13. Mary de Mancini…

13. Mary de Mancini

The sun had scarcely shed its first beams on the majestic trees of the park and the lofty turrets of the castle, when the young king, who had been awake more than two hours, possessed by the sleeplessness of love, opened his shutters himself, and cast an inquiring look into the courts of the sleeping palace. He saw that it was the hour agreed upon: the great court clock pointed to a quarter past four. He did not disturb his valet de chambre, who was sleeping soundly at some distance; he dressed himself, and the valet, in a great fright sprang up, thinking he had been deficient in his duty; but the king sent him back again, commanding him to preserve the most absolute silence. He then descended the little staircase, went out at a lateral door, and perceived at the end of the wall a mounted horseman holding another horse by the bridle. This horseman could not be recognized in his cloak and slouched hat. As to the horse, saddled like that of a rich citizen, it offered nothing remarkable to the most experienced eye. Louis took the bridle: the officer held the stirrup without dismounting, and asked his majesty’s orders in a low voice.

“Follow me,” replied the king.

The officer put his horse to the trot, behind that of his master, and they descended the hill towards the bridge. When they reached the other side of the Loire,—

“Monsieur,” said the king, “you will please to ride on till you see a carriage coming; then return and inform me. I will wait here.”

“Will your majesty deign to give me some description of the carriage I am charged to discover?”

“A carriage in which you will see two ladies, and probably their attendants likewise.”

“Sire, I should not wish to make a mistake; is there no other sign by which I may know this carriage?”

“It will bear, in all probability, the arms of monsieur le cardinal.”

“That is sufficient, sire,” replied the officer, fully instructed in the object of his search. He put his horse to the trot, and rode sharply on in the direction pointed out by the king. But he had scarcely gone five hundred paces when he saw four mules and then a carriage, loom up from behind a little hill. Behind this carriage came another. It required only one glance to assure him that these were the equipages he was in search of; he therefore turned his bridle, and rode back to the king.

“Sire,” said he, “here are the carriages. The first, as you said, contains two ladies with their femmes de chambre; the second contains the footmen, provisions, and necessaries.”

“That is well,” replied the king in an agitated voice. “Please to go and tell those ladies that a cavalier of the court wishes to pay his respects to them alone.”

The officer set off at a gallop. “Mordioux!” said he, as he rode on, “here is a new and an honorable employment, I hope! I complained of being nobody. I am the king’s confidant: that is enough to make a musketeer burst with pride.”

He approached the carriage, and delivered his message gallantly and intelligently. There were two ladies in the carriage: one of great beauty, although rather thin; the other less favored by nature, but lively, graceful, and uniting in the delicate lines of her brow all the signs of a strong will. Her eyes, animated and piercing in particular, spoke more eloquently than all the amorous phrases in fashion in those days of gallantry. It was to her D’Artagnan addressed himself, without fear of being mistaken, although the other was, as we have said, the more handsome of the two.

“Madame,” said he, “I am the lieutenant of the musketeers, and there is on the road a horseman who awaits you, and is desirous of paying his respects to you.”

At these words, the effect of which he watched closely, the lady with the black eyes uttered a cry of joy, leant out of the carriage window, and seeing the cavalier approaching, held out her arms, exclaiming:

“Ah, my dear sire!” and the tears gushed from her eyes.

The coachman stopped his team; the women rose in confusion from the back of the carriage, and the second lady made a slight curtsey, terminated by the most ironical smile that jealousy ever imparted to the lips of woman.

“Marie? dear Marie?” cried the king, taking the hand of the black-eyed lady in both his. And opening the heavy door himself, he drew her out of the carriage with so much ardor, that she was in his arms before she touched the ground. The lieutenant, posted on the other side of the carriage, saw and heard all without being observed.

The king offered his arm to Mademoiselle de Mancini, and made a sign to the coachman and lackeys to proceed. It was nearly six o’clock; the road was fresh and pleasant; tall trees with their foliage still inclosed in the golden down of their buds let the dew of morning filter from their trembling branches like liquid diamonds; the grass was bursting at the foot of the hedges; the swallows, having returned since only a few days, described their graceful curves between the heavens and the water; a breeze, laden with the perfumes of the blossoming woods, sighed along the road, and wrinkled the surface of the waters of the river; all these beauties of the day, all these perfumes of the plants, all these aspirations of the earth towards heaven, intoxicated the two lovers, walking side by side, leaning upon each other, eyes fixed upon eyes, hand clasping hand, and who, lingering as by a common desire, did not dare to speak they had so much to say.

The officer saw that the king’s horse, in wandering this way and that, annoyed Mademoiselle de Mancini. He took advantage of the pretext of securing the horse to draw near them, and dismounting, walked between the two horses he led; he did not lose a single word or gesture of the lovers. It was Mademoiselle de Mancini who at length began.

“Ah, my dear sire!” said she, “you do not abandon me, then?”

“No, Marie,” replied the king; “you see I do not.”

“I had so often been told, though, that as soon as we should be separated you would no longer think of me.”

“Dear Marie, is it then to-day only that you have discovered we are surrounded by people interested in deceiving us?”

“But, then, sire, this journey, this alliance with Spain? They are going to marry you off!”

Louis hung his head. At the same time the officer could see the eyes of Marie de Mancini shine in the sun with the brilliancy of a dagger starting from its sheath. “And you have done nothing in favor of our love?” asked the girl, after a silence of a moment.

“Ah! mademoiselle, how could you believe that? I threw myself at the feet of my mother; I begged her, I implored her; I told her all my hopes of happiness were in you, I even threatened——”

“Well?” asked Marie, eagerly.

“Well? the queen-mother wrote to the court of Rome, and received as answer, that a marriage between us would have no validity, and would be dissolved by the holy father. At length, finding there was no hope for us, I requested to have my marriage with the infanta at least delayed.”

“And yet that does not prevent your being on the road to meet her?”

“How can I help it? To my prayers, to my supplications, to my tears, I received no answer but reasons of state.”

“Well, well?”

“Well, what is to be done, mademoiselle, when so many wills are leagued against me?”

It was now Marie’s turn to hang her head. “Then I must bid you adieu for ever,” said she. “You know that I am being exiled; you know that I am going to be buried alive; you know still more that they want to marry me off, too.”

Louis became very pale, and placed his hand upon his heart.

“If I had thought that my life only had, been at stake, I have been so persecuted that I might have yielded; but I thought yours was concerned, my dear sire, and I stood out for the sake of preserving your happiness.”

“Oh, yes! my happiness, my treasure!” murmured the king, more gallantly than passionately, perhaps.

“The cardinal might have yielded,” said Marie, “if you had addressed yourself to him, if you had pressed him. For the cardinal to call the king of France his nephew! do you not perceive, sire? He would have made war even for that honor; the cardinal, assured of governing alone, under the double pretext of having brought up the king and given his niece to him in marriage—the cardinal would have fought all antagonists, overcome all obstacles. Oh, sire! I can answer for that. I am a woman, and I see clearly into everything where love is concerned.”

These words produced a strange effect upon the king. Instead of heightening his passion, they cooled it. He stopped, and said hastily,—

“What is to be said, mademoiselle? Everything has failed.”

“Except your will, I trust, my dear sire?”

“Alas!” said the king, coloring, “have I a will?”

“Oh!” said Mademoiselle de Mancini mournfully, wounded by that expression.

“The king has no will but that which policy dictates, but that which reasons of state impose upon him.”

“Oh! it is because you have no love,” cried Mary; “if you loved, sire, you would have a will.”

On pronouncing these words, Mary raised her eyes to her lover, whom she saw more pale and more cast down than an exile who is about to quit his native land forever. “Accuse me,” murmured the king, “but do not say I do not love you.”

A long silence followed these words, which the young king had pronounced with a perfectly true and profound feeling. “I am unable to think that to-morrow, and after to-morrow, I shall see you no more; I cannot think that I am going to end my sad days at a distance from Paris; that the lips of an old man, of an unknown, should touch that hand which you hold within yours; no, in truth, I cannot think of all that, my dear sire, without having my poor heart burst with despair.”

And Marie de Mancini did shed floods of tears. On his part, the king, much affected, carried his handkerchief to his mouth, and stifled a sob.

“See,” said she, “the carriages have stopped, my sister waits for me, the time is come; what you are about to decide upon will be decided for life. Oh, sire! you are willing, then, that I should lose you? You are willing, then, Louis, that she to whom you have said ‘I love you,’ should belong to another than to her king; to her master, to her lover? Oh! courage, Louis! courage! One word, a single word! Say ‘I will!’ and all my life is enchained to yours, and all my heart is yours forever.”

The king made no reply. Mary then looked at him as Dido looked at AEneas in the Elysian fields, fierce and disdainful.

“Farewell, then,” said she; “farewell life! love! heaven!”

And she took a step away. The king detained her, seized her hand, which he pressed to his lips, and despair prevailing over the resolution he appeared to have inwardly formed, he let fall upon that beautiful hand a burning tear of regret, which made Mary start, so really had that tear burnt her. She saw the humid eyes of the king, his pale brow, his convulsed lips, and cried, with an accent that cannot be described,—

“Oh, sire! you are a king, you weep, and yet I depart!”

As his sole reply, the king hid his face in his handkerchief. The officer uttered something so like a roar that it frightened the horses. Mademoiselle de Mancini, quite indignant, quitted the king’s arm, hastily entered the carriage, crying to the coachman, “Go on, go on, and quick!”

The coachman obeyed, flogged his mules, and the heavy carriage rocked upon its creaking axle, whilst the king of France, alone, cast down, annihilated, did not dare to look either behind or before him.

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

When the king, like all the people in the world who are in love, had long and attentively watched disappear in the distance the carriage which bore away his mistress; when he had turned and turned again a hundred times to the same side and had at length succeeded in somewhat calming the agitation of his heart and thoughts, he recollected that he was not alone. The officer still held the horse by the bridle, and had not lost all hope of seeing the king recover his resolution. He had still the resource of mounting and riding after the carriage; they would have lost nothing by waiting a little. But the imagination of the lieutenant of the musketeers was too rich and too brilliant; it left far behind it that of the king, who took care not to allow himself to be carried away to any such excess. He contented himself with approaching the officer, and in a doleful voice, “Come,” said he, “let us be gone; all is ended. To horse!”

The officer imitated this carriage, this slowness, this sadness, and leisurely mounted his horse. The king pushed on sharply, the lieutenant followed him. At the bridge Louis turned around for the last time. The lieutenant, patient as a god who has eternity behind and before him, still hoped for a return of energy. But it was groundless, nothing appeared. Louis gained the street which led to the castle, and entered as seven was striking. When the king had returned, and the musketeer, who saw everything, had seen a corner of the tapestry over the cardinal’s window lifted up, he breathed a profound sigh, like a man unloosed from the tightest bounds, and said in a low voice:

“Now, then, my officer, I hope that it is over.”

The king summoned his gentleman. “Please to understand I shall receive nobody before two o’clock,” said he.

“Sire,” replied the gentleman, “there is, however, some one who requests admittance.”

“Who is that?”

“Your lieutenant of musketeers.”

“He who accompanied me?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Ah,” said the king, “let him come in.”

The officer entered. The king made a sign, and the gentleman and the valet retired. Louis followed them with his eyes until they had shut the door, and when the tapestries had fallen behind them,—“You remind me by your presence, monsieur, of something I had forgotten to recommend to you, that is to say, the most absolute discretion.”

“Oh! sire, why does your majesty give yourself the trouble of making me such a recommendation? It is plain you do not know me.”

“Yes, monsieur, that is true. I know that you are discreet; but as I had prescribed nothing——”

The officer bowed. “Has your majesty nothing else to say to me?”

“No, monsieur; you may retire.”

“Shall I obtain permission not to do so till I have spoken to the king, sire?”

“What have you to say to me? Explain yourself, monsieur.”

“Sire, a thing without importance to you, but which interests me greatly. Pardon me, then, for speaking of it. Without urgency, without necessity, I never would have done it, and I would have disappeared, mute and insignificant as I always have been.”

“How! Disappeared! I do not understand you, monsieur.”

“Sire, in a word,” said the officer, “I am come to ask for my discharge from your majesty’s service.”

The king made a movement of surprise, but the officer remained as motionless as a statue.

“Your discharge—yours, monsieur? and for how long a time, I pray?”

“Why, forever, sire.”

“What, you are desirous of quitting my service, monsieur?” said Louis, with an expression that revealed something more than surprise.

“Sire, I regret to say that I am.”

“Impossible!”

“It is so, however, sire. I am getting old; I have worn harness now thirty-five years; my poor shoulders are tired; I feel that I must give place to the young. I don’t belong to this age; I have still one foot in the old one; it results that everything is strange in my eyes, everything astonishes and bewilders me. In short, I have the honor to ask your majesty for my discharge.”

“Monsieur,” said the king, looking at the officer, who wore his uniform with an ease that would have caused envy in a young man, “you are stronger and more vigorous than I am.”

“Oh!” replied the officer, with an air of false modesty, “your majesty says so because I still have a good eye and a tolerably firm foot—because I can still ride a horse, and my mustache is black; but, sire, vanity of vanities all that—illusions all that—appearance, smoke, sire! I have still a youthful air, it is true, but I feel old, and within six months I am certain I shall be broken down, gouty, impotent. Therefore, then sire——”

“Monsieur,” interrupted the king, “remember your words of yesterday. You said to me in this very place where you now are, that you were endowed with the best health of any man in France; that fatigue was unknown to you! that you did not mind spending whole days and nights at your post. Did you tell me that, monsieur, or not? Try and recall, monsieur.”

The officer sighed. “Sire,” said he, “old age is boastful; and it is pardonable for old men to praise themselves when others no longer do it. It is very possible I said that; but the fact is, sire, I am very much fatigued, and request permission to retire.”

“Monsieur,” said the king, advancing towards the officer with a gesture full of majesty, “you are not assigning me the true reason. You wish to quit my service, it may be true, but you disguise from me the motive of your retreat.”

“Sire, believe that——”

“I believe what I see, monsieur; I see a vigorous, energetic man, full of presence of mind, the best soldier in France, perhaps; and this personage cannot persuade me the least in the world that you stand in need of rest.”

“Ah! sire,” said the lieutenant, with bitterness, “what praise! Indeed, your majesty confounds me! Energetic, vigorous, brave, intelligent, the best soldier in the army! But, sire, your majesty exaggerates my small portion of merit to such a point, that however good an opinion I may have of myself, I do not recognize myself; in truth I do not. If I were vain enough to believe only half of your majesty’s words, I should consider myself a valuable, indispensable man. I should say that a servant possessed of such brilliant qualities was a treasure beyond all price. Now, sire, I have been all my life—I feel bound to say it—except at the present time, appreciated, in my opinion, much below my value. I therefore repeat, your majesty exaggerates.”

The king knitted his brow, for he saw a bitter raillery beneath the words of the officer. “Come, monsieur,” said he, “let us meet the question frankly. Are you dissatisfied with my service, say? No evasions; speak boldly, frankly—I command you to do so.”

The officer, who had been twisting his hat about in his hands, with an embarrassed air, for several minutes, raised his head at these words. “Oh! sire,” said he, “that puts me a little more at my ease. To a question put so frankly, I will reply frankly. To tell the truth is a good thing, as much from the pleasure one feels in relieving one’s heart, as on account of the rarity of the fact. I will speak the truth, then, to my king, at the same time imploring him to excuse the frankness of an old soldier.”

Louis looked at his officer with anxiety, which he manifested by the agitation of his gesture. “Well, then speak,” said he, “for I am impatient to hear the truths you have to tell me.”

The officer threw his hat upon a table, and his countenance, always so intelligent and martial, assumed, all at once, a strange character of grandeur and solemnity. “Sire,” said he, “I quit the king’s service because I am dissatisfied. The valet, in these times, can approach his master as respectfully as I do, can give him an account of his labor, bring back his tools, return the funds that have been intrusted to him, and say, ‘Master, my day’s work is done. Pay me, if you please, and let us part.’”

“Monsieur! monsieur!” exclaimed the king, crimson with rage.

“Ah! sire,” replied the officer, bending his knee for a moment, “never was servant more respectful than I am before your majesty; only you commanded me to tell the truth. Now I have begun to tell it, it must come out, even if you command me to hold my tongue.”

There was so much resolution expressed in the deep-sunk muscles of the officer’s countenance, that Louis XIV. had no occasion to tell him to continue; he continued, therefore, whilst the king looked at him with a curiosity mingled with admiration.

“Sire, I have, as I have said, now served the house of France thirty-five years; few people have worn out so many swords in that service as I have, and the swords I speak of were good swords, too, sire. I was a boy, ignorant of everything except courage, when the king your father guessed that there was a man in me. I was a man, sire, when the Cardinal de Richelieu, who was a judge of manhood, discovered an enemy in me. Sire, the history of that enmity between the ant and the lion may be read from the first to the last line, in the secret archives of your family. If ever you feel an inclination to know it, do so, sire; the history is worth the trouble—it is I who tell you so. You will there read that the lion, fatigued, harassed, out of breath, at length cried for quarter, and the justice must be rendered him to say that he gave as much as he required. Oh! those were glorious times, sire, strewed over with battles like one of Tasso’s or Ariosto’s epics. The wonders of those times, to which the people of ours would refuse belief, were every-day occurrences. For five years together, I was a hero every day; at least, so I was told by persons of judgment; and that is a long period for heroism, trust me, sire, a period of five years. Nevertheless, I have faith in what these people told me, for they were good judges. They were named M. de Richelieu, M. de Buckingham, M. de Beaufort, M. de Retz, a mighty genius himself in street warfare,—in short, the king, Louis XIII., and even the queen, your noble mother, who one day condescended to say, ‘Thank you.’ I don’t know what service I had had the good fortune to render her. Pardon me, sire, for speaking so boldly; but what I relate to you, as I have already had the honor to tell your majesty, is history.”

The king bit his lips, and threw himself violently on a chair.

“I appear importunate to your majesty,” said the lieutenant. “Eh! sire, that is the fate of truth; she is a stern companion; she bristles all over with steel; she wounds those whom she attacks, and sometimes him who speaks her.”

“No, monsieur,” replied the king; “I bade you speak—speak then.”

“After the service of the king and the cardinal came the service of the regency, sire; I fought pretty well in the Fronde—much less, though, than the first time. The men began to diminish in stature. I have, nevertheless, led your majesty’s musketeers on some perilous occasions, which stand upon the orders of the day of the company. Mine was a beautiful luck at that time. I was the favorite of M. de Mazarin. Lieutenant here! lieutenant there! lieutenant to the right! lieutenant to the left! There was not a buffet dealt in France, of which your humble servant did not have the dealing; but soon France was not enough. The cardinal sent me to England on Cromwell’s account; another gentleman who was not over gentle, I assure you, sire. I had the honor of knowing him, and I was well able to appreciate him. A great deal was promised me on account of that mission. So, as I did much more than I had been bidden to do, I was generously paid, for I was at length appointed captain of the musketeers, that is to say, the most envied position in court, which takes precedence over the marshals of France, and justly, for who says captain of the musketeers says the flower of chivalry and king of the brave.”

“Captain, monsieur!” interrupted the king, “you make a mistake. Lieutenant, you mean.”

“Not at all, sire—I make no mistake; your majesty may rely upon me in that respect. Monsieur le cardinal gave me the commission himself.”

“Well!”

“But M. de Mazarin, as you know better than anybody, does not often give, and sometimes takes back what he has given; he took it back again as soon as peace was made and he was no longer in want of me. Certainly I was not worthy to replace M. de Tréville, of illustrious memory; but they had promised me, and they had given me; they ought to have stopped there.”

“Is that what dissatisfies you, monsieur? Well I shall make inquiries. I love justice; and your claim, though made in military fashion, does not displease me.”

“Oh, sire!” said the officer, “your majesty has ill understood me; I no longer claim anything now.”

“Excess of delicacy, monsieur; but I will keep my eye upon your affairs, and later——”

“Oh, sire! what a word!—later! Thirty years have I lived upon that promising word, which has been pronounced by so many great personages, and which your mouth has, in its turn, just pronounced. Later—that is how I have received a score of wounds, and how I have reached fifty-four years of age without ever having had a louis in my purse, and without ever having met with a protector on my way,—I who have protected so many people! So I change my formula, sire; and when any one says to me ‘Later,’ I reply ‘Now.’ It is rest that I solicit, sire. That may be easily granted me. That will cost nobody anything.”

“I did not look for this language, monsieur, particularly from a man who has always lived among the great. You forget you are speaking to the king, to a gentleman who is, I suppose, of as good a house as yourself; and when I say later, I mean a certainty.”

“I do not at all doubt it, sire, but this is the end of the terrible truth I had to tell you. If I were to see upon that table a marshal’s stick, the sword of constable, the crown of Poland, instead of later, I swear to you, sire, that I should still say Now! Oh, excuse me, sire! I am from the country of your grandfather, Henry IV. I do not speak often; but when I do speak, I speak all.”

“The future of my reign has little temptation for you, monsieur, it appears,” said Louis, haughtily.

“Forgetfulness, forgetfulness everywhere!” cried the officer, with a noble air; “the master has forgotten the servant, so that the servant is reduced to forget his master. I live in unfortunate times, sire. I see youth full of discouragement and fear, I see it timid and despoiled, when it ought to be rich and powerful. I yesterday evening, for example, open the door to a king of England, whose father, humble as I am, I was near saving, if God had not been against me—God, who inspired His elect, Cromwell! I open, I said, the door, that is to say, the palace of one brother to another brother, and I see—stop, sire, that is a load on my heart!—I see the minister of that king drive away the proscribed prince, and humiliate his master by condemning to want another king, his equal. Then I see my prince, who is young, handsome, and brave, who has courage in his heart, and lightning in his eye,—I see him tremble before a priest, who laughs at him behind the curtain of his alcove, where he digests all the gold of France, which he afterwards stuffs into secret coffers. Yes—I understand your looks, sire. I am bold to madness; but what is to be said? I am an old man, and I tell you here, sire, to you, my king, things which I would cram down the throat of any one who should dare to pronounce them before me. You have commanded me to pour out the bottom of my heart before you, sire, and I cast at the feet of your majesty the pent-up indignation of thirty years, as I would pour out all my blood, if your majesty commanded me to do so.”

The king, without speaking a word, wiped the drops of cold and abundant perspiration which trickled from his temples. The moment of silence which followed this vehement outbreak represented for him who had spoken, and for him who had listened, ages of suffering.

“Monsieur,” said the king at length, “you spoke the word forgetfulness. I have heard nothing but that word; I will reply, then, to it alone. Others have perhaps been able to forget, but I have not, and the proof is, that I remember that one day of riot, that one day when the furious people, raging and roaring as the sea, invaded the royal palace; that one day when I feigned sleep in my bed, one man alone, naked sword in hand, concealed behind my curtain, watched over my life, ready to risk his own for me, as he had before risked it twenty times for the lives of my family. Was not the gentleman, whose name I then demanded, called M. d’Artagnan? say, monsieur.”

“Your majesty has a good memory,” replied the officer, coldly.

“You see, then,” continued the king, “if I have such remembrances of my childhood, what an amount I may gather in the age of reason.”

“Your majesty has been richly endowed by God,” said the officer, in the same tone.

“Come, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Louis, with feverish agitation, “ought you not to be as patient as I am? Ought you not to do as I do? Come!”

“And what do you do, sire?”

“I wait.”

“Your majesty may do so, because you are young; but I, sire, have not time to wait; old age is at my door, and death is behind it, looking into the very depths of my house. Your majesty is beginning life, its future is full of hope and fortune; but I, sire, I am on the other side of the horizon, and we are so far from each other, that I should never have time to wait till your majesty came up to me.”

Louis made another turn in his apartment, still wiping the moisture from his brow, in a manner that would have terrified his physicians, if his physicians had witnessed the state his majesty was in.

“It is very well, monsieur,” said Louis XIV., in a sharp voice; “you are desirous of having your discharge, and you shall have it. You offer me your resignation of the rank of lieutenant of the musketeers?”

“I deposit it humbly at your majesty’s feet, sire.”

“That is sufficient. I will order your pension.”

“I shall have a thousand obligations to your majesty.”

“Monsieur,” said the king, with a violent effort, “I think you are losing a good master.”

“And I am sure of it, sire.”

“Shall you ever find such another?”

“Oh, sire! I know that your majesty is alone in the world; therefore will I never again take service with any king upon earth, and will never again have other master than myself.”

“You say so?”

“I swear so, your majesty.”

“I shall remember that word, monsieur.”

D’Artagnan bowed.

“And you know I have a good memory,” said the king.

“Yes, sire, and yet I should desire that that memory should fail your majesty in this instance, in order that you might forget all the miseries I have been forced to spread before your eyes. Your majesty is so much above the poor and the mean that I hope——”

“My majesty, monsieur, will act like the sun, which looks upon all, great and small, rich and poor, giving luster to some, warmth to others, and life to all. Adieu Monsieur d’Artagnan—adieu: you are free.”

And the king, with a hoarse sob, which was lost in his throat, passed quickly into the next room. D’Artagnan took up his hat from the table upon which he had thrown it, and went out.

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15. The Proscribed

D’Artagnan had not reached the bottom of the staircase, when the king called his gentleman. “I have a commission to give you, monsieur,” said he.

“I am at your majesty’s commands.”

“Wait, then.” And the young king began to write the following letter, which cost him more than one sigh, although, at the same time, something like a feeling of triumph glittered in his eyes:

“My Lord Cardinal,—Thanks to your good counsels and, above all, thanks to your firmness, I have succeeded in overcoming a weakness unworthy of a king. You have too ably arranged my destiny to allow gratitude not to stop me at the moment when I was about to destroy your work. I felt I was wrong to wish to make my life turn from the course you had marked out for it. Certainly it would have been a misfortune to France and my family if a misunderstanding had taken place between me and my minister. This, however, would certainly have happened if I had made your niece my wife. I am perfectly aware of this, and will henceforth oppose nothing to the accomplishment of my destiny. I am prepared, then, to wed the infanta, Maria Theresa. You may at once open the conference.—Your affectionate Louis.”

The king, after reperusing the letter, sealed it himself. “This letter for my lord cardinal,” said he.

The gentleman took it. At Mazarin’s door he found Bernouin waiting with anxiety.

“Well?” asked the minister’s valet de chambre.

“Monsieur,” said the gentleman, “here is a letter for his eminence.”

“A letter! Ah! we expected one after the little journey of the morning.”

“Oh! you know, then, that his majesty——”

“As first minister, it belongs to the duties of our charge to know everything. And his majesty prays and implores, I presume.”

“I don’t know, but he sighed frequently whilst he was writing.”

“‘Yes, yes, yes; we understand all that; people sigh sometimes from happiness as well as from grief, monsieur.”

“And yet the king did not look very happy when he returned, monsieur.”

“You did not see clearly. Besides, you only saw his majesty on his return, for he was only accompanied by the lieutenant of the guards. But I had his eminence’s telescope, I looked through it when he was tired, and I am sure they both wept.”

“Well! was it for happiness they wept?”

“No, but for love, and they vowed to each other a thousand tendernesses, which the king asks no better than to keep. Now this letter is a beginning of the execution.”

“And what does his eminence think of this love, which is, by the bye, no secret to anybody?”

Bernouin took the gentleman by the arm, and whilst ascending the staircase,—“In confidence,” said he, in a low voice, “his eminence looks for success in the affair. I know very well we shall have war with Spain; but, bah! war will please the nobles. My lord cardinal, besides, can endow his niece royally, nay, more than royally. There will be money, festivities, and fireworks—everybody will be delighted.”

“Well, for my part,” replied the gentleman, shaking his head, “it appears to me that this letter is very light to contain all that.”

“My friend,” replied Bernouin, “I am certain of what I tell you. M. d’Artagnan related all that passed to me.”

“Ay, ay! and what did he tell you? Let us hear.”

“I accosted him by asking him, on the part of the cardinal, if there were any news, without discovering my designs, observe, for M. d’Artagnan is a cunning hand. ‘My dear Monsieur Bernouin,’ he replied, ‘the king is madly in love with Mademoiselle de Mancini, that is all I have to tell you.’ And then I asked him ‘Do you think, to such a degree that it will urge him to act contrary to the designs of his eminence?’ ‘Ah! don’t ask me,’ said he; ‘I think the king capable of anything; he has a will of iron, and what he wills he wills in earnest. If he takes it into his head to marry Mademoiselle de Mancini, he will marry her, depend upon it.’ And thereupon he left me and went straight to the stables, took a horse, saddled it himself, jumped upon its back, and set off as if the devil were at his heels.”

“So that you believe, then——”

“I believe that monsieur the lieutenant of the guards knew more than he was willing to say.”

“In your opinion, then, M. d’Artagnan——”

“Is gone, according to all probability, after the exiles, to carry out all that can facilitate the success of the king’s love.”

Chatting thus, the two confidants arrived at the door of his eminence’s apartment. His eminence’s gout had left him; he was walking about his chamber in a state of great anxiety, listening at doors and looking out of windows. Bernouin entered, followed by the gentleman, who had orders from the king to place the letter in the hands of the cardinal himself. Mazarin took the letter, but before opening it, he got up a ready smile, a smile of circumstance, able to throw a veil over emotions of whatever sort they might be. So prepared, whatever was the impression received from the letter, no reflection of that impression was allowed to transpire upon his countenance.

“Well,” said he, when he had read and reread the letter, “very well, monsieur. Inform the king that I thank him for his obedience to the wishes of the queen-mother, and that I will do everything for the accomplishment of his will.”

The gentlemen left the room. The door had scarcely closed before the cardinal, who had no mask for Bernouin, took off that which had so recently covered his face, and with a most dismal expression,—“Call M. de Brienne,” said he. Five minutes afterward the secretary entered.

“Monsieur,” said Mazarin, “I have just rendered a great service to the monarchy, the greatest I have ever rendered it. You will carry this letter, which proves it, to her majesty the queen-mother, and when she shall have returned it to you, you will lodge it in portfolio B., which is filled with documents and papers relative to my ministry.”

Brienne went as desired, and, as the letter was unsealed, did not fail to read it on his way. There is likewise no doubt that Bernouin, who was on good terms with everybody, approached so near to the secretary as to be able to read the letter over his shoulder; so that the news spread with such activity through the castle, that Mazarin might have feared it would reach the ears of the queen-mother before M. de Brienne could convey Louis XIV.’s letter to her. A moment after orders were given for departure, and M. de Conde having been to pay his respects to the king on his pretended rising, inscribed the city of Poitiers upon his tablets, as the place of sojourn and rest for their majesties.

Thus in a few instants was unraveled an intrigue which had covertly occupied all the diplomacies of Europe. It had nothing, however, very clear as a result, but to make a poor lieutenant of musketeers lose his commission and his fortune. It is true, that in exchange he gained his liberty. We shall soon know how M. d’Artagnan profited by this. For the moment, if the reader will permit us, we shall return to the hostelry of les Medici, of which one of the windows opened at the very moment the orders were given for the departure of the king.

The window that opened was that of one of the rooms of Charles II. The unfortunate prince had passed the night in bitter reflections, his head resting on his hands, and his elbows on the table, whilst Parry, infirm and old, wearied in body and in mind, had fallen asleep in a corner. A singular fortune was that of this faithful servant, who saw beginning for the second generation the fearful series of misfortunes which had weighed so heavily on the first. When Charles II. had well thought over the fresh defeat he had experienced, when he perfectly comprehended the complete isolation into which he had just fallen, on seeing his fresh hope left behind him, he was seized as with a vertigo, and sank back in the large armchair in which he was seated. Then God took pity on the unhappy prince, and sent to console him sleep, the innocent brother of death. He did not wake till half-past six, that is to say, till the sun shone brightly into his chamber, and Parry, motionless with fear of waking him, was observing with profound grief the eyes of the young man already red with wakefulness, and his cheeks pale with suffering and privations.

At length the noise of some heavy carts descending towards the Loire awakened Charles. He arose, looked around him like a man who has forgotten everything, perceived Parry, shook him by the hand, and commanded him to settle the reckoning with Master Cropole. Master Cropole, being called upon to settle his account with Parry, acquitted himself, it must be allowed, like an honest man; he only made his customary remark, that the two travelers had eaten nothing, which had the double disadvantage of being humiliating for his kitchen, and of forcing him to ask payment for a repast not consumed, but not the less lost. Parry had nothing to say to the contrary, and paid.

“I hope,” said the king, “it has not been the same with the horses. I don’t see that they have eaten at your expense, and it would be a misfortune for travelers like us, who have a long journey to make, to have our horses fail us.”

But Cropole, at this doubt, assumed his majestic air, and replied that the stables of les Medici were not less hospitable than its refectory.

The king mounted his horse; his old servant did the same, and both set out towards Paris, without meeting a single person on their road, in the streets or the faubourgs of the city. For the prince the blow was the more severe, as it was a fresh exile. The unfortunates cling to the smallest hopes, as the happy do to the greatest good; and when they are obliged to quit the place where that hope has soothed their hearts, they experience the mortal regret which the banished man feels when he places his foot upon the vessel which is to bear him into exile. It appears that the heart already wounded so many times suffers from the least scratch; it appears that it considers as a good the momentary absence of evil, which is nothing but the absence of pain; and that God, into the most terrible misfortunes, has thrown hope as the drop of water which the rich bad man in hell entreated of Lazarus.

For one instant even the hope of Charles II. had been more than a fugitive joy;—that was when he found himself so kindly welcomed by his brother king; then it had taken a form that had become a reality; then, all at once, the refusal of Mazarin had reduced the fictitious reality to the state of a dream. This promise of Louis XIV., so soon retracted, had been nothing but a mockery; a mockery like his crown—like his scepter—like his friends—like all that had surrounded his royal childhood, and which had abandoned his proscribed youth. Mockery! everything was a mockery for Charles II. except the cold, black repose promised by death.

Such were the ideas of the unfortunate prince while sitting listlessly upon his horse, to which he abandoned the reins; he rode slowly along beneath the warm May sun, in which the somber misanthropy of the exile perceived a last insult to his grief.

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16. “Remember!”

A horseman was going rapidly along the road leading towards Blois, which he had left nearly half an hour before, passed the two travelers, and, though apparently in haste, raised his hat as he passed them. The king scarcely observed this young man, who was about twenty-five years of age, and who, turning round several times, made friendly signals to a man standing before the gate of a handsome white-and-red house; that is to say, built of brick and stone, with a slated roof, situated on the left hand of the road the prince was traveling.

This man, old, tall, and thin, with white hair,—we speak of the one standing by the gate;—this man replied to the farewell signals of the young one by signs of parting as tender as could have been made by a father, The young man disappeared at the first turn of the road, bordered by fine trees, and the old man was preparing to return to the house, when the two travelers, arriving in front of the gate, attracted his attention.

The king, we have said, was riding with his head cast down, his arms inert, leaving his horse to go what pace he liked, whilst Parry, behind him, the better to imbibe the genial influence of the sun, had taken off his hat, and was looking about right and left. His eyes encountered those of the old man leaning against the gate; the latter, as if struck by some strange spectacle, uttered an exclamation, and made one step towards the two travelers. From Parry his eyes immediately turned towards the king, upon whom they rested for an instant. This exclamation, however rapid, was instantly reflected in a visible manner upon the features of the tall old man. For scarcely had he recognized the younger of the travelers—and we say recognized, for nothing but a perfect recognition could have explained such an act—scarcely, we say, had he recognized the younger of the two travelers, than he clapped his hands together, with respectful surprise, and, raising his hat from his head, bowed so profoundly that it might have been said he was kneeling. This demonstration, however absent, or rather, however absorbed was the king in his reflections, attracted his attention instantly; and checking his horse and turning towards Parry, he exclaimed, “Good God, Parry, who is that man who salutes me in such a marked manner? Can he know me, think you?”

Parry, much agitated and very pale, had already turned his horse towards the gate. “Ah, sire!” said he, stopping suddenly at five of six paces’ distance from the still bending man: “sire, I am seized with astonishment, for I think I recognize that brave man. Yes, it must be he! Will your majesty permit me to speak to him?”

“Certainly.”

“Can it be you, Monsieur Grimaud?” asked Parry.

“Yes, it is I,” replied the tall old man, drawing himself up, but without losing his respectful demeanor.

“Sire,” then said Parry, “I was not deceived. This good man is the servant of the Comte de la Fere, and the Comte de la Fere, if you remember, is the worthy gentleman of whom I have so often spoken to your majesty that the remembrance of him must remain, not only in your mind, but in your heart.”

“He who assisted my father at his last moments?” asked Charles, evidently affected at the remembrance.

“The same, sire.”

“Alas!” said Charles; and then addressing Grimaud, whose penetrating and intelligent eyes seemed to search and divine his thoughts,—“My friend,” said he, “does your master, Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, live in this neighborhood?”

“There,” replied Grimaud, pointing with his outstretched arm to the white-and-red house behind the gate.

“And is Monsieur le Comte de la Fere at home at present?”

“At the back, under the chestnut trees.”

“Parry,” said the king, “I will not miss this opportunity, so precious for me, to thank the gentleman to whom our house is indebted for such a noble example of devotedness and generosity. Hold my horse, my friend, if you please.” And, throwing the bridle to Grimaud, the king entered the abode of Athos, quite alone, as one equal enters the dwelling of another. Charles had been informed by the concise explanation of Grimaud,—“At the back, under the chestnut trees;” he left, therefore, the house on the left, and went straight down the path indicated. The thing was easy; the tops of those noble trees, already covered with leaves and flowers, rose above all the rest.

On arriving under the lozenges, by turns luminous and dark, which checkered the ground of this path according as the trees were more or less in leaf, the young prince perceived a gentleman walking with his arms behind him, apparently plunged in a deep meditation. Without doubt, he had often had this gentleman described to him, for, without hesitating, Charles II. walked straight up to him. At the sound of his footsteps, the Comte de la Fere raised his head, and seeing an unknown man of noble and elegant carriage coming towards him, he raised his hat and waited. At some paces from him, Charles II. likewise took off his hat. Then, as if in reply to the comte’s mute interrogation,—

“Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “I come to discharge a duty towards you. I have, for a long time, had the expression of a profound gratitude to bring you. I am Charles II., son of Charles Stuart, who reigned in England, and died on the scaffold.”

On hearing this illustrious name, Athos felt a kind of shudder creep through his veins, but at the sight of the young prince standing uncovered before him, and stretching out his hand towards him, two tears, for an instant, dimmed his brilliant eyes. He bent respectfully, but the prince took him by the hand.

“See how unfortunate I am, my lord count; it is only due to chance that I have met with you. Alas! I ought to have people around me whom I love and honor, whereas I am reduced to preserve their services in my heart, and their names in my memory: so that if your servant had not recognized mine, I should have passed by your door as by that of a stranger.”

“It is but too true,” said Athos, replying with his voice to the first part of the king’s speech, and with a bow to the second; “it is but too true, indeed, that your majesty has seen many evil days.”

“And the worst, alas!” replied Charles, “are perhaps still to come.”

“Sire, let us hope.”

“Count, count,” continued Charles, shaking his head, “I entertained hope till last night, and that of a good Christian, I swear.”

Athos looked at the king as if to interrogate him.

“Oh, the history is soon related,” said Charles. “Proscribed, despoiled, disdained, I resolved, in spite of all my repugnance, to tempt fortune one last time. Is it not written above, that, for our family, all good fortune and all bad fortune shall eternally come from France? You know something of that, monsieur,—you, who are one of the Frenchmen whom my unfortunate father found at the foot of his scaffold, on the day of his death, after having found them at his right hand on the day of battle.”

“Sire,” said Athos modestly, “I was not alone. My companions and I did, under the circumstances, our duty as gentlemen, and that was all. Your majesty was about to do me the honor to relate——”

“That is true. I had the protection,—pardon my hesitation, count, but, for a Stuart, you, who understand everything, you will comprehend that the word is hard to pronounce;—I had, I say, the protection of my cousin the stadtholder of Holland; but without the intervention, or at least without the authorization of France, the stadtholder would not take the initiative. I came, then, to ask this authorization of the king of France, who has refused me.”

“The king has refused you, sire!”

“Oh, not he; all justice must be rendered to my younger brother Louis; but Monsieur de Mazarin——”

Athos bit his lips.

“You perhaps think I should have expected this refusal?” said the king, who had noticed the movement.

“That was, in truth, my thought, sire,” replied Athos, respectfully, “I know that Italian of old.”

“Then I determined to come to the test, and know at once the last word of my destiny. I told my brother Louis, that, not to compromise either France or Holland, I would tempt fortune myself in person, as I had already done, with two hundred gentlemen, if he would give them to me, and a million, if he would lend it me.”

“Well, sire?”

“Well, monsieur, I am suffering at this moment something strange, and that is, the satisfaction of despair. There is in certain souls,—and I have just discovered that mine is of the number,—a real satisfaction in the assurance that all is lost, and the time is come to yield.”

“Oh, I hope,” said Athos, “that your majesty is not come to that extremity.”

“To say so, my lord count, to endeavor to revive hope in my heart, you must have ill understood what I have just told you. I came to Blois to ask of my brother Louis the alms of a million, with which I had the hopes of re-establishing my affairs; and my brother Louis has refused me. You see, then, plainly, that all is lost.”

“Will your majesty permit me to express a contrary opinion?”

“How is that, count? Do you think my heart of so low an order that I do not know how to face my position?”

“Sire, I have always seen that it was in desperate positions that suddenly the great turns of fortune have taken place.”

“Thank you, count, it is some comfort to meet with a heart like yours, that is to say, sufficiently trustful in God and in monarchy, never to despair of a royal fortune, however low it may be fallen. Unfortunately, my dear count, your words are like those remedies they call ‘sovereign,’ and which, though able to cure curable wounds or diseases, fail against death. Thank you for your perseverance in consoling me, count, thanks for your devoted remembrance, but I know in what I must trust—nothing will save me now. And see, my friend, I was so convinced, that I was taking the route of exile with my old Parry; I was returning to devour my poignant griefs in the little hermitage offered me by Holland. There, believe me, count, all will soon be over, and death will come quickly, it is called so often by this body, eaten up by its soul, and by this soul, which aspires to heaven.”

“Your majesty has a mother, a sister, and brothers; your majesty is the head of the family, and ought, therefore, to ask a long life of God, instead of imploring Him for a prompt death. Your majesty is an exile, a fugitive, but you have right on your side; you ought to aspire to combats, dangers, business, and not to rest in heavens.”

“Count,” said Charles II., with a smile of indescribable sadness, “have you ever heard of a king who reconquered his kingdom with one servant of the age of Parry, and with three hundred crowns which that servant carried in his purse?”

“No, sire; but I have heard—and that more than once—that a dethroned king has recovered his kingdom with a firm will, perseverance, some friends, and a million skillfully employed.”

“But you cannot have understood me. The million I asked of my brother Louis was refused me.”

“Sire,” said Athos, “will your majesty grant me a few minutes, and listen attentively to what remains for me to say to you?”

Charles II. looked earnestly at Athos. “Willingly, monsieur,” said he.

“Then I will show your majesty the way,” resumed the count, directing his steps towards the house. He then conducted the king to his study, and begged him to be seated. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty just now told me that, in the present state of England, a million would suffice for the recovery of your kingdom.”

“To attempt it at least, monsieur, and to die as a king if I should not succeed.”

“Well, then, sire, let your majesty, according to the promise you have made me, have the goodness to listen to what I have to say.” Charles made an affirmative sign with his head. Athos walked straight up to the door, the bolts of which he drew, after looking to see if anybody was near, and then returned. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty has kindly remembered that I lent assistance to the very noble and very unfortunate Charles I., when his executioners conducted him from St. James’s to Whitehall.”

“Yes, certainly, I do remember it, and always shall remember it.”

“Sire, it is a dismal history to be heard by a son who no doubt has had it related to him many times; and yet I ought to repeat it to your majesty without omitting one detail.”

“Speak on, monsieur.”

“When the king your father ascended the scaffold, or rather when he passed from his chamber to the scaffold on a level with his window, everything was prepared for his escape. The executioner was got out of the way; a hole contrived under the floor of his apartment; I myself was beneath the funeral vault, which I heard all at once creak beneath his feet.”

“Parry has related to me all these terrible details, monsieur.”

Athos bowed, and resumed. “But here is something he has not related to you, sire, for what follows passed between God, your father, and myself; and never has the revelation of it been made even to my dearest friends. ‘Go a little further off,’ said the august patient to the executioner; ‘it is but for an instant, and I know that I belong to you; but remember not to strike till I give the signal. I wish to offer up my prayers in freedom.’”

“Pardon me,” said Charles II., turning very pale, “but you, count, who know so many details of this melancholy event,—details which, as you said just now, have never been revealed to anyone,—do you know the name of that infernal executioner, of that base wretch who concealed his face that he might assassinate a king with impunity?”

Athos became slightly pale. “His name?” said he, “yes, I know it, but cannot tell it.”

“And what is become of him, for nobody in England knows his destiny?”

“He is dead.”

“But he did not die in his bed; he did not die a calm and peaceful death, he did not die the death of the good?”

“He died a violent death, in a terrible night, rendered so by the passions of man and a tempest from God. His body, pierced by a dagger, sank to the depths of the ocean. God pardon his murderer!”

“Proceed, then,” said Charles II., seeing that the count was unwilling to say more.

“The king of England, after having, as I have said, spoken thus to the masked executioner, added,—‘Observe, you will not strike till I shall stretch out my arms saying—REMEMBER!’”

“I was aware,” said Charles, in an agitated voice, “that that was the last word pronounced by my unfortunate father. But why and for whom?”

“For the French gentleman placed beneath his scaffold.”

“For you, then, monsieur?”

“Yes, sire; and every one of the words which he spoke to me, through the planks of the scaffold covered with a black cloth, still sounds in my ears. The king knelt down on one knee: ‘Comte de la Fere,’ said he, ‘are you there?’ ‘Yes, sire,’ replied I. Then the king stooped towards the boards.”

Charles II., also palpitating with interest, burning with grief, stooped towards Athos, to catch, one by one, every word that escaped from him. His head touched that of the comte.

“Then,” continued Athos, “the king stooped. ‘Comte de la Fere,’ said he, ‘I could not be saved by you: it was not to be. Now, even though I commit a sacrilege, I must speak to you. Yes, I have spoken to men—yes, I have spoken to God, and I speak to you the last. To sustain a cause which I thought sacred, I have lost the throne of my fathers and the heritage of my children.’”

Charles II. concealed his face in his hands, and a bitter tear glided between his white and slender fingers.

“‘I have still a million in gold,’ continued the king. ‘I buried it in the vaults of the castle of Newcastle, a moment before I left that city.’” Charles raised his head with an expression of such painful joy that it would have drawn tears from any one acquainted with his misfortunes.

“A million!” murmured he. “Oh, count!”

“‘You alone know that this money exists: employ it when you think it can be of the greatest service to my eldest son. And now, Comte de la Fere, bid me adieu!’

“‘Adieu, adieu, sire!’ cried I.”

Charles arose, and went and leant his burning brow against the window.

“It was then,” continued Athos, “that the king pronounced the word, ‘REMEMBER!’ addressed to me. You see, sire, that I have remembered.”

The king could not resist or conceal his emotion. Athos beheld the movement of his shoulders, which undulated convulsively; he heard the sobs which burst from his overcharged breast. He was silent himself, suffocated by the flood of bitter remembrances he had just poured upon that royal head. Charles II., with a violent effort, left the window, devoured his tears, and came and sat by Athos. “Sire,” said the latter, “I thought till to-day that the time had not yet arrived for the employment of that last resource; but, with my eyes fixed upon England, I felt it was approaching. To-morrow I meant to go and inquire in what part of the world your majesty was, and then I purposed going to you. You come to me, sire; that is an indication that God is with us.”

“My lord,” said Charles, in a voice choked by emotion, “you are, for me, what an angel sent from heaven would be,—you are a preserver sent to me from the tomb of my father himself; but, believe me, for ten years’ civil war has passed over my country, striking down men, tearing up the soil, it is no more probable that gold should remain in the entrails of the earth, than love in the hearts of my subjects.”

“Sire, the spot in which his majesty buried the million is well known to me, and no one, I am sure, has been able to discover it. Besides, is the castle of Newcastle quite destroyed? Have they demolished it stone by stone, and uprooted the soil to the last tree?”

“No, it is still standing: but at this moment General Monk occupies it and is encamped there. The only spot from which I could look for succor, where I possess a single resource, you see, is invaded by my enemies.”

“General Monk, sire, cannot have discovered the treasure which I speak of.”

“Yes, but can I go and deliver myself up to Monk, in order to recover this treasure? Ah! count, you see plainly I must yield to destiny, since it strikes me to the earth every time I rise. What can I do with Parry as my only servant, with Parry, whom Monk has already driven from his presence? No, no, no, count, we must yield to this last blow.”

“But what your majesty cannot do, and what Parry can no more attempt, do you not believe that I could succeed in accomplishing?”

“You—you, count—you would go?”

“If it please your majesty,” said Athos, bowing to the king, “yes, I will go, sire.”

“What! you so happy here, count?”

“I am never happy when I have a duty left to accomplish, and it is an imperative duty which the king your father left me to watch over your fortunes, and make a royal use of his money. So, if your majesty honors me with a sign, I will go with you.”

“Ah, monsieur!” said the king, forgetting all royal etiquette, and throwing his arms around the neck of Athos, “you prove to me that there is a God in heaven, and that this God sometimes sends messengers to the unfortunate who groan on the earth.”

Athos, exceedingly moved by this burst of feeling of the young man, thanked him with profound respect, and approached the window. “Grimaud!” cried he, “bring out my horses.”

“What, now—immediately!” said the king. “Ah, monsieur, you are indeed a wonderful man!”

“Sire,” said Athos, “I know nothing more pressing than your majesty’s service. Besides,” added he, smiling, “it is a habit contracted long since, in the service of the queen your aunt, and of the king your father. How is it possible for me to lose it at the moment your majesty’s service calls for it?”

“What a man!” murmured the king.

Then after a moment’s reflection,—“But no, count, I cannot expose you to such privations. I have no means of rewarding such services.”

“Bah!” said Athos, laughing. “Your majesty is joking, have you not a million? Ah! why am I not possessed of half such a sum! I would already have raised a regiment. But, thank God! I have still a few rolls of gold and some family diamonds left. Your majesty will, I hope, deign to share with a devoted servant.”

“With a friend—yes, count, but on condition that, in his turn, that friend will share with me hereafter!”

“Sire!” said Athos, opening a casket, from which he drew both gold and jewels, “you see, sire, we are too rich. Fortunately, there are four of us, in the event of our meeting with thieves.”

Joy made the blood rush to the pale cheeks of Charles II., as he saw Athos’s two horses, led by Grimaud, already booted for the journey, advance towards the porch.

“Blaisois, this letter for the Vicomte de Bragelonne. For everybody else I am gone to Paris. I confide the house to you, Blaisois.” Blaisois bowed, shook hands with Grimaud, and shut the gate.

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17. In which Aramis is sought and only Bazin is found

Two hours had scarcely elapsed since the departure of the master of the house, who, in Blaisois’s sight, had taken the road to Paris, when a horseman, mounted on a good pied horse, stopped before the gate, and with a sonorous “hola!” called the stable-boys who, with the gardeners, had formed a circle round Blaisois, the historian-in-ordinary to the household of the chateau. This “hola,” doubtless well known to Master Blaisois, made him turn his head and exclaim—“Monsieur d’Artagnan! run quickly, you chaps, and open the gate.”

A swarm of eight brisk lads flew to the gate, which was opened as if it had been made of feathers; and every one loaded him with attentions, for they knew the welcome this friend was accustomed to receive from their master; and for such remarks the eye of the valet may always be depended upon.

“Ah!” said M. d’Artagnan, with an agreeable smile, balancing himself upon his stirrup to jump to the ground, “where is that dear count?”

“Ah! how unfortunate you are, monsieur!” said Blaisois: “and how unfortunate will monsieur le comte our master, think himself when he hears of your coming! As ill luck will have it, monsieur le comte left home two hours ago.”

D’Artagnan did not trouble himself about such trifles. “Very good!” said he. “You always speak the best French in the world; you shall give me a lesson in grammar and correct language, whilst I wait the return of your master.”

“That is impossible, monsieur,” said Blaisois; “you would have to wait too long.”

“Will he not come back to-day, then?”

“No, nor to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow. Monsieur le comte has gone on a journey.”

“A journey!” said D’Artagnan, surprised; “that’s a fable, Master Blaisois.”

“Monsieur, it is no more than the truth. Monsieur has done me the honor to give me the house in charge; and he added, with his voice so full of authority and kindness—that is all one to me: ‘You will say I have gone to Paris.’”

“Well!” cried D’Artagnan, “since he is gone towards Paris, that is all I wanted to know! you should have told me so at first, booby! He is then two hours in advance?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I shall soon overtake him. Is he alone?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Who is with him, then?”

“A gentleman whom I don’t know, an old man, and M. Grimaud.”

“Such a party cannot travel as fast as I can—I will start.”

“Will monsieur listen to me an instant?” said Blaisois, laying his hand gently on the reins of the horse.

“Yes, if you don’t favor me with fine speeches, and make haste.”

“Well, then, monsieur, that word Paris appears to me to be only an excuse.”

“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan, seriously, “an excuse, eh?”

“Yes, monsieur; and monsieur le comte is not going to Paris, I will swear.”

“What makes you think so?”

“This—M. Grimaud always knows where our master is going; and he had promised me that the first time he went to Paris, he would take a little money for me to my wife.”

“What, have you a wife, then?”

“I had one—she was of this country; but monsieur thought her a noisy scold, and I sent her to Paris; it is sometimes inconvenient, but very agreeable at others.”

“I understand; but go on. You do not believe the count gone to Paris?”

“No, monsieur; for then M. Grimaud would have broken his word; he would have perjured himself, and that is impossible.”

“That is impossible,” repeated D’Artagnan, quite in a study, because he was quite convinced. “Well, my brave Blaisois, many thanks to you.”

Blaisois bowed.

“Come, you know I am not curious—I have serious business with your master. Could you not, by a little bit of a word—you who speak so well—give me to understand—one syllable, only—I will guess the rest.”

“Upon my word, monsieur, I cannot. I am quite ignorant where monsieur le comte is gone. As to listening at doors, that is contrary to my nature; and besides it is forbidden here.”

“My dear fellow,” said D’Artagnan, “this is a very bad beginning for me. Never mind, you know when monsieur le comte will return, at least?”

“As little, monsieur, as the place of his destination.”

“Come, Blaisois, come, search.”

“Monsieur doubts my sincerity? Ah, monsieur, that grieves me much.”

“The devil take his gilded tongue!” grumbled D’Artagnan. “A clown with a word would be worth a dozen of him. Adieu!”

“Monsieur, I have the honor to present you my respects.”

“Cuistre!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “the fellow is unbearable.” He gave another look up to the house, turned his horse’s head, and set off like a man who has nothing either annoying or embarrassing in his mind. When he was at the end of the wall, and out of sight,—“Well, now, I wonder,” said he, breathing quickly, “whether Athos was at home. No; all those idlers, standing with their arms crossed, would have been at work if the eye of the master was near. Athos gone a journey?—that is incomprehensible. Bah! it is all devilish mysterious! And then—no—he is not the man I want. I want one of a cunning, patient mind. My business is at Melun, in a certain presbytery I am acquainted with. Forty-five leagues—four days and a half! Well, it is fine weather, and I am free. Never mind the distance!”

And he put his horse into a trot, directing his course towards Paris. On the fourth day he alighted at Melun as he had intended.

D’Artagnan was never in the habit of asking any one on the road for any common information. For these sorts of details, unless in very serious circumstances, he confided in his perspicacity, which was so seldom at fault, in his experience of thirty years, and in a great habit of reading the physiognomies of houses, as well as those of men. At Melun, D’Artagnan immediately found the presbytery—a charming house, plastered over red brick, with vines climbing along the gutters, and a cross, in carved stone, surmounting the ridge of the roof. From the ground-floor of this house came a noise, or rather a confusion of voices, like the chirping of young birds when the brood is just hatched under the down. One of these voices was spelling the alphabet distinctly. A voice, thick, yet pleasant, at the same time scolded the talkers and corrected the faults of the reader. D’Artagnan recognized that voice, and as the window of the ground-floor was open, he leant down from his horse under the branches and red fibers of the vine and cried “Bazin, my dear Bazin! good-day to you.”

A short, fat man, with a flat face, a craniun ornamented with a crown of gray hairs, cut short, in imitation of a tonsure, and covered with an old black velvet cap, arose as soon as he heard D’Artagnan—we ought not to say arose, but bounded up. In fact, Bazin bounded up, carrying with him his little low chair, which the children tried to take away, with battles more fierce than those of the Greeks endeavoring to recover the body of Patroclus from the hands of the Trojans. Bazin did more than bound; he let fall both his alphabet and his ferule. “You!” said he, “you, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Yes, myself! Where is Aramis—no, M. le Chevalier d’Herblay—no, I am still mistaken—Monsieur le Vicaire-General?”

“Ah, monsieur,” said Bazin, with dignity, “monseigneur is at his diocese.”

“What did you say?” said D’Artagnan. Bazin repeated the sentence.

“Ah, ah! but has Aramis a diocese?”

“Yes, monsieur. Why not?”

“Is he a bishop, then?”

“Why, where can you come from,” said Bazin, rather irreverently, “that you don’t know that?”

“My dear Bazin, we pagans, we men of the sword, know very well when a man is made a colonel, or maitre-de-camp, or marshal of France; but if he be made a bishop, archbishop, or pope—devil take me if the news reaches us before the three quarters of the earth have had the advantage of it!”

“Hush! hush!” said Bazin, opening his eyes: “do not spoil these poor children, in whom I am endeavoring to inculcate such good principles.” In fact, the children had surrounded D’Artagnan, whose horse, long sword, spurs, and martial air they very much admired. But above all, they admired his strong voice; so that, when he uttered his oath, the whole school cried out, “The devil take me!” with fearful bursts of laughter, shouts, and bounds, which delighted the musketeer, and bewildered the old pedagogue.

“There!” said he, “hold your tongues, you brats! You have come, M. d’Artagnan, and all my good principles fly away. With you, as usual, comes disorder. Babel is revived. Ah! Good Lord! Ah! the wild little wretches!” And the worthy Bazin distributed right and left blows which increased the cries of his scholars by changing the nature of them.

“At least,” said he, “you will no longer decoy any one here.”

“Do you think so?” said D’Artagnan, with a smile which made a shudder creep over the shoulders of Bazin.

“He is capable of it,” murmured he.

“Where is your master’s diocese?”

“Monseigneur Rene is bishop of Vannes.”

“Who had him nominated?”

“Why, monsieur le surintendant, our neighbor.”

“What! Monsieur Fouquet?”

“To be sure he did.”

“Is Aramis on good terms with him, then?”

“Monseigneur preached every Sunday at the house of monsieur le surintendant at Vaux; then they hunted together.”

“Ah!”

“And monseigneur composed his homilies—no, I mean his sermons—with monsieur le surintendant.”

“Bah! he preached in verse, then, this worthy bishop?”

“Monsieur, for the love of heaven, do not jest with sacred things.”

“There, Bazin, there! So, then, Aramis is at Vannes?”

“At Vannes, in Bretagne.”

“You are a deceitful old hunks, Bazin; that is not true.”

“See, monsieur, if you please; the apartments of the presbytery are empty.”

“He is right there,” said D’Artagnan, looking attentively at the house, the aspect of which announced solitude.

“But monseigneur must have written you an account of his promotion.”

“When did it take place?”

“A month back.”

“Oh! then there is no time lost. Aramis cannot yet have wanted me. But how is it, Bazin, you do not follow your master?”

“Monsieur, I cannot; I have occupations.”

“Your alphabet?”

“And my penitents.”

“What, do you confess, then? Are you a priest?”

“The same as one. I have such a call.”

“But the orders?”

“Oh,” said Bazin, without hesitation, “now that monseigneur is a bishop, I shall soon have my orders, or at least my dispensations.” And he rubbed his hands.

“Decidedly,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “there will be no means of uprooting these people. Get me some supper Bazin.”

“With pleasure, monsieur.”

“A fowl, a bouillon, and a bottle of wine.”

“This is Saturday, monsieur—it is a day of abstinence.”

“I have a dispensation,” said D’Artagnan.

Bazin looked at him suspiciously.

“Ah, ah, master hypocrite!” said the musketeer, “for whom do you take me? If you, who are the valet, hope for dispensation to commit a crime, shall not I, the friend of your bishop, have dispensation for eating meat at the call of my stomach? Make yourself agreeable with me, Bazin, or, by heavens! I will complain to the king, and you shall never confess. Now you know that the nomination of bishops rests with the king—I have the king, I am the stronger.”

Bazin smiled hypocritically. “Ah, but we have monsieur le surintendant,” said he.

“And you laugh at the king, then?”

Bazin made no reply; his smile was sufficiently eloquent.

“My supper,” said D’Artagnan, “it is getting towards seven o’clock.”

Bazin turned round and ordered the eldest of the pupils to inform the cook. In the meantime, D’Artagnan surveyed the presbytery.

“Phew!” said he, disdainfully, “monseigneur lodged his grandeur very meanly here.”

“We have the Chateau de Vaux,” said Bazin.

“Which is perhaps equal to the Louvre?” said D’Artagnan, jeeringly.

“Which is better,” replied Bazin, with the greatest coolness imaginable.

“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan.

He would perhaps have prolonged the discussion, and maintained the superiority of the Louvre, but the lieutenant perceived that his horse remained fastened to the bars of a gate.

“The devil!” said he. “Get my horse looked after; your master the bishop has none like him in his stables.”

Bazin cast a sidelong glance at the horse, and replied, “Monsieur le surintendant gave him four from his own stables; and each of the four is worth four of yours.”

The blood mounted to the face of D’Artagnan. His hand itched and his eye glanced over the head of Bazin, to select the place upon which he should discharge his anger. But it passed away; reflection came, and D’Artagnan contented himself with saying,—

“The devil! the devil! I have done well to quit the service of the king. Tell me, worthy Master Bazin,” added he, “how many musketeers does monsieur le surintendant retain in his service?”

“He could have all there are in the kingdom with his money,” replied Bazin, closing his book, and dismissing the boys with some kindly blows of his cane.

“The devil! the devil!” repeated D’Artagnan, once more, as if to annoy the pedagogue. But as supper was now announced, he followed the cook, who introduced him into the refectory, where it awaited him. D’Artagnan placed himself at the table, and began a hearty attack upon his fowl.

“It appears to me,” said D’Artagnan, biting with all his might at the tough fowl they had served up to him, and which they had evidently forgotten to fatten,—“it appears that I have done wrong in not seeking service with that master yonder. A powerful noble this intendant, seemingly! In good truth, we poor fellows know nothing at the court, and the rays of the sun prevent our seeing the large stars, which are also suns, at a little greater distance from our earth,—that is all.”

As D’Artagnan delighted, both from pleasure and system, in making people talk about things which interested him, he fenced in his best style with Master Bazin, but it was pure loss of time; beyond the tiresome and hyperbolical praises of monsieur le surintendant of the finances, Bazin, who, on his side, was on his guard, afforded nothing but platitudes to the curiosity of D’Artagnan, so that our musketeer, in a tolerably bad humor, desired to go to bed as soon as he had supped. D’Artagnan was introduced by Bazin into a mean chamber, in which there was a poor bed; but D’Artagnan was not fastidious in that respect. He had been told that Aramis had taken away the key of his own private apartment, and as he knew Aramis was a very particular man, and had generally many things to conceal in his apartment, he had not been surprised. He, therefore, although it appeared comparatively even harder, attacked the bed as bravely as he had done the fowl; and, as he had as good an inclination to sleep as he had had to eat, he took scarcely longer time to be snoring harmoniously than he had employed in picking the last bones of the bird.

Since he was no longer in the service of any one, D’Artagnan had promised himself to indulge in sleeping as soundly as he had formerly slept lightly; but with whatever good faith D’Artagnan had made himself this promise, and whatever desire he might have to keep it religiously, he was awakened in the middle of the night by a loud noise of carriages, and servants on horseback. A sudden illumination flashed over the walls of his chamber; he jumped out of bed and ran to the window in his shirt. “Can the king be coming this way?” he thought, rubbing his eyes; “in truth, such a suite can only be attached to royalty.”

“Vive monsieur le surintendant!” cried, or rather vociferated, from a window on the ground-floor, a voice which he recognized as Bazin’s, who at the same time waved a handkerchief with one hand, and held a large candle in the other. D’Artagnan then saw something like a brilliant human form leaning out of the principal carriage; at the same time loud bursts of laughter, caused, no doubt, by the strange figure of Bazin, and issuing from the same carriage, left, as it were, a train of joy upon the passage of the rapid cortege.

“I might easily see it was not the king,” said D’Artagnan; “people don’t laugh so heartily when the king passes. Hola, Bazin!” cried he to his neighbor, three-quarters of whose body still hung out of the window, to follow the carriage with his eyes as long as he could. “What is all that about?”

“It is M. Fouquet,” said Bazin, in a patronizing tone.

“And all those people?”

“That is the court of M. Fouquet.”

“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan; “what would M. de Mazarin say to that if he heard it?” And he returned to his bed, asking himself how Aramis always contrived to be protected by the most powerful personages in the kingdom. “Is it that he has more luck than I, or that I am a greater fool than he? Bah!” that was the concluding word by the aid of which D’Artagnan, having become wise, now terminated every thought and every period of his style. Formerly he said, “Mordioux!” which was a prick of the spur, but now he had become older, and he murmured that philosophical “Bah!” which served as a bridle to all the passions.

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

When D’Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the absence of the Vicar-General d’Herblay was real, and that his friend was not to be found at Melun or in its vicinity, he left Bazin without regret, cast an ill-natured glance at the magnificent Chateau de Vaux which was beginning to shine with that splendor which brought on its ruin, and, compressing his lips like a man full of mistrust and suspicion, he put spurs to his pied horse, saying, “Well, well! I have still Pierrefonds left, and there I shall find the best man and the best filled coffer. And that is all I want, for I have an idea of my own.”

We will spare our readers the prosaic incidents of D’Artagnan’s journey, which terminated on the morning of the third day within sight of Pierrefonds. D’Artagnan came by the way of Nanteuil-le-Hardouin and Crepy. At a distance he perceived the Castle of Louis of Orleans, which, having become part of the crown domain, was kept by an old concierge. This was one of those marvelous manors of the middle ages, with walls twenty feet in thickness, and a hundred in height.

D’Artagnan rode slowly past its walls, measured its towers with his eye and descended into the valley. From afar he looked down upon the chateau of Porthos, situated on the shores of a small lake, and contiguous to a magnificent forest. It was the same place we have already had the honor of describing to our readers; we shall therefore satisfy ourselves with naming it. The first thing D’Artagnan perceived after the fine trees, the May sun gilding the sides of the green hills, the long rows of feather-topped trees which stretched out towards Compiegne, was a large rolling box, pushed forward by two servants and dragged by two others. In this box there was an enormous green-and-gold thing, which went along the smiling glades of the park, thus dragged and pushed. This thing, at a distance, could not be distinguished, and signified absolutely nothing; nearer, it was a hogshead muffled in gold-bound green cloth; when close, it was a man, or rather a poussa, the interior extremity of whom, spreading over the interior of the box, entirely filled it, when still closer, the man was Mousqueton—Mousqueton, with gray hair and a face as red as Punchinello’s.

“Pardieu!” cried D’Artagnan; “why, that’s my dear Monsieur Mousqueton!”

“Ah!” cried the fat man—“ah! what happiness! what joy! There’s M. d’Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!” These last words were addressed to the lackeys who pushed and dragged him. The box stopped, and the four lackeys, with a precision quite military, took off their laced hats and ranged themselves behind it.

“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Mousqueton, “why can I not embrace your knees? But I have become impotent, as you see.”

“Dame! my dear Mousqueton, it is age.”

“No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities—troubles.”

“Troubles! you, Mousqueton?” said D’Artagnan making the tour of the box; “are you out of your mind, my dear friend? Thank God! you are as hearty as a three-hundred-year-old oak.”

“Ah! but my legs, monsieur, my legs!” groaned the faithful servant.

“What’s the matter with your legs?”

“Oh, they will no longer bear me!”

“Ah, the ungrateful things! And yet you feed them well, Mousqueton, apparently.”

“Alas, yes! They can reproach me with nothing in that respect,” said Mousqueton, with a sigh; “I have always done what I could for my poor body; I am not selfish.” And Mousqueton sighed afresh.

“I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron, too, as he sighs after that fashion?” thought D’Artagnan.

“Mon Dieu, monsieur!” said Mousqueton, as if rousing himself from a painful reverie; “how happy monseigneur will be that you have thought of him!”

“Kind Porthos!” cried D’Artagnan, “I am anxious to embrace him.”

“Oh!” said Mousqueton, much affected, “I shall certainly write to him.”

“What!” cried D’Artagnan, “you will write to him?”

“This very day; I shall not delay it an hour.”

“Is he not here, then?”

“No, monsieur.”

“But is he near at hand?—is he far off?”

“Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell?”

“Mordioux!” cried the musketeer, stamping with his foot, “I am unfortunate. Porthos such a stay-at-home!”

“Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man than monseigneur, but——”

“But what?”

“When a friend presses you——”

“A friend?”

“Doubtless—the worthy M. d’Herblay.”

“What, has Aramis pressed Porthos?”

“This is how the thing happened, Monsieur d’Artagnan. M. d’Herblay wrote to monseigneur——”

“Indeed!”

“A letter, monsieur, such a pressing letter that it threw us all into a bustle.”

“Tell me all about it, my dear friend.” said D’Artagnan; “but remove these people a little further off first.”

Mousqueton shouted, “Fall back, you fellows,” with such powerful lungs that the breath, without the words, would have been sufficient to disperse the four lackeys. D’Artagnan seated himself on the shaft of the box and opened his ears. “Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “monseigneur, then, received a letter from M. le Vicaire-General d’Herblay, eight or nine days ago; it was the day of the rustic pleasures, yes, it must have been Wednesday.”

“What do you mean?” said D’Artagnan. “The day of rustic pleasures?”

“Yes, monsieur; we have so many pleasures to take in this delightful country, that we were encumbered by them; so much so, that we have been forced to regulate the distribution of them.”

“How easily do I recognize Porthos’s love of order in that! Now, that idea would never have occurred to me; but then I am not encumbered with pleasures.”

“We were, though,” said Mousqueton.

“And how did you regulate the matter, let me know?” said D’Artagnan.

“It is rather long, monsieur.”

“Never mind, we have plenty of time; and you speak so well, my dear Mousqueton, that it is really a pleasure to hear you.”

“It is true,” said Mousqueton, with a sigh of satisfaction, which emanated evidently from the justice which had been rendered him, “it is true I have made great progress in the company of monseigneur.”

“I am waiting for the distribution of the pleasures, Mousqueton, and with impatience. I want to know if I have arrived on a lucky day.”

“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Mousqueton in a melancholy tone, “since monseigneur’s departure all the pleasures have gone too!”

“Well, my dear Mousqueton, refresh your memory.”

“With what day shall I begin?”

“Eh, pardieux! begin with Sunday; that is the Lord’s day.”

“Sunday, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“Sunday pleasures are religious: monseigneur goes to mass, makes the bread-offering, and has discourses and instructions made to him by his almoner-in-ordinary. That is not very amusing, but we expect a Carmelite from Paris who will do the duty of our almonry, and who, we are assured, speaks very well, which will keep us awake, whereas our present almoner always sends us to sleep. These are Sunday religious pleasures. On Monday, worldly pleasures.”

“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, “what do you mean by that? Let us have a glimpse at your worldly pleasures.”

“Monsieur, on Monday we go into the world; we pay and receive visits, we play on the lute, we dance, we make verses, and burn a little incense in honor of the ladies.”

“Peste! that is the height of gallantry,” said the musketeer, who was obliged to call to his aid all the strength of his facial muscles to suppress an enormous inclination to laugh.

“Tuesday, learned pleasures.”

“Good!” cried D’Artagnan. “What are they? Detail them, my dear Mousqueton.”

“Monseigneur has bought a sphere or globe, which I shall show you; it fills all the perimeter of the great tower, except a gallery which he has had built over the sphere: there are little strings and brass wires to which the sun and moon are hooked. It all turns; and that is very beautiful. Monseigneur points out to me seas and distant countries. We don’t intend to visit them, but it is very interesting.”

“Interesting! yes, that’s the word,” repeated D’Artagnan. “And Wednesday?”

“Rustic pleasures, as I have had the honor to tell you, monsieur le chevalier. We look over monseigneur’s sheep and goats; we make the shepherds dance to pipes and reeds, as is written in a book monseigneur has in his library, which is called ‘Bergeries.’ The author died about a month ago.”

“Monsieur Racan, perhaps,” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes, that was his name—M. Racan. But that is not all: we angle in the little canal, after which we dine, crowned with flowers. That is Wednesday.”

“Peste!” said D’Artagnan, “you don’t divide your pleasures badly. And Thursday?—what can be left for poor Thursday?”

“It is not very unfortunate, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, smiling. “Thursday, Olympian pleasures. Ah, monsieur, that is superb! We get together all monseigneur’s young vassals, and we make them throw the disc, wrestle, and run races. Monseigneur can’t run now, no more can I; but monseigneur throws the disc as nobody else can throw it. And when he does deal a blow, oh, that proves a misfortune!”

“How so?”

“Yes, monsieur, we were obliged to renounce the cestus. He cracked heads; he broke jaws—beat in ribs. It was charming sport; but nobody was willing to play with him.”

“Then his wrist——”

“Oh, monsieur, firmer than ever. Monseigneur gets a trifle weaker in his legs,—he confesses that himself; but his strength has all taken refuge in his arms, so that——”

“So that he can knock down bullocks, as he used formerly.”

“Monsieur, better than that—he beats in walls. Lately, after having supped with one of our farmers—you know how popular and kind monseigneur is—after supper as a joke, he struck the wall a blow. The wall crumbled away beneath his hand, the roof fell in, and three men and an old woman were stifled.”

“Good God, Mousqueton! And your master?”

“Oh, monseigneur, a little skin was rubbed off his head. We bathed the wounds with some water which the monks gave us. But there was nothing the matter with his hand.”

“Nothing?”

“No, nothing, monsieur.”

“Deuce take the Olympic pleasures! They must cost your master too dear, for widows and orphans——”

“They all had pensions, monsieur; a tenth of monseigneur’s revenue was spent in that way.”

“Then pass on to Friday,” said D’Artagnan.

“Friday, noble and warlike pleasures. We hunt, we fence, we dress falcons and break horses. Then, Saturday is the day for intellectual pleasures: we adorn our minds; we look at monseigneur’s pictures and statues; we write, even, and trace plans: and then we fire monseigneur’s cannon.”

“You draw plans, and fire cannon?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Why, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “M. du Vallon, in truth, possesses the most subtle and amiable mind that I know. But there is one kind of pleasure you have forgotten, it appears to me.”

“What is that, monsieur?” asked Mousqueton, with anxiety.

“The material pleasures.”

Mousqueton colored. “What do you mean by that, monsieur?” said he, casting down his eyes.

“I mean the table—good wine—evenings occupied in passing the bottle.”

“Ah, monsieur, we don’t reckon those pleasures,—we practice them every day.”

“My brave Mousqueton,” resumed D’Artagnan, “pardon me, but I was so absorbed in your charming recital that I have forgotten the principal object of our conversation, which was to learn what M. le Vicaire-General d’Herblay could have to write to your master about.”

“That is true, monsieur,” said Mousqueton; “the pleasures have misled us. Well, monsieur, this is the whole affair.”

“I am all attention, Mousqueton.”

“On Wednesday——”

“The day of the rustic pleasures?”

“Yes—a letter arrived; he received it from my hands. I had recognized the writing.”

“Well?”

“Monseigneur read it and cried out, ‘Quick, my horses! my arms!’”

“Oh, good Lord! then it was for some duel?” said D’Artagnan.

“No, monsieur, there were only these words: ‘Dear Porthos, set out, if you would wish to arrive before the Equinox. I expect you.’”

“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, thoughtfully, “that was pressing, apparently.”

“I think so; therefore,” continued Mousqueton, “monseigneur set out the very same day with his secretary, in order to endeavor to arrive in time.”

“And did he arrive in time?”

“I hope so. Monseigneur, who is hasty, as you know, monsieur, repeated incessantly, ‘Tonno Dieu! What can this mean? The Equinox? Never mind, a fellow must be well mounted to arrive before I do.’”

“And you think Porthos will have arrived first, do you?” asked D’Artagnan.

“I am sure of it. This Equinox, however rich he may be, has certainly no horses so good as monseigneur’s.”

D’Artagnan repressed his inclination to laugh, because the brevity of Aramis’s letter gave rise to reflection. He followed Mousqueton, or rather Mousqueton’s chariot, to the castle. He sat down to a sumptuous table, of which they did him the honors as to a king. But he could draw nothing from Mousqueton,—the faithful servant seemed to shed tears at will, but that was all.

D’Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed, reflected much upon the meaning of Aramis’s letter; puzzled himself as to the relation of the Equinox with the affairs of Porthos; and being unable to make anything out unless it concerned some amour of the bishopp’s, for which it was necessary that the days and nights should be equal, D’Artagnan left Pierrefonds as he had left Melun, as he had left the chateau of the Comte de la Fere. It was not, however, without a melancholy, which might in good sooth pass for one of the most dismal of D’Artagnan’s moods. His head cast down, his eyes fixed, he suffered his legs to hang on each side of his horse, and said to himself, in that vague sort of reverie which ascends sometimes to the sublimest eloquence:

“No more friends! no more future! no more anything! My energies are broken like the bonds of our ancient friendship. Oh, old age is coming, cold and inexorable; it envelops in its funereal crape all that was brilliant, all that was embalming in my youth; then it throws that sweet burthen on its shoulders and carries it away with the rest into the fathomless gulf of death.”

A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave and so strong against all the misfortunes of life; and during some moments the clouds appeared black to him, the earth slippery and full of pits as that of cemeteries.

“Whither am I going?” said he to himself. “What am I going to do! Alone, quite alone—without family, without friends! Bah!” cried he all at once. And he clapped spurs to his horse, who, having found nothing melancholy in the heavy oats of Pierrefonds profited by this permission to show his gayety in a gallop which absorbed two leagues. “To Paris!” said D’Artagnan to himself. And on the morrow he alighted in Paris. He had devoted six days to this journey.

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19. What D’Artagnan went to Paris for

The lieutenant dismounted before a shop in the Rue des Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon d’Or. A man of good appearance, wearing a white apron, and stroking his gray mustache with a large hand, uttered a cry of joy on perceiving the pied horse. “Monsieur le chevalier,” said he, “ah, is that you?”

“Bon jour, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, stooping to enter the shop.

“Quick, somebody,” cried Planchet, “to look after Monsieur d’Artagnan’s horse,—somebody to get ready his room,—somebody to prepare his supper.”

“Thanks, Planchet. Good-day, my children!” said D’Artagnan to the eager boys.

“Allow me to send off this coffee, this treacle, and these raisins,” said Planchet; “they are for the store-room of monsieur le surintendant.”

“Send them off, send them off!”

“That is only the affair of a moment, then we shall sup.”

“Arrange it that we may sup alone; I want to speak to you.”

Planchet looked at his old master in a significant manner.

“Oh, don’t be uneasy, it is nothing unpleasant,” said D’Artagnan.

“So much the better—so much the better!” And Planchet breathed freely again, whilst D’Artagnan seated himself quietly down in the shop, upon a bale of corks, and made a survey of the premises. The shop was well stocked; there was a mingled perfume of ginger, cinnamon, and ground pepper, which made D’Artagnan sneeze. The shop-boy, proud of being in company with so renowned a warrior, of a lieutenant of musketeers, who approached the person of the king, began to work with an enthusiasm which was something like delirium, and to serve the customers with a disdainful haste that was noticed by several.

Planchet put away his money, and made up his accounts, amidst civilities addressed to his former master. Planchet had with his equals the short speech and the haughty familiarity of the rich shopkeeper who serves everybody and waits for nobody. D’Artagnan observed this habit with a pleasure which we shall analyze presently. He saw night come on by degrees, and at length Planchet conducted him to a chamber on the first story, where, amidst bales and chests, a table very nicely set out awaited the two guests.

D’Artagnan took advantage of a moment’s pause to examine the countenance of Planchet, whom he had not seen for a year. The shrewd Planchet had acquired a slight protuberance in front, but his countenance was not puffed. His keen eye still played with facility in its deep-sunk orbit; and fat, which levels all the characteristic saliences of the human face, had not yet touched either his high cheek-bones, the sign of cunning and cupidity, or his pointed chin, the sign of acuteness and perseverance. Planchet reigned with as much majesty in his dining-room as in his shop. He set before his master a frugal, but perfectly Parisian repast: roast meat, cooked at the baker’s, with vegetables, salad, and a dessert borrowed from the shop itself. D’Artagnan was pleased that the grocer had drawn from behind the fagots a bottle of that Anjou wine which during all his life had been D’Artagnan’s favorite wine.

“Formerly, monsieur,” said Planchet, with a smile full of bonhomie, “it was I who drank your wine; now you do me the honor to drink mine.”

“And, thank God, friend Planchet, I shall drink it for a long time to come, I hope; for at present I am free.”

“Free? You have leave of absence, monsieur?”

“Unlimited.”

“You are leaving the service?” said Planchet, stupefied.

“Yes, I am resting.”

“And the king?” cried Planchet, who could not suppose it possible that the king could do without the services of such a man as D’Artagnan.

“The king will try his fortune elsewhere. But we have supped well, you are disposed to enjoy yourself; you invite me to confide in you. Open your ears, then.”

“They are open.” And Planchet, with a laugh more frank than cunning, opened a bottle of white wine.

“Leave me my reason, at least.”

“Oh, as to you losing your head—you, monsieur!”

“Now my head is my own, and I mean to take better care of it than ever. In the first place we shall talk business. How fares our money-box?”

“Wonderfully well, monsieur. The twenty thousand livres I had of you are still employed in my trade, in which they bring me nine per cent. I give you seven, so I gain two by you.”

“And you are still satisfied?”

“Delighted. Have you brought me any more?”

“Better than that. But do you want any?”

“Oh! not at all. Every one is willing to trust me now. I am extending my business.”

“That was your intention.”

“I play the banker a little. I buy goods of my needy brethren; I lend money to those who are not ready for their payments.”

“Without usury?”

“Oh! monsieur, in the course of the last week I have had two meetings on the boulevards, on account of the word you have just pronounced.”

“What?”

“You shall see: it concerned a loan. The borrower gives me in pledge some raw sugars, on condition that I should sell if repayment were not made within a fixed period. I lend a thousand livres. He does not pay me and I sell the sugars for thirteen hundred livres. He learns this and claims a hundred crowns. Ma foi! I refused, pretending that I could not sell them for more than nine hundred livres. He accused me of usury. I begged him to repeat that word to me behind the boulevards. He was an old guard, and he came: and I passed your sword through his left thigh.”

“Tu dieu! what a pretty sort of banker you make!” said D’Artagnan.

“For above thirteen per cent. I fight,” replied Planchet; “that is my character.”

“Take only twelve,” said D’Artagnan, “and call the rest premium and brokerage.”

“You are right, monsieur; but to your business.”

“Ah! Planchet, it is very long and very hard to speak.”

“Do speak it, nevertheless.”

D’Artagnan twisted his mustache like a man embarrassed with the confidence he is about to make and mistrustful of his confidant.

“Is it an investment?” asked Planchet.

“Why, yes.”

“At good profit?”

“A capital profit,—four hundred per cent., Planchet.”

Planchet gave such a blow with his fist upon the table, that the bottles bounded as if they had been frightened.

“Good heavens! is that possible?”

“I think it will be more,” replied D’Artagnan coolly; “but I like to lay it at the lowest!”

“The devil!” said Planchet, drawing nearer. “Why monsieur, that is magnificent! Can one put much money in it?”

“Twenty thousand livres each, Planchet.”

“Why, that is all you have, monsieur. For how long a time?”

“For a month.”

“And that will give us——”

“Fifty thousand livres each, profit.”

“It is monstrous! It is worth while to fight for such interest as that!”

“In fact, I believe it will be necessary to fight not a little,” said D’Artagnan, with the same tranquillity; “but this time there are two of us, Planchet, and I shall take all the blows to myself.”

“Oh! monsieur, I will not allow that.”

“Planchet, you cannot be concerned in it; you would be obliged to leave your business and your family.”

“The affair is not in Paris, then?”

“No.”

“Abroad?”

“In England.”

“A speculative country, that is true,” said Planchet,—“a country that I know well. What sort of an affair, monsieur, without too much curiosity?”

“Planchet, it is a restoration.”

“Of monuments?”

“Yes, of monuments; we shall restore Whitehall.”

“That is important. And in a month, you think?”

“I shall undertake it.”

“That concerns you, monsieur, and when once you are engaged——”

“Yes, that concerns me. I know what I am about; nevertheless, I will freely consult with you.”

“You do me great honor; but I know very little about architecture.”

“Planchet, you are wrong; you are an excellent architect, quite as good as I am, for the case in question.”

“Thanks, monsieur. But your old friends of the musketeers?”

“I have been, I confess, tempted to speak of the thing to those gentlemen, but they are all absent from their houses. It is vexatious, for I know none more bold or more able.”

“Ah! then it appears there will be an opposition, and the enterprise will be disputed?”

“Oh, yes, Planchet, yes.”

“I burn to know the details, monsieur.”

“Here they are, Planchet—close all the doors tight.”

“Yes, monsieur.” And Planchet double-locked them.

“That is well; now draw near.” Planchet obeyed.

“And open the window, because the noise of the passers-by and the carts will deafen all who might hear us.” Planchet opened the window as desired, and the gust of tumult which filled the chamber with cries, wheels, barkings, and steps deafened D’Artagnan himself, as he had wished. He then swallowed a glass of white wine and began in these terms: “Planchet, I have an idea.”

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

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20. Of the Society which was formed in the Rue des Lombards, at the Sign of the Pilon d’Or, to carry out M. d’Artagnan’s Idea

After a moment’s silence, in which D’Artagnan appeared to be collecting, not one idea, but all his ideas—“It cannot be, my dear Planchet,” said he, “that you have not heard of his majesty Charles I. of England?”

“Alas! yes, monsieur, since you left France in order to assist him, and that, in spite of that assistance, he fell, and was near dragging you down in his fall.”

“Exactly so; I see you have a good memory, Planchet.”

“Peste! the astonishing thing would be, if I could have lost that memory, however bad it might have been. When one has heard Grimaud, who, you know, is not given to talking, relate how the head of King Charles fell, how you sailed the half of a night in a scuttled vessel, and saw floating on the water that good M. Mordaunt with a certain gold-hafted dagger buried in his breast, one is not very likely to forget such things.”

“And yet there are people who forget them, Planchet.”

“Yes, such as have not seen them, or have not heard Grimaud relate them.”

“Well, it is all the better that you recollect all that; I shall only have to remind you of one thing, and that is that Charles I. had a son.”

“Without contradicting you, monsieur, he had two,” said Planchet; “for I saw the second one in Paris, M. le Duke of York, one day, as he was going to the Palais Royal, and I was told that he was not the eldest son of Charles I. As to the eldest, I have the honor of knowing him by name, but not personally.”

“That is exactly the point, Planchet, we must come to: it is to this eldest son, formerly called the Prince of Wales, and who is now styled Charles II., king of England.”

“A king without a kingdom, monsieur,” replied Planchet, sententiously.

“Yes, Planchet, and you may add an unfortunate prince, more unfortunate than the poorest man of the people lost in the worst quarter of Paris.”

Planchet made a gesture full of that sort of compassion which we grant to strangers with whom we think we can never possibly find ourselves in contact. Besides, he did not see in this politico-sentimental operation any sign of the commercial idea of M. d’Artagnan, and it was in this idea that D’Artagnan, who was, from habit, pretty well acquainted with men and things, had principally interested Planchet.

“I am coming to our business. This young Prince of Wales, a king without a kingdom, as you have so well said, Planchet, has interested me. I, D’Artagnan, have seen him begging assistance of Mazarin, who is a miser, and the aid of Louis, who is a child, and it appeared to me, who am acquainted with such things, that in the intelligent eye of the fallen king, in the nobility of his whole person, a nobility apparent above all his miseries, I could discern the stuff of a man and the heart of a king.”

Planchet tacitly approved of all this; but it did not at all, in his eyes at least, throw any light upon D’Artagnan’s idea. The latter continued: “This, then, is the reasoning which I made with myself. Listen attentively, Planchet, for we are coming to the conclusion.”

“I am listening.”

“Kings are not so thickly sown upon the earth, that people can find them whenever they want them. Now, this king without a kingdom is, in my opinion, a grain of seed which will blossom in some season or other, provided a skillful, discreet, and vigorous hand sow it duly and truly, selecting soil, sky, and time.”

Planchet still approved by a nod of his head, which showed that he did not perfectly comprehend all that was said.

“‘Poor little seed of a king,’ said I to myself, and really I was affected, Planchet, which leads me to think I am entering upon a foolish business. And that is why I wished to consult you, my friend.”

Planchet colored with pleasure and pride.

“‘Poor little seed of a king! I will pick you up and cast you into good ground.’”

“Good God!” said Planchet, looking earnestly at his old master, as if in doubt as to the state of his reason.

“Well, what is it?” said D’Artagnan; “who hurts you?”

“Me! nothing, monsieur.”

“You said, ‘Good God!’”

“Did I?”

“I am sure you did. Can you already understand?”

“I confess, M. d’Artagnan, that I am afraid——”

“To understand?”

“Yes.”

“To understand that I wish to replace upon his throne this King Charles II., who has no throne? Is that it?”

Planchet made a prodigious bound in his chair. “Ah, ah!” said he, in evident terror, “that is what you call a restoration!”

“Yes, Planchet; is it not the proper term for it?”

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt! But have you reflected seriously?”

“Upon what?”

“Upon what is going on yonder.”

“Where?”

“In England.”

“And what is that? let us see, Planchet.”

“In the first place, monsieur, I ask your pardon for meddling in these things, which have nothing to do with my trade; but since it is an affair that you propose to me—for you are proposing an affair, are you not?——”

“A superb one, Planchet.”

“But as it is business you propose to me, I have the right to discuss it.”

“Discuss it, Planchet; out of discussion is born light.”

“Well, then, since I have monsieur’s permission, I will tell him that there is yonder, in the first place, the parliament.”

“Well, next?”

“And then the army.”

“Good! Do you see anything else?”

“Why, then the nation.”

“Is that all?”

“The nation which consented to the overthrow and death of the late king, the father of this one, and which will not be willing to belie its acts.”

“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “you argue like a cheese! The nation—the nation is tired of these gentlemen who give themselves such barbarous names, and who sing songs to it. Chanting for chanting, my dear Planchet; I have remarked that nations prefer singing a merry chant to the plain chant. Remember the Fronde; what did they sing in those times? Well those were good times.”

“Not too good, not too good! I was near being hung in those times.”

“Well, but you were not.”

“No.”

“And you laid the foundation of your fortune in the midst of all those songs?”

“That is true.”

“Then you have nothing to say against them.”

“Well, I return, then, to the army and parliament.”

“I say that I borrow twenty thousand livres of M. Planchet, and that I put twenty thousand livres of my own to it, and with these forty thousand livres I raise an army.”

Planchet clasped his hands; he saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest, and, in good truth, he believed his master had lost his senses.

“An army!—ah, monsieur,” said he, with his most agreeable smile, for fear of irritating the madman, and rendering him furious,—“an army!—how many?”

“Of forty men,” said D’Artagnan.

“Forty against forty thousand! that is not enough. I know very well that you, M. d’Artagnan, alone, are equal to a thousand men, but where are we to find thirty-nine men equal to you? Or, if we could find them, who would furnish you with money to pay them?”

“Not bad, Planchet. Ah, the devil! you play the courtier.”

“No, monsieur, I speak what I think, and that is exactly why I say that, in the first pitched battle you fight with your forty men, I am very much afraid——”

“Therefore I shall fight no pitched battles, my dear Planchet,” said the Gascon, laughing. “We have very fine examples in antiquity of skillful retreats and marches, which consisted in avoiding the enemy instead of attacking them. You should know that, Planchet, you who commanded the Parisians the day on which they ought to have fought against the musketeers, and who so well calculated marches and countermarches, that you never left the Palais Royal.”

Planchet could not help laughing. “It is plain,” replied he, “that if your forty men conceal themselves, and are not unskillful, they may hope not to be beaten: but you propose obtaining some result, do you not?”

“No doubt. This, then, in my opinion, is the plan to be proceeded upon in order quickly to replace his majesty Charles II. on his throne.”

“Good!” said Planchet, increasing his attention; “let us see your plan. But in the first place it seems to me we are forgetting something.”

“What is that?”

“We have set aside the nation, which prefers singing merry songs to psalms, and the army, which we will not fight: but the parliament remains, and that seldom sings.”

“Nor does it fight. How is it, Planchet, that an intelligent man like you should take any heed of a set of brawlers who call themselves Rumps and Barebones. The parliament does not trouble me at all, Planchet.”

“As soon as it ceases to trouble you, monsieur, let us pass on.”

“Yes, and arrive at the result. You remember Cromwell, Planchet?”

“I have heard a great deal of talk about him.”

“He was a rough soldier.”

“And a terrible eater, moreover.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Why, at one gulp he swallowed all England.”

“Well, Planchet, the evening before the day on which he swallowed England, if any one had swallowed M. Cromwell?”

“Oh, monsieur, it is one of the axioms of mathematics that the container must be greater than the contained.”

“Very well! That is our affair, Planchet.”

“But M. Cromwell is dead, and his container is now the tomb.”

“My dear Planchet, I see with pleasure that you have not only become a mathematician, but a philosopher.”

“Monsieur, in my grocery business I use much printed paper, and that instructs me.”

“Bravo! You know then, in that case—for you have not learnt mathematics and philosophy without a little history—that after this Cromwell so great, there came one who was very little.”

“Yes; he was named Richard, and he has done as you have, M. d’Artagnan—he has tendered his resignation.”

“Very well said—very well! After the great man who is dead, after the little one who tendered his resignation, there came a third. This one is named Monk; he is an able general, considering he has never fought a battle; he is a skillful diplomatist, considering that he never speaks in public, and that having to say ‘good-day’ to a man, he meditates twelve hours, and ends by saying ‘good-night;’ which makes people exclaim ‘miracle!’ seeing that it falls out correctly.”

“That is rather strong,” said Planchet; “but I know another political man who resembles him very much.”

“M. Mazarin you mean?”

“Himself.”

“You are right, Planchet; only M. Mazarin does not aspire to the throne of France; and that changes everything. Do you see? Well, this M. Monk, who has England ready-roasted in his plate, and who is already opening his mouth to swallow it—this M. Monk, who says to the people of Charles II., and to Charles II. himself, ‘Nescio vos’——”

“I don’t understand English,” said Planchet.

“Yes, but I understand it,” said D’Artagnan. “‘Nescio vos’ means ‘I do not know you.’ This M. Monk, the most important man in England, when he shall have swallowed it——”

“Well?” asked Planchet.

“Well, my friend, I shall go over yonder, and with my forty men, I shall carry him off, pack him up, and bring him into France, where two modes of proceeding present themselves to my dazzled eyes.”

“Oh! and to mine too,” cried Planchet, transported with enthusiasm. “We will put him in a cage and show him for money.”

“Well, Planchet, that is a third plan, of which I had not thought.”

“Do you think it a good one?”

“Yes, certainly, but I think mine better.”

“Let us see yours, then.”

“In the first place, I shall set a ransom on him.”

“Of how much?”

“Peste! a fellow like that must be well worth a hundred thousand crowns.”

“Yes, yes!”

“You see, then—in the first place, a ransom of a hundred thousand crowns.”

“Or else——”

“Or else, what is much better, I deliver him up to King Charles, who, having no longer either a general or an army to fear, nor a diplomatist to trick him, will restore himself, and when once restored, will pay down to me the hundred thousand crowns in question. That is the idea I have formed; what do you say to it, Planchet?”

“Magnificent, monsieur!” cried Planchet, trembling with emotion. “How did you conceive that idea?”

“It came to me one morning on the banks of the Loire, whilst our beloved king, Louis XIV., was pretending to weep upon the hand of Mademoiselle de Mancini.”

“Monsieur, I declare the idea is sublime. But——”

“Ah! is there a but?”

“Permit me! But this is a little like the skin of that fine bear—you know—that they were about to sell, but which it was necessary to take from the back of the living bear. Now, to take M. Monk, there will be a bit of scuffle, I should think.”

“No doubt; but as I shall raise an army to——”

“Yes, yes—I understand, parbleu!—a coup-de-main. Yes, then, monsieur, you will triumph, for no one equals you in such sorts of encounters.”

“I certainly am lucky in them,” said D’Artagnan, with a proud simplicity. “You know that if for this affair I had my dear Athos, my brave Porthos, and my cunning Aramis, the business would be settled; but they are all lost, as it appears, and nobody knows where to find them. I will do it, then, alone. Now, do you find the business good, and the investment advantageous?”

“Too much so—too much so.”

“How can that be?”

“Because fine things never reach the expected point.”

“This is infallible, Planchet, and the proof is that I undertake it. It will be for you a tolerably pretty gain, and for me a very interesting stroke. It will be said, ‘Such was the old age of M. d’Artagnan,’ and I shall hold a place in tales and even in history itself, Planchet. I am greedy of honor.”

“Monsieur,” cried Planchet, “when I think that it is here, in my home, in the midst of my sugar, my prunes, and my cinnamon, that this gigantic project is ripened, my shop seems a palace to me.”

“Beware, beware, Planchet! If the least report of this escapes, there is the Bastile for both of us. Beware, my friend, for this is a plot we are hatching. M. Monk is the ally of M. Mazarin—beware!”

“Monsieur, when a man has had the honor to belong to you, he knows nothing of fear; and when he has the advantage of being bound up in interests with you, he holds his tongue.”

“Very well, that is more your affair than mine, seeing that in a week I shall be in England.”

“Depart, monsieur, depart—the sooner the better.”

“Is the money, then, ready?”

“It will be to-morrow, to-morrow you shall receive it from my own hands. Will you have gold or silver?”

“Gold; that is most convenient. But how are we going to arrange this? Let us see.”

“Oh, good Lord! in the simplest way possible. You shall give me a receipt, that is all.”

“No, no,” said D’Artagnan, warmly; “we must preserve order in all things.”

“That is likewise my opinion; but with you, M. d’Artagnan——”

“And if I should die yonder—if I should be killed by a musket-ball—if I should burst from drinking beer?”

“Monsieur, I beg you to believe that in that case I should be so much afflicted at your death, that I should not think about the money.”

“Thank you, Planchet; but no matter. We shall, like two lawyers’ clerks, draw up together an agreement, a sort of act, which may be called a deed of company.”

“Willingly, monsieur.”

“I know it is difficult to draw such a thing up, but we can try.”

“Let us try, then.” And Planchet went in search of pens, ink, and paper. D’Artagnan took the pen and wrote:—“Between Messire d’Artagnan, ex-lieutenant of the king’s musketeers, at present residing in the Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette; and the Sieur Planchet, grocer, residing in the Rue les Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon d’Or, it has been agreed as follows:—A company, with a capital of forty thousand livres, and formed for the purpose of carrying out an idea conceived by M. d’Artagnan, and the said Planchet approving of it in all points, will place twenty thousand livres in the hands of M. d’Artagnan. He will require neither repayment nor interest before the return of M. d’Artagnan from a journey he is about to take into England. On his part, M. d’Artagnan undertakes to find twenty thousand livres, which he will join to the twenty thousand already laid down by the Sieur Planchet. He will employ the said sum of forty thousand livres according to his judgment in an undertaking which is described below. On the day when M. d’Artagnan shall have re-established, by whatever means, his majesty King Charles II. upon the throne of England, he will pay into the hands of M. Planchet the sum of——”

“The sum of a hundred and fifty thousand livres,” said Planchet, innocently, perceiving that D’Artagnan hesitated.

“Oh, the devil, no!” said D’Artagnan, “the division cannot be made by half; that would not be just.”

“And yet, monsieur; we each lay down half,” objected Planchet, timidly.

“Yes; but listen to this clause, my dear Planchet, and if you do not find it equitable in every respect when it is written, well, we can scratch it out again:—‘Nevertheless, as M. d’Artagnan brings to the association, besides his capital of twenty thousand livres, his time, his idea, his industry and his skin,—things which he appreciates strongly, particularly the last,—M. d’Artagnan will keep, of the three hundred thousand livres two hundred thousand livres for himself, which will make his share two-thirds.”

“Very well,” said Planchet.

“Is it just?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Perfectly just, monsieur.”

“And you will be contented with a hundred thousand livres?”

“Peste! I think so. A hundred thousand for twenty thousand!”

“And in a month, understand.”

“How, in a month?”

“Yes, I only ask one month.”

“Monsieur,” said Planchet, generously, “I give you six weeks.”

“Thank you,” replied the musketeer, politely; after which the two partners reperused their deed.

“That is perfect, monsieur,” said Planchet, “and the late M. Coquenard, the first husband of Madame la Baronne du Vallon, could not have done it better.”

“Do you find it so? Let us sign it, then.” And both affixed their signatures.

“In this fashion,” said D’Artagnan, “I shall be under obligations to no one.”

“But I shall be under obligations to you,” said Planchet.

“No; for whatever store I set by it, Planchet, I may lose my skin yonder, and you will lose all. A propos—peste!—that makes me think of the principal, an indispensable clause. I shall write it:—‘In the case of M. d’Artagnan dying in this enterprise, liquidation will be considered made, and the Sieur Planchet will give quittance from that moment to the shade of Messire d’Artagnan for the twenty thousand livres paid by him into the hands of the said company.’”

This last clause made Planchet knit his brows a little, but when he saw the brilliant eye, the muscular hand, the supple and strong back of his associate, he regained his courage, and, without regret, he at once added another stroke to his signature. D’Artagnan did the same. Thus was drawn the first known company contract; perhaps such things have been abused a little since, both in form and principle.

“Now,” said Planchet, pouring out the last glass of Anjou wine for D’Artagnan,—“now go to sleep, my dear master.”

“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “for the most difficult part now remains to be done, and I will think over that difficult part.”

“Bah!” said Planchet; “I have such great confidence in you, M. d’Artagnan, that I would not give my hundred thousand livres for ninety thousand livres down.”

“And devil take me if I don’t think you are right!” Upon which D’Artagnan took a candle and went up to his bedroom.

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21. In which D’Artagnan prepares to travel for the Firm of Planchet and Company

D’Artagnan reflected to such good purpose during the night that his plan was settled by morning. “This is it,” said he, sitting up in bed, supporting his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand;—“this is it. I shall seek out forty steady, firm men, recruited among people a little compromised, but having habits of discipline. I shall promise them five hundred livres for a month if they return, nothing if they do not return, or half for their kindred. As to food and lodging, that concerns the English, who have cattle in their pastures, bacon in their bacon-racks, fowls in their poultry-yards, and corn in their barns. I will present myself to General Monk with my little body of troops. He will receive me. I shall win his confidence, and take advantage of it, as soon as possible.”

But without going farther, D’Artagnan shook his head and interrupted himself. “No,” said he; “I should not dare to relate this to Athos; the way is therefore not honorable. I must use violence,” continued he,—“very certainly I must, but without compromising my loyalty. With forty men I will traverse the country as a partisan. But if I fall in with, not forty thousand English, as Planchet said, but purely and simply with four hundred, I shall be beaten. Supposing that among my forty warriors there should be found at least ten stupid ones—ten who will allow themselves to be killed one after the other, from mere folly? No; it is, in fact, impossible to find forty men to be depended upon—they do not exist. I must learn how to be contented with thirty. With ten men less I should have the right of avoiding any armed encounter, on account of the small number of my people; and if the encounter should take place, my chance is better with thirty men than forty. Besides, I should save five thousand francs; that is to say, the eighth of my capital; that is worth the trial. This being so, I should have thirty men. I shall divide them into three bands,—we will spread ourselves about over the country, with an injunction to reunite at a given moment; in this fashion, ten by ten, we should excite no suspicion—we should pass unperceived. Yes, yes, thirty—that is a magic number. There are three tens—three, that divine number! And then, truly, a company of thirty men, when all together, will look rather imposing. Ah! stupid wretch that I am!” continued D’Artagnan, “I want thirty horses. That is ruinous. Where the devil was my head when I forgot the horses? We cannot, however, think of striking such a blow without horses. Well, so be it, that sacrifice must be made; we can get the horses in the country—they are not bad, besides. But I forgot—peste! Three bands—that necessitates three leaders; there is the difficulty. Of the three commanders I have already one—that is myself;—yes, but the two others will of themselves cost almost as much money as all the rest of the troop. No; positively I must have but one lieutenant. In that case, then, I should reduce my troop to twenty men. I know very well that twenty men is but very little; but since with thirty I was determined not to seek to come to blows, I should do so more carefully still with twenty. Twenty—that is a round number; that, besides, reduces the number of the horses by ten, which is a consideration; and then, with a good lieutenant—Mordioux! what things patience and calculation are! Was I not going to embark with forty men, and I have now reduced them to twenty for an equal success? Ten thousand livres saved at one stroke, and more safety; that is well! Now, then, let us see; we have nothing to do but to find this lieutenant—let him be found, then; and after—That is not so easy; he must be brave and good, a second myself. Yes, but a lieutenant must have my secret, and as that secret is worth a million, and I shall only pay my man a thousand livres, fifteen hundred at the most, my man will sell the secret to Monk. Mordioux! no lieutenant. Besides, this man, were he as mute as a disciple of Pythagoras,—this man would be sure to have in the troop some favourite soldier, whom he would make his sergeant, the sergeant would penetrate the secret of the lieutenant, in case the latter should be honest and unwilling to sell it. Then the sergeant, less honest and less ambitious, will give up the whole for fifty thousand livres. Come, come! that is impossible. The lieutenant is impossible. But then I must have no fractions; I cannot divide my troop into two, and act upon two points, at once, without another self, who—But what is the use of acting upon two points, as we have only one man to take? What can be the good of weakening a corps by placing the right here, and the left there? A single corps—Mordioux! a single one, and that commanded by D’Artagnan. Very well. But twenty men marching in one band are suspected by everybody; twenty horsemen must not be seen marching together, or a company will be detached against them and the password will be required; the which company, upon seeing them embarrassed to give it, would shoot M. d’Artagnan and his men like so many rabbits. I reduce myself then to ten men; in this fashion I shall act simply and with unity; I shall be forced to be prudent, which is half the success in an affair of the kind I am undertaking; a greater number might, perhaps, have drawn me into some folly. Ten horses are not many, either to buy or take. A capital idea; what tranquillity it infuses into my mind! no more suspicions—no passwords—no more dangers! Ten men, they are valets or clerks. Ten men, leading ten horses laden with merchandise of whatever kind, are tolerated, well received everywhere. Ten men travel on account of the house of Planchet & Co., of France—nothing can be said against that. These ten men, clothed like manufacturers, have a good cutlass or a good musket at their saddle-bow, and a good pistol in the holster. They never allow themselves to be uneasy, because they have no evil designs. They are, perhaps, in truth, a little disposed to be smugglers, but what harm is in that? Smuggling is not, like polygamy, a hanging offense. The worst that can happen to us is the confiscation of our merchandise. Our merchandise confiscated—fine affair that! Come, come! it is a superb plan. Ten men only—ten men, whom I will engage for my service; ten men who shall be as resolute as forty, who would cost me four times as much, and to whom, for greater security, I will never open my mouth as to my designs, and to whom I shall only say, ‘My friends, there is a blow to be struck.’ Things being after this fashion, Satan will be very malicious if he plays me one of his tricks. Fifteen thousand livres saved—that’s superb—out of twenty!”

Thus fortified by his laborious calculations, D’Artagnan stopped at this plan, and determined to change nothing in it. He had already on a list furnished by his inexhaustible memory, ten men illustrious amongst the seekers of adventures, ill-treated by fortune, and not on good terms with justice. Upon this D’Artagnan rose, and instantly set off on the search, telling Planchet not to expect him to breakfast, and perhaps not to dinner. A day and a half spent in rummaging amongst certain dens of Paris sufficed for his recruiting; and, without allowing his adventurers to communicate with each other, he had picked up and got together, in less than thirty hours, a charming collection of ill-looking faces, speaking a French less pure than the English they were about to attempt. These men were, for the most part, guards, whose merit D’Artagnan had had an opportunity of appreciating in various encounters, whom drunkenness, unlucky sword-thrusts, unexpected winnings at play, or the economical reforms of Mazarin, had forced to seek shade and solitude, those two great consolers of irritated and chafing spirits. They bore upon their countenances and in their vestments the traces of the heartaches they had undergone. Some had their visages scarred,—all had their clothes in rags. D’Artagnan comforted the most needy of these brotherly miseries by a prudent distribution of the crowns of the society; then, having taken care that these crowns should be employed in the physical improvement of the troop, he appointed a trysting place in the north of France, between Berghes and Saint Omer. Six days were allowed as the utmost term, and D’Artagnan was sufficiently acquainted with the good-will, the good-humor, and the relative probity of these illustrious recruits, to be certain that not one of them would fail in his appointment. These orders given, this rendezvous fixed, he went to bid farewell to Planchet, who asked news of his army. D’Artagnan did not think proper to inform him of the reduction he had made in his personnel. He feared that the confidence of his associate would be abated by such an avowal. Planchet was delighted to learn that the army was levied, and that he (Planchet) found himself a kind of half king, who from his throne-counter kept in pay a body of troops destined to make war against perfidious Albion, that enemy of all true French hearts. Planchet paid down in double louis, twenty thousand livres to D’Artagnan, on the part of himself (Planchet), and twenty thousand livres, still in double louis, in account with D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan placed each of the twenty thousand francs in a bag, and weighing a bag in each hand,—“This money is very embarrassing, my dear Planchet,” said he. “Do you know this weighs thirty pounds?”

“Bah! your horse will carry that like a feather.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “Don’t tell me such things, Planchet: a horse overloaded with thirty pounds, in addition to the rider and his portmanteau, cannot cross a river so easily—cannot leap over a wall or ditch so lightly; and the horse failing, the horseman fails. It is true that you, Planchet, who have served in the infantry, may not be aware of all that.”

“Then what is to be done, monsieur?” said Planchet, greatly embarrassed.

“Listen to me,” said D’Artagnan. “I will pay my army on its return home. Keep my half of twenty thousand livres, which you can use during that time.”

“And my half?” said Planchet.

“I shall take that with me.”

“Your confidence does me honor,” said Planchet: “but supposing you should not return?”

“That is possible, though not very probable. Then, Planchet, in case I should not return—give me a pen! I will make my will.” D’Artagnan took a pen and some paper, and wrote upon a plain sheet,—“I, D’Artagnan, possess twenty thousand livres, laid up cent by cent during thirty years that I have been in the service of his majesty the king of France. I leave five thousand to Athos, five thousand to Porthos and five thousand to Aramis, that they may give the said sums in my name and their own to my young friend Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne. I give the remaining five thousand to Planchet, that he may distribute the fifteen thousand with less regret among my friends. With which purpose I sign these presents.—D’Artagnan.

Planchet appeared very curious to know what D’Artagnan had written.

“Here,” said the musketeer, “read it”

On reading the last lines the tears came into Planchet’s eyes. “You think, then, that I would not have given the money without that? Then I will have none of your five thousand francs.”

D’Artagnan smiled. “Accept it, accept it, Planchet; and in that way you will only lose fifteen thousand francs instead of twenty thousand, and you will not be tempted to disregard the signature of your master and friend, by losing nothing at all.”

How well that dear Monsieur d’Artagnan knew the hearts of men and grocers! They who have pronounced Don Quixote mad because he rode out to the conquest of an empire with nobody but Sancho, his squire, and they who have pronounced Sancho mad because he accompanied his master in his attempt to conquer the said empire,—they certainly will have no hesitation in extending the same judgment to D’Artagnan and Planchet. And yet the first passed for one of the most subtle spirits among the astute spirits of the court of France. As to the second, he had acquired by good right the reputation of having one of the longest heads among the grocers of the Rue des Lombards; consequently of Paris, and consequently of France. Now, to consider these two men from the point of view from which you would consider other men, and the means by the aid of which they contemplated to restore a monarch to his throne, compared with other means, the shallowest brains of the country where brains are most shallow must have revolted against the presumptuous madness of the lieutenant and the stupidity of his associate. Fortunately, D’Artagnan was not a man to listen to the idle talk of those around him, or to the comments that were made on himself. He had adopted the motto, “Act well, and let people talk.” Planchet on his part, had adopted this, “Act and say nothing.” It resulted from this, that, according to the custom of all superior geniuses, these two men flattered themselves intra pectus, with being in the right against all who found fault with them.

As a beginning, D’Artagnan set out in the finest of possible weather, without a cloud in the heavens—without a cloud on his mind, joyous and strong, calm and decided, great in his resolution, and consequently carrying with him a tenfold dose of that potent fluid which the shocks of mind cause to spring from the nerves, and which procure for the human machine a force and an influence of which future ages will render, according to all probability, a more arithmetical account than we can possibly do at present. He was again, as in times past, on that same road of adventures which had led him to Boulogne, and which he was now traveling for the fourth time. It appeared to him that he could almost recognize the trace of his own steps upon the road, and that of his first upon the doors of the hostelries;—his memory, always active and present, brought back that youth which neither thirty years later his great heart nor his wrist of steel would have belied. What a rich nature was that of this man! He had all the passions, all the defects, all the weaknesses, and the spirit of contradiction familiar to his understanding changed all these imperfections into corresponding qualities. D’Artagnan, thanks to his ever active imagination, was afraid of a shadow; and ashamed of being afraid, he marched straight up to that shadow, and then became extravagant in his bravery if the danger proved to be real. Thus everything in him was emotion, and therefore enjoyment. He loved the society of others, but never became tired of his own; and more than once, if he could have been heard when he was alone, he might have been seen laughing at the jokes he related to himself or the tricks his imagination created just five minutes before ennui might have been looked for. D’Artagnan was not perhaps so gay this time as he would have been with the prospect of finding some good friends at Calais, instead of joining the ten scamps there; melancholy, however, did not visit him more than once a day, and it was about five visits that he received from that somber deity before he got sight of the sea at Boulogne, and then these visits were indeed but short. But when once D’Artagnan found himself near the field of action, all other feelings but that of confidence disappeared never to return. From Boulogne he followed the coast to Calais. Calais was the place of general rendezvous, and at Calais he had named to each of his recruits the hostelry of “Le Grand Monarque,” where living was not extravagant, where sailors messed, and where men of the sword, with sheath of leather, be it understood, found lodging, table, food, and all the comforts of life, for thirty sous per diem. D’Artagnan proposed to himself to take them by surprise in flagrante delicto of wandering life, and to judge by the first appearance if he could count on them as trusty companions.

He arrived at Calais at half past four in the afternoon.

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

The hostelry of “Le Grand Monarque” was situated in a little street parallel to the port without looking out upon the port itself. Some lanes cut—as steps cut the two parallels of the ladder—the two great straight lines of the port and the street. By these lanes passengers came suddenly from the port into the street, or from the street on to the port. D’Artagnan, arrived at the port, took one of these lanes, and came out in front of the hostelry of “Le Grand Monarque.” The moment was well chosen and might remind D’Artagnan of his start in life at the hostelry of the “Franc-Meunier” at Meung. Some sailors who had been playing at dice had started a quarrel, and were threatening each other furiously. The host, hostess, and two lads were watching with anxiety the circle of these angry gamblers, from the midst of which war seemed ready to break forth, bristling with knives and hatchets. The play, nevertheless, was continued. A stone bench was occupied by two men, who appeared thence to watch the door; four tables, placed at the back of the common chamber, were occupied by eight other individuals. Neither the men at the door, nor those at the tables, took any part in the play or the quarrel. D’Artagnan recognized his ten men in these cold, indifferent spectators. The quarrel went on increasing. Every passion has, like the sea, its tide which ascends and descends. Reaching the climax of passion, one sailor overturned the table and the money which was upon it. The table fell, and the money rolled about. In an instant all belonging to the hostelry threw themselves upon the stakes, and many a piece of silver was picked up by people who stole away whilst the sailors were scuffling with each other.

The two men on the bench and the eight at the tables, although they seemed perfect strangers to each other, these ten men alone, we say, appeared to have agreed to remain impassible amidst the cries of fury and the chinking of money. Two only contented themselves with pushing with their feet combatants who came under their table. Two others, rather than take part in this disturbance, buried their hands in their pockets; and another two jumped upon the table they occupied, as people do to avoid being submerged by overflowing water.

“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan to himself, not having lost one of the details we have related, “this is a very fair gathering—circumspect, calm, accustomed to disturbance, acquainted with blows! Peste! I have been lucky.”

All at once his attention was called to a particular part of the room. The two men who had pushed the strugglers with their feet were assailed with abuse by the sailors, who had become reconciled. One of them, half drunk with passion, and quite drunk with beer, came, in a menacing manner, to demand of the shorter of these two sages by what right he had touched with his foot creatures of the good God, who were not dogs. And whilst putting this question, in order to make it more direct, he applied his great fist to the nose of D’Artagnan’s recruit.

This man became pale, without its being to be discerned whether his pallor arose from anger or from fear; seeing which, the sailor concluded it was from fear, and raised his fist with the manifest intention of letting it fall upon the head of the stranger. But though the threatened man did not appear to move, he dealt the sailor such a severe blow in the stomach that he sent him rolling and howling to the other side of the room. At the same instant, rallied by the esprit de corps, all the comrades of the conquered man fell upon the conqueror.

The latter, with the same coolness of which he had given proof, without committing the imprudence of touching his weapons, took up a beer-pot with a pewter-lid, and knocked down two or three of his assailants; then, as he was about to yield to numbers, the seven other silent men at the tables, who had not stirred, perceived that their cause was at stake, and came to the rescue. At the same time, the two indifferent spectators at the door turned round with frowning brows, indicating their evident intention of taking the enemy in the rear, if the enemy did not cease their aggressions.

The host, his helpers, and two watchmen who were passing, and who from curiosity had penetrated too far into the room, were mixed up in the tumult and showered with blows. The Parisians hit like Cyclops, with an ensemble and a tactic delightful to behold. At length, obliged to beat a retreat before superior numbers, they formed an intrenchment behind the large table, which they raised by main force; whilst the two others, arming themselves each with a trestle, and using it like a great sledge-hammer, knocked down at a blow eight sailors upon whose heads they had brought their monstrous catapult in play. The floor was already strewn with wounded, and the room filled with cries and dust, when D’Artagnan, satisfied with the test, advanced, sword in hand, and striking with the pommel every head that came in his way, he uttered a vigorous hola! which put an instantaneous end to the conflict. A great backflood directly took place from the center to the sides of the room, so that D’Artagnan found himself isolated and dominator.

“What is all this about?” then demanded he of the assembly, with the majestic tone of Neptune pronouncing the Quos ego.

At the very instant, at the first sound of his voice, to carry on the Virgilian metaphor, D’Artagnan’s recruits, recognizing each his sovereign lord, discontinued their plank-fighting and trestle blows. On their side, the sailors, seeing that long naked sword, that martial air, and the agile arm which came to the rescue of their enemies, in the person of a man who seemed accustomed to command, the sailors picked up their wounded and their pitchers. The Parisians wiped their brows, and viewed their leader with respect. D’Artagnan was loaded with thanks by the host of “Le Grand Monarque.” He received them like a man who knows that nothing is being offered that does not belong to him, and then said he would go and walk upon the port till supper was ready. Immediately each of the recruits, who understood the summons, took his hat, brushed the dust off his clothes, and followed D’Artagnan. But D’Artagnan whilst walking and observing, took care not to stop; he directed his course towards the downs, and the ten men—surprised at finding themselves going in the track of each other, uneasy at seeing on their right, on their left, and behind them, companions upon whom they had not reckoned—followed him, casting furtive glances at each other. It was not till he had arrived at the hollow part of the deepest down that D’Artagnan, smiling to see them outdone, turned towards them, making a friendly sign with his hand.

“Eh! come, come, gentlemen,” said he, “let us not devour each other; you are made to live together, to understand each other in all respects, and not to devour one another.”

Instantly all hesitation ceased; the men breathed as if they had been taken out of a coffin, and examined each other complacently. After this examination they turned their eyes towards their leader, who had long been acquainted with the art of speaking to men of that class, and who improvised the following little speech, pronounced with an energy truly Gascon:

“Gentlemen, you all know who I am. I have engaged you from knowing you to be brave, and willing to associate you with me in a glorious enterprise. Imagine that in laboring for me you labor for the king. I only warn you that if you allow anything of this supposition to appear, I shall be forced to crack your skulls immediately, in the manner most convenient to me. You are not ignorant, gentlemen, that state secrets are like a mortal poison: as long as that poison is in its box and the box is closed, it is not injurious; out of the box, it kills. Now draw near and you shall know as much of this secret as I am able to tell you.” All drew close to him with an expression of curiosity. “Approach,” continued D’Artagnan, “and let not the bird which passes over our heads, the rabbit which sports on the downs, the fish which bounds from the waters, hear us. Our business is to learn and to report to monsieur le surintendant of the finances to what extent English smuggling is injurious to the French merchants. I shall enter every place, and see everything. We are poor Picard fishermen, thrown upon the coast by a storm. It is certain that we must sell fish, neither more nor less, like true fishermen. Only people might guess who we are, and might molest us; it is therefore necessary that we should be in a condition to defend ourselves. And this is why I have selected men of spirit and courage. We shall lead a steady life, and not incur much danger; seeing that we have behind us a powerful protector, thanks to whom no embarrassment is possible. One thing alone puzzles me; but I hope that after a short explanation, you will relieve me from that difficulty. The thing which puzzles me is taking with me a crew of stupid fishermen, which crew will annoy me immensely, whilst if, by chance, there were among you any who have seen the sea——”

“Oh! don’t let that trouble you,” said one of the recruits; “I was a prisoner among the pirates of Tunis three years, and can maneuver a boat like an admiral.”

“See,” said D’Artagnan, “what an admirable thing chance is!” D’Artagnan pronounced these words with an indefinable tone of feigned bonhomie, for he knew very well that the victim of pirates was an old corsair, and had engaged him in consequence of that knowledge. But D’Artagnan never said more than there was need to say, in order to leave people in doubt. He paid himself with the explanation, and welcomed the effect, without appearing to be preoccupied with the cause.

“And I,” said a second, “I, by chance, had an uncle who directed the works of the port of La Rochelle. When quite a child, I played about the boats, and I know how to handle an oar or a sail as well as the best Ponantais sailor.” The latter did not lie much more than the first, for he had rowed on board his majesty’s galleys six years, at Ciotat. Two others were more frank: they confessed honestly that they had served on board a vessel as soldiers on punishment, and did not blush for it. D’Artagnan found himself, then, the leader of ten men of war and four sailors, having at once a land army and a sea force, which would have earned the pride of Planchet to its height, if Planchet had known the details.

Nothing was now left but arranging the general orders, and D’Artagnan gave them with precision. He enjoined his men to be ready to set out for the Hague, some following the coast which leads to Breskens, others the road to Antwerp. The rendezvous was given, by calculating each day’s march, a fortnight from that time upon the chief place at the Hague. D’Artagnan recommended his men to go in couples, as they liked best, from sympathy. He himself selected from among those with the least disreputable look, two guards whom he had formerly known, and whose only faults were being drunkards and gamblers. These men had not entirely lost all ideas of civilization, and under proper garments their hearts would beat again. D’Artagnan, not to create any jealousy with the others, made the rest go forward. He kept his two selected ones, clothed them from his own wardrobe, and set out with them.

It was to these two, whom he seemed to honor with an absolute confidence, that D’Artagnan imparted a false secret, destined to secure the success of the expedition. He confessed to them that the object was not to learn to what extent the French merchants were injured by English smuggling, but to learn how far French smuggling could annoy English trade. These men appeared convinced; they were effectively so. D’Artagnan was quite sure that at the first debauch when thoroughly drunk, one of the two would divulge the secret to the whole band. His game appeared infallible.

A fortnight after all we have said had taken place at Calais, the whole troop assembled at the Hague.

Then D’Artagnan perceived that all his men, with remarkable intelligence, had already travestied themselves into sailors, more or less ill-treated by the sea. D’Artagnan left them to sleep in a den in Newkerke street, whilst he lodged comfortably upon the Grand Canal. He learned that the king of England had come back to his old ally, William II. of Nassau, stadtholder of Holland. He learned also that the refusal of Louis XIV. had a little cooled the protection afforded him up to that time, and in consequence he had gone to reside in a little village house at Scheveningen, situated in the downs, on the sea-shore, about a league from the Hague.

There, it was said, the unfortunate banished king consoled himself in his exile, by looking, with the melancholy peculiar to the princes of his race, at that immense North Sea, which separated him from his England, as it had formerly separated Mary Stuart from France. There behind the trees of the beautiful wood of Scheveningen on the fine sand upon which grows the golden broom of the down, Charles II. vegetated as it did, more unfortunate, for he had life and thought, and he hoped and despaired by turns.

D’Artagnan went once as far as Scheveningen, in order to be certain that all was true that was said of the king. He beheld Charles II., pensive and alone, coming out of a little door opening into the wood, and walking on the beach in the setting sun, without even attracting the attention of the fishermen, who, on their return in the evening, drew, like the ancient mariners of the Archipelago, their barks up upon the sand of the shore.

D’Artagnan recognized the king; he saw him fix his melancholy look upon the immense extent of the waters, and absorb upon his pale countenance the red rays of the sun already cut by the black line of the horizon. Then Charles returned to his isolated abode, always alone, slow and sad, amusing himself with making the friable and moving sand creak beneath his feet.

That very evening D’Artagnan hired for a thousand livres a fishing-boat worth four thousand. He paid a thousand livres down, and deposited the three thousand with a Burgomaster, after which he brought on board without their being seen, the ten men who formed his land army; and with the rising tide, at three o’clock in the morning, he got into the open sea, maneuvering ostensibly with the four others, and depending upon the science of his galley slave as upon that of the first pilot of the port.

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23. In which the Author, very unwillingly, is forced to write a Little History

While kings and men were thus occupied with England, which governed itself quite alone, and which, it must be said in its praise, had never been so badly governed, a man upon whom God had fixed his eye, and placed his finger, a man predestined to write his name in brilliant letters upon the page of history, was pursuing in the face of the world a work full of mystery and audacity. He went on, and no one knew whither he meant to go, although not only England, but France, and Europe, watched him marching with a firm step and head held high. All that was known of this man we are about to tell.

Monk had just declared himself in favor of the liberty of the Rump Parliament, a parliament which General Lambert, imitating Cromwell, whose lieutenant he had been, had just blocked up so closely, in order to bring it to his will, that no member, during all the blockade, was able to go out, and only one, Peter Wentworth, had been able to get in.

Lambert and Monk—everything was summed up in these two men; the first representing military despotism, the second pure republicanism. These men were the two sole political representatives of that revolution in which Charles I. had first lost his crown, and afterwards his head. As regarded Lambert, he did not dissemble his views; he sought to establish a military government, and to be himself the head of that government.

Monk, a rigid republican, some said, wished to maintain the Rump Parliament, that visible though degenerated representative of the republic. Monk, artful and ambitious, said others, wished simply to make of this parliament, which he affected to protect, a solid step by which to mount the throne which Cromwell had left empty, but upon which he had never dared to take his seat.

Thus Lambert by persecuting the parliament, and Monk by declaring for it, had mutually proclaimed themselves enemies of each other. Monk and Lambert, therefore, had at first thought of creating an army each for himself: Monk in Scotland, where were the Presbyterians and the royalists, that is to say, the malcontents; Lambert in London, where was found, as is always the case, the strongest opposition to the existing power which it had beneath its eyes.

Monk had pacified Scotland, he had there formed for himself an army, and found an asylum. The one watched the other. Monk knew that the day was not yet come, the day marked by the Lord for a great change; his sword, therefore, appeared glued to the sheath. Inexpugnable, in his wild and mountainous Scotland, an absolute general, king of an army of eleven thousand old soldiers, whom he had more than once led on to victory; as well informed, nay, even better, of the affairs of London, than Lambert, who held garrison in the city,—such was the position of Monk, when, at a hundred leagues from London, he declared himself for the parliament. Lambert, on the contrary, as we have said, lived in the capital. That was the center of all his operations, and he there collected around him all his friends, and all the people of the lower class, eternally inclined to cherish the enemies of constituted power.

It was then in London that Lambert learnt the support that, from the frontiers of Scotland, Monk lent to the parliament. He judged there was no time to be lost, and that the Tweed was not so far distant from the Thames that an army could not march from one river to the other, particularly when it was well commanded. He knew, besides, that as fast as the soldiers of Monk penetrated into England, they would form on their route that ball of snow, the emblem of the globe of fortune, which is for the ambitious nothing but a step growing unceasingly higher to conduct him to his object. He got together, therefore, his army, formidable at the same time for its composition and its numbers, and hastened to meet Monk, who, on his part, like a prudent navigator sailing amidst rocks, advanced by very short marches, listening to the reports and scenting the air which came from London.

The two armies came in sight of each other near Newcastle, Lambert, arriving first, encamped in the city itself. Monk, always circumspect, stopped where he was, and placed his general quarters at Coldstream, on the Tweed. The sight of Lambert spread joy through Monk’s army, whilst, on the contrary, the sight of Monk threw disorder into Lambert’s army. It might have been thought that these intrepid warriors, who had made such a noise in the streets of London, had set out with the hopes of meeting no one, and that now seeing that they had met an army, and that that army hoisted before them not only a standard, but still further, a cause and a principle,—it might have been believed, we say, that these intrepid warriors had begun to reflect, that they were less good republicans than the soldiers of Monk, since the latter supported the parliament; whilst Lambert supported nothing, not even himself.

As to Monk, if he had had to reflect, or if he did reflect, it must have been after a sad fashion, for history relates—and that modest dame, it is well known, never lies—history relates, that the day of his arrival at Coldstream search was made in vain throughout the place for a single sheep.

If Monk had commanded an English army, that was enough to have brought about a general desertion. But it is not with the Scotch as it is with the English, to whom that fluid flesh which is called blood is a paramount necessity; the Scotch, a poor and sober race, live upon a little barley crushed between two stones, diluted with the water of the fountain, and cooked upon another stone, heated.

The Scotch, their distribution of barley being made, cared very little whether there was or was not any meat in Coldstream. Monk, little accustomed to barley-cakes, was hungry, and his staff, at least as hungry as himself, looked with anxiety right and left, to know what was being prepared for supper.

Monk ordered search to be made; his scouts had on arriving in the place found it deserted and the cupboards empty; upon butchers and bakers it was of no use depending in Coldstream. The smallest morsel of bread, then, could not be found for the general’s table.

As accounts succeeded each other, all equally unsatisfactory, Monk, seeing terror and discouragement upon every face, declared that he was not hungry; besides they should eat on the morrow, since Lambert was there probably with the intention of giving battle, and consequently would give up his provisions, if he were forced from Newcastle, or forever to relieve Monk’s soldiers from hunger if he conquered.

This consolation was only efficacious upon a very small number; but of what importance was it to Monk? for Monk was very absolute, under the appearance of the most perfect mildness. Every one, therefore, was obliged to be satisfied, or at least to appear so. Monk quite as hungry as his people, but affecting perfect indifference for the absent mutton, cut a fragment of tobacco, half an inch long, from the carotte of a sergeant who formed part of his suite, and began to masticate the said fragment, assuring his lieutenants that hunger was a chimera, and that, besides, people were never hungry when they had anything to chew.

This joke satisfied some of those who had resisted Monk’s first deduction drawn from the neighborhood of Lambert’s army; the number of the dissentients diminished greatly; the guard took their posts, the patrols began, and the general continued his frugal repast beneath his open tent.

Between his camp and that of the enemy stood an old abbey, of which, at the present day, there only remain some ruins, but which then was in existence, and was called Newcastle Abbey. It was built upon a vast site, independent at once of the plain and of the river, because it was almost a marsh fed by springs and kept up by rains. Nevertheless, in the midst of these pools of water, covered with long grass, rushes, and reeds, were seen solid spots of ground, formerly used as the kitchen-garden, the park, the pleasure-gardens, and other dependencies of the abbey, looking like one of those great sea-spiders, whose body is round, whilst the claws go diverging round from this circumference.

The kitchen-garden, one of the longest claws of the abbey, extended to Monk’s camp. Unfortunately it was, as we have said, early in June, and the kitchen-garden, being abandoned, offered no resources.

Monk had ordered this spot to be guarded, as most subject to surprises. The fires of the enemy’s general were plainly to be perceived on the other side of the abbey. But between these fires and the abbey extended the Tweed, unfolding its luminous scales beneath the thick shade of tall green oaks. Monk was perfectly well acquainted with this position, Newcastle and its environs having already more than once been his headquarters. He knew that by day his enemy might without doubt throw a few scouts into these ruins and promote a skirmish, but that by night he would take care to abstain from such a risk. He felt himself, therefore, in security.

Thus his soldiers saw him, after what he boastingly called his supper—that is to say, after the exercise of mastication reported by us at the commencement of this chapter—like Napoleon on the eve of Austerlitz, seated asleep in his rush chair, half beneath the light of his lamp, half beneath the reflection of the moon, commencing its ascent in the heavens, which denoted that it was nearly half past nine in the evening. All at once Monk was roused from his half sleep, fictitious perhaps, by a troop of soldiers, who came with joyous cries, and kicked the poles of his tent with a humming noise as if on purpose to wake him. There was no need of so much noise; the general opened his eyes quickly.

“Well, my children, what is going on now?” asked the general.

“General!” replied several voices at once, “General! you shall have some supper.”

“I have had my supper, gentlemen,” replied he, quietly, “and was comfortably digesting it, as you see. But come in, and tell me what brings you hither.”

“Good news, general.”

“Bah! Has Lambert sent us word that he will fight to-morrow?”

“No, but we have just captured a fishing-boat conveying fish to Newcastle.”

“And you have done very wrong, my friends. These gentlemen from London are delicate, must have their first course; you will put them sadly out of humor this evening, and to-morrow they will be pitiless. It would really be in good taste to send back to Lambert both his fish and his fishermen, unless——” and the general reflected an instant.

“Tell me,” continued he, “what are these fishermen, if you please?”

“Some Picard seamen who were fishing on the coasts of France or Holland, and who have been thrown upon ours by a gale of wind.”

“Do any among them speak our language?”

“The leader spoke some few words of English.”

The mistrust of the general was awakened in proportion as fresh information reached him. “That is well,” said he. “I wish to see these men, bring them to me.”

An officer immediately went to fetch them.

“How many are there of them?” continued Monk; “and what is their vessel?”

“There are ten or twelve of them, general, and they were aboard of a kind of chasse-maree, as it is called—Dutch-built, apparently.”

“And you say they were carrying fish to Lambert’s camp?”

“Yes, general, and they seem to have had good luck in their fishing.”

“Humph! we shall see that,” said Monk.

At this moment the officer returned, bringing the leader of the fishermen with him. He was a man from fifty to fifty-five years old, but good-looking for his age. He was of middle height, and wore a justaucorps of coarse wool, a cap pulled down over his eyes, a cutlass hung from his belt, and he walked with the hesitation peculiar to sailors, who, never knowing, thanks to the movement of the vessel, whether their foot will be placed upon the plank or upon nothing, give to every one of their steps a fall as firm as if they were driving a pile. Monk, with an acute and penetrating look, examined the fisherman for some time, while the latter smiled, with that smile half cunning, half silly, peculiar to French peasants.

“Do you speak English?” asked Monk, in excellent French.

“Ah! but badly, my lord,” replied the fisherman.

This reply was made much more with the lively and sharp accentuation of the people beyond the Loire, than with the slightly-drawling accent of the countries of the west and north of France.

“But you do speak it?” persisted Monk, in order to examine his accent once more.

“Eh! we men of the sea,” replied the fisherman, “speak a little of all languages.”

“Then you are a sea fisherman?”

“I am at present, my lord—a fisherman, and a famous fisherman too. I have taken a barbel that weighs at least thirty pounds, and more than fifty mullets; I have also some little whitings that will fry beautifully.”

“You appear to me to have fished more frequently in the Gulf of Gascony than in the Channel,” said Monk, smiling.

“Well, I am from the south; but does that prevent me from being a good fisherman, my lord?”

“Oh! not at all; I shall buy your fish. And now speak frankly; for whom did you destine them?”

“My lord, I will conceal nothing from you. I was going to Newcastle, following the coast, when a party of horsemen who were passing along in an opposite direction made a sign to my bark to turn back to your honor’s camp, under penalty of a discharge of musketry. As I was not armed for fighting,” added the fisherman, smiling, “I was forced to submit.”

“And why did you go to Lambert’s camp in preference to mine?”

“My lord, I will be frank; will your lordship permit me?”

“Yes, and even if need be shall command you to be so.”

“Well, my lord, I was going to M. Lambert’s camp because those gentlemen from the city pay well—whilst your Scotchmen, Puritans, Presbyterians, Covenanters, or whatever you choose to call them, eat but little, and pay for nothing.”

Monk shrugged his shoulders, without, however, being able to refrain from smiling at the same time. “How is it that, being from the south, you come to fish on our coasts?”

“Because I have been fool enough to marry in Picardy.”

“Yes; but even Picardy is not England.”

“My lord, man shoves his boat into the sea, but God and the wind do the rest, and drive the boat where they please.”

“You had, then, no intention of landing on our coasts?”

“Never.”

“And what route were you steering?”

“We were returning from Ostend, where some mackerel had already been seen, when a sharp wind from the south drove us from our course; then, seeing that it was useless to struggle against it, we let it drive us. It then became necessary, not to lose our fish, which were good, to go and sell them at the nearest English port, and that was Newcastle. We were told the opportunity was good, as there was an increase of population in the camp, an increase of population in the city; both, we were told, were full of gentlemen, very rich and very hungry. So we steered our course towards Newcastle.”

“And your companions, where are they?”

“Oh, my companions have remained on board; they are sailors without the least instruction.”

“Whilst you——” said Monk.

“Who, I?” said the patron, laughing; “I have sailed about with my father, and I know what is called a sou, a crown, a pistole, a louis, and a double louis, in all the languages of Europe; my crew, therefore, listen to me as they would to an oracle, and obey me as if I were an admiral.”

“Then it was you who preferred M. Lambert as the best customer?”

“Yes, certainly. And, to be frank, my lord, was I wrong?”

“You will see that by and by.”

“At all events, my lord, if there is a fault, the fault is mine; and my comrades should not be dealt hardly with on that account.”

“This is decidedly an intelligent, sharp fellow,” thought Monk. Then, after a few minutes, silence employed in scrutinizing the fisherman,—“You come from Ostend, did you not say?” asked the general.

“Yes, my lord, in a straight line.”

“You have then heard of the affairs of the day; for I have no doubt that both in France and Holland they excite interest. What is he doing who calls himself king of England?”

“Oh, my lord!” cried the fisherman, with loud and expansive frankness, “that is a lucky question, and you could not put it to anybody better than to me, for in truth I can make you a famous reply. Imagine, my lord, that when putting into Ostend to sell the few mackerel we had caught, I saw the ex-king walking on the downs waiting for his horses, which were to take him to the Hague. He is a rather tall, pale man, with black hair, and somewhat hard-featured. He looks ill, and I don’t think the air of Holland agrees with him.”

Monk followed with the greatest attention the rapid, heightened, and diffuse conversation of the fisherman, in a language which was not his own, but which, as we have said, he spoke with great facility. The fisherman on his part, employed sometimes a French word, sometimes an English word, and sometimes a word which appeared not to belong to any language, but was, in truth, pure Gascon. Fortunately his eyes spoke for him, and that so eloquently, that it was possible to lose a word from his mouth, but not a single intention from his eyes. The general appeared more and more satisfied with his examination. “You must have heard that this ex-king, as you call him, was going to the Hague for some purpose?”

“Oh, yes,” said the fisherman, “I heard that.”

“And what was his purpose?”

“Always the same,” said the fisherman. “Must he not always entertain the fixed idea of returning to England?”

“That is true,” said Monk, pensively.

“Without reckoning,” added the fisherman, “that the stadtholder—you know, my lord, William II.?”

“Well?”

“He will assist him with all his power.”

“Ah! did you hear that said?”

“No, but I think so.”

“You are quite a politician, apparently,” said Monk.

“Why, we sailors, my lord, who are accustomed to study the water and the air—that is to say, the two most changeable things in the world—are seldom deceived as to the rest.”

“Now, then,” said Monk, changing the conversation, “I am told you are going to provision us.”

“I shall do my best, my lord.”

“How much do you ask for your fish in the first place?”

“Not such a fool as to name a price, my lord.”

“Why not?”

“Because my fish is yours.”

“By what right?”

“By that of the strongest.”

“But my intention is to pay you for it.”

“That is very generous of you, my lord.”

“And the worth of it——”

“My lord, I fix no price.”

“What do you ask, then?”

“I only ask to be permitted to go away.”

“Where?—to General Lambert’s camp?”

“I!” cried the fisherman; “what should I go to Newcastle for, now I have no longer any fish?”

“At all events, listen to me.”

“I do, my lord.”

“I shall give you some advice.”

“How, my lord!—pay me and give me good advice likewise! You overwhelm me, my lord.”

Monk looked more earnestly than ever at the fisherman, about whom he still appeared to entertain some suspicion. “Yes, I shall pay you, and give you a piece of advice, for the two things are connected. If you return, then, to General Lambert——”

The fisherman made a movement of his head and shoulders, which signified, “If he persists in it, I won’t contradict him.”

“Do not cross the marsh,” continued Monk: “you will have money in your pocket, and there are in the marsh some Scotch ambuscaders I have placed there. Those people are very intractable; they understand but very little of the language which you speak, although it appears to me to be composed of three languages. They might take from you what I had given you, and, on your return to your country, you would not fail to say that General Monk has two hands, the one Scotch, and the other English; and that he takes back with the Scotch hand what he has given with the English hand.”

“Oh! general, I shall go where you like, be sure of that,” said the fisherman, with a fear too expressive not to be exaggerated. “I only wish to remain here, if you will allow me to remain.”

“I readily believe you,” said Monk, with an imperceptible smile, “but I cannot, nevertheless, keep you in my tent.”

“I have no such wish, my lord, and desire only that your lordship should point out where you will have me posted. Do not trouble yourself about us—with us a night soon passes away.”

“You shall be conducted to your bark.”

“As your lordship pleases. Only, if your lordship would allow me to be taken back by a carpenter, I should be extremely grateful.”

“Why so?”

“Because the gentlemen of your army, in dragging my boat up the river with a cable pulled by their horses, have battered it a little upon the rocks of the shore, so that I have at least two feet of water in my hold, my lord.”

“The greater reason why you should watch your boat, I think.”

“My lord, I am quite at your orders,” said the fisherman; “I shall empty my baskets where you wish; then you will pay me, if you please to do so; and you will send me away, if it appears right to you. You see I am very easily managed and pleased, my lord.”

“Come, come, you are a very good sort of a fellow,” said Monk, whose scrutinizing glance had not been able to find a single shade in the clear eye of the fisherman. “Holloa, Digby!” An aide-de-camp appeared. “You will conduct this good fellow and his companions to the little tents of the canteens, in front of the marshes, so that they will be near their bark, and yet will not sleep on board to-night. What is the matter, Spithead?”

Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monk had borrowed a piece of tobacco for his supper. Spithead, having entered the general’s tent without being sent for, had drawn this question from Monk.

“My lord,” said he, “a French gentleman has just presented himself at the outposts and wishes to speak to your honor.”

All this was said, be it understood, in English; but notwithstanding, it produced a slight emotion in the fisherman, which Monk, occupied with his sergeant, did not remark.

“Who is the gentleman?” asked Monk.

“My lord,” replied Spithead, “he told it me, but those devils of French names are so difficult to pronounce for a Scotch throat, that I could not retain it. I believe, however, from what the guards say, that it is the same gentleman who presented himself yesterday at the halt, and whom your honor would not receive.”

“That is true; I was holding a council of officers.”

“Will your honor give any orders respecting this gentleman?”

“Yes, let him be brought here.”

“Must we take any precautions?”

“Such as what?”

“Binding his eyes, for instance.”

“To what purpose? He can only see what I desire should be seen; that is to say, that I have around me eleven thousand brave men, who ask no better than to have their throats cut in honor of the parliament of Scotland and England.”

“And this man, my lord?” said Spithead, pointing to the fisherman, who, during this conversation, had remained standing and motionless, like a man who sees but does not understand.

“Ah, that is true,” said Monk. Then turning towards the fisherman,—“I shall see you again, my brave fellow,” said he; “I have selected a lodging for you. Digby, take him to it. Fear nothing: your money shall be sent to you presently.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the fisherman, and after having bowed, he left the tent, accompanied by Digby. Before he had gone a hundred paces he found his companions, who were whispering with a volubility which did not appear exempt from uneasiness, but he made them a sign which seemed to reassure them. “Hola, you fellows!” said the patron, “come this way. His lordship, General Monk, has the generosity to pay us for our fish, and the goodness to give us hospitality for to-night.”

The fishermen gathered round their leader, and, conducted by Digby, the little troop proceeded towards the canteens, the post, as may be remembered, which had been assigned them. As they went along in the dark, the fishermen passed close to the guards who were conducting the French gentleman to General Monk. This gentleman was on horseback, and enveloped in a large cloak, which prevented the patron from seeing him, however great his curiosity might be. As to the gentleman, ignorant that he was elbowing compatriots, he did not pay any attention to the little troop.

The aid-de-camp settled his guests in a tolerably comfortable tent, from which was dislodged an Irish canteen woman, who went, with her six children, to sleep where she could. A large fire was burning in front of this tent, and threw its purple light over the grassy pools of the marsh, rippled by a fresh breeze. The arrangements made, the aid-de-camp wished the fishermen good-night, calling to their notice that they might see from the door of the tent the masts of their bark, which was tossing gently on the Tweed, a proof that it had not yet sunk. The sight of this appeared to delight the leader of the fishermen infinitely.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

24. The Treasure

The French gentleman whom Spithead had announced to Monk, and who, closely wrapped in his cloak, had passed by the fishermen who left the general’s tent five minutes before he entered it,—the French gentleman went through the various posts without even casting his eyes around him, for fear of appearing indiscreet. As the order had been given, he was conducted to the tent of the general. The gentleman was left alone in the sort of ante-chamber in front of the principal body of the tent, where he awaited Monk, who only delayed till he had heard the report of his people, and observed through the opening of the canvas the countenance of the person who solicited an audience.

Without doubt, the report of those who had accompanied the French gentleman established the discretion with which he had behaved, for the first impression the stranger received of the welcome made him by the general was more favorable than he could have expected at such a moment, and on the part of so suspicious a man. Nevertheless, according to his custom, when Monk found himself in the presence of a stranger, he fixed upon him his penetrating eyes, which scrutiny, the stranger, on his part, sustained without embarrassment or notice. At the end of a few seconds, the general made a gesture with his hand and head in sign of attention.

“My lord,” said the gentleman, in excellent English. “I have requested an interview with your honor, for an affair of importance.”

“Monsieur,” replied Monk, in French, “you speak our language well for a son of the continent. I ask your pardon—for doubtless the question is indiscreet—do you speak French with the same purity?”

“There is nothing surprising, my lord, in my speaking English tolerably; I resided for some time in England in my youth, and since then I have made two voyages to this country.” These words were spoken in French, and with a purity of accent that bespoke not only a Frenchman, but a Frenchman from the vicinity of Tours.

“And what part of England have you resided in, monsieur?”

“In my youth, London, my lord, then, about 1635, I made a pleasure trip to Scotland; and lastly, in 1648, I lived for some time at Newcastle, particularly in the convent, the gardens of which are now occupied by your army.”

“Excuse me, monsieur, but you must comprehend that these questions are necessary on my part—do you not?”

“It would astonish me, my lord, if they were not asked.”

“Now, then, monsieur, what can I do to serve you? What do you wish?”

“This, my lord;—but, in the first place, are we alone?”

“Perfectly so, monsieur, except, of course, the post which guards us.” So saying, Monk pulled open the canvas with his hand, and pointed to the soldier placed at ten paces from the tent, and who, at the first call could have rendered assistance in a second.

“In that case my lord,” said the gentleman, in as calm a tone as if he had been for a length of time in habits of intimacy with his interlocutor, “I have made up my mind to address myself to you, because I believe you to be an honest man. Indeed, the communication I am about to make to you will prove to you the esteem in which I hold you.”

Monk, astonished at this language, which established between him and the French gentleman equality at least, raised his piercing eye to the stranger’s face, and with a sensible irony conveyed by the inflection of his voice alone, for not a muscle of his face moved,—“I thank you, monsieur,” said he; “but, in the first place, to whom have I the honor of speaking?”

“I sent you my name by your sergeant, my lord.”

“Excuse him, monsieur, he is a Scotchman,—he could not retain it.”

“I am called the Comte de la Fere, monsieur,” said Athos, bowing.

“The Comte de la Fere?” said Monk, endeavoring to recollect the name. “Pardon me, monsieur, but this appears to be the first time I have ever heard that name. Do you fill any post at the court of France?”

“None; I am a simple gentleman.”

“What dignity?”

“King Charles I. made me a knight of the Garter, and Queen Anne of Austria has given me the cordon of the Holy Ghost. These are my only dignities.”

“The Garter! the Holy Ghost! Are you a knight of those two orders, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“And on what occasions have such favors been bestowed upon you?”

“For services rendered to their majesties.”

Monk looked with astonishment at this man, who appeared to him so simple and so great at the same time. Then, as if he had renounced endeavoring to penetrate this mystery of a simplicity and grandeur upon which the stranger did not seem disposed to give him any other information than that which he had already received,—“Did you present yourself yesterday at our advanced posts?”

“And was sent back? Yes, my lord.”

“Many officers, monsieur, would permit no one to enter their camp, particularly on the eve of a probable battle. But I differ from my colleagues, and like to leave nothing behind me. Every advice is good to me; all danger is sent to me by God, and I weigh it in my hand with the energy He has given me. So, yesterday, you were only sent back on account of the council I was holding. To-day I am at liberty,—speak.”

“My lord, you have done much better in receiving me, for what I have to say has nothing to do with the battle you are about to fight with General Lambert, or with your camp; and the proof is, that I turned away my head that I might not see your men, and closed my eyes that I might not count your tents. No, I come to speak to you, my lord, on my own account.”

“Speak, then, monsieur,” said Monk.

“Just now,” continued Athos, “I had the honor of telling your lordship that for a long time I lived in Newcastle; it was in the time of Charles I., and when the king was given up to Cromwell by the Scots.”

“I know,” said Monk, coldly.

“I had at that time a large sum in gold, and on the eve of the battle, from a presentiment perhaps of the turn which things would take on the morrow, I concealed it in the principal vault of the convent of Newcastle, in the tower whose summit you now see silvered by the moonbeams. My treasure has then remained interred there, and I have come to entreat your honor to permit me to withdraw it before, perhaps, the battle turning that way, a mine or some other war engine has destroyed the building and scattered my gold, or rendered it so apparent that the soldiers will take possession of it.”

Monk was well acquainted with mankind, he saw in the physiognomy of this gentleman all the energy, all the reason, all the circumspection possible, he could therefore only attribute to a magnanimous confidence the revelation the Frenchman had made him, and he showed himself profoundly touched by it.

“Monsieur,” said he, “you have augured well of me. But is the sum worth the trouble to which you expose yourself? Do you even believe that it can be in the place where you left it?”

“It is there, monsieur, I do not doubt.”

“That is a reply to one question; but to the other. I asked you if the sum was so large as to warrant your exposing yourself thus.”

“It is really large; yes, my lord, for it is a million I inclosed in two barrels.”

“A million!” cried Monk, at whom this time, in turn, Athos looked earnestly and long. Monk perceived this, and his mistrust returned.

“Here is a man,” said he, “who is laying a snare for me. So you wish to withdraw this money, monsieur,” replied he, “as I understand?”

“If you please, my lord.”

“To-day?”

“This very evening, and that on account of the circumstances I have named.”

“But, monsieur,” objected Monk, “General Lambert is as near the abbey where you have to act as I am. Why, then, have you not addressed yourself to him?”

“Because, my lord, when one acts in important matters, it is best to consult one’s instinct before everything. Well, General Lambert does not inspire me with so much confidence as you do.”

“Be it so, monsieur. I shall assist you in recovering your money, if, however, it can still be there; for that is far from likely. Since 1648 twelve years have rolled away, and many events have taken place.” Monk dwelt upon this point to see if the French gentleman would seize the evasions that were open to him, but Athos did not hesitate.

“I assure you, my lord,” he said firmly, “that my conviction is, that the two barrels have neither changed place nor master.” This reply had removed one suspicion from the mind of Monk, but it had suggested another. Without doubt this Frenchman was some emissary sent to entice into error the protector of the parliament; the gold was nothing but a lure; and by the help of this lure they thought to excite the cupidity of the general. This gold might not exist. It was Monk’s business, then, to seize the Frenchman in the act of falsehood and trick, and to draw from the false step itself in which his enemies wished to entrap him, a triumph for his renown. When Monk was determined how to act,—

“Monsieur,” said he to Athos, “without doubt you will do me the honor to share my supper this evening?”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Athos, bowing, “for you do me an honor of which I feel myself worthy, by the inclination which drew me towards you.”

“It is so much the more gracious on your part to accept my invitation with such frankness, as my cooks are but few and inexperienced, and my providers have returned this evening empty-handed; so that if it had not been for a fisherman of your nation who strayed into our camp, General Monk would have gone to bed without his supper to-day; I have, then, some fresh fish to offer you, as the vendor assures me.”

“My lord, it is principally for the sake of having the honor to pass another hour with you.”

After this exchange of civilities, during which Monk had lost nothing of his circumspection, the supper, or what was to serve for one, had been laid upon a deal table. Monk invited the Comte de la Fere to be seated at this table, and took his place opposite to him. A single dish of boiled fish, set before the two illustrious guests, was more tempting to hungry stomachs than to delicate palates.

Whilst supping, that is, while eating the fish, washed down with bad ale, Monk got Athos to relate to him the last events of the Fronde, the reconciliation of M. de Conde with the king, and the probable marriage of the infanta of Spain; but he avoided, as Athos himself avoided it, all allusion to the political interests which united, or rather which disunited at this time, England, France and Holland.

Monk, in this conversation, convinced himself of one thing, which he must have remarked after the first words exchanged: that was, that he had to deal with a man of high distinction. He could not be an assassin, and it was repugnant to Monk to believe him to be a spy, but there was sufficient finesse and at the same time firmness in Athos to lead Monk to fancy he was a conspirator. When they had quitted table, “You still believe in your treasure, then, monsieur?” asked Monk.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Quite seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“And you think you can find the place again where it was buried?”

“At the first inspection.”

“Well, monsieur, from curiosity I shall accompany you. And it is so much the more necessary that I should accompany you, that you would find great difficulties in passing through the camp without me or one of my lieutenants.”

“General, I would not suffer you to inconvenience yourself if I did not, in fact, stand in need of your company; but as I recognize that this company is not only honorable, but necessary, I accept it.”

“Do you desire we should take any people with us?” asked Monk.

“General, I believe that would be useless, if you yourself do not see the necessity for it. Two men and a horse will suffice to transport the two casks on board the felucca which brought me hither.”

“But it will be necessary to pick, dig and remove the earth, and split stones; you don’t intend doing this work yourself, monsieur, do you?”

“General, there is no picking or digging required. The treasure is buried in the sepulchral vault of the convent, under a stone in which is fixed a large iron ring and under which are four steps leading down. The two casks are there, placed end to end, covered with a coat of plaster in the form of a bier. There is, besides, an inscription, which will enable me to recognize the stone; and as I am not willing, in an affair of delicacy and confidence, to keep the secret from your honor, here is the inscription:—‘Hic jacet venerabilis, Petrus Gulielmus Scott, Canon Honorab. Conventus Novi Castelli. Obiit quarta et decima. Feb. ann. Dom. MCCVIII. Requiescat in pace.’”

Monk did not lose a single word.—He was astonished either at the marvelous duplicity of this man and the superior style in which he played his part, or at the good loyal faith with which he presented his request, in a situation in which concerning a million of money, risked against the blow from a dagger, amidst an army that would have looked upon the theft as a restitution.

“Very well,” said he; “I shall accompany you; and the adventure appears to me so wonderful, that I shall carry the torch myself.” And saying these words, he girded on a short sword, placed a pistol in his belt, disclosing in this movement, which opened his doublet a little, the fine rings of a coat of mail, destined to protect him from the first dagger-thrust of an assassin. After which he took a Scotch dirk in his left hand, and then turning to Athos, “Are you ready, monsieur?” said he.

“I am.”

Athos, as if in opposition to what Monk had done, unfastened his poniard, which he placed upon the table; unhooked his sword-belt, which he laid close to his poniard; and, without affectation, opening his doublet as if to look for his handkerchief, showed beneath his fine cambric shirt his naked breast, without weapons either offensive or defensive.

“This is truly a singular man,” said Monk; “he is without any arms; he has an ambuscade placed somewhere yonder.”

“General,” said he, as if he had divined Monk’s thought, “you wish we should be alone; that is very right, but a great captain ought never to expose himself with temerity. It is night, the passage of the marsh may present dangers; be accompanied.”

“You are right,” replied he, calling Digby. The aid-de-camp appeared. “Fifty men with swords and muskets,” said he, looking at Athos.

“That is too few if there is danger, too many if there is not.”

“I will go alone,” said Monk; “I want nobody. Come, monsieur.”

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25. The March

Athos and Monk passed over, in going from the camp towards the Tweed, that part of the ground which Digby had traversed with the fishermen coming from the Tweed to the camp. The aspect of this place, the aspect of the changes man had wrought in it, was of a nature to produce a great effect upon a lively and delicate imagination like that of Athos. Athos looked at nothing but these desolate spots; Monk looked at nothing but Athos—at Athos, who, with his eyes sometimes directed towards heaven, and sometimes towards the earth, sought, thought, and sighed.

Digby, whom the last orders of the general, and particularly the accent with which he had given them, had at first a little excited, followed the pair at about twenty paces, but the general having turned round as if astonished to find his orders had not been obeyed, the aid-de-camp perceived his indiscretion and returned to his tent.

He supposed that the general wished to make, incognito, one of those reviews of vigilance which every experienced captain never fails to make on the eve of a decisive engagement: he explained to himself the presence of Athos in this case as an inferior explains all that is mysterious on the part of his leader. Athos might be, and, indeed, in the eyes of Digby, must be, a spy, whose information was to enlighten the general.

At the end of a walk of about ten minutes among the tents and posts, which were closer together near the headquarters, Monk entered upon a little causeway which diverged into three branches. That on the left led to the river, that in the middle to Newcastle Abbey on the marsh, that on the right crossed the first lines of Monk’s camp, that is to say, the lines nearest to Lambert’s army. Beyond the river was an advanced post belonging to Monk’s army, which watched the enemy; it was composed of one hundred and fifty Scots. They had swum across the Tweed, and, in case of attack, were to recross it in the same manner, giving the alarm; but as there was no post at that spot, and as Lambert’s soldiers were not so prompt at taking to the water as Monk’s were, the latter appeared not to have much uneasiness on that side. On this side of the river, at about five hundred paces from the old abbey, the fishermen had taken up their abode amidst a crowd of small tents raised by the soldiers of the neighboring clans, who had with them their wives and children. All this confusion, seen by the moon’s light, presented a striking coup d’oeil; the half shadow enlarged every detail, and the light, that flatterer which only attaches itself to the polished side of things, courted upon each rusty musket the point still left intact, and upon every rag of canvas the whitest and least sullied part.

Monk arrived then with Athos, crossing this spot, illumined with a double light, the silver splendor of the moon, and the red blaze of the fires at the meeting of the three causeways; there he stopped, and addressing his companion,—“Monsieur,” said he, “do you know your road?”

“General, if I am not mistaken, the middle causeway leads straight to the abbey.”

“That is right; but we shall want lights to guide us in the vaults.” Monk turned round.

“Ah! I thought Digby was following us!” said he. “So much the better; he will procure us what we want.”

“Yes, general, there is a man yonder who has been walking behind us for some time.”

“Digby!” cried Monk. “Digby! come here, if you please.”

But, instead of obeying, the shadow made a motion of surprise, and, retreating instead of advancing, it bent down and disappeared along the jetty on the left, directing its course towards the lodging of the fishermen.

“It appears not to be Digby,” said Monk.

Both had followed the shadow which had vanished. But it was not so rare a thing for a man to be wandering about at eleven o’clock at night, in a camp in which are reposing ten or eleven thousand men, as to give Monk and Athos any alarm at his disappearance.

“As it is so,” said Monk, “and we must have a light, a lantern, a torch, or something by which we may see where to set our feet, let us seek this light.”

“General, the first soldier we meet will light us.”

“No,” said Monk, in order to discover if there were not any connivance between the Comte de la Fere and the fisherman. “No, I should prefer one of these French sailors who came this evening to sell me their fish. They leave to-morrow, and the secret will be better kept by them; whereas, if a report should be spread in the Scotch army, that treasures are to be found in the abbey of Newcastle, my Highlanders will believe there is a million concealed beneath every slab, and they will not leave stone upon stone in the building.”

“Do as you think best, general,” replied Athos in a natural tone of voice, making evident that soldier or fisherman was the same to him, and that he had no preference.

Monk approached the causeway behind which had disappeared the person he had taken for Digby, and met a patrol who, making the tour of the tents, was going towards headquarters; he was stopped with his companion, gave the password, and went on. A soldier, roused by the noise, unrolled his plaid, and looked up to see what was going forward. “Ask him,” said Monk to Athos, “where the fishermen are; if I were to speak to him, he would know me.”

Athos went up to the soldier, who pointed out the tent to him; immediately Monk and Athos turned towards it. It appeared to the general that at the moment they came up, a shadow like that they had already seen glided into this tent; but on drawing nearer he perceived he must have been mistaken, for all of them were asleep pele mele, and nothing was seen but arms and legs joined, crossed, and mixed. Athos, fearing lest he should be suspected of connivance with some of his compatriots, remained outside the tent.

“Hola!” said Monk, in French, “wake up here.” Two or three of the sleepers got up.

“I want a man to light me,” continued Monk.

“Your honor may depend upon us,” said a voice which made Athos start. “Where do you wish us to go?”

“You shall see. A light! come, quickly!”

“Yes, your honor. Does it please your honor that I should accompany you?”

“You or another, it is of very little consequence, provided I have a light.”

“It is strange!” thought Athos, “what a singular voice that man has!”

“Some fire, you fellows!” cried the fisherman; “come, make haste!”

Then addressing his companion nearest to him in a low voice:—“Get a light, Menneville,” said he, “and hold yourself ready for anything.”

One of the fishermen struck light from a stone, set fire to some tinder, and by the aid of a match lit a lantern. The light immediately spread all over the tent.

“Are you ready, monsieur?” said Monk to Athos, who had turned away, not to expose his face to the light.

“Yes, general,” replied he.

“Ah! the French gentleman!” said the leader of the fishermen to himself. “Peste! I have a great mind to charge you with the commission, Menneville; he may know me. Light! light!” This dialogue was pronounced at the back of the tent, and in so low a voice that Monk could not hear a syllable of it; he was, besides, talking with Athos. Menneville got himself ready in the meantime, or rather received the orders of his leader.

“Well?” said Monk.

“I am ready, general,” said the fisherman.

Monk, Athos, and the fisherman left the tent.

“It is impossible!” thought Athos. “What dream could put that into my head?”

“Go forward; follow the middle causeway, and stretch out your legs,” said Monk to the fisherman.

They were not twenty paces on their way when the same shadow that had appeared to enter the tent came out of it again, crawled along as far as the piles, and, protected by that sort of parapet placed along the causeway, carefully observed the march of the general. All three disappeared in the night haze. They were walking towards Newcastle, the white stones of which appeared to them like sepulchres. After standing for a few seconds under the porch, they penetrated into the interior. The door had been broken open by hatchets. A post of four men slept in safety in a corner, so certain were they that the attack would not take place on that side.

“Will not these men be in your way?” said Monk to Athos.

“On the contrary, monsieur, they will assist in rolling out the barrels, if your honor will permit them.”

“You are right.”

The post, though fast asleep, roused up at the first steps of the three visitors amongst the briars and grass that invaded the porch. Monk gave the password, and penetrated into the interior of the convent, preceded by the light. He walked last, watching the least movement of Athos, his naked dirk in his sleeve, and ready to plunge it into the back of the gentleman at the first suspicious gesture he should see him make. But Athos, with a firm and sure step, crossed the chambers and courts.

Not a door, not a window was left in this building. The doors had been burnt, some on the spot, and the charcoal of them was still jagged with the action of the fire, which had gone out of itself, powerless, no doubt, to get to the heart of those massive joints of oak fastened together with iron nails. As to the windows, all the panes having been broken, night birds, alarmed by the torch, flew away through their holes. At the same time, gigantic bats began to trace their vast, silent circles around the intruders, whilst the light of the torch made their shadows tremble on the high stone walls. Monk concluded there could be no man in the convent, since wild beasts and birds were there still, and fled away at his approach.

After having passed the rubbish, and torn away more than one branch of ivy that had made itself a guardian of the solitude, Athos arrived at the vaults situated beneath the great hall, but the entrance of which was from the chapel. There he stopped. “Here we are, general,” said he.

“This, then, is the slab?”

“Yes.”

“Ay, and here is the ring—but the ring is sealed into the stone.”

“We must have a lever.”

“That’s a thing very easy to find.”

Whilst looking round them, Athos and Monk perceived a little ash of about three inches in diameter, which had shot up in an angle of the wall, reaching a window, concealed by its branches.

“Have you a knife?” said Monk to the fisherman.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Cut down this tree; then.”

The fisherman obeyed, but not without notching his cutlass. When the ash was cut and fashioned into the shape of a lever, the three men penetrated into the vault.

“Stop where you are,” said Monk to the fisherman. “We are going to dig up some powder; your light may be dangerous.”

The man drew back in a sort of terror, and faithfully kept to the post assigned him, whilst Monk and Athos turned behind a column at the foot of which, penetrating through a crack, was a moonbeam, reflected exactly on the stone which the Comte de la Fere had come so far in search.

“This is it,” said Athos, pointing out to the general the Latin inscription.

“Yes,” said Monk.

Then, as if still willing to leave the Frenchman one means of evasion,—

“Do you not observe that this vault has already been broken into,” continued he, “and that several statues have been knocked down?”

“My lord, you have, without doubt, heard that the religious respect of your Scots loves to confide to the statues of the dead the valuable objects they have possessed during their lives. Therefore, the soldiers had reason to think that under the pedestals of the statues which ornament most of these tombs, a treasure was hidden. They have consequently broken down pedestal and statue: but the tomb of the venerable canon, with which we have to do, is not distinguished by any monument. It is simple, therefore it has been protected by the superstitious fear which your Puritans have always had of sacrilege. Not a morsel of the masonry of this tomb has been chipped off.”

“That is true,” said Monk.

Athos seized the lever.

“Shall I help you?” said Monk.

“Thank you, my lord; but I am not willing that your honor should lend your hand to a work of which, perhaps, you would not take the responsibility if you knew the probable consequences of it.”

Monk raised his head.

“What do you mean by that, monsieur?”

“I mean—but that man——”

“Stop,” said Monk; “I perceive what you are afraid of. I shall make a trial.” Monk turned towards the fisherman, the whole of whose profile was thrown upon the wall.

“Come here, friend!” said he in English, and in a tone of command.

The fisherman did not stir.

“That is well,” continued he: “he does not know English. Speak to me, then, in English, if you please, monsieur.”

“My lord,” replied Athos, “I have frequently seen men in certain circumstances have sufficient command over themselves not to reply to a question put to them in a language they understood. The fisherman is perhaps more learned than we believe him to be. Send him away, my lord, I beg you.”

“Decidedly,” said Monk, “he wishes to have me alone in this vault. Never mind, we shall go through with it; one man is as good as another man; and we are alone. My friend,” said Monk to the fisherman, “go back up the stairs we have just descended, and watch that nobody comes to disturb us.” The fisherman made a sign of obedience. “Leave your torch,” said Monk; “it would betray your presence, and might procure you a musket-ball.”

The fisherman appeared to appreciate the counsel; he laid down the light, and disappeared under the vault of the stairs. Monk took up the torch, and brought it to the foot of the column.

“Ah, ah!” said he; “money, then, is concealed under this tomb?”

“Yes, my lord; and in five minutes you will no longer doubt it.”

At the same time Athos struck a violent blow upon the plaster, which split, presenting a chink for the point of the lever. Athos introduced the bar into this crack, and soon large pieces of plaster yielded, rising up like rounded slabs. Then the Comte de la Fere seized the stones and threw them away with a force that hands so delicate as his might not have been supposed capable of having.

“My lord,” said Athos, “this is plainly the masonry of which I told your honor.”

“Yes; but I do not yet see the casks,” said Monk.

“If I had a dagger,” said Athos, looking round him, “you should soon see them, monsieur. Unfortunately, I left mine in your tent.”

“I would willingly offer you mine,” said Monk, “but the blade is too thin for such work.”

Athos appeared to look around him for a thing of some kind that might serve as a substitute for the weapon he desired. Monk did not lose one of the movements of his hands, or one of the expressions of his eyes. “Why do you not ask the fisherman for his cutlass?” said Monk; “he has a cutlass.”

“Ah! that is true,” said Athos, “for he cut the tree down with it.” And he advanced towards the stairs.

“Friend,” said he to the fisherman, “throw me down your cutlass, if you please; I want it.”

The noise of the falling weapon sounded on the steps.

“Take it,” said Monk; “it is a solid instrument, as I have seen, and a strong hand might make good use of it.”

Athos only appeared to give to the words of Monk the natural and simple sense under which they were to be heard and understood. Nor did he remark, or at least appear to remark, that when he returned with the weapon, Monk drew back, placing his left hand on the stock of his pistol; in the right he already held his dirk. He went to work then, turning his back to Monk, placing his life in his hands, without possible defense. He then struck, during several seconds, so skillfully and sharply upon the intermediary plaster, that it separated into two parts, and Monk was able to discern two barrels placed end to end, and which their weight maintained motionless in their chalky envelope.

“My lord,” said Athos, “you see that my presentiments have not been disappointed.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Monk, “and I have good reason to believe you are satisfied; are you not?”

“Doubtless, I am; the loss of this money would have been inexpressibly great to me: but I was certain that God, who protects the good cause, would not have permitted this gold, which should procure its triumph, to be diverted to baser purposes.”

“You are, upon my honor, as mysterious in your words as in your actions, monsieur,” said Monk. “Just now I did not perfectly understand you when you said that you were not willing to throw upon me the responsibility of the work we were accomplishing.”

“I had reason to say so, my lord.”

“And now you speak to me of the good cause. What do you mean by the words ‘the good cause’? We are defending at this moment, in England, five or six causes, which does not prevent every one from considering his own not only as the good cause, but as the best. What is yours, monsieur? Speak boldly, that we may see if, upon this point, to which you appear to attach a great importance, we are of the same opinion.”

Athos fixed upon Monk one of those penetrating looks which seem to convey to him to whom they are directed a challenge to conceal a single one of his thoughts; then, taking off his hat, he began in a solemn voice, while his interlocutor, with one hand upon his visage, allowed that long and nervous hand to compress his mustache and beard, while his vague and melancholy eye wandered about the recesses of the vaults.

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