The Three Musketeers
“My lord, you already know that it was not I who sent for you from England?”
“Oh! yes! madame; yes, your majesty!” exclaimed Buckingham. “I know that I have been a fool, a madman, to believe that the snow could have been animated, that the marble could grow warm; but what would you expect? The lover easily believes in love; nor has my journey been entirely in vain, since I behold you now.”
“Yes,” replied Anne, “but you know why, and how, I see you, my lord. I see you because, insensible to all my distress, you persist in remaining in a city where, by remaining, you risk your own life, and my honour; I see you, to tell you that everything separates us—the depths of the sea, the enmity of nations, the sanctity of vows! It is sacrilege to struggle against such things, my lord! And, lastly, I see you to tell you, that I must never see you more.”
“Speak, madame—speak, queen,” said Buckingham; “the softness of your voice repays the sternness of your words. You speak of sacrilege; but the sacrilege is in the separation of hearts, which God had formed for one another!”
“My lord,” cried the queen, “you forget that I have never said I loved you.”
“But neither have you ever said that you did not love me; and indeed, to say so, would be a proof of the greatest ingratitude on the part of your majesty. For tell me, where would you find a love like mine—a love, which neither time, nor absence, nor despair can extinguish, and which is recompensed by a riband, by a glance, a word? It is now three years, madame, since I saw you for the first time, and for three years have I adored you thus. Will you allow me to describe to you your dress on that occasion, and to tell the detail of the ornaments you wore? Mark me! I seem to see you now, seated, in the Spanish manner, upon cushions, wearing a dress of green satin, embroidered in silver and in gold, with pendant sleeves, fastened around your beautiful arms by large diamonds: you wore, also, a close ruff; and a small hat, of the same colour as your dress and adorned with a heron’s plume, upon your head. Oh! thus, thus, with closed eyes do I behold you as you then were; and I open my eyes again, only to see you now, a hundred times more lovely still!”
“What folly,” murmured Anne of Austria, who dared not be offended with the duke for preserving her portrait so faithfully in his heart: “what folly to nourish so useless a passion on such memories as these!”
“Alas! what would your majesty exact? I have nothing but memories; they are my happiness, my treasure, and my hope. Each meeting with you is a new jewel that I enshrine within the casket of my heart. This is the fourth of them that you have let fall, and that I have eagerly secured. Yes, in three years, madame, I have seen you only four times: the first I have already recalled to you; the second was at Madame de Chevreuse’s; the third was in the gardens of Amiens.”
“My Lord!” exclaimed the queen, blushing, “do not refer to that evening!”
“Oh! rather let me dwell upon it, madame, for it is the one radiant, blissful night of my existence! Does your majesty remember how lovely a night it was? The air was laden with odoriferous sweetness, and the blue sky was studded with innumerable stars. Ah! madame, I was alone with you for an instant then, and you were about to make me the confidant of your griefs—of the isolation of your life, and the deep sorrows of your heart. You were leaning on my arm—on this one, madam—and, when I bent my head towards you, I felt my face gently touched by your beautiful hair; and every time that I so felt it, I trembled through every vein. Oh! queen! queen! you know not the heavenly bliss, the joys of paradise, comprised in such a moment. Goods, fortune, glory, life, gladly would I give them all for another interview like that on such a night; for, madame, I will swear that then, at least on that night, you loved me!”
“My lord, it is possible that the influence of the place, the charm of that enchanting evening, the fascination of your looks, and the thousand circumstances which sometimes concur in leading a woman onwards to her fall, may have grouped themselves around me on that fatal night; but you are not ignorant, my lord, that the queen gave succour to the weakness of the woman; and that at the first word that you presumed to say, at the first liberty that you dared to take, I summoned others to my presence there!”
“Alas! it is but too true, and any feebler love than mine would never have survived the test: but my love, madame, came out from it more ardent, and immortalised. You thought to escape from me by returning to Paris;—you believed that I should never dare to quit the treasure which my master had commanded me to guard;—but what cared I for all the treasures and all the kings upon the earth! In one week, madame, I was on my return. On that occasion, madame, you had nothing to complain of; I had risked favour, and life, to see you for a single second; I did not even touch your hand; and you forgave me when you found I was submissive and repentant.”
“Yes, my lord, but you are well aware that calumny fastened even upon those follies in which I had so small a share. Prompted by the cardinal, the king felt extreme resentment. Madame de Vernet was dismissed; Putange was banished; and Madame de Chevreuse was disgraced. And do you not remember, my lord, that when you wished to return as an ambassador to France, it was his majesty himself by whom you were opposed.”
“Yes! and France is about to pay with a war for that opposition. I cannot see you again, madame; well! I will take care that you shall continually hear of me. What do you suppose to have been the true aim of that expedition to Rhe, and that league which I am projecting with the Protestants? The delight of seeing you! I am well enough aware that I have no chance of reaching Paris at the head of an army; but then, this war must bring about a peace; peace will require negotiations; and those negotiations shall be made by none but me. They will no longer dare to reject me then; and I shall return to Paris, and behold you once again, and be, for an instant, happy. It is but too true that my enjoyment will have been bought by the blood of thousands of human beings; but what will their lives be to me, provided that my eyes are blessed once more by seeing you! This may be folly, madame—perhaps madness; but tell me, pray, had ever woman a more impassioned lover, had ever a queen a more enthusiastic servant?”
“My lord! my lord! the witnesses you call for your defence accuse you. These very proofs, that you would give me of your love, are themselves almost crimes!”
“But only because you do not love me, madame. Oh! if you loved me, how different would these circumstances seem, but the joy would be too great, and I should go mad. You spoke but now, madame, of Madame de Chevreuse; but, oh! how much less cruel was that lady than you are! Holland loved her, and she responded to his love.”
“Madame de Chevreuse was not a queen!” murmured Anne of Austria; subdued, in spite of herself, by the expression of a passion so profound.
“And would you then love me if you were not? Oh! tell me, madame! say, that you would love me? let me believe that it is but the dignity of your rank that has come between you and me! let me believe that if you had been but Madame de Chevreuse, there might have been hope for the unhappy Buckingham! Oh! charming queen! thanks for these sweet words—a thousand, thousand thanks!”
“Alas! my lord! you have misunderstood me; I did not mean to let you infer———”
“Hush! hush!” exclaimed the duke. “Be not so cruel as to correct an error that is so full of happiness to me! You have yourself told me that I have been drawn into a snare; and I perhaps shall leave my life in it, for, strangely enough, for some time I have had presentiments of an approaching death.”—And the duke smiled, with a sad, yet winning smile.
“Oh, God!” exclaimed the queen, in a tone of terror, which manifested, more fully than she might have wished, her interest in the duke.
“But I did not tell you this to alarm you, madame. No, it is even ridiculous to speak of it; and, believe me, I do not give importance to such silly dreams. But the words which you have just uttered, the hope which you almost gave me, would be a recompense for everything, even for my life!”
“Oh! but I,” said Anne of Austria—“I also have had my presentiments. I dreamed that I saw you stretched upon the earth, all bloody from a wound.”
“On the left side, and inflicted by a knife, was it not?” said the duke.
“Yes, my lord! it was in the left side, and by a knife. But who could have told you of my dream? I have never spoken of it but in my prayers to God.”
“I ask for no more. You love me, madame! yes, you love me!”
“I love you?”
“Yes, you! Would God send to you the same dreams as to me, if you did not love me? Should we be visited by the same presentiments, if our two existences did not meet in our hearts? Yes, queen, you love me, and you weep for me!”
“Oh, my God! my God!” exclaimed the queen, “this is more than I can bear. In the name of heaven, my lord, withdraw! I know not whether I love you or not; but this I know, that I will never break my vow at the altar. Have pity on me then, and leave this kingdom. Oh! if you should be wounded in France—if you should die in France—if I could imagine that your love for me had been the cause of your death, I should never be consoled. The thought would madden me! Depart then, depart, I beseech you.”
“Oh! how beautiful you are now! How devotedly I love you!” exclaimed Buckingham.
“Depart, I implore you, and return hereafter,” continued the queen. “Come back as an ambassador, as a minister; come back, surrounded by your guards who will defend you, and your servants who will watch over you, and then I shall have no fear for your life, and shall have some happiness in seeing you!”
“Oh! but is it really true what you now tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Give me, then, some pledge of your regard—some object which has once been yours—to satisfy me that I have not been indulging in a dream; something that you have once worn, and that I may wear now—a ring, a necklace, or a chain!”
“And will you go if I give you what you ask?”
“Yes!”
“Immediately?”
“Yes!”
“You will quit France, and will return to England?”
“Yes, I swear I will.”
“Wait, then; wait, sir.”
And Anne of Austria returned to her chamber, and came back almost in an instant, holding in her hand a small casket of rosewood, with her monogram encrusted in gold.
“Here my lord, here! keep this as a memorial of me!”
Buckingham took the casket, and again sank upon his knee.
“You promised me to go,” said the queen.
“And I will keep my word! Your hand, madame, and I leave you!”
Closing her eyes, and leaning on Donna Estefana—for she felt her strength was failing her—Anne of Austria extended her hand.
On that beautiful hand Buckingham pressed his lips passionately, and then arose.
“Before six months have passed,” said he, “if I be not dead, I will see you again, if I must turn the world upside down to accomplish it.”
And true to his promise, he rushed out of the room.
In the corridor he found Madame Bonancieux awaiting him; and, with the same precaution, and the same good fortune, she led him forth out of the Louvre.
13 Monsieur Bonancieux
THERE WAS IN all this affair, as might be remarked, a person of whom, in spite of his precarious situation, we have appeared to take very little notice. This person was M. Bonancieux, a respectable martyr to the political and amorous intrigues which so thoroughly entangled themselves together in that chivalrous and gallant age. Fortunately, as our readers may or may not remember, we have promised not to lose sight of him.
The officers who had arrested him, conducted him at once to the Bastile, where he had to pass, all trembling as he was, before a company of soldiers, who were charging their muskets.
Taken from there into a partly subterraneous gallery, he had to endure the most brutal insults and ill-treatment. The attendants saw that he was not a nobleman, and they treated him therefore like a beggar.
In about half an hour, a registrar came to put an end to his tortures, but not to his anxiety, by ordering that the should be conducted to the question chamber. They generally questioned prisoners in their own cells, but they did not observe so much ceremony with M. Bonancieux.
Two guards laid hold of the mercer, and made him cross a court, and then, entering a corridor where there were three sentinels, they opened a door and pushed him into a low room, which only contained a table, a chair, and a commissary. The commissary was seated on the chair, and was engaged in writing at the table.
The two guards led the prisoner to the table, and at a signal from the commissary, went out of earshot. The commissary, who had till then kept his head bent down over his papers, raised it up to see who he had before him. This commissary was a man with a very crabbed look; a sharp nose; cheeks yellow and puffed out; small, but piercing eyes; and with a countenance reminding one, at the same time, of a polecat and a fox. His head, supported by a long and flexible neck, was thrust out of his full black robe, and balanced itself with a motion very much like that of a turtle putting its head out of its shell.
He began by asking M. Bonancieux his Christian name and surname, his age, profession, and place of abode.
The accused replied that his name was Jacques Bonancieux, that his age was 51 years, that he was a retired mercer, and lived in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, No. 11.
Instead of continuing his questions, the commissary then made him a long speech on the danger of an obscure citizen interfering in public affairs. With this exordium he combined an exposition of the power and actions of the cardinal—that incomparable minister, the conqueror of all preceding ministers, and the example for all future ministers—whom no one could oppose or thwart with impunity.
After this second part of his discourse, he fixed his hawk’s eye on poor Bonancieux, and exhorted him to reflect upon the seriousness of his situation.
This the mercer had already done: he wished M. de la Porte at the devil for having put it into his head to marry his god-daughter, and cursed the hour when that god-daughter had been received into the queen’s service.
The foundation of M. Bonancieux’s character was profound selfishness, mingled with sordid avarice, the whole being seasoned with excessive cowardice. The love which he entertained towards his young wife was quite a secondary sentiment, and could not stand against those primary feelings which we have just enumerated.
Bonancieux, in fact, reflected on what had been said to him.
“But, Mr. Commissary,” he timidly observed, “believe me, that I know well and appreciate the incomparable merit of his eminence, by whom we have the honour of being governed.”
“Really!” said the commissary; with a doubtful look; “but if this be true, how came you to be in the Bastile?”
“How I am there, or rather, why I am there,” replied Bonancieux, “is what it is utterly impossible for me to tell you, seeing that I do not know myself; but most certainly it is not for having offended the cardinal, consciously at least.”
“It is certain, nevertheless, that you must have committed some crime, as you are here accused of high treason.”
“Of high treason!” cried Bonancieux, confounded; “of high treason! And how can you believe that a poor mercer, who hates the Huguenots, and abhors the Spaniards, can be accused of high treason? Reflect, sir—the thing is a moral impossibility.”
“M. Bonancieux,” said the commissary, regarding the accused with his little eyes, as though he had the power of looking into the very depths of his heart, “M. Bonancieux, you have a wife.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the trembling mercer, perceiving that it was on her account that he was now about to be inculpated; “that is to say, I had one.”
“What? you had one! And what have you done with her, that you have her no longer?”
“Some one has carried her off, sir!”
“Some one has taken her from you?” said the commissary. “Ah!”
Bonancieux perceived by this “ah!” that matters were getting worse and worse.
“Some one has taken her from you,” resumed the commissary. “And do you know who has been guilty of this abduction?”
“I think I know.”
“Who is it?”
“Remember that I affirm nothing, Mr. Commissary—I only suspect.”
“Whom do you suspect? Come, don’t hesitate to speak.”
M. Bonancieux was in the greatest perplexity. Ought he to deny everything, or to confess? From a total denial, it might be inferred that he knew too much to admit; and, by a general confession, he might give evidence of his good faith.
He determined, therefore, to have no concealments.
“I suspect,” said he, “a tall, dark man, of lofty air, who has all the appearance of a man of rank. He followed us, I think, many times, when I went to fetch my wife from the gate of the Louvre.”
The commissary appeared somewhat disturbed.
“And his name?” said he.
“Oh! as to his name, I do not know it; but if I should meet him, I could recognise him amongst a thousand persons.”
The brow of the commissary grew dark.
“You could recognise him amongst a thousand, you say?” continued he.
“That is to say,” replied Bonancieux, who saw that he had made a false step, “that is to say———”
“You have said that you could recognise him,” said the commissary; “very well, that is enough for today; it is necessary, before we proceed any further, that some one should be informed that you know the person who has carried off your wife.”
“But I did not tell you that I knew him!” cried M. Bonancieux, in despair. “I told you, on the contrary———”
“Take away the prisoner!” exclaimed the commissary to the two guards.
“Where to?” asked the registrar.
“To a dungeon.”
“To which?”
“Oh! to the first that offers, provided it be secure,” answered the commissary, with an indifference which filled the breast of poor Bonancieux with horror and dismay.
“Alas! alas!” said he, “I am undone. My wife must have committed some frightful crime; and I am supposed to be an accomplice, and shall be punished with her. She must have said something—have confessed that I was her confidant. A woman is such a weak creature! A dungeon! The first that offers! that’s it. A night is soon passed; and then, tomorrow, to the wheel, to the gibbet! Oh! my God, my God, have pity on me!”
Without in the least attending to the lamentations of Master Bonancieux, that were of a kind to which they were tolerably well accustomed, the two guards took him by the arms, and led him away, while the commissary hastily wrote a letter, for which his officer waited.
Bonancieux did not close an eye; not because his dungeon was very uncomfortable, but because his anxiety was very great. He sat upon his stool the whole night, trembling at every noise; and when the first rays of light penetrated his chamber, Aurora herself appeared to him to be dressed in funereal array.
Suddenly he heard the bolts withdrawn, and gave a terrible start. He believed that they were coming to conduct him to the scaffold; and, therefore, when he saw that it was only the commissary and his attendant, he was almost ready to embrace them.
“Your affair has become sadly complicated since last evening, my fine fellow,” said the commissary. “I advise you to tell the whole truth, for your repentance alone can mitigate the anger of the cardinal.”
“But I am ready to tell everything,” said Bonancieux; “everything, at least, that I know; question me, I beseech you!”
“In the first place, where is your wife?”
“I have just told you that some one has carried her off.”
“Yes, but since five o’clock yesterday evening, thanks to you, she has escaped.”
“My wife escaped!” cried Bonancieux; “oh! the wretch! Sir, if she has escaped, I assure you it is not my fault!”
“What were you doing, then, in the apartment of your neighbour, M. d’Artagnan, with whom you had a long conference in the course of the day?”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Commissary, yes, that is true; and I confess I was wrong in that; yes, I was in M. d’Artagnan’s apartments.”
“And why?”
“To entreat him to assist me in finding my wife. I thought I had a right to reclaim her. I was mistaken, it appears, and I humbly beg your pardon.”
“And what answer did M. d’Artagnan give?”
“M. d’Artagnan promised me his assistance; but I soon perceived that he betrayed me.”
“You would mislead justice! M. d’Artagnan made an agreement with you; and in virtue of that agreement, he put to flight the officers who had arrested your wife, and has now secreted her from all our researches.”
“M. d’Artagnan has hidden away my wife? Alas! what do you tell me?”
“Fortunately, M d’Artagnan is in our power, and you shall be confronted with him.”
“Ah, faith! I desire nothing better,” cried M. Bonancieux. “I shall not be sorry to see the face of an acquaintance.”
“Bring in M. d’Artagnan,” said the commissary to the two guards.
The guards brought in Athos.
“M. d’Artagnan,” said the commissary, addressing Athos, “declare what passed between you and that other gentleman.”
“But,” cried M. Bonancieux, “that is not M. d’Artagnan that you show me there.”
“What! not M. d’Artagnan?” cried the commissary.
“By no means,” answered Bonancieux.
“What is the gentleman’s name?” demanded the commissary.
“I cannot tell you; I don’t know him!” replied Bonancieux.
“What! you do not know him?”
“No.”
“You have never set eyes on him?”
“Yes; but I do not know his name.”
“Your name?” demanded the commissary of Athos.
“Athos!” answered the musketeer.
“But that is not the name of a man; it is the name of a mountain!” cried the unfortunate commissary, who began to get confused.
“It is my name,” calmly replied Athos.
“But you said your name was d’Artagnan.”
“I said so?”
“Yes, you!”
“The fact is, that they said to me—you are M. d’Artagnan. I replied—do you think so? My guards said they were sure of it. I did not wish to contradict them; besides, I might be mistaken.”
“Sir! you mock the majesty of justice.”
“Not at all,” calmly replied Athos.
“You are M. d’Artagnan?”
“You see that you still tell me so.”
“But,” cried M. Bonancieux, “I tell you, Mr. Commissary, that there is not the smallest doubt. M. d’Artagnan is my lodger, and, consequently, as he does not pay his rent, I know him only too well. M. d’Artagnan is a young man of nineteen or twenty years of age, at most, and this gentleman is at least thirty. M. d’Artagnan is in the guards of M. des Essarts, and this gentleman is in the company of M. de Treville’s musketeers: observe the uniform.”
“By heavens! it is true!” muttered the commissary. “It is true, by God!”
At this instant the door was quickly opened, and one of the turnkeys of the Bastile introduced a messenger, who gave the commissary a letter.
“Oh! the wretch!” exclaimed the commissary.
“What? of whom do you speak? It is not of my wife, I hope.”
“On the contrary, it is of her. Your affairs are in a nice state.”
“Do me the pleasure,” said the exasperated mercer, “to tell me, sir, how my affairs can be made worse by what my wife does whilst I am in prison?”
“Because what she does is the consequence of an infernal plan arranged between you!”
“I swear to you, Mr. Commissary, that you are in the most profound error; that I know nothing in the world of my wife’s actions; that I am completely ignorant of what she has done; and that, if she has committed follies, I renounce her, I give her the lie, and I curse her.”