"And you say that you have made certain conditions on my behalf?"
"Magnificent, my dear fellow, magnificent! In the first place you have
plenty of money, haven’t you? forty thousand francs income, I think you
said."
Porthos began to be suspicious. "Eh! my friend," said he, "one never has
too much money. Madame du Vallon left things in much disorder; I am not
much of a hand at figures, so that I live almost from hand to mouth."
"He is afraid I have come to borrow money," thought D’Artagnan. "Ah, my
friend," said he, "it is all the better if you are in difficulties."
"How is it all the better?"
"Yes, for his eminence will give you all that you want--land, money, and
titles."
"Ah! ah! ah!" said Porthos, opening his eyes at that last word.
"Under the other cardinal," continued D’Artagnan, "we didn’t know enough
to make our profits; this, however, doesn’t concern you, with your forty
thousand francs income, the happiest man in the world, it seems to me."
Porthos sighed.
"At the same time," continued D’Artagnan, "notwithstanding your forty
thousand francs a year, and perhaps even for the very reason that you
have forty thousand francs a year, it seems to me that a little coronet
would do well on your carriage, hey?"
"Yes indeed," said Porthos.
"Well, my dear friend, win it--it is at the point of your sword. We
shall not interfere with each other--your object is a title; mine,
money. If I can get enough to rebuild Artagnan, which my ancestors,
impoverished by the Crusades, allowed to fall into ruins, and to buy
thirty acres of land about it, that is all I wish. I shall retire and
die tranquilly--at home."
"For my part," said Porthos, "I desire to be made a baron."
"You shall be one."
"And have you not seen any of our other friends?"
"Yes, I have seen Aramis."
"And what does he wish? To be a bishop?"
"Aramis," answered D’Artagnan, who did not wish to undeceive Porthos,
"Aramis, fancy, has become a monk and a Jesuit, and lives like a bear.
My offers did not arouse him,--did not even tempt him."
"So much the worse! He was a clever man. And Athos?"
"I have not yet seen him. Do you know where I shall find him?"
"Near Blois. He is called Bragelonne. Only imagine, my dear friend.
Athos, who was of as high birth as the emperor and who inherits one
estate which gives him the title of comte, what is he to do with all
those dignities--the Comte de la Fere, Comte de Bragelonne?"
"And he has no children with all these titles?"
"Ah!" said Porthos, "I have heard that he had adopted a young man who
resembles him greatly."
"What, Athos? Our Athos, who was as virtuous as Scipio? Have you seen
him?
"No."
"Well, I shall see him to-morrow and tell him about you; but I’m afraid,
entre nous, that his liking for wine has aged and degraded him."
"Yes, he used to drink a great deal," replied Porthos.
"And then he was older than any of us," added D’Artagnan.
"Some years only. His gravity made him look older than he was."
"Well then, if we can get Athos, all will be well. If we cannot, we will
do without him. We two are worth a dozen."
"Yes," said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of his former exploits;
"but we four, altogether, would be equal to thirty-six, more especially
as you say the work will not be child’s play. Will it last long?"
"By’r Lady! two or three years perhaps."
"So much the better," cried Porthos. "You have no idea, my friend, how
my bones ache since I came here. Sometimes on a Sunday, I take a ride in
the fields and on the property of my neighbours, in order to pick up a
nice little quarrel, which I am really in want of, but nothing happens.
Either they respect or they fear me, which is more likely, but they let
me trample down the clover with my dogs, insult and obstruct every one,
and I come back still more weary and low-spirited, that’s all. At any
rate, tell me: there’s more chance of fighting in Paris, is there not?"
"In that respect, my dear friend, it’s delightful. No more edicts, no
more of the cardinal’s guards, no more De Jussacs, nor other
bloodhounds. I’Gad! underneath a lamp in an inn, anywhere, they ask ’Are
you one of the Fronde?’ They unsheathe, and that’s all that is said. The
Duke de Guise killed Monsieur de Coligny in the Place Royale and nothing
was said of it."
"Ah, things go on gaily, then," said Porthos.
"Besides which, in a short time," resumed D’Artagnan, "We shall have set
battles, cannonades, conflagrations and there will be great variety."
"Well, then, I decide."
"I have your word, then?"
"Yes, ’tis given. I shall fight heart and soul for Mazarin; but----"
"But?"
"But he must make me a baron."
"Zounds!" said D’Artagnan, "that’s settled already; I will be
responsible for the barony."
On this promise being given, Porthos, who had never doubted his friend’s
assurance, turned back with him toward the castle.
12. Porthos was Discontented with his Condition.
As they returned toward the castle, D’Artagnan thought of the miseries
of poor human nature, always dissatisfied with what it has, ever
desirous of what it has not.
In the position of Porthos, D’Artagnan would have been perfectly happy;
and to make Porthos contented there was wanting--what? five letters to
put before his three names, a tiny coronet to paint upon the panels of
his carriage!
"I shall pass all my life," thought D’Artagnan, "in seeking for a man
who is really contented with his lot."
Whilst making this reflection, chance seemed, as it were, to give him
the lie direct. When Porthos had left him to give some orders he saw
Mousqueton approaching. The face of the steward, despite one slight
shade of care, light as a summer cloud, seemed a physiognomy of absolute
felicity.
"Here is what I am looking for," thought D’Artagnan; "but alas! the poor
fellow does not know the purpose for which I am here."
He then made a sign for Mousqueton to come to him.
"Sir," said the servant, "I have a favour to ask you."
"Speak out, my friend."
"I am afraid to do so. Perhaps you will think, sir, that prosperity has
spoiled me?"
"Art thou happy, friend?" asked D’Artagnan.
"As happy as possible; and yet, sir, you may make me even happier than I
am."
"Well, speak, if it depends on me."
"Oh, sir! it depends on you only."
"I listen--I am waiting to hear."
"Sir, the favor I have to ask of you is, not to call me ’Mousqueton’ but
’Mouston.’ Since I have had the honor of being my lord’s steward I have
taken the last name as more dignified and calculated to make my
inferiors respect me. You, sir, know how necessary subordination is in
any large establishment of servants."
D’Artagnan smiled; Porthos wanted to lengthen out his names, Mousqueton
to cut his short.
"Well, my dear Mouston," he said, "rest satisfied. I will call thee
Mouston; and if it makes thee happy I will not ’tutoyer’ you any
longer."
"Oh!" cried Mousqueton, reddening with joy; "if you do me, sir, such
honor, I shall be grateful all my life; it is too much to ask."
"Alas!" thought D’Artagnan, "it is very little to offset the unexpected
tribulations I am bringing to this poor devil who has so warmly welcomed
me."
"Will monsieur remain long with us?" asked Mousqueton, with a serene and
glowing countenance.
"I go to-morrow, my friend," replied D’Artagnan.
"Ah, monsieur," said Mousqueton, "then you have come here only to awaken
our regrets."
"I fear that is true," said D’Artagnan, in a low tone.
D’Artagnan was secretly touched with remorse, not at inducing Porthos to
enter into schemes in which his life and fortune would be in jeopardy,
for Porthos, in the title of baron, had his object and reward; but poor
Mousqueton, whose only wish was to be called Mouston--was it not cruel
to snatch him from the delightful state of peace and plenty in which he
was?
He was thinking of these matters when Porthos summoned him to dinner.
"What! to dinner?" said D’Artagnan. "What time is it, then?"
"Eh! why, it is after one o’clock."
"Your home is a paradise, Porthos; one takes no note of time. I follow
you, though I am not hungry."
"Come, if one can’t always eat, one can always drink--a maxim of poor
Athos, the truth of which I have discovered since I began to be lonely."
D’Artagnan, who as a Gascon, was inclined to sobriety, seemed not so
sure as his friend of the truth of Athos’s maxim, but he did his best to
keep up with his host. Meanwhile his misgivings in regard to Mousqueton
recurred to his mind and with greater force because Mousqueton, though
he did not himself wait on the table, which would have been beneath him
in his new position, appeared at the door from time to time and evinced
his gratitude to D’Artagnan by the quality of the wine he directed to be
served. Therefore, when, at dessert, upon a sign from D’Artagnan,
Porthos had sent away his servants and the two friends were alone:
"Porthos," said D’Artagnan, "who will attend you in your campaigns?"
"Why," replied Porthos, "Mouston, of course."
This was a blow to D’Artagnan. He could already see the intendant’s
beaming smile change to a contortion of grief. "But," he said, "Mouston
is not so young as he was, my dear fellow; besides, he has grown fat and
perhaps has lost his fitness for active service."
"That may be true," replied Porthos; "but I am used to him, and besides,
he wouldn’t be willing to let me go without him, he loves me so much."
"Oh, blind self-love!" thought D’Artagnan.
"And you," asked Porthos, "haven’t you still in your service your old
lackey, that good, that brave, that intelligent---what, then, is his
name?"
"Planchet--yes, I have found him again, but he is lackey no longer."
"What is he, then?"
"With his sixteen hundred francs--you remember, the sixteen hundred
francs he earned at the siege of La Rochelle by carrying a letter to
Lord de Winter--he has set up a little shop in the Rue des Lombards and
is now a confectioner."
"Ah, he is a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards! How does it happen,
then, that he is in your service?"
"He has been guilty of certain escapades and fears he may be disturbed."
And the musketeer narrated to his friend Planchet’s adventure.
"Well," said Porthos, "if any one had told you in the old times that the
day would come when Planchet would rescue Rochefort and that you would
protect him in it----"
"I should not have believed him; but men are changed by events."
"There is nothing truer than that," said Porthos; "but what does not
change, or changes for the better, is wine. Taste of this; it is a
Spanish wine which our friend Athos thought much of."
At that moment the steward came in to consult his master upon the
proceedings of the next day and also with regard to the shooting party
which had been proposed.
"Tell me, Mouston," said Porthos, "are my arms in good condition?"
"Your arms, my lord--what arms?"
"Zounds! my weapons."
"What weapons?"
"My military weapons."
"Yes, my lord; at any rate, I think so."
"Make sure of it, and if they want it, have them burnished up. Which is
my best cavalry horse?"
"Vulcan."
"And the best hack?"
"Bayard."
"What horse dost thou choose for thyself?"
"I like Rustaud, my lord; a good animal, whose paces suit me."
"Strong, thinkest thou?"
"Half Norman, half Mecklenburger; will go night and day."
"That will do for us. See to these horses. Polish up or make some one
else polish my arms. Then take pistols with thee and a hunting-knife."
"Are we then going to travel, my lord?" asked Mousqueton, rather uneasy.
"Something better still, Mouston."
"An expedition, sir?" asked the steward, whose roses began to change
into lilies.
"We are going to return to the service, Mouston," replied Porthos, still
trying to restore his mustache to the military curl it had long lost.
"Into the service--the king’s service?" Mousqueton trembled; even his
fat, smooth cheeks shook as he spoke, and he looked at D’Artagnan with
an air of reproach; he staggered, and his voice was almost choked.
"Yes and no. We shall serve in a campaign, seek out all sorts of
adventures--return, in short, to our former life."
These last words fell on Mousqueton like a thunderbolt. It was those
very terrible old days that made the present so excessively delightful,
and the blow was so great he rushed out, overcome, and forgot to shut
the door.
The two friends remained alone to speak of the future and to build
castles in the air. The good wine which Mousqueton had placed before
them traced out in glowing drops to D’Artagnan a fine perspective,
shining with quadruples and pistoles, and showed to Porthos a blue
ribbon and a ducal mantle; they were, in fact, asleep on the table when
the servants came to light them to their bed.
Mousqueton was, however, somewhat consoled by D’Artagnan, who the next
day told him that in all probability war would always be carried on in
the heart of Paris and within reach of the Chateau du Vallon, which was
near Corbeil, or Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of Pierrefonds,
which was between Compiegne and Villars-Cotterets.
"But--formerly--it appears," began Mousqueton timidly.
"Oh!" said D’Artagnan, "we don’t now make war as we did formerly. To-day
it’s a sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask Planchet."
Mousqueton inquired, therefore, the state of the case of his old friend,
who confirmed the statement of D’Artagnan. "But," he added, "in this war
prisoners stand a chance of being hung."
"The deuce they do!" said Mousqueton; "I think I should like the siege
of Rochelle better than this war, then!"
Porthos, meantime, asked D’Artagnan to give him his instructions how to
proceed on his journey.
"Four days," replied his friend, "are necessary to reach Blois; one day
to rest there; three or four days to return to Paris. Set out,
therefore, in a week, with your suite, and go to the Hotel de la
Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and there await me."
"That’s agreed," said Porthos.
"As to myself, I shall go around to see Athos; for though I don’t think
his aid worth much, one must with one’s friends observe all due
politeness," said D’Artagnan.
The friends then took leave of each other on the very border of the
estate of Pierrefonds, to which Porthos escorted his friend.
"At least," D’Artagnan said to himself, as he took the road to
Villars-Cotterets, "at least I shall not be alone in my undertaking.
That devil, Porthos, is a man of prodigious strength; still, if Athos
joins us, well, we shall be three of us to laugh at Aramis, that little
coxcomb with his too good luck."
At Villars-Cotterets he wrote to the cardinal:
"My Lord,--I have already one man to offer to your eminence, and he is
well worth twenty men. I am just setting out for Blois. The Comte de la
Fere inhabits the Castle of Bragelonne, in the environs of that city."
13. Two Angelic Faces.
The road was long, but the horses upon which D’Artagnan and Planchet
rode had been refreshed in the well supplied stables of the Lord of
Bracieux; the master and servant rode side by side, conversing as they
went, for D’Artagnan had by degrees thrown off the master and Planchet
had entirely ceased to assume the manners of a servant. He had been
raised by circumstances to the rank of a confidant to his master. It was
many years since D’Artagnan had opened his heart to any one; it
happened, however, that these two men, on meeting again, assimilated
perfectly. Planchet was in truth no vulgar companion in these new
adventures; he was a man of uncommonly sound sense. Without courting
danger he never shrank from an encounter; in short, he had been a
soldier and arms ennoble a man; it was, therefore, on the footing of
friends that D’Artagnan and Planchet arrived in the neighborhood of
Blois.
Going along, D’Artagnan, shaking his head, said:
"I know that my going to Athos is useless and absurd; but still I owe
this courtesy to my old friend, a man who had in him material for the
most noble and generous of characters."
"Oh, Monsieur Athos was a noble gentleman," said Planchet, "was he not?
Scattering money round about him as Heaven sprinkles rain. Do you
remember, sir, that duel with the Englishman in the inclosure des
Carmes? Ah! how lofty, how magnificent Monsieur Athos was that day, when
he said to his adversary: ’You have insisted on knowing my name, sir; so
much the worse for you, since I shall be obliged to kill you.’ I was
near him, those were his exact words, when he stabbed his foe as he said
he would, and his adversary fell without saying, ’Oh!’ ’Tis a noble
gentleman--Monsieur Athos."
"Yes, true as Gospel," said D’Artagnan; "but one single fault has
swallowed up all these fine qualities."
"I remember well," said Planchet, "he was fond of drinking--in truth, he
drank, but not as other men drink. One seemed, as he raised the wine to
his lips, to hear him say, ’Come, juice of the grape, and chase away my
sorrows.’ And how he used to break the stem of a glass or the neck of a
bottle! There was no one like him for that."
"And now," replied D’Artagnan, "behold the sad spectacle that awaits us.
This noble gentleman with his lofty glance, this handsome cavalier, so
brilliant in feats of arms that every one was surprised that he held in
his hand a sword only instead of a baton of command! Alas! we shall find
him changed into a broken down old man, with garnet nose and eyes that
slobber; we shall find him extended on some lawn, whence he will look at
us with a languid eye and peradventure will not recognize us. God knows,
Planchet, that I should fly from a sight so sad if I did not wish to
show my respect for the illustrious shadow of what was once the Comte de
la Fere, whom we loved so much."
Planchet shook his head and said nothing. It was evident that he shared
his master’s apprehensions.
"And then," resumed D’Artagnan, "to this decrepitude is probably added
poverty, for he must have neglected the little that he had, and the
dirty scoundrel, Grimaud, more taciturn than ever and still more drunken
than his master--stay, Planchet, it breaks my heart to merely think of
it."
"I fancy myself there and that I see him staggering and hear him
stammering," said Planchet, in a piteous tone, "but at all events we
shall soon know the real state of things, for I imagine that those lofty
walls, now turning ruby in the setting sun, are the walls of Blois."
"Probably; and those steeples, pointed and sculptured, that we catch a
glimpse of yonder, are similar to those that I have heard described at
Chambord."
At this moment one of those heavy wagons, drawn by bullocks, which carry
the wood cut in the fine forests of the country to the ports of the
Loire, came out of a byroad full of ruts and turned on that which the
two horsemen were following. A man carrying a long switch with a nail at
the end of it, with which he urged on his slow team, was walking with
the cart.
"Ho! friend," cried Planchet.
"What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?" replied the peasant, with a purity of
accent peculiar to the people of that district and which might have put
to shame the cultured denizens of the Sorbonne and the Rue de
l’Universite.
"We are looking for the house of Monsieur de la Fere," said D’Artagnan.
The peasant took off his hat on hearing this revered name.
"Gentlemen," he said, "the wood that I am carting is his; I cut it in
his copse and I am taking it to the chateau."
D’Artagnan determined not to question this man; he did not wish to hear
from another what he had himself said to Planchet.
"The chateau!" he said to himself, "what chateau? Ah, I understand!
Athos is not a man to be thwarted; he, like Porthos, has obliged his
peasantry to call him ’my lord,’ and to dignify his pettifogging place
by the name of chateau. He had a heavy hand--dear old Athos--after
drinking."
D’Artagnan, after asking the man the right way, continued his route,
agitated in spite of himself at the idea of seeing once more that
singular man whom he had so truly loved and who had contributed so much
by advice and example to his education as a gentleman. He checked by
degrees the speed of his horse and went on, his head drooping as if in
deep thought.
Soon, as the road turned, the Chateau de la Valliere appeared in view;
then, a quarter of a mile beyond, a white house, encircled in sycamores,
was visible at the farther end of a group of trees, which spring had
powdered with a snow of flowers.
On beholding this house, D’Artagnan, calm as he was in general, felt an
unusual disturbance within his heart--so powerful during the whole
course of life are the recollections of youth. He proceeded,
nevertheless, and came opposite to an iron gate, ornamented in the taste
of the period.
Through the gate was seen kitchen-gardens, carefully attended to, a
spacious courtyard, in which neighed several horses held by valets in
various liveries, and a carriage, drawn by two horses of the country.
"We are mistaken," said D’Artagnan. "This cannot be the establishment of
Athos. Good heavens! suppose he is dead and that this property now
belongs to some one who bears his name. Alight, Planchet, and inquire,
for I confess that I have scarcely courage so to do."
Planchet alighted.
"Thou must add," said D’Artagnan, "that a gentleman who is passing by
wishes to have the honor of paying his respects to the Comte de la Fere,
and if thou art satisfied with what thou hearest, then mention my name!"
Planchet, leading his horse by the bridle, drew near to the gate and
rang the bell, and immediately a servant-man with white hair and of
erect stature, notwithstanding his age, presented himself.
"Does Monsieur le Comte de la Fere live here?" asked Planchet.
"Yes, monsieur, it is here he lives," the servant replied to Planchet,
who was not in livery.
"A nobleman retired from service, is he not?"
"Yes."
"And who had a lackey named Grimaud?" persisted Planchet, who had
prudently considered that he couldn’t have too much information.
"Monsieur Grimaud is absent from the chateau for the time being," said
the servitor, who, little used as he was to such inquiries, began to
examine Planchet from head to foot.
"Then," cried Planchet joyously, "I see well that it is the same Comte
de la Fere whom we seek. Be good enough to open to me, for I wish to
announce to monsieur le comte that my master, one of his friends, is
here, and wishes to greet him."
"Why didn’t you say so?" said the servitor, opening the gate. "But where
is your master?"
"He is following me."
The servitor opened the gate and walked before Planchet, who made a sign
to D’Artagnan. The latter, his heart palpitating more than ever, entered
the courtyard without dismounting.
Whilst Planchet was standing on the steps before the house he heard a
voice say:
"Well, where is this gentleman and why do they not bring him here?"
This voice, the sound of which reached D’Artagnan, reawakened in his
heart a thousand sentiments, a thousand recollections that he had
forgotten. He vaulted hastily from his horse, whilst Planchet, with a
smile on his lips, advanced toward the master of the house.
"But I know you, my lad," said Athos, appearing on the threshold.
"Oh, yes, monsieur le comte, you know me and I know you. I am
Planchet--Planchet, whom you know well." But the honest servant could
say no more, so much was he overcome by this unexpected interview.
"What, Planchet, is Monsieur d’Artagnan here?"
"Here I am, my friend, dear Athos!" cried D’Artagnan, in a faltering
voice and almost staggering from agitation.
At these words a visible emotion was expressed on the beautiful
countenance and calm features of Athos. He rushed toward D’Artagnan with
eyes fixed upon him and clasped him in his arms. D’Artagnan, equally
moved, pressed him also closely to him, whilst tears stood in his eyes.
Athos then took him by the hand and led him into the drawing-room, where
there were several people. Every one arose.
"I present to you," he said, "Monsieur le Chevalier D’Artagnan,
lieutenant of his majesty’s musketeers, a devoted friend and one of the
most excellent, brave gentlemen that I have ever known."
D’Artagnan received the compliments of those who were present in his own
way, and whilst the conversation became general he looked earnestly at
Athos.
Strange! Athos was scarcely aged at all! His fine eyes, no longer
surrounded by that dark line which nights of dissipation pencil too
infallibly, seemed larger, more liquid than ever. His face, a little
elongated, had gained in calm dignity what it had lost in feverish
excitement. His hand, always wonderfully beautiful and strong, was set
off by a ruffle of lace, like certain hands by Titian and Vandyck. He
was less stiff than formerly. His long, dark hair, softly powdered here
and there with silver tendrils, fell elegantly over his shoulders in
wavy curls; his voice was still youthful, as if belonging to a Hercules
of twenty-five, and his magnificent teeth, which he had preserved white
and sound, gave an indescribable charm to his smile.
Meanwhile the guests, seeing that the two friends were longing to be
alone, prepared to depart, when a noise of dogs barking resounded
through the courtyard and many persons said at the same moment:
"Ah! ’tis Raoul, who is come home."
Athos, as the name of Raoul was pronounced, looked inquisitively at
D’Artagnan, in order to see if any curiosity was painted on his face.
But D’Artagnan was still in confusion and turned around almost
mechanically when a fine young man of fifteen years of age, dressed
simply, but in perfect taste, entered the room, raising, as he came, his
hat, adorned with a long plume of scarlet feathers.
Nevertheless, D’Artagnan was struck by the appearance of this new
personage. It seemed to explain to him the change in Athos; a
resemblance between the boy and the man explained the mystery of this
regenerated existence. He remained listening and gazing.
"Here you are, home again, Raoul," said the comte.
"Yes, sir," replied the youth, with deep respect, "and I have performed
the commission that you gave me."
"But what’s the matter, Raoul?" said Athos, very anxiously. "You are
pale and agitated."
"Sir," replied the young man, "it is on account of an accident which has
happened to our little neighbor."
"To Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" asked Athos, quickly.
"What is it?" cried many persons present.
"She was walking with her nurse Marceline, in the place where the
woodmen cut the wood, when, passing on horseback, I stopped. She saw me
also and in trying to jump from the end of a pile of wood on which she
had mounted, the poor child fell and was not able to rise again. I fear
that she has badly sprained her ankle."
"Oh, heavens!" cried Athos. "And her mother, Madame de Saint-Remy, have
they yet told her of it?"
"No, sir, Madame de Saint-Remy is at Blois with the Duchess of Orleans.
I am afraid that what was first done was unskillful, if not worse than
useless. I am come, sir, to ask your advice."
"Send directly to Blois, Raoul; or, rather, take horse and ride
immediately yourself."
Raoul bowed.
"But where is Louise?" asked the comte.
"I have brought her here, sir, and I have deposited her in charge of
Charlotte, who, till better advice comes, has bathed the foot in cold
well-water."
The guests now all took leave of Athos, excepting the old Duc de Barbe,
who, as an old friend of the family of La Valliere, went to see little
Louise and offered to take her to Blois in his carriage.
"You are right, sir," said Athos. "She will be the sooner with her
mother. As for you, Raoul, I am sure it is your fault, some giddiness or
folly."
"No, sir, I assure you," muttered Raoul, "it is not."
"Oh, no, no, I declare it is not!" cried the young girl, while Raoul
turned pale at the idea of his being perhaps the cause of her disaster.
"Nevertheless, Raoul, you must go to Blois and you must make your
excuses and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy."
The youth looked pleased. He again took in his strong arms the little
girl, whose pretty golden head and smiling face rested on his shoulder,
and placed her gently in the carriage; then jumping on his horse with
the elegance of a first-rate esquire, after bowing to Athos and
D’Artagnan, he went off close by the door of the carriage, on somebody
inside of which his eyes were riveted.
14. The Castle of Bragelonne.
Whilst this scene was going on, D’Artagnan remained with open mouth and
a confused gaze. Everything had turned out so differently from what he
expected that he was stupefied with wonder.
Athos, who had been observing him and guessing his thoughts, took his
arm and led him into the garden.
"Whilst supper is being prepared," he said, smiling, "you will not, my
friend, be sorry to have the mystery which so puzzles you cleared up."
"True, monsieur le comte," replied D’Artagnan, who felt that by degrees
Athos was resuming that great influence which aristocracy had over him.
Athos smiled.
"First and foremost, dear D’Artagnan, we have no title such as count
here. When I call you ’chevalier,’ it is in presenting you to my guests,
that they may know who you are. But to you, D’Artagnan, I am, I hope,
still dear Athos, your comrade, your friend. Do you intend to stand on
ceremony because you are less attached to me than you were?"
"Oh! God forbid!"
"Then let us be as we used to be; let us be open with each other. You
are surprised at what you see here?"
"Extremely."
"But above all things, I am a marvel to you?"
"I confess it."
"I am still young, am I not? Should you not have known me again, in
spite of my eight-and-forty years of age?"
"On the contrary, I do not find you the same person at all."
"I understand," cried Athos, with a gentle blush. "Everything,
D’Artagnan, even folly, has its limit."
"Then your means, it appears, are improved; you have a capital
house--your own, I presume? You have a park, and horses, servants."
Athos smiled.
"Yes, I inherited this little property when I quitted the army, as I
told you. The park is twenty acres--twenty, comprising kitchen-gardens
and a common. I have two horses,--I do not count my servant’s bobtailed
nag. My sporting dogs consist of two pointers, two harriers and two
setters. But then all this extravagance is not for myself," added Athos,
laughing.
"Yes, I see, for the young man Raoul," said D’Artagnan.
"You guess aright, my friend; this youth is an orphan, deserted by his
mother, who left him in the house of a poor country priest. I have
brought him up. It is Raoul who has worked in me the change you see; I
was dried up like a miserable tree, isolated, attached to nothing on
earth; it was only a deep affection that could make me take root again
and drag me back to life. This child has caused me to recover what I had
lost. I had no longer any wish to live for myself, I have lived for him.
I have corrected the vices that I had; I have assumed the virtues that I
had not. Precept something, but example more. I may be mistaken, but I
believe that Raoul will be as accomplished a gentleman as our degenerate
age could display."
The remembrance of Milady recurred to D’Artagnan.
"And you are happy?" he said to his friend.
"As happy as it is allowed to one of God’s creatures to be on this
earth; but say out all you think, D’Artagnan, for you have not yet done
so."
"You are too bad, Athos; one can hide nothing from you," answered
D’Artagnan. "I wished to ask you if you ever feel any emotions of terror
resembling----"
"Remorse! I finish your phrase. Yes and no. I do not feel remorse,
because that woman, I profoundly hold, deserved her punishment. Had she
one redeeming trait? I doubt it. I do not feel remorse, because had we
allowed her to live she would have persisted in her work of destruction.
But I do not mean, my friend that we were right in what we did. Perhaps
all blood demands some expiation. Hers had been accomplished; it
remains, possibly, for us to accomplish ours."
"I have sometimes thought as you do, Athos."
"She had a son, that unhappy woman?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever heard of him?"
"Never."
"He must be about twenty-three years of age," said Athos, in a low tone.
"I often think of that young man, D’Artagnan."
"Strange! for I had forgotten him," said the lieutenant.
Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.
"And Lord de Winter--do you know anything about him?"
"I know that he is in high favor with Charles I."
"The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water. He shed the blood of
Strafford; that confirms what I said just now--blood will have blood.
And the queen?"
"What queen?"
"Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV."
"She is at the Louvre, as you know."
"Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her daughter, during the severest
cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in bed. Do you grasp that?"
said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; "the daughter of Henry IV.
shivering for want of a fagot! Why did she not ask from any one of us a
home instead of from Mazarin? She should have wanted nothing."
"Have you ever seen the queen of England?" inquired D’Artagnan.
"No; but my mother, as a child, saw her. Did I ever tell you that my mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici?" |
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