Title: D'Artagnan (1928)
Author: H. Bedford Jones (James O'Brien) 1887-1949
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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook
Title: D'Artagnan (1928)
Author: H. Bedford Jones (James O'Brien) 1887-1949
PREFACE
This story augments and incorporates without alteration a
fragmentary manuscript whose handwriting has been identified as
that of Alexandre Dumas, and as such authenticated by Victor
Lemasle, the well known expert of Paris. So far as can be
learned, it has remained unpublished hitherto.
No romantic tale can be attached to this manuscript, though one
is tempted to weave a fantastic and plausible prologue after the
fashion of Rider Haggard. The Thounenin will, whose existence in
a French collection of old documents possibly suggested the story
to the author, has been secured and is in the possession of the
publisher. This sheet of old vellum, stamped with the arms of
Lorraine and signed by Leonard, hereditary grand tabellion of the
province, is in itself a curiosity.
In here presenting a complete story, the writer has no apologies
to offer. Nothing can be learned about this tale from the life
or literary remains of Dumas. The child about whom it centers
will be recognized as the Vicomte de Bragelonne, hero of the
later novels of the series, whose parentage is very plainly set
forth by Dumas in "Twenty Years After." The publisher, who is the
owner of the manuscript in question, is of course fully informed
as to what portion of this novel is from the pen of Dumas, and
what from the typewriter of
H. Bedford-Jones.
Ann Arbor, April 1, 1928
CONTENTS
PREFACE
CHAPTER
I. Introducing a Queen, a Soldier and Rogue
II. Proving That Neither King Nor Minister Ruled France
III. Mention the Devil, and He Appears
IV. A Marshal Arrives, a Lieutenant Depari
V. Four Letters Are Sent, One Arrives
VI. In Which Athos Utters Predictions
VII. Miracles Are Sometimes Unwelcome
VIII. In Which a Gentleman Proves to Be Good Woman
IX. A Naked Man Has No Choice
X. The Extraordinary Adventure of the Comte de La Fere
XI. The Still More Extraordinary Adventures of M. Du Vallon
XII. In Which D'Artagnan Accomplishes Two Things for Others,
One for Himself
XIII. One Means of Admission to the Order of the Holy Ghost
XIV. Instead of One Father, Two Appear
XV. Two Depart, Three Remain
XVI. The Astonishing Effect of a Kick Upon a Dead Man
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCING A QUEEN, A SOLDIER, AND A ROGUE
On the second Thursday in July, 1630, the ancient city of Lyon
had become the second capital of France. Louis XIII and Cardinal
de Richelieu, who had been with the army in Savoy, were returned
to Grenoble; the court and the two queens had come to Lyon. Paris
was empty as the grave, and between Lyon and Grenoble fluctuated
all court business, since Marie de Medici, the queen-mother,
acted as regent while Louis XIII was on campaign.
On the south side of the Place des Terreaux, overlooking the
Saone to the left and the Rhone to the right, stood the vast
convent of the Dames Benedictines. This massive building, of
which today only the directory remains, rang loud with voices and
glittered bravely with gay costumes and weapons. Musketeers
guarded the high gates, coaches thundered in the paved courtyard,
and at the river-bank below the fair green gardens waited gilded
barges; in truth, at this moment two queens of France were
residing within its walls.
In an upper room, beside a tiny fire that burned in the
wall-hearth to dispel the chill of morning, sat a woman who read
a letter in some agitation. Despite the tapestry adorning the
walls, and the handsome curtains of the bed, the room bore an air
of severity and plainness which spoke of the conventual
surroundings.
The woman who sat in this room was about thirty; that is to say,
at the height of womanly perfection; the velvety softness of her
skin, her powdered chestnut hair, and her beautiful hands,
combined to make her appear much younger. Pride mingled with a
gentle sadness in her features; a certain lofty majesty in her
mien was tempered by kindliness and sweetness. Her eyes were
quite brilliant, yet now a cloudy phantom of terror was gathering
in their liquid depths, as she read the disturbing phrases of
this letter:
"Though it grieves me to trouble you, yet you must be placed on
guard. Knowing this goes direct to your hand, I write plainly and
trust you to destroy it at once.
"In 1624, six years ago, one Francois Thounenin was a cure at
Dompt; he there made his will. In the following year he was
transferred to Aubain, near Versailles, by the influence of my
family, of which he was a relation. Two years ago he died in this
same village of Aubain. Before dying, being on a visit to
Dompt,he made a codicil to his will; it was incorporated with the
original document deposited at Nancy. This addition, made in the
fear of death, concerned a certain child. We knew nothing of the
codicil naturally. Thounenin died soon after it was made, and
learning of this, we arranged for the child.
"This will has been taken from the archives. The fact was learned
at once, pursuit was begun and I have every reason to believe
that the document will be recovered and destroyed. That it
concern you were impossible; yet I fear, my dear friend, lest it
be made to concern you! I am closely watched, my friends are
suspect, it is difficult for me to do anything.
"If possible, send me a messenger whom you can trust. I may have
no other chance to write you by a sure hand, yet it is imperative
that you be kept informed of danger or -- of security. Adieu!
Destroy this.
Marie."
The woman who wrote this letter was Marie de Rohan, Duchesse de
Chevreuse, the most able and determined of Richelieu's enemies.
The woman who read it was Anne of Austria, Queen of France, the
most beautiful and helpless of Richelieu's victims. When she had
read the letter, the queen let it fall upon the flames in the
fireplace; in another moment it had become a black ash lifting
upward on the draught. Her head falling on her hand, the queen
fell into agitated reverie.
"Good God, what can this mean -- what is it about -- what will
they attempt next against me or my friends?" murmured Anne of
Austria. Her beautiful eyes were suffused with tears. "And what
can I do -- whom can I send -- in what person can I trust, when I
am allowed to see no one in private except by express
permission?"
At this instant a tap at the door roused her, caused her to
efface all trace of emotion. Into the room came Dona Estafania,
the only one of her Spanish attendants now remaining at her side.
She curtseyed to the queen from the doorway.
"Your Majesty, the courier is here for the despatches. Madame the
Queen-mother requests that if yours are ready, they be sent
instantly."
"They are lying on my secretary," said the queen. Guessing from
the formal address that the messenger was waiting, she added:
"This courier -- he is at hand?"
"Yes, madame," said Dona Estafania. "He is M. d'Artagnan, a
gentleman of the Musketeers --"
"Ah!" murmured the queen. "Wait --"
At the mention of this name, a swift pallor leaped in her cheeks
and then was gone in a suffused red half concealed by her rouge.
Perhaps she remembered this name; perhaps other days came
before her eyes in this moment; perhaps the memory of dead
Buckingham pierced her sharply.
"He is alone?" she asked quickly, impulsive
"Yes madame."
"Ask him to enter. Get the letters. Close the door. You may
remain."
Next instant d'Artagnan, booted and spurred knelt above the
queen's hand and touched it with his lips. Smiling she looked
down at his eager face, brimming with devotion.
"Artagnan -- you depart for Grenoble?
"With despatches for His Majesty, madame."
"Mine are ready -- give them to me, Dona Estafania, if you
please."
From her lady she took the sealed letters and handed them to
d'Artagnan, who bowed and placed them in his pocket.
"Monsieur," said the queen, her voice a trifle unsteady, "would
you serve me?"
D'Artagnan looked at her in astonishment.
"With my life, madame!" he exclaimed, eagerly.
"I believe you," she said. "Indeed, I think that I have some
reason to believe you. I am accused of forgetting many things, M.
d'Artagnan -- but there are many things I only seem to forget."
Once more a slight pallor came into her face. "M. de
Bassompierre has declared openly that he serves the king, his
master -- and holds it to be the duty of a gentleman to recognize
such service as superior to any other."
D'Artagnan bowed, and his eyes flashed a little.
"Madame," he responded vibrantly, "thank God I am M. d'Artagnan,
and not M. de Bassompierre! A Marshal of France serves the king.
A simple gentleman serves a lady. If Your Majesty has the least
need of service -- impart it to me, I implore you! It is the
greatest happiness of my life to lay my service at your feet,
holding you second only to God Himself!"
Truth shone in the eyes of the young man, sincerity rang in his
voice.
"Ah, M. d'Artagnan!" exclaimed the queen softly. "If only you
were in the place of M. de Bassompierre!"
"Then were I unfortunate, madame, since he is with the army and
not here."
The queen caught a warning gesture from Dona Estafania. Time was
short.
"Good." From her finger she took a ring and extended it. "Take
this to Dampierre, give it into the hand of Madame de Chevreuse,
tell her I sent you. That is all. She will give you a verbal
message for me, I think. Go when you can, as you can obtain
leave; return when you can. I am powerless to help you -- if I
tried, you would fall under suspicion --"
D'Artagnan came to his knee, kissed the fingers she proffered
him, and rose.
"Madame," he said simply, "my life is yours, my honor is yours,
my devotion is yours! For the trust you confide in me, I thank
you."
The next moment, he was gone. The Queen relaxed in her chair,
trembling a little, looking at her one faithful woman with
frightened eyes.
"Ah !" she murmured. "I acted too impulsively, perhaps -- I have
done wrong --"
"You have not done wrong to trust that young man, madame,"
said Dona Estafania. "His uniform answers for his courage; his
face answers for his devotion. Be at ease. He will go to
Dampierre."
The queen bowed her head.
D'Artagnan, whose horse was waiting saddled in the courtyard,
had no time to see Athos, who was at the Musketeers' quarters.
The letters from Anne of Austria and Marie de Medici, the
queen-mother, were of imperative haste, admitted of not a
moment's delay -- their importance might be judged from the fact
that they were confided to an officer of the guards instead of to
the post courier. D'Artagnan, therefore, had no choice but to
mount and ride for Grenoble, where the king and the cardinal
were stopping. It was now past noon; he must reach Grenoble
before the following midnight.
In five minutes he was leaving the convent in the Place des
Terreaux; in ten minutes he was passing the gates of Lyon.
As he rode, it seemed to him that the very few moments in the
chamber of the queen must have been a dream -- but no! He wore
a ring to prove them real, and glanced at it. The ring was a
large sapphire surrounded by brilliants; obviously, it was no
ring for a cavalier to be wearing. Beneath his shirt, d'Artagnan
wore a scapulary which his mother had confided to him upon her
deathbed; as he rode, he loosened the chain of this scapulary,
threaded the ring upon it, and replaced it. As he had said, the
service of the queen came indeed next to the service of God.
"Well, I have leave due me -- I can ask for it, take Athos,
depart for Dampierre!" he thought with eagerness. "How things
work out, eh? Excellent! And to think that I have seen her, have
twice kissed her hand, have looked into her eyes -- to think that
she remembered me, after all! That she had not forgotten! Ah,
damned cardinal that you are, to persecute this angel from
heaven!"
He rode on, blind and deaf to all around him, lost in an ecstasy
of blissful reverie.
France was at war with the Empire -- with Spain, Italy, Savoy,
with all the countries that comprised the empire of the
Hapsburgs. Richelieu and the king, who had been together with
the army and had conquered all Savoy, were returned to noble; the
two queens had brought the court to Lyon, and Louis XIII besought
his mother to come to Grenoble, hoping thus to patch up the
bitter enmity between her and Richelieu. Marie Medici refused,
and this refusal was being taken to Grenoble by d'Artagnan.
Since he was not riding his own horses, he changed at every
post-house and spurred hard; because of the rains, the roads were
in places almost impassable, and despite all his effforts,
d'Artagnan could not make great speed. His consolation was that
another in his place would have made no speed whatever.
When darkness fell on the following day, he was still six leagues
from Grenoble, had been unable to get a fresh horse at the last
station, and was in despair.
"Die, then," he muttered, seeing a long rise ahead, and put in
his spurs. "Die if you must, but reach Grenoble ere midnight!"
Thin fantastic moonlight touched and glimmered on the dark Lizere
river to the right, fille the trees to the left with strange
shadows, broke clear and white on the sharp dust of the high
ahead. The road pitched upward here, then broke down through a
long descending ravine flanked by dark tree-masses.
At the crest of the rise, d'Artagnan drew rein; next instant, a
cry of dismay came to his lips. The quivering gasp breaking from
the horse, the animal's terrible shudder, told him the truth --
the poor beast was dying on its feet.
Abruptly, the sharp crack of a pistolet burst from the darkness
ahead. This was followed by the fuller roar of an arquebus, and
the loud cry of a man in mortal agony.
The cavalier reached for a pistolet and would have reined in, but
the dying horse was now plunging forward, bit in his teeth,
breath whistling, hooves thundering down the declivity and
re-echoing from the trees. Sharp cries of alarm sounded ahead,
men called one to another, then came the clatter of hastily
departing riders.
"Robbers, pardieu!" muttered d'Artagnan, peering forward. "And
they must have caught someone just ahead of me --"
His horse quivered, uttered one strange and awful cry, then came
to an abrupt halt with feet braced wide apart, head hanging to
the very road, its whole body trembling. The poor beast was
dying.
D'Artagnan dismounted. He perceived that his approach had
frightened the robbers from their victim. Ahead of him in the
open moonlight a man's figure was outstretched; he still gripped
in one hand the reins of his horse, standing over him. The
horse turned its head and gazed questioningly at the approaching
d'Artagnan.
The man on the ground was senseless. D'Artagnan hastened to him,
disengaged the reins from his hand, raised his head. The
unfortunate traveller had been shot through the body; his clothes
were drenched with blood, and be was dying. The moon-light
brought out the details of his face, and his rescuer could not
repress a gesture of repugnance; this face was brutal,
treacherous, with heavy black brows meeting above the eyes.
"A lackey in his master's clothes," muttered d'Artagnan. "Or a
rascal --"
As though the sound of human speech had penetrated his brain, the
dying man opened his eyes and stared vacantly upward. His lips
moved in faint words.
"I have discovered everything -- everything! Bassompierr -- du
Vallon -- that false priest d'Herblay -- the evidence! The
document was sent to London for safety -- it will reach Paris in
a week -- we have them all! And above them all, she -- she
herself --"
The voice failed and died. At these names, d'Artagnan started
violently. His face changed. One would have said that sudden
terror had come into his very soul.
"Du Vallon -- Porthos!" he muttered. "And d'Herblay -- Aramis!
Ah,ah -- what is this, then? Is it possible? Am I dreaming?
Abruptly, the dying man clutched at his sleeve, tried to come
erect. Now his voice rang out in anguished tones, clear and loud
with the unmistakeable accent of death.
"Pere Joseph!" he cried out. "I can report everything -- Betstein
is the guardian of the child! A false birth certificate was
forged by the priest Thounenin -- the child is in the abbey of
the Benedictines at St. Saforin. The prior knows the ring -- I
had the copy made! I have a letter from d'Herblay -- he was
wounded, du Vallon was killed -- took papers -- His Eminence must
know -- send Montforge to Paris -- to Paris --"
The man coughed terribly, groaned, then relaxed from the spasm.
Perfect consciousness came to him. He fastened wild eyes upon
the face above.
"Where am I?" he muttered. "Who are you?"
"I am M. d'Artagnan, lieutenant of --"
"Ah, Jesus!" groaned the man, and shuddered as death tore out his
soul.
D'Artagnan rose. In one hand he held a plain gold seal-ring,
incised with a device unknown to him. In the other hand he held
two letters and a small packet of papers, sealed heavily. He
looked at the seal in the moonlight; it was the seal Aramis had
habitually used.
Aramis -- Porthos! Bewildered, dazed, doubting his own senses,
d'Artagnan looked at the two letters. One he could not read, but
he could recognize the tiny, perfect, beautiful script of Aramis.
The other was a heavy scrawl, its words standing out clearly
enough in the rays of the moon; the short message covered a whole
sheet of paper, so black and pregnant was the writing:
"M. l'Abbe' d'Herblay;
Write me no more. See me no more. Think of me no more. To you,
I am dead for ever.
Marie Michon."
"What the devil!" exclaimed d'Artagnan. "Marie Michon -- that's
the lady-love of Aramis, then! Chevreuse, no less. Oh, fiend take
it all -- what I have uncovered here?"
He became pale as death, recalling what the dying man had said.
Porthos dead, -- Aramis wounded! Athos had received a letter
from Aramis only a month previously; Aramis was then bound on a
journey to Lorraine for reasons unstated. Porthos had left the
service, had married, was somewhere in the provinces.
With a swift motion, d'Artagnan tore the letter of Marie Michon
into tiny fragments and cast them on the breeze. The packet he
stowed carefully away -- he must destroy this sacred packet,
still under the seal of Aramis. The first letter he studied again
but could not read in the pale moon-light, and this he pocketed
also. The ring, he slipped on his finger.
"Singular!" he reflected with agitation. "What secret did this
miserable spy carry to the grave? Bassompierre, the greatest
noble in France, lover of a thousand women -- my poor stupid,
honest Porthos -- my crafty, shrewd, intriguing Aramis?
And she -- she herself -- what did the rascal mean by those
words?"
A terrible conjecture flashed across his mind. The dead man was
obviously one of the spies of the silent Capuchin who was
Richelieu's secretary, who had organized his system of espionage,
without whose advice Richelieu seldom acted -- his Gray Eminence,
Pere Joseph le Clerc, Sieur du Tremblay.
"She herself!" D'Artagnan repeated the words as though stupefied
by their import. "Above them all -- she herself!" His tone, more
than his words -- what had he discovered, then? To what woman did
he refer? Who is the child? Who is Betstein?" He passed a hand
across his brow; it came away wet with cold perspiration. "Well,
at least he spoke the truth -- he has now discovered everything
in life and death itself!"
He turned, glanced around, went to his own horse. The poor beast
stood in the same fashion, feet wide apart, head low, dying on
foot. D'Artagnan took from the saddlebags the despatches he
carried, thrust one of the pistols through his sash, then went to
the horse of the dead spy.
"An excellent animal!" he observed. "Evidently, this is one of
the dispensations of providence the clerics so often mention.
That rascal fell among other rascals at the exact moment my horse
gave out; he obligingly told me his mind and went his way to the
greatest of all discoveries. I step into his stirrups -- and my
letters reach the king by midnight, after all! Decidedly
Providence is tonight acting much more gracefully toward Louis
XIII than toward his minister of war, the amiable Richelieu!"
D'Artagnan mounted. But, finding himself in the seat of a much
taller person, it was necessary to adjust the stirrups.
"Now," he said reflectively, as he worked at the leathers, "if
the good Athos were in my place, he might think it his duty to
carry word of all this to his Gray Eminence -- hm! It would be
most polite of me, no doubt -- but what the devil can be in this
letter from Aramis? It's not like our clever Aramis to confide
his neck to a letter! Why is the name of Porthos linked with that
of Bassompierre? Most mysterious of all, who is Betstein, and
whose child does he guard in conjunction with a Benedictine
prior? Undoubtedly, M. de Richelieu might answer all these
questions but I prefer to seek elsewhere."
Again recurred to his mind those significant words: "above them
all, she -- she herself!" It was as though he spoke of the
highest of women -- but no, that were leaping too far at a
venture! Besides, there were two queens in France. More likely
some intrigue of Bassompierre was concerned. The marshal had
just emerged from a scandalous three-year-suit before the high
court of Rouen, and his intrigues with great ladies had resulted
in more than one pledge of affection. At this thought, d'Artagnan
brightened.
"Vivadiou! I'm making much out of little." He glanced down at the
dead man, crossed himself, and gathered up his reins with a sigh.
"If only you had uttered a few words more, my good rascal!
However, I give you thanks -- your secret is safe with me. Away
now -- to Grenoble!"
And driving in his spurs, he was gone in a whirl of moonlit dust.
CHAPTER II
PROVING THAT NEITHER KING NOR MINISTER RULED FRANCE
In the summer of 1630, all France was bubbling with war, treason
and civil strife.
True, La Rochelle was fallen, the Protestants were crushed,
England was brought to terms -- this was yesterday. Today,
Richelieu was leading the army in Savoy to victories against the
Empire; yet he was standing on a precipice, and at his back all
the winds of France were gathering to blow him over the verge.
He was just discovering the fact, as he was just learning that
the deadliest enemies of France were within her frontiers.
Louis XIII, son to Henry of Navarre, was nominal ruler of France.
Marie de Medici, widow of Henry of Navarre, could not forget that
her husband had actually ruled France. Armand du Plessis, the
virtual ruler of France, intended that France should rule Europe.
Here were three sides of a triangle -- extremely unequal sides.
Louis was a king at once cruel, jealous, and ambitious to be
known to posterity as "The Just." He feared the personal power
of Richelieu the man, trusted the statecraft of Richelieu the
Cardinal, and did not hesitate to place his armies in the band
of Richelieu the Minister. The king was afraid of his mother,
detested his brother the Duc d'Orleans, distrusted the great
nobles about him, and was wise enough to let responsibility rest
on worthier shoulders. And the queen-mother also hated Richelieu
furiously and vindictively. She hated him for having stripped her
of power and destroyed her influence over the king; she hated him
for carrying war into her beloved Italy; she hated him because
he did well what she had done so badly; she hated him because he
was Richelieu and she was Marie de Medici. And most of all she
could not forget that in the beginning it was she herself who had
raised him from obscurity. So around the queen-mother gathered
all the festering rancor of enmity, supported by the princes of
the blood and the nobles of France.
Richelieu, on the third side, began to realize his insecurity. He
had subdued the queen-mother, humiliated the queen, Anne of
Austria, crushed the Vendomes, stamped out the Huguenots, and
driven Chevreuse into exile. He was the victor, but he was not
the master. The storm of envy, hatred and malice was checked, but
it was secretly gathering force against him.
The sole strength of Richelieu was that none guessed his
strength. The princes had lands and wealth and rank; the great
nobles bad positions of power; the Duc d'Orleans, heir to the
throne, had immunity; Richeiieu had only a man, a simple Capuchin
friar. It was keenly significant that this Pere Joseph was
confidential secretary to the cardinal, while his brother, M.
Charles du Tremblay, commanded the Bastille.
This friar was the only man in France who wanted nothing, who
refused everything, who could be given neither reward nor place
because he accepted none. He served Richelieu; this was his sole
honor, dignity and ambition. Nothing was done in France without
his approval, and everything that he advised was brought to pass.
The minister depended on the friar's diplomacy, the cardinal
depended on the friar's sagacity, the general depended on the
friar's knowledge of men and armies; the cardinal who wore the
red robe depended on the friar who wore the gray robe.
In the quarters occupied by Richelieu at Grenoble, these two men
were alone together. This Pere Joseph who had caused the siege
of La Rochelle, who had written a commentary on Machiavelli, and
who was the mainstay of his master, was large, well-built, and
marked by smallpox. Once his hair had been flaming red; learning
that the king had an aversion for this color, he became white
before his thirtieth year. His eyes were small, brilliant,
filled with hidden fires.
Richelieu, far more imposing in appearance, was at this time at
the height of his physical powers. He was handsome, and knew
the worth of this quality to the full; he was proud, and used
pride as a mask when need was; above all, he was sagacious -- and
his sagacity was best proven by the fact that his relations with
his secretary were never ambiguous, never strained, never open to
misunderstanding from either side. Just now his aristocratic
features were thoughtful; the penetrating gaze he bent upon Pere
Joseph was disturbed and even melancholy.
"My friend and father," he said, "I believe that affairs are too
threatening for me to remain away from Paris. The queen has not
provided an heir to the throne; intrigues are rife, the king
insists on joining the army. I shall plead ill-health, give the
command to Crequy or Bassompierre, and return to the capital."
Pere Joseph was used to these sudden decisions.
"Excellent, Your Eminence, excellent!" he returned in his dry,
phlegmatic voice. "The king's confessor writes that you should
take this action. It would be your best possible course.
Unfortunately, it would not particularly advance the interests of
France."
"Do the interests of France then demand that I should be deposed
from the ministry?"
Pere Joseph, who had been writing at a secretary, pushed away the
papers from before him and folded his lean, powerful hands on the
desk, and regarded the cardinal.
"Your Eminence has been too much occupied in the field, perhaps,"
he said smoothly, "to take thought to other matters. Have I your
permission to expound them?"
"Proceed, preacher!" Smiling, Richelieu settled himself in his
chair.
"Then consider." The voice of the Capuchin came as from a
machine, unemotional, steady, inflexible. "In making war upon the
House of Austria, as we now do, Your Eminence picked up the
threads of policy dropped when Henri IV died; very good!
Personally, I consider that the welfare of France demands that
you retain your present position. I argue from this base."
Richelieu inclined his head slightly, as though to signify that
this base was entirely acceptable to him. The Capuchin went on.
"Those who would depose you -- the two queens, and certain great
houses -- are more bitter enemies of France than her external
foes; because, like the Duc de Rohan, they set personal affairs
before the good of their country. It becomes plain, Monseigneur,
that France must no longer be a house divided against itself."
"Provided these enemies of Prance can hurt her."
"They can. With Your Eminence leading the army, one serious
reverse would be the signal for them to strike."
"Granted," said Richelieu, "if there were danger of such a
reverse."
"Within two months it will happen."
The Cardinal gave his secretary a look of startled astonishment.
"Casale is under siege by the Imperial forces," continued Pere
Joseph. "Our relief army is insufficient; the city must
infallibly be taken. This will be a serious blow to France, and
a more serious blow to Your Eminence. A certain policy has
occurred to me," and he touched his pile of papers, "toward which
end I have drafted a scheme for your approval."
"Tell it to me," said Richelieu. "The ear is less liable to
deceit than the eye."
"Very well. In the first place, something occurs next month which
everyone in France has forgotten. The Imperial Diet will meet at
Ratisbon."
"That I know," and Richelieu frowned slightly, intently. "What
of it?
"By law, the Emperor is strictly forbidden to make peace except
with the approval of the Diet."
"Peace? Who has talked of making peace?" exclaimed Richelieu.
"I trust Your Eminence will find it worthy of consideration. I
have every reason to believe the Emperor would find an immediate
peace with France highly acceptable -- if the matter were rightly
presented at Ratisbon. Everything depends on the presentation."
"It would," said Richelieu drily. "The Diet would refuse."
"Your pardon -- the Diet could be made to accept," said Pere
Joseph. "On the other hand, I find that Gustavus Adolphus, who is
the deadliest foe of Austria --"
Richelieu started. "The arch-heretic! The arch-enemy of Holy
Church!"
"And the arch-general of all Europe," added the Capuchin. "He
might welcome a treaty of alliance with France, provided it were
rightly presented -- as before. In other words, France makes
peace with the House of Austria on the one hand, and on the
other, an alliance with the bitterest foe of the House of
Austria."
"And gains -- what?" demanded Richelieu. He knew well that the
four secretaries of Pere Joseph were closely in touch with the
entire political and religious affairs not only of Europe, but of
the whole world.
"Time to order her internal affairs, Monseigneur. A humiliating
reverse in the field is avoided. By the end of summer, the
Minister is in Paris again -- and none too soon for the welfare
of France. His Majesty insists on being with the army. The army
is notoriously unhealthy, even now it is being decimated by fever
and sickness."
"Ah!" Richelieu's brow knotted. "Ah! If the King should die --"
"God forbid!" exclaimed the Capuchin piously. "If the King should
die, then Monsieur his brother would rule France."
Richelieu stared at him in a singular manner. The Duc d'Orleans
on the throne, meant the Cardinal de Richelieu in the Bastille.
"And all these possibilities," said the minister slowly, "might
be averted --"
"By proper attention to the sitting of the Diet at Ratisbon."
"The King would never consent."
"Let His Majesty command the victorious campaign in Savoy, and he
will consent to anything. Besides, the influence of the queen,
Anne of Austria, will here come to our help."
Richelieu remained thoughtful for a space. He began to perceive
the value of this advice, though he knew that any treaty with
Austria must be galling in its terms. Peace with the Emperor
would mean external peace for France --
"Such a peace could not endure," he muttered.
"Monseigneur, we ask only that it endure until spring."
"True."
"Also, no one in France would believe that peace could be
obtained. And it could only be obtained by the right man."
"True again. We have the right man -- Bassompierre. He has served
as ambassador to Spain and England," murmured the cardinal
reflectively. "He is wealthy, popular, of the highest
attainments. He is beloved on all sides --"
"Greatly beloved," corrected the other drily, and Richelieu
smiled. Bassompierre had been the rival of Henry IV more than
once; and if the Duchesse de Chevreuse had seduced princes,
Bassompierre had seduced queens.
"True, Bassompierre is attached to the queen-mother," said
Richelieu slowly. "And --"
"He is the second captain in France, Your Eminence being the
first."
"But he is not ambitious. He would perform this duty admirably."
"Most admirably, Monseigneur, since he has been secretly married
to the Princesse de Conti."
"What!"
Richelieu started out of his chair, stared at Pere Joseph with
incredulous eyes.
"The sister of Guise? Impossible! Secretly married?"
"To the princess who bore him a son some years ago."
The minister lowered himself into his chair again, almost with a
gasp, as he perceived the gulf opening before him. Bassompierre,
marshal of France, who laughed at dukedoms and was content to be
Colonel General of the Swiss Guards, content to be the greatest
gambler, lover and spendthrift in France -- if this man were no
longer content, then beware!
King's favorite, devoted to the two queens, yet fully trusted by
Richelieu, the Marshal de Bassompierre was the first and most
powerful gentleman of France, ever holding aloof from intrigue
and plot. Now that he was secretly married to the sister of the
Duc de Guise, all was changed. He was instantly suspect. The
princes had won him over to their side.
Bassompierre," went on Pe~re Joseph, "has in his house six
caskets of letters, and the keys of these caskets never leave
him. This, Monseigneur, is significant. He is a Lorrainer by
birth. His influence is extraordinary. True, he has never been
ambitious, and therefore has never been feared. But now --"
"But now!" The red minister roused himself. "I see. Who, then,
can go to Ratisbon? Who posesses the acumen to fool the German
princes, play with them, wind them around his finger?"
"That is for Your Eminence to say, if the proposal meets with
your approval."
Richelieu gave him a sharp look. "Peace is imperative?"
"At any cost, Monseigneur."
"Very well. You shall go."
Pere Joseph assumed intense surprise. "Monseigneur, you jest! In
my simple robe, to present myself among princes, electors,
ambassadors, illustrious men? No, no! I am too humble a person
for such a duty."
It was characteristic of Richelieu that he would hear this man
to the end, would weigh his advice and judgment, would accept his
findings -- and then exercise his own eagle swoop of authority
and thought.
The revelation of Bassompierre's marriage to the Princesse de
Conti had startled him, alarmed him, roused him. That
Bassompierre had been her lover, that she had borne him a son,
meant nothing; that he was now allied to the House of Guise meant
everything. With a flash, Riche]ieu perceived how urgent was the
danger enveloping him.
Everything else must be abandoned; he must lay aside his
statecraft, and bend every effort to meet the threat from inside.
He knew only too well that the envoy to Ratisbon must be a
consummate juggler, or all was lost. The German princes, who
dreamed of crushing France, would not readily consent; Louis
XIII, who dreamed of being another Henri IV, would not readily
consent. Richelieu could handle the business at home -- but the
man handling it at Ratisbon must be another Richelieu abroad.
"Enough!" he exclaimed. "My friend, you go to Ratisbon. Bulart
de Leon, now Ambassador to Switzerland, will go as envoy; you'll
be associated with him, and the work will be placed in your
hands. Let Bulart de Leon glitter among the princes -- let the
written treaty come from your pen and brain. You are the man."
"As Your Excellency desires," said the Capuchin humbly.
His eyes glowed with a flame at thought of the intrigue to pass
between his hands at Ratisbon. This man, who could read the very
heart and thought of other men around him, could have asked
nothing greater than the chance to hoodwink all the princes of
Germany.
"And the treaty with Gustavus Adolphus?"
"Is in your hands as well," said Richelieu impatiently. "Come!
This means that you'll be at Ratisbon for weeks, perhaps months;
you must depart at once, and I'll secure full authority for you.
Fortunately, Bulart de Leon is now at Lyon with the court. We
must send for him. But -- but --"
The minister's voice died away, his energetic eye became
thoughtful; his long, slender fingers tapped on his chair-arm. He
had always apprehended that in any approaching crisis, which
would certainly come sometime, from some unexpected angle, with
hidden enemies exerting every intrigue against him, he would be
cut off from the man who had arrested the Marshal d'Ornano,
humbled the Duc d'Orleans, discovered the conspiracy of Chalais,
and who was openly accused of having caused the murder of
Buckingham. How could he dispense with this man, at this moment?
When Richelieu was roused, his decisions were swift.
"My friend," and his eye flashed once more, "everything hinges on
Ratisbon; it is in your hands. You'll be given full powers to
sign for France. As for matters here at home -- well! The one
thing is settled. Let us now proceed to other things. Your
advice?"
"Is simplicity itself." The brilliant eyes of the friar, alight
with exultation, once more became narrowed, thoughtful,
penetrating. His steady and inflexible voice showed no emotion;
he might have been expounding theological points which admitted
of no dispute. "Only one person can dismiss ministers -- the
king."
"Granted."
"Therefore, the king must not dismiss you. If necessary, you must
dismiss yourself."
"Understood."
"He must realize clearly that his power depends upon you."
"He does."
"You must become friendly with the queen-mother."
"Impossible. Marie de Medici will hate me to the death."
"You must love your enemies. She is great, because another queen
is allied with her -- the Queen of France. The Austrian and the
Italian are together against you"
A hint of pain shot through the eyes of Richelieu. He had
humiliated the Queen of France, he had humbled Anne of Austria --
but he loved the woman.
"Marie de Medici is the central point of enmity against me," he
said slowly. "She would like to see Gaston d'Orleans on the
throne. While they live -- "
"Gaston is a greedy fool," said Pere Joseph. "He yields to
bribes."
"Marie de Medici yields to nothing."
"What does not yield, can be broken," said Pere Joseph, and now
the cardinal looked at him attentively, expectantly. "Louis does
not love his mother, but he fears her. He does not love his
queen, but he listens to her. Your safety demands two things;
first, that the queen-mother and the queen be separated. Second,
that the king be left without these insidious voices, always
whispering against you. It is possible to exile Marie de Medici.
But with Anne of Austria --"
Richelieu lifted his head, and his glance was stern.
"What do you dare suggest?" he demanded in a sharp, angry voice.
"When one speaks of the Queen of France --"
"One speaks of a woman, Monseigneur," said the other, and added:
"who hates you."
There was a little silence. Richelieu was struggling with
himself, but these last words stung him deeply. He knew that
behind all this advice was something definite.
"A woman who hates," he said gloomily, "cannot be reconciled."
"She can be deprived of all power to injure, now or later."
"Fh?" The cardinal started slightly, and his gaze rested on the
Capuchin for a moment. Then he made a slight gesture as of
assent. Another man would have hesitated, but Pere Joseph obeyed
the tacit command.
"By chance, Your Eminence, my attention was drawn to the royal
abbey of Benedictines at St. Saforin," he said in his inexorable
voice. "The prior of this abbey is one Dom Lawrence, of the
Luynes family, an excellent man, most discreet. When M. de
Bassompierre was Ambassador to England, Dom Lawrence accompanied
him as chaplain. This, if you will recall, was before the taking
of La Rochelle, while the Duke of Buckingham still lived."
At this name, Richelieu's face slowly drained of its color.
Before him seemed to rise the phantom of dead Buckingham, that
handsome, proud, reckless man, who doomed to disaster everyone
and everything he touched. The minister made an impulsive
gesture, as though exorcising this spectre. The terrible look he
bent upon Pere Joseph would have made a prince tremble, for a
prince would have had much to lose. Pere Joseph, who had nothing
to lose, received it calmly.
"Be careful, my friend," said the minister in a low voice. "I do
not choose to hear idle conjectures."
"Monseigneur," returned the Capuchin imperturbably, "I have only
facts to offer. When one speaks the truth alone, the care belongs
to God. If you desire me to be silent -- "
"Speak," said Richelieu.
Pere Joseph laid his hand upon anumber of written reports,
enclosed in a vellum cover.
"I utter only the truth, here written, Your Eminence; I leave
conjectures to you alone!: Imprimis, Dom Lawrence is prior of St.
Saforin, at which place is a school for the children of the
provincial nobility. In this school is a boy of about four
years. This boy was left with the prior last year by a lackey,
whose master also left a sum of money for his care, and who
promised to send from time to time to ask after him. Any
communication regarding the boy is to be sent to M. Betstein, in
care of a jeweler in Rue Gros, at Paris."
A smile touched the lips of the cardinal.
"One must admit," he said ironically, "that M. de Bassompierre
provides well for the gages of devotion -- "
"I have not said that M. de Bassompierre was providing for
anyone," said the Capuchin. "I am stating only facts,
Monseigneur; and now I must remind you of another fact for some
time overlooked. On the night of October 8, 1626, while M. de
Bassompierre was in London as ambassador, he paid a secret visit
to York House, where the Duke of Buckingham then lived. He went
unaccompanied, without lights, and remained for a long time
closeted with the duke."
Richelieu was silent for some moments, as though searching the
meaning behind these words.
"Your catalogue of facts, my dear Pete Joseph, seems very
unconnected," he said.
The Capuchin bowed his head in assent. "Undoubtedly, Your
Eminence. Let us return to the boy. His name is inscribed on the
abbey rolls as Raoul d'Aram. His family is unknown. I found there
were certain marks on the clothing he wore when he came to St.
Saforin. By means of these marks, commonly placed on garments by
the makers, we found that the boy came from Aubain, a village
near the royal forest of Verrieres, on the southern road to
Versailles."
"You appear to have extraordinary interest in this boy," said the
minister drily.
"The interest, Monseigneur, would appear to have extraordinary
justification."
"Expound."
"At Aubain the name of d'Aram was unknown," continued the
Capuchin. "I found, however, that such a boy had been in care of
the curate of Aubain, who died a year ago. His housekeeper, who
had taken charge of the boy, died about the same time. The boy
was then taken to St. Saforin. The curate was a distant relative
of Mme. de Chevreuse -- a man named Thounenin, of Dompt."
"Ah!" The gaze of the Cardinal at once became alert, attentive.
He had no more bitter enemy than Marie de Rohan, Duchesse de
Chevreuse, now exiled to her estates.
"Your Eminence may recall," pursued the Capuchin, slowly choosing
his words, "that some four years ago Her Majesty the Queen was
very ill of a fever at the Chateau of Versailles."
"I recall the fact perfectly." Richelieu was now all attention.
"She caught this fever from Chevreuse, whose life was despaired
of, but whom it pleased God to spare.
"For further mischief," added the Capuchin. "Good. I have only
one more fact to present rather. I allow you to present it to
yourself, and if there are any conjectures to be drawn, I leave
them to you. I beg you to recall the precise date of the secret
interview which took place in the gardens of Amiens between Her
Majesty and the Duke of Buckingham. That is all, Monseigneur."
The pallor of Richelieu's thin features became accentuated. For
a moment he sat absolutely motionless, then a deep and angry rush
of color swept into his face. Step by step he had followed the
exposition of fact -- and now that he had the clue, he was
speechless. He rose from his chair, paced up and down the room
with quick and nervous tread, then swung on his secretary.
"Monsieur, this is absolutely incredible!" he exclaimed. "It is
an impossibility!"
"I am not aware to what Your Eminence refers," came the cool
response. "However, I assure you that when a man -- or woman --
is well served, nothing is incredible or impossible."
Richelieu made a brusque, impatient gesture.
"This is important -- no rhetoric, if you please!" The harsh and
bitter ring in his words told how deeply he was stirred. "I
remember now -- Madame de Chevreuse was the devoted nurse of Her
Majesty at the time! She herself, barely recovered from illnes
-- ah! If this be true -- if this be true --"
He stood silent, staring at the tapestried wall, his long fingers
intertwined in a grip that whitened the knuckles. His face was
tortured by a thousand emotions. Suddenly he turned.
"Look you," he said crisply. "The intimation that this is the
child of Her Majesty -- it is blasphemy! Worse, it is impossible.
The child could not have been carried unobserved -- it could not
have been born unobserved! It could not have been disposed of --"
Upon his agitated words struck the inexorable voice of the
Capuchin, like a bell of steel.
"Your Eminence, consider. You have surmised a certain conclusion
from my facts. It is not at all impossible. Chevreuse is a very
able woman. Surely she could contrive what any fish-merchant's
daughter could contrive?"
"Bah! The Queen is the center of a thousand eyes --"
"For which Chevreuse could manufacture thousand blindfolds.
Besides, this cure received the child from her own hands; his
silence was bought. On his deathbed he added a codicil to his
will which stated these facts."
"What!" The cardinal bent a sharp, astounded gaze upon him. "Does
such a will exist?"
"It does; so, at least, I have been informed. The will was
abstracted from the archives; the loss was discovered -- it was
sent to England for safety. It is now on the way here -- is
possibly in Paris at this moment. Provided Your Eminence is
sufficiently interested to hear the steps I have taken, I may
place all the threads of this affair in your hands -- "
Richelieu resumed his chair with a nod of assent. The slightly
satirical accent of Pere Joseph delighted him; this secretary
was by no means humble except in public, for Pere Joseph knew his
worth and stood firmly upon it. Richelieu liked this sort of man
-- in private.
"There is a woman named Helene de Sirle, daughter of a gentleman
killed at La Rochelle; a most able woman, devoted to Your
Eminence. You may have heard of her?"
The Cardinal's brows lifted slightly. "I have heard something
of such a person. What was it -- she lives alone -- hm! I have
forgotten."
To Pere Joseph, it was perhaps obvious that His Eminence had
forgotten nothing.
"Who lives alone in a small chateau in the Parc du Montmorenci
outside Passy -- quite so. She has means. She has relatives in
Lorraine. She is never in the public eye, yet she has an
extensive acquaintance."
"Indeed!" said Richelieu, veiling the bright flash of his eye.
"Such a woman should be of use, upon occasion.
"She is," said Pere Joseph drily. "We dare not employ the usual
channels in regard to that document; it is to be delivered to her
upon reaching Paris. Further, she has undertaken to gain
information about the child at St. Saforin."
"For what purpose, and from whom?" demanded Richelieu.
"In the event that we desire to take possession of the child.
From a gentleman who has twice visited St. Saforin and spoken
with the child, who is suspected of being in constant
correspondence with Chevreuse, and who is known to be a friend of
Bassompierre. One Abbe d'Herblay, at one time, I believe, a
Musketeer."
"Ah!" said Richelieu. "D'Herblay -- one of the Inseparables, they
were termed! I remember the man. When will you have more definite
information?"
"A messenger from Mlle. de Sirle should have arrived today; he
will certainly arrive tonight," said Pere Joseph. "He will bear
full details verbally, and any documentary evidence that has been
procured."
Richelieu nodded thoughtfully. "After all, it is not
impossible," he said. "Bassompierre and Buckingham were warm
friends. He, acting for Buckingham; Chevreuse, acting for her
-- hm! No, you are right; where one is well served, anything is
possible. Ah -- someone is arriving below -- "
"Our messenger, no doubt."
From the courtyard rose the sounds of a rider being admitted,
greeted, welcomed. The minister struck a bell, and a lackey
entered.
"Find out who has just arrived. Bring him here."
In two minutes the lackey returned.
"Your Eminence, M. d'Artagnan, Lieutenant of Musketeers, has
just arrived with despatches from the court at Lyon. He will be
brought here immediately."
The lackey withdrew. Richelieu waited, a slight frown upon his
brow. A knock, and d'Artagnan entered, saluted, stood at
attention.
"Ah, M. d'Artagnan! We are happy to have you with us again!" said
the Cardinal affably.
The musketeer bowed. "Your Eminence does me too much honor. It is
I who am proud to find myself again near the person of Your
Eminence."
"I think, Pere Joseph," and Richelieu turned, "you desired to ask
M.d'Artagnan something?"
"Ah, yes! Perhaps, monsieur, on your way from Lyon you
encountered a gentleman named M. Connetans?"
"I have never heard the name," said d'Artagnan, and I encountered
no one upon the road except a dead man, some leagues from here."
"A dead man?" The Capuchin was suddenly agitated. "Describe him,
if you please -- "
"Gladly, monsieur. He was unknown to me, and had not long before
been attacked and shot by robbers, evidently. His horse was close
by, mine was dying. I took his animal and came on -- "
"His description?" interrupted the Capuchin anxiously.
"A tall man, since I had to shorten his stirrups. He had a
rather brutal face marked by very black brows meeting above his
eyes. I could do nothing for him, and did not delay."
Pere Joseph seemed overcome, and Richelieu intervened.
"Thank you, monsieur," he said, with the graciousness he could so
well summon at command.
"You are, I believe, attached to duty with the court?"
"Yes, Your Eminence. My company has the honor of acting as Her
Majesty's guards at Lyon."
"Then I shall see you again, I trust. We will not detain you
further -- good night, monsieur!"
D'Artagnan departed. The Capuchin lifted a suddenly tortured
face.
"My man -- waylaid by robbers -- ah, destiny is unkind!" he
exclaimed.
The cardinal affectionately laid his hand on Pere Joseph's
shoulder. "You complain of destiny? I shall make destiny complain
of me, I promise you!"
"Then, Monseigneur, you find my facts worthy your interest?"
"All facts are worthy of interest," said the cardinal. "And they
may even make conjectures worthy of interest, my friend and
father! By the way, you did not chance to notice the gold ring
upon the hand of M. d'Artagnan -- graven with the arms of-"
"I noticed nothing," confessed Pere Joseph. "I was agitated,
Monseigneur. The ring -- whose arms, did you say?"
Richelieu told him. The two men looked one at another for a long,
silent moment.
CHAPTER III
MENTION THE DEVIL, AND HE APPEARS
His despatches delivered, d'Artagnan found himself taken in
charge by Comte de Moreau, a gentleman of the king's household.
Moreau carried d'Artagnan to his own quarters, bedded him on a
couch in his own room, wakened him in the morning, and insisted
on accompanying him to a nearby tavern for the morning draught.
At any other time this pressing hospitality would have delighted
our lieutenant of musketeers, but at the moment he found it
devilish inopportune -- he had a letter in his pocket which he
was burning to read, and could find no opportunity of perusing it
in private.
He did, however, deposit the sealed packet upon the fire in their
quarters, and watched it go up in flames. Whatever might be in
that packet, was evidently the secret of Aramis alone; the letter
was a different matter.
"His Majesty and the Cardinal are quartered in the Hotel des
Lesdigue'res," said Moreau, when they had dispelled the remnants
of slumber with good wine of the countryside. "If you wish to
attend the king's levee -- "
"Not I," said d'Artagnan. "With all the thanks in the world, my
friend, I beg to decline the honor. I've had nothing but risings
and beddings for a month past; dressings and undressings,
paintings and powderings -- plague take it! I hoped our company
would go with the army; instead, we dance attendance on two
queens and court officials."
Moreau laughed. "You're in good company at all events -- how
Bassompierre would envy you! And seriously, you're in luck.
Fever is widespread in the army, and before the summer's over
we'll hear more of it. Then you'll not come?"
"Not for a bit," said d'Artagnan. "I'll show myself later. Don't
let me detain you if duty calls, I beg of you!"
Moreau departed. At this instant a group of officers entered, and
d'Artagnan sighed in vexation as they came to the next table,
close by. He ordered another bottle of wine, resolving to
out-drink them; his uniform made him conspicuous in the streets,
and he strongly desired the privacy of the tavern in order to
read the letter in his pocket -- the letter from which he hoped
to get some explanation of the strange and tragic words of the
dying man.
Then, as he waited, he grew interested in the talk at the next
table. One of the officers had come from Lyon to join the king;
the other three had come in the suite of the Cardinal from the
army, and gossip was rife from both directions.
Listening, d'Artagnan, who never despised current knowledge,
learned a large number of things. Bassompierre was expected to
arrive here any hour, any day. The marshal was extremely annoyed
because he shared the command of the army with Schomberg and
Crequy, and had complained hotly to the king, but without result.
Everywhere intrigue was raising its head, against everyone in
sight, and was openly discussed. Chiefly it arose from Marie de
Medici, who took the part of Savoy. She was furious because
Richelieu had conquered practically the entire dukedom, and now
it was said she intended to prevent the king from rejoining the
army.
"Bah!" exclaimed one of the Cardinalists. "The Italian woman
hopes that Casale will fall, then she'll blame Richelieu and stir
up trouble. Ten to one she'll flatter Bassompierre and try to
disaffect him!"
"Well, if she has a pretty maid of honor to do the flattering,
she may succeed!" observed another, and there was a laugh.
"What's this about the queen-mother coming here, eh?"
"Rumor," and another shrugged. "I hear that His Majesty has sent
for her, hoping she'll come and patch up matters with His
Eminence. Not likely, with Marillac at Lyon! That rascal hates
everything red -- "
"Your pardon, gentlemen," spoke up the king's officer with
dignity. "M. de Marillac is the Keeper of the Seals and a high
official of France. I do not care to sit and hear him thus
miscalled; what is more to the point, he is a relative of my
family."
"Your pardon, M. Constant -- we did not know that," came the
response in chorus, for everyone was in too good humor to stand
on punctilio. One of the officers lifted his flagon. "A health to
all the royal family, ministers, officials and what not in
France! And damnation to the enemy Austrian!"
"Which Austrian?" cried another, laughing. "The enemy in France
or the enemy in Austria?"
The mustaches of d'Artagnan began to quiver.
"Whichever you like!" returned the officer. "Peste, gentlemen --
where's the difference?"
"Difference enough, Montforge!" came the laughing response.
"Confidant of our good Pere Joseph, conducting private
campaigns in Paris while we're conducting public ones with the
army --, faith, you may not know there's a difference, but we do!
Ill talk, my friend, ill talk! I don't believe half this gossip
about Imperialist intrigue going on court --
"The devil you don't!" exclaimed Montforge.
He was a large and powerful man, very handsomely dressed and
armed. "I'll wager M. Constant here can bear me out -- he's fresh
from Lyon! Eh, my friend? Isn't it true that the Austrian in
France is more to be feared than all the Austrians in Italy and
the Empire put together?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite get the point, gentlemen," said the
king's officer, with an air of embarrassment. "There are no
Austrians in France."
D'Artagnan's eyes were very bright and gleaming now.
Peste!" said Montforge, with a guffaw. "Come, come, talk's free
on campaign! You know well enough that the Austrian in the
Louvre fights against us -- "
A sudden deluge of wine stopped his words, choked his voice,
filled his eyes and face and dribbled down over his fine apparel.
With an amazed and angry oath, he leaped to his feet and wiped
his eyes.
D'Artagnan bowed profoundly.
"My compliments, gentlemen, my compliments!" he exclaimed
gravely. "Upon my word, this is a most unfortunate occurrence!
You see, gentlemen, I was sound asleep, and thinking that I heard
someone traduce Her Gracious Majesty -- "
"Devil take you!" roared out Montforge, "Enough of this
pleasantry! You confounded little rogue of a Gascon, is this some
jest?"
D'Artagnan twirled his mustache and inspected the cavalier
critically.
"Just what I was asking, indeed! Do you know, monsieur, I begin
to believe that it was?"
In the eyes of the Gascon, in the steady, implacable gaze,
Montforge read the truth. He became deadly pale, and bowed
slightly.
"Very well, monsieur. I perceive that you belong to the
Musketeers; you will, therefore, have no compunction in rendering
me satisfaction?"
"With all my heart, monsieur!" replied d'Artagnan. "I am M.
d'Artagnan, lieutenant in the company of M. Rambure's. May I have
the honor of knowing with whom I speak?"
He perceived instantly that his name had created an impression.
"This is M. le Comte de Montforge," said another officer, and
introduced the group. "You have friends here,monsieur?"
"Undoubtedly," said d'Artagnan, "but since I arrived only last
night, I'm somewhat at a loss whither to direct you. I -- I -- I
-- "
A species of stupefaction descended upon him. His voice failed.
He staggered back a step and remained staring, his jaw fallen.
Into the inn room had just entered a man of large build. His
boots, cloak, garb, all bespoke recent arrival -- he was covered
with dust from head to foot. He flung hat and cloak upon a
settle, raising a cloud of dust, and showed that he bore his left
arm in a sling. "Wine!" he cried out, in a voice that
reverberated under the rafters and rang back from the copper
kettles about the fireplace. "Wine! Food! Name of a name of a
name -- must I die of thirst and hunger and fatigue because you
lazy dogs of scullions can't -- for the love of the good God! Am
I dreaming or -- or -- "
His eyes had fallen on the group about the tables -- the group,
who in turn were gazing at him, following the petrified stare of
d'Artagnan, who thought he was looking at a ghost. The large
man's mouth flew open and stayed open. His eyes protruded. Then,
just as d'Artagnan moved to cross himself, he took two enormous
strides across the room and swept an arm about the musketeer.
"D'Artagnan!"
"Porthos!"
For the moment, all else was forgotten -- the scene around, the
group of officers, the furious and livid Montforge -- in this
genuinely amazing meeting.
Porthos, living or dead, was the last person d'Artagnan expected
to see here in Grenoble. In the previous year M. du Vallon had
left the service, marrying the 8oo,ooo livres of Madame
Coquenard, and had disappeared from sight. And here he was, dust
covered, huge, tears on his cheeks at sight of d'Artagnan -- not
a ghost at all, but indisputably alive.
Tears were likewise on the cheeks of d'Artagnan, though not from
the same cause. The one-armed hug of Porthos came near to
crushing in his ribs.
"While this," observed Comte de Montforge mockingly, "is
extremely touching, it is aside from the matter under
discussion."
Porthos released d'Artagnan and turned. His naturally haughty
countenance took on a look of ineffable scorn.
"And who," he inquired, "is this insect passing commentaries upon
us?"
"This, my friend," said d'Artagnan, "is M. le Comte de Montforge,
who also dislikes my fashion of passing commentaries,and who is
about to do me the honor of teaching me his own manner with the
sword-point. Gentlemen, I am happy to present my friend, M. du
Vallon, late of the company of M. de Treville. If you will
arrange the meeting with him, I shall be very glad, as I am eager
to have speech with him before presenting myself to His Majesty.
Time presses.
However bewildered he might have been, Porthos was quick to
comprehend the situation, and with his most magnificent bow,
assumed the duties of second.
"At your most humble service, gentlemen!" he exclaimed. "I am
sorry to say that my left arm is disabled by the knife of a
scoundrel rascal, but - "
"This is between me and M. de Montforge alone," interposed
d'Artagnan, and sat down again to his wine.
"The devil!" he ejaculated to himself. "Am I going to have a
chance to read this letter or not? Still, if I do it now, it
will lend me the appearance of being entirely at my ease --"
He glanced around. Porthos had joined the companions of
Montforge and was talking with them. Montforge was drinking and
eyeing the winestains on his magnificent doublet. Removing the
letter from his pocket, d'Artagnan looked at the superscription.
He read, in the very fine, beautiful writing of Aramis:
"Mlle. Helene de Sirle,
Parc de Montmorenci."
"Hm! Parc de Montmorenci -- that might be anywhere," reflected
d'Artagnan, "but it must be the one at Passy. Therefore, Aramis
is at Paris. Vivadiou! Something learned."
He turned over and unfolded the letter. Before he had glanced
at the writing, a heavy step interrupted him, and he looked up
as -- Porthos approached.
"Ha! At once, all together, to a spot nearby. Agreed?"
"Agreed," said d'Artagnan, and sighed as he pocketed the letter.
"Decidedly," he said to himself, "if this devilish interference
proceeds much farther, I shall have to kill someone!"
The six men left the tavern in company and in silence. A hundred
yards away was the College of the Recolets. Behind the rear wall
of this enclosure was the Rue du Dauphine, and across the street
was the charming little park and garden where Marie de Medici had
been triumphally received on her way from Italy to marriage with
Henry IV. At this hour of the morning, the park was entirely
deserted, and few were passing along the streets.
"Admirably conceived, this spot!" exclaimed Porthos grandly. "In
the city yet not of it eh, my dear d'Artagnan? A pretty spot for
foot-work -- what excellent clipped grass!"
The party halted. D'Artagnan turned to the count.
"My dear M. de Montforge," he said, "it were a pity if any
misapprehension of my own should cause vexation. It may be that
you had no intention of casting aspersions upon a lady whom I am
very honored in serving -- "
"A truce to politeness, monsieur!" exclaimed Montforge angrily.
"What you heard, you heard. What you did, you did. The devil fly
away with apologies! En garde!"
"En garde, messieurs," echoed Porthos.
"One moment, gentlemen!" interposed M. Constant, the king's
officer, looking a trifle nervously from d'Artagnan to Montforge.
"I must say that if this difficulty could be composed, it were
much the better course, in view of the edict against duelling. M.
de Montforge's remarks -- "
"Have nothing to do with it!" snapped that gentleman, angrily.
"M. d'Artagnan emptied his winecup in my face -- there's the crux
of the whole thing!"
"Good! Excellent! Via crucis, via crucis!" boomed Porthos, who
was proud of his scanty Latin. "En garde, messieurs -- "
The two swords crossed. The two men parried, feinted, tested each
the other.
In this moment, a singular prescience seized upon the soul of
d'Artagnan. Perhaps the astounding meeting with Porthos had set a
spark to his imagination; perhaps his agile mind was somewhat
disturbed at finding Montforge an absolute master of his weapon,
whether in French or Italian style. He did not know Montforge,
had never heard the man mentioned among the skilled blades of the
court; and this was singular in the extreme.
Over the crossed steel he saw two blazing black eyes, intrepid as
his own, proud as his own, confident as his own; in them he read
a determined enmity. Ere this, he had looked into eyes afire with
the intention of killing; he knew as he stood there that
Montforge meant to kill him. Across his mind flashed the memory
of other men; of Jussac, of Count de Wardes -- above all, of
Rochefort the implacable.
Another Rochefort here -- from some unguessed source it came to
him that he had here entered upon something deeper than he knew,
something that must go farther than he wished, unless he killed
the man before him. "Kill this man -- kill him swiftly!" The
mental warning fairly screamed at the ears of his soul.
D'Artagnan fought with his back to the street. He was entirely
absorbed in his adversary; he saw nothing save those savage black
eyes, he felt nothing save the pressure of blade against blade,
he heard nothing save the sharp click and slither of the crossed
steel. Still wet with morning dew, the grass underfoot sent up a
sharply sweet fragrance as it was crushed by their stamping
boots.
Angered by those flaming eyes, d'Artagnan suddenly abandoned the
defensive and began to exert himself. He worked into a shrewd
and merciless attack, so agile, so vibrant with energy, as to be
irresistible. He saw a look of intense astonishment and dismay
sweep into the face of Montforge, saw his enemy give back --saw
him slip suddenly in the grass and go all asprawl, his blade
flying afar. With an effort, d'Artagnan checked himself midway of
a lunge, and drew back.
"When you are ready, monsieur," he said calmly, sure of himself
now.
Montforge came to one knee, then paused, staring. No one had
moved to pick up his rapier, nor did he reach out for it.
D'Artagnan glanced surprisedly at the others -- saw Porthos
agape, the image of consternation, saw the others apparently
paralyzed, saw they were not looking at him or at Montforge, but
at a point behind him, on which every eye seemed fixed with a
species of stupefied fascination.
"The devil!" exclaimed d'Artagnan, and turned.
"Not in person, at all events," said a man who had approached
behind him -- a man who had turned into the park from the street,
and who was accompanied by two gentlemen.
This man was Richelieu.
"Well, gentlemen," said the cardinal, sweeping an icy eye over
the group, "I confess that you have conspired to present me with
a surprise this fine morning. Montforge -- d'Artagnan --
Constant "
His gaze rested on Porthos for an instant as though he half
recognized the large man.
Porthos bowed.
"M. du Vallon, Your Eminence, late of the company of M.Treville."
"Ah!" said the Cardinal. "I remember you.'
Porthos paled at these ominous words. Montforge rose, in some
agitation, and drew out a handkerchief, with which he wiped
perspiration from his brow.
"Your Eminence," he said, "I beg that you will absolve these
gentlemen; any blame connected with this scene rests upon me
alone, for I challenged M. d'Artagnan."
"Ah!" said d'Artagnan to himself, throwing Montforge a glance of
admiration. "I could love this man -- if he did not hate me!"
"Yes?" said Richelieu drily. "Each of you, no doubt,imagined that
the other was an enemy of France -- eh, gentlemen?"
D'Artagnan bowed. "Exactly, Monseigneur."
"Your Eminence has discerned the truth," said Montforge, his
dark face slightly pale. None knew better than he that Richelieu
was most to be feared when he jested.
There was an instant of silence, while the cardinal looked from
one to the other. Then he spoke, slowly, gravely, as though the
affair were to be held in abeyance, not forgotten.
"Justice, gentlemen, is said to be blind. It is my desire that
you two gentlemen shake hands and end this matter."
Blank astonishment greeted these words. "So!" thought d'Artagnan,
with the rapidity of light.
"Our honest cardinal has something to be gained by not hanging
us!" Sheathing his rapier, which he was still holding, he turned
and held out his hand to Montforge.
"Come, monsieur!" he said with a smile. "This gentleman is our
superior in rank, since he is minister of war. He is our superior
in intelligence, since he is a cardinal. And certainly he is our
superior in wisdom, since he gives us very practical advice which
had occurred to neither of us! Upon my word, monsieur, I think we
should grant his desire!"
"With all my heart," said Montforge, and shook hands heartily.
But the look he gave d'Artagnan belied his words.
"Excellently done, gentlemen!" said Richelieu. "M. de Montforge,
I desire your company in my cabinet within ten minutes, if you
please. M. d'Artagnan, may I inquire whether you return to Lyon?"
"I do not know, Your Eminence," said d'Artagnan. "I have not
yet presented myself to His Majesty."
"Then, if you will have the kindness to present yourself to me in
an hour's time," returned the cardinal, "I should be very happy
to have the honor of a little conversation with you."
D'Artagnan bowed profoundly.
When the cardinal had departed Montforge approached d'Artagnan,
who was adjusting his uniform cloak, and regarded him intently.
"Monsieur, I trust we shall have the pleasure of a future
meeting?"
D'Artagnan's smile, which could add so much charm to his
features, leaped out straightway.
"By all means, monsieur -- let us leave it to the finger of
destiny! I only trust you will not suffer for your very frank
avowal of blame."
Montforge shrugged, as though it were of no moment. "Very well,"
he said, and bowed. "We shall, then, meet again."
D'Artagnan noted that this was uttered as a statement of fact
predetermined.
"Where to?" asked Porthos, as they came to the street together.
"To the tavern, pardieu!" said d'Artagnan. "We're an hour
together, at all events. Well, old friend, I see that the red
minister remembers you, eh?"
"Yes, devil take him!" said Porthos, twirling his mustache
complacently. "He remembers that little scene on the road outside
La Rochelle, eh? Come you're with the king here? I thought your
company was at Lyon with the court?"
D'Artagnan whistled to himself. "You did, eh? And who put that
thought into your head, I wonder? Cautiously, here --
cautiously!" he reflected to himself. Aloud, he replied; "It is,
it is -- I arrived here last night with despatches. When I've
seen His Eminence, I'll probably know my future plans. But have
you repented matrimony! You must be going to join the army,
since you're here -- and whence comes your wound?"
"From the devil," said Porthos seriously. "By the way,here's your
handkerchief. You must have dropped it when His Eminence
appeared. I retrieved it."
"Handkerchief? I haven't one to my name," said d'Artagnan.He took
the bit of cambric which Porthos handed him, and stared at it,
while the giant clapped him on the back.
"Ha! Up to the old tricks of Aramis, are you! I know a lady's
kerchief when I see it, comrade! And deuce take me but it's got a
monogram! Here, give me a look -- "
"Go to the devil," said d'Artagnan, and laughed as they turned in
at the tavern entrance. He thrust the kerchief swiftly away, for
he had perceived one thing, and remembered another.
He remembered that Montforge had wiped his face with a
handkerchief. And on this bit of cambric he perceived the
monogram "H de S." -- the initials of Helene de Sine. Montforge
had dropped this handkerchief, therefore -- therefore a hundred
conjectures! He thrust them all out of his bewildered brain and
bent his thought on the more important thing: the letter in his
pocket, as yet unread.
Porthos, finding himself thick and grimy with dust, departed to
the pump. He was bursting to talk, but disgust at his own
condition was stronger, so he left d'Artagnan to order the wine.
Alone for the moment, the musketeer drew the letter from his
pocket and unfolded it, and now there was none to interfere. He
read.
"Dear Mademoiselle: The bearer of this letter
is a friend to be trusted. I have received
terrible news, and I am ill. Meantime, my
friend will serve you as would I myself, had I
the honor to be at your side.
d'Herblay."
"So!" D'Artagnan pocketed the letter, with some dismay. "Nothing
learned. Who is the friend of Aramis from whom that rascal took
this letter? Ah -- the ring! I'd be fool to present myself
before the cardinal-Vivadiou! But I was wearing that ring last
night -- ah, well, he would not have observed it."
None the less, as he put the ring in his pocket, his face was a
little pale at remembering how he had appeared before the
cardinal and Pere Joseph on his arrival -- he had certainly worn
the ring, like a fool! An uneasy conscience whispered that the
conversation desired by Richelieu might be on the subject of the
dead spy. Now Porthos came stamping in, seized a flagon, and
emptied it at a draught. When he sat down, the bench groaned
beneath him.
"Ah! Ah! Embrace me, d'Artagnan!" he exclaimed gustily. "This is
good, this is like old times -- wine and sword of a morning, and
a hard night's ride behind! Why the devil have you degenerated
into a post courier? You, a lieutenant, bearing despatches?"
"A courier to the king, with letters from the two queens.
"That explains it. Our noble Athos -- where is he?"
"In Lyon. He talks of leaving the service, drinks his Spanish
wine as usual, and has the devil's own luck at dice. If you knew
our company was with the court in Lyon, why didn't you drop in to
see us?"
This confused Porthos, who seized a bottle and emptied another
flagon. D'Artagan began to watch him closely, though without
seeming to do so.
"I wasn't in Lyon ten minutes," said the giant, and bellowed at
the host for more wine and food. "Listen, comrade! Last week I
came to Paris. Madame du Vallon is thinking of buying a property
in Picardy; she went to look it over. I came to Paris to handle a
certain business for her. There -- what, think you, happened to
me? Guess!"
"Certainly not a love-affair, to the husband of eight hundred
thousand livres!" and d'Artagnan laughed. He was all on the alert
now -- he had a conviction that Porthos was not entirely
confiding in him. This rendered him curious, precautious to tell
what he himself knew.
"Something different -- I was robbed," declared Porthos,
reddening with anger. "Robbed! Three men set upon me, got a
noose about my neck, strangled me. I pounded one on the head
and felt his skull go smash; I kicked a second, and he was dead
the next minute. But the third -- ah, The third! The abominable
rascal! The black-browed scoundrel! What do you think he did?
He sat on my back and used a knife on me, tried to murder me!
True, it only tore the flesh of my arrn, but between the loss of
blood and the strangulation, I became unconscious. He robbed me
and fled."
"Not to Grenoble, surely?" exclaim d'Artagnan.
"Exactly! You have guessed it. Listen! By good luck I saw him
leaving Paris that same night. I called for a horse, followed
him. I have money, you understand! I rode after him like a
madman; the horse died under me. I got another horse. Mile by
mile, inch by inch, I gained upon him. I entered Lyon not five
minutes after him -- upon my word, it is the truth! Instead of
stopping there, the unspeakable devil changed horses and had
gone when I got to the posthouse. My horse was played out, there
was not a fresh animal to be had. I took a tired one, and the
brute went bad on me halfway here -- has been limping in since
midnight. The man's here ahead of me -- you must help me find
him, trace him!"
"With all my heart," said d'Artagnan. "Who was he?"
"I don't know. He was a tall man with the face of a rogue. He
had heavy black brows that met above his nose -- eh? What? You've
seen him?"
D'Artagnan started.
"Black brows that met -- diantre! Did he ride a piebald horse?
Did he have a cloak of dark blue or black slashed with silver?"
Porthos leaped from his seat. "You know him? Come! Take me to
him, this moment! Up!"
"He is dead," said d'Artagnan. "Sit down, sit down, comrade --
your man's dead! You should have seen him lying in the road as
you came, for I must have been just ahead of you. He died in my
arms --"
"Pardieu! I saw nothing of him!" cried the amazed Porthos, and
then sank back on the bench with an expression of utter dismay
and consternation. "Mon Dieu, I am ruined, ruined! Now what shall
I ever say to Aramis?"
CHAPTER IV
A MARSHAL ARRIVES, A LIEUTENANT DEPARTS
"So you have seen Aramis?" asked d'Artagnan quickly.
Porthos swallowed hard, and turned a wild gaze upon the Gascon.
"I am a fool," he said thickly. "I have said too much. I promised
--"
"I think, my dear Porthos," said d'Artagnan coolly, "that you and
I have been somewhat in company in other days, and I have never
heard you complain of having trusted me too much. Ma foi! If you
have no confidence in me --"
Porthos began to swear horribly.
"For the love of the saints give me time, give me time!" he cried
out in despair. "My dear comrade, you don't understand! Listen to
me. I met Aramis in Paris. He was in terrible straits; he had
been flung into the depths of despair, he spoke of killing
himself -- Aramis! Can you fancy such a thing? He was gloomy as
the foul fiend! I don't know exactly what had caused it."
"I think you do," said d'Artagnan -- to himself. Aloud: "Yes?"
"Well," and here Porthos began to flounder, "Aramis gave me a
packet of money to deliver -- a sum he had collected for some
lady, I know not what it was. I promised to take it to her. He
made me swear not to breathe his name -- "
D'Artagnan laughed. He saw that the giant was genuinely
overwhelmed at being unable to confide in him, and he was melted
instantly.
"So the robbers took the money, eh?" he asked.
"Anything else?"
"No -- it was some gold in rouleaux," said Porthos, but reddened
a trifle as he spoke. "The devil of it is that I don't know the
exact amount. They sprang upon me just after I left poor Aramis."
"He was not wounded when you left him?"
"He? Wounded?" Porthos stared. "Not in the least, except in
spirit."
With an air as though he were glad to escape further questioning
for the moment, Porthos applied himself to the food and wine that
was set before them.
D'Artagnan whistled to himself -- he began to see a good many
things. Aramis had received a letter from his Marie Michon, which
had stricken him. He sent Porthos to Mlle. de Sine, whoever this
might be; not with money, but with a letter. Porthos was
attacked, robbed, left for dead; Aramis was then attacked,
wounded, robbed, and the black-browed spy set forth for Grenoble.
But now -- Porthos was still lying about it! Very well, then --
he would not get his letter back very readily. In what net of
intrigue had Aramis enmeshed this huge man with a child's heart?
D'Artagnan felt a twinge of anger at the thought. It was all
very well for Aramis to indulge his own bent for intrigue, but it
was not right for him to ensnare poor simple, honest Porthos.
"Tell me what you know of this man-you say he died on the road,
in your arms?" said Porthos. "Tell me, I conjure you! Did you
get my rouleaux of gold from him?"
"I did not look to see if he had any," said d'Artagnan drily, and
with truth. Since Porthos stubbornly concealed all mention of the
letter, the less said the better. Aramis, he reflected, has
drawn our big comrade into some conspiracy; since Porthos is the
worst possible conspirator, let him now remain out of it for his
own good!
D'Artagnan told of finding the dead man in the road, taking the
fresher horse, and coming on to Grenoble -- exactly as he had
told Richelieu. Upon hearing this tale, Porthos was plunged into
the depths of despair. He himself had seen nothing of the dead
man or of d'Artagnan's horse, and the inference was plain.
"The robbers returned to their prey after you had passed," he
said gloomily. "They plundered the man, flung him into the river,
and took your horse away. Ah, miserable wretches! If I had you
under my hands, I'd wring your cursed necks! My friend, I am
ruined."
"Why?" asked d'Artagnan.
"Because the lady was to confide a mission to me in place of
Aramis," said the other. "I swore that I would take the money to
her, accept an errand from her -- and now! I am ruined."
"On the contrary,' said d'Artagnan, you are saved."
"Saved?" Porthos stared at him, "In what way? How do you mean?"
"Eat, drink, fortify yourself, my friend," and d'Artagnan
gestured toward the file of scullions bringing further dishes and
platters. "Talk when alone."
The magnificent bellows of Porthos had set everyone to running,
and now were produced capons, a brace of ducks, the excellent
sausages for which Grenoble was renowned, pastries, venison; dish
followed dish, bottle pursued bottle, and in between details of
the service d'Artagnan expounded details drawn largely from his
own fertile imagination.
"You need not hesitate over confiding in me, my friend," he said
confidentially. "Perhaps I know more of the whole affair than you
suppose -- more, perhaps, than you yourself know! Picture our
Aramis, now, engaged in helping a great man, a friend of his -- a
Marshal of France, now with the army -- you comprehend?"
"Ah, ah!" cried Porthos in amazement. "You know about that? Then
Aramis wrote you, eh? He said I must be most particular not to
mention the name of Bassompierre --"
"Then don't mention it," said d'Artagnan, twirling his mustache
complacently. "Aramis receives a letter from his lady-love; it
throws him into consternation, into despair! Everything pales
before this. Nothing matters. He is disheartened, talks of
suicide, entering a monastery, taking the vows and writing a
thesis for ordination --"
"Upon my soul, his very words!" exclaimed the staring Porthos,
but for all his amazement he did not forget to attack the
fortifications now before him.
"Well, then -- Aramis encounters you. He knows your valor, your
disregard of odds -- he has reason to know them! And he also
knows your modesty, your hesitancy at undertaking anything of
dubious nature, your reluctance to push yourself forward is it
not?"
Porthos deftly removed half the breast of a duck, placed it in
his mouth, and nodded complacently. Being anything but modest,
he loved to picture himself possessed of this virtue.
"Would Aramis mention these qualities?" pursued d'Artagnan. "No!
He feared lest you beg him to select a braver, abler man.
Instead, he merely asked you to do him a small favor -- deliver a
sum of money to a lady, and accept a commission from her. He
parts from you. A few moments afterward, you are set upon,
brought to earth like a Hercules assailed by base foes -- and you
are robbed. Why? Because you had been spied upon. It was
suspected that he had given you this money. In fact, no sooner
had you parted than he in turn was assaulted, attacked, badly
wounded, and plundered also. You comprehend?"
The eyes of Porthos opened tremendously, but, his mouth being
filled with duck-breast, he could only nod amazed comprehension.
"You killed two of the rascals," pursued d'Artagnan. "The third
escaped, went to attack Aramis, thinking you were dead. He
presently took to the road. He had the best of horses waiting
everywhere for him, he was known wherever he went --"
"Who -- who the devil told you all this?" blurted out Porthos,
stupefied.
"I reconstruct, my friend. Now, this man was not fleeing from
you, as you think -- on the contrary, he was hastening to reach
another man, riding like mad to bring this other man the money he
stole from you, the papers he stole from Aramis you comprehend?
They were vitally important. He stayed not to eat nor sleep, but
rode, leaped from horse to horse, spurred from hill to hill,
never looked behind! At Lyon he inquired the road to Grenoble,
climbed into the fresh saddle, and was gone. Why? Because he was
bringing his loot to a man here,"
"Eh?" Porthos, who had just drunk an entire bottle of wine at a
draught, set down his flagon an stared afresh. "A man -- here?
Bringing them -- pardieu! I never thought of that! Who told you
so?"
"The man to whom he was bringing them," said d'Artagnan placidly.
"Last night when I arrived he asked after such a courier, whom he
was expecting hourly. He described the man, I recognized the dead
man in the road -- "
The veins swelled in the forehead of Porthos. His nostrils
distended, a flood of color rushed into his face. He brought down
one fist on the board and the impact smashed half the crockery.
"His name!" he thundered. "Who is this man? I'll attend to him!
His name, instantly!"
"Armand, Cardinal de Richelieu."
This name froze Porthos into stone. He did not move, his eyes
remained fastened upon d'Artagnan; but the color slowly drained
out of his face.
"Ah! Ah!" he said slowly. "But that is impossible! That -- that
would mean -- would mean --"
"Exactly," said d'Artagnan. "That would mean your assassin was a
spy who no doubt supposed you to be engaged in some intrigue
against the Cardinal."
"I see it all," said Porthos, and his head fell in dejection. "I
am lost."
"How so?"
Porthos paused, gulped at his wine. Still he lacked the
imagination to confess everything and obtain a spiritual
absolution from his friend.
"The money," he said, wiping his lips. "Without it, I could not
reach the lady -- it was my ambassadorial letters. Now I cannot
place myself at her service in the stead of Aramis. And you heard
what the Cardinal said to me, my dear d'Artagnan? The tone of
voice in which he spoke? Yes, his spies must have been on my
trail. He remembers me, indeed! Leave me, d'Artagnan; leave me,
for I am a lost man. I may be arrested any moment, taken to a
royal chateau -- Mont St. Michel, the Bastille, Vincennes!"
The gloom, terror, utter despondency of Porthos drew a slight
smile from d'Artagnan.
"My dear Porthos," he said, calmly tasting his wine, "did you
ever know me to deceive you, to feed you with false hopes, to
desert you?"
"You are the soul of honor and of friendship," said Porthos
unhappily.
"Did you ever know me to break a promise to you?"
"The thought is inconceivable."
"Good. Then I bid you hope. I promise you that in this matter you
are no longer alone. I must go to the Cardinal at once. Well! I
shall ask for leave, which is overdue me, both for myself and for
Athos. Your assassin is dead, your gold is gone, instead, you
gain two friends. Aramis is wounded in Paris -- that man told me
so before he died in my arms. He uttered your name -- dead -- and
that of Aramis -- wounded. You see? At Paris, I swear to you upon
the faith of a gentleman that we shall gain access to the lady,
we shall convince her that we are to be trusted, we shall make
good for you all you have lost. Do you believe me?"
Having the means of access to the lady now inside his pocket,
d'Artagnan could very well make this promise.
Porthos lifted his head, stared incredulously at him.
"D'Artagnan! You would do this -- for me?"
"All for one, one for all!" exclaimed d'Artagnan. "You would do
as much for me. Agreed?"
Porthos sprang to his feet, seized d'Artagnan in a warm embrace,
and tears started from his eyes.
"My friend, my friend!" he cried out with emotion. "Ask of me
what you will -- I am yours! What you will -- anything -- "
D'Artagnan freed himself from that dangerous embrace.
"Then I ask that you remain here until I return from my
conversation with His Eminence," he said coolly. "If leave is
granted me, we may have to depart at once. You need sleep?"
"I need nothing, since I have found you," exclaimed Porthos.
"That is to say, I need everything -- but I can do without
anything. Go with God, my friend -- I await you!"
D'Artagnan caught up his cloak and departed in some haste for
the palace.
He was at once uneasy and at rest mentally. He was at rest on the
subject of Aramis, for he was confident that he had pieced the
truth together. He was uneasy on the subject of Richelieu, for
now it seemed certain that the Cardinal would desire further
details regarding the dead man in the road. He cursed his own
imprudence for having borne that ring on his finger the previous
night; whatever the ring was, whatever it meant, he should have
exercised discretion.
"What a devilish imbroglio!" he reflected, as he made his way to
the Hotel des Lesdigue'res.
"Aramis is wounded. Porthos receives a letter from him, to Helene
de Sine, whoever she is; he is robbed of it. I take it, and the
papers of Aramis, from a dead man. Comte de Montforge, evidently
a Cardinalist agent, loses a handkerchief which bears the
initials of this same lady. Richelieu, instead of clapping a
penalty on us for duelling, sweetly commands us to be friends --
and summons us to his cabinet! Decidedly, this affair is going
take some very careful stepping."
As he came to the entrance of the palace, horseman came dashing
out of the courtyard and passed d'Artagnan with a wave of the
hand. It was Montforge, booted and spurred.
When the musketeer was ushered into the presence of Richelieu, he
found Pere Joseph present as on the previous night. And at the
very first moment, a cold shiver passed over d'Artagnan, for he
thought he saw both men glance at his left hand where he had worn
the ring. However, the Cardinal seemed anything but angry,
greeted him affably took his arm and walked with him to the
window that overlooked the courtyard.
"Look, M. d'Artagnan, and tell me what you see."
D'Artagnan looked down. "Your Eminence, I see guards on duty, I
see a very handsome jennet being groomed by the stables. I see a
superb horse being saddled -- ah, what an animal! A horse fit for
a king, indeed!"
He fell silent in admiration. Richelieu pressed his arm and
turned.
"That animal belongs to you, M. d'Artagnan. Come, I wish to ask
you something. Do you by any chance recall how you happened to
receive a commission as lieutenant?"
D'Artagnan felt fate upon him. "Certainly, Monseigneur; from your
own hands -- a kindness for which I have never ceased to be
grateful."
"In ten minutes I go to the king," said Richelieu. "I am going to
ask him something else for you.
"For me, Your Eminence?" stammered d'Artagnan. Richelieu regarded
him with a smile, and did not fail to read the caution behind his
amazement.
"Of course, with your permission only. If -- "
His voice died. He flung a glance through the window and now
stood silent, looking down at the courtyard; the affability of
his features was instantly changed to alert tenseness. A sound of
voices rose to the room -- shouts, greetings, cheers, the
resounding hollow smash of pike-butts grounded on the stones.
D'Artagnan, looking, saw a file of dusty guards drawing up in
line, while a number of handsomely dressed cavaliers rode into
the courtyard, headed by a slightly stout gentleman with a large
nose, a gay smile, and magnificent armor. He was saluted on
all sides with respect and hearty cordiality, and the Cardinal's
guards presented arms.
"Pere Joseph -- here!" exclaimed Richelieu. The gray secretary
was already approaching the window, and now laughed shortly as he
glanced out.
"So Bassompierre arrives! Monseigneur, you need not hasten to
your audience."
Richelieu drew back, made a gesture. "Leave me with M.
d'Artagnan, if you please."
When they were alone, the Cardinal turned from the window and
looked at d'Artagnan.
"Monsieur, I suppose you wonder whether I go to ask the king for
a lettre de cachet or a captaincy on your behalf? Come, confess!
We have met before today."
"I am entirely at the service of Your Eminence," said d'Artagnan,
with a composure he was far from feeling. "If I have done nothing
to merit a cell, certainly I have done nothing to merit a
captaincy."
Richelieu regarded him steadily for a moment.
"No evasions, monsieur. We are alone. Shall we be frank?"
"If Your Eminence pleases, most gladly."
"With your permission, I shall ask the king to grant you an
indefinite leave, in order that you may perform certain services
for me. Do you wish to accept?"
D'Artagnan bowed, partly in order to hide the relief in his face.
"I am honored by the choice, for in serving Your Eminence, I
serve the king --"
"A truce to compliments," interrupted Richelieu brusquely. "I
know you of old, M. d'Artagnan. I desire a man who is attached to
His Majesty, a gentleman of finesse, of discretion -- I might
almost say that I desire the service of an enemy rather than of a
friend."
"Then I cannot have the pleasure of serving you, Monseigneur,"
said d'Artagnan. "I am not your enemy. Even had I the wish, I
could not aspire to such a height."
The eye of the Cardinal was penetrating. "You are aware, perhaps,
that Madame de Chevreuse is exiled from Paris to her estates at
Dampierre. You are aware, I imagine, of a good deal that cannot
be put into words -- that princes are ambitious, that mortal life
is frail, that those who are great and wealthy and respected
today, may be in chains tomorrow.
D'Artagnan trembled inwardly-more at the half-mocking tone of
Richelieu than at these words.
"Gossip runs to that effect, Your Eminence," he returned
cautiously.
"A despatch now awaiting His Majesty's signature goes to the
Keeper of the Seals at Lyon," pursued Richelieu. He was in a
dangerous humor this morning, as d'Artagnan perceived; this man
who ruled France could not always rule himself -- he had even
been known to strike Cavoie, the captain of his guards, as he
had been known to take the Chancellor of France by the throat.
"From Lyon you will seek Madame de Chevreuse at Dampierre, to
whom you will deliver a verbal message. You will then return to
Paris and deliver a letter for me. After which, you will be
free -- that is to say, if you accept.
D'Artagnan bowed. He did not miss the indescribable tone in
which those singular final words were uttered, nor the piercing
regard of the Cardinal.
"I am most happy to serve Your Eminence," he said quietly.
"I must warn you, monsieur," said Richelieu slowly, "that in
delivering this message to Madame de Chevreuse, you will find it
a dangerous matter."
A disdainful smile touched the lips of d'Artagnan.
"The danger, Monseigneur, is for those who oppose me.
"Ah, Gascon!" Richelieu broke into a short laugh. "Yet there is
greater danger in the delivery of the letter -- it goes to a lady
so beautiful that all who know her fall in love with her at
once!"
This touched d'Artagnan's all but mortal hurt and spurred him to
audacity.
"From such risk, Monseigneur, you and I are alike immune; you, by
reason of the cloth, and I, by reason of a loss I have not
forgotten."
The Cardinal was silent for a moment. Perhaps he, too, had not
forgotten Constance de Bonacieux; perhaps he had not forgotten
Milady, who, as his agent, had poisoned the unhappy Constance and
torn d'Artagnan's heart asunder. After a moment be lifted his
head, moved to his secretary, sat down before it and wrote a
few lines. Sanding them, he folded and sealed the letter, and
addressed it. Then he extended it to d'Artagnan.
"The letter; a personal matter for which I give you thanks."
"I am honored, Monseigneur. And the verbal message?"
The Cardinal spoke reflectively, with a certain air of savage and
cruel assurance.
"You may say that you had it from my lips, but couch it in these
terms: 'His Majesty has learned all and is taking the child under
his own protection. Be very quiet during the next six months. If
you indulge your liking for letters and visitors you are lost.'
That is all. Repeat the message, monsieur, if you please."
D'Artagnan repeated it, word for word, but he could not keep a
note of astonishment from his voice. Richelieu, watching him
narrowly, smiled as though gratified by the effect of his words.
"You think, perhaps, I am sending a warning? No, monsieur; I am
sending a threat."
This was true. Richelieu never sent warnings his purposes were
guessed only after they were accomplished.
"Pardon, Your Eminence," said d'Artagnan. "I do not think
regarding such matters. They pass directly from ears to lips,
without reaching my brain; and they are then forgotten."
"Very well, monsieur. When can you start?"
"The moment I receive my despatches."
"They will be ready in five minutes. Wait below. The horse
standing there is a present for you -- a token of my gratitude
for your kindness. You ride alone?"
"With a friend, Monseigneur -- a M. du Vallon, formerly of the
Musketeers, whom I encountered this morning."
"Ah, yes -- Porthos, is it not?" Richelieu smiled, and this smile
struck terror into d'Artagnan, so singular was its quality. "You
will, perhaps -- want to have a word with M. de Bassompierre, who
has just arrived from the army?"
"I, Monseigneur?" D'Artagnan looked surprised. "Not at all. I
am not one of M. de Bassompierre's gentlemen -- I know him very
slightly, indeed."
"Indeed!" echoed Richelieu. "Very well; that is all, monsieur."
D'Artagnan bowed and departed. When he found himself outside the
room, he was trembling, as though he had just emerged from some
terrible danger.
Scarcely was he gone, when Pere Joseph entered the room and
addressed the Cardinal.
"Monseigneur, His Majesty awaits you -- he is being barbered
now."
"Good. And Bassompierre?"
"Is, I think, going to Paris at once."
"So? My friend and father," and Richelieu tapped his arm
affectionately. "I have accomplished two things within a very few
minutes. First, Chevreuse is eliminated from whatever may happen
within the next few months."
"Then Your Eminence has accomplished a miracle."
"Second, that dangerous young man who wore a ring yesterday and
does not wear it today, will cause no further trouble."
"So?" The Capuchin looked doubtful. "He is a better man than
Montforge. He may -- escape."
"In which case he will fall into a pit from which there is no
escape. See to it that he is provided with a purse when the
papers are sent him."
Pere Joseph looked astonished at this unwonted liberality, for at
this period Richelieu was niggardly with money. He had twice
received Marion de l'Orme, the most famous hetera of Paris; he
received her most magnificently on each occasion; after the
second time, he sent her a purse by his lackey Bournais. She
opened it, found a hundred pistoles, threw them into the street,
and told the story to everyone.
Going directly to the courtyard, d'Artagnan paused to peep at the
letter given him: all his curiosity had been keenly aroused. He
glanced at the superscription. This letter was addressed to
Helene de Sirle, at the Parc du Montmorenci.
With a bewildered air, d'Artagnan went to the horse that a groom
was holding, and mounted with scarcely a glance at the superb
animal. He sat waiting, a thousand conjectures flashing across
his mind. One thing was clear -- his mission ended with the
delivery of this letter.
"Therefore," he reflected, "once my errand's done I'm free to
help Porthos. And the Cardinal sends me to the same point, to the
same person, as the Queen! Now, if I had Athos to advise me in
this -- ah, fool that I am!"
It had just occurred to him that since Athos was at Lyon, there
was nothing to prevent him from taking Athos with him. And at
this admirable inspiration, d'Artagnan could scarce control his
eagerness to be off, pick up Porthos, and depart.
Abruptly, as he sat there, a terrible memory rose before him. The
words of the dying man recurred to him with sinister emphasis:
"Above them all, she -- she herself!"
She herself! A child in the abbey of St. Saforin, guarded by an
unknown Betstein; Aramis and Bassompierre and a plot -- what was
it all? How did a child enter into it? Was this the same child
mentioned in Richelieu's message? Sudden relief came at the
thought. "Ah!" he murmured, wiping a trickle of sweat from his
eyes. "Then it's a question of Chevreuse, not of the Queen --
excellent And here, I see, are my despatches --"
A secretary approached him, handed him a packet of letters and a
purse.
D'Artagnan turned his horse and twirled his mustache as the
magnificent animal bore him from the courtyard and past the
guards saluting at the gates. He returned their salute, and two
minutes later was on his way to rejoin Porthos.
CHAPTER V
FOUR LETTERS ARE SENT, ONE ARRIVES
At the moment d'Artagnan and Porthos left Grenoble, the affairs
of France were in divers hands and conditions. The Imperialists
had captured Mantua by assault and Casale was under siege; on the
other hand, the army had swept all before it in Savoy and
Piedmont, hence the queen-mother was more than ever furious
against Richelieu. Both the king and the cardinal had left the
army for the best of reasons -- the plague. Louis XIII, never a
robust man, had come to Grenoble and paused there, with illness
creeping upon him. He had intended to rejoin the army, but it
began to look as though he would rejoin the court instead.
The queens were at Lyon, and Paris ruled itself. Bassompierre
arrived at Grenoble more in guise of a triumphing Caesar than a
grumbling general.
He found the king at his levee, and was received most joyfully by
Louis, who was at the moment in the hands of his hairdresser.
"Ha! Our beloved marshal foregoes the pomps of war to rejoin us!"
exclaimed the king, as Bassompierre knelt to kiss his hand.
"Come, Francois, tell me something! I hear that when you entered
Madrid as our ambassador, you rode a mule. Is that true?"
"Faith, sire, entirely true!" and Bassompierre chuckled. He was
extremely handsome, and was wearing superb armor, expressly
donned for the occasion. His hearty, genial laugh, his air of
breezy frankness, swept into the room like a freshening breath of
morning, "A mule of the finest Andaluzian strain, sent me by the
Emperor; a mule to make a bishop weep with envy -- "
Well, well," interrupted Louis, "I never thought to see the day
when an ass was mounted upon a mule!"
Those around broke into laughter. Bassompierre swept the king a
low bow.
"True, very true," he rejoined. "But all things are possible to
those anointed of the Lord! Upon that occasion I was, naturally,
representing Your Majesty."
The superb audacity of this reply delighted the king, who burst
into laughter that ended the business of his hairdresser.
"Francois, you have a tongue in a thousand -- I love you for it,"
he cried gaily. "They say you would sooner lose a friend than a
good jest, Francois! Be careful you do not lose a friend in me!"
"God forbid, Your Majesty!" said Bassompierre devoutly. "For
then I should have to seek a friend in His Eminence."
"Impossible, Betstein, impossible!" Louis laughed heartily, and
according to his custom used the German form of Bassompierre's
name, as a token of familiarity. "Our good cardinal has no maids
of honor at his court."
"In such case," said the audacious Lorrainer, "let us both return
to Lyon, sire, and be at our ease!"
Louis chuckled at this thrust. It was no secret that the king was
madly but virtuously enamored of Mlle. de Hautefort, maid of
honor to the queen. Leaning back in his chair, Louis resigned
himself again to the hands of his hairdresser. He was handsome,
in his thinly cruel fashion, but his temper was extremely uneven;
he rose to a certain largeness of spirit only with Bassompierre.
This man, who alone could jest with the king on even terms, moved
among the gentlemen present, his impressive personality
dominating them all, even his enemies. Of these he had not a few.
The polished and imposing presence, the very force of character
which so contributed to his success as courtier or gambler, lover
or ambassador, assured him the solid testimonial of envious foes.
One of these gentlemen, who fancied the raillery of the king
betokened a change in the marshal's fortunes, thought the
occasion opportune to intrude a suave hint of intrigue. He turned
to Bassompierre.
"So, monsieur, we are to judge that you have joined the party of
Guise?"
"Eh?" said Bassompierre, astonished, "I? And why should you think
that, monsieur?"
The other shrugged. "Why not, indeed, after the tender manner in
which you embrace his sister, the Princesse de Conti?"
"Ho!" Bassompierre inflated his cheeks in hearty laughter.
"Nonsense, my dear monsieur, nonsense! I assure you that I have
embraced your wife with far greater warmth -- and I do not love
you any the more because of it!"
The king broke into a roar of mirth in which all his gentlemen
joined, and in the midst of this mirth, the cardinal was
announced. Richelieu entered, saluted profoundly, kissed the
king's hand, and greeted Bassompiere very warmly. Now, as it
chanced, Louis remembered d'Artagnan and asked where he was.
"He has just departed, sire," said the cardinal. "He received
your letters for the court, and was next moment in the saddle."
"Ah! A pity I missed him!" said Bassompierre. "I like that young
man. He is impetuous, he is afraid of nothing, he is a good
officer. Above all, he is faithful."
"You admire faithful men more than faithful women, eh?" jested
the king.
"Faith, sire, it's all one to me!" Bassompierre's laughing brown
eyes twinkled, and he twirled the waxed points of his mustache.
Then, meeting the eye of Richelieu, he sensed a coming attack,
and fell silent with disconcerted surprise. How he had offended
the minister, he could not conceive.
"M. le Marechal wears armor," said the cardinal smoothly.
"Surely, sire, he does not fear the weapons of enemies here?"
An ominous hint. Bassompierre was too old a courtier to show his
astonishment, however; the king, rising from the chair, took his
arm affectionately.
"Eh, Betstein? Surely you have no such fear in our presence?"
"Alas, sire -- I have great fear of assassination," admitted
Bassompierre, who was no man to refuse a challenge from the
cardinal or any other. At the word, there was a stir. The king's
hand fell, his face changed. Those around stood frozen, and
Richelieu's eye held a satiric gleam of triumph. With that word,
Bassompierre had wrecked his future -- all felt this to be
certain.
"Assassination!" echoed Louis. "In our presence? Explain
yourself, monsieur!"
Bassompierre bowed.
"Sire, His Eminence is, as usual, entirely right. Regard this
corselet -- expressly made for me, never worn until this morning!
You will observe, sire, the remarkable gold inlay, the supreme
lightness yet excellence of the steel!"
"It is indeed magnificent," said the king coldly. "I doubt
whether its like is in our own armory. But, Francois, if you
seem to doubt our ability to protect -- "
It was coming. Another instant, and Bassompierre would be
dismissed, sent to his estates, ruined! He intervened, coolly.
"Pardon, sir -- you misapprehend. Assassination is indeed my
greatest fear; but not for myself. I wore this corselet in the
hope that you would deign to accept it from me, wear it, and so
set at rest all the fears that have weighed upon me! This bit of
steel is too beauteous for me -- only the son of Henri Quatre
could wear it fittingly!"
And with a gesture, Bassompierre unbuckled the corselet.
The king was astonished, delighted, charmed as a boy with a new
toy. The cardinal bit his lip with vexation. Although slightly
large for Louis XIII, the corselet proved a fairly good fit, and
the king insisted on wearing it immediately. He discovered that
it became him admirably, and was put into excellent humor. So,
when Bassompierre requested permission to go to Paris it was
granted instantly.
"As you like, Betstein, as you like," said the king. "But, I
order you -- tell us her name!"
"Her name, sire, is Chaillot," said Bassompiere, giving the title
of the magnificent estate he had recently purchased. "I go to
build my home, hoping that some day I may have the honor to
entertain Your Majesty there."
"See that you build your house upon the rock, my dear marshal,"
said Richelieu drily. Bassonpierre smiled at him.
"Monseigneur, it shall be built upon a stone!" he said, playing
on his own name.
"When one builds a house," said the cardinal reflectively, "the
next step is to bring home the bride. You are not, by any chance,
thinking of marriage?"
In these words, Bassompierre perceived that his secret marriage
had become known to the cardinal. He passed off the question
with a jest, but ten minutes afterward he took his leave of the
king and retired.
"If I remain here? I am a lost man!" he said to his secretary.
"The horses, swiftly -- let us ride for Paris!"
He little dreamed that because he did not remain here he was,
indeed, a lost man. These things lay in the future.
When Bassompierre and his princely suite were half a league out
of Grenoble, there came riding after them a gentleman of the
king's household, a distant relative of the marshal. Catching up
with them, he drew Bassompierre to one side the road.
"News for you, monsieur," he said. "Do you know an officer of
Musketeers named d'Artagnan?"
"I know of him, at least," said Bassompierre curiously. "Why?"
"He precedes you to Paris."
"That is no news."
"He carries a letter."
"I carry fifty. Did you spur after us to tell me this?"
"To tell you, monsieur, that I was standing in the courtyard when
he drew out this letter and looked at the superscription, which
was written in the hand of Richelieu."
"Ah!" murmured Bassompierre. "And did it concern me?"
"That, monsieur, I leave to you. I saw the writing; the letter
was addressed to a certain Mlle. de Sirle."
Bassompierre became pale as death.
"Impossible!" he ejaculated. "Richelieu never heard of her!"
"On the contrary, monsieur, Richelieu met her at the hotel of the
Duc de Montmorenci, and is said to have visited her since then."
The pallor of the marshal became a deep and angry flush.
"So! But it is impossible. The Cardinal -- " He checked himself
abruptly, smiled, and held out his hand with a swift change of
manner. "My thanks, my thanks! It was good of you to think this
matter might concern me, but I assure you it does not. I am
sorry you have lost your time and trouble, my friend."
"I have not lost it, monsieur, since I have gained your thanks,"
said the other, and so turned about and rode back to Grenoble.
Bassompierre continued his way but with this difference -- he now
rode at headlong speed.
D'Artagnan and Porthos gained Lyon without pause. Upon reaching
the artillery barracks where the Musketeers were quartered,
Porthos dismounted, staggered, and was only saved from falling by
d'Artagnan.
"My friend," he confessed, "I have been in the saddle four days
and nights. I need sleep. I need salves and ointment. For the
love of heaven, show me a bed and leave me!"
D'Artagnan took him to his own quarters, then delivered his
despatches,learned that Athos was on duty, and sought out M.
Rambure's, the captain of his company, whom he found at table.
"Monsieur," he said with his simple directness, "As you know, I
bore letters to His Majesty at Grenoble. There I had the honor of
seeing the Cardinal."
"Peste!" exclaimed Rambures, facetiously. "And you're not in the
Bastille, my dear fellow?"
"On the contrary, I'm on my way to Paris at the request of His
Eminence, who promised me leave, advised me to make haste, and
authorized me do what I liked. Therefore, with your permission, I
should like my friend M. Athos to ride with me."
"Gladly, M. d'Artagnan, gladly. But come! To Paris -- for the
cardinal? Just between ourselves, when did M. du Plessis obtain
the services of His Majesty's guards?"
"By convincing the guards, monsieur, that they were acting in His
Majesty's interests."
Rambure's broke into laughter. "Good, good! Put in the
application -- I'll attend to it. Take our good Athos and go when
you desire. Sit down and help me finish this bottle of wine; the
guard will be changed in ten minutes, and you can then gobble
Athos and run. What news from the army?"
D'Artagnan made himself comfortable.
"None that I know of -- I got into Grenoble late, and left early
in the morning. By the way, Rambure's, do you happen to know a
gentleman of the cardinal's household named Montforge?"
The captain, who was a Gascon like two-thirds of the guards,
frowned.
"Hm -- yes, I've heard the name! Of course he's the man who
killed Aubain, Guise's fencing master, last year. Isn't he some
relative of Mme. de Chavigny? You know, the complaisant lady who
bore His Eminence a son -- tut, what scandal!" Rambure's
laughed. "Here's long life to you, and wishing I were going to
Paris in your company!"
D'Artagnan knew already that Montforge was an excellent blade;
he knew already that the man was a favorite of Richelieu; so,
having learned nothing, he presently departed to find Athos, and
came upon him just going off duty. Athos embraced him warmly, as
though he had been absent four months instead of four days.
"Ha, my son -- back already? What news?"
"Every sort imaginable," said d'Artagnan. "Come over to that
auberge and settle down to talk it out in comfort -- "
"Unfortunately," said Athos, "I have been assigned to escort
their majesties, who go riding in the park in half an hour."
"Bah!" D'Artagnan beckoned to another gentleman of the
Musketeers, who was approaching. "You are on leave, my dear Athos
-- you ride to Paris with me. M. de Bret will take your place and
be glad to do it."
This proving true, the two friends repaired to the auberge across
the street.
"To Paris?" said Athos, and then shrugged. "Good! As well one
place as another."
Such was the philosophy of the Comte de la Fere at this period.
Since that terrible night on the banks of the Lys, when
d'Artagnan, Lord de Winter, and the Three Musketeers had
witnessed the execution of Milady, Athos had once more sunk into
the depths of his own negligence toward life. He had no ambition.
He lived for nothing. He drank huge quantities of his favorite
Spanish wine, spoke little, appeared drowned in a dark and
mysterious sadness. Yet neither wine nor melancholy affected this
man outwardly -- this man who, so far as others were concerned,
lived as a perfect model of chivalry and honor. His voice
retained its soft liquid quality, his features retained their
indefinable air of nobility, of sweetness, his wrist retained its
marvelous flexibility; all this despite his more frequent turning
to the material side of life -- to tavern debauches where he
uttered scarce a word, to steady drinking until Grimaud took his
arm and led him home. It seemed as though Athos had resolved to
drown all that lay behind and ahead of him.
As the two friends turned in at the tavern, a man suddenly
appeared in front of them and blocked the way. This man was
Grimaud, the lackey of Athos.
Athos motioned him aside, but Grimaud did not budge.
"Well?" asked Athos. In reply, Grimaud drew a letter from his
pocket and presented it. This letter was addressed to the Comte
de la Fere.
"Who brought this?" demanded Athos in astonishment. Grimaud,
trained to silence, shrugged to indicate his ignorance.
D'Artagnan, who knew that Athos never wrote or received a letter,
was astonished.
"Bah!" said Athos. "Your news first, d'Artagnan. Come!"
They entered the auberge and settled themselves in a corner.
When the wine was brought and they were alone, d'Artagnan took
the ring and letter from his pocket. He handed the ring to Athos,
whose amazing knowledge of heraldry had ere this astonished him.
"Do you know whose arms these are!"
Athos smiled slightly. "Certainly. They belong to the man who
would have been married to the daughter of the old Constable de
Montmorenci, had he not neglected the etiquette of paying a visit
to the Duc de Bouillon, nephew of the Constable. In consequence,
she was married to Conde -- "
"I am not a historian," interrupted d'Artagnan. "Whose are these
arms?"
Athos drank deeply. "They belong to the man who refused to be
made Duc d'Aumale."
"His name?"
"He has two."
"Devil take you!" said d'Artagnan impatiently. Athos, seeing
that he was in earnest, at once lost his jesting manner.
"Pardon, my son -- yet you astonished me by your ignorance! This
man is captain of the Chateau de Monceaux; a knight of the Ordre
du St. Esprit; he refused a bribe of 100,000 crowns; he played
tennis with Wallenstein before Emperor Maximilian; he outdrank
the canons of Saverne; he won a wager of a thousand crowns from
Henri IV; he was given the honor of having fifty guards; he
refused the Duchy of Beaupreau; he was made Marshal of France --"
"Ah! ah!" exclaimed d'Artagnan in stupefied astonishment. "You
cannot mean Schomberg -- "
"Certainly not. I mean Bassompierre -- whose name originally was
Betstein, the same name in Germanized form."
D'Artagnan was overcome with stupefaction. Betstein!
"Read this," he said, and handed the letter of Aramis to his
friend. Athos glanced at it, and pushed it away a little with his
hand.
"I have a letter of my own, not yet read," he said. "A gentleman
does not read the letters of others, my son.
"A soldier reads the correspondence of the enemy," said
d'Artagnan.
"True," said Athos, and picked up the letter. A slight pallor
came into his face, and his eyes darted a fiery glance at
d'Artagnan. "A letter -- to a lady -- and in the hands of Aramis!
And you say -- an enemy --
"Read it," said d'Artagnan calmly. "It contains no secrets."
Athos met his gaze steadily for a moment, found it serene and
unclouded, nodded slightly, and opened the letter.
"I have read it," he said.
"Good. Now -- can you conceive to whom it refers? To what
bearer?"
The singularly imperturbable eyes of Athos rested on him, and
then that sweet and expressive smile touched the lips of the
older man.
"Ah, my son! I know the suppressed eagerness burning in you!
Were it not impossible, I would say that the bearer of this
letter -- this friend of Aramis -- must be also a friend of ours.
Porthos. But that is impossible."
D'Artagnan was seized with wonder at this evidence of insight.
"Athos -- you are divine!" he exclaimed. "Porthos is at this
moment asleep on my bed. Come -- here is the whole story."
And he poured out all that had happened since he had left Lyon
for Grenoble.
Athos listened, tapping with his long and beautiful fingers on
the letter he had received but had not opened. He showed no
astonishment at what he heard -- only a miracle could make Athos
lift an eyebrow. But, when d'Artagnan repeated the words uttered
by the dying spy of Richelieu, the gaze of Athos became
singularly penetrating, alert, alive. The names of Porthos and of
Aramis still had power for him. When the tale came to the meeting
with Porthos, his gaze showed interest. When it came to the
interrupted duel, it revealed satisfaction.
"Ah, my son, I am proud of you!" he said quietly, and those words
thrilled d'Artagnan above all praise from Richelieu or Louis
himself. "I have heard of this Montforge -- a man of noble blood
and ignoble speech and deed. Continue."
D'Artagnan finished his recital, and the eye of Athos began to
sparkle. D'Artagnan showed Richelieu's letter to Helene de Sirle,
and was about to repeat the verbal message to Chevreuse, when
Athos checked him.
"Tut, tut -- that message is sacred!"
"But I have no secrets from you, my friend."
"That is not your secret."
"True." D'Artagnan reflected. "Richelieu said the message was not
a warning, but a threat, and was extremely dangerous to me as the
bearer."
A disdainful smile touched the lips of Athos.
"Undoubtedly. Chevreuse is the most dangerous woman in France, as
Richelieu knows to his cost; she stops at nothing, stoops to
anything!"
"Well, leave that aside. What do you think of the other matter?"
"I think Bassompierre is facing destruction," and Athos drank an
entire goblet of Malaga as though it were a duty.
"No, no -- I mean the business of the child! That's why I wanted
to repeat the message -- it has a vital connection."
"So?" Athos looked thoughtful. "You think Porthos knows all about
it?"
"I have not asked him. Theories are wasted time."
"Exactly my opinion. Let's dismiss the whole affair for the
moment -- ride to Paris, then to Dampierre -- or to Dampierre
first. We can go by way of Bourg-la-Reine and circle back to
Paris. Once there, we deliver your letter to Mlle. de Sirle
and Porthos delivers his."
"Or we for him. I promised to gain him admission to her
presence."
"You must give him the letter."
"And confess that I kept silent about it?"
"Not at all. Give it to Grimaud." Athos turned and crooked his
finger. As though by magic, Grimaud came forward and stood before
the table. Athos handed him the letter.
"M. Porthos."
Grimaud had not heard of Porthos in above a year's time, but said
nothing.
The horses, immediately after supper tonight," said Athos,
Grimaud gave d'Artagnan an inquiring look.
"No, I have a new mount," said d'Artagnan. "Go to my room first."
"Ah!" Grimaud started. "Then M. Por--"
"Silence, you villain!" commanded Athos.
Demanding pardon with a profound bow, Grimaud departed on his
errand. D'Artagnan laughed; he understood perfectly. Grimaud
would put the letter in the pocket of Porthos, who would discover
it upon wakening.
"So we have money, horses, freedom, and we ride upon business for
the queen and the Cardinal -- excellent!" said Athos, taking all
this as a matter of course. "Aramis is wounded; you destroyed the
packet taken from him -- better still! That spy said he had had
this ring with Bassompierre's arms made -- I wonder why? Bah! No
use wondering. Ride and discover."
"Have you forgotten your own letter?" asked d'Artagnan.
With a careless shrug, Athos picked up the letter, found the seal
illegible, and tore open the folded paper. It was a very stout
paper, a sort of parchment; the letter had been sent on from the
Hotel of the Musketeers at Paris.
Reading the letter, Athos did not change his expression, but the
color slowly drained out of his face and was replaced by a mortal
pallor. He lifted his eyes, looked at d'Artagnan, and spoke with
visible effort.
"Do you -- do you remember a man -- an Englishman -- " his
voice failed. D'Artagnan, startled, leaned over the table.
"You do not mean -- Lord de Winter?"
Athos inclined his head and pushed forward the letter.
D'Artagnan, stupefied, turned it about and read:
"M. Athos: Lest one letter fail, I send four,
to you and to your three friends. I shall be in
Paris, at the Hotel of the Marquis de St. Luc,
Place Royale, on July 30th.
WINTER."
D'Artagnan looked at the letter, then looked at Athos, then at
the letter again, with a puzzled frown. Something was lacking
here -- he did not know what. On that fateful night beside the
River Lys two years ago, when Milady was executed, a fifth
man had stood beside the four friends. She, who had been the
mistress of d'Artagnan and the wife of Athos, had also been the
sister-in-law of Lord de Winter; this woman was dead, but she had
left frightful memories behind.
"What does he mean?" Athos passed a hand across his pallid brow.
"I do not want to see him. Why should he write the four of us --"
"Ah, ah!" exclaimed d'Artagnan, and lifted his voice. "Host! A
lighted candle -- name of the devil, be quick about it!" He
looked at Athos, his eyes sparkling. "My friend, 1 have just
thought of something -- this signature is well below the body of
the letter -- "
The inn-keeper brought a lighted candle and departed. When he was
gone, d'Artagnan held the letter above the flame. Words appeared,
written in the thick paper with secret ink and momentarily shown
by the heat:
"He is dead; she remains. Come, if you would
save her!"
D'Artagnan lifted his head and regarded Athos, who had read the
writing.
"He -- ah! That means Buckingham. And she -- then it's a
question of the queen -- "
"Silence, foolish tongue!" exclaimed Athos severely. "Of course,
of course! This Englishman is faithful and a gentleman. But St.
Luc is brother-in-law to Bassompierre! I do not understand this
at all -- "
"Therefore dismiss conjecture, accept your own medicine, and
don't waste time!" D'Artagnan held the paper in the flame and
watched it burn. "One letter out of four arrived. This is the
twenty-fifth of July. We must ride to Dampierre first; that's
understood. If we're to be in Paris on the thirtieth --"
"We must leave this evening," said Athos. "Except that Porthos
needs sleep, we should leave now, this moment!"
D'Artagnan rose. "Good. Pray wait for me at my quarters -- make
yourself at home there, my dear Athos. I may not return until
late."
"Oh!" Athos looked at him with a touch of sadness. "That pretty
little lady in Rue de Grenoble, eh? Well, well, I do not repeat
my warnings."
D'Artagnan flushed slightly. It was true that Athos had warned
him, though for no particular reason; if he had ignored the
warning, he had not forgotten it.
"One romance begins, another is ended," he said lightly. "Do not
reproach me; the lady has treated me well and I cannot leave her
like a bumpkin without saying farewell. And, since her husband is
the equerry of the Duc de Lesdigueres, and with the army -- "
"All is safe," concluded Athos satirically. "Go with God or the
devil, my friend! I have nothing to live for except your
friendship, so come back safe."
And Athos drained another flagon of Malaga at one draught.
CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH ATHOS UTTERS PREDICTIONS
For above a year d'Artagnan had remained faithful to the memory
of his devoted Constance, who had been poisoned by Milady; but
when one is young and ardent, wounds heal swiftly. It must be
confessed that Sophie de Bruler was an excellent agent of
healing. Her little house in the Rue de Grenoble was discreet,
charming, even rich; her husband in earlier years had fought in
Hungary against the Turks and had brought home two wagon-loads of
booty. Sophie herself was, like other young wives of elderly
warriors, inconsolable in the absence of her lord, and did not
rebuff the attempts at consolation which d'Artagnan made. In
person she was small, with the most brilliant brown eyes in the
world, and her graceful, supple figure was the envy of half the
ladies of Lyon. If our hero had in some wise consoled her for the
absence of her knightly husband, then she had offered him no
little consolation for his own deeper and more bitter loss.
D'Artagnan was not in love with her, but he made love as though
he were, and at moments he almost deceived himself in this
regard.
Although his coming was unexpected, he did not hesitate on this
account. The house being on a corner, there was a garden gate
opening on the side street; to this gate, d'Artagnan possessed
the key.
Letting himself in at this gate, he found the garden empty. The
afternoon was late, but darkness was still an hour or two away.
Knowing that the little bell attached to the gate gave warning of
each arrival, he eyed the windows as he crossed the garden,
hoping to catch sight of the fair Sophie. No one appeared,
however.
He knocked at the door, which was instantly opened to him by the
femme-de-chambre.
"Come in, monsieur," she said. "Madame saw your approach and
sent me to tell you that she would not keep you a moment. She is
engaged with her notary. Will you enter the little salon!"
Giving her his hat and cloak, d'Artagnan stepped into the tiny
reception salon near the entrance -- a very handsome little room
hung with yellow satin and containing a superb Titian which M. de
Bruler had removed from a Hungarian altar.
"Peste! Madame is devoted to her notary!" thought d'Artagnan.
"This is the third time in two weeks she has been engaged with
him."
However, since Sophie was managing the affairs of her absent
husband, she had some excuse for her attachment to business.
D'Artagnan, indeed, had not waited five minutes when the
femme-de-chambre appeared and said her mistress would receive
him.
"She has been suffering all day from a migraine and is in her
chamber," she said