Twenty Years After - 24

“Very well; you are always the same, Athos, great and generous. Are you
still friends with Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Aramis?”
“Add Monsieur d’Artagnan, my lord. We still remain four friends devoted
to each other; but when it becomes a question of serving the cardinal
or of fighting him, of being Mazarinists or Frondists, then we are only
two.”
“Is Monsieur Aramis with D’Artagnan?” asked Lord de Winter.
“No,” said Athos; “Monsieur Aramis does me the honor to share my
opinions.”
“Could you put me in communication with your witty and agreeable
friend? Is he much changed?”
“He has become an abbé, that is all.”
“You alarm me; his profession must have made him renounce any great
undertakings.”
“On the contrary,” said Athos, smiling, “he has never been so much a
musketeer as since he became an abbé, and you will find him a veritable
soldier.”
“Could you engage to bring him to me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock,
on the Pont du Louvre?”
“Oh, oh!” exclaimed Athos, smiling, “you have a duel in prospect.”
“Yes, count, and a splendid duel, too; a duel in which I hope you will
take your part.”
“Where are we to go, my lord?”
“To Her Majesty the Queen of England, who has desired me to present you
to her.”
“This is an enigma,” said Athos, “but it matters not; since you know
the solution of it I ask no further. Will your lordship do me the honor
to sup with me?”
“Thanks, count, no,” replied De Winter. “I own to you that that young
man’s visit has subdued my appetite and probably will rob me of my
sleep. What undertaking can have brought him to Paris? It was not to
meet me that he came, for he was ignorant of my journey. This young man
terrifies me, my lord; there lies in him a sanguinary predisposition.”
“What occupies him in England?”
“He is one of Cromwell’s most enthusiastic disciples.”
“But what attached him to the cause? His father and mother were
Catholics, I believe?”
“His hatred of the king, who deprived him of his estates and forbade
him to bear the name of De Winter.”
“And what name does he now bear?”
“Mordaunt.”
“A Puritan, yet disguised as a monk he travels alone in France.”
“Do you say as a monk?”
“It was thus, and by mere accident—may God pardon me if I
blaspheme—that he heard the confession of the executioner of Bethune.”
“Then I understand it all! he has been sent by Cromwell to Mazarin, and
the queen guessed rightly; we have been forestalled. Everything is
clear to me now. Adieu, count, till to-morrow.”
“But the night is dark,” said Athos, perceiving that Lord de Winter
seemed more uneasy than he wished to appear; “and you have no servant.”
“I have Tony, a safe if simple youth.”
“Halloo, there, Grimaud, Olivain, and Blaisois! call the viscount and
take the musket with you.”
Blaisois was the tall youth, half groom, half peasant, whom we saw at
the Chateau de Bragelonne, whom Athos had christened by the name of his
province.
“Viscount,” said Athos to Raoul, as he entered, “you will conduct my
lord as far as his hotel and permit no one to approach him.”
“Oh! count,” said De Winter, “for whom do you take me?”
“For a stranger who does not know Paris,” said Athos, “and to whom the
viscount will show the way.”
De Winter shook him by the hand.
“Grimaud,” said Athos, “put yourself at the head of the troop and
beware of the monk.”
Grimaud shuddered, and nodding, awaited the departure, regarding the
butt of his musket with silent eloquence. Then obeying the orders given
him by Athos, he headed the small procession, bearing the torch in one
hand and the musket in the other, until it reached De Winter’s inn,
when pounding on the portal with his fist, he bowed to my lord and
faced about without a word.
The same order was followed in returning, nor did Grimaud’s searching
glance discover anything of a suspicious appearance, save a dark
shadow, as it were, in ambuscade, at the corner of the Rue Guenegaud
and of the Quai. He fancied, also, that in going he had already
observed the street watcher who had attracted his attention. He pushed
on toward him, but before he could reach it the shadow had disappeared
into an alley, into which Grimaud deemed it scarcely prudent to pursue
it.
The next day, on awaking, the count perceived Raoul by his bedside. The
young man was already dressed and was reading a new book by M.
Chapelain.
“Already up, Raoul?” exclaimed the count.
“Yes, sir,” replied Raoul, with slight hesitation; “I did not sleep
well.”
“You, Raoul, not sleep well! then you must have something on your
mind!” said Athos.
“Sir, you will perhaps think that I am in a great hurry to leave you
when I have only just arrived, but——”
“Have you only two days of leave, Raoul?”
“On the contrary, sir, I have ten; nor is it to the camp I wish to go.”
“Where, then?” said Athos, smiling, “if it be not a secret. You are now
almost a man, since you have made your first passage of arms, and have
acquired the right to go where you will without consulting me.”
“Never, sir,” said Raoul, “as long as I possess the happiness of having
you for a protector, shall I deem I have the right of freeing myself
from a guardianship so valuable to me. I have, however, a wish to go
and pass a day at Blois. You look at me and you are going to laugh at
me.”
“No, on the contrary, I am not inclined to laugh,” said Athos,
suppressing a sigh. “You wish to see Blois again; it is but natural.”
“Then you permit me to go, you are not angry in your heart?” exclaimed
Raoul, joyously.
“Certainly; and why should I regret what gives you pleasure?”
“Oh! how kind you are,” exclaimed the young man, pressing his
guardian’s hand; “and I can set out immediately?”
“When you like, Raoul.”
“Sir,” said Raoul, as he turned to leave the room, “I have thought of
one thing, and that is about the Duchess of Chevreuse, who was so kind
to me and to whom I owe my introduction to the prince.”
“And you ought to thank her, Raoul. Well, try the Hotel de Luynes,
Raoul, and ask if the duchess can receive you. I am glad to see you pay
attention to the usages of the world. You must take Grimaud and
Olivain.”
“Both, sir?” asked Raoul, astonished.
“Both.”
Raoul went out, and when Athos heard his young, joyous voice calling to
Grimaud and Olivain, he sighed.
“It is very soon to leave me,” he thought, “but he follows the common
custom. Nature has made us thus; she makes the young look ever forward,
not behind. He certainly likes the child, but will he love me less as
his affection grows for her?”
And Athos confessed to himself that, he was unprepared for so prompt a
departure; but Raoul was so happy that this reflection effaced
everything else from the consideration of his guardian.
Everything was ready at ten o’clock for the departure, and as Athos was
watching Raoul mount, a groom rode up from the Duchess de Chevreuse. He
was charged to tell the Comte de la Fere, that she had learned of the
return of her youthful protege, and also the manner he had conducted
himself on the field, and she added that she should be very glad to
offer him her congratulations.
“Tell her grace,” replied Athos, “that the viscount has just mounted
his horse to proceed to the Hotel de Luynes.”
Then, with renewed instructions to Grimaud, Athos signified to Raoul
that he could set out, and ended by reflecting that it was perhaps
better that Raoul should be away from Paris at that moment.


Chapter XLII.
Another Queen in Want of Help.

Athos had not failed to send early to Aramis and had given his letter
to Blaisois, the only serving-man whom he had left. Blaisois found
Bazin donning his beadle’s gown, his services being required that day
at Notre Dame.
Athos had desired Blaisois to try to speak to Aramis himself. Blaisois,
a tall, simple youth, who understood nothing but what he was expressly
told, asked, therefore for the Abbé d’Herblay, and in spite of Bazin’s
assurances that his master was not at home, he persisted in such a
manner as to put Bazin into a passion. Blaisois seeing Bazin in
clerical guise, was a little discomposed at his denials and wanted to
pass at all risks, believing too, that the man with whom he had to do
was endowed with the virtues of his cloth, namely, patience and
Christian charity.
But Bazin, still the servant of a musketeer, when once the blood
mounted to his fat cheeks, seized a broomstick and began belaboring
Blaisois, saying:
“You have insulted the church, my friend, you have insulted the
church!”
At this moment Aramis, aroused by this unusual disturbance, cautiously
opened the door of his room; and Blaisois, looking reproachfully at the
Cerberus, drew the letter from his pocket and presented it to Aramis.
“From the Comte de la Fere,” said Aramis. “All right.” And he retired
into his room without even asking the cause of so much noise.
Blaisois returned disconsolate to the Hotel of the Grand Roi
Charlemagne and when Athos inquired if his commission was executed, he
related his adventure.
“You foolish fellow!” said Athos, laughing. “And you did not tell him
that you came from me?”
“No, sir.”
At ten o’clock Athos, with his habitual exactitude, was waiting on the
Pont du Louvre and was almost immediately joined by Lord de Winter.
They waited ten minutes and then his lordship began to fear Aramis was
not coming to join them.
“Patience,” said Athos, whose eyes were fixed in the direction of the
Rue du Bac, “patience; I see an abbé cuffing a man, then bowing to a
woman; it must be Aramis.”
It was indeed Aramis. Having run against a young shopkeeper who was
gaping at the crows and who had splashed him, Aramis with one blow of
his fist had distanced him ten paces.
At this moment one of his penitents passed, and as she was young and
pretty Aramis took off his cap to her with his most gracious smile.
A most affectionate greeting, as one can well believe took place
between him and Lord de Winter.
“Where are we going?” inquired Aramis; “are we going to fight,
perchance? I carry no sword this morning and cannot return home to
procure one.”
“No,” said Lord de Winter, “we are going to pay a visit to Her Majesty
the Queen of England.”
“Oh, very well,” replied Aramis; then bending his face down to Athos’s
ear, “what is the object of this visit?” continued he.
“Nay, I know not; some evidence required from us, perhaps.”
“May it not be about that cursed affair?” asked Aramis, “in which case
I do not greatly care to go, for it will be to pocket a lecture; and
since it is my function to give them to others I am rather averse to
receiving them myself.”
“If it were so,” answered Athos, “we should not be taken there by Lord
de Winter, for he would come in for his share; he was one of us.”
“You’re right; yes, let us go.”
On arriving at the Louvre Lord de Winter entered first; indeed, there
was but one porter there to receive them at the gate.
It was impossible in daylight for the impoverished state of the
habitation grudging charity had conceded to an unfortunate queen to
pass unnoticed by Athos, Aramis, and even the Englishman. Large rooms,
completely stripped of furniture, bare walls upon which, here and
there, shone the old gold moldings which had resisted time and neglect,
windows with broken panes (impossible to close), no carpets, neither
guards nor servants: this is what first met the eyes of Athos, to which
he, touching his companion’s elbow, directed his attention by his
glances.
“Mazarin is better lodged,” said Aramis.
“Mazarin is almost king,” answered Athos; “Madame Henrietta is almost
no longer queen.”
“If you would condescend to be clever, Athos,” observed Aramis, “I
really do think you would be wittier than poor Monsieur de Voiture.”
Athos smiled.
The queen appeared to be impatiently expecting them, for at the first
slight noise she heard in the hall leading to her room she came herself
to the door to receive these courtiers in the corridors of Misfortune.
“Enter. You are welcome, gentlemen,” she said.
The gentlemen entered and remained standing, but at a motion from the
queen they seated themselves. Athos was calm and grave, but Aramis was
furious; the sight of such royal misery exasperated him and his eyes
examined every new trace of poverty that presented itself.
“You are examining the luxury I enjoy,” said the queen, glancing sadly
around her.
“Madame,” replied Aramis, “I must ask your pardon, but I know not how
to hide my indignation at seeing how a daughter of Henry IV. is treated
at the court of France.”
“Monsieur Aramis is not an officer?” asked the queen of Lord de Winter.
“That gentleman is the Abbé d’Herblay,” replied he.
Aramis blushed. “Madame,” he said, “I am an abbé, it is true, but I am
so against my will. I never had a vocation for the bands; my cassock is
fastened by one button only, and I am always ready to become a
musketeer once more. This morning, being ignorant that I should have
the honor of seeing your majesty, I encumbered myself with this dress,
but you will find me none the less a man devoted to your majesty’s
service, in whatever way you may see fit to use me.”
“The Abbé d’Herblay,” resumed De Winter, “is one of those gallant
musketeers formerly belonging to His Majesty King Louis XIII., of whom
I have spoken to you, madame.” Then turning to Athos, he continued,
“And this gentleman is that noble Comte de la Fere, whose high
reputation is so well known to your majesty.”
“Gentlemen,” said the queen, “a few years ago I had around me ushers,
treasures, armies; and by the lifting of a finger all these were busied
in my service. To-day, look around you, and it may astonish you, that
in order to accomplish a plan which is dearer to me than life I have
only Lord de Winter, the friend of twenty years, and you, gentlemen,
whom I see for the first time and whom I know but as my countrymen.”
“It is enough,” said Athos, bowing low, “if the lives of three men can
purchase yours, madame.”
“I thank you, gentlemen. But hear me,” continued she. “I am not only
the most miserable of queens, but the most unhappy of mothers, the most
wretched of wives. My children, two of them, at least, the Duke of York
and the Princess Elizabeth, are far away from me, exposed to the blows
of the ambitious and our foes; my husband, the king, is leading in
England so wretched an existence that it is no exaggeration to aver
that he seeks death as a thing to be desired. Hold! gentlemen, here is
the letter conveyed to me by Lord de Winter. Read it.”
Obeying the queen, Athos read aloud the letter which we have already
seen, in which King Charles demanded to know whether the hospitality of
France would be accorded him.
“Well?” asked Athos, when he had closed the letter.
“Well,” said the queen, “it has been refused.”
The two friends exchanged a smile of contempt.
“And now,” said Athos, “what is to be done? I have the honor to inquire
from your majesty what you desire Monsieur d’Herblay and myself to do
in your service. We are ready.”
“Ah, sir, you have a noble heart!” exclaimed the queen, with a burst of
gratitude; whilst Lord de Winter turned to her with a glance which
said, “Did I not answer for them?”
“But you, sir?” said the queen to Aramis.
“I, madame,” replied he, “follow Monsieur de la Fere wherever he leads,
even were it on to death, without demanding wherefore; but when it
concerns your majesty’s service, then,” added he, looking at the queen
with all the grace of former days, “I precede the count.”
“Well, then, gentlemen,” said the queen, “since it is thus, and since
you are willing to devote yourselves to the service of a poor princess
whom the whole world has abandoned, this is what is required to be done
for me. The king is alone with a few gentlemen, whom he fears to lose
every day; surrounded by the Scotch, whom he distrusts, although he be
himself a Scotchman. Since Lord de Winter left him I am distracted,
sirs. I ask much, too much, perhaps, for I have no title to request it.
Go to England, join the king, be his friends, protectors, march to
battle at his side, and be near him in his house, where conspiracies,
more dangerous than the perils of war, are hatching every day. And in
exchange for the sacrifice that you make, gentlemen, I promise—not to
reward you, I believe that word would offend you—but to love you as a
sister, to prefer you, next to my husband and my children, to every
one. I swear it before Heaven.”
And the queen raised her eyes solemnly upward.
“Madame,” said Athos, “when must we set out?”
“You consent then?” exclaimed the queen, joyfully.
“Yes, madame; only it seems to me that your majesty goes too far in
engaging to load us with a friendship so far above our merit. We render
service to God, madame, in serving a prince so unfortunate, a queen so
virtuous. Madame, we are yours, body and soul.”
“Oh, sirs,” said the queen, moved even to tears, “this is the first
time for five years I have felt the least approach to joy or hope. God,
who can read my heart, all the gratitude I feel, will reward you! Save
my husband! Save the king, and although you care not for the price that
is placed upon a good action in this world, leave me the hope that we
shall meet again, when I may be able to thank you myself. In the
meantime, I remain here. Have you anything to ask of me? From this
moment I become your friend, and since you are engaged in my affairs I
ought to occupy myself in yours.”
“Madame,” replied Athos, “I have only to ask your majesty’s prayers.”
“And I,” said Aramis, “I am alone in the world and have only your
majesty to serve.”
The queen held out her hand, which they kissed, and she said in a low
tone to De Winter:
“If you need money, my lord, separate the jewels I have given you;
detach the diamonds and sell them to some Jew. You will receive for
them fifty or sixty thousand francs; spend them if necessary, but let
these gentlemen be treated as they deserve, that is to say, like
kings.”
The queen had two letters ready, one written by herself, the other by
her daughter, the Princess Henrietta. Both were addressed to King
Charles. She gave the first to Athos and the other to Aramis, so that
should they be separated by chance they might make themselves known to
the king; after which they withdrew.
At the foot of the staircase De Winter stopped.
“Not to arouse suspicions, gentlemen,” said he, “go your way and I will
go mine, and this evening at nine o’clock we will assemble again at the
Gate Saint Denis. We will travel on horseback as far as our horses can
go and afterward we can take the post. Once more, let me thank you, my
good friends, both in my own name and the queen’s.”
The three gentlemen then shook hands, Lord de Winter taking the Rue
Saint Honore, and Athos and Aramis remaining together.
“Well,” said Aramis, when they were alone, “what do you think of this
business, my dear count?”
“Bad,” replied Athos, “very bad.”
“But you received it with enthusiasm.”
“As I shall ever receive the defense of a great principle, my dear
D’Herblay. Monarchs are only strong by the assistance of the
aristocracy, but aristocracy cannot survive without the countenance of
monarchs. Let us, then, support monarchy, in order to support
ourselves.
“We shall be murdered there,” said Aramis. “I hate the English—they are
coarse, like every nation that swills beer.”
“Would it be better to remain here,” said Athos, “and take a turn in
the Bastile or the dungeon of Vincennes for having favored the escape
of Monsieur de Beaufort? I’faith, Aramis, believe me, there is little
left to regret. We avoid imprisonment and we play the part of heroes;
the choice is easy.”
“It is true; but in everything, friend, one must always return to the
same question—a stupid one, I admit, but very necessary—have you any
money?”
“Something like a hundred pistoles, that my farmer sent to me the day
before I left Bragelonne; but out of that sum I ought to leave fifty
for Raoul—a young man must live respectably. I have then about fifty
pistoles. And you?”
“As for me, I am quite sure that after turning out all my pockets and
emptying my drawers I shall not find ten louis at home. Fortunately
Lord de Winter is rich.”
“Lord de Winter is ruined for the moment; Oliver Cromwell has annexed
his income resources.”
“Now is the time when Baron Porthos would be useful.”
“Now it is that I regret D’Artagnan.”
“Let us entice them away.”
“This secret, Aramis, does not belong to us; take my advice, then, and
let no one into our confidence. And moreover, in taking such a step we
should appear to be doubtful of ourselves. Let us regret their absence
to ourselves for our own sakes, but not speak of it.”
“You are right; but what are you going to do until this evening? I have
two things to postpone.”
“And what are they?”
“First, a thrust with the coadjutor, whom I met last night at Madame de
Rambouillet’s and whom I found particular in his remarks respecting
me.”
“Oh, fie—a quarrel between priests, a duel between allies!”
“What can I do, friend? he is a bully and so am I; his cassock is a
burden to him and I imagine I have had enough of mine; in fact, there
is so much resemblance between us that I sometimes believe he is Aramis
and I am the coadjutor. This kind of life fatigues and oppresses me;
besides, he is a turbulent fellow, who will ruin our party. I am
convinced that if I gave him a box on the ear, such as I gave this
morning to the little citizen who splashed me, it would change the
appearance of things.”
“And I, my dear Aramis,” quietly replied Athos, “I think it would only
change Monsieur de Retz’s appearance. Take my advice, leave things just
as they are; besides, you are neither of you now your own masters; he
belongs to the Fronde and you to the queen of England. So, if the
second matter which you regret being unable to attend to is not more
important than the first——”
“Oh! that is of the first importance.”
“Attend to it, then, at once.”
“Unfortunately, it is a thing that I can’t perform at any time I
choose. It was arranged for the evening and no other time will serve.”
“I understand,” said Athos smiling, “midnight.”
“About that time.”
“But, my dear fellow, those are things that bear postponement and you
must put it off, especially with so good an excuse to give on your
return——”
“Yes, if I return.”
“If you do not return, how does it concern you? Be reasonable. Come,
you are no longer twenty years old.”
“To my great regret, mordieu! Ah, if I were but twenty years old!”
“Yes,” said Athos, “doubtless you would commit great follies! But now
we must part. I have one or two visits to make and a letter yet to
write. Call for me at eight o’clock or shall I wait supper for you at
seven?”
“That will do very well,” said Aramis. “I have twenty visits to make
and as many letters to write.”
They then separated. Athos went to pay a visit to Madame de Vendome,
left his name at Madame de Chevreuse’s and wrote the following letter
to D’Artagnan:
“Dear Friend,—I am about to set off with Aramis on important business.
I wished to make my adieux to you, but time does not permit. Remember
that I write to you now to repeat how much affection for you I still
cherish.
“Raoul is gone to Blois and is ignorant of my departure; watch over him
in my absence as much as you possibly can; and if by chance you receive
no news of me three months hence, tell him to open a packet which he
will find addressed to him in my bronze casket at Blois, of which I
send you now the key.
“Embrace Porthos from Aramis and myself. Adieu, perhaps farewell.”
At the hour agreed upon Aramis arrived; he was dressed as an officer
and had the old sword at his side which he had drawn so often and which
he was more than ever ready to draw.
“By-the-bye,” he said, “I think that we are decidedly wrong to depart
thus, without leaving a line for Porthos and D’Artagnan.”
“The thing is done, dear friend,” said Athos; “I foresaw that and have
embraced them both from you and myself.”
“You are a wonderful man, my dear count,” said Aramis; “you think of
everything.”
“Well, have you made up your mind to this journey?”
“Quite; and now that I reflect about it, I am glad to leave Paris at
this moment.”
“And so am I,” replied Athos; “my only regret is not having seen
D’Artagnan; but the rascal is so cunning, he might have guessed our
project.”
When supper was over Blaisois entered. “Sir,” said he, “here is
Monsieur d’Artagnan’s answer.”
“But I did not tell you there would be an answer, stupid!” said Athos.
“And I set off without waiting for one, but he called me back and gave
me this;” and he presented a little leather bag, plump and giving out a
golden jingle.
Athos opened it and began by drawing forth a little note, written in
these terms:
“My dear Count,—When one travels, and especially for three months, one
never has a superfluity of money. Now, recalling former times of mutual
distress, I send you half my purse; it is money to obtain which I made
Mazarin sweat. Don’t make a bad use of it, I entreat you.
“As to what you say about not seeing you again, I believe not a word of
it; with such a heart as yours—and such a sword—one passes through the
valley of the shadow of death a dozen times, unscathed and unalarmed.
Au revoir, not farewell.
“It is unnecessary to say that from the day I saw Raoul I loved him;
nevertheless, believe that I heartily pray that I may not become to him
a father, however much I might be proud of such a son.
“Your
“D’Artagnan.
“P.S.—Be it well understood that the fifty louis which I send are
equally for Aramis as for you—for you as Aramis.”
Athos smiled, and his fine eye was dimmed by a tear. D’Artagnan, who
had loved him so tenderly, loved him still, although a Mazarinist.
“There are the fifty louis, i’faith,” said Aramis, emptying the purse
on the table, all bearing the effigy of Louis XIII. “Well, what shall
you do with this money, count? Shall you keep it or send it back?”
“I shall keep it, Aramis, and even though I had no need of it I still
should keep it. What is offered from a generous heart should be
accepted generously. Take twenty-five of them, Aramis, and give me the
remaining twenty-five.”
“All right; I am glad to see you are of my opinion. There now, shall we
start?”
“When you like; but have you no groom?”
“No; that idiot Bazin had the folly to make himself verger, as you
know, and therefore cannot leave Notre Dame.
“Very well, take Blaisois, with whom I know not what to do, since I
already have Grimaud.”
“Willingly,” said Aramis.
At this moment Grimaud appeared at the door. “Ready,” said he, with his
usual curtness.
“Let us go, then,” said Athos.
The two friends mounted, as did their servants. At the corner of the
Quai they encountered Bazin, who was running breathlessly.
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed he, “thank Heaven I have arrived in time. Monsieur
Porthos has just been to your house and has left this for you, saying
that the letter was important and must be given to you before you
left.”
“Good,” said Aramis, taking a purse which Bazin presented to him. “What
is this?”
“Wait, your reverence, there is a letter.”
“You know I have already told you that if you ever call me anything but
chevalier I will break every bone in your body. Give me the letter.”
“How can you read?” asked Athos, “it is as dark as a cold oven.”