Twenty Years After - 51

Bazin felt some one pulling his sleeve. He lowered to earth his eyes,
beatifically raised to Heaven, and recognized Friquet.
“Well, you rascal, what is it? How do you dare to disturb me in the
exercise of my functions?” asked the beadle.
“Monsieur Bazin,” said Friquet, “Monsieur Maillard—you know who he is,
he gives holy water at Saint Eustache——”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, he received in the scrimmage a sword stroke on the head. That
great giant who was there gave it to him.”
“In that case,” said Bazin, “he must be pretty sick.”
“So sick that he is dying, and he wants to confess to the coadjutor,
who, they say, has power to remit great sins.”
“And does he imagine that the coadjutor will put himself out for him?”
“To be sure; the coadjutor has promised.”
“Who told you that?”
“Monsieur Maillard himself.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“Certainly; I was there when he fell.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was shouting, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ ‘Death to the cardinal!’ ‘The
Italian to the gallows!’ Isn’t that what you would have me shout?”
“Be quiet, you rascal!” said Bazin, looking uneasily around.
“So that he told me, that poor Monsieur Maillard, ‘Go find the
coadjutor, Friquet, and if you bring him to me you shall be my heir.’
Say, then, Father Bazin—the heir of Monsieur Maillard, the giver of
holy water at Saint Eustache! Hey! I shall have nothing to do but to
fold my arms! All the same, I should like to do him that service—what
do you say to it?”
“I will tell the coadjutor,” said Bazin.
In fact, he slowly and respectfully approached the prelate and spoke to
him privately a few words, to which the latter responded by an
affirmative sign. He then returned with the same slow step and said:
“Go and tell the dying man that he must be patient. Monseigneur will be
with him in an hour.”
“Good!” said Friquet, “my fortune is made.”
“By the way,” said Bazin, “where was he carried?”
“To the tower Saint Jacques la Boucherie;” and delighted with the
success of his embassy, Friquet started off at the top of his speed.
When the Te Deum was over, the coadjutor, without stopping to change
his priestly dress, took his way toward that old tower which he knew so
well. He arrived in time. Though sinking from moment to moment, the
wounded man was not yet dead. The door was opened to the coadjutor of
the room in which the mendicant was suffering.
A moment later Friquet went out, carrying in his hand a large leather
bag; he opened it as soon as he was outside the chamber and to his
great astonishment found it full of gold. The mendicant had kept his
word and made Friquet his heir.
“Ah! Mother Nanette!” cried Friquet, suffocating; “ah! Mother Nanette!”
He could say no more; but though he hadn’t strength to speak he had
enough for action. He rushed headlong to the street, and like the Greek
from Marathon who fell in the square at Athens, with his laurel in his
hand, Friquet reached Councillor Broussel’s threshold, and then fell
exhausted, scattering on the floor the louis disgorged by his leather
bag.
Mother Nanette began by picking up the louis; then she picked up
Friquet.
In the meantime the cortege returned to the Palais Royal.
“That Monsieur d’Artagnan is a very brave man, mother,” said the young
king.
“Yes, my son; and he rendered very important services to your father.
Treat him kindly, therefore, in the future.”
“Captain,” said the young king to D’Artagnan, on descending from the
carriage, “the queen has charged me to invite you to dinner to-day—you
and your friend the Baron du Vallon.”
That was a great honor for D’Artagnan and for Porthos. Porthos was
delighted; and yet during the entire repast he seemed to be
preoccupied.
“What was the matter with you, baron?” D’Artagnan said to him as they
descended the staircase of the Palais Royal. “You seemed at dinner to
be anxious about something.”
“I was trying,” said Porthos, “to recall where I had seen that
mendicant whom I must have killed.”
“And you couldn’t remember?”
“No.”
“Well, search, my friend, search; and when you have found, you will
tell me, will you not?”
“Pardieu!” said Porthos.


Chapter XC.
Conclusion.

On going home, the two friends found a letter from Athos, who desired
them to meet him at the Grand Charlemagne on the following day.
The friends went to bed early, but neither of them slept. When we
arrive at the summit of our wishes, success has usually the power to
drive away sleep on the first night after the fulfilment of long
cherished hopes.
The next day at the appointed hour they went to see Athos and found him
and Aramis in traveling costume.
“What!” cried Porthos, “are we all going away, then? I also have made
my preparations this morning.”
“Oh, heavens! yes,” said Aramis. “There’s nothing to do in Paris now
there’s no Fronde. The Duchess de Longueville has invited me to pass a
few days in Normandy, and has deputed me, while her son is being
baptized, to go and prepare her residence at Rouen; after which, if
nothing new occurs, I shall go and bury myself in my convent at
Noisy-le-Sec.”
“And I,” said Athos, “am returning to Bragelonne. You know, dear
D’Artagnan, I am nothing more than a good honest country gentleman.
Raoul has no fortune other than I possess, poor child! and I must take
care of it for him, since I only lend him my name.”
“And Raoul—what shall you do with him?”
“I leave him with you, my friend. War has broken out in Flanders. You
shall take him with you there. I am afraid that remaining at Blois
would be dangerous to his youthful mind. Take him and teach him to be
as brave and loyal as you are yourself.”
“Then,” replied D’Artagnan, “though I shall not have you, Athos, at all
events I shall have that dear fair-haired head by me; and though he’s
but a boy, yet, since your soul lives again in him, dear Athos, I shall
always fancy that you are near me, sustaining and encouraging me.”
The four friends embraced with tears in their eyes.
Then they departed, without knowing whether they would ever see each
other again.
D’Artagnan returned to the Rue Tiquetonne with Porthos, still possessed
by the wish to find out who the man was that he had killed. On arriving
at the Hotel de la Chevrette they found the baron’s equipage all ready
and Mousqueton on his saddle.
“Come, D’Artagnan,” said Porthos, “bid adieu to your sword and go with
me to Pierrefonds, to Bracieux, or to Du Vallon. We will grow old
together and talk of our companions.”
“No!” replied D’Artagnan, “deuce take it, the campaign is going to
begin; I wish to be there, I expect to get something by it.”
“What do you expect to get?”
“Why, I expect to be made Marechal of France!”
“Ha! ha!” cried Porthos, who was not completely taken in by
D’Artagnan’s Gasconades.
“Come my brother, go with me,” added D’Artagnan, “and I will see that
you are made a duke!”
“No,” answered Porthos, “Mouston has no desire to fight; besides, they
have erected a triumphal arch for me to enter my barony, which will
kill my neighbors with envy.”
“To that I can say nothing,” returned D’Artagnan, who knew the vanity
of the new baron. “Then, here’s to our next merry meeting!”
“Adieu, dear captain,” said Porthos, “I shall always be happy to
welcome you to my barony.”
“Yes, yes, when the campaign is over,” replied the Gascon.
“His honor’s equipage is waiting,” said Mousqueton.
The two friends, after a cordial pressure of the hands, separated.
D’Artagnan was standing at the door looking after Porthos with a
mournful gaze, when the baron, after walking scarcely more than twenty
paces, returned—stood still—struck his forehead with his finger and
exclaimed:
“I recollect!”
“What?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“Who the beggar was that I killed.”
“Ah! indeed! and who was he?”
“’Twas that low fellow, Bonacieux.”
And Porthos, enchanted at having relieved his mind, rejoined Mousqueton
and they disappeared around an angle of the street. D’Artagnan stood
for an instant, mute, pensive and motionless; then, as he went in, he
saw the fair Madeleine, his hostess, standing on the threshold.
“Madeleine,” said the Gascon, “give me your apartment on the first
floor; now that I am a captain in the royal musketeers I must make an
appearance; nevertheless, reserve my old room on the fifth story for
me; one never knows what may happen.”