2015년 1월 27일 화요일

Twenty Years After 17

Twenty Years After 17

And without adding another word, Grimaud, profiting by the astonishment
and terror into which he had thrown his auditors, rushed from the room.
Two minutes later the thunder of a horse’s hoofs was heard upon the
road; it was Grimaud, on his way to Paris. When once in the saddle
Grimaud reflected on two things; first, that at the pace he was going
his horse would not carry him ten miles, and secondly, that he had no
money. But Grimaud’s ingenuity was more prolific than his speech, and
therefore at the first halt he sold his steed and with the money
obtained from the purchase took post horses.




34. On the Eve of Battle.


Raoul was aroused from his sombre reflections by his host, who rushed
into the apartment crying out, "The Spaniards! the Spaniards!"

That cry was of such importance as to overcome all preoccupation. The
young men made inquiries and ascertained that the enemy was advancing by
way of Houdin and Bethune.

While Monsieur d’Arminges gave orders for the horses to be made ready
for departure, the two young men ascended to the upper windows of the
house and saw in the direction of Marsin and of Lens a large body of
infantry and cavalry. This time it was not a wandering troop of
partisans; it was an entire army. There was therefore nothing for them
to do but to follow the prudent advice of Monsieur d’Arminges and beat a
retreat. They quickly went downstairs. Monsieur d’Arminges was already
mounted. Olivain had ready the horses of the young men, and the lackeys
of the Count de Guiche guarded carefully between them the Spanish
prisoner, mounted on a pony which had been bought for his use. As a
further precaution they had bound his hands.

The little company started off at a trot on the road to Cambrin, where
they expected to find the prince. But he was no longer there, having
withdrawn on the previous evening to La Bassee, misled by false
intelligence of the enemy’s movements. Deceived by this intelligence he
had concentrated his forces between Vieille-Chapelle and La Venthie; and
after a reconnoissance along the entire line, in company with Marshal de
Grammont, he had returned and seated himself before a table, with his
officers around him. He questioned them as to the news they had each
been charged to obtain, but nothing positive had been learned. The
hostile army had disappeared two days before and seemed to have gone out
of existence.

Now an enemy is never so near and consequently so threatening, as when
he has completely disappeared. The prince was, therefore, contrary to
his custom, gloomy and anxious, when an officer entered and announced to
Marshal de Grammont that some one wished to see him.

The Duc de Grammont received permission from the prince by a glance and
went out. The prince followed him with his eyes and continued looking at
the door; no one ventured to speak, for fear of disturbing him.

Suddenly a dull and heavy noise was heard. The prince leaped to his
feet, extending his hand in the direction whence came the sound, there
was no mistaking it--it was the noise of cannon. Every one stood up.

At that moment the door opened.

"Monseigneur," said Marshal de Grammont, with a radiant face, "will your
highness permit my son, Count de Guiche, and his traveling companion,
Viscount de Bragelonne, to come in and give news of the enemy, whom they
have found while we were looking for him?"

"What!" eagerly replied the prince, "will I permit? I not only permit, I
desire; let them come in."

The marshal introduced the two young men and placed them face to face
with the prince.

"Speak, gentlemen," said the prince, saluting them; "first speak; we
shall have time afterward for the usual compliments. The most urgent
thing now is to learn where the enemy is and what he is doing."

It fell naturally to the Count de Guiche to make reply; not only was he
the elder, but he had been presented to the prince by his father.
Besides, he had long known the prince, whilst Raoul now saw him for the
first time. He therefore narrated to the prince what they had seen from
the inn at Mazingarbe.

Meanwhile Raoul closely observed the young general, already made so
famous by the battles of Rocroy, Fribourg, and Nordlingen.

Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Conde, who, since the death of his father,
Henri de Bourbon, was called, in accordance with the custom of that
period, Monsieur le Prince, was a young man, not more than twenty-six or
twenty-seven years old, with the eye of an eagle--agl’ occhi grifani, as
Dante says--aquiline nose, long, waving hair, of medium height, well
formed, possessed of all the qualities essential to the successful
soldier--that is to say, the rapid glance, quick decision, fabulous
courage. At the same time he was a man of elegant manners and strong
mind, so that in addition to the revolution he had made in war, by his
new contributions to its methods, he had also made a revolution at
Paris, among the young noblemen of the court, whose natural chief he was
and who, in distinction from the social leaders of the ancient court,
modeled after Bassompierre, Bellegarde and the Duke d’Angouleme, were
called the petits-maitres.

At the first words of the Count de Guiche, the prince, having in mind
the direction whence came the sound of cannon, had understood
everything. The enemy was marching upon Lens, with the intention,
doubtless, of securing possession of that town and separating from
France the army of France. But in what force was the enemy? Was it a
corps sent out to make a diversion? Was it an entire army? To this
question De Guiche could not respond.

Now, as these questions involved matters of gravest consequence, it was
these to which the prince had especially desired an answer, exact,
precise, positive.

Raoul conquered the very natural feeling of timidity he experienced and
approaching the prince:

"My lord," he said, "will you permit me to hazard a few words on that
subject, which will perhaps relieve you of your uncertainty?"

The prince turned and seemed to cover the young man with a single
glance; he smiled on perceiving that he was a child hardly fifteen years
old.

"Certainly, monsieur, speak," he said, softening his stern, accented
tones, as if he were speaking to a woman.

"My lord," said Raoul, blushing, "might examine the Spanish prisoner."

"Have you a Spanish prisoner?" cried the prince.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ah, that is true," said De Guiche; "I had forgotten it."

"That is easily understood; it was you who took him, count," said Raoul,
smiling.

The old marshal turned toward the viscount, grateful for that praise of
his son, whilst the prince exclaimed:

"The young man is right; let the prisoner be brought in."

Meanwhile the prince took De Guiche aside and asked him how the prisoner
had been taken and who this young man was.

"Monsieur," said the prince, turning toward Raoul, "I know that you have
a letter from my sister, Madame de Longueville; but I see that you have
preferred commending yourself to me by giving me good counsel."

"My lord," said Raoul, coloring up, "I did not wish to interrupt your
highness in a conversation so important as that in which you were
engaged with the count. But here is the letter."

"Very well," said the prince; "give it to me later. Here is the
prisoner; let us attend to what is most pressing."

The prisoner was one of those military adventurers who sold their blood
to whoever would buy, and grew old in stratagems and spoils. Since he
had been taken he had not uttered a word, so that it was not known to
what country he belonged. The prince looked at him with unspeakable
distrust.

"Of what country are you?" asked the prince.

The prisoner muttered a few words in a foreign tongue.

"Ah! ah! it seems that he is a Spaniard. Do you speak Spanish,
Grammont?"

"Faith, my lord, but indifferently."

"And I not at all," said the prince, laughing. "Gentlemen," he said,
turning to those who were near him "can any one of you speak Spanish and
serve me as interpreter?"

"I can, my lord," said Raoul.

"Ah, you speak Spanish?"

"Enough, I think, to fulfill your highness’s wishes on this occasion."

Meanwhile the prisoner had remained impassive and as if he had no
understanding of what was taking place.

"My lord asks of what country you are," said the young man, in the
purest Castilian.

"Ich bin ein Deutscher," replied the prisoner.

"What in the devil does he say?" asked the prince. "What new gibberish
is that?"

"He says he is German, my lord," replied Raoul; "but I doubt it, for his
accent is bad and his pronunciation defective."

"Then you speak German, also?" asked the prince.

"Yes, my lord."

"Well enough to question him in that language?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Question him, then."

Raoul began the examination, but the result justified his opinion. The
prisoner did not understand, or seemed not to understand, what Raoul
said to him; and Raoul could hardly understand his replies, containing a
mixture of Flemish and Alsatian. However, amidst all the prisoner’s
efforts to elude a systematic examination, Raoul had recognized his
natural accent.

"Non siete Spagnuolo," he said; "non siete Tedesco; siete Italiano."

The prisoner started and bit his lips.

"Ah, that," said the prince, "I understand that language thoroughly; and
since he is Italian I will myself continue the examination. Thank you,
viscount," continued the prince, laughing, "and I appoint you from this
moment my interpreter."

But the prisoner was not less unwilling to respond in Italian than in
the other languages; his aim was to elude the examination. Therefore, he
knew nothing either of the enemy’s numbers, or of those in command, or
of the purpose of the army.

"Very good," said the prince, understanding the reason of that
ignorance; "the man was caught in the act of assassination and robbery;
he might have purchased his life by speaking; he doesn’t wish to speak.
Take him out and shoot him."

The prisoner turned pale. The two soldiers who had brought him in took
him, each by one arm, and led him toward the door, whilst the prince,
turning to Marshal de Grammont, seemed to have already forgotten the
order he had given.

When he reached the threshold of the door the prisoner stopped. The
soldiers, who knew only their orders, attempted to force him along.

"One moment," said the prisoner, in French. "I am ready to speak, my
lord."

"Ah! ah!" said the prince, laughing, "I thought we should come to that.
I have a sure method of limbering tongues. Young men, take advantage of
it against the time when you may be in command."

"But on condition," continued the prisoner, "that your highness will
swear that my life shall be safe."

"Upon my honor," said the prince.

"Question, then, my lord."

"Where did the army cross the Lys?"

"Between Saint-Venant and Aire."

"By whom is it commanded?"

"By Count de Fuonsaldagna, General Beck and the archduke."

"Of how many does it consist?"

"Eighteen thousand men and thirty-six cannon."

"And its aim is?"

"Lens."

"You see; gentlemen!" said the prince, turning with a triumphant air
toward Marshal de Grammont and the other officers.

"Yes, my lord," said the marshal, "you have divined all that was
possible to human genius."

"Recall Le Plessis, Bellievre, Villequier and D’Erlac," said the prince,
"recall all the troops that are on this side of the Lys. Let them hold
themselves in readiness to march to-night. To-morrow, according to all
probability, we shall attack the enemy."

"But, my lord," said Marshal de Grammont, "consider that when we have
collected all our forces we shall have hardly thirteen thousand men."

"Monsieur le marechal," said the prince, with that wonderful glance that
was peculiar to him, "it is with small armies that great battles are
won."

Then turning toward the prisoner, "Take away that man," he said, "and
keep him carefully in sight. His life is dependent on the information he
has given us; if it is true, he shall be free; if false, let him be
shot."

The prisoner was led away.

"Count de Guiche," said the prince, "it is a long time since you saw
your father, remain here with him. Monsieur," he continued, addressing
Raoul, "if you are not too tired, follow me."

"To the end of the world, my lord!" cried Raoul, feeling an unknown
enthusiasm for that young general, who seemed to him so worthy of his
renown.

The prince smiled; he despised flatterers, but he appreciated
enthusiasts.

"Come, monsieur," he said, "you are good in council, as we have already
discovered; to-morrow we shall know if you are good in action."

"And I," said the marshal, "what am I to do?"

"Wait here to receive the troops. I shall either return for them myself
or shall send a courier directing you to bring them to me. Twenty
guards, well mounted, are all that I shall need for my escort."

"That is very few," said the marshal.

"It is enough," replied the prince. "Have you a good horse, Monsieur de
Bragelonne?"

"My horse was killed this morning, my lord, and I am mounted
provisionally on my lackey’s."

"Choose for yourself in my stables the horse you like best. No false
modesty; take the best horse you can find. You will need it this
evening, perhaps; you will certainly need it to-morrow."

Raoul didn’t wait to be told twice; he knew that with superiors,
especially when those superiors are princes, the highest politeness is
to obey without delay or argument; he went down to the stables, picked
out a pie-bald Andalusian horse, saddled and bridled it himself, for
Athos had advised him to trust no one with those important offices at a
time of danger, and went to rejoin the prince, who at that moment
mounted his horse.

"Now, monsieur," he said to Raoul, "will you give me the letter you have
brought?"

Raoul handed the letter to the prince.

"Keep near me," said the latter.

The prince threw his bridle over the pommel of the saddle, as he was
wont to do when he wished to have both hands free, unsealed the letter
of Madame de Longueville and started at a gallop on the road to Lens,
attended by Raoul and his small escort, whilst messengers sent to recall
the troops set out with a loose rein in other directions. The prince
read as he hastened on.

"Monsieur," he said, after a moment, "they tell me great things of you.
I have only to say, after the little that I have seen and heard, that I
think even better of you than I have been told."

Raoul bowed.

Meanwhile, as the little troop drew nearer to Lens, the noise of the
cannon sounded louder. The prince kept his gaze fixed in the direction
of the sound with the steadfastness of a bird of prey. One would have
said that his gaze could pierce the branches of trees which limited his
horizon. From time to time his nostrils dilated as if eager for the
smell of powder, and he panted like a horse.

At length they heard the cannon so near that it was evident they were
within a league of the field of battle, and at a turn of the road they
perceived the little village of Aunay.

The peasants were in great commotion. The report of Spanish cruelty had
gone out and every one was frightened. The women had already fled,
taking refuge in Vitry; only a few men remained. On seeing the prince
they hastened to meet him. One of them recognized him.

"Ah, my lord," he said, "have you come to drive away those rascal
Spaniards and those Lorraine robbers?"

"Yes," said the prince, "if you will serve me as guide."

"Willingly, my lord. Where does your highness wish to go?"

"To some elevated spot whence I can look down on Lens and the
surrounding country----"

"In that case, I’m your man."

"I can trust you--you are a true Frenchman?"

"I am an old soldier of Rocroy, my lord."

"Here," said the prince, handing him a purse, "here is for Rocroy. Now,
do you want a horse, or will you go afoot?"

"Afoot, my lord; I have served always in the infantry. Besides, I expect
to lead your highness into places where you will have to walk."

"Come, then," said the prince; "let us lose no time."

The peasant started off, running before the prince’s horse; then, a
hundred steps from the village, he took a narrow road hidden at the
bottom of the valley. For a half league they proceeded thus, the
cannon-shot sounding so near that they expected at each discharge to
hear the hum of the balls. At length they entered a path which, going
out from the road, skirted the mountainside. The prince dismounted,
ordered one of his aids and Raoul to follow his example, and directed
the others to await his orders, keeping themselves meanwhile on the
alert. He then began to ascend the path.

In about ten minutes they reached the ruins of an old chateau; those
ruins crowned the summit of a hill which overlooked the surrounding
country. At a distance of hardly a quarter of a league they looked down
on Lens, at bay, and before Lens the enemy’s entire army.

With a single glance the prince took in the extent of country that lay
before him, from Lens as far as Vimy. In a moment the plan of the battle
which on the following day was to save France the second time from
invasion was unrolled in his mind. He took a pencil, tore a page from
his tablets and wrote:

"My Dear Marshal,--In an hour Lens will be in the enemy’s possession.
Come and rejoin me; bring with you the whole army. I shall be at Vendin
to place it in position. To-morrow we shall retake Lens and beat the
enemy."

Then, turning toward Raoul: "Go, monsieur," he said; "ride fast and give
this letter to Monsieur de Grammont."

Raoul bowed, took the letter, went hastily down the mountain, leaped on
his horse and set out at a gallop. A quarter of an hour later he was
with the marshal.

A portion of the troops had already arrived and the remainder was
expected from moment to moment. Marshal de Grammont put himself at the
head of all the available cavalry and infantry and took the road to
Vendin, leaving the Duc de Chatillon to await and bring on the rest. All
the artillery was ready to move, and started off at a moment’s notice.

It was seven o’clock in the evening when the marshal arrived at the
appointed place. The prince awaited him there. As he had foreseen, Lens
had fallen into the hands of the enemy immediately after Raoul’s
departure. The event was announced by the cessation of the firing.

As the shadows of night deepened the troops summoned by the prince
arrived in successive detachments. Orders were given that no drum should
be beaten, no trumpet sounded.

At nine o’clock the night had fully come. Still a last ray of twilight
lighted the plain. The army marched silently, the prince at the head of
the column. Presently the army came in sight of Lens; two or three
houses were in flames and a dull noise was heard which indicated what
suffering was endured by a town taken by assault.

The prince assigned to every one his post. Marshal de Grammont was to
hold the extreme left, resting on Mericourt. The Duc de Chatillon
commanded the centre. Finally, the prince led the right wing, resting on
Aunay. The order of battle on the morrow was to be that of the positions
taken in the evening. Each one, on awaking, would find himself on the
field of battle.

The movement was executed in silence and with precision. At ten o’clock
every one was in his appointed position; at half-past ten the prince
visited the posts and gave his final orders for the following day.

Three things were especially urged upon the officers, who were to see
that the soldiers observed them scrupulously: the first, that the
different corps should so march that cavalry and infantry should be on
the same line and that each body should protect its gaps; the second, to
go to the charge no faster than a walk; the third, to let the enemy fire
first.

The prince assigned the Count de Guiche to his father and kept
Bragelonne near his own person; but the two young men sought the
privilege of passing the night together and it was accorded them. A tent
was erected for them near that of the marshal.

Although the day had been fatiguing, neither of them was inclined to
sleep. And besides, even for old soldiers the evening before a battle is
a serious time; it was so with greater reason to two young men who were
about to witness for the first time that terrible spectacle. On the
evening before a battle one thinks of a thousand things forgotten till
then; those who are indifferent to one another become friends and those
who are friends become brothers. It need not be said that if in the
depths of the heart there is a sentiment more tender, it reaches then,
quite naturally, the highest exaltation of which it is capable. Some
sentiment of this kind must have been cherished by each one of these two
friends, for each of them almost immediately sat down by himself at an
end of the tent and began to write.

The letters were long--the four pages were covered with closely written
words. The writers sometimes looked up at each other and smiled; they
understood without speaking, their organizations were so delicate and
sympathetic. The letters being finished, each put his own into two
envelopes, so that no one, without tearing the first envelope, could
discover to whom the second was addressed; then they drew near to each
other and smilingly exchanged their letters.

"In case any evil should happen to me," said Bragelonne.

"In case I should be killed," said De Guiche.

They then embraced each other like two brothers, and each wrapping
himself in his cloak they soon passed into that kindly sleep of youth
which is the prerogative of birds, flowers and infants.




35. A Dinner in the Old Style.


The second interview between the former musketeers was not so formal and
threatening as the first. Athos, with his superior understanding, wisely
deemed that the supper table would be the most complete and satisfactory
point of reunion, and at the moment when his friends, in deference to
his deportment and sobriety, dared scarcely speak of some of their
former good dinners, he was the first to propose that they should all
assemble around some well spread table and abandon themselves
unreservedly to their own natural character and manners--a freedom which
had formerly contributed so much to that good understanding between them
which gave them the name of the inseparables. For different reasons this
was an agreeable proposition to them all, and it was therefore agreed
that each should leave a very exact address and that upon the request of
any of the associates a meeting should be convoked at a famous eating
house in the Rue de la Monnaie, of the sign of the Hermitage. The first
rendezvous was fixed for the following Wednesday, at eight o’clock in
the evening precisely.

On that day, in fact, the four friends arrived punctually at the hour,
each from his own abode or occupation. Porthos had been trying a new
horse; D’Artagnan was on guard at the Louvre; Aramis had been to visit
one of his penitents in the neighborhood; and Athos, whose domicile was
established in the Rue Guenegaud, found himself close at hand. They
were, therefore, somewhat surprised to meet altogether at the door of
the Hermitage, Athos starting out from the Pont Neuf, Porthos by the Rue
de la Roule, D’Artagnan by the Rue des Fosse Saint Germain l’Auxerrois,
and Aramis by the Rue de Bethisy.

The first words exchanged between the four friends, on account of the
ceremony which each of them mingled with their demonstration, were
somewhat forced and even the repast began with a kind of stiffness.
Athos perceived this embarrassment, and by way of supplying an effectual
remedy, called for four bottles of champagne.

At this order, given in Athos’s habitually calm manner, the face of the
Gascon relaxed and Porthos’s brow grew smooth. Aramis was astonished. He
knew that Athos not only never drank, but more, that he had a kind of
repugnance to wine. This astonishment was doubled when Aramis saw Athos
fill a bumper and toss it off with all his former enthusiasm. His
companions followed his example. In a very few minutes the four bottles
were empty and this excellent specific succeeded in dissipating even the
slightest cloud that might have rested on their spirits. Now the four
friends began to speak loud, scarcely waiting till one had finished
before another began, and each assumed his favorite attitude on or at
the table. Soon--strange fact--Aramis undid two buttons of his doublet,
seeing which, Porthos unfastened his entirely.

Battles, long journeys, blows given and received, sufficed for the first
themes of conversation, which turned upon the silent struggles sustained
against him who was now called the great cardinal.

"Faith," said Aramis, laughing, "we have praised the dead enough, let us
revile the living a little; I should like to say something evil of
Mazarin; is it permissible?"

"Go on, go on," replied D’Artagnan, laughing heartily; "relate your
story and I will applaud it if it is a good one."

"A great prince," said Aramis, "with whom Mazarin sought an alliance,
was invited by him to send him a list of the conditions on which he
would do him the honor to negotiate with him. The prince, who had a
great repugnance to treat with such an ill-bred fellow, made out a list,
against the grain, and sent it. In this list there were three conditions
which displeased Mazarin and he offered the prince ten thousand crowns
to renounce them."

"Ah, ha, ha!" laughed the three friends, "not a bad bargain; and there
was no fear of being taken at his word; what did the prince do then?"

"The prince immediately sent fifty thousand francs to Mazarin, begging
him never to write to him again, and offered twenty thousand francs
more, on condition that he would never speak to him. What did Mazarin
do?"

"Stormed!" suggested Athos.

"Beat the messenger!" cried Porthos.

"Accepted the money!" said D’Artagnan.

"You have guessed it," answered Aramis; and they all laughed so heartily
that the host appeared in order to inquire whether the gentlemen wanted
anything; he thought they were fighting.

At last their hilarity calmed down and:

"Faith!" exclaimed D’Artagnan to the two friends, "you may well wish ill
to Mazarin; for I assure you, on his side he wishes you no good."

"Pooh! really?" asked Athos. "If I thought the fellow knew me by my name
I would be rebaptized, for fear it might be thought I knew him."

"He knows you better by your actions than your name; he is quite aware
that there are two gentlemen who greatly aided the escape of Monsieur de
Beaufort, and he has instigated an active search for them, I can answer
for it."

"By whom?"

"By me; and this morning he sent for me to ask me if I had obtained any
information."

"And what did you reply?"

"That I had none as yet; but that I was to dine to-day with two
gentlemen, who would be able to give me some."

"You told him that?" said Porthos, a broad smile spreading over his
honest face. "Bravo! and you are not afraid of that, Athos?"

"No," replied Athos, "it is not the search of Mazarin that I fear."

"Now," said Aramis, "tell me a little what you do fear."

"Nothing for the present; at least, nothing in good earnest."

"And with regard to the past?" asked Porthos.

"Oh! the past is another thing," said Athos, sighing; "the past and the
future."

"Are you afraid for your young Raoul?" asked Aramis.

"Well," said D’Artagnan, "one is never killed in a first engagement."

"Nor in the second," said Aramis

"Nor in the third," returned Porthos; "and even when one is killed, one
rises again, the proof of which is, that here we are!"

"No," said Athos, "it is not Raoul about whom I am anxious, for I trust
he will conduct himself like a gentleman; and if he is killed--well, he
will die bravely; but hold--should such a misfortune happen--well--"
Athos passed his hand across his pale brow.

"Well?" asked Aramis.

"Well, I shall look upon it as an expiation."

"Ah!" said D’Artagnan; "I know what you mean."

"And I, too," added Aramis; "but you must not think of that, Athos; what
is past, is past."

"I don’t understand," said Porthos.

"The affair at Armentieres," whispered D’Artagnan.

"The affair at Armentieres?" asked he again.

"Milady."

"Oh, yes!" said Porthos; "true, I had forgotten it!"

Athos looked at him intently.

"You have forgotten it, Porthos?" said he.

"Faith! yes, it is so long ago," answered Porthos.

"This affair does not, then, weigh upon your conscience?"

"Faith, no."

"And you, D’Artagnan?"

"I--I own that when my mind returns to that terrible period I have no
recollection of anything but the rigid corpse of poor Madame Bonancieux.
Yes, yes," murmured he, "I have often felt regret for the victim, but
never the very slightest remorse for the assassin."

Athos shook his dead doubtfully.

"Consider," said Aramis, "if you admit divine justice and its
participation in the things of this world, that woman was punished by
the will of heaven. We were but the instruments, that is all."

"But as to free will, Aramis?"

"How acts the judge? He has a free will, yet he fearlessly condemns.
What does the executioner? He is master of his arm, yet he strikes
without remorse."

"The executioner!" muttered Athos, as if arrested by some recollection.

"I know that it is terrible," said D’Artagnan; "but when I reflect that
we have killed English, Rochellais, Spaniards, nay, even French, who
never did us any other harm but to aim at and to miss us, whose only
fault was to cross swords with us and to be unable to ward off our
blows--I can, on my honor, find an excuse for my share in the murder of
that woman."

"As for me," said Porthos, "now that you have reminded me of it, Athos,
I have the scene again before me, as if I now were there. Milady was
there, as it were, where you sit." (Athos changed color.) "I--I was
where D’Artagnan stands. I wore a long sword which cut like a
Damascus--you remember it, Aramis for you always called it Balizarde.
Well, I swear to you, all three, that had the executioner of
Bethune--was he not of Bethune?--yes, egad! of Bethune!--not been there,
I would have cut off the head of that infamous being without thinking of
it, or even after thinking of it. She was a most atrocious woman."

"And then," said Aramis, with the tone of philosophical indifference
which he had assumed since he had belonged to the church and in which
there was more atheism than confidence in God, "what is the use of
thinking of it all? At the last hour we must confess this action and God
knows better than we can whether it is a crime, a fault, or a
meritorious deed. I repent of it? Egad! no. Upon my honor and by the
holy cross; I only regret it because she was a woman."

"The most satisfactory part of the matter," said D’Artagnan, "is that
there remains no trace of it."

"She had a son," observed Athos.

"Oh! yes, I know that," said D’Artagnan, "and you mentioned it to me;
but who knows what has become of him? If the serpent be dead, why not
its brood? Do you think his uncle De Winter would have brought up that
young viper? De Winter probably condemned the son as he had done the
mother."

"Then," said Athos, "woe to De Winter, for the child had done no harm."

"May the devil take me, if the child be not dead," said Porthos. "There
is so much fog in that detestable country, at least so D’Artagnan
declares."

Just as the quaint conclusion reached by Porthos was about to bring back
hilarity to faces now more or less clouded, hasty footsteps were heard
upon the stair and some one knocked at the door.

"Come in," cried Athos.

"Please your honors," said the host, "a person in a great hurry wishes
to speak to one of you."

"To which of us?" asked all the four friends.

"To him who is called the Comte de la Fere."

"It is I," said Athos, "and what is the name of the person?"

"Grimaud."

"Ah!" exclaimed Athos, turning pale. "Back already! What can have
happened, then, to Bragelonne?"

"Let him enter," cried D’Artagnan; "let him come up."

But Grimaud had already mounted the staircase and was waiting on the
last step; so springing into the room he motioned the host to leave it.
The door being closed, the four friends waited in expectation. Grimaud’s
agitation, his pallor, the sweat which covered his face, the dust which
soiled his clothes, all indicated that he was the messenger of some
important and terrible news.

"Your honors," said he, "that woman had a child; that child has become a
man; the tigress had a little one, the tiger has roused himself; he is
ready to spring upon you--beware!"

Athos glanced around at his friends with a melancholy smile. Porthos
turned to look at his sword, which was hanging on the wall; Aramis
seized his knife; D’Artagnan arose.

"What do you mean, Grimaud?" he exclaimed.

"That Milady’s son has left England, that he is in France, on his road
to Paris, if he be not here already."

"The devil he is!" said Porthos. "Are you sure of it?"

"Certain," replied Grimaud.

This announcement was received in silence. Grimaud was so breathless, so
exhausted, that he had fallen back upon a chair. Athos filled a beaker
with champagne and gave it to him.

"Well, after all," said D’Artagnan, "supposing that he lives, that he
comes to Paris; we have seen many other such. Let him come."

"Yes," echoed Porthos, glancing affectionately at his sword, still
hanging on the wall; "we can wait for him; let him come."

"Moreover, he is but a child," said Aramis.

Grimaud rose.

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