Twenty Years After - 12

“And why so? why watch me?” asked the duke uneasily.
“Because an astrologer had predicted that you would escape.”
“Ah! an astrologer predicted that?” said the duke, starting in spite of
himself.
“Oh, mon Dieu! yes! those imbeciles of magicians can only imagine
things to torment honest people.”
“And what did you reply to his most illustrious eminence?”
“That if the astrologer in question made almanacs I would advise him
not to buy one.”
“Why not?”
“Because before you could escape you would have to be turned into a
bird.”
“Unfortunately, that is true. Let us go and have a game at tennis, La
Ramee.”
“My lord—I beg your highness’s pardon—but I must beg for half an hour’s
leave of absence.”
“Why?”
“Because Monseigneur Mazarin is a prouder man than his highness, though
not of such high birth: he forgot to ask me to breakfast.”
“Well, shall I send for some breakfast here?”
“No, my lord; I must tell you that the confectioner who lived opposite
the castle—Daddy Marteau, as they called him——”
“Well?”
“Well, he sold his business a week ago to a confectioner from Paris, an
invalid, ordered country air for his health.”
“Well, what have I to do with that?”
“Why, good Lord! this man, your highness, when he saw me stop before
his shop, where he has a display of things which would make your mouth
water, my lord, asked me to get him the custom of the prisoners in the
donjon. ‘I bought,’ said he, ‘the business of my predecessor on the
strength of his assurance that he supplied the castle; whereas, on my
honor, Monsieur de Chavigny, though I’ve been here a week, has not
ordered so much as a tartlet.’ ‘But,’ I then replied, ‘probably
Monsieur de Chavigny is afraid your pastry is not good.’ ‘My pastry not
good! Well, Monsieur La Ramee, you shall judge of it yourself and at
once.’ ‘I cannot,’ I replied; ‘it is absolutely necessary for me to
return to the chateau.’ ‘Very well,’ said he, ‘go and attend to your
affairs, since you seem to be in a hurry, but come back in half an
hour.’ ‘In half an hour?’ ‘Yes, have you breakfasted?’ ‘Faith, no.’
‘Well, here is a pate that will be ready for you, with a bottle of old
Burgundy.’ So, you see, my lord, since I am hungry, I would, with your
highness’s leave——” And La Ramee bent low.
“Go, then, animal,” said the duke; “but remember, I only allow you half
an hour.”
“May I promise your custom to the successor of Father Marteau, my
lord?”
“Yes, if he does not put mushrooms in his pies; thou knowest that
mushrooms from the wood of Vincennes are fatal to my family.”
La Ramee went out, but in five minutes one of the officers of the guard
entered in compliance with the strict orders of the cardinal that the
prisoner should never be left alone a moment.
But during these five minutes the duke had had time to read again the
note from Madame de Montbazon, which proved to the prisoner that his
friends were concerting plans for his deliverance, but in what way he
knew not.
But his confidence in Grimaud, whose petty persecutions he now
perceived were only a blind, increased, and he conceived the highest
opinion of his intellect and resolved to trust entirely to his
guidance.


Chapter XIX.
Pâtés made by the Successor of Father Marteau are described.

In half an hour La Ramee returned, full of glee, like most men who have
eaten, and more especially drank to their heart’s content. The pates
were excellent, the wine delicious.
The weather was fine and the game at tennis took place in the open air.
At two o’clock the tennis balls began, according to Grimaud’s
directions, to take the direction of the moat, much to the joy of La
Ramee, who marked fifteen whenever the duke sent a ball into the moat;
and very soon balls were wanting, so many had gone over. La Ramee then
proposed to send some one to pick them up, but the duke remarked that
it would be losing time; and going near the rampart himself and looking
over, he saw a man working in one of the numerous little gardens
cleared out by the peasants on the opposite side of the moat.
“Hey, friend!” cried the duke.
The man raised his head and the duke was about to utter a cry of
surprise. The peasant, the gardener, was Rochefort, whom he believed to
be in the Bastile.
“Well? Who’s up there?” said the man.
“Be so good as to collect and throw us back our balls,” said the duke.
The gardener nodded and began to fling up the balls, which were picked
up by La Ramee and the guard. One, however, fell at the duke’s feet,
and seeing that it was intended for him, he put it into his pocket.
La Ramee was in ecstasies at having beaten a prince of the blood.
The duke went indoors and retired to bed, where he spent, indeed, the
greater part of every day, as they had taken his books away. La Ramee
carried off all his clothes, in order to be certain that the duke would
not stir. However, the duke contrived to hide the ball under his
bolster and as soon as the door was closed he tore off the cover of the
ball with his teeth and found underneath the following letter:
My Lord,—Your friends are watching over you and the hour of your
deliverance is at hand. Ask day after to-morrow to have a pie supplied
you by the new confectioner opposite the castle, and who is no other
than Noirmont, your former maitre d’hotel. Do not open the pie till you
are alone. I hope you will be satisfied with its contents.
“Your highness’s most devoted servant,
“In the Bastile, as elsewhere,
“Comte de Rochefort.”
The duke, who had latterly been allowed a fire, burned the letter, but
kept the ball, and went to bed, hiding the ball under his bolster. La
Ramee entered; he smiled kindly on the prisoner, for he was an
excellent man and had taken a great liking for the captive prince. He
endeavored to cheer him up in his solitude.
“Ah, my friend!” cried the duke, “you are so good; if I could but do as
you do, and eat pates and drink Burgundy at the house of Father
Marteau’s successor.”
“’Tis true, my lord,” answered La Ramee, “that his pates are famous and
his wine magnificent.”
“In any case,” said the duke, “his cellar and kitchen might easily
excel those of Monsieur de Chavigny.”
“Well, my lord,” said La Ramee, falling into the trap, “what is there
to prevent your trying them? Besides, I have promised him your
patronage.”
“You are right,” said the duke. “If I am to remain here permanently, as
Monsieur Mazarin has kindly given me to understand, I must provide
myself with a diversion for my old age, I must turn gourmand.”
“My lord,” said La Ramee, “if you will take a bit of good advice, don’t
put that off till you are old.”
“Good!” said the Duc de Beaufort to himself, “every man in order that
he may lose his heart and soul, must receive from celestial bounty one
of the seven capital sins, perhaps two; it seems that Master La Ramee’s
is gluttony. Let us then take advantage of it.” Then, aloud:
“Well, my dear La Ramee! the day after to-morrow is a holiday.”
“Yes, my lord—Pentecost.”
“Will you give me a lesson the day after to-morrow?”
“In what?”
“In gastronomy?”
“Willingly, my lord.”
“But tete-a-tete. Send the guards to take their meal in the canteen of
Monsieur de Chavigny; we’ll have a supper here under your direction.”
“Hum!” said La Ramee.
The proposal was seductive, but La Ramee was an old stager, acquainted
with all the traps a prisoner was likely to set. Monsieur de Beaufort
had said that he had forty ways of getting out of prison. Did this
proposed breakfast cover some stratagem? He reflected, but he
remembered that he himself would have charge of the food and the wine
and therefore that no powder could be mixed with the food, no drug with
the wine. As to getting him drunk, the duke couldn’t hope to do that,
and he laughed at the mere thought of it. Then an idea came to him
which harmonized everything.
The duke had followed with anxiety La Ramee’s unspoken soliloquy,
reading it from point to point upon his face. But presently the
exempt’s face suddenly brightened.
“Well,” he asked, “that will do, will it not?”
“Yes, my lord, on one condition.”
“What?”
“That Grimaud shall wait on us at table.”
Nothing could be more agreeable to the duke, however, he had presence
of mind enough to exclaim:
“To the devil with your Grimaud! He will spoil the feast.”
“I will direct him to stand behind your chair, and since he doesn’t
speak, your highness will neither see nor hear him and with a little
effort can imagine him a hundred miles away.”
“Do you know, my friend, I find one thing very evident in all this, you
distrust me.”
“My lord, the day after to-morrow is Pentecost.”
“Well, what is Pentecost to me? Are you afraid that the Holy Spirit
will come as a tongue of fire to open the doors of my prison?”
“No, my lord; but I have already told you what that damned magician
predicted.”
“And what was it?”
“That the day of Pentecost would not pass without your highness being
out of Vincennes.”
“You believe in sorcerers, then, you fool?”
“I—-I mind them no more than that——” and he snapped his fingers; “but
it is my Lord Giulio who cares about them; as an Italian he is
superstitious.”
The duke shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, then,” with well acted good-humor, “I allow Grimaud, but no one
else; you must manage it all. Order whatever you like for supper—the
only thing I specify is one of those pies; and tell the confectioner
that I will promise him my custom if he excels this time in his
pies—not only now, but when I leave my prison.”
“Then you think you will some day leave it?” said La Ramee.
“The devil!” replied the prince; “surely, at the death of Mazarin. I am
fifteen years younger than he is. At Vincennes, ’tis true, one lives
faster——”
“My lord,” replied La Ramee, “my lord——”
“Or dies sooner, for it comes to the same thing.”
La Ramee was going out. He stopped, however, at the door for an
instant.
“Whom does your highness wish me to send to you?”
“Any one, except Grimaud.”
“The officer of the guard, then, with his chessboard?”
“Yes.”
Five minutes afterward the officer entered and the duke seemed to be
immersed in the sublime combinations of chess.
A strange thing is the mind, and it is wonderful what revolutions may
be wrought in it by a sign, a word, a hope. The duke had been five
years in prison, and now to him, looking back upon them, those five
years, which had passed so slowly, seemed not so long a time as were
the two days, the forty-eight hours, which still parted him from the
time fixed for his escape. Besides, there was one thing that engaged
his most anxious thought—in what way was the escape to be effected?
They had told him to hope for it, but had not told him what was to be
hidden in the mysterious pate. And what friends awaited him without? He
had friends, then, after five years in prison? If that were so he was
indeed a highly favored prince. He forgot that besides his friends of
his own sex, a woman, strange to say, had remembered him. It is true
that she had not, perhaps, been scrupulously faithful to him, but she
had remembered him; that was something.
So the duke had more than enough to think about; accordingly he fared
at chess as he had fared at tennis; he made blunder upon blunder and
the officer with whom he played found him easy game.
But his successive defeats did service to the duke in one way—they
killed time for him till eight o’clock in the evening; then would come
night, and with night, sleep. So, at least, the duke believed; but
sleep is a capricious fairy, and it is precisely when one invokes her
presence that she is most likely to keep him waiting. The duke waited
until midnight, turning on his mattress like St. Laurence on his
gridiron. Finally he slept.
But at daybreak he awoke. Wild dreams had disturbed his repose. He
dreamed that he was endowed with wings—he wished to fly away. For a
time these wings supported him, but when he reached a certain height
this new aid failed him. His wings were broken and he seemed to sink
into a bottomless abyss, whence he awoke, bathed in perspiration and
nearly as much overcome as if he had really fallen. He fell asleep
again and another vision appeared. He was in a subterranean passage by
which he was to leave Vincennes. Grimaud was walking before him with a
lantern. By degrees the passage narrowed, yet the duke continued his
course. At last it became so narrow that the fugitive tried in vain to
proceed. The sides of the walls seem to close in, even to press against
him. He made fruitless efforts to go on; it was impossible.
Nevertheless, he still saw Grimaud with his lantern in front,
advancing. He wished to call out to him but could not utter a word.
Then at the other extremity he heard the footsteps of those who were
pursuing him. These steps came on, came fast. He was discovered; all
hope of flight was gone. Still the walls seemed to be closing on him;
they appeared to be in concert with his enemies. At last he heard the
voice of La Ramee. La Ramee took his hand and laughed aloud. He was
captured again, and conducted to the low and vaulted chamber, in which
Ornano, Puylaurens, and his uncle had died. Their three graves were
there, rising above the ground, and a fourth was also there, yawning
for its ghastly tenant.
The duke was obliged to make as many efforts to awake as he had done to
go to sleep; and La Ramee found him so pale and fatigued that he
inquired whether he was ill.
“In fact,” said one of the guards who had remained in the chamber and
had been kept awake by a toothache, brought on by the dampness of the
atmosphere, “my lord has had a very restless night and two or three
times, while dreaming, he called for help.”
“What is the matter with your highness?” asked La Ramee.
“’Tis your fault, you simpleton,” answered the duke. “With your idle
nonsense yesterday about escaping, you worried me so that I dreamed
that I was trying to escape and broke my neck in doing so.”
La Ramee laughed.
“Come,” he said, “’tis a warning from Heaven. Never commit such an
imprudence as to try to escape, except in your dreams.”
“And you are right, my dear La Ramee,” said the duke, wiping away the
sweat that stood on his brow, wide awake though he was; “after this I
will think of nothing but eating and drinking.”
“Hush!” said La Ramee; and one by one he sent away the guards, on
various pretexts.
“Well?” asked the duke when they were alone.
“Well!” replied La Ramee, “your supper is ordered.”
“Ah! and what is it to be? Monsieur, my majordomo, will there be a
pie?”
“I should think so, indeed—almost as high as a tower.”
“You told him it was for me?”
“Yes, and he said he would do his best to please your highness.”
“Good!” exclaimed the duke, rubbing his hands.
“Devil take it, my lord! what a gourmand you are growing; I haven’t
seen you with so cheerful a face these five years.”
The duke saw that he had not controlled himself as he ought, but at
that moment, as if he had listened at the door and comprehended the
urgent need of diverting La Ramee’s ideas, Grimaud entered and made a
sign to La Ramee that he had something to say to him.
La Ramee drew near to Grimaud, who spoke to him in a low voice.
The duke meanwhile recovered his self-control.
“I have already forbidden that man,” he said, “to come in here without
my permission.”
“You must pardon him, my lord,” said La Ramee, “for I directed him to
come.”
“And why did you so direct when you know that he displeases me?”
“My lord will remember that it was agreed between us that he should
wait upon us at that famous supper. My lord has forgotten the supper.”
“No, but I have forgotten Monsieur Grimaud.”
“My lord understands that there can be no supper unless he is allowed
to be present.”
“Go on, then; have it your own way.”
“Come here, my lad,” said La Ramee, “and hear what I have to say.”
Grimaud approached, with a very sullen expression on his face.
La Ramee continued: “My lord has done me the honor to invite me to a
supper to-morrow en tete-a-tete.”
Grimaud made a sign which meant that he didn’t see what that had to do
with him.
“Yes, yes,” said La Ramee, “the matter concerns you, for you will have
the honor to serve us; and besides, however good an appetite we may
have and however great our thirst, there will be something left on the
plates and in the bottles, and that something will be yours.”
Grimaud bowed in thanks.
“And now,” said La Ramee, “I must ask your highness’s pardon, but it
seems that Monsieur de Chavigny is to be away for a few days and he has
sent me word that he has certain directions to give me before his
departure.”
The duke tried to exchange a glance with Grimaud, but there was no
glance in Grimaud’s eyes.
“Go, then,” said the duke, “and return as soon as possible.”
“Does your highness wish to take revenge for the game of tennis
yesterday?”
Grimaud intimated by a scarcely perceptible nod that he should consent.
“Yes,” said the duke, “but take care, my dear La Ramee, for I propose
to beat you badly.”
La Ramee went out. Grimaud looked after him, and when the door was
closed he drew out of his pocket a pencil and a sheet of paper.
“Write, my lord,” he said.
“And what?”
Grimaud dictated.
“All is ready for to-morrow evening. Keep watch from seven to nine.
Have two riding horses ready. We shall descend by the first window in
the gallery.”
“What next?”
“Sign your name, my lord.”
The duke signed.
“Now, my lord, give me, if you have not lost it, the ball—that which
contained the letter.”
The duke took it from under his pillow and gave it to Grimaud. Grimaud
gave a grim smile.
“Well?” asked the duke.
“Well, my lord, I sew up the paper in the ball and you, in your game of
tennis, will send the ball into the ditch.”
“But will it not be lost?”
“Oh no; there will be some one at hand to pick it up.”
“A gardener?”
Grimaud nodded.
“The same as yesterday?”
Another nod on the part of Grimaud.
“The Count de Rochefort?”
Grimaud nodded the third time.
“Come, now,” said the duke, “give some particulars of the plan for our
escape.”
“That is forbidden me,” said Grimaud, “until the last moment.”
“Who will be waiting for me beyond the ditch?”
“I know nothing about it, my lord.”
“But at least, if you don’t want to see me turn crazy, tell what that
famous pate will contain.”
“Two poniards, a knotted rope and a poire d’angoisse.” *
* This poire d’angoisse was a famous gag, in the form of a pear, which,
being thrust into the mouth, by the aid of a spring, dilated, so as to
distend the jaws to their greatest width.

“Yes, I understand.”
“My lord observes that there will be enough to go around.”
“We shall take to ourselves the poniards and the rope,” replied the
duke.
“And make La Ramee eat the pear,” answered Grimaud.
“My dear Grimaud, thou speakest seldom, but when thou dost, one must do
thee justice—thy words are words of gold.”


Chapter XX.
One of Marie Michon’s Adventures.

Whilst these projects were being formed by the Duc de Beaufort and
Grimaud, the Comte de la Fere and the Vicomte de Bragelonne were
entering Paris by the Rue du Faubourg Saint Marcel.
They stopped at the sign of the Fox, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier, a
tavern known for many years by Athos, and asked for two bedrooms.
“You must dress yourself, Raoul,” said Athos, “I am going to present
you to some one.”
“To-day, monsieur?” asked the young man.
“In half an hour.”
The young man bowed. Perhaps, not being endowed with the endurance of
Athos, who seemed to be made of iron, he would have preferred a bath in
the river Seine of which he had heard so much, and afterward his bed;
but the Comte de la Fere had spoken and he had no thought but to obey.
“By the way,” said Athos, “take some pains with your toilet, Raoul; I
want you to be approved.”
“I hope, sir,” replied the youth, smiling, “that there’s no idea of a
marriage for me; you know of my engagement to Louise?”
Athos, in his turn, smiled also.
“No, don’t be alarmed, although it is to a lady that I am going to
present you, and I am anxious that you should love her——”
The young man looked at the count with a certain uneasiness, but at a
smile from Athos he was quickly reassured.
“How old is she?” inquired the Vicomte de Bragelonne.
“My dear Raoul, learn, once for all, that that is a question which is
never asked. When you can find out a woman’s age by her face, it is
useless to ask it; when you cannot do so, it is indiscreet.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“Sixteen years ago she was deemed not only the prettiest, but the most
graceful woman in France.”
This reply reassured the vicomte. A woman who had been a reigning
beauty a year before he was born could not be the subject of any scheme
for him. He retired to his toilet. When he reappeared, Athos received
him with the same paternal smile as that which he had often bestowed on
D’Artagnan, but a more profound tenderness for Raoul was now visibly
impressed upon his face.
Athos cast a glance at his feet, hands and hair—those three marks of
race. The youth’s dark hair was neatly parted and hung in curls,
forming a sort of dark frame around his face; such was the fashion of
the day. Gloves of gray kid, matching the hat, well displayed the form
of a slender and elegant hand; whilst his boots, similar in color to
the hat and gloves, confined feet small as those of a boy twelve years
old.
“Come,” murmured Athos, “if she is not proud of him, she must be hard
to please.”
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The two travelers proceeded to
the Rue Saint Dominique and stopped at the door of a magnificent hotel,
surmounted with the arms of De Luynes.
“’Tis here,” said Athos.
He entered the hotel and ascended the front steps, and addressing a
footman who waited there in a grand livery, asked if the Duchess de
Chevreuse was visible and if she could receive the Comte de la Fere?
The servant returned with a message to say, that, though the duchess
had not the honor of knowing Monsieur de la Fere, she would receive
him.
Athos followed the footman, who led him through a long succession of
apartments and paused at length before a closed door. Athos made a sign
to the Vicomte de Bragelonne to remain where he was.
The footman opened the door and announced Monsieur le Comte de la Fere.
Madame de Chevreuse, whose name appears so often in our story “The
Three Musketeers,” without her actually having appeared in any scene,
was still a beautiful woman. Although about forty-four or forty-five
years old, she might have passed for thirty-five. She still had her
rich fair hair; her large, animated, intelligent eyes, so often opened
by intrigue, so often closed by the blindness of love. She had still
her nymph-like form, so that when her back was turned she still was not
unlike the girl who had jumped, with Anne of Austria, over the moat of
the Tuileries in 1563. In all other respects she was the same mad
creature who threw over her amours such an air of originality as to
make them proverbial for eccentricity in her family.
She was in a little boudoir, hung with blue damask, adorned by red
flowers, with a foliage of gold, looking upon a garden; and reclined
upon a sofa, her head supported on the rich tapestry which covered it.
She held a book in her hand and her arm was supported by a cushion.
At the footman’s announcement she raised herself a little and peeped
out, with some curiosity.
Athos appeared.
He was dressed in violet-tinted velvet, trimmed with silk of the same
color. His shoulder-knots were of burnished silver, his mantle had no
gold nor embroidery on it; a simple plume of violet feathers adorned
his hat; his boots were of black leather, and at his girdle hung that
sword with a magnificent hilt that Porthos had so often admired in the
Rue Feron. Splendid lace adorned the falling collar of his shirt, and
lace fell also over the top of his boots.
In his whole person he bore such an impress of high degree, that Madame
de Chevreuse half rose from her seat when she saw him and made him a
sign to sit down near her.
Athos bowed and obeyed. The footman was withdrawing, but Athos stopped
him by a sign.
“Madame,” he said to the duchess, “I have had the boldness to present
myself at your hotel without being known to you; it has succeeded,
since you deign to receive me. I have now the boldness to ask you for
an interview of half an hour.”
“I grant it, monsieur,” replied Madame de Chevreuse with her most
gracious smile.
“But that is not all, madame. Oh, I am very presuming, I am aware. The
interview for which I ask is of us two alone, and I very earnestly wish
that it may not be interrupted.”
“I am not at home to any one,” said the Duchess de Chevreuse to the
footman. “You may go.”
The footman went out.
There ensued a brief silence, during which these two persons, who at
first sight recognized each other so clearly as of noble race, examined
each other without embarrassment on either side.
The duchess was the first to speak.
“Well, sir, I am waiting with impatience to hear what you wish to say
to me.”
“And I, madame,” replied Athos, “am looking with admiration.”
“Sir,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “you must excuse me, but I long to
know to whom I am talking. You belong to the court, doubtless, yet I
have never seen you at court. Have you, by any chance, been in the
Bastile?”
“No, madame, I have not; but very likely I am on the road to it.”
“Ah! then tell me who you are, and get along with you upon your
journey,” replied the duchess, with the gayety which made her so
charming, “for I am sufficiently in bad odor already, without
compromising myself still more.”
“Who I am, madame? My name has been mentioned to you—the Comte de la
Fere; you do not know that name. I once bore another, which you knew,
but you have certainly forgotten it.”
“Tell it me, sir.”
“Formerly,” said the count, “I was Athos.”
Madame de Chevreuse looked astonished. The name was not wholly
forgotten, but mixed up and confused with ancient recollections.
“Athos?” said she; “wait a moment.”
And she placed her hands on her brow, as if to force the fugitive ideas
it contained to concentration in a moment.
“Shall I help you, madame?” asked Athos.
“Yes, do,” said the duchess.
“This Athos was connected with three young musketeers, named Porthos,
D’Artagnan, and——”
He stopped short.
“And Aramis,” said the duchess, quickly.
“And Aramis; I see you have not forgotten the name.”
“No,” she said; “poor Aramis; a charming man, elegant, discreet, and a
writer of poetical verses. I am afraid he has turned out ill,” she
added.
“He has; he is an abbé.”
“Ah, what a misfortune!” exclaimed the duchess, playing carelessly with
her fan. “Indeed, sir, I thank you; you have recalled one of the most
agreeable recollections of my youth.”
“Will you permit me, then, to recall another to you?”
“Relating to him?”
“Yes and no.”
“Faith!” said Madame de Chevreuse, “say on. With a man like you I fear
nothing.”
Athos bowed. “Aramis,” he continued, “was intimate with a young
needlewoman from Tours, a cousin of his, named Marie Michon.”
“Ah, I knew her!” cried the duchess. “It was to her he wrote from the