Etext of The Man In The Iron Mask                                      
by Alexandre Dumas
1846

                Chapter I: Two Old Friends

  WHILE EVERY ONE AT court was busy with his own affairs, a man
mysteriously took up his post behind the Place de Greve, in the
house which we once saw besieged by d'Artagnan on the occasion of a
riot. The principal entrance of this house was in the Place
Baudoyer. The house was tolerably large, surrounded by gardens,
enclosed in the Rue St. Jean by the shops of tool-makers, which
protected it from prying looks; and was walled in by a triple
rampart of stone, noise, and verdure, like an embalmed mummy in its
triple coffin.
  The man to whom we have just alluded walked along with a firm
step, although he was no longer in his early prime. His dark cloak and
long sword outlined beneath the cloak plainly revealed a man seeking
adventures; and judging from his curling mustaches, his fine and
smooth skin, as seen under his sombrero, the gallantry of his
adventures was unquestionable. In fact, hardly had the cavalier
entered the house, when the clock of St. Gervais struck eight; and ten
minutes afterwards a lady, followed by an armed servant, approached
and knocked at the same door, which an old woman immediately opened
for her. The lady raised her veil as she entered; though no longer a
beauty, she was still a woman; she was no longer young, yet she was
sprightly and of an imposing carriage. She concealed, beneath a rich
toilet of exquisite taste, an age which Ninon de l'Enclos alone
could have smiled at with impunity. Hardly had she reached the
vestibule, when the cavalier, whose features we have only roughly
sketched, advanced towards her, holding out his hand.
  "Good-day, my dear Duchess," he said.
  "How do you do, my dear Aramis?" replied the duchess.
  He led her to an elegantly furnished apartment, on whose high
windows were reflected the expiring rays of the setting sun, which
filtered through the dark crests of some adjoining firs. They sat down
side by side. Neither of them thought of asking for additional light
in the room, and they buried themselves thus in the shadow, as if they
had wished to bury themselves in forgetfulness.
  "Chevalier," said the duchess, "you have never given me a single
sign of life since our interview at Fontainebleau; and I confess
that your presence there on the day of the Franciscan's death, and
your initiation in certain secrets, caused me the liveliest
astonishment I ever experienced in my whole life."
  "I can explain my presence there to you, as well as my
initiation," said Aramis.
  "But let us, first of all," replied the duchess, quickly, "talk a
little of ourselves, for our friendship is by no means of recent
date."
  "Yes, Madame; and if Heaven wills it, we shall continue to be
friends,- I will not say for a long time, but forever."
  "That is quite certain, Chevalier, and my visit is a proof of it."
  "Our interests, Madame the Duchess, are no longer the same that they
used to be," said Aramis, smiling without reserve in the dim light,
which could not show that his smile was less agreeable and less bright
than formerly.
  "No, Chevalier, at the present day we have other interests. Every
period of life brings its own; and as we now understand each other
in conversing as perfectly as we formerly did without saying a word,
let us talk, if you like."
  "I am at your orders, Duchess. Ah! I beg your pardon; how did you
obtain my address, and what was your object?"
  "You ask me why? I have told you. Curiosity, in the first place. I
wished to know what you could have to do with the Franciscan with whom
I had certain business, and who died so singularly. You know that on
the occasion of our interview at Fontainebleau, in the cemetery, at
the foot of the grave so recently closed, we were both so much
overcome by our emotions that we omitted to confide anything to each
other."
  "Yes, Madame."
  "Well, then, I had no sooner left you than I repented, and have ever
since been most anxious to ascertain the truth. You know that Madame
de Longueville and myself are almost one, I suppose?"
  "I was not aware of it," said Aramis, discreetly.
  "I remembered, then," continued the duchess, "that neither of us
said anything to the other in the cemetery; that you did not speak
of the relationship in which you stood to the Franciscan, whose burial
you had superintended, and that I did not refer to the position in
which I stood to him,- all which seemed to me very unworthy of two
such old friends as ourselves; and I have sought an opportunity of
an interview with you in order to give you proof that I am devoted
to you, and that Marie Michon, now no more, has left behind her a
ghost with a good memory."
  Aramis bowed over the duchess's hand, and pressed his lips upon
it. "You must have had some trouble to find me again," he said.
  "Yes," answered the duchess, annoyed to find the subject taking a
turn which Aramis wished to give it; "but I knew that you were a
friend of M. Fouquet, and so I inquired in that direction."
  "A friend! Oh," exclaimed the chevalier, "you exaggerate, Madame!
A poor priest who has been favored by so generous a protector, and
whose heart is full of gratitude and devotion to him, is all that I am
to M. Fouquet."
  "He made you a bishop?"
  "Yes, Duchess."
  "So, my fine musketeer, that is your retirement!"
  "In the same way that political intrigue is for yourself," thought
Aramis. "And so," he said, "you inquired after me at M. Fouquet's?"
  "Easily enough. You had been to Fontainebleau with him, and had
undertaken a voyage to your diocese,- which is Belle-Isle-en-Mer, I
believe."
  "No, Madame," said Aramis; "my diocese is Vannes."
  "I meant that. I only thought that Belle-Isle-en-Mer-"
  "Is a property belonging to M. Fouquet,- nothing more."
  "Ah! I had been told that Belle-Isle was fortified; besides, I
know that you are a military man, my friend."
  "I have forgotten everything of the kind since I entered the
church," said Aramis, annoyed.
  "Very well. I then learned that you had returned from Vannes, and
I sent to one of our friends, M. le Comte de la Fere, who is
discretion itself; but he answered that he was not aware of your
address."
  "So like Athos," thought the bishop; "that which is actually good
never alters."
  "Well, then, you know that I cannot venture to show myself here, and
that the Queen-Mother has always some grievance or other against me."
  "Yes, indeed; and I am surprised at it."
  "Oh, there are various reasons for it! But, to continue, being
obliged to conceal myself, I was fortunate enough to meet with M.
d'Artagnan,- one of your old friends, I believe."
  "A friend of mine still, Duchess."
  "He gave me some information, and sent me to M. de Baisemeaux, the
governor of the Bastille."
  Aramis started; and a light flashed from his eyes in the darkness of
the room which he could not conceal from his keen-sighted friend.
"M. de Baisemeaux!" he said; "why did d'Artagnan send you to M. de
Baisemeaux?"
  "I cannot tell you."
  "What can this possibly mean?" said the bishop, summoning all the
resources of his mind to his aid, in order to carry on the combat in a
befitting manner.
  "M. de Baisemeaux is greatly indebted to you, d'Artagnan told me."
  "True, he is so."
  "And the address of a creditor is as easily ascertained as that of a
debtor."
  "Also very true; and so Baisemeaux indicated to you-"
  "St. Mande, where I forwarded a letter to you-"
  "Which I have in my hand, and which is most precious to me," said
Aramis, "because I am indebted to it for the pleasure of seeing you."
  The duchess, satisfied at having so successfully passed over the
various difficulties of so delicate an explanation, began to breathe
freely again; which Aramis, however, could not succeed in doing. "We
had got as far as your visit to Baisemeaux, I believe?" said he.
  "Nay," said the duchess, laughing, "further than that."
  "In that case we must have been speaking about your grudge against
the Queen-Mother."
  "Further still," returned the duchess, "further still; we were
talking of the connection-"
  "Which existed between you and the Franciscan," said Aramis,
interrupting her eagerly; "well, I am listening to you very
attentively."
  "It is easily explained," returned the duchess, making up her
mind. "You know that I am living at Brussels with M. de Laicques?"
  "I have heard so, Madame."
  "You know that my children have ruined and stripped me of
everything?"
  "How terrible, dear Duchess!"
  "Terrible, indeed! This obliged me to resort to some means of
obtaining a livelihood, and particularly to avoid vegetating. I had
old hatreds to turn to account, old friendships to serve; I no
longer had either credit or protectors."
  "You, too, who had extended protection towards so many persons,"
said Aramis, blandly.
  "It is always the case, Chevalier. Well, at that time I saw the King
of Spain."
  "Ah!" "Who had just nominated a general of the Jesuits, according to
the usual custom."
  "Is it usual, indeed?"
  "Were you not aware of it?"
  "I beg your pardon; I was inattentive."
  "You must be aware of that,- you who were on such good terms with
the Franciscan."
  "With the general of the Jesuits, you mean?"
  "Exactly. Well, then, I saw the King of Spain, who wished to do me a
service, but was unable. He gave me recommendations, however, to
Flanders, both for myself and for Laicques, and conferred a pension on
me out of the funds of the order."
  "Of Jesuits?"
  "Yes. The general- I mean the Franciscan- was sent to me; and in
order to give regularity to the transaction, in accordance with the
statutes of the order, I was reputed to be in a position to render
certain services. You are aware that that is the rule?"
  "I was not aware of it."
  Madame de Chevreuse paused to look at Aramis, but it was quite dark.
"Well, such is the rule," she resumed. "I ought, therefore, to seem to
possess a power of usefulness of some kind or other. I proposed to
travel for the order, and I was placed on the list of affiliated
travellers. You understand that it was a formality, by means of
which I received my pension, which was very convenient for me."
  "Good Heavens! Duchess, what you tell me is like a dagger-thrust
to me. You obliged to receive a pension from the Jesuits?"
  "No, Chevalier; from Spain."
  "Ah! except as a conscientious scruple, Duchess, you will admit that
it is pretty nearly the same thing."
  "No, not at all."
  "But, surely, of your magnificent fortune there must remain-"
  "Dampierre is all that remains."
  "And that is handsome enough."
  "Yes; but Dampierre is burdened, mortgaged, and somewhat in ruins,
like its owner."
  "And can the Queen-Mother see all that without shedding a tear?"
said Aramis, with a penetrating look, which encountered nothing but
the darkness.
  "Yes, she has forgotten everything."
  "You have, I believe, Duchess, attempted to get restored to favor?"
  "Yes; but, most singularly, the young King inherits the antipathy
that his dear father had for me. Ah, you too will tell me that I am
indeed a woman to be hated, and that I am no longer one who can be
loved."
  "Dear Duchess, pray arrive soon at the circumstance which brought
you here; for I think we can be of service to each other."
  "Such has been my own thought. I came to Fontainebleau, then, with a
double object in view. In the first place, I was summoned there by the
Franciscan whom you knew. By the by, how did you know him?- for I have
told you my story, and have not yet heard yours."
  "I knew him in a very natural way, Duchess. I studied theology
with him at Parma; we became fast friends, but it happened, from
time to time, that business or travels or war separated us from each
other."
  "You were, of course, aware that he was the general of the Jesuits?"
  "I suspected it."
  "But by what extraordinary chance did you come to the hotel where
the affiliated travellers had met together?"
  "Oh," said Aramis, in a calm voice, "it was the merest chance in the
world! I was going to Fontainebleau to see M. Fouquet, for the purpose
of obtaining an audience of the King. I was passing by, unknown; I saw
the poor dying monk in the road, and recognized him. You know the
rest,- he died in my arms."
  "Yes, but bequeathing to you so vast a power in Heaven and on
earth that you issue sovereign orders in his name."
  "He did leave me a few commissions to settle."
  "And for me?"
  "I have told you,- a sum of twelve thousand livres was to be paid to
you. I thought I had given you the necessary signature to enable you
to receive it. Did you not get the money?"
  "Oh, yes, yes! My dear prelate, you give your orders, I am informed,
with so much mystery and such august majesty that it is generally
believed you are the successor of the beloved dead."
  Aramis colored impatiently, and the duchess continued. "I have
obtained information," she said, "from the King of Spain himself;
and he dispelled my doubts on the point. Every general of the
Jesuits is nominated by him, and must be a Spaniard, according to
the statutes of the order. You are not a Spaniard, nor have you been
nominated by the King of Spain."
  Aramis did not reply to this remark, except to say, "You see,
Duchess, how greatly you were mistaken, since the King of Spain told
you that."
  "Yes, my dear Aramis; but there was something else of which I have
been thinking."
  "What is that?"
  "You know that I do a great deal of desultory thinking, and it
occurred to me that you know the Spanish language."
  "Every Frenchman who has been actively engaged in the Fronde knows
Spanish."
  "You have lived in Flanders?"
  "Three years."
  "And have stayed at Madrid?"
  "Fifteen months."
  "You are in a position, then, to become a naturalized Spaniard
when you like."
  "Really?" said Aramis, with a frankness which deceived the duchess.
  "Undoubtedly. Two years' residence and an acquaintance with the
language are indispensable. You have had three years and a half,-
fifteen months more than is necessary."
  "What are you driving at, my dear lady?"
  "At this,- I am on good terms with the King of Spain."
  "And I am not on bad terms," thought Aramis to himself.
  "Do you wish me to ask the King," continued the duchess, "to
confer the succession to the Franciscan's office upon you?"
  "Oh, Duchess!"
  "You have it already, perhaps?" she said.
  "No, upon my honor."
  "Very well, then, I can render you that service."
  "Why did you not render the same service to M. de Laicques, Duchess?
He is a very talented man, and one whom you love."
  "Yes, no doubt; but that is not to be considered. At all events,
putting Laicques aside, answer me, will you have it?"
  "No, I thank you, Duchess."
  She paused. "He is nominated," she thought; and then resumed
aloud, "If you refuse me in this manner, it is not very encouraging
for me to ask anything of you."
  "Oh, ask, pray ask!"
  "Ask! I cannot do so if you have not the power to grant what I
want."
  "However limited my power and ability, ask all the same."
  "I need a sum of money to restore Dampierre."
  "Ah!" replied Aramis, coldly, "money? Well, Duchess, how much
would you require?"
  "Oh, a tolerably round sum!"
  "So much the worse,- you know I am not rich."
  "No, you are not; but the order is. And if you had been the
general-"
  "You know I am not the general."
  "In that case you have a friend who must be very wealthy,- M.
Fouquet."
  "M. Fouquet! He is more than half ruined, Madame."
  "So it is said, but I would not believe it."
  "Why, Duchess?"
  "Because I have, or rather Laicques has, certain letters in his
possession from Cardinal Mazarin, which establish the existence of
very strange accounts."
  "What accounts?"
  "Relative to various sums of money borrowed and disposed of. I do
not fully remember; but the point is that the superintendent,
according to these letters, which are signed by Mazarin, had taken
thirty millions from the coffers of the State. The case is a very
serious one."
  Aramis clinched his hands in anxiety and apprehension. "Is it
possible," he said, "that you have such letters, and have not
communicated them to M. Fouquet?"
  "Ah!" replied the duchess, "I keep such little matters as these in
reserve. When the day of need comes, we will take them from the
closet."
  "And that day has arrived?" said Aramis.
  "Yes."
  "And you are going to show those letters to M. Fouquet?"
  "I prefer instead to talk about them with you."
  "You must be in sad want of money, my poor friend, to think of
such things as these,- you, too, who held M. de Mazarin's prose
effusions in such indifferent esteem."
  "The fact is, I am in want of money."
  "And then," continued Aramis, in cold accents, "it must have been
very distressing to you to be obliged to have recourse to such a
means. It is cruel."
  "Oh, if I had wished to do harm instead of good," said Madame de
Chevreuse, "instead of asking the general of the order or M. Fouquet
for the five hundred thousand livres I require-"
  "Five hundred thousand livres!"
  "Yes; no more. Do you think it much? I require at least as much as
that to restore Dampierre."
  "Yes, Madame."
  "I say, therefore, that instead of asking for this amount I should
have gone to see my old friend the Queen-Mother; the letters from
her husband, the Signor Mazarini, would have served me as an
introduction, and I should have begged this mere trifle of her, saying
to her, 'I wish, Madame, to have the honor of receiving your Majesty
at Dampierre. Permit me to put Dampierre in a fit state for that
purpose.'"
  Aramis did not say a single word in reply. "Well," she said, "what
are you thinking about?"
  "I am making certain additions," said Aramis.
  "And M. Fouquet makes subtractions. I, on the other hand, am
trying the art of multiplication. What excellent calculators we are!
How well we could understand one another!"
  "Will you allow me to reflect?" said Aramis.
  "No; to such an overture between persons like ourselves, 'Yes' or
'No' should be the reply, and that immediately."
  "It is a snare," thought the bishop; "it is impossible that Anne
of Austria would listen to such a woman as this."
  "Well!" said the duchess.
  "Well, Madame, I should be very much astonished if M. Fouquet had
five hundred thousand livres at his disposal at the present moment."
  "It is of no use speaking of it further, then," said the duchess,
"and Dampierre must get restored how it can."
  "Oh, you are not embarrassed to such an extent as that, I suppose?"
  "No; I am never embarrassed."
  "And the Queen," continued the bishop, "will certainly do for you
what the superintendent is unable to do."
  "Oh, certainly! But tell me, do you not think it would be better
that I should speak myself to M. Fouquet about these letters?"
  "You will do whatever you please in that respect, Duchess. M.
Fouquet either feels or does not feel himself to be guilty. If he
really be so, I know that he is proud enough not to confess it; if
he be not so, he will be exceedingly offended at your menace."
  "As usual, you reason like an angel," said the duchess, rising.
  "And so you are going to denounce M. Fouquet to the Queen," said
Aramis.
  "Denounce? Oh, what a disagreeable word! I shall not denounce, my
dear friend. You now know matters of policy too well to be ignorant
how easily these affairs are arranged. I shall merely side against
M. Fouquet, and nothing more; and in a war of party against party a
weapon is a weapon."
  "No doubt."
  "And once on friendly terms again with the Queen-Mother, I may be
dangerous towards some persons."
  "You are at perfect liberty to be so, Duchess."
  "A liberty of which I shall avail myself, my dear friend."
  "You are not ignorant, I suppose, Duchess, that M. Fouquet is on the
best terms with the King of Spain?"
  "Oh, I suppose so!"
  "If, therefore, you begin a party warfare against M. Fouquet, he
will reply in the same way; for he too is at perfect liberty to do so,
is he not?"
  "Oh, certainly!"
  "And as he is on good terms with Spain, he will make use of that
friendship as a weapon."
  "You mean that he will be on good terms with the general of the
order of the Jesuits, my dear Aramis."
  "That may be the case, Duchess."
  "And that, consequently, the pension I have been receiving from
the order will be stopped."
  "I am greatly afraid it might be."
  "Well, I must contrive to console myself; for after Richelieu, after
the Frondes, after exile, what is there left for Madame de Chevreuse
to fear?"
  "The pension, you are aware, is forty-eight thousand livres."
  "Alas! I am quite aware of it."
  "Moreover, in party contests, you know, the friends of the enemy
do not escape."
  "Ah! you mean that poor Laicques will have to suffer."
  "I am afraid it is almost inevitable, Duchess."
  "Oh, he receives only twelve thousand livres' pension."
  "Yes, but the King of Spain has some influence left; advised by M.
Fouquet, he might get M. Laicques shut up in some fortress."
  "I have no great fear of that, my good friend; because, thanks to
a reconciliation with Anne of Austria, I will undertake that France
shall insist upon Laicques's liberation."
  "True. In that case you will have something else to apprehend."
  "What can that be?" said the duchess, pretending to be surprised and
terrified.
  "You will learn- indeed, you must know it already- that having
once been an affiliated member of the order, it is not easy to leave
it; for the secrets that any particular member may have acquired are
unwholesome, and carry with them the germs of misfortune for whoever
may reveal them."
  The duchess considered for a moment, and then said, "That is more
serious; I will think it over."
  Notwithstanding the profound obscurity in which he sat, Aramis
seemed to feel a burning glance, like a hot iron, escape from his
friend's eyes and plunge into his heart.
  "Let us recapitulate," said Aramis, determined to keep himself on
his guard, and gliding his hand into his breast, where he had a dagger
concealed.
  "Exactly, let us recapitulate; good accounts make good friends."
  "The suppression of your pension-"
  "Forty-eight thousand livres and that of Laicques's twelve make
together sixty thousand livres; that is what you mean, I suppose?"
  "Precisely; and I was trying to find out what would be your
equivalent for that."
  "Five hundred thousand livres, which I shall get from the Queen."
  "Or which you will not get."
  "I know a means of procuring them," said the duchess, thoughtlessly.
  This remark made the chevalier prick up his ears; and from the
moment when his adversary had committed this error, his mind was so
thoroughly on its guard that he seemed every moment to gain the
advantage more and more, and she, consequently, to lose it. "I will
admit, for argument's sake, that you obtain the money," he resumed;
"you will lose twice as much, having a hundred thousand livres'
pension to receive instead of sixty thousand, and that for a period of
ten years."
  "Not so, for I shall only be subjected to this diminution of my
income during the period of M. Fouquet's remaining in power,- a period
which I estimate at two months."
  "Ah!" said Aramis.
  "I am frank, you see."
  "I thank you for it, Duchess; but you would be wrong to suppose that
after M. Fouquet's disgrace the order would resume the payment of your
pension."
  "I know a means of making the order come down with its money, as I
know a means of forcing the Queen-Mother to concede what I require."
  "In that case, Duchess, we are all obliged to strike our flags to
you. The victory is yours, and the triumph also is yours. Be
clement, I entreat you!"
  "But is it possible," resumed the duchess, without taking notice
of the irony, "that you really draw back from a miserable sum of
five hundred thousand livres when it is a question of sparing you- I
mean your friend- I beg your pardon, I ought rather to say your
protector- the disagreeable consequences which a party contest
produces?"
  "Duchess, I will tell you why. Supposing the five hundred thousand
livres were to be given to you, M. de Laicques will require his share,
which will be another five hundred thousand livres, I presume; and
then, after M. de Laicques's and your own portions, will come the
portions for your children, your poor pensioners, and various other
persons; and these letters, however compromising they may be, are
not worth from three to four millions. Good heavens! Duchess, the
Queen of France's diamonds were surely worth more than these bits of
waste paper signed by Mazarin; and yet their recovery did not cost a
fourth part of what you ask for yourself."
  "Yes, that is true; but the merchant values his goods at his own
price, and it is for the purchaser to buy or to refuse."
  "Stay a moment, Duchess; would you like me to tell you why I will
not buy your letters?"
  "Pray tell me."
  "Because the letters which you say are Mazarin's are false."
  "Nonsense!"
  "I have no doubt of it; for it would, to say the least, be very
singular that after you had quarrelled with the Queen through M.
Mazarin's means, you should have kept up any intimate acquaintance
with the latter; it would savor of passion, of treachery, of- Upon
my word, I do not like to make use of the term."
  "Oh pray say it!"
  "Of compliance."
  "That is quite true; but what is not less so is that which the
letter contains."
  "I pledge you my word, Duchess, that you will not be able to make
use of it with the Queen."
  "Oh, yes, indeed; I can make use of everything with the Queen."
  "Very good," thought Aramis. "Croak on, old owl! hiss, viper that
you are!"
  But the duchess had said enough, and advanced a few steps towards
the door. Aramis, however, had reserved a humiliation which she did
not expect,- the imprecation of the vanquished behind the car of the
conqueror. He rang the bell. Candles immediately appeared in the room;
and the bishop found himself completely encircled by lights, which
shone upon the worn, haggard face of the duchess. Aramis fixed a
long and ironical look upon her pale and withered cheeks, upon her
dim, dull eyes, and upon her lips, which she kept carefully closed
over her blackened and scanty teeth. He, however, had thrown himself
into a graceful attitude, with his haughty and intelligent head thrown
back; he smiled so as to reveal his teeth, which were still
brilliant and dazzling in the candle-light.
  The old coquette understood the trick that had been played upon her.
She was standing immediately before a large mirror, in which all her
decrepitude, so carefully concealed, was only made more manifest by
the contrast. Thereupon, without even saluting Aramis, who bowed
with the ease and grace of the musketeer of early days, she hurried
away with tottering steps, which her very haste only the more impeded.
Aramis sprang across the room like a zephyr to lead her to the door.
Madame de Chevreuse made a sign to her huge lackey, who resumed his
musket; and she left the house where such tender friends had not
been able to understand each other only because they had understood
each other too well.
     Chapter II: Wherein May Be Seen That a Bargain Which
            Cannot Be Made with One Person Can Be
                  Carried Out with Another

  ARAMIS had been perfectly correct in his supposition. Immediately on
leaving the house in the Place Baudoyer, Madame de Chevreuse had
proceeded homeward. She was doubtless afraid of being followed, and
had sought in this way to cover her steps; but as soon as she had
arrived within the door of the hotel, and assured herself that no
one who could cause her any uneasiness was on her track, she opened
the door of the garden leading into another street, and hurried
towards the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, where M. Colbert resided.
  We have already said that evening, or rather night, had closed
in,- and it was a dark, thick night. Paris had once more sunk into its
calm, quiescent state, enshrouding alike within its indulgent mantle
the high-born duchess carrying out her political intrigue, and the
simple citizen's wife who having been detained late by a supper in the
city was proceeding homewards, on the arm of a lover, by the longest
possible route.
  Madame de Chevreuse had been too well accustomed to nocturnal
politics not to know that a minister never denies himself, even at his
own private residence, to any young and beautiful woman who may chance
to object to the dust and confusion of a public office; or to old
women, as full of experience as of years, who dislike the indiscreet
echo of official residences. A valet received the duchess under the
peristyle, and received her, it must be admitted, with some
indifference of manner; he intimated, after having looked at her face,
that it was hardly at such an hour that one so advanced in years as
herself could be permitted to disturb M. Colbert's important
occupations. But Madame de Chevreuse, without disquietude, wrote her
name upon a leaf of her tablets,- a blusterous name, which had so
often sounded disagreeably in the ears of Louis XIII and of the
great cardinal. She wrote her name in the large ill-formed
characters of the higher classes of that period, folded the paper in a
manner peculiarly her own, and handed it to the valet without uttering
a word, but with so haughty and imperious a gesture that the fellow,
well accustomed to judge of people from their manners and
appearance, perceived at once the quality of the person before him,
bowed his head, and ran to M. Colbert's room.
  The minister could not control a sudden exclamation as he opened the
paper; and the valet, gathering from it the interest with which his
master regarded the mysterious visitor, returned as fast as he could
to beg the duchess to follow him. She ascended to the first floor of
the beautiful new house very slowly, rested herself on the
landing-place in order not to enter the apartment out of breath, and
appeared before M. Colbert, who with his own hands held open the
folding-doors. The duchess paused at the threshold for the purpose
of studying well the character of the man with whom she was about to
converse. At the first glance the round, large, heavy head, thick
brows, and ill-favored features of Colbert, who wore, thrust low
down on his head, a cap like a priest's calotte, seemed to indicate
that but little difficulty was likely to be met with in her
negotiations with him, but also that she was to expect little interest
in the discussion of particulars; for there was scarcely any
indication that that rude man could be susceptible to the
attractions of a refined revenge or of an exalted ambition. But when
on closer inspection the duchess perceived the small, piercingly black
eyes, the longitudinal wrinkles of his high and massive forehead,
the imperceptible twitching of the lips, on which were apparent traces
of rough good-humor, she changed her mind and said to herself, "I have
found the man I want."
  "What has procured me the honor of your visit, Madame?" he inquired.
  "The need I have of you, Monsieur," returned the duchess, "and
that which you have of me."
  "I am delighted, Madame, with the first portion of your sentence;
but so far as the second portion is concerned-"
  Madame de Chevreuse sat down in the arm-chair which M. Colbert
placed before her. "M. Colbert, you are the intendant of finances?"
  "Yes, Madame."
  "And are ambitious of becoming the superintendent?"
  "Madame!"
  "Nay, do not deny it! That would only unnecessarily prolong our
conversation,- it is useless."
  "And yet, Madame," replied the intendant, "however well disposed and
inclined to show politeness I may be towards a lady of your position
and merit, nothing will make me confess that I have ever entertained
the idea of supplanting my superior."
  "I said nothing about supplanting, M. Colbert. Could I
accidentally have made use of that word? I hardly think so. The word
'replace' is less aggressive in its signification, and more
grammatically suitable, as M. de Voiture would say. I presume,
therefore, that you are ambitious of replacing M. Fouquet."
  "M. Fouquet's fortune, Madame, enables him to withstand all
attempts. The superintendent in this age plays the part of the
Colossus of Rhodes; the vessels pass beneath him, and do not overthrow
him."
  "I ought to have availed myself of that very comparison. It is true.
M. Fouquet plays the part of the Colossus of Rhodes; but I remember to
have heard it said by M. Conrart (a member of the Academy, I believe),
that when the Colossus of Rhodes fell from its lofty position, the
merchant who had cast it down- a merchant, nothing more, M. Colbert-
loaded four hundred camels with the ruins. A merchant!- that is
considerably less than an intendant of finances."
  "Madame, I can assure you that I shall never overthrow M. Fouquet."
  "Very good, M. Colbert, since you persist in showing so much
sensitiveness with me, as if you were ignorant that I am Madame de
Chevreuse, and also that I am somewhat advanced in years,- in other
words, that you have to do with a woman who has had political dealings
with the Cardinal de Richelieu, and who has no time to lose,- since, I
say, you commit that imprudence, I shall go and find others who are
more intelligent and more desirous of making their fortunes."
  "How, Madame, how?"
  "You give me a very poor idea of the negotiations of the present
day, Monsieur. I assure you that if in my time a woman had gone to
M. de Cinq-Mars, who was not moreover a man of a very high order of
intellect, and had said to him about the cardinal what I have just now
said to you of M. Fouquet, M. de Cinq-Mars would by this time have put
his irons in the fire."
  "Nay, Madame, show a little indulgence."
  "Well, then, you do really consent to replace M. Fouquet?"
  "Certainly, I do, if the King dismisses M. Fouquet."
  "Again a word too much; it is quite evident that if you have not yet
succeeded in driving M. Fouquet from his post, it is because you
have not been able to do so. Therefore I should be a simpleton if in
coming to you I did not bring you the very thing you require."
  "I am distressed to be obliged to persist, Madame," said Colbert,
after a silence which enabled the duchess to sound the depth of his
dissimulation; "but I must warn you that for the last six years
denunciation after denunciation has been made against M. Fouquet,
and he has remained unshaken and unaffected by them."
  "There is a time for everything, M. Colbert; those who were the
authors of such denunciations were not called Madame de Chevreuse, and
they had no proofs equal to the six letters from M. de Mazarin which
establish the offence in question."
  "The offence!"
  "The crime, if you like it better."
  "The crime- committed by M. Fouquet!"
  "Nothing less. It is rather strange, M. Colbert; but your face,
which just now was cold and indifferent, is now all lighted up."
  "A crime!"
  "I am delighted to see it makes an impression upon you."
  "Oh, that is a word, Madame, which embraces so many things!"
  "It embraces the post of superintendent of finance for yourself, and
a letter of exile or the Bastille for M. Fouquet."
  "Forgive me, Madame the Duchess, but it is almost impossible that M.
Fouquet can be exiled; to be imprisoned or disgraced, that alone is
much."
  "Oh, I am perfectly aware of what I am saying!" returned Madame de
Chevreuse, coldly. "I do not live at such a distance from Paris as not
to know what takes place there. The King does not like M. Fouquet, and
he would willingly sacrifice the superintendent if an opportunity were
only presented."
  "It must be a good one, though."
  "Good enough, and one I estimate to be worth five hundred thousand
livres."
  "In what way?" said Colbert.
  "I mean, Monsieur, that holding this opportunity in my own hands I
will not allow it to be transferred to yours except for a sum of
five hundred thousand livres."
  "I understand you perfectly, Madame. But since you have fixed a
price for the sale, let me now see the value of the articles to be
sold."
  "Oh, a mere trifle,- six letters, as I have already told you, from
M. de Mazarin; and the autographs will most assuredly not be
regarded as too costly, if they establish in an irrefutable manner
that M. Fouquet has embezzled large sums of money from the treasury
and appropriated them to his own purposes."
  "In an irrefutable manner, do you say?" observed Colbert, whose eyes
sparkled with delight.
  "Irrefutable; would you like to read the letters?"
  "With all my heart! Copies, of course?"
  "Of course, the copies," said the duchess, as she drew from her
bosom a small packet of papers flattened by her velvet bodice. "Read!"
she said.
  Colbert eagerly snatched the papers and devoured them.
  "Wonderful!" he said.
  "It is clear enough, is it not?"
  "Yes, Madame, yes. M. Mazarin must have handed the money to M.
Fouquet, who must have kept it for his own purposes; but the
question is, what money?"
  "Exactly,- what money; if we come to terms, I will join to these six
letters a seventh, which will supply you with the fullest
particulars."
  Colbert reflected. "And the originals of these letters?"
  "A useless question to ask; exactly as if I were to ask you, M.
Colbert, whether the money-bags you will give me will be full or
empty."
  "Very good, Madame."
  "Is it concluded?"
  "No; for there is one circumstance to which neither of us has
given any attention."
  "Name it!"
  "M. Fouquet can be utterly ruined, under the circumstances you
have detailed, only by means of legal proceedings."
  "Well?"
  "A public scandal."
  "Yes, what then?"
  "Neither the legal proceedings nor the scandal can be begun
against him."
  "Why not?"
  "Because he is procureur-general of the parliament; because, too, in
France, the government, the army, the courts of law, and commerce
are intimately connected by ties of good-will, which people call
esprit de corps. So, Madame, the parliament will never permit its
chief to be dragged before a public tribunal; and never, even if he be
dragged there by royal authority, never will he be condemned."
  "Ah! ma foi! M. Colbert, that doesn't concern me."
  "I am aware of that, Madame; but it concerns me, and it consequently
diminishes the value of what you have brought to me. Of what use to
bring me a proof of crime, without the possibility of condemnation?"
  "Even if he be only suspected, M. Fouquet will lose his post of
superintendent."
  "That would be a great achievement!" exclaimed Colbert, whose
dark, gloomy features were momentarily lighted up by an expression
of hate and vengeance.
  "Ah, ah! M. Colbert," said the duchess, "forgive me, but I did not
think you were so impressionable. Very good; in that case, since you
need more than I have to give you, there is no occasion to speak of
the matter further."
  "Yes, Madame, we will go on talking of it; only, as the value of
your commodities has decreased, you must lower your price."
  "You are bargaining, then?"
  "Every man who wishes to deal loyally is obliged to do so."
  "How much will you offer me?"
  "Two hundred thousand livres," said Colbert.
  The duchess laughed in his face, and then said suddenly, "Wait a
moment, I have another arrangement to propose; will you give me
three hundred thousand livres?"
  "No, no."
  "Oh, you can either accept or refuse my terms; besides, that is
not all."
  "More still? You are becoming too impracticable to deal with,
Madame."
  "Less so than you think, perhaps, for it is not money I am going
to ask you for."
  "What is it, then?"
  "A service. You know that I have always been most affectionately
attached to the Queen, and I am desirous of having an interview with
her Majesty."
  "With the Queen?"
  "Yes, M. Colbert, with the Queen, who is, I admit, no longer my
friend, and who has ceased to be so for a long time past, but who
may again become so if the opportunity be only given her."
  "Her Majesty has ceased to receive any one, Madame. She is a great
sufferer, and you may be aware that the paroxysms of her disease occur
with greater frequency than ever."
  "That is the very reason why I wish to have an interview with her
Majesty. In Flanders we have many diseases of that kind."
  "Cancers?- a fearful, incurable disorder."
  "Do not believe that, M. Colbert. The Flemish peasant is something
of a savage; he has not a wife exactly, but a female."
  "Well, Madame?"
  "Well, M. Colbert, while he is smoking his pipe, the woman works; it
is she who draws the water from the well,- she who loads the mule or
the ass, and even bears herself a portion of the burden. Taking but
little care of herself, she gets knocked about here and there,
sometimes is even beaten. Cancers arise from contusions."
  "True, true!" said Colbert.
  "The Flemish women do not die the sooner on that account. When
they are great sufferers from this disease, they go in search of
remedies; and the Beguines of Bruges are excellent doctors for every
kind of disease. They have precious waters of one sort or another,-
specifics of various kinds; and they give a bottle and a wax candle to
the sufferer. They derive a profit from the priests, and serve God
by the disposal of their two articles of merchandise. I will take
the Queen some of this holy water, which I will procure from the
Beguines of Bruges; her Majesty will recover, and will burn as many
wax candles as she may think fit. You see, M. Colbert, to prevent my
seeing the Queen is almost as bad as committing the crime of
regicide."
  "You are, Madame the Duchess, a woman of great intelligence. You
surprise me; still, I cannot but suppose that this charitable
consideration towards the Queen covers some small personal interest of
your own."
  "Have I tried to conceal it, M. Colbert? You spoke, I believe, of
a small personal interest. Understand, then, that it is a great
interest; and I will prove it to you by resuming what I was saying. If
you procure me a personal interview with her Majesty, I will be
satisfied with the three hundred thousand livres I have demanded; if
not, I shall keep my letters, unless, indeed, you give me on the
spot five hundred thousand livres for them."
  And rising from her seat with this decisive remark, the old
duchess left M. Colbert in a disagreeable perplexity. To bargain any
further was out of the question; not to purchase would involve
infinite loss. "Madame," he said, "I shall have the pleasure of
handing you over a hundred thousand crowns; but how shall I get the
actual letters?"
  "In the simplest manner in the world, my dear M. Colbert,- whom will
you trust?"
  The financier began to laugh silently, so that his large eyebrows
went up and down like the wings of a bat upon the deep lines of his
yellow forehead. "No one," he said.
  "You surely will make an exception in your own favor, M. Colbert?"
  "How is that, Madame?"
  "I mean that if you would take the trouble to accompany me to the
place where the letters are, they would be delivered into your own
hands, and you would be able to verify and check them."
  "Quite true."
  "You would bring the hundred thousand crowns with you at the same
time?- for I too do not trust any one."
  Colbert colored to the tips of his ears. Like all eminent men in the
art of figures, he was of an insolent and mathematical probity. "I
will take with me, Madame," he said, "two orders for the amount agreed
upon, payable at my treasury. Will that satisfy you?"
  "Would that the orders on your treasury were for two millions,
Monsieur the Intendant! I shall have the pleasure of showing you the
way, then?"
  "Allow me to order my carriage."
  "I have a carriage below, Monsieur."
  Colbert coughed like an irresolute man. He imagined for a moment
that the proposition of the duchess was a snare; that perhaps some one
was waiting at the door; and that she, whose secret had just been sold
to Colbert for a hundred thousand crowns, had already offered it to
Fouquet for the same sum. As he still hesitated a good deal, the
duchess looked at him full in the face.
  "You prefer your own carriage?" she said.
  "I admit that I do."
  "You suppose that I am going to lead you into a snare or trap of
some sort or other?"
  "Madame the Duchess, you have the character of being somewhat
inconsiderate at times; and as I am clothed in a sober, solemn
character, a jest or practical joke might compromise me."
  "Yes; the fact is, you are afraid. Well, then, take your own
carriage, as many servants as you like. Only, consider well,- what
we two may arrange between us, we are the only persons who know it;
what a third person may witness, we announce to the universe. After
all, I do not make a point of it; my carriage shall follow yours,
and I shall be satisfied to accompany you in your own carriage to
the Queen."
  "To the Queen!"
  "Have you forgotten that already? Is it possible that one of the
clauses of the agreement, of so much importance to me, can have
escaped you already? How trifling it seems to you, indeed! If I had
known it, I should have doubled my price."
  "I have reflected, Madame, and I shall not accompany you."
  "Really,- and why not?"
  "Because I have the most perfect confidence in you."
  "You overpower me. But how do I receive the hundred thousand
crowns?"
  "Here they are, Madame," said Colbert, scribbling a few lines on a
piece of paper, which he handed to the duchess, adding, "You are
paid."
  "The trait is a fine one, M. Colbert, and I will reward you for it,"
she said, beginning to laugh.
  Madame de Chevreuse's laugh had a very sinister sound. Every man who
feels youth, faith, love, life itself, throbbing in his heart, would
prefer tears to such a lamentable laugh.
  The duchess opened the front of her dress and drew forth from her
bosom, somewhat less white than it once had been, a small packet of
papers, tied with a flame-colored ribbon, and still laughing, she
said, "There, M. Colbert, are the originals of Cardinal Mazarin's
letters. They are now your own property," she added, refastening the
body of her dress. "Your fortune is secured; and now accompany me to
the Queen."
  "No, Madame; if you are again about to run the chance of her
Majesty's displeasure, and it were known at the Palais-Royal that I
had been the means of introducing you there, the Queen would never
forgive me while she lived. No; there are certain persons at the
palace who are devoted to me, who will procure you an admission
without my being compromised."
  "Just as you please, provided I enter."
  "What do you term those religious women at Bruges who cure
disorders?"
  "Beguines."
  "Good; you are a Beguine."
  "As you please, but I must soon cease to be one."
  "That is your affair."
  "Excuse me, but I do not wish to be exposed to a refusal."
  "That is again your own affair, Madame. I am going to give
directions to the head valet of the gentleman in waiting on her
Majesty to allow admission to a Beguine, who brings an effectual
remedy for her Majesty's sufferings. You are the bearer of my
letter, you will undertake to be provided with the remedy, and will
give every explanation on the subject. I admit a knowledge of a
Beguine, but I deny all knowledge of Madame de Chevreuse. Here,
Madame, then, is your letter of introduction."
             Chapter III: The Skin of the Bear

  COLBERT handed the duchess the letter, and gently drew aside the
chair behind which she was standing. Madame de Chevreuse, with a
very slight bow, immediately left the room. Colbert, who had
recognized Mazarin's handwriting and had counted the letters, rang
to summon his secretary, whom he enjoined to go in immediate search of
M. Vanel, a counsellor of the parliament. The secretary replied
that, according to his usual practice, M. Vanel had just at that
moment entered the house, in order to render to the intendant an
account of the principal details of the business which had been
transacted during the day in the sitting of the parliament. Colbert
approached one of the lamps, read the letters of the deceased cardinal
over again, smiled repeatedly as he recognized the great value of
the papers which Madame de Chevreuse had just delivered to him, and
burying his head in his hands for a few minutes reflected
profoundly. In the mean time a tall, large-made man entered the
room; his spare, thin face, steady look, and hooked nose, as he
entered Colbert's cabinet with a modest assurance of manner,
revealed a character at once supple and decided,- supple towards the
master who could throw him the prey; firm towards the dogs who might
possibly be disposed to dispute it with him. M. Vanel carried a
voluminous bundle of papers under his arm, and placed it on the desk
on which Colbert was leaning both his elbows, as he supported his
head.
  "Good-day, M. Vanel," said the latter, rousing himself from his
meditation.
  "Good-day, Monseigneur," said Vanel, naturally.
  "You should say 'Monsieur,' and not 'Monseigneur,'" replied Colbert,
gently.
  "We give the title of 'Monseigneur' to ministers," returned Vanel,
with extreme self-possession, "and you are a minister."
  "Not yet."
  "You are so in point of fact, and I call you 'Monseigneur'
accordingly; besides, you are my seigneur, and that is sufficient.
If you dislike my calling you 'Monseigneur' before others, allow me,
at least, to call you so in private."
  Colbert raised his head to the height of the lamps, and read, or
tried to read, upon Vanel's face how much actual sincerity entered
into this protestation of devotion. But the counsellor knew
perfectly well how to sustain the weight of his look, even were it
armed with the full authority of the title he had conferred. Colbert
sighed. He had read nothing in Vanel's face; Vanel might be sincere.
Colbert recollected that this man, inferior to himself, was superior
to him in having an unfaithful wife. At the moment he was pitying this
man's lot, Vanel coolly drew from his pocket a perfumed letter, sealed
with Spanish wax, and held it towards Colbert, saying, "A letter
from my wife, Monseigneur."
  Colbert coughed, took, opened, and read the letter, and then put
it carefully away in his pocket; while Vanel, unconcerned, turned over
the leaves of the papers he had brought with him.
  "Vanel," Colbert said suddenly to his protege, "you are a
hard-working man?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "Would twelve hours of labor frighten you?"
  "I work fifteen hours every day."
  "Impossible! A counsellor need not work more than three hours a
day in the parliament."
  "Oh! I am working up some returns for a friend of mine in the
department of accounts; and as I still have time left on my hands, I
am studying Hebrew."
  "Your reputation stands high in the parliament, Vanel."
  "I believe so, Monseigneur."
  "You must not grow rusty in your post of counsellor."
  "What must I do to avoid it?"
  "Purchase a high place. Small ambitions are the most difficult to
satisfy."
  "Small purses are the most difficult to fill, Monseigneur."
  "What post have you in view?" said Colbert.
  "I see none,- not one."
  "There is one, certainly; but one need be the King himself to be
able to buy it without inconvenience; and the King will not be
inclined, I suppose, to purchase the post of procureur-general."
  At these words Vanel fixed his dull and humble look upon Colbert,
who could hardly tell whether Vanel had comprehended him or not.
"Why do you speak to me, Monseigneur," said Vanel, "of the post of
procureur-general to the parliament? I know no other post than the one
M. Fouquet fills."
  "Exactly so, my dear counsellor."
  "You are not over-fastidious, Monseigneur, but before the post can
be bought, it must be offered for sale."
  "I believe, M. Vanel, that it will be for sale before long."
  "For sale? What! M. Fouquet's post of procureur-general?"
  "So it is said."
  "The post which renders him inviolable, for sale! Oh, oh!" said
Vanel, beginning to laugh.
  "Would you be afraid, then, of the post?" said Colbert, gravely.
  "Afraid! no; but-"
  "Nor desirous of obtaining it?"
  "You are laughing at me, Monseigneur," replied Vanel; "is it
likely that a counsellor of the parliament would not be desirous of
becoming procureur-general?"
  "Well, M. Vanel, since I tell you that the post will be shortly
for sale-"
  "I cannot help repeating, Monseigneur, that it is impossible; a
man never throws away the buckler behind which he maintains his honor,
his fortune, and his life."
  "There are certain men mad enough, Vanel, to fancy themselves out of
the reach of all mischances."
  "Yes, Monseigneur; but such men never commit their mad acts for
the advantage of the poor Vanels of the world."
  "Why not?"
  "For the very reason that those Vanels are poor."
  "It is true that M. Fouquet's post might cost a good round sum. What
would you bid for it, M. Vanel?"
  "Everything I am worth."
  "Which means-"
  "Three or four hundred thousand livres."
  "And the post is worth-"
  "A million and a half, at the very lowest. I know persons who have
offered seventeen hundred thousand livres, without being able to
persuade M. Fouquet to sell. Besides, supposing it were to happen that
M. Fouquet wished to sell,- which I do not believe, in spite of what I
have been told-"
  "Ah, you have heard something about it, then! Who told you?"
  "M. Gourville, M. Pellisson, and others."
  "Very good; if, therefore, M. Fouquet did wish to sell-"
  "I could not buy it just yet, since the superintendent will only
sell for ready money, and no one has a million and a half to throw
down at once."
  Colbert suddenly interrupted the counsellor by an imperious gesture;
he had begun to meditate. Observing his superior's serious attitude,
and his perseverance in continuing the conversation on this subject,
Vanel awaited the solution without venturing to precipitate it.
  "Explain fully to me," said Colbert, at length, "the privileges of
the office of procureur-general."
  "The right of impeaching every French subject who is not a Prince of
the blood; the right of quashing all proceedings taken against any
Frenchman who is neither King nor Prince. The procureur-general is the
arm of the King to strike the evil-doer,- his arm also to extinguish
the torch of justice. M. Fouquet, therefore, will be able, by stirring
up the parliament, to maintain himself even against the King; and
the King also, by humoring M. Fouquet, can get his edicts registered
without opposition. The procureur-general can be a very useful or a
very dangerous instrument."
  "Vanel, would you like to be procureur-general?" said Colbert,
suddenly, softening both his look and his voice.
  "I!" exclaimed the latter; "I have already had the honor to
represent to you that I want about eleven hundred thousand livres to
make up the amount."
  "Borrow that sum from your friends."
  "I have no friends richer than myself."
  "You are an honorable man, Vanel."
  "Ah, Monseigneur, if the world were to think as you do!"
  "I think so, and that is quite enough; and if it should be needed, I
will be your security."
  "Remember the proverb, Monseigneur."
  "What is that?"
  "'The endorser pays.'"
  "Let that make no difference."
  Vanel rose, quite bewildered by this offer, which had been so
suddenly and unexpectedly made to him by a man who treated the
smallest affairs in a serious spirit. "You are not trifling with me,
Monseigneur?" he said.
  "Stay! we must act quickly. You say that M. Gourville has spoken
to you about M. Fouquet's post?"
  "Yes, and M. Pellisson also."
  "Officially or officiously?"
  "These were their words: 'These parliamentary people are ambitious
and wealthy; they ought to get together two or three millions among
themselves, to present to their protector and great luminary, M.
Fouquet.'"
  "And what did you reply?"
  "I said that, for my own part, I would give ten thousand livres if
necessary."
  "Ah, you like M. Fouquet, then!" exclaimed Colbert, with a look full
of hatred.
  "No; but M. Fouquet is our chief. He is in debt,- is on the
high-road to ruin; and we ought to save the honor of the body of which
we are members."
  "This explains to me why M. Fouquet will be always safe and sound so
long as he occupies his present post," replied Colbert.
  "Thereupon," said Vanel, "M. Gourville added: 'If we were to do
anything out of charity to M. Fouquet, it could not be otherwise
than most humiliating to him; and he would be sure to refuse it. Let
the parliament subscribe among themselves to purchase in a proper
manner the post of procureur-general. In that case all would go on
well; the honor of our body would be saved, and M. Fouquet's pride
spared.'"
  "That is an opening."
  "I considered it so, Monseigneur."
  "Well, M. Vanel, you will go at once, and find out either M.
Gourville or M. Pellisson. Do you know any other friend of M.
Fouquet?"
  "I know M. de la Fontaine very well."
  "La Fontaine, the rhymester?"
  "Yes; he used to write verses to my wife, when M. Fouquet was one of
our friends."
  "Go to him, then, and try to procure an interview with the
superintendent."
  "Willingly- but the sum?"
  "On the day and hour when you arrange to settle the matter, M.
Vanel, you shall be supplied with the money; so do not make yourself
uneasy on that account."
  "Monseigneur, such munificence! You eclipse kings even,- you surpass
M. Fouquet himself."
  "Stay a moment! Do not let us mistake each other. I do not make
you a present of fourteen hundred thousand livres, M. Vanel, for I
have children to provide for; but I will lend you that sum."
  "Ask whatever interest, whatever security you please, Monseigneur; I
am quite ready. And when all your requisitions are satisfied, I will
still repeat that you surpass kings and M. Fouquet in munificence.
What conditions do you impose?"
  "The repayment in eight years, and a mortgage upon the appointment
itself."
  "Certainly. Is that all?"
  "Wait a moment! I reserve to myself the right of purchasing the post
from you at one hundred and fifty thousand livres' profit for
yourself, if in your mode of filling the office you do not follow
out a line of conduct in conformity with the interests of the King and
with my projects."
  "Ah! ah!" said Vanel, in a slightly altered tone.
  "Is there anything in that which can possibly be objectionable to
you, M. Vanel?" said Colbert, coldly.
  "Oh, no, no!" replied Vanel, quickly.
  "Very good. We will sign an agreement to that effect whenever you
like. And now go as quickly as you can to M. Fouquet's friends, and
obtain an interview with the superintendent. Do not be too difficult
in making whatever concessions may be required of you; and when once
the arrangements are all made-"
  "I will press him to sign."
  "Be most careful to do nothing of the kind; do not speak of
signatures with M. Fouquet, nor of deeds, nor even ask him to pass his
word. Understand this, otherwise you will lose everything. All you
have to do is to get M. Fouquet to give you his hand on the matter.
Go, go!"
        Chapter IV: An Interview with the Queen-Mother

  THE Queen-Mother was in her bedroom at the Palais-Royal, with Madame
de Motteville and the Senora Molina. The King, who had been
impatiently expected the whole day, had not made his appearance; and
the Queen, who had grown quite impatient, had often sent to inquire
about him. The whole atmosphere of the court seemed to indicate an
approaching storm; the courtiers and the ladies of the court avoided
meeting in the antechambers and the corridors, in order not to
converse on compromising subjects.
  Monsieur had joined the King early in the morning for a
hunting-party; Madame remained in her own apartments, cool and distant
to every one; and the Queen-Mother, after she had said her prayers
in Latin, talked of domestic matters with her two friends in pure
Castilian. Madame de Motteville, who understood the language
perfectly, answered her in French. When the three ladies had exhausted
every form of dissimulation and politeness to reach at last the charge
that the King's conduct was causing grief to the Queen and the
Queen-Mother and all his family, and when in guarded phrases they
had fulminated every variety of imprecation against Mademoiselle de la
Valliere, the Queen-Mother terminated these recriminations by an
exclamation indicative of her own reflections and character. "Estos
hijos!" said she to Molina (which means, "These children!"- words full
of meaning on a mother's lips,- words full of terrible significance in
the mouth of a Queen who, like Anne of Austria, hid many curious and
dark secrets in her soul).
  "Yes," said Molina, "these children! for whom every mother becomes a
sacrifice."
  "To whom," replied the Queen, "a mother has sacrificed everything."
  Anne did not finish her phrase; for she fancied, when she raised her
eyes towards the full-length portrait of the pale Louis XIII, that
light had once more flashed from her husband's dull eyes, and that his
nostrils were inflated by wrath. The portrait became a living being;
it did not speak, it threatened.
  A profound silence succeeded the Queen's last remark. La Molina
began to turn over the ribbons and lace of a large work-table.
Madame de Motteville, surprised at the look of mutual intelligence
which had been exchanged between the confidante and her mistress, cast
down her eyes like a discreet woman, and pretending to be observant of
nothing that was passing listened with the utmost attention. She heard
nothing, however, but a very significant "Hum!" on the part of the
Spanish duenna, who was the image of circumspection, and a profound
sigh on the part of the Queen. She looked up immediately. "You are
suffering?" she said.
  "No, Motteville, no; why do you say that?"
  "Your Majesty just groaned."
  "You are right; I do suffer a little."
  "M. Vallot is not far off; I believe he is in Madame's apartment."
  "Why is he with Madame?"
  "Madame is troubled with nervous attacks."
  "A very fine disorder, indeed!" said the Queen. "M. Vallot is
wrong in being there, when another physician might cure Madame."
  Madame de Motteville looked up with an air of great surprise, as she
replied, "Another doctor instead of M. Vallot! Who, then?"
  "Occupation, Motteville, occupation! Ah! if any one is really ill,
it is my poor daughter."
  "And your Majesty too."
  "Less so this evening, though."
  "Do not believe that too confidently, Madame," said De Motteville.
  As if to justify the caution, a sharp pain seized the Queen, who
turned deadly pale, and threw herself back in the chair, with every
symptom of a sudden fainting-fit. "My drops!" she murmured.
  "Ah! ah!" replied Molina, who went without haste to a richly
gilded tortoise-shell cabinet, from which she took a large
rock-crystal smelling-bottle, and brought it, open, to the Queen,
who inhaled from it wildly several times, and murmured, "In that way
the Lord will kill me; His holy will be done!"
  "Your Majesty's death is not so near at hand," added Molina,
replacing the smelling-bottle in the cabinet.
  "Does your Majesty feel better now?" inquired Madame de Motteville.
  "Much better," returned the Queen, placing her finger on her lips,
to impose silence on her favorite.
  "It is very strange," remarked Madame de Motteville, after a pause.
  "What is strange?" said the Queen.
  "Does your Majesty remember the day when this pain attacked you
for the first time?"
  "I remember only that it was a grievously sad day for me,
Motteville."
  "But your Majesty had not always regarded that day as a sad one."
  "Why?"
  "Because twenty-three years before, on that very day, his present
Majesty, your own glorious son, was born at the very same hour."
  The Queen uttered a loud cry, buried her face in her hands, and
seemed utterly lost for some moments. Was it remembrance or
reflection, or was it grief? La Molina darted a look at Madame de
Motteville almost furious in its reproachfulness. The poor woman,
ignorant of its meaning, was about to make inquiries in her own
defence, when suddenly Anne of Austria arose and said: "Yes, the 5th
of September; my sorrow began on the 5th of September. The greatest
joy, one day; the deepest sorrow, the next,- the sorrow," she added in
a low voice, "the bitter expiation of a too excessive joy."
  And from that moment Anne of Austria, whose memory and reason seemed
to have become entirely suspended for a time, remained impenetrable,
with vacant look, mind almost wandering, and hands hanging heavily
down, as if life had almost departed.
  "We must put her to bed," said La Molina.
  "Presently, Molina."
  "Let us leave the Queen alone," added the Spanish attendant.
  Madame de Motteville rose. Large and glistening tears were fast
rolling down the Queen's pallid face; and Molina, having observed this
sign of weakness, fixed her vigilant black eyes upon her.
  "Yes, yes," replied the Queen. "Leave us, Motteville; go!"
  The word "us" produced a disagreeable effect upon the ears of the
French favorite; for it signified that an interchange of secrets or of
revelations of the past was about to be made, and that one person
was de trop in the conversation which seemed likely to take place.
  "Will Molina be sufficient for your Majesty to-night?" inquired
the Frenchwoman.
  "Yes," replied the Queen.
  Madame de Motteville bowed in submission, and was about to withdraw,
when suddenly an old female attendant, dressed as if she had
belonged to the Spanish Court of the year 1620, opened the door and
surprised the Queen in her tears, Madame de Motteville in her
skilful retreat, and Molina in her strategy. "The remedy!" she cried
delightedly to the Queen, as she unceremoniously approached the group.
  "What remedy, Chica?" said Anne of Austria.
  "For your Majesty's sufferings," the former replied.
  "Who brings it?" asked Madame de Motteville, eagerly- "M. Vallot?"
  "No; a lady from Flanders."
  "From Flanders? Is she Spanish?" inquired the Queen.
  "I don't know."
  "Who sent her?"
  "M. Colbert."
  "Her name?"
  "She did not mention it."
  "Her position in life?"
  "She will answer that herself."
  "Her face?"
  "She is masked."
  "Go, Molina; go and see!" cried the Queen.
  "It is needless," suddenly replied a voice, at once firm and
gentle in its tone, which proceeded from the other side of the
tapestry hangings,- a voice which startled the attendants and made the
Queen tremble. At the same moment a woman, masked, appeared between
the curtains, and before the Queen could speak, added, "I am connected
with the order of the Beguines of Bruges, and do indeed bring with
me the remedy which is certain to effect a cure of your Majesty's
complaint."
  No one uttered a sound, and the Beguine did not move a step.
  "Speak!" said the Queen.
  "I will when we are alone," was the answer.
  Anne of Austria looked at her attendants, who immediately
withdrew. The Beguine thereupon advanced a few steps towards the
Queen, and bowed reverently before her. The Queen gazed with
increasing mistrust at this woman, who in her turn fixed a pair of
brilliant eyes upon the Queen through openings in the mask.
  "The Queen of France must indeed be very ill," said Anne of Austria,
"if it is known at the Beguinage of Bruges that she stands in need
of being cured."
  "Your Majesty, thank God, is not ill beyond remedy."
  "But tell me, how do you happen to know that I am suffering?"
  "Your Majesty has friends in Flanders."
  "And these friends have sent you?"
  "Yes, Madame."
  "Name them to me."
  "Impossible, Madame, since your Majesty's memory has not been
awakened by your heart."
  Anne of Austria looked up, endeavoring to discover through the
concealment of the mask and through her mysterious language the name
of this person who expressed herself with such familiarity and
freedom; then suddenly, wearied by a curiosity at odds with her pride,
she said, "You are ignorant, perhaps, that royal personages are
never spoken to with the face masked."
  "Deign to excuse me, Madame," replied the Beguine, humbly.
  "I cannot excuse you; I will not forgive you if you do not throw
your mask aside."
  "I have made a vow, Madame, to go to the help of those who are
afflicted or suffering, without ever permitting them to behold my
face. I might have been able to administer some relief to your body
and to your mind; but since your Majesty forbids me, I will take my
leave. Adieu, Madame, adieu!"
  These words were uttered with a harmony of tone and respect of
manner that destroyed the Queen's anger and suspicion, but did not
remove her feeling of curiosity. "You are right," she said; "it ill
becomes those who are suffering to reject the means of relief which
Heaven sends them. Speak, then; and may you indeed be able, as you
assert you are, to administer relief to my body. Alas! I think that
God is about to make it suffer."
  "Let us first speak a little of the mind, if you please," said the
Beguine,- "of the mind, which I am sure must also suffer."
  "My mind?"
  "There are cancers so insidious in their nature that their very
pulsation is invisible. Such cancers, Madame, leave the ivory
whiteness of the skin untouched, and marble not the firm, fair flesh
with their blue tints; the physician who bends over the patient's
chest hears not, though he listens, the insatiable teeth of the
disease grinding its onward progress through the muscles, as the blood
flows freely on; neither iron nor fire has ever destroyed or
disarmed the rage of these mortal scourges; their home is in the mind,
which they corrupt; they grow in the heart until it breaks. Such,
Madame, are these other cancers, fatal to queens: are you free from
these evils?"
  Anne slowly raised her arm, as dazzling in its perfect whiteness and
as pure in its rounded outlines as it was in the time of her earlier
days. "The evils to which you allude," she said, "are the condition of
the lives of the high in rank upon earth, to whom Heaven has
imparted mind. When those evils become too heavy to be borne, the Lord
lightens their burden by penitence and confession. Thus we lay down
our burden, and the secrets which oppress us. But forget not that
the same sovereign Lord apportions their trials to the strength of his
creatures; and my strength is not inferior to my burden. For the
secrets of others I have enough of the mercy of Heaven; for my own
secrets not so much mercy as my confessor."
  "I find you, Madame, as courageous as ever against your enemies; I
do not find you showing confidence in your friends."
  "Queens have no friends. If you have nothing further to say to me,
if you feel yourself inspired by Heaven as a prophetess, leave me, I
pray; for I dread the future."
  "I should have supposed," said the Beguine, resolutely, "that you
would dread the past even more."
  Hardly had these words escaped the Beguine's lips, when the Queen
rose proudly. "Speak!" she cried, in a short, imperious tone of voice;
"explain yourself briefly, quickly, entirely; or else-"
  "Nay, do not threaten me, your Majesty!" said the Beguine, gently.
"I have come to you full of compassion and respect; I have come on the
part of a friend."
  "Prove it, then! Comfort, instead of irritating me."
  "Easily enough; and your Majesty will see who is friendly to you.
What misfortune has happened to your Majesty during these twenty-three
years past?"
  "Serious misfortunes, indeed! Have I not lost the King?"
  "I speak not of misfortunes of that kind. I wish to ask you if,
since- the birth of the King,- any indiscretion on a friend's part has
caused your Majesty distress?"
  "I do not understand you," replied the Queen, setting her teeth hard
together in order to conceal her emotion.
  "I will make myself understood, then. Your Majesty remembers that
the King was born on the 5th of September, 1638, at quarter-past
eleven o'clock."
  "Yes," stammered the Queen.
  "At half-past twelve," continued the Beguine, "the Dauphin, who
had been baptized by Monseigneur de Meaux in the King's and in your
own presence, was acknowledged as the heir of the crown of France. The
King then went to the chapel of the old Chateau de St. Germain to hear
the Te Deum chanted."
  "Quite true, quite true," murmured the Queen.
  "Your Majesty's confinement took place in the presence of
Monsieur, his Majesty's late uncle, of the princes, and of the
ladies attached to the court. The King's physician, Bouvard, and
Honore, the surgeon, were stationed in the antechamber; your Majesty
slept from three o'clock until seven, I believe?"
  "Yes, yes; but you tell me no more than every one else knows as well
as you and myself."
  "I am now, Madame, approaching that with which very few persons
are acquainted. Very few persons, did I say? Alas! I might say two
only; for formerly there were but five in all, and for many years past
the secret has been assured by the deaths of the principal
participators in it. The late King sleeps now with his ancestors;
Peronne, the midwife, soon followed him; Laporte is already
forgotten."
  The Queen opened her lips as though about to reply; she felt beneath
her icy hand, with which she touched her face, the beads of
perspiration upon her brow.
  "It was eight o'clock," pursued the Beguine. "The King was seated at
supper, full of joy and happiness; around him on all sides arose
wild cries of delight and drinking of healths; the people cheered
beneath the balconies; the Swiss Guards, the Musketeers, and the Royal
Guard wandered through the city, borne about in triumph by the drunken
students. Those boisterous sounds of the general joy disturbed the
Dauphin, the future King of France, who was quietly lying in the
arms of Madame de Hausac, his nurse, and whose eyes, when he should
open them, might have observed two crowns at the foot of his cradle.
Suddenly your Majesty uttered a piercing cry, and Dame Peronne flew to
your bedside.
  "The doctors were dining in a room at some distance from your
chamber; the palace, abandoned in the general confusion, was without
either sentinels or guards. The midwife, having questioned and
examined your Majesty, gave a sudden exclamation of surprise, and
taking you in her arms, bewildered, almost out of her senses from
sheer distress of mind, despatched Laporte to inform the King that her
Majesty the Queen wished to see him in her room.
  "Laporte, you are aware, Madame, was a man of the most admirable
calmness and presence of mind. He did not approach the King as if he
were the bearer of alarming intelligence and, feeling his
importance, wished to inspire the terror which he himself experienced;
besides, it was not a very terrifying intelligence which awaited the
King. At any rate, Laporte, with a smile upon his lips, approached the
King's chair, saying to him, 'Sire, the Queen is very happy, and would
be still more so to see your Majesty.'
  "On that day Louis XIII would have given his crown away to the
veriest beggar for a 'God bless you.' Animated, light-hearted, and
full of gayety, the King rose from the table, and said to those around
him, in a tone that Henry IV might have used, 'Gentlemen, I am going
to see my wife.' He came to your bedside, Madame, at the very moment
when Dame Peronne presented to him a second Prince, as beautiful and
healthy as the former, and said, 'Sire, Heaven will not allow the
kingdom of France to fall into the female line.' The King, yielding to
a first impulse, clasped the child in his arms, and cried, 'Oh,
Heaven, I thank thee!'"
  At this part of her recital the Beguine paused, observing how
intensely the Queen was suffering. She had thrown herself back in
her chair, and with her head bent forward and her eyes fixed, listened
without seeming to hear, and her lips moved convulsively, breathing
either a prayer to Heaven or imprecations against the woman before
her.
  "Ah! do not believe that if there has been but one Dauphin in
France," exclaimed the Beguine, "if the Queen allowed the second child
to vegetate far from the throne,- do not believe that she was an
unfeeling mother. Oh, no, no! There are those who know the floods of
bitter tears she shed; there are those who have known and witnessed
the passionate kisses she imprinted on that innocent creature in
exchange for the life of misery and gloom to which State policy
condemned the twin brother of Louis XIV."
  "Oh, Heaven!" murmured the Queen, feebly.
  "It is known," continued the Beguine, quickly, "that when the King
perceived the effect which would result from the existence of two
sons, both equal in age and pretensions, he trembled for the welfare
of France, for the tranquillity of the State. It is known that the
Cardinal de Richelieu, by the direction of Louis XIII, thought over
the subject with deep attention, and after an hour's meditation in his
Majesty's cabinet pronounced the following sentence: 'A King is
born, to succeed his Majesty. God has sent another, to succeed the
first; but at present we need only the first-born. Let us conceal
the second from France, as God has concealed him from his parents
themselves. One Prince is peace and safety for the State; two
competitors are civil war and anarchy.'"
  The Queen rose suddenly from her seat, pale as death, her hands
clinched together. "You know too much," she said in a hoarse, thick
voice, "since you refer to secrets of State. As for the friends from
whom you have acquired this secret, they are false and treacherous.
You are their accomplice in the crime which is now committed. Now,
throw aside your mask, or I will have you arrested by my captain of
the Guards. Do not think that this secret terrifies me! You have
obtained it; you shall restore it to me. It will freeze in your bosom;
neither your secret nor your life belongs to you from this moment."
  Anne of Austria, joining gesture to the threat, advanced two steps
towards the Beguine. "Learn," said the latter, "to know and value
the fidelity, the honor, and the secrecy of the friends you have
abandoned." She then suddenly threw aside her mask.
  "Madame de Chevreuse!" exclaimed the Queen.
  "With your Majesty, the sole living confidante of the secret."
  "Ah," murmured Anne of Austria, "come and embrace me, Duchess! Alas!
you kill your friend in thus trifling with her terrible distress."
  The Queen, leaning her head upon the shoulder of the old duchess,
burst into a flood of bitter tears. "How young you are still!" said
the latter, in a hollow voice; "you can weep!"
                  Chapter V: Two Friends

  THE Queen looked steadily at Madame de Chevreuse, and said: "I
believe you just now made use of the word 'happy' in speaking of me.
Hitherto, Duchess, I had thought it impossible that a human creature
could anywhere be found less happy than the Queen of France."
  "Your afflictions, Madame, have indeed been terrible enough; but
by the side of those illustrious misfortunes to which we, two old
friends separated by men's malice, were just now alluding, you possess
sources of pleasure, slight enough in themselves it may be, but
which are greatly envied by the world."
  "What are they?" said Anne of Austria, bitterly. "How can you use
the word 'pleasure,' Duchess,- you who just now admitted that my
body and my mind both are in need of remedies?
  Madame de Chevreuse collected herself for a moment, and then
murmured, "How far removed Kings are from other people!"
  "What do you mean?"
  "I mean that they are so far removed from the vulgar herd that
they forget that others ever stand in need of the bare necessaries
of life. They are like the inhabitant of the African mountain who
gazing from the verdant table-land, refreshed by the rills of melted
snow, cannot comprehend that the dwellers in the plains below him
are perishing from hunger and thirst in the midst of their lands
burned up by the heat of the sun."
  The Queen slightly colored, for she now began to perceive the
drift of her friend's remark. "It was very wrong," she said, "to
have neglected you."
  "Oh, Madame, the King has inherited, it is said, the hatred his
father bore me. The King would dismiss me if he knew I were in the
Palais-Royal."
  "I cannot say that the King is very well disposed towards you,
Duchess," replied the Queen; "but I could- secretly, you know-" The
duchess's disdainful smile produced a feeling of uneasiness in the
Queen's mind. "Duchess," she hastened to add, "you did perfectly right
to come here."
  "Thanks, Madame."
  "Even were it only to give us the happiness of contradicting the
report of your death."
  "Has it been said, then, that I was dead?"
  "Everywhere."
  "And yet my children did not go into mourning."
  "Ah! you know, Duchess, the court is very frequently moving about
from place to place; we see the gentlemen of Albert de Luynes but
seldom, and many things escape our minds in the midst of the
preoccupations which constantly engage us."
  "Your Majesty ought not to have believed the report of my death."
  "Why not? Alas! we are all mortal; and you may perceive how
rapidly I- your younger sister, as we used formerly to say- am
approaching the tomb."
  "If your Majesty had believed me dead, you ought to have been
astonished not to have received any communication from me."
  "Death not unfrequently takes us by surprise, Duchess."
  "Oh, your Majesty, those who are burdened with secrets such as we
have just now discussed have always an urgent desire to divulge
them, which they must gratify before they die. Among the
preparations for eternity is the task of putting one's papers in
order." The Queen started. "Your Majesty will be sure to learn in a
particular manner the day of my death."
  "Why so?"
  "Because your Majesty will receive the next day, under several
coverings, everything connected with our mysterious correspondence
of former times."
  "Did you not burn it?" cried Anne, in alarm.
  "Traitors only," replied the duchess, "destroy a royal
correspondence."
  "Traitors, do you say?"
  "Yes, certainly; or rather they pretend to destroy, and keep or sell
it. The faithful, on the contrary, most carefully secrete such
treasures; for it may happen that some day or other they will wish
to seek out their Queen in order to say to her: 'Madame, I am
getting old; my health is fast failing me. For me there is danger of
death; for your Majesty, the danger that this secret may be
revealed. Take, therefore, this dangerous paper, and burn it
yourself.'"
  "A dangerous paper? What one?"
  "So far as I am concerned, I have but one, it is true; but that is
indeed most dangerous in its nature."
  "Oh, Duchess, tell me, tell me!"
  "A letter dated Tuesday, the 2d of August, 1644, in which you beg me
to go to Noisy-le-Sec to see that unhappy child. In your own
handwriting, Madame, there are those words, 'that unhappy child!'"
  A profound silence ensued. The Queen's mind was wandering in the
past; Madame de Chevreuse was watching the progress of her scheme.
"Yes unhappy, most unhappy!" murmured Anne of Austria; "how sad the
existence he led, poor child, to finish it in so cruel a manner!"
  "Is he dead?" cried the duchess, suddenly, with a curiosity whose
sincere accents the Queen instinctively detected.
  "He died of consumption, died forgotten, died withered and
blighted like the flowers a lover has given to his mistress, which she
leaves to die secreted in a drawer where she has hidden them from
the world."
  "Died?" repeated the duchess, with an air of discouragement which
would have afforded the Queen the most unfeigned delight had it not
been tempered in some measure by a mixture of doubt. "Died- at
Noisy-le-Sec?"
  "Yes, in the arms of his tutor,- a poor, honest man who did not long
survive him."
  "That can be easily understood. It is so difficult to bear up
under the weight of such a loss and such a secret," said Madame de
Chevreuse, the irony of which reflection the Queen pretended not to
perceive. Madame de Chevreuse continued: "Well, Madame, I inquired
some years ago at Noisy-le-Sec about this unhappy child. I was told
that it was not believed he was dead; and that was my reason for not
at once condoling with your Majesty. Oh, certainly, if I had
believed it, never should the slightest allusion to so deplorable an
event have reawakened your Majesty's legitimate distress."
  "You say that it is not believed that the child died at Noisy?"
  "No, Madame."
  "What did they say about him, then?"
  "They said- But no doubt they were mistaken."
  "Nay, speak, speak!"
  "They said that one evening about the year 1645 a lady, beautiful
and majestic in her bearing, which was observed notwithstanding the
mask and the mantle which concealed her figure,- a lady of rank, of
very high rank no doubt,- came in a carriage to the place where the
road branches off,- the very same spot, you know, where I awaited news
of the young Prince when your Majesty was pleased to send me there."
  "Well, well?"
  "That the boy's tutor, or guardian, took the child to this lady."
  "Well, what next?"
  "That both the child and his tutor left that part of the country the
very next day."
  "There! you see there is some truth in what you relate, since in
point of fact the poor child died from a sudden attack of illness,
which up to the age of seven years makes the lives of all children, as
doctors say, suspended as it were by a thread."
  "What your Majesty says is quite true. No one knows it better than
you; no one believes it more than myself. But yet how strange it is-"
  "What can it now be?" thought the Queen.
  "The person who gave me these details, who had been sent to
inquire after the child's health-"
  "Did you confide such a charge to any one else? Oh, Duchess!"
  "Some one as dumb as your Majesty, as dumb as myself; we will
suppose it was myself, Madame. This 'some one,' some months after,
passing through Touraine-"
  "Touraine!"
  "Recognized both the tutor and the child too! I am wrong; he thought
he recognized them, both living, cheerful, happy, and flourishing,-
the one in a green old age, the other in the flower of his youth.
Judge, after that, what truth can be attributed to the rumors which
are circulated, or what faith, after that, can be placed in anything
that may happen in the world. But I am fatiguing your Majesty; it
was not my intention, however, to do so; and I will take my leave of
you, after renewing to you the assurance of my most respectful
devotion."
  "Stay, Duchess! Let us first talk a little about yourself."
  "Of myself, Madame? I am not worthy that you should bend your
looks upon me."
  "Why not, indeed? Are you not the oldest friend I have? Are you
angry with me, Duchess?"
  "I, indeed! What motive could I have? If I had reason to be angry
with your Majesty, should I have come here?"
  "Duchess, age is fast creeping on us both; we should be united
against that death whose approach threatens us."
  "You overpower me, Madame, with the kindness of your language."
  "No one has ever loved or served me as you have done, Duchess."
  "Your Majesty remembers it?"
  "Always. Duchess, give me a proof of your friendship."
  "Ah, Madame, my whole being is devoted to your Majesty."
  "The proof I require is that you should ask something of me."
  "Ask?"
  "Oh, I know you well,- no one is more disinterested, more noble,
more truly royal."
  "Do not praise me too highly, Madame," said the duchess, becoming
uneasy.
  "I could never praise you as much as you deserve to be praised."
  "And yet, age and misfortune effect a great change in people,
Madame."
  "So much the better; for the beautiful, the haughty, the adored
duchess of former days might have answered me ungratefully, 'I do
not wish for anything from you.' Blessed be misfortunes, if they
have come to you, since they will have changed you, and you will now
perhaps answer me, 'I accept.'"
  The duchess's look and smile became more gentle; she was under the
charm, and no longer concealed her wishes.
  "Speak, dearest!" said the Queen; "what do you want?"
  "I must first explain to you-"
  "Do so unhesitatingly."
  "Well, then, your Majesty can confer on me a pleasure unspeakable, a
pleasure incomparable."
  "What is it?" said the Queen, a little distant in her manner, from
an uneasiness of feeling produced by this remark. "But do not
forget, my good Chevreuse, that I am quite as much under my son's
influence as I was formerly under my husband's."
  "I will not be too hard, Madame."
  "Call me as you used to do; it will be a sweet echo of our happy
youth."
  "Well, then, my dear mistress, my darling Anne-"
  "Do you know Spanish still?"
  "Yes."
  "Ask me in Spanish, then."
  "Here it is: Will your Majesty do me the honor to pass a few days
with me at Dampierre?"
  "Is that all?" said the Queen, stupefied.
  "Yes."
  "Nothing more than that?"
  "Good Heavens! Can you possibly imagine that in asking you that, I
am not asking you the greatest conceivable favor? If that really be
the case, you do not know me. Will you accept?"
  "Yes, gladly. And I shall be happy," continued the Queen, with
some suspicion, "if my presence can in any way be useful to you."
  "Useful," exclaimed the duchess, laughing,- "oh, no, no!
agreeable, delicious, delightful,- yes, a thousand times yes! You
promise me, then?"
  "I swear it," said the Queen, whereupon the Duchess seized her
beautiful hand and covered it with kisses. The Queen could not help
murmuring to herself, "She is a good-hearted woman, and very
generous too."
  "Will your Majesty consent to wait a fortnight before you come?"
  "Certainly; but why?"
  "Because," said the duchess, "knowing me to be in disgrace, no one
would lend me the hundred thousand crowns which I require to put
Dampierre in a state of repair. But when it is known that I require
that sum for the purpose of receiving your Majesty at Dampierre
properly, all the money in Paris will be at my disposal."
  "Ah!" said the Queen, gently nodding her head with an air of
intelligence, "a hundred thousand crowns! you want a hundred
thousand crowns to put Dampierre into repair?"
  "Quite as much as that."
  "And no one will lend them to you?"
  "No one."
  "I will lend them to you, if you like, Duchess."
  "Oh, I shouldn't dare to accept!"
  "You would be wrong if you did not. Besides, a hundred thousand
crowns is really not much. I know but too well that your
discreetness has never been properly acknowledged. Push that table a
little towards me, Duchess, and I will write you an order on M.
Colbert,- no, on M. Fouquet, who is a far more courteous and
obliging man."
  "Will he pay it?"
  "If he will not pay it, I will; but it will be the first time he
will have refused me."
  The Queen wrote and handed the duchess the order, and afterwards
dismissed her with a warm and cheerful embrace.
           Chapter VI: How Jean de la Fontaine
                   Wrote His First Tale

  ALL these intrigues are exhausted; the human mind, so complicated in
its exhibitions, has developed itself freely in the three outlines
which our recital has afforded. It is not unlikely that in the
future we are now preparing, politics and intrigues may still
appear; but the springs by which they work will be so carefully
concealed that no one will be able to see aught but flowers and
paintings,- just as at a theatre, where a Colossus appears upon the
scene walking along moved by the small legs and slender arms of a
child concealed within the framework.
  We now return to St. Mande, where the superintendent was in the
habit of receiving his select society of epicureans. For some time
past the host had been severely tried. Every one in the house was
aware of and felt the minister's distress. No more magnificent and
recklessly improvident reunions! Finance had been the pretext assigned
by Fouquet; and never was any pretext, as Gourville wittily said, more
fallacious, for there was not the slightest appearance of money.
  M. Vatel was most resolutely painstaking in keeping up the
reputation of the house, and yet the gardeners who supplied the
kitchens complained of a ruinous delay. The agents for the supply of
Spanish wines frequently sent drafts which no one honored;
fishermen, whom the superintendent engaged on the coast of Normandy,
calculated that if they were paid all that was due to them, the amount
would enable them to retire comfortably for the rest of their lives;
fish, which at a later period was to be the cause of Vatel's death,
did not arrive at all. However, on the ordinary day of reception,
Fouquet's friends flocked in more numerously than ever. Gourville
and the Abbe Fouquet talked over money matters,- that is to say, the
abbe borrowed a few pistoles from Gourville. Pellisson, seated with
his legs crossed, was engaged in finishing the peroration of a
speech with which Fouquet was to open the parliament; and this
speech was a masterpiece, because Pellisson wrote it for his
friend,- that is to say, he inserted everything in it which the latter
would most certainly never have taken the trouble to say of his own
accord. Presently Loret and La Fontaine would enter from the garden,
engaged in a dispute upon the facility of making verses. The
painters and musicians, in their turn, also were hovering near the
dining-room. As soon as eight o'clock struck, the supper would be
announced; for the superintendent never kept any one waiting. It was
already half-past seven, and the guests were in good appetite.
  As soon as all the guests were assembled, Gourville went straight up
to Pellisson, awoke him out of his reverie, and led him into the
middle of a room the doors of which he had closed.
  "Well," he said, "anything new?"
  Pellisson raised his intelligent and gentle face, and said, "I
have borrowed twenty-five thousand livres of my aunt, and I have
them here in good money."
  "Good!" replied Gourville; "we want only one hundred and ninety-five
thousand livres for the first payment."
  "The payment of what?" asked La Fontaine.
  "What! absent-minded as usual? Why, it was you who told us that
the small estate at Corbeil was going to be sold by one of M.
Fouquet's creditors; and you, also, who proposed that all his
friends should subscribe. More than that, too, it was you who said
that you would sell a corner of your house at Chateau-Thierry in order
to furnish your own proportion; and now you come and ask, 'The payment
of what?'" This remark was received with a general laugh, which made
La Fontaine blush. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I had not
forgotten it,- oh, no! only-"
  "Only you remembered nothing about it," replied Loret.
  "That is the truth; and the fact is, he is quite right. There is a
great difference between forgetting and not remembering."
  "Well, then," added Pellisson, "you bring your mite in the shape
of the price of the piece of land you have sold?"
  "Sold? no!"
  "And have you not sold the field, then?" inquired Gourville, in
astonishment, for he knew the poet's disinterestedness.
  "My wife would not let me," replied the latter, at which there
were fresh bursts of laughter.
  "And yet you went to Chateau-Thierry for that purpose," said some
one.
  "Certainly I did, and on horseback."
  "Poor fellow!"
  "I had eight different horses, and I was almost jolted to death."
  "You are an excellent fellow! And you rested yourself when you
arrived there!"
  "Rested! Oh! of course I did, for I had an immense deal of work to
do."
  "How so?"
  "My wife had been flirting with the man to whom I wished to sell the
land. The fellow drew back from his bargain, and so I challenged him."
  "Very good; and you fought?"
  "It seems not."
  "You know nothing about it, I suppose?"
  "No; my wife and her relations interfered in the matter. I was
kept a quarter of an hour with my sword in my hand; but I was not
wounded."
  "And the adversary?"
  "Neither was the adversary, for he never came on to the field."
  "Capital!" cried his friends, from all sides; "you must have been
terribly angry."
  "Exceedingly so; I had caught cold. I returned home, and then my
wife began to quarrel with me."
  "In real earnest?"
  "Yes, in real earnest; she threw a loaf of bread at my head, a large
loaf."
  "And what did you do?"
  "Oh! I upset the table over her and her guests; and then I got
upon my horse again, and here I am."
  Every one had great difficulty in keeping his countenance at the
relation of this tragic comedy; and when the laughter had somewhat
ceased, one of the guests present said to him, "Is that all you have
brought us back?"
  "Oh, no! I have an excellent idea in my head."
  "What is it?"
  "Have you noticed that there is a good deal of sportive, jesting
poetry written in France?"
  "Yes, of course," replied every one.
  "And," pursued La Fontaine, "only a very small portion of it is
printed."
  "The laws are strict, you know."
  "That may be; but a rare article is a dear article, and that is
the reason why I have written a small poem extremely licentious."
  "Oh, oh, dear poet!"
  "Extremely obscene."
  "Oh! oh!"
  "Extremely cynical."
  "Oh, the devil!"
  "Yes," continued the poet, with cold indifference; "I have
introduced in it the greatest freedom of language I could possibly
employ."
  Peals of laughter again broke forth, while the poet was thus
announcing the quality of his wares. "And," he continued, "I have
tried to exceed everything that Boccaccio, Aretino and other masters
of their craft have written in the same style."
  "Good God!" cried Pellisson, "it will be condemned!"
  "Do you think so?" said La Fontaine, simply. "I assure you, I did
not do it on my own account so much as on M. Fouquet's."
  This wonderful conclusion raised the mirth of all present to a
climax.
  "And I have sold the first edition of this little book for eight
hundred livres," exclaimed La Fontaine, rubbing his hands together.
"Serious and religious books sell at about half that rate."
  "It would have been better," said Gourville, laughing, "to have
written two religious books instead!"
  "It would have been too long, and not amusing enough," replied La
Fontaine, tranquilly. "My eight hundred livres are in this little bag;
I offer them as my contribution."
  As he said this, he placed his offering in the hands of their
treasurer. It was then Loret's turn, who gave a hundred and fifty
livres. The others stripped themselves in the same way; and the
total sum in the purse amounted to forty thousand livres. Never did
more generous coins rattle in the divine balances in which charity
weighs good hearts and good intentions against the counterfeit coin of
devout hypocrites.
  The money was still being counted over when the superintendent
noiselessly entered the room. He had heard everything. This man, who
had possessed so many millions, who had exhausted all pleasures and
all honors, this generous heart, this inexhaustible brain,- Fouquet,
who had, like two burning crucibles, devoured the material and moral
substance of the first kingdom in the world, crossed the threshold
with his eyes filled with tears, and passed his white and slender
fingers through the gold and silver. "Poor offering," he said, in a
tone tender and filled with emotion, "you will disappear in the
smallest corner of my empty purse; but you have filled to
overflowing that which nothing can ever exhaust,- my heart. Thank you,
my friends,- thank you!" And as he could not embrace everyone
present,- all were weeping a little, philosophers though they were,-
he embraced La Fontaine, saying to him, "Poor fellow! so you have on
my account been beaten by your wife and damned by your confessor?"
  "Oh, it is a mere nothing!" replied the poet. "If your creditors
will only wait a couple of years, I shall have written a hundred other
tales, which at two editions each will pay off the debt."
         Chapter VII: La Fontaine as a Negotiator

  FOUQUET pressed La Fontaine's hand most warmly, saying to him, "My
dear poet, write a hundred other tales, not only for the eighty
pistoles which each of them will produce you, but still more to enrich
our language with a hundred other masterpieces."
  "Oh! oh!" said La Fontaine, with a little air of pride, "you must
not suppose that I have brought only this idea and the eighty pistoles
to the superintendent."
  "Oh! indeed!" was the general acclamation from all parts of the
room; "M. de la Fontaine is in funds to-day."
  "Heaven bless the idea, if it brings me one or two millions," said
Fouquet, gayly.
  "Exactly," replied La Fontaine.
  "Quick, quick!" cried the assembly.
  "Take care!" said Pellisson in La Fontaine's ear. "You have had a
most brilliant success up to the present moment; do not go too far."
  "Not at all, M. Pellisson; and you, who are a man of taste, will
be the first to approve of what I have done."
  "Is it a matter of millions?" said Gourville.
  "I have fifteen hundred thousand livres here, M. Gourville," he
replied, striking himself on the chest.
  "The deuce take this Gascon from Chateau-Thierry!" cried Loret.
  "It is not the pocket you should touch, but the brain," said
Fouquet.
  "Stay a moment, Monsieur the Superintendent!" added La Fontaine;
"you are not procureur-general,- you are a poet."
  "True, true!" cried Loret, Conrart, and every person present
connected with literature.
  "You are, I repeat, a poet and a painter, a sculptor, a friend of
the arts and sciences; but acknowledge that you are no lawyer."
  "Oh, I do acknowledge it!" replied M. Fouquet, smiling.
  "If you were to be nominated at the Academy, you would refuse, I
think."
  "I think I should, with all due deference to the academicians."
  "Very good; if therefore you do not wish to belong to the Academy,
why do you allow yourself to form one of the parliament?"
  "Oh! oh!" said Pellisson; "we are talking politics."
  "I wish to know," persisted La Fontaine, "whether the barrister's
gown does or does not become M. Fouquet."
  "There is no question of the gown at all," retorted Pellisson,
annoyed at the laughter of the company.
  "On the contrary, the gown is in question," said Loret.
  "Take the gown away from the procureur-general," said Conrart,
"and we have M. Fouquet left us still, of whom we have no reason to
complain; but as he is no procureur-general without his gown, we agree
with M. de la Fontaine, and pronounce the gown to be nothing but a
bugbear."
  "Fugiunt risus leporesque," said Loret.
  "The smiles and the graces," said some one present.
  "That is not the way," said Pellisson, gravely, "that I translate
lepores."
  "How do you translate it?" said La Fontaine.
  "Thus: 'The hares run away as soon as they see M. Fouquet.'"
  A burst of laughter, in which the superintendent joined, followed
this sally.
  "But why hares?" objected Conrart, vexed.
  "Because the hare will be the very one who will not be
over-pleased to see M. Fouquet retaining the elements of strength
which belong to his parliamentary position."
  "Oh! oh!" murmured the poets.
  "Quo non ascendam," said Conrart, "would seem to me impossible
with a procureur's gown."
  "And it seems so to me without that gown," said the obstinate
Pellisson. "What is your opinion, Gourville?"
  "I think the gown in question is a very good thing," replied the
latter; "but I equally think that a million and a half is far better
than the gown."
  "And I am of Gourville's opinion," exclaimed Fouquet, stopping the
discussion by the expression of his own opinion, which would
necessarily bear down all the others.
  "A million and a half!" Pellisson grumbled out. "Now I happen to
know an Indian fable-"
  "Tell it to me," said La Fontaine; "I ought to know it too."
  "Tell it, tell it!" said the others.
  "There was a tortoise which was as usual well protected by its
shell," said Pellisson. "Whenever its enemies threatened it, it took
refuge within its covering. One day some one said to it, 'You must
feel very hot in such a house as that in the summer, and you are
altogether prevented from showing off your graces; here is a snake who
will give you a million and a half for your shell."
  "Good!" said the superintendent, laughing.
  "Well, what next?" said La Fontaine, much more interested in the
apologue than in its moral.
  "The tortoise sold his shell, and remained naked and defenceless.
A vulture happened to see him, and being hungry broke the tortoise's
back with a blow of his beak and devoured it. The moral is that M.
Fouquet should take very good care to keep his gown."
  La Fontaine understood the moral seriously. "You forget
AEschylus," he said to his adversary.
  "What do you mean?"
  "AEschylus was bald-headed; and a vulture- your vulture probably-
who was a great lover of tortoises mistook at a distance his head
for a block of stone, and let a tortoise which was shrunk up in his
shell fall upon it."
  "Yes, yes, La Fontaine is right," resumed Fouquet, who had become
very thoughtful. "Whenever a vulture wishes to devour a tortoise, he
well knows how to break his shell; and but too happy is that
tortoise to which a snake pays a million and a half for his
envelope. If any one were to bring me a generous-hearted snake like
the one in your fable, Pellisson, I would give him my shell."
  "Rara avis in terris!" cried Conrart.
  "And like a black swan, is he not?" added La Fontaine; "well,
then, the bird in question, black and very rare, is already found."
  "Do you mean to say that you have found a purchaser for my post of
procureur-general?" exclaimed Fouquet.
  "I have, Monsieur."
  "But the superintendent has never said that he wished to sell,"
resumed Pellisson.
  "I beg your pardon," said Conrart; "you yourself spoke about it-"
  "Yes, I am a witness to that," said Gourville.
  "He seems very tenacious about his brilliant idea," said Fouquet,
laughing. "Well, La Fontaine, who is the purchaser?"
  "A perfect black bird, a counsellor belonging to the parliament,
an excellent fellow."
  "What is his name?"
  "Vanel."
  "Vanel!" exclaimed Fouquet,- "Vanel, the husband of-"
  "Precisely,- her husband; yes, Monsieur."
  "Poor fellow!" said Fouquet, with an expression of great interest;
"he wishes to be procureur-general?"
  "He wishes to be everything that you have been, Monsieur," said
Gourville, "and to do everything that you have done."
  "It is very agreeable; tell us all about it, La Fontaine."
  "It is very simple. I see him occasionally; and a short time ago I
met him walking about on the Place de la Bastille, at the very
moment when I was about to take the small carriage to come down here
to St. Mande."
  "He must have been watching his wife," interrupted Loret.
  "Oh, no!" said La Fontaine; "he is far from being jealous. He
accosted me, embraced me, and took me to the inn called
L'Image-Saint-Fiacre, and told me all about his troubles."
  "He has his troubles, then?"
  "Yes; his wife wants to make him ambitious."
  "Well, and he told you-"
  "That some one had spoken to him about a post in parliament; that M.
Fouquet's name had been mentioned; that ever since, Madame Vanel
dreams of nothing else but being called Madame the
Procureuse-Generale, and that she is dying of it every night she is
not dreaming of it."
  "The deuce!"
  "Poor woman!" said Fouquet.
  "Wait a moment! Conrart is always telling me that I do not know
how to conduct matters of business; you will see how I manage this
one."
  "Well, go on!"
  "'I suppose you know' said I to Vanel, 'that the value of a post
such as that which M. Fouquet holds is by no means trifling.' 'How
much do you imagine it to be?' he said. 'M. Fouquet, I know, has
refused seventeen hundred thousand livres.' 'My wife,' replied
Vanel, 'had estimated it at about fourteen hundred thousand.' 'Ready
money?' I asked. 'Yes; she has sold some property of hers in
Guienne, and has received the purchase-money.'"
  "That's a pretty sum to touch all at once," said the Abbe Fouquet,
who had not hitherto said a word.
  "Poor Madame Vanel!" murmured Fouquet.
  Pellisson shrugged his shoulders. "A fiend!" he said in a low
voice to Fouquet.
  "That may be; it would be delightful to make use of this fiend's
money to repair the injury which an angel has done herself for me."
  Pellisson looked with a surprised air at Fouquet, whose thoughts
were from that moment fixed upon a fresh object.
  "Well!" inquired La Fontaine, "what about my negotiation?"
  "Admirable, my dear poet!"
  "Yes," said Gourville; "but there are some persons who are anxious
to have the steed who have not money enough to pay for the bridle."
  "And Vanel would draw back from his offer if he were to be taken
at his word," continued the Abbe Fouquet.
  "I do not believe it," said La Fontaine.
  "What do you know about it?"
  "Why, you have not yet heard the denouement of my story."
  "If there is a denouement, why do you beat about the bush so much?"
  "Semper ad adventum. Is that correct?" said Fouquet, with the air of
a nobleman who condescends to barbarisms. The Latinists clapped
their hands.
  "My denouement," cried La Fontaine, "is that Vanel, that
determined black bird, knowing that I was coming to St. Mande,
implored me to bring him with me, and, if possible, to present him
to M. Fouquet."
  "So that-"
  "So that he is here; I left him in that part of the grounds called
Bel-Air. Well, M. Fouquet, what is your reply?"
  "Well, it is not fitting that the husband of Madame Vanel should
catch cold on my grounds. Send for him, La Fontaine, since you know
where he is."
  "I will go myself."
  "And I will accompany you," said the Abbe Fouquet; "I can carry
the money-bags."
  "No jesting," said Fouquet, seriously; "let the business be a
serious one if it is to be one at all. But, first of all, let us be
hospitable. Make my apologies, La Fontaine, to that gentleman, and
tell him that I am distressed to have kept him waiting, but that I was
not aware he was there."
  La Fontaine set off at once, fortunately accompanied by Gourville;
for absorbed in his own calculations, the poet would have mistaken the
route, and was hurrying as fast as he could towards the village of St.
Maur.
  Within a quarter of an hour afterwards M. Vanel was introduced
into the superintendent's cabinet, the description and details of
which have already been given at the beginning of this history. When
Fouquet saw him enter, he called Pellisson, and whispered a few
words in his ear: "Do not lose a word of what I am going to say. Let
all the silver and gold plate, together with the jewels of every
description, be packed up in the carriage. You will take the black
horses; the jeweller will accompany you; and you will postpone the
supper until Madame de Belliere's arrival."
  "Will it be necessary to notify Madame de Belliere?" said Pellisson.
  "No, that will be useless; I will do that."
  "Very well."
  "Go my friend!"
  Pellisson set off, not quite clear as to his friend's meaning or
intention, but confident, like every true friend, in the judgment of
the man he was blindly obeying. It is that which constitutes the
strength of such men; distrust is awakened only by inferior natures.
  Vanel bowed low to the superintendent, and was about to begin a
speech.
  "Be seated, Monsieur!" said Fouquet, politely. "I am told that you
wish to purchase a post I hold. How much can you give me for it?"
  "It is for you, Monseigneur, to fix the price. I know that offers of
purchase have already been made to you for it."
  "Madame Vanel, I have been told, values it at fourteen hundred
thousand livres."
  "That is all we have."
  "Can you give me the money immediately?"
  "I have not the money with me," said Vanel, frightened almost by the
unpretending simplicity, amounting to greatness, of the man; for he
had expected disputes and difficulties, and opposition of every kind.
  "When will you be able to have it?"
  "Whenever you please, Monseigneur"; and he began to be afraid that
Fouquet was trifling with him.
  "If it were not for the trouble you would have in returning to
Paris, I would say at once; but we will arrange that the payment and
the signature shall take place at six o'clock to-morrow morning."
  "Very good," said Vanel, as cold as ice, and feeling quite
bewildered.
  "Adieu, M. Vanel! Present my humblest respects to Madame Vanel,"
said Fouquet, as he rose; upon which Vanel, who felt the blood rushing
up to his head, for he was quite confounded by his success, said
seriously to the superintendent, "Will you give me your word,
Monseigneur, upon this affair?"
  Fouquet turned round his head, saying, "Pardieu! and you, Monsieur?"
  Vanel hesitated, trembled all over, and at last finished by
hesitatingly holding out his hand. Fouquet opened and nobly extended
his own. This loyal hand lay for a moment in Vanel's moist,
hypocritical palm; and he pressed it in his own, in order the better
to convince himself. The superintendent gently disengaged his hand, as
he again said, "Adieu." Vanel then ran hastily to the door, hurried
along the vestibules, and fled.
     Chapter VIII: Madame de Belliere's Plate and Diamonds

  HARDLY had Fouquet dismissed Vanel than he began to reflect for a
few moments: "A man never can do too much for the woman he has once
loved. Marguerite wishes to be the wife of a procureur-general, and
why not confer this pleasure upon her? And now that the most
scrupulous and sensitive conscience will be unable to reproach me with
anything, let my thoughts be bestowed on the woman who loves me.
Madame de Belliere ought to be there by this time"; and he turned
towards the secret door.
  After Fouquet had locked himself in, he opened the subterranean
passage, and rapidly hastened towards the means of communicating
between the house at Vincennes and his own residence. He had neglected
to apprise his friend of his approach by ringing the bell, perfectly
assured that she would never fail to be exact at the rendezvous. In
fact, the marchioness had arrived, and was waiting. The noise the
superintendent made aroused her; she ran to take from under the door
the letter which he had thrust there, and which simply said, "Come,
Marchioness; we are waiting supper for you." With her heart filled
with happiness, Madame de Belliere ran to her carriage in the Avenue
de Vincennes; in a few minutes she was holding out her hand to
Gourville, who was standing at the entrance, where, in order the
better to please his master, he had stationed himself to watch her
arrival. She had not observed that Fouquet's black horses had
arrived at the same time, smoking and covered with foam, having
returned to St. Mande with Pellisson and the very jeweller to whom
Madame de Belliere had sold her plate and her jewels. Pellisson
introduced the goldsmith into the cabinet, which Fouquet had not yet
left. The superintendent thanked him for having been good enough to
regard as a simple deposit in his hands the valuable property which he
had had every right to sell. He cast his eyes on the total of the
account, which amounted to thirteen hundred thousand livres. Then,
going to his desk, he wrote an order for fourteen hundred thousand
livres, payable at sight, at his treasury, before twelve o'clock the
next day.
  "A hundred thousand livres' profit! cried the goldsmith. "Oh,
Monseigneur, what generosity!"
  "Nay, nay, not so, Monsieur," said Fouquet, touching him on the
shoulder; "there are certain kindnesses which can never be repaid. The
profit is about that which you would have made, but the interest of
your money still remains to be arranged"; and saying this, he
unfastened from his sleeve a diamond button, which the goldsmith
himself had often valued at three thousand pistoles. "Take this," he
said to the goldsmith, "in remembrance of me; and farewell! You are an
honest man."
  "And you, Monseigneur," cried the goldsmith, completely overcome,
"are a grand nobleman!"
  Fouquet let the worthy goldsmith pass out of the room by a secret
door, and then went to receive Madame de Belliere, who was already
surrounded by all the guests. The marchioness was always beautiful,
but now her loveliness was dazzling.
  "Do you not think, gentlemen," said Fouquet, "that Madame is
incomparably beautiful this evening? And do you happen to know why?"
  "Because Madame is the most beautiful of women," said some one.
  "No; but because she is the best. And yet-"
  "Yet?" said the marchioness, smiling.
  "And yet, all the jewels which Madame is wearing this evening are
nothing but false stones."
  She blushed.
  "Oh! oh!" exclaimed all the guests; "that can very well be said of
one who has the finest diamonds in Paris."
  "Well?" said Fouquet to Pellisson, in a low tone.
  "Well, at last I have understood you," returned the latter; "and you
have done well."
  "That is pleasant," said the superintendent, with a smile.
  "Supper is ready, Monseigneur," said Vatel, with majestic air and
tone.
  The crowd of guests hurried more rapidly than is customary at
ministerial entertainments towards the banqueting-room, where a
magnificent spectacle presented itself. Upon the buffets, upon the
side-tables, upon the supper-table itself, in the midst of flowers and
light, glittered most dazzlingly the richest and most costly gold
and silver plate that was ever seen,- relics of those ancient
magnificent productions which the Florentine artists, whom the
Medici family had patronized, had sculptured, chased, and cast for the
purpose of holding flowers, at a time when gold yet existed in France.
These hidden marvels, which had been buried during the civil wars, had
timidly reappeared during the intervals of that war of good taste
called the Fronde,- when noblemen, fighting against noblemen, killed
but did not pillage one another. All that plate had Madame de
Belliere's arms engraved upon it. "Look!" cried La Fontaine, "here
is a P and a B."
  But the most remarkable object present was the cover which Fouquet
had assigned to the marchioness. Near her was a pyramid of diamonds,
sapphires, emeralds, antique cameos; sardonyx stones, carved by the
old Greeks of Asia Minor, with mountings of Mysian gold; curious
mosaics of ancient Alexandria, mounted in silver; and massive Egyptian
bracelets lay heaped up in a large plate of Palissy ware, supported by
a tripod of gilt bronze which had been sculptured by Benvenuto. The
marchioness turned pale as she recognized what she had never
expected to see again. A profound silence seemed to seize upon every
one of the restless and excited guests. Fouquet did not even make a
sign in dismissal of the richly liveried servants who crowded like
bees round the huge buffets and other tables in the room. "Gentlemen,"
he said, "all this plate which you behold once belonged to Madame de
Belliere, who having observed one of her friends in great distress,
sent all this gold and silver, together with the heap of jewels now
before her, to her goldsmith. This noble conduct of a devoted friend
can well be understood by such friends as you. Happy, indeed, is
that man who sees himself loved in such a manner! Let us drink to
the health of Madame de Belliere."
  A tremendous burst of applause followed his words, and made poor
Madame de Belliere sink back dumb and breathless on her seat. "And
then," added Pellisson, whom all nobleness aroused and all beauty
charmed, "let us also drink to the health of him who inspired Madame's
noble conduct; for such a man is worthy of being worthily loved."
  It was now the marchioness's turn. She rose, pale and smiling; and
as she held out her glass with a faltering hand, and her trembling
fingers touched those of Fouquet, her look, full of love, found its
reflection and response in that of her ardent and generous-hearted
lover.
  Begun in this manner, the supper soon became a fete. No one sought
for wit, because no one was without it. La Fontaine forgot his
Gorgny wine, and allowed Vatel to reconcile him to the wines of the
Rhone and those from the shores of Spain. The Abbe Fouquet became so
good-natured that Gourville said to him, "Take care, Monsieur the
Abbe! If you are so tender, you will be eaten."
  The hours passed away so joyously that, contrary to his usual
custom, the superintendent did not leave the table before the end of
the dessert. He smiled upon his friends, delighted as a man is whose
heart becomes intoxicated before his head; and for the first time he
looked at the clock. Suddenly a carriage rolled into the courtyard;
and, strange to say, it was heard high above the noise of the mirth
which prevailed. Fouquet listened attentively, and then turned his
eyes towards the antechamber. It seemed as if he could hear a step
passing across it, and as if this step, instead of touching the
ground, pressed upon his heart. Involuntarily his foot parted
company with the foot which Madame de Belliere had rested on his for
two hours.
  "M. d'Herblay, Bishop of Vannes!" the usher announced; and
Aramis's grave and thoughtful face appeared in the door-way, between
the remains of two garlands, the thread of which the flame of a lamp
had just burned.
            Chapter IX: M. de Mazarin's Receipt

  FOUQUET would have uttered an exclamation of delight on seeing
another friend arrive, if the cold air and constrained appearance of
Aramis had not restored all his reserve. "Are you going to join us
at our dessert?" he asked. "And yet you would be frightened,
perhaps, at the noise we madcaps are making."
  "Monseigneur," replied Aramis, respectfully, "I will begin by
begging you to excuse me for having interrupted this merry meeting;
and then I will beg you to give me, after your pleasure, a moment's
audience on matters of business."
  As the word "business" had aroused the attention of some of the
epicureans present, Fouquet rose, saying, "Business first of all, M.
d'Herblay; we are too happy when matters of business arrive only at
the end of a meal."
  As he said this, Fouquet took the hand of Madame de Belliere, who
looked at him with a kind of uneasiness, and then led her to an
adjoining salon, after having recommended her to the most reasonable
of his guests. And then, taking Aramis by the arm, the
superintendent led him towards his cabinet.
  Aramis, on reaching the cabinet, forgot respect and etiquette; he
threw himself into a chair, saying, "Guess whom I have seen this
evening?"
  "My dear Chevalier, every time you begin in that manner I am sure to
hear you announce something disagreeable.
  "Well, and this time you will not be mistaken, either, my dear
friend," replied Aramis.
  "Do not keep me in suspense," added the superintendent,
phlegmatically.
  "Well, then, I have seen Madame de Chevreuse."
  "The old duchess, do you mean?"
  "Yes."
  "Her ghost, perhaps?"
  "No, no; the old she-wolf herself."
  "Without teeth?"
  "Possibly, but not without claws."
  "Well! what harm can she meditate against me? I am no miser, with
women who are not prudes. Generosity is a quality that is always
prized, even by the woman who no longer dares to provoke love."
  "Madame de Chevreuse knows very well that you are not avaricious,
since she wishes to draw some money out of you.
  "Indeed! under what pretext?"
  "Oh, pretexts are never wanting with her! Let me tell you what
hers is. It seems that the duchess has a good many letters of M. de
Mazarin's in her possession."
  "I am not surprised at that, for the prelate was gallant enough."
  "Yes; but these letters have nothing whatever to do with the
prelate's love-affairs. They concern, it is said, financial matters."
  "And accordingly they are less interesting."
  "Do you not suspect what I mean?"
  "Not at all."
  "You have never heard that there was a charge of embezzlement?"
  "Yes, a hundred, nay, a thousand times. Since I have been engaged in
public matters I have hardly heard anything else but that,- just as in
your own case when you, a bishop, are charged with impiety, or a
musketeer, with cowardice. The very thing of which they are always
accusing ministers of finance is the embezzlement of public funds."
  "Very good. But let us specify; for according to the duchess, M.
de Mazarin specifies."
  "Let us see what he specifies."
  "Something like a sum of thirteen million livres, the disposal of
which it would be very embarrassing for you to disclose."
  "Thirteen millions!" said the superintendent, stretching himself
in his arm-chair, in order to enable him the more comfortably to
look up towards the ceiling,- "thirteen millions! I am trying to
remember them out of all those I have been accused of stealing."
  "Do not laugh, my dear monsieur; it is serious. It is certain that
the duchess has certain letters in her possession; and these letters
must be genuine, since she wished to sell them to me for five
hundred thousand livres."
  "Oh, one can have a very tolerable calumny for such a sum as
that!" replied Fouquet. "Ah! now I know what you mean"; and he began
to laugh heartily.
  "So much the better," said Aramis, a little reassured.
  "I remember the story of those thirteen millions now. Yes, yes, I
remember them quite well."
  "I am delighted to hear it; tell me about them."
  "Well, then, one day Signor Mazarin, Heaven rest his soul! made a
profit of thirteen millions upon a concession of lands in the
Valtelline; he cancelled them in the registry of receipts, sent them
to me, and then made me advance them to him for war expenses."
  "Very good; then there is no doubt of their proper disbursement?"
  "No; the Cardinal placed them under my name, and gave me a receipt."
  "You have the receipt?"
  "Of course," said Fouquet, as he quietly rose from his chair, and
went to his large ebony bureau, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gold.
  "What I most admire in you," said Aramis, with an air of great
satisfaction, "is your memory, in the first place; then, your
self-possession; and finally, the perfect order which prevails with
you,- you, a poet par excellence."
  "Yes," said Fouquet, "I am orderly out of a spirit of idleness, to
save myself the trouble of looking after things; and so I know that
Mazarin's receipt is in the third drawer under the letter M. I open
the drawer, and place my hand upon the very paper I need. In the
night, without a light, I could find it"; and with a confident hand he
felt the bundle of papers which were piled up in the open drawer.
"Nay, more than that," he continued, "I remember the paper as if I saw
it. It is thick, somewhat crumpled, with gilt edges. Mazarin had
made a blot upon the figure of the date. Ah!" he said, "the paper
knows we are talking about it, and that we want it very much, and so
it hides itself out of the way." As the superintendent looked into the
drawer, Aramis rose from his seat. "This is very singular," said
Fouquet.
  "Your memory is treacherous, my dear Monseigneur; look in another
drawer."
  Fouquet took out the bundle of papers, and turned them over once
more; he then became very pale.
  "Don't confine your search to that drawer," said Aramis; "look
elsewhere."
  "Quite useless. I have never made a mistake. No one but myself
arranges any papers of mine of this nature; no one but myself ever
opens this drawer, of which, besides, no one but myself is aware of
the secret."
  "What do you conclude, then?" said Aramis, agitated.
  "That Mazarin's receipt has been stolen from me. Madame de Chevreuse
was right, Chevalier; I have appropriated the public funds; I have
robbed the State coffers of thirteen millions of money; I am a
thief, M. d'Herblay."
  "Nay, nay; do not get irritated, do not get excited!"
  "And why not, Chevalier? Surely there is every reason for it. If the
legal proceedings are well arranged, and a judgment is given in
accordance with them, your friend the superintendent can follow to
Montfaucon his colleague Enguerrand de Marigny and his predecessor
Samblancay."
  "Oh," said Aramis, smiling, "not so fast!"
  "And why not? Why not so fast? What do you suppose Madame de
Chevreuse will have done with those letters,- for you refused them,
I suppose?"
  "Yes; at once. I suppose that she went and sold them to M. Colbert."
  "Well?"
  "I said I supposed so. I might have said I was sure of it, for I had
her followed; and when she left me, she returned to her own house,
went out by a back door, and proceeded straight to the intendant's
house in the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs."
  "Legal proceedings will be instituted, then scandal and dishonor
will follow; and all will fall upon me like a thunderbolt, blindly,
harshly, pitilessly."
  Aramis approached Fouquet, who sat trembling in his chair, close
to the open drawers; he placed his hand on his shoulder, and in an
affectionate tone of voice said, "Do not forget that the position of
M. Fouquet can in no way be compared to that of Samblancay or of
Marigny."
  "And why not, in Heaven's name?"
  "Because the proceedings against those ministers were determined,
completed, and the sentence carried out; while in your case the same
thing cannot take place."
  "Another blow! Why not? A peculator is, under any circumstances, a
criminal."
  "Those criminals who know how to find a safe asylum are never in
danger."
  "What! Make my escape,- fly?"
  "No; I do not mean that. You forget that all such proceedings
originate in the parliament; that they are instituted by the
procureur-general, and that you are the procureur-general. You see
that unless you wish to condemn yourself-"
  "Oh!" cried Fouquet suddenly, dashing his fist upon the table.
  "Well, what? What is the matter?"
  "I am procureur-general no longer."
  Aramis at this reply became as livid as death; he pressed his
hands together convulsively, and with a wild, haggard look, which
almost annihilated Fouquet, said, laying a stress upon every syllable,
"You are procureur-general no longer, do you say?"
  "No."
  "Since when?"
  "Since four or five hours ago."
  "Take care!" interrupted Aramis, coldly. "I do not think you are
in full possession of your senses, my friend; collect yourself!"
  "I tell you," returned Fouquet, "that a little while ago some one
came to me, brought by my friends, to offer me fourteen hundred
thousand livres for the appointment, and that I have sold it."
  Aramis looked as if he had been thunder-stricken; the intelligent
and mocking expression of his countenance was changed to an expression
of gloom and terror which had more effect upon the superintendent than
all the exclamations and speeches in the world. "You had need of
money, then?" he said at last.
  "Yes; to discharge a debt of honor"; and in a few words he gave
Aramis an account of Madame de la Belliere's generosity, and of the
manner in which he had thought he ought to repay that generosity.
  "Yes," said Aramis; "that is, indeed, a fine trait. What has it
cost?"
  "Exactly the fourteen hundred thousand livres,- the price of my
appointment."
  "Which you received in that manner, without reflection. Oh,
imprudent friend!"
  "I have not yet received the amount; but I shall to-morrow."
  "It is not yet completed, then?"
  "It must be carried out, though; for I have given the goldsmith, for
twelve o'clock to-morrow, an order upon my treasury, into which the
purchaser's money will be paid at six or seven o'clock."
  "Heaven be praised!" cried Aramis, clapping his hands together;
"nothing is yet completed, since you have not been paid."
  "But the goldsmith?"
  "You shall receive the fourteen hundred thousand livres from me at a
quarter before twelve."
  "Stay a moment! It is at six o'clock, this very morning, that I am
to sign."
  "Oh, I tell you that you will not sign!"
  "I have given my word, Chevalier."
  "If you have given it, you will take it back again; that is all."
  "Ah! what are you saying to me?" cried Fouquet, in a most expressive
tone. "Fouquet recall his word, after it has been once pledged!"
  Aramis replied to the almost stern look of the minister with a
look full of anger. "Monsieur," he said, "I believe I have deserved to
be called a man of honor, have I not? As a soldier I have risked my
life five hundred times; as a priest I have rendered great services,
both to the State and to my friends. The value of a word, once passed,
is estimated according to the worth of the man who gives it. So long
as it is in his own keeping it is of the purest, finest gold; when his
wish to keep it has passed away, it is a two-edged sword. With that
word, therefore, he defends himself as with an honorable weapon,
considering that when he disregards his word,- that man of honor,-
he endangers his life, he courts the risk rather than that his
adversary should secure advantages. And then, Monsieur, he appeals
to Heaven- and to justice."
  Fouquet bent down his head, as he replied: "I am a poor Breton,
opinionated and commonplace; my mind admires and fears yours. I do not
say that I keep my word from a moral instinct; I keep it, if you like,
by force of habit. But at all events, the ordinary run of men are
simple enough to admire this custom of mine. It is my single virtue;
leave me the honor of it."
  "And so you are determined to sign the sale of the office which
would defend you against all your enemies?"
  "Yes, I shall sign."
  "You will deliver yourself up, then, bound hand and foot, from a
false notion of honor, which the most scrupulous casuists would
disdain?"
  "I shall sign," repeated Fouquet.
  Aramis sighed deeply, and looked all round him with the impatient
gesture of a man who would gladly dash something to pieces, as a
relief to his feelings. "We have still one means left," he said;
"and I trust you will not refuse to make use of that?"
  "Certainly not, if it be loyal and honorable,- as everything is,
in fact, which you propose."
  "I know nothing more loyal than a renunciation of your purchaser. Is
he a friend of yours?"
  "Certainly; but-"
  "'But'!- if you allow me to manage the affair, I do not despair."
  "Oh, you shall be absolute master!"
  "With whom are you in treaty? What man is it?"
  "I am not aware whether you know the parliament?"
  "Most of its members. One of the presidents, perhaps?"
  "No; only a counsellor-"
  "Ah, ah!"
  "Who is named Vanel."
  Aramis became purple. "Vanel!" he cried, rising abruptly from his
seat, "Vanel! the husband of Marguerite Vanel?"
  "Exactly."
  "Of your former mistress?"
  "Yes, my dear fellow. She is anxious to be Madame the
Procureuse-General. I certainly owed poor Vanel that slight
concession; and I am a gainer by it, since I at the same time confer a
pleasure on his wife."
  Aramis walked straight to Fouquet, and took hold of his hand. "Do
you know," he said very calmly, "the name of Madame Vanel's new
lover?"
  "Ah! she has a new lover, then? I was not aware of it; no, I have no
idea what his name is."
  "His name is M. Jean Baptiste Colbert; he is intendant of the
finances; he lives in the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, where Madame de
Chevreuse has this evening carried Mazarin's letters, which she wishes
to sell."
  "Gracious Heaven!" murmured Fouquet, passing his hand across his
forehead, from which the perspiration was starting.
  "You now begin to understand, do you not?"
  "That I am lost,- yes."
  "Do you now think it worth while to be so scrupulous with regard
to keeping your word?"
  "Yes," said Fouquet.
  "These obstinate people always contrive matters in such a way that
one cannot but admire them," murmured Aramis.
  Fouquet held out his hand to him; and at the very moment a richly
ornamented tortoise-shell clock, supported by golden figures, which
was standing on a console table opposite to the fireplace, struck six.
The sound of a door opening in the vestibule was heard.
  "M. Vanel," said Gourville, at the door of the cabinet, "inquiries
if Monseigneur can receive him."
  Fouquet turned his eyes from those of Aramis and replied, "Let M.
Vanel come in."
            Chapter X: M. Colbert's Rough Draught

  VANEL, who entered at this stage of the conversation, was for Aramis
and Fouquet the full stop which terminates a sentence. But, for Vanel,
Aramis's presence in Fouquet's cabinet had quite another
signification. At his first step into the room he fixed upon the
delicate yet firm countenance of the Bishop of Vannes a look of
astonishment which soon became one of scrutinizing inquiry. As for
Fouquet, a true politician,- that is to say, complete master of
himself,- he had already, by the energy of his own resolute will,
contrived to remove from his face all traces of the emotion which
Aramis's revelation had occasioned. He was no longer, therefore, a man
overwhelmed by misfortune and reduced to expedients; he held his
head proudly erect, and extended his hand with a gesture of welcome to
Vanel. He was prime minister; he was in his own house. Aramis knew the
superintendent well; the delicacy of the feelings of his heart and the
exalted nature of his mind could no longer surprise him. He confined
himself, then, for the moment- intending to resume later an active
part in the conversation- to the difficult role of a man who looks
on and listens in order to learn and understand.
  Vanel was visibly overcome, and advanced into the middle of the
cabinet, bowing to everything and everybody.
  "I am come," he said.
  "You are exact, M. Vanel," returned Fouquet.
  "In matters of business, Monseigneur," replied Vanel, "I look upon
exactitude as a virtue."
  "No doubt, Monsieur."
  "I beg your pardon," interrupted Aramis, indicating Vanel with his
finger, but addressing himself to Fouquet; "this is the gentleman, I
believe, who has come about the purchase of your appointment?"
  "Yes, I am," replied Vanel, astonished at the extremely haughty tone
with which Aramis had put the question; "but in what way am I to
address you, who do me the honor-"
  "Call me Monseigneur," replied Aramis, dryly.
  Vanel bowed.
  "Come, gentlemen," said Fouquet, a truce to these ceremonies! Let us
proceed to business."
  "Monseigneur sees," said Vanel, "that I am waiting his pleasure."
  "On the contrary, it is I who wait," replied Fouquet.
  "What for, Monseigneur?"
  "I thought that perhaps you would have something to say."
  "Oh," said Vanel to himself, "he has reflected on the matter, and
I am lost!" But resuming his courage he continued, "No, Monseigneur,
nothing,- absolutely nothing more than what I said to you yesterday,
and which I am ready to repeat now."
  "Come, now, tell me frankly, M. Vanel, is not the affair rather a
burdensome one for you?"
  "Certainly, Monseigneur; fourteen hundred thousand livres is an
important sum."
  "So important, indeed," said Fouquet, "that I have reflected-"
  "You have been reflecting, do you say, Monseigneur?" exclaimed
Vanel, anxiously.
  "Yes, that you might not yet be in a position to purchase."
  "Oh, Monseigneur!"
  "Do not make yourself uneasy on that score, M. Vanel! I shall not
blame you for a failure in your word, which evidently will be due to
inability on your part."
  "Oh, yes, Monseigneur, you would blame me, and you would be right in
doing so," said Vanel: "for a man must be either imprudent or a fool
to undertake engagements which he cannot keep; and I, at least, have
always regarded a thing agreed upon as a thing done."
  Fouquet colored, while Aramis uttered a "Hum!" of impatience.
  "You would be wrong to emphasize such notions as those, Monsieur,"
said the superintendent: "for a man's mind is variable and full of
little caprices, very excusable, and sometimes very worthy of respect;
and a man may have wished for something yesterday, and to-day have
changed his mind."
  Vanel felt a cold sweat trickle down his face. "Monseigneur!" he
muttered.
  Aramis, who was delighted to find the superintendent carrying on the
debate with such clearness and precision, stood leaning his arm upon
the marble top of a console table, and began to play with a small gold
knife with a malachite handle. Fouquet did not hasten to reply; but
after a moment's pause, "Come, my dear M. Vanel," he said, "I will
explain to you how I am situated." Vanel began to tremble.
"Yesterday I wished to sell-"
  "Monseigneur has done more than wish to sell; Monseigneur has sold."
  "Well, well, that may be so; but to-day I ask you, as a favor, to
restore me my word which I pledged you."
  "I received your word as a perfect assurance that it would be kept."
  "I know that; and that is the reason why I now entreat you,- do
you understand me?- I entreat you to restore it to me."
  Fouquet suddenly paused. The words "I entreat you," the force of
which he did not immediately perceive, seemed almost to choke him as
he uttered it. Aramis, still playing with his knife, fixed a look upon
Vanel which seemed to search the inmost recess of his heart.
  Vanel simply bowed as he said, "I am overcome, Monseigneur, at the
honor you do me to consult me upon a matter of business which is
already completed; but-"
  "Nay, do not say but, dear M. Vanel."
  "Alas! Monseigneur, you see," he said, as he opened a large
pocket-book, "I have brought the money with me,- the whole sum, I
mean. And here, Monseigneur, is the contract of sale which I have just
effected of a property belonging to my wife. The order is authentic in
every way, the necessary signatures have been attached to it, and it
is made payable at sight; it is ready money. In one word, the affair
is complete."
  "My dear M. Vanel, there is not a matter of business in this
world, however important it may be, which cannot be postponed in order
to oblige-"
  "Certainly," said Vanel, awkwardly.
  "To oblige a man who by that means might and would be made a devoted
friend."
  "Certainly, Monseigneur."
  "And the more completely a friend, M. Vanel, in proportion to the
importance of the service rendered, since the value of the service
he had received would have been so considerable. Well, what do you
decide?"
  Vanel preserved silence. In the mean time Aramis had continued his
observations. Vanel's narrow face, his deeply sunk orbits, his
arched eyebrows, had revealed to the Bishop of Vannes the type of an
avaricious and ambitious character. Aramis's method was to oppose
one passion by another. He saw Fouquet defeated, demoralized; he threw
himself into the contest with new weapons. "Excuse me, Monseigneur,"
he said; "you forget to show M. Vanel that his own interests are
diametrically opposed to this renunciation of the sale."
  Vanel looked at the bishop with astonishment; he had hardly expected
to find an auxiliary in him. Fouquet also paused to listen to the
bishop.
  "Do you not see," continued Aramis, "that M. Vanel, in order to
purchase your appointment, has been obliged to sell a property which
belongs to his wife? Well, that is no slight matter; for one cannot
displace fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand livres, as he has
done, without considerable loss and very serious inconvenience."
  "Perfectly true," said Vanel, whose secret Aramis had with his
keen-sighted gaze wrung from the bottom of his heart.
  "Such embarrassments," pursued Aramis, "resolve themselves into
expenses; and when one has a large disbursement to make, expenses
are to be considered."
  "Yes, yes," said Fouquet, who began to understand Aramis's meaning.
  Vanel remained silent; he, too, had understood him.
  Aramis observed his coldness of manner and his silence. "Very good,"
he said to himself, "you are waiting, I see, until you know the
amount; but do not fear! I shall send you such a flight of crowns that
you cannot but capitulate on the spot."
  "We must offer M. Vanel a hundred thousand crowns at once," said
Fouquet, carried away by his generosity.
  The sum was a good one. A prince, even, would have been satisfied
with such a bonus. A hundred thousand crowns at that period was the
dowry of a king's daughter.
  Vanel, however, did not move.
  "He is a rascal!" thought the bishop; "we must offer the five
hundred thousand livres at once!" and he made a sign to Fouquet.
  "You seem to have spent more than that, dear M. Vanel," said the
superintendent. "The price of money is enormous. You must have made
a great sacrifice in selling your wife's property. Well, what can I
have been thinking of? It is an order for five hundred thousand livres
that I am about to sign for you; and even in that case I shall feel
that I am greatly indebted to you."
  There was not a single gleam of delight or desire on Vanel's face,
which remained impassive; not a muscle of it changed in the
slightest degree. Aramis cast a look of despair at Fouquet, and
then, going straight up to Vanel and taking hold of him by the coat
with the gesture used by men of high rank, he said: "M. Vanel, it is
neither the inconvenience, nor the displacement of your money, nor the
sale of your wife's property even, that you are thinking of at this
moment, it is something still more important. I can well understand
it, so pay particular attention to what I am going to say."
  "Yes, Monseigneur," Vanel replied, beginning to tremble. The fire in
the eyes of the prelate scorched him.
  "I offer you, therefore, in the superintendent's name, not three
hundred thousand livres, nor five hundred thousand, but a million. A
million,- do you understand me?" he added, as he shook him nervously.
  "A million!" repeated Vanel, as pale as death.
  "A million; in other words, at the present rate of interest, an
income of seventy thousand livres!"
  "Come, Monsieur," said Fouquet, "you can hardly refuse that. Answer!
Do you accept?"
  "Impossible!" murmured Vanel.
  Aramis bit his lips, and something like a white cloud passed over
his face. That cloud indicated thunder. He still kept his hold on
Vanel. "You have purchased the appointment for fifteen hundred
thousand livres, I think? Well, we will give you these fifteen hundred
thousand livres; by paying M. Fouquet a visit, and shaking hands
with him, you will have become a gainer of a million and a half. You
get honor and profit at the same time, M. Vanel."
  "I cannot do it," said Vanel, hoarsely.
  "Very well," replied Aramis, who had grasped Vanel so tightly by the
coat that when he let go his hold Vanel staggered back a few paces,-
"very well; one can now see clearly enough your object in coming
here."
  "Yes," said Fouquet, "one can easily see that."
  "But-" said Vanel, attempting to stand erect before the weakness
of these two men of honor.
  "The fellow presumes to speak!" said Aramis, with the tone of an
emperor.
  "Fellow?" repeated Vanel.
  "The wretch, I meant to say," added the prelate, who had now resumed
his usual self-possession. "Come, Monsieur, produce your deed of sale!
You should have it there, in one of your pockets, already prepared, as
an assassin holds his pistol or his dagger concealed, under his
cloak."
  Vanel began to mutter something.
  "Enough!" cried Fouquet. "Where is this deed?"
  Vanel tremblingly searched in his pockets; and as he drew out his
pocketbook, a paper fell out of it, while Vanel offered the other to
Fouquet. Aramis pounced upon the paper which had fallen out, the
handwriting of which he recognized.
  "I beg your pardon," said Vanel; "that is a rough draught of the
deed."
  "I see that very clearly," retorted Aramis, with a smile more
cutting than a lash of a whip would have been; "and what surprises
me is that this draught is in M. Colbert's handwriting. Look,
Monseigneur, look!" And he handed the paper to Fouquet, who recognized
the truth of his remark; for, covered with erasures, with inserted
words, the margins filled with additions, this deed- an open proof
of Colbert's plot- had just revealed everything to its unhappy victim.
  "Well!" murmured Fouquet.
  Vanel, completely humiliated, seemed as if he were looking for
some deep hole where he could hide himself.
  "Well!" said Aramis, "if your name were not Fouquet, and if your
enemy's name were not Colbert,- if you had to deal only with this mean
thief before you, I should say to you, 'Repudiate it!' Such a proof as
this absolves you from your word. But these fellows would think you
were afraid; they would fear you less than they do; therefore sign,
Monseigneur!" and he held out a pen towards him.
  Fouquet pressed Aramis's hand; but instead of the deed which Vanel
handed to him, he took the rough draught of it.
  "No, not that paper," said Aramis, hastily; "this is the one. The
other is too precious a document for you to part with."
  "No, no!" replied Fouquet. "I will sign upon the paper of M.
Colbert; and I write, 'The writing is approved.'" He then signed,
and said, "Here it is, M. Vanel"; and the latter seized the paper,
laid down his money, and was about to retreat.
  "One moment!" said Aramis. "Are you quite sure the exact amount is
there? It ought to be counted over, M. Vanel, particularly since it is
money which M. Colbert presents to the ladies. Ah, that worthy M.
Colbert is not so generous as M. Fouquet!" and Aramis, spelling
every word, every letter of the order to pay, distilled his wrath
and his contempt, drop by drop, upon the miserable wretch, who had
to submit to this torture for a quarter of an hour. He was then
dismissed, not in words, but by a gesture, as one dismisses a beggar
or discharges a menial.
  As soon as Vanel had gone, the minister and the prelate, their
eyes fixed on each other, remained silent for a few moments.
  "Well," said Aramis, the first to break the silence, "to what can
that man be compared, who, entering into a conflict with an enemy
armed from head to foot, thirsting for his life, strips himself,
throws down his arms, and sends kisses to his adversary? Good faith,
M. Fouquet, is a weapon which scoundrels very frequently make use of
against men of honor, and it answers their purpose. Men of honor ought
in their turn, also, to make use of bad faith against such scoundrels.
You would soon see how strong they would become without ceasing to
be men of honor."
  "It would be rascally conduct," replied Fouquet.
  "Not at all; it would be merely coquetting or playing with the
truth. And now, since you have finished with this Vanel, since you
have deprived yourself of the happiness of confounding him by
repudiating your word, and since you have given up, to be used against
yourself, the only weapon which can ruin us-"
  "My dear friend," said Fouquet, mournfully, "you are like the
teacher of philosophy whom La Fontaine was telling us about the
other day: he saw a child drowning, and began to read him a lecture
divided into three heads."
  Aramis smiled as he said, "Philosophy,- yes, teacher,- yes; a
drowning child,- yes; but a child that can be saved,- you shall see.
And, first of all, let us talk about business." Fouquet looked at
him with an air of astonishment. "Did you not some time ago speak to
me about an idea you had of giving a fete at Vaux?"
  "Oh," said Fouquet, "that was when affairs were flourishing!"
  "A fete, I believe, to which the King, without prompting, invited
himself?"
  "No, no, my dear prelate; a fete to which M. Colbert advised the
King to invite himself!"
  "Ah! exactly; as it would be a fete of so costly a character that
you would be ruined in giving it?"
  "Precisely so. In other times, as I said just now, I had a kind of
pride in showing my enemies the fruitfulness of my resources; I felt
it a point of honor to strike them with amazement, in creating
millions under circumstances where they had imagined nothing but
bankruptcies possible. But at the present day I am arranging my
accounts with the State, with the King, with myself; and I must now
become a mean, stingy man. I shall be able to prove to the world
that I can act or operate with my deniers as I used to do with my bags
of pistoles; and beginning to-morrow, my equipages shall be sold, my
houses mortgaged, my expenses contracted."
  "Beginning with to-morrow," interrupted Aramis, quietly, "you will
occupy yourself, without the slightest delay, with your fete at
Vaux, which must hereafter be spoken of with the most magnificent
productions of your most prosperous days."
  "You are mad, Chevalier d'Herblay."
  "I? You do not think that."
  "What do you mean, then? Do you not know that a fete at Vaux, of the
very simplest possible character, would cost four or five millions?"
  "I do not speak of a fete of the very simplest possible character,
my dear superintendent."
  "But since the fete is to be given to the King," replied Fouquet,
who misunderstood Aramis's idea, "it cannot be simple."
  "Just so; it ought to be on a scale of the most unbounded
magnificence."
  "In that case I shall have to spend ten or twelve millions."
  "You shall spend twenty if you require it," said Aramis, calmly.
  "Where shall I get them?" exclaimed Fouquet.
  "That is my affair, Monsieur the Superintendent; and do not be
uneasy for a moment about it. The money will be placed at once at your
disposal, sooner than you will have arranged the plans of your fete."
  "Chevalier! Chevalier!" said Fouquet, giddy with amazement, "whither
are you hurrying me?"
  "Across the gulf into which you were about to fall," replied the
Bishop of Vannes. "Take hold of my cloak and throw fear aside!"
  "Why did you not tell me that sooner, Aramis? There was a day when
with one million you could have saved me."
  "While to-day I can give you twenty," said the prelate. "Such is the
case, however. The reason is very simple. On the day you speak of I
had not at my disposal the million which you needed, while now I can
easily procure the twenty millions we require."
  "May Heaven hear you, and save me!"
  Aramis smiled, with the singular expression habitual with him.
"Heaven never fails to hear me," he said; "perhaps because I pray with
a loud voice."
  "I abandon myself to you unreservedly," Fouquet murmured.
  "No, no; I do not understand it in that manner. It is I who am
entirely at your service. Therefore you, who have the clearest, the
most delicate, and the most ingenious mind,- you shall have entire
control over the fete, even to the very smallest details. Only-"
  "Only?" said Fouquet, as a man accustomed to appreciate the value of
a parenthesis.
  "Well, then, leaving the entire invention of the details to you, I
shall reserve to myself a general superintendence over the execution."
  "In what way?"
  "I mean that you will make of me, on that day, a majordomo, a sort
of inspector-general, or factotum,- something between a captain of the
guard and manager or steward. I will look after the people, and will
keep the keys of the doors. You will give your orders, of course;
but will give them to no one but to me. They will pass through my
lips, to reach those for whom they are intended,- you understand?"
  "No, I do not understand."
  "But you agree?"
  "Of course, of course, my friend."
  "That is all I care about. Thanks; and prepare your list of
invitations."
  "Whom shall I invite?"
  "Every one."
     Chapter XI: In Which the Author Thinks It Is Now Time to
              Return to the Vicomte de Bragelonne

  OUR readers have observed in this history the adventures of the
new and of the past generation unrolled, as it were, side by side.
To the former, the reflection of the glory of earlier years, the
experience of the bitter things of this world; to the former, also,
the peace which takes possession of the heart, and the healing of
the scars which were formerly deep and painful wounds. To the
latter, the conflicts of love and vanity, bitter disappointments and
ineffable delights,- life instead of memory. If any variety has been
presented to the reader in the different episodes of this tale, it
is to be attributed to the numerous shades of color which are
presented on this double palette, where two pictures are seen side
by side, mingling and harmonizing their severe and pleasing tones. The
repose of the emotions of the one is found in the midst of the
emotions of the other. After having talked reason with older heads,
one likes to share in the wildness of young people. Therefore, if
the threads of this story do not seem very intimately to connect the
chapter we are now writing with that we have just written, we do not
intend to give ourselves any more thought or trouble about it than
Ruysdael took in painting an autumn sky after having finished a
spring-time scene. We wish our readers to do as much, and to resume
Raoul de Bragelonne's story at the very place where our last sketch
left him.
  In a state of frenzy and dismay,- or rather without reason,
without will, without purpose,- Raoul fled heedlessly away after the
scene in La Valliere's room. The King, Montalais, Louise, that
chamber, that strange exclusion, Louise's grief, Montalais's terror,
the King's wrath,- all seemed to indicate some misfortune. But what?
He had arrived from London because he had been told of the existence
of a danger, and at once this danger showed itself. Was not that
sufficient for a lover? Certainly it was; but it was insufficient
for a pure and upright heart such as his. And yet Raoul did not seek
for explanations in the quarter where all jealous or less timid lovers
would have sought them. He did not go straightway to his mistress, and
say, "Louise, is it true that you love me no longer? Is it true that
you love another?" Full of courage, full of friendship, as he was full
of love; a religious observer of his word, and believing the words
of others,- Raoul said within himself, "Guiche wrote to put me on my
guard; Guiche knows something; I will go and ask Guiche what he knows,
and tell him what I have seen."
  The journey was not a long one. Guiche, who had been brought from
Fontainebleau to Paris within the last two days, was beginning to
recover from his wound, and to walk about a little in his room. He
uttered a cry of joy as he saw Raoul enter his apartment with the
eagerness of friendship. Raoul uttered a cry of grief on seeing De
Guiche so pale, so thin, so melancholy. A few words, and a simple
gesture which De Guiche made to put aside Raoul's arm, were sufficient
to inform the latter of the truth.
  "Ah! so it is," said Raoul, seating himself beside his friend;
"one loves and dies."
  "No, no, not dies," replied Guiche, smiling, "since I am now
recovering, and since, too, I can press you in my arms."
  "Ah! I understand."
  "And I understand you too. You fancy I am unhappy, Raoul?"
  "Alas!"
  "No; I am the happiest of men. My body suffers, but not my mind or
my heart. If you only knew- Oh, I am, indeed, the very happiest of
men!"
  "So much the better," replied Raoul; "so much the better, provided
it lasts."
  "It is over. I have had enough happiness to last me to my dying day,
Raoul."
  "I have no doubt you have had; but she-"
  "Listen! I love her, because- But you are not listening to me."
  "I beg your pardon."
  "Your mind is preoccupied."
  "Well, yes; your health, in the first place-"
  "It is not that."
  "My dear friend, you would be wrong, I think, to ask me any
questions,- you!" and he laid so much weight upon the "you" that he
completely enlightened his friend upon the nature of the evil and
the difficulty of remedying it.
  "You say that, Raoul, on account of what I wrote to you."
  "Certainly. We will talk over that matter a little when you shall
have finished telling me of all your own pleasures and pains."
  "My dear friend, I am entirely at your service now."
  "Thank you. I have hurried, I have flown here,- I came here from
London in half the time the government couriers usually take. Now,
tell me, my dear friend, what did you want?"
  "Nothing whatever, but to make you come."
  "Well, then, I am here."
  "All is quite right, then."
  "There is still something else, I imagine?"
  "No, indeed."
  "De Guiche!"
  "Upon my honor!"
  "You cannot possibly have crushed all my hopes so violently, or have
exposed me to being disgraced by the King for my return, which is in
disobedience of his orders,- you cannot, in short, have planted
jealousy in my heart, merely to say to me, 'It is all right, sleep
quietly!'"
  "I do not say to you, Raoul, 'Sleep quietly!' But pray understand
me; I never will, nor can I indeed, tell you anything else."
  "Oh, my friend, for whom do you take me?"
  "What do you mean?"
  "If you know anything, why conceal it from me? If you do not know
anything, why did you warn me?"
  "True, true! I was very wrong, and I regret having done so, Raoul.
It seems nothing to write to a friend and say, 'Come'; but to have
this friend face to face, to feel him tremble and breathlessly wait to
hear what one hardly dare tell him-"
  "Dare! I have courage enough, if you have not," exclaimed Raoul,
in despair.
  "See how unjust you are, and how soon you forget you have to do with
a poor wounded fellow,- the half of your heart! Calm yourself,
Raoul! I said to you, 'Come'; you are here. Ask nothing further of the
unhappy De Guiche."
  "You summoned me in the hope that I should see with my own eyes, did
you not? Nay, do not hesitate, for I have seen all."
  "Oh!" exclaimed De Guiche.
  "Or at least I thought-"
  "There now, you see you are not sure. But if you have any doubt,
my poor friend, what remains for me to do?"
  "I have seen Louise agitated, Montalais in a state of
bewilderment, the King-"
  "The King?"
  "Yes. You turn your head aside. The danger is there, the evil is
there! tell me, is it not so,- it is the King?"
  "I say nothing."
  "Oh, you say a thousand upon a thousand times more than nothing!
Give me facts! for pity's sake, give me proofs! My friend, the only
friend I have, speak! My heart is crushed, wounded to death; I am
dying from despair."
  "If that really be so, my dear Raoul," replied De Guiche, "you
relieve me from my difficulty, and I will tell you all, sure that I
can tell you nothing but what is consoling, compared to the despair in
which I now see you."
  "Go on, go on! I am listening."
  "Well, then, I can only tell you what you can learn from the
first-comer."
  "From the first-comer? It is talked about?" cried Raoul.
  "Before you say people talk about it, learn what it is that people
can talk about. I assure you, solemnly, that people only talk about
what may in truth be very innocent; perhaps a walk-"
  "Ah! a walk with the King?"
  "Yes, certainly, a walk with the King; and I believe the King has
very frequently before taken walks with ladies, without on that
account-"
  "You would not have written to me, shall I say again, if there had
been nothing unusual in this promenade?"
  "I know that while the storm lasted, it would have been far better
if the King had taken shelter somewhere else than to have remained
with his head uncovered before La Valliere; but-"
  "But?"
  "The King is so courteous!"
  "Oh, De Guiche, De Guiche, you are killing me!"
  "Do not let us talk any more, then."
  "Nay; let us continue. This walk was followed by others, I suppose?"
  "No- I mean yes; there was the adventure of the oak, I think. But
I know nothing about the matter at all." Raoul rose; De Guiche
endeavored to imitate him, notwithstanding his weakness. "Well, I will
not add another word; I have said either too much or not enough. Let
others give you further information if they will, or if they can; my
duty was to warn you, and that I have done. Watch over your own
affairs now, yourself!"
  "Question others? Alas! you are no true friend to speak to me in
that manner," said the young man, in utter distress. "The first man
I shall question may be either evilly disposed or a fool,- if the
former, he will tell me a lie to torment me; if the latter, he will do
still worse. Ah! De Guiche, De Guiche, before two hours are over, I
shall have been told ten falsehoods, and shall have as many duels on
my hands. Save me, then! Is it not best to know one's whole
misfortune?"
  "But I know nothing, I tell you. I was wounded, in a fever; my
senses were gone, and I have only effaced impressions of it all. But
there is no reason why we should search very far, when the very man we
want is close at hand. Is not d'Artagnan your friend?"
  "Oh, true, true!"
  "Go to him, then. He will throw light on the subject and without
seeking to injure your eyes."
  At this moment a lackey entered the room. "What is it?" said De
Guiche.
  "Some one is waiting for Monseigneur in the Cabinet des
Porcelaines."
  "Very well. Will you excuse me, my dear Raoul? I am so proud since I
have been able to walk again."
  "I would offer you my arm, De Guiche, if I did not guess that the
person in question is a lady."
  "I believe so," said De Guiche, smiling, as he quitted Raoul.
  Raoul remained motionless, absorbed, overwhelmed, like the miner
upon whom a vault has just fallen in: he is wounded, his life-blood is
welling fast, his thoughts are confused; he endeavors to recover
himself, and to save his life and his reason. A few minutes were all
Raoul needed to dissipate the bewildering sensations which had been
occasioned by these two revelations. He had already recovered the
thread of his ideas, when suddenly through the door he fancied he
recognized Montalais's voice in the Cabinet des Porcelaines. "She!" he
cried. "Yes; it is indeed her voice! Oh! here is a woman who can
tell me the truth; but shall I question her here? She conceals herself
even from me; she is coming, no doubt, from Madame. I will see her
in her own apartment. She will explain her alarm, her flight, the
strange manner in which I was driven out; she will tell me all
that,- after M. d'Artagnan, who knows everything, shall have given
me fresh strength and courage. Madame- a coquette, I fear, and yet a
coquette who is herself in love- has her moments of kindness; a
coquette who is as capricious and uncertain as life or death, but
who causes De Guiche to say that he is the happiest of men. He at
least is lying on roses." And so he hastily quitted the count's
apartments; and reproaching himself as he went for having talked of
nothing but his own affairs to De Guiche, he arrived at d'Artagnan's
quarters.
      Chapter XII: Bragelonne Continues His Inquiries

  THE captain was sitting buried in his leathern arm-chair, his spur
fixed in the floor, his sword between his legs, and was occupied in
reading a great number of letters, as he twisted his mustache.
D'Artagnan uttered a welcome full of pleasure when he perceived his
friend's son. "Raoul, my boy," he said, "by what lucky accident does
it happen that the King has recalled you?"
  These words did not sound over-agreeably in the young man's ears,
who as he seated himself replied, "Upon my word, I cannot tell you;
all that I know is that I have come back."
  "Hum!" said d'Artagnan, folding up his letters and directing a
look full of meaning at him. "What do you say, my boy?- that the
King has not recalled you, and that you have returned? I do not at all
understand that."
  Raoul was already pale enough, and he began to turn his hat round
and round in his hand with an air of constraint.
  "What the deuce is the matter, that you look as you do, and what
makes you so dumb?" said the captain. "Do people catch that fashion in
England? I have been in England, and came back again as lively as a
chaffinch. Will you not say something?"
  "I have too much to say."
  "Ah! ah! how is your father?"
  "Forgive me, my dear friend; I was going to ask you that."
  D'Artagnan increased the sharpness of his penetrating gaze, which no
secret was capable of resisting. "You are unhappy about something," he
said.
  "I am, indeed; and you know very well what, M. d'Artagnan."
  "I?"
  "Of course. Nay, do not pretend to be astonished."
  "I am not pretending to be astonished, my friend."
  "Dear captain, I know very well that in all trials of finesse, as
well as in all trials of strength, I shall be beaten by you. You can
see that at the present moment I am an idiot, a fool. I have neither
head nor arm; do not despise, but help me. In a few words, I am the
most wretched of living beings."
  "Oh! oh! why that?" inquired d'Artagnan, unbuckling his belt and
softening the ruggedness of his smile.
  "Because Mademoiselle de la Valliere is deceiving me."
  "She is deceiving you?" said d'Artagnan, not a muscle of whose
face had moved. "Those are big words. Who makes use of them?"
  "Every one."
  "Ah! if every one says so, there must be some truth in it. I begin
to believe there is fire when I see the smoke. It is ridiculous,
perhaps, but so it is."
  "Therefore you do believe?" exclaimed Bragelonne, quickly.
  "I never mix myself up in affairs of that kind; you know that very
well."
  "What! not for a friend, for a son?"
  "Exactly. If you were a stranger, I should tell you- I should tell
you nothing at all. How is Porthos, do you know?"
  "Monsieur," cried Raoul, pressing d'Artagnan's hand, "I entreat you,
in the name of the friendship you have vowed to my father!"
  "The deuce take it, you are really ill- from curiosity."
  "No, it is not from curiosity; it is from love."
  "Good! Another grand word! If you were really in love, my dear
Raoul, you would be very different."
  "What do you mean?"
  "I mean that if you were so deeply in love that I could believe I
was addressing myself to your heart- But it is impossible."
  "I tell you I love Louise to distraction."
  D'Artagnan could read to the very bottom of the young man's heart.
  "Impossible, I tell you," he said. "You are like all young men,- you
are not in love, you are out of your senses."
  "Well, suppose it were only that?"
  "No sensible man ever succeeded in making much of a brain when the
head was turned. I have lost my bearings in the same way a hundred
times in my life. You would listen to me, but you would not hear me;
you would hear, but you would not understand me; you would understand,
but you would not obey me."
  "Oh, try, try!"
  "I say more. Even if I were unfortunate enough to know something,
and foolish enough to communicate it to you- You are my friend, you
say?"
  "Indeed, yes."
  "Very good. I should quarrel with you. You would never forgive me
for having destroyed your illusion, as people say of love-affairs."
  "M. d'Artagnan, you know all; and yet you plunge me in perplexity,
in despair, in death."
  "There, there!"
  "I never complain, as you know; but as Heaven and my father would
never forgive me for blowing out my brains, I will go and get the
first person I meet to give me the information which you withhold; I
will tell him he lies, and-"
  "And you will kill him? A fine affair that would be! So much the
better. What should I care for it? Kill my boy, kill, if it can give
you any pleasure. It is exactly like a man with the toothache, who
keeps on saying, 'Oh, what torture I am suffering! I could bite iron.'
My answer always is, 'Bite, my friend, bite; the tooth will remain all
the same.'"
  "I shall not kill any one, Monsieur," said Raoul, gloomily.
  "Yes, yes; you fellows of to-day put on those airs. Instead of
killing, you will get killed yourself, I suppose you mean? Very fine
indeed! How much I should regret you! I should say all day long:
'Ah! what a high-flown simpleton that Bragelonne was,- doubly an
ingrate! I have passed my whole life almost in teaching him how to
hold his sword properly, and the silly fellow has got himself
spitted like a lark.' Go, then, Raoul, go and get yourself disposed
of, if you like. I don't know who taught you logic; but, God damn me,-
as the English say,- whoever it was, Monsieur, has stolen your
father's money."
  Raoul buried his face in his hands, murmuring, "No, no; I have not a
single friend in the world!"
  "Oh, bah!" said d'Artagnan.
  "I meet with nothing but raillery or indifference."
  "Idle fancies, Monsieur! I do not laugh at you, although I am a
Gascon. And as for being indifferent, if I were so I should have
sent you to all the devils a quarter of an hour ago; for you would
sadden a man who was wild with joy, and would kill one who was sad.
How now, young man! Do you wish me to disgust you with the girl to
whom you are attached, and to teach you to execrate women, who are the
honor and happiness of human life?"
  "Oh, tell me, Monsieur, and I will bless you!"
  "Do you think, my dear fellow, that I can have crammed into my brain
all that business about the carpenter and the painter and the
staircase and the portrait, and a hundred other tales to sleep over?"
  "A carpenter! what do you mean?"
  "Upon my word, I don't know. Some one told me there was a
carpenter who made an opening through a floor."
  "In La Valliere's room?"
  "Oh, I don't know where!"
  "In the King's apartment, perhaps?"
  "Of course! If it were in the King's apartment, I should tell you, I
suppose."
  "In whose room, then?"
  "I have told you for the last hour that I know nothing of the
whole affair."
  "But the painter, then,- the portrait?"
  "It seems that the King wished to have the portrait of one of the
ladies belonging to the court."
  "La Valliere's?"
  "Why, you seem to have only that name in your mouth! Who spoke to
you of La Valliere?"
  "If it be not her portrait, then, why do you suppose it would
concern me?"
  "I do not suppose it will concern you. But you ask me all sorts of
questions, and I answer you; you wish to know the current scandal, and
I tell you. Make the best you can of it!"
  Raoul struck his forehead with his hand, in utter despair. "It
will kill me! he said.
  "So you have said already."
  "Yes, you're right"; and he made a step or two as if he were going
to leave.
  "Where are you going?"
  "To find some one who will tell me the truth."
  "Who is that?"
  "A woman."
  "Mademoiselle de la Valliere herself, I suppose you mean?" said
d'Artagnan, with a smile. "Ah, a famous idea that! You wish to be
consoled by some one, and you will be so at once. She will tell you
nothing ill of herself, of course. So be off!"
  "You are mistaken, Monsieur," replied Raoul; "the woman I mean
will tell me all the evil she possibly can."
  "Montalais, I'll wager."
  "Yes, Montalais."
  "Ah! her friend, a woman who in that capacity will exaggerate all
that is either bad or good in the matter. Do not talk to Montalais, my
good Raoul."
  "You have some reason for wishing me not to talk with Montalais?"
  "Well, I admit it. And, in point of fact, why should I play with you
as a cat does with a poor mouse? You distress me,- you do indeed.
And if I wish you not to speak to Montalais just now, it is because
you will be betraying your secret, and people will take advantage of
it. Wait, if you can!"
  "I cannot."
  "So much the worse. Why, you see, Raoul, if I had an idea- but I
have not got one."
  "Promise that you will pity me, my friend,- that is all I need,- and
leave me to get out of the affair by myself."
  "Oh, yes, indeed, in order that you may get deeper into the mire!
A capital idea, truly! Go and sit down at that table and take a pen in
your hand."
  "What for?"
  "To write to ask Montalais to give you an interview."
  "Ah!" said Raoul, snatching eagerly at the pen which the captain
held out to him.
  Suddenly the door opened; and one of the musketeers, approaching
d'Artagnan, said, "Captain, Mademoiselle de Montalais is here, and
wishes to speak to you."
  "To me?" murmured d'Artagnan. "Ask her to come in. I shall soon
see," he said to himself, "whether she wishes to speak to me or not."
  The cunning captain was quite right in his suspicions; for as soon
as Montalais entered, she saw Raoul and exclaimed, "Monsieur!
Monsieur!- I beg your pardon, M. d'Artagnan."
  "Oh, I forgive you, Mademoiselle," said d'Artagnan; "I know that
at my age those who look for me have great need of me."
  "I was looking for M. de Bragelonne," replied Montalais.
  "How fortunate! and I was looking for you!"
  "Raoul, won't you accompany Mademoiselle Montalais?"
  "Oh, certainly!"
  "Go along, then," he said, as he gently pushed Raoul out of the
cabinet; and then taking hold of Montalais's hand, he said in a low
voice, "Be kind towards him; spare him, and spare her too."
  "Ah!" she said in the same tone of voice, "it is not I who will
speak to him."
  "Who, then?"
  "It is Madame who has sent for him."
  "Very good," cried d'Artagnan; "it is Madame, is it? In an hour's
time, then, the poor fellow will be cured."
  "Or else dead," said Montalais, in a voice full of compassion.
"Adieu, M. d'Artagnan!" she said; and she ran to join Raoul, who was
waiting for her at a little distance from the door, very much
puzzled and uneasy at the dialogue, which promised no good to him.
                Chapter XIII: Two Jealousies

  LOVERS are very tender towards everything which concerns the
person with whom they are in love. Raoul no sooner found himself alone
with Montalais than he kissed her hand with rapture. "There, there,"
said the young girl, sadly, "you are throwing your kisses away; I will
guarantee that they will not bring you back any interest."
  "How so? Why? Will you explain to me, my dear Aure?"
  "Madame will explain everything to you. I am going to take you to
her apartments."
  "What!"
  "Silence! and throw aside your wild and savage looks. The windows
here have eyes; the walls have ears. Have the kindness not to look
at me any longer; be good enough to speak to me aloud of the rain,
of the fine weather, and of the charms of England."
  "At all events-" interrupted Raoul.
  "I tell you, I warn you, that somewhere, I know not where, Madame is
sure to have eyes and ears open. I am not very desirous, you can
easily believe, to be dismissed or thrown into the Bastille. Let us
talk, I tell you; or rather, do not let us talk at all."
  Raoul clinched his hands, and assumed the look and gait of a man
of courage, but of a man of courage on his way to the torture.
Montalais, glancing in every direction, walking along with an easy
swinging gait, and holding up her head pertly in the air, preceded him
to Madame's apartments, where he was at once introduced. "Well," he
thought, "this day will pass away without my learning anything. De
Guiche had too much consideration for my feelings. He has no doubt
an understanding with Madame; and both of them, by a friendly plot,
have agreed to postpone the solution of the problem. Why have I not
here a good enemy,- that serpent De Wardes, for instance? That he
would bite is very likely, but I should not hesitate any more. To
hesitate, to doubt,- better by far to die!"
  Raoul was in Madame's presence. Henrietta, more charming than
ever, was half lying, half reclining in her arm-chair, her little feet
upon an embroidered velvet cushion; she was playing with a little
kitten with long silky fur, which was biting her fingers and hanging
by the lace of her collar.
  Madame was thinking; she was thinking profoundly. It required both
Montalais's and Raoul's voice to disturb her from her reverie.
  "Your Highness sent for me?" repeated Raoul.
  Madame shook her head, as if she were just awakening, and then said:
"Good-morning, M. de Bragelonne. Yes, I sent for you. So you have
returned from England?"
  "Yes, Madame, and I am at your royal Highness's commands."
  "Thank you. Leave us, Montalais!" and the latter left the room.
  "You have a few minutes to give me, M. de Bragelonne, have you not?"
  "All my life is at your royal Highness's disposal," Raoul
returned, with respect, guessing that there was something serious
under all these outward courtesies of Madame; nor was he displeased,
indeed, to observe the seriousness of her manner, feeling persuaded
that there was some sort of affinity between Madame's sentiments and
his own. In fact, every one at court of any perception at all well
knew the capricious fancy and absurd despotism of the princess's
singular character. Madame had been flattered beyond all bounds by the
King's attentions; she had made herself talked about; she had inspired
the Queen with that mortal jealousy which is the gnawing worm at the
root of every woman's happiness. Madame, in a word, in her attempts to
cure a wounded pride, had found that her heart had become deeply and
passionately attached.
  We know what Madame had done to recall Raoul, who had been sent
out of the way by Louis XIV. Raoul did not know of her letter to
Charles II, although d'Artagnan had guessed its contents. Who will
undertake to account for that seemingly inexplicable mixture of love
and vanity, that passionate tenderness of feeling, that prodigious
duplicity of conduct? No one can, indeed; not even the bad angel who
kindles the love of coquetry in the heart of woman.
  "M. de Bragelonne," said the princess, after a moment's pause, "have
you returned satisfied?"
  Bragelonne looked at Madame Henrietta, and seeing how pale she
was, from what she was keeping back, from what she was burning to
disclose, replied: "Satisfied? What is there for me to be satisfied or
dissatisfied about, Madame?"
  "But what are those things with which a man of your age and of
your appearance is usually either satisfied or dissatisfied?"
  "How eager she is?" thought Raoul, terrified. "What is it that she
is going to breathe into my heart?" and then, frightened at what she
might possibly be going to tell him, and wishing to put off the moment
so wished for but so dreadful, when he should learn all, he replied,
"I left behind me, Madame, a dear friend in good health, and on my
return I find him very ill."
  "You refer to M. de Guiche," replied Madame Henrietta, with the most
imperturbable self-possession; "I have heard he is a very dear
friend of yours."
  "He is, indeed, Madame."
  "Well, it is quite true he has been wounded; but he is better now.
Oh, M. de Guiche is not to be pitied!" she said hurriedly; and then,
recovering herself, added, "But has he anything to complain of? Has he
complained of anything? Is there any cause of grief or sorrow with
which we are not acquainted?"
  "I allude only to his wound, Madame."
  "So much the better, then; for in other respects M. de Guiche
seems to be very happy,- he is always in very high spirits. I am
sure that you, M. de Bragelonne, would far prefer to be, like him,
wounded only in the body,- for what indeed, is such a wound, after
all?"
  Raoul started. "Alas!" he said to himself, "she is returning to it."
He made no reply.
  "What did you say?" she inquired.
  "I did not say anything, Madame."
  "You did not say anything. You disapprove of my observation, then.
You are perfectly satisfied, I suppose?"
  Raoul approached closer to her. "Madame," he said, "your royal
Highness wishes to say something to me, and your instinctive
kindness and generosity of disposition induce you to be careful and
considerate as to your manner of conveying it. Will your royal
Highness throw this kind forbearance aside? I am strong, and I am
listening."
  "Ah!" replied Henrietta, "what do you understand, then?"
  "That which your royal Highness wishes me to understand," said
Raoul, trembling, notwithstanding his command over himself, as he
pronounced these words.
  "In point of fact," murmured the princess, "it seems cruel; but
since I have begun-"
  "Yes, Madame, since your Highness has deigned to begin, will you
deign to finish-"
  Henrietta rose hurriedly, and walked a few paces up and down her
room. "What did M. de Guiche tell you?" she said suddenly.
  "Nothing, Madame."
  "Nothing! Did he say nothing? Ah, how well I recognize him in that!"
  "No doubt he wished to spare me."
  "And that is what friends call friendship. But surely M. d'Artagnan,
whom you have just left, must have told you."
  "No more than De Guiche, Madame."
  Henrietta made a gesture full of impatience, as she said, "At least,
you know all that the court has known?"
  "I know nothing at all, Madame."
  "Not the scene in the storm?"
  "Not the scene in the storm."
  "Not the tete-a-tete in the forest?"
  "Not the tete-a-tete in the forest."
  "Nor the flight to Chaillot?"
  Raoul, whose head drooped like the flower which has been cut down by
the sickle, made an almost superhuman effort to smile as he replied
with the greatest gentleness: "I have had the honor to tell your royal
Highness that I am absolutely ignorant of everything,- that I am a
poor unremembered outcast, who has this moment arrived from England.
There have been so many stormy waves between myself and those whom I
left behind me here, that the rumor of none of the circumstances
your Highness refers to has been able to reach me."
  Henrietta was affected by his extreme pallor, his gentleness, and
his great courage. The principal feeling in her heart at that moment
was an eager desire to hear the nature of the remembrance which the
poor lover retained of her who had made him suffer so much. "M. de
Bragelonne," said she, "that which your friends have refused to do,
I will do for you, whom I like and esteem. I will be your friend.
You hold your head high, as a man of honor should do; and I should
regret that you should have to bow it down under ridicule, and in a
few days, it may be, under contempt."
  "Ah!" exclaimed Raoul, perfectly livid. "Has it already gone so
far?"
  "If you do not know," said the princess, "I see that you guess;
you were affianced, I believe, to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"
  "Yes, Madame."
  "By that right, then, you deserve to be warned about her, as some
day or other I shall be obliged to dismiss her from my service-"
  "Dismiss La Valliere!" cried Bragelonne.
  "Of course! Do you suppose that I shall always be accessible to
the tears and protestations of the King? No, no; my house shall no
longer be made a convenience for such practices. But you tremble!"
  "No, Madame, no," said Bragelonne, making an effort over himself. "I
thought I should have died just now; that was all. Your royal Highness
did me the honor to say that the King wept and implored you-"
  "Yes; but in vain," returned the princess, who then related to Raoul
the scene that took place at Chaillot, and the King's despair on his
return. She told him of his indulgence to herself, and the terrible
word with which the outraged princess, the humiliated coquette, had
dashed aside the royal anger.
  Raoul bowed his head.
  "What do you think of it all?" she said.
  "The King loves her," he replied.
  "But you seem to think she does not love him!"
  "Alas, Madame, I still think of the time when she loved me."
  Henrietta was for a moment struck with admiration at this sublime
disbelief; and then, shrugging her shoulders, she said: "You do not
believe me, I see. Oh, how deeply you love her! And you doubt if she
loves the King?"
  "Until I have proof. Pardon! I have her word, you see; and she is
a noble child."
  "You require a proof? Be it so! Come with me."
              Chapter XIV: A Domiciliary Visit

  THE princess, preceding Raoul, led him through the courtyard towards
that part of the building which La Valliere inhabited; and ascending
the same staircase which Raoul had himself ascended that very morning,
she paused at the door of the room in which the young man had been
so strangely received by Montalais. The opportunity had been well
chosen to carry out the project which Madame Henrietta had
conceived, for the chateau was empty. The King, the courtiers, and the
ladies of the court had set off for St. Germain; Madame Henrietta
alone, aware of Bragelonne's return, and thinking over the
advantages which might be drawn from this return, had feigned
indisposition in order to remain behind. Madame was therefore
confident of finding La Valliere's room and Saint-Aignan's apartment
unoccupied. She took a pass-key from her pocket, and opened the door
of her maid-of-honor's room. Bragelonne's gaze was immediately fixed
upon the interior of the room, which he recognized at once; and the
impression which the sight of it produced upon him was one of the
first tortures that had awaited him. The princess looked at him, and
her practised eye could at once detect what was passing in the young
man's heart.
  "You asked me for proofs," she said; "do not be astonished, then, if
I give you them. But if you do not think you have courage enough to
confront them, there is still time to withdraw."
  "I thank you, Madame," said Bragelonne; "but I came here to be
convinced. You promised to convince me; do so."
  "Enter, then," said Madame, "and shut the door behind you."
  Bragelonne obeyed, and then turned towards the princess, whom he
interrogated by a look.
  "You know where you are, I suppose?" inquired Madame Henrietta.
  "Everything leads me to believe that I am in Mademoiselle de la
Valliere's room."
  "You are."
  "But I would observe to your Highness that this room is a room,
and is not a proof."
  "Wait," said the princess, as she walked to the foot of the bed,
folded up the screen into its several compartments, and stooped down
towards the floor. "Look here," she continued; "stoop down, and lift
up this trap-door."
  "A trap-door!" said Raoul, astonished; for d'Artagnan's words
recurred to his mind, and he remembered that d'Artagnan had made vague
use of that word. He looked in vain for some cleft or crevice which
might indicate an opening, or a ring to assist in lifting up some
portion of the planking.
  "Ah! that is true," said Madame Henrietta, smiling; "I forgot the
secret spring,- the fourth plank of the flooring. Press on the spot
where you will observe a knot in the wood. Those are the instructions.
Press, Viscount! press, I say, yourself!"
  Raoul, pale as death, pressed his finger on the spot which had
been indicated to him; at the same moment the spring began to work,
and the trap rose of its own accord.
  "It is very ingenious, certainly," said the princess; "and one can
see that the architect foresaw that it would be a small hand which
would have to employ that device. See how easily the trap-door opens
without assistance!"
  "A staircase!" cried Raoul.
  "Yes; and a very pretty one too," said Madame Henrietta. "See,
Viscount, the staircase has a balustrade, intended to prevent the
falling of timid persons, who might be tempted to descend; and I
will risk myself on it accordingly. Come, Viscount, follow me!"
  "But before following you, Madame, may I ask whither this
staircase leads?"
  "Ah! true; I forgot to tell you. You know, perhaps, that formerly M.
de Saint-Aignan lived in the very next apartment to the King's?"
  "Yes, Madame, I am aware of that,- that was the arrangement, at
least, before I left; and more than once I have had the honor of
visiting him in his old rooms."
  "Well, he obtained the King's leave to change that convenient and
beautiful apartment for the two rooms to which this staircase will
conduct us, and which together form a lodging for him twice as small
and at ten times greater distance from the King,- a close proximity to
whom is by no means disdained, in general, by the gentlemen
belonging to the court."
  "Very good, Madame," returned Raoul; "but go on, I beg, for I do not
yet understand."
  "Well, then, it accidentally happened," continued the princess,
"that M. de Saint-Aignan's apartment is situated underneath the
apartments of my maids of honor, and particularly underneath the
room of La Valliere."
  "But what was the motive of this trap-door and this staircase?"
  "That I cannot tell you. Would you like to go down to M. de
Saint-Aignan's rooms? Perhaps we shall there find the solution of
the enigma."
  Madame set the example by going down herself; and Raoul, sighing
deeply, followed her. At every step Bragelonne took, he advanced
farther into that mysterious apartment which had been witness to La
Valliere's sighs, and still retained the sweetest perfume of her
presence. Bragelonne fancied that he perceived, as he inhaled his
every breath, that the young girl must have passed through there. Then
succeeded to these emanations of herself, which he regarded as
invisible though certain proofs, the flowers she preferred to all
others, the books of her own selection. Had Raoul preserved a single
doubt on the subject, it would have vanished at the secret harmony
of tastes and disposition of the mind shown in the things of common
use. La Valliere, in Bragelonne's eyes, was present there in every
article of furniture, in the color of the hangings, in everything that
surrounded him. Dumb, and completely overwhelmed there was nothing
further for him to learn, and he followed his pitiless conductress
as blindly as the culprit follows the executioner. Madame, as cruel as
all women of delicate and nervous temperaments are, did not spare
him the slightest detail. But it must be admitted that notwithstanding
the kind of apathy into which he had fallen, none of these details,
even had he been left alone, would have escaped him. The happiness
of the woman who loves, when that happiness is derived from a rival,
is a torture for a jealous man; but for a jealous man such as Raoul
was, for that heart which for the first time was steeped in gall and
bitterness, Louise's happiness was in reality an ignominious death,
a death of body and soul. He divined all,- their hands clasped in each
other's, their faces drawn close together, and reflected, side by
side, in loving proximity, as they gazed upon the mirrors around
them,- so sweet an occupation for lovers, who, as they thus see
themselves twice over, impress the picture more enduringly in their
memories. He divined the kiss unseen behind the heavy curtains falling
free of their bands. He translated into feverish pains the eloquence
of the couches hid in their shadow. That luxury, that studied
elegance, full of intoxication; that extreme care to spare the loved
object every annoyance or to occasion her a delightful surprise;
that strength and power of love multiplied by the strength and power
of royalty itself,- struck Raoul a mortal blow. O, if there be
anything which can assuage the tortures of jealousy, it is the
inferiority of the man who is preferred to yourself; while, on the
very contrary, if there be a hell within hell, a torture without
name in language, it is the almightiness of a god placed at the
disposal of a rival, together with youth, beauty, and grace. In
moments such as these, God himself seems to have taken part against
the rejected lover.
  One final pang was reserved for poor Raoul. Madame Henrietta
lifted a silk curtain, and behind the curtain he perceived La
Valliere's portrait. Not only the portrait of La Valliere, but of La
Valliere eloquent of youth, beauty, and happiness, inhaling life and
enjoyment at every pore, because at eighteen years of age love
itself is life.
  "Louise!" murmured Bragelonne, "Louise! is it true, then? Oh, you
have never loved me, for never have you looked at me in that
manner!" and he felt as if his heart were crushed within his bosom.
  Madame Henrietta looked at him, almost envious of his extreme grief,
although she well knew there was nothing to envy in it, and that she
herself was as passionately loved by De Guiche as Louise by
Bragelonne. Raoul interpreted Madame Henrietta's look.
  "Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Madame! In your presence I know I ought
to have greater mastery over myself. But may the Lord God of Heaven
and of earth grant that you may never be struck the blow which crushes
me at this moment; for you are but a woman, and would not be able to
endure so terrible an affliction. Forgive me! I am but a poor
gentleman, while you belong to the race of the happy, of the
all-powerful, of the elect-"
  "M. de Bragelonne," replied Henrietta, "a heart such as yours merits
all the consideration and respect which a queen's heart even can
bestow. I am your friend, Monsieur; and as such, indeed, I would not
allow your whole life to be poisoned by perfidy and covered with
ridicule. It was I, indeed, who with more courage than any of your
pretended friends,- I except M. de Guiche,- was the cause of your
return from London; it is I, also, who have given you these melancholy
proofs,- necessary however for your cure, if you are a lover with
courage in his heart, and not a weeping Amadis. Do not thank me;
pity me even, and do not serve the King less faithfully than you
have done."
  Raoul smiled bitterly. "Ah! true, true; I was forgetting that! The
King is my master."
  "Your liberty, nay, your very life, is at stake."
  A steady, penetrating look informed Madame Henrietta that she was
mistaken, and that her last argument was not likely to affect the
young man. "Take care, M. de Bragelonne," she said; "for if you do not
weigh well all your actions, you might throw into an extravagance of
wrath a prince whose passions, once aroused, exceed the limits of
reason, and you would thereby involve your friends and family in
distress. You must bend; you must submit, and must cure yourself."
  "I thank you, Madame. I appreciate the advice your royal Highness is
good enough to give me, and I will endeavor to follow it; but one
final word, I beg."
  "Name it."
  "Should I be indiscreet in asking you the secret of this
staircase, of this trapdoor,- a secret which you have discovered?"
  "Oh, nothing is more simple! For the purpose of exercising a
surveillance over the young girls who are attached to my service, I
have duplicate keys of their doors. It seemed very strange to me
that M. de Saint-Aignan should change his apartments; it seemed very
strange that the King should come to see M. de Saint-Aignan every day;
and finally, it seemed very strange that so many things should be done
during your absence,- that the very habits and customs of the court
seemed to be changed. I do not wish to be trifled with by the King,
nor to serve as a cloak for his love-affairs; for after La Valliere,
who weeps, he will take a fancy to Montalais, who laughs, and then
to Tonnay-Charente, who sings. To act such a part as that would be
unworthy of me. I have thrust aside the scruples which my friendship
for you suggested. I have discovered the secret. I have wounded your
feelings, I know, and I again entreat you to excuse me; but I had a
duty to fulfill. I have discharged it. You are now forewarned. The
tempest will soon burst; protect yourself."
  "You naturally expect, however, that a result of some kind must
follow," replied Bragelonne, with firmness; "for you do not suppose
I shall silently accept the shame which is thrust upon me, or the
treachery which has been practised against me?"
  "You will take whatever steps in the matter you please, M. Raoul;
only, do not betray the source whence you derived the truth. That is
all I have to ask; that is the only price I require for the service
I have rendered you."
  "Fear nothing, Madame!" said Bragelonne, with a bitter smile.
  "I bribed the locksmith in whom the lovers had confided. You can
just as well do so as myself, can you not?"
  "Yes, Madame. Your royal Highness, however, has no other advice or
caution to give me, except that of not betraying you?"
  "None other."
  "I am, therefore, about to beg your royal Highness to allow me to
remain here for one moment."
  "Without me?"
  "Oh, no, Madame! It matters very little, for what I have to do can
be done in your presence. I only ask one moment to write a line to
some one."
  "It is dangerous, M. de Bragelonne. Take care!"
  "No one can possibly know that your royal Highness has done me the
honor to conduct me here. Besides, I shall sign the letter I am
going to write."
  "Do as you please, then."
  Raoul drew out his tablet, and wrote rapidly on one of the leaves
the following words:-

  "MONSIEUR THE COUNT: Do not be surprised to find here this paper
signed by me. The friend whom I shall very shortly send to call on you
will have the honor to explain the object of my visit to you.
                                       "VICOMTE RAOUL DE BRAGELONNE."

  Rolling up the paper, and slipping it into the lock of the door
which communicated with the room set apart for the two lovers, Raoul
satisfied himself that the paper was so apparent that De
Saint-Aignan could not but see it as he entered; then he rejoined
the princess, who had already reached the top of the staircase. They
then separated,- Raoul pretending to thank her Highness; Henrietta
pitying, or seeming to pity, with all her heart the unhappy man she
had just condemned to so fearful torture. "Oh," she said as she saw
him disappear, pale as death, his eye injected with blood, "if I had
known this, I should have concealed the truth from that poor young
man!"
             Chapter XV: Porthos's Plan of Action

  THE multiplicity of the personages we have introduced into this long
history compels that each shall appear only in his own turn and
according to the exigencies of the recital. The result is that our
readers have had no opportunity of again meeting our friend Porthos
since his return from Fontainebleau. The honors which he had
received from the King had not changed the tranquil, affectionate
character of that worthy man; only, he held up his head a little
higher than usual, and a majesty of demeanor as it were betrayed
itself, since the honor of dining at the King's table had been
accorded him.
  His Majesty's banqueting-room had produced a certain effect upon
Porthos. Le Seigneur de Bracieux et de Pierrefonds delighted to
remember that during that memorable dinner the numerous array of
servants and the large number of officials who were in attendance upon
the guests gave a certain tone and effect to the repast, and seemed to
furnish the room. Porthos proposed to confer upon Mouston a position
of some kind or other, in order to establish a sort of hierarchy among
his domestics, and to create a military household,- which was not
unusual among the great captains of the age, since in the preceding
century this luxury had been greatly encouraged by Messieurs de
Treville, de Schomberg, de la Vieuville, without alluding to Messieurs
de Richelieu, de Conde, and de Bouillon-Turenne. And, therefore, why
should not he,- Porthos, the friend of the King and of M. Fouquet, a
baron, an engineer, etc.,- why should not he indeed enjoy all the
delightful privileges attached to large possessions and great merit?
Somewhat neglected by Aramis, who we know was greatly occupied with M.
Fouquet; neglected also, on account of his being on duty, by
d'Artagnan; tired of Truchen and Planchet,- Porthos was surprised to
find himself dreaming, without precisely knowing why; but if any one
had said to him, "Do you want anything, Porthos?" he would most
certainly have replied, "Yes."
  After one of those dinners, during which Porthos attempted to recall
to his mind all the details of the royal banquet,- half joyful, thanks
to the excellence of the wines; half melancholy, thanks to his
ambitious ideas,- Porthos was gradually falling off into a gentle
doze, when his servant entered to announce that M. de Bragelonne
wished to speak to him. Porthos passed into an adjoining room, where
he found his young friend in the disposition of mind of which we are
already aware. Raoul advanced towards Porthos, and shook him by the
hand. Porthos, surprised at his seriousness of aspect, offered him a
seat.
  "Dear M. du Vallon," said Raoul, "I have a service to ask of you."
  "Nothing could happen more fortunately, my young friend," replied
Porthos. "I have had eight thousand livres sent me this morning from
Pierrefonds; and if you want any money-"
  "No, I thank you; it is not money, my dear friend."
  "So much the worse, then. I have always heard it said that that is
the rarest service, but the easiest to render. The remark struck me; I
like to cite remarks that strike me."
  "Your heart is as good as your mind is sound and true."
  "You are too kind, I'm sure. Will you have your dinner immediately?"
  "No; I am not hungry."
  "Eh! What a dreadful country England is!"
  "Not too much so; but-"
  "Well, if such excellent fish and meat were not to be procured
there, it would hardly be endurable."
  "Yes. I have come-"
  "I am listening. Only allow me to take something to drink. One
gets thirsty in Paris"; and Porthos ordered a bottle of champagne to
be brought. Then, having first filled Raoul's glass, he filled his
own, took a large draught, and resumed: "I needed that, in order to
listen to you with proper attention. I am now quite at your service.
What have you to ask me, dear Raoul? What do you want?"
  "Give me your opinion upon quarrels in general, my dear friend."
  "My opinion? Well- but- Explain your idea a little," replied
Porthos, rubbing his forehead.
  "I mean,- are you generally of accommodating disposition whenever
any misunderstanding arises between your friends and strangers?"
  "Oh! of excellent disposition, as always."
  "Very good; but what do you do in such a case?"
  "Whenever any friend of mine has a quarrel, I always act upon one
principle."
  "What is that?"
  "That all lost time is irreparable, and that one never arranges an
affair so well as when the dispute is still warm."
  "Ah! indeed, that is your principle?"
  "Thoroughly; so, as soon as a quarrel takes place, I bring the two
parties together."
  "Exactly."
  "You understand that by this means it is impossible for an affair
not to be arranged."
  "I should have thought," said Raoul, with astonishment, "that,
treated in this manner, an affair would, on the contrary-"
  "Oh, not the least in the world! Just fancy now! I have had in my
life something like a hundred and eighty to a hundred and ninety
regular duels, without reckoning hasty encounters or chance meetings."
  "It is a very handsome number," said Raoul, unable to resist a
smile.
  "A mere nothing; but I am so gentle. D'Artagnan reckons his duels by
hundreds. It is very true he is a little too hard and sharp,- I have
often told him so."
  "And so," resumed Raoul, "you generally arrange the affairs of honor
your friends confide to you."
  "There is not a single instance in which I have not finished by
arranging every one of them," said Porthos, with a gentleness and
confidence which surprised Raoul.
  "But the way in which you settle them is at least honorable, I
suppose?"
  "Oh, rely upon that! And at this stage I will explain my other
principle to you. As soon as my friend has confided his quarrel to me,
this is what I do: I go to his adversary at once, armed with a
politeness and self-possession which are absolutely requisite under
such circumstances."
  "That is the way, then," said Raoul, bitterly, "that you arrange the
affairs so safely?"
  "I believe so. I go to the adversary, then, and say to him, 'It is
impossible, Monsieur, that you are ignorant of the extent to which you
have insulted my friend.'" Raoul puckered his brows.
  "It sometimes happens,- very often indeed," pursued Porthos,-
"that my friend has not been insulted at all; he has even been the
first to give offence. You can imagine, therefore, whether my language
is not well chosen"; and Porthos burst into a peal of laughter.
  "Decidedly," said Raoul to himself, while the formidable thunder
of Porthos's laughter was ringing in his ears' "I am very unfortunate.
De Guiche treats me with coldness, d'Artagnan with ridicule, Porthos
is too tame; no one is ready to 'arrange' this affair in my way. And I
came to Porthos because I wished to find a sword instead of cold
reasoning. Ah, what wretched luck!"
  Porthos, who had recovered himself, continued: "By a simple
expression, I leave my adversary without an excuse."
  "That is as it may happen," said Raoul, indifferently.
  "Not at all; it is quite certain. I have not left him an excuse; and
then it is that I display all my courtesy, in order to attain the
happy issue of my project. I advance, therefore, with an air of
great politeness, and taking my adversary by the hand-"
  "Oh!" said Raoul, impatiently.
  "'Monsieur,' I say to him, 'now that you are convinced of having
given the offence, we are sure of reparation; between my friend and
yourself the future can offer only an exchange of gracious ceremonies.
Consequently I am instructed to give you the length of my friend's
sword-'"
  "What!" said Raoul.
  "Wait a minute!- 'the length of my friend's sword. My horse is
waiting below; my friend is in such and such a spot, and is
impatiently awaiting your agreeable society. I will take you with
me; we can call upon your second as we go along. The affair is
arranged.'"
  "And so," said Raoul, pale with vexation, "You reconcile the two
adversaries on the ground."
  "I beg your pardon," interrupted Porthos. "Reconcile? What for?"
  "You said that the affair was arranged."
  "Of course! since my friend is waiting for him."
  "Well, what then? If he is waiting-"
  "Well, if he is waiting, it is merely to stretch his legs a
little; the adversary, on the contrary, is stiff from riding. They
place themselves in proper order, and my friend kills his opponent;
the affair is ended."
  "Ah! he kills him?" cried Raoul.
  "I should think so," said Porthos. "It is likely I should ever
have as a friend a man who allows himself to get killed? I have a
hundred and one friends; at the head of the list stand your father,
Aramis, and d'Artagnan,- all of whom are living and well, I believe."
  "Oh, my dear baron!" exclaimed Raoul, delightedly, as he embraced
Porthos.
  "You approve of my method, then?" said the giant.
  "I approve of it so thoroughly that I shall have recourse to it this
very day, without a moment's delay,- at once, in fact. You are the
very man I have been looking for."
  "Good! Here I am, then. You want to fight?"
  "Absolutely so."
  "It is very natural. With whom?"
  "With M. de Saint-Aignan."
  "I know him,- a most agreeable man, who was exceedingly polite to me
the day I had the honor of dining with the King. I shall certainly
return his politeness, even if that were not my usual custom. So, he
has given you offence?"
  "A mortal offence."
  "The devil! I can say 'mortal offence'?"
  "More than that, even, if you like."
  "That is very convenient."
  "I may look upon it as all arranged, may I not?" said Raoul,
smiling.
  "As a matter of course. Where will you be waiting for him?"
  "Ah! I forgot. It is a very delicate matter. M. de Saint-Aignan is a
great friend of the King."
  "So I have heard it said."
  "So that if I kill him-"
  "Oh, you will kill him certainly; you must take every precaution
to do so! But there is no difficulty in these matters now; if you
had lived in our early days,- oh, that was something like!"
  "My dear friend, you have not quite understood me. I mean that M. de
Saint-Aignan being a friend of the King, the affair will be more
difficult to manage, since the King might learn beforehand-"
  "Oh, no; that is not likely. You know my method: 'Monsieur, you have
injured my friend, and-'"
  "Yes, I know it."
  "And then: 'Monsieur, I have horses below.' I carry him off before
he can have spoken to any one."
  "Will he allow himself, think you, to be carried off like that?"
  "I should think so! I should like to see it fail! It would be the
first time, if it did. It is true, though, that the young men of the
present day- Bah! I would carry him off bodily, if it were necessary";
and Porthos, adding gesture to speech, lifted Raoul and his chair.
  "Very good," said Raoul, laughing. "All we have to do is to state
the grounds of the quarrel to M. de Saint-Aignan."
  "Well; but that is done, it seems."
  "No, my dear M. du Vallon, the usage of the present day requires
that the cause of the quarrel be explained."
  "By your new method, yes. Well, then, tell me what it is-"
  "The fact is-"
  "Deuce take it! See how troublesome this is! In former days we never
had any occasion to talk. People fought then for the sake of fighting;
and I, for one, know no better reason than that."
  "You are quite right, my friend."
  "However, tell me what the cause is."
  "It is too long a story to tell; only, as one must particularize
to some extent-"
  "Yes, yes, the devil!- with the new method."
  "As it is necessary, I said, to be specific, and as on the other
hand the affair is full of difficulties and requires the most absolute
secrecy-"
  "Oh! oh!"
  "You will have the kindness merely to tell M. de Saint-Aignan that
he has insulted me,- in the first place, by changing his lodgings."
  "By changing his lodgings? Good!" said Porthos, who began to count
on his fingers; "next?"
  "Then, in getting a trap-door made in his new apartments."
  "I understand," said Porthos; "a trapdoor! Upon my word, this is
very serious; you ought to be furious at that. What the deuce does the
fellow mean by getting trap-doors made without first consulting you?
Trap-doors! Mordioux! I haven't any, except in my dungeons at
Bracieux."
  "And you will add," said Raoul, "that my last motive for considering
myself insulted is the portrait that M. de Saint-Aignan well knows."
  "Is it possible? A portrait too! A change of residence, a trap-door,
and a portrait! Why, my dear friend, with but one of those causes of
complaint there is enough, and more than enough, for all the gentlemen
in France and Spain to cut one another's throats; and that is saying
but very little."
  "Well, my dear friend, you are furnished with all you need, I
suppose?"
  "I shall take a second horse with me. Select your own rendezvous;
and while you are waiting there you can practise some of the best
passes, so as to get your limbs as elastic as possible."
  "Thank you. I shall be waiting for you in the wood of Vincennes,
close to Minimes."
  "All's right, then. Where am I to find this M. de Saint-Aignan?"
  "At the Palais-Royal."
  Porthos rang a huge hand-bell. "My court suit," he said to the
servant who answered the summons, "my horse, and a led horse to
accompany me." Then turning to Raoul as soon as the servant had
quitted the room, he said, "Does your father know anything about
this?"
  "No; I am going to write to him."
  "And d'Artagnan?"
  "No, nor d'Artagnan, either. He is very cautious, you know, and
might have diverted me from my purpose."
  "D'Artagnan is a sound adviser, though," said Porthos, astonished
that in his own loyal faith in d'Artagnan any one could have thought
of himself so long as there was a d'Artagnan in the world.
  "Dear M. du Vallon," replied Raoul, "do not question me any more,
I implore you. I have told you all that I had to say; it is prompt
action that I now expect, as sharp and decided as you know how to
arrange it. That, indeed, is my reason for having chosen you."
  "You will be satisfied with me," replied Porthos.
  "Do not forget, either, that except ourselves no one must know
anything of this meeting."
  "People always find these things out," said Porthos, "when a dead
body is discovered in a wood. But I promise you everything, my dear
friend, except concealing the dead body. There it is; and it must be
seen, as a matter of course. It is a principle of mine not to bury
bodies. That has a smack of the assassin about it. Every risk must
take its risk, as they say in Normandy."
  "To work, then, my dear friend!"
  "Rely upon me," said the giant, finishing the bottle, while the
servant spread out upon a sofa the gorgeously decorated dress
trimmed with lace. Raoul left the room, saying to himself with a
secret delight: "Perfidious King! traitorous monarch! I cannot reach
thee. I do not wish it; for the person of a king is sacred. But your
accomplice, your panderer,- the coward who represents you,- shall
pay for your crime. I will kill him in thy name, and afterwards we
will think of Louise."
     Chapter XVI: The Change of Residence, the Trap-door,
                     and the Portrait

  PORTHOS, to his great delight intrusted with this mission, which
made him feel young again, took half an hour less than his usual
time to put on his court suit. To show that he was a man acquainted
with the usages of the highest society, he had begun by sending his
lackey to inquire if M. de Saint-Aignan were at home, and received, in
answer, that M. le Comte de Saint-Aignan had had the honor of
accompanying the King to St. Germain, as well as the whole court,
but that Monsieur the Count had just at that moment returned.
Immediately upon this reply, Porthos made haste, and reached De
Saint-Aignan's apartments just as the latter was having his boots
taken off.
  The expedition had been delightful. The King, who was in love more
than ever and of course happier than ever, had behaved in the most
charming manner to every one. Nothing could possibly equal his
kindness. M. de Saint-Aignan, it may be remembered, was a poet, and
fancied that he had proved that he was so under too many memorable
circumstances to allow the title to be disputed by any one. An
indefatigable rhymester, he had during the whole of the journey
overwhelmed with quatrains, sextains and madrigals, first the King,
and then La Valliere. The King was, on his side, in a similarly
poetical mood, and had made a distich; while La Valliere, like all
women who are in love, had composed two sonnets. As one may see, then,
the day had not been a bad one for Apollo; and therefore, as soon as
he had returned to Paris, De Saint-Aignan, who knew beforehand that
his verses would be extensively circulated in court circles,
occupied himself, with a little more attention than he had been able
to bestow during the excursion, with the composition as well as with
the idea itself. Consequently, with all the tenderness of a father
about to start his children in life, he candidly asked himself whether
the public would find these fruits of his imagination sufficiently
elegant and graceful; and in order to make his mind easy on the
subject, M. de Saint-Aignan recited to himself the madrigal he had
composed, and which he had repeated from memory to the King, and which
he had promised to write out for him on his return,-

      "Iris, vos yeux malins ne disent pas toujours
       Ce que votre pensee a votre coeur confie;
       Iris, pourquoi faut-il que je passe ma vie
       A plus aimer vos yeux qui m'ont joue ces tours?"

  This madrigal, graceful as it was, failed to satisfy De Saint-Aignan
when it had passed from oral delivery to the written form of poetry.
Many had thought it charming,- its author first of all; but on
second view it was not so pleasing. So De Saint-Aignan, sitting at his
table, with one leg crossed over the other, and rubbing his brow,
repeated,-

      "Iris, vos yeux malins ne disent pas toujours-

  "Oh! as to that, now," he murmured, "that is irreproachable. I might
even add that it is somewhat in the manner of Ronsard or Malherbe,
which makes me proud. Unhappily, it is not so with the second line.
There is good reason for the saying that the easiest line to make is
the first." And he continued:-

      "Ce que votre pensee a votre coeur confie-.

Ah, there is the 'thought' confiding in the 'heart'! Why should not
the heart confide with as good reason in the thought? In faith, for my
part, I see nothing to hinder. Where the devil have I been, to bring
together these two hemistiches? Now, the third is good,-

       Iris, pourquoi faut-il que je passe ma vie-

although the rhyme is not strong,- vie and confie. My faith! the
Abbe Boyer, who is a great poet, has, like me, made a rhyme of vie and
confie in the tragedy of 'Oropaste, or the False Tonaxare'; without
reckoning that M. Corneille did not scruple to do so in his tragedy of
'Sophonisbe.' Good, then, for vie and confie! Yes; but the line is
impertinent. I remember now that the King bit his nail at that moment.
In fact, it gives him the appearance of saying to Mademoiselle de la
Valliere, 'How does it happen that I am captivated by you?' It would
have been better, I think, to say,-

       Que benis soient les dieux qui condamnent ma vie-

Condamnent! ah! well, yes, there is a compliment!- the King
condemned to La Valliere- no!" Then he repeated:-

      "Mais benis soient les dieux qui- destinent ma vie.

Not bad, although destinent ma vie is weak; but, good Heavens!
everything can't be strong in a quatrain. A plus aimer vos yeux,- in
loving more whom, what? Obscurity. But obscurity is nothing; since
La Valliere and the King have understood me, every one will understand
me. Yes; but here is something melancholy,- the last hemistich: qui
m'ont joue ces tours. The plural necessitated by the rhyme! And then
to call the modesty of La Valliere a trick,- that is not happy! I
shall be a byword to all my quill-driving acquaintances. They will say
that my poems are verses in the grand-seigneur style; and if the
King hears it said that I am a bad poet, he will take it into his head
to believe it."
  While confiding these words to his heart and engaging his heart in
these thoughts, the count was undressing himself. He had just taken
off his coat, and was putting on his dressing-gown, when he was
informed that M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds was
waiting to be received.
  "Eh!" he said, "what does that bunch of names mean? I don't know
him."
  "It is the same gentleman," replied the lackey, "who had the honor
of dining with you, Monseigneur, at the King's table, when his Majesty
was staying at Fontainebleau."
  "With the King, at Fontainebleau?" cried De Saint-Aignan. "Eh!
quick, quick! introduce that gentleman."
  The lackey hastened to obey. Porthos entered. M. de Saint-Aignan had
an excellent recollection of persons, and at the first glance he
recognized the gentleman from the country who enjoyed so singular a
reputation, and whom the King had received so favorably at
Fontainebleau, in spite of the smiles of some of those who were
present. He therefore advanced towards Porthos with all outward
signs of good-will, which Porthos thought but natural, considering
that he himself, whenever he called upon an adversary, hoisted the
standard of the most refined politeness. De Saint-Aignan desired the
servant to give Porthos a chair; and the latter, who saw nothing
unusual in this act of politeness, sat down gravely, and coughed.
  The ordinary courtesies having been exchanged between the two
gentlemen, the count, since to him the visit was paid, said, "May I
ask, Monsieur the Baron, to what happy circumstance I owe the favor of
your visit?"
  "The very thing I am about to have the honor of explaining to you,
Monsieur the Count; but, I beg your pardon-"
  "What is the matter, Monsieur?" inquired De Saint-Aignan.
  "I regret to say that I have broken your chair."
  "Not at all, Monsieur," said De Saint-Aignan; "not at all."
  "It is the fact, though, Monsieur the Count; I have broken it,- so
much so, indeed, that if I remain in it I shall fall down, which would
be an exceedingly disagreeable position for me in the discharge of the
very serious mission which has been intrusted to me with regard to
yourself."
  Porthos rose; and but just in time, for the chair had given way
several inches. De Saint-Aignan looked about him for something more
solid for his guest to sit upon.
  "Modern articles of furniture," said Porthos, while the count was
looking about, "are constructed in a ridiculously light manner. In
my early days, when I used to sit down with far more energy than
now, I do not remember ever to have broken a chair, except in taverns,
with my arms." De Saint-Aignan smiled at this remark. "But," said
Porthos, as he settled himself on a couch, which creaked but did not
give way beneath his weight, "that unfortunately has nothing
whatever to do with my present visit."
  "Why unfortunately? Are you the bearer of a message of ill omen,
Monsieur the Baron?"
  "Of ill omen,- for a gentleman? Certainly not, Monsieur the
Count," replied Porthos, nobly. "I have simply come to say that you
have seriously offended a friend of mine."
  "I, Monsieur?" exclaimed De Saint-Aignan,- "I have offended a friend
of yours, do you say? May I ask his name?"
  "M. Raoul de Bragelonne."
  "I have offended M. Raoul de Bragelonne!" cried De Saint-Aignan.
"I really assure you, Monsieur, that it is quite impossible; for M. de
Bragelonne, whom I know but very slightly,- nay, whom I know hardly at
all,- is in England; and as I have not seen him for a long time
past, I cannot possibly have offended him."
  "M. de Bragelonne is in Paris, Monsieur the Count," said Porthos,
perfectly unmoved; "and I repeat, it is quite certain you have
offended him, since he himself told me you had. Yes, Monsieur, you
have seriously offended him, mortally offended him, I repeat."
  "It is impossible, Monsieur the Baron, I swear,- quite impossible."
  "Besides," added Porthos, "you cannot be ignorant of the
circumstance, since M. de Bragelonne informed me that he had already
apprised you of it by a note."
  "I give you my word of honor, Monsieur, that I have received no note
whatever."
  "This is most extraordinary," replied Porthos.
  "I will convince you," said De Saint-Aignan, "that I have received
nothing in any way from him"; and he rang the bell. "Basque," he
said to the servant who entered, "how many letters or notes were
sent here during my absence?"
  "Three, Monsieur the Count,- a note from M. de Fiesque, one from
Madame de Laferte, and a letter from M. de las Fuentes."
  "Is that all?"
  "Yes, Monsieur the Count."
  "Speak the truth before this gentleman,- the truth, you
understand! I will take care you are not blamed."
  "There was a note, also, from- from-"
  "Well, from whom?"
  "From Mademoiselle de la Val-"
  "That is quite sufficient," interrupted Porthos. "I believe you,
Monsieur the Count."
  De Saint-Aignan dismissed the valet and followed him to the door
in order to close it after him; and when he had done so, looking
straight before him, he happened to see in the keyhole of the
adjoining apartment the paper which Bragelonne had slipped in there as
he left. "What is this?" he said.
  Porthos, who was sitting with his back to the room, turned round.
"Oh, oh!" he said.
  "A note in the keyhole!" exclaimed De Saint-Aignan.
  "That is not unlikely to be the one we want, Monsieur the Count,"
said Porthos.
  De Saint-Aignan took out the paper. "A note from M. de
Bragelonne!" he exclaimed.
  "You see, Monsieur, I was right. Oh, when I say a thing-"
  "Brought here by M. de Bragelonne himself," the count murmured,
turning pale. "This is infamous! How could he possibly have come
here?" and the count rang again.
  "Who has been here during my absence with the King?"
  "No one, Monsieur."
  "That is impossible. Some one must have been here."
  "No one could possibly have entered, Monsieur; since I kept the keys
in my own pocket."
  "And yet I find this letter in that lock yonder. Some one must
have put it there; it could not have come alone."
  Basque opened his arms, as if signifying the most absolute ignorance
on the subject.
  "Probably it was M. de Bragelonne himself who placed it there," said
Porthos.
  "In that case he must have entered here."
  "Without doubt, Monsieur."
  "How could that have been, since I have the key in my own pocket?"
returned Basque, perseveringly.
  De Saint-Aignan crumpled up the letter in his hand, after having
read it.
  "There is something mysterious about this," he murmured, absorbed in
thought.
  Porthos left him to his reflections; but after a while returned to
the mission he had undertaken. "Shall we return to our little affair?"
he said, addressing De Saint-Aignan, as soon as the lackey had
disappeared.
  "I think I can now understand it, from this note which has arrived
here in so singular a manner. M. de Bragelonne says that a friend will
call."
  "I am his friend, and am the one he alludes to."
  "For the purpose of giving me a challenge?"
  "Precisely."
  "And he complains that I have offended him?"
  "Mortally so."
  "In what way, may I ask?- for his conduct is so mysterious that it
at least needs some explanation."
  "Monsieur," replied Porthos, "my friend cannot but be right; and
so far as his conduct is concerned, if it be mysterious, as you say,
you have only yourself to blame for it."
  Porthos pronounced these words with an amount of confidence which
for a man who was unaccustomed to his ways must have indicated an
infinity of sense.
  "Mystery? Be it so; but what is the mystery about?" said De
Saint-Aignan.
  "You will think it best, perhaps," Porthos replied, with a low
bow, "that I do not enter into particulars, and for excellent
reasons."
  "Oh, I perfectly understand you! We will touch very lightly upon it,
then. So speak, Monsieur; I am listening."
  "In the first place, Monsieur," said Porthos, "you have changed your
apartments."
  "Yes, that is quite true."
  "You admit it, then," said Porthos, with an air of satisfaction.
  "Admit it? of course I admit it. Why should I not admit it, do you
suppose?"
  "You have admitted it. Very good," said Porthos, lifting up one
finger.
  "But how can my having moved my lodgings have done M. de
Bragelonne any harm? Have the goodness to tell me that, for I
positively do not comprehend a word of what you are saying."
  Porthos stopped him, and then said with great gravity: "Monsieur,
this is the first of M. de Bragelonne's complaints against you. If
he makes a complaint, it is because he feels himself insulted."
  De Saint-Aignan began to beat his foot impatiently on the floor.
"This looks like a bad quarrel," he said.
  "No one can possibly have a bad quarrel with the Vicomte de
Bragelonne," returned Porthos; "but, at all events, you have nothing
to add on the subject of your changing your apartments, I suppose?"
  "Nothing. And what is the next point?"
  "Ah, the next! You will observe, Monsieur, that the one I have
already mentioned is a most serious injury, to which you have given no
answer, or rather have answered very indifferently. So, Monsieur,
you change your lodgings; that offends M. de Bragelonne, and you do
not attempt to excuse yourself? Very well!"
  "What!" cried De Saint-Aignan, who was irritated by the coolness
of his visitor,- "what! Am I to consult M. de Bragelonne whether I
am to move or not? You can hardly be serious, Monsieur."
  "Absolutely necessary, Monsieur; but, under any circumstances, you
will admit that it is nothing in comparison with the second ground
of complaint."
  "Well, what is that?"
  Porthos assumed a very serious expression as he said, "How about the
trap-door, Monsieur?"
  De Saint-Aignan turned exceedingly pale. He pushed back his chair so
abruptly that Porthos, simple as he was, perceived that the blow had
told. "The trap-door?" murmured De Saint-Aignan.
  "Yes, Monsieur, explain that if you can," said Porthos, shaking
his head.
  De Saint-Aignan held down his head. "Oh, I have been betrayed," he
murmured; "everything is known!"
  "Everything," replied Porthos, who knew nothing.
  "You see me overwhelmed," pursued De Saint-Aignan,- "overwhelmed
to such a degree that I hardly know what I am about."
  "A guilty conscience, Monsieur! Your affair is a bad one."
  "Monsieur!"
  "And when the public shall learn all about it, and will judge-"
  "Oh, Monsieur!" exclaimed the count, hurriedly, "such a secret ought
not to be known, even by one's confessor!"
  "That we will think about," said Porthos; "the secret will not go
far, in fact."
  "But, Monsieur," returned De Saint-Aignan, "is M. de Bragelonne,
in penetrating the secret, aware of the danger to which he exposes
himself and others?"
  "M. de Bragelonne incurs no danger, Monsieur, nor does he fear any
either,- as you, if it please Heaven, will find out very soon."
  "This fellow is a perfect madman," thought De Saint-Aignan. "What,
in Heaven's name, does he want?" He then said aloud: "Come,
Monsieur, let us hush up this affair."
  "You forget the portrait!" said Porthos, in a voice of thunder,
which made the count's blood freeze in his veins.
  As the portrait in question was La Valliere's portrait, and as no
mistake could any longer exist on the subject, De Saint-Aignan's
eyes were completely opened. "Ah," he exclaimed,- "ah, Monsieur, I
remember now that M. de Bragelonne was engaged to be married to her."
  Porthos assumed an imposing air- all the majesty of ignorance, in
fact- as he said: "It matters nothing whatever to me, nor to
yourself indeed, whether or not my friend was, as you say, engaged
to be married. I am even astonished that you should have made use of
so indiscreet a remark. It may possibly do your cause harm, Monsieur."
  "Monsieur," replied De Saint-Aignan, "you are the incarnation of
intelligence, delicacy, and loyalty of feeling united. I see the whole
matter now clearly enough."
  "So much the better," said Porthos.
  "And," pursued De Saint-Aignan, "you have made me comprehend it in
the most ingenious and the most delicate manner possible. Thank you,
Monsieur, thank you." Porthos drew himself up. "Only, now that I
know everything, permit me to explain-"
  Porthos shook his head as a man who does not wish to hear; but De
Saint-Aignan continued: "I am in despair, I assure you, at all that
has happened; but how would you have acted in my place? Come,
between ourselves, tell me what would you have done?"
  Porthos raised his head. "There is no question at all of what I
should have done, young man; you have now," he said, "been made
acquainted with the three causes of complaint against you, I believe?"
  "As for the first, my change of rooms,- and I now address myself
to you, as a man of honor and of great intelligence,- could I, when
the desire of so august a personage was so urgently expressed that I
should move, ought I to have disobeyed?"
  Porthos was about to speak, but De Saint-Aignan did not give him
time to answer. "Ah! my frankness, I see, convinces you," he said,
interpreting the movement in his own interest. "You perceive that I am
right?"
  Porthos did not reply. De Saint-Aignan continued: "I pass to that
unfortunate trap-door," placing his hand on Porthos's arm,- "that
trap-door, the occasion and the means of so much unhappiness, and
which was constructed for- you know what. Well, then, in plain
truth, do you suppose that it was I who, of my own accord, in such a
place too, had that trap-door made? Oh, no! you do not believe it; and
here, again, you feel, you guess, you understand the influence of a
will superior to my own. You can conceive the infatuation,- I do not
speak of love, that madness irresistible! But, thank Heaven! happily
the affair is with a man who has so much sensitiveness of feeling.
If it were not so, indeed, what an amount of misery and scandal
would fall upon her, poor girl! and upon him- whom I will not name."
  Porthos, confused and bewildered by the eloquence and gestures of De
Saint-Aignan, made a thousand efforts to stem this torrent of words,
of which, by the by, he did not understand a single one; he remained
upright and motionless on his seat, and that was all he could do.
  De Saint-Aignan continued, and gave a new inflection to his voice,
and an increasing vehemence to his gesture: "As for the portrait,- for
I readily believe the portrait is the principal cause of complaint,-
tell me candidly if you think me to blame? Who was it that wished to
have her portrait? Was it I? Who is in love with her? Is it I? Who
desires her? Who has won her? Is it I? No, a thousand times no! I know
M. de Bragelonne must be in a state of despair; I know these
misfortunes are most cruel. But I, too, am suffering as well; and
yet there is no possibility of offering any resistance. If he
struggles, he will be derided; if he resists, he is lost. You will
tell me, I know, that despair is madness; but you are reasonable,- you
have understood me. I perceive by your serious, thoughtful,
embarrassed air, even, that the importance of the situation in which
we are placed has not escaped you. Return, therefore, to M. de
Bragelonne; thank him- as I have indeed reason to thank him- for
having chosen as an intermediary a man of your merit. Believe me
that I shall, on my side, preserve an eternal gratitude for the man
who has so ingeniously, so cleverly corrected the misunderstanding
between us. And since ill-luck would have it that the secret should be
known to four instead of to three, why, this secret, which might
make the most ambitious man's fortune, I am delighted to share with
you, Monsieur; from the bottom of my heart I am delighted at it.
From this very moment you can make use of me as you please; I place
myself entirely at your mercy. What can I possibly do for you? What
can I solicit, nay, require even? Speak, Monsieur, speak!"
  According to the familiarly friendly fashion of that period, De
Saint-Aignan threw his arms round Porthos, and clasped him tenderly in
his embrace. Porthos allowed him to do this with the most complete
indifference.
  "Speak!" resumed De Saint-Aignan; what do you require?"
  "Monsieur," said Porthos, "I have a horse below; be good enough to
mount him. He is a very good one, and will play you no tricks."
  "Mount on horseback! What for?" inquired De Saint-Aignan, with no
little curiosity.
  "To accompany me where M. de Bragelonne is awaiting us."
  "Ah! he wishes to speak to me, I suppose? I can well believe that;
he wishes to have the details, very likely. Alas! it is a very
delicate matter; but at the present moment I cannot, for the King is
waiting for me."
  "The King will wait," said Porthos.
  "But where is M. de Bragelonne expecting me?"
  "At the Minimes, at Vincennes."
  "Ah, indeed! but we are going to laugh over the affair when we get
there?"
  "I don't think it likely,- not I, at least"; and the face of Porthos
assumed a stern hardness of expression. "The Minimes is a rendezvous
for duels."
  "Very well; what, then, have I to do at the Minimes?"
  Porthos slowly drew his sword, and said, "That is the length of my
friend's sword."
  "Why, the man is mad!" cried De Saint-Aignan.
  The color mounted to Porthos's face, as he replied: "If I had not
the honor of being in your own apartment, Monsieur, and of
representing M. de Bragelonne's interests, I would throw you out of
the window. It will be merely a pleasure postponed, and you will
lose nothing by waiting. Will you come to the Minimes, Monsieur?"
  "Eh!"
  "Will you go thither of your own free will?"
  "But-"
  "I will carry you if you do not come. Take care!"
  "Basque!" cried M. de Saint-Aignan. As soon as Basque appeared, he
said, "The King wishes to see Monsieur the Count."
  "That is very different," said Porthos; "the King's service before
everything else. We will wait there until this evening, Monsieur." And
saluting De Saint-Aignan with his usual courtesy, Porthos left the
room, delighted at having arranged another affair.
  De Saint-Aignan looked after him as he left; and then hastily
putting on his coat again, he ran off, arranging his dress as he
went along, muttering to himself: "The Minimes! the Minimes! We will
see how the King will like this challenge; for it is for him, after
all, pardieu!"
                 Chapter XVII: Rival Politics

  ON HIS return from the ride which had been so prolific in poetical
effusions, and in which everyone had paid tribute to the Muses, as the
poets of the period used to say, the King found M. Fouquet waiting for
an audience. Behind the King came M. Colbert, who had met the King
in the corridor, as if on the watch for him, and followed him like a
jealous and watchful shadow,- M. Colbert, with his square head, and
his vulgar and untidy though rich costume, which gave him some
resemblance to a Flemish gentleman after drinking beer. Fouquet, at
the sight of his enemy, remained unmoved, and during the whole of
the scene which followed observed that line of conduct so difficult to
a man of refinement whose heart is filled with contempt, but who
wishes to suppress every indication of it, lest he may do his
adversary too much honor. Colbert did not conceal his insolent joy. In
his opinion, M. Fouquet's was a game very badly played and
hopelessly lost, although not yet finished. Colbert belonged to that
school of politicians who think cleverness alone worthy of their
admiration, and success the only thing worth caring for. Colbert,
moreover, who was not simply an envious and jealous man, but who had
the King's interest really at heart, because he was thoroughly
imbued with the highest sense of probity in all matters of figures and
accounts, could well afford to assign as a pretext for his conduct,
that in hating and doing his utmost to ruin M. Fouquet he had
nothing in view but the welfare of the State and the dignity of the
crown.
  None of these details escaped Fouquet's observation. Through his
enemy's thick, bushy brows, and despite the restless movement of his
eyelids, he could, by merely looking at his eyes, penetrate to the
very bottom of Colbert's heart; he saw, then, all there was in that
heart,- hatred and triumph. But as he wished, while observing
everything, to remain himself impenetrable, he composed his
features, smiled with that charmingly sympathetic smile which was
peculiarly his own, and saluted the King with the most dignified and
graceful ease and elasticity of manner. "Sire," he said, "I perceive
by your Majesty's joyous air that you have had a pleasant ride."
  "Charming, indeed, Monsieur the Superintendent, charming! You were
very wrong not to come with us as I invited you to do."
  "I was working, Sire," replied the superintendent, who did not
take the trouble to turn aside his head even in recognition of
Colbert's presence.
  "Ah! M. Fouquet," cried the King, "there is nothing like the
country. I should be delighted to live in the country always, in the
open air and under the trees."
  "Oh! your Majesty is not yet weary of the throne, I trust?" said
Fouquet.
  "No; but thrones of soft turf are very delightful."
  "Your Majesty gratifies my utmost wishes in speaking in that manner,
for I have a request to submit to you."
  "On whose behalf, Monsieur?"
  "On behalf of the nymphs of Vaux, Sire."
  "Ah! ah!" said Louis XIV.
  "Your Majesty once deigned to make me a promise," said Fouquet.
  "Yes, I remember it."
  "The fete at Vaux, the celebrated fete, is it not, Sire?" said
Colbert, endeavoring to show his importance by taking part in the
conversation.
  Fouquet, with the profoundest contempt, did not take the slightest
notice of the remark, as if, so far as he was concerned, Colbert had
not spoken. "Your Majesty is aware," he said, "that I destine my
estate at Vaux to receive the most amiable of princes, the most
powerful of monarchs."
  "I have given you my promise, Monsieur," said Louis XIV, smiling;
"and a King never departs from his word."
  "And I have come now, Sire, to inform your Majesty that I am ready
to obey your orders in every respect."
  "Do you promise me many wonders, Monsieur the Superintendent?"
said Louis, looking at Colbert.
  "Wonders? Oh, no, Sire! I do not undertake that; but I hope to be
able to procure your Majesty a little pleasure, perhaps even a
little forgetfulness of the cares of State."
  "Nay, nay, M. Fouquet," returned the King; "I insist upon the word
'wonders.' Oh, you are a magician! We know your power; we know that
you could find gold, even were there none in the world. And, in
fact, people say you make it."
  Fouquet felt that the shot was discharged from a double quiver,
and that the King had launched an arrow from his own bow as well as
one from Colbert's. "Oh!" said he, laughingly, "the people know
perfectly well out of what mine I procure the gold; they know it
only too well, perhaps. Besides," he added proudly, "I can assure your
Majesty that the gold destined to pay the expenses of the fete at Vaux
will cost neither blood nor tears; hard labor it may, perhaps. But
that can be paid for."
  Louis remained silent; he wished to look at Colbert. Colbert, too,
wished to reply; but a glance as swift as an eagle's,- a proud, loyal,
king-like glance, indeed,- which Fouquet darted at the latter,
arrested the words upon his lips. The King, who had by this time
recovered his self-possession, turned towards Fouquet, saying, "I
presume, therefore, I am now to consider myself formally invited?"
  "Yes, Sire, if it pleases your Majesty."
  "For what day?"
  "Any day your Majesty may find most convenient."
  "You speak like an enchanter who improvises, M. Fouquet. I could not
say so much, indeed."
  "Your Majesty will do, whenever you please, everything that a
monarch can and ought to do. The King of France has servants at his
bidding who are able to do anything on his behalf, to accomplish
everything to gratify his pleasures."
  Colbert tried to look at the superintendent in order to see
whether this remark was an approach to less hostile sentiments on
his part. But Fouquet had not even looked at his enemy; so far as he
was concerned, Colbert did not exist.
  "Very good, then," said the King; "will a week hence suit you?"
  "Perfectly well, Sire."
  "This is Tuesday; if I give you until next Sunday week, will that be
sufficient?"
  "The delay which your Majesty deigns to accord me will greatly aid
the various works which my architects have in hand for the purpose
of adding to the amusement of your Majesty and your friends."
  "By the by, speaking of my friends," resumed the King; "how do you
intend to treat them?"
  "The King is master everywhere, Sire; your Majesty will draw up your
own list and give your own orders. All those you may deign to invite
will be my guests,- my honored guests indeed."
  "I thank you!" returned the King, touched by the noble thought
expressed in so noble a tone.
  Fouquet therefore took leave of Louis XIV, after a few words had
been added with regard to the details of certain matters of
business. He felt that Colbert would remain behind with the King, that
they would both converse about him, and that neither of them would
spare him in the least degree. The satisfaction of being able to
give a last and terrible blow to his enemy seemed to him almost like a
compensation for everything to which they were about to subject him.
He turned back again immediately, when he had already reached the
door, and addressing the King, "Pardon, Sire," said he,- "pardon!"
  "Pardon for what?" said the King, graciously.
  "For a serious fault which I committed unawares."
  "A fault! You! Ah, M. Fouquet, I shall be unable to do otherwise
than forgive you. In what way or against whom have you been found
wanting?"
  "Against all propriety, Sire. I forgot to inform your Majesty of a
circumstance of considerable importance."
  "What is it?"
  Colbert trembled; he expected a denunciation. His conduct had been
unmasked. A single syllable from Fouquet, a single proof formally
advanced, and before the youthful loyalty of Louis XIV Colbert's favor
would disappear at once. The latter trembled, therefore, lest so
daring a blow might not overthrow his whole scaffold. In point of
fact, the opportunity was so admirably suited to be taken advantage
of, that a skilful player like Aramis would not have let it slip.
"Sire," said Fouquet, with an easy air, "since you have had the
kindness to forgive me, I am indifferent about my confession: this
morning I sold one of the official appointments I hold."
  "One of your appointments?" said the King; "which?"
  Colbert turned livid. "That which conferred upon me, Sire, a grand
gown and an air of gravity,- the appointment of procureur-general."
  The King involuntarily uttered a loud exclamation and looked at
Colbert, who with his face bedewed with perspiration felt almost on
the point of fainting. "To whom have you sold this appointment, M.
Fouquet?" inquired the King.
  Colbert was obliged to lean against the side of the fire-place.
  "To a councillor belonging to the parliament, Sire, whose name is
Vanel."
  "Vanel?"
  "A friend of the intendant Colbert," added Fouquet, letting every
word fall from his lips with inimitable nonchalance, and with an
admirably assumed expression of forgetfulness and ignorance which
neither painter, actor, nor poet could reproduce with brush,
gesture, or pen. Then having finished, having overwhelmed Colbert
beneath the weight of this superiority, the superintendent again
saluted the King and quitted the room, partially revenged by the
stupefaction of the King and the humiliation of the favorite.
  "Is it really possible," said the King, as soon as Fouquet had
disappeared, "that he has sold that office?"
  "Yes, Sire," said Colbert, meaningly.
  "He must be mad," the King added.
  Colbert this time did not reply; he had penetrated the King's
thought. That thought promised him revenge. His hatred was augmented
by jealousy; and a threat of disgrace was now added to the plan he had
arranged for his ruin. Colbert felt assured that for the future, as
between Louis XIV and himself, his hostile ideas would meet with no
obstacles, and that at the first fault committed by Fouquet which
could be laid hold of as a pretext, the chastisement impending over
him would be precipitated. Fouquet had thrown aside his weapons of
defence; Hate and Jealousy had picked them up.
  Colbert was invited by the King to the fete at Vaux; he bowed like a
man confident in himself, and accepted the invitation with the air
of one who confers a favor. The King was about writing down De
Saint-Aignan's name on his list of invitations, when the usher
announced the Comte de Saint-Aignan. As soon as the royal "Mercury"
entered, Colbert discreetly withdrew.
                Chapter XVIII: Rival Lovers

  DE SAINT-AIGNAN had quitted Louis XIV hardly two hours before; but
in the first effervescence of his affection, whenever Louis XIV did
not see La Valliere he was obliged to talk of her. Now, the only
person with whom he could speak about her at his ease was De
Saint-Aignan, and that person had therefore become indispensable to
him.
  "Ah! is that you, Count?" the King exclaimed, as soon as he
perceived him,- doubly delighted, not only to see him again, but
also to get rid of Colbert, whose scowling face always put him out
of humor,- "so much the better. I am very glad to see you; you will
make one of the travelling-party, I suppose?"
  "Of what travelling-party are you speaking, Sire?" inquired De
Saint-Aignan.
  "The one we are making up to go to the fete the superintendent is
about to give at Vaux. Ah! De Saint-Aignan, you will at last see a
fete, a royal fete, by the side of which all our amusements at
Fontainebleau are petty, contemptible affairs."
  "At Vaux?- the superintendent going to give a fete in your Majesty's
honor? Nothing more than that!"
  "'Nothing more than that!' do you say? It is very diverting to
find you treating it with so much disdain. Are you, who express such
indifference on the subject, aware that as soon as it is known that M.
Fouquet is going to receive me at Vaux next Sunday week, people will
be striving their very utmost to get invited to the fete? I repeat, De
Saint-Aignan, you shall be one of the invited guests."
  "Very well, Sire; unless I shall in the mean time have undertaken
a longer and less agreeable journey."
  "What journey?"
  "The one across the Styx, Sire."
  "Bah!" said Louis XIV, laughing.
  "No, seriously, Sire," replied De Saint-Aignan, "I am invited there;
and in such a way, in truth, that I hardly know what to say or how
to act in order to refuse it."
  "I do not understand you. I know that you are in a poetical vein;
but try not to sink from Apollo to Phoebus."
  "Very well; if your Majesty will deign to listen to me, I will not
keep you in suspense any longer."
  "Speak!"
  "Your Majesty knows the Baron du Vallon?"
  "Yes, indeed,- a good servant to my father, the late King, and an
admirable companion at table; for I think you are referring to him who
dined with us at Fontainebleau?"
  "Precisely; but you have omitted to add to his other qualifications,
Sire, that he is a most charming killer of people."
  "What! does M. du Vallon wish to kill you?"
  "Or to get me killed,- which is the same thing."
  "Bless my heart!"
  "Do not laugh, Sire, for I am not saying a word that is not the
exact truth."
  "And you say he wishes to get you killed?"
  "That is that excellent person's present idea."
  "Be easy; I will defend you, if he be in the wrong."
  "Ah! there is an 'if'."
  "Of course! Answer me as candidly as if it were some one else's
affair instead of your own, my poor De Saint-Aignan: is he right or
wrong?"
  "Your Majesty shall be the judge."
  "What have you done to him?"
  "To him, personally, nothing at all; but it seems I have to one of
his friends."
  "It is all the same. Is his friend one of the celebrated 'four'?"
  "No! It is only the son of one of the celebrated 'four.'"
  "What have you done to the son? Come, tell me."
  "Why, I have helped some one to take his mistress from him."
  "You confess it, then?
  "I cannot help confessing it, for it is true."
  "In that case you are wrong."
  "Ah! I am wrong?"
  "Yes; and my faith, if he kills you-"
  "Well?"
  "Well, he will do what is right."
  "Ah! that is your Majesty's way of reasoning, then?"
  "Do you think it a bad way?"
  "It is a very expeditious way."
  "'Good justice is prompt'; so my grandfather Henry IV used to say."
  "In that case your Majesty will immediately sign my adversary's
pardon, for he is now waiting for me at the Minimes to kill me."
  "His name, and a parchment!"
  "There is a parchment upon your Majesty's table; and as for his
name-"
  "Well, what is it?"
  "The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Sire."
  "The Vicomte de Bragelonne!" exclaimed the King, changing from a fit
of laughter to the most profound stupor; and then after a moment's
silence, while he wiped his forehead, which was bedewed with
perspiration, he again murmured, "Bragelonne!"
  "No other than he, Sire."
  "Bragelonne, who was affianced to-"
  "Yes, Sire."
  "He was in London, however."
  "Yes; but I can assure you, Sire, he is there no longer."
  "Is he in Paris?"
  "He is at the Minimes, Sire, where he is waiting for me, as I have
already had the honor of telling you."
  "Does he know all?"
  "Yes; and many things besides. Perhaps your Majesty would like to
look at the letter I have received from him"; and De Saint Aignan drew
from his pocket the note with which we are already acquainted. "When
your Majesty has read the letter, I will tell you how it reached me."
  The King read it in great agitation, and immediately said, "Well?"
  "Well, Sire; your Majesty knows a certain carved lock, closing a
certain door of ebony-wood, which separates a certain apartment from a
certain blue and white sanctuary?"
  "Of course! Louise's boudoir."
  "Yes, Sire. Well, it was in the keyhole of that lock that I found
that note. Who placed it there? Either M. de Bragelonne, or the
devil himself; but inasmuch as the note smells of amber and not of
sulphur, I conclude that it must be, not the devil, but M. de
Bragelonne."
  Louis bent down his head, and seemed absorbed in sad and
melancholy reflections. Perhaps something like remorse was at that
moment passing through his heart. "Oh!" he said, "that secret
discovered!"
  "Sire, I shall do my utmost that the secret dies in the breast of
the man who possesses it," said De Saint-Aignan, in a tone of bravado,
as he moved towards the door; but a gesture of the King made him
pause.
  "Where are you going?" he inquired.
  "Where I am waited for, Sire."
  "What for?"
  "To fight, in all probability."
  "You fight!" exclaimed the King. "One moment, if you please,
Monsieur the Count!"
  De Saint-Aignan shook his head, as a rebellious child does
whenever any one interferes to prevent him from throwing himself
into a well or playing with a knife.
  "But yet, Sire-" he said.
  "In the first place," continued the King, "I require to be
enlightened a little."
  "Upon that point, if your Majesty will be pleased to interrogate
me," replied De Saint-Aignan, "I will throw what light I can."
  "Who told you that M. de Bragelonne had penetrated into that room?"
  "The letter which I found in the keyhole told me so."
  "Who told you that it was De Bragelonne who put it there?"
  "Who but himself would have dared to undertake such a mission?"
  "You are right. How was he able to get into your rooms?"
  "Ah! that is very serious, inasmuch as all the doors were closed,
and my lackey, Basque, had the keys in his pocket."
  "Your lackey must have been bribed."
  "Impossible, Sire; for if he had been bribed, those who did so would
not have sacrificed the poor fellow, whom it is not unlikely they
might want to turn to further use by and by, in showing so clearly
that it was he of whom they had made use."
  "Quite true. And now there remains but one conjecture."
  "Let us see, Sire, if it is the same that has presented itself to my
mind."
  "That he effected an entrance by means of the staircase."
  "Alas! Sire, that seems to me more than probable."
  "There is no doubt that some one sold the secret of the trap-door."
  "Either sold it or gave it."
  "Why do you make that distinction?"
  "Because there are certain persons, Sire, who being above the
price of a treason give, and do not sell."
  "What do you mean?"
  "Oh, Sire, your Majesty's mind is too clear-sighted not to guess
what I mean, and you will save me the embarrassment of naming any
one."
  "You are right: you mean Madame!"
  "Ah!" said De Saint-Aignan.
  "Madame, whose suspicions were aroused by your changing your
lodgings."
  "Madame, who has keys of the apartments of her maids of honor, and
is powerful enough to discover what no one but yourself or she would
be able to discover."
  "And you suppose, then, that my sister has entered into an
alliance with Bragelonne?"
  "Eh! eh! Sire-"
  "So far as to inform him of all the details of the affair?"
  "Perhaps even further still."
  "Further? What do you mean?"
  "Perhaps to the point of going with him."
  "Which way,- through your own apartments?"
  "You think it impossible, Sire? Well, listen to me! Your Majesty
knows that Madame is very fond of perfumes?"
  "Yes, she acquired that taste from my mother."
  "Vervain particularly."
  "Yes, it is the scent she prefers to all others."
  "Very good, Sire! my apartments smell very strongly of vervain."
  The King remained silent and thoughtful for a few moments, and
then resumed: "But why should Madame take Bragelonne's part against
me?" De Saint-Aignan could very easily have replied: "A woman's
jealousy!" In his question the King had probed his friend to the
bottom of his heart to ascertain if he had learned the secret of his
flirtation with his sister-in-law. But De Saint-Aignan was not an
ordinary courtier; he did not lightly run the risk of finding out
family secrets; and he was too good a friend of the Muses not to think
very frequently of poor Ovidius Naso, whose eyes shed so many tears in
expiation of his crime for having once beheld something, one hardly
knows what, in the palace of Augustus. He therefore passed by Madame's
secret very skilfully. But since he had exhibited his sagacity in
proving Madame's presence in his rooms with Bragelonne, it was now
necessary for him to pay interest on that self-conceit, and reply
clearly to the question, "Why has Madame taken Bragelonne's part
against me?"
  "Why?" replied De Saint-Aignan. "Your Majesty forgets, I presume,
that the Comte de Guiche is the intimate friend of the Vicomte de
Bragelonne?"
  "I do not see the connection, however," said the King.
  "Ah! I beg your pardon then, Sire; but I thought the Comte de Guiche
was a very great friend of Madame."
  "Quite true," the King returned. "There is no occasion to search any
further; the blow came from that direction."
  "And is not your Majesty of the opinion that in order to ward it off
it will be necessary to deal another blow?"
  "Yes; but not one of the kind given in the Bois de Vincennes,"
replied the King.
  "You forget, Sire," said De Saint-Aignan, "that I am a gentleman,
and that I have been challenged."
  "The challenge neither concerns nor was it intended for you."
  "But it is I who have been expected at the Minimes, Sire, during the
last hour and more; and I shall be dishonored if I do not go there."
  "The first honor and duty of a gentleman is obedience to his
sovereign."
  "Sire!"
  "I order you to remain."
  "Sire!"
  "Obey, Monsieur!"
  "As your Majesty pleases."
  "Besides, I wish to have the whole of this affair explained; I
wish to know how it is that I have been so insolently trifled with
as to have the sanctuary of my affection pried into. It is not you, De
Saint-Aignan, who ought to punish those who have acted in this manner;
for it is not your honor they have attacked, but my own."
  "I implore your Majesty not to overwhelm M. de Bragelonne with
your wrath; for although in the whole of this affair he may have shown
himself deficient in prudence, he has not been so in his feelings of
loyalty."
  "Enough! I shall know how to decide between the just and the unjust,
even in the height of my anger. But take care that not a word of
this is breathed to Madame!"
  "But what am I to do with regard to M. de Bragelonne? He will be
seeking me in every direction, and-"
  "I shall either have spoken to him, or taken care that he has been
spoken to before the evening is over."
  "Let me once more entreat your Majesty to be indulgent towards him."
  "I have been indulgent long enough, Count," said Louis XIV,
frowning; "it is time to show certain persons that I am master in my
own palace."
  The King had hardly pronounced these words, which betokened that a
fresh feeling of dissatisfaction was mingled with the remembrance of
an old one, when the usher appeared at the door of the cabinet.
"What is the matter," inquired the King, "and why do you presume to
come when I have not summoned you?"
  "Sire," said the usher, "your Majesty desired me to permit M. le
Comte de la Fere to pass freely at any time when he might wish to
speak to your Majesty."
  "Well?"
  "M. le Comte de la Fere is now waiting to see your Majesty."
  The King and De Saint-Aignan at this reply exchanged a look which
betrayed more uneasiness than surprise. Louis hesitated for a
moment, but almost immediately forming a resolution, he said: "Go,
De Saint-Aignan, and find Louise; inform her of the plot against us.
Do not let her be ignorant that Madame is beginning again her
persecutions, and that she has set to work those who would have done
better had they remained neutral."
  "Sire-"
  "If Louise gets nervous and frightened, reassure her; tell her
that the King's love is an impenetrable shield over her. If, as I
suspect is the case, she already knows everything, or if she has
already been herself subjected to an attack, tell her, be sure to tell
her, De Saint-Aignan," added the King, trembling with passion,-
"tell her, I say, that this time, instead of defending her, I will
avenge her, and that too so terribly that no one will in future even
dare to raise his eyes towards her."
  "Is that all, Sire?"
  "Yes; all. Go quickly, and remain faithful,- you who live in the
midst of this hell without having, like myself, the hope of paradise."
  De Saint-Aignan almost exhausted himself in protestations of
devotion, took the King's hand, kissed it, and left the room radiant
with delight.
              Chapter XIX: King and Nobility

  THE King endeavored to recover his self-possession as quickly as
possible, in order to meet M. de la Fere with an undisturbed
countenance. He clearly saw that it was not mere chance which had
induced the count's visit. He had a vague impression of the serious
import of that visit; but he felt that to a man of Athos's tone of
mind, to a person so distinguished, nothing disagreeable or disordered
should be presented. As soon as the King had satisfied himself that so
far as appearances were concerned he was perfectly calm again, he gave
directions to the ushers to introduce the count.
  A few minutes afterwards Athos, in full court dress and with his
breast covered with the orders that he alone had the right to wear
at the Court of France, presented himself with so grave and solemn
an air that the King perceived at the first glance that he had not
been mistaken in his anticipations. Louis advanced a step towards
the count, and with a smile held out his hand to him, over which Athos
bowed with the air of the deepest respect.
  "M. le Comte de la Fere," said the King, rapidly, "you are so seldom
here that it is a very great happiness to see you."
  Athos bowed and replied, "I should wish always to enjoy the
happiness of being near your Majesty."
  That reply, made in that tone, evidently signified, "I should wish
to be one of your Majesty's advisers, to save you from the
commission of faults." The King so understood it, and determined in
this man's presence to preserve all the advantages of calmness along
with those of rank.
  "I see you have something to say to me," he said.
  "Had it not been so, I should not have presumed to present myself
before your Majesty."
  "Speak quickly; I am anxious to satisfy you," returned the King,
seating himself.
  "I am persuaded," replied Athos, in a slightly agitated tone of
voice, "that your Majesty will give me every satisfaction."
  "Ah!" said the King, with a certain haughtiness of manner, "you have
come to lodge a complaint here, then?"
  "It would be a complaint," returned Athos, "only in the event of
your Majesty- But if you will deign to permit me, Sire, I will begin
the conversation at the beginning."
  "I am listening."
  "Your Majesty will remember that at the period of the Duke of
Buckingham's departure I had the honor of an interview with you."
  "At or about that period I think I remember you did; only, with
regard to the subject of the conversation, I have quite forgotten it."
  Athos started, as he replied: "I shall have the honor to recall it
to your Majesty. It was with regard to a demand which I addressed to
you respecting a marriage which M. de Bragelonne wished to contract
with Mademoiselle de la Valliere."
  "Ah!" thought the King, "we have come to it now. I remember," he
said, aloud.
  "At that period," pursued Athos, "your Majesty was so kind and
generous towards M. de Bragelonne and myself that not a single word
which then fell from your lips has escaped my memory; and when I asked
your Majesty to accord me Mademoiselle de la Valliere's hand for M. de
Bragelonne, you refused."
  "Quite true," said Louis, dryly.
  "Alleging," Athos hastened to say, "that the young lady had no
position in society."
  Louis could hardly force himself to listen patiently.
  "That," added Athos, "she had but little fortune."
  The King threw himself back in his arm-chair.
  "That her extraction was indifferent."
  A renewed impatience on the part of the King.
  "And little beauty," added Athos, pitilessly.
  This last bolt buried itself deep in the King's heart, and made
him almost bound from his seat.
  "You have a good memory, Monsieur," he said.
  "I invariably have, on all occasions when I have had the
distinguished honor of an interview with your Majesty," retorted the
count, without being in the least disconcerted.
  "Very good; it is admitted I said all that."
  "And I thanked your Majesty, because those words testified an
interest in M. de Bragelonne, which did him much honor."
  "And you may possibly remember," said the King, very deliberately,
"that you had the greatest repugnance to this marriage?"
  "Quite true, Sire."
  "And that you solicited my permission against your own inclination?"
  "Yes, Sire."
  "And, finally, I remember also,- for I have a memory nearly as
good as your own,- I remember, I say, that you observed at the time:
'I do not believe that Mademoiselle de la Valliere loves M. de
Bragelonne.' Is that true?"
  The blow told well, but Athos did not shrink. "Sire," he said, "I
have already begged your Majesty's forgiveness; but there are
certain particulars in that conversation which will be intelligible in
the denouement."
  "Well, what is the denouement, Monsieur?"
  "This: your Majesty then said that you would defer the marriage
out of regard for M. de Bragelonne's own interests."
  The King remained silent.
  "M. de Bragelonne is now so exceedingly unhappy that he cannot any
longer defer asking your Majesty for a solution of the matter."
  The King turned pale; Athos looked at him with fixed attention.
  "And what," said the King, with considerable hesitation, "does M. de
Bragelonne request?"
  "Precisely the very thing that I came to ask your Majesty for at
my last audience; namely, your Majesty's consent to his marriage."
  The King remained silent.
  "The obstacles in the way are all now quite removed for us,"
continued Athos. "Mademoiselle de la Valliere, without fortune, birth,
or beauty, is not the less on that account the only good match in
the world for M. de Bragelonne, since he loves this young girl."
  The King pressed his hands impatiently together.
  "Does your Majesty hesitate?" inquired the count, without losing a
particle either of his firmness or his politeness.
  "I do not hesitate,- I refuse," replied the King.
  Athos paused a moment, as if to collect himself. "I have had the
honor," he said in a mild tone, "to observe to your Majesty that no
obstacle now interferes with M. de Bragelonne's affections, and that
his determination seems unalterable."
  "There is my will,- and that is an obstacle, I should imagine!"
"That is the most serious of all," Athos replied quickly.
  "Ah!"
  "And may we therefore be permitted to ask your Majesty, with the
greatest humility, for your reason for this refusal?"
  "The reason! A question to me!" exclaimed the King.
  "A demand, Sire!"
  The King, leaning with both his hands upon the table, said in a deep
tone of concentrated passion: "You have lost all recollection of
what is usual at court. At court no one questions the King."
  "Very true, Sire; but if men do not question, they conjecture."
  "Conjecture! What may that mean?"
  "Almost always the conjecture of the subject impugns the frankness
of the King."
  "Monsieur!"
  "And a want of confidence on the part of the subject," pursued
Athos, intrepidly.
  "You are forgetting yourself," said the King, hurried away by his
anger in spite of his control over himself.
  "Sire, I am obliged to seek elsewhere for what I thought I should
find in your Majesty. Instead of obtaining a reply from you, I am
compelled to make one for myself."
  The King rose. "Monsieur the Count," he said, "I have now given
you all the time I had at my disposal."
  This was a dismissal.
  "Sire," replied the count, "I have not yet had time to tell your
Majesty what I came with the express object of saying, and I so rarely
see your Majesty that I ought to avail myself of the opportunity."
  "Just now you spoke of conjectures; you are now becoming offensive."
  "Oh, Sire, offend your Majesty! I? Never! All my life have I
maintained that kings are above all other men, not only in rank and
power, but in nobleness of heart and dignity of mind. I never can
bring myself to believe that my sovereign- he who passed his word to
me- did so with a mental reservation."
  "What do you mean? What mental reservation?"
  "I will explain my meaning," said Athos, coldly. "If in refusing
Mademoiselle de la Valliere to M. de Bragelonne your Majesty had
some other object in view than the happiness and fortune of the
viscount-"
  "You perceive, Monsieur, that you are offending me."
  "If in requiring the viscount to delay his marriage your Majesty's
only object was to remove the gentleman to whom Mademoiselle de la
Valliere was engaged-"
  "Monsieur! Monsieur!"
  "I have heard it said so in every direction, Sire. Your Majesty's
love for Mademoiselle de la Valliere is spoken of on all sides."
  The King tore his gloves, which he had been biting for some time.
"Woe to those," he cried, "who interfere in my affairs! I have
chosen my course; I will crush all obstacles."
  "What obstacles?" said Athos.
  The King stopped short, like a runaway horse whose bit being
turned in his mouth bruises his palate. "I love Mademoiselle de la
Valliere," he said suddenly, with nobleness and with passion.
  "But," interrupted Athos, "that does not preclude your Majesty
from allowing M. de Bragelonne to marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere.
The sacrifice is worthy of so great a monarch; it is fully merited
by M. de Bragelonne, who has already rendered great service to your
Majesty, and who may well be regarded as a brave and worthy man.
Your Majesty, therefore, in renouncing the affection you entertain,
offers a proof at once of generosity, gratitude, and good policy."
  "Mademoiselle de la Valliere does not love M. de Bragelonne," said
the King, hoarsely.
  "Does your Majesty know that to be the case?" remarked Athos, with a
searching look.
  "I do know it."
  "Within a short time, then; for doubtless had your Majesty known
it when I first preferred my request, you would have taken the trouble
to inform me."
  "Within a short time."
  Athos remained silent for a moment, and then resumed: "In that
case I do not understand why your Majesty should have sent M. de
Bragelonne to London. That exile, and with good reason, is a matter of
astonishment to all who love the honor of the King."
  "Who presumes to speak of my honor, M. de la Fere?"
  "The King's honor, Sire, is made up of the honor of his whole
nobility. Whenever the King offends one of his gentlemen,- that is,
whenever he deprives him of the smallest particle of his honor,- it is
from him, from the King himself, that that portion of honor is
stolen."
  "M. de la Fere!" said the King, haughtily.
  "Sire, you sent M. de Bragelonne to London either before you were
Mademoiselle de la Valliere's lover or since you have become so."
  The King, irritated beyond measure, especially because he felt
that he was mastered, endeavored to dismiss Athos by a gesture.
  "Sire," replied the count, "I will tell you all; I will not leave
your presence until I have been satisfied either by your Majesty or by
myself,- satisfied if you prove to me that you are right, satisfied if
I prove to you that you are wrong. Oh, you will listen to me, Sire!
I am old now, and I am attached to everything that is really great and
true in your kingdom. I am a gentleman who shed my blood for your
father and for yourself, without ever having asked a single favor
either from yourself or from your father. I have never inflicted the
slightest wrong or injury on any one in this world, and have put kings
under obligations to me. You will listen to me. I have come to ask you
for an account of the honor of one of your servants whom you have
deceived by a falsehood or betrayed through weakness. I know that
these words irritate your Majesty; but on the other hand, the facts
are killing us. I know you are inquiring what penalty you will inflict
for my frankness; but I know what punishment I will implore God to
inflict upon you when I set before him your perjury and my son's
unhappiness."
  The King during these remarks was walking hurriedly to and fro,
his hand thrust into the breast of his coat, his head haughtily
raised, his eyes blazing with wrath. "Monsieur," he cried suddenly,
"if I acted towards you as the King, you would be already punished;
but I am only a man, and I have the right to love in this world
every one who loves me,- a happiness which is so rarely found."
  "You cannot pretend to such a right as a man any more than as a
king, Sire; or if you intended to exercise that right in a loyal
manner, you should have told M. de Bragelonne so, and not have
exiled him."
  "I think I am condescending to dispute with you, Monsieur!"
interrupted Louis XIV, with that majesty of air and manner which he
alone was able to give to his look and his voice.
  "I was hoping that you would reply to me," said the count.
  "You shall know my reply, Monsieur, very soon."
  "You already know my thoughts on the subject," was the Comte de la
Fere's answer.
  "You have forgotten you are speaking to the King, Monsieur. It is
a crime."
  "You have forgotten you are destroying the lives of two men, Sire.
It is a mortal sin."
  "Go!- at once!"
  "Not until I have said to you: Son of Louis XIII, you begin your
reign badly, for you begin it by abduction and disloyalty! My race-
myself, too- are now freed from all that affection and respect towards
you to which I bound my son by oath in the vaults of St. Denis, in the
presence of the relics of your noble forefathers. You are now become
our enemy, Sire; and henceforth we have nothing to do save with
Heaven, our sole master. Be warned!"
  "Do you threaten?"
  "Oh, no!" said Athos, sadly; "I have as little bravado as fear in my
soul. The God of whom I spoke to you is now listening to me. He
knows that for the safety and honor of your crown I would even yet
shed every drop of blood which twenty years of civil and foreign
warfare have left in my veins. I can well say, then, that I threaten
the King as little as I threaten the man; but I tell you, Sire, you
lose two servants,- for you have destroyed faith in the heart of the
father, and love in the heart of the son: the one ceases to believe in
the royal word, the other no longer believes in the loyalty of man
or the purity of woman; the one is dead to every feeling of respect,
the other to obedience. Adieu!"
  Thus saying, Athos broke his sword across his knee, slowly placed
the two pieces upon the floor, and saluting the King, who was almost
choking from rage and shame, quitted the cabinet.
  Louis, who sat near the table, completely overwhelmed, spent several
minutes in recovering himself, then suddenly rose and rang the bell
violently. "Tell M. d'Artagnan to come here," he said to the terrified
ushers.
                Chapter XX: After the Storm

  OUR readers will doubtless have been asking themselves how it
happened that Athos, of whom not a word has been said for some time
past, arrived so very opportunely at court. Our claim, as narrator,
being that we unfold events in exact logical sequence, we hold
ourselves ready to answer that question.
  Porthos, faithful to his duty as an arranger of affairs, had
immediately after leaving the Palais-Royal set off to join Raoul at
the Minimes in the Bois de Vincennes, and had related everything, even
to the smallest details, which had passed between De Saint-Aignan
and himself. He finished by saying that the message which the King had
sent to his favorite would not probably occasion more than a short
delay, and that De Saint-Aignan, as soon as he could leave the King,
would not lose a moment in accepting the invitation which Raoul had
sent him.
  But Raoul, less credulous than his old friend, had concluded, from
Porthos's recital, that if De Saint-Aignan was going to the King, De
Saint-Aignan would tell the King everything, and that the King would
therefore forbid De Saint-Aignan to obey the summons he had received
to the hostile meeting. The consequence of his reflections was that he
had left Porthos to remain at the place appointed for the meeting,
in the very improbable case that De Saint-Aignan would come there; and
had urged Porthos not to remain there more than an hour or an hour and
a half. Porthos, however, formally refused to assent to that, but on
the contrary installed himself in the Minimes as if he were going to
take root there, making Raoul promise that when he had been to see his
father, he would return to his own apartments, in order that Porthos's
servant might know where to find him in case M. de Saint-Aignan should
happen to come to the rendezvous.
  Bragelonne had left Vincennes, and had proceeded at once straight to
the apartments of Athos, who had been in Paris during the last two
days, and had been already informed of what had taken place by a
letter from d'Artagnan. Raoul arrived at his father's.
  Athos, after having held out his hand to him, and embraced him
most affectionately, made a sign for him to sit down. "I know you come
to me as a man would go to a friend, Viscount, whenever he is
suffering; tell me, therefore, what it is that brings you now."
  The young man bowed, and began his recital; more than once in the
course of it his tears choked his utterance; and a sob checked in
his throat compelled him to pause in his narration. However, he
finished at last. Athos most probably already knew how matters
stood, as we have just now said that d'Artagnan had already written to
him; but preserving until the conclusion that calm, unruffled
composure of manner which constituted the almost superhuman side of
his character, he replied: "Raoul, I do not believe there is a word of
truth in the rumors; I do not believe in the existence of what you
fear, although I do not deny that persons most entitled to the fullest
credit have already conversed with me on the subject. In my heart
and soul I think it impossible that the King could be guilty of such
an outrage upon a gentleman. I will answer for the King, therefore,
and will soon bring you back the proof of what I say."
  Raoul, wavering like a drunken man between what he had seen with his
own eyes and the imperturbable faith he had in a man who had never
told a falsehood, bowed, and simply answered, "Go, then, Monsieur
the Count; I will await your return"; and he sat down, burying his
face in his hands.
  Athos dressed, and then left him in order to wait upon the King;
what occurred in the interview with the King is already known to our
readers.
  When he returned to his lodgings, Raoul, pale and dejected, had
not quitted his attitude of despair. At the sound, however, of the
opening doors and of his father's footsteps, as he approached him, the
young man raised his head. Athos's face was very pale, his head
uncovered, and his manner full of seriousness; he gave his cloak and
hat to the lackey, dismissed him with a gesture, and sat down near
Raoul.
  "Well, Monsieur," inquired the young man, "are you quite convinced
now?"
  "I am, Raoul; the King loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere."
  "He confesses it, then?" cried Raoul.
  "Yes," replied Athos.
  "And she?"
  "I have not seen her."
  "No; but the King spoke to you about her. What did he say?"
  "He says that she loves him."
  "Oh, you see,- you see, Monsieur!" said the young man, with a
gesture of despair.
  "Raoul," resumed the count, "I told the King, believe me, all that
you yourself could possibly have said; and I believe I did so in
becoming language, though sufficiently firm."
  "And what did you say to him, Monsieur?"
  "I told him, Raoul, that everything was now at an end between him
and ourselves; that you would never serve him again. I told him that
I, too, should remain aloof. Nothing further remains for me, then, but
to be satisfied of one thing."
  "What is that, Monsieur?"
  "Whether you have determined to adopt any steps."
  "Any steps? Regarding what?"
  "With reference to your disappointed affection and-"
  "Finish, Monsieur!"
  "And with reference to revenge; for I fear that you think of
avenging your wrongs."
  "Oh, Monsieur, with regard to my affection, I shall perhaps, some
day or other, succeed in tearing it from my heart; I trust I shall
do so, aided by Heaven's merciful help and your wise exhortations.
So far as vengeance is concerned, it occurred to me only when under
the influence of an evil thought, for I could not revenge myself
upon the one who is actually guilty; I have therefore already
renounced every idea of revenge."
  "And so you no longer think of seeking a quarrel with M. de
Saint-Aignan?"
  "No, Monsieur. I sent him a challenge. If he accepts it, I will
maintain it; if he does not take it up, I will leave it where it is."
  "And La Valliere?"
  "You cannot, I know, have seriously thought that I should dream of
revenging myself upon a woman?" replied Raoul, with a smile so sad
that a tear started even to the eyes of his father, who had so many
times in the course of his life been bowed beneath his own sorrows and
those of others.
  Athos held out his hand to Raoul, which the latter seized most
eagerly.
  "And so, Monsieur the Count, you are quite satisfied that the
misfortune is without a remedy?" inquired the young man.
  Athos shook his head. "Poor boy!" he murmured.
  "You think that I still hope," said Raoul, "and you pity me. Oh,
it is indeed a horrible suffering for me to despise, as I ought to do,
her whom I have loved so devotedly. If I but had some real cause of
complaint against her, I should be happy, and should be able to
forgive her."
  Athos looked at his son with a sorrowful air. The few words which
Raoul had just pronounced seemed to have issued out of his own
heart. At this moment the servant announced M. d'Artagnan. This name
sounded very differently to the ears of Athos and of Raoul.
  The musketeer entered the room with a vague smile upon his lips.
Raoul paused. Athos walked towards his friend with an expression of
face which did not escape Bragelonne. D'Artagnan answered Athos's look
by a simple movement of the eyelid; and then, advancing toward
Raoul, whom he took by the hand, he said, addressing both father and
son, "Well, you are trying to console the boy, it seems."
  "And you, kind and good as usual, are come to help me in my
difficult task."
  As he said this, Athos pressed d'Artagnan's hand between both his
own. Raoul fancied he observed in this pressure something beyond the
sense his mere words conveyed.
  "Yes," replied the musketeer, smoothing his mustache with the hand
that Athos had left free,- "yes, I have come also."
  "You are most welcome, Chevalier; not for the consolation you
bring with you, but on your own account. I am already consoled,"
said Raoul; and he attempted to smile, but the effect was far more sad
than any tears d'Artagnan had ever seen shed.
  "That is all well and good, then," said d'Artagnan.
  "Only," continued Raoul, "you have arrived just as the count was
about to give me the details of his interview with the King. You
will allow the count to continue?" added the young man, as with his
eyes fixed on the musketeer he seemed to search the depths of his
heart.
  "His interview with the King?" said d'Artagnan, in a tone so natural
and unassumed that there was no reason to doubt his astonishment. "You
have seen the King then, Athos?"
  Athos smiled as he said, "Yes, I have seen him."
  "Ah, indeed! you were ignorant, then, that the count had seen his
Majesty?" inquired Raoul, half reassured.
  "My faith, yes! entirely."
  "In that case I am less uneasy," said Raoul.
  "Uneasy- and about what?" inquired Athos.
  "Forgive me, Monsieur," said Raoul; "but knowing so well the
regard and affection you have for me, I was afraid you might
possibly have expressed somewhat plainly to his Majesty my own
sufferings and your indignation, and that the King had consequently-"
  "And that the King had consequently-" repeated d'Artagnan; "well, go
on, finish what you were going to say."
  "I have now to ask you to forgive me, M. d'Artagnan," said Raoul.
"For a moment, and I cannot help confessing it, I trembled lest you
had come here, not as M. d'Artagnan, but as captain of the
Musketeers."
  "You are mad, my poor boy," cried d'Artagnan, with a burst of
laughter in which an exact observer might perhaps have desired a
little more frankness.
  "So much the better," said Raoul.
  "Yes, mad; and do you know what I would advise you to do?"
  "Tell me, Monsieur; for the advice is sure to be good, as it comes
from you."
  "Very well, then. I advise you, after your long journey from
England, after your visit to M. de Guiche, after your visit to Madame,
after your visit to Porthos, after your journey to Vincennes,- I
advise you, I say, to take a few hours' rest; go and lie down, sleep
for a dozen hours, and when you wake up, go and ride one of my
horses until you have tired him to death." And drawing Raoul towards
him, d'Artagnan embraced him as if he were his own child. Athos did
the like; only, it was very apparent that the father's kiss was more
tender and his embrace closer than those of the friend.
  The young man again looked at his companions, endeavoring with the
utmost strength of his intelligence to read what was in their minds;
but his look was powerless upon the smiling countenance of the
musketeer or upon the calm and composed features of the Comte de la
Fere.
  "Where are you going, Raoul?" inquired the latter, seeing that
Bragelonne was preparing to go out.
  "To my own apartments," replied Raoul, in his soft and sad voice.
  "We shall be sure to find you there, then, if we should have
anything to say to you?"
  "Yes, Monsieur; but do you suppose it likely you will have something
to say to me?"
  "How can I tell?" said Athos.
  "Yes, new consolations," said d'Artagnan, pushing him gently towards
the door.
  Raoul, observing the perfect composure which marked every gesture of
his two friends, quitted the count's room, carrying away with him
nothing but the individual feeling of his own particular distress.
"Thank Heaven!" he said; "since that is the case, I need only think of
myself." And wrapping himself in his cloak, in order to conceal from
the passers-by in the streets his gloomy face, he started out to
return to his own rooms, as he had promised Porthos.
  The two friends watched the young man as he walked away with a
feeling akin to pity; only, each expressed it in a very different way.
  "Poor Raoul!" said Athos, sighing deeply.
  "Poor Raoul!" said d'Artagnan, shrugging his shoulders.
                  Chapter XXI: Heu! Miser!

  "POOR RAOUL!" Athos had said; "Poor Raoul!" d'Artagnan had said:
to be pitied by both these men, Raoul must indeed have been most
unhappy. And when he found himself alone, face to face as it were with
his own troubles, leaving behind him the intrepid friend and the
indulgent father; when he recalled the avowal of the King's affection,
which had robbed him of Louise de la Valliere, whom he loved so
deeply,- he felt his heart almost breaking; as indeed we all have at
least once in our lives, at the first illusion destroyed, at the first
love betrayed. "Oh," he murmured, "all is over then! Nothing is now
left me in this world,- nothing to look for, nothing to hope for!
Guiche has told me so; my father has told me so, and M. d'Artagnan
likewise. Everything is a mere idle dream in this life. That future
which I have been hopelessly pursuing for the last ten years, a dream!
that union of our hearts, a dream! that life formed of love and
happiness, a dream! Poor fool, to publish my dreams in the face of
my friends and my enemies,- that my friends may be saddened by my
troubles and my enemies may laugh at my sorrows! So my unhappiness
will soon become a notorious disgrace, a public scandal; so
to-morrow I shall be ignominiously pointed at."
  Despite the composure which he had promised his father and
d'Artagnan to observe, Raoul could not resist uttering a few words
of dark menace. "And yet," he continued, "if my name were De Wardes,
and if I had the pliant character and strength of will of M.
d'Artagnan, I should laugh, with my lips at least; I should convince
other women that this perfidious girl, honored by my love, leaves me
only one regret,- that of having been deceived by her counterfeit of
honesty. Some men might perhaps make favor with the King at my
expense: I should put myself on the track of those jesters; I should
chastise a few of them,- the men would fear me, and by the time I
had laid three at my feet I should be adored by the women. Yes, yes;
that indeed would be the proper course to adopt, and the Comte de la
Fere himself would not object to it. Has not he also been tried, in
his earlier days, in the same manner as I have just been tried myself?
Did he not replace love by intoxication? He has often told me so.
Why should not I replace love by pleasure? He must have suffered as
much as I suffer,- even more so, perhaps. The history of one man is
the history of all men,- a lengthened trial, of greater or less
duration, more or less bitter or sorrowful. The voice of human
nature is nothing but one prolonged cry. But what are the sufferings
of others compared to those from which I am now suffering? Does the
open wound in another's breast soften the pain of the gaping wound
in our own? Or does the blood which is welling from another man's side
stanch that which is pouring from our own? Does the general anguish of
our fellow-creatures lessen our own private and particular anguish?
No, no; each suffers on his own account, each struggles with his own
grief, each sheds his own tears. And besides, what has my life been up
to the present moment? A cold, barren, sterile arena, in which I
have always fought for others, never for myself,- sometimes for a
king, sometimes for a woman. The King has betrayed me; the woman
disdained me. Miserable, unhappy wretch that I am! Women! Can I not
make all expiate the crime of one of their sex? What does that
require? To have a heart no longer, or to forget that I ever had
one; to be strong, even against weakness itself; to lean always,
even when one feels that the support is giving way. What is needed
to attain that result? To be young, handsome, strong, valiant, rich. I
am, or shall be, all that. But, honor? What is honor, after all? A
theory which every man understands in his own way. My father tells me:
'Honor is the consideration of what is due to others, and particularly
of what one owes to one's self.' But De Guiche and Manicamp, and De
Saint-Aignan particularly would say to me, 'Honor consists in
serving the passions and pleasures of one's King.' Honor such as that,
indeed, is easy and productive enough. With honor like that I can keep
my post at the court, become a gentleman of the chamber, and have
the command of a regiment. With honor such as that, I can be both duke
and peer.
  "The stain which that woman has just stamped upon me, the grief with
which she has just broken my heart,- mine, Raoul's, her friend from
childhood,- in no way affect M. de Bragelonne, an excellent officer, a
courageous leader, who will cover himself with glory at the first
encounter, and who will become a hundred times greater than
Mademoiselle de la Valliere is to-day, the mistress of the King; for
the King will not marry her,- and the more publicly he proclaims her
as his mistress, the more will he enlarge the band of shame which he
places as a crown upon her brow; and when others shall despise her
as I despise her, I shall have become famous. Alas! we had walked
together side by side, she and I, during the earliest, the
brightest, and best portion of our existence, hand in hand along the
charming path of life, covered with the flowers of youth, and now we
come to a cross road, where she separates herself from me, whence we
shall follow different roads, which will lead us always farther apart.
And to attain the end of this path, oh Heaven! I am alone, I am in
despair, I am crushed. Oh, unhappy man that I am!"
  Such were the sinister reflections in which Raoul was indulging when
his foot mechanically paused at the door of his own dwelling. He had
reached it without noticing the streets through which he had passed,
without knowing how he had come; he pushed open the door, continued to
advance, and ascended the staircase. The staircase, as in most of
the houses at that period, was very dark, and the landings were
obscure. Raoul lived on the first floor; he paused in order to ring.
Olivain appeared, and took Raoul's sword and cloak from his hands.
Raoul himself opened the door which from the antechamber led into a
small salon, richly furnished enough for the salon of a young man, and
completely filled with flowers by Olivain, who knowing his master's
tastes had shown himself studiously attentive in gratifying them
without caring whether his master perceived his attention or not.
There was a portrait of La Valliere in the salon, which had been drawn
by herself and given by her to Raoul. This portrait, fastened above
a large easy-chair covered with dark-colored damask, was the first
point towards which Raoul bent his steps, the first object on which he
fixed his eyes. It was, moreover, Raoul's usual habit to do so;
every time he entered his room, this portrait, before anything else,
attracted his attention. This time, as usual, he walked straight up to
the portrait, placed his knees upon the armchair, and paused to look
at it sadly. His arms were crossed upon his breast, his head
slightly thrown back, his eyes filled with tears, his lips curved in a
bitter smile. He looked at the portrait of her whom he so tenderly
loved; and then all that he had said passed before his mind again, and
all that he had suffered assailed his heart. After a long silence he
murmured for the third time, "Miserable, unhappy wretch that I am!"
  He had hardly pronounced these words, when he heard the sound of a
sigh and a groan behind him. He turned sharply round, and perceived in
the angle of the salon, standing up, a bending veiled female figure,
which the opening door had concealed as he entered, and which, since
he had not turned around, he had not perceived. He advanced towards
this figure, whose presence in his room had not been announced to him;
and as he bowed, and inquired at the same moment who she was, she
suddenly raised her head, and removed the veil from her face,
revealing her pale and sorrow-stricken features.
  Raoul staggered back, as if he had seen a ghost. "Louise!" he cried,
in a tone of such despair as one could hardly believe the human
voice could express without breaking all the fibres of the heart.
              Chapter XXII: Wounds Upon Wounds

  MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIERE (for it was indeed she) advanced a few
steps toward him. "Yes- Louise," she murmured.
  But this interval, short as it had been, was quite sufficient for
Raoul to recover himself. "You, Mademoiselle?" he said; and then
added, in an indefinable tone, "You here!"
  "Yes, Raoul," the young girl replied; "I have been waiting for you."
  "I beg your pardon. When I came into the room I was not aware-"
  "I know- but I entreated Olivain not to tell you-"
  Louise hesitated; and as Raoul did not attempt to interrupt her, a
moment's silence ensued, during which the sound of their throbbing
hearts might have been heard, no longer in unison with each other, but
the one beating as violently as the other. It was for Louise to speak,
and she made an effort to do so. "I wished to speak to you," she said.
"It was absolutely necessary that I should see you- myself- alone. I
have not hesitated to adopt a step which must remain secret; for no
one, except yourself, could understand my motive, M. de Bragelonne."
  "In fact, Mademoiselle," Raoul stammered out, almost breathless from
emotion, "so far as I am concerned, and despite the good opinion you
have of me, I confess-"
  "Will you do me the great kindness to sit down and listen to me?"
said Louise, interrupting him with her soft, sweet voice.
  Bragelonne looked at her for a moment; then, mournfully shaking
his head, he sat, or rather fell down, on a chair. "Speak!" he said.
  Louise cast a glance all round her. This look was a timid
entreaty, and implored secrecy far more effectually than her expressed
words had done a few minutes before.
  Raoul rose, and went to the door, which he opened. "Olivain," he
said, "I am not within for anyone"; and then turning towards Louise,
he added, "Is not that what you wished?"
  Nothing could have produced a greater effect upon Louise than
these few words which seemed to signify, "You see that I still
understand you." She passed a handkerchief across her eyes, in order
to remove a rebellious tear; and then, having collected herself for
a moment, she said: "Raoul, do not turn your kind, frank look away
from me! You are not one of those men who despise a woman for having
given her heart to another, even though that love might render him
unhappy or might wound his pride."
  Raoul did not reply.
  "Alas!" continued La Valliere, "it is only too true. My cause is a
bad one, and I know not in what way to begin. It will be better for
me, I think, to relate to you very simply everything that has befallen
me. As I shall speak the truth, I shall always find my path clear
before me in the obscurity, hesitation, and obstacles which I have
to brave in order to solace my heart, which is full to overflowing,
and wishes to pour itself out at your feet."
  Raoul continued to preserve the same unbroken silence. La Valliere
looked at him with an air that seemed to say, "Encourage me; for
pity's sake, but a single word!" But Raoul did not open his lips;
and the young girl was obliged to continue.
  "Just now," she said, "M. de Saint-Aignan came to me by the King's
directions." She cast down her eyes as she said this; while Raoul,
on his side, turned his away, in order to avoid looking at her. "M. de
Saint-Aignan came to me from the King," she repeated, "and told me
that you knew all"; and she attempted to look Raoul in the face, after
inflicting this further wound upon him in addition to the many
others he had already received; but it was impossible to meet
Raoul's eyes.
  "He told me you were incensed with me,- justly so, I admit."
  This time Raoul looked at the young girl, and a smile full of
disdain passed across his lips.
  "Oh," she continued, "I entreat you, do not say that you have had
any other feeling against me than that of anger merely! Raoul, wait
until I have told you all,- wait until I have said to you all that I
had to say, all that I came to say!"
  Raoul, by the strength of his own iron will, forced his features
to assume a calmer expression; and the disdainful smile upon his lip
passed away.
  "In the first place," said La Valliere,- "in the first place, with
my hands raised in entreaty towards you, with my forehead bowed to the
ground before you, I entreat you, as the most generous, as the noblest
of men, to pardon, to forgive me. If I have left you in ignorance of
what was passing in my own bosom, never, at least, would I have
consented to deceive you. Oh, I entreat you, Raoul,- I implore you
on my knees,- answer me one word, even though you wrong me in doing
so! Better an injurious word from your lips than a suspicion in your
heart!"
  "I admire your subtlety of expression, Mademoiselle," said Raoul,
making an effort to remain calm. "To leave another in ignorance that
you are deceiving him is loyal; but to deceive him- it seems that that
would be very wrong, and that you would not do it."
  "Monsieur, for a long time I thought that I loved you better than
anything else; and so long as I believed in my love for you, I told
you that I loved you. At Blois I loved you. The King visited Blois;
I believed I loved you still. I could have sworn it on the altar;
but a day came when I was undeceived."
  "Well, on that day, Mademoiselle, knowing that I still continued
to love you, true loyalty of conduct ought to have obliged you to tell
me you had ceased to love me."
  "But on that day, Raoul,- on that day, when I read in the depths
of my own heart, when I confessed to myself that you no longer
filled my mind entirely, when I saw another future before me than that
of being your friend, your life-long companion, your wife,- on that
day, Raoul, you were not, alas! any more beside me."
  "But you knew where I was, Mademoiselle; you could have written to
me."
  "Raoul, I did not dare to do so. Raoul, I have been weak and
cowardly. I knew you so thoroughly- I knew how devotedly you loved me-
that I trembled at the bare idea of the sorrow I was going to cause
you; and that is so true, Raoul, that at this very moment I am now
speaking to you, bending thus before you, my heart crushed in my
bosom, my voice full of sighs, my eyes full of tears,- it is so
perfectly true, that I have no other defence than my frankness, I have
no other sorrow greater than that which I read in your eyes."
  Raoul attempted to smile.
  "No," said the young girl, with a profound conviction, "no, no;
you will not do me so foul a wrong as to disguise your feelings before
me now! You loved me, you were sure of your affection for me, you
did not deceive yourself, you did not lie to your own heart; while
I- I-" And pale as death, her arms thrown despairingly above her head,
she fell on her knees.
  "While you," said Raoul,- "you told me you loved me, and yet you
loved another."
  "Alas, yes!" cried the poor girl,- "alas, yes! I do love another;
and that other- oh, for Heaven's sake, let me say it, Raoul, for it is
my only excuse- that other I love better than my own life, better than
my own soul even. Forgive my fault or punish my treason, Raoul. I came
here in no way to defend myself, but merely to say to you, 'You know
what it is to love!' Well, I love! I love to that degree that I
would give my life, my very soul, to the man I love. If he should ever
cease to love me, I shall die of grief and despair, unless God helps
me, unless the Lord shows pity upon me. Raoul, I came here to submit
myself to your will, whatever it might be,- to die, if it were your
wish I should die. Kill me, then, Raoul, if in your heart you
believe I deserve death!"
  "Take care, Mademoiselle!" said Raoul; "the woman who invites
death is one who has nothing but her heart's blood to offer to her
deceived and betrayed lover."
  "You are right," she said.
  Raoul uttered a deep sigh as he exclaimed, "And you love without
being able to forget!"
  "I love without a wish to forget, without a wish ever to love any
one else," replied La Valliere.
  "Very well," said Raoul. "You have said to me, in fact, all you
had to say, all I could possibly wish to know. And now,
Mademoiselle, it is I who ask your forgiveness; for it is I who have
almost been an obstacle in your life. I, too, have been wrong; for
in deceiving myself I helped to deceive you."
  "Oh," said La Valliere, "I do not ask you so much as that, Raoul!"
  "I only am to blame, Mademoiselle," continued Raoul. "Better
informed than yourself of the difficulties of this life, I should have
enlightened you. I ought not to have relied upon uncertainty; I
ought to have extracted an answer from your heart, while I hardly even
sought an acknowledgement from your lips. Once more, Mademoiselle,
it is I who ask your forgiveness."
  "Impossible, impossible!" she cried; "you are mocking me."
  "How, impossible?"
  "Yes, it is impossible to be good and excellent and perfect to
that extent."
  "Take care!" said Raoul, with a bitter smile; "for presently you may
say perhaps that I did not love you."
  "Oh, you love me like an affectionate brother; let me hope that,
Raoul."
  "As a brother? Undeceive yourself, Louise! I loved you as a lover,
as a husband, with the deepest, the truest, the fondest affection."
  "Raoul, Raoul!"
  "As a brother? Oh, Louise! I loved you so much I would have given
all my blood for you, drop by drop; all my flesh, shred by shred;
all my eternity, hour by hour."
  "Raoul! Raoul! for pity's sake!"
  "I loved you so much, Louise, that my heart is dead, my faith
extinguished, my eyes have lost their light. I loved you so much
that I see nothing more either on earth or in Heaven."
  "Raoul, dear Raoul! spare me, I implore you!" cried La Valliere.
"Oh, if I had known-"
  "It is too late, Louise. You love, you are happy; I read your
happiness through your tears,- behind the tears which the loyalty of
your nature makes you shed; I feel the sighs which your love
breathes forth. Louise, Louise, you have made me the most abjectly
wretched man living; leave me, I entreat you! Adieu! adieu!"
  "Forgive me, I entreat you!"
  "Have I not done more? Have I not told you that I love you still?"
She buried her face in her hands. "And to tell you that,- do you
understand me, Louise?- to tell you that at such a moment as this,
to tell you that as I have told you, is to pronounce my own sentence
of death. Adieu!"
  La Valliere wished to hold out her hands to him.
  "We ought not to see each other again in this world," he said; and
as she was on the point of calling out in bitter agony at this remark,
he placed his hand on her mouth to stifle the exclamation. She pressed
her lips upon it and fell fainting.
  "Olivain," said Raoul, "take this young lady and bear her to the
carriage which is waiting for her at the door."
  As Olivain lifted her up, Raoul made a movement towards La Valliere,
as if to give her a first and last kiss, but stopping abruptly, he
said, "No, she is not mine; I am not the King of France, to steal!"
And he returned to his room; while the lackey carried La Valliere,
still fainting, to the carriage.
            Chapter XXIII: What Raoul Had Guessed

  AFTER Raoul's departure, and the two exclamations which had followed
him, Athos and d'Artagnan found themselves alone, face to face.
Athos immediately resumed the earnest manner which had possessed him
when d'Artagnan arrived.
  "Well," Athos said, "what have you come to announce to me, my
friend?"
  "I?" inquired d'Artagnan.
  "Yes; I do not see you in this way without some reason for it," said
Athos, smiling.
  "The deuce!" said d'Artagnan.
  "I will place you at your ease. The King is furious, is he not?"
  "Well, I must say he is not altogether pleased."
  "And you have come-"
  "By his direction; yes."
  "To arrest me, then?"
  "My dear friend, you have hit the very mark."
  "Oh, I expected it! Come!"
  "Oh! oh! The devil!" said d'Artagnan; "what a hurry you are in!"
  "I am afraid of delaying you," said Athos, smiling.
  "I have plenty of time. Are you not curious, besides, to know how
things went on between the King and me?"
  "If you will be good enough to tell me, I will listen with the
greatest pleasure," said Athos, pointing out to d'Artagnan a large
chair, in which the latter stretched himself in an easy attitude.
  "Well, I will do so willingly enough," continued d'Artagnan, "for
the conversation is rather interesting. In the first place, the King
sent for me."
  "As soon as I had left?"
  "You were just going down the last steps of the staircase, as the
musketeers told me. I arrived. My dear Athos, the King was not red
in the face merely, he was positively purple. I was not aware, of
course, of what had passed; only I saw a sword broken in two lying
on the floor. 'Captain d'Artagnan,' cried the King, as soon as he
saw me. 'Sire,' I replied. 'I abandon M. de la Fere; he is an insolent
man.' 'An insolent man!' I exclaimed, in such a tone that the King
stopped suddenly short. 'Captain d'Artagnan,' resumed the King, with
his teeth clinched, 'you will listen to me and obey me.' 'That is my
duty, Sire.' 'I have wished to spare that gentleman, of whom I
retain some kind recollections, the affront of having him arrested
in my presence.' 'Ah! ah!' I said quietly. 'But you will take a
carriage.' At this I made a slight movement. 'If you object to
arrest him yourself,' continued the King, 'send me my captain of the
Guards.' 'Sire,' I replied, 'there is no necessity for the captain
of the Guards, since I am on duty.' 'I should not like to annoy
you,' said the King, kindly, 'for you have always served me well, M.
d'Artagnan.' 'You do not annoy me, Sire,' I replied; 'I am on duty,
that is all.' 'But,' said the King, in astonishment, 'I believe the
count is your friend?' 'If he were my father, Sire, it would not
make me less on duty than I am.' The King looked at me; he saw how
unmoved my face was, and seemed satisfied. 'You will arrest M. le
Comte de la Fere, then?' he inquired. 'Most certainly, Sire, if you
give me the order to do so.' 'Very well; I order you to do so.' I
bowed and replied, 'Where is the count, Sire?' 'You will look for
him.' 'And I am to arrest him wherever he may be?' 'Yes; but at his
own house if possible. If he has started for his own estate, leave
Paris at once, and arrest him on his way thither.' I bowed; but as I
did not move, he said, 'Well?' 'I am waiting, Sire.' 'What are you
waiting for?' 'For the signed order.' The King seemed annoyed; for
in point of fact it was the exercise of a fresh act of authority,- a
repetition of the arbitrary act, if indeed it is to be considered as
such. He took his pen slowly, and in no very good temper; then he
wrote, 'Order for M. le Chevalier d'Artagnan, captain of my
Musketeers, to arrest M. le Comte de la Fere, wherever he is to be
found.' He then turned towards me; but I was looking on without moving
a muscle of my face. In all probability he thought he perceived
something like bravado in my tranquil manner, for he signed hurriedly;
and then handing me the order, he said, 'Go!' I obeyed; and here I
am."
  Athos pressed his friend's hand. "Well, let us set off," he said.
  "Oh! surely," said d'Artagnan, "you must have some trifling
matters to arrange before you leave your apartments in this manner?"
  "I? Not at all."
  "Why not?"
  "Why, you know, d'Artagnan, I have always been a very simple
traveller on this earth, ready to go to the end of the world by
order of my sovereign, ready to quit it at the summons of my Maker.
What does a man who is thus prepared require in such a case?- a
portmanteau or a shroud. I am ready at this moment, as I have always
been, dear friend, and can accompany you at once."
  "But Bragelonne-"
  "I have brought him up in the same principles I laid down for my own
guidance; and you observed that as soon as he perceived you he
guessed, that very moment, the motive of your visit. We have thrown
him off his guard for a moment; but do not be uneasy,- he is
sufficiently prepared for my disgrace not to be too much alarmed at
it. So, let us go."
  "Very well, let us go," said d'Artagnan, quietly.
  "As I broke my sword in the King's presence, and threw the pieces at
his feet, I presume that will dispense with the necessity of
delivering it over to you."
  "You are quite right; and besides that, what the devil do you
suppose I could do with your sword?"
  "Am I to walk behind or before you?" inquired Athos, laughing.
  "You will walk arm-in-arm with me," replied d'Artagnan, as he took
the count's arm to descend the staircase; and in this manner they
arrived at the landing. Grimaud, whom they had met in the anteroom,
looked at them, as they went out together in this manner, with some
little uneasiness; his experience of affairs was quite sufficient to
give him good reason to suspect that there was something wrong.
  "Ah! is that you, Grimaud?" said Athos, kindly. "We are going-"
  "To take a turn in my carriage," interrupted d'Artagnan, with a
friendly nod of the head.
  Grimaud thanked d'Artagnan by a grimace, which was evidently
intended for a smile, and accompanied the two friends to the door.
Athos entered first into the carriage; d'Artagnan followed him,
without saying a word to the coachman. The departure had taken place
so quietly that it excited no disturbance or attention even in the
neighborhood. When the carriage had reached the quays, "You are taking
me to the Bastille, I perceive," said Athos.
  "I?" said d'Artagnan. "I take you wherever you may choose to go;
nowhere else, I can assure you."
  "What do you mean?" said the count, surprised.
  "Pardieu!" said d'Artagnan, "you quite understand that I undertook
the mission with no other object in view than that of carrying it
out exactly as you liked. You did not think that I would have you
thrown into prison like that, brutally, without reflection. If I had
not anticipated that, I should have let the captain of the Guards
undertake it."
  "And so-" said Athos.
  "And so, I repeat, we will go wherever you may choose."
  "My dear friend," said Athos, embracing d'Artagnan, "how like you
that is!"
  "Well, it seems simple enough to me. The coachman will take you to
the barrier of the Cours-la-Reine; you will find a horse there which I
have ordered to be kept ready for you; with that horse you will be
able to do three posts without stopping; and I, on my side, will
take care not to return to the King, to tell him that you have gone
away, until it will be impossible to overtake you. In the mean time
you will have reached Havre, and from Havre you will go to England,
where you will find the charming residence which my friend M. Monk
gave me,- to say nothing of the hospitality which King Charles will
not fail to show you. Well, what do you think of this project?"
  "Take me to the Bastille," said Athos, smiling.
  "You are an obstinate-headed fellow, dear Athos," returned
d'Artagnan; "reflect for a few moments."
  "Upon what?"
  "That you are no longer twenty years of age. Believe me,- I speak
according to my own knowledge and experience,- a prison is certain
death for men of our time of life. No, no; I will never allow you to
languish in prison. Why, the very thought of it turns my head."
  "Dear d'Artagnan," Athos replied, "happily God made me as strong
in body as in mind; and rely upon it, I shall be strong up to my
last breath."
  "But this is not force; it is folly."
  "No, d'Artagnan, it is the highest order of reasoning. Do not
suppose that I should in the slightest degree in the world discuss the
question with you, whether you would not be ruined in endeavoring to
save me. I should have done precisely as you have arranged, if
flight had seemed proper to me; I should therefore have accepted
from you what without any doubt you would have accepted from me. No! I
know you too well even to breathe a word upon the subject."
  "Ah, if you would only let me do it," said d'Artagnan, "how I
would send the King running after you!"
  "He is the King, dear friend."
  "Oh, that is all the same to me; and King though he be, I would
plainly tell him, 'Sire! imprison, exile, kill every one in France and
Europe; order me to arrest, and even poniard whom you like,- even were
it Monsieur, your own brother; but do not touch one of the four
musketeers, or, if so, mordioux!'"
  "My dear friend," replied Athos, quietly, "I should like to persuade
you of one thing; namely, that I wish to be arrested,- that I desire
above all things that my arrest should take place." D'Artagnan made
a movement of his shoulders. "What does that mean? It is so. If you
were to let me escape, it would be only to return of my own accord,
and constitute myself a prisoner. I wish to prove to this young man,
who is dazzled by the power and splendor of his crown, that he can
be regarded as the first among men only by proving himself to be the
most generous and the wisest among them. He may punish, imprison, or
torture me,- it matters not. He abuses his opportunities, and I wish
him to learn the bitterness of remorse, while Heaven teaches him
what a chastisement is."
  "Well," replied d'Artagnan, "I know only too well that when you have
once said 'No,' you mean 'No.' I do not insist any longer. You wish to
go to the Bastille?"
  "I do wish to go there."
  "Let us go, then! To the Bastille!" cried d'Artagnan to the
coachman; and throwing himself back in the carriage, he gnawed the
ends of his mustache with a fury which to Athos, who knew him well,
signified a resolution either already taken or in course of formation.
A profound silence ensued in the carriage, which continued to roll on,
but neither faster nor slower than before.
  Athos took the musketeer by the hand. "You are not angry with me,
d'Artagnan?" he said.
  "I? Oh, no! certainly not, of course not! What you do from
heroism, I should have done from obstinacy."
  "But you are quite of opinion, are you not, that Heaven will
avenge me, d'Artagnan?"
  "And I know some persons on earth who will lend a helping hand,"
said the captain.
        Chapter XXIV: Three Guests Astonished to Find
               Themselves at Supper Together

  THE carriage arrived at the outer gate of the Bastille. A soldier on
guard stopped it; but d'Artagnan had only to utter a single word to
procure admittance, and the carriage passed on. While they were
proceeding along the covered way which led to the courtyard of the
governor's residence, d'Artagnan, whose lynx eye saw everything,
even through the walls, suddenly cried out, "What is that out yonder?"
  "Well," said Athos, quietly, "what is it?"
  "Look yonder, Athos!"
  "In the courtyard?"
  "Yes, yes; make haste!"
  "Well, a carriage; very likely conveying a prisoner like myself."
  "That would be too droll."
  "I do not understand you."
  "Make haste and look again, and look at the man who is just
getting out of that carriage."
  At that very moment a second sentinel stopped d'Artagnan; and
while the formalities were gone through, Athos could see at a
hundred paces from him the man whom his friend had pointed out to him.
He was, in fact, getting out of the carriage at the door of the
governor's house. "Well," inquired d'Artagnan, "do you see him?"
  "Yes; he is a man in a gray suit."
  "What do you say of him?"
  "I cannot very well tell. He is, as I have just now told you, a
man in a gray suit, who is getting out of a carriage; that is all."
  "Athos, I will wager anything it is he."
  "He?- who?"
  "Aramis."
  "Aramis arrested? Impossible!"
  "I do not say he is arrested, since we see him alone in his
carriage."
  "Well, then, what is he doing here?"
  "Oh, he knows Baisemeaux, the governor!" replied the musketeer,
slyly. "My faith! we have arrived just in time."
  "What for?"
  "In order to see what we can see."
  "I regret this meeting exceedingly. When Aramis sees me, he will
be very much annoyed,- in the first place at seeing me, and in the
next at being seen."
  "Very well reasoned."
  "Unfortunately, there is no remedy for it. Whenever any one meets
another in the Bastille, even if he wished to draw back to avoid
him, it would be impossible."
  "Athos, I have an idea: the question is, to spare Aramis the
annoyance you were speaking of, is it not?"
  "What is to be done?"
  "I will tell you; or, in order to better explain myself, let me
relate the affair in my own manner. I will not recommend you to tell a
falsehood, for that would be impossible for you to do."
  "Well, what is it?"
  "Well, I will lie for both of us; it is so easy to do that, with the
nature and habits of a Gascon."
  Athos smiled. The carriage stopped where the one we have just now
pointed out had stopped; namely, at the door of the governor's house.
  "It is understood, then?" said d'Artagnan, in a low voice to his
friend.
  Athos consented by a gesture.
  They ascended the staircase. There will be no occasion for
surprise at the facility with which they had entered the Bastille,
if it be remembered that before passing the first gate- in fact, the
most difficult of all- d'Artagnan had announced that he had brought
a prisoner of State. At the third gate, on the contrary,- that is to
say, when he had once fairly entered the prison,- he merely said to
the sentinel, "To M. Baisemeaux"; and they both passed on. In a few
minutes they were in the governor's dining-room; and the first face
which attracted d'Artagnan's observation was that of Aramis, who was
seated side by side with Baisemeaux, and awaited the announcement of a
good meal, whose odor impregnated the whole apartment. If d'Artagnan
pretended surprise, Aramis did not pretend at all; he started when
he saw his two friends, and his emotion was very apparent. Athos and
d'Artagnan, however, made their salutations; and Baisemeaux, amazed,
completely stupefied by the presence of those three guests, began to
perform a few evolutions around them.
  "Ah, there!" said Aramis, "by what chance-"
  "We were just going to ask you," retorted d'Artagnan.
  "Are we going to give ourselves up as prisoners?" cried Aramis, with
an affectation of hilarity.
  "Ah! ah!" said d'Artagnan; "it is true the walls smell deucedly like
a prison. M. de Baisemeaux, you know you invited me to sup with you
the other day."
  "I?" cried Baisemeaux.
  "Ah! one would say you had fallen from the clouds. You do not recall
it?"
  Baisemeaux turned pale and then red; looked at Aramis, who looked at
him; and finally stammered, "Certainly- I am delighted- but- upon my
honor- I have not the slightest- Ah! I have such a wretched memory."
  "Well, I am wrong, I see," said d'Artagnan, as if he were offended.
  "Wrong, how?"
  "Wrong to remember, it seems."
  Baisemeaux hurried towards him. "Do not stand on ceremony, my dear
captain," he said. "I have the poorest head in the kingdom. Take me
from my pigeons and their pigeon-house, and I am no better than the
rawest recruit."
  "At all events, you remember it now," said d'Artagnan, boldly.
  "Yes, yes," replied the governor, hesitating; "I think I remember."
  "It was when you came to the palace to see me; you told me some
story or other about your accounts with M. de Louviere and M. de
Tremblay."
  "Oh, yes! perfectly."
  "And about M. d'Herblay's kindness to you."
  "Ah!" exclaimed Aramis, looking the unhappy governor full in the
face; "and yet you just now said you had no memory, M. de Baisemeaux."
  Baisemeaux interrupted the musketeer in the midst of his
revelations. "Yes, yes, you're quite right; it seems to me that I am
still there. I beg a thousand pardons. But now, once for all, my
dear M. d'Artagnan, be sure that at this present time, as at any
other, whether invited or not, you are master here,- you and M.
d'Herblay, your friend," he said, turning towards Aramis; "and this
gentleman too," he added, bowing to Athos.
  "Well, I thought it would be sure to turn out so," replied
d'Artagnan. "This is the occasion of my coming: Having nothing to do
this evening at the Palais-Royal, I wished to judge for myself what
your ordinary style of living was like; and as I was coming along I
met Monsieur the Count." Athos bowed. "The count, who had just left
his Majesty, handed me an order which required immediate attention. We
were close by here; I wished to call in, even if it were for no
other object than that of shaking hands with you and of presenting the
count to you, of whom you spoke so highly in the King's presence
that very evening when-"
  "Certainly, certainly- M. le Comte de la Fere, is it not?"
  "Precisely."
  "Monsieur the Count is welcome."
  "And he will sup with you two, I suppose; while I, unfortunate dog
that I am, must run off on a matter of duty. Oh, what happy beings you
are, compared to myself!" D'Artagnan added, sighing as loud as Porthos
might have done.
  "And so you are going away?" said Aramis and Baisemeaux together,
with the same expression of delighted surprise, the tone of which
was immediately noticed by d'Artagnan.
  "I leave you in my place," he said, "a noble and excellent guest";
and he touched Athos gently on the shoulder, who, astonished also,
could not help exhibiting his surprise a little,- which was noticed by
Aramis only, for M. de Baisemeaux was not quite equal to the three
friends in point of intelligence.
  "What! are you going to leave us?" resumed the governor.
  "I shall be away only about an hour or an hour and a half. I will
return in time for dessert."
  "Oh, we will wait for you!" said Baisemeaux.
  "No, no; that would be really disobliging me."
  "You will be sure to return, though?" said Athos, with an expression
of doubt.
  "Most certainly," he said, pressing his friend's hand
confidentially; and he added in a low voice, "Wait for me, Athos; be
cheerful and lively as possible, and above all, don't allude to
business affairs, for Heaven's sake!" and a renewed pressure of the
hand impressed upon the count the necessity of being discreet and
impenetrable.
  Baisemeaux led d'Artagnan to the gate. Aramis, with many friendly
protestations of delight, sat down by Athos, determined to make him
speak; but Athos possessed all the virtues in their highest
excellence. If necessity had required it, he would have been the
finest orator in the world; but when there was need of silence he
would die rather than utter a syllable.
  Ten minutes after d'Artagnan's departure, the three gentlemen sat
down to table, which was covered with the most substantial display
of gastronomic luxury. Large joints, exquisite dishes, preserves,
the greatest variety of wines, appeared successively upon the table,
which was served at the King's expense, and of which expense M.
Colbert would have no difficulty in saving two thirds, without any one
in the Bastille being the worse for it.
  Baisemeaux was the only one who ate and drank resolutely. Aramis
allowed nothing to pass by him, but merely touched everything he took;
Athos, after the soup and three hors d'oeuvres, ate nothing more.
The style of conversation was such as it necessarily would be
between three men so opposite in temper and ideas.
  Aramis was incessantly asking himself by what extraordinary chance
Athos was at Baisemeaux's when d'Artagnan was no longer there, and why
d'Artagnan did not remain when Athos was there. Athos sounded all
the depths of the mind of Aramis, who lived in the midst of
subterfuge, evasion, and intrigue; he studied his man well and
thoroughly, and felt convinced that he was engaged upon some important
project. And then he too began to think of his own personal affair,
and to lose himself in conjectures as to d'Artagnan's reason for
having left the Bastille so abruptly, and for leaving behind him a
prisoner so badly introduced and so badly looked after by the prison
authorities.
  But we shall not pause to examine into the thoughts and feelings
of these personages; we will leave them to themselves, surrounded by
the remains of poultry, game, and fish, mutilated by the generous
knife of Baisemeaux. We are going to follow d'Artagnan instead, who,
getting into the carriage which had brought him, cried out to the
coachman, "To the King! and burn the pavement!"
          Chapter XXV: What Took Place at the Louvre
             During the Supper at the Bastille

  M. DE SAINT-AIGNAN had executed the commission with which the King
had intrusted him for La Valliere, as we have already seen in one of
the preceding chapters; but whatever his eloquence might have been, he
did not succeed in persuading the young girl that she had in the
King a protector powerful enough for her under any combination of
circumstances, and that she had no need of any one else in the world
when the King was on her side. In point of fact, at the very first
word which the favorite mentioned of the discovery of the famous
secret, Louise, in a passion of tears, abandoned herself in utter
despair to a sorrow which would have been far from flattering for
the King, if he had been a witness of it from a corner of the room. De
Saint-Aignan, in his character of ambassador, felt greatly offended at
it, as his master himself would have been, and returned to announce to
the King what he had seen and heard. It is there that we now find him,
in a state of great agitation, in the presence of the King, still more
agitated than he.
  "But," said the King to the courtier, when the latter had finished
his report, "what did she decide to do? Shall I, at least, see her
presently before supper? Will she come to me, or shall I be obliged to
go to her room?"
  "I believe, Sire, that if your Majesty wishes to see her, you will
not only have to take the first step in advance, but will have to go
the whole way."
  "Nothing for me! Does that Bragelonne still possess her heart?"
muttered the King between his teeth.
  "Oh, Sire, that is not possible; for it is you alone whom
Mademoiselle de la Valliere loves, and that, too, with all her
heart. But you know that De Bragelonne belongs to that proud race
who play the part of Roman heroes."
  The King smiled feebly; he knew how true the illustration was, for
Athos had just left him.
  "As for Mademoiselle de la Valliere," De Saint-Aignan continued,
"she was brought up under the care of the Dowager Madame; that is to
say, in austere retirement. This engaged young couple coldly exchanged
their little vows in the presence of the moon and the stars; and
now, when they find they have to break those vows, it plays the very
deuce with them."
  De Saint-Aignan thought he should have made the King laugh; but on
the contrary, from a mere smile Louis passed to the greatest
seriousness of manner. He already began to experience that remorse
which the count had promised d'Artagnan he would inflict upon him.
He reflected that, in fact, these young persons had loved and sworn
fidelity to each other; that one of the two had kept his word, and
that the other was too conscientious not to feel her perjury most
bitterly; and with remorse, jealousy sharply pricked the King's heart.
He did not say another word; and instead of going to pay a visit to
his mother or the Queen or Madame, in order to amuse himself a
little and make the ladies laugh, as he himself used to say, he
threw himself into the huge arm-chair in which his august father,
Louis XIII, had passed so many weary days and years in company with
Baradas and Cinq-Mars.
  De Saint-Aignan perceived that the King was not to be amused at that
moment; he tried a last resource, and pronounced Louise's name,
which made the King look up immediately. "What does your Majesty
intend to do this evening? Shall Mademoiselle de la Valliere be
informed of your intention to see her?"
  "It seems she is already aware of that," replied the King. "No,
no, Saint-Aignan," he continued, after a moment's pause; "we will both
of us pass our time in dreaming. When Mademoiselle de la Valliere
shall have sufficiently regretted what she now regrets, she will
deign, perhaps, to give us some news of herself."
  "Ah, Sire, is it possible you can so misunderstand that devoted
heart?"
  The King rose, flushed with vexation; he was a prey to jealousy in
its turn. De Saint-Aignan was just beginning to feel that his position
was becoming awkward, when the curtain before the door was raised. The
King turned hastily round. His first idea was that a letter from
Louise had arrived; but instead of a letter of love, he saw only his
captain of Musketeers standing upright and silent in the doorway.
"M. d'Artagnan!" he said. "Ah! well, Monsieur?"
  D'Artagnan looked at De Saint-Aignan; Louis's eyes took the same
direction as those of his captain. These looks would have been clear
to any one, and they were especially so to De Saint-Aignan. The
courtier bowed and quitted the room, leaving the King and d'Artagnan
alone.
  "Is it done?" inquired the King.
  "Yes, Sire," replied the captain of the Musketeers, in a grave
voice, "it is done!"
  The King was unable to say another word. Pride, however, obliged him
not to pause there. Whenever a sovereign has adopted a decisive
course, even though it be unjust, he is compelled to prove to all
witnesses, and particularly to himself, that he was quite right in
so adopting it. A good means for effecting that- an almost
infallible means, indeed- is to try to prove his victim to be in the
wrong. Louis, brought up by Mazarin and Anne of Austria, knew better
than any one else his vocation as a monarch; he therefore endeavored
to prove it on the present occasion. After a few moments' pause, which
he had employed in making silently to himself the same reflections
which we have just expressed aloud, he said in an indifferent tone,
"What did the count say?"
  "Nothing at all, Sire."
  "Surely he did not allow himself to be arrested without saying
something?"
  "He said he expected to be arrested, Sire."
  The King raised his head haughtily. "I presume," he said, "that M.
le Comte de la Fere has not continued to play his obstinate and
rebellious part?"
  "In the first place, Sire, what do you term rebellious?" quietly
asked the musketeer. "Is that man a rebel, in the eyes of the King,
who not only allows himself to be shut up in the Bastille, but who
even opposes those who do not wish to take him there?"
  "Who do not wish to take him there!" exclaimed the King. "What do
you say, Captain? Are you mad?"
  "I believe not, Sire."
  "You speak of persons who did not wish to arrest M. de la Fere?"
  "Yes, Sire."
  "And who are they?"
  "Those whom your Majesty intrusted with that duty, apparently."
  "But it is you whom I intrusted with it," exclaimed the King.
  "Yes, Sire; it is I."
  "And you say that, despite my orders, you had the intention of not
arresting the man who had insulted me!"
  "Yes, Sire, that was really my intention. I even proposed to the
count to mount a horse that I had had prepared for him at the Barriere
de la Conference."
  "And what was your object in getting this horse ready?"
  "Why, Sire, in order that M. le Comte de la Fere might be able to
reach Havre, and from that place make his escape to England."
  "You betrayed me then, Monsieur?" cried the King, kindling with a
wild pride.
  "Exactly so."
  There was nothing to say in answer to statements made in such a
tone; the King was astounded at such an obstinate and open
resistance on the part of d'Artagnan. "At least you had a reason, M.
d'Artagnan, for acting as you did?" said the King, proudly.
  "I have always a reason, Sire."
  "Your reason cannot be your friendship for the count, at all
events,- the only one that can be of any avail, the only one that
could possibly excuse you,- for I placed you entirely at your ease
in that respect."
  "Me, Sire?"
  "Did I not give you the choice to arrest or not to arrest M. le
Comte de la Fere?"
  "Yes, Sire; but-"
  "But what?" exclaimed the King, impatiently.
  "But you warned me, Sire, that if I did not arrest him, your captain
of the Guards should do so."
  "Was I not considerate enough towards you when I did not compel
you to obey me?"
  "To me, Sire, you were, but not to my friend; for my friend would be
arrested all the same, whether by myself or by the captain of the
Guards."
  "And this is your devotion, Monsieur,- a devotion which argues and
reasons! You are no soldier, Monsieur!"
  "I wait for your Majesty to tell me what I am."
  "Well, then,- you are a Frondeur."
  "And since there is no longer any Fronde, Sire, in that case-"
  "But if what you say is true-"
  "What I say is always true, Sire."
  "What have you come to say to me, Monsieur?"
  "I have come to say to your Majesty: Sire, M. de la Fere is in the
Bastille."
  "That is not your fault, it would seem."
  "That is true, Sire. But, at all events, he is there; and since he
is there, it is important that your Majesty should know it."
  "Ah, M. d'Artagnan, so you set your King at defiance!"
  "Sire-"
  "M. d'Artagnan, I warn you that you are abusing my patience."
  "On the contrary, Sire."
  "What do you mean by 'on the contrary'?"
  "I have come to get myself arrested too."
  "To get yourself arrested,- you!"
  "Of course. My friend will be lonely down there; and I have come
to propose to your Majesty to permit me to bear him company. If your
Majesty will but give the word, I will arrest myself; I shall not need
the captain of the Guards for that, I assure you."
  The King darted towards the table and seized a pen to write the
order for d'Artagnan's imprisonment. "Pay attention, Monsieur, that
this is forever!" cried the King, in a tone of stern menace.
  "I can quite believe that," returned the musketeer; "for when you
have once done such an act as that, you will never be able to look
me in the face again."
  The King dashed down his pen violently. "Leave the room,
Monsieur!" he said.
  "Oh, not so, Sire, if it please your Majesty!"
  "How, not so?"
  "Sire, I came to speak temperately to your Majesty. Your Majesty got
into a passion with me: that is a misfortune; but I shall not the less
on that account say what I had to say to you."
  "Your resignation, Monsieur,- your resignation!" cried the King.
  "Sire, you know whether I care about my resignation or not, since at
Blois, on the day when you refused King Charles the million which my
friend the Comte de la Fere gave him, I tendered my resignation to
your Majesty."
  "Very well, then, do it at once!"
  "No, Sire; for there is no question of my resignation at the present
moment. Your Majesty took up your pen just now to send me to the
Bastille,- why should you change your intention?"
  "D'Artagnan! Gascon that you are! who is the King, allow me to ask,-
you or myself?"
  "You, Sire, unfortunately."
  "What do you mean by 'unfortunately'?"
  "Yes, Sire; for if it were I-"
  "If it were you, you would approve of M. d'Artagnan's rebellious
conduct, I suppose?"
  "Certainly."
  "Really?" said the King, shrugging his shoulders.
  "And I should tell my captain of the Musketeers," continued
d'Artagnan,- "I should tell him, looking at him all the while with
human eyes and not with eyes like coals of fire, 'M. d'Artagnan, I
have forgotten that I am King; I have descended from my throne to
insult a gentleman.'"
  "Monsieur!" cried the King, "do you think you can excuse your friend
by exceeding him in insolence?"
  "Oh, Sire! I shall go much further than he did," said d'Artagnan;
"and it will be your own fault. I shall tell you what he, a man full
of delicacy, did not tell you; I shall say: 'Sire, you sacrificed
his son, and he defended his son; you sacrificed him; he addressed you
in the name of honor, of religion, of virtue,- you repulsed,
pursued, imprisoned him.' I shall be harder than he was, for I shall
say to you: 'Sire, choose! Do you wish to have friends or lackeys,
soldiers or slaves, great men or puppets? Do you wish men to serve you
or to crouch before you? Do you wish men to love you or to fear you?
If you prefer baseness, intrigue, cowardice,- oh! say it, Sire! We
will leave you,- we who are the only surviving illustrations, nay, I
will say more, the only models of the valor of former times; we who
have done our duty, and have exceeded, perhaps, in courage and in
merit the men already great for posterity. Choose, Sire, and without
delay! Whatever remains to you of the grand nobility, guard it with
a jealous eye; of courtiers you will always have enough. Delay not-
and send me to the Bastille with my friend; for if you have not
known how to listen to the Comte de la Fere, that is to say, to the
most sweet and noble voice of honor; if you do not know how to
listen to d'Artagnan, that is to say, to the most candid and rough
voice of sincerity,- you are a bad king, and to-morrow will be a
poor king. Now, bad kings are hated; poor kings are driven away.' That
is what I had to say to you, Sire; you are wrong to have driven me
to it."
  The King threw himself back in his chair, cold and livid. Had a
thunderbolt fallen at his feet, he could not have been more
astonished; he appeared as if his respiration had ceased, and as if he
were at the point of death. That rough voice of sincerity, as
d'Artagnan had called it, had pierced through his heart like a
sword-blade.
  D'Artagnan had said all that he had to say. Comprehending the King's
anger, he drew his sword, and approaching Louis XIV respectfully,
placed it on the table. But the King, with a furious gesture, thrust
aside the sword, which fell on the ground and rolled to d'Artagnan's
feet. Notwithstanding his mastery over himself, d'Artagnan too, in his
turn, became pale and trembled with indignation. "A king," he said,
"may disgrace a soldier,- he may exile him, and may even condemn him
to death; but were he a hundred times a king, he has no right to
insult him by casting dishonor on his sword! Sire, a king of France
has never repulsed with contempt the sword of a man such as I am!
Stained with disgrace as this sword now is, it has henceforth no other
sheath than either your heart or my own. I choose my own, Sire; give
thanks for it to God, and my patience." Then snatching up his sword,
he cried, "My blood be upon your head!" and with a rapid gesture he
placed the hilt upon the floor and directed the point of the blade
towards his breast. The King, however, with a movement still more
rapid than that of d'Artagnan, threw his right arm round the
musketeer's neck, and with his left hand seized hold of the blade by
the middle, and returned it silently to the scabbard. D'Artagnan,
upright, pale, and still trembling, suffered the King to do all,
without aiding him, to the very end. Then Louis, overcome, returned to
the table, took a pen, wrote a few lines, signed them, and offered the
paper to d'Artagnan.
  "What is this paper, Sire?" inquired the captain.
  "An order for M. d'Artagnan to set the Comte de la Fere at liberty
immediately."
  D'Artagnan seized the King's hand and kissed it; he then folded
the order, placed it in his belt, and quitted the room. Neither the
King nor the captain spoke a word.
  "Oh, human heart, director of kings! murmured Louis, when alone;
"when shall I learn to read in your recesses, as in the leaves of a
book? No, I am not a bad king, nor am I a poor king; but I am still
a child."
                 Chaper XXVI: Political Rivals

  D'ARTAGNAN had promised M. de Baisemeaux to return in time for
dessert, and he kept his word. They had just reached the finer and
more delicate class of wines and liqueurs with which the governor's
cellar had the reputation of being most admirably stocked, when the
spurs of the captain resounded in the corridor, and he himself
appeared at the threshold.
  Athos and Aramis had played a close game; neither had been able to
gain the slightest advantage over the other. They had supped, talked a
good deal about the Bastille, of the last journey to Fontainebleau, of
the intended fete that M. Fouquet was about to give at Vaux; they
had generalized on every possible subject, and no one, excepting
Baisemeaux, had alluded to private matters.
  D'Artagnan arrived in the very midst of the conversation, still pale
and disturbed by his interview with the King. Baisemeaux hastened to
give him a chair; d'Artagnan accepted a glass of wine, and set it down
empty. Athos and Aramis both remarked his emotion; as for
Baisemeaux, he saw nothing more than the captain of the King's
Musketeers, to whom he endeavored to show every attention. To be
near the King entitled any one to all privileges, in the eyes of M. de
Baisemeaux.
  But although Aramis had remarked that emotion, he had not been
able to guess the cause of it. Athos alone believed that he had
detected it. To him, d'Artagnan's return, and particularly the
manner in which he, usually so impassive, seemed overcome,
signified, "I have just asked the King something which he has
refused me." Thoroughly convinced that his conjecture was correct,
Athos smiled, rose from the table, and made a sign to d'Artagnan, as
if to remind him that they had something else to do than to sup
together. D'Artagnan immediately understood him, and replied by
another sign. Aramis and Baisemeaux watched this silent dialogue,
and looked inquiringly at each other. Athos felt that he was called
upon to give an explanation of what was passing.
  "The truth is, my friends," said the Comte de la Fere, with a smile,
"that you, Aramis, have been supping with a State criminal, and you,
M. de Baisemeaux, with your prisoner."
  Baisemeaux uttered an exclamation of surprise and almost of delight.
That worthy man took pride in his fortress. Profit aside, the more
prisoners he had, the happier he was; and the higher the prisoners
were in rank, the prouder he felt.
  Aramis assumed an expression which he thought the situation
required, and said: "Well, dear Athos, forgive me; but I almost
suspected what has happened. Some prank of Raoul or La Valliere, is it
not?"
  "Alas!" said Baisemeaux.
  "And," continued Aramis, "you, a high and powerful nobleman as you
are, forgetful that there are now only courtiers,- you have been to
the King, and told him what you thought of his conduct?"
  "Yes, you have guessed right."
  "So that," said Baisemeaux, trembling at having supped so familiarly
with a man who had fallen into disgrace with the King,- "so that,
Monsieur the Count-"
  "So that, my dear governor," said Athos, "my friend d'Artagnan
will communicate to you the contents of the paper which I perceive
just peeping out of his belt, and which assuredly can be nothing
else than the order for my incarceration."
  Baisemeaux held out his hand with his accustomed eagerness.
D'Artagnan drew two papers from his belt, and presented one of them to
the governor, who unfolded it, and then read, in a low tone of
voice, looking at Athos over the paper, as he did so, and pausing from
time to time: "'Order to detain in my chateau of the Bastille M. le
Comte de la Fere.' Oh, Monsieur! this is indeed a very melancholy
honor for me."
  "You will have a patient prisoner, Monsieur," said Athos, in his
calm, soft voice.
  "A prisoner, too, who will not remain a month with you, my dear
governor," said Aramis; while Baisemeaux, still holding the order in
his hand, transcribed it upon the prison registry.
  "Not a day, or rather not even a night," said d'Artagnan, displaying
the second order of the King; "for now, dear M. de Baisemeaux, you
will have the goodness to transcribe also this order for setting the
count immediately at liberty."
  "Ah!" said Aramis, "it is a labor that you have spared me,
d'Artagnan"; and he pressed the musketeer's hand in a significant
manner, and that of Athos at the same time.
  "What!" said the latter, in astonishment, "the King sets me at
liberty!"
  "Read, my dear friend!" returned d'Artagnan.
  Athos took the order and read it. "It is quite true," he said.
  "Are you sorry for it?" asked d'Artagnan.
  "Oh, no, on the contrary! I wish the King no harm; and the
greatest evil or misfortune that any one can wish kings is that they
should commit an act of injustice. But you have had a difficult and
painful task, I know. Tell me, have you not, d'Artagnan?"
  "I? Not at all," said the musketeer, laughing; "the King does
everything I wish him to do."
  Aramis looked fixedly at d'Artagnan, and saw that he was not
speaking the truth. But Baisemeaux had eyes for nothing but
d'Artagnan, so great was his admiration for a man who could make the
King do all he wished.
  "And does the King exile Athos?" inquired Aramis.
  "No, not precisely. The King did not explain himself upon that
subject," replied d'Artagnan; "but I think the count could not do
better, unless indeed he wishes particularly to thank the King-"
  "No, indeed," replied Athos, smiling.
  "Well, then, I think," resumed d'Artagnan, "that the count cannot do
better than to retire to his own chateau. However, my dear Athos,
you have only to speak, to tell me what you want. If any particular
place of residence is more agreeable to you than another, I can obtain
it for you."
  "No, thank you," said Athos; "nothing can be more agreeable to me,
my dear friend, than to return to the solitude beneath my noble
trees on the banks of the Loire. If Heaven be the overruling physician
of the evils of the mind, Nature is a sovereign remedy. And so,
Monsieur," continued Athos, turning again towards Baisemeaux, "I am
now free, I suppose?"
  "Yes, Monsieur the Count, I think so,- at least, I hope so," said
the governor, turning over and over the two papers in question;
"unless, however, M. d'Artagnan has a third order to give me."
  "No, my dear M. Baisemeaux, no," said the musketeer; "the second
is quite enough. We can stop there."
  "Ah! Monsieur the Count," said Baisemeaux, addressing Athos, "you do
not know what you are losing. I should have placed you at thirty
livres, like the generals- what am I saying?- I mean at fifty
livres, like the princes; and you would have supped every evening as
you have supped to-night."
  "Allow me, Monsieur," said Athos, "to prefer my mediocrity"; and
then, turning to d'Artagnan, he said, "Let us go, my friend."
  "Let us go," said d'Artagnan.
  "Shall I have the happiness of having you as my companion?"
  "To the city gate only," replied d'Artagnan; "after which I will
tell you what I told the King: 'I am on duty.'"
  "And you, dear Aramis," said Athos, smiling; "will you accompany me?
La Fere is on the road to Vannes."
  "Thank you, my dear friend," said Aramis; "but I have an appointment
in Paris this evening, and I cannot leave without very serious
interests suffering by my absence."
  "In that case," said Athos, "I must say adieu, and take my leave
of you. My dear M. de Baisemeaux, I have to thank you exceedingly
for your good will, and particularly for the specimen you have given
me of the Bastille fare"; and having embraced Aramis, and shaken hands
with M. de Baisemeaux, and having received their wishes for an
agreeable journey from them both, Athos set off with d'Artagnan.

  While the denouement of the scene of the Palais-Royal was taking
place at the Bastille, let us relate what was going on at the lodgings
of Athos and of Bragelonne. Grimaud, as we have seen, had
accompanied his master to Paris; and, as we have said, he was
present when Athos went out. He had seen d'Artagnan gnaw the corners
of his mustache; he had seen his master get into the carriage; he
had narrowly examined both their countenances, and he had known them
both for a sufficiently long period to read and understand, through
the mask of their impassiveness, that serious events were taking
place. As soon as Athos had gone, he began to reflect; then he
remembered the strange manner in which Athos had taken leave of him,
the embarrassment- imperceptible to any one but himself- of his
master,- that man of clear ideas and straightforward will. He knew
that Athos had taken nothing with him but the clothes he had on him at
the time; and yet he thought he saw that Athos had not left for an
hour merely, or even for a day: a long absence was signified by the
manner in which he pronounced the word "Adieu." All these
circumstances recurred to his mind, with all his feelings of deep
affection for Athos, with that horror of emptiness and solitude
which invariably besets the minds of those who love; and all these,
combined, rendered poor Grimaud very melancholy and particularly
very apprehensive. Without being able to account to himself for what
he did after his master's departure, he wandered about the
apartment, seeking as it were for some traces of him, like a
faithful dog, who is not exactly uneasy about his absent master, but
at least is restless. Only, as to the instinct of the animal Grimaud
joined the reason of a man, he had at the same time restlessness and
anxiety. Not having found any indication which could serve as a guide,
and having neither seen nor discovered anything which could satisfy
his doubts, Grimaud began to imagine what could have happened. Now,
the imagination is the resource, or rather the punishment, of good and
affectionate hearts. In fact, never does a good heart represent its
absent friend to itself as being happy or cheerful. Never does the
pigeon who travels inspire anything but terror to the pigeon who
remains at home.
  Grimaud soon passed from anxiety to terror; he carefully went
over, in his own mind, everything that had taken place,-
d'Artagnan's letter to Athos, the letter which had seemed to
distress Athos so much; then Raoul's coming to Athos, upon which Athos
had asked for his orders and his court dress; then his interview
with the King, at the end of which Athos had returned home so
gloomy; then the explanation between the father and the son, at the
termination of which Athos had embraced Raoul with such sadness of
expression, while Raoul himself went away sorrowfully; and finally,
d'Artagnan's arrival, biting his mustache, and his leaving again in
the carriage, accompanied by the Comte de la Fere. All this composed a
drama in five acts, very plain, especially so to an analyst as skilful
as Grimaud.
  In the first place Grimaud resorted to grand measures: he searched
in his master's coat for M. d'Artagnan's letter; he found the letter
still there, and this is what it contained:

  "MY DEAR FRIEND: Raoul has been to ask me for some particulars about
the conduct of Mademoiselle de la Valliere during our young friend's
residence in London. I am a poor captain of Musketeers, whose ears are
battered every day by the scandal of the barracks and the
bedchamber. If I had told Raoul all I believe I know, the poor
fellow would have died from it; but I am in the King's service, and
cannot speak of the King's affairs. If your heart tells you to do
it, set off at once; the matter concerns you more than myself, and
almost as much as Raoul."

  Grimaud tore, not a handful, but a finger-and-thumbful of hair out
of his head; he would have torn out more if his hair had been more
abundant.
  "Yes," he said, "that is the key of the whole enigma. The young girl
has been playing her pranks. What people say about her and the King is
true, then. Our young master has been deceived; he ought to know it.
Monsieur the Count has been to see the King, and has given him a piece
of his mind; and then the King sent M. d'Artagnan to arrange the
affair. Ah, my God!" continued Grimaud, "Monsieur the Count, I now
remember, returned without his sword."
  This discovery made the perspiration break out all over poor
Grimaud's face. He did not waste any more time in useless
conjecture, but clapped his hat on his head and started for Raoul's
lodgings.
  Raoul, after Louise had left him, had mastered his grief, if not his
affection; and compelled to look forward on that perilous road on
which madness and rebellion were hurrying him, he had seen, from the
very first glance, his father exposed to the royal obstinacy, since
Athos had immediately exposed himself to that obstinacy. In this
moment, when sympathy gave him insight, the unhappy young man recalled
the mysterious signs which Athos had made, and the unexpected visit of
d'Artagnan. The probable result of the conflict between a sovereign
and a subject revealed itself to his terrified vision. As d'Artagnan
was on duty, that is, fixed to his post, he certainly had not come
to pay Athos a visit merely for the pleasure of seeing him. He must
have come to say something to him. This something, in a crisis so
serious, was either a misfortune or a danger. Raoul shuddered at his
selfishness in having forgotten his father for his love,- in having
occupied himself with dreams or the fascinations of despair at a
time when it was perhaps necessary to repel an imminent attack
directed against Athos. The idea nearly drove him wild; he buckled
on his sword and ran towards his father's lodgings. On his way thither
he encountered Grimaud, who having set off from the opposite direction
was running with equal eagerness in search of the truth. The two men
embraced each other warmly; they were both at the same point of the
parabola described by their imagination.
  "Grimaud!" exclaimed Raoul.
  "M. Raoul!" cried Grimaud.
  "Is the count well?"
  "Have you seen him?"
  "No; where is he?"
  "I am trying to find out."
  "And M. d'Artagnan?"
  "Went out with him."
  "When?"
  "Ten minutes after you had left."
  "In what way did they go out?"
  "In a carriage."
  "Where did they go?"
  "I have no idea at all."
  "Did my father take any money with him?"
  "No."
  "Or his sword?"
  "No."
  "Grimaud!"
  "M. Raoul!"
  "I have an idea that M. d'Artagnan came to-"
  "Arrest Monsieur the Count, do you not think, Monsieur?"
  "Yes, Grimaud."
  "I could have sworn it."
  "What road did they take?"
  "The way leading towards the quays."
  "To the Bastille, then?"
  "Ah, my God! yes."
  "Quick, quick! let us run."
  "Yes, let us run."
  "But whither?" said Raoul, overwhelmed.
  "We will go to M. d'Artagnan's first; we may perhaps learn something
there."
  "No; if he has kept it from me at my father's, he will do the same
everywhere. Let us go to- Oh, good Heavens! why, I must be mad to-day,
Grimaud."
  "Why so?"
  "I have forgotten M. du Vallon-"
  "M. Porthos?"
  "Who is waiting for and expecting me still! Alas! I have told you
correctly, I am mad!"
  "Where is he, then?"
  "At the Minimes of Vincennes."
  "Thank goodness, that is in the direction of the Bastille. I will
run and saddle the horses, and we will go at once," said Grimaud.
  "Do, my friend, do!"
          Chapter XXVII: In Which Porthos Is Convinced
              Without Having Understood Anything

  THE worthy Porthos, faithful to all the laws of ancient chivalry,
had determined to wait for M. de Saint-Aignan until sunset; and as
De Saint-Aignan did not come, as Raoul had forgotten to communicate
with his second, and as he found that waiting so long was very
wearisome, Porthos had desired one of the gate-keepers to fetch him
a few bottles of good wine and a good joint of meat,- so that he at
least might have the diversion of enjoying from time to time a glass
of wine and a mouthful of something to eat. He had just finished
when Raoul arrived escorted by Grimaud, both of them riding at full
speed. When Porthos saw the two cavaliers riding at such a pace
along the road, he did not for a moment doubt but that they were the
men he was expecting; and he rose from the grass upon which he had
been indolently reclining, and began to stretch his legs and arms,
saying, "See what it is to have good habits! The fellow has come,
after all. If I had gone away, he would have found no one here, and
would have taken an advantage from that." He then threw himself into a
martial attitude, and drew himself up to the full height of his
gigantic stature. But instead of De Saint-Aignan, he saw only Raoul,
who with the most despairing gestures accosted him by crying out,
"Pray forgive me, my dear friend! I am most wretched."
  "Raoul!" cried Porthos, surprised.
  "You have been angry with me?" said Raoul, embracing Porthos.
  "I? What for?"
  "For having forgotten you. But, you see, I have lost my head."
  "Ah, bah!"
  "If you only knew, my friend!"
  "You have killed him?"
  "Whom?"
  "De Saint-Aignan."
  "Alas! we are far from De Saint-Aignan."
  "What is the matter, then?"
  "The matter is that M. le Comte de la Fere has been arrested."
  Porthos gave a start that would have thrown down a wall. "Arrested!"
he cried out; "by whom?"
  "By d'Artagnan."
  "It is impossible," said Porthos.
  "It is nevertheless true," replied Raoul.
  Porthos turned towards Grimaud, as if he needed a second
confirmation of the intelligence. Grimaud nodded his head. "And
where have they taken him?"
  "Probably to the Bastille."
  "What makes you think that?"
  "As we came along we questioned some persons who saw the carriage
pass, and others who saw it enter the Bastille."
  "Oh, oh!" muttered Porthos; and he moved forward two steps.
  "What do you intend to do?" inquired Raoul.
  "I? Nothing; only, I will not have Athos remain at the Bastille."
  "Do you know," said Raoul, advancing nearer to Porthos, "that the
arrest was made by order of the King?"
  Porthos looked at the young man as if to say, "What does that matter
to me?" This dumb language seemed so eloquent of meaning to Raoul that
he did not ask another question. He mounted his horse again; and
Porthos, assisted by Grimaud, did the same.
  "Let us arrange our plan of action," said Raoul.
  "Yes," returned Porthos; "that is the best thing we can do."
  Raoul sighed deeply, and then paused suddenly.
  "What is the matter?" asked Porthos; "are you faint?"
  "No; powerless. Can we three pretend to go and take the Bastille?"
  "Well, if d'Artagnan were only here," replied Porthos, "I don't know
about that."
  Raoul was struck with admiration at the sight of that confidence,
heroic in its simplicity. These were the celebrated men who by three
or four attacked armies and assaulted castles, who had terrified death
itself, and who survived the wrecks of an age, and were still stronger
than the most robust among the young. "Monsieur," said he to
Porthos, "you have just given me an idea; we absolutely must see M.
d'Artagnan."
  "Undoubtedly."
  "He ought by this time to have returned home, after having taken
my father to the Bastille. Let us go to his house."
  "First inquire at the Bastille," said Grimaud, who was in the
habit of speaking little, but to the purpose.
  Accordingly they hastened towards the fortress, when one of those
chances which Heaven bestows on men of strong will caused Grimaud
suddenly to perceive the carriage which was entering by the great gate
of the drawbridge. This was at the moment when d'Artagnan was, as we
have seen, returning from his visit to the King. In vain Raoul urged
on his horse to overtake the carriage and see whom it contained. The
horses had already gained the other side of the great gate, which
again closed, while one of the sentries struck the nose of Raoul's
horse with his musket. Raoul turned about, only too happy to find that
he had ascertained something respecting the carriage which had
contained his father.
  "We have him," said Grimaud.
  "If we wait a little, it is certain that he will leave; don't you
think so, my friend?"
  "Unless, indeed, d'Artagnan also be a prisoner," replied Porthos,
"in which case everything is lost."
  Raoul returned no answer, for any hypothesis was admissible. He
instructed Grimaud to lead the horses to the little Rue Jean-Beausire,
so as to give rise to less suspicion, and himself with his piercing
gaze watched for the exit either of d'Artagnan or the carriage. It was
a fortunate plan; for twenty minutes had not elapsed before the gate
reopened and the carriage reappeared. A dazzling of the eyes prevented
Raoul from distinguishing what figures occupied the interior.
Grimaud averred that he had seen two persons, and that one of them was
his master. Porthos kept looking at Raoul and Grimaud by turns, in the
hope of understanding their idea.
  "It is clear," said Grimaud, "that if the count is in the
carriage, either he is set at liberty or they are taking him to
another prison."
  "We shall soon see that by the road he takes," answered Porthos.
  "If he is set at liberty," said Grimaud, "they will conduct him
home."
  "True," rejoined Porthos.
  "The carriage does not take that way," cried Raoul; and indeed the
horses were just disappearing down the Faubourg St. Antoine.
  "Let us hasten," said Porthos; "we will attack the carriage on the
road, and tell Athos to flee."
  "Rebellion," murmured Raoul.
  Porthos darted a second glance at Raoul, quite worthy of the
first. Raoul replied only by spurring the flanks of his steed. In a
few moments the three cavaliers had overtaken the carriage, and
followed it so closely that their horses' breath moistened the back of
it. D'Artagnan, whose senses were ever on the alert, heard the trot of
the horses at the moment when Raoul was telling Porthos to pass the
chariot so as to see who was the person accompanying Athos. Porthos
complied, but could not see anything, for the blinds were lowered.
Rage and impatience were gaining mastery over Raoul. He had just
noticed the mystery preserved by Athos's companion, and determined
on proceeding to extremities. On his part d'Artagnan had clearly
recognized Porthos, and Raoul also, from under the blinds, and had
communicated to the count the result of his observation. They were
desirous only of seeing whether Raoul and Porthos would push the
affair to the uttermost. And this they speedily did. Raoul, presenting
his pistol, threw himself on the leader, commanding the coachman to
stop. Porthos seized the coachman and dragged him from his seat.
Grimaud already had hold of the carriage door. Raoul threw open his
arms, exclaiming, "Monsieur the Count! Monsieur the Count!"
  "Ah! is it you, Raoul?" said Athos, intoxicated with joy.
  "Not bad, indeed!" added d'Artagnan, with a burst of laughter; and
they both embraced the young man and Porthos, who had captured them.
  "My brave Porthos, best of friends!" cried Athos, "it is still the
same with you.
  "He is still only twenty," said d'Artagnan. "Bravo, Porthos!"
  "Confound it!" answered Porthos, slightly confused, "we thought that
you were arrested."
  "While," rejoined Athos, "I was, in fact, only taking a drive in
M. d'Artagnan's carriage."
  "But we followed you from the Bastille," returned Raoul, with a tone
of suspicion and reproach.
  "Where we had been to take supper with our good friend M.
Baisemeaux. You recollect Baisemeaux, Porthos?"
  "Very well, indeed."
  "And there we saw Aramis."
  "In the Bastille?"
  "At supper."
  "Ah!" said Porthos, again breathing freely.
  "He gave us a thousand messages for you."
  "Thanks."
  "And where is Monsieur the Count going?" asked Grimaud, already
recompensed by a smile from his master.
  "We are going home to Blois."
  "How is that,- at once?"
  "Yes; right forward."
  "Without any luggage?"
  "Oh! Raoul would have been instructed to forward me mine, or to
bring it with him on his return, if he returns."
  "If nothing detains him longer in Paris," said d'Artagnan, with a
glance firm and cutting as steel, and as painful (for it reopened
the poor young fellow's wounds), "he will do well to follow you,
Athos."
  "There is nothing to keep me any longer in Paris," said Raoul.
  "Then we will go immediately," replied Athos.
  "And M. d'Artagnan?"
  "Oh! as for me, I was only accompanying Athos as far as the barrier,
and I return with Porthos."
  "Very good," said the latter.
  "Come, my son," added the count, gently passing his arm round
Raoul's neck to draw him into the carriage, and again embracing him.
"Grimaud," continued the count, "you will return quietly to Paris with
your horse and M. du Vallon's, for Raoul and I will mount here and
give up the carriage to these two gentlemen to return to Paris in; and
then, as soon as you arrive, you will take my clothes and letters, and
forward the whole to me at home."
  "But," observed Raoul, who was anxious to make the count converse,
"when you return to Paris, there will not be a single thing there
for you,- which will be very inconvenient."
  "I think it will be a very long time, Raoul, ere I return to
Paris. The last sojourn we have made there has not been of a nature to
encourage me to repeat it."
  Raoul hung his head, and said not a word more. Athos descended
from the carriage, and mounted the horse which had brought Porthos,
and which seemed no little pleased at the exchange. Then they
embraced, clasped one another's hands, and interchanged a thousand
pledges of eternal friendship. Porthos promised to spend a month
with Athos at the first opportunity. D'Artagnan engaged to take
advantage of his first leave of absence; and then, having embraced
Raoul for the last time, "To you, my boy," said he, "I will write."
Coming from d'Artagnan, who he knew wrote but very seldom, these words
expressed everything. Raoul was moved even to tears. He tore himself
away from the musketeer, and departed.
  D'Artagnan rejoined Porthos in the carriage. "Well," said he, "my
dear friend, what a day we have had!"
  "Indeed, yes," answered Porthos.
  "You must be quite worn out?"
  "Not quite; however, I shall retire early to rest, so as to be ready
tomorrow."
  "And wherefore?"
  "Why, to complete what I have begun."
  "You make me shudder, my friend; you seem to me quite angry. What
the devil have you begun which is not finished?"
  "Listen! Raoul has not fought; it is necessary that I should fight."
  "With whom?- with the King?"
  "How!" exclaimed Porthos, astounded, "with the King?"
  "Yes, I say, you great baby! with the King."
  "I assure you it is with M. de Saint-Aignan."
  "Look now, this is what I mean: you draw your sword against the King
in fighting with this gentleman."
  "Ah!" said Porthos, staring; "are you sure of it?"
  "Indeed, I am."
  "How shall we arrange it, then?"
  "We must try and make a good supper, Porthos. The captain of the
Musketeers keeps a tolerable table. There you will see the handsome De
Saint-Aignan, and will drink his health."
  "I!" cried Porthos, horrified.
  "What!" said d'Artagnan, "you refuse to drink the King's health?"
  "But, body alive! I am not talking to you about the King at all; I
am speaking of M. de Saint-Aignan."
  "But since I repeat that it is the same thing-"
  "Ah, well, well!" said Porthos, overcome.
  "You understand, don't you?"
  "No," said Porthos; "but no matter."
  "Yes, it is all the same," replied d'Artagnan; "let us go to supper,
Porthos."
         Chapter XXVIII: M. de Baisemeaux's "Society"

  THE reader has not forgotten that, on quitting the Bastille,
d'Artagnan and the Comte de la Fere had left Aramis in close
confabulation with Baisemeaux. When once these two guests had
departed, Baisemeaux did not in the least perceive that the
conversation suffered by their absence. He thought that wine after
supper, and that of the Bastille in particular, was excellent; and
that it was a stimulant quite sufficient to make an honest man talk.
But he little knew his Greatness, who was never more impenetrable than
at dessert. His Greatness, however, perfectly understood M. de
Baisemeaux, when he reckoned on making the governor discourse by the
means which the latter regarded as efficacious. The conversation,
therefore, without flagging in appearance, flagged in reality; for
Baisemeaux not only had it nearly all to himself, but further, kept
speaking only of that singular event,- the incarceration of Athos,
followed by so prompt an order to set him again at liberty. Nor,
moreover, had Baisemeaux failed to observe that the order of arrest
and that of liberation were both in the King's hand. But the King
would not take the trouble to write such orders except under
pressing circumstances. All this was very interesting, and, above all,
very puzzling to Baisemeaux; but as, on the other hand, all this was
very clear to Aramis, the latter did not attach to the occurrence
the same importance as did the worthy governor. Besides, Aramis rarely
put himself out of the way for anything, and he had not yet told M. de
Baisemeaux for what reason he had now done so; and so, at the very
climax of Baisemeaux's dissertation, Aramis suddenly interrupted him.
  "Tell me, my dear M. Baisemeaux," said he, "have you never had any
other diversions at the Bastille than those at which I have assisted
during the two or three visits I have had the honor to pay you?"
  This address was so unexpected that the governor, like a vane
which suddenly receives an impulsion opposed to that of the wind,
was quite dumfounded at it. "Diversions!" said he; "but I take them
continually, Monseigneur."
  "Oh, to be sure! And these diversions-"
  "Are of every kind."
  "Visits, no doubt?"
  "No, not visits. Visits are not frequent at the Bastille."
  "What! are visits rare, then?"
  "Very rare."
  "Even on the part of your society?"
  "What do you mean by my 'society,'- the prisoners?"
  "Oh, no! Your prisoners, indeed! I know well it is you who visit
them, and not they you. By your society I mean, my dear M. Baisemeaux,
the society of which you are a member."
  Baisemeaux looked fixedly at Aramis, and then, as if the idea
which had flashed across his mind were impossible, "Oh!" he said, "I
have very little society at present. If I must own it to you, my
dear M. d'Herblay, the fact is, to stay at the Bastille appears for
the most part distressing and distasteful to persons of the gay world.
As for the ladies, it is never without a dread, which costs me
infinite trouble to allay, that they come to my quarters. And, indeed,
how should they avoid trembling a little, poor things, when they see
those gloomy dungeons, and reflect that they are inhabited by
prisoners  who-" In proportion as the eyes of Baisemeaux
concentrated their gaze on the face of Aramis, the worthy governor's
tongue faltered more and more, until finally it stopped altogether.
  "No, you don't understand me, my dear M. Baisemeaux,- you don't
understand me. I do not at all mean to speak of society in general,
but of a particular society,- of the society, in a word, to which
you are affiliated."
  Baisemeaux nearly dropped the glass of muscat which he was in the
act of raising to his lips. "Affiliated?" cried he, "affiliated?"
  "Yes, affiliated, undoubtedly," repeated Aramis, with the greatest
self-possession. "Are you not a member of a secret society, my dear M.
Baisemeaux?"
  "Secret?"
  "Secret or mysterious."
  "Oh, M. d'Herblay!"
  "See! you don't deny it."
  "But, believe me-"
  "I believe what I know."
  "I swear to you."
  "Listen to me, my dear M. Baisemeaux! I say 'yes,' you say 'no.' One
of us two necessarily says what is true; and the other, it
inevitably follows, what is false."
  "Well, and then?"
  "Well, we shall come to an understanding presently."
  "Let us see," said Baisemeaux; "let us see."
  "Now drink your glass of muscat, dear M. Baisemeaux," said Aramis.
"What the devil! you look quite scared."
  "No, no, not the least in the world; no."
  "Drink, then."
  Baisemeaux drank, but he swallowed the wrong way.
  "Well," resumed Aramis, "if, I say, you are not a member of a
society, secret or mysterious, whichever you like to call it,- the
epithet is of no consequence,- if, I say, you are not a member of a
society similar to that I wish to designate, well, then, you will
not understand a word of what I am going to say, that is all."
  "Oh! be sure beforehand that I shall not understand anything."
  "Well, well!"
  "Try now; let us see."
  "That is what I am going to do. If, on the contrary, you are one
of the members of this society, you will immediately answer me 'yes'
or 'no.'"
  "Begin your questions, then," continued Baisemeaux, trembling.
  "You will agree, dear M. de Baisemeaux," continued Aramis, with
the same impassiveness, "that it is evident a man cannot be a member
of a society, it is evident that he cannot enjoy the advantages it
offers to the affiliated, without being himself bound to certain
little services."
  "In short," stammered Baisemeaux, "that would be intelligible if-"
  "Well," resumed Aramis, "there is in the society of which I speak,
and of which, as it seems, you are not a member-"
  "Allow me," said Baisemeaux; "I should not like to say absolutely."
  "There is an engagement entered into by all the governors and
captains of fortresses affiliated to the order." Baisemeaux grew pale.
"Now the engagement," continued Aramis, firmly, "is of this nature."
  Baisemeaux rose, manifesting unspeakable emotion. "Go on, dear M.
d'Herblay; go on!" said he.
  Aramis then spoke, or rather recited, the following sentence, in the
same tone as if he had been reading it from a book: "The aforesaid
captain or governor of a fortress shall allow to enter, when need
shall arise, and on demand of the prisoner, a confessor affiliated
to the order." He stopped. Baisemeaux was quite distressing to look
at, being so wretchedly pale and trembling. "Is not that the text of
the agreement?" quietly asked Aramis.
  "Monseigneur!" began Baisemeaux.
  "Ah, well, you begin to understand, I think."
  "Monseigneur," cried Baisemeaux, "do not trifle so with my unhappy
mind! I find myself nothing in your hands, if you have the malignant
desire to draw from me the little secrets of my administration."
  "Oh, by no means! Pray undeceive yourself, dear M. Baisemeaux; it is
not the little secrets of your administration that I aim at, but those
of your conscience."
  "Well, then, my conscience be it, my dear M. d'Herblay! But have
some consideration for the situation I am in, which is no ordinary
one."
  "It is no ordinary one, my dear Monsieur," continued the
inflexible Aramis, "if you are a member of this society; but it is
quite a natural one if, free from all engagements, you are
answerable only to the King."
  "Well, Monsieur, well! I obey only the King. Good God! whom else
would you have a French gentleman obey?"
  Aramis did not yield an inch; but with that silvery voice of his
continued: "It is very pleasant for a French gentleman, for a
prelate of France, to hear a man of your mark express himself so
loyally, dear De Baisemeaux, and having heard you, to believe no
more than you do."
  "Have you doubted, Monsieur?"
  "I? Oh, no!"
  "And so you doubt no longer?"
  "I have no longer any doubt that such a man as you, Monsieur,"
said Aramis, gravely, "does not faithfully serve the masters whom he
voluntarily chose for himself."
  "Masters!" cried Baisemeaux.
  "Yes, masters, I said."
  "M. d'Herblay, you are still jesting, are you not?"
  "Oh, yes! I understand that it is a more difficult position to
have several masters than one; but the embarrassment is owing to
you, my dear Baisemeaux, and I am not the cause of it."
  "Certainly not," returned the unfortunate governor, more embarrassed
than ever; "but what are you doing? You are leaving the table?"
  "Assuredly."
  "Are you going?"
  "Yes, I am going."
  "But you are behaving very strangely towards me, Monseigneur."
  "I am behaving strangely,- in what respect?"
  "Have you sworn, then, to put me to the torture?"
  "No, I should be sorry to do so."
  "Remain, then."
  "I cannot."
  "And why?"
  "Because I have no longer anything to do here; and, indeed, I have
duties to fulfil elsewhere."
  "Duties so late as this?"
  "Yes; understand me now, my dear M. de Baisemeaux. They told me at
the place whence I came, 'The aforesaid governor or captain will allow
to enter, as need shall arise, on the prisoner's demand, a confessor
affiliated with the order.' I came; you do not know what I mean, and
so I shall return to tell them that they are mistaken, and that they
must send me elsewhere."
  "What! you are-" cried Baisemeaux, looking at Aramis almost in
terror.
  "The confessor affiliated to the order," said Aramis, without
changing his voice.
  But, gentle as the words were, they had the same effect on the
unhappy governor as a clap of thunder. Baisemeaux became livid, and it
seemed to him as if Aramis's beaming eyes were two forks of flame,
piercing to the very bottom of his soul. "The confessor!" murmured he;
"you, Monseigneur, the confessor of the order!"
  "Yes, I; but we have nothing to unravel together, seeing that you
are not one of the affiliated."
  "Monseigneur!"
  "And I understand that, not being so, you refuse to comply with
its commands."
  "Monseigneur, I beseech you, condescend to hear me."
  "And wherefore?"
  "Monseigneur, I do not say that I have nothing to do with the
society."
  "Ah! ah!"
  "I say not that I refuse to obey."
  "Nevertheless, M. de Baisemeaux, what has passed wears very much the
air of resistance."
  "Oh, no, Monseigneur, no! I only wished to be certain."
  "To be certain of what?" said Aramis, in a tone of supreme contempt.
  "Of nothing at all, Monseigneur." Baisemeaux lowered his voice,
and bending before the prelate said, "I am at all times and in all
places at the disposal of my masters, but-"
  "Very good. I like you better thus, Monsieur," said Aramis, as he
resumed his seat, and put out his glass to Baisemeaux, whose hand
trembled so that he could not fill it. "You were saying 'but'-"
continued Aramis.
  "But," replied the unhappy man, "having no notice, I was far from
expecting."
  "Does not the Gospel say, 'Watch, for the moment is known only of
God'? Do not the rules of the order say, 'Watch; for that which I
will, you ought always to will also'? And on what pretext is it that
you did not expect the confessor, M. de Baisemeaux?"
  "Because, Monseigneur, there is at present in the Bastille no
prisoner ill."
  Aramis shrugged his shoulder. "What do you know about that?" said
he.
  "But nevertheless, it appears to me-"
  "M. de Baisemeaux," said Aramis, turning round in his chair, "here
is your servant, who wishes to speak with you"; and at this moment
Baisemeaux's servant appeared at the threshold of the door.
  "What is it?" asked Baisemeaux, sharply.
  "Monsieur," said the man, "they are bringing you the doctor's
return."
  Aramis looked at Baisemeaux with a calm and confident eye.
  "Well," said Baisemeaux, "let the messenger enter."
  The messenger entered, saluted, and handed in the report. Baisemeaux
ran his eye over it, and raising his head said, in surprise, "No. 2
Bertaudiere is ill."
  "How was it, then," said Aramis, carelessly, "that you told me
everybody was well in your hotel, M. de Baisemeaux?" and he emptied
his glass without removing his eyes from Baisemeaux.
  The governor then made a sign to the messenger, and when he had
quitted the room said, still trembling, "I think that there is in
the article, 'on the prisoner's demand.'"
  "Yes, it is so"; answered Aramis. "But see what it is they want with
you now, dear M. de Baisemeaux."
  At that moment a sergeant put his head in at the door. "What do
you want now?" cried Baisemeaux. "Can you not leave me in peace for
ten minutes?"
  "Monsieur," said the sergeant, "the sick man, No. 2 Bertaudiere, has
commissioned the turnkey to request you to send him a confessor."
  Baisemeaux very nearly sank on the floor; but Aramis disdained to
reassure him, just as he had disdained to terrify him. "What must I
answer?" inquired Baisemeaux.
  "Just what you please," replied Aramis, compressing his lips;
"that is your business. I am not governor of the Bastille."
  "Tell the prisoner," cried Baisemeaux, quickly,- "tell the
prisoner that his request is granted." The sergeant left the room.
"Oh, Monseigneur, Monseigneur," murmured Baisemeaux, "how could I have
suspected?- how could I have foreseen this?"
  "Who told you to suspect, and who asked you to foresee?"
contemptuously answered Aramis. "The order suspects, the order
knows, the order foresees,- is not that enough?"
  "What do you command?" added Baisemeaux.
  "I?- nothing at all. I am nothing but a poor priest, a simple
confessor. Have I your orders to go and see the sufferer?"
  "Oh, Monseigneur, I do not order; I pray you to go."
  "'Tis well; then conduct me to him."
                Chapter XXIX: The Prisoner

  SINCE Aramis's singular transformation into a confessor of the
order, Baisemeaux was no longer the same man. Up to that period the
place which Aramis had held in the worthy governor's estimation was
that of a prelate whom he respected and a friend to whom he owed a
debt of gratitude; but after that revelation which had upset all his
ideas, he felt himself an inferior, and that Aramis was his master. He
himself lighted a lantern, summoned a turnkey, and said, returning
to Aramis, "I am at your orders, Monseigneur."
  Aramis merely nodded his head, as much as to say, "Very good"; and
signed to him with his hand to lead the way. Baisemeaux advanced,
and Aramis followed him.
  It was a beautiful starry night; the steps of the three men
resounded on the flags of the terraces, and the clinking of the keys
hanging from the jailer's girdle made itself heard up to the stories
of the towers, as if to remind the prisoners that liberty was out of
their reach. It might have been said that the alteration effected in
Baisemeaux had extended itself even to the prisoners. The turnkey, the
same who on Aramis's first arrival had shown himself so inquisitive
and curious, had now become not only silent, but even impassible. He
held his head down, and seemed afraid to keep his ears open. In this
wise they reached the basement of the Bertaudiere, the first two
stories of which were mounted silently and somewhat slowly; for
Baisemeaux, though far from disobeying, was far from exhibiting any
eagerness to obey. Finally, they arrived at the door. The jailer had
the key ready, and opened the door. Baisemeaux showed a disposition to
enter the prisoner's chamber; but Aramis, stopping him on the
threshold, said, "The rules do not allow the governor to hear the
prisoner's confession."
  Baisemeaux bowed, and made way for Aramis, who took the lantern
and entered, and then signed to them to close the door behind him. For
an instant he remained standing, listening to learn whether Baisemeaux
and the turnkey had retired; but as soon as he was assured by the
dying sound of their footsteps that they had left the tower, he put
the lantern on the table and gazed around. On a bed of green serge,
similar in all respects to the other beds in the Bastille, save that
it was newer, under ample curtains half drawn, reposed a young man
to whom we have once before introduced Aramis. According to custom,
the prisoner was without a light. At the hour of curfew he was bound
to extinguish his lamp; it may be seen how much he was favored in
being allowed to keep it burning until that hour. Near the bed a large
leathern arm-chair, with twisted legs, held his clothes. A little
table- without pens, books, paper, or ink- stood deserted near the
window; while several plates, still unemptied, showed that the
prisoner had scarcely touched his recent repast. Aramis saw that the
young man was stretched upon his bed, his face half concealed by his
arms. The arrival of a visitor did not cause any change of position;
either he was waiting in expectation or he was asleep. Aramis
lighted the candle from the lantern, pushed back the arm-chair, and
approached the bed with an appearance of mingled interest and respect.
  The young man raised his head. "What is it?" said he.
  "Have you not desired a confessor?" replied Aramis.
  "Yes."
  "Because you are ill?"
  "Yes."
  "Very ill?"
  The young man gave Aramis a piercing glance, and answered, "I
thank you." After a moment's silence, "I have seen you before," he
continued.
  Aramis bowed.
  Doubtless the scrutiny which the prisoner had just made of the cold,
crafty, and imperious character stamped upon the features of the
bishop of Vannes was little reassuring to one in his situation, for he
added, "I am better."
  "And then?" said Aramis.
  "Why, then, being better, I have no longer the same need of a
confessor, I think."
  "Not even of the haircloth, of which the note you found in your
bread informed you?"
  The young man started; but before he had either assented or
denied, Aramis continued, "Not even of the ecclesiastic from whom
you were to hear an important revelation?"
  "If it be so," said the young man, sinking again on his pillow,
"it is different; I listen."
  Aramis then looked at him more closely, and was struck with the easy
majesty of his mien,- one which can never be acquired unless Heaven
has implanted it in the blood or in the heart.
  "Sit down, Monsieur!" said the prisoner.
  Aramis bowed and obeyed.
  "How does the Bastille agree with you?" asked the bishop.
  "Very well."
  "You do not suffer?"
  "No."
  "You have nothing to regret?"
  "Nothing."
  "Not even your liberty?"
  "What do you call liberty, Monsieur?" asked the prisoner, with the
tone of a man who is preparing for a struggle.
  "I call liberty the flowers, the air, light, the stars, the
happiness of going whithersoever the nervous limbs of twenty years
of age may wish to carry you."
  The young man smiled,- whether in resignation or contempt, it
would have been difficult to tell. "Look!" said he; "I have in that
Japanese vase two roses gathered yesterday evening in the bud from the
governor's garden. This morning they have blown and spread their
vermilion chalices beneath my gaze; with every opening petal they
unfold the treasures of their perfume, filling my chamber with
fragrance. Look now on these two roses; even among roses these are
beautiful, and the rose is the most beautiful of flowers. Why, then,
do you bid me desire other flowers when I possess the loveliest of
all?"
  Aramis gazed at the young man in surprise.
  "If flowers constitute liberty," sadly resumed the captive, "I am
free, for I possess them."
  "But the air!" cried Aramis,- "air so necessary to life!"
  "Well, Monsieur," returned the prisoner, "draw near to the window;
it is open. Between Heaven and earth the wind whirls its storms of
hail and lightning, wafts its warm mists, or breathes in gentle
breezes. It caresses my face. When mounted on the back of this
arm-chair, with my arm around the bars of the window to sustain
myself, I fancy I am swimming in the wide expanse."
  The countenance of Aramis darkened as the young man spoke.
  "Light!" continued the prisoner,- "I have what is better than light!
I have the sun,- a friend who comes to visit me every day without
the permission of the governor or the jailer's company. He comes in at
the window, and traces in my room a quadrilateral which starts from
the window and reaches to the hangings of my bed. This luminous figure
increases from ten o'clock till midday, and decreases from one till
three slowly, as if, having hastened to come, it sorrowed at leaving
me. When its last ray disappears, I have enjoyed its presence for four
hours. Is not that sufficient? I have been told that there are unhappy
beings who dig in quarries, and laborers who toil in mines, who
never behold the sun at all."
  Aramis wiped the drops from his brow.
  "As to the stars which are so delightful to view," continued the
young man, "they all resemble one another save in size and brilliancy.
I am a favored mortal; for if you had not lighted that candle, you
would have been able to see the beautiful star which I was gazing at
from my couch before your arrival, and whose rays were playing over my
eyes."
  Aramis lowered his head; he felt himself overwhelmed by the bitter
flow of that sinister philosophy which is the religion of the captive.
  "So much, then, for the flowers, the air, the daylight, and the
stars," tranquilly continued the young man; "there remains freedom
of movement. Do I not walk all day in the governor's garden if it is
fine; here, if it rains; in the fresh air, if it is warm; in the warm,
thanks to my fireplace, if it be cold? Ah, Monsieur, do you fancy,"
continued the prisoner, not without bitterness, "that men have not
done everything for me that a man can hope for or desire?"
  "Men!" said Aramis, raising his head; "be it so! But it seems to
me you forget Heaven."
  "Indeed, I have forgotten Heaven," murmured the prisoner, without
emotion; "but why do you mention it? Of what use is it to talk to a
prisoner of Heaven?"
  Aramis looked steadily at this singular youth, who possessed the
resignation of a martyr with the smile of an atheist. "Is not God in
everything?" he murmured in a reproachful tone.
  "Say, rather, at the end of everything," answered the prisoner,
firmly.
  "Be it so," said Aramis; "but let us return to our starting-point."
  "I desire nothing better," returned the young man.
  "I am your confessor."
  "Yes."
  "Well, then, you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth."
  "All that I wish is to tell it to you."
  "Every prisoner has committed some crime for which he has been
imprisoned. What crime, then, have you committed?"
  "You asked me the same question the first time you saw me," returned
the prisoner.
  "And then, as now, you evaded giving me an answer."
  "And what reason have you for thinking that I shall now reply to
you?"
  "Because this time I am your confessor."
  "Then, if you wish me to tell what crime I have committed, explain
to me in what a crime consists; for as my conscience does not accuse
me, I aver that I am not a criminal."
  "We are often criminals in the sight of the great of the earth,
not alone for having ourselves committed crimes, but because we know
that crimes have been committed."
  The prisoner manifested the deepest attention. "Yes, I understand
you," he said, after a pause; "yes, you are right, Monsieur. It is
very possible that in that light I am a criminal in the eyes of the
great."
  "Ah! then you know something," said Aramis, who thought he had
pierced not merely through a defect in the harness, but through the
joints of it.
  "No, I am not aware of anything," replied the young man; "but
sometimes I think, and I say to myself in those moments-"
  "What do you say to yourself?"
  "That if I were to think any further, I should either go mad or I
should divine a great deal."
  "And then- and then-" said Aramis, impatiently.
  "Then I leave off."
  "You leave off?"
  "Yes; my head becomes confused, and my ideas melancholy. I feel
ennui overtaking me; I wish-"
  "What?"
  "I don't know; but I do not like to give myself up to longing for
things which I do not possess, when I am so happy with what I have."
  "You are afraid of death?" said Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.
  "Yes," said the young man, smiling.
  Aramis felt the chill of that smile, and shuddered. "Oh, as you fear
death, you know more than you admit!" he cried.
  "And you," returned the prisoner, "who bade me to ask to see you,-
you, who when I did ask for you came here promising a world of
confidence,- how is it that, nevertheless, it is you who are silent,
and 't is I who speak? Since, then, we both wear masks, either let
us both retain them or put them aside together."
  Aramis felt the force and justice of the remark, saying to
himself, "This is no ordinary man." "Are you ambitious?" said he
suddenly to the prisoner, aloud, without preparing him for the
alteration.
  "What do you mean by ambition?" replied the youth.
  "It is," replied Aramis, "a feeling which prompts a man to desire
more than he has."
  "I said that I was contented, Monsieur; but perhaps I deceive
myself. I am ignorant of the nature of ambition; but it is not
impossible I may have some. Come, open my mind; I ask nothing better."
  "An ambitious man," said Aramis, "is one who covets what is beyond
his station."
  "I covet nothing beyond my station," said the young man, with an
assurance of manner which yet again made the bishop of Vannes tremble.
  Aramis was silent. But to look at the kindling eye, the knitted
brow, and the reflective attitude of the captive, it was evident
that he expected something more than silence. That silence Aramis
now broke. "You lied the first time I saw you," said he.
  "Lied!" cried the young man, starting up on his couch, with such a
tone in his voice and such lightning in his eyes that Aramis
recoiled in spite of himself.
  "I should say," returned Aramis, bowing, "you concealed from me what
you knew of your infancy."
  "A man's secrets are his own, Monsieur," retorted the prisoner, "and
not at the mercy of the first chance-comer."
  "True," said Aramis, bowing still lower than before, "'t is true;
pardon me, but to-day do I still occupy the place of a chance-comer? I
beseech you to reply, Monseigneur."
  This title slightly disturbed the prisoner; but nevertheless he
did not appear astonished that it was given to him. "I do not know
you, Monsieur," said he.
  "Oh, if I but dared, I would take your hand and would kiss it!"
  The young man seemed as if he were going to give Aramis his hand;
but the light which beamed in his eyes faded away, and he coldly and
distrustfully withdrew his hand. "Kiss the hand of a prisoner!" he
said, shaking his head; "to what purpose?"
  "Why did you tell me," said Aramis, "that you were happy here?
Why, that you aspired to nothing? Why, in a word, by thus speaking, do
you prevent me from being frank in my turn?"
  The same light shone a third time in the young man's eyes, but
died as before, without leading to anything.
  "You distrust me," said Aramis.
  "And why say you so, Monsieur?"
  "Oh, for a very simple reason! If you know what you ought to know,
you ought to mistrust everybody."
  "Then be not astonished that I am mistrustful, since you suspect
me of knowing what I know not."
  Aramis was struck with admiration at this energetic resistance. "Oh,
Monseigneur, you drive me to despair!" said he, striking the arm-chair
with his fist.
  "And on my part I do not comprehend you, Monsieur."
  "Well, then, try to understand me." The prisoner looked fixedly at
Aramis. "Sometimes it seems to me," said the latter, "that I have
before me the man whom I seek, and then-"
  "And then your man disappears,- is it not so?" said the prisoner,
smiling. "So much the better."
  Aramis rose. "Certainly," said he; "I have nothing further to say to
a man who mistrusts me as you do."
  "And I, Monsieur," said the prisoner, in the same tone, "have
nothing to say to a man who will not understand that a prisoner
ought to be mistrustful of everybody."
  "Even of old friends?" said Aramis. "Oh, Monseigneur, you are too
cautious!"
  "Of my old friends?- you one of my old friends,- you?"
  "Do you no longer remember," said Aramis, "that you once saw in
the village where your early years were spent-"
  "Do you know the name of the village?" asked the prisoner.
  "Noisy-le-Sec, Monseigneur," answered Aramis, firmly.
  "Go on!" said the young man, without expression of assent or
denial on his countenance.
  "Stay, Monseigneur!" said Aramis; "if you are positively resolved to
carry on this game, let us break off. I am here to tell you many
things, 't is true; but you must allow me to see that, on your side,
you have a desire to know them. Before revealing the important matters
I conceal, be assured that I am in need of some encouragement, if
not candor; a little sympathy, if not confidence. But you keep
yourself intrenched in a pretended ignorance which paralyzes me. Oh,
not for the reason you think; for ignorant as you may be, or
indifferent as you feign to be, you are none the less what you are,
Monseigneur, and there is nothing- nothing, mark me!- which can
cause you not to be so."
  "I promise you," replied the prisoner, "to hear you without
impatience. Only it appears to me that I have a right to repeat the
question I have already asked, 'who are you?'"
  "Do you remember, fifteen or eighteen years ago, seeing at
Noisy-le-Sec a cavalier, accompanied by a lady plainly dressed in
black silk, with flame-colored ribbons in her hair?"
  "Yes," said the young man; "I once asked the name of this
cavalier, and was told that he called himself the Abbe d'Herblay. I
was astonished that the abbe had so warlike an air, and was told
that there was nothing singular in that, seeing that he was one of
Louis XIII's musketeers."
  "Well," said Aramis, "that musketeer of other times, that abbe
afterwards, then bishop of Vannes, is to-day your confessor."
  "I know it; I recognized you."
  "Then, Monseigneur, if you know that, I must add a fact of which you
are ignorant,- that if the King were to know this evening of the
presence here of this musketeer, this abbe, this bishop, this
confessor, he who has risked everything to visit you would to-morrow
see glitter the executioner's axe at the bottom of a dungeon more
gloomy and more obscure than yours."
  While hearing these words, delivered with emphasis, the young man
had raised himself on his couch and gazed more and more eagerly at
Aramis. The result of this scrutiny was that he appeared to derive
some confidence from it. "Yes," he murmured, "I remember perfectly.
The woman of whom you speak came once with you, and twice afterwards
with the woman-" He hesitated.
  "With another woman who came to see you every month,- is it not
so, Monseigneur?"
  "Yes."
  "Do you know who this lady was?"
  The light seemed ready to flash from the prisoner's eyes. "I am
aware that she was a lady of the court," he said.
  "You remember that lady well, do you not?"
  "Oh, my recollection can hardly be very confused on this head!" said
the young prisoner. "I saw that lady once with a gentleman about
forty-five years old. I saw her once with you, and with the lady
dressed in black with flame-colored ribbons. I have seen her twice
since with the same person. These four persons, with my tutor and
old Perronnette, my jailer and the governor of the prison, are the
only persons with whom I have ever spoken, and, indeed, almost the
only persons I have ever seen."
  "Then, you were in prison?"
  "If I am a prisoner here, there I was comparatively free, although
in a very narrow sense. A house which I never quitted, a garden
surrounded with walls I could not clear,- these constituted my
residence; but you know it, as you have been there. In a word, being
accustomed to live within these bounds, I never cared to leave them.
And so you will understand, Monsieur, that not having seen anything of
the world, I can desire nothing; and therefore, if you relate
anything, you will be obliged to explain everything to me."
  "And I will do so," said Aramis, bowing; "for it is my duty,
Monseigneur."
  "Well, then, begin by telling me who was my tutor."
  "A worthy and above all an honorable gentleman, Monseigneur; fit
guide both for body and soul. Had you ever any reason to complain of
him?"
  "Oh, no; quite the contrary. But this gentleman of yours often
used to tell me that my father and mother were dead. Did he deceive
me, or did he speak the truth?"
  "He was compelled to comply with the orders given him."
  "Then he lied?"
  "In one respect. Your father is dead."
  "And my mother?"
  "She is dead for you."
  "But then she lives for others, does she not?"
  "Yes."
  "And I- and I, then [the young man looked sharply at Aramis], am
compelled to live in the obscurity of a prison?"
  "Alas! I fear so."
  "And that because my presence in the world would lead to the
revelation of a great secret?"
  "Certainly, a very great secret."
  "My enemy must indeed be powerful, to be able to shut up in the
Bastille a child such as I then was."
  "He is."
  "More powerful than my mother, then?"
  "And why do you ask that?"
  "Because my mother would have taken my part."
  Aramis hesitated. "Yes, Monseigneur; more powerful than your
mother."
  "Seeing, then, that my nurse and preceptor were carried off, and
that I also was separated from them,- either they were, or I am,
very dangerous to my enemy?"
  "Yes; a peril from which he freed himself by causing the nurse and
preceptor to disappear," answered Aramis, quietly.
  "Disappear!" cried the prisoner; "but how did they disappear?"
  "In the surest possible way," answered Aramis: "they are dead."
  The young man turned visibly pale, and passed his hand tremblingly
over his face. "From poison?" he asked.
  "From poison."
  The prisoner reflected a moment. "My enemy must indeed have been
very cruel, or hard beset by necessity, to assassinate those two
innocent persons, my sole support; for that worthy gentleman and
that poor woman had never harmed a living being."
  "In your family, Monseigneur, necessity is stern. And so it is
necessity which compels me, to my great regret, to tell you that
this gentleman and the unhappy lady were assassinated."
  "Oh, you tell me nothing I am not aware of!" said the prisoner,
knitting his brows.
  "How?"
  "I suspected it."
  "Why?"
  "I will tell you."
  At this moment the young man, supporting himself on his elbows, drew
close to Aramis's face, with such an expression of dignity, of
self-command, and of defiance even, that the bishop felt the
electricity of enthusiasm strike in devouring flashes from that seared
heart of his into his brain of adamant.
  "Speak, Monseigneur! I have already told you that by conversing with
you I endanger my life. Little value as it has, I implore you to
accept it as the ransom of your own."
  "Well," resumed the young man, "this is why I suspected that they
had killed my nurse and my preceptor-"
  "Whom you used to call your father."
  "Yes; whom I called my father, but whose son I well knew I was not."
  "Who caused you to suppose so?"
  "Just as you, Monsieur, are too respectful for a friend, he was also
too respectful for a father."
  "I, however," said Aramis, "have no intention to disguise myself."
  The young man nodded assent, and continued: "Undoubtedly, I was
not destined to perpetual seclusion," said the prisoner; "and that
which makes me believe so now, above all, is the care that was taken
to render me as accomplished a cavalier as possible. The gentleman
attached to my person taught me everything he knew himself-
mathematics, a little geometry, astronomy, fencing, and riding.
Every morning I went through military exercises, and practised on
horseback. Well, one morning during summer, it being very hot, I
went to sleep in the hall. Nothing up to that period, except the
respect paid me by my tutor, had enlightened me, or even roused my
suspicions. I lived as children, as birds, as plants, as the air and
the sun do. I had just turned my fifteenth year-"
  "This, then, was eight years ago?"
  "Yes, nearly; but I have ceased to reckon time."
  "Excuse me; but what did your tutor tell you, to encourage you to
work?"
  "He used to say that a man was bound to make for himself in the
world that fortune which Heaven had refused him at his birth. He
added, that, being a poor obscure orphan, I had no one but myself to
look to; and that nobody either did or ever would take any interest in
me. I was, then, in the hall I have spoken of, asleep from fatigue
in fencing. My tutor was in his room on the first floor, just over me.
Suddenly I heard him exclaim; and then he called, 'Perronnette!
Perronnette!' It was my nurse whom he called."
  "Yes; I know it," said Aramis. "Continue, Monseigneur!"
  "Very likely she was in the garden; for my tutor came hastily
downstairs. I rose, anxious at seeing him anxious. He opened the
garden door, still crying out, 'Perronnette! Perronnette!' The windows
of the hall looked into the court. The shutters were closed; but
through a chink in them I saw my tutor draw near a large well, which
was almost directly under the windows of his study. He stooped over
the brim, looked into the well, again cried out, and made wild and
affrighted gestures. Where I was, I could not only see, but hear;
and see and hear I did."
  "Go on, I pray you!" said Aramis.
  "Dame Perronnette came running up, hearing the governor's cries.
He went to meet her, took her by the arm, and drew her quickly towards
the edge; after which, as they both bent over it together, 'Look,
look!' cried he; 'what a misfortune!' 'Calm yourself, calm
yourself,' said Perronnette; 'what is the matter?' 'The letter!' he
exclaimed; 'do you see that letter?' to the bottom of the well.
'What letter?' she cried. 'The letter you see down there,- the last
letter from the Queen.' At this word I trembled. My tutor- he who
passed for my father, he who was continually recommending to me
modesty and humility- in correspondence with the Queen! 'The Queen's
last letter!' cried Perronnette, without showing other astonishment
than at seeing this letter at the bottom of the well; 'but how came it
there?' 'A chance, Dame Perronnette,- a singular chance. I was
entering my room; and on opening the door, the window too being
open, a puff of air came suddenly and carried off this paper,- this
letter from the Queen; I darted after it, and gained the window just
in time to see it flutter a moment in the breeze and disappear down
the well.' 'Well,' said Dame Perronnette; 'and if the letter has
fallen into the well, 't is all the same as if it were burned; and
as the Queen burns all her letters every time she comes-' 'Every
time she comes!' So this lady who came every month was the Queen,"
said the prisoner.
  "Yes," nodded Aramis.
  "'Doubtless, doubtless,' continued the old gentleman; 'but this
letter contained instructions,- how can I follow them?' 'Write
immediately to her; give her a plain account of the accident, and
the Queen will no doubt write you another letter in place of this.'
'Oh! the Queen would never believe the story,' said the good
gentleman, shaking his head; 'she will imagine that I want to keep
this letter instead of giving it up like the rest, so as to have a
hold over her. She is so distrustful, and M. de Mazarin so- This devil
of an Italian is capable of having us poisoned at the first breath
of suspicion.'"
  Aramis almost imperceptibly smiled.
  "'You know, Dame Perronnette, they are both so suspicious in all
that concerns Philippe.' 'Philippe' was the name they gave me," said
the prisoner. 'Well, 't is no use hesitating,' said Dame
Perronnette; 'somebody must go down the well.' 'Of course; so that the
person who goes down may read the paper as he is coming up.' 'But
let us choose some villager who cannot read, and then you will be at
ease.' 'Granted; but will not any one who descends guess that a
paper must be important for which we risk a man's life? However, you
have given me an idea, Dame Perronnette; somebody shall go down the
well, but that somebody shall be myself.' But at this notion Dame
Perronnette lamented and cried in such a manner, and so implored the
old nobleman, with tears in her eyes, that he promised her to obtain a
ladder long enough to reach down, while she went in search of some
stout-hearted youth, whom she was to persuade that a jewel had
fallen into the well, and that this jewel was wrapped in a paper. 'And
as paper,' remarked my preceptor, 'naturally unfolds in water, the
young man would not be surprised at finding nothing, after all, but
the letter wide open.' 'But perhaps the writing will be already
effaced by that time,' said Dame Perronnette. 'No consequence,
provided we secure the letter. On returning it to the Queen, she
will see at once that we have not betrayed her; and consequently, as
we shall not rouse the distrust of Mazarin, we shall have nothing to
fear from him.' Having come to this resolution, they parted. I
pushed back the shutter, and seeing that my tutor was about to
re-enter, threw myself on my couch, in a confusion of brain caused
by all I had just heard. My tutor opened the door a few moments after,
and thinking I was asleep, gently closed it again. As soon as ever
it was shut, I rose, and listening heard the sound of retiring
footsteps. Then I returned to the shutter, and saw my tutor and Dame
Perronnette go out together. I was alone in the house. They had hardly
closed the gate before I sprang from the window and ran to the well.
Then, just as my tutor had leaned over, so leaned I. Something white
and luminous glistened in the green and quivering ripples of the
water. The brilliant disk fascinated and allured me; my eyes became
fixed, and I could hardly breathe. The well seemed to draw me in
with its large mouth and icy breath; and I thought I read, at the
bottom of the water, characters of fire traced upon the letter the
Queen had touched. Then, scarcely knowing what I was about, and
urged on by one of those instinctive impulses which drive men upon
their destruction, I made fast one end of the rope to the bottom of
the well-curb; I left the bucket hanging about three feet under
water,- at the same time taking infinite pains not to disturb that
coveted letter, which was beginning to change its white tint for a
greenish hue,- proof enough that it was sinking,- and then, with a
piece of wet canvas protecting my hands, slid down into the abyss.
When I saw myself hanging over the dark pool, when I saw the sky
lessening above my head, a cold shudder came over me, I was seized
with giddiness, and the hair rose on my head; but my strong will
mastered all. I gained the water, and at once plunged into it, holding
on by one hand, while I immersed the other and seized the precious
paper, which, alas! came in two in my grasp. I concealed the fragments
in my coat, and helping myself with my feet against the side of the
pit, and clinging on with my hands, agile and vigorous as I was, and
above all pressed for time, I regained the brink, drenching it as I
touched it with the water that streamed from all the lower part of
my body. Once out of the well with my prize I rushed into the
sunlight, and took refuge in a kind of shrubbery at the bottom of
the garden. As I entered my hiding-place, the bell which resounded
when the gate was opened, rang. It was my tutor returning. I had but
just time. I calculated that it would take ten minutes before he would
gain my place of concealment, even if, guessing where I was, he came
straight to it; and twenty if he were obliged to look for me. But this
was time enough to allow me to read the cherished letter, whose
fragments I hastened to unite again. The writing was already fading,
but I managed to decipher it all."
  "And what read you there, Monseigneur?" asked Aramis, deeply
interested.
  "Quite enough, Monsieur, to see that my tutor was a man of noble
rank, and that Perronnette, without being a lady of quality, was far
better than a servant; and also to perceive that I must myself be
high-born, since the Queen, Anne of Austria, and Mazarin, the prime
minister, commended me so earnestly to their care."
  Here the young man paused, quite overcome.
  "And what happened?" asked Aramis.
  "It happened, Monsieur," answered he, "that the workmen they had
summoned found nothing in the well, after the closest search; that
my tutor perceived that the brink was watery; that I was not so well
dried by the sun as to escape Dame Perronnette's observing that my
garments were moist; and, lastly, that I was seized with a violent
fever, owing to the chill and the excitement of my discovery, an
attack of delirium supervening, during which I related the whole
adventure; so that, guided by my avowal, my tutor found under the
bolster the two pieces of the Queen's letter."
  "Ah!" said Aramis, "now I understand."
  "Beyond this, all is conjecture. Doubtless the unfortunate lady
and gentleman, not daring to keep the occurrence secret, wrote all
to the Queen, and sent back to her the torn letter."
  "After which," said Aramis, "you were arrested and removed to the
Bastille?"
  "As you see."
  "Then your two attendants disappeared?"
  "Alas!"
  "Let us not take up our time with the dead, but see what can be done
with the living. You told me you were resigned?"
  "I repeat it."
  "Without any desire for freedom?"
  "As I told you."
  "Without ambition, sorrow, or thought?"
  The young man made no answer.
  "Well," asked Aramis, "why are you silent?"
  "I think that I have spoken enough," answered the prisoner, "and
that now it is your turn. I am weary."
  Aramis gathered himself up, and a shade of deep solemnity spread
itself over his countenance. It was evident that he had reached the
crisis in the part he had come to the prison to play. "One
question," said Aramis.
  "What is it? Speak!"
  "In the house you inhabited there were neither looking-glasses nor
mirrors, were there?"
  "What are those two words, and what is their meaning?" asked the
young man; "I do not even know them."
  "They designate two pieces of furniture which reflect objects; so
that, for instance, you may see in them your own lineaments, as you
see mine now, with the naked eye."
  "No; there was neither a glass nor a mirror in the house,"
answered the young man.
  Aramis looked round him. "Nor is there here, either," he said; "they
have taken the same precaution."
  "To what end?"
  "You will know directly. Now, you have told me that you were
instructed in mathematics, astronomy, fencing, and riding; but you
have not said a word about history."
  "My tutor sometimes related to me the principal deeds of the King
Saint Louis, King Francis I, and King Henry IV."
  "Is that all?"
  "That is about all."
  "This also was done by design; just as you were deprived of mirrors,
which reflect the present, so you were left in ignorance of history,
which reflects the past. Since your imprisonment books have been
forbidden you; so that you are unacquainted with a number of facts
by means of which you would be able to reconstruct the shattered
edifice of your recollections and your interests."
  "It is true," said the young man.
  "Listen, then: I will in a few words tell you what has passed in
France during the last twenty-three or twenty-four years,- that is,
from the probable date of your birth; in a word, from the time that
interests you."
  "Say on!" and the young man resumed his serious and attentive
attitude.
  "Do you know who was the son of Henry IV?"
  "At least I know who his successor was."
  "How?"
  "By means of a coin dated 1610, which bears the effigy of Henry
IV; and another of 1612, bearing that of Louis XIII. So I presumed
that, there being only two years between the two dates, Louis was
Henry's successor."
  "Then," said Aramis, "you know that the last reigning monarch was
Louis XIII?"
  "I do," answered the youth, slightly reddening.
  "Well, he was a prince full of noble ideas and great projects,
always, alas! deferred by the troubles of the times and the struggle
that his minister Richelieu had to maintain against the great nobles
of France. The King himself was of a feeble character, and died
young and unhappy."
  "I know it."
  "He had been long anxious about having an heir,- a care which weighs
heavily on princes, who desire to leave behind them more than one
pledge that they will be remembered and their work will be continued."
  "Did King Louis XIII die without children?" asked the prisoner,
smiling.
  "No; but he was long without one, and for a long while thought he
should be the last of his race. This idea had reduced him to the
depths of despair, when suddenly his wife, Anne of Austria-"
  The prisoner trembled.
  "Did you know," said Aramis, "that Louis XIII's wife was called Anne
of Austria?"
  "Continue!" said the young man, without replying to the question.
  "When suddenly," resumed Aramis, "the Queen announced an interesting
event. There was great joy at the intelligence, and all prayed for her
happy delivery. On the 5th of September, 1638, she gave birth to a
son." Here Aramis looked at his companion, and thought he observed him
turning pale. "You are about to hear," said Aramis, "an account
which few could now give; for it refers to a secret which is thought
to be buried with the dead or entombed in the abyss of the
confessional."
  "And you will tell me this secret?" broke in the youth.
  "Oh!" said Aramis, with unmistakable emphasis, "I do not know that I
ought to risk this secret by intrusting it to one who has no desire to
quit the Bastille."
  "I listen, Monsieur."
  "The Queen, then, gave birth to a son. But while the court was
rejoicing over the event, when the King had shown the new-born child
to the nobility and people, and was sitting gayly down to table to
celebrate the event, the Queen, who was alone in her room, was again
taken ill, and gave birth to a second son."
  "Oh!" said the prisoner, betraying a better acquaintance with
affairs than he had admitted, "I thought that Monsieur was only born
in-"
  Aramis raised his finger. "Let me continue," he said.
  The prisoner sighed impatiently, and paused.
  "Yes," said Aramis, "the Queen had a second son, whom Dame
Perronnette, the midwife, received in her arms."
  "Dame Perronnette!" murmured the young man.
  "They ran at once to the banqueting-room, and whispered to the
King what had happened; he rose and quitted the table. But this time
it was no longer happiness that his face expressed, but something akin
to terror. The birth of twins changed into bitterness the joy to which
that of an only son had given rise, seeing that in France (a fact of
which you are assuredly ignorant) it is the oldest of the king's
sons who succeeds his father-"
  "I know it."
  "And that the doctors and jurists assert that there is ground for
doubting whether he who first makes his appearance is the elder by the
law of Heaven and of Nature."
  The prisoner uttered a smothered cry, and became whiter than the
coverlet under which he hid himself.
  "Now you understand," pursued Aramis, "that the King, who with so
much pleasure saw himself repeated in one, was in despair about two;
fearing that the second might dispute the claim of the first to
seniority, which had been recognized only two hours before, and so
this second son, relying on party interests and caprices, might one
day sow discord and engender civil war in the kingdom,- by these means
destroying the very dynasty he should have strengthened."
  "Oh, I understand, I understand!" murmured the young man.
  "Well," continued Aramis, "this is what is related; this is why
one of the Queen's two sons, shamefully parted from his brother,
shamefully sequestered, is buried in the profoundest obscurity; this
is why that second son has disappeared, and so completely that not a
soul in France, save his mother, is aware of his existence."
  "Yes; his mother, who has cast him off!" cried the prisoner, in a
tone of despair.
  "Except also," Aramis went on, "the lady in the black dress; and,
finally, excepting-"
  "Excepting yourself, is it not,- you, who come and relate all this,-
you, who come to rouse in my soul curiosity, hatred, ambition, and
perhaps even the thirst of vengeance;- except you, Monsieur, who, if
you are the man whom I expect, to whom the note I have received
applies, whom, in short, Heaven ought to send me, must possess about
you-"
  "What?" asked Aramis.
  "A portrait of the King, Louis XIV, who at this moment reigns upon
the throne of France."
  "Here is the portrait," replied the bishop, handing the prisoner a
miniature in enamel, on which Louis was depicted life-like, with a
handsome, lofty mien. The prisoner eagerly seized the portrait, and
gazed at it with devouring eyes. "And now, Monseigneur," said
Aramis, "here is a mirror."
  Aramis left the prisoner time to recover his ideas.
  "So high, so high!" murmured the young man, eagerly comparing the
likeness of Louis with his own countenance reflected in the glass.
  "What do you think of it?" at length said Aramis.
  "I think that I am lost," replied the captive; "the King will
never set me free."
  "And I- I demand," added the bishop, fixing his piercing eyes
significantly upon the prisoner,- "I demand which of the two is the
King,- the one whom this miniature portrays, or the one whom the glass
reflects?"
  "The King, Monsieur," sadly replied the young man, "is he who is
on the throne, who is not in prison, and who, on the other hand, can
cause others to be entombed there. Royalty is power; and you see
well how powerless I am."
  "Monseigneur," answered Aramis, with a respect he had not yet
manifested, "the King, mark me, will, if you desire it, be he who
quitting his dungeon shall maintain himself upon the throne on which
his friends will place him."
  "Tempt me not, Monsieur!" broke in the prisoner, bitterly.
  "Be not weak, Monseigneur," persisted Aramis, "I have brought all
the proofs of your birth: consult them; satisfy yourself that you
are a king's son; and then let us act."
  "No, no; it is impossible."
  "Unless, indeed," resumed the bishop, ironically, "it be the destiny
of your race that the brothers excluded from the throne shall be
always princes without valor and without honor, as was your uncle M.
Gaston d'Orleans, who ten times conspired against his brother Louis
XIII."
  "What!" cried the Prince, astonished; "my uncle Gaston 'conspired
against his brother,'- conspired to dethrone him?"
  "Exactly, Monseigneur; for no other reason."
  "What are you telling me, Monsieur?"
  "I tell you the truth."
  "And he had friends,- devoted ones?"
  "As much so as I am to you."
  "And, after all, what did he do?- Failed!"
  "He failed, I admit, but always through his own fault; and for the
sake of purchasing, not his life (for the life of the King's brother
is sacred and inviolable), but his liberty, he sacrificed the lives of
all his friends, one after another; and so at this day he is the
very shame of history, and the detestation of a hundred noble families
in this kingdom."
  "I understand, Monsieur; either by weakness or treachery, my uncle
slew his friends."
  "By weakness; which in princes is always treachery."
  "And cannot a man fail, then, from incapacity and ignorance? Do
you really believe it possible that a poor captive such as I,
brought up not only at a distance from the court, but even from the
world,- do you believe it possible that such a one could assist
those of his friends who should attempt to serve him?" And as Aramis
was about to reply, the young man suddenly cried out, with a
violence which betrayed the temper of his blood: "We are speaking of
friends; but how can I have any friends,- I, whom no one knows, and
who have neither liberty, money, nor influence to gain any?"
  "I fancy I had the honor to offer myself to your royal Highness."
  "Oh, do not style me so, Monsieur; 't is either irony or cruelty! Do
not lead me to think of aught else than these prison walls which
confine me; let me again love, or at least submit to, my slavery and
my obscurity."
  "Monseigneur, Monseigneur! if you again utter these desperate words,
if after having received proof of your high birth you still remain
poor-spirited and of feeble purpose, I will comply with your
desire,- I will depart, and renounce forever the service of a master
to whom so eagerly I came to devote my assistance and my life!"
  "Monsieur," cried the Prince, "would it not have been better for you
to have reflected, before telling me all that you have done, that
you would break my heart forever?"
  "And so I desired to do, Monseigneur."
  "Is a prison the fitting place to talk to me about power,
grandeur, and even royalty? You wish to make me believe in splendor,
and we are lying hidden in night; you boast of glory, and we are
smothering our words in the curtains of this miserable bed; you give
me glimpses of absolute power, and I hear the step of the jailer in
the corridor,- that step which, after all, makes you tremble more than
it does me. To render me somewhat less incredulous, free me from the
Bastille; give air to my lungs, spurs to my feet, a sword to my arm,
and we shall begin to understand each other."
  "It is precisely my intention to give you all this, Monseigneur, and
more; only, do you desire it?"
  "A word more," said the Prince. "I know there are guards in every
gallery, bolts to every door, cannon and soldiery at every barrier.
How will you overcome the sentries, spike the guns? How will you break
through the bolts and bars?"
  "Monseigneur, how did you get the note which announced my arrival to
you?"
  "You can bribe a jailer for such a thing as a note."
  "If we can corrupt one turnkey, we can corrupt ten."
  "Well, I admit that it may be possible to release a poor captive
from the Bastille; possible so to conceal him that the King's people
shall not again ensnare him; possible, in some unknown retreat, to
sustain the unhappy wretch in some suitable manner."
  "Monseigneur!" said Aramis, smiling.
  "I admit that whoever would do thus much for me would seem more than
mortal in my eyes; but as you tell me I am a prince, brother of a
king, how can you restore me the rank and power of which my mother and
my brother have deprived me? And as I must pass a life of war and
hatred, how will you make me conqueror in those combats, and
invulnerable to my enemies? Ah, Monsieur, reflect upon this! Place me,
to-morrow, in some dark cavern in a mountain's base; yield me the
delight of hearing in freedom the sounds of river and plain, of
beholding in freedom the sun of the blue Heavens, or the stormy
sky,- and it is enough. Promise me no more than this,- for, indeed,
more you cannot give; and it would be a crime to deceive me, since you
call yourself my friend."
  Aramis waited in silence. "Monseigneur," he resumed after a moment's
reflection, "I admire the firm, sound sense which dictates your words;
I am happy to have discovered my monarch's mind."
  "Again, again! oh, for mercy's sake," cried the Prince, pressing his
icy hands upon his clammy brow, "do not play with me! I have no need
to be a king to be the happiest of men."
  "But I, Monseigneur, wish you to be a king for the good of
humanity."
  "Ah!" said the Prince, with fresh distrust inspired by the word,-
"ah! with what, then, has humanity to reproach my brother?"
  "I forgot to say, Monseigneur, that if you condescend to allow me to
guide you, and if you consent to become the most powerful monarch on
earth, you will have promoted the interests of all the friends whom
I devote to the success of your cause; and these friends are
numerous."
  "Numerous?"
  "Still less numerous than powerful, Monseigneur."
  "Explain yourself."
  "It is impossible. I will explain, I swear before Heaven, on that
day when I see you sitting on the throne of France."
  "But my brother?"
  "You shall decree his fate. Do you pity him?"
  "Him who leaves me to perish in a dungeon? No; I do not pity him."
  "So much the better."
  "He might have himself come to this prison, have taken me by the
hand, and have said, 'My brother, Heaven created us to love, not to
contend with each other. I come to you. A barbarous prejudice has
condemned you to pass your days in obscurity, far from all men and
deprived of every joy. I will make you sit down beside me; I will
buckle round your waist our father's sword. Will you take advantage of
this reconciliation to put down or to restrain me? Will you employ
that sword to spill my blood?' 'Oh never!' I would have replied to
him; 'I look on you as my preserver, and will respect you as my
master. You give me far more than Heaven bestowed; for through you I
possess liberty and the privilege of loving and being loved in this
world.'"
  "And you would have kept your word, Monseigneur?"
  "Oh, on my life!"
  "While now?"
  "While now I perceive that I have guilty ones to punish."
  "In what manner, Monseigneur?"
  "What do you say as to the resemblance that Heaven has given me to
my brother?"
  "I say that there was in that likeness a providential instruction
which the King ought to have heeded; I say that your mother
committed a crime in rendering those different in happiness and
fortune whom Nature created so similar in her womb; and I conclude
that the object of punishment should be only to restore the
equilibrium."
  "By which you mean-"
  "That if I restore you to your place on your brother's throne, he
shall take yours in prison."
  "Alas! there is so much suffering in prison, especially to a man who
has drunk so deeply of the cup of enjoyment."
  "Your royal Highness will always be free to act as you may desire;
and if it seems good to you, after punishment, may pardon."
  "Good! And now, are you aware of one thing, Monsieur?"
  "Tell me, my Prince."
  "It is that I will hear nothing further from you till I am clear
of the Bastille."
  "I was going to say to your Highness that I should only have the
pleasure of seeing you once again."
  "And when?"
  "The day when my Prince leaves these gloomy walls."
  "Heavens! how will you give me notice?"
  "By coming here to seek you."
  "Yourself?"
  "My Prince, do not leave this chamber save with me; or if in my
absence you are compelled to do so, remember that I am not concerned
in it."
  "And so, I am not to speak a word of this to any one whatever,
save to you?"
  "Save only to me." Aramis bowed very low.
  The Prince offered his hand. "Monsieur," he said, in a tone that
issued from his heart, "one word more,- my last. If you have sought me
for my destruction; if you are only a tool in the hands of my enemies;
if from our conference, in which you have sounded the depths of my
mind, anything worse than captivity result,- that is to say, if
death befall me,- still receive my blessing, for you will have ended
my troubles and given me repose from the tormenting fever that has
preyed upon me these eight years."
  "Monseigneur, wait the result ere you judge me," said Aramis.
  "I say that in such a case I should bless and forgive you. If, on
the other hand, you are come to restore me to that position in the
sunshine of fortune and glory to which I was destined by Heaven; if by
your aid I am enabled to live in the memory of man, and confer
lustre on my race by deeds of valor or by solid benefits bestowed upon
my people; if from my present depths of sorrow, aided by your generous
hand, I raise myself to the very height of honor,- then to you, whom I
thank with blessings, to you will I offer half my power and my
glory; though you would still be but partly recompensed, and your
share must always remain incomplete, since I could not divide with you
the happiness received at your hands."
  "Monseigneur," replied Aramis, moved by the pallor and excitement of
the young man, "the nobleness of your heart fills me with joy and
admiration. It is not you who will have to thank me, but rather the
nation whom you will render happy, the posterity whose name you will
make glorious. Yes; I shall have bestowed upon you more than life,-
I shall give you immortality."
  The Prince offered his hand to Aramis, who sank upon his knee and
kissed it. "Oh!" cried the Prince, with a charming modesty.
  "It is the first act of homage paid to our future King," said
Aramis. "When I see you again, I shall say, 'Good-day, Sire.'"
  "Till then," said the young man, pressing his wan and wasted fingers
over his heart,- "till then, no more dreams, no more strain upon my
life,- it would break! Oh, Monsieur, how small is my prison,- how
low the window,- how narrow are the doors! To think that so much
pride, splendor, and happiness should be able to enter in and remain
here!"
  "Your royal Highness makes me proud," said Aramis, "since you
imply it is I who brought all this"; and he rapped immediately on
the door.
  The jailer came to open it with Baisemeaux, who devoured by fear and
uneasiness was beginning, in spite of himself, to listen at the
door. Happily, neither of the speakers had forgotten to smother his
voice, even in the most passionate outbreaks.
  "What a confession!" said the governor, forcing a laugh; "who
would believe that a mere recluse, a man almost dead, could have
committed crimes so numerous, and taking so long to tell of?"
  Aramis made no reply. He was eager to leave the Bastille, where
the secret which overwhelmed him seemed to double the weight of the
walls.
  As soon as they reached Baisemeaux's quarters, "Let us proceed to
business, my dear governor," said Aramis.
  "Alas!" replied Baisemeaux.
  "You have to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty
thousand livres," said the bishop.
  "And to pay over the first third of the sum," added the poor
governor, with a sigh, taking three steps towards his iron strong-box.
  "Here is the receipt," said Aramis.
  "And here is the money," returned Baisemeaux, with a threefold sigh.
  "The order instructed me only to give a receipt; it said nothing
about receiving the money," rejoined Aramis. "Adieu, Monsieur the
Governor!" And he departed, leaving Baisemeaux stifled with joy and
surprise at this regal gift so grandly given by the Confessor
Extraordinary to the Bastille.
     Chapter XXX: How Mouston Had Become Fatter Without Giving
        Porthos Notice Thereof, and of the Troubles Which
            Consequently Befell That Worthy Gentleman

  AFTER the departure of Athos for Blois, Porthos and d'Artagnan
were seldom together. One was occupied with harassing duties for the
King; the other had been making many purchases of furniture, which
he intended to forward to his estate, and by aid of which he hoped
to establish in his various residences something of that court
luxury which he had witnessed in all its dazzling brightness in his
Majesty's society.
  D'Artagnan, ever faithful, one morning during an interval of service
thought about Porthos, and being uneasy at not having heard anything
of him for a fortnight, directed his steps towards his hotel, and
pounced upon him just as he was getting up. The worthy baron had a
pensive,- nay, more, a melancholy air. He was sitting on his bed, only
half dressed, and with legs dangling over the edge, contemplating a
great number of garments, which with their fringes, lace,
embroidery, and slashes of ill-assorted hues were strewed all over the
floor.
  Porthos, sad and reflective as La Fontaine's hare, did not observe
d'Artagnan's entrance, which was moreover screened at this moment by
M. Mouston, whose personal corpulence, quite enough at any time to
hide one man from another, was for the moment doubled by a scarlet
coat which the intendant was holding up by the sleeves for his
master's inspection, that he might the better see it all over.
D'Artagnan stopped at the threshold, and looked at the pensive
Porthos; and then, as the sight of the innumerable garments strewing
the floor caused mighty sighs to heave from the bosom of that
excellent gentleman, d'Artagnan thought it time to put an end to these
dismal reflections, and coughed by way of announcing himself.
  "Ah!" exclaimed Porthos, whose countenance brightened with joy, "ah!
ah! Here is d'Artagnan. I shall, then, get hold of an idea!"
  At these words Mouston, doubting what was going on behind him, got
out of the way, smiling kindly at the friend of his master, who thus
found himself freed from the material obstacle which had prevented his
reaching d'Artagnan. Porthos made his sturdy knees crack again in
rising, and crossing the room in two strides found himself face to
face with his friend, whom he folded to his breast with a force of
affection that seemed to increase with every day. "Ah!" he repeated,
"you are always welcome, dear friend; but just now you are more
welcome than ever."
  "But you seem in the dumps here?" exclaimed d'Artagnan.
  Porthos replied by a look expressive of dejection.
  "Well, then, tell me all about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it
is a secret."
  "In the first place," returned Porthos, "you know I have no
secrets from you. This, then, is what saddens me."
  "Wait a minute, Porthos; let me first get rid of all this litter
of satin and velvet."
  "Oh, never mind!" said Porthos, contemptuously; "it is all trash."
  "Trash, Porthos! Cloth at twenty livres an ell, gorgeous satin,
regal velvet!"
  "Then you think these clothes are-"
  "Splendid, Porthos, splendid. I'll wager that you alone in France
have so many; and suppose you never had any more made, and were to
live a hundred years, which wouldn't astonish me, you could still wear
a new dress the day of your death without being obliged to see the
nose of a single tailor from now till then."
  Porthos shook his head.
  "Come, my friend," said d'Artagnan, "this unnatural melancholy in
you frightens me. My dear Porthos, pray get out of it- the sooner
the better."
  "Yes, my friend, so I will; if indeed it is possible."
  "Perhaps you have received bad news from Bracieux?"
  "No; they have felled the wood, and it has yielded a third more than
the estimate."
  "Then there has been a falling off in the pools of Pierrefonds?"
  "No, my friend; they have been fished, and there is enough left to
stock all the pools in the neighborhood."
  "Perhaps your estate at Vallon has been destroyed by an earthquake?"
  "No, my friend; on the contrary, the ground was struck by
lightning a hundred paces from the chateau, and a fountain sprung up
in a place entirely destitute of water."
  "Well, then, what is the matter?"
  "The fact is, I have received an invitation for the fete at Vaux,"
said Porthos, with a lugubrious expression.
  "Well, do you complain of that? The King has caused a hundred mortal
heart-burnings among the courtiers by refusing invitations. And so, my
dear friend, you are of the party for Vaux? Bless my soul!"
  "Indeed I am!"
  "You will see a magnificent sight."
  "Alas! I doubt it, though."
  "Everything that is grand in France will be brought together there!"
  "Ah!" cried Porthos, tearing out a lock of his hair in despair.
  "Eh! Good Heavens! are you ill?" cried d'Artagnan.
  "I am as strong as the Pont-Neuf! It isn't that."
  "But what is it, then?"
  "It is that I have no clothes!"
  D'Artagnan stood petrified. "No clothes, Porthos! no clothes," he
cried, "when I see more than fifty suits on the floor!"
  "Fifty, yes; but not one that fits me!"
  "What! not one that fits you? But are you not measured, then, when
you give an order?"
  "To be sure, he is," answered Mouston; "but unfortunately I have
grown stouter."
  "What! you stouter?"
  "So much so that I am now bigger than the baron. Would you believe
it, Monsieur?"
  "Parbleu! it seems to me that is quite evident."
  "Do you see, stupid?" said Porthos; "that is quite evident!"
  "Be still, my dear Porthos!" resumed d'Artagnan, becoming slightly
impatient. "I don't understand why your clothes should not fit you
because Mouston has grown stouter."
  "I am going to explain it," said Porthos. "You remember having
related to me the story of the Roman general Antony, who had always
seven wild boars, kept roasting, cooked to different degrees, so
that he might be able to have his dinner at any time of the day he
chose to ask for it? Well, then, I resolved, as at any time I might be
invited to court to spend a week,- I resolved to have always seven
suits ready for the occasion."
  "Capitally reasoned, Porthos! Only a man must have a fortune like
yours to gratify such whims. Without counting the time lost in being
measured, the fashions are always changing."
  "That is exactly the point," said Porthos, "in regard to which I
flattered myself I had hit on a very ingenious device."
  "Tell me what it is; for I don't doubt your genius."
  "You remember that Mouston once was thin?"
  "Yes; when he was called Mousqueton."
  "And you remember, too, the period when he began to grow fatter?"
  "No, not exactly. I beg your pardon, my good Mouston."
  "Oh, you are not in fault, Monsieur!" said Mouston, graciously. "You
were in Paris; and as for us, we were in Pierrefonds."
  "Well, well, my dear Porthos; there was a time when Mouston began to
grow fat. Is that what you wished to say?"
  "Yes, my friend; and I greatly rejoiced over it at that time."
  "Indeed, I believe you did," exclaimed d'Artagnan.
  "You understand," continued Porthos, "what a world of trouble it
spared me."
  "No, my dear friend, I do not yet understand; but perhaps with the
help of explanation-"
  "Here it is, my friend. In the first place, as you have said, to
be measured is a loss of time, even though it occur only once a
fortnight. And then, one may be travelling, and may wish to have seven
suits always ready. In short, I have a horror of letting any one
take my measure. Confound it! either one is a gentleman or he is
not. To be scrutinized and scanned by a fellow who completely analyzes
you by inch and line,- 'tis degrading. Here, they find you too hollow;
there, too prominent. They recognize your strong and weak points. See,
now, when we leave the measurer's hands, we are like those strongholds
whose angles and different thicknesses have been ascertained by a
spy."
  "In truth, my dear Porthos, you possess ideas entirely your own."
  "Ah! you see, when a man is an engineer-"
  "And has fortified Belle-Isle,- 'tis natural, my friend."
  "Well, I had an idea, which would doubtless have proved a good one
but for Mouston's carelessness."
  D'Artagnan glanced at Mouston, who replied by a slight movement of
his body, as if to say, "You will see whether I am at all to blame
in all this."
  "I congratulated myself, then," resumed Porthos, "at seeing
Mouston get fat; and I did all I could, by means of substantial
feeding, to make him stout,- always in the hope that he would come
to equal myself in girth, and could then be measured in my stead."
  "Ah," cried d'Artagnan, "I see! That spared you both time and
humiliation."
  "Consider my joy when after a year and a half's judicious
feeding,- for I used to feed him myself,- the fellow-"
  "Oh, I lent a good hand myself, Monsieur!" said Mouston, humbly.
  "That's true. Consider my joy when one morning I perceived Mouston
was obliged, like myself, to compress himself to get through the
little secret door that those fools of architects had made in the
chamber of the late Madame du Vallon, in the chateau of Pierrefonds.
And, by the way, about that door, my friend, I should like to ask you,
who know everything, why these wretches of architects, who ought by
rights to have the compasses in their eye, came to make doorways
through which nobody but thin people could pass?"
  "Oh! those doors," answered d'Artagnan, "were meant for gallants,
and they have generally slight and slender figures."
  "Madame du Vallon had no gallant!" answered Porthos, majestically.
  "Perfectly true, my friend," resumed d'Artagnan; "but the architects
were imagining the possibility of your marrying again."
  "Ah, that is possible!" said Porthos. "And now that I have
received an explanation why doorways are made too narrow, let us
return to the subject of Mouston's fatness. But see how the two things
fit each other! I have always noticed that ideas run parallel. And so,
Observe this phenomenon, d'Artagnan! I was talking to you of
Mouston, who is fat, and it led us on to Madame du Vallon-"
  "Who was thin?"
  "Hum! is it not marvellous?"
  "My dear friend, a savant of my acquaintance, M. Costar, has made
the same observation as you have; and he calls the process by some
Greek name, which I forget."
  "What! my remark is not then original?" cried Porthos, astounded. "I
thought I was the discoverer."
  "My friend, the fact was known before Aristotle's days,- that is
to say, about two thousand years ago."
  "Well, well, 'tis no less true," remarked Porthos, delighted at
the idea of having concurred with the sages of antiquity.
  "Wonderfully. But suppose we return to Mouston. It seems to me, we
have left him fattening under our very eyes."
  "Yes, Monsieur," said Mouston.
  "Well," said Porthos, "Mouston fattened so well that he gratified
all my hopes by reaching my standard; a fact of which I was well
able to convince myself, by seeing the rascal one day in a waistcoat
of mine, which he had turned into a coat,- a waistcoat the mere
embroidery of which was worth a hundred pistoles."
  "'Twas only to try it on, Monsieur," said Mouston.
  "From that moment I determined to put Mouston in communication
with my tailors, and to have him measured instead of myself."
  "A capital idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot and a half shorter
than you."
  "Exactly! They measured him down to the ground, and the end of the
skirt came just below my knee."
  "What a wonder you are, Porthos! Such a thing could happen only to
you."
  "Ah, yes, pay your compliments; there is something upon which to
base them! It was exactly at that time- that is to say, nearly two
years and a half ago- that I set out for Belle-Isle, instructing
Mouston (so as always to have, in every event, a pattern of every
fashion) to have a coat made for himself every month."
  "And did Mouston neglect to comply with your instructions? Oh,
that would not be right, Mouston!"
  "No, Monsieur, quite the contrary, quite the contrary!"
  "No, he never forgot to have his coats made; but he forgot to inform
me that he had grown stouter!"
  "But it was not my fault, Monsieur! Your tailor never told me."
  "And this to such an extent, Monsieur," continued Porthos, "that the
fellow in two years has gained eighteen inches in girth, and so my
last dozen coats are all too large in progressive measure from a
foot to a foot and a half!"
  "But the rest,- those which were made when you were of the same
size?"
  "They are no longer the fashion, my dear friend. Were I to put
them on, I should look like a fresh arrival from Siam, and as though I
had been two years away from court."
  "I understand your difficulty. You have how many new suits?-
thirty-six, and yet not one to wear. Well, you must have a
thirty-seventh made, and give the thirty-six to Mouston."
  "Ah, Monsieur!" said Mouston, with a gratified air. "The truth is,
that Monsieur has always been very generous to me."
  "Do you mean to think that I hadn't that idea, or that I was
deterred by the expense? But it wants only two days to the fete. I
received the invitation yesterday; made Mouston post hither with my
wardrobe, and only this morning discovered my misfortune; and from now
till the day after to-morrow, there isn't a single fashionable
tailor who will undertake to make me a suit."
  "That is to say, one covered with gold, isn't it?"
  "I especially wish it so!"
  "Oh, we shall manage it! You won't leave for three days. The
invitations are for Wednesday, and this is only Sunday morning."
  "'Tis true; but Aramis has strongly advised me to be at Vaux
twenty-four hours beforehand."
  "How! Aramis?"
  "Yes, it was Aramis who brought me the invitation."
  "Ah, to be sure, I see! You are invited on the part of M. Fouquet?"
  "By no means,- by the King, dear friend. The letter bears the
following as large as life:-

  "'M. le Baron du Vallon is informed that the King has condescended
to place him on the invitation list-'"

  "Very good; but you leave with M. Fouquet?"
  "And when I think," cried Porthos, stamping on the floor,- "when I
think I shall have no clothes, I am ready to burst with rage! I should
like to strangle somebody or destroy something!"
  "Neither strangle anybody nor destroy anything, Porthos; I will
manage it all. Put on one of your thirty-six suits, and come with me
to a tailor."
  "Pooh! my agent has seen them all this morning."
  "Even M. Percerin?"
  "Who is M. Percerin?"
  "He is the King's tailor, parbleu!"
  "Oh! ah, yes!" said Porthos, who wished to appear to know the King's
tailor, but now heard his name mentioned for the first time; "to M.
Percerin's, by Jove! I thought he would be too much engaged."
  "Doubtless he will be; but be at ease, Porthos! He will do for me
what he won't do for another. Only, you must allow yourself to be
measured!"
  "Ah!" said Porthos, with a sigh, "'tis vexatious, but what would you
have me do?"
  "Do? As others do,- as the King does."
  "What! Do they measure the King too? Does he put up with it?"
  "The King is a beau, my good friend; and so are you, too, whatever
you may say about it."
  Porthos smiled triumphantly. "Let us go to the King's tailor," he
said; "and since he measures the King, I think, by my faith, I may
well allow him to measure me!"
        Chapter XXXI: Who Messire Jean Percerin Was

  THE King's tailor, Messire Jean Percerin, occupied a rather large
house in the Rue St. Honore, near the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. He was a man
of great taste in elegant stuffs, embroideries, and velvet, being
hereditary tailor to the King. The preferment of his house reached
as far back as the time of Charles IX; from whose reign dated, as we
know, fancies in bravery difficult enough to gratify. The Percerin
of that period was a Huguenot, like Ambroise Pare, and had been spared
by the Queen of Navarre,- the beautiful Margot, as they used to
write and say too in those days,- because, in sooth, he was the only
one who could make for her those wonderful riding-habits which she
preferred to wear, seeing that they were marvellously well suited to
hide certain anatomical defects which the Queen of Navarre used very
studiously to conceal. Percerin being saved made, out of gratitude,
some beautiful black bodices, very inexpensive indeed, for Queen
Catherine, who ended by being pleased at the preservation of a
Huguenot on whom she had long looked with aversion. But Percerin was a
prudent man; and having heard it said that there was no more dangerous
sign for a Huguenot than to be smiled upon by Catherine, and having
observed that her smiles were more frequent than usual, he speedily
turned Catholic, with all his family; and having thus become
irreproachable, attained the lofty position of master tailor to the
Crown of France. Under Henry III, gay King as he was, this position
was as high as one of the loftiest peaks of the Cordilleras. Now,
Percerin had been a clever man all his life, and by way of keeping
up his reputation beyond the grave, took very good care not to make
a bad death of it; and so contrived to die very seasonably,- at the
very moment he felt his powers of invention declining. He left a son
and daughter, both worthy of the name they were called upon to
bear,- the son a cutter as unerring and exact as the square rule,
the daughter apt at embroidery and at designing ornaments. The
marriage of Henry IV and Marie de Medicis, and the exquisite court
mourning for the aforementioned Queen, together with a few words let
fall by M. de Bassompierre, king of the beaux of that period, made the
fortune of the second generation of Percerins. M. Concino Concini, and
his wife Galigai, who subsequently shone at the French Court, sought
to Italianize the fashion, and introduced some Florentine tailors; but
Percerin, touched to the quick in his patriotism and his
self-esteem, entirely defeated these foreigners by his designs in
brocatelle,- so effectually that Concino was the first to give up
his compatriots, and held the French tailor in such esteem that he
would never employ any other; and thus wore a doublet of his on the
very day that Vitry blew out his brains with his pistol at the Pont du
Louvre.
  It was that doublet, issuing from M. Percerin's workshop, which
the Parisians rejoiced in hacking into so many pieces with the human
flesh it covered. Notwithstanding the favor Concino Concini had
shown Percerin, the King Louis XIII had the generosity to bear no
malice to his tailor and to retain him in his service. At the time
when Louis the Just afforded this great example of equity, Percerin
had brought up two sons, one of whom made his debut at the marriage of
Anne of Austria, invented that admirable Spanish costume in which
Richelieu danced a saraband, made the costumes for the tragedy of
"Mirame," and stitched on to Buckingham's mantle those famous pearls
which were destined to be scattered on the floors of the Louvre. A man
becomes easily illustrious who has made the dresses of M. de
Buckingham, M. de Cinq-Mars, Mademoiselle Ninon, M. de Beaufort, and
Marion de Lorme. And thus Percerin III had attained the summit of
his glory when his father died.
  This same Percerin III, old, famous, and wealthy, yet further
dressed Louis XIV; and having no son, which was a great cause of
sorrow to him, seeing that with himself his dynasty would end, he
had brought up several hopeful pupils. He possessed a carriage, a
country-house, lackeys the tallest in Paris; and by special
authority from Louis XIV, a pack of hounds. He worked for Messieurs de
Lyonne and Letellier, under a sort of patronage; but, politic man as
he was, and versed in State secrets, he never succeeded in fitting
M. Colbert. This is beyond explanation; it is a matter for
intuition. Great geniuses of every kind live upon unseen, intangible
ideas; they act without themselves knowing why. The great Percerin
(for, contrary to the rule of dynasties, it was, above all, the last
of the Percerins who deserved the name of Great),- the great
Percerin was inspired when he cut a robe for the Queen or a coat for
the King; he could invent a mantle for Monsieur, a clock for
Madame's stocking; but in spite of his supreme genius, he could
never hit the measure of M. Colbert. "That man," he used often to say,
"is beyond my art; my needle never can hit him off." We need
scarcely say that Percerin was M. Fouquet's tailor, and that the
superintendent highly esteemed him.
  M. Percerin was nearly eighty years old,- nevertheless, still fresh,
and at the same time so dry, the courtiers used to say, that he was
positively brittle. His renown and his fortune were great enough for
Monsieur the Prince, that king of fops, to take his arm when talking
over the fashions; and for those least eager to pay never to dare to
leave their accounts in arrear with him,- for M. Percerin would for
the first time make clothes upon credit, but the second never,
unless paid for the former order.
  It is easy to see that a tailor of such standing, instead of running
after customers, would make difficulties about receiving new ones. And
so Percerin declined to fit bourgeois, or those who had but recently
obtained patents of nobility. It was stated, even, that M. de Mazarin,
in return for a full suit of ceremonial vestments as cardinal, one
fine day slipped letters of nobility into his pocket.
  Percerin was endowed with intelligence and wit. He might be called
very lively. At eighty years of age he still took with a steady hand
the measure of women's waists.
  It was to the house of this great lord of tailors that d'Artagnan
took the despairing Porthos; who, as they were going along, said to
his friend: "Take care, my good d'Artagnan, not to compromise the
dignity of a man such as I am with the arrogance of this Percerin, who
will, I expect, be very impertinent; for I give you notice, my friend,
that if he is wanting in respect to me I will chastise him."
  "Presented by me," replied d'Artagnan, "you have nothing to fear,
even though you were- what you are not."
  "Ah! 'tis because-"
  "What! Have you anything against Percerin, Porthos?"
  "I think that I once sent Mouston to a fellow of that name."
  "And then?"
  "The fellow refused to supply me."
  "Oh, a misunderstanding, no doubt, which 'tis pressing to set right!
Mouston must have made a mistake."
  "Perhaps."
  "He has confused the names."
  "Possibly. That rascal Mouston never can remember names."
  "I will take it all upon myself."
  "Very good."
  "Stop the carriage, Porthos; here we are!"
  "Here! how here? We are at the Halles; and you told me the house was
at the corner of the Rue de l'Arbre-Sec."
  "'Tis true; but look!"
  "Well, I do look, and I see-"
  "What?"
  "Pardieu! that we are at the Halles!"
  "You do not, I suppose, want our horses to clamber up on the top
of the carriage in front of us?"
  "No."
  "Nor the carriage in front of us to mount on the one in front of
it?"
  "Still less."
  "Nor that the second should be driven over the roofs of the thirty
or forty others which have arrived before us?"
  "No; you are right, indeed. What a number of people! And what are
they all about?"
  "'Tis very simple,- they are waiting their turn."
  "Bah! Have the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne shifted their
quarters?"
  "No; their turn to obtain an entrance to M. Percerin's house."
  "And we are going to wait too?"
  "Oh, we shall show ourselves more ready and less proud than they!"
  What are we to do, then?"
  "Get down, pass through the footmen and lackeys, and enter the
tailor's house, which I will answer for our doing, especially if you
go first."
  "Come, then," said Porthos.
  They both alighted, and made their way on foot towards the
establishment. The cause of the confusion was that M. Percerin's doors
were closed, while a servant standing before them was explaining to
the illustrious customers of the illustrious tailor that just then
M. Percerin could not receive anybody. It was bruited about outside
still, on the authority of what the great lackey had said
confidentially to some great noble whom he favored, that M. Percerin
was engaged upon five dresses for the King, and that, owing to the
urgency of the case, he was meditating in his office on the ornaments,
colors, and cut of these five suits. Some, contented with this reason,
went away again, happy to repeat it to others; but others, more
tenacious, insisted on having the doors opened,- and among these last,
three Blue Ribbons, intended to take part in a ballet which would
inevitably fail unless the said three had their costumes shaped by the
very hand of the great Percerin himself.
  D'Artagnan, pushing on Porthos, who scattered the groups of people
right and left, succeeded in gaining the counter behind which the
journeymen tailors were doing their best to answer questions. We
forgot to mention that at the door they wanted to put off Porthos,
like the rest; but d'Artagnan, showing himself, pronounced merely
these words, "The King's order," and was let in with his friend. Those
poor devils had enough to do, and did their best, to reply to the
demands of the customers in the absence of their master, leaving off
drawing a stitch to turn a sentence; and when wounded pride or
disappointed expectation brought down upon them too cutting rebukes,
he who was attacked made a dive and disappeared under the counter.
  The line of discontented lords formed a picture full of curious
details. Our captain of Musketeers, a man of sure and rapid
observation, took it all in at a glance; but having run over the
groups, his eye rested on a man in front of him. This man, seated upon
a stool, scarcely showed his head above the counter which sheltered
him. He was about forty years of age, with a melancholy aspect, pale
face, and soft luminous eyes. He was looking at d'Artagnan and the
rest, with his chin resting upon his hand, like a calm and inquiring
spectator. Only, on perceiving and doubtless recognizing our
captain, he pulled his hat down over his eyes. It was this action,
perhaps, that attracted d'Artagnan's attention. If so, the gentleman
who had pulled down his hat produced an effect entirely different from
what he had desired. In other respects, his costume was plain, and his
hair evenly cut enough for customers who were not close observers to
take him for a mere tailor's apprentice perched behind the board and
carefully stitching cloth or velvet. Nevertheless, this man held up
his head too often to be very productively employed with his
fingers. D'Artagnan was not deceived,- not he; and he saw at once that
if this man was working on anything, it certainly was not on cloth.
  "Eh!" said he, addressing this man, "and so you have become a
tailor's boy, M. Moliere?"
  "Hush, M. d'Artagnan!" replied the man, softly; "in Heaven's name!
you will make them recognize me."
  "Well, and what harm?"
  "The fact is, there is no harm; but "You were going to say there
is no good in doing it, either, is it not so?"
  "Alas! no; for I was occupied in looking at some excellent figures."
  "Go on, go on, M. Moliere! I quite understand the interest you
take in it. I will not disturb your study."
  "Thank you."
  "But on one condition,- that you tell me where M. Percerin really
is."
  "Oh, willingly! in his own room. Only-"
  "Only that one can't enter it?"
  "Unapproachable."
  "For everybody?"
  "For everybody. He brought me here, so that I might be at my ease to
make my observations, and then he went away."
  "Well, my dear M. Moliere, but you will go and tell him I am here."
  "I!" exclaimed Moliere, in the tone of a courageous dog from which
you snatch the bone it has legitimately gained; "I disturb myself! Ah,
M. d'Artagnan, how hard you are upon me!"
  "If you don't go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my
dear Moliere," said d'Artagnan, in a low tone, "I warn you of one
thing,- that I won't exhibit to you the friend I have brought with
me."
  Moliere indicated Porthos by an imperceptible gesture. "This
gentleman, is it not?"
  "Yes."
  Moliere fixed upon Porthos one of those looks which penetrate the
minds and hearts of men. The subject doubtless appeared very promising
to him, for he immediately rose and led the way into the adjoining
chamber.
                 Chapter XXXII: The Samples

  DURING all this time the crowd was slowly rolling on, leaving at
every angle of the counter either a murmur or a menace, as the waves
leave foam or scattered seaweed on the sands, when they retire with
the ebbing tide. In about ten minutes Moliere reappeared, making
another sign to d'Artagnan from under the hangings. The latter hurried
after him, with Porthos in the rear, and after threading a labyrinth
of corridors, introduced him to M. Percerin's room. The old man,
with his sleeves turned up, was gathering up in folds a piece of
gold-flowered brocade, so as the better to exhibit its lustre.
Perceiving d'Artagnan, he put the silk aside, and came to meet him, by
no means radiant and by no means courteous, but on the whole in a
tolerably civil manner.
  "The captain of the Musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I am
engaged."
  "Eh! yes, on the King's costumes; I know that, my dear M.
Percerin. You are making three, they tell me."
  "Five, my dear monsieur,- five!"
  "Three or five, 'tis all the same to me, my dear Monsieur; and I
know that you will make them most exquisitely."
  "Yes, I know. Once made, they will be the most beautiful in the
world, I do not deny it; but that they may be the most beautiful in
the world, they must first be made; and to do this, Captain, I am
pressed for time."
  "Oh, bah! there are two days yet; 'tis much more than you require,
M. Percerin," said d'Artagnan, in the coolest possible manner.
  Percerin raised his head with the air of a man little accustomed
to be contradicted, even in his whims; but d'Artagnan did not pay
the least attention to the airs which the illustrious tailor began
to assume.
  "My dear M. Percerin," he continued, "I bring you a customer."
  "Ah! ah!" exclaimed Percerin, crossly.
  "M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds," continued
d'Artagnan.
  Percerin attempted a bow, which found no favor in the eyes of the
terrible Porthos, who from his first entry into the room had been
regarding the tailor askance.
  "A very good friend of mine," concluded d'Artagnan.
  "I will attend to Monsieur," said Percerin, "but later."
  "Later? but when?"
  "Why, when I have time."
  "You have already told my valet as much," broke in Porthos,
discontentedly.
  "Very likely," said Percerin; "I am nearly always pushed for time."
  "My friend," returned Porthos, sententiously, "there is always
time when one chooses to find it."
  Percerin turned crimson,- a very ominous sign indeed in old men
blanched by age. "Monsieur," said he, "is very free to confer his
custom elsewhere."
  "Come, come, Percerin," interposed d'Artagnan, "you are not in a
good temper to-day. Well, I will say one more word to you, which
will bring you on your knees: Monsieur is not only a good friend of
mine, but more,- a friend of M. Fouquet."
  "Ah! ah!" exclaimed the tailor, "that is another thing." Then
turning to Porthos, "Monsieur the Baron is attached to the
superintendent?" he inquired.
  "I am attached to myself," shouted Porthos, at the very moment
when the tapestry was raised to introduce a new speaker in the
dialogue. Moliere was all observation; d'Artagnan laughed; Porthos
swore.
  "My dear Percerin," said d'Artagnan, "you will make a dress for
the baron? 'Tis I who ask you."
  "To you I will not say nay, Captain."
  "But that is not all; you will make it for him at once."
  "'Tis impossible before eight days."
  "That, then, is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted
for the fete at Vaux."
  "I repeat that it is impossible," returned the obstinate old man.
  "By no means, dear M. Percerin, above all if I ask you," said a mild
voice at the door,- a silvery voice which made d'Artagnan prick up his
ears. It was the voice of Aramis.
  "M. d'Herblay!" cried the tailor.
  "Aramis!" murmured d'Artagnan.
  "Ah, our bishop!" said Porthos.
  "Good-morning, d'Artagnan; good-morning, Porthos; good-morning, my
dear friends'" said Aramis. "Come, come, M. Percerin, make the baron's
dress, and I will answer for it you will gratify M. Fouquet"; and he
accompanied the words with a sign which seemed to say, "Agree, and
dismiss them."
  It appeared that Aramis had over M. Percerin an influence superior
even to d'Artagnan's; for the tailor bowed in assent, and turning
round upon Porthos, "Go and get measured on the other side," said
he, rudely.
  Porthos colored in a formidable manner. D'Artagnan saw the storm
coming, and addressing Moliere said to him in an undertone, "You see
before you, my dear Monsieur, a man who considers himself disgraced if
you measure the flesh and bones that Heaven has given him; study
this type for me, Aristophanes, and profit by it."
  Moliere had no need of encouragement, and his gaze dwelt upon the
baron Porthos. "Monsieur," he said, "if you will come with me, I
will make them take your measure without the measurer touching you."
  "Oh!" said Porthos, "how do you make that out, my friend?"
  "I say that they shall apply neither line nor rule to the seams of
your dress. It is a new method we have invented for measuring people
of quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch
them. We know some susceptible persons who will not put up with
being measured,- a process which, as I think, wounds the natural
dignity of man; and if perchance Monsieur should be one of these-"
  "Corboeuf! I believe I am one of them."
  "Well, that is a capital coincidence, and you will have the
benefit of our invention."
  "But how in the devil can it be done?" asked Porthos, delighted.
  "Monsieur," said Moliere, bowing, "if you will deign to follow me,
you will see."
  Aramis observed this scene with all his eyes. Perhaps he fancied
from d'Artagnan's liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as
not to lose the conclusion of a scene so well begun. But clear-sighted
as he was, Aramis deceived himself. Porthos and Moliere left together.
D'Artagnan remained with Percerin. Why? From curiosity, doubtless;
probably to enjoy a little longer the society of his good friend
Aramis. As Moliere and Porthos disappeared, d'Artagnan drew near the
Bishop of Vannes,- a proceeding which appeared particularly to
disconcert him. "A dress for you also, is it not, my friend?"
  Aramis smiled. "No," said he.
  "You will go to Vaux, however?"
  "I shall go, but without a new dress. You forget, dear d'Artagnan,
that a poor Bishop of Vannes is not rich enough to have new for
every fete."
  "Bah!" said the musketeer, laughing; "and do we write no more
poems now, either?"
  "Oh, d'Artagnan," exclaimed Aramis, "I have long given over all
these follies!"
  "True," repeated d'Artagnan, only half convinced.
  As for Percerin, he had relapsed into his contemplation of the
brocades.
  "Don't you perceive," said Aramis, smiling, "that we are greatly
boring this good gentleman, my dear d'Artagnan?"
  "Ah! ah!" murmured the musketeer, aside; "that is, I am boring
you, my friend." Then aloud, "Well, then, let us leave. I have no
further business here; and if you are as disengaged as I, Aramis-"
  "No; not I- I wished-"
  "Ah! you had something private to say to M. Percerin? Why did you
not tell me so at once?"
  "Something private, certainly," repeated Aramis, "but not from
you, d'Artagnan. I hope you will believe that I can never have
anything so private to say that a friend like you may not hear it."
  "Oh, no, no! I am going," said d'Artagnan, but imparting to his
voice an evident tone of curiosity; for Aramis's annoyance, well
dissembled as it was, had not escaped him, and he knew that in that
impenetrable mind even the most apparently trivial thing was
designed to some end,- an unknown one, but one which from the
knowledge he had of his friend's character the musketeer felt must
be important.
  On his part, Aramis saw that d'Artagnan was not without suspicion,
and pressed him. "Stay, by all means!" he said; "this is what it
is." Then turning towards the tailor, "My dear Percerin," said he.- "I
am even very happy that you are here, d'Artagnan."
  "Oh, indeed!" exclaimed the Gascon, for the third time, even less
deceived this time than before.
  Percerin never moved. Aramis roused him violently, by snatching from
his hands the stuff upon which he was engaged. "My dear Percerin,"
said he, "I have near at hand M. Lebrun, one of M. Fouquet's
painters."
  "Ah, very good!" thought d'Artagnan; "but why Lebrun?"
  Aramis looked at d'Artagnan, who seemed to be occupied with an
engraving of Mark Antony. "And you wish to have made for him a dress
similar to those of the Epicureans?" answered Percerin; and while
saying this in an absent manner, the worthy tailor endeavored to
recapture his piece of brocade.
  "An Epicurean's dress?" asked d'Artagnan, in a tone of inquiry.
  "I see," said Aramis, with a most engaging smile; "it is written
that our dear d'Artagnan shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes,
my friend, you have surely heard speak of M. Fouquet's Epicureans,
have you not?"
  "Undoubtedly. Is it not a kind of poetical society, of which La
Fontaine, Loret, Pellisson, and Moliere are members, and which holds
its sittings at St. Mande?"
  "Exactly so. Well, we are going to put our poets in uniform, and
enroll them in the service of the King."
  "Oh, very well! I understand,- a surprise M. Fouquet is getting up
for the King. Be at ease; if that is the secret about M. Lebrun, I
will not mention it."
  "Always agreeable, my friend! No, M. Lebrun has nothing to do with
this part of it; the secret which concerns him is far more important
than the other."
  "Then, if it is so important as all that, I prefer not to know
it," said d'Artagnan, making a show of departure.
  "Come in, M. Lebrun, come in!" said Aramis, opening a side-door with
his right hand and holding back d'Artagnan with his left.
  "I' faith, I too am quite in the dark," quoth Percerin.
  Aramis took an "opportunity," as is said in theatrical matters.
"My dear M. Percerin," he continued, "you are making five dresses
for the King, are you not?- one in brocade, one in hunting-cloth,
one in velvet, one in satin, and one in Florentine stuffs?"
  "Yes; but how do you know all that, Monseigneur?" said Percerin,
astounded.
  "It is all very simple, my dear Monsieur. There will be a hunt, a
banquet, a concert, a promenade, and a reception; these five kinds
of dress are required by etiquette."
  "You know everything, Monseigneur!
  "And a great many more things too," murmured d'Artagnan.
  "But," cried the tailor, in triumph, "what you do not know,
Monseigneur, prince of the church though you are; what nobody will
know; what only the King, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and myself do
know,- is the color of the materials, the nature of the ornaments, and
the cut, the ensemble, the finish of it all!"
  "Well," said Aramis, "that is precisely what I have come to ask you,
dear Percerin."
  "Ah, bah!" exclaimed the tailor, terrified, though Aramis had
pronounced these words in his sweetest and most honeyed voice. The
request appeared, on reflection, so exaggerated, so ridiculous, so
monstrous to M. Percerin that first he laughed to himself, then aloud,
and finished with a shout. D'Artagnan followed his example, not
because he found the matter so "very funny," but in order not to allow
Aramis to cool.
  Aramis suffered them to laugh, and then, when they had become quiet,
"At first view," said he, "I appear to be hazarding an absurd
question, do I not? But d'Artagnan, who is incarnate wisdom itself,
will tell you that I could not do otherwise than ask you this."
  "Let us see," said the attentive musketeer, perceiving with his
wonderful instinct that they had only been skirmishing till now, and
that the moment of battle was approaching.
  "Let us see," said Percerin, incredulously.
  "Why, now," continued Aramis, "does M. Fouquet give the King a fete?
Is it not to please him?"
  "Assuredly," said Percerin.
  D'Artagnan nodded assent.
  "By delicate attentions, by some happy device, by a succession of
surprises, like that of which we were talking,- the enrollment of
our Epicureans?"
  "Admirable."
  "Well, then, this is the surprise we intend, my good friend. M.
Lebrun, here, is a man who draws most exactly."
  "Yes," said Percerin; "I have seen his pictures, and observed that
the dresses were highly elaborated. That is why I at once agreed to
make him a costume,- whether one to agree with those of the
Epicureans, or an original one."
  "My dear Monsieur, we accept your offer, and shall presently avail
ourselves of it; but just now M. Lebrun is not in want of the
dresses you will make for himself, but of those you are making for the
King."
  Percerin made a bound backwards, which d'Artagnan, calmest and
most appreciative of men, did not consider overdone,- so many
strange and startling aspects wore the proposal which Aramis had
just hazarded. "The King's dresses! Give the King's dresses to any
mortal whatever! Oh, for once, Monseigneur, your Grace is mad!"
cried the poor tailor, in extremity.
  "Help me now, d'Artagnan," said Aramis, more and more calm and
smiling. "Help me now to persuade Monsieur; for you understand, do you
not?"
  "Eh! eh!- not exactly, I declare."
  "What! you do not understand that M. Fouquet wishes to afford the
King the surprise of finding his portrait on his arrival at Vaux;
and that the portrait, which will be a striking resemblance, ought
to be dressed exactly as the King will be on the day it is shown?"
  "Oh, yes, yes!" said the musketeer, nearly convinced, so plausible
was this reasoning. "Yes, my dear Aramis, you are right; it is a happy
idea. I will wager it is one of your own, Aramis."
  "Well, I don't know," replied the bishop; "either mine or M.
Fouquet's." Then scanning Percerin, after noticing d'Artagnan's
hesitation, "Well, M. Percerin," he asked, "what do you say to this?"
  "I say that-"
  "That you are, doubtless, free to refuse. I know well,- and I by
no means count upon compelling you, my dear Monsieur. I will say more;
I even understand all the delicacy you feel in taking up with M.
Fouquet's idea,- you dread appearing to flatter the King. A noble
spirit, M. Percerin, a noble spirit!" The tailor stammered. "It
would indeed be a very pretty compliment to pay the young Prince,"
continued Aramis; "but as the superintendent told me, 'If Percerin
refuse, tell him that it will not at all lower him in my opinion,
and I shall always esteem him; only-"
  "Only?" repeated Percerin, rather troubled.
  "Only?" continued Aramis, "'I shall be compelled to say to the
King,'- you understand, my dear M. Percerin, that these are M.
Fouquet's words,- 'I shall be constrained to say to the King, "Sire, I
had intended to present your Majesty with your portrait; but owing
to a feeling of delicacy, exaggerated perhaps, but creditable, M.
Percerin opposed the project."'"
  "Opposed!" cried the tailor, terrified at the responsibility which
would weigh upon him; "I to oppose the desire, the will of M.
Fouquet when he is seeking to please the King! Oh, what a hateful word
you have uttered, Monseigneur! Oppose! Oh, 'tis not I who said it,
thank God! I call the captain of the Musketeers to witness it! Is it
not true, M. d'Artagnan, that I have opposed nothing?"
  D'Artagnan made a sign indicating that he wished to remain
neutral. He felt that there was an intrigue at the bottom of it,
whether comedy or tragedy; he was disgusted at not being able to
fathom it, but in the mean while wished to keep clear.
  But already Percerin, goaded by the idea that the King should be
told he had stood in the way of a pleasant surprise, had offered
Lebrun a chair, and proceeded to bring from a wardrobe four
magnificent dresses, the fifth being still in the workmen's hands; and
these masterpieces he successively fitted upon four lay figures, which
imported into France in the time of Concini had been given to Percerin
II by Marechal d'Ancre after the discomfiture of the Italian tailors
ruined in their competition. The painter set to work to draw and
then to paint the dresses. But Aramis, who was closely watching all
the phases of his toil, suddenly stopped him.
  "I think you have not quite got it, my dear Lebrun," he said;
"your colors will deceive you, and on canvas we shall lack that
exact resemblance which is absolutely requisite. Time is necessary for
observing the finer shades."
  "Quite true," said Percerin; "but time is wanting, and on that
head you will agree with me, Monseigneur, I can do nothing."
  "Then the affair will fail," said Aramis, quietly, "and that because
of a want of precision in the colors."
  Nevertheless, Lebrun went on copying the materials and ornaments
with the closest fidelity,- a process which Aramis watched with
ill-concealed impatience.
  "What in the devil, now, is the meaning of this imbroglio?" the
musketeer kept saying to himself.
  "That will certainly never do," said Aramis. "M. Lebrun, close
your box, and roll up your canvas."
  "But, Monsieur," cried the vexed painter, "the light is abominable
here."
  "An idea, M. Lebrun, an idea! If we had a sample of the materials,
for example, and with time and a better light-"
  "Oh, then," cried Lebrun, "I would answer for the effect!"
  "Good!" said d'Artagnan, "this ought to be the knot of the whole
thing; they want a sample of each of the materials. Mordioux! will
this Percerin give it now?"
  Percerin, beaten in his last retreat, and duped moreover by the
feigned good-nature of Aramis, cut out five samples and handed them to
the Bishop of Vannes.
  "I like this better. That is your opinion, is it not?" said Aramis
to d'Artagnan.
  "My dear Aramis," said d'Artagnan, "my opinion is that you are
always the same."
  "And, consequently, always your friend," said the bishop, in a
charming tone.
  "Yes, yes," said d'Artagnan, aloud; then, in a low voice, "If I am
your dupe, double Jesuit that you are, I will not be your
accomplice; and to prevent it, 'tis time I left this place. Adieu,
Aramis," he added, aloud, "adieu; I am going to rejoin Porthos."
  "Then wait for me," said Aramis, pocketing the samples; "for I
have done, and shall not be sorry to say a parting word to our
friend."
  Lebrun packed up, Percerin put back the dresses into the closet,
Aramis put his hand on his pocket to assure himself that the samples
were secure, and they all left the study.
        Chapter XXXIII: Where, Probably, Moliere Formed
         His First Idea of the "Bourgeois Gentilhomme"

  D'ARTAGNAN found Porthos in the adjoining chamber; but no longer
an irritated Porthos, or a disappointed Porthos, but Porthos
radiant, blooming, fascinating, and chatting with Moliere, who was
looking upon him with a species of idolatry, and as a man would who
had not only never seen anything better, but not even ever anything so
good. Aramis went straight up to Porthos and offered him his
delicate hand, which lost itself in the gigantic hand of his old
friend,- an operation which Aramis never hazarded without a certain
uneasiness. But the friendly pressure having been performed not too
painfully for him, the Bishop of Vannes passed over to Moliere.
  "Well, Monsieur," said he, "will you come with me to St. Mande?"
  "I will go anywhere you like, Monseigneur," answered Moliere.
  "To St. Mande!" cried Porthos, surprised at seeing the proud
Bishop of Vannes fraternizing with a journeyman tailor. "What! Aramis,
are you going to take this gentleman to St. Mande?"
  "Yes," said Aramis, smiling; "our work is pressing."
  "Besides, my dear Porthos," continued d'Artagnan, "M. Moliere is not
altogether what he seems."
  "In what way?" asked Porthos.
  "Why, this gentleman is one of M. Percerin's chief clerks, and he is
expected at St. Mande to try on the dresses which M. Fouquet has
ordered for the Epicureans."
  "'Tis precisely so," said Moliere; "yes, Monsieur."
  "Come, then, my dear M. Moliere," said Aramis; "that is, if you have
done with M. du Vallon?"
  "We have finished," replied Porthos.
  "And you are satisfied?" asked d'Artagnan.
  "Completely so," replied Porthos.
  Moliere took his leave of Porthos with much ceremony, and grasped
the hand which the captain of the Musketeers furtively offered him.
  "Pray, Monsieur," concluded Porthos, mincingly, "above all, be
exact."
  "You will have your dress after tomorrow, Monsieur the Baron,"
answered Moliere; and he left with Aramis.
  D'Artagnan, taking Porthos's arm, inquired, "What has this tailor
done for you, my dear Porthos, that you are so pleased with him?"
  "What has he done for me, my friend,- done for me!" cried Porthos,
enthusiastically.
  "Yes, I ask you, what has he done for you?"
  "My friend, he has done that which no tailor ever yet accomplished,-
he has taken my measure without touching me!"
  "Ah, bah! tell me how he did it!"
  "First, then, they went, I don't know where, for a number of lay
figures, of all heights and sizes, hoping there would be one to suit
mine; but the largest- that of the drum-major of the Swiss Guard-
was two inches too short, and half a foot too slender."
  "Indeed!"
  "It is exactly as I tell you, d'Artagnan; but he is a great man,
or at the very least a great tailor, is this M. Moliere. He was not at
all put at fault by the circumstance."
  "What did he do, then?"
  "Oh, it is a very simple matter! I' faith, 'tis an unheard of
thing that people should have been so stupid as not to have discovered
this method from the first. What annoyance and humiliation they
would have spared me!"
  "Not to speak of the dresses, my dear Porthos."
  "Yes, thirty dresses."
  "Well, my dear Porthos, tell me M. Moliere's plan."
  "Moliere? You call him so, do you? I shall make a point of
recollecting his name."
  "Yes; or Poquelin, if you prefer that."
  "No; I like Moliere best. When I wish to recollect his name, I shall
think of voliere [an aviary]; and as I have one at Pierrefonds-"
  "Capital!" returned d'Artagnan; and M. Moliere's plan?"
  "'Tis this: instead of pulling me to pieces, as all these rascals
do, making me bend in my back, and double my joints,- all of them
low and dishonorable practices-" D'Artagnan made a sign of approbation
with his head. "'Monsieur,' he said to me," continued Porthos, "'a
gentleman ought to measure himself. Do me the pleasure to draw near
this glass'; and I drew near the glass. I must own I did not exactly
understand what this good M. Voliere wanted with me-"
  "Moliere."
  "Ah, yes, Moliere, Moliere. And as the fear of being measured
still possessed me, 'Take care,' said I to him, 'what you are going to
do with me; I am very ticklish, I warn you!' But he, with his soft
voice (for he is a courteous fellow, we must admit, my friend),- he,
with his soft voice, said: 'Monsieur, that your dress may fit you
well, it must be made according to your figure. Your figure is exactly
reflected in this mirror. We shall measure this reflection.'"
  "In fact," said d'Artagnan, "you saw yourself in the glass; but
where did they find one in which you could see your whole figure?"
  "My good friend, it is the very glass in which the King sees
himself."
  "Yes; but the King is a foot and a half shorter than you are."
  "Ah! well, I know not how that may be,- it would no doubt be a way
of flattering the King,- but the looking-glass was too large for me.
'Tis true that its height was made up of three Venetian plates of
glass, placed one above another, and its breadth of the three
similar pieces in juxtaposition."
  "Oh, Porthos, what excellent words you have at your command! Where
in the world did you make the collection?"
  "At Belle-Isle. Aramis explained them to the architect."
  "Ah, very good! Let us return to the glass, my friend."
  "Then this good M. Voliere-"
  "Moliere."
  "Yes: Moliere,- you are right. You will see now, my dear friend,
that I shall recollect his name too well. This excellent M. Moliere
set to work tracing out lines on the mirror with a piece of Spanish
chalk, following throughout the shape of my arms and my shoulders, all
the while expounding this maxim, which I thought admirable,- 'It is
necessary that a dress should not incommode its wearer.'"
  "In reality," said d'Artagnan, "that is an excellent maxim, which
is, unfortunately, seldom carried out in practice."
  "That is why I found it all the more astonishing when he
expatiated upon it."
  "Ah! he expatiated?"
  "Parbleu!"
  "Let me hear his theory.
  "'Seeing that,' he continued, 'one may in awkward circumstances or
in a troublesome position have one's doublet on one's shoulder, and
not desire to take it off-'"
  "True," said d'Artagnan.
  "'And so,' continued M. Voliere-"
  "Moliere."
  "Moliere; yes. 'And so,' went on M. Moliere, 'you want to draw
your sword, Monsieur, and you have your doublet on your back. What
do you do?' 'I take it off,' I answered. 'Well, no,' he replied.
'How "no"?' 'I say that the dress should be so well made that it can
in no way encumber you, even in drawing your sword.' 'Ah, ah!' 'Put
yourself on guard!' pursued he. I did it with such wondrous firmness
that two panes of glass burst out of the window. ''Tis nothing,
nothing,' said he; 'keep your position.' I raised my left arm in the
air, the forearm gracefully bent, the ruffle drooping, and my wrist
curved, while my right arm, half extended, securely covered my waist
with the elbow, and my breast with the wrist."
  "Yes," said d'Artagnan, "'tis the true guard,- the academic guard."
  "You have said the very word, dear friend. In the mean while
Voliere-"
  "Moliere."
  "Hold! I should certainly, after all, prefer to call him- What did
you say his other name was?"
  "Poquelin."
  "I prefer to call him Poquelin."
  "And how will you remember this name better than the other?"
  "You understand- He calls himself Poquelin, does he not?"
  "Yes."
  "I shall recall to mind Madame Coquenard."
  "Good!"
  "I shall change Coq into Poq, nard into lin, and instead of
Coquenard I shall have Poquelin."
  "'Tis wonderful!" cried d'Artagnan, astounded. "Go on, my friend!
I am listening to you with admiration."
  "This Coquelin sketched my arm on the glass-"
  "I beg your pardon,- Poquelin."
  "What did I say, then?"
  "You said 'Coquelin.'"
  "Ah, true! This Poquelin, then, sketched my arm on the glass; but he
took his time over it,- he kept looking at me a good deal. The fact
is, that I was very handsome. 'Does it weary you?' he asked. 'A
little,' I replied, bending a little in my hands; 'but I could yet
hold out an hour.' 'No, no; I will not allow it. We have here some
willing fellows who will make it a duty to support your arms, as, of
old, men supported those of the prophet. 'Very good,' I answered.
'That will not be humiliating to you?' 'My friend,' said I, 'there is,
I think, a great difference between being supported and being
measured.'"
  "The distinction is full of sense," interrupted the captain.
  "Then," continued Porthos, "he made a sign. Two lads approached: one
supported my left arm; while the other, with infinite address,
supported my right arm. 'Another man!' cried he. A third approached.
'Support Monsieur by the waist,' said he. The garcon complied."
  "So that you were at rest?" asked d'Artagnan.
  "Perfectly; and Poquenard drew me on the glass."
  "Poquelin, my friend."
  "Poquelin,- you are right. Stay! decidedly I prefer calling him
Voliere."
  "Yes; and then it was over, wasn't it?"
  "During that time Voliere drew me on the mirror."
  "'Twas delicate in him."
  "I much like the plan: it is respectful, and keeps every one in
his place."
  "And there it ended?"
  "Without a soul having touched me, my friend."
  "Except the three garcons who supported you."
  "Doubtless; but I have, I think, already explained to you the
difference there is between supporting and measuring."
  "'Tis true," answered d'Artagnan, who said afterwards to himself,
"I' faith, I greatly deceive myself, or I have been the means of a
good windfall to that rascal Moliere, and we shall assuredly see the
scene hit off to the life in some comedy or other."
  Porthos smiled.
  "What are you laughing at?" asked d'Artagnan.
  "Must I confess it? Well, I was laughing over my good fortune."
  "Oh, that is true; I don't know a happier man than you. But what
is this last piece of luck that has befallen you?"
  "Well, my dear fellow, congratulate me."
  "I desire nothing better."
  "It seems I am the first who has had his measure taken in that
manner."
  "Are you sure of it?"
  "Nearly so. Certain signs of intelligence that passed between
Voliere and the other garcons showed me the fact."
  "Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Moliere," said
d'Artagnan.
  "Voliere, my friend."
  "Oh, no, no, indeed! I am very willing to leave you to say
Voliere; but I myself shall continue to say Moliere. Well, this, I was
saying, does not surprise me, coming from Moliere, who is a very
ingenious fellow, and whom you inspired with this grand idea."
  "It will be of great use to him by and by, I am sure."
  "Won't it be of use to him, indeed! I believe you, it will, and
not a little so; for you see my friend Moliere is of all known tailors
the man who best clothes our barons, counts, and marquises-
according to their measure."
  On this observation, neither the application nor the depth of
which shall we discuss, d'Artagnan and Porthos quitted M. Percerin's
house and rejoined their carriage, wherein we will leave them in order
to look after Moliere and Aramis at St. Mande.
      Chapter XXXIV: The Beehive, the Bees, and the Honey

  THE Bishop of Vannes, much annoyed at having met d'Artagnan at M.
Percerin's, returned to St. Mande in no very good humor. Moliere, on
the other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital rough
sketch, and at knowing where to find its original again whenever he
should desire to convert his sketch into a picture, arrived in the
merriest of moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupied
by the most celebrated Epicureans in Paris, and those on the freest
footing in the house,- every one in his compartment, like the bees
in their cells, employed in producing the honey intended for that
royal cake which M. Fouquet proposed to offer his Majesty Louis XIV
during the fete at Vaux. Pellisson, his head leaning on his hand,
was engaged in drawing out the plan of the prologue to "Les
Facheux," a comedy in three acts, which was to be put on the stage
by Poquelin de Moliere, as d'Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de
Voliere, as Porthos styled him. Loret, with all the charming innocence
of a journalist,- the journalists of all ages have always been so
artless!- Loret was composing an account of the fetes of Vaux,
before those fetes had taken place. La Fontaine sauntered about
among them,- a wandering, absent-minded, boring, unbearable shade,
buzzing and humming at everybody's shoulder a thousand poetic
inanities. He so often disturbed Pellisson, that the latter, raising
his head, crossly said, "At least, La Fontaine, supply me with a
rhyme, since you say you have the run of the gardens at Parnassus."
  "What rhyme do you want?" asked the Fabler, as Madame de Sevigne
used to call him.
  "I want a rhyme to lumiere."
  "Orniere," answered La Fontaine.
  "Ah, but my good friend, one cannot talk of wheel-ruts when
celebrating the delights of Vaux," said Loret.
  "Besides, it doesn't rhyme," answered Pellisson.
  "How! doesn't rhyme?" cried La Fontaine, in surprise.
  "Yes; you have an abominable habit, my friend,- a habit which will
ever prevent your becoming a poet of the first order. You rhyme in a
slovenly manner."
  "Oh! oh! you think so, do you, Pellisson?"
  "Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as
one can find a better."
  "Then I will never write anything again but in prose," said La
Fontaine, who had taken up Pellisson's reproach in earnest. "Ah, I
often suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet! Yes, 'tis the
very truth."
  "Do not say so; your remark is too sweeping, and there is much
that is good in your 'Fables.'"
  "And to begin," continued La Fontaine, following up his idea, "I
will go and burn a hundred verses I have just made."
  "Where are your verses?"
  "In my head."
  "Well, if they are in your head you cannot burn them."
  "True," said La Fontaine; "but if I do not burn them-"
  "Well, what will happen if you do not burn them?"
  "They will remain in my mind, and I shall never forget them."
  "The devil!" cried Loret; "what a dangerous thing! One would go
mad with it!"
  "The devil, devil, devil!" repeated La Fontaine; "what can I do?"
  "I have discovered the way," said Moliere, who had entered during
the last words of the conversation.
  "What way?"
  "Write them first and burn them afterwards."
  "How simple it is! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a
mind that devil Moliere has!" said La Fontaine. Then, striking his
forehead, "Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean de la
Fontaine!" he added.
  "What are you saying there, my friend?" broke in Moliere,
approaching the poet, whose aside he had heard.
  "I say I shall never be aught but an ass," answered La Fontaine,
with a heavy sigh and swimming eyes. "Yes, my friend," he added,
with increasing grief, "it seems that I rhyme in a slovenly manner."
  "That is wrong."
  "You see! I am a puppy!"
  "Who said so?"
  "Parbleu! 'twas Pellisson; did you not, Pellisson?"
  Pellisson, again lost in his work, took good care not to answer.
  "But if Pellisson said you were a puppy," cried Moliere,
"Pellisson has gravely insulted you."
  "Do you think so?"
  "Ah! I advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult
like that unpunished."
  "Oh!" exclaimed La Fontaine.
  "Did you ever fight?"
  "Once only, with a lieutenant in the light horse."
  "What wrong had he done you?"
  "It seems he was my wife's lover."
  "Ah! ah!" said Moliere, becoming slightly pale; but as at La
Fontaine's declaration the others had turned round, Moliere kept
upon his lips the rallying smile which had so nearly died away, and
continued to make La Fontaine speak,- "and what was the result of
the duel?"
  "The result was, that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and
then made an apology, promising never again to set foot in my house."
  "And you considered yourself satisfied?" said Moliere.
  "Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword. 'I beg your
pardon, Monsieur,' I said; 'I have not fought you because you were
my wife's lover, but because I was told I ought to fight. Now, since I
have never known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me
the pleasure to continue your visits as heretofore, or, morbleu! let
us set to again.' And so," continued La Fontaine, "he was compelled to
resume his relations with Madame, and I continue to be the happiest of
husbands."
  All burst out laughing. Moliere alone passed his hand across his
eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh.
Alas! we know that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a
philosopher. "It is all the same," he said, returning to the topic
of the conversation, "Pellisson has insulted you."
  "Ah, truly! I had already forgotten."
  "And I am going to challenge him on your behalf."
  "Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable."
  "I do think it indispensable, and I am going-"
  "Stay!" exclaimed La Fontaine; "I want your advice."
  "Upon what?- this insult?"
  "No; tell me really now whether lumiere does not rhyme with
orniere."
  "I should make them rhyme."
  "Ah! I knew you would."
  "And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time."
  "A hundred thousand!" cried La Fontaine; "four times as many as in
'La Pucelle,' which M. Chapelain is meditating. Is it also on this
subject that you have composed a hundred thousand verses?"
  "Listen to me, you eternally absent-minded creature!" said Moliere.
  "It is certain," continued La Fontaine, "that legume, for
instance, rhymes with posthume."
  "In the plural, especially."
  "Yes, especially in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not
with three letters, but with four; as orniere does with lumiere. Put
ornieres and lumieres in the plural, my dear Pellisson," said La
Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose
insult he had quite forgotten, "and they will rhyme."
  "Hem!" cried Pellisson.
  "Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of it; he declares he has
himself made a hundred thousand verses."
  "Come," said Moliere, laughing, "he is off now."
  "It is like rivage, which rhymes admirably with herbage; I would
take my oath of it."
  "But-" said Moliere.
  "I tell you all this," continued La Fontaine, "because you are
preparing an entertainment for Vaux, are you not?"
  "Yes,- 'Les Facheux.'"
  "Ah, yes,- 'Les Facheux'; yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a
prologue would admirably suit your entertainment."
  "Doubtless it would suit capitally."
  "Ah! you are of my opinion?"
  "So much so, that I asked you to write this prologue."
  "You asked me to write it?"
  "Yes, you; and on your refusal begged you to ask Pellisson, who is
engaged upon it at this moment."
  "Ah! that is what Pellisson is doing, then? I' faith, my dear
Moliere, you speak with very good sense sometimes."
  "When?"
  "When you call me absent-minded. It is a wretched defect. I will
cure myself of it, and I am going to write your prologue for you."
  "But seeing that Pellisson is about it-"
  "Ah, true! Double rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in saying
I was a puppy."
  "It was not Loret who said so, my friend."
  "Well, then, whoever said so, 'tis the same to me! And so your
entertainment is called 'Les Facheux'? Well, can you not make
heureux rhyme with facheux?"
  "If obliged, yes."
  "And even with capricieux."
  "Oh, no, no!"
  "It would be hazardous, and yet why so?"
  "There is too great a difference in the cadences."
  "I was fancying," said La Fontaine, leaving Moliere for Loret,- "I
was fancying-"
  "What were you fancying?" said Loret, in the middle of a sentence.
"Make haste!"
  "You are writing the prologue to 'Les Facheux,' are you not?"
  "No, mordieu! it is Pellisson."
  "Ah, Pellisson!" cried La Fontaine, going over to him. "I was
fancying," he continued, "that the nymph of Vaux-"
  "Ah, beautiful!" cried Loret. "The nymph of Vaux! Thank you, La
Fontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my
paper,-

             Et l'on vit la nymphe de Vaux
             Donner le prix a leurs travaux."

  "Good! That is something like a rhyme," said Pellisson. "If you
could rhyme like that, La Fontaine-"
  "But it seems I do rhyme like that, since Loret says it is I who
gave him the two lines he has just read."
  "Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine," said Pellisson, "tell
me now in what way you would begin my prologue?"
  "I should say for instance, O nymphe- qui- After qui I should
place a verb in the second person plural of the present indicative,
and should go on thus: cette grotte profonde."
  "But the verb, the verb?" asked Pellisson.
  "Pour venir admirer le plus grand roi du monde," continued La
Fontaine.
  "But the verb, the verb?" obstinately insisted Pellisson. "This
second person plural of the present indicative?"
  "Well, then; quittez,-

           O nymphe qui quittez cette grotte profonde
           Pour venir admirer le plus grand roi du monde."

  "You would put qui quittez, would you?"
  "Why not?"
  "Qui- qui!"
  "Ah, my dear fellow," exclaimed La Fontaine, "you are a shocking
pedant!"
  "Without counting," said Moliere, "that in the second verse venir
admirer is very weak, my dear La Fontaine."
  "Then you see clearly that I am nothing but a poor creature,- a
puppy, as you said."
  "I never said so."
  "Then, as Loret said."
  "And it was not Loret, either; it was Pellisson."
  "Well, Pellisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys
me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is that I fear we shall not
have our Epicurean dresses."
  "You expected yours, then, for the fete?"
  "Yes, for the fete, and then for after the fete. My housekeeper told
me that my own is rather faded."
  "The devil! your housekeeper is right,- rather more than faded!"
  "Ah, you see," resumed La Fontaine; "the fact is, I left it on the
floor in my room, and my cat-"
  "Well, your cat-"
  "She kittened upon it, which has rather altered its color."
  Moliere burst out laughing; Pellisson and Loret followed his
example.
  At this juncture the Bishop of Vannes appeared, with a roll of plans
and parchments under his arm. As if the angel of death had chilled all
gay and sprightly fancies, as if that wail form had scared away the
Graces to whom Xenocrates sacrificed, silence immediately reigned
through the study, and every one resumed his self-possession and his
pen.
  Aramis distributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in
the name of M. Fouquet. "The superintendent," he said, "being kept
to his room by business, could not come to see them, but begged them
to send him some of the fruits of their day's work, to enable him to
forget the fatigue of his labor in the night."
  At these words, all settled to work. La Fontaine placed himself at a
table, and set his rapid pen running over the vellum; Pellisson made a
fair copy of his prologue; Moliere gave fifty fresh verses, with which
his visit to Percerin had inspired him; Loret, his article on the
marvellous fetes he predicted; and Aramis, laden with booty like the
king of the bees,- that great black drone, decked with purple and
gold,- re-entered his apartment, silent and busy. But before
departing, "Remember, gentlemen," said he, "we all leave tomorrow
evening."
  "In that case I must give notice at home," said Moliere.
  "Yes; poor Moliere!" said Loret, smiling,- "he loves his home."
  "'He loves,' yes," replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile.
"'He loves,'- that does not mean, they love him."
  "As for me," said La Fontaine, "they love me at Chateau Thierry, I
am very sure."
  Aramis here re-entered, after a brief disappearance. "Will any one
go with me?" he asked. "I am going by way of Paris, after having
passed a quarter of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage."
  "Good!" said Moliere. "I accept it; I am in a hurry."
  "I shall dine here," said Loret. "M. de Gourville has promised me
some crawfish,-

             Il m'a promis des ecrevisses-

Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine."
  Aramis went out laughing, as only he could laugh, and Moliere
followed him. They were at the bottom of the stairs, when La
Fontaine opened the door and shouted out,-

            "Moyennant que tu l'ecrevisses,
             Il t'a promis des ecrevisses."

  The shouts of laughter reached the ears of Fouquet at the moment
Aramis opened the door of the study. As to Moliere, he had
undertaken to order the horses, while Aramis went to exchange a
parting word with the superintendent. "Oh, how they are laughing
there!" said Fouquet, with a sigh.
  "And do you not laugh, Monseigneur?"
  "I laugh no longer now, M. d'Herblay. The fete is approaching; money
is departing."
  "Have I not told you that was my business?"
  "Yes; you promised me millions."
  "You shall have them the day after the King's entree into Vaux."
  Fouquet looked closely at Aramis, and passed his icy hand across his
moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the superintendent either
doubted him, or felt that he was powerless to obtain the money. How
could Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop, ex-abbe, ex-musketeer, could
procure it?
  "Why doubt me?" said Aramis.
  Fouquet smiled and shook his head.
  "Man of little faith!" added the bishop.
  "My dear M. d'Herblay," answered Fouquet, "if I fall-"
  "Well, if you 'fall'-"
  "I shall at least fall from such a height that I shall shatter
myself in falling." Then giving himself a shake, as though to escape
from himself, "Whence come you," said he, "my friend?"
  "From Paris,- from Percerin."
  "And what have you been doing at Percerin's,- for I suppose you
attach no great importance to our poets' dresses?"
  "No; I went to prepare a surprise."
  "Surprise?"
  "Yes; which you are to give to the King."
  "And will it cost much?"
  "Oh, a hundred pistoles you will give Lebrun!"
  "A painting? Ah, all the better! And what is this painting to
represent?"
  "I will tell you. Then at the same time, whatever you may say of it,
I went to see the dresses for our poets."
  "Bah! and they will be rich and elegant?"
  "Splendid! There will be few great monseigneurs with dresses so
good. People will see the difference between the courtiers of wealth
and those of friendship."
  "Ever generous and graceful, dear prelate!"
  "In your school."
  Fouquet grasped his hand. "And where are you going?" he said.
  "I am off to Paris, when you shall have given me a certain letter."
  "For whom?"
  "M. de Lyonne."
  "And what do you want with Lyonne?"
  "I wish to make him sign a lettre de cachet."
  "Lettre de cachet! Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastille?"
  "On the contrary,- to let somebody out."
  "And who?"
  "A poor devil,- a youth, a lad who has been imprisoned these ten
years, for two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits."
  "'Two Latin verses!' and for 'two Latin verses' the miserable
being has been in prison for ten years?"
  "Yes."
  "And has committed no other crime?"
  "Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I."
  "On your word?"
  "On my honor!"
  "And his name is-"
  "Seldon."
  "Oh, that is too cruel! You knew this, and you never told me!"
  "'Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, Monseigneur."
  "And the woman is poor?"
  "In the deepest misery."
  "Oh, God!" said Fouquet, "thou dost sometimes bear with such
injustice on earth that I understand why there are wretches who
doubt thy existence! Stay, M. d'Herblay!" and Fouquet, taking his pen,
wrote a few rapid lines to his colleague Lyonne.
  Aramis took the letter, and made ready to go.
  "Wait!" said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten
government notes which were there, each for a thousand livres. "Stay!"
he said. "Set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but,
above all, tell her not-"
  "What, Monseigneur?"
  "That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am
but a poor superintendent! Go; and I hope that God will bless those
who are mindful of his poor!"
  "So also do I hope," replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet's hand. And
he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the
notes for Seldon's mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to
lose patience.
          Chapter XXXV: Another Supper at the Bastille

  SEVEN o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastille,- that
famous clock which, like all the accessories of the State prison,
the very use of which is a torture, brought to the prisoners' notice
the lapse of every hour of their suffering. The timepiece of the
Bastille, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period,
represented Saint Peter in bonds.
  It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives. The doors,
grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of the
baskets and trays of provisions, the delicacy of which, as M. de
Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in
life of the prisoner. We understand on this head the theories of M. de
Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head cook
of the royal fortress, whose trays, full laden, were ascending the
steep staircases, carrying some consolation to the prisoners in the
bottom of honestly filled bottles. This same hour was that of the
governor's supper also. He had a guest to-day, and the spit turned
more heavily than usual. Roast partridges flanked with quails, and
flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls; ham, fried and sprinkled with
white wine; cardons of Guipuzcoa and la bisque d'ecrevisses,- these,
together with the soups and hors d'oeuvres, constituted the governor's
bill of fare.
  Baisemeaux, seated at table, was rubbing his hands and looking at
the Bishop of Vannes, who, booted like a cavalier, dressed in gray,
with a sword at his side' kept talking of his hunger and testifying
the liveliest impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun was not
accustomed to the unbending movements of his Greatness my Lord of
Vannes; and this evening Aramis, becoming quite sprightly, volunteered
confidence on confidence. The prelate had again a little touch of
the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched on the borders
only of license in his style of conversation. As for M. de Baisemeaux,
with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself loose rein, on
this touch of abandon on the part of his guest. "Monsieur," said
he,- "for indeed to-night I don't like to call you Monseigneur-"
  "By no means," said Aramis; "call me Monsieur,- I am booted."
  "Do you know, Monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening?"
  "No! faith," said Aramis, taking up his glass; "but I hope I
remind you of a good companion."
  "You remind me of two, Monsieur. Francois, shut the window; the wind
may annoy his Greatness."
  "And let him go," added Aramis. "The supper is completely served,
and we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like extremely to
be tete-a-tete when I am with a friend." Baisemeaux bowed
respectfully. "I like extremely," continued Aramis, "to help myself."
  "Retire, Francois!" cried Baisemeaux. "I was saying that your
Greatness puts me in mind of two persons,- one very illustrious, the
late cardinal, the great cardinal of La Rochelle, who wore boots
like you."
  "Indeed," said Aramis; "and the other?"
  "The other was a certain musketeer, very handsome, very brave,
very adventurous, very fortunate, who from being abbe turned
musketeer, and from musketeer turned abbe." Aramis condescended to
smile. "From abbe," continued Baisemeaux, encouraged by Aramis's
smile,- "from abbe, bishop, and from bishop-"
  "Ah, stay there, I beg!" exclaimed Aramis.
  "I say, Monsieur, that you give me the idea of a cardinal."
  "Enough, dear M. Baisemeaux! As you said, I have on the boots of a
cavalier; but I do not intend, for all that, to embroil myself with
the church this evening."
  "You have wicked intentions, however, Monseigneur."
  "Oh, yes; wicked I own, as everything mundane is."
  "You traverse the town and the streets in disguise?"
  "In disguise, as you say."
  "And do you still use your sword?"
  "Yes, I should think so; but only when I am compelled. Do me the
pleasure to summon Francois."
  "Have you no wine there?"
  "'Tis not for wine, but because it is hot here and the window is
shut."
  "I shut the windows at supper-time so as not to hear the sounds or
the arrival of couriers."
  "Ah, yes! You hear them when the window is open?"
  "But too well, and that disturbs me. You understand!"
  "Nevertheless, I am suffocated. Francois!" Francois entered. "Open
the windows, I pray you, Francois! You will allow him, dear M.
Baisemeaux?"
  "You are at home here," answered the governor. The window was
opened.
  "Do you not think," said M. de Baisemeaux, "that you will find
yourself very lonely, now that M. de la Fere has returned to his
household gods at Blois? He is a very old friend, is he not?"
  "You know it as I do, Baisemeaux, seeing that you were in the
musketeers with us."
  "Bah! with my friends I reckon neither bottles nor years."
  "And you are right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear
Baisemeaux; I venerate him."
  "Well, for my part, though 'tis singular," said the governor, "I
prefer M. d'Artagnan to the count. There is a man for you, who
drinks long and well! That kind of people allow you at least to
penetrate their thoughts."
  "Baisemeaux, make me tipsy tonight! Let us have a debauch as of old;
and if I have a trouble at the bottom of my heart, I promise you,
you shall see it as you would a diamond at the bottom of your glass."
  "Bravo!" said Baisemeaux; and he poured out a great glass of wine
and drank it off at a draught, trembling with joy at the idea of
being, by hook or by crook, in the secret of some high
archiepiscopal misdemeanor. While he was drinking he did not see
with what attention Aramis was noting the sounds in the great court. A
courier arrived about eight o'clock, as Francois brought in the
fifth bottle; and although the courier made a great noise,
Baisemeaux heard nothing.
  "The devil take him!" said Aramis.
  "What? who?" asked Baisemeaux. "I hope 'tis neither the wine you
drink nor he who causes you to drink it."
  "No; it is a horse, who is making noise enough in the court for a
whole squadron."
  "Pooh! some courier or other," replied the governor, redoubling
his numerous bumpers. "Yes, the devil take him, and so quickly that we
shall never hear him speak more! Hurrah! hurrah!"
  "You forget me, Baisemeaux! my glass is empty," said Aramis, showing
his dazzling goblet.
  "Upon honor, you delight me. Francois, wine!" Francois entered.
"Wine, fellow! and better."
  "Yes, Monsieur, yes; but a courier has just arrived."
  "Let him go to the devil, I say."
  "Yes, Monsieur, but-"
  "Let him leave his news at the office; we will see to it
to-morrow. To-morrow,- there will be time to-morrow; there will be
daylight," said Baisemeaux, chanting the words.
  "Ah, Monsieur," grumbled the soldier Francois, in spite of himself,-
"Monsieur!"
  "Take care," said Aramis, "take care!"
  "Of what, dear M. d'Herblay?" said Baisemeaux, half intoxicated.
  "The letter which the courier brings to the governor of a fortress
is sometimes an order."
  "Nearly always."
  "Do not orders issue from the ministers?"
  "Yes, undoubtedly; but-"
  "And what do these ministers do but countersign the signature of the
King?"
  "Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, 'tis very tiresome when you
are sitting before a good table, tete-a-tete with a friend- Ah! I
beg your pardon, Monsieur; I forgot that it is I who invite you to
supper, and that I speak to a future cardinal."
  "Let us pass over that, dear Baisemeaux, and return to our soldier,-
to Francois."
  "Well, and what has Francois done?"
  "He has demurred!"
  "He was wrong, then."
  "However, he has demurred, you see; 'tis because there is
something extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it
was not Francois who was wrong in demurring, but you, who will be
wrong in not listening to him."
  "Wrong! I to be wrong before Francois!- that seems rather hard."
  "Pardon me, merely an irregularity. But I thought it my duty to make
an observation which I deem important."
  "Oh, perhaps you are right!" stammered Baisemeaux. "The King's order
is sacred; but as to orders that arrive when one is at supper, I
repeat, may the devil-"
  "If you had said as much to the great cardinal, eh! my dear
Baisemeaux, and if his order had been important-"
  "I do it that I may not disturb a bishop. Morbleu! Am I not, then,
excusable?"
  "Do not forget, Baisemeaux, that I have worn the uniform, and am
accustomed to see everywhere obedience."
  "You wish, then-"
  "I wish that you should do your duty, my friend; yes, at least
before this soldier."
  "'Tis mathematically true," exclaimed Baisemeaux. Francois still
waited. "Let them send this order of the King up to me," he said,
recovering himself. And he added in a low tone: "Do you know what it
is? I will tell you; it is something about as interesting as this:
'Beware of fire near the powder-magazine,' or 'Look close after such a
one, who is clever at escaping.' Ah! if you only knew, Monseigneur,
how many times I have been suddenly awakened from the very sweetest
and deepest slumber by messengers arriving at full gallop to tell
me, or rather bring me a slip of paper containing these words: 'M.
de Baisemeaux, what news?' 'Tis clear enough that those who waste
their time writing such orders have never slept in the Bastille.
They would know better the thickness of my walls, the vigilance of
my officers, the number of my rounds. But, indeed, what can you
expect, Monseigneur? It is their business to write and torment me when
I am at rest, and to trouble me when I am happy," added Baisemeaux,
bowing to Aramis. "Then let us leave them to their business."
  "And do you do yours," added the bishop, smiling, but with command
in his expression notwithstanding.
  Francois re-entered. Baisemeaux took from his hands the minister's
order. He slowly undid it, and as slowly read it. Aramis pretended
to be drinking, so as to be able to watch his host through the
glass. Then, having read it, "What was I just saying?" Baisemeaux
exclaimed.
  "What is it?" asked the bishop.
  "An order of release! There, now; excellent news, indeed, to disturb
us!"
  "Excellent news for him whom it concerns, you will at least agree,
my dear governor!"
  "And at eight o'clock in the evening!"
  "It is charitable!"
  "Oh! charity is all very well; but it is for that fellow who is
low-spirited, and not for me who am amusing myself," said
Baisemeaux, exasperated.
  "Will you lose by him, then? And is the prisoner who is to be set at
liberty a high payer?"
  "Oh yes, indeed! a miserable, five-livre rat!"
  "Let me see it," asked M. d'Herblay. "It is no indiscretion?"
  "By no means; read it."
  "There is 'Urgent' on the paper; you noticed that, I suppose?"
  "Oh, admirable! 'Urgent!'- a man who has been there ten years! It is
urgent to set him free to-day, this very evening, at eight o'clock!-
urgent!" and Baisemeaux, shrugging his shoulders with an air of
supreme disdain, flung the order on the table and began eating
again. "They are fond of these dodges," he said, with his mouth
full; "they seize a man, some fine day, maintain him for ten years,
and write to you, 'Watch this fellow well,' or 'Keep him very
strictly.' And then, as soon as you are accustomed to look upon the
prisoner as a dangerous man, all of a sudden, without cause or
precedent, they write, 'Set him at liberty'; and add to their missive,
'Urgent.' You will own, my Lord, 'tis enough to make one shrug his
shoulders!"
  "What do you expect? It is they who write," said Aramis, "and it
is for you to execute the order."
  "Good! good! execute it! Oh, patience! You must not imagine that I
am a slave."
  "Gracious Heaven! my very good M. Baisemeaux, who ever said so? Your
independence is known."
  "Thank Heaven!"
  "But your good heart also is known."
  "Ah, don't speak of it!"
  "And your obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you see,
Baisemeaux, always a soldier."
  "And so I shall strictly obey; and to-morrow morning, at daybreak,
the prisoner referred to shall be set free."
  "To-morrow?"
  "At dawn."
  "Why not this evening, seeing that the lettre de cachet bears,
both on the direction and inside, 'Urgent'?"
  "Because this evening we are at supper, and our affairs are urgent
too!"
  "Dear Baisemeaux, booted though I be, I feel myself a priest; and
charity has higher claims upon me than hunger and thirst. This
unfortunate man has suffered long enough, since you have just told
me that lie has been your prisoner these ten years. Abridge his
suffering. His good time has come; give him the benefit quickly. God
will repay you in Paradise with years of felicity."
  "You wish it?"
  "I entreat you."
  "What? in the middle of our repast?"
  "I implore you; such an action is worth ten Benedicites."
  "It shall be as you desire; only, our supper will get cold."
  "Oh, never heed that!"
  Baisemeaux leaned back to ring for Francois, and by a very natural
motion turned round towards the door. The order had remained on the
table. Aramis seized the opportunity when Baisemeaux was not looking
to change the paper for another, folded in the same manner, which he
took from his pocket. "Francois," said the governor, "let the major
come up here with the turnkeys of the Bertaudiere." Francois bowed and
quitted the room, leaving the two companions alone.
           Chapter XXXVI: The General of the Order

  THERE was now a brief silence, during which Aramis never removed his
eyes from Baisemeaux for a moment. The latter seemed only half decided
to disturb himself thus in the middle of supper; and it was clear that
he was seeking some pretext, whether good or bad, for delay, at any
rate till after dessert. And it appeared also that he had hit upon a
pretext at last.
  "Eh! but it is impossible," he cried.
  "How impossible?" said Aramis. "Give me a glimpse of this
impossibility."
  "'Tis impossible to set a prisoner at liberty at such an hour. Where
can he go to,- he, who is unacquainted with Paris?"
  "He will go wherever he can."
  "You see, now, one might as well set a blind man free!"
  "I have a carriage, and will take him wherever he wishes."
  "You have an answer for everything. Francois, tell Monsieur the
Major to go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3 Bertaudiere."
  "Seldon!" exclaimed Aramis, very naturally. "You said Seldon, I
think?"
  "I said Seldon, of course. 'Tis the name of the man to be set free."
  "Oh! you mean to say Marchiali?" said Aramis.
  "Marchiali? oh, yes, indeed! No, no! Seldon."
  "I think you are making a mistake, M. Baisemeaux."
  "I have read the order."
  "And I also."
  "And I saw 'Seldon' in letters as large as that"; and Baisemeaux
held up his finger.
  "And I read 'Marchiali,' in characters as large as this," said
Aramis, holding up two fingers.
  "To the proof; let us throw a light on the matter," said Baisemeaux,
confident he was right. "There is the paper; you have only to read
it."
  "I read 'Marchiali,'" returned Aramis, spreading out the paper.
"Look!"
  Baisemeaux looked, and his arms dropped suddenly. "Yes, yes," he
said, quite overwhelmed; "yes, Marchiali. 'Tis plainly written
'Marchiali,' quite true!"
  "Ah!"
  "How? The man of whom we have talked so much? The man whom they
are every day telling me to take such care of?"
  "There is 'Marchiali,'" repeated the inflexible Bishop of Vannes.
  "I must own it, Monseigneur. But I absolutely don't understand it."
  "You believe your eyes, at any rate."
  "To tell me very plainly there is 'Marchiali.'"
  "And in a good handwriting too."
  "'Tis a wonder! I still see this order and the name of Seldon,
Irishman. I see it. Ah! I even recollect that under this name there
was a blot of ink."
  "No, there is no ink; no, there is no blot."
  "Oh, but there was, though! I know it, because I rubbed the powder
that was over the blot."
  "In a word, be it how it may, dear M. Baisemeaux," said Aramis, "and
whatever you may have seen, the order is signed to release
Marchiali, blot or no blot."
  "The order is signed to release Marchiali!" repeated Baisemeaux,
mechanically endeavoring to regain his courage.
  "And you are going to release this prisoner. If your heart
dictates to you to deliver Seldon also, I declare to you I will not
oppose it the least in the world."
  Aramis accompanied this remark with a smile, the irony of which
effectually dispelled Baisemeaux's confusion of mind and restored
his courage.
  "Monseigneur," said the governor, "this Marchiali is the very same
prisoner whom the other day a priest, confessor of our order, came
to visit in so imperious and so secret a manner."
  "I don't know that, Monsieur," replied the bishop.
  "'Tis no very long time ago, dear M. d'Herblay."
  "It is true. But with us, Monsieur, it is good that the man of
to-day should no longer know what the man of yesterday did."
  "In any case," said Baisemeaux, "the visit of the Jesuit confessor
must have given happiness to this man."
  Aramis made no reply, but recommenced eating and drinking. As for
Baisemeaux, no longer touching anything that was on the table, he
again took up the order and examined it in every way. This
investigation, under ordinary circumstances, would have made the
ears of the impatient Aramis burn with anger; but the Bishop of Vannes
did not become incensed for so little, especially when he had murmured
to himself that to do so was dangerous. "Are you going to release
Marchiali?" he said. "What mellow and fragrant sherry this is, my dear
governor!"
  "Monseigneur," replied Baisemeaux, "I shall release the prisoner
Marchiali when I have summoned the courier who brought the order,
and above all, when by interrogating him I have satisfied myself."
  "The order is sealed, and the courier is ignorant of the contents.
What do you want to satisfy yourself about?"
  "Be it so, Monseigneur; but I shall send to the ministry, and M.
de Lyonne will either confirm or withdraw the order."
  "What is the good of all that?" asked Aramis, coldly.
  "What good?"
  "Yes; what is your object, I ask?"
  "The object of never deceiving one's self, Monseigneur, of not
failing in the respect which a subaltern owes to his superior
officers, nor neglecting the duties of that service which one has
voluntarily accepted."
  "Very good; you have just spoken so eloquently that I cannot but
admire you. It is true that a subaltern owes respect to his superiors;
he is guilty when he deceives himself, and he should be punished if he
disregard either the duties or laws of his office."
  Baisemeaux looked at the bishop with astonishment.
  "It follows," pursued Aramis, "that you are going to ask advice in
order to put your conscience at ease?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "And if a superior officer gives you orders, you will obey?"
  "Never doubt it, Monseigneur."
  "You know the King's signature very well, M. de Baisemeaux?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "Is it not on this order of release?"
  "It is true, but it may-"
  "Be forged, you mean?"
  "That is possible, Monseigneur."
  "You are right. And that of M. de Lyonne?"
  "I see it plain enough on the order; but just as the King's
signature may have been forged, so also, even more likely, may M. de
Lyonne's."
  "Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de Baisemeaux," said
Aramis; "and your reasoning is irresistible. But on what special
grounds do you base your idea that these signatures are false?"
  "On this: the absence of counter-signatures. Nothing checks his
Majesty's signature; and M. de Lyonne is not there to tell me he has
signed."
  "Well, M. de Baisemeaux," said Aramis, bending an eagle glance on
the governor, "I adopt so frankly your doubts, and your mode of
clearing them up, that I will take a pen, if you will give me one."
  Baisemeaux gave him a pen.
  "And a sheet of white paper," added Aramis.
  Baisemeaux handed some paper.
  "Now, I- I, also- I, here present- incontestably, I- am going to
write an order to which I am certain you will give credence,
incredulous as you are!"
  Baisemeaux turned pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to
him that that voice of Aramis, but just now so playful and so gay, had
become funereal and sinister; that the wax-lights had changed into the
tapers of a mortuary chapel, and the glasses of wine into chalices
of blood.
  Aramis took a pen and wrote. Baisemeaux, in terror, read over his
shoulder.
  "A. M. D. G." wrote the bishop; and he drew a cross under these four
letters, which signify ad majorem Dei gloriam, and thus continued:-

  "It is our pleasure that the order brought to M. de Baisemeaux de
Montlezun, governor, for the King, of the castle of the Bastille, be
held by him good and effectual, and be immediately carried into
operation.
                                                  "Signed: D'HERBLAY,
                         "General of the Order, by the grace of God."

  Baisemeaux was so profoundly astonished that his features remained
contracted, his lips parted, and his eyes fixed. He did not move an
inch, nor articulate a sound. Nothing could be heard in that large
chamber but the buzzing of a little moth which was fluttering about
the candles.
  Aramis, without even deigning to look at the man whom he had reduced
to so miserable a condition, drew from his pocket a small case of
black wax. He sealed the letter, and stamped it with a seal
suspended at his breast, beneath his doublet; and when the operation
was concluded, presented- still in silence- the missive to M. de
Baisemeaux. The latter, whose hands trembled in a manner to excite
pity, turned a dull and meaningless gaze upon the letter. A last gleam
of feeling played over his features, and he fell, as if thunderstruck,
on a chair.
  "Come, come," said Aramis, after a long silence, during which the
governor of the Bastille had slowly recovered his senses, "do not lead
me to believe, dear Baisemeaux, that the presence of the general of
the order is as terrible as that of the Almighty, and that men die
merely from seeing him! Take courage, rouse yourself; give me your
hand, and obey!"
  Baisemeaux, reassured, if not satisfied, obeyed, kissed Aramis's
hand, and rose from his chair. "Immediately?" he murmured.
  "Oh, there is no pressing haste, my host; take your place again, and
do the honors over this beautiful dessert."
  "Monseigneur, I shall never recover such a shock as this,- I who
have laughed, who have jested with you! I who have dared to treat
you on a footing of equality!"
  "Say nothing about it, old comrade," replied the bishop, who
perceived how strained the cord was, and how dangerous it might be
to break it; "say nothing about it. Let us each live in our own way:
to you, my protection and my friendship; to me, your obedience.
Exactly fulfilling these two requirements, let us live happily."
  Baisemeaux reflected. He perceived, at a glance, the consequences of
this withdrawal of a prisoner by means of a forged order; and
putting in the scale the guarantee offered him by the official order
of the general, did not consider it of any value.
  Aramis divined this. "My dear Baisemeaux," said he, "you are a
simpleton! Lose this habit of reflection when I give myself the
trouble to think for you."
  At another gesture made by Aramis, Baisemeaux bowed again. "How
shall I set about it?"
  "What is the process for releasing a prisoner?"
  "I have the regulations."
  "Well, then, follow the regulations, my friend."
  "I go with my major to the prisoner's room, and conduct him, if he
is a personage of importance."
  "But this Marchiali is not an important personage," said Aramis,
carelessly.
  "I don't know," answered the governor; as if he would have said, "It
is for you to instruct me."
  "Then, if you don't know it, I am right; so act towards Marchiali as
you act towards one of obscure station."
  "Good; the regulations so provide. They are to the effect that the
turnkey, or one of the lower officials, shall bring the prisoner
before the governor, in the office."
  "Well, 'tis very wise, that; and then?"
  "Then we return to the prisoner the valuables he wore at the time of
his imprisonment, his clothes and papers, if the minister's order
has not otherwise directed."
  "What was the minister's order as to this Marchiali?"
  "Nothing; for the unhappy man arrived here without jewels, without
papers, and almost without clothes."
  "See how simple it all is! Indeed, Baisemeaux, you make a mountain
of everything. Remain here, and make them bring the prisoner to the
governor's house."
  Baisemeaux obeyed. He summoned his lieutenant, and gave him an
order, which the latter passed on, without disturbing himself about
it, to the next whom it concerned.
  Half an hour afterwards they heard a gate shut in the court; it
was the door to the dungeon which had just rendered up its prey to the
free air. Aramis blew out all the candles which lighted the room but
one, which he left burning behind the door. This flickering glare
prevented the sight from resting steadily on any object. It multiplied
tenfold the changing forms and shadows of the place by its wavering
uncertainty. Steps drew near.
  "Go and meet your men," said Aramis to Baisemeaux.
  The governor obeyed. The sergeant and turnkeys disappeared.
Baisemeaux re-entered, followed by a prisoner. Aramis had placed
himself in the shade; he saw without being seen. Baisemeaux, in an
agitated tone of voice, made the young man acquainted with the order
which set him at liberty. The prisoner listened, without making a
single gesture or saying a word.
  "You will swear,- the regulation requires it,"- added the
governor, "never to reveal anything that you have seen or heard in the
Bastille."
  The prisoner perceived a crucifix; he stretched out his hand, and
swore with his lips. "And now, Monsieur, that you are free, whither do
you intend going?"
  The prisoner turned his head, as if looking behind him for some
protection which he had expected. Then was it that Aramis came out
of the shadow. "I am here," he said, "to render the gentleman whatever
service he may please to ask."
  The prisoner slightly reddened, and without hesitation passed his
arm through that of Aramis. "God have you in his holy keeping!" he
said, in a voice the firmness of which made the governor tremble as
much as the form of the blessing astonished him.
  Aramis, on shaking hands with Baisemeaux, said to him: "Does my
order trouble you? Do you fear their finding it here, should they come
to search?"
  "I desire to keep it, Monseigneur," said Baisemeaux. "If they
found it here, it would be a certain indication of my ruin, and in
that case you would be a powerful and a last auxiliary for me."
  "Being your accomplice, you mean?" answered Aramis, shrugging his
shoulders. "Adieu, Baisemeaux!" said he.
  The horses were in waiting, making the carriage shake with their
impatience. Baisemeaux accompanied the bishop to the bottom of the
steps. Aramis caused his companion to enter before him, then followed,
and without giving the driver any further order, "Go on!" said he.
  The carriage rattled over the pavement of the courtyard. An
officer with a torch went before the horses, and gave orders at
every post to let them pass. During the time taken in opening all
the barriers, Aramis barely breathed, and you might have heard his
heart beat against his ribs. The prisoner, buried in a corner of the
carriage, made no more sign of life than his companion. At length a
jolt more severe than the others announced to them that they had
cleared the last watercourse. Behind the carriage closed the last
gate,- that in the Rue St. Antoine. No more walls either on the
right or left; heaven everywhere, liberty everywhere, life everywhere!
The horses, kept in check by a vigorous hand, went quietly as far as
the middle of the faubourg. There they began to trot. Little by
little, whether they warmed over it or whether they were urged, they
gained in swiftness; and once past Bercy, the carriage seemed to
fly. These horses ran thus as far as Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, where
relays were waiting. Then four instead of two whirled the carriage
away in the direction of Melun, and pulled up for a moment in the
middle of the forest of Senart. No doubt the order had been given
the postilion beforehand, for Aramis had no occasion even to make a
sign.
  "What is the matter?" asked the prisoner, as if waking from a long
dream.
  "The matter is, Monseigneur," said Aramis, "that before going
further, it is necessary that your royal Highness and I should
converse."
  "I will wait an opportunity, Monsieur," answered the young Prince.
  "We could not have a better, Monseigneur; we are in the middle of
a forest, and no one can hear us."
  "The postilion?"
  "The postilion of this relay is deaf and dumb, Monseigneur."
  "I am at your service, M. d'Herblay."
  "Is it your pleasure to remain in the carriage?"
  "Yes; we are comfortably seated, and I like this carriage; it has
restored me to liberty."
  "Wait, Monseigneur; there is yet a precaution to be taken."
  "What?"
  "We are here on the highway; cavaliers or carriages travelling
like ourselves might pass, and seeing us stopping deem us in some
difficulty. Let us avoid offers of assistance, which would embarrass
us."
  "Give the postilion orders to conceal the carriage in one of the
side avenues."
  "'Tis exactly what I wished to do, Monseigneur."
  Aramis made a sign to the deaf and dumb driver of the carriage, whom
he touched on the arm. The latter dismounted, took the leaders by
the bridle, and led them over the velvet sward and the mossy grass
of a winding alley, at the bottom of which, on this moonless night,
the deep shades formed a curtain blacker than ink. This done, the
man lay down on a slope near his horses, which on either side kept
nibbling the young oak shoots.
  "I am listening," said the young Prince to Aramis; "but what are you
doing there?"
  "I am disarming myself of my pistols, of which we have no further
need, Monseigneur."
                Chapter XXXVII: The Tempter

  "AY PRINCE," said Aramis, turning in the carriage towards his
companion, "weak creature as I am, so unpretending in genius, so low
in the scale of intelligent beings, it has never yet happened to me to
converse with a man without penetrating his thoughts through that
living mask which has been thrown over our mind in order to retain its
expression. But to-night, in this darkness, in the reserve which you
maintain, I can read nothing on your features, and something tells
me that I shall have great difficulty in wresting from you a sincere
declaration. I beseech you, then, not for love of me,- for subjects
should never weigh as anything in the balance which princes hold,- but
for love of yourself, to attend to every syllable I may utter, and
to every tone of my voice,- which under our present grave
circumstances will all have a sense and value as important as any
words ever spoken in the world."
  "I listen," repeated the young Prince, decidedly, "without either
eagerly seeking or fearing anything you are about to say to me"; and
he sank still deeper in the thick cushions of the carriage, trying
to deprive his companion not only of the sight of him, but even of the
very idea of his presence.
  Black was the darkness which fell wide and dense from the summits of
the intertwining trees. The carriage, covered in by this vast roof,
would not have received a particle of light, not even if a ray could
have struggled through the wreaths of mist which were rising in the
avenue of the wood.
  "Monseigneur," resumed Aramis, "you know the history of the
government which to-day controls France. The King issued from an
infancy imprisoned like yours, obscure as yours, and confined as
yours; only, instead of enduring, like yourself, this slavery in a
prison, this obscurity in solitude, these straitened circumstances
in concealment, he has borne all these miseries, humiliations, and
distresses in full daylight, under the pitiless sun of royalty,- on an
elevation so flooded with light, where every stain appears a miserable
blemish, and every glory a stain. The King has suffered; it rankles in
his mind, and he will avenge himself. He will be a bad King. I say not
that he will pour out blood, like Louis XI or Charles IX, for he has
no mortal injuries to avenge; but he will devour the means and
substance of his people, for he has himself suffered injuriously as to
his own welfare and possessions. In the first place, then, I quite
acquit my conscience, when I consider openly the merits and faults
of this Prince; and if I condemn him, my conscience absolves me."
  Aramis paused. It was not to ascertain if the silence of the
forest remained undisturbed, but it was to gather up his thoughts from
the very bottom of his soul, and to leave the thoughts he had
uttered sufficient time to eat deeply into the mind of his companion.
  "All that God does, he does well," continued the Bishop of Vannes;
"and I am so persuaded of it that I have long been thankful to have
been chosen depositary of the secret which I have aided you to
discover. To a just Providence was necessary an instrument, at once
penetrating, persevering, and convinced, to accomplish a great work. I
am this instrument. I possess penetration, perseverance, conviction; I
govern a mysterious people, who has taken for its motto the motto of
God, Patiens quia aeternus." The Prince moved. "I divine, Monseigneur,
why you raise your head, and that my having rule over a people
astonishes you. You did not know you were dealing with a king: oh,
Monseigneur, king of a people very humble, very poor,- humble, because
they have no force save when creeping; poor, because never, almost
never in this world, do my people reap the harvest they sow, or eat
the fruit they cultivate. They labor for an abstract idea; they heap
together all the atoms of their power to form one man; and round
this man, with the sweat of their labor, they create a misty halo
which his genius shall, in turn, render a glory gilded with the rays
of all the crowns in Christendom. Such is the man you have beside you,
Monseigneur. He has drawn you from the abyss for a great purpose,
and he desires, in furtherance of this sublime purpose, to raise you
above the powers of the earth,- above himself."
  The Prince lightly touched Aramis's arm. "You speak to me," he said,
"of that religious order whose chief you are. For me the result of
your words is, that the day you desire to hurl down the man you
shall have raised, the event will be accomplished; and that you will
keep under your hand your creature of to-day."
  "Undeceive yourself, Monseigneur," replied the bishop. "I should not
take the trouble to play this terrible game with your royal
Highness, if I had not a double interest in winning. The day you are
elevated, you are elevated forever; you will overturn the footstool,
as you rise, and will send it rolling so far that not even the sight
of it will ever again recall to you its right to your remembrance."
  "Oh, Monsieur!"
  "Your movement, Monseigneur, arises from an excellent disposition. I
thank you. Be well assured, I aspire to more than gratitude! I am
convinced that when arrived at the summit you will judge me still more
worthy to be your friend; and then, Monseigneur, we two will do such
great deeds that ages hereafter shall speak of them."
  "Tell me plainly, Monsieur,- tell me without disguise,- what I am
today, and what you aim at my being tomorrow."
  "You are the son of King Louis XIII, brother of Louis XIV; you are
the natural and legitimate heir to the throne of France. In keeping
you near him, as Monsieur has been kept,- Monsieur, your younger
brother,- the King would reserve to himself the right of being
legitimate sovereign. The doctors only and God could dispute his
legitimacy. But the doctors always prefer the King who is to the
King who is not. God has wrought against himself in wronging a
Prince who is an honest man. But God has willed that you should be
persecuted; and this persecution to-day consecrates you King of
France. You had then a right to reign, seeing that it is disputed; you
had a right to be proclaimed, seeing that you have been concealed; you
are of kingly blood, since no one has dared to shed your blood as your
servants' has been shed. Now see what He has done for you,- this God
whom you so often accused of having in every way thwarted you! He
has given you the features, figure, age, and voice of your brother;
and the very causes of your persecution are about to become those of
your triumphant restoration. To-morrow, after to-morrow,- from the
very first, regal phantom, living shade of Louis XIV, you will sit
upon his throne, whence the will of Heaven, confided in execution to
the arm of man, will have hurled him without hope of return."
  "I understand," said the Prince; "my brother's blood will not be
shed, then."
  "You will be sole arbiter of his fate."
  "The secret of which they made an evil use against me?"
  "You will employ it against him. What did he do to conceal it? He
concealed you. Living image of himself, you will defeat the conspiracy
of Mazarin and Anne of Austria. You, my Prince, will have the same
interest in concealing him, who will as a prisoner resemble you, as
you will resemble him as King."
  "I return to what I was saying to you. Who will guard him?"
  "Who guarded you?"
  "You know this secret,- you have made use of it with regard to
myself. Who else knows it?"
  "The Queen-Mother and Madame de Chevreuse."
  "What will they do?"
  "Nothing, if you choose."
  "How is that?"
  "How can they recognize you, if you act so that no one can recognize
you?"
  "'Tis true; but there are grave difficulties."
  "State them, Prince."
  "My brother is married; I cannot take my brother's wife."
  "I will cause Spain to consent to a divorce: it is in the interest
of your new policy; it is human morality. All that is really noble and
really useful in this world will find its account therein."
  "The imprisoned King will speak."
  "To whom do you think he should speak,- to the walls?"
  "You mean, by walls, the men in whom you put confidence."
  "If need be, yes. And besides, your royal Highness-"
  "Besides?"
  "I was going to say, that the designs of Providence do not stop on
such a fair road. Every scheme of this calibre is completed by its
results, like a geometrical calculation. The King in prison will not
be for you the cause of embarrassment that you have been for the
King enthroned. His soul is naturally proud and impatient; it is,
moreover, disarmed and enfeebled by being accustomed to honors, and by
the license of supreme power. God, who has willed that the
concluding step in the geometrical calculation I have had the honor of
describing to your royal Highness should be your accession to the
throne and the destruction of him who is hurtful to you, has also
determined that the conquered one shall soon end both his own and your
sufferings. Therefore his soul and body have been adapted for but a
brief agony. Put into prison as a private individual, left alone
with your doubts, deprived of everything, you have met all with the
force of uninterrupted custom. But your brother, a captive, forgotten,
and in bonds, will not long endure the calamity, and Heaven will
resume his soul at the appointed time,- that is to say, soon."
  At this point in Aramis's gloomy analysis a bird of night uttered
from the depths of the forest that prolonged and plaintive cry which
makes every creature tremble.
  "I will exile the deposed King," said Philippe, shuddering;
"'twill be more humane."
  "The King's good pleasure will decide the point," said Aramis.
"But has the problem been well put? Have I brought out the solution
according to the wishes or the foresight of your royal Highness?"
  "Yes, Monsieur, yes; you have forgotten nothing,- except, indeed,
two things."
  "The first?"
  "Let us speak of it at once, with the same frankness we have already
used. Let us speak of the causes which may bring about the ruin of all
the hopes we have conceived. Let us speak of the dangers we incur."
  "They would be immense, infinite, terrific, insurmountable, if, as I
have said, all things did not concur in rendering them absolutely of
no account. There is no danger either for you or for me, if the
constancy and intrepidity of your royal Highness are equal to that
perfection of resemblance to your brother which Nature has bestowed
upon you. I repeat it, there are no dangers,- only obstacles; a
word, indeed, which I find in all languages, but have always ill
understood, and, were I King, would have obliterated as useless and
absurd."
  "Yes, indeed, Monsieur; there is a very serious obstacle, an
insurmountable danger, which you are forgetting."
  "Ah!" said Aramis.
  "There is conscience, which cries aloud; remorse, which lacerates."
  "Oh! that is true," said the bishop; "there is a weakness of heart
of which you remind me. Oh! you are right; that, indeed, is an immense
obstacle. The horse afraid of the ditch leaps into the middle of it,
and is killed! The man who trembling crosses his sword with that of
another leaves loopholes by which death enters!"
  "Have you a brother?" said the young man to Aramis.
  "I am alone in the world," said the latter, with a hard, dry voice.
  "But surely there is some one in the world whom you love?" added
Philippe.
  "No one!- Yes, I love you."
  The young man sank into so profound a silence that the sound of
his breathing seemed to Aramis like a roaring tumult. "Monseigneur,"
he resumed, "I have not said all I had to say to your royal
Highness; I have not offered you all the salutary counsels and
useful resources which I have at my disposal. It is useless to flash
bright visions before the eyes of one who loves darkness; useless,
too, is it to let the grand roar of the cannon sound in the ears of
one who loves repose and the quiet of the country. Monseigneur, I have
your happiness spread out before me in my thoughts. I will let it fall
from my lips; take it up carefully for yourself, who look with such
tender regard upon the bright heavens, the verdant meadows, the pure
air. I know a country full of delights, an unknown Paradise, a
corner of the world where alone, unfettered, and unknown, in the
woods, amidst flowers, and streams of rippling water, you will
forget all the misery that human folly has so recently allotted you.
Oh, listen to me, my Prince! I do not jest. I have a soul, and can
read to the depths of your own. I will not take you, unready for
your task, in order to cast you into the crucible of my own desires or
my caprice or my ambition. Everything or nothing! You are chilled,
sick at heart, almost overcome by the excess of emotion which but
one hour's liberty has produced in you. For me, that is a certain
and unmistakable sign that you do not wish for large and long
respiration. Let us choose, then, a life more humble, better suited to
our strength. Heaven is my witness that I wish your happiness to be
the result of the trial to which I have exposed you."
  "Speak, speak!" said the Prince, with a vivacity which did not
escape Aramis.
  "I know," resumed the prelate, "in the Bas-Poitou, a canton of which
no one in France suspects the existence. Twenty leagues of country,-
it is immense, is it not? Twenty leagues, Monseigneur, all covered
with water and herbage and reeds; the whole studded with islands
covered with woods. These large marshes, covered with reeds as with
a thick mantle, sleep silently and calmly under the smiling sun. A few
fishermen with their families pass their lives away there, with
their large rafts of poplars and alders, the flooring formed of reeds,
and the roof woven out of thick rushes. These barks, these floating
houses, are wafted to and fro by the changing winds. Whenever they
touch a bank, it is but by chance; and so gently, too, that the
sleeping fisherman is not awakened by the shock. Should he wish to
land, it is because he has seen a large flight of landrails or
plovers, of wild ducks, teal, widgeon, or woodcocks, which fall an
easy prey to his nets or his gun. Silver shad, eels, greedy pike,
red and gray mullet, fall in masses into his nets; he has but to
choose the finest and largest, and return the others to the waters.
Never yet has the foot of man, be he soldier or simple citizen,- never
has any one, indeed, penetrated into that district. The sun's rays
there are soft and tempered; in plots of solid earth, whose soil is
rich and fertile, grows the vine, which nourishes with its generous
juice its black and white grapes. Once a week a boat is sent to
fetch the bread which has been baked at an oven,- the common
property of all. There, like the seigneurs of early days,- powerful
because of your dogs, your fishing-lines, your guns, and your
beautiful reed-built house,- would you live, rich in the produce of
the chase, in the plenitude of security. There would years of your
life roll away, at the end of which, unrecognizable, transformed,
you will have compelled Heaven to reshape your destiny. There are a
thousand pistoles in this bag, Monseigneur,- more than sufficient to
purchase the whole marsh of which I have spoken; more than enough to
live there as many years as you have days to live; more than enough to
constitute you the richest, the freest, and the happiest man in the
country. Accept it, as I offer it to you,- sincerely, cheerfully.
Forthwith, from the carriage here we will unharness two of the horses;
the mute, my servant, shall conduct you- travelling by night, sleeping
by day- to the locality I have mentioned; and I shall at least have
the satisfaction of knowing that I have rendered to my Prince the
service that he himself preferred. I shall have made one man happy;
and Heaven for that will hold me in better account than if I had
made one man powerful,- for that is far more difficult. And now,
Monseigneur, your answer to this proposition? Here is the money.
Nay, do not hesitate! At Poitou you can risk nothing, except the
chance of catching the fevers prevalent there; and even of them, the
so-called wizards of the country may cure you for your pistoles. If
you play the other game, you run the chance of being assassinated on a
throne or of being strangled in a prison. Upon my soul, I assure
you, now I compare them together, upon my life, I should hesitate."
  "Monsieur," replied the young Prince, "before I determine, let me
alight from this carriage, walk on the ground, and consult that
voice by which God speaks in unsullied Nature. Ten minutes, and I will
answer."
  "As you please, Monseigneur," said Aramis, bending before him with
respect,- so solemn and august in its tone and address had been the
voice which had just spoken.
               Chapter XXXVIII: Crown and Tiara

  ARAMIS was the first to descend from the carriage; he held the
door open for the young man. He saw him place his foot on the mossy
ground with a trembling of the whole body, and walk round the carriage
with an unsteady and almost tottering step. It seemed as if the poor
prisoner were unaccustomed to walk on God's earth. It was the 15th
of August, about eleven o'clock at night; thick clouds, portending a
tempest, overspread the heavens, and shrouded all light and prospect
beneath their heavy folds. The extremities of the avenues were
imperceptibly detached from the copse by a lighter shadow of opaque
gray, which upon closer examination became visible in the midst of the
obscurity. But the fragrance which ascended from the grass, fresher
and more penetrating than that which exhaled from the trees around
him; the warm and balmy air which enveloped him for the first time
in years; the ineffable enjoyment of liberty in an open country,-
spoke to the Prince in a language so intoxicating that notwithstanding
the great reserve, we should almost say the dissimulation, of which we
have tried to give an idea, he could not restrain his emotion, and
breathed a sigh of joy. Then, by degrees, he raised his aching head
and inhaled the perfumed air, as it was wafted in gentle gusts
across his uplifted face. Crossing his arms on his chest as if to
control this new sensation of delight, he drank in delicious
draughts of that mysterious air which penetrates at night-time through
lofty forests. The sky he was contemplating, the murmuring waters, the
moving creatures,- were not these real? Was not Aramis a madman to
suppose that he had aught else to dream of in this world? Those
exciting pictures of country life, so free from cares, from fears
and troubles; that ocean of happy days which glitters incessantly
before all youthful imaginations,- those were real allurements
wherewith to fascinate an unhappy prisoner, worn out by prison life
and emaciated by the close air of the Bastille. It was the picture, it
will be remembered, drawn by Aramis when he offered to the Prince a
thousand pistoles which he had with him in the carriage, the enchanted
Eden which the deserts of Bas-Poitou hid from the eyes of the world.
  Similar to these were the reflections of Aramis as he watched,
with an anxiety impossible to describe, the silent progress of the
emotions of Philippe, whom he perceived gradually becoming more and
more absorbed in his meditations. The young Prince was offering up
an inward prayer to Heaven for a ray of light upon that perplexity
whence would issue his death or his life. It was an anxious time for
the Bishop of Vannes, who had never before been so perplexed. Was
his iron will, accustomed to overcome all obstacles, never finding
itself inferior or vanquished, to be foiled in so vast a project
from not having foreseen the influence which a few tree-leaves and a
few cubic feet of air might have on the human mind? Aramis,
overwhelmed by anxiety, contemplated the painful struggle which was
taking place in Philippe's mind. This suspense lasted throughout the
ten minutes which the young man had requested. During that eternity
Philippe continued gazing with an imploring and sorrowful look towards
the heavens. Aramis did not remove the piercing glance he had fixed on
Philippe. Suddenly the young man bowed his head. His thoughts returned
to the earth, his looks perceptibly hardened, his brow contracted, his
mouth assumed an expression of fierce courage; and then again his look
became fixed, but now it reflected the flame of mundane splendors,-
now it was like the face of Satan on the mountain when he brought into
view the kingdoms and the powers of earth as temptations to Jesus.
Aramis's appearance then became as gentle as it had before been
gloomy.
  Philippe, seizing his hand in a quick, agitated manner, exclaimed:
"Let us go where the crown of France is to be found!"
  "Is this your decision, Monseigneur?" asked Aramis.
  "It is."
  "Irrevocably so?"
  Philippe did not even deign to reply. He gazed earnestly at the
bishop, as if to ask him if it were possible for a man to waver
after having once made up his mind.
  "Those looks are flashes of fire which portray character," said
Aramis, bowing over Philippe's hand. "You will be great,
Monseigneur; I guarantee it."
  "Let us resume our conversation. I wished to discuss two points with
you: in the first place, the dangers or the obstacles we may meet
with. That point is decided. The other is the conditions you intend to
impose on me. It is your turn to speak, M. d'Herblay."
  "The conditions, Monseigneur?"
  "Doubtless. You will not check me in my course for a trifle, and you
will not do me the injustice to suppose that I think you have no
interest in this affair. Therefore, without subterfuge or
hesitation, tell me the truth."
  "I will do so, Monseigneur. Once a King-"
  "When will that be?"
  "To-morrow evening- I mean in the night."
  "Explain to me how."
  "When I shall have asked your Highness a question."
  "Do so."
  "I sent to your Highness a man in my confidence, with instructions
to deliver some closely written notes, carefully drawn up, which
will thoroughly acquaint your Highness with the different persons
who compose and will compose your court."
  "I perused all the notes."
  "Attentively?"
  "I know them by heart."
  "And understood them? Pardon me, but I may venture to ask that
question of a poor, abandoned captive of the Bastille. It will not
be a requisite in a week's time to question further a mind like yours,
when you will then be in full possession of liberty and power."
  "Interrogate me, then, and I will be a scholar repeating his
lesson to his master."
  "We will begin with your family, Monseigneur."
  "My mother, Anne of Austria?- all her sorrows, her painful malady?
Oh, I know her, I know her!"
  "Your second brother?" asked Aramis, bowing.
  "To these notes," replied the Prince, "you have added portraits so
faithfully painted that I am able to recognize the persons whose
characters, manners, and history you have so carefully portrayed.
Monsieur, my brother, is a fine, dark young man, with a pale face;
he does not love his wife, Henrietta, whom I, Louis XIV, loved a
little, and still flirt with, even although she made me weep on the
day she wished to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere from her service
in disgrace."
  "You will have to be careful with regard to watchfulness of the
latter," said Aramis; "she is sincerely attached to the actual King.
The eyes of a woman who loves are not easily deceived."
  "She is fair; has blue eyes, whose affectionate gaze will reveal her
identity. She halts slightly in her gait. She writes a letter every
day, to which I shall have to send an answer by M. de Saint-Aignan."
  "Do you know the latter?"
  "As if I saw him; and I know the last verses he composed for me,
as well as those I composed in answer to his."
  "Very good. Do you know your ministers?"
  "Colbert, an ugly, dark-browed man, but intelligent; his hair
covering his forehead; a large, heavy, full head; the mortal enemy
of M. Fouquet."
  "We need not disturb ourselves about M. Colbert."
  "No; because necessarily you will require me to exile him, will
you not?"
  Aramis, struck with admiration at the remark, said, "You will become
very great, Monseigneur."
  "You see," added the Prince, "that I know my lesson by heart; and
with Heaven's assistance, and yours afterwards, I shall seldom go
wrong."
  "You have still a very awkward pair of eyes to deal with,
Monseigneur."
  "Yes; the captain of the Musketeers, M. d'Artagnan, your friend."
  "Yes; I can well say 'my friend.'"
  "He who escorted La Valliere to Chaillot; he who delivered up
Monk, in a box, to Charles II; he who so faithfully served my
mother; he to whom the Crown of France owes so much that it owes
everything. Do you intend to ask me to exile him also?"
  "Never, Sire! D'Artagnan is a man to whom at a certain given time
I will undertake to reveal everything. Be on your guard with him;
for if he discovers our plot before it is revealed to him, you or I
will certainly be killed or taken. He is a man of action."
  "I will consider. Now tell me about M. Fouquet; what do you wish
to be done with regard to him?"
  "One moment more, I entreat you, Monseigneur; and forgive me if I
seem to fail in respect in questioning you further."
  "It is your duty to do so, and, more than that, your right also."
  "Before we pass to M. Fouquet, I should very much regret
forgetting another friend of mine."
  "M. du Vallon, the Hercules of France, you mean. Oh! so far as he is
concerned, his fortune is assured."
  "No, it is not he of whom I intended to speak."
  "The Comte de la Fere, then?"
  "And his son,- the son of all four of us."
  "The lad who is dying of love for La Valliere, of whom my brother so
disloyally deprived him? Be easy on that score! I shall know how to
restore him. Tell me one thing, M. d'Herblay! Do men, when they
love, forget the treachery that has been shown them? Can a man ever
forgive the woman who has betrayed him? Is that a French custom; is it
a law of the human heart?"
  "A man who loves deeply, as deeply as Raoul loves Mademoiselle de la
Valliere, finally forgets the fault of the woman he loves; but I do
not know whether Raoul will forget."
  "I will provide for that. Have you anything further to say about
your friend?"
  "No; that is all."
  "Well, then, now for M. Fouquet. What do you wish me to do for him?"
  "To continue him as superintendent, as he has hitherto acted, I
entreat you."
  "Be it so; but he is the first minister at present."
  "Not quite so."
  "A King ignorant and embarrassed as I shall be, will, as a matter of
course, require a first minister of State."
  "Your Majesty will require a friend."
  "I have only one, and that is you."
  "You will have many others by and by, but none so devoted, none so
zealous for your glory."
  "You will be my first minister of State."
  "Not immediately, Monseigneur; for that would give rise to too
much suspicion and astonishment."
  "M. de Richelieu, the first minister of my grandmother, Marie de
Medicis, was simply Bishop of Lucon, as you are Bishop of Vannes."
  "I perceive that your royal Highness has studied my notes to great
advantage; your amazing perspicacity overpowers me with delight."
  "I know, indeed, that M. de Richelieu, by means of the Queen's
protection, soon became cardinal."
  "It would be better," said Aramis, bowing, "that I should not be
appointed first minister until after your royal Highness had
procured my nomination as cardinal."
  "You shall be nominated before two months are past, M. d'Herblay.
But that is a matter of very trifling moment; you would not offend
me if you were to ask more than that, and you would cause me serious
regret if you were to limit yourself to that."
  "In that case I have something still further to hope for,
Monseigneur."
  "Speak! speak!"
  "M. Fouquet will not continue long at the head of affairs; he will
soon get old. He is fond of pleasure, which at present is compatible
with his labors, thanks to the youthfulness which he still retains;
but this youthfulness will disappear at the approach of the first
serious annoyance, or upon the first illness he may experience. We
will spare him the annoyance, because he is a brave and
noble-hearted man; but we cannot save him from ill-health. So it is
determined. When you shall have paid all M. Fouquet's debts, and
restored the finances to a sound condition, M. Fouquet will be able to
remain the sovereign ruler in his little court of poets and
painters; we shall have made him rich. When that has been done, and
I shall have become your royal Highness's prime minister, I shall be
able to think of my own interests and yours."
  The young man looked at his interlocutor.
  "M. de Richelieu, of whom we were speaking just now," said Aramis,
"was very blamable in the fixed idea he had of governing France
unaided. He allowed two kings- King Louis XIII and himself- to be
seated upon the same throne, when he might have installed them more
conveniently upon two separate thrones."
  "Upon two thrones?" said the Prince, thoughtfully.
  "In fact," pursued Aramis, quietly, "a cardinal, prime minister of
France, assisted by the favor and by the countenance of his Most
Christian Majesty the King of France; a cardinal to whom the King
his master lends the treasures of the State, his army, his counsel,-
such a man would be acting with two-fold injustice in applying these
mighty resources to France alone. Besides," added Aramis, with a
searching look into the eyes of Philippe, "you will not be a King such
as your father was,- delicate in health, slow in judgment, whom all
things wearied; you will be a King governing by your brain and by your
sword. You would have in the government of the State no more than
you could manage unaided; I should only interfere with you. Besides,
our friendship ought never to be, I do not say impaired, but even
grazed by a secret thought. I shall have given you the throne of
France; you will confer on me the throne of Saint Peter. Whenever your
loyal, firm, and mailed hand shall have for its mate the hand of a
pope such as I shall be, neither Charles V, who owned two thirds of
the habitable globe, nor Charlemagne, who possessed it entirely,
will reach to the height of your waist. I have no alliances; I have no
predilections. I will not throw you into persecutions of heretics, nor
will I cast you into the troubled waters of family dissension; I
will simply say to you: The whole universe is for us two,- for me
the minds of men, for you their bodies; and as I shall be the first to
die, you will have my inheritance. What do you say of my plan,
Monseigneur?"
  "I say that you render me happy and proud, for no other reason
than that of having comprehended you thoroughly. M. d'Herblay, you
shall be cardinal, and when cardinal, my prime minister; and then
you will point out to me the necessary steps to be taken to secure
your election as pope, and I will take them. You can ask what
guarantees from me you please."
  "It is useless. I shall never act except in such a manner that you
will be the gainer; I shall never mount until I shall have first
placed you upon the round of the ladder immediately above me; I
shall always hold myself sufficiently aloof from you to escape
incurring your jealousy, sufficiently near to sustain your personal
advantage and to watch over your friendship. All the contracts in
the world are easily violated because the interest included in them
inclines more to one side than to another. With us, however, it will
never be the case; I have no need of guarantees."
  "And so- my brother- will disappear?"
  "Simply. We will remove him from his bed by means of a plank which
yields to the pressure of the finger. Having retired to rest as a
crowned sovereign, he will awaken in captivity. Alone, you will rule
from that moment, and you will have no interest more urgent than
that of keeping me near you."
  "I believe it. There is my hand, M. d'Herblay."
  "Allow me to kneel before you, Sire, most respectfully. We will
embrace each other on the day when we shall both have on our
temples- you the crown, and I the tiara."
  "Embrace me this very day; and be more than great, more than
skilful, more than sublime in genius,- be good to me, be my father!"
  Aramis was almost overcome as he listened to the voice of the
Prince. He fancied he detected in his own heart an emotion hitherto
unknown to him; but this impression was speedily removed. "His
father!" he thought; "yes, his Holy Father."
  The two resumed their places in the carriage, which sped rapidly
along the road leading to Vaux-le-Vicomte.
         Chapter XXXIX: The Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte

  THE Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte, situated about a league from
Melun, had been built by Fouquet in 1653. There was then but little
money in France; Mazarin had taken all that there was, and Fouquet had
expended the remainder. However, as certain men have fertile faults
and useful vices, Fouquet, in scattering broadcast millions of money
in the construction of this palace, had found a means of bringing,
as the result of his generous profusion, three illustrious men
together,- Levau, the architect of the building; Lenotre, the designer
of the gardens; and Lebrun the decorator of the apartments. If the
Chateau de Vaux possessed a single fault with which it could be
reproached, it was its grandiose, pretentious character. It is even at
the present day proverbial to calculate the number of acres of
roofing, the reparation of which would, in our age, be the ruin of
fortunes cramped and narrowed as the epoch itself. Vaux-le-Vicomte,
when its magnificent gates, supported by caryatides, have been
passed through, has the principal front of the main building opening
upon a vast court of honor, enclosed by deep ditches, bordered by a
magnificent stone balustrade. Nothing could be more noble in
appearance than the forecourt of the middle, raised upon the flight of
steps, like a king upon his throne, having around it four pavilions
forming the angles, the immense Ionic columns of which rise
majestically to the whole height of the building. The friezes
ornamented with arabesques, and the pediments which crown the
pilasters, confer richness and grace upon every part of the
building, while the domes which surmount the whole add proportion
and majesty. This mansion, built by a subject, bore a far greater
resemblance to a royal residence than those that Wolsey fancied he
must present to his master for fear of rendering him jealous. But if
magnificence and splendor were displayed in any one particular part of
this palace more than in another,- if anything could be preferred to
the wonderful arrangement of the interior, to the sumptuousness of the
gilding, and to the profusion of the paintings and statues, it would
be the park and gardens of Vaux. The fountains, which were regarded as
wonderful in 1653, are still so at the present time; the cascades
awakened the admiration of kings and princes; and as for the famous
grotto, the theme of so many poetical effusions, the residence of that
illustrious nymph of Vaux, whom Pellisson made converse with La
Fontaine, we must be spared the description of all its beauties. We
will do as Despreaux did,- we will enter the park, the trees of
which are of eight years' growth only, and whose summits, already
superb, blushingly unfold their leaves to the earliest rays of the
rising sun. Lenotre had accelerated the pleasure of Maecenas; all
the nursery-grounds had furnished trees whose growth had been promoted
by careful culture and fertilization. Every tree in the neighborhood
which presented a fair appearance of beauty or stature, had been taken
up by its roots and transplanted in the park. Fouquet could well
afford to purchase trees to ornament his park, since he had bought
up three villages and their appurtenances to increase its extent. M.
de Scudery said of this palace, that, for the purpose of keeping the
grounds and gardens well watered, M. Fouquet had divided a river
into a thousand fountains, and gathered the waters of a thousand
fountains into torrents. This same M. de Scudery said a great many
other things in his "Clelie," about this palace of Valterre, the
charms of which he describes most minutely. We should be far wiser
to send our curious readers to Vaux to judge for themselves than to
refer them to the "Clelie"; and yet there are as many leagues from
Paris to Vaux as there are volumes of the "Clelie."
  This magnificent palace had been got ready for the reception of
the greatest reigning sovereign of the time. M. Fouquet's friends
had transported thither, some their actors and their dresses, others
their troops of sculptors and artists; others still their ready-mended
pens,- floods of impromptus were contemplated. The cascades,
somewhat rebellious nymphs though they were, poured forth their waters
brighter than crystal; they scattered over the bronze tritons and
nereids their waves of foam, which glistened in the rays of the sun.
An army of servants were hurrying to and fro in squadrons in the
courtyard and corridors; while Fouquet, who had only that morning
arrived, moved about with a calm, observant glance, giving his last
orders, after his intendants had inspected everything.
  It was, as we have said, the 15th of August. The sun poured down its
burning rays upon the heathen deities of marble and bronze; it
raised the temperature of the water in the conch shells, and
ripened, on the walls, those magnificent peaches of which the King,
fifty years later, spoke so regretfully when, at Marly, on an occasion
of a scarcity of the finer sorts of peaches being complained of in the
beautiful gardens there,- gardens which had cost France double the
amount that had been expended on Vaux,- the great King observed to
some one, "You are too young to have eaten any of M. Fouquet's
peaches."
  Oh, fame! Oh the blazonry of renown! Oh the glory of the earth! That
very man whose judgment was so sound where merit was concerned,- he
who had swept into his coffers the inheritance of Nicholas Fouquet,
who had robbed him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent him to rot
for the remainder of his life in one of the State prisons,- remembered
only the peaches of that vanquished, crushed, forgotten enemy! It
was to little purpose that Fouquet had squandered thirty million
livres in the fountains of his gardens, in the crucibles of his
sculptors, in the writing-desks of his literary friends, in the
portfolios of his painters; vainly had he fancied that thereby he
might be remembered. A peach- a blushing, rich-flavored fruit,
nestling in the trellis-work on the garden-wall, hidden beneath its
long green leaves,- this small vegetable production, that a dormouse
would nibble up without a thought, was sufficient to recall to the
memory of this great monarch the mournful shade of the last
superintendent of France.
  With a complete assurance that Aramis had made arrangements fairly
to distribute the vast number of guests throughout the palace, and
that he had not omitted to attend to any of the internal regulations
for their comfort, Fouquet devoted his entire attentions to the
ensemble. In one direction Gourville showed him the preparations which
had been made for the fireworks; in another, Moliere led him over
the theatre; at last, after he had visited the chapel, the salons, and
the galleries, and was again going downstairs, exhausted with fatigue,
Fouquet saw Aramis on the staircase. The prelate beckoned to him.
The superintendent joined his friend, who paused before a large
picture scarcely finished. Applying himself, heart and soul to his
work, the painter, Lebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with
paint, pale from fatigue and inspiration, was putting the last
finishing touches with his rapid brush. It was the portrait of the
King, whom they were expecting, dressed in the court suit which
Percerin had condescended to show beforehand to the Bishop of
Vannes. Fouquet placed himself before this portrait, which seemed to
live, as one might say, in the cool freshness of its flesh and in
its warmth of color. He gazed upon it long and fixedly, estimated
the prodigious labor that had been bestowed upon it, and not being
able to find any recompense sufficiently great for this herculean
effort, he passed his arm round the painter's neck, and embraced
him. The superintendent, by this action, had ruined a suit of
clothes worth a thousand pistoles, but he had invigorated Lebrun. It
was a happy moment for the artist; it was an unhappy one for M.
Percerin, who was walking behind Fouquet, and was engaged in admiring,
in Lebrun's painting, the suit that he had made for his Majesty,- a
perfect work of art, as he called it, which was not to be matched
except in the wardrobe of the superintendent. His distress and his
exclamations were interrupted by a signal which had been given from
the summit of the mansion. In the direction of Melun, in the still
empty, open plain, the sentinels of Vaux had perceived the advancing
procession of the King and the Queens. His Majesty was entering into
Melun with his long train of carriages and cavaliers.
  "In an hour-" said Aramis to Fouquet.
  "In an hour!" replied the latter, sighing.
  "And the people who ask one another what is the good of these
royal fetes!" continued the Bishop of Vannes, laughing with his forced
smile.
  "Alas! I, too, who am not the people, ask the same thing."
  "I will answer you in four-and-twenty hours, Monseigneur. Assume a
cheerful countenance, for it is a day of joy."
  "Well, believe me or not, as you like, d'Herblay," said the
superintendent, with a swelling heart, pointing at the cortege of
Louis, visible in the horizon, "the King certainly loves me but very
little, nor do I care much for him; but I cannot tell you how it is
that since he is approaching my house-"
  "Well, what?"
  "Well, then, since I know Louis is on his way hither, he is more
sacred to me; he is my King, he is almost dear to me."
  "Dear!- yes," said Aramis, playing upon the word, as the Abbe Terray
did, at a later period, with Louis XV.
  "Do not laugh, d'Herblay; I feel that if he were really to wish
it, I could love that young man."
  "You should not say that to me," returned Aramis, "but to M.
Colbert."
  "To M. Colbert!" exclaimed Fouquet. "Why so?"
  "Because he would allow you a pension out of the King's privy purse,
as soon as he becomes superintendent," said Aramis, preparing to leave
as soon as he had dealt this last blow.
  "Where are you going?" returned Fouquet, with a gloomy look.
  "To my own apartment, to change my costume, Monseigneur."
  "Where are you lodging, d'Herblay?"
  "In the blue room on the second story."
  "The room immediately over the King's room?"
  "Precisely."
  "You will be subject to very great restraint there. What an idea
to condemn yourself to a room where you cannot stir or move about!"
  "During the night, Monseigneur, I sleep or read in my bed."
  "And your servants?"
  "I have only one person with me. I find my reader quite
sufficient. Adieu, Monseigneur! Do not overfatigue yourself; keep
yourself fresh for the arrival of the King."
  "We shall see you by and by, I suppose, and your friend Du Vallon
also?"
  "He is lodging next to me, and is at this moment dressing."
  Then Fouquet, bowing, with a smile passed on, like a
commander-in-chief who pays the different outposts a visit after the
enemy has been signalled.
               Chapter XL: The Wine of Melun

  THE King had, in point of fact, entered Melun with the intention
of merely passing through the city. The youthful monarch had an
appetite for amusements. Only twice during the journey had he been
able to catch a glimpse of La Valliere; and suspecting that his only
opportunity of speaking to her would be after nightfall, in the
gardens, and after the ceremonial of reception had been gone
through, he had been very desirous to arrive at Vaux as early as
possible. But he reckoned without his captain of the Musketeers and
without M. Colbert. Like Calypso, who could not be consoled at the
departure of Ulysses, our Gascon could not console himself for not
having guessed why Aramis had asked Percerin to show him the King's
new costumes. "There is not a doubt," he said to himself, "that my
friend the Bishop of Vannes had some motive in that"; and then he
began to rack his brains most uselessly. D'Artagnan, so intimately
acquainted with all the court intrigues, who knew the position of
Fouquet better even than Fouquet himself did, had conceived the
strangest fancies and suspicions at the announcement of the fete,
which would have ruined a wealthy man, and which became impossible,
utter madness even, for a man so destitute as he was. And then, the
presence of Aramis, who had returned from Belle-Isle, and been
nominated by Fouquet inspector-general of all the arrangements; his
perseverance in mixing himself up with all the superintendent's
affairs; his visit to Baisemeaux,- all this suspicious singularity
of conduct had profoundly perplexed d'Artagnan during the last few
weeks.
  "With men of Aramis's stamp," he said, "one is never the stronger
except with sword in hand. So long as Aramis continued a soldier,
there was hope of getting the better of him; but since he has
covered his cuirass with a stole, we are lost. But what can Aramis's
object be?" and d'Artagnan plunged again into deep thought. "What does
it matter to me, after all," he continued, "if his only object is to
overthrow M. Colbert? And what else can he be after?" and d'Artagnan
rubbed his forehead,- that fertile land, whence the plough-share of
his nails had turned up so many and such admirable ideas. He at
first thought of talking the matter over with Colbert; but his
friendship for Aramis, the oath of earlier days, bound him too
strictly. He revolted at the bare idea of such a thing; and,
besides, he hated the financier. He wished to unburden his mind to the
King; but the King would not be able to understand the suspicions
which had not even the solidity of a shadow. He resolved to address
himself to Aramis directly, the first time he met him. "I will take
him," said the musketeer, "between a couple of candles suddenly; I
will place my hand upon his heart, and he will tell me- What will he
tell me? Yes, he will tell me something; for, mordioux! there is
something underneath."
  Somewhat calmer, d'Artagnan made every preparation for the
journey, and took the greatest care that the military household of the
King, as yet very inconsiderable in numbers, should be well
officered and well disciplined in its limited proportions. The
result was that through the captain's arrangements, the King, on
arriving at Melun, saw himself at the head of the Musketeers, his
Swiss Guards, and a picket of the French Guards. It might almost
have been called a small army. M. Colbert looked at the troops with
great delight; he even wished there had been a third more in number.
  "But why?" said the King.
  "To show greater honor to M. Fouquet," replied Colbert.
  "To ruin him the sooner," thought d'Artagnan.
  When this little army appeared before Melun, the chief magistrates
came out to meet the King and to present him with the keys of the
city, and invited him to enter the Hotel de Ville to partake of the
wine of honor. The King, who expected to pass through the city and
to proceed to Vaux without delay, became quite red in the face from
vexation.
  "Who was fool enough to occasion this delay?" muttered the King,
between his teeth, as the chief magistrate was in the middle of a long
address.
  "Not I, certainly," replied d'Artagnan; "but I believe it was M.
Colbert."
  Colbert, having heard his name pronounced, said, "What was M.
d'Artagnan good enough to say?"
  "I was good enough to remark that it was you who stopped the
King's progress, so that he might taste the vin de Brie. Was I right?"
  "Quite so, Monsieur."
  "In that case, then, it was you whom the King called some name or
other."
  "What name?"
  "I hardly know; but wait a moment, 'idiot,' I think it was,- no, no,
it was 'fool,' 'fool,' 'stupid.' That is what his Majesty said of
the man who procured for him the wine of Melun."
  D'Artagnan, after this broadside, quietly caressed his horse. M.
Colbert's large head seemed to become larger than ever. D'Artagnan,
seeing how ugly anger made him, did not stop half-way. The orator
still went on with his speech, while the King's color was visibly
increasing. "Mordioux!" said the musketeer, coolly, "the King is going
to have an attack of determination of blood to the head. Where the
deuce did you get hold of that idea, M. Colbert? You have no luck!"
  "Monsieur," said the financier, drawing himself up, "my zeal for the
King's service inspired me with the idea."
  "Bah!"
  "Monsieur, Melun is a city, an excellent city, which pays well,
and which it would be imprudent to displease."
  "There now! I, who do not pretend to be a financier, saw only one
idea in your idea."
  "What was that, Monsieur?"
  "That of causing a little annoyance to M. Fouquet, who is making
himself quite giddy on his donjons yonder, in waiting for us."
  This was a home-stroke, and a hard one. Colbert was confounded by
it, and retired, thoroughly discomfited. Fortunately, the speech was
now at an end. The King drank the wine which was presented to him, and
then all resumed their course through the city. The King bit his
lips in anger; for the evening was closing in, and all hope of a
walk with La Valliere was over. In order that the whole of the
King's household should enter Vaux, four hours at least were
necessary, owing to the different arrangements. The King, therefore,
who was boiling with impatience, hurried forward as much as
possible, in order to arrive before nightfall. But at the moment he
was setting off again, other and fresh difficulties arose.
  "Is not the King going to sleep at Melun?" said Colbert, in a low
tone of voice, to d'Artagnan.
  M. Colbert must have been badly inspired that day, to address
himself in that manner to the chief of the Musketeers; for the
latter guessed that the King's intention was very far from that of
remaining where he was. D'Artagnan would not allow him to enter Vaux
except he were well and strongly accompanied, and desired that his
Majesty should not enter except with all the escort. On the other
hand, he felt that these delays would irritate that impatient
character beyond measure. In what way could he possibly reconcile
these two difficulties? D'Artagnan took up Colbert's remark, and
determined to repeat it to the King.
  "Sire," he said, "M. Colbert has been asking me if your Majesty does
not intend to sleep at Melun."
  "Sleep at Melun! What for?" exclaimed Louis XIV. "Sleep at Melun!
Who, in Heaven's name, can have thought of such a thing, when M.
Fouquet is expecting us this evening?"
  "It was simply," returned Colbert, quickly, "the fear of causing
your Majesty any delay; for, according to established etiquette, you
cannot enter any place, with the exception of your own royal
residences, until the soldiers' quarters have been marked out by the
quartermaster, and the garrison has been properly distributed."
  D'Artagnan listened with the greatest attention, biting his
mustache; and the Queens listened attentively also. They were
fatigued, and would have liked to go to rest without proceeding any
farther, and especially to prevent the King from walking about in
the evening with M. de Saint-Aignan and the ladies of the court; for
if etiquette required the Princesses to remain within their own rooms,
the ladies of honor, as soon as they had performed the services
required of them, had no restrictions placed upon them, but were at
liberty to walk about as they pleased. It will easily be conjectured
that all these rival interests, gathering together in vapors, must
necessarily produce clouds, and that the clouds would be followed by a
tempest. The King had no mustache to gnaw, and therefore kept biting
the handle of his whip instead, with ill-concealed impatience. How
could he get out of it? D'Artagnan looked as agreeable as possible,
and Colbert as sulky as he could. Who was there, then, with whom Louis
could get in a passion?
  "We will consult the Queen," said Louis XIV, bowing to the royal
ladies.
  This kindness of consideration softened Maria Theresa's heart, who
was of a kind and generous disposition, and who, left to her own
free will, replied: "I shall be delighted to do whatever your
Majesty wishes."
  "How long will it take us to get to Vaux?" inquired Anne of Austria,
in slow and measured accents, placing her hand upon her suffering
bosom.
  "An hour for your Majesties' carriages," said d'Artagnan; "the roads
are tolerably good."
  The King looked at him. "And a quarter of an hour for the King,"
he hastened to add.
  "We should arrive by daylight," said Louis XIV.
  "But the billeting of the King's military escort," objected Colbert,
softly, "will make his Majesty lose all the advantage of his speed,
however quick he may be."
  "Double ass that you are!" thought d'Artagnan; "if I had any
interest or motive in demolishing your credit, I could do it in ten
minutes. If I were in the King's place," he added, aloud, "I should,
in going to M. Fouquet, leave my escort behind me. I should go to
him as a friend; I should enter accompanied only by my captain of
the Guards. I should consider that I was acting more nobly, and should
be invested with a still more sacred character by doing so."
  Delight sparkled in the King's eyes. "That is, indeed, a very good
suggestion. We will go to see a friend as friends. Those gentlemen who
are with the carriages can go slowly; but we who are mounted-
Forward!" and he rode off, accompanied by all those who were mounted.
  Colbert hid his ugly head behind his horse's neck.
  "I shall be quits," said d'Artagnan, as he galloped along, "by
getting a little talk with Aramis this evening. And then, M. Fouquet
is a man of honor. Mordioux! I have said so, and it must be so."
  In this way, towards seven o'clock in the evening, without trumpets,
without advanced guard, without outriders or musketeers, the King
presented himself before the gate of Vaux, where Fouquet, who had been
informed of his royal guest's approach, had been waiting for the
last half-hour, with his head uncovered, surrounded by his household
and his friends.
              Chapter XLI: Nectar and Ambrosia

  FOUQUET held the stirrup of the King, who having dismounted bowed
graciously, and more graciously still held out his hand to him,
which Fouquet, in spite of a slight resistance on the King's part,
carried respectfully to his lips. The King wished to wait in the first
courtyard for the arrival of the carriages; nor had he long to wait.
For the roads had been put into excellent order by the superintendent,
and a stone would hardly have been found the size of an egg the
whole way from Melun to Vaux; so that the carriages, rolling along
as though on a carpet, brought the ladies to Vaux, without jolting
or fatigue, by eight o'clock. They were received by Madame Fouquet;
and at the moment when they made their appearance, a light as bright
as day burst forth from all the trees and vases and marble statues.
This species of enchantment lasted until their Majesties had retired
into the palace. All these wonders and magical effects,- which the
chronicler has heaped up, or rather preserved, in his recital at the
risk of rivalling the creations of a romancist,- these splendors
whereby night seemed conquered and Nature corrected, together with
every delight and luxury combined for the satisfaction of all the
senses as well as of the mind, Fouquet really offered to his sovereign
in that enchanting retreat, to which no monarch could at that time
boast of possessing an equal.
  We do not intend to describe the grand banquet, at which all the
royal guests were present, nor the concerts, nor the fairy-like and
magical transformations and metamorphoses. It will be enough for our
purpose to depict the countenance which the King assumed, and which,
from being gay, soon wore a gloomy, constrained, and irritated
expression. He remembered his own residence, and the mean style of
luxury which prevailed there,- which comprised only that which was
merely useful for the royal wants, without being his own personal
property. The large vases of the Louvre, the old furniture and plate
of Henry II, of Francis I, of Louis XI, were merely historical
monuments,- they were nothing but specimens of art, relics left by his
predecessors; while with Fouquet the value of the article was as
much in the workmanship as in the article itself. Fouquet ate from a
gold service, which artists in his own employ had modelled and cast
for him. Fouquet drank wines of which the King of France did not
even know the name, and drank them out of goblets each more precious
than the whole royal cellar.
  What, too, could be said of the apartments, the hangings, the
pictures, the servants and officers of every description, in Fouquet's
household? What could be said of the mode of service in which
etiquette was replaced by order, stiff formality by personal
unrestrained comfort, and the happiness and contentment of the guest
became the supreme law of all who obeyed the host? The swarm of busily
engaged persons moving about noiselessly; the multitude of guests, who
were, however, even less numerous than the servants who waited on
them; the myriads of exquisitely prepared dishes, of gold and silver
vases; the floods of dazzling light; the masses of unknown flowers, of
which the hothouses had been despoiled, redundant with the
luxuriance of unequalled beauty,- the harmony of all, which indeed was
no more than the prelude of the promised fete, charmed all the guests,
who testified their admiration over and over again, not by voice or
gesture, but by deep silence and rapt attention,- those two
languages of the courtier which acknowledge the hand of no master
powerful enough to restrain them.
  As for the King, his eyes filled with tears; he dared not look at
the Queen. Anne of Austria, whose pride, as it ever had been, was
superior to that of any creature breathing, overwhelmed her host by
the contempt with which she treated everything handed to her. The
young Queen, kind-hearted by nature and curious by disposition,
praised Fouquet, ate with an exceedingly good appetite, and asked
the names of the different fruits which were placed upon the table.
Fouquet replied that he did not know their names. The fruits came from
his own stores; he had often cultivated them himself, having an
intimate acquaintance with the cultivation of exotic fruits and
plants. The King felt and appreciated the delicacy of the reply, but
was only more humiliated at it; he thought that the Queen was a little
too familiar in her manners, and that Anne of Austria resembled Juno a
little too much; his chief anxiety, however, was that he might
remain cold and distant in his behavior, bordering slightly on the
limits of extreme disdain or of simple admiration.
  Fouquet had foreseen all that; he was, in fact, one of those men who
foresee everything. The King had expressly declared that so long as he
remained under Fouquet's roof he did not wish his own different
repasts to be served in accordance with the usual etiquette, and
that he would consequently dine with the rest of the company; but by
the thoughtful attention of the superintendent the King's dinner was
served up separately, if one may so express it, in the middle of the
general table. The dinner, wonderful in every respect, from the dishes
of which it was composed, comprised everything the King liked, and
which he generally preferred to anything else. Louis had no excuse-
he, indeed, who had the keenest appetite in his kingdom- for saying
that he was not hungry. Fouquet even did better still: he indeed, in
obedience to the King's expressed desire, seated himself at the table,
but as soon as the soups were served, he rose and personally waited on
the King, while Madame Fouquet stood behind the Queen-Mother's
arm-chair. The disdain of Juno and the sulky fits of temper of Jupiter
could not resist this exhibition of kindly feeling and polite
attention. The Queen ate a biscuit dipped in a glass of San-Lucar
wine; and the King ate of everything, saying to Fouquet, "It is
impossible, Monsieur the Superintendent, to dine better anywhere."
Whereupon the whole court began, on all sides, to devour the dishes
spread before them, with such enthusiasm that it looked like a cloud
of Egyptian locusts settling down upon the uncut crops.
  As soon, however, as his hunger was appeased, the King became dull
and gloomy again; the more so in proportion to the satisfaction he
fancied he had manifested, and particularly on account of the
deferential manner which his courtiers had shown towards Fouquet.
D'Artagnan, who ate a good deal and drank but little, without allowing
it to be noticed, did not lose a single opportunity, but made a
great number of observations which he turned to good profit.
  When the supper was finished, the King expressed a wish not to
lose the promenade. The park was illuminated; the moon, too, as if she
had placed herself at the orders of the Lord of Vaux, silvered the
trees and lakes with her bright phosphoric light. The air was soft and
balmy; the gravelled walks through the thickly set avenues yielded
luxuriously to the feet. The fete was complete in every respect; for
the King, having met La Valliere in one of the winding paths of the
wood, was able to press her by the hand and say, "I love you," without
any one overhearing him, except M. d'Artagnan who followed, and M.
Fouquet who preceded him.
  The night of enchantments stole on. The King having requested to
be shown to his room, there was immediately a movement in every
direction. The Queens passed to their own apartments, accompanied by
the music of theorbos and flutes. The King found his musketeers
awaiting him on the grand flight of steps; for Fouquet had brought
them on from Melun, and had invited them to supper. D'Artagnan's
suspicions at once disappeared. He was weary; he had supped well,
and wished, for once in his life, thoroughly to enjoy a fete given
by a man who was in every sense of the word a king. "M. Fouquet," he
said, "is the man for me.
  The King was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber
of Morpheus, of which we owe some slight description to our readers.
It was the handsomest and the largest in the palace. Lebrun had
painted on the vaulted ceiling the happy as well as disagreeable
dreams with which Morpheus affects kings as well as other men: with
everything lovely to which sleep gives birth,- its perfumes, its
flowers and nectar, the wild voluptuousness or deep repose of the
senses,- had the painter enriched his frescos. It was a composition as
soft and pleasing in one part as dark and terrible in another. The
poisoned chalice; the glittering dagger suspended over the head of the
sleeper; wizards and phantoms with hideous masks, those dim shadows
more terrific than the brightness of flame or the blackness of night,-
these he had made the companions of his more pleasing pictures.
  No sooner had the King entered the room than a cold shiver seemed to
pass through him; and when Fouquet asked him the cause of it, the King
replied, turning pale, "I am sleepy."
  "Does your Majesty wish for your attendants at once?"
  "No; I have to talk with a few persons first," said the King.
"Will you have the goodness to summon M. Colbert?"
  Fouquet bowed, and left the room.
       Chapter XLII: A Gascon, and a Gascon and a Half

  D'ARTAGNAN had lost no time; in fact, he was not in the habit of
doing so. After having inquired for Aramis, he had looked for him in
every direction until he had succeeded in finding him. Now, no
sooner had the King entered Vaux than Aramis had retired to his own
room, meditating doubtless some new piece of gallant attention for his
Majesty's amusement. D'Artagnan desired the servants to announce
him, and found on the second story, in a beautiful room called the
blue room on account of the color of its hangings, the Bishop of
Vannes in company with Porthos and several of the modern Epicureans.
Aramis came forward to embrace his friend, and offered him the best
seat. As it was after a while generally remarked among those present
that the musketeer was reserved, apparently wishing for an opportunity
to converse privately with Aramis, the Epicureans took their leave.
Porthos, however, did not stir; having dined exceedingly well, he
was fast asleep in his arm-chair, and the freedom of conversation
therefore was not interrupted by a third person. Porthos had a deep,
harmonious snore; and people might talk in the midst of its loud
bass without fear of disturbing him.
  D'Artagnan felt that he was called upon to open the conversation.
The encounter he had come to seek would be rough; so he delicately
approached the subject. "Well, and so we have come to Vaux," he said.
  "Why, yes, d'Artagnan. And how do you like the place?"
  "Very much; and I like M. Fouquet also."
  "Is he not a charming host?"
  "No one could be more so."
  "I am told that the King began by being very distant in his manner
toward M. Fouquet, but that his Majesty became much more cordial
afterwards."
  "You did not notice it, then, since you say you have been told so?"
  "No; I was engaged with those gentlemen who have just left the
room about the theatrical performances and the tournament which are to
take place to-morrow."
  "Ah, indeed! you are the comptroller-general of the fetes here,
then?"
  "You know I am a friend of all kinds of amusement where the exercise
of the imagination is required; I have always been a poet in one way
or another."
  "Yes, I remember the verses you used to write; they were charming."
  "I have forgotten them; but I am delighted to read the verses of
others, when those others are known by the names of Moliere,
Pellisson, La Fontaine, etc."
  "Do you know what idea occurred to me this evening, Aramis?"
  "No; tell me what it was, for I should never be able to guess it,
you have so many."
  "Well, the idea occurred to me that the true King of France is not
Louis XIV."
  "What!" said Aramis, involuntarily, looking at the musketeer full in
the eyes.
  "No; it is M. Fouquet."
  Aramis breathed again, and smiled. "Ah! you are like all the
rest,- jealous," he said. "I would wager that it was M. Colbert who
turned that pretty phrase."
  D'Artagnan, in order to throw Aramis off his guard, related
Colbert's misadventures with regard to the vin de Melun.
  "He comes of a mean race, does Colbert," said Aramis.
  "Quite true."
  "When I think, too," added the bishop, "that that fellow will be
your minister within four months, and that you will serve him as
blindly as you did Richelieu or Mazarin-"
  "And as you serve M. Fouquet," said d'Artagnan.
  "With this difference, though, that M. Fouquet is not M. Colbert."
  "True, true," said d'Artagnan, as he pretended to become sad and
full of reflection; and then, a moment after, he added, "Why do you
tell me that M. Colbert will be minister in four months?"
  "Because M. Fouquet will have ceased to be so," replied Aramis.
  "He will be ruined, you mean?" said d'Artagnan.
  "Completely so."
  "Why does he give these fetes, then?" said the musketeer, in a
tone so full of thoughtful consideration, so natural, that the
bishop was for the moment deceived by it. "Why did you not dissuade
him from it?"
  The latter part of the sentence was just a little too much, and
Aramis's former suspicions were again aroused. "It is done with the
object of humoring the King."
  "By ruining himself?"
  "Yes, by ruining himself for the King."
  "A singular calculation that!"
  "Necessity."
  "I don't see that, dear Aramis."
  "Do you not? Have you not remarked M. Colbert's daily increasing
antagonism, and that he is doing his utmost to drive the King to get
rid of the superintendent?"
  "One must be blind not to see it."
  "And that a cabal is formed against M. Fouquet?"
  "That is well known."
  "What likelihood is there that the King would join a party formed
against a man who will have spent everything he had to please him?"
  "True, true," said d'Artagnan slowly, hardly convinced, yet curious-
to broach another phase of the conversation. "There are follies and
follies," he resumed; "and I do not like those you are committing."
  "To what do you allude?"
  "As for the banquet, the ball, the concert, the theatricals, the
tournaments, the cascades, the fireworks, the illuminations, and the
presents,- these are all well and good, I grant; but why were not
these expenses sufficient? Was it necessary to refurnish the entire
house?"
  "You are quite right. I told M. Fouquet that myself. He replied,
that if he were rich enough he would offer the King a chateau new from
the vanes at the top of the house to the very cellar, completely new
inside and out; and that as soon as the King had left, he would burn
the whole building and its contents, in order that it might not be
made use of by any one else."
  "How completely Spanish!"
  "I told him so, and he then added this: 'Whoever advises me to spare
expense, I shall look upon as my enemy.'"
  "It is Positive madness; and that portrait too!"
  "What portrait?" said Aramis.
  "That of the King; that surprise."
  "That surprise?"
  "Yes, for which you procured some samples at Percerin's." D'Artagnan
paused. The shaft was discharged, and all he had to do was to wait and
watch its effect.
  "That is merely an act of graceful attention," replied Aramis.
  D'Artagnan went up to his friend, took hold of both his hands, and
looking him full in the eyes said, "Aramis, do you still care for me a
little?"
  "What a question to ask!"
  "Very good. One favor, then. Why did you take some samples of the
King's costumes at Percerin's?"
  "Come with me and ask poor Lebrun, who has been working upon them
for the last two days and two nights."
  "Aramis, that may be the truth for everybody else; but for me-"
  "Upon my word, d'Artagnan, you astonish me."
  "Be a little considerate for me. Tell me the exact truth; you
would not like anything disagreeable to happen to me, would you?"
  "My dear friend, you are becoming quite incomprehensible. What devil
of a suspicion have you, then?"
  "Do you believe in my instincts? Formerly you had faith in them.
Well, then, an instinct tells me that you have some concealed
project on foot."
  "I- a project?"
  "I am not sure of it."
  "What nonsense!"
  "I am not sure of it, but I would swear to it."
  "Indeed, d'Artagnan, you cause me the greatest pain. Is it likely,
if I have any project in hand that I ought to keep secret from you,
I shall tell you about it? If I had one that I ought to reveal to you,
I should have already told it to you."
  "No, Aramis, no. There are certain projects which are never revealed
until the favorable opportunity arrives."
  "In that case, my dear fellow," returned the bishop, laughing,
"the only thing now is, that the 'opportunity' has not yet arrived."
  D'Artagnan shook his head with a sorrowful expression. "Oh,
friendship, friendship!" he said, "what an idle word! Here is a man
who, if I were but to ask it, would suffer himself to be cut in pieces
for my sake."
  "You are right," said Aramis, nobly.
  "And this man, who would shed every drop of blood in his veins for
me, will not open the smallest corner of his heart. Friendship, I
repeat, is nothing but a shadow and a delusion, like everything else
that shines in this world."
  "It is not thus you should speak of our friendship," replied the
bishop, in a firm, assured voice; "for ours is not of the same
nature as those of which you have been speaking!"
  "Look at us, Aramis! We are three out of the four. You are deceiving
me, I suspect you, and Porthos sleeps; an admirable trio of friends,
don't you think so?- a beautiful relic!"
  "I can only tell you one thing, d'Artagnan, and I swear it on the
Bible: I love you just as much as formerly. If I ever distrust you, it
is on account of others, and not on account of either of us. In
everything I may do and succeed in, you will find your share. Will you
promise me the same favor?"
  "If I am not mistaken, Aramis, these words of yours, at the moment
you pronounce them, are full of generous intention."
  "That is true."
  "You are conspiring against M. Colbert. If that be all, mordioux!
tell me so at once. I have the instrument, and will pull out the
tooth."
  Aramis could not restrain a smile of disdain which passed across his
noble features. "And supposing that I were conspiring against Colbert,
and what harm would there be in that?"
  "No, no; that would be too trifling a matter for you to take in
hand, and it was not on that account you asked Percerin for those
samples of the King's costumes. Oh, Aramis, we are not enemies, we are
brothers! Tell me what you wish to undertake, and, upon the word of
d'Artagnan, if I cannot help you, I will swear to remain neutral."
  "I am undertaking nothing," said Aramis.
  "Aramis, a voice speaks within me, and seems to enlighten my
darkness; it is a voice which has never yet deceived me. It is the
King you are conspiring against."
  "The King!" exclaimed the bishop, pretending to be annoyed.
  "Your face will not convince me. The King, I repeat."
  "Will you help me?" said Aramis, smiling ironically.
  "Aramis, I will do more than help you,- I will do more than remain
neutral,- I will save you."
  "You are mad, d'Artagnan."
  "I am the wiser of us two."
  "You suspect me of wishing to assassinate the King!"
  "Who spoke of that at all?" said the musketeer.
  "Well, let us understand each other. I do not see what any one can
do to a legitimate king as ours is, if he does not assassinate him."
D'Artagnan did not say a word. "Besides, you have your guards and your
musketeers here," said the bishop.
  "True."
  "You are not in M. Fouquet's house, but in your own. You have at the
present moment M. Colbert, who counsels the King against M. Fouquet
all which perhaps you would wish to advise if I were not on his side."
  "Aramis! Aramis! for mercy's sake, one word as a friend!"
  "A friend's word is the truth itself. If I think of touching, even
with one finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true King of this
realm of France; if I have not the firm intention of prostrating
myself before his throne; if, according to my wishes, to-morrow here
at Vaux will not be the most glorious day my King ever enjoyed,- may
Heaven's lightning blast me where I stand!" Aramis had pronounced
these words with his face turned towards the alcove of his bedroom,
where d'Artagnan, seated with his back towards the alcove, could not
suspect that any one was lying concealed. The earnestness of his
words, the studied slowness with which he pronounced them, the
solemnity of his oath, gave the musketeer the most complete
satisfaction. He took hold of both Aramis's hands, and shook them
cordially. Aramis had endured reproaches without turning pale; he
blushed as he listened to words of praise. D'Artagnan, deceived, did
him honor; but d'Artagnan, trustful and reliant, made him feel
ashamed. "Are you going away?" he said, as he embraced his friend in
order to conceal the flush on his own face.
  "Yes; my duty summons me. I have to get the watchword."
  "Where are you lodged?"
  "In the King's anteroom. And Porthos?"
  "Take him away with you if you like, for he snores like a park of
artillery."
  "Ah! he does not stay with you, then?" said the captain.
  "Not at all. He has his room to himself, but I don't know where."
  "Very good!" said the musketeer, from whom this separation of the
two associates removed his last suspicion; and he touched Porthos
roughly on the shoulder. The latter replied by a yawn. "Come!" said
d'Artagnan.
  "What! d'Artagnan, my dear fellow, is that you? What a lucky chance!
Oh, yes,- true; I am at the fete at Vaux."
  "With your fine suit?"
  "Yes; it was very attentive on the part of M. Coquelin de Voliere,
was it not?"
  "Hush!" said Aramis. "You are walking so heavily that you will
make the flooring give way."
  "True," said the musketeer; "this room is above the dome."
  "And I did not choose it for a fencing-room, I assure you," added
the bishop. "The ceiling of the King's room has all the sweetness
and calm delights of sleep. Do not forget, therefore, that my flooring
is merely the covering of his ceiling. Good-night, my friends! In
ten minutes I shall be fast asleep"; and Aramis accompanied them to
the door, smiling pleasantly.
  As soon as they were outside, Aramis bolted the door hurriedly,
closed up the chinks of the windows, and then called out,
"Monseigneur! Monseigneur!"
  Philippe made his appearance from the alcove, pushing aside a
sliding panel placed behind the bed. "M. d'Artagnan entertains a great
many suspicions, it seems," he said.
  "Ah! you recognized M. d'Artagnan, then?"
  "Before you called him by his name, even."
  "He is your captain of Musketeers."
  "He is very devoted to me," replied Philippe, laying a stress upon
the personal pronoun.
  "As faithful as a dog; but he bites sometimes. If d'Artagnan does
not recognize you before the other has disappeared, rely upon
d'Artagnan to the end of the world; for in that case, if he has seen
nothing, he will keep his fidelity. If he sees, when it is too late,
he is a Gascon, and will never admit that he has been deceived."
  "I thought so. What are we to do, now?"
  "You will go and take up your post at our place of observation,
and watch the moment of the King's retiring to rest, so as to learn
how that ceremony is performed."
  "Very good. Where shall I place myself?"
  "Sit down on this folding-chair! I am going to push aside a
portion of the flooring; you will look through the opening, which
answers to one of the false windows made in the dome of the King's
apartment. Can you see?"
  "Yes," said Philippe, starting as at the sight of an enemy; "I see
the King!"
  "What is he doing?"
  "He seems to wish some man to sit down close to him."
  "M. Fouquet!"
  "No, no; wait a moment "The notes, my Prince, the portraits!"
  "The man whom the King wishes to sit down in his presence is M.
Colbert."
  "Colbert sit down in the King's presence!" exclaimed Aramis; "it
is impossible."
  "Look!"
  Aramis looked through the opening in the flooring. "Yes," he said,
"Colbert himself! Oh, Monseigneur! what are we about to hear, and what
can result from this intimacy?"
  "Nothing good for M. Fouquet, at all events."
  The Prince was not mistaken.
  We have seen that Louis XIV had sent for Colbert, and that Colbert
had arrived. The conversation began between them by the King's
according to him one of the highest favors that he had ever given,- it
is true that the King was alone with his subject,- "Colbert," said he,
"sit down!"
  The intendant, overcome with delight, for he had feared he should be
dismissed, refused this unprecedented honor.
  "Does he accept?" said Aramis.
  "No; he remains standing."
  "Let us listen, then"; and the future King and the future pope
listened eagerly to the simple mortals whom they beheld under their
feet in a position to crush them if they had liked.
  "Colbert," said the King, "you have annoyed me exceedingly to-day."
  "I know it, Sire."
  "Very good; I like that answer. Yes, you knew it, and there was
courage in doing it."
  "I ran the risk of displeasing your Majesty, but I risked also
concealing what were your true interests from you."
  "What! you were afraid of something on my account?"
  "I was, Sire, even if it were of nothing more than an
indigestion," said Colbert; "for one does not give his King such
banquets as that of to-day, except it be to stifle him under the
weight of good living."
  Colbert awaited the effect of this coarse jest upon the King; and
Louis XIV, who was the vainest and the most fastidiously delicate
man in his kingdom, forgave Colbert his pleasantry. "The truth is," he
said, "that M. Fouquet has given me too good a meal. Tell me, Colbert,
where does he get all the money required for this enormous
expenditure,- can you tell?"
  "Yes, I know, Sire."
  "You will show me?"
  "Easily; to the very farthing."
  "I know you are very exact."
  "It is the principal qualification required in an intendant of
finances."
  "But all are not so."
  "I thank your Majesty for a compliment so flattering from your
lips."
  "M. Fouquet, then, is rich, very rich; and I suppose every man knows
he is so.
  "Every one, Sire,- the living as well as the dead."
  "What does that mean, M. Colbert?"
  "The living are witnesses of M. Fouquet's wealth,- they admire and
applaud the result produced; but the dead, wiser than we, know its
sources and they accuse him."
  "So that M. Fouquet owes his wealth to certain sources?"
  "The occupation of an intendant very often favors those who engage
in it."
  "You have something to say to me more confidentially, I perceive; do
not be afraid, we are quite alone."
  "I am never afraid of anything under the shelter of my own
conscience and under the protection of your Majesty," said Colbert,
bowing.
  "If the dead, therefore, were to speak-"
  "They do speak sometimes, Sire. Read!"
  "Ah!" murmured Aramis in the Prince's ear, who close beside him
listened without losing a syllable, "since you are placed here,
Monseigneur, in order to learn the vocation of a king, listen to a
piece of infamy truly royal. You are about to be a witness of one of
these scenes which God alone, or rather which the devil alone, can
conceive and execute. Listen attentively,- you will find your
advantage in it."
  The Prince redoubled his attention, and saw Louis XIV take from
Colbert's hand a letter which the latter held out to him.
  "The late cardinal's handwriting," said the King.
  "Your Majesty has an excellent memory," replied Colbert, bowing; "it
is an immense advantage for a king who is destined for hard work to
recognize handwritings at the first glance."
  The King read Mazarin's letter; but as its contents are already
known to the reader, in consequence of the misunderstanding between
Madame de Chevreuse and Aramis, nothing further would be learned if we
stated them here again.
  "I do not quite understand," said the King, greatly interested.
  "Your Majesty has not yet acquired the habit of going through the
public accounts."
  "I see that it refers to money which had been given to M. Fouquet."
  "Thirteen millions,- a tolerably good sum."
  "Yes. Well, and these thirteen millions are wanting to balance the
total of the accounts? That is what I do not very well understand. How
was this deficit possible?"
  "Possible, I do not say; but there is no doubt about its reality."
  "You say that these thirteen millions are found to be wanting in the
accounts?"
  "I do not say so; but the registry does."
  "And this letter of M. Mazarin indicates the employment of that sum,
and the name of the person with whom it was deposited?"
  "As your Majesty can judge for yourself."
  "Yes; and the result is, then, that M. Fouquet has not yet
restored the thirteen millions."
  "That results from the accounts, certainly, Sire."
  "Well, and consequently-"
  "Well, Sire, consequently, inasmuch as M. Fouquet has not given back
the thirteen millions, he must have appropriated them to his own
purposes; and with those thirteen millions one could incur four
times and a fraction as much expense and display as your Majesty was
able to do at Fontainebleau, where we spent only three millions
altogether, if you remember."
  For a blunderer, the souvenir he had evoked was a very skilfully
contrived piece of baseness, for in remembering his own fete the King,
thanks to a word of Fouquet, had for the first time perceived its
inferiority. Colbert received at Vaux what Fouquet had given him at
Fontainebleau; and as a good financier, he returned it with the best
possible interest. Having once disposed the King's mind in that way,
Colbert had nothing further to accomplish. He perceived it; the King
had become gloomy. Colbert awaited the first word from the King's lips
with as much impatience as Philippe and Aramis did from their place of
observation.
  "Are you aware what is the natural consequence of all this, M.
Colbert?" said the King, after a few moments' reflection.
  "No, Sire, I do not know."
  "Well, then, the fact of the appropriation of the thirteen millions,
if it can be proved-"
  "But it is so already."
  "I mean if it were to be declared, M. Colbert."
  "I think it will be to-morrow, if your Majesty-"
  "Were we not under M. Fouquet's roof, you were going to say,
perhaps," replied the King, with something of nobleness in his manner.
  "The King is in his own palace wherever he may be, and especially in
houses for which his own money has paid."
  "I think," said Philippe, in a low tone to Aramis, "that the
architect who constructed this dome ought, anticipating what use could
be made of it, so to have contrived that it might easily be made to
fall on the heads of scoundrels such as that M. Colbert."
  "I thought so, too," replied Aramis; "but M. Colbert is so very near
the King at this moment."
  "That is true, and that would open the succession."
  "Of which your younger brother would reap all the advantage,
Monseigneur. But, stay! let us keep quiet and listen."
  "We shall not have long to listen," said the young Prince.
  "Why not, Monseigneur?"
  "Because, if I were the King, I should not say anything further."
  "And what would you do?"
  "I should wait until to-morrow morning to give myself time for
reflection."
  Louis XIV at last raised his eyes, and finding Colbert attentively
waiting for his next remark, said, hastily changing the
conversation, "M. Colbert, I perceive it is getting very late, and I
shall now retire to bed."
  "Ah!" said Colbert, "I should have-"
  "Till to-morrow. By to-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind."
  "Very good, Sire," returned Colbert, greatly incensed, although he
restrained himself in the presence of the King.
  The King made a gesture of adieu, and Colbert withdrew with a
respectful bow. "My attendants!" cried the King; and they entered
the apartment.
  Philippe was about to quit his post of observation.
  "A moment longer," said Aramis to him, with his accustomed
gentleness of manner. "What has just now taken place is only a detail,
and to-morrow we shall have no occasion to think anything more about
it; but the ceremony of the King's retiring to rest, the etiquette
observed in undressing the King,- that, indeed, is important. Learn,
Sire, and study well how you ought to go to bed. Look! Look!"
                  Chapter XLIII: Colbert

  HISTORY Will tell us, or rather history has told us, of the
various events of the following day,- of the splendid fetes given by
the superintendent to his sovereign. There was nothing but amusement
and delight throughout the whole of the following day: there was a
promenade, a banquet, a comedy, in which to his great amazement
Porthos recognized "M. Coquelin de Voliere" as one of the actors, in
the piece called "Les Facheux."
  Full of preoccupation after the scene of the previous evening, and
hardly recovered from the effects of the poison which Colbert had then
administered to him, the King during the whole of the day, so
brilliant in its effects, so full of unexpected and startling
novelties, in which all the wonders of the "Arabian Nights'
Entertainments" seemed to be reproduced for his especial amusement,-
the King, we say, showed himself cold, reserved, and taciturn. Nothing
could smooth the frowns upon his face; every one who observed him
noticed that a deep feeling of resentment, of remote origin, increased
by slow degrees, as the source becomes a river, thanks to the thousand
threads of water which increase its body, was keenly alive in the
depths of the King's heart. Towards the middle of the day only did
he begin to resume a little serenity of manner, by that time he had,
in all probability, made up his mind. Aramis, who followed him step by
step in his thoughts as in his walk, concluded that the event which he
was expecting would soon occur.
  This time Colbert seemed to walk in concert with the Bishop of
Vannes; and had he received for every annoyance which he inflicted
on the King a word of direction from Aramis, he could not have done
better. During the whole of the day the King, who in all probability
wished to free himself from some of the thoughts which disturbed his
mind, seemed to seek La Valliere's society as actively as he sought to
avoid that of M. Colbert or M. Fouquet.
  The evening came. The King had expressed a wish not to walk in the
park until after cards in the evening. In the interval between
supper and the promenade, cards and dice were introduced. The King won
a thousand pistoles, and having won them put them in his pocket, and
then rose, saying, "And now, gentlemen, to the park." He found the
ladies of the court already there. The King, we have before
observed, had won a thousand pistoles, and had put them in his pocket.
But M. Fouquet had somehow contrived to lose ten thousand; so that
among the courtiers there was still left a hundred and ninety thousand
livres' profit to divide,- a circumstance which made the
countenances of the courtiers and the officers of the King's household
the most joyous in the world. It was not the same, however, with the
King's face; for notwithstanding his success at play, to which he
was by no means insensible, there still remained a slight shade of
dissatisfaction.
  Colbert was waiting for him at the corner of one of the avenues;
he was most probably waiting there by appointment, as Louis XIV, who
had avoided him or who had seemed to avoid him, suddenly made him a
sign, and they then struck into the depths of the park together.
  But La Valliere, too, had observed the King's gloomy aspect and
kindling glances. She had remarked this: and as nothing which lay
hidden or smouldering in his heart was impenetrable to her
affection, she understood that this repressed wrath menaced some
one. She put herself upon the road of vengeance, like an angel of
mercy. Overcome by sadness, nervously agitated, deeply distressed at
having been so long separated from her lover, disturbed at the sight
of that emotion which she had divined, she presented herself to the
King with an embarrassed aspect, which in his evil mood the King
interpreted unfavorably. Then, as they were alone, or nearly alone,-
inasmuch as Colbert, as soon as he perceived the young girl
approaching, had stopped and drawn back a dozen paces,- the King
advanced towards La Valliere and took her by the hand. "Mademoiselle,"
he said to her, "should I be guilty of an indiscretion if I were to
inquire if you are indisposed? You seem to breathe as if you were
distressed, and your eyes are filled with tears."
  "Oh, Sire, if I am distressed, and if my eyes are full of tears,
it is for the sadness of your Majesty."
  "My sadness? You are mistaken, Mademoiselle; no, it is not sadness I
experience."
  "What is it, then, Sire?"
  "Humiliation."
  "Humiliation? Oh, Sire, what a word for you to use!"
  "I mean, Mademoiselle, that wherever I may happen to be, no one else
ought to be the master. Well, then, look round you on every side,
and judge whether I am not eclipsed- I, the King of France- before the
king of these wide domains. Oh!" he continued, clinching his hands and
teeth, "when I think that this king-"
  "Well, Sire?" said Louise, terrified.
  "That this king is a faithless, unworthy servant, who becomes
proud with my stolen property- And therefore am I about to change this
impudent minister's fete into a sorrow and mourning of which the nymph
of Vaux, as the poets say, shall not soon lose the remembrance."
  "Oh! your Majesty-"
  "Well, Mademoiselle, are you about to take M. Fouquet's part?"
said Louis, impatiently.
  "No, Sire; I will only ask whether you are well informed. Your
Majesty has more than once learned the value of accusations made at
court."
  Louis XIV made a sign for Colbert to approach. "Speak, M.
Colbert," said the young King; "for I almost believe that Mademoiselle
de la Valliere has need of your assurance before she can put any faith
in the King's word. Tell Mademoiselle what M. Fouquet has done; and
you, Mademoiselle, will perhaps have the kindness to listen. It will
not be long."
  Why did Louis XIV insist upon it in such a manner? For a very simple
reason,- his heart was not at rest; his mind was not thoroughly
convinced; he imagined there was some dark, hidden, tortuous
intrigue concealed beneath these thirteen million livres; and he
wished that the pure heart of La Valliere, which had revolted at the
idea of a theft or robbery, should approve, even were it only by a
single word, the resolution which he had taken, and which,
nevertheless, he hesitated about carrying into execution.
  "Speak, Monsieur," said La Valliere to Colbert, who had advanced;
"speak, since the King wishes me to listen to you. Tell me, what is
the crime with which M. Fouquet is charged?"
  "Oh, not very heinous, Mademoiselle," he returned,- "a simple
abuse of confidence."
  "Speak, speak, Colbert; and when you shall have related it, leave
us, and go and inform M. d'Artagnan that I have orders to give him."
  "M. d'Artagnan, Sire!" exclaimed La Valliere; "but why send for M.
d'Artagnan? I entreat you to tell me."
  "Pardieu! in order to arrest this haughty Titan, who, true to his
motto, threatens to scale my heaven."
  "Arrest M. Fouquet, do you say?"
  "Ah! does that surprise you?"
  "In his own house?"
  "Why not? If he be guilty, he is guilty in his own house as anywhere
else."
  "M. Fouquet, who at this moment is ruining himself for his
sovereign!"
  "I believe, Mademoiselle, you are defending this traitor!"
  Colbert began to chuckle silently. The King turned round at the
sound of this suppressed mirth.
  "Sire," said La Valliere, "it is not M. Fouquet I am defending; it
is yourself."
  "Me! you defend me?"
  "Sire, you would be dishonoring yourself if you were to give such an
order."
  "Dishonor myself?" murmured the King, turning pale with anger. "In
truth, Mademoiselle, you put a strange eagerness into what you say."
  "I put eagerness not into what I say, but into serving your
Majesty," replied the noble-hearted girl; "in that I would lay down my
life, were it needed, and with the same eagerness, Sire."
  Colbert seemed inclined to grumble. La Valliere, that gentle lamb,
turned round upon him, and with a glance like lightning imposed
silence upon him. "Monsieur," she said, "when the King acts well, if
in doing so he does either myself or those who belong to me an injury,
I have nothing to say; but were the King to confer a benefit either
upon me or mine, and if he acted badly, I should tell him so."
  "But it appears to me, Mademoiselle," Colbert ventured to say, "that
I too love the King."
  "Yes, Monsieur, we both love him, but each in a different manner,"
replied La Valliere, with such an accent that the heart of the young
King was powerfully affected by it. "I love him so deeply that the
whole world is aware of it, so purely that the King himself does not
doubt my love. He is my King and my master; I am the humblest of his
servants. But he who touches his honor touches my life. Now, I
repeat that they dishonor the King who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet
under his own roof."
  Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the King had
abandoned him. However, as he bent his head, he murmured,
"Mademoiselle, I have only one word to say."
  "Do not say it, then, Monsieur; for I would not listen to it.
Besides, what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been
guilty of certain crimes? I know he has, because the King has said so;
and from the moment the King said, 'I believe,' I have no occasion for
other lips to say, 'I affirm.' But were M. Fouquet the vilest of
men, I should say aloud, 'M. Fouquet's person is sacred to the King
because he is the King's host. Were his house a den of thieves, were
Vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace is
inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and it is an asylum
which even executioners would not dare to violate.'"
  La Valliere paused, and was silent. In spite of himself, the King
could not but admire her; he was overpowered by the passionate
energy of her voice, by the nobleness of the cause she advocated.
Colbert yielded, overcome by the inequality of the struggle. At last
the King breathed again more freely, shook his head, and held out
his hand to La Valliere. "Mademoiselle," he said gently, "why do you
decide against me? Do you know what this wretched fellow will do, if I
give him time to breathe again?"
  "Is he not a prey which will always be within your grasp?"
  "And if he escapes, and takes to flight?" exclaimed Colbert.
  "Well, Monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the King's
eternal honor, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty
he may have been, the greater will the King's honor and glory
appear, when compared with such misery and such shame."
  Louis kissed La Valliere's hand, as he knelt before her.
  "I am lost!" thought Colbert; then suddenly his face brightened up
again. "Oh, no, no, not yet!" he said to himself.
  And while the King, protected from observation by the thick covert
of an enormous lime, pressed La Valliere to his breast with all the
ardor of ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly looked among the
papers in his pocketbook, and drew out of it a paper folded in the
form of a letter, slightly yellow, perhaps, but which must have been
very precious, since the intendant smiled as he looked at it; he
then bent a look full of hatred upon the charming group which the
young girl and the King formed together,- a group which was revealed
for a moment as the light of the approaching torches shone upon it.
  Louis noticed the light reflected upon La Valliere's white dress.
"Leave me, Louise," he said, "some one is coming."
  "Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, some one is coming," cried Colbert,
to expedite the young girl's departure.
  Louise disappeared rapidly among the trees; and then, as the King,
who had been on his knees before the young girl, was rising from his
humble posture, Colbert exclaimed, "Ah! Mademoiselle de la Valliere
has let something fall."
  "What is it?" inquired the King.
  "A paper,- a letter,- something white; look there, Sire!"
  "The King stooped down immediately, and picked up the letter,
crumpling it in his hand as he did so; and at the same moment the
torches arrived, inundating the darkness of the scene with a flood
of light as bright as day.
                  Chapter XLIV: Jealousy

  THE torches to which we have just referred, the eager attention
which every one displayed, and the new ovation paid to the King by
Fouquet arrived in time to suspend the effect of a resolution which La
Valliere had already considerably shaken in Louis XIV's heart. He
looked at Fouquet with a feeling almost of gratitude for having
given La Valliere an opportunity of showing herself so generously
disposed, so powerful in the influence she exercised over his heart.
The moment of the last and greatest display had arrived. Hardly had
Fouquet conducted the King towards the chateau, when a mass of fire
burst from the dome of Vaux with a prodigious uproar, pouring a
flood of dazzling light on every side, and illumining the remotest
corners of the gardens. The fireworks began. Colbert, at twenty
paces from the King, who was surrounded and feted by the masters of
Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate persistence of his gloomy thoughts,
to do his utmost to recall Louis's attention, which the magnificence
of the spectacle was already, in his opinion, too easily diverting.
  Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of holding his hand out
to Fouquet, he perceived in it the paper which, as he believed, La
Valliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still
stronger magnet of love drew the young King's attention to the
souvenir of his idol; and by the brilliant light, which increased
momentarily in beauty, and drew forth from the neighboring villages
loud exclamations of admiration, the King read the letter, which he
supposed was a loving and tender epistle that La Valliere had destined
for him. But as he read it, a deathlike pallor stole over his face,
and an expression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the
many-colored fires, produced a terrible spectacle, which every one
would have shuddered at, could they only have read his heart, which
was torn by the most stormy passions. For him there was no more
truce with jealousy and rage. From the moment when the dark truth
was revealed to him, every gentler feeling disappeared,- piety,
kindness, the religion of hospitality. In the bitter pang which
wrung his heart, still too weak to hide his sufferings, he was
almost on the point of uttering a cry of alarm, and calling his guards
to gather round him. This letter which Colbert had thrown down at
the King's feet, the reader has doubtless guessed, was the same that
had disappeared with the porter Toby, at Fontainebleau, after the
attempt which Fouquet had made upon La Valliere's heart. Fouquet saw
the King's pallor, and was far from guessing the evil. Colbert saw the
King's anger, and rejoiced inwardly at the approach of the storm.
  Fouquet's voice drew the young King from his wrathful reverie. "What
is the matter, Sire?" inquired the superintendent, with an
expression of graceful interest.
  Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, "Nothing."
  "I am afraid your Majesty is suffering?"
  "I am suffering, and have already told you so, Monsieur; but it is
nothing." The King, without waiting for the termination of the
fireworks, turned towards the chateau. Fouquet accompanied him; and
the whole court followed them, leaving the remains of the fireworks
burning for their own amusement. The superintendent endeavored again
to question Louis XIV, but obtained no reply. He imagined that there
had been some misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in the
park, which had resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the King, who
was not ordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by
his passion for La Valliere, had taken a dislike to every one
because his mistress had shown herself offended with him. This idea
was sufficient to reassure him; he had even a friendly and kindly
smile for the young King, when the latter wished him good-night. This,
however, was not all the King had to submit to; he was obliged to
undergo the usual ceremony, which on that evening was marked by the
closest adherence to the strictest etiquette. The next day was the one
fixed for the departure; it was but proper that the guests should
thank their host, and should show him a little attention in return for
the expenditure of his twelve millions. The only remark approaching to
amiability which the King could find to say to Fouquet, as he took
leave of him, was in these words: "M. Fouquet, you shall hear from me.
Be good enough to desire M. d'Artagnan to come here!"
  The blood of Louis XIV, who had so profoundly dissimulated his
feelings, boiled in his veins; he was perfectly ready to get Fouquet's
throat cut, as his predecessor had caused the assassination of the
Marechal d'Ancre. He concealed, beneath one of those royal smiles
which are the lightning flashes to the thunderbolts of the State,
the terrible resolution he had formed. Fouquet took the King's hand,
and kissed it. Louis shuddered throughout his whole frame, but allowed
Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips.
  Five minutes afterwards, d'Artagnan, to whom the royal order had
been communicated, entered Louis XIV's apartment. Aramis and
Philippe were in theirs, still eagerly attentive and still
listening. The King did not even give the captain of the Musketeers
time to approach his arm-chair, but ran forward to meet him. "Take
care," he exclaimed, "that no one enters here!"
  "Very good, Sire," replied the captain, whose glance had for a
long time past analyzed the ravages on the King's countenance. He gave
the necessary order at the door; but returning to the King he said,
"Is there some new trouble, your Majesty?"
  "How many men have you here?" said the King, without making other
reply to the question addressed to him.
  "What for, Sire?"
  "How many men have you, I say?" repeated the King, stamping upon the
ground with his foot.
  "I have the Musketeers."
  "Well; and what others?"
  "Twenty Guards and thirteen Swiss."
  "How many men will be required to-"
  "To do what, Sire?" replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm
eyes.
  "To arrest M. Fouquet."
  D'Artagnan fell back a step. "To arrest M. Fouquet!" he burst forth.
  "Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?" exclaimed the
King, with cold and vindictive passion.
  "I never said that anything is impossible," replied d'Artagnan,
wounded to the quick.
  "Very well; do it, then."
  D'Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way towards the door,-
it was but a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen
paces. When he reached it he suddenly paused, and said, "Your
Majesty will forgive me; but in order to effect this arrest I should
like written directions."
  "For what purpose? and since when has the King's word been
insufficient for you?"
  "Because the word of a King when it springs from a feeling of
anger may possibly change when the feeling changes."
  "No more phrases, Monsieur; you have another thought besides that?"
  "Oh, I always have thoughts; and thoughts which, unfortunately,
others have not!" d'Artagnan replied impertinently.
  The King, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in
the face of that man, just as a horse crouches on his haunches under
the strong hand of a rider. "What is your thought?" he exclaimed.
  "This, Sire," replied d'Artagnan: you cause a man to be arrested
when you are still under his roof; and passion is alone the cause of
that. When your anger shall have passed away you will regret what
you have done; and then I wish to be in a position to show you your
signature. If that mends nothing, it will at least show us that the
King is wrong to lose his temper."
  "Wrong to lose his temper!" shouted the King, with frenzy. "Did
not my father, my grandfather too, before me, lose their temper,
body of Christ!"
  "The King your father and the King your grandfather never lost their
temper except in the privacy of their own palace."
  "The King is master wherever he may be."
  "That is a flattering phrase which cannot proceed from any one but
M. Colbert; but it happens not to be the truth. The King is at home in
every man's house when he has driven its owner out of it."
  The King bit his lips.
  "Can it be possible?" said d'Artagnan. "Here is a man who is ruining
himself in order to please you, and you wish to have him arrested!
Mordioux! Sire, if my name were Fouquet, and any one treated me in
that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp ten pieces of fireworks,
and I would set fire to them and blow myself and everybody else up
to the sky. But it is all the same; it is your wish, and it shall be
done."
  "Go!" said the King; "but have you men enough?"
  "Do you suppose I am going to take a whole host to help me? To
arrest M. Fouquet is so easy that a child might do it! It is like
drinking a glass of bitters: one makes an ugly face, and that is all."
  "If he defends himself?"
  "He! not at all likely. Defend himself when such extreme harshness
as you are going to practise makes him king and martyr! Nay, I am sure
that if he has a million livres left, which I very much doubt, he
would be willing enough to give it in order to have such a termination
as this. But what does that matter? It shall be done at once."
  "Stay!" said the King; "do not make his arrest a public affair."
  "That will be more difficult."
  "Why so?"
  "Because nothing is easier than to go up to M. Fouquet in the
midst of a thousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say
'In the King's name, I arrest you.' But to go up to him, to turn him
first one way and then another, to drive him up into one of the
corners of the chessboard in such a way that he cannot escape, to take
him away from his guests and keep him a prisoner for you without one
of them, alas! having heard anything about it,- that, indeed, is a
real difficulty,- the greatest of all, in truth; and I hardly see
how it is to be done."
  "You had better say it is impossible, and you will have finished
much sooner. Mon Dieu! I seem to be surrounded by people who prevent
my doing what I wish."
  "I do not prevent your doing anything. Are you decided?"
  "Take care of M. Fouquet until I shall have made up my mind by
tomorrow morning."
  "That shall be done, Sire."
  "And return, when I rise in the morning, for further orders; and now
leave me to myself."
  "You do not even want M. Colbert, then?" said the musketeer,
firing this last shot as he was leaving the room.
  The King started. With his whole mind fixed on the thought of
revenge, he had forgotten the cause and substance of the offence. "No,
no one," he said; "no one here. Leave me!"
  D'Artagnan quitted the room. The King closed the door with his own
hands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious
pace, like a wounded bull in an arena who drags after him the
colored streamers and iron darts. At last he began to take comfort
in the expression of his violent feelings.
  "Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances,
but with his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends,
generals, artists, and all; he even takes from me my mistress. Ah,
that is the reason why that perfidious girl so boldly took his part!
Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a stronger feeling,-
love itself?"
  He gave himself up for a moment to his bitter reflections. "A
satyr!" he thought, with that abhorrent hate with which young men
regard those more advanced in life, who still think of love. "A faun
who pursues a course of gallantry and has never met resistance; a
man for silly women, who lavishes his gold and jewels in every
direction, and who retains his staff of painters in order to take
the portraits of his mistresses in the costume of goddesses!" The King
trembled with passion as he continued: "He pollutes and profanes
everything that belongs to me; he destroys everything that is mine; he
will be my death at last! That man is too much for me; he is my mortal
enemy, and he shall fall! I hate him,- I hate him,- I hate him!" and
as he pronounced these words, he struck the arm of the chair in
which he was sitting, violently over and over again, and then rose,
like one in an epileptic fit. "To-morrow! tomorrow! oh, happy day!" he
murmured; "when the sun rises, no other rival will that bright orb
have but me. That man shall fall so low that when people look at the
utter ruin which my anger shall have wrought, they will be forced to
confess, at least, that I am indeed greater than he."
  The King, who was incapable of mastering his emotions any longer,
knocked over with a blow of his fist a small table placed close to his
bedside, and in the bitterness of feeling from which he was suffering,
almost weeping, and half suffocated by his passion, threw himself on
his bed, dressed as he was, and bit the sheets in the extremity of his
emotion, trying there to find at least repose of body. The bed creaked
beneath his weight; and with the exception of a few broken sounds
which escaped from his overburdened chest, absolute silence soon
reigned in the chamber of Morpheus.
                 Chapter XLV: High Treason

  THE ungovernable fury which took possession of the King at the sight
and at the perusal of Fouquet's letter to La Valliere by degrees
subsided into a feeling of painful weariness. Youth, full of health
and life, and requiring that what it loses should be immediately
restored,- youth knows not those endless, sleepless nights which
realize to the unhappy the fable of the liver of Prometheus,
unceasingly renewed. In instances where the man of middle life in
his acquired strength of will and purpose, and the old man in his
state of exhaustion find an incessant renewal of their sorrow, a young
man, surprised by the sudden appearance of a misfortune, weakens
himself in sighs and groans and tears, in direct struggles with it,
and is thereby far sooner overthrown by the inflexible enemy with whom
he is engaged. Once overthrown, his sufferings cease. Louis was
conquered in a quarter of an hour. Then he ceased to clinch his hands,
and to burn with his looks the invisible objects of his hatred; he
ceased to attack with violent imprecations M. Fouquet and La Valliere:
from fury he subsided into despair, and from despair to prostration.
After he had thrown himself for a few minutes to and fro
convulsively on his bed, his nerveless arms fell quietly down, his
head lay languidly on his pillow; his limbs, exhausted by his
excessive emotions, still trembled occasionally, agitated by slight
muscular contractions; and from his breast only faint and unfrequent
sighs still issued.
  Morpheus, the tutelary deity of the apartment which bore his name,
towards whom Louis raised his eyes, wearied by his anger and
reddened by his tears, showered down upon him copiously the
sleep-inducing poppies, so that the King gently closed his eyes and
fell asleep. Then it seemed to him, as it often happens in that
first sleep, so light and gentle, which raises the body above the
couch, the soul above the earth,- it seemed to him as if the god
Morpheus, painted on the ceiling, looked at him with eyes quite human;
that something shone brightly, and moved to and fro in the dome
above the sleeper; that the crowd of terrible dreams, moving off for
an instant, left uncovered a human face, with a hand resting against
the mouth, and in an attitude of deep and absorbed meditation. And
strange enough, too, this man bore so wonderful a resemblance to the
King himself, that Louis fancied he was looking at his own face
reflected in a mirror; only, that face was saddened by a feeling of
the profoundest pity. Then it seemed to him as if the dome gradually
retired, escaping from his gaze, and that the figures and attributes
painted by Lebrun became darker and darker as the distance became more
and more remote. A gentle, easy movement, as regular as that by
which a vessel plunges beneath the waves, had succeeded to the
immovableness of the bed. Doubtless the King was dreaming; and in this
dream the crown of gold which fastened the curtains together seemed to
recede from his vision, just as the dome, to which it remained
suspended, had done; so that the winged genius which with both its
hands supported the crown seemed, though vainly so, to call upon the
King, who was fast disappearing from it.
  The bed still sank. Louis, with his eyes open, could not resist
the deception of this cruel hallucination. At last, as the light of
the royal chamber faded away into darkness and gloom, something
cold, gloomy, and inexplicable seemed to infect the air. No paintings,
nor gold, nor velvet hangings were visible any longer,- nothing but
walls of a dull gray color, which the increasing gloom made darker
every moment. And yet the bed still continued to descend; and after
a minute, which seemed in its duration almost an age to the King, it
reached a stratum of air black and still as death, and then it
stopped. The King could no longer see the light in his room, except as
from the bottom of a well we can see the light of day. "I am under the
influence of a terrible dream," he thought. "It is time to arouse
myself. Come, let us wake up!"
  Every one has experienced what the above remark conveys; there is no
one who in the midst of a suffocating nightmare has not said to
himself, by the help of that light which still burns in the brain when
every human light is extinguished, "It is nothing but a dream, after
all." This was precisely what Louis XIV said to himself. But when he
said, "Let us wake up," he perceived that not only was he already
awake, but still more, that he had his eyes open also. He then
looked around him. On his right hand and on his left two armed men
stood silently, each wrapped in a huge cloak, and the face covered
with a mask; one of them held a small lamp in his hand, whose
glimmering light revealed the saddest picture a king could look upon.
  Louis said to himself that his dream still lasted, and that all he
had to do to cause it to disappear was to move his arms or to say
something aloud. He darted from his bed, and found himself upon the
damp ground. Then, addressing himself to the man who held the lamp
in his hand, he said, "What is this, Monsieur, and what is the meaning
of this jest?"
  "It is no jest," replied, in a deep voice, the masked figure that
held the lantern.
  "Do you belong to M. Fouquet?" inquired the King, greatly astonished
at his situation.
  "It matters very little to whom we belong," said the phantom. "We
are your masters; that is sufficient."
  The King, more impatient than intimidated, turned to the other
masked figure. "If this is a comedy," he said, "you will tell M.
Fouquet that I find it unseemly, and that I desire it should cease."
  The second masked person to whom the King had addressed himself
was a man of huge stature and vast circumference. He held himself
erect and motionless as a block of marble.
  "Well," added the King, stamping his foot, "you do not answer!"
  "We do not answer you, my good monsieur," said the giant, in a
stentorian voice, "because there is nothing to answer, except that you
are the chief facheux, and that M. Coquelin de Voliere forgot to
include you in the number of his."
  "At least, tell me what you want!" exclaimed Louis, folding his arms
with a passionate gesture.
  "You will know by and by," replied the man who held the lamp.
  "In the meantime tell me where I am."
  "Look!"
  Louis looked all round him; but by the light of the lamp which the
masked figure raised for the purpose, he could perceive nothing but
the damp walls, which glistened here and there with the slimy traces
of the snail. "Oh! oh! a dungeon," said the King.
  "No, a subterranean passage."
  "Which leads-"
  "Will you be good enough to follow us?"
  "I shall not stir from hence!" cried the King.
  "If you are obstinate, my dear young friend," replied the taller and
stouter of the two, "I will lift you up in my arms, will roll you up
in a cloak, and if you are stifled there, why, so much the worse for
you!" and as he said this he disengaged from beneath the cloak with
which he had threatened the King a hand of which Milo of Crotona would
have envied him the possession on the day when he had that unhappy
idea of rending his last oak.
  The King dreaded violence; for he could well believe that the two
men into whose power he had fallen had not gone so far with any idea
of drawing back, and that they would consequently be ready to
proceed to extremities if necessary. He shook his head, and said:
"It seems I have fallen into the hands of a couple of assassins.
Move on, then!"
  Neither of the men answered a word to this remark. The one who
carried the lantern walked first, the King followed him, while the
second masked figure closed the procession. In this manner they passed
along a winding gallery of some length, with as many staircases
leading out of it as are to be found in the mysterious and gloomy
palace of Ann Radcliffe. All these windings, throughout which the King
heard the sound of falling water over his head, ended at last in a
long corridor closed by an iron door. The figure with the lamp
opened the door with one of the keys he wore suspended at his
girdle, where during the whole of the time the King had heard them
rattle. As soon as the door was opened and admitted the air, Louis
recognized the balmy odors which the trees exhale after a hot summer's
day. He paused hesitatingly for a moment or two; but his huge
companion who followed him thrust him out of the subterranean passage.
  "Another blow!" said the King, turning towards the one who had
just had the audacity to touch his sovereign; "what do you intend to
do with the King of France?"
  "Try to forget that word," replied the man with the lamp, in a
tone which as little admitted of reply as one of the famous decrees of
Minos.
  "You deserve to be broken on the wheel for the word you have just
made use of," said the giant, as he extinguished the lamp his
companion handed to him; "but the King is too kind-hearted."
  Louis, at that threat, made so sudden a movement that it seemed as
if he meditated flight; but the giant's hand was placed on his
shoulder, and fixed him motionless where he stood. "But tell me, at
least, where we are going," said the King.
  "Come!" replied the former of the two men, with a kind of respect in
his manner, and leading his prisoner towards a carriage which seemed
to be in waiting.
  The carriage was completely concealed amid the trees. Two horses,
with their feet fettered, were fastened by a halter to the lower
branches of a large oak.
  "Get in," said the same man, opening the carriage door and letting
down the step. The King obeyed, seated himself at the back of the
carriage, the padded door of which was shut and locked immediately
upon him and his guide. As for the giant, he cut the fastenings by
which the horses were bound, harnessed them himself, and mounted on
the box of the carriage, which was unoccupied. The carriage set off
immediately at a quick trot, turned into the road to Paris, and in the
forest of Senart found a relay of horses fastened to the trees in
the same manner in which the first horses had been, and without a
postilion. The man on the box changed the horses, and continued to
follow the road towards Paris with the same rapidity, and entered
the city about three o'clock in the morning. The carriage proceeded
along the Faubourg St. Antoine, and after having called out to the
sentinel, "By the King's order!" the driver conducted the horses
into the circular enclosure of the Bastille, looking out upon the
courtyard called La Cour du Gouvernement. There the horses drew up,
reeking with sweat, at the flight of steps, and a sergeant of the
guard ran forward.
  "Go and wake the governor!" said the coachman, in a voice of
thunder.
  With the exception of this voice, which might have been heard at the
entrance of the Faubourg St. Antoine, everything remained as calm in
the carriage as in the prison. Ten minutes afterwards, M. de
Baisemeaux appeared in his dressing-gown on the threshold of the door.
"What is the matter now?" he asked; "and whom have you brought me
there?"
  The man with the lantern opened the carriage door, and said two or
three words to the one who acted as driver, who immediately got down
from his seat, took up a short musket which he kept under his feet,
and placed its muzzle on the prisoner's chest.
  "Fire at once if he speaks!" added, aloud, the man who alighted from
the carriage.
  "Very good!" replied his companion, without any other remark.
  With this recommendation, the person who had accompanied the King in
the carriage ascended the flight of steps, at the top of which the
governor was awaiting him. "M. d'Herblay!" said the latter.
  "Hush!" said Aramis; "Let us go into your room."
  "Good heavens! what brings you here at this hour?"
  "A mistake, my dear M. de Baisemeaux," Aramis replied quietly. "It
appears that you were right the other day."
  "What about?" inquired the governor.
  "About the order of release, my dear friend."
  "Tell me what you mean, Monsieur,- no, Monseigneur," said the
governor, almost suffocated by surprise and terror.
  "It is a very simple affair. You remember, dear M. de Baisemeaux,
that an order of release was sent to you?"
  "Yes, for Marchiali."
  "Very good! we both thought that it was for Marchiali?"
  "Certainly. You will recollect, however, that I did not believe
it; that I was unwilling; that you compelled me."
  "Oh, Baisemeaux, my good fellow, what a word to make use of!-
advised, that was all."
  "Advised,- yes, advised me to give him up to you; and that you
carried him off with you in your carriage."
  "Well, my dear M. de Baisemeaux, it was a mistake. It was discovered
at the Ministry; so that I now bring you an order from the King to set
at liberty Seldon,- that poor devil of a Scotchman, you know."
  "Seldon! are you sure this time?"
  "Well, read it yourself," added Aramis, handing him the order.
  "Why," said Baisemeaux, "this order is the very same that has
already passed through my hands."
  "Indeed?"
  "It is the very one I assured you I saw the other evening.
Parbleu! I recognize it by the blot of ink."
  "I do not know whether it is that; but, at any rate, it is the one I
bring you."
  "But, then, about the other?"
  "What other?"
  "Marchiali?"
  "I have him here with me."
  "But that is not enough for me. I require a new order to take him
back again."
  "Don't talk such nonsense, my dear Baisemeaux; you talk like a
child! Where is the order you received respecting Marchiali?"
  Baisemeaux ran to his iron chest and took it out. Aramis seized hold
of it, coolly tore it in four pieces, held them to the lamp, and
burned them.
  "Good heavens! what are you doing?" exclaimed Baisemeaux, in an
extremity of terror.
  "Look at your position a little, my dear governor," said Aramis,
with his imperturbable self-possession, "and you will see that it is
very simple. You no longer possess any order justifying Marchiali's
release."
  "I am a lost man!"
  "Far from it, my good fellow, since I have brought Marchiali back to
you, and it is just the same as if he had never left."
  "Ah!" said the governor, completely overcome by terror.
  "Plain enough, you see; and you will go and shut him up
immediately."
  "I should think so, indeed."
  "And you will hand over to me this Seldon, whose liberation is
authorized by this order. In this way you square your conduct; do
you understand?"
  "I- I-"
  "You do understand, I see," said Aramis. "Very good!"
  Baisemeaux clasped his hands together.
  "But why, at all events, after having taken Marchiali away from
me, do you bring him back again?" cried the unhappy governor, in a
paroxysm of terror and completely dumfounded.
  "For a friend such as you are," said Aramis, "for so devoted a
servant, I have no secrets"; and he put his mouth close to
Baisemeaux's ear, as he said in a low tone of voice, "you know the
resemblance between that unfortunate fellow and-"
  "And the King?- yes."
  "Very good; the very first use that Marchiali made of his liberty
was to pretend- Can you guess what?"
  "How is it likely I should guess?"
  "To pretend that he was the King of France."
  "Oh, the wretch!" cried Baisemeaux.
  "To dress himself up in clothes like those of the King, and
attempt to play the role of usurper."
  "Gracious heavens!"
  "That is the reason why I have brought him back again, my dear
friend. He is mad, and lets every one see how mad he is."
  "What is to be done, then?"
  "That is very simple; let no one hold any communication with him.
You understand that when his peculiar style of madness came to the
King's ears, the King, who had pitied his terrible affliction, and saw
how his kindness of heart had been repaid by such black ingratitude,
became perfectly furious; so that now,- and remember this very
distinctly, dear M. de Baisemeaux, for it concerns you most
closely,- so that there is now, I repeat, sentence of death pronounced
against all those who may allow him to communicate with any one else
save me or the King himself. You understand, Baisemeaux,- sentence
of death!"
  "Do I understand? Morbleu!"
  "And now go down and conduct this poor devil back to his dungeon
again, unless you prefer he should come up here."
  "What would be the good of that?"
  "It would be better, perhaps, to enter his name in the prison-book
at once!"
  "Pardieu!"
  "Well, then, have him up!"
  Baisemeaux ordered the drums to be beaten and the bell to be rung,
as a warning to every one to retire in order to avoid meeting a
mysterious prisoner. Then, when the passages were free, he went to
take the prisoner from the carriage, at whose breast Porthos, faithful
to the directions which had been given him, still kept his musket
levelled. "Ah! is that you, miserable wretch?" cried the governor,
as soon as he perceived the King. "Very good, very good!" and
immediately, making the King get out of the carriage, he led him,
still accompanied by Porthos, who had not taken off his mask, and
Aramis, who again resumed his, up the stairs, to the second
Bertaudiere, and opened the door of the room in which Philippe for six
long years had bemoaned his existence. The King entered the cell
without pronouncing a single word; he was pale and haggard.
  Baisemeaux shut the door upon him, turned the key twice in the lock,
and then returned to Aramis. "It is quite true," he said in a low
tone, "that he has a rather strong resemblance to the King, but
still less so than you said."
  "So that," said Aramis, "you would not have been deceived by the
substitution of the one for the other."
  "What a question!" "You are a most valuable fellow, Baisemeaux,"
said Aramis; "and now, set Seldon free!"
  "Oh, yes; I was going to forget that. I will go and give orders at
once."
  "Bah! to-morrow will be time enough."
  "To-morrow!- oh, no! This very minute!"
  "Well, go off to your affairs! I shall go away to mine. But it is
quite understood, is it not?"
  "What is 'quite understood'?"
  "That no one is to enter the prisoner's cell, except with an order
from the King,- an order which I will myself bring."
  "That is understood. Adieu, Monseigneur!" Aramis returned to his
companion. "Now, Porthos, my good fellow, back again to Vaux, and as
fast as possible!"
  "A man is light when he has faithfully served his King, and in
serving him saved his country," said Porthos. "The horses will have
nothing to draw. Let us be off!" and the carriage, lightened of a
prisoner who in fact seemed to Aramis very heavy, passed across the
drawbridge of the Bastille, which was raised again immediately
behind it.
            Chapter XLVI: A Night in the Bastille

  SUFFERING in human life is proportioned to human strength. We will
not pretend to say that God always apportions to a man's capability of
endurance the anguish he permits him to suffer; such, indeed, would
not be exact, since God permits the existence of death, which is
sometimes the only refuge open to those who are too closely
pressed,- too bitterly afflicted, so far as the body is concerned.
Suffering is proportioned to strength in this sense,- that the weak
suffer more, where the trial is the same, than the strong. And what
are the elementary principles which compose human strength? Are they
not- more than anything else- exercise, habit, experience? We shall
not even take the trouble to demonstrate that; it is an axiom in
morals as in physics.
  When the young King, stupefied, crushed, found himself led to a cell
in the Bastille, he fancied at first that death is like sleep, and has
its dreams; that the bed had broken through the flooring of his room
at Vaux; that death had resulted; and that, still carrying out his
dream, Louis XIV, now dead, was dreaming of those horrors,
impossible to realize in life, which are termed dethronement,
imprisonment, and degradation of a King all-powerful but yesterday. To
be a spectator, as palpable phantom, of his own wretched suffering; to
float in an incomprehensible mystery between resemblance and
reality; to hear everything, to see everything, without confusing
the details of that agony,- "was it not," said the King to himself, "a
torture the more terrible since it might be eternal?"
  "Is this what is termed eternity,- hell?" Louis murmured at the
moment the door closed upon him, shut by Baisemeaux himself. He did
not even look around him; and in that chamber, leaning with his back
against the wall, he allowed himself to be carried away by the
terrible supposition that he was already dead, as he closed his eyes
in order to avoid looking upon something even worse. "How can I have
died?" he said to himself, almost insensible. "Could that bed have
been let down by some artificial means? But, no! I do not remember
to have received any contusion or any shock. Would they not rather
have poisoned me at one of my meals, or with the fumes of wax, as they
did my ancestress Jeanne d'Albret?"
  Suddenly the chill of the dungeon seemed to fall like a cloak upon
Louis's shoulders. "I have seen," he said, "My father lying dead
upon his funeral couch, in his regal robes. That pale face, so calm
and worn; those hands, once so skilful, lying nerveless by his side;
those limbs stiffened by the icy grasp of death,- nothing there
betokened a sleep disturbed by dreams. And yet what dreams God might
have sent to him,- to him whom so many others had preceded, hurried
away by him into eternal death! No, that King was still the King; he
was enthroned still upon that funereal couch, as upon a velvet
arm-chair; he had not abdicated aught of his majesty. God, who had not
punished him, cannot punish me, who have done nothing."
  A strange sound attracted the young man's attention. He looked round
him, and saw on the mantel-shelf, just below an enormous crucifix
coarsely painted in fresco on the wall, a rat of enormous size engaged
in nibbling a piece of dry bread, but fixing all the time an
intelligent and inquiring look upon the new occupant of the cell.
The King could not resist a sudden impulse of fear and disgust. He
moved back towards the door, uttering a loud cry; and as if he but
needed this cry, which escaped from his breast almost unconsciously,
to recognize himself, Louis knew that he was alive and in full
possession of his natural senses. "A prisoner!" he cried. "I- a
prisoner!" He looked round him for a bell to summon some one to him.
"There are no bells in the Bastille," he said, "and it is in the
Bastille I am imprisoned. In what way can I have been made a prisoner?
It is, of course, a conspiracy of M. Fouquet. I have been drawn into a
snare at Vaux. M. Fouquet cannot be acting alone in this affair. His
agent,- that voice I but just now heard was M. d'Herblay's; I
recognized it. Colbert was right, then. But what is Fouquet's
object? To reign in my place and stead? Impossible! Yet, who knows?"
thought the King, relapsing into gloom. "Perhaps my brother the Duc
d'Orleans is doing against me what my uncle, all through his life,
wished to do against my father. But the Queen?- My mother too? And
La Valliere? Oh! La Valliere,- she will have been abandoned to Madame.
Dear child!- yes, it is so; they have shut her up, as they have me. We
are separated forever!" and at this idea of separation the lover burst
into tears, with sobs and groans.
  "There is a governor in this place," the King continued, in a fury
of passion. "I will speak to him; I will summon him."
  He called; but no voice replied to his. He seized his chair, and
hurled it against the massive oaken door. The wood resounded against
the door, and awakened many a mournful echo in the profound depths
of the staircase; but no one responded.
  This was for the King a fresh proof of the slight regard in which he
was held in the Bastille. Therefore, when his first fit of anger had
passed away, having noticed a barred window, through which there
passed a stream of light, lozenge-shaped, which must be the luminous
dawn, Louis began to call out, at first gently, then louder and louder
still; but no one replied to him. Twenty other attempts which he made,
one after another, obtained no better success. His blood began to boil
within him, and mount to his head. His nature was such that,
accustomed to command, he trembled at the idea of disobedience. By
degrees his anger increased. The prisoner broke the chair, which was
too heavy for him to lift, and made use of it as a battering-ram to
strike against the door. He struck with such force and rapidity that
the perspiration soon began to pour down his face. The sound became
tremendous and continuous; stifled cries replied in different
directions.
  This sound produced a strange effect upon the King; he paused to
listen to it. It was the voices of the prisoners,- formerly his
victims, now his companions. The voices ascended like vapors through
the thick ceilings and the massive walls; they complained against
the author of this noise, as doubtless their sighs and tears
accused, in whispered tones, the author of their captivity. After
having deprived so many persons of their liberty, the King had come
among them to rob them of their sleep. This idea almost drove him mad;
it redoubled his strength, or rather his will, bent upon obtaining
some information or some result. With a portion of the broken chair he
recommenced the noise. At the end of an hour Louis heard something
in the corridor behind the door of his cell; and a violent blow
which was returned upon the door itself made him cease his own.
  "Ah, there! are you mad?" said a rude, brutal voice. "What is the
matter with you this morning?"
  "This morning!" thought the King, surprised; but he said aloud,
politely, "Monsieur, are you the governor of the Bastille?"
  "My good fellow, your head is out of sorts," replied the voice; "but
that is no reason why you should make such a terrible disturbance.
Be quiet, mordieu!"
  "Are you the governor?" the King inquired again.
  He heard a door on the corridor close; the jailer had left without
condescending to reply. When the King had assured himself of his
departure, his fury knew no longer any bounds. As agile as a tiger, he
leaped from the table to the window, and shook the iron bars. He broke
a pane of glass, the pieces of which fell clanking into the
courtyard below. He shouted with increasing hoarseness, "The governor,
the governor!" This excess lasted fully an hour, during which time
he was in a burning fever. With his hair in disorder and matted on his
forehead, his dress torn and whitened, his linen in shreds, the King
never rested until his strength was utterly exhausted; and it was
not until then that he clearly understood the pitiless thickness of
the walls, the impenetrable nature of the cement, invincible to all
other influence save that of time, and that he possessed no other
weapon but despair. He leaned his forehead against the door, and let
the feverish throbbings of his heart calm by degrees; an additional
pulsation would have made it burst.
  "A moment will come when the food which is given to the prisoners
will be brought to me. I shall then see some one; I shall speak to
him, and get an answer."
  Then the King tried to remember at what hour the first repast of the
prisoners was served in the Bastille; he was ignorant even of this
detail. The feeling of remorse at this remembrance smote him like
the keen thrust of a dagger,- that he should have lived for
five-and-twenty years a King, and in the enjoyment of every happiness,
without having bestowed a moment's thought on the misery of those
who had been unjustly deprived of their liberty. The King blushed from
shame. He felt that Heaven, in permitting this fearful humiliation,
did no more than render to the man the same torture which was
inflicted by that man upon so many others. Nothing could be more
efficacious toward awakening religious feeling in that soul prostrated
by the sense of suffering. But Louis dared not even kneel in prayer to
God to entreat him to terminate his bitter trial.
  "Heaven is right," he said; "Heaven acts wisely. It would be
cowardly to pray to Heaven for that which I have so often refused to
my own fellow-creatures."
  He had reached this stage of his reflections,- that is, of his agony
of mind,- when the same noise was again heard behind his door,
followed this time by the sound of the key in the lock, and of the
bolts withdrawn from their staples. The King bounded forward to be
nearer to the person who was about to enter; but suddenly reflecting
that it was a movement unworthy of a sovereign, he paused, assumed a
noble and calm expression, which for him was easy enough, and waited
with his back turned towards the window, in order to some extent to
conceal his agitation from the eyes of the person who was about
entering. It was only a jailer with a basket of provisions. The King
looked at the man with anxiety, and waited for him to speak.
  "Ah!" said the latter, "you have broken your chair, I should say!
Why, you must have become quite mad."
  "Monsieur," said the King, "be careful what you say; it will be a
very serious affair for you."
  The jailer placed the basket on the table, and looked at his
prisoner steadily. "What do you say?" he said with surprise.
  "Desire the governor to come to me," added the King, with dignity.
  "Come, my boy," said the turnkey, "you have always been very quiet
and reasonable; but you are getting vicious, it seems, and I wish to
give you warning. You have broken your chair, and made a great
disturbance; that is an offence punishable by imprisonment in one of
the lower dungeons. Promise me not to begin over again, and I will not
say a word about it to the governor."
  "I wish to see the governor," replied the King, still controlling
his passion.
  "He will send you off to one of the dungeons, I tell you; so take
care!"
  "I insist upon it!- do you hear?"
  "Ah! ah! your eyes are becoming wild again. Very good! I shall
take away your knife."
  The jailer did as he had said, closed the door and departed, leaving
the King more astounded, more wretched, and more alone than ever. In
vain he began again to pound the door; in vain he threw the plates and
dishes out of the window; not a sound was heard in answer. Two hours
later he could not be recognized as a King, a gentleman, a man, a
human being; he might rather be called a madman, tearing the door with
his nails, trying to tear up the flooring of his cell, and uttering
such wild and fearful cries that the old Bastille seemed to tremble to
its very foundations for having revolted against its master. As for
the governor, the jailer did not even think of disturbing him; the
turnkeys and the sentinels had made their report, but what was the
good of it? Were not these madmen common enough in the fortress, and
were not the walls still stronger than they?
  M. de Baisemeaux, thoroughly impressed with what Aramis had told
him, and in perfect conformity with the King's order, hoped only
that one thing might happen; namely, that the madman Marchiali might
be mad enough to hang himself to the canopy of his bed or to one of
the bars of the window. In fact, the prisoner was anything but a
profitable investment for M. Baisemeaux, and became more annoying than
agreeable to him. These complications of Seldon and Marchiali, these
complications of deliverance and reincarceration, these
complications of personal resemblance, would have found a very
proper denouement. Baisemeaux even thought he had remarked that
d'Herblay himself would not be altogether dissatisfied with it.
  "And then, really," said Baisemeaux to his next in command, "an
ordinary prisoner is already unhappy enough in being a prisoner; he
suffers quite enough indeed to induce one to hope, in charity, that
his death may not be far distant. With still greater reason, then,
when the prisoner has gone mad, and may bite and make a disturbance in
the Bastille,- why, in that case it is not simply an act of mere
charity to wish him dead; it would be almost a commendable action
quietly to put him out of his misery." And the good-natured governor
thereupon sat down to his late breakfast.
             Chapter XLVII: The Shadow of Fouquet

  D'ARTAGNAN, still confused and oppressed by the conversation he
had just had with the King, asked himself if he were really in
possession of his senses; if the scene had occurred at Vaux; if he,
d'Artagnan, were really the captain of the Musketeers and Fouquet
the owner of the chateau in which Louis XIV was at that moment
partaking of his hospitality. These reflections were not those of a
drunken man, although everything was in prodigal profusion at Vaux,
and the superintendent's wines had met with a distinguished
reception at the fete.
  The Gascon, however, was a man of calm self-possession; and when
he touched his steel blade he was able to assume, figuratively, the
coolness of that steel for his great occasions. "Well," he said, as he
quitted the royal apartment, "I seem now to be mixed up historically
with the destinies of the King and of the minister; it will be written
that M. d'Artagnan, a younger son of a Gascon family, placed his
hand on the shoulder of M. Nicholas Fouquet, the superintendent of the
finances of France. My descendants, if I have any, will flatter
themselves with the distinction which this arrest will confer, just as
the members of the De Luynes family have done with regard to the
estates of the poor Marechal d'Ancre. But now the thing to be done
is to execute the King's directions in a proper manner. Any man
would know how to say to M. Fouquet, 'Your sword, monsieur!' But it is
not every one who would be able to take care of M. Fouquet without
others knowing anything about it. How am I to manage, then, so that
Monsieur the Superintendent may pass from the height of favor to the
direst disgrace; so that he may exchange Vaux for a dungeon; so that
after having been steeped to his lips, as it were, in all the perfumes
and incense of Ahasuerus, he may be transferred to the gallows of
Haman,- in other words, of Enguerrand de Marigny?" And at this
reflection d'Artagnan's brow became clouded with perplexity. The
musketeer had scruples. To deliver thus to death (for not a doubt
existed that Louis hated Fouquet mortally) the man who had just
shown himself so delightful and charming a host in every way, was a
real case of conscience. "It seems to me," said d'Artagnan to himself,
"that if I am not a wretch, I shall let M. Fouquet know the purpose of
the King in regard to him. Yet if I betray my master's secret, I shall
be a false-hearted knave and a traitor,- a crime provided for and
punishable by military laws, as proved by the fact that twenty times
in the wars I have seen miserable fellows strung up for doing in
little degree what my scruples counsel me to do on a larger scale. No,
I think that a man of intelligence ought to get out of this difficulty
with more skill than that. And now shall we admit that I have
intelligence? It is doubtful; having drawn on it for forty years, I
shall be lucky if there be a pistole's worth left."
  D'Artagnan buried his head in his hands, tore his mustache in
sheer vexation, and added, "For what reason is M. Fouquet disgraced?
For three reasons: the first, because M. Colbert doesn't like him; the
second, because he wished to fall in love with Mademoiselle de la
Valliere; and, lastly, because the King likes M. Colbert and loves
Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Oh, he is a lost man! But shall I put
my foot on his neck,- I, a man, when he is falling a prey to the
intrigues of a set of women and clerks? For shame! If he be dangerous,
I will lay him low enough; if, however, he be only persecuted, I
will look on. I have come to such a decisive determination that
neither King nor living man shall change my opinion. If Athos were
here, he would do as I have done. Therefore, instead of going
cold-bloodedly up to M. Fouquet and arresting him off-hand and
shutting him up, I will try to conduct myself like a man who
understands what good manners are. People will talk about it, of
course; but they shall talk well of it, I am determined." And
d'Artagnan, drawing by a gesture peculiar to himself his shoulder-belt
over his shoulder, went straight off to Fouquet, who having taken
leave of the ladies was preparing to sleep tranquilly after the
triumphs of the day.
  The air was still perfumed or infected, whichever way it may be
considered, with the odor of the fireworks; the wax-lights were
dying away in their sockets; the flowers fell unfastened from the
garlands; the groups of dancers and courtiers were separating in the
salons. Surrounded by his friends, who were complimenting him and
receiving his flattering remarks in return, the superintendent half
closed his wearied eyes. He longed for rest and quiet; he sank upon
the bed of laurels which had been heaped up for him for so many days
past,- it might almost have been said that he was bowed beneath the
weight of the new debts which he had incurred for the purpose of
giving the greatest possible honor to this fete.
  Fouquet had just retired to his room, still smiling, but more than
half dead. He could listen to nothing more; he could hardly keep his
eyes open; his bed seemed to possess a fascinating and irresistible
attraction for him. The god Morpheus- the presiding deity of the
dome painted by Lebrun- had extended his influence over the
adjoining rooms, and showered down his most sleep-inducing poppies
upon the master of the house. Fouquet, almost entirely alone, was
being assisted by his valet-de-chambre to undress, when M.
d'Artagnan appeared at the entrance of the room.
  D'Artagnan had never been able to succeed in making himself common
at the court; and notwithstanding he was seen everywhere and on all
occasions, he never failed to produce an effect wherever and
whenever he made his appearance. Such is the happy privilege of
certain natures, which in that respect resemble the lightning or the
thunder: every one recognizes them; but their appearance never fails
to arouse surprise and astonishment, and whenever it occurs the
impression is always left that the last visitation was the loudest
or brightest and most violent. "What! M. d'Artagnan?" said Fouquet,
who had already taken his right arm out of the sleeve of his doublet.
  "At your service," replied the musketeer.
  "Come in, my dear M. d'Artagnan."
  "Thank you."
  "Have you come to criticise the fete?
  "You have an ingenious mind."
  "By no means."
  "Are not your men looked after properly?"
  "In every way."
  "You are not comfortably lodged, perhaps?"
  "Nothing could be better."
  "In that case, I have to thank you for being so amiably disposed,
and I must not fail to express my obligations to you for all your
flattering kindness."
  These words were as much as to say, "My dear d'Artagnan, pray go
to bed, since you have a bed to lie down on, and let me do the same."
  D'Artagnan did not seem to understand. "Are you going to bed
already?" he said to the superintendent.
  "Yes: have you anything to say to me?"
  "Nothing, Monsieur; nothing at all. You sleep in this room, then?"
  "Yes; as you see."
  "Monsieur, you have given a most charming fete to the King."
  "Do you think so?"
  "Oh, beautiful!"
  "Is the King pleased?"
  "Enchanted!"
  "Did he desire you to say as much to me?"
  "He would not choose so unworthy a messenger, Monseigneur."
  "You do not do yourself justice, M. d'Artagnan."
  "Is that your bed there?"
  "Yes; but why do you ask? Are you not satisfied with your own?"
  "May I speak frankly to you?"
  "Most assuredly."
  "Well, then, I am not."
  Fouquet started; and then replied, "M. d'Artagnan, take my room."
  "What! deprive you of it, Monseigneur? Never!"
  "What am I to do, then?"
  "Allow me to share it with you."
  Fouquet looked at the musketeer fixedly. "Ah! ah!" he said, "you
have just left the King?"
  "I have, Monseigneur."
  "And the King wishes you to pass the night in my room?"
  "Monseigneur-"
  "Very well, M. d'Artagnan, very well. You are master here."
  "I assure you, Monseigneur, that I do not wish to abuse-"
  Fouquet turned to his valet, and said, "Leave us!" When the man
had left, he said to d'Artagnan, "You have something to say to me?"
  "I?"
  "A man of your superior intelligence cannot have come to talk with a
man like myself, at such an hour as the present, without grave
motives."
  "Do not interrogate me."
  "On the contrary, what do you want with me?"
  "Nothing more than the pleasure of your society."
  "Come into the garden, then," said the superintendent, suddenly, "or
into the park."
  "No," replied the musketeer, hastily; "no."
  "Why?"
  "The fresh air-"
  "Come, admit at once that you arrest me," said the superintendent to
the captain.
  "Never!" said the latter.
  "You intend to look after me, then?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur, I do, upon my honor."
  "Upon your honor!- ah, that is quite another thing! So I am to be
arrested in my own house?"
  "Do not say such a thing."
  "On the contrary, I will proclaim it aloud."
  "If you do so, I shall be compelled to persuade you to be silent."
  "Very good! Violence towards me in my own house! Ah, that is well
done!"
  "We do not seem to understand each other at all. Stay a moment!
There is a chess-board there; we will have a game, if you have no
objection."
  "M. d'Artagnan, I am in disgrace, then?"
  "Not at all; but-"
  "I am prohibited, I suppose, from withdrawing from your sight."
  "I do not understand a word you are saying, Monseigneur; and if
you wish me to withdraw, tell me so."
  "My dear M. d'Artagnan, your mode of action is enough to drive me
mad. I was almost sinking for want of sleep, but you have completely
awakened me."
  "I shall never forgive myself, I am sure; and if you wish to
reconcile me with myself, why, go to sleep in your bed in my presence;
I shall be delighted at it."
  "I am under surveillance, I see."
  "I will leave the room, then."
  "You are beyond my comprehension."
  "Good-night, Monseigneur," said d'Artagnan, as he pretended to
withdraw.
  Fouquet ran after him. "I will not lie down," he said. "Seriously,
and since you refuse to treat me as a man, and since you finesse
with me, I will try to set you at bay, as a hunter does a wild boar."
  "Bah!" cried d'Artagnan, pretending to smile.
  "I shall order my horses and set off for Paris," said Fouquet,
sounding the heart of the captain of the Musketeers.
  "If that be the case, Monseigneur, it is very different."
  "You will arrest me?"
  "No; but I shall go with you."
  "That is quite sufficient, M. d'Artagnan," returned Fouquet, in a
cold tone of voice. "It is not idly that you have acquired your
reputation as a man of intelligence and full of resources; but with me
that is quite superfluous. Let us two come to the point. Grant me a
service. Why do you arrest me? What have I done?"
  "Oh, I know nothing about what you may have done; but I do not
arrest you- this evening."
  "This evening!" said Fouquet, turning pale; "but to-morrow?"
  "It is not to-morrow just yet, Monseigneur. Who can ever answer
for the morrow?"
  "Quick, quick, Captain! let me speak to M. d'Herblay."
  "Alas! that is quite impossible, Monseigneur. I have strict orders
to see that you hold no communication with any one."
  "With M. d'Herblay, Captain,- with your friend!"
  "Monseigneur, is M. d'Herblay the only person with whom you ought to
be prevented from holding any communication?"
  Fouquet colored, and then assuming an air of resignation, said: "You
are right, Monsieur; you have taught me a lesson that I ought not to
have provoked. A fallen man cannot assert his right to anything,
even to those whose fortunes he may have made; for a still greater
reason he cannot claim anything from those to whom he may never have
had the happiness of doing a service."
  "Monseigneur!"
  "It is true, M. d'Artagnan; you have always acted in the most
admirable manner towards me,- in such a manner, indeed, as most
becomes the man who is destined to arrest me. You, at least, have
never asked me anything."
  "Monseigneur," replied the Gascon, touched by his eloquent and noble
tone of grief, "will you- I ask it as a favor- pledge me your word
as a man of honor that you will not leave this room?"
  "What is the use of it, dear M. d'Artagnan, since you keep watch and
ward over me? Do you suppose that I should struggle against the most
valiant sword in the kingdom?"
  "It is not that at all, Monseigneur, but that I am going to look for
M. d'Herblay, and consequently to leave you alone."
  Fouquet uttered a cry of delight and surprise.
  "To look for M. d'Herblay, to leave me alone!" he exclaimed,
clasping his hands together.
  "Which is M. d'Herblay's room? The blue room, is it not?"
  "Yes, my friend, yes."
  "Your friend! thank you for that word, Monseigneur; you confer it
upon me to-day, at least, even if you have never done so before."
  "Ah, you have saved me!"
  "It will take me a good ten minutes to go from hence to the blue
room, and to return?" said d'Artagnan.
  "Nearly so."
  "And then to wake Aramis, who sleeps soundly when he sleeps at
all, I put that down at another five minutes; making a total of
fifteen minutes' absence. And now, Monseigneur, give me your word that
you will not in any way attempt to make your escape, and that when I
return I shall find you here again."
  "I give it to you, Monsieur," replied Fouquet, with an expression of
the warmest and deepest gratitude.
  D'Artagnan disappeared. Fouquet looked at him as he quitted the
room, waited with feverish impatience until the door was closed behind
him, and as soon as it was shut, flew to his keys, opened two or three
secret doors concealed in various articles of furniture in the room,
looked vainly for certain papers, which doubtless he had left at St.
Mande, and which he seemed to regret not finding; then hurriedly
seizing hold of letters, contracts, writings, he heaped them up into a
pile, which he burned in the extremest haste upon the marble hearth of
the fireplace, not even taking time to draw from the interior of it
the vases and pots of flowers with which it was filled. As soon as
he had finished, like a man who had just escaped an imminent danger,
and whose strength abandons him as soon as the danger is past, he sank
down, completely overcome, on a couch.
  When d'Artagnan returned, he found Fouquet in the same position. The
worthy musketeer had not the slightest doubt that Fouquet, having
given his word, would not even think of failing to keep it; but he had
thought it most likely that Fouquet would turn his (d'Artagnan's)
absence to the best advantage in getting rid of all the papers,
memorandums, and contracts which might possibly render his position,
which was even now serious enough, still more dangerous. And so,
lifting up his head like a dog who gains the scent, d'Artagnan
perceived a certain odor resembling smoke, which he had fully expected
to find in the atmosphere; having found it, he made a movement of
his head in token of satisfaction.
  When d'Artagnan entered, Fouquet had, on his side, raised his
head, and not one of d'Artagnan's movements had escaped him.
  The looks of the two men met, and they both saw that they had
understood each other without exchanging a syllable.
  "Well!" asked Fouquet, the first to speak, "and M. d'Herblay?"
  "Upon my word, Monseigneur," replied d'Artagnan, "M. d'Herblay
must be desperately fond of walks by night, and composing verses by
moonlight in the park of Vaux with some of your poets in all
probability; for he is not in his room."
  "What! not in his room?" cried Fouquet, whose last hope had thus
escaped him; for without knowing in what way the Bishop of Vannes
could assist him, he well knew that he could not expect assistance
from any one else.
  "Or, indeed," continued d'Artagnan, "if he is in his own room, he
has very good reasons for not answering."
  "But surely you did not call him in such a manner that he could have
heard you?"
  "You can hardly suppose, Monseigneur, that having already exceeded
my orders, which forbade my leaving you a single moment,- you can
hardly suppose, I say, that I should have been mad enough to rouse the
whole house and allow myself to be seen in the corridor of the
Bishop of Vannes, in order that M. Colbert might state with positive
certainty that I gave you time to burn your papers."
  "My papers?"
  "Of course; at least, that is what I should have done in your place.
When any one opens a door for me, I always avail myself of it."
  "Yes, yes, and I thank you; I have availed myself of it."
  "And you have done right, morbleu! Every man has his own peculiar
secrets, with which others have nothing to do. But let us return to
Aramis, Monseigneur."
  "Well, then, I tell you, you could not have called loudly enough, or
he would have heard you."
  "However softly any one may call Aramis, Monseigneur, he always
hears when he has an interest in hearing. I repeat what I said
before,- Aramis was not in his own room, or he had certain reasons for
not recognizing my voice, of which I am ignorant, and of which you
even may be ignorant yourself, notwithstanding your liegeman is his
Greatness the Lord Bishop of Vannes."
  Fouquet drew a deep sigh, rose from his seat, made three or four
turns in his room, and finished by seating himself, with an expression
of extreme dejection, upon his magnificent bed with velvet hangings
and trimmed with the costliest lace.
  D'Artagnan looked at Fouquet with feelings of the deepest and
sincerest pity.
  "I have seen a good many men arrested in my life," said the
musketeer, sadly,- "I have seen both M. de Cinq-Mars and M. de Chalais
arrested, though I was very young then; I have seen M. de Conde
arrested with the Princes; I have seen M. de Retz arrested; I have
seen M. Broussel arrested. Stay a moment, Monseigneur! It is
disagreeable to have to say it; but the very one of all those whom you
most resemble at this moment was that poor fellow Broussel. You were
very near doing as he did,- putting your dinner napkin in your
portfolio, and wiping your mouth with your papers. Mordioux!
Monseigneur Fouquet, a man like you ought not to be dejected in this
manner. Suppose your friends saw you."
  "M. d'Artagnan," returned the superintendent, with a smile full of
gentleness, "you do not understand me. It is precisely because my
friends do not see me, that I am such as you see me now. I do not live
isolated from others; I am nothing when left to myself. Understand
that throughout my whole life I have passed every moment of my time in
making friends whom I hoped to render my stay and support. In times of
prosperity all these happy voices- and rendered so by me- formed in my
honor a concert of praises and kindly actions. In the least
disfavor, these humbler voices accompanied in harmonious accents the
murmur of my own heart. Isolation I have never yet known. Poverty- a
phantom I have. sometimes beheld, clad in rags, awaiting me at the end
of my journey through life- poverty is the spectre with which many
of my own friends have trifled for years past, which they poetize
and caress, and to which they have attracted me. Poverty!- I accept
it, acknowledge it, receive it as a disinherited sister; for poverty
is not solitude, nor exile, nor imprisonment. Is it likely I shall
ever be poor, with such friends as Pellisson, as La Fontaine, as
Moliere; with such a mistress as- Oh! solitude, to me, a man of
society; to me, a man inclined to pleasure; to me, who exist only
because others exist- Oh, if you knew how utterly lonely and
desolate I feel at this moment, and how you, who separate me from
all I love, seem to be the image of solitude, of annihilation, and
of death!"
  "But I have already told you, M. Fouquet," replied d'Artagnan, moved
to the depths of his soul, "that you exaggerate matters a great deal
too much. The King likes you."
  "No, no," said Fouquet, shaking his head.
  "M. de Colbert hates you."
  "M. de Colbert! What does that matter to me?"
  "He will ruin you."
  "Oh! I defy him to do that, for I am ruined already."
  At this singular confession of the superintendent, d'Artagnan cast
his glance all round the room; and although he did not open his
lips, Fouquet understood him so thoroughly that he added:
  "What can be done with these magnificent things when one is no
longer magnificent? Do you know what good the greater part of the
wealth and the possessions which we rich enjoy, confer upon us?-
merely to disgust us, by their very splendor even, with everything
which does not equal this splendor. Vaux, you will say, and the
wonders of Vaux! What then? What boot these wonders? If I am ruined,
how shall I fill with water the urns which my Naiads bear in their
arms, or force the air into the lungs of my Tritons? To be rich
enough, M. d'Artagnan, a man must be too rich."
  D'Artagnan shook his head.
  "Oh, I know very well what you think," replied Fouquet, quickly. "If
Vaux were yours, you would sell it, and would purchase an estate in
the country,- an estate which should have woods, orchards, and
fields,- an estate which should support its master. With forty
millions you would do well-"
  "Ten millions," interrupted d'Artagnan.
  "Not a million, my dear captain! No one in France is rich enough
to give two millions for Vaux, and to continue to maintain it as I
have done; no one could do it,- no one would know how."
  "Well," said d'Artagnan, "in any case, a million is not misery."
  "It is not far from it, my dear monsieur. But you do not
understand me. No; I will not sell my residence at Vaux,- I will
give it to you, if you like"; and Fouquet accompanied these words with
a movement of the shoulders to which it would be impossible to do
justice.
  "Give it to the King; you will make a better bargain."
  "The King does not require me to give it to him," said Fouquet.
"He will take it away from me very readily if it pleases him; and that
is the reason why I should prefer to see it perish. Do you know, M.
d'Artagnan, that if the King were not under my roof, I would take this
candle, go straight to the dome, set fire to a couple of huge chests
of fusees and fireworks which are in reserve there, and reduce my
palace to ashes."
  "Bah!" said the musketeer, negligently. "At all events, you would
not be able to burn the gardens; and that is the best part of the
establishment."
  "And yet," resumed Fouquet, thoughtfully, "what was I saying?
Great heavens! burn Vaux,- destroy my palace! But Vaux is not mine.
This wealth, these wonderful creations, are, it is true, the property,
so far as sense of enjoyment goes, of the man who has paid for them;
but so far as duration is concerned, they belong to those who
created them. Vaux belongs to Lebrun, to Lenotre, to Pellisson, to
Levau, to La Fontaine, to Moliere; Vaux belongs to posterity, in fact.
You see, M. d'Artagnan, that my very house ceases to be my own."
  "That is good," said d'Artagnan; "I like that idea, and I
recognize M. Fouquet himself in it. That idea, indeed, makes me forget
that poor fellow Broussel altogether; and I recall no longer the
whining complaints of that old Frondeur. If you are ruined,
Monsieur, look at the affair manfully; for you too, mordioux! belong
to posterity, and have no right to lessen yourself in any way. Stay
a moment! Look at me,- I who seem to exercise in a degree a kind of
superiority over you because I arrest you. Fate, which distributes
their different parts to the comedians of this world, accorded to me a
less agreeable and less advantageous part to fill than yours has been.
I am one of those who think that the parts which kings and powerful
nobles are called upon to act are of infinitely more worth than
those of beggars or lackeys. It is better on the stage,- on the stage,
I mean, of another theatre than that of this world,- it is better to
wear a fine coat and to talk fine language than to walk the boards
shod with a pair of old shoes, or to get one's backbone caressed by
sticks well laid on. In one word, you have been a prodigal with money,
have ordered and been obeyed, have been steeped to the lips in
enjoyment; while I have dragged my tether after me, have been
commanded and have obeyed, and have drudged my life away. Well,
although I may seem of such trifling importance beside you,
Monseigneur, I do declare to you that the recollection of what I
have done serves me as a spur, and prevents me from bowing my old head
too soon. I shall remain until the very end a good trooper; and when
my turn comes I shall fall perfectly straight, all in a heap, still
alive, after having selected my place beforehand. Do as I do, M.
Fouquet,- you will not find yourself the worse for it; that happens
only once in a lifetime to men like yourself, and the chief thing is
to do it well when the chance presents itself. There is a Latin
proverb- the words have escaped me, but I remember the sense of it
very well, for I have thought it over more than once- which says, 'The
end crowns the work!'"
  Fouquet rose from his seat, passed his arm round d'Artagnan's
neck, and clasped him in a close embrace, while with the other hand he
pressed the captain's hand. "An excellent homily," he said after a
moment's pause.
  "A soldier's, Monseigneur."
  "You have a regard for me in telling me all that."
  "Perhaps."
  Fouquet resumed his pensive attitude once more, and then, a moment
after, said:
  "Where can M. d'Herblay be? I dare not ask you to send for him."
  "You would not ask me, because I would not do it, M. Fouquet. People
would learn it; and Aramis, who is not mixed up with the affair, might
possibly be compromised and included in your disgrace."
  "I will wait here till daylight," said Fouquet.
  "Yes; that is best."
  "What shall we do when daylight comes?"
  "I know nothing at all about it, Monseigneur."
  "M. d'Artagnan, will you do me a favor?"
  "Most willingly."
  "You guard me, I remain; you are acting in the full discharge of
your duty, I suppose?"
  "Certainly."
  "Very good, then; remain as close to me as my shadow, if you like, I
prefer that shadow any other."
  D'Artagnan bowed.
  "But forget that you are M. d'Artagnan, Captain of the Musketeers;
forget that I am M. Fouquet, Superintendent of the Finances, and let
us talk about my affairs."
  "Peste! a thorny subject that!"
  "Truly?"
  "Yes; but for your sake, M. Fouquet, I would do the impossible."
  "Thank you. What did the King say to you?"
  "Nothing."
  "Ah! is that the way you talk?"
  "The deuce!"
  "What do you think of my situation?"
  "Nothing."
  "However, unless you have some ill-feeling against me-"
  "Your position is a difficult one."
  "In what respect?"
  "Because you are under your own roof."
  "However difficult it may be, yet I understand it very well."
  "Do you suppose that with any one else but yourself I should have
shown so much frankness?"
  "What! so much frankness, do you say,- you who refuse to tell me the
slightest thing?"
  "At all events, then, so much ceremony and so much consideration."
  "Ah! I admit that."
  "One moment, Monseigneur! Let me tell you how I should have
behaved towards any one else but yourself. I should have arrived at
your door just as your friends had left you, or if they had not yet
gone I should have waited until they were leaving, and should then
have caught them one after the other like rabbits; I should have
locked them up quietly; I should have stolen softly along the carpet
of your corridor, and with one hand upon you, before you suspected the
slightest thing about it, I should have kept you safely until my
master's breakfast in the morning. In this way I should have avoided
all publicity, all disturbance, all opposition; but there would also
have been no warning for M. Fouquet, no consideration for his
feelings, none of those delicate concessions which are shown by
persons who are essentially courteous in their natures whenever the
decisive moment may arrive. Are you satisfied with that plan?"
  "It makes me shudder."
  "I thought you would not like it. It would have been very
disagreeable had I chosen to appear to-morrow without notice and to
ask you for your sword."
  "Oh, Monsieur, I should have died from shame and anger."
  "Your gratitude is too eloquently expressed. I have not done
enough to deserve it, I assure you."
  "Most certainly, Monsieur, you will never get me to believe that."
  "Well, then, Monseigneur, if you are satisfied with what I have
done, and have somewhat recovered from the shock which I prepared
you for as much as I could, let us allow the few hours that remain
to pass away undisturbed. You are harassed, and require to arrange
your thoughts; I beg you, therefore, to go to sleep, or pretend to
go to sleep, either on your bed or in your bed. I shall sleep in
this arm-chair; and when I fall asleep my rest is so sound that a
cannon could not wake me."
  Fouquet smiled.
  "I except, however," continued the musketeer, "the case where one
opens a door, whether secret or visible, whether to go out or to
come in. Oh, for that my ear is sensitive to the last degree! Any
creaking noise makes me start,- it is a matter of natural antipathy.
Move about as much as you like; walk up and down in any part of the
room; write, efface, destroy, burn: but do not touch either the key or
the handle of the door; for I should start up in a moment, and that
would shake my nerves terribly."
  "M. d'Artagnan," said Fouquet, "you are certainly the most witty and
the most courteous man I ever met; and you will leave me only one
regret, that of having made your acquaintance so late."
  D'Artagnan drew a deep sigh, which seemed to say, "Alas! you have
perhaps made it too soon." He then settled himself in his arm-chair;
while Fouquet, half lying on his bed and leaning on his arm, meditated
upon his adventure. In this way both of them, leaving the candles
burning, awaited the first dawn of day; and when Fouquet happened to
sigh too loudly, d'Artagnan only snored the louder. Not a single
visit, not even from Aramis, disturbed their quietude; not a sound,
even, was heard throughout the vast palace. Outside, the guards of
honor and the patrols of the musketeers paced up and down; and the
sound of their feet could be heard on the gravel walks. It was an
additional soporific for the sleepers; while the murmuring of the wind
through the trees and the unceasing music of the fountains still
went on uninterruptedly, without being disturbed at the slight
noises and trifling affairs of which the life and death of man
consist.
                Chapter XLVIII: The Morning

  IN CONTRAST with the sad and terrible destiny of the King imprisoned
in the Bastille, and tearing, in sheer despair, the bolts and bars
of his dungeon, the rhetoric of the chroniclers of old would not
fail to present the antithesis of Philippe lying asleep beneath the
royal canopy. We do not pretend to say that such rhetoric is always
bad, and always scatters in places it should not the flowers with
which it embellishes history. But we shall not dwell on the
antithesis, but shall proceed to draw with interest another picture to
serve as a companion to the one we have drawn in the last chapter.
  The young Prince descended from Aramis's room in the same way the
King had descended from the apartment dedicated to Morpheus. The
dome gradually and slowly sank down under Aramis's pressure, and
Philippe stood beside the royal bed, which had ascended again, after
having deposited its prisoner in the secret depths of the subterranean
passage. Alone, in the presence of all the luxury which surrounded
him; alone, in the presence of his power; alone, with the part he
was about to be forced to act, Philippe's soul for the first time
opened to the thousand varied emotions which are the vital throbs of a
royal heart. But he could not help changing color when he looked
upon the empty bed, still tumbled by his brother's body. This mute
accomplice had returned, after having served in the consummation of
the enterprise, it returned with the traces of the crime; it spoke
to the guilty author of that crime, with the frank and unreserved
language which an accomplice never fears to use towards his
companion in guilt,- it spoke the truth. Philippe bent over the bed,
and perceived a pocket-handkerchief lying on it which was still damp
with the cold sweat that had poured from Louis XIV's face. This
sweat-bestained handkerchief terrified Philippe, as the blood of
Abel terrified Cain.
  "I am now face to face with my destiny," said Philippe, with his
eyes on fire and his face livid. "Will it be more terrifying than my
captivity has been sad and gloomy? Forced to pursue at every moment
the usurpations of thought, shall I never cease to listen to the
scruples of my heart? Yes; the King has lain on this bed. It is indeed
his head that has left its impression on this pillow, his bitter tears
that have stained this handkerchief; and yet I hesitate to throw
myself on the bed, or to press in my hand the handkerchief which is
embroidered with my brother's arms. Away with this weakness! Let me
imitate M. d'Herblay, who asserts that a man's actions should be
always one degree above his thought; let me imitate M. d'Herblay,
whose thoughts are of and for himself alone, who regards himself as
a man of honor, so long as he injures or betrays his enemies only.
I, I alone should have occupied this bed, if Louis XIV had not,
owing to my mother's criminal abandonment of me, stood in my way;
and this handkerchief, embroidered with the arms of France, would,
in right and justice, belong to me alone, if, as M. d'Herblay
observes, I had been left in my place in the royal cradle! Philippe,
son of France, take your place on that bed; Philippe, sole King of
France, resume the blazonry which is yours! Philippe, sole heir
presumptive to Louis XIII, your father, show yourself without pity
or mercy for the usurper who at this moment has no remorse for all
that you have suffered!"
  With these words, Philippe, notwithstanding an instinctive
repugnance of feeling, and in spite of the shudder of terror which
mastered his will, threw himself on the royal bed, and forced his
muscles to press the still warm place where Louis XIV had lain,
while he buried his burning face in the handkerchief still moistened
by his brother's tears. With his head thrown back and buried in the
soft down of his pillow, Philippe perceived above him the crown of
France, held, as we have stated, by the angel with the golden wings.
  Imagine, then, the royal intruder, his eyes gloomy, his body
trembling. He is like a tiger led out of his way by a night of
storm, who comes through the reeds by way of a ravine unknown to
him, to lie down in the cave of an absent lion. The feline odor has
attracted him,- that warm, moist atmosphere of his ordinary
habitation. He has found a bed of dry herbs, and bones pulverized
and pasty like marrow. He arrives; he turns about his flaming eyes,
piercing the gloom; he shakes his streaming limbs and his body,
covered with mire, and lies down heavily, his large nose resting on
his enormous paws,- ready to sleep, but ready also to fight. From time
to time the lightning blazing in the recesses of the cave, the noise
of clashing branches, the sound of falling stones, the vague
apprehension of danger, draw him from the lethargy occasioned by
fatigue.
  A man may be ambitious of lying in a lion's den, but can hardly hope
to sleep there quietly. Philippe listened attentively to every
sound, his heart almost stifled by all his fears; but confident in his
own strength, which was increased by the force of an overpowering
resolute determination, he waited until some decisive circumstance
should permit him to judge for himself. He hoped that some great
danger would show him the way, like those phosphoric lights of the
tempest which show the sailors the height of the waves against which
they have to struggle. But nothing happened. Silence, the mortal enemy
of restless hearts, the mortal enemy of ambitious minds, shrouded in
the thickness of its gloom during the remainder of the night the
future King of France, who lay there sheltered beneath his stolen
crown. Towards the morning a shadow, rather than a body, glided into
the royal chamber; Philippe expected his approach, and neither
expressed nor exhibited any surprise.
  "Well, M. d'Herblay?" he said.
  "Well, Sire, all is done."
  "How?"
  "Exactly as we expected."
  "Did he resist?"
  "Terribly! tears and entreaties."
  "And then?"
  "Then stupor."
  "But at last?"
  "Oh, at last a complete victory, and absolute silence."
  "Did the governor of the Bastille suspect anything?"
  "Nothing."
  "The resemblance, however-"
  "That was the cause of the success."
  "But the prisoner cannot fail to explain himself. Think well of
that. I have myself been able to do that,- I, who had to contend
with a power much better established than is mine."
  "I have already provided for everything. In a few days, sooner
perhaps, we will take the captive out of his prison, and will send him
out of the country to a place of exile so remote-"
  "People can return from exile, M. d'Herblay."
  "To a place of exile so distant, I was going to say, that human
strength and the duration of human life would not be enough for his
return."
  And once more a cold look of intelligence passed between Aramis
and the young King.
  "And M. du Vallon?" asked Philippe, in order to change the
conversation.
  "He will be presented to you to-day, and confidentially will
congratulate you on your escape from the danger to which that
usurper has exposed you."
  "What is to be done with him?"
  "With M. du Vallon?"
  "A dukedom, I suppose."
  "Yes, a dukedom," replied Aramis, smiling in a significant manner.
  "Why do you laugh, M. d'Herblay?"
  "I laugh at the extreme caution of your Majesty."
  "Cautious! why so?"
  "Your Majesty is doubtless afraid that that poor Porthos may
probably become a troublesome witness; and you wish to get rid of
him."
  "What! in making him a duke?"
  "Certainly; you would assuredly kill him, for he would die from joy,
and the secret would die with him."
  "Good heavens!"
  "Yes," said Aramis, phlegmatically; "I should lose a very good
friend."
  At this moment, and in the middle of this idle conversation, under
the light tone of which the two conspirators concealed their joy and
pride at their mutual success, Aramis heard something which made him
prick up his ears.
  "What is that?" said Philippe.
  "The dawn, Sire."
  "Well?"
  "Well, before you retired to bed last night, you probably decided to
do something this morning at the break of day."
  "Yes; I told my captain of the Musketeers," replied the young man,
hurriedly, "that I should expect him."
  "If you told him that, he will certainly be here, for he is a most
punctual man."
  "I hear a step in the vestibule."
  "It must be he."
  "Come, let us begin the attack," said the young King, resolutely.
  "Be cautious, for heaven's sake; to begin the attack, and with
d'Artagnan, would be madness. D'Artagnan knows nothing, he has seen
nothing. He is a hundred leagues from suspecting our mystery; but if
he comes into this room the first this morning, he will be sure to
detect that something has taken place which he will think his business
to occupy himself about. Before we allow d'Artagnan to penetrate
into this room, we must air the room thoroughly, or introduce so
many people into it that the keenest scent in the whole kingdom may be
deceived by the traces of twenty different persons."
  "But how can I send him away, since I have given him a
rendezvous?" observed the Prince, impatient to measure swords with
so redoubtable an antagonist.
  "I will take care of that," replied the bishop; "and in order to
begin, I am going to strike a blow which will completely stupefy our
man."
  "He too is striking a blow, for I hear him at the door," added the
Prince, hurriedly.
  And, in fact, a knock at the door was heard at that moment. Aramis
was not mistaken; for it was indeed d'Artagnan who adopted that mode
of announcing himself.
  We have seen how he passed the night in philosophizing with M.
Fouquet, but the musketeer was very wearied even of feigning to fall
asleep, and as soon as the dawn illumined with its pale blue light the
sumptuous cornices of the superintendent's room, d'Artagnan rose
from his arm-chair, arranged his sword, brushed his coat and hat
with his sleeve, like a private soldier getting ready for inspection.
  "Are you going out?" said Fouquet.
  "Yes, Monseigneur. And you?"
  "No; I shall remain."
  "You give me your word?"
  "Certainly."
  "Very good. Besides, my only reason for going out is to try and
get that reply: you know what I mean?"
  "That sentence, you mean."
  "Stay, I have something of the old Roman in me. This morning, when I
got up, I remarked that my sword had not caught in one of the
aigulets, and that my shoulder-belt had slipped quite off. That is
an infallible sign."
  "Of prosperity?"
  "Yes; be sure of it,- for every time that that confounded belt of
mine stuck fast to my back, it always signified a punishment from M.
de Treville, or a refusal of money by M. de Mazarin. Every time my
sword hung fast to my shoulder-belt, it always predicted some
disagreeable commission or other for me to execute; and I have had
showers of them all my life through. Every time, too, my sword
danced about in its sheath, a duel, fortunate in its result, was
sure to follow; whenever it dangled about the calves of my legs, it
was a slight wound; every time it fell completely out of the scabbard,
I was booked, and made up my mind that I should have to remain on
the field of battle, with two or three months under the surgeon's care
into the bargain."
  "I never knew your sword kept you so well informed," said Fouquet,
with a faint smile, which showed how he was struggling against his own
weaknesses. "Is your sword bewitched, or under the influence of some
charm?"
  "Why, you must know that my sword may almost be regarded as part
of my own body. I have heard that certain men seem to have warnings
given them by feeling something the matter with their legs, or by a
throbbing of their temples. With me, it is my sword that warns me.
Well, it told me of nothing this morning. But stay a moment; look
here, it has just fallen of its own accord into the last hole of the
belt. Do you know what that is a warning of?"
  "No."
  "Well, that tells me of an arrest that will have to be made this
very day."
  "Well," said the superintendent, more astonished than annoyed by
this frankness, "if there is nothing disagreeable predicted to you
by your sword, I am to conclude that it is not disagreeable for you to
arrest me."
  "You? arrest you?"
  "Of course. The warning-"
  "Does not concern you, since you have been arrested ever since
yesterday. It is not you I shall have to arrest, be assured of that.
That is the reason why I am delighted, and also the reason why I
said that my day will be a happy one."
  And with these words, pronounced with the most affectionate
graciousness of manner, the captain took leave of Fouquet in order
to wait upon the King. He was on the point of leaving the room when
Fouquet said to him, "One last mark of your kindness."
  "What is it, Monseigneur?"
  "M. d'Herblay,- let me see M. d'Herblay."
  "I am going to try and get him to come to you."
  D'Artagnan did not think himself so good a prophet. It was written
that the day would pass away and realize all the predictions that
had been made in the morning. He had accordingly knocked, as we have
seen, at the King's door. The door opened. The captain thought that it
was the King who had just opened it himself; and this supposition
was not altogether inadmissible, considering the state of agitation in
which he had left Louis XIV on the previous evening. But instead of
his royal master, whom he was on the point of saluting with the
greatest respect, he perceived the long, calm features of Aramis. So
extreme was his surprise that he could hardly refrain from uttering
a loud exclamation. "Aramis!" he said.
  "Good-morning, dear d'Artagnan," replied the prelate, coldly.
  "You here?" stammered out the musketeer.
  "His Majesty desires you to report that he is still sleeping,
after having been greatly fatigued during the whole night."
  "Ah!" said d'Artagnan, who could not understand how the Bishop of
Vannes, who had been so indifferent a favorite the previous evening,
had become in half-a-dozen hours the largest mushroom of fortune which
had ever sprung up in a sovereign's bedroom. In fact, to transmit
the orders of the King even to the mere threshold of that monarch's
room, to serve as an intermediary of Louis XIV so as to be able to
give a single order in his name at a couple of paces from him, he must
be greater than Richelieu had ever been to Louis XIII. D'Artagnan's
expressive eye, his half-opened lips, his curling mustache, said as
much, indeed, in the plainest language to the chief favorite, who
remained calm and unmoved.
  "Moreover," continued the bishop, "you will be good enough, Monsieur
the Captain of the Musketeers, to allow those only to pass into the
King's room this morning who have special permission. His Majesty does
not wish to be disturbed just yet."
  "But," objected d'Artagnan, on the point of refusing to obey this
order, and particularly of giving unrestrained passage to the
suspicions which the King's silence had aroused,- "but, Monsieur the
Bishop, his Majesty gave me a rendezvous for this morning."
  "Later, later," said the King's voice from the bottom of the
alcove,- a voice which made a cold shudder pass through the
musketeer's veins. He bowed, amazed, confused, and stupefied by the
smile with which Aramis seemed to overwhelm him as soon as those words
had been pronounced.
  "And then," continued the bishop, "as an answer to what you were
coming to ask the King, my dear d'Artagnan, here is an order of his
Majesty, which you will be good enough to attend to forthwith, for
it concerns M. Fouquet."
  D'Artagnan took the order which was held out to him.
  "To be set at liberty!" he murmured. "Ah!" and he uttered a second
"ah!" still more full of intelligence than the former,- for this order
explained Aramis's presence with the King. Aramis, in order to have
obtained Fouquet's pardon, must have made considerable progress in the
royal flavor; and this favor explained, in its tenor, the hardly
conceivable assurance with which M. d'Herblay issued the orders in the
King's name. For d'Artagnan it was quite sufficient to have understood
something in order to understand everything. He bowed, and withdrew
a couple of steps, as if about to leave.
  "I am going with you," said the bishop.
  "Where to?"
  "To M. Fouquet; I wish to be a witness of his delight."
  "Ah, Aramis, how you puzzled me just now!" said d'Artagnan, again.
  "But you understand now, I suppose?"
  "Of course I understand," he said aloud; but then he added in a
low tone to himself, almost hissing the words through his teeth,
"No, no! I do not understand yet. But it is all the same,- here is the
order"; and then he added, "I will lead the way, Monseigneur," and
he conducted Aramis to Fouquet's apartments.
              Chapter XLIX: The King's Friend

  FOUQUET was waiting with anxiety; he had already sent away many of
his servants and his friends, who, anticipating the usual hour of
his ordinary receptions, had called at his door to inquire after
him. Preserving the utmost silence respecting the danger suspended
over his head, he only asked them- as he did every one, indeed, who
came to the door- where Aramis was. When he saw d'Artagnan return, and
when he perceived the Bishop of Vannes behind him, he could hardly
restrain his delight; it was fully equal to his previous uneasiness.
The mere sight of Aramis was a complete compensation to the
superintendent for the unhappiness he had undergone in being arrested.
The prelate was silent and grave, d'Artagnan completely bewildered
by such an accumulation of events.
  "Well, Captain, so you have brought M. d'Herblay to me?"
  "And something better still, Monseigneur."
  "What is that?"
  "Liberty."
  "I am free?"
  "Yes,- by the King's order."
  Fouquet resumed his usual serenity that he might interrogate
Aramis with his look.
  "Oh, yes; you can thank M. the Bishop of Vannes," pursued
d'Artagnan, "for it is indeed to him that you owe the change that
has taken place in the King."
  "Oh!" said Fouquet, more humiliated at the service than grateful
at its success.
  "But you," continued d'Artagnan, addressing Aramis,- "you who have
become M. Fouquet's protector and patron,- can you not do something
for me?"
  "Anything you like, my friend," replied the bishop, in a calm voice.
  "One thing only, then, and I shall be perfectly satisfied. How
have you managed to become the favorite of the King, you who have
never spoken to him more than twice in your life?"
  "From a friend such as you are," said Aramis, "I cannot conceal
anything."
  "Ah, very good! tell me, then."
  "Very well. You think that I have seen the King only twice, while
the fact is I have seen him more than a hundred times; only we have
kept it very secret, that is all." And without trying to remove the
color which at this revelation made d'Artagnan's face flush scarlet,
Aramis turned towards M. Fouquet, who was as much surprised as the
musketeer. "Monseigneur," he resumed, "the King desires me to inform
you that he is more than ever your friend, and that the beautiful fete
so generously offered by you on his behalf has touched him to the
heart."
  And thereupon he saluted M. Fouquet with so much reverence of manner
that the latter, unable to understand a man whose diplomacy was of
so prodigious a character, remained incapable of uttering a single
syllable, and equally incapable of thought or movement. D'Artagnan
fancied that these two men had something to say to each other, and
he was about to yield to that feeling of instinctive politeness
which hurries a man towards the door when he feels his presence is
an inconvenience for others; but his eager curiosity, spurred on by so
many mysteries, counselled him to remain.
  Aramis thereupon turned towards him, and said in a quiet tone,
"You will not forget, my friend, the King's order respecting those
whom he intends to receive this morning on rising." These words were
clear enough, and the musketeer understood them; he therefore bowed to
Fouquet, and then to Aramis,- to the latter with a slight admixture of
ironical respect,- and disappeared.
  No sooner had he left than Fouquet, whose impatience had hardly been
able to wait for that moment, darted towards the door to close it; and
then returning to the bishop, he said, "My dear d'Herblay, I think
it now high time you should explain to me what has passed, for, in
plain and honest truth, I do not understand anything."
  "We will explain all that to you," said Aramis, sitting down, and
making Fouquet sit down also. "Where shall I begin?"
  "With this, first of all. Why does the King set me at liberty?"
  "You ought rather to ask me what was his reason for having you
arrested."
  "Since my arrest I have had time to think it over, and my idea is
that it arises out of some slight feeling of jealousy. My fete put
M. Colbert out of temper, and M. Colbert discovered some cause of
complaint against me,- Belle-Isle, for instance."
  "No; there is no question at all just now of Belle-Isle."
  "What is it, then?"
  "Do you remember those receipts for thirteen millions which M. de
Mazarin contrived to get stolen from you?"
  "Yes, of course."
  "Well, you are already pronounced to be a public robber."
  "Good heavens!"
  "Oh, that is not all. Do you also remember that letter you wrote
to La Valliere?"
  "Alas! yes."
  "And that proclaims you a traitor and a suborner."
  "Why should he have pardoned me, then?"
  "We have not yet arrived at that part of our argument. I wish you to
be quite convinced of the fact itself. Observe this well: the King
knows you to be guilty of an appropriation of public funds. Oh, of
course I know that you have done nothing of the kind; but at all
events the King has not seen the receipts, and he cannot do
otherwise than believe you criminal."
  "I beg your pardon, I do not see-"
  "You will see presently, though. The King, moreover, having read
your love-letter to La Valliere, and the offers you there made her,
cannot retain any doubt of your intention with regard to that young
lady; you will admit that, I suppose?"
  "Certainly; but conclude."
  "In a few words. The King is, therefore, a powerful, implacable, and
eternal enemy for you."
  "Agreed. But am I, then, so powerful that he has not dared to
sacrifice me, notwithstanding his hatred, with all the means which
my weakness or my misfortunes may have given him as a hold upon me?"
  "It is clear, beyond all doubt," pursued Aramis, coldly, "that the
King has quarrelled irreconcilably with you."
  "But since he absolves me-"
  "Do you believe it?" asked the bishop, with a searching look.
  "Without believing in his sincerity of heart, I believe in the truth
of the fact."
  Aramis slightly shrugged his shoulders.
  "But why, then, should Louis XIV have commissioned you to tell me
what you have just stated?"
  "The King charged me with nothing for you."
  "With nothing!" said the superintendent, stupefied. "But that order,
then-"
  "Oh, yes! you are quite right. There is an order, certainly"; and
these words were pronounced by Aramis in so strange a tone that
Fouquet could not suppress a movement of surprise.
  "You are concealing something from me, I see."
  Aramis softly rubbed his white fingers over his chin, but said
nothing.
  "Does the King exile me?"
  "Do not act as if you were playing at the game at which children
play when they guess where a thing has been hidden, and are informed
by a bell being rung when they are approaching near to it, or going
away from it."
  "Speak, then."
  "Guess."
  "You alarm me."
  "Bah! that is because you have not guessed, then."
  "What did the King say to you? In the name of our friendship, do not
deceive me!"
  "The King has not said a word to me."
  "You are killing me with impatience, M. d'Herblay. Am I still
superintendent?"
  "As long as you like."
  "But what extraordinary empire have you so suddenly acquired over
his Majesty's mind?"
  "Ah! that is it."
  "You make him do as you like."
  "I believe so."
  "It is hardly credible."
  "So any one would say."
  "D'Herblay, by our alliance, by our friendship, by everything you
hold the dearest in the world, speak openly, I implore you. By what
means have you succeeded in overcoming Louis XIV's prejudices? He
did not like you, I know."
  "The King will like me now," said Aramis, laying a stress upon the
last word.
  "You and his Majesty have something particular, then, between you?"
  "Yes."
  "A secret, perhaps?"
  "Yes, a secret."
  "A secret of such a nature as to change his Majesty's interests?"
  "You are indeed a man of superior intelligence, Monseigneur, and
have made a very accurate guess. I have, in fact, discovered a
secret of a nature to change the interests of the King of France."
  "Ah!" said Fouquet, with the reserve of a man who does not wish to
ask questions.
  "And you shall judge of it yourself," pursued Aramis; "and you shall
tell me if I am mistaken with regard to the importance of this
secret."
  "I am listening, since you are good enough to unbosom yourself to
me; only do not forget that I have asked you nothing which may be
indiscreet in you to communicate."
  Aramis seemed for a moment as if he were collecting himself.
  "Do not speak!" said Fouquet; "there is still time enough."
  "Do you remember," said the bishop, casting down his eyes, "the
birth of Louis XIV?"
  "As it were yesterday."
  "Have you ever heard anything particular respecting his birth?"
  "Nothing; except that the King was not really the son of Louis
XIII."
  "That does not matter to us, or the kingdom either; he is the son of
his father, says the French law, whose father is recognized by the
law."
  "True; but it is a grave matter when the quality of races is
called into question."
  "A merely secondary question, after all. So that, in fact, you
have never learned or heard anything in particular?"
  "Nothing."
  "That is where my secret begins. The Queen, you must know, instead
of being delivered of one son, was delivered of two children."
  Fouquet looked up suddenly as he replied, "And the second is dead?"
  "You will see. These twins seemed likely to be regarded as the pride
of their mother and the hope of France; but the weak nature of the
King, his superstitious feelings, made him apprehend a series of
conflicts between two children whose rights were equal. He
suppressed one of the twins."
  "Suppressed, do you say?"
  "Listen. Both the children grew up,- the one on the throne, whose
minister you are; the other, who is my friend, in gloom and
isolation."
  "Good heavens! What are you saying, M. d'Herblay? And what is this
poor Prince doing?"
  "Ask me, rather, what he has done."
  "Yes, yes."
  "He was brought up in the country, and then thrown into a fortress
which goes by the name of the Bastille."
  "Is it possible?" cried the superintendent, clasping his hands.
  "The one was the most fortunate of men; the other the most unhappy
of miserable beings."
  "Does his mother not know this?"
  "Anne of Austria knows it all."
  "And the King?"
  "Knows absolutely nothing."
  "So much the better!" said Fouquet.
  This remark seemed to make a great impression on Aramis; he looked
at Fouquet with an anxious expression.
  "I beg your pardon; I interrupted you," said Fouquet.
  "I was saying," resumed Aramis, "that this poor Prince was the
unhappiest of men, when God, whose thoughts are over all his
creatures, undertook to come to his assistance."
  "Oh! in what way?"
  "You will see. The reigning King,- I say the reigning King: you
can guess very well why?"
  "No. Why?"
  "Because being alike legitimately entitled from their birth, both
ought to have been kings. Is not that your opinion?"
  "It is, certainly."
  "Unreservedly so?"
  "Most unreservedly; twins are one person in two bodies."
  "I am pleased that a legist of your learning and authority should
have pronounced such an opinion. It is agreed, then, that both of them
possessed the same rights, is it not?"
  "Incontestably so! but, gracious heavens, what an extraordinary
circumstance!"
  "We are not at the end of it yet. Patience!"
  "Oh, I shall find 'patience' enough."
  "God wished to raise up for that oppressed child an avenger, or a
supporter, if you prefer it. It happened that the reigning King, the
usurper- you are quite of my opinion, are you not, that it is an act
of usurpation for one quietly to enjoy, and selfishly to assume the
right over, an inheritance of which at most only a half belongs to
him?"
  "Yes; usurpation is the word."
  "I continue, then. It was God's will that the usurper should
possess, in the person of his first minister, a man of great talent,
of large and generous nature."
  "Well, well," said Fouquet, "I understand; you have relied upon me
to repair the wrong which has been done to this unhappy brother of
Louis XIV. You have thought well; I will help you. I thank you,
d'Herblay, I thank you."
  "Oh, no, it is not that at all; you have not allowed me to
finish," said Aramis, unmoved.
  "I will not say another word, then."
  "M. Fouquet, I was observing that the minister of the reigning
sovereign was suddenly regarded with the greatest aversion, and
menaced with the ruin of his fortune, with loss of liberty, with
loss of life even, by intrigue and personal hatred, to which the
King gave too readily an attentive ear. But Heaven permits- still,
however, out of consideration for the unhappy Prince who had been
sacrificed- that M. Fouquet should in his turn have a devoted friend
who knew this state secret, and felt that he possessed strength and
courage enough to divulge it, after having had the strength to carry
it locked up in his own heart for twenty years."
  "Do not go on any farther," said Fouquet, full of generous feelings.
"I understand you, and can guess everything now. You went to see the
King when the intelligence of my arrest reached you. You implored him;
he refused to listen to you. Then you threatened him with the
revelation of that secret; and Louis XIV, alarmed, granted to the fear
of your indiscretion what he refused to your generous intercession.
I understand, I understand: you have the King in your power; I
understand."
  "You understand nothing as yet," replied Aramis, "and again you have
interrupted me. And then, too, allow me to observe that you pay no
attention to logical reasoning, and seem to forget what you ought most
to remember."
  "What do you mean?"
  "You know upon what I laid the greatest stress at the beginning of
our conversation?"
  "Yes, his Majesty's hate, invincible hate, for me; yes, but what
feeling of hate could resist the threat of such a revelation?"
  "Such a revelation, do you say? that is the very point where your
logic fails you. What! do you suppose that if I had made such a
revelation to the King, I should have been alive now?"
  "It is not ten minutes ago since you were with the King?"
  "That may be. He might not have had the time to get me killed
outright, but he would have had the time to get me gagged and thrown
into a dungeon. Come, come! show a little consistency in your
reasoning, mordieu!"
  And by the mere use of this word of the Musketeers, an oversight
of one who never seemed to forget anything, Fouquet could not but
understand to what a pitch of exaltation the calm, impenetrable Bishop
of Vannes had wrought himself. He shuddered at it.
  "And then," replied the latter, after having mastered his
feelings, "should I be the man I really am, should I be the true
friend you consider me, if I were to expose you- you whom the King
hates already bitterly enough- to a feeling still more than ever to be
dreaded in that young man? To have robbed him is nothing; to have
addressed the woman he loves is not much; but to hold in your
keeping both his crown and his honor,- why, he would rather pluck
out your heart with his own hands!"
  "You have not allowed him to penetrate your secret, then?"
  "I would sooner, far sooner, have swallowed at one draught all the
poisons that Mithridates drank in twenty years in trying to avoid
death."
  "What have you done, then?"
  "Ah, now we are coming to the point, Monseigneur! I think I shall
not fail to excite a little interest in you. You are listening, I
hope?"
  "How can you ask me if I am listening? Go on."
  Aramis walked softly all round the room, satisfied himself that they
were alone and that all was silent, and then returned, and placed
himself close to the arm-chair in which Fouquet awaited with the
deepest anxiety the revelations he had to make.
  "I forgot to tell you," resumed Aramis, addressing himself to
Fouquet, who listened to him with the most absorbed attention,- "I
forgot to mention a most remarkable circumstance respecting these
twins; namely, that God had formed them so like each other that he
alone, if he should summon them to his tribunal, could distinguish the
one from the other. Their own mother could not do it."
  "Is it possible?" exclaimed Fouquet.
  "The same noble character in their features, the same carriage,
the same stature, the same voice."
  "But their thoughts; degree of intelligence; their knowledge of
human life?"
  "There is inequality there, I admit, Monseigneur. Yes, for the
prisoner of the Bastille is most incontestably superior in every way
to his brother; and if from his prison this unhappy victim were to
pass to the throne, France would not from the earliest period of its
history, perhaps, have had a master more powerful by his genius and
true nobleness of character."
  Fouquet buried his face in his hands, as if he were overwhelmed by
the weight of this immense secret.
  Aramis approached him. "There is a further inequality," he said,
continuing his work of temptation,- "an inequality which concerns
yourself, Monseigneur,- between the twins, sons of Louis XIII; namely,
the last comer does not know M. Colbert."
  Fouquet raised his head immediately; his features were pale and
distorted. The bolt had hit its mark- not his heart, but his mind
and comprehension.
  "I understand you," he said to Aramis; "you are proposing conspiracy
to me?"
  "Something like it."
  "One of those attempts which, as you said at the beginning of this
conversation, alter the fate of empires?"
  "And of superintendents; yes, Monseigneur."
  "In a word, you propose to me that I should assist in the
substitution of the son of Louis XIII who is now a prisoner in the
Bastille for the son of Louis XIII who is now at this moment asleep in
the Chamber of Morpheus?"
  Aramis smiled with the sinister expression of his sinister
thought. "Perhaps," he said.
  "But," said Fouquet, after a painful silence, "you have not
reflected that such a political enterprise must overturn the entire
kingdom; and that after pulling up that widely-rooted tree that is
called a King, to replace it by another, the earth around will never
again become so firm that the new King may be secure against the
wind that remains of the former tempest, and against the
oscillations of his own bulk."
  Aramis continued to smile.
  "Have you thought," continued Fouquet, becoming animated with that
power of genius which in a few seconds originates and matures the
conception of a plan, and with that largeness of view which foresees
all its consequences and embraces all its results,- "have you
thought that we must assemble the nobility, the clergy, and the
third estate of the realm; that we shall have to depose the reigning
sovereign, to disturb by a frightful scandal the tomb of their dead
father, to sacrifice the life, the honor, of a woman (Anne of
Austria), the life and peace of another woman (Maria Theresa)? And
suppose that all were done, if we were to succeed in doing it-"
  "I do not understand you," continued Aramis, coldly. "There is not a
single word of the slightest use in what you have just said."
  "What!" said the superintendent, surprised; "a man like you refuse
to view the practical bearings of the case? Do you confine yourself to
the childish delight of a political illusion, and neglect the
chances of fulfilment,- in other words, the reality? Is it possible?"
  "My friend," said Aramis, emphasizing the word with a kind of
disdainful familiarity, "what does God do in order to substitute one
king for another?"
  "God!" exclaimed Fouquet,- "God gives directions to his agent, who
seizes upon the doomed victim, hurries him away, and seats the
triumphant rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this agent
is called death. Oh, M. d'Herblay! in Heaven's name, tell me if you
have had the idea-"
  "There is no question of that, Monseigneur,- you are going beyond
the object in view. Who spoke of Louis XIV's death; who spoke of
adopting the example of God in the strict method of his works? No; I
wish you to understand that God effects his purposes without
confusion, without scandal, without effort, and that men inspired by
God succeed like him in all their undertakings, in all they attempt,
in all they do."
  "What do you mean?"
  "I mean, my friend," returned Aramis, with the same intonation on
the word "friend" that he had applied to it the first time,- "I mean
that if there has been any confusion, scandal, and even effort in
the substitution of the prisoner for the King, I defy you to prove
it."
  "What!" cried Fouquet, whiter than the handkerchief with which he
wiped his temples; "what do you say?"
  "Go to the King's apartment," continued Aramis, tranquilly; "and you
who know the mystery, I defy even you to perceive that the prisoner of
the Bastille is lying in his brother's bed."
  "But the King?" stammered Fouquet, seized with horror at the
intelligence.
  "What King?" said Aramis, in his gentlest tone; "the one who hates
you, or the one who likes you?"
  "The King- of yesterday?"
  "The King of yesterday! Be quite easy on that score; he has gone
to take the place in the Bastille which his victim has occupied for
such a long time past."
  "Great God! And who took him there?"
  "I."
  "You?"
  "Yes, and in the simplest way. I carried him away last night; and
while he was descending into gloom, the other was ascending into
light. I do not think there has been any disturbance created in any
way. A flash of lightning without thunder never awakens any one."
  Fouquet uttered a thick, smothered cry, as if he had been struck
by some invisible blow, and clasping his head between his clinched
hands, he murmured, "You did that?"
  "Cleverly enough, too; what do you think of it?"
  "You have dethroned the King; you have imprisoned him?"
  "It is done."
  "And such an action was committed here at Vaux?"
  "Yes; here at Vaux, in the Chamber of Morpheus. It would almost seem
that it had been built in anticipation of such an act."
  "And at what time did it occur?"
  "Last night, between twelve and one o'clock."
  Fouquet made a movement as if he were on the point of springing upon
Aramis; he restrained himself. "At Vaux; under my roof!" he said in
a half-strangled voice.
  "I believe so; for it is still your house, and is likely to continue
so, since M. Colbert cannot rob you of it now."
  "It was under my roof, then, Monsieur, that you committed this
crime!"
  "This crime!" said Aramis, stupefied.
  "This abominable crime!" pursued Fouquet, becoming more and more
excited; "this crime more execrable than an assassination; this
crime which dishonors my name forever, and entails upon me the
horror of posterity!"
  "You are not in your senses, Monsieur," replied Aramis, in an
irresolute tone of voice; "you are speaking too loudly. Take care!"
  "I will call out so loudly that the whole world shall hear me."
  "M. Fouquet, take care!"
  Fouquet turned towards the prelate, whom he looked full in the face.
"You have dishonored me," he said, "in committing so foul an act of
treason, so heinous a crime upon my guest, upon one who was peacefully
reposing beneath my roof. Oh, woe, woe is me!"
  "Woe to the man, rather, who beneath your roof meditated the ruin of
your fortune, your life. Do you forget that?"
  "He was my guest; he was my King!"
  Aramis rose, his eyes literally bloodshot, his mouth trembling
convulsively. "Have I a man out of his senses to deal with?" he said.
  "You have an honorable man to deal with."
  "You are mad!"
  "A man who will prevent you from consummating your crime."
  "You are mad!"
  "A man who would sooner die, who would kill you even, rather than
allow you to complete his dishonor."
  And Fouquet snatched up his sword, which d'Artagnan had placed at
the head of his bed, and clinched it resolutely in his hand. Aramis
frowned, and thrust his hand into his breast, as if in search of a
weapon. This movement did not escape Fouquet, who, noble and grand
in his magnanimity, threw his sword to a distance from him, and
approached Aramis so close as to touch his shoulder with his
disarmed hand. "Monsieur," he said, "I would sooner die here on the
spot than survive my disgrace; and if you have any pity left for me, I
entreat you to take my life."
  Aramis remained silent and motionless.
  "You do not reply?" said Fouquet.
  Aramis raised his head gently, and a glimmer of hope might be seen
once more to animate his eyes. "Reflect, Monseigneur," he said,
"upon everything we have to expect. As the matter now stands, the King
is still alive, and his imprisonment saves your life."
  "Yes," replied Fouquet, "you may have been acting on my behalf;
but I do not accept your service. At the same time, I do not wish your
ruin. You will leave this house."
  Aramis stifled an exclamation which almost escaped his broken heart.
  "I am hospitable towards all who are dwellers beneath my roof,"
continued Fouquet, with an air of inexpressible majesty; "you will not
be more fatally lost than he whose ruin you have consummated."
  "You will be so," said Aramis, in a hoarse, prophetic, voice- "you
will be so, believe me."
  "I accept the augury, M. d'Herblay; but nothing shall stop me. You
will leave Vaux; you must leave France. I give you four hours to place
yourself out of the King's reach."
  "Four hours?" said the Bishop of Vannes, scornfully and
incredulously.
  "Upon the word of Fouquet, no one shall follow you before the
expiration of that time. You will therefore have four hours' advance
of those whom the King may wish to despatch after you."
  "Four hours!" repeated Aramis, in a thick, smothered voice.
  "It is more than you will need to get on board a vessel, and flee to
Belle-Isle, which I give you as a place of refuge."
  "Ah!" murmured Aramis.
  "Belle-Isle is as much mine for you as Vaux is mine for the King.
Go, d'Herblay, go! as long as I live, not a hair of your head shall be
injured."
  "Thank you," said Aramis, with a cold irony of manner.
  "Go at once, then, and give me your hand, before we both hasten
away,- you to save your life, I to save my honor."
  Aramis withdrew from his breast the hand he had concealed there;
it was stained with his blood. He had dug his nails into his flesh, as
if in punishment for having nursed so many projects, more vain,
insensate, and fleeting than the life of man. Fouquet was
horror-stricken, and then his heart smote him with pity. He opened his
arms to Aramis.
  "I had no weapons," murmured Aramis, as wild and terrible as the
shade of Dido. And then, without touching Fouquet's hand, he turned
his head aside, and stepped back a pace or two. His last word was an
imprecation, his last gesture a curse, which his blood-stained hand
seemed to invoke, as it sprinkled on Fouquet's face a few drops of his
blood; and both of them darted out of the room by the secret staircase
which led down to the inner courtyard. Fouquet ordered his best
horses, while Aramis paused at the foot of the staircase which led
to Porthos's apartment. He reflected for some time, while Fouquet's
carriage left the stone-paved courtyard at full gallop.
  "Shall I go alone," said Aramis to himself, "or warn the Prince? Oh,
fury! Warn the Prince, and then- do what? Take him with me? Carry this
accusing witness about with me everywhere? War, too, would follow,-
civil war, implacable in its nature! And without any resource- alas,
it is impossible! What will he do without me? Without me he will be
utterly destroyed! Yet who knows? let destiny be fulfilled!
Condemned he was, let him remain so, then! God! Demon! Gloomy and
scornful Power, whom men call the Genius of man, thou art only a
breath, more uncertain, more useless, than the wind in the
mountains! Chance thou term'st thyself, but thou art nothing; thou
inflamest everything with thy breath, crumblest mountains at thy
approach, and suddenly art thyself destroyed at the presence of the
cross of dead wood, behind which stands another Power invisible like
thyself,- whom thou deniest, perhaps, but whose avenging hand is on
thee, and hurls thee in the dust dishonored and unnamed! Lost! I am
lost! What can be done? Flee to Bell-Isle? Yes, and leave Porthos
behind me, to talk and relate the whole affair to every one,- Porthos,
who will suffer, perhaps! I will not let poor Porthos suffer. He is
one of the members of my own frame; his grief is mine. Porthos shall
leave with me, and shall follow my destiny. It must be so."
  And Aramis, apprehensive of meeting any one to whom his hurried
movements might appear suspicious, ascended the staircase without
being perceived. Porthos, but just returned from Paris, slept
already the sleep of the just; his huge body forgot its fatigue as his
mind forgot its thoughts. Aramis entered, light as a shadow, and
placed his nervous grasp on the giant's shoulder. "Come, Porthos,"
he cried, "come."
  Porthos obeyed, rose from his bed, and opened his eyes, even
before opening his mind.
  "We are going off," said Aramis.
  "Ah!" returned Porthos.
  "We shall go mounted, and faster than we have ever gone in our
lives."
  "Ah!" repeated Porthos.
  "Dress yourself, my friend."
  And he helped the giant to dress himself, and thrust his gold and
diamonds into his pocket. While he was thus engaged, a slight noise
attracted his attention, and he saw d'Artagnan looking at them from
the open doorway. Aramis started.
  "What the devil are you doing there in such an agitated manner?"
said the musketeer.
  "Hush!" said Porthos.
  "We are going off on a mission," added the bishop.
  "You are very fortunate," said the musketeer.
  "Oh, dear me!" said Porthos, "I feel so wearied; I would much prefer
to sleep. But the service of the King-"
  "Have you seen M. Fouquet?" inquired Aramis of d'Artagnan.
  "Yes; this very minute, in a carriage."
  "What did he say to you?"
  "He bade me adieu."
  "Was that all?"
  "What else do you think he could say? Am I worth anything now, since
you have all got into such high favor?"
  "Listen," said Aramis, embracing the musketeer; "your good times are
returning again. You will have no more occasion to be jealous of any
one."
  "Ah, bah!"
  "I predict that something will happen to you to-day which will
increase your importance."
  "Really?"
  "You know that I know all the news?"
  "Oh, yes!"
  "Come, Porthos, are you ready? Let us go."
  "I am quite ready, Aramis."
  "Let us embrace d'Artagnan first."
  "Pardieu!"
  "But the horses?"
  "Oh! there is no want of them here. Will you have mine?"
  No; Porthos has his own stud. So adieu; adieu!"
  The two fugitives mounted their horses beneath the eyes of the
captain of the Musketeers, who held Porthos's stirrup for him, and
gazed after them until they were out of sight.
  "On any other occasion," thought the Gascon, "I should say that
those gentlemen were making their escape; but in these days politics
seem so changed that this is called going on a mission. I have no
objection. Let me attend to my own affairs"; and he philosophically
entered his apartments.
         Chapter L: How the Countersign Was Respected
                       at the Bastille

  FOUQUET tore along as fast as his horses could drag him. On the
way he trembled with horror at the idea of what had just been revealed
to him. "What must have been," he thought, "the youth of those
extraordinary men, who, even as age is stealing fast upon them,
still are able to conceive such plans, and to carry them out without
flinching!"
  At one moment he asked himself whether all that Aramis had just been
recounting to him was not a dream only, and whether the fable itself
was not the snare; so that when he should arrive at the Bastille he
might find an order of arrest, which would send him to join the
dethroned King. Strongly impressed with this idea, he gave certain
sealed orders on his route, while fresh horses were harnessed to his
carriage. These orders were addressed to M. d'Artagnan and to
certain others whose fidelity to the King was far above suspicion.
  "In this way," said Fouquet to himself, "prisoner or not, I shall
have performed the duty which I owe to my honor. The orders will not
reach them until after my return, if I should return free, and
consequently they will not have been unsealed. I shall then take
them back again. If I am delayed, it will be because some misfortune
will have befallen me; and in that case assistance will be sent for me
as well as for the King."
  Prepared in this manner, the superintendent arrived at the Bastille;
he had travelled at the rate of five leagues and a half an hour. Every
circumstance of delay which Aramis had escaped in his visit to the
Bastille befell Fouquet. It was in vain that he gave his name, in vain
that he endeavored to be recognized; he could not succeed in obtaining
an entrance. By dint of entreaties, threats, and commands, he
succeeded in inducing a sentinel to speak to one of the subalterns,
who went and told the major. As for the governor, they did not even
dare disturb him. Fouquet sat in his carriage, at the outer gate of
the fortress, chafing with rage and impatience, awaiting the return of
the officer, who at last reappeared with a somewhat sulky air.
  "Well," said Fouquet, impatiently, "what did the major say?"
  "Well, Monsieur," replied the soldier, "the major laughed in my
face. He told me that M. Fouquet was at Vaux, and that even were he at
Paris, M. Fouquet would not rise at so early an hour as the present."
  "Mordieu! you are a set of fools," cried the minister, darting out
of the carriage; and before the subaltern had had time to shut the
gate, Fouquet sprang through it, and ran forward in spite of the
soldier, who cried out for assistance. Fouquet gained ground,
regardless of the cries of the man, who however, having at last come
up with Fouquet, called out to the sentinel of the second gate,
"Look out, look out, sentinel!" The man crossed his pike before the
minister; but the latter, robust and active, and carried away too by
his passion, wrested the pike from the soldier, and struck him a
violent blow on the shoulder with it. The subaltern, who approached
too closely, received his part of the blows as well. Both of them
uttered loud and furious cries, at the sound of which the whole of the
first body of the advanced guard poured out of the guard-house.
Among them there was one, however, who recognized the
superintendent, and who called out, "Monseigneur! ah, Monseigneur!
Stop, stop, you fellows!" and he effectually checked the soldiers, who
were on the point of avenging their companions. Fouquet desired them
to open the gate; but they refused to do so without the countersign.
He desired them to inform the governor of his presence; but the latter
had already heard the disturbance at the gate. He ran forward,
followed by his major, and accompanied by a picket of twenty men,
persuaded that an attack was being made on the Bastille. Baisemeaux
also recognized Fouquet immediately, and dropped his sword, which he
had held brandishing about in his hand.
  "Ah, Monseigneur!" he stammered, "how can I excuse-"
  "Monsieur," said the superintendent, flushed with anger, and
heated by his exertions, "I congratulate you. Your watch and ward
are admirably kept."
  Baisemeaux turned pale, thinking that this remark was said
ironically, and portended a furious burst of anger. But Fouquet had
recovered his breath, and beckoning towards him the sentinel and the
subaltern, who were rubbing their shoulders, he said, "There are
twenty pistoles for the sentinel, and fifty for the officer. Pray
receive my compliments, gentlemen. I will not fail to speak to his
Majesty about you. And now, M. Baisemeaux, a word with you."
  And he followed the governor to his official residence,
accompanied by a murmur of general satisfaction. Baisemeaux was
already trembling with shame and uneasiness. Aramis's early visit from
that moment seemed to involve consequences which a functionary was
justified in apprehending. It was quite another thing, however, when
Fouquet, in a sharp tone of voice, and with an imperious look, said,
"You have seen M. d'Herblay this morning?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "And are you not horrified at the crime of which you have made
yourself an accomplice?"
  "Well," thought Baisemeaux, "good so far"; and then he added
aloud, "But what crime, Monseigneur, do you allude to?"
  "That for which you can be quartered alive, Monsieur,- do not forget
that! But this is not a time to show anger. Conduct me immediately
to the prisoner."
  "To what prisoner?" said Baisemeaux, trembling.
  "You pretend to be ignorant! Very good; it is the best thing for you
to do,- for if, in fact, you were to admit your participation in it,
it would be all over with you. I wish, therefore, to seem to believe
in your assumption of ignorance."
  "I entreat you, Monseigneur-"
  "That will do. Lead me to the prisoner."
  "To Marchiali?"
  "Who is Marchiali?"
  "The prisoner who was brought back this morning by M. d'Herblay."
  "He is called Marchiali?" said the superintendent, his conviction
some. what shaken by Baisemeaux's cool manner.
  "Yes, Monseigneur; that is the name under which he was inscribed
here."
  Fouquet looked steadily at Baisemeaux, as if to read his very heart,
and perceived, with that clear-sightedness which men possess who are
accustomed to the exercise of power, that the man was speaking with
absolute sincerity. Besides, on observing his face for a moment, he
could not believe that Aramis would have chosen such a confidant.
  "It is the prisoner," said the superintendent to Baisemeaux, "whom
M. d'Herblay carried away the day before yesterday?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "And whom he brought back this morning?" added Fouquet, quickly, for
he understood immediately the mechanism of Aramis's plan.
  "Precisely, Monseigneur."
  "And his name is Marchiali, you say?"
  "Yes; Marchiali. If Monseigneur has come here to remove him, so much
the better, for I was going to write about him."
  "What has he done, then?"
  "Ever since this morning, he has annoyed me extremely. He has had
such terrible fits of passion as almost to make me believe that he
would bring the Bastille itself down about our ears."
  "I will soon relieve you of his presence," said Fouquet.
  "Ah! so much the better."
  "Conduct me to his prison."
  "Will Monseigneur give me the order?"
  "What order?"
  "An order from the King."
  "Wait until I sign you one."
  "That will not be sufficient, Monseigneur; I must have an order from
the King."
  Fouquet assumed an irritated expression. "As you are so scrupulous,"
he said, "with regard to allowing prisoners to leave, show me the
order by which this one was set at liberty."
  Baisemeaux showed him the order to release Seldon.
  "Very good," said Fouquet; "but Seldon is not Marchiali."
  "But Marchiali is not at liberty; he is here."
  "But you said that M. d'Herblay carried him away and brought him
back again."
  "I did not say so."
  "So surely did you say it that I almost seem to hear it now."
  "It was a slip of my tongue, then, Monseigneur."
  "Take care, M. Baisemeaux, take care!"
  "I have nothing to fear, Monseigneur; I am acting according to
strict regulation."
  "Do you dare to say so?"
  "I would say so in the presence of an apostle. M. d'Herblay
brought me an order to set Seldon at liberty; and Seldon is free."
  "I tell you that Marchiali has left the Bastille."
  "You must prove that, Monseigneur."
  "Let me see him."
  "You, Monseigneur, who govern in this kingdom, know very well that
no one can see any of the prisoners without an express order from
the King."
  "M. d'Herblay has entered, however."
  "That is to be proved, Monseigneur."
  "M. de Baisemeaux, once more I warn you to pay particular
attention to what you are saying."
  "All the documents are there, Monseigneur."
  "M. d'Herblay is overthrown."
  "Overthrown,- M. d'Herblay? Impossible!"
  "You see that he has influenced you."
  "What influences me, Monseigneur, is the King's service. I am
doing my duty. Give me an order from him, and you shall enter."
  "Stay, Monsieur the Governor! I give you my word that if you allow
me to see the prisoner I will give you an order from the King at
once."
  "Give it to me now, Monseigneur."
  "And that if you refuse me I will have you and all your officers
arrested on the spot."
  "Before you commit such an act of violence, Monseigneur, you will
reflect'" said Baisemeaux, who had turned very pale, "that we will
only obey an order signed by the King; and that it will be just as
easy for you to obtain one to see Marchiali as to obtain one to do
so much injury to me, who am innocent."
  "True, true!" cried Fouquet, furiously,- "perfectly true! M. de
Baisemeaux," he added in a sonorous voice, drawing the unhappy
governor towards him, "do you know why I am so anxious to speak to the
prisoner?"
  "No, Monseigneur; and please observe that you are terrifying me. I
tremble, and feel as if I were going to faint."
  "You will faint outright, M. Baisemeaux, when I return here at the
head of ten thousand men and thirty pieces of cannon."
  "Good heavens, Monseigneur! you are losing your senses!"
  "When I have roused the whole population of Paris against you and
your cursed towers, and have battered open the gates of this place,
and hanged you up to the bars of that tower in the corner there."
  "Monseigneur, Monseigneur! for pity's sake!"
  "I will give you ten minutes to make up your mind," added Fouquet,
in a calm voice. "I will sit down here in this arm-chair and wait
for you. If in ten minutes' time you still persist, I will leave
this place, and you may think me as mad as you like; but you will
see!"
  Baisemeaux stamped his foot on the ground like a man in a state of
despair, but he did not utter a word; whereupon Fouquet seized a pen
and ink, and wrote,-

  "Order for M. le Prevot des Marchands to assemble the municipal
guard, and to march upon the Bastille for the King's service."

  Baisemeaux shrugged his shoulders. Fouquet wrote:

  "Order for M. le Duc de Bouillon and M. le Prince de Conde to assume
the command of the Swiss and of the Guards, and to march upon the
Bastille for the King's service."

  Baisemeaux reflected. Fouquet still wrote:-

  "Order for every soldier, citizen, or gentleman to seize and
apprehend, wherever he may be found, the Chevalier d'Herblay, Eveque
de Vannes, and his accomplices, who are- first, M. de Baisemeaux,
governor of the Bastille, suspected of the crimes of high treason
and rebellion-

  "Stop, Monseigneur!" cried Baisemeaux. "I understand absolutely
nothing of the whole matter; but so many misfortunes, even were it
madness itself that had set them at work, might happen here in a
couple of hours that the King, by whom I shall be judged, will see
whether I have been wrong in withdrawing the countersign before so
many imminent catastrophes. Come with me to the keep, Monseigneur; you
shall see Marchiali."
  Fouquet darted out of the room, followed by Baisemeaux wiping the
perspiration from his face. "What a terrible morning!" he said;
"what a disgrace!"
  "Walk faster!" replied Fouquet.
  Baisemeaux made a sign to the jailer to precede them. He was
afraid of his companion,- which the latter could not fail to perceive.
  "A truce to this child's-play!" said Fouquet, roughly. "Let the
man remain here; take the keys yourself, and show me the way. Not a
single person, do you understand, must hear what is going to take
place here."
  "Ah!" said Baisemeaux, undecided.
  "Again," cried Fouquet. "Ah! say 'No' at once, and I will leave
the Bastille, and will myself carry my own despatches."
  Baisemeaux bowed his head, took the keys, and unaccompanied except
by the minister, ascended the staircase. As they advanced up the
spiral staircase, certain smothered murmurs became distinct cries
and fearful imprecations. "What is that?" asked Fouquet.
  "That is your Marchiali," said the governor; "that is the way madmen
howl." And he accompanied that reply with a glance more indicative
of injurious allusions, as far as Fouquet was concerned, than of
politeness.
  The latter trembled; he had just recognized, in one cry more
terrible than any that had preceded it, the King's voice. He paused on
the staircase, trying to snatch the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux, who
thought this new madman was going to dash out his brains with one of
them.
  "Give me the keys at once!" cried Fouquet, tearing them from his
hand. "Which is the key of the door I am to open?"
  "That one."
  A fearful cry, followed by a violent blow against the door, made the
whole staircase resound with the echo. "Leave this place!" said
Fouquet to Baisemeaux, in a threatening voice.
  "I ask nothing better," murmured the latter. "There will be a couple
of madmen face to face; and the one will kill the other, I am sure."
  "Go!" repeated Fouquet. "If you place your foot on this staircase
before I call you, remember that you shall take the place of the
meanest prisoner in the Bastille."
  "This job will kill me, I am sure!" muttered Baisemeaux, as he
withdrew with tottering steps.
  The prisoner's cries became more and more terrible. When Fouquet had
satisfied himself that Baisemeaux had reached the bottom of the
staircase, he inserted the key in the first lock. It was then that
he heard the hoarse, choking voice of the King crying out in a
frenzy of rage, "Help, help! I am the King!" The key of the second
door was not the same as the first, and Fouquet was obliged to look
for it on the bunch. The King, meanwhile, furious and almost mad
with rage and passion, shouted at the top of his voice, "It was M.
Fouquet who brought me here! help me against M. Fouquet! I am the
King! help the King against M. Fouquet!"
  These cries tore the minister's heart with mingled emotions. They
were followed by frightful blows levelled against the door with a part
of the broken chair with which the King had armed himself. Fouquet
at last succeeded in finding the key. The King was almost exhausted;
he no longer articulated, he roared: "Death to Fouquet! Death to the
traitor Fouquet!" The door flew open.
              Chapter LI: The King's Gratitude

  THE two men were on the point of darting towards each other, when
they suddenly stopped, as a mutual recognition took place, and each
uttered a cry of horror.
  "Have you come to assassinate me, Monsieur?" said the King, when
he recognized Fouquet.
  "The King in this state!" murmured the minister.
  Nothing could be more terrible, indeed, than the appearance of Louis
at the moment Fouquet had surprised him; his clothes were in
tatters; his shirt, open and torn to rags, was stained with sweat, and
with the blood which streamed from his lacerated breast and arms.
Haggard, pale, foaming, his hair dishevelled, Louis XIV presented a
vivid picture of despair, hunger, and fear, combined in one figure.
Fouquet was so touched, so affected and disturbed, that he ran to
the King with his arms stretched out and his eyes filled with tears.
Louis held up the massive piece of wood of which he had made such a
furious use.
  "Sire," said Fouquet, in a voice trembling with emotion, "do you not
recognize the most faithful of your friends?"
  "A friend,- you!" repeated Louis, gnashing his teeth in a manner
which betrayed his hate and desire for speedy vengeance.
  "The most respectful of your servants," added Fouquet, throwing
himself on his knees. The King let the rude weapon fall from his
grasp. Fouquet approached him, kissed his knees, and took him tenderly
in his arms. "My King, my child," he said, "how you must have
suffered."
  Louis, recalled to himself by the change of situation, looked at
himself, and ashamed of his disordered state, ashamed of his
conduct, ashamed of the protection he was receiving, drew back.
Fouquet did not understand this movement; he did not perceive that the
King's pride would never forgive him for having been a witness of so
much weakness. "Come, Sire," he said, "you are free."
  "Free?" repeated the King. "Oh! you set me at liberty, then, after
having dared to lift up your hand against me?"
  "You do not believe that!" exclaimed Fouquet, indignantly; "you
cannot believe me to be guilty of such an act."
  And rapidly, warmly even, he related the whole particulars of the
intrigue, the details of which are already known to the reader.
While the recital continued, Louis suffered the most horrible
anguish of mind; and when it was finished, the magnitude of the danger
he had run struck him far more than the importance of the secret
relating to his twin brother. "Monsieur," he said suddenly to Fouquet,
"this double birth is a falsehood; you cannot have been deceived by
it."
  "Sire!"
  "It is impossible, I tell you, that the honor, the virtue of my
mother can be suspected. And my first minister, has he not already
done justice on the criminals?"
  "Reflect, Sire, before you are carried away by your anger,"
replied Fouquet. "The birth of your brother-"
  "I have only one brother; and that is Monsieur. You know it as
well as myself. There is a plot, I tell you, beginning with the
governor of the Bastille."
  "Be careful, Sire, for this man has been deceived as every one
else has by the Prince's likeness to yourself."
  "Likeness? absurd!" "This Marchiali must, however, be very like your
Majesty to be able to deceive every one," Fouquet persisted.
  "Ridiculous!"
  "Do not say so, Sire; those who had prepared everything in order
to face and deceive your ministers, your mother, your officers of
state, the members of your family, must be quite confident of the
resemblance between you."
  "There is truth in that," murmured the King; "but where are these
persons, then?"
  "At Vaux."
  "At Vaux! and you suffer them to remain there?"
  "My most pressing duty seemed to be your Majesty's release. I have
accomplished that duty; and now whatever your Majesty may command,
shall be done. I await your orders."
  Louis reflected for a few minutes. "Muster all the troops in Paris,"
he said.
  "All the necessary orders are given for that purpose," replied
Fouquet.
  "You have given orders?" exclaimed the King.
  "For that purpose,- yes, Sire! your Majesty will be at the head of
ten thousand men in an hour."
  The only reply the King made was to take hold of Fouquet's hand with
such an expression of feeling that it was very easy to perceive how
strongly he had until that remark maintained his suspicions of the
minister, notwithstanding the latter's intervention. "And with these
troops," he said, "we shall go at once and besiege in your house the
rebels who by this time will have established and intrenched
themselves there."
  "I should be surprised if that were the case," replied Fouquet.
  "Why?"
  "Because their chief,- the very soul of the enterprise,- having been
unmasked by me, the whole plan seems to me to have miscarried."
  "You have unmasked this false Prince also?"
  "No, I have not seen him."
  "Whom have you seen, then?"
  "The leader of the enterprise is not that unhappy young man; the
latter is merely an instrument, destined through his whole life to
wretchedness, I plainly perceive."
  "Most certainly."
  "It is M. l'Abbe d'Herblay, Bishop of Vannes."
  "Your friend?"
  "He was my friend, Sire," replied Fouquet, nobly.
  "An unfortunate circumstance for you," said the King, in a less
generous tone of voice.
  "Such friendship, Sire, had nothing dishonorable in it so long as
I was ignorant of the crime."
  "You should have foreseen it."
  "If I am guilty, I place myself in your Majesty's hands."
  "Ah, M. Fouquet, it was not that I meant," returned the King,
sorry to have shown the bitterness of his thought in such a manner.
"Well; I assure you that notwithstanding the mask with which the
villain covered his face, I had something like a vague suspicion
that it might be he. But with this chief of the enterprise there was a
man of prodigious strength; the one who menaced me with a force almost
herculean, what is he?"
  "It must be his friend the Baron du Vallon, formerly one of the
Musketeers."
  "The friend of d'Artagnan; the friend of the Comte de la Fere?
Ah!" exclaimed the King, as he paused at the name of the latter, "we
must not forget that connection between the conspirators and M. de
Bragelonne."
  "Sire, Sire, do not go too far! M. de la Fere is the most
honorable man in France. Be satisfied with those whom I deliver up
to you."
  "With those whom you deliver up to me, you say? Very good, for you
will deliver up those who are guilty to me."
  "What does your Majesty understand by that?" inquired Fouquet.
  "I understand," replied the King, "that we shall soon arrive at Vaux
with a large body of troops, that we will lay violent hands upon
that nest of vipers, and that not a soul shall escape."
  "Your Majesty will put these men to death?" cried Fouquet.
  "To the very meanest of them."
  "Oh, Sire!"
  "Let us understand each other, M. Fouquet," said the King,
haughtily. "We no longer live in times when assassination was the
only, the last resource of kings. No, Heaven be praised! I have
parliaments who judge in my name, and I have scaffolds on which my
supreme will is executed."
  Fouquet turned pale. "I will take the liberty of observing to your
Majesty that any proceedings instituted respecting these matters would
bring down the greatest scandal upon the dignity of the throne. The
august name of Anne of Austria must never be allowed to pass the
lips of the people accompanied by a smile."
  "Justice must be done, however, Monsieur."
  "Good, Sire; but the royal blood cannot be shed on a scaffold."
  "The royal blood! you believe that?" cried the King, with fury in
his voice, stamping on the ground. "This double birth is an invention;
and in that invention particularly do I see M. d'Herblay's crime. That
is the crime I wish to punish, rather than their violence or their
insult."
  "And punish it with death, Sire?"
  "With death! yes, Monsieur."
  "Sire," said the superintendent, with firmness, as he raised his
head proudly, "your Majesty will take the life, if you please, of your
brother Philippe of France; that concerns you alone, and you will
doubtless consult the Queen-Mother upon the subject. Whatever she
may order will be ordered well. I do not wish to mix myself up in
it, not even for the honor of your crown; but I have a favor to ask of
you, and I beg to submit to you."
  "Speak," said the King, in no little degree agitated by his
minister's last words. "What do you require?"
  "The pardon of M. d'Herblay and of M. du Vallon."
  "My assassins?"
  "Two rebels, Sire; that is all."
  "Oh! I understand, then, you ask me to forgive your friends."
  "My friends!" said Fouquet, deeply wounded.
  "Your friends, certainly; but the safety of the State requires
that an exemplary punishment should be inflicted on the guilty."
  "I will not permit myself to remind your Majesty that I have just
restored you to liberty, and have saved your life."
  "Monsieur!"
  "I will only remind your Majesty that had M. d'Herblay wished to
play the part of an assassin, he could very easily have assassinated
your Majesty this morning in the forest of Senart, and all would
have been over."
  The King started.
  "A pistol-bullet through the head," pursued Fouquet, "and the
disfigured features of Louis XIV, which no one could have
recognized, would have been M. d'Herblay's complete absolution."
  The King turned pale with fear at the idea of the danger he had
escaped.
  "If M. d'Herblay," continued Fouquet, "had been an assassin, he
had no occasion to inform me of his plan in order to succeed. Freed
from the real King, it would have been impossible to guess the false
one. And if the usurper had been recognized by Anne of Austria, he
would still have been a son for her. The usurper, so far as M.
d'Herblay's conscience was concerned, was still a King of the blood of
Louis XIII. Moreover, the conspirator in that course would have had
security, secrecy, and impunity. A pistol-bullet would have procured
him all that. For the sake of Heaven, Sire, forgive him!"
  The King, instead of being touched by that picture, so faithful in
all its details, of Aramis's generosity, felt himself painfully
humiliated. His unconquerable pride revolted at the idea that a man
had held suspended at the end of his finger the thread of his royal
life. Every word which Fouquet thought would be efficacious in
procuring his friend's pardon, carried another drop of poison to the
already rankling heart of Louis XIV. Nothing could bend him.
Addressing himself to Fouquet, he said, "I really don't know,
Monsieur, why you should solicit the pardon of these men. What good is
there in asking that which can be obtained without solicitation?"
  "I do not understand you, Sire."
  "It is not difficult either. Where am I now?"
  "In the Bastille, Sire."
  "Yes; in a dungeon. I am looked upon as a madman, am I not?"
  "Yes, Sire."
  "And no one is known here but Marchiali?"
  "Certainly."
  "Well; change nothing in the position of affairs. Let the madman rot
in the dungeon of the Bastille, and M. d'Herblay and M. du Vallon will
stand in no need of my forgiveness. Their new King will absolve them."
  "Your Majesty does me a great injustice, Sire; and you are wrong,"
replied Fouquet, dryly. "I am not child enough, nor is M. d'Herblay
silly enough, to have omitted to make all these reflections; and if
I had wished to make a new King, as you say, I had no occasion to have
come here to force open all the gates and doors of the Bastille, to
free you from this place. That would show a want of common-sense even.
Your Majesty's mind is disturbed by anger; otherwise you would be
far from offending groundlessly the very one of your servants who
has rendered you the most important service of all."
  Louis perceived that he had gone too far, that the gates of the
Bastille were still closed upon him; while, by degrees, the floodgates
were gradually being opened behind which the generous-hearted
Fouquet had restrained his anger. "I did not say that to humiliate
you, Heaven knows, Monsieur," he replied. "Only you are addressing
yourself to me in order to obtain a pardon, and I answer you according
as my conscience dictates. And so, judging by my conscience, the
criminals we speak of are not worthy of consideration of forgiveness."
  Fouquet was silent.
  "What I do is as generous," added the King, "as what you have
done, for I am in your power. I will even say, it is more generous,
inasmuch as you place before me certain conditions upon which my
liberty, my life, may depend, and to reject which is to make a
sacrifice of them both."
  "I was wrong, certainly," replied Fouquet. "Yes; I had the
appearance of extorting a favor. I regret it, and entreat your
Majesty's forgiveness."
  "And you are forgiven, my dear M. Fouquet," said the King, with a
smile which restored the serene expression of his features, which so
many circumstances had altered since the preceding evening.
  "I have my own forgiveness," replied the minister, with some
degree of persistence; "but M. d'Herblay and M. du Vallon?"
  "They will never obtain theirs as long as I live," replied the
inflexible King. "Do me the kindness not to speak of it again."
  "Your Majesty shall be obeyed."
  "And you will bear me no ill-will for it?"
  "Oh, no, Sire,- for I anticipated it."
  "You had 'anticipated' that I should refuse to forgive those
gentlemen?"
  "Certainly; and all my measures were taken in consequence."
  "What do you mean to say?" cried the King, surprised.
  "M. d'Herblay came, so to speak, to deliver himself into my hands.
M. d'Herblay left to me the happiness of saving my King and my
country. I could not condemn M. d'Herblay to death; nor could I, on
the other hand, expose him to your Majesty's most justifiable
wrath,- it would have been just the same as if I had killed him
myself."
  "Well; and what have you done?"
  "Sire, I gave M. d'Herblay the best horses in my stables, and four
hours' start over those your Majesty will despatch after him."
  "Be it so!" murmured the King. "But still, the world is large enough
for those whom I may send to overtake your horses, notwithstanding the
'four hours' start' which you have given to M. d'Herblay."
  "In giving him those four hours, Sire, I knew I was giving him his
life; and he will save his life."
  "In what way?"
  "After having galloped as hard as possible, with the four hours'
start over your Musketeers, he will reach my chateau of Belle-Isle,
where I have given him a safe asylum."
  "That may be! but you forget that you have made me a present of
Belle-Isle."
  "But not for you to arrest my friends."
  "You take it back again, then?"
  "As far as that goes,- yes, Sire."
  "My Musketeers will capture it, and the affair will be at an end."
  "Neither your Musketeers nor your whole army could take Belle-Isle,"
said Fouquet, coldly. "Belle-Isle is impregnable."
  The King became livid; a lightning flash darted from his eyes.
Fouquet felt that he was lost, but he was not one to shrink when the
voice of honor spoke loudly within him. He bore the King's wrathful
gaze; the latter swallowed his rage, and after a few moments' silence,
said, "Are we going to return to Vaux?"
  "I am at your Majesty's orders," replied Fouquet, with a low bow;
"but I think that your Majesty can hardly dispense with changing
your clothes previous to appearing before your court."
  "We shall pass by the Louvre," said the King. "Come." And they
left the prison, passing before Baisemeaux, who looked completely
bewildered as he saw Marchiali once more leave, and in his
helplessness tore out the few remaining hairs he had left. It is
true that Fouquet wrote and gave him an authority for the prisoner's
release, and that the King wrote beneath it, "Seen and approved,
Louis,"- a piece of madness that Baisemeaux, incapable of putting
two ideas together, acknowledged by giving himself a terrible blow
with his fist on his jaws.
                Chapter LII: The False King

  IN THE mean time, usurped royalty was playing out its part bravely
at Vaux. Philippe gave orders that for his petit lever, the grandes
entrees, already prepared to appear before the King, should be
introduced. He determined to give this order notwithstanding the
absence of M. d'Herblay, who did not return, and our readers know
for what reason. But the Prince, not believing that the absence
could be prolonged, wished, as all rash spirits do, to try his valor
and his fortune independently of all protection and all counsel.
Another reason urged him to this,- Anne of Austria was about to
appear; the guilty mother was about to stand in the presence of her
sacrificed son. Philippe was not willing, if he should betray any
weakness, to render the man a witness of it before whom he was bound
thenceforth to display so much strength.
  Philippe opened his folding-doors, and several persons entered
silently. Philippe did not stir while his valets de chambre dressed
him. He had watched, the evening before, all the habits of his
brother, and played the King in such a manner as to awaken no
suspicion. He was then completely dressed in his hunting costume
when he received his visitors. His own memory and the notes of
Aramis announced everybody to him, first of all Anne of Austria, to
whom Monsieur gave his hand, and then Madame with M. de
Saint-Aignan. He smiled at seeing these countenances, but trembled
on recognizing his mother. That figure so noble, so imposing,
ravaged by pain, pleaded in his heart the cause of that famous Queen
who had immolated a child to reasons of state. He found his mother
still handsome. He knew that Louis XIV loved her; and he promised
himself to love her likewise, and not to prove a cruel chastisement
for her old age. He contemplated his brother with a tenderness
easily to be understood. The latter had usurped nothing over him,
had cast no shade over his life; a separate branch, he allowed the
stem to rise without heeding its elevation or the majesty of its life.
Philippe promised himself to be a kind brother to this Prince, who
required nothing but gold to minister to his pleasures. He bowed
with a friendly air to De Saint-Aignan, who was all reverences and
smiles, and tremblingly held out his hand to Henrietta, his
sister-in-law, whose beauty struck him; but he saw in her eyes an
expression of coldness which would facilitate, as he thought, their
future relations.
  "How much more easy," thought he, "it will be to be the brother of
that woman than her gallant, if she evinces towards me a coldness that
my brother could not have for her, and which is imposed upon me as a
duty." The only visit he dreaded at this moment was that of the Queen;
his heart, his mind, had just been shaken by so violent a trial that
in spite of their firm temperament they would not, perhaps, support
another shock. Happily the Queen did not come.
  Then began, on the part of Anne of Austria, a political dissertation
upon the welcome M. Fouquet had given to the house of France. She
mixed up hostilities with compliments addressed to the King, and
questions as to his health with little maternal flatteries and
diplomatic artifices. "Well, my son," said she, "are you convinced
with regard to M. Fouquet?"
  "Saint-Aignan," said Philippe, "have the goodness to go and
inquire after the Queen."
  At these words, the first which Philippe had pronounced aloud, the
slight difference that there was between his voice and that of the
King was sensible to maternal ears, and Anne of Austria looked
earnestly at her son. De Saint-Aignan left the room, and Philippe
continued, "Madame, I do not like to hear M. Fouquet ill-spoken of,-
you know I do not; and you have even spoken well of him yourself."
  "That is true; therefore I only question you on the state of your
sentiments with respect to him."
  "Sire," said Henrietta, "I, on my part, have always liked M.
Fouquet. He is a man of good taste; he is a superior man."
  "A superintendent who is never sordid or niggardly," added Monsieur,
"and who pays in gold all the orders I have on him."
  "Every one in this thinks too much of himself, and nobody for the
State," said the old Queen. "M. Fouquet- it is a fact- M. Fouquet is
ruining the State."
  "Well, Mother," replied Philippe, in rather a lower key, "do you
likewise constitute yourself the buckler of M. Colbert?"
  "How is that?" replied the old Queen, rather surprised.
  "Why, in truth," replied Philippe, "you speak that just as your
old friend Madame de Chevreuse would speak."
  At that name Anne of Austria turned pale and bit her lips.
Philippe had irritated the lioness. "Why do you mention Madame de
Chevreuse to me?" said she; "and what sort of humor are you in
to-day towards me?"
  Philippe continued: "Is not Madame de Chevreuse always in league
against somebody? Has not Madame de Chevreuse been to pay you a visit,
Mother?"
  "Monsieur, you speak to me now in such a manner that I can almost
fancy I am listening to your father."
  "My father did not like Madame de Chevreuse, and with good
reason," said the Prince. "For my part, I like her no better than he
did; and if she thinks proper to come here as she formerly did, to sow
divisions and hatreds under the pretext of begging money, why-"
  "Well, what?" said Anne of Austria, proudly, herself provoking the
storm.
  "Well," replied the young man, firmly, "I will drive Madame de
Chevreuse out of my kingdom,- and with her all who meddle with secrets
and mysteries."
  He had not calculated the effect of this terrible speech, or perhaps
he wished to judge of the effect of it,- like those who suffering from
a chronic pain, and seeking to break the monotony of that suffering,
touch their wound to procure a sharper pang. Anne of Austria was
near fainting. Her eyes, open but meaningless, ceased to see for
several seconds; she stretched out her arms towards her other son, who
supported and embraced her without fear of irritating the King.
"Sire," murmured she, "you treat your mother cruelly."
  "In what, Madame?" replied he. "I am only speaking of Madame de
Chevreuse; does my mother prefer Madame de Chevreuse to the security
of the State and to the security of my person? Well, then, Madame, I
tell you Madame de Chevreuse is returned to France to borrow money,
and that she addressed herself to M. Fouquet to sell him a certain
secret."
  "'A certain secret!'" cried Anne of Austria.
  "Concerning pretended robberies that Monsieur the Superintendent had
committed; which is false," added Philippe. "M. Fouquet rejected her
offers with indignation, preferring the esteem of the King to all
complicity with intriguers. Then Madame de Chevreuse sold the secret
to M. Colbert; and as she is insatiable, and was not satisfied with
having extorted a hundred thousand crowns from that clerk, she has
sought still higher, and has endeavored to find still deeper
springs. Is that true, Madame?"
  "You know all, Sire," said the Queen, more uneasy than irritated.
  "Now," continued Philippe, "I have good reason to dislike this fury,
who comes to my court to plan the dishonor of some and the ruin of
others. If God has suffered certain crimes to be committed, and has
concealed them in the shade of his clemency, I will not permit
Madame de Chevreuse to have the power to counteract the designs of
God."
  The latter part of this speech had so agitated the Queen-Mother that
her son had pity on her. He took her hand and kissed it tenderly;
she did not perceive that in that kiss, given in spite of repulsions
and bitternesses of the heart, there was a pardon for eight years of
horrible suffering. Philippe allowed the silence of a moment to
swallow the emotions that had just developed themselves. Then, with
a cheerful smile, "We will not go to-day," said he; "I have a plan."
And turning towards the door, he hoped to see Aramis, whose absence
began to alarm him. The Queen-Mother wished to leave the room.
  "Remain, Mother," said he; "I wish you to make your peace with M.
Fouquet."
  "I bear no ill-will towards M. Fouquet; I only dreaded his
prodigalities."
  "We will put that to rights, and will take nothing of the
superintendent but his good qualities."
  "What is your Majesty looking for?" said Henrietta, seeing the
Prince's eyes constantly turned towards the door, and wishing to let
fly a little poisoned arrow at his heart,- for she supposed he was
expecting La Valliere or a letter from her.
  "My sister," said the young man, who had divined her thought, thanks
to that marvellous perspicuity of which fortune was from that time
about to allow him the exercise,- "my sister, I am expecting a most
distinguished man, a most able counsellor, whom I wish to present to
you all, recommending him to your good graces- Ah! come in, then,
d'Artagnan."
  "What does your Majesty wish?" said d'Artagnan, appearing.
  "Where is M. l'Eveque de Vannes, your friend?"
  "Why, Sire-"
  "I am waiting for him, and he does not come. Let him be sought for."
  D'Artagnan remained for an instant stupefied; but soon, reflecting
that Aramis had left Vaux secretly with a mission from the King, he
concluded that the King wished to preserve the secret of it, "Sire,"
replied he, "does your Majesty absolutely require M. d'Herblay to be
brought to you?"
  "Absolutely is not the word," said Philippe,- "I do not want him
so particularly as that; but if he can be found-"
  "I thought so," said d'Artagnan to himself.
  "Is this M. d'Herblay, Bishop of Vannes?" said Anne of Austria.
  "Yes, Madame."
  "A friend of M. Fouquet?"
  "Yes, Madame, an old musketeer."
  Anne of Austria blushed.
  "One of the four braves who formerly performed such wonders."
  The old Queen repented of having wished to bite; she broke off the
conversation, in order to preserve the rest of her teeth. "Whatever
may be your choice, Sire," said she, "I have no doubt it will be
excellent." All bowed in support of that sentiment.
  "You will find in him," continued Philippe, "the depth and
penetration of M. de Richelieu, without the avarice of M. de Mazarin!"
  "A prime minister, Sire?" said Monsieur, in a fright.
  "I will tell you all about that, Brother; but it is strange that
M. d'Herblay is not here!" He called out, "Let M. Fouquet be
informed that I wish to speak to him- Oh, before you, before you; do
not retire!"
  M. de Saint-Aignan returned, bringing satisfactory news of the
Queen, who only kept her bed from precaution, and to have strength
to carry out all the King's wishes. While some were seeking M. Fouquet
and Aramis, Philippe quietly continued his experiments, and no one
of the family, officers, or servants had the least suspicion; his air,
voice, and manners were so like the King's. On his side, Philippe,
applying to all countenances the faithful description furnished by his
accomplice Aramis, conducted himself so as not to give birth to a
doubt in the minds of those who surrounded him.
  Nothing from that time could disturb the usurper. With what
strange facility had Providence just reversed the most elevated
fortune of the world to substitute the most humble in its stead!
Philippe admired the goodness of God with regard to himself, and
seconded it with all the resources of his admirable nature. But he
felt at times something like a shadow gliding between him and the rays
of his new glory. Aramis did not appear. The conversation had
languished in the royal family; Philippe, preoccupied, forgot to
dismiss his brother and Madame Henrietta. The latter were
astonished, and began by degrees to lose all patience. Anne of Austria
stooped towards her son's ear, and addressed some word to him in
Spanish. Philippe was completely ignorant of that language, and grew
pale at this unexpected obstacle. But as if the spirit of the
imperturbable Aramis had covered him with his infallibility, instead
of appearing disconcerted, Philippe rose. "Well! what?" said Anne of
Austria.
  "What is all that noise?" said Philippe, turning round towards the
door of the second staircase.
  And a voice was heard saying, "This way! this way! A few steps more,
Sire!"
  "The voice of M. Fouquet," said d'Artagnan, who was standing close
to the Queen-Mother.
  "Then M. d'Herblay cannot be far off," added Philippe.
  But he then saw what he little thought to see so near to him. All
eyes were turned towards the door at which M. Fouquet was expected
to enter; but it was not M. Fouquet who entered. A terrible cry
resounded from all corners of the chamber. It is not given to men,
even to those whose destiny contains the strangest elements and
accidents the most wonderful, to contemplate a spectacle similar to
that which presented itself in the royal chamber at that moment. The
half-closed shutters admitted the entrance of only an uncertain light,
passing through large velvet curtains lined with silk. In this soft
shade the eyes were by degrees dilated, and every one present saw
others rather with faith than with positive sight. In these
circumstances, however, not one of the surrounding details could
escape; and any new object which presented itself appeared as luminous
as if it had been enlightened by the sun. So it was with Louis XIV,
when he showed himself pale and frowning in the doorway of the
secret stairs. The face of Fouquet appeared behind him, impressed with
sorrow and sternness. The Queen-Mother, who perceived Louis XIV, and
who held the hand of Philippe, uttered the cry of which we have
spoken, as if she had beheld a phantom. Monsieur was bewildered, and
kept turning his head in astonishment from one to the other. Madame
made a step forward, thinking she saw the form of her brother-in-law
reflected in a glass; and, in fact, the illusion was possible.
  The two Princes, both pale as death,- for we renounce the hope of
being able to describe the fearful state of Philippe,- both trembling,
and clinching their hands convulsively, measured each other with their
looks, and darted their eyes, like poniards, into each other. Mute,
panting, bending forward, they appeared as if about to spring upon
an enemy. The unheard-of resemblance of countenance, gesture, shape,
height, even of costume,- produced by chance, for Louis XIV had been
to the Louvre and put on a violet-colored suit,- the perfect
likeness of the two Princes completed the consternation of Anne of
Austria. And yet she did not at once guess the truth. There are
misfortunes in life that no one will accept; people would rather
believe in the supernatural and the impossible. Louis had not reckoned
upon these obstacles. He expected that he had only to appear and be
acknowledged. A living sun, he could not endure the suspicion of
parity with any one. He did not admit that every torch should not
become darkness at the instant he shone out with his conquering ray.
At the aspect of Philippe, then, he was perhaps more terrified than
any one round him, and his silence, his immobility, were this time a
concentration and a calm which precede violent explosions of passion.
  But Fouquet! who could paint his emotion and stupor in presence of
this living portrait of his master! Fouquet thought Aramis was right,-
that this new-comer was a King as pure in his race as the other, and
that for having repudiated all participation in this coup d'etat, so
skilfully got up by the General of the Jesuits, he must be a mad
enthusiast unworthy of ever again dipping his hands in a political
work. And then it was the blood of Louis XIII which Fouquet was
sacrificing to the blood of Louis XIII; it was to a selfish ambition
he was sacrificing a noble ambition; it was to the right of keeping he
sacrificed the right of having! The whole extent of his fault was
revealed to him by the simple sight of the pretender. All that
passed in the mind of Fouquet was lost upon the persons present. He
had five minutes to concentrate his meditations upon this point of the
case of conscience; five minutes,- that is to say, five ages,-
during which the two Kings and their family scarcely found time to
breathe after so terrible a shock.
  D'Artagnan, leaning against the wall in front of Fouquet, with his
hand to his brow, asked himself the cause of such a wonderful prodigy.
He could not have said at once why he doubted, but he knew assuredly
that he had reason to doubt, and that in this meeting of the two Louis
XIV's lay all the mystery which during late days had rendered the
conduct of Aramis so suspicious to the musketeer. These ideas were,
however, enveloped in thick veils. The actors in this assembly
seemed to swim in the vapors of a confused waking.
  Suddenly Louis XIV, more impatient and more accustomed to command,
ran to one of the shutters, which he opened, tearing the curtains in
his eagerness. A flood of living light entered the chamber, and made
Philippe draw back to the alcove. Louis seized upon this movement with
eagerness, and addressing himself to the Queen, "My mother," said
he, "do you not acknowledge your son, since every one here has
forgotten his King?" Anne of Austria started, and raised her arms
towards Heaven, without being able to articulate a single word.
  "My mother," said Philippe, with a calm voice, "do you not
acknowledge your son?" And this time, in his turn, Louis drew back.
  As to Anne of Austria, struck in both head and heart with remorse,
she was no longer able to stand. No one aiding her, for all were
petrified, she sank back in her fauteuil, breathing a weak,
trembling sigh. Louis could not endure this spectacle and this
affront. He bounded towards d'Artagnan, upon whom the vertigo was
beginning to gain, and who staggered as he caught at the door for
support. "A moi, mousquestaire!" said he. "Look us in the face and say
which is the paler, he or I!"
  This cry roused d'Artagnan, and stirred in his heart the fibre of
obedience. He shook his head, and without more hesitation, he walked
straight up to Philippe, upon whose shoulder he laid his hand, saying,
"Monsieur, you are my prisoner!" Philippe did not raise his eyes
towards Heaven, nor stir from the spot, where he seemed nailed to
the floor, his eye intently fixed upon the King, his brother. He
reproached him by a sublime silence with all his misfortunes past,
with all his tortures to come. Against this language of the soul Louis
XIV felt he had no power; he cast down his eyes, and led away
precipitately his brother and sister, forgetting his mother, sitting
motionless within three paces of the son whom she left a second time
to be condemned to death. Philippe approached Anne of Austria, and
said to her in a soft and nobly agitated voice, "If I were not your
son, I should curse you, my mother, for having rendered me so
unhappy."
  D'Artagnan felt a shudder pass through the marrow of his bones. He
bowed respectfully to the young Prince, and said as he bent, "Excuse
me, Monseigneur; I am but a soldier, and my oaths are his who has just
left the chamber."
  "Thank you, M. d'Artagnan; but what is become of M. d'Herblay?"
  "M. d'Herblay is in safety, Monseigneur," said a voice behind
them; "and no one, while I live and am free, shall cause a hair to
fall from his head."
  "M. Fouquet!" said the Prince, smiling sadly.
  "Pardon me, Monseigneur," said Fouquet, kneeling; "but he who is
just gone out from hence was my guest."
  "Here are," murmured Philippe, with a sigh, "brave friends and
good hearts. They make me regret the world. On, M. d'Artagnan, I
follow you!"
  At the moment the captain of the Musketeers was about to leave the
room with his prisoner, Colbert appeared, and after delivering to
d'Artagnan an order from the King, retired. D'Artagnan read the paper,
and then crushed it in his hand with rage.
  "What is it?" asked the Prince.
  "Read, Monseigneur," replied the musketeer.
  Philippe read the following words, hastily traced by the hand of the
King:-

  "M. d'Artagnan will conduct the prisoner to the ile Ste. Marguerite.
He will cover his face with an iron visor, which the prisoner cannot
raise without peril of his life."

  "It is just," said Philippe, with resignation; "I am ready."
  "Aramis was right," said Fouquet, in a low voice to the musketeer,
"this one is quite as much of a King as the other."
  "More," replied d'Artagnan. "He needs only you and me."
         Chapter LIII: In Which Porthos Thinks He Is
                     Pursuing a Duchy

  ARAMIS and Porthos, having profited by the time granted them by
Fouquet, did honor to the French cavalry by their speed. Porthos did
not clearly understand for what kind of mission he was forced to
display so much velocity; but as he saw Aramis spurring on
furiously, he, Porthos, spurred on in the same manner. They had
soon, in this manner, placed twelve leagues between them and Vaux;
they were then obliged to change horses, and organize a sort of post
arrangement. It was during a relay that Porthos ventured to
interrogate Aramis discreetly.
  "Hush!" replied the latter; "know only that our fortune depends upon
our speed."
  As if Porthos had still been the musketeer of 1626, without a sou or
a maille, he pushed forward. The magic word "fortune" always means
something in the human ear. It means enough for those who have
nothing; it means too much for those who have enough.
  "I shall be made a duke!" said Porthos, aloud. He was speaking to
himself.
  "That is possible," replied Aramis, smiling after his own fashion,
as the horse of Porthos passed him. The head of Aramis was,
notwithstanding, on fire; the activity of the body had not yet
succeeded in subduing that of the mind. All that there is in raging
passions, in severe toothaches, or mortal threats twisted, gnawed, and
groaned in the thoughts of the vanquished prelate. His countenance
exhibited very visible traces of this rude combat. Free upon the
highway to abandon himself to every impression of the moment, Aramis
did not fail to swear at every start of his horse, at every inequality
in the road. Pale, at times inundated with boiling sweats, then
again dry and icy, he beat his horses and made the blood stream from
their sides. Porthos, whose dominant fault was not sensibility,
groaned at this. Thus they travelled on for eight long hours, and then
arrived at Orleans. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Aramis,
searching his recollections, judged that nothing demonstrated
pursuit to be possible. It would be without example that a troop
capable of taking him and Porthos should be furnished with relays
sufficient to perform forty leagues in eight hours. Thus, admitting
pursuit, which was not at all manifest, the fugitives were five
hours in advance of their pursuers.
  Aramis thought that there might be no imprudence in taking a
little rest, but that to continue would make the matter more
certain. Twenty leagues more performed with the same rapidity,
twenty more leagues devoured, and no one, not even d'Artagnan, could
overtake the enemies of the King. Aramis felt obliged, therefore, to
inflict upon Porthos the pain of mounting on horseback again. They
rode on till seven o'clock in the evening, and had only one post
more between them and Blois. But here a diabolical accident alarmed
Aramis greatly; there were no horses at the post. The prelate asked
himself by what infernal machination his enemies had succeeded in
depriving him of the means of going farther. He who never recognized
chance as a deity, he who found a cause for every result,- he
preferred believing that the refusal of the postmaster, at such an
hour, in such a country, was the consequence of an order emanating
from above; an order given with a view of stopping short the
king-maker in the midst of his flight. But at the moment he was
about to fly into a passion, so as to procure either a horse or an
explanation, he suddenly recollected that the Comte de la Fere lived
in the neighborhood.
  "I am not travelling," said he; "I do not want horses for a whole
stage. Find me two horses to go and pay a visit to a nobleman of my
acquaintance who resides near this place."
  "What nobleman?" asked the postmaster.
  "M. le Comte de la Fere."
  "Oh!" replied the postmaster, uncovering with respect, "a very
worthy nobleman. But whatever may be my desire to make myself
agreeable to him, I cannot furnish you with horses, for all mine are
engaged by M. le Duc de Beaufort."
  "Indeed!" said Aramis, much disappointed.
  "Only," continued the postmaster, "if you will put up with a
little carriage I have, I will harness an old blind horse, who has
still his legs left, and who will draw you to the house of M. le Comte
de la Fere."
  "That is worth a louis," said Aramis.
  "No, Monsieur, that is never worth more than a crown. That is what
M. Grimaud, the count's intendant, always pays me when he makes use of
that carriage; and I should not wish the Comte de la Fere to have to
reproach me with having imposed on one of his friends."
  "As you please," said Aramis, "particularly as regards disobliging
the Comte de la Fere; you will have your crown, but I have a right
to give you a louis for your idea."
  "Oh, doubtless!" replied the postmaster, with delight; and he
himself harnessed the old horse to the creaking carriage. In the
mean time Porthos was curious to behold. He imagined he had discovered
the secret, and he felt pleased,- because a visit to Athos in the
first place promised him much satisfaction, and in the next, gave
him the hopes of finding at the same time a good bed and a good
supper. The master, having got the carriage ready, ordered one of
his men to drive the strangers to La Fere. Porthos took his seat by
the side of Aramis, whispering in his ear, "I understand."
  "Ah, ah!" said Aramis, "and what do you understand, my friend?"
  "We are going, on the part of the King, to make some great
proposal to Athos."
  "Pooh!" said Aramis.
  "You need tell me nothing about it," added the worthy Porthos,
endeavoring to place himself so as to avoid the jolting,- "you need
tell me nothing, I shall guess."
  "Well, do, my friend; guess away."
  They arrived at Athos's dwelling about nine o'clock in the
evening, favored by a splendid moon. This cheerful light rejoiced
Porthos beyond expression; but Aramis appeared annoyed by it in an
equal degree. He could not help showing something of this to
Porthos, who replied, "Ay, ay! I guess how it is!- the mission is a
secret one."
  These were his last words in the carriage. The driver interrupted
him by saying:
  "Gentlemen, you are arrived."
  Porthos and his companion alighted before the gate of the little
chateau, where we are about to meet again with Athos and Bragelonne,
both of whom had disappeared after the discovery of the infidelity
of La Valliere.
  If there be one saying more true than another, it is this: great
griefs contain within themselves the germ of their consolation. This
painful wound inflicted upon Raoul had drawn him nearer to his father;
and God knows how sweet were the consolations that flowed from the
eloquent mouth and generous heart of Athos. The wound was not
healed, but Athos, by dint of conversing with his son and mingling a
little of his life with that of the young man, had brought him to
understand that this pang of a first infidelity is necessary to
every human existence; and that no one has loved without meeting
with it.
  Raoul listened often, but never understood. Nothing replaces in
the deeply afflicted heart the remembrance and thought of the
beloved object. Raoul replied to the reasonings of his father,
"Monsieur, all that you tell me is true. I believe that no one has
suffered in the affections of the heart so much as you have; but you
are a man too great in intelligence, and too severely tried by
misfortunes, not to allow for the weakness of the soldier who
suffers for the first time. I am paying a tribute which I shall not
pay a second time; permit me to plunge myself so deeply in my grief
that I may forget myself in it, that I may drown in it even my
reason."
  "Raoul! Raoul!"
  "Listen, Monsieur. Never shall I accustom myself to the idea that
Louise, the most chaste and the most innocent of women, has been
able so basely to deceive a man so honest and so loving as I. Never
can I persuade myself that I see that sweet and good mask change
into a hypocritical and lascivious face. Louise lost! Louise infamous!
Ah, Monseigneur, that idea is much more cruel to me than Raoul
abandoned, Raoul unhappy!"
  Athos then employed the heroic remedy. He defended Louise against
Raoul, and justified her perfidy by her love. "A woman who would
have yielded to the King because he is the King," said he, "would
deserve to be styled infamous; but Louise loves Louis. Both young,
they have forgotten, he his rank, she her vows. Love absolves
everything, Raoul. The two young people love each other with
sincerity."
  And when he had dealt this severe poniard-thrust, Athos, with a
sigh, saw Raoul bound away under the cruel wound, and fly to the
thickest recesses of the wood or the solitude of his chamber,
whence, an hour after, he would return, pale and trembling, but
subdued. Then coming up to Athos with a smile he would kiss his
hand, like the dog who having been beaten caresses a good master to
redeem his fault. Raoul listened only to his weakness, and confessed
only his grief.
  Thus passed away the days that followed that scene in which Athos
had so violently shaken the indomitable pride of the King. Never, when
conversing with his son, did he make any allusion to that scene; never
did he give him the details of that vigorous lecture, which might
perhaps have consoled the young man, by showing him his rival humbled.
Athos did not wish that the offended lover should forget the respect
due to the King. And when Bragelonne, ardent, furious, and melancholy,
spoke with contempt of royal words, of the equivocal faith which
certain madmen draw from promises falling from thrones; when,
passing over two centuries with the rapidity of a bird which traverses
a narrow strait, to go from one world to the other, Raoul ventured
to predict the time in which kings would become less than other
men,- Athos said to him in his serene, persuasive voice, "You are
right, Raoul. All that you say will happen: kings will lose their
privileges, as stars which have completed their time lose their
splendor. But when that moment shall come, Raoul, we shall be dead.
And remember well what I say to you. In this world, all- men, women,
and kings must live for the present. We can live for the future only
in living for God."
  This was the manner in which Athos and Raoul were as usual
conversing, as they walked backwards and forwards in the long alley of
limes in the park, when the bell which served to announce to the count
either the hour of dinner or the arrival of a visitor, was rung.
Mechanically, without attaching any importance to the summons, he
turned towards the house with his son; and at the end of the alley
they found themselves in the presence of Aramis and Porthos.
                Chapter LIV: The Last Adieux

  RAOUL uttered a cry, and affectionately embraced Porthos. Aramis and
Athos embraced like old men; and this embrace itself was a question
for Aramis, who immediately said, "My friend, we have not long to
remain with you."
  "Ah!" said the count.
  "Only time to tell you of my good fortune," interrupted Porthos.
  "Ah!" said Raoul.
  Athos looked silently at Aramis, whose sombre air had already
appeared to him very little in harmony with the good news of which
Porthos spoke.
  "What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear it,"
said Raoul, with a smile.
  "The King has made me a duke," said the worthy Porthos, with an
air of mystery, in the ear of the young man; "a duke by brevet."
  But the asides of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by
everybody. His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos
heard him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The
latter took Athos by the arm, and after having asked Porthos's
permission to say a word to his friend in private. "My dear Athos," he
began, "you see me overwhelmed with grief."
  "With grief, my dear friend?" cried the count.
  "In two words. I have raised a conspiracy against the King; that
conspiracy has failed, and at this moment I am doubtless pursued."
  "You are pursued! a conspiracy! Eh! my friend, what do you tell me?"
  "A sad truth. I am entirely ruined."
  "Well, but Porthos- this title of duke- what does all that mean?"
  "That is the subject of my severest pain; that is the deepest of
my wounds. I have, believing in an infallible success, drawn Porthos
into my conspiracy. He has thrown himself into it as you know he would
do, with all his strength, without knowing what he was about; and
now he is as much compromised as myself,- as completely ruined as I
am."
  "Good God!" and Athos turned towards Porthos, who was smiling
complacently.
  "I must make you acquainted with the whole. Listen to me," continued
Aramis; and he related the history as we know it. Athos, during the
recital, several times felt the sweat break from his forehead. "It was
a great idea," said he; "but a great error."
  "For which I am punished, Athos."
  "Therefore I will not tell you my entire thought."
  "Tell it, nevertheless."
  "It is a crime."
  "Capital, I know it is; high treason."
  "Porthos poor Porthos!"
  "What should I have done? Success, as I have told you, was certain."
  "M. Fouquet is an honorable man."
  "And I am a fool for having so ill judged him," said Aramis. "Oh,
the wisdom of man! Oh, a vast millstone which grinds a world, and
which is one day stopped by a grain of sand which has fallen, no one
knows how, in its wheels!"
  "Say by a diamond, Aramis. But the thing is done. How do you think
of acting?"
  "I am taking away Porthos. The King will never believe that that
worthy man has acted innocently. He never can believe that Porthos has
thought he was serving the King, while acting as he has done. His head
would pay for my fault. It shall not be so."
  "You are taking him away, whither?"
  "To Belle-Isle, at first. That is an impregnable place of refuge.
Then I have the sea, and a vessel to pass over into England, where I
have many relatives."
  "You? in England?"
  "Yes; or else in Spain, where I have still more."
  "But our excellent Porthos! you ruin him, for the King will
confiscate all his property."
  "All is provided for. I know how, when once in Spain, to reconcile
myself with Louis XIV, and restore Porthos to favor."
  "You have credit, seemingly, Aramis?" said Athos, with a discreet
air.
  "Much; and at the service of my friends."
  These words were accompanied by a warm pressure of the hand.
  "Thank you," replied the count.
  "And while we are on that head," said Aramis, "you also are a
malcontent; you also, Raoul, have griefs to lay to the King. Follow
our example; pass over into Belle-Isle. Then we shall see. I guarantee
upon my honor that in a month there will be war between France and
Spain on the subject of this son of Louis XIII, who is an Infante
likewise, and whom France detains inhumanly. Now, as Louis XIV would
have no inclination for a war on that subject, I will answer for a
transaction, the result of which must bring greatness to Porthos and
to me, and a duchy in France to you, who are already a grandee of
Spain. Will you join us?"
  "No; for my part I prefer having something to reproach the King
with. It is a pride natural to my race to pretend to a superiority
over royal races. Doing what you propose, I should become a
dependent of the King; I should certainly be the gainer on that
ground, but I should be a loser in my conscience. No, thank you!"
  "Then, give me two things, Athos,- your absolution."
  "Oh! I give it you if you have really wished to avenge the weak
and the oppressed against the oppressor."
  "That is sufficient for me," said Aramis, with a blush which was
lost in the obscurity of the night. "And now give me your best two
horses to gain the second post, as I have been refused any under the
pretext of a journey which the Duc de Beaufort is making in this
country."
  "You shall have two of my best horses, Aramis; and I again recommend
Porthos strongly to you."
  "Oh, have no fear on that head. One word more: do you think I am
planning wisely for him?"
  "The evil being committed, yes; for the King would not pardon him,
and you have, whatever may be said, always a supporter in M.
Fouquet, who will not abandon you, being himself compromised,
notwithstanding his heroic action."
  "You are right. And that is why, instead of gaining the sea at once,
which would proclaim my fear and guilt,- that is why I remain upon
French ground. But Belle-Isle will be for me whatever ground I wish it
to be, English, Spanish, or Roman; all depends on the standard I shall
think proper to unfurl."
  "How so?"
  "It was I who fortified Belle-Isle; and while I defend it, nobody
can take Belle-Isle from me. And then, as you have said just now, M.
Fouquet is there. Belle-Isle will not be attacked without the
signature of M. Fouquet."
  "That is true. Nevertheless, be prudent. The King is both cunning
and strong."
  Aramis smiled.
  "I again recommend Porthos to you," repeated the count, with a
sort of cold persistence.
  "Whatever becomes of me, Count," replied Aramis, in the same tone,
"our brother Porthos will fare as I do."
  Athos bowed while pressing the hand of Aramis, and turned to embrace
Porthos with much emotion.
  "I was born lucky, was I not?" murmured the latter, transported with
happiness, as he folded his cloak round him.
  "Come, my dear friend," said Aramis.
  Raoul had gone out to give orders for the saddling of the horses.
The group was already divided. Athos saw his two friends on the
point of departure, and something like a mist passed before his
eyes, and weighed upon his heart.
  "It is strange," thought he, "whence comes the inclination I feel to
embrace Porthos once more." At that moment Porthos turned round, and
came towards his old friend with open arms. This last endearment was
tender as in youth, as in times when the heart was warm and life
happy; and then Porthos mounted his horse. Aramis came back once
more to throw his arms round the neck of Athos. The latter watched
them along the high road, elongated by the shade, in their white
cloaks. Like two phantoms, they seemed to be enlarged on departing
from the earth; and it was not in the mist, but in the declivity of
the ground that they disappeared. At the end of the perspective,
both seemed to have given a spring with their feet, which made them
vanish as if evaporated into the clouds.
  Then Athos, with an oppressed heart, returned towards the house,
saying to Bragelonne, "Raoul, I don't know what it is that has just
told me that I have seen these two men for the last time."
  "It does not astonish me, Monsieur, that you should have such a
thought," replied the young man, "for I have at this moment the
same, and I also think that I shall never see Messieurs du Vallon
and d'Herblay again."
  "Oh, you!" replied the count, "you speak like a man rendered sad
by another cause,- you see everything in black; but you are young, and
if you chance never to see those old friends again, it will be because
they no longer exist in the world in which you have many years to
pass. As for me-"
  Raoul shook his head sadly, and leaned upon the shoulder of the
count, neither of them finding another word in their hearts, which
were ready to overflow.
  All at once a noise of horses and voices from the extremity of the
road to Blois attracted their attention that way. Mounted
torch-bearers shook their torches merrily among the trees of their
route, and turned round from time to time to avoid distancing the
horsemen who followed them. These flames, this noise, this dust of a
dozen richly caparisoned horses, formed a strange contrast in the
middle of the night with the melancholy, funereal disappearance of the
two shadows of Aramis and Porthos. Athos went towards the house; but
he had hardly reached the parterre when the entrance gate appeared
in a blaze; all the flambeaux stopped and appeared to inflame the
road. A cry was heard of "M. le Duc de Beaufort!" and Athos sprang
towards the door of his house. But the duke had already alighted
from his horse, and was looking around him.
  "I am here, Monseigneur," said Athos.
  "Ah, good-evening, dear count," said the Prince, with that frank
cordiality which won him so many hearts. "Is it too late for a
friend?"
  "Ah, my dear Prince, come in!" said the count.
  And M. de Beaufort leaning on the arm of Athos, they entered the
house, followed by Raoul, who walked respectfully and modestly among
the officers of the Prince, with several of whom he was acquainted.
                 Chapter LV: M. de Beaufort

  THE Prince turned around at the moment when Raoul, in order to leave
him alone with Athos, was shutting the door, and preparing to go
with the other officers into an adjoining apartment.
  "Is that the young man I have heard Monsieur the Prince speak so
highly of?" asked M. de Beaufort.
  "It is, Monseigneur."
  "He is quite the soldier; let him stay, Count, we cannot spare him."
  "Remain, Raoul, since Monseigneur Permits it," said Athos.
  "Ma foi! he is tall and handsome!" continued the duke. "Will you
give him to me, Monseigneur, if I ask him of you?"
  "How am I to understand you, Monseigneur?" said Athos.
  "Why, I call upon you to bid you farewell."
  "Farewell?"
  "Yes, in good truth. Have you no idea of what I am about to be?"
  "Why, what you have always been, Monseigneur,- a valiant Prince
and an excellent gentleman."
  "I am going to be an African Prince,- a Bedouin gentleman. The
King is sending me to make conquests among the Arabs."
  "What do you tell me, Monseigneur?"
  "Strange, is it not? I, the Parisian par essence,- I, who have
reigned in the faubourgs, and have been called King of the Halles,-
I am going to pass from the Place Maubert to the minarets of
Djidgelli; I become from a Frondeur an adventurer!"
  "Oh, Monseigneur, if you did not yourself tell me that-"
  "It would not be credible, would it? Believe me, nevertheless, and
let us bid each other farewell. This is what comes of getting into
favor again."
  "Into favor?"
  "Yes. You smile? Ah, my dear count, do you know why I have
accepted this enterprise; can you guess?"
  "Because your Highness loves glory above everything."
  "Oh, no; there is no glory in firing muskets at savages. I see no
glory in that, for my part, and it is more probable that I shall there
meet with something else. But I have wished, and still wish earnestly,
my dear count, that my life should have this last facet, after all the
whimsical exhibitions I have made in fifty years. For, in short, you
must admit that it is sufficiently strange to be born the grandson
of a king, to have made war against kings, to have reckoned among
the powers of the age, to have maintained my rank, to feel Henry IV
within me, to be great Admiral of France, and then to go and get
killed at Djidgelli among all those Turks, Saracens, and Moors!"
  "Monseigneur, you dwell strangely upon that subject," said Athos, in
an agitated voice. "How can you suppose that so brilliant a destiny
will be extinguished in that miserable scene?"
  "And can you believe, just and simple man as you are, that if I go
into Africa for this ridiculous motive, I will not endeavor to come
out of it without ridicule? Will I not give the world cause to speak
of me? and to be spoken of nowadays, when there are Monsieur the
Prince, M. de Turenne, and many others, my contemporaries, I,
Admiral of France, grandson of Henry IV, King of Paris,- have I
anything left but to get myself killed? Cordieu! I will be talked
of, I tell you; I will be killed, whether or not,- if not there,
somewhere else."
  "Why, Monseigneur, this is only exaggeration; and hitherto you
have demonstrated nothing of that kind but in bravery."
  "Peste! my dear friend, there is bravery in facing scurvy,
dysentery, locusts, and poisoned arrows, as my ancestor Saint Louis
did. Do you know those fellows still use poisoned arrows? And then,
you know me of old, I fancy; and you know that when I once make up
my mind to a thing, I do it in earnest."
  "Yes,- you made up your mind to escape from Vincennes."
  "Ay, but you aided me in that, my master; and, a propos, I turn this
way and turn that without seeing my old friend M. Vaugrimaud. How is
he?"
  "M. Vaugrimaud is still your Highness's most respectful servant,"
said Athos, smiling.
  "I have a hundred pistoles here for him, which I bring as a
legacy. My will is made, Count."
  "Ah, Monseigneur! Monseigneur!"
  "And you may understand that if Grimaud's name were to appear in
my will-" The duke began to laugh; then, addressing Raoul, who from
the beginning of this conversation had sunk into a profound revery,
"Young man," said he, "I know there is to be found here a certain De
Vouvray wine, and I believe-" Raoul left the room precipitately to
order the wine. In the mean time, M. de Beaufort took the hand of
Athos.
  "What do you mean to do with him?" asked he.
  "Nothing, at present, Monseigneur."
  "Ah, yes, I know,- since the passion of the King for La Valliere."
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "That is all true then, is it? I think I know her, that little
Valliere. She is not particularly handsome, if I remember rightly."
  "No, Monseigneur," said Athos.
  "Do you know of whom she reminds me?"
  "Does she remind your Highness of any one?"
  "She reminds me of a very agreeable girl whose mother used to live
in the Halles."
  "Ah, ah!" said Athos, smiling.
  "Oh, the good old times!" added M. de Beaufort. "Yes, Valliere
reminds me of that girl."
  "Who had a son, had she not?"
  "I believe she had," replied the duke, with careless naivete and a
complaisant forgetfulness of which no words could translate the tone
and the vocal expression. "Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I
believe."
  "Yes, he is my son, Monseigneur."
  "And the poor lad has been cut out by the King, and he frets."
  "Better than that, Monseigneur, he abstains."
  "You are going to let the boy rust in idleness; you are wrong. Come,
give him to me!"
  "My wish is to keep him at home, Monseigneur. I have no longer
anything in the world but him, and as long as he is willing to
remain-"
  "Well, well," replied the duke. "I could, nevertheless, have soon
put matters to rights again. I assure you, I think he has in him the
stuff of which marshals of France are made; I have seen more than
one produced from such material."
  "That is very possible, Monseigneur; but it is the King who makes
marshals of France, and Raoul will never accept anything of the King."
  Raoul interrupted this conversation by his return. He preceded
Grimaud, whose still steady hands carried the salver with one glass
and a bottle of the duke's favorite wine. On seeing his old protege,
the duke uttered an exclamation of pleasure.
  "Grimaud! Good-evening, Grimaud! said he; "how goes it?"
  The servant bowed profoundly, as much gratified as his noble
interlocutor.
  "Two old friends!" said the duke, shaking honest Grimaud's
shoulder after a vigorous fashion, which was followed by another still
more profound and delighted bow from Grimaud.
  "But what is this, Count,- only one glass?"
  "I should not think of drinking with your Highness, unless your
Highness invited me," replied Athos, with noble humility.
  "Cordieu! You were right to bring only one glass; we will both drink
out of it, like two brothers-in-arms. Begin, Count."
  "Do me the honor," said Athos, gently putting back the glass.
  "You are a charming friend," replied the Duc de Beaufort, who
drank and passed the goblet to his companion. "But that is not all,"
continued he; "I am still thirsty, and I wish to do honor to this
handsome young man who stands here. I carry good luck with me,
Viscount," said he to Raoul; "wish for something while drinking out of
my glass, and the plague stifle me if what you wish does not come to
pass!"
  He held the goblet to Raoul, who hastily moistened his lips, and
replied with the same promptitude, "I have wished for something,
Monseigneur." His eyes sparkled with a gloomy fire, and the blood
mounted to his cheeks; he terrified Athos, if only with his smile.
  "And what have you wished for?" replied the duke, sinking back
into his arm-chair, while with one hand he returned the bottle to
Grimaud and with the other gave him a purse.
  "Will you promise me, Monseigneur, to grant me what I wish for?"
  "Pardieu! That is agreed upon."
  "I wished, Monsieur the Duke, to go with you to Djidgelli."
  Athos became pale, and was unable to conceal his agitation. The duke
looked at his friend, as if desirous to help him parry this unexpected
blow.
  "That is difficult, my dear viscount, very difficult," added he,
in a lower tone of voice.
  "Pardon me, Monseigneur, I have been indiscreet," replied Raoul,
in a firm voice; "but as you yourself invited me to wish-"
  "To wish to leave me?" said Athos.
  "Oh, Monsieur- can you imagine-"
  "Well, mordieu!" cried the duke, "the young viscount is right!
What can he do here? He will rot with grief." Raoul blushed; and the
Prince, excited, continued, "War is a distraction. We gain
everything by it; we can lose only one thing by it,- life; then so
much the worse!"
  "That is to say, memory," said Raoul, eagerly; "and that is to
say, so much the better!"
  He repented of having spoken so warmly when he saw Athos rise and
open the window,- which was doubtless to conceal his emotion. Raoul
sprang towards the count, but the latter had already overcome his
emotion, and turned to the lights with a serene and impassive
countenance.
  "Well, come," said the duke, "let us see! Shall he go, or shall he
not? If he goes, Count, he shall be my aide-decamp, my son."
  "Monseigneur!" cried Raoul, bending his knee.
  "Monseigneur!" cried Athos, taking the hand of the duke; "Raoul
shall do just as he likes."
  "Oh, no, Monsieur, just as you like," interrupted the young man.
  "Par la corbleu!" said the Prince, in his turn, "it is neither the
count nor the viscount that shall have his way,- it is I. I will
take him away. The navy offers a superb future, my friend."
  Raoul smiled again so sadly that this time Athos was wounded to
the heart, and replied to him by a severe look. Raoul comprehended
it all; he recovered his calmness, and was so guarded that not another
word escaped him. The duke at length rose, on observing the advanced
hour, and said with much animation, "I am in great haste, but if I
am told I have lost time in talking with a friend, I will reply that I
have gained a good recruit."
  "Pardon me, Monsieur the Duke," interrupted Raoul, "do not tell
the King so, for it is not the King I will serve."
  "Eh, my friend, whom then will you serve? The times are past when
you might have said, 'I belong to M. de Beaufort.' No, nowadays, we
all belong to the King, great or small. Therefore, if you serve on
board my vessels, there can be nothing equivocal in it, my dear
viscount; it will be the King you will serve."
  Athos waited with a kind of impatient joy for the reply about to
be made to this embarrassing question by Raoul, the intractable
enemy of the King, his rival. The father hoped that the obstacle would
overcome the desire. He was thankful to M. de Beaufort, whose
lightness or generous reflection had thrown an impediment in the way
of the departure of a son now his only joy.
  Raoul, still firm and tranquil, replied, "Monsieur the Duke, the
objection you make I have already considered in my mind. I will
serve on board your vessels, because you do me the honor to take me
with you; but I shall there serve a more powerful master than the
King,- I shall serve God!"
  "God! how so?" said the duke and Athos together.
  "My intention is to make profession, and become a Knight of
Malta," added Bragelonne, letting fall one by one words more icy
than the drops which fall from the bare trees after the tempests of
winter.
  Under this last blow Athos staggered, and the Prince himself was
moved. Grimaud uttered a heavy groan, and let fall the bottle, which
was broken without anybody paying attention to it. M. de Beaufort
looked the young man in the face, and read plainly, though his eyes
were cast down, the fire of resolution before which everything must
give way. As for Athos, he was too well acquainted with that tender
but inflexible soul; he could not hope to make it deviate from the
fatal road it had just chosen. He could only press the hand of the
duke held out to him. "Count, I shall set off in two days for Toulon,"
said M. de Beaufort. "Will you meet me at Paris, in order that I may
know your determination?"
  "I will have the honor of thanking you there, my Prince, for all
your kindnesses," replied the count.
  "And be sure to bring the viscount with you, whether he follows me
or does not follow me," added the duke; "he has my word, and I only
ask yours."
  Having thus thrown a little balm upon the wound of that paternal
heart, he pulled the ear of Grimaud, whose eyes sparkled more than
usual, and regained his escort in the parterre. The horses, rested and
refreshed, set off with spirit through this beautiful night, and
soon placed a considerable distance between their master and the
chateau.
  Athos and Bragelonne were again face to face. Eleven o'clock was
striking. The father and son preserved a profound silence towards each
other, where an intelligent observer would have expected cries and
tears. But these two men were of such a nature that all emotion buried
itself forever when they had resolved to confine it to their own
hearts. They passed, then, silently and almost breathlessly the hour
which preceded midnight. The clock, by striking, alone pointed out
to them how many minutes the painful journey had lasted, which their
souls had made in the immensity of the remembrances of the past and of
the fears of the future. Athos rose first, saying, "It is late; till
to-morrow."
  Raoul rose in his turn, and embraced his father. The latter held him
clasped to his breast, and said in a tremulous voice, "In two days you
will have left me, then,- left me forever, Raoul?"
  "Monsieur," replied the young man, "I had formed a determination,-
that of piercing my heart with my sword; but you would have thought
that cowardly. I have renounced that determination, and therefore we
must part."
  "You leave me by going, Raoul."
  "Listen to me again, Monsieur, I implore you. If I do not go, I
shall die here of grief and love. I know how long a time I have to
live thus. Send me away quickly, Monsieur, or you will see me basely
die before your eyes,- in your house; this is stronger than my will,
stronger than my endurance; you may plainly see that within one
month I have lived thirty years, and that I approach the end of my
life."
  "Then," said Athos, coldly, "you go with the intention of getting
killed in Africa? Oh, tell me! do not lie!"
  Raoul grew deadly pale, and remained silent for two seconds, which
were to his father two hours of agony. Then, all at once,
"Monsieur," said he, "I have promised to devote myself to God. In
exchange for this sacrifice which I make of my youth and my liberty, I
will only ask of him one thing, and that is to preserve me for you,
because you are the only tie which attaches me to this world. God
alone can give me the strength not to forget that I owe you
everything, and that nothing ought to be with me before you."
  Athos embraced his son tenderly, and said, "You have just replied to
me on the word of honor of an honest man; in two days we shall be with
M. de Beaufort at Paris, and you will then do what will be proper
for you to do. You are free, Raoul; adieu." And he slowly gained his
bedroom. Raoul went down into the garden, and passed the night in
the alley of limes.
           Chapter LVI: Preparations for Departure

  ATHOS lost no more time in combating this immutable resolution. He
gave all his attention to preparing, during the two days the duke
had granted him, the proper appointments for Raoul. This labor chiefly
concerned Grimaud, who immediately applied himself to it with the
good-will and intelligence we know he possessed. Athos gave this
worthy servant orders to take the route to Paris when the equipments
should be ready; and to avoid all risk of keeping the duke waiting, or
of injury to Raoul if the duke should perceive his absence, he
himself, the day after the visit of M. de Beaufort, set off for
Paris with his son.
  In the heart of the poor young man it aroused emotions easily to
be understood, thus to return to Paris among all the people who had
known and loved him. Every face recalled to him who had endured so
much, a suffering; to him who had loved so much, some circumstance
of his love. Raoul, on approaching Paris, felt as if he were dying.
Once in Paris, he really existed no longer. When he reached De
Guiche's residence, he was informed that De Guiche was with
Monsieur. Raoul took the road to the Luxembourg, and when arrived,
without suspecting that he was going to the place where La Valliere
had lived, he heard so much music and breathed so many perfumes, he
heard so much joyous laughter and saw so many dancing shadows, that if
it had not been for a charitable woman, who perceived him dejected and
pale in a doorway, he would have remained there a few minutes, and
then would have gone away never to return. But, as we have said, in
the first antechambers he had stopped, solely to avoid mingling with
all those happy existences which he felt were moving around him in the
adjacent salons. And when one of Monsieur's servants, recognizing him,
had asked him if he wished to see Monsieur or Madame, Raoul had
scarcely answered him, but had sunk down upon a bench near the
velvet portiere, looking at a clock, which had stopped an hour before.
The servant had passed on, and another, better acquainted with him,
had come up and asked Raoul whether he should inform M. de Guiche of
his being there. This name even did not rouse the recollections of
poor Raoul. The persistent servant went on to relate that De Guiche
had just invented a new game of lottery, and was teaching it to the
ladies. Raoul, opening his large eyes like the absent-minded man in
Theophrastus, had made no answer; but his sadness had increased by
it two shades.
  With his head hanging down, his limbs relaxed, his mouth half open
for the escape of his sighs, Raoul remained, thus forgotten, in the
antechamber, when all at once a lady's robe passed, rubbing against
the doors of a lateral salon which opened upon the gallery. A lady,
young, pretty, and gay, scolding an officer of the household,
entered by that way, and expressed herself with much vivacity. The
officer replied in calm but firm sentences; it was rather a little
love-pet than a quarrel of courtiers, and was terminated by a kiss
on the fingers of the lady.
  Suddenly, on perceiving Raoul, the lady became silent, and pushing
away the officer, "Make your escape, Malicorne," said she; "I did
not think there was any one here. I shall curse you if they have
either heard or seen us!"
  Malicorne hastened away. The young lady advanced behind Raoul, and
bending her joyous face over him, "Monsieur is a gallant man," said
she, "and no doubt-" She here interrupted herself by uttering a
cry,- "Raoul!" said she, blushing.
  "Mademoiselle de Montalais!" said Raoul, more pale than death.
  He rose unsteadily and tried to make his way across the slippery
mosaic of the floor; but she had comprehended that savage and cruel
grief. She felt that in the flight of Raoul there was an accusation,
or at least a suspicion against herself. A woman, ever vigilant, she
did not think she ought to let the opportunity slip of making a
justification; but Raoul, though stopped by her in the middle of the
gallery, did not seem disposed to surrender without a combat. He
took it up in a tone so cold and embarrassed that if they had been
thus surprised, the whole court would have had no doubt about the
proceedings of Mademoiselle de Montalais.
  "Ah, Monsieur," said she, with disdain, "what you are doing is
very unworthy of a gentleman. My heart inclines me to speak to you;
you compromise me by a reception almost uncivil. You are wrong,
Monsieur; and you confound your friends with your enemies. Farewell!"
  Raoul had sworn never to speak of Louise, never even to look at
those who might have seen Louise; he was going into another world that
he might never meet with anything Louise had seen, or anything she had
touched. But after the first shock to his pride, after having had a
glimpse of Montalais, the companion of Louise,- Montalais, who
reminded him of the turret of Blois and the joys of youth,- all his
reason left him.
  "Pardon me, Mademoiselle; it enters not, it cannot enter into my
thoughts to be uncivil."
  "Do you wish to speak to me?" said she, with the smile of former
days. "Well! come somewhere else; for here we may be surprised."
  "Where?" said he.
  She looked at the clock doubtingly, then, having reflected, "In my
apartment," said she; "we shall have an hour to ourselves." And taking
her course, lighter than a fairy, she ran up to her chamber,
followed by Raoul. Shutting the door, and placing in the hands of
her maid the mantle she had held upon her arm, "You were seeking M. de
Guiche, were you not?" said she to Raoul.
  "Yes, Mademoiselle."
  "I will go and ask him to come up here presently, after I have
spoken to you."
  "Do so, Mademoiselle."
  "Are you angry with me?"
  Raoul looked at her for a moment, then, casting down his eyes,
"Yes," said he.
  "You think I was concerned in the plot which brought about your
rupture, do you not?"
  "Rupture!" said he, with bitterness. "Oh, Mademoiselle, there can be
no rupture where there has been no love."
  "An error," replied Montalais; "Louise did love you."
  Raoul started.
  "Not with love, I know!; but she liked you, and you ought to have
married her before you set out for London."
  Raoul broke into a sinister laugh which made Montalais shudder.
  "You tell me that very much at your ease, Mademoiselle. Do people
marry whom they like? You forget that the King then kept as his
mistress her of whom we are speaking."
  "Listen," said the young woman, pressing the cold hands of Raoul
in her own, "you were wrong in every way; a man of your age ought
never to leave a woman of hers alone."
  "There is no longer any faith in the world, then."
  "No Viscount," said Montalais, quietly. "Nevertheless, let me tell
you that if instead of loving Louise coldly and philosophically, you
had endeavored to awaken her to love-"
  "Enough, I pray you, Mademoiselle," said Raoul. "I feel that you are
all, of both sexes, of a different age from me. You can laugh, and you
can banter agreeably. I, Mademoiselle, I loved Mademoiselle de-" Raoul
could not pronounce her name. "I loved her; well! I put faith in her,-
now I am quits by loving her no longer."
  "Oh, Viscount!" said Montalais, pointing to his reflection in a
mirror.
  "I know what you mean, Mademoiselle; I am much altered, am I not?
Well; do you know why? Because my face is the mirror of my heart;
the inside has changed as you see the outside has."
  "You are consoled, then?" said Montalais, sharply.
  "No, I shall never be consoled."
  "I don't understand you, M. de Bragelonne."
  "I care but little for that. I do not too well understand myself."
  "You have not even tried to speak to Louise?"
  "I!" exclaimed the young man, with eyes flashing fire; "I! why do
you not advise me to marry her? Perhaps the King would consent now";
and he rose from his chair, full of anger.
  "I see," said Montalais, "that you are not cured, and that Louise
has one enemy the more."
  "One enemy the more!"
  "Yes; favorites are but little beloved at the court of France."
  "Oh! while she has her lover to protect her, is not that enough? She
has chosen him of such a quality that her enemies cannot prevail
against her." But stopping all at once, "And then she has you for a
friend, Mademoiselle," added he, with a shade of irony which did not
glide off the cuirass.
  "I? Oh, no! I am no longer one of those whom Mademoiselle de la
Valliere deigns to look upon; but-"
  This "but," so big with menaces and storms; this "but," which made
the heart of Raoul beat, such griefs did it presage for her whom
lately he loved so dearly,- this terrible "but," so significant in a
woman like Montalais, was interrupted by a moderately loud noise,
proceeding from the alcove behind the wainscoting. Montalais turned to
listen, and Raoul was already rising, when a lady entered the room
quietly by the secret door, which she closed after her.
  "Madame!" exclaimed Raoul, on recognizing the sister-in-law of the
King.
  "Stupid wretch!" murmured Montalais, throwing herself, but too late,
before the Princess, "I have been mistaken in the hour!" She had,
however, time to warn the Princess, who was walking towards Raoul.
  "M. de Bragelonne, Madame"; and at these words the Princess drew
back, uttering a cry in her turn.
  "Your royal Highness," said Montalais, with volubility, "is kind
enough to think of this lottery, and-"
  The Princess began to lose countenance. Raoul hastened his departure
without yet divining all; but he felt that he was in the way. Madame
was seeking to recover herself, when a closet opened in front of the
alcove, and M. de Guiche issued therefrom, all radiant. The most
pale of the four, we must admit, was still Raoul. The Princess,
however, was near fainting, and was obliged to lean upon the foot of
the bed for support. No one ventured to support her. This scene
occupied several minutes of terrible silence. But Raoul broke it. He
went up to the count, whose inexpressible emotion made his knees
tremble, and taking his hand, "Dear count," said he, "tell Madame I am
too unhappy not to merit my pardon; tell her also that I have loved in
the course of my life, and that horror of the treachery that has
been practised on me renders me inexorable for all other treachery
that may be committed around me. This is why, Mademoiselle," said
he, smiling, to Montalais, "I never will divulge the secret of the
visits of my friend to your apartment. Obtain from Madame,- from
Madame, who is so clement and so generous,- obtain her pardon for
you whom she has just surprised also. You are both free; love each
other, be happy!"
  The Princess felt for a moment the despair which cannot be
described; it was repugnant to her, notwithstanding the exquisite
delicacy which Raoul had exhibited, to feel herself at the mercy of an
indiscretion. It was equally repugnant to her to accept the evasion
offered by this delicate deception. Agitated, nervous, she struggled
against the double stings of the two troubles. Raoul comprehended
her position, and came once more to her aid. Bending his knee before
her, "Madame," said he, in a low voice, "in two days I shall be far
from Paris; in a fortnight I shall be far from France, where I shall
never be seen again."
  "Are you going away, then?" said she, with delight.
  "With M. de Beaufort."
  "Into Africa!" cried De Guiche, in his turn. "You, Raoul? Oh, my
friend,- into Africa, where everybody dies!" And forgetting
everything, forgetting that this very forgetfulness compromised the
Princess more eloquently than his presence, "Ingrate!" said he, "and
you have not even consulted me!" And he embraced him; during which
time Montalais had led away Madame, and disappeared herself.
  Raoul passed his hand over his brow, and said with a smile, "I
have been dreaming!" Then warmly to De Guiche, who by degrees absorbed
him, "My friend," said he, "I conceal nothing from you, who are the
elected of my heart. I am going to seek death in yonder country;
your secret will not remain in my breast more than a year."
  "Oh, Raoul! a man!"
  "Do you know what is my thought, De Guiche? This is it: I shall live
more, being buried beneath the earth, than I have lived for this month
past. We are Christians, my friend, and if such suffering were to
continue, I would not be answerable for the safety of my soul."
  De Guiche was anxious to raise objections.
  "Not one word more on my account," said Raoul, "but advice to you,
dear friend; what I am going to say to you is of much greater
importance."
  "What is that?"
  "Without doubt, you risk much more than I do, because you are
loved."
  "Oh!"
  "It is a joy so sweet to me to be able to speak to you thus! Well,
then, De Guiche, beware of Montalais."
  "What! of that kind friend?"
  "She was the friend of- her you know of. She ruined her by pride."
  "You are mistaken."
  "And now, when she has ruined her, she would take from her the
only thing that renders that woman excusable in my eyes."
  "What is that?"
  "Her love."
  "What do you mean by that?"
  "I mean that there is a plot formed against her who is the
mistress of the King,- a plot formed in the very house of Madame."
  "Can you think so?"
  "I am certain of it."
  "By Montalais?"
  "Take her as the least dangerous of the enemies I dread for- the
other."
  "Explain yourself clearly, my friend; and if I can understand you-"
  "In two words,- Madame has been jealous of the King."
  "I know she has-"
  "Oh, fear nothing! you are beloved,- you are beloved, Guiche; do you
feel the value of these three words? They signify that you can raise
your head, that you can sleep tranquilly, that you can thank God every
minute of your life. You are beloved; that signifies that you may hear
everything,- even the counsel of a friend who wishes to preserve
your happiness. You are beloved, Guiche, you are beloved! You do not
endure those atrocious nights, those nights without end, which, with
arid eye and consumed heart, others pass through who are destined to
die. You will live long if you act like the miser who, bit by bit,
crumb by crumb, collects and heaps up diamonds and gold. You are
beloved! allow me to tell you what you must do that you may be beloved
forever."
  De Guiche contemplated for some time this unfortunate young man,
half mad with despair, till there passed through his heart something
like remorse at his own happiness. Raoul suppressed his feverish
excitement to assume the voice and countenance of an impassive man.
"They will make her whose name I should wish still to be able to
pronounce,- they will make her suffer. Swear to me not only that you
will not second them in anything, but that you will defend her, when
possible, as I would have done myself."
  "I swear I will!" replied De Guiche.
  "And," continued Raoul, "some day when you shall have rendered her a
great service, some day when she shall thank you, promise me to say
these words to her: 'I have done you this kindness, Madame, by the
warm desire of M. de Bragelonne, whom you so deeply injured.'"
  "I swear I will!" murmured De Guiche.
  "That is all; adieu! I set out to-morrow or the day after for
Toulon; if you have a few hours to spare, give them to me."
  "All! all!" cried the young man.
  "Thank you."
  "And what are you going to do now?"
  "I am going to meet Monsieur the Count at the house of Planchet,
where we shall hope to find M. d'Artagnan."
  "M. d'Artagnan?"
  "Yes; I wish to embrace him before my departure. He is a brave
man, who loves me. Farewell, my friend. You are expected, no doubt;
you will find me, when you wish, at the lodgings of the count.
Farewell!"
  The two young men embraced. They who might have seen them both
thus would not have hesitated to say, pointing to Raoul, "That is
the happy man!"
              Chapter LVII: Planchet's Inventory

  ATHOS, during the visit to the Luxembourg by Raoul, had gone to
Planchet's residence to inquire after d'Artagnan. On arriving at the
Rue des Lombards he found the shop of the grocer in great confusion;
but it was not the confusion attending a lucky sale, or that of an
arrival of goods. Planchet was not throned, as usual, upon sacks and
barrels. No; a young man with a pen behind his ear, and another with
an account-book in his hand, were setting down a number of figures,
while a third counted and weighed. An inventory was being taken.
Athos, who had no knowledge of commercial matters, felt himself a
little embarrassed by the material obstacles and the majesty of
those who were thus employed. He saw several customers sent away,
and asked himself whether he, who came to buy nothing, would not be
more properly deemed importunate. He therefore asked very politely
if he could see M. Planchet. The reply, pretty carelessly given, was
that M. Planchet was packing his trunks. These words surprised
Athos. "How! his trunks?" said he; "is M. Planchet going away?"
  "Yes, Monsieur, directly."
  "Then, if you please, inform him that M. le Comte de la Fere desires
to speak to him for a moment."
  At the mention of the count's name, one of the young men, no doubt
accustomed to hear it pronounced with respect, immediately went to
inform Planchet. It was at this moment that Raoul, after his painful
scene with Montalais and De Guiche, arrived at the grocer's house.
Planchet, as soon as he received the count's message, left his work
and hastened to meet him.
  "Ah, Monsieur the Count," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you!
What good star brings you here?"
  "My dear Planchet," said Athos, pressing the hand of his son,
whose sad look he silently observed, "we are come to learn of you- But
in what confusion do I find you! You are as white as a miller; where
have you been rummaging?"
  "Ah, diable! take care, Monsieur; don't come near me till I have
well shaken myself."
  "What for? Flour or dust only whitens."
  "No, no; what you see on my arms is arsenic."
  "Arsenic?"
  "Yes; I am making my provision for the rats."
  "Ah! I suppose in an establishment like this the rats play a
conspicuous part."
  "It is not with this establishment I concern myself, Monsieur the
Count. The rats have robbed me of more here than they will ever rob me
of again."
  "What do you mean?"
  "Why, you may have observed, Monsieur, they are taking my
inventory."
  "Are you leaving trade, then?"
  "Eh, mon Dieu! yes. I have disposed of my business to one of my
young men."
  "Bah! you are rich, then?"
  "Monsieur, I have taken a dislike to the city. I don't know
whether it is because I am growing old, and, as M. d'Artagnan one
day said, when we grow old we more often think of the things of our
youth; but for some time past I have felt myself attracted towards the
country and gardening. I was a countryman formerly"; and Planchet
marked this confession with a somewhat pretentious laugh for a man
making profession of humility.
  Athos made a gesture of approval, and then added, "You are going
to buy an estate, then?"
  "I have bought one, Monsieur."
  "Ah! that is still better."
  "A little house at Fontainebleau, with something like twenty acres
of land round it."
  "Very well, Planchet! Accept my compliments on your acquisition."
  "But, Monsieur, we are not comfortable here; the cursed dust makes
you cough. Corbleu! I should not wish to poison the most worthy
gentleman in the kingdom."
  Athos did not smile at this little pleasantry which Planchet had
aimed at him to try his strength in fashionable humor.
  "Yes," said he; "let us have a little talk by ourselves,- in your
own room, for example. You have a room, have you not?"
  "Certainly, Monsieur the Count."
  "Upstairs, perhaps?" And Athos, seeing Planchet a little
embarrassed, wished to relieve him by going first.
  "It is- but-" said Planchet, hesitating.
  Athos was mistaken in the cause of this hesitation, and
attributing it to a fear the grocer might have of offering humble
hospitality, "Never mind, never mind," said he, still going up, "the
dwelling of a tradesman in this quarter is not expected to be a
palace. Come on!"
  Raoul nimbly preceded him, and entered first. Two cries were heard
simultaneously- we may say three. One of these cries dominated over
the others; it was uttered by a woman. The other proceeded from the
mouth of Raoul; it was an exclamation of surprise. He had no sooner
made it than he shut the door sharply. The third was from fright;
Planchet had uttered it. "I ask your pardon!" added he; "Madame is
dressing."
  Raoul had, no doubt, seen that what Planchet said was true, for he
turned round to go downstairs again.
  "Madame?" said Athos. "Oh, pardon me, Planchet, I did not know
that you had upstairs-"
  "It is Truchen," added Planchet, blushing a little.
  "It is whoever you please, my good Planchet; pardon our
indiscretion."
  "No, no; go up now, gentlemen."
  "We will do no such thing," said Athos.
  "Oh, Madame, having notice, has had time-"
  "No, Planchet; farewell!"
  "Eh, gentlemen! you would not disoblige me by thus standing on the
staircase, or by going away without having sat down."
  "If we had known you had a lady upstairs," replied Athos, with his
customary coolness, "we would have asked permission to pay our
respects to her."
  Planchet was so disconcerted by this little extravagance that he
forced the passage, and himself opened the door to admit the count and
his son. Truchen was quite dressed,- costume of the shopkeeper's wife,
rich and coquettish; German eyes attacking French eyes. She ceded
the apartment after two courtesies, and went down into the shop, but
not without having listened at the door, to know what Planchet's
gentlemen visitors would say of her. Athos suspected that, and
therefore turned the conversation. Planchet, on his part, was
burning to give explanations, which Athos avoided. But as certain
tenacities are stronger than all others, Athos was forced to hear
Planchet recite his idyls of felicity, translated into a language more
chaste than that of Longus. So Planchet related how Truchen had
charmed his ripe age, and brought good luck to his business, as Ruth
did to Boaz.
  "You want nothing now, then, but heirs to your property."
  "If I had one, he would have three hundred thousand livres'" said
Planchet.
  "Humph! you must have one, then," said Athos, phlegmatically; "if
only to prevent your little fortune being lost."
  The words "little fortune" placed Planchet in his rank, like the
voice of the sergeant when Planchet was but a piqueur in the
regiment of Piedmont, in which Rochefort had placed him. Athos
perceived that the grocer would marry Truchen, and, in spite of
fate, establish a family. This appeared the more evident to him when
he learned that the young man to whom Planchet was selling his
business was her cousin. Having heard all that was necessary of the
happy prospects of the retiring grocer, Athos inquired, "What is M.
d'Artagnan about? He is not at the Louvre."
  "Ah, Monsieur the Count, M. d'Artagnan has disappeared."
  "Disappeared!" said Athos, with surprise.
  "Oh Monsieur, we know what that means."
  "But I do not know."
  "Whenever M. d'Artagnan disappears, it is always on some mission
or for some great affair."
  "Has he said anything to you about it?"
  "Never."
  "You were acquainted with his departure for England formerly, were
you not?"
  "On account of the speculation," replied Planchet, heedlessly.
  "The speculation?"
  "I mean-" interrupted Planchet, quite confused.
  "Well, well; neither your affairs nor those of our friend are in
question. The interest we take in him alone has induced me to apply to
you. Since the captain of the Musketeers is not here, and as we cannot
learn from you where we are likely to find M. d'Artagnan, we will take
our leave of you. Au revoir, Planchet, au revoir. Let us go, Raoul."
  "Monsieur the Count, I wish I were able to tell you-"
  "Oh, not at all; I am not the man to reproach a servant with
discretion."
  This word "servant" struck rudely on the ears of the
demi-millionnaire Planchet, but natural respect and bonhomie prevailed
over pride. "There is nothing indiscreet in telling you, Monsieur
the Count, that M. d'Artagnan came here the other day-"
  "Ah, ah!"
  "And remained several hours consulting a geographical chart."
  "You are right, then, my friend; say no more about it."
  "And the chart is there as a proof," added Planchet, who went to
fetch from the neighboring wall, where it was suspended by a twist,
forming a triangle with the bar of the window to which it was
fastened, the plan consulted by the captain on his last visit to
Planchet. This plan, which he brought to the count, was a map of
France, upon which the practised eye of that gentleman discovered an
itinerary, marked out with small pins; where the pin was missing, a
hole denoted its having been there. Athos, by following with his eye
the pins and holes, saw that d'Artagnan was to take the direction of
the south, and go as far as the Mediterranean towards Toulon. It was
near Cannes that the marks and the punctured places ceased. The
Comte de la Fere puzzled his brains for some time to divine what the
musketeer could be going to do at Cannes, and what motive could have
led him to examine the banks of the Var. The reflections of Athos
suggested nothing; his accustomed perspicacity was at fault. Raoul's
researches were not more successful than his father's.
  "Never mind," said the young man to the count, who silently, and
with his finger, had made him understand d'Artagnan's route; "we
must confess that there is a Providence always occupied in
connecting our destiny with that of M. d'Artagnan. There he is on
the coast of Cannes; and you, Monsieur, will at least conduct me as
far as Toulon. Be assured that we shall meet with him more easily upon
our route than upon this map."
  Then taking leave of Planchet, who was scolding his shop-men, even
the cousin of Truchen, his successor, the gentlemen set out to pay a
visit to M. de Beaufort. On leaving the grocer's shop, they saw a
coach,- the future depository of the charms of Mademoiselle Truchen
and of Planchet's bags of crowns.
  "Every one journeys towards happiness by the route he chooses," said
Raoul, in a melancholy tone.
  "Road to Fontainebleau!" cried Planchet to his coachman.
        Chapter LVIII: The Inventory of M. de Beaufort

  TO HAVE talked of d'Artagnan with Planchet, to have seen Planchet
quit Paris to bury himself in his country retreat, had been for
Athos and his son like a last farewell to the noise of the capital,-
to their life of former days. What, in fact. did these men leave
behind them, one of whom had exhausted the past age in glory, and
the other the present age in misfortune? Evidently, neither of them
had anything to ask of his contemporaries. They had only to pay a
visit to M. de Beaufort, and arrange with him the particulars of the
departure. The duke was lodged magnificently in Paris. He had one of
those superb establishments pertaining to great fortunes which certain
old men remembered to have seen flourish in the times of wasteful
liberality in Henry III's reign. Then, in fact, several great nobles
were richer than the King. They knew it; they made use of their
wealth, and never deprived themselves of the pleasure of humiliating
his royal Majesty when they had an opportunity. It was this
egotistical aristocracy which Richelieu had constrained to contribute,
with its blood, its purse, and its duties, to what was from his time
styled the King's service. From Louis XI- that terrible mower down
of the great- to Richelieu, how many families had raised their
heads! How many from Richelieu to Louis XIV had bowed their heads
never to raise them again! But M. de Beaufort was born a Prince, and
of a blood which is not shed upon scaffolds, unless by the decree of
peoples. This Prince had kept up a grand style of living. How did he
maintain his horses, his people, and his table? Nobody knew,-
himself less than others. Only there were then privileges for the sons
of kings, to whom nobody refused to become a creditor, whether from
respect, devotedness, or a persuasion that they would some day be
paid.
  Athos and Raoul found the mansion of the duke in as much confusion
as that of Planchet. The duke, likewise, was making his inventory;
that is to say, he was distributing to his friends, all of them his
creditors, everything of value he had in his house. Owing nearly two
millions,- an enormous amount in those days,- M. de Beaufort had
calculated that he could not set out for Africa without a good round
sum; and in order to find that sum, he was distributing to his old
creditors plate, arms, jewels, and furniture,- which was more
magnificent than selling it, and brought him back double. In fact, how
could a man to whom ten thousand livres were owing, refuse to carry
away a present of six thousand, enhanced in merit from having belonged
to a descendant of Henry IV? And how, after having carried away that
present, could he refuse ten thousand livres more to this generous
noble?
  This, then, was what had happened. The duke had no longer a
dwelling-house,- that had become useless to an admiral, whose place of
residence is his ship; no more private arms, superfluous now that he
was placed amid his cannon; no more jewels, which the sea might rob
him of; but he had three or four hundred thousand crowns in his
coffers. And throughout the house there was a joyous movement of
people who believed they were plundering Monseigneur.
  The Prince possessed, in a supreme degree, the art of making happy
the creditors the most to be pitied. Every distressed man, every empty
purse, found with him patience and intelligence of his position. To
some he said, "I wish I had what you have, I would give it to you";
and to others, "I have but this silver ewer,- it is worth at least
five hundred livres, take it." The effect of which was- so truly is
courtesy a current payment- that the Prince constantly found means
to renew his creditors.
  This time he used no ceremony,- it might be called a general
pillage. He gave up everything. The Oriental fable of the poor Arab,
who carried away from the pillage of a palace a kettle at the bottom
of which was concealed a bag of gold, and whom everybody allowed to
pass without jealousy,- this fable had become a truth in the
Prince's mansion. Many contractors paid themselves from the several
departments of the establishment. Thus, the food purveyors, who
plundered the clothes-presses and the harness-rooms, attached very
little value to things which tailors and saddlers set great store
by. Anxious to carry home to their wives preserves given them by
Monseigneur, many were seen bounding joyously along under the weight
of earthen jars and bottles, gloriously stamped with the arms of the
Prince. M. de Beaufort finished by giving away his horses and the
hay from his lofts. He made more than thirty happy with kitchen
utensils, and thirty more, with the contents of his cellar. Still
further, all these people went away with the conviction that M. de
Beaufort only acted in this manner to prepare for a new fortune
concealed beneath the Arab tents. They repeated to one another,
while devastating his mansion, that he was sent to Djidgelli by the
King to reconstruct his lost fortunes; that the treasures of Africa
would be equally divided between the Admiral and the King of France;
that these treasures consisted in mines of diamonds, or other fabulous
stones,- the gold and silver mines of Mount Atlas did not even
obtain the honor of being named. In addition to the mines to, be
worked,- which could not be begun till after the campaign,- there
would be the booty made by the army. M. de Beaufort would lay his
hands upon all the riches pirates had robbed Christendom of since
the battle of Lepanto. The number of millions from these sources
defied calculation. Why, then, should he who was going in quest of
such treasures set any store by the poor utensils of his past life?
And, reciprocally, why should they spare the property of him who
spared it so little himself?
  Such was the position of affairs. Athos, with his searching
glance, saw what was going on at once. He found the Admiral of
France a little exalted, for he was rising from a table of fifty
covers, at which the guests had drunk long and deeply to the
prosperity of the expedition; at which, with the dessert, the
remains of the meal had been given to the servants, and the empty
dishes and plates to the curious. The Prince was intoxicated with
his ruin and his popularity at the same time. He had drunk his old
wine to the health of his future wine. When he saw Athos and Raoul,
"There is my aide-de-camp brought to me!" he cried. "Come hither,
Count; come hither, Viscount." Athos tried to find a passage through
the heaps of linen and plate.
  "Ah, step over, step over!" said the duke, offering a full glass
to Athos. The latter took it; Raoul scarcely moistened his lips.
  "Here is your commission," said the Prince to Raoul. "I had prepared
it, reckoning upon you. You will go on before me as far as Antibes."
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "Here is the order"; and De Beaufort gave Raoul the order. "Do you
know anything of the sea?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur; I have travelled with Monsieur the Prince."
  "That is well. All these barges and lighters must be in attendance
to form an escort, and carry my provisions. The army must be
prepared to embark in a fortnight at latest."
  "That shall be done, Monseigneur."
  "The present order gives you the right to visit and search all the
isles along the coast; you will there make the enrolments and levies
you may want for me."
  "Yes, Monsieur the Duke."
  "And as you are an active man, and will work freely, you will
spend much money."
  "I hope not, Monseigneur."
  "But I reckon you will. My intendant has prepared orders of a
thousand livres, drawn upon the cities of the south; he will give
you a hundred of them. Now, dear Viscount, begone!" Athos
interrupted the Prince. "Keep your money, Monseigneur; war is to be
made among the Arabs with gold as well as lead."
  "I wish to try the contrary," replied the duke; "and then, you are
acquainted with my ideas upon the expedition,- plenty of noise, plenty
of fire, and, if so it must be, I shall disappear in the smoke."
Having spoken thus, M. de Beaufort began to laugh; but his mirth was
not reciprocated by Athos and Raoul. He perceived this at once.
"Ah," said he, with the courteous egotism of his rank and his age,
"you are such people as a man should not see after dinner; you are
cold, stiff, and dry, when I am all fire, all suppleness, and all
wine. No, devil take me! I shall always see you fasting, Viscount; and
you, Count, if you wear such a face as that, I will see no more."
  He said this, pressing the hand of Athos, who replied with a
smile, "Monseigneur, do not talk so grandly because you happen to have
plenty of money. I predict that within a month you will be dry, stiff,
and cold in presence of your strong box, and that then, having Raoul
at your elbow, fasting, you will be surprised to see him gay,
animated, and generous, because he will have some new crowns to
offer you."
  "God grant it may be so!" cried the delighted duke. "Count, stay
with me."
  "No, I shall go with Raoul; the mission with which you charge him is
a troublesome and a difficult one. Alone, it would be too much for him
to execute. You do not observe, Monseigneur, that you have given him a
command of the first order."
  "Bah!"
  "And in the navy!"
  "That may be true. But when people resemble him, do they not do
all that is required of them?"
  "Monseigneur, I believe you will find nowhere so much zeal and
intelligence, so much real bravery, as in Raoul; but if he failed in
your embarkation, you would only meet with what you deserve."
  "Humph! you are scolding me, then?"
  "Prince, to provision a fleet, to assemble a flotilla, to enroll
your maritime force, would take an admiral a year. Raoul is a
cavalry officer, and you allow him a fortnight!"
  "I tell you he will get through."
  "He may; but I will help him."
  "To be sure you will,- I reckoned upon you; and still further, I
believe that when we are once at Toulon you will not let him depart
alone."
  "Oh!" said Athos, shaking his head.
  "Patience! patience!"
  "Monseigneur, permit us to take our leave."
  "Go, then, and may my good fortune attend you!"
  "Adieu, Monseigneur; and may your good fortune attend you likewise!"
  "Here is an expedition admirably begun!" said Athos to his son.
"No provisions, no reserves, no store flotilla! What can be done
thus?"
  "Humph!" murmured Raoul; "if all are going to do as I am, provisions
will not be wanted."
  "Monsieur," replied Athos, sternly, "do not be unjust and
senseless in your egotism, or your grief, whichever you please to call
it. If you set out for this war solely with the intention of getting
killed in it, you stand in need of nobody, and it was scarcely worth
while to recommend you to M. de Beaufort. But when you have been
introduced to the Prince commandant; when you have accepted the
responsibility of a post in his army,- the question is no longer about
you, but about all those poor soldiers who as well as you have
hearts and bodies, who will weep for their country and endure all
the necessities of their human condition. Remember, Raoul, that an
officer is a minister as useful as a priest, and that he ought to have
more charity than a priest."
  "Monsieur, I know it, and have practised it; I would have
continued to do so still, but-"
  "You forget also that you are of a country which is proud of its
military glory; go and die if you like, but do not die without honor
and without advantage to France. Cheer up, Raoul! do not let my
words grieve you; I love you, and wish to see you perfect."
  "I love your reproaches, Monsieur," said the young man, mildly;
"they alone may cure me, because they prove to me that some one
loves me still."
  "And now, Raoul, let us be off, the weather is so fine, the
heavens are so pure,- those heavens which we shall always find above
our heads, which you will see more pure still at Djidgelli, and
which will speak to you of me there, as they speak to me here of God."
  The two gentlemen, after having agreed on this point, talked over
the wild freaks of the duke, convinced that France would be served
in a very incomplete manner, as regarded both spirit and practice,
in the ensuing expedition; and having summed up his policy under the
word "vanity," they set forward, in obedience to their will even
more than to their destiny.
  The sacrifice was accomplished.
               Chapter LIX: The Silver Plate

  THE journey passed off pretty well. Athos and his son traversed
France at the rate of fifteen leagues per day; sometimes more,
according to the intensity of Raoul's grief. It took them a
fortnight to reach Toulon, and they lost all traces of d'Artagnan at
Antibes. They were forced to believe that the captain of the
Musketeers was desirous of preserving an incognito on his route, for
Athos derived from his inquiries an assurance that such a cavalier
as he described had exchanged his horse for a well-closed carriage
on quitting Avignon.
  Raoul was much affected at not meeting with d'Artagnan. His
affectionate heart longed to take a farewell and receive consolation
from that heart of steel. Athos knew from experience that d'Artagnan
became impenetrable when engaged in any serious affair, whether on his
own account or in the service of the King. He even feared to offend
his friend, or thwart him, by too pressing inquiries. And yet when
Raoul began his labor of classing the flotilla, and got together the
chalands and lighters to send them to Toulon, one of the fishermen
told the count that his boat had been laid up to refit since a trip he
had made on account of a gentleman who was in great haste to embark.
Athos, believing that this man was telling a falsehood in order to
be left at liberty to fish, and so gain more money when all his
companions were gone, insisted upon having the details.
  The fisherman informed him that six days previously a man had come
in the night to hire his boat, for the purpose of visiting the
Island of St. Honorat. The price was agreed upon; but the gentleman
had arrived with an immense carriage-case, which he insisted upon
embarking in spite of all the difficulties which opposed themselves to
that operation. The fisherman had wished to retract; he had even
threatened, but his threats had procured him nothing but a shower of
blows from the gentleman's cane, which fell upon his shoulders,
sharp and long. Swearing and grumbling, he had recourse to the
syndic of his brotherhood at Antibes, who administer justice among
themselves and protect one another; but the gentleman had exhibited
a certain paper, at the sight of which the syndic, bowing to the
very ground, had enjoined obedience upon the fisherman, and abused him
for having been refractory. They then departed with the freight.
  "But all this does not tell us," said Athos, "how you have injured
your boat."
  "This is the way. I was steering towards St. Honorat as the
gentleman had desired me; but he changed his mind, and pretended
that I could not pass to the south of the abbey."
  "And why not?"
  "Because, Monsieur, there is in front of the square tower of the
Benedictines, towards the southern point, the bank of the Moines."
  "A rock?" asked Athos.
  "Level with the water, and below it; a dangerous passage, but one
I have cleared a thousand times. The gentleman required me to land him
at Ste. Marguerite."
  "Well?"
  "Well, Monsieur!" cried the fisherman, with his provencal accent, "a
man is a sailor, or he is not; he knows his course, or he is nothing
but a fresh-water lubber. I was obstinate, and wished to try the
channel. The gentleman took me by the collar, and told me quietly he
would strangle me. My mate armed himself with a hatchet, and so did I:
we had the affront of the night before to pay him off for. But the
gentleman drew his sword, and used it in such an astonishingly rapid
manner that we neither of us could get near him. I was about to hurl
my hatchet at his head,- and I had a right to do so, hadn't I,
Monsieur? for a sailor aboard is master, as a citizen is in his
chamber,- I was going, then, in self-defence, to cut the gentleman
in two, when all at once (believe me or not, Monsieur) the great
carriage-case opened of itself, I don't know how, and there came out
of it a sort of a phantom, his head covered with a black helmet and
a black mask, something terrible to look upon, which came towards me
threatening with its fist."
  "And that was?" said Athos.
  "That was the Devil, Monsieur,- for the gentleman, with great
glee, cried out on seeing him, 'Ah, thank you, Monseigneur!'"
  "A strange story!" murmured the count, looking at Raoul.
  "And what did you do?" asked the latter of the fisherman.
  "You must know, Monsieur, that two poor men like us were already too
few to fight against two gentlemen; but against the Devil, ah! Well,
we didn't stop to consult each other,- we made but one jump into the
sea, for we were within seven or eight hundred feet of the shore."
  "Well, and then?"
  "Why, and then, Monseigneur, as there was a little wind from the
southwest, the boat drifted into the sands of Ste. Marguerite."
  "Oh! but the two travellers?"
  "Bah! you need not be uneasy about them! It was pretty plain that
one was the Devil, and protected the other,- for when we recovered the
boat, after she got afloat again, instead of finding these two
creatures injured by the shock, we found nothing, not even the
carriage-case."
  "Very strange! very strange!" repeated the count. "But since that
what have you done, my friend?"
  "I made my complaint to the governor of Ste. Marguerite, who brought
my finger under my nose while telling me if I plagued him with such
silly stories he would have me flogged."
  "What! did the governor say so?"
  "Yes, Monsieur; and yet my boat was injured, seriously injured,
for the prow is left upon the point of Ste. Marguerite, and the
carpenter asks a hundred and twenty livres to repair it."
  "Very well," replied Raoul; "you will be exempted from the
service. Go."
  "We will go to Ste. Marguerite, shall we?" said the count to
Bragelonne, as the man walked away.
  "Yes, Monsieur, for there is something to be cleared up; that man
does not seem to me to have told the truth."
  "Nor to me, Raoul. The story of the masked man and the carriage-case
having disappeared may be told to conceal some violence these
fellows have committed upon their passenger in the open sea, to punish
him for his persistence in embarking."
  "I formed the same suspicion; the carriage-case was more likely to
contain property than a man."
  "We shall see to that, Raoul. This gentleman very much resembles
d'Artagnan; I recognize his mode of proceeding. Alas! we are no longer
the young invincibles of former days. Who knows whether the hatchet or
the iron bar of this miserable coaster has not succeeded in doing that
which the best blades of Europe, balls, and bullets have not been able
to do in forty years?"
  That same day they set out for Ste. Marguerite's, on board a
chasse-maree come from Toulon under orders. The impression they felt
on landing was a singularly pleasing one. The isle was full of flowers
and fruits. In its cultivated part it served as a garden for the
governor. Orange, pomegranate, and fig trees bent beneath the weight
of their golden or purple fruits. All around this garden, in the
uncultivated parts, the red partridges ran about in coveys among the
brambles and tufts of junipers, and at every step of the count and
Raoul a terrified rabbit quitted his thyme and heath to scuttle away
to his burrow. In fact, this fortunate isle was uninhabited. Flat,
offering nothing but a tiny bay for the convenience of embarkation,
under the protection of the governor, who went shares with them,
smugglers made use of it as a provisional entrepot, under condition of
not killing the game or devastating the garden. With this
compromise, the governor was in a situation to be satisfied with a
garrison of eight men to guard his fortress, in which twelve cannon
accumulated their coats of mouldy green. The governor was a sort of
happy farmer, harvesting wines, figs, oil, and oranges, preserving his
citrons and cedrats in the sun of his casemates. The fortress,
encircled by a deep ditch, its only guardian, raised like three
heads its three turrets connected with one another by terraces covered
over with moss.
  Athos and Raoul wandered for some time round the fences of the
garden without finding any one to introduce them to the governor. They
ended by making their own way into the garden. It was at the hottest
time of the day. Everything sought shelter beneath grass or stone. The
heavens spread their fiery veils as if to stifle all noises, to
envelop all existences; the rabbit under the broom, the fly under
the leaf, slept as the wave did beneath the heavens. Athos saw nothing
living but a soldier upon the terrace beneath the second and third
courts, who was carrying a basket of provisions on his head. This
man returned almost immediately without his basket, and disappeared in
the shade of his sentry-box. Athos supposed this man must have been
carrying dinner to some one, and after having done so, returned to
dine himself. All at once they heard some one call out, and raising
their heads, perceived in the frame of the bars of the window
something of a white color, like a hand that was waved backwards and
forwards,- something shining, like a polished weapon struck by the
rays of the sun. And before they were able to ascertain what it was
they saw, a luminous train accompanied by a hissing sound in the air
called their attention from the donjon to the ground. A second dull
noise was heard from the ditch, and Raoul ran to pick up a silver
plate which was rolling along the dry sand. The hand which had
thrown this plate made a sign to the two gentlemen and then
disappeared. Athos and Raoul, approaching each other, began an
attentive examination of the dusty plate; and they discovered, in
characters traced upon the bottom of it with the point of a knife,
this inscription:-

I AM THE BROTHER OF THE KING OF FRANCE: A PRISONER TO-DAY, A MADMAN
TO-MORROW. FRENCH GENTLEMEN AND CHRISTIANS, PRAY TO GOD FOR THE SOUL
AND THE REASON OF THE SON OF YOUR MASTERS.

  The plate fell from the hands of Athos while Raoul was endeavoring
to make out the meaning of these dismal words. At the same instant
they heard a cry from the top of the donjon. As quick as lightning
Raoul bent down his head, and forced down that of his father likewise.
A musket-barrel glittered from the crest of the wall. A white smoke
floated like a plume from the mouth of the musket, and a ball was
flattened against a stone within six inches of the two gentlemen.
Another musket appeared, which was aimed at them.
  "Cordieu!" cried Athos. "What! are people assassinated here? Come
down, cowards as you are!"
  "Yes, come down!" cried Raoul, furiously shaking his fist at the
citadel.
  One of the assailants- he who was about to fire- replied to these
cries by an exclamation of surprise; and as his companion, who
wished to continue the attack, had reseized his loaded musket, he
who had cried out threw up the weapon, and the ball flew into the air.
Athos and Raoul, seeing them disappear from the platform, expected
that they would come to them, and waited with a firm demeanor. Five
minutes had not elapsed when a stroke upon a drum called the eight
soldiers of the garrison to arms, and they showed themselves on the
other side of the ditch with their muskets in hand. At the head of
these men was an officer, whom Athos and Raoul recognized as the one
who had fired the first musket. The man ordered the soldiers to
"make ready."
  "We are going to be shot!" cried Raoul; "but, sword in hand, at
least let us leap the ditch. We shall certainly kill two of these
scoundrels when their muskets are empty."
  And suiting the action to the word, Raoul was springing forward,
followed by Athos, when a well-known voice resounded behind them,
"Athos! Raoul!"
  "D'Artagnan!" replied the two gentlemen.
  "Recover arms! Mordioux!" cried the captain to the soldiers. "I
was sure I could not be mistaken!"
  "What is the meaning of this?" asked Athos. "What! were we to be
shot without warning?"
  "It was I who was going to shoot you; and if the governor missed
you, I should not have missed you, my dear friends. How fortunate it
is that I am accustomed to take a long aim, instead of firing at the
instant I raise my weapon! I thought I recognized you. Oh, my dear
friends, how fortunate!" and d'Artagnan wiped his brow,- for he had
run fast, and emotion with him was not feigned.
  "How!" said Athos; "and is the gentleman who fired at us the
governor of the fortress?"
  "In person."
  "And why did he fire at us? What have we done to him?"
  "Pardieu! You received what the prisoner threw to you?"
  "That is true."
  "That plate,- the prisoner has written something underneath, has
he not?"
  "Yes."
  "Good heavens! I was afraid he had."
  And d'Artagnan, with all the marks of mortal alarm, seized the plate
to read the inscription. When he had read it, a fearful pallor
spread over his countenance. "Oh, good heavens!" repeated he.
"Silence! here is the governor."
  "And what will he do to us? Is it our fault?" asked Raoul.
  "It is true, then?" said Athos, in a subdued voice. "It is true?"
  "Silence, I tell you, silence! If he only believes you can read,
if he only suspects you have understood- I love you, my dear
friends, I will be killed for you but-"
  "'But-'" said Athos and Raoul.
  "But I could not save you from perpetual imprisonment, if I saved
you from death. Silence, then! silence again!"
  The governor came up, having crossed the ditch upon a plank
bridge. "Well," said he to d'Artagnan, "what stops us?"
  "You are Spaniards; you do not understand a word of French," said
the captain, eagerly to his friends in a low voice.
  "Well!" replied he, addressing the governor, "I was right; these
gentlemen are two Spanish captains with whom I was acquainted at
Ypres, last year. They don't know a word of French."
  "Ah!" said the governor, sharply. "And yet they were trying to
read the inscription on the plate."
  D'Artagnan took it out of his hands, effacing the characters with
the point of his sword.
  "How!" cried the governor; "what are you doing? I cannot read them
now!"
  "It is a state secret," replied d'Artagnan, bluntly; "and as you
know that according to the King's orders it is under the penalty of
death that any one should penetrate it, I will, if you like, allow you
to read it and have you shot immediately afterwards."
  During this apostrophe- half serious, half ironical- Athos and Raoul
preserved the coolest, most unconcerned silence.
  "But, is it possible," said the governor, "that these gentlemen do
not comprehend at least some words?"
  "Suppose they do! If they do understand a few spoken words it does
not follow that they should understand what is written. They cannot
even read Spanish. A noble Spaniard, remember, ought never to know how
to read."
  The governor was obliged to be satisfied with these explanations;
but he was still tenacious. "Invite these gentlemen to come to the
fortress," said he.
  "That I will willingly do. I was about to propose it to you." The
fact is, the captain had quite another idea, and would have wished his
friends a hundred leagues off. But he was obliged to make the best
of it. He addressed the two gentlemen in Spanish, giving them a polite
invitation, which they accepted. They all turned towards the
entrance of the fort, and the incident being exhausted, the eight
soldiers returned to their delightful leisure, for a moment
disturbed by this unexpected adventure.
              Chapter LX: Captive and Jailers

  WHEN they had entered the fort, and while the governor was making
some preparations for the reception of his guests, "Come," said Athos,
"let us have a word of explanation while we are alone."
  "It is simply this," replied the musketeer. "I have conducted hither
a prisoner, who the King commands shall not be seen. You came here; he
has thrown something to you through the lattice of his window. I was
at dinner with the governor; I saw the object thrown, and I saw
Raoul pick it up. It does not take long to understand this. I
understood it; and I thought you in intelligence with my prisoner. And
then-"
  "And then- you commanded us to be shot."
  "Ma foi! I admit it; but if I was the first to seize a musket,
fortunately I was the last to take aim at you."
  "If you had killed me, d'Artagnan, I should have had the good
fortune to die for the royal house of France; and it would be an honor
to die by your hand,- you, its noblest and most loyal defender."
  "What the devil, Athos, do you mean by the royal house?" stammered
d'Artagnan. "You don't mean that you, a well-informed and sensible
man, can place any faith in the nonsense written by an idiot?"
  "I do believe in it."
  "With the more reason, my dear chevalier, for your having orders
to kill all those who do believe in it," said Raoul.
  "That is because," replied the captain of the Musketeers,-
"because every calumny, however absurd it may be, has the almost
certain chance of becoming popular."
  "No, d'Artagnan," replied Athos, in a low tone; "but because the
King is not willing that the secret of his family should transpire
among the people, and cover with shame the executioners of the son
of Louis XIII."
  "Do not talk in such a childish manner, Athos, or I shall begin to
think you have lost your senses. Besides, explain to me how it is
possible Louis XIII should have a son in the Isle of Ste. Marguerite?"
  "A son whom you have brought hither masked, in a fishing-boat," said
Athos. "Why not?"
  D'Artagnan was brought to a pause. "Ah, ah!" said he; "whence do you
know that a fishing-boat-"
  "Brought you to Ste. Marguerite with the carriage-case containing
the prisoner,- with a prisoner whom you styled Monseigneur. Oh, I am
acquainted with all that," resumed the count. D'Artagnan bit his
mustache.
  "If it were true," said he, "that I had brought hither in a boat and
with a carriage a masked prisoner, nothing proves that this prisoner
must be a Prince,- a Prince of the house of France."
  "Oh! ask that of Aramis," replied Athos, coolly.
  "Of Aramis!" cried the musketeer, quite at a stand. "Have you seen
Aramis?"
  "After his discomfiture at Vaux, yes. I have seen Aramis, a
fugitive, pursued, ruined; and Aramis has told me enough to make me
believe in the complaints that this unfortunate young man inscribed
upon the silver plate."
  D'Artagnan's head sunk upon his breast with confusion. "This is
the way," said he, "in which God turns to nothing that which men
call their wisdom! A fine secret must that be of which twelve or
fifteen persons hold the tattered fragments! Athos, cursed be the
chance which has brought you face to face with me in this affair!
for now-"
  "Well," said Athos, with his customary mild severity, "is your
secret lost because I know it? Consult your memory, my friend. Have
I not borne secrets as heavy as this?"
  "You have never borne one so dangerous," replied d'Artagnan, in a
tone of sadness. "I have something like a sinister idea that all who
are concerned with this secret will die, and die unfortunately."
  "The will of God be done!" said Athos; "but here is your governor."
  D'Artagnan and his friends immediately resumed their parts. The
governor, suspicious and hard, behaved towards d'Artagnan with a
politeness almost amounting to obsequiousness. With respect to the
travellers, he contented himself with offering them good cheer, and
never taking his eye from them. Athos and Raoul observed that he often
tried to embarrass them by sudden attacks, or to catch them off
their guard; but neither the one nor the other gave him the least
advantage. What d'Artagnan had said was probable, if the governor
did not believe it to be quite true. They rose from the table to
repose awhile.
  "What is this man's name? I don't like the looks of him," said Athos
to d'Artagnan, in Spanish.
  "De Saint-Mars," replied the captain.
  "He will be, then, the Prince's jailer?"
  "Eh! how can I tell? I may be kept at Ste. Marguerite forever."
  "Oh, no, not you!"
  "My friend, I am in the situation of a man who finds a treasure in
the midst of a desert. He would like to carry it away, but he
cannot; he would like to leave it, but he dare not. The King will
not dare to recall me, for fear no one else would serve him as
faithfully as I; he regrets not having me near him, from being aware
that no one will be of so much service near his person as myself.
But it will happen as it may please God."
  "But," observed Raoul, "your not being certain proves that your
situation here is provisional, and you will return to Paris."
  "Ask these gentlemen," interrupted the governor, "what was their
purpose in coming to Ste. Marguerite."
  "They came because they had heard that there was a convent of
Benedictines at St. Honorat which is considered curious; and from
being told there was excellent shooting in the island."
  "That is quite at their service, as well as yours," replied De
Saint-Mars.
  D'Artagnan politely thanked him.
  "When will they depart?" added the governor.
  "To-morrow," replied d'Artagnan.
  M. de Saint-Mars went to make his rounds, and left d'Artagnan
alone with the pretended Spaniards.
  "Oh!" exclaimed the musketeer, "here is a life with a society that
suits me but little. I command this man; and he bores me, mordioux!
Come, let us have a shot or two at the rabbits; the walk will be
beautiful, and not fatiguing. The isle is but a league and a half in
length, upon a breadth of a league,- a real park. Let us try to
amuse ourselves."
  "As you please, d'Artagnan; not for the sake of amusing ourselves,
but to gain an opportunity for talking freely."
  D'Artagnan made a sign to a soldier, who brought the gentlemen
some guns, and then returned to the fort.
  "And now," said the musketeer, "answer me the question put to you by
that black-looking Saint-Mars. What did you come to do at the Lerins
Isles "To bid you farewell."
  "Bid me farewell! What do you mean by that? Is Raoul going
anywhere?"
  "Yes."
  "Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort."
  "With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend; you always guess
rightly."
  "From habit."
  While the two friends were beginning their conversation, Raoul, with
his head hanging down and his heart oppressed, seated himself on a
mossy rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea, looking at
the heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul; he allowed the
sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him. D'Artagnan
remarked his absence.
  "He is still stricken, isn't he?" said he to Athos.
  "He is struck to death."
  "Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a fine nature.
Around all hearts so noble as his there is a second envelope which
forms a cuirass. The first bleeds, the second resists."
  "No," replied Athos, "Raoul will die of it."
  "Mordioux!" said d'Artagnan, in a melancholy tone; and he did not
add a word to this exclamation. Then, a minute after, "Why do you
let him go?"
  "Because he insists upon going."
  "And why do you not go with him?"
  "I could not bear to see him die."
  D'Artagnan looked his friend earnestly in the face.
  "You know one thing," continued the count, leaning upon the arm of
the captain,- "you know that in the course of my life I have been
afraid of but few things. Well! I have an incessant, gnawing,
insurmountable fear that a day will arrive in which I shall hold the
dead body of that boy in my arms."
  "Oh!" murmured d'Artagnan; "oh!"
  "He will die, I know,- I have a conviction of that; but I would
not see him die."
  "How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself in the presence
of the bravest man you say you have ever seen,- of your own
d'Artagnan, of that man without an equal, as you formerly called him,-
and you come and tell him with your arms folded that you are afraid of
witnessing the death of your son, you who have seen all that can be
seen in this world! Why have you this fear, Athos? Man upon this earth
must expect everything, and ought to face everything."
  "Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself out upon this
earth of which you speak, I have preserved but two religions: that
of life,- my friendships, my duty as a father; that of eternity,- love
and respect for God. Now, I have within me the revelation that if
God should decree that my friend or my son should render up his last
sigh in my presence,- oh, no, I cannot even tell you, d'Artagnan!"
  "Speak, speak! tell me!"
  "I am strong against everything, except against the death of those I
love. For that only there is no remedy. He who dies, gains; he who
sees others die, loses. No; this it is,- to know that I should no more
meet upon earth him whom I now behold with joy; to know that there
would nowhere be a d'Artagnan any more, nowhere again be a Raoul,- oh!
I am old, see you, I have no longer courage. I pray God to spare me in
my weakness; but if he struck me so plainly and in that fashion, I
should curse him. A Christian gentleman ought not to curse his God,
d'Artagnan; it is quite enough to have cursed his King!"
  "Humph!" said d'Artagnan, a little confused by this violent
tempest of grief.
  "D'Artagnan, my friend, you who love Raoul, look at him," he
added, pointing to his son; "see that melancholy which never leaves
him. Can you imagine anything more dreadful than to witness, minute by
minute, the ceaseless agony of that poor soul?"
  "Let me speak to him, Athos. Who knows?"
  "Try, if you please, but I am convinced you will not succeed."
  "I will not attempt to console him, I will serve him."
  "You will?"
  "Doubtless. Do you think this would be the first time a woman had
repented of an infidelity? I will go to him, I tell you."
  Athos shook his head, and continued his walk alone. D'Artagnan,
cutting across the brambles, rejoined Raoul, and held out his hand
to him. "Well, Raoul! you wished to speak to me?"
  "I have a kindness to ask of you," replied Bragelonne.
  "Ask it, then."
  "You will some day return to France?"
  "I hope so."
  "Ought I to write to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"
  "No; you must not."
  "But I have so many things to say to her."
  "Come and say them to her, then."
  "Never!"
  "Pray, what virtue do you attribute to a letter which your speech
might not possess?"
  "Perhaps you are right."
  "She loves the King," said d'Artagnan, bluntly; "and she is an
honest girl." Raoul started. "And you, you whom she abandons," added
the captain, "she perhaps loves better than she does the King, but
after another fashion."
  "D'Artagnan, do you believe she loves the King?"
  "To idolatry. Her heart is inaccessible to any other feeling. You
might continue to live near her, and would be her best friend."
  "Ah!" exclaimed Raoul, with a passionate burst of repugnance for
such a painful hope.
  "Will you do so?"
  "It would be base."
  "That is a very absurd word, which would lead me to think slightly
of your understanding. Please to understand, Raoul, that it is never
base to do that which is imposed by a superior force. If your heart
says to you, 'Go there, or die,' why, go there, Raoul. Was she base or
brave, she whom you loved, in preferring the King to you,- the King
whom her heart commanded her imperiously to prefer to you? No, she was
the bravest of women. Do, then, as she has done. Obey yourself. Do you
know one thing of which I am sure, Raoul?"
  "What is that?"
  "Why, that by seeing her closely with the eyes of a jealous man-"
  "Well?"
  "Well; you would cease to love her."
  "Then I am decided, my dear d'Artagnan."
  "To set off to see her again?"
  "No; to set off that I may never see her again. I wish to love her
forever."
  "Frankly," replied the musketeer, "that is a conclusion which I
was far from expecting."
  "This is what I wish, my friend. You will see her again, and you
will give her a letter which, if you think proper, will explain to her
as to yourself what is passing in my heart. Read it; I prepared it
last night. Something told me I should see you to-day." He held the
letter out, and d'Artagnan read it:-

  "MADEMOISELLE: You are not wrong in my eyes in not loving me. You
have only been guilty of one fault towards me,- that of having left me
to believe you loved me. This error will cost me my life. I pardon
you; but I cannot pardon myself. It is said that happy lovers are deaf
to the complaints of rejected lovers. It will not be so with you who
did not love me except with anxiety. I am sure that if I had persisted
in endeavoring to change that friendship into love, you would have
yielded through fear of bringing about my death, or of lessening the
esteem I had for you. It is much more delightful to me to die, knowing
you are free and satisfied. How much, then, will you love me when
you will no longer fear either my presence or my reproaches! You
will love me, because, however charming a new love may appear to
you, God has not made me in anything inferior to him you have
chosen, and because my devotedness, my sacrifice, and my painful end
will assure me, in your eyes, a certain superiority over him. I have
allowed to escape, in the candid credulity of my heart, the treasure I
possessed. Many people tell me that you loved me to such a degree that
you might have come to love me much. That idea takes from my mind
all the bitterness, and leads me only to blame myself. You will accept
this last farewell, and you will bless me for having taken refuge in
the inviolable asylum where all hatred is extinguished, and where
all love endures forever. Adieu, Mademoiselle. If your happiness could
be purchased by the last drop of my blood, I would shed that drop. I
willingly make the sacrifice of it to my misery!
                                      "RAOUL, VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE."

  "The letter is very well," said the captain. "I have only one
fault to find with it."
  "Tell me what that is," said Raoul.
  "It is that it tells everything except the thing which exhales, like
a mortal poison, from your eyes and from your heart; except the
senseless love which still consumes you." Raoul grew paler, but
remained silent.
  "Why did you not write simply these words:-

  'MADEMOISELLE: Instead of cursing you, I love you and I die.'?"

  "That is true," exclaimed Raoul, with a sinister joy.
  And tearing the letter he had just taken back, he wrote the
following words upon a leaf of his tablets:-

  "To procure the happiness of once more telling you that I love
you, I commit the baseness of writing to you; and to punish myself for
that baseness, I die."

  And he signed it. "You will give her these tablets, Captain, will
you not?"
  "When?" asked the latter.
  "On the day," said Bragelonne, pointing to the last sentence,- "on
the day when you can place a date under these words." And he sprang
away quickly to join Athos, who was returning with slow steps.
  As they re-entered the fort, the sea rose with that rapid, gusty
vehemence which characterizes the Mediterranean; the ill-humor of
the element became a tempest. Something shapeless, and tossed about
violently by the waves, appeared just off the coast.
  "What is that?" said Athos,- "a wrecked boat?"
  "No, it is not a boat," said d'Artagnan.
  "Pardon me," said Raoul; "there is a bark gaining the port rapidly."
  "Yes, there is a bark in the creek, which is prudently seeking
shelter here; but that which Athos points to in the sand is not a boat
at all,- it has run aground."
  "Yes, yes, I see it."
  "It is the carriage-case, which I threw into the sea after landing
the prisoner."
  "Well," said Athos, "if you will take my advice, d'Artagnan, you
will burn it, in order that no vestige of it may remain; or the
fishermen of Antibes, who have believed they had to do with the Devil,
will endeavor to prove that your prisoner was but a man."
  "Your advice is good, Athos, and I will this night have it carried
out, or rather, I will carry it out myself; but let us go in, for
the rain falls heavily, and the lightning is terrific."
  As they were passing over the ramparts to a gallery of which
d'Artagnan had the key, they saw M. de Saint-Mars directing his
steps towards the chamber inhabited by the prisoner. Upon a sign
from d'Artagnan, they concealed themselves in an angle of the
staircase.
  "What is it?" said Athos.
  "You will see. Look! the prisoner is returning from chapel."
  And by the red flashes of the lightning against the violet fog which
the wind spread upon the background of the sky, they saw pass gravely,
at six paces behind the governor, a man clothed in black and masked by
a visor of polished steel soldered to a helmet of the same nature,
which altogether enveloped the whole of his head. The fire of the
heavens cast red reflections upon the polished surface, and these
reflections, flying off capriciously, seemed to be angry looks
launched by this unfortunate, instead of imprecations. In the middle
of the gallery, the prisoner stopped for a moment to contemplate the
infinite horizon, to inhale the sulphurous perfumes of the tempest, to
drink in thirstily the hot rain, and to breathe a sigh resembling a
smothered roar.
  "Come on, Monsieur," said De Saint-Mars, sharply to the prisoner,
for he already became uneasy at seeing him look so long beyond the
walls. "Monsieur, come on!"
  "Say Monseigneur!" cried Athos, from his corner, with a voice so
solemn and terrible that the governor trembled from head to foot.
Athos always wished respect to be paid to fallen majesty. The prisoner
turned round.
  "Who spoke?" asked De Saint-Mars.
  "It was I," replied d'Artagnan, showing himself promptly. "You
know that is the order."
  "Call me neither Monsieur nor Monseigneur," said the prisoner in his
turn, in a voice that penetrated to the very soul of Raoul; "call me
ACCURSED!" He passed on, and the iron door creaked after him.
  "That is truly an unfortunate man!" murmured the musketeer, in a
hollow whisper, pointing out to Raoul the chamber inhabited by the
Prince.
                   Chapter LXI: Promises

  SCARCELY had d'Artagnan re-entered his apartment with his two
friends, when one of the soldiers of the fort came to inform him
that the governor was seeking for him. The bark which Raoul had
perceived at sea, and which appeared so eager to gain the port, came
to Ste. Marguerite with an important despatch for the captain of the
Musketeers. On opening it, d'Artagnan recognized the writing of the
King: "I should think," said Louis XIV, "that you must have
completed the execution of my orders, M. d'Artagnan; return then
immediately to Paris, and join me at the Louvre."
  "There is the end of my exile!" cried the musketeer with joy; "God
be praised, I am no longer a jailer!" and he showed the letter to
Athos.
  "So then you must leave us?" replied the latter, in a melancholy
tone.
  "Yes; but to meet again, dear friend, seeing that Raoul is old
enough now to go alone with M. de Beaufort, and will prefer that his
father should go back in company with M. d'Artagnan, rather than
that he should travel two hundred leagues solitarily to reach home
at La Fere; would you not, Raoul?"
  "Certainly," stammered the latter, with an expression of tender
regret.
  "No, no, my friend," interrupted Athos, "I will never quit Raoul
till the day his vessel shall have disappeared on the horizon. As long
as he remains in France, he shall not be separated from me."
  "As you please, dear friend; but we will, at least, leave Ste.
Marguerite together. Take advantage of the bark which will convey me
back to Antibes."
  "With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a distance from this
fort, and from the spectacle which saddened us so just now."
  The three friends quitted the little isle, after paying their
respects to the governor, and by the last flashes of the departing
tempest they took their farewell of the white walls of the fort.
D'Artagnan parted from his friends that same night, after having
seen fire set to the carriage-case upon the shore by the orders of
De Saint-Mars, according to the advice the captain had given him.
Before getting on horseback, and after leaving the arms of Athos,
"My friends," said he, "you too much resemble two soldiers who are
abandoning their post. Something warns me that Raoul will require
being supported by you in his rank. Will you allow me to ask
permission to go over into Africa with a hundred good muskets? The
King will not refuse me, and I will take you with me."
  "M. d'Artagnan," replied Raoul, pressing his hand with emotion,
"thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish,
either Monsieur the Count or I. I, who am young, stand in need of
labor of mind and fatigue of body; Monsieur the Count wants the
profoundest repose. You are his best friend. I recommend him to your
care. In watching over him, you will hold both our souls in your
hands."
  "I must go; my horse is all in a fret," said d'Artagnan, with whom
the most manifest sign of a lively emotion was the change of ideas
in a conversation. "Come, Count, how many days longer has Raoul to
stay here?"
  "Three days at most."
  "And how long will it take you to reach home?"
  "Oh, a considerable time," replied Athos. "I shall not like the idea
of being separated too quickly from Raoul. Time will travel too fast
of itself to require me to aid it by distance. I shall only make
half-stages."
  "And why so, my friend? Nothing is more dull than travelling slowly;
and hostelry life does not become a man like you."
  "My friend, I came hither on post-horses; but I wish to purchase two
animals of a superior kind. Now, to take them home fresh, it would not
be prudent to make them travel more than seven or eight leagues a
day."
  "Where is Grimaud?"
  "He arrived yesterday morning with Raoul's appointments; and I
have left him to sleep."
  "That is, never to come back again," d'Artagnan suffered to escape
him. "Till we meet again, then, dear Athos; and if you are diligent,
well, I shall embrace you the sooner." So saying, he put his foot in
the stirrup, which Raoul held.
  "Farewell!" said the young man, embracing him.
  "Farewell!" said d'Artagnan, as he got into his saddle. His horse
made a movement which divided the cavalier from his friends.
  This scene had taken place in front of the house chosen by Athos,
near the gates of Antibes, whither d'Artagnan, after his supper, had
ordered his horses to be brought. The road began there, and extended
white and undulating in the vapors of the night. The horse eagerly
inhaled the salt sharp perfume of the marshes. D'Artagnan put him into
a trot; and Athos and Raoul sadly turned towards the house. All at
once they heard the rapid approach of a horse's steps, and at first
believed it to be one of those singular echoes which deceive the ear
at every turn in a road; but it was really the return of the horseman.
They uttered a cry of joyous surprise; and the captain, springing to
the ground like a young man, seized within his arms the two beloved
forms of Athos and Raoul. He held them long embraced thus, without
speaking a word, or suffering the sigh which was bursting his breast
to escape him. Then, as rapidly as he had come back, he set off again,
with a sharp application of his spurs to the sides of his fiery horse.
  "Alas!" said the count, in a low voice, "alas! alas!"
  "Evil presage!" on his side said d'Artagnan to himself, making up
for lost time. "I could not smile upon them. An evil presage!"
  The next day Grimaud was on foot again. The service commanded by
M. de Beaufort was happily accomplished. The flotilla, sent to
Toulon by the exertions of Raoul, had set out, dragging after it in
little nutshells almost invisible, the wives and friends of the
fishermen and smugglers impressed into the service of the fleet. The
time, so short, which remained for the father and the son to live
together, appeared to have doubled the rapidity of its flight, as
the swiftness of everything increases which moves towards the gulf
of eternity.
  Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which place began to be filled
with the noise of carriages, the noise of arms, the noise of
neighing horses. The trumpeters sounded their spirited marches; the
drummers signalized their strength; the streets were overflowing
with soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was
everywhere, superintending the embarkation with the zeal and
interest of a good captain. He encouraged even the most humble of
his companions; he scolded his lieutenants, even those of the
highest rank. Artillery, provisions, baggage,- he insisted upon seeing
all himself. He examined the equipment of every soldier; he assured
himself of the health and soundness of every horse. It was plain
that light, boastful, and egotistical in his hotel, the gentleman
became the soldier again, the high noble a captain, in face of the
responsibility he had accepted. And yet it must be admitted that
whatever was the care with which he presided over the preparations for
departure, it was easy to perceive careless precipitation, and the
absence of all the precaution which makes the French soldier the first
soldier in the world, because he is the one most abandoned to his
own physical and moral resources.
  All things having satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the
admiral, he paid his compliments to Raoul, and gave the last orders
for sailing the next morning at daybreak. He invited the count and his
son to dine with him; but they, under a pretext of the service, kept
themselves apart. Gaining their hostelry, situated under the trees
of the great place, they took their repast in haste; and Athos led
Raoul to the rocks which command the city,- vast gray mountains,
whence the view is infinite, and embraces a liquid horizon which
appears, so remote is it, on a level with the rocks themselves. The
night was fine, as it always is in these happy climates. The moon,
rising behind the rocks, spread out like a silver sheet upon the
blue carpet of the sea. In the roadsteads manoeuvred silently the
vessels which had just taken their places to facilitate the
embarkation. The sea, loaded with phosphoric light, opened beneath the
hulls of the barks which transported the baggage and munitions;
every dip of the prow ploughed up this gulf of white flames, and
from every oar dropped liquid diamonds. The sailors, rejoicing in
the largesses of the admiral, were heard murmuring their slow and
artless songs. Sometimes the grinding of the chains was mixed with the
dull noise of shot falling into the holds. These harmonies and this
spectacle oppress the heart like fear, and dilate it like hope. All
this life speaks of death.
  Athos had seated himself with his son upon the moss, among the
brambles of the promontory. Around their heads passed and repassed
large bats, carried along in the fearful whirl of their blind chase.
The feet of Raoul were across the edge of the cliff, and hung in
that void which engenders vertigo and incites to self-destruction.
When the moon had risen to its full height, caressing with its light
the neighboring peaks, when the watery mirror was illumined to its
full extent, and the little red fires had made their openings in the
black masses of every ship, Athos collected all his ideas and all
his courage, and said, "God has made all that we see, Raoul; he has
made us also,- poor atoms mixed up with this great universe. We
shine like those fires and those stars; we sigh like those waves; we
suffer like those great ships, which are worn out in ploughing the
waves, in obeying the wind which urges them towards an end, as the
breath of God blows us towards a port. Everything likes to live,
Raoul; and all is beautiful in living things."
  "Monsieur," said Raoul, "we have before us a beautiful spectacle!"
  "How good d'Artagnan is!" interrupted Athos, suddenly; "and what a
rare good fortune it is to be supported during a whole life by such
a friend as he is! That is what you have wanted, Raoul."
  "A friend!" cried Raoul; "I have wanted a friend!"
  "M. de Guiche is an agreeable companion," resumed the count, coldly;
"but I believe in the times in which you live men are more engaged
in their own interests and their own pleasures than they were in our
times. You have sought a secluded life; that is a great happiness, but
you have lost your strength in it. We four, more weaned from these
delicate abstractions which constitute your joy,- we found in
ourselves much greater powers of resistance when misfortune came."
  "I have not interrupted you, Monsieur, to tell you that I had a
friend, and that that friend is M. Guiche. Certainly he is good and
generous, and moreover he loves me; but I have lived under the guard
of another friendship, Monsieur, as precious and as strong as that
of which you speak: your own."
  "I have not been a friend for you, Raoul," said Athos.
  "Eh, Monsieur! and in what respect not?"
  "Because I have given you reason to think that life has but one
face; because, sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you-
without, God knows, wishing to do so- the joyous buds which
incessantly spring from the tree of youth; so that at this moment I
repent not having made of you a more expansive, dissipated, animated
man."
  "I know why you say that, Monsieur. No, it is not you who have
made me what I am,- it is love, which took possession of me at the
time when children have only inclinations; it is the constancy natural
to my character, which with other creatures is but a habit. I believed
that I should always be as I was; I thought God had cast me in a
path quite cleared, quite straight, bordered with fruits and
flowers. I had watching over me your vigilance and your strength. I
believed myself to be vigilant and strong. Nothing prepared me; I fell
once, and that once deprived me of courage for the whole of my life.
It is quite true that I wrecked myself. Oh, no, Monsieur! you are
nothing in my past but a happiness; you are nothing in my future but a
hope! No, I have no reproach to make against life, such as you made it
for me; I bless you, and I love you ardently."
  "My dear Raoul, your words do me good; they prove to me that you
will act a little for me in the time that is to come."
  "I shall act only for you, Monsieur."
  "Raoul, what I have never hitherto done with respect to you, I
will hence. forward do; I will be your friend, not your father. We
will live in expanding ourselves, instead of living and holding
ourselves prisoners, when you come back; and that will be soon, will
it not?"
  "Certainly, Monsieur,- for such an expedition cannot be of long
duration."
  "Soon, then, Raoul, soon, instead of living moderately upon my
income, I will give you the capital of my estates; it will suffice for
launching you into the world till my death,- and you will give me, I
hope, before that time, the consolation of not seeing my race
extinct."
  "I will do all you shall command," said Raoul, much agitated.
  "It is not necessary, Raoul, that your duty as aide-de-camp should
lead you into too hazardous enterprises. You have gone through your
ordeal; you are known to be good under fire. Remember that war with
the Arabs is a war of snares, ambuscades, and assassinations."
  "So it is said, Monsieur."
  "There is never much glory in falling in an ambuscade. It is a death
which always implies some rashness or want of foresight. Often,
indeed, he who falls in it meets with but little pity. They who are
not pitied, Raoul, have died uselessly. Still further, the conqueror
laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow stupid infidels to triumph
over our mistakes. Do you clearly understand what I am saying to
you, Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to avoid encounters!"
  "I am naturally prudent, Monsieur, and I have very good fortune,"
said Raoul, with a smile which chilled the heart of his poor father;
"for," the young man hastened to add, "in twenty combats in which I
have been, I have only received one scratch."
  "There is in addition," said Athos, "the climate to be dreaded; that
is an ugly end, that fever! King Saint-Louis prayed God to send him an
arrow or the plague, rather than the fever."
  "Oh, Monsieur! with sobriety, with due exercise-"
  "I have already obtained from M. de Beaufort a promise that his
despatches shall be sent off every fort-night to France. You, as his
aide-de-camp, will be charged with expediting them, and will be sure
not to forget me?"
  "No, Monsieur," said Raoul, almost choked with emotion.
  "Besides, Raoul, as you are a good Christian, and I am one also,
we ought to reckon upon a more special protection of God and his
guardian angels. Promise me that if anything evil should happen to you
on any occasion, you will think of me at once."
  "First and at once! Oh, yes, Monsieur!
  "And will call upon me?"
  "Instantly."
  "You dream of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?"
  "Every night, Monsieur. During my early youth I saw you in my
dreams, calm and mild, with one hand stretched out over my head; and
that it was that made me sleep so soundly- formerly."
  "We love each other so dearly," said the count, "that from this
moment in which we separate a portion of both our souls will travel
with one and the other of us, and will dwell wherever we may dwell.
Whenever you may be sad, Raoul, I feel that my heart will be drowned
in sadness; and when you smile on thinking of me, be assured you
will send me, from however remote a distance, a ray of your joy."
  "I will not promise you to be joyous," replied the young man; "but
you may be certain that I will never pass an hour without thinking
of you; not one hour, I swear, unless I be dead."
  Athos could contain himself no longer; he threw his arm round the
neck of his son, and held him embraced with all the power of his
heart. The moon began to be now eclipsed by twilight; a golden band
mounted on the horizon announcing the approach of day. Athos threw his
cloak over the shoulders of Raoul, and led him back to the city, where
burdens and porters were already in motion, as in a vast ant-hill.
At the end of the plateau which Athos and Bragelonne were quitting,
they saw a dark shadow moving backwards and forwards, as if in
indecision or ashamed to be seen. It was Grimaud, who in his anxiety
had tracked his master, and was waiting for him.
  "Oh, my good Grimaud," cried Raoul, "what do you want? You have come
to tell us it is time to go, have you not?"
  "Alone?" said Grimaud, addressing Athos, and pointing to Raoul in
a tone of reproach, which showed to what an extent the old man was
troubled.
  "Oh, you are right!" cried the count. "No, Raoul shall not go alone;
no, he shall not be left alone in a strange land without some friendly
hand to support him, some friendly heart to recall to him all he
loved!"
  "I?" said Grimaud.
  "You? yes, you!" cried Raoul, touched to his inmost heart.
  "Alas!" said Athos, "you are very old, my good Grimaud."
  "So much the better," replied the latter, with an inexpressible
depth of feeling and intelligence.
  "But the embarkation has begun," said Raoul, "and you are not
prepared."
  "Yes," said Grimaud, showing the keys of his trunks, mixed with
those of his young master.
  "But," again objected Raoul, "you cannot leave Monsieur the Count
thus alone,- Monsieur the Count whom you have never quitted?"
  Grimaud turned his dimmed eyes upon Athos and Raoul, as if to
measure the strength of both. The count uttered not a word.
  "Monsieur the Count will prefer my going," said Grimaud.
  "I should," said Athos, by an inclination of the head.
  At that moment the drums suddenly rolled, and the clarions filled
the air with their inspiring notes. The regiments destined for the
expedition began to march out from the city. They advanced to the
number of five, each composed of forty companies. Royals marched
first, distinguished by their white uniform, faced with blue. The
ordonnance colors, quartered crosswise, violet and dead leaf, with a
sprinkling of golden fleurs-de-lis, left the white-colored flag,
with its fleurdelisee cross, to dominate over the whole. Musketeers at
the wings, with their forked sticks in their hands and their muskets
on their shoulders, and pikemen in the centre, with their lances,
fourteen feet in length, marched gayly towards the transports, which
carried them in detail to the ships. The regiments of Picardy,
Navarre, Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau, followed after. M. de
Beaufort had known well how to select his troops. He himself was
seen closing the march with his staff; it would take him a full hour
to reach the sea. Raoul with Athos turned his steps slowly towards the
beach, in order to take his place when the prince embarked. Grimaud,
acting with the ardor of a young man, superintended the embarkation of
Raoul's baggage in the admiral's vessel. Athos, with his arm passed
through that of the son he was about to lose, absorbed in melancholy
meditation, was deaf to the noise around him. An officer came
quickly towards them to inform Raoul that M. de Beaufort desired to
have him by his side.
  "Have the kindness to tell the prince," said Raoul, "that I
request he will allow me this hour to enjoy the company of my father."
  "No, no," said Athos; "an aide-decamp ought not thus to quit his
general. Please to tell the prince, Monsieur, that the viscount will
join him immediately."
  The officer set off at a gallop.
  "Whether we part here or part there," added the count, "it is no
less a separation."
  Athos carefully brushed the dust off his son's coat, and passed
his hand over his hair as they walked along. "But, Raoul," said he,
"you want money. M. de Beaufort's train will be splendid, and I am
certain it will be agreeable to you to purchase horses and arms, which
are very dear things in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the
service of the King or of M. de Beaufort, and are simply a
volunteer, you must not reckon upon either pay or largesses; but I
should not like you to want for anything at Djidgelli. Here are two
hundred pistoles; if you would please me, Raoul, spend them."
  Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and at the turning of a street
they saw M. de Beaufort, mounted upon a magnificent white genet, which
replied by graceful curvets to the applause of the women of the
city. The duke called Raoul and held out his hand to the count,
speaking to him for some time with such a kindly expression that the
heart of the poor father felt a little comforted. It seemed,
however, to both father and son that they were proceeding to a scene
of torture. There was a terrible moment,- that at which on quitting
the sands of the shore the soldiers and sailors exchanged the last
kisses with their families and friends; a supreme moment, in which,
notwithstanding the clearness of the heaven, the warmth of the sun,
the perfumes of the air, and the rich life that was circulating in
their veins, everything appeared black, everything appeared bitter,
everything created doubts of a God, even while speaking by the mouth
of God. It was customary for the admiral and his suite to embark last;
the cannon waited to announce with its formidable voice that the
leader had placed his foot on board his vessel. Athos, forgetful of
both the admiral and the fleet, and of his own dignity as a strong
man, opened his arms to his son, and pressed him convulsively to his
heart.
  "Accompany us on board," said the duke, very much affected; "you
will gain a good half-hour."
  "No," said Athos, "my farewell is spoken. I do not wish to speak a
second."
  "Then, Viscount, embark,- embark quickly!" added the prince, wishing
to spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were bursting. And
paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he took
Raoul in his arms and placed him in the boat; the oars of which, at
a signal, immediately were dipped in the waves. He himself,
forgetful of ceremony, jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with
a vigorous foot.
  "Adieu!" cried Raoul.
  Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something burning on his
hand; it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud,- the last farewell of the
faithful servant. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the
pier upon the stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in
tow by a chaland served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on
the pier, stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of
the features, one of the shades of the pale face of his son. With
his arms hanging down, his eyes fixed, his mouth open, he remained
confounded with Raoul,- in one same look, in one same thought, in
one same stupor. The sea by degrees carried away boats and faces to
that distance at which men become nothing but points, loves nothing
but remembrances. Athos saw his son ascend the ladder of the admiral's
ship; he saw him lean upon the rail of the deck, and place himself
in such a manner as to be always an object in the eye of his father.
In vain the cannon thundered; in vain from the ship sounded a long and
loud tumult, responded to by immense acclamations from the shore; in
vain did the noise deafen the ear of the father, and the smoke obscure
the cherished object of all his aspirations. Raoul appeared to him
up to the last moment; and the imperceptible atom, passing from
black to pale, from pale to white, from white to nothing,
disappeared from the view of Athos very long after, from all the
eyes of the spectators, had disappeared both gallant ships and
swelling sails.
  Towards mid-day, when the sun devoured space, and scarcely the
tops of the masts dominated the incandescent line of the sea, Athos
perceived a soft, aerial shadow rise and vanish as soon as seen.
This was the smoke of a cannon, which M. de Beaufort ordered to be
fired as a last salute to the coast of France. The point was buried in
its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned painfully and slowly to
his hostelry.
                 Chapter LXII: Among Women

  D'ARTAGNAN had not been able to hide his feelings from his friends
so much as he would have wished. The stoical soldier, the impassible
man-at-arms, overcome by fear and presentiments, had yielded for a few
minutes to human weakness. When therefore he had silenced his heart
and calmed the agitation of his nerves, turning towards his lackey,
a silent servant, always listening in order to obey the more promptly,
"Rabaud," said he, "mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day."
  "At your pleasure, Captain," replied Rabaud.
  And from that moment, d'Artagnan, accommodating his action to the
pace of his horse, like a true centaur, employed his thoughts about
nothing,- that is to say, about everything. He asked himself why the
King had recalled him; why the Iron Mask had thrown the silver plate
at the feet of Raoul. As to the first subject, the reply was only of a
negative character. He knew right well that the King's calling him was
from necessity; he still further knew that Louis XIV must experience
an imperious want of a private conversation with one whom the
possession of such a secret placed on a level with the highest
powers of the kingdom; but as to saying exactly what the King's wish
was d'Artagnan found himself completely at a loss.
  The musketeer had no longer any doubt as to the reason which had
urged the unfortunate Philippe to reveal his character and his
birth. Philippe, hidden forever beneath a mask of iron, exiled to a
country where the men seemed little more than slaves of the
elements; Philippe, deprived even of the society of d'Artagnan, who
had loaded him with honors and delicate attentions,- had nothing
more to look forward to than spectres and griefs in this world; and
despair beginning to devour him, he poured himself forth in
complaints, in the belief that his revelations would raise an
avenger for him.
  The manner in which the musketeer had been near killing his two best
friends, the destiny which had so strangely brought Athos to
participate in the great state secret, the farewell of Raoul, the
obscurity of that future which threatened to end in a melancholy
death,- all this threw d'Artagnan incessantly back to lamentable
predictions and forebodings which the rapidity of his pace did not
dissipate, as it used formerly to do. D'Artagnan passed from these
considerations to the remembrance of the proscribed Porthos and
Aramis. He saw them both, fugitives, tracked, ruined,- laborious
architects of a fortune they must lose; and as the King called for his
man of execution in the hours of vengeance and malice, d'Artagnan
trembled at the idea of receiving some commission that would make
his very heart bleed.
  Sometimes when ascending hills, when the winded horse breathed
hard from his nostrils, and heaved his flanks, the captain, left to
more freedom of thought, reflected upon the prodigious genius of
Aramis,- a genius of craft and intrigue, of which the Fronde and the
civil war had produced but two similar examples. Soldier, priest,
and diplomatist, gallant, avaricious, and cunning, Aramis had taken
the good things of this life only as steppingstones to rise to bad
ones. Generous in spirit, if not high in heart, he never did ill but
for the sake of shining a little more brilliantly. Towards the end
of his career, at the moment of reaching the goal, like the
patrician Fiesco, he had made a false step upon a plank, and had
fallen into the sea.
  But Porthos, the good, simple Porthos! To see Porthos hungry; to see
Mousqueton without gold lace, imprisoned, perhaps; to see Pierrefonds,
Bracieux, razed to the very stones, dishonored even to the timber,-
these were so many poignant griefs for d'Artagnan, and every time that
one of these griefs struck him he bounded like a horse at the sting of
the gadfly beneath the vaults of foliage where he has sought shade and
shelter from the burning sun.
  Never was the man of spirit subjected to ennui if his body was
exposed to fatigue; never did the man healthy of body fail to find
life light if he had something to engage his mind. D'Artagnan,
riding fast, always thinking, alighted from his horse in Paris,
fresh and tender in his muscles as the athlete preparing for the
gymnasium. The King did not expect him so soon, and had just
departed for the chase towards Meudon. D'Artagnan, instead of riding
after the King, as he would formerly have done, took off his boots,
had a bath, and waited till his Majesty should return dusty and tired.
He occupied the interval of five hours in taking, as people say, the
air of the house, and in arming himself against all ill-chances. He
learned that the King during the last fortnight had been gloomy;
that the Queen-Mother was ill and much depressed; that Monsieur the
King's brother was exhibiting a devotional turn; that Madame had the
vapors; and that M. de Guiche had gone to one of his estates. He
learned that M. Colbert was radiant; that M. Fouquet consulted a fresh
physician every day who still did not cure him, and that his principal
complaint was one which physicians do not usually cure unless they are
political physicians. The King, d'Artagnan was told, behaved in the
kindest manner to M. Fouquet, and did not allow him to be ever out
of his sight; but the superintendent, touched to the heart, like one
of those fine trees which a worm has punctured, was declining daily,
in spite of the royal smile- that sun of court trees.
  D'Artagnan learned that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had become
indispensable to the King; that the King, during his sporting
excursions, if he did not take her with him, wrote to her
frequently, no longer verses, but, what was still much worse,
prose,- and that whole pages at a time. Thus, as the poetical Pleiad
of the day said, the first King in the world was seen descending
from his horse with an ardor beyond compare, and on the crown of his
hat scrawling bombastic phrases, which M. de Saint-Aignan,
aide-de-camp in perpetuity, carried to La Valliere at the risk of
foundering his horses. During this time deer and pheasants were left
to the free enjoyments of their nature,- hunted so lazily that, it was
said, the art of venery ran great risk of degenerating at the court of
France.
  D'Artagnan then thought of the wishes of poor Raoul, of that
desponding letter destined for a woman who passed her life in
hoping; and as d'Artagnan was inclined to philosophize, he resolved to
profit by the absence of the King to have a minute's talk with
Mademoiselle de la Valliere. This was a very easy affair; while the
King was hunting, Louise was walking with some other ladies in one
of the galleries of the Palais-Royal, exactly where the captain of the
Musketeers had some guards to inspect. D'Artagnan did not doubt that
if he could but open the conversation upon Raoul, Louise might give
him grounds for writing a consolatory letter to the poor exile; and
hope, or at least consolation for Raoul, in the state of heart in
which he had left him, was the sun, was life, to two men who were very
dear to our captain. He directed his course therefore to the spot
where he knew he should find Mademoiselle de la Valliere.
  D'Artagnan found La Valliere the centre of a circle. In her apparent
solitude the King's favorite received like a queen- more perhaps
than the Queen- an homage of which Madame had been so proud when all
the King's looks were directed to her, and commanded the looks of
the courtiers. D'Artagnan, although no squire of dames, received
nevertheless civilities and attentions from the ladies. He was polite,
as a brave man always is; and his terrible reputation had gained him
as much friendship among the men as admiration among the women. On
seeing him enter, therefore, the maids of honor immediately accosted
him; they opened the attack by questions. Where had he been? What
had he been doing? Why had they not seen him as usual make his fine
horse curvet in such beautiful style, to the delight and
astonishment of the curious from the King's balcony?
  He replied that he had just come from the land of oranges. This
set all the ladies laughing. Those were times in which everybody
traveled, but in which, notwithstanding, a journey of a hundred
leagues was an undertaking resulting often in death.
  "'From the land of oranges'?" cried Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente,- "from Spain?"
  "Eh, eh!" said the musketeer.
  "From Malta?" said Montalais.
  "Ma foi! you are coming very near, ladies."
  "Is it an island?" asked La Valliere.
  "Mademoiselle," said d'Artagnan, "I will not give you the trouble of
seeking any farther; I come from the country where M. de Beaufort is
at this moment embarking for Algiers."
  "Have you seen the army?" asked several warlike fair ones.
  "As plainly as I see you," replied d'Artagnan.
  "And the fleet?"
  "Yes,- I saw everything."
  "Have we any of us any friends there?" said Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente, coldly, but in a manner to attract attention to a
question that was not without a calculated aim.
  "Why," replied d'Artagnan, "yes; there were M. de la Guillotiere, M.
de Mouchy, M. de Bragelonne-"
  La Valliere became pale. "M. de Bragelonne!" cried the perfidious
Athenais. "Eh, what! is he gone to the wars- he?"
  Montalais trod upon her toe, but in vain.
  "Do you know what my opinion is?" continued Athenais, pitiless,
addressing d'Artagnan.
  "No, Mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it."
  "My opinion is, then, that all the men who go to this war are
desperate, desponding men, whom love has treated ill, and who go to
try if they cannot find black women more kind than fair ones have
been."
  Some of the ladies laughed; La Valliere was evidently confused;
Montalais coughed loud enough to waken the dead.
  "Mademoiselle," interrupted d'Artagnan, "you are in error when you
speak of black women at Djidgelli. The women there are not black; it
is true they are not white,- they are yellow."
  "Yellow!" exclaimed the bevy of fair beauties.
  "Eh, do not disparage them! I have never seen a finer color to match
with black eyes and a coral mouth."
  "So much the better for M. de Bragelonne," said Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente, with persistent malice; "he will make amends for
his loss, poor fellow!"
  A profound silence followed these words; and d'Artagnan had time
to reflect that women, those mild doves, treat one another much more
cruelly than tigers and bears.
  But making La Valliere pale did not satisfy Athenais; she determined
to make her blush likewise. Resuming the conversation without pause,
"Do you know, Louise," said she, "that that is a great sin on your
conscience?"
  "What sin, Mademoiselle?" stammered the unfortunate girl, looking
round her for support, without finding it.
  "Eh! why?" continued Athenais, "the poor young man was affianced
to you; he loved you, you cast him off."
  "Well, and that is a right every honest woman has," said
Montalais, in an affected tone. "When we know we cannot constitute the
happiness of a man, it is much better to cast him off."
  "Cast him off! refuse him!- that's all very well," said Athenais,
"but that is not the sin with which Mademoiselle de la Valliere has to
reproach herself. The actual sin is sending poor Bragelonne to the
wars; and to wars in which death is to be met."
  Louise pressed her hand over her icy brow. "And if he dies,"
continued her pitiless tormentor; "you will have killed him. That is
the sin."
  Louise, half-dead, caught at the arm of the captain of the
Musketeers, whose face betrayed unusual emotion. "You wished to
speak with me, M. d'Artagnan," said she, in a voice broken by anger
and pain. "What had you to say to me?"
  D'Artagnan made several steps along the gallery, supporting Louise
on his arm; then, when they were far enough removed from the others,
"What I had to say to you, Mademoiselle," replied he, "Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente has just expressed; roughly and unkindly, it is
true, but still in its entirety."
  She uttered a faint cry; pierced to the heart by this new wound, she
went on her way like one of those poor birds which, fatally injured,
seek the shade of the thicket to die. She disappeared at one door at
the moment the King was entering by another. The first glance of the
King was directed towards the empty seat of his mistress. Not
perceiving La Valliere, a frown came over his brow; but immediately he
saw d'Artagnan, who saluted him. "Ah, Monsieur!" cried he, "you have
been diligent! I am pleased with you." This was the superlative
expression of royal satisfaction. Many men would have been ready to
lay down their lives for such a speech from the King. The maids of
honor and the courtiers, who had formed a respectful circle round
the King on his entrance, drew back on observing that he wished to
speak privately with his captain of the Musketeers. The King led the
way out of the gallery, after having again, with his eyes, sought
everywhere for La Valliere, for whose absence he could not account.
The moment they were out of the reach of curious ears, "Well! M.
d'Artagnan," said he, "the prisoner?"
  "Is in his prison, Sire."
  "What did he say on the road?"
  "Nothing, Sire."
  "What did he do?"
  "There was a moment at which the fisherman who took me in his boat
to Ste. Marguerite revolted, and did his best to kill me. The- the
prisoner defended me instead of attempting to fly."
  The King became pale. "Enough!" said he; and d'Artagnan bowed. Louis
walked about his cabinet with hasty steps. "Were you at Antibes," said
he, "when M. de Beaufort came there?"
  "No, Sire; I was setting off when Monsieur the Duke arrived."
  "Ah!"- which was followed by a fresh silence. "Whom did you see
there?"
  "A great many persons," said d'Artagnan, coolly.
  The King perceived that he was unwilling to speak. "I have sent
for you, Monsieur the Captain, to desire you to go and prepare my
lodgings at Nantes."
  "At Nantes!" cried d'Artagnan.
  "In Bretagne."
  "Yes, Sire, it is in Bretagne. Will your Majesty make so long a
journey as to Nantes?"
  "The States are assembled there," replied the King. "I have two
demands to make of them; I wish to be there."
  "When shall I set out?" said the captain.
  "This evening- to-morrow- tomorrow evening; for you must stand in
need of rest."
  "I have rested, Sire."
  "That is well. Then between this and to-morrow evening, when you
please."
  D'Artagnan bowed as if to take his leave; but perceiving that the
King was very much embarrassed, "Will your Majesty," said he, stepping
two paces forward, "take the court with you?"
  "Certainly I shall."
  "Then your Majesty will doubtless want the Musketeers?" And the
eye of the King sank beneath the penetrating glance of the captain.
  "Take a brigade of them," replied Louis.
  "Is that all? Has your Majesty no other orders to give me?"
  "No- ah- yes."
  "I am all attention, Sire."
  "At the Castle of Nantes, which I hear is very ill arranged, you
will adopt the practice of placing musketeers at the door of each of
the principal dignitaries I shall take with me."
  "Of the principal?"
  "Yes."
  "For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?"
  "Yes."
  "At that of M. Letellier?"
  "Yes."
  "Of M. de Brienne?"
  "Yes."
  "And of Monsieur the Superintendent?"
  "Without doubt."
  "Very well, Sire. By to-morrow I shall have set out."
  "Oh, one word more, M. d'Artagnan. At Nantes you will meet with M.
le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the Guards. Be sure that your Musketeers
are placed before his Guards arrive. Precedence always belongs to
the first comer."
  "Yes, Sire."
  "And if M. de Gesvres should question you?"
  "Question me, Sire! Is it likely that M. de Gesvres would question
me?" And the musketeer, turning cavalierly on his heel, disappeared.
"To Nantes!" said he to himself, as he descended the stairs. "Why
did he not dare to say at once to Belle-Isle?"
  As he reached the great gates, one of M. de Brienne's clerks came
running after him, exclaiming, "M. d'Artagnan, I beg your pardon-"
  "What is the matter, M. Ariste?"
  "The King has desired me to give you this order."
  "Upon your cash-box?" asked the musketeer.
  "No, Monsieur; upon that of M. Fouquet."
  D'Artagnan was surprised; but he took the order, which was in the
King's own writing, and was for two hundred pistoles. "What!"
thought he, after having politely thanked M. de Brienne's clerk, "M.
Fouquet is to pay for the journey, then! Mordioux! that is a bit of
pure Louis XI! Why was not this order upon the chest of M. Colbert? He
would have paid it with such joy." And d'Artagnan, faithful to his
principle of never letting an order at sight get cold, went straight
to the house of M. Fouquet, to receive his two hundred pistoles.
              Chapter LXIII: The Last Supper

  THE superintendent had no doubt received notice of the approaching
departure, for he was giving a farewell dinner to his friends. From
the bottom to the top of the house, the hurry of the servants
bearing dishes, and the diligence of the registres, denoted an
approaching change in both offices and kitchen. D'Artagnan, with his
order in his hand, presented himself at the offices, when he was
told it was too late to pay cash,- the chest was closed. He only
replied, "On the King's service."
  The clerk, a little put out by the serious air of the captain,
replied that that was a very respectable reason, but that the
customs of the house were respectable likewise; and that in
consequence he begged the bearer to call again next day. D'Artagnan
asked if he could not see M. Fouquet. The clerk replied that
Monsieur the Superintendent did not interfere with such details, and
rudely closed the door in d'Artagnan's face. But the latter had
foreseen this stroke, and placed his boot between the door and the
door case, so that the lock did not catch, and the clerk was still
face to face with his interlocutor. This made him change his tone, and
say with terrified politeness, "If Monsieur wishes to speak to
Monsieur the Superintendent, he must go to the antechambers; these are
the offices where Monseigneur never comes."
  "Oh, very well! Where are they?" replied the captain.
  "On the other side of the court," said the clerk, delighted at being
free.
  D'Artagnan crossed the court, and fell in with a crowd of servants.
  "Monseigneur sees nobody at this hour," he was answered by a
fellow carrying a vermeil dish, in which were three pheasants and
twelve quails.
  "Tell him," said the captain, stopping the servant by laying hold of
his dish, "that I am M. d'Artagnan, captain of his Majesty's
Musketeers."
  The fellow uttered a cry of surprise and disappeared, d'Artagnan
following him slowly. He arrived just in time to meet M. Pelisson in
the antechamber; the latter, a little pale, came hastily out of the
dining-room to learn what was the matter. D'Artagnan smiled.
  "There is nothing unpleasant, M. Pelisson; only a little order to
receive some money."
  "Ah!" said Fouquet's friend, breathing more freely; and he took
the captain by the hand, and dragging him behind him, led him into the
dining-room, where a number of friends surrounded the
superintendent, placed in the centre, and buried in the cushions of an
arm-chair. There were assembled all the Epicureans who so lately at
Vaux did honor to the house, the intelligence, and the wealth of M.
Fouquet. joyous friends, for the most part faithful, they had not fled
from their protector at the approach of the storm, and in spite of the
threatening heavens, in spite of the trembling earth, they remained
there, smiling, cheerful, as devoted to him in misfortune as they
had been in prosperity. On the left of the superintendent was Madame
de Belliere; on his right was Madame Fouquet; as if braving the laws
of the world, and putting all vulgar reasons of propriety to
silence, the two protecting angels of this man united to offer him
at the moment of the crisis the support of their intertwined arms.
Madame de Belliere was pale, trembling, and full of respectful
attentions for Madame the wife of the superintendent who, with one
hand on the hand of her husband, was looking anxiously towards the
door by which Pelisson had gone out to bring in d'Artagnan. The
captain entered at first full of courtesy, and afterwards of
admiration, when, with his infallible glance, he had interpreted the
expression of every face.
  Fouquet raised himself up in his chair. "Pardon me, M.
d'Artagnan," said he, "if I did not come to receive you when coming in
the King's name." And he pronounced the last words with a sort of
melancholy firmness, which filled the hearts of his friends with
terror.
  "Monseigneur," replied d'Artagnan, "I only come to you in the King's
name to demand payment of an order for two hundred pistoles."
  The clouds passed from every brow but that of Fouquet, which still
remained overcast. "Ah, then," said he, "perhaps you also are going to
Nantes?"
  "I do not know whither I am going, Monseigneur."
  "But," said Madame Fouquet, recovered from her fright, "you are
not going so soon, Monsieur the Captain, but that you can do us the
honor to take a seat with us?"
  "Madame, I should esteem that a great honor done to me, but I am
so pressed for time that, you see, I have been obliged to permit
myself to interrupt your repast to procure payment of my order."
  "The reply to which shall be gold," said Fouquet, making a sign to
his intendant, who went out with the order which d'Artagnan handed
to him.
  "Oh!" said the latter, "I was not uneasy about the payment; the
house is good."
  A painful smile passed over the pale features of Fouquet.
  "Are you in pain?" asked Madame de Belliere.
  "Do you feel your attack coming on?" asked Madame Fouquet.
  "Neither, thank you," said the superintendent.
  "Your attack?" said d'Artagnan, in his turn; "are you unwell,
Monseigneur?"
  "I have a tertian fever, which seized me after the fete at Vaux."
  "Caught cold in the grottos at night, perhaps?"
  "No, no; nothing but agitation, that was all."
  "The too much heart you displayed in your reception of the King,"
said La Fontaine, quietly, without suspicion that he was uttering a
sacrilege.
  "We cannot devote too much heart to the reception of our King," said
Fouquet, mildly, to his poet.
  "Monsieur meant to say the too great ardor," interrupted d'Artagnan,
with perfect frankness and much amenity. "The fact is, Monseigneur,
that hospitality was never practised as at Vaux."
  Madame Fouquet permitted her countenance to show clearly that if
Fouquet had conducted himself well towards the King, the King had
not rendered the like to the minister. But d'Artagnan knew the
terrible secret. He alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had not,
the one the courage to complain, the other the right to accuse. The
captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were brought, was about to
take leave, when Fouquet, rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered
one to be given to d'Artagnan. "Monsieur," said he, "to the health
of the King, whatever may happen."
  "And to your health, Monseigneur, 'whatever may happen,'" said
d'Artagnan.
  He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who
rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the
bottom of the stairs.
  "I for a moment thought it was I and not my money he wanted," said
Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh.
  "You!" cried his friends; "and what for, in the name of Heaven?"
  "Oh, do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus!"
said the superintendent. "I will not make a comparison between the
most humble sinner on the earth and the God we adore; but remember
he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last
Supper, and which was only a farewell dinner, like that which we are
making at this moment."
  A painful cry of protestation arose from all parts of the table.
"Shut the doors," said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared. "My
friends," continued Fouquet, lowering his voice, "what was I formerly;
what am I now? Consult among yourselves, and reply. A man like me
sinks when he does not continue to rise. What shall we say, then, when
he really sinks? I have no more money, no more credit; I have no
longer anything but powerful enemies and powerless friends."
  "Quick!" cried Pelisson, rising. "Since you explain yourself with
that frankness, it is our duty to be frank likewise. Yes, you are
ruined; yes, you are hastening to your ruin. Stop! And in the first
place, what money have we left?"
  "Seven hundred thousand livres," said the intendant.
  "Bread," murmured Madame Fouquet.
  "Relays," said Pelisson,- "relays, and fly!"
  "Whither?"
  "To Switzerland; to Savoy; but fly!"
  "If Monseigneur flies," said Madame de Belliere, "it will be said
that he was guilty, and was afraid."
  "More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty
millions with me."
  "We will draw up memoirs to justify you," said La Fontaine. "Fly!"
  "I will remain," said Fouquet; "and besides, does not everything
serve me?"
  "You have Belle-Isle," cried the Abbe Fouquet.
  "And I am of course going thither when going to Nantes," replied the
superintendent. "Patience, then!"
  "Before arriving at Nantes, what a distance!" said Madame Fouquet.
  "Yes, I know that well," replied Fouquet; "but what is to be done
about it? The King summons me to the States; I know well it is for the
purpose of ruining me, but to refuse to go would show uneasiness."
  "Well, I have discovered the means of reconciling everything," cried
Pelisson. "You are going to set out for Nantes."
  Fouquet looked at him with an air of surprise.
  "But with friends,- in your own carriage as far as Orleans; in
your barge as far as Nantes; always ready to defend yourself if you
are attacked, to escape if you are threatened. In fact, you will carry
your money, to be provided against all chances; and while flying you
will only have obeyed the King; then, reaching the sea when you
like, you will embark for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will
shoot out whenever it may please you, like the eagle, which rushes
into space when it has been driven from its eyry."
  A general assent followed Pelisson's words. "Yes, do so," said
Madame Fouquet to her husband.
  "Do so," said Madame de Belliere.
  "Do it! do it!" cried all his friends.
  "I will do so," replied Fouquet.
  "This very evening?"
  "In an hour?"
  "Immediately."
  "With seven hundred thousand livres you can lay the foundation of
another fortune," said the Abbe Fouquet. "What is there to prevent our
arming corsairs at Belle-Isle?"
  "And if necessary, we will go and discover a new world," added La
Fontaine, intoxicated with projects and enthusiasm.
  A knock at the door interrupted this concert of joy and hope. "A
courier from the King," said the master of the ceremonies.
  A profound silence immediately ensued, as if the message brought
by this courier was a reply to all the projects given birth to an
instant before. Every one waited to see what the master would do.
His brow was streaming with perspiration, and he was really
suffering from his fever at that instant. He passed into his cabinet
to receive the King's message. There prevailed, as we have said,
such a silence in the chambers and throughout the attendance, that
from the dining-room could be heard the voice of Fouquet saying, "That
is well, Monsieur." This voice was, however, broken by fatigue,
trembling with emotion. An instant after, Fouquet called Gourville,
who crossed the gallery amid the universal expectation. At length he
himself reappeared among his guests, but it was no longer the same
pale, spiritless countenance they had beheld when he left them; from
pale he had become livid, and from spiritless, annihilated. A living
spectre, he advanced with his arms stretched out, his mouth
parched,- like a shade that comes to salute friends of former days. On
seeing him thus, every one cried out, and every one rushed towards
Fouquet. The latter, looking at Pelisson, leaned upon his wife and
pressed the icy hand of the Marquise de Belliere. "Well!" said he,
in a voice that had nothing human in it.
  "My God! what has happened?" said some one to him.
  Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clinched, humid, and
displayed a paper, upon which Pelisson cast a terrified glance. He
read the following lines, written by the King's hand:-

  "DEAR AND WELL-BELOVED M. FOUQUET: Give us, upon that which you have
left of ours, the sum of seven hundred thousand livres, of which we
stand in need to prepare for our departure.
  "And as we know that your health is not good, we pray God to restore
you to health, and to have you in his holy keeping.
                                                              "LOUIS.
  "The present letter is to serve as a receipt."

  A murmur of terror circulated through the apartment.
  "Well," cried Pelisson, in his turn, "you have received that
letter?"
  "Received it,- yes!"
  "What will you do, then?"
  "Nothing, since I have received it."
  "But-"
  "If I have received it, Pelisson, I have paid it," said the
superintendent, with a simplicity that went to the heart of all
present.
  "You have paid it!" cried Madame Fouquet. "Then we are ruined!"
  "Come, no useless words!" interrupted Pelisson. "After money,
life, Monseigneur; to horse! to horse!"
  "What! leave us?" at once cried both the women, wild with grief.
  "Eh, Monseigneur, in saving yourself you save us all. To horse!"
  "But he cannot hold himself on. Look at him!"
  "Oh, if he takes time to reflect-" said the intrepid Pelisson.
  "He is right," murmured Fouquet.
  "Monseigneur! Monseigneur!" cried Gourville, rushing up the stairs
four steps at once; "Monseigneur!"
  "Well, what?"
  "I escorted, as you desired, the King's courier with the money."
  "Yes."
  "Well; when I arrived at the Palais-Royal, I saw-"
  "Take breath, my poor friend, take breath; you are suffocating."
  "What did you see?" cried the impatient friends.
  "I saw the Musketeers mounting on horseback," said Gourville.
  "There, then!" cried all voices at once; "is there an instant to
be lost?"
  Madame Fouquet rushed downstairs, calling for her horses; Madame
de Belliere flew after her catching her in her arms, and saying,
"Madame, in the name of his safety, do not betray anything, do not
manifest any alarm."
  Pelisson ran to have the horses put to the carriages; and in the
mean time, Gourville gathered in his hat all that the weeping
friends were able to throw into it of gold and silver,- the last
offering, the pious alms made to misfortune by poverty. The
superintendent, dragged along by some, carried by others, was shut
up in his carriage. Gourville took the reins, and mounted the box.
Pelisson supported Madame Fouquet, who had fainted. Madame de Belliere
had more strength, and was well paid for it; she received Fouquet's
last kiss. Pelisson easily explained this precipitate departure by
saying that an order from the King had summoned the minister to
Nantes.
         Chapter LXIV: In the Carriage of M. Colbert

  AS GOURVILLE had seen, the King's Musketeers were mounting and
following their captain. The latter, who did not like to be confined
in his proceedings, left his brigade under the orders of a lieutenant,
and set off upon post-horses, recommending his men to use all
diligence. However rapidly they might travel, they could not arrive
before him. He had time, in passing along the Rue des Petits-Champs,
to see a thing which afforded him much food for thought. He saw M.
Colbert coming out from his house to get into a carriage which was
stationed before the door. In this carriage d'Artagnan perceived the
hoods of two women, and being rather curious, he wished to know the
names of the women concealed beneath these hoods. To get a glimpse
at them, for they kept themselves closely covered up, he urged his
horse so near to the carriage that he drove him against the step
with such force as to give a shock to the entire equipage and those
whom it contained. The terrified women uttered, the one a faint cry,
by which d'Artagnan recognized a young woman, the other an
imprecation, by which he recognized the vigor and self-possession
which half a century bestows. The hoods were thrown back; one of the
women was Madame Vanel, the other was the Duchesse de Chevreuse.
D'Artagnan's eyes were quicker than those of the ladies; he had seen
and known them, while they did not recognize him. And as they
laughed at their fright, pressing each other's hands, "Humph!" said
d'Artagnan, "the old duchess is not more difficult in her
friendships than she was formerly. She pays court to the mistress of
M. Colbert! Poor M. Fouquet! that presages you nothing good!"
  He rode on. M. Colbert got into his carriage, and this noble trio
began a sufficiently slow pilgrimage towards the wood of Vincennes.
Madame de Chevreuse set down Madame Vanel at her husband's house;
and left alone with M. Colbert, she chatted upon affairs while
continuing her ride. She had an inexhaustible fund of conversation,
had that dear duchess, and as she always talked for the ill of others,
always with a view to her own good, her conversation amused her
interlocutor, and did not fail to make a favorable impression.
  She taught Colbert, who, poor man, was ignorant of it, how great a
minister he was, and how Fouquet would soon become nothing. She
promised to rally around him, when he should become superintendent,
all the old nobility of the kingdom, and questioned him as to the
degree of importance it would be proper to assign to La Valliere.
She praised him; she blamed him; she bewildered him. She showed him
the inside of so many secrets that for a moment Colbert feared he must
have to do with the devil. She proved to him that she held in her hand
the Colbert of to-day, as she had held the Fouquet of yesterday; and
as he asked her, very simply, the reason of her hatred for the
superintendent, "Why do you yourself hate him?" said she.
  "Madame, in politics," replied he, "the differences of system may
bring about divisions between men. M. Fouquet always appeared to me to
practise a system opposed to the true interests of the King."
  She interrupted him. "I will say no more to you about M. Fouquet.
The journey the King is about to take to Nantes will give a good
account of him. M. Fouquet, for me, is a man quite gone by,- and for
you also."
  Colbert made no reply. "On his return from Nantes," continued the
duchess, "the King, who is only anxious for a pretext, will find
that the States have not behaved well- that they have made too few
sacrifices. The States will say that the imposts are too heavy, and
that the superintendent has ruined them. The King will lay all the
blame on M. Fouquet, and then-"
  "And then?" said Colbert.
  "Oh, he will be disgraced. Is not that your opinion?"
  Colbert darted a glance at the duchess, which plainly said, "If M.
Fouquet be only disgraced, you will not be the cause of it."
  "Your place, M. Colbert," the duchess hastened to say, "should be
very prominent. Do you perceive any one between the King and
yourself after the fall of M. Fouquet?"
  "I do not understand," said he.
  "You will understand. To what does your ambition aspire?"
  "I have none."
  "It was useless then to overthrow the superintendent, M. Colbert.
That is idle."
  "I had the honor to tell you, Madame-"
  "Oh, yes, I know, the interest of the King; but if you please we
will speak of your own."
  "Mine! that is to say, the affairs of his Majesty."
  "In short, are you, or are you not ruining M. Fouquet? Answer
without evasion."
  "Madame, I ruin nobody."
  "I cannot then comprehend why you should purchase of me the
letters of M. Mazarin concerning M. Fouquet. Neither can I conceive
why you have laid those letters before the King."
  Colbert, half stupefied, looked at the duchess, and with an air of
constraint, "Madame," said he, "I can less easily conceive how you,
who received the money, can reproach me on that head."
  "It is," said the old duchess, "because we must choose what we can
have when we can't have what we choose."
  "You have hit it," said Colbert, unhorsed by that plain speaking.
  "You are not able, eh? Speak."
  "I am not able, I allow, to destroy certain influences near the
King."
  "Which contend for M. Fouquet? What are they? Stop, let me help
you."
  "Do, Madame."
  "La Valliere?"
  "Oh! very little influence; no knowledge of affairs, and no
resources. M. Fouquet has paid court to her."
  "To defend him would be to accuse herself, would it not?"
  "I think it would."
  "There is still another influence; what do you say to that?"
  "Is it considerable?"
  "The Queen-Mother, perhaps?"
  "Her Majesty the Queen-Mother has for M. Fouquet a weakness very
prejudicial to her son."
  "Never believe that," said the old duchess, smiling.
  "Oh!" said Colbert, with incredulity, "I have often experienced it."
  "Formerly?"
  "Very recently, Madame, at Vaux. It was she who prevented the King
from having M. Fouquet arrested."
  "People do not always entertain the same opinions, my dear Monsieur.
That which the Queen may have wished recently, she would not perhaps
to-day."
  "And why not?" said Colbert, astonished.
  "Oh, the reason is of very little consequence."
  "On the contrary, I think it is of great consequence,- for if I were
certain of not displeasing her Majesty the Queen-Mother, all my
scruples would be removed."
  "Well, have you never heard a certain secret spoken of?"
  "A secret?"
  "Call it what you like. In short, the Queen-Mother has conceived a
horror for all those who have participated, in one fashion or another,
in the discovery of this secret; and M. Fouquet I believe to be one of
these."
  "Then," said Colbert, "we may be sure of the Queen-Mother's assent?"
  "I have just left her Majesty, and she assures me so."
  "So be it then, Madame."
  "But there is something further: do you happen to know a man who was
the intimate friend of M. Fouquet, M. d'Herblay, a bishop, I believe?"
  "Bishop of Vannes."
  "Well, this M. d'Herblay, who also knew the secret, the Queen-Mother
is causing to be pursued with the utmost rancor."
  "Indeed!"
  "So hotly pursued, that if he were dead she would not be satisfied
with anything less than his head, to satisfy her he would never
speak again."
  "And is that the desire of the Queen-Mother?"
  "An order is given for it."
  "This M. d'Herblay shall be sought for, Madame."
  "Oh, it is well known where he is." Colbert looked at the duchess.
  "Say where, Madame."
  "He is at Belle-Isle-en-Mer."
  "At the residence of M. Fouquet?"
  "At the residence of M. Fouquet."
  "He shall be taken."
  It was now the duchess's turn to smile. "Do not fancy that so easy,"
said she, "and do not promise it so lightly."
  "Why not, Madame?"
  "Because M. d'Herblay is not one of those people who can be taken
just when you please."
  "He is a rebel, then?"
  "Oh, M. Colbert, we folks have passed all our lives in making
rebels, and yet you see plainly that so far from being taken, we
take others."
  Colbert fixed upon the old duchess one of those fierce looks of
which no words can convey the expression, accompanied by a firmness
which was not wanting in grandeur. "The times are gone," said he,
"in which subjects gained duchies by making war against the King of
France. If M. d'Herblay conspires, he will perish on the scaffold.
That will give, or will not give, pleasure to his enemies,- that is of
very little importance to us."
  And this "us," a strange word in the mouth of Colbert, made the
duchess thoughtful for a moment. She caught herself reckoning inwardly
with this man. Colbert had regained his superiority in the
conversation, and he was desirous of keeping it.
  "You ask me, Madame," he said, "to have this M. d'Herblay arrested?"
  "I! I ask you nothing of the kind!"
  "I thought you did, Madame. But as I have been mistaken, we will
leave him alone; the King has said nothing about him."
  The duchess bit her nails.
  "Besides," continued Colbert, "what a poor capture would this bishop
be! A bishop game for a king! Oh, no, no; I will not even think of
him."
  The hatred of the duchess now disclosed itself. "Game for a
woman!" said she; "and the Queen is a woman. If she wishes to have
M. d'Herblay arrested, she has her reasons for it. Besides, is not
M. d'Herblay the friend of him who is destined to fall?"
  "Oh, never mind that," said Colbert. "This man shall be spared if he
is not the enemy of the King. Is that displeasing to you?"
  "I say nothing."
  "Yes, you wish to see him in prison,- in the Bastille, for
instance."
  "I believe a secret better concealed behind the walls of the
Bastille than behind those of Belle-Isle."
  "I will speak to the King about it; he will clear up the point."
  "And while waiting for that enlightenment M. l'Eveque de Vannes will
have escaped. I would do so."
  "Escaped! he! and whither would he escape? Europe is ours, in
will, if not in fact."
  "He will always find an asylum, Monsieur. It is evident you know
nothing of the man you have to do with. You do not know d'Herblay; you
did not know Aramis. He was one of those four musketeers who under the
late King made Cardinal de Richelieu tremble, and who during the
regency gave so much trouble to Monseigneur Mazarin."
  "But, Madame, what can he do, unless he has a kingdom to back him?"
  "He has one, Monsieur."
  "A kingdom, he,- M. d'Herblay?"
  "I repeat to you, Monsieur, that if he wants a kingdom, he either
has it, or will have it."
  "Well, as you are so earnest that this rebel should not escape,
Madame, I promise you he shall not escape."
  "Belle-Isle is fortified, M. Colbert, and fortified by him."
  "If Belle-Isle were also defended by him, Belle-Isle is not
impregnable; and if M. l'Eveque de Vannes is shut up in Belle-Isle,
well, Madame, the place will be besieged, and he will be taken."
  "You may be very certain, Monsieur, that the zeal which you
display for the interests of the Queen-Mother will affect her
Majesty warmly, and that you will be magnificently rewarded for it;
but what shall I tell her of your projects respecting this man?"
  "That when once taken, he shall be shut up in a fortress from
which her secret shall never escape."
  "Very well, M. Colbert; and we may say, that, dating from this
instant, we have formed a solid alliance, you and I, and that I am
entirely at your service."
  "It is I, Madame, who place myself at yours. This Chevalier
d'Herblay is a kind of Spanish spy, is he not?"
  "More than that."
  "A secret ambassador?"
  "Higher still."
  "Stop; King Philip III of Spain is a bigot. He is, perhaps, the
confessor of Philip III."
  "You must go higher than that."
  "Mordieu?" cried Colbert, who forgot himself so far as to swear in
the presence of this great lady, of this old friend of the
Queen-Mother,- of the Duchesse de Chevreuse, in short. "He must then
be the General of the Jesuits."
  "I believe you have guessed at last," replied the duchess.
  "Ah, then, Madame, this man will ruin us all if we do not ruin
him; and we must make haste to do it too."
  "That was my opinion, Monsieur, but I did not dare to give it to
you."
  "And it is fortunate for us that he has attacked the throne, and not
us."
  "But mark this well, M. Colbert. M. d'Herblay is never
discouraged; and if he has missed one blow, he will be sure to make
another,- he will begin again. If he has allowed an opportunity to
escape of making a king for himself, sooner or later he will make
another, of whom, to a certainty, you will not be prime minister."
  Colbert knitted his brow with a menacing expression. "I feel assured
that a prison will settle this affair for us, Madame, in a manner
satisfactory for both."
  The duchess smiled. "Oh, if you knew," said she, "how many times
Aramis has got out of prison!
  "Oh!" replied Colbert, "we will take care he shall not get out
this time."
  "But you have not attended to what I said to you just now. Do you
remember that Aramis was one of the four invincibles whom Richelieu
dreaded? And at that period the four musketeers were not in possession
of that which they have now,- money and experience."
  Colbert bit his lips. "We will renounce the idea of the prison,"
said he, in a lower tone; "we will find a retreat from which the
invincible will not possibly escape."
  "That is well spoken, our ally!" replied the duchess. "But it is
getting late. Had we not better return?"
  "The more willingly, Madame, from having my preparations to make for
setting out with the King."
  "To Paris!" cried the duchess to the coachman.
  And the carriage returned towards the Faubourg St. Antoine, after
the conclusion of the treaty which gave up to death the last friend of
Fouquet, the last defender of Belle-Isle, the ancient friend of
Marie Michon, the new enemy of the duchess.
               Chapter LXV: The Two Lighters

  D'ARTAGNAN had set off, Fouquet likewise was gone, and he with a
rapidity which the tender interest of his friends increased. The first
moments of this journey, or better to say, of this flight, were
troubled by the incessant fear of all the horses and all the carriages
which could be perceived behind the fugitive. It was not natural, in
fact, if Louis XIV was determined to seize this prey, that he should
allow it to escape; the young lion was already accustomed to the
chase, and he had bloodhounds ardent enough to be depended on. But
insensibly all fears were dispersed; the superintendent, by hard
travelling, placed such a distance between himself and his persecutors
that no one of them could reasonably be expected to overtake him. As
to his position, his friends had made it excellent for him. Was he not
traveling to join the King at Nantes, and what did the rapidity
prove but his zeal to obey? He arrived, fatigued but reassured, at
Orleans, where he found, thanks to the care of a courier who had
preceded him, a handsome lighter of eight oars.
  These lighters, in the shape of gondolas, rather wide and rather
heavy, containing a small cuddy, covered by the deck, and a chamber in
the poop, formed by a tent, then acted as passage-boats from Orleans
to Nantes, by the Loire; and this passage, a long one in our days,
appeared then more easy and convenient than the high-road, with its
post-hacks or its bad, insecurely hung carriages. Fouquet went on
board this lighter, which set out immediately. The rowers, knowing
they had the honor of conveying the Superintendent of the Finances,
pulled with all their strength, and that magic phrase, "the finances,"
promised them a liberal gratification, of which they wished to prove
themselves worthy.
  The lighter bounded over the waters of the Loire. Magnificent
weather, one of those sun-risings that empurple landscapes, left the
river all its limpid serenity. The current and the rowers carried
Fouquet along as wings carry a bird, and he arrived before Beaugency
without any accident upon the way. Fouquet hoped to be the first to
arrive at Nantes; there he would see the notables and gain support
among the principal members of the States; he would make himself
necessary,- a thing very easy for a man of his merit,- and would delay
the catastrophe, if he did not succeed in avoiding it entirely.
  "Besides," said Gourville to him, "at Nantes, you will make out,
or we will make out, the intentions of your enemies; we will have
horses always ready to convey you to the inextricable Poitou, and a
boat in which to gain the sea; and when once in the open sea,
Belle-Isle is the inviolable port. You see, besides, that no one is
watching you, no one is following you."
  He had scarcely finished when they discovered at a distance,
behind an elbow formed by the river, the masts of a large lighter,
which was coming down. The rowers of Fouquet's boat uttered a cry of
surprise on seeing this galley.
  "What is the matter?" asked Fouquet.
  "The matter is, Monseigneur," replied the skipper of the boat, "that
it is a truly remarkable thing,- that lighter comes along like a
hurricane."
  Gourville started and mounted on the deck, in order to see the
better.
  Fouquet did not go up with him; but he said to Gourville with a
restrained mistrust, "See what it is, dear friend."
  The lighter had just passed the elbow. It came on so fast that
behind it might be seen to tremble the white train of its wake
illumined with the fires of day.
  "How they go!" repeated the skipper,- "how they go! They must be
well paid! I did not think," he added, "that oars of wood could behave
better than ours, but those yonder prove the contrary."
  "Well they may," said one of the rowers; "they are twelve, and we
are but eight."
  "Twelve rowers!" replied Gourville, "twelve! impossible!"
  The number of eight rowers for a lighter had never been exceeded,
even for the King. This honor had been paid to Monsieur the
Superintendent, even more for haste than out of respect.
  "What does that mean?" said Gourville, endeavoring to distinguish
beneath the tent, which was already apparent, the travellers, whom the
most piercing eye could not yet have succeeded in discovering.
  "They must be in a hurry, for it is not the King," said the skipper.
  Fouquet shuddered.
  "By what do you know that it is not the King?" said Gourville.
  "In the first place because there is no white flag with
fleurs-de-lis, which the royal lighter always carries."
  "And then," said Fouquet, "because it is impossible it should be the
King, Gourville, as the King was still in Paris yesterday."
  Gourville replied to the superintendent by a look which said, "You
were there yourself yesterday."
  "And by what do you make out they are in such haste?" added he,
for the sake of gaining time.
  "By this, Monsieur," said the skipper: "these people must have set
out a long while after us, and they have already nearly overtaken us."
  "Bah!" said Gourville, "who told you that they do not come from
Beaugency or from Niort even?"
  "We have seen no lighter of that force, except at Orleans. It
comes from Orleans, Monsieur, and makes great haste."
  Fouquet and Gourville exchanged a glance. The skipper remarked their
uneasiness, and to mislead him, Gourville immediately said, "It is
some friend, who has laid a wager he would catch us; let us win the
wager, and not allow him to come up with us."
  The skipper opened his mouth to reply that that was impossible, when
Fouquet said with much hauteur, "If it is any one who wishes to
overtake us, let him come."
  "We can try, Monseigneur," said the skipper, timidly. "Come, you
fellows, put out your strength; row, row!"
  "No," said Fouquet, "stop short, on the contrary."
  "Monseigneur! what folly!" interrupted Gourville, stooping towards
his ear.
  "Quite short!" repeated Fouquet. The eight oars stopped, and
resisting the water, they imparted a retrograde force to the
lighter. It was stopped. The twelve rowers in the other did not at
first perceive this manoeuvre, for they continued to urge on their
boat so vigorously that it arrived quickly within musket-shot. Fouquet
was shortsighted; Gourville was annoyed by the sun, which was full
in his eyes; the skipper alone with that habit and clearness which are
acquired by a constant struggle with the elements, perceived
distinctly the travellers in the neighboring lighter. "I can see
them!" cried he; "there are two."
  "I can see nothing," said Gourville.
  "It will not be long before you distinguish them; by a few strokes
of their oars they will arrive within twenty paces of us."
  But what the skipper predicted was not fulfilled; the lighter
imitated the movement commanded by Fouquet, and instead of coming to
join its pretended friends, it stopped short in the middle of the
river.
  "I cannot comprehend this," said the skipper.
  "Nor I," said Gourville.
  "You who can see so plainly the people in that lighter," resumed
Fouquet, "try to describe them to us, Skipper, before we are too far
off."
  "I thought I saw two," replied the boatman; "I can only see one
now under the tent."
  "What sort of man is he?"
  "He is a dark man, large-shouldered, short-necked."
  A little cloud at that moment passed across the azure of the
heavens, and darkened the sun. Gourville, who was still looking with
one hand over his eyes, became able to see what he sought, and all
at once, jumping from the deck into the chamber where Fouquet
awaited him, "Colbert!" said he, in a voice broken by emotion.
  "Colbert!" repeated Fouquet; "oh, that is strange! but no, it is
impossible!"
  "I tell you I recognized him, and he at the same time so plainly
recognized me that he has just gone into the chamber of the poop.
Perhaps the King has sent him to make us come back."
  "In that case he would join us instead of lying by. What is he doing
there?"
  "He is watching us, without doubt."
  "I do not like uncertainty," said Fouquet; "let us go straight up to
him."
  "Oh, Monseigneur, do not do that,- the lighter is full of armed
men."
  "He would arrest me, then, Gourville? Why does he not come on?"
  "Monseigneur, it is not consistent with your dignity to go to meet
even your ruin."
  "But to allow them to watch me like a malefactor!"
  "Nothing tells us that they are watching you, Monseigneur; be
patient!"
  "What is to be done, then?"
  "Do not stop; you were only going so fast to appear to obey the
King's order with zeal. Redouble the speed. He who lives will see!"
  "That's just. Come!" cried Fouquet; "since they remain stock-still
yonder, let us go on."
  The skipper gave the signal, and Fouquet's rowers resumed their task
with all the success that could be looked for from men who had rested.
Scarcely had the lighter made a hundred fathoms, when the other-
that with the twelve rowers- resumed its course as well. This position
lasted all the day, without any increase or diminution of distance
between the two vessels. Towards evening Fouquet wished to try the
intentions of his persecutor. He ordered his rowers to pull towards
the shore as if to effect a landing. Colbert's lighter imitated this
manoeuvre, and steered towards the shore in a slanting direction. By
the greatest chance, at the spot where Fouquet pretended to wish to
land, a stableman from the Chateau de Langeais was following the
flowery banks leading three horses in halters. Without doubt the
people of the twelve-oared lighter fancied that Fouquet was
directing his course towards horses prepared for his flight, for
four or five men, armed with muskets, jumped from the lighter on to
the shore, and marched along the banks, as if to gain ground on the
horses and horsemen. Fouquet, satisfied of having forced the enemy
to a demonstration, was content, and put his boat in motion again.
Colbert's people returned likewise to theirs, and the course of the
two vessels was resumed with fresh perseverance. Upon seeing this,
Fouquet felt himself threatened closely, and, "Well, Gourville,"
said he, in a low voice, "what did I say at our last repast at my
house? Am I going, or not, to my ruin?"
  "Oh, Monseigneur!"
  "These two boats, which contend with so much emulation, as if we
were disputing, M. Colbert and I, a prize for swiftness on the
Loire, do they not aptly represent our two fortunes; and do you not
believe, Gourville, that one of the two will be wrecked at Nantes?"
  "At least," objected Gourville, "there is still uncertainty. You are
about to appear at the States; you are about to show what sort of
man you are; your eloquence and your genius for business are the
buckler and sword that will serve for defence, if not for victory. The
Bretons do not know you; and when they shall know you your cause is
won! Oh! let M. Colbert look to it well, for his lighter is as much
exposed as yours to being upset. Both go quickly, his faster than
yours, it is true; we shall see which will be wrecked first."
  Fouquet, taking Gourville's hand, "My friend," said he, "it is all
planned; remember the proverb, 'First come, first served!' Well,
Colbert takes care not to pass me. He is a prudent man!"
  He was right; the two lighters held their course as far as Nantes,
watching each other. When the superintendent landed, Gourville hoped
he would be able to seek refuge at once and have relays prepared.
But at the landing, the second lighter joined the first, and
Colbert, approaching Fouquet, saluted him on the quay with marks of
the profoundest respect,- marks so significant, so public, that
their result was the bringing of the whole population upon La Fosse.
Fouquet was completely self-possessed; he felt that in his last
moments of greatness he had obligations towards himself. He wished
to fall from such a height that his fall should crush some one of
his enemies. Colbert was there,- so much the worse for Colbert. The
superintendent, therefore, coming up to him, replied with that
arrogant winking of the eyes peculiar to him "What! is that you, M.
Colbert?"
  "To offer you my respects, Monseigneur," said the latter.
  "Were you in that lighter?" pointing to the one with twelve rowers.
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "Of twelve rowers?" said Fouquet; "what luxury, M. Colbert! For a
moment I thought it was the Queen-Mother or the King."
  "Monseigneur!" said Colbert, blushing.
  "This is a voyage that will cost those who have to pay for it
dear, Monsieur the Intendant!" said Fouquet. "But you have, happily,
arrived! You see, however," added he, a moment after, "that I, who had
but eight rowers, arrived before you." And he turned his back
towards him, leaving him uncertain whether all the tergiversations
of the second lighter had escaped the notice of the first. At least he
did not give him the satisfaction of showing that he had been
frightened.
  Colbert, so annoyingly attacked, did not give way.
  "I have not been quick, Monseigneur," he replied, "because I
followed your example whenever you stopped."
  "And why did you do that, M. Colbert?" cried Fouquet, irritated by
this base audacity; "as you had a superior crew to mine, why did you
not either join me or pass me?"
  "Out of respect," said the intendant, bowing to the ground.
  Fouquet got into a carriage which the city sent to him, we know
not why or how, and he repaired to the Maison de Nantes, escorted by a
vast crowd of people, who for several days had been boiling with the
expectation of a convocation of the States. Scarcely was he
installed when Gourville went out to order horses upon the route to
Poitiers and Vannes, and a boat at Paimboeuf. He performed these
various operations with so much mystery, activity, and generosity that
never was Fouquet, then laboring under an access of fever, more near
being saved, except for the co-operation of that immense disturber
of human projects,- chance.
  A report was spread during the night that the King was coming in
great haste upon post-horses, and that he would arrive within ten or
twelve hours at latest. The people, while waiting for the King, were
greatly rejoiced to see the Musketeers, just arrived with M.
d'Artagnan, their captain, and quartered in the castle, of which
they occupied all the posts, in quality of guard of honor. M.
d'Artagnan, who was very polite, presented himself about ten o'clock
at the lodgings of the superintendent, to pay his respectful
compliments to him; and although the minister suffered from fever,
although he was in such pain as to be bathed in sweat, he would
receive M. d'Artagnan, who was delighted with that honor as will be
apparent in the conversation they had together.
               Chapter LXVI: Friendly Advice

  FOUQUET had gone to bed, like a man who clings to life, and who
economizes as much as possible that slender tissue of existence of
which the shocks and angles of this world so quickly wear out the
irreparable tenuity. D'Artagnan appeared at the door of the chamber,
and was saluted by the superintendent with a very affable "Good-day."
  "Good-day, Monseigneur," replied the musketeer; "how did you get
through the journey?"
  "Tolerably well, thank you."
  "And the fever?"
  "But sadly. I drink as you see. I am scarcely arrived, and I have
already levied a contribution of tisane upon Nantes."
  "You should sleep first, Monseigneur."
  "Eh, corbleu! my dear M. d'Artagnan, I should be very glad to
sleep."
  "Who hinders you?"
  "Why, you, in the first place."
  "I? Ah, Monseigneur!"
  "No doubt you do. Is it at Nantes as it was at Paris; do you not
come in the King's name?"
  "For Heaven's sake, Monseigneur," replied the captain, "leave the
King alone! The day on which I shall come on the part of the King
for the purpose you mean, take my word for it, I will not leave you
long in doubt. You will see me place my hand on my sword, according to
the ordonnance, and you will hear me say at once in my ceremonial
voice, 'Monseigneur, in the name of the King, I arrest you!'"
  Fouquet trembled in spite of himself, the tone of the lively
Gascon had been so natural and so vigorous. The representation of
the fact was almost as frightful as the fact itself would be.
  "You promise me that frankness?" said Fouquet.
  "Upon my honor! But we are not come to that, believe me."
  "What makes you think that, M. d'Artagnan? For my part, I think
quite the contrary."
  "I have heard of nothing of the kind," replied d'Artagnan.
  "Eh, eh!" said Fouquet.
  "Indeed, no. You are an agreeable man, in spite of your fever. The
King ought not, cannot help loving you, at the bottom of his heart."
  Fouquet's face implied doubt. "But M. Colbert?" said he; "does M.
Colbert also love me as much as you say?"
  "I don't speak of M. Colbert," replied d'Artagnan. "He is an
exceptional man, is that M. Colbert. He does not love you,- that is
very possible; but, mordioux! the squirrel can guard himself against
the adder with very little trouble."
  "Do you know that you are speaking to me quite as a friend?" replied
Fouquet; "and that, upon my life! I have never met with a man of
your intelligence and your heart?"
  "You are pleased to say so," replied d'Artagnan. "Why did you wait
till today to pay me such a compliment?"
  "How blind we are!" murmured Fouquet.
  "Your voice is getting hoarse," said d'Artagnan; "drink,
Monseigneur, drink!" And he offered him a cup of tisane with the
most friendly cordiality; Fouquet took it, and thanked him by a
bland smile. "Such things happen only to me," said the musketeer. "I
have passed ten years under your very beard, while you were rolling
about tons of gold. You were clearing an annual income of four
millions; you never observed me; and you find out there is such a
person in the world just at the moment-"
  "I am about to fall," interrupted Fouquet. "That is true, my dear M.
d'Artagnan."
  "I did not say so."
  "But you thought so; and that is the same thing. Well, if I fall,
take my word as truth, I shall not pass a single day without saying to
myself, as I strike my brow, 'Fool! fool!- stupid mortal! You had a M.
d'Artagnan under your eye and hand, and you did not employ him, you
did not enrich him!'"
  "You quite overwhelm me," said the captain. "I esteem you greatly."
  "There exists another man, then, who does not think as M. Colbert
does," said the superintendent.
  "How this M. Colbert sticks in your stomach! He is worse than your
fever!"
  "Oh, I have good cause," said Fouquet. "Judge for yourself"; and
he related the details of the course of the lighters, and the
hypocritical persecution of Colbert. "Is not this a clear sign of my
ruin?"
  D'Artagnan became serious. "That is true," said he. "Yes; that has a
bad odor, as M. de Treville used to say." And he fixed upon M. Fouquet
his intelligent and significant look.
  "Am I not clearly aimed at in that, Captain? Is not the King
bringing me to Nantes to get me away from Paris, where I have so
many supporters, and to possess himself of Belle-Isle?"
  "Where M. d'Herblay is," added d'Artagnan. Fouquet raised his
head. "As for me, Monseigneur," continued d'Artagnan, "I can assure
you the King has said nothing to me against you."
  "Indeed!"
  "The King commanded me to set out for Nantes, it is true, and to say
nothing about it to M. de Gesvres."
  "My friend."
  "To M. de Gesvres, yes, Monseigneur," continued the musketeer, whose
eyes did not cease to speak a language different from the language
of his lips. "The King, moreover, commanded me to take a brigade of
Musketeers, which is apparently superfluous, as the country is quite
quiet."
  "A brigade," said Fouquet, raising himself upon his elbow.
  "Ninety-six horsemen, yes, Monseigneur. The same number as were
employed in arresting Messieurs de Chalais, de Cinq-Mars, and
Montmorency."
  Fouquet pricked up his ears at these words, pronounced without
apparent value. "And besides?" said he.
  "Well! nothing but insignificant orders,- such as guarding the
castle, guarding every lodging, allowing none of M. de Gesvres's
Guards to occupy a single post,- M. de Gesvres, your friend."
  "And for myself," cried Fouquet, "what orders had you?"
  "For you, Monseigneur? Not the smallest word."
  "M. d'Artagnan, the safety of my honor, and perhaps of my life, is
at stake. You would not deceive me?"
  "I? and to what end? Are you threatened? Only there really is an
order with respect to carriages and boats-"
  "'An order'?"
  "Yes; but it cannot concern you,- a simple measure of police."
  "What is it, Captain,- what is it?"
  "To forbid all horses or boats to leave Nantes without a pass signed
by the King."
  "Great God! but-"
  D'Artagnan began to laugh. "All that is not to be put into execution
before the arrival of the King at Nantes. So that you see plainly,
Monseigneur, the order in no wise concerns you."
  Fouquet became thoughtful, and d'Artagnan feigned not to observe his
preoccupation, and said, "It is evident from my thus confiding to
you the orders which have been given to me that I am friendly
towards you, and that I endeavor to prove to you that none of them are
directed against you."
  "Without doubt! without doubt!" said Fouquet, still absent-minded.
  "Let us recapitulate," said the captain, his glance beaming with
earnestness. "A special and severe guard of the castle, in which
your lodging is to be, is it not? Do you know that castle? Ah,
Monseigneur, a true prison! The total absence of M. de Gesvres, who
has the honor of being one of your friends; the closing of the gates
of the city, and of the river without a pass, but only when the King
shall have arrived. Please to observe, M. Fouquet, that if, instead of
speaking to a man like you, who are one of the first in the kingdom, I
were speaking to a troubled, uneasy conscience, I should compromise
myself forever! What a fine opportunity for any one who wished to be
free! No police, no guards, no orders, the water free, the roads free,
M. d'Artagnan obliged to lend his horses, if required! All this
ought to reassure you, M. Fouquet, for the King would not have left me
thus independent if he had had any evil designs. In truth, M. Fouquet,
ask me whatever you like, I am at your service; and in return, if
you will consent to it, render me a service,- that of offering my
compliments to Aramis and Porthos, in case you embark for
Belle-Isle, as you have a right to do, without changing your dress,
immediately, in your robe de chambre,- just as you are."
  Having said these words, with a profound bow the musketeer, whose
looks had lost none of their intelligent kindness, left the apartment.
He had not reached the steps of the vestibule when Fouquet, quite
beside himself, hung to the bell-rope, and shouted, "My horses! my
lighter!" But nobody answered. The superintendent dressed himself with
everything that came to hand.
  "Gourville! Gourville!" cried he, while slipping his watch into
his pocket; and the bell sounded again, while Fouquet repeated,
"Gourville! Gourville!"
  Gourville at length appeared, breathless and pale.
  "Let us be gone! let us be gone!" cried the superintendent, as
soon as he saw him.
  "It is too late!" said the friend of poor Fouquet.
  "Too late! why?"
  "Listen!" And they heard the sounds of trumpets and drums in front
of the castle.
  "What does that mean, Gourville?"
  "It is the King coming, Monseigneur."
  "The King!"
  "The King, who has ridden double stages, who has killed horses,
and who is eight hours in advance of your calculation."
  "We are lost!" murmured Fouquet. "Brave d'Artagnan, all is over;
thou hast spoken to me too late!"
  The King, in fact, was entering the city, which soon resounded
with the cannon from the ramparts, and from a vessel which replied
from the lower parts of the river. Fouquet's brow darkened; he
called his valets de chambre, and dressed in ceremonial costume.
From his window, behind the curtains, he could see the eagerness of
the people and the movement of a large troop, which had followed the
Prince. The King was conducted to the castle with great pomp, and
Fouquet saw him dismount under the portcullis, and speak something
in the ear of d'Artagnan, who held his stirrup. D'Artagnan, when the
King had passed under the arch, directed his steps towards the house
Fouquet was in; but so slowly, and stopping so frequently to speak
to his Musketeers, drawn up as a hedge, that it might be said he was
counting the seconds or the steps before accomplishing his message.
Fouquet opened the window to speak to him in the court.
  "Ah!" cried d'Artagnan, on perceiving him, "are you still there,
Monseigneur?" And that word "still" completed the proof to Fouquet
of how much information, and how many useful counsels were contained
in the first visit the musketeer had paid him.
  The superintendent sighed deeply. "Good heavens! yes, Monsieur,"
replied he. "The arrival of the King has interrupted me in the
projects I had."
  "Oh! then you know that the King is arrived?"
  "Yes, Monsieur, I have seen him; and this time you come from him-"
  "To inquire after you, Monseigneur; and if your health is not too
bad, to beg you to have the kindness to repair to the castle."
  "Directly, M. d'Artagnan, directly!"
  "Ah, damn it!" said the captain; "now the King is come, there is
no more walking for anybody- no more free-will; the password governs
all now, you as well as me, me as well as you."
  Fouquet heaved a last sigh, got into his carriage, so great was
his weakness, and went to the castle, escorted by d'Artagnan, whose
politeness was not less terrifying now than it had but just before
been consoling and cheerful.
           Chapter LXVII: How the King, Louis XIV,
                   Played His Little Part

  AS FOUQUET was alighting from his carriage to enter the Castle of
Nantes, a man of mean appearance went up to him with marks of the
greatest respect, and gave him a letter. D'Artagnan endeavored to
prevent this man from speaking to Fouquet, and pushed him away; but
the message had been given to the superintendent. Fouquet opened the
letter and read it, and instantly a vague terror, which d'Artagnan did
not fail to penetrate, was expressed by the countenance of the first
minister. He put the paper into the portfolio which he had under his
arm, and passed on towards the King's apartments. D'Artagnan, as he
went up behind Fouquet, through the small windows made at every
landing of the donjon stairs, saw the man who had delivered the note
look around him on the place, and make signs to several persons, who
disappeared into the adjacent streets, after having themselves
repeated the signals made by the person we have named. Fouquet was
made to wait for a moment upon the terrace of which we have spoken,- a
terrace which abutted on the little corridor, at the end of which
the cabinet of the King was located. Here d'Artagnan passed on
before the superintendent, whom till that time he had respectfully
accompanied, and entered the royal cabinet.
  "Well?" asked Louis XIV, who, on perceiving him, threw on the
table covered with papers a large green cloth.
  "The order is executed, Sire."
  "And Fouquet?"
  "Monsieur the Superintendent follows me," replied d'Artagnan.
  "In ten minutes let him be introduced," said the King, dismissing
d'Artagnan with a gesture. The latter retired, but had scarcely
reached the corridor at the extremity of which Fouquet was waiting for
him, when he was recalled by the King's bell.
  "Did he not appear astonished?" asked the King.
  "Who, Sire?"
  "Fouquet," repeated the King, without saying "Monsieur," a trifle
which confirmed the captain of the Musketeers in his suspicions.
  "No, Sire," replied he.
  "That's well!" and a second time Louis dismissed d'Artagnan.
  Fouquet had not quitted the terrace where he had been left by his
guide. He reperused his note, conceived thus:

  "Something is being contrived against you. Perhaps they will not
dare to carry it out at the castle; it will be on your return home.
The house is already surrounded by musketeers. Do not enter. A white
horse is in waiting for you behind the esplanade!"

  Fouquet recognized the writing and the zeal of Gourville. Not
being willing that if any evil happened to himself this paper should
compromise a faithful friend, the superintendent was busy tearing it
into a thousand morsels, spread about by the wind from the
balustrade of the terrace. D'Artagnan found him watching the flight of
the last scraps into space.
  "Monsieur," said he, "the King waits for you."
  Fouquet walked with a deliberate step into the little corridor,
where Messieurs de Brienne and Rose were at work, while the Duc de
Saint-Aignan, seated on a chair, likewise in the corridor, appeared to
be waiting for orders with feverish impatience, his sword between
his legs. It appeared strange to Fouquet that Messieurs de Brienne,
Rose, and de Saint-Aignan, in general so attentive and obsequious,
should scarcely take the least notice as he, the superintendent,
passed. But how could he expect to find it otherwise among
courtiers, he whom the King now called "Fouquet"? He raised his
head, determined to meet with brave front whatever might happen, and
entered the King's apartment, where a little bell, which we already
know, had announced him to his Majesty.
  The King, without rising, nodded to him, and with interest, "Well,
how are you, M. Fouquet?" said he.
  "I am in a high fever," replied the superintendent; "but I am at the
King's service."
  "That is well; the States assemble tomorrow. Have you a speech
ready?"
  Fouquet looked at the King with astonishment. "I have not, Sire,"
replied he; "but I will improvise one. I am too well acquainted with
affairs to feel any embarrassment. I have only one question if your
Majesty will permit me?"
  "Certainly; ask it."
  "Why has your Majesty not done his first minister the honor to
give him notice of this in Paris?"
  "You were ill; I was not willing to fatigue you."
  "Never did a labor, never did an explanation, fatigue me, Sire;
and since the moment is come for me to demand an explanation of my
King-"
  "Oh, M. Fouquet, an explanation upon what?"
  "Upon your Majesty's intentions with respect to myself."
  The King blushed. "I have been calumniated," continued Fouquet,
warmly; "and I feel called upon to incite the justice of the King to
make inquiries."
  "You say this to me very uselessly, M. Fouquet; I know what I know."
  "Your Majesty can only know things as they have been told to you;
and I, on my part, have said nothing to you, while others have
spoken many and many times-"
  "What do you wish to say?" said the King, impatient to put an end to
this embarrassing conversation.
  "I will go straight to the fact, Sire; and I accuse a man of
having injured me in your Majesty's opinion."
  "Nobody has injured you, M. Fouquet."
  "That reply proves to me, Sire, that I am right."
  "M. Fouquet, I do not like that one should accuse."
  "Not when one is accused?"
  "We have already spoken too much about this affair."
  "Your Majesty will not allow me to justify myself?"
  "I repeat that I do not accuse you."
  Fouquet, with a half-bow, made a step backwards. "It is certain,"
thought he, "that he has made up his mind; he alone who cannot go back
can show such obstinacy. Not to see the danger now would be to be
blind indeed; not to shun it would be stupid." He resumed aloud,
"Did your Majesty send for me for any business?"
  "No, M. Fouquet, but for some advice I have to give you."
  "I respectfully await it, Sire."
  "Rest yourself, M. Fouquet; do not throw away your strength. The
session of the States will be short; and when my secretaries shall
have closed it, I do not wish business to be talked of in France for a
fortnight."
  "Has the King nothing to say to me on the subject of this assembly
of the States?"
  "No, M. Fouquet."
  "Not to me, the Superintendent of the Finances?"
  "Rest yourself, I beg you; that is all I have to say to you."
  Fouquet bit his lips and hung down his head. He was evidently busy
with some uneasy thought. This uneasiness struck the King. "Are you
troubled at having to rest yourself, M. Fouquet?" said he.
  "Yes, Sire; I am not accustomed to take rest."
  "But you are ill; you must take care of yourself."
  "Your Majesty spoke just now of a speech to be pronounced
to-morrow."
  His Majesty made no reply; this unexpected stroke embarrassed him.
Fouquet felt the weight of this hesitation. He thought he could read a
danger in the eyes of the young King which his fear would precipitate.
"If I appear frightened, I am lost," thought he.
  The King, on his part, was only uneasy at the alarm of Fouquet. "Has
he a suspicion of anything?" murmured he.
  "If his first word is severe," again thought Fouquet,- "if he
becomes angry, or feigns to be angry, for the sake of a pretext,-
how shall I extricate myself? Let us smooth the declivity a little.
Gourville was right."
  "Sire," said he, suddenly, "since the goodness of the King watches
over my health to the point of dispensing with my labor, may I not
be allowed to be absent from the council of to-morrow? I could pass
the day in bed, and will entreat the King to grant me his physician,
that we may endeavor to find a remedy against this cursed fever."
  "So be it, M. Fouquet, as you desire; you shall have a holiday
to-morrow, you shall have the physician, and shall be restored to
health."
  "Thanks," said Fouquet, bowing. Then, opening his game, "Shall I not
have the happiness of conducting your Majesty to my residence of
Belle-Isle?" And he looked Louis full in the face to judge of the
effect of such a proposal.
  The King blushed again, "Do you know," replied he, endeavoring to
smile, "that you have just said, 'My residence of Belle-Isle'?"
  "Yes, Sire."
  "Well, do you not remember," continued the King, in the same
cheerful tone, "that you gave me Belle-Isle?"
  "That is true again, Sire; only, as you have not taken it, you
will come with me and take possession of it."
  "I mean to do so."
  "That was, then, your Majesty's intention as well as mine; and I
cannot express to your Majesty how happy and proud I have been at
seeing all the King's military household come from Paris for this
taking possession."
  The King stammered out that he did not bring the Musketeers for that
purpose alone.
  "Oh, I am convinced of that!" said Fouquet, warmly; "your Majesty
knows very well that you have nothing to do but to come alone with a
cane in your hand to bring to the ground all the fortifications of
Belle-Isle."
  "Peste!" cried the King; "I do not wish that those fine
fortifications, whose erection cost so much, should fall at all.
No,- let them stand against the Dutch and the English. You would not
guess what I want to see at Belle-Isle, M. Fouquet; it is the pretty
peasants and women of the lands on the sea-shore, who dance so well
and are so seducing with their scarlet petticoats! I have heard
great boast of your vassals, Monsieur the Superintendent; well, let me
have a sight of them."
  "Whenever your Majesty pleases."
  "Have you any means of transport? It shall be to-morrow, if you
like."
  The superintendent felt this stroke, which was not adroit, and
replied, "No, Sire; I was ignorant of your Majesty's wish. Above
all, I was ignorant of your haste to see Belle-Isle; and I am prepared
with nothing."
  "You have a boat of your own, nevertheless?"
  "I have five; but they are all in the port or at Paimboeuf, and to
join them or bring them hither we should require at least
twenty-four hours. Have I any occasion to send a courier? Must I do
so?"
  "Wait a little; put an end to the fever,- wait till to-morrow."
  "That is true; who knows but that by to-morrow we may not have a
hundred other ideas?" replied Fouquet, now perfectly convinced and
very pale.
  The King started and stretched his hand out towards his little bell,
but Fouquet prevented his ringing. "Sire," said he, "I have an
ague,- I am trembling with cold. If I remain a moment longer, I
shall most likely faint. I request your Majesty's permission to go and
conceal myself beneath the bed-clothes."
  "Indeed, you are all in a shiver; it is painful to behold! Go, M.
Fouquet, go. I will send to inquire after you."
  "Your Majesty overwhelms me with kindness. In an hour I shall be
better."
  "I will call some one to reconduct you," said the King.
  "As you please, Sire; I would gladly take some one's arm."
  "M. d'Artagnan!" cried the King, ringing his little bell.
  "Oh, Sire!" interrupted Fouquet, smiling in such a manner as made
the King feel cold, "would you give me the captain of your
Musketeers to take me to my lodgings? A very equivocal kind of honor
that, Sire! A simple footman, I beg."
  "And why, M. Fouquet? M. d'Artagnan conducts me often and well!"
  "Yes, but when he conducts you, Sire, it is to obey you; while I-"
  "Go on!"
  "If I am obliged to return home supported by the leader of the
Musketeers, it would be everywhere said you had had me arrested."
  "Arrested!" replied the King, who became paler than Fouquet himself-
"arrested! oh!"
  "And why would they not say so?" continued Fouquet, still smiling;
"and I would lay a wager there would be people found wicked enough
to laugh at it." This sally disconcerted the monarch. Fouquet was
skillful enough, or fortunate enough, to make Louis XIV recoil
before the appearance of the fact he meditated. M. d'Artagnan, when he
appeared, received an order to desire a musketeer to accompany the
superintendent.
  "Quite unnecessary," said the latter; "sword for sword, I prefer
Gourville, who is waiting for me below. But that will not prevent my
enjoying the society of M. d'Artagnan. I am glad he will see
Belle-Isle, he who is so good a judge of fortifications."
  D'Artagnan bowed, without at all comprehending what was going on.
Fouquet bowed again and left the apartment, affecting all the slowness
of a man who walks with difficulty. When once out of the castle, "I am
saved!" said he. "Oh, yes, disloyal King! you shall see Belle-Isle,
but it shall be when I am no longer there!"
  He disappeared, leaving d'Artagnan with the King.
  "Captain," said the King, "you will follow M. Fouquet at the
distance of a hundred paces."
  "Yes, Sire."
  "He is going to his lodgings again. You will go with him."
  "Yes, Sire."
  "You will arrest him in my name, and will shut him up in a
carriage."
  "In a carriage. Well, Sire?"
  "In such a fashion that he may not, on the road, either converse
with any one, or throw notes to people he may meet."
  "That will be rather difficult, Sire."
  "Not at all."
  "Pardon me, Sire, I cannot stifle M. Fouquet; and if he asks for
liberty to breathe, I cannot prevent him by shutting up glasses and
blinds. He will throw out at the doors all the cries and notes
possible."
  "The case is provided for, M. d'Artagnan; and a carriage with a
trellis will obviate both the difficulties you point out."
  "A carriage with an iron trellis!" cried d'Artagnan; "but a carriage
with an iron trellis is not made in half an hour, and your Majesty
commands me to go immediately to M. Fouquet's lodgings."
  "Therefore, the carriage in question is already made."
  "Ah, that is quite a different thing," said the captain; "if the
carriage is ready made, very well, then, we have only to set it
going."
  "It is ready with the horses harnessed to it."
  "Ah!"
  "And the coachman, with the outriders, are waiting in the lower
court of the castle."
  D'Artagnan bowed. "There only remains for me to ask your Majesty
to what place I shall conduct M. Fouquet."
  "To the Castle of Angers at first."
  "Very well, Sire."
  "Afterwards we will see."
  "Yes, Sire."
  "M. d'Artagnan, one last word: you have remarked that for making
this capture of M. Fouquet, I have not employed my Guards, on which
account M. de Gesvres will be furious."
  "Your Majesty does not employ your Guards," said the captain, a
little humiliated, "because you mistrust M. de Gesvres, that is all."
  "That is to say, Monsieur, that I have confidence in you."
  "I know that very well, Sire; and it is of no use to make so much of
it."
  "It is only for the sake of arriving at this, Monsieur, that if from
this moment it should happen that by any chance,- any chance
whatever,- M. Fouquet should escape- such chances have been,
Monsieur-"
  "Oh, very often, Sire; but for others, not for me."
  "And why not for you?"
  "Because I, Sire, have for an instant wished to save M. Fouquet."
  The King started. "Because," continued the captain, "I had then a
right to do so, having guessed your Majesty's plan without your having
spoken to me of it, and because I took an interest in M. Fouquet.
Then, I was at liberty to show my interest in this man."
  "In truth, Monsieur, you do not reassure me with regard to your
services."
  "If I had saved him then, I should have been perfectly innocent; I
will say more, I should have done well, for M. Fouquet is not a bad
man. But he was not willing; his destiny prevailed; he let the hour of
liberty slip by. So much the worse! Now I have orders I will obey
them, and M. Fouquet you may consider as a man arrested. He is at
the Castle of Angers, is M. Fouquet."
  "Oh, you have not got him yet, Captain."
  "That concerns me; every one to his trade, Sire. Only, once more,
reflect! Do you seriously give me orders to arrest M. Fouquet, Sire?"
  "Yes, a thousand times, yes!"
  "Write it, then."
  "Here is the letter."
  D'Artagnan read it, bowed to the King, and left the room. From the
height of the terrace he perceived Gourville, who went by with a
joyous air towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet.
     Chapter LXVIII: The White Horse and the Black Horse

  "THAT is rather surprising," said d'Artagnan,- "Gourville running
about the streets so gayly, when he is almost certain that M.
Fouquet is in danger; when it is almost equally certain that it was
Gourville who warned M. Fouquet just now by the note which was torn
into a thousand pieces upon the terrace, and given to the winds by
Monsieur the Superintendent. Gourville is rubbing his hands; that is
because he has done something clever. Whence comes M. Gourville?
Gourville is coming from the Rue aux Herbes. Whither does the Rue
aux Herbes lead?" And d'Artagnan followed, along the tops of the
houses of Nantes dominated by the castle, the line traced by the
streets, as he would have done upon a topographical plan; only,
instead of the dead flat paper, the living chart rose in relief with
the cries, the movements, and the shadows of the men and things.
  Beyond the enclosure of the city the great verdant plains
stretched out, bordering the Loire, and appeared to run towards the
empurpled horizon, which was cut by the azure of the waters and the
dark green of the marshes. Immediately outside the gates of Nantes two
white roads were seen diverging like the separated fingers of a
gigantic hand. D'Artagnan, who had taken in all the panorama at a
glance in crossing the terrace, was led by the line of the Rue aux
Herbes to the mouth of one of those roads which took its rise under
the gates of Nantes. One step more, and he was about to descend the
stairs, take his trellised carriage, and go towards the lodgings of M.
Fouquet. But chance decreed that at the moment of recommencing his
descent he was attracted by a moving point which was gaining ground
upon that road.
  "What is that?" said the musketeer to himself; "a horse
galloping,- a runaway horse, no doubt. At what a pace he is going!"
The moving point became detached from the road, and entered into the
fields. "A white horse," continued the captain, who had just seen
the color thrown out luminously against the dark ground, "and he is
mounted; it must be some boy whose horse is thirsty and has run away
with him across lots to the drinking place." These reflections,
rapid as lightning, simultaneous with visual perception, d'Artagnan
had already forgotten when he descended the first steps of the
staircase. Some morsels of paper were spread over the stairs, and
shone out white against the dirty stones. "Eh, eh!" said the captain
to himself, "here are some of the fragments of the note torn by M.
Fouquet. Poor man! he had given his secret to the wind; the wind
will have no more to do with it, and brings it back to the King.
Decidedly, Fouquet, you play with misfortune! The game is not a fair
one,- fortune is against you. The star of Louis XIV obscures yours;
the adder is stronger and more cunning than the squirrel."
D'Artagnan picked up one of these morsels of paper as he descended.
"Gourville's pretty little hand," cried he, while examining one of the
fragments of the note; "I was not mistaken." And he read the word
"horse." "Stop!" said he; and he examined another upon which there was
not a letter traced. Upon a third he read the word "white,"- "white
horse," repeated he, like a child that is spelling. "Ah, mordioux!"
cried the suspicious spirit, "a white horse!" And like that grain of
powder which burning dilates into a centupled volume, d'Artagnan,
enlarged by ideas and suspicions, rapidly reascended the stairs
towards the terrace. The white horse was still galloping in the
direction of the Loire, at the extremity of which, merging with the
vapors of the water, a little sail appeared, balancing like an atom.
"Oh, oh!" cried the musketeer, "no one but a man escaping danger would
go at that pace across ploughed lands; there is only Fouquet, a
financier, to ride thus in open day upon a white horse; there is no
one but the lord of Belle-Isle who would make his escape towards the
sea, while there are such thick forests on the land; and there is
but one d'Artagnan in the world to catch M. Fouquet, who has half an
hour's start, and who will have gained his boat within an hour."
  This being said, the musketeer gave orders that the carriage with
the iron trellis should be taken immediately to a thicket situated
just outside the city. He selected his best horse, jumped upon his
back, galloped along the Rue aux Herbes, taking, not the road
Fouquet had taken, but the very bank of the Loire, certain that he
should gain ten minutes upon the total of the distance, and at the
intersection of the two lines come up with the fugitive, who could
have no suspicion of being pursued in that direction. In the
rapidity of the pursuit, and with the impatience of a persecutor
animating himself in the chase as in war, d'Artagnan, so mild, so kind
towards Fouquet, was surprised to find himself become ferocious and
almost sanguinary. For a long time he galloped without catching
sight of the white horse. His fury assumed the tints of rage; he
doubted himself; he suspected that Fouquet had buried himself in
some subterranean road, or that he had changed the white horse for one
of those famous black ones, as swift as the wind, which d'Artagnan
at St. Mande had so frequently admired, envying their vigorous
lightness.
  At these moments, when the wind cut his eyes so as to make the water
spring from them; when the saddle had become burning hot; when the
galled and spurred horse reared with pain and threw behind him a
shower of dust and stones,- d'Artagnan, raising himself in his
stirrups, and seeing nothing on the waters, nothing beneath the trees,
looked up into the air like a madman. He was losing his senses. In the
paroxysms of his eagerness he dreamed of aerial ways,- the discovery
of the following century; he called to his mind Daedalus and his
vast wings, which saved him from the prisons of Crete. A hoarse sigh
broke from his lips as he repeated, devoured by the fear of
ridicule, "I! I! duped by a Gourville! I! They will say I am growing
old; they will say I have received a million to allow Fouquet to
escape!" And he again dug his spurs into the sides of his horse; he
had ridden astonishingly fast. Suddenly, at the extremity of some open
pasture-ground behind the hedges, he saw a white form which showed
itself, disappeared, and at last remained distinctly visible upon a
rising ground. D'Artagnan's heart leaped with joy. He wiped the
streaming sweat from his brow, relaxed the tension of his knees,-
freed from which the horse breathed more freely,- and gathering up his
reins, moderated the speed of the vigorous animal, his active
accomplice in this man-hunt. He had then time to study the direction
of the road and his position with regard to Fouquet. The
superintendent had completely winded his horse by crossing the soft
grounds. He felt the necessity of gaining a more firm footing, and
turned towards the road by the shortest secant line. D'Artagnan, on
his part, had nothing to do but to ride straight beneath the sloping
shore, which concealed him from the eyes of his enemy; so that he
would cut him off on his reaching the road. Then the real race would
begin; then the struggle would be in earnest.
  D'Artagnan gave his horse good breathing-time. He observed that
the superintendent had relaxed into a trot; that is to say, he
likewise was indulging his horse. But both of them were too much
pressed for time to allow them to continue long at that pace. The
white horse sprang off like an arrow the moment his feet touched
firm ground. D'Artagnan dropped his hand, and his black horse broke
into a gallop. Both followed the same route; the quadruple echoes of
the course were confounded. Fouquet had not yet perceived
d'Artagnan. But on issuing from the slope a single echo struck the
air; it was that of the steps of d'Artagnan's horse, which rolled
along like thunder. Fouquet turned round, and saw behind him within
a hundred paces his enemy bent over the neck of his horse. There could
be no doubt- the shining baldric, the red uniform- it was a musketeer.
Fouquet slackened his hand likewise, and the white horse placed twenty
feet more between his adversary and himself.
  "Oh, but," thought d'Artagnan, becoming very anxious, "that is not a
common horse M. Fouquet is upon; let us see!" And he attentively
examined with his infallible eye the shape and capabilities of the
courser. Round full quarters, a thin long tail, large hocks, thin legs
dry as bars of steel, hoofs hard as marble. He spurred his own, but
the distance between the two remained the same. D'Artagnan listened
attentively; not a breath of the horse reached him, and yet he
seemed to cut the air. The black horse, on the contrary, began to blow
like a blacksmith's bellows.
  "I must overtake him, if I kill my horse," thought the musketeer;
and he began to saw the mouth of the poor animal, while he buried
the rowels of his spurs in his sides. The maddened horse gained twenty
toises, and came up within pistol-shot of Fouquet.
  "Courage!" said the musketeer to himself, "courage! the white
horse will perhaps grow weaker; and if the horse does not fall, the
master must fall at last." But horse and rider remained upright
together, gaining ground by degrees. D'Artagnan uttered a wild cry,
which made Fouquet turn round, and added speed to the white horse.
  "A famous horse! a mad rider!" growled the captain. "Hola! mordioux!
M. Fouquet! stop! in the King's name!" Fouquet made no reply.
  "Do you hear me?" shouted d'Artagnan, whose horse had just stumbled.
  "Pardieu!" replied Fouquet, laconically, and rode on faster.
  D'Artagnan was nearly mad; the blood rushed boiling to his temples
and his eyes. "In the King's name!" cried he, again, "stop, or I
will bring you down with a pistol-shot!"
  "Do!" replied Fouquet, without relaxing his speed.
  D'Artagnan seized a pistol and cocked it, hoping that the noise of
the spring would stop his enemy. "You have pistols likewise," said he;
"turn and defend yourself."
  Fouquet did turn round at the noise, and looking d'Artagnan full
in the face, opened with his right hand the part of his dress which
concealed his body, but he did not touch his holsters. There were
twenty paces between the two.
  "Mordioux!" said d'Artagnan, "I will not kill you; if you will not
fire upon me, surrender! What is a prison?"
  "I would rather die!" replied Fouquet; "I shall suffer less."
  D'Artagnan, drunk with despair, hurled his pistol to the ground.
"I will take you alive!" said he; and by a prodigy of skill of which
this incomparable horseman alone was capable, he urged his horse
forward to within ten paces of the white horse,- already his hand
being stretched out to seize his prey.
  "Kill me! kill me!" cried Fouquet; "it is more humane!"
  "No! alive, alive!" murmured the captain.
  At this moment his horse made a false step for the second time,
and Fouquet's again took the lead. It was an unheard-of spectacle,-
this race between two horses which were only kept alive by the will of
their riders. To the furious gallop had succeeded the fast trot, and
then the simple trot; and the race appeared equally warm to the two
fatigued athletes. D'Artagnan, quite in despair, seized his second
pistol, and cocked it. "At your horse! not at you!" cried he to
Fouquet. And he fired. The animal was hit in the rump; he made a
furious bound, and plunged forward. D'Artagnan's horse fell dead.
  "I am dishonored!" thought the musketeer; "I am a miserable wretch!"
Then he cried, "For pity's sake, M. Fouquet, throw me one of your
pistols that I may blow out my brains!" But Fouquet rode on.
  "For mercy's sake! for mercy's sake!" cried d'Artagnan; "that
which you will not do at this moment, I myself will do within an hour.
But here upon this road I should die bravely, I should die esteemed;
do me that service, M. Fouquet!"
  M. Fouquet made no reply, but continued to trot on. D'Artagnan began
to run after his enemy. Successively he threw off his hat, his coat,
which embarrassed him, and then the sheath of his sword, which got
between his legs as he was running. The sword in his hand even
became too heavy, and he threw it after the sheath. The white horse
began to rattle in his throat; d'Artagnan gained upon him. From a trot
the exhausted animal sunk to a staggering walk; the foam from his
mouth was mixed with blood. D'Artagnan made a desperate effort, sprang
towards Fouquet, and seized him by the leg, saying in a broken,
breathless voice, "I arrest you in the King's name! blow my brains
out, if you like; we have both done our duty."
  Fouquet hurled far from him into the river the two pistols which
d'Artagnan might have seized, and dismounting from his horse, "I am
your prisoner, Monsieur," said he; "will you take my arm, for I see
you are ready to faint?"
  "Thanks!" murmured d'Artagnan, who in fact felt the earth moving
from under his feet, and the sky melting away over his head; and he
rolled upon the sand without breath or strength. Fouquet hastened to
the brink of the river, dipped some water in his hat, with which he
bathed the temples of the musketeer, and introduced a few drops
between his lips. D'Artagnan raised himself up, looking round with a
wandering eye. He saw Fouquet on his knees, with his wet hat in his
hand, smiling upon him with ineffable sweetness. "You are not gone,
then?" cried he. "Oh, Monsieur! the true King in loyalty, in heart, in
soul, is not Louis of the Louvre or Philippe of Ste. Marguerite; it is
you, the proscribed, the condemned!"
  "I, who this day am ruined by a single error, M. d'Artagnan."
  "What, in Heaven's name, is that?"
  "I should have had you for a friend! But how shall we return to
Nantes? We are a great way from it."
  "That is true," said d'Artagnan, gloomy and sad.
  "The white horse will recover, perhaps; he is a good horse! Mount,
M. d'Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a little."
  "Poor beast! and wounded too!" said the musketeer.
  "He will go, I tell you; I know him. But we can do better still, let
us both mount."
  "We can try," said the captain.
  But they had scarcely charged the animal with this double load
when he began to stagger, then with a great effort walked a few
minutes, then staggered again, and sank down dead by the side of the
black horse, which he had just managed to reach.
  "We will go on foot; destiny wills it so. The walk will be
pleasant," said Fouquet, passing his arm through that of d'Artagnan.
  "Mordioux!" cried the latter, with a fixed eye, a contracted brow,
and a swelling heart. "A disgraceful day!"
  They walked slowly the four leagues which separated them from the
little wood behind which waited the carriage with the escort. When
Fouquet perceived that sinister machine, he said to d'Artagnan, who
cast down his eyes as if ashamed of Louis XIV, "There is an idea which
is not that of a brave man, Captain d'Artagnan; it is not yours.
What are these gratings for?"
  "To prevent your throwing letters out."
  "Ingenious!"
  "But you can speak, if you cannot write," said d'Artagnan.
  "Can I speak to you?"
  "Why, certainly, if you wish to do so."
  Fouquet reflected for a moment, then looking the captain full in the
face, "One single word," said he; "will you remember it?"
  "I will not forget it."
  "Will you speak it to whom I wish?"
  "I will."
  "St. Mande," articulated Fouquet, in a low voice.
  "Well; and for whom?"
  "For Madame de Belliere or Pelisson."
  "It shall be done."
  The carriage passed through Nantes, and took the route to Angers.
         Chapter LXIX: In Which the Squirrel Falls,
                  in Which the Adder Flies

  IT WAS two o'clock in the afternoon. The King, full of impatience,
went to his cabinet on the terrace, and kept opening the door of the
corridor to see what his secretaries were doing. M. Colbert, seated in
the same place M. de Saint-Aignan had so long occupied in the morning,
was chatting in a low voice with M. de Brienne. The King opened the
door suddenly, and addressing them, "What do you say?" asked he.
  "We were speaking of the first sitting of the States," said M. de
Brienne, rising.
  "Very well," replied the King, and returned to his room.
  Five minutes after, the summons of the bell recalled Rose, whose
hour it was.
  "Have you finished your copies?" asked the King.
  "Not yet, Sire."
  "See, then, if M. d'Artagnan is returned."
  "Not yet, Sire."
  "It is very strange!" murmured the King. "Call M. Colbert."
  Colbert entered; he had been expecting this moment all the morning.
  "M. Colbert," said the King, very sharply, "it must be ascertained
what is become of M. d'Artagnan."
  Colbert in his calm voice replied, "Where would your Majesty
desire him to be sought for?"
  "Eh, Monsieur! do you not know to what place I have sent him?"
replied Louis, acrimoniously.
  "Your Majesty has not told me."
  "Monsieur, there are things that are to be guessed; and you, above
all others, do guess them."
  "I might have been able to imagine, Sire; but I do not presume to be
positive."
  Colbert had not finished these words when a much rougher voice
than the King's interrupted the interesting conversation thus begun
between Louis and his clerk.
  "D'Artagnan!" cried the King, with evident joy.
  D'Artagnan, pale and in furious humor, cried to the King as he
entered, "Sire, is it your Majesty who has given orders to my
Musketeers?"
  "What orders?" said the King.
  "About M. Fouquet's house?"
  "None!" replied Louis.
  "Ah, ah!" said d'Artagnan, biting his mustache; "I was not mistaken,
then; it was Monsieur here!" and he pointed to Colbert.
  "What orders? Let me know," said the King.
  "Orders to turn a house inside out, to beat M. Fouquet's servants,
to force the drawers, to give over a peaceful house to pillage!
Mordioux! the orders of a savage I
  "Monsieur!" said Colbert, becoming pale.
  "Monsieur," interrupted d'Artagnan, "the King alone, understand,-
the King alone has a right to command my Musketeers; but as to you,
I forbid you to do it, and I tell you so before his Majesty. Gentlemen
who wear swords are not fellows with pens behind their ears."
  "D'Artagnan! d'Artagnan!" murmured the King.
  "It is humiliating," continued the musketeer; "my soldiers are
disgraced. I do not command reitres, nor clerks of the intendance,
mordioux!"
  "Well; but what is all this about?" said the King, with authority.
  "About this, Sire: Monsieur- Monsieur, who could not guess your
Majesty's orders, and consequently could not know I was gone to arrest
M. Fouquet; Monsieur, who has caused the iron cage to be constructed
for his patron of yesterday- has sent M. de Roncherat to the
lodgings of M. Fouquet, and under pretence of taking away the
superintendent's papers they have taken away the furniture. My
Musketeers have been placed round the house all the morning; such were
my orders. Why did any one presume to order them to enter? Why, by
forcing them to assist in this pillage, have they been made
accomplices in it? Mordioux! we serve the King, we do; but we do not
serve M. Colbert!"
  "M. d'Artagnan," said the King, sternly, "take care! It is not in my
presence that such explanations, and made in this tone, should take
place."
  "I have acted for the good of the King," said Colbert, in a
faltering voice; "it is hard to be so treated by one of your Majesty's
officers, and that without vengeance, on account of the respect I
owe the King."
  "The respect you owe the King," cried d'Artagnan, his eyes
flashing fire, "consists in the first place in making his authority
respected and his person beloved. Every agent of a power without
control represents that power, and when people curse the hand which
strikes them, it is to the royal hand that God makes the reproach,
do you hear? Must a soldier hardened by forty years of wounds and
blood give you this lesson, Monsieur? Must mercy be on my side, and
ferocity on yours? You have caused the innocent to be arrested, bound,
and imprisoned!"
  "The accomplices, perhaps, of M. Fouquet," said Colbert.
  "Who told you that M. Fouquet had accomplices, or even that he was
guilty? The King alone knows that; his justice is not blind! When he
shall say, 'Arrest and imprison' such and such people, then he shall
be obeyed. Do not talk to me then any more of the respect you owe
the King; and be careful of your words, that they may not chance to
convey any menace,- for the King will not allow those to be threatened
who do him service by others who do him disservice. And in case I
should have- which God forbid!- a master so ungrateful, I would make
myself respected."
  Thus saying, d'Artagnan took his station haughtily in the King's
cabinet, his eye flashing, his hand on his sword, his lips
trembling, affecting much more anger than he really felt. Colbert,
humiliated and devoured with rage, bowed to the King as if to ask
his permission to leave the room. The King, drawn in opposite
directions by his pride and by his curiosity, knew not which part to
take. D'Artagnan saw him hesitate. To remain longer would have been an
error; it was necessary to obtain a triumph over Colbert, and the only
means was to touch the King so near and so strongly to the quick
that his Majesty would have no other means of extricating himself
but by choosing between the two antagonists. D'Artagnan then bowed
as Colbert had done; but the King, who in preference to everything
else was anxious to have all the exact details of the arrest of the
Superintendent of the Finances from him who had made him tremble for a
moment,- the King, perceiving that the ill-humor of d'Artagnan would
put off for half an hour at least the details he was burning to be
acquainted with,- Louis, we say, forgot Colbert, who had nothing new
to tell him, and recalled his captain of the Musketeers. "In the first
place," said he, "let me see the result of your commission,
Monsieur; you may repose afterwards."
  D'Artagnan, who was just passing through the door, stopped at the
voice of the King, retraced his steps, and Colbert was forced to leave
the cabinet. His countenance assumed almost a purple hue, his black
and threatening eyes shone with a dark fire beneath their thick brows;
he stepped out, bowed before the King, half drew himself up in passing
d'Artagnan, and went away with death in his heart.
  D'Artagnan, on being left alone with the King, softened immediately,
and composing his countenance, "Sire," said he, "you are a young King.
It is by the dawn that people judge whether the day will be fine or
dull. How, Sire, will the people whom the hand of God has placed under
your law argue of your reign, if between you and them you allow
angry and violent ministers to act? But let us speak of myself,
Sire; let us leave a discussion that may appear idle and perhaps
inconvenient to you. Let us speak of myself. I have arrested M.
Fouquet."
  "You took plenty of time about it," said the King, sharply.
  D'Artagnan looked at the King. "I perceive that I have expressed
myself badly. I announced to your Majesty that I had arrested M.
Fouquet."
  "You did; and what then?"
  "Well, I ought to have told your Majesty that M. Fouquet had
arrested me; that would have been more just. I re-establish the truth,
then: I have been arrested by M. Fouquet."
  It was now the turn of Louis XIV to be surprised. His Majesty was
astonished. D'Artagnan, with his quick glance, appreciated what was
passing in the heart of his master. He did not allow him time to put
any questions. He related, with that poetry, that picturesqueness,
which perhaps he alone possessed at that period, the escape of
Fouquet, the pursuit, the furious race, and, lastly, the inimitable
generosity of the superintendent, who might have fled ten times
over, who might have killed the adversary sent in pursuit of him,
and who had preferred imprisonment, and perhaps worse, to the
humiliation of him who wished to take his liberty from him. In
proportion as the tale advanced, the King became agitated, devouring
the narrator's words, and knocking his finger-nails against one
another.
  "It results from this, then, Sire, in my eyes at least, that the man
who conducts himself thus is a gallant man, and cannot be an enemy
to the King. That is my opinion, and I repeat it to your Majesty. I
know what the King will say to me, and I bow to it,- reasons of state.
So be it! that in my eyes is very respectable. But I am a soldier, I
have received my orders; my orders are executed,- very unwillingly
on my part, it is true, but they are executed. I say no more."
  "Where is M. Fouquet at this moment?" asked Louis, after a short
silence.
  "M. Fouquet, Sire," replied d'Artagnan, "is in the iron cage that M.
Colbert had prepared for him, and is going as fast as four vigorous
horses can drag him towards Angers."
  "Why did you leave him on the road?"
  "Because your Majesty did not tell me to go to Angers. The proof,
the best proof of what I advance, is that the King desired me to be
sought for but this minute; and then I have another reason."
  "What is that?"
  "While I was with him, poor M. Fouquet would never attempt to
escape."
  "Well!" cried the King, with stupefaction.
  "Your Majesty ought to understand, and does understand, certainly,
that my warmest wish is to know that M. Fouquet is at liberty. I
have given him to one of my brigadiers, the most stupid I could find
among my Musketeers, in order that the prisoner might have a chance of
escaping."
  "Are you mad, M. d'Artagnan?" cried the King, crossing his arms on
his breast. "Do people speak such enormities, even when they have
the misfortune to think them?"
  "Ah, Sire, you cannot expect that I should be the enemy of M.
Fouquet after what he has just done for you and me. No, no; if you
desire that he should remain under your locks and bolts, never give
him in charge to me; however closely wired might be the cage, the bird
would in the end fly away."
  "I am surprised," said the King, in a stern tone, "that you have not
followed the fortunes of him whom M. Fouquet wished to place upon my
throne. You had in him all you want,- affection and gratitude. In my
service, Monsieur, you only find a master."
  "If M. Fouquet had not gone to seek you in the Bastille, Sire,"
replied d'Artagnan, with a deeply impressive manner, "one single man
would have gone there, and that man is myself,- you know that right
well, Sire."
  The King was brought to a pause. Before that speech of his captain
of the Musketeers, so frankly spoken and so true, the King had nothing
to offer. On hearing d'Artagnan, Louis remembered the d'Artagnan of
former times,- the man who at the Palais-Royal held himself
concealed behind the curtains of his bed when the people of Paris, led
on by Cardinal de Retz, came to assure themselves of the presence of
the King; the d'Artagnan whom he saluted with his hand at the door
of his carriage when repairing to Notre-Dame on his return to Paris;
the soldier who had quitted his service at Blois; the lieutenant
whom he had recalled near his person when the death of Mazarin gave
him back the power; the man he had always found loyal, courageous, and
devoted. Louis advanced towards the door and called Colbert. Colbert
had not left the corridor where the secretaries were at work.
Colbert appeared.
  "Colbert, have you made a search at the house of M. Fouquet?"
  "Yes, Sire."
  "What has it produced?"
  "M. de Roncherat, who was sent with your Majesty's Musketeers, has
remitted me some papers," replied Colbert.
  "I will look at them. Give me your hand!"
  "My hand, Sire?"
  "Yes, that I may place it in that of M. d'Artagnan. In fact, M.
d'Artagnan," added he, with a smile, turning towards the soldier,
who at the sight of the clerk had resumed his haughty attitude, "you
do not know this man; make his acquaintance." And he pointed to
Colbert. "He has been but a moderate servant in subaltern positions,
but he will be a great man if I raise him to the first rank."
  "Sire!" stammered Colbert, confused with pleasure and fear.
  "I have understood why," murmured d'Artagnan in the King's ear,- "he
was jealous."
  "Precisely; and his jealousy confined his wings."
  "He will henceforth be a winged serpent," grumpled the musketeer,
with a remnant of hatred against his recent adversary.
  But Colbert, approaching him, offered to his eyes a countenance so
different from that which he had been accustomed to see him wear; he
appeared so good, so mild, so easy; his eyes took the expression of an
intelligence so noble,- that d'Artagnan, a connoisseur in faces, was
moved, and almost changed in his convictions. Colbert pressed his
hand.
  "That which the King has just told you, Monsieur, proves how well
his Majesty is acquainted with men. The inveterate opposition I have
displayed up to this day against abuses and not against men, proves
that I had it in view to prepare for my King a great reign, for my
country a great blessing. I have many ideas, M. d'Artagnan. You will
see them expand in the sun of public peace; and if I have not the
certainty and good fortune to conquer the friendship of honest men,
I am at least certain, Monsieur, that I shall obtain their esteem. For
their admiration, Monsieur, I would give my life."
  This change, this sudden elevation, this mute approbation of the
King, gave the musketeer matter for much reflection. He bowed
civilly to Colbert, who did not take his eyes off him. The King,
when he saw they were reconciled, dismissed them. They left the room
together. As soon as they were out of the cabinet, the new minister,
stopping the captain, said, "Is it possible, M. d'Artagnan, that
with such an eye as yours, you have not at the first glance, at the
first inspection, discovered what sort of man I am?"
  "M. Colbert," replied the musketeer, "the ray of the sun which we
have in our eyes, prevents us from seeing the most ardent flames.
The man in power radiates, you know; and since you are there, why
should you continue to persecute him who has just fallen into
disgrace, and fallen from such a height?"
  "I, Monsieur!" said Colbert; "oh, Monsieur! I would never
persecute him. I wished to administer the finances, and to
administer them alone, because I am ambitious, and, above all, because
I have the most entire confidence in my own merit; because I know that
all the gold of this country will fall beneath my eyes, and I love
to look at the King's gold; because, if I live thirty years, in thirty
years not a denier of it will remain in my hands; because with that
gold I will build granaries, edifices, cities, and will dig ports;
because I will create a marine, will equip navies which shall bear the
name of France to the most distant peoples; because I will create
libraries and academies; because I will make of France the first
country in the world, and the richest. These are the motives for my
animosity against M. Fouquet, who prevented my acting. And then,
when I shall be great and strong, when France is great and strong,
in my turn then I will cry, 'Mercy!'"
  "Mercy, did you say? then ask his liberty of the King. The King
crushes him only on your account."
  Colbert again raised his head. "Monsieur," said he, "you know that
it is not so, and that the King has his personal enmities against M.
Fouquet; it is not for me to teach you that."
  "But the King will relax; he will forget."
  "The King never forgets, M. d'Artagnan. Hark! the King calls. He
is going to issue an order. I have not influenced him, have I?
Listen."
  The King, in fact, was calling his secretaries. "M. d'Artagnan,"
said he.
  "I am here, Sire."
  "Give twenty of your Musketeers to M. de Saint-Aignan, to form a
guard for M. Fouquet."
  D'Artagnan and Colbert exchanged looks. "And from Angers," continued
the King, "they will conduct the prisoner to the Bastille in Paris."
  "You were right," said the captain to the minister.
  "Saint-Aignan," continued the King, "you will have any one shot
who shall attempt to speak privately with M. Fouquet during the
journey."
  "But myself, Sire?" said the duke.
  "You, Monsieur,- you will only speak to him in the presence of the
Musketeers." The duke bowed, and departed to execute his commission.
  D'Artagnan was about to retire likewise; but the King stopped him.
"Monsieur," said he, "you will go immediately and take possession of
the isle and fief of Belle-Isle-en-Mer."
  "Yes, Sire. Alone?"
  "You will take a sufficient number of troops to prevent delay, in
case the place should be contumacious."
  A murmur of adulatory incredulity arose from the group of courtiers.
  "That is to be done," said d'Artagnan.
  "I saw the place in my infancy," resumed the King, "and I do not
wish to see it again. You have heard me? Go, Monsieur, and do not
return without the keys of the place."
  Colbert went up to d'Artagnan. "A commission which if you carry it
out well," said he, "will be worth a marshal's baton to you."
  "Why do you employ the words, 'if you carry it out well'?"
  "Because it is difficult."
  "Ah! in what respect?"
  "You have friends in Belle-Isle, M. d'Artagnan; and it is not an
easy thing for men like you to march over the bodies of their
friends to obtain success."
  D'Artagnan hung down his head, while Colbert returned to the King. A
quarter of an hour after, the captain received the written order
from the King to blow up the fortress of Belle-Isle in case of
resistance, with the power of life and death over all the
inhabitants or refugees, and an injunction not to allow one to escape.
  "Colbert was right," thought d'Artagnan,- "my baton of a marshal
of France will cost the lives of my two friends. Only they seem to
forget that my friends are not more stupid than the birds, and that
they will not wait for the hand of the fowler to extend their wings. I
will show them that hand so plainly that they will have quite time
enough to see it. Poor Porthos! poor Aramis! No; my fortune shall
not cost your wings a feather."
  Having thus determined, d'Artagnan assembled the royal army,
embarked it at Paimboeuf, and set sail without losing a moment.
              Chapter LXX: Belle-Isle-en-Mer

  AT THE extremity of the pier, upon the promenade which the furious
sea beats at evening tide, two men, holding each other by the arm,
were conversing in an animated and expansive tone, without the
possibility of any other human being hearing their words, borne
away, as they were, one by one, by the gusts of wind with the white
foam swept from the crests of the waves. The sun had just gone down in
the vast sheet of ocean, red like a gigantic crucible. From time to
time, one of these men, turning towards the east, cast an anxious,
inquiring look over the sea. The other, interrogating the features
of his companion, seemed to seek for information in his looks. Then,
both silent, both busied with dismal thoughts, they resumed their
walk. Every one has already perceived that those two men were our
proscribed heroes, Porthos and Aramis, who had taken refuge in
Belle-Isle since the ruin of their hopes, since the discomfiture of
the vast plan of M. d'Herblay.
  "It is of no use your saying anything to the contrary, my dear
Aramis," repeated Porthos, inhaling vigorously the saline air with
which he filled his powerful chest. "It is of no use, Aramis. The
disappearance of all the fishing-boats that went out two days ago is
not an ordinary circumstance. There has been no storm at sea; the
weather has been constantly calm, not even the slightest gale; and
even if we had had a tempest, all our boats would not have
foundered. I repeat, it is strange. This complete disappearance
astonishes me, I tell you."
  "True," murmured Aramis. "You are right, friend Porthos; it is true,
there is something strange in it."
  "And further," added Porthos, whose ideas the assent of the Bishop
of Vannes seemed to enlarge,- "and further, have you remarked that
if the boats have perished, not a single plank has been washed
ashore?"
  "I have remarked that as well as you."
  "Have you remarked, besides, that the only two boats we had left
in the whole island, and which I sent in search of the others-"
  Aramis here interrupted his companion by a cry, and by so sudden a
movement that Porthos stopped as if he were stupefied. "What do you
say, Porthos? What! You have sent the two boats-"
  "In search of the others. Yes; to be sure I have," replied
Porthos, quite simply.
  "Unhappy man! What have you done? Then we are indeed lost," cried
the bishop.
  "Lost! What did you say?" exclaimed the terrified Porthos. "How
lost, Aramis? How are we lost?"
  Aramis bit his lips. "Nothing! nothing! Your pardon, I meant to
say-"
  "What?"
  "That if we were inclined- if we took a fancy to make an excursion
by sea, we could not."
  "Very good! and why should that vex you? A fine pleasure, ma foi!
For my part, I don't regret it at all. What I regret is certainly
not the more or less amusement we can find at Belle-Isle; what I
regret, Aramis, is Pierrefonds, is Bracieux, is Le Vallon, is my
beautiful France! Here we are not in France, my dear friend; we are- I
know not where. Oh! I tell you in the full sincerity of my soul,-
and your affection will excuse my frankness,- but I declare to you I
am not happy at Belle-Isle. No; in good truth, I am not happy!"
  Aramis breathed a stifled sigh. "Dear friend," replied he, "that
is why it is so sad a thing you have sent the two boats we had left in
search of those which disappeared two days ago. If you had not sent
them away, we would have departed."
  "'Departed!' And the orders, Aramis?"
  "What orders?"
  "Parbleu! Why, the orders you have been constantly and on all
occasions repeating to me,- that we were to hold Belle-Isle against
the usurper. You know very well!"
  "That is true!" murmured Aramis again.
  "You see, then, plainly, my friend, that we could not depart; and
that the sending away of the boats in search of the others is not
prejudicial to us in any way."
  Aramis was silent; and his vague glance, luminous as that of a gull,
hovered for a long time over the sea, interrogating space, and seeking
to pierce the very horizon.
  "With all that, Aramis," continued Porthos, who adhered to his idea,
and that the more closely since the bishop had found it correct,-
"with all that, you give me no explanation about what can have
happened to these unfortunate boats. I am assailed by cries and
complaints whichever way I go. The children cry at seeing the
desolation of the women, as if I could restore the absent husbands and
fathers. What do you suppose, my friend, and what ought I to answer
them?"
  "Suppose everything, my good Porthos, and say nothing."
  This reply did not satisfy Porthos at all. He turned away, and
grumbled some words in a very ill humor. Aramis stopped the valiant
soldier. "Do you remember," said he, in a melancholy tone, pressing
the two hands of the giant between his own with an affectionate
cordiality, "do you remember, my friend, that in the glorious days
of our youth- do you remember, Porthos, when we were all strong and
valiant- we and the other two- if we had then had an inclination to
return to France, do you think this sheet of salt water would have
stopped us?"
  "Oh!" said Porthos; "six leagues!"
  "If you had seen me get astride of a plank, would you have
remained on land, Porthos?"
  "No, pardieu! No, Aramis. But nowadays what sort of a plank should
we want, my friend,- I, in particular?" And the Seigneur de Bracieux
cast a proud glance over his colossal rotundity, with a loud laugh.
"And do you mean seriously to say that you are not a little tired of
Belle-Isle also, and that you would not prefer the comforts of your
dwelling,- of your episcopal palace at Vannes? Come, confess!"
  "No," replied Aramis, without daring to look at Porthos.
  "Let us stay where we are then," said his friend, with a sigh
which in spite of the efforts he made to restrain it escaped with a
loud report from his breast. "Let us remain! let us remain! And
yet," added he,- "and yet, if we seriously wished, but that decidedly,
if we had a fixed idea, one firmly taken, to return to France, and
there were no boats-"
  "Have you remarked another thing, my friend?- that is, since the
disappearance of our boats, during the two days' absence of the
fishermen, not a single small boat has landed on the shores of the
isle?"
  "Yes, certainly; you are right. I have remarked it also; and the
observation was the more naturally made, for before the last two fatal
days we saw boats and shallops arrive by dozens."
  "I must inquire," said Aramis, suddenly, and with emphasis. "And
then, if I had a raft constructed-"
  "But there are some canoes, my friend; shall I go on board one?"
  "A canoe! a canoe! Can you think of such a thing, Porthos? A canoe
to be upset in! No, no," said the Bishop of Vannes; "it is not our
trade to ride upon the waves. We will wait; we will wait."
  And Aramis continued walking about with increased agitation.
Porthos, who grew tired of following all the feverish movements of his
friend; Porthos, who in his calmness and trust understood nothing of
the sort of exasperation which was betrayed by the bishop's
continual convulsive starts,- Porthos stopped him. "Let us sit down
upon this rock," said he. "Place yourself there, close to me,
Aramis, and I conjure you for the last time to explain to me in a
manner I can comprehend,- explain to me what we are doing here."
  "Porthos!" said Aramis, much embarrassed.
  "I know that the false king wished to dethrone the true king. That
is a fact that I understand. Well-"
  "Yes," said Aramis.
  "I know that the false king formed the project of selling Belle-Isle
to the English. I understand that too."
  "Yes."
  "I know that we engineers and captains came and threw ourselves into
Belle-Isle to take the direction of the works and the command of the
ten companies levied and paid by M. Fouquet, or rather the ten
companies of his son-in-law. All that is plain."
  Aramis arose in a state of great impatience. He might be said to
be a lion importuned by a gnat. Porthos held him by the arm. "But what
I cannot understand, what in spite of all the efforts of my mind and
all my reflections I cannot comprehend and never shall comprehend, is,
that instead of sending us troops, instead of sending us
reinforcements of men, munitions, and provisions, they leave us
without boats, they leave Belle-Isle without arrivals, without help;
it is that instead of establishing with us a correspondence, whether
by signals or written or verbal communications, they intercept all
relations with us. Tell me, Aramis; answer me, or rather, before
answering me, will you allow me to tell you what I have thought?
Will you hear what my idea is, what imagination I have conceived?"
  The bishop raised his head. "Well, Aramis," continued Porthos, "I
have thought, I have had an idea; I have imagined that an event has
taken place in France. I dreamed of M. Fouquet all the night; I
dreamed of dead fish, broken eggs, chambers badly furnished, meanly
kept. Bad dreams, my dear d'Herblay; very unlucky, such dreams!"
  "Porthos, what is that yonder?" interrupted Aramis, rising suddenly,
and pointing out to his friend a black spot upon the empurpled line of
the water.
  "A boat!" said Porthos; "yes, it is a boat! Ah! we shall have some
news at last."
  "There are two!" cried the bishop, on discovering another mast;
"two! three! four!"
  "Five!" said Porthos, in his turn. "Six! seven! Ah, mon Dieu! mon
Dieu! it is a whole fleet!"
  "Our boats returning, probably," said Aramis, very uneasily, in
spite of the assurance he affected.
  "They are very large for fishing-boats," observed Porthos; "and do
you not remark, my friend, that they come from the Loire?"
  "They come from the Loire- yes-"
  "And look! everybody here sees them as well as ourselves; look,
the women and children are beginning to get upon the jetty!" An old
fisherman passed. "Are those our boats yonder?" asked Aramis.
  The old man looked steadily into the horizon. "No, Monseigneur,"
replied he; "they are lighter-boats in the King's service."
  "Boats in the royal service?" replied Aramis, starting. "How do
you know?"
  "By the flag."
  "But," said Porthos, "the boat is scarcely visible; how the devil,
my friend, can you distinguish the flag?"
  "I see there is one," replied the old man; "our boats, or
trade-lighters, do not carry any. That sort of craft is generally used
for the transport of troops."
  "Ah!" said Aramis.
  "Vivat!" cried Porthos, "they are sending us reinforcements; don't
you think they are, Aramis?"
  "Probably."
  "Unless it is the English coming."
  "By the Loire? That would have an ill look, Porthos, for they must
have come through Paris!"
  "You are right; they are reinforcements, decidedly, or provisions."
  Aramis leaned his head upon his hand and made no reply. Then, all at
once, "Porthos," said he, "have the alarm sounded."
  "The alarm! do you think of such a thing?"
  "Yes, and let the cannoneers mount to their batteries; let the
artillery-men be at their pieces, and be particularly watchful of
the coast batteries." Porthos opened his eyes to their widest
extent. He looked attentively at his friend, to convince himself
that he was in his proper senses.
  "I will do it, my dear Porthos," continued Aramis, in his most bland
tone; "I will go and have these orders executed myself if you do not
go, my friend."
  "Well, I will go instantly!" said Porthos, going to execute the
order, casting all the while looks behind him to see if the Bishop
of Vannes were not making a mistake, and if, on returning to more
rational ideas, he would not recall him. The alarm was sounded, the
trumpets brayed, and drums rolled; the great bell of the belfry was
put in motion. The dikes and piers were quickly filled with the
curious and soldiers; the matches sparkled in the hands of the
artillery-men, placed behind the large cannon bedded in their stone
carriages. When every man was at his post, when all the preparations
for the defence were made, "Permit me, Aramis, to try to
comprehend," whispered Porthos, timidly, in Aramis's ear.
  "My dear friend, you will comprehend but too soon," murmured M.
d'Herblay, in reply to this question of his lieutenant.
  "The fleet which is coming yonder with sail unfurled straight
towards the port of Belle-Isle, is a royal fleet, is it not?"
  "But as there are two Kings in France, Porthos, to which of these
two Kings does this fleet belong?"
  "Oh, you open my eyes!" replied the giant, stunned by this argument.
  And Porthos, whose eyes his friend's reply had just opened, or
rather, had thickened the bandage which covered his sight, went with
his best speed to the batteries to overlook his people and exhort
every one to do his duty. In the mean time Aramis, with his eyes fixed
on the horizon, saw the ships continue to draw nearer. The people
and the soldiers, mounted upon all the summits or irregularities of
the rocks, could distinguish the masts, then the lower sails, and at
last the hulls of the lighters, bearing at the masthead the royal flag
of France. It was quite night when one of these vessels which had
created such a sensation among the inhabitants of Belle-Isle was
moored within cannon-shot of the place. It was soon seen,
notwithstanding the darkness, that a sort of agitation reigned on
board this vessel, from the side of which a skiff was lowered, of
which the three rowers, bending to their oars, took the direction of
the port, and in a few instants struck land at the foot of the fort.
The commander of this yawl jumped on shore. He had a letter in his
hand, which he waved in the air, and seemed to wish to communicate
with somebody. This man was soon recognized by several soldiers as one
of the pilots of the island. He was the skipper of one of the two
boats kept back by Aramis, which Porthos, in his anxiety with regard
to the fate of the fishermen who had disappeared for two days, had
sent in search of the missing boats. He asked to be conducted to M.
d'Herblay. Two soldiers, at a signal from the sergeant, placed him
between them and escorted him. Aramis was upon the quay. The envoy
presented himself before the Bishop of Vannes. The darkness was almost
complete, notwithstanding the torches borne at a small distance by the
soldiers who were following Aramis in his rounds.
  "Well, Jonathas, from whom do you come?"
  "Monseigneur, from those who captured me."
  "Who captured you?"
  "You know, Monseigneur, we set out in search of our comrades?"
  "Yes,- and afterwards?"
  "Well, Monseigneur, within a short league we were captured by a
chasse-maree belonging to the King."
  "Ah!" said Aramis.
  "Of which King?" cried Porthos. Jonathas started.
  "Speak!" continued the bishop.
  "We were captured, Monseigneur, and joined to those who had been
taken yesterday morning."
  "What was the cause of the mania for capturing you all?" said
Porthos.
  "Monsieur, to prevent us from telling you."
  Porthos was again at a loss to comprehend. "And they have released
you to-day?" asked he.
  "That I might tell you they have captured us, Monsieur."
  "Trouble upon trouble!" thought honest Porthos.
  During this time Aramis was reflecting. "Humph!" said he; "then I
suppose it is a royal fleet blockading the coasts?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "Who commands it?"
  "The captain of the King's Musketeers."
  "D'Artagnan?"
  "D'Artagnan!" exclaimed Porthos.
  "I believe that is the name."
  "And did he give you this letter?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "Bring the torch nearer."
  "It is his writing," said Porthos.
  Aramis eagerly read the following lines:-

  "Order of the King to take Belle-Isle;
  "Order to put the garrison to the sword if they resist;
  "Order to make prisoners all the men of the garrison.
  "Signed: D'ARTAGNAN, who the day before yesterday arrested M.
Fouquet that he might be sent to the Bastille."

  Aramis turned pale, and crushed the paper in his hands.
  "What is it?" asked Porthos.
  "Nothing, my friend, nothing. Tell me, Jonathas."
  "Monseigneur!"
  "Did you speak to M. d'Artagnan?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "What did he say to you?"
  "That for more ample information he would speak with Monseigneur."
  "Where?"
  "On board his own vessel."
  "'On board his vessel'!" and Porthos repeated, "'On board his
vessel'!"
  "Monsieur the Musketeer," continued Jonathas, "told me to take you
both on board my canoe and bring you to him."
  "Let us go at once!" exclaimed Porthos; "dear d'Artagnan!"
  But Aramis stopped him. "Are you mad?" cried he. "Who knows that
it is not a snare?"
  "Of the other King?" said Porthos, mysteriously.
  "A snare, in fact,- that's what it is, my friend!
  "Very possibly. What is to be done, then? If d'Artagnan sends for
us-"
  "Who assures you that d'Artagnan sends for us?"
  "Yes, but- but his writing-"
  "Writing is easily counterfeited. This looks counterfeited-
trembling-"
  "You are always right; but in the mean time we know nothing."
  Aramis was silent.
  "It is true," said the good Porthos; "we do not want to know
anything."
  "What shall I do?" asked Jonathas.
  "You will return on board this captain's vessel."
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "And will tell him that we beg he will himself come to the island."
  "Ah, I comprehend!" said Porthos.
  "Yes, Monseigneur," replied Jonathas; "but if the captain should
refuse to come to Belle-Isle?"
  "If he refuses, as we have cannon, we will make use of them."
  "What! against d'Artagnan?"
  "If it is d'Artagnan, Porthos, he will come. Go, Jonathas, go!"
  "Ma foi! I no longer comprehend anything," murmured Porthos.
  "I will make you comprehend all, my dear friend; the time for it
is come. Sit down upon this gun-carriage, open your ears, and listen
well to me."
  "Oh, Pardieu! I shall listen,- no fear of that."
  "May I depart, Monseigneur?" cried Jonathas.
  "Yes; go and bring back an answer. Allow the canoe to pass, you
men there!" and the canoe pushed off to regain the fleet.
  Aramis took Porthos by the hand, and began the explanations.
          Chapter LXXI: The Explanations of Aramis

  "WHAT I have to say to you, friend Porthos, will probably surprise
you, but it will instruct you."
  "I like to be surprised," said Porthos, in a kindly tone; "do not
spare me, therefore, I beg. I am hardened against emotions; don't
fear, speak out."
  "It is difficult, Porthos, it is- difficult; for in truth- I warn
you- again- I have very strange things, very extraordinary things,
to tell you."
  "Oh, you speak so well, my friend, that I could listen to you for
days together. Speak, then, I beg; and- stop, I have an idea: I
will, to make your task more easy, to assist you in telling me such
things, question you."
  "I shall be pleased at your doing so."
  "What are we going to fight for?"
  "If you put to me many such questions as that, if that is your way
of assisting my task of revelation,- by such questions as that,-
Porthos, you will not help me at all. On the contrary, that is
precisely the Gordian knot. But, my friend, with a man like you, good,
generous, and devoted, the confession must be made bravely. I have
deceived you, my worthy friend."
  "You have deceived me!"
  "Good heavens! yes."
  "Was it for my good, Aramis?"
  "I thought so, Porthos; I thought so sincerely, my friend."
  "Then," said the honest Seigneur de Bracieux, "you have rendered
me a service, and I thank you for it,- for if you had not deceived me,
I might have deceived myself. In what, then, have you deceived me?"
  "In that I was serving the usurper against whom Louis XIV at this
moment is directing his efforts."
  "The usurper!" said Porthos, scratching his head. "That is- well,
I do not too clearly comprehend that!"
  "He is one of the two Kings who are contending for the crown of
France."
  "Very well! Then you were serving him who is not Louis XIV?"
  "You have hit upon the matter in a word."
  "It results that-"
  "We are rebels, my poor friend."
  "The devil! the devil!" cried Porthos, much disappointed.
  "Oh, but, dear Porthos, be calm! we shall still find means of
getting out of the affair, trust me."
  "It is not that which makes me uneasy," replied Porthos; "that which
alone touches me is that ugly word 'rebels.'"
  "Ah! but-"
  "And so the duchy that was promised me-,"
  "It was the usurper who was to give it to you."
  "And that is not the same thing, Aramis," said Porthos,
majestically.
  "My friend, if it had only depended upon me, you should have
become a prince."
  Porthos began to bite his nails after a melancholy fashion. "That is
where you have been wrong," continued he, "in deceiving me; for that
promised duchy I reckoned upon. Oh, I reckoned upon it seriously,
knowing you to be a man of your word, Aramis."
  "Poor Porthos! pardon me, I implore you!"
  "So, then," continued Porthos, without replying to the bishop's
prayer,- "so then, it seems, I have quite fallen out with Louis XIV?"
  "Oh, I will settle all that, my good friend; I will settle all that.
I will take it upon myself alone!"
  "Aramis!"
  "No, no, Porthos, I conjure you, let me act. No false generosity; no
inopportune devotedness! You knew nothing of my projects; you have
done nothing of yourself. With me it is different. I alone am the
author of the plot. I stood in need of my inseparable companion; I
called upon you, and you came to me in remembrance of our ancient
device, 'All for one, one for all.' My crime was that of being an
egotist."
  "Now, that is the word I like," said Porthos; "and seeing that you
have acted entirely for yourself, it is impossible for me to blame
you. It is so natural." And upon this sublime reflection, Porthos
pressed the hand of his friend cordially.
  In presence of this ingenuous greatness of soul, Aramis felt himself
little. It was the second time he had been compelled to bend before
real superiority of heart, much more powerful than splendor of mind.
He replied by a mute and energetic pressure to the kind endearment
of his friend.
  "Now," said Porthos, "that we have come to an explanation, now
that I am perfectly aware of our situation with respect to Louis
XIV, I think, my friend, it is time to make me comprehend the
political intrigue of which we are the victims,- for I plainly see
there is a political intrigue at the bottom of all this."
  "D'Artagnan, my good Porthos, d'Artagnan is coming and will detail
it to you in all its circumstances; but excuse me, I am overcome
with grief, bowed down by pain, and I have need of all my presence
of mind, of all my reflection, to extricate you from the false
position in which I have so imprudently involved you; but nothing
can be more clear, nothing more plain, than your position
henceforth. The King, Louis XIV, has now but one enemy; that enemy
is myself, myself alone. I have made you a prisoner, you have followed
me; to-day I liberate you, you fly back to your Prince. You can
perceive, Porthos, there is not a single difficulty in all this."
  "Do you think so?" said Porthos.
  "I am quite sure of it."
  "Then why," said the admirable good sense of Porthos,- "then why, if
we are in such an easy position, why, my friend, do we prepare cannon,
muskets, and engines of all sorts? It seems to me it would be much
more simple to say to Captain d'Artagnan, 'My dear friend, we have
been mistaken; that error is to be repaired. Open the door to us;
let us pass through, and good-day!'"
  "Ah! that!" said Aramis, shaking his head.
  "Why do you say 'that'? Do you not approve of my plan, my friend?"
  "I see a difficulty in it."
  "What is it?"
  "The possibility that d'Artagnan may come with orders which will
oblige us to defend ourselves."
  "What! defend ourselves against d'Artagnan? Folly! Against the
good d'Artagnan?"
  Aramis once more replied by shaking his head. "Porthos," at length
said he, "if I have had the matches lighted and the guns pointed; if I
have had the signal of alarm sounded; if I have called every man to
his post upon the ramparts,- those good ramparts of Belle-Isle which
you have so well fortified,- it is for something. Wait to judge; or
rather, no, do not wait-"
  "What can I do?"
  "If I knew, my friend, I would have told you."
  "But there is one thing much more simple than defending
ourselves,- a boat, and away for France where-"
  "My dear friend," said Aramis, smiling with a sort of melancholy,
"do not let us reason like children; let us be men in counsel and
execution. But, hark! I hear a hail for landing at the port.
Attention, Porthos, serious attention!"
  "It is d'Artagnan, no doubt," said Porthos, in a voice of thunder,
approaching the parapet.
  "Yes, it is I," replied the captain of the Musketeers, running
lightly up the steps of the pier, and gaining rapidly the little
esplanade upon which his two friends waited for him. As soon as he
came towards them Porthos and Aramis observed an officer who
followed d'Artagnan, treading apparently in his very steps. The
captain stopped upon the stairs of the pier when halfway up. His
companion imitated him.
  "Make your men draw back," cried d'Artagnan to Porthos and Aramis;
"let them retire out of hearing." The order being given by Porthos was
executed immediately. Then d'Artagnan, turning towards him who
followed him, said, "Monsieur, we are no longer here on board the
King's fleet, where, in virtue of your order, you spoke so
arrogantly to me just now."
  "Monsieur," replied the officer, "I did not speak arrogantly to you;
I simply but rigorously obeyed what I had been commanded. I have
been directed to follow you; I follow you. I am directed not to
allow you to communicate with any one without taking cognizance of
what you do; I am present therefore at your interview."
  D'Artagnan trembled with rage, and Porthos and Aramis, who heard
this dialogue, trembled likewise, but with uneasiness and fear.
D'Artagnan, biting his mustache with that vivacity which denoted in
him the state of exasperation closely to be followed by a terrible
explosion, approached the officer.
  "Monsieur," said he, in a low voice, the more impressive, because
affecting a calm, and filled with storm,- "Monsieur, when I sent a
canoe hither, you wished to know what I wrote to the defenders of
Belle-Isle. You produced an order to that effect; and in my turn I
instantly showed you the note I had written. When the skipper of the
boat sent by me returned; when I received the reply of these two
gentlemen [pointing to Aramis and Porthos],- you heard every word
the messenger said. All that was plainly in your orders, all that
was well followed, well executed, punctiliously enough, was it not?"
  "Yes, Monsieur," stammered the officer; "yes, without doubt, but-"
  "Monsieur," continued d'Artagnan, growing warm,- "Monsieur, when I
manifested the intention of quitting my vessel to cross to Belle-Isle,
you insisted on coming with me. I did not hesitate; I brought you with
me. You are now at Belle-Isle, are you not?"
  "Yes, Monsieur; but-"
  "But- the question no longer is of M. Colbert, who has given you
that order, or of any one in the world whose instructions you are
following; the question now is of a man who is a clog upon M.
d'Artagnan, and who is alone with M. d'Artagnan upon steps whose
base is bathed by thirty feet of salt water,- a bad position for
that man, a bad position, Monsieur, I warn you."
  "But, Monsieur, if I am a restraint upon you," said the officer
timidly and almost faintly, "it is my duty which-"
  "Monsieur, you have had the misfortune, you, or those who sent
you, to insult me. It is done. I cannot seek redress from those who
employ you,- they are unknown to me, or are at too great a distance.
But you are under my hand, and I swear that if you make one step
behind me when I lift a foot to go up to those gentlemen,- I swear
to you by my name, I will cleave your head with my sword, and pitch
you into the water. Oh, that must come which will come! I have only
been six times angry in my life, Monsieur, and in the five times which
have preceded this, I have killed my man."
  The officer did not stir; he became pale under this terrible threat,
and replied with simplicity, "Monsieur, you are wrong in acting
against the orders given me."
  Porthos and Aramis, mute and trembling at the top of the parapet,
cried to the musketeer, "Dear d'Artagnan, take care!"
  D'Artagnan made them a sign to keep silence, raised his foot with
a terrifying calmness to mount the stair, and turned round, sword in
hand, to see if the officer followed him. The officer made a sign of
the cross and followed. Porthos and Aramis, who knew their d'Artagnan,
uttered a cry, and rushed down to prevent the blow which they
thought they already heard. But d'Artagnan, passing his sword into his
left hand, said to the officer, in an agitated voice, "Monsieur, you
are a brave man. You will better comprehend what I am going to say
to you now than what I have just said to you."
  "Speak, M. d'Artagnan, speak!" replied the brave officer.
  "These gentlemen we have just seen, and against whom you have
orders, are my friends."
  "I know they are, Monsieur."
  "You can understand if I ought to act towards them as your
instructions prescribe."
  "I understand your reserves."
  "Very well; permit me, then, to converse with them without a
witness."
  "M. d'Artagnan, if I yielded to your request, if I did that which
you beg me to do, I should break my word; but if I do not do it, I
shall disoblige you. I prefer the one to the other. Converse with your
friends, and do not despise me, Monsieur, for doing for the sake of
you, whom I esteem and honor,- do not despise me for committing for
you, and you alone, an unworthy act." D'Artagnan, much agitated,
passed his arms rapidly round the neck of the young man, and went up
to his friends. The officer, enveloped in his cloak, sat down on the
damp weed-covered steps.
  "Well!" said d'Artagnan to his friends, "such is my position, as you
see." They all three embraced. All three pressed one another in
their arms as in the glorious days of their youth.
  "What is the meaning of all these rigors?" said Porthos.
  "You ought to have some suspicions of what it is," said d'Artagnan.
  "Not much, I assure you, my dear captain,- for, in fact, I have done
nothing; no more has Aramis," the worthy baron hastened to say.
  D'Artagnan darted a reproachful look at the prelate which penetrated
that hardened heart.
  "Dear Porthos!" cried the Bishop of Vannes.
  "You see what has been done against you," said d'Artagnan,-
"interception of all that is coming to or going from Belle-Isle.
Your boats are all seized. If you had endeavored to fly, you would
have fallen into the hands of the cruisers which plough the sea in all
directions on the watch for you. The King wants you to be taken, and
he will take you." And d'Artagnan tore several hairs from his gray
mustache. Aramis became sombre, Porthos angry.
  "My idea was this," continued d'Artagnan: "to make you both come
on board, to keep you near me, and restore you your liberty. But
now, who can say that when I return to my ship I may not find a
superior; that I may not find secret orders which will take from me my
command, and give it to another, who will dispose of you and me and
deprive us of all resources?"
  "We must remain at Belle-Isle," said Aramis, resolutely; "and I
assure you, for my part, I will not surrender easily." Porthos said
nothing.
  D'Artagnan remarked the silence of his friend. "I have another trial
to make of this officer, of this brave fellow who accompanies me,
whose courageous resistance makes me very happy,- for it denotes an
honest man, who, although an enemy, is a thousand times better than
a complaisant coward. Let us try to learn from him what he has the
right of doing, and what his orders permit or forbid."
  "Let us try," said Aramis.
  D'Artagnan came to the parapet, leaned over towards the steps of the
pier, and called the officer, who immediately came up. "Monsieur,"
said d'Artagnan, after having exchanged the most cordial courtesies,
natural between gentlemen who know and appreciate each other
worthily,- "Monsieur, if I wished to take away these gentlemen from
this place, what would you do?"
  "I should not oppose it, Monsieur; but having direct orders,
formal orders, to take them under my guard, I should detain them."
  "Ah!" said d'Artagnan.
  "It is all over," said Aramis, gloomily. Porthos did not stir.
  "But still take Porthos," said the Bishop of Vannes; "he can prove
to the King, I will help him in doing so, and you also can, M.
d'Artagnan, that he has had nothing to do in this affair."
  "Hum!" said d'Artagnan. "Will you come? Will you follow me, Porthos?
The King is merciful."
  "I beg to reflect," said Porthos, nobly.
  "You will remain here, then?"
  "Until fresh orders," said Aramis, with vivacity.
  "Until we have had an idea," resumed d'Artagnan; "and I now
believe that will not be a long time, for I have one already."
  "Let us say adieu, then," said Aramis; "but in truth, my good
Porthos, you ought to go."
  "No!" said the latter, laconically.
  "As you please," replied Aramis, a little wounded in his nervous
susceptibility at the morose tone of his companion. "Only I am
reassured by the promise of an idea from d'Artagnan,- an idea I
fancy I have divined."
  "Let us see," said the musketeer, placing his ear near Aramis's
mouth. The latter spoke several words rapidly, to which d'Artagnan
replied, "That is it precisely."
  "Infallible, then!" cried Aramis.
  "During the first emotion that this resolution will cause, take care
of yourself, Aramis."
  "Oh, don't be afraid!"
  "Now, Monsieur," said d'Artagnan to the officer, "thanks, a thousand
thanks! You have made yourself three friends for life."
  "Yes," added Aramis. Porthos alone said nothing, but merely bowed.
  D'Artagnan, having tenderly embraced his two old friends, left
Belle-Isle with the inseparable companion M. Colbert had given him.
Thus, with the exception of the explanation with which the worthy
Porthos had been willing to be satisfied, nothing apparently was
changed in the condition of the one or of the other. "Only," said
Aramis, "there is d'Artagnan's idea."
  D'Artagnan did not return on board without examining to the bottom
the idea he had discovered. Now, we know that when d'Artagnan did
examine, he was accustomed to see through. As to the officer, become
mute again, he left him full leisure to meditate. Therefore, on
putting his foot on board his vessel, moored within cannon-shot of the
island, the captain of the Musketeers had already got together all his
means, offensive and defensive.
  He immediately assembled his council, which consisted of the
officers serving under his orders. These were eight in number,- a
chief of the maritime forces; a major directing the artillery; an
engineer; the officer we are acquainted with; and four lieutenants.
Having assembled them in the chamber of the poop, d'Artagnan arose,
took off his hat, and addressed them thus: "Gentlemen, I have been
to reconnoitre Belle-Isle-en-Mer, and I have found in it a good and
solid garrison; moreover, preparations are made for a defence that may
prove troublesome. I therefore intend to send for two of the principal
officers of the place that we may converse with them. Having separated
them from their troops and their cannon, we shall be better able to
deal with them,- particularly with good reasoning. Is this your
opinion, gentlemen?"
  The major of artillery rose. "Monsieur," said he, with respect,
but with firmness, "I have heard you say that the place in preparing
to make a troublesome defence. The place is, then, as you know,
determined upon rebellion?"
  D'Artagnan was visibly put out by this reply; but he was not a man
to allow himself to be subdued by so little, and resumed.
"Monsieur," said he, "your reply is just. But you are ignorant that
Belle-Isle is a fief of M. Fouquet, and the ancient kings gave the
right to the seigneurs of Belle-Isle to arm their people."
  The major made a movement.
  "Oh, do not interrupt me," continued d'Artagnan. "You are going to
tell me that that right to arm themselves against the English was
not a right to arm themselves against their King. But it is not M.
Fouquet, I suppose, who holds Belle-Isle at this moment, since I
arrested M. Fouquet the day before yesterday. Now, the inhabitants and
defenders of Belle-Isle know nothing of that arrest. You would
announce it to them in vain. It is a thing so unheard of and
extraordinary, so unexpected, that they would not believe you. A
Breton serves his master, and not his masters; he serves his master
till he has seen him dead. Now, the Bretons, as I know, have not
seen the body of M. Fouquet. It is not then surprising that they
hold out against everything which is not M. Fouquet or his signature."
  The major bowed in sign of assent.
  "That is why," continued d'Artagnan, "I propose to cause two of
the principal officers of the garrison to come on board my vessel.
They will see you, gentlemen; they will see the forces we have at
our disposal; they will consequently know what they have to expect,
and the fate that attends them in case of rebellion. We will assure
them, upon our honor, that M. Fouquet is a prisoner, and that all
resistance can be only prejudicial to them. We will tell them that
when the first cannon is fired there will be no mercy to be expected
from the King. Then, I hope it at least, they will no longer resist.
They will yield without fighting, and we shall have a place given up
to us in a friendly way which it might cost us much trouble to
subdue."
  The officer who had followed d'Artagnan to Belle-Isle was
preparing to speak, but d'Artagnan interrupted him. "Yes, I know
what you are going to tell me, Monsieur; I know that there is an order
by the King to prevent all secret communications with the defenders of
Belle-Isle, and that is exactly why I do not offer to communicate
but in the presence of my staff."
  And d'Artagnan made an inclination of the head to his officers,
which was intended to give a value to that condescension.
  The officers looked at one another as if to read their opinions in
their eyes, with the evident intention of acting, after they should
have agreed, according to the desire of d'Artagnan. And already the
latter saw with joy that the result of their consent would be the
sending of a boat to Porthos and Aramis, when the King's officer
drew from his pocket a folded paper, which he placed in the hands of
d'Artagnan. This paper bore upon its superscription the number "1."
  "What, still another!" murmured the surprised captain.
  "Read, Monsieur," said the officer, with a courtesy that was not
free from sadness.
  D'Artagnan, full of mistrust, unfolded the paper, and read these
words:-

  "Prohibition to M. d'Artagnan to assemble any council whatever, or
to deliberate in any way before Belle-Isle be surrendered and the
prisoners shot.
                                                     "Signed: LOUIS."

  D'Artagnan repressed the movement of impatience that ran through his
whole body, and with a gracious smile, "That is well, Monsieur,"
said he; "the King's orders shall be obeyed."
        Chapter LXXII: Result of the Ideas of the King
                 and the Ideas of d'Artagnan

  THE blow was direct; it was severe, mortal. D'Artagnan, furious at
having been anticipated by an idea of the King, did not however yet
despair; and reflecting upon the idea he had brought back from
Belle-Isle, he derived from it a new means of safety for his
friends. "Gentlemen," said he, suddenly, "since the King has charged
some other than myself with his secret orders, it must be because I no
longer possess his confidence, and I should be really unworthy of it
if I had the courage to hold a command subject to so many injurious
suspicions. I will go then immediately and carry my resignation to the
King. I give it before you all, enjoining you all to fall back with me
upon the coast of France in such a way as not to compromise the safety
of the forces his Majesty has confided to me. For this purpose, return
all to your posts and command the return; within an hour we shall have
the floodtide. To your posts, gentlemen! I suppose," added he, on
seeing that all were prepared to obey him except the surveillant
officer, "you have no orders to object, this time?"
  And d'Artagnan almost triumphed while speaking these words. This
plan was the safety of his friends. The blockade once raised, they
might embark immediately, and set sail for England or Spain without
fear of being molested. While they were making their escape,
d'Artagnan would return to the King, would justify his return by the
indignation which the mistrust of Colbert had raised in him; he
would be sent back with full powers, and he would take Belle-Isle,-
that is to say, the cage, after the birds had flown. But to this
plan the officer opposed a second order of the King. It was thus
conceived:-

  "From the moment M. d'Artagnan shall have manifested the desire of
giving in his resignation, he shall no longer be reckoned leader of
the expedition, and every officer placed under his orders shall be
held no longer to obey him. Moreover, the said M. d'Artagnan, having
lost that quality of leader of the army sent against Belle-Isle, shall
set out immediately for France, in company with the officer who will
have remitted the message to him, who will consider him as a
prisoner for whom he is answerable."

  Brave and careless as he was, d'Artagnan turned pale. Everything had
been calculated with a depth which for the first time in thirty
years recalled to him the solid foresight and the inflexible logic
of the great cardinal. He leaned his head on his hand, thoughtful,
scarcely breathing. "If I were to put this order in my pocket,"
thought he, "who would know it, or who would prevent my doing it?
Before the King had had time to be informed, I should have saved those
poor fellows yonder. Let us exercise a little audacity! My head is not
one of those which the executioner strikes off for disobedience. We
will disobey!" But at the moment he was about to adopt this plan, he
saw the officers around him reading similar orders which the
infernal agent of the thoughts of Colbert had just distributed to
them. The case of disobedience had been foreseen as the others had
been.
  "Monsieur," said the officer, coming up to him, "I await your good
pleasure to depart."
  "I am ready, Monsieur," replied d'Artagnan, grinding his teeth.
  The officer immediately commanded a canoe to receive M. d'Artagnan
and himself. At sight of this d'Artagnan became almost mad with
rage. "How," stammered he, "will you carry on the direction of the
different corps?"
  "When you are gone, Monsieur," replied the commander of the fleet,
"it is to me the direction of the whole is committed."
  "Then, Monsieur," rejoined Colbert's man, addressing the new leader,
"it is for you that this last order that has been remitted to me is
intended. Let us see your powers."
  "Here they are," said the marine officer, exhibiting a royal
signature.
  "Here are your instructions," replied the officer, placing the
folded paper in his hands; and turning towards d'Artagnan, "Come,
Monsieur," said he, in an agitated voice (such despair did he behold
in that man of iron), "do me the favor to depart at once."
  "Immediately!" articulated d'Artagnan, feebly, subdued, crushed by
implacable impossibility.
  And he let himself slide down into the little boat, which started,
favored by wind and tide, for the coast of France. The King's Guards
embarked with him. The musketeer still preserved the hope of
reaching Nantes quickly, and of pleading the cause of his friends
eloquently enough to incline the King to mercy. The boat flew like a
swallow. D'Artagnan distinctly saw the land of France profiled in
black against the white clouds of night.
  "Ah, Monsieur," said he, in a low voice, to the officer, to whom for
an hour he had ceased speaking, "what would I give to know the
instructions for the new commander! They are all pacific, are they
not? and-"
  He did not finish; the sound of a distant cannon rolled over the
waters, then another, and two or three still louder. D'Artagnan
shuddered.
  "The fire is opened upon Belle-Isle," replied the officer. The canoe
had just touched the soil of France.
          Chapter LXXIII: The Ancestors of Porthos

  WHEN d'Artagnan had quitted Aramis and Porthos, the latter
returned to the principal fort to converse with the greater liberty.
Porthos, still thoughtful, was a constraint upon Aramis, whose mind
had never felt itself more free.
  "Dear Porthos," said he, suddenly, "I will explain d'Artagnan's idea
to you."
  "What idea, Aramis?"
  "An idea to which we shall owe our liberty within twelve hours."
  "Ah, indeed!" said Porthos, much astonished; "let us hear it."
  "Did you remark in the scene our friend had with the officer that
certain orders restrained him with regard to us?"
  "Yes, I did remark that."
  "Well, d'Artagnan is going to give in his resignation to the King;
and during the confusion which will result from his absence, we will
get away,- or rather, you will get away, Porthos, if there is a
possibility of flight only for one."
  Here, Porthos shook his head, and replied, "We will escape together,
Aramis, or we will remain here together."
  "You are a generous heart," said Aramis; "but your melancholy
uneasiness afflicts me."
  "I am not uneasy," said Porthos.
  "Then you are angry with me?"
  "I am not angry with you."
  "Then why, my friend, do you put on such a dismal countenance?"
  "I will tell you: I am making my will"; and while saying these
words, the good Porthos looked sadly in the face of Aramis.
  "Your will!" cried the bishop. "What then! do you think yourself
lost?"
  "I feel fatigued; it is the first time, and there is a custom in our
family."
  "What is it, my friend?"
  "My grandfather was a man twice as strong as I am."
  "Indeed!" said Aramis; "then your grandfather must have been
Samson himself."
  "No,- his name was Antoine. Well, he was of about my age when,
setting out one day for the chase, he felt his legs weak,- he who
had never before known that infirmity."
  "What was the meaning of that fatigue, my friend?"
  "Nothing good, as you will see,- for having set out, complaining
still of the weakness of his legs, he met a wild boar, which made head
against him. He missed him with his arquebuse, and was ripped up by
the beast, and died directly."
  "There is no reason in that why you should alarm yourself, dear
Porthos."
  "Oh, you will see. My father was as strong again as I am. He was a
rough soldier under Henry III and Henry IV; his name was not
Antoine, but Gaspard,- the same as M. de Coligny's. Always on
horseback, he had never known what lassitude was. One evening, as he
rose from table, his legs failed him."
  "He had supped heartily, perhaps," said Aramis; "and that was why he
staggered."
  "Bah! A friend of M. de Bassompierre? nonsense! No, no; he was
astonished at feeling this lassitude, and said to my mother, who
laughed at him, 'Would not one believe I was going to meet with a wild
boar, as the late M. du Vallon, my father, did?'"
  "Well?" said Aramis.
  "Well, braving this weakness, my father insisted upon going down
into the garden, instead of going to bed. His foot slipped on the
first stair; the staircase was steep; my father fell against a stone
angle, in which an iron hinge was fixed. The hinge opened his
temple, and he lay dead upon the spot."
  Aramis raised his eyes to his friend. "These are two extraordinary
circumstances," said he; "let us not infer that there may succeed a
third. It is not becoming in a man of your strength to be
superstitious, my brave Porthos. Besides, when were your legs seen
to fail? Never have you been so firm, so superb; why, you could
carry a house on your shoulders!"
  "At this moment," said Porthos, "I feel myself pretty active; but at
times I vacillate, I sink; and lately this phenomenon, as you call it,
has occurred four times. I will not say that this frightens me, but it
annoys me. Life is an agreeable thing. I have money, I have fine
estates, I have horses that I love; I have also friends I love,-
d'Artagnan, Athos, Raoul, and you."
  The admirable Porthos did not even take the trouble to conceal
from Aramis the rank he gave him in his friendship. Aramis pressed his
hand. "We will still live many years," said he, "to preserve in the
world specimens of rare men. Trust yourself to me, my friend; we
have no reply from d'Artagnan,- that is a good sign. He must have
given orders to get the vessels together and clear the seas. On my
part, I have just issued directions that a boat should be rolled
upon rollers to the mouth of the great cavern of Locmaria, which you
know, where we have so often lain in wait for foxes."
  "Yes, and which terminates at the little creek by a trench which
we discovered the day that splendid fox escaped that way."
  "Precisely. In case of misfortune, a boat is to be concealed for
us in that cavern; indeed, it must be there by this time. We will wait
for a favorable moment; and during the night, to sea!"
  "That is a good idea; what shall we gain by it?"
  "We shall gain by it that nobody knows that grotto, or rather its
issue, except ourselves and two or three hunters of the island; we
shall gain by it that if the island is occupied, the scouts, seeing no
boat upon the shore, will never imagine we can escape, and will
cease to watch."
  "I understand."
  "Well,- the legs?"
  "Oh, excellent, just now."
  "You see, then, plainly, that everything conspires to give us
quietude and hope. D'Artagnan will clear the sea and give us liberty
of action. No more royal fleet or descent to be dreaded. Vive Dieu!
Porthos, we have still half a century of good adventures before us;
and if I once touch Spanish ground, I swear to you," added the bishop,
with a terrible energy, "that your brevet of duke is not remote as
it now appears."
  "We will live in hope," said Porthos, a little enlivened by the
reviving warmth of his companion.
  All at once a cry resounded in their ears: "To arms! to arms!"
  This cry, repeated by a hundred voices, brought to the chamber where
the two friends were conversing surprise to the one and uneasiness
to the other. Aramis opened the window; he saw a crowd of people
running with torches. Women were seeking places of safety; the armed
men were hastening to their posts.
  "The fleet! the fleet!" cried a soldier, who recognized Aramis.
  "The fleet?" repeated the latter.
  "Within half-cannon-shot," continued the soldier.
  "To arms!" cried Aramis.
  "To arms!" repeated Porthos, formidably. And both rushed forth
towards the pier, to place themselves within the shelter of the
batteries. Boats laden with soldiers were seen approaching; they
took three directions for the purpose of landing at three points at
once.
  "What must be done?" said an officer of the guard.
  "Stop them; and if they persist, fire!" said Aramis.
  Five minutes after, the cannonade began. These were the shots that
d'Artagnan had heard as he landed in France. But the boats were too
near the pier to allow the cannon to aim correctly. They landed, and
the combat began hand to hand.
  "What's the matter, Porthos?" said Aramis to his friend.
  "Nothing! nothing!- only my legs. It is really incomprehensible;
they will be better when we charge." In fact, Porthos and Aramis did
charge with such vigor, they so thoroughly animated their men, that
the Royalists re-embarked precipitately without gaining anything but
the wounds they carried away.
  "Eh! but, Porthos," cried Aramis, "we must have a prisoner, quick!
quick!" Porthos bent over the stair of the pier, and seized by the
nape of the neck one of the officers of the royal army who was waiting
till all his people should be in the boat. The arm of the giant lifted
up his prey, which served him as a buckler, as he recovered himself
without a shot being fired at him.
  "Here is a prisoner for you," said Porthos, coolly, to Aramis.
  "Well!" cried the latter, laughing, "have you not calumniated your
legs?"
  "It was not with my legs I took him," said Porthos, sadly; "it was
with my arms!"
            Chapter LXXIV: The Son of Biscarrat

  THE Bretons of the isle were very proud of this victory; Aramis
did not encourage them in the feeling. "What will happen," said he
to Porthos, when everybody had gone home, "will be that the anger of
the King will be roused by the account of the resistance; and that
these brave people will be decimated or shot when the island is taken,
as it must be."
  "From which it results, then," said Porthos, "that what we have done
is of no use."
  "For the moment it may be of some," replied the bishop, "for we have
a prisoner from whom we shall learn what our enemies are preparing
to do."
  "Yes, let us interrogate the prisoner," said Porthos; "and the means
of making him speak are very simple. We are going to supper; we will
invite him to join us; when he drinks he will talk."
  This was done. The officer was at first rather uneasy, but became
reassured on seeing what sort of men he had to deal with. He gave,
without having any fear of compromising himself, all the details
imaginable of the resignation and departure of d'Artagnan. He
explained how after that departure the new leader of the expedition
had ordered a surprise upon Belle-Isle. There his explanations
stopped. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance which evinced their
despair. No more dependence to be placed upon the brave imagination of
d'Artagnan; consequently, no more resources in the event of defeat.
Aramis, continuing his interrogations, asked the prisoner what the
leaders of the expedition contemplated doing with the leaders of
Belle-Isle.
  "The orders are," replied he, "to kill during the combat, and hang
afterwards."
  Porthos and Aramis looked at each other again, and the color mounted
to their faces.
  "I am too light for the gallows," replied Aramis; "people like me
are not hung."
  "And I am too heavy," said Porthos; "people like me break the cord."
  "I am sure," said the prisoner, gallantly, "that we could have
procured you the sort of death you preferred."
  "A thousand thanks!" said Aramis, seriously.
  Porthos bowed. "One more cup of wine to your health," said he,
drinking himself.
  From one subject to another the chat with the officer was prolonged.
He was an intelligent gentleman, and suffered himself to be led away
by the charm of Aramis's wit and Porthos's cordial bonhomie. "Pardon
me," said he, "if I address a question to you; but men who are in
their sixth bottle have a clear right to forget themselves a little."
  "Address it!" said Porthos; "address it!"
  "Speak," said Aramis.
  "Were you not, gentlemen, both in the Musketeers of the late King?"
  "Yes, Monsieur, and of the best of them, if you please," said
Porthos.
  "That is true; I should say even the best of all soldiers,
Messieurs, if I did not fear to offend the memory of my father."
  "Of your father?" cried Aramis.
  "Do you know what my name is?"
  "Ma foi! no, Monsieur; but you can tell us, and-"
  "I am called Georges de Biscarrat."
  "Oh!" cried Porthos, in his turn, "Biscarrat! Do you remember that
name, Aramis?"
  "Biscarrat!" reflected the bishop. "It seems to me-"
  "Try to recollect, Monsieur," said the officer.
  "Pardieu! that won't take me long," said Porthos. "Biscarrat- called
Cardinal- one of the four who interrupted us the day on which we
formed our friendship with d'Artagnan, sword in hand."
  "Precisely, gentlemen."
  "The only one," cried Aramis, eagerly, "we did not wound."
  "Consequently, a good blade," said the prisoner.
  "That's true! very true!" exclaimed both the friends together. "Ma
foi! M. Biscarrat, we are delighted to make the acquaintance of such a
brave man's son."
  Biscarrat pressed the hands held out to him by the two former
musketeers. Aramis looked at Porthos as much as to say, "Here is a man
who will help us," and without delay, "Confess, Monsieur," said he,
"that it is good to have been a good man."
  "My father always said so, Monsieur."
  "Confess, likewise, that it is a sad circumstance in which you
find yourself,- falling in with men destined to be shot or hung, and
learning that these men are old acquaintances, old hereditary
acquaintances."
  "Oh! you are not reserved for such a frightful fate as that,
Messieurs and friends!" said the young man, warmly.
  "Bah! you said so yourself."
  "I said so just now, when I did not know you; but now that I know
you, I say you will avoid this dismal fate, if you like."
  "How,- if we like?" cried Aramis, whose eyes beamed with
intelligence as he looked alternately at the prisoner and Porthos.
  "Provided," continued Porthos, looking in his turn with noble
intrepidity at M. Biscarrat and the bishop,- "provided nothing
disgraceful be required of us."
  "Nothing at all will be required of you, gentlemen," replied the
officer; "what should they ask of you? If they find you they will kill
you,- that is a settled thing; try, then, gentlemen, to prevent
their finding you."
  "I don't think I am mistaken," said Porthos, with dignity; "but it
appears evident to me that if they want to find us, they must come and
seek us here."
  "In that you are perfectly right, my worthy friend," replied Aramis,
constantly consulting with his looks the countenance of Biscarrat, who
was silent and constrained. "You wish, M. de Biscarrat, to say
something to us, to make us some overture, and you dare not,- is not
that true?"
  "Ah, gentlemen and friends! it is because in speaking I betray my
duty. But, hark! I hear a voice which liberates mine by dominating
over it."
  "Cannon?" said Porthos.
  "Cannon and musketry too!" cried the bishop.
  On hearing at a distance among the rocks these sinister reports of a
combat which they thought had ceased, "What can that be?" asked
Porthos.
  "Eh, pardieu!" cried Aramis; "this is just what I expected."
  "What is that?"
  "The attack made by you was nothing but a feint,- is not that
true, Monsieur? And while your companions allowed themselves to be
repulsed, you were certain of effecting a landing on the other side of
the island."
  "Oh! several, Monsieur."
  "We are lost, then," said the Bishop of Vannes, quietly.
  "Lost! that is possible," replied the Seigneur de Pierrefonds;
"but we are not taken or hung." And so saying, he rose from the table,
went straight to the wall, and coolly took down his sword and pistols,
which he examined with the care of an old soldier who is preparing for
battle, and who feels that his life in a great measure depends upon
the excellence and the good condition of his arms.
  At the report of the cannon, at the news of the surprise which might
deliver up the isle to the royal troops, the terrified crowd rushed
precipitately to the fort to demand assistance and advice from their
leaders. Aramis, pale and downcast, between two torches, showed
himself at the window which looked into the principal court full of
soldiers waiting for orders and bewildered inhabitants imploring
succor.
  "My friends," said d'Herblay, in a grave and sonorous voice, "M.
Fouquet, your protector, your friend, your father, has been arrested
by an order of the King and thrown into the Bastille." A long cry of
fury and menace came floating up to the window at which the bishop
stood, and enveloped him in a vibrating fluid.
  "Avenge M. Fouquet!" cried the most excited of his hearers, "and
death to the Royalists!"
  "No, my friends," replied Aramis, solemnly,- "no, my friends; no
resistance. The King is master in his kingdom. The King is the
mandatory of God. The King and God have struck M. Fouquet. Humble
yourselves before the hand of God. Love God and the King, who have
struck M. Fouquet. But do not avenge your seigneur; do not think of
avenging him. You would sacrifice yourselves in vain,- you, your wives
and children, your property, and your liberty. Lay down your arms,
my friends; lay down your arms,- since the King commands you so to
do,- and retire peaceably to your dwellings. It is I who ask you to do
so; it is I who beg you to do so; it is I who now, in the hour of
need, command you to do so in the name of M. Fouquet."
  The crowd collected under the window uttered a prolonged growl of
anger and terror. "The soldiers of Louis XIV have entered the island,"
continued Aramis. "From this time it would no longer be a combat
between them and you,- it would be a massacre. Go, then; go and
forget. This time I command you in the name of the Lord."
  The mutineers retired slowly, submissive and silent.
  "Ah! what have you just been saying there, my friend?" said Porthos.
  "Monsieur," said Biscarrat to the bishop, "you may save all these
inhabitants, but you will neither save yourself nor your friend."
  "M. de Biscarrat," said the Bishop of Vannes, with a singular accent
of nobleness and courtesy,- "M. de Biscarrat, be kind enough to resume
your liberty."
  "I am very willing to do so, Monsieur, but-"
  "That would render us a service, for when announcing to the King's
lieutenant the submission of the islanders, you will perhaps obtain
some grace for us on informing him of the manner in which that
submission has been effected."
  "Grace!" replied Porthos, with flashing eyes, "what is the meaning
of that word?"
  Aramis touched the elbow of his friend roughly, as he had been
accustomed to do in the days of their youth, when he wanted to warn
Porthos that he had committed, or was about to commit, a blunder.
Porthos understood him, and was silent immediately.
  "I will go, Messieurs," replied Biscarrat, a little surprised
likewise at the word "grace" pronounced by the haughty musketeer,
whose heroic exploits he had just been reciting with so much
enthusiasm.
  "Go, then, M. Biscarrat," said Aramis, bowing to him, "and at
parting receive the expression of our entire gratitude."
  "But you, Messieurs,- you whom I have the honor to call my
friends, since you have been willing to accept that title,- what
will become of you in the mean time?" replied the officer, very much
agitated at taking leave of the two former adversaries of his father.
  "We will wait here."
  "But, mon Dieu! the order is formal."
  "I am Bishop of Vannes, M. de Biscarrat; and they no more shoot a
bishop than they hang a gentleman."
  "Ah, yes, Monsieur,- yes, Monseigneur," replied Biscarrat; "it is
true. You are right; there is still that chance for you. Then I will
depart, I will repair to the commander of the expedition, the King's
lieutenant. Adieu, then, Messieurs or rather, au revoir!"
  The worthy officer, then jumping upon a horse given him by Aramis,
departed in the direction of the sound of the cannon, which, by
bringing the crowd into the fort, had interrupted the conversation
of the two friends with their prisoner. Aramis watched his
departure, and when left alone with Porthos, "Well, do you
comprehend?" said he.
  "Ma foi! no."
  "Did not Biscarrat inconvenience you here?"
  "No; he is a brave fellow."
  "Yes; but the grotto of Locmaria,- is it necessary that all the
world should know it?"
  "Ah! that is true, that is true; I comprehend. We are going to
escape by the cavern."
  "If you please," replied Aramis, joyously. "Forward, my friend
Porthos; our boat awaits us, and the King has not caught us yet."
           Chapter LXXV: The Grotto of Locmaria

  THE cavern of Locmaria was sufficiently distant from the pier to
render it necessary for our friends to husband their strength to
arrive there. Besides, the night was advancing; midnight had struck at
the fort. Porthos and Aramis were loaded with money and arms. They
walked, then, across the heath which is between the pier and the
cavern, listening to every noise, and endeavoring to avoid ambushes.
From time to time, on the road, which they had carefully left on their
left hand, passed fugitives coming from the interior at the news of
the landing of the royal troops. Aramis and Porthos, concealed
behind some projecting mass of rock, collected the words which escaped
from the poor people, who fled trembling, carrying with them their
most valuable effects, and tried, while listening to their complaints,
to draw something from them for their own interest. At length, after a
rapid course, frequently interrupted by cautious delays, they
reached the deep grotto into which the foreseeing Bishop of Vannes had
taken care to have rolled upon cylinders a good boat capable of
keeping the sea at this fine season.
  "My good friend," said Porthos, after having respired vigorously,
"we are arrived, it seems. But I thought you spoke of three men,-
three servants who were to accompany us. I don't see them; where are
they?"
  "Why should you see them, dear Porthos?" replied Aramis. "They are
certainly waiting for us in the cavern, and, no doubt, are resting for
a moment after having accomplished their rough and difficult task." He
stopped Porthos, who was preparing to enter the cavern. "Will you
allow me, my friend," said he to the giant, "to pass in first? I
know the signal I have given to these men, who, not hearing it,
would be very likely to fire upon you or slash away with their
knives in the dark."
  "Go on, then, Aramis; go on,- go first. You are all wisdom and
prudence; go on. Ah! there is that fatigue of which I spoke to you. It
has just seized me again."
  Aramis left Porthos sitting at the entrance of the grotto, and
bowing his head, he penetrated into the interior of the cavern,
imitating the cry of the owl. A little plaintive cooing, a scarcely
distinct cry, replied from the depths of the cave. Aramis pursued
his way cautiously, and soon was stopped by the same kind of cry as he
had first uttered, and this cry sounded within ten paces of him.
  "Are you there, Yves?" said the bishop.
  "Yes, Monseigneur; Goennec is here likewise. His son accompanies
us."
  "That is well. Are all things ready?"
  "Yes, Monseigneur."
  "Go to the entrance of the grotto, my good Yves, and you will
there find the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, who is resting after the
fatigues of our journey; and if he should happen not to be able to
walk, lift him up, and bring him here."
  The three men obeyed; but the recommendation Aramis had given to his
servants was useless. Porthos, refreshed, had already himself begun
the descent, and his heavy step resounded among the cavities formed
and supported by columns of silex and granite. As soon as the Seigneur
de Bracieux had rejoined the bishop, the Bretons lighted a lantern
with which they were furnished, and Porthos assured his friend that he
felt as strong as ever.
  "Let us visit the canoe," said Aramis, "and see in the first place
what it will hold."
  "Do not go too near with the light," said the skipper Yves; "for, as
you desired me, Monseigneur, I have placed under the bench of the
poop, in the coffer you know of, the barrel of powder, and the
musket-charges that you sent me from the fort."
  "Very well," said Aramis; and taking the lantern himself, he
examined minutely all parts of the canoe with the precautions of a man
who is neither timid nor ignorant in the face of danger. The canoe was
long, light, drawing little water, thin of keel,- in short, one of
those which have always been so well constructed at Belle-Isle,- a
little high in its sides, solid upon the water, very manageable,
furnished with planks which in uncertain weather form a sort of bridge
over which the waves glide, and which protect the rowers. In two
well-closed coffers placed beneath the benches of the prow and the
poop, Aramis found bread, biscuit, dried fruits, a quarter of bacon, a
good provision of water in leathern bottles,- the whole forming
rations sufficient for people who did not mean to quit the coast,
and would be able to revictual, if necessity demanded. The arms, eight
muskets and as many horse-pistols, were in good condition, and all
loaded. There were additional oars, in case of accident, and that
little sail called trinquette, which assists the speed of the canoe at
the same time the boatmen row, and is so useful when the breeze is
slack. When Aramis had seen all these things, and appeared satisfied
with the result of his inspection, "Let us consider, Porthos," said
he, "whether to endeavor to get the boat out by the unknown
extremity of the grotto, following the descent and the shade of the
cavern, or whether it be better to make it slide upon the rollers
through the bushes in the open air, levelling the road of the little
beach, which is but twenty feet high, and gives at its foot, in the
tide, three or four fathoms of good water upon a sound bottom."
  "It must be as you please, Monseigneur," replied the skipper Yves,
respectfully; "but I don't believe that by the slope of the cavern,
and in the dark in which we shall be obliged to manoeuvre our boat,
the road will be so convenient as in the open air. I know the beach
well, and can certify that it is as smooth as a grass-plot in a
garden; the interior of the grotto, on the contrary, is rough,-
without again reckoning, Monseigneur, that at the extremity we shall
come to the trench which leads into the sea and which perhaps the
canoe will not pass."
  "I have made my calculations," said the bishop, "and I am certain it
would pass."
  "So be it; I wish it may, Monseigneur," the skipper insisted. "But
your Greatness knows very well that to make it reach the extremity
of the trench, there is an enormous stone to be lifted,- that under
which the fox always passes, and which closes the trench like a door."
  "That can be raised," said Porthos; "that is nothing."
  "Oh! I know that Monseigneur has the strength of ten men," replied
Yves; "but that is giving Monseigneur a great deal of trouble."
  "I think the skipper may be right," said Aramis; "let us try the
open passage."
  "The more so, Monseigneur," continued the fisherman, "that we should
not be able to embark before day, it would require so much labor;
and that as soon as daylight appears, a good vedette placed outside
the grotto would be necessary, indispensable even, to watch the
manoeuvres of the lighters or the cruisers that are upon the lookout
for us."
  "Yes, yes, Yves, your reasons are good; we will go by the beach."
  And the three robust Bretons went to the boat, and were beginning to
place their rollers underneath it to put it in motion, when the
distant barking of dogs was heard, proceeding from the interior of the
island.
  Aramis darted out of the grotto, followed by Porthos. Dawn just
tinted with purple and white the waves and the plain; through the
dim light the young melancholy firs waved their tender branches over
the pebbles, and long flights of crows were skimming with their
black wings over the thin fields of buckwheat. In a quarter of an hour
it would be clear daylight; the awakened birds joyously announced it
to all nature. The barkings which had been heard, which had stopped
the three fishermen engaged in moving the boat, and had brought Aramis
and Porthos out of the cavern, were prolonged in a deep gorge within
about a league of the grotto.
  "It is a pack of hounds," said Porthos; "the dogs are upon a scent."
  "Who can be hunting at such a moment as this?" said Aramis.
  "And this way, particularly," continued Porthos, "this way, where
they may expect the army of the Royalists."
  "The noise comes nearer. Yes, you are right, Porthos, the dogs are
on a scent. But, Yves!" cried Aramis, "come here! come here!"
  Yves ran towards him, letting fall the cylinder which he was about
to place under the boat when the bishop's call interrupted him.
  "What is the meaning of this hunt, Skipper?" said Porthos.
  "Eh, Monseigneur, I cannot understand it," replied the Breton. "It
is not at such a moment that the Seigneur de Locmaria would hunt.
No; and yet the dogs-"
  "Unless they have escaped from the kennel."
  "No," said Goennec, "they are not the Seigneur de Locmaria's
hounds."
  "In common prudence," said Aramis, "let us go back into the
grotto; the voices evidently draw nearer, we shall soon know what we
have to expect."
  They re-entered, but had scarcely proceeded a hundred steps in the
darkness when a noise like the hoarse sigh of a creature in distress
resounded through the cavern, and breathless, running, terrified, a
fox passed like a flash of lightning before the fugitives, leaped over
the boat and disappeared, leaving behind it its sour scent, which
was perceptible for several seconds under the low vaults of the cave.
  "The fox!" cried the Bretons, with the joyous surprise of hunters.
  "Accursed chance!" cried the bishop; "our retreat is discovered."
  "How so?" said Porthos; "are we afraid of a fox?"
  "Eh, my friend, what do you mean by that, and why do you name the
fox? It is not the fox alone, pardieu! But don't you know, Porthos,
that after the fox come hounds, and after the hounds men?"
  Porthos hung his head. As if to confirm the words of Aramis they
heard the yelping pack coming with frightful swiftness upon the
trail of the animal. Six foxhounds burst out at once upon the little
heath, with a cry resembling the noise of a triumph.
  "There are the dogs plain enough!" said Aramis, posted on the
look-out behind a chink between two rocks; "now, who are the
huntsmen?"
  "If it is the Seigneur de Locmaria's," replied the skipper, "he will
leave the dogs to hunt the grotto, for he knows them, and will not
enter in himself, being quite sure that the fox will come out at the
other side; it is there he will go and wait for him."
  "It is not the Seigneur de Locmaria who is hunting," replied Aramis,
turning pale in spite of himself.
  "Who is it, then?" said Porthos.
  "Look!"
  Porthos applied his eye to the slit, and saw at the summit of a
hillock a dozen horsemen urging on their horses in the track of the
dogs, shouting, "Tally-ho! tally-ho!"
  "The Guards!" said he.
  "Yes, my friend, the King's Guards."
  "The King's Guards, do you say, Monseigneur?" cried the Bretons,
becoming pale in their turn.
  "And Biscarrat at their head, mounted upon my gray horse," continued
Aramis.
  The hounds at the same moment rushed into the grotto like an
avalanche, and the depths of the cavern were filled with their
deafening cries.
  "Ah, the devil!" said Aramis, resuming all his coolness at the sight
of this certain, inevitable danger. "I know well we are lost, but we
have at least one chance left. If the guards who follow their hounds
happen to discover there is an issue to the grotto, there is no more
help for us, for on entering they must see both us and our boat. The
dogs must not go out of the cavern. The masters must not enter."
  "That is clear," said Porthos.
  "You understand," added Aramis, with the rapid precision of command;
"there are six dogs which will be forced to stop at the great stone
under which the fox has glided, but at the too narrow opening of which
they shall be themselves stopped and killed."
  The Bretons sprang forward, knife in hand. In a few minutes there
was a lamentable concert of growls and mortal howlings, and then-
nothing.
  "That's well!" said Aramis, coolly; "now for the masters!"
  "What is to be done with them?" said Porthos.
  "Wait their arrival, conceal ourselves, and kill them."
  "Kill them!" replied Porthos.
  "There are sixteen," said Aramis,- "at least for the time being."
  "And well armed," added Porthos, with a smile of consolation.
  "It will last about ten minutes," said Aramis. "To work!" And with a
resolute air he took up a musket, and placed his hunting-knife between
his teeth. "Yves, Goennec, and his son," continued he, "will pass
the muskets to us. You, Porthos, will fire when they are close. We
shall have brought down eight before the others are aware of anything,
that is certain; then we all- there are five of us- will despatch
the other eight, knife in hand."
  "And poor Biscarrat?" said Porthos.
  Aramis reflected a moment. "Biscarrat first of all," replied he,
coolly; "he knows us."
                Chapter LXXVI: The Grotto

  IN SPITE of the sort of divination which was the remarkable side
of the character of Aramis, the event, subject to the chances of
things over which uncertainty presides, did not fall out exactly as
the Bishop of Vannes had foreseen. Biscarrat, better mounted than
his companions, arrived first at the opening of the grotto, and
comprehended that the fox and the dogs were all engulfed in it. But,
struck by that superstitious terror which every dark and subterraneous
way naturally impresses upon the mind of man, he stopped at the
outside of the grotto, and waited till his companions should have
assembled round him.
  "Well?" asked the young men, coming up out of breath, and unable
to understand the meaning of his inaction.
  "Well, I cannot hear the dogs; they and the fox must be all engulfed
in this cavern."
  "They were too close up," said one of the guards, "to have lost
scent all at once; besides, we should hear them from one side or
another. They must, as Biscarrat says, be in this grotto."
  "But then," said one of the young men, "why don't they give tongue?"
  "It is strange!" said another.
  "Well, but," said a fourth, "let us go into this grotto. Is it
forbidden that we should enter it?"
  "No," replied Biscarrat; "only, as it looks as dark as a wolf's
mouth, we might break our necks in it."
  "Witness the dogs," said a guard, "who seem to have broken theirs."
  "What the devil can have become of them?" asked the young men, in
chorus; and every master called his dog by his name, whistled to him
in his favorite note, without a single reply to either the call or the
whistle.
  "It is perhaps an enchanted grotto," said Biscarrat. "Let us see";
and jumping from his horse, he made a step into the grotto.
  "Stop! stop! I will accompany you," said one of the guards, on
seeing Biscarrat preparing to disappear in the shade of the cavern's
mouth.
  "No," replied Biscarrat,- "there must be something extraordinary
in the place; don't let us risk ourselves all at once. If in ten
minutes you do not hear of me, you can come in,- but then all at
once."
  "Be it so," said the young men, who besides did not see that
Biscarrat ran much risk in the enterprise, "we will wait for you"; and
without dismounting from their horses, they formed a circle round
the grotto.
  Biscarrat entered then alone, and advanced through the darkness till
he came in contact with the muzzle of Porthos's musket. The resistance
against his breast astonished him; he raised his hand and laid hold of
the icy barrel. At the same instant Yves lifted a knife against the
young man, which was about to fall upon him with all the force of a
Breton's arm, when the iron wrist of Porthos stopped it halfway. Then,
like low-muttering thunder, his voice growled in the darkness, "I will
not have him killed!" Biscarrat found himself between a protection and
a threat,- the one almost as terrible as the other. However brave
the young man might be, he could not prevent a cry escaping him, which
Aramis immediately suppressed by placing a handkerchief over his
mouth. "M. de Biscarrat," said he, in a low voice, "we mean you no
harm, and you must know that if you have recognized us; but at the
first word, the first sigh, or the first breath, we shall be forced to
kill you as we have killed your dogs."
  "Yes, I recognize you, gentlemen," said the officer, in a low voice;
"but why are you here; what are you doing here? Unfortunate men! I
thought you were in the fort."
  "And you, Monsieur,- you were to obtain conditions for us, I think?"
  "I did all I could, Messieurs; but-"
  "But what?"
  "But there are positive orders."
  "To kill us?" Biscarrat made no reply; it would have cost him too
much to speak of the cord to gentlemen.
  Aramis understood the silence of his prisoner. "M. Biscarrat,"
said he, "you would be already dead if we had not had regard for
your youth and our ancient association with your father; but you may
yet escape from the place by swearing that you will not tell your
companions what you have seen."
  "I will not only swear that I will not speak of it," said Biscarrat,
"but I still further swear that I will do everything in the world to
prevent my companions from setting foot in the grotto."
  "Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" cried several voices from the outside,
coming like a whirlwind into the cave.
  "Reply," said Aramis.
  "Here am I!" cried Biscarrat.
  "Now go; we depend upon your loyalty"; and he left his hold of the
young man, who hastily returned towards the light.
  "Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" cried the voices, still nearer; and the
shadows of several human forms projected into the interior of the
grotto.
  Biscarrat rushed to meet his friends in order to stop them, and
met them just as they were venturing into the cave. Aramis and Porthos
listened with the intense attention of men whose lives depend upon a
breath of air.
  Biscarrat had regained the entrance to the cave, followed by his
friends.
  "Oh, oh!" exclaimed one of the guards, as he came to the light, "how
pale you are!"
  "Pale!" cried another; "you ought to say livid."
  "I?" said the young man, endeavoring to collect his faculties.
  "In the name of Heaven, what has happened to you?" exclaimed all
voices.
  "You have not a drop of blood in your veins, my poor friend," said
one of them, laughing.
  "Messieurs, it is serious," said another. "He is going to faint;
does any one of you happen to have any salts?" and they all laughed.
  All these interpellations, all these jokes, crossed one another
round Biscarrat as the balls cross one another in the fire of a melee.
He recovered himself amid a deluge of interrogations. "What do you
suppose I have seen?" asked he. "I was too hot when I entered the
grotto, and I have been struck with the cold; that is all."
  "But the dogs,- the dogs; have you seen them again; have you heard
anything of them; do you know anything about them?"
  "I suppose they have gone out by another way."
  "Messieurs," said one of the young men, "there is in that which is
going on, in the paleness and silence of our friend, a mystery which
Biscarrat will not or cannot reveal. Only- and that is a certainty-
Biscarrat has seen something in the grotto. Well, for my part, I am
very curious to see what it is, even if it were the devil. To the
grotto, Messieurs! to the grotto!
  "To the grotto!" repeated all the voices. And the echo of the cavern
carried like a menace to Porthos and Aramis, "To the grotto! to the
grotto!" Biscarrat threw himself before his companions. "Messieurs!
Messieurs!" cried he, "in the name of Heaven, do not go in!"
  "Why, what is there so terrific in the cavern?" asked several at
once. "Come, speak, Biscarrat."
  "Decidedly, it is the devil he has seen," repeated he who had before
advanced that hypothesis.
  "Well," said another, "if he has seen him, he need not be selfish;
he may as well let us have a look at him in our turns."
  "Messieurs! Messieurs! I beseech you!" urged Biscarrat.
  "Nonsense! Let us pass!"
  "Messieurs, I implore you not to enter!"
  "Why, you went in yourself."
  Then one of the officers who, of a riper age than the others, had
till this time remained behind and had said nothing, advanced.
"Messieurs," said he, with a calmness which contrasted with the
animation of the young men, "there is down there some person or some
thing which is not the devil but which, whatever it may be, has had
sufficient power to silence our dogs. We must know who this some one
is, or what this something is."
  Biscarrat made a last effort to stop his friends; but it was
useless. In vain he threw himself before the most rash; in vain he
clung to the rocks to bar the passage; the crowd of young men rushed
into the cave in the steps of the officer who had spoken last, but who
had sprung in first, sword in hand, to face the unknown danger.
Biscarrat, repulsed by his friends, not able to accompany them without
passing in the eyes of Porthos and Aramis for a traitor and a
perjurer, with attentive ear and still supplicating hands leaned
against the rough side of a rock which he thought must be exposed to
the fire of the musketeers. As to the guards, they penetrated
farther and farther, with cries that grew weaker as they advanced. All
at once, a discharge of musketry, growling like thunder, exploded
beneath the vault. Two or three balls were flattened against the
rock where Biscarrat was leaning. At the same instant cries, howlings,
and imprecations burst forth, and the little troop of gentlemen
reappeared- some pale, some bleeding- all enveloped in a cloud of
smoke, which the outward air seemed to draw from the depths of the
cavern. "Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" cried the fugitives, "you knew there
was an ambuscade in that cavern, and you have not warned us!
Biscarrat, you have caused four of us to be killed! Woe be to you,
Biscarrat!"
  "You are the cause of my being wounded to death," said one of the
young men, gathering his blood in his hand, and casting it into the
face of Biscarrat. "My blood be upon your head!" And he rolled in
agony at the feet of the young man.
  "But, at least, tell us who is there!" cried several furious voices.
  Biscarrat remained silent. "Tell us, or die!" cried the wounded man,
raising himself upon one knee, and lifting towards his companion an
arm bearing a useless sword. Biscarrat rushed towards him, opening his
breast for the blow, but the wounded man fell back not to rise
again, uttering a groan which was his last. Biscarrat, with hair on
end, haggard eyes, and bewildered head, advanced towards the
interior of the cavern, saying, "You are right. Death to me, who
have allowed my companions to be assassinated! I am a base wretch!"
And throwing away his sword, for he wished to die without defending
himself, he rushed head foremost into the cavern. The eleven who
remained out of sixteen imitated his example; but they did not go
farther than before. A second discharge laid five upon the icy sand;
and as it was impossible to see whence this murderous thunder
issued, the others fell back with a terror than can be better imagined
than described. But, far from flying, as the others had done,
Biscarrat remained, safe and sound, seated on a fragment of rock,
and waited. There were only six gentlemen left.
  "Seriously," said one of the survivors, "is it the devil?"
  "Ma foi! it is much worse," said another.
  "Ask Biscarrat, he knows."
  "Where is Biscarrat?" The young men looked around them and saw
that Biscarrat did not answer.
  "He is dead!" said two or three voices.
  "Oh, no," replied another; "I saw him through the smoke, sitting
quietly on a rock. He is in the cavern; he is waiting for us."
  "He must know who is there."
  "And how should he know them?"
  "He was taken prisoner by the rebels."
  "That is true. Well; let us call him, and learn from him with whom
we have to deal." And all voices shouted, "Biscarrat! Biscarrat!"
But Biscarrat did not answer.
  "Good!" said the officer who had shown so much coolness in the
affair. "We have no longer any need of him; here are reinforcements
coming."
  In fact, a company of the Guards, left in the rear by their
officers, whom the ardor of the chase had carried away,- from
seventy-five to eighty men,- arrived in good order, led by their
captain and the first lieutenant. The five officers hastened to meet
their soldiers; and in a language the eloquence of which may be easily
imagined, they related the adventure and asked for aid. The captain
interrupted them. "Where are your companions?" demanded he.
  "Dead!"
  "But there were sixteen of you!"
  "Ten are dead. Biscarrat is in the cavern, and we are five."
  "Biscarrat is then a prisoner?"
  "Probably."
  "No,- for here he is; look." In fact, Biscarrat appeared at the
opening of the grotto.
  "He makes us a sign to come on," said the officer. "Come on!"
  "Come on!" cried all the troop; and they advanced to meet Biscarrat.
  "Monsieur," said the captain addressing Biscarrat, "I am assured
that you know who the men are in that grotto who make such a desperate
defence. In the King's name I command you to declare what you know."
  "Captain," said Biscarrat, "you have no need to command me. My
word has been restored to me this very instant; and I come in the name
of these men."
  "To tell me that they surrender?"
  "To tell you that they are determined to defend themselves to the
death, unless you grant them good terms."
  "How many are there of them, then?"
  "There are two," said Biscarrat.
  "There are two- and they want to impose conditions upon us?"
  "There are two, and they have already killed ten of our men."
  "What are they,- giants?"
  "Better than that. Do you remember the history of the bastion St.
Gervais, Captain?"
  "Yes; where four musketeers held out against an army."
  "Well, these two men were of those musketeers."
  "And their names?"
  "At that period they were called Porthos and Aramis. Now they are
styled M. d'Herblay and M. du Vallon."
  "And what interest have they in all this?"
  "It is they who held Belle-Isle for M. Fouquet!"
  A murmur ran through the ranks of the soldiers on hearing the two
words, "Porthos and Aramis." "The musketeers! the musketeers!"
repeated they. And among all these brave men, the idea that they
were going to have a struggle against two of the oldest glories of the
French army made a shiver, half enthusiasm, half terror, run through
them. In fact, those four names- d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and
Aramis- were venerated among all who wore a sword, as in antiquity the
names of Hercules, Theseus, Castor, and Pollux were venerated.
  "Two men! and they have killed ten in two discharges! That is
impossible, M. Biscarrat!"
  "Eh, Captain," replied the latter, "I do not say that they have
not with them two or three men, as the musketeers of the bastion St.
Gervais had two or three lackeys. But believe me, Captain, I have seen
these men, I have been taken prisoner by them, I know them; they alone
would suffice to destroy an army."
  "That we shall see," said the captain, and in a moment too.
Gentlemen, attention!"
  At this reply, no one stirred, and all prepared to obey. Biscarrat
alone risked a last attempt. "Monsieur," said he, in a low voice,
"believe me; let us pass on our way. Those two men, those two lions
you are going to attack, will defend themselves to the death. They
have already killed ten of our men; they will kill double the
number, and end by killing themselves rather than surrender. What
shall we gain by fighting them?"
  "We shall gain the consciousness, Monsieur, of not having made
eighty of the King's Guards retire before two rebels. If I listened to
your advice, Monsieur, I should be a dishonored man; and by
dishonoring myself I should dishonor the army. Forward, men!"
  And he marched first as far as the opening of the grotto. There he
halted. The object of this halt was to give to Biscarrat and his
companions time to describe to him the interior of the grotto. Then,
when he believed he had a sufficient acquaintance with the place, he
divided his company into three bodies, which were to enter
successively, keeping up a sustained fire in all directions. No
doubt in this attack they would lose five more men, perhaps ten; but
certainly they must end by taking the rebels, since there was no
issue; and at any rate two men could not kill eighty.
  "Captain," said Biscarrat, "I beg to be allowed to march at the head
of the first platoon."
  "So be it," replied the captain; "you have all the honor of it. That
is a present I make you."
  "Thanks!" replied the young man, with all the firmness of his race.
  "Take your sword, then."
  "I shall go as I am, Captain," said Biscarrat, "for I do not go to
kill, I go to be killed." And placing himself at the head of the first
platoon with his head uncovered and his arms crossed, "March,
gentlemen!" said he.
              Chapter LXXVII: An Homeric Song

  IT IS time to pass into the other camp, and to describe at once
the combatants and the field of battle. Aramis and Porthos had gone to
the grotto of Locmaria with the expectation of finding in that place
their canoe, ready moored, as well as the three Bretons, their
assistants; and they at first hoped to make the boat pass through
the little issue of the cavern, concealing in that fashion both
their labors and their flight. The arrival of the fox and the dogs had
obliged them to remain concealed. The grotto extended the space of
about a hundred toises to a little slope dominating a creek.
Formerly a temple of the Celtic divinities when Belle-Isle was still
called Calonese, this grotto had seen more than one human sacrifice
accomplished in its mysterious depths. The first entrance to the
cavern was by a moderate descent, above which heaped up rocks formed a
low arcade; the interior, very unequal as to the ground, dangerous
from the rocky inequalities of the vault, was subdivided into
several compartments which commanded one another and were joined by
means of several rough broken steps, fixed right and left in
enormous natural pillars. At the third compartment the vault was so
low, the passage so narrow, that the boat would scarcely have passed
without touching the two sides; nevertheless, in a moment of
despair, wood softens and stone becomes compliant under the breath
of human will. Such was the thought of Aramis, when, after having
fought the fight, he decided upon flight,- a flight certainly
dangerous, since all the assailants were not dead, and since admitting
the possibility of putting the boat to sea, they would have to fly
in open day, before the eyes of the conquered, who, on discovering how
few they were, would be eager in pursuit.
  When the two discharges had killed ten men, Aramis, habituated to
the windings of the cavern, went to reconnoitre them one by one, and
counted them, for the smoke prevented seeing on beyond; and he
immediately commanded that the canoe should be rolled as far as the
great stone, the closure of the liberating issue. Porthos collected
all his strength, and took the canoe in his arms and lifted it,
while the Bretons made it run rapidly along the rollers. They had
descended into the third compartment; they had arrived at the stone
which walled up the outlet. Porthos seized this gigantic stone at
its base, applied his robust shoulder to it, and gave a heave which
made this wall crack. A cloud of dust fell from the vault with the
ashes of ten thousand generations of sea-birds, whose nests stuck like
cement to the rock. At the third shock the stone gave way; it
oscillated for a minute. Porthos, placing his back against the
neighboring rock, made an arch with his foot which drove the block out
of the calcareous masses which served for hinges and cramps. The stone
fell; and daylight was visible, brilliant, radiant, which rushed
into the cavern by the opening, and the blue sea appeared to the
delighted Bretons. They then began to lift the boat over the
barricade. Twenty more toises, and it might glide into the ocean. It
was during this time that the company arrived, was drawn up by the
captain, and disposed for either an escalade or an assault.
  Aramis watched over everything, to favor the labors of his
friends. He saw the reinforcements; he counted the men; he convinced
himself at a single glance of the insurmountable peril to which a
fresh combat would expose them. To escape by sea at the moment the
cavern was about to be invaded, was impossible. In fact, the
daylight which had just been admitted to the last two compartments had
exposed to the soldiers the boat rolling towards the sea, and the
two rebels within musket-shot; and one of their discharges would
riddle the boat if it did not kill the five navigators. Besides,
supposing everything,- suppose the boat should escape with the men
on board of it, how could the alarm be suppressed, how could notice to
the royal lighters be prevented? What could hinder the poor canoe,
followed by sea and watched from the shore, from succumbing before the
end of the day? Aramis, digging his hands into his gray hair with
rage, invoked the assistance of God and the assistance of the devil.
Calling to Porthos, who was working alone more than all the
rollers,- whether of flesh or of wood,- "My friend," said he, "our
adversaries have just received a reinforcement."
  "Ah, ah!" said Porthos, quietly, "what is to be done, then?"
  "To recommence the combat," said Aramis, "is hazardous."
  "Yes," said Porthos, "for it is difficult to suppose that out of two
one should not be killed; and certainly, if one of us were killed, the
other would get himself killed also." Porthos spoke these words with
that natural heroism which, with him, was greater than all material
forces.
  Aramis felt it like a spur to his heart. "We shall neither of us
be killed if you do what I tell you, friend Porthos."
  "Tell me what?"
  "These people are coming down into the grotto."
  "Yes."
  "We could kill about fifteen of them, but not more."
  "How many are there in all?" asked Porthos.
  "They have received a reinforcement of seventy-five men."
  "Seventy-five and five, eighty. Ah, ah!" said Porthos.
  "If they fire all at once they will riddle us with balls."
  "Certainly they will."
  "Without reckoning," added Aramis, "that the detonations might
occasion fallings in of the cavern."
  "Ay," said Porthos; "a piece of falling rock just now grazed my
shoulder."
  "You see, then?"
  "Oh! it is nothing."
  "We must determine upon something quickly. Our Bretons are going
to continue to roll the canoe towards the sea."
  "Very well."
  "We two will keep the powder, the balls, and muskets here."
  "But only two, my dear Aramis,- we shall never fire three shots
together," said Porthos, innocently; "the defence by musketry is a bad
one."
  "Find a better, then."
  "I have found one," said the giant, suddenly; "I will place myself
in ambuscade behind the pillar with this iron bar; and invisible,
unattackable, if they come in floods, I can let my bar fall upon their
skulls thirty times in a minute. Eh! what do you think of the project?
You smile!"
  "Excellent, dear friend, perfect! I approve it greatly; only you
will frighten them, and half of them will remain outside to take us by
famine. What we want, my good friend, is the entire destruction of the
troop; a single man left standing ruins us."
  "You are right, my friend, but how can we attract them, pray?"
  "By not stirring, my good Porthos."
  "Well, we won't stir, then; but when they shall be all together-"
  "Then leave it to me; I have an idea."
  "If so, and your idea be a good one,- and your idea is most likely
to be good,- I am satisfied."
  "To your ambuscade, Porthos, and count how many enter!"
  "But you, what will you do?"
  "Don't trouble yourself about me; I have my work."
  "I think I can hear voices."
  "It is they! To your post! Keep within reach of my voice and hand."
  Porthos took refuge in the second compartment, which was
absolutely black with darkness. Aramis glided into the third; the
giant held in his hand an iron bar of about fifty pounds weight.
Porthos handled this lever, which had been used in rolling the boat,
with marvellous facility. During this time, the Bretons had pushed the
boat to the beach. In the enlightened compartment, Aramis, stooping
and concealed, was busied in some mysterious manoeuvre. A command
was given in a loud voice. It was the last order of the captain.
Twenty-five men jumped from the upper rocks into the first compartment
of the grotto, and having taken their ground, began to fire. The
echoes growled; the hissing of the balls cut the air; an opaque
smoke filled the vault.
  "To the left! to the left!" cried Biscarrat, who in his first
assault had seen the passage to the second chamber, and who animated
by the smell of powder wished to guide his soldiers in that direction.
The troop accordingly precipitated themselves to the left,- the
passage gradually growing narrower. Biscarrat, with his hands
stretched forward, devoted to death, marched in advance of the
muskets. "Come on! come on!" exclaimed he, "I see daylight!"
  "Strike, Porthos!" cried the sepulchral voice of Aramis.
  Porthos breathed a sigh; but he obeyed. The iron bar fell full and
direct upon the head of Biscarrat, who was dead before he had ended
his cry. Then the formidable lever rose ten times in ten seconds,
and made ten corpses. The soldiers could see nothing; they heard sighs
and groans; they stumbled over dead bodies, but as they had no
conception of the cause of all this, they came forward jostling one
another. The implacable bar, still falling, annihilated the first
platoon without a single sound having warned the second, which was
quietly advancing. But this second platoon, commanded by the
captain, had broken a thin fir growing on the shore, and with its
resinous branches twisted together, the captain had made a torch.
  On arriving at the compartment where Porthos, like the exterminating
angel, had destroyed all he touched, the first rank drew back in
terror. No firing had replied to that of the guards, and yet their way
was stopped by a heap of dead bodies,- they literally walked in blood.
Porthos was still behind his pillar. The captain, on lighting up
with the trembling flame of the fir this frightful carnage, of which
he in vain sought the cause, drew back towards the pillar behind which
Porthos was concealed. Then a gigantic hand issued from the shade
and fastened on the throat of the captain, who uttered a stifled
rattle; his outstretched arms beating the air, the torch fell and
was extinguished in blood. A second after, the corpse of the captain
fell close to the extinguished torch and added another body to the
heap of dead which blocked up the passage.
  All this was effected as mysteriously as if by magic. On hearing the
rattling in the throat of the captain, the soldiers who accompanied
him had turned round; they had caught a glimpse of his extended
arms, his eyes starting from their sockets, and then the torch fell
and they were left in darkness. By an unreflective, instinctive,
mechanical impulse the lieutenant cried, "Fire!" Immediately a
volley of musketry flamed, thundered, roared in the cavern, bringing
down enormous fragments from the vaults. The cavern was lighted for an
instant by this discharge, and then immediately returned to a darkness
rendered still thicker by the smoke. To this succeeded a profound
silence, broken only by the steps of the third brigade, now entering
the cavern.
            Chapter LXXVIII: The Death of a Titan

  AT THE moment when Porthos, more accustomed to the darkness than all
these men coming from open daylight, was looking round him to see if
in this night Aramis were not making him some signal, he felt his
arm gently touched, and a voice low as a breath murmured in his ear,
"Come."
  "Oh!" said Porthos.
  "Hush! hush!" said Aramis, still more softly.
  And amid the noise of the third brigade, which continued to advance,
amid the imprecations of the guards left alive, of the dying breathing
their last sigh, Aramis and Porthos glided imperceptibly along the
granite walls of the cavern. Aramis led Porthos into the last
compartment but one, and showed him in a hollow of the rocky wall a
barrel of powder weighing from seventy to eighty pounds, to which he
had just attached a match. "My friend," said he to Porthos, "you
will take this barrel, the match of which I am going to set fire to,
and throw it amid our enemies; can you do so?"
  "Parbleu!" replied Porthos; and he lifted the barrel with one
hand. "Light it!"
  "Stop," said Aramis, "till they are all massed together, and then,
my Jupiter, hurl your thunderbolt among them."
  "Light it," repeated Porthos.
  "On my part," continued Aramis, "I will join our Bretons, help
them to get the canoe to the sea, and will wait for you on the
shore. Throw your barrel strongly, and hasten to us."
  "Light it," said Porthos, a third time.
  "But do you understand me?"
  "Parbleu!" said Porthos, with laughter that he did not even
attempt to restrain; "when a thing is explained to me, I understand
it. Go, and give me the light."
  Aramis gave the burning match to Porthos, who held out his arm to
him to press, his hands being engaged. Aramis pressed the arm of
Porthos with both his hands, and fell back to the outlet of the
cavern, where the three rowers awaited him.
  Porthos, left alone, applied the spark bravely to the match. The
spark- a feeble spark, first principle of a conflagration- shone in
the darkness like a firefly, then was deadened against the match which
it inflamed. Porthos enlivened the flame with his breath. The smoke
was a little dispersed, and by the light of the sparkling match
objects might for two seconds be distinguished. It was a short but a
splendid spectacle,- that of this giant, pale, bloody, his countenance
lighted by the fire of the match burning in surrounding darkness!
The soldiers saw him; they saw the barrel he held in his hand; they at
once understood what was going to happen. Then these men, already
filled with fright at the sight of what had been accomplished,
filled with terror at thinking of what was going to be accomplished,
uttered together one shriek of agony. Some endeavored to fly, but they
encountered the third brigade, which barred their passage; others
mechanically took aim and attempted to fire their discharged
muskets; others fell upon their knees. Two or three officers cried out
to Porthos to promise him his liberty if he would spare their lives.
The lieutenant of the third brigade commanded his men to fire; but the
guards had before them their terrified companions, who served as a
living rampart for Porthos.
  We have said that the light produced by the spark and the match
did not last more than two seconds; but during these two seconds
this is what it illumined: in the first place, the giant, enlarged
in the darkness; then, at ten paces from him, a heap of bleeding
bodies, crushed, mutilated, in the midst of which was still visible
some last struggle of agony which lifted the mass as a last breath
raises the sides of a shapeless monster expiring in the night. Every
breath of Porthos, while enlivening the match, sent towards this
heap of bodies a sulphurous hue mingled with streaks of purple. In
addition to this principal group, scattered about the grotto as the
chance of death or the surprise of the blow had stretched them, some
isolated bodies seemed to threaten by their gaping wounds. Above the
ground, soaked by pools of blood, rose, heavy and sparkling, the
short, thick pillars of the cavern, of which the strongly marked
shades threw out the luminous particles. And all this was seen by
the tremulous light of a match attached to a barrel of powder,- that
is to say, a torch which, while throwing a light upon the dead past,
showed the death to come.
  As I have said, this spectacle did not last above two seconds.
During this short space of time, an officer of the third brigade got
together eight men armed with muskets, and, through an opening,
ordered them to fire upon Porthos. But they who received the order
to fire trembled so that three guards fell by the discharge, and the
five other balls went hissing to splinter the vault, plough the
ground, or indent the sides of the cavern.
  A burst of laughter replied to this volley; then the arm of the
giant swung round; then was seen to pass through the air, like a
falling star, the train of fire. The barrel, hurled a distance of
thirty feet, cleared the barricade of the dead bodies and fell amid
a group of shrieking soldiers, who threw themselves on their faces.
The officer had followed the brilliant train in the air; he endeavored
to precipitate himself upon the barrel and tear out the match before
it reached the powder it contained. Useless devotion! The air had made
the flame attached to the conductor more active; the match, which at
rest might have burned five minutes, was consumed in thirty seconds,
and the infernal work exploded.
  Furious vortices, hissings of sulphur and nitre, devouring ravages
of the fire, the terrible thunder of the explosion,- this is what
the second which followed the two seconds we have described
disclosed in that cavern, equal in horrors to a cavern of demons.
The rocks split like planks of deal under the axe. A jet of fire,
smoke, and debris sprang up from the middle of the grotto, enlarging
as it mounted. The great walls of silex tottered and fell upon the
sand; and the sand itself- an instrument of pain when launched from
its hardened bed- riddled the face with its myriads of cutting
atoms. Cries, howlings, imprecations, and lives,- all were
extinguished in one great crash.
  The first three compartments became a gulf into which fell back
again, according to its weight, every vegetable, mineral, or human
fragment. Then the lighter sand and ashes fell in their turns,
stretching like a gray winding-sheet and smoking over these dismal
remains. And now seek in this burning tomb, in this subterranean
volcano,- seek for the King's Guards with their blue coats laced
with silver. Seek for the officers brilliant in gold; seek for the
arms upon which they depended for their defence; seek among the stones
that have killed them, upon the ground that bore them. One single
man has made of all this a chaos more confused, more shapeless, more
terrible than the chaos which existed an hour before God conceived the
idea of creating the world. There remained nothing of the three
compartments,- nothing by which God could have known his own work.
  As to Porthos, after having hurled the barrel of powder amid his
enemies, he had fled as Aramis had directed him and had gained the
last compartment, into which air, light, and sunshine penetrated
through the opening. And scarcely had he turned the angle which
separated the third compartment from the fourth, when he perceived
at a hundred paces from him the boat dancing on the waves. There
were his friends; there was liberty; there was life after victory. Six
more of his formidable strides and he would be out of the vault; out
of the vault, two or three vigorous springs and he would reach the
canoe. Suddenly he felt his knees give way; his knees appeared
powerless, his legs yielded under him.
  "Oh, oh!" murmured he, "there is my fatigue seizing me again! I
can walk no farther! What is this?"
  Aramis perceived him through the opening; unable to conceive what
could induce him to stop thus, he cried, "Come on, Porthos! come on!
come quickly!"
  "Oh!" replied the giant, making an effort which acted upon every
muscle of his body, "oh! but I cannot!" While saying these words he
fell upon his knees, but with his robust hands he clung to the
rocks, and raised himself up again.
  "Quick! quick!" repeated Aramis, bending forward towards the
shore, as if to draw Porthos to him with his arms.
  "Here I am," stammered Porthos, collecting all his strength to
make one step more.
  "In the name of Heaven, Porthos, make haste! the barrel will blow
up!"
  "Make haste, Monseigneur!" shouted the Bretons to Porthos, who was
floundering as in a dream.
  But there was no longer time; the explosion resounded, the earth
gaped, the smoke which rushed through the large fissures obscured
the sky; the sea flowed back as if driven by the blast of fire which
darted from the grotto as if from the jaws of a gigantic chimera;
the reflux carried the boat out twenty toises; the rocks cracked to
their base, and separated like blocks under the operation of wedges; a
portion of the vault was carried up towards heaven, as if by rapid
currents; the rose-colored and green fire of the sulphur, the black
lava of the argillaceous liquefactions clashed and combated for an
instant beneath a majestic dome of smoke; then at first oscillated,
then declined, then fell successively the long angles of rock, which
the violence of the explosion had not been able to uproot from their
bed of ages; they bowed to one another like grave and slow old men,
then prostrated themselves, and were embedded forever in their dusty
tomb.
  This frightful shock seemed to restore to Porthos the strength he
had lost; he arose, himself a giant among these giants. But at the
moment he was flying between the double hedge of granite phantoms,
these latter, which were no longer supported by the corresponding
links, began to roll with a crash around this Titan, who looked as
if precipitated from heaven amid the rocks which he had just been
launching at it. Porthos felt the earth beneath his feet shaken by
this long rending. He extended his vast hands to the right and left to
repulse the falling rocks. A gigantic block was held back by each of
his extended hands; he bent his head, and a third granite mass sank
between his two shoulders. For an instant the arms of Porthos had
given way, but the Hercules united all his forces, and the two walls
of the prison in which he was buried fell back slowly and gave him
place. For an instant he appeared in this frame of granite like the
ancient angel of chaos; but in pushing back the lateral rocks, he lost
his point of support for the monolith which weighed upon his strong
shoulders, and the monolith, lying upon him with all its weight,
brought the giant down upon his knees. The lateral rocks, for an
instant pushed back, drew together again and added their weight to
that of the other, which would have been sufficient to crush ten
men. The giant fell without crying for help; he fell while answering
Aramis with words of encouragement and hope, for, thanks to the
powerful arch of his hands, for an instant he might believe that, like
Enceladus, he should shake off the triple load. But by degrees
Aramis saw the block sink; the hands contracted for an instant, the
arms stiffened for a last effort, gave way, the extended shoulders
sank wounded and torn, and the rock continued to lower gradually.
  "Porthos! Porthos!" cried Aramis, tearing his hair, "Porthos!
where are you? Speak!"
  "There, there!" murmured Porthos, with a voice growing evidently
weaker; "patience! patience!" Scarcely had he pronounced these
words, when the impulse of the fall augmented the weight; the enormous
rock sank down, pressed by the two others which sank in from the
sides, and, as it were, swallowed up Porthos in a sepulchre of
broken stones. On hearing the dying voice of his friend, Aramis had
sprung to land. Two of the Bretons followed him, each with a lever
in his hand,- one being sufficient to take care of the boat. The
last sighs of the valiant struggler guided them amid the ruins.
Aramis, animated, active, and young as at twenty, sprang towards the
triple mass, and with his hands, delicate as those of a woman,
raised by a miracle of vigor a corner of the immense sepulchre of
granite. Then he caught a glimpse, in the darkness of that grave, of
the still brilliant eye of his friend, to whom the momentary lifting
of the mass restored a moment of respiration. The two men came rushing
up, grasped their iron levers, united their triple strength, not
merely to raise it, but to sustain it. All was useless. The three
men slowly gave way with cries of grief, and the rough voice of
Porthos, seeing them exhaust themselves in a useless struggle,
murmured in a bantering tone those last words which came to his lips
with the last breath, "Too heavy!"
  After which the eye darkened and closed, the face became pale, the
hand whitened, and the Titan sank quite down, breathing his last sigh.
With him sank the rock, which even in his agony he had still held
up. The three men dropped the levers, which rolled upon the tumulary
stone. Then, breathless, pale, his brow covered with sweat, Aramis
listened, his breast oppressed, his heart ready to break.
  Nothing more! The giant slept the eternal sleep, in the sepulchre
which God had made to his measure.
            Chapter LXXIX: The Epitaph of Porthos

  ARAMIS, silent, icy, trembling like a timid child, arose shivering
from the stone. A Christian does not walk upon tombs. But though
capable of standing, he was not capable of walking. It might be said
that something of Porthos, dead, had just died within him. His Bretons
surrounded him; Aramis yielded to their kind exertions, and the
three sailors, lifting him up, carried him into the canoe. Then,
having laid him down upon the bench near the tiller, they took to
their oars, preferring to get off by rowing rather than to hoist a
sail, which might betray them.
  Of all that levelled surface of the ancient grotto of Locmaria, of
all that flattened shore, one single little hillock attracted their
eyes. Aramis never removed his from it; and at a distance out in the
sea, in proportion as the shore receded, the menacing and proud mass
of rock seemed to draw itself up, as formerly Porthos used to do,
and raise a smiling and invincible head towards heaven,- like that
of the honest and valiant friend, the strongest of the four, and yet
the first dead. Strange destiny of these men of brass! The most simple
of heart allied to the most crafty; strength of body guided by
subtlety of mind; and in the decisive moment, when strength alone
could save mind and body, a stone, a rock, a vile and material weight,
triumphed over strength, and falling upon the body, drove out the
mind.
  Worthy Porthos! born to help other men, always ready to sacrifice
himself for the safety of the weak, as if God had given him strength
only for that purpose. In dying he thought he was only carrying out
the conditions of his compact with Aramis,- a compact, however,
which Aramis alone had drawn up, and which Porthos had known only to
suffer by its terrible solidarity.
  Noble Porthos! of what good are the chateaux filled with sumptuous
furniture, the forests abounding in game, the lakes teeming with fish,
the cellars gorged with wealth? Of what good are the lackeys in
brilliant liveries, and in the midst of them Mousqueton, proud of
the power delegated by thee? Oh noble Porthos! careful heaper up of
treasures, was it worth while to labor to sweeten and gild life, to
come upon a desert shore to the cries of sea-birds, and lay thyself
with broken bones beneath a cold stone? Was it worth while, in
short, noble Porthos, to heap so much gold, and not have even the
distich of a poor poet engraven upon thy monument?
  Valiant Porthos! He still, without doubt, sleeps, lost, forgotten,
beneath the rock which the shepherds of the heath take for the
gigantic abode of a dolmen. And so many twining branches, so many
mosses, caressed by the bitter wind of the ocean, so many lichens have
soldered the sepulchre to the earth, that the passer-by will never
imagine that such a block of granite can ever have been supported by
the shoulders of one man.
  Aramis, still pale, still icy, his heart upon his lips, continued
his fixed gaze even till, with the last ray of daylight, the shore
faded on the horizon. Not a word escaped his lips; not a sigh rose
from his deep breast. The superstitious Bretons looked at him
trembling. The silence was not of a man, it was of a statue. In the
mean time, with the first gray lines that descended from the
heavens, the canoe had hoisted its little sail, which swelling with
the kisses of the breeze, and carrying them rapidly from the coast,
made brave way with its head towards Spain across the terrible gulf of
Gascony, so rife with tempests. But scarcely half an hour after the
sail had been hoisted, the rowers became inactive, reclined upon their
benches, and making an eye-shade with their hands, pointed out to
one another a white spot which appeared on the horizon, as
motionless in appearance as is a gull rocked by the insensible
respiration of the waves; But that which might have appeared
motionless to the ordinary eyes was moving at a quick rate to the
experienced eye of the sailor; that which appeared stationary on the
ocean was cutting a rapid way through it. For some time, seeing the
profound torpor in which their master was plunged, the sailors did not
dare to rouse him, and satisfied themselves with exchanging their
conjectures in low and anxious tones. Aramis, in fact, so vigilant, so
active- Aramis, whose eye, like that of a lynx, watched without
ceasing, and saw better by night than by day,- Aramis seemed to
sleep in the despair of his soul. An hour passed thus during which
daylight gradually disappeared, but during which also the sail in view
gained so swiftly on the boat that Goennec, one of the three
sailors, ventured to say aloud, "Monseigneur, we are chased!"
  Aramis made no reply; the ship still gained upon them. Then, of
their own accord, two of the sailors, by the direction of the
skipper Yves, lowered the sail, in order that that single point
which appeared above the surface of the waters should cease to be a
guide to the eye of the enemy who was pursuing them. On the part of
the ship in sight, on the contrary, two more small sails were run up
at the extremities of the masts. Unfortunately, it was the time of the
finest and longest days of the year, and the moon, in all her
brilliancy, succeeded to that inauspicious day. The vessel which was
pursuing the little boat before the wind had then still half an hour
of twilight, and a whole night almost as light as day.
  "Monseigneur! Monseigneur! we are lost!" said the skipper. "Look!
they see us although we have lowered our sail."
  "That is not to be wondered at," murmured one of the sailors, "since
they say that, by the aid of the devil, the people of the cities
have made instruments with which they see as well at a distance as
near, by night as well as by day."
  Aramis took a telescope from the bottom of the boat, arranged it
silently, and passing it to the sailor, "Here," said he, "look!" The
sailor hesitated.
  "Don't be alarmed," said the bishop, "there is no sin in it; and
if there is any sin, I will take it upon myself."
  The sailor lifted the glass to his eye, and uttered a cry. He
believed that the vessel, which appeared to be distant about
cannon-shot, had suddenly and at a single bound cleared the
distance. But on withdrawing the instrument from his eye, he saw that,
except the way which the vessel had been able to make during that
short instant, it was still at the same distance.
  "So," murmured the sailor, "they can see us as we see them?"
  "They see us," said Aramis, and sank again into his impassiveness.
  "How,- they see us?" said the skipper Yves. "Impossible!"
  "Well, Skipper, look for yourself," said the sailor. And he passed
to him the glass.
  "Monseigneur assures me that the devil has nothing to do with this?"
asked the skipper.
  Aramis shrugged his shoulders.
  The skipper lifted the glass to his eye. "Oh, Monseigneur," said he,
"it is a miracle. They are there; it seems as if I were going to touch
them. Twenty-five men at least! Ah! I see the captain forward. He
holds a glass like this, and is looking at us. Ah! he turns round
and gives an order; they are rolling a piece of cannon forward- they
are charging it- they are pointing it. Misericorde! they are firing at
us!
  And by a mechanical movement the skipper took the glass off, and the
objects, sent back to the horizon, appeared again in their true
aspect. The vessel was still at the distance of nearly a league, but
the manoeuvre announced by the skipper was not less real. A light
cloud of smoke appeared under the sails, more blue than they, and
spreading like a flower opening; then, at about a mile from the little
canoe, they saw the ball take the crown off two or three waves, dig
a white furrow in the sea and disappear at the end of that furrow,
as inoffensive as the stone with which, at play, a boy "makes ducks
and drakes." That was at once a menace and a warning.
  "What is to be done?" asked the skipper.
  "They will sink us!" said Goennec, give us absolution, Monseigneur!"
And the sailors fell on their knees before him.
  "You forget that they can see you," said he.
  "That is true!" said the sailors, ashamed of their weakness. "Give
us your orders, Monseigneur; we are ready to die for you."
  "Let us wait," said Aramis.
  "How,- let us wait?"
  "Yes; do you not see, as you just now said, that if we endeavor to
fly, they will sink us?"
  "But perhaps," the skipper ventured to say,- "perhaps by the favor
of the night we could escape them."
  "Oh!" said Aramis, "they probably have some Greek fire to light
their own course and ours likewise."
  At the same moment, as if the little vessel wished to reply to the
words of Aramis, a second cloud of smoke mounted slowly to the
heavens, and from the bosom of that cloud sparkled an arrow of
flame, which described its parabola like a rainbow, and fell into
the sea, where it continued to burn, illuminating a space of a quarter
of a league in diameter.
  The Bretons looked at one another in terror. "You see plainly," said
Aramis, "it will be better to wait for them."
  The oars dropped from the hands of the sailors, and the boat ceasing
to make way, rocked motionless on the summits of the waves. Night came
on, but the vessel still approached nearer. It might be said it
redoubled its speed with the darkness. From time to time, as a
bloody-necked vulture rears its head out of its nest, the formidable
Greek fire darted from its sides, and cast its flame into the ocean
like an incandescent snow. At last it came within musket-shot. All the
men were on deck, arms in hand; the cannoneers were at their guns, the
matches were burning. It might be thought that they were about to
board a frigate and to combat a crew superior in number to their
own, and not to take a canoe manned by four persons.
  "Surrender!" cried the commander of the vessel through his
speaking-trumpet.
  The sailors looked at Aramis. Aramis made a sign with his head.
The skipper Yves waved a white cloth at the end of a gaff. This was
a way of striking their flag. The vessel came on like a race-horse. It
launched a fresh Greek fire which fell within twenty paces of the
little canoe, and threw a stronger light upon them than the most
ardent ray of the sun could have done.
  "At the first sign of resistance," cried the commander of the
vessel, "fire!" And the soldiers brought their muskets to the
shoulder.
  "Did not we say we surrendered?" said the skipper Yves.
  "Living! living, Captain!" cried some excited soldiers, "they must
be taken living!"
  "Well, yes,- living," said the captain. Then turning towards the
Bretons, "Your lives are all safe, my friends," cried he, "except
the Chevalier d'Herblay."
  Aramis started imperceptibly. For an instant his eye was fixed
upon the depths of the ocean enlightened by the last flashes of the
Greek fire,- flashes which ran along the sides of the waves, played
upon their crests like plumes, and rendered still more dark, more
mysterious, and more terrible the abysses they covered.
  "Do you hear, Monseigneur?" said the sailors.
  "Yes."
  "What are your orders?"
  "Accept!"
  "But you, Monseigneur?"
  Aramis leaned still more forward, and played with the ends of his
long white fingers with the green water of the sea, to which he turned
smiling as to a friend.
  "Accept!" repeated he.
  "We accept," repeated the sailors; "but what security have we?"
  "The word of a gentleman," said the officer. "By my rank and by my
name I swear that all but M. le Chevalier d'Herblay shall have their
lives spared. I am lieutenant of the King's frigate the 'Pomona,'
and my name is Louis Constant de Pressigny."
  With a rapid gesture Aramis,- already bent over the side of the boat
towards the sea,- with a rapid gesture Aramis raised his head, drew
himself up, and with a flashing eye and a smile upon his lips,
"Throw out the ladder, Messieurs," said he, as if the command had
belonged to him. He was obeyed. Then Aramis, seizing the
rope-ladder, ascended first; but instead of the terror which was
expected to be displayed upon his countenance, the surprise of the
sailors of the vessel was great when they saw him walk straight up
to the commander with a firm step, look at him earnestly, make a
sign to him with his hand, a mysterious and unknown sign, at the sight
of which the officer turned pale, trembled, and bowed his head.
Without saying a word, Aramis then raised his hand close to the eyes
of the commander, and showed him the collet of a ring which he wore on
the ring-finger of his left hand; and while making this sign,
Aramis, draped in cold, silent, and haughty majesty, had the air of an
emperor giving his hand to be kissed. The commandant, who for a moment
had raised his head, bowed a second time with marks of the most
profound respect. Then stretching his hand out in his turn towards the
poop,- that is to say, towards his own cabin,- he drew back to allow
Aramis to go first. The three Bretons, who had come on board after
their bishop, looked at one another, stupefied. The crew were struck
with silence. Five minutes after, the commander called the second
lieutenant, who returned immediately, ordering the head to be put
towards Corunna. While the given order was executed, Aramis reappeared
upon the deck, and took a seat near the railing. The night had fallen,
the moon had not yet risen; and yet Aramis looked incessantly
towards Belle-Isle. Yves then approached the captain, who had returned
to take his post in the stern, and said in a low and humble voice,
"What course are we to follow, Captain?"
  "We take what course Monseigneur pleases," replied the officer.
  Aramis passed the night leaning upon the railing. Yves, on
approaching him the next morning, remarked that "the night must have
been very humid, for the wood upon which the bishop's head had
rested was soaked with dew." Who knows?- that dew was, perhaps, the
first tears which had ever fallen from the eyes of Aramis!
  What epitaph would have been equal to that, good Porthos?
          Chapter LXXX: The Round of M. de Gesvres

  D'ARTAGNAN was not accustomed to resistances like that he had just
experienced. He returned profoundly irritated to Nantes. Irritation,
with this vigorous man, vented itself in an impetuous attack which few
people hitherto, were they King, were they giants, had been able to
resist. D'Artagnan, trembling with rage, went straight to the
castle, and asked to speak to the King. It might have been about seven
o'clock in the morning; and since his arrival at Nantes the King had
been an early riser. But on arriving at the little corridor with which
we are acquainted, d'Artagnan found M. de Gesvres, who stopped him
very politely, telling him not to speak too loud lest he should
disturb the King. "Is the King asleep?" said d'Artagnan. "Well, I will
let him sleep; but about what o'clock do you suppose he will rise?"
  "Oh, in about two hours; the King has been up all night."
  D'Artagnan took his hat again, bowed to M. de Gesvres, and
returned to his own apartments. He came back at half-past nine, and
was told that the King was at breakfast. "That will just suit me,"
said d'Artagnan; "I will talk to the King while he is eating."
  M. de Brienne reminded d'Artagnan that the King would not receive
any one during his repasts.
  "But," said d'Artagnan, looking askant at De Brienne, "you do not
know, perhaps, Monsieur, that I have the privilege of entree
anywhere and at any hour."
  De Brienne took the hand of the captain kindly and said, "Not at
Nantes, dear M. d'Artagnan; the King in this journey has changed
everything."
  D'Artagnan, a little softened, asked about what o'clock the King
would have finished his breakfast.
  "We don't know."
  "How! don't know,- what does that mean? You don't know how much time
the King devotes to eating? It is generally an hour; and if we admit
that the air of the Loire gives an additional appetite, we will extend
it to an hour and a half; that is enough, I think. I will wait where I
am."
  "Oh, dear M. d'Artagnan, the order is not to allow any person to
remain in this corridor; I am on guard for that purpose."
  D'Artagnan felt his anger mounting a second time to his brain. He
went out quickly, for fear of complicating the affair by a display
of ill-humor. As soon as he was out he began to reflect. "The King,"
said he, "will not receive me,- that is evident. The young man is
angry; he is afraid of the words I may speak to him. Yes; but in the
mean time Belle-Isle is besieged, and my two friends will be taken
or killed. Poor Porthos! As to Aramis, he is always full of resources,
and I am quite easy on his account. But no, no; Porthos is not yet
an invalid, and Aramis is not yet in his dotage. The one with his arm,
the other with his imagination, will find work for his Majesty's
soldiers. Who knows if these brave men may not get up for the
edification of his Most Christian Majesty a little bastion of St.
Gervais? I don't despair of it; they have cannon and a garrison. And
yet," continued d'Artagnan, "I don't know whether it would not be
better to stop the combat. For myself alone, I will not put up with
either surly looks or treason on the part of the King; but for my
friends, rebuffs, insults,- I may submit to everything. Shall I go
to M. Colbert? Now, there is a man whom I must acquire the habit of
terrifying. I will go to M. Colbert"; and d'Artagnan set forward
bravely to find M. Colbert. He was informed that M. Colbert was
working with the King at the Castle of Nantes. "Good!" cried he;
"the times are returned in which I measured my steps from M. de
Treville to the cardinal, from the cardinal to the Queen, from the
Queen to Louis XIII. Truly is it said that men in growing old become
children again! To the castle, then!" He returned thither. M. de
Lyonne was coming out. He gave d'Artagnan both hands, but told him
that the King had been busy all the preceding evening and all night,
and that orders had been given that no one should be admitted.
  "Not even the captain who takes the order?" cried d'Artagnan. "I
think that he is rather too strong."
  "Not even he," said M. de Lyonne.
  "Since that is the case," replied d'Artagnan, wounded to the heart,-
"since the captain of the Musketeers, who has always entered the
King's chamber, is no longer allowed to enter it, his cabinet, or
his salle a manger,- either the King is dead or his captain is in
disgrace. In either case he can no longer want him; have the kindness,
then, M. de Lyonne, who are in favor, to return and tell the King
plainly that I send him my resignation."
  "D'Artagnan, beware of what you are doing!"
  "For friendship's sake, go!" and he pushed him gently towards the
cabinet.
  "Well, I will go," said De Lyonne.
  D'Artagnan waited, walking about the corridor. De Lyonne returned.
"Well, what did the King say?" exclaimed d'Artagnan.
  "He simply answered that it was good," replied De Lyonne.
  "That it was good!" said the captain, with an explosion. "That is to
say that he accepts it? Good! Now, then, I am free! I am only a
plain citizen, M. de Lyonne. I have the pleasure of bidding you
good-by! Farewell, castle, corridor, antechamber! a citizen about to
breathe at liberty takes his farewell of you."
  And without waiting longer, the captain sprang from the terrace down
the staircase where he had picked up the fragments of Gourville's
letter. Five minutes after, he was at the hostelry where, according to
the custom of all great officers who have lodgings at the castle, he
had taken what was called his city chamber. But when arrived there,
instead of throwing off his sword and cloak, he took his pistols,
put his money into a large leather purse, sent for his horses from the
castle stables, and gave orders for reaching Vannes during the
night. Everything went on according to his wishes. At eight o'clock in
the evening he was putting his foot in the stirrup, when M. de Gesvres
appeared at the head of twelve guards in front of the hostelry.
D'Artagnan saw all from the corner of his eye,- he could not fail to
see those thirteen men and thirteen horses; but he feigned not to
observe anything, and was about to put his horse in motion.
  De Gesvres rode up to him. "M. d'Artagnan," said he, aloud.
  "Ah, M. de Gesvres, good-evening!" "One would say you were getting
on horseback."
  "More than that, I am mounted, as you see."
  "It is fortunate I have met you."
  "Were you looking for me, then?"
  "Mon Dieu! yes."
  "On the part of the King, I will wager?"
  "Yes."
  "As I three days ago went in search of M. Fouquet?"
  "Oh!"
  "Nonsense! It is of no use being delicate with me,- that is all
labor lost; tell me at once you are come to arrest me."
  "To arrest you? Good heavens! no."
  "Why do you come to accost me with twelve horsemen at your heels,
then?"
  "I am making my round."
  "That isn't bad! And so you pick me up in your round, eh?"
  "I don't pick you up; I meet you, and I beg you to come with me."
  "Where?"
  "To the King."
  "Good!" said d'Artagnan, with a bantering air; "the King has nothing
to do at last!"
  "For Heaven's sake, Captain," said M. de Gesvres, in a low voice
to the musketeer, "do not compromise yourself! these men hear you."
  D'Artagnan laughed aloud, and replied, "March! Persons who are
arrested are placed between the first six guards and the last six."
  "But as I do not arrest you," said M. de Gesvres, "you will march
behind with me, if you please."
  "Well," said d'Artagnan, "that is very polite, Duke; and you are
right in being so,- for if ever I had had to make my rounds near
your chambre de ville, I should have been courteous to you, I assure
you, by the faith of a gentleman! Now, one favor more: what does the
King want with me?"
  "Oh, the King is furious!"
  "Very well! the King, who has taken the trouble to be furious, may
take the trouble of getting calm again; that is all of that. I sha'n't
die of that, I will swear."
  "No, but-"
  "But- I shall be sent to keep company with poor M. Fouquet.
Mordioux! That is a gallant man, a worthy man! We shall live very
sociably together, I assure you."
  "Here we are at our place of destination," said the duke.
"Captain, for Heaven's sake be calm with the King!"
  "Ah, ah! you are playing the brave man with me, Duke!" said
d'Artagnan, throwing one of his defiant glances over De Gesvres. "I
have been told that you are ambitious of uniting your Guards with my
Musketeers. This strikes me as a capital opportunity."
  "God forbid that I should avail myself of it, Captain."
  "And why not?"
  "Oh, for many reasons,- in the first place, for this: if I were to
succeed you in the Musketeers after having arrested you-"
  "Ah! then you admit you have arrested me?"
  "No, I don't."
  "Say met me, then. So, you were saying, if you were to succeed me
after having arrested me-"
  "Your Musketeers, at the first exercise with ball cartridges,
would all fire towards me, by mistake."
  "Ah! as to that I won't say,- for the fellows do love me a little."
  De Gesvres made d'Artagnan pass in first, and took him straight to
the cabinet where the King was waiting for his captain of the
Musketeers, and placed himself behind his colleague in the
antechamber. The King could be heard distinctly, speaking aloud to
Colbert, in the same cabinet where Colbert might have heard, a few
days before, the King speaking aloud with M. d'Artagnan. The guards
remained as a mounted picket before the principal gate; and the report
was quickly spread through the city that Monsieur the Captain of the
Musketeers had just been arrested by order of the King. Then these men
were seen to be in motion, as in the good old times of Louis XIII
and M. de Treville; groups were formed, the staircases were filled;
vague murmurs, issuing from the courts below, came rolling up to the
upper stories, like the hoarse moanings of the tide-waves. M. de
Gesvres became very uneasy. He looked at his guards, who after being
interrogated by the musketeers who had just got among their ranks,
began to shun them with a manifestation of uneasiness. D'Artagnan
was certainly less disturbed than M. de Gesvres, the captain of the
Guards. As soon as he entered, he had seated himself on the ledge of a
window, whence, with his eagle glance, he saw without the least
emotion all that was going on. None of the progress of the
fermentation which had manifested itself at the report of his arrest
had escaped him. He foresaw the moment when the explosion would take
place, and we know that his previsions were pretty correct.
  "It would be very odd," thought he, "if this evening my
praetorians should make me King of France. How I should laugh!" But at
the height all was stopped. Guards, musketeers, officers, soldiers,
murmurs, and disturbance, all dispersed, vanished, died away; no
more tempest, no more menace, no more sedition. One word had calmed
the waves. The King had just said by the mouth of De Brienne, "Hush,
Messieurs! you disturb the King."
  D'Artagnan sighed. "All is over!" said he; "the Musketeers of the
present day are not those of his Majesty Louis XIII. All is over!"
  "M. d'Artagnan to the King's apartment!" cried an usher.
               Chapter LXXXI: King Louis XIV

  THE King was seated in his cabinet, with his back turned towards the
door of entrance. In front of him was a mirror in which while
turning over his papers he could see with a glance those who came
in. He did not take any notice of the entrance of d'Artagnan, but laid
over his letters and plans the large silk cloth which he made use of
to conceal his secrets from the importunate. D'Artagnan understood his
play, and kept in the background; so that at the end of a minute,
the King, who heard nothing and could see only with the corner of
his eye, was obliged to cry, "Is not M. d'Artagnan there?"
  "I am here, Sire," replied the musketeer, advancing.
  "Well, Monsieur," said the King, fixing his clear eye upon
d'Artagnan, "what have you to say to me?"
  "I, Sire!" replied the latter, who watched the first blow of his
adversary to make a good retort; "I have nothing to say to your
Majesty, unless it be that you have caused me to be arrested, and here
I am."
  The King was going to reply that he had not had d'Artagnan arrested,
but the sentence appeared too much like an excuse, and he was
silent. D'Artagnan likewise preserved an obstinate silence.
  "Monsieur," at length resumed the King, "what did I charge you to go
and do at Belle-Isle? Tell me, if you please."
  The King, while speaking these words, looked fixedly at his captain.
Here d'Artagnan was too fortunate,- the King gave him so fine an
opening.
  "I believe," replied he, "that your Majesty does me the honor to ask
what I went to Belle-Isle to do?"
  "Yes, Monsieur."
  "Well, Sire, I know nothing about it; it is not of me that that
question should be asked, but of that infinite number of officers of
all kinds to whom have been given an infinite number of orders of
all kinds, while to me, head of the expedition, nothing precise was
ordered."
  The King was wounded; he showed it by his reply. "Monsieur," said
he, "Orders have only been given to such as were judged faithful."
  "And therefore I have been astonished, Sire," retorted the
musketeer, "that a captain like myself, who rank with a marshal of
France, should have found himself under the orders of five or six
lieutenants or majors, good to make spies of, possibly, but not at all
fit to conduct warlike expeditions. It was upon this subject I came to
demand an explanation of your Majesty, when I found the door closed
against me, which, the last insult offered to a brave man, has led
me to quit your Majesty's service."
  "Monsieur," replied the King, "you still believe you are living in
an age when kings were, as you complain of having been, under the
orders and subject to the judgment of their inferiors. You appear
too much to forget that a King owes an account of his actions to
none but God."
  "I forget nothing at all, Sire," said the musketeer, wounded by this
lesson. "Besides, I do not see in what an honest man, when he asks
of his King how he has ill served him, offends him."
  "You have ill served me, Monsieur, by taking part with my enemies
against me."
  "Who are your enemies, Sire?"
  "The men I sent you to fight against."
  "Two men the enemies of your Majesty's army? That is incredible."
  "You are not to judge of my wishes."
  "But I am to judge of my own friendships, Sire."
  "He who serves his friends does not serve his master."
  "I have so well understood that, Sire, that I have respectfully
offered your Majesty my resignation."
  "And I have accepted it, Monsieur," said the King. "Before being
separated from you I was willing to prove to you that I know how to
keep my word."
  "Your Majesty has kept more than your word, for your Majesty has had
me arrested," said d'Artagnan, with his cold bantering air; "you did
not promise me that, Sire."
  The King would not condescend to perceive the pleasantry, and
continued seriously, "You see, Monsieur, to what your disobedience has
forced me."
  "My disobedience!" cried d'Artagnan, red with anger.
  "That is the mildest name I can find," pursued the King. "My idea
was to take and punish rebels; was I bound to inquire whether these
rebels were your friends or not?"
  "But I was," replied d'Artagnan. "It was a cruelty on your Majesty's
part to send me to take my friends and lead them to your gibbets."
  "It was a trial I had to make, Monsieur, of pretended servants,
who eat my bread, and ought to defend my person. The trial has
succeeded ill, M. d'Artagnan."
  "For one bad servant your Majesty loses," said the musketeer, with
bitterness, "there are ten who have, on that same day, gone through
their ordeal. Listen to me, Sire; I am not accustomed to that service.
Mine is a rebel sword when I am required to do wrong. It was wrong
to send me in pursuit of two men whose lives M. Fouquet, your
Majesty's preserver, had implored you to save. Still further, these
men were my friends. They did not attack your Majesty; they
succumbed to a blind anger. Besides, why were they not allowed to
escape? What crime had they committed? I admit that you may contest
with me the right of judging of their conduct. But why suspect me
before the action? Why surround me with spies? Why disgrace me
before the army? Why me, in whom you have to this time showed the most
entire confidence,- me, who for thirty years have been attached to
your person, and have given you a thousand proofs of devotedness,- for
it must be said, now that I am accused; why compel me to see three
thousand of the King's soldiers march in battle against two men?"
  "One would say you have forgotten what these men have done to me!"
said the King, in a hollow voice, "and that it was no merit of
theirs that I was not lost."
  "Sire, one would say that you forget I was there."
  "Enough, M. d'Artagnan, enough of these dominating concerns which
arise to keep the sun from my interests. I am founding a state in
which there shall be but one master, as promised you formerly; the
moment is come for keeping my promise. You wish to be, according to
your tastes or your friendships, free to destroy my plans and save
my enemies; I will break you, or I will abandon you. Seek a more
compliant master. I know full well that another king would not conduct
himself as I do, and would allow himself to be dominated over by you
at the risk of sending you some day to keep company with M. Fouquet
and the others; but I have a good memory, and for me services are
sacred titles to gratitude, to impunity. You shall only have this
lesson, M. d'Artagnan, as the punishment of your want of discipline;
and I will not imitate my predecessors in their anger, not having
imitated them in their favor. And then, other reasons make me act
mildly towards you: in the first place, because you are a man of
sense, a man of great sense, a man of heart, and you will be a good
servant to him who shall have mastered you; secondly, because you will
cease to have any motives for insubordination. Your friends are
destroyed or ruined by me. These supports upon which your capricious
mind instinctively relied I have made to disappear. At this moment, my
soldiers have taken or killed the rebels of Belle-Isle."
  D'Artagnan became pale. "Taken or killed!" cried he. "Oh, Sire, if
you thought what you tell me, if you were sure you were telling me the
truth, I should forget all that is just, all that is magnanimous in
your words, to call you a barbarous King and an unnatural man. But I
pardon you these words," said he, smiling with pride; "I pardon them
to a young Prince who does not know, who cannot comprehend, what
such men as M. d'Herblay, M. du Vallon, and myself are. Taken or
killed! Ah, ah, Sire! tell me, if the news is true, how much it has
cost you in men and money. We will then reckon if the game has been
worth the stakes."
  As he spoke thus, the King went up to him in great anger and said,
"M. d'Artagnan, your replies are those of a rebel! Tell me, if you
please, who is King of France? Do you know any other?"
  "Sire," replied the captain of the Musketeers, coldly, "I remember
that one morning at Vaux you addressed that question to people who did
not know how to answer it, while I, on my part, did answer it. If I
recognized my King on that day, when the thing was not easy, I think
it would be useless to ask it of me now, when your Majesty is alone
with me."
  At these words, Louis cast down his eyes. It appeared to him that
the shade of the unfortunate Philippe passed between d'Artagnan and
himself, to evoke the remembrance of that terrible adventure. Almost
at the same moment an officer entered and placed a despatch in the
hands of the King, who, in his turn, changed color while reading it.
"Monsieur," said he, "what I learn here you would know later; it is
better I should tell you, and that you should learn it from the
mouth of your King. A battle has taken place at Belle-Isle."
  "Oh! ah!" said d'Artagnan, with a calm air, though his heart beat
enough to break through his chest. "Well, Sire?"
  "Well, Monsieur; and I have lost a hundred and six men."
  A beam of joy and pride shone in the eyes of d'Artagnan. "And the
rebels?"
  "The rebels have fled," said the King.
  D'Artagnan could not restrain a cry of triumph. "Only," added the
King, "I have a fleet which closely blockades Belle-Isle, and I am
certain no boat can escape."
  "So that," said the musketeer, brought back to his dismal ideas, "if
these two gentlemen are taken-"
  "They will be hanged," said the King, quietly.
  "And do they know it?" replied d'Artagnan, repressing a shudder.
  "They know it, because you must have told them yourself; and all the
country knows it."
  "Then, Sire, they will never be taken alive, I will answer for
that."
  "Ah!" said the King, negligently, taking up his letter again.
"Very well, they will be dead then, M. d'Artagnan, and that will
come to the same thing, since I should only take them to have them
hanged."
  D'Artagnan wiped the sweat which flowed from his brow.
  "I have told you," pursued Louis XIV, "that I would one day be to
you an affectionate, generous, and constant master. You are now the
only man of former times worthy of my anger or my friendship. I will
not be sparing of either to you, according to your conduct. Could
you serve a King, M. d'Artagnan, who should have a hundred other
kings, his equals, in the kingdom? Could I, tell me, do with such
weakness the great things I meditate? Have you ever seen an artist
effect solid work with a rebellious instrument? Far from us, Monsieur,
those old leavens of feudal abuses! The Fronde, which threatened to
ruin the monarchy, has emancipated it. I am master at home, Captain
d'Artagnan, and I shall have servants who, wanting perhaps your
genius, will carry devotedness and obedience up to heroism. Of what
consequence, I ask you, of what consequence is it that God has given
no genius to arms and legs? It is to the head he has given it; and the
head, you know, all the rest obey. I myself am the head."
  D'Artagnan started. Louis XIV continued as if he had seen nothing,
although this emotion had not at all escaped him. "Now, let us
conclude between us two that bargain which I promised to make with you
one day when you found me very small, at Blois. Do me justice,
Monsieur, when you think that I do not make any one pay for the
tears of shame I then shed. Look around you: lofty heads have bowed.
Bow yours, or choose the exile that will best suit you. Perhaps,
when reflecting upon it, you will find that this King has a generous
heart, who reckons sufficiently upon your loyalty to allow you to
leave him, knowing you to be dissatisfied, and the possessor of a
great state secret. You are a brave man, I know. Why have you judged
me before trial? Judge me from this day forward, d'Artagnan, and be as
severe as you please."
  D'Artagnan remained bewildered, mute, undecided for the first time
in his life. He had just found an adversary worthy of him. This was no
longer trick, it was calculation; it was no longer violence, it was
strength; it was no longer passion, it was will; it was no longer
boasting; it was wisdom. This young man who had brought down Fouquet
and could do without d'Artagnan, deranged all the somewhat
headstrong calculations of the musketeer.
  "Come, let us see what stops you?" said the King, kindly. "You
have given in your resignation; shall I refuse to accept it? I admit
that it may be hard for an old captain to recover his good-humor."
  "Oh!" replied d'Artagnan, in a melancholy tone, "that is not my most
serious care. I hesitate to take back my resignation because I am
old in comparison with you, and I have habits difficult to abandon.
Henceforward, you must have courtiers who know how to amuse you,-
madmen who will get themselves killed to carry out what you call
your great works. Great they will be, I feel; but if by chance I
should not think them so? I have seen war, Sire; I have seen peace;
I have served Richelieu and Mazarin; I have been scorched with your
father at the fire of Rochelle, riddled with thrusts like a sieve,
having made a new skin ten times, as serpents do. After affronts and
injustices, I have a command which was formerly something, because
it gave the bearer the right of speaking as he liked to his King.
But your captain of the Musketeers will henceforward be an officer
guarding the lower doors. Truly, Sire, if that is to be the employment
from this time, seize the opportunity of our being on good terms to
take it from me. Do not imagine that I bear malice. No, you have tamed
me, as you say; but it must be confessed that in taming me you have
lessened me,- by bowing me, you have convicted me of weakness. If
you knew how well it suits me to carry my head high, and what a
pitiful mien I shall have while scenting the dust of your carpets! Oh,
Sire, I regret sincerely, and you will regret as I do, those times
when the King of France saw in his vestibules all those insolent
gentlemen, lean, always swearing,- cross-grained mastiffs, who could
bite mortally in days of battle. Those men were the best of
courtiers for the hand which fed them,- they would lick it; but for
the hand that struck them, oh, the bite that followed! A little gold
on the lace of their cloaks, a little more portliness of figure, a
little sprinkling of gray in their dry hair, and you will behold the
handsome dukes and peers, the haughty marshals of France. But why
should I tell you all this? The King is my master; he wills that I
should make verses; he wills that I should polish the mosaics of his
antechambers with satin shoe. Mordioux! that is difficult; but I
have got over greater difficulties than that. I will do it. Why will I
do it? Because I love money? I have enough. Because I am ambitious? My
career is bounded. Because I love the court? No; I will remain because
I have been accustomed for thirty years to go and take the order of
the King, and to have said to me, 'Good-evening, d'Artagnan,' with a
smile I did not beg for. That smile I will beg for! Are you content,
Sire?" And d'Artagnan bowed his silvered head, upon which the
smiling King placed his white hand with pride.
  "Thanks, my old servant, my faithful friend," said he. "As,
reckoning from this day, I have no longer any enemies in France, it
remains with me to send you to a foreign field to gather your
marshal's baton. Depend upon me for finding you an opportunity. In the
mean time, eat of my best bread and sleep tranquilly."
  "That is all kind and well!" said d'Artagnan, much agitated. "But
those poor men at Belle-Isle,- one of them, in particular, so good and
so brave?"
  "Do you ask their pardon of me?"
  "Upon my knees, Sire!"
  "Well, then, go and take it to them, if it be still time. But do you
answer for them?"
  "With my life, Sire!"
  "Go, then. To-morrow I set out for Paris. Return by that time, for I
do not wish you to leave me in future."
  "Be assured of that, Sire," said d'Artagnan, kissing the royal hand.
And with a heart swelling with joy, he rushed out of the castle on his
way to Belle-Isle.
         Chapter LXXXII: The Friends of M. Fouquet

  THE King had returned to Paris, and with him d'Artagnan, who in
twenty-four hours, having made with the greatest care all possible
inquiries at Belle-Isle, had learned nothing of the secret so well
kept by the heavy rock of Locmaria, which had fallen on the heroic
Porthos. The captain of the Musketeers only knew what those two
valiant men,- what these two friends, whose defence he had so nobly
taken up, whose lives he had so earnestly endeavored to save,- aided
by three faithful Bretons, had accomplished against a whole army. He
had been able to see, launched on the neighboring heath, the human
remains which had stained with blood the stones scattered among the
flowering broom. He learned also that a boat had been seen far out
at sea, and that, like a bird of prey, a royal vessel had pursued,
overtaken, and devoured this poor little bird which was flying with
rapid wings. But there d'Artagnan's certainties ended. The field of
conjectures was thrown open at this boundary. Now, what could he
conjecture? The vessel had not returned. It is true that a brisk
wind had prevailed for three days; but the corvette was known to be
a good sailor and solid in its timbers; it could not fear gales of
wind, and it ought, according to the calculation of d'Artagnan, to
have either returned to Brest, or come back to the mouth of the Loire.
Such was the news, ambiguous, it is true, but in some degree
reassuring to him personally, which d'Artagnan brought to Louis XIV
when the King, followed by all the court, returned to Paris.
  Louis, satisfied with his success- Louis, more mild and more affable
since he felt himself more powerful- had not ceased for an instant
to ride close to the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.
Everybody had been anxious to amuse the two Queens, so as to make them
forget this abandonment of the son and the husband. Everything
breathed of the future; the past was nothing to anybody: only that
past came like a painful and bleeding wound to the hearts of some
tender and devoted spirits. Scarcely was the King reinstalled in Paris
when he received a touching proof of this. Louis XIV had just risen
and taken his first repast, when his captain of the Musketeers
presented himself before him. D'Artagnan was pale and looked
unhappy. The King, at the first glance, perceived the change in a
countenance generally so unconcerned. "What is the matter,
d'Artagnan?" said he.
  "Sire, a great misfortune has happened to me."
  "Good heavens! what is it?"
  "Sire, I have lost one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the affair of
Belle-Isle." And while speaking these words, d'Artagnan fixed his
falcon eye upon Louis XIV, to catch the first feeling that would
show itself.
  "I knew it," replied the King, quietly.
  "You knew it, and did not tell me?" cried the musketeer.
  "To what good? Your grief, my friend, is so worthy of respect! It
was my duty to treat it kindly. To have informed you of this
misfortune, which I knew would pain you so greatly, d'Artagnan,
would have been, in your eyes, to have triumphed over you. Yes, I knew
that M. du Vallon had buried himself beneath the rocks of Locmaria;
I knew that M. d'Herblay had taken one of my vessels with its crew,
and had compelled it to convey him to Bayonne. But I was willing
that you should learn these matters in a direct manner, in order
that you might be convinced that my friends are with me respected
and sacred; that always the man in me will immolate himself to men,
while the King is so often found to sacrifice men to his majesty and
power."
  "But, Sire, how could you know?"
  "How do you yourself know?"
  "By this letter, Sire, which M. d'Herblay, free and out of danger,
writes me from Bayonne."
  "Look here," said the King, drawing from a casket placed upon the
table close to the seat upon which d'Artagnan was leaning a letter
copied exactly from that of M. d'Herblay; "here is the very letter
which Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I
am well served, you may perceive."
  "Yes, Sire," murmured the musketeer; "you were the only man whose
fortune was capable of dominating the fortunes and strength of my
two friends. You have used it, Sire; but you will not abuse it, will
you?"
  "D'Artagnan," said the King, with a smile beaming with kindness,
"I could have M. d'Herblay carried off from the territories of the
King of Spain, and brought here alive to inflict justice upon him.
But, d'Artagnan, be assured I will not yield to this first and natural
impulse. He is free; let him continue free."
  "Oh, Sire! you will not always remain so clement, so noble, so
generous as you have shown yourself with respect to me and M.
d'Herblay; you will have about you councillors who will cure you of
that weakness."
  "No, d'Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my council of
urging me to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare M.
d'Herblay comes from Colbert himself."
  "Oh, Sire!" said d'Artagnan, extremely surprised.
  "As for you," continued the King, with a kindness very uncommon with
him, "I have several pieces of good news to announce to you; but you
shall know them, my dear captain, the moment I have finished my
accounts. I have said that I wish to make, and would make, your
fortune; that promise will soon be a reality."
  "A thousand times thanks, Sire! I can wait. But I implore you, while
I go and practise patience, that your Majesty will deign to notice
those poor people who have for so long a time besieged your
antechamber, and come humbly to lay a petition at your feet."
  "Who are they?"
  "Enemies of your Majesty." The King raised his head. "Friends of
M. Fouquet," added d'Artagnan.
  "Their names?"
  "M. Gourville, M. Pelisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine."
  The King took a moment to reflect.
  "What do they want?"
  "I do not know."
  "How do they appear?"
  "In great affliction."
  "What do they say?"
  "Nothing."
  "What do they do?"
  "They weep."
  "Let them come in," said the King, with a serious brow.
  D'Artagnan turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which
closed the entrance to the royal chamber, and directing his voice to
the adjoining room, cried, "Introduce!"
  The three men d'Artagnan had named soon appeared at the door of
the cabinet in which were the King and his captain. A profound silence
prevailed. The courtiers, at the approach of the friends of the
unfortunate Superintendent of the Finances, drew back, as if fearful
of being soiled by contact with disgrace and misfortune. D'Artagnan,
with a quick step, came forward to take by the hand the unhappy men
who stood hesitating and trembling at the door of the cabinet; he
led them up to the arm-chair of the King, who, having placed himself
in the embrasure of a window, awaited the moment of presentation,
and was preparing himself to give the supplicants a rigorously
diplomatic reception.
  The first of the friends of Fouquet that advanced was Pelisson. He
did not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the King might
the better hear his voice and his prayer. Gourville bit his lips to
check his tears, out of respect for the King. La Fontaine buried his
face in his handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were
the convulsive motions of his shoulders, raised by his sobs.
  The King had preserved all his dignity. His countenance was
impassive. He even maintained the frown which had appeared when
d'Artagnan had announced his enemies to him. He made a gesture which
signified, "Speak"; and he remained standing, with his eyes
searchingly fixed upon these desponding men. Pelisson bowed down to
the ground, and La Fontaine knelt as people do in churches. This
obstinate silence, disturbed only by such dismal sighs and groans,
began to excite in the King, not compassion, but impatience.
  "M. Pelisson," said he, in a sharp dry tone, "M. Gourville, and you,
Monsieur,"- and he did not name La Fontaine,- "I cannot, without
sensible displeasure, see you come to plead for one of the greatest
criminals that it is the duty of my justice to punish. A King does not
allow himself to be softened but by tears or by remorse,- the tears of
the innocent, the remorse of the guilty. I have no faith either in the
remorse of M. Fouquet or the tears of his friends, because the one
is tainted to the very heart, and the others ought to dread coming
to offend me in my own palace. For these reasons, I beg you, M.
Pelisson, M. Gourville, and you, Monsieur, to say nothing that will
not plainly proclaim the respect you have for my will."
  "Sire," replied Pelisson, trembling at these terrible words, "we are
come to say nothing to your Majesty that is not the most profound
expression of the most sincere respect and love which are due to a
King from all his subjects. Your Majesty's justice is
unquestionable; every one must yield to the sentences it pronounces.
We respectfully bow before it. Far from us be the idea of coming to
defend him who has had the misfortune to offend your Majesty. He who
has incurred your displeasure may be a friend of ours, but he is an
enemy of the State. We abandon him, but with tears, to the severity of
the King."
  "Besides," interrupted the King, calmed by that supplicating voice
and those persuasive words, "my parliament will decide. I do not
strike without having weighed the crime; my justice does not wield the
sword without having employed the scales."
  "Therefore have we every confidence in that impartiality of the
King, and hope to make our feeble voices heard, with the consent of
your Majesty, when the hour for defending an accused friend shall
strike for us."
  "In that case, Messieurs, what do you ask of me?" said the King,
with his most imposing air.
  "Sire," continued Pelisson, "the accused leaves a wife and a family.
The little property he had was scarcely sufficient to pay his debts,
and Madame Fouquet since the captivity of her husband is abandoned
by everybody. The hand of your Majesty strikes like the hand of God.
When the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or pestilence into a
family, every one flies and shuns the abode of the leprous or the
plague-stricken. Sometimes, but very rarely, a generous physician
alone ventures to approach the accursed threshold, passes it with
courage, and exposes his life to combat death. He is the last resource
of the dying; he is the instrument of heavenly mercy. Sire, we
supplicate you with clasped hands and bended knees, as the Deity is
supplicated! Madame Fouquet has no longer any friends, no longer any
support; she weeps in her poor deserted house, abandoned by all
those who besieged its door in the hour of prosperity; she has neither
credit nor hope left. At least, the unhappy wretch upon whom your
anger falls receives from you, however culpable he may be, the daily
bread which is moistened by his tears. As much afflicted, more
destitute than her husband, Madame Fouquet- she who had the honor to
receive your Majesty at her table; Madame Fouquet, the wife of the
ancient Superintendent of your Majesty's Finances,- Madame Fouquet has
no longer bread."
  Here the mortal silence which enchained the breath of Pelisson's two
friends was broken by an outburst of sobs; and d'Artagnan, whose chest
heaved at hearing this humble prayer, turned round towards the
corner of the cabinet to bite his mustache and conceal his sighs.
  The King had kept his eye dry and his countenance severe; but the
color had mounted to his cheeks, and the firmness of his look was
visibly diminished.
  "What do you wish?" said he, in an agitated voice.
  "We come humbly to ask your Majesty," replied Pelisson, upon whom
emotion was fast gaining, "to permit us, without incurring the
displeasure of your Majesty, to lend to Madame Fouquet two thousand
pistoles collected among the old friends of her husband, in order that
the widow may not stand in need of the necessaries of life."
  At the word "widow," pronounced by Pelisson while Fouquet was
still alive, the King turned very pale. His pride fell; pity rose from
his heart to his lips. He cast a softened look upon the men who
knelt sobbing at his feet. "God forbid," said he, "that I should
confound the innocent with the guilty! They know me but ill who
doubt my mercy towards the weak. I strike none but the arrogant. Do,
Messieurs, do all that your hearts counsel you to assuage the grief of
Madame Fouquet. Go, Messieurs; go!"
  The three men arose in silence with dried eyes. The tears had been
dried up by contact with their burning cheeks and eyelids. They had
not the strength to address their thanks to the King, who himself
cut short their solemn reverence by intrenching himself suddenly
behind the arm-chair.
  D'Artagnan remained alone with the King. "Well!" said he,
approaching the young Prince, who interrogated him with his look,-
"well, my master! If you had not the device which your sun adorns, I
would recommend you one which M. Conrart should translate into
Latin, 'Mild with the lowly; rough with the strong.'"
  The King smiled and passed into the next apartment after having said
to d'Artagnan, "I give you the leave of absence you must want to put
in order the affairs of your friend, the late M. du Vallon."
              Chapter LXXXIII: Porthos's Will

  AT PIERREFONDS everything was in mourning. The courts were deserted,
the stables closed, the parterres neglected. In the basins, the
fountains, formerly so spreading, noisy, and sparkling, had stopped of
themselves. Along the roads around the chateau came a few grave
personages mounted upon mules or farm horses. These were country
neighbors, cures, and bailiffs of adjacent estates. All these people
entered the chateau silently, gave their horses to a
melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps, conducted by a
huntsman in black, to the great dining-room, where Mousqueton received
them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in two days that his
clothes moved upon him like sheaths which are too large, in which
the blades of swords dance about at each motion. His face, composed of
red and white, like that of the Madonna of Vandyke, was furrowed by
two silver rivulets which had dug their beds in his cheeks, as full
formerly as they had become thin since his grief began. At each
fresh arrival Mousqueton shed fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see
him press his throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs
and lamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing the
reading of Porthos's will, announced for that day, and at which all
the covetous and all who were allied by friendship with the deceased
were anxious to be present, as he had left no relative behind him.
  The visitors took their places as they arrived; and the great room
had just been closed when the clock struck twelve, the hour fixed
for the reading. Porthos's procurator- who was naturally the successor
of Master Coquenard- began by slowly unfolding the vast parchment upon
which the powerful hand of Porthos had traced his last wishes. The
seal broken, the spectacles put on, the preliminary cough having
sounded, every one opened his ears. Mousqueton had squatted himself in
a corner, the better to weep and the less to hear.
  All at once the folding-doors of the great room, which had been
shut, were thrown open as if by miracle, and a manly figure appeared
upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun. This was
d'Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobody to hold
his stirrup, had tied his horse to a knocker and announced himself.
The splendor of the daylight invading the room, the murmur of all
present, and more than all that the instinct of the faithful dog
drew Mousqueton from his revery; he raised his head, recognized the
old friend of his master, and crying out with grief, embraced the
captain's knees, watering the floor with tears. D'Artagnan raised up
the poor intendant, embraced him as if he had been a brother, and
having nobly saluted the assembly, who all bowed as they whispered
to one another his name, went and took his seat at the extremity of
the great carved oak hall, still holding by the hand poor
Mousqueton, who was suffocating and sank down upon the steps. Then the
procurator, who, like the rest, was considerably agitated, began the
reading.
  Porthos, after a profession of faith of the most Christian
character, asked pardon of his enemies for all the injuries he might
have done them. At this paragraph, a ray of inexpressible pride beamed
from the eyes of d'Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the old
soldier, all those enemies of Porthos brought to the earth by his
valiant hand; he reckoned up the numbers of them, and said to
himself that Porthos had acted wisely not to detail his enemies or the
injuries done to them, or the task would have been too much for the
reader. Then came the following enumeration:-

  "I possess at this present time, by the grace of God-
  "1. The domain of Pierrefonds, lands, woods, meadows, waters, and
forests, surrounded by good walls.
  "2. The domain of Bracieux, chateau, forests, ploughed lands,
forming three farms.
  "3. The little estate Du Vallon, so named because it is in the
valley...."

  Brave Porthos!

  "4. Fifty farms in Touraine, amounting to five hundred acres.
  "5. Three mills upon the Cher, bringing in six hundred livres each.
  "6. Three fish-pools in Berry, producing two hundred livres a year.
  "As to my personal or movable property, so called because it
cannot be moved, as is so well explained by my learned friend the
Bishop of Vannes...."

  D'Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached to that
name.
  The procurator continued imperturbably.

  "...they consist-

  "1. In goods which I cannot detail here for want of room, and
which furnish all my chateaux, or houses, but of which the list is
drawn up by my intendant...."

  Every one turned his eyes towards Mousqueton, who was absorbed in
his grief.

  "2. In twenty horses for saddle and draught, which I have
particularly at my chateau of Pierrefonds, and which are called
Bayard, Roland, Charlemagne, Pepin, Dunois, La Hire, Ogier, Samson,
Milon, Nemrod, Urgande, Armide, Falstrade, Dalila, Rebecca, Yolande,
Finette, Grisette, Lisette, and Musette.
  "3. In sixty dogs, forming six packs, divided as follows: the first,
for the stag; the second, for the wolf; the third, for the wild
boar; the fourth, for the hare; and the two others, for watch and
guard.
  "4. In arms for war and the chase, contained in my gallery of arms.
  "5. My wines of Anjou, selected for Athos, who liked them
formerly; my wines of Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and Spain,
stocking eight cellars and twelve vaults in my various houses.
  "6. My pictures and statues, which are said to be of great value and
which are sufficiently numerous to fatigue the sight.
  "7. My library, consisting of six thousand volumes, quite new, which
have never been opened.
  "8. My silver plate, which perhaps is a little worn, but which ought
to weigh from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds, for I had great
trouble in lifting the coffer that contained it, and could not carry
it more than six times round my chamber.
  "9. All these objects, in addition to the table and house linen, are
divided in the residences I liked the best...."

  Here the reader stopped to take breath. Every one sighed, coughed,
and redoubled his attention. The procurator resumed:-

  "I have lived without having any children, and it is probable I
never shall have any, which to me is a cutting grief. And yet I am
mistaken, for I have a son, in common with my other friends: he is
M. Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, the true son of M. le Comte de
la Fere.
  "This young nobleman has appeared to me worthy to succeed to the
three valiant gentlemen of whom I am the friend and the very humble
servant."

  Here a sharp sound interrupted the reader. It was d'Artagnan's
sword, which, slipping from his baldric, had fallen on the sonorous
flooring. Every one turned his eyes that way, and saw that a large
tear had rolled from the thick lid of d'Artagnan upon his aquiline
nose, the luminous edge of which shone like a crescent enlightened
by the sun. The procurator continued:-

  "This is why I have left all my property, movable or immovable,
comprised in the above enumerations, to M. le Vicomte Raoul Auguste
Jules de Bragelonne, son of M. le Comte de la Fere, to console him for
the grief he seems to suffer, and enable him to support his name
gloriously."

  A long murmur ran through the assemblage. The procurator
continued, seconded by the flashing eye of d'Artagnan, which, glancing
over the assembly, quickly restored the interrupted silence:-

  "On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do give to M. le
Chevalier d'Artagnan, captain of the King's Musketeers, whatever the
said Chevalier d'Artagnan may demand of my property.
  "On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do pay a good pension
to M. le Chevalier d'Herblay, my friend, if he should be compelled
to live in exile.
  "On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne maintain those of
my servants who have spent ten years in my service, and that he give
five hundred livres to each of the others.
  "I leave to my intendant Mousqueton all my clothes, of city, war, or
chase, to the number of forty-seven suits, with the assurance that
he will wear them till they are worn out, for the love of, and in
remembrance of, his master.
  "Moreover, I bequeath to M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne my old
servant and faithful friend, Mousqueton, already named, with the
charge to the said viscount to act in such a way that Mousqueton shall
declare when dying that he has never ceased to be happy."

  On hearing these words, Mousqueton, bowed, pale and trembling; his
large shoulders shook convulsively; his countenance, impressed by a
frightful grief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the
spectators saw him stagger and hesitate, as if, though wishing to
leave the hall, he did not know the way.
  "Mousqueton, my good friend," said d'Artagnan, "go and make your
preparations. I will take you with me to Athos's house, whither I
shall go on leaving Pierrefonds."
  Mousqueton made no reply. He scarcely breathed, feeling as if
everything in that hall would from that time be strange to him. He
opened the door, and disappeared slowly.
  The procurator finished his reading, after which the greater part of
those who had come to hear the last will of Porthos dispersed by
degrees, many disappointed, but all penetrated with respect. As for
d'Artagnan, left alone after having received the formal compliments of
the procurator, he was lost in admiration of the wisdom of the
testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the most
necessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that none among the
most refined courtiers and the most noble hearts could have
displayed more becomingly.
  When Porthos enjoined Raoul de Bragelonne to give to d'Artagnan
all he would ask, he knew well, did that worthy Porthos, that
d'Artagnan would ask or take nothing; and in case he did demand
anything, none but himself could say what. Porthos left a pension to
Aramis, who, if he should be inclined to ask too much, would be
checked by the example of d'Artagnan; and that word "exile," thrown
out by the testator without apparent intention,- was it not the most
mild, the most exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis which
had brought about the death of Porthos? But there was no mention of
Athos in the testament of the dead; could the latter for a moment
suppose that the son would not offer the best part to the father?
The rough mind of Porthos had judged all these causes, caught all
these shades, better than the law, better than custom, better than
taste.
  "Porthos was a heart," said d'Artagnan to himself, with a sigh. As
he made this reflection he fancied he heard a groan in the room
above him, and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton, whom it
was necessary to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the
hall hastily to seek the worthy intendant. He ascended the staircase
leading to the first story, and perceived in Porthos's own chamber a
heap of clothes of all colors and all materials, upon which Mousqueton
had laid himself down after heaping them together. It was the legacy
of the faithful friend. These clothes were truly his own; they had
been given to him. The hand of Mousqueton was stretched over these
relics, which he kissed with all his lips, with all his face, which he
covered with his whole body. D'Artagnan approached to console the poor
fellow. "My God!" said he; "he does not stir,- he has fainted!
  But d'Artagnan was mistaken; Mousqueton was dead,- dead, like the
dog who having lost his master, comes back to die upon his cloak.
            Chapter LXXXIV: The Old Age of Athos

  WHILE all these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers,
formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos,
left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to
that death by anticipation which is called the absence of those we
love. Returned to his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to
receive a poor smile when he passed through the parterre, Athos
daily felt the decline of the vigor of a nature which for so long a
time had appeared infallible. Age, which had been kept back by the
presence of the beloved object, arrived with that cortege of pains and
inconveniences which increases in proportion as its coming is delayed.
Athos had no longer his son's presence to incite him to walk firmly,
with his head erect, as a good example; he had no longer in those
brilliant eyes of the young man an ever-ardent focus at which to
rekindle the fire of his looks. And then, it must be said, this
nature, exquisite in its tenderness and its reserve, no longer finding
anything that comprehended its feelings, gave itself up to grief
with all the warmth with which vulgar natures give themselves up to
joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had remained a young man up to his
sixty-second year; the warrior who had preserved his strength in spite
of fatigues, his freshness of mind in spite of misfortune, his mild
serenity of soul and body in spite of Milady, in spite of Mazarin,
in spite of La Valliere,- Athos had become an old man in a week from
the moment at which he had lost the support of his latter youth. Still
handsome though bent, noble but sad,- gently, and tottering under
his gray hairs, he sought since his solitude the glades where the rays
of the sun penetrated through the foliage of the walks. He
discontinued all the vigorous exercises he had enjoyed through life,
since Raoul was no longer with him. The servants, accustomed to see
him stirring with the dawn at all seasons, were astonished to hear
seven o'clock strike before their master had quitted his bed. Athos
remained in bed with a book under his pillow; but he did not sleep,
neither did he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer have
to carry his body, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from their
envelope, and return to his son or to God.
  His people were sometimes terrified to see him for hours together
absorbed in a silent revery, mute and insensible; he no longer heard
the timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to
watch the sleeping or waking of his master. It sometimes happened that
he forgot that the day had half passed away, that the hours for the
first two meals were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended
to his shady walk, then came out a little into the sun, as if to
partake its warmth for a minute with his absent child; and then the
dismal, monotonous walk was resumed, until, quite exhausted, he
regained the chamber and the bed,- his domicil by choice. For
several days the count did not speak a word; he refused to receive the
visits that were paid him, and during the night he was seen to relight
his lamp and pass long hours in writing letters or examining
parchments.
  Athos wrote one of these letters to Vannes, another to
Fontainebleau; they remained without answers. We know why Aramis had
quitted France, and d'Artagnan was travelling from Nantes to Paris,
from Paris to Pierrefonds. Athos's valet de chambre observed that he
shortened his walk every day by several turns. The great alley of
limes soon became too long for feet that used to traverse it a hundred
times in a day. The count walked feebly as far as the middle trees,
seated himself upon a mossy bank which sloped towards a side path, and
there waited the return of his strength, or rather the return of
night. Very shortly a hundred steps exhausted him. At length Athos
refused to rise at all; he declined all nourishment, and his terrified
people,- although he did not complain, although he had a smile on
his lips, although he continued to speak with his sweet voice,- his
people went to Blois in search of the old physician of the late
Monsieur, and brought him to the Comte de la Fere in such a fashion
that he could see the count without being himself seen. For this
purpose they placed him in a closet adjoining the chamber of the
patient, and implored him not to show himself, in the fear of
displeasing their master, who had not asked for a physician. The
doctor obeyed: Athos was a sort of model for the gentlemen of the
country; the Blaisois boasted of possessing this sacred relic of the
old French glories. Athos was a great seigneur, compared with such
nobles as the King improvised by touching with his yellow and prolific
sceptre the dry trunks of the heraldic trees of the province.
  People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician
could not bear to see his people weep, and to see flock round him
the poor of the canton, to whom Athos gave life and consolation by his
kind words and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the
depths of his hiding-place, the nature of that mysterious malady which
bent down and devoured more mortally every day a man but lately so
full of life and of a desire to live. He remarked upon the cheeks of
Athos the purple of fever, which fires itself and feeds itself,-
slow fever, pitiless, born in a fold of the heart, sheltering itself
behind that rampart, growing from the suffering it engenders, at
once cause and effect of a perilous situation. The count spoke to
nobody, we say; he did not even talk to himself. His thought feared
noise; it approached to that degree of over-excitement which borders
upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he does not yet belong to God,
already belongs no longer to earth. The doctor remained for several
hours studying this painful struggle of the will against a superior
power; he was terrified at seeing those eyes always fixed, always
directed towards an invisible object, at seeing beat with the same
movement that heart from which never a sigh arose to vary the
melancholy state. Sometimes the acuteness of pain awakens hope in
the mind of a physician. Half a day passed away thus. The doctor
formed his resolution like a brave man, like a man of firm mind; he
issued suddenly from his place of retreat, and went straight up to
Athos, who saw him without evincing more surprise than if he had not
perceived the apparition.
  "Monsieur the Count, I crave your pardon," said the doctor, coming
up to the patient with open arms; "but I have a reproach to make
you. You shall hear me." And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos,
who with difficulty roused himself from his preoccupation.
  "What is the matter, Doctor?" asked the count, after a silence.
  "Why, the matter is, you are ill, Monsieur, and have had no advice."
  "I, ill!" said Athos, smiling.
  "Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, Monsieur the Count."
  "Weakness!" replied Athos; "is that possible? I do not get up."
  "Come, come, Monsieur the Count, no subterfuges; you are a good
Christian?"
  "I hope so," said Athos.
  "Would you kill yourself?"
  "Never, Doctor."
  "Well, Monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so; to remain thus
is suicide. Get well, Monsieur the Count! get well!"
  "Of what? Find the disease first. For my part, I never knew myself
better. Never did the sky appear more blue to me; never did I value
more my flowers."
  "You have a concealed grief."
  "Concealed! not at all. I have the absence of my son, Doctor,-
that is my malady, and I do not conceal it."
  "Monsieur the Count, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the
future before him of men of his merit and of his race; live for him-"
  "But I do live, Doctor; oh! be satisfied of that," added he, with
a melancholy smile. "As long as Raoul lives, it will be plainly
known,- for as long as he lives, I shall live."
  "What do you say?"
  "A very simple thing. At this moment, Doctor, I allow my life to
be in a state of suspense. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life
would be above my strength now that I have Raoul no longer with me.
You do not ask the lamp to burn when the spark has not lighted the
flame; do not ask me to live noisily and brilliantly. I vegetate, I
prepare myself, I wait. Look, Doctor; you remember those soldiers we
have so often seen together at the ports, where they were waiting to
embark,- lying down, indifferent, half upon one element, half upon the
other. They were neither at the place where the sea was going to carry
them nor at the place where the earth was going to lose them;
baggage prepared, minds upon the stretch, looks fixed,- they waited. I
repeat that word; it is the one which describes my present life. Lying
down, like the soldiers, my ear on the alert for the reports that
may reach me, I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons.
Who will make me that summons,- life or death, God or Raoul? My
baggage is packed; my soul is prepared; I await the signal. I wait,
Doctor, I wait!"
  The doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strength
of that body. He reflected for a moment, told himself that words
were useless, remedies absurd; and he left the chateau, exhorting
Athos's servants not to leave him for a moment.
  The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation at
having been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that
came should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that every
distraction which should arrive would be a joy, a hope, which his
servants would have paid with their blood to procure him. Sleep had
become rare. By force of thought, Athos forgot himself, for a few
hours at most in a revery more profound, more obscure than other
people would have called a revery. The momentary repose which this
forgetfulness afforded the body, fatigued the soul,- for Athos lived a
double life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night,
he dreamed that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent to go upon an
expedition commanded by M. de Beaufort in person. The young man was
sad; he clasped his cuirass slowly, and slowly he girded on his sword.
  "What is the matter?" asked his father, tenderly.
  "What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, our so dear friend,"
replied Raoul. "I suffer here for the grief you will feel at home."
  And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak
one of his servants entered his master's apartments, and gave him a
letter which came from Spain.
  "The writing of Aramis," thought the count; and he read.
  "Porthos is dead!" cried he, after the first lines. "Oh, Raoul,
Raoul, thanks! thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!"
  And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed, without
any other cause than his weakness.
            Chapter LXXXV: The Vision of Athos

  WHEN this fainting of Athos had ceased, the count, almost ashamed of
having given way before this supernatural event, dressed himself and
ordered his horse, determined to ride to Blois to open more certain
correspondence with either Raoul, d'Artagnan, or Aramis. In fact, this
letter from Aramis informed the Comte de la Fere of the bad success of
the expedition of Belle-Isle. It gave him sufficient details of the
death of Porthos to move the tender and devoted heart of Athos to
its last fibres. Athos wished to go and pay his friend Porthos a
last visit. To render this honor to his companion in arms, he meant to
send to d'Artagnan, to prevail upon him to re-commence the painful
voyage to Belle-Isle, to accomplish in his company that sad pilgrimage
to the tomb of the giant he had so much loved; then he would return to
his dwelling to obey that secret influence which was conducting him to
eternity by a mysterious road. But scarcely had his joyous servants
dressed their master, whom they saw with pleasure preparing himself
for a journey which might dissipate his melancholy; scarcely had the
count's gentlest horse been saddled and brought to the door,- when the
father of Raoul felt his head become confused, his legs give way,
and he clearly perceived the impossibility of going one step
farther. He ordered himself to be carried into the sun; they laid
him upon his bed of moss, where he passed a full hour before he
could recover his spirits. Nothing could be more natural than this
weakness after the inert repose of the latter days. Athos took a
bouillon to give him strength, and bathed his dried lips in a glassful
of the wine he loved the best,- that old Anjou wine mentioned by
Porthos in his admirable will. Then, refreshed, free in mind, he had
his horse brought again; but he required the aid of his servants to
mount painfully into the saddle. He did not go a hundred paces; a
shivering seized him again at the turning of the road. "This is very
strange!" said he to his valet de chambre, who accompanied him.
  "Let us stop, Monsieur, I conjure you!" replied the faithful
servant; "how pale you are becoming!"
  "That will not prevent my pursuing my route, now I have once
started," replied the count; and he gave his horse his head again. But
suddenly the animal, instead of obeying the thought of his master,
stopped. A movement of which Athos was unconscious had checked the
bit.
  "Something," said Athos, "wills that I should go no farther. Support
me," added he, stretching out his arms; "quick! come closer! I feel
all my muscles relax, and I shall fall from my horse."
  The valet had seen the movement made by his master at the moment
he received the order. He went up to him quickly, and received the
count in his arms; and as they were still sufficiently near the
house for the servants, who had remained at the door to watch their
master's departure, to perceive the disorder in the usually regular
proceeding of the count, the valet called his comrades by gesture
and voice, and all hastened to his assistance. Athos had gone but a
few steps on his return when he felt himself better again. His
strength seemed to revive, and with it the desire to go to Blois. He
made his horse turn round; but at the animal's first steps, he sank
again into a state of torpor and anguish.
  "Well, decidedly," said he, "IT IS WILLED that I should stay at
home." His people flocked around him; they lifted him from his horse
and carried him as quickly as possible into the house. Everything
was soon prepared in his chamber, and they put him to bed.
  "You will be sure to remember," said he, disposing himself to sleep,
"that I expect letters from Africa this very day."
  "Monsieur will no doubt hear with pleasure that Blaisois's son is
gone on horseback, to gain an hour over the courier of Blois," replied
his valet de chambre.
  "Thank you," replied Athos, with his kindly smile.
  The count fell asleep, but his disturbed slumber resembled suffering
more than repose. The servant who watched him saw several times the
expression of interior torture imprinted upon his features. Perhaps
Athos was dreaming.
  The day passed away. Blaisois's son returned; the courier had
brought no news. The count reckoned the minutes with despair; he
shuddered when those minutes had formed an hour. The idea that he
was forgotten seized him once, and brought on a fearful pang of the
heart. Everybody in the house had given up all hopes of the courier,
his hour had long passed. Four times the express sent to Blois had
repeated his journey, and there was nothing to the address of the
count. Athos knew that the courier arrived only once a week. Here,
then, was a delay of eight mortal days to be endured. He began the
night in this painful persuasion. All that a sick man, irritated by
suffering, can add of melancholy suppositions to probabilities
always sad, Athos heaped up during the early hours of this dismal
night. The fever rose; it invaded the chest, where the fire soon
caught, according to the expression of the physician, who had been
brought back from Blois by the son of Blaisois on his last journey. It
soon reached the head. The physician made two successive bleedings,
which unlodged it, but left the patient very weak, and without power
of action except in his brain; and yet this redoubtable fever had
ceased. It attacked with its last strokes the stiffened extremities;
and as midnight struck it yielded.
  The physician, seeing the incontestable improvement, returned to
Blois, after having ordered some prescriptions, declaring that the
count was saved. Then began for Athos a strange, indefinable state.
Free to think, his mind turned towards Raoul, that beloved son. His
imagination painted the fields of Africa in the environs of Djidgelli,
where M. de Beaufort was to land his army. There were gray rocks,
rendered green in certain parts by the waters of the sea when it
lashed the shore in storms and tempests. Beyond the shore, strewed
over with these rocks like tombs, ascended, in form of an amphitheatre
among mastic-trees and cactus, a sort of village, full of smoke,
confused noises, and terrified movements. Suddenly, from the bosom
of this smoke arose a flame, which, gaining headway, presently covered
the whole surface of this village, and increased by degrees, including
in its red vortices tears, cries, arms extended towards heaven.
  There was, for a moment, a frightful pele-mele of timbers falling,
of swords broken, of stones calcined, of trees burned and
disappearing. It was a strange thing that in this chaos, in which
Athos distinguished raised arms, in which he heard cries, sobs, and
groans, he did not see one human figure. The cannon thundered at a
distance, musketry cracked, the sea moaned, flocks made their
escape, bounding over the verdant slope; but not a soldier to apply
the match to the batteries of cannon, not a sailor to assist in
manoeuvering the fleet, not a shepherd for the flocks. After the
ruin of the village and the destruction of the forts which commanded
it,- a ruin and a destruction operated magically without the
cooperation of a single human being,- the flame was extinguished,
the smoke began to descend, then diminished in intensity, paled, and
disappeared entirely. Night then came over the scene,- a night dark
upon the earth, brilliant in the firmament. The large, blazing stars
which sparkled in the African sky shone without lighting anything even
around them.
  A long silence ensued, which gave, for a moment, repose to the
troubled imagination of Athos; and as he felt that that which he saw
was not terminated, he applied his observation more attentively to the
strange spectacle which his imagination had presented. This
spectacle was soon continued for him. A mild and pale moon arose
behind the declivities of the coast, and streaking at first the
undulating ripples of the sea, which appeared to have calmed after the
roarings it had sent forth during the vision of Athos,- the moon, we
say, shed its diamonds and opals upon the briers and bushes of the
hill. The gray rocks, like so many silent and attentive phantoms,
appeared to raise their verdant heads to examine likewise the field of
battle by the light of the moon; and Athos perceived that that
field, entirely empty during the combat, was now strewn with fallen
bodies.
  An inexpressible shudder of fear and horror seized the soul of Athos
when he recognized the white and blue uniform of the soldiers of
Picardy, with their long pikes and blue handles, and their muskets
marked with the fleur-de-lis on the butts; when he saw all the gaping,
cold wounds looking up to the azure heavens as if to demand back of
them the souls to which they had opened a passage; when he saw the
slaughtered horses, stiff, with their tongues hanging out at one
side of their mouths, sleeping in the icy blood pooled around them,
staining their furniture and their manes; when he saw the white
horse of M. de Beaufort, with his head beaten to pieces, in the
first ranks of the dead. Athos passed a cold hand over his brow, which
he was astonished not to find burning. He was convinced by this
touch that he was present as a spectator, without fever, on the day
after a battle fought upon the shores of Djidgelli by the army of
the expedition which he had seen leave the coasts of France and
disappear in the horizon, and of which he had saluted with thought and
gesture the last cannon-shot fired by the duke as a signal of farewell
to his country.
  Who can paint the mortal agony with which his soul followed, like
a vigilant eye, the trace of those dead bodies, and examined them, one
after the other, to see if Raoul slept among them? Who can express the
intoxication of joy with which Athos bowed before God, and gave thanks
for not having seen him he sought with so much fear among the dead? In
fact, fallen dead in their ranks, stiff, icy, all these dead, easy
to be recognized, seemed to turn with kindness and respect towards the
Comte de la Fere, to be the better seen by him during his funereal
inspection. But yet he was astonished while viewing all these
bodies, not to perceive the survivors. To such a point did the
illusion extend, that this vision was for the father a real voyage
made by him into Africa, to obtain more exact information respecting
his son.
  Fatigued, therefore, with having traversed seas and continents, he
sought repose under one of the tents sheltered behind a rock, on the
top of which floated the white fleurdelise pennon. He looked for a
soldier to conduct him to the tent of M. de Beaufort. Then, while
his eye was wandering over the plain, turning in all directions, he
saw a white form appear behind the resinous myrtles. This figure was
clothed in the costume of an officer; it held in its hand a broken
sword; it advanced slowly towards Athos, who, stopping short and
fixing his eyes upon it, neither spoke nor moved, but wished to open
his arms, because in this silent and pale officer he had just
recognized Raoul. The count attempted to utter a cry; but it
remained stifled in his throat. Raoul with a gesture directed him to
be silent, placing his finger on his lips and drawing back by degrees,
without Athos being able to see any motion of his legs. The count,
more pale than Raoul, more trembling, followed his son, traversing
painfully briers and bushes, stones and ditches, Raoul appearing not
to touch the earth, and no obstacle impeding the lightness of his
march. The count, whom the inequalities of the path fatigued, soon
stopped exhausted. Raoul still continued to beckon him to follow
him. The tender father, to whom love restored strength, made a last
effort and climbed the mountain after the young man, who drew him
onward by his gesture and his smile.
  At length Athos gained the crest of the hill, and saw, thrown out in
black upon the horizon whitened by the moon, the airy, visionary
form of Raoul. Athos stretched out his hand to get closer to his
beloved son upon the plateau, and the latter also stretched out his;
but suddenly, as if the young man had been drawn away in spite of
himself, still retreating, he left the earth; and Athos saw the
clear blue sky shine between the feet of his child and the ground of
the hill. Raoul rose insensibly into the void, still smiling, still
inviting with a gesture; he departed towards heaven. Athos uttered a
cry of terrified tenderness. He looked below again. He saw a camp
destroyed, and all those white bodies of the royal army, like so
many motionless atoms. And then, when raising his head, he saw
still, still, his son beckoning him to ascend with him.
             Chapter LXXXVI: The Angel of Death

  ATHOS was at this part of his marvelous vision when the charm was
suddenly broken by a great noise rising from the outward gates of
the house. A horse was heard galloping over the hard gravel of the
great alley; and the sound of noisy and animated conversations
ascended to the chamber in which the count was dreaming. Athos did not
stir from the place he occupied; he scarcely turned his head towards
the door to ascertain the sooner what these noises could be. A heavy
step ascended the stairs; the horse which had recently galloped with
such rapidity departed slowly towards the stables. Great hesitation
appeared in the steps which by degrees approached the chamber of
Athos. A door then was opened, and Athos, turning a little towards the
part of the room the noise came from, cried in a weak voice, "It is
a courier from Africa, is it not?"
  "No, Monsieur the Count," replied a voice which made the father of
Raoul start upright in his bed.
  "Grimaud!" murmured he; and the sweat began to pour down his cheeks.
Grimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we
have seen, still young with courage and devotion, when he jumped the
first into the boat which was to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the
vessels of the royal fleet. He was a stern and pale old man, his
clothes covered with dust, his few scattered hairs whitened by old
age. He trembled while leaning against the door-frame, and was near
falling on seeing by the light of the lamps the countenance of his
master. These two men, who had lived so long together in a community
of intelligence, and whose eyes, accustomed to economize
expressions, knew how to say so many things silently- these two old
friends, one as noble as the other in heart, if they were unequal in
fortune and birth, remained silent while looking at each other. By the
exchange of a single glance they had just read to the bottom of each
other's heart. Grimaud bore upon his countenance the impression of a
grief already old, of a familiarity with sorrow. He appeared now to
have at his command but one interpreter of his thought. As formerly he
was accustomed not to speak, he now had accustomed himself not to
smile. Athos read at a glance all these shades upon the visage of
his faithful servant, and in the same tone he would have employed to
speak to Raoul in his dream, "Grimaud," said he, "Raoul is dead, is he
not?"
  Behind Grimaud the other servants listened breathlessly, with
their eyes fixed upon the bed of their sick master. They heard the
terrible question, and an awful silence ensued.
  "Yes," replied the old man, heaving up the monosyllable from his
chest with a hoarse broken sigh.
  Then arose voices of lamentation, which groaned without measure, and
filled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the agonized
father searched with his eyes the portrait of his son. This was for
Athos a transition which led him to his dream. Without uttering a cry,
without shedding a tear, patient, mild, resigned as a martyr, he
raised his eyes towards heaven, in order to there see again, rising
above the mountain of Djidgelli, the beloved shade which was leaving
him at the moment of Grimaud's arrival. Without doubt, while looking
towards the heavens, when resuming his marvelous dream, he returned to
the same road by which the vision, at once so terrible and so sweet,
had led him before; for after having gently closed his eyes, he
reopened them and began to smile,- he had just seen Raoul, who had
smiled upon him. With his hands clasped upon his breast, his face
turned towards the window, bathed by the fresh air of night, which
brought to his pillow the aroma of the flowers and the woods, Athos
entered, never again to come out of it, into the contemplation of that
paradise which the living never see. God willed, no doubt, to open
to this elect the treasures of eternal beatitude at the hour when
other men tremble with the idea of being severely received by the
Lord, and cling to this life they know, in the dread of the other life
of which they get a glimpse by the dismal murky torches of death.
Athos was guided by the pure and serene soul of his son, which aspired
to be like the paternal soul. Everything for this just man was
melody and perfume in the rough road which souls take to return to the
celestial country. After an hour of this ecstasy, Athos softly
raised his hands as white as wax; the smile did not quit his lips, and
he murmured low, so low as scarcely to be audible, these three words
addressed to God or to Raoul, "HERE I AM!" And his hands fell down
slowly, as if he himself had laid them on the bed.
  Death had been kind and mild to this noble creature. It had spared
him the tortures of the agony, the convulsions of the last
departure; it had opened with an indulgent finger the gates of
eternity to that noble soul worthy of all its respect. God had no
doubt ordered it thus, that the pious remembrance of this death should
remain in the hearts of those present and in the memory of other men,-
a death which made the passage from this life to the other seem
desirable to those whose existence upon this earth leads them not to
dread the last judgment. Athos preserved, even in the eternal sleep,
his placid and sincere smile,- an ornament which was to accompany
him to the tomb. The quietude of his features, the peacefulness of his
departure, made his servants for a long time doubt whether he had
really quitted life.
  The count's people wished to remove Grimaud, who from a distance
devoured the face become so pale, and did not approach from the
pious fear of bringing to him the breath of death. But Grimaud,
fatigued as he was, refused to leave the room. He seated himself
upon the threshold, watching his master with the vigilance of a
sentinel and jealous to receive either his first waking look or his
last dying sigh. The noises were all hushed in the house, and every
one respected the slumber of their lord. But Grimaud, anxiously
listening, perceived that the count no longer breathed. He raised
himself, with his hands resting on the ground, and looked to see if
there did not appear some motion in the body of his master. Nothing!
Fear seized him; he rose up, and at the very moment heard some one
coming up the stairs. A noise of spurs knocking against a sword- a
warlike sound, familiar to his ears- stopped him as he was going
towards the bed of Athos. A voice more sonorous still than brass or
steel resounded within three paces of him.
  "Athos! Athos! my friend!" cried this voice, agitated even to tears.
  "M. le Chevalier d'Artagnan!" faltered out Grimaud.
  "Where is he? Where is he?" continued the musketeer.
  Grimaud seized his arm in his bony fingers, and pointed to the
bed, upon the sheets of which the livid tints of the dead already
showed.
  A choked breath, the opposite to a sharp cry, swelled the throat
of d'Artagnan. He advanced on tiptoe, trembling, frightened at the
noise his feet made upon the floor, and his heart rent by a nameless
agony. He placed his ear to the breast of Athos, his face to the
count's mouth. Neither noise nor breath! D'Artagnan drew back.
Grimaud, who had followed him with his eyes, and for whom each of
his movements had been a revelation, came timidly and seated himself
at the foot of the bed and closely pressed his lips to the sheet which
was raised by the stiffened feet of his master. Then large drops began
to flow from his red eyes. This old man in despair, who wept, bowed
down without uttering a word, presented the most moving spectacle that
d'Artagnan, in a life so filled with emotion, had ever seen.
  The captain remained standing in contemplation before that smiling
dead man, who seemed to have kept his last thought to give to his best
friend, to the man he had loved next to Raoul,- a gracious welcome
even beyond life; and as if to reply to that exalted flattery of
hospitality, d'Artagnan went and kissed Athos fervently on the brow,
and with his trembling fingers closed his eyes. Then he seated himself
by the pillow without dread of that dead man, who had been so kind and
affectionate to him for thirty-five years; he fed himself greedily
with the remembrances which the noble visage of the count brought to
his mind in crowds,- some blooming and charming as that smile; some
dark, dismal, and icy as that face with its eyes closed for eternity.
  All at once, the bitter flood which mounted from minute to minute
invaded his heart and swelled his breast almost to bursting. Incapable
of mastering his emotion, he arose; and tearing himself violently from
the chamber where he had just found dead him to whom he came to report
the news of the death of Porthos, he uttered sobs so heart-rending
that the servants, who seemed only to wait for an explosion of
grief, answered to it by their lugubrious clamors, and the dogs of the
late count by their lamentable howlings. Grimaud was the only one
who did not lift up his voice. Even in the paroxysm of his grief he
would not have dared to profane the dead, or for the first time
disturb the slumber of his master. Besides, Athos had accustomed him
never to speak.
  At daybreak, d'Artagnan, who had wandered about the lower hall,
biting his fingers to stifle his sighs, went up once more; and
watching the moment when Grimaud turned his head towards him, he
made him a sign to come to him, which the faithful servant obeyed
without making more noise than a shadow. D'Artagnan went down again,
followed by Grimaud; and when he had gained the vestibule, taking
the old man's hands, "Grimaud," said he, "I have seen how the father
died; now let me know how the son died."
  Grimaud drew from his breast a large letter, upon the envelope of
which was traced the address of Athos. D'Artagnan recognized the
writing of M. de Beaufort, broke the seal, and began to read,
walking about in the first blue rays of day in the dark alley of old
limes, marked by the still visible footsteps of the count who had just
died.
              Chapter LXXXVII: The Bulletin

  THE Duc de Beaufort wrote to Athos. The letter destined for the
living only reached the dead. God had changed the address.

  "MY DEAR COUNT," wrote the Prince in his large, bad, schoolboy's
hand,- "a great misfortune has struck us amid a great triumph. The
King loses one of the bravest of soldiers; I lose a friend; you lose
M. de Bragelonne.
  "He has died gloriously, and so gloriously that I have not the
strength to weep as I could wish.
  "Receive my sad compliments, my dear Count. Heaven distributes
trials according to the greatness of our hearts. This trial is very
great, but not above your courage.
                                     "Your good friend,
                                                "LE DUC DE BEAUFORT."

  The letter contained a relation written by one of the Prince's
secretaries. It was the most touching recital, and the most true, of
that dismal episode which destroyed two lives. D'Artagnan,
accustomed to battle emotions, and with a heart armed against
tenderness, could not help starting on reading the name of Raoul,- the
name of that beloved boy who had become, as his father had, a shade.
  "In the morning," said the Prince's secretary, "Monseigneur
commanded the attack. Normandy and Picardy had taken position in the
gray rocks dominated by the heights of the mountains, upon the
declivity of which were raised the bastions of Djidgelli.
  "The cannon beginning to fire opened the action; the regiments
marched full of resolution; the pikemen had their pikes elevated;
the bearers of muskets had their weapons ready. The Prince followed
attentively the march and movements of the troops, so as to be able to
sustain them with a strong reserve. With Monseigneur were the oldest
captains and his aides-decamp. M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne had
received orders not to leave his Highness. In the mean time the
enemy's cannon, which at first had thundered with little success
against the masses, had regulated its fire; and the balls, better
directed, had killed several men near the Prince. The regiments formed
in column, and advancing against the ramparts were rather roughly
handled. There was a hesitation in our troops, who found themselves
ill seconded by the artillery. In fact, the batteries which had been
established the evening before had but a weak and uncertain aim, on
account of their position. The direction from below to above
lessened the accuracy of the shots as well as their range.
  "Monseigneur, comprehending the bad effect of this position of the
siege artillery, commanded the frigates moored in the little roadstead
to begin a regular fire against the place. M. de Bragelonne offered
himself at once to carry this order; but Monseigneur refused to
acquiesce in the viscount's request. Monseigneur was right, for he
loved and wished to spare the young nobleman. He was quite right,
and the event justified his foresight and refusal,- for scarcely had
the sergeant charged with the message solicited by M. de Bragelonne
gained the sea-shore, when two shots from long carbines issued from
the enemy's ranks and laid him low. The sergeant fell, dyeing the sand
with his blood; observing which, M. de Bragelonne smiled at
Monseigneur, who said to him, 'You see, Viscount, I have saved your
life. Report that, some day, to M. le Comte de la Fere, in order
that learning it from you he may thank me.' The young nobleman
smiled sadly, and replied to the duke, 'It is true, Monseigneur,
that but for your kindness I should have been killed down there
where the poor sergeant has fallen, and should be at rest.' M. de
Bragelonne made this reply in such a tone that Monseigneur answered
him warmly: 'Good God! young man, one would say that your mouth waters
for death; but, by the soul of Henry IV, I have promised your father
to bring you back alive; and please the Lord, I will keep my word.'
  "M. de Bragelonne colored, and replied in a lower voice,
'Monseigneur, pardon me, I beseech you; I have always had the desire
to go to meet good opportunities; and it is so delightful to
distinguish ourselves before our general, particularly when that
general is M. le Duc de Beaufort.'
  "Monseigneur was a little softened by this; and turning to the
officers who surrounded him, gave his different orders. The grenadiers
of the two regiments got near enough to the ditches and the
intrenchments to launch their grenades, which had but little effect.
In the mean while, M. d'Estrees, who commanded the fleet, having
seen the attempt of the sergeant to approach the vessels, understood
that he must act without orders, and opened his fire. Then the
Arabs, finding themselves seriously injured by the balls from the
fleet, and beholding the destruction and the ruins of their bad walls,
uttered the most fearful cries. Their horsemen descended the
mountain at the gallop, bent over their saddles and rushed full tilt
upon the columns of infantry, which crossing their pikes stopped
this mad assault. Repulsed by the firm attitude of the battalion,
the Arabs threw themselves with great fury upon the commander's
position, which at that moment was not protected.
  "The danger was great; Monseigneur drew his sword; his secretaries
and people imitated him; the officers of the suite engaged in combat
with the furious Arabs. It was then that M. de Bragelonne was able
to gratify the inclination he had manifested from the beginning of the
action. He fought near the Prince with the valor of a Roman, and
killed three Arabs with his small sword. But it was evident that his
bravery did not arise from the sentiment of pride natural to all who
fight. It was impetuous, affected, forced even; he sought to
intoxicate himself with noise and carnage. He excited himself to
such a degree that Monseigneur called out to him to stop. He must have
heard the voice of Monseigneur, because we who were close to him heard
it. He did not, however, stop, but continued his course towards the
intrenchments. As M. de Bragelonne was a well-disciplined officer,
this disobedience to the orders of Monseigneur very much surprised
everybody, and M. de Beaufort redoubled his earnestness, crying,
'Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you going? Stop,' repeated Monseigneur,
'I command you!'
  "We all, imitating the gesture of Monsieur the Duke,- we all
raised our hands. We expected that the cavalier would turn bridle; but
M. de Bragelonne continued to ride towards the palisades.
  "'Stop, Bragelonne!' repeated the Prince, in a very loud voice;
'stop! in the name of your father!'
  "At these words M. de Bragelonne turned round, his countenance
expressed a lively grief; but he did not stop. We then concluded
that his horse must have run away with him. When Monsieur the Duke had
imagined that the viscount was not master of his horse, and had seen
him precede the first grenadiers, his Highness cried, 'Musketeers,
kill his horse! A hundred pistoles for him who shall kill his
horse!' But who could expect to hit the beast without at least
wounding his rider? No one durst venture. At length one presented
himself; he was a sharpshooter of the regiment of Picardy, named
Luzerne, who took aim at the animal, fired, and hit him in the
quarters, for we saw the blood redden the hair of the horse. Instead
of falling, the cursed genet carried him on more furiously than
ever. Every Picard who saw this unfortunate young man rushing on to
meet death, shouted in the loudest manner, 'Throw yourself off,
Monsieur the Viscount! off! off! throw yourself off!' M. de Bragelonne
was an officer much beloved in the army! Already had the viscount
arrived within pistol-shot of the ramparts; a discharge was poured
upon him and enveloped him in its fire and smoke. We lost sight of
him; the smoke dispersed; he was on foot, standing; his horse was
killed.
  "The viscount was summoned to surrender by the Arabs, but he made
them a negative sign with his head, and continued to march towards the
palisades. This was a mortal imprudence. Nevertheless, the whole
army was pleased that he would not retreat, since ill chance had led
him so near. He marched a few paces farther, and the two regiments
clapped their hands. It was at this moment the second discharge
shook the walls, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne again disappeared in
the smoke; but this time the smoke was dispersed in vain,- we no
longer saw him standing. He was down, with his head lower than his
legs, among the bushes; and the Arabs began to think of leaving
their intrenchments to come and cut off his head or take his body,
as is their custom with infidels. But Monseigneur le Duc de Beaufort
had followed all this with his eyes, and the sad spectacle drew from
him many and painful sighs. He then cried aloud, seeing the Arabs
running like white phantoms among the mastic-trees, 'Grenadiers!
pikemen! will you let them take that noble body?'
  "Saying these words and waving his sword, he himself rode towards
the enemy. The regiments, rushing in his steps, ran in their turn,
uttering cries as terrible as those of the Arabs were wild.
  "The combat began over the body of M. de Bragelonne; and with such
inveteracy was it fought that a hundred and sixty Arabs were left upon
the field by the side of at least fifty of our troops. It was a
lieutenant from Normandy who took the body of the viscount on his
shoulders and carried it back to the lines. The advantage was,
however, pursued; the regiments took the reserve with them; and the
enemy's palisades were destroyed. At three o'clock the fire of the
Arabs ceased. The hand to hand fight lasted two hours; that was a
massacre. At five o'clock we were victorious on all the points; the
enemy had abandoned his positions, and Monsieur the Duke had ordered
the white flag to be planted upon the culminating point of the
little mountain. It was then we had time to think of M. de Bragelonne,
who had eight large wounds through his body, by which almost all his
blood had escaped. Still, however, he breathed, which afforded
inexpressible joy to Monseigneur, who insisted upon being present at
the first dressing of the wounds and at the consultation of the
surgeons. There were two among them who declared M. de Bragelonne
would live. Monseigneur threw his arms round their necks, and promised
them a thousand louis each if they could save him.
  "The viscount heard these transports of joy, and whether he was in
despair, or whether he suffered much from his wounds, he expressed
by his countenance a contradiction which gave rise to reflection,
particularly in one of the secretaries when he had heard what follows.
The third surgeon was Frere Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most learned
of ours. He probed the wounds in his turn, and said nothing. M. de
Bragelonne fixed his eyes steadily upon the skillful surgeon, and
seemed to interrogate his every movement. The latter, upon being
questioned by Monseigneur, replied that he saw plainly three mortal
wounds out of eight, but so strong was the constitution of the
wounded, so rich was he in youth, and so merciful was the goodness
of God that perhaps M. de Bragelonne might recover, particularly if he
did not move in the slightest manner. Frere Sylvain added, turning
towards his assistants, 'Above everything, do not allow him to move
even a finger, or you will kill him'; and we all left the tent in very
low spirits. That secretary I have mentioned, on leaving the tent,
thought he perceived a faint and sad smile glide over the lips of M.
de Bragelonne when the duke said to him in a cheerful, kind voice, 'We
shall save you, Viscount, we shall save you!'
  "In the evening, when it was believed the wounded young man had
taken some repose, one of the assistants entered his tent, but
rushed immediately out again, uttering loud cries. We all ran up in
disorder, Monsieur the Duke with us; and the assistant pointed to
the body of M. de Bragelonne upon the ground at the foot of his bed,
bathed in the remainder of his blood. It appeared that he had had some
convulsion, some febrile movement, and that he had fallen; that the
fall had accelerated his end, according to the prediction of Frere
Sylvain. We raised the viscount; he was cold and dead. He held a
lock of fair hair in his right hand, and that hand was pressed tightly
upon his heart."
  Then followed the details of the expedition, and of the victory
obtained over the Arabs. D'Artagnan stopped at the account of the
death of poor Raoul. "Oh," murmured he, "unhappy boy! a suicide!'
And turning his eyes towards the chamber of the chateau in which Athos
slept in eternal sleep, "They kept their promise to each other,"
said he, in a low voice. "Now I believe them to be happy; they must be
reunited"; and he returned through the parterre with slow and
melancholy steps. All the village, all the neighborhood, was filled
with grieving neighbors relating to one another the double
catastrophe, and making preparations for the funeral.
      Chapter LXXXVIII: The Last Canto of the Poem

  ON THE morrow all the nobility of the provinces, of the environs,
and from wherever messengers had carried the news, were seen to
arrive. D'Artagnan had shut himself up, unwilling to speak to anybody.
Two such heavy deaths falling upon the captain so closely after the
death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit which had
hitherto been so indefatigable and invulnerable. Except Grimaud, who
entered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants nor
guests. He supposed, from the noises in the house and the continual
coming and going, that preparations were making for the funeral of the
count. He wrote to the King to ask for an extension of his leave of
absence. Grimaud, as we have said, had entered d'Artagnan's apartment,
had seated himself upon a joint stool near the door, like a man who
meditates profoundly; then, rising, he made a sign to d'Artagnan to
follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the
count's bed-chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of
the empty bed, and raised his eyes eloquently towards Heaven.
  "Yes," replied d'Artagnan; "yes, good Grimaud,- now with the son
he loved so much!"
  Grimaud left the chamber and led the way to the hall where,
according to the custom of the province, the body was laid out
previously to its being buried forever. D'Artagnan was struck at
seeing two open coffins in the hall. In reply to the mute invitation
of Grimaud, he approached and saw in one of them Athos, still handsome
in death, and in the other Raoul, with his eyes closed, his cheeks
pearly as those of the Pallas of Virgil, with a smile on his violet
lips. He shuddered at seeing the father and son, those two departed
souls, represented on earth by two silent, melancholy bodies,
incapable of touching each other, however close they might be.
"Raoul here?" murmured he; "oh, Grimaud, why did you not tell me
this?"
  Grimaud shook his head and made no reply; but taking d'Artagnan by
the hand, he led him to the coffin and showed him under the thin
winding-sheet the black wounds by which life had escaped. The
captain turned away his eyes, and judging it useless to question
Grimaud, who would not answer, he recollected that M. de Beaufort's
secretary had written more than he, d'Artagnan, had had the courage to
read. Taking up the recital of the affair which had cost Raoul his
life, he found these words, which terminated the last paragraph of the
letter:-
  "Monsieur the Duke has ordered that the body of Monsieur the
Viscount should be embalmed, after the manner practised by the Arabs
when they wish their bodies to be carried to their native land; and
Monsieur the Duke has appointed relays, so that a confidential servant
who had brought up the young man might take back his remains to M.
le Comte de la Fere."
  "And so," thought d'Artagnan, "I shall follow thy funeral, my dear
boy,- already old; I, who am of no value on earth,- and I shall
scatter the dust upon that brow which I kissed but two months since.
God has willed it to be so,- thou hast willed it to be so thyself; I
have no longer the right even to weep. Thou hast chosen death; it hath
seemed to thee preferable to life."
  At length arrived the moment when the cold remains of these two
gentlemen were to be returned to the earth. There was such an
affluence of military and other people that up to the place of
sepulcher, which was a chapel in the plain, the road from the city was
filled with horsemen and pedestrians in mourning habits. Athos had
chosen for his resting-place the little enclosure of a chapel
erected by himself near the boundary of his estates. He had had the
stones, cut in 1550, brought from an old Gothic manor-house in
Berry, which had sheltered his early youth. The chapel, thus
rebuilt, thus transported, was pleasantly placed under the foliage
of poplars and sycamores. Services were held in it every Sunday by the
curd of the neighboring village, to whom Athos paid an allowance of
two hundred livres for this purpose; and all the vassals of his
domain, to the number of about forty,- the laborers and the farmers,
with their families,- came hither to hear Mass, without need of
going to the city.
  Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of
nut-trees, elders, whitethorns, and a deep ditch, the little
enclosure,- uncultivated, it is true, but gay in its wildness; because
the mosses there were high; because the wild heliotropes and
wall-flowers there mixed their perfumes; because beneath the tall
chestnuts issued a large spring, a prisoner in a cistern of marble;
and upon the thyme all around alighted thousands of bees from the
neighboring plains, while chaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully
among the flowers of the hedge. It was to this place the two coffins
were brought, attended by a silent and respectful crowd. The office of
the dead being celebrated, the last adieux paid to the noble departed,
the assembly dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and
mild death of the father, of the hopes the son had given, and of his
melancholy end upon the coast of Africa.
  Gradually all noises were extinguished, as were the lamps illumining
the humble nave. The minister bowed for a last time to the altar and
the still fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant, who rang a
hoarse bell, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery.
D'Artagnan, left alone, perceived that night was coming on. He had
forgotten the hour while thinking of the dead. He arose from the oaken
bench on which he was seated in the chapel, and wished, as the
priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu to the double grave
which contained his two lost friends.
  A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D'Artagnan stopped
at the door of the chapel to avoid disturbing this woman, and also
to endeavor to see who was the pious friend who performed this
sacred duty with so much zeal and perseverance. The unknown
concealed her face in her hands, which were white as alabaster. From
the noble simplicity of her costume, she seemed to be a woman of
distinction. Outside the enclosure were several horses mounted by
servants, and a travelling-carriage waiting for this lady.
D'Artagnan in vain sought to make out what caused her delay. She
continued praying; she frequently passed her handkerchief over her
face,- by which d'Artagnan perceived that she was weeping. He saw
her strike her breast with the pitiless compunction of a Christian
woman. He heard her several times cry, as if from a wounded heart,
"Pardon! pardon!" and as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to
her grief, as she threw herself down, almost fainting, amid complaints
and prayers, d'Artagnan, touched by this love for his so much
regretted friends, made a few steps towards the grave, in order to
interrupt the melancholy colloquy of the penitent with the dead. But
as soon as his step sounded on the gravel, the unknown raised her
head, revealing to d'Artagnan a face bathed with tears, but a
well-known face; it was Mademoiselle de la Valliere. "M.
d'Artagnan!" murmured she.
  "You!" replied the captain in a stern voice, "you here! Oh,
Madame, I should better have liked to see you decked with flowers in
the mansion of the Comte de la Fere. You would have wept less- they
too- I too!"
  "Monsieur!" she said, sobbing.
  "For it is you," added this pitiless friend of the dead,- "it is you
who have laid these two men in the grave."
  "Oh, spare me!"
  "God forbid, Madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I
should make her weep in vain! but I must say that the place of the
murderer is not upon the grave of her victims." She wished to reply.
"What I now tell you," added he, coldly, "I told the King."
  She clasped her hands. "I know," said she, "I have caused the
death of the Vicomte de Bragelonne."
  "Ah! you know it?"
  "The news arrived at court yesterday. I have travelled during the
night forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the count, whom I
supposed to be still living, and to supplicate God upon the tomb of
Raoul that he would send me all the misfortunes I have merited, except
a single one. Now, Monsieur, I know that the death of the son has
killed the father. I have two crimes to reproach myself with; I have
two punishments to look for from God."
  "I will repeat to you, Mademoiselle," said d'Artagnan, "what M. de
Bragelonne said of you at Antibes, when he already meditated death:
'If pride and coquetry have misled her, I pardon her while despising
her. If love has produced her error, I pardon her, swearing that no
one could have loved her as I have done.'"
  "You know," interrupted Louise, "that for my love I was about to
sacrifice myself; you know whether I suffered when you met me, lost,
dying, abandoned. Well! never have I suffered so much as now;
because then I hoped, I desired,- now I have nothing to wish for;
because this death drags away all my joy into the tomb; because I
can no longer dare to love without remorse, and I feel that he whom
I love- oh! that is the law- will repay me with the tortures I have
made others undergo."
  D'Artagnan made no reply; he was too well convinced that she was not
mistaken.
  "Well, then," added she, "dear M. d'Artagnan, do not overwhelm me
today, I again implore you. I am like the branch torn from the
trunk, I no longer hold to anything in this world, and a current drags
me on, I know not whither. I love madly, I love to the point of coming
to tell it, impious as I am, over the ashes of the dead; and I do
not blush for it,- I have no remorse on account of it. This love is
a religion. Only, as hereafter you will see me, alone, forgotten,
disdained; as you will see me punished with that with which I am
destined to be punished, spare me in my ephemeral happiness, leave
it to me for a few days, for a few minutes. Now, even at the moment
I am speaking to you perhaps it no longer exists. My God! This
double murder is perhaps already expiated!"
  While she was speaking thus, the sound of voices and the tread of
horses drew the attention of the captain. M. de Saint-Aignan came to
seek La Valliere. The King, he said, was a prey to jealousy and
uneasinesss. De Saint-Aignan did not see d'Artagnan, half-concealed by
the trunk of a chestnut-tree which shaded the two graves. Louise
thanked De Saint-Aignan, and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined
the party outside the enclosure.
  "You see, Madame," said the captain, bitterly, to the young
woman,- You see that your happiness still lasts."
  The young woman raised her head with a solemn air. "A day will
come," said she, "when you will repent of having judged me so harshly.
On that day, it will be I who will pray God to forgive you for
having been unjust towards me. Besides, I shall suffer so much that
you will be the first to pity my sufferings. Do not reproach me with
that happiness, M. d'Artagnan; it costs me dear, and I have not paid
all my debt." Saying these words, she again knelt down, softly and
affectionately. "Pardon me, the last time, my affianced Raoul!" said
she. "I have broken our chain; we are both destined to die of grief.
It is thou who departest the first; fear nothing, I shall follow thee.
See, only, that I have not been base, and that I have come to bid thee
this last adieu. The Lord is my witness, Raoul, that if with my life I
could have redeemed thine, I would have given that life without
hesitation: I could not give my love. Once more, pardon!"
  She gathered a branch and stuck it into the ground; then, wiping the
tears from her eyes, she bowed to d'Artagnan and disappeared.
  The captain watched the departure of the horses, horsemen, and
carriage; then crossing his arms upon his swelling chest, "When will
it be my turn to depart?" said he, in an agitated voice. "What is
there left for man after youth, after love, after glory, after
friendship, after strength, after riches? That rock, under which
sleeps Porthos, who possessed all I have named; this moss, under which
repose Athos and Raoul, who possessed still much more!"
  He hesitated a moment with a dull eye; then, drawing himself up,
"Forward! still forward!" said he. "When it shall be time, God will
tell me, as he has told others."
  He touched the earth, moistened with the evening dew, with the
tips of his fingers, made a sign as if he had been at the benitier
of a church, and retook alone- ever alone- the road to Paris.
EPILOGUE
                         Epilogue

  FOUR years after the scene we have just described, two horsemen,
well mounted, traversed Blois early in the morning, for the purpose of
arranging a birding-party which the King intended to make in that
uneven plain which the Loire divides in two, and which borders on
the one side on Meung, on the other on Amboise. These were the captain
of the King's harriers and the governor of the falcons- personages
greatly respected in the time of Louis XIII, but rather neglected by
his successor. These two horsemen, having reconnoitred the ground,
were returning, their observations made, when they perceived some
little groups of soldiers here and there whom the sergeants were
placing at distances at the openings of the enclosures. These were the
King's Musketeers. Behind them came, upon a good horse, the captain,
known by his richly embroidered uniform. His hair was gray, his
beard was becoming so. He appeared a little bent, although sitting and
handling his horse gracefully. He was looking upon him watchfully.
  "M. d'Artagnan does not get any older," said the captain of the
harriers to his colleague the falconer; "with ten years more than
either of us, he has the seat of a young man on horseback."
  "That is true," replied the falconer. "I haven't seen any change
in him for the last twenty years."
  But this officer was mistaken; d'Artagnan in the last four years had
lived twelve years. Age imprinted its pitiless claws at each corner of
his eyes; his brow was bald; his hands, formerly brown and nervous,
were getting white, as if the blood began to chill there.
  D'Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability
which distinguishes superior men, and received in return for his
courtesy two most respectful bows.
  "Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, M. d'Artagnan!" cried
the falconer.
  "It is rather for me to say that to you, Messieurs," replied the
captain, "for nowadays the King makes more frequent use of his
Musketeers than of his falcons."
  "Ah! it is not as it was in the good old times," sighed the
falconer. "Do you remember, M. d'Artagnan, when the late King flew the
pie in the vineyards beyond Beaugency? Ah, dame! you were not
captain of the Musketeers at that time, M. d'Artagnan."
  "And you were nothing but under-corporal of the tiercels," replied
d'Artagnan, laughing. "Never mind that; it was a good time, seeing
that it is always a good time when we are young. Good-day, Monsieur
the Captain of the harriers."
  "You do me honor, Monsieur the Count," said the latter. D'Artagnan
made no reply. The title of count had not struck him; d'Artagnan had
been a count four years.
  "Are you not very fatigued with the long journey you have had,
Monsieur the Captain?" continued the falconer. "It must be full two
hundred leagues from hence to Pignerol."
  "Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to come back," said
d'Artagnan, quietly.
  "And," said the falconer, "is he well?"
  "Who?" asked d'Artagnan.
  "Why, poor M. Fouquet," continued the falconer, still in a low
voice. The captain of the harriers had prudently withdrawn.
  "No," replied d'Artagnan, "the poor man frets terribly; he cannot
comprehend how imprisonment can be a favor. He says that the
parliament had absolved him by banishing him, and that banishment is
liberty. He does not imagine that they have sworn his death, and
that to save his life from the claws of the parliament would be to
incur too much obligation to God."
  "Ah, yes; the poor man had a near chance of the scaffold," replied
the falconer; "it is said that M. Colbert had given orders to the
governor of the Bastille, and that the execution was ordered."
  "Enough!" said d'Artagnan, pensively, as if to cut short the
conversation.
  "Yes," said the captain of the harriers, approaching, "M. Fouquet is
now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He has had the good
fortune to be conducted there by you; he had robbed the King enough."
  D'Artagnan cast at the master of the dogs one of his evil looks, and
said to him, "Monsieur, if any one told me that you had eaten your
dogs' meat, not only would I refuse to believe it, but, still more, if
you were condemned to the whip or the jail for it, I should pity
you, and would not allow people to speak ill of you. And yet,
Monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you that you are not more
so than poor M. Fouquet was."
  After having undergone this sharp rebuke, the captain of the
harriers hung his head, and allowed the falconer to get two steps in
advance of him nearer to d'Artagnan.
  "He is content," said the falconer, in a low voice, to the
musketeer; "we all know that harriers are in fashion nowadays. If he
were a falconer he would not talk in that way."
  D'Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great
political question resolved by the discontent of such humble
interests. He for a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence
of the superintendent, the crumbling away of his fortunes, and the
melancholy death that awaited him; and to conclude, "Did M. Fouquet
love falconry?" said he.
  "Oh, passionately, Monsieur!" replied the falconer, with an accent
of bitter regret and a sigh that was the funeral oration of Fouquet.
  D'Artagnan allowed the ill-humor of the one and the regrets of the
other to pass, and continued to advance into the plain. They could
already catch glimpses of the huntsmen at the issues of the wood,
the feathers of the outriders passing like shooting stars across the
clearing, and the white horses cutting with their luminous apparitions
the dark thickets of the copses.
  "But," resumed d'Artagnan, "will the sport be long? Pray, give us
a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a swan?"
  "Both, M. d'Artagnan," said the falconer; "but you need not be
alarmed, the King is not much of a sportsman. He does not sport on his
own account; he only wishes to give amusement to the ladies."
  The words "to the ladies" were so strongly accented that it set
d'Artagnan listening. "Ah!" said he, looking at the falconer with
surprise.
  The captain of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making
it up with the musketeer.
  "Oh, you may safely laugh," said d'Artagnan; "I know nothing of
current news. I arrived only yesterday, after a month's absence. I
left the court mourning the death of the Queen-Mother. The King was
not willing to take any amusement after receiving the last sigh of
Anne of Austria; but everything has an end in this world. Well! he
is no longer sad, so much the better."
  "And everything begins as well as ends," said the captain of the
dogs, with a coarse laugh.
  "Ah!" said d'Artagnan a second time,- he burned to know; but dignity
would not allow him to interrogate persons below him,- "there is
something new, then, it appears?"
  The captain gave him a significant wink; but d'Artagnan was
unwilling to learn anything from this man. "Shall we see the King
early?" asked he of the falconer.
  "At seven o'clock, Monsieur, I shall fly the birds."
  "Who comes with the King? How is Madame? How is the Queen?"
  "Better, Monsieur."
  "Has she been ill, then?"
  "Monsieur, since the last chagrin she had, her Majesty has been
unwell."
  "What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I am but just
returned."
  "It appears that the Queen, a little neglected since the death of
her mother-in-law, complained to the King, who replied to her, 'Do I
not sleep with you every night, Madame? What more do you want?'"
  "Ah!" said d'Artagnan,- "poor woman! She must heartily hate
Mademoiselle de la Valliere."
  "Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Valliere," replied the falconer.
  "Who then-" The horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned
the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companion set off
immediately, leaving d'Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended
sentence. The King appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and
horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot's pace,
the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and the horses. It was a
movement, a noise, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an
idea, unless it be the fictitious splendor or false majesty of a
theatrical spectacle. D'Artagnan, with an eye a little weakened,
distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended
for the Queen; it was empty. D'Artagnan, who did not see
Mademoiselle de la Valliere by the King's side, on looking about for
her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her
women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the
King, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skillful
hand, shone a lady of the most dazzling beauty. The King smiled upon
her, and she smiled upon the King. Loud laughter followed every word
she spoke.
  "I must know that woman," thought the musketeer; "who can she be?"
And he stooped towards his friend the falconer, to whom he addressed
the question he had put to himself. The falconer was about to reply,
when the King, perceiving d'Artagnan said, "Ah, Count! you are
returned, then! Why have I not seen you?"
  "Sire," replied the captain, "because your Majesty was asleep when I
arrived, and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning."
  "Still the same!" said Louis, in a loud voice, denoting
satisfaction. "Take some rest, Count; I command you to do so. You will
dine with me to-day."
  A murmur of admiration surrounded d'Artagnan like an immense caress.
Every one was eager to salute him. Dining with the King was an honor
his Majesty was not so prodigal of as Henry IV had been. The King
passed a few steps in advance, and d'Artagnan found himself in the
midst of a fresh group, among whom shone M. Colbert.
  "Good-day, M. d'Artagnan," said the minister, with affable
politeness; "have you had a pleasant journey?"
  "Yes, Monsieur," said d'Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse.
  "I heard the King invite you to his table for this evening,"
continued the minister; "you will meet an old friend."
  "An old friend of mine?" asked d'Artagnan, plunging painfully into
the dark waves of the past which had swallowed up for him so many
friendships and so many hatreds.
  "M. le Duc d'Alameda, who is arrived this morning from Spain."
  "The Duc d'Alameda?" said d'Artagnan, reflecting in vain.
  "I!" said an old man, white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage,
which he caused to be thrown open to make room for the musketeer.
  "Aramis!" cried d'Artagnan, struck with stupor. And, inert as he
was, he suffered the thin arm of the old nobleman to rest trembling on
his neck.
  Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a minute, put his
horse forward, and left the two old friends together.
  "And so," said the musketeer, taking the arm of Aramis, "you, the
exile, the rebel, are again in France?"
  "And I shall dine with you at the King's table," said Aramis,
smiling. "Yes; will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity
in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Valliere's carriage to pass.
See how uneasy she is! How her eye, dimmed with tears, follows the
King, who is riding on horseback yonder!"
  "With whom?"
  "With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now become Madame de
Montespan," replied Aramis.
  "She is jealous; is she then deserted?"
  "Not quite yet, but soon will be."
  They chatted together while following the sport, and Aramis's
coachman drove them so cleverly that they got up at the moment when
the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down and fell upon him. The
King alighted; Madame de Montespan followed his example. They were
in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by large trees, already
despoiled of their leaves by the first winds of autumn. Behind this
chapel was an enclosure entered only by a latticed gate. The falcon
had beat down his prey in the enclosure belonging to this little
chapel, and the King was desirous of going in to take the first
feather, according to custom. The cortege formed a circle round the
building and the hedges, too small to receive so many.
  D'Artagnan held back Aramis by the arm as he was about, like the
rest, to alight from his carriage, and in a broken voice, "Do you
know, Aramis," said he, "whither chance has conducted us?"
  "No," replied the duke.
  "Here repose people I have known," said d'Artagnan, much agitated.
  Aramis, without divining anything, and with a trembling step,
penetrated into the chapel by a little door which d'Artagnan opened
for him. "Where are they buried?" said he.
  "There, in the enclosure. There is a cross, you see, under that
little cypress. The little cypress is planted over their tomb. Don't
go to it; the King is going that way,- the heron has fallen just
there."
  Aramis stopped, and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw,
without being seen, the pale face of La Valliere, who, neglected in
her carriage, had at first looked on with a melancholy heart from
the door, and then, carried away by jealousy, had advanced into the
chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar, she contemplated in the
enclosure the King smiling and making signs to Madame de Montespan
to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de Montespan
complied; she took the hand the King held out to her, and he, plucking
out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had
strangled, placed it in the hat of his beautiful companion. She,
smiling in her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this
present. The King blushed with pleasure; he looked at Madame de
Montespan with all the fire of love. "What will you give me in
exchange?" said he.
  She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the King,
intoxicated with hope.
  "Humph!" said Aramis to d'Artagnan; "the present is but a sad one,
for that cypress shades a tomb."
  "Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne," said d'Artagnan,
aloud; "of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with Athos his father."
  A groan was heard behind them. They saw a woman fall fainting to the
ground. Mademoiselle de la Valliere had seen and heard all.
  "Poor woman!" muttered d'Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to
carry back to her carriage her who from that time was to suffer.
  That evening d'Artagnan was seated at the King's table, near M.
Colbert and M. le Duc d'Alameda. The King was very gay. He paid a
thousand little attentions to the Queen, a thousand kindnesses to
Madame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been
supposed to be that calm time when the King used to watch the eyes
of his mother for assent or dissent to what he had just spoken.
  Of mistresses there was no question at this dinner. The King
addressed Aramis two or three times, calling him Monsieur the
Ambassador, which increased the surprise already felt by d'Artagnan at
seeing his friend the rebel so marvellously well received at court.
  The King, on rising from table, gave his hand to the Queen and
made a sign to Colbert, whose eye watched that of his master.
Colbert took d'Artagnan and Aramis on one side. The King began to chat
with his sister, while Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the Queen
with a preoccupied air, without ceasing to watch his wife and
brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis,
d'Artagnan and Colbert turned upon indifferent subjects. They spoke of
preceding ministers; Colbert related the feats of Mazarin, and had
those of Richelieu related to him. D'Artagnan could not overcome his
surprise at finding this man, with heavy eyebrows and a low
forehead, contain so much sound knowledge and cheerful humor. Aramis
was astonished at that lightness of character which permitted a
serious man to retard with advantage the moment for a more important
conversation, to which nobody made any allusion, although all three
interlocutors felt the imminence of it.
  It was very plain from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur how
much the conversation of the King and Madame annoyed him. The eyes
of Madame were almost red; was she going to complain? Was she going to
commit a little scandal in open court? The King took her on one
side, and in a tone so tender that it must have reminded the
Princess of the time when she was loved for herself, "Sister," said
he, "why do I see tears in those beautiful eyes?"
  "Why- Sire-" said she.
  "Monsieur is jealous, is he not, Sister?"
  She looked towards Monsieur,- an infallible sign that they were
talking about him. "Yes," said she.
  "Listen to me," said the King; "if your friends compromise you, it
is not Monsieur's fault."
  He spoke these words with so much kindness that Madame, encouraged,-
she who had had so many griefs for so long a time,- was near
bursting into tears, so full was her heart.
  "Come, come, dear sister," said the King, "tell me your griefs. By
the word of a brother, I pity them; by the word of a King, I will
end them."
  She raised her fine eyes, and in a melancholy tone, "It is not my
friends who compromise me," said she. "They are either absent or
concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your Majesty,-
they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!"
  "You say this on account of De Guiche, whom I have exiled at the
desire of Monsieur?"
  "And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavored once every day
to get himself killed!"
  "Unjust, do you say, Sister?"
  "So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mingled with
friendship that I have always entertained for your Majesty-"
  "Well?"
  "Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, upon whom I can
always-"
  The King started. "What then?"
  "I would have asked him to have it represented to you that
Monsieur and his favorite, M. le Chevalier de Lorraine, ought not with
impunity to constitute themselves the executioners of my honor and
my happiness."
  "The Chevalier de Lorraine," said the King,- "that dismal fellow?"
  "He is my mortal enemy. While that man lives in my household,
where Monsieur retains him and delegates his powers to him, I shall be
the most miserable woman in this kingdom."
  "So," said the King, slowly, "you call your brother of England a
better friend than I am?"
  "Actions speak for themselves, Sire."
  "And you would prefer going to ask assistance there-"
  "To my own country!" said she, with pride; "yes, Sire."
  "You are the grandchild of Henry IV as well as myself, my friend.
Cousin and brother-in-law, does not that amount pretty nearly to
brother-german?"
  "Then," said Henrietta, "act!"
  "Let us form an alliance."
  "Begin."
  "I have, you say, unjustly exiled De Guiche."
  "Oh, yes," said she, blushing.
  "De Guiche shall return."
  "So far, well."
  "And now you say that I am wrong in having in your household the
Chevalier de Lorraine, who gives Monsieur ill advice respecting you?"
  "Remember well what I tell you, Sire: the Chevalier de Lorraine some
day- Observe, if ever I come to an ill end, I accuse beforehand the
Chevalier de Lorraine; he has a soul capable of any crime!"
  "The Chevalier de Lorraine shall no longer annoy you; I promise
you that."
  "Then that will be a true preliminary of alliance, Sire,- I sign;
but since you have done your part, tell me what shall be mine."
  "Instead of embroiling me with your brother Charles, you must make
him my more intimate friend than ever."
  "That is very easy."
  "Oh! not quite so much so as you may think, for in ordinary
friendship persons embrace or exercise hospitality, and that only
costs a kiss or a return,- easy expenses; but in political
friendship-"
  "Ah! it's a political friendship, is it?"
  "Yes, my sister; and then, instead of embraces and feasts, it is
soldiers- it is soldiers all living and well equipped- that we must
serve up to our friend; vessels we must offer, all armed with
cannons and stored with provisions. It hence results that we have
not always our coffers in a fit state to form such friendships."
  "Ah! you are quite right," said Madame; "the coffers of the King
of England have been very sonorous for some time."
  "But you, my sister, who have so much influence over your
brother,- you can obtain more than an ambassador ever could obtain."
  "To effect that I must go to London, my dear brother."
  "I have thought so," replied the King, eagerly; "and I have said
to myself that such a voyage would do your spirits good."
  "Only," interrupted Madame, "it is possible I should fail. The
King of England has dangerous counsellors."
  "Counsellors, do you say?"
  "Precisely. If, by chance, your Majesty had any intention- I am only
supposing so- of asking Charles II his alliance for a war-"
  "For a war?"
  "Yes; well, then the counsellors of the King, who are to the
number of seven,- Mademoiselle Stewart, Mademoiselle Wells,
Mademoiselle Gwyn, Miss Orchay, Mademoiselle Zunga, Miss Daws, and the
Countess of Castelmaine,- will represent to the King that war costs
a great deal of money; that it is far better to give balls and suppers
at Hampton Court than to equip vessels of the line at Portsmouth and
Greenwich."
  "And then Your negotiations will fail?"
  "Oh! those ladies cause all negotiations to fail that they don't
make themselves."
  "Do you know the idea that has struck me, Sister?"
  "No; tell me what it is."
  "It is that by searching well around you, you might perhaps find a
female counsellor to take with you to your brother whose eloquence
might paralyze the ill-will of the seven others."
  "That is really an idea, Sire; and I will search."
  "You will find what you want."
  "I hope so."
  "A pretty person is necessary; an agreeable face is better than an
ugly one, is it not?"
  "Most assuredly."
  "An animated, lively, audacious character?"
  "Certainly."
  "Nobility,- that is, enough to enable her to approach the King
without awkwardness; little enough, so that she may not trouble
herself about the dignity of her race."
  "Quite just."
  "And who knows a little English."
  "Mon Dieu! why, some one," cried Madame, "like Mademoiselle de
Keroualle, for instance!"
  "Oh! why yes!" said Louis XIV; "you have found- it is you who have
found, my sister."
  "I will take her; she will have no cause to complain, I suppose."
  "Oh, no; I will name her seductrice plenipotentiaire at once, and
will add the dowry to the title."
  "That is well."
  "I fancy you already on your road, my dear little sister, and
consoled for all your griefs."
  "I will go on two conditions. The first is, that I shall know what I
am negotiating about."
  "This is it. The Dutch, you know, insult me daily in their gazettes,
and by their republican attitude. I don't like republics."
  "That may easily be conceived, Sire."
  "I see with pain that these kings of the sea- they call themselves
so- keep trade from France in the Indies, and that their vessels
will soon occupy all the ports of Europe. Such a power is too near me,
Sister."
  "They are your allies, nevertheless."
  "That is why they were wrong in having the medal you have heard of
struck,- a medal which represents Holland stopping the sun, as
Joshua did, with this legend: The sun has stopped before me. There
is not much fraternity in that, is there?"
  "I thought you had forgotten that miserable affair."
  "I forget nothing, my sister. And if my true friends, such as your
brother Charles, are willing to second me-" The Princess remained
pensively silent. "Listen to me; there is the empire of the seas to be
shared. In this partition, which England submits to, could I not
represent the second party as well as the Dutch?"
  "We have Mademoiselle de Keroualle to treat that question,"
replied Madame.
  "Your second condition for going, if you please, Sister?"
  "The consent of Monsieur, my husband."
  "You shall have it."
  "Then I have gone, my brother."
  On hearing these words, Louis XIV turned round towards the corner of
the room in which d'Artagnan, Colbert, and Aramis stood, and made an
affirmative sign to his minister. Colbert then broke the
conversation at the point where it happened to be, and said to Aramis,
"Monsieur the Ambassador, shall we talk about business?"
  D'Artagnan immediately withdrew, from politeness. He directed his
steps towards the chimney, within hearing of what the King was going
to say to Monsieur, who, evidently uneasy, had gone to him. The face
of the King was animated. Upon his brow was stamped a will, the
redoubtable expression of which already met with no more contradiction
in France, and soon would meet with no more in Europe.
  "Monsieur," said the King to his brother, "I am not pleased with
M. le Chevalier de Lorraine. You, who do him the honor to protect him,
must advise him to travel for a few months." These words fell with the
crush of an avalanche upon Monsieur, who adored this favorite, and
concentrated all his affections in him.
  "In what has the chevalier been able to displease your Majesty?"
cried he, darting a furious look at Madame.
  "I will tell you that when he is gone," replied the impassive
King. "And also when Madame, here, shall have crossed over into
England."
  "Madame! into England!" murmured Monsieur, seized with stupor.
  "In a week, my brother," continued the King, "while we two will go
whither I will tell you." And the King turned upon his heel after
having smiled in his brother's face, to sweeten a little the bitter
draught he had given him.
  During this time, Colbert was talking with the Duc d'Alameda.
"Monsieur," said he to Aramis, "this is the moment for us to come to
an understanding. I have made your peace with the King, and I owed
that clearly to a man of your merit; but as you have often expressed
friendship for me, an opportunity presents itself for giving me a
proof of it. You are, besides, more a Frenchman than a Spaniard. Shall
we have, answer me frankly, the neutrality of Spain, if we undertake
anything against the United Provinces?"
  "Monsieur," replied Aramis, "the interest of Spain is very clear. To
embroil Europe with the United Provinces, against which subsists the
ancient rancor arising from their acquisition of liberty, is our
policy; but the King of France is allied with the United Provinces.
You are not ignorant, besides, that it would be a maritime war, and
that France is not in a state to make such a one with advantage."
  Colbert, turning round at this moment, saw d'Artagnan, who was
seeking an interlocutor, during the "aside" of the King and
Monsieur. He called him, at the same time saying in a low voice to
Aramis, "We may talk with M. d'Artagnan, I suppose?"
  "Oh, certainly," replied the ambassador.
  "We were saying, M. d'Alameda and I," said Colbert, "that war with
the United Provinces would be a maritime war."
  "That's evident enough," replied the musketeer.
  "And what do you think of it, M. d'Artagnan?"
  "I think that to carry on that maritime war you must have a very
large land army."
  "What did you say?" said Colbert, thinking he had misunderstood him.
  "Why a land army?" said Aramis.
  "Because the King will be beaten by sea if he has not the English
with him; and when beaten by sea, he will be soon invaded, either by
the Dutch in his ports, or by the Spaniards by land."
  "And Spain neutral?" asked Aramis. "Neutral as long as the King
shall be the stronger," rejoined d'Artagnan.
  Colbert admired that sagacity which never touched a question without
illuminating it thoroughly. Aramis smiled; he had long known that in
diplomacy d'Artagnan acknowledged no master. Colbert, who like all
proud men dwelt upon his fantasy with a certainty of success,
resumed the subject, "Who told you, M. d'Artagnan, that the King had
no navy?"
  "Oh! I have taken no heed of these details," replied the captain. "I
am but a middling sailor. Like all nervous people, I hate the sea; and
yet I have an idea that with ships, France being a seaport with two
hundred heads, we should have sailors."
  Colbert drew from his pocket a little oblong book divided into two
columns. On the first were the names of vessels, on the other the
figures recapitulating the number of cannon and men requisite to equip
these ships. "I have had the same idea as you," said he to d'Artagnan;
"and I have had an account drawn up of the vessels we have
altogether,- thirty-five vessels."
  "Thirty-five vessels! that is impossible!" cried d'Artagnan.
  "Something like two thousand pieces of cannon," said Colbert.
"That is what the King possesses at this moment. With thirty-five
vessels we can make three squadrons, but I must have five."
  "Five!" cried Aramis.
  "They will be afloat before the end of the year, gentlemen; the King
will have fifty ships of the line. With those we may venture on a
contest, may we not?"
  "To build vessels," said d'Artagnan, "is difficult, but possible. As
to arming them, how is that to be done? In France there are neither
foundries nor military docks."
  "Bah!" replied Colbert, with a gay tone, "I have instituted all that
this year and a half past, did you not know it? Don't you know M.
d'Infreville?"
  "D'Infreville?" replied d'Artagnan; "no."
  "He is a man I have discovered; he has a specialty,- he knows how to
set men to work. It is he who at Toulon has had the cannon made, and
has cut the woods of Bourgogne. And then, Monsieur the Ambassador, you
may not believe what I am going to tell you, but I have a further
idea."
  "Oh, Monsieur!' said Aramis, civilly, "I always believe you."
  "Figure to yourself that, calculating upon the character of the
Dutch, our allies, I said to myself, 'They are merchants, they are
friends with the King; they will be happy to sell to the King what
they fabricate for themselves. Then the more we buy-' Ah! I must add
this: I have Forant,- do you know Forant, d'Artagnan?"
  Colbert, in his warmth, forgot himself; he called the captain simply
"D'Artagnan," as the King did. But the captain only smiled at it.
"No," replied he, "I don't know him."
  "That is another man I have discovered with a genius for buying.
This Forant has purchased for me three hundred and fifty thousand
pounds of iron in balls, two hundred thousand pounds of powder, twelve
cargoes of Northern timber, matches, grenades, pitch, tar,- I know not
what!- with a saving of seven per cent upon what all those articles
would cost me made in France."
  "That is a good idea," replied d'Artagnan,- "to have Dutch balls
cast which will return to the Dutch."
  "Is it not,- with loss too?" And Colbert laughed aloud. He was
delighted with his own joke. "Still further," added he, "these same
Dutch are building for the King at this moment six vessels after the
model of the best of their marine. Destouches- ah! perhaps you don't
know Destouches?"
  "No, Monsieur."
  "He is a man who has a glance singularly sure to discern, when a
ship is launched, what are the defects and qualities of that ship,-
that is valuable, please to observe! Nature is truly whimsical.
Well, this Destouches appeared to me to be a man likely to be useful
in a port, and he is superintending the construction of six vessels of
seventy-eight guns, which the Provinces are building for his
Majesty. It results from all this, my dear M. d'Artagnan, that the
King, if he wished to quarrel with the Provinces, would have a very
pretty fleet. Now, you know better than anybody else if the land
army is good."
  D'Artagnan and Aramis looked at each other, wondering at the
mysterious labors this man had effected in a few years. Colbert
understood them, and was touched by this best of flatteries. "If we in
France were ignorant of what was going on," said d'Artagnan, "out of
France still less must be known."
  "That is why I told Monsieur the Ambassador," said Colbert, "that
Spain promising its neutrality, England helping us-"
  "If England assists you," said Aramis, "I engage for the
neutrality of Spain."
  "I take you at your word," hastened Colbert to reply with his
blunt bonhomie. "And, a propos of Spain, you have not the 'Golden
Fleece,' M. d'Alameda. I heard the King say the other day that he
should like to see you wear the grand cordon of Saint Michael."
  Aramis bowed. "Oh!" thought d'Artagnan, "and Porthos is no longer
here! What ells of ribbon would there be for him in these largesses!
Good Porthos!"
  "M. d'Artagnan," resumed Colbert, "between us two, you will have,
I would wager, an inclination to lead your Musketeers into Holland.
Can you swim?" and he laughed like a man in a very good humor.
  "Like an eel," replied d'Artagnan.
  "Ah! but there are some rough passages of canals and marshes yonder,
M. d'Artagnan, and the best swimmers are sometimes drowned there."
  "It is my profession to die for his Majesty," said the musketeer.
"Only as it is seldom that in war much water is met with without a
little fire, I declare to you beforehand that I will do my best to
choose fire. I am getting old; water freezes me, fire warms, M.
Colbert."
  And d'Artagnan looked so handsome in juvenile vigor and pride as
he pronounced these words that Colbert, in his turn, could not help
admiring him. D'Artagnan perceived the effect he had produced. He
remembered that the best tradesman is he who fixes a high price upon
his goods when they are valuable. He prepared, then, his price in
advance.
  "So then," said Colbert, "we go into Holland?"
  "Yes," replied d'Artagnan; "only-"
  "Only?" said M. Colbert.
  "Only," repeated d'Artagnan, "there is in everything the question of
interest and the question of self-love. It is a very fine title,- that
of captain of the Musketeers; but observe this: we have now the King's
Guards and the military household of the King. A captain of Musketeers
ought either to command all that, and then he would absorb a hundred
thousand livres a year for expenses of representation and table-"
  "Well; but do you suppose, by chance, that the King would haggle
with you?" said Colbert.
  "Eh, Monsieur, you have not understood me," replied d'Artagnan, sure
of having carried the question of interest; "I was telling you that
I,- an old captain, formerly chief of the King's guard, having
precedence of the marshals of France,- I saw myself one day in the
trenches with two equals, the captain of the Guards and the colonel
commanding the Swiss. Now, at no price will I suffer that. I have
old habits; I will stand to them."
  Colbert felt this blow, but was prepared for it. "I have been
thinking of what you said just now," said he.
  "About what, Monsieur?"
  "We were speaking of canals and marshes in which people are
drowned."
  "Well!"
  "Well; if they are drowned, it is for want of a boat, a plank, or
a stick."
  "Of a stick [baton], however short it may be," said d'Artagnan.
  "Exactly," said Colbert; "and therefore I never heard of an instance
of a marshal of France being drowned."
  D'Artagnan became pale with joy, and in not a very firm voice, he
said, "People would be very proud of me in my country, if I were a
marshal of France; but a man must have commanded an expedition as
chief to obtain the baton."
  "Monsieur," said Colbert, "here is in this pocket-book, which you
will study, a plan of a campaign; you are to carry it into execution
next spring with a body of troops which the King puts under your
orders."
  D'Artagnan took the book tremblingly and his fingers meeting with
those of Colbert, the minister pressed the hand of the musketeer
loyally. "Monsieur," said he, "we had both a revenge to take, one over
the other. I have begun; it is now your turn!"
  "I will do you justice, Monsieur," replied d'Artagnan, "and
implore you to tell the King that the first opportunity that shall
offer, he may depend upon a victory or seeing me dead."
  "Then I will have the fleurs-de-lis for your marshal's baton
prepared immediately," said Colbert.
  On the morrow of this day, Aramis, who was setting out for Madrid to
negotiate the neutrality of Spain, came to embrace d'Artagnan at his
hotel.
  "Let us love each other for four," said d'Artagnan; "we are now
but two."
  "And you will perhaps never see me again, dear d'Artagnan," said
Aramis; "if you knew how I have loved you! I am old, I am
extinguished, I am dead."
  "My friend," said d'Artagnan, "you will live longer than I shall.
Diplomacy commands you to live; but, for my part, honor condemns me to
die."
  "Bah! such men as we are, Monsieur the Marshal," said Aramis,
"only die satiated with joy or glory."
  "Ah!" replied d'Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, "I assure you,
Monsieur the Duke, I feel very little appetite for either."
  They once more embraced, and two hours later they were separated.
                  The Death of d'Artagnan

  CONTRARY to what generally happens, whether in politics or morals,
each kept his promise and did honor to his engagements.
  The King recalled M. de Guiche and banished M. le Chevalier de
Lorraine, so that Monsieur became ill in consequence. Madame set out
for London, where she applied herself so earnestly to make her
brother, Charles II, have a taste for the political counsels of
Mademoiselle de Keroualle, that the alliance between England and
France was signed, and the English vessels, ballasted by a few
millions of French gold, made a terrible campaign against the fleets
of the United Provinces. Charles II had promised Mademoiselle de
Keroualle a little gratitude for her good counsels; he made her
Duchess of Portsmouth. Colbert had promised the King vessels,
munitions, and victories. He kept this word, as is well known. In
fine, Aramis, upon whose promises there was least dependence to be
placed, wrote Colbert the following letter on the subject of the
negotiations which he had undertaken at Madrid:-

  "MONSIEUR COLBERT: I have the honor to send to you the R. P.
d'Oliva, General ad interim of the Society of Jesus, my provisional
successor. The reverend father will explain to you, M. Colbert, that I
reserve to myself the direction of all the affairs of the Order
which concern France and Spain; but that I am not willing to retain
the title of general which would throw too much light upon the
course of the negotiations with which his Catholic Majesty wishes to
intrust me. I shall resume that title by the command of his Majesty
when the labors I have undertaken in concert with you, for the great
glory of God and his Church, shall be brought to a good end. The R. P.
d'Oliva will inform you likewise, Monsieur, of the consent which his
Catholic Majesty gives to the signature of a treaty which assures
the neutrality of Spain in the event of a war between France and the
United Provinces. This consent will be valid, even if England, instead
of being active, should satisfy herself with remaining neutral. As
to Portugal, of which you and I have spoken, Monsieur, I can assure
you it will contribute with all its resources to assist the most
Christian King in his war. I beg you, M. Colbert, to preserve to me
your friendship, as also to believe in my profound attachment, and
to lay my respect at the feet of his most Christian Majesty.
                                             "Signed: DUC D'ALAMEDA."

  Aramis had then performed more than he had promised; it remained
to be known how the King, M. Colbert, and d'Artagnan would be faithful
to one another. In the spring, as Colbert had predicted, the land army
entered on its campaign. It preceded, in magnificent order, the
court of Louis XIV, who, setting out on horseback, surrounded by
carriages filled with ladies and courtiers, conducted the elite of his
kingdom to this sanguinary fete. The officers of the army, it is true,
had no other music than the artillery of the Dutch forts; but it was
enough for a great number, who found in this war honors,
advancement, fortune, or death.
  M. d'Artagnan set out commanding a body of twelve thousand men,
cavalry and infantry, with which he was ordered to take the
different places which form the knots of that strategic network
which is called La Frise. Never was an army conducted more gallantly
to an expedition. The officers knew that their leader, prudent and
skillful as he was brave, would not sacrifice a single man, nor
yield an inch of ground, without necessity. He had the old habits of
war,- to live upon the country, keep his soldiers singing and the
enemy weeping. The captain of the King's Musketeers put his effort
into showing that he knew his business. Never were opportunities
better chosen, coups de main better supported, or better advantage
taken of errors on the part of the besieged.
  The army commanded by d'Artagnan took twelve small places within a
month. He was engaged in besieging the thirteenth, which had held
out five days. D'Artagnan caused the trenches to be opened without
appearing to suppose that these people would ever allow themselves
to be taken. In the army of this man the pioneers and laborers were
a body full of emulation, ideas, and zeal, because he treated them
like soldiers, knew how to render their work glorious, and never
allowed them to be killed if he could prevent it. It should have
been seen then with what eagerness the marshy glebes of Holland were
turned over. Those turf heaps, those mounds of potter's clay, melted
at the words of the soldiers like butter in the vast frying-pans of
the Friesland housewives.
  M. d'Artagnan despatched a courier to the King to give him an
account of the last successes, which redoubled the good-humor of his
Majesty and his inclination to amuse the ladies. These victories of M.
d'Artagnan gave so much majesty to the Prince that Madame de Montespan
no longer called him anything but Louis the Invincible. So that
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, who only called the King Louis the
Victorious, lost much of his Majesty's favor. Besides, her eyes were
frequently red, and for an Invincible nothing is more disagreeable
than a mistress who weeps while everything is smiling around her.
The star of Mademoiselle de la Valliere was being drowned in the
horizon in clouds and tears. But the gayety of Madame de Montespan
redoubled with the successes of the King, and consoled him for every
other unpleasant circumstance. It was to d'Artagnan the King owed
this; and his Majesty was anxious to acknowledge these services. He
wrote to M. Colbert:-

  "M. COLBERT: We have a promise to fulfill with M. d'Artagnan, who so
well keeps his. This is to inform you that the time is come for
performing it. All provisions for this purpose you shall be
furnished with in due time.
                                                             "LOUIS."

  In consequence of this, Colbert, who detained the envoy of
d'Artagnan, placed in the hands of that messenger a letter from
himself for d'Artagnan and a small coffer of ebony inlaid with gold,
which, without doubt, was very heavy, as a guard of five men was given
to the messenger to assist him in carrying it. These persons arrived
before the place which d'Artagnan was besieging, towards daybreak, and
presented themselves at the lodgings of the general. They were told
that M. d'Artagnan, annoyed by a sortie which the governor, an
artful man, had made the evening before, and in which the works had
been destroyed, seventy-seven men killed, and the reparation of the
breaches begun, had just gone with ten companies of grenadiers to
reconstruct the works.
  M. Colbert's envoy had orders to go and seek M. d'Artagnan
wherever he might be, or at whatever hour of the day or night. He
directed his course, therefore, towards the trenches, followed by
his escort, all on horseback. They perceived M. d'Artagnan in the open
plain, with his gold-laced hat, his long cane, and his large gilded
cuffs. He was biting his white mustache, and shaking off with his left
hand the dust which the passing balls threw up from the ground they
ploughed near him. They also saw, amid this terrible fire which filled
the air with its hissing whistle, officers handling the shovel,
soldiers rolling barrows, and vast fascines, carried or dragged by
from ten to twenty men, covering the front of the trench, reopened
to the centre by this extraordinary effort of the general animating
his soldiers. In three hours all had been reinstated. D'Artagnan began
to speak more mildly; and he became quite calm when the captain of the
pioneers approached him, hat in hand, to tell him that the trench
was again in condition for occupancy. This man had scarcely finished
speaking when a ball took off one of his legs, and he fell into the
arms of d'Artagnan. The latter lifted up his soldier, and quietly,
with soothing words, carried him into the trench amid the enthusiastic
applause of the regiments. From that time it was no longer ardor; it
was delirium. Two companies stole away up to the advanced posts, which
they destroyed instantly.
  When their comrades, restrained with great difficulty by d'Artagnan,
saw them lodged upon the bastions, they rushed forward likewise, and
soon a furious assault was made upon the counterscarp, upon which
depended the safety of the place. D'Artagnan perceived there was
only one means left of stopping his army, and that was to lodge it
in the place. He directed all his force to two breaches, which the
besieged were busy in repairing. The shock was terrible; eighteen
companies took part in it, and d'Artagnan went with the rest within
half-cannon shot of the place, to support the attack by echelons.
The cries of the Dutch, who were being poniarded upon their guns by
d'Artagnan's grenadiers, were distinctly audible. The struggle grew
fiercer with the despair of the governor, who disputed his position
foot by foot. D'Artagnan, to put an end to the affair and silence
the fire, which was unceasing, sent a fresh column, which penetrated
like a wimble through the gates that remained solid; and he soon
perceived upon the ramparts, through the fire, the terrified flight of
the besieged pursued by the besiegers.
  It was at this moment that the general, breathing freely and full of
joy, heard a voice behind him saying, "Monsieur, if you please,-
from M. Colbert."
  He broke the seal of a letter, which contained these words:-

  "M. D'ARTAGNAN: The King commands me to inform you that he has
nominated you Marshal of France, as a reward for your good services
and the honor you do to his arms. The King is highly pleased,
Monsieur, with the captures you have made; he commands you in
particular to finish the siege you have begun, with good fortune to
you and success for him."

  D'Artagnan was standing with a heated countenance and a sparkling
eye. He looked up to watch the progress of his troops upon the
walls, still enveloped in red and black volumes of smoke. "I have
finished," replied he to the messenger; "the city will have
surrendered in a quarter of an hour." He then resumed his reading:

  "The coffer, M. d'Artagnan, is my own present. You will not be sorry
to see that while you warriors are drawing the sword to defend the
King, I am animating the pacific arts to adorn you with rewards that
are worthy of you. I commend myself to your friendship, Monsieur the
Marshal, and beg you to believe in all mine.
                                                           "COLBERT."

  D'Artagnan, intoxicated with joy, made a sign to the messenger,
who approached with his coffer in his hands. But at the moment the
marshal was going to look at it, a loud explosion resounded from the
ramparts and called his attention towards the city. "It is strange,"
said d'Artagnan, "that I don't yet see the King's flag upon the walls,
or hear the drums beat for a parley." He launched three hundred
fresh men under a high-spirited officer, and ordered another breach to
be beaten. Then, being more tranquil, he turned towards the coffer
which Colbert's envoy held out to him. It was his treasure,- he had
won it.
  D'Artagnan was holding out his hand to open the coffer, when a
ball from the city crushed it in the arms of the officer, struck
d'Artagnan full in the chest, and knocked him down upon a sloping heap
of earth, while the fleurdelise baton, escaping from the broken
sides of the box, came rolling under the powerless hand of the
marshal. D'Artagnan endeavored to raise himself. It was thought he had
been knocked down without being wounded. A terrible cry broke from the
group of his frightened officers. The marshal was covered with
blood; the paleness of death ascended slowly to his noble countenance.
Leaning upon the arms which were held out on all sides to receive him,
he was able once more to turn his eyes towards the place, and to
distinguish the white flag at the crest of the principal bastion;
his ears, already deaf to the sounds of life, caught feebly the
rolling of the drum which announced the victory. Then, clasping in his
nerveless hand the baton, ornamented with its fleurs-de-lis, he cast
down upon it his eyes, which had no longer the power of looking
upwards towards heaven, and fell back murmuring these strange words,
which appeared to the surprised soldiers cabalistic words,- words
which had formerly represented so many things upon earth, and which
none but the dying man longer comprehended:
  "Athos, Porthos, au revoir! Aramis, adieu forever!"
  Of the four valiant men who history we have related, there now
remained but one single body; God had taken back the souls.


                        THE END
.