”

“What are you telling me, Monsieur?”

“I tell you the truth.”

“And he had friends,- devoted ones?”

“As much so as I am to you.”

“And, after all, what did he do?- Failed!”

“He failed, I admit, but always through his own fault; and for the sake of purchasing, not his life (for the life of the King’s brother is sacred and inviolable), but his liberty, he sacrificed the lives of all his friends, one after another; and so at this day he is the very shame of history, and the detestation of a hundred noble families in this kingdom.”

“I understand, Monsieur; either by weakness or treachery, my uncle slew his friends.”

“By weakness; which in princes is always treachery.”

“And cannot a man fail, then, from incapacity and ignorance? Do you really believe it possible that a poor captive such as I, brought up not only at a distance from the court, but even from the world,- do you believe it possible that such a one could assist those of his friends who should attempt to serve him?” And as Aramis was about to reply, the young man suddenly cried out, with a violence which betrayed the temper of his blood: “We are speaking of friends; but how can I have any friends,- I, whom no one knows, and who have neither liberty, money, nor influence to gain any?”

“I fancy I had the honor to offer myself to your royal Highness.”

“Oh, do not style me so, Monsieur; ‘t is either irony or cruelty! Do not lead me to think of aught else than these prison walls which confine me; let me again love, or at least submit to, my slavery and my obscurity.”

“Monseigneur, Monseigneur! if you again utter these desperate words, if after having received proof of your high birth you still remain poor-spirited and of feeble purpose, I will comply with your desire,- I will depart, and renounce forever the service of a master to whom so eagerly I came to devote my assistance and my life!”

“Monsieur,” cried the Prince, “would it not have been better for you to have reflected, before telling me all that you have done, that you would break my heart forever?”

“And so I desired to do, Monseigneur.”

“Is a prison the fitting place to talk to me about power, grandeur, and even royalty? You wish to make me believe in splendor, and we are lying hidden in night; you boast of glory, and we are smothering our words in the curtains of this miserable bed; you give me glimpses of absolute power, and I hear the step of the jailer in the corridor,- that step which, after all, makes you tremble more than it does me. To render me somewhat less incredulous, free me from the Bastille; give air to my lungs, spurs to my feet, a sword to my arm, and we shall begin to understand each other.”

“It is precisely my intention to give you all this, Monseigneur, and more; only, do you desire it?”

“A word more,” said the Prince. “I know there are guards in every gallery, bolts to every door, cannon and soldiery at every barrier. How will you overcome the sentries, spike the guns? How will you break through the bolts and bars?”

“Monseigneur, how did you get the note which announced my arrival to you?”

“You can bribe a jailer for such a thing as a note.”

“If we can corrupt one turnkey, we can corrupt ten.”

“Well, I admit that it may be possible to release a poor captive from the Bastille; possible so to conceal him that the King’s people shall not again ensnare him; possible, in some unknown retreat, to sustain the unhappy wretch in some suitable manner.”

“Monseigneur!” said Aramis, smiling.

“I admit that whoever would do thus much for me would seem more than mortal in my eyes; but as you tell me I am a prince, brother of a king, how can you restore me the rank and power of which my mother and my brother have deprived me? And as I must pass a life of war and hatred, how will you make me conqueror in those combats, and invulnerable to my enemies? Ah, Monsieur, reflect upon this! Place me, to-morrow, in some dark cavern in a mountain’s base; yield me the delight of hearing in freedom the sounds of river and plain, of beholding in freedom the sun of the blue Heavens, or the stormy sky,- and it is enough. Promise me no more than this,- for, indeed, more you cannot give; and it would be a crime to deceive me, since you call yourself my friend.”

Aramis waited in silence. “Monseigneur,” he resumed after a moment’s reflection, “I admire the firm, sound sense which dictates your words; I am happy to have discovered my monarch’s mind.”

“Again, again! oh, for mercy’s sake,” cried the Prince, pressing his icy hands upon his clammy brow, “do not play with me! I have no need to be a king to be the happiest of men.”

“But I, Monseigneur, wish you to be a king for the good of humanity.”

“Ah!” said the Prince, with fresh distrust inspired by the word,- “ah! with what, then, has humanity to reproach my brother?”

“I forgot to say, Monseigneur, that if you condescend to allow me to guide you, and if you consent to become the most powerful monarch on earth, you will have promoted the interests of all the friends whom I devote to the success of your cause; and these friends are numerous.”

“Numerous?”

“Still less numerous than powerful, Monseigneur.”

“Explain yourself.”

“It is impossible. I will explain, I swear before Heaven, on that day when I see you sitting on the throne of France.”

“But my brother?”

“You shall decree his fate. Do you pity him?”

“Him who leaves me to perish in a dungeon? No; I do not pity him.”

“So much the better.”

“He might have himself come to this prison, have taken me by the hand, and have said, ‘My brother, Heaven created us to love, not to contend with each other. I come to you. A barbarous prejudice has condemned you to pass your days in obscurity, far from all men and deprived of every joy. I will make you sit down beside me; I will buckle round your waist our father’s sword. Will you take advantage of this reconciliation to put down or to restrain me? Will you employ that sword to spill my blood?’ ‘Oh never!’ I would have replied to him; ‘I look on you as my preserver, and will respect you as my master. You give me far more than Heaven bestowed; for through you I possess liberty and the privilege of loving and being loved in this world.’”

“And you would have kept your word, Monseigneur?”

“Oh, on my life!”

“While now?”

“While now I perceive that I have guilty ones to punish.”

“In what manner, Monseigneur?”

“What do you say as to the resemblance that Heaven has given me to my brother?”

“I say that there was in that likeness a providential instruction which the King ought to have heeded; I say that your mother committed a crime in rendering those different in happiness and fortune whom Nature created so similar in her womb; and I conclude that the object of punishment should be only to restore the equilibrium.”

“By which you mean-”

“That if I restore you to your place on your brother’s throne, he shall take yours in prison.”

“Alas! there is so much suffering in prison, especially to a man who has drunk so deeply of the cup of enjoyment.”

“Your royal Highness will always be free to act as you may desire; and if it seems good to you, after punishment, may pardon.”

“Good! And now, are you aware of one thing, Monsieur?”

“Tell me, my Prince.”

“It is that I will hear nothing further from you till I am clear of the Bastille.”

“I was going to say to your Highness that I should only have the pleasure of seeing you once again.”

“And when?”

“The day when my Prince leaves these gloomy walls.”

“Heavens! how will you give me notice?”

“By coming here to seek you.”

“Yourself?”

“My Prince, do not leave this chamber save with me; or if in my absence you are compelled to do so, remember that I am not concerned in it.”

“And so, I am not to speak a word of this to any one whatever, save to you?”

“Save only to me.” Aramis bowed very low.

The Prince offered his hand. “Monsieur,” he said, in a tone that issued from his heart, “one word more,- my last. If you have sought me for my destruction; if you are only a tool in the hands of my enemies; if from our conference, in which you have sounded the depths of my mind, anything worse than captivity result,- that is to say, if death befall me,- still receive my blessing, for you will have ended my troubles and given me repose from the tormenting fever that has preyed upon me these eight years.”

“Monseigneur, wait the result ere you judge me,” said Aramis.

“I say that in such a case I should bless and forgive you. If, on the other hand, you are come to restore me to that position in the sunshine of fortune and glory to which I was destined by Heaven; if by your aid I am enabled to live in the memory of man, and confer lustre on my race by deeds of valor or by solid benefits bestowed upon my people; if from my present depths of sorrow, aided by your generous hand, I raise myself to the very height of honor,- then to you, whom I thank with blessings, to you will I offer half my power and my glory; though you would still be but partly recompensed, and your share must always remain incomplete, since I could not divide with you the happiness received at your hands.”

“Monseigneur,” replied Aramis, moved by the pallor and excitement of the young man, “the nobleness of your heart fills me with joy and admiration. It is not you who will have to thank me, but rather the nation whom you will render happy, the posterity whose name you will make glorious. Yes; I shall have bestowed upon you more than life,- I shall give you immortality.”

The Prince offered his hand to Aramis, who sank upon his knee and kissed it. “Oh!” cried the Prince, with a charming modesty.

“It is the first act of homage paid to our future King,” said Aramis. “When I see you again, I shall say, ‘Good-day, Sire.’”

“Till then,” said the young man, pressing his wan and wasted fingers over his heart,- “till then, no more dreams, no more strain upon my life,- it would break! Oh, Monsieur, how small is my prison,- how low the window,- how narrow are the doors! To think that so much pride, splendor, and happiness should be able to enter in and remain here!”

“Your royal Highness makes me proud,” said Aramis, “since you imply it is I who brought all this”; and he rapped immediately on the door.

The jailer came to open it with Baisemeaux, who devoured by fear and uneasiness was beginning, in spite of himself, to listen at the door. Happily, neither of the speakers had forgotten to smother his voice, even in the most passionate outbreaks.

“What a confession!” said the governor, forcing a laugh; “who would believe that a mere recluse, a man almost dead, could have committed crimes so numerous, and taking so long to tell of?”

Aramis made no reply. He was eager to leave the Bastille, where the secret which overwhelmed him seemed to double the weight of the walls.

As soon as they reached Baisemeaux’s quarters, “Let us proceed to business, my dear governor,” said Aramis.

“Alas!” replied Baisemeaux.

“You have to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty thousand livres,” said the bishop.

“And to pay over the first third of the sum,” added the poor governor, with a sigh, taking three steps towards his iron strong-box.

“Here is the receipt,” said Aramis.

“And here is the money,” returned Baisemeaux, with a threefold sigh.

“The order instructed me only to give a receipt; it said nothing about receiving the money,” rejoined Aramis. “Adieu, Monsieur the Governor!” And he departed, leaving Baisemeaux stifled with joy and surprise at this regal gift so grandly given by the Confessor Extraordinary to the Bastille.

How Mouston Had Become Fatter Without Giving Porthos Notice Thereof, and of the Troubles Which Consequently Befell That Worthy Gentleman

After the departure of Athos for Blois, Porthos and d’Artagnan were seldom together. One was occupied with harassing duties for the King; the other had been making many purchases of furniture, which he intended to forward to his estate, and by aid of which he hoped to establish in his various residences something of that court luxury which he had witnessed in all its dazzling brightness in his Majesty’s society.

D’Artagnan, ever faithful, one morning during an interval of service thought about Porthos, and being uneasy at not having heard anything of him for a fortnight, directed his steps towards his hotel, and pounced upon him just as he was getting up. The worthy baron had a pensive,- nay, more, a melancholy air. He was sitting on his bed, only half dressed, and with legs dangling over the edge, contemplating a great number of garments, which with their fringes, lace, embroidery, and slashes of ill-assorted hues were strewed all over the floor.

Porthos, sad and reflective as La Fontaine’s hare, did not observe d’Artagnan’s entrance, which was moreover screened at this moment by M. Mouston, whose personal corpulence, quite enough at any time to hide one man from another, was for the moment doubled by a scarlet coat which the intendant was holding up by the sleeves for his master’s inspection, that he might the better see it all over. D’Artagnan stopped at the threshold, and looked at the pensive Porthos; and then, as the sight of the innumerable garments strewing the floor caused mighty sighs to heave from the bosom of that excellent gentleman, d’Artagnan thought it time to put an end to these dismal reflections, and coughed by way of announcing himself.

“Ah!” exclaimed Porthos, whose countenance brightened with joy, “ah! ah! Here is d’Artagnan. I shall, then, get hold of an idea!”

At these words Mouston, doubting what was going on behind him, got out of the way, smiling kindly at the friend of his master, who thus found himself freed from the material obstacle which had prevented his reaching d’Artagnan. Porthos made his sturdy knees crack again in rising, and crossing the room in two strides found himself face to face with his friend, whom he folded to his breast with a force of affection that seemed to increase with every day. “Ah!” he repeated, “you are always welcome, dear friend; but just now you are more welcome than ever.”

“But you seem in the dumps here?” exclaimed d’Artagnan.

Porthos replied by a look expressive of dejection.

“Well, then, tell me all about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it is a secret.”

“In the first place,” returned Porthos, “you know I have no secrets from you. This, then, is what saddens me.”

“Wait a minute, Porthos; let me first get rid of all this litter of satin and velvet.”

“Oh, never mind!” said Porthos, contemptuously; “it is all trash.”

“Trash, Porthos! Cloth at twenty livres an ell, gorgeous satin, regal velvet!”

“Then you think these clothes are-”

“Splendid, Porthos, splendid. I’ll wager that you alone in France have so many; and suppose you never had any more made, and were to live a hundred years, which wouldn’t astonish me, you could still wear a new dress the day of your death without being obliged to see the nose of a single tailor from now till then.”

Porthos shook his head.

“Come, my friend,” said d’Artagnan, “this unnatural melancholy in you frightens me. My dear Porthos, pray get out of it- the sooner the better.”

“Yes, my friend, so I will; if indeed it is possible.”

“Perhaps you have received bad news from Bracieux?”

“No; they have felled the wood, and it has yielded a third more than the estimate.”

“Then there has been a falling off in the pools of Pierrefonds?”

“No, my friend; they have been fished, and there is enough left to stock all the pools in the neighborhood.”

“Perhaps your estate at Vallon has been destroyed by an earthquake?”

“No, my friend; on the contrary, the ground was struck by lightning a hundred paces from the château, and a fountain sprung up in a place entirely destitute of water.”

“Well, then, what is the matter?”

“The fact is, I have received an invitation for the fête at Vaux,” said Porthos, with a lugubrious expression.

“Well, do you complain of that? The King has caused a hundred mortal heart-burnings among the courtiers by refusing invitations. And so, my dear friend, you are of the party for Vaux? Bless my soul!”

“Indeed I am!”

“You will see a magnificent sight.”

“Alas! I doubt it, though.”

“Everything that is grand in France will be brought together there!”

“Ah!” cried Porthos, tearing out a lock of his hair in despair.

“Eh! Good Heavens! are you ill?” cried d’Artagnan.

“I am as strong as the Pont-Neuf! It isn’t that.”

“But what is it, then?”

“It is that I have no clothes!”

D’Artagnan stood petrified. “No clothes, Porthos! no clothes,” he cried, “when I see more than fifty suits on the floor!”

“Fifty, yes; but not one that fits me!”

“What! not one that fits you? But are you not measured, then, when you give an order?”

“To be sure, he is,” answered Mouston; “but unfortunately I have grown stouter.”

“What! you stouter?”

“So much so that I am now bigger than the baron. Would you believe it, Monsieur?”

“Parbleu! it seems to me that is quite evident.”

“Do you see, stupid?” said Porthos; “that is quite evident!”

“Be still, my dear Porthos!” resumed d’Artagnan, becoming slightly impatient. “I don’t understand why your clothes should not fit you because Mouston has grown stouter.”

“I am going to explain it,” said Porthos. “You remember having related to me the story of the Roman general Antony, who had always seven wild boars, kept roasting, cooked to different degrees, so that he might be able to have his dinner at any time of the day he chose to ask for it? Well, then, I resolved, as at any time I might be invited to court to spend a week,- I resolved to have always seven suits ready for the occasion.”

“Capitally reasoned, Porthos! Only a man must have a fortune like yours to gratify such whims. Without counting the time lost in being measured, the fashions are always changing.”

“That is exactly the point,” said Porthos, “in regard to which I flattered myself I had hit on a very ingenious device.”

“Tell me what it is; for I don’t doubt your genius.”

“You remember that Mouston once was thin?”

“Yes; when he was called Mousqueton.”

“And you remember, too, the period when he began to grow fatter?”

“No, not exactly. I beg your pardon, my good Mouston.”

“Oh, you are not in fault, Monsieur!” said Mouston, graciously. “You were in Paris; and as for us, we were in Pierrefonds.”

“Well, well, my dear Porthos; there was a time when Mouston began to grow fat. Is that what you wished to say?”

“Yes, my friend; and I greatly rejoiced over it at that time.”

“Indeed, I believe you did,” exclaimed d’Artagnan.

“You understand,” continued Porthos, “what a world of trouble it spared me.”

“No, my dear friend, I do not yet understand; but perhaps with the help of explanation-”

“Here it is, my friend. In the first place, as you have said, to be measured is a loss of time, even though it occur only once a fortnight. And then, one may be travelling, and may wish to have seven suits always ready. In short, I have a horror of letting any one take my measure. Confound it! either one is a gentleman or he is not. To be scrutinized and scanned by a fellow who completely analyzes you by inch and line,- ’tis degrading. Here, they find you too hollow; there, too prominent. They recognize your strong and weak points. See, now, when we leave the measurer’s hands, we are like those strongholds whose angles and different thicknesses have been ascertained by a spy.”

“In truth, my dear Porthos, you possess ideas entirely your own.”

“Ah! you see, when a man is an engineer-”

“And has fortified Belle-Isle,- ’tis natural, my friend.”

“Well, I had an idea, which would doubtless have proved a good one but for Mouston’s carelessness.”

D’Artagnan glanced at Mouston, who replied by a slight movement of his body, as if to say, “You will see whether I am at all to blame in all this.”

“I congratulated myself, then,” resumed Porthos, “at seeing Mouston get fat; and I did all I could, by means of substantial feeding, to make him stout,- always in the hope that he would come to equal myself in girth, and could then be measured in my stead.”

“Ah,” cried d’Artagnan, “I see! That spared you both time and humiliation.”

“Consider my joy when after a year and a half’s judicious feeding,- for I used to feed him myself,- the fellow-”

“Oh, I lent a good hand myself, Monsieur!” said Mouston, humbly.

“That’s true. Consider my joy when one morning I perceived Mouston was obliged, like myself, to compress himself to get through the little secret door that those fools of architects had made in the chamber of the late Madame du Vallon, in the château of Pierrefonds. And, by the way, about that door, my friend, I should like to ask you, who know everything, why these wretches of architects, who ought by rights to have the compasses in their eye, came to make doorways through which nobody but thin people could pass?”

“Oh! those doors,” answered d’Artagnan, “were meant for gallants, and they have generally slight and slender figures.”

“Madame du Vallon had no gallant!” answered Porthos, majestically.

“Perfectly true, my friend,” resumed d’Artagnan; “but the architects were imagining the possibility of your marrying again.”

“Ah, that is possible!” said Porthos. “And now that I have received an explanation why doorways are made too narrow, let us return to the subject of Mouston’s fatness. But see how the two things fit each other! I have always noticed that ideas run parallel. And so, Observe this phenomenon, d’Artagnan! I was talking to you of Mouston, who is fat, and it led us on to Madame du Vallon-”

“Who was thin?”

“Hum! is it not marvellous?”

“My dear friend, a savant of my acquaintance, M. Costar, has made the same observation as you have; and he calls the process by some Greek name, which I forget.”

“What! my remark is not then original?” cried Porthos, astounded. “I thought I was the discoverer.”

“My friend, the fact was known before Aristotle’s days,- that is to say, about two thousand years ago.”

“Well, well, ’tis no less true,” remarked Porthos, delighted at the idea of having concurred with the sages of antiquity.

“Wonderfully. But suppose we return to Mouston. It seems to me, we have left him fattening under our very eyes.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” said Mouston.

“Well,” said Porthos, “Mouston fattened so well that he gratified all my hopes by reaching my standard; a fact of which I was well able to convince myself, by seeing the rascal one day in a waistcoat of mine, which he had turned into a coat,- a waistcoat the mere embroidery of which was worth a hundred pistoles.”

“‘Twas only to try it on, Monsieur,” said Mouston.

“From that moment I determined to put Mouston in communication with my tailors, and to have him measured instead of myself.”

“A capital idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot and a half shorter than you.”

“Exactly! They measured him down to the ground, and the end of the skirt came just below my knee.”

“What a wonder you are, Porthos! Such a thing could happen only to you.”

“Ah, yes, pay your compliments; there is something upon which to base them! It was exactly at that time- that is to say, nearly two years and a half ago- that I set out for Belle-Isle, instructing Mouston (so as always to have, in every event, a pattern of every fashion) to have a coat made for himself every month.”

“And did Mouston neglect to comply with your instructions? Oh, that would not be right, Mouston!”

“No, Monsieur, quite the contrary, quite the contrary!”

“No, he never forgot to have his coats made; but he forgot to inform me that he had grown stouter!”

“But it was not my fault, Monsieur! Your tailor never told me.”

“And this to such an extent, Monsieur,” continued Porthos, “that the fellow in two years has gained eighteen inches in girth, and so my last dozen coats are all too large in progressive measure from a foot to a foot and a half!”

“But the rest,- those which were made when you were of the same size?”

“They are no longer the fashion, my dear friend. Were I to put them on, I should look like a fresh arrival from Siam, and as though I had been two years away from court.”

“I understand your difficulty. You have how many new suits?- thirty-six, and yet not one to wear. Well, you must have a thirty-seventh made, and give the thirty-six to Mouston.”

“Ah, Monsieur!” said Mouston, with a gratified air. “The truth is, that Monsieur has always been very generous to me.”

“Do you mean to think that I hadn’t that idea, or that I was deterred by the expense? But it wants only two days to the fête. I received the invitation yesterday; made Mouston post hither with my wardrobe, and only this morning discovered my misfortune; and from now till the day after to-morrow, there isn’t a single fashionable tailor who will undertake to make me a suit.”

“That is to say, one covered with gold, isn’t it?”

“I especially wish it so!”

“Oh, we shall manage it! You won’t leave for three days. The invitations are for Wednesday, and this is only Sunday morning.”

“‘Tis true; but Aramis has strongly advised me to be at Vaux twenty-four hours beforehand.”

“How! Aramis?”

“Yes, it was Aramis who brought me the invitation.”

“Ah, to be sure, I see! You are invited on the part of M. Fouquet?”

“By no means,- by the King, dear friend. The letter bears the following as large as life:-

“‘M. le Baron du Vallon is informed that the King has condescended to place him on the invitation list-’”

“Very good; but you leave with M. Fouquet?”

“And when I think,” cried Porthos, stamping on the floor,- “when I think I shall have no clothes, I am ready to burst with rage! I should like to strangle somebody or destroy something!”

“Neither strangle anybody nor destroy anything, Porthos; I will manage it all. Put on one of your thirty-six suits, and come with me to a tailor.”

“Pooh! my agent has seen them all this morning.”

“Even M. Percerin?”

“Who is M. Percerin?”

“He is the King’s tailor, parbleu!”

“Oh! ah, yes!” said Porthos, who wished to appear to know the King’s tailor, but now heard his name mentioned for the first time; “to M. Percerin’s, by Jove! I thought he would be too much engaged.”

“Doubtless he will be; but be at ease, Porthos! He will do for me what he won’t do for another. Only, you must allow yourself to be measured!”

“Ah!” said Porthos, with a sigh, “‘tis vexatious, but what would you have me do?”

“Do? As others do,- as the King does.”

“What! Do they measure the King too? Does he put up with it?”

“The King is a beau, my good friend; and so are you, too, whatever you may say about it.”

Porthos smiled triumphantly. “Let us go to the King’s tailor,” he said; “and since he measures the King, I think, by my faith, I may well allow him to measure me!”

Who Messire Jean Percerin Was

The King’s tailor, Messire Jean Percerin, occupied a rather large house in the Rue St. Honoré, near the Rue de l’Arbre Sec. He was a man of great taste in elegant stuffs, embroideries, and velvet, being hereditary tailor to the King. The preferment of his house reached as far back as the time of Charles IX; from whose reign dated, as we know, fancies in bravery difficult enough to gratify. The Percerin of that period was a Huguenot, like Ambroise Pare, and had been spared by the Queen of Navarre,- the beautiful Margot, as they used to write and say too in those days,- because, in sooth, he was the only one who could make for her those wonderful riding-habits which she preferred to wear, seeing that they were marvellously well suited to hide certain anatomical defects which the Queen of Navarre used very studiously to conceal. Percerin being saved made, out of gratitude, some beautiful black bodices, very inexpensive indeed, for Queen Catherine, who ended by being pleased at the preservation of a Huguenot on whom she had long looked with aversion. But Percerin was a prudent man; and having heard it said that there was no more dangerous sign for a Huguenot than to be smiled upon by Catherine, and having observed that her smiles were more frequent than usual, he speedily turned Catholic, with all his family; and having thus become irreproachable, attained the lofty position of master tailor to the Crown of France. Under Henry III, gay King as he was, this position was as high as one of the loftiest peaks of the Cordilleras. Now, Percerin had been a clever man all his life, and by way of keeping up his reputation beyond the grave, took very good care not to make a bad death of it; and so contrived to die very seasonably,- at the very moment he felt his powers of invention declining. He left a son and daughter, both worthy of the name they were called upon to bear,- the son a cutter as unerring and exact as the square rule, the daughter apt at embroidery and at designing ornaments. The marriage of Henry IV and Marie de Medicis, and the exquisite court mourning for the aforementioned Queen, together with a few words let fall by M. de Bassompierre, king of the beaux of that period, made the fortune of the second generation of Percerins. M. Concino Concini, and his wife Galigai, who subsequently shone at the French Court, sought to Italianize the fashion, and introduced some Florentine tailors; but Percerin, touched to the quick in his patriotism and his self-esteem, entirely defeated these foreigners by his designs in brocatelle,- so effectually that Concino was the first to give up his compatriots, and held the French tailor in such esteem that he would never employ any other; and thus wore a doublet of his on the very day that Vitry blew out his brains with his pistol at the Pont du Louvre.

It was that doublet, issuing from M. Percerin’s workshop, which the Parisians rejoiced in hacking into so many pieces with the human flesh it covered. Notwithstanding the favor Concino Concini had shown Percerin, the King Louis XIII had the generosity to bear no malice to his tailor and to retain him in his service. At the time when Louis the Just afforded this great example of equity, Percerin had brought up two sons, one of whom made his debut at the marriage of Anne of Austria, invented that admirable Spanish costume in which Richelieu danced a saraband, made the costumes for the tragedy of “Mirame,” and stitched on to Buckingham’s mantle those famous pearls which were destined to be scattered on the floors of the Louvre. A man becomes easily illustrious who has made the dresses of M. de Buckingham, M. de Cinq-Mars, Mademoiselle Ninon, M. de Beaufort, and Marion de Lorme. And thus Percerin III had attained the summit of his glory when his father died.

This same Percerin III, old, famous, and wealthy, yet further dressed Louis XIV; and having no son, which was a great cause of sorrow to him, seeing that with himself his dynasty would end, he had brought up several hopeful pupils. He possessed a carriage, a country-house, lackeys the tallest in Paris; and by special authority from Louis XIV, a pack of hounds. He worked for Messieurs de Lyonne and Letellier, under a sort of patronage; but, politic man as he was, and versed in State secrets, he never succeeded in fitting M. Colbert. This is beyond explanation; it is a matter for intuition. Great geniuses of every kind live upon unseen, intangible ideas; they act without themselves knowing why. The great Percerin (for, contrary to the rule of dynasties, it was, above all, the last of the Percerins who deserved the name of Great),- the great Percerin was inspired when he cut a robe for the Queen or a coat for the King; he could invent a mantle for Monsieur, a clock for Madame’s stocking; but in spite of his supreme genius, he could never hit the measure of M. Colbert. “That man,” he used often to say, “is beyond my art; my needle never can hit him off.” We need scarcely say that Percerin was M. Fouquet’s tailor, and that the superintendent highly esteemed him.

M. Percerin was nearly eighty years old,- nevertheless, still fresh, and at the same time so dry, the courtiers used to say, that he was positively brittle. His renown and his fortune were great enough for Monsieur the Prince, that king of fops, to take his arm when talking over the fashions; and for those least eager to pay never to dare to leave their accounts in arrear with him,- for M. Percerin would for the first time make clothes upon credit, but the second never, unless paid for the former order.

It is easy to see that a tailor of such standing, instead of running after customers, would make difficulties about receiving new ones. And so Percerin declined to fit bourgeois, or those who had but recently obtained patents of nobility. It was stated, even, that M. de Mazarin, in return for a full suit of ceremonial vestments as cardinal, one fine day slipped letters of nobility into his pocket.

Percerin was endowed with intelligence and wit. He might be called very lively. At eighty years of age he still took with a steady hand the measure of women’s waists.

It was to the house of this great lord of tailors that d’Artagnan took the despairing Porthos; who, as they were going along, said to his friend: “Take care, my good d’Artagnan, not to compromise the dignity of a man such as I am with the arrogance of this Percerin, who will, I expect, be very impertinent; for I give you notice, my friend, that if he is wanting in respect to me I will chastise him.”

“Presented by me,” replied d’Artagnan, “you have nothing to fear, even though you were- what you are not.”

“Ah! ’tis because-”

“What! Have you anything against Percerin, Porthos?”

“I think that I once sent Mouston to a fellow of that name.”

“And then?”

“The fellow refused to supply me.”

“Oh, a misunderstanding, no doubt, which ’tis pressing to set right! Mouston must have made a mistake.”

“Perhaps.”

“He has confused the names.”

“Possibly. That rascal Mouston never can remember names.”

“I will take it all upon myself.”

“Very good.”

“Stop the carriage, Porthos; here we are!”

“Here! how here? We are at the Halles; and you told me the house was at the corner of the Rue de l’Arbre-Sec.”

“’Tis true; but look!”

“Well, I do look, and I see-”

“What?”

“Pardieu! that we are at the Halles!”

“You do not, I suppose, want our horses to clamber up on the top of the carriage in front of us?”

“No.”

“Nor the carriage in front of us to mount on the one in front of it?”

“Still less.”

“Nor that the second should be driven over the roofs of the thirty or forty others which have arrived before us?”

“No; you are right, indeed. What a number of people! And what are they all about?”

“’Tis very simple,- they are waiting their turn.”

“Bah! Have the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne shifted their quarters?”

“No; their turn to obtain an entrance to M. Percerin’s house.”

“And we are going to wait too?”

“Oh, we shall show ourselves more ready and less proud than they!”

What are we to do, then?”

“Get down, pass through the footmen and lackeys, and enter the tailor’s house, which I will answer for our doing, especially if you go first.”

“Come, then,” said Porthos.

They both alighted, and made their way on foot towards the establishment. The cause of the confusion was that M. Percerin’s doors were closed, while a servant standing before them was explaining to the illustrious customers of the illustrious tailor that just then M. Percerin could not receive anybody. It was bruited about outside still, on the authority of what the great lackey had said confidentially to some great noble whom he favored, that M. Percerin was engaged upon five dresses for the King, and that, owing to the urgency of the case, he was meditating in his office on the ornaments, colors, and cut of these five suits. Some, contented with this reason, went away again, happy to repeat it to others; but others, more tenacious, insisted on having the doors opened,- and among these last, three Blue Ribbons, intended to take part in a ballet which would inevitably fail unless the said three had their costumes shaped by the very hand of the great Percerin himself.

D’Artagnan, pushing on Porthos, who scattered the groups of people right and left, succeeded in gaining the counter behind which the journeymen tailors were doing their best to answer questions. We forgot to mention that at the door they wanted to put off Porthos, like the rest; but d’Artagnan, showing himself, pronounced merely these words, “The King’s order,” and was let in with his friend. Those poor devils had enough to do, and did their best, to reply to the demands of the customers in the absence of their master, leaving off drawing a stitch to turn a sentence; and when wounded pride or disappointed expectation brought down upon them too cutting rebukes, he who was attacked made a dive and disappeared under the counter.

The line of discontented lords formed a picture full of curious details. Our captain of Musketeers, a man of sure and rapid observation, took it all in at a glance; but having run over the groups, his eye rested on a man in front of him. This man, seated upon a stool, scarcely showed his head above the counter which sheltered him. He was about forty years of age, with a melancholy aspect, pale face, and soft luminous eyes. He was looking at d’Artagnan and the rest, with his chin resting upon his hand, like a calm and inquiring spectator. Only, on perceiving and doubtless recognizing our captain, he pulled his hat down over his eyes. It was this action, perhaps, that attracted d’Artagnan’s attention. If so, the gentleman who had pulled down his hat produced an effect entirely different from what he had desired. In other respects, his costume was plain, and his hair evenly cut enough for customers who were not close observers to take him for a mere tailor’s apprentice perched behind the board and carefully stitching cloth or velvet. Nevertheless, this man held up his head too often to be very productively employed with his fingers. D’Artagnan was not deceived,- not he; and he saw at once that if this man was working on anything, it certainly was not on cloth.

“Eh!” said he, addressing this man, “and so you have become a tailor’s boy, M. Moliere?”

“Hush, M. d’Artagnan!” replied the man, softly; “in Heaven’s name! you will make them recognize me.”

“Well, and what harm?”

“The fact is, there is no harm; but “You were going to say there is no good in doing it, either, is it not so?”

“Alas! no; for I was occupied in looking at some excellent figures.”

“Go on, go on, M. Moliere! I quite understand the interest you take in it. I will not disturb your study.”

“Thank you.”

“But on one condition,- that you tell me where M. Percerin really is.”

“Oh, willingly! in his own room. Only-”

“Only that one can’t enter it?”

“Unapproachable.”

“For everybody?”

“For everybody. He brought me here, so that I might be at my ease to make my observations, and then he went away.”

“Well, my dear M. Moliere, but you will go and tell him I am here.”

“I!” exclaimed Moliere, in the tone of a courageous dog from which you snatch the bone it has legitimately gained; “I disturb myself! Ah, M. d’Artagnan, how hard you are upon me!”

“If you don’t go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my dear Moliere,” said d’Artagnan, in a low tone, “I warn you of one thing,- that I won’t exhibit to you the friend I have brought with me.”

Moliere indicated Porthos by an imperceptible gesture. “This gentleman, is it not?”

“Yes.”

Moliere fixed upon Porthos one of those looks which penetrate the minds and hearts of men. The subject doubtless appeared very promising to him, for he immediately rose and led the way into the adjoining chamber.

The Samples

During all this time the crowd was slowly rolling on, leaving at every angle of the counter either a murmur or a menace, as the waves leave foam or scattered seaweed on the sands, when they retire with the ebbing tide. In about ten minutes Moliere reappeared, making another sign to d’Artagnan from under the hangings. The latter hurried after him, with Porthos in the rear, and after threading a labyrinth of corridors, introduced him to M. Percerin’s room. The old man, with his sleeves turned up, was gathering up in folds a piece of gold-flowered brocade, so as the better to exhibit its lustre. Perceiving d’Artagnan, he put the silk aside, and came to meet him, by no means radiant and by no means courteous, but on the whole in a tolerably civil manner.

“The captain of the Musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I am engaged.”

“Eh! yes, on the King’s costumes; I know that, my dear M. Percerin. You are making three, they tell me.”

“Five, my dear monsieur,- five!”

“Three or five, ’tis all the same to me, my dear Monsieur; and I know that you will make them most exquisitely.”

“Yes, I know. Once made, they will be the most beautiful in the world, I do not deny it; but that they may be the most beautiful in the world, they must first be made; and to do this, Captain, I am pressed for time.”

“Oh, bah! there are two days yet; ’tis much more than you require, M. Percerin,” said d’Artagnan, in the coolest possible manner.

Percerin raised his head with the air of a man little accustomed to be contradicted, even in his whims; but d’Artagnan did not pay the least attention to the airs which the illustrious tailor began to assume.

“My dear M. Percerin,” he continued, “I bring you a customer.”

“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Percerin, crossly.

“M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds,” continued d’Artagnan.

Percerin attempted a bow, which found no favor in the eyes of the terrible Porthos, who from his first entry into the room had been regarding the tailor askance.

“A very good friend of mine,” concluded d’Artagnan.

“I will attend to Monsieur,” said Percerin, “but later.”

“Later? but when?”

“Why, when I have time.”

“You have already told my valet as much,” broke in Porthos, discontentedly.

“Very likely,” said Percerin; “I am nearly always pushed for time.”

“My friend,” returned Porthos, sententiously, “there is always time when one chooses to find it.”

Percerin turned crimson,- a very ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by age. “Monsieur,” said he, “is very free to confer his custom elsewhere.”

“Come, come, Percerin,” interposed d’Artagnan, “you are not in a good temper to-day. Well, I will say one more word to you, which will bring you on your knees: Monsieur is not only a good friend of mine, but more,- a friend of M. Fouquet.”

“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the tailor, “that is another thing.” Then turning to Porthos, “Monsieur the Baron is attached to the superintendent?” he inquired.

“I am attached to myself,” shouted Porthos, at the very moment when the tapestry was raised to introduce a new speaker in the dialogue. Moliere was all observation; d’Artagnan laughed; Porthos swore.

“My dear Percerin,” said d’Artagnan, “you will make a dress for the baron? ’Tis I who ask you.”

“To you I will not say nay, Captain.”

“But that is not all; you will make it for him at once.”

“‘Tis impossible before eight days.”

“That, then, is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted for the fête at Vaux.”

“I repeat that it is impossible,” returned the obstinate old man.

“By no means, dear M. Percerin, above all if I ask you,” said a mild voice at the door,- a silvery voice which made d’Artagnan prick up his ears. It was the voice of Aramis.

“M. d’Herblay!” cried the tailor.

“Aramis!” murmured d’Artagnan.

“Ah, our bishop!” said Porthos.

“Good-morning, d’Artagnan; good-morning, Porthos; good-morning, my dear friends’” said Aramis. “Come, come, M. Percerin, make the baron’s dress, and I will answer for it you will gratify M. Fouquet”; and he accompanied the words with a sign which seemed to say, “Agree, and dismiss them.”

It appeared that Aramis had over M. Percerin an influence superior even to d’Artagnan’s; for the tailor bowed in assent, and turning round upon Porthos, “Go and get measured on the other side,” said he, rudely.

Porthos colored in a formidable manner. D’Artagnan saw the storm coming, and addressing Moliere said to him in an undertone, “You see before you, my dear Monsieur, a man who considers himself disgraced if you measure the flesh and bones that Heaven has given him; study this type for me, Aristophanes, and profit by it.”

Moliere had no need of encouragement, and his gaze dwelt upon the baron Porthos. “Monsieur,” he said, “if you will come with me, I will make them take your measure without the measurer touching you.”

“Oh!” said Porthos, “how do you make that out, my friend?”

“I say that they shall apply neither line nor rule to the seams of your dress. It is a new method we have invented for measuring people of quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch them. We know some susceptible persons who will not put up with being measured,- a process which, as I think, wounds the natural dignity of man; and if perchance Monsieur should be one of these-”

“Corboeuf! I believe I am one of them.”

“Well, that is a capital coincidence, and you will have the benefit of our invention.”

“But how in the devil can it be done?” asked Porthos, delighted.

“Monsieur,” said Moliere, bowing, “if you will deign to follow me, you will see.”

Aramis observed this scene with all his eyes. Perhaps he fancied from d’Artagnan’s liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as not to lose the conclusion of a scene so well begun. But clear-sighted as he was, Aramis deceived himself. Porthos and Moliere left together. D’Artagnan remained with Percerin. Why? From curiosity, doubtless; probably to enjoy a little longer the society of his good friend Aramis. As Moliere and Porthos disappeared, d’Artagnan drew near the Bishop of Vannes,- a proceeding which appeared particularly to disconcert him. “A dress for you also, is it not, my friend?”

Aramis smiled. “No,” said he.

“You will go to Vaux, however?”

“I shall go, but without a new dress. You forget, dear d’Artagnan, that a poor Bishop of Vannes is not rich enough to have new for every fête.”

“Bah!” said the musketeer, laughing; “and do we write no more poems now, either?”

“Oh, d’Artagnan,” exclaimed Aramis, “I have long given over all these follies!”

“True,” repeated d’Artagnan, only half convinced.

As for Percerin, he had relapsed into his contemplation of the brocades.

“Don’t you perceive,” said Aramis, smiling, “that we are greatly boring this good gentleman, my dear d’Artagnan?”

“Ah! ah!” murmured the musketeer, aside; “that is, I am boring you, my friend.” Then aloud, “Well, then, let us leave. I have no further business here; and if you are as disengaged as I, Aramis-”

“No; not I- I wished-”

“Ah! you had something private to say to M. Percerin? Why did you not tell me so at once?”

“Something private, certainly,” repeated Aramis, “but not from you, d’Artagnan. I hope you will believe that I can never have anything so private to say that a friend like you may not hear it.”

“Oh, no, no! I am going,” said d’Artagnan, but imparting to his voice an evident tone of curiosity; for Aramis’s annoyance, well dissembled as it was, had not escaped him, and he knew that in that impenetrable mind even the most apparently trivial thing was designed to some end,- an unknown one, but one which from the knowledge he had of his friend’s character the musketeer felt must be important.

On his part, Aramis saw that d’Artagnan was not without suspicion, and pressed him. “Stay, by all means!” he said; “this is what it is.” Then turning towards the tailor, “My dear Percerin,” said he.- “I am even very happy that you are here, d’Artagnan.”

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the Gascon, for the third time, even less deceived this time than before.

Percerin never moved. Aramis roused him violently, by snatching from his hands the stuff upon which he was engaged. “My dear Percerin,” said he, “I have near at hand M. Lebrun, one of M. Fouquet’s painters.”

“Ah, very good!” thought d’Artagnan; “but why Lebrun?”

Aramis looked at d’Artagnan, who seemed to be occupied with an engraving of Mark Antony. “And you wish to have made for him a dress similar to those of the Epicureans?” answered Percerin; and while saying this in an absent manner, the worthy tailor endeavored to recapture his piece of brocade.

“An Epicurean’s dress?” asked d’Artagnan, in a tone of inquiry.

“I see,” said Aramis, with a most engaging smile; “it is written that our dear d’Artagnan shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes, my friend, you have surely heard speak of M. Fouquet’s Epicureans, have you not?”

“Undoubtedly. Is it not a kind of poetical society, of which La Fontaine, Loret, Pélisson, and Moliere are members, and which holds its sittings at St. Mandé?”

“Exactly so. Well, we are going to put our poets in uniform, and enroll them in the service of the King.”

“Oh, very well! I understand,- a surprise M. Fouquet is getting up for the King. Be at ease; if that is the secret about M. Lebrun, I will not mention it.”

“Always agreeable, my friend! No, M. Lebrun has nothing to do with this part of it; the secret which concerns him is far more important than the other.”

“Then, if it is so important as all that, I prefer not to know it,” said d’Artagnan, making a show of departure.

“Come in, M. Lebrun, come in!” said Aramis, opening a side-door with his right hand and holding back d’Artagnan with his left.

“I’ faith, I too am quite in the dark,” quoth Percerin.

Aramis took an “opportunity,” as is said in theatrical matters. “My dear M. Percerin,” he continued, “you are making five dresses for the King, are you not?- one in brocade, one in hunting-cloth, one in velvet, one in satin, and one in Florentine stuffs?”

“Yes; but how do you know all that, Monseigneur?” said Percerin, astounded.

“It is all very simple, my dear Monsieur. There will be a hunt, a banquet, a concert, a promenade, and a reception; these five kinds of dress are required by etiquette.”

“You know everything, Monseigneur!

“And a great many more things too,” murmured d’Artagnan.

“But,” cried the tailor, in triumph, “what you do not know, Monseigneur, prince of the church though you are; what nobody will know; what only the King, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and myself do know,- is the color of the materials, the nature of the ornaments, and the cut, the ensemble, the finish of it all!”

“Well,” said Aramis, “that is precisely what I have come to ask you, dear Percerin.”

“Ah, bah!” exclaimed the tailor, terrified, though Aramis had pronounced these words in his sweetest and most honeyed voice. The request appeared, on reflection, so exaggerated, so ridiculous, so monstrous to M. Percerin that first he laughed to himself, then aloud, and finished with a shout. D’Artagnan followed his example, not because he found the matter so “very funny,” but in order not to allow Aramis to cool.

Aramis suffered them to laugh, and then, when they had become quiet, “At first view,” said he, “I appear to be hazarding an absurd question, do I not? But d’Artagnan, who is incarnate wisdom itself, will tell you that I could not do otherwise than ask you this.”

“Let us see,” said the attentive musketeer, perceiving with his wonderful instinct that they had only been skirmishing till now, and that the moment of battle was approaching.

“Let us see,” said Percerin, incredulously.

“Why, now,” continued Aramis, “does M. Fouquet give the King a fête? Is it not to please him?”

“Assuredly,” said Percerin.

D’Artagnan nodded assent.

“By delicate attentions, by some happy device, by a succession of surprises, like that of which we were talking,- the enrollment of our Epicureans?”

“Admirable.”

“Well, then, this is the surprise we intend, my good friend. M. Lebrun, here, is a man who draws most exactly.”

“Yes,” said Percerin; “I have seen his pictures, and observed that the dresses were highly elaborated. That is why I at once agreed to make him a costume,- whether one to agree with those of the Epicureans, or an original one.”

“My dear Monsieur, we accept your offer, and shall presently avail ourselves of it; but just now M. Lebrun is not in want of the dresses you will make for himself, but of those you are making for the King.”

Percerin made a bound backwards, which d’Artagnan, calmest and most appreciative of men, did not consider overdone,- so many strange and startling aspects wore the proposal which Aramis had just hazarded. “The King’s dresses! Give the King’s dresses to any mortal whatever! Oh, for once, Monseigneur, your Grace is mad!” cried the poor tailor, in extremity.

“Help me now, d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, more and more calm and smiling. “Help me now to persuade Monsieur; for you understand, do you not?”

“Eh! eh!- not exactly, I declare.”

“What! you do not understand that M. Fouquet wishes to afford the King the surprise of finding his portrait on his arrival at Vaux; and that the portrait, which will be a striking resemblance, ought to be dressed exactly as the King will be on the day it is shown?”

“Oh, yes, yes!” said the musketeer, nearly convinced, so plausible was this reasoning. “Yes, my dear Aramis, you are right; it is a happy idea. I will wager it is one of your own, Aramis.”

“Well, I don’t know,” replied the bishop; “either mine or M. Fouquet’s.” Then scanning Percerin, after noticing d’Artagnan’s hesitation, “Well, M. Percerin,” he asked, “what do you say to this?”

“I say that-”

“That you are, doubtless, free to refuse. I know well,- and I by no means count upon compelling you, my dear Monsieur. I will say more; I even understand all the delicacy you feel in taking up with M. Fouquet’s idea,- you dread appearing to flatter the King. A noble spirit, M. Percerin, a noble spirit!” The tailor stammered. “It would indeed be a very pretty compliment to pay the young Prince,” continued Aramis; “but as the superintendent told me, ‘If Percerin refuse, tell him that it will not at all lower him in my opinion, and I shall always esteem him; only-”

“Only?” repeated Percerin, rather troubled.

“Only?” continued Aramis, “‘I shall be compelled to say to the King,’- you understand, my dear M. Percerin, that these are M. Fouquet’s words,- ‘I shall be constrained to say to the King, “Sire, I had intended to present your Majesty with your portrait; but owing to a feeling of delicacy, exaggerated perhaps, but creditable, M. Percerin opposed the project.”’”

“Opposed!” cried the tailor, terrified at the responsibility which would weigh upon him; “I to oppose the desire, the will of M. Fouquet when he is seeking to please the King! Oh, what a hateful word you have uttered, Monseigneur! Oppose! Oh, ’tis not I who said it, thank God! I call the captain of the Musketeers to witness it! Is it not true, M. d’Artagnan, that I have opposed nothing?”

D’Artagnan made a sign indicating that he wished to remain neutral. He felt that there was an intrigue at the bottom of it, whether comedy or tragedy; he was disgusted at not being able to fathom it, but in the mean while wished to keep clear.

But already Percerin, goaded by the idea that the King should be told he had stood in the way of a pleasant surprise, had offered Lebrun a chair, and proceeded to bring from a wardrobe four magnificent dresses, the fifth being still in the workmen’s hands; and these masterpieces he successively fitted upon four lay figures, which imported into France in the time of Concini had been given to Percerin II by Marechal d’Ancre after the discomfiture of the Italian tailors ruined in their competition. The painter set to work to draw and then to paint the dresses. But Aramis, who was closely watching all the phases of his toil, suddenly stopped him.

“I think you have not quite got it, my dear Lebrun,” he said; “your colors will deceive you, and on canvas we shall lack that exact resemblance which is absolutely requisite. Time is necessary for observing the finer shades.”

“Quite true,” said Percerin; “but time is wanting, and on that head you will agree with me, Monseigneur, I can do nothing.”

“Then the affair will fail,” said Aramis, quietly, “and that because of a want of precision in the colors.”

Nevertheless, Lebrun went on copying the materials and ornaments with the closest fidelity,- a process which Aramis watched with ill-concealed impatience.

“What in the devil, now, is the meaning of this imbroglio?” the musketeer kept saying to himself.

“That will certainly never do,” said Aramis. “M. Lebrun, close your box, and roll up your canvas.”

“But, Monsieur,” cried the vexed painter, “the light is abominable here.”

“An idea, M. Lebrun, an idea! If we had a sample of the materials, for example, and with time and a better light-”

“Oh, then,” cried Lebrun, “I would answer for the effect!”

“Good!” said d’Artagnan, “this ought to be the knot of the whole thing; they want a sample of each of the materials. Mordioux! will this Percerin give it now?”

Percerin, beaten in his last retreat, and duped moreover by the feigned good-nature of Aramis, cut out five samples and handed them to the Bishop of Vannes.

“I like this better. That is your opinion, is it not?” said Aramis to d’Artagnan.

“My dear Aramis,” said d’Artagnan, “my opinion is that you are always the same.”

“And, consequently, always your friend,” said the bishop, in a charming tone.

“Yes, yes,” said d’Artagnan, aloud; then, in a low voice, “If I am your dupe, double Jesuit that you are, I will not be your accomplice; and to prevent it, ’tis time I left this place. Adieu, Aramis,” he added, aloud, “adieu; I am going to rejoin Porthos.”

“Then wait for me,” said Aramis, pocketing the samples; “for I have done, and shall not be sorry to say a parting word to our friend.”

Lebrun packed up, Percerin put back the dresses into the closet, Aramis put his hand on his pocket to assure himself that the samples were secure, and they all left the study.

Where, Probably, Moliere Formed His First Idea of the “Bourgeois Gentilhomme”

D’Artagnan found Porthos in the adjoining chamber; but no longer an irritated Porthos, or a disappointed Porthos, but Porthos radiant, blooming, fascinating, and chatting with Moliere, who was looking upon him with a species of idolatry, and as a man would who had not only never seen anything better, but not even ever anything so good. Aramis went straight up to Porthos and offered him his delicate hand, which lost itself in the gigantic hand of his old friend,- an operation which Aramis never hazarded without a certain uneasiness. But the friendly pressure having been performed not too painfully for him, the Bishop of Vannes passed over to Moliere.

“Well, Monsieur,” said he, “will you come with me to St. Mandé?”

“I will go anywhere you like, Monseigneur,” answered Moliere.

“To St. Mandé!” cried Porthos, surprised at seeing the proud Bishop of Vannes fraternizing with a journeyman tailor. “What! Aramis, are you going to take this gentleman to St. Mandé?”

“Yes,” said Aramis, smiling; “our work is pressing.”

“Besides, my dear Porthos,” continued d’Artagnan, “M. Moliere is not altogether what he seems.”

“In what way?” asked Porthos.

“Why, this gentleman is one of M. Percerin’s chief clerks, and he is expected at St. Mandé to try on the dresses which M. Fouquet has ordered for the Epicureans.”

“‘Tis precisely so,” said Moliere; “yes, Monsieur.”

“Come, then, my dear M. Moliere,” said Aramis; “that is, if you have done with M. du Vallon?”

“We have finished,” replied Porthos.

“And you are satisfied?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Completely so,” replied Porthos.

Moliere took his leave of Porthos with much ceremony, and grasped the hand which the captain of the Musketeers furtively offered him.

“Pray, Monsieur,” concluded Porthos, mincingly, “above all, be exact.”

“You will have your dress after tomorrow, Monsieur the Baron,” answered Moliere; and he left with Aramis.

D’Artagnan, taking Porthos’s arm, inquired, “What has this tailor done for you, my dear Porthos, that you are so pleased with him?”

“What has he done for me, my friend,- done for me!” cried Porthos, enthusiastically.

“Yes, I ask you, what has he done for you?”

“My friend, he has done that which no tailor ever yet accomplished,- he has taken my measure without touching me!”

“Ah, bah! tell me how he did it!”

“First, then, they went, I don’t know where, for a number of lay figures, of all heights and sizes, hoping there would be one to suit mine; but the largest- that of the drum-major of the Swiss Guard- was two inches too short, and half a foot too slender.”

“Indeed!”

“It is exactly as I tell you, d’Artagnan; but he is a great man, or at the very least a great tailor, is this M. Moliere. He was not at all put at fault by the circumstance.”

“What did he do, then?”

“Oh, it is a very simple matter! I’ faith, ’tis an unheard of thing that people should have been so stupid as not to have discovered this method from the first. What annoyance and humiliation they would have spared me!”

“Not to speak of the dresses, my dear Porthos.”

“Yes, thirty dresses.”

“Well, my dear Porthos, tell me M. Moliere’s plan.”

“Moliere? You call him so, do you? I shall make a point of recollecting his name.”

“Yes; or Poquelin, if you prefer that.”

“No; I like Moliere best. When I wish to recollect his name, I shall think of voliere [an aviary]; and as I have one at Pierrefonds-”

“Capital!” returned d’Artagnan; and M. Moliere’s plan?”

“‘Tis this: instead of pulling me to pieces, as all these rascals do, making me bend in my back, and double my joints,- all of them low and dishonorable practices-” D’Artagnan made a sign of approbation with his head. “‘Monsieur,’ he said to me,” continued Porthos, “‘a gentleman ought to measure himself. Do me the pleasure to draw near this glass’; and I drew near the glass. I must own I did not exactly understand what this good M. Voliere wanted with me-”

“Moliere.”

“Ah, yes, Moliere, Moliere. And as the fear of being measured still possessed me, ‘Take care,’ said I to him, ‘what you are going to do with me; I am very ticklish, I warn you!’ But he, with his soft voice (for he is a courteous fellow, we must admit, my friend),- he, with his soft voice, said: ‘Monsieur, that your dress may fit you well, it must be made according to your figure. Your figure is exactly reflected in this mirror. We shall measure this reflection.’”

“In fact,” said d’Artagnan, “you saw yourself in the glass; but where did they find one in which you could see your whole figure?”

“My good friend, it is the very glass in which the King sees himself.”

“Yes; but the King is a foot and a half shorter than you are.”

“Ah! well, I know not how that may be,- it would no doubt be a way of flattering the King,- but the looking-glass was too large for me. ’Tis true that its height was made up of three Venetian plates of glass, placed one above another, and its breadth of the three similar pieces in juxtaposition.”

“Oh, Porthos, what excellent words you have at your command! Where in the world did you make the collection?”

“At Belle-Isle. Aramis explained them to the architect.”

“Ah, very good! Let us return to the glass, my friend.”

“Then this good M. Voliere-”

“Moliere.”

“Yes: Moliere,- you are right. You will see now, my dear friend, that I shall recollect his name too well. This excellent M. Moliere set to work tracing out lines on the mirror with a piece of Spanish chalk, following throughout the shape of my arms and my shoulders, all the while expounding this maxim, which I thought admirable,- ‘It is necessary that a dress should not incommode its wearer.’”

“In reality,” said d’Artagnan, “that is an excellent maxim, which is, unfortunately, seldom carried out in practice.”

“That is why I found it all the more astonishing when he expatiated upon it.”

“Ah! he expatiated?”

“Parbleu!”

“Let me hear his theory.

“‘Seeing that,’ he continued, ‘one may in awkward circumstances or in a troublesome position have one’s doublet on one’s shoulder, and not desire to take it off-’”

“True,” said d’Artagnan.

“‘And so,’ continued M. Voliere-”

“Moliere.”

“Moliere; yes. ‘And so,’ went on M. Moliere, ‘you want to draw your sword, Monsieur, and you have your doublet on your back. What do you do?’ ‘I take it off,’ I answered. ‘Well, no,’ he replied. ‘How “no”?’ ‘I say that the dress should be so well made that it can in no way encumber you, even in drawing your sword.’ ‘Ah, ah!’ ‘Put yourself on guard!’ pursued he. I did it with such wondrous firmness that two panes of glass burst out of the window. ‘’Tis nothing, nothing,’ said he; ‘keep your position.’ I raised my left arm in the air, the forearm gracefully bent, the ruffle drooping, and my wrist curved, while my right arm, half extended, securely covered my waist with the elbow, and my breast with the wrist.”

“Yes,” said d’Artagnan, “‘tis the true guard,- the academic guard.”

“You have said the very word, dear friend. In the mean while Voliere-”

“Moliere.”

“Hold! I should certainly, after all, prefer to call him- What did you say his other name was?”

“Poquelin.”

“I prefer to call him Poquelin.”

“And how will you remember this name better than the other?”

“You understand- He calls himself Poquelin, does he not?”

“Yes.”

“I shall recall to mind Madame Coquenard.”

“Good!”

“I shall change Coq into Poq, nard into lin, and instead of Coquenard I shall have Poquelin.”

“‘Tis wonderful!” cried d’Artagnan, astounded. “Go on, my friend! I am listening to you with admiration.”

“This Coquelin sketched my arm on the glass-”

“I beg your pardon,- Poquelin.”

“What did I say, then?”

“You said ‘Coquelin.’”

“Ah, true! This Poquelin, then, sketched my arm on the glass; but he took his time over it,- he kept looking at me a good deal. The fact is, that I was very handsome. ‘Does it weary you?’ he asked. ‘A little,’ I replied, bending a little in my hands; ‘but I could yet hold out an hour.’ ‘No, no; I will not allow it. We have here some willing fellows who will make it a duty to support your arms, as, of old, men supported those of the prophet. ‘Very good,’ I answered. ‘That will not be humiliating to you?’ ‘My friend,’ said I, ‘there is, I think, a great difference between being supported and being measured.’”

“The distinction is full of sense,” interrupted the captain.

“Then,” continued Porthos, “he made a sign. Two lads approached: one supported my left arm; while the other, with infinite address, supported my right arm. ‘Another man!’ cried he. A third approached. ‘Support Monsieur by the waist,’ said he. The garcon complied.”

“So that you were at rest?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Perfectly; and Poquenard drew me on the glass.”

“Poquelin, my friend.”

“Poquelin,- you are right. Stay! decidedly I prefer calling him Voliere.”

“Yes; and then it was over, wasn’t it?”

“During that time Voliere drew me on the mirror.”

“‘Twas delicate in him.”

“I much like the plan: it is respectful, and keeps every one in his place.”

“And there it ended?”

“Without a soul having touched me, my friend.”

“Except the three garcons who supported you.”

“Doubtless; but I have, I think, already explained to you the difference there is between supporting and measuring.”

“‘Tis true,” answered d’Artagnan, who said afterwards to himself, “I’ faith, I greatly deceive myself, or I have been the means of a good windfall to that rascal Moliere, and we shall assuredly see the scene hit off to the life in some comedy or other.”

Porthos smiled.

“What are you laughing at?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Must I confess it? Well, I was laughing over my good fortune.”

“Oh, that is true; I don’t know a happier man than you. But what is this last piece of luck that has befallen you?”

“Well, my dear fellow, congratulate me.”

“I desire nothing better.”

“It seems I am the first who has had his measure taken in that manner.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“Nearly so. Certain signs of intelligence that passed between Voliere and the other garcons showed me the fact.”

“Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Moliere,” said d’Artagnan.

“Voliere, my friend.”

“Oh, no, no, indeed! I am very willing to leave you to say Voliere; but I myself shall continue to say Moliere. Well, this, I was saying, does not surprise me, coming from Moliere, who is a very ingenious fellow, and whom you inspired with this grand idea.”

“It will be of great use to him by and by, I am sure.”

“Won’t it be of use to him, indeed! I believe you, it will, and not a little so; for you see my friend Moliere is of all known tailors the man who best clothes our barons, counts, and marquises- according to their measure.”

On this observation, neither the application nor the depth of which shall we discuss, d’Artagnan and Porthos quitted M. Percerin’s house and rejoined their carriage, wherein we will leave them in order to look after Moliere and Aramis at St. Mandé.

The Beehive, the Bees, and the Honey

The Bishop of Vannes, much annoyed at having met d’Artagnan at M. Percerin’s, returned to St. Mandé in no very good humor. Moliere, on the other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital rough sketch, and at knowing where to find its original again whenever he should desire to convert his sketch into a picture, arrived in the merriest of moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupied by the most celebrated Epicureans in Paris, and those on the freest footing in the house,- every one in his compartment, like the bees in their cells, employed in producing the honey intended for that royal cake which M. Fouquet proposed to offer his Majesty Louis XIV during the fête at Vaux. Pélisson, his head leaning on his hand, was engaged in drawing out the plan of the prologue to “Les Facheux,” a comedy in three acts, which was to be put on the stage by Poquelin de Moliere, as d’Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Voliere, as Porthos styled him. Loret, with all the charming innocence of a journalist,- the journalists of all ages have always been so artless!- Loret was composing an account of the fetes of Vaux, before those fetes had taken place. La Fontaine sauntered about among them,- a wandering, absent-minded, boring, unbearable shade, buzzing and humming at everybody’s shoulder a thousand poetic inanities. He so often disturbed Pélisson, that the latter, raising his head, crossly said, “At least, La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you say you have the run of the gardens at Parnassus.”

“What rhyme do you want?” asked the Fabler, as Madame de Sevigne used to call him.

“I want a rhyme to lumiere.”

“Orniere,” answered La Fontaine.

“Ah, but my good friend, one cannot talk of wheel-ruts when celebrating the delights of Vaux,” said Loret.

“Besides, it doesn’t rhyme,” answered Pélisson.

“How! doesn’t rhyme?” cried La Fontaine, in surprise.

“Yes; you have an abominable habit, my friend,- a habit which will ever prevent your becoming a poet of the first order. You rhyme in a slovenly manner.”

“Oh! oh! you think so, do you, Pélisson?”

“Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as one can find a better.”

“Then I will never write anything again but in prose,” said La Fontaine, who had taken up Pélisson’s reproach in earnest. “Ah, I often suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet! Yes, ’tis the very truth.”

“Do not say so; your remark is too sweeping, and there is much that is good in your ‘Fables.’”

“And to begin,” continued La Fontaine, following up his idea, “I will go and burn a hundred verses I have just made.”

“Where are your verses?”

“In my head.”

“Well, if they are in your head you cannot burn them.”

“True,” said La Fontaine; “but if I do not burn them-”

“Well, what will happen if you do not burn them?”

“They will remain in my mind, and I shall never forget them.”

“The devil!” cried Loret; “what a dangerous thing! One would go mad with it!”

“The devil, devil, devil!” repeated La Fontaine; “what can I do?”

“I have discovered the way,” said Moliere, who had entered during the last words of the conversation.

“What way?”

“Write them first and burn them afterwards.”

“How simple it is! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a mind that devil Moliere has!” said La Fontaine. Then, striking his forehead, “Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean de la Fontaine!” he added.

“What are you saying there, my friend?” broke in Moliere, approaching the poet, whose aside he had heard.

“I say I shall never be aught but an ass,” answered La Fontaine, with a heavy sigh and swimming eyes. “Yes, my friend,” he added, with increasing grief, “it seems that I rhyme in a slovenly manner.”

“That is wrong.”

“You see! I am a puppy!”

“Who said so?”

“Parbleu! ‘twas Pélisson; did you not, Pélisson?”

Pélisson, again lost in his work, took good care not to answer.

“But if Pélisson said you were a puppy,” cried Moliere, “Pélisson has gravely insulted you.”

“Do you think so?”

“Ah! I advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult like that unpunished.”

“Oh!” exclaimed La Fontaine.

“Did you ever fight?”

“Once only, with a lieutenant in the light horse.”

“What wrong had he done you?”

“It seems he was my wife’s lover.”

“Ah! ah!” said Moliere, becoming slightly pale; but as at La Fontaine’s declaration the others had turned round, Moliere kept upon his lips the rallying smile which had so nearly died away, and continued to make La Fontaine speak,- “and what was the result of the duel?”

“The result was, that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and then made an apology, promising never again to set foot in my house.”

“And you considered yourself satisfied?” said Moliere.

“Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword. ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur,’ I said; ‘I have not fought you because you were my wife’s lover, but because I was told I ought to fight. Now, since I have never known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure to continue your visits as heretofore, or, morbleu! let us set to again.’ And so,” continued La Fontaine, “he was compelled to resume his relations with Madame, and I continue to be the happiest of husbands.”

All burst out laughing. Moliere alone passed his hand across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas! we know that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. “It is all the same,” he said, returning to the topic of the conversation, “Pélisson has insulted you.”

“Ah, truly! I had already forgotten.”

“And I am going to challenge him on your behalf.”

“Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable.”

“I do think it indispensable, and I am going-”

“Stay!” exclaimed La Fontaine; “I want your advice.”

“Upon what?- this insult?”

“No; tell me really now whether lumiere does not rhyme with orniere.”

“I should make them rhyme.”

“Ah! I knew you would.”

“And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time.”

“A hundred thousand!” cried La Fontaine; “four times as many as in ‘La Pucelle,’ which M. Chapelain is meditating. Is it also on this subject that you have composed a hundred thousand verses?”

“Listen to me, you eternally absent-minded creature!” said Moliere.

“It is certain,” continued La Fontaine, “that legume, for instance, rhymes with posthume.”

“In the plural, especially.”

“Yes, especially in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three letters, but with four; as orniere does with lumiere. Put ornieres and lumieres in the plural, my dear Pélisson,” said La Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose insult he had quite forgotten, “and they will rhyme.”

“Hem!” cried Pélisson.

“Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of it; he declares he has himself made a hundred thousand verses.”

“Come,” said Moliere, laughing, “he is off now.”

“It is like rivage, which rhymes admirably with herbage; I would take my oath of it.”

“But-” said Moliere.

“I tell you all this,” continued La Fontaine, “because you are preparing an entertainment for Vaux, are you not?”

“Yes,- ‘Les Facheux.’”

“Ah, yes,- ‘Les Facheux’; yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a prologue would admirably suit your entertainment.”

“Doubtless it would suit capitally.”

“Ah! you are of my opinion?”

“So much so, that I asked you to write this prologue.”

“You asked me to write it?”

“Yes, you; and on your refusal begged you to ask Pélisson, who is engaged upon it at this moment.”

“Ah! that is what Pélisson is doing, then? I’ faith, my dear Moliere, you speak with very good sense sometimes.”

“When?”

“When you call me absent-minded. It is a wretched defect. I will cure myself of it, and I am going to write your prologue for you.”

“But seeing that Pélisson is about it-”

“Ah, true! Double rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in saying I was a puppy.”

“It was not Loret who said so, my friend.”

“Well, then, whoever said so, ’tis the same to me! And so your entertainment is called ‘Les Facheux’? Well, can you not make heureux rhyme with facheux?”

“If obliged, yes.”

“And even with capricieux.”

“Oh, no, no!”

“It would be hazardous, and yet why so?”

“There is too great a difference in the cadences.”

“I was fancying,” said La Fontaine, leaving Moliere for Loret,- “I was fancying-”

“What were you fancying?” said Loret, in the middle of a sentence. “Make haste!”

“You are writing the prologue to ‘Les Facheux,’ are you not?”

“No, mordieu! it is Pélisson.”

“Ah, Pélisson!” cried La Fontaine, going over to him. “I was fancying,” he continued, “that the nymph of Vaux-”

“Ah, beautiful!” cried Loret. “The nymph of Vaux! Thank you, La Fontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper,-

Et l’on vit la nymphe de Vaux
Donner le prix a leurs travaux.”

“Good! That is something like a rhyme,” said Pélisson. “If you could rhyme like that, La Fontaine-”

“But it seems I do rhyme like that, since Loret says it is I who gave him the two lines he has just read.”

“Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine,” said Pélisson, “tell me now in what way you would begin my prologue?”

“I should say for instance, O nymphe- qui- After qui I should place a verb in the second person plural of the present indicative, and should go on thus: cette grotte profonde.

“But the verb, the verb?” asked Pélisson.

“Pour venir admirer le plus grand roi du monde,” continued La Fontaine.

“But the verb, the verb?” obstinately insisted Pélisson. “This second person plural of the present indicative?”

“Well, then; quittez,-

O nymphe qui quittez cette grotte profonde
Pour venir admirer le plus grand roi du monde.”

“You would put qui quittez, would you?”

“Why not?”

“Qui- qui!”

“Ah, my dear fellow,” exclaimed La Fontaine, “you are a shocking pedant!”

“Without counting,” said Moliere, “that in the second verse venir admirer is very weak, my dear La Fontaine.”

“Then you see clearly that I am nothing but a poor creature,- a puppy, as you said.”

“I never said so.”

“Then, as Loret said.”

“And it was not Loret, either; it was Pélisson.”

“Well, Pélisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is that I fear we shall not have our Epicurean dresses.”

“You expected yours, then, for the fête?”

“Yes, for the fête, and then for after the fête. My housekeeper told me that my own is rather faded.”

“The devil! your housekeeper is right,- rather more than faded!”

“Ah, you see,” resumed La Fontaine; “the fact is, I left it on the floor in my room, and my cat-”

“Well, your cat-”

“She kittened upon it, which has rather altered its color.”

Moliere burst out laughing; Pélisson and Loret followed his example.

At this juncture the Bishop of Vannes appeared, with a roll of plans and parchments under his arm. As if the angel of death had chilled all gay and sprightly fancies, as if that wail form had scared away the Graces to whom Xenocrates sacrificed, silence immediately reigned through the study, and every one resumed his self-possession and his pen.

Aramis distributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of M. Fouquet. “The superintendent,” he said, “being kept to his room by business, could not come to see them, but begged them to send him some of the fruits of their day’s work, to enable him to forget the fatigue of his labor in the night.”

At these words, all settled to work. La Fontaine placed himself at a table, and set his rapid pen running over the vellum; Pélisson made a fair copy of his prologue; Moliere gave fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Percerin had inspired him; Loret, his article on the marvellous fetes he predicted; and Aramis, laden with booty like the king of the bees,- that great black drone, decked with purple and gold,- re-entered his apartment, silent and busy. But before departing, “Remember, gentlemen,” said he, “we all leave tomorrow evening.”

“In that case I must give notice at home,” said Moliere.

“Yes; poor Moliere!” said Loret, smiling,- “he loves his home.”

“‘He loves,’ yes,” replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. “‘He loves,’- that does not mean, they love him.”

“As for me,” said La Fontaine, “they love me at Château Thierry, I am very sure.”

Aramis here re-entered, after a brief disappearance. “Will any one go with me?” he asked. “I am going by way of Paris, after having passed a quarter of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage.”

“Good!” said Moliere. “I accept it; I am in a hurry.”

“I shall dine here,” said Loret. “M. de Gourville has promised me some crawfish,-

Il m’a promis des ecrevisses-

Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine.”

Aramis went out laughing, as only he could laugh, and Moliere followed him. They were at the bottom of the stairs, when La Fontaine opened the door and shouted out,-

“Moyennant que tu l’ecrevisses,
Il t’a promis des ecrevisses.”

The shouts of laughter reached the ears of Fouquet at the moment Aramis opened the door of the study. As to Moliere, he had undertaken to order the horses, while Aramis went to exchange a parting word with the superintendent. “Oh, how they are laughing there!” said Fouquet, with a sigh.

“And do you not laugh, Monseigneur?”

“I laugh no longer now, M. d’Herblay. The fête is approaching; money is departing.”

“Have I not told you that was my business?”

“Yes; you promised me millions.”

“You shall have them the day after the King’s entree into Vaux.”

Fouquet looked closely at Aramis, and passed his icy hand across his moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the superintendent either doubted him, or felt that he was powerless to obtain the money. How could Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop, ex-abbé, ex-musketeer, could procure it?

“Why doubt me?” said Aramis.

Fouquet smiled and shook his head.

“Man of little faith!” added the bishop.

“My dear M. d’Herblay,” answered Fouquet, “if I fall-”

“Well, if you ‘fall’-”

“I shall at least fall from such a height that I shall shatter myself in falling.” Then giving himself a shake, as though to escape from himself, “Whence come you,” said he, “my friend?”

“From Paris,- from Percerin.”

“And what have you been doing at Percerin’s,- for I suppose you attach no great importance to our poets’ dresses?”

“No; I went to prepare a surprise.”

“Surprise?”

“Yes; which you are to give to the King.”

“And will it cost much?”

“Oh, a hundred pistoles you will give Lebrun!”

“A painting? Ah, all the better! And what is this painting to represent?”

“I will tell you. Then at the same time, whatever you may say of it, I went to see the dresses for our poets.”

“Bah! and they will be rich and elegant?”

“Splendid! There will be few great monseigneurs with dresses so good. People will see the difference between the courtiers of wealth and those of friendship.”

“Ever generous and graceful, dear prelate!”

“In your school.”

Fouquet grasped his hand. “And where are you going?” he said.

“I am off to Paris, when you shall have given me a certain letter.”

“For whom?”

“M. de Lyonne.”

“And what do you want with Lyonne?”

“I wish to make him sign a lettre de cachet.”

“Lettre de cachet! Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastille?”

“On the contrary,- to let somebody out.”

“And who?”

“A poor devil,- a youth, a lad who has been imprisoned these ten years, for two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits.”

“‘Two Latin verses!’ and for ‘two Latin verses’ the miserable being has been in prison for ten years?”

“Yes.”

“And has committed no other crime?”

“Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I.”

“On your word?”

“On my honor!”

“And his name is-”

“Seldon.”

“Oh, that is too cruel! You knew this, and you never told me!”

“‘Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, Monseigneur.”

“And the woman is poor?”

“In the deepest misery.”

“Oh, God!” said Fouquet, “thou dost sometimes bear with such injustice on earth that I understand why there are wretches who doubt thy existence! Stay, M. d’Herblay!” and Fouquet, taking his pen, wrote a few rapid lines to his colleague Lyonne.

Aramis took the letter, and made ready to go.

“Wait!” said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government notes which were there, each for a thousand livres. “Stay!” he said. “Set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, tell her not-”

“What, Monseigneur?”

“That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am but a poor superintendent! Go; and I hope that God will bless those who are mindful of his poor!”

“So also do I hope,” replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet’s hand. And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the notes for Seldon’s mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to lose patience.

Another Supper at the Bastille

Seven o’clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastille,- that famous clock which, like all the accessories of the State prison, the very use of which is a torture, brought to the prisoners’ notice the lapse of every hour of their suffering. The timepiece of the Bastille, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period, represented Saint Peter in bonds.

It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives. The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of the baskets and trays of provisions, the delicacy of which, as M. de Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in life of the prisoner. We understand on this head the theories of M. de Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head cook of the royal fortress, whose trays, full laden, were ascending the steep staircases, carrying some consolation to the prisoners in the bottom of honestly filled bottles. This same hour was that of the governor’s supper also. He had a guest to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast partridges flanked with quails, and flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls; ham, fried and sprinkled with white wine; cardons of Guipuzcoa and la bisque d’ecrevisses,- these, together with the soups and hors d’oeuvres, constituted the governor’s bill of fare.

Baisemeaux, seated at table, was rubbing his hands and looking at the Bishop of Vannes, who, booted like a cavalier, dressed in gray, with a sword at his side’ kept talking of his hunger and testifying the liveliest impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun was not accustomed to the unbending movements of his Greatness my Lord of Vannes; and this evening Aramis, becoming quite sprightly, volunteered confidence on confidence. The prelate had again a little touch of the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched on the borders only of license in his style of conversation. As for M. de Baisemeaux, with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself loose rein, on this touch of abandon on the part of his guest. “Monsieur,” said he,- “for indeed to-night I don’t like to call you Monseigneur-”

“By no means,” said Aramis; “call me Monsieur,- I am booted.”

“Do you know, Monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening?”

“No! faith,” said Aramis, taking up his glass; “but I hope I remind you of a good companion.”

“You remind me of two, Monsieur. Francois, shut the window; the wind may annoy his Greatness.”

“And let him go,” added Aramis. “The supper is completely served, and we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like extremely to be tête-a-tête when I am with a friend.” Baisemeaux bowed respectfully. “I like extremely,” continued Aramis, “to help myself.”

“Retire, Francois!” cried Baisemeaux. “I was saying that your Greatness puts me in mind of two persons,- one very illustrious, the late cardinal, the great cardinal of La Rochelle, who wore boots like you.”

“Indeed,” said Aramis; “and the other?”

“The other was a certain musketeer, very handsome, very brave, very adventurous, very fortunate, who from being abbé turned musketeer, and from musketeer turned abbé.” Aramis condescended to smile. “From abbé,” continued Baisemeaux, encouraged by Aramis’s smile,- “from abbé, bishop, and from bishop-”

“Ah, stay there, I beg!” exclaimed Aramis.

“I say, Monsieur, that you give me the idea of a cardinal.”

“Enough, dear M. Baisemeaux! As you said, I have on the boots of a cavalier; but I do not intend, for all that, to embroil myself with the church this evening.”

“You have wicked intentions, however, Monseigneur.”

“Oh, yes; wicked I own, as everything mundane is.”

“You traverse the town and the streets in disguise?”

“In disguise, as you say.”

“And do you still use your sword?”

“Yes, I should think so; but only when I am compelled. Do me the pleasure to summon Francois.”

“Have you no wine there?”

“’Tis not for wine, but because it is hot here and the window is shut.”

“I shut the windows at supper-time so as not to hear the sounds or the arrival of couriers.”

“Ah, yes! You hear them when the window is open?”

“But too well, and that disturbs me. You understand!”

“Nevertheless, I am suffocated. Francois!” Francois entered. “Open the windows, I pray you, Francois! You will allow him, dear M. Baisemeaux?”

“You are at home here,” answered the governor. The window was opened.

“Do you not think,” said M. de Baisemeaux, “that you will find yourself very lonely, now that M. de la Fere has returned to his household gods at Blois? He is a very old friend, is he not?”

“You know it as I do, Baisemeaux, seeing that you were in the musketeers with us.”

“Bah! with my friends I reckon neither bottles nor years.”

“And you are right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear Baisemeaux; I venerate him.”

“Well, for my part, though ’tis singular,” said the governor, “I prefer M. d’Artagnan to the count. There is a man for you, who drinks long and well! That kind of people allow you at least to penetrate their thoughts.”

“Baisemeaux, make me tipsy tonight! Let us have a debauch as of old; and if I have a trouble at the bottom of my heart, I promise you, you shall see it as you would a diamond at the bottom of your glass.”

“Bravo!” said Baisemeaux; and he poured out a great glass of wine and drank it off at a draught, trembling with joy at the idea of being, by hook or by crook, in the secret of some high archiepiscopal misdemeanor. While he was drinking he did not see with what attention Aramis was noting the sounds in the great court. A courier arrived about eight o’clock, as Francois brought in the fifth bottle; and although the courier made a great noise, Baisemeaux heard nothing.

“The devil take him!” said Aramis.

“What? who?” asked Baisemeaux. “I hope ’tis neither the wine you drink nor he who causes you to drink it.”

“No; it is a horse, who is making noise enough in the court for a whole squadron.”

“Pooh! some courier or other,” replied the governor, redoubling his numerous bumpers. “Yes, the devil take him, and so quickly that we shall never hear him speak more! Hurrah! hurrah!”

“You forget me, Baisemeaux! my glass is empty,” said Aramis, showing his dazzling goblet.

“Upon honor, you delight me. Francois, wine!” Francois entered. “Wine, fellow! and better.”

“Yes, Monsieur, yes; but a courier has just arrived.”

“Let him go to the devil, I say.”

“Yes, Monsieur, but-”

“Let him leave his news at the office; we will see to it to-morrow. To-morrow,- there will be time to-morrow; there will be daylight,” said Baisemeaux, chanting the words.

“Ah, Monsieur,” grumbled the soldier Francois, in spite of himself,- “Monsieur!”

“Take care,” said Aramis, “take care!”

“Of what, dear M. d’Herblay?” said Baisemeaux, half intoxicated.

“The letter which the courier brings to the governor of a fortress is sometimes an order.”

“Nearly always.”

“Do not orders issue from the ministers?”

“Yes, undoubtedly; but-”

“And what do these ministers do but countersign the signature of the King?”

“Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, ’tis very tiresome when you are sitting before a good table, tête-a-tête with a friend- Ah! I beg your pardon, Monsieur; I forgot that it is I who invite you to supper, and that I speak to a future cardinal.”

“Let us pass over that, dear Baisemeaux, and return to our soldier,- to Francois.”

“Well, and what has Francois done?”

“He has demurred!”

“He was wrong, then.”

“However, he has demurred, you see; ’tis because there is something extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it was not Francois who was wrong in demurring, but you, who will be wrong in not listening to him.”

“Wrong! I to be wrong before Francois!- that seems rather hard.”

“Pardon me, merely an irregularity. But I thought it my duty to make an observation which I deem important.”

“Oh, perhaps you are right!” stammered Baisemeaux. “The King’s order is sacred; but as to orders that arrive when one is at supper, I repeat, may the devil-”

“If you had said as much to the great cardinal, eh! my dear Baisemeaux, and if his order had been important-”

“I do it that I may not disturb a bishop. Morbleu! Am I not, then, excusable?”

“Do not forget, Baisemeaux, that I have worn the uniform, and am accustomed to see everywhere obedience.”

“You wish, then-”

“I wish that you should do your duty, my friend; yes, at least before this soldier.”

“’Tis mathematically true,” exclaimed Baisemeaux. Francois still waited. “Let them send this order of the King up to me,” he said, recovering himself. And he added in a low tone: “Do you know what it is? I will tell you; it is something about as interesting as this: ‘Beware of fire near the powder-magazine,’ or ‘Look close after such a one, who is clever at escaping.’ Ah! if you only knew, Monseigneur, how many times I have been suddenly awakened from the very sweetest and deepest slumber by messengers arriving at full gallop to tell me, or rather bring me a slip of paper containing these words: ‘M. de Baisemeaux, what news?’ ’Tis clear enough that those who waste their time writing such orders have never slept in the Bastille. They would know better the thickness of my walls, the vigilance of my officers, the number of my rounds. But, indeed, what can you expect, Monseigneur? It is their business to write and torment me when I am at rest, and to trouble me when I am happy,” added Baisemeaux, bowing to Aramis. “Then let us leave them to their business.”

“And do you do yours,” added the bishop, smiling, but with command in his expression notwithstanding.

Francois re-entered. Baisemeaux took from his hands the minister’s order. He slowly undid it, and as slowly read it. Aramis pretended to be drinking, so as to be able to watch his host through the glass. Then, having read it, “What was I just saying?” Baisemeaux exclaimed.

“What is it?” asked the bishop.

“An order of release! There, now; excellent news, indeed, to disturb us!”

“Excellent news for him whom it concerns, you will at least agree, my dear governor!”

“And at eight o’clock in the evening!”

“It is charitable!”

“Oh! charity is all very well; but it is for that fellow who is low-spirited, and not for me who am amusing myself,” said Baisemeaux, exasperated.

“Will you lose by him, then? And is the prisoner who is to be set at liberty a high payer?”

“Oh yes, indeed! a miserable, five-livre rat!”

“Let me see it,” asked M. d’Herblay. “It is no indiscretion?”

“By no means; read it.”

“There is ‘Urgent’ on the paper; you noticed that, I suppose?”

“Oh, admirable! ‘Urgent!’- a man who has been there ten years! It is urgent to set him free to-day, this very evening, at eight o’clock!- urgent!” and Baisemeaux, shrugging his shoulders with an air of supreme disdain, flung the order on the table and began eating again. “They are fond of these dodges,” he said, with his mouth full; “they seize a man, some fine day, maintain him for ten years, and write to you, ‘Watch this fellow well,’ or ‘Keep him very strictly.’ And then, as soon as you are accustomed to look upon the prisoner as a dangerous man, all of a sudden, without cause or precedent, they write, ‘Set him at liberty’; and add to their missive, ‘Urgent.’ You will own, my Lord, ’tis enough to make one shrug his shoulders!”

“What do you expect? It is they who write,” said Aramis, “and it is for you to execute the order.”

“Good! good! execute it! Oh, patience! You must not imagine that I am a slave.”

“Gracious Heaven! my very good M. Baisemeaux, who ever said so? Your independence is known.”

“Thank Heaven!”

“But your good heart also is known.”

“Ah, don’t speak of it!”

“And your obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you see, Baisemeaux, always a soldier.”

“And so I shall strictly obey; and to-morrow morning, at daybreak, the prisoner referred to shall be set free.”

“To-morrow?”

“At dawn.”

“Why not this evening, seeing that the lettre de cachet bears, both on the direction and inside, ‘Urgent’?”

“Because this evening we are at supper, and our affairs are urgent too!”

“Dear Baisemeaux, booted though I be, I feel myself a priest; and charity has higher claims upon me than hunger and thirst. This unfortunate man has suffered long enough, since you have just told me that he has been your prisoner these ten years. Abridge his suffering. His good time has come; give him the benefit quickly. God will repay you in Paradise with years of felicity.”

“You wish it?”

“I entreat you.”

“What? in the middle of our repast?”

“I implore you; such an action is worth ten Benedicites.”

“It shall be as you desire; only, our supper will get cold.”

“Oh, never heed that!”

Baisemeaux leaned back to ring for Francois, and by a very natural motion turned round towards the door. The order had remained on the table. Aramis seized the opportunity when Baisemeaux was not looking to change the paper for another, folded in the same manner, which he took from his pocket. “Francois,” said the governor, “let the major come up here with the turnkeys of the Bertaudiere.” Francois bowed and quitted the room, leaving the two companions alone.

The General of the Order

There was now a brief silence, during which Aramis never removed his eyes from Baisemeaux for a moment. The latter seemed only half decided to disturb himself thus in the middle of supper; and it was clear that he was seeking some pretext, whether good or bad, for delay, at any rate till after dessert. And it appeared also that he had hit upon a pretext at last.

“Eh! but it is impossible,” he cried.

“How impossible?” said Aramis. “Give me a glimpse of this impossibility.”

“’Tis impossible to set a prisoner at liberty at such an hour. Where can he go to,- he, who is unacquainted with Paris?”

“He will go wherever he can.”

“You see, now, one might as well set a blind man free!”

“I have a carriage, and will take him wherever he wishes.”

“You have an answer for everything. Francois, tell Monsieur the Major to go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3 Bertaudiere.”

“Seldon!” exclaimed Aramis, very naturally. “You said Seldon, I think?”

“I said Seldon, of course. ’Tis the name of the man to be set free.”

“Oh! you mean to say Marchiali?” said Aramis.

“Marchiali? oh, yes, indeed! No, no! Seldon.”

“I think you are making a mistake, M. Baisemeaux.”

“I have read the order.”

“And I also.”

“And I saw ‘Seldon’ in letters as large as that”; and Baisemeaux held up his finger.

“And I read ‘Marchiali,’ in characters as large as this,” said Aramis, holding up two fingers.

“To the proof; let us throw a light on the matter,” said Baisemeaux, confident he was right. “There is the paper; you have only to read it.”

“I read ‘Marchiali,’” returned Aramis, spreading out the paper. “Look!”

Baisemeaux looked, and his arms dropped suddenly. “Yes, yes,” he said, quite overwhelmed; “yes, Marchiali. ’Tis plainly written ‘Marchiali,’ quite true!”

“Ah!”

“How? The man of whom we have talked so much? The man whom they are every day telling me to take such care of?”

“There is ‘Marchiali,’” repeated the inflexible Bishop of Vannes.

“I must own it, Monseigneur. But I absolutely don’t understand it.”

“You believe your eyes, at any rate.”

“To tell me very plainly there is ‘Marchiali.’”

“And in a good handwriting too.”

“’Tis a wonder! I still see this order and the name of Seldon, Irishman. I see it. Ah! I even recollect that under this name there was a blot of ink.”

“No, there is no ink; no, there is no blot.”

“Oh, but there was, though! I know it, because I rubbed the powder that was over the blot.”

“In a word, be it how it may, dear M. Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, “and whatever you may have seen, the order is signed to release Marchiali, blot or no blot.”

“The order is signed to release Marchiali!” repeated Baisemeaux, mechanically endeavoring to regain his courage.

“And you are going to release this prisoner. If your heart dictates to you to deliver Seldon also, I declare to you I will not oppose it the least in the world.”

Aramis accompanied this remark with a smile, the irony of which effectually dispelled Baisemeaux’s confusion of mind and restored his courage.

“Monseigneur,” said the governor, “this Marchiali is the very same prisoner whom the other day a priest, confessor of our order, came to visit in so imperious and so secret a manner.”

“I don’t know that, Monsieur,” replied the bishop.

“’Tis no very long time ago, dear M. d’Herblay.”

“It is true. But with us, Monsieur, it is good that the man of to-day should no longer know what the man of yesterday did.”

“In any case,” said Baisemeaux, “the visit of the Jesuit confessor must have given happiness to this man.”

Aramis made no reply, but recommenced eating and drinking. As for Baisemeaux, no longer touching anything that was on the table, he again took up the order and examined it in every way. This investigation, under ordinary circumstances, would have made the ears of the impatient Aramis burn with anger; but the Bishop of Vannes did not become incensed for so little, especially when he had murmured to himself that to do so was dangerous. “Are you going to release Marchiali?” he said. “What mellow and fragrant sherry this is, my dear governor!”

“Monseigneur,” replied Baisemeaux, “I shall release the prisoner Marchiali when I have summoned the courier who brought the order, and above all, when by interrogating him I have satisfied myself.”

“The order is sealed, and the courier is ignorant of the contents. What do you want to satisfy yourself about?”

“Be it so, Monseigneur; but I shall send to the ministry, and M. de Lyonne will either confirm or withdraw the order.”

“What is the good of all that?” asked Aramis, coldly.

“What good?”

“Yes; what is your object, I ask?”

“The object of never deceiving one’s self, Monseigneur, of not failing in the respect which a subaltern owes to his superior officers, nor neglecting the duties of that service which one has voluntarily accepted.”

“Very good; you have just spoken so eloquently that I cannot but admire you. It is true that a subaltern owes respect to his superiors; he is guilty when he deceives himself, and he should be punished if he disregard either the duties or laws of his office.”

Baisemeaux looked at the bishop with astonishment.

“It follows,” pursued Aramis, “that you are going to ask advice in order to put your conscience at ease?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“And if a superior officer gives you orders, you will obey?”

“Never doubt it, Monseigneur.”

“You know the King’s signature very well, M. de Baisemeaux?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“Is it not on this order of release?”

“It is true, but it may-”

“Be forged, you mean?”

“That is possible, Monseigneur.”

“You are right. And that of M. de Lyonne?”

“I see it plain enough on the order; but just as the King’s signature may have been forged, so also, even more likely, may M. de Lyonne’s.”

“Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis; “and your reasoning is irresistible. But on what special grounds do you base your idea that these signatures are false?”

“On this: the absence of counter-signatures. Nothing checks his Majesty’s signature; and M. de Lyonne is not there to tell me he has signed.”

“Well, M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, bending an eagle glance on the governor, “I adopt so frankly your doubts, and your mode of clearing them up, that I will take a pen, if you will give me one.”

Baisemeaux gave him a pen.

“And a sheet of white paper,” added Aramis.

Baisemeaux handed some paper.

“Now, I- I, also- I, here present- incontestably, I- am going to write an order to which I am certain you will give credence, incredulous as you are!”

Baisemeaux turned pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to him that that voice of Aramis, but just now so playful and so gay, had become funereal and sinister; that the wax-lights had changed into the tapers of a mortuary chapel, and the glasses of wine into chalices of blood.

Aramis took a pen and wrote. Baisemeaux, in terror, read over his shoulder.

“A. M. D. G.” wrote the bishop; and he drew a cross under these four letters, which signify ad majorem Dei gloriam, and thus continued:-

“It is our pleasure that the order brought to M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor, for the King, of the castle of the Bastille, be held by him good and effectual, and be immediately carried into operation.

“Signed: D’Herblay,
“General of the Order, by the grace of God.”

Baisemeaux was so profoundly astonished that his features remained contracted, his lips parted, and his eyes fixed. He did not move an inch, nor articulate a sound. Nothing could be heard in that large chamber but the buzzing of a little moth which was fluttering about the candles.

Aramis, without even deigning to look at the man whom he had reduced to so miserable a condition, drew from his pocket a small case of black wax. He sealed the letter, and stamped it with a seal suspended at his breast, beneath his doublet; and when the operation was concluded, presented- still in silence- the missive to M. de Baisemeaux. The latter, whose hands trembled in a manner to excite pity, turned a dull and meaningless gaze upon the letter. A last gleam of feeling played over his features, and he fell, as if thunderstruck, on a chair.

“Come, come,” said Aramis, after a long silence, during which the governor of the Bastille had slowly recovered his senses, “do not lead me to believe, dear Baisemeaux, that the presence of the general of the order is as terrible as that of the Almighty, and that men die merely from seeing him! Take courage, rouse yourself; give me your hand, and obey!”

Baisemeaux, reassured, if not satisfied, obeyed, kissed Aramis’s hand, and rose from his chair. “Immediately?” he murmured.

“Oh, there is no pressing haste, my host; take your place again, and do the honors over this beautiful dessert.”

“Monseigneur, I shall never recover such a shock as this,- I who have laughed, who have jested with you! I who have dared to treat you on a footing of equality!”

“Say nothing about it, old comrade,” replied the bishop, who perceived how strained the cord was, and how dangerous it might be to break it; “say nothing about it. Let us each live in our own way: to you, my protection and my friendship; to me, your obedience. Exactly fulfilling these two requirements, let us live happily.”

Baisemeaux reflected. He perceived, at a glance, the consequences of this withdrawal of a prisoner by means of a forged order; and putting in the scale the guarantee offered him by the official order of the general, did not consider it of any value.

Aramis divined this. “My dear Baisemeaux,” said he, “you are a simpleton! Lose this habit of reflection when I give myself the trouble to think for you.”

At another gesture made by Aramis, Baisemeaux bowed again. “How shall I set about it?”

“What is the process for releasing a prisoner?”

“I have the regulations.”

“Well, then, follow the regulations, my friend.”

“I go with my major to the prisoner’s room, and conduct him, if he is a personage of importance.”

“But this Marchiali is not an important personage,” said Aramis, carelessly.

“I don’t know,” answered the governor; as if he would have said, “It is for you to instruct me.”

“Then, if you don’t know it, I am right; so act towards Marchiali as you act towards one of obscure station.”

“Good; the regulations so provide. They are to the effect that the turnkey, or one of the lower officials, shall bring the prisoner before the governor, in the office.”

“Well, ’tis very wise, that; and then?”

“Then we return to the prisoner the valuables he wore at the time of his imprisonment, his clothes and papers, if the minister’s order has not otherwise directed.”

“What was the minister’s order as to this Marchiali?”

“Nothing; for the unhappy man arrived here without jewels, without papers, and almost without clothes.”

“See how simple it all is! Indeed, Baisemeaux, you make a mountain of everything. Remain here, and make them bring the prisoner to the governor’s house.”

Baisemeaux obeyed. He summoned his lieutenant, and gave him an order, which the latter passed on, without disturbing himself about it, to the next whom it concerned.

Half an hour afterwards they heard a gate shut in the court; it was the door to the dungeon which had just rendered up its prey to the free air. Aramis blew out all the candles which lighted the room but one, which he left burning behind the door. This flickering glare prevented the sight from resting steadily on any object. It multiplied tenfold the changing forms and shadows of the place by its wavering uncertainty. Steps drew near.

“Go and meet your men,” said Aramis to Baisemeaux.

The governor obeyed. The sergeant and turnkeys disappeared. Baisemeaux re-entered, followed by a prisoner. Aramis had placed himself in the shade; he saw without being seen. Baisemeaux, in an agitated tone of voice, made the young man acquainted with the order which set him at liberty. The prisoner listened, without making a single gesture or saying a word.

“You will swear,- the regulation requires it,”- added the governor, “never to reveal anything that you have seen or heard in the Bastille.”

The prisoner perceived a crucifix; he stretched out his hand, and swore with his lips. “And now, Monsieur, that you are free, whither do you intend going?”

The prisoner turned his head, as if looking behind him for some protection which he had expected. Then was it that Aramis came out of the shadow. “I am here,” he said, “to render the gentleman whatever service he may please to ask.”

The prisoner slightly reddened, and without hesitation passed his arm through that of Aramis. “God have you in his holy keeping!” he said, in a voice the firmness of which made the governor tremble as much as the form of the blessing astonished him.

Aramis, on shaking hands with Baisemeaux, said to him: “Does my order trouble you? Do you fear their finding it here, should they come to search?”

“I desire to keep it, Monseigneur,” said Baisemeaux. “If they found it here, it would be a certain indication of my ruin, and in that case you would be a powerful and a last auxiliary for me.”

“Being your accomplice, you mean?” answered Aramis, shrugging his shoulders. “Adieu, Baisemeaux!” said he.

The horses were in waiting, making the carriage shake with their impatience. Baisemeaux accompanied the bishop to the bottom of the steps. Aramis caused his companion to enter before him, then followed, and without giving the driver any further order, “Go on!” said he.

The carriage rattled over the pavement of the courtyard. An officer with a torch went before the horses, and gave orders at every post to let them pass. During the time taken in opening all the barriers, Aramis barely breathed, and you might have heard his heart beat against his ribs. The prisoner, buried in a corner of the carriage, made no more sign of life than his companion. At length a jolt more severe than the others announced to them that they had cleared the last watercourse. Behind the carriage closed the last gate,- that in the Rue St. Antoine. No more walls either on the right or left; heaven everywhere, liberty everywhere, life everywhere! The horses, kept in check by a vigorous hand, went quietly as far as the middle of the faubourg. There they began to trot. Little by little, whether they warmed over it or whether they were urged, they gained in swiftness; and once past Bercy, the carriage seemed to fly. These horses ran thus as far as Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, where relays were waiting. Then four instead of two whirled the carriage away in the direction of Melun, and pulled up for a moment in the middle of the forest of Senart. No doubt the order had been given the postilion beforehand, for Aramis had no occasion even to make a sign.

“What is the matter?” asked the prisoner, as if waking from a long dream.

“The matter is, Monseigneur,” said Aramis, “that before going further, it is necessary that your royal Highness and I should converse.”

“I will wait an opportunity, Monsieur,” answered the young Prince.

“We could not have a better, Monseigneur; we are in the middle of a forest, and no one can hear us.”

“The postilion?”

“The postilion of this relay is deaf and dumb, Monseigneur.”

“I am at your service, M. d’Herblay.”

“Is it your pleasure to remain in the carriage?”

“Yes; we are comfortably seated, and I like this carriage; it has restored me to liberty.”

“Wait, Monseigneur; there is yet a precaution to be taken.”

“What?”

“We are here on the highway; cavaliers or carriages travelling like ourselves might pass, and seeing us stopping deem us in some difficulty. Let us avoid offers of assistance, which would embarrass us.”

“Give the postilion orders to conceal the carriage in one of the side avenues.”

“’Tis exactly what I wished to do, Monseigneur.”

Aramis made a sign to the deaf and dumb driver of the carriage, whom he touched on the arm. The latter dismounted, took the leaders by the bridle, and led them over the velvet sward and the mossy grass of a winding alley, at the bottom of which, on this moonless night, the deep shades formed a curtain blacker than ink. This done, the man lay down on a slope near his horses, which on either side kept nibbling the young oak shoots.

“I am listening,” said the young Prince to Aramis; “but what are you doing there?”

“I am disarming myself of my pistols, of which we have no further need, Monseigneur.”

The Tempter

“Ay Prince,” said Aramis, turning in the carriage towards his companion, “weak creature as I am, so unpretending in genius, so low in the scale of intelligent beings, it has never yet happened to me to converse with a man without penetrating his thoughts through that living mask which has been thrown over our mind in order to retain its expression. But to-night, in this darkness, in the reserve which you maintain, I can read nothing on your features, and something tells me that I shall have great difficulty in wresting from you a sincere declaration. I beseech you, then, not for love of me,- for subjects should never weigh as anything in the balance which princes hold,- but for love of yourself, to attend to every syllable I may utter, and to every tone of my voice,- which under our present grave circumstances will all have a sense and value as important as any words ever spoken in the world.”

“I listen,” repeated the young Prince, decidedly, “without either eagerly seeking or fearing anything you are about to say to me”; and he sank still deeper in the thick cushions of the carriage, trying to deprive his companion not only of the sight of him, but even of the very idea of his presence.

Black was the darkness which fell wide and dense from the summits of the intertwining trees. The carriage, covered in by this vast roof, would not have received a particle of light, not even if a ray could have struggled through the wreaths of mist which were rising in the avenue of the wood.

“Monseigneur,” resumed Aramis, “you know the history of the government which to-day controls France. The King issued from an infancy imprisoned like yours, obscure as yours, and confined as yours; only, instead of enduring, like yourself, this slavery in a prison, this obscurity in solitude, these straitened circumstances in concealment, he has borne all these miseries, humiliations, and distresses in full daylight, under the pitiless sun of royalty,- on an elevation so flooded with light, where every stain appears a miserable blemish, and every glory a stain. The King has suffered; it rankles in his mind, and he will avenge himself. He will be a bad King. I say not that he will pour out blood, like Louis XI or Charles IX, for he has no mortal injuries to avenge; but he will devour the means and substance of his people, for he has himself suffered injuriously as to his own welfare and possessions. In the first place, then, I quite acquit my conscience, when I consider openly the merits and faults of this Prince; and if I condemn him, my conscience absolves me.”

Aramis paused. It was not to ascertain if the silence of the forest remained undisturbed, but it was to gather up his thoughts from the very bottom of his soul, and to leave the thoughts he had uttered sufficient time to eat deeply into the mind of his companion.

“All that God does, he does well,” continued the Bishop of Vannes; “and I am so persuaded of it that I have long been thankful to have been chosen depositary of the secret which I have aided you to discover. To a just Providence was necessary an instrument, at once penetrating, persevering, and convinced, to accomplish a great work. I am this instrument. I possess penetration, perseverance, conviction; I govern a mysterious people, who has taken for its motto the motto of God, Patiens quia aeternus.” The Prince moved. “I divine, Monseigneur, why you raise your head, and that my having rule over a people astonishes you. You did not know you were dealing with a king: oh, Monseigneur, king of a people very humble, very poor,- humble, because they have no force save when creeping; poor, because never, almost never in this world, do my people reap the harvest they sow, or eat the fruit they cultivate. They labor for an abstract idea; they heap together all the atoms of their power to form one man; and round this man, with the sweat of their labor, they create a misty halo which his genius shall, in turn, render a glory gilded with the rays of all the crowns in Christendom. Such is the man you have beside you, Monseigneur. He has drawn you from the abyss for a great purpose, and he desires, in furtherance of this sublime purpose, to raise you above the powers of the earth,- above himself.”

The Prince lightly touched Aramis’s arm. “You speak to me,” he said, “of that religious order whose chief you are. For me the result of your words is, that the day you desire to hurl down the man you shall have raised, the event will be accomplished; and that you will keep under your hand your creature of to-day.”

“Undeceive yourself, Monseigneur,” replied the bishop. “I should not take the trouble to play this terrible game with your royal Highness, if I had not a double interest in winning. The day you are elevated, you are elevated forever; you will overturn the footstool, as you rise, and will send it rolling so far that not even the sight of it will ever again recall to you its right to your remembrance.”

“Oh, Monsieur!”

“Your movement, Monseigneur, arises from an excellent disposition. I thank you. Be well assured, I aspire to more than gratitude! I am convinced that when arrived at the summit you will judge me still more worthy to be your friend; and then, Monseigneur, we two will do such great deeds that ages hereafter shall speak of them.”

“Tell me plainly, Monsieur,- tell me without disguise,- what I am today, and what you aim at my being tomorrow.”

“You are the son of King Louis XIII, brother of Louis XIV; you are the natural and legitimate heir to the throne of France. In keeping you near him, as Monsieur has been kept,- Monsieur, your younger brother,- the King would reserve to himself the right of being legitimate sovereign. The doctors only and God could dispute his legitimacy. But the doctors always prefer the King who is to the King who is not. God has wrought against himself in wronging a Prince who is an honest man. But God has willed that you should be persecuted; and this persecution to-day consecrates you King of France. You had then a right to reign, seeing that it is disputed; you had a right to be proclaimed, seeing that you have been concealed; you are of kingly blood, since no one has dared to shed your blood as your servants’ has been shed. Now see what He has done for you,- this God whom you so often accused of having in every way thwarted you! He has given you the features, figure, age, and voice of your brother; and the very causes of your persecution are about to become those of your triumphant restoration. To-morrow, after to-morrow,- from the very first, regal phantom, living shade of Louis XIV, you will sit upon his throne, whence the will of Heaven, confided in execution to the arm of man, will have hurled him without hope of return.”

“I understand,” said the Prince; “my brother’s blood will not be shed, then.”

“You will be sole arbiter of his fate.”

“The secret of which they made an evil use against me?”

“You will employ it against him. What did he do to conceal it? He concealed you. Living image of himself, you will defeat the conspiracy of Mazarin and Anne of Austria. You, my Prince, will have the same interest in concealing him, who will as a prisoner resemble you, as you will resemble him as King.”

“I return to what I was saying to you. Who will guard him?”

“Who guarded you?”

“You know this secret,- you have made use of it with regard to myself. Who else knows it?”

“The Queen-Mother and Madame de Chevreuse.”

“What will they do?”

“Nothing, if you choose.”

“How is that?”

“How can they recognize you, if you act so that no one can recognize you?”

“’Tis true; but there are grave difficulties.”

“State them, Prince.”

“My brother is married; I cannot take my brother’s wife.”

“I will cause Spain to consent to a divorce: it is in the interest of your new policy; it is human morality. All that is really noble and really useful in this world will find its account therein.”

“The imprisoned King will speak.”

“To whom do you think he should speak,- to the walls?”

“You mean, by walls, the men in whom you put confidence.”

“If need be, yes. And besides, your royal Highness-”

“Besides?”

“I was going to say, that the designs of Providence do not stop on such a fair road. Every scheme of this calibre is completed by its results, like a geometrical calculation. The King in prison will not be for you the cause of embarrassment that you have been for the King enthroned. His soul is naturally proud and impatient; it is, moreover, disarmed and enfeebled by being accustomed to honors, and by the license of supreme power. God, who has willed that the concluding step in the geometrical calculation I have had the honor of describing to your royal Highness should be your accession to the throne and the destruction of him who is hurtful to you, has also determined that the conquered one shall soon end both his own and your sufferings. Therefore his soul and body have been adapted for but a brief agony. Put into prison as a private individual, left alone with your doubts, deprived of everything, you have met all with the force of uninterrupted custom. But your brother, a captive, forgotten, and in bonds, will not long endure the calamity, and Heaven will resume his soul at the appointed time,- that is to say, soon.”

At this point in Aramis’s gloomy analysis a bird of night uttered from the depths of the forest that prolonged and plaintive cry which makes every creature tremble.

“I will exile the deposed King,” said Philippe, shuddering; “’twill be more humane.”

“The King’s good pleasure will decide the point,” said Aramis. “But has the problem been well put? Have I brought out the solution according to the wishes or the foresight of your royal Highness?”

“Yes, Monsieur, yes; you have forgotten nothing,- except, indeed, two things.”

“The first?”

“Let us speak of it at once, with the same frankness we have already used. Let us speak of the causes which may bring about the ruin of all the hopes we have conceived. Let us speak of the dangers we incur.”

“They would be immense, infinite, terrific, insurmountable, if, as I have said, all things did not concur in rendering them absolutely of no account. There is no danger either for you or for me, if the constancy and intrepidity of your royal Highness are equal to that perfection of resemblance to your brother which Nature has bestowed upon you. I repeat it, there are no dangers,- only obstacles; a word, indeed, which I find in all languages, but have always ill understood, and, were I King, would have obliterated as useless and absurd.”

“Yes, indeed, Monsieur; there is a very serious obstacle, an insurmountable danger, which you are forgetting.”

“Ah!” said Aramis.

“There is conscience, which cries aloud; remorse, which lacerates.”

“Oh! that is true,” said the bishop; “there is a weakness of heart of which you remind me. Oh! you are right; that, indeed, is an immense obstacle. The horse afraid of the ditch leaps into the middle of it, and is killed! The man who trembling crosses his sword with that of another leaves loopholes by which death enters!”

“Have you a brother?” said the young man to Aramis.

“I am alone in the world,” said the latter, with a hard, dry voice.

“But surely there is some one in the world whom you love?” added Philippe.

“No one!- Yes, I love you.”

The young man sank into so profound a silence that the sound of his breathing seemed to Aramis like a roaring tumult. “Monseigneur,” he resumed, “I have not said all I had to say to your royal Highness; I have not offered you all the salutary counsels and useful resources which I have at my disposal. It is useless to flash bright visions before the eyes of one who loves darkness; useless, too, is it to let the grand roar of the cannon sound in the ears of one who loves repose and the quiet of the country. Monseigneur, I have your happiness spread out before me in my thoughts. I will let it fall from my lips; take it up carefully for yourself, who look with such tender regard upon the bright heavens, the verdant meadows, the pure air. I know a country full of delights, an unknown Paradise, a corner of the world where alone, unfettered, and unknown, in the woods, amidst flowers, and streams of rippling water, you will forget all the misery that human folly has so recently allotted you. Oh, listen to me, my Prince! I do not jest. I have a soul, and can read to the depths of your own. I will not take you, unready for your task, in order to cast you into the crucible of my own desires or my caprice or my ambition. Everything or nothing! You are chilled, sick at heart, almost overcome by the excess of emotion which but one hour’s liberty has produced in you. For me, that is a certain and unmistakable sign that you do not wish for large and long respiration. Let us choose, then, a life more humble, better suited to our strength. Heaven is my witness that I wish your happiness to be the result of the trial to which I have exposed you.”

“Speak, speak!” said the Prince, with a vivacity which did not escape Aramis.

“I know,” resumed the prelate, “in the Bas-Poitou, a canton of which no one in France suspects the existence. Twenty leagues of country,- it is immense, is it not? Twenty leagues, Monseigneur, all covered with water and herbage and reeds; the whole studded with islands covered with woods. These large marshes, covered with reeds as with a thick mantle, sleep silently and calmly under the smiling sun. A few fishermen with their families pass their lives away there, with their large rafts of poplars and alders, the flooring formed of reeds, and the roof woven out of thick rushes. These barks, these floating houses, are wafted to and fro by the changing winds. Whenever they touch a bank, it is but by chance; and so gently, too, that the sleeping fisherman is not awakened by the shock. Should he wish to land, it is because he has seen a large flight of landrails or plovers, of wild ducks, teal, widgeon, or woodcocks, which fall an easy prey to his nets or his gun. Silver shad, eels, greedy pike, red and gray mullet, fall in masses into his nets; he has but to choose the finest and largest, and return the others to the waters. Never yet has the foot of man, be he soldier or simple citizen,- never has any one, indeed, penetrated into that district. The sun’s rays there are soft and tempered; in plots of solid earth, whose soil is rich and fertile, grows the vine, which nourishes with its generous juice its black and white grapes. Once a week a boat is sent to fetch the bread which has been baked at an oven,- the common property of all. There, like the seigneurs of early days,- powerful because of your dogs, your fishing-lines, your guns, and your beautiful reed-built house,- would you live, rich in the produce of the chase, in the plenitude of security. There would years of your life roll away, at the end of which, unrecognizable, transformed, you will have compelled Heaven to reshape your destiny. There are a thousand pistoles in this bag, Monseigneur,- more than sufficient to purchase the whole marsh of which I have spoken; more than enough to live there as many years as you have days to live; more than enough to constitute you the richest, the freest, and the happiest man in the country. Accept it, as I offer it to you,- sincerely, cheerfully. Forthwith, from the carriage here we will unharness two of the horses; the mute, my servant, shall conduct you- travelling by night, sleeping by day- to the locality I have mentioned; and I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I have rendered to my Prince the service that he himself preferred. I shall have made one man happy; and Heaven for that will hold me in better account than if I had made one man powerful,- for that is far more difficult. And now, Monseigneur, your answer to this proposition? Here is the money. Nay, do not hesitate! At Poitou you can risk nothing, except the chance of catching the fevers prevalent there; and even of them, the so-called wizards of the country may cure you for your pistoles. If you play the other game, you run the chance of being assassinated on a throne or of being strangled in a prison. Upon my soul, I assure you, now I compare them together, upon my life, I should hesitate.”

“Monsieur,” replied the young Prince, “before I determine, let me alight from this carriage, walk on the ground, and consult that voice by which God speaks in unsullied Nature. Ten minutes, and I will answer.”

“As you please, Monseigneur,” said Aramis, bending before him with respect,- so solemn and august in its tone and address had been the voice which had just spoken.

Crown and Tiara

Aramis was the first to descend from the carriage; he held the door open for the young man. He saw him place his foot on the mossy ground with a trembling of the whole body, and walk round the carriage with an unsteady and almost tottering step. It seemed as if the poor prisoner were unaccustomed to walk on God’s earth. It was the 15th of August, about eleven o’clock at night; thick clouds, portending a tempest, overspread the heavens, and shrouded all light and prospect beneath their heavy folds. The extremities of the avenues were imperceptibly detached from the copse by a lighter shadow of opaque gray, which upon closer examination became visible in the midst of the obscurity. But the fragrance which ascended from the grass, fresher and more penetrating than that which exhaled from the trees around him; the warm and balmy air which enveloped him for the first time in years; the ineffable enjoyment of liberty in an open country,- spoke to the Prince in a language so intoxicating that notwithstanding the great reserve, we should almost say the dissimulation, of which we have tried to give an idea, he could not restrain his emotion, and breathed a sigh of joy. Then, by degrees, he raised his aching head and inhaled the perfumed air, as it was wafted in gentle gusts across his uplifted face. Crossing his arms on his chest as if to control this new sensation of delight, he drank in delicious draughts of that mysterious air which penetrates at night-time through lofty forests. The sky he was contemplating, the murmuring waters, the moving creatures,- were not these real? Was not Aramis a madman to suppose that he had aught else to dream of in this world? Those exciting pictures of country life, so free from cares, from fears and troubles; that ocean of happy days which glitters incessantly before all youthful imaginations,- those were real allurements wherewith to fascinate an unhappy prisoner, worn out by prison life and emaciated by the close air of the Bastille. It was the picture, it will be remembered, drawn by Aramis when he offered to the Prince a thousand pistoles which he had with him in the carriage, the enchanted Eden which the deserts of Bas-Poitou hid from the eyes of the world.

Similar to these were the reflections of Aramis as he watched, with an anxiety impossible to describe, the silent progress of the emotions of Philippe, whom he perceived gradually becoming more and more absorbed in his meditations. The young Prince was offering up an inward prayer to Heaven for a ray of light upon that perplexity whence would issue his death or his life. It was an anxious time for the Bishop of Vannes, who had never before been so perplexed. Was his iron will, accustomed to overcome all obstacles, never finding itself inferior or vanquished, to be foiled in so vast a project from not having foreseen the influence which a few tree-leaves and a few cubic feet of air might have on the human mind? Aramis, overwhelmed by anxiety, contemplated the painful struggle which was taking place in Philippe’s mind. This suspense lasted throughout the ten minutes which the young man had requested. During that eternity Philippe continued gazing with an imploring and sorrowful look towards the heavens. Aramis did not remove the piercing glance he had fixed on Philippe. Suddenly the young man bowed his head. His thoughts returned to the earth, his looks perceptibly hardened, his brow contracted, his mouth assumed an expression of fierce courage; and then again his look became fixed, but now it reflected the flame of mundane splendors,- now it was like the face of Satan on the mountain when he brought into view the kingdoms and the powers of earth as temptations to Jesus. Aramis’s appearance then became as gentle as it had before been gloomy.

Philippe, seizing his hand in a quick, agitated manner, exclaimed: “Let us go where the crown of France is to be found!”

“Is this your decision, Monseigneur?” asked Aramis.

“It is.”

“Irrevocably so?”

Philippe did not even deign to reply. He gazed earnestly at the bishop, as if to ask him if it were possible for a man to waver after having once made up his mind.

“Those looks are flashes of fire which portray character,” said Aramis, bowing over Philippe’s hand. “You will be great, Monseigneur; I guarantee it.”

“Let us resume our conversation. I wished to discuss two points with you: in the first place, the dangers or the obstacles we may meet with. That point is decided. The other is the conditions you intend to impose on me. It is your turn to speak, M. d’Herblay.”

“The conditions, Monseigneur?”

“Doubtless. You will not check me in my course for a trifle, and you will not do me the injustice to suppose that I think you have no interest in this affair. Therefore, without subterfuge or hesitation, tell me the truth.”

“I will do so, Monseigneur. Once a King-”

“When will that be?”

“To-morrow evening- I mean in the night.”

“Explain to me how.”

“When I shall have asked your Highness a question.”

“Do so.”

“I sent to your Highness a man in my confidence, with instructions to deliver some closely written notes, carefully drawn up, which will thoroughly acquaint your Highness with the different persons who compose and will compose your court.”

“I perused all the notes.”

“Attentively?”

“I know them by heart.”

“And understood them? Pardon me, but I may venture to ask that question of a poor, abandoned captive of the Bastille. It will not be a requisite in a week’s time to question further a mind like yours, when you will then be in full possession of liberty and power.”

“Interrogate me, then, and I will be a scholar repeating his lesson to his master.”

“We will begin with your family, Monseigneur.”

“My mother, Anne of Austria?- all her sorrows, her painful malady? Oh, I know her, I know her!”

“Your second brother?” asked Aramis, bowing.

“To these notes,” replied the Prince, “you have added portraits so faithfully painted that I am able to recognize the persons whose characters, manners, and history you have so carefully portrayed. Monsieur, my brother, is a fine, dark young man, with a pale face; he does not love his wife, Henrietta, whom I, Louis XIV, loved a little, and still flirt with, even although she made me weep on the day she wished to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere from her service in disgrace.”

“You will have to be careful with regard to watchfulness of the latter,” said Aramis; “she is sincerely attached to the actual King. The eyes of a woman who loves are not easily deceived.”

“She is fair; has blue eyes, whose affectionate gaze will reveal her identity. She halts slightly in her gait. She writes a letter every day, to which I shall have to send an answer by M. de Saint-Aignan.”

“Do you know the latter?”

“As if I saw him; and I know the last verses he composed for me, as well as those I composed in answer to his.”

“Very good. Do you know your ministers?”

“Colbert, an ugly, dark-browed man, but intelligent; his hair covering his forehead; a large, heavy, full head; the mortal enemy of M. Fouquet.”

“We need not disturb ourselves about M. Colbert.”

“No; because necessarily you will require me to exile him, will you not?”

Aramis, struck with admiration at the remark, said, “You will become very great, Monseigneur.”

“You see,” added the Prince, “that I know my lesson by heart; and with Heaven’s assistance, and yours afterwards, I shall seldom go wrong.”

“You have still a very awkward pair of eyes to deal with, Monseigneur.”

“Yes; the captain of the Musketeers, M. d’Artagnan, your friend.”

“Yes; I can well say ‘my friend.’”

“He who escorted La Valliere to Chaillot; he who delivered up Monk, in a box, to Charles II; he who so faithfully served my mother; he to whom the Crown of France owes so much that it owes everything. Do you intend to ask me to exile him also?”

“Never, Sire! D’Artagnan is a man to whom at a certain given time I will undertake to reveal everything. Be on your guard with him; for if he discovers our plot before it is revealed to him, you or I will certainly be killed or taken. He is a man of action.”

“I will consider. Now tell me about M. Fouquet; what do you wish to be done with regard to him?”

“One moment more, I entreat you, Monseigneur; and forgive me if I seem to fail in respect in questioning you further.”

“It is your duty to do so, and, more than that, your right also.”

“Before we pass to M. Fouquet, I should very much regret forgetting another friend of mine.”

“M. du Vallon, the Hercules of France, you mean. Oh! so far as he is concerned, his fortune is assured.”

“No, it is not he of whom I intended to speak.”

“The Comte de la Fere, then?”

“And his son,- the son of all four of us.”

“The lad who is dying of love for La Valliere, of whom my brother so disloyally deprived him? Be easy on that score! I shall know how to restore him. Tell me one thing, M. d’Herblay! Do men, when they love, forget the treachery that has been shown them? Can a man ever forgive the woman who has betrayed him? Is that a French custom; is it a law of the human heart?”

“A man who loves deeply, as deeply as Raoul loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere, finally forgets the fault of the woman he loves; but I do not know whether Raoul will forget.”

“I will provide for that. Have you anything further to say about your friend?”

“No; that is all.”

“Well, then, now for M. Fouquet. What do you wish me to do for him?”

“To continue him as superintendent, as he has hitherto acted, I entreat you.”

“Be it so; but he is the first minister at present.”

“Not quite so.”

“A King ignorant and embarrassed as I shall be, will, as a matter of course, require a first minister of State.”

“Your Majesty will require a friend.”

“I have only one, and that is you.”

“You will have many others by and by, but none so devoted, none so zealous for your glory.”

“You will be my first minister of State.”

“Not immediately, Monseigneur; for that would give rise to too much suspicion and astonishment.”

“M. de Richelieu, the first minister of my grandmother, Marie de Medicis, was simply Bishop of Lucon, as you are Bishop of Vannes.”

“I perceive that your royal Highness has studied my notes to great advantage; your amazing perspicacity overpowers me with delight.”

“I know, indeed, that M. de Richelieu, by means of the Queen’s protection, soon became cardinal.”

“It would be better,” said Aramis, bowing, “that I should not be appointed first minister until after your royal Highness had procured my nomination as cardinal.”

“You shall be nominated before two months are past, M. d’Herblay. But that is a matter of very trifling moment; you would not offend me if you were to ask more than that, and you would cause me serious regret if you were to limit yourself to that.”

“In that case I have something still further to hope for, Monseigneur.”

“Speak! speak!”

“M. Fouquet will not continue long at the head of affairs; he will soon get old. He is fond of pleasure, which at present is compatible with his labors, thanks to the youthfulness which he still retains; but this youthfulness will disappear at the approach of the first serious annoyance, or upon the first illness he may experience. We will spare him the annoyance, because he is a brave and noble-hearted man; but we cannot save him from ill-health. So it is determined. When you shall have paid all M. Fouquet’s debts, and restored the finances to a sound condition, M. Fouquet will be able to remain the sovereign ruler in his little court of poets and painters; we shall have made him rich. When that has been done, and I shall have become your royal Highness’s prime minister, I shall be able to think of my own interests and yours.”

The young man looked at his interlocutor.

“M. de Richelieu, of whom we were speaking just now,” said Aramis, “was very blamable in the fixed idea he had of governing France unaided. He allowed two kings- King Louis XIII and himself- to be seated upon the same throne, when he might have installed them more conveniently upon two separate thrones.”

“Upon two thrones?” said the Prince, thoughtfully.

“In fact,” pursued Aramis, quietly, “a cardinal, prime minister of France, assisted by the favor and by the countenance of his Most Christian Majesty the King of France; a cardinal to whom the King his master lends the treasures of the State, his army, his counsel,- such a man would be acting with two-fold injustice in applying these mighty resources to France alone. Besides,” added Aramis, with a searching look into the eyes of Philippe, “you will not be a King such as your father was,- delicate in health, slow in judgment, whom all things wearied; you will be a King governing by your brain and by your sword. You would have in the government of the State no more than you could manage unaided; I should only interfere with you. Besides, our friendship ought never to be, I do not say impaired, but even grazed by a secret thought. I shall have given you the throne of France; you will confer on me the throne of Saint Peter. Whenever your loyal, firm, and mailed hand shall have for its mate the hand of a pope such as I shall be, neither Charles V, who owned two thirds of the habitable globe, nor Charlemagne, who possessed it entirely, will reach to the height of your waist. I have no alliances; I have no predilections. I will not throw you into persecutions of heretics, nor will I cast you into the troubled waters of family dissension; I will simply say to you: The whole universe is for us two,- for me the minds of men, for you their bodies; and as I shall be the first to die, you will have my inheritance. What do you say of my plan, Monseigneur?”

“I say that you render me happy and proud, for no other reason than that of having comprehended you thoroughly. M. d’Herblay, you shall be cardinal, and when cardinal, my prime minister; and then you will point out to me the necessary steps to be taken to secure your election as pope, and I will take them. You can ask what guarantees from me you please.”

“It is useless. I shall never act except in such a manner that you will be the gainer; I shall never mount until I shall have first placed you upon the round of the ladder immediately above me; I shall always hold myself sufficiently aloof from you to escape incurring your jealousy, sufficiently near to sustain your personal advantage and to watch over your friendship. All the contracts in the world are easily violated because the interest included in them inclines more to one side than to another. With us, however, it will never be the case; I have no need of guarantees.”

“And so- my brother- will disappear?”

“Simply. We will remove him from his bed by means of a plank which yields to the pressure of the finger. Having retired to rest as a crowned sovereign, he will awaken in captivity. Alone, you will rule from that moment, and you will have no interest more urgent than that of keeping me near you.”

“I believe it. There is my hand, M. d’Herblay.”

“Allow me to kneel before you, Sire, most respectfully. We will embrace each other on the day when we shall both have on our temples- you the crown, and I the tiara.”

“Embrace me this very day; and be more than great, more than skilful, more than sublime in genius,- be good to me, be my father!”

Aramis was almost overcome as he listened to the voice of the Prince. He fancied he detected in his own heart an emotion hitherto unknown to him; but this impression was speedily removed. “His father!” he thought; “yes, his Holy Father.”

The two resumed their places in the carriage, which sped rapidly along the road leading to Vaux-le-Vicomte.

The Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte

The Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, situated about a league from Melun, had been built by Fouquet in 1653. There was then but little money in France; Mazarin had taken all that there was, and Fouquet had expended the remainder. However, as certain men have fertile faults and useful vices, Fouquet, in scattering broadcast millions of money in the construction of this palace, had found a means of bringing, as the result of his generous profusion, three illustrious men together,- Levau, the architect of the building; Lenotre, the designer of the gardens; and Lebrun the decorator of the apartments. If the Château de Vaux possessed a single fault with which it could be reproached, it was its grandiose, pretentious character. It is even at the present day proverbial to calculate the number of acres of roofing, the reparation of which would, in our age, be the ruin of fortunes cramped and narrowed as the epoch itself. Vaux-le-Vicomte, when its magnificent gates, supported by caryatides, have been passed through, has the principal front of the main building opening upon a vast court of honor, enclosed by deep ditches, bordered by a magnificent stone balustrade. Nothing could be more noble in appearance than the forecourt of the middle, raised upon the flight of steps, like a king upon his throne, having around it four pavilions forming the angles, the immense Ionic columns of which rise majestically to the whole height of the building. The friezes ornamented with arabesques, and the pediments which crown the pilasters, confer richness and grace upon every part of the building, while the domes which surmount the whole add proportion and majesty. This mansion, built by a subject, bore a far greater resemblance to a royal residence than those that Wolsey fancied he must present to his master for fear of rendering him jealous. But if magnificence and splendor were displayed in any one particular part of this palace more than in another,- if anything could be preferred to the wonderful arrangement of the interior, to the sumptuousness of the gilding, and to the profusion of the paintings and statues, it would be the park and gardens of Vaux. The fountains, which were regarded as wonderful in 1653, are still so at the present time; the cascades awakened the admiration of kings and princes; and as for the famous grotto, the theme of so many poetical effusions, the residence of that illustrious nymph of Vaux, whom Pélisson made converse with La Fontaine, we must be spared the description of all its beauties. We will do as Despreaux did,- we will enter the park, the trees of which are of eight years’ growth only, and whose summits, already superb, blushingly unfold their leaves to the earliest rays of the rising sun. Lenotre had accelerated the pleasure of Maecenas; all the nursery-grounds had furnished trees whose growth had been promoted by careful culture and fertilization. Every tree in the neighborhood which presented a fair appearance of beauty or stature, had been taken up by its roots and transplanted in the park. Fouquet could well afford to purchase trees to ornament his park, since he had bought up three villages and their appurtenances to increase its extent. M. de Scudery said of this palace, that, for the purpose of keeping the grounds and gardens well watered, M. Fouquet had divided a river into a thousand fountains, and gathered the waters of a thousand fountains into torrents. This same M. de Scudery said a great many other things in his “Clelie,” about this palace of Valterre, the charms of which he describes most minutely. We should be far wiser to send our curious readers to Vaux to judge for themselves than to refer them to the “Clelie”; and yet there are as many leagues from Paris to Vaux as there are volumes of the “Clelie.”

This magnificent palace had been got ready for the reception of the greatest reigning sovereign of the time. M. Fouquet’s friends had transported thither, some their actors and their dresses, others their troops of sculptors and artists; others still their ready-mended pens,- floods of impromptus were contemplated. The cascades, somewhat rebellious nymphs though they were, poured forth their waters brighter than crystal; they scattered over the bronze tritons and nereids their waves of foam, which glistened in the rays of the sun. An army of servants were hurrying to and fro in squadrons in the courtyard and corridors; while Fouquet, who had only that morning arrived, moved about with a calm, observant glance, giving his last orders, after his intendants had inspected everything.

It was, as we have said, the 15th of August. The sun poured down its burning rays upon the heathen deities of marble and bronze; it raised the temperature of the water in the conch shells, and ripened, on the walls, those magnificent peaches of which the King, fifty years later, spoke so regretfully when, at Marly, on an occasion of a scarcity of the finer sorts of peaches being complained of in the beautiful gardens there,- gardens which had cost France double the amount that had been expended on Vaux,- the great King observed to some one, “You are too young to have eaten any of M. Fouquet’s peaches.”

Oh, fame! Oh the blazonry of renown! Oh the glory of the earth! That very man whose judgment was so sound where merit was concerned,- he who had swept into his coffers the inheritance of Nicholas Fouquet, who had robbed him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent him to rot for the remainder of his life in one of the State prisons,- remembered only the peaches of that vanquished, crushed, forgotten enemy! It was to little purpose that Fouquet had squandered thirty million livres in the fountains of his gardens, in the crucibles of his sculptors, in the writing-desks of his literary friends, in the portfolios of his painters; vainly had he fancied that thereby he might be remembered. A peach- a blushing, rich-flavored fruit, nestling in the trellis-work on the garden-wall, hidden beneath its long green leaves,- this small vegetable production, that a dormouse would nibble up without a thought, was sufficient to recall to the memory of this great monarch the mournful shade of the last superintendent of France.

With a complete assurance that Aramis had made arrangements fairly to distribute the vast number of guests throughout the palace, and that he had not omitted to attend to any of the internal regulations for their comfort, Fouquet devoted his entire attentions to the ensemble. In one direction Gourville showed him the preparations which had been made for the fireworks; in another, Moliere led him over the theatre; at last, after he had visited the chapel, the salons, and the galleries, and was again going downstairs, exhausted with fatigue, Fouquet saw Aramis on the staircase. The prelate beckoned to him. The superintendent joined his friend, who paused before a large picture scarcely finished. Applying himself, heart and soul to his work, the painter, Lebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with paint, pale from fatigue and inspiration, was putting the last finishing touches with his rapid brush. It was the portrait of the King, whom they were expecting, dressed in the court suit which Percerin had condescended to show beforehand to the Bishop of Vannes. Fouquet placed himself before this portrait, which seemed to live, as one might say, in the cool freshness of its flesh and in its warmth of color. He gazed upon it long and fixedly, estimated the prodigious labor that had been bestowed upon it, and not being able to find any recompense sufficiently great for this herculean effort, he passed his arm round the painter’s neck, and embraced him. The superintendent, by this action, had ruined a suit of clothes worth a thousand pistoles, but he had invigorated Lebrun. It was a happy moment for the artist; it was an unhappy one for M. Percerin, who was walking behind Fouquet, and was engaged in admiring, in Lebrun’s painting, the suit that he had made for his Majesty,- a perfect work of art, as he called it, which was not to be matched except in the wardrobe of the superintendent. His distress and his exclamations were interrupted by a signal which had been given from the summit of the mansion. In the direction of Melun, in the still empty, open plain, the sentinels of Vaux had perceived the advancing procession of the King and the Queens. His Majesty was entering into Melun with his long train of carriages and cavaliers.

“In an hour-” said Aramis to Fouquet.

“In an hour!” replied the latter, sighing.

“And the people who ask one another what is the good of these royal fetes!” continued the Bishop of Vannes, laughing with his forced smile.

“Alas! I, too, who am not the people, ask the same thing.”

“I will answer you in four-and-twenty hours, Monseigneur. Assume a cheerful countenance, for it is a day of joy.”

“Well, believe me or not, as you like, d’Herblay,” said the superintendent, with a swelling heart, pointing at the cortege of Louis, visible in the horizon, “the King certainly loves me but very little, nor do I care much for him; but I cannot tell you how it is that since he is approaching my house-”

“Well, what?”

“Well, then, since I know Louis is on his way hither, he is more sacred to me; he is my King, he is almost dear to me.”

“Dear!- yes,” said Aramis, playing upon the word, as the Abbé Terray did, at a later period, with Louis XV.

“Do not laugh, d’Herblay; I feel that if he were really to wish it, I could love that young man.”

“You should not say that to me,” returned Aramis, “but to M. Colbert.”

“To M. Colbert!” exclaimed Fouquet. “Why so?”

“Because he would allow you a pension out of the King’s privy purse, as soon as he becomes superintendent,” said Aramis, preparing to leave as soon as he had dealt this last blow.

“Where are you going?” returned Fouquet, with a gloomy look.

“To my own apartment, to change my costume, Monseigneur.”

“Where are you lodging, d’Herblay?”

“In the blue room on the second story.”

“The room immediately over the King’s room?”

“Precisely.”

“You will be subject to very great restraint there. What an idea to condemn yourself to a room where you cannot stir or move about!”

“During the night, Monseigneur, I sleep or read in my bed.”

“And your servants?”

“I have only one person with me. I find my reader quite sufficient. Adieu, Monseigneur! Do not overfatigue yourself; keep yourself fresh for the arrival of the King.”

“We shall see you by and by, I suppose, and your friend Du Vallon also?”

“He is lodging next to me, and is at this moment dressing.”

Then Fouquet, bowing, with a smile passed on, like a commander-in-chief who pays the different outposts a visit after the enemy has been signalled.

The Wine of Melun

The King had, in point of fact, entered Melun with the intention of merely passing through the city. The youthful monarch had an appetite for amusements. Only twice during the journey had he been able to catch a glimpse of La Valliere; and suspecting that his only opportunity of speaking to her would be after nightfall, in the gardens, and after the ceremonial of reception had been gone through, he had been very desirous to arrive at Vaux as early as possible. But he reckoned without his captain of the Musketeers and without M. Colbert. Like Calypso, who could not be consoled at the departure of Ulysses, our Gascon could not console himself for not having guessed why Aramis had asked Percerin to show him the King’s new costumes. “There is not a doubt,” he said to himself, “that my friend the Bishop of Vannes had some motive in that”; and then he began to rack his brains most uselessly. D’Artagnan, so intimately acquainted with all the court intrigues, who knew the position of Fouquet better even than Fouquet himself did, had conceived the strangest fancies and suspicions at the announcement of the fête, which would have ruined a wealthy man, and which became impossible, utter madness even, for a man so destitute as he was. And then, the presence of Aramis, who had returned from Belle-Isle, and been nominated by Fouquet inspector-general of all the arrangements; his perseverance in mixing himself up with all the superintendent’s affairs; his visit to Baisemeaux,- all this suspicious singularity of conduct had profoundly perplexed d’Artagnan during the last few weeks.

“With men of Aramis’s stamp,” he said, “one is never the stronger except with sword in hand. So long as Aramis continued a soldier, there was hope of getting the better of him; but since he has covered his cuirass with a stole, we are lost. But what can Aramis’s object be?” and d’Artagnan plunged again into deep thought. “What does it matter to me, after all,” he continued, “if his only object is to overthrow M. Colbert? And what else can he be after?” and d’Artagnan rubbed his forehead,- that fertile land, whence the plough-share of his nails had turned up so many and such admirable ideas. He at first thought of talking the matter over with Colbert; but his friendship for Aramis, the oath of earlier days, bound him too strictly. He revolted at the bare idea of such a thing; and, besides, he hated the financier. He wished to unburden his mind to the King; but the King would not be able to understand the suspicions which had not even the solidity of a shadow. He resolved to address himself to Aramis directly, the first time he met him. “I will take him,” said the musketeer, “between a couple of candles suddenly; I will place my hand upon his heart, and he will tell me- What will he tell me? Yes, he will tell me something; for, mordioux! there is something underneath.”

Somewhat calmer, d’Artagnan made every preparation for the journey, and took the greatest care that the military household of the King, as yet very inconsiderable in numbers, should be well officered and well disciplined in its limited proportions. The result was that through the captain’s arrangements, the King, on arriving at Melun, saw himself at the head of the Musketeers, his Swiss Guards, and a picket of the French Guards. It might almost have been called a small army. M. Colbert looked at the troops with great delight; he even wished there had been a third more in number.

“But why?” said the King.

“To show greater honor to M. Fouquet,” replied Colbert.

“To ruin him the sooner,” thought d’Artagnan.

When this little army appeared before Melun, the chief magistrates came out to meet the King and to present him with the keys of the city, and invited him to enter the Hotel de Ville to partake of the wine of honor. The King, who expected to pass through the city and to proceed to Vaux without delay, became quite red in the face from vexation.

“Who was fool enough to occasion this delay?” muttered the King, between his teeth, as the chief magistrate was in the middle of a long address.

“Not I, certainly,” replied d’Artagnan; “but I believe it was M. Colbert.”

Colbert, having heard his name pronounced, said, “What was M. d’Artagnan good enough to say?”

“I was good enough to remark that it was you who stopped the King’s progress, so that he might taste the vin de Brie. Was I right?”

“Quite so, Monsieur.”

“In that case, then, it was you whom the King called some name or other.”

“What name?”

“I hardly know; but wait a moment, ‘idiot,’ I think it was,- no, no, it was ‘fool,’ ‘fool,’ ‘stupid.’ That is what his Majesty said of the man who procured for him the wine of Melun.”

D’Artagnan, after this broadside, quietly caressed his horse. M. Colbert’s large head seemed to become larger than ever. D’Artagnan, seeing how ugly anger made him, did not stop half-way. The orator still went on with his speech, while the King’s color was visibly increasing. “Mordioux!” said the musketeer, coolly, “the King is going to have an attack of determination of blood to the head. Where the deuce did you get hold of that idea, M. Colbert? You have no luck!”

“Monsieur,” said the financier, drawing himself up, “my zeal for the King’s service inspired me with the idea.”

“Bah!”

“Monsieur, Melun is a city, an excellent city, which pays well, and which it would be imprudent to displease.”

“There now! I, who do not pretend to be a financier, saw only one idea in your idea.”

“What was that, Monsieur?”

“That of causing a little annoyance to M. Fouquet, who is making himself quite giddy on his donjons yonder, in waiting for us.”

This was a home-stroke, and a hard one. Colbert was confounded by it, and retired, thoroughly discomfited. Fortunately, the speech was now at an end. The King drank the wine which was presented to him, and then all resumed their course through the city. The King bit his lips in anger; for the evening was closing in, and all hope of a walk with La Valliere was over. In order that the whole of the King’s household should enter Vaux, four hours at least were necessary, owing to the different arrangements. The King, therefore, who was boiling with impatience, hurried forward as much as possible, in order to arrive before nightfall. But at the moment he was setting off again, other and fresh difficulties arose.

“Is not the King going to sleep at Melun?” said Colbert, in a low tone of voice, to d’Artagnan.

M. Colbert must have been badly inspired that day, to address himself in that manner to the chief of the Musketeers; for the latter guessed that the King’s intention was very far from that of remaining where he was. D’Artagnan would not allow him to enter Vaux except he were well and strongly accompanied, and desired that his Majesty should not enter except with all the escort. On the other hand, he felt that these delays would irritate that impatient character beyond measure. In what way could he possibly reconcile these two difficulties? D’Artagnan took up Colbert’s remark, and determined to repeat it to the King.

“Sire,” he said, “M. Colbert has been asking me if your Majesty does not intend to sleep at Melun.”

“Sleep at Melun! What for?” exclaimed Louis XIV. “Sleep at Melun! Who, in Heaven’s name, can have thought of such a thing, when M. Fouquet is expecting us this evening?”

“It was simply,” returned Colbert, quickly, “the fear of causing your Majesty any delay; for, according to established etiquette, you cannot enter any place, with the exception of your own royal residences, until the soldiers’ quarters have been marked out by the quartermaster, and the garrison has been properly distributed.”

D’Artagnan listened with the greatest attention, biting his mustache; and the Queens listened attentively also. They were fatigued, and would have liked to go to rest without proceeding any farther, and especially to prevent the King from walking about in the evening with M. de Saint-Aignan and the ladies of the court; for if etiquette required the Princesses to remain within their own rooms, the ladies of honor, as soon as they had performed the services required of them, had no restrictions placed upon them, but were at liberty to walk about as they pleased. It will easily be conjectured that all these rival interests, gathering together in vapors, must necessarily produce clouds, and that the clouds would be followed by a tempest. The King had no mustache to gnaw, and therefore kept biting the handle of his whip instead, with ill-concealed impatience. How could he get out of it? D’Artagnan looked as agreeable as possible, and Colbert as sulky as he could. Who was there, then, with whom Louis could get in a passion?

“We will consult the Queen,” said Louis XIV, bowing to the royal ladies.

This kindness of consideration softened Maria Theresa’s heart, who was of a kind and generous disposition, and who, left to her own free will, replied: “I shall be delighted to do whatever your Majesty wishes.”

“How long will it take us to get to Vaux?” inquired Anne of Austria, in slow and measured accents, placing her hand upon her suffering bosom.

“An hour for your Majesties’ carriages,” said d’Artagnan; “the roads are tolerably good.”

The King looked at him. “And a quarter of an hour for the King,” he hastened to add.

“We should arrive by daylight,” said Louis XIV.

“But the billeting of the King’s military escort,” objected Colbert, softly, “will make his Majesty lose all the advantage of his speed, however quick he may be.”

“Double ass that you are!” thought d’Artagnan; “if I had any interest or motive in demolishing your credit, I could do it in ten minutes. If I were in the King’s place,” he added, aloud, “I should, in going to M. Fouquet, leave my escort behind me. I should go to him as a friend; I should enter accompanied only by my captain of the Guards. I should consider that I was acting more nobly, and should be invested with a still more sacred character by doing so.”

Delight sparkled in the King’s eyes. “That is, indeed, a very good suggestion. We will go to see a friend as friends. Those gentlemen who are with the carriages can go slowly; but we who are mounted- Forward!” and he rode off, accompanied by all those who were mounted.

Colbert hid his ugly head behind his horse’s neck.

“I shall be quits,” said d’Artagnan, as he galloped along, “by getting a little talk with Aramis this evening. And then, M. Fouquet is a man of honor. Mordioux! I have said so, and it must be so.”

In this way, towards seven o’clock in the evening, without trumpets, without advanced guard, without outriders or musketeers, the King presented himself before the gate of Vaux, where Fouquet, who had been informed of his royal guest’s approach, had been waiting for the last half-hour, with his head uncovered, surrounded by his household and his friends.

Nectar and Ambrosia

Fouquet held the stirrup of the King, who having dismounted bowed graciously, and more graciously still held out his hand to him, which Fouquet, in spite of a slight resistance on the King’s part, carried respectfully to his lips. The King wished to wait in the first courtyard for the arrival of the carriages; nor had he long to wait. For the roads had been put into excellent order by the superintendent, and a stone would hardly have been found the size of an egg the whole way from Melun to Vaux; so that the carriages, rolling along as though on a carpet, brought the ladies to Vaux, without jolting or fatigue, by eight o’clock. They were received by Madame Fouquet; and at the moment when they made their appearance, a light as bright as day burst forth from all the trees and vases and marble statues. This species of enchantment lasted until their Majesties had retired into the palace. All these wonders and magical effects,- which the chronicler has heaped up, or rather preserved, in his recital at the risk of rivalling the creations of a romancist,- these splendors whereby night seemed conquered and Nature corrected, together with every delight and luxury combined for the satisfaction of all the senses as well as of the mind, Fouquet really offered to his sovereign in that enchanting retreat, to which no monarch could at that time boast of possessing an equal.

We do not intend to describe the grand banquet, at which all the royal guests were present, nor the concerts, nor the fairy-like and magical transformations and metamorphoses. It will be enough for our purpose to depict the countenance which the King assumed, and which, from being gay, soon wore a gloomy, constrained, and irritated expression. He remembered his own residence, and the mean style of luxury which prevailed there,- which comprised only that which was merely useful for the royal wants, without being his own personal property. The large vases of the Louvre, the old furniture and plate of Henry II, of Francis I, of Louis XI, were merely historical monuments,- they were nothing but specimens of art, relics left by his predecessors; while with Fouquet the value of the article was as much in the workmanship as in the article itself. Fouquet ate from a gold service, which artists in his own employ had modelled and cast for him. Fouquet drank wines of which the King of France did not even know the name, and drank them out of goblets each more precious than the whole royal cellar.

What, too, could be said of the apartments, the hangings, the pictures, the servants and officers of every description, in Fouquet’s household? What could be said of the mode of service in which etiquette was replaced by order, stiff formality by personal unrestrained comfort, and the happiness and contentment of the guest became the supreme law of all who obeyed the host? The swarm of busily engaged persons moving about noiselessly; the multitude of guests, who were, however, even less numerous than the servants who waited on them; the myriads of exquisitely prepared dishes, of gold and silver vases; the floods of dazzling light; the masses of unknown flowers, of which the hothouses had been despoiled, redundant with the luxuriance of unequalled beauty,- the harmony of all, which indeed was no more than the prelude of the promised fête, charmed all the guests, who testified their admiration over and over again, not by voice or gesture, but by deep silence and rapt attention,- those two languages of the courtier which acknowledge the hand of no master powerful enough to restrain them.

As for the King, his eyes filled with tears; he dared not look at the Queen. Anne of Austria, whose pride, as it ever had been, was superior to that of any creature breathing, overwhelmed her host by the contempt with which she treated everything handed to her. The young Queen, kind-hearted by nature and curious by disposition, praised Fouquet, ate with an exceedingly good appetite, and asked the names of the different fruits which were placed upon the table. Fouquet replied that he did not know their names. The fruits came from his own stores; he had often cultivated them himself, having an intimate acquaintance with the cultivation of exotic fruits and plants. The King felt and appreciated the delicacy of the reply, but was only more humiliated at it; he thought that the Queen was a little too familiar in her manners, and that Anne of Austria resembled Juno a little too much; his chief anxiety, however, was that he might remain cold and distant in his behavior, bordering slightly on the limits of extreme disdain or of simple admiration.

Fouquet had foreseen all that; he was, in fact, one of those men who foresee everything. The King had expressly declared that so long as he remained under Fouquet’s roof he did not wish his own different repasts to be served in accordance with the usual etiquette, and that he would consequently dine with the rest of the company; but by the thoughtful attention of the superintendent the King’s dinner was served up separately, if one may so express it, in the middle of the general table. The dinner, wonderful in every respect, from the dishes of which it was composed, comprised everything the King liked, and which he generally preferred to anything else. Louis had no excuse- he, indeed, who had the keenest appetite in his kingdom- for saying that he was not hungry. Fouquet even did better still: he indeed, in obedience to the King’s expressed desire, seated himself at the table, but as soon as the soups were served, he rose and personally waited on the King, while Madame Fouquet stood behind the Queen-Mother’s arm-chair. The disdain of Juno and the sulky fits of temper of Jupiter could not resist this exhibition of kindly feeling and polite attention. The Queen ate a biscuit dipped in a glass of San-Lucar wine; and the King ate of everything, saying to Fouquet, “It is impossible, Monsieur the Superintendent, to dine better anywhere.” Whereupon the whole court began, on all sides, to devour the dishes spread before them, with such enthusiasm that it looked like a cloud of Egyptian locusts settling down upon the uncut crops.

As soon, however, as his hunger was appeased, the King became dull and gloomy again; the more so in proportion to the satisfaction he fancied he had manifested, and particularly on account of the deferential manner which his courtiers had shown towards Fouquet. D’Artagnan, who ate a good deal and drank but little, without allowing it to be noticed, did not lose a single opportunity, but made a great number of observations which he turned to good profit.

When the supper was finished, the King expressed a wish not to lose the promenade. The park was illuminated; the moon, too, as if she had placed herself at the orders of the Lord of Vaux, silvered the trees and lakes with her bright phosphoric light. The air was soft and balmy; the gravelled walks through the thickly set avenues yielded luxuriously to the feet. The fête was complete in every respect; for the King, having met La Valliere in one of the winding paths of the wood, was able to press her by the hand and say, “I love you,” without any one overhearing him, except M. d’Artagnan who followed, and M. Fouquet who preceded him.

The night of enchantments stole on. The King having requested to be shown to his room, there was immediately a movement in every direction. The Queens passed to their own apartments, accompanied by the music of the orbos and flutes. The King found his musketeers awaiting him on the grand flight of steps; for Fouquet had brought them on from Melun, and had invited them to supper. D’Artagnan’s suspicions at once disappeared. He was weary; he had supped well, and wished, for once in his life, thoroughly to enjoy a fête given by a man who was in every sense of the word a king. “M. Fouquet,” he said, “is the man for me.

The King was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber of Morpheus, of which we owe some slight description to our readers. It was the handsomest and the largest in the palace. Lebrun had painted on the vaulted ceiling the happy as well as disagreeable dreams with which Morpheus affects kings as well as other men: with everything lovely to which sleep gives birth,- its perfumes, its flowers and nectar, the wild voluptuousness or deep repose of the senses,- had the painter enriched his frescos. It was a composition as soft and pleasing in one part as dark and terrible in another. The poisoned chalice; the glittering dagger suspended over the head of the sleeper; wizards and phantoms with hideous masks, those dim shadows more terrific than the brightness of flame or the blackness of night,- these he had made the companions of his more pleasing pictures.

No sooner had the King entered the room than a cold shiver seemed to pass through him; and when Fouquet asked him the cause of it, the King replied, turning pale, “I am sleepy.”

“Does your Majesty wish for your attendants at once?”

“No; I have to talk with a few persons first,” said the King. “Will you have the goodness to summon M. Colbert?”

Fouquet bowed, and left the room.

A Gascon, and a Gascon and a Half

D’Artagnan had lost no time; in fact, he was not in the habit of doing so. After having inquired for Aramis, he had looked for him in every direction until he had succeeded in finding him. Now, no sooner had the King entered Vaux than Aramis had retired to his own room, meditating doubtless some new piece of gallant attention for his Majesty’s amusement. D’Artagnan desired the servants to announce him, and found on the second story, in a beautiful room called the blue room on account of the color of its hangings, the Bishop of Vannes in company with Porthos and several of the modern Epicureans. Aramis came forward to embrace his friend, and offered him the best seat. As it was after a while generally remarked among those present that the musketeer was reserved, apparently wishing for an opportunity to converse privately with Aramis, the Epicureans took their leave. Porthos, however, did not stir; having dined exceedingly well, he was fast asleep in his arm-chair, and the freedom of conversation therefore was not interrupted by a third person. Porthos had a deep, harmonious snore; and people might talk in the midst of its loud bass without fear of disturbing him.

D’Artagnan felt that he was called upon to open the conversation. The encounter he had come to seek would be rough; so he delicately approached the subject. “Well, and so we have come to Vaux,” he said.

“Why, yes, d’Artagnan. And how do you like the place?”

“Very much; and I like M. Fouquet also.”

“Is he not a charming host?”

“No one could be more so.”

“I am told that the King began by being very distant in his manner toward M. Fouquet, but that his Majesty became much more cordial afterwards.”

“You did not notice it, then, since you say you have been told so?”

“No; I was engaged with those gentlemen who have just left the room about the theatrical performances and the tournament which are to take place to-morrow.”

“Ah, indeed! You are the comptroller-general of the fetes here, then?”

“You know I am a friend of all kinds of amusement where the exercise of the imagination is required; I have always been a poet in one way or another.”

“Yes, I remember the verses you used to write; they were charming.”

“I have forgotten them; but I am delighted to read the verses of others, when those others are known by the names of Moliere, Pélisson, La Fontaine, etc.”

“Do you know what idea occurred to me this evening, Aramis?”

“No; tell me what it was, for I should never be able to guess it, you have so many.”

“Well, the idea occurred to me that the true King of France is not Louis XIV.”

“What!” said Aramis, involuntarily, looking at the musketeer full in the eyes.

“No; it is M. Fouquet.”

Aramis breathed again, and smiled. “Ah! you are like all the rest,- jealous,” he said. “I would wager that it was M. Colbert who turned that pretty phrase.”

D’Artagnan, in order to throw Aramis off his guard, related Colbert’s misadventures with regard to the vin de Melun.

“He comes of a mean race, does Colbert,” said Aramis.

“Quite true.”

“When I think, too,” added the bishop, “that that fellow will be your minister within four months, and that you will serve him as blindly as you did Richelieu or Mazarin-”

“And as you serve M. Fouquet,” said d’Artagnan.

“With this difference, though, that M. Fouquet is not M. Colbert.”

“True, true,” said d’Artagnan, as he pretended to become sad and full of reflection; and then, a moment after, he added, “Why do you tell me that M. Colbert will be minister in four months?”

“Because M. Fouquet will have ceased to be so,” replied Aramis.

“He will be ruined, you mean?” said d’Artagnan.

“Completely so.”

“Why does he give these fetes, then?” said the musketeer, in a tone so full of thoughtful consideration, so natural, that the bishop was for the moment deceived by it. “Why did you not dissuade him from it?”

The latter part of the sentence was just a little too much, and Aramis’s former suspicions were again aroused. “It is done with the object of humoring the King.”

“By ruining himself?”

“Yes, by ruining himself for the King.”

“A singular calculation that!”

“Necessity.”

“I don’t see that, dear Aramis.”

“Do you not? Have you not remarked M. Colbert’s daily increasing antagonism, and that he is doing his utmost to drive the King to get rid of the superintendent?”

“One must be blind not to see it.”

“And that a cabal is formed against M. Fouquet?”

“That is well known.”

“What likelihood is there that the King would join a party formed against a man who will have spent everything he had to please him?”

“True, true,” said d’Artagnan slowly, hardly convinced, yet curious- to broach another phase of the conversation. “There are follies and follies,” he resumed; “and I do not like those you are committing.”

“To what do you allude?”

“As for the banquet, the ball, the concert, the theatricals, the tournaments, the cascades, the fireworks, the illuminations, and the presents,- these are all well and good, I grant; but why were not these expenses sufficient? Was it necessary to refurnish the entire house?”

“You are quite right. I told M. Fouquet that myself. He replied, that if he were rich enough he would offer the King a château new from the vanes at the top of the house to the very cellar, completely new inside and out; and that as soon as the King had left, he would burn the whole building and its contents, in order that it might not be made use of by any one else.”

“How completely Spanish!”

“I told him so, and he then added this: ‘Whoever advises me to spare expense, I shall look upon as my enemy.’”

“It is Positive madness; and that portrait too!”

“What portrait?” said Aramis.

“That of the King; that surprise.”

“That surprise?”

“Yes, for which you procured some samples at Percerin’s.” D’Artagnan paused. The shaft was discharged, and all he had to do was to wait and watch its effect.

“That is merely an act of graceful attention,” replied Aramis.

D’Artagnan went up to his friend, took hold of both his hands, and looking him full in the eyes said, “Aramis, do you still care for me a little?”

“What a question to ask!”

“Very good. One favor, then. Why did you take some samples of the King’s costumes at Percerin’s?”

“Come with me and ask poor Lebrun, who has been working upon them for the last two days and two nights.”

“Aramis, that may be the truth for everybody else; but for me-”

“Upon my word, d’Artagnan, you astonish me.”

“Be a little considerate for me. Tell me the exact truth; you would not like anything disagreeable to happen to me, would you?”

“My dear friend, you are becoming quite incomprehensible. What devil of a suspicion have you, then?”

“Do you believe in my instincts? Formerly you had faith in them. Well, then, an instinct tells me that you have some concealed project on foot.”

“I- a project?”

“I am not sure of it.”

“What nonsense!”

“I am not sure of it, but I would swear to it.”

“Indeed, d’Artagnan, you cause me the greatest pain. Is it likely, if I have any project in hand that I ought to keep secret from you, I shall tell you about it? If I had one that I ought to reveal to you, I should have already told it to you.”

“No, Aramis, no. There are certain projects which are never revealed until the favorable opportunity arrives.”

“In that case, my dear fellow,” returned the bishop, laughing, “the only thing now is, that the ‘opportunity’ has not yet arrived.”

D’Artagnan shook his head with a sorrowful expression. “Oh, friendship, friendship!” he said, “what an idle word! Here is a man who, if I were but to ask it, would suffer himself to be cut in pieces for my sake.”

“You are right,” said Aramis, nobly.

“And this man, who would shed every drop of blood in his veins for me, will not open the smallest corner of his heart. Friendship, I repeat, is nothing but a shadow and a delusion, like everything else that shines in this world.”

“It is not thus you should speak of our friendship,” replied the bishop, in a firm, assured voice; “for ours is not of the same nature as those of which you have been speaking!”

“Look at us, Aramis! We are three out of the four. You are deceiving me, I suspect you, and Porthos sleeps; an admirable trio of friends, don’t you think so?- a beautiful relic!”

“I can only tell you one thing, d’Artagnan, and I swear it on the Bible: I love you just as much as formerly. If I ever distrust you, it is on account of others, and not on account of either of us. In everything I may do and succeed in, you will find your share. Will you promise me the same favor?”

“If I am not mistaken, Aramis, these words of yours, at the moment you pronounce them, are full of generous intention.”

“That is true.”

“You are conspiring against M. Colbert. If that be all, mordioux! tell me so at once. I have the instrument, and will pull out the tooth.”

Aramis could not restrain a smile of disdain which passed across his noble features. “And supposing that I were conspiring against Colbert, and what harm would there be in that?”

“No, no; that would be too trifling a matter for you to take in hand, and it was not on that account you asked Percerin for those samples of the King’s costumes. Oh, Aramis, we are not enemies, we are brothers! Tell me what you wish to undertake, and, upon the word of d’Artagnan, if I cannot help you, I will swear to remain neutral.”

“I am undertaking nothing,” said Aramis.

“Aramis, a voice speaks within me, and seems to enlighten my darkness; it is a voice which has never yet deceived me. It is the King you are conspiring against.”

“The King!” exclaimed the bishop, pretending to be annoyed.

“Your face will not convince me. The King, I repeat.”

“Will you help me?” said Aramis, smiling ironically.

“Aramis, I will do more than help you,- I will do more than remain neutral,- I will save you.”

“You are mad, d’Artagnan.”

“I am the wiser of us two.”

“You suspect me of wishing to assassinate the King!”

“Who spoke of that at all?” said the musketeer.

“Well, let us understand each other. I do not see what any one can do to a legitimate king as ours is, if he does not assassinate him.” D’Artagnan did not say a word. “Besides, you have your guards and your musketeers here,” said the bishop.

“True.”

“You are not in M. Fouquet’s house, but in your own. You have at the present moment M. Colbert, who counsels the King against M. Fouquet all which perhaps you would wish to advise if I were not on his side.”

“Aramis! Aramis! for mercy’s sake, one word as a friend!”

“A friend’s word is the truth itself. If I think of touching, even with one finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true King of this realm of France; if I have not the firm intention of prostrating myself before his throne; if, according to my wishes, to-morrow here at Vaux will not be the most glorious day my King ever enjoyed,- may Heaven’s lightning blast me where I stand!” Aramis had pronounced these words with his face turned towards the alcove of his bedroom, where d’Artagnan, seated with his back towards the alcove, could not suspect that any one was lying concealed. The earnestness of his words, the studied slowness with which he pronounced them, the solemnity of his oath, gave the musketeer the most complete satisfaction. He took hold of both Aramis’s hands, and shook them cordially. Aramis had endured reproaches without turning pale; he blushed as he listened to words of praise. D’Artagnan, deceived, did him honor; but d’Artagnan, trustful and reliant, made him feel ashamed. “Are you going away?” he said, as he embraced his friend in order to conceal the flush on his own face.

“Yes; my duty summons me. I have to get the watchword.”

“Where are you lodged?”

“In the King’s anteroom. And Porthos?”

“Take him away with you if you like, for he snores like a park of artillery.”

“Ah! he does not stay with you, then?” said the captain.

“Not at all. He has his room to himself, but I don’t know where.”

“Very good!” said the musketeer, from whom this separation of the two associates removed his last suspicion; and he touched Porthos roughly on the shoulder. The latter replied by a yawn. “Come!” said d’Artagnan.

“What! d’Artagnan, my dear fellow, is that you? What a lucky chance! Oh, yes,- true; I am at the fête at Vaux.”

“With your fine suit?”

“Yes; it was very attentive on the part of M. Coquelin de Voliere, was it not?”

“Hush!” said Aramis. “You are walking so heavily that you will make the flooring give way.”

“True,” said the musketeer; “this room is above the dome.”

“And I did not choose it for a fencing-room, I assure you,” added the bishop. “The ceiling of the King’s room has all the sweetness and calm delights of sleep. Do not forget, therefore, that my flooring is merely the covering of his ceiling. Good-night, my friends! In ten minutes I shall be fast asleep”; and Aramis accompanied them to the door, smiling pleasantly.

As soon as they were outside, Aramis bolted the door hurriedly, closed up the chinks of the windows, and then called out, “Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”

Philippe made his appearance from the alcove, pushing aside a sliding panel placed behind the bed. “M. d’Artagnan entertains a great many suspicions, it seems,” he said.

“Ah! you recognized M. d’Artagnan, then?”

“Before you called him by his name, even.”

“He is your captain of Musketeers.”

“He is very devoted to me,” replied Philippe, laying a stress upon the personal pronoun.

“As faithful as a dog; but he bites sometimes. If d’Artagnan does not recognize you before the other has disappeared, rely upon d’Artagnan to the end of the world; for in that case, if he has seen nothing, he will keep his fidelity. If he sees, when it is too late, he is a Gascon, and will never admit that he has been deceived.”

“I thought so. What are we to do, now?”

“You will go and take up your post at our place of observation, and watch the moment of the King’s retiring to rest, so as to learn how that ceremony is performed.”

“Very good. Where shall I place myself?”

“Sit down on this folding-chair! I am going to push aside a portion of the flooring; you will look through the opening, which answers to one of the false windows made in the dome of the King’s apartment. Can you see?”

“Yes,” said Philippe, starting as at the sight of an enemy; “I see the King!”

“What is he doing?”

“He seems to wish some man to sit down close to him.”

“M. Fouquet!”

“No, no; wait a moment.“

“The notes, my Prince, the portraits!”

“The man whom the King wishes to sit down in his presence is M. Colbert.”

“Colbert sit down in the King’s presence!” exclaimed Aramis; “it is impossible.”

“Look!”

Aramis looked through the opening in the flooring. “Yes,” he said, “Colbert himself! Oh, Monseigneur! what are we about to hear, and what can result from this intimacy?”

“Nothing good for M. Fouquet, at all events.”

The Prince was not mistaken.

We have seen that Louis XIV had sent for Colbert, and that Colbert had arrived. The conversation began between them by the King’s according to him one of the highest favors that he had ever given,- it is true that the King was alone with his subject,- “Colbert,” said he, “sit down!”

The intendant, overcome with delight, for he had feared he should be dismissed, refused this unprecedented honor.

“Does he accept?” said Aramis.

“No; he remains standing.”

“Let us listen, then”; and the future King and the future pope listened eagerly to the simple mortals whom they beheld under their feet in a position to crush them if they had liked.

“Colbert,” said the King, “you have annoyed me exceedingly to-day.”

“I know it, Sire.”

“Very good; I like that answer. Yes, you knew it, and there was courage in doing it.”

“I ran the risk of displeasing your Majesty, but I risked also concealing what were your true interests from you.”

“What! you were afraid of something on my account?”

“I was, Sire, even if it were of nothing more than an indigestion,” said Colbert; “for one does not give his King such banquets as that of to-day, except it be to stifle him under the weight of good living.”

Colbert awaited the effect of this coarse jest upon the King; and Louis XIV, who was the vainest and the most fastidiously delicate man in his kingdom, forgave Colbert his pleasantry. “The truth is,” he said, “that M. Fouquet has given me too good a meal. Tell me, Colbert, where does he get all the money required for this enormous expenditure,- can you tell?”

“Yes, I know, Sire.”

“You will show me?”

“Easily; to the very farthing.”

“I know you are very exact.”

“It is the principal qualification required in an intendant of finances.”

“But all are not so.”

“I thank your Majesty for a compliment so flattering from your lips.”

“M. Fouquet, then, is rich, very rich; and I suppose every man knows he is so.

“Every one, Sire,- the living as well as the dead.”

“What does that mean, M. Colbert?”

“The living are witnesses of M. Fouquet’s wealth,- they admire and applaud the result produced; but the dead, wiser than we, know its sources and they accuse him.”

“So that M. Fouquet owes his wealth to certain sources?”

“The occupation of an intendant very often favors those who engage in it.”

“You have something to say to me more confidentially, I perceive; do not be afraid, we are quite alone.”

“I am never afraid of anything under the shelter of my own conscience and under the protection of your Majesty,” said Colbert, bowing.

“If the dead, therefore, were to speak-”

“They do speak sometimes, Sire. Read!”

“Ah!” murmured Aramis in the Prince’s ear, who close beside him listened without losing a syllable, “since you are placed here, Monseigneur, in order to learn the vocation of a king, listen to a piece of infamy truly royal. You are about to be a witness of one of these scenes which God alone, or rather which the devil alone, can conceive and execute. Listen attentively,- you will find your advantage in it.”

The Prince redoubled his attention, and saw Louis XIV take from Colbert’s hand a letter which the latter held out to him.

“The late cardinal’s handwriting,” said the King.

“Your Majesty has an excellent memory,” replied Colbert, bowing; “it is an immense advantage for a king who is destined for hard work to recognize handwritings at the first glance.”

The King read Mazarin’s letter; but as its contents are already known to the reader, in consequence of the misunderstanding between Madame de Chevreuse and Aramis, nothing further would be learned if we stated them here again.

“I do not quite understand,” said the King, greatly interested.

“Your Majesty has not yet acquired the habit of going through the public accounts.”

“I see that it refers to money which had been given to M. Fouquet.”

“Thirteen millions,- a tolerably good sum.”

“Yes. Well, and these thirteen millions are wanting to balance the total of the accounts? That is what I do not very well understand. How was this deficit possible?”

“Possible, I do not say; but there is no doubt about its reality.”

“You say that these thirteen millions are found to be wanting in the accounts?”

“I do not say so; but the registry does.”

“And this letter of M. Mazarin indicates the employment of that sum, and the name of the person with whom it was deposited?”

“As your Majesty can judge for yourself.”

“Yes; and the result is, then, that M. Fouquet has not yet restored the thirteen millions.”

“That results from the accounts, certainly, Sire.”

“Well, and consequently-”

“Well, Sire, consequently, inasmuch as M. Fouquet has not given back the thirteen millions, he must have appropriated them to his own purposes; and with those thirteen millions one could incur four times and a fraction as much expense and display as your Majesty was able to do at Fontainebleau, where we spent only three millions altogether, if you remember.”

For a blunderer, the souvenir he had evoked was a very skilfully contrived piece of baseness, for in remembering his own fête the King, thanks to a word of Fouquet, had for the first time perceived its inferiority. Colbert received at Vaux what Fouquet had given him at Fontainebleau; and as a good financier, he returned it with the best possible interest. Having once disposed the King’s mind in that way, Colbert had nothing further to accomplish. He perceived it; the King had become gloomy. Colbert awaited the first word from the King’s lips with as much impatience as Philippe and Aramis did from their place of observation.

“Are you aware what is the natural consequence of all this, M. Colbert?” said the King, after a few moments’ reflection.

“No, Sire, I do not know.”

“Well, then, the fact of the appropriation of the thirteen millions, if it can be proved-”

“But it is so already.”

“I mean if it were to be declared, M. Colbert.”

“I think it will be to-morrow, if your Majesty-”

“Were we not under M. Fouquet’s roof, you were going to say, perhaps,” replied the King, with something of nobleness in his manner.

“The King is in his own palace wherever he may be, and especially in houses for which his own money has paid.”

“I think,” said Philippe, in a low tone to Aramis, “that the architect who constructed this dome ought, anticipating what use could be made of it, so to have contrived that it might easily be made to fall on the heads of scoundrels such as that M. Colbert.”

“I thought so, too,” replied Aramis; “but M. Colbert is so very near the King at this moment.”

“That is true, and that would open the succession.”

“Of which your younger brother would reap all the advantage, Monseigneur. But, stay! let us keep quiet and listen.”

“We shall not have long to listen,” said the young Prince.

“Why not, Monseigneur?”

“Because, if I were the King, I should not say anything further.”

“And what would you do?”

“I should wait until to-morrow morning to give myself time for reflection.”

Louis XIV at last raised his eyes, and finding Colbert attentively waiting for his next remark, said, hastily changing the conversation, “M. Colbert, I perceive it is getting very late, and I shall now retire to bed.”

“Ah!” said Colbert, “I should have-”

“Till to-morrow. By to-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind.”

“Very good, Sire,” returned Colbert, greatly incensed, although he restrained himself in the presence of the King.

The King made a gesture of adieu, and Colbert withdrew with a respectful bow. “My attendants!” cried the King; and they entered the apartment.

Philippe was about to quit his post of observation.

“A moment longer,” said Aramis to him, with his accustomed gentleness of manner. “What has just now taken place is only a detail, and to-morrow we shall have no occasion to think anything more about it; but the ceremony of the King’s retiring to rest, the etiquette observed in undressing the King,- that, indeed, is important. Learn, Sire, and study well how you ought to go to bed. Look! Look!”

Colbert

History will tell us, or rather history has told us, of the various events of the following day,- of the splendid fetes given by the superintendent to his sovereign. There was nothing but amusement and delight throughout the whole of the following day: there was a promenade, a banquet, a comedy, in which to his great amazement Porthos recognized “M. Coquelin de Voliere” as one of the actors, in the piece called “Les Facheux.”

Full of preoccupation after the scene of the previous evening, and hardly recovered from the effects of the poison which Colbert had then administered to him, the King during the whole of the day, so brilliant in its effects, so full of unexpected and startling novelties, in which all the wonders of the “Arabian Nights’ Entertainments” seemed to be reproduced for his especial amusement,- the King, we say, showed himself cold, reserved, and taciturn. Nothing could smooth the frowns upon his face; every one who observed him noticed that a deep feeling of resentment, of remote origin, increased by slow degrees, as the source becomes a river, thanks to the thousand threads of water which increase its body, was keenly alive in the depths of the King’s heart. Towards the middle of the day only did he begin to resume a little serenity of manner, by that time he had, in all probability, made up his mind. Aramis, who followed him step by step in his thoughts as in his walk, concluded that the event which he was expecting would soon occur.

This time Colbert seemed to walk in concert with the Bishop of Vannes; and had he received for every annoyance which he inflicted on the King a word of direction from Aramis, he could not have done better. During the whole of the day the King, who in all probability wished to free himself from some of the thoughts which disturbed his mind, seemed to seek La Valliere’s society as actively as he sought to avoid that of M. Colbert or M. Fouquet.

The evening came. The King had expressed a wish not to walk in the park until after cards in the evening. In the interval between supper and the promenade, cards and dice were introduced. The King won a thousand pistoles, and having won them put them in his pocket, and then rose, saying, “And now, gentlemen, to the park.” He found the ladies of the court already there. The King, we have before observed, had won a thousand pistoles, and had put them in his pocket. But M. Fouquet had somehow contrived to lose ten thousand; so that among the courtiers there was still left a hundred and ninety thousand livres’ profit to divide,- a circumstance which made the countenances of the courtiers and the officers of the King’s household the most joyous in the world. It was not the same, however, with the King’s face; for notwithstanding his success at play, to which he was by no means insensible, there still remained a slight shade of dissatisfaction.

Colbert was waiting for him at the corner of one of the avenues; he was most probably waiting there by appointment, as Louis XIV, who had avoided him or who had seemed to avoid him, suddenly made him a sign, and they then struck into the depths of the park together.

But La Valliere, too, had observed the King’s gloomy aspect and kindling glances. She had remarked this: and as nothing which lay hidden or smouldering in his heart was impenetrable to her affection, she understood that this repressed wrath menaced some one. She put herself upon the road of vengeance, like an angel of mercy. Overcome by sadness, nervously agitated, deeply distressed at having been so long separated from her lover, disturbed at the sight of that emotion which she had divined, she presented herself to the King with an embarrassed aspect, which in his evil mood the King interpreted unfavorably. Then, as they were alone, or nearly alone,- inasmuch as Colbert, as soon as he perceived the young girl approaching, had stopped and drawn back a dozen paces,- the King advanced towards La Valliere and took her by the hand. “Mademoiselle,” he said to her, “should I be guilty of an indiscretion if I were to inquire if you are indisposed? You seem to breathe as if you were distressed, and your eyes are filled with tears.”

“Oh, Sire, if I am distressed, and if my eyes are full of tears, it is for the sadness of your Majesty.”

“My sadness? You are mistaken, Mademoiselle; no, it is not sadness I experience.”

“What is it, then, Sire?”

“Humiliation.”

“Humiliation? Oh, Sire, what a word for you to use!”

“I mean, Mademoiselle, that wherever I may happen to be, no one else ought to be the master. Well, then, look round you on every side, and judge whether I am not eclipsed- I, the King of France- before the king of these wide domains. Oh!” he continued, clinching his hands and teeth, “when I think that this king-”

“Well, Sire?” said Louise, terrified.

“That this king is a faithless, unworthy servant, who becomes proud with my stolen property- And therefore am I about to change this impudent minister’s fête into a sorrow and mourning of which the nymph of Vaux, as the poets say, shall not soon lose the remembrance.”

“Oh! your Majesty-”

“Well, Mademoiselle, are you about to take M. Fouquet’s part?” said Louis, impatiently.

“No, Sire; I will only ask whether you are well informed. Your Majesty has more than once learned the value of accusations made at court.”

Louis XIV made a sign for Colbert to approach. “Speak, M. Colbert,” said the young King; “for I almost believe that Mademoiselle de la Valliere has need of your assurance before she can put any faith in the King’s word. Tell Mademoiselle what M. Fouquet has done; and you, Mademoiselle, will perhaps have the kindness to listen. It will not be long.”

Why did Louis XIV insist upon it in such a manner? For a very simple reason,- his heart was not at rest; his mind was not thoroughly convinced; he imagined there was some dark, hidden, tortuous intrigue concealed beneath these thirteen million livres; and he wished that the pure heart of La Valliere, which had revolted at the idea of a theft or robbery, should approve, even were it only by a single word, the resolution which he had taken, and which, nevertheless, he hesitated about carrying into execution.

“Speak, Monsieur,” said La Valliere to Colbert, who had advanced; “speak, since the King wishes me to listen to you. Tell me, what is the crime with which M. Fouquet is charged?”

“Oh, not very heinous, Mademoiselle,” he returned,- “a simple abuse of confidence.”

“Speak, speak, Colbert; and when you shall have related it, leave us, and go and inform M. d’Artagnan that I have orders to give him.”

“M. d’Artagnan, Sire!” exclaimed La Valliere; “but why send for M. d’Artagnan? I entreat you to tell me.”

“Pardieu! in order to arrest this haughty Titan, who, true to his motto, threatens to scale my heaven.”

“Arrest M. Fouquet, do you say?”

“Ah! does that surprise you?”

“In his own house?”

“Why not? If he be guilty, he is guilty in his own house as anywhere else.”

“M. Fouquet, who at this moment is ruining himself for his sovereign!”

“I believe, Mademoiselle, you are defending this traitor!”

Colbert began to chuckle silently. The King turned round at the sound of this suppressed mirth.

“Sire,” said La Valliere, “it is not M. Fouquet I am defending; it is yourself.”

“Me! you defend me?”

“Sire, you would be dishonoring yourself if you were to give such an order.”

“Dishonor myself?” murmured the King, turning pale with anger. “In truth, Mademoiselle, you put a strange eagerness into what you say.”

“I put eagerness not into what I say, but into serving your Majesty,” replied the noble-hearted girl; “in that I would lay down my life, were it needed, and with the same eagerness, Sire.”

Colbert seemed inclined to grumble. La Valliere, that gentle lamb, turned round upon him, and with a glance like lightning imposed silence upon him. “Monsieur,” she said, “when the King acts well, if in doing so he does either myself or those who belong to me an injury, I have nothing to say; but were the King to confer a benefit either upon me or mine, and if he acted badly, I should tell him so.”

“But it appears to me, Mademoiselle,” Colbert ventured to say, “that I too love the King.”

“Yes, Monsieur, we both love him, but each in a different manner,” replied La Valliere, with such an accent that the heart of the young King was powerfully affected by it. “I love him so deeply that the whole world is aware of it, so purely that the King himself does not doubt my love. He is my King and my master; I am the humblest of his servants. But he who touches his honor touches my life. Now, I repeat that they dishonor the King who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet under his own roof.”

Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the King had abandoned him. However, as he bent his head, he murmured, “Mademoiselle, I have only one word to say.”

“Do not say it, then, Monsieur; for I would not listen to it. Besides, what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been guilty of certain crimes? I know he has, because the King has said so; and from the moment the King said, ‘I believe,’ I have no occasion for other lips to say, ‘I affirm.’ But were M. Fouquet the vilest of men, I should say aloud, ‘M. Fouquet’s person is sacred to the King because he is the King’s host. Were his house a den of thieves, were Vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace is inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and it is an asylum which even executioners would not dare to violate.’”

La Valliere paused, and was silent. In spite of himself, the King could not but admire her; he was overpowered by the passionate energy of her voice, by the nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded, overcome by the inequality of the struggle. At last the King breathed again more freely, shook his head, and held out his hand to La Valliere. “Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “why do you decide against me? Do you know what this wretched fellow will do, if I give him time to breathe again?”

“Is he not a prey which will always be within your grasp?”

“And if he escapes, and takes to flight?” exclaimed Colbert.

“Well, Monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the King’s eternal honor, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty he may have been, the greater will the King’s honor and glory appear, when compared with such misery and such shame.”

Louis kissed La Valliere’s hand, as he knelt before her.

“I am lost!” thought Colbert; then suddenly his face brightened up again. “Oh, no, no, not yet!” he said to himself.

And while the King, protected from observation by the thick covert of an enormous lime, pressed La Valliere to his breast with all the ardor of ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly looked among the papers in his pocketbook, and drew out of it a paper folded in the form of a letter, slightly yellow, perhaps, but which must have been very precious, since the intendant smiled as he looked at it; he then bent a look full of hatred upon the charming group which the young girl and the King formed together,- a group which was revealed for a moment as the light of the approaching torches shone upon it.

Louis noticed the light reflected upon La Valliere’s white dress. “Leave me, Louise,” he said, “some one is coming.”

“Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, some one is coming,” cried Colbert, to expedite the young girl’s departure.

Louise disappeared rapidly among the trees; and then, as the King, who had been on his knees before the young girl, was rising from his humble posture, Colbert exclaimed, “Ah! Mademoiselle de la Valliere has let something fall.”

“What is it?” inquired the King.

“A paper,- a letter,- something white; look there, Sire!”

“The King stooped down immediately, and picked up the letter, crumpling it in his hand as he did so; and at the same moment the torches arrived, inundating the darkness of the scene with a flood of light as bright as day.

Jealousy

The torches to which we have just referred, the eager attention which every one displayed, and the new ovation paid to the King by Fouquet arrived in time to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Valliere had already considerably shaken in Louis XIV’s heart. He looked at Fouquet with a feeling almost of gratitude for having given La Valliere an opportunity of showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful in the influence she exercised over his heart. The moment of the last and greatest display had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet conducted the King towards the château, when a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux with a prodigious uproar, pouring a flood of dazzling light on every side, and illumining the remotest corners of the gardens. The fireworks began. Colbert, at twenty paces from the King, who was surrounded and feted by the masters of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate persistence of his gloomy thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis’s attention, which the magnificence of the spectacle was already, in his opinion, too easily diverting.

Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of holding his hand out to Fouquet, he perceived in it the paper which, as he believed, La Valliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still stronger magnet of love drew the young King’s attention to the souvenir of his idol; and by the brilliant light, which increased momentarily in beauty, and drew forth from the neighboring villages loud exclamations of admiration, the King read the letter, which he supposed was a loving and tender epistle that La Valliere had destined for him. But as he read it, a deathlike pallor stole over his face, and an expression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-colored fires, produced a terrible spectacle, which every one would have shuddered at, could they only have read his heart, which was torn by the most stormy passions. For him there was no more truce with jealousy and rage. From the moment when the dark truth was revealed to him, every gentler feeling disappeared,- piety, kindness, the religion of hospitality. In the bitter pang which wrung his heart, still too weak to hide his sufferings, he was almost on the point of uttering a cry of alarm, and calling his guards to gather round him. This letter which Colbert had thrown down at the King’s feet, the reader has doubtless guessed, was the same that had disappeared with the porter Toby, at Fontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon La Valliere’s heart. Fouquet saw the King’s pallor, and was far from guessing the evil. Colbert saw the King’s anger, and rejoiced inwardly at the approach of the storm.

Fouquet’s voice drew the young King from his wrathful reverie. “What is the matter, Sire?” inquired the superintendent, with an expression of graceful interest.

Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, “Nothing.”

“I am afraid your Majesty is suffering?”

“I am suffering, and have already told you so, Monsieur; but it is nothing.” The King, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks, turned towards the château. Fouquet accompanied him; and the whole court followed them, leaving the remains of the fireworks burning for their own amusement. The superintendent endeavored again to question Louis XIV, but obtained no reply. He imagined that there had been some misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in the park, which had resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the King, who was not ordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by his passion for La Valliere, had taken a dislike to every one because his mistress had shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficient to reassure him; he had even a friendly and kindly smile for the young King, when the latter wished him good-night. This, however, was not all the King had to submit to; he was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony, which on that evening was marked by the closest adherence to the strictest etiquette. The next day was the one fixed for the departure; it was but proper that the guests should thank their host, and should show him a little attention in return for the expenditure of his twelve millions. The only remark approaching to amiability which the King could find to say to Fouquet, as he took leave of him, was in these words: “M. Fouquet, you shall hear from me. Be good enough to desire M. d’Artagnan to come here!”

The blood of Louis XIV, who had so profoundly dissimulated his feelings, boiled in his veins; he was perfectly ready to get Fouquet’s throat cut, as his predecessor had caused the assassination of the Marechal d’Ancre. He concealed, beneath one of those royal smiles which are the lightning flashes to the thunderbolts of the State, the terrible resolution he had formed. Fouquet took the King’s hand, and kissed it. Louis shuddered throughout his whole frame, but allowed Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips.

Five minutes afterwards, d’Artagnan, to whom the royal order had been communicated, entered Louis XIV’s apartment. Aramis and Philippe were in theirs, still eagerly attentive and still listening. The King did not even give the captain of the Musketeers time to approach his arm-chair, but ran forward to meet him. “Take care,” he exclaimed, “that no one enters here!”

“Very good, Sire,” replied the captain, whose glance had for a long time past analyzed the ravages on the King’s countenance. He gave the necessary order at the door; but returning to the King he said, “Is there some new trouble, your Majesty?”

“How many men have you here?” said the King, without making other reply to the question addressed to him.

“What for, Sire?”

“How many men have you, I say?” repeated the King, stamping upon the ground with his foot.

“I have the Musketeers.”

“Well; and what others?”

“Twenty Guards and thirteen Swiss.”

“How many men will be required to-”

“To do what, Sire?” replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes.

“To arrest M. Fouquet.”

D’Artagnan fell back a step. “To arrest M. Fouquet!” he burst forth.

“Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?” exclaimed the King, with cold and vindictive passion.

“I never said that anything is impossible,” replied d’Artagnan, wounded to the quick.

“Very well; do it, then.”

D’Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way towards the door,- it was but a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces. When he reached it he suddenly paused, and said, “Your Majesty will forgive me; but in order to effect this arrest I should like written directions.”

“For what purpose? and since when has the King’s word been insufficient for you?”

“Because the word of a King when it springs from a feeling of anger may possibly change when the feeling changes.”

“No more phrases, Monsieur; you have another thought besides that?”

“Oh, I always have thoughts; and thoughts which, unfortunately, others have not!” d’Artagnan replied impertinently.

The King, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in the face of that man, just as a horse crouches on his haunches under the strong hand of a rider. “What is your thought?” he exclaimed.

“This, Sire,” replied d’Artagnan: you cause a man to be arrested when you are still under his roof; and passion is alone the cause of that. When your anger shall have passed away you will regret what you have done; and then I wish to be in a position to show you your signature. If that mends nothing, it will at least show us that the King is wrong to lose his temper.”

“Wrong to lose his temper!” shouted the King, with frenzy. “Did not my father, my grandfather too, before me, lose their temper, body of Christ!”

“The King your father and the King your grandfather never lost their temper except in the privacy of their own palace.”

“The King is master wherever he may be.”

“That is a flattering phrase which cannot proceed from any one but M. Colbert; but it happens not to be the truth. The King is at home in every man’s house when he has driven its owner out of it.”

The King bit his lips.

“Can it be possible?” said d’Artagnan. “Here is a man who is ruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have him arrested! Mordioux! Sire, if my name were Fouquet, and any one treated me in that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp ten pieces of fireworks, and I would set fire to them and blow myself and everybody else up to the sky. But it is all the same; it is your wish, and it shall be done.”

“Go!” said the King; “but have you men enough?”

“Do you suppose I am going to take a whole host to help me? To arrest M. Fouquet is so easy that a child might do it! It is like drinking a glass of bitters: one makes an ugly face, and that is all.”

“If he defends himself?”

“He! not at all likely. Defend himself when such extreme harshness as you are going to practise makes him king and martyr! Nay, I am sure that if he has a million livres left, which I very much doubt, he would be willing enough to give it in order to have such a termination as this. But what does that matter? It shall be done at once.”

“Stay!” said the King; “do not make his arrest a public affair.”

“That will be more difficult.”

“Why so?”

“Because nothing is easier than to go up to M. Fouquet in the midst of a thousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say ‘In the King’s name, I arrest you.’ But to go up to him, to turn him first one way and then another, to drive him up into one of the corners of the chessboard in such a way that he cannot escape, to take him away from his guests and keep him a prisoner for you without one of them, alas! having heard anything about it,- that, indeed, is a real difficulty,- the greatest of all, in truth; and I hardly see how it is to be done.”

“You had better say it is impossible, and you will have finished much sooner. Mon Dieu! I seem to be surrounded by people who prevent my doing what I wish.”

“I do not prevent your doing anything. Are you decided?”

“Take care of M. Fouquet until I shall have made up my mind by tomorrow morning.”

“That shall be done, Sire.”

“And return, when I rise in the morning, for further orders; and now leave me to myself.”

“You do not even want M. Colbert, then?” said the musketeer, firing this last shot as he was leaving the room.

The King started. With his whole mind fixed on the thought of revenge, he had forgotten the cause and substance of the offence. “No, no one,” he said; “no one here. Leave me!”

D’Artagnan quitted the room. The King closed the door with his own hands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious pace, like a wounded bull in an arena who drags after him the colored streamers and iron darts. At last he began to take comfort in the expression of his violent feelings.

“Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances, but with his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals, artists, and all; he even takes from me my mistress. Ah, that is the reason why that perfidious girl so boldly took his part! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a stronger feeling,- love itself?”

He gave himself up for a moment to his bitter reflections. “A satyr!” he thought, with that abhorrent hate with which young men regard those more advanced in life, who still think of love. “A faun who pursues a course of gallantry and has never met resistance; a man for silly women, who lavishes his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains his staff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistresses in the costume of goddesses!” The King trembled with passion as he continued: “He pollutes and profanes everything that belongs to me; he destroys everything that is mine; he will be my death at last! That man is too much for me; he is my mortal enemy, and he shall fall! I hate him,- I hate him,- I hate him!” and as he pronounced these words, he struck the arm of the chair in which he was sitting, violently over and over again, and then rose, like one in an epileptic fit. “To-morrow! tomorrow! oh, happy day!” he murmured; “when the sun rises, no other rival will that bright orb have but me. That man shall fall so low that when people look at the utter ruin which my anger shall have wrought, they will be forced to confess, at least, that I am indeed greater than he.”

The King, who was incapable of mastering his emotions any longer, knocked over with a blow of his fist a small table placed close to his bedside, and in the bitterness of feeling from which he was suffering, almost weeping, and half suffocated by his passion, threw himself on his bed, dressed as he was, and bit the sheets in the extremity of his emotion, trying there to find at least repose of body. The bed creaked beneath his weight; and with the exception of a few broken sounds which escaped from his overburdened chest, absolute silence soon reigned in the chamber of Morpheus.

High Treason

The ungovernable fury which took possession of the King at the sight and at the perusal of Fouquet’s letter to La Valliere by degrees subsided into a feeling of painful weariness. Youth, full of health and life, and requiring that what it loses should be immediately restored,- youth knows not those endless, sleepless nights which realize to the unhappy the fable of the liver of Prometheus, unceasingly renewed. In instances where the man of middle life in his acquired strength of will and purpose, and the old man in his state of exhaustion find an incessant renewal of their sorrow, a young man, surprised by the sudden appearance of a misfortune, weakens himself in sighs and groans and tears, in direct struggles with it, and is thereby far sooner overthrown by the inflexible enemy with whom he is engaged. Once overthrown, his sufferings cease. Louis was conquered in a quarter of an hour. Then he ceased to clinch his hands, and to burn with his looks the invisible objects of his hatred; he ceased to attack with violent imprecations M. Fouquet and La Valliere: from fury he subsided into despair, and from despair to prostration. After he had thrown himself for a few minutes to and fro convulsively on his bed, his nerveless arms fell quietly down, his head lay languidly on his pillow; his limbs, exhausted by his excessive emotions, still trembled occasionally, agitated by slight muscular contractions; and from his breast only faint and unfrequent sighs still issued.

Morpheus, the tutelary deity of the apartment which bore his name, towards whom Louis raised his eyes, wearied by his anger and reddened by his tears, showered down upon him copiously the sleep-inducing poppies, so that the King gently closed his eyes and fell asleep. Then it seemed to him, as it often happens in that first sleep, so light and gentle, which raises the body above the couch, the soul above the earth,- it seemed to him as if the god Morpheus, painted on the ceiling, looked at him with eyes quite human; that something shone brightly, and moved to and fro in the dome above the sleeper; that the crowd of terrible dreams, moving off for an instant, left uncovered a human face, with a hand resting against the mouth, and in an attitude of deep and absorbed meditation. And strange enough, too, this man bore so wonderful a resemblance to the King himself, that Louis fancied he was looking at his own face reflected in a mirror; only, that face was saddened by a feeling of the profoundest pity. Then it seemed to him as if the dome gradually retired, escaping from his gaze, and that the figures and attributes painted by Lebrun became darker and darker as the distance became more and more remote. A gentle, easy movement, as regular as that by which a vessel plunges beneath the waves, had succeeded to the immovableness of the bed. Doubtless the King was dreaming; and in this dream the crown of gold which fastened the curtains together seemed to recede from his vision, just as the dome, to which it remained suspended, had done; so that the winged genius which with both its hands supported the crown seemed, though vainly so, to call upon the King, who was fast disappearing from it.

The bed still sank. Louis, with his eyes open, could not resist the deception of this cruel hallucination. At last, as the light of the royal chamber faded away into darkness and gloom, something cold, gloomy, and inexplicable seemed to infect the air. No paintings, nor gold, nor velvet hangings were visible any longer,- nothing but walls of a dull gray color, which the increasing gloom made darker every moment. And yet the bed still continued to descend; and after a minute, which seemed in its duration almost an age to the King, it reached a stratum of air black and still as death, and then it stopped. The King could no longer see the light in his room, except as from the bottom of a well we can see the light of day. “I am under the influence of a terrible dream,” he thought. “It is time to arouse myself. Come, let us wake up!”

Every one has experienced what the above remark conveys; there is no one who in the midst of a suffocating nightmare has not said to himself, by the help of that light which still burns in the brain when every human light is extinguished, “It is nothing but a dream, after all.” This was precisely what Louis XIV said to himself. But when he said, “Let us wake up,” he perceived that not only was he already awake, but still more, that he had his eyes open also. He then looked around him. On his right hand and on his left two armed men stood silently, each wrapped in a huge cloak, and the face covered with a mask; one of them held a small lamp in his hand, whose glimmering light revealed the saddest picture a king could look upon.

Louis said to himself that his dream still lasted, and that all he had to do to cause it to disappear was to move his arms or to say something aloud. He darted from his bed, and found himself upon the damp ground. Then, addressing himself to the man who held the lamp in his hand, he said, “What is this, Monsieur, and what is the meaning of this jest?”

“It is no jest,” replied, in a deep voice, the masked figure that held the lantern.

“Do you belong to M. Fouquet?” inquired the King, greatly astonished at his situation.

“It matters very little to whom we belong,” said the phantom. “We are your masters; that is sufficient.”

The King, more impatient than intimidated, turned to the other masked figure. “If this is a comedy,” he said, “you will tell M. Fouquet that I find it unseemly, and that I desire it should cease.”

The second masked person to whom the King had addressed himself was a man of huge stature and vast circumference. He held himself erect and motionless as a block of marble.

“Well,” added the King, stamping his foot, “you do not answer!”

“We do not answer you, my good monsieur,” said the giant, in a stentorian voice, “because there is nothing to answer, except that you are the chief facheux, and that M. Coquelin de Voliere forgot to include you in the number of his.”

“At least, tell me what you want!” exclaimed Louis, folding his arms with a passionate gesture.

“You will know by and by,” replied the man who held the lamp.

“In the meantime tell me where I am.”

“Look!”

Louis looked all round him; but by the light of the lamp which the masked figure raised for the purpose, he could perceive nothing but the damp walls, which glistened here and there with the slimy traces of the snail. “Oh! oh! a dungeon,” said the King.

“No, a subterranean passage.”

“Which leads-”

“Will you be good enough to follow us?”

“I shall not stir from hence!” cried the King.

“If you are obstinate, my dear young friend,” replied the taller and stouter of the two, “I will lift you up in my arms, will roll you up in a cloak, and if you are stifled there, why, so much the worse for you!” and as he said this he disengaged from beneath the cloak with which he had threatened the King a hand of which Milo of Crotona would have envied him the possession on the day when he had that unhappy idea of rending his last oak.

The King dreaded violence; for he could well believe that the two men into whose power he had fallen had not gone so far with any idea of drawing back, and that they would consequently be ready to proceed to extremities if necessary. He shook his head, and said: “It seems I have fallen into the hands of a couple of assassins. Move on, then!”

Neither of the men answered a word to this remark. The one who carried the lantern walked first, the King followed him, while the second masked figure closed the procession. In this manner they passed along a winding gallery of some length, with as many staircases leading out of it as are to be found in the mysterious and gloomy palace of Ann Radcliffe. All these windings, throughout which the King heard the sound of falling water over his head, ended at last in a long corridor closed by an iron door. The figure with the lamp opened the door with one of the keys he wore suspended at his girdle, where during the whole of the time the King had heard them rattle. As soon as the door was opened and admitted the air, Louis recognized the balmy odors which the trees exhale after a hot summer’s day. He paused hesitatingly for a moment or two; but his huge companion who followed him thrust him out of the subterranean passage.

“Another blow!” said the King, turning towards the one who had just had the audacity to touch his sovereign; “what do you intend to do with the King of France?”

“Try to forget that word,” replied the man with the lamp, in a tone which as little admitted of reply as one of the famous decrees of Minos.

“You deserve to be broken on the wheel for the word you have just made use of,” said the giant, as he extinguished the lamp his companion handed to him; “but the King is too kind-hearted.”

Louis, at that threat, made so sudden a movement that it seemed as if he meditated flight; but the giant’s hand was placed on his shoulder, and fixed him motionless where he stood. “But tell me, at least, where we are going,” said the King.

“Come!” replied the former of the two men, with a kind of respect in his manner, and leading his prisoner towards a carriage which seemed to be in waiting.

The carriage was completely concealed amid the trees. Two horses, with their feet fettered, were fastened by a halter to the lower branches of a large oak.

“Get in,” said the same man, opening the carriage door and letting down the step. The King obeyed, seated himself at the back of the carriage, the padded door of which was shut and locked immediately upon him and his guide. As for the giant, he cut the fastenings by which the horses were bound, harnessed them himself, and mounted on the box of the carriage, which was unoccupied. The carriage set off immediately at a quick trot, turned into the road to Paris, and in the forest of Senart found a relay of horses fastened to the trees in the same manner in which the first horses had been, and without a postilion. The man on the box changed the horses, and continued to follow the road towards Paris with the same rapidity, and entered the city about three o’clock in the morning. The carriage proceeded along the Faubourg St. Antoine, and after having called out to the sentinel, “By the King’s order!” the driver conducted the horses into the circular enclosure of the Bastille, looking out upon the courtyard called La Cour du Gouvernement. There the horses drew up, reeking with sweat, at the flight of steps, and a sergeant of the guard ran forward.

“Go and wake the governor!” said the coachman, in a voice of thunder.

With the exception of this voice, which might have been heard at the entrance of the Faubourg St. Antoine, everything remained as calm in the carriage as in the prison. Ten minutes afterwards, M. de Baisemeaux appeared in his dressing-gown on the threshold of the door. “What is the matter now?” he asked; “and whom have you brought me there?”

The man with the lantern opened the carriage door, and said two or three words to the one who acted as driver, who immediately got down from his seat, took up a short musket which he kept under his feet, and placed its muzzle on the prisoner’s chest.

“Fire at once if he speaks!” added, aloud, the man who alighted from the carriage.

“Very good!” replied his companion, without any other remark.

With this recommendation, the person who had accompanied the King in the carriage ascended the flight of steps, at the top of which the governor was awaiting him. “M. d’Herblay!” said the latter.

“Hush!” said Aramis; “Let us go into your room.”

“Good heavens! what brings you here at this hour?”

“A mistake, my dear M. de Baisemeaux,” Aramis replied quietly. “It appears that you were right the other day.”

“What about?” inquired the governor.

“About the order of release, my dear friend.”

“Tell me what you mean, Monsieur,- no, Monseigneur,” said the governor, almost suffocated by surprise and terror.

“It is a very simple affair. You remember, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that an order of release was sent to you?”

“Yes, for Marchiali.”

“Very good! we both thought that it was for Marchiali?”

“Certainly. You will recollect, however, that I did not believe it; that I was unwilling; that you compelled me.”

“Oh, Baisemeaux, my good fellow, what a word to make use of!- advised, that was all.”

“Advised,- yes, advised me to give him up to you; and that you carried him off with you in your carriage.”

“Well, my dear M. de Baisemeaux, it was a mistake. It was discovered at the Ministry; so that I now bring you an order from the King to set at liberty Seldon,- that poor devil of a Scotchman, you know.”

“Seldon! are you sure this time?”

“Well, read it yourself,” added Aramis, handing him the order.

“Why,” said Baisemeaux, “this order is the very same that has already passed through my hands.”

“Indeed?”

“It is the very one I assured you I saw the other evening. Parbleu! I recognize it by the blot of ink.”

“I do not know whether it is that; but, at any rate, it is the one I bring you.”

“But, then, about the other?”

“What other?”

“Marchiali?”

“I have him here with me.”

“But that is not enough for me. I require a new order to take him back again.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense, my dear Baisemeaux; you talk like a child! Where is the order you received respecting Marchiali?”

Baisemeaux ran to his iron chest and took it out. Aramis seized hold of it, coolly tore it in four pieces, held them to the lamp, and burned them.

“Good heavens! what are you doing?” exclaimed Baisemeaux, in an extremity of terror.

“Look at your position a little, my dear governor,” said Aramis, with his imperturbable self-possession, “and you will see that it is very simple. You no longer possess any order justifying Marchiali’s release.”

“I am a lost man!”

“Far from it, my good fellow, since I have brought Marchiali back to you, and it is just the same as if he had never left.”

“Ah!” said the governor, completely overcome by terror.

“Plain enough, you see; and you will go and shut him up immediately.”

“I should think so, indeed.”

“And you will hand over to me this Seldon, whose liberation is authorized by this order. In this way you square your conduct; do you understand?”

“I- I-”

“You do understand, I see,” said Aramis. “Very good!”

Baisemeaux clasped his hands together.

“But why, at all events, after having taken Marchiali away from me, do you bring him back again?” cried the unhappy governor, in a paroxysm of terror and completely dumfounded.

“For a friend such as you are,” said Aramis, “for so devoted a servant, I have no secrets”; and he put his mouth close to Baisemeaux’s ear, as he said in a low tone of voice, “you know the resemblance between that unfortunate fellow and-”

“And the King?- yes.”

“Very good; the very first use that Marchiali made of his liberty was to pretend- Can you guess what?”

“How is it likely I should guess?”

“To pretend that he was the King of France.”

“Oh, the wretch!” cried Baisemeaux.

“To dress himself up in clothes like those of the King, and attempt to play the role of usurper.”

“Gracious heavens!”

“That is the reason why I have brought him back again, my dear friend. He is mad, and lets every one see how mad he is.”

“What is to be done, then?”

“That is very simple; let no one hold any communication with him. You understand that when his peculiar style of madness came to the King’s ears, the King, who had pitied his terrible affliction, and saw how his kindness of heart had been repaid by such black ingratitude, became perfectly furious; so that now,- and remember this very distinctly, dear M. de Baisemeaux, for it concerns you most closely,- so that there is now, I repeat, sentence of death pronounced against all those who may allow him to communicate with any one else save me or the King himself. You understand, Baisemeaux,- sentence of death!”

“Do I understand? Morbleu!”

“And now go down and conduct this poor devil back to his dungeon again, unless you prefer he should come up here.”

“What would be the good of that?”

“It would be better, perhaps, to enter his name in the prison-book at once!”

“Pardieu!”

“Well, then, have him up!”

Baisemeaux ordered the drums to be beaten and the bell to be rung, as a warning to every one to retire in order to avoid meeting a mysterious prisoner. Then, when the passages were free, he went to take the prisoner from the carriage, at whose breast Porthos, faithful to the directions which had been given him, still kept his musket levelled. “Ah! is that you, miserable wretch?” cried the governor, as soon as he perceived the King. “Very good, very good!” and immediately, making the King get out of the carriage, he led him, still accompanied by Porthos, who had not taken off his mask, and Aramis, who again resumed his, up the stairs, to the second Bertaudiere, and opened the door of the room in which Philippe for six long years had bemoaned his existence. The King entered the cell without pronouncing a single word; he was pale and haggard.

Baisemeaux shut the door upon him, turned the key twice in the lock, and then returned to Aramis. “It is quite true,” he said in a low tone, “that he has a rather strong resemblance to the King, but still less so than you said.”

“So that,” said Aramis, “you would not have been deceived by the substitution of the one for the other.”

“What a question!” “You are a most valuable fellow, Baisemeaux,” said Aramis; “and now, set Seldon free!”

“Oh, yes; I was going to forget that. I will go and give orders at once.”

“Bah! to-morrow will be time enough.”

“To-morrow!- oh, no! This very minute!”

“Well, go off to your affairs! I shall go away to mine. But it is quite understood, is it not?”

“What is ‘quite understood’?”

“That no one is to enter the prisoner’s cell, except with an order from the King,- an order which I will myself bring.”

“That is understood. Adieu, Monseigneur!” Aramis returned to his companion. “Now, Porthos, my good fellow, back again to Vaux, and as fast as possible!”

“A man is light when he has faithfully served his King, and in serving him saved his country,” said Porthos. “The horses will have nothing to draw. Let us be off!” and the carriage, lightened of a prisoner who in fact seemed to Aramis very heavy, passed across the drawbridge of the Bastille, which was raised again immediately behind it.

A Night in the Bastille

Suffering in human life is proportioned to human strength. We will not pretend to say that God always apportions to a man’s capability of endurance the anguish he permits him to suffer; such, indeed, would not be exact, since God permits the existence of death, which is sometimes the only refuge open to those who are too closely pressed,- too bitterly afflicted, so far as the body is concerned. Suffering is proportioned to strength in this sense,- that the weak suffer more, where the trial is the same, than the strong. And what are the elementary principles which compose human strength? Are they not- more than anything else- exercise, habit, experience? We shall not even take the trouble to demonstrate that; it is an axiom in morals as in physics.

When the young King, stupefied, crushed, found himself led to a cell in the Bastille, he fancied at first that death is like sleep, and has its dreams; that the bed had broken through the flooring of his room at Vaux; that death had resulted; and that, still carrying out his dream, Louis XIV, now dead, was dreaming of those horrors, impossible to realize in life, which are termed dethronement, imprisonment, and degradation of a King all-powerful but yesterday. To be a spectator, as palpable phantom, of his own wretched suffering; to float in an incomprehensible mystery between resemblance and reality; to hear everything, to see everything, without confusing the details of that agony,- “was it not,” said the King to himself, “a torture the more terrible since it might be eternal?”

“Is this what is termed eternity,- hell?” Louis murmured at the moment the door closed upon him, shut by Baisemeaux himself. He did not even look around him; and in that chamber, leaning with his back against the wall, he allowed himself to be carried away by the terrible supposition that he was already dead, as he closed his eyes in order to avoid looking upon something even worse. “How can I have died?” he said to himself, almost insensible. “Could that bed have been let down by some artificial means? But, no! I do not remember to have received any contusion or any shock. Would they not rather have poisoned me at one of my meals, or with the fumes of wax, as they did my ancestress Jeanne d’Albret?”

Suddenly the chill of the dungeon seemed to fall like a cloak upon Louis’s shoulders. “I have seen,” he said, “My father lying dead upon his funeral couch, in his regal robes. That pale face, so calm and worn; those hands, once so skilful, lying nerveless by his side; those limbs stiffened by the icy grasp of death,- nothing there betokened a sleep disturbed by dreams. And yet what dreams God might have sent to him,- to him whom so many others had preceded, hurried away by him into eternal death! No, that King was still the King; he was enthroned still upon that funereal couch, as upon a velvet arm-chair; he had not abdicated aught of his majesty. God, who had not punished him, cannot punish me, who have done nothing.”

A strange sound attracted the young man’s attention. He looked round him, and saw on the mantel-shelf, just below an enormous crucifix coarsely painted in fresco on the wall, a rat of enormous size engaged in nibbling a piece of dry bread, but fixing all the time an intelligent and inquiring look upon the new occupant of the cell. The King could not resist a sudden impulse of fear and disgust. He moved back towards the door, uttering a loud cry; and as if he but needed this cry, which escaped from his breast almost unconsciously, to recognize himself, Louis knew that he was alive and in full possession of his natural senses. “A prisoner!” he cried. “I- a prisoner!” He looked round him for a bell to summon some one to him. “There are no bells in the Bastille,” he said, “and it is in the Bastille I am imprisoned. In what way can I have been made a prisoner? It is, of course, a conspiracy of M. Fouquet. I have been drawn into a snare at Vaux. M. Fouquet cannot be acting alone in this affair. His agent,- that voice I but just now heard was M. d’Herblay’s; I recognized it. Colbert was right, then. But what is Fouquet’s object? To reign in my place and stead? Impossible! Yet, who knows?” thought the King, relapsing into gloom. “Perhaps my brother the Duc d’Orleans is doing against me what my uncle, all through his life, wished to do against my father. But the Queen?- My mother too? And La Valliere? Oh! La Valliere,- she will have been abandoned to Madame. Dear child!- yes, it is so; they have shut her up, as they have me. We are separated forever!” and at this idea of separation the lover burst into tears, with sobs and groans.

“There is a governor in this place,” the King continued, in a fury of passion. “I will speak to him; I will summon him.”

He called; but no voice replied to his. He seized his chair, and hurled it against the massive oaken door. The wood resounded against the door, and awakened many a mournful echo in the profound depths of the staircase; but no one responded.

This was for the King a fresh proof of the slight regard in which he was held in the Bastille. Therefore, when his first fit of anger had passed away, having noticed a barred window, through which there passed a stream of light, lozenge-shaped, which must be the luminous dawn, Louis began to call out, at first gently, then louder and louder still; but no one replied to him. Twenty other attempts which he made, one after another, obtained no better success. His blood began to boil within him, and mount to his head. His nature was such that, accustomed to command, he trembled at the idea of disobedience. By degrees his anger increased. The prisoner broke the chair, which was too heavy for him to lift, and made use of it as a battering-ram to strike against the door. He struck with such force and rapidity that the perspiration soon began to pour down his face. The sound became tremendous and continuous; stifled cries replied in different directions.

This sound produced a strange effect upon the King; he paused to listen to it. It was the voices of the prisoners,- formerly his victims, now his companions. The voices ascended like vapors through the thick ceilings and the massive walls; they complained against the author of this noise, as doubtless their sighs and tears accused, in whispered tones, the author of their captivity. After having deprived so many persons of their liberty, the King had come among them to rob them of their sleep. This idea almost drove him mad; it redoubled his strength, or rather his will, bent upon obtaining some information or some result. With a portion of the broken chair he recommenced the noise. At the end of an hour Louis heard something in the corridor behind the door of his cell; and a violent blow which was returned upon the door itself made him cease his own.

“Ah, there! are you mad?” said a rude, brutal voice. “What is the matter with you this morning?”

“This morning!” thought the King, surprised; but he said aloud, politely, “Monsieur, are you the governor of the Bastille?”

“My good fellow, your head is out of sorts,” replied the voice; “but that is no reason why you should make such a terrible disturbance. Be quiet, mordieu!”

“Are you the governor?” the King inquired again.

He heard a door on the corridor close; the jailer had left without condescending to reply. When the King had assured himself of his departure, his fury knew no longer any bounds. As agile as a tiger, he leaped from the table to the window, and shook the iron bars. He broke a pane of glass, the pieces of which fell clanking into the courtyard below. He shouted with increasing hoarseness, “The governor, the governor!” This excess lasted fully an hour, during which time he was in a burning fever. With his hair in disorder and matted on his forehead, his dress torn and whitened, his linen in shreds, the King never rested until his strength was utterly exhausted; and it was not until then that he clearly understood the pitiless thickness of the walls, the impenetrable nature of the cement, invincible to all other influence save that of time, and that he possessed no other weapon but despair. He leaned his forehead against the door, and let the feverish throbbings of his heart calm by degrees; an additional pulsation would have made it burst.

“A moment will come when the food which is given to the prisoners will be brought to me. I shall then see some one; I shall speak to him, and get an answer.”

Then the King tried to remember at what hour the first repast of the prisoners was served in the Bastille; he was ignorant even of this detail. The feeling of remorse at this remembrance smote him like the keen thrust of a dagger,- that he should have lived for five-and-twenty years a King, and in the enjoyment of every happiness, without having bestowed a moment’s thought on the misery of those who had been unjustly deprived of their liberty. The King blushed from shame. He felt that Heaven, in permitting this fearful humiliation, did no more than render to the man the same torture which was inflicted by that man upon so many others. Nothing could be more efficacious toward awakening religious feeling in that soul prostrated by the sense of suffering. But Louis dared not even kneel in prayer to God to entreat him to terminate his bitter trial.

“Heaven is right,” he said; “Heaven acts wisely. It would be cowardly to pray to Heaven for that which I have so often refused to my own fellow-creatures.”

He had reached this stage of his reflections,- that is, of his agony of mind,- when the same noise was again heard behind his door, followed this time by the sound of the key in the lock, and of the bolts withdrawn from their staples. The King bounded forward to be nearer to the person who was about to enter; but suddenly reflecting that it was a movement unworthy of a sovereign, he paused, assumed a noble and calm expression, which for him was easy enough, and waited with his back turned towards the window, in order to some extent to conceal his agitation from the eyes of the person who was about entering. It was only a jailer with a basket of provisions. The King looked at the man with anxiety, and waited for him to speak.

“Ah!” said the latter, “you have broken your chair, I should say! Why, you must have become quite mad.”

“Monsieur,” said the King, “be careful what you say; it will be a very serious affair for you.”

The jailer placed the basket on the table, and looked at his prisoner steadily. “What do you say?” he said with surprise.

“Desire the governor to come to me,” added the King, with dignity.

“Come, my boy,” said the turnkey, “you have always been very quiet and reasonable; but you are getting vicious, it seems, and I wish to give you warning. You have broken your chair, and made a great disturbance; that is an offence punishable by imprisonment in one of the lower dungeons. Promise me not to begin over again, and I will not say a word about it to the governor.”

“I wish to see the governor,” replied the King, still controlling his passion.

“He will send you off to one of the dungeons, I tell you; so take care!”

“I insist upon it!- do you hear?”

“Ah! ah! your eyes are becoming wild again. Very good! I shall take away your knife.”

The jailer did as he had said, closed the door and departed, leaving the King more astounded, more wretched, and more alone than ever. In vain he began again to pound the door; in vain he threw the plates and dishes out of the window; not a sound was heard in answer. Two hours later he could not be recognized as a King, a gentleman, a man, a human being; he might rather be called a madman, tearing the door with his nails, trying to tear up the flooring of his cell, and uttering such wild and fearful cries that the old Bastille seemed to tremble to its very foundations for having revolted against its master. As for the governor, the jailer did not even think of disturbing him; the turnkeys and the sentinels had made their report, but what was the good of it? Were not these madmen common enough in the fortress, and were not the walls still stronger than they?

M. de Baisemeaux, thoroughly impressed with what Aramis had told him, and in perfect conformity with the King’s order, hoped only that one thing might happen; namely, that the madman Marchiali might be mad enough to hang himself to the canopy of his bed or to one of the bars of the window. In fact, the prisoner was anything but a profitable investment for M. Baisemeaux, and became more annoying than agreeable to him. These complications of Seldon and Marchiali, these complications of deliverance and reincarceration, these complications of personal resemblance, would have found a very proper dénouement. Baisemeaux even thought he had remarked that d’Herblay himself would not be altogether dissatisfied with it.

“And then, really,” said Baisemeaux to his next in command, “an ordinary prisoner is already unhappy enough in being a prisoner; he suffers quite enough indeed to induce one to hope, in charity, that his death may not be far distant. With still greater reason, then, when the prisoner has gone mad, and may bite and make a disturbance in the Bastille,- why, in that case it is not simply an act of mere charity to wish him dead; it would be almost a commendable action quietly to put him out of his misery.” And the good-natured governor thereupon sat down to his late breakfast.

The Shadow of Fouquet

D’Artagnan, still confused and oppressed by the conversation he had just had with the King, asked himself if he were really in possession of his senses; if the scene had occurred at Vaux; if he, d’Artagnan, were really the captain of the Musketeers and Fouquet the owner of the château in which Louis XIV was at that moment partaking of his hospitality. These reflections were not those of a drunken man, although everything was in prodigal profusion at Vaux, and the superintendent’s wines had met with a distinguished reception at the fête.

The Gascon, however, was a man of calm self-possession; and when he touched his steel blade he was able to assume, figuratively, the coolness of that steel for his great occasions. “Well,” he said, as he quitted the royal apartment, “I seem now to be mixed up historically with the destinies of the King and of the minister; it will be written that M. d’Artagnan, a younger son of a Gascon family, placed his hand on the shoulder of M. Nicholas Fouquet, the superintendent of the finances of France. My descendants, if I have any, will flatter themselves with the distinction which this arrest will confer, just as the members of the De Luynes family have done with regard to the estates of the poor Marechal d’Ancre. But now the thing to be done is to execute the King’s directions in a proper manner. Any man would know how to say to M. Fouquet, ‘Your sword, monsieur!’ But it is not every one who would be able to take care of M. Fouquet without others knowing anything about it. How am I to manage, then, so that Monsieur the Superintendent may pass from the height of favor to the direst disgrace; so that he may exchange Vaux for a dungeon; so that after having been steeped to his lips, as it were, in all the perfumes and incense of Ahasuerus, he may be transferred to the gallows of Haman,- in other words, of Enguerrand de Marigny?” And at this reflection d’Artagnan’s brow became clouded with perplexity. The musketeer had scruples. To deliver thus to death (for not a doubt existed that Louis hated Fouquet mortally) the man who had just shown himself so delightful and charming a host in every way, was a real case of conscience. “It seems to me,” said d’Artagnan to himself, “that if I am not a wretch, I shall let M. Fouquet know the purpose of the King in regard to him. Yet if I betray my master’s secret, I shall be a false-hearted knave and a traitor,- a crime provided for and punishable by military laws, as proved by the fact that twenty times in the wars I have seen miserable fellows strung up for doing in little degree what my scruples counsel me to do on a larger scale. No, I think that a man of intelligence ought to get out of this difficulty with more skill than that. And now shall we admit that I have intelligence? It is doubtful; having drawn on it for forty years, I shall be lucky if there be a pistole’s worth left.”

D’Artagnan buried his head in his hands, tore his mustache in sheer vexation, and added, “For what reason is M. Fouquet disgraced? For three reasons: the first, because M. Colbert doesn’t like him; the second, because he wished to fall in love with Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and, lastly, because the King likes M. Colbert and loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Oh, he is a lost man! But shall I put my foot on his neck,- I, a man, when he is falling a prey to the intrigues of a set of women and clerks? For shame! If he be dangerous, I will lay him low enough; if, however, he be only persecuted, I will look on. I have come to such a decisive determination that neither King nor living man shall change my opinion. If Athos were here, he would do as I have done. Therefore, instead of going cold-bloodedly up to M. Fouquet and arresting him off-hand and shutting him up, I will try to conduct myself like a man who understands what good manners are. People will talk about it, of course; but they shall talk well of it, I am determined.” And d’Artagnan, drawing by a gesture peculiar to himself his shoulder-belt over his shoulder, went straight off to Fouquet, who having taken leave of the ladies was preparing to sleep tranquilly after the triumphs of the day.

The air was still perfumed or infected, whichever way it may be considered, with the odor of the fireworks; the wax-lights were dying away in their sockets; the flowers fell unfastened from the garlands; the groups of dancers and courtiers were separating in the salons. Surrounded by his friends, who were complimenting him and receiving his flattering remarks in return, the superintendent half closed his wearied eyes. He longed for rest and quiet; he sank upon the bed of laurels which had been heaped up for him for so many days past,- it might almost have been said that he was bowed beneath the weight of the new debts which he had incurred for the purpose of giving the greatest possible honor to this fête.

Fouquet had just retired to his room, still smiling, but more than half dead. He could listen to nothing more; he could hardly keep his eyes open; his bed seemed to possess a fascinating and irresistible attraction for him. The god Morpheus- the presiding deity of the dome painted by Lebrun- had extended his influence over the adjoining rooms, and showered down his most sleep-inducing poppies upon the master of the house. Fouquet, almost entirely alone, was being assisted by his valet-de-chambre to undress, when M. d’Artagnan appeared at the entrance of the room.

D’Artagnan had never been able to succeed in making himself common at the court; and notwithstanding he was seen everywhere and on all occasions, he never failed to produce an effect wherever and whenever he made his appearance. Such is the happy privilege of certain natures, which in that respect resemble the lightning or the thunder: every one recognizes them; but their appearance never fails to arouse surprise and astonishment, and whenever it occurs the impression is always left that the last visitation was the loudest or brightest and most violent. “What! M. d’Artagnan?” said Fouquet, who had already taken his right arm out of the sleeve of his doublet.

“At your service,” replied the musketeer.

“Come in, my dear M. d’Artagnan.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you come to criticise the fête?

“You have an ingenious mind.”

“By no means.”

“Are not your men looked after properly?”

“In every way.”

“You are not comfortably lodged, perhaps?”

“Nothing could be better.”

“In that case, I have to thank you for being so amiably disposed, and I must not fail to express my obligations to you for all your flattering kindness.”

These words were as much as to say, “My dear d’Artagnan, pray go to bed, since you have a bed to lie down on, and let me do the same.”

D’Artagnan did not seem to understand. “Are you going to bed already?” he said to the superintendent.

“Yes: have you anything to say to me?”

“Nothing, Monsieur; nothing at all. You sleep in this room, then?”

“Yes; as you see.”

“Monsieur, you have given a most charming fête to the King.”

“Do you think so?”

“Oh, beautiful!”

“Is the King pleased?”

“Enchanted!”

“Did he desire you to say as much to me?”

“He would not choose so unworthy a messenger, Monseigneur.”

“You do not do yourself justice, M. d’Artagnan.”

“Is that your bed there?”

“Yes; but why do you ask? Are you not satisfied with your own?”

“May I speak frankly to you?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Well, then, I am not.”

Fouquet started; and then replied, “M. d’Artagnan, take my room.”

“What! deprive you of it, Monseigneur? Never!”

“What am I to do, then?”

“Allow me to share it with you.”

Fouquet looked at the musketeer fixedly. “Ah! ah!” he said, “you have just left the King?”

“I have, Monseigneur.”

“And the King wishes you to pass the night in my room?”

“Monseigneur-”

“Very well, M. d’Artagnan, very well. You are master here.”

“I assure you, Monseigneur, that I do not wish to abuse-”

Fouquet turned to his valet, and said, “Leave us!” When the man had left, he said to d’Artagnan, “You have something to say to me?”

“I?”

“A man of your superior intelligence cannot have come to talk with a man like myself, at such an hour as the present, without grave motives.”

“Do not interrogate me.”

“On the contrary, what do you want with me?”

“Nothing more than the pleasure of your society.”

“Come into the garden, then,” said the superintendent, suddenly, “or into the park.”

“No,” replied the musketeer, hastily; “no.”

“Why?”

“The fresh air-”

“Come, admit at once that you arrest me,” said the superintendent to the captain.

“Never!” said the latter.

“You intend to look after me, then?”

“Yes, Monseigneur, I do, upon my honor.”

“Upon your honor!- ah, that is quite another thing! So I am to be arrested in my own house?”

“Do not say such a thing.”

“On the contrary, I will proclaim it aloud.”

“If you do so, I shall be compelled to persuade you to be silent.”

“Very good! Violence towards me in my own house! Ah, that is well done!”

“We do not seem to understand each other at all. Stay a moment! There is a chess-board there; we will have a game, if you have no objection.”

“M. d’Artagnan, I am in disgrace, then?”

“Not at all; but-”

“I am prohibited, I suppose, from withdrawing from your sight.”

“I do not understand a word you are saying, Monseigneur; and if you wish me to withdraw, tell me so.”

“My dear M. d’Artagnan, your mode of action is enough to drive me mad. I was almost sinking for want of sleep, but you have completely awakened me.”

“I shall never forgive myself, I am sure; and if you wish to reconcile me with myself, why, go to sleep in your bed in my presence; I shall be delighted at it.”

“I am under surveillance, I see.”

“I will leave the room, then.”

“You are beyond my comprehension.”

“Good-night, Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, as he pretended to withdraw.

Fouquet ran after him. “I will not lie down,” he said. “Seriously, and since you refuse to treat me as a man, and since you finesse with me, I will try to set you at bay, as a hunter does a wild boar.”

“Bah!” cried d’Artagnan, pretending to smile.

“I shall order my horses and set off for Paris,” said Fouquet, sounding the heart of the captain of the Musketeers.

“If that be the case, Monseigneur, it is very different.”

“You will arrest me?”

“No; but I shall go with you.”

“That is quite sufficient, M. d’Artagnan,” returned Fouquet, in a cold tone of voice. “It is not idly that you have acquired your reputation as a man of intelligence and full of resources; but with me that is quite superfluous. Let us two come to the point. Grant me a service. Why do you arrest me? What have I done?”

“Oh, I know nothing about what you may have done; but I do not arrest you- this evening.”

“This evening!” said Fouquet, turning pale; “but to-morrow?”

“It is not to-morrow just yet, Monseigneur. Who can ever answer for the morrow?”

“Quick, quick, Captain! let me speak to M. d’Herblay.”

“Alas! that is quite impossible, Monseigneur. I have strict orders to see that you hold no communication with any one.”

“With M. d’Herblay, Captain,- with your friend!”

“Monseigneur, is M. d’Herblay the only person with whom you ought to be prevented from holding any communication?”

Fouquet colored, and then assuming an air of resignation, said: “You are right, Monsieur; you have taught me a lesson that I ought not to have provoked. A fallen man cannot assert his right to anything, even to those whose fortunes he may have made; for a still greater reason he cannot claim anything from those to whom he may never have had the happiness of doing a service.”

“Monseigneur!”

“It is true, M. d’Artagnan; you have always acted in the most admirable manner towards me,- in such a manner, indeed, as most becomes the man who is destined to arrest me. You, at least, have never asked me anything.”

“Monseigneur,” replied the Gascon, touched by his eloquent and noble tone of grief, “will you- I ask it as a favor- pledge me your word as a man of honor that you will not leave this room?”

“What is the use of it, dear M. d’Artagnan, since you keep watch and ward over me? Do you suppose that I should struggle against the most valiant sword in the kingdom?”

“It is not that at all, Monseigneur, but that I am going to look for M. d’Herblay, and consequently to leave you alone.”

Fouquet uttered a cry of delight and surprise.

“To look for M. d’Herblay, to leave me alone!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands together.

“Which is M. d’Herblay’s room? The blue room, is it not?”

“Yes, my friend, yes.”

“Your friend! thank you for that word, Monseigneur; you confer it upon me to-day, at least, even if you have never done so before.”

“Ah, you have saved me!”

“It will take me a good ten minutes to go from hence to the blue room, and to return?” said d’Artagnan.

“Nearly so.”

“And then to wake Aramis, who sleeps soundly when he sleeps at all, I put that down at another five minutes; making a total of fifteen minutes’ absence. And now, Monseigneur, give me your word that you will not in any way attempt to make your escape, and that when I return I shall find you here again.”

“I give it to you, Monsieur,” replied Fouquet, with an expression of the warmest and deepest gratitude.

D’Artagnan disappeared. Fouquet looked at him as he quitted the room, waited with feverish impatience until the door was closed behind him, and as soon as it was shut, flew to his keys, opened two or three secret doors concealed in various articles of furniture in the room, looked vainly for certain papers, which doubtless he had left at St. Mandé, and which he seemed to regret not finding; then hurriedly seizing hold of letters, contracts, writings, he heaped them up into a pile, which he burned in the extremest haste upon the marble hearth of the fireplace, not even taking time to draw from the interior of it the vases and pots of flowers with which it was filled. As soon as he had finished, like a man who had just escaped an imminent danger, and whose strength abandons him as soon as the danger is past, he sank down, completely overcome, on a couch.

When d’Artagnan returned, he found Fouquet in the same position. The worthy musketeer had not the slightest doubt that Fouquet, having given his word, would not even think of failing to keep it; but he had thought it most likely that Fouquet would turn his (d’Artagnan’s) absence to the best advantage in getting rid of all the papers, memorandums, and contracts which might possibly render his position, which was even now serious enough, still more dangerous. And so, lifting up his head like a dog who gains the scent, d’Artagnan perceived a certain odor resembling smoke, which he had fully expected to find in the atmosphere; having found it, he made a movement of his head in token of satisfaction.

When d’Artagnan entered, Fouquet had, on his side, raised his head, and not one of d’Artagnan’s movements had escaped him.

The looks of the two men met, and they both saw that they had understood each other without exchanging a syllable.

“Well!” asked Fouquet, the first to speak, “and M. d’Herblay?”

“Upon my word, Monseigneur,” replied d’Artagnan, “M. d’Herblay must be desperately fond of walks by night, and composing verses by moonlight in the park of Vaux with some of your poets in all probability; for he is not in his room.”

“What! not in his room?” cried Fouquet, whose last hope had thus escaped him; for without knowing in what way the Bishop of Vannes could assist him, he well knew that he could not expect assistance from any one else.

“Or, indeed,” continued d’Artagnan, “if he is in his own room, he has very good reasons for not answering.”

“But surely you did not call him in such a manner that he could have heard you?”

“You can hardly suppose, Monseigneur, that having already exceeded my orders, which forbade my leaving you a single moment,- you can hardly suppose, I say, that I should have been mad enough to rouse the whole house and allow myself to be seen in the corridor of the Bishop of Vannes, in order that M. Colbert might state with positive certainty that I gave you time to burn your papers.”

“My papers?”

“Of course; at least, that is what I should have done in your place. When any one opens a door for me, I always avail myself of it.”

“Yes, yes, and I thank you; I have availed myself of it.”

“And you have done right, morbleu! Every man has his own peculiar secrets, with which others have nothing to do. But let us return to Aramis, Monseigneur.”

“Well, then, I tell you, you could not have called loudly enough, or he would have heard you.”

“However softly any one may call Aramis, Monseigneur, he always hears when he has an interest in hearing. I repeat what I said before,- Aramis was not in his own room, or he had certain reasons for not recognizing my voice, of which I am ignorant, and of which you even may be ignorant yourself, notwithstanding your liegeman is his Greatness the Lord Bishop of Vannes.”

Fouquet drew a deep sigh, rose from his seat, made three or four turns in his room, and finished by seating himself, with an expression of extreme dejection, upon his magnificent bed with velvet hangings and trimmed with the costliest lace.

D’Artagnan looked at Fouquet with feelings of the deepest and sincerest pity.

“I have seen a good many men arrested in my life,” said the musketeer, sadly,- “I have seen both M. de Cinq-Mars and M. de Chalais arrested, though I was very young then; I have seen M. de Conde arrested with the Princes; I have seen M. de Retz arrested; I have seen M. Broussel arrested. Stay a moment, Monseigneur! It is disagreeable to have to say it; but the very one of all those whom you most resemble at this moment was that poor fellow Broussel. You were very near doing as he did,- putting your dinner napkin in your portfolio, and wiping your mouth with your papers. Mordioux! Monseigneur Fouquet, a man like you ought not to be dejected in this manner. Suppose your friends saw you.”

“M. d’Artagnan,” returned the superintendent, with a smile full of gentleness, “you do not understand me. It is precisely because my friends do not see me, that I am such as you see me now. I do not live isolated from others; I am nothing when left to myself. Understand that throughout my whole life I have passed every moment of my time in making friends whom I hoped to render my stay and support. In times of prosperity all these happy voices- and rendered so by me- formed in my honor a concert of praises and kindly actions. In the least disfavor, these humbler voices accompanied in harmonious accents the murmur of my own heart. Isolation I have never yet known. Poverty- a phantom I have. sometimes beheld, clad in rags, awaiting me at the end of my journey through life- poverty is the spectre with which many of my own friends have trifled for years past, which they poetize and caress, and to which they have attracted me. Poverty!- I accept it, acknowledge it, receive it as a disinherited sister; for poverty is not solitude, nor exile, nor imprisonment. Is it likely I shall ever be poor, with such friends as Pélisson, as La Fontaine, as Moliere; with such a mistress as- Oh! solitude, to me, a man of society; to me, a man inclined to pleasure; to me, who exist only because others exist- Oh, if you knew how utterly lonely and desolate I feel at this moment, and how you, who separate me from all I love, seem to be the image of solitude, of annihilation, and of death!”

“But I have already told you, M. Fouquet,” replied d’Artagnan, moved to the depths of his soul, “that you exaggerate matters a great deal too much. The King likes you.”

“No, no,” said Fouquet, shaking his head.

“M. de Colbert hates you.”

“M. de Colbert! What does that matter to me?”

“He will ruin you.”

“Oh! I defy him to do that, for I am ruined already.”

At this singular confession of the superintendent, d’Artagnan cast his glance all round the room; and although he did not open his lips, Fouquet understood him so thoroughly that he added:

“What can be done with these magnificent things when one is no longer magnificent? Do you know what good the greater part of the wealth and the possessions which we rich enjoy, confer upon us?- merely to disgust us, by their very splendor even, with everything which does not equal this splendor. Vaux, you will say, and the wonders of Vaux! What then? What boot these wonders? If I am ruined, how shall I fill with water the urns which my Naiads bear in their arms, or force the air into the lungs of my Tritons? To be rich enough, M. d’Artagnan, a man must be too rich.”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“Oh, I know very well what you think,” replied Fouquet, quickly. “If Vaux were yours, you would sell it, and would purchase an estate in the country,- an estate which should have woods, orchards, and fields,- an estate which should support its master. With forty millions you would do well-”

“Ten millions,” interrupted d’Artagnan.

“Not a million, my dear captain! No one in France is rich enough to give two millions for Vaux, and to continue to maintain it as I have done; no one could do it,- no one would know how.”

“Well,” said d’Artagnan, “in any case, a million is not misery.”

“It is not far from it, my dear monsieur. But you do not understand me. No; I will not sell my residence at Vaux,- I will give it to you, if you like”; and Fouquet accompanied these words with a movement of the shoulders to which it would be impossible to do justice.

“Give it to the King; you will make a better bargain.”

“The King does not require me to give it to him,” said Fouquet. “He will take it away from me very readily if it pleases him; and that is the reason why I should prefer to see it perish. Do you know, M. d’Artagnan, that if the King were not under my roof, I would take this candle, go straight to the dome, set fire to a couple of huge chests of fusees and fireworks which are in reserve there, and reduce my palace to ashes.”

“Bah!” said the musketeer, negligently. “At all events, you would not be able to burn the gardens; and that is the best part of the establishment.”

“And yet,” resumed Fouquet, thoughtfully, “what was I saying? Great heavens! burn Vaux,- destroy my palace! But Vaux is not mine. This wealth, these wonderful creations, are, it is true, the property, so far as sense of enjoyment goes, of the man who has paid for them; but so far as duration is concerned, they belong to those who created them. Vaux belongs to Lebrun, to Lenotre, to Pélisson, to Levau, to La Fontaine, to Moliere; Vaux belongs to posterity, in fact. You see, M. d’Artagnan, that my very house ceases to be my own.”

“That is good,” said d’Artagnan; “I like that idea, and I recognize M. Fouquet himself in it. That idea, indeed, makes me forget that poor fellow Broussel altogether; and I recall no longer the whining complaints of that old Frondeur. If you are ruined, Monsieur, look at the affair manfully; for you too, mordioux! belong to posterity, and have no right to lessen yourself in any way. Stay a moment! Look at me,- I who seem to exercise in a degree a kind of superiority over you because I arrest you. Fate, which distributes their different parts to the comedians of this world, accorded to me a less agreeable and less advantageous part to fill than yours has been. I am one of those who think that the parts which kings and powerful nobles are called upon to act are of infinitely more worth than those of beggars or lackeys. It is better on the stage,- on the stage, I mean, of another theatre than that of this world,- it is better to wear a fine coat and to talk fine language than to walk the boards shod with a pair of old shoes, or to get one’s backbone caressed by sticks well laid on. In one word, you have been a prodigal with money, have ordered and been obeyed, have been steeped to the lips in enjoyment; while I have dragged my tether after me, have been commanded and have obeyed, and have drudged my life away. Well, although I may seem of such trifling importance beside you, Monseigneur, I do declare to you that the recollection of what I have done serves me as a spur, and prevents me from bowing my old head too soon. I shall remain until the very end a good trooper; and when my turn comes I shall fall perfectly straight, all in a heap, still alive, after having selected my place beforehand. Do as I do, M. Fouquet,- you will not find yourself the worse for it; that happens only once in a lifetime to men like yourself, and the chief thing is to do it well when the chance presents itself. There is a Latin proverb- the words have escaped me, but I remember the sense of it very well, for I have thought it over more than once- which says, ‘The end crowns the work!’”

Fouquet rose from his seat, passed his arm round d’Artagnan’s neck, and clasped him in a close embrace, while with the other hand he pressed the captain’s hand. “An excellent homily,” he said after a moment’s pause.

“A soldier’s, Monseigneur.”

“You have a regard for me in telling me all that.”

“Perhaps.”

Fouquet resumed his pensive attitude once more, and then, a moment after, said:

“Where can M. d’Herblay be? I dare not ask you to send for him.”

“You would not ask me, because I would not do it, M. Fouquet. People would learn it; and Aramis, who is not mixed up with the affair, might possibly be compromised and included in your disgrace.”

“I will wait here till daylight,” said Fouquet.

“Yes; that is best.”

“What shall we do when daylight comes?”

“I know nothing at all about it, Monseigneur.”

“M. d’Artagnan, will you do me a favor?”

“Most willingly.”

“You guard me, I remain; you are acting in the full discharge of your duty, I suppose?”

“Certainly.”

“Very good, then; remain as close to me as my shadow, if you like, I prefer that shadow any other.”

D’Artagnan bowed.

“But forget that you are M. d’Artagnan, Captain of the Musketeers; forget that I am M. Fouquet, Superintendent of the Finances, and let us talk about my affairs.”

“Peste! a thorny subject that!”

“Truly?”

“Yes; but for your sake, M. Fouquet, I would do the impossible.”

“Thank you. What did the King say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Ah! is that the way you talk?”

“The deuce!”

“What do you think of my situation?”

“Nothing.”

“However, unless you have some ill-feeling against me-”

“Your position is a difficult one.”

“In what respect?”

“Because you are under your own roof.”

“However difficult it may be, yet I understand it very well.”

“Do you suppose that with any one else but yourself I should have shown so much frankness?”

“What! so much frankness, do you say,- you who refuse to tell me the slightest thing?”

“At all events, then, so much ceremony and so much consideration.”

“Ah! I admit that.”

“One moment, Monseigneur! Let me tell you how I should have behaved towards any one else but yourself. I should have arrived at your door just as your friends had left you, or if they had not yet gone I should have waited until they were leaving, and should then have caught them one after the other like rabbits; I should have locked them up quietly; I should have stolen softly along the carpet of your corridor, and with one hand upon you, before you suspected the slightest thing about it, I should have kept you safely until my master’s breakfast in the morning. In this way I should have avoided all publicity, all disturbance, all opposition; but there would also have been no warning for M. Fouquet, no consideration for his feelings, none of those delicate concessions which are shown by persons who are essentially courteous in their natures whenever the decisive moment may arrive. Are you satisfied with that plan?”

“It makes me shudder.”

“I thought you would not like it. It would have been very disagreeable had I chosen to appear to-morrow without notice and to ask you for your sword.”

“Oh, Monsieur, I should have died from shame and anger.”

“Your gratitude is too eloquently expressed. I have not done enough to deserve it, I assure you.”

“Most certainly, Monsieur, you will never get me to believe that.”

“Well, then, Monseigneur, if you are satisfied with what I have done, and have somewhat recovered from the shock which I prepared you for as much as I could, let us allow the few hours that remain to pass away undisturbed. You are harassed, and require to arrange your thoughts; I beg you, therefore, to go to sleep, or pretend to go to sleep, either on your bed or in your bed. I shall sleep in this arm-chair; and when I fall asleep my rest is so sound that a cannon could not wake me.”

Fouquet smiled.

“I except, however,” continued the musketeer, “the case where one opens a door, whether secret or visible, whether to go out or to come in. Oh, for that my ear is sensitive to the last degree! Any creaking noise makes me start,- it is a matter of natural antipathy. Move about as much as you like; walk up and down in any part of the room; write, efface, destroy, burn: but do not touch either the key or the handle of the door; for I should start up in a moment, and that would shake my nerves terribly.”

“M. d’Artagnan,” said Fouquet, “you are certainly the most witty and the most courteous man I ever met; and you will leave me only one regret, that of having made your acquaintance so late.”

D’Artagnan drew a deep sigh, which seemed to say, “Alas! you have perhaps made it too soon.” He then settled himself in his arm-chair; while Fouquet, half lying on his bed and leaning on his arm, meditated upon his adventure. In this way both of them, leaving the candles burning, awaited the first dawn of day; and when Fouquet happened to sigh too loudly, d’Artagnan only snored the louder. Not a single visit, not even from Aramis, disturbed their quietude; not a sound, even, was heard throughout the vast palace. Outside, the guards of honor and the patrols of the musketeers paced up and down; and the sound of their feet could be heard on the gravel walks. It was an additional soporific for the sleepers; while the murmuring of the wind through the trees and the unceasing music of the fountains still went on uninterruptedly, without being disturbed at the slight noises and trifling affairs of which the life and death of man consist.

The Morning

In contrast with the sad and terrible destiny of the King imprisoned in the Bastille, and tearing, in sheer despair, the bolts and bars of his dungeon, the rhetoric of the chroniclers of old would not fail to present the antithesis of Philippe lying asleep beneath the royal canopy. We do not pretend to say that such rhetoric is always bad, and always scatters in places it should not the flowers with which it embellishes history. But we shall not dwell on the antithesis, but shall proceed to draw with interest another picture to serve as a companion to the one we have drawn in the last chapter.

The young Prince descended from Aramis’s room in the same way the King had descended from the apartment dedicated to Morpheus. The dome gradually and slowly sank down under Aramis’s pressure, and Philippe stood beside the royal bed, which had ascended again, after having deposited its prisoner in the secret depths of the subterranean passage. Alone, in the presence of all the luxury which surrounded him; alone, in the presence of his power; alone, with the part he was about to be forced to act, Philippe’s soul for the first time opened to the thousand varied emotions which are the vital throbs of a royal heart. But he could not help changing color when he looked upon the empty bed, still tumbled by his brother’s body. This mute accomplice had returned, after having served in the consummation of the enterprise, it returned with the traces of the crime; it spoke to the guilty author of that crime, with the frank and unreserved language which an accomplice never fears to use towards his companion in guilt,- it spoke the truth. Philippe bent over the bed, and perceived a pocket-handkerchief lying on it which was still damp with the cold sweat that had poured from Louis XIV’s face. This sweat-bestained handkerchief terrified Philippe, as the blood of Abel terrified Cain.

“I am now face to face with my destiny,” said Philippe, with his eyes on fire and his face livid. “Will it be more terrifying than my captivity has been sad and gloomy? Forced to pursue at every moment the usurpations of thought, shall I never cease to listen to the scruples of my heart? Yes; the King has lain on this bed. It is indeed his head that has left its impression on this pillow, his bitter tears that have stained this handkerchief; and yet I hesitate to throw myself on the bed, or to press in my hand the handkerchief which is embroidered with my brother’s arms. Away with this weakness! Let me imitate M. d’Herblay, who asserts that a man’s actions should be always one degree above his thought; let me imitate M. d’Herblay, whose thoughts are of and for himself alone, who regards himself as a man of honor, so long as he injures or betrays his enemies only. I, I alone should have occupied this bed, if Louis XIV had not, owing to my mother’s criminal abandonment of me, stood in my way; and this handkerchief, embroidered with the arms of France, would, in right and justice, belong to me alone, if, as M. d’Herblay observes, I had been left in my place in the royal cradle! Philippe, son of France, take your place on that bed; Philippe, sole King of France, resume the blazonry which is yours! Philippe, sole heir presumptive to Louis XIII, your father, show yourself without pity or mercy for the usurper who at this moment has no remorse for all that you have suffered!”

With these words, Philippe, notwithstanding an instinctive repugnance of feeling, and in spite of the shudder of terror which mastered his will, threw himself on the royal bed, and forced his muscles to press the still warm place where Louis XIV had lain, while he buried his burning face in the handkerchief still moistened by his brother’s tears. With his head thrown back and buried in the soft down of his pillow, Philippe perceived above him the crown of France, held, as we have stated, by the angel with the golden wings.

Imagine, then, the royal intruder, his eyes gloomy, his body trembling. He is like a tiger led out of his way by a night of storm, who comes through the reeds by way of a ravine unknown to him, to lie down in the cave of an absent lion. The feline odor has attracted him,- that warm, moist atmosphere of his ordinary habitation. He has found a bed of dry herbs, and bones pulverized and pasty like marrow. He arrives; he turns about his flaming eyes, piercing the gloom; he shakes his streaming limbs and his body, covered with mire, and lies down heavily, his large nose resting on his enormous paws,- ready to sleep, but ready also to fight. From time to time the lightning blazing in the recesses of the cave, the noise of clashing branches, the sound of falling stones, the vague apprehension of danger, draw him from the lethargy occasioned by fatigue.

A man may be ambitious of lying in a lion’s den, but can hardly hope to sleep there quietly. Philippe listened attentively to every sound, his heart almost stifled by all his fears; but confident in his own strength, which was increased by the force of an overpowering resolute determination, he waited until some decisive circumstance should permit him to judge for himself. He hoped that some great danger would show him the way, like those phosphoric lights of the tempest which show the sailors the height of the waves against which they have to struggle. But nothing happened. Silence, the mortal enemy of restless hearts, the mortal enemy of ambitious minds, shrouded in the thickness of its gloom during the remainder of the night the future King of France, who lay there sheltered beneath his stolen crown. Towards the morning a shadow, rather than a body, glided into the royal chamber; Philippe expected his approach, and neither expressed nor exhibited any surprise.

“Well, M. d’Herblay?” he said.

“Well, Sire, all is done.”

“How?”

“Exactly as we expected.”

“Did he resist?”

“Terribly! tears and entreaties.”

“And then?”

“Then stupor.”

“But at last?”

“Oh, at last a complete victory, and absolute silence.”

“Did the governor of the Bastille suspect anything?”

“Nothing.”

“The resemblance, however-”

“That was the cause of the success.”

“But the prisoner cannot fail to explain himself. Think well of that. I have myself been able to do that,- I, who had to contend with a power much better established than is mine.”

“I have already provided for everything. In a few days, sooner perhaps, we will take the captive out of his prison, and will send him out of the country to a place of exile so remote-”

“People can return from exile, M. d’Herblay.”

“To a place of exile so distant, I was going to say, that human strength and the duration of human life would not be enough for his return.”

And once more a cold look of intelligence passed between Aramis and the young King.

“And M. du Vallon?” asked Philippe, in order to change the conversation.

“He will be presented to you to-day, and confidentially will congratulate you on your escape from the danger to which that usurper has exposed you.”

“What is to be done with him?”

“With M. du Vallon?”

“A dukedom, I suppose.”

“Yes, a dukedom,” replied Aramis, smiling in a significant manner.

“Why do you laugh, M. d’Herblay?”

“I laugh at the extreme caution of your Majesty.”

“Cautious! why so?”

“Your Majesty is doubtless afraid that poor Porthos may probably become a troublesome witness; and you wish to get rid of him.”

“What! in making him a duke?”

“Certainly; you would assuredly kill him, for he would die from joy, and the secret would die with him.”

“Good heavens!”

“Yes,” said Aramis, phlegmatically; “I should lose a very good friend.”

At this moment, and in the middle of this idle conversation, under the light tone of which the two conspirators concealed their joy and pride at their mutual success, Aramis heard something which made him prick up his ears.

“What is that?” said Philippe.

“The dawn, Sire.”

“Well?”

“Well, before you retired to bed last night, you probably decided to do something this morning at the break of day.”

“Yes; I told my captain of the Musketeers,” replied the young man, hurriedly, “that I should expect him.”

“If you told him that, he will certainly be here, for he is a most punctual man.”

“I hear a step in the vestibule.”

“It must be he.”

“Come, let us begin the attack,” said the young King, resolutely.

“Be cautious, for heaven’s sake; to begin the attack, and with d’Artagnan, would be madness. D’Artagnan knows nothing, he has seen nothing. He is a hundred leagues from suspecting our mystery; but if he comes into this room the first this morning, he will be sure to detect that something has taken place which he will think his business to occupy himself about. Before we allow d’Artagnan to penetrate into this room, we must air the room thoroughly, or introduce so many people into it that the keenest scent in the whole kingdom may be deceived by the traces of twenty different persons.”

“But how can I send him away, since I have given him a rendezvous?” observed the Prince, impatient to measure swords with so redoubtable an antagonist.

“I will take care of that,” replied the bishop; “and in order to begin, I am going to strike a blow which will completely stupefy our man.”

“He too is striking a blow, for I hear him at the door,” added the Prince, hurriedly.

And, in fact, a knock at the door was heard at that moment. Aramis was not mistaken; for it was indeed d’Artagnan who adopted that mode of announcing himself.

We have seen how he passed the night in philosophizing with M. Fouquet, but the musketeer was very wearied even of feigning to fall asleep, and as soon as the dawn illumined with its pale blue light the sumptuous cornices of the superintendent’s room, d’Artagnan rose from his arm-chair, arranged his sword, brushed his coat and hat with his sleeve, like a private soldier getting ready for inspection.

“Are you going out?” said Fouquet.

“Yes, Monseigneur. And you?”

“No; I shall remain.”

“You give me your word?”

“Certainly.”

“Very good. Besides, my only reason for going out is to try and get that reply: you know what I mean?”

“That sentence, you mean.”

“Stay, I have something of the old Roman in me. This morning, when I got up, I remarked that my sword had not caught in one of the aigulets, and that my shoulder-belt had slipped quite off. That is an infallible sign.”

“Of prosperity?”

“Yes; be sure of it,- for every time that that confounded belt of mine stuck fast to my back, it always signified a punishment from M. de Treville, or a refusal of money by M. de Mazarin. Every time my sword hung fast to my shoulder-belt, it always predicted some disagreeable commission or other for me to execute; and I have had showers of them all my life through. Every time, too, my sword danced about in its sheath, a duel, fortunate in its result, was sure to follow; whenever it dangled about the calves of my legs, it was a slight wound; every time it fell completely out of the scabbard, I was booked, and made up my mind that I should have to remain on the field of battle, with two or three months under the surgeon’s care into the bargain.”

“I never knew your sword kept you so well informed,” said Fouquet, with a faint smile, which showed how he was struggling against his own weaknesses. “Is your sword bewitched, or under the influence of some charm?”

“Why, you must know that my sword may almost be regarded as part of my own body. I have heard that certain men seem to have warnings given them by feeling something the matter with their legs, or by a throbbing of their temples. With me, it is my sword that warns me. Well, it told me of nothing this morning. But stay a moment; look here, it has just fallen of its own accord into the last hole of the belt. Do you know what that is a warning of?”

“No.”

“Well, that tells me of an arrest that will have to be made this very day.”

“Well,” said the superintendent, more astonished than annoyed by this frankness, “if there is nothing disagreeable predicted to you by your sword, I am to conclude that it is not disagreeable for you to arrest me.”

“You? arrest you?”

“Of course. The warning-”

“Does not concern you, since you have been arrested ever since yesterday. It is not you I shall have to arrest, be assured of that. That is the reason why I am delighted, and also the reason why I said that my day will be a happy one.”

And with these words, pronounced with the most affectionate graciousness of manner, the captain took leave of Fouquet in order to wait upon the King. He was on the point of leaving the room when Fouquet said to him, “One last mark of your kindness.”

“What is it, Monseigneur?”

“M. d’Herblay,- let me see M. d’Herblay.”

“I am going to try and get him to come to you.”

D’Artagnan did not think himself so good a prophet. It was written that the day would pass away and realize all the predictions that had been made in the morning. He had accordingly knocked, as we have seen, at the King’s door. The door opened. The captain thought that it was the King who had just opened it himself; and this supposition was not altogether inadmissible, considering the state of agitation in which he had left Louis XIV on the previous evening. But instead of his royal master, whom he was on the point of saluting with the greatest respect, he perceived the long, calm features of Aramis. So extreme was his surprise that he could hardly refrain from uttering a loud exclamation. “Aramis!” he said.

“Good-morning, dear d’Artagnan,” replied the prelate, coldly.

“You here?” stammered out the musketeer.

“His Majesty desires you to report that he is still sleeping, after having been greatly fatigued during the whole night.”

“Ah!” said d’Artagnan, who could not understand how the Bishop of Vannes, who had been so indifferent a favorite the previous evening, had become in half-a-dozen hours the largest mushroom of fortune which had ever sprung up in a sovereign’s bedroom. In fact, to transmit the orders of the King even to the mere threshold of that monarch’s room, to serve as an intermediary of Louis XIV so as to be able to give a single order in his name at a couple of paces from him, he must be greater than Richelieu had ever been to Louis XIII. D’Artagnan’s expressive eye, his half-opened lips, his curling mustache, said as much, indeed, in the plainest language to the chief favorite, who remained calm and unmoved.

“Moreover,” continued the bishop, “you will be good enough, Monsieur the Captain of the Musketeers, to allow those only to pass into the King’s room this morning who have special permission. His Majesty does not wish to be disturbed just yet.”

“But,” objected d’Artagnan, on the point of refusing to obey this order, and particularly of giving unrestrained passage to the suspicions which the King’s silence had aroused,- “but, Monsieur the Bishop, his Majesty gave me a rendezvous for this morning.”

“Later, later,” said the King’s voice from the bottom of the alcove,- a voice which made a cold shudder pass through the musketeer’s veins. He bowed, amazed, confused, and stupefied by the smile with which Aramis seemed to overwhelm him as soon as those words had been pronounced.

“And then,” continued the bishop, “as an answer to what you were coming to ask the King, my dear d’Artagnan, here is an order of his Majesty, which you will be good enough to attend to forthwith, for it concerns M. Fouquet.”

D’Artagnan took the order which was held out to him.

“To be set at liberty!” he murmured. “Ah!” and he uttered a second “ah!” still more full of intelligence than the former,- for this order explained Aramis’s presence with the King. Aramis, in order to have obtained Fouquet’s pardon, must have made considerable progress in the royal favor; and this favor explained, in its tenor, the hardly conceivable assurance with which M. d’Herblay issued the orders in the King’s name. For d’Artagnan it was quite sufficient to have understood something in order to understand everything. He bowed, and withdrew a couple of steps, as if about to leave.

“I am going with you,” said the bishop.

“Where to?”

“To M. Fouquet; I wish to be a witness of his delight.”

“Ah, Aramis, how you puzzled me just now!” said d’Artagnan, again.

“But you understand now, I suppose?”

“Of course I understand,” he said aloud; but then he added in a low tone to himself, almost hissing the words through his teeth, “No, no! I do not understand yet. But it is all the same,- here is the order”; and then he added, “I will lead the way, Monseigneur,” and he conducted Aramis to Fouquet’s apartments.

The King’s Friend

Fouquet was waiting with anxiety; he had already sent away many of his servants and his friends, who, anticipating the usual hour of his ordinary receptions, had called at his door to inquire after him. Preserving the utmost silence respecting the danger suspended over his head, he only asked them- as he did every one, indeed, who came to the door- where Aramis was. When he saw d’Artagnan return, and when he perceived the Bishop of Vannes behind him, he could hardly restrain his delight; it was fully equal to his previous uneasiness. The mere sight of Aramis was a complete compensation to the superintendent for the unhappiness he had undergone in being arrested. The prelate was silent and grave, d’Artagnan completely bewildered by such an accumulation of events.

“Well, Captain, so you have brought M. d’Herblay to me?”

“And something better still, Monseigneur.”

“What is that?”

“Liberty.”

“I am free?”

“Yes,- by the King’s order.”

Fouquet resumed his usual serenity that he might interrogate Aramis with his look.

“Oh, yes; you can thank M. the Bishop of Vannes,” pursued d’Artagnan, “for it is indeed to him that you owe the change that has taken place in the King.”

“Oh!” said Fouquet, more humiliated at the service than grateful at its success.

“But you,” continued d’Artagnan, addressing Aramis,- “you who have become M. Fouquet’s protector and patron,- can you not do something for me?”

“Anything you like, my friend,” replied the bishop, in a calm voice.

“One thing only, then, and I shall be perfectly satisfied. How have you managed to become the favorite of the King, you who have never spoken to him more than twice in your life?”

“From a friend such as you are,” said Aramis, “I cannot conceal anything.”

“Ah, very good! tell me, then.”

“Very well. You think that I have seen the King only twice, while the fact is I have seen him more than a hundred times; only we have kept it very secret, that is all.” And without trying to remove the color which at this revelation made d’Artagnan’s face flush scarlet, Aramis turned towards M. Fouquet, who was as much surprised as the musketeer. “Monseigneur,” he resumed, “the King desires me to inform you that he is more than ever your friend, and that the beautiful fête so generously offered by you on his behalf has touched him to the heart.”

And thereupon he saluted M. Fouquet with so much reverence of manner that the latter, unable to understand a man whose diplomacy was of so prodigious a character, remained incapable of uttering a single syllable, and equally incapable of thought or movement. D’Artagnan fancied that these two men had something to say to each other, and he was about to yield to that feeling of instinctive politeness which hurries a man towards the door when he feels his presence is an inconvenience for others; but his eager curiosity, spurred on by so many mysteries, counselled him to remain.

Aramis thereupon turned towards him, and said in a quiet tone, “You will not forget, my friend, the King’s order respecting those whom he intends to receive this morning on rising.” These words were clear enough, and the musketeer understood them; he therefore bowed to Fouquet, and then to Aramis,- to the latter with a slight admixture of ironical respect,- and disappeared.

No sooner had he left than Fouquet, whose impatience had hardly been able to wait for that moment, darted towards the door to close it; and then returning to the bishop, he said, “My dear d’Herblay, I think it now high time you should explain to me what has passed, for, in plain and honest truth, I do not understand anything.”

“We will explain all that to you,” said Aramis, sitting down, and making Fouquet sit down also. “Where shall I begin?”

“With this, first of all. Why does the King set me at liberty?”

“You ought rather to ask me what was his reason for having you arrested.”

“Since my arrest I have had time to think it over, and my idea is that it arises out of some slight feeling of jealousy. My fête put M. Colbert out of temper, and M. Colbert discovered some cause of complaint against me,- Belle-Isle, for instance.”

“No; there is no question at all just now of Belle-Isle.”

“What is it, then?”

“Do you remember those receipts for thirteen millions which M. de Mazarin contrived to get stolen from you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, you are already pronounced to be a public robber.”

“Good heavens!”

“Oh, that is not all. Do you also remember that letter you wrote to La Valliere?”

“Alas! yes.”

“And that proclaims you a traitor and a suborner.”

“Why should he have pardoned me, then?”

“We have not yet arrived at that part of our argument. I wish you to be quite convinced of the fact itself. Observe this well: the King knows you to be guilty of an appropriation of public funds. Oh, of course I know that you have done nothing of the kind; but at all events the King has not seen the receipts, and he cannot do otherwise than believe you criminal.”

“I beg your pardon, I do not see-”

“You will see presently, though. The King, moreover, having read your love-letter to La Valliere, and the offers you there made her, cannot retain any doubt of your intention with regard to that young lady; you will admit that, I suppose?”

“Certainly; but conclude.”

“In a few words. The King is, therefore, a powerful, implacable, and eternal enemy for you.”

“Agreed. But am I, then, so powerful that he has not dared to sacrifice me, notwithstanding his hatred, with all the means which my weakness or my misfortunes may have given him as a hold upon me?”

“It is clear, beyond all doubt,” pursued Aramis, coldly, “that the King has quarrelled irreconcilably with you.”

“But since he absolves me-”

“Do you believe it?” asked the bishop, with a searching look.

“Without believing in his sincerity of heart, I believe in the truth of the fact.”

Aramis slightly shrugged his shoulders.

“But why, then, should Louis XIV have commissioned you to tell me what you have just stated?”

“The King charged me with nothing for you.”

“With nothing!” said the superintendent, stupefied. “But that order, then-”

“Oh, yes! you are quite right. There is an order, certainly”; and these words were pronounced by Aramis in so strange a tone that Fouquet could not suppress a movement of surprise.

“You are concealing something from me, I see.”

Aramis softly rubbed his white fingers over his chin, but said nothing.

“Does the King exile me?”

“Do not act as if you were playing at the game at which children play when they guess where a thing has been hidden, and are informed by a bell being rung when they are approaching near to it, or going away from it.”

“Speak, then.”

“Guess.”

“You alarm me.”

“Bah! that is because you have not guessed, then.”

“What did the King say to you? In the name of our friendship, do not deceive me!”

“The King has not said a word to me.”

“You are killing me with impatience, M. d’Herblay. Am I still superintendent?”

“As long as you like.”

“But what extraordinary empire have you so suddenly acquired over his Majesty’s mind?”

“Ah! that is it.”

“You make him do as you like.”

“I believe so.”

“It is hardly credible.”

“So any one would say.”

“D’Herblay, by our alliance, by our friendship, by everything you hold the dearest in the world, speak openly, I implore you. By what means have you succeeded in overcoming Louis XIV’s prejudices? He did not like you, I know.”

“The King will like me now,” said Aramis, laying a stress upon the last word.

“You and his Majesty have something particular, then, between you?”

“Yes.”

“A secret, perhaps?”

“Yes, a secret.”

“A secret of such a nature as to change his Majesty’s interests?”

“You are indeed a man of superior intelligence, Monseigneur, and have made a very accurate guess. I have, in fact, discovered a secret of a nature to change the interests of the King of France.”

“Ah!” said Fouquet, with the reserve of a man who does not wish to ask questions.

“And you shall judge of it yourself,” pursued Aramis; “and you shall tell me if I am mistaken with regard to the importance of this secret.”

“I am listening, since you are good enough to unbosom yourself to me; only do not forget that I have asked you nothing which may be indiscreet in you to communicate.”

Aramis seemed for a moment as if he were collecting himself.

“Do not speak!” said Fouquet; “there is still time enough.”

“Do you remember,” said the bishop, casting down his eyes, “the birth of Louis XIV?”

“As it were yesterday.”

“Have you ever heard anything particular respecting his birth?”

“Nothing; except that the King was not really the son of Louis XIII.”

“That does not matter to us, or the kingdom either; he is the son of his father, says the French law, whose father is recognized by the law.”

“True; but it is a grave matter when the quality of races is called into question.”

“A merely secondary question, after all. So that, in fact, you have never learned or heard anything in particular?”

“Nothing.”

“That is where my secret begins. The Queen, you must know, instead of being delivered of one son, was delivered of two children.”

Fouquet looked up suddenly as he replied, “And the second is dead?”

“You will see. These twins seemed likely to be regarded as the pride of their mother and the hope of France; but the weak nature of the King, his superstitious feelings, made him apprehend a series of conflicts between two children whose rights were equal. He suppressed one of the twins.”

“Suppressed, do you say?”

“Listen. Both the children grew up,- the one on the throne, whose minister you are; the other, who is my friend, in gloom and isolation.”

“Good heavens! What are you saying, M. d’Herblay? And what is this poor Prince doing?”

“Ask me, rather, what he has done.”

“Yes, yes.”

“He was brought up in the country, and then thrown into a fortress which goes by the name of the Bastille.”

“Is it possible?” cried the superintendent, clasping his hands.

“The one was the most fortunate of men; the other the most unhappy of miserable beings.”

“Does his mother not know this?”

“Anne of Austria knows it all.”

“And the King?”

“Knows absolutely nothing.”

“So much the better!” said Fouquet.

This remark seemed to make a great impression on Aramis; he looked at Fouquet with an anxious expression.

“I beg your pardon; I interrupted you,” said Fouquet.

“I was saying,” resumed Aramis, “that this poor Prince was the unhappiest of men, when God, whose thoughts are over all his creatures, undertook to come to his assistance.”

“Oh! in what way?”

“You will see. The reigning King,- I say the reigning King: you can guess very well why?”

“No. Why?”

“Because being alike legitimately entitled from their birth, both ought to have been kings. Is not that your opinion?”

“It is, certainly.”

“Unreservedly so?”

“Most unreservedly; twins are one person in two bodies.”

“I am pleased that a legist of your learning and authority should have pronounced such an opinion. It is agreed, then, that both of them possessed the same rights, is it not?”

“Incontestably so! but, gracious heavens, what an extraordinary circumstance!”

“We are not at the end of it yet. Patience!”

“Oh, I shall find ‘patience’ enough.”

“God wished to raise up for that oppressed child an avenger, or a supporter, if you prefer it. It happened that the reigning King, the usurper- you are quite of my opinion, are you not, that it is an act of usurpation for one quietly to enjoy, and selfishly to assume the right over, an inheritance of which at most only a half belongs to him?”

“Yes; usurpation is the word.”

“I continue, then. It was God’s will that the usurper should possess, in the person of his first minister, a man of great talent, of large and generous nature.”

“Well, well,” said Fouquet, “I understand; you have relied upon me to repair the wrong which has been done to this unhappy brother of Louis XIV. You have thought well; I will help you. I thank you, d’Herblay, I thank you.”

“Oh, no, it is not that at all; you have not allowed me to finish,” said Aramis, unmoved.

“I will not say another word, then.”

“M. Fouquet, I was observing that the minister of the reigning sovereign was suddenly regarded with the greatest aversion, and menaced with the ruin of his fortune, with loss of liberty, with loss of life even, by intrigue and personal hatred, to which the King gave too readily an attentive ear. But Heaven permits- still, however, out of consideration for the unhappy Prince who had been sacrificed- that M. Fouquet should in his turn have a devoted friend who knew this state secret, and felt that he possessed strength and courage enough to divulge it, after having had the strength to carry it locked up in his own heart for twenty years.”

“Do not go on any farther,” said Fouquet, full of generous feelings. “I understand you, and can guess everything now. You went to see the King when the intelligence of my arrest reached you. You implored him; he refused to listen to you. Then you threatened him with the revelation of that secret; and Louis XIV, alarmed, granted to the fear of your indiscretion what he refused to your generous intercession. I understand, I understand: you have the King in your power; I understand.”

“You understand nothing as yet,” replied Aramis, “and again you have interrupted me. And then, too, allow me to observe that you pay no attention to logical reasoning, and seem to forget what you ought most to remember.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know upon what I laid the greatest stress at the beginning of our conversation?”

“Yes, his Majesty’s hate, invincible hate, for me; yes, but what feeling of hate could resist the threat of such a revelation?”

“Such a revelation, do you say? that is the very point where your logic fails you. What! do you suppose that if I had made such a revelation to the King, I should have been alive now?”

“It is not ten minutes ago since you were with the King?”

“That may be. He might not have had the time to get me killed outright, but he would have had the time to get me gagged and thrown into a dungeon. Come, come! show a little consistency in your reasoning, mordieu!”

And by the mere use of this word of the Musketeers, an oversight of one who never seemed to forget anything, Fouquet could not but understand to what a pitch of exaltation the calm, impenetrable Bishop of Vannes had wrought himself. He shuddered at it.

“And then,” replied the latter, after having mastered his feelings, “should I be the man I really am, should I be the true friend you consider me, if I were to expose you- you whom the King hates already bitterly enough- to a feeling still more than ever to be dreaded in that young man? To have robbed him is nothing; to have addressed the woman he loves is not much; but to hold in your keeping both his crown and his honor,- why, he would rather pluck out your heart with his own hands!”

“You have not allowed him to penetrate your secret, then?”

“I would sooner, far sooner, have swallowed at one draught all the poisons that Mithridates drank in twenty years in trying to avoid death.”

“What have you done, then?”

“Ah, now we are coming to the point, Monseigneur! I think I shall not fail to excite a little interest in you. You are listening, I hope?”

“How can you ask me if I am listening? Go on.”

Aramis walked softly all round the room, satisfied himself that they were alone and that all was silent, and then returned, and placed himself close to the arm-chair in which Fouquet awaited with the deepest anxiety the revelations he had to make.

“I forgot to tell you,” resumed Aramis, addressing himself to Fouquet, who listened to him with the most absorbed attention,- “I forgot to mention a most remarkable circumstance respecting these twins; namely, that God had formed them so like each other that he alone, if he should summon them to his tribunal, could distinguish the one from the other. Their own mother could not do it.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Fouquet.

“The same noble character in their features, the same carriage, the same stature, the same voice.”

“But their thoughts; degree of intelligence; their knowledge of human life?”

“There is inequality there, I admit, Monseigneur. Yes, for the prisoner of the Bastille is most incontestably superior in every way to his brother; and if from his prison this unhappy victim were to pass to the throne, France would not from the earliest period of its history, perhaps, have had a master more powerful by his genius and true nobleness of character.”

Fouquet buried his face in his hands, as if he were overwhelmed by the weight of this immense secret.

Aramis approached him. “There is a further inequality,” he said, continuing his work of temptation,- “an inequality which concerns yourself, Monseigneur,- between the twins, sons of Louis XIII; namely, the last comer does not know M. Colbert.”

Fouquet raised his head immediately; his features were pale and distorted. The bolt had hit its mark- not his heart, but his mind and comprehension.

“I understand you,” he said to Aramis; “you are proposing conspiracy to me?”

“Something like it.”

“One of those attempts which, as you said at the beginning of this conversation, alter the fate of empires?”

“And of superintendents; yes, Monseigneur.”

“In a word, you propose to me that I should assist in the substitution of the son of Louis XIII who is now a prisoner in the Bastille for the son of Louis XIII who is now at this moment asleep in the Chamber of Morpheus?”

Aramis smiled with the sinister expression of his sinister thought. “Perhaps,” he said.

“But,” said Fouquet, after a painful silence, “you have not reflected that such a political enterprise must overturn the entire kingdom; and that after pulling up that widely-rooted tree that is called a King, to replace it by another, the earth around will never again become so firm that the new King may be secure against the wind that remains of the former tempest, and against the oscillations of his own bulk.”

Aramis continued to smile.

“Have you thought,” continued Fouquet, becoming animated with that power of genius which in a few seconds originates and matures the conception of a plan, and with that largeness of view which foresees all its consequences and embraces all its results,- “have you thought that we must assemble the nobility, the clergy, and the third estate of the realm; that we shall have to depose the reigning sovereign, to disturb by a frightful scandal the tomb of their dead father, to sacrifice the life, the honor, of a woman (Anne of Austria), the life and peace of another woman (Maria Theresa)? And suppose that all were done, if we were to succeed in doing it-”

“I do not understand you,” continued Aramis, coldly. “There is not a single word of the slightest use in what you have just said.”

“What!” said the superintendent, surprised; “a man like you refuse to view the practical bearings of the case? Do you confine yourself to the childish delight of a political illusion, and neglect the chances of fulfilment,- in other words, the reality? Is it possible?”

“My friend,” said Aramis, emphasizing the word with a kind of disdainful familiarity, “what does God do in order to substitute one king for another?”

“God!” exclaimed Fouquet,- “God gives directions to his agent, who seizes upon the doomed victim, hurries him away, and seats the triumphant rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this agent is called death. Oh, M. d’Herblay! in Heaven’s name, tell me if you have had the idea-”

“There is no question of that, Monseigneur,- you are going beyond the object in view. Who spoke of Louis XIV’s death; who spoke of adopting the example of God in the strict method of his works? No; I wish you to understand that God effects his purposes without confusion, without scandal, without effort, and that men inspired by God succeed like him in all their undertakings, in all they attempt, in all they do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, my friend,” returned Aramis, with the same intonation on the word “friend” that he had applied to it the first time,- “I mean that if there has been any confusion, scandal, and even effort in the substitution of the prisoner for the King, I defy you to prove it.”

“What!” cried Fouquet, whiter than the handkerchief with which he wiped his temples; “what do you say?”

“Go to the King’s apartment,” continued Aramis, tranquilly; “and you who know the mystery, I defy even you to perceive that the prisoner of the Bastille is lying in his brother’s bed.”

“But the King?” stammered Fouquet, seized with horror at the intelligence.

“What King?” said Aramis, in his gentlest tone; “the one who hates you, or the one who likes you?”

“The King- of yesterday?”

“The King of yesterday! Be quite easy on that score; he has gone to take the place in the Bastille which his victim has occupied for such a long time past.”

“Great God! And who took him there?”

“I.”

“You?”

“Yes, and in the simplest way. I carried him away last night; and while he was descending into gloom, the other was ascending into light. I do not think there has been any disturbance created in any way. A flash of lightning without thunder never awakens any one.”

Fouquet uttered a thick, smothered cry, as if he had been struck by some invisible blow, and clasping his head between his clinched hands, he murmured, “You did that?”

“Cleverly enough, too; what do you think of it?”

“You have dethroned the King; you have imprisoned him?”

“It is done.”

“And such an action was committed here at Vaux?”

“Yes; here at Vaux, in the Chamber of Morpheus. It would almost seem that it had been built in anticipation of such an act.”

“And at what time did it occur?”

“Last night, between twelve and one o’clock.”

Fouquet made a movement as if he were on the point of springing upon Aramis; he restrained himself. “At Vaux; under my roof!” he said in a half-strangled voice.

“I believe so; for it is still your house, and is likely to continue so, since M. Colbert cannot rob you of it now.”

“It was under my roof, then, Monsieur, that you committed this crime!”

“This crime!” said Aramis, stupefied.

“This abominable crime!” pursued Fouquet, becoming more and more excited; “this crime more execrable than an assassination; this crime which dishonors my name forever, and entails upon me the horror of posterity!”

“You are not in your senses, Monsieur,” replied Aramis, in an irresolute tone of voice; “you are speaking too loudly. Take care!”

“I will call out so loudly that the whole world shall hear me.”

“M. Fouquet, take care!”

Fouquet turned towards the prelate, whom he looked full in the face. “You have dishonored me,” he said, “in committing so foul an act of treason, so heinous a crime upon my guest, upon one who was peacefully reposing beneath my roof. Oh, woe, woe is me!”

“Woe to the man, rather, who beneath your roof meditated the ruin of your fortune, your life. Do you forget that?”

“He was my guest; he was my King!”

Aramis rose, his eyes literally bloodshot, his mouth trembling convulsively. “Have I a man out of his senses to deal with?” he said.

“You have an honorable man to deal with.”

“You are mad!”

“A man who will prevent you from consummating your crime.”

“You are mad!”

“A man who would sooner die, who would kill you even, rather than allow you to complete his dishonor.”

And Fouquet snatched up his sword, which d’Artagnan had placed at the head of his bed, and clinched it resolutely in his hand. Aramis frowned, and thrust his hand into his breast, as if in search of a weapon. This movement did not escape Fouquet, who, noble and grand in his magnanimity, threw his sword to a distance from him, and approached Aramis so close as to touch his shoulder with his disarmed hand. “Monsieur,” he said, “I would sooner die here on the spot than survive my disgrace; and if you have any pity left for me, I entreat you to take my life.”

Aramis remained silent and motionless.

“You do not reply?” said Fouquet.

Aramis raised his head gently, and a glimmer of hope might be seen once more to animate his eyes. “Reflect, Monseigneur,” he said, “upon everything we have to expect. As the matter now stands, the King is still alive, and his imprisonment saves your life.”

“Yes,” replied Fouquet, “you may have been acting on my behalf; but I do not accept your service. At the same time, I do not wish your ruin. You will leave this house.”

Aramis stifled an exclamation which almost escaped his broken heart.

“I am hospitable towards all who are dwellers beneath my roof,” continued Fouquet, with an air of inexpressible majesty; “you will not be more fatally lost than he whose ruin you have consummated.”

“You will be so,” said Aramis, in a hoarse, prophetic, voice- “you will be so, believe me.”

“I accept the augury, M. d’Herblay; but nothing shall stop me. You will leave Vaux; you must leave France. I give you four hours to place yourself out of the King’s reach.”

“Four hours?” said the Bishop of Vannes, scornfully and incredulously.

“Upon the word of Fouquet, no one shall follow you before the expiration of that time. You will therefore have four hours’ advance of those whom the King may wish to despatch after you.”

“Four hours!” repeated Aramis, in a thick, smothered voice.

“It is more than you will need to get on board a vessel, and flee to Belle-Isle, which I give you as a place of refuge.”

“Ah!” murmured Aramis.

“Belle-Isle is as much mine for you as Vaux is mine for the King. Go, d’Herblay, go! as long as I live, not a hair of your head shall be injured.”

“Thank you,” said Aramis, with a cold irony of manner.

“Go at once, then, and give me your hand, before we both hasten away,- you to save your life, I to save my honor.”

Aramis withdrew from his breast the hand he had concealed there; it was stained with his blood. He had dug his nails into his flesh, as if in punishment for having nursed so many projects, more vain, insensate, and fleeting than the life of man. Fouquet was horror-stricken, and then his heart smote him with pity. He opened his arms to Aramis.

“I had no weapons,” murmured Aramis, as wild and terrible as the shade of Dido. And then, without touching Fouquet’s hand, he turned his head aside, and stepped back a pace or two. His last word was an imprecation, his last gesture a curse, which his blood-stained hand seemed to invoke, as it sprinkled on Fouquet’s face a few drops of his blood; and both of them darted out of the room by the secret staircase which led down to the inner courtyard. Fouquet ordered his best horses, while Aramis paused at the foot of the staircase which led to Porthos’s apartment. He reflected for some time, while Fouquet’s carriage left the stone-paved courtyard at full gallop.

“Shall I go alone,” said Aramis to himself, “or warn the Prince? Oh, fury! Warn the Prince, and then- do what? Take him with me? Carry this accusing witness about with me everywhere? War, too, would follow,- civil war, implacable in its nature! And without any resource- alas, it is impossible! What will he do without me? Without me he will be utterly destroyed! Yet who knows? let destiny be fulfilled! Condemned he was, let him remain so, then! God! Demon! Gloomy and scornful Power, whom men call the Genius of man, thou art only a breath, more uncertain, more useless, than the wind in the mountains! Chance thou term’st thyself, but thou art nothing; thou inflamest everything with thy breath, crumblest mountains at thy approach, and suddenly art thyself destroyed at the presence of the cross of dead wood, behind which stands another Power invisible like thyself,- whom thou deniest, perhaps, but whose avenging hand is on thee, and hurls thee in the dust dishonored and unnamed! Lost! I am lost! What can be done? Flee to Bell-Isle? Yes, and leave Porthos behind me, to talk and relate the whole affair to every one,- Porthos, who will suffer, perhaps! I will not let poor Porthos suffer. He is one of the members of my own frame; his grief is mine. Porthos shall leave with me, and shall follow my destiny. It must be so.”

And Aramis, apprehensive of meeting any one to whom his hurried movements might appear suspicious, ascended the staircase without being perceived. Porthos, but just returned from Paris, slept already the sleep of the just; his huge body forgot its fatigue as his mind forgot its thoughts. Aramis entered, light as a shadow, and placed his nervous grasp on the giant’s shoulder. “Come, Porthos,” he cried, “come.”

Porthos obeyed, rose from his bed, and opened his eyes, even before opening his mind.

“We are going off,” said Aramis.

“Ah!” returned Porthos.

“We shall go mounted, and faster than we have ever gone in our lives.”

“Ah!” repeated Porthos.

“Dress yourself, my friend.”

And he helped the giant to dress himself, and thrust his gold and diamonds into his pocket. While he was thus engaged, a slight noise attracted his attention, and he saw d’Artagnan looking at them from the open doorway. Aramis started.

“What the devil are you doing there in such an agitated manner?” said the musketeer.

“Hush!” said Porthos.

“We are going off on a mission,” added the bishop.

“You are very fortunate,” said the musketeer.

“Oh, dear me!” said Porthos, “I feel so wearied; I would much prefer to sleep. But the service of the King-”

“Have you seen M. Fouquet?” inquired Aramis of d’Artagnan.

“Yes; this very minute, in a carriage.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He bade me adieu.”

“Was that all?”

“What else do you think he could say? Am I worth anything now, since you have all got into such high favor?”

“Listen,” said Aramis, embracing the musketeer; “your good times are returning again. You will have no more occasion to be jealous of any one.”

“Ah, bah!”

“I predict that something will happen to you to-day which will increase your importance.”

“Really?”

“You know that I know all the news?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Come, Porthos, are you ready? Let us go.”

“I am quite ready, Aramis.”

“Let us embrace d’Artagnan first.”

“Pardieu!”

“But the horses?”

“Oh! there is no want of them here. Will you have mine?”

No; Porthos has his own stud. So adieu; adieu!”

The two fugitives mounted their horses beneath the eyes of the captain of the Musketeers, who held Porthos’s stirrup for him, and gazed after them until they were out of sight.

“On any other occasion,” thought the Gascon, “I should say that those gentlemen were making their escape; but in these days politics seem so changed that this is called going on a mission. I have no objection. Let me attend to my own affairs”; and he philosophically entered his apartments.

How the Countersign Was Respected at the Bastille

Fouquet tore along as fast as his horses could drag him. On the way he trembled with horror at the idea of what had just been revealed to him. “What must have been,” he thought, “the youth of those extraordinary men, who, even as age is stealing fast upon them, still are able to conceive such plans, and to carry them out without flinching!”

At one moment he asked himself whether all that Aramis had just been recounting to him was not a dream only, and whether the fable itself was not the snare; so that when he should arrive at the Bastille he might find an order of arrest, which would send him to join the dethroned King. Strongly impressed with this idea, he gave certain sealed orders on his route, while fresh horses were harnessed to his carriage. These orders were addressed to M. d’Artagnan and to certain others whose fidelity to the King was far above suspicion.

“In this way,” said Fouquet to himself, “prisoner or not, I shall have performed the duty which I owe to my honor. The orders will not reach them until after my return, if I should return free, and consequently they will not have been unsealed. I shall then take them back again. If I am delayed, it will be because some misfortune will have befallen me; and in that case assistance will be sent for me as well as for the King.”

Prepared in this manner, the superintendent arrived at the Bastille; he had travelled at the rate of five leagues and a half an hour. Every circumstance of delay which Aramis had escaped in his visit to the Bastille befell Fouquet. It was in vain that he gave his name, in vain that he endeavored to be recognized; he could not succeed in obtaining an entrance. By dint of entreaties, threats, and commands, he succeeded in inducing a sentinel to speak to one of the subalterns, who went and told the major. As for the governor, they did not even dare disturb him. Fouquet sat in his carriage, at the outer gate of the fortress, chafing with rage and impatience, awaiting the return of the officer, who at last reappeared with a somewhat sulky air.

“Well,” said Fouquet, impatiently, “what did the major say?”

“Well, Monsieur,” replied the soldier, “the major laughed in my face. He told me that M. Fouquet was at Vaux, and that even were he at Paris, M. Fouquet would not rise at so early an hour as the present.”

“Mordieu! you are a set of fools,” cried the minister, darting out of the carriage; and before the subaltern had had time to shut the gate, Fouquet sprang through it, and ran forward in spite of the soldier, who cried out for assistance. Fouquet gained ground, regardless of the cries of the man, who however, having at last come up with Fouquet, called out to the sentinel of the second gate, “Look out, look out, sentinel!” The man crossed his pike before the minister; but the latter, robust and active, and carried away too by his passion, wrested the pike from the soldier, and struck him a violent blow on the shoulder with it. The subaltern, who approached too closely, received his part of the blows as well. Both of them uttered loud and furious cries, at the sound of which the whole of the first body of the advanced guard poured out of the guard-house. Among them there was one, however, who recognized the superintendent, and who called out, “Monseigneur! ah, Monseigneur! Stop, stop, you fellows!” and he effectually checked the soldiers, who were on the point of avenging their companions. Fouquet desired them to open the gate; but they refused to do so without the countersign. He desired them to inform the governor of his presence; but the latter had already heard the disturbance at the gate. He ran forward, followed by his major, and accompanied by a picket of twenty men, persuaded that an attack was being made on the Bastille. Baisemeaux also recognized Fouquet immediately, and dropped his sword, which he had held brandishing about in his hand.

“Ah, Monseigneur!” he stammered, “how can I excuse-”

“Monsieur,” said the superintendent, flushed with anger, and heated by his exertions, “I congratulate you. Your watch and ward are admirably kept.”

Baisemeaux turned pale, thinking that this remark was said ironically, and portended a furious burst of anger. But Fouquet had recovered his breath, and beckoning towards him the sentinel and the subaltern, who were rubbing their shoulders, he said, “There are twenty pistoles for the sentinel, and fifty for the officer. Pray receive my compliments, gentlemen. I will not fail to speak to his Majesty about you. And now, M. Baisemeaux, a word with you.”

And he followed the governor to his official residence, accompanied by a murmur of general satisfaction. Baisemeaux was already trembling with shame and uneasiness. Aramis’s early visit from that moment seemed to involve consequences which a functionary was justified in apprehending. It was quite another thing, however, when Fouquet, in a sharp tone of voice, and with an imperious look, said, “You have seen M. d’Herblay this morning?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“And are you not horrified at the crime of which you have made yourself an accomplice?”

“Well,” thought Baisemeaux, “good so far”; and then he added aloud, “But what crime, Monseigneur, do you allude to?”

“That for which you can be quartered alive, Monsieur,- do not forget that! But this is not a time to show anger. Conduct me immediately to the prisoner.”

“To what prisoner?” said Baisemeaux, trembling.

“You pretend to be ignorant! Very good; it is the best thing for you to do,- for if, in fact, you were to admit your participation in it, it would be all over with you. I wish, therefore, to seem to believe in your assumption of ignorance.”

“I entreat you, Monseigneur-”

“That will do. Lead me to the prisoner.”

“To Marchiali?”

“Who is Marchiali?”

“The prisoner who was brought back this morning by M. d’Herblay.”

“He is called Marchiali?” said the superintendent, his conviction somewhat shaken by Baisemeaux’s cool manner.

“Yes, Monseigneur; that is the name under which he was inscribed here.”

Fouquet looked steadily at Baisemeaux, as if to read his very heart, and perceived, with that clear-sightedness which men possess who are accustomed to the exercise of power, that the man was speaking with absolute sincerity. Besides, on observing his face for a moment, he could not believe that Aramis would have chosen such a confidant.

“It is the prisoner,” said the superintendent to Baisemeaux, “whom M. d’Herblay carried away the day before yesterday?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“And whom he brought back this morning?” added Fouquet, quickly, for he understood immediately the mechanism of Aramis’s plan.

“Precisely, Monseigneur.”

“And his name is Marchiali, you say?”

“Yes; Marchiali. If Monseigneur has come here to remove him, so much the better, for I was going to write about him.”

“What has he done, then?”

“Ever since this morning, he has annoyed me extremely. He has had such terrible fits of passion as almost to make me believe that he would bring the Bastille itself down about our ears.”

“I will soon relieve you of his presence,” said Fouquet.

“Ah! so much the better.”

“Conduct me to his prison.”

“Will Monseigneur give me the order?”

“What order?”

“An order from the King.”

“Wait until I sign you one.”

“That will not be sufficient, Monseigneur; I must have an order from the King.”

Fouquet assumed an irritated expression. “As you are so scrupulous,” he said, “with regard to allowing prisoners to leave, show me the order by which this one was set at liberty.”

Baisemeaux showed him the order to release Seldon.

“Very good,” said Fouquet; “but Seldon is not Marchiali.”

“But Marchiali is not at liberty; he is here.”

“But you said that M. d’Herblay carried him away and brought him back again.”

“I did not say so.”

“So surely did you say it that I almost seem to hear it now.”

“It was a slip of my tongue, then, Monseigneur.”

“Take care, M. Baisemeaux, take care!”

“I have nothing to fear, Monseigneur; I am acting according to strict regulation.”

“Do you dare to say so?”

“I would say so in the presence of an apostle. M. d’Herblay brought me an order to set Seldon at liberty; and Seldon is free.”

“I tell you that Marchiali has left the Bastille.”

“You must prove that, Monseigneur.”

“Let me see him.”

“You, Monseigneur, who govern in this kingdom, know very well that no one can see any of the prisoners without an express order from the King.”

“M. d’Herblay has entered, however.”

“That is to be proved, Monseigneur.”

“M. de Baisemeaux, once more I warn you to pay particular attention to what you are saying.”

“All the documents are there, Monseigneur.”

“M. d’Herblay is overthrown.”

“Overthrown,- M. d’Herblay? Impossible!”

“You see that he has influenced you.”

“What influences me, Monseigneur, is the King’s service. I am doing my duty. Give me an order from him, and you shall enter.”

“Stay, Monsieur the Governor! I give you my word that if you allow me to see the prisoner I will give you an order from the King at once.”

“Give it to me now, Monseigneur.”

“And that if you refuse me I will have you and all your officers arrested on the spot.”

“Before you commit such an act of violence, Monseigneur, you will reflect’” said Baisemeaux, who had turned very pale, “that we will only obey an order signed by the King; and that it will be just as easy for you to obtain one to see Marchiali as to obtain one to do so much injury to me, who am innocent.”

“True, true!” cried Fouquet, furiously,- “perfectly true! M. de Baisemeaux,” he added in a sonorous voice, drawing the unhappy governor towards him, “do you know why I am so anxious to speak to the prisoner?”

“No, Monseigneur; and please observe that you are terrifying me. I tremble, and feel as if I were going to faint.”

“You will faint outright, M. Baisemeaux, when I return here at the head of ten thousand men and thirty pieces of cannon.”

“Good heavens, Monseigneur! you are losing your senses!”

“When I have roused the whole population of Paris against you and your cursed towers, and have battered open the gates of this place, and hanged you up to the bars of that tower in the corner there.”

“Monseigneur, Monseigneur! for pity’s sake!”

“I will give you ten minutes to make up your mind,” added Fouquet, in a calm voice. “I will sit down here in this arm-chair and wait for you. If in ten minutes’ time you still persist, I will leave this place, and you may think me as mad as you like; but you will see!”

Baisemeaux stamped his foot on the ground like a man in a state of despair, but he did not utter a word; whereupon Fouquet seized a pen and ink, and wrote,-

“Order for M. le Prevot des Marchands to assemble the municipal guard, and to march upon the Bastille for the King’s service.”

Baisemeaux shrugged his shoulders. Fouquet wrote:

“Order for M. le Duc de Bouillon and M. le Prince de Conde to assume the command of the Swiss and of the Guards, and to march upon the Bastille for the King’s service.”

Baisemeaux reflected. Fouquet still wrote:-

“Order for every soldier, citizen, or gentleman to seize and apprehend, wherever he may be found, the Chevalier d’Herblay, Eveque de Vannes, and his accomplices, who are- first, M. de Baisemeaux, governor of the Bastille, suspected of the crimes of high treason and rebellion-

“Stop, Monseigneur!” cried Baisemeaux. “I understand absolutely nothing of the whole matter; but so many misfortunes, even were it madness itself that had set them at work, might happen here in a couple of hours that the King, by whom I shall be judged, will see whether I have been wrong in withdrawing the countersign before so many imminent catastrophes. Come with me to the keep, Monseigneur; you shall see Marchiali.”

Fouquet darted out of the room, followed by Baisemeaux wiping the perspiration from his face. “What a terrible morning!” he said; “what a disgrace!”

“Walk faster!” replied Fouquet.

Baisemeaux made a sign to the jailer to precede them. He was afraid of his companion,- which the latter could not fail to perceive.

“A truce to this child’s-play!” said Fouquet, roughly. “Let the man remain here; take the keys yourself, and show me the way. Not a single person, do you understand, must hear what is going to take place here.”

“Ah!” said Baisemeaux, undecided.

“Again,” cried Fouquet. “Ah! say ‘No’ at once, and I will leave the Bastille, and will myself carry my own despatches.”

Baisemeaux bowed his head, took the keys, and unaccompanied except by the minister, ascended the staircase. As they advanced up the spiral staircase, certain smothered murmurs became distinct cries and fearful imprecations. “What is that?” asked Fouquet.

“That is your Marchiali,” said the governor; “that is the way madmen howl.” And he accompanied that reply with a glance more indicative of injurious allusions, as far as Fouquet was concerned, than of politeness.

The latter trembled; he had just recognized, in one cry more terrible than any that had preceded it, the King’s voice. He paused on the staircase, trying to snatch the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux, who thought this new madman was going to dash out his brains with one of them.

“Give me the keys at once!” cried Fouquet, tearing them from his hand. “Which is the key of the door I am to open?”

“That one.”

A fearful cry, followed by a violent blow against the door, made the whole staircase resound with the echo. “Leave this place!” said Fouquet to Baisemeaux, in a threatening voice.

“I ask nothing better,” murmured the latter. “There will be a couple of madmen face to face; and the one will kill the other, I am sure.”

“Go!” repeated Fouquet. “If you place your foot on this staircase before I call you, remember that you shall take the place of the meanest prisoner in the Bastille.”

“This job will kill me, I am sure!” muttered Baisemeaux, as he withdrew with tottering steps.

The prisoner’s cries became more and more terrible. When Fouquet had satisfied himself that Baisemeaux had reached the bottom of the staircase, he inserted the key in the first lock. It was then that he heard the hoarse, choking voice of the King crying out in a frenzy of rage, “Help, help! I am the King!” The key of the second door was not the same as the first, and Fouquet was obliged to look for it on the bunch. The King, meanwhile, furious and almost mad with rage and passion, shouted at the top of his voice, “It was M. Fouquet who brought me here! help me against M. Fouquet! I am the King! help the King against M. Fouquet!”

These cries tore the minister’s heart with mingled emotions. They were followed by frightful blows levelled against the door with a part of the broken chair with which the King had armed himself. Fouquet at last succeeded in finding the key. The King was almost exhausted; he no longer articulated, he roared: “Death to Fouquet! Death to the traitor Fouquet!” The door flew open.

The King’s Gratitude

The two men were on the point of darting towards each other, when they suddenly stopped, as a mutual recognition took place, and each uttered a cry of horror.

“Have you come to assassinate me, Monsieur?” said the King, when he recognized Fouquet.

“The King in this state!” murmured the minister.

Nothing could be more terrible, indeed, than the appearance of Louis at the moment Fouquet had surprised him; his clothes were in tatters; his shirt, open and torn to rags, was stained with sweat, and with the blood which streamed from his lacerated breast and arms. Haggard, pale, foaming, his hair dishevelled, Louis XIV presented a vivid picture of despair, hunger, and fear, combined in one figure. Fouquet was so touched, so affected and disturbed, that he ran to the King with his arms stretched out and his eyes filled with tears. Louis held up the massive piece of wood of which he had made such a furious use.

“Sire,” said Fouquet, in a voice trembling with emotion, “do you not recognize the most faithful of your friends?”

“A friend,- you!” repeated Louis, gnashing his teeth in a manner which betrayed his hate and desire for speedy vengeance.

“The most respectful of your servants,” added Fouquet, throwing himself on his knees. The King let the rude weapon fall from his grasp. Fouquet approached him, kissed his knees, and took him tenderly in his arms. “My King, my child,” he said, “how you must have suffered.”

Louis, recalled to himself by the change of situation, looked at himself, and ashamed of his disordered state, ashamed of his conduct, ashamed of the protection he was receiving, drew back. Fouquet did not understand this movement; he did not perceive that the King’s pride would never forgive him for having been a witness of so much weakness. “Come, Sire,” he said, “you are free.”

“Free?” repeated the King. “Oh! you set me at liberty, then, after having dared to lift up your hand against me?”

“You do not believe that!” exclaimed Fouquet, indignantly; “you cannot believe me to be guilty of such an act.”

And rapidly, warmly even, he related the whole particulars of the intrigue, the details of which are already known to the reader. While the recital continued, Louis suffered the most horrible anguish of mind; and when it was finished, the magnitude of the danger he had run struck him far more than the importance of the secret relating to his twin brother. “Monsieur,” he said suddenly to Fouquet, “this double birth is a falsehood; you cannot have been deceived by it.”

“Sire!”

“It is impossible, I tell you, that the honor, the virtue of my mother can be suspected. And my first minister, has he not already done justice on the criminals?”

“Reflect, Sire, before you are carried away by your anger,” replied Fouquet. “The birth of your brother-”

“I have only one brother; and that is Monsieur. You know it as well as myself. There is a plot, I tell you, beginning with the governor of the Bastille.”

“Be careful, Sire, for this man has been deceived as every one else has by the Prince’s likeness to yourself.”

“Likeness? absurd!”

“This Marchiali must, however, be very like your Majesty to be able to deceive every one,” Fouquet persisted.

“Ridiculous!”

“Do not say so, Sire; those who had prepared everything in order to face and deceive your ministers, your mother, your officers of state, the members of your family, must be quite confident of the resemblance between you.”

“There is truth in that,” murmured the King; “but where are these persons, then?”

“At Vaux.”

“At Vaux! and you suffer them to remain there?”

“My most pressing duty seemed to be your Majesty’s release. I have accomplished that duty; and now whatever your Majesty may command, shall be done. I await your orders.”

Louis reflected for a few minutes. “Muster all the troops in Paris,” he said.

“All the necessary orders are given for that purpose,” replied Fouquet.

“You have given orders?” exclaimed the King.

“For that purpose,- yes, Sire! your Majesty will be at the head of ten thousand men in an hour.”

The only reply the King made was to take hold of Fouquet’s hand with such an expression of feeling that it was very easy to perceive how strongly he had until that remark maintained his suspicions of the minister, notwithstanding the latter’s intervention. “And with these troops,” he said, “we shall go at once and besiege in your house the rebels who by this time will have established and intrenched themselves there.”

“I should be surprised if that were the case,” replied Fouquet.

“Why?”

“Because their chief,- the very soul of the enterprise,- having been unmasked by me, the whole plan seems to me to have miscarried.”

“You have unmasked this false Prince also?”

“No, I have not seen him.”

“Whom have you seen, then?”

“The leader of the enterprise is not that unhappy young man; the latter is merely an instrument, destined through his whole life to wretchedness, I plainly perceive.”

“Most certainly.”

“It is M. l’Abbé d’Herblay, Bishop of Vannes.”

“Your friend?”

“He was my friend, Sire,” replied Fouquet, nobly.

“An unfortunate circumstance for you,” said the King, in a less generous tone of voice.

“Such friendship, Sire, had nothing dishonorable in it so long as I was ignorant of the crime.”

“You should have foreseen it.”

“If I am guilty, I place myself in your Majesty’s hands.”

“Ah, M. Fouquet, it was not that I meant,” returned the King, sorry to have shown the bitterness of his thought in such a manner. “Well; I assure you that notwithstanding the mask with which the villain covered his face, I had something like a vague suspicion that it might be he. But with this chief of the enterprise there was a man of prodigious strength; the one who menaced me with a force almost herculean, what is he?”

“It must be his friend the Baron du Vallon, formerly one of the Musketeers.”

“The friend of d’Artagnan; the friend of the Comte de la Fere? Ah!” exclaimed the King, as he paused at the name of the latter, “we must not forget that connection between the conspirators and M. de Bragelonne.”

“Sire, Sire, do not go too far! M. de la Fere is the most honorable man in France. Be satisfied with those whom I deliver up to you.”

“With those whom you deliver up to me, you say? Very good, for you will deliver up those who are guilty to me.”

“What does your Majesty understand by that?” inquired Fouquet.

“I understand,” replied the King, “that we shall soon arrive at Vaux with a large body of troops, that we will lay violent hands upon that nest of vipers, and that not a soul shall escape.”

“Your Majesty will put these men to death?” cried Fouquet.

“To the very meanest of them.”

“Oh, Sire!”

“Let us understand each other, M. Fouquet,” said the King, haughtily. “We no longer live in times when assassination was the only, the last resource of kings. No, Heaven be praised! I have parliaments who judge in my name, and I have scaffolds on which my supreme will is executed.”

Fouquet turned pale. “I will take the liberty of observing to your Majesty that any proceedings instituted respecting these matters would bring down the greatest scandal upon the dignity of the throne. The august name of Anne of Austria must never be allowed to pass the lips of the people accompanied by a smile.”

“Justice must be done, however, Monsieur.”

“Good, Sire; but the royal blood cannot be shed on a scaffold.”

“The royal blood! you believe that?” cried the King, with fury in his voice, stamping on the ground. “This double birth is an invention; and in that invention particularly do I see M. d’Herblay’s crime. That is the crime I wish to punish, rather than their violence or their insult.”

“And punish it with death, Sire?”

“With death! yes, Monsieur.”

“Sire,” said the superintendent, with firmness, as he raised his head proudly, “your Majesty will take the life, if you please, of your brother Philippe of France; that concerns you alone, and you will doubtless consult the Queen-Mother upon the subject. Whatever she may order will be ordered well. I do not wish to mix myself up in it, not even for the honor of your crown; but I have a favor to ask of you, and I beg to submit to you.”

“Speak,” said the King, in no little degree agitated by his minister’s last words. “What do you require?”

“The pardon of M. d’Herblay and of M. du Vallon.”

“My assassins?”

“Two rebels, Sire; that is all.”

“Oh! I understand, then, you ask me to forgive your friends.”

“My friends!” said Fouquet, deeply wounded.

“Your friends, certainly; but the safety of the State requires that an exemplary punishment should be inflicted on the guilty.”

“I will not permit myself to remind your Majesty that I have just restored you to liberty, and have saved your life.”

“Monsieur!”

“I will only remind your Majesty that had M. d’Herblay wished to play the part of an assassin, he could very easily have assassinated your Majesty this morning in the forest of Senart, and all would have been over.”

The King started.

“A pistol-bullet through the head,” pursued Fouquet, “and the disfigured features of Louis XIV, which no one could have recognized, would have been M. d’Herblay’s complete absolution.”

The King turned pale with fear at the idea of the danger he had escaped.

“If M. d’Herblay,” continued Fouquet, “had been an assassin, he had no occasion to inform me of his plan in order to succeed. Freed from the real King, it would have been impossible to guess the false one. And if the usurper had been recognized by Anne of Austria, he would still have been a son for her. The usurper, so far as M. d’Herblay’s conscience was concerned, was still a King of the blood of Louis XIII. Moreover, the conspirator in that course would have had security, secrecy, and impunity. A pistol-bullet would have procured him all that. For the sake of Heaven, Sire, forgive him!”

The King, instead of being touched by that picture, so faithful in all its details, of Aramis’s generosity, felt himself painfully humiliated. His unconquerable pride revolted at the idea that a man had held suspended at the end of his finger the thread of his royal life. Every word which Fouquet thought would be efficacious in procuring his friend’s pardon, carried another drop of poison to the already rankling heart of Louis XIV. Nothing could bend him. Addressing himself to Fouquet, he said, “I really don’t know, Monsieur, why you should solicit the pardon of these men. What good is there in asking that which can be obtained without solicitation?”

“I do not understand you, Sire.”

“It is not difficult either. Where am I now?”

“In the Bastille, Sire.”

“Yes; in a dungeon. I am looked upon as a madman, am I not?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And no one is known here but Marchiali?”

“Certainly.”

“Well; change nothing in the position of affairs. Let the madman rot in the dungeon of the Bastille, and M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon will stand in no need of my forgiveness. Their new King will absolve them.”

“Your Majesty does me a great injustice, Sire; and you are wrong,” replied Fouquet, dryly. “I am not child enough, nor is M. d’Herblay silly enough, to have omitted to make all these reflections; and if I had wished to make a new King, as you say, I had no occasion to have come here to force open all the gates and doors of the Bastille, to free you from this place. That would show a want of common-sense even. Your Majesty’s mind is disturbed by anger; otherwise you would be far from offending groundlessly the very one of your servants who has rendered you the most important service of all.”

Louis perceived that he had gone too far, that the gates of the Bastille were still closed upon him; while, by degrees, the floodgates were gradually being opened behind which the generous-hearted Fouquet had restrained his anger. “I did not say that to humiliate you, Heaven knows, Monsieur,” he replied. “Only you are addressing yourself to me in order to obtain a pardon, and I answer you according as my conscience dictates. And so, judging by my conscience, the criminals we speak of are not worthy of consideration of forgiveness.”

Fouquet was silent.

“What I do is as generous,” added the King, “as what you have done, for I am in your power. I will even say, it is more generous, inasmuch as you place before me certain conditions upon which my liberty, my life, may depend, and to reject which is to make a sacrifice of them both.”

“I was wrong, certainly,” replied Fouquet. “Yes; I had the appearance of extorting a favor. I regret it, and entreat your Majesty’s forgiveness.”

“And you are forgiven, my dear M. Fouquet,” said the King, with a smile which restored the serene expression of his features, which so many circumstances had altered since the preceding evening.

“I have my own forgiveness,” replied the minister, with some degree of persistence; “but M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon?”

“They will never obtain theirs as long as I live,” replied the inflexible King. “Do me the kindness not to speak of it again.”

“Your Majesty shall be obeyed.”

“And you will bear me no ill-will for it?”

“Oh, no, Sire,- for I anticipated it.”

“You had ‘anticipated’ that I should refuse to forgive those gentlemen?”

“Certainly; and all my measures were taken in consequence.”

“What do you mean to say?” cried the King, surprised.

“M. d’Herblay came, so to speak, to deliver himself into my hands. M. d’Herblay left to me the happiness of saving my King and my country. I could not condemn M. d’Herblay to death; nor could I, on the other hand, expose him to your Majesty’s most justifiable wrath,- it would have been just the same as if I had killed him myself.”

“Well; and what have you done?”

“Sire, I gave M. d’Herblay the best horses in my stables, and four hours’ start over those your Majesty will despatch after him.”

“Be it so!” murmured the King. “But still, the world is large enough for those whom I may send to overtake your horses, notwithstanding the ‘four hours’ start’ which you have given to M. d’Herblay.”

“In giving him those four hours, Sire, I knew I was giving him his life; and he will save his life.”

“In what way?”

“After having galloped as hard as possible, with the four hours’ start over your Musketeers, he will reach my château of Belle-Isle, where I have given him a safe asylum.”

“That may be! but you forget that you have made me a present of Belle-Isle.”

“But not for you to arrest my friends.”

“You take it back again, then?”

“As far as that goes,- yes, Sire.”

“My Musketeers will capture it, and the affair will be at an end.”

“Neither your Musketeers nor your whole army could take Belle-Isle,” said Fouquet, coldly. “Belle-Isle is impregnable.”

The King became livid; a lightning flash darted from his eyes. Fouquet felt that he was lost, but he was not one to shrink when the voice of honor spoke loudly within him. He bore the King’s wrathful gaze; the latter swallowed his rage, and after a few moments’ silence, said, “Are we going to return to Vaux?”

“I am at your Majesty’s orders,” replied Fouquet, with a low bow; “but I think that your Majesty can hardly dispense with changing your clothes previous to appearing before your court.”

“We shall pass by the Louvre,” said the King. “Come.” And they left the prison, passing before Baisemeaux, who looked completely bewildered as he saw Marchiali once more leave, and in his helplessness tore out the few remaining hairs he had left. It is true that Fouquet wrote and gave him an authority for the prisoner’s release, and that the King wrote beneath it, “Seen and approved, Louis,”- a piece of madness that Baisemeaux, incapable of putting two ideas together, acknowledged by giving himself a terrible blow with his fist on his jaws.

The False King

In the mean time, usurped royalty was playing out its part bravely at Vaux. Philippe gave orders that for his petit lever, the grandes entrees, already prepared to appear before the King, should be introduced. He determined to give this order notwithstanding the absence of M. d’Herblay, who did not return, and our readers know for what reason. But the Prince, not believing that the absence could be prolonged, wished, as all rash spirits do, to try his valor and his fortune independently of all protection and all counsel. Another reason urged him to this,- Anne of Austria was about to appear; the guilty mother was about to stand in the presence of her sacrificed son. Philippe was not willing, if he should betray any weakness, to render the man a witness of it before whom he was bound thenceforth to display so much strength.

Philippe opened his folding-doors, and several persons entered silently. Philippe did not stir while his valets de chambre dressed him. He had watched, the evening before, all the habits of his brother, and played the King in such a manner as to awaken no suspicion. He was then completely dressed in his hunting costume when he received his visitors. His own memory and the notes of Aramis announced everybody to him, first of all Anne of Austria, to whom Monsieur gave his hand, and then Madame with M. de Saint-Aignan. He smiled at seeing these countenances, but trembled on recognizing his mother. That figure so noble, so imposing, ravaged by pain, pleaded in his heart the cause of that famous Queen who had immolated a child to reasons of state. He found his mother still handsome. He knew that Louis XIV loved her; and he promised himself to love her likewise, and not to prove a cruel chastisement for her old age. He contemplated his brother with a tenderness easily to be understood. The latter had usurped nothing over him, had cast no shade over his life; a separate branch, he allowed the stem to rise without heeding its elevation or the majesty of its life. Philippe promised himself to be a kind brother to this Prince, who required nothing but gold to minister to his pleasures. He bowed with a friendly air to De Saint-Aignan, who was all reverences and smiles, and tremblingly held out his hand to Henrietta, his sister-in-law, whose beauty struck him; but he saw in her eyes an expression of coldness which would facilitate, as he thought, their future relations.

“How much more easy,” thought he, “it will be to be the brother of that woman than her gallant, if she evinces towards me a coldness that my brother could not have for her, and which is imposed upon me as a duty.” The only visit he dreaded at this moment was that of the Queen; his heart, his mind, had just been shaken by so violent a trial that in spite of their firm temperament they would not, perhaps, support another shock. Happily the Queen did not come.

Then began, on the part of Anne of Austria, a political dissertation upon the welcome M. Fouquet had given to the house of France. She mixed up hostilities with compliments addressed to the King, and questions as to his health with little maternal flatteries and diplomatic artifices. “Well, my son,” said she, “are you convinced with regard to M. Fouquet?”

“Saint-Aignan,” said Philippe, “have the goodness to go and inquire after the Queen.”

At these words, the first which Philippe had pronounced aloud, the slight difference that there was between his voice and that of the King was sensible to maternal ears, and Anne of Austria looked earnestly at her son. De Saint-Aignan left the room, and Philippe continued, “Madame, I do not like to hear M. Fouquet ill-spoken of,-you know I do not; and you have even spoken well of him yourself.”

“That is true; therefore I only question you on the state of your sentiments with respect to him.”

“Sire,” said Henrietta, “I, on my part, have always liked M. Fouquet. He is a man of good taste; he is a superior man.”

“A superintendent who is never sordid or niggardly,” added Monsieur, “and who pays in gold all the orders I have on him.”

“Every one in this thinks too much of himself, and nobody for the State,” said the old Queen. “M. Fouquet- it is a fact- M. Fouquet is ruining the State.”

“Well, Mother,” replied Philippe, in rather a lower key, “do you likewise constitute yourself the buckler of M. Colbert?”

“How is that?” replied the old Queen, rather surprised.

“Why, in truth,” replied Philippe, “you speak that just as your old friend Madame de Chevreuse would speak.”

At that name Anne of Austria turned pale and bit her lips. Philippe had irritated the lioness. “Why do you mention Madame de Chevreuse to me?” said she; “and what sort of humor are you in to-day towards me?”

Philippe continued: “Is not Madame de Chevreuse always in league against somebody? Has not Madame de Chevreuse been to pay you a visit, Mother?”

“Monsieur, you speak to me now in such a manner that I can almost fancy I am listening to your father.”

“My father did not like Madame de Chevreuse, and with good reason,” said the Prince. “For my part, I like her no better than he did; and if she thinks proper to come here as she formerly did, to sow divisions and hatreds under the pretext of begging money, why-”

“Well, what?” said Anne of Austria, proudly, herself provoking the storm.

“Well,” replied the young man, firmly, “I will drive Madame de Chevreuse out of my kingdom,- and with her all who meddle with secrets and mysteries.”

He had not calculated the effect of this terrible speech, or perhaps he wished to judge of the effect of it,- like those who suffering from a chronic pain, and seeking to break the monotony of that suffering, touch their wound to procure a sharper pang. Anne of Austria was near fainting. Her eyes, open but meaningless, ceased to see for several seconds; she stretched out her arms towards her other son, who supported and embraced her without fear of irritating the King. “Sire,” murmured she, “you treat your mother cruelly.”

“In what, Madame?” replied he. “I am only speaking of Madame de Chevreuse; does my mother prefer Madame de Chevreuse to the security of the State and to the security of my person? Well, then, Madame, I tell you Madame de Chevreuse is returned to France to borrow money, and that she addressed herself to M. Fouquet to sell him a certain secret.”

“‘A certain secret!’” cried Anne of Austria.

“Concerning pretended robberies that Monsieur the Superintendent had committed; which is false,” added Philippe. “M. Fouquet rejected her offers with indignation, preferring the esteem of the King to all complicity with intriguers. Then Madame de Chevreuse sold the secret to M. Colbert; and as she is insatiable, and was not satisfied with having extorted a hundred thousand crowns from that clerk, she has sought still higher, and has endeavored to find still deeper springs. Is that true, Madame?”

“You know all, Sire,” said the Queen, more uneasy than irritated.

“Now,” continued Philippe, “I have good reason to dislike this fury, who comes to my court to plan the dishonor of some and the ruin of others. If God has suffered certain crimes to be committed, and has concealed them in the shade of his clemency, I will not permit Madame de Chevreuse to have the power to counteract the designs of God.”

The latter part of this speech had so agitated the Queen-Mother that her son had pity on her. He took her hand and kissed it tenderly; she did not perceive that in that kiss, given in spite of repulsions and bitternesses of the heart, there was a pardon for eight years of horrible suffering. Philippe allowed the silence of a moment to swallow the emotions that had just developed themselves. Then, with a cheerful smile, “We will not go to-day,” said he; “I have a plan.” And turning towards the door, he hoped to see Aramis, whose absence began to alarm him. The Queen-Mother wished to leave the room.

“Remain, Mother,” said he; “I wish you to make your peace with M. Fouquet.”

“I bear no ill-will towards M. Fouquet; I only dreaded his prodigalities.”

“We will put that to rights, and will take nothing of the superintendent but his good qualities.”

“What is your Majesty looking for?” said Henrietta, seeing the Prince’s eyes constantly turned towards the door, and wishing to let fly a little poisoned arrow at his heart,- for she supposed he was expecting La Valliere or a letter from her.

“My sister,” said the young man, who had divined her thought, thanks to that marvellous perspicuity of which fortune was from that time about to allow him the exercise,- “my sister, I am expecting a most distinguished man, a most able counsellor, whom I wish to present to you all, recommending him to your good graces- Ah! come in, then, d’Artagnan.”

“What does your Majesty wish?” said d’Artagnan, appearing.

“Where is M. l’Eveque de Vannes, your friend?”

“Why, Sire-”

“I am waiting for him, and he does not come. Let him be sought for.”

D’Artagnan remained for an instant stupefied; but soon, reflecting that Aramis had left Vaux secretly with a mission from the King, he concluded that the King wished to preserve the secret of it, “Sire,” replied he, “does your Majesty absolutely require M. d’Herblay to be brought to you?”

“Absolutely is not the word,” said Philippe,- “I do not want him so particularly as that; but if he can be found-”

“I thought so,” said d’Artagnan to himself.

“Is this M. d’Herblay, Bishop of Vannes?” said Anne of Austria.

“Yes, Madame.”

“A friend of M. Fouquet?”

“Yes, Madame, an old musketeer.”

Anne of Austria blushed.

“One of the four braves who formerly performed such wonders.”

The old Queen repented of having wished to bite; she broke off the conversation, in order to preserve the rest of her teeth. “Whatever may be your choice, Sire,” said she, “I have no doubt it will be excellent.” All bowed in support of that sentiment.

“You will find in him,” continued Philippe, “the depth and penetration of M. de Richelieu, without the avarice of M. de Mazarin!”

“A prime minister, Sire?” said Monsieur, in a fright.

“I will tell you all about that, Brother; but it is strange that M. d’Herblay is not here!” He called out, “Let M. Fouquet be informed that I wish to speak to him- Oh, before you, before you; do not retire!”

M. de Saint-Aignan returned, bringing satisfactory news of the Queen, who only kept her bed from precaution, and to have strength to carry out all the King’s wishes. While some were seeking M. Fouquet and Aramis, Philippe quietly continued his experiments, and no one of the family, officers, or servants had the least suspicion; his air, voice, and manners were so like the King’s. On his side, Philippe, applying to all countenances the faithful description furnished by his accomplice Aramis, conducted himself so as not to give birth to a doubt in the minds of those who surrounded him.

Nothing from that time could disturb the usurper. With what strange facility had Providence just reversed the most elevated fortune of the world to substitute the most humble in its stead! Philippe admired the goodness of God with regard to himself, and seconded it with all the resources of his admirable nature. But he felt at times something like a shadow gliding between him and the rays of his new glory. Aramis did not appear. The conversation had languished in the royal family; Philippe, preoccupied, forgot to dismiss his brother and Madame Henrietta. The latter were astonished, and began by degrees to lose all patience. Anne of Austria stooped towards her son’s ear, and addressed some word to him in Spanish. Philippe was completely ignorant of that language, and grew pale at this unexpected obstacle. But as if the spirit of the imperturbable Aramis had covered him with his infallibility, instead of appearing disconcerted, Philippe rose. “Well! what?” said Anne of Austria.

“What is all that noise?” said Philippe, turning round towards the door of the second staircase.

And a voice was heard saying, “This way! this way! A few steps more, Sire!”

“The voice of M. Fouquet,” said d’Artagnan, who was standing close to the Queen-Mother.

“Then M. d’Herblay cannot be far off,” added Philippe.

But he then saw what he little thought to see so near to him. All eyes were turned towards the door at which M. Fouquet was expected to enter; but it was not M. Fouquet who entered. A terrible cry resounded from all corners of the chamber. It is not given to men, even to those whose destiny contains the strangest elements and accidents the most wonderful, to contemplate a spectacle similar to that which presented itself in the royal chamber at that moment. The half-closed shutters admitted the entrance of only an uncertain light, passing through large velvet curtains lined with silk. In this soft shade the eyes were by degrees dilated, and every one present saw others rather with faith than with positive sight. In these circumstances, however, not one of the surrounding details could escape; and any new object which presented itself appeared as luminous as if it had been enlightened by the sun. So it was with Louis XIV, when he showed himself pale and frowning in the doorway of the secret stairs. The face of Fouquet appeared behind him, impressed with sorrow and sternness. The Queen-Mother, who perceived Louis XIV, and who held the hand of Philippe, uttered the cry of which we have spoken, as if she had beheld a phantom. Monsieur was bewildered, and kept turning his head in astonishment from one to the other. Madame made a step forward, thinking she saw the form of her brother-in-law reflected in a glass; and, in fact, the illusion was possible.

The two Princes, both pale as death,- for we renounce the hope of being able to describe the fearful state of Philippe,- both trembling, and clinching their hands convulsively, measured each other with their looks, and darted their eyes, like poniards, into each other. Mute, panting, bending forward, they appeared as if about to spring upon an enemy. The unheard-of resemblance of countenance, gesture, shape, height, even of costume,- produced by chance, for Louis XIV had been to the Louvre and put on a violet-colored suit,- the perfect likeness of the two Princes completed the consternation of Anne of Austria. And yet she did not at once guess the truth. There are misfortunes in life that no one will accept; people would rather believe in the supernatural and the impossible. Louis had not reckoned upon these obstacles. He expected that he had only to appear and be acknowledged. A living sun, he could not endure the suspicion of parity with any one. He did not admit that every torch should not become darkness at the instant he shone out with his conquering ray. At the aspect of Philippe, then, he was perhaps more terrified than any one round him, and his silence, his immobility, were this time a concentration and a calm which precede violent explosions of passion.

But Fouquet! who could paint his emotion and stupor in presence of this living portrait of his master! Fouquet thought Aramis was right,- that this new-comer was a King as pure in his race as the other, and that for having repudiated all participation in this coup d’etat, so skilfully got up by the General of the Jesuits, he must be a mad enthusiast unworthy of ever again dipping his hands in a political work. And then it was the blood of Louis XIII which Fouquet was sacrificing to the blood of Louis XIII; it was to a selfish ambition he was sacrificing a noble ambition; it was to the right of keeping he sacrificed the right of having! The whole extent of his fault was revealed to him by the simple sight of the pretender. All that passed in the mind of Fouquet was lost upon the persons present. He had five minutes to concentrate his meditations upon this point of the case of conscience; five minutes,- that is to say, five ages,- during which the two Kings and their family scarcely found time to breathe after so terrible a shock.

D’Artagnan, leaning against the wall in front of Fouquet, with his hand to his brow, asked himself the cause of such a wonderful prodigy. He could not have said at once why he doubted, but he knew assuredly that he had reason to doubt, and that in this meeting of the two Louis XIV’s lay all the mystery which during late days had rendered the conduct of Aramis so suspicious to the musketeer. These ideas were, however, enveloped in thick veils. The actors in this assembly seemed to swim in the vapors of a confused waking.

Suddenly Louis XIV, more impatient and more accustomed to command, ran to one of the shutters, which he opened, tearing the curtains in his eagerness. A flood of living light entered the chamber, and made Philippe draw back to the alcove. Louis seized upon this movement with eagerness, and addressing himself to the Queen, “My mother,” said he, “do you not acknowledge your son, since every one here has forgotten his King?” Anne of Austria started, and raised her arms towards Heaven, without being able to articulate a single word.

“My mother,” said Philippe, with a calm voice, “do you not acknowledge your son?” And this time, in his turn, Louis drew back.

As to Anne of Austria, struck in both head and heart with remorse, she was no longer able to stand. No one aiding her, for all were petrified, she sank back in her fauteuil, breathing a weak, trembling sigh. Louis could not endure this spectacle and this affront. He bounded towards d’Artagnan, upon whom the vertigo was beginning to gain, and who staggered as he caught at the door for support. “A moi, mousquestaire!” said he. “Look us in the face and say which is the paler, he or I!”

This cry roused d’Artagnan, and stirred in his heart the fibre of obedience. He shook his head, and without more hesitation, he walked straight up to Philippe, upon whose shoulder he laid his hand, saying, “Monsieur, you are my prisoner!” Philippe did not raise his eyes towards Heaven, nor stir from the spot, where he seemed nailed to the floor, his eye intently fixed upon the King, his brother. He reproached him by a sublime silence with all his misfortunes past, with all his tortures to come. Against this language of the soul Louis XIV felt he had no power; he cast down his eyes, and led away precipitately his brother and sister, forgetting his mother, sitting motionless within three paces of the son whom she left a second time to be condemned to death. Philippe approached Anne of Austria, and said to her in a soft and nobly agitated voice, “If I were not your son, I should curse you, my mother, for having rendered me so unhappy.”

D’Artagnan felt a shudder pass through the marrow of his bones. He bowed respectfully to the young Prince, and said as he bent, “Excuse me, Monseigneur; I am but a soldier, and my oaths are his who has just left the chamber.”

“Thank you, M. d’Artagnan; but what is become of M. d’Herblay?”

“M. d’Herblay is in safety, Monseigneur,” said a voice behind them; “and no one, while I live and am free, shall cause a hair to fall from his head.”

“M. Fouquet!” said the Prince, smiling sadly.

“Pardon me, Monseigneur,” said Fouquet, kneeling; “but he who is just gone out from hence was my guest.”

“Here are,” murmured Philippe, with a sigh, “brave friends and good hearts. They make me regret the world. On, M. d’Artagnan, I follow you!”

At the moment the captain of the Musketeers was about to leave the room with his prisoner, Colbert appeared, and after delivering to d’Artagnan an order from the King, retired. D’Artagnan read the paper, and then crushed it in his hand with rage.

“What is it?” asked the Prince.

“Read, Monseigneur,” replied the musketeer.

Philippe read the following words, hastily traced by the hand of the King:-

“M. d’Artagnan will conduct the prisoner to the ile Ste. Marguerite. He will cover his face with an iron visor, which the prisoner cannot raise without peril of his life.”

“It is just,” said Philippe, with resignation; “I am ready.”

“Aramis was right,” said Fouquet, in a low voice to the musketeer, “this one is quite as much of a King as the other.”

“More,” replied d’Artagnan. “He needs only you and me.”

In Which Porthos Thinks He Is Pursuing a Duchy

Aramis and Porthos, having profited by the time granted them by Fouquet, did honor to the French cavalry by their speed. Porthos did not clearly understand for what kind of mission he was forced to display so much velocity; but as he saw Aramis spurring on furiously, he, Porthos, spurred on in the same manner. They had soon, in this manner, placed twelve leagues between them and Vaux; they were then obliged to change horses, and organize a sort of post arrangement. It was during a relay that Porthos ventured to interrogate Aramis discreetly.

“Hush!” replied the latter; “know only that our fortune depends upon our speed.”

As if Porthos had still been the musketeer of 1626, without a sou or a maille, he pushed forward. The magic word “fortune” always means something in the human ear. It means enough for those who have nothing; it means too much for those who have enough.

“I shall be made a duke!” said Porthos, aloud. He was speaking to himself.

“That is possible,” replied Aramis, smiling after his own fashion, as the horse of Porthos passed him. The head of Aramis was, notwithstanding, on fire; the activity of the body had not yet succeeded in subduing that of the mind. All that there is in raging passions, in severe toothaches, or mortal threats twisted, gnawed, and groaned in the thoughts of the vanquished prelate. His countenance exhibited very visible traces of this rude combat. Free upon the highway to abandon himself to every impression of the moment, Aramis did not fail to swear at every start of his horse, at every inequality in the road. Pale, at times inundated with boiling sweats, then again dry and icy, he beat his horses and made the blood stream from their sides. Porthos, whose dominant fault was not sensibility, groaned at this. Thus they travelled on for eight long hours, and then arrived at Orleans. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Aramis, searching his recollections, judged that nothing demonstrated pursuit to be possible. It would be without example that a troop capable of taking him and Porthos should be furnished with relays sufficient to perform forty leagues in eight hours. Thus, admitting pursuit, which was not at all manifest, the fugitives were five hours in advance of their pursuers.

Aramis thought that there might be no imprudence in taking a little rest, but that to continue would make the matter more certain. Twenty leagues more performed with the same rapidity, twenty more leagues devoured, and no one, not even d’Artagnan, could overtake the enemies of the King. Aramis felt obliged, therefore, to inflict upon Porthos the pain of mounting on horseback again. They rode on till seven o’clock in the evening, and had only one post more between them and Blois. But here a diabolical accident alarmed Aramis greatly; there were no horses at the post. The prelate asked himself by what infernal machination his enemies had succeeded in depriving him of the means of going farther. He who never recognized chance as a deity, he who found a cause for every result,- he preferred believing that the refusal of the postmaster, at such an hour, in such a country, was the consequence of an order emanating from above; an order given with a view of stopping short the king-maker in the midst of his flight. But at the moment he was about to fly into a passion, so as to procure either a horse or an explanation, he suddenly recollected that the Comte de la Fere lived in the neighborhood.

“I am not travelling,” said he; “I do not want horses for a whole stage. Find me two horses to go and pay a visit to a nobleman of my acquaintance who resides near this place.”

“What nobleman?” asked the postmaster.

“M. le Comte de la Fere.”

“Oh!” replied the postmaster, uncovering with respect, “a very worthy nobleman. But whatever may be my desire to make myself agreeable to him, I cannot furnish you with horses, for all mine are engaged by M. le Duc de Beaufort.”

“Indeed!” said Aramis, much disappointed.

“Only,” continued the postmaster, “if you will put up with a little carriage I have, I will harness an old blind horse, who has still his legs left, and who will draw you to the house of M. le Comte de la Fere.”

“That is worth a louis,” said Aramis.

“No, Monsieur, that is never worth more than a crown. That is what M. Grimaud, the count’s intendant, always pays me when he makes use of that carriage; and I should not wish the Comte de la Fere to have to reproach me with having imposed on one of his friends.”

“As you please,” said Aramis, “particularly as regards disobliging the Comte de la Fere; you will have your crown, but I have a right to give you a louis for your idea.”

“Oh, doubtless!” replied the postmaster, with delight; and he himself harnessed the old horse to the creaking carriage. In the mean time Porthos was curious to behold. He imagined he had discovered the secret, and he felt pleased,- because a visit to Athos in the first place promised him much satisfaction, and in the next, gave him the hopes of finding at the same time a good bed and a good supper. The master, having got the carriage ready, ordered one of his men to drive the strangers to La Fere. Porthos took his seat by the side of Aramis, whispering in his ear, “I understand.”

“Ah, ah!” said Aramis, “and what do you understand, my friend?”

“We are going, on the part of the King, to make some great proposal to Athos.”

“Pooh!” said Aramis.

“You need tell me nothing about it,” added the worthy Porthos, endeavoring to place himself so as to avoid the jolting,- “you need tell me nothing, I shall guess.”

“Well, do, my friend; guess away.”

They arrived at Athos’s dwelling about nine o’clock in the evening, favored by a splendid moon. This cheerful light rejoiced Porthos beyond expression; but Aramis appeared annoyed by it in an equal degree. He could not help showing something of this to Porthos, who replied, “Ay, ay! I guess how it is!- the mission is a secret one.”

These were his last words in the carriage. The driver interrupted him by saying:

“Gentlemen, you are arrived.”

Porthos and his companion alighted before the gate of the little château, where we are about to meet again with Athos and Bragelonne, both of whom had disappeared after the discovery of the infidelity of La Valliere.

If there be one saying more true than another, it is this: great griefs contain within themselves the germ of their consolation. This painful wound inflicted upon Raoul had drawn him nearer to his father; and God knows how sweet were the consolations that flowed from the eloquent mouth and generous heart of Athos. The wound was not healed, but Athos, by dint of conversing with his son and mingling a little of his life with that of the young man, had brought him to understand that this pang of a first infidelity is necessary to every human existence; and that no one has loved without meeting with it.

Raoul listened often, but never understood. Nothing replaces in the deeply afflicted heart the remembrance and thought of the beloved object. Raoul replied to the reasonings of his father, “Monsieur, all that you tell me is true. I believe that no one has suffered in the affections of the heart so much as you have; but you are a man too great in intelligence, and too severely tried by misfortunes, not to allow for the weakness of the soldier who suffers for the first time. I am paying a tribute which I shall not pay a second time; permit me to plunge myself so deeply in my grief that I may forget myself in it, that I may drown in it even my reason.”

“Raoul! Raoul!”

“Listen, Monsieur. Never shall I accustom myself to the idea that Louise, the most chaste and the most innocent of women, has been able so basely to deceive a man so honest and so loving as I. Never can I persuade myself that I see that sweet and good mask change into a hypocritical and lascivious face. Louise lost! Louise infamous! Ah, Monseigneur, that idea is much more cruel to me than Raoul abandoned, Raoul unhappy!”

Athos then employed the heroic remedy. He defended Louise against Raoul, and justified her perfidy by her love. “A woman who would have yielded to the King because he is the King,” said he, “would deserve to be styled infamous; but Louise loves Louis. Both young, they have forgotten, he his rank, she her vows. Love absolves everything, Raoul. The two young people love each other with sincerity.”

And when he had dealt this severe poniard-thrust, Athos, with a sigh, saw Raoul bound away under the cruel wound, and fly to the thickest recesses of the wood or the solitude of his chamber, whence, an hour after, he would return, pale and trembling, but subdued. Then coming up to Athos with a smile he would kiss his hand, like the dog who having been beaten caresses a good master to redeem his fault. Raoul listened only to his weakness, and confessed only his grief.

Thus passed away the days that followed that scene in which Athos had so violently shaken the indomitable pride of the King. Never, when conversing with his son, did he make any allusion to that scene; never did he give him the details of that vigorous lecture, which might perhaps have consoled the young man, by showing him his rival humbled. Athos did not wish that the offended lover should forget the respect due to the King. And when Bragelonne, ardent, furious, and melancholy, spoke with contempt of royal words, of the equivocal faith which certain madmen draw from promises falling from thrones; when, passing over two centuries with the rapidity of a bird which traverses a narrow strait, to go from one world to the other, Raoul ventured to predict the time in which kings would become less than other men,- Athos said to him in his serene, persuasive voice, “You are right, Raoul. All that you say will happen: kings will lose their privileges, as stars which have completed their time lose their splendor. But when that moment shall come, Raoul, we shall be dead. And remember well what I say to you. In this world, all- men, women, and kings must live for the present. We can live for the future only in living for God.”

This was the manner in which Athos and Raoul were as usual conversing, as they walked backwards and forwards in the long alley of limes in the park, when the bell which served to announce to the count either the hour of dinner or the arrival of a visitor, was rung. Mechanically, without attaching any importance to the summons, he turned towards the house with his son; and at the end of the alley they found themselves in the presence of Aramis and Porthos.

The Last Adieux

Raoul uttered a cry, and affectionately embraced Porthos. Aramis and Athos embraced like old men; and this embrace itself was a question for Aramis, who immediately said, “My friend, we have not long to remain with you.”

“Ah!” said the count.

“Only time to tell you of my good fortune,” interrupted Porthos.

“Ah!” said Raoul.

Athos looked silently at Aramis, whose sombre air had already appeared to him very little in harmony with the good news of which Porthos spoke.

“What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear it,” said Raoul, with a smile.

“The King has made me a duke,” said the worthy Porthos, with an air of mystery, in the ear of the young man; “a duke by brevet.”

But the asides of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by everybody. His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos heard him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The latter took Athos by the arm, and after having asked Porthos’s permission to say a word to his friend in private. “My dear Athos,” he began, “you see me overwhelmed with grief.”

“With grief, my dear friend?” cried the count.

“In two words. I have raised a conspiracy against the King; that conspiracy has failed, and at this moment I am doubtless pursued.”

“You are pursued! a conspiracy! Eh! my friend, what do you tell me?”

“A sad truth. I am entirely ruined.”

“Well, but Porthos- this title of duke- what does all that mean?”

“That is the subject of my severest pain; that is the deepest of my wounds. I have, believing in an infallible success, drawn Porthos into my conspiracy. He has thrown himself into it as you know he would do, with all his strength, without knowing what he was about; and now he is as much compromised as myself,- as completely ruined as I am.”

“Good God!” and Athos turned towards Porthos, who was smiling complacently.

“I must make you acquainted with the whole. Listen to me,” continued Aramis; and he related the history as we know it. Athos, during the recital, several times felt the sweat break from his forehead. “It was a great idea,” said he; “but a great error.”

“For which I am punished, Athos.”

“Therefore I will not tell you my entire thought.”

“Tell it, nevertheless.”

“It is a crime.”

“Capital, I know it is; high treason.”

“Porthos poor Porthos!”

“What should I have done? Success, as I have told you, was certain.”

“M. Fouquet is an honorable man.”

“And I am a fool for having so ill judged him,” said Aramis. “Oh, the wisdom of man! Oh, a vast millstone which grinds a world, and which is one day stopped by a grain of sand which has fallen, no one knows how, in its wheels!”

“Say by a diamond, Aramis. But the thing is done. How do you think of acting?”

“I am taking away Porthos. The King will never believe that that worthy man has acted innocently. He never can believe that Porthos has thought he was serving the King, while acting as he has done. His head would pay for my fault. It shall not be so.”

“You are taking him away, whither?”

“To Belle-Isle, at first. That is an impregnable place of refuge. Then I have the sea, and a vessel to pass over into England, where I have many relatives.”

“You? in England?”

“Yes; or else in Spain, where I have still more.”

“But our excellent Porthos! you ruin him, for the King will confiscate all his property.”

“All is provided for. I know how, when once in Spain, to reconcile myself with Louis XIV, and restore Porthos to favor.”

“You have credit, seemingly, Aramis?” said Athos, with a discreet air.

“Much; and at the service of my friends.”

These words were accompanied by a warm pressure of the hand.

“Thank you,” replied the count.

“And while we are on that head,” said Aramis, “you also are a malcontent; you also, Raoul, have griefs to lay to the King. Follow our example; pass over into Belle-Isle. Then we shall see. I guarantee upon my honor that in a month there will be war between France and Spain on the subject of this son of Louis XIII, who is an Infante likewise, and whom France detains inhumanly. Now, as Louis XIV would have no inclination for a war on that subject, I will answer for a transaction, the result of which must bring greatness to Porthos and to me, and a duchy in France to you, who are already a grandee of Spain. Will you join us?”

“No; for my part I prefer having something to reproach the King with. It is a pride natural to my race to pretend to a superiority over royal races. Doing what you propose, I should become a dependent of the King; I should certainly be the gainer on that ground, but I should be a loser in my conscience. No, thank you!”

“Then, give me two things, Athos,- your absolution.”

“Oh! I give it you if you have really wished to avenge the weak and the oppressed against the oppressor.”

“That is sufficient for me,” said Aramis, with a blush which was lost in the obscurity of the night. “And now give me your best two horses to gain the second post, as I have been refused any under the pretext of a journey which the Duc de Beaufort is making in this country.”

“You shall have two of my best horses, Aramis; and I again recommend Porthos strongly to you.”

“Oh, have no fear on that head. One word more: do you think I am planning wisely for him?”

“The evil being committed, yes; for the King would not pardon him, and you have, whatever may be said, always a supporter in M. Fouquet, who will not abandon you, being himself compromised, notwithstanding his heroic action.”

“You are right. And that is why, instead of gaining the sea at once, which would proclaim my fear and guilt,- that is why I remain upon French ground. But Belle-Isle will be for me whatever ground I wish it to be, English, Spanish, or Roman; all depends on the standard I shall think proper to unfurl.”

“How so?”

“It was I who fortified Belle-Isle; and while I defend it, nobody can take Belle-Isle from me. And then, as you have said just now, M. Fouquet is there. Belle-Isle will not be attacked without the signature of M. Fouquet.”

“That is true. Nevertheless, be prudent. The King is both cunning and strong.”

Aramis smiled.

“I again recommend Porthos to you,” repeated the count, with a sort of cold persistence.

“Whatever becomes of me, Count,” replied Aramis, in the same tone, “our brother Porthos will fare as I do.”

Athos bowed while pressing the hand of Aramis, and turned to embrace Porthos with much emotion.

“I was born lucky, was I not?” murmured the latter, transported with happiness, as he folded his cloak round him.

“Come, my dear friend,” said Aramis.

Raoul had gone out to give orders for the saddling of the horses. The group was already divided. Athos saw his two friends on the point of departure, and something like a mist passed before his eyes, and weighed upon his heart.

“It is strange,” thought he, “whence comes the inclination I feel to embrace Porthos once more.” At that moment Porthos turned round, and came towards his old friend with open arms. This last endearment was tender as in youth, as in times when the heart was warm and life happy; and then Porthos mounted his horse. Aramis came back once more to throw his arms round the neck of Athos. The latter watched them along the high road, elongated by the shade, in their white cloaks. Like two phantoms, they seemed to be enlarged on departing from the earth; and it was not in the mist, but in the declivity of the ground that they disappeared. At the end of the perspective, both seemed to have given a spring with their feet, which made them vanish as if evaporated into the clouds.

Then Athos, with an oppressed heart, returned towards the house, saying to Bragelonne, “Raoul, I don’t know what it is that has just told me that I have seen these two men for the last time.”

“It does not astonish me, Monsieur, that you should have such a thought,” replied the young man, “for I have at this moment the same, and I also think that I shall never see Messieurs du Vallon and d’Herblay again.”

“Oh, you!” replied the count, “you speak like a man rendered sad by another cause,- you see everything in black; but you are young, and if you chance never to see those old friends again, it will be because they no longer exist in the world in which you have many years to pass. As for me-”

Raoul shook his head sadly, and leaned upon the shoulder of the count, neither of them finding another word in their hearts, which were ready to overflow.

All at once a noise of horses and voices from the extremity of the road to Blois attracted their attention that way. Mounted torch-bearers shook their torches merrily among the trees of their route, and turned round from time to time to avoid distancing the horsemen who followed them. These flames, this noise, this dust of a dozen richly caparisoned horses, formed a strange contrast in the middle of the night with the melancholy, funereal disappearance of the two shadows of Aramis and Porthos. Athos went towards the house; but he had hardly reached the parterre when the entrance gate appeared in a blaze; all the flambeaux stopped and appeared to inflame the road. A cry was heard of “M. le Duc de Beaufort!” and Athos sprang towards the door of his house. But the duke had already alighted from his horse, and was looking around him.

“I am here, Monseigneur,” said Athos.

“Ah, good-evening, dear count,” said the Prince, with that frank cordiality which won him so many hearts. “Is it too late for a friend?”

“Ah, my dear Prince, come in!” said the count.

And M. de Beaufort leaning on the arm of Athos, they entered the house, followed by Raoul, who walked respectfully and modestly among the officers of the Prince, with several of whom he was acquainted.

M. de Beaufort

The Prince turned around at the moment when Raoul, in order to leave him alone with Athos, was shutting the door, and preparing to go with the other officers into an adjoining apartment.

“Is that the young man I have heard Monsieur the Prince speak so highly of?” asked M. de Beaufort.

“It is, Monseigneur.”

“He is quite the soldier; let him stay, Count, we cannot spare him.”

“Remain, Raoul, since Monseigneur permits it,” said Athos.

“Ma foi! he is tall and handsome!” continued the duke. “Will you give him to me, Monseigneur, if I ask him of you?”

“How am I to understand you, Monseigneur?” said Athos.

“Why, I call upon you to bid you farewell.”

“Farewell?”

“Yes, in good truth. Have you no idea of what I am about to be?”

“Why, what you have always been, Monseigneur,- a valiant Prince and an excellent gentleman.”

“I am going to be an African Prince,- a Bedouin gentleman. The King is sending me to make conquests among the Arabs.”

“What do you tell me, Monseigneur?”

“Strange, is it not? I, the Parisian par essence,- I, who have reigned in the faubourgs, and have been called King of the Halles,- I am going to pass from the Place Maubert to the minarets of Djidgelli; I become from a Frondeur an adventurer!”

“Oh, Monseigneur, if you did not yourself tell me that-”

“It would not be credible, would it? Believe me, nevertheless, and let us bid each other farewell. This is what comes of getting into favor again.”

“Into favor?”

“Yes. You smile? Ah, my dear count, do you know why I have accepted this enterprise; can you guess?”

“Because your Highness loves glory above everything.”

“Oh, no; there is no glory in firing muskets at savages. I see no glory in that, for my part, and it is more probable that I shall there meet with something else. But I have wished, and still wish earnestly, my dear count, that my life should have this last facet, after all the whimsical exhibitions I have made in fifty years. For, in short, you must admit that it is sufficiently strange to be born the grandson of a king, to have made war against kings, to have reckoned among the powers of the age, to have maintained my rank, to feel Henry IV within me, to be great Admiral of France, and then to go and get killed at Djidgelli among all those Turks, Saracens, and Moors!”

“Monseigneur, you dwell strangely upon that subject,” said Athos, in an agitated voice. “How can you suppose that so brilliant a destiny will be extinguished in that miserable scene?”

“And can you believe, just and simple man as you are, that if I go into Africa for this ridiculous motive, I will not endeavor to come out of it without ridicule? Will I not give the world cause to speak of me? and to be spoken of nowadays, when there are Monsieur the Prince, M. de Turenne, and many others, my contemporaries, I, Admiral of France, grandson of Henry IV, King of Paris,- have I anything left but to get myself killed? Cordieu! I will be talked of, I tell you; I will be killed, whether or not,- if not there, somewhere else.”

“Why, Monseigneur, this is only exaggeration; and hitherto you have demonstrated nothing of that kind but in bravery.”

“Peste! my dear friend, there is bravery in facing scurvy, dysentery, locusts, and poisoned arrows, as my ancestor Saint Louis did. Do you know those fellows still use poisoned arrows? And then, you know me of old, I fancy; and you know that when I once make up my mind to a thing, I do it in earnest.”

“Yes,- you made up your mind to escape from Vincennes.”

“Ay, but you aided me in that, my master; and, a propos, I turn this way and turn that without seeing my old friend M. Vaugrimaud. How is he?”

“M. Vaugrimaud is still your Highness’s most respectful servant,” said Athos, smiling.

“I have a hundred pistoles here for him, which I bring as a legacy. My will is made, Count.”

“Ah, Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”

“And you may understand that if Grimaud’s name were to appear in my will-” The duke began to laugh; then, addressing Raoul, who from the beginning of this conversation had sunk into a profound revery, “Young man,” said he, “I know there is to be found here a certain De Vouvray wine, and I believe-” Raoul left the room precipitately to order the wine. In the mean time, M. de Beaufort took the hand of Athos.

“What do you mean to do with him?” asked he.

“Nothing, at present, Monseigneur.”

“Ah, yes, I know,- since the passion of the King for La Valliere.”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“That is all true then, is it? I think I know her, that little Valliere. She is not particularly handsome, if I remember rightly.”

“No, Monseigneur,” said Athos.

“Do you know of whom she reminds me?”

“Does she remind your Highness of any one?”

“She reminds me of a very agreeable girl whose mother used to live in the Halles.”

“Ah, ah!” said Athos, smiling.

“Oh, the good old times!” added M. de Beaufort. “Yes, Valliere reminds me of that girl.”

“Who had a son, had she not?”

“I believe she had,” replied the duke, with careless naivete and a complaisant forgetfulness of which no words could translate the tone and the vocal expression. “Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I believe.”

“Yes, he is my son, Monseigneur.”

“And the poor lad has been cut out by the King, and he frets.”

“Better than that, Monseigneur, he abstains.”

“You are going to let the boy rust in idleness; you are wrong. Come, give him to me!”

“My wish is to keep him at home, Monseigneur. I have no longer anything in the world but him, and as long as he is willing to remain-”

“Well, well,” replied the duke. “I could, nevertheless, have soon put matters to rights again. I assure you, I think he has in him the stuff of which marshals of France are made; I have seen more than one produced from such material.”

“That is very possible, Monseigneur; but it is the King who makes marshals of France, and Raoul will never accept anything of the King.”

Raoul interrupted this conversation by his return. He preceded Grimaud, whose still steady hands carried the salver with one glass and a bottle of the duke’s favorite wine. On seeing his old protege, the duke uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

“Grimaud! Good-evening, Grimaud! said he; “how goes it?”

The servant bowed profoundly, as much gratified as his noble interlocutor.

“Two old friends!” said the duke, shaking honest Grimaud’s shoulder after a vigorous fashion, which was followed by another still more profound and delighted bow from Grimaud.

“But what is this, Count,- only one glass?”

“I should not think of drinking with your Highness, unless your Highness invited me,” replied Athos, with noble humility.

“Cordieu! You were right to bring only one glass; we will both drink out of it, like two brothers-in-arms. Begin, Count.”

“Do me the honor,” said Athos, gently putting back the glass.

“You are a charming friend,” replied the Duc de Beaufort, who drank and passed the goblet to his companion. “But that is not all,” continued he; “I am still thirsty, and I wish to do honor to this handsome young man who stands here. I carry good luck with me, Viscount,” said he to Raoul; “wish for something while drinking out of my glass, and the plague stifle me if what you wish does not come to pass!”

He held the goblet to Raoul, who hastily moistened his lips, and replied with the same promptitude, “I have wished for something, Monseigneur.” His eyes sparkled with a gloomy fire, and the blood mounted to his cheeks; he terrified Athos, if only with his smile.

“And what have you wished for?” replied the duke, sinking back into his arm-chair, while with one hand he returned the bottle to Grimaud and with the other gave him a purse.

“Will you promise me, Monseigneur, to grant me what I wish for?”

“Pardieu! That is agreed upon.”

“I wished, Monsieur the Duke, to go with you to Djidgelli.”

Athos became pale, and was unable to conceal his agitation. The duke looked at his friend, as if desirous to help him parry this unexpected blow.

“That is difficult, my dear viscount, very difficult,” added he, in a lower tone of voice.

“Pardon me, Monseigneur, I have been indiscreet,” replied Raoul, in a firm voice; “but as you yourself invited me to wish-”

“To wish to leave me?” said Athos.

“Oh, Monsieur- can you imagine-”

“Well, mordieu!” cried the duke, “the young viscount is right! What can he do here? He will rot with grief.” Raoul blushed; and the Prince, excited, continued, “War is a distraction. We gain everything by it; we can lose only one thing by it,- life; then so much the worse!”

“That is to say, memory,” said Raoul, eagerly; “and that is to say, so much the better!”

He repented of having spoken so warmly when he saw Athos rise and open the window,- which was doubtless to conceal his emotion. Raoul sprang towards the count, but the latter had already overcome his emotion, and turned to the lights with a serene and impassive countenance.

“Well, come,” said the duke, “let us see! Shall he go, or shall he not? If he goes, Count, he shall be my aide-decamp, my son.”

“Monseigneur!” cried Raoul, bending his knee.

“Monseigneur!” cried Athos, taking the hand of the duke; “Raoul shall do just as he likes.”

“Oh, no, Monsieur, just as you like,” interrupted the young man.

“Par la corbleu!” said the Prince, in his turn, “it is neither the count nor the viscount that shall have his way,- it is I. I will take him away. The navy offers a superb future, my friend.”

Raoul smiled again so sadly that this time Athos was wounded to the heart, and replied to him by a severe look. Raoul comprehended it all; he recovered his calmness, and was so guarded that not another word escaped him. The duke at length rose, on observing the advanced hour, and said with much animation, “I am in great haste, but if I am told I have lost time in talking with a friend, I will reply that I have gained a good recruit.”

“Pardon me, Monsieur the Duke,” interrupted Raoul, “do not tell the King so, for it is not the King I will serve.”

“Eh, my friend, whom then will you serve? The times are past when you might have said, ‘I belong to M. de Beaufort.’ No, nowadays, we all belong to the King, great or small. Therefore, if you serve on board my vessels, there can be nothing equivocal in it, my dear viscount; it will be the King you will serve.”

Athos waited with a kind of impatient joy for the reply about to be made to this embarrassing question by Raoul, the intractable enemy of the King, his rival. The father hoped that the obstacle would overcome the desire. He was thankful to M. de Beaufort, whose lightness or generous reflection had thrown an impediment in the way of the departure of a son now his only joy.

Raoul, still firm and tranquil, replied, “Monsieur the Duke, the objection you make I have already considered in my mind. I will serve on board your vessels, because you do me the honor to take me with you; but I shall there serve a more powerful master than the King,- I shall serve God!”

“God! how so?” said the duke and Athos together.

“My intention is to make profession, and become a Knight of Malta,” added Bragelonne, letting fall one by one words more icy than the drops which fall from the bare trees after the tempests of winter.

Under this last blow Athos staggered, and the Prince himself was moved. Grimaud uttered a heavy groan, and let fall the bottle, which was broken without anybody paying attention to it. M. de Beaufort looked the young man in the face, and read plainly, though his eyes were cast down, the fire of resolution before which everything must give way. As for Athos, he was too well acquainted with that tender but inflexible soul; he could not hope to make it deviate from the fatal road it had just chosen. He could only press the hand of the duke held out to him. “Count, I shall set off in two days for Toulon,” said M. de Beaufort. “Will you meet me at Paris, in order that I may know your determination?”

“I will have the honor of thanking you there, my Prince, for all your kindnesses,” replied the count.

“And be sure to bring the viscount with you, whether he follows me or does not follow me,” added the duke; “he has my word, and I only ask yours.”

Having thus thrown a little balm upon the wound of that paternal heart, he pulled the ear of Grimaud, whose eyes sparkled more than usual, and regained his escort in the parterre. The horses, rested and refreshed, set off with spirit through this beautiful night, and soon placed a considerable distance between their master and the château.

Athos and Bragelonne were again face to face. Eleven o’clock was striking. The father and son preserved a profound silence towards each other, where an intelligent observer would have expected cries and tears. But these two men were of such a nature that all emotion buried itself forever when they had resolved to confine it to their own hearts. They passed, then, silently and almost breathlessly the hour which preceded midnight. The clock, by striking, alone pointed out to them how many minutes the painful journey had lasted, which their souls had made in the immensity of the remembrances of the past and of the fears of the future. Athos rose first, saying, “It is late; till to-morrow.”

Raoul rose in his turn, and embraced his father. The latter held him clasped to his breast, and said in a tremulous voice, “In two days you will have left me, then,- left me forever, Raoul?”

“Monsieur,” replied the young man, “I had formed a determination,- that of piercing my heart with my sword; but you would have thought that cowardly. I have renounced that determination, and therefore we must part.”

“You leave me by going, Raoul.”

“Listen to me again, Monsieur, I implore you. If I do not go, I shall die here of grief and love. I know how long a time I have to live thus. Send me away quickly, Monsieur, or you will see me basely die before your eyes,- in your house; this is stronger than my will, stronger than my endurance; you may plainly see that within one month I have lived thirty years, and that I approach the end of my life.”

“Then,” said Athos, coldly, “you go with the intention of getting killed in Africa? Oh, tell me! do not lie!”

Raoul grew deadly pale, and remained silent for two seconds, which were to his father two hours of agony. Then, all at once, “Monsieur,” said he, “I have promised to devote myself to God. In exchange for this sacrifice which I make of my youth and my liberty, I will only ask of him one thing, and that is to preserve me for you, because you are the only tie which attaches me to this world. God alone can give me the strength not to forget that I owe you everything, and that nothing ought to be with me before you.”

Athos embraced his son tenderly, and said, “You have just replied to me on the word of honor of an honest man; in two days we shall be with M. de Beaufort at Paris, and you will then do what will be proper for you to do. You are free, Raoul; adieu.” And he slowly gained his bedroom. Raoul went down into the garden, and passed the night in the alley of limes.

Preparations for Departure

Athos lost no more time in combating this immutable resolution. He gave all his attention to preparing, during the two days the duke had granted him, the proper appointments for Raoul. This labor chiefly concerned Grimaud, who immediately applied himself to it with the good-will and intelligence we know he possessed. Athos gave this worthy servant orders to take the route to Paris when the equipments should be ready; and to avoid all risk of keeping the duke waiting, or of injury to Raoul if the duke should perceive his absence, he himself, the day after the visit of M. de Beaufort, set off for Paris with his son.

In the heart of the poor young man it aroused emotions easily to be understood, thus to return to Paris among all the people who had known and loved him. Every face recalled to him who had endured so much, a suffering; to him who had loved so much, some circumstance of his love. Raoul, on approaching Paris, felt as if he were dying. Once in Paris, he really existed no longer. When he reached De Guiche’s residence, he was informed that De Guiche was with Monsieur. Raoul took the road to the Luxembourg, and when arrived, without suspecting that he was going to the place where La Valliere had lived, he heard so much music and breathed so many perfumes, he heard so much joyous laughter and saw so many dancing shadows, that if it had not been for a charitable woman, who perceived him dejected and pale in a doorway, he would have remained there a few minutes, and then would have gone away never to return. But, as we have said, in the first antechambers he had stopped, solely to avoid mingling with all those happy existences which he felt were moving around him in the adjacent salons. And when one of Monsieur’s servants, recognizing him, had asked him if he wished to see Monsieur or Madame, Raoul had scarcely answered him, but had sunk down upon a bench near the velvet portiere, looking at a clock, which had stopped an hour before. The servant had passed on, and another, better acquainted with him, had come up and asked Raoul whether he should inform M. de Guiche of his being there. This name even did not rouse the recollections of poor Raoul. The persistent servant went on to relate that De Guiche had just invented a new game of lottery, and was teaching it to the ladies. Raoul, opening his large eyes like the absent-minded man in Theophrastus, had made no answer; but his sadness had increased by it two shades.

With his head hanging down, his limbs relaxed, his mouth half open for the escape of his sighs, Raoul remained, thus forgotten, in the antechamber, when all at once a lady’s robe passed, rubbing against the doors of a lateral salon which opened upon the gallery. A lady, young, pretty, and gay, scolding an officer of the household, entered by that way, and expressed herself with much vivacity. The officer replied in calm but firm sentences; it was rather a little love-pet than a quarrel of courtiers, and was terminated by a kiss on the fingers of the lady.

Suddenly, on perceiving Raoul, the lady became silent, and pushing away the officer, “Make your escape, Malicorne,” said she; “I did not think there was any one here. I shall curse you if they have either heard or seen us!”

Malicorne hastened away. The young lady advanced behind Raoul, and bending her joyous face over him, “Monsieur is a gallant man,” said she, “and no doubt-” She here interrupted herself by uttering a cry,- “Raoul!” said she, blushing.

“Mademoiselle de Montalais!” said Raoul, more pale than death.

He rose unsteadily and tried to make his way across the slippery mosaic of the floor; but she had comprehended that savage and cruel grief. She felt that in the flight of Raoul there was an accusation, or at least a suspicion against herself. A woman, ever vigilant, she did not think she ought to let the opportunity slip of making a justification; but Raoul, though stopped by her in the middle of the gallery, did not seem disposed to surrender without a combat. He took it up in a tone so cold and embarrassed that if they had been thus surprised, the whole court would have had no doubt about the proceedings of Mademoiselle de Montalais.

“Ah, Monsieur,” said she, with disdain, “what you are doing is very unworthy of a gentleman. My heart inclines me to speak to you; you compromise me by a reception almost uncivil. You are wrong, Monsieur; and you confound your friends with your enemies. Farewell!”

Raoul had sworn never to speak of Louise, never even to look at those who might have seen Louise; he was going into another world that he might never meet with anything Louise had seen, or anything she had touched. But after the first shock to his pride, after having had a glimpse of Montalais, the companion of Louise,- Montalais, who reminded him of the turret of Blois and the joys of youth,- all his reason left him.

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle; it enters not, it cannot enter into my thoughts to be uncivil.”

“Do you wish to speak to me?” said she, with the smile of former days. “Well! come somewhere else; for here we may be surprised.”

“Where?” said he.

She looked at the clock doubtingly, then, having reflected, “In my apartment,” said she; “we shall have an hour to ourselves.” And taking her course, lighter than a fairy, she ran up to her chamber, followed by Raoul. Shutting the door, and placing in the hands of her maid the mantle she had held upon her arm, “You were seeking M. de Guiche, were you not?” said she to Raoul.

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”

“I will go and ask him to come up here presently, after I have spoken to you.”

“Do so, Mademoiselle.”

“Are you angry with me?”

Raoul looked at her for a moment, then, casting down his eyes, “Yes,” said he.

“You think I was concerned in the plot which brought about your rupture, do you not?”

“Rupture!” said he, with bitterness. “Oh, Mademoiselle, there can be no rupture where there has been no love.”

“An error,” replied Montalais; “Louise did love you.”

Raoul started.

“Not with love, I know!; but she liked you, and you ought to have married her before you set out for London.”

Raoul broke into a sinister laugh which made Montalais shudder.

“You tell me that very much at your ease, Mademoiselle. Do people marry whom they like? You forget that the King then kept as his mistress her of whom we are speaking.”

“Listen,” said the young woman, pressing the cold hands of Raoul in her own, “you were wrong in every way; a man of your age ought never to leave a woman of hers alone.”

“There is no longer any faith in the world, then.”

“No Viscount,” said Montalais, quietly. “Nevertheless, let me tell you that if instead of loving Louise coldly and philosophically, you had endeavored to awaken her to love-”

“Enough, I pray you, Mademoiselle,” said Raoul. “I feel that you are all, of both sexes, of a different age from me. You can laugh, and you can banter agreeably. I, Mademoiselle, I loved Mademoiselle de-” Raoul could not pronounce her name. “I loved her; well! I put faith in her,- now I am quits by loving her no longer.”

“Oh, Viscount!” said Montalais, pointing to his reflection in a mirror.

“I know what you mean, Mademoiselle; I am much altered, am I not? Well; do you know why? Because my face is the mirror of my heart; the inside has changed as you see the outside has.”

“You are consoled, then?” said Montalais, sharply.

“No, I shall never be consoled.”

“I don’t understand you, M. de Bragelonne.”

“I care but little for that. I do not too well understand myself.”

“You have not even tried to speak to Louise?”

“I!” exclaimed the young man, with eyes flashing fire; “I! why do you not advise me to marry her? Perhaps the King would consent now”; and he rose from his chair, full of anger.

“I see,” said Montalais, “that you are not cured, and that Louise has one enemy the more.”

“One enemy the more!”

“Yes; favorites are but little beloved at the court of France.”

“Oh! while she has her lover to protect her, is not that enough? She has chosen him of such a quality that her enemies cannot prevail against her.” But stopping all at once, “And then she has you for a friend, Mademoiselle,” added he, with a shade of irony which did not glide off the cuirass.

“I? Oh, no! I am no longer one of those whom Mademoiselle de la Valliere deigns to look upon; but-”

This “but,” so big with menaces and storms; this “but,” which made the heart of Raoul beat, such griefs did it presage for her whom lately he loved so dearly,- this terrible “but,” so significant in a woman like Montalais, was interrupted by a moderately loud noise, proceeding from the alcove behind the wainscoting. Montalais turned to listen, and Raoul was already rising, when a lady entered the room quietly by the secret door, which she closed after her.

“Madame!” exclaimed Raoul, on recognizing the sister-in-law of the King.

“Stupid wretch!” murmured Montalais, throwing herself, but too late, before the Princess, “I have been mistaken in the hour!” She had, however, time to warn the Princess, who was walking towards Raoul.

“M. de Bragelonne, Madame”; and at these words the Princess drew back, uttering a cry in her turn.

“Your royal Highness,” said Montalais, with volubility, “is kind enough to think of this lottery, and-”

The Princess began to lose countenance. Raoul hastened his departure without yet divining all; but he felt that he was in the way. Madame was seeking to recover herself, when a closet opened in front of the alcove, and M. de Guiche issued therefrom, all radiant. The most pale of the four, we must admit, was still Raoul. The Princess, however, was near fainting, and was obliged to lean upon the foot of the bed for support. No one ventured to support her. This scene occupied several minutes of terrible silence. But Raoul broke it. He went up to the count, whose inexpressible emotion made his knees tremble, and taking his hand, “Dear count,” said he, “tell Madame I am too unhappy not to merit my pardon; tell her also that I have loved in the course of my life, and that horror of the treachery that has been practised on me renders me inexorable for all other treachery that may be committed around me. This is why, Mademoiselle,” said he, smiling, to Montalais, “I never will divulge the secret of the visits of my friend to your apartment. Obtain from Madame,- from Madame, who is so clement and so generous,- obtain her pardon for you whom she has just surprised also. You are both free; love each other, be happy!”

The Princess felt for a moment the despair which cannot be described; it was repugnant to her, notwithstanding the exquisite delicacy which Raoul had exhibited, to feel herself at the mercy of an indiscretion. It was equally repugnant to her to accept the evasion offered by this delicate deception. Agitated, nervous, she struggled against the double stings of the two troubles. Raoul comprehended her position, and came once more to her aid. Bending his knee before her, “Madame,” said he, in a low voice, “in two days I shall be far from Paris; in a fortnight I shall be far from France, where I shall never be seen again.”

“Are you going away, then?” said she, with delight.

“With M. de Beaufort.”

“Into Africa!” cried De Guiche, in his turn. “You, Raoul? Oh, my friend,- into Africa, where everybody dies!” And forgetting everything, forgetting that this very forgetfulness compromised the Princess more eloquently than his presence, “Ingrate!” said he, “and you have not even consulted me!” And he embraced him; during which time Montalais had led away Madame, and disappeared herself.

Raoul passed his hand over his brow, and said with a smile, “I have been dreaming!” Then warmly to De Guiche, who by degrees absorbed him, “My friend,” said he, “I conceal nothing from you, who are the elected of my heart. I am going to seek death in yonder country; your secret will not remain in my breast more than a year.”

“Oh, Raoul! a man!”

“Do you know what is my thought, De Guiche? This is it: I shall live more, being buried beneath the earth, than I have lived for this month past. We are Christians, my friend, and if such suffering were to continue, I would not be answerable for the safety of my soul.”

De Guiche was anxious to raise objections.

“Not one word more on my account,” said Raoul, “but advice to you, dear friend; what I am going to say to you is of much greater importance.”

“What is that?”

“Without doubt, you risk much more than I do, because you are loved.”

“Oh!”

“It is a joy so sweet to me to be able to speak to you thus! Well, then, De Guiche, beware of Montalais.”

“What! of that kind friend?”

“She was the friend of- her you know of. She ruined her by pride.”

“You are mistaken.”

“And now, when she has ruined her, she would take from her the only thing that renders that woman excusable in my eyes.”

“What is that?”

“Her love.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that there is a plot formed against her who is the mistress of the King,- a plot formed in the very house of Madame.”

“Can you think so?”

“I am certain of it.”

“By Montalais?”

“Take her as the least dangerous of the enemies I dread for- the other.”

“Explain yourself clearly, my friend; and if I can understand you-”

“In two words,- Madame has been jealous of the King.”

“I know she has-”

“Oh, fear nothing! you are beloved,- you are beloved, Guiche; do you feel the value of these three words? They signify that you can raise your head, that you can sleep tranquilly, that you can thank God every minute of your life. You are beloved; that signifies that you may hear everything,- even the counsel of a friend who wishes to preserve your happiness. You are beloved, Guiche, you are beloved! You do not endure those atrocious nights, those nights without end, which, with arid eye and consumed heart, others pass through who are destined to die. You will live long if you act like the miser who, bit by bit, crumb by crumb, collects and heaps up diamonds and gold. You are beloved! allow me to tell you what you must do that you may be beloved forever.”

De Guiche contemplated for some time this unfortunate young man, half mad with despair, till there passed through his heart something like remorse at his own happiness. Raoul suppressed his feverish excitement to assume the voice and countenance of an impassive man. “They will make her whose name I should wish still to be able to pronounce,- they will make her suffer. Swear to me not only that you will not second them in anything, but that you will defend her, when possible, as I would have done myself.”

“I swear I will!” replied De Guiche.

“And,” continued Raoul, “some day when you shall have rendered her a great service, some day when she shall thank you, promise me to say these words to her: ‘I have done you this kindness, Madame, by the warm desire of M. de Bragelonne, whom you so deeply injured.’”

“I swear I will!” murmured De Guiche.

“That is all; adieu! I set out to-morrow or the day after for Toulon; if you have a few hours to spare, give them to me.”

“All! all!” cried the young man.

“Thank you.”

“And what are you going to do now?”

“I am going to meet Monsieur the Count at the house of Planchet, where we shall hope to find M. d’Artagnan.”

“M. d’Artagnan?”

“Yes; I wish to embrace him before my departure. He is a brave man, who loves me. Farewell, my friend. You are expected, no doubt; you will find me, when you wish, at the lodgings of the count. Farewell!”

The two young men embraced. They who might have seen them both thus would not have hesitated to say, pointing to Raoul, “That is the happy man!”

Planchet’s Inventory

Athos, during the visit to the Luxembourg by Raoul, had gone to Planchet’s residence to inquire after d’Artagnan. On arriving at the Rue des Lombards he found the shop of the grocer in great confusion; but it was not the confusion attending a lucky sale, or that of an arrival of goods. Planchet was not throned, as usual, upon sacks and barrels. No; a young man with a pen behind his ear, and another with an account-book in his hand, were setting down a number of figures, while a third counted and weighed. An inventory was being taken. Athos, who had no knowledge of commercial matters, felt himself a little embarrassed by the material obstacles and the majesty of those who were thus employed. He saw several customers sent away, and asked himself whether he, who came to buy nothing, would not be more properly deemed importunate. He therefore asked very politely if he could see M. Planchet. The reply, pretty carelessly given, was that M. Planchet was packing his trunks. These words surprised Athos. “How! his trunks?” said he; “is M. Planchet going away?”

“Yes, Monsieur, directly.”

“Then, if you please, inform him that M. le Comte de la Fere desires to speak to him for a moment.”

At the mention of the count’s name, one of the young men, no doubt accustomed to hear it pronounced with respect, immediately went to inform Planchet. It was at this moment that Raoul, after his painful scene with Montalais and De Guiche, arrived at the grocer’s house. Planchet, as soon as he received the count’s message, left his work and hastened to meet him.

“Ah, Monsieur the Count,” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! What good star brings you here?”

“My dear Planchet,” said Athos, pressing the hand of his son, whose sad look he silently observed, “we are come to learn of you- But in what confusion do I find you! You are as white as a miller; where have you been rummaging?”

“Ah, diable! take care, Monsieur; don’t come near me till I have well shaken myself.”

“What for? Flour or dust only whitens.”

“No, no; what you see on my arms is arsenic.”

“Arsenic?”

“Yes; I am making my provision for the rats.”

“Ah! I suppose in an establishment like this the rats play a conspicuous part.”

“It is not with this establishment I concern myself, Monsieur the Count. The rats have robbed me of more here than they will ever rob me of again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, you may have observed, Monsieur, they are taking my inventory.”

“Are you leaving trade, then?”

“Eh, mon Dieu! yes. I have disposed of my business to one of my young men.”

“Bah! you are rich, then?”

“Monsieur, I have taken a dislike to the city. I don’t know whether it is because I am growing old, and, as M. d’Artagnan one day said, when we grow old we more often think of the things of our youth; but for some time past I have felt myself attracted towards the country and gardening. I was a countryman formerly”; and Planchet marked this confession with a somewhat pretentious laugh for a man making profession of humility.

Athos made a gesture of approval, and then added, “You are going to buy an estate, then?”

“I have bought one, Monsieur.”

“Ah! that is still better.”

“A little house at Fontainebleau, with something like twenty acres of land round it.”

“Very well, Planchet! Accept my compliments on your acquisition.”

“But, Monsieur, we are not comfortable here; the cursed dust makes you cough. Corbleu! I should not wish to poison the most worthy gentleman in the kingdom.”

Athos did not smile at this little pleasantry which Planchet had aimed at him to try his strength in fashionable humor.

“Yes,” said he; “let us have a little talk by ourselves,- in your own room, for example. You have a room, have you not?”

“Certainly, Monsieur the Count.”

“Upstairs, perhaps?” And Athos, seeing Planchet a little embarrassed, wished to relieve him by going first.

“It is- but-” said Planchet, hesitating.

Athos was mistaken in the cause of this hesitation, and attributing it to a fear the grocer might have of offering humble hospitality, “Never mind, never mind,” said he, still going up, “the dwelling of a tradesman in this quarter is not expected to be a palace. Come on!”

Raoul nimbly preceded him, and entered first. Two cries were heard simultaneously- we may say three. One of these cries dominated over the others; it was uttered by a woman. The other proceeded from the mouth of Raoul; it was an exclamation of surprise. He had no sooner made it than he shut the door sharply. The third was from fright; Planchet had uttered it. “I ask your pardon!” added he; “Madame is dressing.”

Raoul had, no doubt, seen that what Planchet said was true, for he turned round to go downstairs again.

“Madame?” said Athos. “Oh, pardon me, Planchet, I did not know that you had upstairs-”

“It is Truchen,” added Planchet, blushing a little.

“It is whoever you please, my good Planchet; pardon our indiscretion.”

“No, no; go up now, gentlemen.”

“We will do no such thing,” said Athos.

“Oh, Madame, having notice, has had time-”

“No, Planchet; farewell!”

“Eh, gentlemen! you would not disoblige me by thus standing on the staircase, or by going away without having sat down.”

“If we had known you had a lady upstairs,” replied Athos, with his customary coolness, “we would have asked permission to pay our respects to her.”

Planchet was so disconcerted by this little extravagance that he forced the passage, and himself opened the door to admit the count and his son. Truchen was quite dressed,- costume of the shopkeeper’s wife, rich and coquettish; German eyes attacking French eyes. She ceded the apartment after two courtesies, and went down into the shop, but not without having listened at the door, to know what Planchet’s gentlemen visitors would say of her. Athos suspected that, and therefore turned the conversation. Planchet, on his part, was burning to give explanations, which Athos avoided. But as certain tenacities are stronger than all others, Athos was forced to hear Planchet recite his idyls of felicity, translated into a language more chaste than that of Longus. So Planchet related how Truchen had charmed his ripe age, and brought good luck to his business, as Ruth did to Boaz.

“You want nothing now, then, but heirs to your property.”

“If I had one, he would have three hundred thousand livres’” said Planchet.

“Humph! you must have one, then,” said Athos, phlegmatically; “if only to prevent your little fortune being lost.”

The words “little fortune” placed Planchet in his rank, like the voice of the sergeant when Planchet was but a piqueur in the regiment of Piedmont, in which Rochefort had placed him. Athos perceived that the grocer would marry Truchen, and, in spite of fate, establish a family. This appeared the more evident to him when he learned that the young man to whom Planchet was selling his business was her cousin. Having heard all that was necessary of the happy prospects of the retiring grocer, Athos inquired, “What is M. d’Artagnan about? He is not at the Louvre.”

“Ah, Monsieur the Count, M. d’Artagnan has disappeared.”

“Disappeared!” said Athos, with surprise.

“Oh Monsieur, we know what that means.”

“But I do not know.”

“Whenever M. d’Artagnan disappears, it is always on some mission or for some great affair.”

“Has he said anything to you about it?”

“Never.”

“You were acquainted with his departure for England formerly, were you not?”

“On account of the speculation,” replied Planchet, heedlessly.

“The speculation?”

“I mean-” interrupted Planchet, quite confused.

“Well, well; neither your affairs nor those of our friend are in question. The interest we take in him alone has induced me to apply to you. Since the captain of the Musketeers is not here, and as we cannot learn from you where we are likely to find M. d’Artagnan, we will take our leave of you. Au revoir, Planchet, au revoir. Let us go, Raoul.”

“Monsieur the Count, I wish I were able to tell you-”

“Oh, not at all; I am not the man to reproach a servant with discretion.”

This word “servant” struck rudely on the ears of the demi-millionnaire Planchet, but natural respect and bonhomie prevailed over pride. “There is nothing indiscreet in telling you, Monsieur the Count, that M. d’Artagnan came here the other day-”

“Ah, ah!”

“And remained several hours consulting a geographical chart.”

“You are right, then, my friend; say no more about it.”

“And the chart is there as a proof,” added Planchet, who went to fetch from the neighboring wall, where it was suspended by a twist, forming a triangle with the bar of the window to which it was fastened, the plan consulted by the captain on his last visit to Planchet. This plan, which he brought to the count, was a map of France, upon which the practised eye of that gentleman discovered an itinerary, marked out with small pins; where the pin was missing, a hole denoted its having been there. Athos, by following with his eye the pins and holes, saw that d’Artagnan was to take the direction of the south, and go as far as the Mediterranean towards Toulon. It was near Cannes that the marks and the punctured places ceased. The Comte de la Fere puzzled his brains for some time to divine what the musketeer could be going to do at Cannes, and what motive could have led him to examine the banks of the Var. The reflections of Athos suggested nothing; his accustomed perspicacity was at fault. Raoul’s researches were not more successful than his father’s.

“Never mind,” said the young man to the count, who silently, and with his finger, had made him understand d’Artagnan’s route; “we must confess that there is a Providence always occupied in connecting our destiny with that of M. d’Artagnan. There he is on the coast of Cannes; and you, Monsieur, will at least conduct me as far as Toulon. Be assured that we shall meet with him more easily upon our route than upon this map.”

Then taking leave of Planchet, who was scolding his shop-men, even the cousin of Truchen, his successor, the gentlemen set out to pay a visit to M. de Beaufort. On leaving the grocer’s shop, they saw a coach,- the future depository of the charms of Mademoiselle Truchen and of Planchet’s bags of crowns.

“Every one journeys towards happiness by the route he chooses,” said Raoul, in a melancholy tone.

“Road to Fontainebleau!” cried Planchet to his coachman.

The Inventory of M. de Beaufort

To have talked of d’Artagnan with Planchet, to have seen Planchet quit Paris to bury himself in his country retreat, had been for Athos and his son like a last farewell to the noise of the capital,- to their life of former days. What, in fact, did these men leave behind them, one of whom had exhausted the past age in glory, and the other the present age in misfortune? Evidently, neither of them had anything to ask of his contemporaries. They had only to pay a visit to M. de Beaufort, and arrange with him the particulars of the departure. The duke was lodged magnificently in Paris. He had one of those superb establishments pertaining to great fortunes which certain old men remembered to have seen flourish in the times of wasteful liberality in Henry III’s reign. Then, in fact, several great nobles were richer than the King. They knew it; they made use of their wealth, and never deprived themselves of the pleasure of humiliating his royal Majesty when they had an opportunity. It was this egotistical aristocracy which Richelieu had constrained to contribute, with its blood, its purse, and its duties, to what was from his time styled the King’s service. From Louis XI- that terrible mower down of the great- to Richelieu, how many families had raised their heads! How many from Richelieu to Louis XIV had bowed their heads never to raise them again! But M. de Beaufort was born a Prince, and of a blood which is not shed upon scaffolds, unless by the decree of peoples. This Prince had kept up a grand style of living. How did he maintain his horses, his people, and his table? Nobody knew,- himself less than others. Only there were then privileges for the sons of kings, to whom nobody refused to become a creditor, whether from respect, devotedness, or a persuasion that they would some day be paid.

Athos and Raoul found the mansion of the duke in as much confusion as that of Planchet. The duke, likewise, was making his inventory; that is to say, he was distributing to his friends, all of them his creditors, everything of value he had in his house. Owing nearly two millions,- an enormous amount in those days,- M. de Beaufort had calculated that he could not set out for Africa without a good round sum; and in order to find that sum, he was distributing to his old creditors plate, arms, jewels, and furniture,- which was more magnificent than selling it, and brought him back double. In fact, how could a man to whom ten thousand livres were owing, refuse to carry away a present of six thousand, enhanced in merit from having belonged to a descendant of Henry IV? And how, after having carried away that present, could he refuse ten thousand livres more to this generous noble?

This, then, was what had happened. The duke had no longer a dwelling-house,- that had become useless to an admiral, whose place of residence is his ship; no more private arms, superfluous now that he was placed amid his cannon; no more jewels, which the sea might rob him of; but he had three or four hundred thousand crowns in his coffers. And throughout the house there was a joyous movement of people who believed they were plundering Monseigneur.

The Prince possessed, in a supreme degree, the art of making happy the creditors the most to be pitied. Every distressed man, every empty purse, found with him patience and intelligence of his position. To some he said, “I wish I had what you have, I would give it to you”; and to others, “I have but this silver ewer,- it is worth at least five hundred livres, take it.” The effect of which was- so truly is courtesy a current payment- that the Prince constantly found means to renew his creditors.

This time he used no ceremony,- it might be called a general pillage. He gave up everything. The Oriental fable of the poor Arab, who carried away from the pillage of a palace a kettle at the bottom of which was concealed a bag of gold, and whom everybody allowed to pass without jealousy,- this fable had become a truth in the Prince’s mansion. Many contractors paid themselves from the several departments of the establishment. Thus, the food purveyors, who plundered the clothes-presses and the harness-rooms, attached very little value to things which tailors and saddlers set great store by. Anxious to carry home to their wives preserves given them by Monseigneur, many were seen bounding joyously along under the weight of earthen jars and bottles, gloriously stamped with the arms of the Prince. M. de Beaufort finished by giving away his horses and the hay from his lofts. He made more than thirty happy with kitchen utensils, and thirty more, with the contents of his cellar. Still further, all these people went away with the conviction that M. de Beaufort only acted in this manner to prepare for a new fortune concealed beneath the Arab tents. They repeated to one another, while devastating his mansion, that he was sent to Djidgelli by the King to reconstruct his lost fortunes; that the treasures of Africa would be equally divided between the Admiral and the King of France; that these treasures consisted in mines of diamonds, or other fabulous stones,- the gold and silver mines of Mount Atlas did not even obtain the honor of being named. In addition to the mines to be worked,- which could not be begun till after the campaign,- there would be the booty made by the army. M. de Beaufort would lay his hands upon all the riches pirates had robbed Christendom of since the battle of Lepanto. The number of millions from these sources defied calculation. Why, then, should he who was going in quest of such treasures set any store by the poor utensils of his past life? And, reciprocally, why should they spare the property of him who spared it so little himself?

Such was the position of affairs. Athos, with his searching glance, saw what was going on at once. He found the Admiral of France a little exalted, for he was rising from a table of fifty covers, at which the guests had drunk long and deeply to the prosperity of the expedition; at which, with the dessert, the remains of the meal had been given to the servants, and the empty dishes and plates to the curious. The Prince was intoxicated with his ruin and his popularity at the same time. He had drunk his old wine to the health of his future wine. When he saw Athos and Raoul, “There is my aide-de-camp brought to me!” he cried. “Come hither, Count; come hither, Viscount.” Athos tried to find a passage through the heaps of linen and plate.

“Ah, step over, step over!” said the duke, offering a full glass to Athos. The latter took it; Raoul scarcely moistened his lips.

“Here is your commission,” said the Prince to Raoul. “I had prepared it, reckoning upon you. You will go on before me as far as Antibes.”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“Here is the order”; and De Beaufort gave Raoul the order. “Do you know anything of the sea?”

“Yes, Monseigneur; I have travelled with Monsieur the Prince.”

“That is well. All these barges and lighters must be in attendance to form an escort, and carry my provisions. The army must be prepared to embark in a fortnight at latest.”

“That shall be done, Monseigneur.”

“The present order gives you the right to visit and search all the isles along the coast; you will there make the enrolments and levies you may want for me.”

“Yes, Monsieur the Duke.”

“And as you are an active man, and will work freely, you will spend much money.”

“I hope not, Monseigneur.”

“But I reckon you will. My intendant has prepared orders of a thousand livres, drawn upon the cities of the south; he will give you a hundred of them. Now, dear Viscount, begone!” Athos interrupted the Prince. “Keep your money, Monseigneur; war is to be made among the Arabs with gold as well as lead.”

“I wish to try the contrary,” replied the duke; “and then, you are acquainted with my ideas upon the expedition,- plenty of noise, plenty of fire, and, if so it must be, I shall disappear in the smoke.” Having spoken thus, M. de Beaufort began to laugh; but his mirth was not reciprocated by Athos and Raoul. He perceived this at once. “Ah,” said he, with the courteous egotism of his rank and his age, “you are such people as a man should not see after dinner; you are cold, stiff, and dry, when I am all fire, all suppleness, and all wine. No, devil take me! I shall always see you fasting, Viscount; and you, Count, if you wear such a face as that, I will see no more.”

He said this, pressing the hand of Athos, who replied with a smile, “Monseigneur, do not talk so grandly because you happen to have plenty of money. I predict that within a month you will be dry, stiff, and cold in presence of your strong box, and that then, having Raoul at your elbow, fasting, you will be surprised to see him gay, animated, and generous, because he will have some new crowns to offer you.”

“God grant it may be so!” cried the delighted duke. “Count, stay with me.”

“No, I shall go with Raoul; the mission with which you charge him is a troublesome and a difficult one. Alone, it would be too much for him to execute. You do not observe, Monseigneur, that you have given him a command of the first order.”

“Bah!”

“And in the navy!”

“That may be true. But when people resemble him, do they not do all that is required of them?”

“Monseigneur, I believe you will find nowhere so much zeal and intelligence, so much real bravery, as in Raoul; but if he failed in your embarkation, you would only meet with what you deserve.”

“Humph! you are scolding me, then?”

“Prince, to provision a fleet, to assemble a flotilla, to enroll your maritime force, would take an admiral a year. Raoul is a cavalry officer, and you allow him a fortnight!”

“I tell you he will get through.”

“He may; but I will help him.”

“To be sure you will,- I reckoned upon you; and still further, I believe that when we are once at Toulon you will not let him depart alone.”

“Oh!” said Athos, shaking his head.

“Patience! patience!”

“Monseigneur, permit us to take our leave.”

“Go, then, and may my good fortune attend you!”

“Adieu, Monseigneur; and may your good fortune attend you likewise!”

“Here is an expedition admirably begun!” said Athos to his son. “No provisions, no reserves, no store flotilla! What can be done thus?”

“Humph!” murmured Raoul; “if all are going to do as I am, provisions will not be wanted.”

“Monsieur,” replied Athos, sternly, “do not be unjust and senseless in your egotism, or your grief, whichever you please to call it. If you set out for this war solely with the intention of getting killed in it, you stand in need of nobody, and it was scarcely worth while to recommend you to M. de Beaufort. But when you have been introduced to the Prince commandant; when you have accepted the responsibility of a post in his army,- the question is no longer about you, but about all those poor soldiers who as well as you have hearts and bodies, who will weep for their country and endure all the necessities of their human condition. Remember, Raoul, that an officer is a minister as useful as a priest, and that he ought to have more charity than a priest.”

“Monsieur, I know it, and have practised it; I would have continued to do so still, but-”

“You forget also that you are of a country which is proud of its military glory; go and die if you like, but do not die without honor and without advantage to France. Cheer up, Raoul! do not let my words grieve you; I love you, and wish to see you perfect.”

“I love your reproaches, Monsieur,” said the young man, mildly; “they alone may cure me, because they prove to me that some one loves me still.”

“And now, Raoul, let us be off, the weather is so fine, the heavens are so pure,- those heavens which we shall always find above our heads, which you will see more pure still at Djidgelli, and which will speak to you of me there, as they speak to me here of God.”

The two gentlemen, after having agreed on this point, talked over the wild freaks of the duke, convinced that France would be served in a very incomplete manner, as regarded both spirit and practice, in the ensuing expedition; and having summed up his policy under the word “vanity,” they set forward, in obedience to their will even more than to their destiny.

The sacrifice was accomplished.

The Silver Plate

The journey passed off pretty well. Athos and his son traversed France at the rate of fifteen leagues per day; sometimes more, according to the intensity of Raoul’s grief. It took them a fortnight to reach Toulon, and they lost all traces of d’Artagnan at Antibes. They were forced to believe that the captain of the Musketeers was desirous of preserving an incognito on his route, for Athos derived from his inquiries an assurance that such a cavalier as he described had exchanged his horse for a well-closed carriage on quitting Avignon.

Raoul was much affected at not meeting with d’Artagnan. His affectionate heart longed to take a farewell and receive consolation from that heart of steel. Athos knew from experience that d’Artagnan became impenetrable when engaged in any serious affair, whether on his own account or in the service of the King. He even feared to offend his friend, or thwart him, by too pressing inquiries. And yet when Raoul began his labor of classing the flotilla, and got together the chalands and lighters to send them to Toulon, one of the fishermen told the count that his boat had been laid up to refit since a trip he had made on account of a gentleman who was in great haste to embark. Athos, believing that this man was telling a falsehood in order to be left at liberty to fish, and so gain more money when all his companions were gone, insisted upon having the details.

The fisherman informed him that six days previously a man had come in the night to hire his boat, for the purpose of visiting the Island of St. Honorat. The price was agreed upon; but the gentleman had arrived with an immense carriage-case, which he insisted upon embarking in spite of all the difficulties which opposed themselves to that operation. The fisherman had wished to retract; he had even threatened, but his threats had procured him nothing but a shower of blows from the gentleman’s cane, which fell upon his shoulders, sharp and long. Swearing and grumbling, he had recourse to the syndic of his brotherhood at Antibes, who administer justice among themselves and protect one another; but the gentleman had exhibited a certain paper, at the sight of which the syndic, bowing to the very ground, had enjoined obedience upon the fisherman, and abused him for having been refractory. They then departed with the freight.

“But all this does not tell us,” said Athos, “how you have injured your boat.”

“This is the way. I was steering towards St. Honorat as the gentleman had desired me; but he changed his mind, and pretended that I could not pass to the south of the abbéy.”

“And why not?”

“Because, Monsieur, there is in front of the square tower of the Benedictines, towards the southern point, the bank of the Moines.”

“A rock?” asked Athos.

“Level with the water, and below it; a dangerous passage, but one I have cleared a thousand times. The gentleman required me to land him at Ste. Marguerite.”

“Well?”

“Well, Monsieur!” cried the fisherman, with his provencal accent, “a man is a sailor, or he is not; he knows his course, or he is nothing but a fresh-water lubber. I was obstinate, and wished to try the channel. The gentleman took me by the collar, and told me quietly he would strangle me. My mate armed himself with a hatchet, and so did I: we had the affront of the night before to pay him off for. But the gentleman drew his sword, and used it in such an astonishingly rapid manner that we neither of us could get near him. I was about to hurl my hatchet at his head,- and I had a right to do so, hadn’t I, Monsieur? for a sailor aboard is master, as a citizen is in his chamber,- I was going, then, in self-defence, to cut the gentleman in two, when all at once (believe me or not, Monsieur) the great carriage-case opened of itself, I don’t know how, and there came out of it a sort of a phantom, his head covered with a black helmet and a black mask, something terrible to look upon, which came towards me threatening with its fist.”

“And that was?” said Athos.

“That was the Devil, Monsieur,- for the gentleman, with great glee, cried out on seeing him, ‘Ah, thank you, Monseigneur!’”

“A strange story!” murmured the count, looking at Raoul.

“And what did you do?” asked the latter of the fisherman.

“You must know, Monsieur, that two poor men like us were already too few to fight against two gentlemen; but against the Devil, ah! Well, we didn’t stop to consult each other,- we made but one jump into the sea, for we were within seven or eight hundred feet of the shore.”

“Well, and then?”

“Why, and then, Monseigneur, as there was a little wind from the southwest, the boat drifted into the sands of Ste. Marguerite.”

“Oh! but the two travellers?”

“Bah! you need not be uneasy about them! It was pretty plain that one was the Devil, and protected the other,- for when we recovered the boat, after she got afloat again, instead of finding these two creatures injured by the shock, we found nothing, not even the carriage-case.”

“Very strange! very strange!” repeated the count. “But since that what have you done, my friend?”

“I made my complaint to the governor of Ste. Marguerite, who brought my finger under my nose while telling me if I plagued him with such silly stories he would have me flogged.”

“What! did the governor say so?”

“Yes, Monsieur; and yet my boat was injured, seriously injured, for the prow is left upon the point of Ste. Marguerite, and the carpenter asks a hundred and twenty livres to repair it.”

“Very well,” replied Raoul; “you will be exempted from the service. Go.”

“We will go to Ste. Marguerite, shall we?” said the count to Bragelonne, as the man walked away.

“Yes, Monsieur, for there is something to be cleared up; that man does not seem to me to have told the truth.”

“Nor to me, Raoul. The story of the masked man and the carriage-case having disappeared may be told to conceal some violence these fellows have committed upon their passenger in the open sea, to punish him for his persistence in embarking.”

“I formed the same suspicion; the carriage-case was more likely to contain property than a man.”

“We shall see to that, Raoul. This gentleman very much resembles d’Artagnan; I recognize his mode of proceeding. Alas! we are no longer the young invincibles of former days. Who knows whether the hatchet or the iron bar of this miserable coaster has not succeeded in doing that which the best blades of Europe, balls, and bullets have not been able to do in forty years?”

That same day they set out for Ste. Marguerite’s, on board a chasse-maree come from Toulon under orders. The impression they felt on landing was a singularly pleasing one. The isle was full of flowers and fruits. In its cultivated part it served as a garden for the governor. Orange, pomegranate, and fig trees bent beneath the weight of their golden or purple fruits. All around this garden, in the uncultivated parts, the red partridges ran about in coveys among the brambles and tufts of junipers, and at every step of the count and Raoul a terrified rabbit quitted his thyme and heath to scuttle away to his burrow. In fact, this fortunate isle was uninhabited. Flat, offering nothing but a tiny bay for the convenience of embarkation, under the protection of the governor, who went shares with them, smugglers made use of it as a provisional entrepot, under condition of not killing the game or devastating the garden. With this compromise, the governor was in a situation to be satisfied with a garrison of eight men to guard his fortress, in which twelve cannon accumulated their coats of mouldy green. The governor was a sort of happy farmer, harvesting wines, figs, oil, and oranges, preserving his citrons and cedrats in the sun of his casemates. The fortress, encircled by a deep ditch, its only guardian, raised like three heads its three turrets connected with one another by terraces covered over with moss.

Athos and Raoul wandered for some time round the fences of the garden without finding any one to introduce them to the governor. They ended by making their own way into the garden. It was at the hottest time of the day. Everything sought shelter beneath grass or stone. The heavens spread their fiery veils as if to stifle all noises, to envelop all existences; the rabbit under the broom, the fly under the leaf, slept as the wave did beneath the heavens. Athos saw nothing living but a soldier upon the terrace beneath the second and third courts, who was carrying a basket of provisions on his head. This man returned almost immediately without his basket, and disappeared in the shade of his sentry-box. Athos supposed this man must have been carrying dinner to some one, and after having done so, returned to dine himself. All at once they heard some one call out, and raising their heads, perceived in the frame of the bars of the window something of a white color, like a hand that was waved backwards and forwards,- something shining, like a polished weapon struck by the rays of the sun. And before they were able to ascertain what it was they saw, a luminous train accompanied by a hissing sound in the air called their attention from the donjon to the ground. A second dull noise was heard from the ditch, and Raoul ran to pick up a silver plate which was rolling along the dry sand. The hand which had thrown this plate made a sign to the two gentlemen and then disappeared. Athos and Raoul, approaching each other, began an attentive examination of the dusty plate; and they discovered, in characters traced upon the bottom of it with the point of a knife, this inscription:-

I am the brother of the king of france: a prisoner to-day, a madman to-morrow. French gentlemen and Christians, pray to god for the soul and the reason of the son of your masters.

The plate fell from the hands of Athos while Raoul was endeavoring to make out the meaning of these dismal words. At the same instant they heard a cry from the top of the donjon. As quick as lightning Raoul bent down his head, and forced down that of his father likewise. A musket-barrel glittered from the crest of the wall. A white smoke floated like a plume from the mouth of the musket, and a ball was flattened against a stone within six inches of the two gentlemen. Another musket appeared, which was aimed at them.

“Cordieu!” cried Athos. “What! are people assassinated here? Come down, cowards as you are!”

“Yes, come down!” cried Raoul, furiously shaking his fist at the citadel.

One of the assailants- he who was about to fire- replied to these cries by an exclamation of surprise; and as his companion, who wished to continue the attack, had reseized his loaded musket, he who had cried out threw up the weapon, and the ball flew into the air. Athos and Raoul, seeing them disappear from the platform, expected that they would come to them, and waited with a firm demeanor. Five minutes had not elapsed when a stroke upon a drum called the eight soldiers of the garrison to arms, and they showed themselves on the other side of the ditch with their muskets in hand. At the head of these men was an officer, whom Athos and Raoul recognized as the one who had fired the first musket. The man ordered the soldiers to “make ready.”

“We are going to be shot!” cried Raoul; “but, sword in hand, at least let us leap the ditch. We shall certainly kill two of these scoundrels when their muskets are empty.”

And suiting the action to the word, Raoul was springing forward, followed by Athos, when a well-known voice resounded behind them, “Athos! Raoul!”

“D’Artagnan!” replied the two gentlemen.

“Recover arms! Mordioux!” cried the captain to the soldiers. “I was sure I could not be mistaken!”

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Athos. “What! were we to be shot without warning?”

“It was I who was going to shoot you; and if the governor missed you, I should not have missed you, my dear friends. How fortunate it is that I am accustomed to take a long aim, instead of firing at the instant I raise my weapon! I thought I recognized you. Oh, my dear friends, how fortunate!” and d’Artagnan wiped his brow,- for he had run fast, and emotion with him was not feigned.

“How!” said Athos; “and is the gentleman who fired at us the governor of the fortress?”

“In person.”

“And why did he fire at us? What have we done to him?”

“Pardieu! You received what the prisoner threw to you?”

“That is true.”

“That plate,- the prisoner has written something underneath, has he not?”

“Yes.”

“Good heavens! I was afraid he had.”

And d’Artagnan, with all the marks of mortal alarm, seized the plate to read the inscription. When he had read it, a fearful pallor spread over his countenance. “Oh, good heavens!” repeated he. “Silence! here is the governor.”

“And what will he do to us? Is it our fault?” asked Raoul.

“It is true, then?” said Athos, in a subdued voice. “It is true?”

“Silence, I tell you, silence! If he only believes you can read, if he only suspects you have understood- I love you, my dear friends, I will be killed for you but-”

“‘But-’” said Athos and Raoul.

“But I could not save you from perpetual imprisonment, if I saved you from death. Silence, then! silence again!”

The governor came up, having crossed the ditch upon a plank bridge. “Well,” said he to d’Artagnan, “what stops us?”

“You are Spaniards; you do not understand a word of French,” said the captain, eagerly to his friends in a low voice.

“Well!” replied he, addressing the governor, “I was right; these gentlemen are two Spanish captains with whom I was acquainted at Ypres, last year. They don’t know a word of French.”

“Ah!” said the governor, sharply. “And yet they were trying to read the inscription on the plate.”

D’Artagnan took it out of his hands, effacing the characters with the point of his sword.

“How!” cried the governor; “what are you doing? I cannot read them now!”

“It is a state secret,” replied d’Artagnan, bluntly; “and as you know that according to the King’s orders it is under the penalty of death that any one should penetrate it, I will, if you like, allow you to read it and have you shot immediately afterwards.”

During this apostrophe- half serious, half ironical- Athos and Raoul preserved the coolest, most unconcerned silence.

“But, is it possible,” said the governor, “that these gentlemen do not comprehend at least some words?”

“Suppose they do! If they do understand a few spoken words it does not follow that they should understand what is written. They cannot even read Spanish. A noble Spaniard, remember, ought never to know how to read.”

The governor was obliged to be satisfied with these explanations; but he was still tenacious. “Invite these gentlemen to come to the fortress,” said he.

“That I will willingly do. I was about to propose it to you.” The fact is, the captain had quite another idea, and would have wished his friends a hundred leagues off. But he was obliged to make the best of it. He addressed the two gentlemen in Spanish, giving them a polite invitation, which they accepted. They all turned towards the entrance of the fort, and the incident being exhausted, the eight soldiers returned to their delightful leisure, for a moment disturbed by this unexpected adventure.

Captive and Jailers

When they had entered the fort, and while the governor was making some preparations for the reception of his guests, “Come,” said Athos, “let us have a word of explanation while we are alone.”

“It is simply this,” replied the musketeer. “I have conducted hither a prisoner, who the King commands shall not be seen. You came here; he has thrown something to you through the lattice of his window. I was at dinner with the governor; I saw the object thrown, and I saw Raoul pick it up. It does not take long to understand this. I understood it; and I thought you in intelligence with my prisoner. And then-”

“And then- you commanded us to be shot.”

“Ma foi! I admit it; but if I was the first to seize a musket, fortunately I was the last to take aim at you.”

“If you had killed me, d’Artagnan, I should have had the good fortune to die for the royal house of France; and it would be an honor to die by your hand,- you, its noblest and most loyal defender.”

“What the devil, Athos, do you mean by the royal house?” stammered d’Artagnan. “You don’t mean that you, a well-informed and sensible man, can place any faith in the nonsense written by an idiot?”

“I do believe in it.”

“With the more reason, my dear chevalier, for your having orders to kill all those who do believe in it,” said Raoul.

“That is because,” replied the captain of the Musketeers,- “because every calumny, however absurd it may be, has the almost certain chance of becoming popular.”

“No, d’Artagnan,” replied Athos, in a low tone; “but because the King is not willing that the secret of his family should transpire among the people, and cover with shame the executioners of the son of Louis XIII.”

“Do not talk in such a childish manner, Athos, or I shall begin to think you have lost your senses. Besides, explain to me how it is possible Louis XIII should have a son in the Isle of Ste. Marguerite?”

“A son whom you have brought hither masked, in a fishing-boat,” said Athos. “Why not?”

D’Artagnan was brought to a pause. “Ah, ah!” said he; “whence do you know that a fishing-boat-”

“Brought you to Ste. Marguerite with the carriage-case containing the prisoner,- with a prisoner whom you styled Monseigneur. Oh, I am acquainted with all that,” resumed the count. D’Artagnan bit his mustache.

“If it were true,” said he, “that I had brought hither in a boat and with a carriage a masked prisoner, nothing proves that this prisoner must be a Prince,- a Prince of the house of France.”

“Oh! ask that of Aramis,” replied Athos, coolly.

“Of Aramis!” cried the musketeer, quite at a stand. “Have you seen Aramis?”

“After his discomfiture at Vaux, yes. I have seen Aramis, a fugitive, pursued, ruined; and Aramis has told me enough to make me believe in the complaints that this unfortunate young man inscribed upon the silver plate.”

D’Artagnan’s head sunk upon his breast with confusion. “This is the way,” said he, “in which God turns to nothing that which men call their wisdom! A fine secret must that be of which twelve or fifteen persons hold the tattered fragments! Athos, cursed be the chance which has brought you face to face with me in this affair! for now-”

“Well,” said Athos, with his customary mild severity, “is your secret lost because I know it? Consult your memory, my friend. Have I not borne secrets as heavy as this?”

“You have never borne one so dangerous,” replied d’Artagnan, in a tone of sadness. “I have something like a sinister idea that all who are concerned with this secret will die, and die unfortunately.”

“The will of God be done!” said Athos; “but here is your governor.”

D’Artagnan and his friends immediately resumed their parts. The governor, suspicious and hard, behaved towards d’Artagnan with a politeness almost amounting to obsequiousness. With respect to the travellers, he contented himself with offering them good cheer, and never taking his eye from them. Athos and Raoul observed that he often tried to embarrass them by sudden attacks, or to catch them off their guard; but neither the one nor the other gave him the least advantage. What d’Artagnan had said was probable, if the governor did not believe it to be quite true. They rose from the table to repose awhile.

“What is this man’s name? I don’t like the looks of him,” said Athos to d’Artagnan, in Spanish.

“De Saint-Mars,” replied the captain.

“He will be, then, the Prince’s jailer?”

“Eh! how can I tell? I may be kept at Ste. Marguerite forever.”

“Oh, no, not you!”

“My friend, I am in the situation of a man who finds a treasure in the midst of a desert. He would like to carry it away, but he cannot; he would like to leave it, but he dare not. The King will not dare to recall me, for fear no one else would serve him as faithfully as I; he regrets not having me near him, from being aware that no one will be of so much service near his person as myself. But it will happen as it may please God.”

“But,” observed Raoul, “your not being certain proves that your situation here is provisional, and you will return to Paris.”

“Ask these gentlemen,” interrupted the governor, “what was their purpose in coming to Ste. Marguerite.”

“They came because they had heard that there was a convent of Benedictines at St. Honorat which is considered curious; and from being told there was excellent shooting in the island.”

“That is quite at their service, as well as yours,” replied De Saint-Mars.

D’Artagnan politely thanked him.

“When will they depart?” added the governor.

“To-morrow,” replied d’Artagnan.

M. de Saint-Mars went to make his rounds, and left d’Artagnan alone with the pretended Spaniards.

“Oh!” exclaimed the musketeer, “here is a life with a society that suits me but little. I command this man; and he bores me, mordioux! Come, let us have a shot or two at the rabbits; the walk will be beautiful, and not fatiguing. The isle is but a league and a half in length, upon a breadth of a league,- a real park. Let us try to amuse ourselves.”

“As you please, d’Artagnan; not for the sake of amusing ourselves, but to gain an opportunity for talking freely.”

D’Artagnan made a sign to a soldier, who brought the gentlemen some guns, and then returned to the fort.

“And now,” said the musketeer, “answer me the question put to you by that black-looking Saint-Mars. What did you come to do at the Lerins Isles?

“To bid you farewell.”

“Bid me farewell! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul going anywhere?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort.”

“With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend; you always guess rightly.”

“From habit.”

While the two friends were beginning their conversation, Raoul, with his head hanging down and his heart oppressed, seated himself on a mossy rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea, looking at the heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul; he allowed the sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him. D’Artagnan remarked his absence.

“He is still stricken, isn’t he?” said he to Athos.

“He is struck to death.”

“Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a fine nature. Around all hearts so noble as his there is a second envelope which forms a cuirass. The first bleeds, the second resists.”

“No,” replied Athos, “Raoul will die of it.”

“Mordioux!” said d’Artagnan, in a melancholy tone; and he did not add a word to this exclamation. Then, a minute after, “Why do you let him go?”

“Because he insists upon going.”

“And why do you not go with him?”

“I could not bear to see him die.”

D’Artagnan looked his friend earnestly in the face.

“You know one thing,” continued the count, leaning upon the arm of the captain,- “you know that in the course of my life I have been afraid of but few things. Well! I have an incessant, gnawing, insurmountable fear that a day will arrive in which I shall hold the dead body of that boy in my arms.”

“Oh!” murmured d’Artagnan; “oh!”

“He will die, I know,- I have a conviction of that; but I would not see him die.”

“How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself in the presence of the bravest man you say you have ever seen,- of your own d’Artagnan, of that man without an equal, as you formerly called him,- and you come and tell him with your arms folded that you are afraid of witnessing the death of your son, you who have seen all that can be seen in this world! Why have you this fear, Athos? Man upon this earth must expect everything, and ought to face everything.”

“Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself out upon this earth of which you speak, I have preserved but two religions: that of life,- my friendships, my duty as a father; that of eternity,- love and respect for God. Now, I have within me the revelation that if God should decree that my friend or my son should render up his last sigh in my presence,- oh, no, I cannot even tell you, d’Artagnan!”

“Speak, speak! tell me!”

“I am strong against everything, except against the death of those I love. For that only there is no remedy. He who dies, gains; he who sees others die, loses. No; this it is,- to know that I should no more meet upon earth him whom I now behold with joy; to know that there would nowhere be a d’Artagnan any more, nowhere again be a Raoul,- oh! I am old, see you, I have no longer courage. I pray God to spare me in my weakness; but if he struck me so plainly and in that fashion, I should curse him. A Christian gentleman ought not to curse his God, d’Artagnan; it is quite enough to have cursed his King!”

“Humph!” said d’Artagnan, a little confused by this violent tempest of grief.

“D’Artagnan, my friend, you who love Raoul, look at him,” he added, pointing to his son; “see that melancholy which never leaves him. Can you imagine anything more dreadful than to witness, minute by minute, the ceaseless agony of that poor soul?”

“Let me speak to him, Athos. Who knows?”

“Try, if you please, but I am convinced you will not succeed.”

“I will not attempt to console him, I will serve him.”

“You will?”

“Doubtless. Do you think this would be the first time a woman had repented of an infidelity? I will go to him, I tell you.”

Athos shook his head, and continued his walk alone. D’Artagnan, cutting across the brambles, rejoined Raoul, and held out his hand to him. “Well, Raoul! you wished to speak to me?”

“I have a kindness to ask of you,” replied Bragelonne.

“Ask it, then.”

“You will some day return to France?”

“I hope so.”

“Ought I to write to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”

“No; you must not.”

“But I have so many things to say to her.”

“Come and say them to her, then.”

“Never!”

“Pray, what virtue do you attribute to a letter which your speech might not possess?”

“Perhaps you are right.”

“She loves the King,” said d’Artagnan, bluntly; “and she is an honest girl.” Raoul started. “And you, you whom she abandons,” added the captain, “she perhaps loves better than she does the King, but after another fashion.”

“D’Artagnan, do you believe she loves the King?”

“To idolatry. Her heart is inaccessible to any other feeling. You might continue to live near her, and would be her best friend.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Raoul, with a passionate burst of repugnance for such a painful hope.

“Will you do so?”

“It would be base.”

“That is a very absurd word, which would lead me to think slightly of your understanding. Please to understand, Raoul, that it is never base to do that which is imposed by a superior force. If your heart says to you, ‘Go there, or die,’ why, go there, Raoul. Was she base or brave, she whom you loved, in preferring the King to you,- the King whom her heart commanded her imperiously to prefer to you? No, she was the bravest of women. Do, then, as she has done. Obey yourself. Do you know one thing of which I am sure, Raoul?”

“What is that?”

“Why, that by seeing her closely with the eyes of a jealous man-”

“Well?”

“Well; you would cease to love her.”

“Then I am decided, my dear d’Artagnan.”

“To set off to see her again?”

“No; to set off that I may never see her again. I wish to love her forever.”

“Frankly,” replied the musketeer, “that is a conclusion which I was far from expecting.”

“This is what I wish, my friend. You will see her again, and you will give her a letter which, if you think proper, will explain to her as to yourself what is passing in my heart. Read it; I prepared it last night. Something told me I should see you to-day.” He held the letter out, and d’Artagnan read it:-

Mademoiselle: You are not wrong in my eyes in not loving me. You have only been guilty of one fault towards me,- that of having left me to believe you loved me. This error will cost me my life. I pardon you; but I cannot pardon myself. It is said that happy lovers are deaf to the complaints of rejected lovers. It will not be so with you who did not love me except with anxiety. I am sure that if I had persisted in endeavoring to change that friendship into love, you would have yielded through fear of bringing about my death, or of lessening the esteem I had for you. It is much more delightful to me to die, knowing you are free and satisfied. How much, then, will you love me when you will no longer fear either my presence or my reproaches! You will love me, because, however charming a new love may appear to you, God has not made me in anything inferior to him you have chosen, and because my devotedness, my sacrifice, and my painful end will assure me, in your eyes, a certain superiority over him. I have allowed to escape, in the candid credulity of my heart, the treasure I possessed. Many people tell me that you loved me to such a degree that you might have come to love me much. That idea takes from my mind all the bitterness, and leads me only to blame myself. You will accept this last farewell, and you will bless me for having taken refuge in the inviolable asylum where all hatred is extinguished, and where all love endures forever. Adieu, Mademoiselle. If your happiness could be purchased by the last drop of my blood, I would shed that drop. I willingly make the sacrifice of it to my misery!

“Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

“The letter is very well,” said the captain. “I have only one fault to find with it.”

“Tell me what that is,” said Raoul.

“It is that it tells everything except the thing which exhales, like a mortal poison, from your eyes and from your heart; except the senseless love which still consumes you.” Raoul grew paler, but remained silent.

“Why did you not write simply these words:-

’Mademoiselle: Instead of cursing you, I love you and I die.’?”

“That is true,” exclaimed Raoul, with a sinister joy.

And tearing the letter he had just taken back, he wrote the following words upon a leaf of his tablets:-

“To procure the happiness of once more telling you that I love you, I commit the baseness of writing to you; and to punish myself for that baseness, I die.”

And he signed it. “You will give her these tablets, Captain, will you not?”

“When?” asked the latter.

“On the day,” said Bragelonne, pointing to the last sentence,- “on the day when you can place a date under these words.” And he sprang away quickly to join Athos, who was returning with slow steps.

As they re-entered the fort, the sea rose with that rapid, gusty vehemence which characterizes the Mediterranean; the ill-humor of the element became a tempest. Something shapeless, and tossed about violently by the waves, appeared just off the coast.

“What is that?” said Athos,- “a wrecked boat?”

“No, it is not a boat,” said d’Artagnan.

“Pardon me,” said Raoul; “there is a bark gaining the port rapidly.”

“Yes, there is a bark in the creek, which is prudently seeking shelter here; but that which Athos points to in the sand is not a boat at all,- it has run aground.”

“Yes, yes, I see it.”

“It is the carriage-case, which I threw into the sea after landing the prisoner.”

“Well,” said Athos, “if you will take my advice, d’Artagnan, you will burn it, in order that no vestige of it may remain; or the fishermen of Antibes, who have believed they had to do with the Devil, will endeavor to prove that your prisoner was but a man.”

“Your advice is good, Athos, and I will this night have it carried out, or rather, I will carry it out myself; but let us go in, for the rain falls heavily, and the lightning is terrific.”

As they were passing over the ramparts to a gallery of which d’Artagnan had the key, they saw M. de Saint-Mars directing his steps towards the chamber inhabited by the prisoner. Upon a sign from d’Artagnan, they concealed themselves in an angle of the staircase.

“What is it?” said Athos.

“You will see. Look! the prisoner is returning from chapel.”

And by the red flashes of the lightning against the violet fog which the wind spread upon the background of the sky, they saw pass gravely, at six paces behind the governor, a man clothed in black and masked by a visor of polished steel soldered to a helmet of the same nature, which altogether enveloped the whole of his head. The fire of the heavens cast red reflections upon the polished surface, and these reflections, flying off capriciously, seemed to be angry looks launched by this unfortunate, instead of imprecations. In the middle of the gallery, the prisoner stopped for a moment to contemplate the infinite horizon, to inhale the sulphurous perfumes of the tempest, to drink in thirstily the hot rain, and to breathe a sigh resembling a smothered roar.

“Come on, Monsieur,” said De Saint-Mars, sharply to the prisoner, for he already became uneasy at seeing him look so long beyond the walls. “Monsieur, come on!”

“Say Monseigneur!” cried Athos, from his corner, with a voice so solemn and terrible that the governor trembled from head to foot. Athos always wished respect to be paid to fallen majesty. The prisoner turned round.

“Who spoke?” asked De Saint-Mars.

“It was I,” replied d’Artagnan, showing himself promptly. “You know that is the order.”

“Call me neither Monsieur nor Monseigneur,” said the prisoner in his turn, in a voice that penetrated to the very soul of Raoul; “call me accursed!” He passed on, and the iron door creaked after him.

“That is truly an unfortunate man!” murmured the musketeer, in a hollow whisper, pointing out to Raoul the chamber inhabited by the Prince.

Promises

Scarcely had d’Artagnan re-entered his apartment with his two friends, when one of the soldiers of the fort came to inform him that the governor was seeking for him. The bark which Raoul had perceived at sea, and which appeared so eager to gain the port, came to Ste. Marguerite with an important despatch for the captain of the Musketeers. On opening it, d’Artagnan recognized the writing of the King: “I should think,” said Louis XIV, “that you must have completed the execution of my orders, M. d’Artagnan; return then immediately to Paris, and join me at the Louvre.”

“There is the end of my exile!” cried the musketeer with joy; “God be praised, I am no longer a jailer!” and he showed the letter to Athos.

“So then you must leave us?” replied the latter, in a melancholy tone.

“Yes; but to meet again, dear friend, seeing that Raoul is old enough now to go alone with M. de Beaufort, and will prefer that his father should go back in company with M. d’Artagnan, rather than that he should travel two hundred leagues solitarily to reach home at La Fere; would you not, Raoul?”

“Certainly,” stammered the latter, with an expression of tender regret.

“No, no, my friend,” interrupted Athos, “I will never quit Raoul till the day his vessel shall have disappeared on the horizon. As long as he remains in France, he shall not be separated from me.”

“As you please, dear friend; but we will, at least, leave Ste. Marguerite together. Take advantage of the bark which will convey me back to Antibes.”

“With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a distance from this fort, and from the spectacle which saddened us so just now.”

The three friends quitted the little isle, after paying their respects to the governor, and by the last flashes of the departing tempest they took their farewell of the white walls of the fort. D’Artagnan parted from his friends that same night, after having seen fire set to the carriage-case upon the shore by the orders of De Saint-Mars, according to the advice the captain had given him. Before getting on horseback, and after leaving the arms of Athos, “My friends,” said he, “you too much resemble two soldiers who are abandoning their post. Something warns me that Raoul will require being supported by you in his rank. Will you allow me to ask permission to go over into Africa with a hundred good muskets? The King will not refuse me, and I will take you with me.”

“M. d’Artagnan,” replied Raoul, pressing his hand with emotion, “thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish, either Monsieur the Count or I. I, who am young, stand in need of labor of mind and fatigue of body; Monsieur the Count wants the profoundest repose. You are his best friend. I recommend him to your care. In watching over him, you will hold both our souls in your hands.”

“I must go; my horse is all in a fret,” said d’Artagnan, with whom the most manifest sign of a lively emotion was the change of ideas in a conversation. “Come, Count, how many days longer has Raoul to stay here?”

“Three days at most.”

“And how long will it take you to reach home?”

“Oh, a considerable time,” replied Athos. “I shall not like the idea of being separated too quickly from Raoul. Time will travel too fast of itself to require me to aid it by distance. I shall only make half-stages.”

“And why so, my friend? Nothing is more dull than travelling slowly; and hostelry life does not become a man like you.”

“My friend, I came hither on post-horses; but I wish to purchase two animals of a superior kind. Now, to take them home fresh, it would not be prudent to make them travel more than seven or eight leagues a day.”

“Where is Grimaud?”

“He arrived yesterday morning with Raoul’s appointments; and I have left him to sleep.”

“That is, never to come back again,” d’Artagnan suffered to escape him. “Till we meet again, then, dear Athos; and if you are diligent, well, I shall embrace you the sooner.” So saying, he put his foot in the stirrup, which Raoul held.

“Farewell!” said the young man, embracing him.

“Farewell!” said d’Artagnan, as he got into his saddle. His horse made a movement which divided the cavalier from his friends.

This scene had taken place in front of the house chosen by Athos, near the gates of Antibes, whither d’Artagnan, after his supper, had ordered his horses to be brought. The road began there, and extended white and undulating in the vapors of the night. The horse eagerly inhaled the salt sharp perfume of the marshes. D’Artagnan put him into a trot; and Athos and Raoul sadly turned towards the house. All at once they heard the rapid approach of a horse’s steps, and at first believed it to be one of those singular echoes which deceive the ear at every turn in a road; but it was really the return of the horseman. They uttered a cry of joyous surprise; and the captain, springing to the ground like a young man, seized within his arms the two beloved forms of Athos and Raoul. He held them long embraced thus, without speaking a word, or suffering the sigh which was bursting his breast to escape him. Then, as rapidly as he had come back, he set off again, with a sharp application of his spurs to the sides of his fiery horse.

“Alas!” said the count, in a low voice, “alas! alas!”

“Evil presage!” on his side said d’Artagnan to himself, making up for lost time. “I could not smile upon them. An evil presage!”

The next day Grimaud was on foot again. The service commanded by M. de Beaufort was happily accomplished. The flotilla, sent to Toulon by the exertions of Raoul, had set out, dragging after it in little nutshells almost invisible, the wives and friends of the fishermen and smugglers impressed into the service of the fleet. The time, so short, which remained for the father and the son to live together, appeared to have doubled the rapidity of its flight, as the swiftness of everything increases which moves towards the gulf of eternity.

Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which place began to be filled with the noise of carriages, the noise of arms, the noise of neighing horses. The trumpeters sounded their spirited marches; the drummers signalized their strength; the streets were overflowing with soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was everywhere, superintending the embarkation with the zeal and interest of a good captain. He encouraged even the most humble of his companions; he scolded his lieutenants, even those of the highest rank. Artillery, provisions, baggage,- he insisted upon seeing all himself. He examined the equipment of every soldier; he assured himself of the health and soundness of every horse. It was plain that light, boastful, and egotistical in his hotel, the gentleman became the soldier again, the high noble a captain, in face of the responsibility he had accepted. And yet it must be admitted that whatever was the care with which he presided over the preparations for departure, it was easy to perceive careless precipitation, and the absence of all the precaution which makes the French soldier the first soldier in the world, because he is the one most abandoned to his own physical and moral resources.

All things having satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the admiral, he paid his compliments to Raoul, and gave the last orders for sailing the next morning at daybreak. He invited the count and his son to dine with him; but they, under a pretext of the service, kept themselves apart. Gaining their hostelry, situated under the trees of the great place, they took their repast in haste; and Athos led Raoul to the rocks which command the city,- vast gray mountains, whence the view is infinite, and embraces a liquid horizon which appears, so remote is it, on a level with the rocks themselves. The night was fine, as it always is in these happy climates. The moon, rising behind the rocks, spread out like a silver sheet upon the blue carpet of the sea. In the roadsteads manoeuvred silently the vessels which had just taken their places to facilitate the embarkation. The sea, loaded with phosphoric light, opened beneath the hulls of the barks which transported the baggage and munitions; every dip of the prow ploughed up this gulf of white flames, and from every oar dropped liquid diamonds. The sailors, rejoicing in the largesses of the admiral, were heard murmuring their slow and artless songs. Sometimes the grinding of the chains was mixed with the dull noise of shot falling into the holds. These harmonies and this spectacle oppress the heart like fear, and dilate it like hope. All this life speaks of death.

Athos had seated himself with his son upon the moss, among the brambles of the promontory. Around their heads passed and repassed large bats, carried along in the fearful whirl of their blind chase. The feet of Raoul were across the edge of the cliff, and hung in that void which engenders vertigo and incites to self-destruction. When the moon had risen to its full height, caressing with its light the neighboring peaks, when the watery mirror was illumined to its full extent, and the little red fires had made their openings in the black masses of every ship, Athos collected all his ideas and all his courage, and said, “God has made all that we see, Raoul; he has made us also,- poor atoms mixed up with this great universe. We shine like those fires and those stars; we sigh like those waves; we suffer like those great ships, which are worn out in ploughing the waves, in obeying the wind which urges them towards an end, as the breath of God blows us towards a port. Everything likes to live, Raoul; and all is beautiful in living things.”

“Monsieur,” said Raoul, “we have before us a beautiful spectacle!”

“How good d’Artagnan is!” interrupted Athos, suddenly; “and what a rare good fortune it is to be supported during a whole life by such a friend as he is! That is what you have wanted, Raoul.”

“A friend!” cried Raoul; “I have wanted a friend!”

“M. de Guiche is an agreeable companion,” resumed the count, coldly; “but I believe in the times in which you live men are more engaged in their own interests and their own pleasures than they were in our times. You have sought a secluded life; that is a great happiness, but you have lost your strength in it. We four, more weaned from these delicate abstractions which constitute your joy,- we found in ourselves much greater powers of resistance when misfortune came.”

“I have not interrupted you, Monsieur, to tell you that I had a friend, and that that friend is M. Guiche. Certainly he is good and generous, and moreover he loves me; but I have lived under the guard of another friendship, Monsieur, as precious and as strong as that of which you speak: your own.”

“I have not been a friend for you, Raoul,” said Athos.

“Eh, Monsieur! and in what respect not?”

“Because I have given you reason to think that life has but one face; because, sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you- without, God knows, wishing to do so- the joyous buds which incessantly spring from the tree of youth; so that at this moment I repent not having made of you a more expansive, dissipated, animated man.”

“I know why you say that, Monsieur. No, it is not you who have made me what I am,- it is love, which took possession of me at the time when children have only inclinations; it is the constancy natural to my character, which with other creatures is but a habit. I believed that I should always be as I was; I thought God had cast me in a path quite cleared, quite straight, bordered with fruits and flowers. I had watching over me your vigilance and your strength. I believed myself to be vigilant and strong. Nothing prepared me; I fell once, and that once deprived me of courage for the whole of my life. It is quite true that I wrecked myself. Oh, no, Monsieur! you are nothing in my past but a happiness; you are nothing in my future but a hope! No, I have no reproach to make against life, such as you made it for me; I bless you, and I love you ardently.”

“My dear Raoul, your words do me good; they prove to me that you will act a little for me in the time that is to come.”

“I shall act only for you, Monsieur.”

“Raoul, what I have never hitherto done with respect to you, I will hence forward do; I will be your friend, not your father. We will live in expanding ourselves, instead of living and holding ourselves prisoners, when you come back; and that will be soon, will it not?”

“Certainly, Monsieur,- for such an expedition cannot be of long duration.”

“Soon, then, Raoul, soon, instead of living moderately upon my income, I will give you the capital of my estates; it will suffice for launching you into the world till my death,- and you will give me, I hope, before that time, the consolation of not seeing my race extinct.”

“I will do all you shall command,” said Raoul, much agitated.

“It is not necessary, Raoul, that your duty as aide-de-camp should lead you into too hazardous enterprises. You have gone through your ordeal; you are known to be good under fire. Remember that war with the Arabs is a war of snares, ambuscades, and assassinations.”

“So it is said, Monsieur.”

“There is never much glory in falling in an ambuscade. It is a death which always implies some rashness or want of foresight. Often, indeed, he who falls in it meets with but little pity. They who are not pitied, Raoul, have died uselessly. Still further, the conqueror laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow stupid infidels to triumph over our mistakes. Do you clearly understand what I am saying to you, Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to avoid encounters!”

“I am naturally prudent, Monsieur, and I have very good fortune,” said Raoul, with a smile which chilled the heart of his poor father; “for,” the young man hastened to add, “in twenty combats in which I have been, I have only received one scratch.”

“There is in addition,” said Athos, “the climate to be dreaded; that is an ugly end, that fever! King Saint-Louis prayed God to send him an arrow or the plague, rather than the fever.”

“Oh, Monsieur! with sobriety, with due exercise-”

“I have already obtained from M. de Beaufort a promise that his despatches shall be sent off every fort-night to France. You, as his aide-de-camp, will be charged with expediting them, and will be sure not to forget me?”

“No, Monsieur,” said Raoul, almost choked with emotion.

“Besides, Raoul, as you are a good Christian, and I am one also, we ought to reckon upon a more special protection of God and his guardian angels. Promise me that if anything evil should happen to you on any occasion, you will think of me at once.”

“First and at once! Oh, yes, Monsieur!

“And will call upon me?”

“Instantly.”

“You dream of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?”

“Every night, Monsieur. During my early youth I saw you in my dreams, calm and mild, with one hand stretched out over my head; and that it was that made me sleep so soundly- formerly.”

“We love each other so dearly,” said the count, “that from this moment in which we separate a portion of both our souls will travel with one and the other of us, and will dwell wherever we may dwell. Whenever you may be sad, Raoul, I feel that my heart will be drowned in sadness; and when you smile on thinking of me, be assured you will send me, from however remote a distance, a ray of your joy.”

“I will not promise you to be joyous,” replied the young man; “but you may be certain that I will never pass an hour without thinking of you; not one hour, I swear, unless I be dead.”

Athos could contain himself no longer; he threw his arm round the neck of his son, and held him embraced with all the power of his heart. The moon began to be now eclipsed by twilight; a golden band mounted on the horizon announcing the approach of day. Athos threw his cloak over the shoulders of Raoul, and led him back to the city, where burdens and porters were already in motion, as in a vast ant-hill. At the end of the plateau which Athos and Bragelonne were quitting, they saw a dark shadow moving backwards and forwards, as if in indecision or ashamed to be seen. It was Grimaud, who in his anxiety had tracked his master, and was waiting for him.

“Oh, my good Grimaud,” cried Raoul, “what do you want? You have come to tell us it is time to go, have you not?”

“Alone?” said Grimaud, addressing Athos, and pointing to Raoul in a tone of reproach, which showed to what an extent the old man was troubled.

“Oh, you are right!” cried the count. “No, Raoul shall not go alone; no, he shall not be left alone in a strange land without some friendly hand to support him, some friendly heart to recall to him all he loved!”

“I?” said Grimaud.

“You? yes, you!” cried Raoul, touched to his inmost heart.

“Alas!” said Athos, “you are very old, my good Grimaud.”

“So much the better,” replied the latter, with an inexpressible depth of feeling and intelligence.

“But the embarkation has begun,” said Raoul, “and you are not prepared.”

“Yes,” said Grimaud, showing the keys of his trunks, mixed with those of his young master.

“But,” again objected Raoul, “you cannot leave Monsieur the Count thus alone,- Monsieur the Count whom you have never quitted?”

Grimaud turned his dimmed eyes upon Athos and Raoul, as if to measure the strength of both. The count uttered not a word.

“Monsieur the Count will prefer my going,” said Grimaud.

“I should,” said Athos, by an inclination of the head.

At that moment the drums suddenly rolled, and the clarions filled the air with their inspiring notes. The regiments destined for the expedition began to march out from the city. They advanced to the number of five, each composed of forty companies. Royals marched first, distinguished by their white uniform, faced with blue. The ordonnance colors, quartered crosswise, violet and dead leaf, with a sprinkling of golden fleurs-de-lis, left the white-colored flag, with its fleurdelisee cross, to dominate over the whole. Musketeers at the wings, with their forked sticks in their hands and their muskets on their shoulders, and pikemen in the centre, with their lances, fourteen feet in length, marched gayly towards the transports, which carried them in detail to the ships. The regiments of Picardy, Navarre, Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau, followed after. M. de Beaufort had known well how to select his troops. He himself was seen closing the march with his staff; it would take him a full hour to reach the sea. Raoul with Athos turned his steps slowly towards the beach, in order to take his place when the prince embarked. Grimaud, acting with the ardor of a young man, superintended the embarkation of Raoul’s baggage in the admiral’s vessel. Athos, with his arm passed through that of the son he was about to lose, absorbed in melancholy meditation, was deaf to the noise around him. An officer came quickly towards them to inform Raoul that M. de Beaufort desired to have him by his side.

“Have the kindness to tell the prince,” said Raoul, “that I request he will allow me this hour to enjoy the company of my father.”

“No, no,” said Athos; “an aide-decamp ought not thus to quit his general. Please to tell the prince, Monsieur, that the viscount will join him immediately.”

The officer set off at a gallop.

“Whether we part here or part there,” added the count, “it is no less a separation.”

Athos carefully brushed the dust off his son’s coat, and passed his hand over his hair as they walked along. “But, Raoul,” said he, “you want money. M. de Beaufort’s train will be splendid, and I am certain it will be agreeable to you to purchase horses and arms, which are very dear things in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the service of the King or of M. de Beaufort, and are simply a volunteer, you must not reckon upon either pay or largesses; but I should not like you to want for anything at Djidgelli. Here are two hundred pistoles; if you would please me, Raoul, spend them.”

Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and at the turning of a street they saw M. de Beaufort, mounted upon a magnificent white genet, which replied by graceful curvets to the applause of the women of the city. The duke called Raoul and held out his hand to the count, speaking to him for some time with such a kindly expression that the heart of the poor father felt a little comforted. It seemed, however, to both father and son that they were proceeding to a scene of torture. There was a terrible moment,- that at which on quitting the sands of the shore the soldiers and sailors exchanged the last kisses with their families and friends; a supreme moment, in which, notwithstanding the clearness of the heaven, the warmth of the sun, the perfumes of the air, and the rich life that was circulating in their veins, everything appeared black, everything appeared bitter, everything created doubts of a God, even while speaking by the mouth of God. It was customary for the admiral and his suite to embark last; the cannon waited to announce with its formidable voice that the leader had placed his foot on board his vessel. Athos, forgetful of both the admiral and the fleet, and of his own dignity as a strong man, opened his arms to his son, and pressed him convulsively to his heart.

“Accompany us on board,” said the duke, very much affected; “you will gain a good half-hour.”

“No,” said Athos, “my farewell is spoken. I do not wish to speak a second.”

“Then, Viscount, embark,- embark quickly!” added the prince, wishing to spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were bursting. And paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took Raoul in his arms and placed him in the boat; the oars of which, at a signal, immediately were dipped in the waves. He himself, forgetful of ceremony, jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a vigorous foot.

“Adieu!” cried Raoul.

Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something burning on his hand; it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud,- the last farewell of the faithful servant. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the pier upon the stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by a chaland served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the pier, stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the features, one of the shades of the pale face of his son. With his arms hanging down, his eyes fixed, his mouth open, he remained confounded with Raoul,- in one same look, in one same thought, in one same stupor. The sea by degrees carried away boats and faces to that distance at which men become nothing but points, loves nothing but remembrances. Athos saw his son ascend the ladder of the admiral’s ship; he saw him lean upon the rail of the deck, and place himself in such a manner as to be always an object in the eye of his father. In vain the cannon thundered; in vain from the ship sounded a long and loud tumult, responded to by immense acclamations from the shore; in vain did the noise deafen the ear of the father, and the smoke obscure the cherished object of all his aspirations. Raoul appeared to him up to the last moment; and the imperceptible atom, passing from black to pale, from pale to white, from white to nothing, disappeared from the view of Athos very long after, from all the eyes of the spectators, had disappeared both gallant ships and swelling sails.

Towards mid-day, when the sun devoured space, and scarcely the tops of the masts dominated the incandescent line of the sea, Athos perceived a soft, aerial shadow rise and vanish as soon as seen. This was the smoke of a cannon, which M. de Beaufort ordered to be fired as a last salute to the coast of France. The point was buried in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned painfully and slowly to his hostelry.

Among Women

D’Artagnan had not been able to hide his feelings from his friends so much as he would have wished. The stoical soldier, the impassible man-at-arms, overcome by fear and presentiments, had yielded for a few minutes to human weakness. When therefore he had silenced his heart and calmed the agitation of his nerves, turning towards his lackey, a silent servant, always listening in order to obey the more promptly, “Rabaud,” said he, “mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day.”

“At your pleasure, Captain,” replied Rabaud.

And from that moment, d’Artagnan, accommodating his action to the pace of his horse, like a true centaur, employed his thoughts about nothing,- that is to say, about everything. He asked himself why the King had recalled him; why the Iron Mask had thrown the silver plate at the feet of Raoul. As to the first subject, the reply was only of a negative character. He knew right well that the King’s calling him was from necessity; he still further knew that Louis XIV must experience an imperious want of a private conversation with one whom the possession of such a secret placed on a level with the highest powers of the kingdom; but as to saying exactly what the King’s wish was d’Artagnan found himself completely at a loss.

The musketeer had no longer any doubt as to the reason which had urged the unfortunate Philippe to reveal his character and his birth. Philippe, hidden forever beneath a mask of iron, exiled to a country where the men seemed little more than slaves of the elements; Philippe, deprived even of the society of d’Artagnan, who had loaded him with honors and delicate attentions,- had nothing more to look forward to than spectres and griefs in this world; and despair beginning to devour him, he poured himself forth in complaints, in the belief that his revelations would raise an avenger for him.

The manner in which the musketeer had been near killing his two best friends, the destiny which had so strangely brought Athos to participate in the great state secret, the farewell of Raoul, the obscurity of that future which threatened to end in a melancholy death,- all this threw d’Artagnan incessantly back to lamentable predictions and forebodings which the rapidity of his pace did not dissipate, as it used formerly to do. D’Artagnan passed from these considerations to the remembrance of the proscribed Porthos and Aramis. He saw them both, fugitives, tracked, ruined,- laborious architects of a fortune they must lose; and as the King called for his man of execution in the hours of vengeance and malice, d’Artagnan trembled at the idea of receiving some commission that would make his very heart bleed.

Sometimes when ascending hills, when the winded horse breathed hard from his nostrils, and heaved his flanks, the captain, left to more freedom of thought, reflected upon the prodigious genius of Aramis,- a genius of craft and intrigue, of which the Fronde and the civil war had produced but two similar examples. Soldier, priest, and diplomatist, gallant, avaricious, and cunning, Aramis had taken the good things of this life only as steppingstones to rise to bad ones. Generous in spirit, if not high in heart, he never did ill but for the sake of shining a little more brilliantly. Towards the end of his career, at the moment of reaching the goal, like the patrician Fiesco, he had made a false step upon a plank, and had fallen into the sea.

But Porthos, the good, simple Porthos! To see Porthos hungry; to see Mousqueton without gold lace, imprisoned, perhaps; to see Pierrefonds, Bracieux, razed to the very stones, dishonored even to the timber,- these were so many poignant griefs for d’Artagnan, and every time that one of these griefs struck him he bounded like a horse at the sting of the gadfly beneath the vaults of foliage where he has sought shade and shelter from the burning sun.

Never was the man of spirit subjected to ennui if his body was exposed to fatigue; never did the man healthy of body fail to find life light if he had something to engage his mind. D’Artagnan, riding fast, always thinking, alighted from his horse in Paris, fresh and tender in his muscles as the athlete preparing for the gymnasium. The King did not expect him so soon, and had just departed for the chase towards Meudon. D’Artagnan, instead of riding after the King, as he would formerly have done, took off his boots, had a bath, and waited till his Majesty should return dusty and tired. He occupied the interval of five hours in taking, as people say, the air of the house, and in arming himself against all ill-chances. He learned that the King during the last fortnight had been gloomy; that the Queen-Mother was ill and much depressed; that Monsieur the King’s brother was exhibiting a devotional turn; that Madame had the vapors; and that M. de Guiche had gone to one of his estates. He learned that M. Colbert was radiant; that M. Fouquet consulted a fresh physician every day who still did not cure him, and that his principal complaint was one which physicians do not usually cure unless they are political physicians. The King, d’Artagnan was told, behaved in the kindest manner to M. Fouquet, and did not allow him to be ever out of his sight; but the superintendent, touched to the heart, like one of those fine trees which a worm has punctured, was declining daily, in spite of the royal smile- that sun of court trees.

D’Artagnan learned that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had become indispensable to the King; that the King, during his sporting excursions, if he did not take her with him, wrote to her frequently, no longer verses, but, what was still much worse, prose,- and that whole pages at a time. Thus, as the poetical Pleiad of the day said, the first King in the world was seen descending from his horse with an ardor beyond compare, and on the crown of his hat scrawling bombastic phrases, which M. de Saint-Aignan, aide-de-camp in perpetuity, carried to La Valliere at the risk of foundering his horses. During this time deer and pheasants were left to the free enjoyments of their nature,- hunted so lazily that, it was said, the art of venery ran great risk of degenerating at the court of France.

D’Artagnan then thought of the wishes of poor Raoul, of that desponding letter destined for a woman who passed her life in hoping; and as d’Artagnan was inclined to philosophize, he resolved to profit by the absence of the King to have a minute’s talk with Mademoiselle de la Valliere. This was a very easy affair; while the King was hunting, Louise was walking with some other ladies in one of the galleries of the Palais-Royal, exactly where the captain of the Musketeers had some guards to inspect. D’Artagnan did not doubt that if he could but open the conversation upon Raoul, Louise might give him grounds for writing a consolatory letter to the poor exile; and hope, or at least consolation for Raoul, in the state of heart in which he had left him, was the sun, was life, to two men who were very dear to our captain. He directed his course therefore to the spot where he knew he should find Mademoiselle de la Valliere.

D’Artagnan found La Valliere the centre of a circle. In her apparent solitude the King’s favorite received like a queen- more perhaps than the Queen- an homage of which Madame had been so proud when all the King’s looks were directed to her, and commanded the looks of the courtiers. D’Artagnan, although no squire of dames, received nevertheless civilities and attentions from the ladies. He was polite, as a brave man always is; and his terrible reputation had gained him as much friendship among the men as admiration among the women. On seeing him enter, therefore, the maids of honor immediately accosted him; they opened the attack by questions. Where had he been? What had he been doing? Why had they not seen him as usual make his fine horse curvet in such beautiful style, to the delight and astonishment of the curious from the King’s balcony?

He replied that he had just come from the land of oranges. This set all the ladies laughing. Those were times in which everybody traveled, but in which, notwithstanding, a journey of a hundred leagues was an undertaking resulting often in death.

“‘From the land of oranges’?” cried Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente,- “from Spain?”

“Eh, eh!” said the musketeer.

“From Malta?” said Montalais.

“Ma foi! you are coming very near, ladies.”

“Is it an island?” asked La Valliere.

“Mademoiselle,” said d’Artagnan, “I will not give you the trouble of seeking any farther; I come from the country where M. de Beaufort is at this moment embarking for Algiers.”

“Have you seen the army?” asked several warlike fair ones.

“As plainly as I see you,” replied d’Artagnan.

“And the fleet?”

“Yes,- I saw everything.”

“Have we any of us any friends there?” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, coldly, but in a manner to attract attention to a question that was not without a calculated aim.

“Why,” replied d’Artagnan, “yes; there were M. de la Guillotiere, M. de Mouchy, M. de Bragelonne-”

La Valliere became pale. “M. de Bragelonne!” cried the perfidious Athenais. “Eh, what! is he gone to the wars- he?”

Montalais trod upon her toe, but in vain.

“Do you know what my opinion is?” continued Athenais, pitiless, addressing d’Artagnan.

“No, Mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it.”

“My opinion is, then, that all the men who go to this war are desperate, desponding men, whom love has treated ill, and who go to try if they cannot find black women more kind than fair ones have been.”

Some of the ladies laughed; La Valliere was evidently confused; Montalais coughed loud enough to waken the dead.

“Mademoiselle,” interrupted d’Artagnan, “you are in error when you speak of black women at Djidgelli. The women there are not black; it is true they are not white,- they are yellow.”

“Yellow!” exclaimed the bevy of fair beauties.

“Eh, do not disparage them! I have never seen a finer color to match with black eyes and a coral mouth.”

“So much the better for M. de Bragelonne,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, with persistent malice; “he will make amends for his loss, poor fellow!”

A profound silence followed these words; and d’Artagnan had time to reflect that women, those mild doves, treat one another much more cruelly than tigers and bears.

But making La Valliere pale did not satisfy Athenais; she determined to make her blush likewise. Resuming the conversation without pause, “Do you know, Louise,” said she, “that that is a great sin on your conscience?”

“What sin, Mademoiselle?” stammered the unfortunate girl, looking round her for support, without finding it.

“Eh! why?” continued Athenais, “the poor young man was affianced to you; he loved you, you cast him off.”

“Well, and that is a right every honest woman has,” said Montalais, in an affected tone. “When we know we cannot constitute the happiness of a man, it is much better to cast him off.”

“Cast him off! refuse him!- that’s all very well,” said Athenais, “but that is not the sin with which Mademoiselle de la Valliere has to reproach herself. The actual sin is sending poor Bragelonne to the wars; and to wars in which death is to be met.”

Louise pressed her hand over her icy brow. “And if he dies,” continued her pitiless tormentor; “you will have killed him. That is the sin.”

Louise, half-dead, caught at the arm of the captain of the Musketeers, whose face betrayed unusual emotion. “You wished to speak with me, M. d’Artagnan,” said she, in a voice broken by anger and pain. “What had you to say to me?”

D’Artagnan made several steps along the gallery, supporting Louise on his arm; then, when they were far enough removed from the others, “What I had to say to you, Mademoiselle,” replied he, “Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente has just expressed; roughly and unkindly, it is true, but still in its entirety.”

She uttered a faint cry; pierced to the heart by this new wound, she went on her way like one of those poor birds which, fatally injured, seek the shade of the thicket to die. She disappeared at one door at the moment the King was entering by another. The first glance of the King was directed towards the empty seat of his mistress. Not perceiving La Valliere, a frown came over his brow; but immediately he saw d’Artagnan, who saluted him. “Ah, Monsieur!” cried he, “you have been diligent! I am pleased with you.” This was the superlative expression of royal satisfaction. Many men would have been ready to lay down their lives for such a speech from the King. The maids of honor and the courtiers, who had formed a respectful circle round the King on his entrance, drew back on observing that he wished to speak privately with his captain of the Musketeers. The King led the way out of the gallery, after having again, with his eyes, sought everywhere for La Valliere, for whose absence he could not account. The moment they were out of the reach of curious ears, “Well! M. d’Artagnan,” said he, “the prisoner?”

“Is in his prison, Sire.”

“What did he say on the road?”

“Nothing, Sire.”

“What did he do?”

“There was a moment at which the fisherman who took me in his boat to Ste. Marguerite revolted, and did his best to kill me. The- the prisoner defended me instead of attempting to fly.”

The King became pale. “Enough!” said he; and d’Artagnan bowed. Louis walked about his cabinet with hasty steps. “Were you at Antibes,” said he, “when M. de Beaufort came there?”

“No, Sire; I was setting off when Monsieur the Duke arrived.”

“Ah!”- which was followed by a fresh silence. “Whom did you see there?”

“A great many persons,” said d’Artagnan, coolly.

The King perceived that he was unwilling to speak. “I have sent for you, Monsieur the Captain, to desire you to go and prepare my lodgings at Nantes.”

“At Nantes!” cried d’Artagnan.

“In Bretagne.”

“Yes, Sire, it is in Bretagne. Will your Majesty make so long a journey as to Nantes?”

“The States are assembled there,” replied the King. “I have two demands to make of them; I wish to be there.”

“When shall I set out?” said the captain.

“This evening- to-morrow- tomorrow evening; for you must stand in need of rest.”

“I have rested, Sire.”

“That is well. Then between this and to-morrow evening, when you please.”

D’Artagnan bowed as if to take his leave; but perceiving that the King was very much embarrassed, “Will your Majesty,” said he, stepping two paces forward, “take the court with you?”

“Certainly I shall.”

“Then your Majesty will doubtless want the Musketeers?” And the eye of the King sank beneath the penetrating glance of the captain.

“Take a brigade of them,” replied Louis.

“Is that all? Has your Majesty no other orders to give me?”

“No- ah- yes.”

“I am all attention, Sire.”

“At the Castle of Nantes, which I hear is very ill arranged, you will adopt the practice of placing musketeers at the door of each of the principal dignitaries I shall take with me.”

“Of the principal?”

“Yes.”

“For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?”

“Yes.”

“At that of M. Letellier?”

“Yes.”

“Of M. de Brienne?”

“Yes.”

“And of Monsieur the Superintendent?”

“Without doubt.”

“Very well, Sire. By to-morrow I shall have set out.”

“Oh, one word more, M. d’Artagnan. At Nantes you will meet with M. le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the Guards. Be sure that your Musketeers are placed before his Guards arrive. Precedence always belongs to the first comer.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And if M. de Gesvres should question you?”

“Question me, Sire! Is it likely that M. de Gesvres would question me?” And the musketeer, turning cavalierly on his heel, disappeared. “To Nantes!” said he to himself, as he descended the stairs. “Why did he not dare to say at once to Belle-Isle?”

As he reached the great gates, one of M. de Brienne’s clerks came running after him, exclaiming, “M. d’Artagnan, I beg your pardon-”

“What is the matter, M. Ariste?”

“The King has desired me to give you this order.”

“Upon your cash-box?” asked the musketeer.

“No, Monsieur; upon that of M. Fouquet.”

D’Artagnan was surprised; but he took the order, which was in the King’s own writing, and was for two hundred pistoles. “What!” thought he, after having politely thanked M. de Brienne’s clerk, “M. Fouquet is to pay for the journey, then! Mordioux! that is a bit of pure Louis XI! Why was not this order upon the chest of M. Colbert? He would have paid it with such joy.” And d’Artagnan, faithful to his principle of never letting an order at sight get cold, went straight to the house of M. Fouquet, to receive his two hundred pistoles.

The Last Supper

The superintendent had no doubt received notice of the approaching departure, for he was giving a farewell dinner to his friends. From the bottom to the top of the house, the hurry of the servants bearing dishes, and the diligence of the registres, denoted an approaching change in both offices and kitchen. D’Artagnan, with his order in his hand, presented himself at the offices, when he was told it was too late to pay cash,- the chest was closed. He only replied, “On the King’s service.”

The clerk, a little put out by the serious air of the captain, replied that that was a very respectable reason, but that the customs of the house were respectable likewise; and that in consequence he begged the bearer to call again next day. D’Artagnan asked if he could not see M. Fouquet. The clerk replied that Monsieur the Superintendent did not interfere with such details, and rudely closed the door in d’Artagnan’s face. But the latter had foreseen this stroke, and placed his boot between the door and the door case, so that the lock did not catch, and the clerk was still face to face with his interlocutor. This made him change his tone, and say with terrified politeness, “If Monsieur wishes to speak to Monsieur the Superintendent, he must go to the antechambers; these are the offices where Monseigneur never comes.”

“Oh, very well! Where are they?” replied the captain.

“On the other side of the court,” said the clerk, delighted at being free.

D’Artagnan crossed the court, and fell in with a crowd of servants.

“Monseigneur sees nobody at this hour,” he was answered by a fellow carrying a vermeil dish, in which were three pheasants and twelve quails.

“Tell him,” said the captain, stopping the servant by laying hold of his dish, “that I am M. d’Artagnan, captain of his Majesty’s Musketeers.”

The fellow uttered a cry of surprise and disappeared, d’Artagnan following him slowly. He arrived just in time to meet M. Pélisson in the antechamber; the latter, a little pale, came hastily out of the dining-room to learn what was the matter. D’Artagnan smiled.

“There is nothing unpleasant, M. Pélisson; only a little order to receive some money.”

“Ah!” said Fouquet’s friend, breathing more freely; and he took the captain by the hand, and dragging him behind him, led him into the dining-room, where a number of friends surrounded the superintendent, placed in the centre, and buried in the cushions of an arm-chair. There were assembled all the Epicureans who so lately at Vaux did honor to the house, the intelligence, and the wealth of M. Fouquet. joyous friends, for the most part faithful, they had not fled from their protector at the approach of the storm, and in spite of the threatening heavens, in spite of the trembling earth, they remained there, smiling, cheerful, as devoted to him in misfortune as they had been in prosperity. On the left of the superintendent was Madame de Belliere; on his right was Madame Fouquet; as if braving the laws of the world, and putting all vulgar reasons of propriety to silence, the two protecting angels of this man united to offer him at the moment of the crisis the support of their intertwined arms. Madame de Belliere was pale, trembling, and full of respectful attentions for Madame the wife of the superintendent who, with one hand on the hand of her husband, was looking anxiously towards the door by which Pélisson had gone out to bring in d’Artagnan. The captain entered at first full of courtesy, and afterwards of admiration, when, with his infallible glance, he had interpreted the expression of every face.

Fouquet raised himself up in his chair. “Pardon me, M. d’Artagnan,” said he, “if I did not come to receive you when coming in the King’s name.” And he pronounced the last words with a sort of melancholy firmness, which filled the hearts of his friends with terror.

“Monseigneur,” replied d’Artagnan, “I only come to you in the King’s name to demand payment of an order for two hundred pistoles.”

The clouds passed from every brow but that of Fouquet, which still remained overcast. “Ah, then,” said he, “perhaps you also are going to Nantes?”

“I do not know whither I am going, Monseigneur.”

“But,” said Madame Fouquet, recovered from her fright, “you are not going so soon, Monsieur the Captain, but that you can do us the honor to take a seat with us?”

“Madame, I should esteem that a great honor done to me, but I am so pressed for time that, you see, I have been obliged to permit myself to interrupt your repast to procure payment of my order.”

“The reply to which shall be gold,” said Fouquet, making a sign to his intendant, who went out with the order which d’Artagnan handed to him.

“Oh!” said the latter, “I was not uneasy about the payment; the house is good.”

A painful smile passed over the pale features of Fouquet.

“Are you in pain?” asked Madame de Belliere.

“Do you feel your attack coming on?” asked Madame Fouquet.

“Neither, thank you,” said the superintendent.

“Your attack?” said d’Artagnan, in his turn; “are you unwell, Monseigneur?”

“I have a tertian fever, which seized me after the fête at Vaux.”

“Caught cold in the grottos at night, perhaps?”

“No, no; nothing but agitation, that was all.”

“The too much heart you displayed in your reception of the King,” said La Fontaine, quietly, without suspicion that he was uttering a sacrilege.

“We cannot devote too much heart to the reception of our King,” said Fouquet, mildly, to his poet.

“Monsieur meant to say the too great ardor,” interrupted d’Artagnan, with perfect frankness and much amenity. “The fact is, Monseigneur, that hospitality was never practised as at Vaux.”

Madame Fouquet permitted her countenance to show clearly that if Fouquet had conducted himself well towards the King, the King had not rendered the like to the minister. But d’Artagnan knew the terrible secret. He alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had not, the one the courage to complain, the other the right to accuse. The captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were brought, was about to take leave, when Fouquet, rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered one to be given to d’Artagnan. “Monsieur,” said he, “to the health of the King, whatever may happen.”

“And to your health, Monseigneur, ‘whatever may happen,’” said d’Artagnan.

He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the stairs.

“I for a moment thought it was I and not my money he wanted,” said Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh.

“You!” cried his friends; “and what for, in the name of Heaven?”

“Oh, do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus!” said the superintendent. “I will not make a comparison between the most humble sinner on the earth and the God we adore; but remember he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was only a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment.”

A painful cry of protestation arose from all parts of the table. “Shut the doors,” said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared. “My friends,” continued Fouquet, lowering his voice, “what was I formerly; what am I now? Consult among yourselves, and reply. A man like me sinks when he does not continue to rise. What shall we say, then, when he really sinks? I have no more money, no more credit; I have no longer anything but powerful enemies and powerless friends.”

“Quick!” cried Pélisson, rising. “Since you explain yourself with that frankness, it is our duty to be frank likewise. Yes, you are ruined; yes, you are hastening to your ruin. Stop! And in the first place, what money have we left?”

“Seven hundred thousand livres,” said the intendant.

“Bread,” murmured Madame Fouquet.

“Relays,” said Pélisson,- “relays, and fly!”

“Whither?”

“To Switzerland; to Savoy; but fly!”

“If Monseigneur flies,” said Madame de Belliere, “it will be said that he was guilty, and was afraid.”

“More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty millions with me.”

“We will draw up memoirs to justify you,” said La Fontaine. “Fly!”

“I will remain,” said Fouquet; “and besides, does not everything serve me?”

“You have Belle-Isle,” cried the Abbé Fouquet.

“And I am of course going thither when going to Nantes,” replied the superintendent. “Patience, then!”

“Before arriving at Nantes, what a distance!” said Madame Fouquet.

“Yes, I know that well,” replied Fouquet; “but what is to be done about it? The King summons me to the States; I know well it is for the purpose of ruining me, but to refuse to go would show uneasiness.”

“Well, I have discovered the means of reconciling everything,” cried Pélisson. “You are going to set out for Nantes.”

Fouquet looked at him with an air of surprise.

“But with friends,- in your own carriage as far as Orleans; in your barge as far as Nantes; always ready to defend yourself if you are attacked, to escape if you are threatened. In fact, you will carry your money, to be provided against all chances; and while flying you will only have obeyed the King; then, reaching the sea when you like, you will embark for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will shoot out whenever it may please you, like the eagle, which rushes into space when it has been driven from its eyry.”

A general assent followed Pélisson’s words. “Yes, do so,” said Madame Fouquet to her husband.

“Do so,” said Madame de Belliere.

“Do it! do it!” cried all his friends.

“I will do so,” replied Fouquet.

“This very evening?”

“In an hour?”

“Immediately.”

“With seven hundred thousand livres you can lay the foundation of another fortune,” said the Abbé Fouquet. “What is there to prevent our arming corsairs at Belle-Isle?”

“And if necessary, we will go and discover a new world,” added La Fontaine, intoxicated with projects and enthusiasm.

A knock at the door interrupted this concert of joy and hope. “A courier from the King,” said the master of the ceremonies.

A profound silence immediately ensued, as if the message brought by this courier was a reply to all the projects given birth to an instant before. Every one waited to see what the master would do. His brow was streaming with perspiration, and he was really suffering from his fever at that instant. He passed into his cabinet to receive the King’s message. There prevailed, as we have said, such a silence in the chambers and throughout the attendance, that from the dining-room could be heard the voice of Fouquet saying, “That is well, Monsieur.” This voice was, however, broken by fatigue, trembling with emotion. An instant after, Fouquet called Gourville, who crossed the gallery amid the universal expectation. At length he himself reappeared among his guests, but it was no longer the same pale, spiritless countenance they had beheld when he left them; from pale he had become livid, and from spiritless, annihilated. A living spectre, he advanced with his arms stretched out, his mouth parched,- like a shade that comes to salute friends of former days. On seeing him thus, every one cried out, and every one rushed towards Fouquet. The latter, looking at Pélisson, leaned upon his wife and pressed the icy hand of the Marquise de Belliere. “Well!” said he, in a voice that had nothing human in it.

“My God! what has happened?” said some one to him.

Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clinched, humid, and displayed a paper, upon which Pélisson cast a terrified glance. He read the following lines, written by the King’s hand:-

Dear And Well-Beloved M. Fouquet: Give us, upon that which you have left of ours, the sum of seven hundred thousand livres, of which we stand in need to prepare for our departure.

“And as we know that your health is not good, we pray God to restore you to health, and to have you in his holy keeping.

“Louis.

“The present letter is to serve as a receipt.”

A murmur of terror circulated through the apartment.

“Well,” cried Pélisson, in his turn, “you have received that letter?”

“Received it,- yes!”

“What will you do, then?”

“Nothing, since I have received it.”

“But-”

“If I have received it, Pélisson, I have paid it,” said the superintendent, with a simplicity that went to the heart of all present.

“You have paid it!” cried Madame Fouquet. “Then we are ruined!”

“Come, no useless words!” interrupted Pélisson. “After money, life, Monseigneur; to horse! to horse!”

“What! leave us?” at once cried both the women, wild with grief.

“Eh, Monseigneur, in saving yourself you save us all. To horse!”

“But he cannot hold himself on. Look at him!”

“Oh, if he takes time to reflect-” said the intrepid Pélisson.

“He is right,” murmured Fouquet.

“Monseigneur! Monseigneur!” cried Gourville, rushing up the stairs four steps at once; “Monseigneur!”

“Well, what?”

“I escorted, as you desired, the King’s courier with the money.”

“Yes.”

“Well; when I arrived at the Palais-Royal, I saw-”

“Take breath, my poor friend, take breath; you are suffocating.”

“What did you see?” cried the impatient friends.

“I saw the Musketeers mounting on horseback,” said Gourville.

“There, then!” cried all voices at once; “is there an instant to be lost?”

Madame Fouquet rushed downstairs, calling for her horses; Madame de Belliere flew after her catching her in her arms, and saying, “Madame, in the name of his safety, do not betray anything, do not manifest any alarm.”

Pélisson ran to have the horses put to the carriages; and in the mean time, Gourville gathered in his hat all that the weeping friends were able to throw into it of gold and silver,- the last offering, the pious alms made to misfortune by poverty. The superintendent, dragged along by some, carried by others, was shut up in his carriage. Gourville took the reins, and mounted the box. Pélisson supported Madame Fouquet, who had fainted. Madame de Belliere had more strength, and was well paid for it; she received Fouquet’s last kiss. Pélisson easily explained this precipitate departure by saying that an order from the King had summoned the minister to Nantes.

In the Carriage of M. Colbert

As Gourville had seen, the King’s Musketeers were mounting and following their captain. The latter, who did not like to be confined in his proceedings, left his brigade under the orders of a lieutenant, and set off upon post-horses, recommending his men to use all diligence. However rapidly they might travel, they could not arrive before him. He had time, in passing along the Rue des Petits-Champs, to see a thing which afforded him much food for thought. He saw M. Colbert coming out from his house to get into a carriage which was stationed before the door. In this carriage d’Artagnan perceived the hoods of two women, and being rather curious, he wished to know the names of the women concealed beneath these hoods. To get a glimpse at them, for they kept themselves closely covered up, he urged his horse so near to the carriage that he drove him against the step with such force as to give a shock to the entire equipage and those whom it contained. The terrified women uttered, the one a faint cry, by which d’Artagnan recognized a young woman, the other an imprecation, by which he recognized the vigor and self-possession which half a century bestows. The hoods were thrown back; one of the women was Madame Vanel, the other was the Duchesse de Chevreuse. D’Artagnan’s eyes were quicker than those of the ladies; he had seen and known them, while they did not recognize him. And as they laughed at their fright, pressing each other’s hands, “Humph!” said d’Artagnan, “the old duchess is not more difficult in her friendships than she was formerly. She pays court to the mistress of M. Colbert! Poor M. Fouquet! that presages you nothing good!”

He rode on. M. Colbert got into his carriage, and this noble trio began a sufficiently slow pilgrimage towards the wood of Vincennes. Madame de Chevreuse set down Madame Vanel at her husband’s house; and left alone with M. Colbert, she chatted upon affairs while continuing her ride. She had an inexhaustible fund of conversation, had that dear duchess, and as she always talked for the ill of others, always with a view to her own good, her conversation amused her interlocutor, and did not fail to make a favorable impression.

She taught Colbert, who, poor man, was ignorant of it, how great a minister he was, and how Fouquet would soon become nothing. She promised to rally around him, when he should become superintendent, all the old nobility of the kingdom, and questioned him as to the degree of importance it would be proper to assign to La Valliere. She praised him; she blamed him; she bewildered him. She showed him the inside of so many secrets that for a moment Colbert feared he must have to do with the devil. She proved to him that she held in her hand the Colbert of to-day, as she had held the Fouquet of yesterday; and as he asked her, very simply, the reason of her hatred for the superintendent, “Why do you yourself hate him?” said she.

“Madame, in politics,” replied he, “the differences of system may bring about divisions between men. M. Fouquet always appeared to me to practise a system opposed to the true interests of the King.”

She interrupted him. “I will say no more to you about M. Fouquet. The journey the King is about to take to Nantes will give a good account of him. M. Fouquet, for me, is a man quite gone by,- and for you also.”

Colbert made no reply. “On his return from Nantes,” continued the duchess, “the King, who is only anxious for a pretext, will find that the States have not behaved well- that they have made too few sacrifices. The States will say that the imposts are too heavy, and that the superintendent has ruined them. The King will lay all the blame on M. Fouquet, and then-”

“And then?” said Colbert.

“Oh, he will be disgraced. Is not that your opinion?”

Colbert darted a glance at the duchess, which plainly said, “If M. Fouquet be only disgraced, you will not be the cause of it.”

“Your place, M. Colbert,” the duchess hastened to say, “should be very prominent. Do you perceive any one between the King and yourself after the fall of M. Fouquet?”

“I do not understand,” said he.

“You will understand. To what does your ambition aspire?”

“I have none.”

“It was useless then to overthrow the superintendent, M. Colbert. That is idle.”

“I had the honor to tell you, Madame-”

“Oh, yes, I know, the interest of the King; but if you please we will speak of your own.”

“Mine! that is to say, the affairs of his Majesty.”

“In short, are you, or are you not ruining M. Fouquet? Answer without evasion.”

“Madame, I ruin nobody.”

“I cannot then comprehend why you should purchase of me the letters of M. Mazarin concerning M. Fouquet. Neither can I conceive why you have laid those letters before the King.”

Colbert, half stupefied, looked at the duchess, and with an air of constraint, “Madame,” said he, “I can less easily conceive how you, who received the money, can reproach me on that head.”

“It is,” said the old duchess, “because we must choose what we can have when we can’t have what we choose.”

“You have hit it,” said Colbert, unhorsed by that plain speaking.

“You are not able, eh? Speak.”

“I am not able, I allow, to destroy certain influences near the King.”

“Which contend for M. Fouquet? What are they? Stop, let me help you.”

“Do, Madame.”

“La Valliere?”

“Oh! very little influence; no knowledge of affairs, and no resources. M. Fouquet has paid court to her.”

“To defend him would be to accuse herself, would it not?”

“I think it would.”

“There is still another influence; what do you say to that?”

“Is it considerable?”

“The Queen-Mother, perhaps?”

“Her Majesty the Queen-Mother has for M. Fouquet a weakness very prejudicial to her son.”

“Never believe that,” said the old duchess, smiling.

“Oh!” said Colbert, with incredulity, “I have often experienced it.”

“Formerly?”

“Very recently, Madame, at Vaux. It was she who prevented the King from having M. Fouquet arrested.”

“People do not always entertain the same opinions, my dear Monsieur. That which the Queen may have wished recently, she would not perhaps to-day.”

“And why not?” said Colbert, astonished.

“Oh, the reason is of very little consequence.”

“On the contrary, I think it is of great consequence,- for if I were certain of not displeasing her Majesty the Queen-Mother, all my scruples would be removed.”

“Well, have you never heard a certain secret spoken of?”

“A secret?”

“Call it what you like. In short, the Queen-Mother has conceived a horror for all those who have participated, in one fashion or another, in the discovery of this secret; and M. Fouquet I believe to be one of these.”

“Then,” said Colbert, “we may be sure of the Queen-Mother’s assent?”

“I have just left her Majesty, and she assures me so.”

“So be it then, Madame.”

“But there is something further: do you happen to know a man who was the intimate friend of M. Fouquet, M. d’Herblay, a bishop, I believe?”

“Bishop of Vannes.”

“Well, this M. d’Herblay, who also knew the secret, the Queen-Mother is causing to be pursued with the utmost rancor.”

“Indeed!”

“So hotly pursued, that if he were dead she would not be satisfied with anything less than his head, to satisfy her he would never speak again.”

“And is that the desire of the Queen-Mother?”

“An order is given for it.”

“This M. d’Herblay shall be sought for, Madame.”

“Oh, it is well known where he is.” Colbert looked at the duchess.

“Say where, Madame.”

“He is at Belle-Isle-en-Mer.”

“At the residence of M. Fouquet?”

“At the residence of M. Fouquet.”

“He shall be taken.”

It was now the duchess’s turn to smile. “Do not fancy that so easy,” said she, “and do not promise it so lightly.”

“Why not, Madame?”

“Because M. d’Herblay is not one of those people who can be taken just when you please.”

“He is a rebel, then?”

“Oh, M. Colbert, we folks have passed all our lives in making rebels, and yet you see plainly that so far from being taken, we take others.”

Colbert fixed upon the old duchess one of those fierce looks of which no words can convey the expression, accompanied by a firmness which was not wanting in grandeur. “The times are gone,” said he, “in which subjects gained duchies by making war against the King of France. If M. d’Herblay conspires, he will perish on the scaffold. That will give, or will not give, pleasure to his enemies,- that is of very little importance to us.”

And this “us,” a strange word in the mouth of Colbert, made the duchess thoughtful for a moment. She caught herself reckoning inwardly with this man. Colbert had regained his superiority in the conversation, and he was desirous of keeping it.

“You ask me, Madame,” he said, “to have this M. d’Herblay arrested?”

“I! I ask you nothing of the kind!”

“I thought you did, Madame. But as I have been mistaken, we will leave him alone; the King has said nothing about him.”

The duchess bit her nails.

“Besides,” continued Colbert, “what a poor capture would this bishop be! A bishop game for a king! Oh, no, no; I will not even think of him.”

The hatred of the duchess now disclosed itself. “Game for a woman!” said she; “and the Queen is a woman. If she wishes to have M. d’Herblay arrested, she has her reasons for it. Besides, is not M. d’Herblay the friend of him who is destined to fall?”

“Oh, never mind that,” said Colbert. “This man shall be spared if he is not the enemy of the King. Is that displeasing to you?”

“I say nothing.”

“Yes, you wish to see him in prison,- in the Bastille, for instance.”

“I believe a secret better concealed behind the walls of the Bastille than behind those of Belle-Isle.”

“I will speak to the King about it; he will clear up the point.”

“And while waiting for that enlightenment M. l’Eveque de Vannes will have escaped. I would do so.”

“Escaped! he! and whither would he escape? Europe is ours, in will, if not in fact.”

“He will always find an asylum, Monsieur. It is evident you know nothing of the man you have to do with. You do not know d’Herblay; you did not know Aramis. He was one of those four musketeers who under the late King made Cardinal de Richelieu tremble, and who during the regency gave so much trouble to Monseigneur Mazarin.”

“But, Madame, what can he do, unless he has a kingdom to back him?”

“He has one, Monsieur.”

“A kingdom, he,- M. d’Herblay?”

“I repeat to you, Monsieur, that if he wants a kingdom, he either has it, or will have it.”

“Well, as you are so earnest that this rebel should not escape, Madame, I promise you he shall not escape.”

“Belle-Isle is fortified, M. Colbert, and fortified by him.”

“If Belle-Isle were also defended by him, Belle-Isle is not impregnable; and if M. l’Eveque de Vannes is shut up in Belle-Isle, well, Madame, the place will be besieged, and he will be taken.”

“You may be very certain, Monsieur, that the zeal which you display for the interests of the Queen-Mother will affect her Majesty warmly, and that you will be magnificently rewarded for it; but what shall I tell her of your projects respecting this man?”

“That when once taken, he shall be shut up in a fortress from which her secret shall never escape.”

“Very well, M. Colbert; and we may say, that, dating from this instant, we have formed a solid alliance, you and I, and that I am entirely at your service.”

“It is I, Madame, who place myself at yours. This Chevalier d’Herblay is a kind of Spanish spy, is he not?”

“More than that.”

“A secret ambassador?”

“Higher still.”

“Stop; King Philip III of Spain is a bigot. He is, perhaps, the confessor of Philip III.”

“You must go higher than that.”

“Mordieu?” cried Colbert, who forgot himself so far as to swear in the presence of this great lady, of this old friend of the Queen-Mother,- of the Duchesse de Chevreuse, in short. “He must then be the General of the Jesuits.”

“I believe you have guessed at last,” replied the duchess.

“Ah, then, Madame, this man will ruin us all if we do not ruin him; and we must make haste to do it too.”

“That was my opinion, Monsieur, but I did not dare to give it to you.”

“And it is fortunate for us that he has attacked the throne, and not us.”

“But mark this well, M. Colbert. M. d’Herblay is never discouraged; and if he has missed one blow, he will be sure to make another,- he will begin again. If he has allowed an opportunity to escape of making a king for himself, sooner or later he will make another, of whom, to a certainty, you will not be prime minister.”

Colbert knitted his brow with a menacing expression. “I feel assured that a prison will settle this affair for us, Madame, in a manner satisfactory for both.”

The duchess smiled. “Oh, if you knew,” said she, “how many times Aramis has got out of prison!

“Oh!” replied Colbert, “we will take care he shall not get out this time.”

“But you have not attended to what I said to you just now. Do you remember that Aramis was one of the four invincibles whom Richelieu dreaded? And at that period the four musketeers were not in possession of that which they have now,- money and experience.”

Colbert bit his lips. “We will renounce the idea of the prison,” said he, in a lower tone; “we will find a retreat from which the invincible will not possibly escape.”

“That is well spoken, our ally!” replied the duchess. “But it is getting late. Had we not better return?”

“The more willingly, Madame, from having my preparations to make for setting out with the King.”

“To Paris!” cried the duchess to the coachman.

And the carriage returned towards the Faubourg St. Antoine, after the conclusion of the treaty which gave up to death the last friend of Fouquet, the last defender of Belle-Isle, the ancient friend of Marie Michon, the new enemy of the duchess.

The Two Lighters

D’Artagnan had set off, Fouquet likewise was gone, and he with a rapidity which the tender interest of his friends increased. The first moments of this journey, or better to say, of this flight, were troubled by the incessant fear of all the horses and all the carriages which could be perceived behind the fugitive. It was not natural, in fact, if Louis XIV was determined to seize this prey, that he should allow it to escape; the young lion was already accustomed to the chase, and he had bloodhounds ardent enough to be depended on. But insensibly all fears were dispersed; the superintendent, by hard travelling, placed such a distance between himself and his persecutors that no one of them could reasonably be expected to overtake him. As to his position, his friends had made it excellent for him. Was he not traveling to join the King at Nantes, and what did the rapidity prove but his zeal to obey? He arrived, fatigued but reassured, at Orleans, where he found, thanks to the care of a courier who had preceded him, a handsome lighter of eight oars.

These lighters, in the shape of gondolas, rather wide and rather heavy, containing a small cuddy, covered by the deck, and a chamber in the poop, formed by a tent, then acted as passage-boats from Orleans to Nantes, by the Loire; and this passage, a long one in our days, appeared then more easy and convenient than the high-road, with its post-hacks or its bad, insecurely hung carriages. Fouquet went on board this lighter, which set out immediately. The rowers, knowing they had the honor of conveying the Superintendent of the Finances, pulled with all their strength, and that magic phrase, “the finances,” promised them a liberal gratification, of which they wished to prove themselves worthy.

The lighter bounded over the waters of the Loire. Magnificent weather, one of those sun-risings that empurple landscapes, left the river all its limpid serenity. The current and the rowers carried Fouquet along as wings carry a bird, and he arrived before Beaugency without any accident upon the way. Fouquet hoped to be the first to arrive at Nantes; there he would see the notables and gain support among the principal members of the States; he would make himself necessary,- a thing very easy for a man of his merit,- and would delay the catastrophe, if he did not succeed in avoiding it entirely.

“Besides,” said Gourville to him, “at Nantes, you will make out, or we will make out, the intentions of your enemies; we will have horses always ready to convey you to the inextricable Poitou, and a boat in which to gain the sea; and when once in the open sea, Belle-Isle is the inviolable port. You see, besides, that no one is watching you, no one is following you.”

He had scarcely finished when they discovered at a distance, behind an elbow formed by the river, the masts of a large lighter, which was coming down. The rowers of Fouquet’s boat uttered a cry of surprise on seeing this galley.

“What is the matter?” asked Fouquet.

“The matter is, Monseigneur,” replied the skipper of the boat, “that it is a truly remarkable thing,- that lighter comes along like a hurricane.”

Gourville started and mounted on the deck, in order to see the better.

Fouquet did not go up with him; but he said to Gourville with a restrained mistrust, “See what it is, dear friend.”

The lighter had just passed the elbow. It came on so fast that behind it might be seen to tremble the white train of its wake illumined with the fires of day.

“How they go!” repeated the skipper,- “how they go! They must be well paid! I did not think,” he added, “that oars of wood could behave better than ours, but those yonder prove the contrary.”

“Well they may,” said one of the rowers; “they are twelve, and we are but eight.”

“Twelve rowers!” replied Gourville, “twelve! impossible!”

The number of eight rowers for a lighter had never been exceeded, even for the King. This honor had been paid to Monsieur the Superintendent, even more for haste than out of respect.

“What does that mean?” said Gourville, endeavoring to distinguish beneath the tent, which was already apparent, the travellers, whom the most piercing eye could not yet have succeeded in discovering.

“They must be in a hurry, for it is not the King,” said the skipper.

Fouquet shuddered.

“By what do you know that it is not the King?” said Gourville.

“In the first place because there is no white flag with fleurs-de-lis, which the royal lighter always carries.”

“And then,” said Fouquet, “because it is impossible it should be the King, Gourville, as the King was still in Paris yesterday.”

Gourville replied to the superintendent by a look which said, “You were there yourself yesterday.”

“And by what do you make out they are in such haste?” added he, for the sake of gaining time.

“By this, Monsieur,” said the skipper: “these people must have set out a long while after us, and they have already nearly overtaken us.”

“Bah!” said Gourville, “who told you that they do not come from Beaugency or from Niort even?”

“We have seen no lighter of that force, except at Orleans. It comes from Orleans, Monsieur, and makes great haste.”

Fouquet and Gourville exchanged a glance. The skipper remarked their uneasiness, and to mislead him, Gourville immediately said, “It is some friend, who has laid a wager he would catch us; let us win the wager, and not allow him to come up with us.”

The skipper opened his mouth to reply that that was impossible, when Fouquet said with much hauteur, “If it is any one who wishes to overtake us, let him come.”

“We can try, Monseigneur,” said the skipper, timidly. “Come, you fellows, put out your strength; row, row!”

“No,” said Fouquet, “stop short, on the contrary.”

“Monseigneur! what folly!” interrupted Gourville, stooping towards his ear.

“Quite short!” repeated Fouquet. The eight oars stopped, and resisting the water, they imparted a retrograde force to the lighter. It was stopped. The twelve rowers in the other did not at first perceive this manoeuvre, for they continued to urge on their boat so vigorously that it arrived quickly within musket-shot. Fouquet was shortsighted; Gourville was annoyed by the sun, which was full in his eyes; the skipper alone with that habit and clearness which are acquired by a constant struggle with the elements, perceived distinctly the travellers in the neighboring lighter. “I can see them!” cried he; “there are two.”

“I can see nothing,” said Gourville.

“It will not be long before you distinguish them; by a few strokes of their oars they will arrive within twenty paces of us.”

But what the skipper predicted was not fulfilled; the lighter imitated the movement commanded by Fouquet, and instead of coming to join its pretended friends, it stopped short in the middle of the river.

“I cannot comprehend this,” said the skipper.

“Nor I,” said Gourville.

“You who can see so plainly the people in that lighter,” resumed Fouquet, “try to describe them to us, Skipper, before we are too far off.”

“I thought I saw two,” replied the boatman; “I can only see one now under the tent.”

“What sort of man is he?”

“He is a dark man, large-shouldered, short-necked.”

A little cloud at that moment passed across the azure of the heavens, and darkened the sun. Gourville, who was still looking with one hand over his eyes, became able to see what he sought, and all at once, jumping from the deck into the chamber where Fouquet awaited him, “Colbert!” said he, in a voice broken by emotion.

“Colbert!” repeated Fouquet; “oh, that is strange! but no, it is impossible!”

“I tell you I recognized him, and he at the same time so plainly recognized me that he has just gone into the chamber of the poop. Perhaps the King has sent him to make us come back.”

“In that case he would join us instead of lying by. What is he doing there?”

“He is watching us, without doubt.”

“I do not like uncertainty,” said Fouquet; “let us go straight up to him.”

“Oh, Monseigneur, do not do that,- the lighter is full of armed men.”

“He would arrest me, then, Gourville? Why does he not come on?”

“Monseigneur, it is not consistent with your dignity to go to meet even your ruin.”

“But to allow them to watch me like a malefactor!”

“Nothing tells us that they are watching you, Monseigneur; be patient!”

“What is to be done, then?”

“Do not stop; you were only going so fast to appear to obey the King’s order with zeal. Redouble the speed. He who lives will see!”

“That’s just. Come!” cried Fouquet; “since they remain stock-still yonder, let us go on.”

The skipper gave the signal, and Fouquet’s rowers resumed their task with all the success that could be looked for from men who had rested. Scarcely had the lighter made a hundred fathoms, when the other- that with the twelve rowers- resumed its course as well. This position lasted all the day, without any increase or diminution of distance between the two vessels. Towards evening Fouquet wished to try the intentions of his persecutor. He ordered his rowers to pull towards the shore as if to effect a landing. Colbert’s lighter imitated this manoeuvre, and steered towards the shore in a slanting direction. By the greatest chance, at the spot where Fouquet pretended to wish to land, a stableman from the Château de Langeais was following the flowery banks leading three horses in halters. Without doubt the people of the twelve-oared lighter fancied that Fouquet was directing his course towards horses prepared for his flight, for four or five men, armed with muskets, jumped from the lighter on to the shore, and marched along the banks, as if to gain ground on the horses and horsemen. Fouquet, satisfied of having forced the enemy to a demonstration, was content, and put his boat in motion again. Colbert’s people returned likewise to theirs, and the course of the two vessels was resumed with fresh perseverance. Upon seeing this, Fouquet felt himself threatened closely, and, “Well, Gourville,” said he, in a low voice, “what did I say at our last repast at my house? Am I going, or not, to my ruin?”

“Oh, Monseigneur!”

“These two boats, which contend with so much emulation, as if we were disputing, M. Colbert and I, a prize for swiftness on the Loire, do they not aptly represent our two fortunes; and do you not believe, Gourville, that one of the two will be wrecked at Nantes?”

“At least,” objected Gourville, “there is still uncertainty. You are about to appear at the States; you are about to show what sort of man you are; your eloquence and your genius for business are the buckler and sword that will serve for defence, if not for victory. The Bretons do not know you; and when they shall know you your cause is won! Oh! let M. Colbert look to it well, for his lighter is as much exposed as yours to being upset. Both go quickly, his faster than yours, it is true; we shall see which will be wrecked first.”

Fouquet, taking Gourville’s hand, “My friend,” said he, “it is all planned; remember the proverb, ‘First come, first served!’ Well, Colbert takes care not to pass me. He is a prudent man!”

He was right; the two lighters held their course as far as Nantes, watching each other. When the superintendent landed, Gourville hoped he would be able to seek refuge at once and have relays prepared. But at the landing, the second lighter joined the first, and Colbert, approaching Fouquet, saluted him on the quay with marks of the profoundest respect,- marks so significant, so public, that their result was the bringing of the whole population upon La Fosse. Fouquet was completely self-possessed; he felt that in his last moments of greatness he had obligations towards himself. He wished to fall from such a height that his fall should crush some one of his enemies. Colbert was there,- so much the worse for Colbert. The superintendent, therefore, coming up to him, replied with that arrogant winking of the eyes peculiar to him “What! is that you, M. Colbert?”

“To offer you my respects, Monseigneur,” said the latter.

“Were you in that lighter?” pointing to the one with twelve rowers.

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“Of twelve rowers?” said Fouquet; “what luxury, M. Colbert! For a moment I thought it was the Queen-Mother or the King.”

“Monseigneur!” said Colbert, blushing.

“This is a voyage that will cost those who have to pay for it dear, Monsieur the Intendant!” said Fouquet. “But you have, happily, arrived! You see, however,” added he, a moment after, “that I, who had but eight rowers, arrived before you.” And he turned his back towards him, leaving him uncertain whether all the tergiversations of the second lighter had escaped the notice of the first. At least he did not give him the satisfaction of showing that he had been frightened.

Colbert, so annoyingly attacked, did not give way.

“I have not been quick, Monseigneur,” he replied, “because I followed your example whenever you stopped.”

“And why did you do that, M. Colbert?” cried Fouquet, irritated by this base audacity; “as you had a superior crew to mine, why did you not either join me or pass me?”

“Out of respect,” said the intendant, bowing to the ground.

Fouquet got into a carriage which the city sent to him, we know not why or how, and he repaired to the Maison de Nantes, escorted by a vast crowd of people, who for several days had been boiling with the expectation of a convocation of the States. Scarcely was he installed when Gourville went out to order horses upon the route to Poitiers and Vannes, and a boat at Paimboeuf. He performed these various operations with so much mystery, activity, and generosity that never was Fouquet, then laboring under an access of fever, more near being saved, except for the co-operation of that immense disturber of human projects,- chance.

A report was spread during the night that the King was coming in great haste upon post-horses, and that he would arrive within ten or twelve hours at latest. The people, while waiting for the King, were greatly rejoiced to see the Musketeers, just arrived with M. d’Artagnan, their captain, and quartered in the castle, of which they occupied all the posts, in quality of guard of honor. M. d’Artagnan, who was very polite, presented himself about ten o’clock at the lodgings of the superintendent, to pay his respectful compliments to him; and although the minister suffered from fever, although he was in such pain as to be bathed in sweat, he would receive M. d’Artagnan, who was delighted with that honor as will be apparent in the conversation they had together.

Friendly Advice

Fouquet had gone to bed, like a man who clings to life, and who economizes as much as possible that slender tissue of existence of which the shocks and angles of this world so quickly wear out the irreparable tenuity. D’Artagnan appeared at the door of the chamber, and was saluted by the superintendent with a very affable “Good-day.”

“Good-day, Monseigneur,” replied the musketeer; “how did you get through the journey?”

“Tolerably well, thank you.”

“And the fever?”

“But sadly. I drink as you see. I am scarcely arrived, and I have already levied a contribution of tisane upon Nantes.”

“You should sleep first, Monseigneur.”

“Eh, corbleu! my dear M. d’Artagnan, I should be very glad to sleep.”

“Who hinders you?”

“Why, you, in the first place.”

“I? Ah, Monseigneur!”

“No doubt you do. Is it at Nantes as it was at Paris; do you not come in the King’s name?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Monseigneur,” replied the captain, “leave the King alone! The day on which I shall come on the part of the King for the purpose you mean, take my word for it, I will not leave you long in doubt. You will see me place my hand on my sword, according to the ordonnance, and you will hear me say at once in my ceremonial voice, ‘Monseigneur, in the name of the King, I arrest you!’”

Fouquet trembled in spite of himself, the tone of the lively Gascon had been so natural and so vigorous. The representation of the fact was almost as frightful as the fact itself would be.

“You promise me that frankness?” said Fouquet.

“Upon my honor! But we are not come to that, believe me.”

“What makes you think that, M. d’Artagnan? For my part, I think quite the contrary.”

“I have heard of nothing of the kind,” replied d’Artagnan.

“Eh, eh!” said Fouquet.

“Indeed, no. You are an agreeable man, in spite of your fever. The King ought not, cannot help loving you, at the bottom of his heart.”

Fouquet’s face implied doubt. “But M. Colbert?” said he; “does M. Colbert also love me as much as you say?”

“I don’t speak of M. Colbert,” replied d’Artagnan. “He is an exceptional man, is that M. Colbert. He does not love you,- that is very possible; but, mordioux! the squirrel can guard himself against the adder with very little trouble.”

“Do you know that you are speaking to me quite as a friend?” replied Fouquet; “and that, upon my life! I have never met with a man of your intelligence and your heart?”

“You are pleased to say so,” replied d’Artagnan. “Why did you wait till today to pay me such a compliment?”

“How blind we are!” murmured Fouquet.

“Your voice is getting hoarse,” said d’Artagnan; “drink, Monseigneur, drink!” And he offered him a cup of tisane with the most friendly cordiality; Fouquet took it, and thanked him by a bland smile. “Such things happen only to me,” said the musketeer. “I have passed ten years under your very beard, while you were rolling about tons of gold. You were clearing an annual income of four millions; you never observed me; and you find out there is such a person in the world just at the moment-”

“I am about to fall,” interrupted Fouquet. “That is true, my dear M. d’Artagnan.”

“I did not say so.”

“But you thought so; and that is the same thing. Well, if I fall, take my word as truth, I shall not pass a single day without saying to myself, as I strike my brow, ‘Fool! fool!- stupid mortal! You had a M. d’Artagnan under your eye and hand, and you did not employ him, you did not enrich him!’”

“You quite overwhelm me,” said the captain. “I esteem you greatly.”

“There exists another man, then, who does not think as M. Colbert does,” said the superintendent.

“How this M. Colbert sticks in your stomach! He is worse than your fever!”

“Oh, I have good cause,” said Fouquet. “Judge for yourself”; and he related the details of the course of the lighters, and the hypocritical persecution of Colbert. “Is not this a clear sign of my ruin?”

D’Artagnan became serious. “That is true,” said he. “Yes; that has a bad odor, as M. de Treville used to say.” And he fixed upon M. Fouquet his intelligent and significant look.

“Am I not clearly aimed at in that, Captain? Is not the King bringing me to Nantes to get me away from Paris, where I have so many supporters, and to possess himself of Belle-Isle?”

“Where M. d’Herblay is,” added d’Artagnan. Fouquet raised his head. “As for me, Monseigneur,” continued d’Artagnan, “I can assure you the King has said nothing to me against you.”

“Indeed!”

“The King commanded me to set out for Nantes, it is true, and to say nothing about it to M. de Gesvres.”

“My friend.”

“To M. de Gesvres, yes, Monseigneur,” continued the musketeer, whose eyes did not cease to speak a language different from the language of his lips. “The King, moreover, commanded me to take a brigade of Musketeers, which is apparently superfluous, as the country is quite quiet.”

“A brigade,” said Fouquet, raising himself upon his elbow.

“Ninety-six horsemen, yes, Monseigneur. The same number as were employed in arresting Messieurs de Chalais, de Cinq-Mars, and Montmorency.”

Fouquet pricked up his ears at these words, pronounced without apparent value. “And besides?” said he.

“Well! nothing but insignificant orders,- such as guarding the castle, guarding every lodging, allowing none of M. de Gesvres’s Guards to occupy a single post,- M. de Gesvres, your friend.”

“And for myself,” cried Fouquet, “what orders had you?”

“For you, Monseigneur? Not the smallest word.”

“M. d’Artagnan, the safety of my honor, and perhaps of my life, is at stake. You would not deceive me?”

“I? and to what end? Are you threatened? Only there really is an order with respect to carriages and boats-”

“‘An order’?”

“Yes; but it cannot concern you,- a simple measure of police.”

“What is it, Captain,- what is it?”

“To forbid all horses or boats to leave Nantes without a pass signed by the King.”

“Great God! but-”

D’Artagnan began to laugh. “All that is not to be put into execution before the arrival of the King at Nantes. So that you see plainly, Monseigneur, the order in no wise concerns you.”

Fouquet became thoughtful, and d’Artagnan feigned not to observe his preoccupation, and said, “It is evident from my thus confiding to you the orders which have been given to me that I am friendly towards you, and that I endeavor to prove to you that none of them are directed against you.”

“Without doubt! without doubt!” said Fouquet, still absent-minded.

“Let us recapitulate,” said the captain, his glance beaming with earnestness. “A special and severe guard of the castle, in which your lodging is to be, is it not? Do you know that castle? Ah, Monseigneur, a true prison! The total absence of M. de Gesvres, who has the honor of being one of your friends; the closing of the gates of the city, and of the river without a pass, but only when the King shall have arrived. Please to observe, M. Fouquet, that if, instead of speaking to a man like you, who are one of the first in the kingdom, I were speaking to a troubled, uneasy conscience, I should compromise myself forever! What a fine opportunity for any one who wished to be free! No police, no guards, no orders, the water free, the roads free, M. d’Artagnan obliged to lend his horses, if required! All this ought to reassure you, M. Fouquet, for the King would not have left me thus independent if he had had any evil designs. In truth, M. Fouquet, ask me whatever you like, I am at your service; and in return, if you will consent to it, render me a service,- that of offering my compliments to Aramis and Porthos, in case you embark for Belle-Isle, as you have a right to do, without changing your dress, immediately, in your robe de chambre,- just as you are.”

Having said these words, with a profound bow the musketeer, whose looks had lost none of their intelligent kindness, left the apartment. He had not reached the steps of the vestibule when Fouquet, quite beside himself, hung to the bell-rope, and shouted, “My horses! my lighter!” But nobody answered. The superintendent dressed himself with everything that came to hand.

“Gourville! Gourville!” cried he, while slipping his watch into his pocket; and the bell sounded again, while Fouquet repeated, “Gourville! Gourville!”

Gourville at length appeared, breathless and pale.

“Let us be gone! let us be gone!” cried the superintendent, as soon as he saw him.

“It is too late!” said the friend of poor Fouquet.

“Too late! why?”

“Listen!” And they heard the sounds of trumpets and drums in front of the castle.

“What does that mean, Gourville?”

“It is the King coming, Monseigneur.”

“The King!”

“The King, who has ridden double stages, who has killed horses, and who is eight hours in advance of your calculation.”

“We are lost!” murmured Fouquet. “Brave d’Artagnan, all is over; thou hast spoken to me too late!”

The King, in fact, was entering the city, which soon resounded with the cannon from the ramparts, and from a vessel which replied from the lower parts of the river. Fouquet’s brow darkened; he called his valets de chambre, and dressed in ceremonial costume. From his window, behind the curtains, he could see the eagerness of the people and the movement of a large troop, which had followed the Prince. The King was conducted to the castle with great pomp, and Fouquet saw him dismount under the portcullis, and speak something in the ear of d’Artagnan, who held his stirrup. D’Artagnan, when the King had passed under the arch, directed his steps towards the house Fouquet was in; but so slowly, and stopping so frequently to speak to his Musketeers, drawn up as a hedge, that it might be said he was counting the seconds or the steps before accomplishing his message. Fouquet opened the window to speak to him in the court.

“Ah!” cried d’Artagnan, on perceiving him, “are you still there, Monseigneur?” And that word “still” completed the proof to Fouquet of how much information, and how many useful counsels were contained in the first visit the musketeer had paid him.

The superintendent sighed deeply. “Good heavens! yes, Monsieur,” replied he. “The arrival of the King has interrupted me in the projects I had.”

“Oh! then you know that the King is arrived?”

“Yes, Monsieur, I have seen him; and this time you come from him-”

“To inquire after you, Monseigneur; and if your health is not too bad, to beg you to have the kindness to repair to the castle.”

“Directly, M. d’Artagnan, directly!”

“Ah, damn it!” said the captain; “now the King is come, there is no more walking for anybody- no more free-will; the password governs all now, you as well as me, me as well as you.”

Fouquet heaved a last sigh, got into his carriage, so great was his weakness, and went to the castle, escorted by d’Artagnan, whose politeness was not less terrifying now than it had but just before been consoling and cheerful.

How the King, Louis XIV, Played His Little Part

As Fouquet was alighting from his carriage to enter the Castle of Nantes, a man of mean appearance went up to him with marks of the greatest respect, and gave him a letter. D’Artagnan endeavored to prevent this man from speaking to Fouquet, and pushed him away; but the message had been given to the superintendent. Fouquet opened the letter and read it, and instantly a vague terror, which d’Artagnan did not fail to penetrate, was expressed by the countenance of the first minister. He put the paper into the portfolio which he had under his arm, and passed on towards the King’s apartments. D’Artagnan, as he went up behind Fouquet, through the small windows made at every landing of the donjon stairs, saw the man who had delivered the note look around him on the place, and make signs to several persons, who disappeared into the adjacent streets, after having themselves repeated the signals made by the person we have named. Fouquet was made to wait for a moment upon the terrace of which we have spoken,- a terrace which abutted on the little corridor, at the end of which the cabinet of the King was located. Here d’Artagnan passed on before the superintendent, whom till that time he had respectfully accompanied, and entered the royal cabinet.

“Well?” asked Louis XIV, who, on perceiving him, threw on the table covered with papers a large green cloth.

“The order is executed, Sire.”

“And Fouquet?”

“Monsieur the Superintendent follows me,” replied d’Artagnan.

“In ten minutes let him be introduced,” said the King, dismissing d’Artagnan with a gesture. The latter retired, but had scarcely reached the corridor at the extremity of which Fouquet was waiting for him, when he was recalled by the King’s bell.

“Did he not appear astonished?” asked the King.

“Who, Sire?”

“Fouquet,” repeated the King, without saying “Monsieur,” a trifle which confirmed the captain of the Musketeers in his suspicions.

“No, Sire,” replied he.

“That’s well!” and a second time Louis dismissed d’Artagnan.

Fouquet had not quitted the terrace where he had been left by his guide. He reperused his note, conceived thus:

”Something is being contrived against you. Perhaps they will not dare to carry it out at the castle; it will be on your return home. The house is already surrounded by musketeers. Do not enter. A white horse is in waiting for you behind the esplanade!”

Fouquet recognized the writing and the zeal of Gourville. Not being willing that if any evil happened to himself this paper should compromise a faithful friend, the superintendent was busy tearing it into a thousand morsels, spread about by the wind from the balustrade of the terrace. D’Artagnan found him watching the flight of the last scraps into space.

“Monsieur,” said he, “the King waits for you.”

Fouquet walked with a deliberate step into the little corridor, where Messieurs de Brienne and Rose were at work, while the Duc de Saint-Aignan, seated on a chair, likewise in the corridor, appeared to be waiting for orders with feverish impatience, his sword between his legs. It appeared strange to Fouquet that Messieurs de Brienne, Rose, and de Saint-Aignan, in general so attentive and obsequious, should scarcely take the least notice as he, the superintendent, passed. But how could he expect to find it otherwise among courtiers, he whom the King now called “Fouquet”? He raised his head, determined to meet with brave front whatever might happen, and entered the King’s apartment, where a little bell, which we already know, had announced him to his Majesty.

The King, without rising, nodded to him, and with interest, “Well, how are you, M. Fouquet?” said he.

“I am in a high fever,” replied the superintendent; “but I am at the King’s service.”

“That is well; the States assemble tomorrow. Have you a speech ready?”

Fouquet looked at the King with astonishment. “I have not, Sire,” replied he; “but I will improvise one. I am too well acquainted with affairs to feel any embarrassment. I have only one question if your Majesty will permit me?”

“Certainly; ask it.”

“Why has your Majesty not done his first minister the honor to give him notice of this in Paris?”

“You were ill; I was not willing to fatigue you.”

“Never did a labor, never did an explanation, fatigue me, Sire; and since the moment is come for me to demand an explanation of my King-”

“Oh, M. Fouquet, an explanation upon what?”

“Upon your Majesty’s intentions with respect to myself.”

The King blushed. “I have been calumniated,” continued Fouquet, warmly; “and I feel called upon to incite the justice of the King to make inquiries.”

“You say this to me very uselessly, M. Fouquet; I know what I know.”

“Your Majesty can only know things as they have been told to you; and I, on my part, have said nothing to you, while others have spoken many and many times-”

“What do you wish to say?” said the King, impatient to put an end to this embarrassing conversation.

“I will go straight to the fact, Sire; and I accuse a man of having injured me in your Majesty’s opinion.”

“Nobody has injured you, M. Fouquet.”

“That reply proves to me, Sire, that I am right.”

“M. Fouquet, I do not like that one should accuse.”

“Not when one is accused?”

“We have already spoken too much about this affair.”

“Your Majesty will not allow me to justify myself?”

“I repeat that I do not accuse you.”

Fouquet, with a half-bow, made a step backwards. “It is certain,” thought he, “that he has made up his mind; he alone who cannot go back can show such obstinacy. Not to see the danger now would be to be blind indeed; not to shun it would be stupid.” He resumed aloud, “Did your Majesty send for me for any business?”

“No, M. Fouquet, but for some advice I have to give you.”

“I respectfully await it, Sire.”

“Rest yourself, M. Fouquet; do not throw away your strength. The session of the States will be short; and when my secretaries shall have closed it, I do not wish business to be talked of in France for a fortnight.”

“Has the King nothing to say to me on the subject of this assembly of the States?”

“No, M. Fouquet.”

“Not to me, the Superintendent of the Finances?”

“Rest yourself, I beg you; that is all I have to say to you.”

Fouquet bit his lips and hung down his head. He was evidently busy with some uneasy thought. This uneasiness struck the King. “Are you troubled at having to rest yourself, M. Fouquet?” said he.

“Yes, Sire; I am not accustomed to take rest.”

“But you are ill; you must take care of yourself.”

“Your Majesty spoke just now of a speech to be pronounced to-morrow.”

His Majesty made no reply; this unexpected stroke embarrassed him. Fouquet felt the weight of this hesitation. He thought he could read a danger in the eyes of the young King which his fear would precipitate. “If I appear frightened, I am lost,” thought he.

The King, on his part, was only uneasy at the alarm of Fouquet. “Has he a suspicion of anything?” murmured he.

“If his first word is severe,” again thought Fouquet,- “if he becomes angry, or feigns to be angry, for the sake of a pretext,- how shall I extricate myself? Let us smooth the declivity a little. Gourville was right.”

“Sire,” said he, suddenly, “since the goodness of the King watches over my health to the point of dispensing with my labor, may I not be allowed to be absent from the council of to-morrow? I could pass the day in bed, and will entreat the King to grant me his physician, that we may endeavor to find a remedy against this cursed fever.”

“So be it, M. Fouquet, as you desire; you shall have a holiday to-morrow, you shall have the physician, and shall be restored to health.”

“Thanks,” said Fouquet, bowing. Then, opening his game, “Shall I not have the happiness of conducting your Majesty to my residence of Belle-Isle?” And he looked Louis full in the face to judge of the effect of such a proposal.

The King blushed again, “Do you know,” replied he, endeavoring to smile, “that you have just said, ‘My residence of Belle-Isle’?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Well, do you not remember,” continued the King, in the same cheerful tone, “that you gave me Belle-Isle?”

“That is true again, Sire; only, as you have not taken it, you will come with me and take possession of it.”

“I mean to do so.”

“That was, then, your Majesty’s intention as well as mine; and I cannot express to your Majesty how happy and proud I have been at seeing all the King’s military household come from Paris for this taking possession.”

The King stammered out that he did not bring the Musketeers for that purpose alone.

“Oh, I am convinced of that!” said Fouquet, warmly; “your Majesty knows very well that you have nothing to do but to come alone with a cane in your hand to bring to the ground all the fortifications of Belle-Isle.”

“Peste!” cried the King; “I do not wish that those fine fortifications, whose erection cost so much, should fall at all. No,- let them stand against the Dutch and the English. You would not guess what I want to see at Belle-Isle, M. Fouquet; it is the pretty peasants and women of the lands on the sea-shore, who dance so well and are so seducing with their scarlet petticoats! I have heard great boast of your vassals, Monsieur the Superintendent; well, let me have a sight of them.”

“Whenever your Majesty pleases.”

“Have you any means of transport? It shall be to-morrow, if you like.”

The superintendent felt this stroke, which was not adroit, and replied, “No, Sire; I was ignorant of your Majesty’s wish. Above all, I was ignorant of your haste to see Belle-Isle; and I am prepared with nothing.”

“You have a boat of your own, nevertheless?”

“I have five; but they are all in the port or at Paimboeuf, and to join them or bring them hither we should require at least twenty-four hours. Have I any occasion to send a courier? Must I do so?”

“Wait a little; put an end to the fever,- wait till to-morrow.”

“That is true; who knows but that by to-morrow we may not have a hundred other ideas?” replied Fouquet, now perfectly convinced and very pale.

The King started and stretched his hand out towards his little bell, but Fouquet prevented his ringing. “Sire,” said he, “I have an ague,- I am trembling with cold. If I remain a moment longer, I shall most likely faint. I request your Majesty’s permission to go and conceal myself beneath the bed-clothes.”

“Indeed, you are all in a shiver; it is painful to behold! Go, M. Fouquet, go. I will send to inquire after you.”

“Your Majesty overwhelms me with kindness. In an hour I shall be better.”

“I will call some one to reconduct you,” said the King.

“As you please, Sire; I would gladly take some one’s arm.”

“M. d’Artagnan!” cried the King, ringing his little bell.

“Oh, Sire!” interrupted Fouquet, smiling in such a manner as made the King feel cold, “would you give me the captain of your Musketeers to take me to my lodgings? A very equivocal kind of honor that, Sire! A simple footman, I beg.”

“And why, M. Fouquet? M. d’Artagnan conducts me often and well!”

“Yes, but when he conducts you, Sire, it is to obey you; while I-”

“Go on!”

“If I am obliged to return home supported by the leader of the Musketeers, it would be everywhere said you had had me arrested.”

“Arrested!” replied the King, who became paler than Fouquet himself- “arrested! oh!”

“And why would they not say so?” continued Fouquet, still smiling; “and I would lay a wager there would be people found wicked enough to laugh at it.” This sally disconcerted the monarch. Fouquet was skillful enough, or fortunate enough, to make Louis XIV recoil before the appearance of the fact he meditated. M. d’Artagnan, when he appeared, received an order to desire a musketeer to accompany the superintendent.

“Quite unnecessary,” said the latter; “sword for sword, I prefer Gourville, who is waiting for me below. But that will not prevent my enjoying the society of M. d’Artagnan. I am glad he will see Belle-Isle, he who is so good a judge of fortifications.”

D’Artagnan bowed, without at all comprehending what was going on. Fouquet bowed again and left the apartment, affecting all the slowness of a man who walks with difficulty. When once out of the castle, “I am saved!” said he. “Oh, yes, disloyal King! you shall see Belle-Isle, but it shall be when I am no longer there!”

He disappeared, leaving d’Artagnan with the King.

“Captain,” said the King, “you will follow M. Fouquet at the distance of a hundred paces.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“He is going to his lodgings again. You will go with him.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“You will arrest him in my name, and will shut him up in a carriage.”

“In a carriage. Well, Sire?”

“In such a fashion that he may not, on the road, either converse with any one, or throw notes to people he may meet.”

“That will be rather difficult, Sire.”

“Not at all.”

“Pardon me, Sire, I cannot stifle M. Fouquet; and if he asks for liberty to breathe, I cannot prevent him by shutting up glasses and blinds. He will throw out at the doors all the cries and notes possible.”

“The case is provided for, M. d’Artagnan; and a carriage with a trellis will obviate both the difficulties you point out.”

“A carriage with an iron trellis!” cried d’Artagnan; “but a carriage with an iron trellis is not made in half an hour, and your Majesty commands me to go immediately to M. Fouquet’s lodgings.”

“Therefore, the carriage in question is already made.”

“Ah, that is quite a different thing,” said the captain; “if the carriage is ready made, very well, then, we have only to set it going.”

“It is ready with the horses harnessed to it.”

“Ah!”

“And the coachman, with the outriders, are waiting in the lower court of the castle.”

D’Artagnan bowed. “There only remains for me to ask your Majesty to what place I shall conduct M. Fouquet.”

“To the Castle of Angers at first.”

“Very well, Sire.”

“Afterwards we will see.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“M. d’Artagnan, one last word: you have remarked that for making this capture of M. Fouquet, I have not employed my Guards, on which account M. de Gesvres will be furious.”

“Your Majesty does not employ your Guards,” said the captain, a little humiliated, “because you mistrust M. de Gesvres, that is all.”

“That is to say, Monsieur, that I have confidence in you.”

“I know that very well, Sire; and it is of no use to make so much of it.”

“It is only for the sake of arriving at this, Monsieur, that if from this moment it should happen that by any chance,- any chance whatever,- M. Fouquet should escape- such chances have been, Monsieur-”

“Oh, very often, Sire; but for others, not for me.”

“And why not for you?”

“Because I, Sire, have for an instant wished to save M. Fouquet.”

The King started. “Because,” continued the captain, “I had then a right to do so, having guessed your Majesty’s plan without your having spoken to me of it, and because I took an interest in M. Fouquet. Then, I was at liberty to show my interest in this man.”

“In truth, Monsieur, you do not reassure me with regard to your services.”

“If I had saved him then, I should have been perfectly innocent; I will say more, I should have done well, for M. Fouquet is not a bad man. But he was not willing; his destiny prevailed; he let the hour of liberty slip by. So much the worse! Now I have orders I will obey them, and M. Fouquet you may consider as a man arrested. He is at the Castle of Angers, is M. Fouquet.”

“Oh, you have not got him yet, Captain.”

“That concerns me; every one to his trade, Sire. Only, once more, reflect! Do you seriously give me orders to arrest M. Fouquet, Sire?”

“Yes, a thousand times, yes!”

“Write it, then.”

“Here is the letter.”

D’Artagnan read it, bowed to the King, and left the room. From the height of the terrace he perceived Gourville, who went by with a joyous air towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet.

The White Horse and the Black Horse

That is rather surprising,” said d’Artagnan,- “Gourville running about the streets so gayly, when he is almost certain that M. Fouquet is in danger; when it is almost equally certain that it was Gourville who warned M. Fouquet just now by the note which was torn into a thousand pieces upon the terrace, and given to the winds by Monsieur the Superintendent. Gourville is rubbing his hands; that is because he has done something clever. Whence comes M. Gourville? Gourville is coming from the Rue aux Herbes. Whither does the Rue aux Herbes lead?” And d’Artagnan followed, along the tops of the houses of Nantes dominated by the castle, the line traced by the streets, as he would have done upon a topographical plan; only, instead of the dead flat paper, the living chart rose in relief with the cries, the movements, and the shadows of the men and things.

Beyond the enclosure of the city the great verdant plains stretched out, bordering the Loire, and appeared to run towards the empurpled horizon, which was cut by the azure of the waters and the dark green of the marshes. Immediately outside the gates of Nantes two white roads were seen diverging like the separated fingers of a gigantic hand. D’Artagnan, who had taken in all the panorama at a glance in crossing the terrace, was led by the line of the Rue aux Herbes to the mouth of one of those roads which took its rise under the gates of Nantes. One step more, and he was about to descend the stairs, take his trellised carriage, and go towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet. But chance decreed that at the moment of recommencing his descent he was attracted by a moving point which was gaining ground upon that road.

“What is that?” said the musketeer to himself; “a horse galloping,- a runaway horse, no doubt. At what a pace he is going!” The moving point became detached from the road, and entered into the fields. “A white horse,” continued the captain, who had just seen the color thrown out luminously against the dark ground, “and he is mounted; it must be some boy whose horse is thirsty and has run away with him across lots to the drinking place.” These reflections, rapid as lightning, simultaneous with visual perception, d’Artagnan had already forgotten when he descended the first steps of the staircase. Some morsels of paper were spread over the stairs, and shone out white against the dirty stones. “Eh, eh!” said the captain to himself, “here are some of the fragments of the note torn by M. Fouquet. Poor man! he had given his secret to the wind; the wind will have no more to do with it, and brings it back to the King. Decidedly, Fouquet, you play with misfortune! The game is not a fair one,- fortune is against you. The star of Louis XIV obscures yours; the adder is stronger and more cunning than the squirrel.” D’Artagnan picked up one of these morsels of paper as he descended. “Gourville’s pretty little hand,” cried he, while examining one of the fragments of the note; “I was not mistaken.” And he read the word “horse.” “Stop!” said he; and he examined another upon which there was not a letter traced. Upon a third he read the word “white,”- “white horse,” repeated he, like a child that is spelling. “Ah, mordioux!” cried the suspicious spirit, “a white horse!” And like that grain of powder which burning dilates into a centupled volume, d’Artagnan, enlarged by ideas and suspicions, rapidly reascended the stairs towards the terrace. The white horse was still galloping in the direction of the Loire, at the extremity of which, merging with the vapors of the water, a little sail appeared, balancing like an atom. “Oh, oh!” cried the musketeer, “no one but a man escaping danger would go at that pace across ploughed lands; there is only Fouquet, a financier, to ride thus in open day upon a white horse; there is no one but the lord of Belle-Isle who would make his escape towards the sea, while there are such thick forests on the land; and there is but one d’Artagnan in the world to catch M. Fouquet, who has half an hour’s start, and who will have gained his boat within an hour.”

This being said, the musketeer gave orders that the carriage with the iron trellis should be taken immediately to a thicket situated just outside the city. He selected his best horse, jumped upon his back, galloped along the Rue aux Herbes, taking, not the road Fouquet had taken, but the very bank of the Loire, certain that he should gain ten minutes upon the total of the distance, and at the intersection of the two lines come up with the fugitive, who could have no suspicion of being pursued in that direction. In the rapidity of the pursuit, and with the impatience of a persecutor animating himself in the chase as in war, d’Artagnan, so mild, so kind towards Fouquet, was surprised to find himself become ferocious and almost sanguinary. For a long time he galloped without catching sight of the white horse. His fury assumed the tints of rage; he doubted himself; he suspected that Fouquet had buried himself in some subterranean road, or that he had changed the white horse for one of those famous black ones, as swift as the wind, which d’Artagnan at St. Mandé had so frequently admired, envying their vigorous lightness.

At these moments, when the wind cut his eyes so as to make the water spring from them; when the saddle had become burning hot; when the galled and spurred horse reared with pain and threw behind him a shower of dust and stones,- d’Artagnan, raising himself in his stirrups, and seeing nothing on the waters, nothing beneath the trees, looked up into the air like a madman. He was losing his senses. In the paroxysms of his eagerness he dreamed of aerial ways,- the discovery of the following century; he called to his mind Daedalus and his vast wings, which saved him from the prisons of Crete. A hoarse sigh broke from his lips as he repeated, devoured by the fear of ridicule, “I! I! duped by a Gourville! I! They will say I am growing old; they will say I have received a million to allow Fouquet to escape!” And he again dug his spurs into the sides of his horse; he had ridden astonishingly fast. Suddenly, at the extremity of some open pasture-ground behind the hedges, he saw a white form which showed itself, disappeared, and at last remained distinctly visible upon a rising ground. D’Artagnan’s heart leaped with joy. He wiped the streaming sweat from his brow, relaxed the tension of his knees,- freed from which the horse breathed more freely,- and gathering up his reins, moderated the speed of the vigorous animal, his active accomplice in this man-hunt. He had then time to study the direction of the road and his position with regard to Fouquet. The superintendent had completely winded his horse by crossing the soft grounds. He felt the necessity of gaining a more firm footing, and turned towards the road by the shortest secant line. D’Artagnan, on his part, had nothing to do but to ride straight beneath the sloping shore, which concealed him from the eyes of his enemy; so that he would cut him off on his reaching the road. Then the real race would begin; then the struggle would be in earnest.

D’Artagnan gave his horse good breathing-time. He observed that the superintendent had relaxed into a trot; that is to say, he likewise was indulging his horse. But both of them were too much pressed for time to allow them to continue long at that pace. The white horse sprang off like an arrow the moment his feet touched firm ground. D’Artagnan dropped his hand, and his black horse broke into a gallop. Both followed the same route; the quadruple echoes of the course were confounded. Fouquet had not yet perceived d’Artagnan. But on issuing from the slope a single echo struck the air; it was that of the steps of d’Artagnan’s horse, which rolled along like thunder. Fouquet turned round, and saw behind him within a hundred paces his enemy bent over the neck of his horse. There could be no doubt- the shining baldric, the red uniform- it was a musketeer. Fouquet slackened his hand likewise, and the white horse placed twenty feet more between his adversary and himself.

“Oh, but,” thought d’Artagnan, becoming very anxious, “that is not a common horse M. Fouquet is upon; let us see!” And he attentively examined with his infallible eye the shape and capabilities of the courser. Round full quarters, a thin long tail, large hocks, thin legs dry as bars of steel, hoofs hard as marble. He spurred his own, but the distance between the two remained the same. D’Artagnan listened attentively; not a breath of the horse reached him, and yet he seemed to cut the air. The black horse, on the contrary, began to blow like a blacksmith’s bellows.

“I must overtake him, if I kill my horse,” thought the musketeer; and he began to saw the mouth of the poor animal, while he buried the rowels of his spurs in his sides. The maddened horse gained twenty toises, and came up within pistol-shot of Fouquet.

“Courage!” said the musketeer to himself, “courage! the white horse will perhaps grow weaker; and if the horse does not fall, the master must fall at last.” But horse and rider remained upright together, gaining ground by degrees. D’Artagnan uttered a wild cry, which made Fouquet turn round, and added speed to the white horse.

“A famous horse! a mad rider!” growled the captain. “Hola! mordioux! M. Fouquet! stop! in the King’s name!” Fouquet made no reply.

“Do you hear me?” shouted d’Artagnan, whose horse had just stumbled.

“Pardieu!” replied Fouquet, laconically, and rode on faster.

D’Artagnan was nearly mad; the blood rushed boiling to his temples and his eyes. “In the King’s name!” cried he, again, “stop, or I will bring you down with a pistol-shot!”

“Do!” replied Fouquet, without relaxing his speed.

D’Artagnan seized a pistol and cocked it, hoping that the noise of the spring would stop his enemy. “You have pistols likewise,” said he; “turn and defend yourself.”

Fouquet did turn round at the noise, and looking d’Artagnan full in the face, opened with his right hand the part of his dress which concealed his body, but he did not touch his holsters. There were twenty paces between the two.

“Mordioux!” said d’Artagnan, “I will not kill you; if you will not fire upon me, surrender! What is a prison?”

“I would rather die!” replied Fouquet; “I shall suffer less.”

D’Artagnan, drunk with despair, hurled his pistol to the ground. “I will take you alive!” said he; and by a prodigy of skill of which this incomparable horseman alone was capable, he urged his horse forward to within ten paces of the white horse,- already his hand being stretched out to seize his prey.

“Kill me! kill me!” cried Fouquet; “it is more humane!”

“No! alive, alive!” murmured the captain.

At this moment his horse made a false step for the second time, and Fouquet’s again took the lead. It was an unheard-of spectacle,- this race between two horses which were only kept alive by the will of their riders. To the furious gallop had succeeded the fast trot, and then the simple trot; and the race appeared equally warm to the two fatigued athletes. D’Artagnan, quite in despair, seized his second pistol, and cocked it. “At your horse! not at you!” cried he to Fouquet. And he fired. The animal was hit in the rump; he made a furious bound, and plunged forward. D’Artagnan’s horse fell dead.

“I am dishonored!” thought the musketeer; “I am a miserable wretch!” Then he cried, “For pity’s sake, M. Fouquet, throw me one of your pistols that I may blow out my brains!” But Fouquet rode on.

“For mercy’s sake! for mercy’s sake!” cried d’Artagnan; “that which you will not do at this moment, I myself will do within an hour. But here upon this road I should die bravely, I should die esteemed; do me that service, M. Fouquet!”

M. Fouquet made no reply, but continued to trot on. D’Artagnan began to run after his enemy. Successively he threw off his hat, his coat, which embarrassed him, and then the sheath of his sword, which got between his legs as he was running. The sword in his hand even became too heavy, and he threw it after the sheath. The white horse began to rattle in his throat; d’Artagnan gained upon him. From a trot the exhausted animal sunk to a staggering walk; the foam from his mouth was mixed with blood. D’Artagnan made a desperate effort, sprang towards Fouquet, and seized him by the leg, saying in a broken, breathless voice, “I arrest you in the King’s name! blow my brains out, if you like; we have both done our duty.”

Fouquet hurled far from him into the river the two pistols which d’Artagnan might have seized, and dismounting from his horse, “I am your prisoner, Monsieur,” said he; “will you take my arm, for I see you are ready to faint?”

“Thanks!” murmured d’Artagnan, who in fact felt the earth moving from under his feet, and the sky melting away over his head; and he rolled upon the sand without breath or strength. Fouquet hastened to the brink of the river, dipped some water in his hat, with which he bathed the temples of the musketeer, and introduced a few drops between his lips. D’Artagnan raised himself up, looking round with a wandering eye. He saw Fouquet on his knees, with his wet hat in his hand, smiling upon him with ineffable sweetness. “You are not gone, then?” cried he. “Oh, Monsieur! the true King in loyalty, in heart, in soul, is not Louis of the Louvre or Philippe of Ste. Marguerite; it is you, the proscribed, the condemned!”

“I, who this day am ruined by a single error, M. d’Artagnan.”

“What, in Heaven’s name, is that?”

“I should have had you for a friend! But how shall we return to Nantes? We are a great way from it.”

“That is true,” said d’Artagnan, gloomy and sad.

“The white horse will recover, perhaps; he is a good horse! Mount, M. d’Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a little.”

“Poor beast! and wounded too!” said the musketeer.

“He will go, I tell you; I know him. But we can do better still, let us both mount.”

“We can try,” said the captain.

But they had scarcely charged the animal with this double load when he began to stagger, then with a great effort walked a few minutes, then staggered again, and sank down dead by the side of the black horse, which he had just managed to reach.

“We will go on foot; destiny wills it so. The walk will be pleasant,” said Fouquet, passing his arm through that of d’Artagnan.

“Mordioux!” cried the latter, with a fixed eye, a contracted brow, and a swelling heart. “A disgraceful day!”

They walked slowly the four leagues which separated them from the little wood behind which waited the carriage with the escort. When Fouquet perceived that sinister machine, he said to d’Artagnan, who cast down his eyes as if ashamed of Louis XIV, “There is an idea which is not that of a brave man, Captain d’Artagnan; it is not yours. What are these gratings for?”

“To prevent your throwing letters out.”

“Ingenious!”

“But you can speak, if you cannot write,” said d’Artagnan.

“Can I speak to you?”

“Why, certainly, if you wish to do so.”

Fouquet reflected for a moment, then looking the captain full in the face, “One single word,” said he; “will you remember it?”

“I will not forget it.”

“Will you speak it to whom I wish?”

“I will.”

“St. Mandé,” articulated Fouquet, in a low voice.

“Well; and for whom?”

“For Madame de Belliere or Pélisson.”

“It shall be done.”

The carriage passed through Nantes, and took the route to Angers.

In Which the Squirrel Falls, in Which the Adder Flies

It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The King, full of impatience, went to his cabinet on the terrace, and kept opening the door of the corridor to see what his secretaries were doing. M. Colbert, seated in the same place M. de Saint-Aignan had so long occupied in the morning, was chatting in a low voice with M. de Brienne. The King opened the door suddenly, and addressing them, “What do you say?” asked he.

“We were speaking of the first sitting of the States,” said M. de Brienne, rising.

“Very well,” replied the King, and returned to his room.

Five minutes after, the summons of the bell recalled Rose, whose hour it was.

“Have you finished your copies?” asked the King.

“Not yet, Sire.”

“See, then, if M. d’Artagnan is returned.”

“Not yet, Sire.”

“It is very strange!” murmured the King. “Call M. Colbert.”

Colbert entered; he had been expecting this moment all the morning.

“M. Colbert,” said the King, very sharply, “it must be ascertained what is become of M. d’Artagnan.”

Colbert in his calm voice replied, “Where would your Majesty desire him to be sought for?”

“Eh, Monsieur! do you not know to what place I have sent him?” replied Louis, acrimoniously.

“Your Majesty has not told me.”

“Monsieur, there are things that are to be guessed; and you, above all others, do guess them.”

“I might have been able to imagine, Sire; but I do not presume to be positive.”

Colbert had not finished these words when a much rougher voice than the King’s interrupted the interesting conversation thus begun between Louis and his clerk.

“D’Artagnan!” cried the King, with evident joy.

D’Artagnan, pale and in furious humor, cried to the King as he entered, “Sire, is it your Majesty who has given orders to my Musketeers?”

“What orders?” said the King.

“About M. Fouquet’s house?”

“None!” replied Louis.

“Ah, ah!” said d’Artagnan, biting his mustache; “I was not mistaken, then; it was Monsieur here!” and he pointed to Colbert.

“What orders? Let me know,” said the King.

“Orders to turn a house inside out, to beat M. Fouquet’s servants, to force the drawers, to give over a peaceful house to pillage! Mordioux! the orders of a savage I

“Monsieur!” said Colbert, becoming pale.

“Monsieur,” interrupted d’Artagnan, “the King alone, understand,- the King alone has a right to command my Musketeers; but as to you, I forbid you to do it, and I tell you so before his Majesty. Gentlemen who wear swords are not fellows with pens behind their ears.”

“D’Artagnan! d’Artagnan!” murmured the King.

“It is humiliating,” continued the musketeer; “my soldiers are disgraced. I do not command reitres, nor clerks of the intendance, mordioux!”

“Well; but what is all this about?” said the King, with authority.

“About this, Sire: Monsieur- Monsieur, who could not guess your Majesty’s orders, and consequently could not know I was gone to arrest M. Fouquet; Monsieur, who has caused the iron cage to be constructed for his patron of yesterday- has sent M. de Roncherat to the lodgings of M. Fouquet, and under pretence of taking away the superintendent’s papers they have taken away the furniture. My Musketeers have been placed round the house all the morning; such were my orders. Why did any one presume to order them to enter? Why, by forcing them to assist in this pillage, have they been made accomplices in it? Mordioux! we serve the King, we do; but we do not serve M. Colbert!”

“M. d’Artagnan,” said the King, sternly, “take care! It is not in my presence that such explanations, and made in this tone, should take place.”

“I have acted for the good of the King,” said Colbert, in a faltering voice; “it is hard to be so treated by one of your Majesty’s officers, and that without vengeance, on account of the respect I owe the King.”

“The respect you owe the King,” cried d’Artagnan, his eyes flashing fire, “consists in the first place in making his authority respected and his person beloved. Every agent of a power without control represents that power, and when people curse the hand which strikes them, it is to the royal hand that God makes the reproach, do you hear? Must a soldier hardened by forty years of wounds and blood give you this lesson, Monsieur? Must mercy be on my side, and ferocity on yours? You have caused the innocent to be arrested, bound, and imprisoned!”

“The accomplices, perhaps, of M. Fouquet,” said Colbert.

“Who told you that M. Fouquet had accomplices, or even that he was guilty? The King alone knows that; his justice is not blind! When he shall say, ‘Arrest and imprison’ such and such people, then he shall be obeyed. Do not talk to me then any more of the respect you owe the King; and be careful of your words, that they may not chance to convey any menace,- for the King will not allow those to be threatened who do him service by others who do him disservice. And in case I should have- which God forbid!- a master so ungrateful, I would make myself respected.”

Thus saying, d’Artagnan took his station haughtily in the King’s cabinet, his eye flashing, his hand on his sword, his lips trembling, affecting much more anger than he really felt. Colbert, humiliated and devoured with rage, bowed to the King as if to ask his permission to leave the room. The King, drawn in opposite directions by his pride and by his curiosity, knew not which part to take. D’Artagnan saw him hesitate. To remain longer would have been an error; it was necessary to obtain a triumph over Colbert, and the only means was to touch the King so near and so strongly to the quick that his Majesty would have no other means of extricating himself but by choosing between the two antagonists. D’Artagnan then bowed as Colbert had done; but the King, who in preference to everything else was anxious to have all the exact details of the arrest of the Superintendent of the Finances from him who had made him tremble for a moment,- the King, perceiving that the ill-humor of d’Artagnan would put off for half an hour at least the details he was burning to be acquainted with,- Louis, we say, forgot Colbert, who had nothing new to tell him, and recalled his captain of the Musketeers. “In the first place,” said he, “let me see the result of your commission, Monsieur; you may repose afterwards.”

D’Artagnan, who was just passing through the door, stopped at the voice of the King, retraced his steps, and Colbert was forced to leave the cabinet. His countenance assumed almost a purple hue, his black and threatening eyes shone with a dark fire beneath their thick brows; he stepped out, bowed before the King, half drew himself up in passing d’Artagnan, and went away with death in his heart.

D’Artagnan, on being left alone with the King, softened immediately, and composing his countenance, “Sire,” said he, “you are a young King. It is by the dawn that people judge whether the day will be fine or dull. How, Sire, will the people whom the hand of God has placed under your law argue of your reign, if between you and them you allow angry and violent ministers to act? But let us speak of myself, Sire; let us leave a discussion that may appear idle and perhaps inconvenient to you. Let us speak of myself. I have arrested M. Fouquet.”

“You took plenty of time about it,” said the King, sharply.

D’Artagnan looked at the King. “I perceive that I have expressed myself badly. I announced to your Majesty that I had arrested M. Fouquet.”

“You did; and what then?”

“Well, I ought to have told your Majesty that M. Fouquet had arrested me; that would have been more just. I re-establish the truth, then: I have been arrested by M. Fouquet.”

It was now the turn of Louis XIV to be surprised. His Majesty was astonished. D’Artagnan, with his quick glance, appreciated what was passing in the heart of his master. He did not allow him time to put any questions. He related, with that poetry, that picturesqueness, which perhaps he alone possessed at that period, the escape of Fouquet, the pursuit, the furious race, and, lastly, the inimitable generosity of the superintendent, who might have fled ten times over, who might have killed the adversary sent in pursuit of him, and who had preferred imprisonment, and perhaps worse, to the humiliation of him who wished to take his liberty from him. In proportion as the tale advanced, the King became agitated, devouring the narrator’s words, and knocking his finger-nails against one another.

“It results from this, then, Sire, in my eyes at least, that the man who conducts himself thus is a gallant man, and cannot be an enemy to the King. That is my opinion, and I repeat it to your Majesty. I know what the King will say to me, and I bow to it,- reasons of state. So be it! that in my eyes is very respectable. But I am a soldier, I have received my orders; my orders are executed,- very unwillingly on my part, it is true, but they are executed. I say no more.”

“Where is M. Fouquet at this moment?” asked Louis, after a short silence.

“M. Fouquet, Sire,” replied d’Artagnan, “is in the iron cage that M. Colbert had prepared for him, and is going as fast as four vigorous horses can drag him towards Angers.”

“Why did you leave him on the road?”

“Because your Majesty did not tell me to go to Angers. The proof, the best proof of what I advance, is that the King desired me to be sought for but this minute; and then I have another reason.”

“What is that?”

“While I was with him, poor M. Fouquet would never attempt to escape.”

“Well!” cried the King, with stupefaction.

“Your Majesty ought to understand, and does understand, certainly, that my warmest wish is to know that M. Fouquet is at liberty. I have given him to one of my brigadiers, the most stupid I could find among my Musketeers, in order that the prisoner might have a chance of escaping.”

“Are you mad, M. d’Artagnan?” cried the King, crossing his arms on his breast. “Do people speak such enormities, even when they have the misfortune to think them?”

“Ah, Sire, you cannot expect that I should be the enemy of M. Fouquet after what he has just done for you and me. No, no; if you desire that he should remain under your locks and bolts, never give him in charge to me; however closely wired might be the cage, the bird would in the end fly away.”

“I am surprised,” said the King, in a stern tone, “that you have not followed the fortunes of him whom M. Fouquet wished to place upon my throne. You had in him all you want,- affection and gratitude. In my service, Monsieur, you only find a master.”

“If M. Fouquet had not gone to seek you in the Bastille, Sire,” replied d’Artagnan, with a deeply impressive manner, “one single man would have gone there, and that man is myself,- you know that right well, Sire.”

The King was brought to a pause. Before that speech of his captain of the Musketeers, so frankly spoken and so true, the King had nothing to offer. On hearing d’Artagnan, Louis remembered the d’Artagnan of former times,- the man who at the Palais-Royal held himself concealed behind the curtains of his bed when the people of Paris, led on by Cardinal de Retz, came to assure themselves of the presence of the King; the d’Artagnan whom he saluted with his hand at the door of his carriage when repairing to Notre-Dame on his return to Paris; the soldier who had quitted his service at Blois; the lieutenant whom he had recalled near his person when the death of Mazarin gave him back the power; the man he had always found loyal, courageous, and devoted. Louis advanced towards the door and called Colbert. Colbert had not left the corridor where the secretaries were at work. Colbert appeared.

“Colbert, have you made a search at the house of M. Fouquet?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“What has it produced?”

“M. de Roncherat, who was sent with your Majesty’s Musketeers, has remitted me some papers,” replied Colbert.

“I will look at them. Give me your hand!”

“My hand, Sire?”

“Yes, that I may place it in that of M. d’Artagnan. In fact, M. d’Artagnan,” added he, with a smile, turning towards the soldier, who at the sight of the clerk had resumed his haughty attitude, “you do not know this man; make his acquaintance.” And he pointed to Colbert. “He has been but a moderate servant in subaltern positions, but he will be a great man if I raise him to the first rank.”

“Sire!” stammered Colbert, confused with pleasure and fear.

“I have understood why,” murmured d’Artagnan in the King’s ear,- “he was jealous.”

“Precisely; and his jealousy confined his wings.”

“He will henceforth be a winged serpent,” grumpled the musketeer, with a remnant of hatred against his recent adversary.

But Colbert, approaching him, offered to his eyes a countenance so different from that which he had been accustomed to see him wear; he appeared so good, so mild, so easy; his eyes took the expression of an intelligence so noble,- that d’Artagnan, a connoisseur in faces, was moved, and almost changed in his convictions. Colbert pressed his hand.

“That which the King has just told you, Monsieur, proves how well his Majesty is acquainted with men. The inveterate opposition I have displayed up to this day against abuses and not against men, proves that I had it in view to prepare for my King a great reign, for my country a great blessing. I have many ideas, M. d’Artagnan. You will see them expand in the sun of public peace; and if I have not the certainty and good fortune to conquer the friendship of honest men, I am at least certain, Monsieur, that I shall obtain their esteem. For their admiration, Monsieur, I would give my life.”

This change, this sudden elevation, this mute approbation of the King, gave the musketeer matter for much reflection. He bowed civilly to Colbert, who did not take his eyes off him. The King, when he saw they were reconciled, dismissed them. They left the room together. As soon as they were out of the cabinet, the new minister, stopping the captain, said, “Is it possible, M. d’Artagnan, that with such an eye as yours, you have not at the first glance, at the first inspection, discovered what sort of man I am?”

“M. Colbert,” replied the musketeer, “the ray of the sun which we have in our eyes, prevents us from seeing the most ardent flames. The man in power radiates, you know; and since you are there, why should you continue to persecute him who has just fallen into disgrace, and fallen from such a height?”

“I, Monsieur!” said Colbert; “oh, Monsieur! I would never persecute him. I wished to administer the finances, and to administer them alone, because I am ambitious, and, above all, because I have the most entire confidence in my own merit; because I know that all the gold of this country will fall beneath my eyes, and I love to look at the King’s gold; because, if I live thirty years, in thirty years not a denier of it will remain in my hands; because with that gold I will build granaries, edifices, cities, and will dig ports; because I will create a marine, will equip navies which shall bear the name of France to the most distant peoples; because I will create libraries and academies; because I will make of France the first country in the world, and the richest. These are the motives for my animosity against M. Fouquet, who prevented my acting. And then, when I shall be great and strong, when France is great and strong, in my turn then I will cry, ‘Mercy!’”

“Mercy, did you say? then ask his liberty of the King. The King crushes him only on your account.”

Colbert again raised his head. “Monsieur,” said he, “you know that it is not so, and that the King has his personal enmities against M. Fouquet; it is not for me to teach you that.”

“But the King will relax; he will forget.”

“The King never forgets, M. d’Artagnan. Hark! the King calls. He is going to issue an order. I have not influenced him, have I? Listen.”

The King, in fact, was calling his secretaries. “M. d’Artagnan,” said he.

“I am here, Sire.”

“Give twenty of your Musketeers to M. de Saint-Aignan, to form a guard for M. Fouquet.”

D’Artagnan and Colbert exchanged looks. “And from Angers,” continued the King, “they will conduct the prisoner to the Bastille in Paris.”

“You were right,” said the captain to the minister.

“Saint-Aignan,” continued the King, “you will have any one shot who shall attempt to speak privately with M. Fouquet during the journey.”

“But myself, Sire?” said the duke.

“You, Monsieur,- you will only speak to him in the presence of the Musketeers.” The duke bowed, and departed to execute his commission.

D’Artagnan was about to retire likewise; but the King stopped him. “Monsieur,” said he, “you will go immediately and take possession of the isle and fief of Belle-Isle-en-Mer.”

“Yes, Sire. Alone?”

“You will take a sufficient number of troops to prevent delay, in case the place should be contumacious.”

A murmur of adulatory incredulity arose from the group of courtiers.

“That is to be done,” said d’Artagnan.

“I saw the place in my infancy,” resumed the King, “and I do not wish to see it again. You have heard me? Go, Monsieur, and do not return without the keys of the place.”

Colbert went up to d’Artagnan. “A commission which if you carry it out well,” said he, “will be worth a marshal’s baton to you.”

“Why do you employ the words, ‘if you carry it out well’?”

“Because it is difficult.”

“Ah! in what respect?”

“You have friends in Belle-Isle, M. d’Artagnan; and it is not an easy thing for men like you to march over the bodies of their friends to obtain success.”

D’Artagnan hung down his head, while Colbert returned to the King. A quarter of an hour after, the captain received the written order from the King to blow up the fortress of Belle-Isle in case of resistance, with the power of life and death over all the inhabitants or refugees, and an injunction not to allow one to escape.

“Colbert was right,” thought d’Artagnan,- “my baton of a marshal of France will cost the lives of my two friends. Only they seem to forget that my friends are not more stupid than the birds, and that they will not wait for the hand of the fowler to extend their wings. I will show them that hand so plainly that they will have quite time enough to see it. Poor Porthos! poor Aramis! No; my fortune shall not cost your wings a feather.”

Having thus determined, d’Artagnan assembled the royal army, embarked it at Paimboeuf, and set sail without losing a moment.

Belle-Isle-en-Mer

At the extremity of the pier, upon the promenade which the furious sea beats at evening tide, two men, holding each other by the arm, were conversing in an animated and expansive tone, without the possibility of any other human being hearing their words, borne away, as they were, one by one, by the gusts of wind with the white foam swept from the crests of the waves. The sun had just gone down in the vast sheet of ocean, red like a gigantic crucible. From time to time, one of these men, turning towards the east, cast an anxious, inquiring look over the sea. The other, interrogating the features of his companion, seemed to seek for information in his looks. Then, both silent, both busied with dismal thoughts, they resumed their walk. Every one has already perceived that those two men were our proscribed heroes, Porthos and Aramis, who had taken refuge in Belle-Isle since the ruin of their hopes, since the discomfiture of the vast plan of M. d’Herblay.

“It is of no use your saying anything to the contrary, my dear Aramis,” repeated Porthos, inhaling vigorously the saline air with which he filled his powerful chest. “It is of no use, Aramis. The disappearance of all the fishing-boats that went out two days ago is not an ordinary circumstance. There has been no storm at sea; the weather has been constantly calm, not even the slightest gale; and even if we had had a tempest, all our boats would not have foundered. I repeat, it is strange. This complete disappearance astonishes me, I tell you.”

“True,” murmured Aramis. “You are right, friend Porthos; it is true, there is something strange in it.”

“And further,” added Porthos, whose ideas the assent of the Bishop of Vannes seemed to enlarge,- “and further, have you remarked that if the boats have perished, not a single plank has been washed ashore?”

“I have remarked that as well as you.”

“Have you remarked, besides, that the only two boats we had left in the whole island, and which I sent in search of the others-”

Aramis here interrupted his companion by a cry, and by so sudden a movement that Porthos stopped as if he were stupefied. “What do you say, Porthos? What! You have sent the two boats-”

“In search of the others. Yes; to be sure I have,” replied Porthos, quite simply.

“Unhappy man! What have you done? Then we are indeed lost,” cried the bishop.

“Lost! What did you say?” exclaimed the terrified Porthos. “How lost, Aramis? How are we lost?”

Aramis bit his lips. “Nothing! nothing! Your pardon, I meant to say-”

“What?”

“That if we were inclined- if we took a fancy to make an excursion by sea, we could not.”

“Very good! and why should that vex you? A fine pleasure, ma foi! For my part, I don’t regret it at all. What I regret is certainly not the more or less amusement we can find at Belle-Isle; what I regret, Aramis, is Pierrefonds, is Bracieux, is Le Vallon, is my beautiful France! Here we are not in France, my dear friend; we are- I know not where. Oh! I tell you in the full sincerity of my soul,- and your affection will excuse my frankness,- but I declare to you I am not happy at Belle-Isle. No; in good truth, I am not happy!”

Aramis breathed a stifled sigh. “Dear friend,” replied he, “that is why it is so sad a thing you have sent the two boats we had left in search of those which disappeared two days ago. If you had not sent them away, we would have departed.”

“‘Departed!’ And the orders, Aramis?”

“What orders?”

“Parbleu! Why, the orders you have been constantly and on all occasions repeating to me,- that we were to hold Belle-Isle against the usurper. You know very well!”

“That is true!” murmured Aramis again.

“You see, then, plainly, my friend, that we could not depart; and that the sending away of the boats in search of the others is not prejudicial to us in any way.”

Aramis was silent; and his vague glance, luminous as that of a gull, hovered for a long time over the sea, interrogating space, and seeking to pierce the very horizon.

“With all that, Aramis,” continued Porthos, who adhered to his idea, and that the more closely since the bishop had found it correct,- “with all that, you give me no explanation about what can have happened to these unfortunate boats. I am assailed by cries and complaints whichever way I go. The children cry at seeing the desolation of the women, as if I could restore the absent husbands and fathers. What do you suppose, my friend, and what ought I to answer them?”

“Suppose everything, my good Porthos, and say nothing.”

This reply did not satisfy Porthos at all. He turned away, and grumbled some words in a very ill humor. Aramis stopped the valiant soldier. “Do you remember,” said he, in a melancholy tone, pressing the two hands of the giant between his own with an affectionate cordiality, “do you remember, my friend, that in the glorious days of our youth- do you remember, Porthos, when we were all strong and valiant- we and the other two- if we had then had an inclination to return to France, do you think this sheet of salt water would have stopped us?”

“Oh!” said Porthos; “six leagues!”

“If you had seen me get astride of a plank, would you have remained on land, Porthos?”

“No, pardieu! No, Aramis. But nowadays what sort of a plank should we want, my friend,- I, in particular?” And the Seigneur de Bracieux cast a proud glance over his colossal rotundity, with a loud laugh. “And do you mean seriously to say that you are not a little tired of Belle-Isle also, and that you would not prefer the comforts of your dwelling,- of your episcopal palace at Vannes? Come, confess!”

“No,” replied Aramis, without daring to look at Porthos.

“Let us stay where we are then,” said his friend, with a sigh which in spite of the efforts he made to restrain it escaped with a loud report from his breast. “Let us remain! let us remain! And yet,” added he,- “and yet, if we seriously wished, but that decidedly, if we had a fixed idea, one firmly taken, to return to France, and there were no boats-”

“Have you remarked another thing, my friend?- that is, since the disappearance of our boats, during the two days’ absence of the fishermen, not a single small boat has landed on the shores of the isle?”

“Yes, certainly; you are right. I have remarked it also; and the observation was the more naturally made, for before the last two fatal days we saw boats and shallops arrive by dozens.”

“I must inquire,” said Aramis, suddenly, and with emphasis. “And then, if I had a raft constructed-”

“But there are some canoes, my friend; shall I go on board one?”

“A canoe! a canoe! Can you think of such a thing, Porthos? A canoe to be upset in! No, no,” said the Bishop of Vannes; “it is not our trade to ride upon the waves. We will wait; we will wait.”

And Aramis continued walking about with increased agitation. Porthos, who grew tired of following all the feverish movements of his friend; Porthos, who in his calmness and trust understood nothing of the sort of exasperation which was betrayed by the bishop’s continual convulsive starts,- Porthos stopped him. “Let us sit down upon this rock,” said he. “Place yourself there, close to me, Aramis, and I conjure you for the last time to explain to me in a manner I can comprehend,- explain to me what we are doing here.”

“Porthos!” said Aramis, much embarrassed.

“I know that the false king wished to dethrone the true king. That is a fact that I understand. Well-”

“Yes,” said Aramis.

“I know that the false king formed the project of selling Belle-Isle to the English. I understand that too.”

“Yes.”

“I know that we engineers and captains came and threw ourselves into Belle-Isle to take the direction of the works and the command of the ten companies levied and paid by M. Fouquet, or rather the ten companies of his son-in-law. All that is plain.”

Aramis arose in a state of great impatience. He might be said to be a lion importuned by a gnat. Porthos held him by the arm. “But what I cannot understand, what in spite of all the efforts of my mind and all my reflections I cannot comprehend and never shall comprehend, is, that instead of sending us troops, instead of sending us reinforcements of men, munitions, and provisions, they leave us without boats, they leave Belle-Isle without arrivals, without help; it is that instead of establishing with us a correspondence, whether by signals or written or verbal communications, they intercept all relations with us. Tell me, Aramis; answer me, or rather, before answering me, will you allow me to tell you what I have thought? Will you hear what my idea is, what imagination I have conceived?”

The bishop raised his head. “Well, Aramis,” continued Porthos, “I have thought, I have had an idea; I have imagined that an event has taken place in France. I dreamed of M. Fouquet all the night; I dreamed of dead fish, broken eggs, chambers badly furnished, meanly kept. Bad dreams, my dear d’Herblay; very unlucky, such dreams!”

“Porthos, what is that yonder?” interrupted Aramis, rising suddenly, and pointing out to his friend a black spot upon the empurpled line of the water.

“A boat!” said Porthos; “yes, it is a boat! Ah! we shall have some news at last.”

“There are two!” cried the bishop, on discovering another mast; “two! three! four!”

“Five!” said Porthos, in his turn. “Six! seven! Ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! it is a whole fleet!”

“Our boats returning, probably,” said Aramis, very uneasily, in spite of the assurance he affected.

“They are very large for fishing-boats,” observed Porthos; “and do you not remark, my friend, that they come from the Loire?”

“They come from the Loire- yes-”

“And look! everybody here sees them as well as ourselves; look, the women and children are beginning to get upon the jetty!” An old fisherman passed. “Are those our boats yonder?” asked Aramis.

The old man looked steadily into the horizon. “No, Monseigneur,” replied he; “they are lighter-boats in the King’s service.”

“Boats in the royal service?” replied Aramis, starting. “How do you know?”

“By the flag.”

“But,” said Porthos, “the boat is scarcely visible; how the devil, my friend, can you distinguish the flag?”

“I see there is one,” replied the old man; “our boats, or trade-lighters, do not carry any. That sort of craft is generally used for the transport of troops.”

“Ah!” said Aramis.

“Vivat!” cried Porthos, “they are sending us reinforcements; don’t you think they are, Aramis?”

“Probably.”

“Unless it is the English coming.”

“By the Loire? That would have an ill look, Porthos, for they must have come through Paris!”

“You are right; they are reinforcements, decidedly, or provisions.”

Aramis leaned his head upon his hand and made no reply. Then, all at once, “Porthos,” said he, “have the alarm sounded.”

“The alarm! do you think of such a thing?”

“Yes, and let the cannoneers mount to their batteries; let the artillery-men be at their pieces, and be particularly watchful of the coast batteries.” Porthos opened his eyes to their widest extent. He looked attentively at his friend, to convince himself that he was in his proper senses.

“I will do it, my dear Porthos,” continued Aramis, in his most bland tone; “I will go and have these orders executed myself if you do not go, my friend.”

“Well, I will go instantly!” said Porthos, going to execute the order, casting all the while looks behind him to see if the Bishop of Vannes were not making a mistake, and if, on returning to more rational ideas, he would not recall him. The alarm was sounded, the trumpets brayed, and drums rolled; the great bell of the belfry was put in motion. The dikes and piers were quickly filled with the curious and soldiers; the matches sparkled in the hands of the artillery-men, placed behind the large cannon bedded in their stone carriages. When every man was at his post, when all the preparations for the defence were made, “Permit me, Aramis, to try to comprehend,” whispered Porthos, timidly, in Aramis’s ear.

“My dear friend, you will comprehend but too soon,” murmured M. d’Herblay, in reply to this question of his lieutenant.

“The fleet which is coming yonder with sail unfurled straight towards the port of Belle-Isle, is a royal fleet, is it not?”

“But as there are two Kings in France, Porthos, to which of these two Kings does this fleet belong?”

“Oh, you open my eyes!” replied the giant, stunned by this argument.

And Porthos, whose eyes his friend’s reply had just opened, or rather, had thickened the bandage which covered his sight, went with his best speed to the batteries to overlook his people and exhort every one to do his duty. In the mean time Aramis, with his eyes fixed on the horizon, saw the ships continue to draw nearer. The people and the soldiers, mounted upon all the summits or irregularities of the rocks, could distinguish the masts, then the lower sails, and at last the hulls of the lighters, bearing at the masthead the royal flag of France. It was quite night when one of these vessels which had created such a sensation among the inhabitants of Belle-Isle was moored within cannon-shot of the place. It was soon seen, notwithstanding the darkness, that a sort of agitation reigned on board this vessel, from the side of which a skiff was lowered, of which the three rowers, bending to their oars, took the direction of the port, and in a few instants struck land at the foot of the fort. The commander of this yawl jumped on shore. He had a letter in his hand, which he waved in the air, and seemed to wish to communicate with somebody. This man was soon recognized by several soldiers as one of the pilots of the island. He was the skipper of one of the two boats kept back by Aramis, which Porthos, in his anxiety with regard to the fate of the fishermen who had disappeared for two days, had sent in search of the missing boats. He asked to be conducted to M. d’Herblay. Two soldiers, at a signal from the sergeant, placed him between them and escorted him. Aramis was upon the quay. The envoy presented himself before the Bishop of Vannes. The darkness was almost complete, notwithstanding the torches borne at a small distance by the soldiers who were following Aramis in his rounds.

“Well, Jonathas, from whom do you come?”

“Monseigneur, from those who captured me.”

“Who captured you?”

“You know, Monseigneur, we set out in search of our comrades?”

“Yes,- and afterwards?”

“Well, Monseigneur, within a short league we were captured by a chasse-maree belonging to the King.”

“Ah!” said Aramis.

“Of which King?” cried Porthos. Jonathas started.

“Speak!” continued the bishop.

“We were captured, Monseigneur, and joined to those who had been taken yesterday morning.”

“What was the cause of the mania for capturing you all?” said Porthos.

“Monsieur, to prevent us from telling you.”

Porthos was again at a loss to comprehend. “And they have released you to-day?” asked he.

“That I might tell you they have captured us, Monsieur.”

“Trouble upon trouble!” thought honest Porthos.

During this time Aramis was reflecting. “Humph!” said he; “then I suppose it is a royal fleet blockading the coasts?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“Who commands it?”

“The captain of the King’s Musketeers.”

“D’Artagnan?”

“D’Artagnan!” exclaimed Porthos.

“I believe that is the name.”

“And did he give you this letter?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“Bring the torch nearer.”

“It is his writing,” said Porthos.

Aramis eagerly read the following lines:-

“Order of the King to take Belle-Isle;

“Order to put the garrison to the sword if they resist;

“Order to make prisoners all the men of the garrison.

“Signed: D’Artagnan, who the day before yesterday arrested M. Fouquet that he might be sent to the Bastille.”

Aramis turned pale, and crushed the paper in his hands.

“What is it?” asked Porthos.

“Nothing, my friend, nothing. Tell me, Jonathas.”

“Monseigneur!”

“Did you speak to M. d’Artagnan?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“What did he say to you?”

“That for more ample information he would speak with Monseigneur.”

“Where?”

“On board his own vessel.”

“‘On board his vessel’!” and Porthos repeated, “‘On board his vessel’!”

“Monsieur the Musketeer,” continued Jonathas, “told me to take you both on board my canoe and bring you to him.”

“Let us go at once!” exclaimed Porthos; “dear d’Artagnan!”

But Aramis stopped him. “Are you mad?” cried he. “Who knows that it is not a snare?”

“Of the other King?” said Porthos, mysteriously.

“A snare, in fact,- that’s what it is, my friend!

“Very possibly. What is to be done, then? If d’Artagnan sends for us-”

“Who assures you that d’Artagnan sends for us?”

“Yes, but- but his writing-”

“Writing is easily counterfeited. This looks counterfeited- trembling-”

“You are always right; but in the mean time we know nothing.”

Aramis was silent.

“It is true,” said the good Porthos; “we do not want to know anything.”

“What shall I do?” asked Jonathas.

“You will return on board this captain’s vessel.”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“And will tell him that we beg he will himself come to the island.”

“Ah, I comprehend!” said Porthos.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” replied Jonathas; “but if the captain should refuse to come to Belle-Isle?”

“If he refuses, as we have cannon, we will make use of them.”

“What! against d’Artagnan?”

“If it is d’Artagnan, Porthos, he will come. Go, Jonathas, go!”

“Ma foi! I no longer comprehend anything,” murmured Porthos.

“I will make you comprehend all, my dear friend; the time for it is come. Sit down upon this gun-carriage, open your ears, and listen well to me.”

“Oh, Pardieu! I shall listen,- no fear of that.”

“May I depart, Monseigneur?” cried Jonathas.

“Yes; go and bring back an answer. Allow the canoe to pass, you men there!” and the canoe pushed off to regain the fleet.

Aramis took Porthos by the hand, and began the explanations.

The Explanations of Aramis

What I have to say to you, friend Porthos, will probably surprise you, but it will instruct you.”

“I like to be surprised,” said Porthos, in a kindly tone; “do not spare me, therefore, I beg. I am hardened against emotions; don’t fear, speak out.”

“It is difficult, Porthos, it is- difficult; for in truth- I warn you- again- I have very strange things, very extraordinary things, to tell you.”

“Oh, you speak so well, my friend, that I could listen to you for days together. Speak, then, I beg; and- stop, I have an idea: I will, to make your task more easy, to assist you in telling me such things, question you.”

“I shall be pleased at your doing so.”

“What are we going to fight for?”

“If you put to me many such questions as that, if that is your way of assisting my task of revelation,- by such questions as that,- Porthos, you will not help me at all. On the contrary, that is precisely the Gordian knot. But, my friend, with a man like you, good, generous, and devoted, the confession must be made bravely. I have deceived you, my worthy friend.”

“You have deceived me!”

“Good heavens! yes.”

“Was it for my good, Aramis?”

“I thought so, Porthos; I thought so sincerely, my friend.”

“Then,” said the honest Seigneur de Bracieux, “you have rendered me a service, and I thank you for it,- for if you had not deceived me, I might have deceived myself. In what, then, have you deceived me?”

“In that I was serving the usurper against whom Louis XIV at this moment is directing his efforts.”

“The usurper!” said Porthos, scratching his head. “That is- well, I do not too clearly comprehend that!”

“He is one of the two Kings who are contending for the crown of France.”

“Very well! Then you were serving him who is not Louis XIV?”

“You have hit upon the matter in a word.”

“It results that-”

“We are rebels, my poor friend.”

“The devil! the devil!” cried Porthos, much disappointed.

“Oh, but, dear Porthos, be calm! we shall still find means of getting out of the affair, trust me.”

“It is not that which makes me uneasy,” replied Porthos; “that which alone touches me is that ugly word ‘rebels.’”

“Ah! but-”

“And so the duchy that was promised me-,”

“It was the usurper who was to give it to you.”

“And that is not the same thing, Aramis,” said Porthos, majestically.

“My friend, if it had only depended upon me, you should have become a prince.”

Porthos began to bite his nails after a melancholy fashion. “That is where you have been wrong,” continued he, “in deceiving me; for that promised duchy I reckoned upon. Oh, I reckoned upon it seriously, knowing you to be a man of your word, Aramis.”

“Poor Porthos! pardon me, I implore you!”

“So, then,” continued Porthos, without replying to the bishop’s prayer,- “so then, it seems, I have quite fallen out with Louis XIV?”

“Oh, I will settle all that, my good friend; I will settle all that. I will take it upon myself alone!”

“Aramis!”

“No, no, Porthos, I conjure you, let me act. No false generosity; no inopportune devotedness! You knew nothing of my projects; you have done nothing of yourself. With me it is different. I alone am the author of the plot. I stood in need of my inseparable companion; I called upon you, and you came to me in remembrance of our ancient device, ‘All for one, one for all.’ My crime was that of being an egotist.”

“Now, that is the word I like,” said Porthos; “and seeing that you have acted entirely for yourself, it is impossible for me to blame you. It is so natural.” And upon this sublime reflection, Porthos pressed the hand of his friend cordially.

In presence of this ingenuous greatness of soul, Aramis felt himself little. It was the second time he had been compelled to bend before real superiority of heart, much more powerful than splendor of mind. He replied by a mute and energetic pressure to the kind endearment of his friend.

“Now,” said Porthos, “that we have come to an explanation, now that I am perfectly aware of our situation with respect to Louis XIV, I think, my friend, it is time to make me comprehend the political intrigue of which we are the victims,- for I plainly see there is a political intrigue at the bottom of all this.”

“D’Artagnan, my good Porthos, d’Artagnan is coming and will detail it to you in all its circumstances; but excuse me, I am overcome with grief, bowed down by pain, and I have need of all my presence of mind, of all my reflection, to extricate you from the false position in which I have so imprudently involved you; but nothing can be more clear, nothing more plain, than your position henceforth. The King, Louis XIV, has now but one enemy; that enemy is myself, myself alone. I have made you a prisoner, you have followed me; to-day I liberate you, you fly back to your Prince. You can perceive, Porthos, there is not a single difficulty in all this.”

“Do you think so?” said Porthos.

“I am quite sure of it.”

“Then why,” said the admirable good sense of Porthos,- “then why, if we are in such an easy position, why, my friend, do we prepare cannon, muskets, and engines of all sorts? It seems to me it would be much more simple to say to Captain d’Artagnan, ‘My dear friend, we have been mistaken; that error is to be repaired. Open the door to us; let us pass through, and good-day!’”

“Ah! that!” said Aramis, shaking his head.

“Why do you say ‘that’? Do you not approve of my plan, my friend?”

“I see a difficulty in it.”

“What is it?”

“The possibility that d’Artagnan may come with orders which will oblige us to defend ourselves.”

“What! defend ourselves against d’Artagnan? Folly! Against the good d’Artagnan?”

Aramis once more replied by shaking his head. “Porthos,” at length said he, “if I have had the matches lighted and the guns pointed; if I have had the signal of alarm sounded; if I have called every man to his post upon the ramparts,- those good ramparts of Belle-Isle which you have so well fortified,- it is for something. Wait to judge; or rather, no, do not wait-”

“What can I do?”

“If I knew, my friend, I would have told you.”

“But there is one thing much more simple than defending ourselves,- a boat, and away for France where-”

“My dear friend,” said Aramis, smiling with a sort of melancholy, “do not let us reason like children; let us be men in counsel and execution. But, hark! I hear a hail for landing at the port. Attention, Porthos, serious attention!”

“It is d’Artagnan, no doubt,” said Porthos, in a voice of thunder, approaching the parapet.

“Yes, it is I,” replied the captain of the Musketeers, running lightly up the steps of the pier, and gaining rapidly the little esplanade upon which his two friends waited for him. As soon as he came towards them Porthos and Aramis observed an officer who followed d’Artagnan, treading apparently in his very steps. The captain stopped upon the stairs of the pier when halfway up. His companion imitated him.

“Make your men draw back,” cried d’Artagnan to Porthos and Aramis; “let them retire out of hearing.” The order being given by Porthos was executed immediately. Then d’Artagnan, turning towards him who followed him, said, “Monsieur, we are no longer here on board the King’s fleet, where, in virtue of your order, you spoke so arrogantly to me just now.”

“Monsieur,” replied the officer, “I did not speak arrogantly to you; I simply but rigorously obeyed what I had been commanded. I have been directed to follow you; I follow you. I am directed not to allow you to communicate with any one without taking cognizance of what you do; I am present therefore at your interview.”

D’Artagnan trembled with rage, and Porthos and Aramis, who heard this dialogue, trembled likewise, but with uneasiness and fear. D’Artagnan, biting his mustache with that vivacity which denoted in him the state of exasperation closely to be followed by a terrible explosion, approached the officer.

“Monsieur,” said he, in a low voice, the more impressive, because affecting a calm, and filled with storm,- “Monsieur, when I sent a canoe hither, you wished to know what I wrote to the defenders of Belle-Isle. You produced an order to that effect; and in my turn I instantly showed you the note I had written. When the skipper of the boat sent by me returned; when I received the reply of these two gentlemen [pointing to Aramis and Porthos],- you heard every word the messenger said. All that was plainly in your orders, all that was well followed, well executed, punctiliously enough, was it not?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” stammered the officer; “yes, without doubt, but-”

“Monsieur,” continued d’Artagnan, growing warm,- “Monsieur, when I manifested the intention of quitting my vessel to cross to Belle-Isle, you insisted on coming with me. I did not hesitate; I brought you with me. You are now at Belle-Isle, are you not?”

“Yes, Monsieur; but-”

“But- the question no longer is of M. Colbert, who has given you that order, or of any one in the world whose instructions you are following; the question now is of a man who is a clog upon M. d’Artagnan, and who is alone with M. d’Artagnan upon steps whose base is bathed by thirty feet of salt water,- a bad position for that man, a bad position, Monsieur, I warn you.”

“But, Monsieur, if I am a restraint upon you,” said the officer timidly and almost faintly, “it is my duty which-”

“Monsieur, you have had the misfortune, you, or those who sent you, to insult me. It is done. I cannot seek redress from those who employ you,- they are unknown to me, or are at too great a distance. But you are under my hand, and I swear that if you make one step behind me when I lift a foot to go up to those gentlemen,- I swear to you by my name, I will cleave your head with my sword, and pitch you into the water. Oh, that must come which will come! I have only been six times angry in my life, Monsieur, and in the five times which have preceded this, I have killed my man.”

The officer did not stir; he became pale under this terrible threat, and replied with simplicity, “Monsieur, you are wrong in acting against the orders given me.”

Porthos and Aramis, mute and trembling at the top of the parapet, cried to the musketeer, “Dear d’Artagnan, take care!”

D’Artagnan made them a sign to keep silence, raised his foot with a terrifying calmness to mount the stair, and turned round, sword in hand, to see if the officer followed him. The officer made a sign of the cross and followed. Porthos and Aramis, who knew their d’Artagnan, uttered a cry, and rushed down to prevent the blow which they thought they already heard. But d’Artagnan, passing his sword into his left hand, said to the officer, in an agitated voice, “Monsieur, you are a brave man. You will better comprehend what I am going to say to you now than what I have just said to you.”

“Speak, M. d’Artagnan, speak!” replied the brave officer.

“These gentlemen we have just seen, and against whom you have orders, are my friends.”

“I know they are, Monsieur.”

“You can understand if I ought to act towards them as your instructions prescribe.”

“I understand your reserves.”

“Very well; permit me, then, to converse with them without a witness.”

“M. d’Artagnan, if I yielded to your request, if I did that which you beg me to do, I should break my word; but if I do not do it, I shall disoblige you. I prefer the one to the other. Converse with your friends, and do not despise me, Monsieur, for doing for the sake of you, whom I esteem and honor,- do not despise me for committing for you, and you alone, an unworthy act.” D’Artagnan, much agitated, passed his arms rapidly round the neck of the young man, and went up to his friends. The officer, enveloped in his cloak, sat down on the damp weed-covered steps.

“Well!” said d’Artagnan to his friends, “such is my position, as you see.” They all three embraced. All three pressed one another in their arms as in the glorious days of their youth.

“What is the meaning of all these rigors?” said Porthos.

“You ought to have some suspicions of what it is,” said d’Artagnan.

“Not much, I assure you, my dear captain,- for, in fact, I have done nothing; no more has Aramis,” the worthy baron hastened to say.

D’Artagnan darted a reproachful look at the prelate which penetrated that hardened heart.

“Dear Porthos!” cried the Bishop of Vannes.

“You see what has been done against you,” said d’Artagnan,- “interception of all that is coming to or going from Belle-Isle. Your boats are all seized. If you had endeavored to fly, you would have fallen into the hands of the cruisers which plough the sea in all directions on the watch for you. The King wants you to be taken, and he will take you.” And d’Artagnan tore several hairs from his gray mustache. Aramis became sombre, Porthos angry.

“My idea was this,” continued d’Artagnan: “to make you both come on board, to keep you near me, and restore you your liberty. But now, who can say that when I return to my ship I may not find a superior; that I may not find secret orders which will take from me my command, and give it to another, who will dispose of you and me and deprive us of all resources?”

“We must remain at Belle-Isle,” said Aramis, resolutely; “and I assure you, for my part, I will not surrender easily.” Porthos said nothing.

D’Artagnan remarked the silence of his friend. “I have another trial to make of this officer, of this brave fellow who accompanies me, whose courageous resistance makes me very happy,- for it denotes an honest man, who, although an enemy, is a thousand times better than a complaisant coward. Let us try to learn from him what he has the right of doing, and what his orders permit or forbid.”

“Let us try,” said Aramis.

D’Artagnan came to the parapet, leaned over towards the steps of the pier, and called the officer, who immediately came up. “Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, after having exchanged the most cordial courtesies, natural between gentlemen who know and appreciate each other worthily,- “Monsieur, if I wished to take away these gentlemen from this place, what would you do?”

“I should not oppose it, Monsieur; but having direct orders, formal orders, to take them under my guard, I should detain them.”

“Ah!” said d’Artagnan.

“It is all over,” said Aramis, gloomily. Porthos did not stir.

“But still take Porthos,” said the Bishop of Vannes; “he can prove to the King, I will help him in doing so, and you also can, M. d’Artagnan, that he has had nothing to do in this affair.”

“Hum!” said d’Artagnan. “Will you come? Will you follow me, Porthos? The King is merciful.”

“I beg to reflect,” said Porthos, nobly.

“You will remain here, then?”

“Until fresh orders,” said Aramis, with vivacity.

“Until we have had an idea,” resumed d’Artagnan; “and I now believe that will not be a long time, for I have one already.”

“Let us say adieu, then,” said Aramis; “but in truth, my good Porthos, you ought to go.”

“No!” said the latter, laconically.

“As you please,” replied Aramis, a little wounded in his nervous susceptibility at the morose tone of his companion. “Only I am reassured by the promise of an idea from d’Artagnan,- an idea I fancy I have divined.”

“Let us see,” said the musketeer, placing his ear near Aramis’s mouth. The latter spoke several words rapidly, to which d’Artagnan replied, “That is it precisely.”

“Infallible, then!” cried Aramis.

“During the first emotion that this resolution will cause, take care of yourself, Aramis.”

“Oh, don’t be afraid!”

“Now, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan to the officer, “thanks, a thousand thanks! You have made yourself three friends for life.”

“Yes,” added Aramis. Porthos alone said nothing, but merely bowed.

D’Artagnan, having tenderly embraced his two old friends, left Belle-Isle with the inseparable companion M. Colbert had given him. Thus, with the exception of the explanation with which the worthy Porthos had been willing to be satisfied, nothing apparently was changed in the condition of the one or of the other. “Only,” said Aramis, “there is d’Artagnan’s idea.”

D’Artagnan did not return on board without examining to the bottom the idea he had discovered. Now, we know that when d’Artagnan did examine, he was accustomed to see through. As to the officer, become mute again, he left him full leisure to meditate. Therefore, on putting his foot on board his vessel, moored within cannon-shot of the island, the captain of the Musketeers had already got together all his means, offensive and defensive.

He immediately assembled his council, which consisted of the officers serving under his orders. These were eight in number,- a chief of the maritime forces; a major directing the artillery; an engineer; the officer we are acquainted with; and four lieutenants. Having assembled them in the chamber of the poop, d’Artagnan arose, took off his hat, and addressed them thus: “Gentlemen, I have been to reconnoitre Belle-Isle-en-Mer, and I have found in it a good and solid garrison; moreover, preparations are made for a defence that may prove troublesome. I therefore intend to send for two of the principal officers of the place that we may converse with them. Having separated them from their troops and their cannon, we shall be better able to deal with them,- particularly with good reasoning. Is this your opinion, gentlemen?”

The major of artillery rose. “Monsieur,” said he, with respect, but with firmness, “I have heard you say that the place is preparing to make a troublesome defence. The place is, then, as you know, determined upon rebellion?”

D’Artagnan was visibly put out by this reply; but he was not a man to allow himself to be subdued by so little, and resumed. “Monsieur,” said he, “your reply is just. But you are ignorant that Belle-Isle is a fief of M. Fouquet, and the ancient kings gave the right to the seigneurs of Belle-Isle to arm their people.”

The major made a movement.

“Oh, do not interrupt me,” continued d’Artagnan. “You are going to tell me that that right to arm themselves against the English was not a right to arm themselves against their King. But it is not M. Fouquet, I suppose, who holds Belle-Isle at this moment, since I arrested M. Fouquet the day before yesterday. Now, the inhabitants and defenders of Belle-Isle know nothing of that arrest. You would announce it to them in vain. It is a thing so unheard of and extraordinary, so unexpected, that they would not believe you. A Breton serves his master, and not his masters; he serves his master till he has seen him dead. Now, the Bretons, as I know, have not seen the body of M. Fouquet. It is not then surprising that they hold out against everything which is not M. Fouquet or his signature.”

The major bowed in sign of assent.

“That is why,” continued d’Artagnan, “I propose to cause two of the principal officers of the garrison to come on board my vessel. They will see you, gentlemen; they will see the forces we have at our disposal; they will consequently know what they have to expect, and the fate that attends them in case of rebellion. We will assure them, upon our honor, that M. Fouquet is a prisoner, and that all resistance can be only prejudicial to them. We will tell them that when the first cannon is fired there will be no mercy to be expected from the King. Then, I hope it at least, they will no longer resist. They will yield without fighting, and we shall have a place given up to us in a friendly way which it might cost us much trouble to subdue.”

The officer who had followed d’Artagnan to Belle-Isle was preparing to speak, but d’Artagnan interrupted him. “Yes, I know what you are going to tell me, Monsieur; I know that there is an order by the King to prevent all secret communications with the defenders of Belle-Isle, and that is exactly why I do not offer to communicate but in the presence of my staff.”

And d’Artagnan made an inclination of the head to his officers, which was intended to give a value to that condescension.

The officers looked at one another as if to read their opinions in their eyes, with the evident intention of acting, after they should have agreed, according to the desire of d’Artagnan. And already the latter saw with joy that the result of their consent would be the sending of a boat to Porthos and Aramis, when the King’s officer drew from his pocket a folded paper, which he placed in the hands of d’Artagnan. This paper bore upon its superscription the number “1.”

“What, still another!” murmured the surprised captain.

“Read, Monsieur,” said the officer, with a courtesy that was not free from sadness.

D’Artagnan, full of mistrust, unfolded the paper, and read these words:-

“Prohibition to M. d’Artagnan to assemble any council whatever, or to deliberate in any way before Belle-Isle be surrendered and the prisoners shot.

“Signed: Louis.”

D’Artagnan repressed the movement of impatience that ran through his whole body, and with a gracious smile, “That is well, Monsieur,” said he; “the King’s orders shall be obeyed.”

Result of the Ideas of the King and the Ideas of d’Artagnan

The blow was direct; it was severe, mortal. D’Artagnan, furious at having been anticipated by an idea of the King, did not however yet despair; and reflecting upon the idea he had brought back from Belle-Isle, he derived from it a new means of safety for his friends. “Gentlemen,” said he, suddenly, “since the King has charged some other than myself with his secret orders, it must be because I no longer possess his confidence, and I should be really unworthy of it if I had the courage to hold a command subject to so many injurious suspicions. I will go then immediately and carry my resignation to the King. I give it before you all, enjoining you all to fall back with me upon the coast of France in such a way as not to compromise the safety of the forces his Majesty has confided to me. For this purpose, return all to your posts and command the return; within an hour we shall have the floodtide. To your posts, gentlemen! I suppose,” added he, on seeing that all were prepared to obey him except the surveillant officer, “you have no orders to object, this time?”

And d’Artagnan almost triumphed while speaking these words. This plan was the safety of his friends. The blockade once raised, they might embark immediately, and set sail for England or Spain without fear of being molested. While they were making their escape, d’Artagnan would return to the King, would justify his return by the indignation which the mistrust of Colbert had raised in him; he would be sent back with full powers, and he would take Belle-Isle,- that is to say, the cage, after the birds had flown. But to this plan the officer opposed a second order of the King. It was thus conceived:-

“From the moment M. d’Artagnan shall have manifested the desire of giving in his resignation, he shall no longer be reckoned leader of the expedition, and every officer placed under his orders shall be held no longer to obey him. Moreover, the said M. d’Artagnan, having lost that quality of leader of the army sent against Belle-Isle, shall set out immediately for France, in company with the officer who will have remitted the message to him, who will consider him as a prisoner for whom he is answerable.”

Brave and careless as he was, d’Artagnan turned pale. Everything had been calculated with a depth which for the first time in thirty years recalled to him the solid foresight and the inflexible logic of the great cardinal. He leaned his head on his hand, thoughtful, scarcely breathing. “If I were to put this order in my pocket,” thought he, “who would know it, or who would prevent my doing it? Before the King had had time to be informed, I should have saved those poor fellows yonder. Let us exercise a little audacity! My head is not one of those which the executioner strikes off for disobedience. We will disobey!” But at the moment he was about to adopt this plan, he saw the officers around him reading similar orders which the infernal agent of the thoughts of Colbert had just distributed to them. The case of disobedience had been foreseen as the others had been.

“Monsieur,” said the officer, coming up to him, “I await your good pleasure to depart.”

“I am ready, Monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan, grinding his teeth.

The officer immediately commanded a canoe to receive M. d’Artagnan and himself. At sight of this d’Artagnan became almost mad with rage. “How,” stammered he, “will you carry on the direction of the different corps?”

“When you are gone, Monsieur,” replied the commander of the fleet, “it is to me the direction of the whole is committed.”

“Then, Monsieur,” rejoined Colbert’s man, addressing the new leader, “it is for you that this last order that has been remitted to me is intended. Let us see your powers.”

“Here they are,” said the marine officer, exhibiting a royal signature.

“Here are your instructions,” replied the officer, placing the folded paper in his hands; and turning towards d’Artagnan, “Come, Monsieur,” said he, in an agitated voice (such despair did he behold in that man of iron), “do me the favor to depart at once.”

“Immediately!” articulated d’Artagnan, feebly, subdued, crushed by implacable impossibility.

And he let himself slide down into the little boat, which started, favored by wind and tide, for the coast of France. The King’s Guards embarked with him. The musketeer still preserved the hope of reaching Nantes quickly, and of pleading the cause of his friends eloquently enough to incline the King to mercy. The boat flew like a swallow. D’Artagnan distinctly saw the land of France profiled in black against the white clouds of night.

“Ah, Monsieur,” said he, in a low voice, to the officer, to whom for an hour he had ceased speaking, “what would I give to know the instructions for the new commander! They are all pacific, are they not? and-”

He did not finish; the sound of a distant cannon rolled over the waters, then another, and two or three still louder. D’Artagnan shuddered.

“The fire is opened upon Belle-Isle,” replied the officer. The canoe had just touched the soil of France.

The Ancestors of Porthos

When d’Artagnan had quitted Aramis and Porthos, the latter returned to the principal fort to converse with the greater liberty. Porthos, still thoughtful, was a constraint upon Aramis, whose mind had never felt itself more free.

“Dear Porthos,” said he, suddenly, “I will explain d’Artagnan’s idea to you.”

“What idea, Aramis?”

“An idea to which we shall owe our liberty within twelve hours.”

“Ah, indeed!” said Porthos, much astonished; “let us hear it.”

“Did you remark in the scene our friend had with the officer that certain orders restrained him with regard to us?”

“Yes, I did remark that.”

“Well, d’Artagnan is going to give in his resignation to the King; and during the confusion which will result from his absence, we will get away,- or rather, you will get away, Porthos, if there is a possibility of flight only for one.”

Here, Porthos shook his head, and replied, “We will escape together, Aramis, or we will remain here together.”

“You are a generous heart,” said Aramis; “but your melancholy uneasiness afflicts me.”

“I am not uneasy,” said Porthos.

“Then you are angry with me?”

“I am not angry with you.”

“Then why, my friend, do you put on such a dismal countenance?”

“I will tell you: I am making my will”; and while saying these words, the good Porthos looked sadly in the face of Aramis.

“Your will!” cried the bishop. “What then! do you think yourself lost?”

“I feel fatigued; it is the first time, and there is a custom in our family.”

“What is it, my friend?”

“My grandfather was a man twice as strong as I am.”

“Indeed!” said Aramis; “then your grandfather must have been Samson himself.”

“No,- his name was Antoine. Well, he was of about my age when, setting out one day for the chase, he felt his legs weak,- he who had never before known that infirmity.”

“What was the meaning of that fatigue, my friend?”

“Nothing good, as you will see,- for having set out, complaining still of the weakness of his legs, he met a wild boar, which made head against him. He missed him with his arquebuse, and was ripped up by the beast, and died directly.”

“There is no reason in that why you should alarm yourself, dear Porthos.”

“Oh, you will see. My father was as strong again as I am. He was a rough soldier under Henry III and Henry IV; his name was not Antoine, but Gaspard,- the same as M. de Coligny’s. Always on horseback, he had never known what lassitude was. One evening, as he rose from table, his legs failed him.”

“He had supped heartily, perhaps,” said Aramis; “and that was why he staggered.”

“Bah! A friend of M. de Bassompierre? nonsense! No, no; he was astonished at feeling this lassitude, and said to my mother, who laughed at him, ‘Would not one believe I was going to meet with a wild boar, as the late M. du Vallon, my father, did?’”

“Well?” said Aramis.

“Well, braving this weakness, my father insisted upon going down into the garden, instead of going to bed. His foot slipped on the first stair; the staircase was steep; my father fell against a stone angle, in which an iron hinge was fixed. The hinge opened his temple, and he lay dead upon the spot.”

Aramis raised his eyes to his friend. “These are two extraordinary circumstances,” said he; “let us not infer that there may succeed a third. It is not becoming in a man of your strength to be superstitious, my brave Porthos. Besides, when were your legs seen to fail? Never have you been so firm, so superb; why, you could carry a house on your shoulders!”

“At this moment,” said Porthos, “I feel myself pretty active; but at times I vacillate, I sink; and lately this phenomenon, as you call it, has occurred four times. I will not say that this frightens me, but it annoys me. Life is an agreeable thing. I have money, I have fine estates, I have horses that I love; I have also friends I love,- d’Artagnan, Athos, Raoul, and you.”

The admirable Porthos did not even take the trouble to conceal from Aramis the rank he gave him in his friendship. Aramis pressed his hand. “We will still live many years,” said he, “to preserve in the world specimens of rare men. Trust yourself to me, my friend; we have no reply from d’Artagnan,- that is a good sign. He must have given orders to get the vessels together and clear the seas. On my part, I have just issued directions that a boat should be rolled upon rollers to the mouth of the great cavern of Locmaria, which you know, where we have so often lain in wait for foxes.”

“Yes, and which terminates at the little creek by a trench which we discovered the day that splendid fox escaped that way.”

“Precisely. In case of misfortune, a boat is to be concealed for us in that cavern; indeed, it must be there by this time. We will wait for a favorable moment; and during the night, to sea!”

“That is a good idea; what shall we gain by it?”

“We shall gain by it that nobody knows that grotto, or rather its issue, except ourselves and two or three hunters of the island; we shall gain by it that if the island is occupied, the scouts, seeing no boat upon the shore, will never imagine we can escape, and will cease to watch.”

“I understand.”

“Well,- the legs?”

“Oh, excellent, just now.”

“You see, then, plainly, that everything conspires to give us quietude and hope. D’Artagnan will clear the sea and give us liberty of action. No more royal fleet or descent to be dreaded. Vive Dieu! Porthos, we have still half a century of good adventures before us; and if I once touch Spanish ground, I swear to you,” added the bishop, with a terrible energy, “that your brevet of duke is not remote as it now appears.”

“We will live in hope,” said Porthos, a little enlivened by the reviving warmth of his companion.

All at once a cry resounded in their ears: “To arms! to arms!”

This cry, repeated by a hundred voices, brought to the chamber where the two friends were conversing surprise to the one and uneasiness to the other. Aramis opened the window; he saw a crowd of people running with torches. Women were seeking places of safety; the armed men were hastening to their posts.

“The fleet! the fleet!” cried a soldier, who recognized Aramis.

“The fleet?” repeated the latter.

“Within half-cannon-shot,” continued the soldier.

“To arms!” cried Aramis.

“To arms!” repeated Porthos, formidably. And both rushed forth towards the pier, to place themselves within the shelter of the batteries. Boats laden with soldiers were seen approaching; they took three directions for the purpose of landing at three points at once.

“What must be done?” said an officer of the guard.

“Stop them; and if they persist, fire!” said Aramis.

Five minutes after, the cannonade began. These were the shots that d’Artagnan had heard as he landed in France. But the boats were too near the pier to allow the cannon to aim correctly. They landed, and the combat began hand to hand.

“What’s the matter, Porthos?” said Aramis to his friend.

“Nothing! nothing!- only my legs. It is really incomprehensible; they will be better when we charge.” In fact, Porthos and Aramis did charge with such vigor, they so thoroughly animated their men, that the Royalists re-embarked precipitately without gaining anything but the wounds they carried away.

“Eh! but, Porthos,” cried Aramis, “we must have a prisoner, quick! quick!” Porthos bent over the stair of the pier, and seized by the nape of the neck one of the officers of the royal army who was waiting till all his people should be in the boat. The arm of the giant lifted up his prey, which served him as a buckler, as he recovered himself without a shot being fired at him.

“Here is a prisoner for you,” said Porthos, coolly, to Aramis.

“Well!” cried the latter, laughing, “have you not calumniated your legs?”

“It was not with my legs I took him,” said Porthos, sadly; “it was with my arms!”

The Son of Biscarrat

The Bretons of the isle were very proud of this victory; Aramis did not encourage them in the feeling. “What will happen,” said he to Porthos, when everybody had gone home, “will be that the anger of the King will be roused by the account of the resistance; and that these brave people will be decimated or shot when the island is taken, as it must be.”

“From which it results, then,” said Porthos, “that what we have done is of no use.”

“For the moment it may be of some,” replied the bishop, “for we have a prisoner from whom we shall learn what our enemies are preparing to do.”

“Yes, let us interrogate the prisoner,” said Porthos; “and the means of making him speak are very simple. We are going to supper; we will invite him to join us; when he drinks he will talk.”

This was done. The officer was at first rather uneasy, but became reassured on seeing what sort of men he had to deal with. He gave, without having any fear of compromising himself, all the details imaginable of the resignation and departure of d’Artagnan. He explained how after that departure the new leader of the expedition had ordered a surprise upon Belle-Isle. There his explanations stopped. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance which evinced their despair. No more dependence to be placed upon the brave imagination of d’Artagnan; consequently, no more resources in the event of defeat. Aramis, continuing his interrogations, asked the prisoner what the leaders of the expedition contemplated doing with the leaders of Belle-Isle.

“The orders are,” replied he, “to kill during the combat, and hang afterwards.”

Porthos and Aramis looked at each other again, and the color mounted to their faces.

“I am too light for the gallows,” replied Aramis; “people like me are not hung.”

“And I am too heavy,” said Porthos; “people like me break the cord.”

“I am sure,” said the prisoner, gallantly, “that we could have procured you the sort of death you preferred.”

“A thousand thanks!” said Aramis, seriously.

Porthos bowed. “One more cup of wine to your health,” said he, drinking himself.

From one subject to another the chat with the officer was prolonged. He was an intelligent gentleman, and suffered himself to be led away by the charm of Aramis’s wit and Porthos’s cordial bonhomie. “Pardon me,” said he, “if I address a question to you; but men who are in their sixth bottle have a clear right to forget themselves a little.”

“Address it!” said Porthos; “address it!”

“Speak,” said Aramis.

“Were you not, gentlemen, both in the Musketeers of the late King?”

“Yes, Monsieur, and of the best of them, if you please,” said Porthos.

“That is true; I should say even the best of all soldiers, Messieurs, if I did not fear to offend the memory of my father.”

“Of your father?” cried Aramis.

“Do you know what my name is?”

“Ma foi! no, Monsieur; but you can tell us, and-”

“I am called Georges de Biscarrat.”

“Oh!” cried Porthos, in his turn, “Biscarrat! Do you remember that name, Aramis?”

“Biscarrat!” reflected the bishop. “It seems to me-”

“Try to recollect, Monsieur,” said the officer.

“Pardieu! that won’t take me long,” said Porthos. “Biscarrat- called Cardinal- one of the four who interrupted us the day on which we formed our friendship with d’Artagnan, sword in hand.”

“Precisely, gentlemen.”

“The only one,” cried Aramis, eagerly, “we did not wound.”

“Consequently, a good blade,” said the prisoner.

“That’s true! very true!” exclaimed both the friends together. “Ma foi! M. Biscarrat, we are delighted to make the acquaintance of such a brave man’s son.”

Biscarrat pressed the hands held out to him by the two former musketeers. Aramis looked at Porthos as much as to say, “Here is a man who will help us,” and without delay, “Confess, Monsieur,” said he, “that it is good to have been a good man.”

“My father always said so, Monsieur.”

“Confess, likewise, that it is a sad circumstance in which you find yourself,- falling in with men destined to be shot or hung, and learning that these men are old acquaintances, old hereditary acquaintances.”

“Oh! you are not reserved for such a frightful fate as that, Messieurs and friends!” said the young man, warmly.

“Bah! you said so yourself.”

“I said so just now, when I did not know you; but now that I know you, I say you will avoid this dismal fate, if you like.”

“How,- if we like?” cried Aramis, whose eyes beamed with intelligence as he looked alternately at the prisoner and Porthos.

“Provided,” continued Porthos, looking in his turn with noble intrepidity at M. Biscarrat and the bishop,- “provided nothing disgraceful be required of us.”

“Nothing at all will be required of you, gentlemen,” replied the officer; “what should they ask of you? If they find you they will kill you,- that is a settled thing; try, then, gentlemen, to prevent their finding you.”

“I don’t think I am mistaken,” said Porthos, with dignity; “but it appears evident to me that if they want to find us, they must come and seek us here.”

“In that you are perfectly right, my worthy friend,” replied Aramis, constantly consulting with his looks the countenance of Biscarrat, who was silent and constrained. “You wish, M. de Biscarrat, to say something to us, to make us some overture, and you dare not,- is not that true?”

“Ah, gentlemen and friends! it is because in speaking I betray my duty. But, hark! I hear a voice which liberates mine by dominating over it.”

“Cannon?” said Porthos.

“Cannon and musketry too!” cried the bishop.

On hearing at a distance among the rocks these sinister reports of a combat which they thought had ceased, “What can that be?” asked Porthos.

“Eh, pardieu!” cried Aramis; “this is just what I expected.”

“What is that?”

“The attack made by you was nothing but a feint,- is not that true, Monsieur? And while your companions allowed themselves to be repulsed, you were certain of effecting a landing on the other side of the island.”

“Oh! several, Monsieur.”

“We are lost, then,” said the Bishop of Vannes, quietly.

“Lost! that is possible,” replied the Seigneur de Pierrefonds; “but we are not taken or hung.” And so saying, he rose from the table, went straight to the wall, and coolly took down his sword and pistols, which he examined with the care of an old soldier who is preparing for battle, and who feels that his life in a great measure depends upon the excellence and the good condition of his arms.

At the report of the cannon, at the news of the surprise which might deliver up the isle to the royal troops, the terrified crowd rushed precipitately to the fort to demand assistance and advice from their leaders. Aramis, pale and downcast, between two torches, showed himself at the window which looked into the principal court full of soldiers waiting for orders and bewildered inhabitants imploring succor.

“My friends,” said d’Herblay, in a grave and sonorous voice, “M. Fouquet, your protector, your friend, your father, has been arrested by an order of the King and thrown into the Bastille.” A long cry of fury and menace came floating up to the window at which the bishop stood, and enveloped him in a vibrating fluid.

“Avenge M. Fouquet!” cried the most excited of his hearers, “and death to the Royalists!”

“No, my friends,” replied Aramis, solemnly,- “no, my friends; no resistance. The King is master in his kingdom. The King is the mandatory of God. The King and God have struck M. Fouquet. Humble yourselves before the hand of God. Love God and the King, who have struck M. Fouquet. But do not avenge your seigneur; do not think of avenging him. You would sacrifice yourselves in vain,- you, your wives and children, your property, and your liberty. Lay down your arms, my friends; lay down your arms,- since the King commands you so to do,- and retire peaceably to your dwellings. It is I who ask you to do so; it is I who beg you to do so; it is I who now, in the hour of need, command you to do so in the name of M. Fouquet.”

The crowd collected under the window uttered a prolonged growl of anger and terror. “The soldiers of Louis XIV have entered the island,” continued Aramis. “From this time it would no longer be a combat between them and you,- it would be a massacre. Go, then; go and forget. This time I command you in the name of the Lord.”

The mutineers retired slowly, submissive and silent.

“Ah! what have you just been saying there, my friend?” said Porthos.

“Monsieur,” said Biscarrat to the bishop, “you may save all these inhabitants, but you will neither save yourself nor your friend.”

“M. de Biscarrat,” said the Bishop of Vannes, with a singular accent of nobleness and courtesy,- “M. de Biscarrat, be kind enough to resume your liberty.”

“I am very willing to do so, Monsieur, but-”

“That would render us a service, for when announcing to the King’s lieutenant the submission of the islanders, you will perhaps obtain some grace for us on informing him of the manner in which that submission has been effected.”

“Grace!” replied Porthos, with flashing eyes, “what is the meaning of that word?”

Aramis touched the elbow of his friend roughly, as he had been accustomed to do in the days of their youth, when he wanted to warn Porthos that he had committed, or was about to commit, a blunder. Porthos understood him, and was silent immediately.

“I will go, Messieurs,” replied Biscarrat, a little surprised likewise at the word “grace” pronounced by the haughty musketeer, whose heroic exploits he had just been reciting with so much enthusiasm.

“Go, then, M. Biscarrat,” said Aramis, bowing to him, “and at parting receive the expression of our entire gratitude.”

“But you, Messieurs,- you whom I have the honor to call my friends, since you have been willing to accept that title,- what will become of you in the mean time?” replied the officer, very much agitated at taking leave of the two former adversaries of his father.

“We will wait here.”

“But, mon Dieu! the order is formal.”

“I am Bishop of Vannes, M. de Biscarrat; and they no more shoot a bishop than they hang a gentleman.”

“Ah, yes, Monsieur,- yes, Monseigneur,” replied Biscarrat; “it is true. You are right; there is still that chance for you. Then I will depart, I will repair to the commander of the expedition, the King’s lieutenant. Adieu, then, Messieurs or rather, au revoir!”

The worthy officer, then jumping upon a horse given him by Aramis, departed in the direction of the sound of the cannon, which, by bringing the crowd into the fort, had interrupted the conversation of the two friends with their prisoner. Aramis watched his departure, and when left alone with Porthos, “Well, do you comprehend?” said he.

“Ma foi! no.”

“Did not Biscarrat inconvenience you here?”

“No; he is a brave fellow.”

“Yes; but the grotto of Locmaria,- is it necessary that all the world should know it?”

“Ah! that is true, that is true; I comprehend. We are going to escape by the cavern.”

“If you please,” replied Aramis, joyously. “Forward, my friend Porthos; our boat awaits us, and the King has not caught us yet.”

The Grotto of Locmaria

The cavern of Locmaria was sufficiently distant from the pier to render it necessary for our friends to husband their strength to arrive there. Besides, the night was advancing; midnight had struck at the fort. Porthos and Aramis were loaded with money and arms. They walked, then, across the heath which is between the pier and the cavern, listening to every noise, and endeavoring to avoid ambushes. From time to time, on the road, which they had carefully left on their left hand, passed fugitives coming from the interior at the news of the landing of the royal troops. Aramis and Porthos, concealed behind some projecting mass of rock, collected the words which escaped from the poor people, who fled trembling, carrying with them their most valuable effects, and tried, while listening to their complaints, to draw something from them for their own interest. At length, after a rapid course, frequently interrupted by cautious delays, they reached the deep grotto into which the foreseeing Bishop of Vannes had taken care to have rolled upon cylinders a good boat capable of keeping the sea at this fine season.

“My good friend,” said Porthos, after having respired vigorously, “we are arrived, it seems. But I thought you spoke of three men,- three servants who were to accompany us. I don’t see them; where are they?”

“Why should you see them, dear Porthos?” replied Aramis. “They are certainly waiting for us in the cavern, and, no doubt, are resting for a moment after having accomplished their rough and difficult task.” He stopped Porthos, who was preparing to enter the cavern. “Will you allow me, my friend,” said he to the giant, “to pass in first? I know the signal I have given to these men, who, not hearing it, would be very likely to fire upon you or slash away with their knives in the dark.”

“Go on, then, Aramis; go on,- go first. You are all wisdom and prudence; go on. Ah! there is that fatigue of which I spoke to you. It has just seized me again.”

Aramis left Porthos sitting at the entrance of the grotto, and bowing his head, he penetrated into the interior of the cavern, imitating the cry of the owl. A little plaintive cooing, a scarcely distinct cry, replied from the depths of the cave. Aramis pursued his way cautiously, and soon was stopped by the same kind of cry as he had first uttered, and this cry sounded within ten paces of him.

“Are you there, Yves?” said the bishop.

“Yes, Monseigneur; Goennec is here likewise. His son accompanies us.”

“That is well. Are all things ready?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“Go to the entrance of the grotto, my good Yves, and you will there find the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, who is resting after the fatigues of our journey; and if he should happen not to be able to walk, lift him up, and bring him here.”

The three men obeyed; but the recommendation Aramis had given to his servants was useless. Porthos, refreshed, had already himself begun the descent, and his heavy step resounded among the cavities formed and supported by columns of silex and granite. As soon as the Seigneur de Bracieux had rejoined the bishop, the Bretons lighted a lantern with which they were furnished, and Porthos assured his friend that he felt as strong as ever.

“Let us visit the canoe,” said Aramis, “and see in the first place what it will hold.”

“Do not go too near with the light,” said the skipper Yves; “for, as you desired me, Monseigneur, I have placed under the bench of the poop, in the coffer you know of, the barrel of powder, and the musket-charges that you sent me from the fort.”

“Very well,” said Aramis; and taking the lantern himself, he examined minutely all parts of the canoe with the precautions of a man who is neither timid nor ignorant in the face of danger. The canoe was long, light, drawing little water, thin of keel,- in short, one of those which have always been so well constructed at Belle-Isle,- a little high in its sides, solid upon the water, very manageable, furnished with planks which in uncertain weather form a sort of bridge over which the waves glide, and which protect the rowers. In two well-closed coffers placed beneath the benches of the prow and the poop, Aramis found bread, biscuit, dried fruits, a quarter of bacon, a good provision of water in leathern bottles,- the whole forming rations sufficient for people who did not mean to quit the coast, and would be able to revictual, if necessity demanded. The arms, eight muskets and as many horse-pistols, were in good condition, and all loaded. There were additional oars, in case of accident, and that little sail called trinquette, which assists the speed of the canoe at the same time the boatmen row, and is so useful when the breeze is slack. When Aramis had seen all these things, and appeared satisfied with the result of his inspection, “Let us consider, Porthos,” said he, “whether to endeavor to get the boat out by the unknown extremity of the grotto, following the descent and the shade of the cavern, or whether it be better to make it slide upon the rollers through the bushes in the open air, levelling the road of the little beach, which is but twenty feet high, and gives at its foot, in the tide, three or four fathoms of good water upon a sound bottom.”

“It must be as you please, Monseigneur,” replied the skipper Yves, respectfully; “but I don’t believe that by the slope of the cavern, and in the dark in which we shall be obliged to manoeuvre our boat, the road will be so convenient as in the open air. I know the beach well, and can certify that it is as smooth as a grass-plot in a garden; the interior of the grotto, on the contrary, is rough,- without again reckoning, Monseigneur, that at the extremity we shall come to the trench which leads into the sea and which perhaps the canoe will not pass.”

“I have made my calculations,” said the bishop, “and I am certain it would pass.”

“So be it; I wish it may, Monseigneur,” the skipper insisted. “But your Greatness knows very well that to make it reach the extremity of the trench, there is an enormous stone to be lifted,- that under which the fox always passes, and which closes the trench like a door.”

“That can be raised,” said Porthos; “that is nothing.”

“Oh! I know that Monseigneur has the strength of ten men,” replied Yves; “but that is giving Monseigneur a great deal of trouble.”

“I think the skipper may be right,” said Aramis; “let us try the open passage.”

“The more so, Monseigneur,” continued the fisherman, “that we should not be able to embark before day, it would require so much labor; and that as soon as daylight appears, a good vedette placed outside the grotto would be necessary, indispensable even, to watch the manoeuvres of the lighters or the cruisers that are upon the lookout for us.”

“Yes, yes, Yves, your reasons are good; we will go by the beach.”

And the three robust Bretons went to the boat, and were beginning to place their rollers underneath it to put it in motion, when the distant barking of dogs was heard, proceeding from the interior of the island.

Aramis darted out of the grotto, followed by Porthos. Dawn just tinted with purple and white the waves and the plain; through the dim light the young melancholy firs waved their tender branches over the pebbles, and long flights of crows were skimming with their black wings over the thin fields of buckwheat. In a quarter of an hour it would be clear daylight; the awakened birds joyously announced it to all nature. The barkings which had been heard, which had stopped the three fishermen engaged in moving the boat, and had brought Aramis and Porthos out of the cavern, were prolonged in a deep gorge within about a league of the grotto.

“It is a pack of hounds,” said Porthos; “the dogs are upon a scent.”

“Who can be hunting at such a moment as this?” said Aramis.

“And this way, particularly,” continued Porthos, “this way, where they may expect the army of the Royalists.”

“The noise comes nearer. Yes, you are right, Porthos, the dogs are on a scent. But, Yves!” cried Aramis, “come here! come here!”

Yves ran towards him, letting fall the cylinder which he was about to place under the boat when the bishop’s call interrupted him.

“What is the meaning of this hunt, Skipper?” said Porthos.

“Eh, Monseigneur, I cannot understand it,” replied the Breton. “It is not at such a moment that the Seigneur de Locmaria would hunt. No; and yet the dogs-”

“Unless they have escaped from the kennel.”

“No,” said Goennec, “they are not the Seigneur de Locmaria’s hounds.”

“In common prudence,” said Aramis, “let us go back into the grotto; the voices evidently draw nearer, we shall soon know what we have to expect.”

They re-entered, but had scarcely proceeded a hundred steps in the darkness when a noise like the hoarse sigh of a creature in distress resounded through the cavern, and breathless, running, terrified, a fox passed like a flash of lightning before the fugitives, leaped over the boat and disappeared, leaving behind it its sour scent, which was perceptible for several seconds under the low vaults of the cave.

“The fox!” cried the Bretons, with the joyous surprise of hunters.

“Accursed chance!” cried the bishop; “our retreat is discovered.”

“How so?” said Porthos; “are we afraid of a fox?”

“Eh, my friend, what do you mean by that, and why do you name the fox? It is not the fox alone, pardieu! But don’t you know, Porthos, that after the fox come hounds, and after the hounds men?”

Porthos hung his head. As if to confirm the words of Aramis they heard the yelping pack coming with frightful swiftness upon the trail of the animal. Six foxhounds burst out at once upon the little heath, with a cry resembling the noise of a triumph.

“There are the dogs plain enough!” said Aramis, posted on the look-out behind a chink between two rocks; “now, who are the huntsmen?”

“If it is the Seigneur de Locmaria’s,” replied the skipper, “he will leave the dogs to hunt the grotto, for he knows them, and will not enter in himself, being quite sure that the fox will come out at the other side; it is there he will go and wait for him.”

“It is not the Seigneur de Locmaria who is hunting,” replied Aramis, turning pale in spite of himself.

“Who is it, then?” said Porthos.

“Look!”

Porthos applied his eye to the slit, and saw at the summit of a hillock a dozen horsemen urging on their horses in the track of the dogs, shouting, “Tally-ho! tally-ho!”

“The Guards!” said he.

“Yes, my friend, the King’s Guards.”

“The King’s Guards, do you say, Monseigneur?” cried the Bretons, becoming pale in their turn.

“And Biscarrat at their head, mounted upon my gray horse,” continued Aramis.

The hounds at the same moment rushed into the grotto like an avalanche, and the depths of the cavern were filled with their deafening cries.

“Ah, the devil!” said Aramis, resuming all his coolness at the sight of this certain, inevitable danger. “I know well we are lost, but we have at least one chance left. If the guards who follow their hounds happen to discover there is an issue to the grotto, there is no more help for us, for on entering they must see both us and our boat. The dogs must not go out of the cavern. The masters must not enter.”

“That is clear,” said Porthos.

“You understand,” added Aramis, with the rapid precision of command; “there are six dogs which will be forced to stop at the great stone under which the fox has glided, but at the too narrow opening of which they shall be themselves stopped and killed.”

The Bretons sprang forward, knife in hand. In a few minutes there was a lamentable concert of growls and mortal howlings, and then- nothing.

“That’s well!” said Aramis, coolly; “now for the masters!”

“What is to be done with them?” said Porthos.

“Wait their arrival, conceal ourselves, and kill them.”

“Kill them!” replied Porthos.

“There are sixteen,” said Aramis,- “at least for the time being.”

“And well armed,” added Porthos, with a smile of consolation.

“It will last about ten minutes,” said Aramis. “To work!” And with a resolute air he took up a musket, and placed his hunting-knife between his teeth. “Yves, Goennec, and his son,” continued he, “will pass the muskets to us. You, Porthos, will fire when they are close. We shall have brought down eight before the others are aware of anything, that is certain; then we all- there are five of us- will despatch the other eight, knife in hand.”

“And poor Biscarrat?” said Porthos.

Aramis reflected a moment. “Biscarrat first of all,” replied he, coolly; “he knows us.”

The Grotto

In spite of the sort of divination which was the remarkable side of the character of Aramis, the event, subject to the chances of things over which uncertainty presides, did not fall out exactly as the Bishop of Vannes had foreseen. Biscarrat, better mounted than his companions, arrived first at the opening of the grotto, and comprehended that the fox and the dogs were all engulfed in it. But, struck by that superstitious terror which every dark and subterraneous way naturally impresses upon the mind of man, he stopped at the outside of the grotto, and waited till his companions should have assembled round him.

“Well?” asked the young men, coming up out of breath, and unable to understand the meaning of his inaction.

“Well, I cannot hear the dogs; they and the fox must be all engulfed in this cavern.”

“They were too close up,” said one of the guards, “to have lost scent all at once; besides, we should hear them from one side or another. They must, as Biscarrat says, be in this grotto.”

“But then,” said one of the young men, “why don’t they give tongue?”

“It is strange!” said another.

“Well, but,” said a fourth, “let us go into this grotto. Is it forbidden that we should enter it?”

“No,” replied Biscarrat; “only, as it looks as dark as a wolf’s mouth, we might break our necks in it.”

“Witness the dogs,” said a guard, “who seem to have broken theirs.”

“What the devil can have become of them?” asked the young men, in chorus; and every master called his dog by his name, whistled to him in his favorite note, without a single reply to either the call or the whistle.

“It is perhaps an enchanted grotto,” said Biscarrat. “Let us see”; and jumping from his horse, he made a step into the grotto.

“Stop! stop! I will accompany you,” said one of the guards, on seeing Biscarrat preparing to disappear in the shade of the cavern’s mouth.

“No,” replied Biscarrat,- “there must be something extraordinary in the place; don’t let us risk ourselves all at once. If in ten minutes you do not hear of me, you can come in,- but then all at once.”

“Be it so,” said the young men, who besides did not see that Biscarrat ran much risk in the enterprise, “we will wait for you”; and without dismounting from their horses, they formed a circle round the grotto.

Biscarrat entered then alone, and advanced through the darkness till he came in contact with the muzzle of Porthos’s musket. The resistance against his breast astonished him; he raised his hand and laid hold of the icy barrel. At the same instant Yves lifted a knife against the young man, which was about to fall upon him with all the force of a Breton’s arm, when the iron wrist of Porthos stopped it halfway. Then, like low-muttering thunder, his voice growled in the darkness, “I will not have him killed!” Biscarrat found himself between a protection and a threat,- the one almost as terrible as the other. However brave the young man might be, he could not prevent a cry escaping him, which Aramis immediately suppressed by placing a handkerchief over his mouth. “M. de Biscarrat,” said he, in a low voice, “we mean you no harm, and you must know that if you have recognized us; but at the first word, the first sigh, or the first breath, we shall be forced to kill you as we have killed your dogs.”

“Yes, I recognize you, gentlemen,” said the officer, in a low voice; “but why are you here; what are you doing here? Unfortunate men! I thought you were in the fort.”

“And you, Monsieur,- you were to obtain conditions for us, I think?”

“I did all I could, Messieurs; but-”

“But what?”

“But there are positive orders.”

“To kill us?” Biscarrat made no reply; it would have cost him too much to speak of the cord to gentlemen.

Aramis understood the silence of his prisoner. “M. Biscarrat,” said he, “you would be already dead if we had not had regard for your youth and our ancient association with your father; but you may yet escape from the place by swearing that you will not tell your companions what you have seen.”

“I will not only swear that I will not speak of it,” said Biscarrat, “but I still further swear that I will do everything in the world to prevent my companions from setting foot in the grotto.”

“Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” cried several voices from the outside, coming like a whirlwind into the cave.

“Reply,” said Aramis.

“Here am I!” cried Biscarrat.

“Now go; we depend upon your loyalty”; and he left his hold of the young man, who hastily returned towards the light.

“Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” cried the voices, still nearer; and the shadows of several human forms projected into the interior of the grotto.

Biscarrat rushed to meet his friends in order to stop them, and met them just as they were venturing into the cave. Aramis and Porthos listened with the intense attention of men whose lives depend upon a breath of air.

Biscarrat had regained the entrance to the cave, followed by his friends.

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed one of the guards, as he came to the light, “how pale you are!”

“Pale!” cried another; “you ought to say livid.”

“I?” said the young man, endeavoring to collect his faculties.

“In the name of Heaven, what has happened to you?” exclaimed all voices.

“You have not a drop of blood in your veins, my poor friend,” said one of them, laughing.

“Messieurs, it is serious,” said another. “He is going to faint; does any one of you happen to have any salts?” and they all laughed.

All these interpellations, all these jokes, crossed one another round Biscarrat as the balls cross one another in the fire of a melee. He recovered himself amid a deluge of interrogations. “What do you suppose I have seen?” asked he. “I was too hot when I entered the grotto, and I have been struck with the cold; that is all.”

“But the dogs,- the dogs; have you seen them again; have you heard anything of them; do you know anything about them?”

“I suppose they have gone out by another way.”

“Messieurs,” said one of the young men, “there is in that which is going on, in the paleness and silence of our friend, a mystery which Biscarrat will not or cannot reveal. Only- and that is a certainty- Biscarrat has seen something in the grotto. Well, for my part, I am very curious to see what it is, even if it were the devil. To the grotto, Messieurs! to the grotto!

“To the grotto!” repeated all the voices. And the echo of the cavern carried like a menace to Porthos and Aramis, “To the grotto! to the grotto!” Biscarrat threw himself before his companions. “Messieurs! Messieurs!” cried he, “in the name of Heaven, do not go in!”

“Why, what is there so terrific in the cavern?” asked several at once. “Come, speak, Biscarrat.”

“Decidedly, it is the devil he has seen,” repeated he who had before advanced that hypothesis.

“Well,” said another, “if he has seen him, he need not be selfish; he may as well let us have a look at him in our turns.”

“Messieurs! Messieurs! I beseech you!” urged Biscarrat.

“Nonsense! Let us pass!”

“Messieurs, I implore you not to enter!”

“Why, you went in yourself.”

Then one of the officers who, of a riper age than the others, had till this time remained behind and had said nothing, advanced. “Messieurs,” said he, with a calmness which contrasted with the animation of the young men, “there is down there some person or some thing which is not the devil but which, whatever it may be, has had sufficient power to silence our dogs. We must know who this some one is, or what this something is.”

Biscarrat made a last effort to stop his friends; but it was useless. In vain he threw himself before the most rash; in vain he clung to the rocks to bar the passage; the crowd of young men rushed into the cave in the steps of the officer who had spoken last, but who had sprung in first, sword in hand, to face the unknown danger. Biscarrat, repulsed by his friends, not able to accompany them without passing in the eyes of Porthos and Aramis for a traitor and a perjurer, with attentive ear and still supplicating hands leaned against the rough side of a rock which he thought must be exposed to the fire of the musketeers. As to the guards, they penetrated farther and farther, with cries that grew weaker as they advanced. All at once, a discharge of musketry, growling like thunder, exploded beneath the vault. Two or three balls were flattened against the rock where Biscarrat was leaning. At the same instant cries, howlings, and imprecations burst forth, and the little troop of gentlemen reappeared- some pale, some bleeding- all enveloped in a cloud of smoke, which the outward air seemed to draw from the depths of the cavern. “Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” cried the fugitives, “you knew there was an ambuscade in that cavern, and you have not warned us! Biscarrat, you have caused four of us to be killed! Woe be to you, Biscarrat!”

“You are the cause of my being wounded to death,” said one of the young men, gathering his blood in his hand, and casting it into the face of Biscarrat. “My blood be upon your head!” And he rolled in agony at the feet of the young man.

“But, at least, tell us who is there!” cried several furious voices.

Biscarrat remained silent. “Tell us, or die!” cried the wounded man, raising himself upon one knee, and lifting towards his companion an arm bearing a useless sword. Biscarrat rushed towards him, opening his breast for the blow, but the wounded man fell back not to rise again, uttering a groan which was his last. Biscarrat, with hair on end, haggard eyes, and bewildered head, advanced towards the interior of the cavern, saying, “You are right. Death to me, who have allowed my companions to be assassinated! I am a base wretch!” And throwing away his sword, for he wished to die without defending himself, he rushed head foremost into the cavern. The eleven who remained out of sixteen imitated his example; but they did not go farther than before. A second discharge laid five upon the icy sand; and as it was impossible to see whence this murderous thunder issued, the others fell back with a terror than can be better imagined than described. But, far from flying, as the others had done, Biscarrat remained, safe and sound, seated on a fragment of rock, and waited. There were only six gentlemen left.

“Seriously,” said one of the survivors, “is it the devil?”

“Ma foi! it is much worse,” said another.

“Ask Biscarrat, he knows.”

“Where is Biscarrat?” The young men looked around them and saw that Biscarrat did not answer.

“He is dead!” said two or three voices.

“Oh, no,” replied another; “I saw him through the smoke, sitting quietly on a rock. He is in the cavern; he is waiting for us.”

“He must know who is there.”

“And how should he know them?”

“He was taken prisoner by the rebels.”

“That is true. Well; let us call him, and learn from him with whom we have to deal.” And all voices shouted, “Biscarrat! Biscarrat!” But Biscarrat did not answer.

“Good!” said the officer who had shown so much coolness in the affair. “We have no longer any need of him; here are reinforcements coming.”

In fact, a company of the Guards, left in the rear by their officers, whom the ardor of the chase had carried away,- from seventy-five to eighty men,- arrived in good order, led by their captain and the first lieutenant. The five officers hastened to meet their soldiers; and in a language the eloquence of which may be easily imagined, they related the adventure and asked for aid. The captain interrupted them. “Where are your companions?” demanded he.

“Dead!”

“But there were sixteen of you!”

“Ten are dead. Biscarrat is in the cavern, and we are five.”

“Biscarrat is then a prisoner?”

“Probably.”

“No,- for here he is; look.” In fact, Biscarrat appeared at the opening of the grotto.

“He makes us a sign to come on,” said the officer. “Come on!”

“Come on!” cried all the troop; and they advanced to meet Biscarrat.

“Monsieur,” said the captain addressing Biscarrat, “I am assured that you know who the men are in that grotto who make such a desperate defence. In the King’s name I command you to declare what you know.”

“Captain,” said Biscarrat, “you have no need to command me. My word has been restored to me this very instant; and I come in the name of these men.”

“To tell me that they surrender?”

“To tell you that they are determined to defend themselves to the death, unless you grant them good terms.”

“How many are there of them, then?”

“There are two,” said Biscarrat.

“There are two- and they want to impose conditions upon us?”

“There are two, and they have already killed ten of our men.”

“What are they,- giants?”

“Better than that. Do you remember the history of the bastion St. Gervais, Captain?”

“Yes; where four musketeers held out against an army.”

“Well, these two men were of those musketeers.”

“And their names?”

“At that period they were called Porthos and Aramis. Now they are styled M. d’Herblay and M. du Vallon.”

“And what interest have they in all this?”

“It is they who held Belle-Isle for M. Fouquet!”

A murmur ran through the ranks of the soldiers on hearing the two words, “Porthos and Aramis.” “The musketeers! the musketeers!” repeated they. And among all these brave men, the idea that they were going to have a struggle against two of the oldest glories of the French army made a shiver, half enthusiasm, half terror, run through them. In fact, those four names- d’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis- were venerated among all who wore a sword, as in antiquity the names of Hercules, Theseus, Castor, and Pollux were venerated.

“Two men! and they have killed ten in two discharges! That is impossible, M. Biscarrat!”

“Eh, Captain,” replied the latter, “I do not say that they have not with them two or three men, as the musketeers of the bastion St. Gervais had two or three lackeys. But believe me, Captain, I have seen these men, I have been taken prisoner by them, I know them; they alone would suffice to destroy an army.”

“That we shall see,” said the captain, “and in a moment too. Gentlemen, attention!”

At this reply, no one stirred, and all prepared to obey. Biscarrat alone risked a last attempt. “Monsieur,” said he, in a low voice, “believe me; let us pass on our way. Those two men, those two lions you are going to attack, will defend themselves to the death. They have already killed ten of our men; they will kill double the number, and end by killing themselves rather than surrender. What shall we gain by fighting them?”

“We shall gain the consciousness, Monsieur, of not having made eighty of the King’s Guards retire before two rebels. If I listened to your advice, Monsieur, I should be a dishonored man; and by dishonoring myself I should dishonor the army. Forward, men!”

And he marched first as far as the opening of the grotto. There he halted. The object of this halt was to give to Biscarrat and his companions time to describe to him the interior of the grotto. Then, when he believed he had a sufficient acquaintance with the place, he divided his company into three bodies, which were to enter successively, keeping up a sustained fire in all directions. No doubt in this attack they would lose five more men, perhaps ten; but certainly they must end by taking the rebels, since there was no issue; and at any rate two men could not kill eighty.

“Captain,” said Biscarrat, “I beg to be allowed to march at the head of the first platoon.”

“So be it,” replied the captain; “you have all the honor of it. That is a present I make you.”

“Thanks!” replied the young man, with all the firmness of his race.

“Take your sword, then.”

“I shall go as I am, Captain,” said Biscarrat, “for I do not go to kill, I go to be killed.” And placing himself at the head of the first platoon with his head uncovered and his arms crossed, “March, gentlemen!” said he.

An Homeric Song

It is time to pass into the other camp, and to describe at once the combatants and the field of battle. Aramis and Porthos had gone to the grotto of Locmaria with the expectation of finding in that place their canoe, ready moored, as well as the three Bretons, their assistants; and they at first hoped to make the boat pass through the little issue of the cavern, concealing in that fashion both their labors and their flight. The arrival of the fox and the dogs had obliged them to remain concealed. The grotto extended the space of about a hundred toises to a little slope dominating a creek. Formerly a temple of the Celtic divinities when Belle-Isle was still called Calonese, this grotto had seen more than one human sacrifice accomplished in its mysterious depths. The first entrance to the cavern was by a moderate descent, above which heaped up rocks formed a low arcade; the interior, very unequal as to the ground, dangerous from the rocky inequalities of the vault, was subdivided into several compartments which commanded one another and were joined by means of several rough broken steps, fixed right and left in enormous natural pillars. At the third compartment the vault was so low, the passage so narrow, that the boat would scarcely have passed without touching the two sides; nevertheless, in a moment of despair, wood softens and stone becomes compliant under the breath of human will. Such was the thought of Aramis, when, after having fought the fight, he decided upon flight,- a flight certainly dangerous, since all the assailants were not dead, and since admitting the possibility of putting the boat to sea, they would have to fly in open day, before the eyes of the conquered, who, on discovering how few they were, would be eager in pursuit.

When the two discharges had killed ten men, Aramis, habituated to the windings of the cavern, went to reconnoitre them one by one, and counted them, for the smoke prevented seeing on beyond; and he immediately commanded that the canoe should be rolled as far as the great stone, the closure of the liberating issue. Porthos collected all his strength, and took the canoe in his arms and lifted it, while the Bretons made it run rapidly along the rollers. They had descended into the third compartment; they had arrived at the stone which walled up the outlet. Porthos seized this gigantic stone at its base, applied his robust shoulder to it, and gave a heave which made this wall crack. A cloud of dust fell from the vault with the ashes of ten thousand generations of sea-birds, whose nests stuck like cement to the rock. At the third shock the stone gave way; it oscillated for a minute. Porthos, placing his back against the neighboring rock, made an arch with his foot which drove the block out of the calcareous masses which served for hinges and cramps. The stone fell; and daylight was visible, brilliant, radiant, which rushed into the cavern by the opening, and the blue sea appeared to the delighted Bretons. They then began to lift the boat over the barricade. Twenty more toises, and it might glide into the ocean. It was during this time that the company arrived, was drawn up by the captain, and disposed for either an escalade or an assault.

Aramis watched over everything, to favor the labors of his friends. He saw the reinforcements; he counted the men; he convinced himself at a single glance of the insurmountable peril to which a fresh combat would expose them. To escape by sea at the moment the cavern was about to be invaded, was impossible. In fact, the daylight which had just been admitted to the last two compartments had exposed to the soldiers the boat rolling towards the sea, and the two rebels within musket-shot; and one of their discharges would riddle the boat if it did not kill the five navigators. Besides, supposing everything,- suppose the boat should escape with the men on board of it, how could the alarm be suppressed, how could notice to the royal lighters be prevented? What could hinder the poor canoe, followed by sea and watched from the shore, from succumbing before the end of the day? Aramis, digging his hands into his gray hair with rage, invoked the assistance of God and the assistance of the devil. Calling to Porthos, who was working alone more than all the rollers,- whether of flesh or of wood,- “My friend,” said he, “our adversaries have just received a reinforcement.”

“Ah, ah!” said Porthos, quietly, “what is to be done, then?”

“To recommence the combat,” said Aramis, “is hazardous.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, “for it is difficult to suppose that out of two one should not be killed; and certainly, if one of us were killed, the other would get himself killed also.” Porthos spoke these words with that natural heroism which, with him, was greater than all material forces.

Aramis felt it like a spur to his heart. “We shall neither of us be killed if you do what I tell you, friend Porthos.”

“Tell me what?”

“These people are coming down into the grotto.”

“Yes.”

“We could kill about fifteen of them, but not more.”

“How many are there in all?” asked Porthos.

“They have received a reinforcement of seventy-five men.”

“Seventy-five and five, eighty. Ah, ah!” said Porthos.

“If they fire all at once they will riddle us with balls.”

“Certainly they will.”

“Without reckoning,” added Aramis, “that the detonations might occasion fallings in of the cavern.”

“Ay,” said Porthos; “a piece of falling rock just now grazed my shoulder.”

“You see, then?”

“Oh! it is nothing.”

“We must determine upon something quickly. Our Bretons are going to continue to roll the canoe towards the sea.”

“Very well.”

“We two will keep the powder, the balls, and muskets here.”

“But only two, my dear Aramis,- we shall never fire three shots together,” said Porthos, innocently; “the defence by musketry is a bad one.”

“Find a better, then.”

“I have found one,” said the giant, suddenly; “I will place myself in ambuscade behind the pillar with this iron bar; and invisible, unattackable, if they come in floods, I can let my bar fall upon their skulls thirty times in a minute. Eh! what do you think of the project? You smile!”

“Excellent, dear friend, perfect! I approve it greatly; only you will frighten them, and half of them will remain outside to take us by famine. What we want, my good friend, is the entire destruction of the troop; a single man left standing ruins us.”

“You are right, my friend, but how can we attract them, pray?”

“By not stirring, my good Porthos.”

“Well, we won’t stir, then; but when they shall be all together-”

“Then leave it to me; I have an idea.”

“If so, and your idea be a good one,- and your idea is most likely to be good,- I am satisfied.”

“To your ambuscade, Porthos, and count how many enter!”

“But you, what will you do?”

“Don’t trouble yourself about me; I have my work.”

“I think I can hear voices.”

“It is they! To your post! Keep within reach of my voice and hand.”

Porthos took refuge in the second compartment, which was absolutely black with darkness. Aramis glided into the third; the giant held in his hand an iron bar of about fifty pounds weight. Porthos handled this lever, which had been used in rolling the boat, with marvellous facility. During this time, the Bretons had pushed the boat to the beach. In the enlightened compartment, Aramis, stooping and concealed, was busied in some mysterious manoeuvre. A command was given in a loud voice. It was the last order of the captain. Twenty-five men jumped from the upper rocks into the first compartment of the grotto, and having taken their ground, began to fire. The echoes growled; the hissing of the balls cut the air; an opaque smoke filled the vault.

“To the left! to the left!” cried Biscarrat, who in his first assault had seen the passage to the second chamber, and who animated by the smell of powder wished to guide his soldiers in that direction. The troop accordingly precipitated themselves to the left,- the passage gradually growing narrower. Biscarrat, with his hands stretched forward, devoted to death, marched in advance of the muskets. “Come on! come on!” exclaimed he, “I see daylight!”

“Strike, Porthos!” cried the sepulchral voice of Aramis.

Porthos breathed a sigh; but he obeyed. The iron bar fell full and direct upon the head of Biscarrat, who was dead before he had ended his cry. Then the formidable lever rose ten times in ten seconds, and made ten corpses. The soldiers could see nothing; they heard sighs and groans; they stumbled over dead bodies, but as they had no conception of the cause of all this, they came forward jostling one another. The implacable bar, still falling, annihilated the first platoon without a single sound having warned the second, which was quietly advancing. But this second platoon, commanded by the captain, had broken a thin fir growing on the shore, and with its resinous branches twisted together, the captain had made a torch.

On arriving at the compartment where Porthos, like the exterminating angel, had destroyed all he touched, the first rank drew back in terror. No firing had replied to that of the guards, and yet their way was stopped by a heap of dead bodies,- they literally walked in blood. Porthos was still behind his pillar. The captain, on lighting up with the trembling flame of the fir this frightful carnage, of which he in vain sought the cause, drew back towards the pillar behind which Porthos was concealed. Then a gigantic hand issued from the shade and fastened on the throat of the captain, who uttered a stifled rattle; his outstretched arms beating the air, the torch fell and was extinguished in blood. A second after, the corpse of the captain fell close to the extinguished torch and added another body to the heap of dead which blocked up the passage.

All this was effected as mysteriously as if by magic. On hearing the rattling in the throat of the captain, the soldiers who accompanied him had turned round; they had caught a glimpse of his extended arms, his eyes starting from their sockets, and then the torch fell and they were left in darkness. By an unreflective, instinctive, mechanical impulse the lieutenant cried, “Fire!” Immediately a volley of musketry flamed, thundered, roared in the cavern, bringing down enormous fragments from the vaults. The cavern was lighted for an instant by this discharge, and then immediately returned to a darkness rendered still thicker by the smoke. To this succeeded a profound silence, broken only by the steps of the third brigade, now entering the cavern.

The Death of a Titan

At the moment when Porthos, more accustomed to the darkness than all these men coming from open daylight, was looking round him to see if in this night Aramis were not making him some signal, he felt his arm gently touched, and a voice low as a breath murmured in his ear, “Come.”

“Oh!” said Porthos.

“Hush! hush!” said Aramis, still more softly.

And amid the noise of the third brigade, which continued to advance, amid the imprecations of the guards left alive, of the dying breathing their last sigh, Aramis and Porthos glided imperceptibly along the granite walls of the cavern. Aramis led Porthos into the last compartment but one, and showed him in a hollow of the rocky wall a barrel of powder weighing from seventy to eighty pounds, to which he had just attached a match. “My friend,” said he to Porthos, “you will take this barrel, the match of which I am going to set fire to, and throw it amid our enemies; can you do so?”

“Parbleu!” replied Porthos; and he lifted the barrel with one hand. “Light it!”

“Stop,” said Aramis, “till they are all massed together, and then, my Jupiter, hurl your thunderbolt among them.”

“Light it,” repeated Porthos.

“On my part,” continued Aramis, “I will join our Bretons, help them to get the canoe to the sea, and will wait for you on the shore. Throw your barrel strongly, and hasten to us.”

“Light it,” said Porthos, a third time.

“But do you understand me?”

“Parbleu!” said Porthos, with laughter that he did not even attempt to restrain; “when a thing is explained to me, I understand it. Go, and give me the light.”

Aramis gave the burning match to Porthos, who held out his arm to him to press, his hands being engaged. Aramis pressed the arm of Porthos with both his hands, and fell back to the outlet of the cavern, where the three rowers awaited him.

Porthos, left alone, applied the spark bravely to the match. The spark- a feeble spark, first principle of a conflagration- shone in the darkness like a firefly, then was deadened against the match which it inflamed. Porthos enlivened the flame with his breath. The smoke was a little dispersed, and by the light of the sparkling match objects might for two seconds be distinguished. It was a short but a splendid spectacle,- that of this giant, pale, bloody, his countenance lighted by the fire of the match burning in surrounding darkness! The soldiers saw him; they saw the barrel he held in his hand; they at once understood what was going to happen. Then these men, already filled with fright at the sight of what had been accomplished, filled with terror at thinking of what was going to be accomplished, uttered together one shriek of agony. Some endeavored to fly, but they encountered the third brigade, which barred their passage; others mechanically took aim and attempted to fire their discharged muskets; others fell upon their knees. Two or three officers cried out to Porthos to promise him his liberty if he would spare their lives. The lieutenant of the third brigade commanded his men to fire; but the guards had before them their terrified companions, who served as a living rampart for Porthos.

We have said that the light produced by the spark and the match did not last more than two seconds; but during these two seconds this is what it illumined: in the first place, the giant, enlarged in the darkness; then, at ten paces from him, a heap of bleeding bodies, crushed, mutilated, in the midst of which was still visible some last struggle of agony which lifted the mass as a last breath raises the sides of a shapeless monster expiring in the night. Every breath of Porthos, while enlivening the match, sent towards this heap of bodies a sulphurous hue mingled with streaks of purple. In addition to this principal group, scattered about the grotto as the chance of death or the surprise of the blow had stretched them, some isolated bodies seemed to threaten by their gaping wounds. Above the ground, soaked by pools of blood, rose, heavy and sparkling, the short, thick pillars of the cavern, of which the strongly marked shades threw out the luminous particles. And all this was seen by the tremulous light of a match attached to a barrel of powder,- that is to say, a torch which, while throwing a light upon the dead past, showed the death to come.

As I have said, this spectacle did not last above two seconds. During this short space of time, an officer of the third brigade got together eight men armed with muskets, and, through an opening, ordered them to fire upon Porthos. But they who received the order to fire trembled so that three guards fell by the discharge, and the five other balls went hissing to splinter the vault, plough the ground, or indent the sides of the cavern.

A burst of laughter replied to this volley; then the arm of the giant swung round; then was seen to pass through the air, like a falling star, the train of fire. The barrel, hurled a distance of thirty feet, cleared the barricade of the dead bodies and fell amid a group of shrieking soldiers, who threw themselves on their faces. The officer had followed the brilliant train in the air; he endeavored to precipitate himself upon the barrel and tear out the match before it reached the powder it contained. Useless devotion! The air had made the flame attached to the conductor more active; the match, which at rest might have burned five minutes, was consumed in thirty seconds, and the infernal work exploded.

Furious vortices, hissings of sulphur and nitre, devouring ravages of the fire, the terrible thunder of the explosion,- this is what the second which followed the two seconds we have described disclosed in that cavern, equal in horrors to a cavern of demons. The rocks split like planks of deal under the axe. A jet of fire, smoke, and debris sprang up from the middle of the grotto, enlarging as it mounted. The great walls of silex tottered and fell upon the sand; and the sand itself- an instrument of pain when launched from its hardened bed- riddled the face with its myriads of cutting atoms. Cries, howlings, imprecations, and lives,- all were extinguished in one great crash.

The first three compartments became a gulf into which fell back again, according to its weight, every vegetable, mineral, or human fragment. Then the lighter sand and ashes fell in their turns, stretching like a gray winding-sheet and smoking over these dismal remains. And now seek in this burning tomb, in this subterranean volcano,- seek for the King’s Guards with their blue coats laced with silver. Seek for the officers brilliant in gold; seek for the arms upon which they depended for their defence; seek among the stones that have killed them, upon the ground that bore them. One single man has made of all this a chaos more confused, more shapeless, more terrible than the chaos which existed an hour before God conceived the idea of creating the world. There remained nothing of the three compartments,- nothing by which God could have known his own work.

As to Porthos, after having hurled the barrel of powder amid his enemies, he had fled as Aramis had directed him and had gained the last compartment, into which air, light, and sunshine penetrated through the opening. And scarcely had he turned the angle which separated the third compartment from the fourth, when he perceived at a hundred paces from him the boat dancing on the waves. There were his friends; there was liberty; there was life after victory. Six more of his formidable strides and he would be out of the vault; out of the vault, two or three vigorous springs and he would reach the canoe. Suddenly he felt his knees give way; his knees appeared powerless, his legs yielded under him.

“Oh, oh!” murmured he, “there is my fatigue seizing me again! I can walk no farther! What is this?”

Aramis perceived him through the opening; unable to conceive what could induce him to stop thus, he cried, “Come on, Porthos! come on! come quickly!”

“Oh!” replied the giant, making an effort which acted upon every muscle of his body, “oh! but I cannot!” While saying these words he fell upon his knees, but with his robust hands he clung to the rocks, and raised himself up again.

“Quick! quick!” repeated Aramis, bending forward towards the shore, as if to draw Porthos to him with his arms.

“Here I am,” stammered Porthos, collecting all his strength to make one step more.

“In the name of Heaven, Porthos, make haste! the barrel will blow up!”

“Make haste, Monseigneur!” shouted the Bretons to Porthos, who was floundering as in a dream.

But there was no longer time; the explosion resounded, the earth gaped, the smoke which rushed through the large fissures obscured the sky; the sea flowed back as if driven by the blast of fire which darted from the grotto as if from the jaws of a gigantic chimera; the reflux carried the boat out twenty toises; the rocks cracked to their base, and separated like blocks under the operation of wedges; a portion of the vault was carried up towards heaven, as if by rapid currents; the rose-colored and green fire of the sulphur, the black lava of the argillaceous liquefactions clashed and combated for an instant beneath a majestic dome of smoke; then at first oscillated, then declined, then fell successively the long angles of rock, which the violence of the explosion had not been able to uproot from their bed of ages; they bowed to one another like grave and slow old men, then prostrated themselves, and were embedded forever in their dusty tomb.

This frightful shock seemed to restore to Porthos the strength he had lost; he arose, himself a giant among these giants. But at the moment he was flying between the double hedge of granite phantoms, these latter, which were no longer supported by the corresponding links, began to roll with a crash around this Titan, who looked as if precipitated from heaven amid the rocks which he had just been launching at it. Porthos felt the earth beneath his feet shaken by this long rending. He extended his vast hands to the right and left to repulse the falling rocks. A gigantic block was held back by each of his extended hands; he bent his head, and a third granite mass sank between his two shoulders. For an instant the arms of Porthos had given way, but the Hercules united all his forces, and the two walls of the prison in which he was buried fell back slowly and gave him place. For an instant he appeared in this frame of granite like the ancient angel of chaos; but in pushing back the lateral rocks, he lost his point of support for the monolith which weighed upon his strong shoulders, and the monolith, lying upon him with all its weight, brought the giant down upon his knees. The lateral rocks, for an instant pushed back, drew together again and added their weight to that of the other, which would have been sufficient to crush ten men. The giant fell without crying for help; he fell while answering Aramis with words of encouragement and hope, for, thanks to the powerful arch of his hands, for an instant he might believe that, like Enceladus, he should shake off the triple load. But by degrees Aramis saw the block sink; the hands contracted for an instant, the arms stiffened for a last effort, gave way, the extended shoulders sank wounded and torn, and the rock continued to lower gradually.

“Porthos! Porthos!” cried Aramis, tearing his hair, “Porthos! where are you? Speak!”

“There, there!” murmured Porthos, with a voice growing evidently weaker; “patience! patience!” Scarcely had he pronounced these words, when the impulse of the fall augmented the weight; the enormous rock sank down, pressed by the two others which sank in from the sides, and, as it were, swallowed up Porthos in a sepulchre of broken stones. On hearing the dying voice of his friend, Aramis had sprung to land. Two of the Bretons followed him, each with a lever in his hand,- one being sufficient to take care of the boat. The last sighs of the valiant struggler guided them amid the ruins. Aramis, animated, active, and young as at twenty, sprang towards the triple mass, and with his hands, delicate as those of a woman, raised by a miracle of vigor a corner of the immense sepulchre of granite. Then he caught a glimpse, in the darkness of that grave, of the still brilliant eye of his friend, to whom the momentary lifting of the mass restored a moment of respiration. The two men came rushing up, grasped their iron levers, united their triple strength, not merely to raise it, but to sustain it. All was useless. The three men slowly gave way with cries of grief, and the rough voice of Porthos, seeing them exhaust themselves in a useless struggle, murmured in a bantering tone those last words which came to his lips with the last breath, “Too heavy!”

After which the eye darkened and closed, the face became pale, the hand whitened, and the Titan sank quite down, breathing his last sigh. With him sank the rock, which even in his agony he had still held up. The three men dropped the levers, which rolled upon the tumulary stone. Then, breathless, pale, his brow covered with sweat, Aramis listened, his breast oppressed, his heart ready to break.

Nothing more! The giant slept the eternal sleep, in the sepulchre which God had made to his measure.

The Epitaph of Porthos

Aramis, silent, icy, trembling like a timid child, arose shivering from the stone. A Christian does not walk upon tombs. But though capable of standing, he was not capable of walking. It might be said that something of Porthos, dead, had just died within him. His Bretons surrounded him; Aramis yielded to their kind exertions, and the three sailors, lifting him up, carried him into the canoe. Then, having laid him down upon the bench near the tiller, they took to their oars, preferring to get off by rowing rather than to hoist a sail, which might betray them.

Of all that levelled surface of the ancient grotto of Locmaria, of all that flattened shore, one single little hillock attracted their eyes. Aramis never removed his from it; and at a distance out in the sea, in proportion as the shore receded, the menacing and proud mass of rock seemed to draw itself up, as formerly Porthos used to do, and raise a smiling and invincible head towards heaven,- like that of the honest and valiant friend, the strongest of the four, and yet the first dead. Strange destiny of these men of brass! The most simple of heart allied to the most crafty; strength of body guided by subtlety of mind; and in the decisive moment, when strength alone could save mind and body, a stone, a rock, a vile and material weight, triumphed over strength, and falling upon the body, drove out the mind.

Worthy Porthos! born to help other men, always ready to sacrifice himself for the safety of the weak, as if God had given him strength only for that purpose. In dying he thought he was only carrying out the conditions of his compact with Aramis,- a compact, however, which Aramis alone had drawn up, and which Porthos had known only to suffer by its terrible solidarity.

Noble Porthos! of what good are the châteaux filled with sumptuous furniture, the forests abounding in game, the lakes teeming with fish, the cellars gorged with wealth? Of what good are the lackeys in brilliant liveries, and in the midst of them Mousqueton, proud of the power delegated by thee? Oh noble Porthos! careful heaper up of treasures, was it worth while to labor to sweeten and gild life, to come upon a desert shore to the cries of sea-birds, and lay thyself with broken bones beneath a cold stone? Was it worth while, in short, noble Porthos, to heap so much gold, and not have even the distich of a poor poet engraven upon thy monument?

Valiant Porthos! He still, without doubt, sleeps, lost, forgotten, beneath the rock which the shepherds of the heath take for the gigantic abode of a dolmen. And so many twining branches, so many mosses, caressed by the bitter wind of the ocean, so many lichens have soldered the sepulchre to the earth, that the passer-by will never imagine that such a block of granite can ever have been supported by the shoulders of one man.

Aramis, still pale, still icy, his heart upon his lips, continued his fixed gaze even till, with the last ray of daylight, the shore faded on the horizon. Not a word escaped his lips; not a sigh rose from his deep breast. The superstitious Bretons looked at him trembling. The silence was not of a man, it was of a statue. In the mean time, with the first gray lines that descended from the heavens, the canoe had hoisted its little sail, which swelling with the kisses of the breeze, and carrying them rapidly from the coast, made brave way with its head towards Spain across the terrible gulf of Gascony, so rife with tempests. But scarcely half an hour after the sail had been hoisted, the rowers became inactive, reclined upon their benches, and making an eye-shade with their hands, pointed out to one another a white spot which appeared on the horizon, as motionless in appearance as is a gull rocked by the insensible respiration of the waves; But that which might have appeared motionless to the ordinary eyes was moving at a quick rate to the experienced eye of the sailor; that which appeared stationary on the ocean was cutting a rapid way through it. For some time, seeing the profound torpor in which their master was plunged, the sailors did not dare to rouse him, and satisfied themselves with exchanging their conjectures in low and anxious tones. Aramis, in fact, so vigilant, so active- Aramis, whose eye, like that of a lynx, watched without ceasing, and saw better by night than by day,- Aramis seemed to sleep in the despair of his soul. An hour passed thus during which daylight gradually disappeared, but during which also the sail in view gained so swiftly on the boat that Goennec, one of the three sailors, ventured to say aloud, “Monseigneur, we are chased!”

Aramis made no reply; the ship still gained upon them. Then, of their own accord, two of the sailors, by the direction of the skipper Yves, lowered the sail, in order that that single point which appeared above the surface of the waters should cease to be a guide to the eye of the enemy who was pursuing them. On the part of the ship in sight, on the contrary, two more small sails were run up at the extremities of the masts. Unfortunately, it was the time of the finest and longest days of the year, and the moon, in all her brilliancy, succeeded to that inauspicious day. The vessel which was pursuing the little boat before the wind had then still half an hour of twilight, and a whole night almost as light as day.

“Monseigneur! Monseigneur! we are lost!” said the skipper. “Look! they see us although we have lowered our sail.”

“That is not to be wondered at,” murmured one of the sailors, “since they say that, by the aid of the devil, the people of the cities have made instruments with which they see as well at a distance as near, by night as well as by day.”

Aramis took a telescope from the bottom of the boat, arranged it silently, and passing it to the sailor, “Here,” said he, “look!” The sailor hesitated.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said the bishop, “there is no sin in it; and if there is any sin, I will take it upon myself.”

The sailor lifted the glass to his eye, and uttered a cry. He believed that the vessel, which appeared to be distant about cannon-shot, had suddenly and at a single bound cleared the distance. But on withdrawing the instrument from his eye, he saw that, except the way which the vessel had been able to make during that short instant, it was still at the same distance.

“So,” murmured the sailor, “they can see us as we see them?”

“They see us,” said Aramis, and sank again into his impassiveness.

“How,- they see us?” said the skipper Yves. “Impossible!”

“Well, Skipper, look for yourself,” said the sailor. And he passed to him the glass.

“Monseigneur assures me that the devil has nothing to do with this?” asked the skipper.

Aramis shrugged his shoulders.

The skipper lifted the glass to his eye. “Oh, Monseigneur,” said he, “it is a miracle. They are there; it seems as if I were going to touch them. Twenty-five men at least! Ah! I see the captain forward. He holds a glass like this, and is looking at us. Ah! he turns round and gives an order; they are rolling a piece of cannon forward- they are charging it- they are pointing it. Misericorde! they are firing at us!

And by a mechanical movement the skipper took the glass off, and the objects, sent back to the horizon, appeared again in their true aspect. The vessel was still at the distance of nearly a league, but the manoeuvre announced by the skipper was not less real. A light cloud of smoke appeared under the sails, more blue than they, and spreading like a flower opening; then, at about a mile from the little canoe, they saw the ball take the crown off two or three waves, dig a white furrow in the sea and disappear at the end of that furrow, as inoffensive as the stone with which, at play, a boy “makes ducks and drakes.” That was at once a menace and a warning.

“What is to be done?” asked the skipper.

“They will sink us!” said Goennec, give us absolution, Monseigneur!” And the sailors fell on their knees before him.

“You forget that they can see you,” said he.

“That is true!” said the sailors, ashamed of their weakness. “Give us your orders, Monseigneur; we are ready to die for you.”

“Let us wait,” said Aramis.

“How,- let us wait?”

“Yes; do you not see, as you just now said, that if we endeavor to fly, they will sink us?”

“But perhaps,” the skipper ventured to say,- “perhaps by the favor of the night we could escape them.”

“Oh!” said Aramis, “they probably have some Greek fire to light their own course and ours likewise.”

At the same moment, as if the little vessel wished to reply to the words of Aramis, a second cloud of smoke mounted slowly to the heavens, and from the bosom of that cloud sparkled an arrow of flame, which described its parabola like a rainbow, and fell into the sea, where it continued to burn, illuminating a space of a quarter of a league in diameter.

The Bretons looked at one another in terror. “You see plainly,” said Aramis, “it will be better to wait for them.”

The oars dropped from the hands of the sailors, and the boat ceasing to make way, rocked motionless on the summits of the waves. Night came on, but the vessel still approached nearer. It might be said it redoubled its speed with the darkness. From time to time, as a bloody-necked vulture rears its head out of its nest, the formidable Greek fire darted from its sides, and cast its flame into the ocean like an incandescent snow. At last it came within musket-shot. All the men were on deck, arms in hand; the cannoneers were at their guns, the matches were burning. It might be thought that they were about to board a frigate and to combat a crew superior in number to their own, and not to take a canoe manned by four persons.

“Surrender!” cried the commander of the vessel through his speaking-trumpet.

The sailors looked at Aramis. Aramis made a sign with his head. The skipper Yves waved a white cloth at the end of a gaff. This was a way of striking their flag. The vessel came on like a race-horse. It launched a fresh Greek fire which fell within twenty paces of the little canoe, and threw a stronger light upon them than the most ardent ray of the sun could have done.

“At the first sign of resistance,” cried the commander of the vessel, “fire!” And the soldiers brought their muskets to the shoulder.

“Did not we say we surrendered?” said the skipper Yves.

“Living! living, Captain!” cried some excited soldiers, “they must be taken living!”

“Well, yes,- living,” said the captain. Then turning towards the Bretons, “Your lives are all safe, my friends,” cried he, “except the Chevalier d’Herblay.”

Aramis started imperceptibly. For an instant his eye was fixed upon the depths of the ocean enlightened by the last flashes of the Greek fire,- flashes which ran along the sides of the waves, played upon their crests like plumes, and rendered still more dark, more mysterious, and more terrible the abysses they covered.

“Do you hear, Monseigneur?” said the sailors.

“Yes.”

“What are your orders?”

“Accept!”

“But you, Monseigneur?”

Aramis leaned still more forward, and played with the ends of his long white fingers with the green water of the sea, to which he turned smiling as to a friend.

“Accept!” repeated he.

“We accept,” repeated the sailors; “but what security have we?”

“The word of a gentleman,” said the officer. “By my rank and by my name I swear that all but M. le Chevalier d’Herblay shall have their lives spared. I am lieutenant of the King’s frigate the ‘Pomona,’ and my name is Louis Constant de Pressigny.”

With a rapid gesture Aramis,- already bent over the side of the boat towards the sea,- with a rapid gesture Aramis raised his head, drew himself up, and with a flashing eye and a smile upon his lips, “Throw out the ladder, Messieurs,” said he, as if the command had belonged to him. He was obeyed. Then Aramis, seizing the rope-ladder, ascended first; but instead of the terror which was expected to be displayed upon his countenance, the surprise of the sailors of the vessel was great when they saw him walk straight up to the commander with a firm step, look at him earnestly, make a sign to him with his hand, a mysterious and unknown sign, at the sight of which the officer turned pale, trembled, and bowed his head. Without saying a word, Aramis then raised his hand close to the eyes of the commander, and showed him the collet of a ring which he wore on the ring-finger of his left hand; and while making this sign, Aramis, draped in cold, silent, and haughty majesty, had the air of an emperor giving his hand to be kissed. The commandant, who for a moment had raised his head, bowed a second time with marks of the most profound respect. Then stretching his hand out in his turn towards the poop,- that is to say, towards his own cabin,- he drew back to allow Aramis to go first. The three Bretons, who had come on board after their bishop, looked at one another, stupefied. The crew were struck with silence. Five minutes after, the commander called the second lieutenant, who returned immediately, ordering the head to be put towards Corunna. While the given order was executed, Aramis reappeared upon the deck, and took a seat near the railing. The night had fallen, the moon had not yet risen; and yet Aramis looked incessantly towards Belle-Isle. Yves then approached the captain, who had returned to take his post in the stern, and said in a low and humble voice, “What course are we to follow, Captain?”

“We take what course Monseigneur pleases,” replied the officer.

Aramis passed the night leaning upon the railing. Yves, on approaching him the next morning, remarked that “the night must have been very humid, for the wood upon which the bishop’s head had rested was soaked with dew.” Who knows?- that dew was, perhaps, the first tears which had ever fallen from the eyes of Aramis!

What epitaph would have been equal to that, good Porthos?

The Round of M. de Gesvres

D’Artagnan was not accustomed to resistances like that he had just experienced. He returned profoundly irritated to Nantes. Irritation, with this vigorous man, vented itself in an impetuous attack which few people hitherto, were they King, were they giants, had been able to resist. D’Artagnan, trembling with rage, went straight to the castle, and asked to speak to the King. It might have been about seven o’clock in the morning; and since his arrival at Nantes the King had been an early riser. But on arriving at the little corridor with which we are acquainted, d’Artagnan found M. de Gesvres, who stopped him very politely, telling him not to speak too loud lest he should disturb the King. “Is the King asleep?” said d’Artagnan. “Well, I will let him sleep; but about what o’clock do you suppose he will rise?”

“Oh, in about two hours; the King has been up all night.”

D’Artagnan took his hat again, bowed to M. de Gesvres, and returned to his own apartments. He came back at half-past nine, and was told that the King was at breakfast. “That will just suit me,” said d’Artagnan; “I will talk to the King while he is eating.”

M. de Brienne reminded d’Artagnan that the King would not receive any one during his repasts.

“But,” said d’Artagnan, looking askant at De Brienne, “you do not know, perhaps, Monsieur, that I have the privilege of entree anywhere and at any hour.”

De Brienne took the hand of the captain kindly and said, “Not at Nantes, dear M. d’Artagnan; the King in this journey has changed everything.”

D’Artagnan, a little softened, asked about what o’clock the King would have finished his breakfast.

“We don’t know.”

“How! don’t know,- what does that mean? You don’t know how much time the King devotes to eating? It is generally an hour; and if we admit that the air of the Loire gives an additional appetite, we will extend it to an hour and a half; that is enough, I think. I will wait where I am.”

“Oh, dear M. d’Artagnan, the order is not to allow any person to remain in this corridor; I am on guard for that purpose.”

D’Artagnan felt his anger mounting a second time to his brain. He went out quickly, for fear of complicating the affair by a display of ill-humor. As soon as he was out he began to reflect. “The King,” said he, “will not receive me,- that is evident. The young man is angry; he is afraid of the words I may speak to him. Yes; but in the mean time Belle-Isle is besieged, and my two friends will be taken or killed. Poor Porthos! As to Aramis, he is always full of resources, and I am quite easy on his account. But no, no; Porthos is not yet an invalid, and Aramis is not yet in his dotage. The one with his arm, the other with his imagination, will find work for his Majesty’s soldiers. Who knows if these brave men may not get up for the edification of his Most Christian Majesty a little bastion of St. Gervais? I don’t despair of it; they have cannon and a garrison. And yet,” continued d’Artagnan, “I don’t know whether it would not be better to stop the combat. For myself alone, I will not put up with either surly looks or treason on the part of the King; but for my friends, rebuffs, insults,- I may submit to everything. Shall I go to M. Colbert? Now, there is a man whom I must acquire the habit of terrifying. I will go to M. Colbert”; and d’Artagnan set forward bravely to find M. Colbert. He was informed that M. Colbert was working with the King at the Castle of Nantes. “Good!” cried he; “the times are returned in which I measured my steps from M. de Treville to the cardinal, from the cardinal to the Queen, from the Queen to Louis XIII. Truly is it said that men in growing old become children again! To the castle, then!” He returned thither. M. de Lyonne was coming out. He gave d’Artagnan both hands, but told him that the King had been busy all the preceding evening and all night, and that orders had been given that no one should be admitted.

“Not even the captain who takes the order?” cried d’Artagnan. “I think that he is rather too strong.”

“Not even he,” said M. de Lyonne.

“Since that is the case,” replied d’Artagnan, wounded to the heart,- “since the captain of the Musketeers, who has always entered the King’s chamber, is no longer allowed to enter it, his cabinet, or his salle a manger,- either the King is dead or his captain is in disgrace. In either case he can no longer want him; have the kindness, then, M. de Lyonne, who are in favor, to return and tell the King plainly that I send him my resignation.”

“D’Artagnan, beware of what you are doing!”

“For friendship’s sake, go!” and he pushed him gently towards the cabinet.

“Well, I will go,” said De Lyonne.

D’Artagnan waited, walking about the corridor. De Lyonne returned. “Well, what did the King say?” exclaimed d’Artagnan.

“He simply answered that it was good,” replied De Lyonne.

“That it was good!” said the captain, with an explosion. “That is to say that he accepts it? Good! Now, then, I am free! I am only a plain citizen, M. de Lyonne. I have the pleasure of bidding you good-by! Farewell, castle, corridor, antechamber! a citizen about to breathe at liberty takes his farewell of you.”

And without waiting longer, the captain sprang from the terrace down the staircase where he had picked up the fragments of Gourville’s letter. Five minutes after, he was at the hostelry where, according to the custom of all great officers who have lodgings at the castle, he had taken what was called his city chamber. But when arrived there, instead of throwing off his sword and cloak, he took his pistols, put his money into a large leather purse, sent for his horses from the castle stables, and gave orders for reaching Vannes during the night. Everything went on according to his wishes. At eight o’clock in the evening he was putting his foot in the stirrup, when M. de Gesvres appeared at the head of twelve guards in front of the hostelry. D’Artagnan saw all from the corner of his eye,- he could not fail to see those thirteen men and thirteen horses; but he feigned not to observe anything, and was about to put his horse in motion.

De Gesvres rode up to him. “M. d’Artagnan,” said he, aloud.

“Ah, M. de Gesvres, good-evening!” “One would say you were getting on horseback.”

“More than that, I am mounted, as you see.”

“It is fortunate I have met you.”

“Were you looking for me, then?”

“Mon Dieu! yes.”

“On the part of the King, I will wager?”

“Yes.”

“As I three days ago went in search of M. Fouquet?”

“Oh!”

“Nonsense! It is of no use being delicate with me,- that is all labor lost; tell me at once you are come to arrest me.”

“To arrest you? Good heavens! no.”

“Why do you come to accost me with twelve horsemen at your heels, then?”

“I am making my round.”

“That isn’t bad! And so you pick me up in your round, eh?”

“I don’t pick you up; I meet you, and I beg you to come with me.”

“Where?”

“To the King.”

“Good!” said d’Artagnan, with a bantering air; “the King has nothing to do at last!”

“For Heaven’s sake, Captain,” said M. de Gesvres, in a low voice to the musketeer, “do not compromise yourself! these men hear you.”

D’Artagnan laughed aloud, and replied, “March! Persons who are arrested are placed between the first six guards and the last six.”

“But as I do not arrest you,” said M. de Gesvres, “you will march behind with me, if you please.”

“Well,” said d’Artagnan, “that is very polite, Duke; and you are right in being so,- for if ever I had had to make my rounds near your chambre de ville, I should have been courteous to you, I assure you, by the faith of a gentleman! Now, one favor more: what does the King want with me?”

“Oh, the King is furious!”

“Very well! the King, who has taken the trouble to be furious, may take the trouble of getting calm again; that is all of that. I sha’n’t die of that, I will swear.”

“No, but-”

“But- I shall be sent to keep company with poor M. Fouquet. Mordioux! That is a gallant man, a worthy man! We shall live very sociably together, I assure you.”

“Here we are at our place of destination,” said the duke. “Captain, for Heaven’s sake be calm with the King!”

“Ah, ah! you are playing the brave man with me, Duke!” said d’Artagnan, throwing one of his defiant glances over De Gesvres. “I have been told that you are ambitious of uniting your Guards with my Musketeers. This strikes me as a capital opportunity.”

“God forbid that I should avail myself of it, Captain.”

“And why not?”

“Oh, for many reasons,- in the first place, for this: if I were to succeed you in the Musketeers after having arrested you-”

“Ah! then you admit you have arrested me?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Say met me, then. So, you were saying, if you were to succeed me after having arrested me-”

“Your Musketeers, at the first exercise with ball cartridges, would all fire towards me, by mistake.”

“Ah! as to that I won’t say,- for the fellows do love me a little.”

De Gesvres made d’Artagnan pass in first, and took him straight to the cabinet where the King was waiting for his captain of the Musketeers, and placed himself behind his colleague in the antechamber. The King could be heard distinctly, speaking aloud to Colbert, in the same cabinet where Colbert might have heard, a few days before, the King speaking aloud with M. d’Artagnan. The guards remained as a mounted picket before the principal gate; and the report was quickly spread through the city that Monsieur the Captain of the Musketeers had just been arrested by order of the King. Then these men were seen to be in motion, as in the good old times of Louis XIII and M. de Treville; groups were formed, the staircases were filled; vague murmurs, issuing from the courts below, came rolling up to the upper stories, like the hoarse moanings of the tide-waves. M. de Gesvres became very uneasy. He looked at his guards, who after being interrogated by the musketeers who had just got among their ranks, began to shun them with a manifestation of uneasiness. D’Artagnan was certainly less disturbed than M. de Gesvres, the captain of the Guards. As soon as he entered, he had seated himself on the ledge of a window, whence, with his eagle glance, he saw without the least emotion all that was going on. None of the progress of the fermentation which had manifested itself at the report of his arrest had escaped him. He foresaw the moment when the explosion would take place, and we know that his previsions were pretty correct.

“It would be very odd,” thought he, “if this evening my praetorians should make me King of France. How I should laugh!” But at the height all was stopped. Guards, musketeers, officers, soldiers, murmurs, and disturbance, all dispersed, vanished, died away; no more tempest, no more menace, no more sedition. One word had calmed the waves. The King had just said by the mouth of De Brienne, “Hush, Messieurs! you disturb the King.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “All is over!” said he; “the Musketeers of the present day are not those of his Majesty Louis XIII. All is over!”

“M. d’Artagnan to the King’s apartment!” cried an usher.

Louis XIV

The King was seated in his cabinet, with his back turned towards the door of entrance. In front of him was a mirror in which while turning over his papers he could see with a glance those who came in. He did not take any notice of the entrance of d’Artagnan, but laid over his letters and plans the large silk cloth which he made use of to conceal his secrets from the importunate. D’Artagnan understood his play, and kept in the background; so that at the end of a minute, the King, who heard nothing and could see only with the corner of his eye, was obliged to cry, “Is not M. d’Artagnan there?”

“I am here, Sire,” replied the musketeer, advancing.

“Well, Monsieur,” said the King, fixing his clear eye upon d’Artagnan, “what have you to say to me?”

“I, Sire!” replied the latter, who watched the first blow of his adversary to make a good retort; “I have nothing to say to your Majesty, unless it be that you have caused me to be arrested, and here I am.”

The King was going to reply that he had not had d’Artagnan arrested, but the sentence appeared too much like an excuse, and he was silent. D’Artagnan likewise preserved an obstinate silence.

“Monsieur,” at length resumed the King, “what did I charge you to go and do at Belle-Isle? Tell me, if you please.”

The King, while speaking these words, looked fixedly at his captain. Here d’Artagnan was too fortunate,- the King gave him so fine an opening.

“I believe,” replied he, “that your Majesty does me the honor to ask what I went to Belle-Isle to do?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Well, Sire, I know nothing about it; it is not of me that that question should be asked, but of that infinite number of officers of all kinds to whom have been given an infinite number of orders of all kinds, while to me, head of the expedition, nothing precise was ordered.”

The King was wounded; he showed it by his reply. “Monsieur,” said he, “Orders have only been given to such as were judged faithful.”

“And therefore I have been astonished, Sire,” retorted the musketeer, “that a captain like myself, who rank with a marshal of France, should have found himself under the orders of five or six lieutenants or majors, good to make spies of, possibly, but not at all fit to conduct warlike expeditions. It was upon this subject I came to demand an explanation of your Majesty, when I found the door closed against me, which, the last insult offered to a brave man, has led me to quit your Majesty’s service.”

“Monsieur,” replied the King, “you still believe you are living in an age when kings were, as you complain of having been, under the orders and subject to the judgment of their inferiors. You appear too much to forget that a King owes an account of his actions to none but God.”

“I forget nothing at all, Sire,” said the musketeer, wounded by this lesson. “Besides, I do not see in what an honest man, when he asks of his King how he has ill served him, offends him.”

“You have ill served me, Monsieur, by taking part with my enemies against me.”

“Who are your enemies, Sire?”

“The men I sent you to fight against.”

“Two men the enemies of your Majesty’s army? That is incredible.”

“You are not to judge of my wishes.”

“But I am to judge of my own friendships, Sire.”

“He who serves his friends does not serve his master.”

“I have so well understood that, Sire, that I have respectfully offered your Majesty my resignation.”

“And I have accepted it, Monsieur,” said the King. “Before being separated from you I was willing to prove to you that I know how to keep my word.”

“Your Majesty has kept more than your word, for your Majesty has had me arrested,” said d’Artagnan, with his cold bantering air; “you did not promise me that, Sire.”

The King would not condescend to perceive the pleasantry, and continued seriously, “You see, Monsieur, to what your disobedience has forced me.”

“My disobedience!” cried d’Artagnan, red with anger.

“That is the mildest name I can find,” pursued the King. “My idea was to take and punish rebels; was I bound to inquire whether these rebels were your friends or not?”

“But I was,” replied d’Artagnan. “It was a cruelty on your Majesty’s part to send me to take my friends and lead them to your gibbets.”

“It was a trial I had to make, Monsieur, of pretended servants, who eat my bread, and ought to defend my person. The trial has succeeded ill, M. d’Artagnan.”

“For one bad servant your Majesty loses,” said the musketeer, with bitterness, “there are ten who have, on that same day, gone through their ordeal. Listen to me, Sire; I am not accustomed to that service. Mine is a rebel sword when I am required to do wrong. It was wrong to send me in pursuit of two men whose lives M. Fouquet, your Majesty’s preserver, had implored you to save. Still further, these men were my friends. They did not attack your Majesty; they succumbed to a blind anger. Besides, why were they not allowed to escape? What crime had they committed? I admit that you may contest with me the right of judging of their conduct. But why suspect me before the action? Why surround me with spies? Why disgrace me before the army? Why me, in whom you have to this time showed the most entire confidence,- me, who for thirty years have been attached to your person, and have given you a thousand proofs of devotedness,- for it must be said, now that I am accused; why compel me to see three thousand of the King’s soldiers march in battle against two men?”

“One would say you have forgotten what these men have done to me!” said the King, in a hollow voice, “and that it was no merit of theirs that I was not lost.”

“Sire, one would say that you forget I was there.”

“Enough, M. d’Artagnan, enough of these dominating concerns which arise to keep the sun from my interests. I am founding a state in which there shall be but one master, as promised you formerly; the moment is come for keeping my promise. You wish to be, according to your tastes or your friendships, free to destroy my plans and save my enemies; I will break you, or I will abandon you. Seek a more compliant master. I know full well that another king would not conduct himself as I do, and would allow himself to be dominated over by you at the risk of sending you some day to keep company with M. Fouquet and the others; but I have a good memory, and for me services are sacred titles to gratitude, to impunity. You shall only have this lesson, M. d’Artagnan, as the punishment of your want of discipline; and I will not imitate my predecessors in their anger, not having imitated them in their favor. And then, other reasons make me act mildly towards you: in the first place, because you are a man of sense, a man of great sense, a man of heart, and you will be a good servant to him who shall have mastered you; secondly, because you will cease to have any motives for insubordination. Your friends are destroyed or ruined by me. These supports upon which your capricious mind instinctively relied I have made to disappear. At this moment, my soldiers have taken or killed the rebels of Belle-Isle.”

D’Artagnan became pale. “Taken or killed!” cried he. “Oh, Sire, if you thought what you tell me, if you were sure you were telling me the truth, I should forget all that is just, all that is magnanimous in your words, to call you a barbarous King and an unnatural man. But I pardon you these words,” said he, smiling with pride; “I pardon them to a young Prince who does not know, who cannot comprehend, what such men as M. d’Herblay, M. du Vallon, and myself are. Taken or killed! Ah, ah, Sire! tell me, if the news is true, how much it has cost you in men and money. We will then reckon if the game has been worth the stakes.”

As he spoke thus, the King went up to him in great anger and said, “M. d’Artagnan, your replies are those of a rebel! Tell me, if you please, who is King of France? Do you know any other?”

“Sire,” replied the captain of the Musketeers, coldly, “I remember that one morning at Vaux you addressed that question to people who did not know how to answer it, while I, on my part, did answer it. If I recognized my King on that day, when the thing was not easy, I think it would be useless to ask it of me now, when your Majesty is alone with me.”

At these words, Louis cast down his eyes. It appeared to him that the shade of the unfortunate Philippe passed between d’Artagnan and himself, to evoke the remembrance of that terrible adventure. Almost at the same moment an officer entered and placed a despatch in the hands of the King, who, in his turn, changed color while reading it. “Monsieur,” said he, “what I learn here you would know later; it is better I should tell you, and that you should learn it from the mouth of your King. A battle has taken place at Belle-Isle.”

“Oh! ah!” said d’Artagnan, with a calm air, though his heart beat enough to break through his chest. “Well, Sire?”

“Well, Monsieur; and I have lost a hundred and six men.”

A beam of joy and pride shone in the eyes of d’Artagnan. “And the rebels?”

“The rebels have fled,” said the King.

D’Artagnan could not restrain a cry of triumph. “Only,” added the King, “I have a fleet which closely blockades Belle-Isle, and I am certain no boat can escape.”

“So that,” said the musketeer, brought back to his dismal ideas, “if these two gentlemen are taken-”

“They will be hanged,” said the King, quietly.

“And do they know it?” replied d’Artagnan, repressing a shudder.

“They know it, because you must have told them yourself; and all the country knows it.”

“Then, Sire, they will never be taken alive, I will answer for that.”

“Ah!” said the King, negligently, taking up his letter again. “Very well, they will be dead then, M. d’Artagnan, and that will come to the same thing, since I should only take them to have them hanged.”

D’Artagnan wiped the sweat which flowed from his brow.

“I have told you,” pursued Louis XIV, “that I would one day be to you an affectionate, generous, and constant master. You are now the only man of former times worthy of my anger or my friendship. I will not be sparing of either to you, according to your conduct. Could you serve a King, M. d’Artagnan, who should have a hundred other kings, his equals, in the kingdom? Could I, tell me, do with such weakness the great things I meditate? Have you ever seen an artist effect solid work with a rebellious instrument? Far from us, Monsieur, those old leavens of feudal abuses! The Fronde, which threatened to ruin the monarchy, has emancipated it. I am master at home, Captain d’Artagnan, and I shall have servants who, wanting perhaps your genius, will carry devotedness and obedience up to heroism. Of what consequence, I ask you, of what consequence is it that God has given no genius to arms and legs? It is to the head he has given it; and the head, you know, all the rest obey. I myself am the head.”

D’Artagnan started. Louis XIV continued as if he had seen nothing, although this emotion had not at all escaped him. “Now, let us conclude between us two that bargain which I promised to make with you one day when you found me very small, at Blois. Do me justice, Monsieur, when you think that I do not make any one pay for the tears of shame I then shed. Look around you: lofty heads have bowed. Bow yours, or choose the exile that will best suit you. Perhaps, when reflecting upon it, you will find that this King has a generous heart, who reckons sufficiently upon your loyalty to allow you to leave him, knowing you to be dissatisfied, and the possessor of a great state secret. You are a brave man, I know. Why have you judged me before trial? Judge me from this day forward, d’Artagnan, and be as severe as you please.”

D’Artagnan remained bewildered, mute, undecided for the first time in his life. He had just found an adversary worthy of him. This was no longer trick, it was calculation; it was no longer violence, it was strength; it was no longer passion, it was will; it was no longer boasting; it was wisdom. This young man who had brought down Fouquet and could do without d’Artagnan, deranged all the somewhat headstrong calculations of the musketeer.

“Come, let us see what stops you?” said the King, kindly. “You have given in your resignation; shall I refuse to accept it? I admit that it may be hard for an old captain to recover his good-humor.”

“Oh!” replied d’Artagnan, in a melancholy tone, “that is not my most serious care. I hesitate to take back my resignation because I am old in comparison with you, and I have habits difficult to abandon. Henceforward, you must have courtiers who know how to amuse you,- madmen who will get themselves killed to carry out what you call your great works. Great they will be, I feel; but if by chance I should not think them so? I have seen war, Sire; I have seen peace; I have served Richelieu and Mazarin; I have been scorched with your father at the fire of Rochelle, riddled with thrusts like a sieve, having made a new skin ten times, as serpents do. After affronts and injustices, I have a command which was formerly something, because it gave the bearer the right of speaking as he liked to his King. But your captain of the Musketeers will henceforward be an officer guarding the lower doors. Truly, Sire, if that is to be the employment from this time, seize the opportunity of our being on good terms to take it from me. Do not imagine that I bear malice. No, you have tamed me, as you say; but it must be confessed that in taming me you have lessened me,- by bowing me, you have convicted me of weakness. If you knew how well it suits me to carry my head high, and what a pitiful mien I shall have while scenting the dust of your carpets! Oh, Sire, I regret sincerely, and you will regret as I do, those times when the King of France saw in his vestibules all those insolent gentlemen, lean, always swearing,- cross-grained mastiffs, who could bite mortally in days of battle. Those men were the best of courtiers for the hand which fed them,- they would lick it; but for the hand that struck them, oh, the bite that followed! A little gold on the lace of their cloaks, a little more portliness of figure, a little sprinkling of gray in their dry hair, and you will behold the handsome dukes and peers, the haughty marshals of France. But why should I tell you all this? The King is my master; he wills that I should make verses; he wills that I should polish the mosaics of his antechambers with satin shoe. Mordioux! that is difficult; but I have got over greater difficulties than that. I will do it. Why will I do it? Because I love money? I have enough. Because I am ambitious? My career is bounded. Because I love the court? No; I will remain because I have been accustomed for thirty years to go and take the order of the King, and to have said to me, ‘Good-evening, d’Artagnan,’ with a smile I did not beg for. That smile I will beg for! Are you content, Sire?” And d’Artagnan bowed his silvered head, upon which the smiling King placed his white hand with pride.

“Thanks, my old servant, my faithful friend,” said he. “As, reckoning from this day, I have no longer any enemies in France, it remains with me to send you to a foreign field to gather your marshal’s baton. Depend upon me for finding you an opportunity. In the mean time, eat of my best bread and sleep tranquilly.”

“That is all kind and well!” said d’Artagnan, much agitated. “But those poor men at Belle-Isle,- one of them, in particular, so good and so brave?”

“Do you ask their pardon of me?”

“Upon my knees, Sire!”

“Well, then, go and take it to them, if it be still time. But do you answer for them?”

“With my life, Sire!”

“Go, then. To-morrow I set out for Paris. Return by that time, for I do not wish you to leave me in future.”

“Be assured of that, Sire,” said d’Artagnan, kissing the royal hand. And with a heart swelling with joy, he rushed out of the castle on his way to Belle-Isle.

The Friends of M. Fouquet

The King had returned to Paris, and with him d’Artagnan, who in twenty-four hours, having made with the greatest care all possible inquiries at Belle-Isle, had learned nothing of the secret so well kept by the heavy rock of Locmaria, which had fallen on the heroic Porthos. The captain of the Musketeers only knew what those two valiant men,- what these two friends, whose defence he had so nobly taken up, whose lives he had so earnestly endeavored to save,- aided by three faithful Bretons, had accomplished against a whole army. He had been able to see, launched on the neighboring heath, the human remains which had stained with blood the stones scattered among the flowering broom. He learned also that a boat had been seen far out at sea, and that, like a bird of prey, a royal vessel had pursued, overtaken, and devoured this poor little bird which was flying with rapid wings. But there d’Artagnan’s certainties ended. The field of conjectures was thrown open at this boundary. Now, what could he conjecture? The vessel had not returned. It is true that a brisk wind had prevailed for three days; but the corvette was known to be a good sailor and solid in its timbers; it could not fear gales of wind, and it ought, according to the calculation of d’Artagnan, to have either returned to Brest, or come back to the mouth of the Loire. Such was the news, ambiguous, it is true, but in some degree reassuring to him personally, which d’Artagnan brought to Louis XIV when the King, followed by all the court, returned to Paris.

Louis, satisfied with his success- Louis, more mild and more affable since he felt himself more powerful- had not ceased for an instant to ride close to the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Everybody had been anxious to amuse the two Queens, so as to make them forget this abandonment of the son and the husband. Everything breathed of the future; the past was nothing to anybody: only that past came like a painful and bleeding wound to the hearts of some tender and devoted spirits. Scarcely was the King reinstalled in Paris when he received a touching proof of this. Louis XIV had just risen and taken his first repast, when his captain of the Musketeers presented himself before him. D’Artagnan was pale and looked unhappy. The King, at the first glance, perceived the change in a countenance generally so unconcerned. “What is the matter, d’Artagnan?” said he.

“Sire, a great misfortune has happened to me.”

“Good heavens! what is it?”

“Sire, I have lost one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the affair of Belle-Isle.” And while speaking these words, d’Artagnan fixed his falcon eye upon Louis XIV, to catch the first feeling that would show itself.

“I knew it,” replied the King, quietly.

“You knew it, and did not tell me?” cried the musketeer.

“To what good? Your grief, my friend, is so worthy of respect! It was my duty to treat it kindly. To have informed you of this misfortune, which I knew would pain you so greatly, d’Artagnan, would have been, in your eyes, to have triumphed over you. Yes, I knew that M. du Vallon had buried himself beneath the rocks of Locmaria; I knew that M. d’Herblay had taken one of my vessels with its crew, and had compelled it to convey him to Bayonne. But I was willing that you should learn these matters in a direct manner, in order that you might be convinced that my friends are with me respected and sacred; that always the man in me will immolate himself to men, while the King is so often found to sacrifice men to his majesty and power.”

“But, Sire, how could you know?”

“How do you yourself know?”

“By this letter, Sire, which M. d’Herblay, free and out of danger, writes me from Bayonne.”

“Look here,” said the King, drawing from a casket placed upon the table close to the seat upon which d’Artagnan was leaning a letter copied exactly from that of M. d’Herblay; “here is the very letter which Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I am well served, you may perceive.”

“Yes, Sire,” murmured the musketeer; “you were the only man whose fortune was capable of dominating the fortunes and strength of my two friends. You have used it, Sire; but you will not abuse it, will you?”

“D’Artagnan,” said the King, with a smile beaming with kindness, “I could have M. d’Herblay carried off from the territories of the King of Spain, and brought here alive to inflict justice upon him. But, d’Artagnan, be assured I will not yield to this first and natural impulse. He is free; let him continue free.”

“Oh, Sire! you will not always remain so clement, so noble, so generous as you have shown yourself with respect to me and M. d’Herblay; you will have about you councillors who will cure you of that weakness.”

“No, d’Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my council of urging me to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare M. d’Herblay comes from Colbert himself.”

“Oh, Sire!” said d’Artagnan, extremely surprised.

“As for you,” continued the King, with a kindness very uncommon with him, “I have several pieces of good news to announce to you; but you shall know them, my dear captain, the moment I have finished my accounts. I have said that I wish to make, and would make, your fortune; that promise will soon be a reality.”

“A thousand times thanks, Sire! I can wait. But I implore you, while I go and practise patience, that your Majesty will deign to notice those poor people who have for so long a time besieged your antechamber, and come humbly to lay a petition at your feet.”

“Who are they?”

“Enemies of your Majesty.” The King raised his head. “Friends of M. Fouquet,” added d’Artagnan.

“Their names?”

“M. Gourville, M. Pélisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine.”

The King took a moment to reflect.

“What do they want?”

“I do not know.”

“How do they appear?”

“In great affliction.”

“What do they say?”

“Nothing.”

“What do they do?”

“They weep.”

“Let them come in,” said the King, with a serious brow.

D’Artagnan turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which closed the entrance to the royal chamber, and directing his voice to the adjoining room, cried, “Introduce!”

The three men d’Artagnan had named soon appeared at the door of the cabinet in which were the King and his captain. A profound silence prevailed. The courtiers, at the approach of the friends of the unfortunate Superintendent of the Finances, drew back, as if fearful of being soiled by contact with disgrace and misfortune. D’Artagnan, with a quick step, came forward to take by the hand the unhappy men who stood hesitating and trembling at the door of the cabinet; he led them up to the arm-chair of the King, who, having placed himself in the embrasure of a window, awaited the moment of presentation, and was preparing himself to give the supplicants a rigorously diplomatic reception.

The first of the friends of Fouquet that advanced was Pélisson. He did not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the King might the better hear his voice and his prayer. Gourville bit his lips to check his tears, out of respect for the King. La Fontaine buried his face in his handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were the convulsive motions of his shoulders, raised by his sobs.

The King had preserved all his dignity. His countenance was impassive. He even maintained the frown which had appeared when d’Artagnan had announced his enemies to him. He made a gesture which signified, “Speak”; and he remained standing, with his eyes searchingly fixed upon these desponding men. Pélisson bowed down to the ground, and La Fontaine knelt as people do in churches. This obstinate silence, disturbed only by such dismal sighs and groans, began to excite in the King, not compassion, but impatience.

“M. Pélisson,” said he, in a sharp dry tone, “M. Gourville, and you, Monsieur,”- and he did not name La Fontaine,- “I cannot, without sensible displeasure, see you come to plead for one of the greatest criminals that it is the duty of my justice to punish. A King does not allow himself to be softened but by tears or by remorse,- the tears of the innocent, the remorse of the guilty. I have no faith either in the remorse of M. Fouquet or the tears of his friends, because the one is tainted to the very heart, and the others ought to dread coming to offend me in my own palace. For these reasons, I beg you, M. Pélisson, M. Gourville, and you, Monsieur, to say nothing that will not plainly proclaim the respect you have for my will.”

“Sire,” replied Pélisson, trembling at these terrible words, “we are come to say nothing to your Majesty that is not the most profound expression of the most sincere respect and love which are due to a King from all his subjects. Your Majesty’s justice is unquestionable; every one must yield to the sentences it pronounces. We respectfully bow before it. Far from us be the idea of coming to defend him who has had the misfortune to offend your Majesty. He who has incurred your displeasure may be a friend of ours, but he is an enemy of the State. We abandon him, but with tears, to the severity of the King.”

“Besides,” interrupted the King, calmed by that supplicating voice and those persuasive words, “my parliament will decide. I do not strike without having weighed the crime; my justice does not wield the sword without having employed the scales.”

“Therefore have we every confidence in that impartiality of the King, and hope to make our feeble voices heard, with the consent of your Majesty, when the hour for defending an accused friend shall strike for us.”

“In that case, Messieurs, what do you ask of me?” said the King, with his most imposing air.

“Sire,” continued Pélisson, “the accused leaves a wife and a family. The little property he had was scarcely sufficient to pay his debts, and Madame Fouquet since the captivity of her husband is abandoned by everybody. The hand of your Majesty strikes like the hand of God. When the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or pestilence into a family, every one flies and shuns the abode of the leprous or the plague-stricken. Sometimes, but very rarely, a generous physician alone ventures to approach the accursed threshold, passes it with courage, and exposes his life to combat death. He is the last resource of the dying; he is the instrument of heavenly mercy. Sire, we supplicate you with clasped hands and bended knees, as the Deity is supplicated! Madame Fouquet has no longer any friends, no longer any support; she weeps in her poor deserted house, abandoned by all those who besieged its door in the hour of prosperity; she has neither credit nor hope left. At least, the unhappy wretch upon whom your anger falls receives from you, however culpable he may be, the daily bread which is moistened by his tears. As much afflicted, more destitute than her husband, Madame Fouquet- she who had the honor to receive your Majesty at her table; Madame Fouquet, the wife of the ancient Superintendent of your Majesty’s Finances,- Madame Fouquet has no longer bread.”

Here the mortal silence which enchained the breath of Pélisson’s two friends was broken by an outburst of sobs; and d’Artagnan, whose chest heaved at hearing this humble prayer, turned round towards the corner of the cabinet to bite his mustache and conceal his sighs.

The King had kept his eye dry and his countenance severe; but the color had mounted to his cheeks, and the firmness of his look was visibly diminished.

“What do you wish?” said he, in an agitated voice.

“We come humbly to ask your Majesty,” replied Pélisson, upon whom emotion was fast gaining, “to permit us, without incurring the displeasure of your Majesty, to lend to Madame Fouquet two thousand pistoles collected among the old friends of her husband, in order that the widow may not stand in need of the necessaries of life.”

At the word “widow,” pronounced by Pélisson while Fouquet was still alive, the King turned very pale. His pride fell; pity rose from his heart to his lips. He cast a softened look upon the men who knelt sobbing at his feet. “God forbid,” said he, “that I should confound the innocent with the guilty! They know me but ill who doubt my mercy towards the weak. I strike none but the arrogant. Do, Messieurs, do all that your hearts counsel you to assuage the grief of Madame Fouquet. Go, Messieurs; go!”

The three men arose in silence with dried eyes. The tears had been dried up by contact with their burning cheeks and eyelids. They had not the strength to address their thanks to the King, who himself cut short their solemn reverence by intrenching himself suddenly behind the arm-chair.

D’Artagnan remained alone with the King. “Well!” said he, approaching the young Prince, who interrogated him with his look,- “well, my master! If you had not the device which your sun adorns, I would recommend you one which M. Conrart should translate into Latin, ‘Mild with the lowly; rough with the strong.’”

The King smiled and passed into the next apartment after having said to d’Artagnan, “I give you the leave of absence you must want to put in order the affairs of your friend, the late M. du Vallon.”

Porthos’s Will

At Pierrefonds everything was in mourning. The courts were deserted, the stables closed, the parterres neglected. In the basins, the fountains, formerly so spreading, noisy, and sparkling, had stopped of themselves. Along the roads around the château came a few grave personages mounted upon mules or farm horses. These were country neighbors, cures, and bailiffs of adjacent estates. All these people entered the château silently, gave their horses to a melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps, conducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining-room, where Mousqueton received them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in two days that his clothes moved upon him like sheaths which are too large, in which the blades of swords dance about at each motion. His face, composed of red and white, like that of the Madonna of Vandyke, was furrowed by two silver rivulets which had dug their beds in his cheeks, as full formerly as they had become thin since his grief began. At each fresh arrival Mousqueton shed fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see him press his throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs and lamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing the reading of Porthos’s will, announced for that day, and at which all the covetous and all who were allied by friendship with the deceased were anxious to be present, as he had left no relative behind him.

The visitors took their places as they arrived; and the great room had just been closed when the clock struck twelve, the hour fixed for the reading. Porthos’s procurator- who was naturally the successor of Master Coquenard- began by slowly unfolding the vast parchment upon which the powerful hand of Porthos had traced his last wishes. The seal broken, the spectacles put on, the preliminary cough having sounded, every one opened his ears. Mousqueton had squatted himself in a corner, the better to weep and the less to hear.

All at once the folding-doors of the great room, which had been shut, were thrown open as if by miracle, and a manly figure appeared upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun. This was d’Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobody to hold his stirrup, had tied his horse to a knocker and announced himself. The splendor of the daylight invading the room, the murmur of all present, and more than all that the instinct of the faithful dog drew Mousqueton from his revery; he raised his head, recognized the old friend of his master, and crying out with grief, embraced the captain’s knees, watering the floor with tears. D’Artagnan raised up the poor intendant, embraced him as if he had been a brother, and having nobly saluted the assembly, who all bowed as they whispered to one another his name, went and took his seat at the extremity of the great carved oak hall, still holding by the hand poor Mousqueton, who was suffocating and sank down upon the steps. Then the procurator, who, like the rest, was considerably agitated, began the reading.

Porthos, after a profession of faith of the most Christian character, asked pardon of his enemies for all the injuries he might have done them. At this paragraph, a ray of inexpressible pride beamed from the eyes of d’Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the old soldier, all those enemies of Porthos brought to the earth by his valiant hand; he reckoned up the numbers of them, and said to himself that Porthos had acted wisely not to detail his enemies or the injuries done to them, or the task would have been too much for the reader. Then came the following enumeration:-

“I possess at this present time, by the grace of God-

“1. The domain of Pierrefonds, lands, woods, meadows, waters, and forests, surrounded by good walls.

“2. The domain of Bracieux, château, forests, ploughed lands, forming three farms.

“3. The little estate Du Vallon, so named because it is in the valley....”

Brave Porthos!

“4. Fifty farms in Touraine, amounting to five hundred acres.

“5. Three mills upon the Cher, bringing in six hundred livres each.

“6. Three fish-pools in Berry, producing two hundred livres a year.

“As to my personal or movable property, so called because it cannot be moved, as is so well explained by my learned friend the Bishop of Vannes....”

D’Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached to that name.

The procurator continued imperturbably.

“...they consist-

“1. In goods which I cannot detail here for want of room, and which furnish all my châteaux, or houses, but of which the list is drawn up by my intendant....”

Every one turned his eyes towards Mousqueton, who was absorbed in his grief.

“2. In twenty horses for saddle and draught, which I have particularly at my château of Pierrefonds, and which are called Bayard, Roland, Charlemagne, Pepin, Dunois, La Hire, Ogier, Samson, Milon, Nemrod, Urgande, Armide, Falstrade, Dalila, Rebecca, Yolande, Finette, Grisette, Lisette, and Musette.

“3. In sixty dogs, forming six packs, divided as follows: the first, for the stag; the second, for the wolf; the third, for the wild boar; the fourth, for the hare; and the two others, for watch and guard.

“4. In arms for war and the chase, contained in my gallery of arms.

“5. My wines of Anjou, selected for Athos, who liked them formerly; my wines of Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and Spain, stocking eight cellars and twelve vaults in my various houses.

“6. My pictures and statues, which are said to be of great value and which are sufficiently numerous to fatigue the sight.

“7. My library, consisting of six thousand volumes, quite new, which have never been opened.

“8. My silver plate, which perhaps is a little worn, but which ought to weigh from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds, for I had great trouble in lifting the coffer that contained it, and could not carry it more than six times round my chamber.

“9. All these objects, in addition to the table and house linen, are divided in the residences I liked the best....”

Here the reader stopped to take breath. Every one sighed, coughed, and redoubled his attention. The procurator resumed:-

“I have lived without having any children, and it is probable I never shall have any, which to me is a cutting grief. And yet I am mistaken, for I have a son, in common with my other friends: he is M. Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, the true son of M. le Comte de la Fere.

“This young nobleman has appeared to me worthy to succeed to the three valiant gentlemen of whom I am the friend and the very humble servant.”

Here a sharp sound interrupted the reader. It was d’Artagnan’s sword, which, slipping from his baldric, had fallen on the sonorous flooring. Every one turned his eyes that way, and saw that a large tear had rolled from the thick lid of d’Artagnan upon his aquiline nose, the luminous edge of which shone like a crescent enlightened by the sun. The procurator continued:-

“This is why I have left all my property, movable or immovable, comprised in the above enumerations, to M. le Vicomte Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, son of M. le Comte de la Fere, to console him for the grief he seems to suffer, and enable him to support his name gloriously.”

A long murmur ran through the assemblage. The procurator continued, seconded by the flashing eye of d’Artagnan, which, glancing over the assembly, quickly restored the interrupted silence:-

“On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do give to M. le Chevalier d’Artagnan, captain of the King’s Musketeers, whatever the said Chevalier d’Artagnan may demand of my property.

“On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do pay a good pension to M. le Chevalier d’Herblay, my friend, if he should be compelled to live in exile.

“On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne maintain those of my servants who have spent ten years in my service, and that he give five hundred livres to each of the others.

“I leave to my intendant Mousqueton all my clothes, of city, war, or chase, to the number of forty-seven suits, with the assurance that he will wear them till they are worn out, for the love of, and in remembrance of, his master.

“Moreover, I bequeath to M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne my old servant and faithful friend, Mousqueton, already named, with the charge to the said viscount to act in such a way that Mousqueton shall declare when dying that he has never ceased to be happy.”

On hearing these words, Mousqueton, bowed, pale and trembling; his large shoulders shook convulsively; his countenance, impressed by a frightful grief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the spectators saw him stagger and hesitate, as if, though wishing to leave the hall, he did not know the way.

“Mousqueton, my good friend,” said d’Artagnan, “go and make your preparations. I will take you with me to Athos’s house, whither I shall go on leaving Pierrefonds.”

Mousqueton made no reply. He scarcely breathed, feeling as if everything in that hall would from that time be strange to him. He opened the door, and disappeared slowly.

The procurator finished his reading, after which the greater part of those who had come to hear the last will of Porthos dispersed by degrees, many disappointed, but all penetrated with respect. As for d’Artagnan, left alone after having received the formal compliments of the procurator, he was lost in admiration of the wisdom of the testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the most necessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that none among the most refined courtiers and the most noble hearts could have displayed more becomingly.

When Porthos enjoined Raoul de Bragelonne to give to d’Artagnan all he would ask, he knew well, did that worthy Porthos, that d’Artagnan would ask or take nothing; and in case he did demand anything, none but himself could say what. Porthos left a pension to Aramis, who, if he should be inclined to ask too much, would be checked by the example of d’Artagnan; and that word “exile,” thrown out by the testator without apparent intention,- was it not the most mild, the most exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis which had brought about the death of Porthos? But there was no mention of Athos in the testament of the dead; could the latter for a moment suppose that the son would not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind of Porthos had judged all these causes, caught all these shades, better than the law, better than custom, better than taste.

“Porthos was a heart,” said d’Artagnan to himself, with a sigh. As he made this reflection he fancied he heard a groan in the room above him, and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton, whom it was necessary to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the hall hastily to seek the worthy intendant. He ascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived in Porthos’s own chamber a heap of clothes of all colors and all materials, upon which Mousqueton had laid himself down after heaping them together. It was the legacy of the faithful friend. These clothes were truly his own; they had been given to him. The hand of Mousqueton was stretched over these relics, which he kissed with all his lips, with all his face, which he covered with his whole body. D’Artagnan approached to console the poor fellow. “My God!” said he; “he does not stir,- he has fainted!

But d’Artagnan was mistaken; Mousqueton was dead,- dead, like the dog who having lost his master, comes back to die upon his cloak.

The Old Age of Athos

While all these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers, formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos, left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to that death by anticipation which is called the absence of those we love. Returned to his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receive a poor smile when he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt the decline of the vigor of a nature which for so long a time had appeared infallible. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the beloved object, arrived with that cortege of pains and inconveniences which increases in proportion as its coming is delayed. Athos had no longer his son’s presence to incite him to walk firmly, with his head erect, as a good example; he had no longer in those brilliant eyes of the young man an ever-ardent focus at which to rekindle the fire of his looks. And then, it must be said, this nature, exquisite in its tenderness and its reserve, no longer finding anything that comprehended its feelings, gave itself up to grief with all the warmth with which vulgar natures give themselves up to joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had remained a young man up to his sixty-second year; the warrior who had preserved his strength in spite of fatigues, his freshness of mind in spite of misfortune, his mild serenity of soul and body in spite of Milady, in spite of Mazarin, in spite of La Valliere,- Athos had become an old man in a week from the moment at which he had lost the support of his latter youth. Still handsome though bent, noble but sad,- gently, and tottering under his gray hairs, he sought since his solitude the glades where the rays of the sun penetrated through the foliage of the walks. He discontinued all the vigorous exercises he had enjoyed through life, since Raoul was no longer with him. The servants, accustomed to see him stirring with the dawn at all seasons, were astonished to hear seven o’clock strike before their master had quitted his bed. Athos remained in bed with a book under his pillow; but he did not sleep, neither did he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer have to carry his body, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from their envelope, and return to his son or to God.

His people were sometimes terrified to see him for hours together absorbed in a silent revery, mute and insensible; he no longer heard the timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to watch the sleeping or waking of his master. It sometimes happened that he forgot that the day had half passed away, that the hours for the first two meals were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to his shady walk, then came out a little into the sun, as if to partake its warmth for a minute with his absent child; and then the dismal, monotonous walk was resumed, until, quite exhausted, he regained the chamber and the bed,- his domicil by choice. For several days the count did not speak a word; he refused to receive the visits that were paid him, and during the night he was seen to relight his lamp and pass long hours in writing letters or examining parchments.

Athos wrote one of these letters to Vannes, another to Fontainebleau; they remained without answers. We know why Aramis had quitted France, and d’Artagnan was travelling from Nantes to Paris, from Paris to Pierrefonds. Athos’s valet de chambre observed that he shortened his walk every day by several turns. The great alley of limes soon became too long for feet that used to traverse it a hundred times in a day. The count walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himself upon a mossy bank which sloped towards a side path, and there waited the return of his strength, or rather the return of night. Very shortly a hundred steps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to rise at all; he declined all nourishment, and his terrified people,- although he did not complain, although he had a smile on his lips, although he continued to speak with his sweet voice,- his people went to Blois in search of the old physician of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the Comte de la Fere in such a fashion that he could see the count without being himself seen. For this purpose they placed him in a closet adjoining the chamber of the patient, and implored him not to show himself, in the fear of displeasing their master, who had not asked for a physician. The doctor obeyed: Athos was a sort of model for the gentlemen of the country; the Blaisois boasted of possessing this sacred relic of the old French glories. Athos was a great seigneur, compared with such nobles as the King improvised by touching with his yellow and prolific sceptre the dry trunks of the heraldic trees of the province.

People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician could not bear to see his people weep, and to see flock round him the poor of the canton, to whom Athos gave life and consolation by his kind words and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the depths of his hiding-place, the nature of that mysterious malady which bent down and devoured more mortally every day a man but lately so full of life and of a desire to live. He remarked upon the cheeks of Athos the purple of fever, which fires itself and feeds itself,- slow fever, pitiless, born in a fold of the heart, sheltering itself behind that rampart, growing from the suffering it engenders, at once cause and effect of a perilous situation. The count spoke to nobody, we say; he did not even talk to himself. His thought feared noise; it approached to that degree of over-excitement which borders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he does not yet belong to God, already belongs no longer to earth. The doctor remained for several hours studying this painful struggle of the will against a superior power; he was terrified at seeing those eyes always fixed, always directed towards an invisible object, at seeing beat with the same movement that heart from which never a sigh arose to vary the melancholy state. Sometimes the acuteness of pain awakens hope in the mind of a physician. Half a day passed away thus. The doctor formed his resolution like a brave man, like a man of firm mind; he issued suddenly from his place of retreat, and went straight up to Athos, who saw him without evincing more surprise than if he had not perceived the apparition.

“Monsieur the Count, I crave your pardon,” said the doctor, coming up to the patient with open arms; “but I have a reproach to make you. You shall hear me.” And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who with difficulty roused himself from his preoccupation.

“What is the matter, Doctor?” asked the count, after a silence.

“Why, the matter is, you are ill, Monsieur, and have had no advice.”

“I, ill!” said Athos, smiling.

“Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, Monsieur the Count.”

“Weakness!” replied Athos; “is that possible? I do not get up.”

“Come, come, Monsieur the Count, no subterfuges; you are a good Christian?”

“I hope so,” said Athos.

“Would you kill yourself?”

“Never, Doctor.”

“Well, Monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so; to remain thus is suicide. Get well, Monsieur the Count! get well!”

“Of what? Find the disease first. For my part, I never knew myself better. Never did the sky appear more blue to me; never did I value more my flowers.”

“You have a concealed grief.”

“Concealed! not at all. I have the absence of my son, Doctor,- that is my malady, and I do not conceal it.”

“Monsieur the Count, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the future before him of men of his merit and of his race; live for him-”

“But I do live, Doctor; oh! be satisfied of that,” added he, with a melancholy smile. “As long as Raoul lives, it will be plainly known,- for as long as he lives, I shall live.”

“What do you say?”

“A very simple thing. At this moment, Doctor, I allow my life to be in a state of suspense. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life would be above my strength now that I have Raoul no longer with me. You do not ask the lamp to burn when the spark has not lighted the flame; do not ask me to live noisily and brilliantly. I vegetate, I prepare myself, I wait. Look, Doctor; you remember those soldiers we have so often seen together at the ports, where they were waiting to embark,- lying down, indifferent, half upon one element, half upon the other. They were neither at the place where the sea was going to carry them nor at the place where the earth was going to lose them; baggage prepared, minds upon the stretch, looks fixed,- they waited. I repeat that word; it is the one which describes my present life. Lying down, like the soldiers, my ear on the alert for the reports that may reach me, I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons. Who will make me that summons,- life or death, God or Raoul? My baggage is packed; my soul is prepared; I await the signal. I wait, Doctor, I wait!”

The doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strength of that body. He reflected for a moment, told himself that words were useless, remedies absurd; and he left the château, exhorting Athos’s servants not to leave him for a moment.

The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation at having been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that came should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that every distraction which should arrive would be a joy, a hope, which his servants would have paid with their blood to procure him. Sleep had become rare. By force of thought, Athos forgot himself, for a few hours at most in a revery more profound, more obscure than other people would have called a revery. The momentary repose which this forgetfulness afforded the body, fatigued the soul,- for Athos lived a double life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night, he dreamed that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent to go upon an expedition commanded by M. de Beaufort in person. The young man was sad; he clasped his cuirass slowly, and slowly he girded on his sword.

“What is the matter?” asked his father, tenderly.

“What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, our so dear friend,” replied Raoul. “I suffer here for the grief you will feel at home.”

And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one of his servants entered his master’s apartments, and gave him a letter which came from Spain.

“The writing of Aramis,” thought the count; and he read.

“Porthos is dead!” cried he, after the first lines. “Oh, Raoul, Raoul, thanks! thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!”

And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed, without any other cause than his weakness.

The Vision of Athos

When this fainting of Athos had ceased, the count, almost ashamed of having given way before this supernatural event, dressed himself and ordered his horse, determined to ride to Blois to open more certain correspondence with either Raoul, d’Artagnan, or Aramis. In fact, this letter from Aramis informed the Comte de la Fere of the bad success of the expedition of Belle-Isle. It gave him sufficient details of the death of Porthos to move the tender and devoted heart of Athos to its last fibres. Athos wished to go and pay his friend Porthos a last visit. To render this honor to his companion in arms, he meant to send to d’Artagnan, to prevail upon him to re-commence the painful voyage to Belle-Isle, to accomplish in his company that sad pilgrimage to the tomb of the giant he had so much loved; then he would return to his dwelling to obey that secret influence which was conducting him to eternity by a mysterious road. But scarcely had his joyous servants dressed their master, whom they saw with pleasure preparing himself for a journey which might dissipate his melancholy; scarcely had the count’s gentlest horse been saddled and brought to the door,- when the father of Raoul felt his head become confused, his legs give way, and he clearly perceived the impossibility of going one step farther. He ordered himself to be carried into the sun; they laid him upon his bed of moss, where he passed a full hour before he could recover his spirits. Nothing could be more natural than this weakness after the inert repose of the latter days. Athos took a bouillon to give him strength, and bathed his dried lips in a glassful of the wine he loved the best,- that old Anjou wine mentioned by Porthos in his admirable will. Then, refreshed, free in mind, he had his horse brought again; but he required the aid of his servants to mount painfully into the saddle. He did not go a hundred paces; a shivering seized him again at the turning of the road. “This is very strange!” said he to his valet de chambre, who accompanied him.

“Let us stop, Monsieur, I conjure you!” replied the faithful servant; “how pale you are becoming!”

“That will not prevent my pursuing my route, now I have once started,” replied the count; and he gave his horse his head again. But suddenly the animal, instead of obeying the thought of his master, stopped. A movement of which Athos was unconscious had checked the bit.

“Something,” said Athos, “wills that I should go no farther. Support me,” added he, stretching out his arms; “quick! come closer! I feel all my muscles relax, and I shall fall from my horse.”

The valet had seen the movement made by his master at the moment he received the order. He went up to him quickly, and received the count in his arms; and as they were still sufficiently near the house for the servants, who had remained at the door to watch their master’s departure, to perceive the disorder in the usually regular proceeding of the count, the valet called his comrades by gesture and voice, and all hastened to his assistance. Athos had gone but a few steps on his return when he felt himself better again. His strength seemed to revive, and with it the desire to go to Blois. He made his horse turn round; but at the animal’s first steps, he sank again into a state of torpor and anguish.

“Well, decidedly,” said he, “It is willed that I should stay at home.” His people flocked around him; they lifted him from his horse and carried him as quickly as possible into the house. Everything was soon prepared in his chamber, and they put him to bed.

“You will be sure to remember,” said he, disposing himself to sleep, “that I expect letters from Africa this very day.”

“Monsieur will no doubt hear with pleasure that Blaisois’s son is gone on horseback, to gain an hour over the courier of Blois,” replied his valet de chambre.

“Thank you,” replied Athos, with his kindly smile.

The count fell asleep, but his disturbed slumber resembled suffering more than repose. The servant who watched him saw several times the expression of interior torture imprinted upon his features. Perhaps Athos was dreaming.

The day passed away. Blaisois’s son returned; the courier had brought no news. The count reckoned the minutes with despair; he shuddered when those minutes had formed an hour. The idea that he was forgotten seized him once, and brought on a fearful pang of the heart. Everybody in the house had given up all hopes of the courier, his hour had long passed. Four times the express sent to Blois had repeated his journey, and there was nothing to the address of the count. Athos knew that the courier arrived only once a week. Here, then, was a delay of eight mortal days to be endured. He began the night in this painful persuasion. All that a sick man, irritated by suffering, can add of melancholy suppositions to probabilities always sad, Athos heaped up during the early hours of this dismal night. The fever rose; it invaded the chest, where the fire soon caught, according to the expression of the physician, who had been brought back from Blois by the son of Blaisois on his last journey. It soon reached the head. The physician made two successive bleedings, which unlodged it, but left the patient very weak, and without power of action except in his brain; and yet this redoubtable fever had ceased. It attacked with its last strokes the stiffened extremities; and as midnight struck it yielded.

The physician, seeing the incontestable improvement, returned to Blois, after having ordered some prescriptions, declaring that the count was saved. Then began for Athos a strange, indefinable state. Free to think, his mind turned towards Raoul, that beloved son. His imagination painted the fields of Africa in the environs of Djidgelli, where M. de Beaufort was to land his army. There were gray rocks, rendered green in certain parts by the waters of the sea when it lashed the shore in storms and tempests. Beyond the shore, strewed over with these rocks like tombs, ascended, in form of an amphitheatre among mastic-trees and cactus, a sort of village, full of smoke, confused noises, and terrified movements. Suddenly, from the bosom of this smoke arose a flame, which, gaining headway, presently covered the whole surface of this village, and increased by degrees, including in its red vortices tears, cries, arms extended towards heaven.

There was, for a moment, a frightful pele-mele of timbers falling, of swords broken, of stones calcined, of trees burned and disappearing. It was a strange thing that in this chaos, in which Athos distinguished raised arms, in which he heard cries, sobs, and groans, he did not see one human figure. The cannon thundered at a distance, musketry cracked, the sea moaned, flocks made their escape, bounding over the verdant slope; but not a soldier to apply the match to the batteries of cannon, not a sailor to assist in manoeuvering the fleet, not a shepherd for the flocks. After the ruin of the village and the destruction of the forts which commanded it,- a ruin and a destruction operated magically without the cooperation of a single human being,- the flame was extinguished, the smoke began to descend, then diminished in intensity, paled, and disappeared entirely. Night then came over the scene,- a night dark upon the earth, brilliant in the firmament. The large, blazing stars which sparkled in the African sky shone without lighting anything even around them.

A long silence ensued, which gave, for a moment, repose to the troubled imagination of Athos; and as he felt that that which he saw was not terminated, he applied his observation more attentively to the strange spectacle which his imagination had presented. This spectacle was soon continued for him. A mild and pale moon arose behind the declivities of the coast, and streaking at first the undulating ripples of the sea, which appeared to have calmed after the roarings it had sent forth during the vision of Athos,- the moon, we say, shed its diamonds and opals upon the briers and bushes of the hill. The gray rocks, like so many silent and attentive phantoms, appeared to raise their verdant heads to examine likewise the field of battle by the light of the moon; and Athos perceived that that field, entirely empty during the combat, was now strewn with fallen bodies.

An inexpressible shudder of fear and horror seized the soul of Athos when he recognized the white and blue uniform of the soldiers of Picardy, with their long pikes and blue handles, and their muskets marked with the fleur-de-lis on the butts; when he saw all the gaping, cold wounds looking up to the azure heavens as if to demand back of them the souls to which they had opened a passage; when he saw the slaughtered horses, stiff, with their tongues hanging out at one side of their mouths, sleeping in the icy blood pooled around them, staining their furniture and their manes; when he saw the white horse of M. de Beaufort, with his head beaten to pieces, in the first ranks of the dead. Athos passed a cold hand over his brow, which he was astonished not to find burning. He was convinced by this touch that he was present as a spectator, without fever, on the day after a battle fought upon the shores of Djidgelli by the army of the expedition which he had seen leave the coasts of France and disappear in the horizon, and of which he had saluted with thought and gesture the last cannon-shot fired by the duke as a signal of farewell to his country.

Who can paint the mortal agony with which his soul followed, like a vigilant eye, the trace of those dead bodies, and examined them, one after the other, to see if Raoul slept among them? Who can express the intoxication of joy with which Athos bowed before God, and gave thanks for not having seen him he sought with so much fear among the dead? In fact, fallen dead in their ranks, stiff, icy, all these dead, easy to be recognized, seemed to turn with kindness and respect towards the Comte de la Fere, to be the better seen by him during his funereal inspection. But yet he was astonished while viewing all these bodies, not to perceive the survivors. To such a point did the illusion extend, that this vision was for the father a real voyage made by him into Africa, to obtain more exact information respecting his son.

Fatigued, therefore, with having traversed seas and continents, he sought repose under one of the tents sheltered behind a rock, on the top of which floated the white fleurdelise pennon. He looked for a soldier to conduct him to the tent of M. de Beaufort. Then, while his eye was wandering over the plain, turning in all directions, he saw a white form appear behind the resinous myrtles. This figure was clothed in the costume of an officer; it held in its hand a broken sword; it advanced slowly towards Athos, who, stopping short and fixing his eyes upon it, neither spoke nor moved, but wished to open his arms, because in this silent and pale officer he had just recognized Raoul. The count attempted to utter a cry; but it remained stifled in his throat. Raoul with a gesture directed him to be silent, placing his finger on his lips and drawing back by degrees, without Athos being able to see any motion of his legs. The count, more pale than Raoul, more trembling, followed his son, traversing painfully briers and bushes, stones and ditches, Raoul appearing not to touch the earth, and no obstacle impeding the lightness of his march. The count, whom the inequalities of the path fatigued, soon stopped exhausted. Raoul still continued to beckon him to follow him. The tender father, to whom love restored strength, made a last effort and climbed the mountain after the young man, who drew him onward by his gesture and his smile.

At length Athos gained the crest of the hill, and saw, thrown out in black upon the horizon whitened by the moon, the airy, visionary form of Raoul. Athos stretched out his hand to get closer to his beloved son upon the plateau, and the latter also stretched out his; but suddenly, as if the young man had been drawn away in spite of himself, still retreating, he left the earth; and Athos saw the clear blue sky shine between the feet of his child and the ground of the hill. Raoul rose insensibly into the void, still smiling, still inviting with a gesture; he departed towards heaven. Athos uttered a cry of terrified tenderness. He looked below again. He saw a camp destroyed, and all those white bodies of the royal army, like so many motionless atoms. And then, when raising his head, he saw still, still, his son beckoning him to ascend with him.

The Angel of Death

Athos was at this part of his marvelous vision when the charm was suddenly broken by a great noise rising from the outward gates of the house. A horse was heard galloping over the hard gravel of the great alley; and the sound of noisy and animated conversations ascended to the chamber in which the count was dreaming. Athos did not stir from the place he occupied; he scarcely turned his head towards the door to ascertain the sooner what these noises could be. A heavy step ascended the stairs; the horse which had recently galloped with such rapidity departed slowly towards the stables. Great hesitation appeared in the steps which by degrees approached the chamber of Athos. A door then was opened, and Athos, turning a little towards the part of the room the noise came from, cried in a weak voice, “It is a courier from Africa, is it not?”

“No, Monsieur the Count,” replied a voice which made the father of Raoul start upright in his bed.

“Grimaud!” murmured he; and the sweat began to pour down his cheeks. Grimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we have seen, still young with courage and devotion, when he jumped the first into the boat which was to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the vessels of the royal fleet. He was a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered with dust, his few scattered hairs whitened by old age. He trembled while leaning against the door-frame, and was near falling on seeing by the light of the lamps the countenance of his master. These two men, who had lived so long together in a community of intelligence, and whose eyes, accustomed to economize expressions, knew how to say so many things silently- these two old friends, one as noble as the other in heart, if they were unequal in fortune and birth, remained silent while looking at each other. By the exchange of a single glance they had just read to the bottom of each other’s heart. Grimaud bore upon his countenance the impression of a grief already old, of a familiarity with sorrow. He appeared now to have at his command but one interpreter of his thought. As formerly he was accustomed not to speak, he now had accustomed himself not to smile. Athos read at a glance all these shades upon the visage of his faithful servant, and in the same tone he would have employed to speak to Raoul in his dream, “Grimaud,” said he, “Raoul is dead, is he not?”

Behind Grimaud the other servants listened breathlessly, with their eyes fixed upon the bed of their sick master. They heard the terrible question, and an awful silence ensued.

“Yes,” replied the old man, heaving up the monosyllable from his chest with a hoarse broken sigh.

Then arose voices of lamentation, which groaned without measure, and filled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the agonized father searched with his eyes the portrait of his son. This was for Athos a transition which led him to his dream. Without uttering a cry, without shedding a tear, patient, mild, resigned as a martyr, he raised his eyes towards heaven, in order to there see again, rising above the mountain of Djidgelli, the beloved shade which was leaving him at the moment of Grimaud’s arrival. Without doubt, while looking towards the heavens, when resuming his marvelous dream, he returned to the same road by which the vision, at once so terrible and so sweet, had led him before; for after having gently closed his eyes, he reopened them and began to smile,- he had just seen Raoul, who had smiled upon him. With his hands clasped upon his breast, his face turned towards the window, bathed by the fresh air of night, which brought to his pillow the aroma of the flowers and the woods, Athos entered, never again to come out of it, into the contemplation of that paradise which the living never see. God willed, no doubt, to open to this elect the treasures of eternal beatitude at the hour when other men tremble with the idea of being severely received by the Lord, and cling to this life they know, in the dread of the other life of which they get a glimpse by the dismal murky torches of death. Athos was guided by the pure and serene soul of his son, which aspired to be like the paternal soul. Everything for this just man was melody and perfume in the rough road which souls take to return to the celestial country. After an hour of this ecstasy, Athos softly raised his hands as white as wax; the smile did not quit his lips, and he murmured low, so low as scarcely to be audible, these three words addressed to God or to Raoul, “Here I am!” And his hands fell down slowly, as if he himself had laid them on the bed.

Death had been kind and mild to this noble creature. It had spared him the tortures of the agony, the convulsions of the last departure; it had opened with an indulgent finger the gates of eternity to that noble soul worthy of all its respect. God had no doubt ordered it thus, that the pious remembrance of this death should remain in the hearts of those present and in the memory of other men,- a death which made the passage from this life to the other seem desirable to those whose existence upon this earth leads them not to dread the last judgment. Athos preserved, even in the eternal sleep, his placid and sincere smile,- an ornament which was to accompany him to the tomb. The quietude of his features, the peacefulness of his departure, made his servants for a long time doubt whether he had really quitted life.

The count’s people wished to remove Grimaud, who from a distance devoured the face become so pale, and did not approach from the pious fear of bringing to him the breath of death. But Grimaud, fatigued as he was, refused to leave the room. He seated himself upon the threshold, watching his master with the vigilance of a sentinel and jealous to receive either his first waking look or his last dying sigh. The noises were all hushed in the house, and every one respected the slumber of their lord. But Grimaud, anxiously listening, perceived that the count no longer breathed. He raised himself, with his hands resting on the ground, and looked to see if there did not appear some motion in the body of his master. Nothing! Fear seized him; he rose up, and at the very moment heard some one coming up the stairs. A noise of spurs knocking against a sword- a warlike sound, familiar to his ears- stopped him as he was going towards the bed of Athos. A voice more sonorous still than brass or steel resounded within three paces of him.

“Athos! Athos! my friend!” cried this voice, agitated even to tears.

“M. le Chevalier d’Artagnan!” faltered out Grimaud.

“Where is he? Where is he?” continued the musketeer.

Grimaud seized his arm in his bony fingers, and pointed to the bed, upon the sheets of which the livid tints of the dead already showed.

A choked breath, the opposite to a sharp cry, swelled the throat of d’Artagnan. He advanced on tiptoe, trembling, frightened at the noise his feet made upon the floor, and his heart rent by a nameless agony. He placed his ear to the breast of Athos, his face to the count’s mouth. Neither noise nor breath! D’Artagnan drew back. Grimaud, who had followed him with his eyes, and for whom each of his movements had been a revelation, came timidly and seated himself at the foot of the bed and closely pressed his lips to the sheet which was raised by the stiffened feet of his master. Then large drops began to flow from his red eyes. This old man in despair, who wept, bowed down without uttering a word, presented the most moving spectacle that d’Artagnan, in a life so filled with emotion, had ever seen.

The captain remained standing in contemplation before that smiling dead man, who seemed to have kept his last thought to give to his best friend, to the man he had loved next to Raoul,- a gracious welcome even beyond life; and as if to reply to that exalted flattery of hospitality, d’Artagnan went and kissed Athos fervently on the brow, and with his trembling fingers closed his eyes. Then he seated himself by the pillow without dread of that dead man, who had been so kind and affectionate to him for thirty-five years; he fed himself greedily with the remembrances which the noble visage of the count brought to his mind in crowds,- some blooming and charming as that smile; some dark, dismal, and icy as that face with its eyes closed for eternity.

All at once, the bitter flood which mounted from minute to minute invaded his heart and swelled his breast almost to bursting. Incapable of mastering his emotion, he arose; and tearing himself violently from the chamber where he had just found dead him to whom he came to report the news of the death of Porthos, he uttered sobs so heart-rending that the servants, who seemed only to wait for an explosion of grief, answered to it by their lugubrious clamors, and the dogs of the late count by their lamentable howlings. Grimaud was the only one who did not lift up his voice. Even in the paroxysm of his grief he would not have dared to profane the dead, or for the first time disturb the slumber of his master. Besides, Athos had accustomed him never to speak.

At daybreak, d’Artagnan, who had wandered about the lower hall, biting his fingers to stifle his sighs, went up once more; and watching the moment when Grimaud turned his head towards him, he made him a sign to come to him, which the faithful servant obeyed without making more noise than a shadow. D’Artagnan went down again, followed by Grimaud; and when he had gained the vestibule, taking the old man’s hands, “Grimaud,” said he, “I have seen how the father died; now let me know how the son died.”

Grimaud drew from his breast a large letter, upon the envelope of which was traced the address of Athos. D’Artagnan recognized the writing of M. de Beaufort, broke the seal, and began to read, walking about in the first blue rays of day in the dark alley of old limes, marked by the still visible footsteps of the count who had just died.

The Bulletin

The Duc de Beaufort wrote to Athos. The letter destined for the living only reached the dead. God had changed the address.

“My Dear Count,” wrote the Prince in his large, bad, schoolboy’s hand,- “a great misfortune has struck us amid a great triumph. The King loses one of the bravest of soldiers; I lose a friend; you lose M. de Bragelonne.

“He has died gloriously, and so gloriously that I have not the strength to weep as I could wish.

“Receive my sad compliments, my dear Count. Heaven distributes trials according to the greatness of our hearts. This trial is very great, but not above your courage.

“Your good friend,

“Le Duc De Beaufort.”

The letter contained a relation written by one of the Prince’s secretaries. It was the most touching recital, and the most true, of that dismal episode which destroyed two lives. D’Artagnan, accustomed to battle emotions, and with a heart armed against tenderness, could not help starting on reading the name of Raoul,- the name of that beloved boy who had become, as his father had, a shade.

“In the morning,” said the Prince’s secretary, “Monseigneur commanded the attack. Normandy and Picardy had taken position in the gray rocks dominated by the heights of the mountains, upon the declivity of which were raised the bastions of Djidgelli.

“The cannon beginning to fire opened the action; the regiments marched full of resolution; the pikemen had their pikes elevated; the bearers of muskets had their weapons ready. The Prince followed attentively the march and movements of the troops, so as to be able to sustain them with a strong reserve. With Monseigneur were the oldest captains and his aides-decamp. M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne had received orders not to leave his Highness. In the mean time the enemy’s cannon, which at first had thundered with little success against the masses, had regulated its fire; and the balls, better directed, had killed several men near the Prince. The regiments formed in column, and advancing against the ramparts were rather roughly handled. There was a hesitation in our troops, who found themselves ill seconded by the artillery. In fact, the batteries which had been established the evening before had but a weak and uncertain aim, on account of their position. The direction from below to above lessened the accuracy of the shots as well as their range.

“Monseigneur, comprehending the bad effect of this position of the siege artillery, commanded the frigates moored in the little roadstead to begin a regular fire against the place. M. de Bragelonne offered himself at once to carry this order; but Monseigneur refused to acquiesce in the viscount’s request. Monseigneur was right, for he loved and wished to spare the young nobleman. He was quite right, and the event justified his foresight and refusal,- for scarcely had the sergeant charged with the message solicited by M. de Bragelonne gained the sea-shore, when two shots from long carbines issued from the enemy’s ranks and laid him low. The sergeant fell, dyeing the sand with his blood; observing which, M. de Bragelonne smiled at Monseigneur, who said to him, ‘You see, Viscount, I have saved your life. Report that, some day, to M. le Comte de la Fere, in order that learning it from you he may thank me.’ The young nobleman smiled sadly, and replied to the duke, ‘It is true, Monseigneur, that but for your kindness I should have been killed down there where the poor sergeant has fallen, and should be at rest.’ M. de Bragelonne made this reply in such a tone that Monseigneur answered him warmly: ‘Good God! young man, one would say that your mouth waters for death; but, by the soul of Henry IV, I have promised your father to bring you back alive; and please the Lord, I will keep my word.’

“M. de Bragelonne colored, and replied in a lower voice, ‘Monseigneur, pardon me, I beseech you; I have always had the desire to go to meet good opportunities; and it is so delightful to distinguish ourselves before our general, particularly when that general is M. le Duc de Beaufort.’

“Monseigneur was a little softened by this; and turning to the officers who surrounded him, gave his different orders. The grenadiers of the two regiments got near enough to the ditches and the intrenchments to launch their grenades, which had but little effect. In the mean while, M. d’Estrees, who commanded the fleet, having seen the attempt of the sergeant to approach the vessels, understood that he must act without orders, and opened his fire. Then the Arabs, finding themselves seriously injured by the balls from the fleet, and beholding the destruction and the ruins of their bad walls, uttered the most fearful cries. Their horsemen descended the mountain at the gallop, bent over their saddles and rushed full tilt upon the columns of infantry, which crossing their pikes stopped this mad assault. Repulsed by the firm attitude of the battalion, the Arabs threw themselves with great fury upon the commander’s position, which at that moment was not protected.

“The danger was great; Monseigneur drew his sword; his secretaries and people imitated him; the officers of the suite engaged in combat with the furious Arabs. It was then that M. de Bragelonne was able to gratify the inclination he had manifested from the beginning of the action. He fought near the Prince with the valor of a Roman, and killed three Arabs with his small sword. But it was evident that his bravery did not arise from the sentiment of pride natural to all who fight. It was impetuous, affected, forced even; he sought to intoxicate himself with noise and carnage. He excited himself to such a degree that Monseigneur called out to him to stop. He must have heard the voice of Monseigneur, because we who were close to him heard it. He did not, however, stop, but continued his course towards the intrenchments. As M. de Bragelonne was a well-disciplined officer, this disobedience to the orders of Monseigneur very much surprised everybody, and M. de Beaufort redoubled his earnestness, crying, ‘Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you going? Stop,’ repeated Monseigneur, ‘I command you!’

“We all, imitating the gesture of Monsieur the Duke,- we all raised our hands. We expected that the cavalier would turn bridle; but M. de Bragelonne continued to ride towards the palisades.

“‘Stop, Bragelonne!’ repeated the Prince, in a very loud voice; ‘stop! in the name of your father!’

“At these words M. de Bragelonne turned round, his countenance expressed a lively grief; but he did not stop. We then concluded that his horse must have run away with him. When Monsieur the Duke had imagined that the viscount was not master of his horse, and had seen him precede the first grenadiers, his Highness cried, ‘Musketeers, kill his horse! A hundred pistoles for him who shall kill his horse!’ But who could expect to hit the beast without at least wounding his rider? No one durst venture. At length one presented himself; he was a sharpshooter of the regiment of Picardy, named Luzerne, who took aim at the animal, fired, and hit him in the quarters, for we saw the blood redden the hair of the horse. Instead of falling, the cursed genet carried him on more furiously than ever. Every Picard who saw this unfortunate young man rushing on to meet death, shouted in the loudest manner, ‘Throw yourself off, Monsieur the Viscount! off! off! throw yourself off!’ M. de Bragelonne was an officer much beloved in the army! Already had the viscount arrived within pistol-shot of the ramparts; a discharge was poured upon him and enveloped him in its fire and smoke. We lost sight of him; the smoke dispersed; he was on foot, standing; his horse was killed.

“The viscount was summoned to surrender by the Arabs, but he made them a negative sign with his head, and continued to march towards the palisades. This was a mortal imprudence. Nevertheless, the whole army was pleased that he would not retreat, since ill chance had led him so near. He marched a few paces farther, and the two regiments clapped their hands. It was at this moment the second discharge shook the walls, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne again disappeared in the smoke; but this time the smoke was dispersed in vain,- we no longer saw him standing. He was down, with his head lower than his legs, among the bushes; and the Arabs began to think of leaving their intrenchments to come and cut off his head or take his body, as is their custom with infidels. But Monseigneur le Duc de Beaufort had followed all this with his eyes, and the sad spectacle drew from him many and painful sighs. He then cried aloud, seeing the Arabs running like white phantoms among the mastic-trees, ‘Grenadiers! pikemen! will you let them take that noble body?’

“Saying these words and waving his sword, he himself rode towards the enemy. The regiments, rushing in his steps, ran in their turn, uttering cries as terrible as those of the Arabs were wild.

“The combat began over the body of M. de Bragelonne; and with such inveteracy was it fought that a hundred and sixty Arabs were left upon the field by the side of at least fifty of our troops. It was a lieutenant from Normandy who took the body of the viscount on his shoulders and carried it back to the lines. The advantage was, however, pursued; the regiments took the reserve with them; and the enemy’s palisades were destroyed. At three o’clock the fire of the Arabs ceased. The hand to hand fight lasted two hours; that was a massacre. At five o’clock we were victorious on all the points; the enemy had abandoned his positions, and Monsieur the Duke had ordered the white flag to be planted upon the culminating point of the little mountain. It was then we had time to think of M. de Bragelonne, who had eight large wounds through his body, by which almost all his blood had escaped. Still, however, he breathed, which afforded inexpressible joy to Monseigneur, who insisted upon being present at the first dressing of the wounds and at the consultation of the surgeons. There were two among them who declared M. de Bragelonne would live. Monseigneur threw his arms round their necks, and promised them a thousand louis each if they could save him.

“The viscount heard these transports of joy, and whether he was in despair, or whether he suffered much from his wounds, he expressed by his countenance a contradiction which gave rise to reflection, particularly in one of the secretaries when he had heard what follows. The third surgeon was Frere Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most learned of ours. He probed the wounds in his turn, and said nothing. M. de Bragelonne fixed his eyes steadily upon the skillful surgeon, and seemed to interrogate his every movement. The latter, upon being questioned by Monseigneur, replied that he saw plainly three mortal wounds out of eight, but so strong was the constitution of the wounded, so rich was he in youth, and so merciful was the goodness of God that perhaps M. de Bragelonne might recover, particularly if he did not move in the slightest manner. Frere Sylvain added, turning towards his assistants, ‘Above everything, do not allow him to move even a finger, or you will kill him’; and we all left the tent in very low spirits. That secretary I have mentioned, on leaving the tent, thought he perceived a faint and sad smile glide over the lips of M. de Bragelonne when the duke said to him in a cheerful, kind voice, ‘We shall save you, Viscount, we shall save you!’

“In the evening, when it was believed the wounded young man had taken some repose, one of the assistants entered his tent, but rushed immediately out again, uttering loud cries. We all ran up in disorder, Monsieur the Duke with us; and the assistant pointed to the body of M. de Bragelonne upon the ground at the foot of his bed, bathed in the remainder of his blood. It appeared that he had had some convulsion, some febrile movement, and that he had fallen; that the fall had accelerated his end, according to the prediction of Frere Sylvain. We raised the viscount; he was cold and dead. He held a lock of fair hair in his right hand, and that hand was pressed tightly upon his heart.”

Then followed the details of the expedition, and of the victory obtained over the Arabs. D’Artagnan stopped at the account of the death of poor Raoul. “Oh,” murmured he, “unhappy boy! a suicide!’ And turning his eyes towards the chamber of the château in which Athos slept in eternal sleep, “They kept their promise to each other,” said he, in a low voice. “Now I believe them to be happy; they must be reunited”; and he returned through the parterre with slow and melancholy steps. All the village, all the neighborhood, was filled with grieving neighbors relating to one another the double catastrophe, and making preparations for the funeral.

The Last Canto of the Poem

On the morrow all the nobility of the provinces, of the environs, and from wherever messengers had carried the news, were seen to arrive. D’Artagnan had shut himself up, unwilling to speak to anybody. Two such heavy deaths falling upon the captain so closely after the death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit which had hitherto been so indefatigable and invulnerable. Except Grimaud, who entered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants nor guests. He supposed, from the noises in the house and the continual coming and going, that preparations were making for the funeral of the count. He wrote to the King to ask for an extension of his leave of absence. Grimaud, as we have said, had entered d’Artagnan’s apartment, had seated himself upon a joint stool near the door, like a man who meditates profoundly; then, rising, he made a sign to d’Artagnan to follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the count’s bed-chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the empty bed, and raised his eyes eloquently towards Heaven.

“Yes,” replied d’Artagnan; “yes, good Grimaud,- now with the son he loved so much!”

Grimaud left the chamber and led the way to the hall where, according to the custom of the province, the body was laid out previously to its being buried forever. D’Artagnan was struck at seeing two open coffins in the hall. In reply to the mute invitation of Grimaud, he approached and saw in one of them Athos, still handsome in death, and in the other Raoul, with his eyes closed, his cheeks pearly as those of the Pallas of Virgil, with a smile on his violet lips. He shuddered at seeing the father and son, those two departed souls, represented on earth by two silent, melancholy bodies, incapable of touching each other, however close they might be. “Raoul here?” murmured he; “oh, Grimaud, why did you not tell me this?”

Grimaud shook his head and made no reply; but taking d’Artagnan by the hand, he led him to the coffin and showed him under the thin winding-sheet the black wounds by which life had escaped. The captain turned away his eyes, and judging it useless to question Grimaud, who would not answer, he recollected that M. de Beaufort’s secretary had written more than he, d’Artagnan, had had the courage to read. Taking up the recital of the affair which had cost Raoul his life, he found these words, which terminated the last paragraph of the letter:-

“Monsieur the Duke has ordered that the body of Monsieur the Viscount should be embalmed, after the manner practised by the Arabs when they wish their bodies to be carried to their native land; and Monsieur the Duke has appointed relays, so that a confidential servant who had brought up the young man might take back his remains to M. le Comte de la Fere.”

“And so,” thought d’Artagnan, “I shall follow thy funeral, my dear boy,- already old; I, who am of no value on earth,- and I shall scatter the dust upon that brow which I kissed but two months since. God has willed it to be so,- thou hast willed it to be so thyself; I have no longer the right even to weep. Thou hast chosen death; it hath seemed to thee preferable to life.”

At length arrived the moment when the cold remains of these two gentlemen were to be returned to the earth. There was such an affluence of military and other people that up to the place of sepulcher, which was a chapel in the plain, the road from the city was filled with horsemen and pedestrians in mourning habits. Athos had chosen for his resting-place the little enclosure of a chapel erected by himself near the boundary of his estates. He had had the stones, cut in 1550, brought from an old Gothic manor-house in Berry, which had sheltered his early youth. The chapel, thus rebuilt, thus transported, was pleasantly placed under the foliage of poplars and sycamores. Services were held in it every Sunday by the curd of the neighboring village, to whom Athos paid an allowance of two hundred livres for this purpose; and all the vassals of his domain, to the number of about forty,- the laborers and the farmers, with their families,- came hither to hear Mass, without need of going to the city.

Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of nut-trees, elders, whitethorns, and a deep ditch, the little enclosure,- uncultivated, it is true, but gay in its wildness; because the mosses there were high; because the wild heliotropes and wall-flowers there mixed their perfumes; because beneath the tall chestnuts issued a large spring, a prisoner in a cistern of marble; and upon the thyme all around alighted thousands of bees from the neighboring plains, while chaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully among the flowers of the hedge. It was to this place the two coffins were brought, attended by a silent and respectful crowd. The office of the dead being celebrated, the last adieux paid to the noble departed, the assembly dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and mild death of the father, of the hopes the son had given, and of his melancholy end upon the coast of Africa.

Gradually all noises were extinguished, as were the lamps illumining the humble nave. The minister bowed for a last time to the altar and the still fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant, who rang a hoarse bell, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery. D’Artagnan, left alone, perceived that night was coming on. He had forgotten the hour while thinking of the dead. He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated in the chapel, and wished, as the priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu to the double grave which contained his two lost friends.

A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D’Artagnan stopped at the door of the chapel to avoid disturbing this woman, and also to endeavor to see who was the pious friend who performed this sacred duty with so much zeal and perseverance. The unknown concealed her face in her hands, which were white as alabaster. From the noble simplicity of her costume, she seemed to be a woman of distinction. Outside the enclosure were several horses mounted by servants, and a travelling-carriage waiting for this lady. D’Artagnan in vain sought to make out what caused her delay. She continued praying; she frequently passed her handkerchief over her face,- by which d’Artagnan perceived that she was weeping. He saw her strike her breast with the pitiless compunction of a Christian woman. He heard her several times cry, as if from a wounded heart, “Pardon! pardon!” and as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to her grief, as she threw herself down, almost fainting, amid complaints and prayers, d’Artagnan, touched by this love for his so much regretted friends, made a few steps towards the grave, in order to interrupt the melancholy colloquy of the penitent with the dead. But as soon as his step sounded on the gravel, the unknown raised her head, revealing to d’Artagnan a face bathed with tears, but a well-known face; it was Mademoiselle de la Valliere. “M. d’Artagnan!” murmured she.

“You!” replied the captain in a stern voice, “you here! Oh, Madame, I should better have liked to see you decked with flowers in the mansion of the Comte de la Fere. You would have wept less- they too- I too!”

“Monsieur!” she said, sobbing.

“For it is you,” added this pitiless friend of the dead,- “it is you who have laid these two men in the grave.”

“Oh, spare me!”

“God forbid, Madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I should make her weep in vain! but I must say that the place of the murderer is not upon the grave of her victims.” She wished to reply. “What I now tell you,” added he, coldly, “I told the King.”

She clasped her hands. “I know,” said she, “I have caused the death of the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

“Ah! you know it?”

“The news arrived at court yesterday. I have travelled during the night forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the count, whom I supposed to be still living, and to supplicate God upon the tomb of Raoul that he would send me all the misfortunes I have merited, except a single one. Now, Monsieur, I know that the death of the son has killed the father. I have two crimes to reproach myself with; I have two punishments to look for from God.”

“I will repeat to you, Mademoiselle,” said d’Artagnan, “what M. de Bragelonne said of you at Antibes, when he already meditated death: ‘If pride and coquetry have misled her, I pardon her while despising her. If love has produced her error, I pardon her, swearing that no one could have loved her as I have done.’”

“You know,” interrupted Louise, “that for my love I was about to sacrifice myself; you know whether I suffered when you met me, lost, dying, abandoned. Well! never have I suffered so much as now; because then I hoped, I desired,- now I have nothing to wish for; because this death drags away all my joy into the tomb; because I can no longer dare to love without remorse, and I feel that he whom I love- oh! that is the law- will repay me with the tortures I have made others undergo.”

D’Artagnan made no reply; he was too well convinced that she was not mistaken.

“Well, then,” added she, “dear M. d’Artagnan, do not overwhelm me today, I again implore you. I am like the branch torn from the trunk, I no longer hold to anything in this world, and a current drags me on, I know not whither. I love madly, I love to the point of coming to tell it, impious as I am, over the ashes of the dead; and I do not blush for it,- I have no remorse on account of it. This love is a religion. Only, as hereafter you will see me, alone, forgotten, disdained; as you will see me punished with that with which I am destined to be punished, spare me in my ephemeral happiness, leave it to me for a few days, for a few minutes. Now, even at the moment I am speaking to you perhaps it no longer exists. My God! This double murder is perhaps already expiated!”

While she was speaking thus, the sound of voices and the tread of horses drew the attention of the captain. M. de Saint-Aignan came to seek La Valliere. The King, he said, was a prey to jealousy and uneasinesss. De Saint-Aignan did not see d’Artagnan, half-concealed by the trunk of a chestnut-tree which shaded the two graves. Louise thanked De Saint-Aignan, and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined the party outside the enclosure.

“You see, Madame,” said the captain, bitterly, to the young woman,- “You see that your happiness still lasts.”

The young woman raised her head with a solemn air. “A day will come,” said she, “when you will repent of having judged me so harshly. On that day, it will be I who will pray God to forgive you for having been unjust towards me. Besides, I shall suffer so much that you will be the first to pity my sufferings. Do not reproach me with that happiness, M. d’Artagnan; it costs me dear, and I have not paid all my debt.” Saying these words, she again knelt down, softly and affectionately. “Pardon me, the last time, my affianced Raoul!” said she. “I have broken our chain; we are both destined to die of grief. It is thou who departest the first; fear nothing, I shall follow thee. See, only, that I have not been base, and that I have come to bid thee this last adieu. The Lord is my witness, Raoul, that if with my life I could have redeemed thine, I would have given that life without hesitation: I could not give my love. Once more, pardon!”

She gathered a branch and stuck it into the ground; then, wiping the tears from her eyes, she bowed to d’Artagnan and disappeared.

The captain watched the departure of the horses, horsemen, and carriage; then crossing his arms upon his swelling chest, “When will it be my turn to depart?” said he, in an agitated voice. “What is there left for man after youth, after love, after glory, after friendship, after strength, after riches? That rock, under which sleeps Porthos, who possessed all I have named; this moss, under which repose Athos and Raoul, who possessed still much more!”

He hesitated a moment with a dull eye; then, drawing himself up, “Forward! still forward!” said he. “When it shall be time, God will tell me, as he has told others.”

He touched the earth, moistened with the evening dew, with the tips of his fingers, made a sign as if he had been at the benitier of a church, and retook alone- ever alone- the road to Paris.

Epilogue

Four years after the scene we have just described, two horsemen, well mounted, traversed Blois early in the morning, for the purpose of arranging a birding-party which the King intended to make in that uneven plain which the Loire divides in two, and which borders on the one side on Meung, on the other on Amboise. These were the captain of the King’s harriers and the governor of the falcons- personages greatly respected in the time of Louis XIII, but rather neglected by his successor. These two horsemen, having reconnoitred the ground, were returning, their observations made, when they perceived some little groups of soldiers here and there whom the sergeants were placing at distances at the openings of the enclosures. These were the King’s Musketeers. Behind them came, upon a good horse, the captain, known by his richly embroidered uniform. His hair was gray, his beard was becoming so. He appeared a little bent, although sitting and handling his horse gracefully. He was looking upon him watchfully.

“M. d’Artagnan does not get any older,” said the captain of the harriers to his colleague the falconer; “with ten years more than either of us, he has the seat of a young man on horseback.”

“That is true,” replied the falconer. “I haven’t seen any change in him for the last twenty years.”

But this officer was mistaken; d’Artagnan in the last four years had lived twelve years. Age imprinted its pitiless claws at each corner of his eyes; his brow was bald; his hands, formerly brown and nervous, were getting white, as if the blood began to chill there.

D’Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which distinguishes superior men, and received in return for his courtesy two most respectful bows.

“Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, M. d’Artagnan!” cried the falconer.

“It is rather for me to say that to you, Messieurs,” replied the captain, “for nowadays the King makes more frequent use of his Musketeers than of his falcons.”

“Ah! it is not as it was in the good old times,” sighed the falconer. “Do you remember, M. d’Artagnan, when the late King flew the pie in the vineyards beyond Beaugency? Ah, dame! you were not captain of the Musketeers at that time, M. d’Artagnan.”

“And you were nothing but under-corporal of the tiercels,” replied d’Artagnan, laughing. “Never mind that; it was a good time, seeing that it is always a good time when we are young. Good-day, Monsieur the Captain of the harriers.”

“You do me honor, Monsieur the Count,” said the latter. D’Artagnan made no reply. The title of count had not struck him; d’Artagnan had been a count four years.

“Are you not very fatigued with the long journey you have had, Monsieur the Captain?” continued the falconer. “It must be full two hundred leagues from hence to Pignerol.”

“Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to come back,” said d’Artagnan, quietly.

“And,” said the falconer, “is he well?”

“Who?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Why, poor M. Fouquet,” continued the falconer, still in a low voice. The captain of the harriers had prudently withdrawn.

“No,” replied d’Artagnan, “the poor man frets terribly; he cannot comprehend how imprisonment can be a favor. He says that the parliament had absolved him by banishing him, and that banishment is liberty. He does not imagine that they have sworn his death, and that to save his life from the claws of the parliament would be to incur too much obligation to God.”

“Ah, yes; the poor man had a near chance of the scaffold,” replied the falconer; “it is said that M. Colbert had given orders to the governor of the Bastille, and that the execution was ordered.”

“Enough!” said d’Artagnan, pensively, as if to cut short the conversation.

“Yes,” said the captain of the harriers, approaching, “M. Fouquet is now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He has had the good fortune to be conducted there by you; he had robbed the King enough.”

D’Artagnan cast at the master of the dogs one of his evil looks, and said to him, “Monsieur, if any one told me that you had eaten your dogs’ meat, not only would I refuse to believe it, but, still more, if you were condemned to the whip or the jail for it, I should pity you, and would not allow people to speak ill of you. And yet, Monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you that you are not more so than poor M. Fouquet was.”

After having undergone this sharp rebuke, the captain of the harriers hung his head, and allowed the falconer to get two steps in advance of him nearer to d’Artagnan.

“He is content,” said the falconer, in a low voice, to the musketeer; “we all know that harriers are in fashion nowadays. If he were a falconer he would not talk in that way.”

D’Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great political question resolved by the discontent of such humble interests. He for a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence of the superintendent, the crumbling away of his fortunes, and the melancholy death that awaited him; and to conclude, “Did M. Fouquet love falconry?” said he.

“Oh, passionately, Monsieur!” replied the falconer, with an accent of bitter regret and a sigh that was the funeral oration of Fouquet.

D’Artagnan allowed the ill-humor of the one and the regrets of the other to pass, and continued to advance into the plain. They could already catch glimpses of the huntsmen at the issues of the wood, the feathers of the outriders passing like shooting stars across the clearing, and the white horses cutting with their luminous apparitions the dark thickets of the copses.

“But,” resumed d’Artagnan, “will the sport be long? Pray, give us a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a swan?”

“Both, M. d’Artagnan,” said the falconer; “but you need not be alarmed, the King is not much of a sportsman. He does not sport on his own account; he only wishes to give amusement to the ladies.”

The words “to the ladies” were so strongly accented that it set d’Artagnan listening. “Ah!” said he, looking at the falconer with surprise.

The captain of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making it up with the musketeer.

“Oh, you may safely laugh,” said d’Artagnan; “I know nothing of current news. I arrived only yesterday, after a month’s absence. I left the court mourning the death of the Queen-Mother. The King was not willing to take any amusement after receiving the last sigh of Anne of Austria; but everything has an end in this world. Well! he is no longer sad, so much the better.”

“And everything begins as well as ends,” said the captain of the dogs, with a coarse laugh.

“Ah!” said d’Artagnan a second time,- he burned to know; but dignity would not allow him to interrogate persons below him,- “there is something new, then, it appears?”

The captain gave him a significant wink; but d’Artagnan was unwilling to learn anything from this man. “Shall we see the King early?” asked he of the falconer.

“At seven o’clock, Monsieur, I shall fly the birds.”

“Who comes with the King? How is Madame? How is the Queen?”

“Better, Monsieur.”

“Has she been ill, then?”

“Monsieur, since the last chagrin she had, her Majesty has been unwell.”

“What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I am but just returned.”

“It appears that the Queen, a little neglected since the death of her mother-in-law, complained to the King, who replied to her, ‘Do I not sleep with you every night, Madame? What more do you want?’”

“Ah!” said d’Artagnan,- “poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”

“Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” replied the falconer.

“Who then-” The horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companion set off immediately, leaving d’Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended sentence. The King appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot’s pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and the horses. It was a movement, a noise, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendor or false majesty of a theatrical spectacle. D’Artagnan, with an eye a little weakened, distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the Queen; it was empty. D’Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de la Valliere by the King’s side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the King, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skillful hand, shone a lady of the most dazzling beauty. The King smiled upon her, and she smiled upon the King. Loud laughter followed every word she spoke.

“I must know that woman,” thought the musketeer; “who can she be?” And he stooped towards his friend the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put to himself. The falconer was about to reply, when the King, perceiving d’Artagnan said, “Ah, Count! you are returned, then! Why have I not seen you?”

“Sire,” replied the captain, “because your Majesty was asleep when I arrived, and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning.”

“Still the same!” said Louis, in a loud voice, denoting satisfaction. “Take some rest, Count; I command you to do so. You will dine with me to-day.”

A murmur of admiration surrounded d’Artagnan like an immense caress. Every one was eager to salute him. Dining with the King was an honor his Majesty was not so prodigal of as Henry IV had been. The King passed a few steps in advance, and d’Artagnan found himself in the midst of a fresh group, among whom shone M. Colbert.

“Good-day, M. d’Artagnan,” said the minister, with affable politeness; “have you had a pleasant journey?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse.

“I heard the King invite you to his table for this evening,” continued the minister; “you will meet an old friend.”

“An old friend of mine?” asked d’Artagnan, plunging painfully into the dark waves of the past which had swallowed up for him so many friendships and so many hatreds.

“M. le Duc d’Alameda, who is arrived this morning from Spain.”

“The Duc d’Alameda?” said d’Artagnan, reflecting in vain.

“I!” said an old man, white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage, which he caused to be thrown open to make room for the musketeer.

“Aramis!” cried d’Artagnan, struck with stupor. And, inert as he was, he suffered the thin arm of the old nobleman to rest trembling on his neck.

Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a minute, put his horse forward, and left the two old friends together.

“And so,” said the musketeer, taking the arm of Aramis, “you, the exile, the rebel, are again in France?”

“And I shall dine with you at the King’s table,” said Aramis, smiling. “Yes; will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Valliere’s carriage to pass. See how uneasy she is! How her eye, dimmed with tears, follows the King, who is riding on horseback yonder!”

“With whom?”

“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now become Madame de Montespan,” replied Aramis.

“She is jealous; is she then deserted?”

“Not quite yet, but soon will be.”

They chatted together while following the sport, and Aramis’s coachman drove them so cleverly that they got up at the moment when the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down and fell upon him. The King alighted; Madame de Montespan followed his example. They were in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by large trees, already despoiled of their leaves by the first winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was an enclosure entered only by a latticed gate. The falcon had beat down his prey in the enclosure belonging to this little chapel, and the King was desirous of going in to take the first feather, according to custom. The cortege formed a circle round the building and the hedges, too small to receive so many.

D’Artagnan held back Aramis by the arm as he was about, like the rest, to alight from his carriage, and in a broken voice, “Do you know, Aramis,” said he, “whither chance has conducted us?”

“No,” replied the duke.

“Here repose people I have known,” said d’Artagnan, much agitated.

Aramis, without divining anything, and with a trembling step, penetrated into the chapel by a little door which d’Artagnan opened for him. “Where are they buried?” said he.

“There, in the enclosure. There is a cross, you see, under that little cypress. The little cypress is planted over their tomb. Don’t go to it; the King is going that way,- the heron has fallen just there.”

Aramis stopped, and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw, without being seen, the pale face of La Valliere, who, neglected in her carriage, had at first looked on with a melancholy heart from the door, and then, carried away by jealousy, had advanced into the chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar, she contemplated in the enclosure the King smiling and making signs to Madame de Montespan to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de Montespan complied; she took the hand the King held out to her, and he, plucking out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had strangled, placed it in the hat of his beautiful companion. She, smiling in her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this present. The King blushed with pleasure; he looked at Madame de Montespan with all the fire of love. “What will you give me in exchange?” said he.

She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the King, intoxicated with hope.

“Humph!” said Aramis to d’Artagnan; “the present is but a sad one, for that cypress shades a tomb.”

“Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne,” said d’Artagnan, aloud; “of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with Athos his father.”

A groan was heard behind them. They saw a woman fall fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de la Valliere had seen and heard all.

“Poor woman!” muttered d’Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to carry back to her carriage her who from that time was to suffer.

That evening d’Artagnan was seated at the King’s table, near M. Colbert and M. le Duc d’Alameda. The King was very gay. He paid a thousand little attentions to the Queen, a thousand kindnesses to Madame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been supposed to be that calm time when the King used to watch the eyes of his mother for assent or dissent to what he had just spoken.

Of mistresses there was no question at this dinner. The King addressed Aramis two or three times, calling him Monsieur the Ambassador, which increased the surprise already felt by d’Artagnan at seeing his friend the rebel so marvellously well received at court.

The King, on rising from table, gave his hand to the Queen and made a sign to Colbert, whose eye watched that of his master. Colbert took d’Artagnan and Aramis on one side. The King began to chat with his sister, while Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the Queen with a preoccupied air, without ceasing to watch his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis, d’Artagnan and Colbert turned upon indifferent subjects. They spoke of preceding ministers; Colbert related the feats of Mazarin, and had those of Richelieu related to him. D’Artagnan could not overcome his surprise at finding this man, with heavy eyebrows and a low forehead, contain so much sound knowledge and cheerful humor. Aramis was astonished at that lightness of character which permitted a serious man to retard with advantage the moment for a more important conversation, to which nobody made any allusion, although all three interlocutors felt the imminence of it.

It was very plain from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur how much the conversation of the King and Madame annoyed him. The eyes of Madame were almost red; was she going to complain? Was she going to commit a little scandal in open court? The King took her on one side, and in a tone so tender that it must have reminded the Princess of the time when she was loved for herself, “Sister,” said he, “why do I see tears in those beautiful eyes?”

“Why- Sire-” said she.

“Monsieur is jealous, is he not, Sister?”

She looked towards Monsieur,- an infallible sign that they were talking about him. “Yes,” said she.

“Listen to me,” said the King; “if your friends compromise you, it is not Monsieur’s fault.”

He spoke these words with so much kindness that Madame, encouraged,- she who had had so many griefs for so long a time,- was near bursting into tears, so full was her heart.

“Come, come, dear sister,” said the King, “tell me your griefs. By the word of a brother, I pity them; by the word of a King, I will end them.”

She raised her fine eyes, and in a melancholy tone, “It is not my friends who compromise me,” said she. “They are either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your Majesty,- they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!”

“You say this on account of De Guiche, whom I have exiled at the desire of Monsieur?”

“And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavored once every day to get himself killed!”

“Unjust, do you say, Sister?”

“So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mingled with friendship that I have always entertained for your Majesty-”

“Well?”

“Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, upon whom I can always-”

The King started. “What then?”

“I would have asked him to have it represented to you that Monsieur and his favorite, M. le Chevalier de Lorraine, ought not with impunity to constitute themselves the executioners of my honor and my happiness.”

“The Chevalier de Lorraine,” said the King,- “that dismal fellow?”

“He is my mortal enemy. While that man lives in my household, where Monsieur retains him and delegates his powers to him, I shall be the most miserable woman in this kingdom.”

“So,” said the King, slowly, “you call your brother of England a better friend than I am?”

“Actions speak for themselves, Sire.”

“And you would prefer going to ask assistance there-”

“To my own country!” said she, with pride; “yes, Sire.”

“You are the grandchild of Henry IV as well as myself, my friend. Cousin and brother-in-law, does not that amount pretty nearly to brother-german?”

“Then,” said Henrietta, “act!”

“Let us form an alliance.”

“Begin.”

“I have, you say, unjustly exiled De Guiche.”

“Oh, yes,” said she, blushing.

“De Guiche shall return.”

“So far, well.”

“And now you say that I am wrong in having in your household the Chevalier de Lorraine, who gives Monsieur ill advice respecting you?”

“Remember well what I tell you, Sire: the Chevalier de Lorraine some day- Observe, if ever I come to an ill end, I accuse beforehand the Chevalier de Lorraine; he has a soul capable of any crime!”

“The Chevalier de Lorraine shall no longer annoy you; I promise you that.”

“Then that will be a true preliminary of alliance, Sire,- I sign; but since you have done your part, tell me what shall be mine.”

“Instead of embroiling me with your brother Charles, you must make him my more intimate friend than ever.”

“That is very easy.”

“Oh! not quite so much so as you may think, for in ordinary friendship persons embrace or exercise hospitality, and that only costs a kiss or a return,- easy expenses; but in political friendship-”

“Ah! it’s a political friendship, is it?”

“Yes, my sister; and then, instead of embraces and feasts, it is soldiers- it is soldiers all living and well equipped- that we must serve up to our friend; vessels we must offer, all armed with cannons and stored with provisions. It hence results that we have not always our coffers in a fit state to form such friendships.”

“Ah! you are quite right,” said Madame; “the coffers of the King of England have been very sonorous for some time.”

“But you, my sister, who have so much influence over your brother,- you can obtain more than an ambassador ever could obtain.”

“To effect that I must go to London, my dear brother.”

“I have thought so,” replied the King, eagerly; “and I have said to myself that such a voyage would do your spirits good.”

“Only,” interrupted Madame, “it is possible I should fail. The King of England has dangerous counsellors.”

“Counsellors, do you say?”

“Precisely. If, by chance, your Majesty had any intention- I am only supposing so- of asking Charles II his alliance for a war-”

“For a war?”

“Yes; well, then the counsellors of the King, who are to the number of seven,- Mademoiselle Stewart, Mademoiselle Wells, Mademoiselle Gwyn, Miss Orchay, Mademoiselle Zunga, Miss Daws, and the Countess of Castelmaine,- will represent to the King that war costs a great deal of money; that it is far better to give balls and suppers at Hampton Court than to equip vessels of the line at Portsmouth and Greenwich.”

“And then your negotiations will fail?”

“Oh! those ladies cause all negotiations to fail that they don’t make themselves.”

“Do you know the idea that has struck me, Sister?”

“No; tell me what it is.”

“It is that by searching well around you, you might perhaps find a female counsellor to take with you to your brother whose eloquence might paralyze the ill-will of the seven others.”

“That is really an idea, Sire; and I will search.”

“You will find what you want.”

“I hope so.”

“A pretty person is necessary; an agreeable face is better than an ugly one, is it not?”

“Most assuredly.”

“An animated, lively, audacious character?”

“Certainly.”

“Nobility,- that is, enough to enable her to approach the King without awkwardness; little enough, so that she may not trouble herself about the dignity of her race.”

“Quite just.”

“And who knows a little English.”

“Mon Dieu! why, some one,” cried Madame, “like Mademoiselle de Keroualle, for instance!”

“Oh! why yes!” said Louis XIV; “you have found- it is you who have found, my sister.”

“I will take her; she will have no cause to complain, I suppose.”

“Oh, no; I will name her seductrice plenipotentiaire at once, and will add the dowry to the title.”

“That is well.”

“I fancy you already on your road, my dear little sister, and consoled for all your griefs.”

“I will go on two conditions. The first is, that I shall know what I am negotiating about.”

“This is it. The Dutch, you know, insult me daily in their gazettes, and by their republican attitude. I don’t like republics.”

“That may easily be conceived, Sire.”

“I see with pain that these kings of the sea- they call themselves so- keep trade from France in the Indies, and that their vessels will soon occupy all the ports of Europe. Such a power is too near me, Sister.”

“They are your allies, nevertheless.”

“That is why they were wrong in having the medal you have heard of struck,- a medal which represents Holland stopping the sun, as Joshua did, with this legend: The sun has stopped before me. There is not much fraternity in that, is there?”

“I thought you had forgotten that miserable affair.”

“I forget nothing, my sister. And if my true friends, such as your brother Charles, are willing to second me-” The Princess remained pensively silent. “Listen to me; there is the empire of the seas to be shared. In this partition, which England submits to, could I not represent the second party as well as the Dutch?”

“We have Mademoiselle de Keroualle to treat that question,” replied Madame.

“Your second condition for going, if you please, Sister?”

“The consent of Monsieur, my husband.”

“You shall have it.”

“Then I have gone, my brother.”

On hearing these words, Louis XIV turned round towards the corner of the room in which d’Artagnan, Colbert, and Aramis stood, and made an affirmative sign to his minister. Colbert then broke the conversation at the point where it happened to be, and said to Aramis, “Monsieur the Ambassador, shall we talk about business?”

D’Artagnan immediately withdrew, from politeness. He directed his steps towards the chimney, within hearing of what the King was going to say to Monsieur, who, evidently uneasy, had gone to him. The face of the King was animated. Upon his brow was stamped a will, the redoubtable expression of which already met with no more contradiction in France, and soon would meet with no more in Europe.

“Monsieur,” said the King to his brother, “I am not pleased with M. le Chevalier de Lorraine. You, who do him the honor to protect him, must advise him to travel for a few months.” These words fell with the crush of an avalanche upon Monsieur, who adored this favorite, and concentrated all his affections in him.

“In what has the chevalier been able to displease your Majesty?” cried he, darting a furious look at Madame.

“I will tell you that when he is gone,” replied the impassive King. “And also when Madame, here, shall have crossed over into England.”

“Madame! into England!” murmured Monsieur, seized with stupor.

“In a week, my brother,” continued the King, “while we two will go whither I will tell you.” And the King turned upon his heel after having smiled in his brother’s face, to sweeten a little the bitter draught he had given him.

During this time, Colbert was talking with the Duc d’Alameda. “Monsieur,” said he to Aramis, “this is the moment for us to come to an understanding. I have made your peace with the King, and I owed that clearly to a man of your merit; but as you have often expressed friendship for me, an opportunity presents itself for giving me a proof of it. You are, besides, more a Frenchman than a Spaniard. Shall we have, answer me frankly, the neutrality of Spain, if we undertake anything against the United Provinces?”

“Monsieur,” replied Aramis, “the interest of Spain is very clear. To embroil Europe with the United Provinces, against which subsists the ancient rancor arising from their acquisition of liberty, is our policy; but the King of France is allied with the United Provinces. You are not ignorant, besides, that it would be a maritime war, and that France is not in a state to make such a one with advantage.”

Colbert, turning round at this moment, saw d’Artagnan, who was seeking an interlocutor, during the “aside” of the King and Monsieur. He called him, at the same time saying in a low voice to Aramis, “We may talk with M. d’Artagnan, I suppose?”

“Oh, certainly,” replied the ambassador.

“We were saying, M. d’Alameda and I,” said Colbert, “that war with the United Provinces would be a maritime war.”

“That’s evident enough,” replied the musketeer.

“And what do you think of it, M. d’Artagnan?”

“I think that to carry on that maritime war you must have a very large land army.”

“What did you say?” said Colbert, thinking he had misunderstood him.

“Why a land army?” said Aramis.

“Because the King will be beaten by sea if he has not the English with him; and when beaten by sea, he will be soon invaded, either by the Dutch in his ports, or by the Spaniards by land.”

“And Spain neutral?” asked Aramis. “Neutral as long as the King shall be the stronger,” rejoined d’Artagnan.

Colbert admired that sagacity which never touched a question without illuminating it thoroughly. Aramis smiled; he had long known that in diplomacy d’Artagnan acknowledged no master. Colbert, who like all proud men dwelt upon his fantasy with a certainty of success, resumed the subject, “Who told you, M. d’Artagnan, that the King had no navy?”

“Oh! I have taken no heed of these details,” replied the captain. “I am but a middling sailor. Like all nervous people, I hate the sea; and yet I have an idea that with ships, France being a seaport with two hundred heads, we should have sailors.”

Colbert drew from his pocket a little oblong book divided into two columns. On the first were the names of vessels, on the other the figures recapitulating the number of cannon and men requisite to equip these ships. “I have had the same idea as you,” said he to d’Artagnan; “and I have had an account drawn up of the vessels we have altogether,- thirty-five vessels.”

“Thirty-five vessels! that is impossible!” cried d’Artagnan.

“Something like two thousand pieces of cannon,” said Colbert. “That is what the King possesses at this moment. With thirty-five vessels we can make three squadrons, but I must have five.”

“Five!” cried Aramis.

“They will be afloat before the end of the year, gentlemen; the King will have fifty ships of the line. With those we may venture on a contest, may we not?”

“To build vessels,” said d’Artagnan, “is difficult, but possible. As to arming them, how is that to be done? In France there are neither foundries nor military docks.”

“Bah!” replied Colbert, with a gay tone, “I have instituted all that this year and a half past, did you not know it? Don’t you know M. d’Infreville?”

“D’Infreville?” replied d’Artagnan; “no.”

“He is a man I have discovered; he has a specialty,- he knows how to set men to work. It is he who at Toulon has had the cannon made, and has cut the woods of Bourgogne. And then, Monsieur the Ambassador, you may not believe what I am going to tell you, but I have a further idea.”

“Oh, Monsieur!’ said Aramis, civilly, “I always believe you.”

“Figure to yourself that, calculating upon the character of the Dutch, our allies, I said to myself, ‘They are merchants, they are friends with the King; they will be happy to sell to the King what they fabricate for themselves. Then the more we buy-’ Ah! I must add this: I have Forant,- do you know Forant, d’Artagnan?”

Colbert, in his warmth, forgot himself; he called the captain simply “D’Artagnan,” as the King did. But the captain only smiled at it. “No,” replied he, “I don’t know him.”

“That is another man I have discovered with a genius for buying. This Forant has purchased for me three hundred and fifty thousand pounds of iron in balls, two hundred thousand pounds of powder, twelve cargoes of Northern timber, matches, grenades, pitch, tar,- I know not what!- with a saving of seven per cent upon what all those articles would cost me made in France.”

“That is a good idea,” replied d’Artagnan,- “to have Dutch balls cast which will return to the Dutch.”

“Is it not,- with loss too?” And Colbert laughed aloud. He was delighted with his own joke. “Still further,” added he, “these same Dutch are building for the King at this moment six vessels after the model of the best of their marine. Destouches- ah! perhaps you don’t know Destouches?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“He is a man who has a glance singularly sure to discern, when a ship is launched, what are the defects and qualities of that ship,- that is valuable, please to observe! Nature is truly whimsical. Well, this Destouches appeared to me to be a man likely to be useful in a port, and he is superintending the construction of six vessels of seventy-eight guns, which the Provinces are building for his Majesty. It results from all this, my dear M. d’Artagnan, that the King, if he wished to quarrel with the Provinces, would have a very pretty fleet. Now, you know better than anybody else if the land army is good.”

D’Artagnan and Aramis looked at each other, wondering at the mysterious labors this man had effected in a few years. Colbert understood them, and was touched by this best of flatteries. “If we in France were ignorant of what was going on,” said d’Artagnan, “out of France still less must be known.”

“That is why I told Monsieur the Ambassador,” said Colbert, “that Spain promising its neutrality, England helping us-”

“If England assists you,” said Aramis, “I engage for the neutrality of Spain.”

“I take you at your word,” hastened Colbert to reply with his blunt bonhomie. “And, a propos of Spain, you have not the ‘Golden Fleece,’ M. d’Alameda. I heard the King say the other day that he should like to see you wear the grand cordon of Saint Michael.”

Aramis bowed. “Oh!” thought d’Artagnan, “and Porthos is no longer here! What ells of ribbon would there be for him in these largesses! Good Porthos!”

“M. d’Artagnan,” resumed Colbert, “between us two, you will have, I would wager, an inclination to lead your Musketeers into Holland. Can you swim?” and he laughed like a man in a very good humor.

“Like an eel,” replied d’Artagnan.

“Ah! but there are some rough passages of canals and marshes yonder, M. d’Artagnan, and the best swimmers are sometimes drowned there.”

“It is my profession to die for his Majesty,” said the musketeer. “Only as it is seldom that in war much water is met with without a little fire, I declare to you beforehand that I will do my best to choose fire. I am getting old; water freezes me, fire warms, M. Colbert.”

And d’Artagnan looked so handsome in juvenile vigor and pride as he pronounced these words that Colbert, in his turn, could not help admiring him. D’Artagnan perceived the effect he had produced. He remembered that the best tradesman is he who fixes a high price upon his goods when they are valuable. He prepared, then, his price in advance.

“So then,” said Colbert, “we go into Holland?”

“Yes,” replied d’Artagnan; “only-”

“Only?” said M. Colbert.

“Only,” repeated d’Artagnan, “there is in everything the question of interest and the question of self-love. It is a very fine title,- that of captain of the Musketeers; but observe this: we have now the King’s Guards and the military household of the King. A captain of Musketeers ought either to command all that, and then he would absorb a hundred thousand livres a year for expenses of representation and table-”

“Well; but do you suppose, by chance, that the King would haggle with you?” said Colbert.

“Eh, Monsieur, you have not understood me,” replied d’Artagnan, sure of having carried the question of interest; “I was telling you that I,- an old captain, formerly chief of the King’s guard, having precedence of the marshals of France,- I saw myself one day in the trenches with two equals, the captain of the Guards and the colonel commanding the Swiss. Now, at no price will I suffer that. I have old habits; I will stand to them.”

Colbert felt this blow, but was prepared for it. “I have been thinking of what you said just now,” said he.

“About what, Monsieur?”

“We were speaking of canals and marshes in which people are drowned.”

“Well!”

“Well; if they are drowned, it is for want of a boat, a plank, or a stick.”

“Of a stick [baton], however short it may be,” said d’Artagnan.

“Exactly,” said Colbert; “and therefore I never heard of an instance of a marshal of France being drowned.”

D’Artagnan became pale with joy, and in not a very firm voice, he said, “People would be very proud of me in my country, if I were a marshal of France; but a man must have commanded an expedition as chief to obtain the baton.”

“Monsieur,” said Colbert, “here is in this pocket-book, which you will study, a plan of a campaign; you are to carry it into execution next spring with a body of troops which the King puts under your orders.”

D’Artagnan took the book tremblingly and his fingers meeting with those of Colbert, the minister pressed the hand of the musketeer loyally. “Monsieur,” said he, “we had both a revenge to take, one over the other. I have begun; it is now your turn!”

“I will do you justice, Monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan, “and implore you to tell the King that the first opportunity that shall offer, he may depend upon a victory or seeing me dead.”

“Then I will have the fleurs-de-lis for your marshal’s baton prepared immediately,” said Colbert.

On the morrow of this day, Aramis, who was setting out for Madrid to negotiate the neutrality of Spain, came to embrace d’Artagnan at his hotel.

“Let us love each other for four,” said d’Artagnan; “we are now but two.”

“And you will perhaps never see me again, dear d’Artagnan,” said Aramis; “if you knew how I have loved you! I am old, I am extinguished, I am dead.”

“My friend,” said d’Artagnan, “you will live longer than I shall. Diplomacy commands you to live; but, for my part, honor condemns me to die.”

“Bah! such men as we are, Monsieur the Marshal,” said Aramis, “only die satiated with joy or glory.”

“Ah!” replied d’Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, “I assure you, Monsieur the Duke, I feel very little appetite for either.”

They once more embraced, and two hours later they were separated.

Epilogue

Contrary to what generally happens, whether in politics or morals, each kept his promise and did honor to his engagements.

The King recalled M. de Guiche and banished M. le Chevalier de Lorraine, so that Monsieur became ill in consequence. Madame set out for London, where she applied herself so earnestly to make her brother, Charles II, have a taste for the political counsels of Mademoiselle de Keroualle, that the alliance between England and France was signed, and the English vessels, ballasted by a few millions of French gold, made a terrible campaign against the fleets of the United Provinces. Charles II had promised Mademoiselle de Keroualle a little gratitude for her good counsels; he made her Duchess of Portsmouth. Colbert had promised the King vessels, munitions, and victories. He kept this word, as is well known. In fine, Aramis, upon whose promises there was least dependence to be placed, wrote Colbert the following letter on the subject of the negotiations which he had undertaken at Madrid:-

“Monsieur Colbert: I have the honor to send to you the R. P. d’Oliva, General ad interim of the Society of Jesus, my provisional successor. The reverend father will explain to you, M. Colbert, that I reserve to myself the direction of all the affairs of the Order which concern France and Spain; but that I am not willing to retain the title of general which would throw too much light upon the course of the negotiations with which his Catholic Majesty wishes to intrust me. I shall resume that title by the command of his Majesty when the labors I have undertaken in concert with you, for the great glory of God and his Church, shall be brought to a good end. The R. P. d’Oliva will inform you likewise, Monsieur, of the consent which his Catholic Majesty gives to the signature of a treaty which assures the neutrality of Spain in the event of a war between France and the United Provinces. This consent will be valid, even if England, instead of being active, should satisfy herself with remaining neutral. As to Portugal, of which you and I have spoken, Monsieur, I can assure you it will contribute with all its resources to assist the most Christian King in his war. I beg you, M. Colbert, to preserve to me your friendship, as also to believe in my profound attachment, and to lay my respect at the feet of his most Christian Majesty.

“Signed: Duc d’Alameda.”

Aramis had then performed more than he had promised; it remained to be known how the King, M. Colbert, and d’Artagnan would be faithful to one another. In the spring, as Colbert had predicted, the land army entered on its campaign. It preceded, in magnificent order, the court of Louis XIV, who, setting out on horseback, surrounded by carriages filled with ladies and courtiers, conducted the elite of his kingdom to this sanguinary fête. The officers of the army, it is true, had no other music than the artillery of the Dutch forts; but it was enough for a great number, who found in this war honors, advancement, fortune, or death.

M. d’Artagnan set out commanding a body of twelve thousand men, cavalry and infantry, with which he was ordered to take the different places which form the knots of that strategic network which is called La Frise. Never was an army conducted more gallantly to an expedition. The officers knew that their leader, prudent and skillful as he was brave, would not sacrifice a single man, nor yield an inch of ground, without necessity. He had the old habits of war,- to live upon the country, keep his soldiers singing and the enemy weeping. The captain of the King’s Musketeers put his effort into showing that he knew his business. Never were opportunities better chosen, coups de main better supported, or better advantage taken of errors on the part of the besieged.

The army commanded by d’Artagnan took twelve small places within a month. He was engaged in besieging the thirteenth, which had held out five days. D’Artagnan caused the trenches to be opened without appearing to suppose that these people would ever allow themselves to be taken. In the army of this man the pioneers and laborers were a body full of emulation, ideas, and zeal, because he treated them like soldiers, knew how to render their work glorious, and never allowed them to be killed if he could prevent it. It should have been seen then with what eagerness the marshy glebes of Holland were turned over. Those turf heaps, those mounds of potter’s clay, melted at the words of the soldiers like butter in the vast frying-pans of the Friesland housewives.

M. d’Artagnan despatched a courier to the King to give him an account of the last successes, which redoubled the good-humor of his Majesty and his inclination to amuse the ladies. These victories of M. d’Artagnan gave so much majesty to the Prince that Madame de Montespan no longer called him anything but Louis the Invincible. So that Mademoiselle de la Valliere, who only called the King Louis the Victorious, lost much of his Majesty’s favor. Besides, her eyes were frequently red, and for an Invincible nothing is more disagreeable than a mistress who weeps while everything is smiling around her. The star of Mademoiselle de la Valliere was being drowned in the horizon in clouds and tears. But the gayety of Madame de Montespan redoubled with the successes of the King, and consoled him for every other unpleasant circumstance. It was to d’Artagnan the King owed this; and his Majesty was anxious to acknowledge these services. He wrote to M. Colbert:-

M. Colbert: We have a promise to fulfill with M. d’Artagnan, who so well keeps his. This is to inform you that the time is come for performing it. All provisions for this purpose you shall be furnished with in due time.

“Louis.”

In consequence of this, Colbert, who detained the envoy of d’Artagnan, placed in the hands of that messenger a letter from himself for d’Artagnan and a small coffer of ebony inlaid with gold, which, without doubt, was very heavy, as a guard of five men was given to the messenger to assist him in carrying it. These persons arrived before the place which d’Artagnan was besieging, towards daybreak, and presented themselves at the lodgings of the general. They were told that M. d’Artagnan, annoyed by a sortie which the governor, an artful man, had made the evening before, and in which the works had been destroyed, seventy-seven men killed, and the reparation of the breaches begun, had just gone with ten companies of grenadiers to reconstruct the works.

M. Colbert’s envoy had orders to go and seek M. d’Artagnan wherever he might be, or at whatever hour of the day or night. He directed his course, therefore, towards the trenches, followed by his escort, all on horseback. They perceived M. d’Artagnan in the open plain, with his gold-laced hat, his long cane, and his large gilded cuffs. He was biting his white mustache, and shaking off with his left hand the dust which the passing balls threw up from the ground they ploughed near him. They also saw, amid this terrible fire which filled the air with its hissing whistle, officers handling the shovel, soldiers rolling barrows, and vast fascines, carried or dragged by from ten to twenty men, covering the front of the trench, reopened to the centre by this extraordinary effort of the general animating his soldiers. In three hours all had been reinstated. D’Artagnan began to speak more mildly; and he became quite calm when the captain of the pioneers approached him, hat in hand, to tell him that the trench was again in condition for occupancy. This man had scarcely finished speaking when a ball took off one of his legs, and he fell into the arms of d’Artagnan. The latter lifted up his soldier, and quietly, with soothing words, carried him into the trench amid the enthusiastic applause of the regiments. From that time it was no longer ardor; it was delirium. Two companies stole away up to the advanced posts, which they destroyed instantly.

When their comrades, restrained with great difficulty by d’Artagnan, saw them lodged upon the bastions, they rushed forward likewise, and soon a furious assault was made upon the counterscarp, upon which depended the safety of the place. D’Artagnan perceived there was only one means left of stopping his army, and that was to lodge it in the place. He directed all his force to two breaches, which the besieged were busy in repairing. The shock was terrible; eighteen companies took part in it, and d’Artagnan went with the rest within half-cannon shot of the place, to support the attack by echelons. The cries of the Dutch, who were being poniarded upon their guns by d’Artagnan’s grenadiers, were distinctly audible. The struggle grew fiercer with the despair of the governor, who disputed his position foot by foot. D’Artagnan, to put an end to the affair and silence the fire, which was unceasing, sent a fresh column, which penetrated like a wimble through the gates that remained solid; and he soon perceived upon the ramparts, through the fire, the terrified flight of the besieged pursued by the besiegers.

It was at this moment that the general, breathing freely and full of joy, heard a voice behind him saying, “Monsieur, if you please,- from M. Colbert.”

He broke the seal of a letter, which contained these words:-

M. d’Artagnan: The King commands me to inform you that he has nominated you Marshal of France, as a reward for your good services and the honor you do to his arms. The King is highly pleased, Monsieur, with the captures you have made; he commands you in particular to finish the siege you have begun, with good fortune to you and success for him.”

D’Artagnan was standing with a heated countenance and a sparkling eye. He looked up to watch the progress of his troops upon the walls, still enveloped in red and black volumes of smoke. “I have finished,” replied he to the messenger; “the city will have surrendered in a quarter of an hour.” He then resumed his reading:

“The coffer, M. d’Artagnan, is my own present. You will not be sorry to see that while you warriors are drawing the sword to defend the King, I am animating the pacific arts to adorn you with rewards that are worthy of you. I commend myself to your friendship, Monsieur the Marshal, and beg you to believe in all mine.

“Colbert.”

D’Artagnan, intoxicated with joy, made a sign to the messenger, who approached with his coffer in his hands. But at the moment the marshal was going to look at it, a loud explosion resounded from the ramparts and called his attention towards the city. “It is strange,” said d’Artagnan, “that I don’t yet see the King’s flag upon the walls, or hear the drums beat for a parley.” He launched three hundred fresh men under a high-spirited officer, and ordered another breach to be beaten. Then, being more tranquil, he turned towards the coffer which Colbert’s envoy held out to him. It was his treasure,- he had won it.

D’Artagnan was holding out his hand to open the coffer, when a ball from the city crushed it in the arms of the officer, struck d’Artagnan full in the chest, and knocked him down upon a sloping heap of earth, while the fleurdelise baton, escaping from the broken sides of the box, came rolling under the powerless hand of the marshal. D’Artagnan endeavored to raise himself. It was thought he had been knocked down without being wounded. A terrible cry broke from the group of his frightened officers. The marshal was covered with blood; the paleness of death ascended slowly to his noble countenance. Leaning upon the arms which were held out on all sides to receive him, he was able once more to turn his eyes towards the place, and to distinguish the white flag at the crest of the principal bastion; his ears, already deaf to the sounds of life, caught feebly the rolling of the drum which announced the victory. Then, clasping in his nerveless hand the baton, ornamented with its fleurs-de-lis, he cast down upon it his eyes, which had no longer the power of looking upwards towards heaven, and fell back murmuring these strange words, which appeared to the surprised soldiers cabalistic words,- words which had formerly represented so many things upon earth, and which none but the dying man longer comprehended:

“Athos, Porthos, au revoir! Aramis, adieu forever!”

Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there now remained but one single body; God had taken back the souls.

The End

Review: La Prise du Puvoir Par Louis XIV

Date: Wed, 14 Apr 1999 0:22:29 -0400

Hi Jerry,

I saw “La Prise De Pouvoir Par Louis XIV” with English subtitles. The movie claims to be more realistic and presents a few scenes from the king’s early years of reign. However, I found it rather “forced to be realistic”. Louis XIV is shown as a dull robot without emotions. There is no romance, no intrigues, no major political and social discussions. For example, the movie shows scenes of Louis waking up and praying in front of the courtiers and of him eating his lunch later on (a few years later). Both scenes do not have words at all, except a few orders from the king. His only conversation with Colbert is quite dry as well. The king seems to be not a young man of 22, who is full of ambitions to rule on his own, but an old man who is old enough and is tired of everything. I think that Rosselini confused Louis XIV and his father who had that kind of dull character and was always unhappy and bored. The movie does not convince me that the main hero on the screen is a great king who, if he was not the best person, was a motivated and worldly young man and who had his own emotions and learned to control those later on. And by the way, there is no mention of the Iron Mask there at all.

In general, Louis XIV is a more complicated character than any movie can convey to the audience. Rosselini picked medieval darkness and did not highlight it with the growing Renaissance influence. He perhaps forgot that Louis’ childhood and youth were influenced by many interesting people and events that helped to form his world view. It is not surprising that later the king picked the best architects, musicians, poets, writers, gardeners and other talented people to serve at his court. Yes, it is a right word, because at the reign of Louis XIV, even great people like Molliere, La Fontaine and Racin were happy to serve the king. It was not offensive, it was a grant (if I can use that word). Perhaps, Louis XIV could not perceive the nature of the real art with his true sense but he could distinguish it from a bad copy, which is not bad at all.

I would not advice it for the general audience, especially American, they will find it boring. However, those who are interested in French history of that time could have their opinion on it. Moreover, I did not understand the language of the movie for it was French and noticed that the subtitles were really short in comparison to what I heard. Perhaps, other people would have a different opinion.

Short stories by Dumas

A Masked Ball

I had said that I was not at home to anybody, but one of my friends insisted on coming in.

My servant announced M. Antony R____ and behind Joseph’s livery I caught sight of the skirt of a black greatcoat. It was probable that the wearer of it had for his part seen the flap of my dressing-gown, so it was impossible for me to remain in hiding.

‘Very well, let him come in,’ said I out loud. ‘The devil take him!’ was my sotto voce comment.

When you are working only the woman you love can disturb you with impunity, because deep down she has always some part in what you are doing.

I, therefore, went to meet him with the half-sulky face of an author who has been intruded on at one of the moments when he hates interruption; but he looked so pale and upset that the first words I said to him were, ‘Why, what is the matter with you? Whatever has happened?’

‘Give me time to get my breath,’ he said, ‘and I will tell you all about it. Perhaps it is a dream, or maybe I am mad.’ He threw himself into an armchair and let his head drop between his hands.

I surveyed him with astonishment. His hair was wet from the rain, and his boots, his knees and the bottoms of his trousers were covered with mud. I went to the window and his cabriolet waiting. I could make nothing of it. Seeing my mystification he said, ‘I’ve been to Pere-Lachaise cemetery. Oh, that accursed masked ball!’

I was still completely puzzled, wondering what a masked ball and Pere-Lachaise could have to do with one another. As he still did not speak, I began to roll a cigarette in my fingers with all the patience of a Spaniard. When it was ready I offered it to Antony, knowing he usually enjoyed a smoke. He merely gave it a nod of thanks, but refused it. The he suddenly cried out, ‘For God’s sake, Alexandre, listen to me!’

‘But I’ve been waiting to listen to you for the last quarter of an hour,’ I protested, ‘and you haven’t told me anything.’

‘Oh, I’ll tell you something, or try to - something extraordinary that has happened to me. You remember the Opera Ball where I last met you?’

‘Yes. Well?’

‘After leaving you, feeling bored, lonely and depressed, I decided to go to the Varietés, which I had been told was a notorious curiosity to be visited just to see to what depths our society can sink. Oh, why, why, why, did I ever go? I tell you, it must have been fate. I don’t know how to describe it to you. I could scarcely believe that what I saw was possible. The place was crowded with men and women of the streets, God knows what else, all cavorting around like dervishes. I went up one of the staircases, and leaning against a pillar I looked down over this sea of scarcely human beings, all in grotesque dominos, all leaping and thrashing around to the strains of a band which could hardly be heard through their obscure shrieks, yells, laughs and cries. You should have seen them!

‘They caught hold of each other by the hands, the arms, the neck. A huge circle was formed, men and women stamping their feet, throwing up above the dim clouds of dust caught by the pale light of the chandeliers, circling at growing speed with obscure posturings, suggestive gestures and cries. Quicker and quicker they circled, swaying backward like drunken men, howling like lost women, delirious rather than joyous, more furious than gratified. They were like a chain-gang of lost souls performing an infernal penance under the lashes of demons. All this din, all this hum, this confusion, this music, were in my head as much as in the hall. I soon came to doubt whether what was before my eyes was dream or reality; I asked myself whether it was not I who was mad and they reasonable. Strange temptations came upon me, to throw myself into the midst of this pandemonium, like Faust visiting the witches’ sabbath, and I felt then that I should cry, gesticulate, posture and laugh as they did. Oh, there is only one step from such a state of madness. I was horrified; I flung myself out of place, pursued to the outer door by howls that were more like the amatory roaring from a den of wild beasts than anything else.

‘I paused for an instant under the portico to recover. I did not wish to put myself at risk in the street with my mind in such a tumult, as it still was. I might have stumbled under the wheels of a carriage, not seeing it coming. I was like a drunken man must be when he begins to regain sufficient sense in his fuddled brain to realize his state, and who, feeling his will, though not yet his power, come back, props himself up against a post in the street or a tree in the park.

‘At that moment a carriage drew up at the door, and a woman got out, or rather flung herself out of it. She passed under the peristyle, turning her head right and left like a person who is lost. She was clad in a black domino and her face was hidden under a velvet mask. She presented herself at the door.

‘“Your ticket?” said the door-keeper.

‘“My ticket?” she answered. “I have none.”

‘“Then get one at the office.”

‘The domina came back under the peristyle, fumbling madly in all her pockets.

‘“No money!” she cried. “Ah, this ring. An entrance ticket for this ring.”

‘“Impossible,” said the woman who was giving out the cards. “We do not do that sort of business.” Having said this, she pushed back the brilliant, which fell to the ground and rolled towards me. The domina remained motionless, forgetting the ring, wrapped in thought. I picked it up and handed it to her. I saw through her mask her eyes fix themselves on mine; she looked at me hesitatingly for a moment, then suddenly putting her arm under mine, “You must get me in,” she said, “for pity’s sake, you must.”

‘“I was leaving, Madam,” I said.

‘“Then give me six francs for this ring and you will have done me a service for which I shall bless you all my life.”

‘I put the ring back on her finger, went to the office and took two tickets. We went in together.

‘On reaching the corridor I felt her stagger. She clutched my arm. “Are you ill?” I asked.

‘“No, it is nothing,” she rejoined. “A dizziness, that’s all.” And she drew me into the hall.

‘We re-entered this sordid Bedlam. Three times we went the round of it, forcing our way through the waves of masks, which tumbled and foamed over one another, she wincing at every obscure expression, I blushing to be seen my arm to a woman who would listen to such words. Then we came back to the far end of the hall. She sank onto a seat. I remained standing before her, my hand resting on the arm of her chair.

‘“Oh, all this must seem very strange to you,” she said, “but not more than it does to me, I assure you. I had no idea of it,” (she was watching the ball), “for I have never seen such things even in my dreams. But they wrote to me, you see, that he would be here with a woman, and what sort of a woman can it be who would come to such a place?”

‘I made a gesture of surprise, which she understood.

‘“Yet I am here, am I not, you mean to say? Oh, as for me, that’s another matter; I am looking for him, I am his wife. But these people are drawn here by madness and debauchery. But with me, me, it is infernal jealousy. I would have gone anywhere after him; I would have spent the night in a cemetery; I would have gone to the Place de Greve on an execution day. And yet I swear to you that as a girl I never once went out in the street without my mother; as a woman I never stepped out of doors without a footman behind me. But, here I am like all the women who know the way to this place, taking the arm of a man I do not know, and colouring under my mask at the opinion I must be giving him of me. I know all that. Have you ever been jealous, monsieur?”

‘“Frightfully,” was my answer.

‘“Then you can forgive me, for you know it all. You know the voice that cries to you ‘go’, as if speaking into the ear of a maniac. You have felt the hand that urges you on to shame and crime, like that of fate. You know that at such a moment one is capable of anything if it will only bring revenge.”

‘I was going to answer her, but she rose all of a sudden, her eyes fixed on two domains that were passing before us at that moment.

‘“Hush, hush!” she cried, and dragged me along in their wake. I was thrown into the thick of an intrigue about which I understood nothing. I felt all the threads of it beneath my fingers, yet none led me to an end; but this poor woman seemed so upset that she interested me.

‘I obeyed like a child, so imperious is a true passion, and we started in pursuit of the two masks, one of whom was clearly a man and the other a woman. They were talking in an undertone and the sounds scarcely reached our ears.

‘“It’s he,” she murmured, “it is his voice; yes, and his figure.”

‘The taller of the two domains began to laugh.

‘“Yes, yes! it is his laugh,” she said; “the letter was true then. Oh God! God!”

‘Meanwhile the masks went on and we kept following them; they left the arena and we followed them. They took the staircase leading to the boxes, and we went up after them. They did not stop till they reached the upper tier; we clung to them like their shadows. They entered a small private box, and the door closed upon them.

‘The poor creature on my arm frightened me by her agitation. I could not see her face, but pressed against me as she was I could feel her heart beat, her frame shiver, her limbs shake. There was something strange in the way I became aware of these unheard-of sufferings, the sight of which was before my eyes, the victim of which I did not know in the least, and the cause of which I knew as little. Yet nothing in the world would have induced me to desert her at such a time.

‘When we saw the two masks enter the box and the door close on them she remained motionless for a moment as if thunderstruck. Then she rushed towards the door to listen. Placed as she was the slightest movement might betray her presence and ruin her. I pulled her violently by the arm, unfastened the spring of the adjoining box and drew her into it with me, then, lowering the bars, pulled the door to.

‘“If you want to listen,” I said, “at least listen from here.”

‘She fell on one knee and glued her ear to the partition, while I stood erect on the other side, with folded arms and head bent in thought. All that I had been able to see of this woman had seemed to me perfectly beautiful. The lower part of her face, which her mask did not hide, was young and soft and rounded; her lips were red and delicately moulded; her teeth, whose whiteness was set off by the black velvet mask she wore, were small and finely set; her hand was a model for an artist; her waist you could put your fingers around. Her hair, black and silky, escaped in profusion from the hood of her domino, and the little foot which peeped out from her dress seemed scarcely big enough to support her body, light, graceful and airy though it was. Oh, she must be a marvellous creature! Happy the man who should be privileged to hold her in his arms, to see all the faculties of such a soul employed in loving him, to feel her heart an his, palpitating with amorous ecstasy.

‘Such were my thoughts when suddenly I saw my companion rise to her feet. Turning to me, she said in a broken and frenzied tone, “Monsieur, I am beautiful, I swear to you; I am young, only nineteen. Up till now I have been pure. Well -” here she threw both her arms round my neck, “Well, I am yours, take me!”

‘At the same moment I felt her lips on mine, kissing me wildly, despairingly. Ten minutes later she was in my embrace -

‘She came to herself again slowly. I could see through her mask how haggard here eyes were. The lower part of her face was pale, and I could hear her teeth chattering as if in the chill of fever. I can still see it all. She remembered what had taken place and fell at my feet. “If you have any compassion,” she said sobbing, “any pity, never look at me again, never seek to know me. Forget everything that has happened between us; I will remember for both of us.”

‘At these words she rose as quickly as a thought that escapes us, fled to the door, opened it, and turning once more to me cried, “Do not follow me, Monsieur, please do not follow.”

‘The door, flung to violently, closed between her and me, hiding her from my gaze. She might have been an apparition. I have not seen her since.

‘I have not seen her since, I say, and during the ten months that have passed I have looked for her everywhere: at balls, at theatres, in places of public resort. Every time I saw in the distance a woman with a slender waist, a little foot and black hair, I followed her, I went close to her, I looked her in the face in the hope that her blushes would betray her. But, I never did find her again; I did not see her anywhere but at nights, in my dreams. Ah, then, then she came back; then I felt her; I was conscious of her embraces, her kisses, her caresses, so ardent that there was something infernal in them. Then the mask fell and the strangest countenance appeared to me, sometimes blurred, sometimes clouded, now brilliant as if with an aureole about it, now pale, with the skull white and bare, and eyes in hollow sockets and teeth hideous and sparse. In a word, since that night I have lived consumed with an insane love for a woman I do not know, hoping always and always thwarted in my hopes, jealous without having the right to be so, or knowing of whom I should be jealous, not daring to own such madness, and yet haunted, consumed, devoured by her.’

As he ended these words he drew a letter from his pocket. I took it and read, ‘Perhaps you have forgotten a poor woman who has forgotten nothing, who is dying of not being able to forget. When you receive this letter I shall be dead. Go to Pere-Lachaise cemetery and tell the lodge-keeper to show you to the name of Marie, and when you find yourself before that grave, kneel and pray.’

‘Well,’ Antony continued, ‘I got that letter yesterday and went this morning. The lodge-keeper took me to the tomb and I remained there two hours on my knees, praying and crying. Do you understand? She was there! The burning soul had taken its flight; the body, worn out by its emotions, had bent to breaking under the weight of jealousy and remorse. She was there, beneath my feet, and had lived and died a stranger to me! Yes, a stranger, yet assuming in my life such a place as she does in the tomb - a stranger, yet enclosing within my heart as cold and lifeless a corpse as the one that was laid in the grave. Ah, did you ever know such bitter irony! I have lost all hope. I shall never see her again. I could dig up her grave and still not find the lineaments which would enable to reconstruct her face. And I love her still! Do you realize it, Alexandre? I love her madly. I would kill myself to be with her again—yet she must remain unknown to me for all eternity, as she was in this world!’

At these words he tore the letter from my hand, kissed it again and again and began weeping like a child.

I put my arm around him, and not knowing what to say to comfort him, I wept with him.

Solange

Dr. Ledru’s Story of the Reign of Terror

Leaving l’Abbaye, I walked straight across the Place Turenne to the Rue Tournon, where I had lodgings, when I heard a woman scream for help.

It could not be an assault to commit robbery, for it was hardly ten o’clock in the evening. I ran to the corner of the place whence the sounds proceeded, and by the light of the moon, just then breaking through the clouds, I beheld a woman in the midst of a patrol of sans-culottes.

The lady observed me at the same instant, and seeing, by the character of my dress, that I did not belong to the common order of people, she ran toward me, exclaiming:

“There is M. Albert! He knows me! He will tell you that I am the daughter of Mme. Ledieu, the laundress.”

With these words the poor creature, pale and trembling with excitement, seized my arm and clung to me as a shipwrecked sailor to a spar.

“No matter whether you are the daughter of Mme. Ledieu or some one else, as you have no pass, you must go with us to the guard-house.”

The young girl pressed my arm. I perceived in this pressure the expression of her great distress of mind. I understood it.

“So it is you, my poor Solange?” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“There, messieurs!” she exclaimed in tones of deep anxiety; “do you believe me now?”

“You might at least say ‘citizens!’”

“Ah, sergeant, do not blame me for speaking that way,” said the pretty young girl; “my mother has many customers among the great people, and taught me to be polite. That’s how I acquired this bad habit—the habit of the aristocrats; and, you know, sergeant, it’s so hard to shake off old habits!”

This answer, delivered in trembling accents, concealed a delicate irony that was lost on all save me. I asked myself, who is this young woman? The mystery seemed complete. This alone was clear, she was not the daughter of a laundress.

“How did I come here, Citizen Albert?” she asked. “Well, I will tell you. I went to deliver some washing. The lady was not at home, and so I waited; for in these hard times every one needs what little money is coming to him. In that way it grew dark, and so I fell among these gentlemen—beg pardon, I would say citizens. They asked for my pass. As I did not have it with me, they were going to take me to the guard-house. I cried out in terror, which brought you to the scene; and as luck would have it, you are a friend. I said to myself, as M. Albert knows my name to be Solange Ledieu, he will vouch for me; and that you will, will you not, M. Albert?”

“Certainly, I will vouch for you.”

“Very well,” said the leader of the patrol; “and who, pray, will vouch for you, my friend?”

“Danton! Do you know him? Is he a good patriot?”

“Oh, if Danton will vouch for you, I have nothing to say.”

“Well, there is a session of the Cordeliers to-day. Let us go there.”

“Good,” said the leader. “Citizens, let us go to the Cordeliers.”

The club of the Cordeliers met at the old Cordelier monastery in the Rue l’Observance. We arrived there after scarce a minute’s walk. At the door I tore a page from my note-book, wrote a few words upon it with a lead pencil, gave it to the sergeant, and requested him to hand it to Danton, while I waited outside with the men.

The sergeant entered the clubhouse and returned with Danton.

“What!” said he to me; “they have arrested you, my friend? You, the friend of Camilles—you, one of the most loyal republicans? Citizens,” he continued, addressing the sergeant, “I vouch for him. Is that sufficient?”

“You vouch for him. Do you also vouch for her?” asked the stubborn sergeant.

“For her? To whom do you refer?”

“This girl.”

“For everything; for everybody who may be in his company. Does that satisfy you?”

“Yes,” said the man; “especially since I have had the privilege of seeing you.”

With a cheer for Danton, the patrol marched away. I was about to thank Danton, when his name was called repeatedly within.

“Pardon me, my friend,” he said; “you hear? There is my hand; I must leave you—the left. I gave my right to the sergeant. Who knows, the good patriot may have scrofula?”

“I’m coming!” he exclaimed, addressing those within in his mighty voice with which he could pacify or arouse the masses. He hastened into the house.

I remained standing at the door, alone with my unknown.

“And now, my lady,” I said, “whither would you have me escort you? I am at your disposal.”

“Why, to Mme. Ledieu,” she said with a laugh. “I told you she was my mother.”

“And where does Mme. Ledieu reside?”

“Rue Ferou, 24.”

“Then, let us proceed to Rue Ferou, 24.”

On the way neither of us spoke a word. But by the light of the moon, enthroned in serene glory in the sky, I was able to observe her at my leisure. She was a charming girl of twenty or twenty-two—brunette, with large blue eyes, more expressive of intelligence than melancholy—a finely chiseled nose, mocking lips, teeth of pearl, hands like a queen’s, and feet like a child’s; and all these, in spite of her costume of a laundress, betokened an aristocratic air that had aroused the sergeant’s suspicions not without justice.

Arrived at the door of the house, we looked at each other a moment in silence.

“Well, my dear M. Albert, what do you wish?” my fair unknown asked with a smile.

“I was about to say, my dear Mlle. Solange, that it was hardly worth while to meet if we are to part so soon.”

“Oh, I beg ten thousand pardons! I find it was well worth the while; for if I had not met you, I should have been dragged to the guard-house, and there it would have been discovered that I am not the daughter of Mme. Ledieu—in fact, it would have developed that I am an aristocrat, and in all likelihood they would have cut off my head.”

“You admit, then, that you are an aristocrat?”

“I admit nothing.”

“At least you might tell me your name.”

“Solange.”

“I know very well that this name, which I gave you on the inspiration of the moment, is not your right name.”

“No matter; I like it, and I am going to keep it—at least for you.”

“Why should you keep it for me, if we are not to meet again?”

“I did not say that. I only said that if we should meet again it will not be necessary for you to know my name any more than that I should know yours. To me you will be known as Albert, and to you I shall always be Solange.”

“So be it, then; but I say, Solange,” I began.

“I am listening, Albert,” she replied.

“You are an aristocrat—that you admit.”

“If I did not admit it, you would surmise it, and so my admission would be divested of half its merit.”

“And you were pursued because you were suspected of being an aristocrat?”

“I fear so.”

“And you are hiding to escape persecution?”

“In the Rue Ferou, No. 24, with Mme. Ledieu, whose husband was my father’s coachman. You see, I have no secret from you.”

“And your father?”

“I shall make no concealment, my dear Albert, of anything that relates to me. But my father’s secrets are not my own. My father is in hiding, hoping to make his escape. That is all I can tell you.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Go with my father, if that be possible. If not, allow him to depart without me until the opportunity offers itself to me to join him.”

“Were you commg from your father when the guard arrested you to-night?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, dearest Solange.”

“I am all attention.”

“You observed all that took place to-night?”

“Yes. I saw that you had powerful influence.”

“I regret my power is not very great. However, I have friends.”

“I made the acquaintance of one of them.”

“And you know he is not one of the least powerful men of the times.”

“Do you intend to enlist his influence to enable my father to escape?”

“No, I reserve him for you.”

“But my father?”

“I have other ways of helping your father.”

“Other ways?” exclaimed Solange, seizing my hands and studying me with an anxious expression.

“If I serve your father, will you then sometimes think kindly of me?”

“Oh, I shall all my life hold you in grateful remembrance!”

She uttered these words with an enchanting expression of devotion. Then she looked at me beseechingly and said:

“But will that satisfy you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Ah, I was not mistaken. You are kind, generous. I thank you for my father and myself. Even if you should fail, I shall be grateful for what you have already done!”

“When shall we meet again, Solange?”

“When do you think it necessary to see me again?”

“To-morrow, when I hope to have good news for you.”

“Well, then, to-morrow.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Here in the street?”

“Well, mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “You see, it is the safest place. For thirty minutes, while we have been talking here, not a soul has passed.”

“Why may I not go to you, or you come to me?”

“Because it would compromise the good people if you should come to me, and you would incur serious risk if I should go to you.”

“Oh, I would give you the pass of one of my relatives.”

“And send your relative to the guillotine if I should be accidentally arrested!”

“True. I will bring you a pass made out in the name of Solange.”

“Charming! You observe Solange is my real name.”

“And the hour?”

“The same at which we met to-night—ten o’clock, if you please.”

“All right; ten o’clock. And how shall we meet?”

“That is very simple. Be at the door at five minutes of ten, and at ten I will come down.”

“Then, at ten to-morrow, dear Solange.”

“To-morrow at ten, dear Albert.”

I wanted to kiss her hand; she offered me her brow.

The next day I was in the street at half past nine. At a quarter of ten Solange opened the door. We were both ahead of time.

With one leap I was by her side.

“I see you have good news,” she said.

“Excellent! First, here is a pass for you.”

“First my father!”

She repelled my hand.

“Your father is saved, if he wishes.”

“Wishes, you say? What is required of him?”

“He must trust me.”

“That is assured.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“You have discussed the situation with him?”

“It was unavoidable. Heaven will help us.”

“Did you tell your father all?”

“I told him you had saved my life yesterday, and that you would perhaps save his to-morrow.”

“To-morrow! Yes, quite right; to-morrow I shall save his life, if it is his will.”

“How? What? Speak! Speak! If that were possible, how fortunately all things have come to pass!”

“However—” I began hesitatingly.

“Well?”

“It will be impossible for you to accompany him.”

“I told you I was resolute.”

“I am quite confident, however, that I shall be able later to procure a passport for you.”

“First tell me about my father; my own distress is less important.”

“Well, I told you I had friends, did I not?”

“Yes.”

“To-day I sought out one of them.”

“Proceed.”

“A man whose name is familiar to you; whose name is a guarantee of courage and honour.”

“And this man is?”

“Marceau.”

“General Marceau?”

“Yes.”

“True, he will keep a promise.”

“Well, he has promised.”

“Mon Dieu! How happy you make me! What has he promised? Tell me all.”

“He has promised to help us.”

“In what manner?”

“In a very simple manner. Kléber has just had him promoted to to the command of the western army. He departs to-morrow night.”

“To-morrow night! We shall have no time to make the smallest preparation.”

“There are no preparations to make.”

“I do not understand.”

“He will take your father with him.”

“My father?”

“Yes, as his secretary. Arrived in the Vendée, your father will pledge his word to the general to undertake nothing against France. From there he will escape to Brittany, and from Brittany to England. When he arrives in London, he will inform you; I shall obtain a passport for you, and you will join him in London.”

“To-morrow,” exclaimed Solange; “my father departs to-morrow!”

“There is no time to waste.”

“My father has not been informed.”

“Inform him.”

“To-night?”

“To-night.”

“But how, at this hour?”

“You have a pass and my arm.”

“True. My pass.”

I gave it to her. She thrust it into her bosom.

“Now, your arm.”

I gave her my arm, and we walked away. When we arrived at the Place Turenne—that is, the spot where we had met the night before—she said: “Await me here.”

I bowed and waited.

She disappeared around the corner of what was formerly the Hôtel Malignon. After a lapse of fifteen minutes she returned.

“Come,” she said, “my father wishes to receive and thank you.”

Sie took my arm and led me up to the Rue St. Guillaume, opposite the Hôtel Mortemart. Arrived here, she took a bunch of keys from her pocket, opened a small, concealed door, took me by the hand, conducted me up two flights of steps, and knocked m a peculiar manner.

A man of forty-eight or fifty years opened the door. He was dressed as a working man and appeared to be a bookbinder. But at the first utterance that burst from his lips, the evidence of the seigneur was immistakable.

“Monsieur,” he said, “Providence has sent you to us. I regard you an emissary of fate. Is it true that you can save me, or, what is more, that you wish to save me?”

I admitted him completely to my confidence. I informed him that Marceau would take him as his secretary, and would exact no promise other than that he would not take up arms against France.

“I cheerfully promise it now, and will repeat it to him.”

“I thank you in his name as well as in my own.”

“But when does Marceau depart?”

“To-morrow.”

“Shall I go to him to-night?”

“Whenever you please; he expects you.”

Father and daughter looked at each other.

“I think it would be wise to go this very night,” said Solange.

“I am ready; but if I should be arrested, seeing that I have no permit?”

“Here is mine.”

“But you?”

“Oh, I am known.”

“Where does Marceau reside?”

“Rue de l’Université, 40, with his sister, Mlle. Dégraviers-Marceau.”

“Will you accompany me?”

“I shall follow you at a distance, to accompany mademoiselle home when you are gone.”

“How will Marceau know that I am the man of whom you spoke to him?”

“You will hand him this tri-colored cockade; that is the sign of identification.”

“And how shall I reward my liberator?”

“By allowing him to save your daughter also.”

“Very well.”

He put on his hat and extinguished the lights, and we descended by the gleam of the moon which penetrated the stair-windows.

At the foot of the steps he took his daughter’s arm, and by way of the Rue des Saints Peres we reached Rue de l’Université. I followed them at a distance of ten paces. We arrived at No. 40 without having met any one. I rejoined them there.

“That is a good omen,” I said; “do you wish me to go up with you?”

“No. Do not compromise yourself any further. Await my daughter here.”

I bowed.

“And now, once more, thanks and farewell,” he said, giving me his hand. “Language has no words to express my gratitude. I pray that heaven may some day grant me the opportunity of givmg fuller expression to my feelings.”

I answered him with a pressure of the hand.

He entered the house. Solange followed him; but she, too, pressed my hand before she entered.

In ten minutes the door was reopened.

“Well?” I asked.

“Your friend,” she said, “is worthy of his name; he is as kind and considerate as yourself. He knows that it will contribute to my happiness to remain with my father until the moment of departure. His sister has ordered a bed placed in her room. To-morrow at three o’clock my father will be out of danger. To-morrow evening at ten I shall expect you in the Rue Ferou, if the gratitude of a daughter who owes her father’s life to you is worth the trouble.”

“Oh, be sure I shall come. Did your father charge you with any message for me?”

“He thanks you for your pass, which he returns to you, and begs you to join him as soon as possible.”

“Whenever it may be your desire to go,” I said, with a strange sensation at my heart.

“At least, I must know where I am to join him,” she said. “Ah, you are not yet rid of me!”

I seized her hand and pressed it against my heart, but she offered me her brow, as on the previous evening, and said: “Until to-morrow.”

I kissed her on the brow; but now I no longer strained her head against my breast, but her heaving bosom, her throbbing heart.

I went home in a state of delirious ecstasy such as I had never experienced. Was it the consciousness of a generous action, or was it love for this adorable creature? I know not whether I slept or woke. I only know that all the harmonies of nature were singing within me; that the night seemed endless, and the day eternal; I know that though I wished to speed the time, I did not wish to lose a moment of the days still to come.

The next day I was in the Rue Ferou at nine o’clock. At half-past nine Solange made her appearance. She approached me and threw her arms around my neck.

“Saved!” she said; “my father is saved! And this I owe you. Oh, how I love you!”

Two weeks later Solange received a letter announcing her father’s safe arrival in England. The next day I brought her a passport. When Solange received it she burst into tears.

“You do not love me!” she exclaimed.

“I love you better than my life,” I replied; “but I pledged your father my word, and I must keep it.”

“Then, I will break mine,” she said. “Yes, Albert; if you have the heart to let me go, I have not the courage to leave you.”

Alas, she remained!

Three months had passed since that night on which we talked of her escape, and in all that time not a word of parting had passed her lips.

Solange had taken lodgings in the Rue Turenne. I had rented them in her name. I knew no other, while she always addressed me as Albert. I had found her a place as teacher in a young ladies’ seminary solely to withdraw her from the espionage of the revolutionary police, which had become more scrutinizing than ever.

Sundays we passed together in the small dwelling, from the bedroom of which we could see the spot where we had first met. We exchanged letters daily, she writing to me under the name of Solange, and I to her under that of Albert.

Those three months were the happiest of my life.

In the meantime I was making some interesting experiments suggested by one of the guillotiniers. I had obtained permission to make certain scientific tests with the bodies and heads of those who perished on the scaffold. Sad to say, available subjects were not wanting. Not a day passed but thirty or forty persons were guillotined, and blood flowed so copiously on the Place de la Révolution that it became necessary to dig a trench three feet deep around the scaffolding. This trench was covered with deals. One of them loosened under the feet of an eight-year-old lad, who fell into the abominable pit and was drowned.

For self-evident reasons I said nothing to Solange of the studies that occupied my attention during the day. In the beginning my occupation had inspired me with pity and loathing, but as time wore on I said: “These studies are for the good of humanity,” for I hoped to convince the law-makers of the wisdom of abolishing capital punishment.

The Cemetery of Clamart had been assigned to me, and all the heads and trunks of the victims of the executioner had been placed at my disposal. A small chapel in one corner of the cemetery had been converted into a kind of laboratory for my benefit. You know, when the queens were driven from the palaces, God was banished from the churches.

Every day at six the horrible procession filed in. The bodies were heaped together in a wagon, the heads in a sack. I chose some bodies and heads in a haphazard fashion, while the remainder were thrown into a common grave.

In the midst of this occupation with the dead, my love for Solange increased from day to day; while the poor child reciprocated my affection with the whole power of her pure soul.

Often I had thought of making her my wife; often we had mutually pictured to ourselves the happiness of such a union. But in order to become my wife, it would be necessary for Solange to reveal her name; and this name, which was that of an emigrant, an aristocrat, meant death.

Her father had repeatedly urged her by letter to hasten her departure, but she had informed him of our engagement. She had requested his consent, and he had given it, so that all had gone well to this extent.

The trial and execution of the queen, Marie Antoinette, had plunged me, too, into deepest sadness. Solange was all tears, and we could not rid ourselves of a strange feeling of despondency, a presentiment of approaching danger, that compressed our hearts. In vain I tried to whisper courage to Solange. Weeping, she reclined in my arms, and I could not comfort her, because my own words lacked the ring of confidence.

We passed the night together as usual, but the night was even more depressing than the day. I recall now that a dog, locked up in a room below us, howled till two o’clock in the morning. The next day we were told that the dog’s master had gone away with the key in his pocket, had been arrested on the way, tried at three, and executed at four.

The time had come for us to part. Solange’s duties at the school began at nine o’clock in the morning. Her school was in the vicinity of the Botanic Gardens. I hesitated long to let her go; she, too, was loath to part from me. But it must be. Solange was prone to be an object of unpleasant inquiries.

I called a conveyance and accompanied her as far as the Rue des Fosses-Saint-Bernard, where I got out and left her to pursue her way alone. All the way we lay mutely wrapped in each other’s arms, mingling tears with our kisses.

After leaving the carriage, I stood as if rooted to the ground. I heard Solange call me, but I dared not go to her, because her face, moist with tears, and her hysterical manner were calculated to attract attention.

Utterly wretched, I returned home, passing the entire day in writing to Solange. In the evening I sent her an entire volume of love-pledges.

My letter had hardly gone to the post when I received one from her.

She had been sharply reprimanded for coming late; had been subjected to a severe cross-examination, and threatened with forfeiture of her next holiday. But she vowed to join me even at the cost of her place. I thought I should go mad at the prospect of being parted from her a whole week. I was more depressed because a letter which had arrived from her father appeared to have been tampered with.

I passed a wretched night and a still more miserable day.

The next day the weather was appalling. Nature seemed to be dissolving in a cold, ceaseless rain—a rain like that which announces the approach of winter. All the way to the laboratory my ears were tortured with the criers announcing the names of the condemned, a large number of men, women, and children. The bloody harvest was over-rich. I should not lack subjects for my investigations that day.

The day ended early. At four o’clock I arrived at Clamart; it was almost night.

The view of the cemetery, with its large, new-made graves; the sparse, leafless trees that swayed in the wind, was desolate, almost appalling.

A large, open pit yawned before me. It was to receive to-day’s harvest from the Place de la Révolution. An exceedingly large number of victims was expected, for the pit was deeper than usual.

Mechanically I approached the grave. At the bottom the water had gathered in a pool; my feet slipped; I came within an inch of falling in. My hair stood on end. The rain had drenched me to the skin. I shuddered and hastened into the laboratory.

It was, as I have said, an abandoned chapel. My eyes searched—I know not why—to discover if some traces of the holy purpose to which the edifice had once been devoted did not still adhere to the walls or to the altar; but the walls were bare, the altar empty.

I struck a light and deposited the candle on the operating-table on which lay scattered a miscellaneous assortment of the strange instruments I employed. I sat down and fell into a reverie. I thought of the poor queen, whom I had seen in her beauty, glory, and happiness, yesterday carted to the scaffold, pursued by the execrations of a people, to-day lying headless on the common sinners’ bier—she who had slept beneath the gilded canopy of the throne of the Tuileries and St. Cloud.

As I sat thus, absorbed in gloomy meditation, wind and rain without redoubled in fury. The rain-drops dashed against the window-panes, the storm swept with melancholy moaning through the branches of the trees. Anon there mingled with the violence of the elements the sound of wheels.

It was the executioner’s red hearse with its ghastly freight from the Place de la Révolution.

The door of the little chapel was pushed ajar, and two men, drenched with rain, entered, carrying a sack between them.

“There, M. Ledru,” said the guillotinier; “there is what your heart longs for! Be in no hurry this night! We’ll leave you to enjoy their society alone. Orders are not to cover them up till to-morrow, and so they’ll not take cold.”

With a horrible laugh, the two executioners deposited the sack in a corner, near the former altar, right in front of me. Thereupon they sauntered out, leaving open the door, which swung furiously on its hinges till my candle flashed and flared in the fierce draft.

I heard them unharness the horse, lock the cemetery, and go away.

I was strangely impelled to go with them, but an indefinable power fettered me in my place. I could not repress a shudder. I had no fear; but the violence of the storm, the splashing of the rain, the whistling sounds of the lashing branches, the shrill vibration of the atmosphere, which made my candle tremble—all this filled me with a vague terror that began at the roots of my hair and communicated itself to every part of my body.

Suddenly I fancied I heard a voice! A voice at once soft and plaintive; a voice within the chapel, pronouncing the name of “Albert!”

I was startled.

“Albert!”

But one person in all the world addressed me by that name!

Slowly I directed my weeping eyes around the chapel, which, though small, was not completely lighted by the feeble rays of the candle, leaving the nooks and angles in darkness, and my look remained fixed on the blood-soaked sack near the altar with its hideous contents.

At this moment the same voice repeated the same name, only it sounded fainter and more plaintive.

“Albert!”

I bolted out of my chair, frozen with horror.

The voice seemed to proceed from the sack!

I touched myself to make sure that I was awake; then I walked toward the sack with my arms extended before me, but stark and staring with horror. I thrust my hand into it. Then it seemed to me as if two lips, still warm, pressed a kiss upon my fingers!

I had reached that stage of boundless terror where the excess of fear turns into the audacity of despair. I seized the head and, collapsing in my chair, placed it in front of me.

Then I gave vent to a fearful scream. This head, with its its lips still warm, with eyes half closed, was the head of Solange!

I thought I should go mad.

Three times I called:

“Solange! Solange! Solange!”

At the third time she opened her eyes and looked at me. Tears trickled down her cheeks; then a moist blow darted from her eyes, as if the soul were passing, and the eyes closed, never to open again.

I sprang to my feet a raving maniac. I wanted to fly; I knocked against the table; it fell. The candle was extinguished; the head rolled upon the floor, and I fell prostrate, as if a terrible fever had stricken me down—an icy shudder convulsed me, and, with a deep sigh, I swooned.

The following morning at six the grave-diggers found me, cold as the flagstones on which I lay.

Solange, betrayed by her father’s letter, had been arrested the same day, condemned, and executed.

The head that had called me, the eyes that had looked at me, were the head, the eyes, of Solange!

Son of Porthos, and other Musketeer books in Finland

Date: Fri, 02 Jan 1998 07:19:34 +0200

Greetings!

About “D’artagnan the King Maker” I have no knowledge—I racked my brain trying unsuccesfully to figure out its French name from a French list of Dumas’ complete works. However, “Son of Porthos” is undoubtedly the same 300-page book which here in Finland is currently available under the title “Viimeinen muskettisoturi”, meaning ‘the last musketeer’. All of the musketeer books were reprinted recently here, and this is the last in the series.

It seems Porthos had a brief affair with a local peasant woman when he was staying at Belle Isle, and their son, named Joel, was born after his death. The book tells of Joel’s adventures when he goes searching for his kidnapped lady-love as well as for the mysterious persons called Athos and Aramis who could tell him who exactly his father was besides just ‘Porthos’. Athos is of course long dead, but Aramis is very much alive and in France. “Dieu avait repris les âmes” all right; this Aramis is the “baddie” of the book and wants to make Joel’s sweetheart the king’s next mistress—still as scheming as ever, is Aramis, but beginning to realize there isn’t really much point in it. He’s friendless and ancient by now, and a drug-abuser, and often glumly wonders what Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan might think about him if they could see him now when he has sunk so low. “Why oh why didn’t any of them leave a son or even a daughter to this corrupt and honorless world,” he ponders. From this point on the reader is left chewing his fingernails and screaming “when are Aramis and Joel going to figure out each other’s identities??”. Of course this doesn’t happen until the very end of the book, when the two adversaries are in the middle of a sword fight. So Aramis spares Joel’s life, but dies immediately afterwards without having the time to tell Joel anything about Porthos. For the record, Aramis’ last words (as translated from old Finnish by me) are: “I was disappointed. The elixir of long life [the drug] only has short-time effects, and I have only worn out my own life. Oh, I so much wanted to live—to rule, to have the whole world subjected under one person, and that one—me—”

Otherwise, the ending of the book is the complete opposite to that of “The Man in the Iron Mask”. Joel not only lives and becomes the count of Locmaria and the governor of the province of Locmaria, but succesfully rescues and marries his girlfriend and the reader is left to believe that they lived happily ever after and had tons of kids. Again, I have no knowledge of this book’s original French name, but at least it is a canonical musketeer book by Alexandre Dumas le père.

I don’t know if you know or care, but there has, from time to time, been other additional musketeer titles by other people. Paul Féval and M. Lassez wrote eight or so novels about the adventures of d’Artagnan with the young Cyrano de Bergerac. As “The Three Musketeers” is supposed to be based on a manuscript written by Athos, so these are grounded in the notes made by Grimaud as told by Athos. However, although some familiar supporting characters are there and even Aramis makes a brief appearance, Athos and Porthos are nowhere in sight. Although this makes sense as the stories take place during the twenty-year gap between “The Three Musketeers” and “Twenty Years After” when d’Artagnan was said to have had virtually no contact with his friends, it inevitably takes away some of the charm. Also, they aren’t exactly literary masterpieces, and indeed I have currently misplaced my copies somewhere in my storeroom and am thus unable to give their original French names.

Much better is “D’Artagnan amoureux” by Roger Nimier. It, too, occurs in the twenty-year gap, but the original three musketeers pop by anyway. It has not been too long since “The Three Musketeers”, so they are still all bosom buddies and Athos still drinks. Nimier originally planned to write more musketeer novels, but unfortunately his death in 1956 prevented him. “D’Artagnan amoureux” was his last work, and a good one, if you ask me.

And then there is my personal favorite—“Le dernier amour d’Aramis, ou les vrais Mémoires du chevalier René d’Herblay, qui devint évêque de Vannes, duc d’Alameda, Grand d’Espagne, ambassadeur de Sa Majesté Très Catholique, Préposé général des Jésuites, et fut mousquetaire du Roi de France dans la compagnie de M. de Tréville sous le nom d’Aramis.” by Jean-Pierre Dufreigne. This one has even won a literary prize, le Prix Interallié 1993. As the title says, these are the memoirs of Aramis, the most reserved, complex and intriguing (IMHO) character in the series. Find out where he got his name from, how he met Athos and Porthos, what exactly was his relationship with Fouquet, what he was actually thinking during the whole thingie… A prequel and a sequel in one package. Also goes by the name “Le dernier amour d’Aramis” for short. Seek it out if you haven’t already done so.

Oh, if you’re wondering where Athos, Porthos and Aramis really got their names, there is at least one Swedish book called “De fyra musketörena” by somebody-whose-name-I-can’t-recall-just-now that tells what little there is to know about the historical persons. So you knew that d’Artagnan was real, but did you know Athos, Porthos and Aramis were also? Their names, homes and lives were somewhat different in real life, but they did exist. Interesting reading, if you can understand Swedish.

If you like Richelieu or the kings, then “Le sphinx rouge” or whatever it’s called in French, you know, the Richelieu book, “Les Grands hommes en robe de chambre” and “La Jeunesse de Louis XIV”, all by Dumas himself, are worth a peek.

And now, the unknown ‘unknown musketeer titles…’

The list of the complete works of Alexandre Dumas le père says that in 1845, the same year he did “Twenty Years After”, he also wrote a theatrical work called “Les Mousquetaires”. My guess is that this is an adaptation of the first book to the stage. The musketeer books have so often been so badly abridged and mutated by others—how the man himself did it would be fascinating to read.

In 1894, two years after “Le Vicomte de Bragelonne”, I read the title of another theatre piece: “La Jeunesse des Mousquetaires”. Now what’s this? A prequel?? Have you got any information whatsoever concerning it?

By the way, the whole three-part kaboodle “The Man in the Iron Mask” can often be found in the antiquaries under the name “Le Vicomte de Bragelonne”, also split into two, as opposed to three, parts. Sometimes the second part, thus including the third, is called “Louise de La Valliere”. Confusing? You should see the numerous Finnish names and strange, altered translations and ‘Atos ja Portos’ and 24-part editions and… Well, all in all, heartfelt thanks for a translation that is more accurate and vivid than anything that can be seen over here.

Bye now, I hope I was of any help at all.

Onnea Hast


March 7, 2003

This is Jerry again. I’ve just heard from an “Athos Johnstone” who says that Son of Porthos was not written by Dumas:

I’ve discovered a few books were written/published under the name Alexandre Dumas that were in fact written by a lady in the early 1900’s. Among these were “Son of Porthos”, “Countess of Monte Cristo”, and “Son of Monte Cristo”. I have not read “Son of Porthos” but I have read “Countess of Monte Cristo” and although the name on the book is Dumas, the writing style is completely different.

No news yet on what those references are or what the lady’s name was.

January 31, 2017

Another comment, from “Mihai”:

Indeed, “Le fils de Porthos” / “The son of Porthos” was not written by Alexandre Dumas. The author is Paul Mahalin who also had written 2 other novels continuing the Three Musketeers: “Le filleul d’Aramis” and “D’artagnan".

Mihai also sends along a web site devoted to take-offs on Alexandre Dumas.

The History of Dumas’s Musketeers

I have often wondered just what parts of Dumas’s works follow history, and which parts were his fictional creations. Since no one else has put any such examination on-line, I have decided that I will attempt to do so. I am not a historian. I have a list of a number of books at our University library and will be going through them for references that agree or disagree with Dumas. I will reference where I am receiving his information, normally, by (author, page number), as in (Kleinman, 23). If an entire paragraph references many pages from a single chapter, I will refer to it as (author, Chapter number), as in (Kleinman, Chapter 5).

Major Characters from the History of Dumas’s Musketeers

Anne of Austria

The Queen in The Three Musketeers, and the Queen Mother in Le Vicomte de Bragelonne, Anne of Austria had never been in Austria (Kleinman, ix). Her mother was Austrian, her father (Phillip III) was Spanish, as was she. Her full name was Doña Ana Maria Mauricia. She had been born September 22, 1601, putting her at 24 in The Three Musketeers.

As mentioned in The Three Musketeers, Anne’s Spanish attendants, starting in 1617 with Louis XIII’s ascendance, were dismissed by the king. Yes, that’s the right year: their marriage was finalized November 25, 1615, and consummated that night. (Kleinman, 26) They were perhaps quite young for their responsibilities. While Kleinman claims that most likely Louis successfully consummated their marriage, Moote (84-85) claims that he did not.

Far from being brash on his marriage night, he lost his nerve and did not recover it for four long years. He continued his habit of sleeping alone, visiting his wife ritualistically during the day and for a brief goodnight parting… Six months passed before the newlyweds ate a meal together. (Moote, 85)

For “fun-loving”, “rosy-cheeked” Anne, this must have seemed especially cold.

Anne played only a background role in opposition to Richelieu. However, “she listened approvingly to criticism of Richelieu and obstinately kept up relationships with people who were his enemies—not just because they were his enemies but because she felt they were her friends. This was unfortunate for her because Louis regarded opposition to Richelieu as opposition to his own will.” (Kleinman, 72)

Was Louis XIII the father of her children? There were rumors that the true father was Richelieu or Mazarin, but these were purely political: Anne loathed Richelieu, and Mazarin was not in Paris in 1637. No one seriously questioned the paternity of their first child. (Kleinman, 105)

Louis XIII

Born on September 27, 1601, five days after his future queen, he was in fact reminded that she would be his wife for most of his young life. While their marriage was never certain, it was fairly well counted on by the royal houses of both countries. (Kleinman, Ch. 1) His father was assassinated on May 14, 1610, and his mother became regent until his majority in 1614; for many years after his mother still retained political power. (Kleinman, 10). He took power in 1617, with the assassination of Concini, marshall of d’Ancre, and the exile to Blois of his mother.

As in The Three Musketeers, and as complained about by the falconer at the end of The Man in the Iron Mask, Louis XIII was fond of hunting, and fond of falconry especially.

Was he weak-willed, as in The Three Musketeers? Kleinman writes:

Most of Louis’s personal relationships were double-faced, combining passionate attachment or even dependence with distrust and hostility. In almost every case, ultimately the distrust and hostility became predominant. This happened with his mother; with his first great favorite Luynes and Luynes’s widow, Madame de Chevreuse; with all his later favorites; and at times it seemed to be happening with Richelieu. (Kleinman, 88)

Despite his Spanish marriage, Louis XIII generally disliked the Spanish, first as his father’s enemies, and later as his own. In an incident foreshadowing his fear of his Queen’s possible spying, he rebuked his Jesuit confessor soon after his father died: “refusing to tell his confessor why he was lost in thought, ‘because you will immediately write it to Spain.’” (Moote, 49)

“They do not call me Louis the Just for nothing,” said the King in The Three Musketeers. He first gained his “reputation for justice” in his minority, as he and his mother went out to Brittany to end a pending rebellion led by his half-brother. “Louis felt most comfortable with its strictest rendition: justice meant punishment of wrongdoing… Louis noted this sobriquet, commenting wryly that he wanted people to call him Louis the Just and not Louis the Stammerer.” (Moote, 56)

Louis came into his majority at the age of 13. While he continued to defer to his mother for a number of years, all state acts required his validation from that point on.

Louis XIV

Did Louis XIV have many open affairs? According to Kleinman, he was certainly given to believe that he married solely for reasons of state: he was at the time of his marriage strongly in love with one of Mazarin’s nieces, far below him in class, and had to be continually dissuaded from marrying her instead. His marriage to Maria Teresa of Spain brought peace with Spain as well, after twenty-four years of war. (Kleinman, 266-267)

At the end of The Man in the Iron Mask, a conversation between Louis XIV and Henrietta takes place, Henrietta’s husband being “Monsieur” (Henrietta herself was often called “Madame”). That would be Louis XIV’s brother, Philippe. Henrietta was Charles II’s sister, but also the daughter of Louis XIII’s sister Henrietta, married to Charles I of England. The younger Henrietta had grown up in France, her mother in exile during Cromwell’s reign. And, more to the point in our discussion of Dumas’ works, after she was married to Philippe, and while Queen Maria Teresa was pregnant with their first child, Louis XIV flirted heavily with his brother’s wife. The Queen-Mother asked Henrietta to curtail such flirtations, but the only concession she could get was:

As a blind, however, she and Louis agreed that he would seem to be paying attention to one of her maids of honor, Mademoiselle de La Vallière, a stratagem that would explain Louis’s constant presence in Madame’s company. (Kleinman, 279)

Fans of the Iron Mask will of course recognize that maid of honor as Raoul’s lost love. These flirtations ended, however, at the end of the Queen’s pregnancy, during which he stayed by her side “as though his flirtations of the summer had never happened.” (Kleinman, 280) But later on, he continued pursuing the “blind”, Mademoiselle de La Vallière, as well as others.

Cardinal Richelieu

Jean Armand Duplessis de Richelieu was Louis XIII’s mother’s “most trusted advisor” (Kleinman, 52), and it was possibly at her urgings that Louis XIII successfully obtained the cardinalship for him from Rome. Within months of his appointment to the royal council, “he rose to first place in Louis’s council and dominated policy decisions.” (Kleinman, 62)

As Richelieu gained in power, opposition to him grew stronger. Mostly his opponents gathered around the Queen-Mother, Marie de Medici, and Louis’s brother, Gaston d’Orleans.

Was Richelieu in love with the Queen?

People whispered at the time that he was in love with the queen, that he had been jealous of Buckingham and could not forgive Anne for having scorned his own feelings. Madame de Motteville later reported she had heard the queen recollect that Richelieu had once come to her with the air of a suitor and had made her a very passionate speech to which she was about to reply in anger and disdain when the king entered the room, and later she never had dared to resume her interrupted reply lest she give Richelieu the satisfaction of knowing that she remembered the incident at all.

Did she remember the matter correctly, or did she misunderstand Richelieu? Certainly the Cardinal would have taken a great risk to become her lover: this was one thing that the king would certainly not stand, and he wrote in his memoirs that he feared a plot to lure him into a compromising position with respect to the queen. (Kleinman, 73)

In Chapter 39 of The Three Musketeers, D’Artagnan sees Richelieu writing, or re-writing, the play Mirame. Mirame was actually written by Desmarets de Saint-Sorlin, but:

Desmarets was one of Richelieu’s literary protégés, even in some sense his collaborator, for Desmaret’s’s plays were generally believed to have been inspired by the cardinal himself… Mirame was a princess of Bithynia loved by two heroes; one hero was besieging her father’s city while the other was its defender. She herself loved the attacker and spurned the defender, though apparently in vain, for her preferred lover suffered defeat at the hands of his unsuccessful rival. Scandalmongers at the time took the play as a roman à clef, reading the list of characters as Anne of Austria, the duke of Buckingham, and Richelieu himself, and they saw the allusion as a public mockery of the queen.

Richelieu made his “political debut” at the close of the Estates General in 1615, when he was still the bishop of Luçon. “Luçon knew how to touch on every reform proposal and please everyone—including the queen mother—while still challenging the young ruler to greater things.” It was a plea for royal firmness, and marked Richelieu’s desire to see a strong “royal dignity”. (Moote, 71-72)

Duke of Buckingham

His seductions and love affairs were legendary, and it was his good fortune to have a loving and tolerant wife who turned a blind eye to all of them.

According to Kleinman, the plot was hatched by Madame de Chevreuse, and willingly accepted by Buckingham. Buckingham first saw Anne in a play in Paris, when he and Charles, prince of Wales, were traveling incognito through France on their way to Spain. They did not make their presence known. However, Charles was to marry the King’s sister Madame Henrietta Maria (whose daughter appears in The Man in the Iron Mask). Madame de Chevreuse was having an affair with Lord Holland, the English ambassador to Paris, and friend of Buckingham. Through him, she set up Buckingham and Anne to meet in Paris, when Buckingham came to bring Henrietta to England. The Queen’s reaction to Buckingham in Paris was overly cordial, and the King hastened Henrietta’s departure. But the custom in France was that royal daughters who were married abroad should be accompanied by their female kin to the border, which included Anne. Not only that, but the duke and duchess of Chevreuse also accompanied the train. Louis XIII gave “strict orders that on no account was Buckingham ever to see Anne alone during the journey.”

When it finally came time to part, Buckingham “tried to declare his feelings”.

Though she did not encourage him, she showed enough emotion so that her companion, the princess of Conti, declared she could vouch to the king for the queen’s virtue from the waist down but would not be answerable for the part from the waist up.

From this point on, the French saw everything Buckingham did, for the next three years, as “designed to force the French government to let him come back for negotiations”. This included the English promise of aid to the Huguenots.

More likely, “political imperatives were compatible with Buckingham’s romantic ambitions”. As time went on and he continued to be refused entry into France, “Buckingham had ample reason to adopt an increasingly hostile attitude toward France. Buckingham in fact began to contribute to plots that were hatching in France against the authority of Richelieu and of the king himself, plots to which he was introduced by Madame de Chevreuse.”

Now, what about those diamond studs that D’Artagnan went to England to retrieve?

Many years later, the duke of La Rochefoucauld wrote in his memoirs that the French queen had given Buckingham as a farewell present a set of diamond points for laces that had been a gift to her from Louis. One of Richelieu’s informants, a mistress whom Buckingham had discarded, saw him wearing the points in London and managed to cut off two, which she sent to the cardinal. According to La Rochefoucauld, Richelieu, seeing an opportunity to ruin the queen whom he distrusted, suggested that Louis ask her to wear the diamonds he had recently presented to her. Buckingham, meanwhile, having noticed the loss of two of the jewels, had the ports of England closed while a jeweler made exact copies. Then Buckingham reopened the ports and sent the jewelry back to Anne, who promptly showed it to Louis and thereby checkmated the cardinal. La Rochefoucauld was twelve years old and not at court when all this supposedly happened. It was a dramatic story and inspired Alexandre Dumas to write The Three Musketeers. There is no evidence to support it, however, and no other writer of the time ever mentioned it. La Rochefoucauld moreover seems to have assumed that as early as 1625 Richelieu felt a settled hostility toward Anne. This was not the case. On the other hand, thanks in large part to her friend Madame de Chevreuse, Anne was becoming involved in much more serious matters than purloined jewelry or romantic dreams.

(Kleinman, Chapter 5; Tapié, p. 148)

Madame de Chevreuse

In The Three Musketeers, Madame de Chevreuse was used to ferry letters between the Queen and various extranational powers, such as Buckingham and Spain, as well as with Aramis. By the time of The Man in the Iron Mask, Madame de Chevreuse has been disgraced and the queen no longer speaks with her. In real life?

I do not wish the queen to write any more to Madame de Chevreuse, chiefly because this pretext has served to cover all the letters she has sent elsewhere.

This was a memorandum from King Louis XIII on August 17, 1637 (Kleinman, 103). Following this, Madame de Chevreuse fled to Spain. This was all engineered by Cardinal Richelieau, who had intercepted many of those letters.

Not as obvious in Dumas’ books, it was Madame de Chevreuse who introduced Buckingham and the Queen, with the purpose being romance. It was also Madame de Chevreuse, according to Kleinman, who fed Anne’s dislike of the cardinal:

Since her return to France, Madame de Chevreuse had been feeding Anne’s sense of grievance and giving it a focus. She never saw herself at fault in having led the queen to indulge in the Buckingham romance. Instead she blamed all the humiliation Anne had suffered in consequence on Cardinal Richelieu. She and Anne began to cultivate their dislike of the cardinal and to indulge in hopes and sometimes plans for his fall. (Kleinman, 69)

She used her network of friends to “facilitate an alliance between Lorraine, England, and the French Huguenot nobles,” the purpose being military action against Louis to discredit Richelieu, forcing his dismissal. However, the matter focussed on the siege at La Rochelle, and a few months after Buckingham’s assassination in August of 1628, that city capitulated. Peace with England came only a few months later, and Madame de Chevreuse, while allowed to return to France, was to remain at Dampierre.

She didn’t change much when Anne took power. Shortly before the death of Louis XIII, Richelieu also died, and Louis XIII appointed his successor as Mazarin, at Richelieu’s recommendation. While Anne brought many of her favorites back to court, including Chevreuse, she trusted Mazarin’s advice on statecraft highly. Madame de Chevreuse, with the Duke of Beaufort, “organized a conspiracy to assassinate Mazarin”. Anne finally ordered the arrest of Beaufort, and exiled the rest, including Madame de Chevreuse, from Paris. When Madame de Chevreuse continued her intrigues, she was ordered into confinement in a royal castle, but instead fled to Spanish Netherlands. (Kleinman, 168-169)

Colbert

At the end of The Man in the Iron Mask, d’Artagnan and Aramis are told, to their astonishment, of the plans for a great French fleet by Colbert.

The ships and men which constituted the French Fleet at the time were a beggarly assortment not even capable of protecting the French coast from pirate raids. Louis XIV’s ministers were aware of the need to build a new fleet and Colbert especially was convinced of the enormous political and economic advantages to be had from a major investment in sea-power (Noone, 62)

Minor Characters from the History of Dumas’s Musketeers

Duc de Beaufort

The man who was set free by Grimaud in Twenty Years After was originally the man most trusted by Queen Anne. When the King died, she “entrusted her children to his safekeeping, afraid that the King’s brother, Gaston, or the Prince de Condé, who was commander-in-chief of the army, might attempt to kidnap the future King.” (Noone, 60) He made the mistake, however, of not only opposing Mazarin, but taking part in the plots against Mazarin’s life. The Queen ordered him arrested and imprisoned at Vincennes, from which he escaped in May 1648 and returned to Paris to help lead the Fronde uprising. Afterwards,

His enemies called him ‘King of the Market’, but at a time when the King of England had just been executed by his people and the King of France was in hiding from his, it was not a title to be scoffed at. (Noone, 60)

Nicolas Fouquet

In following the theories of the man behind the iron mask, John Noone writes in passing:

When Saint-Mars was given command of the state prison in the citadel of Pignerol in January 1665 he had only one prisoner: Nicolas Fouqet. Then aged fifty, the former Superintendent General of Finance had been arrested and imprisoned in September 1661, tried for embezzlement of state funds and conspiracy to rebellion, found guilty and sentenced in December 1664 to imprisonment for life. The troop of musketeers which made the arrest was led by d’Artagnan, more famous from fiction than in fact (Noone, 133)

According to Noone, Fouquet’s major crime was that he was more a king than was the King:

Fouquet was certainly guilty of embezzlement, but in the general corruption of the times that made him no different from anyone else in government or finance. His crime was rather a matter of style; he invented the Louis XIV style before Louis XIV had any style at all. He was everything the young King wished to be and the jealousy and resentment this engendered in the monarch could be appeased by nothing less than the superintendent’s complete destruction…

When he built a house for himself at Vaux-le-Vicomte he created a work of art which set the style in Europe for over a hundred years…

On 17 August 1661, he invited the King and six thousand guests to a party at Vaux… the King was so mortified to find himself the guest of a subject so much more of a king than himself that he very nearly had him arrested on the spot. The guests were overwhelmed by the magnificence of their host, the splendour of the house, the marvel of the garden… There were a hundred tables laid with silver and Venetian lace and the King’s own table was set with massive gold…

Versailles was begun with the spoils of Vaux. The King took its treasures and appropriated its makers… Paintings, sculptures, a thousand orange trees, porcelain, glass and plate, all went to Versailles and with them Le Vau, the architect, Le Nôtre, the gardener, and Le Brun, the decorator… When years later the Sun King finally emerged, tricked out in all his glory, the gross affectation of his posturing was saved from the ridiculous only by the subtle glimmer that still remained of that light which he had stolen from the Superintendent Sun.

Monsieur Laporte

The godfather of Madame Bonacieux fared poorly in the Queen’s demise as well: he went first to the Bastille, and then was exiled to the countryside (Kleinman, 104) for his assistance in carrying the Queen’s letters. He returned to the palace when Anne took power, and was Louis XIV’s tutor for a period. However, his vocal hatred of Richelieu’s successor, Mazarin, resulted in the Queen dismissing him from service.

Interestingly, Laporte may have been related to Cardinal Richelieu: Richelieu’s mother’s side was “the hardworking La Porte-Meilleraye family of robe lineage”. Whether this is the same Laporte family from which Monsieur Laporte came from, I haven’t been able to verify.

Dame Peronne

Given as Anne’s midwife in The Man in the Iron Mask, “we know nothing about Anne’s midwife save her name: Dame Peronne, who, if her name is an indication, probably belonged to a dynasty of midwives long established in Paris.” (Kleinman, 108)

Prince Philippe

In The Man in the Iron Mask, there are two Philippes: the twin brother of the king, and the acknowledged, younger brother of the king, causing no end of confusion to readers toward the end. In real life, of course, there was only the younger brother. He was known as “Monsieur” and his wife, Henrietta Maria, as “Madame”.

Chancellor Séguier

Séguier rates two mentions in “Twenty Years After”. After the Queen, her son the King, Mazarin, and d’Artagnan flee Paris, she sends a message to parliament through Chancellor Séguier. A few chapters later, she instructs Séguier to “open the conferences” with the partisans of the Fronde.

King Charles Stuart (Charles I of England)

In “Twenty Years After”, King Charles’ wife, Queen Henrietta Maria, was in France while Charles fought for his crown in England. Their daughter, also Henrietta, was in France as well, and eventually married Louis XIV’s brother Philippe. Daughter Henrietta was the “Madame” of “Madame and Monsieur” in “The Man in the Iron Mask”. Queen Henrietta Maria was the daughter of the French King Henry IV, Louis XIII’s father. Charles died pretty much exactly as Dumas described, and the Queen’s fate (and her daughter’s) was also as written.

The road to democracy in England was a rocky one. In the beginning, the fight between Parliament and King was as much, or more, a fight between religious extremists on Parliament’s side, who wanted to jail and even hang “papists” who did not adhere to the Anglican or Protestant line, and the King or Queen on the other, who wanted to let “their subjects” live in peace. Parliament made no pretense of fighting for democracy because they didn’t really know what one was. They wanted the same autocratic powers as the king had. This is why, in the history of the events leading up to the American revolution, you often see the Americans pleading to the King to protect them from Parliament.

Charles had declared that anyone arguing that Parliament could overthrow the King’s rule was guilty of treason and should be put to death. He used this declaration to jail and kill members of Parliament. Parliament got tired of this and passed a law that any King who tried to overthrow Parliament’s laws was guilty of treason and should be put to death. Charles refused to acknowledge this law, or that Parliament could pass laws without the King’s approval. This was what Charles refused to acknowledge, and what he meant when he said, in “Remember!”, “To maintain a cause which I believed sacred I have lost the throne”. (Durant VII)

Louise de la Vallière

Louise de la Vallière was originally a maid of honor for Madame, the King’s brother’s wife. According to Kleinman, Vallière was originally used as a ‘blind’, to hide the King’s affair with his own brother’s wife. They were ‘in love’, however, for a time, and she had five children in the affair. The last became Louis de Bourbon, Comte de Vermandois, born on October 2, 1667. After the affair ended, Vallière entered a Carmelite convent. Vermandois and one sister were the only children of the affair to survive infancy. They were raised in the home of Colbert and were acknowledged “and proclaimed legitimate” by their father King Louis XIV. (Noone, 50-15) Vermandois is notable, in real life, as one of the lesser candidates for being the man behind the iron mask.

Other Items from the History of Dumas’s Musketeers

France at the Start of Louis XIII’s Reign

The France of Louis XIII

La Rochelle

“La Rochelle,” wrote Dumas, “deprived of the assistance of the English fleet, and of the reinforcements promised by Buckingham, surrendered after a siege of a year. On the 28th of October, 1628, the capitulation was signed.”

It happened pretty much as Dumas described it: La Rochelle was the last remaining of the Huguenot cities. The Huguenots were Protestants, and France was a Catholic kingdom. The Huguenots pinned all their hopes on English assistance, and the death of Buckingham, combined with the earlier marriage of Louis XIII’s sister Henrietta to Charles I of England, quashed that hope.

Duels

Early in 1626 a very severe edict had renewed the ban on duelling. Two popular nobles were put to death for having killed other nobles in a duel.

And here we must stress yet again that the reign of Louis XIII was a period of transition from the Middle Ages to the modern social system, and that royal authority was the instrument which effected this far-reaching change. It was no longer enough for a noble to be recklessly brave or to display all the Christian virtues when he came to die after behaving in a way that was far from virtuous. He must serve the king, and live and die in his service alone. (Tapié, 165)

The ban on duels was more likely to be Louis XIII’s assertion of royal power than any influence by a minister such as Richelieu. As early as 1617, Louis XIII was enforcing the ban on dueling with the death penalty to nobles, such as the baron of Guémadoc (Moote, 119).

Louis showed his stand against dueling very clearly in the Bouteville case: Bouteville and Chapelles were sentenced to decapitation. They had fought a duel in the very public Place Royale, after Bouteville was ‘pardoned’ for a previous duel: if he returned to France, he would not be killed if he stayed away from court. Fighting this last duel was as much a fight with Louis as it was a fight with the baron of Beuvron. Bouteville was rebuking his king in order to save his honor.

According to the royal historiographer Bernard, Louis exclaimed to one of those who called for leniency: “It is necessary for a little blood to be shed in this instance to stop the stream that flows daily.” Louis XIII insisted that the execution be public, nervously ordered the guards to seize anyone who so much as called for “grace,” and had the surrounding streets blocked off with chains and carts.

Bouteville and Chapelles died bravely and repentant for their crimes, dignifying a scene that must have sickened the entire court. Louis himself had to be bled a week later, and immediately fell dangerously ill. (Moote, 188)

The Jesuits

In the later Musketeer books, “the Jesuits” were a secret order, allied at times with Spain and considered a rival to royal control. In reality, the Jesuits were feared: the order had even been temporarily banished from France by Henry IV because they were tied to advocacy of “tyrannicide—killing a king who ‘tyrannically’ opposed the Pope and Catholic church”. (Moote, 45)

The Musketeers

There is some question as to whether the Musketeers even existed, at least in the form described by Dumas. John Noone, in The Man Behind the Iron Mask, while not addressing this, does mention the Musketeers often in passing. The jailer who kept the prisoner, Monsieur de Saint-Mars, was originally a Musketeer, and was among those who, with d’Artagnan, arrested Fouquet. The Musketeers as described by Noone fit the Musketeers as described by Dumas:

The name Saint-Mars was the sword-name of Benigne d’Auvergne… In 1650, when he was twenty-four, he was given a place in the First Company of the King’s Musketeers and, though he was thirty-four before he was promoted corporal and thirty-eight before he was made sergeant, he could flatter himself that to achieve rank at all in the Musketeers, where every man was a gentleman, was a mark of some distinction for a man with neither birth nor money behind him. It was as a sergeant that, in December 1664, he was appointed governor of the State Prison of Pignerol and he was recommended for that post by the commander of his company, d’Artagnan, who recognized in him all the qualities necessary for a gaoler. (Noone, 257-258)

Alexandre Dumas

So, how qualified was Alexandre Dumas? According to Moote,

As I read about Louis XIII, the ghost of Alexandre Dumas was always at my shoulder. Dumas was not only a prolific writer of historical novels, but also a competent historian who knew the standard sources and even wrote a half-serious history of Henry IV and Louis XIII. (Moote, 6)

The Iron Mask

So was there a Man in an Iron Mask? No one knows for sure. There was certainly a mysterious long-time prisoner. The records of his jailer, Saint-Mars, and the records of the Bastille, make this certain. Whether this prisoner ever wore an iron mask, whether it was always velvet, or whether it was ever worn at all inside of the prisons, remains open to conjecture. Theories of who the man was include:

  1. The Twin of Louis XIV, conceived first and born last.
  2. The father of Louis XIV, in the theory that Louis XIII was unable to father a child, so a stand-in was produced.
  3. The elder brother of Louis XIV, whose father was not Louis XIII but rather the result of an affair the Queen had with another man. Because of the repeated failures to conceive a child by the King, the Queen had assumed herself to be incapable of bearing a child. When she found herself pregnant, she realized this was not true, and (a) hid her first child, and (b) maneuvered the King into her bed where Louis XIV was conceived.
  4. A doctor who had participated in the autopsy of Louis XIII, and who discovered that Louis XIII was incapable of fathering a child.
  5. The daughter of Anne and Louis XIII: their first child, rather than being a boy, was a girl, and the King was so afraid of not having another child that the girl was secretly taken and replaced with an infant boy. The queen never knew, and ironically the King and Queen conceived a son not three months after the switch.
  6. Louis de Bourbon, Comte de Vermandois: the son of Louis XIV and Louise de la Vallière, who supposedly died in 1683 at the age of 16.
  7. The Duc de Beaufort: he disappeared in battle in Crete, and was presumed dead. He was imprisoned, so the theories go, either because Colbert did not want him as admiral, or because he was Louis XIV’s true father.
  8. Richard Cromwell, the son of Oliver Cromwell.
  9. Duke of Monmouth, “one of the love-children of Louis XIV’s cousin Charles II of England”, who took part in a failed attempt at wresting the crown of England from James.
  10. Sir George Barclay, who helped organize a failed, French-supported attempt to wrest England’s crown from William of Orange.
  11. Louis Oldendorf, a nobleman from Lorraine disguised as a Dutch national, who was the leader of a “Secret Order of the Temple”. As long as he remained alive, the Secret Order could not replace him, so he was kept imprisoned, and even after he died, another, masked, man was forced into his place to keep the knowledge of his death secret and the Secret Order neutralized.
  12. Vivien de Bulonde, a French general who panicked in battle and compromised an entire campaign.
  13. Molière, the playwright, who was hated by a real secret organization of Catholics in France.
  14. Archbishop Avedik of the Armenian Orthodox Church
  15. A college student who had complained in verse at the replacement of Jesus’ name with the King on the college gates.
  16. Nicolas Fouquet, who was thought to have died in 1680.
  17. The Count Ercole Antonio Matthioli, of Mantua, who wore a mask because he wanted to, not because he had to. It was the style in Italy at the time, as the story goes.
  18. A black dwarf who had fathered a daughter with Louis XIV’s wife.

Many of these theories hover around the fact that it took the King and Queen over twenty years to have their first child. I strongly recommend John Noone’s book for a more in-depth overview of each of these theories, and why they are or are not plausible.

Bibliography for the History of Dumas’s Musketeers

These books cover the period around the time that the Musketeers stories happen, and some of them focus on the secondary characters in the French court.

Durant, Will and Ariel:
The Story of Civilization VII: The Age of Reason Begins; Simon and Schuster, 1961. Very interesting because it covers events around the world during the period of Louix XIII’s reign, and the period leading up to it. Gives a greater understanding of the conflict at La Rochelle, for example, from an international perspective. Heavily biased to his own personal views, which are at least obvious.
Holt, Mack P.:
The French Wars of Religion, 1562-1629; Cambridge University Press, 1995. Some interesting stuff about the events leading up to La Rochelle.
Kleinman, Ruth:
Anne of Austria, Queen of France; Ohio State University Press, 1985. This book is especially useful because most of the plots that are running through the Musketeers involved the Queen.
Moote, A. Lloyd:
Louis XIII, The Just; University of California Press, 1989. This is an attempt to rebuild the generally poor view of Louis XIII.
Noone, John:
The Man Behind the Iron Mask; St. Martin’s Press, 1994. An overview of most, if not all, of the theories that have been put forward on who the Man in the Iron Mask really was. Comes up with his own theory, which certainly appears more likely than any of the others. Of course, he did write the book. As an overview, I strongly recommend this book. His own theory I don’t feel qualified to judge.
Tapié, Victor L:
France in the Age of Louis XIII and Richelieu; Praeger Publishers, 1975, as translated by D. McN. Lockie. While this covers the periods in question quite well, it tends not to cover the details we’re actually interested in, mainly those having to do with duels, the Queen (who barely rates a mention), and the various plots going on at the time.

A Seaport at Sunset

A Seaport at Sunset

“A Seaport at Sunset”, by Claude Lorrain, does not depict a specific seaport. However, it was painted in 1639, which would have been ten years after the siege at Rochelle, and may show the kinds of things you could expect at a French seaport in that time.

Anne of Austria

Anne of Austria

Painted by Peter Paul Rubens. This is from the Norton Simon Foundation in Pasadena. Anne of Austria is here in her mid-twenties, and this is pretty much what she would have looked like during the period of The Three Musketeers.

Cardinal Richelieu

Cardinal Richelieu

Cardinal Richelieu between the time of the Three Musketeers and the Vicomte.

Chancellor Séguier

Chancellor Séguier

This portrait by Le Brun shows the style of the less warlike nobles of the time. Painted in 1660, this shows Séguier ten years after the events in “Twenty Years After”, and right at the beginning of “Le Vicomte de Bragellone”. This painting specifically depicts Séguier riding in the train of Queen Maria Theresa during her entry to Paris.

Charles Stuart (Charles I of England)

Charles Stuart (Charles I of England)

Van Dyck met King Charles I in 1632, where he was court painter. Around 1635 he painted this portrait. The portrait is currently held in the Louvre in France.

Duc de Beaufort

Duc de Beaufort

Photograph Bibliothèque Nationale

King Louis XIII

Louis XIII

King Louis XIII, around the time of the Three Musketeers. Painted by the royal painter, Philippe de Champaigne. This is from the Prado in Madrid.

King Louis XIV

Louis XIV

Rigaud painted this portrait of Louis XIV in 1701, after the fictional events in “The Man in the Iron Mask”. Louis had originally commissioned this as a gift for the King of Spain, but Louis liked it so much he kept it and hung it in Versailles.

Nicolas Fouquet

Nicolas Fouquet

Photograph Bibliothèque Nationale

Versailles

Versailles

Painting of a fête at Versailles.

The Three Musketeers FLA

FLA stands for Frequently Lacked Answers. These are all the questions I get from my web site, most of which I can’t answer. So if you know the answer, please don’t hesitate to write!

Why were they called Musketeers? They don’t use muskets!

The Musketeers (of the book, anyway, I don’t know about real life) were a military company. But they were charged with protecting the king, so wouldn’t normally have to go out in the field. They did use muskets, just not very often. Go back and read the chapter about the siege of La Rochelle and you’ll see them discharging their duty as Musketeers with muskets.

How well does the book follow the movie?

I saw the trailer before I saw the movie; it was obvious from the trailer that they were really changing the story a lot. It sounds like a great swashbuckler movie, but certainly not the Musketeers!

Here is the book timeline. Don’t read this if you plan on reading the book. I’m warning you! You don’t want to know the ending!

  1. Aramis discovers the twin, and hatches a plot to become the shadow ruler of France. (The Musketeers never gave one whit about the poor, and Aramis, by this time, had become a scheming bastard.)
  2. Aramis sounds out d’Artagnan, but d’Artagnan is obviously too loyal to the King, so Aramis never brings him into the plot. In fact, only Porthos is brought into the plot, and this by lying to him and saying that they act in the king’s name.
  3. Fouquet, the finance minister, is about to be disgraced, and possibly condemned to death; certainly to the Bastille. As part of the King’s plot against Fouquet, the King induces Fouquet to hold a great ball.
  4. Aramis successfully switches King Louis with the twin Philippe at the multi-day party while the King and d’Artagnan are sleeping; however, he makes the mistake of bragging of what he’s done to Fouquet; Fouquet is an honorable man. Even though it means his downfall, he rides to the Bastille and puts it under siege to free Louis.
  5. D’Artagnan remains loyal to the King: when the plot is revealed and the twins stand with each other, it is d’Artagnan who can tell which is the true king, and arrests Philippe, returning Louis to the throne; Philippe is placed in the iron mask and sent to a faraway prison.
  6. Aramis and Porthos flee to an island in the north of France. D’Artagnan chases them down; he tries to allow them to flee while still remaining loyal to the king, but fails. Aramis escapes, but Porthos dies heroically as his legendary strength gives out.
  7. Aramis enters the service of the King of Spain; d’Artagnan remains faithful to King Louis until his death in battle many years later. Philippe is never heard from again.
  8. Athos and Raoul are involved only in a side plot; Raoul was in love with Louise de la Valliere, a young woman who was King Louis’ mistress; unable to give up his love for her, Raoul enters the armed forces voluntarily and engages in more and more dangerous actions until he dies. Athos dies on hearing of his son’s death.

Now, here, from María José Díaz Sámano, is a summary of the movie:


Warning: The following FAQ contains heavy spoilers, and I mean heavy, for the 1998 movie “The Man in the Iron Mask”. So, if you have not seen it, you might not want to read it yet. You’ve been warned.

Of course, the movie doesn’t follow the book at all; in the best Dumas style, it takes the main characters (d’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, Raoul, Louis XIV, Phillipe and Anne of Austria) and only respects the basic plot, that is, the twin switch. You already read the book timeline. Here is the movie timeline.

  1. The people in Paris are restless. There is war and hunger. D’Artagnan is especially worried, since he’s Captain of King Louis XIV’s Musketeers. Porthos is depressed, for he feels old; Aramis prays for forgiveness and Athos expects the engagement of his son Raoul to his beloved Christine.
  2. During a reception at the palace, Louis sees Christine, while Artagnan saves him from an assassination attempt. When Louis learns Christine is in love with Raoul, he sends him to the battle front. Athos sees through Louis’ purposes, and warns Artagnan that, should something happen to Raoul, the king and his warriors will become his enemies.
  3. Raoul dies. Athos goes into the palace, willing to kill Louis, and when Artagnan stops him, claims they are no longer friends. Christine moves to the palace and becomes Louis’ mistress.
  4. Aramis summons his friends at a hidden crypt. He confesses that he is the General of the Jesuits and that he has a plan, regarding the king, that will bring peace to the people of Paris. Porthos and Athos join him, but Artagnan refuses. Aramis says, “then may God be with you, for none of us will.”
  5. The three musketeers free the prisoner of the Iron Mask. He is Phillipe, twin brother of Louis, and Aramis confesses he was the one who, six years before, imprisoned him in the Mask.
  6. Athos, Porthos and Aramis train Phillipe to be king, once he accepts taking part in their plan. Meanwhile, Louis is told Phillipe died. When Artagnan tries to comfort Anne, both realize the love they once shared is still alive.
  7. During a Mask Ball, Louis and Phillipe trade places. Anyway, Phillipe gives himself away by being kind and obedient. D’Artagnan ambushes his former friends as they try to escape and rescues Louis. Christine finds out that Louis sent Raoul to his death and kills herself.
  8. Louis orders Phillipe to return to the Bastille and to the Mask in spite of Anne’s pleading. Artagnan learns that both are twins and leaves a note in the crypt, telling his friends they will have ten minutes at midnight to rescue Phillipe.
  9. Wearing their old uniforms, the four musketeers free Phillipe, but are ambushed by Louis. He offers Artagnan his life if he surrenders, but Artagnan claims he can’t abandon his own son. (Yes: Phillipe and Louis are d’Artagnan’s sons).
  10. The four musketeers charge against Louis’ guards, who are amazed by their courage. When the guards refuse to kill them, Louis tries to stab Phillipe. Artagnan saves his son, receiving the blade in his place, and dies confessing that was the kind of death he always dreamt of.
  11. The musketeers rebel. Louis and Phillipe trade places again; Louis is sent to jail and, after some time, is sent to the countryside. Phillipe, using his brother’s name, becomes France’s greater ruler, advised by Athos, Porthos and Aramis. Artagnan is buried in front of the palace.

As you can see, writing a list of the differences between the book and the movie is useless. Anyway, let’s mention the most notorious ones:

  1. D’Artagnan’s role in the story. As in the book, he is the only one who remains faithful to Louis. But of course he never was Louis and Phillipe’s father, and Anne never felt for him more than “royal gratitude” (that is, he was forgotten).
  2. Of course, the ending. In the original, Raoul, Porthos, Athos and Artagnan died at different moments, and Phillipe was condemned to wear the Iron Mask forever.
  3. In the original, Aramis and Porthos are the only ones involved in the twin plot. Athos broke his sword in front of Louis, but never rebelled against him.
  4. No Fouquet, no Colbert, no Beaufort, and Christine replaces Louise.
  5. The Musketeers never cared about the people of Paris. Dumas left that mission to Victor Hugo.

If you like accurate adaptations, you won’t like the movie. I myself doubted I would like it when I learned Artagnan was killed at the end, even if the big surprise of his paternity was still missing. But if you love the characters above the plot, there’s a good chance you might like it. The portrayals are quite accurate: Artagnan behaves a lot like in the book (willing to place his duty before his friends), Athos’ nobility and sense of honor are there (he’s the one who instructs Phillipe in court manners), Porthos’ depression echoes his sadness of Twenty Years Later, and Aramis is as scheming and intelligent as ever, “playing God” with the others’ lives.

Another high points of the movie are, of course, the strong performances (in spite of their different acting styles, Gabriel Byrne, John Malkovich, Gerard Depardieu and Jeremy Irons, IMO, are perfectly cast, and Leonardo DiCaprio shines with his own light even to those of us who are not his fans), the music (by far the best so far of a Musketeer movie) and the wardrobe, especially the black uniforms. The scene in which the Four Musketeers charge against Louis’ guards justifies the cost of the ticket. Besides, listening to Depardieu saying the musketeers’ names in French is delicious.

My advice? Don’t expect the movie to be a translation. I took it as another interpretation of the Musketeer saga, and found myself loving it.


Thanks, María!

Is The Three Musketeers a true story?

No, No, and Sort of. The movie doesn’t even follow the book, let alone real history. The book is fiction; it may, however, have pulled some names from history. There was certainly a rumor, in fact a number of them, about a mysterious prisoner in an iron or velvet mask. The king, the cardinal, the queen, Buckingham, in fact most of the major political figures, were all real. For the four Musketeers Dumas used borrowed names, but the four heroes were otherwise not real.

Philippe did not replace Louis in real life. Mostly because he didn’t exist…

From David Hurst, a possible source for info about what was real and what was fiction in the Iron Mask: “One of the minor advantages of the Livre de Poche edition of Le Vicomte de Bragelonne is a small essay by Henri Clouard called Dumas et l’histoire that gives some of his sources and indicates where he changed them. In doing so, he indicates who the originals were.”

For more detailed information about what did and didn’t happen in real life, see The History of the Three Musketeers.

What Order Should I Read the Books In?

See the main Dumas page for where to get the books, but the order is:

  1. The Three Musketeers
    1. The Three Musketeers
    2. The Four Musketeers
  2. Twenty Years After
  3. Le Vicomte de Bragelonne
    1. Ten Years Later
    2. Le Vicomte de Bragelonne
    3. Louise de la Valliere
    4. The Man in the Iron Mask
  4. Son of Porthos

Note that apparently, there are some editions that title the first book in the “Vicomte” series “Le Vicomte de Bragellone” and the second book as “Ten Years Later”. The “Vicomte” was originally published in five volumes with no separate titles, just volume numbers, according to Mordaunt at Gutenberg.

Who played who in the original movie?

Depends on which Original Movie you’re talking about.

YearMovieDirector
1939The Three MusketeersAllan Dwan
Don Ameche is D’Artagnan, the Ritz Brothers are the Three Musketeers, and Binnie Barnes is Lady deWinter in this comedy musical. Martin and Porter give it three stars out of five. 73 minutes, black and white.
1939The Man in the Iron MaskJames Whale
Louis Hayward as Louis and Phillipe. Warren William is d’Artagnan, Alan Hale is Porthos, Miles Mander is Aramis, and Bert Roach is Athos. Martin and Porter give it three stars out of five. 110 minutes, black and white.
1948The Three MusketeersGeorge Sidney
Gene Kelly is d’Artagnan, June Allyson is Constance, and Lana Turner is Lady deWinter. Also Van Heflin as Athos, Vincent Price as Richelieu, Gig Young as Porthos, Angela Lansbury as Queen Anne, Robert Coote as Aramis. Martin and Porter give it two stars out of five. 128 minutes, black and white.
1966La Prise de pouvoir par Louis XIVRoberto Rossellini
Jean-Marie Patte as Louis XIV, Raymond Jourdan as Colbert, Silvagni as Mazarin, Katharina Renn as Ann of Austria, Maurise Barrier as d’Artagnan, and someone named André Dumas as “La Père Joly”. I don’t see anyone playing Athos, Porthos, or Aramis. In English this is listed as “The Rise of Louis XIV”.
1973The Three Musketeers and The Four MusketeersRichard Lester
Michael York as d’Artagnan, Oliver Reed as Athos, Racquel Welch as Constance, Richard Chamberlain as Aramis, Frank Finlay as Porthos, Faye Dunaway as Milady, Charlton Heston as Cardinal Richelieu. Martin and Porter give it five stars out of five. 105 minutes for the first movie and 108 minutes for the second. Both are PG.
1977The Man in the Iron MaskMike Newell
Richard Chamberlain as Louis and Phillippe, Patrick McGoohan as Fouquet, Louis Jourdan as d’Artagnan. No Athos, Porthos, or Aramis that I can see. Martin and Porter give it three stars out of five. 100 minutes.
1979The 5th MusketeerKen Annakin
Beau Bridges as Louis and Phillippe, Ursula Andress as Louise de la Vallière, Cornel Wilde as d’Artagnan, José Ferrer as Athos, Rex Harrison as Colbert, Lloyd Bridges as Aramis, Alan Hale Jr. as Porthos. Martin and Porter give it two stars out of five. 103 minutes, PG.
1993The Three MusketeersStephen Herek
Chris O’Donnell as d’Artagnan, Keifer Sutherland as Athos, Oliver Platt as Porthos, Charlie Sheen as Aramis, Tim Curry as Richelieu, Rebecca deMornay as Milady, and Julie Delpy as Constance. 105 minutes, PG.
1994La Fille de d’ArtagnanBertrand Tavernier
Philippe Noiret as d’Artagnan, Sami Frey as Aramis, Kean-Luc Bideau as Athos, and Raoul Billerey as Porthos. 125 minutes, R.
1997The Man in the Iron MaskWilliam Richert
Dennis Hayden as d’Artganan, Edward Albert as Athos, William Richert as Aramis (and as Alexandre Dumas?), Rex Ryon as Porthos. German, Region 2, 85 minutes.
1998The Man in the Iron MaskRandall Wallace
Leonardo diCaprio as Louis IV, Jeremy Irons as Aramis, John Malkovich as Athos, Gabriel Byrne as d’Artagnan, Gérard Depardieu as Porthos. 132 minutes, PG-13.
2001The MusketeerPeter Hyams
Justin Chambers as d’Artagnan, Stephen Rea as Cardinal Richelieu, Catherine Deneuve as the Queen, Mena Suvari as Madame Bonacieux, Nick Moran as Aramis, Steve Speirs as Porthos, and Jan Gregor Kremp as Athos. 104 minutes, PG-13.
2004Le Femme MusketeerSteve Boyum
Michael York as d’Artagnan, Gérard Depardieu as Cardinal Mazarin, John Rhys-Davies as Porthos, Christopher Cazenove as Athos, and Allan Corduner as Aramis. 163 minutes.

A bit about the Three Musketeers

As the maintainer of the site with the coolest version of Iron Mask, I’ve been asked a few things about it. Namely, where the heck does it come from, and why doesn’t it look the same as yours?

The answer is this: there is no such book as “The Man in the Iron Mask”, at least not as Dumas wrote it. He wrote a book called “Le Vicomte de Bragellone” and subtitled it “Ten Years Later”. It was thousands of pages long. Publishers balked (for good reason, I think) at publishing a single book of that length, so they broke it into the three or four parts. There are two versions of “The Man in the Iron Mask” that you can actually buy. The larger version contains the last half of what is generally called “Louise de la Valliere”—otherwise, what is generally the third part, “Iron Mask”, actually starts practically in the middle of a conversation.

There are generally considered five books in the Three Musketeers saga. The first and the last are usually easy to find. The middle three are usually hidden deep in the bowels of your local library, often disguised as the “collected” Alexandre Dumas. I’ve looked on Amazon.Com and joined their associates program in order to help you buy these books if you want to. Oxford World’s Classics has brought out a complete run, which makes it easier to get the whole set without having to worry about whether you’ve successfully got everything in the three-to-four book Man in the Iron Mask confusology:

  1. The Three Musketeers—everyone knows about it.
  2. Twenty Years After—no one knows about it.
  3. Le Vicomte de Bragelonne—the beginning of the end.
  4. Louise de la Valliere—the continuation of the end.
  5. The Man in the Iron Mask—the end of the end.

There are two other books that I have not read. They are both out of print:

If you have any more information about those or other titles, please let me know.

The Three Musketeers is actually two books. The Four Musketeers starts after D’Artagnan receives his commission. It has always been included in The Three Musketeers in my experience; the only reference I’ve heard of is from William Roberts, who says that in Dumas’ own journals, he counts them separately. Which would make six books, not five.

Ten Years Later, Vicomte, Louise, and Iron Mask are really all the same book. You can’t open up the Iron Mask and expect to have any idea of what’s going on, unless you’ve read the other three. You can get away with just reading Louise to understand Iron Mask, and in fact some versions of Iron Mask include the last chapters of Valliere. As far as Dumas was concerned, they’re all one book, called “Le Vicomte de Bragellone”, and subtitled “Ten Years Later”.

And if that doesn’t fully confuse you, read what Onnea Hast compiled about an even later Musketeer book by (or not by) Dumas, as well as some non-Dumas books.