Twenty Years After - 23

whether he is still my friend, but since that time I have remained
his.”
“And these men are in France, my lord?”
“I believe so.”
“Tell me their names; perhaps I may have heard them mentioned and might
be able to aid you in finding them.”
“One of them was called the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”
“Ah, my lord, if I mistake not, the Chevalier d’Artagnan is lieutenant
of royal guards; but take care, for I fear that this man is entirely
devoted to the cardinal.”
“That would be a misfortune,” said De Winter, “and I shall begin to
think that we are really doomed.”
“But the others,” said the queen, who clung to this last hope as a
shipwrecked man clings to the hull of his vessel. “The others, my
lord!”
“The second—I heard his name by chance; for before fighting us, these
four gentlemen told us their names; the second was called the Comte de
la Fere. As for the two others, I had so much the habit of calling them
by nicknames that I have forgotten their real ones.”
“Oh, mon Dieu, it is a matter of the greatest urgency to find them
out,” said the queen, “since you think these worthy gentlemen might be
so useful to the king.”
“Oh, yes,” said De Winter, “for they are the same men. Listen, madame,
and recall your remembrances. Have you never heard that Queen Anne of
Austria was once saved from the greatest danger ever incurred by a
queen?”
“Yes, at the time of her relations with Monsieur de Buckingham; it had
to do in some way with certain studs and diamonds.”
“Well, it was that affair, madame; these men are the ones who saved
her; and I smile with pity when I reflect that if the names of those
gentlemen are unknown to you it is because the queen has forgotten
them, who ought to have made them the first noblemen of the realm.”
“Well, then, my lord, they must be found; but what can four men, or
rather three men do—for I tell you, you must not count on Monsieur
d’Artagnan.”
“It will be one valiant sword the less, but there will remain still
three, without reckoning my own; now four devoted men around the king
to protect him from his enemies, to be at his side in battle, to aid
him with counsel, to escort him in flight, are sufficient, not to make
the king a conqueror, but to save him if conquered; and whatever
Mazarin may say, once on the shores of France your royal husband may
find as many retreats and asylums as the seabird finds in a storm.”
“Seek, then, my lord, seek these gentlemen; and if they will consent to
go with you to England, I will give to each a duchy the day that we
reascend the throne, besides as much gold as would pave Whitehall. Seek
them, my lord, and find them, I conjure you.”
“I will search for them, madame,” said De Winter “and doubtless I shall
find them; but time fails me. Has your majesty forgotten that the king
expects your reply and awaits it in agony?”
“Then indeed we are lost!” cried the queen, in the fullness of a broken
heart.
At this moment the door opened and the young Henrietta appeared; then
the queen, with that wonderful strength which is the privilege of
parents, repressed her tears and motioned to De Winter to change the
subject.
But that act of self-control, effective as it was, did not escape the
eyes of the young princess. She stopped on the threshold, breathed a
sigh, and addressing the queen:
“Why, then, do you always weep, mother, when I am away from you?” she
said.
The queen smiled, but instead of answering:
“See, De Winter,” she said, “I have at least gained one thing in being
only half a queen; and that is that my children call me ‘mother’
instead of ‘madame.’”
Then turning toward her daughter:
“What do you want, Henrietta?” she demanded.
“My mother,” replied the young princess, “a cavalier has just entered
the Louvre and wishes to present his respects to your majesty; he
arrives from the army and has, he says, a letter to remit to you, on
the part of the Marechal de Grammont, I think.”
“Ah!” said the queen to De Winter, “he is one of my faithful adherents;
but do you not observe, my dear lord, that we are so poorly served that
it is left to my daughter to fill the office of doorkeeper?”
“Madame, have pity on me,” exclaimed De Winter; “you wring my heart!”
“And who is this cavalier, Henrietta?” asked the queen.
“I saw him from the window, madame; he is a young man that appears
scarce sixteen years of age, and is called the Viscount de Bragelonne.”
The queen, smiling, made a sign with her head; the young princess
opened the door and Raoul appeared on the threshold.
Advancing a few steps toward the queen, he knelt down.
“Madame,” said he, “I bear to your majesty a letter from my friend the
Count de Guiche, who told me he had the honor of being your servant;
this letter contains important news and the expression of his respect.”
At the name of the Count de Guiche a blush spread over the cheeks of
the young princess and the queen glanced at her with some degree of
severity.
“You told me that the letter was from the Marechal de Grammont,
Henrietta!” said the queen.
“I thought so, madame,” stammered the young girl.
“It is my fault, madame,” said Raoul. “I did announce myself, in truth,
as coming on the part of the Marechal de Grammont; but being wounded in
the right arm he was unable to write and therefore the Count de Guiche
acted as his secretary.”
“There has been fighting, then?” asked the queen, motioning to Raoul to
rise.
“Yes, madame,” said the young man.
At this announcement of a battle having taken place, the princess
opened her mouth as though to ask a question of interest; but her lips
closed again without articulating a word, while the color gradually
faded from her cheeks.
The queen saw this, and doubtless her maternal heart translated the
emotion, for addressing Raoul again:
“And no evil has happened to the young Count de Guiche?” she asked;
“for not only is he our servant, as you say, sir, but more—he is one of
our friends.”
“No, madame,” replied Raoul; “on the contrary, he gained great glory
and had the honor of being embraced by his highness, the prince, on the
field of battle.”
The young princess clapped her hands; and then, ashamed of having been
betrayed into such a demonstration of joy, she half turned away and
bent over a vase of roses, as if to inhale their odor.
“Let us see,” said the queen, “what the count says.” And she opened the
letter and read:
“Madame,—Being unable to have the honor of writing to you myself, by
reason of a wound I have received in my right hand, I have commanded my
son, the Count de Guiche, who, with his father, is equally your humble
servant, to write to tell you that we have just gained the battle of
Lens, and that this victory cannot fail to give great power to Cardinal
Mazarin and to the queen over the affairs of Europe. If her majesty
will have faith in my counsels she ought to profit by this event to
address at this moment, in favor of her august husband, the court of
France. The Vicomte de Bragelonne, who will have the honor of remitting
this letter to your majesty, is the friend of my son, who owes to him
his life; he is a gentleman in whom your majesty may confide entirely,
in case your majesty may have some verbal or written order to remit to
me.
“I have the honor to be, with respect, etc.,
“Marechal de Grammont.”
At the moment mention occurred of his having rendered a service to the
count, Raoul could not help turning his glance toward the young
princess, and then he saw in her eyes an expression of infinite
gratitude to the young man; he no longer doubted that the daughter of
King Charles I. loved his friend.
“The battle of Lens gained!” said the queen; “they are lucky here
indeed; they can gain battles! Yes, the Marechal de Grammont is right;
this will change the aspect of French affairs, but I much fear it will
do nothing for English, even if it does not harm them. This is recent
news, sir,” continued she, “and I thank you for having made such haste
to bring it to me; without this letter I should not have heard till
to-morrow, perhaps after to-morrow—the last of all Paris.”
“Madame,” said Raoul, “the Louvre is but the second palace this news
has reached; it is as yet unknown to all, and I had sworn to the Count
de Guiche to remit this letter to your majesty before even I should
embrace my guardian.”
“Your guardian! is he, too, a Bragelonne?” asked Lord de Winter. “I
once knew a Bragelonne—is he still alive?”
“No, sir, he is dead; and I believe it is from him my guardian, whose
near relation he was, inherited the estate from which I take my name.”
“And your guardian, sir,” asked the queen, who could not help feeling
some interest in the handsome young man before her, “what is his name?”
“The Comte de la Fere, madame,” replied the young man, bowing.
De Winter made a gesture of surprise and the queen turned to him with a
start of joy.
“The Comte de la Fere!” she cried. “Have you not mentioned that name to
me?”
As for De Winter he could scarcely believe that he had heard aright.
“The Comte de la Fere!” he cried in his turn. “Oh, sir, reply, I
entreat you—is not the Comte de la Fere a noble whom I remember,
handsome and brave, a musketeer under Louis XIII., who must be now
about forty-seven or forty-eight years of age?”
“Yes, sir, you are right in every particular!”
“And who served under an assumed name?”
“Under the name of Athos. Latterly I heard his friend, Monsieur
d’Artagnan, give him that name.”
“That is it, madame, that is the same. God be praised! And he is in
Paris?” continued he, addressing Raoul; then turning to the queen: “We
may still hope. Providence has declared for us, since I have found this
brave man again in so miraculous a manner. And, sir, where does he
reside, pray?”
“The Comte de la Fere lodges in the Rue Guenegaud, Hotel du Grand Roi
Charlemagne.”
“Thanks, sir. Inform this dear friend that he may remain within, that I
shall go and see him immediately.”
“Sir, I obey with pleasure, if her majesty will permit me to depart.”
“Go, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the queen, “and rest assured of our
affection.”
Raoul bent respectfully before the two princesses, and bowing to De
Winter, departed.
The queen and De Winter continued to converse for some time in low
voices, in order that the young princess should not overhear them; but
the precaution was needless: she was in deep converse with her own
thoughts.
Then, when De Winter rose to take leave:
“Listen, my lord,” said the queen; “I have preserved this diamond cross
which came from my mother, and this order of St. Michael which came
from my husband. They are worth about fifty thousand pounds. I had
sworn to die of hunger rather than part with these precious pledges;
but now that this ornament may be useful to him or his defenders,
everything must be sacrificed. Take them, and if you need money for
your expedition, sell them fearlessly, my lord. But should you find the
means of retaining them, remember, my lord, that I shall esteem you as
having rendered the greatest service that a gentleman can render to a
queen; and in the day of my prosperity he who brings me this order and
this cross shall be blessed by me and my children.”
“Madame,” replied De Winter, “your majesty will be served by a man
devoted to you. I hasten to deposit these two objects in a safe place,
nor should I accept them if the resources of our ancient fortune were
left to us, but our estates are confiscated, our ready money is
exhausted, and we are reduced to turn to service everything we possess.
In an hour hence I shall be with the Comte de la Fere, and to-morrow
your majesty shall have a definite reply.”
The queen tendered her hand to Lord de Winter, who, kissing it
respectfully, went out and traversed alone and unconducted those large,
dark and deserted apartments, brushing away tears which, blase as he
was by fifty years spent as a courtier, he could not withhold at the
spectacle of royal distress so dignified, yet so intense.


Chapter XL.
Uncle and Nephew.

The horse and servant belonging to De Winter were waiting for him at
the door; he proceeded toward his abode very thoughtfully, looking
behind him from time to him to contemplate the dark and silent frontage
of the Louvre. It was then that he saw a horseman, as it were, detach
himself from the wall and follow him at a little distance. In leaving
the Palais Royal he remembered to have observed a similar shadow.
“Tony,” he said, motioning to his groom to approach.
“Here I am, my lord.”
“Did you remark that man who is following us?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Who is he?”
“I do not know, only he has followed your grace from the Palais Royal,
stopped at the Louvre to wait for you, and now leaves the Louvre with
you.”
“Some spy of the cardinal,” said De Winter to him, aside. “Let us
pretend not to notice that he is watching us.”
And spurring on he plunged into the labyrinth of streets which led to
his hotel, situated near the Marais, for having for so long a time
lived near the Place Royale, Lord de Winter naturally returned to lodge
near his ancient dwelling.
The unknown spurred his horse to a gallop.
De Winter dismounted at his hotel and went up into his apartment,
intending to watch the spy; but as he was about to place his gloves and
hat on a table, he saw reflected in a glass opposite to him a figure
which stood on the threshold of the room. He turned around and Mordaunt
stood before him.
There was a moment of frozen silence between these two.
“Sir,” said De Winter, “I thought I had already made you aware that I
am weary of this persecution; withdraw, then, or I shall call and have
you turned out as you were in London. I am not your uncle, I know you
not.”
“My uncle,” replied Mordaunt, with his harsh and bantering tone, “you
are mistaken; you will not have me turned out this time as you did in
London—you dare not. As for denying that I am your nephew, you will
think twice about it, now that I have learned some things of which I
was ignorant a year ago.”
“And how does it concern me what you have learned?” said De Winter.
“Oh, it concerns you very closely, my uncle, I am sure, and you will
soon be of my opinion,” added he, with a smile which sent a shudder
through the veins of him he thus addressed. “When I presented myself
before you for the first time in London, it was to ask you what had
become of my fortune; the second time it was to demand who had sullied
my name; and this time I come before you to ask a question far more
terrible than any other, to say to you as God said to the first
murderer: ‘Cain, what hast thou done to thy brother Abel?’ My lord,
what have you done with your sister—your sister, who was my mother?”
De Winter shrank back from the fire of those scorching eyes.
“Your mother?” he said.
“Yes, my lord, my mother,” replied the young man, advancing into the
room until he was face to face with Lord de Winter, and crossing his
arms. “I have asked the headsman of Bethune,” he said, his voice hoarse
and his face livid with passion and grief. “And the headsman of Bethune
gave me a reply.”
De Winter fell back in a chair as though struck by a thunderbolt and in
vain attempted a reply.
“Yes,” continued the young man; “all is now explained; with this key I
open the abyss. My mother inherited an estate from her husband, you
have assassinated her; my name would have secured me the paternal
estate, you have deprived me of it; you have despoiled me of my
fortune. I am no longer astonished that you knew me not. I am not
surprised that you refused to recognize me. When a man is a robber it
is hard to call him nephew whom he has impoverished; when one is a
murderer, to recognize the man whom one has made an orphan.”
These words produced a contrary effect to that which Mordaunt had
anticipated. De Winter remembered the monster that Milady had been; he
rose, dignified and calm, restraining by the severity of his look the
wild glance of the young man.
“You desire to fathom this horrible secret?” said De Winter; “well,
then, so be it. Know, then, what manner of woman it was for whom to-day
you call me to account. That woman had, in all probability, poisoned my
brother, and in order to inherit from me she was about to assassinate
me in my turn. I have proof of it. What say you to that?”
“I say that she was my mother.”
“She caused the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham to be stabbed by a man
who was, ere that, honest, good and pure. What say you to that crime,
of which I have the proof?”
“She was my mother.”
“On our return to France she had a young woman who was attached to one
of her opponents poisoned in the convent of the Augustines at Bethune.
Will this crime persuade you of the justice of her punishment—for of
all this I have the proofs?”
“She was my mother!” cried the young man, who uttered these three
successive exclamations with constantly increasing force.
“At last, charged with murders, with debauchery, hated by every one and
yet threatening still, like a panther thirsting for blood, she fell
under the blows of men whom she had rendered desperate, though they had
never done her the least injury; she met with judges whom her hideous
crimes had evoked; and that executioner you saw—that executioner who
you say told you everything—that executioner, if he told you
everything, told you that he leaped with joy in avenging on her his
brother’s shame and suicide. Depraved as a girl, adulterous as a wife,
an unnatural sister, homicide, poisoner, execrated by all who knew her,
by every nation that had been visited by her, she died accursed by
Heaven and earth.”
A sob which Mordaunt could not repress burst from his throat and his
livid face became suffused with blood; he clenched his fists, sweat
covered his face, his hair, like Hamlet’s, stood on end, and racked
with fury he cried out:
“Silence, sir! she was my mother! Her crimes, I know them not; her
disorders, I know them not; her vices, I know them not. But this I
know, that I had a mother, that five men leagued against one woman,
murdered her clandestinely by night—silently—like cowards. I know that
you were one of them, my uncle, and that you cried louder than the
others: ‘She must die.’ Therefore I warn you, and listen well to my
words, that they may be engraved upon your memory, never to be
forgotten: this murder, which has robbed me of everything—this murder,
which has deprived me of my name—this murder, which has impoverished
me—this murder, which has made me corrupt, wicked, implacable—I shall
summon you to account for it first and then those who were your
accomplices, when I discover them!”
With hatred in his eyes, foaming at his mouth, and his fist extended,
Mordaunt had advanced one more step, a threatening, terrible step,
toward De Winter. The latter put his hand to his sword, and said, with
the smile of a man who for thirty years has jested with death:
“Would you assassinate me, sir? Then I shall recognize you as my
nephew, for you would be a worthy son of such a mother.”
“No,” replied Mordaunt, forcing his features and the muscles of his
body to resume their usual places and be calm; “no, I shall not kill
you; at least not at this moment, for without you I could not discover
the others. But when I have found them, then tremble, sir. I stabbed to
the heart the headsman of Bethune, without mercy or pity, and he was
the least guilty of you all.”
With these words the young man went out and descended the stairs with
sufficient calmness to pass unobserved; then upon the lowest landing
place he passed Tony, leaning over the balustrade, waiting only for a
call from his master to mount to his room.
But De Winter did not call; crushed, enfeebled, he remained standing
and with listening ear; then only when he had heard the step of the
horse going away he fell back on a chair, saying:
“My God, I thank Thee that he knows me only.”


Chapter XLI.
Paternal Affection.

Whilst this terrible scene was passing at Lord de Winter’s, Athos,
seated near his window, his elbow on the table and his head supported
on his hand, was listening intently to Raoul’s account of the
adventures he met with on his journey and the details of the battle.
Listening to the relation of those emotions so fresh and pure, the
fine, noble face of Athos betrayed indescribable pleasure; he inhaled
the tones of that young voice, as harmonious music. He forgot all that
was dark in the past and that was cloudy in the future. It almost
seemed as if the return of this much loved boy had changed his fears to
hopes. Athos was happy—happy as he had never been before.
“And you assisted and took part in this great battle, Bragelonne!”
cried the former musketeer.
“Yes, sir.”
“And it was a fierce one?”
“His highness the prince charged eleven times in person.”
“He is a great commander, Bragelonne.”
“He is a hero, sir. I did not lose sight of him for an instant. Oh! how
fine it is to be called Condé and to be so worthy of such a name!”
“He was calm and radiant, was he not?”
“As calm as at parade, radiant as at a fete. When we went up to the
enemy it was slowly; we were forbidden to draw first and we were
marching toward the Spaniards, who were on a height with lowered
muskets. When we arrived about thirty paces from them the prince turned
around to the soldiers: ‘Comrades,’ he said, ‘you are about to suffer a
furious discharge; but after that you will make short work with those
fellows.’ There was such dead silence that friends and enemies could
have heard these words; then raising his sword, ‘Sound trumpets!’ he
cried.”
“Well, very good; you will do as much when the opportunity occurs, will
you, Raoul?”
“I know not, sir, but I thought it really very fine and grand!”
“Were you afraid, Raoul?” asked the count.
“Yes, sir,” replied the young man naively; “I felt a great chill at my
heart, and at the word ‘fire,’ which resounded in Spanish from the
enemy’s ranks, I closed my eyes and thought of you.”
“In honest truth, Raoul?” said Athos, pressing his hand.
“Yes, sir; at that instant there was such a rataplan of musketry that
one might have imagined the infernal regions had opened. Those who were
not killed felt the heat of the flames. I opened my eyes, astonished to
find myself alive and even unhurt; a third of the squadron were lying
on the ground, wounded, dead or dying. At that moment I encountered the
eye of the prince. I had but one thought and that was that he was
observing me. I spurred on and found myself in the enemy’s ranks.”
“And the prince was pleased with you?”
“He told me so, at least, sir, when he desired me to return to Paris
with Monsieur de Chatillon, who was charged to carry the news to the
queen and to bring the colors we had taken. ‘Go,’ said he; ‘the enemy
will not rally for fifteen days and until that time I have no need of
your service. Go and see those whom you love and who love you, and tell
my sister De Longueville that I thank her for the present that she made
me of you.’ And I came, sir,” added Raoul, gazing at the count with a
smile of real affection, “for I thought you would be glad to see me
again.”
Athos drew the young man toward him and pressed his lips to his brow,
as he would have done to a young daughter.
“And now, Raoul,” said he, “you are launched; you have dukes for
friends, a marshal of France for godfather, a prince of the blood as
commander, and on the day of your return you have been received by two
queens; it is not so bad for a novice.”
“Oh sir,” said Raoul, suddenly, “you recall something, which, in my
haste to relate my exploits, I had forgotten; it is that there was with
Her Majesty the Queen of England, a gentleman who, when I pronounced
your name, uttered a cry of surprise and joy; he said he was a friend
of yours, asked your address, and is coming to see you.”
“What is his name?”
“I did not venture to ask, sir; he spoke elegantly, although I thought
from his accent he was an Englishman.”
“Ah!” said Athos, leaning down his head as if to remember who it could
be. Then, when he raised it again, he was struck by the presence of a
man who was standing at the open door and was gazing at him with a
compassionate air.
“Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the count.
“Athos, my friend!”
And the two gentlemen were for an instant locked in each other’s arms;
then Athos, looking into his friend’s face and taking him by both
hands, said:
“What ails you, my lord? you appear as unhappy as I am the reverse.”
“Yes, truly, dear friend; and I may even say the sight of you increases
my dismay.”
And De Winter glancing around him, Raoul quickly understood that the
two friends wished to be alone and he therefore left the room
unaffectedly.
“Come, now that we are alone,” said Athos, “let us talk of yourself.”
“Whilst we are alone let us speak of ourselves,” replied De Winter. “He
is here.”
“Who?”
“Milady’s son.”
Athos, again struck by this name, which seemed to pursue him like an
echo, hesitated for a moment, then slightly knitting his brows, he
calmly said:
“I know it, Grimaud met him between Bethune and Arras and then came
here to warn me of his presence.”
“Does Grimaud know him, then?”
“No; but he was present at the deathbed of a man who knew him.”
“The headsman of Bethune?” exclaimed De Winter.
“You know about that?” cried Athos, astonished.
“He has just left me,” replied De Winter, “after telling me all. Ah! my
friend! what a horrible scene! Why did we not destroy the child with
the mother?”
“What need you fear?” said Athos, recovering from the instinctive fear
he had at first experienced, by the aid of reason; “are we not men
accustomed to defend ourselves? Is this young man an assassin by
profession—a murderer in cold blood? He has killed the executioner of
Bethune in an access of passion, but now his fury is assuaged.”
De Winter smiled sorrowfully and shook his head.
“Do you not know the race?” said he.
“Pooh!” said Athos, trying to smile in his turn. “It must have lost its
ferocity in the second generation. Besides, my friend, Providence has
warned us, that we may be on our guard. All we can now do is to wait.
Let us wait; and, as I said before, let us speak of yourself. What
brings you to Paris?”
“Affairs of importance which you shall know later. But what is this
that I hear from Her Majesty the Queen of England? Monsieur d’Artagnan
sides with Mazarin! Pardon my frankness, dear friend. I neither hate
nor blame the cardinal, and your opinions will be held ever sacred by
me. But do you happen to belong to him?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” replied Athos, “is in the service; he is a
soldier and obeys all constitutional authority. Monsieur d’Artagnan is
not rich and has need of his position as lieutenant to enable him to
live. Millionaires like yourself, my lord, are rare in France.”
“Alas!” said De Winter, “I am at this moment as poor as he is, if not
poorer. But to return to our subject.”
“Well, then, you wish to know if I am of Mazarin’s party? No. Pardon my
frankness, too, my lord.”
“I am obliged to you, count, for this pleasing intelligence! You make
me young and happy again by it. Ah! so you are not a Mazarinist?
Delightful! Indeed, you could not belong to him. But pardon me, are you
free? I mean to ask if you are married?”
“Ah! as to that, no,” replied Athos, laughing.
“Because that young man, so handsome, so elegant, so polished——”
“Is a child I have adopted and who does not even know who was his
father.”