Twenty Years After
“Excellently, Athos, but what are you looking for? You are perhaps a tulip fancier?”
“My dear friend, if I am, you must not laugh at me for being so. In the country people alter; one gets to like, without knowing it, all those beautiful objects that God causes to spring from the earth, which are despised in cities. I was looking anxiously for some iris roots I planted here, close to this reservoir, and which some one has trampled upon this morning. These gardeners are the most careless people in the world; in bringing the horse out to the water they’ve allowed him to walk over the border.”
D’Artagnan began to smile.
“Ah! you think so, do you?”
And he took his friend along the alley, where a number of tracks like those which had trampled down the flowerbeds, were visible.
“Here are the horse’s hoofs again, it seems, Athos,” he said carelessly.
“Yes, indeed, the marks are recent.”
“Quite so,” replied the lieutenant.
“Who went out this morning?” Athos asked, uneasily. “Has any horse got loose?”
“Not likely,” answered the Gascon; “these marks are regular.”
“Where is Raoul?” asked Athos; “how is it that I have not seen him?”
“Hush!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, putting his finger on his lips; and he related what he had seen, watching Athos all the while.
“Ah, he’s gone to Blois; the poor boy-”
“Wherefore?”
“Ah, to inquire after the little La Valliere; she has sprained her foot, you know.”
“You think he has?”
“I am sure of it,” said Athos; “don’t you see that Raoul is in love?”
“Indeed! with whom-with a child seven years old?”
“Dear friend, at Raoul’s age the heart is so expansive that it must encircle one object or another, fancied or real. Well, his love is half real, half fanciful. She is the prettiest little creature in the world, with flaxen hair, blue eyes, – at once saucy and languishing.”
“But what say you to Raoul’s fancy?”
“Nothing-I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the heart is imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in love I was with a Grecian statue which our good king, then Henry IV., gave my father, insomuch that I was mad with grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was nothing but a fable.”
“It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work, so he takes his own way of employing himself.”
“Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here.”
“You will be wise to do so.”
“No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as three or four years ago he used to adorn and adore his little idol, whom he will some day fall in love with in right earnest if he remains here. The parents of little La Valliere have for a long time perceived and been amused at it; now they begin to look concerned.”
“Nonsense! However, Raoul must be diverted from this fancy. Send him away or you will never make a man of him.”
“I think I shall send him to Paris.”
“So!” thought D’Artagnan, and it seemed to him that the moment for attack had arrived.
“Suppose,” he said, “we roughly chalk out a career for this young man. I wish to consult you about some thing.”
“Do so.”
“Do you think it is time for us to enter the service?”
“But are you not still in the service-you, D’Artagnan?”
“I mean active service. Our former life, has it still no attractions for you? would you not be happy to begin anew in my society and in that of Porthos, the exploits of our youth?”
“Do you propose to me to do so, D’Artagnan?”
“Decidedly and honestly.”
“On whose side?” asked Athos, fixing his clear, benevolent glance on the countenance of the Gascon.
“Ah, devil take it, you speak in earnest-”
“And must have a definite answer. Listen, D’Artagnan. There is but one person, or rather, one cause, to whom a man like me can be useful-that of the king.”
“Exactly,” answered the musketeer.
“Yes, but let us understand each other,” returned Athos, seriously. “If by the cause of the king you mean that of Monsieur de Mazarin, we do not understand each other.”
“I don’t say exactly,” answered the Gascon, confused.
“Come, D’Artagnan, don’t let us play a sidelong game; your hesitation, your evasion, tells me at once on whose side you are; for that party no one dares openly to recruit, and when people recruit for it, it is with averted eyes and humble voice.”
“Ah! my dear Athos!”
“You know that I am not alluding to you; you are the pearl of brave, bold men. I speak of that spiteful and intriguing Italian-of the pedant who has tried to put on his own head a crown which he stole from under a pillow-of the scoundrel who calls his party the party of the king-who wants to send the princes of the blood to prison, not daring to kill them, as our great cardinal-our cardinal did-of the miser, who weighs his gold pieces and keeps the clipped ones for fear, though he is rich, of losing them at play next morning-of the impudent fellow who insults the queen, as they say-so much the worse for her-and who is going in three months to make war upon us, in order that he may retain his pensions; is that the master whom you propose to me? I thank you, D’Artagnan.”
“You are more impetuous than you were,” returned D’Artagnan. “Age has warmed, not chilled your blood. Who informed you this was the master I propose to you? Devil take it,” he muttered to himself, “don’t let me betray my secrets to a man not inclined to entertain them.”
“Well, then,” said Athos, “what are your schemes? what do you propose?”
“Zounds! nothing more than natural. You live on your estate, happy in golden mediocrity. Porthos has, perhaps, sixty thousand francs income. Aramis has always fifty duchesses quarreling over the priest, as they quarreled formerly over the musketeer; but I-what have I in the world? I have worn my cuirass these twenty years, kept down in this inferior rank, without going forward or backward, hardly half living. In fact, I am dead. Well! when there is some idea of being resuscitated, you say he’s a scoundrel, an impudent fellow, a miser, a bad master! By Jove! I am of your opinion, but find me a better one or give me the means of living.”
Athos was for a few moments thoughtful.
“Good! D’Artagnan is for Mazarin,” he said to himself.
From that moment he grew very guarded.
On his side D’Artagnan became more cautious also.
“You spoke to me,” Athos resumed, “of Porthos; have you persuaded him to seek his fortune? But he has wealth, I believe, already.”
“Doubtless he has. But such is man, we always want something more than we already have.”
“What does Porthos wish for?”
“To be a baron.”
“Ah, true! I forgot,” said Athos, laughing.
“‘Tis true!” thought the Gascon, “where has he heard it? Does he correspond with Aramis? Ah! if I knew that he did I should know all.”
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Raoul.
“Is our little neighbor worse?” asked D’Artagnan, seeing a look of vexation on the face of the youth.
“Ah, sir!” replied Raoul, “her fall is a very serious one, and without any ostensible injury, the physician fears she will be lame for life.”
“This is terrible,” said Athos.
“And what makes me all the more wretched, sir, is, that I was the cause of this misfortune.”
“How so?” asked Athos.
“It was to run to meet me that she leaped from that pile of wood.”
“There’s only one remedy, dear Raoul-that is, to marry her as a compensation.” remarked D’Artagnan.
“Ah, sir!” answered Raoul, “you joke about a real misfortune; that is cruel, indeed.”
The good understanding between the two friends was not in the least altered by the morning’s skirmish. They breakfasted with a good appetite, looking now and then at poor Raoul, who with moist eyes and a full heart, scarcely ate at all.
After breakfast two letters arrived for Athos, who read them with profound attention, whilst D’Artagnan could not restrain himself from jumping up several times on seeing him read these epistles, in one of which, there being at the time a very strong light, he perceived the fine writing of Aramis. The other was in a feminine hand, long, and crossed.
“Come,” said D’Artagnan to Raoul, seeing that Athos wished to be alone, “come, let us take a turn in the fencing gallery; that will amuse you.”
And they both went into a low room where there were foils, gloves, masks, breastplates, and all the accessories for a fencing match.
In a quarter of an hour Athos joined them and at the same moment Charles brought in a letter for D’Artagnan, which a messenger had just desired might be instantly delivered.
It was now Athos’s turn to take a sly look.
D’Artagnan read the letter with apparent calmness and said, shaking his head:
“See, dear friend, what it is to belong to the army. Faith, you are indeed right not to return to it. Monsieur de Treville is ill, so my company can’t do without me; there! my leave is at an end!”
“Do you return to Paris?” asked Athos, quickly.
“Egad! yes; but why don’t you come there also?”
Athos colored a little and answered:
“Should I go, I shall be delighted to see you there.”
“Halloo, Planchet!” cried the Gascon from the door, “we must set out in ten minutes; give the horses some hay.”
Then turning to Athos he added:
“I seem to miss something here. I am really sorry to go away without having seen Grimaud.”
“Grimaud!” replied Athos. “I’m surprised you have never so much as asked after him. I have lent him to a friend-”
“Who will understand the signs he makes?” returned D’Artagnan.
“I hope so.”
The friends embraced cordially; D’Artagnan pressed Raoul’s hand.
“Will you not come with me?” he said; “I shall pass by Blois.”
Raoul turned toward Athos, who showed him by a secret sign that he did not wish him to go.
“No, monsieur,” replied the young man; “I will remain with monsieur le comte.”
“Adieu, then, to both, my good friends,” said D’Artagnan; “may God preserve you! as we used to say when we said good-bye to each other in the late cardinal’s time.”
Athos waved his hand, Raoul bowed, and D’Artagnan and Planchet set out.
The count followed them with his eyes, his hands resting on the shoulders of the youth, whose height was almost equal to his own; but as soon as they were out of sight he said:
“Raoul, we set out to-night for Paris.”
“Eh?” cried the young man, turning pale.
“You may go and offer your adieux and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy. I shall wait for you here till seven.”
The young man bent low, with an expression of sorrow and gratitude mingled, and retired in order to saddle his horse.
As to D’Artagnan, scarcely, on his side, was he out of sight when he drew from his pocket a letter, which he read over again:
“Return immediately to Paris. – J. M-.”
“The epistle is laconic,” said D’Artagnan; “and if there had not been a postscript, probably I should not have understood it; but happily there is a postscript.”
And he read that welcome postscript, which made him forget the abruptness of the letter.
“P. S. – Go to the king’s treasurer, at Blois; tell him your name and show him this letter; you will receive two hundred pistoles.”
“Assuredly,” said D’Artagnan, “I admire this piece of prose. The cardinal writes better than I thought. Come, Planchet, let us pay a visit to the king’s treasurer and then set off.”
“Toward Paris, sir?”
“Toward Paris.”
And they set out at as hard a canter as their horses could maintain.
16. The Duc de Beaufort
The circumstances that had hastened the return of D’Artagnan to Paris were as follows:
One evening, when Mazarin, according to custom, went to visit the queen, in passing the guard-chamber he heard loud voices; wishing to know on what topic the soldiers were conversing, he approached with his wonted wolf-like step, pushed open the door and put his head close to the chink.
There was a dispute among the guards.
“I tell you,” one of them was saying, “that if Coysel predicted that, ‘tis as good as true; I know nothing about it, but I have heard say that he’s not only an astrologer, but a magician.”
“Deuce take it, friend, if he’s one of thy friends thou wilt ruin him in saying so.”
“Why?”
“Because he may be tried for it.”
“Ah! absurd! they don’t burn sorcerers nowadays.”
“No? ‘Tis not a long time since the late cardinal burnt Urban Grandier, though.”
“My friend, Urban Grandier wasn’t a sorcerer, he was a learned man. He didn’t predict the future, he knew the past-often a more dangerous thing.”
Mazarin nodded an assent, but wishing to know what this prediction was, about which they disputed, he remained in the same place.
“I don’t say,” resumed the guard, “that Coysel is not a sorcerer, but I say that if his prophecy gets wind, it’s a sure way to prevent it’s coming true.”
“How so?”
“Why, in this way: if Coysel says loud enough for the cardinal to hear him, on such or such a day such a prisoner will escape, ‘tis plain that the cardinal will take measures of precaution and that the prisoner will not escape.”
“Good Lord!” said another guard, who might have been thought asleep on a bench, but who had lost not a syllable of the conversation, “do you suppose that men can escape their destiny? If it is written yonder, in Heaven, that the Duc de Beaufort is to escape, he will escape; and all the precautions of the cardinal will not prevent it.”
Mazarin started. He was an Italian and therefore superstitious. He walked straight into the midst of the guards, who on seeing him were silent.
“What were you saying?” he asked with his flattering manner; “that Monsieur de Beaufort had escaped, were you not?”
“Oh, no, my lord!” said the incredulous soldier. “He’s well guarded now; we only said he would escape.”
“Who said so?”
“Repeat your story, Saint Laurent,” replied the man, turning to the originator of the tale.
“My lord,” said the guard, “I have simply mentioned the prophecy I heard from a man named Coysel, who believes that, be he ever so closely watched and guarded, the Duke of Beaufort will escape before Whitsuntide.”
“Coysel is a madman!” returned the cardinal.
“No,” replied the soldier, tenacious in his credulity; “he has foretold many things which have come to pass; for instance, that the queen would have a son; that Monsieur Coligny would be killed in a duel with the Duc de Guise; and finally, that the coadjutor would be made cardinal. Well! the queen has not only one son, but two; then, Monsieur de Coligny was killed, and-”
“Yes,” said Mazarin, “but the coadjutor is not yet made cardinal!”
“No, my lord, but he will be,” answered the guard.
Mazarin made a grimace, as if he meant to say, “But he does not wear the cardinal’s cap;” then he added:
“So, my friend, it’s your opinion that Monsieur de Beaufort will escape?”
“That’s my idea, my lord; and if your eminence were to offer to make me at this moment governor of the castle of Vincennes, I should refuse it. After Whitsuntide it would be another thing.”
There is nothing so convincing as a firm conviction. It has its own effect upon the most incredulous; and far from being incredulous, Mazarin was superstitious. He went away thoughtful and anxious and returned to his own room, where he summoned Bernouin and desired him to fetch thither in the morning the special guard he had placed over Monsieur de Beaufort and to awaken him whenever he should arrive.
The guard had, in fact, touched the cardinal in the tenderest point. During the whole five years in which the Duc de Beaufort had been in prison not a day had passed in which the cardinal had not felt a secret dread of his escape. It was not possible, as he knew well, to confine for the whole of his life the grandson of Henry IV., especially when this young prince was scarcely thirty years of age. But however and whensoever he did escape, what hatred he must cherish against him to whom he owed his long imprisonment; who had taken him, rich, brave, glorious, beloved by women, feared by men, to cut off his life’s best, happiest years; for it is not life, it is merely existence, in prison! Meantime, Mazarin redoubled his surveillance over the duke. But like the miser in the fable, he could not sleep for thinking of his treasure. Often he awoke in the night, suddenly, dreaming that he had been robbed of Monsieur de Beaufort. Then he inquired about him and had the vexation of hearing that the prisoner played, drank, sang, but that whilst playing, drinking, singing, he often stopped short to vow that Mazarin should pay dear for all the amusements he had forced him to enter into at Vincennes.
So much did this one idea haunt the cardinal even in his sleep, that when at seven in the morning Bernouin came to arouse him, his first words were: “Well, what’s the matter? Has Monsieur de Beaufort escaped from Vincennes?”
“I do not think so, my lord,” said Bernouin; “but you will hear about him, for La Ramee is here and awaits the commands of your eminence.”
“Tell him to come in,” said Mazarin, arranging his pillows, so that he might receive the visitor sitting up in bed.
The officer entered, a large fat man, with an open physiognomy. His air of perfect serenity made Mazarin uneasy.
“Approach, sir,” said the cardinal.
The officer obeyed.
“Do you know what they are saying here?”
“No, your eminence.”
“Well, they say that Monsieur de Beaufort is going to escape from Vincennes, if he has not done so already.”
The officer’s face expressed complete stupefaction. He opened at once his little eyes and his great mouth, to inhale better the joke his eminence deigned to address to him, and ended by a burst of laughter, so violent that his great limbs shook in hilarity as they would have done in an ague.
“Escape! my lord-escape! Your eminence does not then know where Monsieur de Beaufort is?”
“Yes, I do, sir; in the donjon of Vincennes.”
“Yes, sir; in a room, the walls of which are seven feet thick, with grated windows, each bar as thick as my arm.”
“Sir,” replied Mazarin, “with perseverance one may penetrate through a wall; with a watch-spring one may saw through an iron bar.”
“Then my lord does not know that there are eight guards about him, four in his chamber, four in the antechamber, and that they never leave him.”
“But he leaves his room, he plays at tennis at the Mall?”
“Sir, those amusements are allowed; but if your eminence wishes it, we will discontinue the permission.”
“No, no!” cried Mazarin, fearing that should his prisoner ever leave his prison he would be the more exasperated against him if he thus retrenched his amusement. He then asked with whom he played.
“My lord, either with the officers of the guard, with the other prisoners, or with me.”
“But does he not approach the walls while playing?”
“Your eminence doesn’t know those walls; they are sixty feet high and I doubt if Monsieur de Beaufort is sufficiently weary of life to risk his neck by jumping off.”
“Hum!” said the cardinal, beginning to feel more comfortable. “You mean to say, then, my dear Monsieur la Ramee-”
“That unless Monsieur de Beaufort can contrive to metamorphose himself into a little bird, I will continue answerable for him.”
“Take care! you assert a great deal,” said Mazarin. “Monsieur de Beaufort told the guards who took him to Vincennes that he had often thought what he should do in case he were put into prison, and that he had found out forty ways of escaping.”
“My lord, if among these forty there had been one good way he would have been out long ago.”
“Come, come; not such a fool as I fancied!” thought Mazarin.
“Besides, my lord must remember that Monsieur de Chavigny is governor of Vincennes,” continued La Ramee, “and that Monsieur de Chavigny is not friendly to Monsieur de Beaufort.”
“Yes, but Monsieur de Chavigny is sometimes absent.”
“When he is absent I am there.”
“But when you leave him, for instance?”
“Oh! when I leave him, I place in my stead a bold fellow who aspires to be his majesty’s special guard. I promise you he keeps a good watch over the prisoner. During the three weeks that he has been with me, I have only had to reproach him with one thing-being too severe with the prisoners.”
“And who is this Cerberus?”
“A certain Monsieur Grimaud, my lord.”
“And what was he before he went to Vincennes?”
“He was in the country, as I was told by the person who recommended him to me.”
“And who recommended this man to you?”
“The steward of the Duc de Grammont.”
“He is not a gossip, I hope?”
“Lord a mercy, my lord! I thought for a long time that he was dumb; he answers only by signs. It seems his former master accustomed him to that.”
“Well, dear Monsieur la Ramee,” replied the cardinal “let him prove a true and thankful keeper and we will shut our eyes upon his rural misdeeds and put on his back a uniform to make him respectable, and in the pockets of that uniform some pistoles to drink to the king’s health.”
Mazarin was large in promises, – quite unlike the virtuous Monsieur Grimaud so bepraised by La Ramee; for he said nothing and did much.
It was now nine o’clock. The cardinal, therefore, got up, perfumed himself, dressed, and went to the queen to tell her what had detained him. The queen, who was scarcely less afraid of Monsieur de Beaufort than the cardinal himself, and who was almost as superstitious as he was, made him repeat word for word all La Ramee’s praises of his deputy. Then, when the cardinal had ended:
“Alas, sir! why have we not a Grimaud near every prince?”
“Patience!” replied Mazarin, with his Italian smile; “that may happen one day; but in the meantime-”
“Well, in the meantime?”
“I shall still take precautions.”
And he wrote to D’Artagnan to hasten his return.
17. Duc de Beaufort amused his Leisure Hours in the Donjon of Vincennes
The captive who was the source of so much alarm to the cardinal and whose means of escape disturbed the repose of the whole court, was wholly unconscious of the terror he caused at the Palais Royal.
He had found himself so strictly guarded that he soon perceived the fruitlessness of any attempt at escape. His vengeance, therefore, consisted in coining curses on the head of Mazarin; he even tried to make some verses on him, but soon gave up the attempt, for Monsieur de Beaufort had not only not received from Heaven the gift of versifying, he had the greatest difficulty in expressing himself in prose.
The duke was the grandson of Henry IV. and Gabrielle d’Estrees-as good-natured, as brave, as proud, and above all, as Gascon as his ancestor, but less elaborately educated. After having been for some time after the death of Louis XIII. the favorite, the confidant, the first man, in short, at the court, he had been obliged to yield his place to Mazarin and so became the second in influence and favor; and eventually, as he was stupid enough to be vexed at this change of position, the queen had had him arrested and sent to Vincennes in charge of Guitant, who made his appearance in these pages in the beginning of this history and whom we shall see again. It is understood, of course, that when we say “the queen,” Mazarin is meant.
During the five years of this seclusion, which would have improved and matured the intellect of any other man, M. de Beaufort, had he not affected to brave the cardinal, despise princes, and walk alone without adherents or disciples, would either have regained his liberty or made partisans. But these considerations never occurred to the duke and every day the cardinal received fresh accounts of him which were as unpleasant as possible to the minister.
After having failed in poetry, Monsieur de Beaufort tried drawing. He drew portraits, with a piece of coal, of the cardinal; and as his talents did not enable him to produce a very good likeness, he wrote under the picture that there might be little doubt regarding the original: “Portrait of the Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin.” Monsieur de Chavigny, the governor of Vincennes, waited upon the duke to request that he would amuse himself in some other way, or that at all events, if he drew likenesses, he would not put mottoes underneath them. The next day the prisoner’s room was full of pictures and mottoes. Monsieur de Beaufort, in common with many other prisoners, was bent upon doing things that were prohibited; and the only resource the governor had was, one day when the duke was playing at tennis, to efface all these drawings, consisting chiefly of profiles. M. de Beaufort did not venture to draw the cardinal’s fat face.