Twenty Years After - 25

“Wait,” said Bazin, striking a flint, and setting afire a twisted
wax-light, with which he started the church candles. Thus illumined,
Aramis read the following epistle:
“My dear D’Herblay,—I learned from D’Artagnan who has embraced me on
the part of the Comte de la Fere and yourself, that you are setting out
on a journey which may perhaps last two or three months; as I know that
you do not like to ask money of your friends I offer you some of my own
accord. Here are two hundred pistoles, which you can dispose of as you
wish and return to me when opportunity occurs. Do not fear that you put
me to inconvenience; if I want money I can send for some to any of my
chateaux; at Bracieux alone, I have twenty thousand francs in gold. So,
if I do not send you more it is because I fear you would not accept a
larger sum.
“I address you, because you know, that although I esteem him from my
heart I am a little awed by the Comte de la Fere; but it is understood
that what I offer you I offer him at the same time.
“I am, as I trust you do not doubt, your devoted
“Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.”
“Well,” said Aramis, “what do you say to that?”
“I say, my dear D’Herblay, that it is almost sacrilege to distrust
Providence when one has such friends, and therefore we will divide the
pistoles from Porthos, as we divided the louis sent by D’Artagnan.”
The division being made by the light of Bazin’s taper, the two friends
continued their road and a quarter of an hour later they had joined De
Winter at the Porte Saint Denis.


Chapter XLIII.
In which it is proved that first Impulses are oftentimes the best.

The three gentlemen took the road to Picardy, a road so well known to
them and which recalled to Athos and Aramis some of the most
picturesque adventures of their youth.
“If Mousqueton were with us,” observed Athos, on reaching the spot
where they had had a dispute with the paviers, “how he would tremble at
passing this! Do you remember, Aramis, that it was here he received
that famous bullet wound?”
“By my faith, ’twould be excusable in him to tremble,” replied Aramis,
“for even I feel a shudder at the recollection; hold, just above that
tree is the little spot where I thought I was killed.”
It was soon time for Grimaud to recall the past. Arriving before the
inn at which his master and himself had made such an enormous repast,
he approached Athos and said, showing him the airhole of the cellar:
“Sausages!”
Athos began to laugh, for this juvenile escapade of his appeared to be
as amusing as if some one had related it of another person.
At last, after traveling two days and a night, they arrived at Boulogne
toward the evening, favored by magnificent weather. Boulogne was a
strong position, then almost a deserted town, built entirely on the
heights; what is now called the lower town did not then exist.
“Gentlemen,” said De Winter, on reaching the gate of the town, “let us
do here as at Paris—let us separate to avoid suspicion. I know an inn,
little frequented, but of which the host is entirely devoted to me. I
will go there, where I expect to find letters, and you go to the first
tavern in the town, to L’Epee du Grand Henri for instance, refresh
yourselves, and in two hours be upon the jetty; our boat is waiting for
us there.”
The matter being thus decided, the two friends found, about two hundred
paces further, the tavern indicated. Their horses were fed, but not
unsaddled; the grooms supped, for it was already late, and their two
masters, impatient to return, appointed a place of meeting with them on
the jetty and desired them on no account to exchange a word with any
one. It is needless to say that this caution concerned Blaisois
alone—long enough since it had been a useless one to Grimaud.
Athos and Aramis walked down toward the port. From their dress, covered
with dust, and from a certain easy manner by means of which a man
accustomed to travel is always recognizable, the two friends excited
the attention of a few promenaders. There was more especially one upon
whom their arrival had produced a decided impression. This man, whom
they had noticed from the first for the same reason they had themselves
been remarked by others, was walking in a listless way up and down the
jetty. From the moment he perceived them he did not cease to look at
them and seemed to burn with the wish to speak to them.
On reaching the jetty Athos and Aramis stopped to look at a little boat
made fast to a pile and ready rigged as if waiting to start.
“That is doubtless our boat,” said Athos.
“Yes,” replied Aramis, “and the sloop out there making ready to sail
must be that which is to take us to our destination; now,” continued
he, “if only De Winter does not keep us waiting. It is not at all
amusing here; there is not a single woman passing.”
“Hush!” said Athos, “we are overheard.”
In truth, the walker, who, during the observations of the two friends,
had passed and repassed behind them several times, stopped at the name
of De Winter; but as his face betrayed no emotion at mention of this
name, it might have been by chance he stood so still.
“Gentlemen,” said the man, who was young and pale, bowing with ease and
courtesy, “pardon my curiosity, but I see you come from Paris, or at
least that you are strangers at Boulogne.”
“We come from Paris, yes,” replied Athos, with the same courtesy; “what
is there we can do for you?”
“Sir,” said the young man, “will you be so good as to tell me if it be
true that Cardinal Mazarin is no longer minister?”
“That is a strange question,” said Aramis.
“He is and he is not,” replied Athos; “that is to say, he is dismissed
by one-half of France, but by intrigues and promises he makes the other
half sustain him; you will perceive that this may last a long time.”
“However, sir,” said the stranger, “he has neither fled nor is in
prison?”
“No, sir, not at this moment at least.”
“Sirs, accept my thanks for your politeness,” said the young man,
retreating.
“What do you think of that interrogator?” asked Aramis.
“I think he is either a dull provincial person or a spy in search of
information.”
“And you replied to him with that notion?”
“Nothing warranted me to answer him otherwise; he was polite to me and
I was so to him.”
“But if he be a spy——”
“What do you think a spy would be about here? We are not living in the
time of Cardinal Richelieu, who would have closed the ports on bare
suspicion.”
“It matters not; you were wrong to reply to him as you did,” continued
Aramis, following with his eyes the young man, now vanishing behind the
cliffs.
“And you,” said Athos, “you forget that you committed a very different
kind of imprudence in pronouncing Lord de Winter’s name. Did you not
see that at that name the young man stopped?”
“More reason, then, when he spoke to you, for sending him about his
business.”
“A quarrel?” asked Athos.
“And since when have you become afraid of a quarrel?”
“I am always afraid of a quarrel when I am expected at any place and
when such a quarrel might possibly prevent my reaching it. Besides, let
me own something to you. I am anxious to see that young man nearer.”
“And wherefore?”
“Aramis, you will certainly laugh at me, you will say that I am always
repeating the same thing, you will call me the most timorous of
visionaries; but to whom do you see a resemblance in that young man?”
“In beauty or on the contrary?” asked Aramis, laughing.
“In ugliness, in so far as a man can resemble a woman.”
“Ah! Egad!” cried Aramis, “you set me thinking. No, in truth you are no
visionary, my dear friend, and now I think of it—you—yes, i’faith,
you’re right—those delicate, yet firm-set lips, those eyes which seem
always at the command of the intellect and never of the heart! Yes, it
is one of Milady’s bastards!”
“You laugh Aramis.”
“From habit, that is all. I swear to you, I like no better than
yourself to meet that viper in my path.”
“Ah! here is De Winter coming,” said Athos.
“Good! one thing now is only awanting and that is, that our grooms
should not keep us waiting.”
“No,” said Athos. “I see them about twenty paces behind my lord. I
recognize Grimaud by his long legs and his determined slouch. Tony
carries our muskets.”
“Then we set sail to-night?” asked Aramis, glancing toward the west,
where the sun had left a single golden cloud, which, dipping into the
ocean, appeared by degrees to be extinguished.
“Probably,” said Athos.
“Diable!” resumed Aramis, “I have little fancy for the sea by day,
still less at night; the sounds of wind and wave, the frightful
movements of the vessel; I confess I prefer the convent of Noisy.”
Athos smiled sadly, for it was evident that he was thinking of other
things as he listened to his friend and moved toward De Winter.
“What ails our friend?” said Aramis, “he resembles one of Dante’s
damned, whose neck Apollyon has dislocated and who are ever looking at
their heels. What the devil makes him glower thus behind him?”
When De Winter perceived them, in his turn he advanced toward them with
surprising rapidity.
“What is the matter, my lord?” said Athos, “and what puts you out of
breath thus?”
“Nothing,” replied De Winter; “nothing; and yet in passing the heights
it seemed to me——” and he again turned round.
Athos glanced at Aramis.
“But let us go,” continued De Winter; “let us be off; the boat must be
waiting for us and there is our sloop at anchor—do you see it there? I
wish I were on board already,” and he looked back again.
“He has seen him,” said Athos, in a low tone, to Aramis.
They had reached the ladder which led to the boat. De Winter made the
grooms who carried the arms and the porters with the luggage descend
first and was about to follow them.
At this moment Athos perceived a man walking on the seashore parallel
to the jetty, and hastening his steps, as if to reach the other side of
the port, scarcely twenty steps from the place of embarking. He fancied
in the darkness that he recognized the young man who had questioned
him. Athos now descended the ladder in his turn, without losing sight
of the young man. The latter, to make a short cut, had appeared on a
sluice.
“He certainly bodes us no good,” said Athos; “but let us embark; once
out at sea, let him come.”
And Athos sprang into the boat, which was immediately pushed off and
which soon sped seawards under the efforts of four stalwart rowers.
But the young man had begun to follow, or rather to advance before the
boat. She was obliged to pass between the point of the jetty,
surmounted by a beacon just lighted, and a rock which jutted out. They
saw him in the distance climbing the rock in order to look down upon
the boat as it passed.
“Ay, but,” said Aramis, “that young fellow is decidedly a spy.”
“Which is the young man?” asked De Winter, turning around.
“He who followed us and spoke to us awaits us there; behold!”
De Winter turned and followed the direction of Aramis’s finger. The
beacon bathed with light the little strait through which they were
about to pass and the rock where the young man stood with bare head and
crossed arms.
“It is he!” exclaimed De Winter, seizing the arm of Athos; “it is he! I
thought I recognized him and I was not mistaken.”
“Whom do you mean?” asked Aramis.
“Milady’s son,” replied Athos.
“The monk!” exclaimed Grimaud.
The young man heard these words and bent so forward over the rock that
one might have supposed he was about to precipitate himself from it.
“Yes, it is I, my uncle—I, the son of Milady—I, the monk—I, the
secretary and friend of Cromwell—I know you now, both you and your
companions.”
In that boat sat three men, unquestionably brave, whose courage no man
would have dared dispute; nevertheless, at that voice, that accent and
those gestures, they felt a chill access of terror cramp their veins.
As for Grimaud, his hair stood on end and drops of sweat ran down his
brow.
“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, “that is the nephew, the monk, and the son of
Milady, as he says himself.”
“Alas, yes,” murmured De Winter.
“Then wait,” said Aramis; and with the terrible coolness which on
important occasions he showed, he took one of the muskets from Tony,
shouldered and aimed it at the young man, who stood, like the accusing
angel, upon the rock.
“Fire!” cried Grimaud, unconsciously.
Athos threw himself on the muzzle of the gun and arrested the shot
which was about to be fired.
“The devil take you,” said Aramis. “I had him so well at the point of
my gun I should have sent a ball into his breast.”
“It is enough to have killed the mother,” said Athos, hoarsely.
“The mother was a wretch, who struck at us all and at those dear to
us.”
“Yes, but the son has done us no harm.”
Grimaud, who had risen to watch the effect of the shot, fell back
hopeless, wringing his hands.
The young man burst into a laugh.
“Ah, it is certainly you!” he cried. “I know you even better now.”
His mocking laugh and threatening words passed over their heads,
carried by the breeze, until lost in the depths of the horizon. Aramis
shuddered.
“Be calm,” exclaimed Athos, “for Heaven’s sake! have we ceased to be
men?”
“No,” said Aramis, “but that fellow is a fiend; and ask the uncle
whether I was wrong to rid him of his dear nephew.”
De Winter only replied by a groan.
“It was all up with him,” continued Aramis; “ah I much fear that with
all your wisdom such mercy yet will prove supernal folly.”
Athos took Lord de Winter’s hand and tried to turn the conversation.
“When shall we land in England?” he asked; but De Winter seemed not to
hear his words and made no reply.
“Hold, Athos,” said Aramis, “perhaps there is yet time. See if he is
still in the same place.”
Athos turned around with an effort; the sight of the young man was
evidently painful to him, and there he still was, in fact, on the rock,
the beacon shedding around him, as it were, a doubtful aureole.
“Decidedly, Aramis,” said Athos, “I think I was wrong not to let you
fire.”
“Hold your tongue,” replied Aramis; “you would make me weep, if such a
thing were possible.”
At this moment they were hailed by a voice from the sloop and a few
seconds later men, servants and baggage were aboard. The captain was
only waiting for his passengers; hardly had they put foot on deck ere
her head was turned towards Hastings, where they were to disembark. At
this instant the three friends turned, in spite of themselves, a last
look on the rock, upon the menacing figure which pursued them and now
stood out with a distinctness still. Then a voice reached them once
more, sending this threat: “To our next meeting, sirs, in England.”


Chapter XLIV.
Te Deum for the Victory of Lens.

The bustle which had been observed by Henrietta Maria and for which she
had vainly sought to discover a reason, was occasioned by the battle of
Lens, announced by the prince’s messenger, the Duc de Chatillon, who
had taken such a noble part in the engagement; he was, besides, charged
to hang five and twenty flags, taken from the Lorraine party, as well
as from the Spaniards, upon the arches of Notre Dame.
Such news was decisive; it destroyed, in favor of the court, the
struggle commenced with parliament. The motive given for all the taxes
summarily imposed and to which the parliament had made opposition, was
the necessity of sustaining the honor of France and the uncertain hope
of beating the enemy. Now, since the affair of Nordlingen, they had
experienced nothing but reverses; the parliament had a plea for calling
Mazarin to account for imaginary victories, always promised, ever
deferred; but this time there really had been fighting, a triumph and a
complete one. And this all knew so well that it was a double victory
for the court, a victory at home and abroad; so that even when the
young king learned the news he exclaimed, “Ah, gentlemen of the
parliament, we shall see what you will say now!” Upon which the queen
had pressed the royal child to her heart, whose haughty and unruly
sentiments were in such harmony with her own. A council was called on
the same evening, but nothing transpired of what had been decided on.
It was only known that on the following Sunday a Te Deum would be sung
at Notre Dame in honor of the victory of Lens.
The following Sunday, then, the Parisians arose with joy; at that
period a Te Deum was a grand affair; this kind of ceremony had not then
been abused and it produced a great effect. The shops were deserted,
houses closed; every one wished to see the young king with his mother,
and the famous Cardinal Mazarin whom they hated so much that no one
wished to be deprived of his presence. Moreover, great liberty
prevailed throughout the immense crowd; every opinion was openly
expressed and chorused, so to speak, of coming insurrection, as the
thousand bells of all the Paris churches rang out the Te Deum. The
police belonging to the city being formed by the city itself, nothing
threatening presented itself to disturb this concert of universal
hatred or freeze the frequent scoffs of slanderous lips.
Nevertheless, at eight o’clock in the morning the regiment of the
queen’s guards, commanded by Guitant, under whom was his nephew
Comminges, marched publicly, preceded by drums and trumpets, filing off
from the Palais Royal as far as Notre Dame, a manoeuvre which the
Parisians witnessed tranquilly, delighted as they were with military
music and brilliant uniforms.
Friquet had put on his Sunday clothes, under the pretext of having a
swollen face which he had managed to simulate by introducing a handful
of cherry kernels into one side of his mouth, and had procured a whole
holiday from Bazin. On leaving Bazin, Friquet started off to the Palais
Royal, where he arrived at the moment of the turning out of the
regiment of guards; and as he had only gone there for the enjoyment of
seeing it and hearing the music, he took his place at their head,
beating the drum on two pieces of slate and passing from that exercise
to that of the trumpet, which he counterfeited quite naturally with his
mouth in a manner which had more than once called forth the praises of
amateurs of imitative harmony.
This amusement lasted from the Barriere des Sergens to the place of
Notre Dame, and Friquet found in it very real enjoyment; but when at
last the regiment separated, penetrated the heart of the city and
placed itself at the extremity of the Rue Saint Christophe, near the
Rue Cocatrix, in which Broussel lived, then Friquet remembered that he
had not had breakfast; and after thinking in which direction he had
better turn his steps in order to accomplish this important act of the
day, he reflected deeply and decided that Councillor Broussel should
bear the cost of this repast.
In consequence he took to his heels, arrived breathlessly at the
councillor’s door, and knocked violently.
His mother, the councillor’s old servant, opened it.
“What doest thou here, good-for-nothing?” she said, “and why art thou
not at Notre Dame?”
“I have been there, mother,” said Friquet, “but I saw things happen of
which Master Broussel ought to be warned, and so with Monsieur Bazin’s
permission—you know, mother, Monsieur Bazin, the verger—I came to speak
to Monsieur Broussel.”
“And what hast thou to say, boy, to Monsieur Broussel?”
“I wish to tell him,” replied Friquet, screaming with all his might,
“that there is a whole regiment of guards coming this way. And as I
hear everywhere that at the court they are ill-disposed to him, I wish
to warn him, that he may be on his guard.”
Broussel heard the scream of the young oddity, and, enchanted with this
excess of zeal, came down to the first floor, for he was, in truth,
working in his room on the second.
“Well,” said he, “friend, what matters the regiment of guards to us,
and art thou not mad to make such a disturbance? Knowest thou not that
it is the custom of these soldiers to act thus and that it is usual for
the regiment to form themselves into two solid walls when the king goes
by?”
Friquet counterfeited surprise, and twisting his new cap around in his
fingers, said:
“It is not astonishing for you to know it, Monsieur Broussel, who knows
everything; but as for me, by holy truth, I did not know it and I
thought I would give you good advice; you must not be angry with me for
that, Monsieur Broussel.”
“On the contrary, my boy, on the contrary, I am pleased with your zeal.
Dame Nanette, look for those apricots which Madame de Longueville sent
to us yesterday from Noisy and give half a dozen of them to your son,
with a crust of new bread.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you, Monsieur Broussel,” said Friquet; “I am
so fond of apricots!”
Broussel then proceeded to his wife’s room and asked for breakfast; it
was nine o’clock. The councillor placed himself at the window; the
street was completely deserted, but in the distance was heard, like the
noise of the tide rushing in, the deep hum of the populous waves
increasing now around Notre Dame.
This noise redoubled when D’Artagnan, with a company of musketeers,
placed himself at the gates of Notre Dame to secure the service of the
church. He had instructed Porthos to profit by this opportunity to see
the ceremony; and Porthos, in full dress, mounted his finest horse,
taking the part of supernumerary musketeer, as D’Artagnan had so often
done formerly. The sergeant of this company, a veteran of the Spanish
wars, had recognized Porthos, his old companion, and very soon all
those who served under him were placed in possession of startling facts
concerning the honor of the ancient musketeers of Tréville. Porthos had
not only been well received by the company, but he was moreover looked
on with great admiration.
At ten o’clock the guns of the Louvre announced the departure of the
king, and then a movement, similar to that of trees in a stormy wind
that bend and writhe with agitated tops, ran though the multitude,
which was compressed behind the immovable muskets of the guard. At last
the king appeared with the queen in a gilded chariot. Ten other
carriages followed, containing the ladies of honor, the officers of the
royal household, and the court.
“God save the king!” was the cry in every direction; the young monarch
gravely put his head out of the window, looked sufficiently grateful
and even bowed; at which the cries of the multitude were renewed.
Just as the court was settling down in the cathedral, a carriage,
bearing the arms of Comminges, quitted the line of the court carriages
and proceeded slowly to the end of the Rue Saint Christophe, now
entirely deserted. When it arrived there, four guards and a police
officer, who accompanied it, mounted into the heavy machine and closed
the shutters; then through an opening cautiously made, the policeman
began to watch the length of the Rue Cocatrix, as if he was waiting for
some one.
All the world was occupied with the ceremony, so that neither the
chariot nor the precautions taken by those who were within it had been
observed. Friquet, whose eye, ever on the alert, could alone have
discovered them, had gone to devour his apricots upon the entablature
of a house in the square of Notre Dame. Thence he saw the king, the
queen and Monsieur Mazarin, and heard the mass as well as if he had
been on duty.
Toward the end of the service, the queen, seeing Comminges standing
near her, waiting for a confirmation of the order she had given him
before quitting the Louvre, said in a whisper:
“Go, Comminges, and may God aid you!”
Comminges immediately left the church and entered the Rue Saint
Christophe. Friquet, seeing this fine officer thus walk away, followed
by two guards, amused himself by pursuing them and did this so much the
more gladly as the ceremony ended at that instant and the king
remounted his carriage.
Hardly had the police officer observed Comminges at the end of the Rue
Cocatrix when he said one word to the coachman, who at once put his
vehicle into motion and drove up before Broussel’s door. Comminges
knocked at the door at the same moment, and Friquet was waiting behind
Comminges until the door should be opened.
“What dost thou there, rascal?” asked Comminges.
“I want to go into Master Broussel’s house, captain,” replied Friquet,
in that wheedling way the “gamins” of Paris know so well how to assume
when necessary.
“And on what floor does he live?” asked Comminges.
“In the whole house,” said Friquet; “the house belongs to him; he
occupies the second floor when he works and descends to the first to
take his meals; he must be at dinner now; it is noon.”
“Good,” said Comminges.
At this moment the door was opened, and having questioned the servant
the officer learned that Master Broussel was at home and at dinner.
Broussel was seated at the table with his family, having his wife
opposite to him, his two daughters by his side, and his son, Louvieres,
whom we have already seen when the accident happened to the
councillor—an accident from which he had quite recovered—at the bottom
of the table. The worthy man, restored to perfect health, was tasting
the fine fruit which Madame de Longueville had sent to him.
At sight of the officer Broussel was somewhat moved, but seeing him bow
politely he rose and bowed also. Still, in spite of this reciprocal
politeness, the countenances of the women betrayed a certain amount of
uneasiness; Louvieres became very pale and waited impatiently for the
officer to explain himself.
“Sir,” said Comminges, “I am the bearer of an order from the king.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Broussel, “what is this order?” And he held
out his hand.
“I am commissioned to seize your person, sir,” said Comminges, in the
same tone and with the same politeness; “and if you will believe me you
had better spare yourself the trouble of reading that long letter and
follow me.”
A thunderbolt falling in the midst of these good people, so peacefully
assembled there, would not have produced a more appalling effect. It
was a horrible thing at that period to be imprisoned by the enmity of
the king. Louvieres sprang forward to snatch his sword, which stood
against a chair in a corner of the room; but a glance from the worthy
Broussel, who in the midst of it all did not lose his presence of mind,
checked this foolhardy action of despair. Madame Broussel, separated by
the width of the table from her husband, burst into tears, and the
young girls clung to their father’s arms.
“Come, sir,” said Comminges, “make haste; you must obey the king.”
“Sir,” said Broussel, “I am in bad health and cannot give myself up a
prisoner in this state; I must have time.”
“It is impossible,” said Comminges; “the order is strict and must be
put into execution this instant.”
“Impossible!” said Louvieres; “sir, beware of driving us to despair.”
“Impossible!” cried a shrill voice from the end of the room.
Comminges turned and saw Dame Nanette, her eyes flashing with anger and
a broom in her hand.
“My good Nanette, be quiet, I beseech you,” said Broussel.
“Me! keep quiet while my master is being arrested! he, the support, the
liberator, the father of the people! Ah! well, yes; you have to know me
yet. Are you going?” added she to Comminges.
The latter smiled.
“Come, sir,” said he, addressing Broussel, “silence that woman and
follow me.”
“Silence me! me! me!” said Nanette. “Ah! yet one wants some one besides
you for that, my fine king’s cockatoo! You shall see.” And Dame Nanette
sprang to the window, threw it open, and in such a piercing voice that