Twenty Years After - 13

siege of Rochelle, to warn her of a plot against the Duke of
Buckingham.”
“Exactly so; will you allow me to speak to you of her?”
“If,” replied the duchess, with a meaning look, “you do not say too
much against her.”
“I should be ungrateful,” said Athos, “and I regard ingratitude, not as
a fault or a crime, but as a vice, which is much worse.”
“You ungrateful to Marie Michon, monsieur?” said Madame de Chevreuse,
trying to read in Athos’s eyes. “But how can that be? You never knew
her.”
“Eh, madame, who knows?” said Athos. “There is a popular proverb to the
effect that it is only mountains that never meet; and popular proverbs
contain sometimes a wonderful amount of truth.”
“Oh, go on, monsieur, go on!” said Madame de Chevreuse eagerly; “you
can’t imagine how much this conversation interests me.”
“You encourage me,” said Athos, “I will continue, then. That cousin of
Aramis, that Marie Michon, that needlewoman, notwithstanding her low
condition, had acquaintances in the highest rank; she called the
grandest ladies of the court her friend, and the queen—proud as she is,
in her double character as Austrian and as Spaniard—called her her
sister.”
“Alas!” said Madame de Chevreuse, with a slight sigh and a little
movement of her eyebrows that was peculiarly her own, “since that time
everything has changed.”
“And the queen had reason for her affection, for Marie was devoted to
her—devoted to that degree that she served her as medium of intercourse
with her brother, the king of Spain.”
“Which,” interrupted the duchess, “is now brought up against her as a
great crime.”
“And therefore,” continued Athos, “the cardinal—the true cardinal, the
other one—determined one fine morning to arrest poor Marie Michon and
send her to the Chateau de Loches. Fortunately the affair was not
managed so secretly but that it became known to the queen. The case had
been provided for: if Marie Michon should be threatened with any danger
the queen was to send her a prayer-book bound in green velvet.”
“That is true, monsieur, you are well informed.”
“One morning the green book was brought to her by the Prince de
Marsillac. There was no time to lose. Happily Marie and a follower of
hers named Kitty could disguise themselves admirably in men’s clothes.
The prince procured for Marie Michon the dress of a cavalier and for
Kitty that of a lackey; he sent them two excellent horses, and the
fugitives went out hastily from Tours, shaping their course toward
Spain, trembling at the least noise, following unfrequented roads, and
asking for hospitality when they found themselves where there was no
inn.”
“Why, really, it was all exactly as you say!” cried Madame de
Chevreuse, clapping her hands. “It would indeed be strange if——” she
checked herself.
“If I should follow the two fugitives to the end of their journey?”
said Athos. “No, madame, I will not thus waste your time. We will
accompany them only to a little village in Limousin, lying between
Tulle and Angouleme—a little village called Roche-l’Abeille.”
Madame de Chevreuse uttered a cry of surprise, and looked at Athos with
an expression of astonishment that made the old musketeer smile.
“Wait, madame,” continued Athos, “what remains for me to tell you is
even more strange than what I have narrated.”
“Monsieur,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “I believe you are a sorcerer; I
am prepared for anything. But really—No matter, go on.”
“The journey of that day had been long and wearing; it was a cold day,
the eleventh of October, there was no inn or chateau in the village and
the homes of the peasants were poor and unattractive. Marie Michon was
a very aristocratic person; like her sister the queen, she had been
accustomed to pleasing perfumes and fine linen; she resolved,
therefore, to seek hospitality of the priest.”
Athos paused.
“Oh, continue!” said the duchess. “I have told you that I am prepared
for anything.”
“The two travelers knocked at the door. It was late; the priest, who
had gone to bed, cried out to them to come in. They entered, for the
door was not locked—there is much confidence among villagers. A lamp
burned in the chamber occupied by the priest. Marie Michon, who made
the most charming cavalier in the world, pushed open the door, put her
head in and asked for hospitality. ‘Willingly, my young cavalier,’ said
the priest, ‘if you will be content with the remains of my supper and
with half my chamber.’
“The two travelers consulted for a moment. The priest heard a burst of
laughter and then the master, or rather, the mistress, replied: ‘Thank
you, monsieur le curé, I accept.’ ‘Sup, then, and make as little noise
as possible,’ said the priest, ‘for I, too, have been on the go all day
and shall not be sorry to sleep to-night.’”
Madame de Chevreuse evidently went from surprise to astonishment, and
from astonishment to stupefaction. Her face, as she looked at Athos,
had taken on an expression that cannot be described. It could be seen
that she had wished to speak, but she had remained silent through fear
of losing one of her companion’s words.
“What happened then?” she asked.
“Then?” said Athos. “Ah, I have come now to what is most difficult.”
“Speak, speak! One can say anything to me. Besides, it doesn’t concern
me; it relates to Mademoiselle Marie Michon.”
“Ah, that is true,” said Athos. “Well, then, Marie Michon had supper
with her follower, and then, in accordance with the permission given
her, she entered the chamber of her host, Kitty meanwhile taking
possession of an armchair in the room first entered, where they had
taken their supper.”
“Really, monsieur,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “unless you are the devil
in person I don’t know how you could become acquainted with all these
details.”
“A charming woman was that Marie Michon,” resumed Athos, “one of those
wild creatures who are constantly conceiving the strangest ideas. Now,
thinking that her host was a priest, that coquette took it into her
head that it would be a happy souvenir for her old age, among the many
happy souvenirs she already possessed, if she could win that of having
damned an abbé.”
“Count,” said the duchess, “upon my word, you frighten me.”
“Alas!” continued Athos, “the poor abbé was not a St. Ambroise, and I
repeat, Marie Michon was an adorable creature.”
“Monsieur!” cried the duchess, seizing Athos’s hands, “tell me this
moment how you know all these details, or I will send to the convent of
the Vieux Augustins for a monk to come and exorcise you.”
Athos laughed. “Nothing is easier, madame. A cavalier, charged with an
important mission, had come an hour before your arrival, seeking
hospitality, at the very moment that the curé, summoned to the bedside
of a dying person, left not only his house but the village, for the
entire night. The priest having all confidence in his guest, who,
besides, was a nobleman, had left to him his house, his supper and his
chamber. And therefore Marie came seeking hospitality from the guest of
the good abbé and not from the good abbé himself.”
“And that cavalier, that guest, that nobleman who arrived before she
came?”
“It was I, the Comte de la Fere,” said Athos, rising and bowing
respectfully to the Duchess de Chevreuse.
The duchess remained a moment stupefied; then, suddenly bursting into
laughter:
“Ah! upon my word,” said she, “it is very droll, and that mad Marie
Michon fared better than she expected. Sit down, dear count, and go on
with your story.”
“At this point I have to accuse myself of a fault, madame. I have told
you that I was traveling on an important mission. At daybreak I left
the chamber without noise, leaving my charming companion asleep. In the
front room the follower was also still asleep, her head leaning back on
the chair, in all respects worthy of her mistress. Her pretty face
arrested my attention; I approached and recognized that little Kitty
whom our friend Aramis had placed with her. In that way I discovered
that the charming traveler was——”
“Marie Michon!” said Madame de Chevreuse, hastily.
“Marie Michon,” continued Athos. “Then I went out of the house; I
proceeded to the stable and found my horse saddled and my lackey ready.
We set forth on our journey.”
“And have you never revisited that village?” eagerly asked Madame de
Chevreuse.
“A year after, madame.”
“Well?”
“I wanted to see the good curé again. I found him much preoccupied with
an event that he could not at all comprehend. A week before he had
received, in a cradle, a beautiful little boy three months old, with a
purse filled with gold and a note containing these simple words: ‘11
October, 1633.’”
“It was the date of that strange adventure,” interrupted Madame de
Chevreuse.
“Yes, but he couldn’t understand what it meant, for he had spent that
night with a dying person and Marie Michon had left his house before
his return.”
“You must know, monsieur, that Marie Michon, when she returned to
France in 1643, immediately sought for information about that child; as
a fugitive she could not take care of it, but on her return she wished
to have it near her.”
“And what said the abbé?” asked Athos.
“That a nobleman whom he did not know had wished to take charge of it,
had answered for its future, and had taken it away.”
“That was true.”
“Ah! I see! That nobleman was you; it was his father!”
“Hush! do not speak so loud, madame; he is there.”
“He is there! my son! the son of Marie Michon! But I must see him
instantly.”
“Take care, madame,” said Athos, “for he knows neither his father nor
his mother.”
“You have kept the secret! you have brought him to see me, thinking to
make me happy. Oh, thanks! sir, thanks!” cried Madame de Chevreuse,
seizing his hand and trying to put it to her lips; “you have a noble
heart.”
“I bring him to you, madame,” said Athos, withdrawing his hand, “hoping
that in your turn you will do something for him; till now I have
watched over his education and I have made him, I hope, an accomplished
gentleman; but I am now obliged to return to the dangerous and
wandering life of party faction. To-morrow I plunge into an adventurous
affair in which I may be killed. Then it will devolve on you to push
him on in that world where he is called on to occupy a place.”
“Rest assured,” cried the duchess, “I shall do what I can. I have but
little influence now, but all that I have shall most assuredly be his.
As to his title and fortune——”
“As to that, madame, I have made over to him the estate of Bragelonne,
my inheritance, which will give him ten thousand francs a year and the
title of vicomte.”
“Upon my soul, monsieur,” said the duchess, “you are a true nobleman!
But I am eager to see our young vicomte. Where is he?”
“There, in the salon. I will have him come in, if you really wish it.”
Athos moved toward the door; the duchess held him back.
“Is he handsome?” she asked.
Athos smiled.
“He resembles his mother.”
So he opened the door and beckoned the young man in.
The duchess could not restrain a cry of joy on seeing so handsome a
young cavalier, so far surpassing all that her maternal pride had been
able to conceive.
“Vicomte, come here,” said Athos; “the duchess permits you to kiss her
hand.”
The youth approached with his charming smile and his head bare, and
kneeling down, kissed the hand of the Duchess de Chevreuse.
“Sir,” he said, turning to Athos, “was it not in compassion to my
timidity that you told me that this lady was the Duchess de Chevreuse,
and is she not the queen?”
“No, vicomte,” said Madame de Chevreuse, taking his hand and making him
sit near her, while she looked at him with eyes sparkling with
pleasure; “no, unhappily, I am not the queen. If I were I should do for
you at once the most that you deserve. But let us see; whatever I may
be,” she added, hardly restraining herself from kissing that pure brow,
“let us see what profession you wish to follow.”
Athos, standing, looked at them both with indescribable pleasure.
“Madame,” answered the youth in his sweet voice, “it seems to me that
there is only one career for a gentleman—that of the army. I have been
brought up by monsieur le comte with the intention, I believe, of
making me a soldier; and he gave me reason to hope that at Paris he
would present me to some one who would recommend me to the favor of the
prince.”
“Yes, I understand it well. Personally, I am on bad terms with him, on
account of the quarrels between Madame de Montbazon, my mother-in-law,
and Madame de Longueville. But the Prince de Marsillac! Yes, indeed,
that’s the right thing. The Prince de Marsillac—my old friend—will
recommend our young friend to Madame de Longueville, who will give him
a letter to her brother, the prince, who loves her too tenderly not to
do what she wishes immediately.”
“Well, that will do charmingly,” said the count; “but may I beg that
the greatest haste may be made, for I have reasons for wishing the
vicomte not to sleep longer than to-morrow night in Paris!”
“Do you wish it known that you are interested about him, monsieur le
comte?”
“Better for him in future that he should be supposed never to have seen
me.”
“Oh, sir!” cried Raoul.
“You know, Bragelonne,” said Athos, “I never speak without reflection.”
“Well, comte, I am going instantly,” interrupted the duchess, “to send
for the Prince de Marsillac, who is happily, in Paris just now. What
are you going to do this evening?”
“We intend to visit the Abbé Scarron, for whom I have a letter of
introduction and at whose house I expect to meet some of my friends.”
“’Tis well; I will go there also, for a few minutes,” said the duchess;
“do not quit his salon until you have seen me.”
Athos bowed and prepared to leave.
“Well, monsieur le comte,” said the duchess, smiling, “does one leave
so solemnly his old friends?”
“Ah,” murmured Athos, kissing her hand, “had I only sooner known that
Marie Michon was so charming a creature!” And he withdrew, sighing.


Chapter XXI.
The Abbé Scarron.

There was once in the Rue des Tournelles a house known by all the sedan
chairmen and footmen of Paris, and yet, nevertheless, this house was
neither that of a great lord nor of a rich man. There was neither
dining, nor playing at cards, nor dancing in that house. Nevertheless,
it was the rendezvous of the great world and all Paris went there. It
was the abode of the little Abbé Scarron.
In the home of the witty abbé dwelt incessant laughter; there all the
items of the day had their source and were so quickly transformed,
misrepresented, metamorphosed, some into epigrams, some into
falsehoods, that every one was anxious to pass an hour with little
Scarron, listening to what he said, reporting it to others.
The diminutive Abbé Scarron, who, however, was an abbé only because he
owned an abbey, and not because he was in orders, had formerly been one
of the gayest prebendaries in the town of Mans, which he inhabited. On
a day of the carnival he had taken a notion to provide an unusual
entertainment for that good town, of which he was the life and soul. He
had made his valet cover him with honey; then, opening a feather bed,
he had rolled in it and had thus become the most grotesque fowl it is
possible to imagine. He then began to visit his friends of both sexes,
in that strange costume. At first he had been followed through
astonishment, then with derisive shouts, then the porters had insulted
him, then children had thrown stones at him, and finally he was obliged
to run, to escape the missiles. As soon as he took to flight every one
pursued him, until, pressed on all sides, Scarron found no way of
escaping his escort, except by throwing himself into the river; but the
water was icy cold. Scarron was heated, the cold seized on him, and
when he reached the farther bank he found himself crippled.
Every means had been employed in vain to restore the use of his limbs.
He had been subjected to a severe disciplinary course of medicine, at
length he sent away all his doctors, declaring that he preferred the
disease to the treatment, and came to Paris, where the fame of his wit
had preceded him. There he had a chair made on his own plan, and one
day, visiting Anne of Austria in this chair, she asked him, charmed as
she was with his wit, if he did not wish for a title.
“Yes, your majesty, there is a title which I covet much,” replied
Scarron.
“And what is that?”
“That of being your invalid,” answered Scarron.
So he was called the queen’s invalid, with a pension of fifteen hundred
francs.
From that lucky moment Scarron led a happy life, spending both income
and principal. One day, however, an emissary of the cardinal’s gave him
to understand that he was wrong in receiving the coadjutor so often.
“And why?” asked Scarron; “is he not a man of good birth?”
“Certainly.”
“Agreeable?”
“Undeniably.”
“Witty?”
“He has, unfortunately, too much wit.”
“Well, then, why do you wish me to give up seeing such a man?”
“Because he is an enemy.”
“Of whom?”
“Of the cardinal.”
“What?” answered Scarron, “I continue to receive Monsieur Gilles
Despreaux, who thinks ill of me, and you wish me to give up seeing the
coadjutor, because he thinks ill of another man. Impossible!”
The conversation had rested there and Scarron, through sheer obstinacy,
had seen Monsieur de Gondy only the more frequently.
Now, the very morning of which we speak was that of his quarter-day
payment, and Scarron, as usual, had sent his servant to get his money
at the pension-office, but the man had returned and said that the
government had no more money to give Monsieur Scarron.
It was on Thursday, the abbé’s reception day; people went there in
crowds. The cardinal’s refusal to pay the pension was known about the
town in half an hour and he was abused with wit and vehemence.
In the Rue Saint Honore Athos fell in with two gentlemen whom he did
not know, on horseback like himself, followed by a lackey like himself,
and going in the same direction that he was. One of them, hat in hand,
said to him:
“Would you believe it, monsieur? that contemptible Mazarin has stopped
poor Scarron’s pension.”
“That is unreasonable,” said Athos, saluting in his turn the two
cavaliers. And they separated with courteous gestures.
“It happens well that we are going there this evening,” said Athos to
the vicomte; “we will pay our compliments to that poor man.”
“What, then, is this Monsieur Scarron, who thus puts all Paris in
commotion? Is he some minister out of office?”
“Oh, no, not at all, vicomte,” Athos replied; “he is simply a gentleman
of great genius who has fallen into disgrace with the cardinal through
having written certain verses against him.”
“Do gentlemen, then, make verses?” asked Raoul, naively, “I thought it
was derogatory.”
“So it is, my dear vicomte,” said Athos, laughing, “to make bad ones;
but to make good ones increases fame—witness Monsieur de Rotrou.
Nevertheless,” he continued, in the tone of one who gives wholesome
advice, “I think it is better not to make them.”
“Then,” said Raoul, “this Monsieur Scarron is a poet?”
“Yes; you are warned, vicomte. Consider well what you do in that house.
Talk only by gestures, or rather always listen.”
“Yes, monsieur,” replied Raoul.
“You will see me talking with one of my friends, the Abbé d’Herblay, of
whom you have often heard me speak.”
“I remember him, monsieur.”
“Come near to us from time to time, as if to speak; but do not speak,
and do not listen. That little stratagem may serve to keep off
interlopers.”
“Very well, monsieur; I will obey you at all points.”
Athos made two visits in Paris; at seven o’clock he and Raoul directed
their steps to the Rue des Tournelles; it was stopped by porters,
horses and footmen. Athos forced his way through and entered, followed
by the young man. The first person that struck him on his entrance was
Aramis, planted near a great chair on castors, very large, covered with
a canopy of tapestry, under which there moved, enveloped in a quilt of
brocade, a little face, youngish, very merry, somewhat pallid, whilst
its eyes never ceased to express a sentiment at once lively,
intellectual, and amiable. This was the Abbé Scarron, always laughing,
joking, complimenting—yet suffering—and toying nervously with a small
switch.
Around this kind of rolling tent pressed a crowd of gentlemen and
ladies. The room was neatly, comfortably furnished. Large valances of
silk, embroidered with flowers of gay colors, which were rather faded,
fell from the wide windows; the fittings of the room were simple, but
in excellent taste. Two well trained servingmen were in attendance on
the company. On perceiving Athos, Aramis advanced toward him, took him
by the hand and presented him to Scarron. Raoul remained silent, for he
was not prepared for the dignity of the bel esprit.
After some minutes the door opened and a footman announced Mademoiselle
Paulet.
Athos touched the shoulder of the vicomte.
“Look at this lady, Raoul, she is an historic personage; it was to
visit her King Henry IV. was going when he was assassinated.”
Every one thronged around Mademoiselle Paulet, for she was always very
much the fashion. She was a tall woman, with a slender figure and a
forest of golden curls, such as Raphael was fond of and Titian has
painted all his Magdalens with. This fawn-colored hair, or, perhaps the
sort of ascendancy which she had over other women, gave her the name of
“La Lionne.” Mademoiselle Paulet took her accustomed seat, but before
sitting down, she cast, in all her queen-like grandeur, a look around
the room, and her eyes rested on Raoul.
Athos smiled.
“Mademoiselle Paulet has observed you, vicomte; go and bow to her;
don’t try to appear anything but what you are, a true country youth; on
no account speak to her of Henry IV.”
“When shall we two walk together?” Athos then said to Aramis.
“Presently—there are not a sufficient number of people here yet; we
shall be remarked.”
At this moment the door opened and in walked the coadjutor.
At this name every one looked around, for his was already a very
celebrated name. Athos did the same. He knew the Abbé de Gondy only by
report.
He saw a little dark man, ill made and awkward with his hands in
everything—except drawing a sword and firing a pistol—with something
haughty and contemptuous in his face.
Scarron turned around toward him and came to meet him in his chair.
“Well,” said the coadjutor, on seeing him, “you are in disgrace, then,
abbé?”
This was the orthodox phrase. It had been said that evening a hundred
times—and Scarron was at his hundredth bon mot on the subject; he was
very nearly at the end of his humoristic tether, but one despairing
effort saved him.
“Monsieur, the Cardinal Mazarin has been so kind as to think of me,” he
said.
“But how can you continue to receive us?” asked the coadjutor; “if your
income is lessened I shall be obliged to make you a canon of Notre
Dame.”
“Oh, no!” cried Scarron, “I should compromise you too much.”
“Perhaps you have resources of which we are ignorant?”
“I shall borrow from the queen.”
“But her majesty has no property,” interposed Aramis.
At this moment the door opened and Madame de Chevreuse was announced.
Every one arose. Scarron turned his chair toward the door, Raoul
blushed, Athos made a sign to Aramis, who went and hid himself in the
enclosure of a window.
In the midst of all the compliments that awaited her on her entrance,
the duchess seemed to be looking for some one; at last she found out
Raoul and her eyes sparkled; she perceived Athos and became thoughtful;
she saw Aramis in the seclusion of the window and gave a start of
surprise behind her fan.
“Apropos,” she said, as if to drive away thoughts that pursued her in
spite of herself, “how is poor Voiture, do you know, Scarron?”
“What, is Monsieur Voiture ill?” inquired a gentleman who had spoken to
Athos in the Rue Saint Honore; “what is the matter with him?”
“He was acting, but forgot to take the precaution to have a change of
linen ready after the performance,” said the coadjutor, “so he took
cold and is about to die.”
“Is he then so ill, dear Voiture?” asked Aramis, half hidden by the
window curtain.
“Die!” cried Mademoiselle Paulet, bitterly, “he! Why, he is surrounded
by sultanas, like a Turk. Madame de Saintot has hastened to him with
broth; La Renaudot warms his sheets; the Marquise de Rambouillet sends
him his tisanes.”
“You don’t like him, my dear Parthenie,” said Scarron.
“What an injustice, my dear invalid! I hate him so little that I should
be delighted to order masses for the repose of his soul.”
“You are not called ‘Lionne’ for nothing,” observed Madame de
Chevreuse, “your teeth are terrible.”
“You are unjust to a great poet, it seems to me,” Raoul ventured to
say.
“A great poet! come, one may easily see, vicomte, that you are lately
from the provinces and have never so much as seen him. A great poet! he
is scarcely five feet high.”
“Bravo bravo!” cried a tall man with an enormous mustache and a long
rapier, “bravo, fair Paulet, it is high time to put little Voiture in
his right place. For my part, I always thought his poetry detestable,
and I think I know something about poetry.”
“Who is this officer,” inquired Raoul of Athos, “who is speaking?”
“Monsieur de Scudery, the author of ‘Clelie,’ and of ‘Le Grand Cyrus,’
which were composed partly by him and partly by his sister, who is now
talking to that pretty person yonder, near Monsieur Scarron.”
Raoul turned and saw two faces just arrived. One was perfectly
charming, delicate, pensive, shaded by beautiful dark hair, and eyes
soft as velvet, like those lovely flowers, the heartsease, in which
shine out the golden petals. The other, of mature age, seemed to have
the former one under her charge, and was cold, dry and yellow—the true
type of a duenna or a devotee.
Raoul resolved not to quit the room without having spoken to the
beautiful girl with the soft eyes, who by a strange fancy, although she
bore no resemblance, reminded him of his poor little Louise, whom he
had left in the Chateau de la Valliere and whom, in the midst of all
the party, he had never for one moment quite forgotten. Meantime Aramis
had drawn near to the coadjutor, who, smiling all the while, contrived
to drop some words into his ear. Aramis, notwithstanding his
self-control, could not refrain from a slight movement of surprise.
“Laugh, then,” said Monsieur de Retz; “they are looking at us.” And
leaving Aramis he went to talk with Madame de Chevreuse, who was in the
midst of a large group.
Aramis affected a laugh, to divert the attention of certain curious
listeners, and perceiving that Athos had betaken himself to the
embrasure of a window and remained there, he proceeded to join him,
throwing out a few words carelessly as he moved through the room.
As soon as the two friends met they began a conversation which was
emphasized by frequent gesticulation.
Raoul then approached them as Athos had directed him to do.
“’Tis a rondeau by Monsieur Voiture that monsieur l’abbé is repeating
to me.” said Athos in a loud voice, “and I confess I think it
incomparable.”
Raoul stayed only a few minutes near them and then mingled with the
group round Madame de Chevreuse.
“Well, then?” asked Athos, in a low tone.
“It is to be to-morrow,” said Aramis hastily.
“At what time?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Where?”
“At Saint Mande.”
“Who told you?”