Twenty Years After - 43

friends with looks of insult and mortal hatred.
At last he sank. Athos had followed him with a glance in which the
deepest melancholy and pity were expressed.
“Bravo! Athos!” cried Aramis, with an emotion very rare in him.
“A capital blow you gave!” cried Porthos.
“I have a son. I wished to live,” said Athos.
“In short,” said D’Artagnan, “this has been the will of God.”
“It was not I who killed him,” said Athos in a soft, low tone, “’twas
destiny.”


Chapter LXIV.
How Mousqueton had a Narrow Escape of being eaten.

A deep silence reigned for a long time in the boat after the fearful
scene described.
The moon, which had shone for a short time, disappeared behind the
clouds; every object was again plunged in the obscurity that is so
awful in the deserts and still more so in that liquid desert, the
ocean, and nothing was heard save the whistling of the west wind
driving along the tops of the crested billows.
Porthos was the first to speak.
“I have seen,” he said, “many dreadful things, but nothing that ever
agitated me so much as what I have just witnessed. Nevertheless, even
in my present state of perturbation, I protest that I feel happy. I
have a hundred pounds’ weight less upon my chest. I breathe more
freely.” In fact, Porthos breathed so loud as to do credit to the free
play of his powerful lungs.
“For my part,” observed Aramis, “I cannot say the same as you do,
Porthos. I am still terrified to such a degree that I scarcely believe
my eyes. I look around the boat, expecting every moment to see that
poor wretch holding between his hands the poniard plunged into his
heart.”
“Oh! I feel easy,” replied Porthos. “The poniard was pointed at the
sixth rib and buried up to the hilt in his body. I do not reproach you,
Athos, for what you have done. On the contrary, when one aims a blow
that is the regulation way to strike. So now, I breathe again—I am
happy!”
“Don’t be in haste to celebrate a victory, Porthos,” interposed
D’Artagnan; “never have we incurred a greater danger than we are now
encountering. Men may subdue men—they cannot overcome the elements. We
are now on the sea, at night, without any pilot, in a frail bark;
should a blast of wind upset the boat we are lost.”
Mousqueton heaved a deep sigh.
“You are ungrateful, D’Artagnan,” said Athos; “yes, ungrateful to
Providence, to whom we owe our safety in the most miraculous manner.
Let us sail before the wind, and unless it changes we shall be drifted
either to Calais or Boulogne. Should our bark be upset we are five of
us good swimmers, able enough to turn it over again, or if not, to hold
on by it. Now we are on the very road which all the vessels between
Dover and Calais take, ’tis impossible but that we should meet with a
fisherman who will pick us up.”
“But should we not find any fisherman and should the wind shift to the
north?”
“That,” said Athos, “would be quite another thing; and we should
nevermore see land until we were upon the other side of the Atlantic.”
“Which implies that we may die of hunger,” said Aramis.
“’Tis more than possible,” answered the Comte de la Fere.
Mousqueton sighed again, more deeply than before.
“What is the matter? what ails you?” asked Porthos.
“I am cold, sir,” said Mousqueton.
“Impossible! your body is covered with a coating of fat which preserves
it from the cold air.”
“Ah! sir, ’tis this very coating of fat that makes me shiver.”
“How is that, Mousqueton?
“Alas! your honor, in the library of the Chateau of Bracieux there are
a lot of books of travels.”
“What then?”
“Amongst them the voyages of Jean Mocquet in the time of Henry IV.”
“Well?”
“In these books, your honor, ’tis told how hungry voyagers, drifting
out to sea, have a bad habit of eating each other and beginning with——”
“The fattest among them!” cried D’Artagnan, unable in spite of the
gravity of the occasion to help laughing.
“Yes, sir,” answered Mousqueton; “but permit me to say I see nothing
laughable in it. However,” he added, turning to Porthos, “I should not
regret dying, sir, were I sure that by doing so I might still be useful
to you.”
“Mouston,” replied Porthos, much affected, “should we ever see my
castle of Pierrefonds again you shall have as your own and for your
descendants the vineyard that surrounds the farm.”
“And you should call it ‘Devotion,’” added Aramis; “the vineyard of
self-sacrifice, to transmit to latest ages the recollection of your
devotion to your master.”
“Chevalier,” said D’Artagnan, laughing, “you could eat a piece of
Mouston, couldn’t you, especially after two or three days of fasting?”
“Oh, no,” replied Aramis, “I should much prefer Blaisois; we haven’t
known him so long.”
One may readily conceive that during these jokes which were intended
chiefly to divert Athos from the scene which had just taken place, the
servants, with the exception of Grimaud, were not silent. Suddenly
Mousqueton uttered a cry of delight, taking from beneath one of the
benches a bottle of wine; and on looking more closely in the same place
he discovered a dozen similar bottles, bread, and a monster junk of
salted beef.
“Oh, sir!” he cried, passing the bottle to Porthos, “we are saved—the
bark is supplied with provisions.”
This intelligence restored every one save Athos to gayety.
“Zounds!” exclaimed Porthos, “’tis astonishing how empty violent
agitation makes the stomach.”
And he drank off half a bottle at a draught and bit great mouthfuls of
the bread and meat.
“Now,” said Athos, “sleep, or try to sleep, my friends, and I will
watch.”
In a few moments, notwithstanding their wet clothes, the icy blast that
blew and the previous scene of terror, these hardy adventurers, with
their iron frames, inured to every hardship, threw themselves down,
intending to profit by the advice of Athos, who sat at the helm,
pensively wakeful, guiding the little bark the way it was to go, his
eyes fixed on the heavens, as if he sought to verify not only the road
to France, but the benign aspect of protecting Providence. After some
hours of repose the sleepers were aroused by Athos.
Dawn was shedding its pallid, placid glimmer on the purple ocean, when
at the distance of a musket shot from them was seen a dark gray mass,
above which gleamed a triangular sail; then masters and servants joined
in a fervent cry to the crew of that vessel to hear them and to save.
“A bark!” all cried together.
It was, in fact, a small craft from Dunkirk bound for Boulogne.
A quarter of an hour afterward the rowboat of this craft took them all
aboard. Grimaud tendered twenty guineas to the captain, and at nine
o’clock in the morning, having a fair wind, our Frenchmen set foot on
their native land.
“Egad! how strong one feels here!” said Porthos, almost burying his
large feet in the sands. “Zounds! I could defy a nation!”
“Be quiet, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “we are observed.”
“We are admired, i’faith,” answered Porthos.
“These people who are looking at us are only merchants,” said Athos,
“and are looking more at the cargo than at us.”
“I shall not trust to that,” said the lieutenant, “and I shall make for
the Dunes* as soon as possible.”
* Sandy hills about Dunkirk, from which it derives its name.

The party followed him and soon disappeared with him behind the
hillocks of sand unobserved. Here, after a short conference, they
proposed to separate.
“And why separate?” asked Athos.
“Because,” answered the Gascon, “we were sent, Porthos and I, by
Cardinal Mazarin to fight for Cromwell; instead of fighting for
Cromwell we have served Charles I.—not the same thing by any means. In
returning with the Comte de la Fere and Monsieur d’Herblay our crime
would be confirmed. We have circumvented Cromwell, Mordaunt, and the
sea, but we shall find a certain difficulty in circumventing Mazarin.”
“You forget,” replied Athos, “that we consider ourselves your prisoners
and not free from the engagement we entered into.”
“Truly, Athos,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “I am vexed that such a man as
you are should talk nonsense which schoolboys would be ashamed of.
Chevalier,” he continued, addressing Aramis, who, leaning proudly on
his sword, seemed to agree with his companion, “Chevalier, Porthos and
I run no risk; besides, should any ill-luck happen to two of us, will
it not be much better that the other two should be spared to assist
those who may be apprehended? Besides, who knows whether, divided, we
may not obtain a pardon—you from the queen, we from Mazarin—which, were
we all four together, would never be granted. Come, Athos and Aramis,
go to the right; Porthos, come with me to the left; these gentlemen
should file off into Normandy, whilst we, by the nearest road, reach
Paris.”
He then gave his friends minute directions as to their route.
“Ah! my dear friend,” exclaimed Athos, “how I should admire the
resources of your mind did I not stop to adore those of your heart.”
And he gave him his hand.
“Isn’t this fox a genius, Athos?” asked the Gascon. “No! he knows how
to crunch fowls, to dodge the huntsman and to find his way home by day
or by night, that’s all. Well, is all said?”
“All.”
“Then let’s count our money and divide it. Ah! hurrah! there’s the sun!
A merry morning to you, Sunshine. ’Tis a long time since I saw thee!”
“Come, come, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “do not affect to be
strong-minded; there are tears in your eyes. Let us be open with each
other and sincere.”
“What!” cried the Gascon, “do you think, Athos, we can take leave,
calmly, of two friends at a time not free from danger to you and
Aramis?”
“No,” answered Athos; “embrace me, my son.”
“Zounds!” said Porthos, sobbing, “I believe I’m crying; but how foolish
all this is!”
Then they embraced. At that moment their fraternal bond of union was
closer than ever, and when they parted, each to take the route agreed
on, they turned back to utter affectionate expressions, which the
echoes of the Dunes repeated. At last they lost sight of each other.
“Sacrebleu! D’Artagnan,” said Porthos, “I must out with it at once, for
I can’t keep to myself anything I have against you; I haven’t been able
to recognize you in this matter.”
“Why not?” said D’Artagnan, with his wise smile.
“Because if, as you say, Athos and Aramis are in real danger, this is
not the time to abandon them. For my part, I confess to you that I was
all ready to follow them and am still ready to rejoin them, in spite of
all the Mazarins in the world.”
“You would be right, Porthos, but for one thing, which may change the
current of your ideas; and that is, that it is not those gentlemen who
are in the greatest danger, it is ourselves; it is not to abandon them
that we have separated, but to avoid compromising them.”
“Really?” said Porthos, opening his eyes in astonishment.
“Yes, no doubt. If they are arrested they will only be put in the
Bastile; if we are arrested it is a matter of the Place de Greve.”
“Oh! oh!” said Porthos, “there is quite a gap between that fate and the
baronial coronet you promised me, D’Artagnan.”
“Bah! perhaps not so great as you think, Porthos; you know the proverb,
‘All roads lead to Rome.’”
“But how is it that we are incurring greater risks than Athos and
Aramis?” asked Porthos.
“Because they have but fulfilled the mission confided to them by Queen
Henrietta and we have betrayed that confided to us by Mazarin; because,
going hence as emissaries to Cromwell, we became partisans of King
Charles; because, instead of helping cut off the royal head condemned
by those fellows called Mazarin, Cromwell, Joyce, Bridge, Fairfax,
etc., we very nearly succeeded in saving it.”
“Upon my word that is true,” said Porthos; “but how can you suppose, my
dear friend, that in the midst of his great preoccupations General
Cromwell has had time to think——”
“Cromwell thinks of everything; Cromwell has time for everything; and
believe me, dear friend, we ought not to lose our time—it is precious.
We shall not be safe till we have seen Mazarin, and then——”
“The devil!” said Porthos; “what can we say to Mazarin?”
“Leave that to me—I have my plan. He laughs best who laughs last.
Cromwell is mighty, Mazarin is tricky, but I would rather have to do
with them than with the late Monsieur Mordaunt.”
“Ah!” said Porthos, “it is very pleasant to be able to say ‘the late
Monsieur Mordaunt.’”
“My faith, yes,” said D’Artagnan. “But we must be going.”
The two immediately started across country toward the road to Paris,
followed by Mousqueton, who, after being too cold all night, at the end
of a quarter of an hour found himself too warm.


Chapter LXXV.
The Return.

During the six weeks that Athos and Aramis had been absent from France,
the Parisians, finding themselves one morning without either queen or
king, were greatly annoyed at being thus deserted, and the absence of
Mazarin, a thing so long desired, did not compensate for that of the
two august fugitives.
The first feeling that pervaded Paris on hearing of the flight to Saint
Germain, was that sort of affright which seizes children when they
awake in the night and find themselves alone. A deputation was
therefore sent to the queen to entreat her to return to Paris; but she
not only declined to receive the deputies, but sent an intimation by
Chancellor Seguier, implying that if the parliament did not humble
itself before her majesty by negativing all the questions that had been
the cause of the quarrel, Paris would be besieged the very next day.
This threatening answer, unluckily for the court, produced quite a
different effect to that which was intended. It wounded the pride of
the parliament, which, supported by the citizens, replied by declaring
that Cardinal Mazarin was the cause of all the discontent; denounced
him as the enemy both of the king and the state, and ordered him to
retire from the court that same day and from France within a week
afterward; enjoining, in case of disobedience on his part, all the
subjects of the king to pursue and take him.
Mazarin being thus placed beyond the pale of the protection of the law,
preparations on both sides were commenced—by the queen, to attack
Paris, by the citizens, to defend it. The latter were occupied in
breaking up the pavement and stretching chains across the streets,
when, headed by the coadjutor, appeared the Prince de Conti (the
brother of the Prince de Condé) and the Duc de Longueville, his
brother-in-law. This unexpected band of auxiliaries arrived in Paris on
the tenth of January and the Prince of Conti was named, but not until
after a stormy discussion, generalissimo of the army of the king, out
of Paris.
As for the Duc de Beaufort, he arrived from Vendome, according to the
annals of the day, bringing with him his high bearing and his long and
beautiful hair, qualifications which gained him the sovereignty of the
marketplaces.
The Parisian army had organized with the promptness characteristic of
the bourgeois whenever they are moved by any sentiment whatever to
disguise themselves as soldiers. On the nineteenth the impromptu army
had attempted a sortie, more to assure itself and others of its actual
existence than with any more serious intention. They carried a banner,
on which could be read this strange device: “We are seeking our king.”
The next following days were occupied in trivial movements which
resulted only in the carrying off of a few herds of cattle and the
burning of two or three houses.
That was still the situation of affairs up to the early days of
February. On the first day of that month our four companions had landed
at Boulogne, and, in two parties, had set out for Paris. Toward the end
of the fourth day of the journey Athos and Aramis reached Nanterre,
which place they cautiously passed by on the outskirts, fearing that
they might encounter some troop from the queen’s army.
It was against his will that Athos took these precautions, but Aramis
had very judiciously reminded him that they had no right to be
imprudent, that they had been charged by King Charles with a supreme
and sacred mission, which, received at the foot of the scaffold, could
be accomplished only at the feet of Queen Henrietta. Upon that, Athos
yielded.
On reaching the capital Athos and Aramis found it in arms. The sentinel
at the gate refused even to let them pass, and called his sergeant.
The sergeant, with the air of importance which such people assume when
they are clad with military dignity, said:
“Who are you, gentlemen?”
“Two gentlemen.”
“And where do you come from?”
“From London.”
“And what are you going to do in Paris?”
“We are going with a mission to Her Majesty, the Queen of England.”
“Ah, every one seems to be going to see the queen of England. We have
already at the station three gentlemen whose passports are under
examination, who are on their way to her majesty. Where are your
passports?”
“We have none; we left England, ignorant of the state of politics here,
having left Paris before the departure of the king.”
“Ah!” said the sergeant, with a cunning smile, “you are Mazarinists,
who are sent as spies.”
“My dear friend,” here Athos spoke, “rest assured, if we were
Mazarinists we should come well prepared with every sort of passport.
In your situation distrust those who are well provided with every
formality.”
“Enter the guardroom,” said the sergeant; “we will lay your case before
the commandant of the post.”
The guardroom was filled with citizens and common people, some playing,
some drinking, some talking. In a corner, almost hidden from view, were
three gentlemen, who had preceded Athos and Aramis, and an officer was
examining their passports. The first impulse of these three, and of
those who last entered, was to cast an inquiring glance at each other.
The first arrivals wore long cloaks, in whose drapery they were
carefully enveloped; one of them, shorter than the rest, remained
pertinaciously in the background.
When the sergeant on entering the room announced that in all
probability he was bringing in two Mazarinists, it appeared to be the
unanimous opinion of the officers on guard that they ought not to pass.
“Be it so,” said Athos; “yet it is probable, on the contrary, that we
shall enter, because we seem to have to do with sensible people. There
seems to be only one thing to do, which is, to send our names to Her
Majesty the Queen of England, and if she engages to answer for us I
presume we shall be allowed to enter.”
On hearing these words the shortest of the other three men seemed more
attentive than ever to what was going on, wrapping his cloak around him
more carefully than before.
“Merciful goodness!” whispered Aramis to Athos, “did you see?”
“What?” asked Athos.
“The face of the shortest of those three gentlemen?”
“No.”
“He looked to me—but ’tis impossible.”
At this instant the sergeant, who had been for his orders, returned,
and pointing to the three gentlemen in cloaks, said:
“The passports are in order; let these three gentlemen pass.”
The three gentlemen bowed and hastened to take advantage of this
permission.
Aramis looked after them, and as the last of them passed close to him
he pressed the hand of Athos.
“What is the matter with you, my friend?” asked the latter.
“I have—doubtless I am dreaming; tell me, sir,” he said to the
sergeant, “do you know those three gentlemen who are just gone out?”
“Only by their passports; they are three Frondists, who are gone to
rejoin the Duc de Longueville.”
“’Tis strange,” said Aramis, almost involuntarily; “I fancied that I
recognized Mazarin himself.”
The sergeant burst into a fit of laughter.
“He!” he cried; “he venture himself amongst us, to be hung! Not so
foolish as all that.”
“Ah!” muttered Athos, “I may be mistaken, I haven’t the unerring eye of
D’Artagnan.”
“Who is speaking of Monsieur D’Artagnan?” asked an officer who appeared
at that moment upon the threshold of the room.
“What!” cried Aramis and Athos, “what! Planchet!”
“Planchet,” added Grimaud; “Planchet, with a gorget, indeed!”
“Ah, gentlemen!” cried Planchet, “so you are back again in Paris. Oh,
how happy you make us! no doubt you come to join the princes!”
“As thou seest, Planchet,” said Aramis, whilst Athos smiled on seeing
what important rank was held in the city militia by the former comrade
of Mousqueton, Bazin and Grimaud.
“And Monsieur d’Artagnan, of whom you spoke just now, Monsieur
d’Herblay; may I ask if you have any news of him?”
“We parted from him four days ago and we have reason to believe that he
has reached Paris before us.”
“No, sir; I am sure he hasn’t yet arrived. But then he may have stopped
at Saint Germain.”
“I don’t think so; we appointed to meet at La Chevrette.”
“I was there this very day.”
“And had the pretty Madeleine no news?” asked Aramis, smiling.
“No, sir, and it must be admitted that she seemed very anxious.”
“In fact,” said Aramis, “there is no time lost and we made our journey
quickly. Permit me, then, my dear Athos, without inquiring further
about our friend, to pay my respects to M. Planchet.”
“Ah, monsieur le chevalier,” said Planchet, bowing.
“Lieutenant?” asked Aramis.
“Lieutenant, with a promise of becoming captain.”
“’Tis capital; and pray, how did you acquire all these honors?”
“In the first place, gentlemen, you know that I was the means of
Monsieur de Rochefort’s escape; well, I was very near being hung by
Mazarin and that made me more popular than ever.”
“So, owing to your popularity——”
“No; thanks to something better. You know, gentlemen, that I served the
Piedmont regiment and had the honor of being a sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“Well, one day when no one could drill a mob of citizens, who began to
march, some with the right foot, others with the left, I succeeded, I
did, in making them all begin with the same foot, and I was made
lieutenant on the spot.”
“So I presume,” said Athos, “that you have a large number of the nobles
with you?”
“Certainly. There are the Prince de Conti, the Duc de Longueville, the
Duc de Beaufort, the Duc de Bouillon, the Marechal de la Mothe, the
Marquis de Sevigne, and I don’t know who, for my part.”
“And the Vicomte Raoul de Bragelonne?” inquired Athos, in a tremulous
voice. “D’Artagnan told me that he had recommended him to your care, in
parting.”
“Yes, count; nor have I lost sight of him for a single instant since.”
“Then,” said Athos in a tone of delight, “he is well? no accident has
happened to him?”
“None, sir.”
“And he lives?”
“Still at the Hotel of the Great Charlemagne.”
“And passes his time?”
“Sometimes with the queen of England, sometimes with Madame de
Chevreuse. He and the Count de Guiche are like each other’s shadows.”
“Thanks, Planchet, thanks!” cried Athos, extending his hand to the
lieutenant.
“Oh, sir!” Planchet only touched the tips of the count’s fingers.
“Well, what are you doing, count—to a former lackey?
“My friend,” said Athos, “he has given me news of Raoul.”
“And now, gentlemen,” said Planchet, who had not heard what they were
saying, “what do you intend to do?”
“Re-enter Paris, if you will let us, my good Planchet.”
“Let you, sir? Now, as ever, I am nothing but your servant.” Then
turning to his men:
“Allow these gentlemen to pass,” he said; “they are friends of the Duc
de Beaufort.”
“Long live the Duc de Beaufort!” cried the sentinels.
The sergeant drew near to Planchet.
“What! without passports?” he murmured.
“Without passports,” said Planchet.
“Take notice, captain,” he continued, giving Planchet his expected
title, “take notice that one of the three men who just now went out
from here told me privately to distrust these gentlemen.”
“And I,” said Planchet, with dignity, “I know them and I answer for
them.”
As he said this, he pressed Grimaud’s hand, who seemed honored by the
distinction.
“Farewell till we meet again,” said Aramis, as they took leave of
Planchet; “if anything happens to us we shall blame you for it.”
“Sir,” said Planchet, “I am in all things at your service.”
“That fellow is no fool,” said Aramis, as he got on his horse.
“How should he be?” replied Athos, whilst mounting also, “seeing he was
used so long to brush your hats.”


Chapter LXXVI.
The Ambassadors.

The two friends rode rapidly down the declivity of the Faubourg, but on
arriving at the bottom were surprised to find that the streets of Paris
had become rivers, and the open places lakes; after the great rains
which fell in January the Seine had overflowed its banks and the river
inundated half the capital. The two gentlemen were obliged, therefore,
to get off their horses and take a boat; and in that strange manner
they approached the Louvre.
Night had closed in, and Paris, seen thus, by the light of lanterns
flickering on the pools of water, crowded with ferry-boats of every
kind, including those that glittered with the armed patrols, with the
watchword, passing from post to post—Paris presented such an aspect as
to strongly seize the senses of Aramis, a man most susceptible to
warlike impressions.
They reached the queen’s apartments, but were compelled to stop in the
ante-chamber, since her majesty was at that moment giving audience to
gentlemen bringing her news from England.
“We, too,” said Athos, to the footman who had given him that answer,
“not only bring news from England, but have just come from there.”
“What? then, are your names, gentlemen?”
“The Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier d’Herblay,” said Aramis.
“Ah! in that case, gentlemen,” said the footman, on hearing the names
which the queen had so often pronounced with hope, “in that case it is
another thing, and I think her majesty will pardon me for not keeping
you here a moment. Please follow me,” and he went on before, followed
by Athos and Aramis.
On arriving at the door of the room where the queen was receiving he
made a sign for them to wait and opening the door:
“Madame,” he said, “I hope your majesty will forgive me for disobeying
your orders, when you learn that the gentlemen I have come to announce
are the Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier d’Herblay.”
On hearing those two names the queen uttered a cry of joy, which the
two gentlemen heard.
“Poor queen!” murmured Athos.
“Oh, let them come in! let them come in,” cried the young princess,
bounding to the door.
The poor child was constant in her attendance on her mother and sought
by her filial attentions to make her forget the absence of her two sons
and her other daughter.
“Come in, gentlemen,” repeated the princess, opening the door herself.
The queen was seated on a fauteuil and before her were standing two or
three gentlemen, and among them the Duc de Chatillon, the brother of
the nobleman killed eight or nine years previously in a duel on account
of Madame de Longueville, on the Place Royale. All these gentlemen had
been noticed by Athos and Aramis in the guardhouse, and when the two
friends were announced they started and exchanged some words in a low
tone. “Well, sirs!” cried the queen, on perceiving the two friends,
“you have come, faithful friends! But the royal couriers have been more
expeditious than you, and here are Monsieur de Flamarens and Monsieur
de Chatillon, who bring me from Her Majesty the Queen Anne of Austria,
the very latest intelligence.”