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Title: The Vicomte de Bragelonne

Author: Alexandre Dumas
Auguste Maquet

Release date: April 1, 2001 [eBook #2609]
Most recently updated: June 28, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2609

Credits: John Bursey and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VICOMTE
DE BRAGELONNE ***

T h e Vi c o m t e d e B r a g e l o n n e

By Alexandre Dumas, Père

This Begins the Final Volume of the D’Artagnan Series

CONTENTS

Original Transcriber’s Note:
Chapter I. The Letter.
Chapter II. The Messenger.
Chapter III. The Interview.
Chapter IV. Father and Son.
Chapter V. In which Something will be said of Cropoli.
Chapter VI. The Unknown.
Chapter VII. Parry.
Chapter VIII. What his Majesty King Louis XIV. was at the Age of
Twenty-Two.
Chapter IX. In which the Unknown of the Hostelry of Les Medici loses his
Incognito.
Chapter X. The Arithmetic of M. de Mazarin.
Chapter XI. Mazarin’s Policy.
Chapter XII. The King and the Lieutenant.
Chapter XIII. Mary de Mancini.
Chapter XIV. In which the King and the Lieutenant each give Proofs of
Memory.
Chapter XV. The Proscribed.
Chapter XVI. “Remember!”
Chapter XVII. In which Aramis is sought, and only Bazin is found.
Chapter XVIII. In which D’Artagnan seeks Porthos, and only finds
Mousqueton.
Chapter XIX. What D’Artagnan went to Paris for.
Chapter XX. Of the Society which was formed in the Rue des Lombards.
Chapter XXI. In which D’Artagnan prepares to travel.

Chapter XXII. D’Artagnan travels for the House of Planchet and Company.
Chapter XXIII. In which the Author is forced to write a Little History.
Chapter XXIV. The Treasure.
Chapter XXV. The Marsh.
Chapter XXVI. Heart and Mind.
Chapter XXVII. The Next Day.
Chapter XXVIII. Smuggling.
Chapter XXIX. Fear he has placed his Money and that of Planchet in the
Sinking Fund.
Chapter XXX. The Shares of Planchet and Company rise again to Par.
Chapter XXXI. Monk reveals Himself.
Chapter XXXII. Athos and D’Artagnan meet once more at the Hostelry of
the Corne du Cerf.
Chapter XXXIII. The Audience.
Chapter XXXIV. Of the Embarrassment of Riches.
Chapter XXXV. On the Canal.
Chapter XXXVI. How D’Artagnan drew a Country-Seat from a Deal Box.
Chapter XXXVII. How D’Artagnan regulated the “Assets” of the
Company.
Chapter XXXVIII. the French Grocer had already been established in the
Seventeenth Century.
Chapter XXXIX. Mazarin’s Gaming Party.
Chapter XL: An Affair of State.
Chapter XLI. The Recital.
Chapter XLII. In which Mazarin becomes Prodigal.
Chapter XLIII. Guenaud.
Chapter XLIV. Colbert.
Chapter XLV. Confession of a Man of Wealth.
Chapter XLVI. The Donation.
Chapter XLVII. How Anne of Austria gave one Piece of Advice to Louis
XIV.
Chapter XLVIII. Agony.

Chapter XLIX. The First Appearance of Colbert.
Chapter L: The First Day of the Royalty of Louis XIV.
Chapter LI. A Passion.
Chapter LII. D’Artagnan’s Lesson.
Chapter LIII. The King.
Chapter LIV. The Houses of M. Fouquet.
Chapter LV. The Abbe Fouquet.
Chapter LVI. M. de la Fontaine’s Wine.
Chapter LVII. The Gallery of Saint-Mande.
Chapter LVIII. Epicureans.
Chapter LIX. A Quarter of an Hour’s Delay.
Chapter LX. Plan of Battle.
Chapter LXI. The Cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame.
Chapter LXII. Vive Colbert!
Chapter LXIII. How M. d’Eymeris’s Diamond passed into the Hands of M.
d’Artagnan.
Chapter LXIV. Difference D’Artagnan finds between the Intendant and the
Superintendent.
Chapter LXV. Philosophy of the Heart and Mind.
Chapter LXVI. The Journey.
Chapter LXVII. How D’Artagnan became Acquainted with a Poet.
Chapter LXVIII. D’Artagnan continues his Investigations.
Chapter LXIX. D’Artagnan was to meet an Old Acquaintance.
Chapter LXX. Wherein the Ideas of D’Artagnan begin to clear up a little.
Chapter LXXI. A Procession at Vannes.
Chapter LXXII. The Grandeur of the Bishop of Vannes.
Chapter LXXIII. In which Porthos begins to be sorry for having come with
D’Artagnan.
Chapter LXXIV. D’Artagnan makes all Speed, Porthos snores, and Aramis
counsels.
Chapter LXXV. In which Monsieur Fouquet Acts.

Original Transcriber’s Note:

A
s you may be aware, Project Gutenberg has been involved with the
writings of both the Alexandre Dumases for some time now, and
since we get a few questions about the order in which the books
should be read, and in which they were published, these following
comments should hopefully help most of our readers.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the final volume of D’Artagnan
Romances: it is usually split into three or four parts, and the final portion is
entitled The Man in the Iron Mask. The Man in the Iron Mask we’re
familiar with today is the last volume of the four-volume edition. [Not all
the editions split them in the same manner, hence some of the
confusion...but wait...there’s yet more reason for confusion.]
We intend to do ALL of The Vicomte de Bragelonne, split into four etexts
entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Vallière,
and The Man in the Iron Mask; you WILL be getting The Man in the Iron
Mask.
One thing that may be causing confusion is that the etext we have now,
entitled Ten Years Later, says it’s the sequel to The Three Musketeers.
While this is technically true, there’s another book, Twenty Years After, that
comes between. The confusion is generated by the two facts that we
published Ten Years Later BEFORE we published Twenty Years After, and
that many people see those titles as meaning Ten and Twenty Years “After”
the original story...however, this is why the different words “After” and
“Later”...the Ten Years “After” is ten years after the Twenty Years later...as
per history. Also, the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances, while
entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, has the subtitle Ten Years Later. These
two titles are also given to different volumes: The Vicomte de Bragelonne
can refer to the whole book, or the first volume of the three or four-volume
editions. Ten Years Later can, similarly, refer to the whole book, or the
second volume of the four-volume edition. To add to the confusion, in the

case of our etexts, it refers to the first 104 chapters of the whole book,
covering material in the first and second etexts in the new series. Here is a
guide to the series which may prove helpful:
The Three Musketeers: Etext 1257—First book of the D’Artagnan
Romances. Covers the years 1625-1628.
Twenty Years After: Etext 1259—Second book of the D’Artagnan
Romances. Covers the years 1648-1649. [Third in the order that we
published, but second in time sequence!!!]
Ten Years Later: Etext 1258—First 104 chapters of the third book of the
D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne: Etext 2609 (our new etext)—First 75
chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year
1660.
Ten Years Later: forthcoming (our next etext)—Chapters 76-140 of that
third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661. [In
this particular editing of it]
Louise de la Vallière: forthcoming (following)—Chapters 141-208 of the
third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1661.
The Man in the Iron Mask: forthcoming (completing)—Chapters 209-
269 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1661-
1673.
If we’ve calculated correctly, that fourth text SHOULD correspond to the
modern editions of The Man in the Iron Mask, which is still widely
circulated, and comprises about the last 1/4 of The Vicomte de Bragelonne.
Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose editions of the D’Artagnan
Romances have proved an invaluable source of information.
Introduction: In the months of March-July in 1844, in the magazine Le
Siecle, the first portion of a story appeared, penned by the celebrated
playwright Alexandre Dumas. It was based, he claimed, on some
manuscripts he had found a year earlier in the Bibliotheque Nationale while
researching a history he planned to write on Louis XIV. They chronicled the
adventures of a young man named D’Artagnan who, upon entering Paris,
became almost immediately embroiled in court intrigues, international
politics, and ill-fated affairs between royal lovers. Over the next six years,
readers would enjoy the adventures of this youth and his three famous

friends, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, as their exploits unraveled behind the
scenes of some of the most momentous events in French and even English
history.
Eventually these serialized adventures were published in novel form, and
became the three D’Artagnan Romances known today. Here is a brief
summary of the first two novels:
The Three Musketeers (serialized March—July, 1844): The year is 1625.
The young D’Artagnan arrives in Paris at the tender age of 18, and almost
immediately offends three musketeers, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos. Instead
of dueling, the four are attacked by five of the Cardinal’s guards, and the
courage of the youth is made apparent during the battle. The four become
fast friends, and, when asked by D’Artagnan’s landlord to find his missing
wife, embark upon an adventure that takes them across both France and
England in order to thwart the plans of the Cardinal Richelieu. Along the
way, they encounter a beautiful young spy, named simply Milady, who will
stop at nothing to disgrace Queen Anne of Austria before her husband,
Louis XIII, and take her revenge upon the four friends.
Twenty Years After (serialized January—August, 1845): The year is now
1648, twenty years since the close of the last story. Louis XIII has died, as
has Cardinal Richelieu, and while the crown of France may sit upon the
head of Anne of Austria as Regent for the young Louis XIV, the real power
resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, her secret husband. D’Artagnan is now a
lieutenant of musketeers, and his three friends have retired to private life.
Athos turned out to be a nobleman, the Comte de la Fere, and has retired to
his home with his son, Raoul de Bragelonne. Aramis, whose real name is
D’Herblay, has followed his intention of shedding the musketeer’s cassock
for the priest’s robes, and Porthos has married a wealthy woman, who left
him her fortune upon her death. But trouble is stirring in both France and
England. Cromwell menaces the institution of royalty itself while marching
against Charles I, and at home the Fronde is threatening to tear France
apart. D’Artagnan brings his friends out of retirement to save the threatened
English monarch, but Mordaunt, the son of Milady, who seeks to avenge his
mother’s death at the musketeers’ hands, thwarts their valiant efforts.
Undaunted, our heroes return to France just in time to help save the young
Louis XIV, quiet the Fronde, and tweak the nose of Cardinal Mazarin.

The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized October, 1847 to
January, 1850), has enjoyed a strange history in its English translation. It
has been split into three, four, or five volumes at various points in its
history. The five-volume edition generally does not give titles to the smaller
portions, but the others do. In the three-volume edition, the novels are
entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Louise de la Vallière, and The Man in
the Iron Mask. For the purposes of this etext, I have chosen to split the
novel as the four-volume edition does, with these titles: The Vicomte de
Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Vallière, and The Man in the Iron
Mask. In this, the first of the four etexts, the situation is thus:
It is now 1660, and although promised the captaincy of the musketeers at
the close of Twenty Years After, D’Artagnan is still trailing his sword in the
Louvre as a lowly lieutenant. Louis XIV is well past the age where he
should rule, but the ailing Cardinal Mazarin refuses to relinquish the reins
of power. Meanwhile, Charles II, a king without a country, travels Europe
seeking aid from his fellow monarchs. Athos still resides at La Fere while
his son, Raoul de Bragelonne, has entered into the service in the household
of M. le Prince. As for Raoul, he has his eyes on an entirely different object
than his father—his childhood companion, Louise de la Vallière, with
whom he is hopelessly in love. Porthos, now a baron, is off on some
mysterious mission along with Aramis, who is now the Bishop of Vannes.
Now begins the first chapter of the last of the D’Artagnan Romances,
The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Enjoy!
John Bursey, May, 2000

Chapter I. The Letter.

T
owards the middle of the month of May, in the year 1660, at nine
o’clock in the morning, when the sun, already high in the heavens,
was fast absorbing the dew from the ramparts of the castle of Blois, a
little cavalcade, composed of three men and two pages, re-entered the city
by the bridge, without producing any other effect upon the passengers of the
quay beyond a first movement of the hand to the head, as a salute, and a
second movement of the tongue to express, in the purest French then
spoken in France: “There is Monsieur returning from hunting.” And that
was all.
Whilst, however, the horses were climbing the steep acclivity which
leads from the river to the castle, several shop-boys approached the last
horse, from whose saddle-bow a number of birds were suspended by the
beak.
On seeing this, the inquisitive youths manifested with rustic freedom
their contempt for such paltry sport, and, after a dissertation among
themselves upon the disadvantages of hawking, they returned to their
occupations; one only of the curious party, a stout, stubby, cheerful lad,
having demanded how it was that Monsieur, who, from his great revenues,
had it in his power to amuse himself so much better, could be satisfied with
such mean diversions.
“Do you not know,” one of the standers-by replied, “that Monsieur’s
principal amusement is to weary himself?”
The light-hearted boy shrugged his shoulders with a gesture which said
as clear as day: “In that case I would rather be plain Jack than a prince.”
And all resumed their labors.
In the meanwhile, Monsieur continued his route with an air at once so
melancholy and so majestic, that he certainly would have attracted the
attention of spectators, if spectators there had been; but the good citizens of

Blois could not pardon Monsieur for having chosen their gay city for an
abode in which to indulge melancholy at his ease, and as often as they
caught a glimpse of the illustrious ennuye, they stole away gaping, or drew
back their heads into the interior of their dwellings, to escape the soporific
influence of that long pale face, of those watery eyes, and that languid
address; so that the worthy prince was almost certain to find the streets
deserted whenever he chanced to pass through them.
Now, on the part of the citizens of Blois this was a culpable piece of
disrespect, for Monsieur was, after the king—nay, even perhaps, before the
king—the greatest noble of the kingdom. In fact, God, who had granted to
Louis XIV., then reigning, the honor of being son of Louis XIII., had
granted to Monsieur the honor of being son of Henry IV. It was not then, or,
at least, it ought not to have been, a trifling source of pride for the city of
Blois, that Gaston of Orleans had chosen it as his residence, and held his
court in the ancient Castle of the States.
But it was the destiny of this great prince to excite the attention and
admiration of the public in a very modified degree wherever he might be.
Monsieur had fallen into this situation by habit.
It was not, perhaps, this which gave him that air of listlessness. Monsieur
had already been tolerably busy in the course of his life. A man cannot
allow the heads of a dozen of his best friends to be cut off without feeling a
little excitement; and as, since the accession of Mazarin to power, no heads
had been cut off, Monsieur’s occupation was gone, and his morale suffered
from it.
The life of the poor prince was then very dull. After his little morning
hawking-party on the banks of the Beuvron, or in the woods of Cheverny,
Monsieur crossed the Loire, went to breakfast at Chambord, with or without
an appetite, and the city of Blois heard no more of its sovereign lord and
master till the next hawking-day.
So much for the ennui extra muros; of the ennui of the interior we will
give the reader an idea if he will with us follow the cavalcade to the
majestic porch of the Castle of the States.
Monsieur rode a little steady-paced horse, equipped with a large saddle of
red Flemish velvet, with stirrups in the shape of buskins; the horse was of a
bay color; Monsieur’s pourpoint of crimson velvet corresponded with the
cloak of the same shade and the horse’s equipment, and it was only by this

red appearance of the whole that the prince could be known from his two
companions, the one dressed in violet, the other in green. He on the left, in
violet, was his equerry; he on the right, in green, was the grand veneur.
One of the pages carried two gerfalcons upon a perch, the other a
hunting-horn, which he blew with a careless note at twenty paces from the
castle. Every one about this listless prince did what he had to listlessly.
At this signal, eight guards, who were lounging in the sun in the square
court, ran to their halberts, and Monsieur made his solemn entry into the
castle.
When he had disappeared under the shades of the porch, three or four
idlers, who had followed the cavalcade to the castle, after pointing out the
suspended birds to each other, dispersed with comments upon what they
saw: and, when they were gone, the street, the palace, and the court, all
remained deserted alike.
Monsieur dismounted without speaking a word, went straight to his
apartments, where his valet changed his dress, and as Madame had not yet
sent orders respecting breakfast, Monsieur stretched himself upon a chaise
longue, and was soon as fast asleep as if it had been eleven o’clock at night.
The eight guards, who concluded their service for the day was over, laid
themselves down very comfortably in the sun upon some stone benches; the
grooms disappeared with their horses into the stables, and, with the
exception of a few joyous birds, startling each other with their sharp
chirping in the tufted shrubberies, it might have been thought that the whole
castle was as soundly asleep as Monsieur was.
All at once, in the midst of this delicious silence, there resounded a clear
ringing laugh, which caused several of the halberdiers in the enjoyment of
their siesta to open at least one eye.
This burst of laughter proceeded from a window of the castle, visited at
this moment by the sun, that embraced it in one of those large angles which
the profiles of the chimneys mark out upon the walls before mid-day.
The little balcony of wrought iron which advanced in front of this
window was furnished with a pot of red gilliflowers, another pot of
primroses, and an early rose-tree, the foliage of which, beautifully green,
was variegated with numerous red specks announcing future roses.

In the chamber lighted by this window, was a square table, covered with
an old large-flowered Haarlem tapestry; in the center of this table was a
long-necked stone bottle, in which were irises and lilies of the valley; at
each end of this table was a young girl.
The position of these two young people was singular; they might have
been taken for two boarders escaped from a convent. One of them, with
both elbows on the table, and a pen in her hand, was tracing characters upon
a sheet of fine Dutch paper; the other, kneeling upon a chair, which allowed
her to advance her head and bust over the back of it to the middle of the
table, was watching her companion as she wrote, or rather hesitated to
write.
Thence the thousand cries, the thousand railleries, the thousand laughs,
one of which, more brilliant than the rest, had startled the birds in the
gardens, and disturbed the slumbers of Monsieur’s guards.
We are taking portraits now; we shall be allowed, therefore, we hope, to
sketch the two last of this chapter.
The one who was leaning in the chair—that is to say, the joyous,
laughing one—was a beautiful girl of from eighteen to twenty, with brown
complexion and brown hair, splendid, from eyes which sparkled beneath
strongly-marked brows, and particularly from her teeth, which seemed to
shine like pearls between her red coral lips. Her every movement seemed
the accent of a sunny nature; she did not walk—she bounded.
The other, she who was writing, looked at her turbulent companion with
an eye as limpid, as pure, and as blue as the azure of the day. Her hair, of a
shaded fairness, arranged with exquisite taste, fell in silky curls over her
lovely mantling cheeks; she passed across the paper a delicate hand, whose
thinness announced her extreme youth. At each burst of laughter that
proceeded from her friend, she raised, as if annoyed, her white shoulders in
a poetical and mild manner, but they were wanting in that richfulness of
mold that was likewise to be wished in her arms and hands.
“Montalais! Montalais!” said she at length, in a voice soft and caressing
as a melody, “you laugh too loud—you laugh like a man! You will not only
draw the attention of messieurs the guards, but you will not hear Madame’s
bell when Madame rings.”
This admonition neither made the young girl called Montalais cease to
laugh nor gesticulate. She only replied: “Louise, you do not speak as you

think, my dear; you know that messieurs the guards, as you call them, have
only just commenced their sleep, and that a cannon would not waken them;
you know that Madame’s bell can be heard at the bridge of Blois, and that
consequently I shall hear it when my services are required by Madame.
What annoys you, my child, is that I laugh while you are writing; and what
you are afraid of is that Madame de Saint-Remy, your mother, should come
up here, as she does sometimes when we laugh too loud, that she should
surprise us, and that she should see that enormous sheet of paper upon
which, in a quarter of an hour, you have only traced the words Monsieur
Raoul. Now, you are right, my dear Louise, because after these words,
‘Monsieur Raoul’, others may be put so significant and incendiary as to
cause Madame Saint-Remy to burst out into fire and flames! Hein! is not
that true now?—say.”
And Montalais redoubled her laughter and noisy provocations.
The fair girl at length became quite angry; she tore the sheet of paper on
which, in fact, the words “Monsieur Raoul” were written in good
characters; and crushing the paper in her trembling hands, she threw it out
of the window.
“There! there!” said Mademoiselle de Montalais; “there is our little lamb,
our gentle dove, angry! Don’t be afraid, Louise—Madame de Saint-Remy
will not come; and if she should, you know I have a quick ear. Besides,
what can be more permissible than to write to an old friend of twelve years’
standing, particularly when the letter begins with the words ‘Monsieur
Raoul’?”
“It is all very well—I will not write to him at all,” said the young girl.
“Ah, ah! in good sooth, Montalais is properly punished,” cried the jeering
brunette, still laughing. “Come, come! let us try another sheet of paper, and
finish our dispatch off-hand. Good! there is the bell ringing now. By my
faith, so much the worse! Madame must wait, or else do without her first
maid of honor this morning.”
A bell, in fact, did ring; it announced that Madame had finished her
toilette, and waited for Monsieur to give her his hand, and conduct her from
the salon to the refectory.
This formality being accomplished with great ceremony, the husband and
wife breakfasted, and then separated till the hour of dinner, invariably fixed
at two o’clock.

The sound of this bell caused a door to be opened in the offices on the
left hand of the court, from which filed two maitres d’hotel followed by
eight scullions bearing a kind of hand-barrow loaded with dishes under
silver covers.
One of the maitres d’hotel, the first in rank, touched one of the guards,
who was snoring on his bench, slightly with his wand; he even carried his
kindness so far as to place the halbert which stood against the wall in the
hands of the man stupid with sleep, after which the soldier, without
explanation, escorted the viande of Monsieur to the refectory, preceded by a
page and the two maitres d’hotel.
Wherever the viande passed, the soldiers ported arms.
Mademoiselle de Montalais and her companion had watched from their
window the details of this ceremony, to which, by the bye, they must have
been pretty well accustomed. But they did not look so much from curiosity
as to be assured they should not be disturbed. So, guards, scullions, maitres
d’hotel, and pages having passed, they resumed their places at the table; and
the sun, which, through the window-frame, had for an instant fallen upon
those two charming countenances, now only shed its light upon the
gilliflowers, primroses, and rose-tree.
“Bah!” said Mademoiselle de Montalais, taking her place again;
“Madame will breakfast very well without me!”
“Oh! Montalais, you will be punished!” replied the other girl, sitting
down quietly in hers.
“Punished, indeed!—that is to say, deprived of a ride! That is just the
way in which I wish to be punished. To go out in the grand coach, perched
upon a doorstep; to turn to the left, twist round to the right, over roads full
of ruts, where we cannot exceed a league in two hours; and then to come
back straight towards the wing of the castle in which is the window of Mary
de Medici, so that Madame never fails to say: ‘Could one believe it possible
that Mary de Medici should have escaped from that window—forty-seven
feet high? The mother of two princes and three princesses!’ If you call that
relaxation, Louise, all I ask is to be punished every day; particularly when
my punishment is to remain with you and write such interesting letters as
we write!”
“Montalais! Montalais! there are duties to be performed.”

“You talk of them very much at your ease, dear child!—you, who are left
quite free amidst this tedious court. You are the only person that reaps the
advantages of them without incurring the trouble,—you, who are really
more one of Madame’s maids of honor than I am, because Madame makes
her affection for your father-in-law glance off upon you; so that you enter
this dull house as the birds fly into yonder court, inhaling the air, pecking
the flowers, picking up the grain, without having the least service to
perform, or the least annoyance to undergo. And you talk to me of duties to
be performed! In sooth, my pretty idler, what are your own proper duties,
unless to write to the handsome Raoul? And even that you don’t do; so that
it looks to me as if you likewise were rather negligent of your duties!”
Louise assumed a serious air, leant her chin upon her hand, and, in a tone
full of candid remonstrance, “And do you reproach me with my good
fortune?” said she. “Can you have the heart to do it? You have a future; you
will belong to the court; the king, if he should marry, will require Monsieur
to be near his person; you will see splendid fetes, you will see the king, who
they say is so handsome, so agreeable!”
“Ay, and still more, I shall see Raoul, who attends upon M. le Prince,”
added Montalais, maliciously.
“Poor Raoul!” sighed Louise.
“Now is the time to write to him, my pretty dear! Come, begin again,
with that famous ‘Monsieur Raoul’ which figures at the top of the poor torn
sheet.”
She then held the pen toward her, and with a charming smile encouraged
her hand, which quickly traced the words she named.
“What next?” asked the younger of the two girls.
“Why, now write what you think, Louise,” replied Montalais.
“Are you quite sure I think of anything?”
“You think of somebody, and that amounts to the same thing, or rather
even more.”
“Do you think so, Montalais?”
“Louise, Louise, your blue eyes are as deep as the sea I saw at Boulogne
last year! No, no, I mistake—the sea is perfidious: your eyes are as deep as
the azure yonder—look!—over our heads!”

“Well, since you can read so well in my eyes, tell me what I am thinking
about, Montalais.”
“In the first place, you don’t think, Monsieur Raoul; you think, My dear
Raoul.”
“Oh!—”
“Never blush for such a trifle as that! ‘My dear Raoul,’ we will say
—‘You implore me to write you at Paris, where you are detained by your
attendance on M. le Prince. As you must be very dull there, to seek for
amusement in the remembrance of a provinciale—’”
Louise rose up suddenly. “No, Montalais,” said she, with a smile; “I don’t
think a word of that. Look, this is what I think;” and she seized the pen
boldly, and traced, with a firm hand, the following words:
“I should have been very unhappy if your entreaties to obtain a
remembrance of me had been less warm. Everything here reminds me of
our early days, which so quickly passed away, which so delightfully flew
by, that no others will ever replace the charm of them in my heart.”
Montalais, who watched the flying pen, and read, the wrong way
upwards, as fast as her friend wrote, here interrupted by clapping her hands.
“Capital!” cried she; “there is frankness—there is heart—there is style!
Show these Parisians, my dear, that Blois is the city for fine language!”
“He knows very well that Blois was a Paradise to me,” replied the girl.
“That is exactly what you mean to say; and you speak like an angel.”
“I will finish, Montalais,” and she continued as follows: “You often think
of me, you say, Monsieur Raoul: I thank you; but that does not surprise me,
when I recollect how often our hearts have beaten close to each other.”
“Oh! oh!” said Montalais. “Beware, my lamb! You are scattering your
wool, and there are wolves about.”
Louise was about to reply, when the gallop of a horse resounded under
the porch of the castle.
“What is that?” said Montalais, approaching the window. “A handsome
cavalier, by my faith!”
“Oh!—Raoul!” exclaimed Louise, who had made the same movement as
her friend, and, becoming pale as death, sunk back beside her unfinished
letter.

“Now, he is a clever lover, upon my word!” cried Montalais; “he arrives
just at the proper moment.”
“Come in, come in, I implore you!” murmured Louise.
“Bah! he does not know me. Let me see what he has come here for.”

Chapter II. The Messenger.

M
ademoiselle de Montalais was right; the young cavalier was goodly
to look upon.
He was a young man of from twenty-four to twenty-five years of
age, tall and slender, wearing gracefully the picturesque military costume of
the period. His large boots contained a foot which Mademoiselle de
Montalais might not have disowned if she had been transformed into a man.
With one of his delicate but nervous hands he checked his horse in the
middle of the court, and with the other raised his hat, whose long plumes
shaded his at once serious and ingenuous countenance.
The guards, roused by the steps of the horse, awoke, and were on foot in
a minute. The young man waited till one of them was close to his saddle-
bow: then, stooping towards him, in a clear, distinct voice, which was
perfectly audible at the window where the two girls were concealed, “A
message for his royal highness,” he said.
“Ah, ah!” cried the soldier. “Officer, a messenger!”
But this brave guard knew very well that no officer would appear, seeing
that the only one who could have appeared dwelt at the other side of the
castle, in an apartment looking into the gardens. So he hastened to add:
“The officer, monsieur, is on his rounds; but, in his absence, M. de Saint-
Remy, the maitre d’hotel, shall be informed.”
“M. de Saint-Remy?” repeated the cavalier, slightly blushing.
“Do you know him?”
“Why, yes; but request him, if you please, that my visit be announced to
his royal highness as soon as possible.”
“It appears to be pressing,” said the guard, as if speaking to himself, but
really in the hope of obtaining an answer.
The messenger made an affirmative sign with his head.

“In that case,” said the guard, “I will go and seek the maitre d’hotel
myself.”
The young man, in the meantime, dismounted; and whilst the others were
making their remarks upon the fine horse the cavalier rode, the soldier
returned.
“Your pardon, young gentleman; but your name, if you please?”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne, on the part of his highness M. le Prince de
Conde.”
The soldier made a profound bow, and, as if the name of the conqueror of
Rocroi and Lens had given him wings, he stepped lightly up the steps
leading to the ante-chamber.
A. de Bragelonne had not had time to fasten his horse to the iron bars of
the perron, when M. de Saint-Remy came running, out of breath, supporting
his capacious body with one hand, whilst with the other he cut the air as a
fisherman cleaves the waves with his oar.
“Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte! You at Blois!” cried he. “Well, that is a
wonder. Good-day to you—good-day, Monsieur Raoul.”
“I offer you a thousand respects, M. de Saint-Remy.”
“How Madame de la Vall—I mean, how delighted Madame de Saint-
Remy will be to see you! But come in. His royal highness is at breakfast—
must he be interrupted? Is the matter serious?”
“Yes, and no, Monsieur de Saint-Remy. A moment’s delay, however,
would be disagreeable to his royal highness.”
“If that is the case, we will force the consigne, Monsieur le Vicomte.
Come in. Besides, Monsieur is in an excellent humor to-day. And then you
bring news, do you not?”
“Great news, Monsieur de Saint-Remy.
“And good, I presume?”
“Excellent.”
“Come quickly, come quickly then!” cried the worthy man, putting his
dress to rights as he went along.
Raoul followed him, hat in hand, and a little disconcerted at the noise
made by his spurs in these immense salons.

As soon as he had disappeared in the interior of the palace, the window
of the court was repeopled, and an animated whispering betrayed the
emotion of the two girls. They soon appeared to have formed a resolution,
for one of the two faces disappeared from the window. This was the
brunette; the other remained behind the balcony, concealed by the flowers,
watching attentively through the branches the perron by which M. de
Bragelonne had entered the castle.
In the meantime the object of so much laudable curiosity continued his
route, following the steps of the maitre d’hotel. The noise of quick steps, an
odor of wine and viands, a clinking of crystal and plates, warned them that
they were coming to the end of their course.
The pages, valets and officers, assembled in the office which led up to
the refectory, welcomed the newcomer with the proverbial politeness of the
country; some of them were acquainted with Raoul, and all knew that he
came from Paris. It might be said that his arrival for a moment suspended
the service. In fact, a page, who was pouring out wine for his royal
highness, on hearing the jingling of spurs in the next chamber, turned round
like a child, without perceiving that he was continuing to pour out, not into
the glass, but upon the tablecloth.
Madame, who was not so preoccupied as her glorious spouse was,
remarked this distraction of the page.
“Well?” exclaimed she.
“Well!” repeated Monsieur; “what is going on then?”
A. de Saint-Remy, who had just introduced his head through the
doorway, took advantage of the moment.
“Why am I to be disturbed?” said Gaston, helping himself to a thick slice
of one of the largest salmon that had ever ascended the Loire to be captured
between Paimboeuf and Saint-Nazaire.
“There is a messenger from Paris. Oh! but after monseigneur has
breakfasted will do; there is plenty of time.”
“From Paris!” cried the prince, letting his fork fall. “A messenger from
Paris, do you say? And on whose part does this messenger come?”
“On the part of M. le Prince,” said the maitre d’hotel promptly.
Every one knows that the Prince de Conde was so called.

“A messenger from M. le Prince!” said Gaston, with an inquietude that
escaped none of the assistants, and consequently redoubled the general
curiosity.
Monsieur, perhaps, fancied himself brought back again to the happy
times when the opening of a door gave him an emotion, in which every
letter might contain a state secret,—in which every message was connected
with a dark and complicated intrigue. Perhaps, likewise, that great name of
M. le Prince expanded itself, beneath the roofs of Blois, to the proportions
of a phantom.
Monsieur pushed away his plate.
“Shall I tell the envoy to wait?” asked M. de Saint-Remy.
A glance from Madame emboldened Gaston, who replied: “No, no! let
him come in at once, on the contrary. A propos, who is he?”
“A gentleman of this country, M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“Ah, very well! Introduce him, Saint-Remy—introduce him.”
And when he had let fall these words, with his accustomed gravity,
Monsieur turned his eyes, in a certain manner, upon the people of his suite,
so that all, pages, officers, and equerries, quitted the service, knives and
goblets, and made towards the second chamber door a retreat as rapid as it
was disorderly.
This little army had dispersed in two files when Raoul de Bragelonne,
preceded by M. de Saint-Remy, entered the refectory.
The short interval of solitude which this retreat had left him, permitted
Monsieur the time to assume a diplomatic countenance. He did not turn
round, but waited till the maitre d’hotel should bring the messenger face to
face with him.
Raoul stopped even with the lower end of the table, so as to be exactly
between Monsieur and Madame. From this place he made a profound bow
to Monsieur, and a very humble one to Madame; then, drawing himself up
into military pose, he waited for Monsieur to address him.
On his part the prince waited till the doors were hermetically closed; he
would not turn round to ascertain the fact, as that would have been
derogatory to his dignity, but he listened with all his ears for the noise of the
lock, which would promise him at least an appearance of secrecy.

The doors being closed, Monsieur raised his eyes towards the vicomte,
and said, “It appears that you come from Paris, monsieur?”
“This minute, monseigneur.”
“How is the king?”
“His majesty is in perfect health, monseigneur.”
“And my sister-in-law?”
“Her majesty the queen-mother still suffers from the complaint in her
chest, but for the last month she has been rather better.”
“Somebody told me you came on the part of M. le Prince. They must
have been mistaken, surely?”
“No, monseigneur; M. le Prince has charged me to convey this letter to
your royal highness, and I am to wait for an answer to it.”
Raoul had been a little annoyed by this cold and cautious reception, and
his voice insensibly sank to a low key.
The prince forgot that he was the cause of this apparent mystery, and his
fears returned.
He received the letter from the Prince de Conde with a haggard look,
unsealed it as he would have unsealed a suspicious packet, and in order to
read it so that no one should remark the effects of it upon his countenance,
he turned round.
Madame followed, with an anxiety almost equal to that of the prince,
every maneuver of her august husband.
Raoul, impassible, and a little disengaged by the attention of his hosts,
looked from his place through the open window at the gardens and the
statues which peopled them.
“Well!” cried Monsieur, all at once, with a cheerful smile; “here is an
agreeable surprise, and a charming letter from M. le Prince. Look,
Madame!”
The table was too large to allow the arm of the prince to reach the hand
of Madame; Raoul sprang forward to be their intermediary, and did it with
so good a grace as to procure a flattering acknowledgement from the
princess.
“You know the contents of this letter, no doubt?” said Gaston to Raoul.

“Yes, monseigneur; M. le Prince at first gave me the message verbally,
but upon reflection his highness took up his pen.”
“It is beautiful writing,” said Madame, “but I cannot read it.”
“Will you read it to Madame, M. de Bragelonne?” said the duke.
“Yes; read it, if you please, monsieur.”
Raoul began to read, Monsieur giving again all his attention. The letter
was conceived in these terms:
“MONSEIGNEUR—The king is about to set out for the frontiers. You
are aware the marriage of his majesty is concluded upon. The king has done
me the honor to appoint me his marechal-des-logis for this journey, and as I
knew with what joy his majesty would pass a day at Blois, I venture to ask
your royal highness’s permission to mark the house you inhabit as our
quarters. If, however, the suddenness of this request should create to your
royal highness any embarrassment, I entreat you to say so by the messenger
I send, a gentleman of my suite, M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne. My itinerary
will depend on your royal highness’s determination, and instead of passing
through Blois, we shall come through Vendome or Romorantin. I venture to
hope that your royal highness will be pleased with my arrangement, it being
the expression of my boundless desire to make myself agreeable to you.”
“Nothing can be more gracious toward us,” said Madame, who had more
than once consulted the looks of her husband during the reading of the
letter. “The king here!” exclaimed she, in a rather louder tone than would
have been necessary to preserve secrecy.
“Monsieur,” said his royal highness in his turn, “you will offer my thanks
to M. de Conde, and express to him my gratitude for the honor he has done
me.” Raoul bowed.
“On what day will his majesty arrive?” continued the prince.
“The king, monseigneur, will in all probability arrive this evening.”
“But how, then, could he have known my reply if it had been in the
negative?”
“I was desired, monseigneur, to return in all haste to Beaugency, to give
counter-orders to the courier, who was himself to go back immediately with
counter-orders to M. le Prince.”
“His majesty is at Orleans, then?”

“Much nearer, monseigneur; his majesty must by this time have arrived
at Meung.”
“Does the court accompany him?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“A propos, I forgot to ask you after M. le Cardinal.”
“His eminence appears to enjoy good health, monseigneur.”
“His nieces accompany him, no doubt?”
“No, monseigneur; his eminence has ordered the Mesdemoiselles de
Mancini to set out for Brouage. They will follow the left bank of the Loire,
while the court will come by the right.
“What! Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini quit the court in that manner?”
asked Monsieur, his reserve beginning to diminish.
“Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini in particular,” replied Raoul discreetly.
A fugitive smile, an imperceptible vestige of his ancient spirit of intrigue,
shot across the pale face of the prince.
“Thanks, M. de Bragelonne,” then said Monsieur. “You would, perhaps,
not be willing to carry M. le Prince the commission with which I would
charge you, and that is, that his messenger has been very agreeable to me;
but I will tell him so myself.”
Raoul bowed his thanks to Monsieur for the honor he had done him.
Monsieur made a sign to Madame, who struck a bell which was placed at
her right hand; M. de Saint-Remy entered, and the room was soon filled
with people.
“Messieurs,” said the prince, “his majesty is about to pay me the honor of
passing a day at Blois; I depend on the king, my nephew, not having to
repent of the favor he does my house.”
“Vive le Roi!” cried all the officers of the household with frantic
enthusiasm, and M. de Saint-Remy louder than the rest.
Gaston hung down his head with evident chagrin. He had all his life been
obliged to hear, or rather to undergo, this cry of “Vive le Roi!” which
passed over him. For a long time, being unaccustomed to hear it, his ear had
had rest, and now a younger, more vivacious, and more brilliant royalty rose
up before him, like a new and more painful provocation.

Madame perfectly understood the sufferings of that timid, gloomy heart;
she rose from the table, Monsieur imitated her mechanically, and all the
domestics, with a buzzing like that of several bee-hives, surrounded Raoul
for the purpose of questioning him.
Madame saw this movement, and called M. de Saint-Remy.
“This is not the time for gossiping, but working,” said she, with the tone
of an angry housekeeper.
A. de Saint-Remy hastened to break the circle formed by the officers
round Raoul, so that the latter was able to gain the ante-chamber.
“Care will be taken of that gentleman, I hope,” added Madame,
addressing M. de Saint-Remy.
The worthy man immediately hastened after Raoul. “Madame desires
refreshments to be offered to you,” said he; “and there is, besides, a lodging
for you in the castle.”
“Thanks, M. de Saint-Remy,” replied Raoul; “but you know how anxious
I must be to pay my duty to M. le Comte, my father.”
“That is true, that is true, Monsieur Raoul; present him, at the same time,
my humble respects, if you please.”
Raoul thus once more got rid of the old gentleman, and pursued his way.
As he was passing under the porch, leading his horse by the bridle, a soft
voice called him from the depths of an obscure path.
“Monsieur Raoul!” said the voice.
The young man turned round, surprised, and saw a dark complexioned
girl, who, with a finger on her lip, held out her other hand to him. This
young lady was an utter stranger.

Chapter III. The Interview.

R
aoul made one step towards the girl who thus called him.
“But my horse, madame?” said he.
“Oh! you are terribly embarrassed! Go yonder way—there is a shed
in the outer court: fasten your horse, and return quickly!”
“I obey, madame.”
Raoul was not four minutes in performing what he had been directed to
do; he returned to the little door, where, in the gloom, he found his
mysterious conductress waiting for him, on the first steps of a winding
staircase.
“Are you brave enough to follow me, monsieur knight errant?” asked the
girl, laughing at the momentary hesitation Raoul had manifested.
The latter replied by springing up the dark staircase after her. They thus
climbed up three stories, he behind her, touching with his hands, when he
felt for the banister, a silk dress which rubbed against each side of the
staircase. At every false step made by Raoul, his conductress cried, “Hush!”
and held out to him a soft perfumed hand.
“One would mount thus to the belfry of the castle without being
conscious of fatigue,” said Raoul.
“All of which means, monsieur, that you are very much perplexed, very
tired, and very uneasy. But be of good cheer, monsieur; here we are, at our
destination.”
The girl threw open a door, which immediately, without any transition,
filled with a flood of light the landing of the staircase, at the top of which
Raoul appeared, holding fast by the balustrade.
The girl continued to walk on—he followed her; she entered a chamber
—he did the same.

As soon as he was fairly in the net he heard a loud cry, and, turning
round, saw at two paces from him, with her hands clasped and her eyes
closed, that beautiful fair girl with blue eyes and white shoulders, who,
recognizing him, called him Raoul.
He saw her, and divined at once so much love and so much joy in the
expression of her countenance, the he sank on his knees in the middle of the
chamber, murmuring, on his part, the name of Louise.
“Ah! Montalais!—Montalais!” she sighed, “it is very wicked to deceive
me so.”
“Who, I? I have deceived you?”
“Yes; you told me you would go down to inquire the news, and you have
brought up monsieur!”
“Well, I was obliged to do so—how else could he have received the letter
you wrote him?” And she pointed with her finger to the letter which was
still upon the table.
Raoul made a step to take it; Louise, more rapid, although she had sprung
forward with a sufficiently remarkable physical hesitation, reached out her
hand to stop him. Raoul came in contact with that trembling hand, took it
within his own, and carried it so respectfully to his lips, that he might have
been said to have deposited a sigh upon it rather than a kiss.
In the meantime, Mademoiselle de Montalais had taken the letter, folded
it carefully, as women do, in three folds, and slipped it into her bosom.
“Don’t be afraid, Louise,” said she; “monsieur will no more venture to
take it hence than the defunct king Louis XIII. ventured to take billets from
the corsage of Mademoiselle de Hautefort.”
Raoul blushed at seeing the smile of the two girls; and he did not remark
that the hand of Louise remained in his.
“There!” said Montalais, “you have pardoned me, Louise, for having
brought monsieur to you; and you, monsieur, bear me no malice for having
followed me to see mademoiselle. Now, then, peace being made, let us chat
like old friends. Present me, Louise, to M. de Bragelonne.”
“Monsieur le Vicomte,” said Louise, with her quiet grace and ingenuous
smile, “I have the honor to present to you Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais,
maid of honor to her royal highness MADAME, and moreover my friend—
my excellent friend.”

Raoul bowed ceremoniously.
“And me, Louise,” said he—“will you not present me also to
mademoiselle?”
“Oh, she knows you—she knows all!”
This unguarded expression made Montalais laugh and Raoul sigh with
happiness, for he interpreted it thus: “She knows all our love.”
“The ceremonies being over, Monsieur le Vicomte,” said Montalais,
“take a chair, and tell us quickly the news you bring flying thus.”
“Mademoiselle, it is no longer a secret; the king, on his way to Poitiers,
will stop at Blois, to visit his royal highness.”
“The king here!” exclaimed Montalais, clapping her hands. “What! are
we going to see the court? Only think, Louise—the real court from Paris!
Oh, good heavens! But when will this happen, monsieur?”
“Perhaps this evening, mademoiselle; at latest, to-morrow.”
Montalais lifted her shoulders in a sigh of vexation.
“No time to get ready! No time to prepare a single dress! We are as far
behind the fashions as the Poles. We shall look like portraits from the time
of Henry IV. Ah, monsieur! this is sad news you bring us!”
“But, mesdemoiselles, you will be still beautiful!”
“That’s no news! Yes, we shall always be beautiful, because nature has
made us passable; but we shall be ridiculous, because the fashion will have
forgotten us. Alas! ridiculous! I shall be thought ridiculous—I!”
“And by whom?” said Louise, innocently.
“By whom? You are a strange girl, my dear. Is that a question to put to
me? I mean everybody; I mean the courtiers, the nobles; I mean the king.”
“Pardon me, my good friend; but as here every one is accustomed to see
us as we are—”
“Granted; but that is about to change, and we shall be ridiculous, even for
Blois; for close to us will be seen the fashions from Paris, and they will
perceive that we are in the fashion of Blois! It is enough to make one
despair!”
“Console yourself, mademoiselle.”

“Well, so let it be! After all, so much the worse for those who do not find
me to their taste!” said Montalais, philosophically.
“They would be very difficult to please,” replied Raoul, faithful to his
regular system of gallantry.
“Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte. We were saying, then, that the king is
coming to Blois?”
“With all the court.”
“Mesdemoiselles de Mancini, will they be with them?”
“No, certainly not.”
“But as the king, it is said, cannot do without Mademoiselle Mary?”
“Mademoiselle, the king must do without her. M. le Cardinal will have it
so. He has exiled his nieces to Brouage.”
“He!—the hypocrite!”
“Hush!” said Louise, pressing a finger on her friend’s rosy lips.
“Bah! nobody can hear me. I say that old Mazarino Mazarini is a
hypocrite, who burns impatiently to make his niece Queen of France.”
“That cannot be, mademoiselle, since M. le Cardinal, on the contrary, had
brought about the marriage of his majesty with the Infanta Maria Theresa.”
Montalais looked Raoul full in the face, and said, “And do you Parisians
believe in these tales? Well! we are a little more knowing than you, at
Blois.”
“Mademoiselle, if the king goes beyond Poitiers and sets out for Spain; if
the articles of the marriage contract are agreed upon by Don Luis de Haro
and his eminence, you must plainly perceive that it is not child’s play.”
“All very fine! but the king is king, I suppose?”
“No doubt, mademoiselle; but the cardinal is the cardinal.”
“The king is not a man, then! And he does not love Mary Mancini?”
“He adores her.”
“Well, he will marry her then. We shall have war with Spain. M. Mazarin
will spend a few of the millions he has put away; our gentlemen will
perform prodigies of valor in their encounters with the proud Castilians, and
many of them will return crowned with laurels, to be recrowned by us with
myrtles. Now, that is my view of politics.”

“Montalais, you are wild!” said Louise, “and every exaggeration attracts
you as light does a moth.”
“Louise, you are so extremely reasonable, that you will never know how
to love.”
“Oh!” said Louise, in a tone of tender reproach, “don’t you see,
Montalais? The queen-mother desires to marry her son to the Infanta; would
you wish him to disobey his mother? Is it for a royal heart like his to set
such a bad example? When parents forbid love, love must be banished.”
And Louise sighed: Raoul cast down his eyes, with an expression of
constraint. Montalais, on her part, laughed aloud.
“Well, I have no parents!” said she.
“You are acquainted, without doubt, with the state of health of M. le
Comte de la Fere?” said Louise, after breathing that sigh which had
revealed so many griefs in its eloquent utterance.
“No, mademoiselle,” replied Raoul, “I have not let paid my respects to
my father; I was going to his house when Mademoiselle de Montalais so
kindly stopped me. I hope the comte is well. You have heard nothing to the
contrary, have you?”
“No, M. Raoul—nothing, thank God!”
Here, for several instants, ensued a silence, during which two spirits,
which followed the same idea, communicated perfectly, without even the
assistance of a single glance.
“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed Montalais in a fright; “there is somebody
coming up.”
“Who can it be?” said Louise, rising in great agitation.
“Mesdemoiselles, I inconvenience you very much. I have, without doubt,
been very indiscreet,” stammered Raoul, very ill at ease.
“It is a heavy step,” said Louise.
“Ah! if it is only M. Malicorne,” added Montalais, “do not disturb
yourselves.”
Louise and Raoul looked at each other to inquire who M. Malicorne
could be.
“There is no occasion to mind him,” continued Montalais; “he is not
jealous.”

“But, mademoiselle—” said Raoul.
“Yes, I understand. Well, he is discreet as I am.”
“Good heavens!” cried Louise, who had applied her ear to the door,
which had been left ajar; “it is my mother’s step!”
“Madame de Saint-Remy! Where shall I hide myself?” exclaimed Raoul,
catching at the dress of Montalais, who looked quite bewildered.
“Yes,” said she; “yes, I know the clicking of those pattens! It is our
excellent mother. M. le Vicomte, what a pity it is the window looks upon a
stone pavement, and that fifty paces below it.”
Raoul glanced at the balcony in despair. Louise seized his arm and held it
tight.
“Oh, how silly I am!” said Montalais; “have I not the robe-of-ceremony
closet? It looks as if it were made on purpose.”
It was quite time to act; Madame de Saint-Remy was coming up at a
quicker pace than usual. She gained the landing at the moment when
Montalais, as in all scenes of surprises, shut the closet by leaning with her
back against the door.
“Ah!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy, “you are here, are you, Louise?”
“Yes, madame,” replied she, more pale than if she had committed a great
crime.
“Well, well!”
“Pray be seated, madame,” said Montalais, offering her a chair, which
she placed so that the back was towards the closet.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Aure—thank you. Come, my child, be
quick.”
“Where do you wish me to go, madame?”
“Why, home, to be sure; have you not to prepare your toilette?”
“What did you say?” cried Montalais, hastening to affect surprise, so
fearful was she that Louise would in some way commit herself.
“You don’t know the news, then?” said Madame de Saint-Remy.
“What news, madame, is it possible for two girls to learn up in this dove-
cote?”
“What! have you seen nobody?”

“Madame, you talk in enigmas, and you torment us at a slow fire!” cried
Montalais, who, terrified at seeing Louise become paler and paler, did not
know to what saint to put up her vows.
At length she caught an eloquent look of her companion’s, one of those
looks which would convey intelligence to a brick wall. Louise directed her
attention to a hat—Raoul’s unlucky hat, which was set out in all its feathery
splendor upon the table.
Montalais sprang towards it, and, seizing it with her left hand, passed it
behind her into the right, concealing it as she was speaking.
“Well,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, “a courier has arrived, announcing
the approach of the king. There, mesdemoiselles; there is something to
make you put on your best looks.”
“Quick, quick!” cried Montalais. “Follow Madame your mother, Louise;
and leave me to get ready my dress of ceremony.”
Louise arose; her mother took her by the hand, and led her out on to the
landing.
“Come along,” said she; then adding in a low voice, “When I forbid you
to come the apartment of Montalais, why do you do so?”
“Madame, she is my friend. Besides, I had but just come.”
“Did you see nobody concealed while you were there?”
“Madame!”
“I saw a man’s hat, I tell you—the hat of that fellow, that good-for-
nothing!”
“Madame!” repeated Louise.
“Of that do-nothing Malicorne! A maid of honor to have such company—
fie! fie!” and their voices were lost in the depths of the narrow staircase.
Montalais had not missed a word of this conversation, which echo
conveyed to her as if through a tunnel. She shrugged her shoulders on
seeing Raoul, who had listened likewise, issue from the closet.
“Poor Montalais!” said she, “the victim of friendship! Poor Malicorne,
the victim of love!”
She stopped on viewing the tragic-comic face of Raoul, who was vexed
at having, in one day, surprised so many secrets.
“Oh, mademoiselle!” said he; “how can we repay your kindness?”

“Oh, we will balance accounts some day,” said she. “For the present,
begone, M. de Bragelonne, for Madame de Saint-Remy is not over
indulgent; and any indiscretion on her part might bring hither a domiciliary
visit, which would be disagreeable to all parties.”
“But Louise—how shall I know—”
“Begone! begone! King Louis XI. knew very well what he was about
when he invented the post.”
“Alas!” sighed Raoul.
“And am I not here—I, who am worth all the posts in the kingdom?
Quick, I say, to horse! so that if Madame de Saint-Remy should return for
the purpose of preaching me a lesson on morality, she may not find you
here.”
“She would tell my father, would she not?” murmured Raoul.
“And you would be scolded. Ah, vicomte, it is very plain you come from
court; you are as timid as the king. Peste! at Blois we contrive better than
that, to do without papa’s consent. Ask Malicorne else!”
And at these words the girl pushed Raoul out of the room by the
shoulders. He glided swiftly down to the porch, regained his horse,
mounted, and set off as if he had had Monsieur’s guards at his heels.

Chapter IV. Father and Son.

R
aoul followed the well-known road, so dear to his memory, which led
from Blois to the residence of the Comte de la Fere.
The reader will dispense with a second description of that
habitation: he, perhaps, has been with us there before, and knows it. Only,
since our last journey thither, the walls had taken on a grayer tint, and the
brick-work assumed a more harmonious copper tone; the trees had grown,
and many that then only stretched their slender branches along the tops of
the hedges, now, bushy, strong, and luxuriant, cast around, beneath boughs
swollen with sap, great shadows of blossoms or fruit for the benefit of the
traveler.
Raoul perceived, from a distance, the two little turrets, the dove-cote in
the elms, and the flights of pigeons, which wheeled incessantly around that
brick cone, seemingly without power to quit it, like the sweet memories
which hover round a spirit at peace.
As he approached, he heard the noise of the pulleys which grated under
the weight of the heavy pails; he also fancied he heard the melancholy
moaning of the water which falls back again into the wells—a sad, funereal,
solemn sound, which strikes the ear of the child and the poet—both
dreamers—which the English call splash; Arabian poets gasgachau; and
which we Frenchmen, who would be poets, can only translate by a
paraphrase—the noise of water falling into water.
It was more than a year since Raoul had been to visit his father. He had
passed the whole time in the household of M. le Prince. In fact, after all the
commotions of the Fronde, of the early period of which we formerly
attempted to give a sketch, Louis de Conde had made a public, solemn and
frank reconciliation with the court. During all the time that the rupture
between the king and the prince had lasted, the prince, who had long
entertained a great regard for Bragelonne, had in vain offered him

advantages of the most dazzling kind for a young man. The Comte de la
Fere, still faithful to his principles of loyalty, and royalty, one day
developed before his son in the vaults of Saint Denis,—the Comte de la
Fere, in the name of his son, had always declined them. Moreover, instead
of following M. de Conde in his rebellion, the vicomte had followed M. de
Turenne, fighting for the king. Then when M. de Turenne, in his turn, had
appeared to abandon the royal cause, he had quitted M. de Turenne, as he
had quitted M. de Conde. It resulted from this invariable line of conduct,
that, as Conde and Turenne had never been conquerors of each other but
under the standard of the king, Raoul, however young, had ten victories
inscribed on his list of services, and not one defeat from which his bravery
or conscience had to suffer.
Raoul, therefore, had, in compliance with the wish of his father, served
obstinately and passively the fortunes of Louis XIV., in spite of the
tergiversations which were endemic, and, it might be said, inevitable, at that
period.
A. de Conde; on being restored to favor, had at once availed himself of
all the privileges of the amnesty to ask for many things back again which
had been granted to him before, and among others, Raoul. M. de la Fere,
with his invariable good sense, had immediately sent him again to the
prince.
A year, then, had passed away since the separation of the father and son;
a few letters had softened, but not removed, the pain of absence. We have
seen that Raoul had left at Blois another love in addition to filial love. But
let us do him this justice—if it had not been for chance and Mademoiselle
de Montalais, two great temptations, Raoul, after delivering his message,
would have galloped off towards his father’s house, turning his head round,
perhaps, but without stopping for a single instant, even if Louise had held
out her arms to him.
So the first part of the journey was given by Raoul to regretting the past
which he had been forced to quit so quickly, that is to say, his lady-love;
and the other part to the friend he was about to join, so much too slowly for
his wishes.
Raoul found the garden-gate open, and rode straight in, without regarding
the long arms, raised in anger, of an old man dressed in a jacket of violet-
colored wool, and a large cap of faded velvet.

The old man, who was weeding with his hands a bed of dwarf roses and
arguerites, was indignant at seeing a horse thus traversing his sanded and
nicely-raked walks. He even ventured a vigorous “Humph!” which made
the cavalier turn round. Then there was a change of scene; for no sooner
had he caught sight of Raoul’s face, than the old man sprang up and set off
in the direction of the house, amidst interrupted growlings, which appeared
to be paroxysms of wild delight.
When arrived at the stables, Raoul gave his horse to a little lackey, and
sprang up the perron with an ardor that would have delighted the heart of
his father.
He crossed the ante-chamber, the dining-room, and the salon, without
meeting any one; at length, on reaching the door of M. de la Fere’s
apartment, he rapped impatiently, and entered almost without waiting for
the word “Enter!” which was vouchsafed him by a voice at once sweet and
serious. The comte was seated at a table covered with papers and books; he
was still the noble, handsome gentleman of former days, but time had given
to this nobleness and beauty a more solemn and distinct character. A brow
white and void of wrinkles, beneath his long hair, now more white than
black; an eye piercing and mild, under the lids of a young man; his
mustache, fine but slightly grizzled, waved over lips of a pure and delicate
model, as if they had never been curled by mortal passions; a form straight
and supple; an irreproachable but thin hand—this was what remained of the
illustrious gentleman whom so many illustrious mouths had praised under
the name of Athos. He was engaged in correcting the pages of a manuscript
book, entirely filled by his own hand.
Raoul seized his father by the shoulders, by the neck, as he could, and
embraced him so tenderly and so rapidly, that the comte had neither
strength nor time to disengage himself, or to overcome his paternal
emotions.
“What! you here, Raoul—you! Is it possible?” said he.
“Oh, monsieur, monsieur, what joy to see you once again!”
“But you don’t answer me, vicomte. Have you leave of absence, or has
some misfortune happened at Paris?
“Thank God, monsieur,” replied Raoul, calming himself by degrees,
“nothing has happened but what is fortunate. The king is going to be

married, as I had the honor of informing you in my last letter, and, on his
way to Spain, he will pass through Blois.”
“To pay a visit to Monsieur?”
“Yes, monsieur le comte. So, fearing to find him unprepared, or wishing
to be particularly polite to him, monsieur le prince sent me forward to have
the lodgings ready.”
“You have seen Monsieur?” asked the comte, eagerly.
“I have had that honor.”
“At the castle?”
“Yes, monsieur,” replied Raoul, casting down his eyes, because, no
doubt, he had felt there was something more than curiosity in the comte’s
inquiries.
“Ah, indeed, vicomte? Accept my compliments thereupon.”
Raoul bowed.
“But you have seen some one else at Blois?”
“Monsieur, I saw her royal highness, Madame.”
“That’s very well: but it is not Madame that I mean.”
Raoul colored deeply, but made no reply.
“You do not appear to understand me, monsieur le vicomte,” persisted M.
de la Fere, without accenting his words more strongly, but with a rather
severer look.
“I understand you quite plainly, monsieur,” replied Raoul, “and if I
hesitate a little in my reply, you are well assured I am not seeking for a
falsehood.”
“No, you cannot tell a lie; and that makes me so astonished you should be
so long in saying yes or no.”
“I cannot answer you without understanding you very well; and if I have
understood you, you will take my first words in ill part. You will displeased,
no doubt, monsieur le comte, because I have seen—”
“Mademoiselle de la Vallière—have you not?”
“It was of her you meant to speak, I know very well, monsieur,” said
Raoul, with inexpressible sweetness.
“And I asked you if you have seen her.”

“Monsieur, I was ignorant, when I entered the castle, that Mademoiselle
de la Vallière was there; it was only on my return, after I had performed my
mission, that chance brought us together. I have had the honor of paying my
respects to her.”
“But what do you call the chance that led you into the presence of
Mademoiselle de la Vallière?”
“Mademoiselle de Montalais, monsieur.”
“And who is Mademoiselle de Montalais?”
“A young lady I did not know before, whom I had never seen. She is
maid of honor to Madame.”
“Monsieur le vicomte, I will push my interrogatory no further, and
reproach myself with having carried it so far. I had desired you to avoid
Mademoiselle de la Vallière, and not to see her without my permission. Oh,
I am quite sure you have told me the truth, and that you took no measures to
approach her. Chance has done me this injury; I do not accuse you of it. I
will be content, then, with what I formerly said to you concerning this
young lady. I do not reproach her with anything—God is my witness! only
it is not my intention or wish that you should frequent her place of
residence. I beg you once more, my dear Raoul, to understand that.”
It was plain the limpid eyes of Raoul were troubled at this speech.
“Now, my friend,” said the comte, with his soft smile, and in his
customary tone, “let us talk of other matters. You are returning, perhaps, to
your duty?”
“No, monsieur, I have no duty for to-day, except the pleasure of
remaining with you. The prince kindly appointed me no other: which was
so much in accord with my wish.”
“Is the king well?”
“Perfectly.”
“And monsieur le prince also?”
“As usual, monsieur.”
The comte forgot to inquire after Mazarin; that was an old habit.
“Well, Raoul, since you are entirely mine, I will give up my whole day to
you. Embrace me—again, again! You are at home, vicomte! Ah, there is our

old Grimaud! Come in, Grimaud: monsieur le vicomte is desirous of
embracing you likewise.”
The good old man did not require to be twice told; he rushed in with open
arms, Raoul meeting him half-way.
“Now, if you please, we will go into the garden, Raoul. I will show you
the new lodging I have had prepared for you during your leave of absence;
and whilst examining the last winter’s plantations, and two saddle-horses I
have just acquired, you will give me all the news of our friends in Paris.”
The comte closed his manuscript, took the young man’s arm, and went
out into the gardens with him.
Grimaud looked at Raoul with a melancholy air as the young man passed
out; observing that his head nearly touched the traverse of the doorway,
stroking his white royale, he slowly murmured:—“How he has grown!”

Chapter V. In which Something will be said of
Cropoli.

W
hilst the Comte de la Fere with Raoul visits the new buildings he
has erected, and the new horses he has bought, with the reader’s
permission we will lead him back to the city of Blois, and make him
a witness of the unaccustomed activity which pervades that city.
It was in the hotels that the surprise of the news brought by Raoul was
most sensibly felt.
In fact, the king and the court at Blois, that is to say, a hundred horsemen,
ten carriages, two hundred horses, as many lackeys as masters—where was
this crowd to be housed? Where were to be lodged all the gentry of the
neighborhood, who would gather in two or three hours after the news had
enlarged the circle of its report, like the increasing circumferences produced
by a stone thrown into a placid lake?
Blois, as peaceful in the morning, as we have seen, as the calmest lake in
the world, at the announcement of the royal arrival, was suddenly filled
with the tumult and buzzing of a swarm of bees.
All the servants of the castle, under the inspection of the officers, were
sent into the city in quest of provisions, and ten horsemen were dispatched
to the preserves of Chambord to seek for game, to the fisheries of Beuvron
for fish, and to the gardens of Cheverny for fruits and flowers.
Precious tapestries, and lusters with great gilt chains, were drawn from
the cupboards; an army of the poor were engaged in sweeping the courts
and washing the stone fronts, whilst their wives went in droves to the
meadows beyond the Loire, to gather green boughs and field-flowers. The
whole city, not to be behind in this luxury of cleanliness, assumed its best
toilette with the help of brushes, brooms, and water. The gutters of the
upper town, swollen by these continued ablutions, became rivers at the

bottom of the city, and the pavement, generally very muddy, it must be
allowed, took a clean face, and absolutely shone in the friendly rays of the
sun.
Next the music was to be provided; drawers were emptied; the shop-
keepers did a glorious trade in wax, ribbons, and sword-knots;
housekeepers laid in stores of bread, meat, and spices. Already numbers of
the citizens whose houses were furnished as if for a siege, having nothing
more to do, donned their festive clothes, and directed their course towards
the city gate, in order to be the first to signal or see the cortege. They knew
very well that the king would not arrive before night, perhaps not before the
next morning. Yet what is expectation but a kind of folly, and what is that
folly but an excess of hope?
In the lower city, at scarcely a hundred paces from the Castle of the
States, between the mall and the castle, in a sufficiently handsome street,
then called the Rue Vieille, and which must, in fact, have been very old,
stood a venerable edifice, with pointed gables, of squat but large
dimensions, ornamented with three windows looking into the street on the
first floor, with two in the second, and with a little oeil de boeuf in the third.
On the sides of this triangle had recently been constructed a
parallelogram of considerable size, which encroached upon the street
remorselessly, according to the familiar uses of the building of that period.
The street was narrowed by a quarter by it, but then the house was enlarged
by a half; and was not that a sufficient compensation?
Tradition said that this house with the pointed gables was inhabited, in
the time of Henry III., by a councilor of state whom Queen Catherine came,
some say to visit, and others to strangle. However that may be, the good
lady must have stepped with a circumspect foot over the threshold of this
building.
After the councilor had died—whether by strangulation or naturally is of
no consequence—the house had been sold, then abandoned, and lastly
isolated from the other houses of the street. Towards the middle of the reign
of Louis XIII. only, an Italian named Cropoli, escaped from the kitchens of
the Marechal d’Ancre, came and took possession of this house. There he
established a little hostelry, in which was fabricated a macaroni so delicious
that people came from miles round to fetch it or eat it.

So famous had the house become for it, that when Mary de Medici was a
prisoner, as we know, in the castle of Blois, she once sent for some.
It was precisely on the day she had escaped by the famous window. The
dish of macaroni was left upon the table, only just tasted by the royal
mouth.
This double favor, of a strangulation and a macaroni, conferred upon the
triangular house, gave poor Cropoli a fancy to grace his hostelry with a
pompous title. But his quality of an Italian was no recommendation in these
times, and his small, well-concealed fortune forbade attracting too much
attention.
When he found himself about to die, which happened in 1643, just after
the death of Louis XIII., he called to him his son, a young cook of great
promise, and with tears in his eyes, he recommended him to preserve
carefully the secret of the macaroni, to Frenchify his name, and at length,
when the political horizon should be cleared from the clouds which
obscured it—this was practiced then as in our day, to order of the nearest
smith a handsome sign, upon which a famous painter, whom he named,
should design two queens’ portraits, with these words as a legend: “TO
THE MEDICI.”
The worthy Cropoli, after these recommendations, had only sufficient
time to point out to his young successor a chimney, under the slab of which
he had hidden a thousand ten-franc pieces, and then expired.
Cropoli the younger, like a man of good heart, supported the loss with
resignation, and the gain without insolence. He began by accustoming the
public to sound the final i of his name so little, that by the aid of general
complaisance, he was soon called nothing but M. Cropole, which is quite a
French name. He then married, having had in his eye a little French girl,
from whose parents he extorted a reasonable dowry by showing them what
there was beneath the slab of the chimney.
These two points accomplished, he went in search of the painter who was
to paint the sign; and he was soon found. He was an old Italian, a rival of
the Raphaels and the Caracci, but an unfortunate rival. He said he was of
the Venetian school, doubtless from his fondness for color. His works, of
which he had never sold one, attracted the eye at a distance of a hundred
paces; but they so formidably displeased the citizens, that he had finished
by painting no more.

He boasted of having painted a bath-room for Madame la Marechale
d’Ancre, and mourned over this chamber having been burnt at the time of
the marechal’s disaster.
Cropoli, in his character of a compatriot, was indulgent towards Pittrino,
which was the name of the artist. Perhaps he had seen the famous pictures
of the bath-room. Be this as it may, he held in such esteem, we may say in
such friendship, the famous Pittrino, that he took him in his own house.
Pittrino, grateful, and fed with macaroni, set about propagating the
reputation of this national dish, and from the time of its founder, he had
rendered, with his indefatigable tongue, signal services to the house of
Cropoli.
As he grew old he attached himself to the son as he had done to the
father, and by degrees became a kind of over-looker of a house in which his
remarkable integrity, his acknowledged sobriety, and a thousand other
virtues useless to enumerate, gave him an eternal place by the fireside, with
a right of inspection over the domestics. Besides this, it was he who tasted
the macaroni, to maintain the pure flavor of the ancient tradition; and it
must be allowed that he never permitted a grain of pepper too much, or an
atom of parmesan too little. His joy was at its height on that day when
called upon to share the secret of Cropoli the younger, and to paint the
famous sign.
He was seen at once rummaging with ardor in an old box, in which he
found some brushes, a little gnawed by the rats, but still passable; some
linseed-oil in a bottle, and a palette which had formerly belonged to
Bronzino, that dieu de la pittoure, as the ultramontane artist, in his ever
young enthusiasm, always called him.
Pittrino was puffed up with all the joy of a rehabilitation.
He did as Raphael had done—he changed his style, and painted, in the
fashion of Albani, two goddesses rather than two queens. These illustrious
ladies appeared so lovely on the sign,—they presented to the astonished
eyes such an assemblage of lilies and roses, the enchanting result of the
changes of style in Pittrino—they assumed the poses of sirens so
Anacreontically—that the principal echevin, when admitted to view this
capital piece in the salle of Cropole, at once declared that these ladies were
too handsome, of too animated a beauty, to figure as a sign in the eyes of
passers-by.

To Pittrino he added, “His royal highness, Monsieur, who often comes
into our city, will not be much pleased to see his illustrious mother so
slightly clothed, and he will send you to the oubliettes of the state; for,
remember, the heart of that glorious prince is not always tender. You must
efface either the two sirens or the legend, without which I forbid the
exhibition of the sign. I say this for your sake, Master Cropole, as well for
yours, Signor Pittrino.”
What answer could be made to this? It was necessary to thank the
echevin for his kindness, which Cropole did. But Pittrino remained
downcast and said he felt assured of what was about to happen.
The visitor was scarcely gone when Cropole, crossing his arms, said:
“Well, master, what is to be done?”
“We must efface the legend,” said Pittrino, in a melancholy tone. “I have
some excellent ivory-black; it will be done in a moment, and we will
replace the Medici by the nymphs or the sirens, whichever you prefer.”
“No,” said Cropole, “the will of my father must be carried out. My father
considered—”
“He considered the figures of the most importance,” said Pittrino.
“He thought most of the legend,” said Cropole.
“The proof of the importance in which he held the figures,” said Pittrino,
“is that he desired they should be likenesses, and they are so.”
“Yes; but if they had not been so, who would have recognized them
without the legend? At the present day even, when the memory of the
Blaisois begins to be faint with regard to these two celebrated persons, who
would recognize Catherine and Mary without the words ‘To the Medici’?”
“But the figures?” said Pittrino, in despair; for he felt that young Cropole
was right. “I should not like to lose the fruit of my labor.”
“And I should not wish you to be thrown into prison, and myself into the
oubliettes.”
“Let us efface ‘Medici’,” said Pittrino, supplicatingly.
“No,” replied Cropole, firmly. “I have got an idea, a sublime idea—your
picture shall appear, and my legend likewise. Does not ‘Medici’ mean
doctor, or physician, in Italian?”
“Yes, in the plural.”

“Well, then, you shall order another sign-frame of the smith; you shall
paint six physicians, and write underneath ‘Aux Medici’ which makes a
very pretty play upon words.”
“Six physicians! impossible! And the composition?” cried Pittrino.
“That is your business—but so it shall be—I insist upon it—it must be so
—my macaroni is burning.”
This reasoning was peremptory—Pittrino obeyed. He composed the sign
of six physicians, with the legend; the echevin applauded and authorized it.
The sign produced an extravagant success in the city, which proves that
poetry has always been in the wrong, before citizens, as Pittrino said.
Cropole, to make amends to his painter-in-ordinary, hung up the nymphs
of the preceding sign in his bedroom, which made Madame Cropole blush
every time she looked at it, when she was undressing at night.
This is the way in which the pointed-gable house got a sign; and this is
how the hostelry of the Medici, making a fortune, was found to be enlarged
by a quarter, as we have described. And this is how there was at Blois a
hostelry of that name, and had for a painter-in-ordinary Master Pittrino.

Chapter VI. The Unknown.

T
hus founded and recommended by its sign, the hostelry of Master
Cropole held its way steadily on towards a solid prosperity.
It was not an immense fortune that Cropole had in perspective; but
he might hope to double the thousand louis d’or left by his father, to make
another thousand louis by the sale of his house and stock, and at length to
live happily like a retired citizen.
Cropole was anxious for gain, and was half-crazy with joy at the news of
the arrival of Louis XIV.
Himself, his wife, Pittrino, and two cooks, immediately laid hands upon
all the inhabitants of the dove-cote, the poultry-yard, and the rabbit-hutches;
so that as many lamentations and cries resounded in the yards of the
hostelry of the Medici as were formerly heard in Rama.
Cropole had, at the time, but one single traveler in his house.
This was a man of scarcely thirty years of age, handsome, tall, austere, or
rather melancholy, in all his gestures and looks.
He was dressed in black velvet with jet trimmings; a white collar, as plain
as that of the severest Puritan, set off the whiteness of his youthful neck; a
small dark-colored mustache scarcely covered his curled, disdainful lip.
He spoke to people looking them full in the face, without affectation, it is
true, but without scruple; so that the brilliancy of his black eyes became so
insupportable, that more than one look had sunk beneath his, like the
weaker sword in a single combat.
At this time, in which men, all created equal by God, were divided,
thanks to prejudices, into two distinct castes, the gentlemen and the
commoner, as they are really divided into two races, the black and the
white,—at this time, we say, he whose portrait we have just sketched could
not fail of being taken for a gentleman, and of the best class. To ascertain
this, there was no necessity to consult anything but his hands, long, slender,

and white, of which every muscle, every vein, became apparent through the
skin at the least movement, and eloquently spoke of good descent.
This gentleman, then, had arrived alone at Cropole’s house. He had
taken, without hesitation, without reflection even, the principal apartment
which the hotelier had pointed out to him with a rapacious aim, very
praiseworthy, some will say, very reprehensible will say others, if they
admit that Cropole was a physiognomist, and judged people at first sight.
This apartment was that which composed the whole front of the ancient
triangular house; a large salon, lighted by two windows on the first stage, a
small chamber by the side of it, and another above it.
Now, from the time he had arrived, this gentleman had scarcely touched
any repast that had been served up to him in his chamber. He had spoken
but two words to the host, to warn him that a traveler of the name of Parry
would arrive, and to desire that, when he did, he should be shown up to him
immediately.
He afterwards preserved so profound a silence, that Cropole was almost
offended, so much did he prefer people who were good company.
This gentleman had risen early the morning of the day on which this
history begins, and had placed himself at the window of his salon, seated
upon the ledge, and leaning upon the rail of the balcony, gazing sadly but
persistently on both sides of the street, watching, no doubt, for the arrival of
the traveler he had mentioned to the host.
In this way he had seen the little cortege of Monsieur return from
hunting, then had again partaken of the profound tranquillity of the street,
absorbed in his own expectations.
All at once the movement of the crowd going to the meadows, couriers
setting out, washers of pavement, purveyors of the royal household,
gabbling, scampering shop-boys, chariots in motion, hair-dressers on the
run, and pages toiling along, this tumult and bustle had surprised him, but
without losing any of that impassible and supreme majesty which gives to
the eagle and the lion that serene and contemptuous glance amidst the
hurrahs and shouts of hunters or the curious.
Soon the cries of the victims slaughtered in the poultry-yard, the hasty
steps of Madame Cropole up that little wooden staircase, so narrow and so
echoing; the bounding pace of Pittrino, who only that morning was smoking

at the door with all the phlegm of a Dutchman; all this communicated
something like surprise and agitation to the traveler.
As he was rising to make inquiries, the door of his chamber opened. The
unknown concluded they were about to introduce the impatiently expected
traveler, and made three precipitate steps to meet him.
But, instead of the person he expected, it was Master Cropole who
appeared, and behind him, in the half-dark staircase, the pleasant face of
Madame Cropole, rendered trivial by curiosity. She only gave one furtive
glance at the handsome gentleman, and disappeared.
Cropole advanced, cap in hand, rather bent than bowing.
A gesture of the unknown interrogated him, without a word being
pronounced.
“Monsieur,” said Cropole, “I come to ask how—what ought I to say:
your lordship, monsieur le comte, or monsieur le marquis?”
“Say monsieur, and speak quickly,” replied the unknown, with that
haughty accent which admits of neither discussion nor reply.
“I came, then, to inquire how monsieur had passed the night, and if
monsieur intended to keep this apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Monsieur, something has happened upon which we could not reckon.”
“What?”
“His majesty Louis XIV. will enter our city to-day, and will remain here
one day, perhaps two.”
Great astonishment was painted on the countenance of the unknown.
“The King of France is coming to Blois?”
“He is on the road, monsieur.”
“Then there is the stronger reason for my remaining,” said the unknown.
“Very well; but will monsieur keep all the apartments?”
“I do not understand you. Why should I require less to-day than
yesterday?”
“Because, monsieur, your lordship will permit me to say, yesterday I did
not think proper, when you chose your lodging, to fix any price that might

have made your lordship believe that I prejudged your resources; whilst to-
day—”
The unknown colored; the idea at once struck him that he was supposed
to be poor, and was being insulted.
“Whilst to-day,” replied he, coldly, “you do not prejudge.”
“Monsieur, I am a well-meaning man, thank God! and simple hotelier as
I am, there is in me the blood of a gentleman. My father was a servant and
officer of the late Marechal d’Ancre. God rest his soul!”
“I do not contest that point with you; I only wish to know, and that
quickly, to what your questions tend?”
“You are too reasonable, monsieur, not to comprehend that our city is
small, that the court is about to invade it, that the houses will be
overflowing with inhabitants, and that lodgings will consequently obtain
considerable prices.”
Again the unknown colored. “Name your terms,” said he.
“I name them with scruple, monsieur, because I seek an honest gain, and
that I wish to carry on my business without being uncivil or extravagant in
my demands. Now the room you occupy is considerable, and you are
alone.”
“That is my business.”
“Oh! certainly. I do not mean to turn monsieur out.”
The blood rushed to the temples of the unknown; he darted at poor
Cropole, the descendant of one of the officers of the Marechal d’Ancre, a
glance that would have crushed him down to beneath that famous chimney-
slab, if Cropole had not been nailed to the spot by the question of his own
proper interests.
“Do you desire me to go?” said he. “Explain yourself—but quickly.”
“Monsieur, monsieur, you do not understand me. It is very critical—I
know—that which I am doing. I express myself badly, or perhaps, as
monsieur is a foreigner, which I perceive by his accent—”
In fact, the unknown spoke with that impetuosity which is the principal
character of English accentuation, even among men who speak the French
language with the greatest purity.

“As monsieur is a foreigner, I say, it is perhaps he who does not catch my
exact meaning. I wish for monsieur to give up one or two of the apartments
he occupies, which would diminish his expenses and ease my conscience.
Indeed, it is hard to increase unreasonably the price of the chambers, when
one has had the honor to let them at a reasonable price.”
“How much does the hire amount to since yesterday?”
“Monsieur, to one louis, with refreshments and the charge for the horse.”
“Very well; and that of to-day?”
“Ah! there is the difficulty. This is the day of the king’s arrival; if the
court comes to sleep here, the charge of the day is reckoned. From that it
results that three chambers, at two louis each, make six louis. Two louis,
monsieur, are not much; but six louis make a great deal.”
The unknown, from red, as we have seen him, became very pale.
He drew from his pocket, with heroic bravery, a purse embroidered with
a coat-of-arms, which he carefully concealed in the hollow of his hand. This
purse was of a thinness, a flabbiness, a hollowness, which did not escape
the eye of Cropole.
The unknown emptied the purse into his hand. It contained three double
louis, which amounted to the six louis demanded by the host.
But it was seven that Cropole had required.
He looked, therefore, at the unknown, as much as to say, “And then?”
“There remains one louis, does there not, master hotelier?”
“Yes, monsieur, but—”
The unknown plunged his hand into the pocket of his haut-de-chausses,
and emptied it. It contained a small pocket-book, a gold key, and some
silver. With this change, he made up a louis.
“Thank you, monsieur,” said Cropole. “It now only remains for me to ask
whether monsieur intends to occupy his apartments to-morrow, in which
case I will reserve them for him; whereas, if monsieur does not mean to do
so, I will promise them to some of the king’s people who are coming.”
“That is but right,” said the unknown, after a long silence; “but as I have
no more money, as you have seen, and as I yet must retain the apartments,
you must either sell this diamond in the city, or hold it in pledge.”
Cropole looked at the diamond so long, that the unknown said, hastily:

“I prefer your selling it, monsieur; for it is worth three hundred pistoles.
A Jew—are there any Jews in Blois?—would give you two hundred or a
hundred and fifty for it—take whatever may be offered for it, if it be no
more than the price of your lodging. Begone!”
“Oh! monsieur,” replied Cropole, ashamed of the sudden inferiority
which the unknown reflected upon him by this noble and disinterested
confidence, as well as by the unalterable patience opposed to so many
suspicions and evasions. “Oh, monsieur, I hope people are not so dishonest
at Blois as you seem to think; and that the diamond, being worth what you
say—”
The unknown here again darted at Cropole one of his withering glances.
“I really do not understand diamonds, monsieur, I assure you,” cried he.
“But the jewelers do: ask them,” said the unknown. “Now I believe our
accounts are settled, are they not, monsieur l’hote?”
“Yes, monsieur, and to my profound regret; for I fear I have offended
monsieur.”
“Not at all!” replied the unknown, with ineffable majesty.
“Or have appeared to be extortionate with a noble traveler. Consider,
monsieur, the peculiarity of the case.”
“Say no more about it, I desire; and leave me to myself.”
Cropole bowed profoundly, and left the room with a stupefied air, which
announced that he had a good heart, and felt genuine remorse.
The unknown himself shut the door after him, and, when left alone,
looked mournfully at the bottom of the purse, from which he had taken a
small silken bag containing the diamond, his last resource.
He dwelt likewise upon the emptiness of his pockets, turned over the
papers in his pocket-book, and convinced himself of the state of absolute
destitution in which he was about to be plunged.
He raised his eyes towards heaven, with a sublime emotion of despairing
calmness, brushed off with his hand some drops of sweat which trickled
over his noble brow, and then cast down upon the earth a look which just
before had been impressed with almost divine majesty.
That the storm had passed far from him, perhaps he had prayed in the
bottom of his soul.

He drew near to the window, resumed his place in the balcony, and
remained there, motionless, annihilated, dead, till the moment when, the
heavens beginning to darken, the first flambeaux traversed the enlivened
street, and gave the signal for illumination to all the windows of the city.

Chapter VII. Parry.

W
hilst the unknown was viewing these lights with interest, and
lending an ear to the various noises, Master Cropole entered his
apartment, followed by two attendants, who laid the cloth for his
meal.
The stranger did not pay them the least attention; but Cropole
approaching him respectfully, whispered, “Monsieur, the diamond has been
valued.”
“Ah!” said the traveler. “Well?”
“Well, monsieur, the jeweler of S. A. R. gives two hundred and eighty
pistoles for it.”
“Have you them?”
“I thought it best to take them, monsieur; nevertheless, I made it a
condition of the bargain, that if monsieur wished to keep his diamond, it
should be held till monsieur was again in funds.”
“Oh, no, not at all: I told you to sell it.”
“Then I have obeyed, or nearly so, since, without having definitely sold
it, I have touched the money.”
“Pay yourself,” added the unknown.
“I will do so, monsieur, since you so positively require it.”
A sad smile passed over the lips of the gentleman.
“Place the money on that trunk,” said he, turning round and pointing to
the piece of furniture.
Cropole deposited a tolerably large bag as directed, after having taken
from it the amount of his reckoning.
“Now,” said he, “I hope monsieur will not give me the pain of not taking
any supper. Dinner has already been refused; this is affronting to the house

of les Medici. Look, monsieur, the supper is on the table, and I venture to
say that it is not a bad one.”
The unknown asked for a glass of wine, broke off a morsel of bread, and
did not stir from the window whilst he ate and drank.
Shortly after was heard a loud flourish of trumpets; cries arose in the
distance, a confused buzzing filled the lower part of the city, and the first
distinct sound that struck the ears of the stranger was the tramp of
advancing horses.
“The king! the king!” repeated a noisy and eager crowd.
“The king!” cried Cropole, abandoning his guest and his ideas of
delicacy, to satisfy his curiosity.
With Cropole were mingled, and jostled, on the staircase, Madame
Cropole, Pittrino, and the waiters and scullions.
The cortege advanced slowly, lighted by a thousand flambeaux, in the
streets and from the windows.
After a company of musketeers, a closely ranked troop of gentlemen,
came the litter of monsieur le cardinal, drawn like a carriage by four black
horses. The pages and people of the cardinal marched behind.
Next came the carriage of the queen-mother, with her maids of honor at
the doors, her gentlemen on horseback at both sides.
The king then appeared, mounted upon a splendid horse of Saxon breed,
with a flowing mane. The young prince exhibited, when bowing to some
windows from which issued the most animated acclamations, a noble and
handsome countenance, illuminated by the flambeaux of his pages.
By the side of the king, though a little in the rear, the Prince de Conde,
M. Dangeau, and twenty other courtiers, followed by their people and their
baggage, closed this veritably triumphant march. The pomp was of a
military character.
Some of the courtiers—the elder ones, for instance—wore traveling
dresses; but all the rest were clothed in warlike panoply. Many wore the
gorget and buff coat of the times of Henry IV. and Louis XIII.
When the king passed before him, the unknown, who had leant forward
over the balcony to obtain a better view, and who had concealed his face by
leaning on his arm, felt his heart swell and overflow with a bitter jealousy.

The noise of the trumpets excited him—the popular acclamations
deafened him: for a moment he allowed his reason to be absorbed in this
flood of lights, tumult, and brilliant images.
“He is a king!” murmured he, in an accent of despair.
Then, before he had recovered from his sombre reverie, all the noise, all
the splendor, had passed away. At the angle of the street there remained
nothing beneath the stranger but a few hoarse, discordant voices, shouting
at intervals “Vive le Roi!”
There remained likewise the six candles held by the inhabitants of the
hostelry des Medici; that is to say, two for Cropole, two for Pittrino, and
one for each scullion. Cropole never ceased repeating, “How good-looking
the king is! How strongly he resembles his illustrious father!”
“A handsome likeness!” said Pittrino.
“And what a lofty carriage he has!” added Madame Cropole, already in
promiscuous commentary with her neighbors of both sexes.
Cropole was feeding their gossip with his own personal remarks, without
observing that an old man on foot, but leading a small Irish horse by the
bridle, was endeavoring to penetrate the crowd of men and women which
blocked up the entrance to the Medici. But at that moment the voice of the
stranger was heard from the window.
“Make way, monsieur l’hotelier, to the entrance of your house!”
Cropole turned around, and, on seeing the old man, cleared a passage for
him.
The window was instantly closed.
Pittrino pointed out the way to the newly-arrived guest, who entered
without uttering a word.
The stranger waited for him on the landing; he opened his arms to the old
man, and led him to a seat.
“Oh, no, no, my lord!” said he. “Sit down in your presence?—never!”
“Parry,” cried the gentleman, “I beg you will; you come from England—
you come so far. Ah! it is not for your age to undergo the fatigues my
service requires. Rest yourself.”
“I have my reply to give your lordship, in the first place.”

“Parry, I conjure you to tell me nothing; for if your news had been good,
you would not have begun in such a manner; you go about, which proves
that the news is bad.”
“My lord,” said the old man, “do not hasten to alarm yourself; all is not
lost, I hope. You must employ energy, but more particularly resignation.”
“Parry,” said the young man, “I have reached this place through a
thousand snares and after a thousand difficulties; can you doubt my energy?
I have meditated this journey ten years, in spite of all counsels and all
obstacles—have you faith in my perseverance? I have this evening sold the
last of my father’s diamonds; for I had nothing wherewith to pay for my
lodgings and my host was about to turn me out.”
Parry made a gesture of indignation, to which the young man replied by a
pressure of the hand and a smile.
“I have still two hundred and seventy-four pistoles left and I feel myself
rich. I do not despair, Parry; have you faith in my resignation?”
The old man raised his trembling hands towards heaven.
“Let me know,” said the stranger,—“disguise nothing from me—what
has happened?”
“My recital will be short, my lord; but in the name of Heaven do not
tremble so.”
“It is impatience, Parry. Come, what did the general say to you?”
“At first the general would not receive me.”
“He took you for a spy?”
“Yes, my lord; but I wrote him a letter.”
“Well?”
“He read it, and received me, my lord.”
“Did that letter thoroughly explain my position and my views?”
“Oh, yes!” said Parry, with a sad smile; “it painted your very thoughts
faithfully.”
“Well—then, Parry.”
“Then the general sent me back the letter by an aide-de-camp, informing
me that if I were found the next day within the circumscription of his
command, he would have me arrested.”

“Arrested!” murmured the young man. “What! arrest you, my most
faithful servant?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And notwithstanding you had signed the name Parry?”
“To all my letters, my lord; and the aide-de-camp had known me at St.
James’s and at Whitehall, too,” added the old man with a sigh.
The young man leaned forward, thoughtful and sad.
“Ay, that’s what he did before his people,” said he, endeavoring to cheat
himself with hopes. “But, privately—between you and him—what did he
do? Answer!”
“Alas! my lord, he sent to me four cavaliers, who gave me the horse with
which you just now saw me come back. These cavaliers conducted me, in
great haste, to the little port of Tenby, threw me, rather than embarked me,
into a little fishing-boat, about to sail for Brittany, and here I am.”
“Oh!” sighed the young man, clasping his neck convulsively with his
hand, and with a sob. “Parry, is that all?—is that all?”
“Yes, my lord; that is all.”
After this brief reply ensued a long interval of silence, broken only by the
convulsive beating of the heel of the young man on the floor.
The old man endeavored to change the conversation; it was leading to
thoughts much too sinister.
“My lord,” said he, “what is the meaning of all the noise which preceded
me? What are these people crying ‘Vive le Roi!’ for? What king do they
mean? and what are all these lights for?”
“Ah! Parry,” replied the young man ironically, “don’t you know that this
is the King of France visiting his good city of Blois? All these trumpets are
his, all those gilded housings are his, all those gentlemen wear swords that
are his. His mother precedes him in a carriage magnificently encrusted with
silver and gold. Happy mother! His minister heaps up millions, and
conducts him to a rich bride. Then all these people rejoice; they love their
king, they hail him with their acclamations, and they cry, ‘Vive le Roi! Vive
le Roi!’”
“Well, well, my lord,” said Parry, more uneasy at the turn the
conversation had taken than at the other.

“You know,” resumed the unknown, “that my mother and my sister,
whilst all this is going on in honor of the King of France, have neither
money nor bread; you know that I myself shall be poor and degraded within
a fortnight, when all Europe will become acquainted with what you have
told me. Parry, are there not examples in which a man of my condition
should himself—”
“My lord, in the name of Heaven—”
“You are right, Parry; I am a coward, and if I do nothing for myself, what
will God do? No, no; I have two arms, Parry, and I have a sword.” And he
struck his arm violently with his hand, and took down his sword, which
hung against the wall.
“What are you going to do, my lord?”
“What am I going to do, Parry? What every one in my family does. My
mother lives on public charity, my sister begs for my mother; I have,
somewhere or other, brothers who equally beg for themselves; and I, the
eldest, will go and do as all the rest do—I will go and ask charity!”
And with these words, which he finished sharply with a nervous and
terrible laugh, the young man girded on his sword, took his hat from the
trunk, fastened to his shoulder a black cloak, which he had worn all during
his journey, and pressing the two hands of the old man, who watched his
proceedings with a look of anxiety,—
“My good Parry,” said he, “order a fire, drink, eat, sleep, and be happy;
let us both be happy, my faithful friend, my only friend. We are rich, as rich
as kings!”
He struck the bag of pistoles with his clenched hand as he spoke, and it
fell heavily to the ground. He resumed that dismal laugh that had so
alarmed Parry; and whilst the whole household was screaming, singing, and
preparing to install the travelers who had been preceded by their lackeys, he
glided out by the principal entrance into the street, where the old man, who
had gone to the window, lost sight of him in a moment.

Chapter VIII. What his Majesty King Louis XIV. was
at the Age of Twenty-Two.

I
t has been seen, by the account we have endeavored to give of it, that
the entree of King Louis XIV. into the city of Blois had been noisy and
brilliant; his young majesty had therefore appeared perfectly satisfied
with it.
On arriving beneath the porch of the Castle of the States, the king met,
surrounded by his guards and gentlemen, with S. A. R. the duke, Gaston of
Orleans, whose physiognomy, naturally rather majestic, had borrowed on
this solemn occasion a fresh luster and a fresh dignity. On her part,
Madame, dressed in her robes of ceremony, awaited, in the interior balcony,
the entrance of her nephew. All the windows of the old castle, so deserted
and dismal on ordinary days, were resplendent with ladies and lights.
It was then to the sound of drums, trumpets, and vivats, that the young
king crossed the threshold of that castle in which, seventy-two years before,
Henry III. had called in the aid of assassination and treachery to keep upon
his head and in his house a crown which was already slipping from his
brow, to fall into another family.
All eyes, after having admired the young king, so handsome and so
agreeable, sought for that other king of France, much otherwise king than
the former, and so old, so pale, so bent, that people called the Cardinal
Mazarin.
Louis was at this time endowed with all the natural gifts which make the
perfect gentleman; his eye was brilliant, mild, and of a clear azure blue. But
the most skillful physiognomists, those divers into the soul, on fixing their
looks upon it, if it had been possible for a subject to sustain the glance of
the king,—the most skillful physiognomists, we say, would never have been
able to fathom the depths of that abyss of mildness. It was with the eyes of
the king as with the immense depths of the azure heavens, or with those

more terrific, and almost as sublime, which the Mediterranean reveals under
the keels of its ships in a clear summer day, a gigantic mirror in which
heaven delights to reflect sometimes its stars, sometimes its storms.
The king was short of stature—he was scarcely five feet two inches: but
his youth made up for this defect, set off likewise by great nobleness in all
his movements, and by considerable address in all bodily exercises.
Certes, he was already quite a king, and it was a great thing to be a king
in that period of traditional devotedness and respect; but as, up to that time,
he had been but seldom and always poorly shown to the people, as they to
whom he was shown saw him by the side of his mother, a tall woman, and
monsieur le cardinal, a man of commanding presence, many found him so
little of a king as to say,—
“Why, the king is not so tall as monsieur le cardinal!”
Whatever may be thought of these physical observations, which were
principally made in the capital, the young king was welcomed as a god by
the inhabitants of Blois, and almost like a king by his uncle and aunt,
Monsieur and Madame, the inhabitants of the castle.
It must, however, be allowed, that when he saw, in the hall of reception,
chairs of equal height for himself, his mother, the cardinal, and his uncle
and aunt, a disposition artfully concealed by the semi-circular form of the
assembly, Louis XIV. became red with anger, and looked around him to
ascertain by the countenances of those that were present, if this humiliation
had been prepared for him. But as he saw nothing upon the impassible
visage of the cardinal, nothing on that of his mother, nothing on those of the
assembly, he resigned himself, and sat down, taking care to be seated before
anybody else.
The gentlemen and ladies were presented to their majesties and monsieur
le cardinal.
The king remarked that his mother and he scarcely knew the names of
any of the persons who were presented to them; whilst the cardinal, on the
contrary, never failed, with an admirable memory and presence of mind, to
talk to every one about his estates, his ancestors, or his children, some of
whom he named, which enchanted those worthy country gentlemen, and
confirmed them in the idea that he alone is truly king who knows his
subjects, from the same reason that the sun has no rival, because the sun
alone warms and lightens.

The study of the young king, which had begun a long time before,
without anybody suspecting it, was continued then, and he looked around
him attentively to endeavor to make out something in the physiognomies
which had at first appeared the most insignificant and trivial.
A collation was served. The king, without daring to call upon the
hospitality of his uncle, had waited for it impatiently. This time, therefore,
he had all the honors due, if not to his rank, at least to his appetite.
As to the cardinal, he contented himself with touching with his withered
lips a bouillon, served in a golden cup. The all-powerful minister, who had
taken her regency from the queen, and his royalty from the king, had not
been able to take a good stomach from nature.
Anne of Austria, already suffering from the cancer which six or eight
years after caused her death, ate very little more than the cardinal.
For Monsieur, already puffed up with the great event which had taken
place in his provincial life, he ate nothing whatever.
Madame alone, like a true Lorrainer, kept pace with his majesty; so that
Louis XIV., who, without this partner, might have eaten nearly alone, was at
first much pleased with his aunt, and afterwards with M. de Saint-Remy, her
maitre d’hotel, who had really distinguished himself.
The collation over, at a sign of approbation from M. de Mazarin, the king
arose, and, at the invitation of his aunt, walked about among the ranks of
the assembly.
The ladies then observed—there are certain things for which women are
as good observers at Blois as at Paris—the ladies then observed that Louis
XIV. had a prompt and bold look, which premised a distinguished
appreciator of beauty. The men, on their part, observed that the prince was
proud and haughty, that he loved to look down those who fixed their eyes
upon him too long or too earnestly, which gave presage of a master.
Louis XIV. had accomplished about a third of his review when his ears
were struck with a word which his eminence pronounced whilst conversing
with Monsieur.
This word was the name of a woman.
Scarcely had Louis XIV. heard this word than he heard, or rather listening
to nothing else; and neglecting the arc of the circle which awaited his visit,

his object seemed to be to come as quickly as possible to the extremity of
the curve.
Monsieur, like a good courtier, was inquiring of monsieur le cardinal
after the health of his nieces; he regretted, he said, not having the pleasure
of receiving them at the same time with their uncle; they must certainly
have grown in stature, beauty and grace, as they had promised to do the last
time Monsieur had seen them.
What had first struck the king was a certain constraint in the voices of the
two interlocutors. The voice of Monsieur was calm and natural when he
spoke thus; while that of M. de Mazarin jumped by a note and a half to
reply above the diapason of his usual voice. It might have been said that he
wished that voice to strike, at the end of the salon, any ear that was too
distant.
“Monseigneur,” replied he, “Mesdemoiselles de Mazarin have still to
finish their education: they have duties to fulfill, and a position to make. An
abode in a young and brilliant court would dissipate them a little.”
Louis, at this last sentence, smiled sadly. The court was young, it was
true, but the avarice of the cardinal had taken good care that it should not be
brilliant.
“You have nevertheless no intention,” replied Monsieur, “to cloister them
or make them borgeoises?”
“Not at all,” replied the cardinal, forcing his Italian pronunciation in such
a manner that, from soft and velvety as it was, it became sharp and
vibrating; “not at all: I have a full and fixed intention to marry them, and
that as well as I shall be able.”
“Parties will not be wanting, monsieur le cardinal,” replied Monsieur,
with a bonhomie worthy of one tradesman congratulating another.
“I hope not, monseigneur, and with reason, as God has been pleased to
give them grace, intelligence, and beauty.”
During this conversation, Louis XIV., conducted by Madame,
accomplished, as we have described, the circle of presentations.
“Mademoiselle Auricule,” said the princess, presenting to his majesty a
fat, fair girl of two-and-twenty, who at a village fete might have been taken
for a peasant in Sunday finery,—“the daughter of my music-mistress.”

The king smiled. Madame had never been able to extract four correct
notes from either viol or harpsichord.
“Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais,” continued Madame; “a young lady
of rank, and my good attendant.”
This time it was not the king that smiled; it was the young lady presented,
because, for the first time in her life, she heard, given to her by Madame,
who generally showed no tendency to spoil her, such an honorable
qualification.
Our old acquaintance Montalais, therefore, made his majesty a profound
courtesy, the more respectful from the necessity she was under of
concealing certain contractions of her laughing lips, which the king might
not have attributed to their real cause.
It was just at this moment that the king caught the word which startled
him.
“And the name of the third?” asked Monsieur.
“Mary, monseigneur,” replied the cardinal.
There was doubtless some magical influence in that word, for, as we have
said, the king started in hearing it, and drew Madame towards the middle of
the circle, as if he wished to put some confidential question to her, but, in
reality, for the sake of getting nearer to the cardinal.
“Madame, my aunt,” said he, laughing, and in a suppressed voice, “my
geography-master did not teach me that Blois was at such an immense
distance from Paris.”
“What do you mean, nephew?” asked Madame.
“Why, because it would appear that it requires several years, as regards
fashion, to travel the distance!—Look at those young ladies!”
“Well; I know them all.”
“Some of them are pretty.”
“Don’t say that too loud, monsieur my nephew; you will drive them
wild.”
“Stop a bit, stop a bit, dear aunt!” said the king, smiling; “for the second
part of my sentence will serve as a corrective to the first. Well, my dear
aunt, some of them appear old and others ugly, thanks to their ten-year-old
fashions.”

“But, sire, Blois is only five days’ journey from Paris.”
“Yes, that is it,” said the king: “two years behind for each day.”
“Indeed! do you really think so? Well, that is strange! It never struck
me.”
“Now, look, aunt,” said Louis XIV., drawing still nearer to Mazarin,
under the pretext of gaining a better point of view, “look at that simple
white dress by the side of those antiquated specimens of finery, and those
pretentious coiffures. She is probably one of my mother’s maids of honor,
though I don’t know her.”
“Ah! ah! my dear nephew!” replied Madame, laughing; “permit me to
tell you that your divinatory science is at fault for once. The young lady you
honor with your praise is not a Parisian, but a Blaisoise.”
“Oh, aunt!” replied the king with a look of doubt.
“Come here, Louise,” said Madame.
And the fair girl, already known to you under that name, approached
them, timid, blushing, and almost bent beneath the royal glance.
“Mademoiselle Louise Francoise de la Beaume le Blanc, the daughter of
the Marquise de la Vallière,” said Madame, ceremoniously.
The young girl bowed with so much grace, mingled with the profound
timidity inspired by the presence of the king, that the latter lost, while
looking at her, a few words of the conversation of Monsieur and the
cardinal.
“Daughter-in-law,” continued Madame, “of M. de Saint-Remy, my maitre
d’hotel, who presided over the confection of that excellent daube truffee
which your majesty seemed so much to appreciate.”
No grace, no youth, no beauty, could stand out against such a
presentation. The king smiled. Whether the words of Madame were a
pleasantry, or uttered in all innocency, they proved the pitiless immolation
of everything that Louis had found charming or poetic in the young girl.
Mademoiselle de la Vallière, for Madame and, by rebound, for the king,
was, for a moment, no more than the daughter of a man of a superior talent
over dindes truffees.
But princes are thus constituted. The gods, too, were just like this in
Olympus. Diana and Venus, no doubt, abused the beautiful Alcmena and

poor Io, when they condescended for distraction’s sake, to speak, amidst
nectar and ambrosia, of mortal beauties, at the table of Jupiter.
Fortunately, Louise was so bent in her reverential salute, that she did not
catch either Madame’s words or the king’s smile. In fact, if the poor child,
who had so much good taste as alone to have chosen to dress herself in
white amidst all her companions—if that dove’s heart, so easily accessible
to painful emotions, had been touched by the cruel words of Madame, or
the egotistical cold smile of the king, it would have annihilated her.
And Montalais herself, the girl of ingenious ideas, would not have
attempted to recall her to life; for ridicule kills beauty even.
But fortunately, as we have said, Louise, whose ears were buzzing, and
her eyes veiled by timidity,—Louise saw nothing and heard nothing; and
the king, who had still his attention directed to the conversation of the
cardinal and his uncle, hastened to return to them.
He came up just at the moment Mazarin terminated by saying: “Mary, as
well as her sisters, has just set off for Brouage. I make them follow the
opposite bank of the Loire to that along which we have traveled; and if I
calculate their progress correctly, according to the orders I have given, they
will to-morrow be opposite Blois.”
These words were pronounced with that tact—that measure, that
distinctness of tone, of intention, and reach—which made del Signor Giulio
Mazarini the first comedian in the world.
It resulted that they went straight to the heart of Louis XIV., and the
cardinal, on turning round at the simple noise of the approaching footsteps
of his majesty, saw the immediate effect of them upon the countenance of
his pupil, an effect betrayed to the keen eyes of his eminence by a slight
increase of color. But what was the ventilation of such a secret to him
whose craft had for twenty years deceived all the diplomatists of Europe?
From the moment the young king heard these last words, he appeared as
if he had received a poisoned arrow in his heart. He could not remain quiet
in a place, but cast around an uncertain, dead, and aimless look over the
assembly. He with his eyes interrogated his mother more than twenty times:
but she, given up to the pleasure of conversing with her sister-in-law, and
likewise constrained by the glance of Mazarin, did not appear to
comprehend any of the supplications conveyed by the looks of her son.

From this moment, music, lights, flowers, beauties, all became odious
and insipid to Louis XIV. After he had a hundred times bitten his lips,
stretched his legs and his arms like a well-brought-up child, who, without
daring to gape, exhausts all the modes of evincing his weariness—after
having uselessly again implored his mother and the minister, he turned a
despairing look towards the door, that is to say, towards liberty.
At this door, in the embrasure of which he was leaning, he saw, standing
out strongly, a figure with a brown and lofty countenance, an aquiline nose,
a stern but brilliant eye, gray and long hair, a black mustache, the true type
of military beauty, whose gorget, more sparkling than a mirror, broke all the
reflected lights which concentrated upon it, and sent them back as lightning.
This officer wore his gray hat with its long red plumes upon his head, a
proof that he was called there by his duty, and not by his pleasure. If he had
been brought thither by his pleasure—if he had been a courtier instead of a
soldier, as pleasure must always be paid for at the same price—he would
have held his hat in his hand.
That which proved still better that this officer was upon duty, and was
accomplishing a task to which he was accustomed, was, that he watched,
with folded arms, remarkable indifference, and supreme apathy, the joys
and ennuis of this fete. Above all, he appeared, like a philosopher, and all
old soldiers are philosophers,—he appeared above all to comprehend the
ennuis infinitely better than the joys; but in the one he took his part,
knowing very well how to do without the other.
Now, he was leaning, as we have said, against the carved door-frame
when the melancholy, weary eyes of the king, by chance, met his.
It was not the first time, as it appeared, that the eyes of the officer had
met those eyes, and he was perfectly acquainted with the expression of
them; for, as soon as he had cast his own look upon the countenance of
Louis XIV., and had read by it what was passing in his heart—that is to say,
all the ennui that oppressed him—all the timid desire to go out which
agitated him,—he perceived he must render the king a service without his
commanding it,—almost in spite of himself. Boldly, therefore, as if he had
given the word of command to cavalry in battle, “On the king’s service!”
cried he, in a clear, sonorous voice.
At these words, which produced the effect of a peal of thunder, prevailing
over the orchestra, the singing and the buzz of the promenaders, the

cardinal and the queen-mother looked at each other with surprise.
Louis XIV., pale, but resolved, supported as he was by that intuition of
his own thought which he had found in the mind of the officer of
musketeers, and which he had just manifested by the order given, arose
from his chair, and took a step towards the door.
“Are you going, my son?” said the queen, whilst Mazarin satisfied
himself with interrogating by a look which might have appeared mild if it
had not been so piercing.
“Yes, madame,” replied the king; “I am fatigued, and, besides, wish to
write this evening.”
A smile stole over the lips of the minister, who appeared, by a bend of the
head, to give the king permission.
Monsieur and Madame hastened to give orders to the officers who
presented themselves.
The king bowed, crossed the hall, and gained the door, where a hedge of
twenty musketeers awaited him. At the extremity of this hedge stood the
officer, impassible, with his drawn sword in his hand. The king passed, and
all the crowd stood on tip-toe, to have one more look at him.
Ten musketeers, opening the crowd of the ante-chambers and the steps,
made way for his majesty. The other ten surrounded the king and Monsieur,
who had insisted upon accompanying his majesty. The domestics walked
behind. This little cortege escorted the king to the chamber destined for
him. The apartment was the same that had been occupied by Henry III.
during his sojourn in the States.
Monsieur had given his orders. The musketeers, led by their officer, took
possession of the little passage by which one wing of the castle
communicates with the other. This passage was commenced by a small
square ante-chamber, dark even in the finest days. Monsieur stopped Louis
XIV.
“You are passing now, sire,” said he, “the very spot where the Duc de
Guise received the first stab of the poniard.”
The king was ignorant of all historical matters; he had heard of the fact,
but he knew nothing of the localities or the details.
“Ah!” said he with a shudder.

And he stopped. The rest, both behind and before him, stopped likewise.
“The duc, sire,” continued Gaston, “was nearly were I stand: he was
walking in the same direction as your majesty; M. de Loignac was exactly
where your lieutenant of musketeers is; M. de Saint-Maline and his
majesty’s ordinaries were behind him and around him. It was here that he
was struck.”
The king turned towards his officer, and saw something like a cloud pass
over his martial and daring countenance.
“Yes, from behind!” murmured the lieutenant, with a gesture of supreme
disdain. And he endeavored to resume the march, as if ill at ease at being
between walls formerly defiled by treachery.
But the king, who appeared to wish to be informed, was disposed to give
another look at this dismal spot.
Gaston perceived his nephew’s desire.
“Look, sire,” said he, taking a flambeaux from the hands of M. de Saint-
Remy, “this is where he fell. There was a bed there, the curtains of which he
tore with catching at them.”
“Why does the floor seem hollowed out at this spot?” asked Louis.
“Because it was here the blood flowed,” replied Gaston; “the blood
penetrated deeply into the oak, and it was only by cutting it out that they
succeeded in making it disappear. And even then,” added Gaston, pointing
the flambeaux to the spot, “even then this red stain resisted all the attempts
made to destroy it.”
Louis XIV. raised his head. Perhaps he was thinking of that bloody trace
that had once been shown him at the Louvre, and which, as a pendant to
that of Blois, had been made there one day by the king his father with the
blood of Concini.
“Let us go on,” said he.
The march was resumed promptly; for emotion, no doubt, had given to
the voice of the young prince a tone of command which was not customary
with him. When he arrived at the apartment destined for the king, which
communicated not only with the little passage we have passed through, but
further with the great staircase leading to the court,—

“Will your majesty,” said Gaston, “condescend to occupy this apartment,
all unworthy as it is to receive you?”
“Uncle,” replied the young king, “I render you my thanks for your
cordial hospitality.”
Gaston bowed to his nephew, embraced him, and then went out.
Of the twenty musketeers who had accompanied the king, ten
reconducted Monsieur to the reception-rooms, which were not yet empty,
notwithstanding the king had retired.
The ten others were posted by their officer, who himself explored, in five
minutes, all the localities, with that cold and certain glance which not even
habit gives unless that glance belongs to genius.
Then, when all were placed, he chose as his headquarters the ante-
chamber, in which he found a large fauteuil, a lamp, some wine, some
water, and some dry bread.
He refreshed his lamp, drank half a glass of wine, curled his lip with a
smile full of expression, installed himself in his large armchair, and made
preparations for sleeping.

Chapter IX. In which the Unknown of the Hostelry of
Les Medici loses his Incognito.

T
his officer, who was sleeping, or preparing to sleep, was,
notwithstanding his careless air, charged with a serious responsibility.
Lieutenant of the king’s musketeers, he commanded all the
company which came from Paris, and that company consisted of a hundred
and twenty men; but, with the exception of the twenty of whom we have
spoken, the other hundred were engaged in guarding the queen-mother, and
more particularly the cardinal.
Monsignor Giulio Mazarini economized the traveling expenses of his
guards; he consequently used the king’s, and that largely, since he took fifty
of them for himself—a peculiarity which would not have failed to strike
any one unacquainted with the usages of that court.
That which would still further have appeared, if not inconvenient, at least
extraordinary, to a stranger, was, that the side of the castle destined for
monsieur le cardinal was brilliant, light and cheerful. The musketeers there
mounted guard before every door, and allowed no one to enter, except the
couriers, who, even while he was traveling, followed the cardinal for the
carrying on of his correspondence.
Twenty men were on duty with the queen-mother; thirty rested, in order
to relieve their companions the next day.
On the king’s side, on the contrary, were darkness, silence, and solitude.
When once the doors were closed, there was no longer an appearance of
royalty. All the servitors had by degrees retired. Monsieur le Prince had sent
to know if his majesty required his attendance; and on the customary “No”
of the lieutenant of musketeers, who was habituated to the question and the
reply, all appeared to sink into the arms of sleep, as if in the dwelling of a
good citizen.

And yet it was possible to hear from the side of the house occupied by
the young king the music of the banquet, and to see the windows of the
great hall richly illuminated.
Ten minutes after his installation in his apartment, Louis XIV. had been
able to learn, by movement much more distinguished than marked his own
leaving, the departure of the cardinal, who, in his turn, sought his bedroom,
accompanied by a large escort of ladies and gentlemen.
Besides, to perceive this movement, he had nothing to do but look out at
his window, the shutters of which had not been closed.
His eminence crossed the court, conducted by Monsieur, who himself
held a flambeau; then followed the queen-mother, to whom Madame
familiarly gave her arm; and both walked chatting away, like two old
friends.
Behind these two couples filed nobles, ladies, pages and officers; the
flambeaux gleamed over the whole court, like the moving reflections of a
conflagration. Then the noise of steps and voices became lost in the upper
floors of the castle.
No one was then thinking of the king, who, leaning on his elbow at his
window, had sadly seen pass away all that light, and heard that noise die off
—no, not one, if it was not that unknown of the hostelry des Medici, whom
we have seen go out, enveloped in his cloak.
He had come straight up to the castle, and had, with his melancholy
countenance, wandered round and round the palace, from which the people
had not yet departed; and finding that on one guarded the great entrance, or
the porch, seeing that the soldiers of Monsieur were fraternizing with the
royal soldiers—that is to say, swallowing Beaugency at discretion, or rather
indiscretion—the unknown penetrated through the crowd, then ascended to
the court, and came to the landing of the staircase leading to the cardinal’s
apartment.
What, according to all probability, induced him to direct his steps that
way, was the splendor of the flambeaux, and the busy air of the pages and
domestics. But he was stopped short by a presented musket and the cry of
the sentinel.
“Where are you going, my friend?” asked the soldier.

“I am going to the king’s apartment,” replied the unknown, haughtily, but
tranquilly.
The soldier called one of his eminence’s officers, who, in the tone in
which a youth in office directs a solicitor to a minister, let fall these words:
“The other staircase, in front.”
And the officer, without further notice of the unknown, resumed his
interrupted conversation.
The stranger, without reply, directed his steps towards the staircase
pointed out to him. On this side there was no noise, there were no more
flambeaux.
Obscurity, through which a sentinel glided like a shadow; silence, which
permitted him to hear the sound of his own footsteps, accompanied with the
jingling of his spurs upon the stone slabs.
This guard was one of the twenty musketeers appointed for attendance
upon the king, and who mounted guard with the stiffness and consciousness
of a statue.
“Who goes there?” said the guard.
“A friend,” replied the unknown.
“What do you want?”
“To speak to the king.”
“Do you, my dear monsieur? That’s not very likely.”
“Why not?”
“Because the king has gone to bed.”
“Gone to bed already?”
“Yes.”
“No matter: I must speak to him.”
“And I tell you that is impossible.”
“And yet—”
“Go back!”
“Do you require the word?”
“I have no account to render to you. Stand back!”
And this time the soldier accompanied his word with a threatening
gesture; but the unknown stirred no more than if his feet had taken root.

“Monsieur le mousquetaire,” said he, “are you a gentleman?”
“I have that honor.”
“Very well! I also am one; and between gentlemen some consideration
ought to be observed.”
The soldier lowered his arms, overcome by the dignity with which these
words were pronounced.
“Speak, monsieur,” said he; “and if you ask me anything in my power—”
“Thank you. You have an officer, have you not?”
“Our lieutenant? Yes, monsieur.”
“Well, I wish to speak to him.”
“Oh, that’s a different thing. Come up, monsieur.”
The unknown saluted the soldier in a lofty fashion, and ascended the
staircase; whilst a cry, “Lieutenant, a visit!” transmitted from sentinel to
sentinel, preceded the unknown, and disturbed the slumbers of the officer.
Dragging on his boot, rubbing his eyes, and hooking his cloak, the
lieutenant made three steps towards the stranger.
“What can I do to serve you, monsieur?” asked he.
“You are the officer on duty, lieutenant of the musketeers, are you?”
“I have that honor,” replied the officer.
“Monsieur, I must absolutely speak to the king.”
The lieutenant looked attentively at the unknown, and in that look, he
saw all he wished to see—that is to say, a person of high distinction in an
ordinary dress.
“I do not suppose you to be mad,” replied he; “and yet you seem to me to
be in a condition to know, monsieur, that people do not enter a king’s
apartments in this manner without his consent.”
“He will consent.”
“Monsieur, permit me to doubt that. The king has retired this quarter of
an hour; he must be now undressing. Besides, the word is given.”
“When he knows who I am, he will recall the word.”
The officer was more and more surprised, more and more subdued.
“If I consent to announce you, may I at least know whom to announce,
monsieur?”

“You will announce His Majesty Charles II., King of England, Scotland,
and Ireland.”
The officer uttered a cry of astonishment, drew back, and there might be
seen upon his pallid countenance one of the most poignant emotions that
ever an energetic man endeavored to drive back to his heart.
“Oh, yes, sire; in fact,” said he, “I ought to have recognized you.”
“You have seen my portrait, then?”
“No, sire.”
“Or else you have seen me formerly at court, before I was driven from
France?”
“No, sire, it is not even that.”
“How then could you have recognized me, if you have never seen my
portrait or my person?”
“Sire, I saw his majesty your father at a terrible moment.”
“The day—”
“Yes.”
A dark cloud passed over the brow of the prince; then, dashing his hand
across it, “Do you see any difficulty in announcing me?” said he.
“Sire, pardon me,” replied the officer, “but I could not imagine a king
under so simple an exterior; and yet I had the honor to tell your majesty just
now that I had seen Charles I. But pardon me, monsieur; I will go and
inform the king.”
But returning after going a few steps, “Your majesty is desirous, without
doubt, that this interview should be a secret?” said he.
“I do not require it; but if it were possible to preserve it—”
“It is possible, sire, for I can dispense with informing the first gentleman
on duty; but, for that, your majesty must please to consent to give up your
sword.”
“True, true; I had forgotten that no one armed is permitted to enter the
chamber of a king of France.”
“Your majesty will form an exception, if you wish it; but then I shall
avoid my responsibility by informing the king’s attendant.”

“Here is my sword, monsieur. Will you now please to announce me to his
majesty?”
“Instantly, sire.” And the officer immediately went and knocked at the
door of communication, which the valet opened to him.
“His Majesty the King of England!” said the officer.
“His Majesty the King of England!” replied the valet de chambre.
At these words a gentleman opened the folding-doors of the king’s
apartment, and Louis XIV. was seen, without hat or sword, and his
pourpoint open, advancing with signs of the greatest surprise.
“You, my brother—you at Blois!” cried Louis XIV., dismissing with a
gesture both the gentlemen and the valet de chambre, who passed out into
the next apartment.
“Sire,” replied Charles II., “I was going to Paris, in the hope of seeing
your majesty, when report informed me of your approaching arrival in this
city. I therefore prolonged my abode here, having something very particular
to communicate to you.”
“Will this closet suit you, my brother?”
“Perfectly well, sire; for I think no one can hear us here.”
“I have dismissed my gentleman and my watcher; they are in the next
chamber. There, behind that partition, is a solitary closet, looking into the
ante-chamber, and in that ante-chamber you found nobody but a solitary
officer, did you?”
“No, sire.”
“Well, then, speak, my brother; I listen to you.”
“Sire, I commence, and entreat your majesty to have pity on the
misfortunes of our house.”
The king of France colored, and drew his chair closer to that of the king
of England.
“Sire,” said Charles II., “I have no need to ask if your majesty is
acquainted with the details of my deplorable history.”
Louis XIV. blushed, this time more strongly than before; then, stretching
forth his hand to that of the king of England, “My brother,” said he, “I am
ashamed to say so, but the cardinal scarcely ever speaks of political affairs
before me. Still more, formerly I used to get Laporte, my valet de chambre,

to read historical subjects to me; but he put a stop to these readings, and
took away Laporte from me. So that I beg my brother Charles to tell me all
those matters as to a man who knows nothing.”
“Well, sire, I think that by taking things from the beginning I shall have a
better chance of touching the heart of your majesty.”
“Speak on, my brother—speak on.”
“You know, sire, that being called in 1650 to Edinburgh, during
Cromwell’s expedition into Ireland, I was crowned at Scone. A year after,
wounded in one of the provinces he had usurped, Cromwell returned upon
us. To meet him was my object; to leave Scotland was my wish.”
“And yet,” interrupted the young king, “Scotland is almost your native
country, is it not, my brother?”
“Yes, but the Scots were cruel compatriots for me, sire; they had forced
me to forsake the religion of my fathers; they had hung Lord Montrose, the
most devoted of my servants, because he was not a Covenanter; and as the
poor martyr, to whom they had offered a favor when dying, had asked that
his body might be cut into as many pieces as there are cities in Scotland, in
order that evidence of his fidelity might be met with everywhere, I could
not leave one city, or go into another, without passing under some
fragments of a body which had acted, fought, and breathed for me.
“By a bold, almost desperate march, I passed through Cromwell’s army,
and entered England. The Protector set out in pursuit of this strange flight,
which had a crown for its object. If I had been able to reach London before
him, without doubt the prize of the race would have been mine; but he
overtook me at Worcester.
“The genius of England was no longer with us, but with him. On the 3rd
of September, 1651, sire, the anniversary of the other battle of Dunbar, so
fatal to the Scots, I was conquered. Two thousand men fell around me
before I thought of retreating a step. At length I was obliged to fly.
“From that moment my history became a romance. Pursued with
persistent inveteracy, I cut off my hair, I disguised myself as a woodman.
One day spent amidst the branches of an oak gave to that tree the name of
the royal oak, which it bears to this day. My adventures in the county of
Stafford, whence I escaped with the daughter of my host on a pillion behind
me, still fill the tales of the country firesides, and would furnish matter for

ballads. I will some day write all this, sire, for the instruction of my brother
kings.
“I will first tell how, on arriving at the residence of Mr. Norton, I met
with a court chaplain, who was looking on at a party playing at skittles, and
an old servant who named me, bursting into tears, and who was as near and
as certainly killing me by his fidelity as another might have been by
treachery. Then I will tell of my terrors—yes, sire, of my terrors—when, at
the house of Colonel Windham, a farrier who came to shoe our horses
declared they had been shod in the north.”
“How strange!” murmured Louis XIV. “I never heard anything of all that;
I was only told of your embarkation at Brighelmstone and your landing in
Normandy.”*
* The correct name of the city is Brighthelmstone. The mistake is Dumas’s.

“Oh!” exclaimed Charles, “if Heaven permits kings to be thus ignorant of
the histories of each other, how can they render assistance to their brothers
who need it?”
“But tell me,” continued Louis XIV., “how, after being so roughly
received in England, you can still hope for anything from that unhappy
country and that rebellious people?”
“Oh, sire! since the battle of Worcester, everything is changed there.
Cromwell is dead, after having signed a treaty with France, in which his
name is placed above yours. He died on the 3rd of September, 1658, a fresh
anniversary of the battles of Dunbar and Worcester.”
“His son has succeeded him.”
“But certain men have a family, sire, and no heir. The inheritance of
Oliver was too heavy for Richard. Richard was neither a republican nor a
royalist; Richard allowed his guards to eat his dinner, and his generals to
govern the republic; Richard abdicated the protectorate on the 22nd of
April, 1659, more than a year ago, sire.
“From that time England is nothing but a tennis-court, in which the
players throw dice for the crown of my father. The two most eager players
are Lambert and Monk. Well, sire, I, in my turn, wish to take part in this
game, where the stakes are thrown upon my royal mantle. Sire, it only
requires a million to corrupt one of these players and make an ally of him,

or two hundred of your gentlemen to drive them out of my palace at
Whitehall, as Christ drove the money-changers from the temple.”
“You come, then,” replied Louis XIV., “to ask me—”
“For your assistance; that is to say, not only for that which kings owe to
each other, but that which simple Christians owe to each other—your
assistance, sire, either in money or men. Your assistance, sire, and within a
month, whether I oppose Lambert to Monk, or Monk to Lambert, I shall
have reconquered my paternal inheritance, without having cost my country
a guinea, or my subjects a drop of blood, for they are now all drunk with
revolutions, protectorates, and republics, and ask nothing better than to fall
staggering to sleep in the arms of royalty. Your assistance, sire, and I shall
owe you more than I owe my father,—my poor father, who bought at so
dear a rate the ruin of our house! You may judge, sire, whether I am
unhappy, whether I am in despair, for I accuse my own father!”
And the blood mounted to the pale face of Charles II., who remained for
an instant with his head between his hands, and as if blinded by that blood
which appeared to revolt against the filial blasphemy.
The young king was not less affected than his elder brother; he threw
himself about in his fauteuil, and could not find a single word of reply.
Charles II., to whom ten years in age gave a superior strength to master
his emotions, recovered his speech the first.
“Sire,” said he, “your reply? I wait for it as a criminal waits for his
sentence. Must I die?”
“My brother,” replied the French prince, “you ask of me for a million—
me, who was never possessed of a quarter of that sum! I possess nothing. I
am no more king of France than you are king of England. I am a name, a
cipher dressed in fleur-de-lised velvet,—that is all. I am upon a visible
throne; that is my only advantage over your majesty. I have nothing—I can
do nothing.”
“Can it be so?” exclaimed Charles II.
“My brother,” said Louis, sinking his voice, “I have undergone miseries
with which my poorest gentlemen are unacquainted. If my poor Laporte
were here, he would tell you that I have slept in ragged sheets, through the
holes of which my legs have passed; he would tell you that afterwards,
when I asked for carriages, they brought me conveyances half-destroyed by

the rats of the coach-houses; he would tell you that when I asked for my
dinner, the servants went to the cardinal’s kitchen to inquire if there were
any dinner for the king. And look! to-day, this very day even, when I am
twenty-two years of age,—to-day, when I have attained the grade of the
majority of kings,—to-day, when I ought to have the key of the treasury, the
direction of the policy, the supremacy in peace and war,—cast your eyes
around me, see how I am left! Look at this abandonment—this disdain—
this silence!—Whilst yonder—look yonder! View the bustle, the lights, the
homage! There!—there you see the real king of France, my brother!”
“In the cardinal’s apartments?”
“Yes, in the cardinal’s apartments.”
“Then I am condemned, sire?”
Louis XIV. made no reply.
“Condemned is the word; for I will never solicit him who left my mother
and sister to die with cold and hunger—the daughter and grand-daughter of
Henry IV.—as surely they would have if M. de Retz and the parliament had
not sent them wood and bread.”
“To die?” murmured Louis XIV.
“Well!” continued the king of England, “poor Charles II., grandson of
Henry IV., as you are, sire having neither parliament nor Cardinal de Retz to
apply to, will die of hunger, as his mother and sister had nearly done.”
Louis knitted his brow, and twisted violently the lace of his ruffles.
This prostration, this immobility, serving as a mark to an emotion so
visible, struck Charles II., and he took the young man’s hand.
“Thanks!” said he, “my brother. You pity me, and that is all I can require
of you in your present situation.”
“Sire,” said Louis XIV., with a sudden impulse, and raising his head, “it
is a million you require, or two hundred gentlemen, I think you say?”
“Sire, a million would be quite sufficient.”
“That is very little.”
“Offered to a single man it is a great deal. Convictions have been
purchased at a much lower price; and I should have nothing to do but with
venalities.”

“Two hundred gentlemen! Reflect!—that is little more than a single
company.”
“Sire, there is in our family a tradition, and that is, that four men, four
French gentlemen, devoted to my father, were near saving my father,
though condemned by a parliament, guarded by an army and surrounded by
a nation.”
“Then if I can procure you a million, or two hundred gentlemen, you will
be satisfied; and you will consider me your well-affectioned brother?”
“I shall consider you as my saviour; and if I recover the throne of my
father, England will be, as long as I reign it, a sister to France, as you will
have been a brother to me.”
“Well, my brother,” said Louis, rising, “what you hesitate to ask for, I
will myself demand; that which I have never done on my own account, I
will do on yours. I will go and find the king of France—the other—the rich,
the powerful one, I mean. I will myself solicit this million, or these two
hundred gentlemen; and—we will see.”
“Oh!” cried Charles; “you are a noble friend, sire—a heart created by
God! You save me, my brother; and if you should ever stand in need of the
life you restored me, demand it.”
“Silence, my brother,—silence!” said Louis, in a suppressed voice. “Take
care that no one hears you! We have not obtained our end yet. To ask money
of Mazarin—that is worse than traversing the enchanted forest, each tree of
which inclosed a demon. It is more than setting out to conquer a world.”
“But yet, sire, when you ask it—”
“I have already told you that I never asked,” replied Louis with a
haughtiness that made the king of England turn pale.
And the latter, like a wounded man, made a retreating movement
—“Pardon me, my brother,” replied he. “I have neither a mother nor a sister
who are suffering. My throne is hard and naked, but I am firmly seated on
my throne. Pardon me that expression, my brother; it was that of an egotist.
I will retract it, therefore, by a sacrifice,—I will go to monsieur le cardinal.
Wait for me, if you please—I will return.”

Chapter X. The Arithmetic of M. de Mazarin.

W
hilst the king was directing his course rapidly towards the wing of
the castle occupied by the cardinal, taking nobody with him but his
valet de chambre, the officer of musketeers came out, breathing like
a man who has for a long time been forced to hold his breath, from the little
cabinet of which we have already spoken, and which the king believed to be
quite solitary. This little cabinet had formerly been part of the chamber,
from which it was only separated by a thin partition. It resulted that this
partition, which was only for the eye, permitted the ear the least indiscreet
to hear every word spoken in the chamber.
There was no doubt, then, that this lieutenant of musketeers had heard all
that passed in his majesty’s apartment.
Warned by the last words of the young king, he came out just in time to
salute him on his passage, and to follow him with his eyes till he had
disappeared in the corridor.
Then as soon as he had disappeared, he shook his head after a fashion
peculiarly his own, and in a voice which forty years’ absence from Gascony
had not deprived of its Gascon accent, “A melancholy service,” said he,
“and a melancholy master!”
These words pronounced, the lieutenant resumed his place in his fauteuil,
stretched his legs and closed his eyes, like a man who either sleeps or
meditates.
During this short monologue and the mise en scene that had accompanied
it, whilst the king, through the long corridors of the old castle, proceeded to
the apartment of M. de Mazarin, a scene of another sort was being enacted
in those apartments.
Mazarin was in bed, suffering a little from the gout. But as he was a man
of order, who utilized even pain, he forced his wakefulness to be the humble
servant of his labor. He had consequently ordered Bernouin, his valet de

chambre, to bring him a little traveling-desk, so that he might write in bed.
But the gout is not an adversary that allows itself to be conquered so easily;
therefore, at each movement he made, the pain from dull became sharp.
“Is Brienne there?” asked he of Bernouin.
“No, monseigneur,” replied the valet de chambre; “M. de Brienne, with
your permission, is gone to bed. But if it is the wish of your eminence, he
can speedily be called.”
“No, it is not worth while. Let us see, however. Cursed ciphers!”
And the cardinal began to think, counting on his fingers the while.
“Oh, ciphers is it?” said Bernouin. “Very well! if your eminence attempts
calculations, I will promise you a pretty headache to-morrow! And with that
please to remember M. Guenaud is not here.”
“You are right, Bernouin. You must take Brienne’s place, my friend.
Indeed, I ought to have brought M. Colbert with me. That young man goes
on very well, Bernouin, very well; a very orderly youth.”
“I do not know,” said the valet de chambre, “but I don’t like the
countenance of your young man who goes on so well.”
“Well, well, Bernouin! We don’t stand in need of your advice. Place
yourself there: take the pen and write.”
“I am ready, monseigneur; what am I to write?”
“There, that’s the place: after the two lines already traced.”
“I am there.”
“Write seven hundred and sixty thousand livres.”
“That is written.”
“Upon Lyons—” The cardinal appeared to hesitate.
“Upon Lyons,” repeated Bernouin.
“Three millions nine hundred thousand livres.”
“Well, monseigneur?”
“Upon Bordeaux, seven millions.”
“Seven?” repeated Bernouin.
“Yes,” said the cardinal, pettishly, “seven.” Then, recollecting himself,
“You understand, Bernouin,” added he, “that all this money is to be spent?”

“Eh! monseigneur; whether it be spent or put away is of very little
consequence to me, since none of these millions are mine.”
“These millions are the king’s; it is the king’s money I am reckoning.
Well, what were we saying? You always interrupt me!”
“Seven millions upon Bordeaux.”
“Ah! yes; that’s right. Upon Madrid four millions. I give you to
understand plainly to whom this money belongs, Bernouin, seeing that
everybody has the stupidity to believe me rich in millions. I repel the silly
idea. A minister, besides, has nothing of his own. Come, go on. Rentrees
generales, seven millions; properties, nine millions. Have you written that,
Bernouin?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Bourse, six hundred thousand livres; various property, two millions. Ah!
I forgot—the furniture of the different chateaux—”
“Must I put of the crown?” asked Bernouin.
“No, no; it is of no use doing that—that is understood. Have you written
that, Bernouin?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“And the ciphers?”
“Stand straight under one another.”
“Cast them up, Bernouin.”
“Thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty thousand livres,
monseigneur.”
“Ah!” cried the cardinal, in a tone of vexation; “there are not yet forty
millions!”
Bernouin recommenced the addition.
“No, monseigneur; there want seven hundred and forty thousand livres.”
Mazarin asked for the account, and revised it carefully.
“Yes, but,” said Bernouin, “thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty
thousand livres make a good round sum.”
“Ah, Bernouin; I wish the king had it.”
“Your eminence told me that this money was his majesty’s.”

“Doubtless, as clear, as transparent as possible. These thirty-nine millions
are bespoken, and much more.”
Bernouin smiled after his own fashion—that is, like a man who believes
no more than he is willing to believe—whilst preparing the cardinal’s night
draught, and putting his pillow to rights.
“Oh!” said Mazarin, when the valet had gone out; “not yet forty millions!
I must, however, attain that sum, which I had set down for myself. But who
knows whether I shall have time? I sink, I am going, I shall never reach it!
And yet, who knows that I may not find two or three millions in the pockets
of my good friends the Spaniards? They discovered Peru, those people did,
and—what the devil! they must have something left.”
As he was speaking thus, entirely occupied with his ciphers, and thinking
no more of his gout, repelled by a preoccupation which, with the cardinal,
was the most powerful of all preoccupations, Bernouin rushed into the
chamber, quite in a fright.
“Well!” asked the cardinal, “what is the matter now?”
“The king, monseigneur,—the king!”
“How?—the king!” said Mazarin, quickly concealing his paper. “The
king here! the king at this hour! I thought he was in bed long ago. What is
the matter, then?”
The king could hear these last words, and see the terrified gesture of the
cardinal rising up in his bed, for he entered the chamber at that moment.
“It is nothing, monsieur le cardinal, or at least nothing which can alarm
you. It is an important communication which I wish to make to your
eminence to-night,—that is all.”
Mazarin immediately thought of that marked attention which the king
had given to his words concerning Mademoiselle de Mancini, and the
communication appeared to him probably to refer to this source. He
recovered his serenity then instantly, and assumed his most agreeable air, a
change of countenance which inspired the king with the greatest joy; and
when Louis was seated,—
“Sire,” said the cardinal, “I ought certainly to listen to your majesty
standing, but the violence of my complaint—”
“No ceremony between us, my dear monsieur le cardinal,” said Louis
kindly: “I am your pupil, and not the king, you know very well, and this

evening in particular, as I come to you as a petitioner, as a solicitor, and one
very humble, and desirous to be kindly received, too.”
Mazarin, seeing the heightened color of the king, was confirmed in his
first idea; that is to say, that love thoughts were hidden under all these fine
words. This time, political cunning, as keen as it was, made a mistake; this
color was not caused by the bashfulness of a juvenile passion, but only by
the painful contraction of the royal pride.
Like a good uncle, Mazarin felt disposed to facilitate the confidence.
“Speak, sire,” said he, “and since your majesty is willing for an instant to
forget that I am your subject, and call me your master and instructor, I
promise your majesty my most devoted and tender consideration.”
“Thanks, monsieur le cardinal,” answered the king; “that which I have to
ask of your eminence has but little to do with myself.”
“So much the worse!” replied the cardinal; “so much the worse! Sire, I
should wish your majesty to ask of me something of importance, even a
sacrifice; but whatever it may be that you ask me, I am ready to set your
heart at rest by granting it, my dear sire.”
“Well, this is what brings me here,” said the king, with a beating of the
heart that had no equal except the beating of the heart of the minister; “I
have just received a visit from my brother, the king of England.”
Mazarin bounded in his bed as if he had been put in relation with a
Leyden jar or a voltaic pile, at the same time that a surprise, or rather a
manifest disappointment, inflamed his features with such a blaze of anger,
that Louis XIV., little diplomatist as he was, saw that the minister had hoped
to hear something else.
“Charles II.?” exclaimed Mazarin, with a hoarse voice and a disdainful
movement of his lips. “You have received a visit from Charles II.?”
“From King Charles II.,” replied Louis, according in a marked manner to
the grandson of Henry IV. the title which Mazarin had forgotten to give
him. “Yes, monsieur le cardinal, that unhappy prince has touched my heart
with the relation of his misfortunes. His distress is great, monsieur le
cardinal, and it has appeared painful to me, who have seen my own throne
disputed, who have been forced in times of commotion to quit my capital,
—to me, in short, who am acquainted with misfortune,—to leave a deposed
and fugitive brother without assistance.”

“Eh!” said the cardinal, sharply; “why had he not, as you have, a Jules
Mazarin by his side? His crown would then have remained intact.”
“I know all that my house owes to your eminence,” replied the king,
haughtily, “and you may well believe that I, on my part, shall never forget
it. It is precisely because my brother, the king of England has not about him
the powerful genius who has saved me, it is for that, I say, that I wish to
conciliate the aid of that same genius, and beg you to extend your arm over
his head, well assured, monsieur le cardinal, that your hand, by touching
him only, would know how to replace upon his brow the crown which fell
at the foot of his father’s scaffold.”
“Sire,” replied Mazarin, “I thank you for your good opinion with regard
to myself, but we have nothing to do yonder: they are a set of madmen who
deny God, and cut off the heads of their kings. They are dangerous,
observe, sire, and filthy to the touch after having wallowed in royal blood
and covenantal murder. That policy has never suited me,—I scorn it and
reject it.”
“Therefore you ought to assist in establishing a better.”
“What is that?”
“The restoration of Charles II., for example.”
“Good heavens!” cried Mazarin, “does the poor prince flatter himself
with that chimera?”
“Yes, he does,” replied the young king, terrified at the difficulties
opposed to this project, which he fancied he could perceive in the infallible
eye of his minister; “he only asks for a million to carry out his purpose.”
“Is that all—a little million, if you please!” said the cardinal, ironically,
with an effort to conquer his Italian accent. “A little million, if you please,
brother! Bah! a family of mendicants!”
“Cardinal,” said Louis, raising his head, “that family of mendicants is a
branch of my family.”
“Are you rich enough to give millions to other people, sire? Have you
millions to throw away?”
“Oh!” replied Louis XIV., with great pain, which he, however, by a
strong effort, prevented from appearing on his countenance;—“oh! yes,
monsieur le cardinal, I am well aware I am poor, and yet the crown of
France is worth a million, and to perform a good action I would pledge my

crown if it were necessary. I could find Jews who would be willing to lend
me a million.”
“So, sire, you say you want a million?” said Mazarin.
“Yes, monsieur, I say so.”
“You are mistaken, greatly mistaken, sire; you want much more than that,
—Bernouin!—you shall see, sire, how much you really want.”
“What, cardinal!” said the king, “are you going to consult a lackey about
my affairs?”
“Bernouin!” cried the cardinal again, without appearing to remark the
humiliation of the young prince. “Come here, Bernouin, and tell me the
figures I gave you just now.”
“Cardinal, cardinal! did you not hear me?” said Louis, turning pale with
anger.
“Do not be angry, sire; I deal openly with the affairs of your majesty.
Every one in France knows that; my books are as open as day. What did I
tell you to do just now, Bernouin?”
“Your eminence commanded me to cast up an account.”
“You did it, did you not?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“To verify the amount of which his majesty, at this moment, stands in
need. Did I not tell you so? Be frank, my friend.”
“Your eminence said so.”
“Well, what sum did I say I wanted?”
“Forty-five millions, I think.”
“And what sum could we find, after collecting all our resources?”
“Thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty thousand.”
“That is correct, Bernouin; that is all I wanted to know. Leave us now,”
said the cardinal, fixing his brilliant eye upon the young king, who sat mute
with stupefaction.
“However—” stammered the king.
“What, do you still doubt, sire?” said the cardinal. “Well, here is a proof
of what I said.”

And Mazarin drew from under his bolster the paper covered with figures,
which he presented to the king, who turned away his eyes, his vexation was
so deep.
“Therefore, as it is a million you want, sire, and that million is not set
down here, it is forty-six millions your majesty stands in need of. Well, I
don’t think that any Jews in the world would lend such a sum, even upon
the crown of France.”
The king, clenching his hands beneath his ruffles, pushed away his chair.
“So it must be then!” said he; “my brother the king of England will die of
hunger.”
“Sire,” replied Mazarin, in the same tone, “remember this proverb, which
I give you as the expression of the soundest policy: ‘Rejoice at being poor
when your neighbor is poor likewise.’”
Louis meditated this for a few moments, with an inquisitive glance
directed to the paper, one end of which remained under the bolster.
“Then,” said he, “it is impossible to comply with my demand for money,
my lord cardinal, is it?”
“Absolutely, sire.”
“Remember, this will secure me a future enemy, if he succeed in
recovering his crown without my assistance.”
“If your majesty only fears that, you may be quite at ease,” replied
Mazarin, eagerly.
“Very well, I say no more about it,” exclaimed Louis XIV.
“Have I at least convinced you, sire?” placing his hand upon that of the
young king.
“Perfectly.”
“If there be anything else, ask it, sire; I shall most happy to grant it to
you, having refused this.”
“Anything else, my lord?”
“Why yes; am I not devoted body and soul to your majesty? Hola!
Bernouin!—lights and guards for his majesty! His majesty is returning to
his own chamber.”
“Not yet, monsieur: since you place your good-will at my disposal, I will
take advantage of it.”

“For yourself, sire?” asked the cardinal, hoping that his niece was at
length about to be named.
“No, monsieur, not for myself,” replied Louis, “but still for my brother
Charles.”
The brow of Mazarin again became clouded, and he grumbled a few
words that the king could not catch.

Chapter XI. Mazarin’s Policy.

I
nstead of the hesitation with which he had accosted the cardinal a
quarter of an hour before, there might be read in the eyes of the young
king that will against which a struggle might be maintained, and which
might be crushed by its own impotence, but which, at least, would preserve,
like a wound in the depth of the heart, the remembrance of its defeat.
“This time, my lord cardinal, we have to deal with something more easily
found than a million.”
“Do you think so, sire?” said Mazarin, looking at the king with that
penetrating eye which was accustomed to read to the bottom of hearts.
“Yes, I think so; and when you know the object of my request—”
“And do you think I do not know it, sire?”
“You know what remains for me to say to you?”
“Listen, sire; these are King Charles’s own words—”
“Oh, impossible!”
“Listen. ‘And if that miserly, beggarly Italian,’ said he—”
“My lord cardinal!”
“That is the sense, if not the words. Eh! Good heavens! I wish him no ill
on that account; one is biased by his passions. He said to you: ‘If that vile
Italian refuses the million we ask of him, sire,—if we are forced, for want
of money, to renounce diplomacy, well, then, we will ask him to grant us
five hundred gentlemen.’”
The king started, for the cardinal was only mistaken in the number.
“Is not that it, sire?” cried the minister, with a triumphant accent. “And
then he added some fine words: he said, ‘I have friends on the other side of
the channel, and these friends only want a leader and a banner. When they
see me, when they behold the banner of France, they will rally around me,
for they will comprehend that I have your support. The colors of the French

uniform will be worth as much to me as the million M. de Mazarin refuses
us,’—for he was pretty well assured I should refuse him that million.—‘I
shall conquer with these five hundred gentlemen, sire, and all the honor will
be yours.’ Now, that is what he said, or to that purpose, was it not?—turning
those plain words into brilliant metaphors and pompous images, for they are
fine talkers in that family! The father talked even on the scaffold.”
The perspiration of shame stood on the brow of Louis. He felt that it was
inconsistent with his dignity to hear his brother thus insulted, but he did not
yet know how to act with him to whom every one yielded, even his mother.
At last he made an effort.
“But,” said he, “my lord cardinal, it is not five hundred men, it is only
two hundred.”
“Well, but you see I guessed what he wanted.”
“I never denied that you had a penetrating eye, and that was why I
thought you would not refuse my brother Charles a thing so simple and so
easy to grant him as what I ask of you in his name, my lord cardinal, or
rather in my own.”
“Sire,” said Mazarin, “I have studied policy thirty years; first, under the
auspices of M. le Cardinal Richelieu; and then alone. This policy has not
always been over-honest, it must be allowed, but it has never been
unskillful. Now that which is proposed to your majesty is dishonest and
unskillful at the same time.”
“Dishonest, monsieur!”
“Sire, you entered into a treaty with Cromwell.”
“Yes, and in that very treaty Cromwell signed his name above mine.”
“Why did you sign yours so lo down, sire? Cromwell found a good place,
and he took it; that was his custom. I return, then, to M. Cromwell. You
have a treaty with him, that is to say, with England, since when you signed
that treaty M. Cromwell was England.”
“M. Cromwell is dead.”
“Do you think so, sire?”
“No doubt he is, since his son Richard has succeeded him, and has
abdicated.”

“Yes, that is it exactly. Richard inherited after the death of his father, and
England at the abdication of Richard. The treaty formed part of the
inheritance, whether in the hands of M. Richard or in the hands of England.
The treaty is, then, still as good, as valid as ever. Why should you evade it,
sire? What is changed? Charles wants to-day what we were not willing to
grant him ten years ago; but that was foreseen and provided against. You are
the ally of England, sire, and not of Charles II. It was doubtless wrong,
from a family point of view, to sign a treaty with a man who had cut off the
head of the king your father’s brother-in-law, and to contract an alliance
with a parliament which they call yonder the Rump Parliament; it was
unbecoming, I acknowledge, but it was not unskillful from a political point
of view, since, thanks to that treaty, I saved your majesty, then a minor, the
trouble and danger of a foreign war, which the Fronde—you remember the
Fronde, sire?”—the young king hung his head—“which the Fronde might
have fatally complicated. And thus I prove to your majesty that to change
our plan now, without warning our allies, would be at once unskillful and
dishonest. We should make war with the aggression on our side; we should
make it, deserving to have it made against us; and we should have the
appearance of fearing it whilst provoking it, for a permission granted to five
hundred men, to two hundred men, to fifty men, to ten men, is still a
permission. One Frenchman, that is the nation; one uniform, that is the
army. Suppose, sire, for example, that you should have war with Holland,
which, sooner or later, will certainly happen; or with Spain, which will
perhaps ensue if your marriage fails” (Mazarin stole a furtive glance at the
king), “and there are a thousand causes that might yet make your marriage
fail,—well, would you approve of England’s sending to the United
Provinces or to Spain a regiment, a company, a squadron even, of English
gentlemen? Would you think that they kept within the limits of their treaty
of alliance?”
Louis listened; it seemed so strange to him that Mazarin should invoke
good faith, and he the author of so many political tricks, called
Mazarinades. “And yet,” said the king, “without manifest of my
authorization, I cannot prevent gentlemen of my states from passing over
into England, if such should be their good pleasure.”
“You should compel them to return, sire, or at least protest against their
presence as enemies in a allied country.”

“But come, my lord cardinal, you who are so profound a genius, try if
you cannot find a means to assist this poor king, without compromising
ourselves.”
“And that is exactly what I am not willing to do, my dear sire,” said
Mazarin. “If England were to act exactly according to my wishes, she could
not act better than she does; if I directed the policy of England from this
place, I should not direct it otherwise. Governed as she is governed,
England is an eternal nest of contention for all Europe. Holland protects
Charles II., let Holland do so; they will quarrel, they will fight. Let them
destroy each other’s navies, we can construct ours with the wrecks of their
vessels; when we shall save our money to buy nails.”
“Oh, how paltry and mean is all this that you are telling me, monsieur le
cardinal!”
“Yes, but nevertheless it is true, sire; you must confess that. Still further.
Suppose I admit, for a moment, the possibility of breaking your word, and
evading the treaty—such a thing as sometimes happens, but that is when
some great interest is to be promoted by it, or when the treaty is found to be
too troublesome—well, you will authorize the engagement asked of you:
France—her banner, which is the same thing—will cross the Straits and will
fight; France will be conquered.”
“Why so?”
“Ma foi! we have a pretty general to fight under—this Charles II.!
Worcester gave us proofs of that.”
“But he will no longer have to deal with Cromwell, monsieur.”
“But he will have to deal with Monk, who is quite as dangerous. The
brave brewer of whom we are speaking, was a visionary; he had moments
of exaltation, of inflation, during which he ran over like an over-filled cask;
and from the chinks there always escaped some drops of his thoughts, and
by the sample the whole of his thought was to be made out. Cromwell has
thus allowed us more than ten times to penetrate into his very soul, when
one would have conceived that soul to be enveloped in triple brass, as
Horace had it. But Monk! Oh, sire, God defend you from ever having
anything to transact politically with Monk. It is he who has given me, in
one year, all the gray hairs I have. Monk is no fanatic; unfortunately he is a
politician; he does not overflow, he keeps close together. For ten years he
has had his eyes fixed upon one object, and nobody has yet been able to

ascertain what. Every morning, as Louis XI. advised, he burns his nightcap.
Therefore, on the day when this plan, slowly and solitarily ripened, shall
break forth, it will break forth with all the conditions of success which
always accompany an unforeseen event. That is Monk, sire, of whom,
perhaps, you have never even heard—of whom, perhaps, you did not even
know the name, before your brother, Charles II., who knows what he is,
pronounced it before you. He is a marvel of depth and tenacity, the two only
things against which intelligence and ardor are blunted. Sire, I had ardor
when I was young; I always was intelligent. I may safely boast of it,
because I am reproached with it. I have done very well with these two
qualities, since, from the son of a fisherman of Piscina, I have become
prime minister to the king of France; and in that position your majesty will
perhaps acknowledge I have rendered some service to the throne of your
majesty. Well, sire, if I had met with Monk on my way, instead of Monsieur
de Beaufort, Monsieur de Retz, or Monsieur le Prince—well, we should
have been ruined. If you engage yourself rashly, sire, you will fall into the
talons of this politic soldier. The casque of Monk, sire, is an iron coffer, and
no one has the key of it. Therefore, near him, or rather before him, I bow,
sire, for I have nothing but a velvet cap.”
“What do you think Monk wishes to do, then?”
“Eh! sire, if I knew that, I would not tell you to mistrust him, for I should
be stronger than he; but with him, I am afraid to guess—to guess!—you
understand my word?—for if I thought I had guessed, I should stop at an
idea, and, in spite of myself, should pursue that idea. Since that man has
been in power yonder, I am like one of the damned in Dante whose neck
Satan has twisted, and who walk forward looking around behind them. I am
traveling towards Madrid, but I never lose sight of London. To guess, with
that devil of a man, is to deceive one’s self and to deceive one’s self is to
ruin one’s self. God keep me from ever seeking to guess what he aims at; I
confine myself to watching what he does, and that is well enough. Now I
believe—you observe the meaning of the word I believe?—I believe, with
respect to Monk, ties one to nothing—I believe that he has a strong
inclination to succeed Cromwell. Your Charles II. has already caused
proposals to be made to him by ten persons; he has satisfied himself with
driving these ten meddlers from his presence, without saying anything to
them but, ‘Begone, or I will have you hung.’ That man is a sepulcher! At
this moment Monk is affecting devotion to the Rump Parliament; of this

devotion, I am not the dupe. Monk has no wish to be assassinated,—an
assassination would stop him in the middle of his operations; and his work
must be accomplished;—so I believe—but do not believe what I believe,
sire: for as I say I believe from habit—I believe that Monk is keeping on
friendly terms with the parliament till the day comes for dispersing it. You
are asked for swords, but they are to fight against Monk. God preserve you
from fighting against Monk, sire; for Monk would beat us, and I should
never console myself after being beaten by Monk. I should say to myself,
Monk has foreseen that victory ten years. For God’s sake, sire, out of
friendship for you, if not out of consideration for himself, let Charles II.
keep quiet. Your majesty will give him a little income here; give him one of
your chateaux. Yes, yes—wait awhile. But I forget the treaty—that famous
treaty of which we were just now speaking. Your majesty has not even the
right to give him a chateau.”
“How is that?”
“Yes, yes; your majesty is bound not to grant hospitality to King Charles,
and to compel him to leave France even. It was on this account we forced
him to quit you, and yet here he is again. Sire, I hope you will give your
brother to understand that he cannot remain with us; that it is impossible he
should be allowed to compromise us; or I myself—”
“Enough, my lord,” said Louis XIV., rising. “In refusing me a million,
perhaps you may be right; your millions are your own. In refusing me two
hundred gentlemen, you are still further in the right; for you are prime
minister, and you have, in the eyes of France, the responsibility of peace
and war. But that you should pretend to prevent me, who am king, from
extending my hospitality to the grandson of Henry IV., to my cousin-
german, to the companion of my childhood—there your power stops, and
there begins my will.”
“Sire,” said Mazarin, delighted at being let off so cheaply, and who had,
besides, only fought so earnestly to arrive at that,—“sire, I shall always
bend before the will of my king. Let my king, then, keep near him, or in one
of his chateaux, the king of England; let Mazarin know it, but let not the
minister know it.”
“Good-night, my lord,” said Louis XIV., “I go away in despair.”
“But convinced, and that is all I desire, sire,” replied Mazarin.

The king made no answer, and retired quite pensive, convinced, not of all
Mazarin had told him, but of one thing which he took care not to mention to
him; and that was, that it was necessary for him to study seriously both his
own affairs and those of Europe, for he found them very difficult and very
obscure. Louis found the king of England seated in the same place where he
had left him. On perceiving him, the English prince arose; but at the first
glance he saw discouragement written in dark letters upon his cousin’s
brow. Then, speaking first, as if to facilitate the painful avowal that Louis
had to make to him,—
“Whatever it may be,” said he, “I shall never forget all the kindness, all
the friendship you have exhibited towards me.”
“Alas!” replied Louis, in a melancholy tone, “only barren good-will, my
brother.”
Charles II. became extremely pale; he passed his cold hand over his
brow, and struggled for a few instants against a faintness that made him
tremble. “I understand,” said he at last; “no more hope!”
Louis seized the hand of Charles II. “Wait, my brother,” said he;
“precipitate nothing; everything may change; hasty resolutions ruin all
causes; add another year of trial, I implore you, to the years you have
already undergone. You have, to induce you to act now rather than at
another time, neither occasion nor opportunity. Come with me, my brother;
I will give you one of my residences, whichever you prefer, to inhabit. I,
with you, will keep my eyes upon events; we will prepare. Come, then, my
brother, have courage!”
Charles II. withdrew his hand from that of the king, and drawing back, to
salute him with more ceremony, “With all my heart, thanks!” replied he,
“sire; but I have prayed without success to the greatest king on earth; now I
will go and ask a miracle of God.” And he went out without being willing to
hear any more, his head carried loftily, his hand trembling, with a painful
contraction of his noble countenance, and that profound gloom which,
finding no more hope in the world of men, appeared to go beyond it, and
ask it in worlds unknown. The officer of musketeers, on seeing him pass by
thus pale, bowed almost to his knees as he saluted him. He then took a
flambeau, called two musketeers, and descended the deserted staircase with
the unfortunate king, holding in his left hand his hat, the plume of which

swept the steps. Arrived at the door, the musketeer asked the king which
way he was going, that he might direct the musketeers.
“Monsieur,” replied Charles II., in a subdued voice, “you who have
known my father, say, did you ever pray for him? If you have done so, do
not forget me in your prayers. Now, I am going alone, and beg of you not to
accompany me, or have me accompanied any further.”
The officer bowed and sent away the musketeers into the interior of the
palace. But he himself remained an instant under the porch watching the
departing Charles II., till he was lost in the turn of the next street. “To him
as to his father formerly,” murmured he, “Athos, if he were here, would say
with reason,—‘Salute fallen majesty!’” Then, reascending the staircase:
“Oh! the vile service that I follow!” said he at every step. “Oh! my pitiful
master! Life thus carried on is no longer tolerable, and it is at length time
that I should do something! No more generosity, no more energy! The
master has succeeded, the pupil is starved forever. Mordioux! I will not
resist. Come, you men,” continued he, entering the ante-chamber, “why are
you all looking at me so? Extinguish these torches and return to your posts.
Ah! you were guarding me? Yes, you watch over me, do you not, worthy
fellows? Brave fools! I am not the Duc de Guise. Begone! They will not
assassinate me in the little passage. Besides,” added he, in a low voice, “that
would be a resolution, and no resolutions have been formed since Monsieur
le Cardinal Richelieu died. Now, with all his faults, that was a man! It is
settled: to-morrow I will throw my cassock to the nettles.”
Then, reflecting: “No,” said he, “not yet! I have one great trial to make
and I will make it; but that, and I swear it, shall be the last, Mordioux!”
He had not finished speaking when a voice issued from the king’s
chamber. “Monsieur le lieutenant!” said this voice.
“Here I am,” replied he.
“The king desires to speak to you.”
“Humph!” said the lieutenant; “perhaps of what I was thinking about.”
And he went into the king’s apartment.

Chapter XII. The King and the Lieutenant.

A
s soon as the king saw the officer enter, he dismissed his valet de
chambre and his gentleman.
“Who is on duty to-morrow, monsieur?” asked he.
The lieutenant bowed his head with military politeness, and replied, “I
am, sire.”
“What! still you?”
“Always I, sire.”
“How can that be, monsieur?”
“Sire, when traveling, the musketeers supply all the posts of your
majesty’s household; that is to say, yours, her majesty the queen’s, and
monsieur le cardinal’s, the latter of whom borrows of the king the best part,
or rather the numerous part, of the royal guard.”
“But in the interims?”
“There are no interims, sire, but for twenty or thirty men who rest out of
a hundred and twenty. At the Louvre it is very different, and if I were at the
Louvre I should rely upon my brigadier; but, when traveling, sire, no one
knows what may happen, and I prefer doing my duty myself.”
“Then you are on guard every day?”
“And every night. Yes, sire.”
“Monsieur, I cannot allow that—I will have you rest.”
“That is very kind, sire; but I will not.”
“What do you say?” said the king, who did not at first comprehend the
full meaning of this reply.
“I say, sire, that I will not expose myself to the chance of a fault. If the
devil had a trick to play on me, you understand, sire, as he knows the man

with whom he has to deal, he would chose the moment when I should not
be there. My duty and the peace of my conscience before everything, sire.”
“But such duty will kill you, monsieur.”
“Eh! sire, I have performed it for thirty years, and in all France and
Navarre there is not a man in better health than I am. Moreover, I entreat
you, sire, not to trouble yourself about me. That would appear very strange
to me, seeing that I am not accustomed to it.”
The king cut short the conversation by a fresh question. “Shall you be
here, then, to-morrow morning?”
“As at present? yes, sire.”
The king walked several times up and down his chamber; it was very
plain that he burned with a desire to speak, but that he was restrained by
some fear or other. The lieutenant, standing motionless, hat in hand,
watched him making these evolutions, and, whilst looking at him, grumbled
to himself, biting his mustache:
“He has not half a crown worth of resolution! Parole d’honneur! I would
lay a wager he does not speak at all!”
The king continued to walk about, casting from time to time a side glance
at the lieutenant. “He is the very image of his father,” continued the latter,
in is secret soliloquy, “he is at once proud, avaricious, and timid. The devil
take his master, say I.”
The king stopped. “Lieutenant,” said he.
“I am here, sire.”
“Why did you cry out this evening, down below in the salons—‘The
king’s service! His majesty’s musketeers!’”
“Because you gave me the order, sire.”
“I?” “Yourself.”
“Indeed, I did not say a word, monsieur.”
“Sire, an order is given by a sign, by a gesture, by a glance, as
intelligibly, as freely, and as clearly as by word of mouth. A servant who has
nothing but ears is not half a good servant.”
“Your eyes are very penetrating, then, monsieur.”
“How is that, sire?”

“Because they see what is not.”
“My eyes are good, though, sire, although they have served their master
long and much: when they have anything to see, they seldom miss the
opportunity. Now, this evening, they saw that your majesty colored with
endeavoring to conceal the inclination to yawn, that your majesty looked
with eloquent supplications, first to his eminence, and then at her majesty,
the queen-mother, and at length to the entrance door, and they so thoroughly
remarked all I have said, that they saw your majesty’s lips articulate these
words: ‘Who will get me out of this?’”
“Monsieur!”
“Or something to this effect, sire—‘My musketeers!’ I could then no
longer hesitate. That look was for me. I cried out instantly, ‘His majesty’s
musketeers!’ And, besides, that was shown to be true, sire, not only by your
majesty’s not saying I was wrong, but proving I was right by going out at
once.”
The king turned away to smile; then, after a few seconds, he again fixed
his limpid eye upon that countenance, so intelligent, so bold, and so firm,
that it might have been said to be the proud and energetic profile of the
eagle facing the sun. “That is all very well,” said he, after a short silence,
during which he endeavored, in vain, to make his officer lower his eyes.
But seeing the king said no more, the latter pirouetted on his heels, and
took three steps towards the door, muttering, “He will not speak! Mordioux!
he will not speak!”
“Thank you, monsieur,” said the king at last.
“Humph!” continued the lieutenant; “there was only wanting that.
Blamed for having been less of a fool than another might have been.” And
he went to the door, allowing his spurs to jingle in true military style. But
when he was on the threshold, feeling the king’s desire drew him back, he
returned.
“Has your majesty told me all?” asked he, in a tone we cannot describe,
but which, without appearing to solicit the royal confidence, contained so
much persuasive frankness, that the king immediately replied:
“Yes; but draw near, monsieur.”
“Now then,” murmured the officer, “he is coming to it at last.”
“Listen to me.”

“I shall not lose a word, sire.”
“You will mount on horseback to-morrow, at about half-past four in the
morning, and you will have a horse saddled for me.”
“From your majesty’s stables?”
“No; one of your musketeers’ horses.”
“Very well, sire. Is that all?”
“And you will accompany me.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“Shall I come to seek your majesty, or shall I wait?”
“You will wait for me.”
“Where, sire?”
“At the little park-gate.”
The lieutenant bowed, understanding that the king had told him all he had
to say. In fact, the king dismissed him with a gracious wave of the hand.
The officer left the chamber of the king, and returned to place himself
philosophically in his fauteuil, where, far from sleeping, as might have been
expected, considering how late it was, he began to reflect more deeply than
he had ever reflected before. The result of these reflections was not so
melancholy as the preceding ones had been.
“Come, he has begun,” said he. “Love urges him on, and he goes forward
—he goes forward! The king is nobody in his own palace; but the man
perhaps may prove to be worth something. Well, we shall see to-morrow
morning. Oh! oh!” cried he, all at once starting up, “that is a gigantic idea,
mordioux! and perhaps my fortune depends, at least, upon that idea!” After
this exclamation, the officer arose and marched, with his hands in the
pockets of his justaucorps, about the immense ante-chamber that served him
as an apartment. The wax-light flamed furiously under the effects of a fresh
breeze, which stole in through the chinks of the door and the window, and
cut the salle diagonally. It threw out a reddish, unequal light, sometimes
brilliant, sometimes dull, and the tall shadow of the lieutenant was seen
marching on the wall, in profile, like a figure by Callot, with his long sword
and feathered hat.

“Certainly!” said he, “I am mistaken if Mazarin is not laying a snare for
this amorous boy. Mazarin, this evening, gave an address, and made an
appointment as complacently as M. Daangeau himself could have done—I
heard him, and I know the meaning of his words. ‘To-morrow morning,’
said he, ‘they will pass opposite the bridge of Blois.’ Mordioux! that is clear
enough, and particularly for a lover. That is the cause of this
embarrassment; that is the cause of this hesitation; that is the cause of this
order—‘Monsieur the lieutenant of my musketeers, be on horseback to-
morrow at four o’clock in the morning.’ Which is as clear as if he had said,
—‘Monsieur the lieutenant of my musketeers, to-morrow, at four, at the
bridge of Blois,—do you understand?’ Here is a state secret, then, which I,
humble as I am, have in my possession, while it is in action. And how do I
get it? Because I have good eyes, as his majesty just now said. They say he
loves this little Italian doll furiously. They say he threw himself at his
mother’s feet, to beg her to allow him to marry her. They say the queen
went so far as to consult the court of Rome, whether such a marriage,
contracted against her will, would be valid. Oh, if I were but twenty-five! If
I had by my side those I no longer have! If I did not despise the whole
world most profoundly, I would embroil Mazarin with the queen-mother,
France with Spain, and I would make a queen after my own fashion. But let
that pass.” And the lieutenant snapped his fingers in disdain.
“This miserable Italian—this poor creature—this sordid wretch—who
has just refused the king of England a million, would not perhaps give me a
thousand pistoles for the news I would carry him. Mordioux! I am falling
into second childhood—I am becoming stupid indeed! The idea of Mazarin
giving anything! ha! ha! ha!” and he laughed in a subdued voice.
“Well, let us go to sleep—let us go to sleep; and the sooner the better. My
mind is wearied with my evening’s work, and will see things to-morrow
more clearly than to-day.”
And upon this recommendation, made to himself, he folded his cloak
around him, looking with contempt upon his royal neighbor. Five minutes
after this he was asleep, with his hands clenched and his lips apart, giving
escape, not to his secret, but to a sonorous sound, which rose and spread
freely beneath the majestic roof of the ante-chamber.

Chapter XIII. Mary de Mancini.

T
he sun had scarcely shed its first beams on the majestic trees of the
park and the lofty turrets of the castle, when the young king, who had
been awake more than two hours, possessed by the sleeplessness of
love, opened his shutters himself, and cast an inquiring look into the courts
of the sleeping palace. He saw that it was the hour agreed upon: the great
court clock pointed to a quarter past four. He did not disturb his valet de
chambre, who was sleeping soundly at some distance; he dressed himself,
and the valet, in a great fright, sprang up, thinking he had been deficient in
his duty; but the king sent him back again, commanding him to preserve the
most absolute silence. He then descended the little staircase, went out at a
lateral door, and perceived at the end of the wall a mounted horseman,
holding another horse by the bridle. This horseman could not be recognized
in his cloak and slouched hat. As to the horse, saddled like that of a rich
citizen, it offered nothing remarkable to the most experienced eye. Louis
took the bridle: the officer held the stirrup without dismounting, and asked
his majesty’s orders in a low voice.
“Follow me,” replied the king.
The officer put his horse to the trot, behind that of his master, and they
descended the hill towards the bridge. When they reached the other side of
the Loire,—
“Monsieur,” said the king, “you will please to ride on till you see a
carriage coming; then return and inform me. I will wait here.”
“Will your majesty deign to give me some description of the carriage I
am charged to discover?”
“A carriage in which you will see two ladies, and probably their
attendants likewise.”
“Sire, I should not wish to make a mistake; is there no other sign by
which I may know this carriage?”

“It will bear, in all probability, the arms of monsieur le cardinal.”
“That is sufficient, sire,” replied the officer, fully instructed in the object
of his search. He put his horse to the trot, and rode sharply on in the
direction pointed out by the king. But he had scarcely gone five hundred
paces when he saw four mules, and then a carriage, loom up from behind a
little hill. Behind this carriage came another. It required only one glance to
assure him that these were the equipages he was in search of; he therefore
turned his bridle, and rode back to the king.
“Sire,” said he, “here are the carriages. The first, as you said, contains
two ladies with their femmes de chambre; the second contains the footmen,
provisions, and necessaries.”
“That is well,” replied the king in an agitated voice. “Please to go and tell
those ladies that a cavalier of the court wishes to pay his respects to them
alone.”
The officer set off at a gallop. “Mordioux!” said he, as he rode on, “here
is a new and honorable employment, I hope! I complained of being nobody.
I am the king’s confidant: that is enough to make a musketeer burst with
pride.”
He approached the carriage, and delivered his message gallantly and
intelligently. There were two ladies in the carriage: one of great beauty,
although rather thin; the other less favored by nature, but lively, graceful,
and uniting in the delicate lines of her brow all the signs of a strong will.
Her eyes, animated and piercing, in particular, spoke more eloquently than
all the amorous phrases in fashion in those days of gallantry. It was to her
D’Artagnan addressed himself, without fear of being mistaken, although the
other was, as we have said, the more handsome of the two.
“Madame,” said he, “I am the lieutenant of the musketeers, and there is
on the road a horseman who awaits you, and is desirous of paying his
respects to you.”
At these words, the effect of which he watched closely, the lady with the
black eyes uttered a cry of joy, leant out of the carriage window, and seeing
the cavalier approaching, held out her arms, exclaiming:
“Ah, my dear sire!” and the tears gushed from her eyes.
The coachman stopped his team; the women rose in confusion from the
back of the carriage, and the second lady made a slight curtsey, terminated

by the most ironical smile that jealousy ever imparted to the lips of woman.
“Marie, dear Marie,” cried the king, taking the hand of the black-eyed
lady in both his. And opening the heavy door himself, he drew her out of
the carriage with so much ardor, that she was in his arms before she touched
the ground. The lieutenant, posted on the other side of the carriage, saw and
heard all without being observed.
The king offered his arm to Mademoiselle de Mancini, and made a sign
to the coachman and lackeys to proceed. It was nearly six o’clock; the road
was fresh and pleasant; tall trees with their foliage still inclosed in the
golden down of their buds, let the dew of morning filter from their
trembling branches, like liquid diamonds; the grass was bursting at the foot
of the hedges; the swallows having returned only a few days since,
described their graceful curves between the heavens and the water; a
breeze, laden with the perfumes of the blossoming woods, sighed along the
road, and wrinkled the surface of the waters of the river; all these beauties
of the day, all these perfumes of the plants, all these aspirations of the earth
towards heaven, intoxicated the two lovers, walking side by side, leaning
upon each other, eyes fixed upon eyes, hand clasping hand, and who,
lingering as by a common desire, did not dare to speak, they had so much to
say.
The officer saw that the king’s horse, in wandering this way and that,
annoyed Mademoiselle de Mancini. He took advantage of the pretext of
securing the horse to draw near them, and dismounting, walked between the
two horses he led; he did not lose a single word or gesture of the lovers. It
was Mademoiselle de Mancini who at length began.
“Ah, my dear sire!” said she, “you do not abandon me, then?”
“No, Marie,” replied the king; “you see I do not.”
“I had so often been told, though, that as soon as we should be separated
you would no longer think of me.”
“Dear Marie, is it then to-day only that you have discovered we are
surrounded by people interested in deceiving us?”
“But then, sire, this journey, this alliance with Spain? They are going to
marry you off!”
Louis hung his head. At the same time the officer could see the eyes of
Marie de Mancini shine in the sun with the brilliancy of a dagger starting

from its sheath. “And you have done nothing in favor of our love?” asked
the girl, after a silence of a moment.
“Ah! mademoiselle, how could you believe that? I threw myself at the
feet of my mother; I begged her, I implored her; I told her all my hopes of
happiness were in you; I even threatened—”
“Well?” asked Marie, eagerly.
“Well, the queen-mother wrote to the court of Rome, and received as
answer, that a marriage between us would have no validity, and would be
dissolved by the holy father. At length, finding there was no hope for us, I
requested to have my marriage with the infanta at least delayed.”
“And yet that does not prevent your being on the road to meet her?”
“How can I help it? To my prayers, to my supplications, to my tears, I
received no answer but reasons of state.”
“Well, well?”
“Well, what is to be done, mademoiselle, when so many wills are leagued
against me?”
It was now Marie’s turn to hang her head. “Then I must bid you adieu
forever,” said she. “You know that I am being exiled; you know that I am
going to be buried alive; you know still more that they want to marry me
off, too.”
Louis became very pale, and placed his hand upon his heart.
“If I had thought that my life only had been at stake, I have been so
persecuted that I might have yielded; but I thought yours was concerned,
my dear sire, and I stood out for the sake of preserving your happiness.”
“Oh, yes! my happiness, my treasure!” murmured the king, more
gallantly than passionately, perhaps.
“The cardinal might have yielded,” said Marie, “if you had addressed
yourself to him, if you had pressed him. For the cardinal to call the king of
France his nephew! do you not perceive, sire? He would have made war
even for that honor; the cardinal, assured of governing alone, under the
double pretext of having brought up the king and given his niece to him in
marriage—the cardinal would have fought all antagonists, overcome all
obstacles. Oh, sire! I can answer for that. I am a woman, and I see clearly
into everything where love is concerned.”

These words produced a strange effect upon the king. Instead of
heightening his passion, they cooled it. He stopped, and said hastily,—
“What is to be said, mademoiselle? Everything has failed.”
“Except your will, I trust, my dear sire?”
“Alas!” said the king, coloring, “have I a will?”
“Oh!” said Mademoiselle de Mancini mournfully, wounded by that
expression.
“The king has no will but that which policy dictates, but that which
reasons of state impose upon him.”
“Oh! it is because you have no love,” cried Mary; “if you loved, sire, you
would have a will.”
On pronouncing these words, Mary raised her eyes to her lover, whom
she saw more pale and more cast down than an exile who is about to quit
his native land forever. “Accuse me,” murmured the king, “but do not say I
do not love you.”
A long silence followed these words, which the young king had
pronounced with a perfectly true and profound feeling. “I am unable to
think that to-morrow, and after to-morrow, I shall see you no more; I cannot
think that I am going to end my sad days at a distance from Paris; that the
lips of an old man, of an unknown, should touch that hand which you hold
within yours; no, in truth, I cannot think of all that, my dear sire, without
having my poor heart burst with despair.”
And Marie de Mancini did shed floods of tears. On his part, the king,
much affected, carried his handkerchief to his mouth, and stifled a sob.
“See,” said she, “the carriages have stopped, my sister waits for me, the
time is come; what you are about to decide upon will be decided for life.
Oh, sire! you are willing, then, that I should lose you? You are willing, then,
Louis, that she to whom you have said ‘I love you,’ should belong to
another than to her king, to her master, to her lover? Oh! courage, Louis!
courage! One word, a single word! Say ‘I will!’ and all my life is enchained
to yours, and all my heart is yours forever.”
The king made no reply. Mary then looked at him as Dido looked at
Aeneas in the Elysian fields, fierce and disdainful.
“Farewell, then,” said she; “farewell life! love! heaven!”

And she took a step away. The king detained her, seizing her hand, which
he pressed to his lips, and despair prevailing over the resolution he appeared
to have inwardly formed, he let fall upon that beautiful hand a burning tear
of regret, which made Mary start, so really had that tear burnt her. She saw
the humid eyes of the king, his pale brow, his convulsed lips, and cried,
with an accent that cannot be described,—
“Oh, sire! you are a king, you weep, and yet I depart!”
As his sole reply, the king hid his face in his handkerchief. The officer
uttered something so like a roar that it frightened the horses. Mademoiselle
de Mancini, quite indignant, quitted the king’s arm, hastily entered the
carriage, crying to the coachman, “Go on, go on, and quick!”
The coachman obeyed, flogging his mules, and the heavy carriage rocked
upon its creaking axle, whilst the king of France, alone, cast down,
annihilated, did not dare to look either behind or before him.

Chapter XIV. In which the King and the Lieutenant
each give Proofs of Memory.

W
hen the king, like all the people in the world who are in love, had
long and attentively watched disappear in the distance the carriage
which bore away his mistress; when he had turned and turned again
a hundred times to the same side and had at length succeeded in somewhat
calming the agitation of his heart and thoughts, he recollected that he was
not alone. The officer still held the horse by the bridle, and had not lost all
hope of seeing the king recover his resolution. He had still the resource of
mounting and riding after the carriage; they would have lost nothing by
waiting a little. But the imagination of the lieutenant of the musketeers was
too rich and too brilliant; it left far behind it that of the king, who took care
not to allow himself to be carried away to such excess. He contented
himself with approaching the officer, and in a doleful voice, “Come,” said
he, “let us be gone; all is ended. To horse!”
The officer imitated this carriage, this slowness, this sadness, and
leisurely mounted his horse. The king pushed on sharply, the lieutenant
followed him. At the bridge Louis turned around for the last time. The
lieutenant, patient as a god who has eternity behind and before him, still
hoped for a return of energy. But it was groundless, nothing appeared. Louis
gained the street which led to the castle, and entered as seven was striking.
When the king had returned, and the musketeer, who saw everything, had
seen a corner of the tapestry over the cardinal’s window lifted up, he
breathed a profound sigh, like a man unloosed from the tightest bonds, and
said in a low voice:
“Now then, my officer, I hope that it is over.”
The king summoned his gentleman. “Please to understand I shall receive
nobody before two o’clock,” said he.

“Sire,” replied the gentleman, “there is, however, some one who requests
admittance.”
“Who is that?”
“Your lieutenant of musketeers.”
“He who accompanied me?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Ah,” said the king, “let him come in.”
The officer entered. The king made a sign, and the gentleman and the
valet retired. Louis followed them with his eyes until they had shut the
door, and when the tapestries had fallen behind them,—“You remind me by
your presence, monsieur, of something I had forgotten to recommend to
you, that is to say, the most absolute discretion.”
“Oh! sire, why does your majesty give yourself the trouble of making me
such a recommendation? It is plain you do not know me.”
“Yes, monsieur, that is true. I know that you are discreet; but as I had
prescribed nothing—”
The officer bowed. “Has your majesty nothing else to say to me?”
“No, monsieur; you may retire.”
“Shall I obtain permission not to do so till I have spoken to the king,
sire?”
“What do you have to say to me? Explain yourself, monsieur.”
“Sire, a thing without importance to you, but which interests me greatly.
Pardon me, then, for speaking of it. Without urgency, without necessity, I
never would have done it, and I would have disappeared, mute and
insignificant as I always have been.”
“How! Disappeared! I do not understand you, monsieur.”
“Sire, in a word,” said the officer, “I am come to ask for my discharge
from your majesty’s service.”
The king made a movement of surprise, but the officer remained as
motionless as a statue.
“Your discharge—yours, monsieur? and for how long a time, I pray?”
“Why, forever, sire.”

“What, you are desirous of quitting my service, monsieur?” said Louis,
with an expression that revealed something more than surprise.
“Sire, I regret to say that I am.”
“Impossible!”
“It is so, however, sire. I am getting old; I have worn harness now thirty-
five years; my poor shoulders are tired; I feel that I must give place to the
young. I don’t belong to this age; I have still one foot in the old one; it
results that everything is strange in my eyes, everything astonishes and
bewilders me. In short, I have the honor to ask your majesty for my
discharge.”
“Monsieur,” said the king, looking at the officer, who wore his uniform
with an ease that would have caused envy in a young man, “you are
stronger and more vigorous than I am.”
“Oh!” replied the officer, with an air of false modesty, “your majesty says
so because I still have a good eye and a tolerably firm foot—because I can
still ride a horse, and my mustache is black; but, sire, vanity of vanities all
that—illusions all that—appearance, smoke, sire! I have still a youthful air,
it is true, but I feel old, and within six months I am certain I shall be broken
down, gouty, impotent. Therefore, then, sire—”
“Monsieur,” interrupted the king, “remember your words of yesterday.
You said to me in this very place where you now are, that you were
endowed with the best health of any man in France; that fatigue was
unknown to you! that you did not mind spending whole days and nights at
your post. Did you tell me that, monsieur, or not? Try and recall, monsieur.”
The officer sighed. “Sire,” said he, “old age is boastful; and it is
pardonable for old men to praise themselves when others no longer do it. It
is very possible I said that; but the fact is, sire, I am very much fatigued, an
request permission to retire.”
“Monsieur,” said the king, advancing towards the officer with a gesture
full of majesty, “you are not assigning me the true reason. You wish to quit
my service, it may be true, but you disguise from me the motive of your
retreat.”
“Sire, believe that—”
“I believe what I see, monsieur; I see a vigorous, energetic man, full of
presence of mind, the best soldier in France, perhaps; and this personage

cannot persuade me the least in the world that he stands in need of rest.”
“Ah! sire,” said the lieutenant, with bitterness, “what praise! Indeed, your
majesty confounds me! Energetic, vigorous, brave, intelligent, the best
soldier in the army! But, sire, your majesty exaggerates my small portion of
merit to such a point, that however good an opinion I may have of myself, I
do not recognize myself; in truth I do not. If I were vain enough to believe
only half of your majesty’s words, I should consider myself a valuable,
indispensable man. I should say that a servant possessed of such brilliant
qualities was a treasure beyond all price. Now, sire, I have been all my life
—I feel bound to say it—except at the present time, appreciated, in my
opinion, much below my value. I therefore repeat, your majesty
exaggerates.”
The king knitted his brow, for he saw a bitter raillery beneath the words
of the officer. “Come, monsieur,” said he, “let us meet the question frankly.
Are you dissatisfied with my service, say? No evasions; speak boldly,
frankly—I command you to do so.”
The officer, who had been twisting his hat about in his hands, with an
embarrassed air, for several minutes, raised his head at these words. “Oh!
sire,” said he, “that puts me a little more at my ease. To a question put so
frankly, I will reply frankly. To tell the truth is a good thing, as much from
the pleasure one feels in relieving one’s heart, as on account of the rarity of
the fact. I will speak the truth, then, to my king, at the same time imploring
him to excuse the frankness of an old soldier.”
Louis looked at his officer with anxiety, which he manifested by the
agitation of his gesture. “Well, then, speak,” said he, “for I am impatient to
hear the truths you have to tell me.”
The officer threw his hat upon a table, and his countenance, always so
intelligent and martial, assumed, all at once, a strange character of grandeur
and solemnity. “Sire,” said he, “I quit the king’s service because I am
dissatisfied. The valet, in these times, can approach his master as
respectfully as I do, can give him an account of his labor, bring back his
tools, return the funds that have been intrusted to him, and say ‘Master, my
day’s work is done. Pay me, if you please, and let us part.’”
“Monsieur! monsieur!” exclaimed the king, crimson with rage.
“Ah! sire,” replied the officer, bending his knee for a moment, “never
was servant more respectful than I am before your majesty; only you

commanded me to tell the truth. Now I have begun to tell it, it must come
out, even if you command me to hold my tongue.”
There was so much resolution expressed in the deep-sunk muscles of the
officer’s countenance, that Louis XIV. had no occasion to tell him to
continue; he continued, therefore, whilst the king looked at him with a
curiosity mingled with admiration.
“Sire, I have, as I have said, now served the house of France thirty-five
years; few people have worn out so many swords in that service as I have,
and the swords I speak of were good swords, too, sire. I was a boy, ignorant
of everything except courage, when the king your father guessed that there
was a man in me. I was a man, sire, when the Cardinal de Richelieu, who
was a judge of manhood, discovered an enemy in me. Sire, the history of
that enmity between the ant and the lion may be read from the first to the
last line, in the secret archives of your family. If ever you feel an inclination
to know it, do so, sire; the history is worth the trouble—it is I who tell you
so. You will there read that the lion, fatigued, harassed, out of breath, at
length cried for quarter, and the justice must be rendered him to say, that he
gave as much as he required. Oh! those were glorious times, sire, strewed
over with battles like one of Tasso’s or Ariosto’s epics. The wonders of
those times, to which the people of ours would refuse belief, were every-
day occurrences. For five years together, I was a hero every day; at least, so
I was told by persons of judgment; and that is a long period for heroism,
trust me, sire, a period of five years. Nevertheless, I have faith in what these
people told me, for they were good judges. They were named M. de
Richelieu, M. de Buckingham, M. de Beaufort, M. de Retz, a mighty genius
himself in street warfare,—in short, the king, Louis XIII., and even the
queen, your noble mother, who one day condescended to say, ‘Thank you.’ I
don’t know what service I had had the good fortune to render her. Pardon
me, sire, for speaking so boldly; but what I relate to you, as I have already
had the honor to tell your majesty, is history.” The king bit his lips, and
threw himself violently on a chair.
“I appear importunate to your majesty,” said the lieutenant. “Eh! sire, that
is the fate of truth; she is a stern companion; she bristles all over with steel;
she wounds those whom she attacks, and sometimes him who speaks her.”
“No, monsieur,” replied the king: “I bade you speak—speak then.”

“After the service of the king and the cardinal, came the service of the
regency, sire; I fought pretty well in the Fronde—much less, though, than
the first time. The men began to diminish in stature. I have, nevertheless,
led your majesty’s musketeers on some perilous occasions, which stand
upon the orders of the day of the company. Mine was a beautiful luck at that
time. I was the favorite of M. de Mazarin. Lieutenant here! lieutenant there!
lieutenant to the right! lieutenant to the left! There was not a buffet dealt in
France, of which your humble servant did not have the dealing; but soon
France was not enough. The cardinal sent me to England on Cromwell’s
account; another gentleman who was not over gentle, I assure you, sire. I
had the honor of knowing him, and I was well able to appreciate him. A
great deal was promised me on account of that mission. So, as I did much
more than I had been bidden to do, I was generously paid, for I was at
length appointed captain of the musketeers; that is to say, the most envied
position in court, which takes precedence over the marshals of France, and
justly; for who says captain of the musketeers says the flower of chivalry
and king of the brave.”
“Captain, monsieur!” interrupted the king; “you make a mistake.
Lieutenant, you mean.”
“Not at all, sire—I make no mistake; your majesty may rely upon me in
that respect. Monsieur le cardinal gave me the commission himself.”
“Well!”
“But M. de Mazarin, as you know better than anybody, does not often
give, and sometimes takes back what he has given; he took it back again as
soon as peace was made and he was no longer in want of me. Certainly I
was not worthy to replace M. de Treville, of illustrious memory; but they
had promised me, and they had given me; they ought to have stopped
there.”
“Is that what dissatisfies you monsieur? Well, I shall make inquiries. I
love justice; and your claim, though made in military fashion, does not
displease me.”
“Oh, sire!” said the officer, “your majesty has ill understood me; I no
longer claim anything now.”
“Excess of delicacy, monsieur; but I will keep my eye upon your affairs,
and later—”

“Oh, sire! what a word!—later! Thirty years have I lived upon that
promising word, which has been pronounced by so many great personages,
and which your mouth has, in its turn, just pronounced. Later—that is how I
have received a score of wounds, and how I have reached fifty-four years of
age without ever having had a louis in my purse, and without ever having
met with a protector on my way,—I who have protected so many people!
So I change my formula, sire; and when any one says to me ‘Later,’ I reply
‘Now.’ It is rest that I solicit, sire. That may be easily granted me. That will
cost nobody anything.”
“I did not look for this language, monsieur, particularly from a man who
has always lived among the great. You forget you are speaking to the king,
to a gentleman who is, I suppose, as of good a house as yourself; and when
I say later, I mean a certainty.”
“I do not at all doubt it, sire; but this is the end of the terrible truth I had
to tell you. If I were to see upon that table a marshal’s stick, the sword of
constable, the crown of Poland, instead of later, I swear to you, sire, that I
should still say Now! Oh, excuse me, sire! I am from the country of your
grandfather, Henry IV. I do not speak often: but when I do speak, I speak
all.”
“The future of my reign has little temptation for you, monsieur, it
appears,” said Louis, haughtily.
“Forgetfulness, forgetfulness everywhere!” cried the officer, with a noble
air; “the master has forgotten the servant, so the servant is reduced to forget
his master. I live in unfortunate times, sire. I see youth full of
discouragement and fear, I see it timid and despoiled, when it ought to be
rich and powerful. I yesterday evening, for example, open the door to a king
of England, whose father, humble as I am, I was near saving, if God had not
been against me—God, who inspired His elect, Cromwell! I open, I said,
the door, that is to say, the palace of one brother to another brother, and I
see—stop, sire, that is a load on my heart!—I see the minister of that king
drive away the proscribed prince, and humiliate his master by condemning
to want another king, his equal. Then I see my prince, who is young,
handsome and brave, who has courage in his heart and lightening in his eye,
—I see him tremble before a priest, who laughs at him behind the curtain of
his alcove, where he digests all the gold of France, which he afterwards
stuffs into secret coffers. Yes—I understand your looks, sire. I am bold to

madness; but what is to be said? I am an old man, and I tell you here, sire,
to you, my king, things which I would cram down the throat of any one who
should dare to pronounce them before me. You have commanded me, to
pour out the bottom of my heart before you, sire, and I cast at the feet of
your majesty the pent-up indignation of thirty years, as I would pour out all
my blood, if your majesty commanded me to do so.”
The king, without speaking a word, wiped the drops of cold and abundant
perspiration which trickled from his temples. The moment of silence which
followed this vehement outbreak represented for him who had spoken, and
for him who had listened, ages of suffering.
“Monsieur,” said the king at length, “you spoke the word forgetfulness. I
have heard nothing but that word; I will reply, then, to it alone. Others have
perhaps been able to forget, but I have not, and the proof is, that I remember
that one day of riot, that one day when the furious people, raging and
roaring as the sea, invaded the royal palace; that one day when I feigned
sleep in my bed, one man alone, naked sword in hand, concealed behind my
curtain, watched over my life, ready to risk his own for me, as he had
before risked it twenty times for the lives of my family. Was not the
gentleman, whose name I then demanded, called M. d’Artagnan? say,
monsieur.”
“Your majesty has a good memory,” replied the officer, coldly.
“You see, then,” continued the king, “if I have such remembrances of my
childhood, what an amount I may gather in the age of reason.”
“Your majesty has been richly endowed by God,” said the officer, in the
same tone.
“Come, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Louis, with feverish agitation,
“ought you not to be patient as I am? Ought you not to do as I do? Come!”
“And what do you do, sire?”
“I wait.”
“Your majesty may do so, because you are young; but I, sire, have not
time to wait; old age is at my door, and death is behind it, looking into the
very depths of my house. Your majesty is beginning life, its future is full of
hope and fortune; but I, sire, I am on the other side of the horizon, and we
are so far from each other, that I should never have time to wait till your
majesty came up to me.”

Louis made another turn in his apartment, still wiping the moisture from
his brow, in a manner that would have terrified his physicians, if his
physicians had witnessed the state his majesty was in.
“It is very well, monsieur,” said Louis XIV., in a sharp voice; “you are
desirous of having your discharge, and you shall have it. You offer me your
resignation of the rank of lieutenant of the musketeers?”
“I deposit it humbly at your majesty’s feet, sire.”
“That is sufficient. I will order your pension.”
“I shall have a thousand obligations to your majesty.”
“Monsieur,” said the king, with a violent effort, “I think you are losing a
good master.”
“And I am sure of it, sire.”
“Shall you ever find such another?”
“Oh, sire! I know that your majesty is alone in the world; therefore will I
never again take service with any other king upon earth, and will never
again have other master than myself.”
“You say so?”
“I swear so, your majesty.”
“I shall remember that word, monsieur.”
D’Artagnan bowed.
“And you know I have a good memory,” said the king.
“Yes, sire; and yet I should desire that that memory should fail your
majesty in this instance, in order that you might forget all the miseries I
have been forced to spread before your eyes. Your majesty is so much
above the poor and the mean, that I hope—”
“My majesty, monsieur, will act like the sun, which looks upon all, great
and small, rich and poor, giving luster to some, warmth to others, and life to
all. Adieu, Monsieur d’Artagnan—adieu: you are free.”
And the king, with a hoarse sob, which was lost in his throat, passed
quickly into the next room. D’Artagnan took up his hat from the table on
which he had thrown in, and went out.

Chapter XV. The Proscribed.

D
’Artagnan had not reached the bottom of the staircase, when the king
called his gentleman. “I have a commission to give you, monsieur,”
said he.
“I am at your majesty’s commands.”
“Wait, then.” And the young king began to write the following letter,
which cost him more than one sigh, although, at the same time, something
like a feeling of triumph glittered in his eyes:
“MY LORD CARDINAL,—Thanks to your good counsels, and, above
all, thanks to your firmness, I have succeeded in overcoming a weakness
unworthy of a king. You have too ably arranged my destiny to allow
gratitude not to stop me at the moment when I was about to destroy your
work. I felt I was wrong to wish to make my life turn from the course you
had marked out for it. Certainly it would have been a misfortune to France
and my family if a misunderstanding had taken place between me and my
minister. This, however, would certainly have happened if I had made your
niece my wife. I am perfectly aware of this, and will henceforth oppose
nothing to the accomplishment of my destiny. I am prepared, then, to wed
the infanta, Maria Theresa. You may at once open the conference.—Your
affectionate LOUIS.”
The king, after reperusing the letter, sealed it himself.
“This letter for my lord cardinal,” said he.
The gentleman took it. At Mazarin’s door he found Bernouin waiting
with anxiety.
“Well?” asked the minister’s valet de chambre.
“Monsieur,” said the gentleman, “here is a letter for his eminence.”
“A letter! Ah! we expected one after the little journey of the morning.”
“Oh! you know, then, that his majesty—”

“As first minister, it belongs to the duties of our charge to know
everything. And his majesty prays and implores, I presume.”
“I don’t know, but he sighed frequently whilst he was writing.”
“Yes, yes, yes; we understand all that; people sigh sometimes from
happiness as well as from grief, monsieur.”
“And yet the king did not look very happy when he returned, monsieur.”
“You did not see clearly. Besides, you only saw his majesty on his return,
for he was only accompanied by the lieutenant of the guards. But I had his
eminence’s telescope; I looked through it when he was tired, and I am sure
they both wept.”
“Well! was it for happiness they wept?”
“No, but for love, and they vowed to each other a thousand tendernesses,
which the king asks no better to keep. Now this letter is a beginning of the
execution.”
“And what does his eminence think of this love, which is, by the bye, no
secret to anybody?”
Bernouin took the gentleman by the arm, and whilst ascending the
staircase,—“In confidence,” said he, in a low voice, “his eminence looks for
success in the affair. I know very well we shall have war with Spain; but,
bah! war will please the nobles. My lord cardinal, besides, can endow his
niece royally, nay, more than royally. There will be money, festivities, and
fire-works—everybody will be delighted.”
“Well, for my part,” replied the gentleman, shaking his head, “it appears
to me that this letter is very light to contain all that.”
“My friend,” replied Bernouin, “I am certain of what I tell you. M.
d’Artagnan related all that passed to me.”
“Ay, ay! and what did he tell you? Let us hear.”
“I accosted him by asking him, on the part of the cardinal, if there were
any news, without discovering my designs, observe, for M. d’Artagnan is a
cunning hand. ‘My dear Monsieur Bernouin,’ he replied, ‘the king is madly
in love with Mademoiselle de Mancini, that is all I have to tell you.’ And
then I asked him: ‘Do you think, to such a degree that it will urge him to act
contrary to the designs of his eminence?’ ‘Ah! don’t ask me,’ said he; ‘I
think the king capable of anything; he has a will of iron, and what he wills

he wills in earnest. If he takes it into his head to marry Mademoiselle de
Mancini, he will marry her, depend upon it.’ And thereupon he left me and
went straight to the stables, took a horse, saddled it himself, jumped upon
its back, and set off as if the devil were at his heels.”
“So that you believe, then—”
“I believe that monsieur the lieutenant of the guards knew more than he
was willing to say.”
“In you opinion, then, M. d’Artagnan—”
“Is gone, according to all probability, after the exiles, to carry out all that
can facilitate the success of the king’s love.”
Chatting thus, the two confidants arrived at the door of his eminence’s
apartment. His eminence’s gout had left him; he was walking about his
chamber in a state of great anxiety, listening at doors and looking out of
windows. Bernouin entered, followed by the gentleman, who had orders
from the king to place the letter in the hands of the cardinal himself.
Mazarin took the letter, but before opening it, he got up a ready smile, a
smile of circumstance, able to throw a veil over emotions of whatever sort
they might be. So prepared, whatever was the impression received from the
letter, no reflection of that impression was allowed to transpire upon his
countenance.
“Well,” said he, when he had read and reread the letter, “very well,
monsieur. Inform the king that I thank him for his obedience to the wishes
of the queen-mother, and that I will do everything for the accomplishment
of his will.”
The gentleman left the room. The door had scarcely closed before the
cardinal, who had no mask for Bernouin, took off that which had so
recently covered his face, and with a most dismal expression,—“Call M. de
Brienne,” said he. Five minutes afterward the secretary entered.
“Monsieur,” said Mazarin, “I have just rendered a great service to the
monarchy, the greatest I have ever rendered it. You will carry this letter,
which proves it, to her majesty the queen-mother, and when she shall have
returned it to you, you will lodge it in portfolio B., which is filed with
documents and papers relative to my ministry.”
Brienne went as desired, and, as the letter was unsealed, did not fail to
read it on his way. There is likewise no doubt that Bernouin, who was on

good terms with everybody, approached so near to the secretary as to be
able to read the letter over his shoulder; so that the news spread with such
activity through the castle, that Mazarin might have feared it would reach
the ears of the queen-mother before M. de Brienne could convey Louis
XIV.’s letter to her. A moment after orders were given for departure, and M.
de Conde having been to pay his respects to the king on his pretended
rising, inscribed the city of Poitiers upon his tablets, as the place of sojourn
and rest for their majesties.
Thus in a few instants was unraveled an intrigue which had covertly
occupied all the diplomacies of Europe. It had nothing, however, very clear
as a result, but to make a poor lieutenant of musketeers lose his commission
and his fortune. It is true, that in exchange he gained his liberty. We shall
soon know how M. d’Artagnan profited by this. For the moment, if the
reader will permit us, we shall return to the hostelry of les Medici, of which
one of the windows opened at the very moment the orders were given for
the departure of the king.
The window that opened was that of one of the rooms of Charles II. The
unfortunate prince had passed the night in bitter reflections, his head resting
on his hands, and his elbows on the table, whilst Parry, infirm and old,
wearied in body and in mind, had fallen asleep in a corner. A singular
fortune was that of this faithful servant, who saw beginning for the second
generation the fearful series of misfortunes which had weighed so heavily
on the first. When Charles II. had well thought over the fresh defeat he had
experienced, when he perfectly comprehended the complete isolation into
which he had just fallen, on seeing his fresh hope left behind him, he was
seized as with a vertigo, and sank back into the large armchair in which he
was seated. Then God took pity on the unhappy prince, and sent to console
him sleep, the innocent brother of death. He did not wake till half-past six,
that is to say, till the sun shone brightly into his chamber, and Parry,
motionless with fear of waking him, was observing with profound grief the
eyes of the young man already red with wakefulness, and his cheeks pale
with suffering and privations.
At length the noise of some heavy carts descending towards the Loire
awakened Charles. He arose, looked around him like a man who has
forgotten everything, perceived Parry, shook him by the hand, and
commanded him to settle the reckoning with Master Cropole. Master

Cropole, being called upon to settle his account with Parry, acquitted
himself, it must be allowed, like an honest man; he only made his
customary remark, that the two travelers had eaten nothing, which had the
double disadvantage of being humiliating for his kitchen, and of forcing
him to ask payment for a repast not consumed, but not the less lost. Parry
had nothing to say to the contrary, and paid.
“I hope,” said the king, “it has not been the same with the horses. I don’t
see that they have eaten at your expense, and it would be a misfortune for
travelers like us, who have a long journey to make, to have our horses fail
us.”
But Cropole, at this doubt, assumed his majestic air, and replied that the
stables of les Medici were not less hospitable than its refectory.
The king mounted his horse; his old servant did the same, and both set
out towards Paris, without meeting a single person on their road, in the
streets or the faubourgs of the city. For the prince the blow was the more
severe, as it was a fresh exile. The unfortunates cling to the smallest hopes,
as the happy do to the greatest good; and when they are obliged to quit the
place where that hope has soothed their hearts, they experience the mortal
regret which the banished man feels when he places his foot upon the vessel
which is to bear him into exile. It appears that the heart already wounded so
many times suffers from the least scratch; it appears that it considers as a
good the momentary absence of evil, which is nothing but the absence of
pain; and that God, into the most terrible misfortunes, has thrown hope as
the drop of water which the rich sinner in hell entreated of Lazarus.
For one instant even the hope of Charles II. had been more than a fugitive
joy;—that was when he found himself so kindly welcomed by his brother
king; then it had taken a form that had become a reality; then, all at once,
the refusal of Mazarin had reduced the fictitious reality to the state of a
dream. This promise of Louis XIV., so soon retracted, had been nothing but
a mockery; a mockery like his crown—like his scepter—like his friends—
like all that had surrounded his royal childhood, and which had abandoned
his proscribed youth. Mockery! everything was a mockery for Charles II.
except the cold, black repose promised by death.
Such were the ideas of the unfortunate prince while sitting listlessly upon
his horse, to which he abandoned the reins: he rode slowly along beneath

the warm May sun, in which the somber misanthropy of the exile perceived
a last insult to his grief.

Chapter XVI. “Remember!”

A
horseman going rapidly along the road leading towards Blois, which
he had left nearly half an hour before, passed the two travelers, and,
though apparently in haste, raised his hat as he passed them. The king
scarcely observed this young man, who was about twenty-five years of age,
and who, turning round several times, made friendly signals to a man
standing before the gate of a handsome white-and-red house; that is to say,
built of brick and stone, with a slated roof, situated on the left hand of the
road the prince was traveling.
This man, old, tall, and thin, with white hair,—we speak of the one
standing by the gate;—this man replied to the farewell signals of the young
one by signs of parting as tender as could have been made by a father. The
young man disappeared at the first turn of the road, bordered by fine trees,
and the old man was preparing to return to the house, when the two
travelers, arriving in front of the gate, attracted his attention.
The king, as we have said, was riding with his head cast down, his arms
inert, leaving his horse to go what pace he liked, whilst Parry, behind him,
the better to imbibe the genial influence of the sun, had taken off his hat,
and was looking about right and left. His eyes encountered those of the old
man leaning against the gate; the latter, as if struck by some strange
spectacle, uttered an exclamation, and made one step towards the two
travelers. From Parry his eyes immediately turned towards the king, upon
whom they rested for an instant. This examination, however rapid, was
instantly reflected in a visible manner upon the features of the tall old man.
For scarcely had he recognized the younger of the travelers—and we said
recognized, for nothing but a perfect recognition could have explained such
an act—scarcely, we say, had he recognized the younger of the two
travelers, than he clapped his hands together, with respectful surprise, and,
raising his hat from his head, bowed so profoundly that it might have been
said he was kneeling. This demonstration, however absent, or rather,

however absorbed was the king in his reflections, attracted his attention
instantly; and checking his horse and turning towards Parry, he exclaimed,
“Good God, Parry, who is that man who salutes me in such a marked
manner? Can he know me, think you?”
Parry, much agitated and very pale, had already turned his horse towards
the gate. “Ah, sire!” said he, stopping suddenly at five or six paces’ distance
from the still bending old man: “sire, I am seized with astonishment, for I
think I recognize that brave man. Yes, it must be he! Will your majesty
permit me to speak to him?”
“Certainly.”
“Can it be you, Monsieur Grimaud?” asked Parry.
“Yes, it is I,” replied the tall old man, drawing himself up, but without
losing his respectful demeanor.
“Sire,” then said Parry, “I was not deceived. This good man is the servant
of the Comte de la Fere, and the Comte de la Fere, if you remember, is the
worthy gentleman of whom I have so often spoken to your majesty that the
remembrance of him must remain, not only in your mind, but in your
heart.”
“He who assisted my father at his last moments?” asked Charles,
evidently affected at the remembrance.
“The same, sire.”
“Alas!” said Charles; and then addressing Grimaud, whose penetrating
and intelligent eyes seemed to search and divine his thoughts.—“My
friend,” said he, “does your master, Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, live in
this neighborhood?”
“There,” replied Grimaud, pointing with his outstretched arm to the
white-and-red house behind the gate.
“And is Monsieur le Comte de la Fere at home at present?”
“At the back, under the chestnut trees.”
“Parry,” said the king, “I will not miss this opportunity, so precious for
me, to thank the gentleman to whom our house is indebted for such a noble
example of devotedness and generosity. Hold my horse, my friend, if you
please.” And, throwing the bridle to Grimaud, the king entered the abode of
Athos, quite alone, as one equal enters the dwelling of another. Charles had

been informed by the concise explanation of Grimaud,—“At the back,
under the chestnut trees;” he left, therefore, the house on the left, and went
straight down the path indicated. The thing was easy; the tops of those
noble trees, already covered with leaves and flowers, rose above all the rest.
On arriving under the lozenges, by turns luminous and dark, which
checkered the ground of this path according as the trees were more or less
in leaf, the young prince perceived a gentleman walking with his arms
behind him, apparently plunged in a deep meditation. Without doubt, he had
often had this gentleman described to himself, for, without hesitating,
Charles II. walked straight up to him. At the sound of his footsteps, the
Comte de la Fere raised his head, and seeing an unknown man of noble and
elegant carriage coming towards him, he raised his hat and waited. At some
paces from him, Charles II. likewise took off his hat. Then, as if in reply to
the comte’s mute interrogation,—
“Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “I come to discharge a debt towards you. I
have, for a long time, had the expression of a profound gratitude to bring
you. I am Charles II., son of Charles Stuart, who reigned in England, and
died on the scaffold.”
On hearing this illustrious name, Athos felt a kind of shudder creep
through his veins, but at the sight of the young prince standing uncovered
before him, and stretching out his hand towards him, two tears, for an
instant, dimmed his brilliant eyes. He bent respectfully, but the prince took
him by the hand.
“See how unfortunate I am, my lord count; it is only due to chance that I
have met with you. Alas! I ought to have people around me whom I love
and honor, whereas I am reduced to preserve their services in my heart, and
their names in my memory: so that if your servant had not recognized mine,
I should have passed by your door as by that of a stranger.”
“It is but too true,” said Athos, replying with his voice to the first part of
the king’s speech, and with a bow to the second; “it is but too true, indeed,
that your majesty has seen many evil days.”
“And the worst, alas!” replied Charles, “are perhaps still to come.”
“Sire, let us hope.”
“Count, count,” continued Charles, shaking his head, “I entertained hope
till last night, and that of a good Christian, I swear.”

Athos looked at the king as if to interrogate him.
“Oh, the history is soon related,” said Charles. “Proscribed, despoiled,
disdained, I resolved, in spite of all my repugnance, to tempt fortune one
last time. Is it not written above, that, for our family, all good fortune and
all bad fortune shall eternally come from France? You know something of
that, monsieur,—you, who are one of the Frenchmen whom my unfortunate
father found at the foot of his scaffold, on the day of his death, after having
found them at his right hand on the day of battle.”
“Sire,” said Athos modestly, “I was not alone. My companions and I did,
under the circumstances, our duty as gentlemen, and that was all. Your
majesty was about to do me the honor to relate—”
“That is true, I had the protection,—pardon my hesitation, count, but, for
a Stuart, you, who understand everything, you will comprehend that the
word is hard to pronounce;—I had, I say, the protection of my cousin the
stadtholder of Holland; but without the intervention, or at least without the
authorization of France, the stadtholder would not take the initiative. I
came, then, to ask this authorization of the king of France, who has refused
me.”
“The king has refused you, sire!”
“Oh, not he; all justice must be rendered to my younger brother Louis;
but Monsieur de Mazarin—”
Athos bit his lips.
“You perhaps think I should have expected this refusal?” said the king,
who had noticed the movement.
“That was, in truth, my thought, sire,” replied Athos, respectfully; “I
know that Italian of old.”
“Then I determined to come to the test, and know at once the last word of
my destiny. I told my brother Louis, that, not to compromise either France
or Holland, I would tempt fortune myself in person, as I had already done,
with two hundred gentlemen, if he would give them to me; and a million, if
he would lend it me.”
“Well, sire?”
“Well, monsieur, I am suffering at this moment something strange, and
that is, the satisfaction of despair. There is in certain souls,—and I have just

discovered that mine is of the number,—a real satisfaction in the assurance
that all is lost, and the time is come to yield.”
“Oh, I hope,” said Athos, “that your majesty is not come to that
extremity.”
“To say so, my lord count, to endeavor to revive hope in my heart, you
must have ill understood what I have just told you. I came to Blois to ask of
my brother Louis the alms of a million, with which I had the hopes of re-
establishing my affairs; and my brother Louis has refused me. You see,
then, plainly, that all is lost.”
“Will your majesty permit me to express a contrary opinion?”
“How is that, count? Do you think my heart of so low an order that I do
not know how to face my position?”
“Sire, I have always seen that it was in desperate positions that suddenly
the great turns of fortune have taken place.”
“Thank you, count: it is some comfort to meet with a heart like yours;
that is to say, sufficiently trustful in God and in monarchy, never to despair
of a royal fortune, however low it may be fallen. Unfortunately, my dear
count, your words are like those remedies they call ‘sovereign,’ and which,
though able to cure curable wounds or diseases, fail against death. Thank
you for your perseverance in consoling me, count, thanks for your devoted
remembrance, but I know in what I must trust—nothing will save me now.
And see, my friend, I was so convinced, that I was taking the route of exile,
with my old Parry; I was returning to devour my poignant griefs in the little
hermitage offered me by Holland. There, believe me, count, all will soon be
over, and death will come quickly; it is called so often by this body, eaten
up by its soul, and by this soul, which aspires to heaven.”
“Your majesty has a mother, a sister, and brothers; your majesty is the
head of the family, and ought, therefore, to ask a long life of God, instead of
imploring Him for a prompt death. Your majesty is an exile, a fugitive, but
you have right on your side; you ought to aspire to combats, dangers,
business, and not to rest in heavens.”
“Count,” said Charles II., with a smile of indescribable sadness, “have
you ever heard of a king who reconquered his kingdom with one servant the
age of Parry, and with three hundred crowns which that servant carried in
his purse?”

“No, sire; but I have heard—and that more than once—that a dethroned
king has recovered his kingdom with a firm will, perseverance, some
friends, and a million skillfully employed.”
“But you cannot have understood me. The million I asked of my brother
Louis was refused me.”
“Sire,” said Athos, “will your majesty grant me a few minutes, and listen
attentively to what remains for me to say to you?”
Charles II. looked earnestly at Athos. “Willingly, monsieur,” said he.
“Then I will show your majesty the way,” resumed the count, directing
his steps towards the house. He then conducted the king to his study, and
begged him to be seated. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty just now told me
that, in the present state of England, a million would suffice for the
recovery of your kingdom.”
“To attempt it at least, monsieur; and to die as a king if I should not
succeed.”
“Well, then, sire, let your majesty, according to the promise you have
made me, have the goodness to listen to what I have to say.” Charles made
an affirmative sign with his head. Athos walked straight up to the door, the
bolts of which he drew, after looking to see if anybody was near, and then
returned. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty has kindly remembered that I lent
assistance to the very noble and very unfortunate Charles I., when his
executioners conducted him from St. James’s to Whitehall.”
“Yes, certainly I do remember it, and always shall remember it.”
“Sire, it is a dismal history to be heard by a son who no doubt has had it
related to him many times; and yet I ought to repeat it to your majesty
without omitting one detail.”
“Speak on, monsieur.”
“When the king your father ascended the scaffold, or rather when he
passed from his chamber to the scaffold, on a level with his window,
everything was prepared for his escape. The executioner was got out of the
way; a hole contrived under the floor of his apartment; I myself was
beneath the funeral vault, which I heard all at once creak beneath his feet.”
“Parry has related to me all these terrible details, monsieur.”

Athos bowed and resumed. “But here is something he had not related to
you, sire, for what follows passed between God, your father, and myself;
and never has the revelation of it been made even to my dearest friends. ‘Go
a little further off,’ said the august prisoner to the executioner; ‘it is but for
an instant, and I know that I belong to you; but remember not to strike till I
give the signal. I wish to offer up my prayers in freedom.”
“Pardon me,” said Charles II., turning very pale, “but you, count, who
know so many details of this melancholy event,—details which, as you said
just now, have never been revealed to any one,—do you know the name of
that infernal executioner, of that base wretch who concealed his face that he
might assassinate a king with impunity?”
Athos became slightly pale. “His name?” said he, “yes, I know it, but
cannot tell it.”
“And what is become of him, for nobody in England knows his destiny?”
“He is dead.”
“But he did not die in his bed; he did not die a calm and peaceful death;
he did not die the death of the good?”
“He died a violent death, in a terrible night, rendered so by the passions
of man and a tempest from God. His body, pierced by a dagger, sank to the
depths of the ocean. God pardon his murderer!”
“Proceed, then,” said Charles II., seeing that the count was unwilling to
say more.
“The king of England, after having, as I have said, spoken thus to the
masked executioner, added,—‘Observe, you will not strike till I shall stretch
out my arms, saying—REMEMBER!’”
“I was aware,” said Charles, in an agitated voice, “that that was the last
word pronounced by my unfortunate father. But why and for whom?”
“For the French gentleman placed beneath his scaffold.”
“For you, then, monsieur?”
“Yes, sire; and every one of the words which he spoke to me, through the
planks of the scaffold covered with a black cloth, still sounds in my ears.
The king knelt down on one knee: ‘Comte de la Fere,’ said he, ‘are you
there?’ ‘Yes, sire,’ replied I. Then the king stooped towards the boards.”

Charles II., also palpitating with interest, burning with grief, stooped
towards Athos, to catch, one by one, every word that escaped from him. His
head touched that of the comte.
“Then,” continued Athos, “the king stooped. ‘Comte de la Fere,’ said he,
‘I could not be saved by you: it was not to be. Now, even though I commit a
sacrilege, I must speak to you. Yes, I have spoken to men—yes, I have
spoken to God, and I speak to you the last. To sustain a cause which I
thought sacred, I have lost the throne of my fathers and the heritage of my
children.’”
Charles II. concealed his face in his hands, and a bitter tear glided
between his white and slender fingers.
“‘I have still a million in gold,’ continued the king. ‘I buried it in the
vaults of the castle of Newcastle, a moment before I left that city.’” Charles
raised his head with an expression of such painful joy that it would have
drawn tears from any one acquainted with his misfortunes.
“A million!” murmured he, “Oh, count!”
“‘You alone know that this money exists: employ it when you think it can
be of the greatest service to my eldest son. And now, Comte de la Fere, bid
me adieu!’
“‘Adieu, adieu, sire!’ cried I.”
Charles arose, and went and leant his burning brow against the window.
“It was then,” continued Athos, “that the king pronounced the word
‘REMEMBER!’ addressed to me. You see, sire, that I have remembered.”
The king could not resist or conceal his emotion. Athos beheld the
movement of his shoulders, which undulated convulsively; he heard the
sobs which burst from his over-charged breast. He was silent himself,
suffocated by the flood of bitter remembrances he had just poured upon that
royal head. Charles II., with a violent effort, left the window, devoured his
tears, and came and sat by Athos. “Sire,” said the latter, “I thought till to-
day that the time had not yet arrived for the employment of that last
resource; but, with my eyes fixed upon England, I felt it was approaching.
To-morrow I meant to go and inquire in what part of the world your majesty
was, and then I purposed going to you. You come to me, sire; that is an
indication that God is with us.”

“My lord,” said Charles, in a voice choked by emotion, “you are, for me,
what an angel sent from heaven would be,—you are a preserver sent to me
from the tomb of my father himself; but, believe me, for ten years’ civil war
has passed over my country, striking down men, tearing up soil, it is no
more probable that gold should remain in the entrails of the earth, than love
in the hearts of my subjects.”
“Sire, the spot in which his majesty buried the million is well known to
me, and no one, I am sure, has been able to discover it. Besides, is the castle
of Newcastle quite destroyed? Have they demolished it stone by stone, and
uprooted the soil to the last tree?”
“No, it is still standing: but at this moment General Monk occupies it and
is encamped there. The only spot from which I could look for succor, where
I possess a single resource, you see, is invaded by my enemies.”
“General Monk, sire, cannot have discovered the treasure which I speak
of.”
“Yes, but can I go and deliver myself up to Monk, in order to recover this
treasure? Ah! count, you see plainly I must yield to destiny, since it strikes
me to the earth every time I rise. What can I do with Parry as my only
servant, with Parry, whom Monk has already driven from his presence? No,
no, no, count, we must yield to this last blow.”
“But what your majesty cannot do, and what Parry can no more attempt,
do you not believe that I could succeed in accomplishing?”
“You—you, count—you would go?”
“If it please your majesty,” said Athos, bowing to the king, “yes, I will
go, sire.”
“What! you so happy here, count?”
“I am never happy when I have a duty left to accomplish, and it is an
imperative duty which the king your father left me to watch over your
fortunes, and make a royal use of his money. So, if your majesty honors me
with a sign, I will go with you.”
“Ah, monsieur!” said the king, forgetting all royal etiquette and throwing
his arms around the neck of Athos, “you prove to me that there is a God in
heaven, and that this God sometimes sends messengers to the unfortunate
who groan on the earth.”

Athos, exceedingly moved by this burst of feeling of the young man,
thanked him with profound respect, and approached the window.
“Grimaud!” cried he, “bring out my horses.”
“What, now—immediately!” said the king. “Ah, monsieur, you are
indeed a wonderful man!”
“Sire,” said Athos, “I know nothing more pressing than your majesty’s
service. Besides,” added he, smiling, “it is a habit contracted long since, in
the service of the queen your aunt, and of the king your father. How is it
possible for me to lose it at the moment your majesty’s service calls for it?”
“What a man!” murmured the king.
Then, after a moment’s reflection,—“But no, count, I cannot expose you
to such privations. I have no means of rewarding such services.”
“Bah!” said Athos, laughing. “Your majesty is joking; have you not a
million? Ah! why am I not possessed of half such a sum! I would already
have raised a regiment. But, thank God! I have still a few rolls of gold and
some family diamonds left. Your majesty will, I hope, deign to share with a
devoted servant.”
“With a friend—yes, count, but on condition that, in his turn, that friend
will share with me hereafter!”
“Sire!” said Athos, opening a casket, form which he drew both gold and
jewels, “you see, sire, we are too rich. Fortunately, there are four of us, in
the event of our meeting with thieves.”
Joy made the blood rush to the pale cheeks of Charles II., as he saw
Athos’s two horses, led by Grimaud, already booted for the journey,
advance towards the porch.
“Blaisois, this letter for the Vicomte de Bragelonne. For everybody else I
am gone to Paris. I confide the house to you, Blaisois.” Blaisois bowed,
shook hands with Grimaud, and shut the gate.

Chapter XVII. In which Aramis is sought, and only
Bazin is found.

T
wo hours had scarcely elapsed since the departure of the master of the
house, who, in Blaisois’s sight, had taken the road to Paris, when a
horseman, mounted on a good pied horse, stopped before the gate, and
with a sonorous “hola!” called the stable-boys, who, with the gardeners, had
formed a circle round Blaisois, the historian-in-ordinary to the household of
the chateau. This “hola,” doubtless well known to Master Blaisois, made
him turn his head and exclaim—“Monsieur d’Artagnan! run quickly, you
chaps, and open the gate.”
A swarm of eight brisk lads flew to the gate, which was opened as if it
had been made of feathers; and every one loaded him with attentions, for
they knew the welcome this friend was accustomed to receive from their
master; and for such remarks the eye of the valet may always be depended
upon.
“Ah!” said M. d’Artagnan, with an agreeable smile, balancing himself
upon his stirrup to jump to the ground, “where is that dear count?”
“Ah! how unfortunate you are, monsieur!” said Blaisois: “and how
unfortunate will monsieur le comte, our master, think himself when he hears
of your coming! As ill luck will have it, monsieur le comte left home two
hours ago.”
D’Artagnan did not trouble himself about such trifles. “Very good!” said
he. “You always speak the best French in the world; you shall give me a
lesson in grammar and correct language, whilst I wait the return of your
master.”
“That is impossible, monsieur,” said Blaisois; “you would have to wait
too long.”
“Will he not come back to-day, then?”

“No, nor to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow. Monsieur le comte has
gone on a journey.”
“A journey!” said D’Artagnan, surprised; “that’s a fable, Master
Blaisois.”
“Monsieur, it is no more than the truth. Monsieur has done me the honor
to give me the house in charge; and he added, with his voice so full of
authority and kindness—that is all one to me: ‘You will say I have gone to
Paris.’”
“Well!” cried D’Artagnan, “since he is gone towards Paris, that is all I
wanted to know! you should have told me so at first, booby! He is then two
hours in advance?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“I shall soon overtake him. Is he alone?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Who is with him, then?”
“A gentleman whom I don’t know, an old man, and M. Grimaud.”
“Such a party cannot travel as fast as I can—I will start.”
“Will monsieur listen to me an instant?” said Blaisois, laying his hand
gently on the reins of the horse.
“Yes, if you don’t favor me with fine speeches, and make haste.”
“Well, then, monsieur, that word Paris appears to me to be only an
excuse.”
“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan, seriously, “an excuse, eh?”
“Yes, monsieur: and monsieur le comte is not going to Paris, I will
swear.”
“What makes you think so?”
“This,—M. Grimaud always knows where our master is going; and he
had promised me that the first time he went to Paris, he would take a little
money for me to my wife.”
“What, have you a wife, then?”
“I had one—she was of this country; but monsieur thought her a noisy
scold, and I sent her to Paris; it is sometimes inconvenient, but very
agreeable at others.”

“I understand; but go on. You do not believe the count gone to Paris?”
“No, monsieur; for then M. Grimaud would have broken his word; he
would have perjured himself, and that is impossible.”
“That is impossible,” repeated D’Artagnan, quite in a study, because he
was quite convinced. “Well, my brave Blaisois, many thanks to you.”
Blaisois bowed.
“Come, you know I am not curious—I have serious business with your
master. Could you not, by a little bit of a word—you who speak so well—
give me to understand—one syllable only—I will guess the rest.”
“Upon my word, monsieur, I cannot. I am quite ignorant where monsieur
le comte is gone. As to listening at doors, that is contrary to my nature; and
besides, it is forbidden here.”
“My dear fellow,” said D’Artagnan, “this is a very bad beginning for me.
Never mind; you know when monsieur le comte will return, at least?”
“As little, monsieur, as the place of his destination.”
“Come, Blaisois, come, search.”
“Monsieur doubts my sincerity? Ah, monsieur, that grieves me much.”
“The devil take his gilded tongue!” grumbled D’Artagnan. “A clown with
a word would be worth a dozen of him. Adieu!”
“Monsieur, I have the honor to present you my respects.”
“Cuistre!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “the fellow is unbearable.” He
gave another look up to the house, turned his horse’s head, and set off like a
man who has nothing either annoying or embarrassing in his mind. When
he was at the end of the wall, and out of sight,—“Well, now, I wonder,” said
he, breathing quickly, “whether Athos was at home. No; all those idlers,
standing with their arms crossed, would have been at work if the eye of the
master was near. Athos gone on a journey?—that is incomprehensible. Bah!
it is all devilish mysterious! And then—no—he is not the man I want. I
want one of a cunning, patient mind. My business is at Melun, in a certain
presbytery I am acquainted with. Forty-five leagues—four days and a half!
Well, it is fine weather, and I am free. Never mind the distance!”
And he put his horse into a trot, directing his course towards Paris. On
the fourth day he alighted at Melun, as he had intended.

D’Artagnan was never in the habit of asking any one on the road for any
common information. For these sorts of details, unless in very serious
circumstances, he confided in his perspicacity, which was so seldom at
fault, in his experience of thirty years, and in a great habit of reading the
physiognomies of houses, as well as those of men. At Melun, D’Artagnan
immediately found the presbytery—a charming house, plastered over red
brick, with vines climbing along the gutters, and a cross, in carved stone,
surmounting the ridge of the roof. From the ground-floor of this house came
a noise, or rather a confusion of voices, like the chirping of young birds
when the brood is just hatched under the down. One of these voices was
spelling the alphabet distinctly. A voice thick, yet pleasant, at the same time
scolded the talkers and corrected the faults of the reader. D’Artagnan
recognized that voice, and as the window of the ground-floor was open, he
leant down from his horse under the branches and red fibers of the vine and
cried, “Bazin, my dear Bazin! good-day to you.”
A short, fat man, with a flat face, a cranium ornamented with a crown of
gray hairs, cut short, in imitation of a tonsure, and covered with an old
black velvet cap, arose as soon as he heard D’Artagnan—we ought not to
say arose, but bounded up. In fact, Bazin bounded up, carrying with him his
little low chair, which the children tried to take away, with battles more
fierce than those of the Greeks endeavoring to recover the body of Patroclus
from the hands of the Trojans. Bazin did more than bound; he let fall both
his alphabet and his ferule. “You!” said he; “you, Monsieur D’Artagnan?”
“Yes, myself! Where is Aramis—no, M. le Chevalier d’Herblay—no, I
am still mistaken—Monsieur le Vicaire-General?”
“Ah, monsieur,” said Bazin, with dignity, “monseigneur is at his
diocese.”
“What did you say?” said D’Artagnan. Bazin repeated the sentence.
“Ah, ah! but has Aramis a diocese?”
“Yes, monsieur. Why not?”
“Is he a bishop, then?”
“Why, where can you come from,” said Bazin, rather irreverently, “that
you don’t know that?”
“My dear Bazin, we pagans, we men of the sword, know very well when
a man is made a colonel, or maitre-de-camp, or marshal of France; but if he

be made a bishop, arch-bishop, or pope—devil take me if the news reaches
us before the three quarters of the earth have had the advantage of it!”
“Hush! hush!” said Bazin, opening his eyes: “do not spoil these poor
children, in whom I am endeavoring to inculcate such good principles.” In
fact, the children had surrounded D’Artagnan, whose horse, long sword,
spurs, and martial air they very much admired. But above all, they admired
his strong voice; so that, when he uttered his oath, the whole school cried
out, “The devil take me!” with fearful bursts of laughter, shouts, and
bounds, which delighted the musketeer, and bewildered the old pedagogue.
“There!” said he, “hold your tongues, you brats! You have come, M.
d’Artagnan, and all my good principles fly away. With you, as usual, comes
disorder. Babel is revived. Ah! Good Lord! Ah! the wild little wretches!”
And the worthy Bazin distributed right and left blows which increased the
cries of his scholars by changing the nature of them.
“At least,” said he, “you will no longer decoy any one here.”
“Do you think so?” said D’Artagnan, with a smile which made a shudder
creep over the shoulders of Bazin.
“He is capable of it,” murmured he.
“Where is your master’s diocese?”
“Monseigneur Rene is bishop of Vannes.”
“Who had him nominated?”
“Why, monsieur le surintendant, our neighbor.”
“What! Monsieur Fouquet?”
“To be sure he did.”
“Is Aramis on good terms with him, then?”
“Monseigneur preached every Sunday at the house of monsieur le
surintendant at Vaux; then they hunted together.”
“Ah!”
“And monseigneur composed his homilies—no, I mean his sermons—
with monsieur le surintendant.”
“Bah! he preached in verse, then, this worthy bishop?”
“Monsieur, for the love of heaven, do not jest with sacred things.”
“There, Bazin, there! So, then, Aramis is at Vannes?”

“At Vannes, in Bretagne.”
“You are a deceitful old hunks, Bazin; that is not true.”
“See, monsieur, if you please; the apartments of the presbytery are
empty.”
“He is right there,” said D’Artagnan, looking attentively at the house, the
aspect of which announced solitude.
“But monseigneur must have written you an account of his promotion.”
“When did it take place?”
“A month back.”
“Oh! then there is no time lost. Aramis cannot yet have wanted me. But
how is it, Bazin, you do not follow your master?”
“Monsieur, I cannot; I have occupations.”
“Your alphabet?”
“And my penitents.”
“What, do you confess, then? Are you a priest?”
“The same as one. I have such a call.”
“But the orders?”
“Oh,” said Bazin, without hesitation, “now that monseigneur is a bishop,
I shall soon have my orders, or at least my dispensations.” And he rubbed
his hands.
“Decidedly,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “there will be no means of
uprooting these people. Get me some supper, Bazin.”
“With pleasure, monsieur.”
“A fowl, a bouillon, and a bottle of wine.”
“This is Saturday night, monsieur—it is a day of abstinence.”
“I have a dispensation,” said D’Artagnan.
Bazin looked at him suspiciously.
“Ah, ah, master hypocrite!” said the musketeer, “for whom do you take
me? If you, who are the valet, hope for dispensation to commit a crime,
shall not I, the friend of your bishop, have dispensation for eating meat at
the call of my stomach? Make yourself agreeable with me, Bazin, or by
heavens! I will complain to the king, and you shall never confess. Now you

know that the nomination of bishops rests with the king,—I have the king, I
am the stronger.”
Bazin smiled hypocritically. “Ah, but we have monsieur le surintendant,”
said he.
“And you laugh at the king, then?”
Bazin made no reply; his smile was sufficiently eloquent.
“My supper,” said D’Artagnan, “it is getting towards seven o’clock.”
Bazin turned round and ordered the eldest of the pupils to inform the
cook. In the meantime, D’Artagnan surveyed the presbytery.
“Phew!” said he, disdainfully, “monseigneur lodged his grandeur very
meanly here.”
“We have the Chateau de Vaux,” said Bazin.
“Which is perhaps equal to the Louvre?” said D’Artagnan, jeeringly.
“Which is better,” replied Bazin, with the greatest coolness imaginable.
“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan.
He would perhaps have prolonged the discussion, and maintained the
superiority of the Louvre, but the lieutenant perceived that his horse
remained fastened to the bars of a gate.
“The devil!” said he. “Get my horse looked after; your master the bishop
has none like him in his stables.”
Bazin cast a sidelong glance at the horse, and replied, “Monsieur le
surintendant gave him four from his own stables; and each of the four is
worth four of yours.”
The blood mounted to the face of D’Artagnan. His hand itched and his
eye glanced over the head of Bazin, to select the place upon which he
should discharge his anger. But it passed away; reflection came, and
D’Artagnan contented himself with saying,—
“The devil! the devil! I have done well to quit the service of the king. Tell
me, worthy Master Bazin,” added he, “how many musketeers does
monsieur le surintendant retain in his service?”
“He could have all there are in the kingdom with his money,” replied
Bazin, closing his book, and dismissing the boys with some kindly blows of
his cane.

“The devil! the devil!” repeated D’Artagnan, once more, as if to annoy
the pedagogue. But as supper was now announced, he followed the cook,
who introduced him into the refectory, where it awaited him. D’Artagnan
placed himself at the table, and began a hearty attack upon his fowl.
“It appears to me,” said D’Artagnan, biting with all his might at the tough
fowl they had served up to him, and which they had evidently forgotten to
fatten,—“it appears that I have done wrong in not seeking service with that
master yonder. A powerful noble this intendant, seemingly! In good truth,
we poor fellows know nothing at the court, and the rays of the sun prevent
our seeing the large stars, which are also suns, at a little greater distance
from our earth,—that is all.”
As D’Artagnan delighted, both from pleasure and system, in making
people talk about things which interested him, he fenced in his best style
with Master Bazin, but it was pure loss of time; beyond the tiresome and
hyperbolical praises of monsieur le surintendant of the finances, Bazin,
who, on his side, was on his guard, afforded nothing but platitudes to the
curiosity of D’Artagnan, so that our musketeer, in a tolerably bad humor,
desired to go to bed as soon as he had supped. D’Artagnan was introduced
by Bazin into a mean chamber, in which there was a poor bed; but
D’Artagnan was not fastidious in that respect. He had been told that Aramis
had taken away the key of his own private apartment, and as he knew
Aramis was a very particular man, and had generally many things to
conceal in his apartment, he had not been surprised. He, therefore, although
it seemed comparatively even harder, attacked the bed as bravely as he had
done the fowl; and, as he had as good an inclination to sleep as he had had
to eat, he took scarcely longer time to be snoring harmoniously than he had
employed in picking the last bones of the bird.
Since he was no longer in the service of any one, D’Artagnan had
promised himself to indulge in sleeping as soundly as he had formerly slept
lightly; but with whatever good faith D’Artagnan had made himself this
promise, and whatever desire he might have to keep it religiously, he was
awakened in the middle of the night by a loud noise of carriages, and
servants on horseback. A sudden illumination flashed over the walls of his
chamber; he jumped out of bed and ran to the window in his shirt. “Can the
king be coming this way?” he thought, rubbing his eyes; “in truth, such a
suite can only be attached to royalty.”

“Vive le monsieur le surintendant!” cried, or rather vociferated, from a
window on the ground-floor, a voice which he recognized as Bazin’s, who
at the same time waved a handkerchief with one hand, and held a large
candle in the other. D’Artagnan then saw something like a brilliant human
form leaning out of the principal carriage; at the same time loud bursts of
laughter, caused, no doubt, by the strange figure of Bazin, and issuing from
the same carriage, left, as it were, a train of joy upon the passage of the
rapid cortege.
“I might easily see it was not the king,” said D’Artagnan; “people don’t
laugh so heartily when the king passes. Hola, Bazin!” cried he to his
neighbor, three-quarters of whose body still hung out of the window, to
follow the carriage with his eyes as long as he could. “What is all that
about?”
“It is M. Fouquet,” said Bazin, in a patronizing tone.
“And all those people?”
“That is the court of M. Fouquet.”
“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan; “what would M. de Mazarin say to that if he
heard it?” And he returned to his bed, asking himself how Aramis always
contrived to be protected by the most powerful personages in the kingdom.
“Is it that he has more luck than I, or that I am a greater fool than he? Bah!”
That was the concluding word by the aid of which D’Artagnan, having
become wise, now terminated every thought and every period of his style.
Formerly he said, “Mordioux!” which was a prick of the spur, but now he
had become older, and he murmured that philosophical “Bah!” which
served as a bridle to all the passions.

Chapter XVIII. In which D’Artagnan seeks Porthos,
and only finds Mousqueton.

W
hen D’Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the absence of
the Vicar-General d’Herblay was real, and that his friend was not to
be found at Melun or in its vicinity, he left Bazin without regret,
cast an ill-natured glance at the magnificent Chateau de Vaux, which was
beginning to shine with that splendor which brought on its ruin, and,
compressing his lips like a man full of mistrust and suspicion, he put spurs
to his pied horse, saying, “Well, well! I have still Pierrefonds left, and there
I shall find the best man and the best filled coffer. And that is all I want, for
I have an idea of my own.”
We will spare our readers the prosaic incidents of D’Artagnan’s journey,
which terminated on the morning of the third day within sight of
Pierrefonds. D’Artagnan came by the way of Nanteuil-le-Haudouin and
Crepy. At a distance he perceived the Castle of Louis of Orleans, which,
having become part of the crown domain, was kept by an old concierge.
This was one of those marvelous manors of the middle ages, with walls
twenty feet in thickness, and a hundred in height.
D’Artagnan rode slowly past its walls, measured its towers with his eye
and descended into the valley. From afar he looked down upon the chateau
of Porthos, situated on the shores of a small lake, and contiguous to a
magnificent forest. It was the same place we have already had the honor of
describing to our readers; we shall therefore satisfy ourselves with naming
it. The first thing D’Artagnan perceived after the fine trees, the May sun
gilding the sides of the green hills, the long rows of feather-topped trees
which stretched out towards Compiegne, was a large rolling box, pushed
forward by two servants and dragged by two others. In this box there was
an enormous green-and-gold thing, which went along the smiling glades of
the park, thus dragged and pushed. This thing, at a distance, could not be

distinguished, and signified absolutely nothing; nearer, it was a hogshead
muffled in gold-bound green cloth; when close, it was a man, or rather a
poussa, the inferior extremity of whom, spreading over the interior of the
box, entirely filled it; when still closer, the man was Mousqueton—
Mousqueton, with gray hair and a face as red as Punchinello’s.
“Pardieu!” cried D’Artagnan; “why, that’s my dear Monsieur
Mousqueton!”
“Ah!” cried the fat man—“ah! what happiness! what joy! There’s M.
d’Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!” These last words were addressed to the
lackeys who pushed and dragged him. The box stopped, and the four
lackeys, with a precision quite military, took off their laced hats and ranged
themselves behind it.
“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Mousqueton, “why can I not embrace
your knees? But I have become impotent, as you see.”
“Dame! my dear Mousqueton, it is age.”
“No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities—troubles.”
“Troubles! you, Mousqueton?” said D’Artagnan, making the tour of the
box; “are you out of your mind, my dear friend? Thank God! you are as
hearty as a three-hundred-year-old oak.”
“Ah! but my legs, monsieur, my legs!” groaned the faithful servant.
“What’s the matter with your legs?”
“Oh, they will no longer bear me!”
“Ah, the ungrateful things! And yet you feed them well, Mousqueton,
apparently.”
“Alas, yes! They can reproach me with nothing in that respect,” said
Mousqueton, with a sigh; “I have always done what I could for my poor
body; I am not selfish.” And Mousqueton sighed afresh.
“I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron, too, as he sighs after
that fashion?” thought D’Artagnan.
“Mon Dieu, monsieur!” said Mousqueton, as if rousing himself from a
painful reverie; “how happy monseigneur will be that you have thought of
him!”
“Kind Porthos!” cried D’Artagnan, “I am anxious to embrace him.”
“Oh!” said Mousqueton, much affected, “I shall certainly write to him.”

“What!” cried D’Artagnan, “you will write to him?”
“This very day; I shall not delay it an hour.”
“Is he not here, then?”
“No, monsieur.”
“But is he near at hand?—is he far off?”
“Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell?”
“Mordioux!” cried the musketeer, stamping with his foot, “I am
unfortunate. Porthos is such a stay-at-home!”
“Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man that monseigneur, but—”
“But what?”
“When a friend presses you—”
“A friend?”
“Doubtless—the worthy M. d’Herblay.”
“What, has Aramis pressed Porthos?”
“This is how the thing happened, Monsieur d’Artagnan. M. d’Herblay
wrote to monseigneur—”
“Indeed!”
“A letter, monsieur, such a pressing letter that it threw us all into a
bustle.”
“Tell me all about it, my dear friend,” said D’Artagnan; “but remove
these people a little further off first.”
Mousqueton shouted, “Fall back, you fellows,” with such powerful lungs
that the breath, without the words, would have been sufficient to disperse
the four lackeys. D’Artagnan seated himself on the shaft of the box and
opened his ears. “Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “monseigneur, then,
received a letter from M. le Vicaire-General d’Herblay, eight or nine days
ago; it was the day of the rustic pleasures, yes, it must have been
Wednesday.”
“What do you mean?” said D’Artagnan. “The day of rustic pleasures?”
“Yes, monsieur; we have so many pleasures to take in this delightful
country, that we were encumbered by them; so much so, that we have been
forced to regulate the distribution of them.”

“How easily do I recognize Porthos’s love of order in that! Now, that idea
would never have occurred to me; but then I am not encumbered with
pleasures.”
“We were, though,” said Mousqueton.
“And how did you regulate the matter, let me know?” said D’Artagnan.
“It is rather long, monsieur.”
“Never mind, we have plenty of time; and you speak so well, my dear
Mousqueton, that it is really a pleasure to hear you.”
“It is true,” said Mousqueton, with a sigh of satisfaction, which emanated
evidently from the justice which had been rendered him, “it is true I have
made great progress in the company of monseigneur.”
“I am waiting for the distribution of the pleasures, Mousqueton, and with
impatience. I want to know if I have arrived on a lucky day.”
“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Mousqueton in a melancholy tone,
“since monseigneur’s departure all the pleasures have gone too!”
“Well, my dear Mousqueton, refresh your memory.”
“With what day shall I begin?”
“Eh, pardieux! begin with Sunday; that is the Lord’s day.”
“Sunday, monsieur?”
“Yes.”
“Sunday pleasures are religious: monseigneur goes to mass, makes the
bread-offering, and has discourses and instructions made to him by his
almoner-in-ordinary. That is not very amusing, but we expect a Carmelite
from Paris who will do the duty of our almonry, and who, we are assured,
speaks very well, which will keep us awake, whereas our present almoner
always sends us to sleep. These are Sunday religious pleasures. On Monday,
worldly pleasures.”
“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, “what do you mean by that? Let us have a
glimpse at your worldly pleasures.”
“Monsieur, on Monday we go into the world; we pay and receive visits,
we play on the lute, we dance, we make verses, and burn a little incense in
honor of the ladies.”
“Peste! that is the height of gallantry,” said the musketeer, who was
obliged to call to his aid all the strength of his facial muscles to suppress an

enormous inclination to laugh.
“Tuesday, learned pleasures.”
“Good!” cried D’Artagnan. “What are they? Detail them, my dear
Mousqueton.”
“Monseigneur has bought a sphere or globe, which I shall show you; it
fills all the perimeter of the great tower, except a gallery which he has had
built over the sphere: there are little strings and brass wires to which the sun
and moon are hooked. It all turns; and that is very beautiful. Monseigneur
points out to me the seas and distant countries. We don’t intend to visit
them, but it is very interesting.”
“Interesting! yes, that’s the word,” repeated D’Artagnan. “And
Wednesday?”
“Rustic pleasures, as I have had the honor to tell you, monsieur le
chevalier. We look over monseigneur’s sheep and goats; we make the
shepherds dance to pipes and reeds, as is written in a book monseigneur has
in his library, which is called ‘Bergeries.’ The author died about a month
ago.”
“Monsieur Racan, perhaps,” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes, that was his name—M. Racan. But that is not all: we angle in the
little canal, after which we dine, crowned with flowers. That is Wednesday.”
“Peste!” said D’Artagnan; “you don’t divide your pleasures badly. And
Thursday?—what can be left for poor Thursday?”
“It is not very unfortunate, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, smiling.
“Thursday, Olympian pleasures. Ah, monsieur, that is superb! We get
together all monseigneur’s young vassals, and we make them throw the
disc, wrestle, and run races. Monseigneur can’t run now, no more can I; but
monseigneur throws the disc as nobody else can throw it. And when he does
deal a blow, oh, that proves a misfortune!”
“How so?”
“Yes, monsieur, we were obliged to renounce the cestus. He cracked
heads; he broke jaws—beat in ribs. It was charming sport; but nobody was
willing to play with him.”
“Then his wrist—”

“Oh, monsieur, firmer than ever. Monseigneur gets a trifle weaker in his
legs,—he confesses that himself; but his strength has all taken refuge in his
arms, so that—”
“So that he can knock down bullocks, as he used to formerly.”
“Monsieur, better than that—he beats in walls. Lately, after having
supped with one of our farmers—you know how popular and kind
monseigneur is—after supper, as a joke, he struck the wall a blow. The wall
crumbled away beneath his hand, the roof fell in, and three men and an old
woman were stifled.”
“Good God, Mousqueton! And your master?”
“Oh, monseigneur, a little skin was rubbed off his head. We bathed the
wounds with some water which the monks gave us. But there was nothing
the matter with his hand.”
“Nothing?”
“No, nothing, monsieur.”
“Deuce take the Olympic pleasures! They must cost your master too
dear; for widows and orphans—”
“They all had pensions, monsieur; a tenth of monseigneur’s revenue was
spent in that way.”
“Then pass on to Friday,” said D’Artagnan.
“Friday, noble and warlike pleasures. We hunt, we fence, we dress
falcons and break horses. Then, Saturday is the day for intellectual
pleasures: we adorn our minds; we look at monseigneur’s pictures and
statues; we write, even, and trace plans: and then we fire monseigneur’s
cannon.”
“You draw plans, and fire cannon?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Why, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “M. du Vallon, in truth, possesses
the most subtle and amiable mind that I know. But there is one kind of
pleasure you have forgotten, it appears to me.”
“What is that, monsieur?” asked Mousqueton, with anxiety.
“The material pleasures.”
Mousqueton colored. “What do you mean by that, monsieur?” said he,
casting down his eyes.

“I mean the table—good wine—evenings occupied in passing the bottle.”
“Ah, monsieur, we don’t reckon those pleasures,—we practice them
every day.”
“My brave Mousqueton,” resumed D’Artagnan, “pardon me, but I was so
absorbed in your charming recital that I have forgotten the principal object
of our conversation, which was to learn what M. le Vicaire-General
d’Herblay could have to write to your master about.”
“That is true, monsieur,” said Mousqueton; “the pleasures have misled
us. Well, monsieur, this is the whole affair.”
“I am all attention, Mousqueton.”
“On Wednesday—”
“The day of the rustic pleasures?”
“Yes—a letter arrived; he received it from my hands. I had recognized
the writing.”
“Well?”
Monseigneur read it and cried out, “Quick, my horses! my arms!’”
“Oh, good Lord! then it was for some duel?” said D’Artagnan.
“No, monsieur, there were only these words: ‘Dear Porthos, set out, if
you would wish to arrive before the Equinox. I expect you.’”
“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, thoughtfully, “that was pressing,
apparently.”
“I think so; therefore,” continued Mousqueton, “monseigneur set out the
very same day with his secretary, in order to endeavor to arrive in time.”
“And did he arrive in time?”
“I hope so. Monseigneur, who is hasty, as you know, monsieur, repeated
incessantly, ‘Tonne Dieu! What can this mean? The Equinox? Never mind,
a fellow must be well mounted to arrive before I do.’”
“And you think Porthos will have arrived first, do you?” asked
D’Artagnan.
“I am sure of it. This Equinox, however rich he may be, has certainly no
horses so good as monseigneur’s.”
D’Artagnan repressed his inclination to laugh, because the brevity of
Aramis’s letter gave rise to reflection. He followed Mousqueton, or rather

Mousqueton’s chariot, to the castle. He sat down to a sumptuous table, of
which they did him the honors as to a king. But he could draw nothing from
Mousqueton,—the faithful servant seemed to shed tears at will, but that was
all.
D’Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed, reflected much upon
the meaning of Aramis’s letter; puzzled himself as to the relation of the
Equinox with the affairs of Porthos; and being unable to make anything out
unless it concerned some amour of the bishopp’s, for which it was
necessary that the days and nights should be equal, D’Artagnan left
Pierrefonds as he had left Melun, as he had left the chateau of the Comte de
la Fere. It was not, however, without a melancholy, which might in good
sooth pass for one of the most dismal of D’Artagnan’s moods. His head cast
down, his eyes fixed, he suffered his legs to hang on each side of his horse,
and said to himself, in that vague sort of reverie which ascends sometimes
to the sublimest eloquence:
“No more friends! no more future! no more anything! My energies are
broken like the bonds of our ancient friendship. Oh, old age is coming, cold
and inexorable; it envelopes in its funeral crepe all that was brilliant, all that
was embalming in my youth; then it throws that sweet burthen on its
shoulders and carries it away with the rest into the fathomless gulf of
death.”
A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave and so strong
against all the misfortunes of life; and during some moments the clouds
appeared black to him, the earth slippery and full of pits as that of
cemeteries.
“Whither am I going?” said he to himself. “What am I going to do!
Alone, quite alone—without family, without friends! Bah!” cried he all at
once. And he clapped spurs to his horse, who, having found nothing
melancholy in the heavy oats of Pierrefonds, profited by this permission to
show his gayety in a gallop which absorbed two leagues. “To Paris!” said
D’Artagnan to himself. And on the morrow he alighted in Paris. He had
devoted ten days to this journey.

Chapter XIX. What D’Artagnan went to Paris for.

T
he lieutenant dismounted before a shop in the Rue des Lombards, at
the sign of the Pilon d’Or. A man of good appearance, wearing a white
apron, and stroking his gray mustache with a large hand, uttered a cry
of joy on perceiving the pied horse. “Monsieur le chevalier,” said he, “ah, is
that you?”
“Bon jour, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, stooping to enter the shop.
“Quick, somebody,” cried Planchet, “to look after Monsieur d’Artagnan’s
horse,—somebody to get ready his room,—somebody to prepare his
supper.”
“Thanks, Planchet. Good-day, my children!” said D’Artagnan to the
eager boys.
“Allow me to send off this coffee, this treacle, and these raisins,” said
Planchet; “they are for the store-room of monsieur le surintendant.”
“Send them off, send them off!”
“That is only the affair of a moment, then we shall sup.”
“Arrange it that we may sup alone; I want to speak to you.”
Planchet looked at his old master in a significant manner.
“Oh, don’t be uneasy, it is nothing unpleasant,” said D’Artagnan.
“So much the better—so much the better!” And Planchet breathed freely
again, whilst D’Artagnan seated himself quietly down in the shop, upon a
bale of corks, and made a survey of the premises. The shop was well
stocked; there was a mingled perfume of ginger, cinnamon, and ground
pepper, which made D’Artagnan sneeze. The shop-boy, proud of being in
company with so renowned a warrior, of a lieutenant of musketeers, who
approached the person of the king, began to work with an enthusiasm which
was something like delirium, and to serve the customers with a disdainful
haste that was noticed by several.

Planchet put away his money, and made up his accounts, amidst civilities
addressed to his former master. Planchet had with his equals the short
speech and haughty familiarity of the rich shopkeeper who serves
everybody and waits for nobody. D’Artagnan observed this habit with a
pleasure which we shall analyze presently. He saw night come on by
degrees, and at length Planchet conducted him to a chamber on the first
story, where, amidst bales and chests, a table very nicely set out awaited the
two guests.
D’Artagnan took advantage of a moment’s pause to examine the
countenance of Planchet, whom he had not seen for a year. The shrewd
Planchet had acquired a slight protuberance in front, but his countenance
was not puffed. His keen eye still played with facility in its deep-sunk orbit;
and fat, which levels all the characteristic saliences of the human face, had
not yet touched either his high cheek-bones, the sign of cunning and
cupidity, or his pointed chin, the sign of acuteness and perseverance.
Planchet reigned with as much majesty in his dining-room as in his shop.
He set before his master a frugal, but perfectly Parisian repast: roast meat,
cooked at the baker’s, with vegetables, salad, and a dessert borrowed from
the shop itself. D’Artagnan was pleased that the grocer had drawn from
behind the fagots a bottle of that Anjou wine which during all his life had
been D’Artagnan’s favorite wine.
“Formerly, monsieur,” said Planchet, with a smile full of bonhomie, “it
was I who drank your wine; now you do me the honor to drink mine.”
“And, thank God, friend Planchet, I shall drink it for a long time to come,
I hope; for at present I am free.”
“Free? You have a leave of absence, monsieur?”
“Unlimited.”
“You are leaving the service?” said Planchet, stupefied.
“Yes, I am resting.”
“And the king?” cried Planchet, who could not suppose it possible that
the king could do without the services of such a man as D’Artagnan.
“The king will try his fortune elsewhere. But we have supped well, you
are disposed to enjoy yourself; you invite me to confide in you. Open your
ears, then.”

“They are open.” And Planchet, with a laugh more frank than cunning,
opened a bottle of white wine.
“Leave me my reason, at least.”
“Oh, as to you losing your head—you, monsieur!”
“Now my head is my own, and I mean to take better care of it than ever.
In the first place we shall talk business. How fares our money-box?”
“Wonderfully well, monsieur. The twenty thousand livres I had of you are
still employed in my trade, in which they bring me nine per cent. I give you
seven, so I gain two by you.”
“And you are still satisfied?”
“Delighted. Have you brought me any more?”
“Better than that. But do you want any?”
“Oh! not at all. Every one is willing to trust me now. I am extending my
business.”
“That was your intention.”
“I play the banker a little. I buy goods of my needy brethren; I lend
money to those who are not ready for their payments.”
“Without usury?”
“Oh! monsieur, in the course of the last week I have had two meetings on
the boulevards, on account of the word you have just pronounced.”
“What?”
“You shall see: it concerned a loan. The borrower gives me in pledge
some raw sugars, on condition that I should sell if repayment were not
made within a fixed period. I lend a thousand livres. He does not pay me,
and I sell the sugars for thirteen hundred livres. He learns this and claims a
hundred crowns. Ma foi! I refused, pretending that I could not sell them for
more than nine hundred livres. He accused me of usury. I begged him to
repeat that word to me behind the boulevards. He was an old guard, and he
came: and I passed your sword through his left thigh.”
“Tu dieu! what a pretty sort of banker you make!” said D’Artagnan.
“For above thirteen per cent I fight,” replied Planchet; “that is my
character.”

“Take only twelve,” said D’Artagnan, “and call the rest premium and
brokerage.”
“You are right, monsieur; but to your business.”
“Ah! Planchet, it is very long and very hard to speak.”
“Do speak it, nevertheless.”
D’Artagnan twisted his mustache like a man embarrassed with the
confidence he is about to make and mistrustful of his confidant.
“Is it an investment?” asked Planchet.
“Why, yes.”
“At good profit?”
“A capital profit,—four hundred per cent, Planchet.”
Planchet gave such a blow with his fist upon the table, that the bottles
bounded as if they had been frightened.
“Good heavens! is that possible?”
“I think it will be more,” replied D’Artagnan coolly; “but I like to lay it
at the lowest!”
“The devil!” said Planchet, drawing nearer. “Why, monsieur, that is
magnificent! Can one put much money in it?”
“Twenty thousand livres each, Planchet.”
“Why, that is all you have, monsieur. For how long a time?”
“For a month.”
“And that will give us—”
“Fifty thousand livres each, profit.”
“It is monstrous! It is worth while to fight for such interest as that!”
“In fact, I believe it will be necessary to fight not a little,” said
D’Artagnan, with the same tranquillity; “but this time there are two of us,
Planchet, and I shall take all the blows to myself.”
“Oh! monsieur, I will not allow that.”
“Planchet, you cannot be concerned in it; you would be obliged to leave
your business and your family.”
“The affair is not in Paris, then.”
“No.”

“Abroad?”
“In England.”
“A speculative country, that is true,” said Planchet,—“a country that I
know well. What sort of an affair, monsieur, without too much curiosity?”
“Planchet, it is a restoration.”
“Of monuments?”
“Yes, of monuments; we shall restore Whitehall.”
“That is important. And in a month, you think?”
“I shall undertake it.”
“That concerns you, monsieur, and when once you are engaged—”
“Yes, that concerns me. I know what I am about; nevertheless, I will
freely consult with you.”
“You do me great honor; but I know very little about architecture.”
“Planchet, you are wrong; you are an excellent architect, quite as good as
I am, for the case in question.”
“Thanks, monsieur. But your old friends of the musketeers?”
“I have been, I confess, tempted to speak of the thing to those gentlemen,
but they are all absent from their houses. It is vexatious, for I know none
more bold or able.”
“Ah! then it appears there will be an opposition, and the enterprise will
be disputed?”
“Oh, yes, Planchet, yes.”
“I burn to know the details, monsieur.”
“Here they are, Planchet—close all the doors tight.”
“Yes, monsieur.” And Planchet double-locked them.
“That is well; now draw near.” Planchet obeyed.
“And open the window, because the noise of the passers-by and the carts
will deafen all who might hear us.” Planchet opened the window as desired,
and the gust of tumult which filled the chamber with cries, wheels,
barkings, and steps deafened D’Artagnan himself, as he had wished. He
then swallowed a glass of white wine, and began in these terms: “Planchet,
I have an idea.”

“Ah! monsieur, I recognize you so well in that!” replied Planchet, panting
with emotion.

Chapter XX. Of the Society which was formed in the
Rue des Lombards.

A
fter a moment’s silence, in which D’Artagnan appeared to be
collecting, not one idea but all his ideas,—“It cannot be, my dear
Planchet,” said he, “that you have not heard of his majesty Charles I.
of England?”
“Alas! yes, monsieur, since you left France in order to assist him, and
that, in spite of that assistance, he fell, and was near dragging you down in
his fall.”
“Exactly so; I see you have a good memory, Planchet.”
“Peste! the astonishing thing would be, if I could have lost that memory,
however bad it might have been. When one has heard Grimaud, who, you
know, is not given to talking, relate how the head of King Charles fell, how
you sailed the half of a night in a scuttled vessel, and saw floating on the
water that good M. Mordaunt with a certain gold-hafted dagger buried in
his breast, one is not very likely to forget such things.”
“And yet there are people who forget them, Planchet.”
“Yes, such as have not seen them, or have not heard Grimaud relate
them.”
“Well, it is all the better that you recollect all that; I shall only have to
remind you of one thing, and that is that Charles I. had a son.”
“Without contradicting you, monsieur, he had two,” said Planchet; “for I
saw the second one in Paris, M. le Duke of York, one day, as he was going
to the Palais Royal, and I was told that he was not the eldest son of Charles
I. As to the eldest, I have the honor of knowing him by name, but not
personally.”
“That is exactly the point, Planchet, we must come to: it is to this eldest
son, formerly called the Prince of Wales, and who is now styled Charles II.,

king of England.”
“A king without a kingdom, monsieur,” replied Planchet, sententiously.
“Yes, Planchet, and you may add an unfortunate prince, more unfortunate
than the poorest man of the people lost in the worst quarter of Paris.”
Planchet made a gesture full of that sort of compassion which we grant to
strangers with whom we think we can never possibly find ourselves in
contact. Besides, he did not see in this politico-sentimental operation any
sign of the commercial idea of M. d’Artagnan, and it was in this idea that
D’Artagnan, who was, from habit, pretty well acquainted with men and
things, had principally interested Planchet.
“I am come to our business. This young Prince of Wales, a king without a
kingdom, as you have so well said, Planchet, has interested me. I,
D’Artagnan, have seen him begging assistance of Mazarin, who is a miser,
and the aid of Louis, who is a child, and it appeared to me, who am
acquainted with such things, that in the intelligent eye of the fallen king, in
the nobility of his whole person, a nobility apparent above all his miseries, I
could discern the stuff of a man and the heart of a king.”
Planchet tacitly approved of all this; but it did not at all, in his eyes at
least, throw any light upon D’Artagnan’s idea. The latter continued: “This,
then, is the reasoning which I made with myself. Listen attentively,
Planchet, for we are coming to the conclusion.”
“I am listening.”
“Kings are not so thickly sown upon the earth, that people can find them
whenever they want them. Now, this king without a kingdom is, in my
opinion, a grain of seed which will blossom in some season or other,
provided a skillful, discreet, and vigorous hand sow it duly and truly,
selecting soil, sky, and time.”
Planchet still approved by a nod of his head, which showed that he did
not perfectly comprehend all that was said.
“‘Poor little seed of a king,’ said I to myself, and really I was affected,
Planchet, which leads me to think I am entering upon a foolish business.
And that is why I wished to consult you, my friend.”
Planchet colored with pleasure and pride.
“‘Poor little seed of a king! I will pick you up and cast you into good
ground.’”

“Good God!” said Planchet, looking earnestly at his old master, as if in
doubt as to the state of his reason.
“Well, what is it?” said D’Artagnan; “who hurts you?”
“Me! nothing, monsieur.”
“You said, ‘Good God!’”
“Did I?”
“I am sure you did. Can you already understand?”
“I confess, M. d’Artagnan, that I am afraid—”
“To understand?”
“Yes.”
“To understand that I wish to replace upon his throne this King Charles
II., who has no throne? Is that it?”
Planchet made a prodigious bound in his chair. “Ah, ah!” said he, in
evident terror, “that is what you call a restoration!”
“Yes, Planchet; is it not the proper term for it?”
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt! But have you reflected seriously?”
“Upon what?”
“Upon what is going on yonder.”
“Where?”
“In England.”
“And what is that? Let us see, Planchet.”
“In the first place, monsieur, I ask you pardon for meddling in these
things, which have nothing to do with my trade; but since it is an affair that
you propose to me—for you are proposing an affair, are you not?—”
“A superb one, Planchet.”
“But as it is business you propose to me, I have the right to discuss it.”
“Discuss it, Planchet; out of discussion is born light.”
“Well, then, since I have monsieur’s permission, I will tell him that there
is yonder, in the first place, the parliament.”
“Well, next?”
“And then the army.”
“Good! Do you see anything else?”

“Why, then the nation.”
“Is that all?”
“The nation which consented to the overthrow and death of the late king,
the father of this one, and which will not be willing to belie its acts.”
“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “you argue like a cheese! The nation—the
nation is tired of these gentlemen who give themselves such barbarous
names, and who sing songs to it. Chanting for chanting, my dear Planchet; I
have remarked that nations prefer singing a merry chant to the plain chant.
Remember the Fronde; what did they sing in those times? Well, those were
good times.”
“Not too good, not too good! I was near being hung in those times.”
“Well, but you were not.”
“No.”
“And you laid the foundations of your fortune in the midst of all those
songs?”
“That is true.”
“Then you have nothing to say against them.”
“Well, I return, then, to the army and parliament.”
“I say that I borrow twenty thousand livres of M. Planchet, and that I put
twenty thousand livres of my own to it; and with these forty thousand livres
I raise an army.”
Planchet clasped his hands; he saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest, and,
in good truth, he believed his master had lost his senses.
“An army!—ah, monsieur,” said he, with his most agreeable smile, for
fear of irritating the madman, and rendering him furious,—“an army!—how
many?”
“Of forty men,” said D’Artagnan.
“Forty against forty thousand! that is not enough. I know very well that
you, M. d’Artagnan, alone, are equal to a thousand men; but where are we
to find thirty-nine men equal to you? Or, if we could find them, who would
furnish you with money to pay them?”
“Not bad, Planchet. Ah, the devil! you play the courtier.”

“No, monsieur, I speak what I think, and that is exactly why I say that, in
the first pitched battle you fight with your forty men, I am very much afraid
—”
“Therefore I shall fight no pitched battles, my dear Planchet,” said the
Gascon, laughing. “We have very fine examples in antiquity of skillful
retreats and marches, which consisted in avoiding the enemy instead of
attacking them. You should know that, Planchet, you who commanded the
Parisians the day on which they ought to have fought against the
musketeers, and who so well calculated marches and countermarches, that
you never left the Palais Royal.”
Planchet could not help laughing. “It is plain,” replied he, “that if your
forty men conceal themselves, and are not unskillful, they may hope not to
be beaten: but you propose obtaining some result, do you not?”
“No doubt. This, then, in my opinion, is the plan to be proceeded upon in
order quickly to replace his majesty Charles II. on his throne.”
“Good!” said Planchet, increasing his attention; “let us see your plan. But
in the first place it seems to me we are forgetting something.”
“What is that?”
“We have set aside the nation, which prefers singing merry songs to
psalms, and the army, which we will not fight; but the parliament remains,
and that seldom sings.”
“Nor does it fight. How is it, Planchet, that an intelligent man like
yourself should take any heed of a set of brawlers who call themselves
Rumps and Barebones? The parliament does not trouble me at all,
Planchet.”
“As soon as it ceases to trouble you, monsieur, let us pass on.”
“Yes, and arrive at the result. You remember Cromwell, Planchet?”
“I have heard a great deal of talk about him.
“He was a rough soldier.”
“And a terrible eater, moreover.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why, at one gulp he swallowed all England.”
“Well, Planchet, the evening before the day on which he swallowed
England, if any one had swallowed M. Cromwell?”

“Oh, monsieur, it is one of the axioms of mathematics that the container
must be greater than the contained.”
“Very well! That is our affair, Planchet.”
“But M. Cromwell is dead, and his container is now the tomb.”
“My dear Planchet, I see with pleasure that you have not only become a
mathematician, but a philosopher.”
“Monsieur, in my grocery business I use much printed paper, and that
instructs me.”
“Bravo! You know then, in that case—for you have not learnt
mathematics and philosophy without a little history—that after this
Cromwell so great, there came one who was very little.”
“Yes; he was named Richard, and he as done as you have, M. d’Artagnan
—he has tendered his resignation.”
“Very well said—very well! After the great man who is dead, after the
little one who tendered his resignation, there came a third. This one is
named Monk; he is an able general, considering he has never fought a
battle; he is a skillful diplomatist, considering that he never speaks in
public, and that having to say ‘good-day’ to a man, he meditates twelve
hours, and ends by saying ‘good night;’ which makes people exclaim
‘miracle!’ seeing that it falls out correctly.”
“That is rather strong,” said Planchet; “but I know another political man
who resembles him very much.”
“M. Mazarin you mean?”
“Himself.”
“You are right, Planchet; only M. Mazarin does not aspire to the throne of
France; and that changes everything. Do you see? Well, this M. Monk, who
has England ready-roasted in his plate, and who is already opening his
mouth to swallow it—this M. Monk, who says to the people of Charles II.,
and to Charles II. himself, ‘Nescio vos’—”
“I don’t understand English,” said Planchet.
“Yes, but I understand it,” said D’Artagnan. “‘Nescio vos’ means ‘I do
not know you.’ This M. Monk, the most important man in England, when
he shall have swallowed it—”
“Well?” asked Planchet.

“Well, my friend, I shall go over yonder, and with my forty men I shall
carry him off, pack him up, and bring him into France, where two modes of
proceeding present themselves to my dazzled eyes.”
“Oh! and to mine too,” cried Planchet, transported with enthusiasm. “We
will put him in a cage and show him for money.”
“Well, Planchet, that is a third plan, of which I had not thought.”
“Do you think it a good one?”
“Yes, certainly, but I think mine better.”
“Let us see yours, then.”
“In the first place, I shall set a ransom on him.”
“Of how much?”
“Peste! a fellow like that must be well worth a hundred thousand
crowns.”
“Yes, yes!”
“You see, then—in the first place, a ransom of a hundred thousand
crowns.”
“Or else—”
“Or else, what is much better, I deliver him up to King Charles, who,
having no longer either a general or an army to fear, nor a diplomatist to
trick him, will restore himself, and when once restored, will pay down to
me the hundred thousand crowns in question. That is the idea I have
formed; what do you say to it, Planchet?”
“Magnificent, monsieur!” cried Planchet, trembling with emotion. “How
did you conceive that idea?”
“It came to me one morning on the banks of the Loire, whilst our beloved
king, Louis XIV., was pretending to weep upon the hand of Mademoiselle
de Mancini.”
“Monsieur, I declare the idea is sublime. But—”
“Ah! is there a but?”
“Permit me! But this is a little like the skin of that fine bear—you know
—that they were about to sell, but which it was necessary to take from the
back of the living bear. Now, to take M. Monk, there will be a bit of a
scuffle, I should think.”

“No doubt; but as I shall raise an army to—”
“Yes, yes—I understand, parbleu!—a coup-de-main. Yes, then, monsieur,
you will triumph, for no one equals you in such sorts of encounters.”
“I certainly am lucky in them,” said D’Artagnan, with a proud simplicity.
“You know that if for this affair I had my dear Athos, my brave Porthos, and
my cunning Aramis, the business would be settled; but they are all lost, as it
appears, and nobody knows where to find them. I will do it, then, alone.
Now, do you find the business good, and the investment advantageous?”
“Too much so—too much so.”
“How can that be?”
“Because fine things never reach the expected point.”
“This is infallible, Planchet, and the proof is that I undertake it. It will be
for you a tolerably pretty gain, and for me a very interesting stroke. It will
be said, ‘Such was the old age of M. d’Artagnan,’ and I shall hold a place in
tales and even in history itself, Planchet. I am greedy of honor.”
“Monsieur,” cried Planchet, “when I think that it is here, in my home, in
the midst of my sugar, my prunes, and my cinnamon, that this gigantic
project is ripened, my shop seems a palace to me.”
“Beware, beware, Planchet! If the least report of this escapes, there is the
Bastile for both of us. Beware, my friend, for this is a plot we are hatching.
M. Monk is the ally of M. Mazarin—beware!”
“Monsieur, when a man has had the honor to belong to you, he knows
nothing of fear; and when he has had the advantage of being bound up in
interests with you, he holds his tongue.”
“Very well; that is more your affair than mine, seeing that in a week I
shall be in England.”
“Depart, monsieur, depart—the sooner the better.”
“Is the money, then, ready?”
“It will be to-morrow; to-morrow you shall receive it from my own
hands. Will you have gold or silver?”
“Gold; that is most convenient. But how are we going to arrange this?
Let us see.”
“Oh, good Lord! in the simplest way possible. You shall give me a
receipt, that is all.”

“No, no,” said D’Artagnan, warmly; “we must preserve order in all
things.”
“That is likewise my opinion; but with you, M. d’Artagnan—”
“And if I should die yonder—if I should be killed by a musket-ball—if I
should burst from drinking beer?”
“Monsieur, I beg you to believe that in that case I should be so much
afflicted at your death, that I should not think about the money.”
“Thank you, Planchet; but no matter. We shall, like two lawyers’ clerks,
draw up together an agreement, a sort of act, which may be called a deed of
company.”
“Willingly, monsieur.”
“I know it is difficult to draw such a thing up, but we can try.”
“Let us try, then.” And Planchet went in search of pens, ink, and paper.
D’Artagnan took the pen and wrote:—“Between Messire d’Artagnan, ex-
lieutenant of the king’s musketeers, at present residing in the Rue
Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette; and the Sieur Planchet, grocer, residing
in the Rue des Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon d’Or, it has been agreed as
follows:—A company, with a capital of forty thousand livres, and formed
for the purpose of carrying out an idea conceived by M. d’Artagnan, and the
said Planchet approving of it in all points, will place twenty thousand livres
in the hands of M. d’Artagnan. He will require neither repayment nor
interest before the return of M. d’Artagnan from a journey he is about to
take into England. On his part, M. d’Artagnan undertakes it to find twenty
thousand livres, which he will join to the twenty thousand already laid
down by the Sieur Planchet. He will employ the said sum of forty thousand
livres according to his judgment in an undertaking which is described
below. On the day when M. d’Artagnan shall have re-established, by
whatever means, his majesty King Charles II. upon the throne of England,
he will pay into the hands of M. Planchet the sum of—”
“The sum of a hundred and fifty thousand livres,” said Planchet,
innocently, perceiving that D’Artagnan hesitated.
“Oh, the devil, no!” said D’Artagnan, “the division cannot be made by
half; that would not be just.”
“And yet, monsieur, we each lay down half,” objected Planchet, timidly.

“Yes; but listen to this clause, my dear Planchet, and if you do not find if
equitable in every respect when it is written, well, we can scratch it out
again:—‘Nevertheless, as M. d’Artagnan brings to the association, besides
his capital of twenty thousand livres, his time, his idea, his industry, and his
skin,—things which he appreciates strongly, particularly the last,—M.
d’Artagnan will keep, of the three hundred thousand livres, two hundred
thousand livres for himself, which will make his share two-thirds.”
“Very well,” said Planchet.
“Is it just?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Perfectly just, monsieur.”
“And you will be contented with a hundred thousand livres?”
“Peste! I think so. A hundred thousand for twenty thousand!”
“And in a month, understand.”
“How, in a month?”
“Yes, I only ask one month.”
“Monsieur,” said Planchet, generously, “I give you six weeks.”
“Thank you,” replied the musketeer, politely; after which the two
partners reperused their deed.
“That is perfect, monsieur,” said Planchet; “and the late M. Coquenard,
the first husband of Madame la Baronne du Vallon, could not have done it
better.”
“Do you find it so? Let us sign it then.” And both affixed their signatures.
“In this fashion,” said D’Artagnan, “I shall be under obligations to no
one.”
“But I shall be under obligations to you,” said Planchet.
“No; for whatever store I set by it, Planchet, I may lose my skin yonder,
and you will lose all. A propos—peste!—that makes me think of the
principal, an indispensable clause. I shall write it:—‘In case of M.
d’Artagnan dying in this enterprise, liquidation will be considered made,
and the Sieur Planchet will give quittance from that moment to the shade of
Messire d’Artagnan for the twenty thousand livres paid by him into the
hands of the said company.’”
This last clause made Planchet knit his brows a little, but when he saw
the brilliant eye, the muscular hand, the supple and strong back of his

associate, he regained his courage, and, without regret, he at once added
another stroke to his signature. D’Artagnan did the same. Thus was drawn
the first known company contract; perhaps such things have been abused a
little since, both in form and principle.
“Now,” said Planchet, pouring out the last glass of Anjou wine for
D’Artagnan,—“now go to sleep, my dear master.”
“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “for the most difficult part now remains to be
done, and I will think over that difficult part.”
“Bah!” said Planchet; “I have such great confidence in you, M.
d’Artagnan, that I would not give my hundred thousand livres for ninety
thousand livres down.”
“And devil take me if I don’t think you are right!” Upon which
D’Artagnan took a candle and went up to his bedroom.

Chapter XXI. In which D’Artagnan prepares to
travel.

D
’Artagnan reflected to such good purpose during the night that his
plan was settled by morning. “This is it,” said he, sitting up in bed,
supporting his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand;—“this is
it. I shall seek out forty steady, firm men, recruited among people a little
compromised, but having habits of discipline. I shall promise them five
hundred livres for a month if they return; nothing if they do not return, or
half for their kindred. As to food and lodging, that concerns the English,
who have cattle in their pastures, bacon in their bacon-racks, fowls in their
poultry-yards, and corn in their barns. I will present myself to General
Monk with my little body of troops. He will receive me. I shall win his
confidence, and take advantage of it, as soon as possible.”
But without going further, D’Artagnan shook his head and interrupted
himself. “No,” said he; “I should not dare to relate this to Athos; the way is
therefore not honorable. I must use violence,” continued he,—“very
certainly I must, but without compromising my loyalty. With forty men I
will traverse the country as a partisan. But if I fall in with, not forty
thousand English, as Planchet said, but purely and simply with four
hundred, I shall be beaten. Supposing that among my forty warriors there
should be found at least ten stupid ones—ten who will allow themselves to
be killed one after the other, from mere folly? No; it is, in fact, impossible
to find forty men to be depended upon—they do not exist. I must learn how
to be contented with thirty. With ten men less I should have the right of
avoiding any armed encounter, on account of the small number of my
people; and if the encounter should take place, my chance is better with
thirty men than forty. Besides, I should save five thousand francs; that is to
say, the eighth of my capital; that is worth the trial. This being so, I should
have thirty men. I shall divide them into three bands,—we will spread

ourselves about over the country, with an injunction to reunite at a given
moment; in this fashion, ten by ten, we should excite no suspicion—we
should pass unperceived. Yes, yes, thirty—that is a magic number. There are
three tens—three, that divine number! And then, truly, a company of thirty
men, when all together, will look rather imposing. Ah! stupid wretch that I
am!” continued D’Artagnan, “I want thirty horses. That is ruinous. Where
the devil was my head when I forgot the horses? We cannot, however, think
of striking such a blow without horses. Well, so be it, that sacrifice must be
made; we can get the horses in the country—they are not bad, besides. But I
forgot—peste! Three bands—that necessitates three leaders; there is the
difficulty. Of the three commanders I have already one—that is myself;—
yes, but the two others will of themselves cost almost as much money as all
the rest of the troop. No; positively I must have but one lieutenant. In that
case, then, I should reduce my troop to twenty men. I know very well that
twenty men is but very little; but since with thirty I was determined not to
seek to come to blows, I should do so more carefully still with twenty.
Twenty—that is a round number; that, besides, reduces the number of the
horses by ten, which is a consideration; and then, with a good lieutenant—
Mordioux! what things patience and calculation are! Was I not going to
embark with forty men, and I have now reduced them to twenty for an equal
success? Ten thousand livres saved at one stroke, and more safety; that is
well! Now, then, let us see; we have nothing to do but to find this lieutenant
—let him be found, then; and after—That is not so easy; he must be brave
and good, a second myself. Yes, but a lieutenant must have my secret, and
as that secret is worth a million, and I shall only pay my man a thousand
livres, fifteen hundred at the most, my man will sell the secret to Monk.
Mordioux! no lieutenant. Besides, this man, were he as mute as a disciple of
Pythagoras,—this man would be sure to have in the troop some favorite
soldier, whom he would make his sergeant; the sergeant would penetrate the
secret of the lieutenant, in case the latter should be honest and unwilling to
sell it. Then the sergeant, less honest and less ambitious, will give up the
whole for fifty thousand livres. Come, come! that is impossible. The
lieutenant is impossible. But then I must have no fractions; I cannot divide
my troop in two, and act upon two points, at once, without another self,
who—But what is the use of acting upon two points, as we have only one
man to take? What can be the use of weakening a corps by placing the right
here, and the left there? A single corps—Mordioux! a single one, and that

commanded by D’Artagnan. Very well. But twenty men marching in one
band are suspected by everybody; twenty horsemen must not be seen
marching together, or a company will be detached against them and the
password will be required; the which company, upon seeing them
embarrassed to give it, would shoot M. d’Artagnan and his men like so
many rabbits. I reduce myself then to ten men; in this fashion I shall act
simply and with unity; I shall be forced to be prudent, which is half the
success in an affair of the kind I am undertaking; a greater number might,
perhaps, have drawn me into some folly. Ten horses are not many, either, to
buy or take. A capital idea; what tranquillity it infuses into my mind! no
more suspicions—no passwords—no more dangers! Ten men, they are
valets or clerks. Ten men, leading ten horses laden with merchandise of
whatever kind, are tolerated, well received everywhere. Ten men travel on
account of the house of Planchet & Co., of France,—nothing can be said
against that. These ten men, clothed like manufacturers, have a good cutlass
or a good musket at their saddle-bow, and a good pistol in the holster. They
never allow themselves to be uneasy, because they have no evil designs.
They are, perhaps, in truth, a little disposed to be smugglers, but what harm
is in that? Smuggling is not, like polygamy, a hanging offense. The worst
that can happen to us is the confiscation of our merchandise. Our
merchandise confiscated—a fine affair that! Come, come! it is a superb
plan. Ten men only—ten men, whom I will engage for my service; ten men
who shall be as resolute as forty, who would cost me four times as much,
and to whom, for greater security, I will never open my mouth as to my
designs, and to whom I shall only say ‘My friends, there is a blow to be
struck.’ Things being after this fashion, Satan will be very malicious if he
plays me one of his tricks. Fifteen thousand livres saved—that’s superb—
out of twenty!”
Thus fortified by his laborious calculations, D’Artagnan stopped at this
plan, and determined to change nothing in it. He had already on a list
furnished by his inexhaustible memory, ten men illustrious amongst the
seekers of adventure, ill-treated by fortune, and not on good terms with
justice. Upon this D’Artagnan rose, and instantly set off on the search,
telling Planchet not to expect him to breakfast, and perhaps not to dinner. A
day and a half spent in rummaging amongst certain dens of Paris sufficed
for his recruiting; and, without allowing his adventurers to communicate
with each other, he had picked up and got together, in less than thirty hours,

a charming collection of ill-looking faces, speaking a French less pure than
the English they were about to attempt. These men were, for the most part,
guards, whose merit D’Artagnan had had an opportunity of appreciating in
various encounters, whom drunkenness, unlucky sword-thrusts, unexpected
winnings at play, or the economical reforms of Mazarin, had forced to seek
shade and solitude, those two great consolers of irritated and chafing spirits.
They bore upon their countenances and in their vestments the traces of the
heartaches they had undergone. Some had their visages scarred,—all had
their clothes in rags. D’Artagnan comforted the most needy of these
brotherly miseries by a prudent distribution of the crowns of the company;
then, having taken care that these crowns should be employed in the
physical improvement of the troop, he appointed a trysting place in the
north of France, between Bergues and Saint Omer. Six days were allowed
as the utmost term, and D’Artagnan was sufficiently acquainted with the
good-will, the good-humor, and the relative probity of these illustrious
recruits, to be certain that not one of them would fail in his appointment.
These orders given, this rendezvous fixed, he went to bid farewell to
Planchet, who asked news of his army. D’Artagnan did not think it proper
to inform him of the reduction he had made in his personnel. He feared that
the confidence of his associate would be abated by such an avowal.
Planchet was delighted to learn that the army was levied, and that he
(Planchet) found himself a kind of half king, who from his throne-counter
kept in pay a body of troops destined to make war against perfidious
Albion, that enemy of all true French hearts. Planchet paid down in double
louis, twenty thousand livres to D’Artagnan, on the part of himself
(Planchet), and twenty thousand livres, still in double louis, in account with
D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan placed each of the twenty thousand francs in a
bag, and weighing a bag in each hand,—“This money is very embarrassing,
my dear Planchet,” said he. “Do you know this weighs thirty pounds?”
“Bah! your horse will carry that like a feather.”
D’Artagnan shook his head. “Don’t tell me such things, Planchet: a horse
overloaded with thirty pounds, in addition to the rider and his portmanteau,
cannot cross a river so easily—cannot leap over a wall or ditch so lightly;
and the horse failing, the horseman fails. It is true that you, Planchet, who
have served in the infantry, may not be aware of all that.”
“Then what is to be done, monsieur?” said Planchet, greatly embarrassed.

“Listen to me,” said D’Artagnan. “I will pay my army on its return home.
Keep my half of twenty thousand livres, which you can use during that
time.”
“And my half?” said Planchet.
“I shall take that with me.”
“Your confidence does me honor,” said Planchet: “but supposing you
should not return?”
“That is possible, though not very probable. Then, Planchet, in case I
should not return—give me a pen; I will make my will.” D’Artagnan took a
pen and some paper, and wrote upon a plain sheet,—“I, D’Artagnan,
possess twenty thousand livres, laid up cent per cent during thirty years that
I have been in the service of his majesty the king of France. I leave five
thousand to Athos, five thousand to Porthos, and five thousand to Aramis,
that they may give the said sums in my name and their own to my young
friend Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne. I give the remaining five thousand to
Planchet, that he may distribute the fifteen thousand with less regret among
my friends. With which purpose I sign these presents.—D’ARTAGNAN.”
Planchet appeared very curious to know what D’Artagnan had written.
“Here,” said the musketeer, “read it.”
On reading the last lines the tears came into Planchet’s eyes. “You think,
then, that I would not have given the money without that? Then I will have
none of your five thousand francs.”
D’Artagnan smiled. “Accept it, accept it, Planchet; and in that way you
will only lose fifteen thousand francs instead of twenty thousand, and you
will not be tempted to disregard the signature of your master and friend, by
losing nothing at all.”
How well that dear Monsieur d’Artagnan knew the hearts of men and
grocers! They who have pronounced Don Quixote mad because he rode out
to the conquest of an empire with nobody but Sancho his squire, and they
who have pronounced Sancho mad because he accompanied his master in
his attempt to conquer the said empire,—they certainly will have no
hesitation in extending the same judgment to D’Artagnan and Planchet. And
yet the first passed for one of the most subtle spirits among the astute spirits
of the court of France. As to the second, he had acquired by good right the
reputation of having one of the longest heads among the grocers of the Rue

des Lombards; consequently of Paris, and consequently of France. Now, to
consider these two men from the point of view from which you would
consider other men, and the means by the aid of which they contemplated to
restore a monarch to his throne, compared with other means, the shallowest
brains of the country where brains are most shallow must have revolted
against the presumptuous madness of the lieutenant and the stupidity of his
associate. Fortunately, D’Artagnan was not a man to listen to the idle talk of
those around him, or to the comments that were made on himself. He had
adopted the motto, “Act well, and let people talk.” Planchet, on his part had
adopted this, “Act and say nothing.” It resulted from this, that, according to
the custom of all superior geniuses, these two men flattered themselves,
intra pectus, with being in the right against all who found fault with them.
As a beginning, D’Artagnan set out in the finest of possible weather,
without a cloud in the heavens—without a cloud on his mind, joyous and
strong, calm and decided, great in his resolution, and consequently carrying
with him a tenfold dose of that potent fluid which the shocks of mind cause
to spring from the nerves, and which procure for the human machine a force
and an influence of which future ages will render, according to all
probability, a more arithmetical account than we can possibly do at present.
He was again, as in times past, on that same road of adventures which had
led him to Boulogne, and which he was now traveling for the fourth time. It
appeared to him that he could almost recognize the trace of his own steps
upon the road, and that of his fist upon the doors of the hostelries;—his
memory, always active and present, brought back that youth which neither
thirty years later his great heart nor his wrist of steel would have belied.
What a rich nature was that of this man! He had all the passions, all the
defects, all the weaknesses, and the spirit of contradiction familiar to his
understanding changed all these imperfections into corresponding qualities.
D’Artagnan, thanks to his ever active imagination, was afraid of a shadow,
and ashamed of being afraid, he marched straight up to that shadow, and
then became extravagant in his bravery, if the danger proved to be real.
Thus everything in him was emotion, and therefore enjoyment. He loved
the society of others, but never became tired of his own; and more than
once, if he could have been heard when he was alone, he might have been
seen laughing at the jokes he related to himself or the tricks his imagination
created just five minutes before ennui might have been looked for.
D’Artagnan was not perhaps so gay this time as he would have been with

the prospect of finding some good friends at Calais, instead of joining the
ten scamps there; melancholy, however, did not visit him more than once a
day, and it was about five visits that he received from that somber deity
before he got sight of the sea at Boulogne, and then these visits were indeed
but short. But when once D’Artagnan found himself near the field of action,
all other feelings but that of confidence disappeared never to return. From
Boulogne he followed the coast to Calais. Calais was the place of general
rendezvous, and at Calais he had named to each of his recruits the hostelry
of “Le Grande Monarque,” where living was not extravagant, where sailors
messed, and where men of the sword, with sheath of leather, be it
understood, found lodging, table, food, and all the comforts of life, for
thirty sous per diem. D’Artagnan proposed to himself to take them by
surprise in flagrante delicto of wandering life, and to judge by the first
appearance if he could count on them as trusty companions.
He arrived at Calais at half past four in the afternoon.

Chapter XXII. D’Artagnan travels for the House of
Planchet and Company.

T
he hostelry of “Le Grand Monarque” was situated in a little street
parallel to the port without looking out upon the port itself. Some
lanes cut—as steps cut the two parallels of the ladder—the two great
straight lines of the port and the street. By these lanes passengers came
suddenly from the port into the street, or from the street on to the port.
D’Artagnan, arrived at the port, took one of these lanes, and came out in
front of the hostelry of “Le Grand Monarque.” The moment was well
chosen and might remind D’Artagnan of his start in life at the hostelry of
the “Franc-Meunier” at Meung. Some sailors who had been playing at dice
had started a quarrel, and were threatening each other furiously. The host,
hostess, and two lads were watching with anxiety the circle of these angry
gamblers, from the midst of which war seemed ready to break forth,
bristling with knives and hatchets. The play, nevertheless, was continued. A
stone bench was occupied by two men, who appeared thence to watch the
door; four tables, placed at the back of the common chamber, were
occupied by eight other individuals. Neither the men at the door, nor those
at the tables took any part in the play or the quarrel. D’Artagnan recognized
his ten men in these cold, indifferent spectators. The quarrel went on
increasing. Every passion has, like the sea, its tide which ascends and
descends. Reaching the climax of passion, one sailor overturned the table
and the money which was upon it. The table fell, and the money rolled
about. In an instant all belonging to the hostelry threw themselves upon the
stakes, and many a piece of silver was picked up by people who stole away
whilst the sailors were scuffling with each other.
The two men on the bench and the eight at the tables, although they
seemed perfect strangers to each other, these ten men alone, we say,
appeared to have agreed to remain impassible amidst the cries of fury and

the chinking of money. Two only contented themselves with pushing with
their feet combatants who came under their table. Two others, rather than
take part in this disturbance, buried their hands in their pockets; and another
two jumped upon the table they occupied, as people do to avoid being
submerged by overflowing water.
“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan to himself, not having lost one of the
details we have related, “this is a very fair gathering—circumspect, calm,
accustomed to disturbance, acquainted with blows! Peste! I have been
lucky.”
All at once his attention was called to a particular part of the room. The
two men who had pushed the strugglers with their feet, were assailed with
abuse by the sailors, who had become reconciled. One of them, half drunk
with passion, and quite drunk with beer, came, in a menacing manner, to
demand of the shorter of these two sages by what right he had touched with
his foot creatures of the good God, who were not dogs. And whilst putting
this question, in order to make it more direct, he applied his great fist to the
nose of D’Artagnan’s recruit.
This man became pale, without its being to be discerned whether his
pallor arose from anger or fear; seeing which, the sailor concluded it was
from fear, and raised his fist with the manifest intention of letting it fall
upon the head of the stranger. But though the threatened man did not appear
to move, he dealt the sailor such a severe blow in the stomach that he sent
him rolling and howling to the other side of the room. At the same instant,
rallied by the espirit de corps, all the comrades of the conquered man fell
upon the conqueror.
The latter, with the same coolness of which he had given proof, without
committing the imprudence of touching his weapons, took up a beer-pot
with a pewter-lid, and knocked down two or three of his assailants; then, as
he was about to yield to numbers, the seven other silent men at the tables,
who had not yet stirred, perceived that their cause was at stake, and came to
the rescue. At the same time, the two indifferent spectators at the door
turned round with frowning bows, indicating their evident intention of
taking the enemy in the rear, if the enemy did not cease their aggressions.
The host, his helpers, and two watchmen who were passing, and who
from the curiosity had penetrated too far into the room, were mixed up in
the tumult and showered with blows. The Parisians hit like Cyclops, with an

ensemble and a tactic delightful to behold. At length, obliged to beat a
retreat before superior numbers, they formed an intrenchment behind the
large table, which they raised by main force; whilst the two others, arming
themselves each with a trestle, and using it like a great sledge-hammer,
knocked down at a blow eight sailors upon whose heads they had brought
their monstrous catapult in play. The floor was already strewn with
wounded, and the room filled with cries and dust, when D’Artagnan,
satisfied with the test, advanced, sword in hand, and striking with the
pommel every head that came in his way, he uttered a vigorous hola! which
put an instantaneous end to the conflict. A great back-flood directly took
place from the center to the sides of the room, so that D’Artagnan found
himself isolated and dominator.
“What is this all about?” then demanded he of the assembly, with the
majestic tone of Neptune pronouncing the Quos ego.
At the very instant, at the first sound of his voice, to carry on the
Virgilian metaphor, D’Artagnan’s recruits, recognizing each his sovereign
lord, discontinued their plank-fighting and trestle blows. On their side, the
sailors, seeing that long naked sword, that martial air, and the agile arm
which came to the rescue of their enemies, in the person of a man who
seemed accustomed to command, the sailors picked up their wounded and
their pitchers. The Parisians wiped their brows, and viewed their leader with
respect. D’Artagnan was loaded with thanks by the host of “Le Grand
Monarque.” He received them like a man who knows that nothing is being
offered that does not belong to him, and then said he would go and walk
upon the port till supper was ready. Immediately each of the recruits, who
understood the summons, took his hat, brushed the dust off his clothes, and
followed D’Artagnan. But D’Artagnan, whilst walking and observing, took
care not to stop; he directed his course towards the downs, and the ten men
—surprised at finding themselves going in the track of each other, uneasy at
seeing on their right, on their left, and behind them, companions upon
whom they had not reckoned—followed him, casting furtive glances at each
other. It was not till he had arrived at the hollow part of the deepest down
that D’Artagnan, smiling to see them outdone, turned towards them, making
a friendly sign with his hand.
“Eh! come, come, gentlemen,” said he, “let us not devour each other; you
are made to live together, to understand each other in all respects, and not to

devour one another.”
Instantly all hesitation ceased; the men breathed as if they had been taken
out of a coffin, and examined each other complacently. After this
examination they turned their eyes towards their leader, who had long been
acquainted with the art of speaking to men of that class, and who
improvised the following little speech, pronounced with an energy truly
Gascon:
“Gentlemen, you all know who I am. I have engaged you from knowing
you to be brave, and willing to associate you with me in a glorious
enterprise. Imagine that in laboring for me you labor for the king. I only
warn you that if you allow anything of this supposition to appear, I shall be
forced to crack your skulls immediately, in the manner most convenient to
me. You are not ignorant, gentlemen, that state secrets are like a mortal
poison: as long as that poison is in its box and the box is closed, it is not
injurious; out of the box, it kills. Now draw near, and you shall know as
much of this secret as I am able to tell you.” All drew close to him with an
expression of curiosity. “Approach,” continued D’Artagnan, “and let not the
bird which passes over our heads, the rabbit which sports on the downs, the
fish which bounds from the waters, hear us. Our business is to learn and to
report to monsieur le surintendant of the finances to what extent English
smuggling is injurious to the French merchants. I shall enter every place,
and see everything. We are poor Picard fishermen, thrown upon the coast by
a storm. It is certain that we must sell fish, neither more nor less, like true
fishermen. Only people might guess who we are, and might molest us; it is
therefore necessary that we should be in a condition to defend ourselves.
And this is why I have selected men of spirit and courage. We shall lead a
steady life, and not incur much danger, seeing that we have behind us a
powerful protector, thanks to whom no embarrassment is possible. One
thing alone puzzles me; but I hope that after a short explanation, you will
relieve me from that difficulty. The thing which puzzles me is taking with
me a crew of stupid fishermen, which crew will annoy me immensely,
whilst if, by chance, there were among you any who have seen the sea—”
“Oh! don’t let that trouble you,” said one of the recruits; “I was a
prisoner among the pirates of Tunis three years, and can maneuver a boat
like an admiral.”

“See,” said D’Artagnan, “what an admirable thing chance is!”
D’Artagnan pronounced these words with an indefinable tone of feigned
bonhomie, for he knew very well that the victim of the pirates was an old
corsair, and had engaged him in consequence of that knowledge. But
D’Artagnan never said more than there was need to say, in order to leave
people in doubt. He paid himself with the explanation, and welcomed the
effect, without appearing to be preoccupied with the cause.
“And I,” said a second, “I, by chance, had an uncle who directed the
works of the port of La Rochelle. When quite a child, I played about the
boats, and I know how to handle an oar or a sail as well as the best
Ponantais sailor.” The latter did not lie much more than the first, for he had
rowed on board his majesty’s galleys six years, at Ciotat. Two others were
more frank: they confessed honestly that they had served on board a vessel
as soldiers as punishment, and did not blush for it. D’Artagnan found
himself, then, the leader of ten men of war and four sailors, having at once
an land army and a sea force, which would have carried the pride of
Planchet to its height, if Planchet had known the details.
Nothing was now left but arranging the general orders, and D’Artagnan
gave them with precision. He enjoined his men to be ready to set out for the
Hague, some following the coast which leads to Breskens, others the road
to Antwerp. The rendezvous was given, by calculating each day’s march, a
fortnight from that time, upon the chief place at the Hague. D’Artagnan
recommended his men to go in couples, as they liked best, from sympathy.
He himself selected from among those with the least disreputable look, two
guards whom he had formerly known, and whose only faults were being
drunkards and gamblers. These men had not entirely lost all ideas of
civilization, and under proper garments their hearts would beat again.
D’Artagnan, not to create any jealousy with the others, made the rest go
forward. He kept his two selected ones, clothed them from his own
wardrobe, and set out with them.
It was to these two, whom he seemed to honor with an absolute
confidence, that D’Artagnan imparted a false secret, destined to secure the
success of the expedition. He confessed to them that the object was not to
learn to what extent French merchants were injured by English smuggling,
but to learn how far French smuggling could annoy English trade. These
men appeared convinced; they were effectively so. D’Artagnan was quite

sure that at the first debauch, when thoroughly drunk, one of the two would
divulge the secret to the whole band. His game appeared infallible.
A fortnight after all we have said had taken place at Calais, the whole
troop assembled at the Hague.
Then D’Artagnan perceived that all his men, with remarkable
intelligence, had already travestied themselves into sailors, more or less ill-
treated by the sea. D’Artagnan left them to sleep in a den in Newkerke
street, whilst he lodged comfortably upon the Grand Canal. He learned that
the king of England had come back to his old ally, William II. of Nassau,
stadtholder of Holland. He learned also that the refusal of Louis XIV. had a
little cooled the protection afforded him up to that time, and in consequence
he had gone to reside in a little village house at Scheveningen, situated in
the downs, on the sea-shore, about a league from the Hague.
There, it was said, the unfortunate banished king consoled himself in his
exile, by looking, with the melancholy peculiar to the princes of his race, at
that immense North Sea, which separated him from his England, as it had
formerly separated Mary Stuart from France. There, behind the trees of the
beautiful wood of Scheveningen, on the fine sand upon which grows the
golden broom of the down, Charles II. vegetated as it did, more unfortunate,
for he had life and thought, and he hoped and despaired by turns.
D’Artagnan went once as far as Scheveningen, in order to be certain that
all was true that was said of the king. He beheld Charles II., pensive and
alone, coming out of a little door opening into the wood, and walking on the
beach in the setting sun, without even attracting the attention of the
fishermen, who, on their return in the evening, drew, like the ancient
mariners of the Archipelago, their barks up upon the sand of the shore.
D’Artagnan recognized the king; he saw him fix his melancholy look
upon the immense extent of the waters, and absorb upon his pale
countenance the red rays of the sun already cut by the black line of the
horizon. Then Charles returned to his isolated abode, always alone, slow
and sad, amusing himself with making the friable and moving sand creak
beneath his feet.
That very evening D’Artagnan hired for a thousand livres a fishing-boat
worth four thousand. He paid a thousand livres down, and deposited the
three thousand with a Burgomaster, after which he brought on board,
without their being seen, the six men who formed his land army; and with

the rising tide, at three o’clock in the morning, he got into the open sea,
maneuvering ostensibly with the four others, and depending upon the
science of his galley slave as upon that of the first pilot of the port.

Chapter XXIII. In which the Author is forced to write
a Little History.

W
hile kings and men were thus occupied with England, which
governed itself quite alone, and which, it must be said in its praise,
had never been so badly governed, a man upon whom God had
fixed his eye, and placed his finger, a man predestined to write his name in
brilliant letters upon the page of history, was pursuing in the face of the
world a work full of mystery and audacity. He went on, and no one knew
whither he meant to go, although not only England, but France, and Europe,
watched him marching with a firm step and head held high. All that was
known of this man we are about to tell.
Monk had just declared himself in favor of the liberty of the Rump
Parliament, a parliament which General Lambert, imitating Cromwell,
whose lieutenant he had been, had just blocked up so closely, in order to
bring it to his will, that no member, during all the blockade, was able to go
out, and only one, Peter Wentworth, had been able to get in.
Lambert and Monk—everything was summed up in these two men; the
first representing military despotism, the second pure republicanism. These
men were the two sole political representatives of that revolution in which
Charles I. had first lost his crown, and afterwards his head. As regarded
Lambert, he did not dissemble his views; he sought to establish a military
government, and to be himself the head of that government.
Monk, a rigid republican, some said, wished to maintain the Rump
Parliament, that visible though degenerated representative of the republic.
Monk, artful and ambitious, said others, wished simply to make of this
parliament, which he affected to protect, a solid step by which to mount the
throne which Cromwell had left empty, but upon which he had never dared
to take his seat.

Thus Lambert by persecuting the parliament, and Monk by declaring for
it, had mutually proclaimed themselves enemies of each other. Monk and
Lambert, therefore, had at first thought of creating an army each for
himself: Monk in Scotland, where were the Presbyterians and the royalists,
that is to say, the malcontents; Lambert in London, where was found, as is
always the case, the strongest opposition to the existing power which it had
beneath its eyes.
Monk had pacified Scotland, he had there formed for himself an army,
and found an asylum. The one watched the other. Monk knew that the day
was not yet come, the day marked by the Lord for a great change; his
sword, therefore, appeared glued to the sheath. Inexpugnable in his wild
and mountainous Scotland, an absolute general, king of an army of eleven
thousand old soldiers, whom he had more than once led on to victory; as
well informed, nay, even better, of the affairs of London, than Lambert, who
held garrison in the city,—such was the position of Monk, when, at a
hundred leagues from London, he declared himself for the parliament.
Lambert, on the contrary, as we have said, lived in the capital. That was the
center of all his operations, and he there collected all around him all his
friends, and all the people of the lower class, eternally inclined to cherish
the enemies of constituted power.
It was then in London that Lambert learnt the support that, from the
frontiers of Scotland, Monk lent to the parliament. He judged there was no
time to be lost, and that the Tweed was not so far distant from the Thames
that an army could not march from one river to the other, particularly when
it was well commanded. He knew, besides, that as fast as the soldiers of
Monk penetrated into England, they would form on their route that ball of
snow, the emblem of the globe of fortune, which is for the ambitious
nothing but a step growing unceasingly higher to conduct him to his object.
He got together, therefore, his army, formidable at the same time for its
composition and its numbers, and hastened to meet Monk, who, on his part,
like a prudent navigator sailing amidst rocks, advanced by very short
marches, listening to the reports which came from London.
The two armies came in sight of each other near Newcastle; Lambert,
arriving first, encamped in the city itself. Monk, always circumspect,
stopped where he was, and placed his general quarters at Coldstream, on the
Tweed. The sight of Lambert spread joy through Monk’s army, whilst, on

the contrary, the sight of Monk threw disorder into Lambert’s army. It might
have been thought that these intrepid warriors, who had made such a noise
in the streets of London, had set out with the hopes of meeting no one, and
that now seeing that they had met an army, and that that army hoisted
before them not only a standard, but still further, a cause and a principle,—
it might have been believed, we say, that these intrepid warriors had begun
to reflect that they were less good republicans than the soldiers of Monk,
since the latter supported the parliament; whilst Lambert supported nothing,
not even himself.
As to Monk, if he had had to reflect, or if he did reflect, it must have
been after a sad fashion, for history relates—and that modest dame, it is
well known, never lies—history relates, that the day of his arrival at
Coldstream search was made in vain throughout the place for a single
sheep.
If Monk had commanded an English army, that was enough to have
brought about a general desertion. But it is not with the Scots as it is with
the English, to whom that fluid flesh which is called blood is a paramount
necessity; the Scots, a poor and sober race, live upon a little barley crushed
between two stones, diluted with the water of the fountain, and cooked
upon another stone, heated.
The Scots, their distribution of barley being made, cared very little
whether there was or was not any meat in Coldstream. Monk, little
accustomed to barley-cakes, was hungry, and his staff, at least as hungry as
himself, looked with anxiety right and left, to know what was being
prepared for supper.
Monk ordered search to be made; his scouts had on arriving in the place
found it deserted and the cupboards empty; upon butchers and bakers it was
of no use depending in Coldstream. The smallest morsel of bread, then,
could not be found for the general’s table.
As accounts succeeded each other, all equally unsatisfactory, Monk,
seeing terror and discouragement upon every face, declared that he was not
hungry; besides, they should eat on the morrow, since Lambert was there
probably with the intention of giving battle, and consequently would give
up his provisions, if he were forced from Newcastle, or forever to relieve
Monk’s soldiers from hunger if he conquered.

This consolation was only efficacious upon a very small number; but of
what importance was it to Monk? for Monk was very absolute, under the
appearance of the most perfect mildness. Every one, therefore, was obliged
to be satisfied, or at least to appear so. Monk, quite as hungry as his people,
but affecting perfect indifference for the absent mutton, cut a fragment of
tobacco, half an inch long, from the carotte of a sergeant who formed part
of his suite, and began to masticate the said fragment, assuring his
lieutenant that hunger was a chimera, and that, besides, people were never
hungry when they had anything to chew.
This joke satisfied some of those who had resisted Monk’s first deduction
drawn from the neighborhood of Lambert’s army; the number of the
dissentients diminished greatly; the guard took their posts, the patrols
began, and the general continued his frugal repast beneath his open tent.
Between his camp and that of the enemy stood an old abbey, of which, at
the present day, there only remain some ruins, but which then was in
existence, and was called Newcastle Abbey. It was built upon a vast site,
independent at once of the plain and of the river, because it was almost a
marsh fed by springs and kept up by rains. Nevertheless, in the midst of
these pools of water, covered with long grass, rushes, and reeds, were seen
solid spots of ground, formerly used as the kitchen-garden, the park, the
pleasure-gardens, and other dependencies of the abbey, looking like one of
those great sea-spiders, whose body is round, whilst the claws go diverging
round from this circumference.
The kitchen-garden, one of the longest claws of the abbey, extended to
Monk’s camp. Unfortunately it was, as we have said, early in June, and the
kitchen-garden, being abandoned, offered no resources.
Monk had ordered this spot to be guarded, as most subject to surprises.
The fires of the enemy’s general were plainly to be perceived on the other
side of the abbey. But between these fires and the abbey extended the
Tweed, unfolding its luminous scales beneath the thick shade of tall green
oaks. Monk was perfectly well acquainted with this position, Newcastle and
its environs having already more than once been his headquarters. He knew
that by this day his enemy might without doubt throw a few scouts into
these ruins and promote a skirmish, but that by night he would take care to
abstain from such a risk. He felt himself, therefore, in security.

Thus his soldiers saw him, after what he boastingly called his supper—
that is to say, after the exercise of mastication reported by us at the
commencement of this chapter—like Napoleon on the eve of Austerlitz,
seated asleep in his rush chair, half beneath the light of his lamp, half
beneath the reflection of the moon, commencing its ascent in the heavens,
which denoted that it was nearly half past nine in the evening. All at once
Monk was roused from his half sleep, fictitious perhaps, by a troop of
soldiers, who came with joyous cries, and kicked the poles of his tent with a
humming noise as if on purpose to wake him. There was no need of so
much noise; the general opened his eyes quickly.
“Well, my children, what is going on now?” asked the general.
“General!” replied several voices at once, “General! you shall have some
supper.”
“I have had my supper, gentlemen,” replied he quietly, “and was
comfortably digesting it, as you see. But come in, and tell me what brings
you hither.”
“Good news, general.”
“Bah! Has Lambert sent us word that he will fight to-morrow?”
“No; but we have just captured a fishing-boat conveying fish to
Newcastle.”
“And you have done very wrong, my friends. These gentlemen from
London are delicate, must have their first course; you will put them sadly
out of humor this evening, and to-morrow they will be pitiless. It would
really be in good taste to send back to Lambert both his fish and his
fishermen, unless—” and the general reflected an instant.
“Tell me,” continued he, “what are these fishermen, if you please?”
“Some Picard seamen who were fishing on the coasts of France or
Holland, and who have been thrown upon ours by a gale of wind.”
“Do any among them speak our language?”
“The leader spoke some few words of English.”
The mistrust of the general was awakened in proportion as fresh
information reached him. “That is well,” said he. “I wish to see these men;
bring them to me.”
An officer immediately went to fetch them.

“How many are there of them?” continued Monk; “and what is their
vessel?”
“There are ten or twelve of them, general, and they were aboard of a kind
of chasse-maree, as it is called—Dutch-built, apparently.”
“And you say they were carrying fish to Lambert’s camp?”
“Yes, general, and they seem to have had good luck in their fishing.”
“Humph! We shall see that,” said Monk.
At this moment the officer returned, bringing the leader of the fishermen
with him. He was a man from fifty to fifty-five years old, but good-looking
for his age. He was of middle height, and wore a justaucorps of coarse
wool, a cap pulled down over his eyes, a cutlass hung from his belt, and he
walked with the hesitation peculiar to sailors, who, never knowing, thanks
to the movement of the vessel, whether their foot will be placed upon the
plank or upon nothing, give to every one of their steps a fall as firm as if
they were driving a pile. Monk, with an acute and penetrating look,
examined the fisherman for some time, while the latter smiled, with that
smile, half cunning, half silly, peculiar to French peasants.
“Do you speak English?” asked Monk, in excellent French.
“Ah! but badly, my lord,” replied the fisherman.
This reply was made much more with the lively and sharp accentuation
of the people beyond the Loire, than with the slightly-drawling accent of the
countries of the west and north of France.
“But you do speak it?” persisted Monk, in order to examine his accent
once more.
“Eh! we men of the sea,” replied the fisherman, “speak a little of all
languages.”
“Then you are a sea fisherman?”
“I am at present, my lord—a fisherman, and a famous fisherman, too. I
have taken a barbel that weighs at least thirty pounds, and more than fifty
mullets; I have also some little whitings that will fry beautifully.”
“You appear to me to have fished more frequently in the Gulf of Gascony
than in the Channel,” said Monk, smiling.
“Well, I am from the south; but does that prevent me from being a good
fisherman, my lord?”

“Oh! not at all; I shall buy your fish. And now speak frankly; for whom
did you destine them?”
“My lord, I will conceal nothing from you. I was going to Newcastle,
following the coast, when a party of horsemen who were passing along in
an opposite direction made a sign to my bark to turn back to your honor’s
camp, under penalty of a discharge of musketry. As I was not armed for
fighting,” added the fisherman, smiling, “I was forced to submit.”
“And why did you go to Lambert’s camp in preference to mine?”
“My lord, I will be frank; will your lordship permit me?”
“Yes, and even if need be shall command you to be so.”
“Well, my lord, I was going to M. Lambert’s camp because those
gentlemen from the city pay well—whilst your Scotchmen, Puritans,
Presbyterians, Covenanters, or whatever you chose to call them, eat but
little, and pay for nothing.”
Monk shrugged his shoulders, without, however, being able to refrain
from smiling at the same time. “How is it that, being from the south, you
come to fish on our coasts?”
“Because I have been fool enough to marry in Picardy.”
“Yes; but even Picardy is not England.”
“My lord, man shoves his boat into the sea, but God and the wind do the
rest, and drive the boat where they please.”
“You had, then, no intention of landing on our coasts?”
“Never.”
“And what route were you steering?”
“We were returning from Ostend, where some mackerel had already been
seen, when a sharp wind from the south drove us from our course; then,
seeing that it was useless to struggle against it, we let it drive us. It then
became necessary, not to lose our fish, which were good, to go and sell
them at the nearest English port, and that was Newcastle. We were told the
opportunity was good, as there was an increase of population in the camp,
an increase of population in the city; both, we were told, were full of
gentlemen, very rich and very hungry. So we steered our course towards
Newcastle.”
“And your companions, where are they?”

“Oh, my companions have remained on board; they are sailors without
the least instruction.”
“Whilst you—” said Monk.
“Who, I?” said the patron, laughing; “I have sailed about with my father;
and I know what is called a sou, a crown, a pistole, a louis, and a double
louis, in all the languages of Europe; my crew, therefore, listen to me as
they would to an oracle, and obey me as if I were an admiral.”
“Then it was you who preferred M. Lambert as the best customer?”
“Yes, certainly. And, to be frank, my lord, was I wrong?”
“You will see that by and by.”
“At all events, my lord, if there is a fault, the fault is mine; and my
comrades should not be dealt hardly with on that account.”
“This is decidedly an intelligent, sharp fellow,” thought Monk. Then,
after a few minutes’ silence employed in scrutinizing the fisherman,—“You
come from Ostend, did you not say?” asked the general.
“Yes, my lord, in a straight line.”
“You have then heard of the affairs of the day; for I have no doubt that
both in France and Holland they excite interest. What is he doing who calls
himself king of England?”
“Oh, my lord!” cried the fisherman, with loud and expansive frankness,
“that is a lucky question, and you could not put it to anybody better than to
me, for in truth I can make you a famous reply. Imagine, my lord, that when
putting into Ostend to sell the few mackerel we had caught, I saw the ex-
king walking on the downs waiting for his horses, which were to take him
to the Hague. He is a rather tall, pale man, with black hair, and somewhat
hard-featured. He looks ill, and I don’t think the air of Holland agrees with
him.”
Monk followed with the greatest attention the rapid, heightened, and
diffuse conversation of the fisherman, in a language which was not his own,
but which, as we have said, he spoke with great facility. The fisherman, on
his part, employed sometimes a French word, sometimes an English word,
and sometimes a word which appeared not to belong to any language, but
was, in truth, pure Gascon. Fortunately his eyes spoke for him, and that so
eloquently, that it was possible to lose a word from his mouth, but not a
single intention from his eyes. The general appeared more and more

satisfied with his examination. “You must have heard that this ex-king, as
you call him, was going to the Hague for some purpose?”
“Oh, yes,” said the fisherman, “I heard that.”
“And what was his purpose?”
“Always the same,” said the fisherman. “Must he not always entertain the
fixed idea of returning to England?”
“That is true,” said Monk, pensively.
“Without reckoning,” added the fisherman, “that the stadtholder—you
know, my lord, William II.?—”
“Well?”
“He will assist him with all his power.”
“Ah! did you hear that said?”
“No, but I think so.”
“You are quite a politician, apparently,” said Monk.
“Why, we sailors, my lord, who are accustomed to study the water and
the air—that is to say, the two most changeable things in the world—are
seldom deceived as to the rest.”
“Now, then,” said Monk, changing the conversation, “I am told you are
going to provision us.”
“I shall do my best, my lord.”
“How much do you ask for your fish in the first place?”
“Not such a fool as to name a price, my lord.”
“Why not?”
“Because my fish is yours.”
“By what right?”
“By that of the strongest.”
“But my intention is to pay you for it.”
“That is very generous of you, my lord.”
“And the worth of it—”
“My lord, I fix no price.”
“What do you ask, then?”
“I only ask to be permitted to go away.”

“Where?—to General Lambert’s camp?”
“I!” cried the fisherman; “what should I go to Newcastle for, now I have
no longer any fish?”
“At all events, listen to me.”
“I do, my lord.”
“I shall give you some advice.”
“How, my lord!—pay me and give me good advice likewise! You
overwhelm me, my lord.”
Monk looked more earnestly than ever at the fisherman, about whom he
still appeared to entertain some suspicion. “Yes, I shall pay you, and give
you a piece of advice; for the two things are connected. If you return, then,
to General Lambert—”
The fisherman made a movement of his head and shoulders, which
signified, “If he persists in it, I won’t contradict him.”
“Do not cross the marsh,” continued Monk: “you will have money in
your pocket, and there are in the marsh some Scottish ambuscaders I have
placed there. Those people are very intractable; they understand but very
little of the language which you speak, although it appears to me to be
composed of three languages. They might take from you what I have given
you, and, on your return to your country, you would not fail to say that
General Monk has two hands, the one Scottish, and the other English; and
that he takes back with the Scottish hand what he has given with the
English hand.”
“Oh! general, I shall go where you like, be sure of that,” said the
fisherman, with a fear too expressive not to be exaggerated. “I only wish to
remain here, if you will allow me to remain.”
“I readily believe you,” said Monk, with an imperceptible smile, “but I
cannot, nevertheless, keep you in my tent.”
“I have no such wish, my lord, and desire only that your lordship should
point out where you will have me posted. Do not trouble yourself about us
—with us a night soon passes away.”
“You shall be conducted to your bark.”
“As your lordship pleases. Only, if your lordship would allow me to be
taken back by a carpenter, I should be extremely grateful.”

“Why so?”
“Because the gentlemen of your army, in dragging my boat up the river
with a cable pulled by their horses, have battered it a little upon the rocks of
the shore, so that I have at least two feet of water in my hold, my lord.”
“The greater reason why you should watch your boat, I think.”
“My lord, I am quite at your orders,” said the fisherman; “I shall empty
my baskets where you wish; then you will pay me, if you please to do so;
and you will send me away, if it appears right to you. You see I am very
easily managed and pleased, my lord.”
“Come, come, you are a very good sort of fellow,” said Monk, whose
scrutinizing glance had not been able to find a single shade in the clear eye
of the fisherman. “Holloa, Digby!” An aid-de-camp appeared. “You will
conduct this good fellow and his companions to the little tents of the
canteens, in front of the marshes, so that they will be near their bark, and
yet will not sleep on board to-night. What is the matter, Spithead?”
Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monk had borrowed a piece of
tobacco for his supper. Spithead having entered the general’s tent without
being sent for, had drawn this question from Monk.
“My lord,” said he, “a French gentleman has just presented himself at the
outposts and wishes to speak to your honor.”
All this was said, be it understood, in English; but, notwithstanding, it
produced a slight emotion in the fisherman, which Monk, occupied with his
sergeant, did not remark.
“Who is the gentleman?” asked Monk.
“My lord,” replied Spithead, “he told it me; but those devils of French
names are so difficult to pronounce for a Scottish throat, that I could not
retain it. I believe, however, from what the guards say, that it is the same
gentleman who presented himself yesterday at the halt, and whom your
honor would not receive.”
“That is true; I was holding a council of officers.”
“Will your honor give any orders respecting this gentleman?”
“Yes, let him be brought here.”
“Must we take any precautions?”
“Such as what?”

“Blinding his eyes, for instance?”
“To what purpose? He can only see what I desire should be seen; that is
to say, that I have around me eleven thousand brave men, who ask no better
than to have their throats cut in honor of the parliament of Scotland and
England.”
“And this man, my lord?” said Spithead, pointing to the fisherman, who,
during this conversation, had remained standing and motionless, like a man
who sees but does not understand.
“Ah, that is true,” said Monk. Then turning towards the fisherman,—“I
shall see you again, my brave fellow,” said he; “I have selected a lodging
for you. Digby, take him to it. Fear nothing; your money shall be sent to
you presently.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said the fisherman, and after having bowed, he
left the tent, accompanied by Digby. Before he had gone a hundred paces he
found his companions, who were whispering with a volubility which did
not appear exempt from uneasiness, but he made them a sign which seemed
to reassure them. “Hola, you fellows!” said the patron, “come this way. His
lordship, General Monk, has the generosity to pay us for our fish, and the
goodness to give us hospitality for to-night.”
The fishermen gathered round their leader, and, conducted by Digby, the
little troop proceeded towards the canteens, the post, as may be
remembered, which had been assigned them. As they went along in the
dark, the fishermen passed close to the guards who were conducting the
French gentleman to General Monk. This gentleman was on horseback and
enveloped in a large cloak, which prevented the patron from seeing him,
however great his curiosity might be. As to the gentleman, ignorant that he
was elbowing compatriots, he did not pay any attention to the little troop.
The aid-de-camp settled his guests in a tolerably comfortable tent, from
which was dislodged an Irish canteen woman, who went, with her six
children, to sleep where she could. A large fire was burning in front of this
tent, and threw its purple light over the grassy pools of the marsh, rippled
by a fresh breeze. The arrangements made, the aid-de-camp wished the
fishermen good-night, calling to their notice that they might see from the
door of the tent the masts of their bark, which was tossing gently on the
Tweed, a proof that it had not yet sunk. The sight of this appeared to delight
the leader of the fishermen infinitely.

Chapter XXIV. The Treasure.

T
he French gentleman whom Spithead had announced to Monk, and
who, closely wrapped in his cloak, had passed by the fishermen who
left the general’s tent five minutes before he entered it,—the French
gentleman went through the various posts without even casting his eyes
around him, for fear of appearing indiscreet. As the order had been given,
he was conducted to the tent of the general. The gentleman was left alone in
the sort of ante-chamber in front of the principal body of the tent, where he
awaited Monk, who only delayed till he had heard the report of his people,
and observed through the opening of the canvas the countenance of the
person who solicited an audience.
Without doubt, the report of those who had accompanied the French
gentleman established the discretion with which he had behaved, for the
first impression the stranger received of the welcome made him by the
general was more favorable than he could have expected at such a moment,
and on the part of so suspicious a man. Nevertheless, according to his
custom, when Monk found himself in the presence of a stranger, he fixed
upon him his penetrating eyes, which scrutiny, the stranger, on his part,
sustained without embarrassment or notice. At the end of a few seconds, the
general made a gesture with his hand and head in sign of attention.
“My lord,” said the gentleman, in excellent English, “I have requested an
interview with your honor, for an affair of importance.”
“Monsieur,” replied Monk, in French, “you speak our language well for a
son of the continent. I ask your pardon—for doubtless the question is
indiscreet—do you speak French with the same purity?”
“There is nothing surprising, my lord, in my speaking English tolerably; I
resided for some time in England in my youth, and since then I have made
two voyages to this country.” These words were spoken in French, and with

a purity of accent that bespoke not only a Frenchman, but a Frenchman
from the vicinity of Tours.
“And what part of England have you resided in, monsieur?”
“In my youth, London, my lord; then, about 1635, I made a pleasure trip
to Scotland; and lastly, in 1648, I lived for some time at Newcastle,
particularly in the convent, the gardens of which are now occupied by your
army.”
“Excuse me, monsieur; but you must comprehend that these questions are
necessary on my part—do you not?”
“It would astonish me, my lord, if they were not asked.”
“Now, then, monsieur, what can I do to serve you? What do you wish?”
“This, my lord;—but, in the first place, are we alone?”
“Perfectly so, monsieur, except, of course, the post which guards us.” So
saying, Monk pulled open the canvas with his hand, and pointed to the
soldier placed at ten paces from the tent, and who, at the first call, could
have rendered assistance in a second.
“In that case, my lord,” said the gentleman, in as calm a tone as if he had
been for a length of time in habits of intimacy with his interlocutor, “I have
made up my mind to address myself to you, because I believe you to be an
honest man. Indeed, the communication I am about to make to you will
prove to you the esteem in which I hold you.”
Monk, astonished at this language, which established between him and
the French gentleman equality at least, raised his piercing eye to the
stranger’s face, and with a sensible irony conveyed by the inflection of his
voice alone, for not a muscle of his face moved,—“I thank you, monsieur,”
said he; “but, in the first place, to whom have I the honor of speaking?”
“I sent you my name by your sergeant, my lord.”
“Excuse him, monsieur, he is a Scotsman,—he could not retain it.”
“I am called the Comte de la Fere, monsieur,” said Athos, bowing.
“The Comte de la Fere?” said Monk, endeavoring to recollect the name.
“Pardon me, monsieur, but this appears to be the first time I have ever heard
that name. Do you fill any post at the court of France?”
“None; I am a simple gentleman.”
“What dignity?”

“King Charles I. made me a knight of the Garter, and Queen Anne of
Austria has given me the cordon of the Holy Ghost. These are my only
dignities.”
“The Garter! the Holy Ghost! Are you a knight of those two orders,
monsieur?”
“Yes.”
“And on what occasions have such favors been bestowed upon you?”
“For services rendered to their majesties.”
Monk looked with astonishment at this man, who appeared to him so
simple and so great at the same time. Then, as if he had renounced
endeavoring to penetrate this mystery of a simplicity and grandeur upon
which the stranger did not seem disposed to give him any other information
than that which he had already received,—“Did you present yourself
yesterday at our advanced posts?”
“And was sent back? Yes, my lord.”
“Many officers, monsieur, would permit no one to enter their camp,
particularly on the eve of a probable battle. But I differ from my colleagues,
and like to leave nothing behind me. Every advice is good to me; all danger
is sent to me by God, and I weigh it in my hand with the energy He has
given me. So, yesterday, you were only sent back on account of the council
I was holding. To-day I am at liberty,—speak.”
“My lord, you have done much better in receiving me, for what I have to
say has nothing to do with the battle you are about to fight with General
Lambert, or with your camp; and the proof is, that I turned away my head
that I might not see your men, and closed my eyes that I might not count
your tents. No, I came to speak to you, my lord, on my own account.”
“Speak then, monsieur,” said Monk.
“Just now,” continued Athos, “I had the honor of telling your lordship
that for a long time I lived in Newcastle; it was in the time of Charles I., and
when the king was given up to Cromwell by the Scots.”
“I know,” said Monk, coldly.
“I had at that time a large sum in gold, and on the eve of the battle, from
a presentiment perhaps of the turn which things would take on the morrow,
I concealed it in the principal vault of the covenant of Newcastle, in the

tower whose summit you now see silvered by the moonbeams. My treasure
has then remained interred there, and I have come to entreat your honor to
permit me to withdraw it before, perhaps, the battle turning that way, a mine
or some other war engine has destroyed the building and scattered my gold,
or rendered it so apparent that the soldiers will take possession of it.”
Monk was well acquainted with mankind; he saw in the physiognomy of
this gentleman all the energy, all the reason, all the circumspection possible;
he could therefore only attribute to a magnanimous confidence the
revelation the Frenchman had made him, and he showed himself profoundly
touched by it.
“Monsieur,” said he, “you have augured well of me. But is the sum worth
the trouble to which you expose yourself? Do you even believe that it can
be in the same place where you left it?”
“It is there monsieur, I do not doubt.”
“That is a reply to one question; but to the other. I asked you if the sum
was so large as to warrant your exposing yourself thus.”
“It is really large; yes, my lord, for it is a million I inclosed in two
barrels.”
“A million!” cried Monk, at whom this time, in turn, Athos looked
earnestly and long. Monk perceived this, and his mistrust returned.
“Here is a man,” said he to himself, “who is laying a snare for me. So
you wish to withdraw this money, monsieur,” replied he, “as I understand?”
“If you please, my lord.”
“To-day?”
“This very evening, and that on account of the circumstances I have
named.”
“But, monsieur,” objected Monk, “General Lambert is as near the abbey
where you have to act as I am. Why, then, have you not addressed yourself
to him?”
“Because, my lord, when one acts in important matters, it is best to
consult one’s instinct before everything. Well, General Lambert does not
inspire with me so much confidence as you do.”
“Be it so, monsieur. I shall assist you in recovering your money, if,
however, it can still be there; for that is far from likely. Since 1648 twelve

years have rolled away, and many events have taken place.” Monk dwelt
upon this point to see if the French gentleman would seize the evasions that
were open to him, but Athos did not hesitate.
“I assure you, my lord,” he said firmly, “that my conviction is, that the
two barrels have neither changed place nor master.” This reply had removed
one suspicion from the mind of Monk, but it had suggested another.
Without doubt this Frenchman was some emissary sent to entice into error
the protector of the parliament; the gold was nothing but a lure; and by the
help of this lure they thought to excite the cupidity of the general. This gold
might not exist. It was Monk’s business, then, to seize the Frenchman in the
act of falsehood and trick, and to draw from the false step itself in which his
enemies wished to entrap him, a triumph for his renown. When Monk was
determined how to act,—
“Monsieur,” said he to Athos, “without doubt you will do me the honor to
share my supper this evening?”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Athos, bowing; “for you do me an honor of which
I feel myself worthy, by the inclination which drew me towards you.”
“It is so much the more gracious on your part to accept my invitation
with such frankness, as my cooks are but few and inexperienced, and my
providers have returned this evening empty-handed; so that if it had not
been for a fisherman of your nation who strayed into our camp, General
Monk would have gone to bed without his supper to-day; I have, then, some
fresh fish to offer you, as the vendor assures me.”
“My lord, it is principally for the sake of having the honor to pass an
hour with you.”
After this exchange of civilities, during which Monk had lost nothing of
his circumspection, the supper, or what was to serve for one, had been laid
upon a deal table. Monk invited the Comte de la Fere to be seated at this
table, and took his place opposite to him. A single dish of boiled fish, set
before the two illustrious guests, was more tempting to hungry stomachs
than to delicate palates.
Whilst supping, that is, while eating the fish, washed down with bad ale,
Monk got Athos to relate to him the last events of the Fronde, the
reconciliation of M. de Conde with the king, and the probable marriage of
the infanta of Spain; but he avoided, as Athos himself avoided it, all

allusion to the political interests which united, or rather which disunited at
this time, England, France and Holland.
Monk, in this conversation, convinced himself of one thing, which he
must have remarked after the first words exchanged: that was, that he had to
deal with a man of high distinction. He could not be an assassin, and it was
repugnant to Monk to believe him to be a spy; but there was sufficient
finesse and at the same time firmness in Athos to lead Monk to fancy he
was a conspirator. When they had quitted the table, “You still believe in
your treasure, then, monsieur?” asked Monk.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Quite seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“And you think you can find the place again where it was buried?”
“At the first inspection.”
“Well, monsieur, from curiosity I shall accompany you. And it is so much
the more necessary that I should accompany you, that you would find great
difficulties in passing through the camp without me or one of my
lieutenants.”
“General, I would not suffer you to inconvenience yourself if I did not, in
fact, stand in need of your company; but as I recognize that this company is
not only honorable, but necessary, I accept it.”
“Do you desire we should take any people with us?” asked Monk.
“General, I believe that would be useless, if you yourself do not see the
necessity for it. Two men and a horse will suffice to transport the two casks
on board the felucca which brought me hither.”
“But it will be necessary to pick, dig, and remove the earth, and split
stones; you don’t intend doing this work yourself, monsieur, do you?”
“General, there is no picking or digging required. The treasure is buried
in the sepulchral vault of the convent, under a stone in which is fixed a large
iron ring, and under which there are four steps leading down. The two casks
are there, placed end to end, covered with a coat of plaster in the form of a
bier. There is, besides, an inscription, which will enable me to recognize the
stone; and as I am not willing, in an affair of delicacy and confidence, to
keep the secret from your honor, here is the inscription:—‘Hic jacet

venerabilis, Petrus Gulielmus Scott, Canon Honorab. Conventus Novi
Castelli. Obiit quarta et decima Feb. ann. Dom. MCCVIII. Requiescat in
pace.’”
Monk did not lose a single word. He was astonished either at the
marvelous duplicity of this man and the superior style in which he played
his part, or at the good loyal faith with which he presented his request, in a
situation in which concerning a million of money, risked against the blow
from a dagger, amidst an army that would have looked upon the theft as a
restitution.
“Very well,” said he; “I shall accompany you; and the adventure appears
to me so wonderful, that I shall carry the torch myself.” And saying these
words, he girded on a short sword, placed a pistol in his belt, disclosing in
this movement, which opened his doublet a little, the fine rings of a coat of
mail, destined to protect him from the first dagger-thrust of an assassin.
After which he took a Scottish dirk in his left hand, and then turning to
Athos, “Are you ready, monsieur?” said he.
“I am.”
Athos, as if in opposition to what Monk had done, unfastened his
poniard, which he placed upon the table; unhooked his sword-belt, which he
laid close to his poniard; and, without affectation, opening his doublet as if
to look for his handkerchief, showed beneath his fine cambric shirt his
naked breast, without weapons either offensive or defensive.
“This is truly a singular man,” said Monk; “he is without any arms; he
has an ambuscade placed somewhere yonder.”
“General,” said he, as if he had divined Monk’s thought, “you wish we
should be alone; that is very right, but a great captain ought never to expose
himself with temerity. It is night, the passage of the marsh may present
dangers; be accompanied.”
“You are right,” replied he, calling Digby. The aid-de-camp appeared.
“Fifty men with swords and muskets,” said he, looking at Athos.
“That is too few if there is danger, too many if there is not.”
“I will go alone,” said Monk; “I want nobody. Come, monsieur.”

Chapter XXV. The Marsh.

A
thos and Monk passed over, in going from the camp towards the
Tweed, that part of the ground which Digby had traversed with the
fishermen coming from the Tweed to the camp. The aspect of this
place, the aspect of the changes man had wrought in it, was of a nature to
produce a great effect upon a lively and delicate imagination like that of
Athos. Athos looked at nothing but these desolate spots; Monk looked at
nothing but Athos—at Athos, who, with his eyes sometimes directed
towards heaven, and sometimes towards the earth, sought, thought, and
sighed.
Digby, whom the last orders of the general, and particularly the accent
with which he had given them, had at first a little excited, Digby followed
the pair at about twenty paces, but the general having turned round as if
astonished to find his orders had not been obeyed, the aid-de-camp
perceived his indiscretion, and returned to his tent.
He supposed that the general wished to make, incognito, one of those
reviews of vigilance which every experienced captain never fails to make
on the eve of a decisive engagement: he explained to himself the presence
of Athos in this case as an inferior explains all that is mysterious on the part
of his leader. Athos might be, and, indeed, in the eyes of Digby, must be, a
spy, whose information was to enlighten the general.
At the end of a walk of about ten minutes among the tents and posts,
which were closer together near the headquarters, Monk entered upon a
little causeway which diverged into three branches. That on the left led to
the river, that in the middle to Newcastle Abbey on the marsh, that on the
right crossed the first lines of Monk’s camp; that is to say, the lines nearest
to Lambert’s army. Beyond the river was an advanced post, belonging to
Monk’s army, which watched the enemy; it was composed of one hundred
and fifty Scots. They had swum across the Tweed, and, in case of attack,
were to recross it in the same manner, giving the alarm; but as there was no

post at that spot, and as Lambert’s soldiers were not so prompt at taking to
the water as Monk’s were, the latter appeared not to have as much
uneasiness on that side. On this side of the river, at about five hundred
paces from the old abbey, the fishermen had taken up their abode amidst a
crowd of small tents raised by soldiers of the neighboring clans, who had
with them their wives and children. All this confusion, seen by the moon’s
light, presented a striking coup d’oeil; the half shadow enlarged every
detail, and the light, that flatterer which only attaches itself to the polished
side of things, courted upon each rusty musket the point still left intact, and
upon every rag of canvas the whitest and least sullied part.
Monk arrived then with Athos, crossing this spot, illumined with a double
light, the silver splendor of the moon, and the red blaze of the fires at the
meeting of these three causeways; there he stopped, and addressing his
companion,—“Monsieur,” said he, “do you know your road?”
“General, if I am not mistaken, the middle causeway leads straight to the
abbey.”
“That is right; but we shall want lights to guide us in the vaults.” Monk
turned round.
“Ah! I thought Digby was following us!” said he. “So much the better; he
will procure us what we want.”
“Yes, general, there is a man yonder who has been walking behind us for
some time.”
“Digby!” cried Monk. “Digby! come here, if you please.”
But instead of obeying, the shadow made a motion of surprise, and,
retreating instead of advancing, it bent down and disappeared along the
jetty on the left, directing its course towards the lodging of the fishermen.
“It appears not to be Digby,” said Monk.
Both had followed the shadow which had vanished. But it was not so rare
a thing for a man to be wandering about at eleven o’clock at night, in a
camp in which are reposing ten or eleven thousand men, as to give Monk
and Athos any alarm at his disappearance.
“As it is so,” said Monk, “and we must have a light, a lantern, a torch, or
something by which we may see where to see our feet; let us seek this
light.”
“General, the first soldier we meet will light us.”

“No,” said Monk, in order to discover if there were not any connivance
between the Comte de la Fere and the fisherman. “No, I should prefer one
of these French sailors who came this evening to sell me their fish. They
leave to-morrow, and the secret will be better kept by them; whereas, if a
report should be spread in the Scottish army, that treasures are to be found
in the abbey of Newcastle, my Highlanders will believe there is a million
concealed beneath every slab, and they will not leave stone upon stone in
the building.”
“Do as you think best, general,” replied Athos, in a natural tone of voice,
making evident that soldier or fisherman was the same to him, and that he
had no preference.
Monk approached the causeway behind which had disappeared the
person he had taken for Digby, and met a patrol who, making the tour of the
tents, was going towards headquarters; he was stopped with his companion,
gave the password, and went on. A soldier, roused by the noise, unrolled his
plaid, and looked up to see what was going forward. “Ask him,” said Monk
to Athos, “where the fishermen are; if I were to speak to him, he would
know me.”
Athos went up to the soldier, who pointed out the tent to him;
immediately Monk and Athos turned towards it. It appeared to the general
that at the moment they came up, a shadow like that they had already seen,
glided into this tent; but on drawing nearer he perceived he must have been
mistaken, for all of them were asleep pele mele, and nothing was seen but
arms and legs joined, crossed, and mixed. Athos, fearing lest he should be
suspected of connivance with some of his compatriots, remained outside the
tent.
“Hola!” said Monk, in French, “wake up here.” Two or three of the
sleepers got up.
“I want a man to light me,” continued Monk.
“Your honor may depend on us,” said a voice which made Athos start.
“Where do you wish us to go?”
“You shall see. A light! come, quickly!”
“Yes, your honor. Does it please your honor that I should accompany
you?”
“You or another; it is of very little consequence, provided I have a light.”

“It is strange!” thought Athos; “what a singular voice that man has!”
“Some fire, you fellows!” cried the fisherman; “come, make haste!”
Then addressing his companion nearest to him in a low voice:—“Get
ready a light, Menneville,” said he, “and hold yourself ready for anything.”
One of the fishermen struck light from a stone, set fire to some tinder,
and by the aid of a match lit a lantern. The light immediately spread all over
the tent.
“Are you ready, monsieur?” said Monk to Athos, who had turned away,
not to expose his face to the light.
“Yes, general,” replied he.
“Ah! the French gentleman!” said the leader of the fishermen to himself.
“Peste! I have a great mind to charge you with the commission, Menneville;
he may know me. Light! light!” This dialogue was pronounced at the back
of the tent, and in so low a voice that Monk could not hear a syllable of it;
he was, besides, talking with Athos. Menneville got himself ready in the
meantime, or rather received the orders of his leader.
“Well?” said Monk.
“I am ready, general,” said the fisherman.
Monk, Athos, and the fisherman left the tent.
“It is impossible!” thought Athos. “What dream could put that into my
head?”
“Go forward; follow the middle causeway, and stretch out your legs,”
said Monk to the fisherman.
They were not twenty paces on their way when the same shadow that had
appeared to enter the tent came out of it again, crawled along as far as the
piles, and, protected by that sort of parapet placed along the causeway,
carefully observed the march of the general. All three disappeared in the
night haze. They were walking towards Newcastle, the white stones of
which appeared to them like sepulchers. After standing for a few seconds
under the porch, they penetrated into the interior. The door had been broken
open by hatchets. A post of four men slept in safety in a corner, so certain
were they that the attack would not take place on that side.
“Will not these men be in your way?” said Monk to Athos.

“On the contrary, monsieur, they will assist in rolling out the barrels, if
your honor will permit them.”
“You are right.”
The post, though fast asleep, roused up at the first steps of the three
visitors amongst the briars and grass that invaded the porch. Monk gave the
password, and penetrated into the interior of the convent, preceded by the
light. He walked last, watching the least movement of Athos, his naked dirk
in his sleeve, and ready to plunge it into the back of the gentleman at the
first suspicious gesture he should see him make. But Athos, with a firm and
sure step, crossed the chambers and courts.
Not a door, not a window was left in the building. The doors had been
burnt, some on the spot, and the charcoal of them was still jagged with the
action of the fire, which had gone out of itself, powerless, no doubt, to get
to the heart of those massive joints of oak fastened together with iron nails.
As to the windows, all the panes having been broken, night birds, alarmed
by the torch, flew away through their holes. At the same time, gigantic bats
began to trace their vast, silent circles around the intruders, whilst the light
of the torch made their shadows tremble on the high stone walls. Monk
concluded that there could be no man in the convent, since wild beasts and
birds were there still, and fled away at his approach.
After having passed the rubbish, and torn away more than one branch of
ivy that had made itself a guardian of the solitude, Athos arrived at the
vaults situated beneath the great hall, but the entrance of which was from
the chapel. There he stopped. “Here we are, general,” said he.
“This, then, is the slab?”
“Yes.”
“Ay, and here is the ring—but the ring is sealed into the stone.”
“We must have a lever.”
“That’s a very easy thing to find.”
Whilst looking around them, Athos and Monk perceived a little ash of
about three inches in diameter, which had shot up in an angle of the wall,
reaching a window, concealed by its branches.
“Have you a knife?” said Monk to the fisherman.
“Yes, monsieur.”

“Cut down this tree, then.”
The fisherman obeyed, but not without notching his cutlass. When the
ash was cut and fashioned into the shape of a lever, the three men
penetrated into the vault.
“Stop where you are,” said Monk to the fisherman. “We are going to dig
up some powder; your light may be dangerous.”
The man drew back in a sort of terror, and faithfully kept to the post
assigned him, whilst Monk and Athos turned behind a column at the foot of
which, penetrating through a crack, was a moonbeam, reflected exactly on
the stone which the Comte de la Fere had come so far in search.
“This is it,” said Athos, pointing out to the general the Latin inscription.
“Yes,” said Monk.
Then, as if still willing to leave the Frenchman one means of evasion,—
“Do you not observe that this vault has already been broken into,”
continued he, “and that several statues have already been knocked down?”
“My lord, you have, without doubt, heard that the religious respect of
your Scots loves to confide to the statues of the dead the valuable objects
they have possessed during their lives. Therefore, the soldiers had reason to
think that under the pedestals of the statues which ornament most of these
tombs, a treasure was hidden. They have consequently broken down
pedestal and statue: but the tomb of the venerable cannon, with which we
have to do, is not distinguished by any monument. It is simple, therefore it
has been protected by the superstitious fear which your Puritans have
always had of sacrilege. Not a morsel of the masonry of this tomb has been
chipped off.”
“That is true,” said Monk.
Athos seized the lever.
“Shall I help you?” said Monk.
“Thank you, my lord; but I am not willing that your honor should lend
your hand to a work of which, perhaps, you would not take the
responsibility if you knew the probable consequences of it.”
Monk raised his head.
“What do you mean by that, monsieur?”
“I mean—but that man—”

“Stop,” said Monk; “I perceive what you are afraid of. I shall make a
trial.” Monk turned towards the fisherman, the whole of whose profile was
thrown upon the wall.
“Come here, friend!” said he in English, and in a tone of command.
The fisherman did not stir.
“That is well,” continued he: “he does not know English. Speak to me,
then, in English, if you please, monsieur.”
“My lord,” replied Athos, “I have frequently seen men in certain
circumstances have sufficient command over themselves not to reply to a
question put to them in a language they understood. The fisherman is
perhaps more learned than we believe him to be. Send him away, my lord, I
beg you.”
“Decidedly,” said Monk, “he wishes to have me alone in this vault. Never
mind, we shall go through with it; one man is as good as another man; and
we are alone. My friend,” said Monk to the fisherman, “go back up the
stairs we have just descended, and watch that nobody comes to disturb us.”
The fisherman made a sign of obedience. “Leave your torch,” said Monk;
“it would betray your presence, and might procure you a musket-ball.”
The fisherman appeared to appreciate the counsel; he laid down the light,
and disappeared under the vault of the stairs. Monk took up the torch, and
brought it to the foot of the column.
“Ah, ah!” said he; “money, then, is concealed under this tomb?”
“Yes, my lord; and in five minutes you will no longer doubt it.”
At the same time Athos struck a violent blow upon the plaster, which
split, presenting a chink for the point of the lever. Athos introduced the bar
into this crack, and soon large pieces of plaster yielded, rising up like
rounded slabs. Then the Comte de la Fere seized the stones and threw them
away with a force that hands so delicate as his might not have been
supposed capable of having.
“My lord,” said Athos, “this is plainly the masonry of which I told your
honor.”
“Yes; but I do not yet see the casks,” said Monk.
“If I had a dagger,” said Athos, looking round him, “you should soon see
them, monsieur. Unfortunately, I left mine in your tent.”

“I would willingly offer you mine,” said Monk, “but the blade is too thin
for such work.”
Athos appeared to look around him for a thing of some kind that might
serve as a substitute for the weapon he desired. Monk did not lose one of
the movements of his hands, or one of the expressions of his eyes. “Why do
you not ask the fisherman for his cutlass?” said Monk; “he has a cutlass.”
“Ah! that is true,” said Athos; “for he cut the tree down with it.” And he
advanced towards the stairs.
“Friend,” said he to the fisherman, “throw me down your cutlass, if you
please; I want it.”
The noise of the falling weapon sounded on the steps.
“Take it,” said Monk; “it is a solid instrument, as I have seen, and a
strong hand might make good use of it.”
Athos appeared only to give to the words of Monk the natural and simple
sense under which they were to be heard and understood. Nor did he
remark, or at least appear to remark, that when he returned with the
weapon, Monk drew back, placing his left hand on the stock of his pistol; in
the right he already held his dirk. He went to work then, turning his back to
Monk, placing his life in his hands, without possible defense. He then
struck, during several seconds, so skillfully and sharply upon the
intermediary plaster, that it separated into two parts, and Monk was able to
discern two barrels placed end to end, and which their weight maintained
motionless in their chalky envelope.
“My lord,” said Athos, “you see that my presentiments have not been
disappointed.”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Monk, “and I have good reason to believe you are
satisfied; are you not?”
“Doubtless I am; the loss of this money would have been inexpressibly
great to me: but I was certain that God, who protects the good cause, would
not have permitted this gold, which should procure its triumph, to be
diverted to baser purposes.
“You are, upon my honor, as mysterious in your words as in your actions,
monsieur,” said Monk. “Just now as I did not perfectly understand you
when you said that you were not willing to throw upon me the
responsibility of the work we were accomplishing.”

“I had reason to say so, my lord.”
“And now you speak to me of the good cause. What do you mean by the
words ‘the good cause?’ We are defending at this moment, in England, five
or six causes, which does not prevent every one from considering his own
not only as the good cause, but as the best. What is yours, monsieur? Speak
boldly, that we may see if, upon this point, to which you appear to attach a
great importance, we are of the same opinion.”
Athos fixed upon Monk one of those penetrating looks which seemed to
convey to him to whom they are directed a challenge to conceal a single
one of his thoughts; then, taking off his hat, he began in a solemn voice,
while his interlocutor, with one hand upon his visage, allowed that long and
nervous hand to compress his mustache and beard, while his vague and
melancholy eye wandered about the recesses of the vaults.

Chapter XXVI. Heart and Mind.

M
y lord,” said the Comte de la Fere, “you are an noble Englishman,
you are a loyal man; you are speaking to a noble Frenchman, to a
man of heart. The gold contained in these two casks before us, I
have told you was mine. I was wrong—it is the first lie I have pronounced
in my life, a temporary lie, it is true. This gold is the property of King
Charles II., exiled from his country, driven from his palaces, the orphan at
once of his father and his throne, and deprived of everything, even of the
melancholy happiness of kissing on his knees the stone upon which the
hands of his murderers have written that simple epitaph which will eternally
cry out for vengeance upon them:—‘HERE LIES CHARLES I.’”
Monk grew slightly pale, and an imperceptible shudder crept over his
skin and raised his gray mustache.
“I,” continued Athos, “I, Comte de la Fere, the last, only faithful friend
the poor abandoned prince has left, I have offered him to come hither to
find the man upon whom now depends the fate of royalty and of England;
and I have come, and placed myself under the eye of this man, and have
placed myself naked and unarmed in his hands, saying:—‘My lord, here are
the last resources of a prince whom God made your master, whom his birth
made your king; upon you, and you alone, depend his life and future. Will
you employ this money in consoling England for the evils it must have
suffered from anarchy; that is to say, will you aid, and if not aid, will you
allow King Charles II. to act? You are master, you are king, all-powerful
master and king, for chance sometimes defeats the work of time and God. I
am here alone with you, my lord: if divided success alarms you, if my
complicity annoys you, you are armed, my lord, and here is a grave ready
dug; if, on the contrary, the enthusiasm of your cause carries you away, if
you are what you appear to be, if your hand in what it undertakes obeys
your mind, and your mind your heart, here are the means of ruining forever
the cause of your enemy, Charles Stuart. Kill, then, the man you have

before you, for that man will never return to him who has sent him without
bearing with him the deposit which Charles I., his father, confided to him,
and keep the gold which may assist in carrying on the civil war. Alas! my
lord, it is the fate of this unfortunate prince. He must either corrupt or kill,
for everything resists him, everything repulses him, everything is hostile to
him; and yet he is marked with divine seal, and he must, not to belie his
blood, reascend the throne, or die upon the sacred soil of his country.’
“My lord, you have heard me. To any other but the illustrious man who
listens to me, I would have said: ‘My lord, you are poor; my lord, the king
offers you this million as an earnest of an immense bargain; take it, and
serve Charles II. as I served Charles I., and I feel assured that God, who
listens to us, who sees us, who alone reads in your heart, shut up from all
human eyes,—I am assured God will give you a happy eternal life after
death.’ But to General Monk, to the illustrious man of whose standard I
believe I have taken measure, I say: ‘My lord, there is for you in the history
of peoples and kings a brilliant place, an immortal, imperishable glory, if
alone, without any other interest but the good of your country and the
interests of justice, you become the supporter of your king. Many others
have been conquerors and glorious usurpers; you, my lord, you will be
content with being the most virtuous, the most honest, and the most
incorruptible of men: you will have held a crown in your hand, and instead
of placing it upon your own brow, you will have deposited it upon the head
of him for whom it was made. Oh, my lord, act thus, and you will leave to
posterity the most enviable of names, in which no human creature can rival
you.’”
Athos stopped. During the whole time that the noble gentleman was
speaking, Monk had not given one sign of either approbation or
disapprobation; scarcely even, during this vehement appeal, had his eyes
been animated with that fire which bespeaks intelligence. The Comte de la
Fere looked at him sorrowfully, and on seeing that melancholy
countenance, felt discouragement penetrate to his very heart. At length
Monk appeared to recover, and broke the silence.
“Monsieur,” said he, in a mild, calm tone, “in reply to you, I will make
use of your own words. To any other but yourself I would reply by
expulsion, imprisonment, or still worse, for, in fact, you tempt me and you
force me at the same time. But you are one of those men, monsieur, to

whom it is impossible to refuse the attention and respect they merit; you are
a brave gentleman, monsieur—I say so, and I am a judge. You just now
spoke of a deposit which the late king transmitted through you to his son—
are you, then, one of those Frenchmen who, as I have heard, endeavored to
carry off Charles I. from Whitehall?”
“Yes, my lord; it was I who was beneath the scaffold during the
execution; I, who had not been able to redeem it, received upon my brow
the blood of the martyred king. I received, at the same time, the last word of
Charles I.; it was to me he said, ‘REMEMBER!’ and in saying,
‘Remember!’ he alluded to the money at your feet, my lord.”
“I have heard much of you, monsieur,” said Monk, “but I am happy to
have, in the first place, appreciated you by my own observations, and not by
my remembrances. I will give you, then, explanations that I have given to
no other, and you will appreciate what a distinction I make between you and
the persons who have hitherto been sent to me.”
Athos bowed and prepared to absorb greedily the words which fell, one
by one, from the mouth of Monk,—those words rare and precious as the
dew in the desert.
“You spoke to me,” said Monk, “of Charles II.; but pray, monsieur, of
what consequence to me is that phantom of a king? I have grown old in a
war and in a policy which are nowadays so closely linked together, that
every man of the sword must fight in virtue of his rights or his ambition
with a personal interest, and not blindly behind an officer, as in ordinary
wars. For myself, I perhaps desire nothing, but I fear much. In the war of to-
day rests the liberty of England, and, perhaps, that of every Englishman.
How can you expect that I, free in the position I have made for myself,
should go willingly and hold out my hands to the shackles of a stranger?
That is all Charles is to me. He has fought battles here which he has lost, he
is therefore a bad captain; he has succeeded in no negotiation, he is
therefore a bad diplomatist; he has paraded his wants and his miseries in all
the courts of Europe, he has therefore a weak and pusillanimous heart.
Nothing noble, nothing great, nothing strong has hitherto emanated from
that genius which aspires to govern one of the greatest kingdoms of the
earth. I know this Charles, then, under none but bad aspects, and you would
wish me, a man of good sense, to go and make myself gratuitously the slave
of a creature who is inferior to me in military capacity, in politics, and in

dignity! No, monsieur. When some great and noble action shall have taught
me to value Charles, I shall perhaps recognize his rights to a throne from
which we cast the father because he wanted the virtues which his son has
hitherto lacked, but, in fact of rights, I only recognize my own; the
revolution made me a general, my sword will make me protector, if I wish
it. Let Charles show himself, let him present himself, let him enter the
competition open to genius, and, above all, let him remember that he is of a
race from whom more will be expected than from any other. Therefore,
monsieur, say no more about him. I neither refuse nor accept: I reserve
myself—I wait.”
Athos knew Monk to be too well informed of all concerning Charles to
venture to urge the discussion further; it was neither the time nor the place.
“My lord,” then said he, “I have nothing to do but thank you.”
“And why, monsieur? Because you have formed a correct opinion of me,
or because I have acted according to your judgment? Is that, in truth,
worthy of thanks? This gold which you are about to carry to Charles will
serve me as a test for him, by seeing the use he will make of it. I shall have
an opinion which now I have not.”
“And yet does not your honor fear to compromise yourself by allowing
such a sum to be carried away for the service of your enemy?”
“My enemy, say you? Eh, monsieur, I have no enemies. I am in the
service of the parliament, which orders me to fight General Lambert and
Charles Stuart—its enemies, and not mine. I fight them. If the parliament,
on the contrary, ordered me to unfurl my standards on the port of London,
and to assemble my soldiers on the banks to receive Charles II.—”
“You would obey?” cried Athos, joyfully.
“Pardon me,” said Monk, smiling, “I was going on—I, a gray-headed
man—in truth, how could I forget myself? was going to speak like a foolish
young man.”
“Then you would not obey?” said Athos.
“I do not say that either, monsieur. The welfare of my country before
everything. God, who has given me the power, has, no doubt, willed that I
should have that power for the good of all, and He has given me, at the
same time, discernment. If the parliament were to order such a thing, I
should reflect.”

The brow of Athos became clouded. “Then I may positively say that your
honor is not inclined to favor King Charles II.?”
“You continue to question me, monsieur le comte; allow me to do so in
turn, if you please.”
“Do, monsieur; and may God inspire you with the idea of replying to me
as frankly as I shall reply to you.”
“When you shall have taken this money back to your prince, what advice
will you give him?”
Athos fixed upon Monk a proud and resolute look.
“My lord,” said he, “with this million, which others would perhaps
employ in negotiating, I would advise the king to rise two regiments, to
enter Scotland, which you have just pacified: to give to the people the
franchises which the revolution promised them, and in which it has not, in
all cases, kept its word. I should advise him to command in person this little
army, which would, believe me, increase, and to die, standard in hand, and
sword in sheath, saying, ‘Englishmen! I am the third king of my race you
have killed; beware of the justice of God!’”
Monk hung down his head, and mused for an instant. “If he succeeded,”
said he, “which is very improbable, but not impossible—for everything is
possible in this world—what would you advise him to do?”
“To think that by the will of God he lost his crown, by the good will of
men he recovered it.”
An ironical smile passed over the lips of Monk.
“Unfortunately, monsieur,” said he, “kings do not know how to follow
good advice.”
“Ah, my lord, Charles II. is not a king,” replied Athos, smiling in his
turn, but with a very different expression from Monk.
“Let us terminate this, monsieur le comte,—that is your desire, is it not?”
Athos bowed.
“I shall give orders to have these two casks transported whither you
please. Where are you lodging, monsieur?”
“In a little hamlet at the mouth of the river, your honor.”
“Oh, I know the hamlet; it consists of five or six houses, does it not?”

“Exactly. Well, I inhabit the first,—two net-makers occupy it with me; it
is their bark which brought me ashore.”
“But your own vessel, monsieur?”
“My vessel is at anchor, a quarter of a mile at sea, and waits for me.”
“You do not think, however, of setting out immediately?”
“My lord, I shall try once more to convince your honor.”
“You will not succeed,” replied Monk; “but it is of consequence that you
should depart from Newcastle without leaving of your passage the least
suspicion that might prove injurious to me or you. To-morrow my officers
think Lambert will attack me. I, on the contrary, am convinced he will not
stir; it is in my opinion impossible. Lambert leads an army devoid of
homogeneous principles, and there is no possible army with such elements.
I have taught my soldiers to consider my authority subordinate to another,
therefore, after me, round me, and beneath me, they still look for
something. It would result that if I were dead, whatever might happen, my
army would not be demoralized all at once; it results, that if I choose to
absent myself, for instance, as it does please me to do sometimes, there
would not be in the camp the shadow of uneasiness or disorder. I am the
magnet—the sympathetic and natural strength of the English. All those
scattered irons that will be sent against me I shall attract to myself.
Lambert, at this moment, commands eighteen thousand deserters; but I have
never mentioned that to my officers, you may easily suppose. Nothing is
more useful to an army than the expectation of a coming battle; everybody
is awake—everybody is on guard. I tell you this that you may live in perfect
security. Do not be in a hurry, then, to cross the seas; within a week there
will be something fresh, either a battle or an accommodation. Then, as you
have judged me to be an honorable man, and confided your secret to me, I
have to thank you for this confidence, and I shall come and pay you a visit
or send for you. Do not go before I send word. I repeat the request.”
“I promise you, general,” cried Athos, with a joy so great, that in spite of
all his circumspection, he could not prevent its sparkling in his eyes.
Monk surprised this flash, and immediately extinguished it by one of
those silent smiles which always caused his interlocutors to know they had
made no inroad on his mind.
“Then, my lord, it is a week that you desire me to wait?”

“A week? yes, monsieur.”
“And during those days what shall I do?”
“If there should be a battle, keep at a distance from it, I beseech you. I
know the French delight in such amusements;—you might take a fancy to
see how we fight, and you might receive some chance shot. Our Scotsmen
are very bad marksmen, and I do not wish that a worthy gentleman like you
should return to France wounded. Nor should I like to be obliged, myself, to
send to your prince his million left here by you; for then it would be said,
and with some reason, that I paid the Pretender to enable him to make war
against the parliament. Go, then, monsieur, and let it be done as has been
agreed upon.”
“Ah, my lord,” said Athos, “what joy it would give me to be the first that
penetrated to the noble heart which beats beneath that cloak!”
“You think, then, that I have secrets,” said Monk, without changing the
half cheerful expression of his countenance. “Why, monsieur, what secret
can you expect to find in the hollow head of a soldier? But it is getting late,
and our torch is almost out; let us call our man.”
“Hola!” cried Monk in French, approaching the stairs; “hola! fisherman!”
The fisherman, benumbed by the cold night air, replied in a hoarse voice,
asking what they wanted of him.
“Go to the post,” said Monk, “and order a sergeant, in the name of
General Monk, to come here immediately.”
This was a commission easily performed; for the sergeant, uneasy at the
general’s being in that desolate abbey, had drawn nearer by degrees, and
was not much further off than the fisherman. The general’s order was
therefore heard by him, and he hastened to obey it.
“Get a horse and two men,” said Monk.
“A horse and two men?” repeated the sergeant.
“Yes,” replied Monk. “Have you got any means of getting a horse with a
pack-saddle or two panniers?”
“No doubt, at a hundred paces off, in the Scottish camp.”
“Very well.”
“What shall I do with the horse, general.”
“Look here.”

The sergeant descended the three steps which separated him from Monk,
and came into the vault.
“You see,” said Monk, “that gentleman yonder?”
“Yes, general.”
“And you see these two casks?”
“Perfectly.”
“They are two casks, one containing powder, and the other balls; I wish
these casks to be transported to the little hamlet at the mouth of the river,
and which I intend to occupy to-morrow with two hundred muskets. You
understand that the commission is a secret one, for it is a movement that
may decide the fate of the battle.”
“Oh, general!” murmured the sergeant.
“Mind, then! Let these casks be fastened on to the horse, and let them be
escorted by two men and you to the residence of this gentleman, who is my
friend. But take care that nobody knows it.”
“I would go by the marsh if I knew the road,” said the sergeant.
“I know one myself,” said Athos; “it is not wide, but it is solid, having
been made upon piles; and with care we shall get over safely enough.”
“Do everything this gentleman shall order you to do.”
“Oh! oh! the casks are heavy,” said the sergeant, trying to lift one.
“They weigh four hundred pounds each, if they contain what they ought
to contain, do they not, monsieur.”
“Thereabouts,” said Athos.
The sergeant went in search of the two men and the horse. Monk, left
alone with Athos, affected to speak to him on nothing but indifferent
subjects while examining the vault in a cursory manner. Then, hearing the
horse’s steps,—
“I leave you with your men, monsieur,” said he, “and return to the camp.
You are perfectly safe.”
“I shall see you again, then, my lord?” asked Athos.
“That is agreed upon, monsieur, and with much pleasure.”
Monk held out his hand to Athos.
“Ah! my lord, if you would!” murmured Athos.

“Hush! monsieur, it is agreed that we shall speak no more of that.” And
bowing to Athos, he went up the stairs, meeting about half-way his men,
who were coming down. He had not gone twenty paces, when a faint but
prolonged whistle was heard at a distance. Monk listened, but seeing
nothing and hearing nothing, he continued his route. Then he remembered
the fisherman, and looked about for him; but the fisherman had
disappeared. If he had, however, looked with more attention, he might have
seen that man, bent double, gliding like a serpent along the stones and
losing himself in the mist that floated over the surface of the marsh. He
might equally have seen, had he attempted to pierce that mist, a spectacle
that might have attracted his attention; and that was the rigging of the
vessel, which had changed place, and was now nearer the shore. But Monk
saw nothing; and thinking he had nothing to fear, he entered the deserted
causeway which led to his camp. It was then that the disappearance of the
fisherman appeared strange, and that a real suspicion began to take
possession of his mind. He had just placed at the orders of Athos the only
post that could protect him. He had a mile of causeway to traverse before he
could regain his camp. The fog increased with such intensity that he could
scarcely distinguish objects at ten paces’ distance. Monk then thought he
heard the sound of an oar over the marsh on the right. “Who goes there?”
said he.
But nobody answered; then he cocked his pistol, took his sword in his
hand, and quickened his pace, without, however, being willing to call
anybody. Such a summons, for which there was no absolute necessity,
appeared unworthy of him.

Chapter XXVII. The Next Day.

I
t was seven o’clock in the morning, the first rays of day lightened the
pools of the marsh, in which the sun was reflected like a red ball, when
Athos, awakening and opening the window of his bed-chamber, which
looked out upon the banks of the river, perceived, at fifteen paces’ distance
from him, the sergeant and the men who had accompanied him the evening
before, and who, after having deposited the casks at his house, had returned
to the camp by the causeway on the right.
Why had these men come back after having returned to the camp? That
was the question which first presented itself to Athos. The sergeant, with his
head raised, appeared to be watching the moment when the gentleman
should appear to address him. Athos, surprised to see these men, whom he
had seen depart the night before, could not refrain from expressing his
astonishment to them.
“There is nothing surprising in that, monsieur,” said the sergeant; “for
yesterday the general commanded me to watch over your safety, and I
thought it right to obey that order.”
“Is the general at the camp?” asked Athos.
“No doubt he is, monsieur; as when he left you he was going back.”
“Well, wait for me a moment; I am going thither to render an account of
the fidelity with which you fulfilled your duty, and to get my sword, which
I left upon the table in the tent.”
“This happens very well,” said the sergeant, “for we were about to
request you to do so.”
Athos fancied he could detect an air of equivocal bonhomie upon the
countenance of the sergeant; but the adventure of the vault might have
excited the curiosity of the man, and it was not surprising that he allowed
some of the feelings which agitated his mind to appear in his face. Athos
closed the doors carefully, confiding the keys to Grimaud, who had chosen

his domicile beneath the shed itself, which led to the cellar where the casks
had been deposited. The sergeant escorted the Comte de la Fere to the
camp. There a fresh guard awaited him, and relieved the four men who had
conducted Athos.
This fresh guard was commanded by the aid-de-camp Digby, who, on
their way, fixed upon Athos looks so little encouraging, that the Frenchman
asked himself whence arose, with regard to him, this vigilance and this
severity, when the evening before he had been left perfectly free. He
nevertheless continued his way to the headquarters, keeping to himself the
observations which men and things forced him to make. He found in the
general’s tent, to which he had been introduced the evening before, three
superior officers: these were Monk’s lieutenant and two colonels. Athos
perceived his sword; it was still on the table where he left it. Neither of the
officers had seen Athos, consequently neither of them knew him. Monk’s
lieutenant asked, at the appearance of Athos, if that were the same
gentleman with whom the general had left the tent.
“Yes, your honor,” said the sergeant; “it is the same.”
“But,” said Athos, haughtily, “I do not deny it, I think; and now,
gentlemen, in turn, permit me to ask you to what purpose these questions
are asked, and particularly some explanations upon the tone in which you
ask them?”
“Monsieur,” said the lieutenant, “if we address these questions to you, it
is because we have a right to do so, and if we make them in a particular
tone, it is because that tone, believe me, agrees with the circumstances.”
“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “you do not know who I am; but I must tell
you that I acknowledge no one here but General Monk as my equal. Where
is he? Let me be conducted to him, and if he has any questions to put to me,
I will answer him and to his satisfaction, I hope. I repeat, gentlemen, where
is the general?”
“Eh! good God! you know better than we do where he is,” said the
lieutenant.
“I?” “Yes, you.”
“Monsieur,” said Athos; “I do not understand you.”
“You will understand me—and, in the first place, do not speak so loudly.”
Athos smiled disdainfully.

“We don’t ask you to smile,” said one of the colonels warmly; “we
require you to answer.”
“And I, gentlemen, declare to you that I will not reply until I am in the
presence of the general.”
“But,” replied the same colonel who had already spoken, “you know very
well that is impossible.”
“This is the second time I have received this strange reply to the wish I
express,” said Athos. “Is the general absent?”
This question was made with such apparent good faith, and the
gentleman wore an air of such natural surprise, that the three officers
exchanged a meaning look. The lieutenant, by a tacit convention with the
other two, was spokesman.
“Monsieur, the general left you last night on the borders of the
monastery.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“And you went—”
“It is not for me to answer you, but for those who have accompanied me.
They were your soldiers, ask them.”
“But if we please to question you?”
“Then it will please me to reply, monsieur, that I do not recognize any
one here, that I know no one here but the general, and that it is to him alone
I will reply.”
“So be it, monsieur; but as we are the masters, we constitute ourselves a
council of war, and when you are before judges you must reply.”
The countenance of Athos expressed nothing but astonishment and
disdain, instead of the terror the officers expected to read in it at this threat.
“Scottish or English judges upon me, a subject of the king of France;
upon me, placed under the safeguard of British honor! You are mad,
gentlemen!” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders.
The officers looked at each other. “Then, monsieur,” said one of them,
“do you pretend not to know where the general is?”
“To that, monsieur, I have already replied.”
“Yes, but you have already replied an incredible thing.”

“It is true, nevertheless, gentlemen. Men of my rank are not generally
liars. I am a gentleman, I have told you, and when I have at my side the
sword which, by an excess of delicacy, I left last night upon the table
whereon it still lies, believe me, no man says that to me which I am
unwilling to hear. I am at this moment disarmed; if you pretend to be my
judges, try me; if you are but my executioners, kill me.”
“But, monsieur—” asked the lieutenant, in a more courteous voice, struck
with the lofty coolness of Athos.
“Sir, I came to speak confidentially with your general about affairs of
importance. It was not an ordinary welcome that he gave me. The accounts
your soldiers can give you may convince you of that. If, then, the general
received me in that manner, he knew my titles to his esteem. Now, you do
not suspect, I should think, that I should reveal my secrets to you, and still
less his.”
“But these casks, what do they contain?”
“Have you not put that question to your soldiers? What was their reply?”
“That they contained powder and ball.”
“From whom had they that information? They must have told you that.”
“From the general; but we are not dupes.”
“Beware, gentlemen; it is not to me you are now giving the lie, it is to
your leader.”
The officers again looked at each other. Athos continued: “Before your
soldiers the general told me to wait a week, and at the expiration of that
week he would give me the answer he had to make me. Have I fled away?
No; I wait.”
“He told you to wait a week!” cried the lieutenant.
“He told me that so clearly, sir, that I have a sloop at the mouth of the
river, which I could with ease have joined yesterday, and embarked. Now, if
I have remained, it was only in compliance with the desire of your general;
his honor having requested me not to depart without a last audience, which
he fixed at a week hence. I repeat to you, then, I am waiting.”
The lieutenant turned towards the other officers, and said, in a low voice:
“If this gentleman speaks truth, there may still be some hope. The general
may be carrying out some negotiations so secret, that he thought it

imprudent to inform even us. Then the time limited for his absence would
be a week.” Then, turning towards Athos: “Monsieur,” said he, “your
declaration is of the most serious importance; are you willing to repeat it
under the seal of an oath?”
“Sir,” replied Athos, “I have always lived in a world where my simple
word was regarded as the most sacred of oaths.”
“This time, however, monsieur, the circumstance is more grave than any
you may have been placed in. The safety of the whole army is at stake.
Reflect; the general has disappeared, and our search for him has been in
vain. Is this disappearance natural? Has a crime been committed? Are we
not bound to carry our investigations to extremity? Have we any right to
wait with patience? At this moment, everything, monsieur, depends upon
the words you are about to pronounce.”
“Thus questioned, gentlemen, I no longer hesitate,” said Athos. “Yes, I
came hither to converse confidentially with General Monk, and ask him for
an answer regarding certain interests; yes, the general being, doubtless,
unable to pronounce before the expected battle, begged me to remain a
week in the house I inhabit, promising me that in a week I should see him
again. Yes, all this is true, and I swear it by God who is the absolute master
of my life and yours.” Athos pronounced these words with so much
grandeur and solemnity, that the three officers were almost convinced.
Nevertheless, one of the colonels made a last attempt.
“Monsieur,” said he, “although we may now be persuaded of the truth of
what you say, there is yet a strange mystery in all this. The general is too
prudent a man to have thus abandoned his army on the eve of a battle
without having at least given notice of it to one of us. As for myself, I
cannot believe but some strange event has been the cause of this
disappearance. Yesterday some foreign fishermen came to sell their fish
here; they were lodged yonder among the Scots; that is to say, on the road
the general took with this gentleman, to go to the abbey, and to return from
it. It was one of these fishermen that accompanied the general with a light.
And this morning, bark and fishermen have all disappeared, carried away
by the night’s tide.”
“For my part,” said the lieutenant, “I see nothing in that that is not quite
natural, for these people were not prisoners.”

“No; but I repeat it was one of them who lighted the general and this
gentleman to the abbey, and Digby assures us that the general had strong
suspicions concerning those people. Now, who can say whether these
people were not connected with this gentleman; and that, the blow being
struck, the gentleman, who is evidently brave, did not remain to reassure us
by his presence, and to prevent our researches being made in a right
direction?”
This speech made an impression upon the other two officers.
“Sir,” said Athos, “permit me to tell you, that your reasoning, though
specious in appearance, nevertheless wants consistency, as regards me. I
have remained, you say, to divert suspicion. Well! on the contrary,
suspicions arise in me as well as in you; and I say, it is impossible,
gentlemen, that the general, on the eve of a battle, should leave his army
without saying anything to at least one of his officers. Yes, there is some
strange event connected with this; instead of being idle and waiting, you
must display all the activity and all the vigilance possible. I am your
prisoner, gentlemen, upon parole or otherwise. My honor is concerned in
ascertaining what has become of General Monk, and to such a point, that if
you were to say to me, ‘Depart!’ I should reply: ‘No, I will remain!’ And if
you were to ask my opinion, I should add: ‘Yes, the general is the victim of
some conspiracy, for, if he had intended to leave the camp he would have
told me so.’ Seek, then, search the land, search the sea; the general has not
gone of his own good will.”
The lieutenant made a sign to the two other officers.
“No, monsieur,” said he, “no; in your turn you go too far. The general has
nothing to suffer from these events, and, no doubt, has directed them. What
Monk is now doing he has often done before. We are wrong in alarming
ourselves; his absence will, doubtless, be of short duration; therefore, let us
beware, lest by a pusillanimity which the general would consider a crime,
of making his absence public, and by that means demoralize the army. The
general gives a striking proof of his confidence in us; let us show ourselves
worthy of it. Gentlemen, let the most profound silence cover all this with an
impenetrable veil; we will detain this gentleman, not from mistrust of him
with regard to the crime, but to assure more effectively the secret of the
general’s absence by keeping among ourselves; therefore, until fresh orders,
the gentleman will remain at headquarters.”

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “you forget that last night the general confided
to me a deposit over which I am bound to watch. Give me whatever guard
you like, chain me if you like, but leave me the house I inhabit for my
prison. The general, on his return, would reproach you, I swear on the honor
of a gentleman, for having displeased him in this.”
“So be it, monsieur,” said the lieutenant; “return to your abode.”
Then they placed over Athos a guard of fifty men, who surrounded his
house, without losing sight of him for a minute.
The secret remained secure, but hours, days passed away without the
general’s returning, or without anything being heard of him.

Chapter XXVIII. Smuggling.

T
wo days after the events we have just related, and while General Monk
was expected every minute in the camp to which he did not return, a
little Dutch felucca, manned by eleven men, cast anchor upon the
coast of Scheveningen, nearly within cannon-shot of the port. It was night,
the darkness was great, the tide rose in the darkness; it was a capital time to
land passengers and merchandise.
The road of Scheveningen forms a vast crescent; it is not very deep and
not very safe; therefore, nothing is seen stationed there but large Flemish
hoys, or some of those Dutch barks which fishermen draw up on the sand
on rollers, as the ancients did, according to Virgil. When the tide is rising,
and advancing on land, it is not prudent to bring the vessels too close in
shore, for, if the wind is fresh, the prows are buried in the sand; and the
sand of that coast is spongy; it receives easily, but does not yield so well. It
was on this account, no doubt, that a boat was detached from the bark, as
soon as the latter had cast anchor, and came with eight sailors, amidst whom
was to be seen an object of an oblong form, a sort of large pannier or bale.
The shore was deserted; the few fishermen inhabiting the down were
gone to bed. The only sentinel that guarded the coast (a coast very badly
guarded, seeing that a landing from large ships was impossible), without
having been able to follow the example of the fishermen, who were gone to
bed, imitated them so far, that he slept at the back of his watch-box as
soundly as they slept in their beds. The only noise to be heard, then, was the
whistling of the night breeze among the bushes and the brambles of the
downs. But the people who were approaching were doubtless mistrustful
people, for this real silence and apparent solitude did not satisfy them. Their
boat, therefore, scarcely as visible as a dark speck upon the ocean, gilded
along noiselessly, avoiding the use of their oars for fear of being heard, and
gained the nearest land.

Scarcely had it touched the ground when a single man jumped out of the
boat, after having given a brief order, in a manner which denoted the habit
of commanding. In consequence of this order, several muskets immediately
glittered in the feeble light reflected from that mirror of the heavens, the
sea; and the oblong bale of which we spoke, containing no doubt some
contraband object, was transported to land, with infinite precautions.
Immediately after that, the man who had landed first, set off at a rapid pace
diagonally towards the village of Scheveningen, directing his course to the
nearest point of the wood. When there, he sought for that house already
described as the temporary residence—and a very humble residence—of
him who was styled by courtesy king of England.
All were asleep there, as everywhere else, only a large dog, of the race of
those which the fishermen of Scheveningen harness to little carts to carry
fish to the Hague, began to bark formidably as soon as the stranger’s steps
were audible beneath the windows. But the watchfulness, instead of
alarming the newly-landed man, appeared, on the contrary, to give him
great joy, for his voice might perhaps have proved insufficient to rouse the
people of the house, whilst, with an auxiliary of that sort, his voice became
almost useless. The stranger waited, then, till these reiterated and sonorous
barkings should, according to all probability, have produced their effect,
and then he ventured a summons. On hearing his voice, the dog began to
roar with such violence that another voice was soon heard from the interior,
quieting the dog. With that the dog was quieted.
“What do you want?” asked that voice, at the same time weak, broken,
and civil.
“I want his majesty King Charles II., king of England,” said the stranger.
“What do you want with him?”
“I want to speak with him.”
“Who are you?”
“Ah! Mordioux! you ask too much; I don’t like talking through doors.”
“Only tell me your name.”
“I don’t like to declare my name in the open air, either; besides, you may
be sure I shall not eat your dog, and I hope to God he will be as reserved
with respect to me.”

“You bring news, perhaps, monsieur, do you not?” replied the voice,
patient and querulous as that of an old man.
“I will answer for it, I bring you news you little expect. Open the door,
then, if you please, hein!”
“Monsieur,” persisted the old man, “do you believe, upon your soul and
conscience, that your news is worth waking the king?”
“For God’s sake, my dear monsieur, draw your bolts; you will not be
sorry, I swear, for the trouble it will give you. I am worth my weight in
gold, parole d’honneur!”
“Monsieur, I cannot open the door till you have told me your name.”
“Must I, then?”
“It is by the order of my master, monsieur.”
“Well, my name is—but, I warn you, my name will tell you absolutely
nothing.”
“Never mind, tell it, notwithstanding.”
“Well, I am the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”
The voice uttered an exclamation.
“Oh! good heavens!” said a voice on the other side of the door.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan. What happiness! I could not help thinking I knew
that voice.”
“Humph!” said D’Artagnan. “My voice is known here! That’s flattering.”
“Oh! yes, we know it,” said the old man, drawing the bolts; “and here is
the proof.” And at these words he let in D’Artagnan, who, by the light of
the lantern he carried in his hand, recognized his obstinate interlocutor.
“Ah! Mordioux!” cried he: “why, it is Parry! I ought to have known that.”
“Parry, yes, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is I. What joy to see you
once again!”
“You are right there, what joy!” said D’Artagnan, pressing the old man’s
hand. “There, now you’ll go and inform the king, will you not?”
“But the king is asleep, my dear monsieur.”
“Mordioux! then wake him. He won’t scold you for having disturbed
him, I will promise you.”
“You come on the part of the count, do you not?”

“The Comte de la Fere?”
“From Athos?”
“Ma foi! no; I come on my own part. Come, Parry, quick! The king—I
want the king.”
Parry did not think it his duty to resist any longer; he knew D’Artagnan
of old; he knew that, although a Gascon, his words never promised more
than they could stand to. He crossed a court and a little garden, appeased
the dog, that seemed most anxious to taste of the musketeer’s flesh, and
went to knock at the window of a chamber forming the ground-floor of a
little pavilion. Immediately a little dog inhabiting that chamber replied to
the great dog inhabiting the court.
“Poor king!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “these are his body-guards. It is
true he is not the worse guarded on that account.”
“What is wanted with me?” asked the king, from the back of the
chamber.
“Sire, it is M. le Chevalier d’Artagnan, who brings you some news.”
A noise was immediately heard in the chamber, a door was opened, and a
flood of light inundated the corridor and the garden. The king was working
by the light of a lamp. Papers were lying about upon his desk, and he had
commenced the first copy of a letter which showed, by the numerous
erasures, the trouble he had had in writing it.
“Come in, monsieur le chevalier,” said he, turning around. Then
perceiving the fisherman, “What do you mean, Parry? Where is M. le
Chevalier d’Artagnan?” asked Charles.
“He is before you, sire,” said M. d’Artagnan.
“What, in that costume?”
“Yes; look at me, sire; do you not remember having seen me at Blois, in
the ante-chamber of King Louis XIV.?”
“Yes, monsieur, and I remember I was much pleased with you.”
D’Artagnan bowed. “It was my duty to behave as I did, the moment I
knew that I had the honor of being near your majesty.”
“You bring me news, do you say?”
“Yes, sire.”
“From the king of France?”

“Ma foi! no, sire,” replied D’Artagnan. “Your majesty must have seen
yonder that the king of France is only occupied with his own majesty.”
Charles raised his eyes towards heaven.
“No, sire, no,” continued D’Artagnan. “I bring news entirely composed
of personal facts. Nevertheless, I hope that your majesty will listen to the
facts and news with some favor.”
“Speak, monsieur.”
“If I am not mistaken, sire, your majesty spoke a great deal at Blois, of
the embarrassed state in which the affairs of England are.”
Charles colored. “Monsieur,” said he, “it was to the king of France I
related—”
“Oh! your majesty is mistaken,” said the musketeer, coolly; “I know how
to speak to kings in misfortune. It is only when they are in misfortune that
they speak to me; once fortunate, they look upon me no more. I have, then,
for your majesty, not only the greatest respect, but, still more, the most
absolute devotion; and that, believe me, with me, sire, means something.
Now, hearing your majesty complain of fate, I found that you were noble
and generous, and bore misfortune well.”
“In truth!” said Charles, much astonished, “I do not know which I ought
to prefer, your freedoms or your respects.”
“You will choose presently, sire,” said D’Artagnan. “Then your majesty
complained to your brother, Louis XIV., of the difficulty you experienced in
returning to England and regaining your throne for want of men and
money.”
Charles allowed a movement of impatience to escape him.
“And the principal object your majesty found in your way,” continued
D’Artagnan, “was a certain general commanding the armies of the
parliament, and who was playing yonder the part of another Cromwell. Did
not your majesty say so?”
“Yes; but I repeat to you, monsieur, those words were for the king’s ears
alone.”
“And you will see, sire, that it is very fortunate that they fell into those of
his lieutenant of musketeers. That man so troublesome to your majesty was
one General Monk, I believe; did I not hear his name correctly, sire?”

“Yes, monsieur, but once more, to what purpose are all these questions.”
“Oh! I know very well, sire, that etiquette will not allow kings to be
questioned. I hope, however, presently you will pardon my want of
etiquette. Your majesty added that, notwithstanding, if you could see him,
confer with him, and meet him face to face, you would triumph, either by
force or persuasion, over that obstacle—the only serious one, the only
insurmountable one, the only real one you met with on your road.”
“All that is true, monsieur: my destiny, my future, my obscurity, or my
glory depend upon that man; but what do you draw from that?”
“One thing alone, that if this General Monk is troublesome to the point
your majesty describes, it would be expedient to get rid of him or make an
ally of him.”
“Monsieur, a king who has neither army nor money, as you have heard
my conversation with my brother Louis, has no means of acting against a
man like Monk.”
“Yes, sire, that was your opinion, I know very well: but, fortunately for
you, it was not mine.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That, without an army and without a million, I have done—I, myself—
what your majesty thought could alone be done with an army and a
million.”
“How! What do you say? What have you done?”
“What have I done? Eh! well, sire, I went yonder to take this man who is
so troublesome to your majesty.”
“In England?”
“Exactly, sire.”
“You went to take Monk in England?”
“Should I by chance have done wrong, sire?”
“In truth, you are mad, monsieur!”
“Not the least in the world, sire.”
“You have taken Monk?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Where?”

“In the midst of his camp.”
The king trembled with impatience.
“And having taken him on the causeway of Newcastle, I bring him to
your majesty,” said D’Artagnan, simply.
“You bring him to me!” cried the king, almost indignant at what he
considered a mystification.
“Yes, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, in the same tone, “I bring him to you; he
is down below yonder, in a large chest pierced with holes, so as to allow
him to breathe.”
“Good God!”
“Oh! don’t be uneasy, sire, we have taken the greatest possible care of
him. He comes in good state, and in perfect condition. Would your majesty
please to see him, to talk with him, or to have him thrown into the sea?”
“Oh, heavens!” repeated Charles, “oh, heavens! do you speak the truth,
monsieur? Are you not insulting me with some unworthy joke? You have
accomplished this unheard-of act of audacity and genius—impossible!”
“Will your majesty permit me to open the window?” said D’Artagnan,
opening it.
The king had not time to reply yes or no. D’Artagnan gave a shrill and
prolonged whistle, which he repeated three times through the silence of the
night.
“There!” said he, “he will be brought to your majesty.”

Chapter XXIX. Fear he has placed his Money and
that of Planchet in the Sinking Fund.

T
he king could not overcome his surprise, and looked sometimes at the
smiling face of the musketeer, and sometimes at the dark window
which opened into the night. But before he had fixed his ideas, eight
of D’Artagnan’s men, for two had remained to take care of the bark,
brought to the house, where Parry received him, that object of an oblong
form, which, for the moment, inclosed the destinies of England. Before he
left Calais, D’Artagnan had had made in that city a sort of coffin, large and
deep enough for a man to turn in it at his ease. The bottom and sides,
properly upholstered, formed a bed sufficiently soft to prevent the rolling of
the ship turning this kind of cage into a rat-trap. The little grating, of which
D’Artagnan had spoken to the king, like the visor of the helmet, was placed
opposite to the man’s face. It was so constructed that, at the least cry, a
sudden pressure would stifle that cry, and, if necessary, him who had uttered
that cry.
D’Artagnan was so well acquainted with his crew and his prisoner, that
during the whole voyage he had been in dread of two things: either that the
general would prefer death to this sort of imprisonment, and would smother
himself by endeavoring to speak, or that his guards would allow themselves
to be tempted by the offers of the prisoner, and put him, D’Artagnan, into
the box instead of Monk.
D’Artagnan, therefore, had passed the two days and the two nights of the
voyage close to the coffin, alone with the general, offering him wine and
food, which the latter had refused, and constantly endeavoring to reassure
him upon the destiny which awaited him at the end of this singular
captivity. Two pistols on the table and his naked sword made D’Artagnan
easy with regard to indiscretions from without.

When once at Scheveningen he had felt completely reassured. His men
greatly dreaded any conflict with the lords of the soil. He had, besides,
interested in his cause him who had morally served him as lieutenant, and
whom we have seen reply to the name of Menneville. The latter, not being a
vulgar spirit, had more to risk than the others, because he had more
conscience. He believed in a future in the service of D’Artagnan, and
consequently would have allowed himself to be cut to pieces, rather than
violate the order given by his leader. Thus it was that, once landed, it was to
him that D’Artagnan had confided the care of the chest and the general’s
breathing. It was he, too, he had ordered to have the chest brought by the
seven men as soon as he should hear the triple whistle. We have seen that
the lieutenant obeyed. The coffer once in the house, D’Artagnan dismissed
his men with a gracious smile, saying, “Messieurs, you have rendered a
great service to King Charles II., who in less than six weeks will be king of
England. Your gratification will then be doubled. Return to the boat and
wait for me.” Upon which they departed with such shouts of joy as terrified
even the dog himself.
D’Artagnan had caused the coffer to be brought as far as the king’s ante-
chamber. He then, with great care, closed the door of this ante-chamber,
after which he opened the coffer, and said to the general:
“General, I have a thousand excuses to make to you; my manner of
acting has not been worthy of such a man as you, I know very well; but I
wished you to take me for the captain of a bark. And then England is a very
inconvenient country for transports. I hope, therefore, you will take all that
into consideration. But now, general, you are at liberty to get up and walk.”
This said, he cut the bonds which fastened the arms and hands of the
general. The latter got up, and then sat down with the countenance of a man
who expects death. D’Artagnan opened the door of Charles’s study, and
said, “Sire, here is your enemy, M. Monk; I promised myself to perform this
service for your majesty. It is done; now order as you please. M. Monk,”
added he, turning towards the prisoner, “you are in the presence of his
majesty Charles II., sovereign lord of Great Britain.”
Monk raised towards the prince his coldly stoical look, and replied: “I
know no king of Great Britain; I recognize even here no one worthy of
bearing the name of gentleman: for it is in the name of King Charles II. that
an emissary, whom I took for an honest man, came and laid an infamous

snare for me. I have fallen into that snare; so much the worse for me. Now,
you the tempter,” said he to the king; “you the executor,” said he to
D’Artagnan; “remember what I am about to say to you: you have my body,
you may kill it, and I advise you to do so, for you shall never have my mind
or my will. And now, ask me not a single word, as from this moment I will
not open my mouth even to cry out. I have said.”
And he pronounced these words with the savage, invincible resolution of
the most mortified Puritan. D’Artagnan looked at his prisoner like a man
who knows the value of every word, and who fixes that value according to
the accent with which it has been pronounced.
“The fact is,” said he, in a whisper to the king, “the general is an
obstinate man; he would not take a mouthful of bread, nor swallow a drop
of wine, during the two days of our voyage. But as from this moment it is
your majesty who must decide his fate, I wash my hands of him.”
Monk, erect, pale, and resigned, waited with his eyes fixed and his arms
folded. D’Artagnan turned towards him. “You will please to understand
perfectly,” said he, “that your speech, otherwise very fine, does not suit
anybody, not even yourself. His majesty wished to speak to you, you
refused an interview; why, now that you are face to face, that you are here
by a force independent of your will, why do you confine yourself to the
rigors which I consider useless and absurd? Speak! what the devil! speak, if
only to say ‘No.’”
Monk did not unclose his lips; Monk did not turn his eyes; Monk stroked
his mustache with a thoughtful air, which announced that matters were
going on badly.
During all this time Charles II. had fallen into a profound reverie. For the
first time he found himself face to face with Monk; with the man he had so
much desired to see; and, with that peculiar glance which God has given to
eagles and kings, he had fathomed the abyss of his heart. He beheld Monk,
then, resolved positively to die rather than speak, which was not to be
wondered at in so considerable a man, the wound in whose mind must at the
moment have been cruel. Charles II. formed, on the instant, one of those
resolutions upon which an ordinary man risks his life, a general his fortune,
and a king his kingdom. “Monsieur,” said he to Monk, “you are perfectly
right upon certain points; I do not, therefore, ask you to answer me, but to
listen to me.”

There was a moment’s silence, during which the king looked at Monk,
who remained impassible.
“You have made me just now a painful reproach, monsieur,” continued
the king; “you said that one of my emissaries had been to Newcastle to lay a
snare for you, and that, parenthetically, cannot be understood by M.
d’Artagnan here, and to whom, before everything, I owe sincere thanks for
his generous, his heroic devotion.”
D’Artagnan bowed with respect; Monk took no notice.
“For M. d’Artagnan—and observe, M. Monk, I do not say this to excuse
myself—for M. d’Artagnan,” continued the king, “went to England of his
free will, without interest, without orders, without hope, like a true
gentleman as he is, to render a service to an unfortunate king, and to add to
the illustrious actions of an existence, already so well filled, one glorious
deed more.”
D’Artagnan colored a little, and coughed to keep his countenance. Monk
did not stir.
“You do not believe what I tell you, M. Monk,” continued the king. “I
can understand that,—such proofs of devotion are so rare, that their reality
may well be put in doubt.”
“Monsieur would do wrong not to believe you, sire,” cried D’Artagnan:
“for that which your majesty has said is the exact truth, and the truth so
exact that it seems, in going to fetch the general, I have done something
which sets everything wrong. In truth, if it be so, I am in despair.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king, pressing the hand of the
musketeer, “you have obliged me as much as if you had promoted the
success of my cause, for you have revealed to me an unknown friend, to
whom I shall ever be grateful, and whom I shall always love.” And the king
pressed his hand cordially. “And,” continued he, bowing to Monk, “an
enemy whom I shall henceforth esteem at his proper value.”
The eyes of the Puritan flashed, but only once, and his countenance, for
an instant, illuminated by that flash, resumed its somber impassibility.
“Then, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Charles, “this is what was
about to happen: M. le Comte de la Fere, who you know, I believe, has set
out for Newcastle.”
“What, Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.